While riding this cable car, the all-to-familiar ingrained scent of the burning wood brakes on steel immediately unleashed an explosion of memories from this hill - Nob Hill.From childhood memories of playing at the Mark Hopkins and ordering room service for dinner with a class mate whose parents managed the iconic hotel , To sneaking in the Venetian Room at The Fairmont late at night to play the well maintained piano and put on shows for my friends, to truly being exposed to the diversity and grit of humanity - It all started here.
As a genuine native San Franciscan , Powell St is one of the hills I grew up on.I
went to school from K-8 here on this hill , Learned how to skate down
and up this hill (still do), had my first job as a teenager in the arts
at a contemporary gallery on this hill , honed my work skills at a
cafe/catering co which serviced the suits in the financial district, and
performed my first show at a super club near the base of this hill.
I have vivid memories of me, brother,
sisters and friends as small unsupervised children helping the
charismatic Cable Car drivers to push the cable cars around at the end
-of-the-line turnstile and than waiting for them to roll away only to
chase after them and jump on board while in motion on the way up the
hill to school.
We
used to frequent the ‘Woolworths’ in the Flood Building . It was a
magical place where you could watch glass blowers , printers , and other
crafts people making their wares for sale . You could buy gold fish off
a shelf or glazed donuts at the breakfast counter . We were not
too interested in the basement linen dept.
As kids, our school ‘NDV’ was rite next
to the gates of Chinatown. We would explore the streets and alleys of
old SF China Town , buy edible rice paper covered candies and trinkets,
look into the windows at apothecary shops which displayed pickled snakes
and other Chinese medicinal herbs, tinctures, and other anomalies.
Homeless
people, mentally ill, and cults were always present in the streets of
the city and very much part of our daily navigations and awareness. They
were so present that as kids, we even assigned names to them. A few of
the many individuals who stand out are : The ‘Burn Lady’ who would
scream in agony on one of the bus lines as if she were on fire. She said
she was victim to an inferno, but there were no burns on her. There was
the ‘Gamma Ray’ lady who would wear a blond beehive wig that must have
been five 5 high and she would tell all of us kids that her husband was
an astronaut and was shooting toxic gamma-rays into her brain from outer
space and the wig was to protect her. There was the ‘no name’ guy who
would publicly masturbate on the street cars. I remember my mom wisely
and casually telling us to let the girls sit on the outside seats so
that they could get away from him quickly.
And
than there were the cults publicly recruiting in the streets. There
were The Moonies, The Church of Satan , and the one we would encounter
on Powell St every day- The Hare Krishnas. We would approach them often
and buy strawberry incense ( I still remember that sweet smokey smell)
and flowers from their street kiosks.
We
saw their transparency and basically battled all of these characters
with our childish senses of humor and opposing morals installed into us
by our parents, who also gave us freedom. We never succumbed, and we were never molested in any way. It was through
this worldly exposure that by the ripe age of 7, we were already
liberated and self-realized enough to stay on our own paths and together
remain safe.
Looking back, ultimately we learned compassion and acceptance.
I recall sneaking into scenes as ‘extras ‘ during filming of The Streets of San Francisco ‘ a popular TV 
Show at the time staring Michael Douglas and Karl Malden. The City was
very violent at the time. There were drug lords who invaded after the
Summer of Love, gang warfare in Chinatown, we had sniper drills at our
school, the Zodiac , Zebra and Trailside serial killers were on the
loose in the city, the Jonestown Guyana incident occurred , the Patty
Hearst /Symbionese Liberation Army saga was playing out, and the George
Moscone/ Harvey Milk murders occurred. This hit particularly close to
home as the Moscone family kids and our clan of young friends were
all classmates and close family friends. Nevertheless, as kids we
all navigated together, and unsupervised, through the streets of
San Francisco with savy, intuition and street smarts.
One day I was with a group of kids on the
Market St streetcar which was held up by a rooftop sniper a block ahead
of us. We got off, went to a payphone and called my friend’s dad
with the grim news. He simply said “Don’t worry, we’ll save you
dinner”. We got home safe. He knew that our intuition was keen and that,
though young, together we made choices which protected us from harm.
