Story Archives 2013

Medi-Hell- This is How they Treat Us

09/24/2021 - 08:54 by Anonymous (not verified)
Original Author
Tiny
Original Body
 
The Office of the Ombudsman works independently as an intermediary to provide individuals with a confidential avenue to address complaints and resolve issues at the lowest possible level. The Office proposes policy and procedural changes when systemic issues are identified. 
 
This is what they are supposed to do as they claim, yet I have been going through the ringer with this office and the Medi-Cal offices here in San Francisco and in Orange County. Also with Cal*Optima in Orange County which is a state Insurance network like Healthy San Francisco and Anthem Blue Cross of California.
 
Because the county of Orange is larger than SF county there are other plans offered to eligible low-income participants in the county. The reason I know so much about OC is because my family and I lived there 9 years before moving here to San Francisco almost two years ago.
 
When we moved I did everything I was suppose to do. Notifying the proper authorities of our move so that things would move as smoothly as possible even though life here hasn't been smooth. It's been a bumpy journey. 
 
Everything was going fine as far as our insurance is concerned that is until my son's doctors office called to inform me that my son was NO LONGER covered under their group. To top that off not only was he not covered he was not even in their system as of January 1, 2013. What do you mean not covered? I asked
 
He can come to the appointment but you'll have to pay for services rendered, she informed me.
 
I went from disbelief to shock and from shock to anger at what was unfolding before me. After calming myself down I asked her who I needed to call to get this straightened out, she told me to contact the local Medi-Cal office which I did and the lady confirmed what the nurse told me, she said that his case had been transferred to Orange County where he had just moved.
 
Now I'm on the phone with this lady clearly in San Francisco on the campus of City College in between classes and my son is clearly sitting in a classroom at Galileo High School here in San Francisco so how in the hell are we re-located to Orange County when we are physically in San Francisco? 
 
Here I am having to prove we are where we say we are, but who ever did this is not having to prove where they claim we are. So like the other person I spoke too, I asked her the same question who do I need to contact? She gave a number in Orange County for Social Services. I call them and explain the situation at hand and am told "we do not have this child in our system anymore". "His file was transferred in August of 2011 to San Francisco county" is what she told me and instructed me to contact the real culprit in this "cat and mouse" ordeal....The Office of the Obudsman.
 
So I call them and after explaining what had happened, instantly Alicia was very very rude( she was the person I spoke too). She informed me that I had not transferred his case and therefore they had no choice but to act. She and I went back and forth for 10 minutes before she said she would get right on it. She told me to give her 24 hours and if I hadn't heard back from her within that time frame to call back. Needless to say she didn't and I called back and spoke to another rude person that refused to give me her named but gave me her employee number-PCBJ. What she said next really pissed me off after having to wait on hold for 40 minutes and 35 seconds and made me late for my class (which I'm never late), she said "nobody works in this office by the name of Alicia and there is no record that you called much less spoke to anyone". So needless to say she and I went back and forth for a short time period before she informed me that Cal*Optima had not properly moved my son's case to SF and that's where the problem was. To put the cherry on top of this sundae she tells me "every service that has been rendered to my son and every pill he has swallowed I will be sent a bill for because he isn't covered in the county of San Francisco".
I went from pissed to panic!
 
After my class was over and while riding on the 43 Masonic bus I called Cal*Optima and explained the situation and they informed me that they did get his case back and had assigned him a group and doctor because that's what they had been told by guess who? The Office of the Obudsman.
 
Yes you read it right...The Office of the Obudsman. So I asked her "what do I need to do in order to straighten this out?" " You have to call the state office back and inform them that you've spoken to me and that you want your sons case transferred back to San Francisco county and give them your address there in the city and that should take care of the problem" oh yeah and tell them you need an emergency re-entrance into Anthem Blue Cross so that your son doesn't miss anymore appointments, she said. So I did, but this time I spoke to a gentleman that informed me that no one had made a note of me calling but that he would get right on it....that was two weeks ago and still nothing.
 
My son has missed an appointment with his PCP(Primary Care Provider), his Allergist (where he was suppose to begin his allergy shots) and his Dermatologist( he has Eczema) all because The Office of the Obudsman decided to jerk around with somsome body'salth. My son has a medical disability and you can't play with that.
 
If their doing this to our family think how many more families are going through this and not know ing what to do or who to call for that matter?
 
If you have experienced the same thing or worse it's time to voice it, be heard and let's change how we as poor peoples are being treated. This office needs to work on their people skills, they simply do not know how to talk to people, but I bet they'd know if it was them trying to get to the bottom of a situation.
 
