A View from the 'Loin

I am sure it was the narcotic stupor that brought on the flood of memories of a time that was much like Boston in the dead of winter. It’s funny to think of the Tenderloin as this dark place when really it’s quite plain with indistinct buildings and sporadic gated parks that are stripped of all character. And many of the residents are even less evident due to their nocturnal nature. During the day, the Tenderloin is much like a bog in both its smell and stillness. And as the darkness of night creeps through its streets, the tenor changes. Like a sleeping animal, the neighborhood begins to stir. And yet, it’s still not quite dark. Perhaps the word I am looking for is shady.

It’s a thieves market filled with the forgotten ones who traded their souls for a rock.
It’s strange how I find myself longing for the ‘loin I once knew filled with the drunk and crack addicted.

Instead the speed-fueled shells bounce from corner to corner to corner. I stopped in my tracks as I watched this young punk digging deeply in a rare patch of dirt. Elbow deep with his hands muddy and worn, he had located the roots of the tree but not the solution to his waning high. How long would he dig?

I found myself feeling heavy with thoughts of my past even though the faces were no longer familiar. I no longer knew the streets to take nor the sides to avoid. I held my breath as I passed the dope man hoping he wouldn’t be annoyed at me passing through his deal. How green I must have seemed when really this was my turf or so I thought?

How strange it must have been to see me at 20 marching along these same streets. How naïve I must have been to feel immune to what was transpiring around me. And even as I watched death daily, I still kept the smile on my face. I remember the tongueless man who always said hello and as soon as he caught my gaze continued to speak. I never had a clue what he said but simply nodded and grinned politely as I walked away. I remember the man with one ear with the scary tale of losing it in his homeland faraway. His punishment for a crime he would not confess. And then there was the man in the wheelchair who would walk himself into the middle of the street then sit back down. As the cars honked he held out his hand. I wondered if he ever was hit since now he can’t get up from his seat.

I remember the days trooping into residential hotels to visit my clients. Never once did I think of the danger even as I witnessed it first hand. My friends recount my tales of being held by gunpoint or watching the police shoot a man just feet away from me or the time I was slapped in the face by a transgender prostitute who was sure I was having an affair with her “husband”. And even now, I feel disconnected to these events as if I had simply read about them in a book. Truth is I have read about these stories in the pages of my own journal, but somehow it doesn’t quite sink in that this was once my life.

I was the converse-wearing “condom lady,” chain smoking as I walked and noticing nothing along the way. I remember the shouts of “hey condom-lady” or “hey, leave her alone. That’s my social worker.” I somehow felt safe wrapped in the fog of where I was. But now here I am, with my distinguished gait leading me instinctively through these streets, which the forgotten call home.