Tag Archives SFMuni

Bus Bullies and Ratchet Bitches*

Last week on my way home from work, trouble came looking for me in the form of a bus bully. I could have ignored it, but the fighter in me protested: “Nope, we will NOT be backing down today.”

When I boarded the bus, it was standing room only. I parked myself near a pole, turned up Spotify and tried to decompress from work. Whereas I could have gotten lobotomized and still done my old job, my new job keeps me on my toes: literally and figuratively. By the end of most days, I’m spent. That day had been particularly exhausting.

Photo cr: torbakhopper, flickr.com
Photo cr: torbakhopper, flickr.com

A minute into my bus ride, the girl (she was maybe in her early 20s) sitting in front of me said to her friend, seated behind me, “Hoes be having they p-ssy all in my face and shit.”

Say what now?

Another woman (not a man) can call me a bitch and I won’t care. Dirt off my shoulder. But, I do not accept “ho” or “hoe.” Perhaps to me the word “ho” is like the word “chicken” is to Marty McFly. [“Nobody.calls me.a HO!”]. This may seem hypocritical given the post title, but so be it.

I looked up from my phone. Dammit, I just wanted to listen to some music and read.

“Excuuuuse me?” I said with surprise (and ok, maybe some irritation, but still, I was calm).

The girl gave me a stankass look. Or maybe that was just her face. Frozen in stank position ’cause all she does is act stank. “Giiiiirl, I know you ain’t talkin’ to me.”

“First of all, I am not a girl. I am a woman. Second, you will not speak to me that way.”

I always wondered when I would stop referring to myself as a “girl” and start referring to myself as a “woman.” This, apparently, was that moment.

I could see on her stankass stankface that she was taken aback. To her friend she got all huffy and began heaving her giganto-boobs in my direction, neck-rolling, steam coming out of her ears that are probably too through with hearing her stankiness. Her stankface became even stankier as she exclaimed stankily: “Ooh this bitch…blah blah blah…dumb ho…niggas….blah blah..I know she didn’t…more stankface bloviating. I am a stankface who says stankface things.” [Ok, fine, she didn’t say the last two things.]

Now here is where I could have told trouble to take a damn hike.

A woman in a wheelchair needed to board the bus. As it happened, stankface was seated in the wheelchair area.

The bus driver instructed: “Everybody move back, get up! Wheelchair coming!”

Stankface got up with a huff, rolling her eyes and heaving her giant bosom. I taunted her (gleefully?), “Oh look. Now your problems are over and you don’t have to be near me!! Lucky you!”

She stood over me, at least 6 inches on my 5’1′ (and 3/4!) frame and made like she was gonna fight me. Her face became the stankiest I would see it that day. Winner of the stankface-a-thon is YOU!

I didn’t flinch. I know a bully when I see one. I was the smart black kid who got teased for “talking white,” listening to grunge music and caring about school. I was not here for her bullshit.

“I am not scared of you little girl. You know how they say someone’s voice was “dripping with disdain?” That was me. I was practically vomiting disdain. Disdain all up and down that bus! Channeling my grandma, my dad, my moms and any other strong people I know who don’t put up with disrespect, I thought to myself, “I am too old and too accomplished to have this stankface little girl talking to me this way and wasting my time over some nonsense.”

Stankface moved closer to her stanky sidekick. She was now standing next to me. She and her friend continued to chitter on, loudly, as though the rest of the bus cared what went on in their stankratch lives, about what an awful person I was. Ho this. Ho that. I could see other riders looking at them askew. Then a detour: “My baby daddy…blah blah…my son…oh yeah, my daughter.” These ratchet bitches have kids? God help those children and our society.

Don’t make a comment about their kids. Don’t even say the word “child!” Don’t say that you feel sorry for their kids. Keep your mouth shut! You are too old to be getting into a fight. You have a real job. Get it together girl.

