By Michelle Konstantinovsky
I credit pop culture with much of the meaningless joy I’ve experienced in my life, but I hold it fully responsible for the preconceived notions many nonnatives have about growing up in San Francisco.
Depending on the conversation and what kind of place my dialogue partner calls home, I encounter all sorts of assumptions about what growing up here was like. Suburbanites ask about crime or salacious nightlife. Big-city denizens presume I had a patchouli-scented childhood living in close proximity to the Mrs. Doubtfire house. Everyone mentions Full House. And also pot.
For some reason, premature sexual deviancy and narcotic experimentation top the list of the most widely held theories about what growing up here entailed. I can’t really debunk those — words too racy for network television became commonplace in my vocabulary by sixth grade, and marijuana was almost passé by high school. But while I don’t know what it’s like to come of age anywhere else, I’d assume those things are true virtually anywhere. Not to mention that the Internet, cell phones and social media have tainted the innocence of all children everywhere, throughout the world, forevermore.
For some reason, premature sexual deviancy and narcotic experimentation top the list of most widely held theories about what growing up here entailed.
I would even say that whatever earlier-than-average exposure my friends and I did have to unsavory behavior (thanks, Muni!) protected us in a way. By the time I got to college, the novelty of alcohol had worn off. My collegiate experience was tame compared to that of my binge-drinking peers, who didn’t grow up here and who hadn’t been saturated in Bacardi 151 throughout puberty. And aside from the fleeting year spent flailing at the most colorful raves from Livermore to Santa Rosa (yes, we traveled to the ’burbs for fun), my friends never delved into dangerous territory, having purged their drug fantasies by graduation. While this early burnout isn’t the norm for every SF party kid, I personally was much more invested in watching the Dawson’s Creek finale than doing a keg stand circa 2003.
Based on what I know from journalistic research (interviewing my friends and comparing those notes with CW-era television), growing up here was like experiencing a unique combination of small-town intimacy and big-city possibility. But because this place can simultaneously feel so microscopic and so epic, I sometimes feel like I missed the boat on certain perks exclusive to major metropolises and tiny suburbs.
SF isn’t the sprawling, car-dependent capital that LA is, nor is it an expansive, subway-centric destination like New York City. For better or worse, we’re a bus city, and I’ve clocked more hours on Muni than I care to admit. I took the 38 to the 44 to the 52 to get to my friend’s Diamond Heights apartment from my Richmond District home. To get to Lowell High School, it was usually the 38 to the 28 (or the 29 if I sprinted fast enough across 25th Avenue). Occasionally, I’d take the 18, but only if I had a ton of reading or really needed to listen to NSYNC’s full No Strings Attached album.
But because this place can simultaneously feel so microscopic and so epic, I sometimes feel like I missed the boat on certain perks exclusive to major metropolises and tiny suburbs.
You would think with all that commuting, I would have developed a keen sense of directional acuity. You’d be wrong. I can’t navigate to save my life. Though I’m sure my dysfunctional internal compass is 90 percent influenced by genetics (see: my family), relying so heavily on certain bus lines set me up for failure. For years, I knew how to drive to Fisherman’s Wharf only by following the 28’s route. (To clarify why I went there: Pier 39 had the best Manic Panic hair dye and Leonardo DiCaprio posters in the ’90s.) I creepily shadowed the 33 to get to Haight Street and trailed the 24 to get to the one liquor store (shockingly defunct) that sold to underage kids. I never acquired the kind of street savvy full-time drivers or expert subway navigators have, and I developed a debilitating dependency on Muni’s super-specific courses, even when not onboard. This is absolutely not the case for all locals (I can already hear the outraged opposition), but I hold the absurd convenience of public transit partially responsible for my geographic ineptitude. I want to blame Muni for my inability to ride a bike, but that seems like a stretch.
There’s small-town stuff I missed too. Thanks to Nickelodeon commercials and repeated viewings of Now and Then (those girls rode so many bikes!), I became painfully aware of childhood staples that were just not reasonable for the big-city aspects, nor the climate, of SF: Slip ’n’ Slides, Power Wheels, tree houses, tire swings — all things I assumed were appropriate given the Richmond’s residential vibe. Not so. SF was still a big enough city to eradicate any suburban fantasies, and my mother was wise enough to never let me climb a tree. In turn, I scuffed up our dining room floor circling the table on roller skates.
As I got older, the big-city shortfalls seemed more pressing. My friends and I never really had the hideous underage nightclub experience (see: ’burb raving above). SF has a healthy nightlife, but a limited selection of it appealed to teenage girls in the early aughts (only a fraction of whom had passable fake IDs with which to dance to Britney Spears in the Castro). The only club we tried (and quickly realized we couldn’t bear revisiting) was City Nights. With all due respect to the fine establishment’s hardworking staff, the Yelp reviews speak for themselves.
I became painfully aware of childhood staples that were just not reasonable for the big-city aspects, nor the climate, of SF: Slip ’n’ Slides, Power Wheels, tree houses, tire swings — all things I assumed were appropriate given the Richmond’s residential vibe.
I guess coming of age here can’t be neatly categorized or defined. It’s like living your formative years in the world’s tiniest big city. Getting to experience both worlds made growing up here unique. SF was, and still is, a major city, where I had the insane privilege of feeling like everything I ever wanted to achieve could be done here.
More importantly, the city felt small enough that I never felt lost (despite that whole faulty internal-compass thing). I grew up with people from all backgrounds, and all their communities felt somehow connected to my own. I won’t pretend that there aren’t invisible socioeconomic lines cutting across SF, but I crossed paths with kids from all sides of those divisions, and they all felt like family because we shared the same pride in our city. And we still do.
So what was it like growing up in San Francisco? Perfect. And a little like Full House but with more pot.
