Street SpiritJ U S T I C E N E W S & H O M E L E S S B L U E S I N T H E B A Y A R E A

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by Janny Castillo

With microphone in hand,Bilal Ali, human rightsorganizer for the Right toRest campaign, was stand-

ing in front of two large banners, one say-ing, “Black Lives Matter,” and the other“A Right Delayed is a Right Denied.”

At a direct action for the Homeless Billof Rights held in San Francisco onSunday, January 18, he described the dra-conian laws that the Right to Rest bill willhelp eliminate. “The laws today that crim-inalize homelessness and poverty are anextension of those laws,” Ali said, callingout the names of the cruelly repressiveJim Crow, Sundown Towns, and anti-Okie laws that have snaked their wayacross America for over 40 years.

“We are here to let San Franciscoknow that we will resist these laws. Wewill resist any law that criminalizes thebare necessities of life activities and thebasic existence of our people!”

The Right to Rest Bill, also known asthe Homeless Bill of Rights, is making itsway to legislators in three states: California,

Oregon and Colorado. Advocates for thebills are fired-up grassroots organizers ledby Western Regional Advocacy Project.

“Our campaign is now active in fourstates and acting in partnership with 135organizations and thousands of individu-als,” says WRAP Executive Director PaulBoden. The multi-state actions in severalcities included sleep-outs, marches, a “poorpeople palooza” and a film festival.

The San Francisco action, held at thePowell Street BART station, was in collab-oration with Black Lives Matter and thebirthday of Martin Luther King Jr.Advocates and speakers from various partsof the homeless community spoke about theneed to pass the Right to Rest bill now.

Laura Slattery from the GubbioProject, a sanctuary for homeless peopleat St. Boniface Church in the Tenderloin,described how the Right to Rest bill isconnected to the work of Martin LutherKing and the Poor People’s Campaign.

She said, “After the death of King, 3,000people set up tents in Washington, D.C., forthe Poor People’s Campaign. For six weeks

A Right Delayed Is a Right DeniedThe Struggle for the Right to Rest

“We raise our voices to honor the legacy of Dr. MartinLuther King, Jr. and continue to work in fighting for thecivil rights of the most marginalized of our society.”

— Ibrahim Mubara, Portland’s Right 2 Survive, WRAP

by Claire Isaacs Warhhaftig

In just one instant in 1965, I decidedto travel to Selma, Alabama, andmarch for voting rights for African-Americans who had been disenfran-

chised for decades in the South. As I plan my return to Selma this year

on March 3 to celebrate the 50th anniver-sary of this historic event, I ask myself:When did I start this journey, and why?And I recall the discrimination in societythat was obvious even to a teenage girl.

I was a senior in high school in 1949.Dad said that since he had business invarious places that summer, why not alltravel together and cross the country?

First stop: Tulsa, Oklahoma. Riding thebus, I noticed black people were gatheredin the rear. This naïve California girlthought they preferred to sit together. ThenI noticed they weren’t even talking withone another. That evening, I learned thatTulsa had curfew laws. Blacks were pro-hibited from leaving their homes after 8p.m. The exception was to work serving awhite family, and required a permit.

My next encounter with segregation’sugly visage was in Nashville, Tennessee’strain station, with its two sitting rooms. The“whites only” space was reasonably clean,regularly painted and offered comfortablechairs. The “colored only” waiting roomwas one fifth its size, unpainted for

decades, and featured splintered benches. Itried not to imagine the restrooms.

We journeyed on to visit our cousins,Julius and Mervin Blach of Birmingham,Alabama, for our first visit ever. BrothersJulius and Mervin owned department storesin various Southern cities, specializing in

men’s’ wear. The downtown store waslater to be seen as an unfortunate back-ground to notorious Sheriff Bull Connor’swater-hosing of civil rights marchers there.

Our cousins’ wives, Patsy and Lillian,served up hospitality Southern style, day

See A Right Delayed page 7

“House Keys Not Handcuffs.” A protester at the Right to Rest rallyin San Francisco denounces the criminalization of homeless people.

Janny Castillophoto

My Journey from SanFrancisco to Selma

Bishop James Pike of Grace Cathedral thundered from thesteps of City Hall: “I’ve been there, and friends, we need

more bodies down there, more bodies, and especially morewhite bodies.” In that instant, I knew I would go to Selma.

The Civil Rights Memorial Mural honors Rev. James Reeb (left) and Jimmie LeeJackson who were both murdered during the Selma movement for voting rights.

See The Road to Selma page 4

February 2015ST R E E T SP I R I T2

Photo essay by David Bacon

OAKLAND (1/19/15)—More than onethousand people marched through EastOakland’s African American and Latinoneighborhoods during the Martin LutherKing celebration this year, making theconnection between the radical politics ofDr. King and the Black Lives Mattermovement in solidarity with the people ofFerguson and all those fighting for socialjustice. The following excerpts are takenfrom three speeches made by Dr. King inthe last two years of his life. His call for heradical transformation of U.S. society, andthe end of U.S. military intervention inother countries, is as much on the agendatoday as it was when he spoke these words.

Beyond Vietnam REV. KING’S HISTORIC ANTI-WAR

SPEECH, RIVERSIDE CHURCH, NEW

YORK, APRIL 4, 1967

I knew that America would neverinvest the necessary funds or energies inrehabilitation of its poor so long as adven-tures like Vietnam continued to draw menand skills and money like some demonic,destructive suction tube.

We must rapidly begin the shift from athing-oriented society to a person-orientedsociety. When machines and computers,profit motives and property rights, areconsidered more important than people,the giant triplets of racism, extreme mate-rialism, and militarism are incapable ofbeing conquered.

One day we must come to see that thewhole Jericho Road must be transformed sothat men and women will not be constantlybeaten and robbed as they make their jour-ney on life’s highway. True compassion ismore than flinging a coin to a beggar. Itcomes to see than an edifice which pro-duces beggars needs restructuring.

A true revolution of values will soonlook uneasily on the glaring contrast ofpoverty and wealth. With righteous indig-nation, it will look across the seas and seeindividual capitalists of the West invest-ing huge sums of money in Asia, Africa,and South America, only to take the prof-its out with no concern for the social bet-terment of the countries, and say, “This isnot just.” It will look at our alliance withthe landed gentry of South America andsay, “This is not just.” The Western arro-gance of feeling that it has everything toteach others and nothing to learn fromthem is not just.

A true revolution of values will layhand on the world order and say of war,“This way of settling differences is notjust.” This business of burning humanbeings with napalm, of filling our nation’s

homes with orphans and widows, ofinjecting poisonous drugs of hate into theveins of peoples normally humane, ofsending men home from dark and bloodybattlefields physically handicapped andpsychologically deranged, cannot be rec-onciled with wisdom, justice, and love. Anation that continues year after year tospend more money on military defensethan on programs of social uplift isapproaching spiritual death.

There is nothing except a tragic deathwish to prevent us from reordering our pri-orities so that the pursuit of peace will takeprecedence over the pursuit of war. There isnothing to keep us from molding a recalci-trant status quo with bruised hands until wehave fashioned it into a brotherhood.

These are revolutionary times. All overthe globe men are revolting against oldsystems of exploitation and oppression,and out of the wounds of a frail world,new systems of justice and equality arebeing born. The shirtless and barefootpeople of the land are rising up as neverbefore. The people who sat in darknesshave seen a great light. We in the Westmust support these revolutions.

I’ve Been to theMountaintop

REV. KING’S LAST SPEECH, MASON

TEMPLE, CHURCH OF GOD IN CHRIST,MEMPHIS, APRIL 3, 1968

The masses of people are rising up.And wherever they are assembled today,whether they are in Johannesburg, SouthAfrica; Nairobi, Kenya; Accra, Ghana;New York City; Atlanta, Georgia;Jackson, Mississippi; or Memphis,Tennessee, the cry is always the same:“We want to be free.”

If something isn’t done and done in ahurry to bring the colored peoples of theworld out of their long years of poverty;their long years of hurt and neglect, thewhole world is doomed.

We mean business now and we aredetermined to gain our rightful place inGod’s world. And that’s all this wholething is about. We aren’t engaged in anynegative protest and in any negative argu-ments with anybody. We are saying thatwe are determined to be men. We aredetermined to be people. We are sayingthat we are God’s children. And if we areGod’s children, we don’t have to live likewe are forced to live.

When the slaves get together, that’s thebeginning of getting out of slavery.

The issue is injustice. The issue is therefusal of Memphis to be fair and honestin its dealings with its public servants,who happen to be sanitation workers.

Remaining Awake Througha Great Revolution

REV. KING, NATIONAL CATHEDRAL,WASHINGTON, D.C., MARCH 31, 1968

This day we are spending 500,000 dol-lars to kill every Vietcong soldier. Everytime we kill one we spend about 500,000dollars while we spend only 53 dollars ayear for every person characterized aspoverty-stricken in the so-called povertyprogram, which is not even a good skirmishagainst poverty.

Not only that, it has put us in a positionof appearing to the world as an arrogantnation. And here we are ten thousandmiles away from home fighting for the so-called freedom of the Vietnamese peoplewhen we have not even put our ownhouse in order. And we force young blackmen and young white men to fight andkill in brutal solidarity. Yet when theycome back home that can’t hardly live onthe same block together.

There comes a time when one musttake the position that is neither safe norpolitic nor popular, but he must do itbecause conscience tells him it is right. I

believe today that there is a need for allpeople of goodwill to come with a mas-sive act of conscience and say in thewords of the old Negro spiritual, “Weain’t goin’ study war no more.” This is thechallenge facing modern man.

I say to you that our goal is freedom, andI believe we are going to get there becausehowever much she strays away from it, thegoal of America is freedom. Abused andscorned though we may be as a people, ourdestiny is tied up in the destiny of America.

Before the Pilgrim fathers landed atPlymouth, we were here. Before Jeffersonetched across the pages of history themajestic words of the Declaration ofIndependence, we were here. Before thebeautiful words of the “Star SpangledBanner” were written, we were here.

For more than two centuries our fore-bearers labored here without wages. Theymade cotton king, and they built the homesof their masters in the midst of the mosthumiliating and oppressive conditions. Andyet out of a bottomless vitality they contin-ued to grow and develop. If the inexpress-ible cruelties of slavery couldn’t stop us, theopposition that we now face will surely fail.

Oakland Celebrates the Radical PoliticalHeritage of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

February 2015 ST R E E T SP I R I T 3

Street Spirit VendorsThe Street Spirit vendor program is

managed by J.C. Orton. More than 150homeless vendors sell Street Spirit inBerkeley and Oakland. The vendor pro-gram provides many jobs to homelesspeople in bad economic times, and is apositive alternative to panhandling.

Vendors are oriented to interactrespectfully with the public. Please buyStreet Spirit only from badged vendors.

If you have questions or concernsabout the vendor program, call J.C.Orton. Cell phone: (510) 684-1892.Email: noscw@sbcglobal.net

by Sister Eva Lumas

When asked to give a shortreflection on “The Martin WeDidn’t Know,” my first reac-

tion was to wonder what more there wasto know about a person whose life hadbeen so public. But, I quickly found thatthere actually are a number of interestingfacts about Martin Luther King that theaverage person might not know.

