1.10.00
Walkin’ the walk, talkin’ the talk
By Betsey Culp
What if “they” gave a party and nobody came? If they sent out 15,000
invitations and only 1,000 guests showed up? “Promising to protect and
nurture the diversity and strength of San Francisco” — I’m reading from the
official press release issued on January 8 — “Mayor Willie L. Brown, Jr.
today was sworn in for his second term as the 41st mayor of the
City and County of San Francisco.” Saturday morning was bleak, with gray
skies and a chilly wind sucking the warmth from the steps of City Hall.
Except for the scarlet accents of the San Francisco Girls Chorus, the sparse
crowd seemed somber, as bureaucratic black mingled with umber mufti. Someone
once remarked that Washington politicians have unusually large heads, the
better to be seen. San Francisco politicos tend to carry the practice one
step farther, sporting oversized shoulder pads, hats, and trenchcoats, the
better to announce their presence.
Before this small group of large people, the Once and Future Mayor spoke
soberly and at great length about his plans. His momma obviously raised him
well: much of the speech was a sincerely stated thank-you note to the
campaign workers who ensured his reascension of the marble steps he loves so
much, with especially cordial nods to his new allies on the west side of the
city and in the Chinese community. With an apparent amazement astonishing in
a man who has just finished four years as the city’s chief executive, he
noted that the election process had opened his eyes to the needs and wants
of the people he serves. I gather that the entrance of an upstart supervisor
turned an election that looked like a piece of cake into a tough slice of
pot roast, with Brown forced back into the political kitchen to relearn the
basics. Ever the quick study, he insists the crash course worked.
Our Mayor learned something that every old-fashioned ward politician
instinctively understands: backroom deals may be fun, but to gain real
political insights, ya gotta hit the streets. I’m willing to bet that, with
the advent of district elections, the successful supervisors will be the
ones who spend an afternoon a week pounding the pavement, listening to their
constituents and seeing for themselves how things work. In the spirit of
civic cooperation and continuing education, I invite Mayor Brown to join me
as I re-create a walk I recently took through my neighborhood. I’ll describe
some of the local sights. The lessons they contain are the responsibility of
the beholder.
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Saturday morning, Inauguration Day. A cloud cover had turned the city
into a black-and-white photograph, but as I looked north from Bernal Hill,
the sun broke through to illuminate one small area. No meteorological omens
here, however. The bright spot, which lay not in the Civic Center but
somewhere near the Panhandle, vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
I headed toward the 24th-Mission station, passing by a 27-Bryant bus
shelter just two blocks from my house. On ordinary days, I travel downtown
by MUNI rather than making the 20-minute trek to BART, but this day was
special. I wanted to make sure I got there on time, and MUNI revolution
notwithstanding, the buses in this part of town frequently do not.
Army Street — the signs say “Cesar Chavez,” but the old name lingers on
many tongues — was lined as usual with clusters of young men hoping to catch
the eye of temporary employers. The morning was well advanced, it was a
weekend, and the temperature hovered in the low 50s, but still they tarried
there. Better to stay and talk with friends than to wander elsewhere alone.
At Garfield Park, two boys about nine years old were crouching low,
creeping stealthily along the concrete border, with broad grins lighting
their faces. Suddenly, a voice sang out from the group of kids just around
the corner: “I can see you!” Grand giggles all around.
A few blocks beyond, on 24th Street, the nostalgic aroma of freshly baked
pastries and spicy meat sauces began to drift through the open doors of
countless tiny restaurants. Despite the large Latino population of the
Mission, the cuisine is international, and the scent of jalapeños mingled
tantalizingly with that of soy sauce and lemongrass. Women made their way
from market to market, with small children in tow. A group in front of me,
laden with shopping bags, chatted animatedly in Spanish until one small boy
in a turquoise jacket remembered a new word he’d just learned. “Cool!” he
said. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool!”
On my return a few hours later, the mothers were still making their
rounds. One toddler in a stroller tented with clear plastic sleepily
explored her chubby face while an older sister trudged alongside. Teenaged
boys emerged, traveling in packs, taking over sections of the sidewalk. A
shopkeeper burst from his store, shouting at a grizzled man in faded blue
jeans. For an instant, the street scene froze, as the interloper brandished
a yellow plastic mat knife and fled around the side of the building. In the
quiet street, a dark-haired woman in a canvas jacket and a thin flowered
dress sipped from a can of malt liquor as she waited for the bus. Two
slender boys paced back and forth, engaged in a serious discussion of how to
extricate a pink flamingo, left over from Christmas, from the eaves of a
nearby house.
People and politics converge at every step of this walk. Issues hover
behind every face — issues of housing and jobs, recreation and crime, health
and education. Their general configurations are easy to catch a glimpse of;
it’s the specifics that elude. But it’s the specifics that make solutions
possible. And they can only be observed in their native habitat.
Last week the Chronicle quoted Arthur Bruzzone, past chairman of San
Francisco’s Republican Party: “If he wants to, [Willie Brown] can make a
real difference in this city and leave a legacy beyond all the new
construction.” Funny, that’s what some of us said four years ago. Maybe the
second time around’s a charm. Let’s hope.
