Story Archives

by Bruce Allison/PNN

Two weeks ago at the general meeting of the board of supervisors, a special proposition was discussed to change the curfew hours at Golden Gate Park from sun-up to sun-down, to 8pm to 8am. I attended the meeting because they were taking public comments and, as a poverty scholar, I wanted to respond to this discriminatory legislation.

The General Director of Golden Gate Park spoke and gave a slide-show presentation with the purpose of showing how the homeless community is altering the park by digging holes for sleeping and stealing furniture from the recycling center at the edge of the park. He was attempting to make a case in support of the increased curfew hours.

The proposed curfew change would give the homeless outreach team more time to catch people sleeping in the park. The outreach team is supposed to help by taking people to shelters, but it rarely ever does and most of the time people are simply taken to shelters that are already over capacity.

Many of the people on the streets are seniors like me and have no place to go thanks to care not cash. These are the people that have nowhere else to go except places like Golden Gate Park.

Most seniors and people with disabilities need a quiet place to sleep out of the cold, yet this is rarely provided by the City’s shelters. Compared to sleeping on the streets, the park is quiet and houseless people are not harassed by pedestrians and others while they are trying to sleep. Until the City can provide adequate housing for these seniors, the park is unfortunately their only option.

The outreach team is called when a park ranger or police officer sees someone with a sleeping bag, or “illegally lodging.� Illegal lodging was enacted in the 1800s to stop claim jumping in the gold rush. Now it is used for torturing poor homeless people who cannot find a decent place to sleep.

The slide presentation was so biased that when ever they showed a park worker you could not see his face. But when a houseless person was shown in the park, his or her face was openly shown.

After the slide show, the managing director of the park, said, “These people [homeless people], bring in furniture and barbeque equipment into the park because they do not want to enter the housing community.�

Trent Raw, the Department of Human Services Director, said, that “ [homeless people] are a burden on the city’s budget for the park.� The outreach team’s solution is to pick up people sleeping in the park and take them to the “available� shelters.

During the thirty-minute presentation I felt angry. Everyone in the room was being misled and everything presented was biased toward houseless people and presented in support of the park’s authority.

During the public comment time, I spoke, along with about fifty other people. We were each were allotted three minutes. I spoke to the problem of care not cash people taking all the beds and about how there are only two beds set aside for seniors and people with disabilities.

After I spoke a formerly houseless woman spoke. She said police in San Francisco attacked her and it was this incident that “straightened her out.� Her solution she said was to “gas everyone in the park� who doesn’t belong there to straighten them out. Listening to her speak, I realized that this woman has a bad mental illness known as the Helsinki syndrome, which makes her bond and sympathizes with her capturers.

More and more, the houseless community in San Francisco is beginning to agree with and pardon its captors, the wardens, police officers and city officials that are oppressing us. We have to remember that these people are the reason we are struggling to survive and being forced to sleep outside in a city that is our home. Until there is adequate housing for low and no-income folks in this City, people will be sleeping Golden Gate Park, one of the last and now endangered refuges.

by Brother Y?

In this past election, I wrote myself in for District Attorney. Not because I actually want to be the D.A. but rather in protest of the present D.A., Kamala Harris. On my way to the voting booth to write my name in the open space left for other candidates, I noticed a billboard advertisement by the San Francisco Food Bank, which stated "Because no one should have to choose between food and medicine." In spite of the valiant effort by the food bank and its many volunteers many people still have to choose between food and medicine or breaking the law, which is exactly how my own saga began.

On September 1, 2006 I was arrested and held for 6 weeks without proper medical care. Of the four people who sat on a cold cement block waiting to be transferred to 850 Bryant St. from the park police station in Golden Gate Park, three of us were Black males and the fourth was a White male. On the next business day the White male was allowed to be released on his own recognizance almost immediately. The rest of us sat in jail waiting for a sympathetic judge.

For the other two it took a few days but they were eventually released. I was not so fortunate. It did not matter to the first two of three judges that I saw in subsequent visits to the court room that I take over five different medications a day, nor that I am a veteran of The United States military service. In fact one of them asked me what ship I was stationed on presumably so he could catch me in a lie because when I told him I was stationed on the U.S.S. Caloosahatchee I could swear I heard him mumble "Okay that didn't work." Eventually I was transferred along with several other inmates to "B" pod where we had a little more freedom of movement.

But they continued to make mistakes with my medication, and I didn't get my diabetic snack that I requested immediately until the weekend before I got out. I wasn't allowed to make any phone calls until I got to "B" pod about two weeks later. My good friend John Caldera was the only person whose number I had in memory and so I called him practically every day. John was gracious enough to put money on the books for me nearly every week, and I truly believe that had he not my health would have deteriorated drastically.

The meager portions were made up of mostly carbohydrates. As a testament to how few calories were contained in each meal one of the few times that my blood sugar was high was after I binged on 7 king size Snickers bars just about every other time it was low normal or low.

While incarcerated I began to notice a trend, that trend being every single young white male who came in custody was out within three days. The only exceptions being those with medical or mental health holds. Every single young black or Latino male was transferred to San Bruno within several days.