I could see my criminal future flashing before my eyes, Facebook HuffPost headline reading: Promising black female tech employee (one of 5.75 in the City!) gets in bus fight with stankface ratchet bitch over the word “ho”. Ruins career.

I silenced the devil on my shoulder. Instead, as they tried to antagonize me with their words, I smirked. Bullies hate when you don’t break down and give in to their shenanigans. Oh does it anger them. “Oh hellll no, this bitch is laughing,” stankface grumbled indignantly. Yep, this bitch is laughing, and you and your heaving bosom of all that is ratchet and your stankface are getting more upset and I don’t give a f-.

Another woman, seated with her child, pulled the cord to get off the bus. She announced loudly, directing her attention to the stankcrew: “I am getting off the bus with my son. If anybody gets in my way….”

What in thee hell is with people on this bus? This bus line can be particularly trying. There always seems to be someone yelling, someone with an attitude, someone angry at the world, someone smelly, someone talking to themselves, some dude trying to make eyes at you with a yellow-toothed smile. Sometimes, it’s overstimulating.

The woman and the toddler got off the bus just fine. No incidents. A few senior citizens boarded the bus at the same time. Stankface’s friend continued sitting her rathet ass in one of the seats reserved for the elderly. Might I remind you that I said the bus was standing room only? And stankfacefriend didn’t move? No respect.

As it turned out, the stankcrew had another friend on the bus. He was a real charmer. “Maaaan, them Oakland cops ain’t got nothin’ on me. I know how to work them!” Oh how lovely. Stankface and stank-less-face nodded in appreciation at his skill in avoiding the cops.

Finally, after what seemed an interminable amount of time, we arrived at my stop.

There were so many things I wanted to say to those girls as I disembarked. “Get an education. Go to an etiquette class. Control your heaving bosom! Unstank your face! You’re feeding into negative stereotypes. Stop throwing around the word ‘nigga’.” I resisted uttering these things as well as the urge to grin widely and say “Toodle-fucking-loo ratchet bitches!”

Instead, I got off the bus and thought about all the ways I could have behaved better. Stankface reminded me of bullies I’d dealt with when I was younger. It was as though my younger self took over, seeking vindication. Stankface touched a nerve, one that raise my self-defenses. I am not proud of how I allowed myself to be drawn into the madness. I am not proud of my judginess. I misbehaved. Try as I may and wish as I might, I am still not perfect.

*I am trying really hard to stop referring to some women as bitches. But, sometimes a bitch is a bitch is a bitch. Don’t come after me mega-feminists, I know.

On Being Black in San Francisco: A Snapshot

Photo cr: massiveselector.com
Photo cr: massiveselector.com

Last night, my sister, my friend “Mercy” and I were on the bus returning from Oakland’s First Music Festival (a blast!). We were exhaustedly babbling, trying to figure out what to do for dinner (sleep sounded like a great option!) when a young guy behind us interjected:

“Excuse me ladies…”

Oh lord. Don’t let this be some lame line. I am too tired.

“Excuse me ladies, but I just have to tell you how refreshing it is to see three African-American women on this bus. On any bus here really.”

Oh. Well…yeah. 

We all nodded laughed knowingly. We get it. There are so few of us here – particularly the young and upwardly mobile. You get so used to being the only one on the daily. It’s like we’re unicorns, aliens or endangered species; so, when you see another, it makes an imprint.

We chatted with him for a little while (he did, not-so-subtly, but charmingly, try to get one of our phone numbers indiscriminately) about the festival and his job at one of the museums in the City.

No numbers were exchanged, no wondrous epiphanies had, just a pleasant and notable encounter among strangers on a bus.

Side note: I’ve visited Oakland four or five times in the 11 months I’ve been living in San Francisco and I gotta say, Oakland just might be cooler than San Francisco. *Ducking flying objects*

The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt Continued

Two weekends ago I began The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt. I’m leaving sunny (and sometimes downright hot as hell) Los Angeles for foggy San Francisco in search of a less trafficky-lifestyle (and thus reducing the chances that I commit a road rage-induced homicide or suicide). I also wanted an escape from gaggles of women who speak with a Kardashian-perfected vocal fry, ending declarative statements with like, a questioning, inflection? Who spend more time talking about their manicures and expensive designer handbags than the current Presidential election.

