The Real Americans

(Taken during my time working for the GOP of Florida, May 2006. Pictured former FL Governer Jeb Bush, Me and Rep. Mayfield.)

I recently discovered that a comedian named Dan Hoyle launched a campaign to investigate Sarah Palin’s America called “the real Americans.” A long term “lefty” of San Francisco, Hoyle travels to the “reddest of red states” to un-cover who the “real” Americans actually are. According to Chris Jensen’s piece in SF Weekly “The Real Americans distinguishes itself by offering a slightly nuanced look at modern conservatism while taking a few well-aimed shots at the smugness and cluelessness of San Francisco lefties. It's by no means a conservative show — the play's viewpoint is unapologetically liberal. But Hoyle is more genuinely curious about his ideological opponents than many of us who reside in what he calls the "urban PC bubble”.”

Coming from the point of view of a someone who moved to SF from “Sarah Palin’s America”, I would venture to say most people living out of the "urban PC Bubble" would be equally shocked by the “interesting characters” one experiences in just a few short hours on the streets of San Francisco. Perhaps the most fascinating thing about this city is the dichotomy between rich and poor. It's easy for those Hoyle calls "San Francisco lefties" to talk amoungst eachother about the imporantance of "equality" from their trendy, over-priced cafes, while just a little south of them exists the lowest of the low, the poorest of the poor, who are so a part of the scenery, they have become invisible.
On my walk to the the Public Library from my apartment in Lower Nob Hill, I pass through the worst neighborhood in San Francisco called the Tenderloin, or, what the locals call, "the 'Loin".

And so here's my attempt at chronicling the REAL San Francisco--my walk through the Tenderloin, Friday, December 3, 2010:
1:30pm--Leave apartment. Smell weed and pee.
1:32pm--A bum is throwing up at the crosswalk.
1:36--Walking south on Polk Street towards Tenderloin. Seven homeless already counted. Three adandoned sleeping bags.
1:39pm--Lost count of homeless. Spotted minimum of three transvestite prostitutes. Deep in the 'Loin. Clutching purse.
1:40pm--Getting close to Civic Center. Hear protest. Protest headed towards me. Protest takes over street. There are at least 300 people chanting "Education not Deportation." (I get a video on my phone but can't figure out how to upload it!). MY FIRST PROTEST! (tear).

1:45pm--Finally make my way out of the crowd and head to the library.
1:52pm--Homeless woman is washing her clothes in the bathroom of the library.
1:57pm--I leave the library and head home.
2:05pm--A crackhead is screaming "What NOW!?" towards cars as they pass. He literally has the white lips like that Dave Chappelle sketch. I didn't know this actually happened... I feel really naive.
2:06pm--A bum is on his hands and knees under the bus shelter, looking for something using his drug needle.
2:09pm--I'm about a foot away from getting spit on by a prostitute.

There honestly was more but I think you get the idea. The fact that dawned on me during this walk was that this side of America is not limited to San Francisco. To an extent this side of humanity exists in every town and every city, even back in Florida, I was just too comfortable in my car and MY bubble to notice. But now I'm on the train, and I'm on the bus, and I'm on the streets, up close and personal, for better or for worse. And it's not pretty, and I wonder if Pelosi is right for giving them clean needles or if Guiliani had the right idea in New York. I guess it's true what they say about the road to hell...

The Stages of Culture Shock

PHASE ONE:
The Honeymoon Phase:

PHASE TWO:
Shock/ Frustration/ Withdraw from past life:

(At St. Petersburg Beach my last weekend in Florida)

(And then I arrive to a San Francisco Summer...)

PHASE THREE:
Adjustment/ Acceptance

PHASE FOUR:
Integration

(Can't have a roof party in FL)

(Got to be in SF when the Giants won the World Series)

(Santacon--San Francisco, Union Square)

PHASE FIVE:

Reverse Culture-Shock

(Am going home to Florida in a week--I will keep you posted!)

Moving On

8/31/2010

Everywhere I look is new. Curved windows, antique storefronts, rolling hills, crowded buses full of strange bodies from every nook of the world. And I'm intrigued at how we all travel this same route at this same hour, yet have very different destinations.
As the wheels forge on up these hills, the movement of my life is pressing on my own resistance. Here in the midst of the new, I keep sliding back into the past that I traveled so far to leave behind.
In my solitude I remember THEM--the ones who gave me a glimpse into lives I was never meant to live and yet something in me lunges behind to that those few people, those few moments of feeling protected, understood, partnered, and I wonder why I chose to be all alone in the world.
But then the bumps of the bus bring me back to life, back to the present, and remind me to keep pushing up that hill. Because it's not HIM I'm missing--it's someone, or something, up ahead.

Steven Colbert Immigration Congress

On my walk to the San Francisco Public Library I walked right into a protest on immigration. In researching both sides of the argument I came across this awesome video. Stephen Colbert for President!

I left my heart in SF

Arial view of my hometown-- Daytona Beach

The famous Seven Sisters of SF

9/20/2010 (Tom Petty's American Girl is playing on the radio.)

I compare my feelings towards San Francisco to any romance. I always admired San Francisco from afar, and intuitively was drawn to it, idealizing it as the place that held everything I lacked on it's steep streets. Florida, my past, long-term relationship, was one of comfort. And compared to my cookie-cutter, hodge-podge of a state lacking any real culture or depth, San Francisco was a dream come true.
In the begining, the rose colored curves with perfectly designed peaks are all one sees. I was infatuated by the crispness of the air, the mystery of the fog, the way it damply soaks the street light, the city muted like a candlelit meal, eager to embrace all who walk the sparkling streets.
But when you STAY, when you enter into a committment with the City by the Bay, you see it's bruises and hang-ups. It's tired. It's poor. The infatuation fades and real life begins. And I can no longer deny that my city, my lover, is flawed, just as I am. But when I start to doubt, when the disenchantment weighs heavy, we take a little stroll, hand-in-hand, and I'm greeted again by it's complicated beauty. And that outshines the grayest days and the bumpiest bus rides.

Train is gonna come

11/8/2010

Writing small. Hands are cold. Phone nearly dead. Need to occupy seventeen minute freezing cold wait. No books. No inside shelter from the cold. I reach inside for something. For warmth. For distraction. For proof. For more. Seven minutes. Seven minutes until the train is coming until the train is coming in seven minutes. The train's gonna come and take me away, take me away from this cold metal space in seven minutes.
The sign next to me reads "dReAm BIG". I have seen this sign before. I made this sign. It brought be here to this cold metal space...
The train's gonna come in five minutes...in five minutes the train's gonna come. It's gonna take me from this cold metal space. It's on it's way. It's on it's way.

The Bus

I saw a child on the bus today, around the age of two, who, for reasons unknown, could not stop smiling. Not toothy grins. Serene, knowing upturns of the lips. Wide chocolate eyed, he joyfully observed his surroundings from the confines of his stroller carefully, passing no judgement.
He sees with fresh eyes the palm tree, the pink purse, the yield sign. I wonder if he's singing "the wheels of the bus go round and round" in his head or if he thinks in english or his own unspoken language.
Sweet child, you carry the preciousness of life in your tiny bones--and I hate the world you now love--knowing one day it will steal your flawless site.