Story Archives

by Tony Robles/PNN

It’s one of the most beautiful sounds, maybe the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. You go through life working jobs and navigating through the nonsense and the real and sometimes the lines separating them are so blurred that you can’t tell one from the other. A great writer once said, “Men have ways of showing their petty biases and prejudices”. One doesn’t have to be a great writer to draw that conclusion.

I sit at work (and occasionally stand) and I hear the other officers (I work as a security guard) talk about black people—mostly black men. They say, I saw this black guy the other day and he did this and that and that and this. I listen to how the words black guy roll off their tongues and onto the floor. I watch the way they spit on the ground.

This one fellow with whom I share a common employer talked about how a black guy came into the supermarket that he’s hired to guard…just the other day…and got offended and belligerent when asked to produce his receipt. I asked the guy if the customers at Safeway in the Marina are asked to produce their receipts. He didn’t have an answer. I could tell that it got him thinking but in the time it took to bat the lash on one’s eye, it was back to “I saw this black guy and he…”

I listen and know that black guy is code for nigger. I figured that my co-worker would know this, being ½-Raza. But somewhere along the way this got lost; somehow the dirt from the hands of his ancestors that carved life into the faces of mountains, that planted and fed a civilization disappeared in the wind that set the colonizer’s boats sail. Towards the end of our shift he offered to buy me a tall café mocha (and showing much class, asked me if I preferred white or regular mocha).

When I was growing up, there were no black guys, only brothers. My father was Filipino and the blood in his veins was black, like soy sauce rivers that the Issei and Nisei saw on their way to the concentration camps. I used to hear the laughter of the brothers in my dad’s room listening to records—Miles, Smokey, The Temps—and drinking Ripple. I would sit and listen behind that old fashioned wooden door with the dark brown shellac that separated my father’s room from mine, and the laughter of black men would hit the walls and shatter the glass and rise like the tide on the most beautiful Sunday morning. It was life, it was the flow, it was love and tragedy and music and poetry and everything I ever needed to know—the sound of their laughter.

And I see brothers who are suffering, been through it all. Ask them for their receipt? They’ve paid with their lives, their hearts, their tears many times over. I say, ask them for their laughter. Ask them to tell a story that will bring the laughter from their mouths and the sun and the world to its knees. Give me their laughter. Give me the beautiful laughter of black men

by Joseph Bolden

A simple answer to a complex set of problems, taking years in the making, and will take years to unravel, re-evaluate, and begin to solve.

It shows he has no idea how problematic the situation is. A former? acid tripping, Cocaine Cowboy now is one of the most powerful men in the free world comes up with his right-wrong moral claptrap as if summed it up in a nutshell.

People of America, with this guy at the helm, we’re a wreck about to happen on rough seas.

What’s Wrong With Us? How do we learn which kids is a problem from the one that are only shy, slightly antisocial, and quiet?

It cannot be known until all children are made precious to us not just the shining, creative, intelligent ones - the quirky, odd, rebellious ones must also be, encouraged that they count equally.

We shouldn’t throw people away lot odd lots in a bad manufactured batch.

Where are the parents, counselors, friends? I was [OK, still a misfit] but books, movies, girls, writing, and thinking kept me from darker thoughts.

Besides I was a skinny kid avoiding fights if I could, fighting when there was no other way. I did know if I brandished a knife or gun in school I’d be shot dead by police.

If black kids make an error in judgment we die. Our parent’s warned us we’re visible they [the main majority pop. at large] build jails and deathrow looking for youngsters to act stupid.

Why are white kids, many with two parents "Falling Down" Most are the luckiest, looked after children in society, so... why are they flipping out or dangerously acting out these days?

Is this the ultimate price of individual freedom, not knowing when a disgrunt- led, child ,woman, or man, or worker will go off?

A Vice President with slight chest pains little heart attacks checks himself into a hospital; this is not good, the guy has attacks while excercising on a treadmill!

While President Bush, former party animal see what happens when and if he gets “flashbacks.”

[When the brain relives episode less traumatic though similar to Viet Nam or Desert Storm Veteran’s
[Post Dramatic Stress Syndrome] or the simpler World War 1 term Shell Shock.

Do have an Idea how this can be prevented? Like I said before don’t leave any child behind this includes their psychological needs.

How we do this, when to stop, and not to go over-board that’s up all of us including clinical Psycholo-gists, therapist, analyststs and other mental health pro- fessionals.

Its becomes a temporary headache than an ongoing migraine. I know it’s not that simple but we must begin now or there will always, be these seeming senseless killings.

We must teach children before they become embittered young adults other ways of dealing with personal, situation s crisis before violence is used.

