A Black God Reclaims His Throne By Wanda Sabir

On Harrison Street, a mural with Malcolm X wrapped in dragon imagery bears witness to one of many forgotten geographic legacies – Oakland’s Chinatown was once home to a thriving black community

Etched in survival spaces with prism colors, Black men hover between worlds
They sit between sky and earth signing their names with chromosome markers – XY

There is nowhere where black means safety, especially for those who have taken off from here and live in regions beyond imagination. Hidden in historic patterns fractals reveal, more stable than limbo, one such man wore his robes proudly as he sat on a shopping cart on a busy Oakland street

I wanted to ask him: What happened, but didn’t feel I had the right to request a song, ask him to tell his story—certainly not require him to self-publish.   With civility creating a thin layer between us, did I disrupt this superficial veneer with chatter? Was the space between us big enough to hold funeral rites if he disappeared into previous occupations?

I decided to not disturb the peace and remained silent as:

Ancestors walked between us while Angels flew around us sprinkling libations and anointing what was sacred. As people walked by him and then walked by us, I wondered why this elder sat naked on a shopping cart at 2 p.m. between a Good Friday and a scheduled Resurrection

Had Jesus returned?

I was stunned. I walk away and call a friend to ask what should I do, who could I call – he suggests I go to the Salvation Army store and buy the black god shoes and clothes—

Cloth for the shrine, a bowl for the altar . . . a salute to his Black wonder, I go into the store and make my purchase. It takes longer than I anticipate and I hope he hasn’t left the spot he claimed.
Perhaps this gesture will provide an opening, a way to articulate or put words to my awkwardness – a Black bewilderment which occupies my soul as I gaze at a black god without robes.

The wandering dervish has limited freedom given the descriptive prison black bodies’ represent here in a landscape of whiteness where blackness is criminalized

Why is this man naked?  Why did I see him while others walk by as if he does not exist? Has his value decreased since 1865?  Why did I have to buy clothes for him when the clothes I purchased were a gift? What is a salvation army? How does one enlist?

Later, I see another black man scurrying long as if his carriage is about to turn into a spaghetti squash, the coachmen police or prison guards, a Grimm tale, we all know—day laborers, cinder mattresses . . . levees breached . . . floating bodies

The emperor’s feet are black, his sole callous, hardened . . . yet he whispers “thank you ma’am”

He asks for nothing
Sits on his red shopping cart
Treasures hidden within
Smoking a cigar
With shaven head, this blackened Buddha or enlightened one, sits boldly in Black beingness – his is a silent, yet eloquent expressive blackness,  a black fractal billions of lightyears old; he marks a global landscape, a system of racism (or white supremacy) which wishes us gone . . . back to Africa, out of America, off the planet

Blackness is all things to all things . . . it is where life began.

Displaced in a transatlantic journey still making us sick, we pitch vomit into bags thrown overboard . . . then without thinking drink the water.

The Maafa is real, yet we are here despite the plot to discontinue our genetic line . . . if only we knew who we are, then we would be free—

Hidden from view
Boldly occupying or disrupting viewpoints which would erase him
The emperor sits naked upon a throne at Eighth and Webster Streets in Oakland’s Chinatown
Papa Legba, smokes his pipe undisturbed
Oblivious to all, who do not recognize his greatness – distracting forces disappear while his presence becomes more tangible

I hurried because I thought he would leave if I didn’t return soon. But there he was as when I left him, seated on his throne, invisible servants with plumes fanning their king—the circulating air keeping away the heat and other potential disturbances.

The creator gave Papa Legba the Ashay or life force – Esu/Legba alone awakens the potential lying dormant in all beings; therefore:

I am because he is
We are, because I am
He will, because we do

Ashay!
Ashay!

Ashayo!

The Auset Movement during Women's History Month

Daylight Savings 2016
By Wanda Sabir

RJ and Lisa

Auset Movement members had spoken about Christmas in March,[1] but I didn’t realize that Sunday three of us would actually spend the entire day in the rain helping a homeless woman organize her belongings so she could move into a tent.  Besides the time change, a few of us like Wanda R. and Tabaji ran into snags that morning. When the beans and rice finished, the couple discovered a flooded basement, so it took a minute for them to get their truck out.  They did not cancel. Later on, at 10:30 when we were out of food, they had to dash home to take care of the water.

It was daylight savings and a few of us overslept.  Lisa called me and I called RJ.  Our San Francisco and Hayward crew were on time and at the regular meet-up site at 7:30 a.m.  We normally meet for check-in and prayer, but it was storming, so that would not have worked. I’d meant to call or text them, but forgot.  Dr. Delene had been up all night with preemie babies, yet looked refreshed when I caught up with everyone at the first encampment. Kwalin had on a really cool sweatshirt with triple African continents. It was black on black, the continent designs a raised appliqued on what looked like leather. (No, I didn’t take photos this time).

