Story Archives 2013

Barbeque and corn bread and greens made by black hands.  Adobo and rice eaten with thick brown fingers.  A handwritten love note with a #2 pencil.  A street sax blowing colors across the sky.  Tortillas and rice and beans and abuelitas' voices rising through rooftops.  Murals on our skin, wet with our stories, our lives, our revolution.  Palleteros pushing cool cool cool flavors that paint the tongue a picture of community, finger painted portraits of our dreams.  Grandpa with a wrinkled racing form, transistor radio broadcasting voices of spirits dancing, splashing like flowers in the throats of babies.  Wrinkled photos and longhand notes written illegibly legible on the palm lines of leaves.  A belly full of pork noodle soup.  Familiar faces on Frisco streets.  Terry on the corner of 7th St selling slow jam CD's--Delfonics, Isley Brothers, Dramatics.  Nella planting collard greens and kale and everything that is good, her brown Filipino hands offering her gifts from the soil in the Tenderloin.  Stories written in Russian rye bread.  Rice noodles whipping around block after block of the TL, Dreams fermenting on the corner of Turk and Larkin.  Black voices that never die.  Samoan church food passed from hand to hand, elder to child, heart to heart.  Sacks filled with Chinese vegetables. Fish eyes looking through tanks as rivers flow down Chinatown streets.  My grandmother's cane that kept our unstable world stable as she walked to and from St. Patricks Church on Mission.  Mission Street palm trees that tell us home isn't too far and can be heard in the conga drum that dreams of freedom from the pawn shop.  Fog horns moanin' wetness as the sun breaks though for the first time over and over again in my city. 

I can taste

the thick adobo tales

of your life

--Al Robles in a poem to Manong Felix Ayson

The strong smell of adobo hits you hard when you walk through the door of Mel Vera Cruz's art exhibit "Quintessential Adobo".  It is a smell that, once it gets into your skin, you can't get rid of it; and once you taste it, you want more.  It is much like the poem by Al Robles who found his way to his ancestral homeland, the Philippines without setting foot on its soil--finding it in a place called Manilatown in San Francisco by following the smell of adobo swirling around the small rooms of the International Hotel.  That same fragrance inhabits the work of artist Mel Vera Cruz.  He greets you at the door, just as the manongs of the past did, unassuming, donning a black leather hat and letting his art speak for itself.

Mel Vera Cruz remembers his first doodles as a child. It was 43 years ago. He says that he didn't “have to dig a nail deep onto our wall to draw and proudly show it off to my mom”. As a kid he wondered what he could be, now and in old age. He remembers that the answer that came into his mind was art. To Mel Vera Cruz, art is everywhere. Mel says, “Visual art may not matter to most people but it is everywhere. It is unavoidable because we live in a visual world”.

Oftentimes the lines that exist in the arts are blurred. One line blends into another, permeating a border or perceived border to create another line that is unique, much like a poem that has been given birth, one line, followed by another until the gift that touches our deepest core is there to be sung, to take flight. That feeling of taking flight took a hold of me when I attended the launch of “Quintessential Adobo” an exhibition of art by Mel Vera Cruz, held in the City's Bayview Community at the Paolo Mejia Art Gallery and Design Studio, located at 4343 #B, 3rd Street. It is befitting that this exhibit was being shown in the Bayview—a community under attack by banks and developers who are intent on grabbing land and destroying community. This art exhibit is a resistance to this, without apology.

To me, Mel Vera Cruz's art occupies that space between poetry and the visual. On his canvases, which are common items like wood and cardboard, inhabit images of the Filipino soul, our dreams, our contradictions, pieces of everyday life that make up who we are. Life size black and white images of our ancestors are presented on mylar amidst a myriad of images of sardine cans, a common food of the worker, the poor, the every day person whose stories go untold but in whose eyes and silence a thousand stories are told.

Rather than fetishize these manongs—our ancestral elders—the artist gives their bodies, their being, the proper respect by preserving their memory in such a way that is not overshadowed by the medium. To the contrary, the medium functions as a conduit of reverence and respect which is the brilliance of the pieces. Through his humble use of art, Vera Cruz becomes poet, storyteller—a messenger from the past and of the present.

Mel Vera Cruz is a humble artist whose art assumes many identities making up what it means to be Filipino. But ultimately this means not forgetting who you are and not being ashamed. Mel says:

This show is one of the things that I believe in. Quintessential Adobo for me means being myself.

Adobo might stink to some people because of the vinegar but once you try it, you'll surely come back for more. Vinegar might be for cleaning and not edible for some but besides making the food taste better, it is the main ingredient to make adobo last for days without refrigeration.

That's how my psyche works. It preserves and can be clear even in murky waters because it was built on solid ground. It takes courage to open up to it because it doesn't conform and it might stink at first but can create lasting impressions once opened up to it.

Mel Vera Cruz is an artist but to me he is a poet. His work brings me to my ancestral homeland, the Philippines, a place that I have not been to. The art in “Quintessential Adobo” is a homecoming, it is poetry, it is a celebration. I taste the thick adobo tales of his art.

