2 Miracles, 22 Years

On growing up in San Francisco in the 60's and 70's- losing the "village", losing myself, miracles that saved my life.

The greater portion of my childhood in the 60's was spent in a brick and plaster flat one block from Chestnut Street in San Francisco. The drug store on the corner had pretty gifts displayed in the window, and the dime store down the street was a wonderland of penny candy sticks and comic books, wax teeth and trading cards. A couple times a week, grandpa stopped in, pressing a silver dollar in my hand, and bringing fresh French bread and salami from the local deli. Even though I had no neighbor friends, everyone along Chestnut Street knew my name, from the man who sang O Sole Mio to me at the pizzeria, as if I were his only love, to the dress-shop lady who ordered merchandise she thought I would like. Mom and dad had a "tab" at all the local shops which they paid each month, and credit cards hadn't yet been invented. I had a favorite t-shirt with a butterfly as big as I was, and a plaid coat with a fur collar, and matching hand and ear muffs. The red jumper, blouse with the Peter Pan collar, and patent leather shoes made up everyone's favorite outfit.

I often stood on our small metal balcony (which wasn't allowed) and touched the fushia trees that wrapped themselves around the black wrought iron railing. I could just barely see the marquee of the movie theatre that played Disney by day, and movies like Rosemary's Baby at night. Inside our three bedroom flat, everything felt white, with crinkly plastic everywhere to keep the furniture and carpet clean. My special playroom was filled with toys- and a turquoise-flocked Christmas tree I refused to give up- all of it giving me props and scenery for elaborate plays I acted out with imaginary friends. The long hallway stretched back to a sunroom, windows opening to a deck and stairs that led to a terraced yard. One tether ball pole planted in the center of the yard was just barely visible from the sunroom window.

The whole picture of Chestnut Street, ladies walking in high heeled shoes, men in suits or laborer's clothes, is frozen in my mind. A kind of Brigadoon that appears and comes to life from time to time. Or a movie set constructed just for my part in a historic tale of the city by the bay.

The drug store was the first to go, I think, giving way to some pharmacy chain. The dress shop closed with shopping mall fever that compelled us to drive across town, which took forever to me. The specialty stores closed one by one as if bowling pins succumbing to a final strike. I cried when the dime store disappeared, taking with it the gifts for my family that I could afford to pick out and buy with my allowance. My grandfather's friend who owned the deli hung on. The pizzeria was repainted, upgraded, and juke boxes put in. The new waiter still sang O Sole Mio to me when I asked, but he never remembered my name.

I woke up one day, a teenager, and everything had changed. Fast food chains and banks dominated the street. The last historic spots - the deli, movie theater and pizzeria - felt like ghosts haunting a town that had long ago been torn down and rebuilt. The street was so busy with cars, double-parked trucks and stoplights, that walking was no longer a pleasant stroll. Besides, we drove everywhere now and rode streetcars when dad was at work. Grandpa had died, the extended family had their own lives on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge. When dad put in the ominous security gate at the entry to our building, the message was that the City was no longer safe.

When teenage rebellion swept over me, it was 1970, the year I entered high school. And no one on my favorite street was watching. There were no neighborhood mentors to think of me when they ordered their goods, or ask what I wanted to be when I grew up. If "it takes a village to raise a child", then this one had been clear-cut and bulldozed to make way for the latest trends in money-making and marketing.

In my mid-20's, like so many of my generation, we moved north, following my brother's relocation. I had had a dream that an earthquake would come, and I wanted all of my family on the other side of the bridge. After the earthquake happened, taking down a piece of on-ramp to the Bay Bridge and setting fire to some Marina houses, I went back to see the flat where I grew up. The fushias were gone, the black wrought iron ugly and bare. The prison gate was still there. The foundation had cracked and I imagined that it tilted slightly as if needing the apartment building on the corner to lean against. There were blank lots along the street where buildings had burned and been cleared away. I couldn't even feel the ghosts of my childhood anymore-smoke and trembling had cleared them away, leaving the houses to be reclaimed by transplants (what we called non-native San Franciscans).

