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April 13, 2008I tried, Lou, but I failed.I couldn’t stop loving you.YOU CAN HARDLY HELPbut have noticed my ongoing spate of bitterness towards San Francisco, all the way back to You’re not the only one I love, in Jan 2007, and in The thrill is gone, one year later, I declare my love for San Francisco to be dead, dead, dying, dead. I have loved this city for its edge, but it’s so sharp I nearly cut my heart out on it. In fact, trying to stay in San Francisco reminds me of Stephen Crane’s poem “The Heart”:
You know, that heart one leaves in San Francisco. And yet, reading The Ax Files, said a friend, is like reading a long autobiography, and in this next chapter, I have a change of heart. Something happened, that softened said heart and opened it to love again. IT’S LIKE ANY RELATIONSHIP.The great sex, in-love part sends you stratospheric, and life is delicious, heavenly; then you calm down and get used to each other, and life is lovely; then you start taking each other for granted, and life is OK, all right, you can’t complain; maybe then you start flirting with other possibilities, and life gets interesting again; then you start to annoy each other, and life is, well, annoying; then you can’t stand each other and life is infuriating; then you part ways, and life is a relief; then time passes and you run into each other again and eventually become friends, and life hums along. Maybe you even fall back in love, and love this time is wise and mature. I’m thinking love for San Francisco will be lovelier the second time around. BECAUSE IT’S BEEN LIKE THAT.When I left Portland for San Francisco, I was crazy in love with this place. I would hyperventilate just walking down the streets. I will love you forever! etc. Then I settled down but I knew this was it for me, I could never live anywhere else. Then I bought my own place in the City and got comfortable. I had my niche and that was that—complacence. Then I got fed up [read “nervous breakdown”] with working full time to support my two mortgages, sold my Portland house and quit my job. Jason Robards to Barry Gordon in “A Thousand Clowns”: “Nick, you are about to see a horrible, horrible thing.” That’s my take on it. I make myself a vow of the solemn sort that my last job would be the last job I’ll ever quit. My last day was a Friday; come Monday I was on a cross-country train trip. Peace. I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’D GIVE, IF ONLY I COULD…Ever say that? I’d give anything… there’s nothing I wouldn’t give… just to hold him in my arms. To see my grandmother again. To sing on Broadway. To have that Wii. EVER GIVE SOMETHING UPto pursue a dream? A relationship, a city, a career? Well, the thing I’d give anything for, is to never again work a day job. And the thing I’m giving for it, is my home. A LITTLE TIME AND A LOT OF MONEYlater, I am preparing to sell my flat and I’m on Craig’s List every day looking for something that is not there. Not a job, no, no. Affordable housing. Everyone thinks affordable housing is scarce in San Francisco, but that is not the case—it is nonexistent. I wonder if City officials fully appreciate this. I invite every one of them to imagine they are working stiffs with average salaries (below $50,000; no, $40,000) and absolutely must leave their current living situation. Pretend move-in costs will eat up every dollar you have and more. OR IMAGINE, YOU’RE A WRITER;you don’t want to work full-time, you’ll have money in the bank but no income, no landlord references because you’ve been an owner since 1989, and two cats. Then boot up Craig’s List and good luck. Here are the top ten 1-BR apartment rental rates the day I write: $3300, $2700, $2925, $4200, $5950, $2090, $2190, $1495, $2175, $2255. The one for $1495 you call about, no doubt a dive, rents before the Open House even happens. FACED WITH THIS CRAPevery day, every time I consult The List of all lists, I begin to genuinely resent San Francisco, for making it nearly impossible for me to stay here. If San Francisco doesn’t welcome me to stay, why should I want to? I begin to flirt with Brooklyn, much closer to my family in Philly. I even stop looking at SF rentals and spend weeks scouring The List for Park Slope apartments. I put out the Craig’s List call for “Housing Wanted” in Brooklyn. San Francisco, I am leaving you! How do you like that? “YOU’RE A WRITER!”said Warren Beatty to Diane Keaton in “Reds.” “Go to where [New York] the writers are!” “What am I going as?” [Your lover, your friend, your mistress, your wife?] “It’s Thanksgiving. Why don’t you go as a turkey?” I HAVE CONVINCED MYSELFI’m moving to New York. I even buy a shirt, tongue in cheek, because it looks like something someone would wear to a museum to appear arty and ethnic, and see myself wearing it facetiously to the Met. (Someday I will, just as I will wear my $1 velvet evening coat from the Trout Lake, Washington, Grange Hall Rummage Sale to the Paris Opera.) Today on The List there is a massive 1 BR brownstone at Flatbush and 6th (dicey but doable) with 11-foot ceilings, working fireplace, exposed brick, 900 SF bedroom, 4 closets, chef’s kitchen—for $1900, cats allowed. REALITY STRIKESwhen I do go to New York on New Year’s Day, and am utterly turned off for one reason I left the east coast in the first place—the weather. It was cold, and I don’t mean “San Francisco cold”—the east coast real thing cold that hurts, that can instantly give you a headache as you open the door—the flip side of the awful, unbearable, inhumane