There are other choices.
Misfits in schools, job loss, stalking wives, husbands, ex-girl/boy friends and mentally ill.

Excuse me I have to bandage my knuckles, they've been scraping the floor a bit.

We must do something to handle this spreading pandemic of explosive deadly violence... Any Ideas?

Mail or Send letters, money orders in care of Joe at Poor Magazine INC.
255 9th street San Francisco, Ca. 94103 USA

www.poormagazine.org

For Joe only snail
mail 1230 Market St. P.O. Box #645 S.F., CA. 94102

As soon as I find out my new email address I’ll place it on the web.

by PEOPLE'S TRIBUNE/TRIBUNO DEL PUEBLO

Our country prides itself in providing its citizens with equal
fundamental rights guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution. History
shows that these fundamental rights have been and continue to be
compromised. In many cases they were compromised under the
assumption that people of color were not equals, and today we see
a distinct fissure between the haves and have-nots -- those that
can afford to have rights, and those that simply can't afford
them. The U.S. Supreme Court's unanimous decision on March 26,
2002, confirming that tenants residing in public housing will be
evicted if anyone in their household, a guest, or other person
under their control engages in any illegal drug-related
activities, is a prime example of this unfair "selectivity of
rights."

The Supreme Court ruling came in response to a combination of
cases in which tenants were evicted because someone else in their
household was involved in drug activities. One of the cases
involves 63-year-old Barbara Hill and 71-year-old Willy Lee, who
have been in public housing for over two decades, and whose
grandsons were caught smoking marijuana in the parking lot of
their apartment. Another involves a 63-year-old woman, Pearle
Rucker, whose mentally disabled daughter was caught with drugs
fairly near the Oakland housing project they resided in. Rucker
argues that she never observed any drug use on behalf of her
daughter. Lastly, the fourth case involves Herman Walker, a
disabled 71-year-old man, whose caretaker and guests were found in
the possession of cocaine in Walker's apartment. Although Walker
fired the caretaker, he was still given an eviction notice.

All of the tenants above were sent to the Oakland streets
regardless of their age, circumstances, or lack of knowledge that
the person who they were responsible for was engaged in drug-
related activities. Many of the tenants had lived in public
housing for years; how could they possibly afford anything else?
Rents aren't getting any lower. The Just Cause Coalition in
Oakland reported that rents in Oakland have increased 25 percent
in 2001 alone. In 1998 there were 84,000 low-income renters, but
only 36,000 low-income rental units. Public housing is therefore
essential for many families that qualify. In order to qualify for
public housing in Oakland, residents cannot make more than 30
percent of the city's family median income. Currently, most people
living in public housing are single mothers with two or more
children, senior citizens, and disabled people.

Hence, we come to an irrefutable contradiction. During President
Roosevelt's era and his analysis of the country's poor, the
"culture of poverty" was deemed to be an individual issue. The
whole philosophy of "blame the individual," began to saturate
American minds. If you were poor, it was because you weren't
working hard enough; you were lazy or perhaps incapable or
unwilling to compete. The assumption was that capitalism provided
everyone with tools for prosperity, and if you were poor it was
simply your choice. And Americans believed it. They still believe
it. And they will continue to believe it, unless we begin to
disclose the truth. The truth is that the number of poor continues
to grow at an exponential rate. We are all human beings that want
to live well, want our children fed, and want to live life to the
fullest. The second reality is that in our country you have to be
able to afford it all. If you can't afford it, then you lack the
basic necessities for survival. First the poor are accountable for
themselves. Now they're not only accountable for themselves, but
they are responsible for others as well. How is that just? So if
the poor are responsible for those that reside in their apartment,
then who's responsible for the poor that reside in the United
States? When is our government going to be held accountable for
our poor, homeless, elderly, and handicapped?

It's not really about ridding our communities of drugs. If that
were really the issue, Congress would be focusing on the
millionaires who can afford to produce the drug, smuggle it into
the U.S., and whose middle men bring it into our poor communities.
They are the true criminals, and who ironically would never find
themselves in the position that public housing tenants are in. Why
not focus on the root of the problem? It's all a scapegoat.
Throwing people out on the street will not solve anything. It will
only increase the number of homeless we have on our streets, the
number of ill and malnourished, and the number of neglected
Americans. The U.S. Supreme Court decision is an attack on the
poor. When can they ever strive for prosperity if they're
constantly bombarded with laws that strip them of their civil
liberties? The new class of poor is growing, and as Congress
attempts to disperse them, they are going nowhere. They will be on
park benches, on street corners, under trees, and if they're lucky
they will be working at fast food joints, serving coffee, cleaning
buildings, bringing your groceries, building, painting, selling
... enough to survive.