The moral is:Watch how you treat people because you never know what's gonna happen when your time comes around and you need somebody to be compassionate to you, you'll need that helping hand...Karma is a bleeeep!
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Airing The 411With Shana Williams

09/24/2021 - 08:54 by Anonymous (not verified)
Original Author
Leroy
Original Body

 

Krip-Hop Nation (KHN):  I’ve been dying to get this interview!  We met on MySpace and I heard your music and read your story about your radio career and your disability.  Give us the full picture.

Shana Williams: Let me try and make this short. Lol.. I’ve been acting, singing and rapping since the 5th grade, and I was tired of knocking at record labels doors so I decided to become a radio personality and I did, then after 2 years I had a spinal cord injury and spent 3 months in hospitals & nursing homes. After about a year and a half to 2 years of feeling sorry for myself I decided to try and go after my passion then I discovered that its hard if you’re disabled to get into radio. In California all of the radio stations are downtown and in buildings that are 20 plus stories high-they say that they are equal opportunity jobs but in the descriptions they say u must be able to walk up a flight of stairs and be able to hold 30 plus pounds so that exempts anyone who is physically disabled which is sad and that’s what I'm trying to currently change.

KHN:  You use to live in LA now you are in ATL.  What attracted you to ATL?

 Shana Williams:  Ever since the 6th grade I've wanted to move to ATL , I just looked at a map & said I'm moving there and when I got my money up I did just that. It’s funny because I've never visited Atlanta before I moved here, and everyone said I was crazy to just up and leave to a place I’ve never visited.. also they have a wonder hospital called the Sheppard Center, they do a lot for those with spinal cord injuries, MS among others and the doctors are great..

KHN:  You have been in broadcasting for some time now.  What is the difference when you started out and now?

 Shana Williams: Technology has really taken over the radio industry since I first started. Now in the radio industry many of the on air personalities are celebrities and that increases the competition between those like myself who are earning or have a degree in communications. The internet helps radio personalities like myself to expand my brand between Facebook, YouTube, twitter, and myself.  Now I can control my image and do my own networking.

 KHN:  In the days of internet where do you think traditional radio is going or needs to go?

Shana Williams:  This is a great question because I was just talking to my father about this the other day. I listen to XM radio and Am/FM radio and the only difference is internet radio doesn’t have a censor, you can do or say whatever you want, traditional radio has regulations you have to abide by.  In order for traditional radio to expand it needs to expand its playlist and stop playing the same 5 songs every hour and become less about advertising and more about the music, but advertisements are what keep traditional radio alive so it’s a blessing and a curse.

KHN:  Would you ever go back to singing/raping and if not/or yes why or why not?



Shana Williams: I have been getting asked this question a lot lately and I have a different answer each time I’m asked this.. lol…  my love for music will always flow throw my veins. I do continue to write music but my focus is radio, writing and producing at this time, but I may spit a rap verse here and there just to let u know that I still got it.. 

KHN:  What do you think about Krip-Hop Nation and do you think the Hip-Hop industry is ready for a mainstream physically disabled Hip-Hop artist/s?

Shana Williams:   love krip-hip hop… I think-no in fact I know that it’s the next big thing.. I believe the doors are opening up for those disabled to expose their talent. On TV rapper Drake’s character was a wheelchair user, on the biggest show on TV glee someone is using a wheelchair and on 106 & park a young man named blind fury won the rap battle… the only issue I have with TV is they hire actors to play someone who uses a wheelchair instead of actually hiring someone who is disabled. Really all we need is one rapper who a wheelchair user to make it big then it will open the doors for others… all we need is that 1 big break and I believe that it will happen within the next 5 years.

KHN:  Whom have you interviewed in the past?

Shana Williams: Wow that’s a long list but the artist vary from independent to artist who are known overseas, I have had the pleasure to interview a Jamaican artist Jerri ghetto,  big speech, syrenz, mila j, nina shaw, swanni swisha, tripz, young tage, dolla, and many others..

KHN:  What do you think about Hip-Hop today?

Shana Williams:  I love hip hop, I love all music, but hip hop has evoloved into a business where you don’t have to release an album, to can release one hit record have it sell 1 million ringtones, and have 1 million downloads on iTunes and u could retire. No we don’t have artist  that could spit like 2pac or flow like biggie, but we have artist like jayz & nelly who have ownership in nba teams or Nicki minaj & cee-lo  who has a multi-million dollar soda deals. These days we have country, pop, and rock artist who ask hip hop artist to flow on their tracks. Yes hip-hop does have some songs that some may consider lame, but if you're making music that u love, and that’s one more person who’s off the streets I’m happy with that.

