
Articles
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5 days ago |
noozhawk.com | Wayne Mellinger
The first time I saw him, I almost walked right past. He sat cross-legged beneath a faded awning on Milpas Street, his back pressed against the chipped brick of an old storefront. To the rush of midday traffic and the hum of the city, he was just another man without a home. But something made me pause — not his posture, not his ragged clothes, but the stillness around him. At his feet, five cats nestled in tight circles of fur and breath.
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1 week ago |
noozhawk.com | Wayne Mellinger
When I arrived in Santa Barbara in 1983 to begin graduate studies in sociology at UC Santa Barbara, the only professor I knew by name was Richard Flacks. His groundbreaking work on social movements, participatory democracy and the New Left had earned him national recognition. I came with my own political commitments, forged during two formative years in San Francisco’s radical countercultures — queer, anarchist, feminist and ecological circles.
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2 weeks ago |
noozhawk.com | Wayne Mellinger
On the other side of Santa Barbara’s water treatment plant, tucked between Garden Street and Calle Cesar Chavez, lies another city. The brush behind the Union Pacific railroad tracks hides a micro-nature zone fenced off from public view, though the fences are now breached — holes cut by human hands seeking refuge. Inside, encampments form and dissolve: cookfires, tents and bicycle parts stacked like treasure.
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3 weeks ago |
noozhawk.com | Wayne Mellinger
Boots hit the pavement on Santa Barbara’s East Yanonali Street before the sun rises. Each morning, a quiet choreography unfolds: men — mostly young, mostly Mexican — gather at a spot just down from the Funk Zone, the wine-soaked playground for locals and tourists alike. They wear work boots, paint-streaked jeans, and hoodies zipped tight against the dawn chill. Some carry tool belts. Others bring nothing but their hands and hope. This is la barda, the labor line.
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1 month ago |
noozhawk.com | Wayne Mellinger
At dawn, the coastal light pours over Santa Barbara’s red-tile roofs and bougainvillea-covered walls, painting a postcard of affluence. But in a cracked parking lot behind a shuttered strip mall on Milpas Street, the scene is different. The Vega family — Carmen; her husband, Luis; and their two children — have just woken up in the back of a Toyota Sienna.
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