The “why L.A. is making me grossly unhappy” list is a lot longer, but again, I’ll save that for another post.

Having had not much luck the first search (that kiss-ass girl with the yappy dog got the apartment in the Marina, boohiss!), I flew up this weekend armed with a new strategy and attitude: I’m here to find a place and I will cut a bitch for an apartment. My Asian-American friend (why I’m mentioning her ethnicity will become clear shortly), V-, who is also lucky enough to be looking for an apartment, suggested we create bios. For all my moral grandstanding and highfalutin’ attitude I was willing to amp up my sales tactics to secure an apartment.

I created a flyer, hoping a photo of two cute kitties and my obvious pandering for sympathy due to our impending homelessness would soften the hearts of sittin’ pretty managers and agents.

Finding an apartment to rent in San Francisco is harder than finding a job! | Read More on The Girl Next Door is Black in "The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt"
You know you want to rent to us 

V- and I met up for an early breakfast at Golden Coffee Shop to power up for the serious business of the day. I was armed with the listings for seven open houses, three of which started at 11am. Do I look like I can be at three places at one time? What is up with 11am?

I asked my friend, “How many Blasian friendships do you think there are in San Francisco? I mean if we go to open houses together with our ‘we are the world’ friendship, that should help us stand out more, right?” As awesome as trading on our beautiful Blasian friendship sounded, we both had open houses to see in different parts the city. I did, however, join her for one open house at 9am.

We took a taxi to Noe Valley, as we’d lost time by getting on a BART train going in the wrong direction (the joys of being a city newb). Our taxi driver was quite chatty and upon finding out we are relocating to SF, informed us that the rents are steep (what? no way!) and asked if we’d considered the East Bay? What about Oakland?

My brain heard: “You won’t be able to find an apartment in the city!” Why do so many people seem to think I should give up before I even start? Sounds like a…CHALLENGE! A challenge I accept!

The apartment was on the bottom level of a Skittles-purple Victorian-style duplex with pink trim. An “in-law” unit, they call it. It was carpeted (blech) and on the darker-side due to its near-subterranean location; a place well-suited for a vampire. If I thought Ian Somerhalder might visit me there, I’d have applied.

The owner seemed stunned when my friend, after looking around and asking a few questions, said a quick “Thanks,” indicating she was done and not interested. Yeah, that’s right, SHE turned YOU down, buddy. The listing had “charming” in the title. We should have known. She said ultimately it bothered her that the manager would be living right above her.

We parted ways and I killed time at a Noe Valley Starbucks while I waited for an 11am open house nearby. While there I spotted more baby strollers and mini-people (you might call them toddlers) than I see in a year in L.A. (I’m convinced children are zapped when they try to enter urban L.A., ’cause they are a rare sight.)

The clientele was mostly white. It reminded me of Santa Monica: clean, yuppie-tastic, populated by people with punty-dogs, teeming with families and monochromatic.

Finding an apartment to rent in San Francisco is probably harder than finding a job! | Read more on The Girl Next Door is Black from "The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt"
Noe Valley, photo by flippinyank on flickr.com

 

I loved the apartment I saw at the open house. 750sqft., lots of light, beautiful new hardwood floors, balconies, a bedroom that didn’t double as a cave, and parking for a small additional amount. I was second to arrive after a white guy who appeared to be in his late 30s. I looked at him and thought: stability.

When I met the manager, I was secretly thrilled to see that he was a black man. Generally, I don’t try to cash in on shared ethnicity, but all most bets were off during the hunt. Sometimes it can work against you if you encounter a self-hating Negro who wants nothing to do with you and your Negroness. I thought I had an in until the stable white guy said, “So, my partner and I…” Dammit, he’s gay! And I’m pretty sure the manager is gay. Gay trumps black! Gah!!! Go away with your stability and your black-trumping card!