KHN:  We have found it hard to find disabled women in Hip-Hop who are willing to be open or just support what we do.  What do you think about that?

Shana Williams: it’s too bad that in 2013 women are still afraid to speak out and project there experiences,. as woman we are supposed to be strong and stand by our men, or be the rock to our households.  Some women don’t want to be the face of reppin being a woman with disabilities. I was in radio before I became injured and all those other djs I thought were friends were nowhere to be found, and it forced me to reexamine my purpose in life. Some woman are afraid of being judged, and have a fear of telling their story because they’re still trying to comprehend it themselves. Ladies speak up! Our voice must be heard!!!

KHN:  What are you working on now and how can people hear you?

Shana Williams:  Well I just lost over 140 pounds so I’m currently revamping my website to upload new mp3s and photos so u all can see the new me & hear the new me.  Just follow @djshazz & ill be posting the link to myn new website very soon!!!

KHN:  You have a song called Shazz Da World that I love.  Please explain that song for us.

Shana Williams: thanks.. in my song da world I wanted to make a song that will grab your attention once u heard it, and made u think. This song talks about everything from us being at war, sex and drugs.. what’s crazy is I wrote this

Song in 2001 after the terrorists attacks in the United States and its still relevant now, which shows that I was before my time. I just wanted to be the voice for woman who actually had something positive to say, who didn’t have to open their legs to get your attention.

KHN:  What is your advice for Black disabled/non-disabled women who want to get into radio?

Shana Williams: I’m going to tell u what I was told- if u want to be a singer u must sing everyday, and radio is no different.. if u want to be in radio study your craft,  listen to the radio, practice reading out loud so when you're on air u don’t flutter your words. The radio industry is a business so learn the ins & outs of how radio works.. also networking . the more people to know in this industry the better…there are books in any library or online so study, study, study… & good luck!!

KHN:  If you had control of the Hip-Hop industry what would you do  different?



Shana Williams: I would change the image of the women in the industry. In this industry woman have to sell sex before they can sell there music, the men can wear jeans and a t-shirt and jump on stage but us women need 3 hours of hair & makeup & a flat stomach.

KHN:  How can people contact you?

Shana Williams:  Follow me on @djshazz on twitter, MySpace djshazz and my email is shazz4life@aol.com and I’m also starting my own website called

http://www.da-realist.com/  that’s going to spread positivity in music, health, relationships and lifestyle.

KHN:  Any last words?

Shana Williams:  Just continue to follow your dreams, what some may consider your weakness, make it become your strength. Keep your head up and stay ready so you don’t have to get ready!! Remember that I love u but most important god loves u!!!

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Gangsters in Suits Who Steal Homes-Man who stole Larry Faulks’ home pleads guilty to foreclosure auction rigging, mail fraud

09/24/2021 - 08:54 by Anonymous (not verified)
Original Author
PNNscholar1
Original Body

Did a company called DMG Asset Management buy your foreclosed home?  It bought Larry Faulks’ Diamond Heights home from Wells Fargo bank after the bank put it up for foreclosure auction via a practice called dual tracking, whereby a bank forecloses and auctions off a home whose loan it is supposedly in the process of modifying.  Larry Faulks is a disabled elder whose heart lives in his home of more than 40 years in Diamond Heights.  He became disabled after a failed surgery and attempted to negotiate a loan modification of his loan, a sky high 8.2%.  After months of faxing mountains of documents, endless phone communication and counseling sessions with a HUD (Housing and Urban Development) certified service, his home was put up for auction and was purchased by DMG investor Gilbert Chung for the bargain price of $705,000.  Gilbert Chung has been charged by the US Department of Justice for conspiracy to rig bids and commit mail fraud at public real estate foreclosure auctions in San Francisco and San Mateo counties beginning January 2010.  Gilbert Chung—a faceless face whose name is a portrait of moral blight that is the shame of our city.

