the saddest taqueria

The saddest taqueria I ever placed my feet upon, the saddest taqueria I had placed an order in, the saddest taqueria I ever paused into to wait for my order, the saddest taqueria of course had its pair of the saddest bathroom is located on the corner of sutter and polk. A strange place for a taqueria. A strange place to find myself trying to order mexican food for I am a frequent flier of the taquerias in the mission. But when push comes to shove and you have been day drinking a taqueria and any taqueria will do.

As I push my hand on the door in. There is feuding- music the beat of latino and the tv telemundo. My face is washed in a cool breeze. I scan the menu and workers and patrons in unison. Everyone looks as if the color has been taken out of their eyes. The spark lifted not recently but years ago. In a robotic fashion people move around as the skin loses their color. Dimming and fading away. At first I thought I might turn around and run away. And find solace in the subway across the street but with courage of beers and hunger my reminder. I stick it out. I order. The woman’s eyes seem to open up for a moment. She must be the cheerleader in this place. I order something I deem safe. I order it hot as always. The man the creator of the food at her side. States we are out of hot salsa. Out of hot salsa. The saddest taqueria I have ever been in ran out of hot salsa. And when this white woman thinks that is unacceptable this taqueria is really in trouble.

I walk over to see what is left given the point of where the salsa that is left lives. I pick it up. It looks like green water. And has no taste. It spills like a green watery mess next to the plastic container. The saddest taqueria mourns the loss of salsa. I mourn it as well. I scan back and froth. Until I find the safety of a tapatio bottle. I find a plastic container and transfer it – it splashes out. No one will deny me heat. Not in this mourning taqueria. I find a seat. It is the glimmer of hope in the darkness. It is the variety of the chair and table connection of my childhood from fast food and diners. I flash back to my old days of sitting in. And playing. And I start swinging back and forth. Warming my mood up. In the darkness of this taqueria. I glance around.

To the patrons. A couple latino sit side by side talk and watch tv. They seem to have not be overtaken by this cult. And next to them. A group of white people co-ed. The girl with a flower in her hair. Her face talks in solemn tones. Her friend, a male starts doing exercises in his sweater. And I wonder do I look like them. Across from me a white man with tacos and tapatio tries to make eye contact with me. But I decline in participating in the duel with the short wearer and nike holder and tapatio eater. Next to me a couple of guys talking. I can't remember their faces now.

The walls are moving in old signs fading into the wall wrinkling into what was. I am bored with the chair swinging now. And try and find the bathroom. Past the sadness of the kitchen I make a sign of the cross to be sure as I lift myself up the stairs. Into the partner of the saddest bathroom. One where you look like it might be your last time going. My heart races as I fear rape and death and try to pee. Hard to multitask fear of death and the stream of pee. Someone tries to come in. This is it. I am going to die in the saddest taqueria I have field tripped in. No. Im in here. Its not stranger danger just the woman with a flower in her hair. I walk down the stairs heart still beating and walk. Walk to pick up my failed attempt and of a quesadilla and get out of here.

The saddest taqueria I ever went to reminded me why I only eat in the mission. Full of heat and vibrance and salsas and green sauce that burns my tongue and music playing from guitars and life. I will leave the sad taquerias to live in neighborhoods where taquerias go to die. I eat at taquerias where they live. And I breathe in the life. So thankful to have seen the saddest taqueria to remember. How lucky I am.

home. in a way four walls can never understand.

hello friends, school made my postings pause but alas i return. all my thanks as always.

Walk. A walk on the beach breathes life into this body in ways nothing else can. Not a talk. Not a concoction of alcohol or a circle of medicine. Not a piece of chocolate. Nothing compares to when I park my car on the pavement and cross over to the bare foot feeling of damp sand between my feet. Sometimes I go because there is sun I must admire. Sometimes I go to escape. Sometimes to remember. A button to press reset inside of me.

Today I went because I needed a walk. I awoke in the middle of the night with a sinking stomach feeling that signaled I must do something. Before that would have entailed something dramatic ending of things and crossing streets to ignore people and it would have the drama of a middle school play. But today. It just meant something. Needed. To. Change. Inside. Of. Me.

And change it did as I felt the sand play around my feet up to my calves poking out of my yoga pants. I stop to see a possible wave hugging a whale I feel so lucky in all the days I had came here but it is just a rock formation. I dodge the obstacle course of fishermen. Some painted in proper gears others not. One smokes. Another tattooed. The fishing poles grow taller than humans and the connection to the ocean beyond. I walk the furthest I have. I decide to reach the end of these beaches today. I pass a family with toddler and dog bribing both so they stand still for a photograph. Again. And again. And I return to the walk. Then the pause. Of a sip of coffee. And the watch of the waves in and out. I am alone. Here. But do not feel that way. I feel surrounded by people I treasure and memories extended far out.

My mother and father first meeting was along a beach. Long ago. The equation of the randomness of me. And they took me there as I grew from the small me into the bigger me. I remember some visits there. But when I come across a box of photos. I see. Our family. And beach time. I visit my grandfather on this beach. He used to fish here. This being one of my favorite beaches. Also drawn to it. Not knowing until recently that he too was a fisherman here. My grandmother I see here in her formality and fun wanting to go but dressed in the wrong shoes. As I remember her wish to go as she came to the finish line of life. And as I reach the end of the beach for the first time. I know I must turn around. With these people and memories. And knowing that for me that my grandparents and mother. Might only live here for me. This might be why I come here to remember. Who I am. It is home. In a way that four walls can never understand.

When I come here I walk alone. But I walk in memories of us. Who we are. It helps me to remember who I am. I am in this big overwhelming world of so much. That the sand cools my mind my worried my mind. The waves welcome me in the every changing rhythm now comforting. There is a newness in each wave. As I turn around. The warming fall sun hits me. The kayakers with crabs have arrived at shore. The fishermen laugh. The crabs lay on their backs upon foreign soil their legs moving around for freedom. I keep walking and watching. I pick up a few stones. All different colors. As dogs maze around me.

And remember I can believe. I can believe. Things can be different. I can believe in me wanting different things and getting them. I just have to go home and visit. To remember. Believing is what I do best.