This is a piece I wrote
and performed as part of Still Here IV: disPLACEment, June 15, 2016, African American
Cultural Center, National Queer Arts Festival, San Francisco. #StillHereSF.
(Note: highlights words corresponded with images shown in a slideshow. I
have included pictures I or my friends took; all other images can be located
through links to their original source.)
Satellites
I
I had been living in New York a year and a half when I got the call
I knew something was wrong when Mary, who ran the outreach program for
homeless youth on Haight St., where I worked in the late 90s, left a message
saying, “Call me.”
It was Pete, she said. Pete the
anarchist raver, six feet two, whose blond dreadlocks in two ponytails
should’ve looked silly but worked on him somehow. Pete, who wore bright orange
vests and went to Burning Man, who DJ’d the Anarchist Café, playing house music
no one would dance to but him and me. Who loved chocolate chip cookies as much
as I did, and would bring cookies to our Tuesday meetings at a café in the
Tenderloin, where we ran the DOPE Project, teaching drug users to save each
other’s lives from overdose. Pete, whom I’d last seen at the Harm Reduction
Conference in Oakland and implored to help me take over the world, ignoring how
terrible he looked.
Pete had OD’d in the bathroom at a friend’s house in Berkeley. He passed out
against the door. He was so heavy they had to call the fire department to
remove the door’s hinges and get him out.
When Pete died it was January and in the 30s in New York. All I could think
about was wanting to jump in the ocean, to defibrillate my heart into absorbing
the news. I rode my bike down Flatbush to Coney
Island, where old Russian men in speedos paced back and forth
slapping their chests. I stripped down to my boxers and walked into the
freezing water, the cold clutching my lungs and stinging my skin as I pushed in
deeper. It helped but it wasn’t enough. I remember thinking, “I don’t know what
else to do.”
I had moved to New York for the same reasons as everyone—the art, the
culture, the ambition. PS 1, basketballon W. 4th St., Bagels on the Square. The home of American Jews, the
place my mother was born. I’d come chasing memories of rifling through jazz
records and staring at posters of queer bodies on visits to St. Marks Place as
a teenager, but living there was a shock. 14 hour work days, women traipsing
through snow in three inch heels and fur-lined
coats, poor people wearing designer clothes. A man on Wall St.
grabbing me by the shoulders and shoving me aside because I wasn’t walking fast
enough.
I’d moved to escape the bubble of San Francisco, to meet people who didn’t
agree with me on everything, to learn and grow. And it worked. I did things in
NY I never would have done here, like buy a pinstriped Calvin Klein suit and
learn the meaning of business casual. The non-profit where I worked took us to
see a Broadway show every Christmas. I got to wander the streets of the
Lower East Side, watch The Muppets Take Manhattan under the Brooklyn Bridge,
and see my first nephew being born.
And yet, even though I met other artists and queers, I never felt quite at
ease there, especially as one of the only white faces in the Caribbean part of
Brooklyn where I lived. I realized I would need to be there another 15 years—if
not 50—to truly feel a part of the place. My sister said, about life in New
York, “Your calendar will fill up but you won’t be part of a community.”
I debated whether to go back to San Francisco. When my friend Gretchen gave
me a tarot reading to help me decide, the card I pulled showed a man, curled up
in a ball, surrounded by swords, all pointed at him. I was paralyzed with
indecision, feeling like I had to prove I could tough it out.
When I flew back to San Francisco for Pete’s memorial, it was like seeing a
sky full of stars for the first time. The service was at a chapel in the
Castro, overflowing with weirdos in bright orange, in honor of Pete. All my
friends were there, as was Pete’s family. At the service I found out Pete had
been a choir boy, which explained his fondness for the irreverent hymn sung at
his memorial, “God is a lesbian / She is a lesbian / God is a dyke.” The
service turned into a parade down to the Mission, with the Extra Action Marching Band leading the charge down 16th St. with their trumpets
and drums. My best friend and I held up a banner of Pete’s name I’d sewn on the
plane, strings of orange silk streaming behind us, while the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence sprinkled a special blend of orange glitter over the
crowd. It was emotive, earnest, celebratory, everything I hadn’t realized I was
missing so much in New York.
The second memorial, back in New York where Pete had once lived, was
overcast by comparison. It was in the basement of a church on 126th St. No one
said much, and then people went out to drink. There were stories; there was
arguing—but no glitter, no marching band.
