Juve on New Orleans

Does anyone remember Juvenile?

Well, he's back in the news with two new singles, and some words on the gentrification of his hometown, New Orleans:

If you g go through the ghettos of New Orleans and you ride around, you'll see stuff being rebuilt. You'll see houses but the problem is who's moving in them. The people who actually lived in those areas are not getting the opportunity to move back in them. So that's why I say it's still messed up in a sense. Not by the naked eye it probably won't look like that but it is still messed up.

Read more here.

Lost Documentary on James Baldwin's Visit to San Francisco: Take This Hammer (1963)

There's a recently uncovered PBS documentary on James Baldwin's 1963 visit to San Francisco.  Watch the entire thing online. 

From Kenyon Farrow:

Take This Hammer, follows author and activist James Baldwin in the spring of 1963, as he’s driven around San Francisco to meet with members of the local African-American community. He is escorted by Youth For Service’s Executive Director Orville Luster and intent on discovering: “The real situation of Negroes in the city, as opposed to the image San Francisco would like to present.”

Money quote: "There is no moral distance … between the facts of life in San Francisco and the facts of life in Birmingham. Someone’s got to tell it like it is. And that’s where it’s at.”

For me, the most interesting part of this documentary wasn't necessarily Baldwin's astute observations or the frank conversations he has with Black residents of the Fillmore and Bayview. It's seeing the fruits of San Francisco urban renewal come into form. Baldwin tours the Fillmore, where some of the 'hoods most notorious projects are in the middle of construction. Crazy to see the despair on people's faces even before they were built; crazier still to see anyone refer to a newly-minted OCP as "marvelous on the outside."

Photos from the film:

here's the thing about writing a bad review

it's really easy if you're a hater. and i like to hate. especially when a film/album/person gets a lot of attention in a relatively short amount of time -- slumdog, kanye, hot cheetos. it's not really that i enjoy hating, it's just that once everybody starts telling me how amazing something is, my inner critic starts to rebel and i feel like i need to hate, if only to salvage some part of my individual humanity.

so after all this hoopla over medicine for melancholy, i had to be honest with myself. was i hating because i was truly concerned about the films content? or was my haterade coming from a deeper, more selfish space?

probably both.

i'd first heard about the film at the end of january when it was premiering in brooklyn. by mid-february i'd seen it getting favorable reviews in everything from the fader to post bougie to the san francisco chronicle (front page, even). my inner hater started creeping. slowly at first -- i didn't wanna read the reviews -- but by the time my transplanted white friends were talking about it, hatestronomous was in full blown survival mode.

i had to remind myself: calm down, jay. you have to like this film. it's about san francisco and alternablacks and bikes and fucked up romantic relationships and gentrification. and dammit, it's an indy film, too. not some fucked up commercial shit produced by sean penn and starring larenz tate and rosario dawson (although on second thought that might not be too bad).

in the span of little more than a month, medicine for melancholy went from a little-known niche film about black people and gentrification to one of this year's "it" films, something that the masses -- from brooklyn to boston and beyond -- could identify with on a personal level. and therein lay my problem: i didn't want to identify with something that everyone else could identify with on a personal level. for me, the experience of being born and raised and black in san francisco is uniquely personal. for me, seeing the film was like having of some inner part of myself put on display for everyone else to dissect, and internalize on their own accord. and the thing is about me is, despite putting all my dirty laundry in the blogesphere for everyone to see, i'm an intensely private person when it comes to the things i hold most dear. and i guess this -- whatever this is -- is one of those things.

i guess in that regard, i can relate to desi folks who have a complex appreciation for slumdog millionaire. sure, it's a great story, but there's something endlessly vapid about packaging someone else's pain and identity and marketing it as 'socially conscious' entertainment. it's voyeuristic, it's shameful, it's triggering, and yes -- it's annoying as fuck.

but medicine for melancholy is no slumdog millionaire. in its most basic description, it's an independent film made by a struggling filmmaker living out of a friends parents attic. it explores important troupes, such of race, class and sex, and does so in some rather cliched ways. the narrative never really settles smoothly. in fact, there's an awkwardness to the entire film that works well under the guise of uncomfortable one-night stands, but not so well when it comes to discussing the disappearance of black people from san francisco. the pace of the film is slow and, at times, boring. so is the film sweet? yes. does it provoke important questions? of course. is it groundbreaking? hardly.

that the truth is, in all my anticipation, i was setting myself up to be disappointed.

here's another thing about writing a bad review: opinions --especially mine -- are always bound to change, and are always the subjective fodder of the viewer, who inevitably brings their own biases and baggage to whatever it is they're ripping to shreds.

if melancholy were to be released on video, sure, i'd buy it. i'd watch it a few more times, mull over plotlines and maybe recommend it to a few more friends. but i can't say that i'll ever like it, because the subject matter is too painful to begin with, and too painfully under-explored in the film for me to truly appreciate.

