March and Rally in honor of Stolen lives of Po'Lice terror in Oakland.
PNN-TV coverage follows story
by tiny aka Lisa Gray-Garcia/PNN
Clap , snap, clap �the sound of batons clicking against skin � they surrounded us. three rows in back of us, three in front � one on either side. As far as the eyes could see, they were there, with swinging batons, thick boots on asphalt and helmuts down. They had no eyes, only weapons. Moving in formation, over 500 uniformed military po-lice entrapping mamaz, daddy�s, brothers and sons marching in honor of stolen lives, of their sons, brothers, fathers, mothers, lost to the guns and weapons of these very po�lice.
Hundreds of us walked, to their thousands. Signs held up to the sky, eyes trained in front of us, in peace. Voices of pain and resistance, reached out in tandem with our lost ancestors to join the chants filling the Oakland streets, �Enough is Enough, The whole System is guilty, we are all Oscar Grant!� No more stolen lives�!�
� Our son was shot in the back 8 times,� Sony Wahnee, mother of Andrew Moody, testified to the crowd, �We are proud Native people��
It was a chilling afternoon in February. The edges of night lurked at each corner. The sound of our voices, our music, our drums, our spirits, threaded through the Frank Ogawa Plaza in Downtown Oakland. The stolen lives, our family, our ancestors, stood with us as the voices of Rashidah Grinage, whose son and husband was taken down by Oakland PD, Danny Garcia, whose brother Mark was stolen and the fierce Mesha Irizarry, mama of Idriss, also shot down 28 times by San Francisco Po�Lice Department, were just some of the voices that filled the air and gave us strength to remember the lives lost to Po�Lice terror. Gave us the strength to resist the foreboding sound of impending violence and omnipresent fear of the po�lice that surrounded us.
POOR Magazine�s multi-generational family of race and poverty scholars, most of us victims of po�lice brutality, po-lice profiling, and/or other forms of po-lice terror, were there to re-port and sup-port on the March for Stolen Lives in downtown Oakland. We joined hundreds of dedicated justice fighters, survivors, family members and advocates to walk in honor of Oscar Grant, Mark Garcia, Andrew Moppin, Annette Garcia, Idriss Stelly, Amadou DIallo and countless other fallen victims of po�lice terror. We were peaceful. We were tired, we were angry. We were surrounded.
�Our son was a father of three children that now we have to raise,� Sony Wahnee continued.
As our group started to march, the plaza filled up with literally thousands of armed guards, militia, army, agents of pain, at POOR Magazine we call them the Po� Lice, but whatever you do, don�t call them when you need help, feel danger, feel unsafe, because they are trained to kill .
Right before we marched we were informed that the po'lice perpetrator, Mehserle was released on 300,000 bail.Our collective hearts fell at the ongoing just-Us.Seemingly in response, thousands more po'lice filled the streets. They tried to block our path, we did not back down.
�Mama, why are there so many police? My five year old son walked along side me silently, refusing to stop, never scared.
� Because we live in a police state, because there is no justice, only Just-Us, which is why we march.� Clap, snap, clap.
The Native Californian Protest Against Tribal Disenrollment
by Chloe Auletta-Young/PNN
On February 5th, 2009, I approached the State Capital in Sacramento for the first time in my life. I find it fitting that my reason was to witness a protest at its doorstep, California Native Americans uniting to charge certain tribal leaders with corruption, and to urge congress for more oversight and regulation. As the crowd trickled onto the north-side grounds of the building, those associated with the press started to make themselves known. As this was my first time working under this designation, I momentarily stepped into voyeurism to see how the others operated. At one point, a man obviously affiliated with some variation of corporate media stepped onto the scene with his large camera equipment and loudly asserted, “I need to get a statement from someone here, I don’t really care who,” only to get his brief interview and then promptly leave without gaining perspective on any of the happenings. I decided this was not the approach I wanted to take, so I went about my own way of piecing together the context for the event.
The crime is the unjustified disenrollment of Native Americans from their traditional tribe, not only stripping them of their ancestral right to belong, but also the educational, medical, and financial support provided by their governments. The root cause is an alarmingly inequitable distribution of casino earnings, triggering immense poverty on certain reservations, while others reap the benefits of an industry with annual revenue in the billions. “Reservations are essentially third-world countries here in the US, some operating with no running water, electricity, or stable education system,” said Quanah Brightman, Vice President of United Native Americans Inc., the hosts of the protest. He asks a very fair question, “Where is all the money going?”
