Story Archives 2011

It happened under their noses, noses of different angles and dispositions; noses shaped and molded by uncalloused fingers leaving imprints of corporate logos, collegiate acronyms and other indentations.  One such nose belonged to my supervisor, the blonde, who took more than her share of oxygen whenever close by.  I would hyperventilate, overriding my breathing’s natural cadence, gasping for something I couldn’t see.  She would breathe—inflating herself with the vigor of a fitness instructor and lung capacity of a bullfrog—training me on policies and procedures she’d written—reviewing each item (100 in all)—breathe in…breathe out.  Our training “get-togethers” would sometimes last more than 2 hours.  I’d look at the round-faced clock on the wall.  It said, “You should have been out of here a half hour ago”. 

The blonde would eventually leave me to breathe on my own.  I’d sneak to the bathroom and look at my nose. I’d look at the bridge, the cartilage that sloped in a downward angle.  I wanted to find the Filipino or African parts of my nose, the parts that took in air and blew them out—on toilet paper, handkerchiefs and, occasionally, into an imaginary indigenous nose flute that was, in reality, my snoring--on those nights I was able to sleep. 

I am a door attendant, or doorman, or—as some folks would say—concierge.  Prior to this I worked as a security guard for three years, employed by 2 different companies with nearly identical uniforms but different arm patches—one showing a raccoon, the other a bear.  The security company dispatched me to a newly built high-end apartment complex in the city’s Richmond District.  I sat and greeted high end people in my guard uniform.  In several days I observed that some ends were higher than others, for even in the high end world, ends come in varying degrees, like a good steak—low high end, high low end, medium high end, high high end, and no-end-in-sight high end.  I greet these souls with a “Good morning” or an occasional “Buenos dias” for flair, and other requisite pleasantries one must use when encountering people whose monetary worth, when compared to your own, puts you into the status of a dwarf.  All this takes place from the vantage point of my “New York style hotel front desk work station”.

The property management somehow liked me and, it so happened, had an available position for a door attendant.  I applied and got the job. I turned in my security guard jacket with the raccoon patch and told my father in Hawaii the good news via text message:  Hey dad, I got a house Negro job paying me 3 dollars an hour more than I was getting as a security guard.  Ten minutes later I got my father’s response via text message that seemed to have drifted across the pacific on a gentle Hawaiian breeze: You ain’t got no house Negro job…you got an uncle tom job…congratulations. I was given a new uniform--a pair of tan dockers, a baby blue long sleeve shirt, a blue jacket, tan shoes and a sweater vest.  The sweater vest bothered me, but i was happy it did'nt have an argyle design.  Sweater vests make you look paunchy and soft--giving the impression that you have basically surrendered your manhood, dignity and residual bits of revolutionary spirit.  I hate sweater vests.

As the front desk Uncle Tom, I am becoming acquainted with my duties, not the least of which is cleaning my work area.  As part of a long lineage of custodial artists (janitors)—namely my father and uncles—I am aware of the need for cleanliness.  I greet bottles of assorted cleaning products and grab a rag.  The place is spotless and I would assume, free of any virulent microbes that could invade this temple of the high end.  I spray and wipe constantly.  The countertops, windows, windowsills, doorknobs, marble walls—even the chandelier--all cry out “Please, no more…it hurts!”  But I ignore the pleas, the screams, scrubbing and buffing, getting it cleaner than clean—so clean that I begin to cry from the stinging in my eyes.  I prop and re-prop the pillows on the couches next to the fireplace, I neaten the stack of newspapers—of the proper variety—the New York Times, Wall Street Journal and SF Chronicle (One morning I placed copies of the Bayview and Street Sheet on the table which were promptly whisked away, by whom, I have no idea for I was too busy cleaning to notice) and I begin to think of Mr. Rogers and how he loved his (high end?) neighbor.  “Hey Uncle Tom” a voice calls out.  I look and all I see are pillows upon a couch devoid of people, a window without reflection and a variety of surfaces cleaned to extinction.  Then a whisper: “You are on sacred Ohlone land…this building was once a hospital where people endured many sufferings”.  I looked at the fire place and pillows and lobby area.  There was no one.  Then another whisper: “Take back your life”.  I stop scrubbing and go back to the front desk. 