For instance, Martin’s birth name wasMichael Lewis King. He changed his namewhen he entered the seminary to become aminister. He was only 15 when he enteredMorehouse College. And he spent twosummers during his college days pickingtobacco in Simsbury, Connecticut, to helppay for his college education.

He is still the youngest man to win theNobel Peace Prize, which he won at the ageof 35. Martin gave the $54,000 prizemoney, as well as most of his other earn-ings, to fund the ongoing activities of theCivil Rights Movement — leaving him andhis family to live what he called, “relevantpoverty” which meant that they lived onwhat they needed and nothing more.

One of the most surprising things Ilearned was that Dr. King was not always abrilliant speaker. He only got a “C” in oneof his first high school speech classes, eventhough he would later become one of themost brilliant orators of the 20th century. Itjust goes to show that even the most bril-liant people have to start somewhere.

They need to be encouraged, taughtand challenged. They need the opportuni-ty to develop their gifts, and they need tokeep company with people who can helpthem place those gifts at the service oftheir community.

Most people do not know that MartinLuther King was not the first person askedto lead the Montgomery Bus Boycott thatwould become the initiating event of theCivil Rights Movement. The fact is that thefirst person asked to lead the movementsaid, “No,” but suggested Martin LutherKing because his brilliant oratory couldbring a compelling force to the movement.Besides that, Martin was not engaged in thepetty competitions among ministers thatsometimes leads them to serve their ownegos instead of serving the Lord.

What most people do not know orremember about Martin Luther King isthat he regarded the injustice shown toBlack people to be a symbol of the injus-tice that could be turned on any peoplewhen ignorance, greed, privilege or blind

ambition are left to rule the day. Martin believed that the founding princi-

ples of the United States required the cre-ation of what he called “the beloved com-munity” — a society that is not driven bymaking profits, but one that was built bydeveloping relationships of mutual concernand care. To that end, as Terry Messmanhas already reminded us today, this ledMartin to promote the Poor People’sCampaign which initiated an “OccupyMovement” that would bring poor peopleof all races to create a tent city inWashington, D.C., on the National Mall.

Martin wanted to put a face on thepoor, and believed this movement wouldcause legislatures and common folk tochallenge the federal budget that wasspending more money on the military thandefending human rights.

He wanted to challenge the nationalagenda that was more focused on puttinga man on the moon than sending childrento school or enabling adults to have mean-ingful work. He wanted legislators andcommon folk to know that migrant work-ers, maids, miners, tradesmen, factoryworkers, and laborers of every kind allhad the right to a living wage.

Today, Martin Luther King wouldsurely support the Homeless Bill ofRights, but more than this, he would beadvocating for communal support systemsof education, recreation, health care,

decent housing, employment, and a livingwage that would allow every person tolive with dignity, purpose, direction, andhope. He would be advocating for each ofus to do whatever we can, big or small, todream of a better world, and do whateveris necessary to make it a reality.

The Martin we didn’t know is morelike the Martin we didn’t see — a manwho spent a great deal of time in prayer, alot of time listening to the noble ambi-tions of people in pain, a lot of time learn-ing how to harness his anger into a dri-ving force that would not be silent in theface of lies, would not be still in the faceof injustice, and would not be pacified bysimply dreaming.

He knew, and we must always remem-ber, that the measure of our dignity is notour popularity, but our ongoing commit-ment to keep on trying to do the right thing!

He would want us to know that thevalue of our lives is not how often we getbeaten down by life, but how often we getup to speak the truth again.

He would want us to know that whenyou labor for the common good, youinspire others to do the same thing.

He would want us to know that thecontent of our character is not measuredby the poor choices we made in the past,but the life-giving commitments we makefor the future.

Martin King would want us to know that

we can make the world better if we keep anopen-heart, a generous spirit, and a firmresolve to wake up every morning asking,“Lord, what would you have me do?”

Today, he would want us to honor himby turning our own dreams into deeds!

Sister Eva Lumas has been a Professor ofFaith and Culture and the Director of FieldEducation at the Franciscan School ofTheology in Berkeley for the past 20 years.She has a Doctorate of Ministry degree andis the Cultural Competency Trainer at St.Mary’s Center in Oakland.

The Martin Luther King We Didn’t Know

For more than two decades, artists, nature-lovers, and home-less people have shared the Albany Bulb, a landfill peninsula onthe east shore of the San Francisco Bay. The exhibition Refugein Refuse: Homesteading Art & Culture Project includes sto-ries, video, photography, painting, sculpture, and 3D scansreflecting the intersections of urban planning, landscape archi-tecture, archaeology, art, ecology and community at the Bulb.

Refuge in Refuse opens with a reception, film screening andshort talks on Thursday, February 12. The exhibition emphasizesstorytelling and cultural works by Bulb residents, who provideinsights into a unique ecosystem on the brink of change.

In May 2013, the Albany City Council voted to transfer theBulb to the State Park system, marking the end of the high-pro-file eviction battle between Albany officials and the Bulb’shomeless residents. The residents were evicted April 25, 2014.

Over a dozen former residents who were displaced are repre-sented in Refuge in Refuse as contributing artists and collabo-rators in the artworks. A digital film screening during the open-ing event, “Where Do You Go When It Rains?” provides aglimpse of the triumph of the human spirit at the Bulb.

Street SpiritStreet Spirit is published by AmericanFriends Service Committee. The ven-dor program is run by J.C. Orton.

Editor, Layout: Terry MessmanWeb designer: Jesse Clarke

Contributors: Adam Allen, DavidBacon, Claire J. Baker, Jack Bragen,Linda Carson, Janny Castillo, CarolDenney, Judy Joy Jones, KaetheKollwitz, Sister Eva Lumas, PeterMarin, Don Santina, Amir Soltani, JanSteckel, Robert L. Terrell, Claire IsaacsWarhhaftig, George Wynn

All works copyrighted by the authors.The views expressed in Street Spirit arti-cles are those of the individual authors,not necessarily those of the AFSC.

Street Spirit welcomes submissions. Contact: Terry MessmanStreet Spirit, 65 Ninth Street,San Francisco, CA 94103E-mail: spirit@afsc.orgWeb: http://www.thestreetspirit.org

Sister Eva Lumas teaches the community at St. Mary’s Center about “The Martin We Didn’t Know.” Janny Castillo photo

Editor’s note: Sister Eva Lumas sharedthis beautiful reflection at a tribute toMartin Luther King held at St. Mary’sCenter in Oakland on January 15.

Martin believed that the founding principles of the United States required the creation ofwhat he called “the beloved community” — a society that is not driven by making profits,but one that was built by developing relationships of mutual concern and care.

Refuge in Refuse: Homesteading Art & Culture Project

SOMArts Cultural Center934 Brannan St. (between 8th & 9th)

San Francisco, CA 94103 February 12–March 14, 2015

Opening Event Thursday, February 12, 6–9pm.

Gallery hours: Tuesday–Friday, 12–7pm

and Saturday, 12–5pm

For additional events and information, visit:http://www.somarts.org/refugeinrefuse

Free admission to Exhibition

February 2015ST R E E T SP I R I T4

by day. Their country club offered thisCalifornia girl the chance to show off myPacific Ocean-honed swimming style. AsI climbed out of the pool dripping pro-fusely, 16-year-old cousin Dale and herdry, sun-basking friends cooed, “Whoa,Cuzin Cleah, yoooo sweeeumm!”

But serious menace lurked behind thisplacid scene. A black family had movedin too close to the white enclave, and theirnew home was bombed.

Julius, head of his local AmericanLegion chapter, spoke out against thebombing. He had not suggested that theneighborhoods integrate. No. He had sim-ply stated that such violence was wrong.For this stance, he was receiving dailydeath threats. My father kept this from meuntil we had left Birmingham.

Back in San Francisco, I did my best tooffer companionship to Lowell HighSchool’s single black student. Daughter ofthe distinguished, Harvard-educated min-ister of the Unitarian church, Dr. HowardThurman, she was determined to benefitfrom San Francisco’s outstanding publiccollege prep school.

The Thurman’s tiny home in theFillmore district revealed a beautiful,tasteful living style within a shabbyVictorian in one of the few neighborhoodswhere African Americans could rent.

Miss Thurman didn’t make it to mygraduation tea, that 1950’s traditionalparty hovered over by doting aunties andgrannies who poured the liquids andserved tiny treats. But another blackfriend, Sylia Baquié of Washington High,accepted. The very next day I was “disin-vited” from other Lowell girls’ teas.

Relationships between black and whitepeople in those days were tentative, hesi-tant. But my Mom managed to formsocial relations at work in the civil service— the non-discriminatory welfare depart-ment — with the brilliant and handsomeElzie Wright. Elzie provided my firstexposure to a black adult woman withwhom one could joke and enjoy intellec-tual disagreements.

At Pomona College, the only excep-tions to the all-white student body in the1950s were the occasional foreign stu-dents. such as G’nai G’nuk, a girl fromTurkey. As a remedy, the college arrangeda student exchange with Fisk Universityin Tennessee. The two black studentsfrom Fisk attempted to shrink quietly intothe body of the college masses.

Graduate school in Columbus, Ohio,provided an entirely different socialmatrix. Before I had even left SanFrancisco, the Dean of Women of theOhio State University office sent me abrochure listing sororities as specifically“Gentile,” “Jewish” and “Negro,” illus-trated in photographs.

Even the local off-campus coffee shopreflected this tripartite divide, catering toeach one of these three groups, and woe toanyone who set foot in the wrong territo-ry. Many black students originated fromborder states like Kentucky to the south.They were unaccustomed to mixing withwhite people. My only black pal was aUCLA student from Los Angeles.

During World War II, thousands ofAfrican Americans from many southernstates settled in the Bay Area. Many occu-pied homes in San Francisco’s FillmoreDistrict vacated by Japanese-Americanssent under guard to “relocation” camps“for the duration” of the war.

The Fillmore neighborhood became amecca for black culture and entertainment,

yet was considered too inappropriate forwhite girls like myself to get off the B andC streetcars running through that area.

I noticed that one never saw people ofcolor in clothing advertisements. I rea-soned that if black models were seen inads, their presence might become normaland comfortable in daily life. Thus, news-paper columnist Herb Caen made much ofthe appearance one day in Liebes’Department Store of pretty young Chinesegirls, traditionally garbed, operating ele-vators. Before this startling development.it was usual for all non-white people toremain unseen in the back of a shop.

In the spring of 1965, news of civilrights struggles erupted in the press andmedia. The nation roared with anger asthey watched people in Alabama brutallyattacked by policemen mounted on horsescharging with billy sticks and tear gas.The police used this violence againstunarmed, peaceful citizens to preventthem from marching from Selma to thestate capital in Montgomery to demon-strate for voting rights. The film “Selma”accurately portrays the struggle.

Public reaction was not unlike thatafter 9/11 in New York, with saturatedcoverage of the outrage on every channel.

In San Francisco, I joined the protestmarch from the Embarcadero to CivicCenter. It was led by the great orator andliberal Bishop James Pike of GraceCathedral. From the steps of City Hall,Bishop Pike thundered forth: “I’ve beenthere, and friends, we need more bodiesdown there — more bodies, and especial-ly more white bodies.”