Almost all of the Asian American inmates were immigrants with poor or very limited English. One was back within a week after posting bail and I am convinced that it was only due to his poor English and the same lazy racist cop who happened to see him in the same neighborhood that he previously arrested him in.

What I found to be completely appalling is that the deputies who appeared to be the cruelest and most brutal were those who apparently migrated from Latin American countries or Asia. Of these brutes the one who stands out the most in my mind is a deputy Le. I made a point of remembering his name because I vowed that I would do everything in my power to bring him to justice one day. The thing that stuck in my mind the most was his particular way of dealing with one of the inmates I befriended when I was first transferred to "B" pod. The inmates name is Steve Green A.K.A. M.C. Creamy

In our first conversation Creamy told me of how he had been both victim and perpetrator of violence and he dreamed of one day being part of a campaign to stop the violence. Creamy has all of the classic symptoms of posttraumatic stress syndrome [p.t.s.d.] as well as several permanent physical injuries. One evening Creamy was in an unauthorized area of the pod when deputy Le noticed he immediately demanded Creamy to go to one of the lockdown cells. Prior to this incident he had constantly been getting into trouble I believe mainly due to his p.t.s.d. and perhaps other mental or emotional problems. I believe that these issues direly need to be addressed in the justice system.

Green refused to comply and subsequently Le attempted to subdue him by ordering him to place his hands behind his back presumably to handcuff him. Again Green refused to comply so Le grabbed his arms and jacked them up behind his back without bending but rather straight up as if they were some sort of handle that needed to be yanked in an upward position. This apparently agitated one of his permanent injuries, because at that point I heard him scream like a banshee. Through the subsequent struggle Le finally managed to get the handcuffs on him and began to push him backwards as if he were a wheelbarrow. Again I heard him scream one of the most agonizing screams I have ever heard in my life. Le managed to get Green into one of the holding cells.

During the course of this incident myself and several other inmates protested to which he responded by saying everybody shut up and go back to your cells. We all continued protesting all the while. Then it became eerily quite as we all anticipated what came next. Several large deputies entered the pod led by the shift sergeant. From my cell I could not see what happened but again I heard more agonizing screaming.

Several days later Green returned to the pod bruised noticeably, quiet and apparently mentally depressed. Steve explained to several of us during a mealtime that he was stripped naked with his underwear ripped off of him like a rape victim and thrown in "The hole," basically a concrete closet with nothing in it but a hole in the ground to use as a toilet.

I and several other inmates wrote formal grievances regarding the incident and of course they took their sweet time in getting back to us. In fact I even had to write a grievance about not having my grievance answered. By the time my grievance was finally answered it was the weekend before I finally got o.r.'d which occurred on a Wednesday. I responded to the grievance in the appropriate space and got no response presumably because I was out of custody. I later found that I could submit grievances to a Lt. Kennedy at 25 Van Ness Avenue. Each time I went he was conveniently out of the office.

To this day no one has responded to my grievances and I've been out of jail for almost a year. As far as I'm concerned the fact that they did not reply to my accusations is proof enough that they acknowledge that my and many others' civil and human rights were violated.

Please stay tuned for Part II of Brother Y's journey in the criminal iNjustice system.

by Amanda Smiles/PNN

For some reason, it is nicer than I expected. The modest conference room facing the entrance of the Women's Building is lit a warm marigold yellow and crowded with mutters of buzzwords such as "needle exchange," "harm reduction," and "HIV prevention."

I seat myself toward the front and whisk my eyes through the eclectic groups of scruffy activists, high heeled social workers, suit and tie public health workers, purple haired outreach workers, and everything in between community members, noting the organizations on their name tags. Harm Reduction Coalition, Stop the Drug War.org, San Francisco AIDS Foundation, Saint James Infirmary, and Homeless Youth Alliance, just to name a few. Yes, I think to myself, as a feeling of comfort snakes through my body, these are my people, here to discuss the next step in a human rights based public health policy: Safer Injection Facilities.

Safer Injection Facilities (or SIFs) are nothing new. The first facility was started in 1986 in Switzerland, which now is home to 12 additional facilities. There is a total of 65 SIFs around the world, largely concentrated in European countries such as Germany, the Netherlands, Spain, and soon Italy and Portugal. Australia hosts one SIF and North America has one, which opened in Vancouver in 2003.

Safer Injection Facilities are just that, a clean and sterile place where injection drug users can come to shoot their drugs without worrying about being hassled by the cops or being in the public eye. It gives people a place where they can take their time to shoot, doing it slowly and properly, reducing the risks of abscesses and HIV and Hepatitis C transmission.

Clean needles and sterile supplies are dispensed to clients; registered nurses are there to supervise all injections. Most importantly, however, if someone overdoses nurses respond immediately by performing rescue breathing, administering Narcan (the stuff that bring you back), or calling the paramedics. Although there have been many overdoses in SIFs to date no one has ever died from an overdose in an SIF.

As the noise settles and the symposium gets under way, my mind drifts back to the day I went to get my HIV test results. I used to be an injection drug user. Late one night, in desperation to get high I shared a needle with someone. I’m still not positive who it was. Also, we used to all share the same bloody tie and dirty spoon. Anyone who has gotten an HIV test after being at a real risk for contraction knows the agony of waiting for results. If not knowing if the consequence of one mistake can be more than a slap on the wrist. Thankfully, I am negative.