One by one they pass me on their way out, the hedge funders, the marketing consultants, the CEO’s, the medical professionals—most, if not all, newly arrived to the city.  I open the door and they whisk by, leaving a bit of high end air for me.  I go to the kitchen area and make coffee, making sure the pots are gleaming and that the proper amount of sugar packets, creamer and wooden stirring sticks are displayed. 

The environment is a strange one, corporate and detached, yet in the pores of everyone within it. All is contrived and controlled; laughter and anger—the emotions that make us human—are only accepted in forms that are sanctioned by the corporation.  I look out the window.  I see the neighborhood I grew up in, the street where I delivered papers, the street where I was hit by a car while delivering papers, the street where grandma and grandpa could not rent an apartment because Grandpa was black and Grandma was white.  I see the street where my Filipino Grandparents walked on after being evicted from the Fillmore to make way for redevelopment.  I am jolted out of my dream when a resident drops their dry cleaning off at the desk.

While I’m opening doors and calling cabs and scheduling dry cleaning deliveries, there is this guy who works at the residence, the janitor, Marco.  We hadn’t exchanged a word for about a month into my employ yet I noticed him; something real, something familiar about him.  He pushed his mop bucket, its wheels rumbling across the cold floor—the sounds coming from some deep place that can only be felt.  He walked over that floor that had been scrubbed until blue and he told me he had worked at the residence for a few months; before that he had worked as a janitor at an Indian casino up north. One day he told me he was Filipino—on his mother’s side.  I was half Filipino too.  Slowly we began to talk like Filipinos, laugh like Filipinos, and our bellies grew with Filipino hunger.  Soon that sterile floor, that sterile environment seemed different.  The microbes that were banished returned and laughed along with us. 

Marco told me that he’d been to the Philippines and had met his mother’s relatives.  I told him that my grandparents had come to America in the 20’s and that I’d never visited the motherland.  He spoke in measured tones.  I sensed that this was a side of him that he had somehow been made to feel ashamed of.  But slowly I felt that shame die as he swept and mopped.  He spoke about his favorite Filipino foods.  I got hungry.  I told him I’d make pork adobo for our lunch one day in the week.  He mopped with more vigor. 

The smell of adobo filled the break room that following Friday, breaking through with a spirit of community, breaking whatever was designed to break us; permeating the walls and sterilized floors, swirling and rising through every inch of that former hospital until the spirits rose and came to life, sharing their stories, songs, tears, fire; the pork and vinegar and chili peppers spread like fire on our lips as we spoke of our families, sharing brown people words and brown people thoughts—the rice sticking to our fingers and corners of our mouths like memories that refuse to die.

I just got my first probationary job performance review.  As usual, I got average/below average scores in all categories except for attendance and punctuality.  I sat while my supervisor spoke with corporate sanctioned words and sanctioned emotions.  You have to be more of a team player and orient yourself with more high-end businesses in the neighborhood to recommend to our residents, she said.  As she spoke, I heard nothing.  I took a deep breath and smelled the fragrance of my community—of the adobo that Marco and I shared—that was now in the floors and walls and ceiling and could not be scrubbed off or erased. 

My supervisor finished my review, signing and dating the review under her eyes.  But she had no idea that while she was doing that, Marco and I had taken back our lives, its sweet fragrance undetected under her nose.

The title explains it all.  When this poverty skolah was 13, I was hanging out at the Cliff House in San Francisco.  I loved the two steam-powered motorcycles mounted above the doors of the Sutro Baths. 

A shady man came up to me.  "Wouldja like $25 kid?"  Twenty-five dollars in the 60's is like $250 today.  "What do I have to do sir?" I asked.  "There will be a fire here later," he said, "all ya gotta do is hide somewhere and throw rocks at the firemen." 

I said no.  He went looking for another kid.  I went down to Playland at the beach to have a snack at The Hothouse, a Mexican restaurant.  As I was chomping on my tamale, I heard alarm bells and saw smoke.  I walked in that direction, thinking it was the Cliff House at first. I saw kids throwing rocks at firefighters from hiding places, including Seal Rocks. 

Cliff House and the Sutro Baths were built in the late 1800's.  Adolph Sutro, a millionaire, built them, along with Playland and a private railroad built along the cliffs going to the Presidio.  Sutro was also the first Jewish Mayor of San Francisco for a few years.  The Cliff House is like a cat, it has had seven lives so far, being refurbished for new generations of people to enjoy.   

