Message: 3
Date: Mon, 29 Apr 2002 09:17:05 -0700
From: chance martin <[email protected]>
To: "Homeless People's Network" <[email protected]>,
<[email protected]>
Subject: [Hpn] IN APPRECIATION OF THE SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER
by chance martinSince the infamous sale and all its disreputable backroom ³horse trading²
became lost among the many examples of what little regard San Franciscans
hold for ethics in business OR politics ‹ the word on the street has been
that the Fang family took a $60 million plus payment from the Hearst Corp.
to kill the EXAMINER, leaving San Francisco a ³one Hearst² town. We even
joked around the office that we would organize a pool to bet on the date we
predict that the new EXAMINER will go under.
But I do remember eagerly purchasing the first edition of the Fang¹s
EXAMINER at the corner store near the COH offices. I was intrigued because I
had only begun editing the Coalition¹s paper, and I was curious to see what
changes would be evident once Hearst¹s corporate tentacles were pried from
the EXAMINER¹s pages.
It looked a little rough ‹ poor resolution on the front-page photos and some
minor registration errors. But I could appreciate how difficult it can be to
take the reins of a community institution like the EXAMINER and produce
something consistent with the former paper¹s look and feel. After all,
that¹s what I was hired to do here at STREET SHEET.
Then I started to read.
Maybe it would be appropriate to point out that I¹m formerly homeless, that
I was still collecting SSI for a psychiatric disability*, that I have a
history of drug addiction, and that my confidence in carrying out editorial
duties at STREET SHEET was, at that time, pretty shaky. The first year I sat
at this desk was marked by many moments when I felt like a deer caught in
someone¹s headlights. There¹s nothing like becoming ill and losing a
prosperous contracting business, spending a few years in and out of mental
hospitals, being treated like a malingerer for applying for disability, and
all the general scorn and indifference from cops, GA workers, elected
officials, etc. for making a serious dent in one¹s self confidence. I was
only hoping I could hang on and not screw the pooch ‹ again.
So I pored over that first-edition Fangzaminer, looking to find any little
trick I could steal to improve the STREET SHEET, but what I found instead
was an unexpected gift.
For those who also dropped two bits in search of novelty that day, you¹ll
remember that the lengthy lead story on Page One was supposedly continued on
another page. But as we turned to the page where the rest of the story was
promised, what we found instead was a full-page ad for one of the major
downtown department stores. The conclusion of the inaugural issue¹s lead
story was nowhere to be found.
That was the moment I knew ‹ in spite of my self-imposed stigmata ‹ I would
never, ever be the biggest fuckup who ever edited and proofed a San
Francisco newspaper. And I haven¹t looked back since.
Before long, I found myself fielding frequent (bordering on desperate) calls
from some guy named Zach in the EXAMINER¹s circulation department. It seems
this fellow had fixated on a scheme to use STREET SHEET vendors as EXAMINER hawkers. Attempting to be as conscientious as I knew how to be, I explained repeatedly and at great length why our vendors were exempt from vending permit requirements. The SF City Attorney had found that, as an ³opinion
tabloid,² STREET SHEET had ³no intrinsic value other than to convey a
message,² and, because we didn¹t carry commercial advertising or charge our
vendors any portion of the cover price, our vendor¹s activities were
protected by the First Amendment. And because the EXAMINER is (reputedly)
out to make a profit, selling it on the street would require a vendor¹s
permit for each hawker.
Zach was determined, however, so when he finally grasped that we weren¹t
budging, he thought to take his pitch to our director. A couple of days
later, Paul Boden¹s asking me why I didn¹t explain to this guy that he
couldn¹t ³go over my head² because our staff shares all decision-making at
COH. No one can really fault Zach there; non-hierarchical organizations like
ours tend to truly baffle folks who toil in top-down fiefdoms like the
Fang¹s.
The Zach saga concluded when he called again on the very day that the
Fangzaminer¹s once venerated, currently wet-brained hack Warren Hinckle
wrote a hit piece directed at Supervisor Chris Daly and COH director Paul
Boden. When I pointed this out to Zach he didn¹t have a clue about it. We
can only surmise from this episode that the EXAMINER¹s circulation
department, like most of San Francisco, doesn¹t actually read the EXAMINER
either.