We met at 9 a.m. and our menu consisted of Chef Lisa’s roasted potatoes, Wanda and Tabaji’s rice and beans, Delene and Kwalin’s hot coffee, apple juice, boiled eggs and my regular contribution of pastries and sausage.  We also always have bottled water. I brought salt and pepper for the eggs and extra raw sugar for the coffee.  In just an hour, we only had two plates left which we packed to take to the next stop – just as we were taking off two men rushed up to see if we had any more food.  

RJ and Wanda

I ran to Delene and Kwalin’s car. They had two plates left on their backseat which we gave to the men along with cups of coffee.  I’d gotten some women’s clothing, shoes and toiletry donations from work, which went quickly. I also brought tarps and a few dozen packages of warm socks. One man asked how often we did this. He told me the night before he’d gotten soaking wet, but was dry now. I gave him some socks for another rainy day and a tarp. Wished I’d had some rain gear.  Another man had on flip flops—his feet were wet.  Lots of black men came by this morning, quite a few whom I didn’t know. Delores said they’d put up signage asking people to not dump trash and so far so good. The folks at this encampment hang rugs to dry on the sunny days off the fences nearby.

Lisa and RJ found a man sleeping on the concrete not far away, and took a breakfast and toiletry items to him with water. Robert told us about another few people whom we had met in a smaller encampment not too far away. He didn’t understand why they chose to be in the rain.  We will probably walk over there next month. The man I’d met earlier this month, sleeping on palettes under a plastic tarp, had relocated with a tent there.

Between the two visits we probably need to look for rain gear, complete suits, to drop off so people can stay dry. I also need to start carrying with the sleeping bag and blanket a two person tent (in my trunk for emergencies). If anyone has any tents, blankets, pillows with cases, he or she can donate, let us know. I am so tired still I have not taken the supplies out of my car yet (smile).

In response to a request for religious services at the encampment, Wanda R. asked the pastor near her home for a reference and he volunteered himself. I introduced Robert to Wanda and she told him what her friend said. There might be a service at the encampment as early as Easter. If so, I will try to attend. My friend, Hassaun, said he could come to perform a service at our next breakfast in April.

Unlike last month, we didn’t have any food for the second encampment, but we went there anyway with hot coffee. Lisa ordered pizza. She said she felt bad when eyes lit up when we arrived, despite our having nothing left.  When we went to pick up the pizza, I saw a young woman I’d met at the encampment we’d just left.  I remembered that she was shivering that morning– soaking wet from her waist into her boots. We offered her and her friend, pizza. She remembered me too. I was glad to see she was dry Sunday morning at the shopping mall. She looked a lot older though. Living on the streets ages a person. 

The hot cheese pizza was welcomed back at the encampment. I saw a woman whose battery I'd given a jump start last month huddled in her car with plastic on her window. I could imagine the cold she was probably experiencing and was happy we could offer her something hot to warm her inside. As we drove slowly by the tents and other makeshift housing, the torrential rain which had been pouring steadily all morning had subsided into a drizzle. I got out Lisa’s car after handing a few people pizza on napkins, and ran up to my parked car where I got bottled water for folks to drink with the snack. I also had toilet tissue for those who needed it.

Lisa drove along slowly serving pizza, we were making our way back to Miss Darlene’s shanty. The structure, if you can call it that, was made from heavy plastic tied to a fence facing a field where freight and passenger trains sped by more than a few times that day.  I saw a wild dog running in the field. I wondered if he was lost or trapped and how he got in there.

Just an hour earlier we’d awakened the older woman who was tucked beneath covers – Delene and Kwalin had purchased an African American illustrated bible for her birthday. Miss Darlene made 51 a week before and had asked if RJ and I could bring her a copy of a bible written in American English. She said it was hard to follow the “thees and thous.” She also stated that no matter how bad it was for her at times, she knew God had not forsaken her or forgotten her.

Completed Tent with Tarp Doorway into Ms. Darlene's Living-room

When we looked inside the open structure, two sets of pretty eyes peaked back at us. The girls were under a blanket with heavy plastic overhead. There was nothing behind them but fencing. We couldn’t tell how old they were, they just looked young, really young. They must really love their Auntie Darlene to hang out in a homeless encampment in wet weather for the weekend. I’d met one of the teens a couple of months earlier, on Martin King Day to be exact; when I reminded her of this, she looked surprised that I would remember her name.

How many mothers name their daughters after my favorite author?  I told her that her Aunt Darlene shared with me news of her Black History Month award winning essay and how proud she was of her. The teen kind of smiled.

After the pizza, which the two girls seemed to enjoy, we saw them pull on boots and coats and walk up the road, presumably home. Their aunt had gone salvaging. Lisa and I saw her with empty plastic containers in her arms headed back to the encampment as we left her to find planks or buy plywood to support a tent.