His idea of an amusement park most likely inspired Walt Disney.  The Cliff House was a hotel then.  Tourists arrived on Sutro's train.  His mansion was surrounded by Playland.  The 1906 earthquake destroyed the mansion, which was abandoned.   

A suspended cable tram went back and forth between Seal Rocks and the Cliff House.  There used to be a penny arcade in the basement of the Cliff House (it has been moved), generations of children played with games 50 or 60 years older than them.  Older people visited the basement too, remembering when they were kids.  Thornton Kimes has been in that basement too. 

Inside Sutro Baths were the original costumes of "General Tom Thumb", a little-person performer for P.T. Barnum's Barnum & Bailey Circus.  Annie Oakley's supposed rifle was there too.  The baths were turned into an ice skating rink in the 1950's because people were afraid they would catch Polio from the pools. 

After the fire there was a proposal to build a five-story co-op housing (box) where the baths had been.  Because the Sutro Baths were registered as a landmark area, the project couldn't go forward.  The Federal Government turned it into a national park.   

What is left of the Sutro Baths is like dinosaur bones, like Roman ruins found near Hadrian's Wall.  Thornton Kimes and many others have walked in the ruins that look like a rat's maze.  This poverty skolah has a lump in his throat thinking about what used to be--Playland, the Baths, a place gentrifiers burned and failed to turn into money.   

This poverty skolah has more stories to tell about the San Francisco that used to be, before the current rush to gentrify finishes the rape that began so many years ago.

POOR Magazine honors Al Robles, a poet and organizer who worked, taught and supported young and elder poets of color from all communities in the Bay Area and across the globe with the launching of The Al Robles Living Library Project and POOR Press Book Collection.

(San Francisco). POOR Magazine honors the late Al Robles with a gift of love for his work as a housing activist, poet, teacher, mentor, and historian.  His bringing together of communities was a gift he shared with POOR Magazine, of which he was an active board member. This historic library launch will feature the POOR Press 2011 Book collection which features artists of color in poverty from across the globe and the movie “Manilatown is in The Heart—time Travel with Al Robles”, a film by Curtis Choy.

Al Robles love and spirit and vision continue to guide POOR Magazine’s values of eldership and interdependence--leaving a living legacy of care giving and revolutionary media that gives voice to communities traditionally and intentionally silenced in media and academia.  “My Uncle Al’s legacy is the I-Hotel” said nephew and POOR Magazine co-editor Tony Robles.  “He inspired a generation of activists to fight for the rights of elders to decent housing, bringing attention to the injustice and tragedy of the International Hotel and bringing communities together in the fight for social justice”. 

Robles was instrumental in the rebuilding of Kearny Street’s International Hotel, home of Filipino and Chinese elders who were issued eviction notices to make way for a parking lot.  The “I-Hotel” captured the attention of the world with images of elders holding signs and chanting, “We won’t go!”  Robles narrated the film that captured the fight and eventual eviction entitled, “The Fall of the I-Hotel”.

In addition to the POOR Press collection, the Al Robles living library will feature a collection of books gathered over the years by Al Robles, as well as writings, photos, audio interviews and poetry that will be presented and preserved digitally.  The library will be a community space open to all who want to read and write, relax and learn about the legacy of Al Robles, which is the legacy of sharing stories, sharing voices and community building.  The library offer events such as readings, film screenings, writing workshops and feature artists and performers from throughout the community.

“I kissed the sky”, my friend, and fellow long-time street vendor, Mohammed K., from Tunisia spoke softly as he stood in front of his table of watches for sale, looking side to side nervously for any approaching cops. After the herstorical revolution unfolded in Egypt, my heart was sparked to dream of poor people-led revolutions, re-ported and sup-ported on by poor people media, all across Pachamama, yet the only people who were quoted in the media seemed to be culled from Academia and political establishment., so I walked downtown to speak with fellow poverty and worker scholars from Tunis, Algeria, Egypt and Yemen who operate micro-businesses on the streets all across Amerikkka.

“Don’t forget Jordan,”  our mutual friend, an Egyptian named Tayeb joined in the discussion while he opened his small card table to reveal an array of multi-colored ties, concluding, “Its all wonderful, maybe we will have true liberation for all peoples in the world.”

