Just Passing Through
February 2015
The sounds of rushing. The car honks, the motorcycle engine, the police siren, the people yelling. The world is going by. I sit still.
From the window in my room in a quaint three-bedroom apartment in the Mission—which I share with a 26-year-old gay tech worker with beautiful blue eyes and 60-year-old sassy, unemployed financial worker/part time artist—I hear the sounds of San Francisco. From my desk I can see Market St, I can see an old church, the LGBT center, a new apartment building, and a dying tree. I don’t know why the tree is dying, probably because there isn’t enough water. It’s too damn dry. My lips are cracking.
Every morning I look out this window and see the morning commuters heading to work. I wonder where they come from. I wonder where they are going. I am not from here. I grew up in Colorado, in a small mountain town. Not even a town. My family owned five acres of land in a valley 20 minutes from the actual town. The closest thing to us was a Walmart. You might say I had a sheltered childhood. I was sick a lot. I didn’t have many friends. All of my clothes were hand-me-downs and had to be cuffed and belted because I was too small.
I lived there for seventeen years. I then flew to New York for a job, but it wasn’t right. I didn’t fit in there. The people were too beautiful, the streets were too big, the buildings too tall, and the night sky too bright. I tried going back to Colorado but the city had poisoned me. The skyline of trees and mountains unnerved me. The fresh smells made me feel queasy. It was too quiet.
So I found San Francisco.
I fit in here. Or rather I don’t fit in here, but no one does. San Francisco is home to many because no one actually belongs here. San Francisco is a place where people come to. They aren’t born here. There may be some native San Franciscans, but they too don’t really belong to the city. The city doesn’t even belong to itself. It is something beyond belonging.
Constantly changing, ever flowing. From boom to crash then boom again it is always remaking itself.
Maybe that is what draws people to live in San Francisco. It offers a chance for starting over. A redo. If the city can make it through so many rough times and still come out on top, maybe you can, maybe I can, too.
A shining symbol of hope. That is what San Francisco is. A symbol of the freedom that is the west.
At least that is what it should be.
Leaving my apartment I walk along Market to downtown. Every block I pass another group of homeless. They mumble to themselves, I can’t make out what they are saying, nor do I care to know. Some have shoes, most do not. The smell makes me breath through my mouth.
What happened to the hope? What happened to the city of dreamers? The place people could come to be free. That symbol now only exists for those who can afford it. I don’t know what causes someone to live on the street. I don’t know whether these people are crazy or just helpless. I don’t know what their circumstances are. I could find out, but the truth is I don’t want to. I don’t want to find out that this is what comes of hope. I don’t want to find out that that is the fate of those who come to this city looking for a second beginning.
It hurts me to know that most of these people, who smile toothlessly when they receive even just a nickel, probably won’t ever get their redo. They probably won’t be able to remake themselves. This city means something different to them. To them it is a place to sleep at night.
But maybe that is all they need. A place to sleep. Maybe that is what brings them happiness. After all, isn’t happiness relative? And what does it matter?
In the end we are all just passing through.
From the window in my room in a quaint three-bedroom apartment in the Mission—which I share with a 26-year-old gay tech worker with beautiful blue eyes and 60-year-old sassy, unemployed financial worker/part time artist—I hear the sounds of San Francisco. From my desk I can see Market St, I can see an old church, the LGBT center, a new apartment building, and a dying tree. I don’t know why the tree is dying, probably because there isn’t enough water. It’s too damn dry. My lips are cracking.
Every morning I look out this window and see the morning commuters heading to work. I wonder where they come from. I wonder where they are going. I am not from here. I grew up in Colorado, in a small mountain town. Not even a town. My family owned five acres of land in a valley 20 minutes from the actual town. The closest thing to us was a Walmart. You might say I had a sheltered childhood. I was sick a lot. I didn’t have many friends. All of my clothes were hand-me-downs and had to be cuffed and belted because I was too small.
I lived there for seventeen years. I then flew to New York for a job, but it wasn’t right. I didn’t fit in there. The people were too beautiful, the streets were too big, the buildings too tall, and the night sky too bright. I tried going back to Colorado but the city had poisoned me. The skyline of trees and mountains unnerved me. The fresh smells made me feel queasy. It was too quiet.
So I found San Francisco.
I fit in here. Or rather I don’t fit in here, but no one does. San Francisco is home to many because no one actually belongs here. San Francisco is a place where people come to. They aren’t born here. There may be some native San Franciscans, but they too don’t really belong to the city. The city doesn’t even belong to itself. It is something beyond belonging.
Constantly changing, ever flowing. From boom to crash then boom again it is always remaking itself.
Maybe that is what draws people to live in San Francisco. It offers a chance for starting over. A redo. If the city can make it through so many rough times and still come out on top, maybe you can, maybe I can, too.
A shining symbol of hope. That is what San Francisco is. A symbol of the freedom that is the west.
At least that is what it should be.
Leaving my apartment I walk along Market to downtown. Every block I pass another group of homeless. They mumble to themselves, I can’t make out what they are saying, nor do I care to know. Some have shoes, most do not. The smell makes me breath through my mouth.
What happened to the hope? What happened to the city of dreamers? The place people could come to be free. That symbol now only exists for those who can afford it. I don’t know what causes someone to live on the street. I don’t know whether these people are crazy or just helpless. I don’t know what their circumstances are. I could find out, but the truth is I don’t want to. I don’t want to find out that this is what comes of hope. I don’t want to find out that that is the fate of those who come to this city looking for a second beginning.
It hurts me to know that most of these people, who smile toothlessly when they receive even just a nickel, probably won’t ever get their redo. They probably won’t be able to remake themselves. This city means something different to them. To them it is a place to sleep at night.
But maybe that is all they need. A place to sleep. Maybe that is what brings them happiness. After all, isn’t happiness relative? And what does it matter?
In the end we are all just passing through.