Invincible

Check out this new video by Detroit fam Invincible. She's a dope, down ass Detroit native whose new album, "Shape Shifters", just dropped. The album features the work of some of Detroit's finest, including Black Milk on the production tip. I had the chance to chat it up with her recently about gentrification in Detroit (since the debate seems to be more bi-coastal than ever), and this video is more or less a visual representation of her insights.

Invincible feat. Finale- "Locusts" (docu-music-video):




Invincible's in the Bay this week to launch her album, and if you're around, check out the launch party this Friday @ Club Six.

You Know Your Neighborhood Is Gentrified When...

1. rent goes up

2. everything becomes "historic district ____"

3. the corner store turns into an overpriced organic produce market

4. Black people disappear

5. Brown people disappear

6. parking spaces disappear

7. all the good food is replaced by high priced cuisine 'inspired by' food from Central and South America, Asia and Africa

8. tour buses begin rolling down your block

9. new neighbors begin calling your family 'militant' and 'difficult'

10. children appear on leashes

11. only annoying ass hipsters kick it on the stoop after dark

12. the police and fire departments actually respond to emergencies

13. a new boutique opens on every other block

14. your 'hood is renamed to something that ends in "heights' or 'park'

15. apple computers appear everywhere.

16. the price of water drops significantly

On the National Day of Panhandling for Reparations

It's the day before THE day and my partner-in-justice and I just finalized our panhandling location. The surge of excitement surrounding tomorrow drove me to blogspot, and here I am.

We'll be panhandling at the corner of Hyperion and Monon in Silverlake (in Los Angeles, CA). Right there, in front of the Trader Joe's. I'm excited because it affords me the justice I didn't know I needed.

See, I shop at this Trader Joe's every few weeks--it's where I get my Kashi Heart to Heart at $2.87 a box. Breakfast of champions. Seriously... those little hearts and Os are the perfect balance of wholesome, crunchy, and sweet...but I digress.

Every time I venture out from Koreatown to Silverlake--as liquor stores turn to coffee shops--my breath becomes labored from the thick smog of gentrification and hipster musk. Until now, I haven't had a way to interrogate this space--I've found myself shoved around like a pinball, bouncing from $200 matted hair-do to $200 matted hair-do inside this store, trying to get my hands on just ONE box of cereal and get the hell out!

Today I fully realized the opportunity to force the present into conversation with the past that panhandling for reparations provides. Tomorrow we will be looking history squarely in the eye, acknowledging its truth, and asking others to do the same. This is my opportunity to peacefully push back, to ask my hipster co-shoppers to take a second and locate themselves...or, at the very least, to make a reparations payment.

Misadventures in NYC

For those who aren't in the "know", yours truly relocated across the country about a month ago. Here's the first installment of Dispatches from the Urban Jungle: this city is dirty and my metrocard won't work.

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See, the problem with moving 3,000 miles across the country for love is that it probably won't end up working out the way you planned. Either the circumstances change or your feelings do. Apply this to any model that fits ---passions, people, opportunity (or lack thereof). When you're young you either don't know or don't care, and refuse to believe every sorry love song you've heard on the radio or infamous fall from grace you've watched on VH1's "Behind the Music". Plan A doesn't work out, so you resort --and keep resorting--until you hit Plan Z, and you realize that heartbreak, mixed with a small dose of spontaneity and pinch of fate, was probably the best thing that ever happened to you.

Consider this the outline inside which to paint my first week living in New York City.

I wasn't apprehensive at all until I was on the plane leaving Oakland. The flight attendant was giving last minute safety instructions on how to inflate our life jackets in case our plane decided to crash in the middle of nowhere. I was thinking about details because the larger picture was still too abstract. I realized that we weren't going over any water and even if we were, I can't swim, so the life jacket thing was pointless. The family sitting behind me was going home to Long Island and the boy, who looked no older than ten, was throwing a temper tantrum and saying "fuck" every seventh word ("Mom, I don't fuckin' unda-staand why we caan't just...") and kept kicking my seat. Suddenly, I noticed how the flight attendants all looked miserable and wore way too much blue eyeshadow. For the first time in my life, I was alone. I said three quick prayers before take-off:

Dear higher being/God/homie/DJ,
1. Please don't let my plane crash, but
2. If it does and I survive, please don't let me be stranded somewhere in Idaho with this punk ass little boy behind me, and
3. Let me stay optimistic, and not give in to New York cynicism.