For more information:  http://www.paolomejia.com/?p=882 and www.melveracruz.com

It is easy to be seduced by the technology of today. I sometimes wonder how my grandparents reacted to the invention of the television. My great-great grandmother, I was told, looked in wonder at those flying things called airplanes.  I can see her in my ancestral memory looking up into all that blue sky and whispering, "Well I declare". I have spent much time in front of a computer screen in my professional and personal life and have bags under my eyes to show for it. I own a laptop that I use for typing documents—namely poems, essays and short stories. I like the convenience of composing a poem or story and being able to send it to an editor or friend with the push of a button. But oftentimes I find myself distracted by other tech-related digital realities, namely Facebook. I found myself logging onto this digital friendship train—morning, noon and night. It was becoming a serious distraction. I was sucked into my computer terminal until I felt I was acquiring some kind of digital terminal illness. I decided to take the first step—i decided to get off Facebook.

Firstly, I have grown tired of Mark Zuckerberg. Seeing his face online or in print somehow conjures this idea I have that Zuckerberg is actually Ronald McDonald without makeup. Everybody I know is on Facebook and soon I amassed over 400 friends. This was a shot of adrenaline to my digital ego. But I took a realistic inventory of my friendships one day and I found the number closer to 4 or 5 in total (an estimate). These friendships, I found, are more analog in nature because they were formed before the mass marketing of PC's, cellphones, the internet or ipads. In short, these friendships were formed in the era of LP's, typewriters, cassette tapes, transistor radios and 1 ply toilet paper.

My constant engagement in Facebook was taking too much of my time. The lines separating my real face and my facebook face were getting blurred. I began to get headaches. I made the decision to give it up, get out. I started logging back into the good old fashioned US Post Office. As you probably know, many post offices across the country have closed and a plan to discontinue Saturday delivery has been decided on. But I went ahead and started buying postcards and sending them to friends and family; I started writing letters and, on occasion, sending a book (ie: made of paper), a scarf or a hat to those who might appreciate it. I soon began cutting back on sending email. It seems that folks are sending less email since the majority appear to be communicating mostly via Facebook.

The notes and letters I write are on small notepads or postcards. I send plenty notes to my father—the original link to my analog past. He lives an analog life—his cell phone is as high tech as he gets. He lives in Hawaii so my handwritten notes pass any number of hands, whose prints are distinct in their DNA and chemistry—where they sort through and take my note, with its distinct handwriting and send it to the islands. My dad gets it in his mailbox. I imagine his thick brown fingers running along the edges of the envelope. I think of his eyes when he sees that it is a letter from his son. When he sees it postmarked “San Francisco”, does he smell the smell of the salt air and fog, does he hear the fog horns, does he smell the fish from the markets in Chinatown? I can only imagine.

I started writing letters and notes to my sister, cousins and friends. I stand in line at the post office, across the street from the offices of Twitter. The line is sometimes long but the long of it helps me deal with the nature of my patience—which is short. I look at the people in line. I see their faces—the nuances of their posture, demeanor, vibe—those things that make us people. Sending cards, notes, letters—written by hand in all its nuances and imperfections—has cleared my mind and made my communication more real. Just this week I received a letter. It was from my sister. Her handwriting jumps and bends and slants beautifully. She is a dancer and her words dance across the page. She sent two photos of my nephew who she has enrolled in piano.

Since I got off Facebook and cut back on email, my mind is clearer. I am no longer under the digital illusion of friendship. To be honest, I don't miss it. I am better off without it. It is, I might add, my resistance to the proliferation of the “digital person”--that two-legged techwashed being who lives on digital air, digital emotions, digital food and 10 thousand other digital impulses. This person doesn't seem real yet they're all over the place, staring into their screens or through the tinted glassed google buses while who knows what stares back.

I want to see my elders and children of the community—real people in my city that is becoming less real and more digital. I want to touch my community the way it has touched me. Real and to be felt, in resistance to the drone of the techwashed masses.

See you at the post office

John Stewart is a housing developer for low-income housing, known to be harsh to poor people. His staff is rude and very sarcastic. John Stewart is building a housing development called “Hunter’s View” in Bayview/Hunter’s Point, formerly known as Double Rock. The housing development will have five buildings to be built in five different stages. There are people who are being moved in immediately through the Housing Authority, prior to the housing lottery, but no one knows who they are. John Stewart is trying to get people of color out of the city and only have wealthy people in the city. No poor people whatsoever.

John Stewart’s first-stage building is discriminating against people with disabilities by limiting the size of service animals in the building: they cannot be larger than a lap dog. That forbids blind people from moving in. A Chihuahua is not a proper service animal for a seeing-eye dog! A proper dog is a Labrador or a German Shepard, not a lap dog! Luxury hotels like the Saint Frances and the Sheraton Palace Hotel allow these service animals in quarters smaller than a one-bedroom unit. This is also discriminating against poor people like myself. Are you saying, Mr. John Stewart, that if I was blind and of low-income, I am not entitled to the same privileges as a guest in a luxury hotel? If so you are discriminating against my civil rights. Because I only make a measly amount on my social security. I am presently not blind but I may need a service dog later on, and you and I may be meeting in the courtroom later on.

