The Alarm That Cried Fire

Later that same night…

At half past midnight there came a rapping at my door.

“Fire department.”

I sprang from the couch to investigate. As I flung open the door, there was a man donning the appropriate attire to legitimize this claim. Then there was me, in my pajamas, with stars on my pants. On sale from Victoria’s Secret, but that’s besides the point. He gave me a once over, he glanced down at me, furrowing his brows he spoke, “There’s been a report of a fire in the building, let’s go outside…”

I knew what he was thinking. He’s pissed because the fire alarm has been sounding for at least a good, I’m gonna say, eight minutes, and he thinks I’m the dumb one for hearing the alarm and ignoring the universal warning that there’s a fire.

But what he didn’t know, is that I’ve lived in this building for seven years, on this floor. What he didn’t know, is the first time the fire alarm sounded in the first year I lived here, I left the building, into the cold night air, waited as the firemen traipsed upstairs under the weight of their gear, only to discover that there was no fire. What he didn’t know, and I did, is that this has happened a handful of times, and always in the middle of the night.

What he also didn’t know, is that I was awake writing about the bum who had woken me up screaming bloody murder, and because of this, I heard the person stumble down the stairs, pull the fire alarm, on my floor, and continue to stumble down the other flight of stairs, into the night, to leave the rest of us behind to be judged for our pj choices, and for not leaving the building.

As I told the fireman, “okay," I closed the door and locked the deadbolt. Instead of leaving the building, I went back to the couch, peeked out the window to see a crowd of firemen huddled together outside. I decided, there would be no restful sleep for me tonight, so I closed the laptop, and climbed into bed anyway. Laying there, under the covers, in my bed in the closet, next to the hall, I started to drift off to the beat of firemen descending the stairs, dreamily I thought…NO, fire alarm, I will not be leaving the building tonight, because you’ve cried fire one too many times.

The next day this was posted outside my building…


However, if I do happen to die in my sleep, because of smoke inhalation, or because I’ve been burned to a crisp, you’ll all know why.

Abusive Relationships

I had fallen asleep on the couch and was awoken by screaming and yelling in the middle of the night. A man in a red rain jacket was yelling at a homeless woman perched on a pile of blankets across the street. I popped up to see what was the matter, as he stormed at her. Making a beeline and flailing his hands about, he got her in face. He yelled and pulled the blankets from underneath her and pushed her around. He proceeded to beat her with her own blankets. She screamed bloody murder. I decided to call the police. This decision, whether or not I should call the police, is one I’ve had to contemplate on more occasions than I’d like to, was not made lightly. I believed the situation was about to get out of hand…

I dialed the police, not 911, but the San Francisco police. The reason I have this number dangling from my bulletin board is because at one point the building I reside in had a homeless problem. They would crawl over the front gate, which now has wooden planks nailed over it, and sleep in numerous places in the building, including, but not limited to, the stairs in front of my door. Leaving the house in the morning and having to step over a passed out bum is not the right way to start the day. By calling the police this night, I thought I was doing the right thing, my civic duty, helping a woman in need…in danger. I dialed, and the operator was on the line immediately. I gave him the details and the location. Immediately after hanging up, the guy in the red rain coat just walked away. It’s like he knew exactly how long was long enough for an incident like this, and I cursed him for it; I wanted to make sure he got what was coming to his sorry ass.

He was back a few minutes later yelling some more. Good, good, now he’ll get it, I thought. Peeping through the blinds I watched. He‘s yelling, she‘s crying, but no cops… He’s gone again. A tranny prostitute in a sleek black outfit comes to offer a tissue and a few kind words. She’s like an angel, a tranny prostitute angel, in black, whatever…at least someone has noticed, is doing what I cannot. He’s back. He pushes the prostitute, and she backs away, but not before suggesting he leave the lady alone. He leaves again.

He’s down the road somewhere when the cops arrive, lights blazing, pulling up right next to the woman. She starts to pack up her blankets, frantically shoving them into a bag. I feel like I’ve only made the situation worse for this poor woman, and it looks like I’ve called the police here for nothing, because on their arrival, there’s nothing happening. They drive away slowly.