So, in that instant, I knew I would goto Selma, Alabama.

My journey began in the MacedonianBaptist Church on Sutter Street in SanFrancisco. Leaders from the StudentNonviolent Coordinating Committee(SNCC) preached the philosophy of non-violence and taught us physical self-pro-tection moves. I felt a tap on my shoulder.Seated behind me sat the minister of thePentecostal church directly across thestreet. He handed me a small, red, velvetbag, and asked me to present this to some-one in Selma, “because none of us can go.Please go there for us.” Filled with nickelsand dimes earned by San Francisco’s jani-tors and chamber maids, this token was asacred trust I acquired due simply to myplace among the pews.

Our group was led by Bill Bradley, aformer army sergeant and local activist. He

organized our trip, preparing us to deal withboth disapproval and danger. The southern-accented stewardesses on Delta Airlinesscowled at us. Entering the old Atlanta airterminal, we were greeted by the whisper,“Selma, Selma, Selma,” echoing menacing-ly around the circular structure. Our can-teens, jeans and backpacks had evidentlysignaled our destination.

After staying overnight in a blackchurch and engaging in more practice innonviolence, we boarded our bus toSelma. Our five-hour drive led us along avery narrow, two-lane highway with redsoil on the shoulders and an abundance ofwet, green vegetation, bushes and trees.Passengers new to the South were startledby the reality of signs warning, “Whitesonly” and “Colored stay out.”

I recall one memorable mental snap-shot: Two farmers, a man and wife,dressed in overalls, holding a hoe and ashovel, standing side by side along theroad’s edge. A living enactment of GrantWood’s iconic painting, “AmericanGothic”? No, not those sour-facedMidwesterners, but a black couple waryof showing any expression, yet curiousabout these strangers passing by.

We arrived in Selma in the late after-noon, and were deposited directly in frontof the famous Brown Chapel of mediaattention. We got off and heard a man out-side shout, “These people, they come all thewa-a-ay from San Francisco! Sa-a-an Fra-a-a-anci-i-isco, folks. Let’s cheer them offthe bus!” We hadn’t done anything, butclearly, just our arrival raised spirits inSelma.

Inside the chapel, organizers assignedour sleeping quarters. The young menwould sleep on the chapel’s pews. Olderpeople and women were assigned to vari-ous local homes. Our hostess, Mrs. Lee,endured a week of nearly 20 folks sleepingon every available horizontal surface in hertidy one-bedroom house. However, thisgood-natured woman reveled in the excite-ment of meeting people from everywhere— Chicago, Los Angeles, Cleveland, St.Louis, Denver, Boston, New York.

To obtain food at her home, she, likeothers in Selma, relied on volunteers whotraveled miles away to purchase and deliverit. Activists were boycotting local business-es, including groceries. We scraped up allthe money we were carrying to give her.But she was most amused at the packs oftrail mix our group carried. She then pre-pared delicious southern-style food for us.

Each day began with gatherings in apacked Brown Chapel, with hundreds out-side on the sidewalk. Speakers from manygroups addressed us, leading us in shortprayers, welcoming newcomers and thank-ing all those present. Then, they summedup news of the town’s reactions to recentactivities, explained the strategies for newactions, and shared the progress on obtain-ing permission to march.

We were holding our collectivebreaths, awaiting the word to march. Butthe leaders surprised us with a new tactic.Instead of massed short marches intotown, we would spread out all over town,and “drive the cops crazy” by picking upfolks from all over Selma.

I partnered with Barbara. We weredropped off in a quiet, white residentialneighborhood. As directed, we strolledquietly up and down that block, alwaysremaining on the sidewalk. Soon we heardfrom inside those houses, the sound ofpounding footsteps, slamming doors, ring-ing phones, and voices raised, “They’recoming, they’re here.” No one came outto talk with us. The good white folk wereafraid of a couple of young women justwalking on the sidewalk.

Next, we could hear sirens screamingfrom every direction throughout town.Eventually, a police car screeched to ahalt in front of us. The police ordered usto stop walking. Then they rounded upsome black clergymen in their black suitsand white collars, who were walking onthe next block.

We asked, “Are we being arrested?” The police answered by ordering us to

get into the car. We had to sit on oneanother’s laps, a ploy designed to embar-rass all of us.

Deposited at the county jail courtyard,we joined about 60 others who already hadbeen picked up. We linked arms and startedsinging, “We shall overcome.” “Shut up orI’ll bash your heads in!” came the instantreaction. The uniformed officer hollering atus was swinging a billy club that reachedbelow his knees. He was the notoriousSheriff Jim Clark of Dallas County.

We were surprised not to be booked, butwere instead loaded into a bus and trans-ported to the black recreation center build-ing. It was in poor condition. Soon the sin-gle toilet was overflowing. The drinkingwater was questionable, the furniture andequipment broken or very overused. I rec-

The Roadto Selmafrom page 1

See The Road to Selma page 5

This March 21, 1965, AP photo shows Martin Luther King, Jr. and civil-rights marchers crossing the Edmund Pettus Bridgein Selma, Alabama, heading for the capitol in Montgomery. (Photo credit: AP file)

February 2015 ST R E E T SP I R I T 5

ognized a family friend from New Haven,who worked at Yale. A courteous gentle-man, he spread his jacket on the cementfloor and invited me to “dinner” — a shareof his single roll of Lifesavers.

Time passed. It grew dark outside. Welearned that we had given the police a lotof trouble, but the police saved money bynot booking us into the already crowdedjail. To pass the time, we sang and dancedand told stories. Teenaged girls in pinkcurlers presented their school cheers.Performers from the San Francisco come-dy troupe, “The Committee,” led us inimprovisations. Ministers prayed with us.Rumors spread that the Klan might bombus or that we’d be shot coming out. Wedecided to stay the night.

Some people felt that the men andwomen should separate. They had heardthat rumors were circulating of sexual mis-conduct among us, and wished to avoidcontributing to such nonsensical notions.So, while the men suffered on the down-stairs cement floor, I luxuriated on thegreen felt pool table in the main rec roomupstairs, using my jacket as my pillow. Thenext morning, a messenger delivered the“all clear,” and we marched triumphantlythrough town to the Brown Chapel.

But there were lighter moments, too.Barbara and I accepted the invitation ofsome local boys to dance. We drove to theoutskirts of town and a huge barn, withdirt floors, great live music, and beer.Folks seemed delighted to see us. Andbeing the first white civilians to enter, wecould honestly say we had truly integratedthe Selma Sugar Shack!

And then came the announcement:“We are marching today.”

Violence from the police had sabo-taged the first march. On March 7, 1965,more than 600 nonviolent marchers werebrutally beaten with clubs and whips byAlabama state and local police on theEdmund Pettus Bridge, during the firstattempt to march from Selma toMontgomery. This police assault becameknown as “Bloody Sunday.”

After the nationwide outpouring ofnegative publicity about the police vio-lence on Bloody Sunday, the State ofAlabama finally had been forced to allowthe march. On March 21, 1965, the marchfrom Selma to Montgomery began. Thepolice limited the marchers after the first

day to about 300. The reason given wasthe potential for accidents along the verynarrow, 50-mile highway.

As we marched over the EdmundPettus Bridge and out into the country-side, we let out a great cheer. We joked,laughed, linked arms, sang, jogged, andshared food and water. We were so alive.

Yet, there was menace in the atmos-phere. The helicopters whirring andbuzzing above us caused a breakdown inone marcher, a Vietnam vet. On the side-lines were hundreds of citizens who dis-agreed with our efforts, and were just star-ing at us. State troopers bearing rifles andboasting Confederate flags sewn ontotheir uniforms stood guard along the high-way in a decidedly unfriendly stance.

At the end of this long day, we assem-bled in a large field, but I was unable tospot the train providing transportationback to Selma. Desperate and grubby, Iapproached a fine limousine with threewell-dressed black gentlemen. To givemyself courage, I announced, “I’m ClaireIsaacs from San Francisco.” To which thegentleman in the front seat replied, “I’mRalph Bunche from New York.”

Oops! I had just hitched a ride from aNobel Peace Prize laureate. Ralph Bunchehad won the Nobel Prize in 1950, and hadbecome active in the civil rights move-ment. He had joined Dr. King in leadingthe day’s march out of Selma.

We drove to the very nice home of aDoctor and Mrs. Jackson. My presenceseemed to be causing a problem. It wastoo dangerous for me to walk or ride tomy housing by myself at night. Gently,Dr. Jackson convinced Dr. Bunche that heand his chauffeur must drive me to whereI was staying. Reluctantly he agreed.

I could see Dr. Bunche’s mood turndark as we drove through the poorest sec-tion of Selma. Asphalt streets werereplaced by dirt roads, while street lightsand greenery had disappeared from thelandscape. At the railroad crossing, wewere trapped by the rapid approach of anoncoming train. There was neither safetygate nor lighting there. I hunkered downinto the car’s floor. As two black men anda white woman in the same car, we couldhave been attacked.

When we arrived and I dismounted, Iscrewed up my nerve to ask Dr. Bunche,“Do you think there will ever be a realbrotherhood between black and white inAmerica?” His lips tight, he answered,

“I’m not interested in brotherhood. I’minterested in respect,” and drove off.

Because “brotherhood” had been theconstant theme of the Selma gathering, Iwas quite hurt. Over the years, I came tounderstand the deep meaning of his words.Would there be so many beatings andkillings of young black men by white policeif respect between races was universal?

Well, it was time to go. I could notwait for the Montgomery demonstration. Ihad a job and a family at home. Ourfarewell was a wonderful banquet of realSouthern cooking held by local residentsfor us. With an appropriate speech I pre-sented that little bag of coins to the ladyof the house, a community leader.

Upon my return home to San Francisco,I was invited by that Pentecostal church toshare my Selma experiences. Garbed insplendid, gold-trimmed, blue satin, the pas-tor introduced me as “that lady who wentto Selma for us.” The congregation, ladiesin immense, flowered hats and gentlemenin fine black suits, sat expectantly.Interrupted by intermittent shouts of“Praise the Lord,” “Say it, Sister,” and“Thank you Jesus,” I managed to getthrough my little talk. What an experiencefor a nice Jewish girl like me. Amen.

I am returning to Selma this year inMarch. The amazing coincidence is that acontact at the Selma Chamber ofCommerce put me in touch with aJawanda Jackson. During our first phoneconversation, I realized that this JawandaJackson is the daughter of the Jacksonswho had been kind to me so long ago.

What a revelation! We became immediatefriends. She has invited me to stay withher and to share in the special eventsplanned for this 50-year anniversary.These include a kick-off dinner by themayor of Selma.

As we talked, I finally understood whyDr. Bunche hesitated to leave the house andgive me that ride. Dr. Martin Luther Kingwas expected at any moment. Together theywere to dine, plan the next day’s march,and sleep over at the Jacksons. It wasindeed momentous. Now, Jawanda is turn-ing the home into an historic house. I havemuseum experience, and I am already shar-ing my advice with her.

After marching in Selma, I felt I hadchanged. It was not that I became morepolitically or socially active. I had changedinside. Despite a moral upbringing andgood liberal education, I believe it is almostimpossible to completely escape the poisonof prejudice. It permeates our society.