I think about my privilege of being a housed drug user. How that privilege gave me access to water from a tap opposed to water from toilets or puddles. That privilege guaranteed that the skin around the veins I shot into was clean, that when I shot I had enough light to see and hit my veins. That I was inside, out of the cold and rain, in private, where I didn’t have to rush. I could cook and filter my drugs properly, find my spot, and if I missed, I had enough time to try again. And still I put myself at risk. How would I of fared on the streets, without that privilege. Would my results of been the same?

Thomas Kerr, of the University of British Columbia, is the first to speak. For the past three years Kerr and a group of researchers have been evaluating Vancouver's SIF, called Insite, from a non-biased and scientific point of view. The results of the evaluation are astounding.

The most frequent clients of the facility are homeless, public injectors, daily heroine users who are at the highest risk for HIV and overdose. Insite sees a total of 1600 injectors a month, between 700 and 1000 repeat and unique injectors a day. Since Insite has opened 70 percent of clients have reported being less likely to share syringes. Public drug use and discarded syringes and injection related litter has reduced with increase use of the facility. After the site opened Kerr and his team found an increase in detox use among Insite clients and higher rates of entry into methadone and other drug treatment facilities. Nurses have reported a decrease in the number of abscesses in the emergency room and, of course, no one who has overdosed at Insite has died.

Captain Niels Tangherlini, from the San Francisco Fire Department Outreach Team, speaks next. He shows us a map of San Francisco pinpointing where all the overdose calls have originated in last year. Almost all the dots are concentrated in the Tenderloin and Mission Districts, making it impossible to focus on any other area of the map. The room inflates with gasps of shock when Captain Tangherlini explains that last year EMS received 76,000 calls, over 12,000 of which were from overdoses. Alex Kral’s, from the Urban Health Study, statistics are just as shocking. Among heroine users surveyed, 48 percent have over overdosed. 33 percent have overdosed two or more times. 13 percent have overdosed in the last year. These statistics are only from overdose survivors.

Again my mind floats back to another time in my life, when my ex- boyfriend overdosed. We were still living together. I was asleep after begging him to watch his use. I'm told he stopped breathing right after he hit himself. Luckily the girl he was with hadn't shot up yet and was able to react quickly enough to call the paramedics. They came to our house, performed rescue breathing, and gave him a shot of Narcan. I woke up 5 minutes after the ambulance pulled away. It was the second time he ODed.

I went to the hospital to get him. The overdose was so bad that he was at risk of going back into a coma. He would have died if the paramedics hadn't come. If he had been on the street, alone in an ally or even with someone without a phone, he surely would have died. That’s the thing with dope, if you use long enough, everyone ODs. It’s only a matter of who your with that determines if you live or not.

Sarah Evans, the Program Coordinator of Insite, is the last I see speak. She looks like the type of woman you would be comfortable telling anything. Petite with a choppy bob and small tender eyes, she speaks in a voice that is self assured yet sympathetic. Mostly she speaks about the side of Insite that deals in treatment and counseling.

Along with using the space for safe injection and the "chill out room," Insite clients have the option of talking to peer counselors, who are former and active drug users, or clinical psychologists. Insite’s second floor is a detox center and the third floor is for those in recovery. Insite decided to start it’s own detox and recovery center so people could not only get into treatment more quickly and efficiently but also so they could get treatment services from people they knew in an environment they feel comfortable in.

As Evans continues she shows pictures of clients in treatment and tells their story, always optimistic, always caring beyond the boundaries of a job. This is the side of Insite I am most impressed with, the side that infuses humanity and compassion into public health. As I think back not only to my story, but to the story of all the injection drug users I know and talk to, I realize that what San Francisco needs most is not only a place where people can practice their drug use safely, but also a place where people can come fully as themselves, without secrets or stigma, and can finally be seen as humans, instead of pieces of trash littering the streets.

by Newsbrief posted by PNN Staff

Axis of Love SF was successful in an emergency response press conference held earlier this week. The press conference was held in response to the DEA's threat to shut down San Francisco’s safe access centers.

Axis of Love would like to recognize the hard work of Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi's legal aide Dan Bernal who worked overtime with giving guidance to patient advocates on how to successfully accomplish their goals.

Mr. Bernal secured the following statement from John Conyers Jr.- the House Judiciary Committee Chair in Washington DC.

CONYERS EXPRESSES CONCERN ABOUT DEA MEDICAL MARIJUANA THREATS

Washington DC- House Judiciary Committee Chairman John Conyers Jr. (D-MI) released the following statement today about the reports that the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) is threatening private landlords for housing legal medical marijuana facilities:

"I am deeply concerned about recent reports that the Drug Enforcement Administration is threatening private landlords with asset forfeiture and possible imprisonment if they refuse to evict organizations legally dispensing medical marijuana to suffering patients. The Committee has already questioned the DEA about its efforts to undermine California state law on this subject, and we intend to sharply question this specific tactic as part of our oversight efforts."