summer humidity. I slip on a patch of ice, which hasn’t happened in a dozen years, and which always gives me a feeling of mortality, of life slipping out from under my feet without notice. I know I can’t do it again, it was just a fantasy of flitting about being yet another New York writer. Then there’s the volume of people using the resources. When I went to the Met Opera to see Prokofiev’s “War and Peace,” the lobby was so crowded, I didn’t even need to walk, I was just carried to my seat by the mob. SO NOW WHAT?The prudent thing to do would be to take the proceeds from my flat and buy a house in a less challenging city. So I’m still faced with the same choice. Do I stay in San Francisco? In my own case, I’m not fond of compromise. I don’t want a lesser city, and I promised myself I wouldn’t go back to work, so to continue the standard of living I established for myself by age 52 (53, come three weeks), I’d be draining my life savings and retirement fund, “everything I’ve ever worked for,” to the tune of four to five grand a month. THAT’S ONLY BECAUSEof prior real estate investments, I was able to grasp the lowest rung of San Francisco home ownership, the TIC, or Tenants-in-Common, whereby a group of partners each collectively own a percentage of a building—in my case, with five partners, 16.66%. This effectively freezes your equity. You cannot get a loan against one-sixth of a building, plus I have no income. I have hung from that rung for four years and have got to let go. So do I relocate to a kinder, gentler place where it’s not a Herculean struggle to pay my rent? “I’M GOING TO LIVE IN THIS CITY SOME DAY!”were the first words I ever uttered, almost before my feet hit the ground, in San Francisco, getting out of the truck I rode in on, in 1981–22 years before I made it happen. Premonition or self-fulfilling prophecy? Whichever, it already felt like home. THIS IS IT!That’s how I felt about San Francisco when I moved here in 2003. Home! But the feeling is not mutual. “Home” is not an easy thing to come by here in Baghdad by the Bay. It’s its own war zone, pitting the average Joe against the well heeled and the Millionaires Club. I am one of those who don’t qualify to have one. Even the one I own. WHYdoes it have to be so damned hard to live here? Why do we have to pay, pay, pay gold coins through the nose like a magic trick? Because most of us don’t have that particular trick up our sleeves. Until us commoners have the same range of options for housing that market-rate renters and rich owners do, I will never call this a world-class city, not while it disenfranchises its lower and middle class to favor the big-money interests, with Mayor Gavin Newsom as their GQ pretty-boy figurehead. I’m hardly the first to wonder, “Is it really worth it?” BECAUSE THIS IS IT,San Francisco–do I stay or do I go? If this is it, San Francisco, I want to know; if this ain’t love, baby, just say so. There’s nothin’ lovin’ about the rents on Craig’s List. “MONEY MAY BE THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL,”said a friend, “but lack of money sucks. I am complaining and need a shoulder to cry on….sob. This [job] is just not cutting it financially and I am pissed @ the very token .25 ct. per hour raise we got. “J***s F*****g C****t why bother?” REALLY, WHY BOTHER?That has got to one of the more common refrains of the common man in San Francisco. Why do I do what I have to do to stay here? For myself, it’s because I refuse to be yanked off the stage with a hook. This is my venue. But let’s face it, the heart of San Francisco is disappearing one artist, family, and fed-up wage-worker at a time—those finding it ever more difficult to live modestly, sanely, decently in this city. The kind who have already left, the kind leaving in refugee boatloads to the East Bay and elsewhere, the kind who may soon be extinct. The city of liberation—sexual, political, whatever is repressing or oppressing you—is starving us to death. I ARRIVED IN THE BAY AREAjust in time for the dot.com boom. And boom, it was an explosion, and almost as suddenly, pop! went the weasel, and folks were sweeping up the wreckage. “I don’t like the direction this city is heading in,” say native-borns, since then. Where’s it going? One word: up. According to The Economic Policy Institute, roughly 4 percent of the work force nationwide, or 5.6 million workers, earn less than $7.25 an hour. July 2007 was the first time in ten years that the federal minimum wage was adjusted, raising the rate in three stages from $5.15 to $5.85 in 2007, to $6.55 in 2008, and to $7.25 per hour in 2009. Rates vary amongst jurisdictions. Washington State has the highest minimum wage at $8.07, California follows at $8.00, and San Francisco leads the nation, cities and states, at $9.36 per hour. “This is most likely linked to its expensive living costs,” opines Wikipedia. Well duh! Even New York is set at only $7.15. BUT WHOOP-DEE-DOO!Forty hours a week at $9.36 grosses you (is right!) $20,030.40 a year, about $1,667.00 a month. The average rent for a studio apartment for one person is $1,300; a one-bedroom, closer to $2,300; a two-bedroom, closer to $2,800 and up. Showplace homes can be in the $10,000’s per month. At net income, you’re out of the running. You live in a shithole, the boondocks, with roommates crawling up your butt, or all three. The 2008 HHS poverty guidelines set the poverty level for a family of four at $21,200. But even one person can’t live on that, in San Francisco, much less four. I SAYthe San Francisco minimum wage should be $20.00 per hour. But whoop-dee-doo! In my full-time job as an office manager at an architectural office, I grossed about $20.12/hour, not including bonuses and benefits I was lucky to have. No matter where you’re coming from, most wage earners are shut out, no vacancy. My salary just about paid my housing cost, what with mortgage, property taxes and TIC dues. WELL, SO NOW WHAT?Like I said, something happened. And it was Gavin Newsom’s latest nail in the coffin of San FranSASSY!