The earthquake hadn't cleared my mind of the memories of my teenage years though. Just being in the City brought it all back. I remembered that when I grew despondent, there was no one to tell. Telling family never works, and teachers mostly said, "buck up" or "it will pass". It didn't. Counseling in the 70's was still for people who were thought crazy, at least in my circle. Only dance would soothe the torment, theatre where I could be someone else, and boyfriends who could distract me with young love.

I was in college now, and one night, I drove my car to a parking lot in the Presidio, close to a place where there was a steep cliff down to the rocks on the ocean side of the bridge. I had crossed the guardrail, and started imagining what would happen if I just let myself fall. Many people change their minds in suicide, if they use methods that can be interrupted. This wasn't one of those methods, so I had to be sure, beforehand, that it was what I wanted.

People have a hard time understanding why the desire to end one's life can be so strong at particular times, or so relentless. When you rehearse it in your mind enough, it can start to take on a life of its own, the same way a story pours into and out of novelists who feel they're tapping into what's hanging out in the ethers, just waiting for a willing channel. At 16, I had already tried my hand at suicide-by-drowning - walking out into the waves at Ocean Beach at night, when I thought no one was there. Someone was watching and pulled me out. A rescue of someone down a cliff into a treacherous part of the ocean would be much harder to pull off.

So I sat and thought about it. Selfishly, angrily, silently. Fully aware of the harm it would cause my family. Convincing myself that no one really cared anyway, they just pretended to. Behind all the praise was pressure; behind all the declarations of love were cords that strangled my neck and constricted my chest. I felt I had no power over my own life- I might as well have been a slave to unending demands and expectations from abusive slaveowners. I was depressed, lost, trapped. The faith I was raised in did not have enough vital sustenance to give me an anchor to this world. And if it was a sin? At this point, who cared? Sin was being redefined every day by a church in upheaval and change.

Then an older friend was behind me at the guardrail, quietly calling my name. There were no cell phones back then, I hadn't left a note or told anyone where I was going. The only explanation for his showing up was that he followed his intuition, which led him to a lonely parking lot where he spotted my car. He hadn't been looking for me- he had just felt the mysterious need to drive, this night, to the other side of town, down a road he never traveled, to a parking lot he had never stopped at before. That was the first miracle.

The second miracle was what he said to me, without judgment or guilt, when he knew what I was contemplating: "It's okay if you really decided this is what you want. I'm just thinking about the hundreds of people in your future who will never know you, never see you smile, never be helped by who you are going to become." It was so surprising, the declaration of who I was capable of being, and had already been to a lot of my struggling friends, I had to reconsider. Within minutes, I was over the guardrail and into his arms, shaking and sobbing.

People ask me what it was like to grow up in San Francisco in the 60's and 70's, such a time of romanticized free love, cultural access and historic places and events. On the dark side, there's the scare of the Zodiac killer, Jim Jones, Anton LaVey, the Temple of Set and drugs of every kind, easily accessed by children and teenagers. On the light side, I remember when Bobby Kennedy came to my school; a special dinner with Liberace; Jr. Bach concerts; Children's Opera; and nights at the Curtain Call bar, where musical theatre stars came across from the Curran Theatre to do after-hours encores. There were also great kite-flying days at the Marina Green; sailboat races and seals; Playland at the Beach; Golden Gate Park concerts; and the Cannery Theatre, where I saw the Fantastiks and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest with my gramma. (Years later, I learned that my husband and I were at the same show of the Fantastiks, crossing paths over a dozen years before we met in another city.) I tell people San Francisco was magical, full of excitement and opportunity. I leave out the disappearance of the San Francisco of my childhood, and the transformation of the 70's that nearly killed me.

