Oakland can also be a cold place. Many people wander the streets at night with nowhere to lay their heads. It's estimated that 40% of the homeless population is Black while we are only 13% of the national population. This fact has been normalized.
The coldest part though is that many people living in the streets may never have an abode of their own again. One evicted is enough for one to be barred from leasing.
It nearly physical hurts to see all this housing being built around the Bay Area and know that you can never qualify for leasing because your credit score isn't high enough or whatever excuses they use to legally discriminate against Blacks.
No, this housing is for the monied immigrants and transplants from the Midwest. Actual natives get no love in the housing market. Thus, they are forced to leave the Bay and head to places like Pittsburgh, Antioch or
even further– down South to places like Atlanta and Houston.
Recently, I found housing in Oakland. I was elated and eager to leave a living situation that was untenable. I may have jumped the gun. There were a lot of rules and regulations where I had been for nearly 2 years. You see, it was a board and care. The price was right. They called it “The Program.” There were many rules. We had to be in by 9 pm and couldn't go outside until 7 am. We could not snack in our rooms. We could not dye our hair because the owner didn't want us to damage “her” sink.
The biggest, most detrimental rule was that we were not allowed to shower in the day time. We could only shower between the hours of 6 pm and 8 pm. If we were out during these hours, we were literally assed out. We would have to wait to the following day. We could wash up in the sink. That's it. Toward the end of my stay she even disallowed us from using wipes because she didn't want them going down her toilet. It didn't matter that I told her that I was intelligent enough to put them in the trash. It was her way or the highway.
It wasn't long before I went into a deep depression. I wouldn't go anywhere. I did the bare minimum. Fortunately, I was able to stay on a medication regimen. A blonde about my age watched us take our meds. When I first got there she gave me my key on a lancet which she referred to as a"dog collar.” That struck me as odd.
I looked for work for the longest time with the help of a job coach. He was a super nice guy. Very positive. I was able to find a remote position.
After that job ended I was back to square one. I began working with a new job coach. She was a sistah and super motivated to help me. The restrictions on the hours I could leave the house and be back proved to also be an obstacle to finding work. I was extremely thankful that I could make ends meet with my disability insurance.
I applied to a waiting list for a place in Chinatown and six months later I was invited to attend an interview. Shortly after that I was notified that my application was accepted. I saw a glimmer of hope that I didn't have while I was living in The Trap, also known as Ghost Town.
Since I moved to my new crib that is subsidized by the Oakland Housing Authority I've encountered a lot of hostility from certain neighbors. It's been an intervention of the cruelest kind. I have become infamous from Oakland to Sacramento for smelling like shit. They even gave me a new moniker–Skunk. The skunk is a beautiful black creature but when crossed or frightened sprays a scent that will knock you out.
I'm all about growth and learning. I am committed to getting to the bottom of this issue with my doctors and with myself. I'm not dead yet. As long as I am breathing I will grow. God’s got me.
Meanwhile, I am suing everybody. Many people have violated my privacy, especially violated HIPPA. Latinas eager to knock me out of the box out of their superiority complex when it comes to Black women. I got something for that ass. Big. Fat. Lawsuits. You see, these people are the new house niggas.
I've made many mistakes in my life, but this is still my Town and I will not just lay down and die like roadkill. Nope, ain't doing it. I'm a Jones. A double Jones. I mind my business, payment rent on time and am courteous to my neighbors. I live in a way Christ has commanded us to live. Yet, I've been called everything but a child of God.
It's funny to me that Sex and The City is one of the biggest franchises in entertainment history. It's a tale about a writer living a single life. When it debuted I was also in the thick of my journalism years living in Oakland on E. 18th Street by Lake Merritt.
I subscribed to HBO just to watch the ladies take a big bite out of the Big Apple. If I had a dollar for every time I was told by a gatekeeper that I wasn't really a writer, I'd be very rich. Their disbelief is out of racism. The forces that be have actively scrubbed the internet of the work I produced as a journalist and editor for YO! Youth Outlet, a youth paper I co-founded (I even named the muthafuckah) and was senior editor of for about 10 years before I was blacklisted. At the same time, I suffered complications due to bipolar disorder.
I've been made infamous here. I don't have a car. I have to use public transportation. I have a life to live. I cannot seek a gig until my symptoms are under control. Until then everyone can do like Whitney Houston would say, “Eat my ass!” I still have a long American heritage. I simply can't be erased. Try as you might, the mighty Califia energy lives in me, a writer touched with fire.
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