Those recyclable items at the site were a safety deposit box Miss Darlene could cash in as needed. These Certificates of Deposit (CDs) equaled ready cash when she needed it. She told us stories of being cheated at the scale. She knew the value of the items, but unable to see the scale, she and others had to settle for a fraction of their hauls’ worth.  Her story reminded me of the days when the cash crop differed, but not the methods: cans were cotton.

Her comment was in response to my suggestion that she recycle everything and save the money. RJ and I were going to hire a truck to help her get her items to a recycling place. Given this history, and self-disclosure that she once worked as a modern sharecropper at the scales and knew what a bushel was worth, she declined.

Just as slavery ended when the north and south united, the economies are also taking sides and capitalism is winning. The West Oakland recycling plant is shutting its doors soon to make way for condos. Where will discarded people with discards, toting a devalued cash crop cash in then? With nowhere to go many internally displaced persons carry emaciated spirits.

Seeing children sleeping outdoors, of course, stunned all of us. Miss Darlene’s neighbor confirmed that the teenagers were there only on weekends.  Granted, Miss Darlene talked to herself and seemed to wander off both literally and figuratively, yet we felt a strength and even a stubborn determination.  She just needed a little help. When RJ returned from the hotel, he told Miss Darlene she could stay there, but she needed ID. The woman had none, so. . . . 

With the hotel off the checklist, RJ went shopping and came back with a hundred dollar tent. It was too large for the space and too expensive, so Lisa and I returned it and bought a smaller one for a third of the price (at another store).  While Lisa and I went on our exposition buying the tent and then working on something to put it on: plywood or insulation . . . . RJ and Miss Darlene had started organizing her things. They removed recyclable items and trash to make space.  We thought about setting up the tent under the tarp; however, she had a lot under her awning, years of possessions she couldn’t let go of.  I understood. These items were all that were left of a life she lived in her memories, a time when there was shelter, privacy and perhaps safety.  Before we could set about assembling the tent, we had to level the ground. RJ dug up the dirt, then he and Lisa moved the palettes in the pouring rain.  It was like a jigsaw puzzle. We then put down tarps which blew away as we wrestled with the poles. The tent filled with water, which we later poured out we couldn’t figure out how to hook on the rain fly.  The box said we could assemble this tent in ten minutes. It took us about an hour.  After we erected the tent in one spot, we decided to move it closer to where Miss Darlene was already to make it easier for her to move between to two spaces.

A crowded tour bus drove by while we were out there. It stopped so tourists could take photos. They didn’t get off the bus or ask permission to take the photos.  They left waves and smiles in their wake.  Miss Darlene was really disgusted. She said she didn’t want her family to know she was out there. Shortly after this, a van drove by with a late meal for the occupants of this desolate strip of highway. All day, we’d been splashed by speeding cars and nearly run off the road by others who saw us working, yet disregarded our lives and the lives of others. Just across from us, a few neighbors sat in their tent talking.  A man whose tent was up the road helped RJ move the four wooden pallets ($3 each) which would form a foundation, nearer to Miss Darlene’s place. RJ has a bad back and we didn’t want him to injure himself.  Lisa gave one of the women we’d met over the past few months cereal she had. When she asked her if she wanted the carrots—the woman smiled and said she didn’t have enough teeth to chew carrots.

Tempers were short, well mine was (smile). I felt impatient. I had not planned to spend my whole day at an encampment. I hadn’t eaten since the day before and I was sleep deprived. I was also going to be late for a dinner date if the day continued to move so slowly, yet as the morning and afternoon shifted into evening and I tried to get used to being wet and cold and dirty, I had to keep reminding myself that these belongings represented a woman’s life and as such she was in charge of what she wanted to happen to them, not me.

So I chilled out literally.  I don’t know how all the water ended up inside my coat. Perhaps the water off my umbrella rolled down my back or my running back forth earlier at the first encampment for items when it was storming. I don’t know, but next time, I am going to wear a raincoat myself.

I admired Lisa and RJ’s patience and decided to let their example rub off on me (smile). No one had me hogtied to the road, yet I couldn’t leave, these were my friends and we were all committed to the temporary project: "Miss Darlene's House" (smile). I’d been trying without luck to get some of the service providers (people with City of Oakland money) to meet us at one of our breakfasts to talk to Ms. Darlene or Robert at the other encampment, but they never show up. Kheven typed up a list of emergency shelter addresses with phone numbers, but both of us could see the way people looked at it that they were not going to leave permanent, yet transitory shelter for temporary emergency shelter. At least Miss Darlene had control over her life where she sat, even if it was what one might call squalid and undesirable.  At least in a tent, people had a little more autonomy and security.

We still need to look at permanent housing for all the people who want it, preferably in such a way that the community maintains its integrity. I don’t know what happened to the City of Oakland’s recommendation that there be land set aside for a legal encampment. Delores told me that she’d lost the earrings I’d gotten her when Waste Management (WM) had the folks more all of their tents from one side of the street to another so WM could clean it up. The first encampment and the second looked good. The illegal dumping had ceased. The only problem Robert reported was WM taking their dumpsters whenever they came by, which meant the encampment had nowhere to put the debris. Robert said he would talk to WM, and ask if they had their own garbage bins, would WM dump them and leave the containers.

