People I Meet

Baraka recently moved. As she was preparing to leave the neighborhood where she had lived for the past 5 years–taking pictures and walking by her usual haunts for the very last time–I was reminded of my own move just a year ago, from the apartment I had lived in for my first three years in San Francisco.

My old roommate and I ate at Shalimar the night before we moved out. We considered it our neighborhood joint–the guys behind the counter knew our names and placed our regular order right when we walked through the door. We were able to say goodbye and let them know that they wouldn’t be seeing us around anymore because we were leaving the neighborhood. But I often think about all the other people who I used to run into on a daily basis–what are they up to and do they wonder what happened to me?

There was the crosswalk lady with the orange vest in Chinatown, holding up the STOP sign so the little Chinese kids could make it safely onto school grounds without getting plowed over by MUNI bus 30 or cars trying to get through rush hour traffic. The tall, elderly gentleman, who nodded to me each morning as we passed each other on the steep Russian Hill, he effortlessly strolling downhill, me huffing, puffing and sweating my way uphill. Then there was the lady with the dog. She looked a like a typical San Francisco hippy, long graying hair and a messenger bag adorned with peace buttons and patches slung across her chest. She would smile at me as I walked by, patiently waiting for her dog to finish up his morning business.

I unexpectedly saw her in the financial district last week. We were standing kitty-corner from each other at an intersection, waiting for the light to change so we could cross the street. I saw her before she saw me. When she glanced my way, her face lit up–she grinned at me and waved enthusiastically. The look on her face seemed to say, “there you are! I was wondering what happened to you!”

The light changed and we both went our separate ways once again.

Thank you for the Lady with the Dog.

The streets of San Francisco’s Financial District are so filled with people, that I’ve developed the not-so-admirable skill of ignoring most of them.

I’m a behind-the-desk lunch eater, so if I leave my office during the day, it’s usually because I’m trying to get somewhere. I can passively appreciate the man who sets up his keyboard on the corner, his music filling the streets and echoing off nearby buildings, but don’t feel like actively engaging the Greenpeace volunteer about the plight of the polar bears.

I realized the error of my ways a few weeks back.

I had a 4 hour meeting starting at 1:00 and knew at 12:40 that I would not make it without lunch. I dashed out of my building, was ripped off by the San Francisco Soup Company ($6 for a bowl of corn chowder? really?) and headed back to the office. I’m making good time, I thought. I’ll have plenty of time to eat my lunch and peruse Facebook before this marathon meeting.

A block from my office though I inadvertently made eye contact with a young man who was clearly soliciting something. D’oh, I muttered under my breath, quickly looking away and pulling out my blackberry to pretend as though I was checking a very important e-mail–I hope he won’t stop me. He did.

“Excuse me,” he said with a huge smile on his face, “do you have a moment for peace?”

“No, sorry.”

The minute the words came out of my mouth, I felt like a fool. I had just told this guy that I was so busy and so important that I didn’t even have a moment for peace. But it was too late to take it back. He had already turned away

As I walked back to my office, I wondered what it was that he wanted to talk about. Exactly when had I developed this knee-jerk reaction to cut people off before they could even speak?

I decided that afternoon that if someone tries to stop me on the street to hand me a flier or chat me up about their cause, I will use it as an opportunity to slow down and pause my day. If things get bad, I can always excuse myself.

Of course, now I don’t want to leave my office.

But, on the few occasions that I have, it’s been positive. In just a few weeks, I’ve received a 3 day free pass to the fancy gym Equinox, discount coupons to the frozen yogurt place YoCup, and an invitation to take a free personality test from the Scientologists!

Thank you for the Man with a Moment for Peace.

I started wearing hijab shortly before my 17th birthday. In the 10+ years since then, I can count only four instances where strangers took it upon themselves to tell me that they didn’t approve (two of which were offensive for the sheer unoriginality of the epithet used–really, people, towelhead is sooo 80s).

Far more common, on almost a daily basis, I reap the blessings of hijab. Doors opened and opportunities presented, smiles and nods from People I Meet, and acknowledgment and salaams from Muslim celebrities (sup Dave Chappelle and Mos Def, remember me?).

Frankly and thankfully, my experience wearing hijab has generally been so free from drama that sometimes I forget that I’m wearing something on my head that so markedly sets me apart from everyone else walking down the street.

Over the years, one brief interaction related to my hijab stands out for its absolute honesty and humor.

I was walking in the Haight with a childhood friend of mine, a Syrian-American who also wears hijab. We came to a stoplight, animatedly discussing something inane–boys, I think. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an ageing group of hippies sitting in a door stoop and observing us intently. Suddenly, one of them jumped up and ran over to us.

“Heyyyyyyy, you two don’t sound the way you look!!”

Thank you for the Hippie in the Haight.

This one happened a couple of weeks ago, but it’s too fantastic not to write about.

I recently joined the YMCA (which I am now in love with, but that’s another story for another post). I was walking down Geary Street, on my way to the Y for my very first workout. All of a sudden I heard a booming voice behind me, “Get on the bike!” I turned around and saw an older man riding his bike up the sidewalk, grinning at me. I laughed and said, “that’s ok.” He called out, “Aw come on, don’t be so modest, get on the bike!!” I couldn’t stop laughing, “I’m really ok walking, thank you.”

He rode past me then came to an abrupt stop about 10 feet in front of me. He got off the bike, turned around and offered it up, “here, take the bike.” What a chivalrous gesture. I shook my head, “no thanks, I don’t need it, I’m only walking a few more blocks.”

He looked at me for a second and said, “ok. Are you a real lady?” I was baffled–what kind of question was that? What did he mean? Was he asking me if I’m transgendered? Perhaps not an odd question to ask in San Francisco, but certainly an odd question for someone to ask me as I walked down the street towards the Y. Not sure how to respond (although why was I not sure?), I answered with a hesitant, “yes?”

He let out a squeal, “Girl, you look GOOD! I thought you were a teenager!”

Thank you for the Man on the bike.