The contention is that it is going to small clusters of families in league with these corrupt officials, a mob-like favoritism that is robbing the majority of their basic human rights. When tribe members speak out, they, and often their entire family, are disenrolled, denied their home, their lineage, and their voice. Coming from a culturally white family, with little to no connection with my heritage, I tried to imagine what this must feel like. All I could think of was my mom. My mother is my safety, my comfort; she is weaved into my structure, threaded through every nucleus of every cell. She an integral component of who I am as a woman, a being. If someone somehow denied that, told me that it was not true, that it has all been a lie, that my core, my community had been ripped away from me, I would deflate. I would implode. I would fight. I would challenge the notion with all the power I could muster from the tips of my toes to the top of my head to the head of the state.
Certain governments are operating under zero accountability for these rights infringements imposed upon constituents residing under their “jurisdiction”, while the US government claims a hands-off policy given the sovereignty terms dictated by the formation of the collective American Indian Tribes. However, congress can limit Native American Sovereignty with good reason; they can enforce civil rights upon violation. As one speaker so aptly put it, “we were born on American soil. We are citizens; we deserve all of the same protection under the law.” It is this protection and regulation that was called for during the protest, and the hope is that the State Government will wake up and take a more active role in attempting to understand the situation. “California is the guinea pig [for this battle],” said Albert Alto, a disenrolled San Pasqual member from the reservation near Riverside, “how this goes is going to effect the movement throughout the nation. All eyes are on California right now.”
However, it was the personal stories resounding throughout the State Capital that made this protest so powerful. Teary-eyed Carla Foreman Maslin spoke about her father, Bob Foreman, and how he fought for his tribe’s right to healthcare, only to be disenrolled before his death without ever seeing justice. Consuela Vargas told her story about her own disenrollment, and how after speaking out during trial the file department claimed that her records had been lost for good. Wounded Knee, a revered elder, spoke about participating in the historical longest walk and the gaming movement as it developed, ending his speech with the proclamation that you only lose when you give up, that he has never given up.
I walked away from the State Capital much differently than I had approached it. The excitement had turned into a distant admiration but as I slowly allowed myself to be taken with the sentiment I had begun to feel closer. I internalized the voices until I could match them with my own emotions. I called my mom. I felt the stamina, the action. Speakers urged the audience to remain vocal and visible, not to become disillusioned. So yeah corporate media man, I guess it didn’t matter who you interviewed, because everyone present on February 5th had a story to tell, has a story to tell, an amalgamation of narratives combining to create a single statement, we will keep fighting, fighting the battle to win back their birthright of living peacefully with their sacred heritage, without fear of losing their liberties or being denied their basic civil rights.
Further information on this complex issue can be found on the following websites and blogs:
Students and Families in Richmond, Pinole, San Pablo and El Cerrito threatened with Massive School Closures Demand Justice
by Malaika Parker/Justice Matters
The cold wet wind blew outside the West Contra Costa Unified School District (WCCUSD) Board hearing last Wednesday. The meeting was focused on the school closures proposed for Richmond, Pinole, El Cerrito and San Pablo.
As I sat in solidarity with hundreds of families, teachers and students from all over the (WCCUSD) district I was struck by the number of children, young children, pleading-crying that their communities not be torn apart. As I listened to story after story of what the closure of a community school would mean for families, I thought about my daughter. A beautiful vibrant preschooler who will soon enter the ranks of public elementary schools. I thought about what such a conversation would mean for her life.
For years the WCCUSD has been bitterly embattled in a monetary fight. This has resulted in a never-ending cry from students and families begging for schools to stay open in their communities.
As a community member, a mother, and a former
Student of WCCUSD caught in the midst of the constant threat of schools in this district, I wonder at what point will the financial failure of this district be dealt with in a proactive way so that we may move on to the conversation about what happens in the classroom of our schools. At what point does the conversation move from money, the fallacy that there is not enough in a country that spends trillions on war, bank rescue plans, and so many other
wasteful things, to what we are doing to ensure that the over 50% school pushout (of students from school) rate can be addressed. When will it be time to address the fact that we are failing our students. The fact that hundreds of thousands of Black
and Brown students who deserve an education that prepares them to live out their full potential are instead being pushed out of schools directly into prisons.
