The Streets of San Francisco

Depending on my Chinese trip batteries, I try to capture the hussle and bussle of one of my favorite places on earth: Tartine’s Bakery. Charge battery symbol flashing red, I get about 3 crap shots and the camera switches off, rolls in the lens as if to say, I tried to warn you.

San Francisco California. My home, almost. And yes- I meant to delete the comma between city and state. I am back, and- well the city did not notice my absence-but that‘s okay. In fact, its how it should be. I believe, besides my family, this city, this beat, this constant move and groove left my heart aching for more. I missed it. I craved it. I had left my heart in it.

Walking through the Mission District, I take in all the sites and scenes that my soul carefully stored and used to measure the worth of each new city I entered. All came up short, as they lack the people, colors, smells, tastes that connect me to the human race. This place has it all…all of US. Each one is represented vividly, some with more pride and power than others…yet represented none the less.

Searching for parking, we slowly pass two vaqueros carrying their guitarras like peacock tails as they saunter pass the bright and bold murals that tell the historias of the progenitors. Metal piercings glitter in the bright sun as we walk passed young kids having a lively discussion that only Jerry Springer could rival for its shock and relevance. Stretching calves past their natural capacity we hit the top of a hill, just to slide right down to the distant sizzle of marimbas in the park. Wind whipped yet warmed by the sun, Sasha drops her slobbered tennis ball at our feet, and quickly finds a hiding place in the folds of Jessica’s black skirt, either relishing or unpulsed by our hands’ instant attention to her sleek fur and muzzle.

Long haired boys, muscled girls, and hairless dogs comb the streets. The young, the old, the fashion minded and the absent minded each add to this jigsaw of culture and couture. When men in tights with red boa-ed outlined wings are met with knowing smiles and SUVs with scowls. Ukuleles strummed by white hands, salsa swung by narrow Chinese hips, skirts swayed by bearded men- these everyday occurrences bring relief to my sense of being. Surround by so many bucking the norm, it is easy to be the norm, and lose any compulsions to live up to ‘expectations’.

Sitting here, at the family size (even Headley family sized) common table in Tartine, looking out into the intersection of 18th and Guerrero I am overjoyed to be me. Such an array of the world saunters past, unawares to my eye, and it fills me with a sense of belonging-without pressure. I become aware of this confidence of self- my intelligence, beauty, and worth- just from choosing to love and accept them, my world wise brothers and sisters.

It’s good to be home, even if its just for a bit.

Comadres

On a wall in my parents house hangs a picture entitled, “Las Comadres” by Simon Silva. Two women, one carrying a child, while the other is holding a laundry basket and leaning over a wall to whisper something to her beloved friend, sister, confident. I acquired it from a street vendor in Los Angeles thanks to the bargaining skills my friend, Sister Chase. Chase and I served together as missionaries, and we referred to each other as sisters, as well as to over 100 other women we served with during a one and half year period. This picture, although showing two mothers, reminds me of my cherished relationships we women had as we worked to provide Christ like service. There were many difficulties and personal tribulations during that time, and we were there to listen, confide, and comfort each other.

Most of you know of my usual upbringing, that of being sandwiched between six brothers, three older, three younger. I often sought after their acceptance, approval, and alliance without much success- as after all, I was just a girl. My sister moved out while I was still in elementary school, so we did not develop our relationship until I was much older. That left me with my girlfriends. Luckily, my neighborhood, church, and school provided me with many opportunities to whisper my secrets to other girls that handled them with care.

Tonight I watched a documentary called, Born into Brothels. You can easily guess by the title its subject matter. The beauty of this film, was the hope the film maker brought to it. She provided photography lessons to the children of the women that worked the Red Light District in Calcutta. She became an advocate for the children. She worked to get them into a boarding school and out of the life that chained them to a brothel. I was so proud of this woman, for finding a way to bring attainable beauty to the children, and for showing me their gifts and talents.

I wanted to be her comadre.