In addition to people with disabilities, regular poor people and seniors on Social Security will also be excluded. When John Stewart came, the former residents were kicked out of the area, but they were promised that they could move back. A majority of them had minimum-wage jobs or were on GA. But the new application to live in the building, Page 7, line 4, says that you “Cannot have more than $2500 credit debt or 3 bills outstanding.” Most former residents might have bills outstanding, including PG & E and Lifeline phones, or unpaid medical bills due to the toxic conditions of this area, which would mean a lot of former residents cannot move back. In the application, it says that a single person has to make $38,000 per year. If you were on Social Security like myself, I make $12,000 a year. GA would be half of that. That means that former residents cannot move back because they do not reach requirements. Now you are just kicking out old people like myself! The requirements are close to 50% Area Median Income (AMI) to live in his buildings: it’s almost into the ridiculous category, if you’re a former resident, to try to move back in.

The application alone shows that John Stewart wants to leave African-descendents and other people of color out of the Hunters Point area. At his new development it is forbidden to leave shades open or barbecue on a tenant’s own balcony. (He claims that barbequing is a fire hazard… but if you’re used to barbequing there is no way in hell you are setting the place on fire!) Barbequing is a tradition of both cultures, a part of their cuisine. This was a red flag that popped up under this reporter’s eyes. Do they want brothers and sisters or Oreo cookies living there? Tenants are also limited to spending ten minutes standing outside their apartment. Limiting my time standing outside the building to ten minutes is a violation of my freedom of assembly. It may take me longer to talk to my friends than 10 minutes.

Mr. John Stewart, on the right side of this application, you should have put a slash through the disabled logo. For your many violations of The Americans with Disabilities Act, and by using the words “may” be entitled to reasonable accommodations.

We Need the Community to Speak Out about the Termination of Homeless Coordinator Nancy Johnson

On September 19, 2012, low-income parents at the Berkeley Unified School District (BUSD) spoke out against the cutting of funds for the McKinney-Vento Act from $34,000 to $17,000.  The McKinney-Vento Act is a statute to assist families facing housing issues because of a lack of resources in the education of their children. The proposed cut came amidst an economic depression.

In the following months, many community members came to the BUSD School Board meetings, and sent numerous emails to the Co-interim Superintendents (Javetta Cleveland and Neil Smith) requesting the BUSD increase the funding for the McKinney-Vento Act and to continue the contract of Ms. Nancy Johnson.

Ms. Johnson has been the Homeless Coordinator for the BUSD for the last 15 years, and has been a valuable asset to families and students receiving assistance under McKinney-Vento Act.  As a retired teacher, employee at Berkeley Oakland Support Services, and resident of Berkeley, she has a vast reservoir of knowledge pertaining to issues of class, race and homelessness. Her institutional knowledge on the McKinney-Vento Act in the BUSD is unparalleled.

As a result of the community's voice and vigilance, the BUSD Board Members decided that the District Staff should meet with the community that receives McKinney-Vento assistance to decide how services are provided. Many of us were adamant that Nancy Johnson's services  are greatly valued by the community.

In a disingenuous move of bureaucratic duplicity, the District hired two half-time positions, and unilaterally terminated Ms. Johnson's contract.  She was given until the end of March 28, 2013.  This move by the BUSD was beyond the boundaries of our wildest imagination. We did not request Nancy Johnson's termination as the Homelessness Coordinator.  We requested the opposite. This action goes against the spirit and intent of the McKinney-Vento families, students, and community.  We are requesting the BUSD cancel this irrational response to our call for additional resource for the McKinney-Vento Act.

The community of  BUSD students and families are devastated by the District's move to terminate Ms. Johnson's contract.  Her first hand knowledge of the familial history of the many of the BUSD students receiving assistance under the McKinney-Vento Act, combined with her unequaled institutional knowledge are irreplaceable to the community. The termination of Ms. Johnson's services goes directly against the wishes of the students and parents at the School Board meetings. The parents and families know what services they need. Therefore, we are requesting that Ms. Johnson be retained until the end of the  2012-2013 academic year. 

According to BUSD's own statistics, approximately 10 percent of BUSD students are identified as eligible for assistance under the McKinney-Vento Act, and most of them are students of color. If the BUSD is serious about shrinking the well chronicled “Racial Achievement Gap," people like Nancy Johnson are needed to assist the BUSD in providing a free and quality education to all of it students.

We are asking that you support us in this goal by emailing Board Members stating that you would like Ms. Johnson's contract extended until at least the end of the 2012-2013 academic year. Contact them at: Karen Hemphill, karenhemphill@berkeley.net, Josh Daniels, joshdaniels@berkeley.net, Judy Appel, judyappel@berkeley.net, Beatriz Leyva-Cutler, BeatrizLeyva-Cutler@berkeley.net, Juliette Mueller, juliettemueller@students.berkeley.net, and Co-interim Superintendents Javetta Cleveland, javettacleveland@berkeley.net and Neil Smith, neilsmith@berkeley.net

Papa Bear took a seat near the edge of POOR Magazine’s Community Newsroom circle, settling into his chair as another poverty-scholar-reporter finished speaking. He’s POOR’s “Panhandler Reporter,” joining the newsroom for his monthly report: a state of the city address for houseless people, based on what he witnesses and studies daily in the Tenderloin.

