Brent

In front of Gethsemane Baptist Church
Broderick at Grove Streets
The Panhandle
Monday afternoon

***

My new apartment building is filthy. Mold climbs the peach-colored walls. My neighbor says the corner where our building sits used to be a gas station. He says that explains the dust and the reason the large yard off my eat-in kitchen is vegetation-free. With no grass to hold the dust in check it swirls furiously as the San Francisco fog rolls through covering the building each day in a damp grey-brown mess.

For twenty-three years I lived amongst a group in the still very proud to be “the south” culture of Virginia. The guys would wear bow ties or golf shirts with an animal (the more endangered the better) and would be seen around town with women who were outfitted in not very flattering but every so often in vogue kitten heels and strands of their grandmother’s pearls. These ladies, thin and blond with a pronounced southern accent capable of perfectly drawing out the contraction y’all were seen as the perfect accessory to a seersucker suit. They were gold-digging future trophy wives posing as polite southern belles. Their only real aspirations were rearing the next generation of themselves.

My place is on the first floor, which apparently means I should be the victim of a crime. Mine is the only apartment with jail-worthy reinforcement bars on each window. This is supposed to make me feel more secure, but only serves to fuel my paranoid fantasies. Why did that guy stare at me when I was leaving my place and why did he check his watch and why did he write something down in his notebook? Why does he do this everyday at the same time? He must be one of those annoying census-takers who have overrun San Francisco the past few months. Yea, that’s it, a census-taker.

The Virginians had (their parent’s) money to spend. They bought boats, cars – completed a lavish lifestyle but reveled in slumming on the weekends. They had the resources to do it all and do it without worry. I came to be friends with many in this crew – I felt this could be my style, my future. I indulged in myriad colors of J Crew trousers (see: Red, Nantucket). Doing gritty things that our parents would never fathom while climbing the corporate ladder in the office was the standard. I was hung-over yet charming, drunk but lucid for almost a year straight. I liked throwing up in the corner booth at our local bar and laughing about it the next day. Twenty-three was the best.

Then the graffiti. I get it. I think Banksy is talented and mysterious. But the seemingly meaningless scribble that my building attracts just looks ridiculous. Inevitably there is a notice from the city posted next to the set of mailboxes in the foyer informing the building manager to remove it. Instead of taking the opportunity to wash the entire building or (god forbid) paint it, the manager procures paint that is just-off-enough-in-color to bother me and cover the tagged spots haphazardly. It’s a constant battle in work ethic and the graffiti artist is clearly an overachiever.

Penny loafers and blue dress shirts with white collars and cuffs just never really worked for me no matter how short I cut my hair or how many Civil War monuments of southern heroes I drove by on Monument Avenue in Virginia. Life felt empty and vaguely boring. It’s shallow to judge a place so harshly based on something so materialistic as people’s outfits and it’s ironic that I left Virginia partly because of that to come to San Francisco where being superficial is considered a birthright. Living in Virginia I fantasized about the trip I took to San Francisco in college. I stayed in a communal inn on Ashbury just off Haight and became infatuated with the city. The window in my bedroom overlooked a lush garden with a small cluster of pot plants growing in the corner under cover of some giant foliage and I liked pot.

After living in San Francisco for five years I hardly smoke anymore; only when my girlfriend is feeling frisky and wants to be chased around the apartment giggling like a crazy woman. Moving here had something to do with freedom but it was so much more than that. It was about opportunity in a place where people just want to walk their dogs or sip their coffee or for everyone to share the experience. I was 23 when I left Virginia with little responsibility and the phrase, “I live in San Francisco,” sounded cool to me. It’s like Vegas in that people love to tell you they’ve been there, only San Francisco is a permanent home not a vacation destination. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of narcissism now and again.

I could live anywhere, but it wouldn’t be quite as interesting as it is in San Francisco. Like my friend used to say when I asked him why he used to eat a cap or two before heading out to bars, “I guess I just want to make the night a little stranger.”

***

You can see a slideshow of Brent’s photoshoot here.

Brent’s blog is http://weemslounge.wordpress.com/

Morgan

On the windowsill
Fulton Street
The Panhandle
Monday afternoon

***

Like everyone else, I was destined to end up in San Francisco. Sure, the same is true for all people in all places at all times – that’s just the nature of reality. But only the people of San Francisco are readily aware of this particular grace, and, what’s more, are willing to lengthily explain to you how it was pre-ordained in their astrological birth chart.