But EXAMINER sales must have been an issue, because the EXAMINER was soon to revive the fine old Hearst tradition of yellow journalism. In a stunning bit
of irony, an Asian-American owned newspaper began a propaganda crusade to
demonize homeless people in precisely the same manner old William Randolph
Hearst promoted a frenzy of hatred and distrust directed at San Francisco¹s
Chinese immigrant population. The life-and-death issues of our poorest and
most vulnerable citizens were reduced to a part of ³the Mess on Market²
(with some considerable strategic assistance from the Mayor¹s press office
and its ³fifth Beatle,² Homeless Coordinator George Smith), and journalistic
objectivity on homeless issues was completely lost from the EXAMINER¹s
pages.
Labeling every homeless person in San Francisco with such choice epithets as
³bums, deadbeats, junkies and drunks² hasn¹t done much to actually help
solve homelessness (and surely couldn¹t do much for the self-esteem of the
third of our homeless population who are children), but it does seem to
attract a pretty specific audience. Funny thing ‹ judging from the
correspondence we receive from fans of the EXAMINER¹s editorial bent, most
of them prefer to remain anonymous, as do those downsized dot.commers with
too much time on their hands who created an online gathering place for a lot
of similarly anonymous hate-spewers at www.streettreats.com.
I really can¹t blame them; I wouldn¹t want public recognition as a fecal
connoisseur, either. And as long as we¹re discussing feces, am I the only
person who finds it positively bizarre that Mayor Brown ‹ who has spent most
of these past years in City Hall shitting in his own back yard ‹ would
travel all the way to Paris only to whine to their press about what a mess
San Francisco is?
For folks truly concerned about the mess on our streets, I would recommend
asking the Fang family to print their three-times-a-week throwaway
INDEPENDENT on paper that biodegrades before their unsolicited coupon-bombs
can blow wantonly around our neighborhoods, as they are always doing in my
Western Addition neighborhood.
And for anyone who wants to learn anything factual about homelessness, I
would suggest getting their information from a newspaper that doesn¹t suffer
a higher staff turnover rate than most emergency homeless shelters in San
Francisco. If you ever wondered why STREET SHEET costs a dollar, it¹s
because we figure accurate, documented facts have some actual value (for
their novelty, if nothing else) in our local media market.* I no longer collect SSI, which means the Social Security Administration
officially determined that I¹m sane as the next person, and in this town
that ain¹t saying much.
--__--__--
Message: 4
Date: Mon, 29 Apr 2002 09:23:09 -0700
From: chance martin <[email protected]>
To: "Homeless People's Network" <[email protected]>,
<[email protected]>BROWN, NOSING THE HOMELESS
by Josh BrandonIrish Rose, bartender at the Dubya Hotel, a high-class watering hole
pandering to people with money, power, and celebrity, gave Jim Phinn, the
man with 12 million pig cells in his brain, his double scotch.
³Any side effects yet, Phinn, from that xenotransplant for your brain
hemorrhage a few years ago?² asked Irish.
³Nope, other than a craving for table scraps now and then. I still can¹t
stand the smell of ham and eggs.²
³How¹s your new job working out, Phinn?² Business was slow and Irish Rose
enjoyed talking to her regular customers. Her regular customers sometimes
didn¹t enjoy the conversation as much as she did.
³Stupid question, Irish,² he said. ³I work for San Francisco¹s Homeless
Coordinator, so you know I deal with people who are a sandwich shy of a
picnic and this one is coordinating the picnic basket. With some difficulty,
I may add.²
³So, what is it that you do?² she asked, interested because, after all, he
had been on Oprah five years ago and only about 300 people in the world had
had a xenotransplant. She wanted to know how nine carrot-sized pig fetuses,
missing their heads, would affect someone¹s work after being inserted in
their brain.
Phinn sighed, shook his head, then downed his drink in two gulps, placing
his empty glass softly on the bar. ³I work for a formerly homeless man who
now makes over a 100 grand a year, thanks to an appointment from His
Williness. He has no power over any homeless program, so he has to do
something. For the past two years, he¹s been counting homeless people. My
job is to help him do that by developing and implementing a $750,000
computerized central database called a Homeless Management Information
System.²
Irish Rose raised an eyebrow, thinking that perhaps she missed something.
