I have changed
neighborhoods.
San Francisco is
a city comprised of distinct neighborhoods, each fiercely proud of its
character and jealous of what it considers to be its superior standing vis-á-vis the others. Competing snobberies and reverse-snobberies
can make the place seem positively Balkan:
a collection of independent city-states always on the verge of
internecine war. I would guess that only
two or three –- the Tenderloin, Bayview/Hunter’s Point, the back side of
Potrero Hill – that is, the neighborhoods where poor people live, avoid this provincial
snobbery.
Whenever I tell
people that I left the TL for the Mission, they tell me that they are happy for
me. They say that the Mission is much
nicer, cleaner, and safer. I say that I
agree with them, but I do not say how little.
I have left the
most run-down, dirty, and impoverished part of The City, and moved to what The
New York Times has called “the hippest neighborhood in the country.” I have moved from streets that smell of human
excrement, urine, and garbage strewn beside garbage cans to streets smelling of
spicy Mexican and Central American comidas,
of pupusas cooking over an open grill
on the street, and of artisanal coffees which can take as much as ten minutes
to prepare and cost $4 a cup. Other
cuisines add their aromas, among them Vietnamese, Thai, Indian, Pakistani,
American, Italian, Chinese, Salvadoran, and Honduran.
I have also moved
from the last part of downtown that remains free from gentrification, which is
just beginning there, to one in which it started in earnest around the turn of
the century, during the “dot com” boom.
(I liked to refer to the Techno-Plutocrats of that era as “dot-commies.”) Now the
Mission has reached the stage at which the prosperous are forcing out the last
of the artists (see this report on the father and son who began the San
Francisco observance of El Dia de Muerte),
the older, blue-collar working class residents, and the most recent immigrants,
who are always outrageously creative and entrepreneurial.
*
I now live on a
block that only three years ago was dicey.
I remember attending a memorial service in the early 1990s for a friend
who died of AIDS, which took place at his little Episcopal Church, which is
around the corner from the SRO hotel where I now live. The Church itself is lovely, dating back to
an era of horses and unpaved streets. It
looks as though it belongs in the Lake District, set in the midst of rolling
fields and perhaps framed by group of ancient oaks, where a wandering
Wordsworth might see it encircled by "an host" of daffodils.) Its siding is of weathered cedar shakes, and
its trim is a pristine white.
When I attended
the memorial service I noticed that its neat appearance was belied, when one
got up close, by obvious damaged to both to the exterior and to the
interior. The floor seemed to dip and
rise and dip as much as the Lake District topography itself. And the surrounding blocks were littered and
bleak, void of any vibrant commercial activity except the drug trade.
All in all, the
Mission was then very like the Tenderloin is now.
But conditions
here have changed completely in the 20 years since. The hotel in which I live is itself a good
example of the changes and may well have been one of the first properties to
spark the revolution. This hotel was
gutted and refurbished in the early 1990s, and well‑maintained, clean, full of
air and light, and well-managed. Everything
else in the surrounding blocks seems also to have been revamped since the 90s. Even the church has been carefully restored.
Now, in the
evenings, hundreds of errant people in their 20s and 30s crowd the
sidewalks. They range from restaurant to
restaurant, bar to bar, nightclub to nightclub.
From what I have observed, their numbers are evenly divided between
couples (both mixed and same-sex) and small knots of three to five. These groups are almost all made up of men or
women exclusively; the few groups that are mixed are usually made up of two or
three couples. Some individuals do walk
alone, though they are not likely to be so for long, since they are looking not
at the street, sidewalk, and people around them but at the little lighted
screens they hold in their hands. All
seem eagerly social and either chatter with their companions or busily tap tap
tap on their little screened devices.
The movement of the crowd is fluid, as everyone concentrates on bobbing
and weaving their way through the masses, both stationary and on-coming. These people never stop to take in their
surroundings, whether shop windows or other humans, but pass by everything
closed in on themselves.
The contrast to
the Tenderloin is sharp. There people
wander more erratically, not noticeably intent on their destination but more
involved in the ongoing life of their society.
In the TL, folks are always looking for friends, neighbors, or other
familiar faces among the rest of the crowd on the streets. When they see someone they know, they shout their
greeting, their loud calls certainly not compatible with bourgeois manners. But the folks of the TL bear no shame for
their sociability. And they could not be
more different from the Mission crowds whose earphones cut them off from the
surrounding humanity as surely as the screens at which they stare make them
blind to the traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, around them.
In the Mission, the
people who are out and about with groups of friends seem to have arrived
together and to be traveling on together.
One does not see them encountering one another by surprise, as in The
Tenderloin. Their conversation often
consists of the names and locations of bars, clubs, or other night spots and of
the way to get to them. They are very much focused on their destinations and unaware
of all that actually surrounds them at the moment.
I would guess
that those who live here continue to be mostly Latin American and Asian
immigrants and that they own and work in the restaurants, bars, and clubs that
these disconnected crowds patronize. Of
course, some of the youthful bourgeoisie also live here, but many only gravitate
here to eat, drink, and socialize after work.