 

Larry Faulks matters.  African-descended San Franciscan, foreclosure fighter, son and elder—he now lives in his van after a lifetime in the same house in Diamond Heights, a house that he and his father watched being built at a time when developers wouldn’t sell homes to black families.  And that house still whispers Larry’s name, and the names of his siblings and his parents.  The whispers turn to cries in the evening and rage with the rising sun.  But it all comes down to numbers in this society and numbers have a way of forgetting, and its forgetfulness accrues with obliviousness, especially when it comes to San Francisco’s black community.  How does one quantify the struggle to obtain that home? How does one put a value on the days that Larry sat in the car with his father watching their house rise from the ground? The words that were said in that car, the dreams that were said and unsaid in the wind, unfolding like a series of acts before their eyes in a play that was real like the dirt that provided the fertile landscape for the foundation that was laid in those moments.  Those moments matter, those moments still live. 

 

Larry’s parents made the move from the south and Midwest—his mother from St. Louis, his father from Hot Springs, Arkansas. His mother worked as an account clerk for Muni and the Water Department. After acquiring technical skills in the military, his father worked for KQED and later for KRON. When his father began his career, he was one of the few black television engineers in the entire United States. He spoke of his father who built the family television set from scratch in the late 50’s when the family lived in San Mateo. Maybe that was where Larry gleaned his computer and technical writing skills. “You had to be able to explain things clearly, without jargon,” says Larry when speaking of the work he immersed himself in before his disability. His failed surgery left him with bouts of serious pain—pain so bad that it still requires frequent trips to the Emergency Room. He could no longer do the job he loved and had become so adept at. Most importantly, he feels that both he and his father owe their technical careers to the Tuskegee Airmen, who proved that black people could master technology.

 

 

When his father turned on the set what did Larry see?  Could he have foreseen what would happen to his house 40 years later, the house built by Joe Eichler, the only builder at the time that would sell to black families  Would he have seen the banks, our good friends, like Wells Fargo, lose his paperwork repeatedly in his attempt to secure a loan modification?  Or would the face on the screen have belonged to DMG investor Gilbert Chung, slowly fading into the TV snow of the American dream melting into nothing—equity stolen, justice gone.

 

Larry Faulks wants his house back and for others who have been hurt by DMG Asset Management to be aware of the charges handed down by the Department of Justice.  Gilbert Chung’s guilty plea to the charges of auction rigging and mail fraud are serious charges that could lead to prison and of a million dollars.  If you home was purchased at auction by DMG, please come forward.  Your voices need to be heard. 

Link to the Department of Justice press release: 

 
 
Link to Larry Faulks Wells Fargo protest video:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ncjiXIA0Ek
 

 

 

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The Brother who won't go away

09/24/2021 - 08:54 by Anonymous (not verified)
Original Author
PNNscholar1
Original Body

I was in line at the Civic Center post office in downtown San Francisco when the far off smell of salty air hit me.  I looked around for something that resembled the ocean and saw a passel of light blue shirt clad postal clerks weighing and affixing postage to letters and parcels, each doing the job with a personalized diligence gleaned from years of repetition.  How can one inhale the vast blueness of oceans and seas in a post office?  I was in line, in whose juxtaposition I occupied a place behind 15 others whose postures ranged from assertive, hurried, bored, fatigued, ambivalent or misguided aplomb—each holding sway to the pendulum of impatience moving within.  The post office is always crowded but I don’t mind standing in line.  Standing in line at the post office to send a handwritten letter is a resistance to our techwashed reality where everything is done via a click or press of a button.  As the second hand on the clock ticks its tiny steps of supplication towards eternity, the salty air smell becomes stronger and soon my face is awash in a breeze coming from somewhere. 

 

“Excuse me” a voice cut though from behind.  I turned and saw him—an African-American man who I’d seen around the city since I was a kid.  The man was about 5 foot 5 or 6.  He was dressed the way I remembered from back then—rugged pants, boots, denim jacket, turtleneck sweater—topped with a wide-brim leather hat.  “Do you know how much it costs to send a certified letter” he asked.  I’d sent only 2 certified letters in my life and didn’t remember what I’d paid.  “No, I sure don’t” I replied.  His thick fingers held a fanned out set of certified mail forms as if they were US currency.  He looked about for a list of postal rates.  If they are posted they are well hidden, along with the machine for those whose only wish is to purchase a single stamp.