The means exist to end poverty. But we are going to have to fight
for a new system -- one that does not blame the poor for their
poverty.

******************************************************************

This article originated in the PEOPLE'S TRIBUNE/TRIBUNO DEL PUEBLO
(Online Edition), Vol. 29 No. 5/ May, 2002; P.O. Box 3524,
Chicago, IL 60654; Email: pt@lrna.org; http://www.lrna.org
Feel free to reproduce and use unless marked as copyrighted. The
PEOPLE'S TRIBUNE/TRIBUNO DEL PUEBLO depends on donations from its
readers. To subscribe, send email to majordomo@gocatgo.com with a
message of "subscribe pt-dist". To unsubscribe, send email to
majordomo@gocatgo.com with a message of "unsubscribe pt-dist"
******************************************************************

by Staff Writer

Our nightmares starts
Out of “there is no cholera in Zimbabwe”
Out of the dead men from cholera
Out of the dead women from HIV Aids
Out of the dead children from hunger
Out of the dead young adults from political killings
Out of little children become war soldiers
Out of the vengeance of Mugabe’s CIO
Out of the beast ZANUPF, police and army
Out of a country now locked in political gridlocks

Out of the lunatic moans of Mugabe against Britain
Out of the lunatic bile of Mugabe against the west
Out of the forthcoming breakdown due to this defiance
Out of cry songs that now stains the whole region
Out of the stench of South Africa’s silent diplomacy
Out of the stench of SADC and Africa’s denial
Out of a conspiring humanity
Out of this chaos is a journey that leads across Limpopo River.

We are footfalls walking through the dense forest
So many frontiers that we have crossed
So many shadows of so many at one side
And our silenced dreams on the other side.

The raven’s voice falls silent in the darkened leaves
The trees are the only ones who pray for themselves
For the moon always passes on top of them
And in the dark nights we wait for the moon
To tell us to venture into the hungry crocodiles in Limpopo
And I can see their red tongues stretching out
To lick the slime of our yoke and blood.

We are another one among these marauding herds
Limpopo River is now a mixture of silt, blood, bones and scars
Where other traumatised adults giggle chorus of grief
And every anguished cry feed these fat crocodiles
We are now bones within this river’s churn
Soon fish will have to negotiate us.

by Felicita Pedroza

You can tell I'm Boricua by my long, curly, dark hair

When you look into my eyes you see culture in my stare

My tongue taste like adobo my mouth like rice and beans

I am the Taino goddess you have never seen

My hips sway with the Salsa my heart beats with the drum

I'll have you drunk off my love, like dark Bacardi rum


Touch the arch of my back and feel my ancestors load

My kisses are dynamite, to make you explode

The dimple on my cheek is a pool of delight

Touch my feminine arms, feel my culture’s might

My eyes, like the stars that lead the Tianos to shore

My powerful touch any sickness can cure

Taste my thighs; you'll taste my culture’s glory

Grip my palm to read the Tiano story

My steps are so great it cannot be measured

Dig into my Boricua soul, you'll find buried treasure

You'll find abundance in my breech

But no decrepitude in my reach

My tongue utters efficacious words

So meaningful, so smooth just like my curves

You can tell I'm Boricua by the beauty in each strand of hair

Look into my eyes; find the culture in my stare.

by Staff Writer

As a poor people led/indigenous people led organization we are extremely worried about the thrival and survival of our brothers and sisters in South Africa, Samoa, The Philippines, Malaysia, amd beyond.

The loss/decrease of land, water, air and other dire impacts of Global Climate Change on poor communities of color is one of the most important issues we are concerned with as indigenous peoples in relationship with Mama earth and each other.

Many of our local indigenous staff writers and scholars have family members struggling in Samoa and the Philippines therefore we are gathering contributions and working with local grassroots folks to support their relief efforts.

To help Samoan folks POOR Magazine is collecting donations to give to a local Samoan congregation (Assemblies of God where one of staff writers is a member-) Please send your donations to POOR Magazine and make them in care of "Samoan relief" at 2940 16th street #301 San Francisco, Ca 94103

To Help Filipino folks - please donate to one of the following locations listed above. For more information go on-line to www.sfchrp.org

by Joe. B.

Who are these Assholes?
Do They realize, be they made of grass, glass, steel, or diamond-they're melted cheese in our Global Oven.

Ours Nation and all Freedom Loving Nations all over the world grieves for families of lives lost in the four high-jacked jet planes and in New York’s World Trade Centers.

Our National hurt and healing will take some time as generations young and old have simultaneously are in mental, physical turmoil.

This will take time but we as American’s and as Global Community will
get through this horrendous catastrophe made by human beings to hurt, maim, and kill other human beings–to dehumanize makes them victors.