³So you are being well paid to do what your even better-paid boss has been
doing for two years, counting homeless people when everyone already knows
that there are many more homeless people than houses for them, except you
are using computers?² as she reached for the glass to refill it.
³It¹s worse than that, Irish Rose,² he continued. ³I¹ve got to sell this
project to the Board of Supervisors like a carnival barker shilling suckers
and marks who expect to see something they have never seen before out of
their money.²
³And they haven¹t seen this before?² she asked.
Phinn took a sip of scotch before answering. ³Three times before,² he said.
³San Francisco spent $12 million in federal monies for a centralized intake
system for substance abuse treatment and, after five years, it was called a
failure and its funding was cut deeper than the pension fund for ENRON
employees.
Then we spent $4 million on fingerprinting public assistance clients, and,
after the ink dried, ended up with finding only a dozen dunderheads who were
double-dipping. And, to top it off, we are now spending $500,000 a year on a
centralized intake system for homeless families.²
Irish Rose, looking up from washing some glasses, said, ³Let me guess.
That¹s not doing so well either, is it?²
³We don¹t talk about that,² he said, ³but, between you and me, that system
only places four families in the four shelters it manages... each week. The
other 150 families are put on a waiting list that grows faster than our
mayor¹s nose any time he gives a speech.²
She pondered that for a minute.
³You¹re doing the devil¹s work, Phinn, the good Irish man with a good Irish
heart that you are, aside from that pig part of you. That money you are
spending on a new wheel that doesn¹t roll should be going to those families
waiting outside so that they can get inside.²
Phinn sighed again. ³I know, I know. But it¹s even worse than that. It¹s why
I¹m drinking this scotch, and, yes, I¹ll have another, because now
Supervisors Newsom and Hall, as well as my boss, are coming up with more
bugwit ideas for me to do that are so bad they make my good Irish heart
break and my pig brain squeal.²
³You¹re getting maudlin, Phinn,² while handing him another double scotch.
Phinn squinted at Irish Rose, to make sure he was speaking to the real one
and not the ghost double. ³You would too, if you were me, and getting drunk,
and wondering what is wrong with people,² he said. ³Listen to this. Rumor
has it that Newsome and Hall, who are pushing for this system, are willing
to fingerprint any homeless person who goes to any shelter or drop-in center
as part of this data collection system, you know, so that we don¹t count
them twice when we give this information to the feds, who are funding my
project.²
³You find that wrong, Phinn?² she asked.
³As wrong as the day is long,² he answered, or thought he did, because he
had actually said ³as long as the day is wrong.²
³Look,² he continued, ³what do you think a homeless person will do when he
believes that people are out after him and when he goes to a drop-in to use
the bathroom, the first thing that happens to him as he enters the door is
some stranger asks him a bunch of personal questions about his past, his
education, his work history, his health history, how much money he gets,
where he has stayed for the past year, and other personal stuff, and then
asks for his fingerprints, too, while we¹re at it, thank you very much, now
you can pee.²
Irish Rose nodded, saying ³That poor soul will be so shook up, he will know
that they are after him and he will never go back again. He won¹t trust
them.²
³Yeah,² Phinn said, ³and he will be joining a whole bunch of other people
with the same problem. If you think our streets are already clogged up with
too many homeless people, wait until that happens.²
³Or the other thing,² he added.
³What other thing?² she asked.
Phinn looked over his shoulder, turned back his head toward Irish Rose,
leaned closer, and whispered, ³Metal detectors.²
³That¹s your last drink, James Phinn,² she said.
³No, no,² he fumbled, ³I mean yes, this is my last drink, but, no, this is a
real rumor. My boss wants to put in metal detectors in the shelters, and
drop-ins too. He thinks it will make the staff feel safer. Besides, His
Williness wants them.²
³Why does he want that?² asked Irish Rose.