Judging by the prices on the menus in the windows of the restaurants,
which list salads at $8 to $12 and entrees at $16 to $25, these young diners
and drinkers are part of the “tech” workforce which is rapidly growing in this
town. Their salaries start at $100,000
to $150,000, and they are pricing everyone else out of everything.
Rent for a small
studio apartment in one of the less desirable parts of San Francisco begins at
$2,000 a month; one bedroom apartments set you back $2,500 if you are lucky;
and you cannot find a living space to buy for less than $900,000 to a million
dollars. And that million buys you a
“starter” apartment or a small house that needs real work.
And while the
little Latino market on the corner just went out of business, a new, brightly
lit grocery, with expensive brands displayed on shiny chrome-wire shelving,
just opened half a block away. Prices there
are roughly triple what they were in the old neighborhood bodega.
*
At the far end of
my block, at the intersection of Valencia and Sixteenth Streets, the
appropriately named Val-16 Market has gone out of business after twenty-five
years. It was larger than most corner
bodegas but like the rest stocked a mix of fresh produce, boxed or canned
foods, cleaning products, dairy products, sodas and mixers and waters, beer and
liquor, and a few sundries behind the counter.
As with most
markets in both the Mission and the Tenderloin, half to three-quarters of the
items on the shelves were Productos de
Mexico, including the candles in tall glass cylinders that sport images of
various saints on the front and prayers appropriate to each in both Spanish and
English on the back. (I have a
particular fondness of Santa Muerta, but we will not be talking about that.)
Outside, the
faded maroon awning that runs the length of the store, wrapping all the way
around the corner of the building, reads “Money Orders – ATM – Beer – Liquor –
Frutas – Veduras Venta De Toda Clase De De Productos Latinos Y
Centroamericanos.” The implied
priorities clearly belong to the needs of the old neighborhood, not to its
future.
The building that
housed the Val-16 Market is typical of almost everything in the Mission. It has commercial space on the ground floor
and apartments above – the “Alturas Apartments.” If you begin at the entrance to the
apartments and work your way around the corner, you will see that the first
space holds a trendy restaurant and bar, the second is empty but has a “Leased”
sign in the window, the third is the now defunct Val-16 Market, and the fourth
is the “International Depository.”
This last business
is quite interesting. Its signs announce
that Gold, Jewelry, and Silver can be bought and sold there and that Safe
Deposit Boxes can be rented. The
storefront used to be a bank, hence the Safe Deposit Boxes. What sets this business apart is that these safe-deposit
boxes are not under the jurisdiction of the government. No one will ever be able to examine their
contents. They are the most private and
safest place to keep anything. I believe
it to be a business of use to so many members of every class that it will
remain unchanged for years to come, impervious to any and all of the social and
economic forces swirling around the corner of 16th and Valencia Streets.
*
Like the faded
awning that wraps around the market, other relics of the past linger along this
block. Next to the Val-16 Market stands
a much newer building on whose windows are painted the words “Centro del
Pueblo.” In front of that building,
large river stones have been set in concrete.
Instead of having a straight edge along the front, running parallel to
the façade, the line formed by the stones swoops and waves in and out,
suggesting perhaps the watery environment that wore them so round and smooth. While that suggestion may make a passerby
think the placement of these stones to have been motivated by eco-friendly California-Warm-and-Fuzzy
architectural values, I recognize that their function is to keep anyone from
sitting against the wall (for back support) or lying alongside it (for shelter,
comfort, and some safety) while sleeping.
The amateur urban archaeologist interprets the river rocks as evidence
that a significant number of folks took lodgings along this block not long ago.
[There is still one
gentleman who makes his bed in a doorway of the Val-16 Market. Whatever business next occupies that space
will most likely force him to find another shelter. I will be watching.]
Another bit of
the old community survives along that stretch of sidewalk too. On any day of the week, and especially on
weekends, a handful of people spread their collections of used items –-
clothing, books, CDs and DVDs, dolls, housewares, small appliances and consumer
electronic goods, gadgets, etc. -– in neat groupings along the pavement for
sale. I have seen these little
shops-without-a-shop in the Tenderloin as well, though there the posts of the
various floor-brokers in the double-auction drug market take so much more of
each block that the little retail goods operations are both smaller and harder
to spot.
I must say once
again that anyone who thinks that the poor are lazy is himself too lazy to
observe the world around him without prejudice.
These men and women are as resourceful, focused, hard-working and
knowledgeable as any corporate executive; this is especially true of those who
are homeless or, even if housed, getting by on General Assistance and Food
Stamps. The ingenuity by which they
acquire their inventories, without benefit of small-business loans or other
capital, and then display and market them amazes me. These are Millet’s Gleaners living in a
post-agricultural society; these are Edward Markham’s “Man with a Hoe” or
Wordsworth’s Leech Gatherer in the new millennium.