After an extremely heated meeting filled with the voices of teachers, advocates, students and families, many of whom, are parent leaders with the Real Schools Now Campaign of Justice Matters, which works on policy and action to achieve a racially just classroom for students and families of color, The city of Richmond, and Pinole stepped in to save schools in their respective cities, with other cities expected to follow.
This action by Cities in WCCUSD will spare many young
people from being shipped off to schools completely disconnected from the strong heritage and belonging of their communities, families will be spared the burden of paying an increased cost for transportation to and from school in these hard economic times.
Finally, It is not acceptable for a district to engage in a constant deficit approach to operating schools, our children deserve abundance!. A district without the wherewithal to balance a budget and keep schools open, is sending a message to all of us families that have hoped for something better, that we have a long way to go.
Malaika Parker, mother of Imani, is the Campaign Cooridinator of Real Schools Now- a project of Justice Matters. To get more involved in the Real Schools Now Campaign call 510-860-3002 or go on-line to www.justicematters.org
by Wendy M. Fong/Race, Poverty, Media Justice Intern
White smoke rises to the metal ceiling like lost ghosts from their
cement graves, the cleansing smell of burning sage, dancing to the
beat of three drums. Echo, echo, echo. It vibrates, calling the
ancestors in Re-union. I scanned a 180 around the shadowy, wide,
square room. I heard my heart beating with the heart beats of other
Xicanos/as from every generation as they filled the room-- elders,
teenagers, adults, children-- bowing their heads, raising their hands,
and absorbing the spirits of mother earth. Echo, echo, echo. My brown
eyes slowly began to swell with tears. This was a ceremony of apology
to the lands, as people of all ages danced in sync and rhythm. An
apology of lands stolen, it was an intoxication of the elements,
flowing like waterfalls flooding the room with lost stories.
I am Chinese-American and have never experienced this before, taking
my first baby steps into the history of California. I was born and
raised in California and was not aware of how deep the culture was
rooted here. I began to think about stories my mother and father used
to tell me when I was younger. I come from a family of migrants. My
grandparents migrated from China to Burma during WW2 for survival, as
the Japanese invaded their land. I remember my father telling me how
my grandparents and his two brothers swam across the river as they ran
away from raining bullets and the Japanese. They were not immigrants,
who have the luxury of moving from land to land, but migrants chased
out of their native homes in hopes to live and have a better life.
Echo, echo, echo, they were dressed in the rainbow colors of mother
earth-- blue feathers, brown leather, red clay-- they danced to the
beats and the souls of the Rasa ancestors that once lived on this
land, Xicanos/as joined together in Re-union. Not only was there
Re-membrance, but there was celebration, celebrating their history and
the unity in their struggle. Delicious aromas of pollo taquitos,
Spanish rice, crisp vegetables, constant spoken word flows, laughter
and vibrating instruments filled the room in honor. Live Californian
history lessons unveiled before me like tulips opening to the warm
rays of the sun, hungry for more. "Mother, father, I whispered, "Tell
me more of your stories of China and Burma." I was curious to know
more about the heritage, the history, like those of my ancestors.
"Do you eat food from the Bay?" Jose Luis, an educator and activist,
asks at the "Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo Xicana Reunion" event at the
East Side Arts Alliance in Oakland, CA. It was an "education concert"
that took place on Saturday, February 7, 2009 at four o' clock in the
evening.
As Luis continues, he explains that contrary to general knowledge, for
hundreds of thousands of years; indigenous peoples sustained
themselves from the Bay and all its resources. The Spanish enslaved
the native peoples on plantains. They were military generals by the
names of Santa Cruz, San Jose, San Rafael, and San Francisco, to name
a few. The rich Spanish families like Castro and Valencia were offered
power by the U.S. in exchange for land. Even the famous General Santa
Ana purposely did not send enough troops to defend the land during the
Alamo of Texas to keep this exchange. In 1848, the U.S. government
violently occupied North Mexico, also known today as Sonoma County,
and they signed the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, turning over the land
to the U.S.
The treaty states that there shall be guaranteed citizenship in both
U.S. and Mexico, the freedom to move across borders between California
and Mexico, the retention of Spanish language and culture, and land
grants given to families that held land under their control.