I guess you could say it was in the stars for me; while my college professors (and mother) implored me to consider a more traditional graduate program in philosophy or religion, I never once considered applying to anything besides the Philosophy, Cosmology and Consciousness program at the California Institute of Integral Studies. The plan: pit stop in San Francisco for a couple of years to grab a masters degree and then off to some fancy institution to study neuroscience, solve the mind/body problem (hint: the problem is the solution), and collect my Nobel prize. However, my new school quickly altered my perspective, not just on my life’s path, but on my new city as well.

The first thing that became apparent was that the mind/body problem would have to wait. While I had heard grumblings about ecological issues in Ohio, my new studies and my new fellow citizens helped reveal to me the extent to which our lifestyles are both incumbent upon and systematically work to destroy once abundant bio-systems that are now on the brink of collapse. Add in Climate Change, Peak Oil, Fresh Water Scarcity, and a global population ballooning to 9 billion by 2050? Screw the mind/body problem – we’ve got a survival problem.

While it’s safe to say this expanded awareness freaked me out more than just a little bit, it also helped reveal something about my new home to me. It was comforting to find that I could at least share in my fear and trembling with pretty much anybody I managed to identify as a human being out of that hazy dementia I was lost to those first few months. It seemed everyone in San Francisco not only knew the extent of our challenges, but had a personal short list of the entities most responsible. At the very least, I knew I wasn’t running with a bunch of sleepyheads. The most connected, educated, and informed populace in the history of the world? Yeah, we’re today’s San Franciscans.

But it was another element of my studies that really underscored how I came to see this city. The Cosmology piece of my program is made up of, first, studying the Universe Story – the unfolding of the Cosmos from the Big Bang through the creation of galaxies, planets, and life right up to this very moment. But once we know the story, the real work is understanding what the story means to us at this moment. Above all, we learn that we are each a unique and necessary part of the unfolding of this magical, sacred journey. We have been granted, through some not-so-minor miracle, a human life to revel in, play with, and shape this world we have been thrust into. This lesson has helped me understand something at the core of this city. You see, when I moved to San Francisco, all I knew about this town was that it was the home of the Hippies and Barry Bonds did steroids. Hell, I didn’t even know it rained here. But over the last four years, I’ve learned that San Francisco wasn’t just the backdrop for the Hippies; rather, the Hippies were a particular manifestation of the spirit of San Francisco. Maybe it’s the legacy we were handed by those great adventurers who, when confronted with the Land’s End of this vast continent, simply continued their journey within. Maybe it’s the presence of a slightly weaker magnetic field out here on the West Coast. Or maybe it’s just all the drugs we do here. All I know is that the Hippies were simply participating in that great San Francisco tradition of transforming the world around them to come closer to the majestic ideal they held in their hearts and minds. Like the Beats before them and the LGBT movement that followed them, the Hippies unabashedly expressed their own unique spirit in their own unique time. This, more than any coincidence of geography, is what makes us San Franciscans.

Today, we have begun to see a new manifestation of this tradition in the burgeoning sustainability movement building in response to our planetary crises. Due to this legacy, we all know that as the world looks to America to play an essential role in this movement, America looks to San Francisco to find the way forward. While this task might seem rather daunting, we would do well to remind ourselves that, in a bit of a twist on an old phrase, with great responsibility comes great power. In this critical hour, we San Franciscans have been blessed with every tool we need to step into our role. Besides the aforementioned revolutionary tradition that seems to simply permeate our ground, what better place is there to develop a truly abundant food and water-shed than our beloved Bay Area bio-region?  Try being a locavore in Ohio in the winter. Another critical aspect of our power not to be undervalued is our fluency in all things related to the Internet and Social Media. There is no doubt that should we be successful in creating a sustainable culture, our use of the Internet will be critical to the necessary work of educating individuals about the challenges we are facing and allowing these individuals to connect and form a response as a community. Where our Hippie brethren learned to Turn On, Tune In, and Drop Out, we will learn to Sign On, Root In, and Branch Out.

