It's a sunny Saturday morning in Fruitvale. A bit of chill still hangs in the air. I take a walk down to Fruitvale and Foothill to find something to eat. I pass a senior citizen outside the Posada de Colores retirement home. He greets me with a nod and a smile as I walk by. At the corner, the laundromat is already open and I see families dragging enormous sacks of clothing inside. The taco truck is still closed. On the other side of the street, day laborers gather in the Kragen parking lot, hoping for some work and a bit of pay to send back to families in Mexico, Guatemala and beyond. Picky shoppers crowd around big crates of corn that have just arrived outside one of the many produce stores that line that stretch of Foothill between Fruitvale and 35th Avenue. A dozen workers breakfast on rice, beans, pupusas, tacos and tamales outside the 'Pupusas Mi Lupita' stand. I go into a restaurant to order a licuado to soothe my hunger and still-unsettled stomach. Back at home, I look out my window at the big tree that casts its' generous shade on our home. The neighbors are working on their car.
Last night was my last here in this vibrant but troubled East Oakland neighborhood. I have already moved much of my stuff to my new home in South Berkeley, and am waiting to pick up my U-Haul to move the bulky furniture. Despite feeling out of place here in Fruitvale, despite the violent crime that abounds during the dark hours, despite the loud cars, the constant droning of mechanical equipment from a thousand home repair projects, despite a thousand and one could be annoyances, this has become home. I have lived here a year and a half, longer than anyplace I've stayed since I left my parents home when I was 18.
It is evening. The neighborhood is quiet for a moment, a sense of peace in between a hot afternoon of cruising scrapers, miniskirts and oversized t-shirts. A respite, the calm before the violence that will likely flare after darkness falls. Thin clouds float overhead, the heat of the day is gone. Children play on the streets and in yards. I return home, I will not sleep here again. A car drives by, playing Cambodian music. Friends shout to each other down the street. Sirens in the distance. The smells of barbeques and dinners from a dozen households, each with their own culture, drift through these streets. I am out of place here, but I don't mind. It is nicer to walk these streets than to navigate them in a car, where I must reckon with drivers are stoned, drunk or just trying to show off their twenty fours.
I leave Fruitvale with of mixed feelings. There is much to love in this community, but on days when I return home from work tired and needing a rest, it can be too much. I am glad I lived here and spent part of my life walking these streets. I have had good times--summers spent taking afternoon naps under the shade of the plum tree, fall snacking on persimmons, winter time eating oranges a little too sour because of too much summer fog. I won't miss the drive-bys that happen all too regularly in these blocks, but I'll miss the afternoon tooting of the horn of the tamale van and the belting voice of the driver, advertising all kinds of goodies. I have had very few problems in this area, but at night, when gunfire rips through the air, I often wondered if a stray bullet might hit my room. It is too bad that amidst such vibrancy, an incredible mix of cultures and close-knit families exists such poverty, gang violence and drugs. I won't be going too far away, and I am glad of that fact. It will be easy for me to stop by for a pupusa and some horchata at Los Cocos, where I can talk about Latin American politics with the wonderful owners, Rosa and Ricardo. If I miss it too much, I will only have to walk a few blocks to get my fill of scrapers, tamale vendors and all the other color and culture of Fruitvale.
Last night was my last here in this vibrant but troubled East Oakland neighborhood. I have already moved much of my stuff to my new home in South Berkeley, and am waiting to pick up my U-Haul to move the bulky furniture. Despite feeling out of place here in Fruitvale, despite the violent crime that abounds during the dark hours, despite the loud cars, the constant droning of mechanical equipment from a thousand home repair projects, despite a thousand and one could be annoyances, this has become home. I have lived here a year and a half, longer than anyplace I've stayed since I left my parents home when I was 18.
It is evening. The neighborhood is quiet for a moment, a sense of peace in between a hot afternoon of cruising scrapers, miniskirts and oversized t-shirts. A respite, the calm before the violence that will likely flare after darkness falls. Thin clouds float overhead, the heat of the day is gone. Children play on the streets and in yards. I return home, I will not sleep here again. A car drives by, playing Cambodian music. Friends shout to each other down the street. Sirens in the distance. The smells of barbeques and dinners from a dozen households, each with their own culture, drift through these streets. I am out of place here, but I don't mind. It is nicer to walk these streets than to navigate them in a car, where I must reckon with drivers are stoned, drunk or just trying to show off their twenty fours.
I leave Fruitvale with of mixed feelings. There is much to love in this community, but on days when I return home from work tired and needing a rest, it can be too much. I am glad I lived here and spent part of my life walking these streets. I have had good times--summers spent taking afternoon naps under the shade of the plum tree, fall snacking on persimmons, winter time eating oranges a little too sour because of too much summer fog. I won't miss the drive-bys that happen all too regularly in these blocks, but I'll miss the afternoon tooting of the horn of the tamale van and the belting voice of the driver, advertising all kinds of goodies. I have had very few problems in this area, but at night, when gunfire rips through the air, I often wondered if a stray bullet might hit my room. It is too bad that amidst such vibrancy, an incredible mix of cultures and close-knit families exists such poverty, gang violence and drugs. I won't be going too far away, and I am glad of that fact. It will be easy for me to stop by for a pupusa and some horchata at Los Cocos, where I can talk about Latin American politics with the wonderful owners, Rosa and Ricardo. If I miss it too much, I will only have to walk a few blocks to get my fill of scrapers, tamale vendors and all the other color and culture of Fruitvale.
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