Axis of Love SF patient advocates had the support of the following state and local officials:

Our heros

The office of State Senator Carole Migden

The office of Assemblyman Mark Leno

Supervisor Chris Daly

Supervisor Ross Mirkarimi

Police Commissioner David Campos

by Joseph Bolden

Because I was tired, wanted to be home and z-out I say yes to the theater class.
As some of us dropped out for various reasons I stay [paying $81] enrollment fee.

Dang’it might as well take voice,piano,swimming at City College of San Francisco while doing this extended school thing over here.

Of all the people not wanting props on stage because of the mess up of a harrowing "Welfare Queen’s,SuperBaby-Mama props and diva drama I shouldn’t have even thought of props so it's only a pillow to beat on in my one intense scene.

During that time my work site is looking shakey.

S.F.’s Housing Authority section 8,time to be updated.

One woman,a good friend embarks on another milestone.

Another about to cross an ocean to visit other friends in New York City whom thought her deceased because of a near fatal accident.

A singer in a band already in N.Y.C.

Both of us emailing each other 21st century letters.

Just as 18th and 19th century peoples did when sea and sky were real gulfs of separation. Oh,they still are

Now,this new thing hatched within my fevered brow of actually living in spaces,places owned by others who are on vacation, at jobs, or on location at home or on international movie,tv,shoots(filming).

House Sitting!

Folks it takes time for me that since I’ve done this before it can be done again.

So in slow steps I ask folks and someone has done this before.

New phone,digital photo’s, business cards,error in cards,
remake cards.

Getting responses, emailing ‘em back.

Then to list, pick, which ones closest to me or take a chance by train, bus,car,or plain.

Nope,stay local which is San Francisco,Oakland, Berkeley,later it can be L.A.’s Hollywood Hills, Nevada, or
places near Sacramento.

Yep,dogs,cats,other pets if any but the main thing is for a time to work in comfortable surroundings.

When owners know the person(s) picked is reliable,rational, dependable,and does not mind caring for the owners most cherished family member their pet(s) its why

I can charge two thousand dollars per month with three month limit!

Some lady has said "I stay six months."Which is $12,000 DOLLARS!

It may not be in a one lump sum but half even less than half is a chunk-a-money!

It’s rare to find people willing to take care of a homeowners place let alone pets in the home they(pets) inhabit.

Believe Me,if I get a call to housesit in the City or across the bay that to me is a job to cherish even if there is washing some clothes, bathing and walking a few dogs or cats.

It beats risky security guard work, learning construction, or being a home health Aide packing and repacked medicated strips into areas of flesh about to turn necrotic or reversing necrotic skin process before its too late.

What would you rather do folks?

Even helping someone with disabilities while hurting them simultaneously or watching over a home and occasionally walking dogs, bathing cats,feeding fish, or cleaning?

So that’s been near end of the year happenings

How about your year end tidings,may better things be on your plate.

by Joseph Bolden

Hmmm,House Sitting Duties:

A Few Considerations.

Last time I wrote about a recent C.C.S.F.[City College of San Francisco]

The Theater part was great revealing my knack[some talent] for it.

Another conquered comfort zone,then rambled on about being a House Sitter,of taking care of homes and or pets while the homeowner is away.

Well,I read online about a housesit job somewhere
in California.

Where the sitter cooks. Pets are varied.

I"ll take care of pets, vacuum, no cooking or window’s for
me,so checking other ads to me.

I’m the ad works for someone it isn’t quite for me.

My first rule: Know your limits
Second: Stick to First.

Anyway,I’m only simplifying so homeowners know that I do not mind pets (most have better common sense than we supposedly superior humans).

All that other extra credit stuff cook,windows, cleaning out garages isn’t what I do just home and pets and not too elderly pets.

I Would not want to watch helplessly as a dear family pet departs without their guardian(s).

It should not be a stranger they see before dying but their guardian(s).

by Joseph Bolden

Rare Movie Review
Of I Am Legend

It’s rare I do movie review since that tobacco Movie.

I saw "Wild Wild West" and admit it was cool seeing Mr. Smith as James West but that’s all.

In "I Am Legend" Smith in the title role as a Military Scientist,an eye witness to the coming extinction of Humanity.

Takes it upon himself to find a cure to what mutation human's into blood sucking vampire.

A classic horror novel by Richard Matheson, Robert Neville (Will Smith) is the last human being on Earth or so he believes.

Everybody else on the planet has been transformed into blood-sucking vampires who all want to feast on Neville's neck.[info provided by movies.go.come/I-am-legend/ d865137/horror.

I must remind everyone this makes the third remake of mix of horror/science fiction of an ultimate doomsday unleashed
unwittingly by human’s in their striving to ride themselves of disease creates a 90% fatal mutated strain of measles.

I though as most people that Smith would ad a twist.

Indeed he does though daily scavenging savaging for food,weapons,still trying to combat a pandemic plague.

I read Richard Matheson’s book as a teen right after "Flowers For Algernon.

I do not recommend reading these works one after the other it gives bad dreams,can shred your psyche for a few months.
Mr.

Will Smith,a consummate actor faced the challenge surpassed it making the raw emotional power of the subject proving the power of moving image it talented has power and is Palitable!

I won’t spoil anything for those who may not have
Seen it Opening day or later in weeks to come.

