Tales of the Mission.

(please click) Mission District Headlines, Sept 05, 2008

Trina E. is on assignment in the hood where I spend a majority of my time. She asks me, "What kind of issues does the Mission District face?" I am astonished that she doesn't already know.

This is what I'd like to call the armpit of San Francisco. It sits at a lower elevation than the rest of San Francisco, insulated from western Pacific fog and wind, it is almost always sunny. Everyday I walk on sidewalks that reek of human waste and on hot days like these, the Mission becomes the devil's playground. This is what the tourists don't see.

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Between the BART elevator and the local Walgreens sits three Latin men, sprawled on the pavement clutching 32oz. aluminum cans masked by brown paper bags. Their faces have traces of dirt and grime, indications of where they laid their heads the night before. Fifteen feet away, crouching up against the BART rails is a woman, 30 going on 70, breathing deeply. I watch as she lifts up her soiled dress and pierces her outer thigh with a needle. Across the street, where the McDonald's is, there is a line of children wearing blue and white plaid school uniforms taking in their environment and learning from it.

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On my way to the office, there is graffiti on the wall. It reads, "Beer Picnicy" in bold red letters right next to a mural that tells a story of hope. But you would never notice it underneath the spray paint. Every other week, I put in a maintenance request to have graffiti washed off of my building's walls.

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I look out my window and watch a grown man and grown woman duke it out on the street over a small plastic ziplock bag and its contents. They yell. They push. He spits on her. My coworkers and I watch the drama unravel and finally the police are called. But by the time the cop car rolls around, they are long gone.

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Three teenagers are shot in the face: two dead, the other paralyzed. A 15 year old daughter picked up for prostitution, brought home only to steal money from her father and head back out to the streets. Another daughter kicked out of her home because her family cannot make her go to school, instead she robs liquor stores. A man living out of a suitcase tells me that he would rather pay two grand on gold jewelry than pay for rent. Three males who don't look a day over 14 sit atop Dolores Park on a school day carrying around 40oz Old English bottles instead of books.

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He asks me, "Why do you want to help me so much?"

"Because I want to feel safe when I'm out there," I say pointing out the window. "I don't want my children to live in a world where people like you are roaming around. If I can help you become better, then that world becomes better."

It sounds selfish, I admit. Maybe a little harsh, but it is the truth. With this man, I think I am making a difference. I pat myself on a job well done.

Two weeks later, I find out that he is back in jail.


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I see these things. I hear these things. And while I do not suffer the same fate, I live these things. I try hard not to let this world ruin my idealistic version of San Francisco life but it does. Am I fighting a losing battle?

Even if I am, I can't stop fighting.