Night was falling by the time we hit a thunderstorm somewhere over Missouri. It was gorgeous. Thick, ominous clouds filled the sky with yellow bolts of light striking every few seconds. I felt robbed of my senses because I wanted to hear it and feel it. I looked out and saw what I thought was a small bird, but realized by the flashing red lights on the wings that it was a plane. I watched as it ascended from the clouds and it looked like it was running from a bully. Bitch move, I thought to myself. I decided to relinquish the illusion of having control over anything, and just go with it.

This city, like anywhere else, is a beautiful place, depending on where you stand. On the days when it's sunny, I haven't gotten lost, the stars are aligned correctly and my soul is in the right place, the opportunities are endless. And then there are moments when I'm just annoyed. The streets seem swallowed in chaos and the city that doesn't sleep looks more like the victim of an insomniac nightmare than a youthful zest for life. But it's beautiful. Like yesterday when I stumbled upon a DJ spinning house music (!) in Central Park where a bunch of folks of color (!!) were dancing on roller skates (!!!).

I live in Brooklyn. Prospect Park, to be exact. Lefferts Gardens to be even more precise. It's a beautiful neighborhood full of West Indian pride. Jamaican and Trinidadian stores and restaurants line the streets and I hear "wha gwan" almost as often as I hear thick New York accents. Tomorrow is the West Indian Day parade, right down the street from my house, so the neighborhood is buzzing with infectious energy. I've been somewhat of a Brooklyn addict since I've been here. Went to a free show in Fort Green Park where one of my favorite DJ's, Rich Medina, was spinning. Visited some friends in Bed-Stuy and stumbled upon a film screening at a community center. That's the thing about New York -- it's hard to make plans because you'll always stumble onto something fabulous and unexpected.

I did made the mistake of going to Williamsburg on a Thursday night. Goddamn! It's like the hippies of the 60's went on an acid trip and made love to the vapid over indulgence and cultural fetishism of the 70's and 80's and birthed a whole new breed of white priviledge. All to a really bad Milli Vanilli soundtrack. But I did find a cheap bar with $3 frozen margaritas and $4 32 ounce beers in huge Styrofoam cups. Horrible for the environment, great for self-loathing. And I had the best conversation with an older gentlemen (late 40's, early 50's) who was born and raised in Williamsburg back when it was the not-so-hip place that white folks stayed away from. He spent 27 years upstate for a "misunderstanding", as he put it, and had just moved back home with his family. He was still reeling from the culture shock of it all, but was actually happy the neighborhood had changed and appealed to a different crowd. Different stokes for different folks.

My program is alright. I'm taking classes at CUNY's Center for Worker Education, learning all about labor law and history. It's inspiring because the worker's center is open to members of different unions throughout the city. There's a shop steward in my one of my classes who is dooope (think Laura Plummer), so I definitely want to talk with her a lot more. The people in my immediate program are decent folks --mostly well intentioned white people who are great for talking about surface issues (nightlife, music, etc). I made the mistake of talking about gentrification to a few of them who were all "but my parents worked so hard for what they have and i feel bad about moving into Brooklyn but gentrification isn't necessarily a bad thing" to which I had a "neither would my foot up your ass" reaction.

The really exciting news is that I start working at the Northwest Bronx Community and Clergy Coalition on tuesday! It's a coalition of about 25 organizations in the Bronx that work on issues that range from organizing undocumented workers to planning community policing strategies. I'll know more next week when I start working, but for now I know I'll be working on a jobs survey and organizing to establish the first worker's center in the Bronx. (check out the website here: www.northwestbronx.org)

The best part of life so far is, as always, the people. I've been hanging out a lot with bay folks, Pitzer folks, MAAP folks. Manisha has a great apartment in East Harlem and makes delicious spaghetti at 2 AM. Beatriz is moving to San Francisco, so we're trying to ease each other's anxiousness about swapping coasts. We're planning on having a MAAP pre-reunion reunion next weekend. More details to come. I met Jhaviy's dog -- a diva, much like her dadd(ies). And then there are new folks, who some of you will meet whenever you come and VISIT me! Overall, I miss LA's dry heat, San Francisco's open spaces, Oakland's...everything, but I'm making it in New York.

