I drove through the Mission today on a quickie errand. With all my life centered in the East Bay, and aside from making the occasional run for Peruvian food or ice cream or Quesadillas Suizas (you can see what my priorities in life are), I am rarely anywhere near Valencia Street anymore. But the Mission and I go back and we go deep. I had nearly forgotten that until today.
It has changed so much the last 10 years, from mid 90’s bike messenger gritty to swanky sushi bars (during the dot-com boom), then back to gritty again and now to this weird vacant Carroll Gardens-like hipster good restaurant enclave.
It’s always been a love-hate thing. I have been rolling my eyes at the Mission for YEARS, mostly due to its Trustfundian population.. you know.. the MFA students with their penchant for space rock, weed, rent control and really expensive shoes. I always looked down on the Mission from my other, more ironic ‘hoods that were, in truth, just more affordable (in retrospect, we weren’t all that punk rock). But we spent endless afternoons reading and sunning in Dolores Park, and nights in the Mission’s countless coffeeshops that didn’t mind our puffs of cigarette smoke, rants about consumerism and things like lack of adequate research on women’s health issues. We wanted passionate lives but didn’t know how to create them yet, and were contented to rely on passages from Howard Zinn books and Ani Difranco lyrics to inspire us.
When I moved to the city at the ripe age of 22, I was damaged and heartbroken. I had come to reinvent myself, but not from a place of reason and confidence; more for a lack of any other viable option. I recently had left Santa Cruz penniless and much more wise about recognizing the signs of heroin addiction when choosing a potential soulmate (long story, clearly). I had also been gathering momentum to put out my first album, and it seemed that San Francisco was a swell place for such a DIY project. Nothing made sense at that time but determination, and the Mission was a perfect landing place for me with its chaos, clubs, thrifty art stores, dirt, and renegade nonprofits.
At that age, we sought to fill the holes in our lives with experiences, so life emanated from the weeklies. We would scan the SFBayGuardian for show and club listings every Wednesday evening over a pot of coffee, and I felt an intimate connection with most local bands. We showed up for every operating all-girl dance party in our tank tops, overalls and purple lipstick, ready to dance all night*, even the ones in biker bars or office parks. I worked long hours as a nanny on the Peninsula and wrote lyrics on the train ride home and music in every spare moment. I reserved any actual personality for nights and weekends- work was a necessary function to fill. Like toothbrushing or tax filing. I went against traffic each morning, literally- standing at the train platform with my spiky bright red hair and camouflage pants, eyeing the “suits” on the other side on their way into the Financial District for a meeting as I headed south. I scowled at them. We laughed at them in the evenings over cheap bottles of red wine on our building rooftop and talked about how we’d never get suckered into that life. We wouldn’t take any pre-prescribed circuit. Screw ‘em. We would subvert the patriarchy… somehow.
I can still feel that energy on Valencia, even if it isn’t coming from the community so much (there seems to be much more passion about Bi-Rite than politics, and the pirate radio has long been shut down). On those wide, dirty streets, I am still in my twenties, fighting a serious battle against the man, and trying desperately to hold on to what I believe in. I can still feel the flutter of working up the nerves to walk into Aquarius Records and ask if they want to carry my label’s releases, or promote my show. The store is still there, thank goodness. As I drove past, I thought about dropping in for music and saw a girl who looked a lot like me, posting her co-op flyer and having a quick smoke outside.
*A side note. It is difficult to dance in platform military boots. I know grunge is having its resurgence so I’m just warning those of you who didn’t rock it the first time around. Source alternative footwear for clubbing.
press photo from '98. cool schmool.