But gradually I realized I was less likelyto feel nervous at the approach on the streetbehind me of a young black male. I found Icould exchange serious thoughts and mem-ories, rather than platitudes, with blackwomen my age. Instead of struggling toconnect, I was connected.

No decision is truly instant. For me,the decision to go to Selma was not onlyto change and repair our democracy, butto change and grow myself.

How pleased I would be to hear fromany of the people who made the trip toSelma in 1965. Contact Claire IsaacsWahrhaftig at cniw@comcast.net

The Road to Selmafrom page 4

by Claire Isaacs Warhhaftig

Why was the 1965 march for vot-ing rights in Selma, Alabama,so important?

We Americans take voting for granted.Yet look at every decision we make insociety, from choosing the leaders of ournation, down to the smallest, most infor-mal social situations. Shall we orderChinese takeout or pizza? We nod ourheads or perhaps just sense a consensus.

Even when conducting informalaffairs, we select a temporary chair of agroup or decide the time of the next meet-ing by simply raising our hands. Thisform of selection process is far from nor-mal in many countries and cultures, buthere voting and other forms of democraticdecision-making is a default position, asnatural as walking and talking.

At the end of the American Revolutionin 1776, we needed to create a formal,legal system of democratic governance,which would also be protected by secrecy.By 1787, the U.S. Constitution had guar-anteed the vote to citizens defined as

white, male, and property-owning. After the Civil War, the Thirteenth,

Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments —known as the Reconstruction Amendments— abolished slavery, extended the rights ofdue process and equal protection to all citi-zens, and banned discrimination in votingrights on the basis of “race, color or previ-ous condition of servitude.”

In the early 20th century, women wonthe right to vote when the NineteenthAmendment was passed in 1920. In 1971,the Twenty-Sixth Amendment loweredthe voting age from 21 years to 18 years.

The federal government guaranteesthese rights, but the states, according tothe age-old division of powers, regulatevoting registration. Many former slave-holding states in the South blocked blackcitizens from voting by requiring literacytests, exacting poll taxes, and using intim-idation to exclude black voters. After onehundred years of struggle, the march inSelma culminated in the effort to over-come this injustice.

When the civil rights movementachieved its landmark victory with the

passage of the Voting Rights Act in 1965,voting increased by the tens of thousandsand some of the formerly disenfranchisedAfrican American citizens were elected topolitical office.

In direct response to the marches, thebloodshed and loss of life in Selma,President Lyndon Johnson, who had pub-licly stated his opposition to introducingany more legislation on civil rights or vot-ing rights, presented his bill to Congresson March 15, 1965, just a week followingthe Selma March.

Johnson stated, “At times history andfate meet at a single time in a single placeto shape a turning point in man’s unend-ing search for freedom. So it was atLexington and Concord. So it was a cen-tury ago at Appomattox. So it was lastweek in Selma, Alabama.

“There long-suffering men and womenpeacefully protested the denial of theirrights as Americans. Many were brutallyassaulted. One good man, a man of God,was killed.”

The Voting Rights Act also imposed“preclearance” standards by the federal

government upon many Southern states toprevent them from disenfranchisingAfrican Americans with barriers such asgerrymandering and early polls closing.(“Preclearance” requires jurisdictions toreceive federal approval before imple-menting changes to the election laws in aneffort to prevent them from barring citi-zens from voting.)

Some states now claim that preclear-ance is no longer necessary. Yet, in thisnew century, North Carolina passed lawsto eliminate early voting, same-day regis-tration and out-of-precinct voting. Thesemethods have been particularly useful toAfrican American voters who often optedto complete all steps in one day.

The Supreme Court has tended to lookfavorably on such changes. But watchfulpeople are concerned that alterations suchas these weaken the original intent of theVoting Rights Act and could lead to fur-ther infringements on the freedom to vote.

By committing ourselves to vigilancein safeguarding our voting rights, the spir-it of Selma will inspire us, and ensure thatthe March for freedom goes on.

Why Selma Was a Crucial Turning Point for Democracy

These marchers were surrounded by Montgomery policeas the Selma to Montgomery march ended in March 1965.

Photo: Alabama Departmentof Archives and History

February 2015ST R E E T SP I R I T6

by Don Santina

It’s dark not long after five o’clockthese winter days and the tempera-ture drops quickly. In downtownOakland, I watch the office buildings

disgorge their daily inhabitants and withtheir coats wrapped tightly around them,they scurry toward parking lots, bus stopsand BART stations on their way home toresidences in the city or out in the suburbsof Orinda and Danville.

Over in the west side of town, gleanershustle toward the recycling center onPeralta which will pay them cash for theircollected goods. They push and pull theirrusty supermarket carts filled with bottles,cans and odd goods toward the buildingbefore the steel rollup door rumbles downand ends that day’s possibility of cashtransactions.

“Jeez, I thought it was Saturday,”Harry said to me on a Friday morning. “Ihave to move faster cause they close earli-er on Saturday.”

Harry is a skinny man in his early 50swho has lung problems. His SSI paymentsdo not meet his needs, so he’s on the streetdaily collecting whatever can be redeemedat the recycling center. He wears one knitglove and one leather glove because that’sall they had in the free clothes bin at a near-by church. By the late afternoon he willhave covered quite a few miles on foot andthen push his cart down to Peralta for thepayoff: $1.59 a pound for cans, 10 and one-half cents a pound for glass.

“A lot of folks in the neighborhoodknow me and leave their stuff out for me,but it’s still hard. Now it’s dark in themorning and the afternoon,” he laughed.One of his best “clients” is a bar that leavesempty beer bottles out in the back alley.

The Minh family used to work theOakland hills but they’ve disappeared.During the night before garbage collectionday, the middle-aged husband-and-wifeteam hiked up and down the steep streets,picking into the recycling bins on thesidewalks mainly for aluminum cans.

By dawn they carried full garbage bagsof cans suspended over their shoulders onbamboo poles down to Broadway. Uponfinding a level concrete area, theysquashed the cans flat with their feet andwalked the more manageable burden to abuyer five miles away.

Apparently the gentry in the hills

became overheated about the threat of IDtheft, so private patrols and idle cops ranthe Minhs and others like them out ofthose neighborhoods.

Throughout the history of agriculture,gleaners were allowed to pick up the left-overs in a field that had already been har-vested. In many cases, the gleaners werewomen, scrambling to keep their familiesfed in societies where the balance ofpower and land ownership was held byforce by a small privileged few.

One of the shortest books in whatChristians refer to as the Old Testament isthe story of Ruth, a gleaner. Ruth was animpoverished widow who became a gleanerto survive, “so she gleaned in the field untileven and beat out that she had gleaned ...and she took it up and went into the city.”

In the New Testament, Jesus of Nazarethand his followers also practiced gleaning intheir travels. Mark the evangelist wrote thatJesus “went through the corn fields on

Sabbath day; and his disciples began, asthey went, to pluck the ears of corn.” Whenaccused by the Pharisees of violating thelaw, Jesus replied, “have ye never readwhat David did when he was hungered, he,and they that were with him?”

Li-Hua is an ancient little woman whoworks the parking lots of the fast foodoutlets, restaurants and grocery storesaround Lake Merritt. Her oversize glovesalmost reach to her elbows, and she pullsbehind her one of those folding shoppingcarts that other people take to the market.She wears a miner’s light on her beaniewhich provides her an advantage in dis-covering aluminum treasures before day-light and other gleaners arrive.

Robert is a Gulf War veteran who getsaround on an old one-speed bike. Roberthas a sense of style and design. He built atrailer onto the bike to carry the goods hecollects around the Kaiser Hospital neigh-borhood and gas stations within a one-

mile radius. Robert was able to score afew cans of spray paint so he could painthis rig black and gold. It looks good.

“I worry about that judge, man,”Gregory told me. “You tell him I’m stay-ing clean.”

I read somewhere that Jamie Dimond,the head man of JPMorganChase, madeover $9,000 an hour during the time hiscompany committed numerous financialcrimes, including stealing people’s homesand wrecking the economy.

However, today, the talking heads onnetwork and cable television proclaim thatthe “economy is back,” and stronger thanever. The stock market continues toclimb; business is booming.

On a good day, Robert the gleanermakes about eight dollars.

Don Santina can be reached atlindey89@aol.com. His enovel, A Prize forAll Saints, features a one-armed veteran suf-fering from PTSD.

Working Hard in America’s Twilight Economy

This hardworking couple pick up a huge amount of recycled material on their travels through the East Bay. Amir Soltani photo

by Lynda Carson

Oakland — On January 20, President Barack Obamagave the State of the Union address and focused mainlyon the middle class, while apparently abandoning theneeds of the poor. With one in five children currentlyneeding food stamps to survive in America, the greatrecession is far from over, and the federal minimumwage needs to increase to become a living-wage allacross the nation.

In early February, the Obama administration is expectedto submit its 2016 federal budget to Congress and the stageis being set for the Democrats and Republicans to jointogether again for another attack on the safety net andSocial Security, in the name of sequestration and austerity.This ongoing attack on the poor is happening when mil-lions of children in our country are going hungry.

According to the U.S. Census Bureau’s annualFamilies and Living Arrangements report released onJanuary 28, 2015, the number of children receiving foodstamps remains higher than it was before the so-calledgreat recession in 2007.

The rate of children living with married parents whoreceive food stamps has doubled since 2007. During2014, an estimated 16 million children, or about one infive, received food stamps compared with the roughly 9million children, or one in eight, that received food stampassistance before the so-called great recession began.

During 2013, the average monthly food stamp benefit

for one individual in California was $151.44. And during2011, in California’s 13th Congressional District,Congresswoman Barbara Lee’s district, 11,899 householdsreceived food stamps, including 16 percent of householdswith one or more people 60 years or older, and 76.8 percentof households with children under 18. Around 46.6 percentof the households income was below the poverty level,with the median income around $27,441.

The latest report also reveals that of the 73.7 millionchildren in the United States, 10 percent live with agrandparent (7.4 million), 79 percent live with at leastone sibling (58.5 million), 15 percent have a stay-at-home mother (10.8 million), and 0.6 percent have a stay-at-home father (420,00). At least 38 percent of the chil-dren under 18 have at least one foreign-born parent (28.3million). Additionally, the share of children who livewith one parent only has tripled since 1960, from 9 per-cent to 27 percent.

Less than half (48 percent) of households today aremarried couples, compared to 76 percent that were mar-ried in 1940. In 2014, the median age men got marriedwas 29, and the median age for women was 27, com-pared to age 24 for men in 1947, and age 21 for womenthat same year. Records also reveal that presently 36 per-cent of men age 30 to 34 have never been married, andthat, on average, married couples have more childrenthan either single mothers or fathers.

Lynda Carson may be reached at tenantsrule@yahoo.com

Poor Economy Leaves One in Five Children Needing Food Stamps

Art by Kaethe Kollwitz Lithograph, 1924

Jamie Dimond, the head man of JPMorganChase, made over $9,000 an hour during the time his company committed numerous financial crimes, including stealing people’s homes and wrecking the economy. On a good day, Robert thegleaner makes about eight dollars.

February 2015 ST R E E T SP I R I T 7

they were there.” King felt that we neededto focus more on addressing the needs ofthe poor. She added, “And that’s what weare doing today.”