 

On the man’s jacket was a patch that read: Karate.  I tried to imagine what he’d look like in a Karate gi.  He is short but solid.   I remember driving somewhere with my uncle years ago when he spotted the man walking down the street carrying a shoulder bag.  “That guy is a karate man” my uncle said.  My uncle practiced Okinawan Karate and came across the man in that world.  I looked at the man was we passed him.  He looked as if he’d just returned from a long journey by ship.  A merchant seaman, maybe?  I’d see him from time to time, always with that shoulder bag and sometimes a guitar case.  He’d pop up in different places in the city, always unexpectedly.  Somehow I felt I knew him.  Hey there’s that guy…I’d think upon seeing him.  I was just a little kid living in the Projects of North Beach, running in every direction except the right one.  Once while running, I came upon the man again.  This time he was among a crowd of tourists.  “Do you speak German?” he asked someone in the crowd.  “I do too”.  He smiled and strummed his guitar and said something that sounded like:

 

                                    Spreck-a-dee doych

                                    Spreck-a-dee doych

                                    Stop ‘n drop…thank you!

 

And the tourists showed teeth that spread as far and wide as the bridges that connect one place or person to another, smiling and dropping coins and dollars in that guitar case.  I was just a kid watching.  Hey, it’s that guy…I thought again, offering only a smile exposing the bashfulness of a boy in the presence of a guitar case that was a wide mouth that knew about laughter and hunger in any language. 

 

The man stood jotting information on the certified mail receipts.  I’d never spoken to him yet I felt I knew him.  He was someone from the landscape of my childhood, the feel of which is on the bottoms of my feet--in the sand and pebbles and shards of glass that have collected in my shoes.  I looked at the man’s face.  It seemed he hadn’t aged at all.  He didn’t have his shoulder bag or guitar case.  He glanced at his cell phone that was tucked into his denim jacket pocket.  Standing in that line, I wanted to ask him his name, where he was from, what he did for a living.  The only thing I could say was, “I remember you when I was a kid”. 

 

Displayed on the circumference of his leather hat rests a multinational array of pins proudly bearing the flags of many nations as well as the emblem of the state of California.  Had he been to all those places?  I remembered him talking to those German tourists long ago.  I mentioned this to him.  He explained that he spoke 15 different languages, including Asian, African and Polynesian tongues.  I wanted to know more.  Where did he live?  Was he married?  Where was his guitar?  The line was moving and now I was at the head.  The postal worker at the counter called out, “Next in line!”  I turned to the man and said, “It was really nice seeing you again, sir.  By the way, my name is Tony”.  The man just smiled and nodded.  I went to the counter to take care of my transaction.

 

I wanted to hug the man.  I was so glad to see him.  The feeling I had was ineffable.  Seeing him gave me the feeling that the city was still mine, still strumming with memories which move slowly though the crowds, the traffic—memories still alive, memories that still breathe.  I wanted to thank him for still being here.

 

I walked out of the post office and the smell of salty air hit me again, reminding me of where I was and of that brother who didn’t—who won’t—go away.  Neither will I. 

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Playlist for Success

09/24/2021 - 08:54 by Anonymous (not verified)
Original Author
PNNscholar1
Original Body

Saw this cat named Terry on the bus the other day. Some guys are like a breath of fresh air. Not Terry. He’s a breath of cologne. I don’t wear cologne but there’s something about Terry’s cologne. It’s a subtle scent that doesn’t overpower you. You just know it’s there. He wears these velvet jogging suits that are smooth and loose. That’s Terry, smooth and loose.

 

We ran into each other on the #5 Fulton heading downtown. Riding the #5 can be depressing. All those faces, that twisted mass of tech-washed gentrification that has overrun the city of my birth. I can barely stand it, that sense of entitlement of the techies, the coffee sippers—those financial sector technocrats whose presence radiates so much death of spirit. I try not to look but they’re all over the place so I close my eyes. He got on board on Fillmore Street. The door opened and that cologne hit me. I looked up. “Hey Anthony” a voice called out. I was drawn in by his gaze. His eyes are somewhat unfocused yet radiate a smile contrived only of an honesty of the moment. “What’s happening, Terry?” I said. Terry moves a bit unsteadily, having been in a car accident years ago. Sometimes when talking, his attention drops off. Perhaps it is the area of lost consciousness that hangs like a cloud, those precious moments when he slips into the subconscious street of his mind, where words and songs echo to the surface. Terry—Fillmore born, still here.

 

We got off downtown. We walked a couple blocks to Market Street. I remembered the way he walked from when I first met him. I was a vocational rehabilitation counselor for an employment training program run by a local non-profit organization. Most of the participants in the program had developmental disabilities. The training facility was an assembly center where the workers sorted, counted, weighed and packed mosaic tiles for shipping to retail outlets. My job was to supervise the workers, which is always uncomfortable because I see myself as a worker and not a supervisor. I hit it off with Terry. We’d laugh and he’d sit and count those tiles like they were poker chips. But he would sometimes lose count and have to start over again. His eyes would drift to the women in the program. He liked talking to the girls, always complimenting them on what they were wearing. I’d say, “Hey Terry, you can’t do that. Ain’t you ever heard of sexual harassment?” Terry’s gaze would drift away for a few seconds. “You’re a motherfuckin’ killjoy” he’d answer, smiling. “You’re right about that” I’d answer.