I amped up the charm and told the manager I’d love to apply and tried to hand him my carefully compiled application packet, with fancy bio, but he turned his nose up at it. “I’m sure you can understand that we’d prefer to have tenants fill out consistent applications.” Well, I, understand that. Tell that to your comrades who seem to foist all the legwork on their potential residents.

This was apartment choice #1.

I then had to cab it a couple of miles north and west, for an 11:45am showing. I arrived early and took a short stroll around the neighborhood. My assessment? These motherfuckers are rich. What the hell am I doing here? By 11:45 there was a crowd outside the building where the OH was scheduled. %#^#$*%#^& Where did these assholes come from? There were a few single folks and two couples. Oh lord, now I’m competing against people with TWO incomes?

I liked this apartment too: a 1-bedroom, corner unit, lots of light as it faces south, and…and…and a WASHER AND DRYER IN THE UNIT! The only downside? It’s a junior 1-bedroom, meaning the bedroom fits a bed and not much else. I’d emailed the listing agent beforehand, including a little jazzy info about myself and my moxie. She replied the morning of and directed me to download her company’s application.

Unfortunately, no one has invented a printer that prints from thin air, so I didn’t have time to print the app. Instead, I handed her my rental packet of winning and she smiled and said, “Oh, how cute is this?” Noticing the cats: “Oh they are so cute!”

The 20-something girl in front of me, trying to shoehorn her way into my performance time, gave me a look of death. Yeah, bitch, I did that! Whachu got? From the looks of her bare hands – nothing. I thanked the listing agent and moved on to the next, shooting daggers of hate at the vultures congregating outside the building. This was apartment choice #2.

Finding an apartment to rent in San Francisco is probably harder than finding a job! | Read more on The Girl Next Door is Black from "The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt"
Homes in this neighborhood are valued in the millions.

A few open houses later, I had applied for two apartments, opened up a P.O. Box where I could forward my mail in case I am still homeless by the time I move up. I felt dejected and in great need of some spirits. I sat on the bus feeling sorry for myself and wondered just how far I am willing to debase myself to find an apartment in this city. However, I didn’t have much of an opportunity to wallow as I was more entertained by the antics of others on the bus.

An older, molestor-looking gentleman, boarded the bus with a white cat in a fabric carrier, who was howling, “Goddamit asshole, let me out of this before I scratch the crap of you!” I’d howl too if my owner sat his molester-looking self down and put a duffel bag on top of my carrier, essentially smushing my mid-section. A hipster girl sitting beside me looked apoplectic and whispered to me, “That poor cat.” To my other side, an adorable 6-month old babbled in-between cat howling.

On a second bus – I had to transfer – I overheard the following conversation between two men whom I was scared to look at due to the content of their chat:

Man 1: “Man, you ain’t go to worry about it. Just pee on anything!”

Man 2: “But…”

Man 1: “No man, just pee on anything! A stick, a piece of paper, a bag of chips…”

Man 2: “But, I walked in and he said, ‘I am not your parole officer.'”

Man 1: “Man, fuck that. Those POs are all the same. Assholes.”

Thank you, sketchy gentlemen who have parole officers for reasons I don’t want to find out, for keeping me from spiraling into an apartment hunting depression. I returned home to Los Angeles and the obsessive checking of my email and phone began.

—-

Update: Ladies and gentleman, I am happy to announce that I was offered an apartment in the city of San Francisco. Not East Bay, not even Oakland, but in actual San Francisco. This will soon be my living room. Challenge complete!

Finding an apartment to rent in San Francisco is almost harder than finding a job! | Read more on The Girl Next Door is Black in "The Great San Francisco Apartment Hunt"
My new living room! Look at all that light!