The young women who navigated the aftermath of the 60's were between worlds without enough guidance from our bewildered parents to handle the steady stream of social experiments, civil rights victories and choices of conscience. We caught the rebellion but not the philosophical or spiritual tenets of "free love". The war in Vietnam still stole our brothers and boyfriends. Families leaned from over-protectiveness to permissiveness, or "benign neglect". Drugs were so commonplace, varieties were offered up like peanuts or after-dinner mints at birthday parties. The "village" was gone, and with it, the neighborhood people who would have warned you of the dangers, because they knew you and saw you grow up.

I look back now, and that city of my youth is far away, replaced every decade with a different social aspect and personality. But Lucca Delicatessan is still there on Chestnut Street, as if my grandfather took his mighty Italian fist and declared, "Some things will not change."

Author's Note

I wonder if I should break this into "chapters" just because it is long for you all to read? If I ever wrote a book, I can imagine keeping this together, for the most part, as one chapter. There are many more San Francisco tales from these times, but is anyone really interested in autobiographical stories of people who aren't famous?

Reviews

[Mishael H.R. Martineaux]

I feel this story on so many levels. I feel the struggle between two worlds and I could identify with the sense of confusion and being torn and lost, constantly searching for something to hold on to in an ever-changing world. There is an undertone of a lost sense of spirituality which is clearly depicted by the image of "haunting." I'm in my late teens and everything that I feel is right here. That goes to show that there's nothing new in this human experience. I truly appreciated this, thank you!

[Marianne Rose]

Thank you Mishael! The best I can hope for is that people relate to what I write! You're right about the lost spirituality then- it turned me into a seeker who has now found a strong eclectic spiritual faith - woven strands being much stronger than only one lifeline. Whatever you experience now, in your own confusion or lostness- it will contribute to who you become. And yes, we are all so connected in the common experience of being human. Thank you for reading and your review!

[Lost, n'MT]

This story was felt with a rollercoaster of emotions, some of which deeply felt on a personal level. I enjoyed feeling warm loving times of the 60's through the eye's of a child and all the things the 60's had to offer, for better and for worse. Then I began to feel so much pain that I cannot find the words to express. I am so happy for the miracles. Thank God and thank God for your friend that you are here today to share your story. I relate to having miracles in my life as well, and this was all so powerful to feel and read. I am so happy that you have made it so the other side. Reading your story gives me hope for myself, and it was such an incredible story to read. The last line was also the perfect ending. Thank you so much sharing your story, Marianne.

[Marianne Rose]

I'm glad you got a chance to read it after our conversations- the experiences taught me to believe in miracles- once you believe, it seems more of them appear, sometimes in small ways, but synchronistic enough to show you something greater is at work. I believe love binds the universe together and responds to need by choreographing movements of people who are responsive to the call to join the dance. There are a lot of dancers to choreograph, timing is everything, as well as the particular strengths of each dancer. There are a lot of dances going on too. It all seems pretty intricate and mysterious. Thank you for your comments, encouragement and connection. Peace.

[Lost, n'MT]

I absolutely have a better understanding and appreciation having read your story. I've have very similar thoughts to the beliefs you describe. I feel as if I am closer to truly believing it for myself, and love as always been the only thing that has ever made me feel alive and connected to the universe. Love is the greatest gift IMO, it's everything, which is why I never understood when people say "love hurts". I've been guilty of that myself, but to paraphrase a popular quote, Love doesn't hurt. Fear, rejection, heartbreak, jealousy, insecurities, and lack of trust and hope is what hurts. Love is the only feeling that can mask the pain and make us feel complete and connected with the universe and all it has to offer.

Didn't mean go too off topic, but that quote which I paraphrased, really sticks out to me.

Your insight and words of wisdom definitely ring true, and I am more optimistic that I will be able to learn and experience it for myself after reading your story and reading life-changing and life-saving stories from others whom had overcame extremely difficult times to find the love, peace, and relief that I'd imagine the majority of humanity seeks. Acceptance as well, especially acceptance from within ourselves. It was a pleasure and very enlightening to read your story, and I am so happy for the miracles that allowed you the opportunity to turn everything around for the better. It's so sad to think that this story would have been lived or read from another, but it's also so gratifying and inspiring to read about your journey. I wish you the best, and I hope you continue to succeed in your journey that those miracles have given you the opportunities to keep going and make it to the other side.