“You can’t criminalize people forbeing people. It’s a human dignity thing!”said Gwen Austin, community organizerfrom Building Opportunities for Self-Sufficiency, a WRAP member organiza-tion. “We are behind this (the Right toRest Bill) 1000 percent!”

Youth are often harassed and trauma-tized on the streets. Shira Noel, an orga-nizer from the Homeless Youth Alliancein San Francisco, described the drop-incenter they had created to provide youth arefuge from the streets. “It was a space forkids by the kids,” she explained. But thisbadly needed refuge for low-incomeyouth met an ill-fated end.

“After 12 years, in 2013,” Noel said,“we closed the doors of our drop-in cen-ter, not because we had no money, butbecause the building owners saw a trendin San Francisco. They went after a differ-ent class of tenants with more money.”

Noel also shared that many of theyoung people who end up on the streetsare escaping abusive or neglectful homes,while others have been abandoned. Astartling statistic is that almost half of ourstreet youth identify as LGBT.

“Gentrification and anti-homeless lawsmake their survival a lot tougher,” Noelsaid. “Despite it all, they are still here —and rightfully so.”

After being turned down by landlords38 times, the street youth drop-in center isstill looking for a home. At one point,they had set up services on the sidewalkin front of their old building to help theyouth.

Woods Ervin of the TGI JusticeProject in San Francisco, shared his expe-riences. “We struggle with access torestrooms and shelters,” he said. “We reg-ularly experience criminalization on thestreets by police. Fighting for the Right toRest bill will give us more access tothings we need and deserve — the abilityto walk down the street without harass-ment, to have housing that works for us

and to not be locked up or harmed bypolice.”

Anti-homeless laws result in increasedinstances of unnecessary incarceration.Nicole Deane from Critical Resistancespoke directly to this issue: “Most of thefolks that are locked up in San Franciscojails are pre-trial. They are there becausethey cannot afford bail, which means thecity locks up people because they arepoor.”

According to Eric Ares, an activistwith Los Angeles Community ActionNetwork, “Recent court rulings haveshown that these types of laws are notonly immoral and unjust, but illegal. Theydo not stop crime, but rather punish peo-ple for being poor and homeless.” Areswent on to say, “Cities are not going toticket their way out of homelessness.Housing is the only solution.”

Paul Boden, the final speaker at therally, roused the crowd as he shared thecentral theme of the Right to Rest cam-paign. “You (speaking to city officials)will not continue to criminalize poor peo-ple, day laborers, people of color, peoplethat live in SRO hotels that hang out onthe sidewalks in front of their own home!Houseless people! We have campaignsrunning in four states to stop criminaliz-ing: Sitting! Standing! Eating! Sleeping!And who the hell doesn’t sit, stand, eatand sleep!! The people writing these lawsdo that, the people enforcing these lawsdo that!”

WRAP’s Right to Rest Days of Actionhave taken place in San Francisco,Oakland, Portland, Los Angeles,Sacramento, Chico and other cities.WRAP stands in solidarity with the BlackLives Matter movement and all groupsfighting unjust, violent law enforcement.

The movement has just begun.

Janny Castillo is the Hope and JusticeCoordinator at St. Mary’s Center in Oakland.

Contact: jcastillo@stmaryscenter.org. Visitthe website at www.stmaryscenter.org

Story by Janny Castillo

Lucy is 76 years old, and she is waypast tired. Years of living on thestreets have taken an irreparable

toll on her. She slowly walks down abusy downtown street in San Francisco.

With three plastic bags in one hand, twoin the other, she wobbles as she walks, con-centrating on shifting her weight to lessenthe pain in her arthritic knees.

Lucy has a large, stained, duffel bagswung over her shoulder filled with,among other precious things, her medica-tions and her paperwork on her SocialSecurity case. Can’t go anywhere withoutthat, no way.

Head bent and shoulders hunched, shetries to stay out of the way of people

walking around her. With no money, shewalks where she needs to go. Today shewalks 15 long blocks from the alley whereshe felt safe enough to sleep in last night.

Lucy was making her way to St.Anthony’s to eat and to ask a staff personto call Social Security again. The pain inher back and legs is excruciating. Sheneeds to sit down and take a break soon.

She walks by several blocks of people-filled benches and bus shelters. She can’tgo any further, so she lowers herself to sitdown on the sidewalk in front of a coffeeshop. She whispers softly to herself, “Justfor a minute … just for a minute.”

After two minutes, her head slips downonto her shoulder as she falls into anexhausted sleep.

Lucy is abruptly awakened by a young

man in a police uniform, poking at herand telling her she can’t sit here, tellingher to move on.

Frightened, she struggles to apologize.“Sorry, sorry,” she says. Fighting thepain in her knees and a sense of deep

shame, she pulls herself up to her feet. She picks up her bags, slings the heavy

duffel bag over her shoulder and contin-ues to walk down the street of a city thatpays attention to her only when they donot want to see her.

A Right Delayed Is a Right Denied: The Right to Rest

from page 1

Speakers at the Right to Rest rally called for an end to police harass-ment of homeless people and youth forced to live on the streets.

Janny Castillophoto

Paul Boden called on city officials to stop criminalizing poor andhomeless people for sitting, standing, eating and sleeping.

Janny Castillophoto

“A right delayed is a right denied.” — Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Janny Castillo photo

Struggling on the StreetsWithout the Right to Rest

“You can’t criminalizepeople for being peo-ple. It’s a human dig-nity thing!”

— Gwen Austin, BOSS

Right to Rest CampaignEngage, Volunteer, Donate.

See www.wraphome.org

To get involved in the Movementto pass the California Right to RestBill, contact Jonathan Lopez of theWestern Regional Advocacy Project.

Phone: 415-621-2533. Email: wrap@wraphome.org

February 2015ST R E E T SP I R I T8

Science fiction by Jack Bragen

Experts had invented yet anothernew medication, and they predictedthat this could be “the medication

of medications” -- something that wouldmake psychiatric patients 100 percentmanageable. They dubbed it the U Drug.

Its chemical name was so long as to benearly unpronounceable, and they had notyet arrived at a good commercial namesuitable for such a spectacular drug.

The U Drug still needed to be tested.Yet it proved to be next to impossible tofind volunteers who would willinglyallow themselves to be tested on this drug.It had a particular side-effect that was soundesirable that no one would voluntarilytake the U Drug.

The company knew about this side-effect but believed psychiatrists would pre-scribe it anyway, at least to those psychi-atric clients who regularly made trouble.

Enter Jonathan Baxter, a 25-year-oldman who was assigned to the study.Baxter had gone off his medications sev-eral times and had been written up in hismedical records as being uncooperative,"intolerable" and argumentative.

Mental health workers had grown tiredof arguing with him. So they put Baxteron the U Drug. And they somehow failedto inform Baxter of this fact.

One morning, as Jonathan was eating

breakfast, his mother Dorothy sat acrossfrom him, and he saw the look on her face.

"Johnny!" cried his mother. "Oh no!Oh God, no! Something is wrong!"

Jonathan replied, "Don't worry about it,mom, everything's fine." He was unper-turbed.

Jonathan's mother said, "No! Somethingis very wrong with you. Go in the bathroomand look at yourself in the mirror!"

At that point, Baxter obediently stoodup from his chair and walked into thebathroom. He looked at himself in themirror and realized that he was badly dis-figured. His facial disfigurement wasnearly indescribable, and it was clear whyhis mother had become so distressed.

"Don't worry about it, mom," he saidthrough the open door of the bathroom.

He wasn't upset at all, even thoughobviously something horrible was hap-pening to him.

"Son, why aren't you upset?""I don't know why, mom, I'm just not."

He paused. "Why am I not upset?" hewondered.

In the three weeks prior to this inci-dent, Jonathan’s argumentativeness hadevaporated, and his mother as well as hiscounselors were impressed by theprogress he was making.

"I'm calling the hospital," saidJonathan's mother.

"Don't bother," said the young, disfig-ured man. "I'm okay with it," he said.

A New Wonder Drugfor a Brave New WorldHis mother said, “Something is very wrong with you. Goin the bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror!"

Art by MIRKO

The new drug could make psychiatricpatients fully manageable — at a cost.

by Jack Bragen

Having been involved in the outpa-tient mental health treatment sys-tem for more than 30 years, I have

had a chance to observe the outcomes of anumber of people over a period ofdecades. I have seen a troubling pattern ofshortened lives, ruined health and dam-aged and disabled minds.

For someone who begins experiencingmental health issues in his or her youngadulthood, employment is like the HolyGrail. However, at some point in a men-tally disabled person's progression, it islikely that employment efforts will go outthe window.

Persons diagnosed with mental illness-es have the cards stacked against them ifthey would like to work and make a liv-ing, as they see other, unimpaired peopledoing. Managers of companies have a ten-dency not to hire a mentally ill personunless it is for a job emptying the trash.

Even the Americans with DisabilitiesAct may not afford much protection. I oncesaw on a business website that ADA caseswhere there is mental illness involved aregenerally dismissed. Thus, there is no legalmandate for hiring someone with mentalhealth issues. Most employers are notgoing to take a chance on us.

Furthermore, a college education isgenerally a prerequisite for decent jobs orcareers. Since people with mental illnessmay become ill in their late teens or earlytwenties, they often will be unable tocomplete their college education.

The serious side-effects of medicationsare another factor mentally ill people areup against. The effects of medication overa period of years or even decades willoften leave a person unable to work in aphysical job.

Thus, in a mentally ill person's life, at

some point they may have to throw in thetowel concerning employment. And thenthey are forced to live on a fixed income,and are likely to be forced to live in aninstitutional-type housing situation.

And yet, at the same time, individuals,as well as society as a whole, have a ten-dency to punish us for not having a job.Examples of this include the social dis-crimination we experience. Another

example includes the commonly heldexpectation that we remain poor.

A counselor once commented on mynice shirt, implicitly questioning where Igot the money for it. Another person in aposition of authority asked me how I wasable to afford cigarettes. In reality, myparents and my wife’s parents help uswith some of our expenses which are notrelated to food and shelter. In addition, Iam responsible with the meager amountof money I have.

But I had to ask myself what othergroup of people in our society would bequestioned so closely about possessing ashirt or cigarettes.

PEOPLE SEEM TO DISAPPEAR

I have seen my mentally ill peers dete-riorate over time. In some instances, theyseem to disappear and never return. Thisis analogous to becoming an "unperson"in George Orwell's novel, 1984.

In other instances, when I’ve caught aglimpse of someone 10 or 20 years after Ifirst saw that person, I often find to myhorror that such a person has become crip-pled or badly deteriorated physically —

usually due to their medication, or due toother harsh factors that a mentally ill per-son has to undergo.

In my case, I have needed to put out alot of effort against the tendency to loseground both physically and mentally. Ihave developed severe agoraphobia, Ihave gained an unhealthy amount ofweight, and I am oversensitive to theeffects of stress. Still, in my case, I am

better off than a number of people withmental illness, even though I continue tohave a lot of problems.

POOR HOUSING AND POOR HEALTH

Due to cuts in benefits, mentally illpeople must often live under somewhatharsh conditions in our older age. We mayonly be able to afford the most undesir-able of housing situations.

