Second Sight: Remembering Some San Francisco Neighborhoods - 4. iv. Valencia Street

.

iv.

Valencia Street

Though but a block separates the pairing,

There’s always been a piquant difference

Between Mission and Valencia Streets.

And, as the heart of the Mission District,

Mission Street pulsates with businesses geared

To Latin life in a cold, far city;

While Valentia – mixed in many ways –

Was a street unique in its vibrancy.

Though deprived of parks and open spaces,

The residential blocks knitting the two

Were where one could see front gardens bloom,

As all the colors of the Southland grew

Between sidewalks and the houses’ front doors.

Fig trees were not an uncommon sight, nor

Blooming yucca, cacti, or palm trees too.

Bougainvillea would climb to the rooflines,

Their pretty, relatively small white flowers

Set like shimmering opals amongst crimson

Triangular leaves pointing to the sky.

Their red was matched by an unlikely friend,

For a Southern native to Mexico

Thrived here throughout the year, and for many

Years could grow painfully slow, inching up

With bright-red leaves gently turning to green.

Poinsettia, planted by people’s stoops

After Christmases sixty years prior,

Reached upwards for the San Francisco sun.

My first encounter with one left me awed,

But, walking down to BART in the morning [i]

On my way to Oakland and work, I’d find

More houses with ancient poinsettia

In the blocks between Mission and my home.

It makes me queasy now to realize

The first thing real estate agents suggest

Is that all mature plants must be ripped out,

For nothing frightens suburbanites like

Evidence of a home being lived in!

No; no; subservience demands – “If you

Want the BIG money” from Silicon Valley –

“Tear it all up! Put in boring from

The dead-in-a-month hardware store’s

Hothouse, water-hogging, nonnative plants.”

(Second words always involve slapping paint

On brick and masonry features to, quote:

“Spruce things up and make it nice for people.”

That dullards go ahead and do this, ‘cause

Money is money, and history be damned,

Becomes enough to make me grind my teeth,

All while oya and aesthetic brick walls [ii]

Vanish ‘neath coats of plain conformity.)

So, if I’d stroll the same way I used to,

Chances are, those tender spider lilies

With red tentacles lifted to the clouds

To catch the last drop of the morning dew,

And the vibrant, super-slow growing plants

Of treasured Christmases now forgotten,

Are all gone, victims to complacency.

But what’s stored in my memory still blooms,

And with the sights of Valencia Street,

The new-arrived-me was captivated.

It seems but yesterday, my friend David

Took me to the humble hole-in-the-wall,

Palestinian Christian-owned restaurant

With falafel and shawarma on pita

– And mint infused yogurt tahini too –

Served for hand-holding in unadorned

Aluminum foil wrappers, perfect for

Standing by their front door, shooting the breeze

While David and I ate and people-watched.

We had one such meal the calm afternoon

We strolled down half a block on 16th Street

To catch two hours’ worth of Kieślowski’s

Ten Commandments films – “Adultery” and

“Take Ye No False Idols” specifically –

Movies that still make me pause and reflect.

While, a few blocks up, and across the way,

The Gay repertory theater group

Rhinoceros staged incredible feats.

I still remember one production there

Featuring a minor character played

By a retired, career-change porn star,

Who – though featured for the part’s nudity –

Wound up stealing the whole show for his heart,

For when he confessed his love to a guy,

It seemed he wasn’t on a stage at all.

Granted, a Johnny-come-lately actor,

He’s still among the best I’ve ever seen.

But what of the shops that represented

The diverse communities making up

The Valencia Street of my recall?

What of the huge Indian marketplace

Running along the west side of the street?

A step in there, and the senses were met

With turmeric in both hue and fragrance,

And any number of other spices

Were just the same, from cardamon to hing.

Bins full of lentils, some green, some coral,

Awaited scooping and bulk purchases,

While shelves on the walls hosted cooking pots

Of every material, size and shape

A multi-thousand-year cuisine demands.

But for me, the most immediate taste,

Surging through my recollections, comes from

A section of the store set right up front,

For along the windows by the sidewalk,

Ran their ice cream section, and what’s better

On a hot San Francisco day than an

Ice cream cone filled with exotic flavor?

Their rose and orange blossoms tasted subtle;

While jaggery caramel; rajbhog; chai;

Offered bolder tastes of faraway home.

And hardly alone, this store was amongst

Neighbors selling Vietnamese produce,

Middle-East, or Filipino groceries.

But besides all the restaurants and food stores,

Valencia Street was also the king

Of second-hand, antique and thrift retail,

And where I spent most of my first weekends,

Picking up small things that I still treasure.

One came from the two-story shop with books

Tucked beneath the mezzanine in the back.

Here, for a couple of dollars, I found

An AT&T employee cookbook

– Which seems to date to the 1950s –

And exhibits many fine recipes,

Counting one I’ve made over and over

For the best cherry streusel coffeecake

One could perhaps ever hope to be served.

And here as well I found healthy eating’s

“Vital Foods for Total Health, a Cook Book.”

Starting it all in the 1940s,

It was Doctor Jensen’s original

Hidden Valley Ranch health spa near L.A.

That brought what we eat as a means to health

To wider attention, while the retreat’s

Salad dressing is still enjoyed today.

What interesting vegetarian meals

Live ‘tween the covers of this manual:

From soybean loaves, to heavy-cream prune whip,

There’s fare for three hundred sixty-five days

Of feasting both the body and spirit. [iii]

And on the subject of people and books,

I’m relieved the Community Thrift Store,

– With its pair of rainbow-painted arches –

Continues on with its HIV work,

With all proceeds going to the needy.

Undoubtedly, vital Queer books are here,

As often friends and family will donate

A passed Gay person’s effects to this store.

And my archive of LGBT+

History, culture and panache has grown

Over the years from this Thrift’s bookcases:

They’re golden pages passed from hand to hand,

And I’m grateful for all the knowledge learned

From this store’s ever-humbling library.

But thinking of those who have gone before

Puts me in melancholy memory

Of how things have changed, for the antique shops

Have long been replaced by slick retailers

Offering new furniture’s tame design,

Sure to ‘offend’ none of suburban taste,

And free of any of the complex facts

That comes with San Francisco’s history.

And yet, firm in melancholic recall

I know that a certain taqueria

Close to 16th Street is still as it was,

For there, on one of my first weekend nights

After I had moved here, I cruised a boy

Within a big group of his friends, and then,

Later, alone in the restroom could meet

This blond angel face to face. And perhaps,

If I dig long enough through my desk drawer,

I can still produce this restaurant’s napkin

Where the boy had written his phone number.

Though many years have passed, I can still taste

His kiss; I can still feel the excitement

I obviously raised in this young man

Like a blooming plant from the Southland’s heat.

_