From the Poverty Hero Series

January 1, 2001

Ibaro Ago Juba (Song for Elegua)

Eshu Eshu. His body felt wet. Wet and yet covered—wet and cold in a new way, in a dead way. Was he awake? The Orisha Elegua was waking him up… Eshu Eshu Layiki. He heard the first words, the praise name for Elegua—a road that no one knows how to begin or to end…

As he slept last night, forty-seven-year-old Carlos’ small awning under the 24th Street Bridge had slowly given away to the onslaught of rain. He awoke to a sleeping bag heavy with moisture. He stepped gingerly out of it, careful to not touch the sides of the nylon; if he moved slowly, the inside would stay dry, or at least the inside of most of his layers of clothing. He slept at a right angle, facing up on a dirt slope against the 280 Freeway. A stray piece of paper flew past him. He grabbed it quickly and put it in his “trash bag”—no one could understand how much he loved this place. After two years of random doorways, benches, jail, shelters, and the bus station, assault robbery and police harassment, this was his place. He was never bothered here; in fact, almost no one could see him at all. The ambient whir-swoosh-roar of the traffic above him became a symphony, a peaceful sound.

He slowly put on a second set of “outside” clothes, preserving another clean set for later. After dressing, he groped in the dirt for his breakfast— a leftover burger from last night. He unfolded the thin paper wrapping from his remaining Whopper. He loved Burger King because they were on his recycling route, included a free cup of hot coffee, and never asked him to leave if he stayed longer than his burger eating time. As he was almost ready to leave, a voice called out, “Hey… yeah…. You, with the hat. You need to come out of there right now!” The voice sliced through the air like a knife. Was it real? How could it be? How could anyone know he was here?

Choncho abe ko lori eyo’ (a pointed knife protruding from Elegua’s head)

“Are you talking to me, señor?” Carlos answered quietly. He was a soft-spoken man who refused to raise his voice for anyone. “Yeah I’m talking to you. Don’t try to pretend you don’t hear me.”

The man’s tone was layered with disdain, hate, or both. “I know you live in here and I really don’t care, but you have get your things and leave.”

“Why do I have to leave?” “Did you hear me? Get out of here pendejo.”

“I am only asking for a reason, señor.” “Ok, you want a reason? Because we have to clean this whole area under the freeway” “Okay. I will wait on the sidewalk…” “Oh, no. You can’t do that. We have to steam clean the sidewalk as well.” “But, it’s pouring rain, señor.”

Carlos did as the man said and quietly left. He was only able to take a few things—all the rest of the stuff the man threw triumphantly into his truck, including the wet sleeping bag that Carlos could not carry on his back.

Carlos walked numbly through his usual route, collecting over three hundred pounds of cans and cardboard, transporting the whole load seven miles across town to the recycling center. He made thirty-four dollars.

At 10 p.m., he walked slowly back to his “spot.” The asphalt was shining like glass with rain, the wet night sky was smoke colored; the intermittent rain dripped down his wet clothing and competed with his streaming tears for space on his face. Please don’t be gone, he whispered between gulps. Please don’t be.

And then he was in front of what he knew would be there, what he could taste and touch and yet did not know for sure until now. Illuminated by the passing flash of headlights glistening in the rain was a giant steel fence surrounding his space.

He reached up to touch it. “Dios mio, why have you let me down?

Elegua, why do you trick me so? What can you gain by this? Where will I go?”

He fell onto the cement, burying his face on the sidewalk, his hands stretched out in front of him. His body shook as he repeatedly screamed,

“Where will I go? Dios Mio where will I go?”

Eshu Eshu… Layiki

It started as a light—a random headlight from a passing car on the freeway above, that lingered a little longer than the rest. Then the light showered Carlos’ body, and as it grew brighter Carlos became warm. The warmth turned into a burning heat and then his hands grew away from his body, sailing into the night sky, climbing on the fence motioning for Carlos to follow.

Carlos stood up, letting his body fuse slowly into a new version of his hands—hands lined in pure gold. He watched as they ripped the fence apart, one tier at a time, effortlessly, as though it were made of paper.

The fence fell away to the ground. Carlos walked through.

Eshu eshu Layiki… Eshu… eshu

Tiny (aka Lisa Gray-Garcia) is a poverty scholar, revolutionary journalist, poet, spoken word artist, teacher, welfareQUEEN, and the co-founder and executive director of POOR Magazine. POOR is a grassroots, artsbased organization dedicated to giving a voice to those struggling with poverty, racism and disability. Tiny is author of Criminal of Poverty: Growing Up Homeless in America published by City Lights. She has innovated several revolutionary media, arts and education programs, for youth, adults and elders including the first welfare-to-work journalism program in the country for poor mothers transitioning off of welfare. This year she launched The Race, Poverty and Media Justice Institute at POOR Magazine.

Art by Brad Robinson. Brad has been carving, inking and pulling prints for almost six years. He is completely taken with the wonderful city of San Francisco, and this is reflected in the art he makes. He is a member of City Art Gallery, a cooperative gallery on Valencia Street, where his work can often be seen. Besides being published for the second time in Instant City. He has also been published in Zyzzyva, an anthology of West Coast writers and artists.

The Poverty Hero Project

At POOR magazine we have developed a new kind of non-traditional literary hero— the Poverty Hero. Like a mythical hero, the Poverty Hero has also withstood overwhelming obstacles, and achieved great things. Except the obstacles might be multiple evictions, homelessness, welfare dependency and institutional systems abuse, racial and economic profiling, incarceration and assault. The heroism could be surviving a life lived in poverty. The Poverty Hero could be a mother on welfare who has successfully raised her children; an abuela in Mexico who borrows the electricity of Sony Corp to power her Tijuana shanty village; a houseless person who creates art; an elder who is fighting an illegal eviction; a homeless child who helps her mother care for her siblings. The Poverty Hero is one who survives through these great odds. We have several goals with these presentations, only one of which is to empower the poverty heroes with a new feeling of pride for the heroism of survival.

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