³His Williness believes San Francisco is the American homeless Eden and
every homeless person in these United States will travel hundreds and
thousands of miles so they can collect a public assistance check of less
than $100 a week, live in doorways and alleys in the cold and rain and fog,
and lead the good life, in between dodging the cops and the Public Works
trucks that take and dump what little they have that they can call their
own.²
³You might have a point, Phinn. I¹ve read that Mayor Brown doesn¹t really
hate poor or homeless people because he and his friends need waiters and
waitresses to serve them.²
Phinn shook his head. ³Nah,² he said, ³that¹s the public pablum he feeds the
masses. He wants the metal detectors or some X-ray machine to prove that
they are aliens because they don¹t come from here, even though 95% of the
people who live here didn¹t come from here. Did I say that right?²
Irish Rose shrugged her shoulders. ³I don¹t know,² she said. ³A lot of what
you¹ve said doesn¹t make much sense, in a way.²
Phinn slowly stood up, his feet gingerly touching the floor as if to make
sure it wouldn¹t move out from under him. After a few drinks, whether you
are rich or poor, he believed, the whole world became just a little bit
sneakier and would try to trick you.
³You just don¹t know,² he said. ³This Homeless Management Information Systemhas to be ready by September of 2004 in order for cities to receive any ofthe millions of dollars of federal homeless money. San Francisco will have
at least 20 programs participating in it, all of them sharing all this
personal information from the same database I¹m setting up, fingerprints and
all, with labels called ³drug user² or ³mentally ill² or ³HIV-positive²
attached to each person who looked for medical help for a medical problem
when they went through a rough time in their life. Homeless families will be
afraid that social agencies will find a reason to take their children away
from them. Immigrants will believe what is collected will be given to the
Feds and they will be deported.
³And you are right, Irish Rose. It doesn¹t make much sense. This system
won¹t result in an accurate count of homeless people because a lot of
homeless people don¹t use the system, many more newly homeless people will
be afraid of it and avoid it altogether, and those who used to use it will
stop.
Instead of complicating the system to make it harder for homeless people to
get housed and then get other help, they should be expanding the services
they need, like job training, homeless prevention, more mental health and
substance abuse treatment, all of which are, sadly, either being cut or
never got enough money to make them work the way they were designed in the
first place.²
³I¹ve called a cab for you, Phinn,² she said. ³It¹ll be here in a minute or
two.²
Phinn handed her a ten-dollar tip, but Irish Rose looked at it, looked at
Phinn, then picked it up and gave it back to him, saying ³Why don¹t you give
that to that homeless panhandler that works the corner where the cabs come,
Phinn? From what you just told me, he is going to need it.²
³Oh,² said Phinn, ³he might just use it for drugs or alcohol.²
She smiled and said, ³What do you think you just did, and there¹s no Œmight¹
about it, either. It¹s why I cut you off and why you are staggering to the
cab I called for you.²
Phinn thought about that, then nodded his head, and tiptoed toward the door
like an elephant balancing on egg shells he didn¹t want to crush, just to
make sure the floor wouldn¹t quickly move out from under him.
³And by the way, my friend,² she called out to him, ³why don¹t you tell your
boss and His Williness to just keep their noses out of people¹s butts,
because not only would they see things more clearly, things would smell
better.²
³Oh, that¹s wild, Irish Rose,² he said as he disappeared into the night.
-------------------------------------------------------------
STREET SHEET
A Publication of the Coalition on Homelessness, San Francisco
468 Turk Street, San Francisco, CA 94102
415 / 346.3740-voice € 415 / 775.5639-fax
[email protected]
http://www.sf-homeless-coalition.org
******************************************************It's Homeless-Out-Tonight a true story
I spend a lot of time thinking about the homeless in our country. In fact,
that's about all I think about these days. One reason is that's what I am -
homeless. It's the second time I've been homeless in the last ten years.
A lot of people wouldn't agree with me that I'm homeless. I don't fit the
definition some have created and others believe. I've got a roof over my
head and they only count those who are on the street.
I fit the definition better the first time I was homeless. I lived in my van
then. It was a van conversion, so some didn't look at me as being exactly
homeless. I had a roof over my head.
