There is a stillness in the air. It's not a calm still, just a quiet. But underneath it is a rumble.

There’s a big one coming. That’s what the news is saying about an earthquake due to hit California any time as the pressure along the San Andreas fault line which runs up and down most of our coast is building.

Berkeley scientists have said that the fault line is “locked and loaded”. But in San Francisco the big one may have already hit.

On Friday, the 6th, a group of 5 people who’d been engaged in a 17 day hunger strike, in response to continued issues with our local police department’s actions toward people of color were taken to the hospital.

For almost 3 weeks, 5 people, all San Francisco natives and longtime residents, sat outside the Mission District police department, in peaceful protest, starving themselves asking that our mayor or chief of police step down.

There’s an echo, throughout the US, around police brutality - we know that right? This isn’t  news to anyone. San Francisco isn’t your Ferguson, but here we’re experiencing the same thing that’s rippled across the nation.

Alex.

Mario.

Amilcar.

Luis.

All men of color, all shot with questionable cause. Our city is raw off of these incidents - so naturally, as our police chief and the force he represents are under ongoing investigation and our mayor too, has had some shady, shady incidents under review - questioning our city’s use of force seems like a natural thing.

Stone strikes stone, makes a spark.

The Frisco Five, as our hunger strikers have come to be known had had enough. It makes sense in our city, full of history, culture, birthplace of ethnic studies, hippies, Ginsberg and Kerouac, black panthers, brown berets and the San Francisco Burrito, (just worth mentioning), that we’d have thinkers and community members willing to make a statement, but this, this felt extreme for 2016.

Sellassie and Equipto, two local rappers.

Ike Pinkston and Maria Cristina Gutierrez, two local educators.

Edwin Lindo, a local education advocate, who was (is still?) running for office.

Edwin admitted it might be political suicide to strike. And y’all give Bay rappers so much shit for being politically oriented, but I don’t see Jay or Kanye or even Kendrick, the most woke one of them all, putting themselves out there (unless you count Killer Mike basically being Bernie’s running mate). Ike and Maria Cristina are known in the community and work directly with kids so you can’t hate on that - and a side note, Maria Cristina is no spring chicken - she’s 66 yo!

In a peaceful, but bold protest the Frisco Five sat, and meditated, and prayed, and read, and entertained a few visitors, awaiting a conversation with the mayor. Mayor Lee would not relent. He showed up at the station on Monday of last week, on his terms, not theirs so no conversation was had. On Tuesday they were wheeled through the streets to city hall, marchers surrounding them and aired their concerns publicly at city hall interrupting a board of supevisor’s meeting.  As the days went by they asked that if anyone wanted to support, they come by with sage smudges and candles as a means of holding vigil and keeping them strong.

Though their bellies may have been empty, their hearts were so, so full. Their love, for our city, for our people, radiated outward, and what we as a community put into supporting them, they reciprocated with their actions. They could not be stopped. Sellassie was taken to the hospital on Wednesday afternoon, but returned to their camp site as soon as possible.

On Friday, it rained. It wasn’t a steady rain, but it was and stayed wet. It was calm, not a storm, just rain. Though the Frisco Five had signed “Do Not Treat” orders, all concerned knew the rain would be nothing but bad for them. Though their love was strong, their bodies and health were clearly compromised and so they packed up, were taken to UCSF and their site cleaned.

But this love, it spread - or maybe that’s the wrong idea. It was always there, and it was ignited in our city, this Black/Brown/Yellow/White/Mocha/Ecru love I’ve talked about… It was set ablaze. And when the Frisco Five could not be there in body, others stepped up.

They took their place at the Mission station.

They marched to city hall, took it over and would not be moved.

The spirit, and love of the Frisco Five would not, could not be moved.

Our people marched, and occupied and called for action. But it didn’t end peacefully, despite all attempts to remain so as City Hall closed at 8 and protesters continued to occupy the space. 33 were arrested, who knows how many were actually hurt. The Frisco Five, was suddenly, potentially becoming the Frisco 50, Frisco 500, Frisco 5000.