 

We walked to Market Street. Terry has moved on to a profession better suited to his passion. He sells mix CD’s. Five bucks a pop. He pulls out a small binder filled with CD’s in transparent sleeves. He asks me what I like. I ask him what he has. Fast jams or slow jams, whatever you want, he tells me. I tell him to set me up with slow jams. He pulled a CD out of its sleeve. He had a playlist to go with it, not digitized and impersonal but handwritten on good, old-fashioned lined paper:

 

“Ole School Mixed Slow Ballads”

1. Sho’ Nuff must be love—Heatwave 2. Do Me Baby—Prince 3. I’ll be there—Jackson 5 4. Hanging Downtown—Cameo 5. Got to Be there—Jackson 5 6. Do Me—Rick James 7. Never Can Say Goodbye—Jackson 5 8. Between the Sheets—Isley Brothers 9. What’s your sign—Danny Pearson 10. Natural High—Bloodstone 11. Oh Honey—Delegation 12. Be My girl—Dramatics 13. What’s come over me—Blue Magic 14. Sparkle (in your eye)—Cameo 15. Fell for you—Dramatics 16. Didn’t I blow your mind this time—Delfonics

 

We parted ways. I had my mix CD. It sat in my bag a couple of days. Terry called me and asked me what I thought of the CD and I told him that I hadn’t listened yet but would soon. He called again and again I told him I’d listen as soon as I could. I finally found a perfect time to listen—at work. I popped in that CD and let it play. Now, I don’t know how it happened but I got mellow and loose and hell if I didn’t look at myself and see that I was wearing a velvet jogging suit. And that smell, is it cologne? Damn, Terry got me again. How am I going to get any work done today?

 

Hey Terry, thanks for the music, thanks for being here. I never knew a jogging suit could fit so well. Thanks.

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When One of Us Kills One of Us-Decolonizing Violence in Amerikkka

09/24/2021 - 08:54 by Anonymous (not verified)
Original Author
Tiny
Original Body

Dedicated to Melvin Burley, Ernesto Xe and Kiante Campbell and all of our lost fathers, sons, uncles, nephews, brothers, neighbors, teachers, mentors, friends and  warriors

 

“They were shooting up the neighborhood like it was a shooting range. Gunshots flying hitting walls and buildings, we had to duck down in our own little room, my blind wife was almost shot.” Donald, Deep East Oakland poverty skola and neighborhood elder speaking at Street Newsroom on Deep East-TV

 

Donald’s words whispered into the wind as I sat there holding a picture of Ernesto Xe, a 22 yr young peace-bringing brother and son who never had a bad word or angry voice for anyone or anything. Shot dead by a “stray” bullet in the post-gentrified streets of the Fillmore district of San Francisco. In my other hand I held a picture of Jose Antulio Matias Aguilon, a young hard worker, uncle and smile-bringer who crossed three plantation walls (borders) to come here and work to support his family in Guatemala, shot dead by two youngsters in the post-gentrified streets of the Mission for his phone. And at my feet were two pictures, one of Melvin Burley, an uncle, a father and positivity carrier, shot dead by stray bullets in the pre-gentrified streets of East Oakland and Kiante Campbell, a son, a student, a young man, shot in currently-being-gentrified downtown Oakland.  All dead. All taken on their spirit journey when we still needed them here. To father, to brother, to neighbor, to cook, to dream, to teach, to pray, to make music, to heal, to care-give, to smile, to love.

 

“The chickens have come home to roost..” William C, former Black Panther, Oakland resident on the killing of Kiante Campbell

 

The reasons are none. None of them “did anything” not that that would be a reason to end someones life. They just lived and worked, and shopped, and walked home in the killing fields of Amerikkka.

 

“When a pig kills 1 of us i think its easy to see an us and them. Its easy to point the finger and see the enemy clearly. And the injustice and hypocrisy of a peace officer who supposed 2protect and serve and uphold the law is so blatant. When 1 of us kills 1 of us i think the lines get blurry. The hypocrisy is absent. And i think trauma, being overwhelmed, and helplessness sets in. I think our apparent self destruction is too much to deal wid. And we dont even kno where to start to solve us killing us,” said sista-mama-revolutionary artist/chef Needa Bee when promoting an Oakland 1st Friday’s Peace celebration in honor of Kiante Campbell.