—the Olympic Torch relay. The good people of the city of San Francisco, came out in droves, but the City of San Francisco, in the guise of its Mayor, basically co-opted the event and took it away from those who came to both cheer it on or protest it. As Board President Aaron Peskin put it, Newsom kowtowed to the Chinese government and the Bush State Department, acting more like China than San Francisco. THEN IT DAWNED ON ME–it’s not San Francisco that’s to blame—it’s what certain people are doing to it. A sweet, poignant, protective love and pity began to form for the city that struggles to keep going against all odds. People need to stay here and watch out for her. JUST LIKE GOD’S WATCHING OUT FOR MEBecause something else happened. The wheels and cogs of Fate turned and locked into place. Got an email out of the blue that I have an apartment waiting for me, if I want it. It’s strictly an “I know someone” situation—in this case the owner of the building is a former coworker I’ve known for ten years and I’m at the top of his list. It’s not Lower Haight, but my next best choice, right across Market Street—Mission Dolores, a five-minute bike ride from my favorite haunts. Still the center of my San Francisco Universe—I can get to both the Castro and the Symphony in less than ½ hour. I begin to relax from resentment into the relief stage. I have hope again that I can make this city work. It’s a 1-BR at the bargain rate of only $1,800. I can’t expect much better. Fully 3/4ths of my stuff will be sold, given away, or go into storage. Thank God! Who needs it? So this apartment I may have found—only through luck—would have eaten up half of the take-home pay from my last job and leave me with around $325 a week for food, bills, entertainment, vacations, gifts, for the rest of life. That is the ultimate challenge of San Francisco for us regular folks. How do you live sanely and decently in this city, pay your rent and your bills, and still be able to take part in the culture, entertainment, and dining scene we are famous for? There’s the rub. Everyone meets the challenge in his or her own way, or ends up giving up. WISE UP, SAN FRANCISCO,you’re already losing us, and you’re ripe for the biggest exodus since Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt. But do you care? That just leaves more room for Gavin’s high-roller friends to exploit, develop and privatize. It’s also the death of the “old” San Francisco. And I don’t want to live in the new one. I want to live and die in San FranSASSY!, so people, we’ve got to keep this ball rolling. We still have Chicken John and Diamond Dave and Karma Moffett and Frank Chu and the Kings of SF and the Castro and the Red Poppy Art House and the Noir Film Festival and the Danger and Despair Knitting Circle and Word4Word and the San Francisco Symphony, a roster of good progressive souls in power, and the vibrating energy of folks like you and me. We have the hope of a gallery of decent candidates to succeed Newsom, maybe even an embarrassment of riches. Should be quite a contest. I’m not ready to give on up my city yet. Maybe it can turn around. Because this is it. Because this place, whether I own it or not, is my home. In a New York Times book review by Michiko Kakutani on the “chuckleheaded essays” contained in Martin Amis’s The Second Plane, she called them “preening, self-consciously literary musings.” The phrase struck an uncomfortably familiar note. Every writer must wonder, at times, what impact is this thing I am doing alone, on the polka-dot covered couch at Café International, having? Well, I get about 1000 hits a month (not bad I guess for an largely unknown, unpublicized web site), and many dozens of complimentary emails, but still, one has doubts. ”SOMETIMES OTHER PEOPLE’S LIVESare interesting,” said a friend I’d asked what earthly reason I’d have to watch some nanny show about a stranger disciplining someone else’s bratty children. Then I read in a blog by Jennifer Saylor [“a professional freelance writer, information junkie, crafter, blogger and later-in-life college student in Asheville, NC”], “Why blog? Why should I be so foolish as to think my life is worth listening to? “But it’s in thinking that my life is not worth listening to that I am foolish. I love to read Wil’s book recs, Erik’s cat-care adventures, Kate’s trials… I even love to offer Michelle advice about what not to do with a teenage daughter. In short, people are interesting, even and perhaps especially people with blogs. People’s stories are wonderful.” “Your column reminds me,” a friend told me, “of books I read as a child and thought, ‘I want to have a life like that!’” So this year-long deliberation has been my San Francisco story for your consideration. If you’re still reading, I assume you have found this story wonderful. And because you are still reading, I find you wonderful too.
------------------------------------------------------------ Is there any point
Trick koan last time. There is no train from Mamaronset. copyright Alexandra Jones 2008 |
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