We are likely to have to get by withouta car. Since we are forced to rely on thebus system for our daily transportation,we must be prepared to withstand theeffects of the weather because, at least inContra Costa County, wait times for busesare frequently an hour or longer.

I have seen the effects on people ofdrug-induced diabetes over time.Frequently, such a person must wear adressing on their feet and cannot wearregular shoes. They may appear obviouslyunhealthy, may have lost a number ofteeth, and may have trouble performingeven the simplest of tasks due to theirphysical impairment.

Many people with mental illness whomay have once had a normal or even

above-average I.Q. have lost a lot ofground mentally. Mental health treatmentpractitioners with their condescensiontend to automatically assume that they arementally superior to those they treat.

This perception becomes propheticwhen, due to the effects of the illness andthe medication, a mentally ill person mayeventually become as mentally impaired astreatment practitioners assume we are. Plus,if practitioners are able to convince us thatwe are unintelligent, the mind tends to fol-low this rule and mental impairment isinduced by power of suggestion.

The mental health treatment systemhas a long history of subjecting mentalhealth consumers to hazardous treatmentssuch as electroshock therapy and antipsy-chotic drugs that have extremely damag-ing long-term effects on the mind andbody. Every few years, powerful new neu-roleptic drugs are prescribed before thefull range of their mind-damaging sideeffects are fully known.

POWERFUL DRUG LOBBIES

In many cases, the powerful corporatelobbying efforts of psychiatric drug com-panies have convinced the medical estab-lishment and the FDA to look the otherway while they essentially experiment onmentally disabled people without ourknowledge or consent. This is the moralequivalent of what was done with theTuskegee airmen.

When people are diagnosed with men-tal illness, whether it has some basis infact or not, they are branded for a lifetimeof misery — and sometimes it is a shortlifetime. Despite mental health practition-ers and others insisting that we can't doanything, it is important that we remaindetermined to do something in our livesthat serves our own best interests, andgives us a better chance to survive.

Rx for Shortened Lives, Ruined Health, Damaged Minds

I have seen my mentally ill peers deteriorate over time. In someinstances, they seem to disappear and never return. This isanalogous to becoming an “unperson” in George Orwell's 1984.

February 2015 ST R E E T SP I R I T 9

Short story by Jack Bragen

“When I die, or after I die, I want tolook back at my life and see that I ate thatcookie, I drank that vodka, I made love tothat woman. I did not shy away from liv-ing because of the petty fear that deathmight come sooner. Yes, I got into a fist-fight with that bully, and it doesn’t matterso much that I was knocked down — atleast I took him on. I didn’t run like acoward. Yes, I did do things wrong, I didplenty wrong. But I lived, man, I lived.”

And at that, the aged man’s speakingquickly degenerated into drunken babble.In a little while, he was asleep in hisbedroll. I zipped his sleeping bag a bitsnugger and I adjusted his pathetic,smelly, little pillow that had been found ina dumpster somewhere.

I took a swig from the nearly emptiedbottle of liquor we’d been sharing, andsoon I too was asleep: asleep among theraccoons, opossums, owls and skunks thatruled the night. I had in the back of mymind the ever-present fear that we wouldbe found by a park ranger.

I awoke at first light and shivered in thefrigid wind. My belly told me that I neededto go and find food. I checked on Sal tomake sure he was okay. He mumbled a fewwords in his sleep and adjusted his positionon the hard ground that was hardly softenedby his worn-out sleeping bag.

I draped my blanket on top of him andwalked to a spot ten meters away that wehad designated for urinating. In the dis-tance I could hear the traffic speeding onthe interstate freeway. We were out in themiddle of nowhere, and it would be veryhard to find any kind of food. We had fled

town when cops there had repeatedly bul-lied and attacked us. In this spot we wouldprobably be left alone, but where was thefood going to come from?

The nearest town was a six-mile walk,but I would have to go there. Attemptingto kill some animal and cook it for foodwasn’t a practicable idea — we had noweapons for hunting or facilities for pro-cessing meat.

I reached town after a two-hour walk. Ihad left a note for Sal not to worry and say-ing I was coming back with food. The firstthing I saw was a Wendy’s. My wallet hadID but was devoid of cash. I approached alarge man who was just leaving the restau-rant with a giant bag of hamburgers.

“Please sir, if you could spare a dol-lar...” I begged. The man looked at mewith disgust and continued on his way. Iasked another, and finally scored enoughto buy two hamburgers. I bought my foodand started on the way back so that Icould give Sal some breakfast. At least Ihadn’t had to resort to digging in the trashcan for someone’s discarded scraps.

Suddenly, an instinct told me I ought tolook over my shoulder. I caught a glimpseof an approaching patrol car at a distance,and I hoped he hadn’t spotted me. I brokeinto a run and located some shrubbery tohide behind.

It had been a shock to become home-less. I had come from a good family andhad been classically educated. And theneverything fell apart when I was accusedof something I didn’t do. In my trial, Iwas acquitted, but everyone in my smalltown was convinced of my guilt. Andthen, my family turned their backs on me.

When I began to pack up and move, a

number of things had gone wrong at once.A criminal had gotten my account num-bers and had emptied all of my bankaccounts. I tried to go to the police andthey wouldn’t raise a finger to help. Mybank did not acknowledge that it wasn’t Iwho had taken the money.

With no money and no means of sup-port, survival was suddenly something Icouldn’t take for granted. I resorted tobegging by the side of the road. The knotin my stomach and the consciousness ofdoom weighed heavily upon me, and I feltlike it was the end of the world. And itwas, as far as I was concerned.

I got back to the encampment and sawthat Sal was attempting to start a camp-fire. With no lighter fluid and no matches,starting a fire would be an impossiblefeat, unless you had the survival ability ofa Neanderthal or an elite soldier.

Sal had done certain things correctly,such as isolating the fire area with rocks.He was trying to get some tiny sticks lit

up, and this might have worked had therenot been a strong cold wind.

I handed Sal one of the two hamburg-ers, and we both feasted on the food for afew minutes. The burger barely made adent in my hunger, as I had barely eatenin the preceding week.

And then, Sal asked me, “What next?” I replied that I did not know. Another cold night was approaching.

Sal and I had to share a sleeping bag tofend off some of the cold. I could hearcoyotes howling in the distance, and therustling of some nighttime creature near-by. I looked up and I saw the Milky Way.

I wondered if there were homeless peo-ple like me and Sal on planets that circledthose stars. At that moment, I wished thatI could will myself to go to some otherplanet, one that had kinder people livingon it and where there was always enoughto eat. Abruptly I realized Sal was awake.

“I can take you there,” said Sal. “I amone of them.”

Lost and HomelessAmong the Stars

I looked up and saw the Milky Way. I wondered if therewere homeless people on planets that circled those stars. Iwished I could go to some other planet, one with kinderpeople living on it, where there was always enough to eat.

The knot in my stomach and the consciousness of doom weighed heavily upon me,and I felt like it was the end of the world. I wished I could go to some other planet.

Commentary by Jack Bragen

The Nazis were loyal to their leaderand they adored him and his vision.Those who didn’t love Adolf Hitler

and his cause were terrified into silence.

It was suicide to speak out against theNazi regime. Books were put into pilesand set on fire. The government began toround up Jews, disabled people, gay peo-ple, people of different races and national-ities (non-Aryans in general), and any dis-senters who had spoken out against theircause. It was a reign of terror.

But everyone knows all of this, exceptperhaps the Holocaust deniers, who assertthat it never happened and that it was amass hallucination. Recently, the sign atthe entrance gate of Dachau concentrationcamp, which translated said, “Work WillSet You Free,” was stolen. As more of theeyewitnesses of the Holocaust are dyingfrom old age, the deniers apparentlywould like to eliminate the evidence.

Now, in the United States, we havepolice forces and courts who have formedtheir own agreement as to how things willrun. Police have killed law-abiding citi-zens who have given no provocation. Thecourts are participants in this slaughter byvirtue of inaction. The courts often have,in effect, given their seal of approval forpolice to kill citizens indiscriminately.

I have met people who worship authori-ty. In their view, the police can do nowrong and those in authority can do nowrong. They think they have “nothing tohide” and do not object to being spied uponand controlled by this godly authority.

A strategy employed by our govern-ment, in cahoots with the mass media, isto maintain focus on enemies external tothe United States. This distracts manywho might be actively opposing ourincreasing oppression at home.

Perhaps one reason the courts and juriesrefuse to convict officers and sentence themto prison is that they would be hard to pro-tect if they are jailed. Or, perhaps, the dis-trict attorneys and others in authority arewary of angering the police, since they relyso heavily on police to enact their ordersand to keep them protected.

Yet, these explanations are not goodenough, since our Constitution is sup-posed to ensure equal protection under thelaw. It seems that police and the courts nolonger care about following the laws theyare entrusted to enforce. Instead they areattempting to become a dictating force.

Too often, the police attempt to rulethrough fear. An overwhelming fear ofcrime and social disorder, and an unthink-ing desire for law and order, were exploitedby the Nazis when they came into power.However, there are variations on the situa-

tion in present-day America and Germanyin the 1930s, especially since the Americanmiddle class is accustomed to liberty and tonot living in fear of our government.

My prediction is that things willbecome gradually more oppressive. Therewill likely not be an abrupt point wherethis repression will go far beyond what isacceptable, because the idea of those inpower is to slip bits and pieces past us inthe absence of one alarming violation offreedom or civil rights that would makepeople take notice and stand up.

The level of government-induced fearis gradually being raised. When things aredone in bits and pieces over a longer time-frame, it prevents general alarm from tak-ing hold — yet before we know it, wecould be facing a police state.

Meanwhile, we are at the stage wherepolice are being elevated above the law,and the courts have given them license tokill at whatever point they wish.

It frighteningly appears as thoughpolice collectively have formed their ownbrotherhood of some kind, in which theydo not have to obey the laws that theywere originally hired to enforce.

I have no intention of insulting or derid-ing police in general. If we didn’t havethem, we would be worse off. I have beenhelped by police many times in my life.

However, I have also seen the bad side

of police. It can be terrifying to deal withan armed man or woman who has at his orher discretion the option of putting us inprison, or who could even beat or shoot uson the spot. If a person with that level ofauthority over us begins to violate thelaws that they are sworn to uphold, wehave a serious problem on our hands.

Clashes are increasingly taking placebetween police and demonstrators, and wehave seen too many shootings by police ofthe innocent. The fact that some enragedcitizens are attacking police doesn’t helpmatters. This is only going to make tensionsescalate, and police will become moreextreme in their methodology. This in turnwill only make more people angry at them.

When police stop obeying mayors,government officials, judges or even thepresident, then, at that point, we are look-ing at the end of democracy in its presentform. The country could become a policestate, or become degraded into chaos.

When citizens are fed up with errantpolice behavior to the extent that petitionsare circulated for a new police reform act,we could see a change in how people aretreated. We need to make the law enforce-ment branch of government accountable tocitizens and to the law. At present, thereappears to be little or no accountability.This is a hole in our Constitution, and in ourdemocracy, that must be patched.

Defending Our Freedom from Police State Abuses

February 2015ST R E E T SP I R I T10

Short story by George Wynn

In the garage, standing before his easel,70-year-old Zane, with a full head ofblond hair, paints the spaces on the

canvas as slowly as he can and withmeticulous care. He prefers the reds andblacks of the German expressionists.