I experienced the surge of the Queer, Sexual, and Female Liberation revolutions simultaneously on this hill.
As kids, we’d sometimes quickly sneak in and
out of the Nob Hill male review show, into various Adult porn
shops and innocently giggle as we were promptly thrown
out! Public nudity on the streets and even on Billboards was commonplace
at this time. Polk Street at the base of the hill and Castro Street up
Market transformed into global meccas of the queer community.
My Lebanese mother lived on this hill till
the end of her life. During the plight of the SF AIDS epidemic , a human
crisis ignored by our USA government , she left her Nob
Hill apartment sometimes 5 nights a week to go down the hill to the
seedy Polk Street as part of a local outreach program that helped
educate and guide male prostitutes to engage in safe sex and for drug
users to adhere to clean needle practices in the streets.
This awareness helped stop the spread of the deadly virus, which wiped
out so many of our friends, relatives and loved ones. She was an
at-face cantankerous, yet Just woman, with a mixture of conservative and
very liberated and accepting ideals.
One day, I remember approaching
her apartment which was just above a public courtyard on the California
Street Cable Car line across from Grace Cathedral. She was in the window
table training a few ladies how to put condoms on a banana
with their mouths- a practice she employed to train the male street
prostitutes to protect them from their often violent and careless
‘Johns’ who she said were typically well-to-do suburban and
financial district men. (*I jokingly noted that, though a noble cause,
she might consider demonstrating away from public view)
I also learned first hand the truth of this demography while I was working entertaining interactively
face-to-face at corporate events before the digital age of sex apps.
Conventioneers away from their wives and families would always approach
me (regardless of what ridiculous or sacred costume I may be wearing)
and ask first off "Where can I find sex in SF?”. I’d always offer up
more profound conversation which proved to engage. To this day , decades
later , event planners and organizers have 0 idea of who their guests
actually are and continue to insist how conservative they are. I’m still
in the field and know the truth. Archaeologists in ancient cities find
underground tunnels that secretly lead from noble libraries into
a rowdy brothels. Nothing has changed.
I am so grateful to make a life in this
hilly city as an artist who also employs and motivates so
many other artists of varying mediums, international cultures,
and inspirations. We all contribute as we earn, bring beauty &
kindness where there was once bleakness & indoctrination, and share
our dreams & laughter with those who may have veered off their path
and lost them. In SF, you can get it back.
I don’t recall ever seeing any expanse of flat ground till I was 6 or 7 years old and it seemed so strange. Still does.
The smell of the burning wood brakes on
steel of the Cable Cars mixed with the pungent aroma of pot, and the
sweet scent of Candy being crafted by Confectioners at ‘Judy’s’ on
Powell Street are the prominent urban smells of home to me.
It was a different time and I am grateful
to have grown up with such independence that gave us keen realizations
of both the grit and splendors of life. We were not sheltered ,
never felt fear of the unknown, intuitively new when to run or stay ,
and were confronted by a range of life lessons. Ultimately we lived and
thrived in the comfort and love of our SF family homes in the hilly ,
friendly, and sometimes dangerous neighborhoods. The San Franciscans
I speak of have all grown to be genuine and individual people who
contribute to the world in their own way.
And my brother’s response to this post:
Great memories!
We used to designate one person to race the cable car up this hills, starting on Sutter. After some prodding the cable car operators would let me ring the bell, some of them were very good at ringing out complex rhythms...
The best thing about wearing a school uniform that was a sailor suit... It was the perfect disguise for drinking and smoking out in public (+ the chicks dug them). I got in trouble for smoking in front of the Chez Paris strip club on Mason St…
*The reality of living as an urban youth in SF in the 70’s
There were no ‘Helicopter’ parents in our periphery- but we knew they were there!
Gregangelo
Artistic Director
whirling dervish
Velocity Arts & Entertainment
Velocity Circus
Gregangelo Museum
415 664-0095
greg@gregangelo.com
www.gregangelo.com
San Francisco
