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Life's Untorn Page

I moved to San Francisco from across the bay in early 1977. At 19 years old, dad got me a two-bedroom house in the San Francisco suburb known as the Ocean District. It was the type of home that adjoins with your neighbors. I'd started working for the Feinstein family who owns a lot of properties. Most notably, a rising politician, Diane Feinstein. She recently passed at age 90, may she rest in peace.

I worked at her family hotel, and not interested in politics. I lived in the city's southern suburbs and the hotel was on the other side of San Francisco's famous Tenderloin District, a.k.a., the Red Light District. Dad was a Golden Glove back in his younger days in Hawaii, and he taught me the ropes. I also ran track in school, being tall and 130 lbs lean. Unbeknownst to anybody of the times, I would pass this church called The People's Temple where kids played on its grounds. Their faces didn't linger in my passing of them, to and from my workplace. Later that year, they had closed up and moved their church activities down to South America.  

I recently celebrated my 21st birthday, and now it's late October 1978. The buzz in San Francisco Bay is the growing concerns with the Temple down in South America and Jonestown. News continued through mid-November 1978 when San Franciscans received the shocking revelations that riddled in a trail of bits and pieces. First was the Guyana airport shooting of Californian congressman, reporters and a temple defector. Yet, subsequent news of the Jonestown massacre, forever scarred the bejeweled city by the bay. Mom had called earlier and since they lived across the bay, I offered to take my car instead of the BART train to work and pick up a couple of stuffed white bears and two dozen red roses for my parents and myself. Such was my offerings amongst the many others, as I worked my way through the crowds, placing them along the temples boarded up fence.

It's still November 1978, the latter part, when San Franciscans befallen to more appalling news. Our mayor Moscone and assemblyman Milk were just assasinated in San Francisco's City Hall. It is next to my BART train stop, the CIVIC CENTER, whereto I pass on my way, again, to and from my workplace. It's an eleven block walk, and a hop through the Red Light District, before and after my three to eleven PM shift.

The tragedies troubled many San Franciscans, but in due time, became resilient, yet unforgetful of the great loss of lives. My owner boss-in-abstantia, Diane Feinstein, worked in City Hall all the whiles I worked at the hotel. Though her succession becoming our cities latest mayor, was understandably slighted following the tragedies.

Nonetheless, her subsequent marriage to Blum, a person of disingenous charm blinded by money, signaled my departure from their employ in early 1980.

Those tidbits, a bit hard to swallow, yet lives I as another chapter closes my diary--edges, now the wiser.

Copyright © Hilo Poet | Year Posted 2023

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