You're very welcome, thank you so much for sharing. Take care, Marianne. Peace and love.

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed this story in the poem. I spend many days in San Francisco from 1992-1994. I found her to be a safe and good place to hang out. Never heard a negative word and the city was alive and fun.
"I look back now, and that city of my youth is far away, replaced every decade with a different social aspect and personality. But Lucca Delicatessan is still there on Chestnut Street, as if my grandfather took his mighty Italian fist and declared, "Some things will not change."
I agree with your grandfather. Somethings don't change. Thank you Marianne for sharing the amazing poetry.
Coyote

[Marianne Rose]

Yes- maybe you bring up the insight that there is something that people can feel as safe and fun still there, despite the incredible changes over the years. I'm glad you had the chance to experience it. Thank you for your reflections and kind review.

[Coyote Poetry]

I was station In Monterey. The Brewery houses were my favorite. I have many poems about the San Francisco nights and you are welcome.

[Lydia Shutter]

I could hear the man in the pizza parlor singing, "O sole mio" and I could see the outfit your wore....because I had a similar one. Who doesn't remember the wax teeth? The little mom and pop stores were in every town U.S.A. at that time, weren't they? We all knew the local pharmacist and if we went to the grocery store, the butcher knew what cut of meat our mom wanted. Those were the days, my friend. They will never return, unfortunately. You were so fortunate your friend found you that night at the guardrail...friends have a special sort of intuition. Yes, we went through a turbulent era back then, but we made it through and that is what counts, n'est pas? You really poured out your heart in this piece. Hey, at least the deli is still standing...it is comforting to know some things are still the same. LydI**

[Marianne Rose]

Thank you Lydi- I knew you would relate to these memories, and yes, our butcher did know our cut of meat! I wish the feeling of community could return- I wrote a grant to form community circles in my city, and we started launching it in January. The longing is strong for connecting face to face - so I know I can draw on my experiences of a time when that all came naturally as part of the environment. I do have hope that some measure of recognition and relationship can return to us. Planting seeds- maybe not in my lifetime- but someday. Thank you for reading and relating to these reminiscences.

[SeemsPoetic]

New perspectives on life, new respect for old values, new thoughts to ponder, thank you for giving me these things through this story it is amazing how much I felt while reading this! I do not believe you should make this into chapters. It is a story that keeps you hooked for the ride and like only the greatest stories, it left me with newfound thoughts to shape my life for the better.

[Marianne Rose]

Thank you- for your reflections, for taking it in and staying with the ride- it's so hard to have perspective on your own writing- that you say it keeps you hooked is very encouraging to me when I'm around so many people that don't even read anymore, unless for a grade in school. I'm glad it provoked new thoughts and appreciate your feedback that it can stay together as one piece. Thank you for reading and reflecting on it. I'm always surprised when someone actually gets to the end of one of my long pieces when there is so much great writing here to get around to!

[Nessly]

You've captured my heart. This is beautiful. That's all I can say... I'm a bit teary eyed.

[Marianne Rose]

Thank you- it's a long read among so many good writings here- I appreciate your response, and that it touched you.

[Nessly]

You're welcome. :)

[Inject Positivity]

My goodness!! Your story gave shiver to my body... First of all I'm so very happy that your frnd followed his intuition and stopped there when you needed him the most, it would have been heartbreaking loss to the world if that night you had drowned yourself... I believe God knew that this young lady needs to be reminded her true worth, so He sent His miracle through your frnd... My heartfelt thank yous to your frnd... God bless him...

The second miracle is to me that your frnd was carrying no one but our God's words... These are exact thoughts that changed my depression to a happy personality... Most of the times people advice the depressed people that those moments will pass and just to hold on, but in reality those words doesn't give any kind of upliftment, it only makes the person more depressed but what your frnd said was the best and the only way uplift a broken soul...

