What more is there to say about Willow Street (I’ve said and written it all before), except other than know what I liked the most about Willow Street?
Weeping as though it may have been, Willow knew what it was, OK. Always. And everyone around it, los unos y los otros, any who ever was or is responsible for it knew and knows what it was and what it continues to be. Do they know what it could be? (Let’s re-invent the Tenderloin, already. The time is right now.)
There Willow was not that long ago, and yet so long ago. You probably still can see a version of it. Because there are still people our there. We saw some of ’em, so we fed them. A little, to carry the people through this COVID-19 pandemic, which affects them, too. What we could when we could. Don’t know if they’re still there. They shouldn’t be (they never should have ended up out there in the first place, and you know it, too.)
We carry on. We do what we can when we can. This is not a drill, and this is definitely not a vacation.
Do your part, give what you can when you can. Remember the Golden Rule.
And to all the Kylies of the Nob Hill bubble (what, I recently watched the Peru episodes of E!’s short-lived Life of Kylie – what a spoiled brat that bi…llionaire is, huh), for cryin’ out loud, you can’t be having bubbly picnics at Huntington Park while nurses and doctors and grocers quite literally bust their woefully underpaid and clearly underappreciated asses to save and serve the community.
This season of self-isolation, check your privilege at the door. You know, before you go out.
Otherwise, strike a pose.