I thought back to my travels, and wondered at what impact I had. Any? Was it positive? Anything long lasting? What lasting change could I really hope to attain in a short few weeks here and there?

Throughout the movie, an agitating conversation I had with some American boy while in Bangkok kept repeating itself in my mind. He had asked out host if she had been to the Red Light District (RLD) in Bangkok. He wanted to go. He had heard that women there did some freaky stuff, and he wanted to experience it first hand. Of course he did not want to have sex with one, he doesn’t need to pay for that- only to see them do the bizarre and humiliating stuff would be enough.

From the moment I heard him ask my skin began to crawl, and my anger was pricked. What a prick! Doesn’t he realize that most these women didn’t have a choice? Were forced , blackmailed, beaten, or sold into this? Mostly likely as children?

I tried to be calm. I tried to sound neutral. Logical. Statistical.

I asked him if he thought that these women, sex workers, worked in this ‘profession’ by choice. How many did he think chose freely and willingly this career? He figured at least 70% did. I believe he had his percentage backwards, and I felt that it was even higher. He laughed at my prudishness and replied something to the effect that the RLD did not want to lose any business, and they made a good living.

Again, I tried not to explode.

Who? The women? Perhaps the madams do, I spitted out, yet the average worker gets nothing. Perhaps enough food for herself and children, perhaps not beaten that evening for bringing in a good price. Then another guy at the table chimed in that NGOs had gone into the RDL, and they were kicked out. Nobody wanted their medical assistance or education.

Again, I was stupefied.

Who didn’t want it? The workers or the owners? Of course the workers did not want anything that would bring them trouble: beatings, gang rape, disappearance of children or other family members…the atrocities go on and on that their pimps could rain down on them in retribution for cutting a profit, or lessening their control over the workers. The owners? They don’t want anything to hurt their business.

I was in shock. I don’t know why. The sex industry would not be around if there weren’t customers. And those customers are men, like them.

I implored, don’t you see by going and paying for a ‘show’ you are supporting the selling of children, kidnappings, and inequality of women? You could instead use your time, money, and interest to show that this industry is losing its customers, it men, because they want women to have equal access in life.

I was rebuffed by the boy with, I’ll just go to the women that are there by choice. He and the other paying customer laughed in camaraderie.

I left the table at this point and headed upstairs to the restaurant’s balcony. It had been raining for the last couple of hours, but the rain had stopped, and the clouds were wondering off.

I felt so defeated. So un…unhelpful. Like I had just left all my comadres of the world down. I thought of the many different women and girls I had met during my travels, and my heart ached that they would all be able to carry hope in their hearts. Win their battles, ‘cause I had just lost one of mine.

In the film, one of the boys that is especially talented is invited to go to Amsterdam to meet this other young photographers from around the world. During the filming of the documentary and prior to his departure, his mother is burned to death by her pimp. This boy said that at one time he wanted to be a doctor, then an artist. Then he says, “There is nothing called “hope“ in my future.”

I am not too sure why I am writing this. After watching the film, the sad birds are resting on my heart.

Maybe I want to say our actions matter. That our decisions can make for positive change. I am not trying to imply that many of you visit brothels and should stop, or that you don’t care for the equality of women. What I think that I want to articulate, it that I am very grateful for the women in my life. My mother, my sister, my SILs (sis-in-laws), my friends, my nieces, and my acquaintances. I am also very grateful for my CO-, padres, brothers, guys, boys, etc. that prove that the women have a chance to move on and up in the world.

I love, that of the child rearing brothers I have, they all have girls. I love that they love them. I love that they will fight for them to have the best of it. I love that I am supremely confident that my bros will put every effort forward to do right by their girls. I love that they can be copadres.

I love that as I believe woman play a special role in women’s lives, men can too play a supportive role in each other’s lives. That although I am powerless to stop the RLDs of Bangkok or Calcutta, I am powerful in COtributing to my brothers’ daughters’ -and sons’- equitable and bright futures.