I'm absolutely amazed by reading your life story and of course by the memories of your hometown San Francisco... I loved the descriptions and details in your story, which as a reader fulfills my heart... You are such an amazing person and I'm truly touched by the experience and memory you have shared here with us... And as for construction of the poem, I think it is perfect just the way it is now, the ones who want to read your life will read it just the way it is, you don't have to divide into chapters...

And lastly I feel inspired by reading the life stories of common people more than the stories of famous people... So if you write one about yourself and post it here or publish it, I will be sure to buy it... I want to know about your life and experiences... I'm so so happy that you are here with us...

With so much respect and love... God bless you...

Sincerely
Dhiman

[Marianne Rose]

Thank you from my heart, Dhiman. It is amazing that you took the time to respond so authentically to my story- and yes, God's Angels were at work that night, and so many other times in my life. I had a very interesting journey finding my spiritual path, and maybe now, finding this site, it is time like my husband and friends keep telling me, to share. I want you to know it was your story about your childhood, and some of the darker poetry about despair that pushed me to pick up my pen and write this story yesterday. How we are all so connected, interwoven, your choices catalyzing mine, catalyzing someone else's! I am practicing following my intuition a lot these days, writing when the pen jumps into my hand before I'm even awake. Thank you for telling me it's ok to leave it as is, and that you would read more about my life. I've been told so much that I'm "verbose"- not when I talk, but when I write, that I think it's gotten in my head that if I could find something to say I'd probably take too long to say it, missing the moment of attention of a reader that makes them want to read more. It's like anything else- the voices in our heads get in the way. Mostly I try now to tune in to the spirit just saying simply, "write", and not worry about the outcome. People here have been very kind, and that goes along way in encouraging me to keep going. God bless you too- yes, I'm really happy to be alive- now I just don't want to run out of time before I do all that I'm meant to do!

[Teddybearlee]

I think stories by people who aren't "famous" should be just as important, if not more so for history than books written by famous people. Many people face the same things in life...the little town I grew up in faced the exact same changes, I wouldn't recognize it if I went back today, it is like someone is erasing history, our history. Obviously you hit me the hardest with the suicide part, that your friend won you over with such words is no small miracle, I know in my head, any sort of positivity, or optimism just seems to fall right off me, as I have struggled with the thoughts pretty much nonstop since my wife left, only when my daughter is right in front of me do the thoughts...step back. I for one, think this writing is magnificent, anyone that reads this should be touched, without a doubt, and there is actually so much said in just this one "chapter", I guarantee there is something for everyone to relate too. You were have quite a talent for telling a story, I can't believe you kept it in for so long, and I'm very happy you decided to share it with the "public".

[Marianne Rose]

I really appreciate you answering the read request and your words in this review. I hadn't thought really about the value of history being told from the ordinary person's point of view- history to me always seemed to be written by scholars who researched and provided accounts based on evidence. But you're right, if you took a blend of 100 different accounts of this time period in my life, you would have a closer view of history than just one historian researching it all. So thanks for the encouragement to keep going. I always thought if I wrote any part of my story, I'd have to fictionalize and write in third person- but this just came out this way, so it's worth a try following where his leads.
I'm ambivalent about what you express on the despair- part of me feels good as a writer that I touched something in you that brought up feelings. The greater part of me wants to say something, like my friend did, to make the thoughts stop. But I know that's not how it works. I just know that when I consider the other people I can benefit- for you, your daughter- it does take me out of that place of isolation and sorrow. And when nature sends me some majestic vision, it helps me remember someone created all this, and that someone is also interested in me. I hope you can find your miracles that stop the inner thoughts from taunting you.
As for keeping it all in- well, I must have 4 or 5 banker's boxes filled with journals- writers like me seem to write whether or not they have an audience. I know now that God and a few people on the other side are always listening. Thanks for being here, for encouraging me, and for walking through your own pain and telling us about it. Peace.