As we drove off to waves goodbye headed to the next stop, I thought about how blessed we were to have warm homes and other amenities. It was the perfect day to show up too. It is easier to help when the sun is shining, but to show up when the weather is stormy made me feel like we were worthy of the title The Auset Movement: Loving Humanity into Wholeness.

I am also really happy that for some reason, we caught Miss Darlene on a day when her situation allowed us to gift her a tent. She told me just a week earlier that in two years she’d not wanted a tent, because a tent represented a permanence she was resisting. Maybe it was the tears she saw in Lisa’s eyes, the compassion in RJ’s heart or what we saw when we looked into the shelter she’d erected: an older woman and two black girls exposed. It didn’t matter that she had a dog and a cat, this female headed family was open to the elements both natural and unnatural.

It was not safe.  Anyone could walk up on them. She’d fortified the perimeter with shopping carts and bags full of trash, but these were easily removed.

When we left several hours later, RJ and Lisa (mainly) had put wooden platforms where the water was worse: at her front and rear entrances. No longer would she have to wade in water to get in and out of her dwelling. We’d lifted the black heavy plastic and allowed the settled rainwater to run off. RJ cut the excess plastic off and put another piece of plastic in the front of the shelter.

Surrounded by debris so long, just the idea of order probably overwhelmed her, but RJ went inside the tarped enclosure with Miss Darlene and helped her shift through for what was precious and what was trash. There were bugs and vermin in there, RJ said as he worked without gloves (not something I recommend).

Just last week, the older woman told me she was on medication, which affected her memory and thinking. Another relative of hers, a cousin was so happy to see that she had a tent. He didn’t recognize the spot.  He thought someone had taken his cousin’s space and she’d moved away.  Homeless too, he went and got a blanket from a storage bin to put inside their new home. The tent sleeps four adults, so he and Miss Darlene and the girls on the weekend, can easily sleep there. We made sure the both knew where the tent door was and how to get in and out. I told them about the windows they could unzip inside. I think they are going to have fun.

When we finished our work we were all pretty dirty, wet and hungry. It had been a long day—7:30 a.m. to 5 p.m.  I just stepped out of my clothes at the door when I got home, the pile where I left it the following morning when I work up.

---

[1] Christmas in April is a program that repairs houses for elderly residents. We are going to build houses. The volunteers complete the work in one day.

First Person

Kheven LaGrone

OPEN LETTER TO THE OAKLAND CITY COUNCIL

By Kheven LaGrone

 

 

In an open letter to San Francisco city officials, a tech worker, who had only been in San Francisco three years, wrote:

 

 

“What are you going to do to address this [increasing homeless and drug] problem? The residents of this amazing city [San Francisco] no longer feel safe. I know people are frustrated about gentrification happening in the city, but the reality is, we live in a free market society. The wealthy working people have earned their right to live in the city. They went out, got an education, work hard, and earned it. I shouldn’t have to worry about being accosted. I shouldn’t have to see the pain, struggle, and despair of homeless people to and from my way to work every day. I want my parents when they come visit to have a great experience, and enjoy this special place.”

(http://justink.svbtle.com/open-letter-to-mayor-ed-lee-and-greg-suhr-police-chief). 

 

 

The tech writer’s letter was as heartless as a computer program.  He was clueless.  Such lack of empathy is a problem for any society—especially one that claims to value its “diversity.” As Oakland city officials have stated in the past, San Francisco’s gentrification problems are flowing over to Oakland. Because the tech writer believed he was writing for the residents of San Francisco, Oakland officials must officially and publicly address this letter.

 

 

The tech writer’s “free market society” was naively based on equal opportunities in life.  He incorrectly concluded that San Francisco’s homeless chose not to work hard or get an education.  In reality, some people were homeless because they were laid off or priced out of their homes. Some people were homeless due for medical reasons.

 

 

After only three years, the tech worker felt entitled to San Francisco because of his wealth.  He wrote that the homeless people disrupted his “special place.” He didn’t want to see their “pain, struggle and despair.” He did not engage them as human beings or learn their “bad luck” stories.  If he had, he might have realized that they never had his privileges.  Luck, not just “hard work,” privileged him and he’d see that his own good luck could run out.

 

He only saw those few homeless people who were publicly confrontational and disruptive to his sense of entitlement.  He then unfairly stereotyped all people as a threat.  Most homeless people don’t want to bring unnecessary attention to their situation.

 

The tech worker believed in San Francisco’s “free market society” and he had the money to move where he wanted; in reality, he asked for government intervention. Should the government remove old-time residents, or even natives, because wealthy newcomers don’t want to see them?  I have been to several of Oakland’s homeless encampments and shelters.  I saw many people there who I knew personally from Oakland in the 1980s. Could the tech worker be entitled to move to Oakland and bully them as well?