But the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was soon to be broken: The land
was stolen. The land grants were disregarded. During the Gold Rush,
only Anglo Saxons were allowed to mine for gold, and people who lived
there for centuries were denied access to their own lands. "The 49ers
(aka gold miners) discriminated against them. It is like calling a
football team the KKK or the Nazis," says Luis.
The UN Declaration of Indigenous Peoples, Article 10 states,
"Indigenous peoples shall not be forcibly removed from their lands or
territories. No relocation shall take place without the free, prior
and informed consent of the indigenous peoples concerned and after
agreement on just and fair compensation and, where possible, with the
option of return." I never met my grandparents, but I imagine them
sometimes, how they looked and smiled when they were still alive. My
grandfather, short, dark skinned, thin black hair swept to the side.
His eyes were wide and droopy, with a tired look on his face as he
wore khakis, a cotton t-shirt, burgundy wool sweater vest and sandals.
My grandmother, shorter, fair skinned with a Chinese perm that was
subtle with big curls. She didn't smile very often, holding a frown on
her face. I remember her wearing a jade bracelet and black floral
print shirt. It's hard to remember their stories sometimes.
A community as far as Richmond to San Francisco, Oakland to Santa Ana,
gathered together to commemorate the broken Treaty of Guadalupe
Hidalgo. There was a workshop about terms that I never knew about, as
was the general attitude of several other attendees at the event. They
spoke about immigrant versus migrant, stipulated removal, schedule
departure, return to sender, and tent city*. "We have to be prepared
and know our rights," says Cinthya Munoz-Reyes and Sagnicthe Salaza,
two of the workshop facilitators.
Vida Reyes, a student and poet from San Jose, California, spoke it
best, "I want to be remembered as a human before law." I wish I were
taught this in school so I could remember the echo sounds
reverberating in my body from that night in Oakland. Remember how the
U.S. dishonored the treaty with Mexico and stole the lands from the
indigenous peoples. I wish my mother and father would keep telling me
stories about my ancestors, so I could Re-member their struggle too.
To get more information on how to educate and terms, email wendizz at wendymfong@gmail.com.
*Terms taught during the workshop:
Immigrant: A person who migrates to another country, usually for
permanent residence.
Migrant: A person who moves from place to place for work, food, or survival.
Stipulated Removal: Non-citizens are removed from the U.S. without
hearings before immigration judges. It has resulted in the removal of
over 96,000 non-citizens since its interception. Immigrants who sign
waive their to hearings and agree to have a removal order entered
again them, regardless of whether they are eligible too remain in the
U.S. This has been in place since 199 and is ON GOING.
Schedule Departure: This program pressures immigrants who are subject
to judicial order to leave the U.S. and who do not have a criminal
record to turn themselves in voluntarily and be allowed to wrap up
their departure in an order fashion. The program targets over 457,000
immigrants with no criminal records. The cost of the program (mainly
advertising) is said to have been around $41,000. It has been in place
since August 2008 and is GOING.
Return to Sender: A massive sweep of illegal immigrants by the U.S.
Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency. The campaign has
focused on individuals "deemed to be the most dangerous," including
convicted felons and gang members, particularly those of the Mara
Salvatrucha (MS-13) gang. As of late April 2007, over 23,000 illegal
immigrants have been arrested. Half of those detained and deported
have actually had prior criminal records. This has been ON GOING since
2006.
Tent City: Due to overcrowding in the Maricopa County Jail in Arizona,
the fourth largest jail system in the world, and to save costs on
building a new facility, Sheriff Joe Arpaio ordered a Tent City to be
constructed utilizing inmate labor. The inmates were chained at the
feet, wore handcuffs while carrying bags of personal belongings, and
forced to walk to the segregated Tent City. Arpaio has failed to
submit a detailed budget-cutting proposal despite a request made by
the country's office of management. It started in 1993 and is GOING.
SYSTEMBITCH (Old school rap) by Laure McElroy aka The System Bitch
My job dropped a dime to my worker
so my foodstamps got cut
we ate that month
didn't pay no rent
now we're kicked out on our butts
Now this joint's gone global
but only if you're rich
I'm caught on a catch
and scrilla's the scratch
this broke-ass birth can't itch
SYSTEMBITCH
I go no money!
What am I gonna do??!
Moved into my sister's
thought we'd save a dollar
her crackhead man went golden gloves
he beat her and she hollered
CPS said "bitch - the home you in ain't safe...
Move out or we'll jack those brats
They'll be wards of the state."