As a person who has lived in deep and unending poverty, struggled with landlessness/houselessness and witnessed my disabled single mama of color deal with racism, joblessness, violence and depression for the majority of my life in this so-called first world, I watched the last weeks revolutions in North Africa, with a deep feeling of joy and elation.  It had been four years since I had been downtown selling art and products made by my mama and me, in our underground, criminalized (read: illegal) micro-business, which I had been working in since I was eleven when  my mama became to ill to work. Our never-licensed, always criminalized business was the only way we paid for nightly motel rooms, gas, food and the occasional apartments, if we sold enough that day or week or month. 

Day after month, month after year, I stood along-side mothers and sons and daughters and uncles and fathers stuck in Amerikkka, lost in the criminalized diaspora of false borders across the globe. From indigenous nations in Mexico, Peru, Puerto Rico and Bolivia, to deserts in North, West and East Africa, to the streets of Oklahoma, St Louis and New Jersey, we stood together,  Christians, Muslims Zapotecas, Tainos, Rastafarias, Mayans, Protestants, Catholics, selling watches, ties, sunglasses, our misery, our bodies and/or our lives, watching, always watching for po’lice officers/immigration, rain or customers, whichever came first.

“But what will change, the same people who hold property, run businesses, will retain the power to be heard?,” Tayeb began, “ My family was always poor in Egypt, we live on the roof of a building alongside 5 other families, the conditions for the very poor there will never change,” he concluded as he looked down and re-arranged his floral print ties.

“Don’t be so pessimistic, we had to start somewhere,” Ma’moud from Algeria, another vendor of watches joined the conversation.

“Tayeb is right, that’s why many of us are here, so will these revolutions make real change for very poor people so we can go home?”, Mohammed added.

Our conversation continued into the afternoon, the sorrow of our collective loss of  family, land, culture, dreams and spirit and most of all hope, circled around us like a thick cloud of poisonous smoke.

And then it hit me, the Egypt and Tunis revolutions weren’t  everything, but they were something, and they were done by the people of many parts of society, not all, but many.

So as us po folks in the US face the genocide of trillion dollar budget cuts proposed this week by the federal government to thousands of poor people programs like section 8, public  housing and healthcare, like so many of us protested yesterday about in San Francisco and across the US, perhaps we should not only take inspiration from the North Africa revolutions, but lessons. Lessons in revolutions not guided by non-profit industrial complexes agendas and philanthro-pimp dictated guidelines but a revolution guided by angry mamaz, hungry babies, housless elders, jobless fathers, profiled and criminalized migrants and gang injuncted youth of color. A revolution in Oakland, Philadelphia, Minnesota, New York, Mexico, El Salvador, The Philipines, Puerto Rico, Los Angeles, a revolution guided by our spirits, our dreams, our hope and our hunger.

--

i have this picture someone took of me, back in 2003 while i was in egypt.  the six months i spent at american university in cairo happened to be at the time the war on iraq was starting.  on march 20, 2003, i took to the streets along with friends and thousands of other egyptians, who protested in tahrir square that day.  the energy was powerful, palpable.  we all needed release.  i'm not sure if we thought our protest would do any good - the US seemed hell bent on going to war regardless of public opinion.  but what i do remember that day was catharsis - the releasing of energy we had collectively pent up for so long.  the next day, mubarak's government promptly banned further protests.  i remember this day vividly.  police officers forming a barricade around protesters to contain us.  i remember that many of them wished they could be protesting with us.  they were just doing their jobs, but were also opposed to amerikkka's war on iraq.  at one point the police tried to clear the street, but i kept my butt on the asphalt, smoking a cigarette.  nice women didn't smoke cigarettes in public.  i felt like a gender outlaw anyway, regardless of where i was.  in egypt, it meant not conforming to how women were supposed to dress (whether for fashion or religion), wearing my hair curly, not lightening my caramel skin with fair & lovely, and challenging people to recognize and reconcile the fact that i was egyptian too.  my body was marked african and egyptian and woman and diasporic.

i am a daughter of the egyptian middle class diaspora.  my family immigrated to canada in the 60s and 70s.  i had the privilege to be part of a "study abroad" program at an american university on egyptian land.  i had the privilege to participate unharmed in the 2003 protest.