  

As more people move to Oakland, they will likely encounter, or even move near, existing homeless encampments. The newcomers should know that Oakland’s homeless community is as respected as any other.  If newcomers don’t want to see the homeless, they shouldn’t move here.

 

 

The tech worker even concluded his letter with warning of a “revolution.” I fear him more than I do the homeless.  He needs to address his own cluelessness as part of the problem.  His letter bullies the homeless.  Class warfare and homeless people will not be as easy for him to manipulate as computer codes and mathematical equations.  Lack of empathy will ruin any city more than homelessness. 

 

 

If class warfare explodes in San Francisco, it will likely spill over to Oakland.  Before it does, the Oakland City Council should make a public statement that its homeless community is seen and heard here. They must denounce the attitude of the tech worker’s letter. The homeless community is part of Oakland’s “diversity.”

 

Reflection Feb. 15, 2016
by Wanda Sabir       

Wanda, Tabaji, Jovelyn and Denise

  Today feels like the first day of spring, but it isn’t, just another reminder of man’s folly and the planet’s suffering. The plant world is so confused, some perennials flower all year now; it is so warm. But if one makes her shelter under an evening lamppost or a freeway overpass then warmth is a lot more welcome than rain or bone chilling cold.
          It’s the day after Valentine’s Day—some call it President’s Day.  However, Washington and Lincoln have much to atone for regarding policies concerning melaninated people, specifically black people and the legacy of slavery.
          Imagine what America would have looked like if Washington, Jefferson and Franklin had not carried slavery forward into this union. The tyranny of political servitude to the Crown and the fact that an African descendant shed his blood for the ideals of liberty.  If the founding white men had eliminated slavery from the discourse that forms the nexus of these dominate narratives then and now, a discourse this nation holds its truths in a balance still uneven and unrealized,  I might still be with my people and in possession of my heritage . . . all of it, especially that which I am left to assemble haphazardly through guesswork facilitated through African Ancestry, 23 and Me, etc.  It’s not all blind, yet finding one’s roots could take a life time and even then, what about the people who were not necessarily looking for you, if they knew you existed?
          What about the psychic social spiritual mending of the generations, beginning with the present one, these broken ties represent?

Wanda and RJ

          We had no music this morning at the encampment, but the rhythms of early morning stirrings, heart beats and warmth mixed with smiles and hugs and welcomes – had us all dancing to a groove thing that was delightful. Jovelyn’s Jamaican rice with peas (black beans), olives, pimento and other ingredients went perfectly with Wanda and Tabaji’s pots of plain rice and pinto beans. There was also hickory smoked beef sausage and a variety of cakes from blueberry and banana nut to strawberry and lemon. The hot coffee we served on Martin King Day was back, along with milk and juice, water and fresh fruit.
           We had a few more clothing items than last time: a few pairs of shoes, lots of socks, men’s boxers, a few jackets, shirts, toiletry bags, toilet tissue. A woman brought a bag full of women’s clothes which we took to our second encampment—yep, we served two encampments in one morning (smile).                   
           We prepared the meals in advance and put, I think, at least 15 in the car and caravanned down to the next spot. Some of our group had to leave, so another shift came as we were packing up. It was great. Lisa brought a table and drop cloth for the clothes. Samira (11) served coffee and water and fruit. Some folks were sleeping and didn’t want to get up and come to where the table was, but quite a few did. We served those who poked their heads out and asked for a plate.
            There is a lot of traffic on the road at the second spot, and we have to be careful, so we don’t get run over.
            Lots of people needed toilet tissue. I gave sturdy garbage bags to Chris who said she liked to clean up the debris before it gets out of hand. She said the rats were getting really bold down there, one ran across her foot. Another woman had nothing, so I gave her one of the two sleeping bags and blankets I still had in my trunk from December.
             If anyone has any skills like legal advocacy for people on parole or elders or the disabled re: housing rights, please get in touch with me. Perhaps you could join us at a breakfast to talk to our friends.
            Within the month, there was an accident at the second encampment—a car crashed into a pole. It’s good it did not hit any of the tents nearby or vehicles. That would have been fatal for the occupant(s). People are still dumping illegally where the encampments are. At the second encampment, people know each other too, especially those who have been there for the past two years.  I don’t necessarily see the kind of structured community that exists in the other encampment where Mr. Lee and Robert establish and keep order. Everyone is not welcome and if people act up, they are asked to leave.
          At the second encampment , folks seem to mind their own business, but they also help each other. One woman picked up a few clothing items for a friend who was not present this morning.

