Having lived in San Francisco on and off for the last twenty six years, I've seen a lot of changes and lost a lot of friends to AIDS. In the late eighties and early nineties, the changes were slight, a store front here, a remodel there, but lots of people were dying. Now the changes are major and swift, and on the occasion when someone dies, it's attributed to other factors.
What does this have to do with the War On Christmas? And why were the police involved? Wander under the orange mistletoe to find out.
When I moved to San Francisco in 1988, the three bedroom flat in Noe Valley my friends and I rented cost $900, split between the three of us. We turned down the one for $600 at the intersection of Church and Market because it was dark and the layout was maze-like.
People who had lived in the city for a time were joking about Noe Valley becoming the land of the mommy brigade, I didn't yet know the word 'gentrification' but during my stint at the local food co-op, I noticed subtle changes in the customer base's demographics and attitudes, and how they differed from the workers at the collective. When the Loma Prieta Earthquake hit in 1989, the exit was jammed by baby strollers.
Last night took place in a much different San Francisco. The food co-op closed long ago, now a few blocks away sits one of the many Whole Foods supermarkets. Many of my friends are no longer here not because they died but because there are no more $900 flats. Still, some vestige of the Before Time remained.
I wanted to commemorate World AIDS Day in some way, even though I never took it seriously since its invention. To someone who had taken part in many ACT UP actions, World AIDS Day was an easy out to show concern for the health crisis without stepping out of line. It reeked of corporate sponsorship early on.
Now it has morphed into another excuse for self promotion. A friend is visiting from Los Angeles, and he really wanted to see the Castro tree lighting. The brilliant minds of whatever merchant association decided this should happen not on the weekend, but on World AIDS Day. I had the night off, and thought I might glimpse some familiar faces who remember the world before life-saving drug cocktails.
As we walked to the tree, we squeezed past sidewalk mounted billboards and under the shadows of the new luxury housing units, still mostly empty and not quite finished, each looking like an impatient child's attempt to stack left over Ikea parts into a fort.
Foil bows were tied to palm tree trunks in the center of Market Street. Scraggly plane trees were strung with lights, and more lights came from the devices held by their hunched over owners maneuvering the sidewalk.
We turned down the newly minted Castro Street Open Air Mall, its wider sidewalks lit from above with new special LED towers that can change color. Recently installed gingko trees sadly shed their leaves, next to outsized tropical Queen Palms direct from Gilligan's Island. Beyond the illuminated bus shelter billboard we saw a crowd near the unlit tree. Cheers could be heard.
After crossing the brand new but already dingy rainbow crosswalk, my friend remarked at the number of police. The night of Black Friday, protesters matched toward the lighting of the tree in Union Square. Looking around, still in work clothes, I realized I was the least conventionally dressed person there, and the look of not-glee on my face probably got noticed by law enforcement.
I didn't help my case by hissing at the acknowledgement of the local supervisor, Scott Weiner, and our puppet mayor Willie Brown III, aka Ed Lee. I saw no familiar faces, but plenty of children. I don't remember the order of events, but I do remember this:
Our drag queen MC starting the countdown to the lighting of the tree. A police siren, and me saying out loud jokingly, "I haven't done anything yet" (spoiler: I don't get arrested). A large police pick up truck, lights and sirens blaring. Santa Claus climbing out of the back of the police pick up truck, handing candy to children. A double-decker g**gle bus blocking traffic to drop off clueless campus members in front of a Queen Palm and blocking the sight of the sex shops across the street.
To be fair, we arrived a few minutes late. I want to believe there was at least a moment of silence before the celebration of consumerism. I want to believe there were no one horse open sleighs or at least a trolley or a red convertible available on a drizzly Monday night. I want to believe that whatever merchant association dissolved itself the next day out of shame for its crass behavior. I want to believe that every child at the event will forget that Santa arrives via police vehicle. I want to believe that people will look up from their devices and see each other, instead of each as other.