That perhaps soon, I will see a painting that depicts two men at a wall, one with child, one with laundry, sharing each other’s burdens or hopes. And somehow, somewhere that will mean there is one less born into brothels.

trailer documental "Born into Brothels"

Vendors' Value

The greatest love hate relationship a tourist can have is with the many street sellers trying to push their wares on you.

I am on a ferry cruising down the Lijiang River in Guilin, one of the most beautiful scenic routes of all of China. There are peaks, cliffs, and crags surrounding me and all I can pay attention to is the he man yelling, “Hello!”.

At the beginning of the tour, our first local guide had told the group about the Helong people. They will shout at you and try to sell you postcards, hats and other tourist paraphernalia. I thought it so interesting that a ethnic group had the corner on tourist sales.

Two days later, I overheard someone in our group making a joke about the Helong people. I was at very saddened and annoyed that people thought it was okay to be making jokes aimed at a group of people, and then I realized the joke was on me!

The tour guide had been making a joke, yet with her accent I had not understood it. She had dubbed the people selling tourist trinkets as the “Hello” people, because they shout hello to get your attention to what they are selling.

This is true everywhere that I have traveled in the past 8 months. Sales people learn this English word and shout it, and repeat it over and over. It has become a sort of tourist depression cycle for me. At first I find it entertaining and I smile and say, “No thank you over and over.” Then I start to find it annoying, feeling that I cannot go anywhere without being accosted by the shout. After a couple of days of the constant barrage it my reaction moves into anger, why won’t these people just leave me alone? Can’t they see the weariness in my eyes? And finally acceptance, which leads me to keep my eyes glued to the ground and employ my best snubbing skills.

During all these stages guilt is neatly folded in and weighing down on my heart. I feel bad. I have a rich and privileged life compared to these hard working folks. If my one or two dollars can provide an income for them, then why not? But then I think…they don’t want my pity. But then I think, is it pity? No! This is business. But then I realize, it’s not really business if I am buying something I don’t want. Do they even get the profit or do they have some type of tourist trinket lord that takes all the profits and makes them go out to work everyday. Then I think not everything is a special CNN report. Then I think…I can’t thing straight! ARGGGH! I become trapped in a crazy circle of guilt.

I have also found there is a direct correlation to the size of my guilt to size of town. For example, if I am in a big city my guilt is almost nonexistent. Whereas, if I am in a little or remote village-then I feel more compelled to use my money to support their way of living. I can’t help but to think of how hard difficult there life is compared to mine.

Which bring me back to what inspired these thoughts.

Here on the river we are on a large ferry. The tour is 3 hours long. I am sitting inside the ferry on the bottom level surrounded by windows when I realize there is a man outside the window yelling ‘Hello!”. He is holding ‘jade’ carvings of Buddha and other images of China. I let out a laugh.

The Hello people found a way to sell to us even when surrounded by water.

They paddle out to the boat on a small bamboo canoe, then hold the ornament up and shout to get the tourists attention, “Hello!” Then they start to say prices, try to catch your eye, and basically- break your heart…okay mine. Most other people at stuck in annoyance at this point.

Over and over again, from country to country I am impressed with how hard people will work to try and support themselves and their families. I sometimes wonder why they would pick the job they do, and then a resounding thump on the back of my head sounds, and I remember they are doing the best they can with what they can. I would never want to have to hock or sell goods to anyone. The hundreds of rejection a day, the annoyed looks, the diverted eyes, and the hands constantly brushing you away.

Now, I know there are some that are out to cheat and swindle you. Even those that lie and wish you ill. Yet more than not-there are those just out to make the best deal that they can for themselves and their families. It is my responsibility to check to make sure that what I am buying is the quality I am expecting. It is up to me to be just as smart and savvy as the sellers.