          Earlier that morning as I watched people sitting in their tents, flaps open talking back and forth, I recalled the compounds in Rufisque, Senegal (West Africa) where extended family live. When you walk out of your door, you face the entrance to another family member’s home. Dinner and clothes washing happens in the open space beyond the narrow entrance way, between the gated compound and the door which leads into it. In the larger encircled space, women pound yams for flour, cook dinner and gossip while their children play, the chickens and sheep wander and the clothes flutter or hang motionless on the clothesline. There are usually a few trees which provide much needed shade.
         Today Robert asked if we could have church at the encampment. That sounds like a great idea. I have to shop it with a few clergy folks I know. I can’t commit to a weekly sermon. I think Robert would make a great pastor. I think I will recommend it to him (smile). We haven’t prayed together since Christmas. We will have to pray together next time.
          Tuesday (tomorrow) at City Council, Robert says he will speak. He says he has a story to tell. I am looking forward to hearing it. He is a deep one. Quiet and deep. When I left this morning he was smoking a cigarette and sweeping up the debris drive by litterers had dumped illegally.
            Lionel was really happy today and Mr. Lee was present and happy to see us.  Delores gives me a hug when she sees me. I think that’s nice. I like the spontaneity of it. At the other encampment, Raynel gave Samira a My Little Pony girl. Lisa told Samira to give Raynal a hug. I think Raynal appreciated it, especially since her children were taken from her I think two years ago. Lisa didn’t even know the tragic story. Again, the spontaneity is really sweet all around.
          As we were leaving one of the women we had been speaking with was walking back from Target where she washed up and put on a new shirt. She looked pretty. She told us that the day before she bought soft drinks for everyone at the encampment for Valentine’s Day.
        I found it ironic that her mother had been a battered and homeless women advocate in New York. She said her mother would often remind her daughter of her resiliency with a reminder of others who have had to manage homelessness with responsibilities like children or safety.
        While I waited for the light to change from red to green on Fifth at Broadway later on as I made my way home, I asked the lady standing next to a sign if she’d like a lunch. She told me yes and that someone had given her twenty dollars and a box of chocolate right before me. I was happy she was having such a pleasant day.
         In the bag I gave her were sun chips, nuts, Vienna sausage or beef jerky, gummy bears (fruit candy), peanut butter crackers, water, tissue, a toiletry bag with toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving cream (without blade), fruit drink. It’s a comfort food snack bag that is not all empty calories. I buy in bulk and put the items in large zip lock bags and keep them in my car, refills in my truck. I make about 35-50 at a time. They last a long time, because I only give them away when I am driving.
         As we stood around talking at the second encampment, we learned of highway patrol training officers who use the residents of the encampment to help with their trainings on drug testing. They pick up people who are high and run tests, practice for the real arrests. The test includes drawing blood.
           Charles sent lots of shirts which the men really liked, all of the shirts except for the shirt with paint on it. I told the men that Charles was a painter, but no one cared to look that part. A lot of the men and women have keen fashion sense.
           Today, people sat at the tables and ate. I liked that everyone didn’t take the food away or stand and eat. It felt more like having friends and family over for a meal. 

Street Spirit Articles

http://www.thestreetspirit.org/the-growing-plight-of-internally-displaced-persons-in-oakland/

First Person

CAN OAKLAND FIX THE CRISIS IT CREATED?

By Kheven LaGrone

I remember when I came to the realization that Oakland’s gentrification meant displacing its African-Americans. I was the new project engineer on construction of the Port of Oakland’s Middle Harbor Shoreline Park.  I was the only African-American on the team.  The Port had proudly announced that it was working with the neighboring West Oakland’s African-American community in the creation of the park; however, I never saw anyone from West Oakland at the meetings. 

At one meeting, an artist presented conceptual drawings of the park.  The drawings excited the team.  The park was beautiful and full of white people.  Everyone was proud of the park—except me. “Can African-Americans come to the park I asked?” The artist nervously re-did the drawing and painted a couple of the people brown.  “It’s nice that Latinos and dark East Indians can use the park, but can African-Americans with nappy hair like mine use it?” I asked.

That moment angered me.  West Oakland, our neighbors and partners, was proudly African-American.  How could everyone not notice the omission of African Americans?

As we completed the park, the team wanted to show it off. They wanted to make it a “regional park.”  They talked excitedly about advertising the park to Danville, Blackhawk and other white suburbs. Even though the Port is a department of the City of Oakland, the team said nothing about advertising to West Oakland or other African-American communities.  I learned that successful gentrification meant showing off the project to their white peers outside Oakland. To them, we African-Americans were invisible and unworthy of a nice, new park.

Homeless people were expressly not welcomed at the park. For example, a team member suggested at an outside meeting that we use concrete benches “so homeless people won’t sleep at the park.”  As the biting cold wind coming off the water hit my face, I thought about the homeless people in Oakland that I saw every day. Most of them were African-American.  I knew many of their names and stories.  “If someone is so bad off that he has to sleep out here,” I said angrily, “then we should not make things worse for him.”

