Being ‘from San Francisco’

While watching some reality television, I noticed that a character was placed in a similar scenario.

The moment new girl Katrina stepped into the villa, her housemates were eager to get to know her.

“Where are you from?” 

“San Francisco.”

“What part?”

“Hayward, like the Bay Area.”

Her response was met with head nods and sympathetic smiles, a typical sign of poorly-masked confusion. 

They have no idea where Hayward is. 

This may be why, in her bio, her current city simply reads “San Francisco.” As I scrolled down the cast list, I realized that almost all of the houseguests claimed they were from big cities, just as I do. 

But can I really say I’m “from San Francisco?”

To test that theory, my friends and I decided to take a trip to our home away from home. 

After spending an embarrassingly long amount of time paying for parking, we rode the BART up to 16th and Mission streets and stuffed ourselves with sub-par French toast and a concretelike slab of hash browns. 

The fairly simple part was deciding where we wanted to go. The hard part was figuring out how to get there. In trying to navigate the various BART stops, I was no help whatsoever. 

I had no idea where we even were.

Until then, I thought I vaguely knew the lay of the land in San Francisco. I’ve walked around Yerba Buena Gardens, been to Golden Gate Park, can point out Pier 39, and may be able to navigate to the Orpheum Theatre.

Apart from that, I am a tourist. A tourist in “my own city.”

Usually, when you live somewhere for a decent amount of time, you can recommend to those visiting the best restaurants, the most popular attractions and the hidden gems of the city. 

However, standing on New Montgomery Street, Ghirardelli chocolate in hand, I was confined by the knowledge of my digital navigator, and occasionally street signs, to point me in the right direction, rather than any prior knowledge.

It’s possible that, up until now, I’ve relied on my parents’ knowledge to guide me through the streets of San Francisco. In fact, it wasn’t until I started driving by myself that I could even remember the street names of my own neighborhood. 

Nonetheless, it all comes down to a feeling of familiarity. 

In my hometown, everything is familiar. After I go off to college and live my life elsewhere, I know I can always return and it will be more or less the same. I will still be able to find my favorite cafe, know when the train comes and have no trouble directing others to the nearest dog park. 

In San Francisco, that feeling is absent, just as it is in any other big city. The only thing that sets it apart from others is that it’s just a short train ride away.

No matter how many times I say it, I am not from San Francisco.

Do I want to be? That answer varies from day to day, trip to trip. I don’t feel at home there, but such a feeling of unfamiliarity presents an opportunity: I can become familiar with it.

Yes, I can continue to lie through my teeth, just as most Bay Area residents do, until I convince myself that I live there. Or, I can go to the city, spend time getting to know the bus routes, the people, the best cafes and dog parks so that when I return, I will be the one giving directions to tourists and not the other way around. 

Like most things, I could grow to love it.

Until then, if home is where the heart is, I have yet to leave mine in San Francisco.

Veronica Roseborough is a senior at Carlmont High School in Belmont. Student News appears in the weekend edition. You can email Student News at news@smdailyjournal.com.