Sorry this update was so long. I hope everyone is lovely and happy.

p.s. Lots of people say hi. I say hi to everyone. Ellen (from the ARC board) says hi to CTWO staff. Amanda (Plumb) says hi to Neelam. Sayjal says hi to all her ladies and is thankful to report that she's found Black people at Columbia's Teacher's College. All four of them.

Mt. Pleasant is a small community in Washington, DC that is home to much of the Latino community. Mt. Pleasant Street is filled with little Salvadorian restaurants, Latino grocery stores and other Latino owned businesses. It's nice to walk through the neighborhood and see that the Latino community doesn't just live there but owns businesses there too. It's refreshing and makes me feel like we have a place of our own.

That is until you get about half way up the street and find Dos Gringos. It is a small cafe that mainly has vegetarian and vegan food. It was started by who else, but "dos gringos". And guess who usually frequents the place? Gringos! Reviews of the restaurant mention that it is about the only place that's ever heard of a chai latte in Mt. Pleasant.

I say: Aren't there enough places for white folks to hang out? Do you really feel that threatened by the Latino community?

It's not just about white people owning a restaurant in the area. It's about the fact that they felt the need to claim that whiteness. Let anyone that walks by know that this is in fact a white establishment.

Today as I was walking through the neighborhood I saw a co-worker of mine eating there. As I walked up the steps to say hello I felt wrong, as if I were committing a sin against the community. I said my hellos as quickly as possible and left.

Another white male co-worker of mine mentioned that he has had a few interactions with people in the Columbia Heights and Mt. Pleasant areas that have stopped him to tell him to get out of their communities. The rapid gentrification of the areas is causing turmoil between the white and non-white members of the community. I look at places like "Dos Gringos" and think...this is where it started.

I haven't met a white person yet who hasn't made mention to the restaurant when talking about Mt. Pleasant. It's "trendy" and "hipster"....which means "white". It's there spot on the La-tino street. It's probably the second most popular reason for moving there right after; "I really feel like I'm connected to the people here". Oh yeah, look at that, I think your skin is changing color....it's a lighter shade of white.

Gang injunctions: an answer or ethnic cleansing*?

The San Francisco Weekly reports this week on the city attorney's efforts to enforce controversial gang injunctions to curb recent spikes in violence. The injunctions are pushed by City Attorney Dennis Herrera, and are either already in effect and proposed to take effect in the city's Hunter's Point, Mission and Western Addition. Anyone living in San Francisco -- especially folks who've been the victims of violence -- have to take a step back and ask themselves: what do gang injunctions really do?

Chief Public Defender Jeff Adachi calls the injunctions a modern form of McCarthyism. The Justice Policy institute just realeased a study that surveyed several metro areas across the nation and found that injunctions do nothing to stem violent crime in gang-heavy communities. And, as writer Martin Kuz of the SF Weekly points out, there's the unspoken issue of how gang injunctions only clear the path for gentrification:

There's also anxiety that injunctions could hasten gentrification. In Hunters Point, not far from the safety zone created by the Oakdale Mob court order, a 1,600-home subdivision sprouts by the day. Last month, the Board of Supervisors narrowly approved a plan for a 60-unit condo project along César Chávez Street — the southern border of the proposed safety zone — that will further shrink the Mission's low-income housing options. Against that backdrop, Henry Hernandez, a CARECEN caseworker, sees the potential injunctions as the first wave in what he dubs "ethnic cleansing."

I grew up in the Fillmore. I've lost friends to gang life. I've lost a sister to gang violence. As members of a community under seige, I know what it feels like to straddle both sides of the fence, wanting justice on the one hand and revenge on the other. There's no way to take a staunch approach to gang violence by isolating alleged gang members because those same folks causing mayhem on the streets are folks who went to your preschool, folks you see on the regular. I met up with a friend recently who found out who murdered their brother in 2005 and was looking to get revenge. Does that constitute a gang member? Give the community the resources to take care of itself. Imposing strict limitations on when, where and how alleged gang members can meet does nothing -- absolutely nothing -- to curb gang violence.

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*term used in SF Weekly story by community organizer Henry Hernandez

Because when the revolution comes

When I first got wind of the youth uprisings outside Paris in November 2005, two things shocked me. One, that black and brown youth were revolting en masse, gaining international attention. And two, the Parisian urban get up. The most impoverished neighborhoods lay about half an hour outside the city, in physical isolation from the country's economic and social center. The poor were literally out of sight and out of mind, fueling the tension that bred the rebellion. I wondered how physical isolation felt for entire communities that had been removed from the public sphere.