Yet, my co-worker had dehumanized the homeless person like vermin. He did not ask why the person had to sleep on a park bench in the freezing cold.  By rendering the homeless person nameless and faceless, my co-worker felt he had an excuse to unwelcome and even remove the homeless person without guilt. He could still brag about the beautiful park.

Years later, Oakland officials would use the decline in the city’s African-American population to market Oakland to outsiders. Oakland had been “stigmatized” as a “Black city,” so they promoted its “changing demographics” and “new diversity.”  Condo developers and restaurants never used African-Americans in their advertisements.  City leaders announced the “New Oakland” as if to say it was no longer a “Black city.” As Oakland became more attractive to outsiders, housing costs rose and more African Americans were displaced.

Oakland was voted one of the country’s “coolest cities,” but today, Oakland’s homeless have been displaced into visible encampments located throughout the gentrified areas. They are mainly African-Americans displaced by the gentrification.  The illegal encampments resemble third world refuge camps.  People sleep among trash in tents and on sleeping bags on the cold dirt or concrete sidewalk. Other people dump their trash in the encampments.   There are rodents.  They’re often under noisy, dusty freeways.  Police chase them away.

In this “new” Oakland, the people in the encampments are dehumanized, while pets are humanized and treated like spoiled children.  Near one encampment, there is a doggy play and daycare and spa. It offers super suite boarding, pedicure and manicure, and “overnight cuddle time.” Near another encampment is a pet “country club” with “doggy daycare, pet hotel and spa.” The brochure states that dogs can play in an “engaging environment” all day. When the dogs want to sleep, they can sleep in the hotel and “reminisce about their friends.”  Cats can enjoy a “private immaculate condo.”

Do the pet owners ignore the encampments when they drop off their animals?

Near another encampment, a brochure for a cat shelter seems to mock, dehumanize and trivialize Oakland’s homeless, at-risk youth.  It claims to be “helping Oakland’s vulnerable cats.”  It advertises that “through foster care and adoption,” it “finds homes for at-risk cats who are struggling in the animal shelter environment [. . .] Help us save some of Oakland’s most distressed cats and kittens.”  This is either clueless or insensitive.  On the front door, its kitty cat café claims to be the first in the U. S.  Does this mean that Oakland is the first city to be so dehumanizing in the U. S.? 

*  *  *

Right before Christmas 2015, I learned that the Oakland City Council would be addressing the issue of the displaced African-Americans by gentrification.  They planned to vote on an ordinance declaring a shelter crisis in Oakland. The meeting would be on January 5, 2016.

I read the meeting report and the proposed ordinance. I had written such reports for the Port and City and understood them.  A crisis requires immediate and action. The declaration didn’t seem to have any meaningful direction from the City.  The ordinance seemed to be “just talk.” 

At the same time, Wanda Sabir e-mailed me that she and her family had been buying blankets, food, etc. and giving them to people in the encampments.  She and her friend R. J. Reed planned to go back for Christmas.

I told Wanda about the City’s proposed shelter crisis ordinance.  People from the shelters and homeless community needed to attend the city council meeting when the Council voted and make the declaration and ordinance meaningful.

I visited several shelters. The managers had not heard about the proposed ordinance.  I also visited some encampments with Wanda and found out the people there had not heard about the proposed ordinance either. But would the ordinance address the issue of the homeless community?  One of the people told Wanda, their biggest problem is being dehumanized and vilified.  How would simply declaring a “shelter crisis” humanize them?  How was the Council making any decisions about this community without contacting them directly?  Was the declaration “just talk”?

We wanted them to come and be seen and heard at the meeting. I prepared flyers to inform the community about the meeting.  I e-mailed them to the media and the shelters. I also went with Wanda to distribute them to some encampments. I also took flyers to a few shelters.

I also e-mailed members of the City Council and the City Administrator. Only Councilmember Desley Brooks replied to my e-mail.

The vote was one of the first items of the meeting.

Councilmember Brooks, the only member to say she had visited an encampment, pushed for the council to make concrete actions. That seemed obvious for addressing a “crisis.”  However, she faced a bureaucratic roadblock—especially from the City Attorney. Councilmember Kaplan reminded us that the homeless form social connections and relocating the homeless should not break up those connections.  Councilmember Gullien also mentioned working with Laney College to build tiny houses.

Then it was time for the public to speak on this issue.  R. J. Reed had been going to the encampments with Wanda and had made friends there.  He angrily told the Council to “stop the foolishness” and do something.

Wanda told her own story with being homeless and she told the personal stories of people she had met in the encampments.  Councilmember McElhaney was visibly moved.

Another woman reminded the Councilmembers that many of the homeless were veterans.

Unfortunately, no homeless persons spoke for themselves at that meeting.

One good thing came out of the meeting.  The meeting room was packed with people who had come for several other city issues. As they waited for the Council to address their issues, they heard the personal statements. Thus, the issue of homelessness was more personal and reached beyond the homeless community. At times, the whole room applauded Councilmember Brooks’ support of the homeless community—showing that they supported the community as well.

