Life in a century-old SRO in San Francisco’s Tenderloin
Most mornings at Polk Manor, I woke up to the sound of seagulls. Or car break-ins. Or nothing at all. Living in a single room in the Tenderloin is actually much quieter than you might think. For about three years I lived alone in a centuries-old 8-by-10 hotel room above a radical feminist bookstore, a cluttered storefront selling sequined negligees, and a massage parlor called Healing Winds that never appeared to be open. If I didn’t, I would probably be a completely different person.
Single occupancy or SROs are perhaps the last vestige of affordable housing in San Francisco. They are converted hotel rooms with shared bathrooms and a shared kitchen area (if you are lucky enough) and typically serve low-income residents. They house about 30,000 residents in the city, and most of the units are in the Tenderloin, although some are still in the Chinatown and North Beach areas. Once ubiquitous in the 1970s, the San Francisco Redevelopment Agency nearly wiped them out. Their efforts to “clear slums” and “remove rot” deprived low-income residents of their stable housing and contributed directly to the city’s ongoing homelessness crisis.
Even though my rent, including utilities, was $ 850 a month, I knew why most people didn’t choose to live in a hotel. Whenever I mentioned the shared bathroom situation, they could hardly contain their disgust. “I’m sorry, but I could never live like this,” said my colleague, who slept in a dining room with a sheet partition.
I didn’t care what people said, I loved my apartment and my neighborhood – living there felt special. My room had high ceilings, an old ornate fireplace, and an out of place sink next to my bed. I didn’t have a kitchen, but I definitely had a hotplate that set off the fire alarm. I draped my coat with philodendrons and stuffed empty corners with thrifty odds and ends, records and books. The hotel was also ravaged, according to building manager Rick, who served in the Vietnam War and still wore army suits. Other renters said they saw ghosts but I never did.
From my window you could see the crumbling water mural of the O’Farrell Theater and the glow of cheap pubs luring passers-by. On Friday and Saturday nights I drank whiskey and PBR in the Edinburgh Castle Pub; The next morning I would feed my hangover with diluted coffee and an omelette from Moulin’s, a Dutch takeout home run by an elderly Korean couple. After that, I’d rummage through the shelves at Goodwill on Geary and Larkin and walk with my arms full. To this day I am convinced that it was heaven on earth.
Although I lived alone, I never really felt lonely at Polk Manor. The building was inhabited by a diverse group of tenants: they were all older artists, veterans, and weird local furnishings, the kind of people who clung to the edge. Except for David, the baker from Costa Rica, and Daniel, the barber, all of them must have had some form of social security. They probably found it strange that a 22 year old should move into Unit 405, but they still treated me with kindness, curiosity, and respect.
One of the first tenants I met was the old woman who wore her Sunday clothes every day. When I introduced myself in the elevator and told her my name, she said, “Oh, that’s sexy, it sounds like a mermaid!” And gave me a big kiss on the cheek. She was friends with another tenant, a six-foot-tall woman with a speech impairment, who brought the parcels to everyone’s front door. I could always spot her on Eddy Street because she was wearing a miniature backpack with a bright pink pompom on it. Then there was the older painter across from me, the one with the tortoiseshell kitten that always ran into the hallway.
While I eventually forgot all names over the years, I will always remember Gabriel. He occupied the unit next to mine, and it was so small and dark that it must once have been a closet. He was a hulking Native American who wore a Harley-Davidson and had rough, knotted hands from construction. Like many other seniors there, he did not speak to his family – it was always dark in our neighborhood during the holidays.
Polk Manor, 743 Polk St., San Francisco
Ariana Bindman
One day I found Gabriel crying in the hallway. I asked him if he was okay and he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of my room. He took out a photo of his daughter and told me how much he missed her and how much he wanted to get to know his grandchildren. After listening to me, he gave me an eagle feather, an abalone clam, and a bundle of sage, all of which I still have. Then he started asking me for money so he could buy medicine.
He could be fickle at times because of the medicine I think. One evening he knocked on my door yelling at me for showering and leaving water on the bathroom floor. But the next evening he came up to me shyly and asked: “Are we still friends?” I nodded and said yes, of course we are. It was the last thing I ever said to him.
When he was killed on O’Farrell Street, his daughter and widow were helping clean up his room. She was knee-deep in boxes; it was amazing how much Gabriel hoarded. According to his widow, who worked at the Irish gift shop near Powell, he collected and talked to dolls – he told her they were his friends.
After his death, it felt like things were going to change at Polk Manor. Rick, the longtime facility manager, announced his resignation on the lobby bulletin board. His wife, whom he married less than 24 hours ago, died unexpectedly. He wrote that he was moving to New Jersey to mourn and that he would not miss most of us. In a way, I was happy.
Perhaps a year later, when I was packing my bags and moving in with a friend in Oakland, it felt like a chapter in my life as a young adult had come to an end. For obvious reasons, the world feels more complicated now. The Goodwill on Geary has closed, the gay bars have all disappeared, and so have many of the Polk Manor residents who roamed the city streets. I still regret never choosing the 777 for Healing Winds, and I still wish I had remembered everyone’s names. Like old friends, the neighborhoods we know and love change and move on, far, far away until they appear in the distance like glowing neon lights.