On Sunday the Frisco Five ended their hunger strike, but vowed to continue their cause. 20 days without food was enough and they are now under a careful re-feeding plan. In their message to the community their love shined through and certainly makes one pause. I am not that strong. I may suck at eating lately, but even I know how miserable I will be if I don’t eat so tonight I force fed myself a beer and some shitty frozen xiao long bao from Tjs. 20 days without food - that’s when the only thing that will feed you, is strength of the spirit, love of your community.

They called for a general strike on Monday, asking people to demonstrate at city hall, to continue, and not give up, as they wouldn’t, even from behind hospital walls and would back on the street as soon as they were able to.

Resilient as fuck, and determined as hell, we have not stopped, we will not stop.

I can’t and won’t front. I did not march to city hall today, but reported to work, and did my thing in my low level government job. I can make a ton of excuses, remind you of my “destroy the master’s house with the master’s tools” mentality, but that’s bullshit. I just didn’t go, and didn’t have it in me to tell my colleagues and department head that I wouldn’t be in on the first day after my boss transitioned out of our department. But my weak ass non-action today does not speak for where I really stand. It was something that was difficult to pinpoint over the last few weeks, but it became clear after Friday night’s actions.

This weekend, after 20 days of observing, of not having the words to articulate the swirling thoughts I had about not only SFC, but of the human condition, of love, of what it means to be brown in 2016, I finally took to social media with an original thought of my own.

“My spirit is tired. What's going on in my city and in this world is wearing it out a little. But seeing how our city has decided to mobilize after the ‪#‎FriscoFive‬ were hospitalized has also filled my spirit.

It says we are here.

It says we will be heard.

It says we want justice.

It says we have and will continue to cultivate a black/brown/yellow/mocha/buttermilk love for our people. For our city.

Oro en paz - fierro en guerra.”

(”Take Back SF” by Monica Magtoto) 

Today you could hear the helicopters over city hall from my office. All day you could see police stationed outside, on guard, waiting. I haven’t seen anything on the news about today, though if I’m honest I’ve been watching the Warriors game while working on this post. But there were certainly demonstrators - we are all still here.

We are taking back SF, not by force, but by taking up space. This is not a new concept, by my sister constantly reminds me (probably herself as well) to take up space. To not be silenced, pushed aside. Being pushed aside is not an option, I never let that happen. But often, I do allow myself to fade into the back, this act essentially creating space for someone else.

But I can’t and won’t do that now - we can’t and won’t do that. Our love, something we so desperately need as Americans right now - this multicolored, multi-generational, multi-lingual/faith/sex, cross - red vines vs. twizzers, east-west rivalry love - cannot be held back.

(Originally written 3/23/16. Worked late two nights last week, then left town for a 48 hour trip to the east coast. Needless to say, I didn’t get it up given how much was on my mind).

I’m sitting at a table, in an exhibition hall working. I’ve had some technology fails and was kicked out of this space while the hall was closed during some kind of opening ceremony. I sat in the lobby fumbling with two ipads, a bunk hot spot, a laptop and a phone. I think I broke my french press this morning.

I just want to go home. I’m having very first world problems this evening.

There are so, so, many triggers, outside of my first world issues. Or maybe they’re compounded by them

Election season. Entire populations of people in this country living in third world conditions. More killings. More shootings. International terrorist attacks. Our privacy being questioned and Apple being like, ‘Nah’. Dude Phife from A Tribe Called Quest died.

But with those many, many triggers this week there was one thing that added to how heavy I feel and I can’t get over.

This week an article was posted on The Guardian about the death and shooting of Alex Nieto here in San Francisco’s Bernal Heights. (Mural below by some homies at the top of Bernal. It’s in a super cutty spot and may have been buffed already. Sad.)

It shouldn’t be a surprise that in this city, in our rapid narrative around gentrification, that San Francisco’s identity and cultural make up, and quirk is weighing in the balance of this change. Not only are we struggling to keep our city residents here because of our out of control housing market but we’re also sweeping the streets of the homeless - many of whom have experienced displacement because of that very thing.