i am also christian, part of the coptic minority in egypt.  our community has survived at the margins of empire for two thousand years.  i believe violent acts against our community have been part of the mubarak regime's divide-and-conquer tactics.  my church community's islamophobia only aggravates this problem, especially in diaspora.

so here we are in 2011, watching the egyptian people's revolution unfold.  i must admit, i feel pretty numb at the moment.  i've gone through a range of emotions from joy and elation to deep sorrow.

i feel sad about not being there for this exciting time.  part of this is rooted in not feeling "egyptian enough," "connected enough," etc.  most of my family has migrated to other places.  the family i do still have there are doing well, but haven't been actively engaged in the protests.  i recognize that there are many ways to serve the community (e.g. participating in neighborhood watches or cooking for protesters).  my uncle and cousin did help secure their apartment building.  but i'm mostly aware that my family had the privilege not to participate in the protests. 

though the egyptian middle class has been visible in this revolution, the labor movement really tipped the scales of justice in favor of the people.  labor organizers (known as the april 6 youth movement) started this revolution.  the massive strikes organized by a variety of labor unions brought tons of people to the streets during mubarak's last days.   

i feel joy at seeing muslims and christians united for a common purpose.  i feel nervous about whether this unity will continue as everyone works to build a new egypt.  i hope my church community will be allowed greater freedom to build churches and monasteries under the new constitution.  that christians and muslims continue to protect each other during times of worship.  i hope this will be the beginning of true interfaith dialogue and action.

seeing women actively engaged in the revolution reminds me that we've always been part of movement-building.  i feel grateful to be part of a legacy of egyptian women's movements, and hope we will continue to have a voice, particularly in drafting new constitutional rights for women.  for example, if i ever have children, i'd like to pass on egyptian citizenship to them.  under the old constitution, my children wouldn't be able to claim citizenship through me, only through their dad. 

my emotional range about this whole thing reminds me that when people power takes to the streets for political change, it changes things inside you too.  finding collective voice is a powerful reminder to reach deep inside and find your own voice to add to the collective.  decolonizing governments is a hell of a reminder to decolonize your own mind.  the collective energy of prayer in this revolution has been a good reminder to pray.  things i forget sometimes. my people humble me and teach me new lessons each day.

this revolution happening in egypt isn't the sexy-cause-of-the-month.  it has real implications for christians, women, nubians, sudanese refugees, factory workers, rural farmers, queers, and everyone else.  yes, even the despised police officers and thugs, who are real people whose choices have been shaped more by economic need than loyalty to mubarak.  while i am excited that egyptians have found a unified collective voice, i am also poised, breathlessly waiting for what changes will come for those of us on the margins of egyptian society.

may the energy of this revolution continue and ripple out and free us all.

The 4th annual Poetry (MMA) Battle of ALL of the Sexes for Valentines Day- was hosted by Alexandra Byerly!

The Battle was hosted by your favorite revolutionary poets, media-makers, poverty scholars and cultural workers at POOR Magazine - Each year there is a "fighting" theme - this year it was "Mixed Martial Arts/MMA and was held in an 8 foots "cage" built by artist Will Steel,  in the Submission Gallery in San Francisco's Mission District. The Battle, a concept created by co-editors of POOR Tony Robles and Tiny Lisa Gray-Garcia was hosted this year by Trans-Latina beauty Alexandra Byerly who works with revolutionary group EL La and as in other battles Mashed-up Poetry, Gender and Mixed Martial Arts - judges were La Mesha Irizarry, Devorah Major and Laure McElroy.

The was a FUN-Raiser for the poor people-led/indigenous people-led, grassroots, arts & media organization POOR Magazine/Prensa POBRE

1st, 2nd and 3rd place winners were:

1st) Jewnbug (from the battle Educated Ghetto Gurl Vs The Society)

2nd) Vivian Thorp (From Po In-Debt Student Mama Vs Creditor Predator)

3rd) Dee Allen (from Black Brother Vs MamaSistaDaughterQueen)

4th) Queenandi  (from PachaMama Vs James Tracy)

(see links on this column to read the winning poems)

BORN IN A PLACE

CONDITIONED FOR DEATH

RAISED ON GOVERNMENT CHEESE

PARENTS TARGETED TO BE DOPE FEENS

HOUSELESS N HUNGRY

SOCIETY WANTS ME TO BE IGNORANT

BUT AIN’T NO DUMMY

GOT WIZE TO THA MIZEDUCATION

OF YO SURVEILENCE

PROJECTS

PUBLIC SKOOLS

PRIZIONS

US MILITARY ENLISTINGS

NEVER ASSIMILATING OR LISTENING

STAY THUG LIFE

RESISTING

RISING TO THA TOP

SINGING GHETTO SUPASTAR!