It took me a long time, but it seems within the last 6 weeks I have somehow gained acceptance for the hawkers. I have found that 4 out of five times, if I look the person in my eyes, smile politely yet with compassion and say, “No thank you” that I am left alone. It is amazing! It gives me a sense of mutual respect. I am able to continue walking on with an open heart and a growing love for the people of different cultures in our world.

We are all trying to carve out our place in the world. Some of us have been given butter knives to do the job, while others of us have been provided with powerful diamond tipped stone cutters. In the end, we all hope to create something of value.

Happiness

The Chinese seek happiness in colors, characters, statues, temples, and highway underpasses. This morning I went to Heaven’s Temple, definitely a place one goes to find happiness. And happiness I and others did.

There were hoards of dancers, singers, ti chi artists, clappers, hacky sack players, and more. In the vast park area of this temple hundreds, most likely thousands of retired people throng to whatever it is that brings their heart delight. Watching them brought smiles, laughter, and eternal bliss to my soul.

I especially enjoyed watching the tango dancers. Such precision and pose. Such perfection in their movements, that I typically and falsely attributed to young bodies, yet these masses of wrinkled joy were showing me otherwise. Not surprisingly there were more women then men, so they coupled together or danced solo gracefully across the parks open spaces, and this gave me comfort towards the future. It was so cute too to see the newbie’s to dance, mouths moving to keep count and track of the moves. No old dogs here that can’t learn new tricks.

Later that evening in a new city, 1000s of kilometers away, there was still dancing and singing. This time however the beautiful back drop of the trees, temple, and grass was replaces by honking horns, flashing billboards advertising gambling, and tons of concrete.

As I walked home from dinner, in the distance I heard soft music and realized there were five woman practicing Ti Chi under the highway overpass at dusk. I clapped my hands and ran over to try and capture it on film from a polite distance. I stood marveling at these women and their dedication to health and self, their ability to create inner peace in the middle of an industrial and busy business district. As I headed back towards the hotel, the strains of a symphony playing Jingle Bells tickled my ears. I wondered if some parade was happening, and I quickly chased the sound to the another island of concrete under the highway.

As I neared the director was giving notes to his players, explaining the next piece they would play-wafting his attention from the horns to the reeds. The audience formed a circle around the symphony, all eyes on the director, all ears listening to the players, all hearts eager to remain open to the magic of music in the misty moonlight.

The man I was standing next to looked over at me, and then swung his head back in shock as he realized I was not from around here. I grinned and whispered, “Nee How” and he return my greeting with a large smile and vigorously nod of approval. My heart swelled.

Soon I scooted to a space in the front and squatted down right next to the clarinet player and busted out my camera to capture the sights that would later trigger melodic memories. Old and young faces peppered the crowd, while only wrinkled hands and lips created the harmony under the concrete jungle paths above.

I laughed at my own foolishness, and the tireless efforts of the universe to teach me. It had been three long days since being on an organized tour in China, and I couldn’t escape the feeling of being a caged bird. My wings had been clipped, my voice only grated those around me, and I was quickly falling into a pit of my own making. After all, I was the honored one here, and in China that is saying a lot.

Months ago my parents had delighted me with the news that they would come and meet me on my travels. China was the place and my mother vigilantly began making arrangements, getting the advice of her friends, and organizing a trip of a lifetime for us to share. The love and happiness I felt every time I thought, bragged, or talked of our meeting in China somehow escaped ruthlessly the first morning of the tour when our first stop took us to a overcrowded site filled with tourists and noise. I wanted to be grateful and pleased, but instead a snotty insatiable teenager took over, and my eyes seemed to keep rolling back as my arms were firmly crossed across my chest.

And here in front of me was beauty, joy, and happiness in the most unlikely of places: under the overpass of a highway, on an island of concrete with cars zooming by on either side.

Happiness is created. Happiness is the gift your own heart, hand, and head provide you, if you are willing to take it, create it, and have it.

I get to be in China. I get to travel. I get to be with my parents. I get to be loved by them. I get to be happy. If only I will. I get it….I hope.