Finally, Brooks made a motion to direct the City Administrator to open the Garden Center at Lake Merritt or another City-owned property as a temporary homeless shelter within 15 days. The Council agreed to that, plus the City Administrator was to provide a report on a tiny house community for the next City Council meeting on January 19, 2016.  The homeless shelter issue would also become a regular item for following council meetings.

When Wanda and I went to an encampment a few days after the meeting, we heard about some changes from the city.  Her friends living in the encampment told us that the City clean up crew had been there.  This time, they asked the homeless people to gather their possessions before they cleaned the rest of the area. That way, the clean up crew would not throw away their possessions. In the past, the city simply cleared everything—including the last of their personal possessions.

Sadly, we also found out that Waleena Mitchell, a resident of the encampment, had died. Her husband, Lionel, was grieving and would not come out of his tent to talk to Wanda.

*  *  *

The City Council met again on January 19, 2016. This time, the shelter crisis was one of the last items to be discussed. This meant most of the people in the meeting would leave before hearing about the shelter crisis.

We sat through an item where a woman who lived in in Oakland hills complained because AT&T was placing a tower near her home. She was distressed that the ugliness of the tower would lower her property value.  She worried that the tower would disturb her peace and quiet.  She brought a lawyer.

The woman and the City questioned whether or not the trees in the area were Cedar or Oak and whether or not the City had trimmed them. If so, when did the City trim them?

But hers was not a “shelter crisis.” A week before the meeting, a rainstorm belted Oakland.  The winds blew away the tents and tiny houses of people living in a homeless encampment.  People were exposed to cold rain, standing water and mud. That was a “shelter crisis.”

Hours later, the City Council finally got to the real shelter crisis. Like at the last meeting, homelessness seemed to be an abstract issue to debate.  The Council had been given another report (which mentioned another report almost a year earlier).  It listed options for addressing the shelter crisis.  The biggest issue for the City was money.  Neither the Garden Center nor other City property, would be opened as a temporary shelter.  However, a few more beds would be provided at an existing shelter—though Brooks pointed out that this was not a significant number of beds for this crisis.

Councilmember Kaplan pointed out that the money spent to remove the homeless from the encampments could be better spent.  She suggested that the city identify legally allowable encampments. 

Gullien was meeting with Laney to discuss tiny houses, but they needed land.  In the past, shelters had been centrally and conveniently located downtown.  Oakland supported the gentrification that displaced people, Oakland owes it to them to help them stay.  It’s not fair to relocate shelters just because a neighborhood gentrifies. They should be part of the diversity and new community.  They are Oakland.  If newcomers have a problem living near a shelter, they shouldn’t move near it.

Despite Councilmember Brooks’ pushing for a bigger commitment, the Council only voted to spend $180,000 for immediate winter relief efforts.  According to the City report, Oakland has over two thousand homeless people.  So the City Council did not make a major commitment to addressing Oakland’s shelter crisis.  However, the Council would discuss the shelter crisis as a regular item for the meetings.

The Council assumed the discussion was settled for the night and started to move on without public input.  People in the room protested.  They had come to speak on the issue.  “We didn’t wait all this time for nothing,” the homeless man behind me yelled.

Twenty-four people surprised the council by signing up to speak on the shelter crisis.  R. J. Reed delivered the news of the death in the encampment since the last meeting.  Wanda told the council that if she can use her own money to buy food and supplies for the encampments, surely the City could spend money.  Rachel, who works for a homeless agency, told the council that her clients often died on the streets. She could barely speak through her tears. She went to sit in a dark corner by herself to cry.

The rest of the speakers were homeless people who told their own stories. Many of them came together from nearby Henry Robinson Multi-Service Center.  In contrast to the white woman who lived in the Oakland hills and worried about the trees, all these homeless speakers were African-American.  One was a 67-year old woman on SSI.  Another woman who said she had been sexually assaulted and saw fights in the shelters. Another woman identified herself as an educated single mother “who matters.”

The meeting turned personal and emotional.  They silenced the Council. McElhaney listened teary-eyed.  People put faces, names and stories on their homelessness. Would the Council have voted differently if they had these stories before they voted?

If this item had been discussed earlier in the meeting, more Oakland residents would have been moved by the stories.

* * *

On January 19, 2016, the homeless community made itself seen and heard at the Oakland City Council meeting. They put human faces on homelessness. They placed themselves in the “New Oakland.”  They included themselves in Oakland’s “new diversity.” Hopefully, they’ll do more.  Hopefully, it’s not too late.

A homeless African-American man, born and raised in Oakland, told the Council that “Oakland puts more emphasis on gentrification than the people who live here.  They’re trying to give Oakland some new identity.”  He’s right.  Removing people like him is part of the gentrification process. However, by exercising his right to vote, he can bring the Council’s emphasis back to him.