THEY ARE MORTAL AS WE, BLEED AND DIE AS WE.

Either by Tribunal or death on the run, they will be judged.

21st CENTURY WAR! Is a hard concept to handle but I guess we’ll have to fight this one so the centuries to come will be truly a peaceful world.

May this not be World War 3.

The terrorist‘s have wounded us attacking our shores, may Allah forgive them because their collective asses belongs to America.

As much as I rail against our countries rights and wrongs I will not forsake Her/Him, Uncle Sam – to many boatloads of African ancestors died in slavery, in every war of American independence – this will be no different except maybe this time all rainbow american’s will finally be seen as plain, ordinary, extraordinary, American’s. That’s a legacy worth giving to our descendents whatever, race, religion, sex, sexual orientation, class, or national origin.

If any readers would like to add to this or be my quest.

Sorry, if this seems like a meaningless column I may not have expressed my views strongly enough but I got to get a flag to place at my window in my humble SRO. [Single Occupancy Hotel or Sleeping Room Only] Got to go, stay strong, live long.

Contact: POOR Magazine

255 9th street San Francisco, Ca.94103

askjoe@poormagzine.org

by Joe B.

Well, almost Easter, Mother Mary, Mary Madeline, the Apostles, and Jesus resurrected.

Heady thoughts to be sure but as usual mines turned to those first pre chemists that may have died breathing in mercury fumes or blowing themselves up in accidents.

What would a modern Alchemist be today?
Answer: A Molecular Nuclear Physicist working with molecules that make up the atoms that's part of all living or inorganic material.

I might night not have time to think this through so folks have a safe and exciting Easter.

Meanwhile I must get out of the city and visit family before returning and I’ll finish my long thoughts on Alchemy, Alchemists, and the good and evil of it.

See you all and stay alive don’t do no stupid bull moves guys, young men, young wimin. Bye…

Please send donations to

Poor Magazine or in C/0

Ask Joe at 1448 Pine Street,

San Francisco, CA. 94103 USA

For Joe only my snail mail:

1230 Market St.

PO Box #645

San Francisco, CA 94102

Email: askjoe@poormagazine.org

by PNN Staff

The United Nations Plaza Homeless Project is comprised of dedicated homeless folk who are attempting to make change for themselves and other low income people who have been dealing with poverty and homelessness for several years without much help from the San Francisco city government, a city government who usually resorts to criminalizing homeless citizens rather than helping them. Check in for future development of this ambitious project.

Contact Manuel Morales at (415) 608-8406 pager ( 415) 208-8406.

by Joseph Bolden

I do not like getting out of a warm bed where my pills, cough syrup, hot tea ‘n honey is, because going on an assignment sick is bad form for both the interviewer and interviewee. Mr. Allan Ball is around somewhere on San Francisco’s sunshiny day. I feel miserable today as people all over the city, across the Bay, and across the street from that blinding golden dome atop City Hall.

Many speakers are suffering and continue to suffer from the stigma of mental illness but since the Reagan Administration [1980 -’84-1984 to1988] when most of the hospitals, sanitariums were closed, mentally ill persons are on the streets or hidden away as if they are crimi-nals. I lay on the grass, feeling queasy and feel as if I’m about to throw up my split pea soup on those red christmasy plants. After the rally/protest on the grass all the organizations converged in an orderly if loud march to-ward the Department of Public Health on 101 Grove Street in San Francisco.

Inside the building the physically challenged use the elevator while the able bodied use stairs entering a meeting of commissioners al-ready in progress.

Of course it only seems like political theater but many people in the march are really pissed off and angry at how many S.F. Health Department Policies do the exact opposite in stead of help persons with mental illness, physical disabilities, elderly, or people with on-going slow debilitating diseases. Someone called the cops even as voices lessened.

After more chants, speeches, public speaking from real people suffering under these policies, and a protest version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” Everyone stayed longer than the some of the health commis-sioners, cops, or seated citizens in the meeting deemed equitable.
Translation: [Protester left when they deemed their voices were heard and not before.]

The Commission leave before the protesters only then did every-one protesting in The Department of Public Health in San Francisco. My flu broke as my nose bled profusely, and where’s Allan?
He slipped out when the police entered.

It’s satisfying seeing cops try to arrest people doing legitimate civil disobe-dience and a commissioner or two being steadfast stubborn on it not hap-pening. Has it helped, Did other commissioner get the message, will poli-cies change?

I have no answers to these questions but focused heat must re-main on the health system until the very people affected can show how po-lices and be change, improved, and become a more fluid process and not set in stone, unchanging, and blind to answers coming from the very vic-tims of this system. Bye.