I knew then what to do: I needed to leave New York.
I needed to come back to San Francisco before any more of my friends died,
before everything I held dear was gone.
I needed to ride the 14 Mission and have someone ask me, “Hey, didn’t you go
to Everett?” To be recognized after 25 years.
I needed to run into awkward Dyke March hookups at Rainbow Grocery, whose
wet buckets of bulk tofu I used to reach into when it was on 15th
and Mission.
I needed to ride the 22 Fillmore, where I last saw Bob Smith, my friend Noah’s
father, before he died of AIDS in 1991. He was hugging his oxygen tank and a
brown leather briefcase, heading to the beach, he said. Opening up his
briefcase, he showed me its contents: a Walkman and two CDs from the other Robert
Smith, lead singer of The Cure. He was a man doing exactly what he wanted with
the time he had left.
I needed to still be connected to this place and its history, even if I
wasn’t squatting its abandoned buildings as a homeless teenager or antiwar
protestor anymore. I needed to feel affirmed in my crunchy queer punk vegan
identity, where all of me could be seen and people talked about astrology.
I needed the layers of heartbreak and joy that imbue every corner of this
city with memory.
I needed to come home, even if it was to a home I didn’t recognize, to see
what was still here.
II
I somehow thought moving back to the city would bring Pete back, but of
course it didn’t. Nearly ten years later, I have his picture on my altar but
I’m still here and he’s still gone.
So what does it mean to still be here when I now live in Oakland—which
itself is rapidly changing—and the places I remember are gone—the Noe Valley
Community Store on 29th and Sanchez, the Real Foods on
24th St. where I was with my mother during the ‘89 earthquake, bottled juices
shattering all around? Epicenter
on Valencia, where I used to buy any 7 inch record with a girl’s name in the
band. The street names are the same but the places have changed, as have I.
What does it mean to still be here when the gravitational pull loosens? When
the friends I knew growing up in this city I only see on Facebook, the very
medium dissolving our physical connections in real life? What does it mean when
my friends get fed up with the high cost of housing and move away? I am not one
of those people who moved to the City to reinvent herself. I did not leave
behind a box of trophies and yearbooks in my parents’ basement. I don’t have a
cheaper home town to move back to when I find a partner and decide to have
kids. This is it.
III
When I first got back to San Francisco from New York, I couldn’t walk down
the street without thinking about white hegemony, the irony of a city priding
itself on its radical politics while getting whiter each year as black and
brown people get pushed out to the margins in places like Pittsburgh, Antioch,
Brentwood. I was so alarmed at the changes every time I emerged from 24th
Street BART that I hid up in Bernal, haunting the Alemany Farmer’s Market and
watching the L Word on TV at the Wild Side
West. When I had to move to Oakland to be closer to my job, I
avoided the city altogether, coming back only to get Inka in bulk at Rainbow
and to see old friends.
But preparing for this show, I find myself paying vigilant attention to what
places remain, and choosing to spend time in them again. Wanting to still be
here in the present, not just in the past.
In Glen Canyon, where I used to get high with my friends during lunch at
McAteer. Where I remember playing flag football in the rain in 7th grade,
“Sweet Child of Mine” blasting on the boombox, feeling for the first time since
my family moved to the city from Hawaii when I was 10 like I fit in amongst the
goths and punks and metalheads.
In Yerba Buena Gardens, where I take my nephews when they visit from New
York, walking through the MLK
Memorial, I catch my breath under the thundering waterfall,
remembering a time before it was there at all. When across the street, at
the seven-story squat on 3rd and Mission, we lay on the floor as
technicolor images of the traffic below drifted across the ceiling like
satellites, a nick in the black paint covering the windows having made a
pinhole movie camera whose projection only we could see.
In La Boheme Café on 24th and Mission, where Nicaraguan poets
still play chess and drink wine. Where every time I walk in I cross my fingers
the owner will say, “Long time no see!” and not “There’s a five dollar minimum
for Wi-Fi.” Where I meet a friend visiting town after moving to LA. I order tea
and we share a vegan chocolate chip cookie and talk about the strangeness of
his new life. As we stand up to leave, he offers me the last bite of the
cookie. I take it, and think of Pete.
***
Saturday, July 2, 2016
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