October/November 2005

 

Kill Yuppys

by Leena Prasad

 

 

 

Walking along Valencia Street recently, I noticed the words “Kill Yuppys” painted in bold red strokes on the sidewalk near 21^st Street.  I’m usually on the lookout for words and artwork etched into the sidewalks of the The Mission.  Often, they are amusing or striking and sometimes I stop to take a photograph. 

The first thought that occurred to me was that the spelling was incorrect.  The second thought that occurred was “whatever happened to live and let live.” The third thought that occurred was that my profession technically qualifies me as a “yuppie,” a young (or perhaps not so young) urban professional.  Furthermore, many of my family and friends are “yuppies.”

Perhaps the words were meant to be a joke. Satire?  No, I’ve lived in this neighborhood long enough to understand that there might be real emotions behind those words. 

The sentiments in that sidewalk graffiti prompted me to consider the court case for which I was serving as a jury.  It was a criminal case and the defending attorney was a passionate young man who was defending a homeless man charged of battery on a police officer.  The homeless man was awoken from his sleep and arrested by the officers for previous warrants for “sleeping in the park” and for being in possession of “an open container” of alcohol.

It occurred to me that if the “graffiti artist” responsible for those hateful words was arrested for defamation of public property, there was a good chance that the same defense attorney, a “yuppie”  might be in charge of defending the close-minded and violently inclined “artist.” I also realized that the current jury, myself included, were probably likely to support the graffiti artist’s freedom of speech. 

I respect a person’s right to live the life they want and to be allowed to live it in decency. I tolerate the homeless who lash out insults and tell me to go back to where I came from when I don’t give them money (I’m an American of South Asian decent and thus it’s easy to assume that I’m from somewhere else).  I also respect the right of an artist to express their opinion.  In fact, I take pleasure in the graffiti on the walls, sidewalks, and bathrooms of San Francisco.  I respect the voices and lives of other and I expect the same respect and tolerance for my lifestyle choices. Being a yuppie is not a crime.

The homeless man up on trial was from my neighborhood.  I live near Dolores Park, on the border of Noe Valley, The Mission, and The Castro.  The homeless man was asleep near Castro and 18^th when he was awoken and arrested.  It’s very possible that the defense attorney also lives in the same neighborhood.  A few weeks after the trial, I saw the prosecuting attorney entering the Safeway on Market and Church, not far from where the homeless man was arrested.  It’s possible that he lives nearby too.  It’s also very likely that the person who painted the red sign on the sidewalk lives in one of these neighborhoods. 

As I walked on, I couldn’t get the “Killy Yuppy” sign out of my mind.  Why do people see others with the lens of us vs. them, even in an area and a city where diversity is the status quo. An “artist” should know better.  But, was the person who painted those hateful words really an artist or just a mean-spirited un-enlightened lost soul?  Should I fool sorry for them or should I feel insulted? 

I’m bothered by these words not only because one person (who can’t spell) decided to express their opinion but because I find this type of stereotyping to be a prevalent attitude among many San Franciscans. For example, some of my friends who live in The Mission consider themselves to be intellectually superior to people who live in The Marina.  They also assume that everyone who lives in The Marina is wealthy and shallow.  Some of my friends in The Marina look at The Mission as an unsafe but hip place “to visit” for its trendy restaurants and bars.  My Marina friends have some concept of the artistic energy in The Mission but very few of them bother to venture outside the cozy confines of the expensive bars and restaurants to the dozens of small art galleries and playhouses that are sprinkled throughout the streets of The Mission.

Outside of San Francisco, I find that people with lazy conversation skills often find solace in the clichéd practice of asking me about my profession when they first meet me.  It also helps to conveniently classify me before continuing with the conversation.  Here, however, they ask where I live as a prelude to attempt to place me into a neatly labeled box.  My response varies. Sometimes I live in The Mission, sometimes in The Noe, and sometimes in The Castro.  Geographically, I live on the edge of all three, so I’m free to choose.  I’m amused by people’s responses when they hear my answer.  “Noe” provokes thoughts of home, children, pets.  “Mission” provokes a variety of responses ranging from the safety of the neighborhood to comments about the restaurants/bar/cafes, albeit rarely, conversations about the countless galleries or playhouses. “The Castro” causes people to look pensive.  Of course it makes sense to segue into a conversation about the neighborhood once having asked someone where they live. But, it’s the tone of the conversation, the note of identification or distance, and the resulting interest or disinterest which catches my attention.  It’s hard to believe that I can shape a person’s first impression of me based simply on which answer I select.

It’s one thing to be judged by someone who lives someplace different than me.  But to find oppressive messages of intolerance in my own neighborhood is disconcerting.  My clothing, during the week, is ‘business casual’ because my job requires that.  Sometimes I go to my painting studio in those clothes and protect them with a large paint-splattered man’s shirt.  At those moments, I’m in a different place from my computer saturated daytime world but I’m not a different person.  My suit or my paint splattered shirt doesn’t change who I am. 

What kind of person would judge me based solely on the cut of my pants or my job rather than who I am?  And not just judge, but want me to cease and desist because I happen to be different from them?  Certainly, an authentic artist cannot be that limited in the scope of their imagination!