*
But I have
wandered from my topic. What I want to
articulate is the odd temporal and spatial double-vision I have experienced in
making this move. I had a strange
feeling this afternoon that I had moved not just a mile or two but five to ten years
as well. Just as I remember walking the
block on which I now live three years ago and seeing rundown store-fronts,
intoxicated people, garbage, and shoddy hotels, I imagine that walking long
Eddy or Leavenworth Streets (where I used to stay) two or three years from now,
I will find new and high-priced restaurants, residential buildings renovated
and sold as condominiums, fancy cars, and people who, if intoxicated, are
nevertheless well-dressed, jolly, and utterly bourgeois. Those who do their shaky dances, talk to the
Shadow People, or ask me if I want a date will be all gone.
Or perhaps not
all.
In the late
afternoon and early evening, anywhere from three to eight o’clock, a few older
African-American men congregate along the stretch of sidewalk in front of the
Centro del Pueblo. They hail one
another, tease one another, and pass along the neighborhood news and gossip, loudly
and with much laughter, enthusiasm, and affection. The atmosphere they generate is omething like
that of a black man’s barbershop without the barber or the shop.
Sometimes one of
them is wobbly with drink –- or acting the part for comic effect –- as he
approaches the rest. As the teasing and
boasting and reminiscing swell, their manner and humor remind me of the Rat
Pack. These gentlemen were young men out
on their first nightclub sprees when Sammy Davis, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra,
and the rest played similar pranks in those venues. Now they gather on this windswept sidewalk,
warming one another with good cheer, until the dark and cold drive them home.
Just past the
Centro del Pueblo one finds the “Black and Brown Social Club.” It is closed around dinner time but open
again from 7:00 to 10:00 in the evening.
Despite the name, it is not a variation of the informal social club I
have just described; it is a pre-school and daycare facility. Early each morning I see the arrival of the
children who attend the Pre-School there.
Parents walk up the block holding their little ones’ hands, or pull
their cars over to the curb, get out, and walk the children to the door. The evening hours are in effect extended
day-care for those parents whose day-jobs number more than one and whose work
day extends into the night. Here older
kids can find safe, healthy, and educational activities.
The words
“Pre-School” and information about the school and its programs are painted on
the windows to the left of the door. On
the window over the door are the words “Black and Brown Social Club”, with
images of hands of different colors clasped together. And on the glass panel immediately to the
left of the door the following statement has been painted:
The
Black and Brown Social Club is a project of Compañeros del Barrio pre-school,
day care, and parent support project. We
strive to unite and empower the Black and Brown communities through support,
guidance, inspiration, and training.
Encouraging and inspiring Black and Brown families to showcase their
many talents in order to create and build their own futures. Empowering people to believe in
themselves. Not to be co-dependent on
government assistance or government agencies.
We must strength the hands of our communities, not weaken them. [Beneath this statement is a drawing of a
pair of handcuffs, the chain that tied the two wristclamps together broken
apart.]
You might be tempted to think this rejection of government
assistance to have its origins in conservative Republicanism. One can imagine Paul Ryan as ventriloquist,
moving his little Black and Brown puppets and making them prove that “good
minorities” are as fiscally conservative as he.
But if you were so tempted, you need only look a bit to the right, on
the other side of the door, to see a window full of pictures of Hugo Chavez and
the slogan “Viva La Revolution Siempre!”
Despite the
ongoing gentrification and displacement of the poor, this is still, after all,
San Francisco.
*
Like the
Tenderloin, the Mission has long been home to numerous non-profit, charitable,
and governmental organizations and agencies.
Like the Tenderloin, it has long had a relatively high percentage of
subsidized housing units. In both
neighborhoods there is growing concern as to how these essential services will
be able to afford to keep offices where their clients can access their services
easily.
Unlike the
Tenderloin, the Mission has always been the Immigrants’ neighborhood. Having been the Spanish-then-Mexican Mission
settlement, it retained a largely Mexican population even after the Americans
took the city for themselves. Later the
Irish and then the Italians made the Mission their home. One can still find Irish and Italian
businesses maintaining their place in the neighborhood. Because it has been an immigrant
neighborhood, it has always had a vibrant and prosperous economy of its own.
I simply cannot
understand how anyone can think that immigrants drag down an economy. The truth is as obvious to common sense as
such a thing can be. If you grow your
population (and economy) by births, you will not realize the benefit resulting
from the labor of each new person until they have about spent twenty years growing
up and getting an education. During
these long years they produce nothing, but they do consume resources. However, if you grow your population (and
economy) by immigration, you will find that the new members of your community
have been educated, nurtured, fed, clothed, and raised to adulthood at someone
else’s expense. And they become
productive members of your economy from day one.
In all the
demagoguery and politicking, and in all the endless media babble, I have yet to
hear anyone speak this simple truth outright.
Does no one arguing on either side of the “Immigration Reform Issue”
indulge in common sense?