My own slight scientific leanings aside in how the protagonist figures a way to win but the cost... overwhelming.

Sure I can see two other alternate endings but Will Smith is true the vision.

This folks is exactly why I don't do movie reviews.

Guess my sensitivity to both literature and screen causes me not see too many emotionally/intellectually laden works.

Its embarrassing to be with a fem friends tearing up at Ice Age.

She thought it sweet,shows tenderness.

She tears up too and her beauty shone through her wet eyes where as this works for her I…

I try damming it up but she saw and later of course its a small joke between us.

Well,He did it,this time the damp in me full force.

A Oscar performance, But no fourth remake please.

Like "Gordon Light- foot’s "If You Could Read My Mind".

I cannot see this movie again because… you know the rest of the song.

by Leroy Moore

Welcome to Krip-Hop News, a brand new concept where I and other writers will keep you informed about what is going on for Hip-Hop artists with disabilities and other disabled musicians. This is our second issue and introductory issue and we are asking you to contribute your news, topics and suggestions. Krip-Hop statement is as follows:

Artists with disabilities are in the music industry from Blues to Hip-Hop. From Blind Willie Johnson to Blind Rob and Cripple Clarence Lofton to 4Wheel City, our music has helped shape the world we live in. Krip-Hop continues this legacy with many voices from the US, UK, Spain, Africa, Haiti and more rapping not only to the Hip-Hop generation, but also to society and the world as a whole about the talents, politics and sexuality we embody while at the same time fighting against the discrimination that isolates us from one another.

Krip-Hop displays the beauty and strength of collaboration and disabled music history, present and future. Our aim is to get the musical talents of hip-hop artists with disabilities into the hands of media outlets, educators, hip-hop, disability and race scholars, youth, hip-hop conference coordinators, and agents and to report on the latest news on musicians with disabilities.

Krip-Hop News would like to invite you to help build or continue to build a present in the Hip-Hop Journalism industry. Krip-Hop News knows that there has been many individual disabled Hip-Hop artists that have been showered by the Black ink of Hip-Hop journalists’ pens including DJ Boogie Blind, MF Grimm and Bushwick Bill to name a few. However nine times out of ten, news of Hip-Hop artists and other musicians with disabilities don’t make it in high glossy magazines, journals and books but can be found in bits and pieces on myspace.com and other underground media outlets.

If you don’t have the time and resources to research these underground outlets than you miss news, CD release, documentaries, merchandise and events of disabled musicians. This is why I would like to help provide this news and hope it will take off with many writers on the internet and some time in the near future become a full fledged magazine in your local independent bookstores, but it is all up to you. At this point in time Krip-Hop News will be hosted on www.poormagazine.org and at leroymoore.com and will be in a blog form on cripmoore/myspace.com. In the near future the Krip-Hop Project will be on its own website.

Now Krip-Hop News Issue 2

Our fist issue was popping with news that’s not in Hip-Hop magazines or any other publications for that matter. We covered some new CDs, books and other merchandize from Hip-Hop artists with disabilities like MF GRIMM’s new book. (See below for a full interview with MF GRIMM). We let you know of Keith Jones and his exploration of running for political office as a Black disabled activist and Hip-Hop artist. Krip-Hop News sat down with Mr. Jones to talk about his run for US Senate. And, of course we gave you some insight of the new Krip-Hop Mixtape Vol.2. Vol. 2 just arrived in the mail from our new label 2THA Point Entertainment of Preechman from NY. Krip-Hop News is not only Hip-Hop but all music.

In this issue, we will look at the new book and work of Kenneth Tyson who has his own record label, 2nd Generation Records, and an entertainment center in Detroit. We will look at the October \November issue of XXL Magazine, which had an article featuring 4Wheel City. We could not leave you without telling you what new CDs, books and movies coming out by or about musicians with disabilities. So let do this!

I’ve been following MF GRIMM’s career since he became disabled in the early nineties. This will be my third article on MF GRIMM but it is the first time I had a chance to interview him about his new book, Sentences: The Life of MF GRIMM. My fist article on MF GRIMM was in 2OO5 published in the San Francisco Bay View newspaper. Back then I wrote about the violence in Hip-Hop that made another Hip-Hop artist from Detroit, Blade Icewood, a wheelchair user for a year before he was shot to death in his wheelchair. Very few artists survive the violence of the streets, Hip-Hop generation and accidents to write about it. Well finally MF GRIMM joins his counterparts in Soul music who are wheelchair users and are still cranking out hits or producing like Teddy Pendergrass and Kenneth Tyson.

All three, Teddy Pendergrass, Kenneth Tyson and MF GRIMM are in the music industry, all are wheelchair users and all have penned their stories in books. From my research, MF GRIMM’s book is the first “mainstream” book by a disabled Hip-Hop artist and because of that reason I bought two copies for my growing Black\Brown disabled library. Before we get into a very short review of Sentences, let’s hear from the man himself, MF GRIMM.

Kip-Hop News with MF GRIMM: New Book, Upcoming CD and…

Krip-Hop Where were you born?

MF GRIMM The Bronx

Krip-Hop: Tell us how was Hip-Hop when you were growing up in NY?