It’s important to him to get the sharpface just right. The portrait is almost fin-ished, and reveals a black-skinned, lean,short man with big, bulging, penetratingeyes, a wide nose, big lips and sharplychiseled cheeks and chin — the kind offace that leads you to muse about what itwould be to live inside his head.

The sharp face on the canvas staresback at him with a look as intense asZane’s sense of loss.

Just before he is about to apply the fin-ishing touches at midnight, Zane’s easelhits the ground and he falls asleep on hiswide stool. He has visions of bats comingout of his skull, like the visionary Spanishpainter Francisco Goya.

His medium-size garage has an almos tnew, blue mattress, a stained pillow, twotattered crimson blankets and two oldchairs, one stacked with art books fromTitian to Pollack. The garage is equippedwith an old furnace, water heater, rustypipes, and a broken beam and cracks inthe ground from the Loma Prieta earth-quake of 1989, with a mouse or two (orthree or four) for company.

Zane sometimes feels like the protago-nist living underground in Ralph Ellison’snovel, Invisible Man.

LASTING IMAGES OF THE WAR

Upon waking, Zane, his cheeks and chincovered with stubble, rubs his eyes overand over. He’s tired from all the heavydream images night after night. Histhoughts return again and again to his friendXavier: It seems like yesterday forever.

His platoon gets lost in no man’s land,walking the animal trails where the kidsgo to avoid the booby traps, but there areno kids around. Out of the blue come theN.V.R. (North Vietnamese Regulars).They’re not V.C. They don’t run. And it’sa force twice as large as Zane’s platoon oftwelve.

Outnumbered, his platoon is on thedefensive. In the first minutes as theyexchange gunfire, Zane is shot in thechest. In a flash, Xavier shields Zane’sblood-streaked body with his own, only tohave a bullet explode in his head.

Zane recovers in a hospital in thePhilippines, but ever afterwards, the guiltnever leaves him — as well as the recurringdream of the white-haired, bearded prophetdenouncing him: “That bullet had yourname on it.” His life is changed forever.

THE BEST OF FRIENDS

In the Army, he and Xavier became thebest of friends. Ironically, both men wereworking-class guys from Milwaukee who’dnever known each other back home. Xavierused to joke that people kept telling him helooked like the spitting image of the

renowned novelist James Baldwin. He recounted, “One day I was on a bus

and it stopped in front of Marquette onWisconsin Avenue and a student sat downnext to me and asked me if I was JamesBaldwin. I said yes and he asked for myautograph. I signed ‘James Baldwin’ tohis elation and firm handshake.”

Xavier laughed at the memory, then hepulled out a newspaper photo of Baldwinand Zane was amazed at the resemblance.

When Zane returned stateside he hadplanned to visit Xavier’s family on theNorth Side and relate the circumstances oftheir son’s death, but he couldn’t get him-self to face them. He was ashamed to bealive instead of their son.

STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

America was now distant to him. Helived in the Vietnam of his mind where heoccupied a space akin to the title of one ofJames Baldwin’s novels: Another Country.

Everything had changed. He used to beclose to his father, Peter, a printer. Therewere only the two of them. His mother,Irene, had died of tuberculosis when Zanewas three. He had only vague memoriesof her. But it was she, his father told him,who named him Zane because of hisfather’s love since childhood for the west-ern author Zane Grey, especially hisRiders of the Purple Sage which Peterwould still read over and over.

Seeing his father smack his Bazookabubble gum while immersed in his read-ing inspired Zane to read, beginning withhis love for fairy tales, then fiction andhistory. But he identified, not with thebookish types, but the shop guys, andshop classes were his favorites.

In high school, Zane sported a blackleather jacket and a D.A. (Duck’s Ass)hair style and drove a used candy-apple-red ‘57 Chevy that he bought with themoney he earned as a page at the MainLibrary on Wisconsin Avenue.

He’d lost the swagger and self confi-dence he had as a teen. He used to be thelife of the party, playing rock and rollstandards on acoustic guitar. Now that hewas back from the war, there were still dayswhen he liked to talk sports with his fatheror tune into a ballgame. The Brewers werethe new baseball team in Beer Town butZane longed for the old hometownMilwaukee Braves and his favorite player,“Hammering” Henry Aaron.

DREAMS AND DEPRESSION

There were also those gloomy days afterwork in the Miller Beer brewery when hewent straight to his room, turned off thelights, threw himself on the bed and fellasleep till morning. Zane was depressed.He’d learned about death and nothingness.He’d become philosophical without everreading a single book on philosophy.

There were nights he was consumed bymemories and wanted to block the wholeworld out and find relief from the pressurein his head. One night, he had a dream ofseeing his own name on the casualty list.

Upon waking, he stared into the mirror,shouting, “What the hell am I doinghere?” and slammed his fist repeatedlyinto the bloodied, cracked mirror.

Peter drove him to the emergencyroom. Zane required lots of stitches in hishand and would have permanent scarring.A week later he left for the West Coast.He’d toughed it out in Milwaukee for sev-eral years but the Wolfean phrase, “Youcan’t go home again” eventually provedtrue for Zane.

Upon arriving in San Francisco, herented a cheap room in a hotel onColumbus Avenue in North Beach. Hefound himself with greased hands andoveralls, working as a mechanic until thegarage went under.

He learned he could earn money bytaking jobs others didn’t want, like tearingtile off floors of rundown houses beingremodeled with a sledgehammer andcoming home with swollen and numbveins in his forearms. After that tempo-rary job ended, he was the only Anglo ona Mexican roofing crew. Then he landed ajob as a baggage handler at the airport.

He still took no pleasure in life, butslowly he became friendly with women.But each time the relationship becameserious, he would say, “You don’t want tomarry me.” He didn’t want to load hisdemons onto another human being.

When Zane suddenly got the news thathis father had died of a coronary, he wascrushed, and felt numb the entire flightback to Milwaukee for the funeral. Whenhis father died, he felt lonely and vulnera-ble — no mother, no father, no siblings.

Zane missed the old man terribly. Heremembered the good old days watchingthe Packers on T.V. with him on Sundaysbefore he joined the service. He recalledtheir fishing trips up north on Saturdays.

Yet Zane had been like a stranger toPeter after he came home from the war.His father hadn’t deserved that. Theywere different. His father was a calm manwho didn’t need to raise his voice to befirm, while Zane had changed from ahappy-go-lucky kid to a temperamentalex-vet with on-and-off mood swings.

LOCKED UP ON A 5150Now the corner bar became his refuge:

a game of darts and then way too manywhiskies. His spirits were low. Zane wastardy and absent once too often and final-ly got fired from his airport job.

One late night, the cops stopped Zane ashe was walking and shaking his fist in themiddle of heavy traffic on Broadway nearCity Lights Books. He started grumbling,saying he was tired of it all and would bebetter off doing himself in. They took himto a hospital where he was committed to astate hospital on a 5150, a 72-hour suicidehold, which turned out to be five daysbecause weekends didn’t count.

A spectacled science-fiction buff in thenext bed cautioned him on the first day:“A word to the wise. Don’t make troubleor they’ll give you shock treatment.”

Semi-zonked on 700 mg of Thorazine,Zane slept a lot and watched the blackpatients shoot pool and the white inmatessing along to British rock groups. Therewere 30 rows of beds horizontally lined up,five rows deep on each side of the men’shall, as well as the women’s hall.

This is truly barracks living, thoughtZane, except there were chains on thedoor. Peaches and franks without buns forlunch and dinner, and cereal and milk andtwo pieces of bread for breakfast. Onenight, the attendants rolled out a dollywith a big, big tray of liver. Only one fel-low naked to the waist built like Herculesunchained beat Zane to the liver.

On Monday, just before midnight, hewas awakened by the screams of awoman, “Let me go. Let me go!” She wasbeing dragged through the men’s ward bytwo burly attendants.

Startled, Zane barked, “What are theydoing to her?”

Science-fiction buff snapped, “Shut upor they’ll get us too,” as they pushed thescreaming woman through a big door.

At noon the next day, the ward psy-chologist, satisfied that Zane was nolonger a threat to himself, allowed him tocheck himself out. He stood on the side ofthe road and caught a bus to theGreyhound Station on 7th and Market.

DOWN AND OUT ON THE STREET

Zane, now attired in Dickie workpantsand boots, got jobs from a labor poolinstalling doors in high rises. But it wasn’tsteady work and he was often unem-ployed throughout the next few years,unable to pay the rent and having to stayin shelters or camp out in parks or on thestreet. He’d applied for public housing butnever heard back.

The older he got, the more he again feltthe need for a drink, but he willed himselfto resist the temptation to wallow indespair. Rather, he chose to use his timeconstructively. He spent hours upon hoursin libraries studying art books and makingpencil-and-pen sketches of street scenes.Soon he was doing portraits of tourists fordonations of five or ten dollars, or even atwenty here and there.

Victoria, a friendly Latina lady andwharf artist who was forever knittingsweaters for the poor of Third World coun-tries, gave Zane sweaters now and then,and introduced him to Gladys, a sickly,slender, bony lady who owned a smallhouse on the edge of Chinatown/NorthBeach. The clinking of cable car bellscould be heard in the distance.

Gladys needed someone to help herwith shopping, do a little cooking andaccompany her on her hospital visits inexchange for a space to stay in her garage.Zane jumped at the chance and immedi-ately agreed to the barter.

Gladys was a quiet woman and not toodemanding. She liked fried chicken withmashed potatoes and gravy, and so didZane, so he cooked that dish several times

After the battle, Zane recov-ered in an Army hospital,but the guilt never left him.In his dreams, a beardedprophet denounces him:“That bullet had yourname on it.” The image ofhis friend Xavier was in hismind always and forever.

James Baldwin’s Double

Many veterans return home and end up living on the streets. Robert L. Terrell photo

See James Baldwin’s Double page 11

James Baldwin, author of The Fire Next Timeand Notes of a Native Son.

February 2015 ST R E E T SP I R I T 11

a week. Gladys was happy with Zanewho did everything asked of him.

He set up his art materials, and astrange feeling of confidence settled overhim. Something now gripped him to por-tray his friend Xavier on the canvas.Zane became possessed with the paint-ing. He was discovering the force of hispassion and will.

One evening, Gladys invited him upto her small living room to share a box ofSee’s chocolates she had received as agift. After they delighted in their sharedchocolates, Gladys stood up in front ofher mantelpiece and stared at a black-and-white photograph in a gold frame.

She had told Zane how her son, aMarine, had perished in the DominicanRepublic in 1964 from sniper fire on astreet in Santo Domingo. She touched thephotograph lightly. She held it tightly inher hands. She looked at the photo,repressing a smile, and he knew she hadnever stopped thinking of her son foreven a solitary day — much like Xavierwas in his mind always and forever.

He didn’t know how to comfort her. Allhe could manage to say was, “Thank youfor the chocolates. They were delicious.”

“You’re welcome, Zane.” A tear ortwo welled up in the corner of her eye.