SYSTEMBITCH
I'm on the street again
They took my babies
Sinkin' fast, subprime disaster
the state is broke
our republican masters
tax the poor
too feed the rich
y'all think it's a joke / til you're the next
SYSTEMBITCH
SYSTEMBEEYOTCH!
Your Social Worker
By Vivian Hain aka The Social Worker (and welfareQUEEN)
2009
Welfare Reform? Hellfare Deform… Now time to conform!
Cuz’ I’m your social worker, your poverty pimp
Gatekeeper, grim reaper, employment specialist
Helligibility worker, case manager, cuz’ you are my bitch!
Want me to pay you?, no I’m gonna’ play you
So walk thru’, talk to, what the fuck do you want, you?
Broke down mama, your trauma, dramarama,
Of hoppin’ n’ poppin’ not stoppin’, n’ droppin’ n’ boppin’
with who you do to, the muthafuckas’ you screw
Makin’ n’ bakin’ a bunch of daddy-less kids again n’ again?
While stayin’ n playin’ with punk ass bull-shittin’ men?
But you keep me employed, yeeah, I’m getting fat bank roll,
though it makes me annoyed
But why should I care?, you ain’t gonna’ sit back,
In my plastic chair, bitch pull up your bootstraps
Broke down, spoke down, you want me to throw down?
Think your pathetic existence, managing on a subsistence?
Is a free meal ticket for you to get cash-aid assistance?
For welfare, hellfare, fill out that stack of forms there
The same o’, blame those, it’s all in the game so,
Ya’ say you’ve been used, abused, n’ feeling confused?
Now you want me to approve you?, I’d rather remove you
Outta’ that chair, as you sit there and stare
I deeply despise you, but do realize too
That superbabymama, I also do love you
For getting me paid for the mistakes that you’ve made
As you sit there before me beg, lie n’ cry-
Cuz’ I’m the determinator, perpetrator, terminator
I am the welfareQUEEN By Tiny aka The welfareQUEEN
I am the welfareQUEEN
Marginalized, criminalized, a bum at best
Your bitch
Got to beg you for money
have no right to privacy family secrets,
Underground work- Tell you all kind of personal stories bout struggle, survival, unbelieveble hurt I am used by you and you are used by the sys
I take your disrespect, act like I agree with it
Internalize your hate and hegemony and believe in it
Love you like I am you feel your disgust-
I am the welfareQUEEN
I am human, I am beautiful , I am a mama, I am
an artist, a philospher, caregiver, an advocate, I
navigate a complex welfaresystem and the non
profit industrial complex by any means necessary
i exist in a scarcity model that destroys people for asking for help-
I beg for child care, food stamps, housing subsidies and I do it good
You arent my pimp but I treat you like one
I try to please you I stand in your lines, and wait in your lobbies,
I waste entire days in pursuit of housing and job skills-
I work for less than minimum wage and beg you for more,
I bring you all the system loooovvvve you need
and more,
weekly time-sheets, 50 page filled applications and proof of income forms,
I am the welfareQueen
and I work for you poverty pimp-
I am your bitch but im not
im resistin, philosophizing, thinking and one day
I will overthrow this poverty pimpin destruction as a human model of care-giving, and love
The Poverty Pimp's Lament by Tony Robles aka The P-I-M-P
When yu walkin thru the downtown, and lookin in around, yu see the down of humanity, who was once somebodys baby, layin down on the concrete, street, on the ground
And do ya dare to care, and say what you want to say, step on and stare-
Double standard mind warped thinkin, not my problem, this is where-
Ya got it wrong, think you are strong, move along, but its your conscience layin there-
Cuz it is what it is-what it is-what it is
Livin on concrete-
What it is-what it is-what it is
Livin on concreteÉ
So, call it whatever you wanna call it - at a distance
But in reality, its a casualty of a capitalist existence
Thru the food chain of command, its the plan of the man
So step off- shut the fuck up, walk on by, why take a stand?
And be grateful for what you got, even if ya been just tossed a bread crumb
Cuz the hypocrisy of democracys leavin nothing for that street bum-
What it is-what it is-what it is
Livin on concrete-
What it is-what it is-what it is
Livin on concrete
NIMBYism ideology, no apology, psychology
Havent ya realized, ya been hypnotized, homogenized, desensitized?
To a typical, statistical, egotistical psychology
To accept, the neglect and disrespect your own humanity