MF GRIMM It was more about battling styles and street corners. You were in a battle on The Street corner and people keep walking and don't stop to listen then you were kind considered wack but on the other hand if you caused giant crowds on the corner while you rhyme then you were considered worthy.

Krip-Hop: How long have you been in the Hip-Hop industry?

MF GRIMM: Since I was about 14 years old.

Krip-Hop: First a triple CD and now a book. What is next?

MF GRIMM: Films, and Animations, Television programming as well.

KRIP-HOP: Why did you write Sentences?

MF GRIMM: To explain to people that although you might make mistakes or even counted out, it's never to late to change your ways, and never give up hope of making something out of your life no matter the circumstances.

Krip-Hop: Give a brief description of your book

MF GRIMM: It's about my life from basically 5 years old until now and all the situations I put myself in that could have been avoided.

Krip-Hop: You have been on the big screen and in wrongly incarcerated. Tell me is there a real community in Hip-Hop or is everybody out for themselves?

MF GRIMM: There's a community, you just have to reach out and also allow those that's willing to help to help. As for wrongly convicted, I don't see it that way, I knew what I was doing and knew the repercussion of my actions and I served my time for it.

Krip-Hop: Do you think there is a dumbing down of lyrics in Hip-Hop these days?

MF GRIMM: No.

Krip Hop: Now you’ve been in the music and publishing industries. What are the pitfalls for artists?

MF GRIMM: Not knowing the legal aspects of the music business.
Krip-Hop: When you first approach the music industry after you became disabled what were the reactions towards you? And have things changes?

MF GRIMM: Yes, They felt I wasn't marketable because I was in a wheelchair...Things changed now I'm marketable.

Krip-Hop: Tell us the characters in your book. Who are they and where did they come from?

MF GRIMM: The characters are friends, family and enemies they're all real.

Krip-Hop: You know in my point of view you’re the only disabled Hip-Hop artist that have publish a book and got into Hip-Hop Magazine. How can other disabled hip-hop artists learn from you?

MF GRIMM: That's exactly what the book is about to never give up hope have faith in your self, but also learn from my mistakes. You don't have to sell drugs, and shooting people don't make you a man. And getting shot don't make you a better emcee.

Krip-Hop: What is your experience being a Hip-Hop artist using a wheelchair and do you think the Hip-Hop industry is ready for Krip-Hop AKA disabled hip-hop artists?

MF GRIMM: They don't have a choice, bring it to their face. don't let others decide if your worthy because they can walk, BE WHO YOU ARE.

Krip-Hop: As a CEO of an Entertainment business do you have totally control over your music and artists?

MF GRIMM: I have total control of all my projects. I don't control my artist. They have control over their projects.

Krip-Hop: Will you write another book?

MF GRIMM: Yes, several books and graphic novels.

Krip-Hop: Tell us more abut Sentences

MF GRIMM: The artist name is Ron Wimberly artwork is just as important and it's incredible, and Mr. Casey Seijas (editor at Vertigo/DC Comics) is the person who had the faith in me to help me turn this into a reality.

Krip-Hop: How can people contact you?

MF GRIMM: WWW.daybydayent.com

Krip-Hop: Is there going to be a book tour? If so are you coming to California?

MF GRIMM: Yes, I'll keep you updated.

Krip-Hop: Tells about your next CD

MF GRIMM The Hunt for the Ginger Bread Man released SEPTEMBER 25, 2007.

Krip-Hop: How can people get you book?

MF GRIMM: All book stores, and if it's not there then make sure they get it.

Krip-Hop: Any last words?

MF GRIMM: It's time to get out of these wheelchairs and stand up! It is mind over matter, never forget that.

MF GRIMM gives support and love to Krip-Hop Project:

“I love Krip Hop. What you're doing is very important, it's needed for the young children, dealing with any type of disability, to know that there's nothing on this planet that can stop them all they have to do is believe. You always support me, and I need to do the same for you. I admire and respect you for the great things you've done not for just people in wheelchairs but for humanity. We have a voice and it's our obligation to speak for those who don't have one and fight and defend those who can't defend themselves against all forms of discrimination injustice and oppression. Keep fighting my brother and tell all the disabled brothers and sisters I said "it's time to rise up!!"

Percy Carey AKA MF GRIMM

Krip-Hop News would like to thank MF GRIMM for his time and support!

Sentences: The Life of MF GRIMM Krip-Hop two cents Part 1

First of all, I have been waiting for this book since my first article about MF GRIMM back in 2005. So, when I finally got my own copy, I ran through this book like I was Carol Lewis. In two days I finished Sentences. As in the interview MF GRIMM corrected me on his arrest and his upbringing, the same education took place in his book. I had assumptions of MF GRIMM’s arrest and his life as a wheelchair user and as well Sentences burst my bubble and constructed the real image by the author’s own pen. There are many reviews of Sentences on the internet and the beautiful illustrations by Ronald Wimberly but for me and Krip-Hop News we’d I like to focus on the book’s story after MF became disabled.

To be continued….