He leaned forward in his chair and gestured slowly with his hands as he taught. “Sit-lie is moving up on the outskirts of the Tenderloin,” he explained, referencing the San Francisco ordinance, passed in 2010, that criminalizes houselessness and poverty by making it a crime to sit down on a public sidewalk. (Fascinatingly, although my white, college-educated ass has sat on many a public sidewalk in San Francisco, I have yet to be ticketed or harassed.) “If they don’t give you a ticket for blocking the sidewalk in front of the office buildings, they’ll give you one for sit-lie.” Although sit-lie passed in 2010, Papa Bear’s story suggests that enforcement is picking up in areas that are undergoing most intense gentrification.

Papa Bear continued, “There’s a new security company in town: Legion Security.” He described the all-black Legion cars that had seemed to surface in the streets overnight. Legion has taken over security for the building nearest to where Papa Bear usually stays. They’re making his life more and more difficult, although Papa Bear has certainly been there longer than this new security company has.

“And,” Papa Bear sighed slow, pained, “People are still dropping like flies. I’m getting a little nervous that I’ve been living and breathing the atmosphere in the Tenderloin for 8 years, sleeping on the street there.” He was succinct, clear, hurt by the words: houseless people in the Tenderloin are dying, many of them.

As the uneasiness and grief settled over the newsroom, someone asked Papa Bear if he had any ideas about why so many people were dying recently. He paused. “I never assume, and I never guess.” Although he knows the people and the place so well, he didn’t try to explain away the crisis. He let it hang in the air, heavy and unresolved.

Someone else raised her hand and said that, since Papa Bear is a veteran, the VA might have something to offer him to help him find housing. He nodded along with her as she explained her suggestion. “I want my own pension to pick my own place,” he said softly, precisely. He continued by explaining that they’ve taken his pension away and would take away his decision-making power over where and how he’d be living, if he went through the VA. Before he rose to head back to the Tenderloin, he closed his report, saying simply: “I dislike having someone else live my life I’m supposed to be living.”

A lot of people are confused when it comes to important facts about the murder of Mario Romero by officers of the Vallejo Police Department. Those who are unfamiliar with proper protocol and are comfortable with hearing the stories of people being shot and killed by police for allegedly possessing a firearm.

It is important to understand that in the case of Mario Romero he did not have a gun before one was planted on him by a corporal with the Vallejo Police department after he was murdered.

Mario Romero was sitting in front of his home when he was preyed upon by officers practicing their normal daily routine of harassing people because of the color of their skin. A lot of people do not understand that it is not against the law to sit in your car in front of your house at any time of the day or night because this is America and we have civil and constitutional rights.

Those rights of Mario Romero were violated to a horrible extent on September 2, 2012 when he was murdered by officers of the Vallejo Police.

Vallejo Police have counted on intimidation, stalking and harassment to silence witnesses and family of those who have been killed at their hands.

Vallejo police were counting on such intimidation to silence everyone who witnessed these crimes of Vallejo police.

Vallejo Police want you believe that a sane man would pull out a fake gun on two officers with real guns and unlimited bullets. A sane man who had just got a new promising job and was preparing to celebrate his 24th birthday.

A sane man who had a family who loved him as much as he loved them. This same sane man who was a hero to his 3 year old daughter.

The Vallejo Police have admitted to not identifying themselves. Before attacking Mario Romero’s car with bullets but have attempted to justify their actions through planting evidence to support their lies and slandering Mario’s name.

The Vallejo Police have not given an explanation for shooting at Mario so many times without any return fire. Shooting at an unarmed man was not enough for these blood thirsty animals. They had to reload and hop onto the hood of Mario’s car and continue to unload while the officer turned his head to have a conversation with a loved one of the victim while continuing to shoot her baby brother to death.

To violate a person’s rights is not enough, to kill an unarmed man unjustly and in front of his home, neighbors and family members is not enough. The Vallejo Police immediately made lies in an attempt to justify their criminal activity.

They changed their stories three different times, none making sense to a family who were so close to the victim as well as friends and neighbors who knew what had occurred on that horrifying night.

The Vallejo police lied saying that Mario got out of his car and pointed a fake gun at two real guns but they did not know that Mario’s car door was broken, his window had to be rolled down and his door had to be opened from the outside for him to exit his car.

They did not know that Mario’s seatbelt was broken and was tied into a knot, which he faithfully tied to prevent himself from getting a seatbelt ticket preventing him from leaving the car in an abrupt manner.

They did not know that their corrupt activities were being recorded. They were unaware that anyone saw the police issued training weapon being planted into Mario’s car. Nor did they know that they were observed stealing the seatbelt that Mario was cut from.

Vallejo Police Chief Slandered Mario’s name, falsely stating Mario as a parolee who was afraid of going back to prison, using this as a reason to say that Mario pulled out a fake gun on two officer’s with two real guns and unlimited bullets. This false statement was relayed to the media by the Vallejo Police Chief who was aware that it was a lie but has refused to publically admit his faults, further proving the agencies lack of accountability practices.