 

As I was holding all of them in my heart, in my mind and now in my memory, already cluttered with so much loss from my own hard life of too much struggle, I started to hear the shots from the deepest recesses of my ancestral memory, the shots of another time, a time of settler-colonizers killing each other and themselves. I started to hear the genocide and smell the blood of my indigenous brothers and sisters, lives taken too early to their spirit journeys because the settler had perfected this man-made killing machine known as a gun.

 

“I didn’t like the way he looked at me, so I shot him,” Wild Bill Cody – kkkowboy from the 1800’s

 

 And as I tripped on the present day similarities of all these shootings to 18th century gratuitous shooting from the Amerikkkan kkkowboy times, my mind wandered to the incessant killing in present day Syria, Mali, Afghanistan, Iraq and Palestine, where paid murderers known as “soldiers” routinely kill children and fathers and mothers and aunties and grandmothers and grandfathers for false reasons crafted by empires and colonizers and “rebels” and landlords and banks…

 

“15 innocent children killed in “border violence” in Palestine… kkkorporate NewsNetwork(CNN) report”

 

And then I remembered the ongoing Po’Lice killing of our young warriors like Kenneth Harding Jr, killed because he didn’t happen to have a $2.00 Muni bus token with him or Alan Blueford and Derrik Gaines killed because they “ran” or Ernesto Duenez because he got out of his van or Mario Romero because he got out of his car, and so many more, all of them by occupying armies called Police.

 

Like so many of our young folks today, I have lived through multiple forms of seen and unseen violence my whole life. I have been houseless, gentrified and evicted so many times I can’t count. My poor Black/Indian mama lived through violent foster homes and orphanages,  her poor body of color was abused over 200 times by the time she was 2 years young, which continued throughout her childhood and then again later as an adult when she was abused by my father and my stepfather. I was almost killed by my stepfather and later by someone I depended on for support for many years of my adult life.. Violence is and was an outgrowth of our lives in this abusive and brutal system of kkkapitalism. And saying it isn’t ok or calling CPS or the occupying armies known as po’lice on us wasn’t going to end the violence of our poor single mother and child poverty in Amerikkka.

 

How do we heal our young folks and ourselves from this violence together. Perhaps it begins with us realizing we are all violent. We are all engaged, even if unintentionally, in the violence of capitalist separation and individualism. That it is us together, old and young, single and parent, child and elder who are involved and therefore complicit. And all of us have a role in healing and activating. And not just in come idealistic anti-war protest, not in some futile, terrified search for occupying armies (Po’Lice) or government saviors (CPS) but in the daily and very difficult acts of deconstructing the system of violence that has built us all.

 

We could start with the violence of gentriFUkation, displacement and poverty that happens due to many peoples with race and class privilege’s casual/capitalistic desire to “have a new life” or “find a more interesting neighborhood” or live in a more “convenient” location. I have witnessed (and fought for and cried for) entire working-class families of color  who were struggling, but still holding it together, who had the rooted strength and eldership and connected-ness of their neighborhoods of origins be gentriFUked out of their neighborhoods of origin only to be dwelling in places where they have no access to jobs, elders watching or friends caring. And similarily the peoples  they left were now out their grandmothers, their compaz, their friends, their support networks.

 

The nuances of survival and thrival are many and are rarely understood. They are never discussed by the politricksters, the real estate spekkkulators, bank gangsters and the profit-gainers who steal our lives and communities away from us. The multiple families I have witnessed who have suffered the violence of displacement, including my own, never recovered from this loss and in many of the cases, they have lost their young folks to this gratuitous violence I speak of now.

 

And then there is the violence of “independence” which we are all pitched so hard in the US and how it ensures that we all leave our homes and our elders and our communities in pursuit of college and a “job” and a career and a new car and more and more blud-stained dollars, until we are miles and miles away from the peoples who would teach us and care for us and help us learn what it means to be human, and then when we are there, we are dependent on strangers to love us and care about us and most of the time all they do is abuse us and leave us and hurt us and then we are left alone and isolated, seeking corporate poisons or more dangerous people to soothe our deep pain even if it causes more pain.

