Really Deep Thoughts

san francisco.

fabulous in so many ways. frolick into muni station, stop and realize that exact change is needed. dollar fifty. seek out change machine, change the twenty into fives and the five into dollar coins. lucky for us, we already got the quarters.

head for the turnstile, sign reads “PASS ONLY.” hmm . . . maybe i’ll just try to put my coins in the coin slot . . . but it’s blocked by a piece of metal.

man bypasses turnstile and opens the wheelchair door to go downstairs and catch the train. we follow, and, at the door, see that there are two muni officers downstairs. we can ask them how we’re supposed to pay. as we’re coming down the stairs, coins in hand, one officer yells up to us,

“do you have your tickets?”

“actually, we were just coming down here to ask you how to pay, because the turnstiles weren’t accepting money.”

“oh- you came down here to ask us?”

“yes.”

“and how did you know that we were down here?”

“we could see you from up there. the guy before us came through the handicapped door, and when i walked over there, i saw that you were down here.”

“how long have you lived in san francisco?”

“we don’t. we’re visiting from LA.”

“can i see your ID cards?”

“okay.”

“are you in the process of moving here?”

“no- we’re here for the marathon.”

“did you look for an attendant when you couldn’t pay your fare?”

“yes- there wasn’t one.”

“oh? and how did you know that there wasn’t one?”

“there was no one in the kiosk.”

“so you looked in the kiosk?”

“yes.”

“and you didn’t see the sign?”

“what sign? there were many signs. we were looking for a person to ask how to pay our fare.”

leading us upstairs,

“well, you’ve entered a ticket-only zone. it’s up to $500 dollar fine for entering this zone without a ticket.”

pointing to rather large, but otherwise surrounded my many other visual distractions, sign,

“if you had looked in the kiosk for an attendant, you would have seen this sign.”

the sign reads, “NO ATTENDANT pay fare at other end of station.”

silence.

“so i’m going to have to give you a citation. hello, supervisor.” as another person in uniform walks by.

anger seething out of my pores, disempowermentoverwhelmingadrenalinerushingfistclenchingicouldtearyour fuckingheadoff,youslimyexcuseforahumanbeingusingmeasawaytomakeyourself feellikeyouhavesomekindofpower,whenallitisisapowertripbyabutchdykewoman inaworldthatcan’tacceptyousoyou’regoingtofuckthewomanyoucouldneverlayin whateverwayyoucanandoh, you’regoingtohaveyourwaytoday,aren’tyou? becauseyou’vegottheuniformthatididn’tgiveyou. someonetoldyouyouhadsomeauthorityandnowyou’reusingitlikethegoodcopyouare. whensomeonecomestoyouforhelp,yougive’emanicestrongfuckintheassbecause

youisacopandiisnothingand

i’d

better

learn

to

take

it.

right?becausethere’snothingelsetodointhisunderground,tiledhell.

“is this your address?”

“no. it’s my parents’ address.”

“do you want to give me your address?”

“i don’t have an address.”

“i need an address where you can be reached.”

“do you want my work address, ma’am?”

“sure. whatever address.”

people start walking up to the turnstiles. some have passes, know what they’re doing. others, like us, look perplexed.

“look out! this is a trap!”

second officer shushes me. i continue.

“if you have coins, you’ll have to go to the other end of the station, like this not very obvious sign says,” pointing to the sign.

people walk in the right direction, thanking me. back to the officer, i slowly state my work address, measured enunciation that you could slit a throat with.

“okay, i’ll need you to sign here.”

“i’m not signing that. why would i sign that?”

 

“if you don’t sign it, you’ll be arrested. this is a nontraffic violation. it won’t appear on your driving record. the top part shows your information, the bottom part describes the violation, this is my name and star number,”

i take the pen, write my initials across the entire bottom half of the sheet,

“i’m really impressed with how well you filled out the sheet.”

as she tears the sheet off her pad, handing it to me,

“when i go in to the station tonight, i’m going to make note of your poor attitude,”

“and i’ll make a note of yours.”

“your three options are to not appear in court or pay a fine, and a felony warrant for your arrest will be issued, or pay the fine,”

“do you still have my ID card?”

“yes,” finding it and handing it to me.

“or contest the charge.”

i’m already walking away. disgusted. fuming.

my friend A.B. finally walks over, after the officer refuses to tell her what our options are, as i clearly wasn’t listening.

we’re walking up the stairs out of the muni station, walking now that i’m too enraged to consider going and paying a fare after such treatment, enraged that my afternoon has been thoroughly ruined, and i scream

likeafuckingbansheealltheragepoursoutofmylungsechosinstairwellscaresoffother passengersfromtrainundergroundtobusaboveground,myfuriousvoicegrowls atthismonsterthathoversoverme.

second citation in two months. the police state is out of control. just when i think i couldn’t be any more radical, a situation comes along and i think, “well- i’ll be damned. we’re more fucked than i had imagined!”

by the time we’ve walked halfway to friend M.G.’s house, my body feels limp. a simple jaunt to the waterfront and back turned into an exhausting lesson to never: NEVER trust cops. avoid them at all costs.

how does one exist in the city and avoid the cops?

the lyrics from “cop killa” come into my head because i just heard them two weeks ago when i saw “beyond beats and rhymes: a hip-hop head weighs in on manhood in hip-hop culture,” which was well-done and thought-provoking. and, as usual, i realized that it’s all connected. the power-trip grasping after manhood of the cops that have given me citations is in response to their own sense of inadequacy (because, really, why else do people become cops?) this posturing and claiming of power make those that are oppressed- me, lately, and african-american youth, usually- hold onto OUR “manhood” all the more tightly.

it’s a vicious cycle and, like war, there will be no “winner.”

just losers, all around.

that’s what a fascist police-state (few will deny it, at this point) makes us all.

i’m reminded now of the tactical ice-cream unit, straight outta SF. yes. i think that is all i have to say about that. even in these times that try my soul, i can still count on signs of irreverant disregard for authority to warm the cockles of my heart.