The assassination of a person’s character is the second death that Vallejo Police Department sentences their victims to after they have murdered them in the manner that they murdered Mario Romero.

This assassination is carried out with the hopes of making the lives of the people who have been killed seem insignificant as well as limiting public outcry over police misconduct.

Vallejo Police do not want you to know that Mario Romero was shot in his face and mouth and shot in the palms of his hands and wrists as well as his chest and underarms as he pleaded for his life, Nor do they want you to know that after unloading 30 + bullets into his car his body was stolen from the scene of the crime and hidden for a month as insensitive officers of the Vallejo police harassed and intimidated Mario’s family.

The person that the Vallejo Police have painted Mario Romero to be is far from the person he was. Mario was a very loving person and very easy to love. He met no strangers and was willing to help people that he did not know. Whether it be helping an elderly woman cross the street or giving a man that he did not know a ride. Mario was very close to his family and open about his activity. He was creative and loved making music as well has taking care of his 3 year old daughter who was his world. Mario was a kid at heart who wouldn’t hesitate to sit on the floor and play video games with his nieces and nephews. Or ask his older siblings if his clothes matched. Mario was one person who made sure that you knew that he loved you , never leaving out the door without saying “I Love you”, giving you a hug and a kiss. He was never shy with his affection, never too proud to express his love. He was very respectful always saying Yes ma’am or nor sir to his elders. All he ever wanted was to be was famous and make his family proud. Mario’s life being taken so brutally and unjustly has exposed and evil within the city of Vallejo that has been able to be hidden for so long. Mario’s family has always been proud to call him theirs and will continue to fight for justice for his murder as well as the murder, police brutality and discrimination that has been experienced by others.

We are all Mario Romero!

Wesearch:

Poor people led research and pro-active media deconstructing the lies told about criminalized and mythologized communities.

Ingrid De Leon

I am a migrant woman, mother that day by day I look at the sun

to guide me through this World. I have lived in San Francisco

for nine years. I see how things here are changing in the Misión

district. Before, there were a lot of stores and Latin restaurants.

But everything is changing. Everyday, they build new buildings

for businesses and other races that we cannot afford to buy.

When I walk through 24th street, I see new houses, businesses and

cafes with people who have money, everyone has their coffee cup

and everyone with their own laptops. They all appear quiet,

each in their own world. Us, Raza and those that don’t have a lot of

money cannot go in there. We have no money or computer. Little

by little our spaces are shrinking. And when we are surrounded

by rich houses and rich people, we feel like fish out of water

and we want to move out of here. Our space is already full of

things that us, the poor, cannot have. I am in horror, because I

feel that at any moment I will no longer have a home, because my

current home is very old.  These are the houses that are being

destroyed for new condominiums. I get chills every time I see a new

construction site. I feel as if I’m drowning, since I cannot swim.

Usuario for change (Enrique)- Gentrification

When I arrived in this country, into the city of San Francisco, a

decade ago, I saw how the renters and people that lived in shelters

were being forced into eviction from where we lived by the owners

of the buildings. Forced into eviction by the creation of “CHANGES” by the city of

San Francisco.

During a mass protest, I announced that the ones that should be

criminalized are the originators of Gentrification.  In other

words- the owners of the units and the legislators that approved the

ELLIS ACT.  Just like those who approved the program

“CHANGES,” because those are the originators of this problem.

Me, in my part, I was going to fight for a system of subsidized

housing by the city. Fight for the particular persons that have low income or

temporarily no income who could have good worthy housing according to

their earnings.

Today I live at Casa Quezada where I pay 25 dollars a month for

rent and when I do not have money, I do not pay. This program

was developed with the participation of many non-profit

organizations and other neighborhood centers in the Misión.

Gentrification- Julio Chaves

Gentrification of a neighborhood affects my economy because the

rent of apartments and rooms increase in price.  The owners of the

houses or apartments take advantage of the situation, feeling like mini kings in

their kingdom where they live and pressure the people who live in

their units.  The rent every day is more expensive.  It pushes us to live in places

far from our work centers, making life more difficult. Like

my grandmother says “what doesn’t leave with tears, leaves

with a sigh.”  This is due to the fact that is you have cheap housing,

you have to deal with many stupid discomforts from the mini King

and Esther with how you spend more money on gasoline or on the bus transportation. Gentrification is a silent Invasion, but without bullets-where the one with the most money takes possession of the best commercial places with the great ability to do

business.

Gentrification increases the rent and also the food.  It is a race where

he takes himself out of the race when he has little money or low

paying jobs. It’s a race where the poor get poorer and the rich get

richer.

This economic war grows bigger and bigger each moment like

Monsanto (Monster.) Where the one with money can live where he

wants and the poor where ever we can, or survive if we can.

I like the apartment where I live because it’s cheap, but it is located

on the first floor and I can hear the drainage system from the

neighbors upstairs.  And I can hear them making love with a

rik rik of their mattress. But all these noises and discomforts are

part of my environment.

