Chola Clowns & City Shrines
We hadnāt done each otherās makeup since we were sixteen, maybe seventeen. You knowāback when we thought āsmokey eyeā meant attacking your entire eyelid with black eyeliner and a prayer.
Maria sat cross-legged on the floor like it was 2009 and we were doing this in her momās kitchen. I started with her brows.
āBitch,ā I said, holding the pencil like a tattoo gun. āYou ready for this ride?ā
āTake me to church.ā
She did mine after. And, Iāll be realāshe did too much in the best way. Overdrawn lips. Razor-sharp liner. Chola glam with a touch of āaccidentally kissed a Crayola.ā
We both looked in the mirror. Simultaneously gasped.
āWe canāt go out like this.ā
Maria flipped her hair like a novella villain. āWhy not? Who needs attention when we can be weird, cute, and crazy-looking?ā Then she winked. ā*Besidesā*a lot of Latinas love this look.ā She pointed at her lips, lined with dark brown, filled with sparkly pink. āStraight up Mexican gangster lady meets Rosie the Riveter.ā
We added some fake moles. Maria threw on hoops the size of steering wheels. I tied a bandana over my head. We walked out the front door like we were about to jump someone and unionize a shipyard.
San Francisco Photo Montage Begins: (Set to a dreamy Chicano soul song. Something with organ and echo and heartbreak.)
Clarion Alley: We strike a pose in front of a giant mural of Heklinaāpainted in full drag regalia, arms stretched wide like a queer saint. We salute her. We blow kisses. We leave a flower.
Balmy Alley: We find a mural of two women in love, surrounded by papel picado and prayers. Maria touches one of the hands. Says, āShe looks like my TĆa Rosa.ā
City Lights Bookstore: We try to act intellectual, but end up in the banned books section giggling over a poetry book titled Your Lip Gloss Is Still Poppinā.
The Wave Organ: We sit at the edge of the sound sculpture, listening to the ocean gurgle like a haunted throat chakra. Maria whispers, āI think it just burped in Spanish.ā
The Vulcan Stairs: Painted steps, one of them says: āYou Are Not Lost.ā We take a selfie, holding each other, laughing like weāve always been found.
The MusĆ©e MĆ©canique: We get our fortunes read by the creepy animatronic gypsy and scream when it tells us weāll be married within the year. Maria: āTo who?! My Uber driver?!?ā
The Tonga Room: We drink overpriced cocktails under fake thunderstorms and toast to making it out alive.
The Castro Theatre Marquee: It says: "TONIGHT: CARRIE (1976) - IN 35MM" We squeal. āShe was right to burn it all down,ā Maria says.
We end the night sitting on a bench near the Conservatory of Flowers. The city glows in a way only San Francisco canāsoft, weird, old, and holy.
Maria looks at me. Eyes shiny, but not from tears. Just love.
āThanks for today,ā she says. āI forgot how good it feels to be a mess.ā
I laugh. āWeāve always been a mess. Weāre just better at accessorizing now.ā
Places We Love (In No Order):
Clarion Alley Mural Project
Casa Guadalupe Tienda on 24th
The Castro Theatre (specifically for cult movies)
Dog Eared Books (shout out to the witchy section)
El Rio (for dancing and deviance)
The Beat Museum
The Vulcan Steps (to feel dramatic and vaguely European)
Mission Dolores Park (the grassy gay coliseum)
Paxton Gate (where every trinket has a soul)
Red Blossom Tea Company (where Maria flirts with the tea guy every time)
The GLBT History Museum (our church)
The Alley Piano Bar (chaos in musical form)
Tonyās Pizza Napoletana (because divinity comes with melted cheese)
Next entry? Maybe I tell Maria the ring was warm all day. Or maybe we stay like this a little longer.
Beautiful. Weird. And finally, feeling like this city might just be ours.