Yes, this is really happening. And, no, we can’t all just take a bunch of LSD, “drop out,” and hope the next generation figures it out. We not only live in a critical time, but in a critical place as well. If we can’t get our act together in San Francisco, I shudder to think what the near future holds for all of us. However, now is not the time for fear – now we are called on to count our blessings and step into our destined roles. Each of us stands at the arrowhead of evolution, the product of 13.7 billion years of cosmic yearning and refinement. Simply waking up each day as a human being in one of the most beautiful cities on Earth with the absurdly supreme comfort of the modern world should be enough to remind each of us that we are among the most blessed beings in the history of the world.

But we have something even greater than that: we San Franciscans of the early 21st century have been graced with a profoundly meaningful existence. We take on each day with knowledge of our role in creating a society that will allow for future generations of humans to exist and prosper, and faith that it will come to pass. All that is left is for us to embody the cosmic movement coming through us.

This time.

This place.

San Francisco? Yeah, I live here.

***

You can see a slideshow of Morgan’s photo shoot here.

Morgan is a part of The Wigg Party, an organization working to make the community that uses or lives around the bike route the Wiggle a leader in the transformation to sustainability and resilience. You can learn more about it and read their blog here: http://www.wiggparty.org.

Follow Morgan on twitter: http://twitter.com/morganicsf

Becca

On Fell Street
The Panhandle
Thursday afternoon

***

Almost ten years ago, my college sweetheart graduated. A year below him, I felt incredibly anxious about what would “come next,” so to speak. Without any job prospects on the East Coast, he moved back to California, and soon had two offers. He called me, and to greatly paraphrase, said, “Sacramento or San Francisco?” I’d never visited either, but this was a no brainer: San Francisco, duh! The next year apart was tough, but finally with undergrad out of the way, I stuffed my 21-year-old insecurities deep inside my non-royal highness’ matched luggage, boarded a Southwest flight to San Francisco (most likely with three stops along the way), grabbed a window seat, and haven’t looked back since.

Over the past nine years, I’ve worked mainly in the non-profit realm, yet also unknowingly spending time on me. I’ve held jobs in facilities, public relations, education, the arts, fundraising, and now education research. I earned a second degree. I’ve lived in four different apartments, but the most recent one now for six and a half years (I heart rent control…). I’m still with the same boyfriend (now fiancé) and also adopted a wonderful kitty, who’s now verging on thirteen, from the SF/SPCA. I’m approaching nine years of vegetarianism. I take the bus, vote in city elections, go to town hall meetings (alright, I’ve been to one town hall meeting), had my nose bashed in at an anti-war protest, hug trees, fought my landlord, learned to like and even love tomatoes, and searched for sand dollars at Ocean Beach. All in all, I’ve enjoyed having the space and support to figure out just who the hell I am and that, hey, it’s OK to be the girl who makes odd puns or wears sneakers with a pencil skirts while trying to catch the bus. I don’t have to change to fit a certain mold or expectation. And so now, as the trumpets blare, I yell (yodel? holler?) to the world: “Helloooooo, my name is Becca, and I’m proud to be a semi-quirky introvert!”

Glancing forward to what may come, I proudly call San Francisco “home” the way that dapper guy throwing a frisbee in Duboce Park calls his chocolate poodle “girl.” It just naturally rolls off of my tongue, and I feel at ease here. A few months ago, I traveled to Las Vegas on an overnight work-related trip. My room’s A/C felt like an ice box, finding a vegetarian meal other than plain pasta proved challenging, and I got the funniest look at Starbucks when I asked for soy or almond milk. “But. Erm. Um. You DO want whipped cream, right?” Um. No. After the 30-hour smoke-filled ordeal, just having the landing gear touch down at SFO (which isn’t even San Francisco proper, but let’s ignore that, shall we?) removed the stress that I’d been ever so tightly holding in my shoulders and a seitan sandwich at Jay’s Cheesesteak helped me doze off to a well deserved sleep.

San Francisco isn’t, although it’s about as close as one can get to, perfect, but it makes me happy: happy with what’s surrounding me on a day-to-day basis, and also happy and, perhaps more importantly, more assured with who I am.

***

You can see a slideshow of Becca’s photo shoot here.

Becca’s links:
personal blog
dance and entertainment writing