Gentri- Lex Horan

I'm a young white person who's living in Oakland on a short-term basis. I am passing through, essentially, for four months of my life. Most of the time I live in Minneapolis, MN. Here in this city I am mostly a learner--I came here for training to bring home with me. It feels like a very strange way to be in a place.

Moving here was very easy for me. I am living in an apartment near Lake Merritt with my best friend and another person I hadn't met before moving here. The building I'm staying in was recently renovated and many other people in my building are Black and Latino. (Two of us in my household are white, and one of my housemates is Black. We all went to college; none of us are from the Bay Area.) Gentrification has made it very easy for me to move to Oakland. I know a lot of other people who live here--almost none of them are from here--who have helped me by giving me rides, showing me around, lending me a bike, letting me live with them for low rent. It's like the rails were greased to help me land here easily. I'm also impacted by gentrification in a different way, but how it feels to live here. I'm not used to it yet, if that's ever possible. I think a lot of people like me get used to the way displacement feels in the air, on BART, walking past the people who've been stolen from. I'm afraid that I might too, if I stayed here. But for now it rubs me, feels exhausting and heartbreaking and makes me feel nauseous and uneasy. I am impacted because I watch the way people like me are cogs in the machine of displacement and I feel angry, hopeless, judgmental, confused. It's important for me to grapple with all these feelings and also--at the end of the day, I'm housed, period.

Noa Grayevsky- Gentrification

I am a rich, white queer person living in San Francisco. I'm not from here. My parents immigrated to the United States from Israel where my Palestinian- Jewish ancestors colluded with the British colonizers and became white and rich off of land theft, displacement of their neighbors, and "real estate development." I am a graduate student with owning class parents. I graduated from Harvard and have a lot of educational privilege. I am a housemate to four young, white, queer people, an older sister to my very tall younger brother Eyal, a child of my parents Eli and Tami, a lover of my partner, Ro. My father and brother are business owners, and my mother, like her grandfather, is a real estate agent. This means the money in my family comes from other peoples' labor, from stealing land, from maintaining kkkapitalism and from gentrification and colonization. I moved to San Francisco five years ago to be closer to dear friends of mine, and I am embarrassed to share, to find other young, queer people like myself.

I am impacted by gentrification in San Francisco mostly in that money and access have been funneling to me without almost any effort on my part as a result of it. My parents bought me a house on Bernal Hill this year without me knowing about it, and gave it to me as a surprise, while my friends who are queer, poor folks of color were displaced from Bernal Hill to Oakland. Gentrification and displacement of poor folks downtown was a result of the building of the luxury condo my dad just bought. As the businesses change, I see more people who look like me all around. The police smile at me, It's all set up so that they'll be here to protect me from noticing or feeling the harm I am doing to others by being here in this way. I am a commercial for gentrification, as a young, white, class privileged, queer artist. I walk around and then rich, white, older men want to move here, like my dad, to be hip. My parents, between the two of them, own 6 condos and houses now in this country none of us are from, and each time my mom closes a deal on a "luxury" house or condo she gets paid lots of money, which she then uses to fund my brother's tech start up, my fancy grad school tuition, and my living here and gentrifying this place. I feel like the expectations, access, and inertia in place in my owning class family and culture set me up to displace others and benefit from their harm, and pushing against this feels both necessary to my humanity, like my duty to the earth and to those living around me, and also incredibly confusing- like doing a task that almost all my socialization worked hard to prevent me from doing. Here I am, humbled and hurting, confused and loving inside of it.

The Existentiality of Gentrification

by: Asik the Pirate

I think I might just have hustled rent for this month.

(Perpetual Refrain) I get three extra days next time!

I don’t come from here…it’s obvious.  My hat belongs sixty years in the past, my kicks have had intimate relations with several (I imagine bruised) feet, my shirt has a collar, and my gait betrays an admittedly desperate confidence.

Plus the folks that are left have seen it all after generally 40+ years on the plantation.  They know the new horse on the track.

“How you like the neighborhood?”

“Love it.”

“That’s good.  I’m Andre.  Been here my whole life.  I’ll see you.”

They see that I’m not a gentri-fuckerbut I know that I am sometimes reckless-eyeballed.  I am grateful for the cautious welcome.  I can locate and appreciate the fear.  Yet I wonder about my wife and roommate.  They don’t address them, they just let them pass by.  They might hopethey pass by.

You see I took no home from any man or woman.  I moved in from being briefly homeless to a place where my wife had moved to avoid a bad roommate situation, into an apartment rented by a young lesbian of Chinese descent, who happened to live in one of the last remaining Black sides of town.

Our rent is significantlybelow market rate, which amounts to just a little more than I can pay, and we have not and will not help to raise it!

But did my roommate know she was moving into a neighborhoodor did she just like the flat and the fish-shop on the corner?  Did she want to know and contribute to a community, or build an isolated fort on the Bay for sex and other thought experiments?  How was this space opened for me?

You see I knew this hood before I landed here, have friends, a few enemies perhaps, and have celebrated, cried, and struggled here. My entry was a strange homecoming, and I mean every syllable when I say I love it.  I don’t live in a hip spot, get no cool points for my domicile, yet I am surrounded by one of the most creative, resilient, strong communities that I’ve ever encountered.  But is it visible?  To Who?