LeRoy wouldn't agree that I'm homeless. He appreciated the cold shower,
clean pants, shirt, socks & underwear I gave him. He also appreciated the
job I got for him even though he didn't keep it long. He eats out of garbage
cans a lot. He's homeless-on-the-street.
Quent doesn't think I'm homeless. I've got a regular place to stay. He goes
from his folks house to the street or a friends place, mostly the streets.
He comes around for cigarettes and keeps asking to cut the grass for a few
bucks. He's thirty-one and would like a steady job, but he needs some
nurturing to break a few old habits. He's homeless-with-a-roof-now-and-then.
Abraham probably would agree that I'm homeless. He's homeless like me - he's
got a roof over his head. He's an elder in the Ministry of Help around the
corner. He helps a lot of people spiritually and otherly. He and I moved
Grace's boxes to a church basement when she was facing being
homeless-on-the-street, rather than homeless-with-a-roof. Right now, she's
homeless-with-a-roof-for-awhile.
Karen made the arrangements with the church where we stored Grace's boxes.
She's helping the church with the transition of integration. She's
homeless-with-a-roof.
Most Americans don't look at people who are homeless-with-a-roof as being
homeless at all. I mean, it's not like being homeless-on-the-street. But
then, they count the homeless-in-a-shelter the same as they count the
homeless-on-the-street. Or the homeless-in-a-tent. Or the
homeless-on-a-bench.
Most of us who are homeless-with-a-roof exist there on the wings of prayer,
subject to the whims of chance or the fancy or others. It's tenuous, at
best. Yet even with this precarious hold on life, the homeless-with-a-roof
fall in a crack that few even attempt to count. In fact, the latest census
admittedly undercounted the homeless-on-the-street but the government has
decided to let false information stand.
Websters' Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary doesn't even have a definition of
homeless that fits any of the above. Mr. Stephen J. Perrault of
Merriam-Webster Inc. told me in a letter that ". . . you have misunderstood
our treatment of this term (homeless) . . .". He went on to say "Derivative
words whose meanings are considered self- explanatory are often treated as
undefined run-ons in our dictionaries as a way of saving space."
Yet they took four lines in their ninth edition to define the derivative
homeless-at home, using such words as relaxed and comfortable, at ease, in
harmony with the surroundings and on familiar grounds. He tells me that the
tenth edition published this past May now defines homeless as having no home
or permanent place of residence. After taking four lines to discuss an
archaic use of the word that isn't even close, I would have expected a word
that defines such a major problem in our country to at least be given equal
space in their book.
He closed the letter saying "I hope that this explanation has cleared up
your confusion about our treatment of homeless." I wasn't confused and told
him so. "My point, however, deals more with Mr. Mish's (Editor in Chief)
opening paragraph of the (ninth edition) Preface: 'This dictionary is meant
to serve the general public as its chief source of information about the
words of our language. The school or college student, the office worker, the
home user - all will find this Collegiate a reliable guide to understanding
the English of our day and communicating in it.'"
The opening paragraph on the inside front cover of the dust jacket cites the
sale of more than 11,000,000 hardcover copies of the Eighth Edition while it
was in print, and it had the same definition as the ninth. No wonder we
misunderstand the problem if such a reliable source only recently defined it
the way we speak of it using the English of our day. Even at that, the
definition is hardly adequate, given the magnitude of the problem and the
consequence to millions of America's homeless.
Mr. Perrault really didn't have to tell me "If you look again, I think it
will be quite clear to you that the definitions you've cited (in the ninth
edition) are not definitions of homeless." I know that, Stephen J. I know it
very well.
The various people who do such things estimate our homeless at anywhere from
600,000 to 3,000,000. I think it's more like seven to ten million, but then
I look at homelessness differently. I count the homeless-with-a-roof with
all the other undefined run-on's that may or may not be part of the English
of our day.
However you define it, however you count it, it's homeless-out-tonight for
millions of Americans. Until we change how we think of it and what we do
about it, tomorrow night won't be any better.David R. Quammen ([email protected])
Written to introduce Restore Hope In America on the day of its
incorporation, August 30, 1993, in Washington, District of Columbia.
************************************************Want to spend a day with me? Then go to the next chapter.