Hip-Hop has always been political but now Hip-Hop artists are entering the political arena like Kevin Powell to disabled Hip-Hop artist, Keith Jones from Boston. Like MF GRIMM, this will be my third article on Mr. Jones but in this interview Jones makes it public that he is running for the Senate in the next Congressional race. Krip-Hop talks to him about his political views and his campaign along with his cultural work as a Hip-Hop artist. In the last election Massachusetts broke barriers by electing the first Black Governor. Now Keith Jones is on the campaign road to topple Kennedy’s seat in Congress. See http://poormagazine.org/index.cfm?L1=news&category=2 for the full interview.

by Tony Robles/Special to PNN

"When I die, bury me facedown so that anybody that comes to visit me can kiss my ass."

--James Robles

I was about 14 or so when my father said those words to me. My father was a joker to everybody but me. When he did joke with me, it was usually while we were working together as part of a 2 man work crew known as the Filipino Building Maintenance Company. Our motto was "Cleanliness is happiness." The problem was that I didn't really know how to clean.

"Man, where did you learn how to clean?" my father would ask me. "Look at all those piss stains you missed!" I'd stand before him with a dumb look on my face and a limp dust rag hanging from my ass pocket. I remember the sweeping, mopping, vacuuming carpets and cleaning toilets.

My father was a worker, like his father before him. He grew up in San Francisco's Fillmore district in a family of 10. My grandmother told me that when my father was a young boy, a Chinese man looked at his hands. He told my grandmother that he saw wealth in her little boy's hands. "That boy is going to be rich," the man said. He offered to buy my father from my grandmother to which she replied, "Get out of here you old Chinese fool."

Our family was one of the first Filipino families to migrate to and settle in San Francisco. Unlike today, my father and uncles did not have the opportunity to learn to speak Tagalog or Pilipino. Learning one's native tongue was not encouraged in those days. You were encouraged to speak English or "talk American." You can't really blame them back then they were on survival mode; they all wanted to be screen idols like Tony Curtis or Kirk Douglas (Never John Wayne).

My father grew up in the 50s and 60s, a time before the Filipino Channel or cable networks existed. What he had was the neighborhood and the smells of soul food, ”black eyed peas and ribs and cornbread” wafting from open windows mingling with the smell of tomato beef chow mein at SooChow's restaurant in Japantown and the smell of adobo and rice cooking in his mother's kitchen. The high and low notes of jazz accentuated the deep tones of African American voices laughing and hollering and singing and preaching and moaning and protesting and settling underneath the fullest of moons while waiting for the sun to rise and start all over again.

My father lived through the injustice of redevelopment in the Fillmore; being displaced while a neighborhood with history and memories tried to survive the siege of the downtown and political interests.

I think about my father often. I am a writer and native San Franciscan. So many people of my father's generation are dying by violence or ill health or a combination of factors.

I remember my father as a hard-working man. Martin Luther King once said that "If you are called to be a street sweeper, sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted." This statement applies to my father.

I watched him go from a janitor at the War Memorial Opera House to a small business owner, starting his own janitorial business. He'd complain about his job at the opera house and how he wanted something more. He met many famous people while sweeping floors and cleaning bathrooms in those halls of wealth and privilege, Frank Sinatra, Leontyne Price, Jimmy Carter among others. But he felt he needed something more, felt he was something more.

I worked with my father in his small business and to be honest, he was a bad boss. He was overly strict and overbearing but what I did not realize was that he was trying to make me like him, not a janitor, but someone who had pride in his work.

I would curse him under my breath. One time he heard me mutter the word, "asshole" and he responded by throwing 20 rolls of 2 ply, industrial grade toilet paper at me. (He had very good aim, hitting me with about 15 or so rolls). The point he was making to me was that you have to do things you don't want to do, that you have to get up and work and take care of business.

The man was a hard ass but I'm thankful for it. But despite his workman's pride, there was something missing. He never told me what it was but I felt it. Most of his friends were janitors and most of them settled into that because that was all they knew. They grew up in a time of limited opportunity. From Junior High through High School, they were passed over as the failures; those young men destined to do menial jobs with no possibilities of reaching beyond.

My father was a hustler, working 2, 3, 4 jobs to support us at the young age of 19. He worked and landed that job with the Opera House that he would keep for more than 10 years. One day he decided he was going to make a change. His wife was from Hawaii and he decided to move the family to Oahu. I did not want to go because it was my senior year in high school but my father was determined to make a new start.

We packed everything, including the janitorial equipment, and made the trek to Hawaii. It was tough, high prices and a tight job market. My father got a steady job but still pursued his aspirations of having his own business. He eventually secured enough accounts to work his own business full time. Things went well for a while but there was something lacking.

I talked to my father this morning; the sound of ocean waves coming over cell phone static. His business has been defunct for about 10 years due to economic downturns on the island. "I'm riding my bike to work," he says. He rides 4 miles each way to his maintenance job at a condo on Waikiki. We talk a little more and he tells me of his new love. "I've been carving. You know, I've always liked wood, ever since high school. Did I ever tell you that I took wood shop when I was in school?"

I listened as he told me of his woodcarvings. I never knew he took woodshop. He explained that he carves faces on wood. "I carve African faces," he says. "I think they're pretty good." I think of the years and the places and faces he's seen and the people that have come and gone in his life. I think of the days and hours he put into his work, the soul and spirit--now I can laugh at it all.