CONCIOUSNESS

CULTIVATED UNDERGROUND

CAN’T AFFORD YO BRAND NAME LABELS

MAKING MY FASHION TALK OF THA TOWN

REBEL WITH A CAUSE

SPEAKING OUT AGAINST

YO POLICIES, PROTOCALLS, LAWS

PROHIBITED MY NATIVE TOUNGUE

PIGEON

SLANG

EBONICS

U AINT MY GOD

N I AINT YO SON

SPEAKING TOO LOUD TOO FAST

CAUSING LYRICAL WHIPLASH

I SMASH ON U

U THINKING U MORE DIGNIFIED

CUZ I ROCK A SHOELACE FO A BELT ON SUM JEANS

PLEASE!

U PUT ME DOWN

THEN CAPITILIZE ON MY SWAGGER

LIKE,”THAT’S HELLA GHETTO”

I DON’T PLAY THO

NO DIPLOMATIC TACTFUL RAGE

STRAIGHT UP IN YO FACE

U LABEL ME

TROUBLE MAKER

THAT’S CODE FOR

TRUTH TELLER

FO REAL FOR REAL

NO FAKER

I KNOW TRU ESSENCE OF SUCCESS

DESPITE THE MESS

OF YO CIVILIZED VEST

MY INTEREST TO DO MORE THEN SURVIVE

MANIFEST

CAME WHEN I HELD MY HEAD HIGH

WITH NO SHAME

YEA IM FROM THE GHETTO

N IM DOING  BIG THANGS

EDUCATED GHETTO GURRL

SHE WAS KUNG FU FIGHTING

SHE WAS ALWAYS WRITING

EDUCATED GHETTO GURRL

PUTTIN WHOLE SOCIETY ON TRIAL

N BRINGING THEM TO THEIR KNEES

Don’t call it a come-back……I’m under attack y’all……
Creditor – Predator…..for da’ edumaKKKation…
Creditor – Predator…..for da’ edumaKKKation…
Da’ aUpgrade to Flash Player 10 for improved playback performance. Upgrade Now or More Info.
answer machines re-playin’/over n’ over again/ creditor haterz sayin’/”aw’ hell nah’/we ain’t playin’…”
Y’ see, da’-gats-I-stow-on-da’-down-low-/I ain’t stayin

Keepin’ perpetrators layin’…no supa’ sayin…
So get this one-son…mutha’fo-fo’…I ain’t payin’
Givin’ me pain/make me insane/freakin’ twistin’ my brain/ straight dumpin’ on my name/ya’ perpetratin’ my shame/while I’m caught up in da’ grind, jobless now losin’ my mind/…jus’ tryin’ to earn my chedda’/…to get my game on betta’/keepin' my flow on the go/undercover well you know…
In the midst of this wickedness…it’s capitalist…/internet money invisible/click the box/it’s dat’ simple/kickin’ down on da’ cash flow/mechanism-capitalism-insto-automated-bank-roll/dat’ makes the world holla’/wanna’ get tha’ paper?/then I gotta’ pay dat’ phat dolla’

Creditor-Predator yeah-ya’s wastin all yo energy/houndin’ up on my ass fo’ da’ cash/from here to eternity/jankin’ my income tax/I’m still livin’ in poverty/student loan shark mutha’fo-foz’….always huntin’ me
Creditor – Predator…..for da’ edumaKKKation…..
Creditor – Predator…..for da’ edumaKKKation…..
Creditor – Predator…..for da’ edumaKKKation…..
 
Don’t call it a come-back……I’m under attack y’all……
Don’t call it a come-back……I’m under attack……
From dat’ Creditor – Predator…..for da’ edumaKKKation…..
Don’t call it a come-back……We’re under attack now!
 

“POOR Magazine has an open door for whoever wants to enter. I feel a deep admiration and respect and also an eternal gratitude to POOR Press. (POOR Magazine) I can only say thank you to everyone who helped to write my book.” Maria Molina, Migrant Scholar and debut POOR Press Author of her newly released book, “Humble Professional.”

