Why I’m Leaving San Francisco.

This is a review of nine months in San Francisco. There isn’t a Part I and Part II. The one will do, because I won’t be back as a resident, but I’ll be happy to visit for, like, three days.

What I love.

• Some of the food, Mexican food in particular. This is brave to say for someone who is ride-or-die for the LA food scene, but San Francisco’s burritos are better. Change my mind, except you can’t, because they are. Sushi is also excellent. Pizza, great. It all costs a fortune. It’s worth it.
• Walking. You can walk the entire city in a day. Literally. On January 1st, Anna and I walked from Candlestick Park to Lands End. It took a little planning and some stamina, but we made it during daylight hours. (The small size of the city could be a complaint, but we don’t need that one — we have others.)
• Transit. It’s fabulous. Muni, BART, and CalTrain will get you anywhere. You do not need a car.
• The Mission. All action — people working, people selling, people walking, people buying. People going crazy. People living their lives. It’s all in the open.
• Mission Dolores Park. This is a blessed place on this planet. Great energy. So much joy. So many vendors selling what you need right now, like loose beers and marijuana truffles. Once, a guy tried to pass a smoking bowl to me and my mother. The Fruit Shelf is packed with gay boys, all of whom are shirtless and having a beautiful time in the afternoon sun. The vibe is weird and positive and I love it.

OK! Moving on…

The things that make me giggle.

• The provincialism. San Francisco is a small town. Everyone cheers for the Giants. Everyone hates LA. Everyone listens to Larry June. Who’s Larry June? That’s my point.
• The hills. They are everywhere. You get to the top of the hill and think, “wow… that thing was a motherfucker!” Guess what? There’s another hill right in front of you. You cannot trust walking or biking directions. That straight line path is not straight.
• The hippies who are hanging on. You can venture to Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park, just off the Haight, for a drum circle and a secondhand high. It’s sweet and so, so stoney. Drum circles have never been my thing, but I do love a place where you can quite get high, outdoors and at a distance.
• Fleet Week. No, not because I was sleeping with the sailors. I would have, but I had friends in town. During Fleet Week, planes fly over the city so low and so loud that you cannot not scream, a half-dozen times a day between 2 and 3pm, “WHAT IN THE MOTHERFUCK WAS THAT?!?!”

OK, next category… are you ready?

Why I am leaving San Francisco.

• The wealth. I am not complaining about income inequality. Inequality is atrocious in this city, just like it is in Oakland, and Los Angeles, and Seattle, and every other city right now. Inequality is a massive societal problem and we should all feel ashamed. No, I’m complaining about wealth. A city where people buy $100 bottles of mezcal, where tear downs cost $2 million, where a couple dozen restaurants serve hyper-expensive prix fixe tasting menus, is a city with too much money. Remember: money can buy fun stuff, like drugs, food, and booze. But it does not make you a good decision-maker.
• The whiteness. Yes, I’m white—you noticed. Well, I like to be around people of other colors too, and, well… they’re not here. All of them but the Chinese and Japanese people made the executive decision to get the fuck out of San Francisco. It’s sad. If you want diversity, you need to cross the Bay Bridge.
• The gays. Oooof. I once was one of them. San Francisco has been a blessed place for them. I love the gays. They just do not love me. Maybe it’s more accurate to say that they don’t see me. I, a trans woman, am as visible as a window. I am walking Saran Wrap. I am non-prescription glasses. I’m there; I’m just not important. If you’re a trans lady, take a stroll down 18th Street and “see” what I mean.
• The self-congratulations. I moved to San Francisco because I figured it would be the best place for a young — in spirit! — trans woman to be herself. Wrong. Let me tell you what I found instead. Some friendly people. A few trans folks but not many. Some straight-up assholes — people who laughed in my face. And worst of all, people falling all over themselves for how well they handled their encounter with that trans person. Listen. I’m a person. I don’t need special treatment. I don’t want special treatment. Just let me be.

The city where I am going to move — yes, I know where I will live — will get its own piece, perhaps very soon, probably in multiple chapters. I love this new city for its open mindedness and its true acceptance of trans people, which looks a lot like people saying ‘hi’ and not making any big deal.

San Francisco wound up being the place of my early transition, a year which was, as I’ve pointed out, the third-worst year of my life. This year has already started out much better, and I’m not in San Francisco, and that, I believe, is no coincidence.