 

And in pursuit of these dollars which leaves us with no time for each other we send our children away to factory schools or to sit in front of corporate TV’s and computers to be alone with other alone and away children and one or two un-related, underpaid adults. And in these factory skkkools or in front of these technologies they only learn more about independence and alone-ness and technologically crafted answers and violence and racism and colonizers histories and propaganda and empire crafted notions of success and above all to not respect or care or listen to elders or even to their own parents. And many times the only thing they learn is to alternately fear or hate un-related authority.

 

Not to mention the violence of racist school policies, environmental racism, poor peoples hellthcare and poor peoples poison food choices leaving us sick and bloated to die in our separated, isolated housing.

There are so many parts of capitalism and colonization to dis-connect from, and thousands to un-learn. If you are reading this article you have begun to try to think through some of them. In our family at POOR Magazine/Prensa POBRE we have begun this lifelong un-learning, healing project with PEopleSkool, PNN & Homefulness. As indigenous, landless, poor peoples we are working to liberate mother earth from the real estate lie of property ownership. We are working to grow our own food and teach our children back their lost indigenous herstories and languages, re-define work as taking care of Mother Earth, our families and our communities and write and tell our own stories about our oppression and our self-determined liberation.

We will be starting a Grandmothers/ Mamaz/Grandfathers/Uncles council to bring eldership back to our communities in real time. In the summer as part of our Healing the Hood series we will be launching a free karate and Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) training for youth and adults with elders from POOR Magazine in collaboration with power-FUL young leaders the Black Riders Liberation Party. We are bringing spirit and inter-tribal prayer ceremonies to heal us all from these corporate poisons (drugs and alcohol) in our own indigenous traditions, we are fund-raising now to build housing for landless families not tied to how much money each of us have access to, and in the future we are hoping to create a gentriFUkation/Po’Lice free corner in this small slice of East Oakland and eventually completely move off the lie of blood-stained dollars.

A few other examples of this kind of decolonizing work is RBG street skolar and Ujaama Villages, Community Medics in Oakland, 5050 Collective in San Jose, as well as the many forms of Danza Azteca, Afro-Taino, Afro-Caribe and other forms of prayer and spirit and culture from our many different and beautiful indigenous peoples traditions being practiced and launched locally and globally-(Calpulli Coatlicue, Pueblo de Guatu Ma-cu to name a few) and the indigenous resistance movement, IdleNoMore. And big ups to the Urban Peace Movement, Silence the Violence marches and movements like the United Playaz and even pastors and preachers and healers who speak and teach and work on this violence everyday.

 

In the mean-time these multiple forms of violence continue, our separation from each other and the accountability to each other widens, the po’lice perpetration increases and the 21st century world of lies and blood-stained ekkkonomies is held up as the only way to live.

 

Right now I am praying for all of our lost brothers, uncles, fathers, friends, mentors, and neighbors to stand with us as well as to Creator, Great Spirit and all the Orisas so that we can affect change before all of us chickens kill all of us other chickens while we are all trying to collectively dismantle the roost.   

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Moya Bailey Talks to Krip-Hop Nation About Her Essay, "The ILLEST:Disability As a Metaphor in Hip-Hop Music"

09/24/2021 - 08:54 by Anonymous (not verified)
Original Author
Leroy
Original Body

(Also listen to our audio conversation about her essay and more)

Hip Hop music is most often derided for it's homophobic and
misogynistic lyrics with few or any critics examining the way ableism operates in the genre. This article engages several lyrical tropes in hip hop that rely on problematic constructions of disability. Looking at the "left" coast hyphy sound, I examine the use of disability as metaphor for freedom and abandon. This metaphorical use of disability leaves much to be desired for people with actual disabilities.

I write,

"By examining ableism in hip hop through the multiple lenses of disability, queer, critical race, and feminist theories we can go beyond the ineffective dichotomy of positive and negative representation and possibly discover useful theorizing derived outside the insulated world of academe. Ableism is the system of oppression that privileges able-bodied people and culture over and above those with disabilities. In the liminal spaces of hip hop the reappropriation of ableist language can mark a new way of using words that departs from generally accepted disparaging connotations. Though this project makes a case for a transgressive reading of ableism in hip hop, ableism in and of itself is still oppressive. Additionally, not all of it can be reimagined. Some of it is simply the vile invective that maintains hierarchies of oppression through able bodied privilege. Though other genres of music and popular culture generally reinforce ableism (Pop Music’s love of “crazy” love), its presence in hip hop speaks, I argue, to centuries-old stigma management strategies of politics of respectability that remain futile."

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