Our local politicians are calling for a state of emergency on this, which others are noting we have limited power to actually impact given how layered and complicated housing has become. It’s a gross situation and comes down to another theme I’ve spoken about or mentioned - our concern and care for one another. Which we really, really don’t. It’s evidenced in how many bodies we’ve laid to rest. It’s evidenced by the fact that we have a lunatic running for president who even my most conservative friend’s are frightened of.

But it’s more complicated than that of course. San Francisco has been a place that’s always attracted weirdos, misfits, outsiders. I’ve mentioned that too - all are welcome, but please respect what’s here.

So this Guardian article, by Rebecca Solnit - calls up ideas that aren’t so foreign to some of us but we haven’t articulated them this strongly. Alex Nieto, was seen, and viewed in a specific way, as a specific character by people who were new to SF and hadn’t taken the time/been given an opportunity to understand our social landscape, our history.

Plainly, and at the beginning of her article Solnit asks:

“Alejandro Nieto was killed by police in the neighbourhood where he spent his whole life. Did he die because a few white newcomers saw him as a menacing outsider?”

What she uncovers and addresses as she writes is that Nieto was a normal dude, wearing Niner gear who was accused of being a Norteño - though it can be assumed that the witnesses (I wrote Whitenesses originally and subconsciously here) didn’t have the language to label him as such and merely called him a banger (again, my language not theirs).  

Though no one can really be clear about what kind of mental state he was in, or what may have triggered him or potentially agitated him that caused people to flag his behavior, he was viewed as a threat.

We spin narratives about the people we cross paths with every day. I’m not sure if I talked about it here, or on one of my other blogs, but when I worked in a high school I wore stupid pointy toed heels because it said “I’m the adult here” to me. It was a stupid way to react to something but I did it. And I still have a tendency to do it - I dress in my best, most professional clothing when things are out of control, when I need to be perceived in a specific way. It’s something I can control, when I feel like there’s not much I can control.

Which is very much how I’m feeling right now but no amount of pressed shirts, polished shoes and statement jewelry could shake the funk, and low and heavy, feeling I’ve had this week. Yeah, yeah, work - whatever, things are still not perfect, but it’s not just that. It’s in the air. There’s a thick layer of fog, not the real kind you expect from us, but the kind that clouds a situation, impairs judgement, confuses people.

So when Solnit’s thesis statement is basically - gentrification killed Alex Nieto, it kind of feels like the moment the fog disappears. Like literally. Everything made more sense. It’s not that this wasn’t such a foreign idea that it didn’t somehow make sense, but yeah. Of course.

I’m not dense. You know that. So we know gentrification isn’t a thing, that can solely commit acts on other people, but it can and does impact everyone here.

Gentrification didn’t just kill Nieto, it’s quickly and seriously changing our city. That we know as well. But if you really, truly, take out the facts and look at what’s left - the spirit, the energy, the ebb and flow of the people.

The narratives spun about the city, google buses, expensive housing, Zucks owning everything, the LGBT community runs rampant converting people. We’re the city of the beats, of large Asian communities where we eat burritos under palm trees, because it’s California afterall. Maybe the narrative is we’re all a bunch of pretentious assholes and native San Franciscans are unicorns.

Yeah, those narratives and the ones like them - are not necessarily all current, but hey you get the point. We’re a city that has always accepted everyone, we’re where people go because we’re crazy. But we’re also a city with a new purpose as a tech hub.

Neither feels authentic. Again, it feels foggy. Maybe it’s the opposite, maybe it’s slicked over and lacquered so you don’t see all the nicks and flaws.

We’re slowed down, weighed down, it is in the air. The city isn’t dying, because natives are not going anywhere, however we’re being brought the hell down.

The question I have, a long with so many others is how or when will we bounce back, or even adapt. Adaptation isn’t just about accepting the new and forgoing the old, but changing together. How or when will this happen?

Our city’s flag, is a Phoenix rising from the Ashes with the motto “Oro en Paz, Fierro in Guerra.” Translated, “Gold in Peace, Iron in War.”

Maybe, then what I’m feeling, or what’s going on in this city, is the smoke. The smoke, before the fire, before the gold becomes iron. I have this shit tattooed on my arm. We need to be more like this, as individuals, as a community. Maybe after it all, that’s when the sky will clear.