In the world around us, we often tend to read about other people, their thoughts, feelings, and ideas. A question for this Race, Media, Poverty (and Legal) Scholar is how much of our own stories do we get in an opportunity to share to the world? Pens in our own hands, fingers focused on keyboards, lives seen and heard in our words, via voice.

Institutions that gate keep the publishing industry on philanthro-pimped dollars are irrelevant to our "I" voice.

Our stories owned only by us.

A deeply self-empowered woman with a vision of a dream-turned-reality, far and abroad for us to fight by write/right: "Tiny" Lisa Gray-Garcia, co-founder of POOR and daughter of Dee. In 2003, POOR gave birth to the project of "POOR Press Authors" as a revolution for all people in poverty to be self-published; as a community exempt from philanthro-pimped dollars and the Non-Profit Industrial Complex.

The POOR Press Authors project would indeed proceed to partially penetrate the publishing industry which often prevents the voice of the poor to be told. A project for their voices to finally be foretold…....…from their own.

There is a common saying, "Its not what you know, its who you know." Whereas, we all got to know Tiny before we even got to know survival in the reality of "Writing is Fighting." In 2006, (and presently) I got a first hard look of such community concept sharing a collective vision.

Survival and a struggle from system abuse that institutionalizes ignorance of poverty and homeless by implementing laws against it. “Crimes of Poverty.”

(Tiny in her book, Criminal of Poverty) Racism with po-lice terror in Single Room Occupancy Hotels, Citizens & Civilians Over Corruption: Savagely Removed Occupant (me) Border fascism (Ingrid De Leon, El Viaje: The Journey, Angel Garcia, Gangs, Drugs, and Denial, and Muteado Silencio Untold Stories in AmeriKKKa) and the struggles in surviving lifetime addictions through poetry art. (Ruyata Akio Mc Glothin a.k.a. RAM, Not Even In Therapy)

Many more stories have surfaced since the year of 2003 of one's struggle, survival, and/or combination of both. In 2009, Los Viajes: The Journeys was successful. It was a collection of stories and cultural art of resistance to false borders from migrant scholars, who mainstream media here in AmeriKKKa often label as "illegal immigrants."

I had the honor of reviewing "Los Viajes" alongside of other POOR Press Publication releases from the authors.

http://www.poormagazine.org/node/3171

POOR Press Authors release is another triumphant victory for every single author (including myself) who no longer goes unheard. A voice increased into a community that has "Taken Back the Land….…Resisting Criminalization........One Story at a Time!"

THE FOREVER JOB: THE FINAL EVICTION

Race, Media, Poverty, and Elder Scholar, Bruce Allison has released his second book titled The Forever Job: The Final Eviction. The title says it all. A series debut of a science fiction novel of an uncompromising outlook into the future, which is strikingly similar to present every day events surrounding world politics.

A native of San Francisco and a forever frontline fighter for the rights of seniors and people with disabilities; Allison’s activism is heard in his brief description of The Forever Job: The Final Eviction.“It’s a fictional account of the future by using today’s standards if we continue on our same greedy road.”

The eyes and the mind of its reader travels the deeply-warped imaginary mind of Allison into a world ravaged with corporate/governmental global oppression, displacement, and enslavement via the “Dyson Sphere.” An uprising and resistance led by Allison, and his comrade (character ed as his wife) Gioioa von Disterlo, a.k.a. Lola Bean of literally a twelve year march that’s “Not a walk around the block.”

BONEYARD

Race, Media, Poverty Scholar, activist, and Revolutionary poet, Dee Allen has released his debut book. Boneyard is a gut-wrenching collection of revolutionary poetry that speaks on life, love, religion, politics, and death. “It’s a collection of poems, and song lyrics written mostly in the 1990s.” Allen explains. “Each poem gives a glimpse into situations that impact African Descent people in AmeriKKKa.”

Equally-explosive in each of his words, Allen expresses his emotions of the chaos in the world today. The reader’s mind comes to a halt when they read this excerpt from his poem (and book titled) Boneyard:

For another child

Embittered

Had shown him his most

Glorified toy from youth

His lifelong phobia

The receiving end of a pistol.

The known face of doom.

Locked. Loaded. Blown.

