The people in my neighborhood aren't eating chalupa's and cinnamon twists for dinner. They're not rushing through their Statistics and Meteorology homework in time to watch the State of the Union address. They're busy enjoying the walking trails and running lanes as their tiny dogs trot alongside their children on bikes.
Life in California has begun. Work is exceedingly consuming but in a way that let's me know this challenge will lead to the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.
In only 3 short weeks I've learned to drive a forklift and manage my bank account with meticulous attentiveness.
In just three shorts weeks I've met a girl who sends who me poems and looks at me like she wants to save my life. A girl whose heart is tremendous and strong but young, far too young. She still believes that love can save the world. When I look at her I see myself 7 years ago, wishing to be invisible to everyone except a chosen few; wishing to be fulfilled through desire and rescued by the most fleeting emotion in the world. She has no idea how much the world will attempt to smother her sensitivity and my instinct is to protect her ferociously, but I cannot. My heart is so scattered, so preoccupied. Friends still call in crisis in the middle of the night, joyful in mid-afternoon, boasting at dawn. We are learning to live without one another but recognize the enormous gap that exists when you are far away from what makes you feel whole.
I force myself to leave the house on a regular basis. Having sanctioned my impatience to both a budget and a realistic time management schedule, I only see the city on the weekends. The week is for the suburbs, for work and my education, but when the weekend comes I am off to brave the new world before me. There's a $5 cover charge to enter the city of San Francisco. It seems astronomical until you're driving across the Bay Bridge in absolute wonderment of mankind's achievements.
There's a friend in every face, a guide on every corner. It's as if no one is certain how or why they arrived in this Utopia, but they are content in their destiny. I find myself nestling into the idea of being home. This is where I will make my fortune and see myself as I really am. As I was waiting on a crew of friendly gentlemen to finish detailing Sonny, I stared very hard at my reflection in the car wash window pane. Who is this woman? I hardly recognize her. Nearing 30, healthy and happy, in love with the reality of never having to run again.
I gathered with the gay community (and allies) of all ages and creeds at Wild Side West on Sunday. A new friend invited me to the city for the 49ers game. The bar is nestled in the Bernal Heights neighborhood where I hope to one day reside. It feels like the San Francisco in the movies, with it's mountainous hills and multicolored shops. A gaggle of preschool-aged birthday party attendees raced past me on the sidewalk, their heads and hands adorned with orange and green balloon creations. Small businesses of every sort flourish here. Art and books and the soft air of the bay breeze. Perfection.
In its worst history, the police only stepped into the city's gay bars to bust up the "immoral behavior" occurring inside. These days the neighborhood foot patrol police step in, tip their hats and ask the score of the game. Women in jerseys, women in diamonds, they're all screaming and stomping and cheering and booing at the television as the bar owner, Billie, brings food down to the party from her loft above the bar. Her bar doesn't sell food, but why not feed everyone from her own table? Cakes and wings, burgers and salads- bring your own or let Billie feed you, either way, you're at home here. Michelle (my new friend) kicked open the front door with her right foot and swung into the bar, homemade pizza in hand. Its delicious beer-batter dough and fresh toppings saturated my mouth. The bartenders kept an eye out for an arm in the air requesting another drink. Mardi Gras beads dawning the 49ers logo were passed out to the patrons, free raffles for free drinks- there's a community here like I've never known. On a single wall hangs portraits of Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Gertrude Stein and Virginia Woolf. Unsigned art is displayed from ceiling to floor. Mannequins and shoe collections, totem poles and strands of pearls. This tiny bar retains the tales of so many who've come before me in search of a similar sense of peace. The garden verandas sheltered us from an endless week of rain as the smell of grass wafted across the garden. San Francisco is the place of my dreams. It is my heaven. I am finally home.
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