But I… I kept watching, to see if she’ll be okay, or if he’ll return, and few moments later, he does. When this incident began I thought he didn’t know the woman, he was just harassing someone innocent because he’s crazy. As the incident progressed and he kept returning, I knew there had to be a connection between them in some way. As he returned this last time, I found out what that was. She’s standing up this time as he approaches, he hands her a cigarette. They light up together… He gives her a little cuddle…. He puts his arm around her, and rubs his head against hers. I’m outraged…I’m disgusted… where’s my camera…I’ve got to get this “couple” on it, NOW.

I find the camera. I try and set the ISO. I try and set the shutter speed. I put on the zoom lens. Nothing good is coming from all of this, all the while, my friends outside are getting along famously. I wanna puke.

My boyfriend’s youngest sister is moving in with us next month, and we’ve begun the process of looking for a bigger place. A bigger place means a different location. I’ve been conflicted. I’ve made friends with some of the shop keepers around here. I like them, I’ll miss them if/when we move. I’m obviously still in denial at this very moment. I’ve been thinking we should try and make it work here. It’ll be way cheaper for everyone, since we’d have to pay a bunch more for another room. The deposit alone to move in is usually the rent plus some. Also, all the places we can afford with 2 rooms are in places like, the Sunset, Outer Mission/Excelsior, or Bayview, which the boyfriend argues is an up and coming neighborhood. It hasn’t arrived, and I’m not taking the T train, at night, after work, over there. He argues that it’s pretty much the same as living here. I argue, it’s not. Plus, right now, we’re centrally located.

I know this for certain, I’m not moving to outer anything. So, I had sort of convinced myself that we should stay. And until tonight, until right now, I didn’t realize that, I too am in an abusive relationship, just like the homeless woman outside. The Tenderloin abuses me, and yet I love it still. It rouses me from my slumber, wakes me up violently, yells at me in the middle of the night, and yet, I love it still. And tonight, for the first time, as I try to rationalize the reasons to stay, and not go, I realize, I’m in an abusive relationship…with my neighborhood.

I couldn’t get the camera to work, because I’m inept with technology. I failed. So, I’m left with a few grainy pictures, and an understanding that I’m not unlike the woman outside, sitting on her blankets crying, because she’s in a messed up place.

I'm Not Black But My Hair Is

A Sorta-Ode to All Those Blogs About Fashion, Tenderloin Style
All about my fashionable? hair...


"Nice hair," is what I hear most often when I walk down the street. I've been thinking I should get it trimmed again, but I've had a lot of positive feedback lately with my hair at this length. Interestingly enough, mostly from Black men. In the Tenderloin, some Black men stand in front of their apartments for a good portion of the day. What they're really doing there, I can't say for sure, but they tend to talk to, and jeer at the people walking by. I'm one of those people, and most often, they tell me, they like my hair.

Usually, when a woman wants to look for a new style for her hair, she peruses magazines, fashion and the like, there are even ones specifically for hairstyles, or a quick scan of images online will suffice. Celebrities can be a good go to. But, it's difficult for me to find examples of hairstyles that I can relate to. Unfortunately, there are not many women in magazines that have crazy curly locks like mine. All the models have straight hair, and if it does have volume, it's usually artificial and worked over like the rest of the ad. What these magazines seem to suggest: is the hair that I possess is not, en vogue. I'm not Black, but each time I want a new style, it's the magazines for Black women I turn to. And, amazingly enough, a lot of the women in these magazines are shown with their hair straightened.

When I was younger, my sister would iron my hair to straighten it for me, but it turned out fluffy and weird. We had not yet discovered the magical world of products for our hair. My mom was a hippie, and never cared to try and tame our trusses. The "straight" hair never lasted long because, as soon as I washed it, the curls would emerge. I'll never, ever straighten my hair with chemicals, I love it the way it is. It does what it wants, and has a mind of its own! So now, it's all curly, all the time.

For so many decades curly hair has been marginalized. Every time I flip through a fashion magazine that does not choose to represent the women with hair I can relate to, I know this country has a lot of work to do as far as Equality goes.

I'm not sure if Anne Hathaway actually has curly hair, but in the movie, Princess Diaries, she has curly hair, and by the time Mary Poppins gets her hands on her, she's a princess, with straight hair. That's a messed up hair message.

This is a call to women with hair like mine: Wear your hair out and proud, like Angela Davis did/does.

It's a bea-u-ti-ful thing to be different, celebrate it! The men of the Tenderloin will appreciate you for it!