Boneyard as in breath and/or death of life, not to be taken lightly for any set of eyes.

THE LONG BLACK GATE: LA FRONTERA

Ruyata Akio McGlothin, a.k.a RAM is a Race, Media, and Poverty Scholar. He is also a poet and a “Super Baby Daddy” of his two daughters. He has released his fourth book, The Long Black Gate: La Frontera. A native of San Francisco, and survivor of po-lice brutality, RAM’s collection of poetry drafts the conscious (and/or unconscious) mind of the reader regarding “border patrols” and its fascism against undocumented (migrant scholars) immigrants here in AmeriKKKa.

RAM’s recent visit to the State of Texas and his observation of “borders” is poetically descriptive in graphic detail in this excerpt:

It’s a see through wall

It aint too far past you see those bombs

It’s a war I was told

The people, the cartels

And the border police are so cold

“My book is about borderism, walls, gates, rules, hates, insides and outs. Lands and waters……..and what goes on in between them.” RAM describes and explains of his book. The Long Black Gate: La Frontera is educationally-equipped of his experience to share and penetrate the walls of ignorance to one’s mind.

SELF-HELP FOR THE APOCALYPSE: POEMS FOR THE FREAKONOMICALLY CHALLENGED

Thornton Kimes is a Race, Media, and Poverty Scholar of POOR Magazine/PNN. He is also a staff and writer facilitator. Kimes has published his second book, Self-Help For The Apocalypse: Poems for The Freakonomically Challenged. Kimes's second book collectively, poetically exclaims everyday life's problems placed upon people via system, in oppression, locally and globally.

His poems present unique themes on each verse that range from numerous issues involving poverty, racism, war, politics, capitalism, etc, etc.

Kimes explains his enthusiasm and motivation for his book. “Self-Help For The Apocalypse was a sign in the window at Modern Times Books, in San Francisco the first time I went to a POOR Press reading, while I was starting to work on my first book------Non-Profit Industrial Complex: A Love Story And Other Poems. I thought the sign made a great title for a collection of poems."

He adds in Self-Help For The Apocalypse, "We're in the middle of an economic Apocalypse, a new crew of "adults" in charge trying to fix what's broken. Poor People already knows what's broken-------the whole system............"

A slice of self-confidence in struggle can possible be felt in the reader's heart, in an excerpt of his poem, "7 Plus 8."

Up the down staircase

soothe the savage beast

sooth say I say we all say

fall down, get up

HUMBLE PROFESSIONAL

Maria Molina is a Race, Media, and Migrant Scholar. Molina has released her debut book, Humble Professional. Her book is chronicled from her very voice. Born and raised in the Province of San Rafael, Chalatenango, in the country of El Salvador, Molina struggled through over-whelming obstacles to seemingly-impossible goals. Poverty of working hourly wages by cents, not dollars at age 14.

Studying courageously for higher education behind her employer’s policy that prohibited it. Volunteering her time vigorously for an employment opportunity to teach children. The ignorance of poverty, and the discouragement from prosperity told to her at youth: “The reason of why the rich had so much was because God wanted it that way and that the poor had nothing because God wanted it that way also.”

Humble Professional, not just a book where Molina outlines her very life written before the reader’s eyes. Page-by-page, pictures are painted into the reader’s mind: Images of struggles and sacrifices, for seeds of stability.

“Throughout the book, I have manifested the way to recognize and give light to what it cost for a person of low-income to be able to complete a professional career.” Molina says of Humble Professional. She would later add in her book, “It’s HARD to be a PROFESSIONAL.”

Publications Pending Release by POOR Press Authors

MY CHILDHOOD, MY YOUTH, AND MY PRESENT.

“It deals with family violence and violence. I felt liberated because I was able to write things inside of me.”

Race, Media, Poverty, and Migrant Scholar, Ingrid De Leon of her second book.

INDIGENOUS COLORING BOOK

“Basically, we as indigenous and people of color are never portrayed in kid’s coloring books, in a positive way. The idea of my book was after seeing my niece’s coloring books from Cinderella, Snow White, Peter Pan, and has never seen a coloring book of people that look like her or me.”

Race, Media, Poverty, and Migrant Scholar, Muteado Silencio explaining the details of his second book.

POOR Press Authors: Published from self in poverty, prosperous in their words…....….presented with the “I” voice.