And my roommate (my sweet, generous roommate)…Does she know that she is invisible not by race but by perceived class, translucent and gentile, not only able to dodge bullets but able to dodge us all?  Who is more afraid, my roommate, or the people who see a foreclosure sign hanging off of her “general good intentions”, and the bulldozer of green-washed upwardmobility as homespirals further and further from the atmosphere into the deepest recesses of space?

Jenny - Gentrification

Who am I in this City?

I am a class and education privileged (I have a master’s degree) 27-year old queer, White/Puerto Rican/Filipina mixed race woman, not from California.  I am trying to substitute teach in the city to create a more-flexible schedule compared to having more traditional jobs. I live with my Filipina-immigrant, college-educated partner in Berkeley/Oakland border.  I moved to California around 1 and a half years from Chicago with my sister who moved to San Francisco for her residency program as a gynecologist.  Before Chicago, I had lived in Michigan for 13 years.  Before Michigan, I lived in Japan, where I was born.

How am I impacted by gentrification?

 I am impacted by gentrification.  I must be profiting from it.  It allows me to live in a place with affordable rent for me and where a lot of young, like-minded queer people live around me.  I was not raised in California and it was my privilege that gave me a choice to move here.  It was my privilege that helped me find a place to live.  Because I have lighter skin, a masters degree, was a public school teacher, can speak English fluently without an accent, etc…landlords favor people like me and make it easier for me to move in compared to someone else who may not have those privileges.  My P.O.C. family (chosen and nuclear) without class/education privilege would have had a lot harder time renting the place.   They probably would have been denied. You have to show pay check stubs and bank account statements to prove you can pay the rent.  As a result, for the landlords, the more people like me they rent to, the more white people with more money will feel comfortable moving in and the more the rent will rise and the more poor people and people of color are pushed out of the area.  With this said, I am profiting from gentrification and I am being used by the landlords/developers to raise the property value for their profit.

HOW GENTRIFICATION AFFECTS ME

                                                 Ethan Davidson

    I have lived in a section 8 studio apartment since 1988.  It has a nice place with good security.

    Although the Tenderloin is relatively resistant to gentrification, there are definitely people who want it gentrified. 

     It is no longer possible to get section 8 units in San Francisco.  If I lost my unit, I would have to move north to either Marin or Sonoma County.

      I have serious health problems, but I have found good health care providers that accept medical.  In Marin and Sonoma County, it is much harder.  Things are also very dispersed, and the public transportation system is not very good.  It would be hard to get to whatever health care providers I had without a car, especially when I am sick.

HERBERT HOTEL

by

Dennis Gary

I am a resident of the Herbert Hotel on Powell Street.  It is being transformed from a residential hotel (SRO) to a tourist and student hotel.

As my fellow residents die off, their rooms are upgraded to tourist rooms, complete with hardwood floors and built-in televisions.  My room has an aging rug and no TV.

But I can get the Internet after a fight with management, which stated that the free wi-fi was not meant for residents – just tourists and students.

For a month, I could not get on the hotel’s wi-fi because they would not give me a password.  Then Sari of Central City SRO Collaborative appeared on the scene and suddenly I was given the password.

When the light fixture above my mirror burned out, my chest of drawers started falling apart, and paint started peeling from the ceiling, maintenance was suddenly too busy working on tourist and student rooms.

Then Jeannie of  the “In Home Support Services Collaborative” called the general manager and two hours later I had a new light fixture, a new chest of drawers, and a fresh coat of paint on my ceiling.

Zoe Bender

                                                                                                            Gentrification Blog                                       

I am 26 year old white girl with an asymmetrical hair cut who gets in free to most clubs because I dance so good. I am an unemployed college graduate. I have 84 cents in my bank account and I just applied to graduate school that will cost tens of thousands of dollars. I am a radical queer hipster who uses my foodstamps at health food stores. I am an artist and an aspiring revolutionary. I don’t own a car or bike, so I walk most places, at all hours of the day and night, and never feel unsafe.

Two years ago, my parents decided to move out of their rural beach-town house and back to San Francisco. My Dad is a painter who makes his money doing tech support for small businesses and my Mom is a writer who makes money as a development director for a non-profit arts organization. They found a place on 7^th and Market that was not zoned for residential, but convinced the property manager to let them move into what used to be a garment factory. Over the course of a few months, they worked with the property manager to design a community of live-work spaces for artists. Most of the people that moved in are art students in their 20s, about two-thirds of whom are white. In exchange for her work in designing and managing the project, my Mom got a small additional studio rent-free for a year.  When I lost my job and house in October, my mom offered to let me move into her office space.