The United States now seems to be adopting a European model of shaping --and coloring --urban landscapes. From San Francisco to Los Angeles to New York, working class communities of color are being pushed farther and farther out. In the Bay Area, it might start with being pushed out of the Fillmore or Mission, and then moving along BART lines throughout the Bay to stay somewhat connected to the city, where the density of jobs exist. Even hipsters are finding it hard to maintain and are looking to colonize working class Black strongholds like West Oakland.

Is this way of life sustainable? One untold aspect of gentrification is its effect on government services. As working class families leave, public schools are faced with declining enrollment, a fact that probably means nothing since everything is being privatized anyway.

As crucial as an analysis of race is to any discussion about gentrification, it's important to note that it's not just white folks gentrifying your city's downtown. That pursuit of power, prestige, "civility" is a form of whiteness that anyone of upwardly mobile means can don as a mask. Whether it's Mexican American Princes, taking the reigns of LA politics, or freshly minted negroes with Arabic names and Stanford degrees, everyone who wants to be anyone is jumping at the chance to call a neighborhood "ghetto" and talk about its infestation of crack babies while listening to Jay-Z.

Race, as always, is complex and everchanging. In our limited American lexicon where we lack the language to dictate the obvious, race has become a hallow word we used because we're uncomfortable using words like "priviledge" and "power". More than anything, we're afraid of indicting ourselves. It's so easy as people of color to indicte white folks for everything oppressive and unjust, yet we ignore the power dynamics in our own communities that make mobilizing so difficult. I am a Black woman from a working class neighborhood -- a "surivivor" of gentrification. My family prized education, so to some, I talk 'white' and appear booksmart (yes, I've read Audre Lorde. No, my life didn't change as a result). In about two weeks I'm set to move across the country, iBook in one hand, ghetto survivor's guilt in another, and pursue my dream of becoming a "writer" in an affordable Brooklyn neighborhood, haunted by the ghosts of the families I've displaced. As you might have guessed it, I have an Arabic name, was born in the mid eighties, and graduated from an overpriced exlcusive liberal arts college. It ain't easy to admit, but admitting priviledge is the first step.

Like many folks in my shoes, I romanticize revolution. I wear it on my t-shirts and listen to it on my iPod while I'm on my way to my cozy office job. I believe in rebellion and resistance as an effective --even necessary--method of sustainable social change. Anger is the seed to action. But I worry. When I visualize revolution, I see a scene from an Octavia Butler novel, post-apocalyptic angst, roaring flames. I believe that youth will lead the way and that text messaging will be critical. But at that point of chaos, I fear that we'll have no direction. Perhaps like the Parisian youths who rioted for days and captured international headlines, we'll fight gallantly. But where will I be? It's not so easy as choosing a side. I feel like we all rotate along the edges of an octagon and when that public display of anger reveals itself, we'll all rush forward and attack one another because we were never certain of where we stood.

The revolution starts with the self. Hi, my name is Jay. I'm priviledged, and I'm angry.

Ancestors in Training

Older people have always scared me. Wrinkles, gray hair, the looks of agony as arthritis takes hold of a bone. They force me to think of my own mortality. Nevermind the fact that most of the folks I know who've passed have been taken in some tragic, unexpected way, years before their time. To me, aging has always been taking one step closer to dying. But I've never been afraid of death.

Aging to me is the slow process of everything, and everyone, becoming an antecedent. The heart and essence of people get lost in time until they become moments of deja-vu. Everything is fresh when you're young, experiencing it for the first time, and it's confusing for me to think that life is the repetition of cycles over which we have no control.

I've never liked the word "gentrification" because it sounds like something far too clinical for a process that murders generations of souls. But today I walked past the old record shop on Hayes that's now home to an organic healing center that doubles as a tattoo parlor, and it hit me. This process of uprooting communities is a slow, painful genocide. Death knocks on your door in the form of eviction notices and foreclosures. Memories become "ghetto", "violent" and "prone to drug addicted behavior". Every three blocks is marked with "historic district", the city sanctioned tombstone that makes maintenance too expensive and pride too elusive. Year by year, buildings are snatched away and remodeled so that even the few who remain don't even recognize their memories anymore. They become bitter and hostile, aging much faster than the rest. Some go insane by way of injections or pipes or bottles or God. Who can blame them when their memories don't belong to them anymore?