My father never stopped dreaming. His true purpose is in the forests of Hawaii. He knows the stories told in the faces of wood. The trees breathe through him and he is one with them; and the African faces he carves on them are beautiful. I'm sure those faces are the faces of his friends and family that have passed on to another place, another journey; Bobby Richard, Carol Player, David Scobie, Uncle Remy, Bill Sorro, Rudy Tenio, Richard Rekow; and those still with us; Uncle Anthony and Russell, Adrian, Charles, Rose and others. And I am his son.

I currently work for a non-profit organization in San Francisco. Ironically, I help low-income people obtain employment as janitors. But a job is a job, it's just a gig, you know? It isn't who you really are, my father is proof of that. And if you got a dream inside you, look at those trees. Dad says if you listen close enough, they'll tell you something.

by Max Gutierrez/Special to PNN

Uncle Gil was bad. Uncle Gil was nothing. Uncle Gil’s teeth were falling out. He had no money and he had no sense.

That’s what everybody said. Watch him when he comes to your house—he might steal something.

I stood next to the window of our house on Eddy Street. I looked at the cars floating by. They reminded me of fish with big fins darting in all directions.

The church down the block with its crumbling cupola stood alongside a liquor store. 8 or 9 men stood laughing and drinking in front of it as the church stood in silence.

I saw one of the men walk away from the group. He wore a gray suit with creases in the pants that were razor sharp. A black tie hung from his neck over a shirt that was whiter than fresh milk. He walked with a certain rhythm or cadence—as if music that only he could hear were being piped into his ears. The man’s face came into clear view. I opened the window.

“Uncle Gil! Uncle Gil!” I cried out.

The air was warm and sticky. I ran through the living room and down the stairs. I opened the door. I looked in both directions.

Where was Uncle Gil? I walked out onto the sidewalk. The cars continued to pass and the trees waved gently in abrupt spurts.

Where was my uncle? Maybe he went to church. He was dressed for it. Yes, that was it—he was at church saying a prayer. When he’s through with his prayer, he’ll come to our house and stay. He’ll tell me his stories and make funny sounds with his lips and cheeks.

I sat on the stoop in front of our house. The neighborhood kids began passing by. They rode bikes and cruised by on roller skates.

“Go get your bike and ride with us” one of them called out.

“I’m waiting for my uncle Gil”, I replied.

The church bell rang and the men in front of the liquor store scattered away like flies. Maybe I should go back into the house, maybe uncle Gil is playing a joke; maybe I didn’t see him at all. Maybe it was a guy that looked like him. I sat and heard the faint sound of footsteps that became louder. It reminded me of the sound of a small horse. My father walked like a horse and worked like one. That’s what he always said.

“What are you doing? He asked, his 5” 3’ frame looming over me.

“I’m waiting for Uncle Gil”

My father spit on the ground. His trousers were stained with dirt and paint. He reached towards his shoulder and kneaded relief into it with nubbed fingers.

“Uncle Gil” my father laughed, “He’s not gonna show up. He’s only good for 2 things…drinking and not showing up”.
My father looked down at me and laughed

“Your uncle Gil never worked a day in his life”

I thought about what my father said. I never worked a day in my life either. I liked Uncle Gil. My father always talked about work and how his body ached all over. Uncle Gil never had aches and pains and wore nice clothes. My father walked to our front door.

“You’re gonna be waiting forever. That no-good uncle of yours is out blowing his money, kid”

Dad disappeared into the house. I sat thinking about his words. Maybe I was going to wait forever. I began to wonder how long forever was. The sky darkened a bit when I saw a figure a half block away. As the figure got closer, I recognized the slacks with the razor sharp creases.

“Uncle Gil!” I cried, springing to my feet.

Uncle Gil reached out and ran his hand over my full head of black hair, tossing it out of place.

“How ya doin’ kid?”

I looked at Uncle Gil’s tie. It was black. He smiled.

“Uncle Gil”, I said, “You have teeth!”

Uncle Gil smiled wide, wide enough to cover the sky.

“Yes…you have to smile to survive”, said Uncle Gil.

We sat down and watched the cars pass by.

“Survive what?” I asked.

“Never mind”, Uncle Gil replied.

We sat for a while saying nothing.

“How are you doing in school?” Uncle Gil asked, yawning.

“I’m doing ok.

Uncle Gil ran his hand over his pants, making sure the creases were still there.

“Just study hard, kid. Get your education. They can never take that away from you”.

“Who’s they, Uncle Gil?” I asked.

Uncle Gil looked at me. He reached into his jacket pocket.

“I got something for you”

Uncle Gil put his two fists out towards me.

“Pick one” he said.

I looked at both fists. I pointed to the left one. Uncle Gil opened his fist. In it sat a silver dollar.

“Wow” I said.

“Buy yourself an ice cream”

I looked at the silver dollar. It looked new. I didn’t want to spend it.

“What’s in your other hand, Uncle Gil?”

He opened his right fist. In it was a candy, a sucker wrapped in bright cellophane.

“Who’s that for?” I asked.

“For your father” Uncle Gil answered, sticking the sucker into my shirt pocket above my heart. We sat and he laughed with bright teeth that covered the sky.

© 2007

Max Gutierrez