Gentrification is the reason I live where I do. Rent is very affordable, which is why my parents can live there, and why they have an extra room that I can live in. Part of the reason my parents were able to convince the property manager to let them move in was that the presence of artists in the neighborhood will eventually increase the property value. This neighborhood is a burgeoning hub of gentrification. Some of my wealthy, white friends don’t want to come visit me in this ‘scary’ part of town. Over the last two years I’ve seen bicycle shops, coffee shops and art galleries open up all over the neighborhood. About a year ago, a new nightclub opened up on 6^th and Market. The club is called Monarch, and was recently voted one of the best sound systems in America. Every Tuesday I walk down 6^th Street from Mission to Market to go dance to trap and dubstep at Monarch. I avoid making eye contact with the people I pass who are hanging outside the SROs and liquor stores. When they talk to me, I mostly ignore them. When I get to monarch, it’s like walking into a different universe, with chic Victorian era design and a mostly white crowd. Inside Monarch, I relax, surrounded by my fellow perpetrators of gentrification.  

Theresa Hays -Who am I in this City?

How am I impacted by gentrification?

I am Theresa Hays, an African American woman who about 12 years ago was living with my husband in a 1BR apartment in the Hunter’s Point section of the city…right near the Navy Shipyard.  I had become very ill due to a condition I suffered with which left me so weak from anemia that I wasn’t able to hold down a job.  My husband’s job laid him off so often and so sporadically until our bills and our rent began to get behind and then unpaid.

I feel that there was a blessing in our storm.  The white man assigned to us from the Property Management Company harassed us so much until we felt uneasy whenever we would leave the apartment to go somewhere wondering if we’d be able to get back in when we came home.  I wrote a letter to the apartment owner, (an African American man), which I pointed out some unhealthy conditions that we had been suffering with in the apartment. We had never talked to them about it because we were behind in our rent.  It was put on that owner’s heart to let us sign a “consensual agreement”, that he wouldn’t report us as an Eviction, and he would forgive the now $11,000 in back rents if we just left.  We looked at it to be a blessing in the storm, and we left.

During the time all this was going on, the Navy Shipyard and Lennar Properties were slowly moving in the area, “cleaning up” things.  I attended meetings where Lannar representatives were trying to “push” their cause on the community and San Francisco and the Mayor’s Office.

My husband and I put everything in Storage other than ample clothes that we stacked up and camouflaged behind us inside the back of the truck.  This began our first night of being “HOMELESS”, a word I never thought would describe me/us.  We led this life for 3 years sleeping in our little green pick-up truck not letting anyone know that we were “HOMELESS”.  It was important that we keep our lives looking like “business as usual” and most importantly consistently continuing to give praises to God through it all.

We read articles and heard stories about some shady things happening with Lennar Properties and began to again see that what seemed to be so bad and uncertain, was actually a blessing in the storm.  We were able to escape the experience of being caught up in the clutches of Lennar Properties which we now know is a HUGE EXAMPLE OF GENTRIFICATION in the San Francisco Hunter’s Point section of the city.

Marinette

I am Marinette Tovar Sanchez, Mexican immigrant, living in the Fruitvale area, in the city of Oakland. I am a worker and an artist, an activist, a woman of color. I am, in few or many words, a professional everything-ologist. I am in the constant move to earn the daily bread, in the constant struggle to keep a roof over my head. I rent a room in a warehouse, which I share with 4 other people, also artists, activists and educators who share a space to afford rent.

I have seen gentrification from a couple of different perspectives. The first one is that of an artist who struggles, like many, to make ends meet and pay rent and living expenses. The second perspective is that of a working immigrant woman of color with limited resources and opportunities.

The first perspective helped me understand the impact and effect, negative in many ways, that artists have had in the gentrification of neighborhoods. Women and men who dedicate themselves to creating art often, and in most cases, struggle financially. The money flow of an artist tends to be sporadic, unreliable and unpredictable; this drives artists to look for options that are affordable. Most of the time, the living quarters that artists can afford end up being in low income neighborhoods, considered by many as the ghettos. Little by little, more and more artists move in, following the example and trend of others before them and slowly, the area starts becoming “cool, artsy, hip, quirky, colorful”; as a result, more and more people suddenly want to move in as well, thus driving the demand for housing in those neighborhoods up, along with rent prices and the cost of living in general, making it nearly impossible for the original tenants to afford to stay. Indirectly, especially in places like the Bay Area, artists have been the indirect spear-headers of gentrification; ironically, once other people begin to move in who have the resources that artists don’t have financially, the prices keep escalating and eventually, the artists who moved in to begin with, end up being pushed out of the neighborhood as well.

Iris

Who are you- white, Jewish, owning class, queer, woman, living in Berkeley

How does gentrifukation impact you? I currently live in a mostly gentrified neighborhood in Berkeley, close to 4th street shopping area. This area is less "hip" and close to "cool" places than my old house, near Macarthur bart. At my old place we were the only white people on the block, I felt pretty unsafe and scared, witnessed violence and heard gunshots a couple times, heard a woman moaning outside of my window, and witnessed a sexual assault. It became pretty unbearable to me so I moved out, both because of how scared I felt, and because of how unwanted I knew we all were. Our neighbors were not happy we were there. Part of my decision was also informed by the Rev change session. I know I will be a part of gentrification in my life but I have enough money to avoid being at the forefront of it. I no longer feel at the forefront of gentrification because of where I live, but I do frequently participate in consumerism related to gentrification, such as buying expensive lattes in the Mission or in Oakland, etc.