I'm not afraid of death, but I am afraid of its process. The physical pain, yes. But it's more this process of becoming an antecedent. The past triumphs over the present moment. I haven't decided if that's a good or bad thing, and it's this indecision that makes me quiver. I believe in respecting the past, but fear I'll tread that line a little too closely and become one of the insane whose reality differs from everyone else's. I can't help but laugh at that, though, because in my 22 years I'm still so consumed with the opinions of others.

For better or worse, this process of death still frightens me. I don't know who to blame: the ailments, for striking so selfishly; the body, for fighting so pitifully; or age, for being one of those undeniable truths we're never meant to understand until we're knocking on death's door.

Eastside...!

Of L.A., that is.

By way of Daniel Hernandez, peep this breakdown of Eastside LA's gentrification and the battle over it in print media. A trendy new magazine calling View From a Loft is being introduced as high-art-meets-eastside, but really it's more like a guidebook on how to pimp a neigborhood, hipster style.

More from EL CHAVO!:

"I'm tired of this "debate" since it mostly consists of Eastsiders fighting to preserve a semblance of place, informing newcomers from the far off West or beyond that we, on the other side of the river, do exist, and that (at least to ourselves) we do matter. Before I raise my army for the coming culture wars, and before the divide between the two LA's gets even wider, I figured I'd do some preliminary bridge building: I'm going to embark on an occasional series of posts to highlight aspects of the Eastside that I know. Mostly it'll be about places you can visit but sometimes there'll be posts that are based on the map of memory. Maybe it'll help some out there to take us seriously. (Ha, ha!) But even if it has no effect, and people still insist on erasing our identity, it'll be a record of the Eastside that actually means something to me, the place I call home."

This is what I love about Los Angeles: aggressive, in-your-face commentary. Passion. Those things have been sorely lacking in the Bay recently, at least from where I stand.

iPhone.

I turned my phone off for the weekend and felt free again. Then I woke up this morning to the announcement that the much anticipated iPhone will be available for purchase on June 29th. No doubt that eager customers worldwide will line up to grab the latest trendy accessory put out by the world's leading brand marketer of post modern cultural aesthetics. (Un)fortunetly, I won't be one of them.

For a technology guru like myself, the features of the iPhone are undeniably appealing: a hand-held multimedia device that functions as phone, iPod and MacBook all rolled into one. I'm skeptical about whether it'll really pose stiff competition to such brands as Blackberry and Trio since the buisness world remains stoicly PC-based.

However, Apple's stiffest competition when it comes to marketing the new iPhone to a broader audience is itself. The company has done a genius job at marketing a lifestyle to a young, trendy, media-savvy audience. Yet that audience is a very exclusive, niche market, consisting mainly of people under the age of 35 and media-related professionals. This, of course, has its advanatages. The young consumer market is huge, and advertising to younger folks will inevitably lead to brand loyalty for years to come.

But there are pitfalls. Above all else, Apple sells an aesthetic. It's young, it's hip, it's urban. It's also white, hipster and yuppie . Apple products are just as closely associated with film and music production as they are with the aesthetics of gentrification. On any given day, my local Apple store is filled with working class black and brown youth lined up at free internet-equipped computers checking email and myspace accounts. On more than a few occassions , Apple store empoyees have stood to the side, mean muggin' and impatient with the kids' playful and defiant breach of private space. Products remain outrageously priced, so the employees' gripe's usually have to do with the idea that the kids are taking up space on products they have no intention of buying. The validity of that claim is open to debate, but there's a direct link between technology and gentrification. It usually has to do with who has access to what, and where. In an increasingly technological society, Apple sells products that value the private domain: the insular world of iPods, do-it-yourself movies and music. Working class communities of color often don't have access to the spaces, let alone the products, to control their representation. And since technology is the latest metaphorical reference to the globalized American apple pie, the extent to which you don't have access to it is one of the truest measures of powerlessness in our society.

So, back to the iPhone. It's chic and trendy, and at nearly $600 retail price, way too expensive for my tastes. It's undoubtedly a priviledge to actively choose not to be a part of something, I know that. My inner nerd can't deny the allure, but every racial justice activist bone in my body wants to resist this latest installment in multimedia colonization.Besides, I kinda like the idea of leading a life that's still somewhat free from the constant demands of being wired and accessible.

Disastrous Inequality

Please watch this Colorlines-sponsored video on the potential disaster awaiting Los Angeles, and the apprehension of many working class communities of color to heed evacuation orders.

Although Colorlines published a story on this well over a year ago, makring the one year anniversay of Katrina, yesterday the LA Times published a similar story storyoutlining how many folks word ignore evacuation orders.