Meanwhile, something mysterioushad happened with his portrait of Xavier.The paint had disappeared into theuniqueness of Xavier’s face. It was done.Xavier’s eyes, his nose — it was reallyhim. He’d gotten it right after many asleepless night in the basement. He wassatisfied.

Zane showed his painting to Gladys.

“It’s wonderful,” she said. “He must be adear, dear friend.”

Zane nodded. “He certainly, certainlywas!”

That evening, Gladys gave him themoney to buy a cake saying, “Let’s cele-brate the finishing of your painting.”

Zane smiled and said, “Sounds good.”He walked off briskly to a StocktonStreet Italian bakery.

After they finished munching on cakeand drinking the coffee Zane brewed,Gladys said, “I apologize for the micedownstairs.”

“No harm done,” said Zane. “I’ve hadrats for company sleeping in more thanone downtown alley.”

She gave a slight grin, “I bet you have.”It was to be one of their last happy

moments. Gladys grew weaker andweaker as the months passed. Once shereceived the diagnosis of pancreatic can-cer, the disease overwhelmed her frailbody. She passed on soon afterwards.

Her relatives were greedy for herproperty and ice cold towards Zane, andasked him to leave right away. He put hispainting of Xavier and his other stuff in aSouth of Market storage facility.

Zane was forced to hit the shelters andlower Nob Hill alleyways for anotherround, but he took it all in stride. He hadlearned to be realistic about these sort ofthings and to take the good with the bad.

Two months later, when he went tohis P.O. Box on Pine Street, he openedan official city letter notifying him of hisacceptance for housing for veterans.He’d have a studio apartment of his ownin less than three weeks.

Zane was elated. He’d finally foundwhat he’d wanted. The portrait of Xavierwould hang proudly on the wall of hisnew home.

James Baldwin’s Doublefrom page 10

January Nightsby George Wynn

Way past my bedtimeI feel old and cozyin my blue slippersby the reading lampunable to take myface out of anotherexotic Somerset Maughamstory with an endingthat stuns and opento interpretationand a cure formy loneliness (atleast for this night).

Down And Out SanFrancisco Teensby George Wynn

Along the Embarcaderotourists turn awaytheir eyes from outcastsons and daughterswith outstretched handsas if they were unclean.

Another day of waiting and waitingand bending theirheavy heads as if in mourning.“The locals arenot as mean”two or threetell me.

Family by George Wynn

She has a long dayat the nursing homefor low pay.

She comes homelate at nighther father sleepson her couch.She scolds himfor poor decisions.

Tomorrowshe will comehome and herbrother willbe sleepingon her couch.She will scoldhim for poordecisions.

The nextnight shewill come homeand her sisterwill be sleepingon her couch.She will scoldher for poordecisions.

“My doorwill always beopen to them,”she cries.“After all we'refamily.”

No Home to Return toby George Wynn

San Francisco dayswith alleyway flavorshidden ratsand empty cigarette packstrash eatersand a 60-year-oldbare chestedbare footedpanhandlerwith pockets and clothesturned inside outwith pus infected feetgrabbing my sparequarters screaming"Look. I'm nota monster!"

Hungry Penby George Wynn

Pen races across pagefills up empty spacewhen pen slows downsometimes it happens

In Spite of theDifferencesby George Wynn

A blue moodconsumes mewheneverI eye his shoes

In the cornerof the garagerest prouda pair of winecolored size sevendress shoesthe oneshe stompedhis feet with the last timeI saw himand snapped“You're a lousy son”I could haveretorted“You're a lousy father”

Long ago I learnedto walk awayand I didfor twenty years

In the FallI removedthe woodenshoe treefrom eachslightlyscuffed shoe

I thoughtit bestto donateput the shoesin a bagplaced themoutside my door

When the truck cameI tore open the bagremoved the shoes

There they still restin the cornerso calm, so unlike him.

The Mind's Currentby George WynnSo much is unfolding in the mind'scurrent, who knows howimages will flowin a poem?or what directionsthe lives ofcharacters will goin a story?

Take a stepback in silenceobserve howa poem or storyis shaping itself

There often seemsto be at leastone surpriseand yetone final obstacleand after thestrain hopefullya smile signifyingyour vivid imagination

did it!

Down to the Bonesby Carol Denney

it's hard to believe in the daytime there where the brother was hit shot like a dog by the dumpster this was some serious shit kissed by some fool with a shotgun arguing over some buy people just act like it's natural everyone wants to get high

chorus: everyone wants to get higheveryone wants to get highpeople just act like it's naturaleveryone wants to get high

right near the dollar store entrance right behind Everett and Jones eaten alive by the hunger neighborhood down to the bones everyone hopes they'll get lucky the next score might be the one death doesn't wait 'til you're ready just for some fool with a gun

chorus: everyone wants to get higheveryone wants to get highpeople just act like it's naturaleveryone wants to get high

bouquets of needles and empties halos of gulls in the sky three murders ring Forty Acres people have stopped asking why three murders ring Forty Acres nobody's dropping a dime three murders ring Forty Acres four's just a matter of time

down here the dreams look like ashesthere ain't no dog in this fightit doesn't end like a movienobody's making this rightnobody knows when it's overthey don't know when it beganthey'll think they finally got steadythen they'll be back here again

chorus: everyone wants to get higheveryone wants to get highpeople just act like it's naturaleveryone wants to get high

The author writes: “I wrote these versesafter the murder right across the streetfrom me. It's very dark but it's real.”

Driving in the Countryby Claire J. Baker

If we spot road-killwe want to movethe injured creatureonto a softer bed —pine needles or leaves,provide a gentlerrecovery, or passing;

make a small shrine,circled pebbles,a flower marker.

On the flip side,what can we do whenwe see an injured, ill,or dying homeless personon a tough city street?

Innocent But Guiltyby Claire J. Baker

Let's face it, love,now we're homeless!Our debts from illnesstook us down — way down!No time to call for help.We're less than a speckfrom the moon or anywhere.People don't care, they stareat us in our chosen spotfor today. It's best, love,that we move on, roam.Yet always rememberthat when both of us couldwork, we had a HOME.

February 2015ST R E E T SP I R I T12

THE GIFTby Peter Marin

Inside,the world deepensinto whatever remains,filled with light. The gardenis almost still, gentlymoved by a breezefrom the past. The leavestremble, waver, becomethe faces of gone friends.I have grown old at this desk,writing poems no-onewill read. What of it?The gifts we are givenare no more and no lessthan flowers they spreadat the feet of a Buddha. Petalsdry into dust. The green stalksturn brown. Plenitude isstill the word I would use,here at this happy ending.

THE DAWN by Peter Marin

The windcomes up, the frameof the day is set to trembling,bits of the garden appear,behind them, a darkness,below them, an abyss.Slowly, the light in its circuitemerges from the trees, the leaves,the buds out of emptinessbecoming the world. Iwatch as always, astonished,thinking my thoughts, inthe kitchen, at my desk, drinkingmy coffee, beginninganother day. Is therea greater gift? What is itfills my flesh? My wifeis sleeping upstairs. Somany years! And the light,brighter now, opensinto all that remains.

HEREby Peter Marin

We are hereat the end, riding the lastwave of Creation. Write it on a signand I will carry it throughthe boulevards, wild-eyedbut clear-headed, rememberingthese things: deserts, the edgesof jungles, the high Peruvianplateau where I sat, waitingwith rebels for whateverwould come. There is noway to wake and findthe garden intact, the oaksre-greened, the pines freeof beetles and disease. EverythingI love is slowly fading awayinto the haze of a futureI will not be in. The blueof the sky fills me with sorrowand the seas in my dreamsbreak on deserted shores. Iwatch from the late stagesof my life, building a shipout of words -- to what end?Now for the street, to carrymy sign, crying out the endis nigh! Not what I imagined,a boy in Brooklyn, thinkingthe world would be mine.

Reflecting Poolby Adam Allen

Reflecting on the past cannot show the future.

The image is a false god revealing nothing new.

Fragments of a life once lived cast a long shadow.

But that black specter seemingly ahead

is as thin as snow hiding the surface of a long road.

The past is compacted and resorted in memory

like compost that once comprised the dazzling shades of autumn.

To worship at this altar is to fall into the reflecting pool.

And the hazard of drowning within an inch of water

is a danger as pervasive as has confronted man from his beginning.

The light glimmering on the surface of the pool is really the vital now.

The bridge between its shimmers and the future lives only in the mind of man.

The conjuring of the beholder will bestow no truth not immediately at hand.

Revelation only occurs when the onlooker ceases in his reserve

and reaches out his hand to touch the shining surface of what is.

Tenderloinby Jan Steckel

You savor T-bone. Poodle wolfs ground kidneys.Panting muzzle, lolling tongue longerthan life. Hunger’s hot breath.You can hardly bear the dog’s eyes.How will you carry your rare steak past the woman who sleeps under the overpass?

The Coming of Winterby Adam Allen

People are looking over their shouldersas fall comes nearer its dry end.What comes has little to recommenditself to those who wish to grow no colder.

The earth glides off along the eclipticcaring not for things left undone.She has no thoughts of replenishing the fundof hope to fulfill mortal longings that still itch.

Yet still her children plod alonginto the bleak of the approaching season.They, like their mother, offer up no reason,but their blood pumps to face the coming throng.

baby bros goneby Judy Joy Jones

sippin’ my morn brewwhen medical examiner gave me a ring

we have yourbaby bros remainsand callin’ to inform you

my blood curdling screamsopened heaven’s doorssendin’ healing angelsto my side

may my weary soul’s tearsopen hardened heartsto feel

wallow in lifehug until youcan hug no mogive like you never did before

make each soulyou meetbelieve they are god’s finest masterpiece

luv like each second’s your last

morrows not promisedyou knowand only our love remains

only our love remainsonly our luv remains

little broi luv you

Judy Jones took this photograph of Mother Teresa’s Chapel in San Francisco. She writes: “In the picture I took, Angelic Supernatural Light flows from it! Hertiny chapels go beyond race religions age time location ... Unconditional love andThanksgiving for our breath of life!”

Ark of LonelinessNew York by Peter Marin

Filing in, one by one, as if into an ark of loneliness, out of the rain the shelter, its gray emptiness anchored at the bottom by green cots arranged in rows, boots tucked under, men asleep, rocked on the surface of watery dreams by a great storm never to end.

Gentler Universesby Peter Marin

Wife’s dead of cancer, years ago. I dowhatever a man does,construction, paint, break stones,rake leaves — muscle and sweat,thirty bucks a day. Hate shelters, live in a cave, dug it myself above the beach, on the cliffs, timbersfor shoring, candles inside,dry as a bone even in rain,reading sci-fi until midnight, then dreaming, stoned, curled like a baby,of alien planets, gentler universes,empty skies stretched beyond all believing.

Bits of Heavenby Peter Marin

Ride the buses all nightrolling one end of town to the other,up Santa Monica, down Hollywood,turn around at the depot, back again.Sometimes they don’t pick me up,doors kept shut, waitan hour for another, passes meby again. Fog drifts in, cold, sea-mist,buses, lit bright, rolling by,warm bits of heaven won’t let me in.Mornings, done, get my tea at six,kill time till the library opens,read until closing, midnightagain on the benches in the dark,the night an ocean closing around me,the wheeled blue whales of lightmy answered or unanswered prayers.