The Move
I'm seated comfortably now, waiting for my flight. I can't believe I pulled this off. An hour ago, I was supposed to board a plane to Antigua, and now I'm off to San Francisco, California.
My name is Anthony Amiewalan. I am a twenty-five-year-old first-generation Nigerian American. I studied medicine at the Medical College of Wisconsin for the past two years. After barely making it through the first year and struggling with the symptoms of Lupus the second year, I withdrew.
My father, a doctor, convinced me to try medical school again in the Caribbean. He was sure the environment would be less stressful and the weather more conducive to studying. Medical school wasn't my first choice for a profession, but I did not want to disappoint or, more importantly, disrespect my father.
In Nigerian families, children are taught that respect is demonstrated through obedience. It is not uncommon for fathers to make significant life decisions for their children. Marriage and career are fair game for an overtly strong-willed Nigerian parent. Besides, I could not stop at a bachelor's degree. Education is highly valued in Nigerian culture. Having a doctor or engineer as a son or daughter is the ultimate status symbol of successful parenting. The achievement shows the world that you not only care about your child's development, but it is a personal reflection of you. I took this last point to heart: my failures personally reflected on my father. I wanted to be his example of success, but I later learned that the idea of success that he envisioned and that I sought to manifest was not meant for me. It would take years for me to come to this realization, but at the time, I felt broken.
So, why San Francisco? Well, the idea originated from an experience I had in high school. I visited Stanford University to participate in a Mock Trial Camp (I am, was, and still am a nerd).
That trip to the Bay Area was my first solo trip, and it was liberating. Despite the short timeframe of two weeks, it allowed me to form an identity independent of the family expectations—and I took advantage of it.
I felt wholly anonymous and bold, which empowered me to take on a new persona. One that did not require my father's approval at every step or corner. I relied on the mask that I wore with my friends, which was that of a straight teenager who was highly committed to extracurricular activities, being pleasant, and, in my mind, competing with classmates to prove my self-worth. I always felt that I had something to prove. With friends, it was whether I was good enough or not, the stereotype of what it meant to be Black in America. As a Black teenager attending an all-white school, and with the world, I felt the need to defy their expectations—to mirror Black excellence.
Once, in high school, while visiting a white friend's home built in a wealthy suburban community. I distinctly remember a short exchange I had with his mother. He entertained me in his well-appointed basement. The rooms had gray walls and white trim. It housed a movie theater with leather recliners, chairs, and vintage framed French posters on the walls. She brought treats for us to enjoy as we decided on a movie to watch. As she set the refreshments on the table behind us, she commented that I was a good quiet boy and that she was glad her son had me in his life as a positive influence. Many other parents and friends thought similarly of me. I craved this validation because it reinforced my hopes that I represented myself and my family well, by a standard that even a white mother approved. The trip to San Francisco allowed me to step outside of the white gaze, become less rigid, and just be me (whatever that was at that time).
I left for San Francisco mainly because I needed to run. I ran from the possibility of being a failure and of letting my family down. I ran from the burden of being the first-born son. I ran from the expectation of living a heteronormative life. Most importantly, I ran from the version of myself that I couldn’t control. I needed to run, stop, breathe, and figure out who I was and what I wanted. I did not feel I had space to do that at the time, so I ran.
However, my decision not to attend medical school came at a cost, figuratively and literally. My mother took $17,000 from her savings account to help me pay for the first semester of school. This was an expression of her love. Years earlier, while I was figuring things out between college and medical school, my mother arranged for me to have an apartment in Columbus, Ohio. She paid for all my utilities and allowed me access to her credit card for spending. I was taking classes at Ohio State with plans to enter public health graduate school. She didn't want me to worry about anything but focusing on my studies. My mother did the same with all my brothers and sisters; even after we left home, she wanted to ensure our physical needs were met. My mother didn't think twice about giving me her hard-earned money; she trusted me and believed in my success. I accepted this money, knowing I would use it to start my life in San Francisco. At the time, I was deeply conflicted about taking it; however, I justified my action by telling myself that the money would be used to help build my future.
After arriving from Decatur, Illinois, I changed my flight destination from St. Antigua to San Francisco at Atlanta's international airport. At that moment, I came up with a lie that a family emergency had occurred in San Francisco and that I needed to change my flight. Surprisingly, the reservation attendant didn't question me, and the entire process went smoothly. The tickets were roughly the same price, and the attendant graciously waived fees for changing the flight. An hour later, I boarded the four-hour plane trip to San Francisco. The flight was a blur; I don't recall anything other than our landing announcement.
When I arrived in San Francisco, I retrieved my luggage, withdrew $100 from the ATM, and hailed a cab to go downtown. Before I left Decatur, I did a small amount of research on downtown hotels. I wanted something cheap and found one that only charged $25 a night.
It was already midnight as I rode into the city. I recall peering through the window, watching the rolling hills and densely packed houses with lights scattered over the landscape. It was far different from where I grew up in Ohio. The community where I lived had large suburban homes spaced far apart, with carefully manicured lawns and streetlights on the corner of every block. After 8 p.m., most families were home for the night, and the streets grew quiet. Not too distant from these communities, farmland dominated with even less evidence of human activities after dusk.
I should have been scared, but I wasn't. For the first time in my life, I didn't care what happened next. I felt liberated, excited, and fueled by a sense that everything would be okay.
The cab stopped on Market Street between Sixth and Seventh. I didn't hold high expectations for the hotel, imagining it would be like a Motel 6. However, I would soon find that it was far worse.
The manager was comfortably seated behind metal bars in an oversized armchair, watching television as I entered. I provided my name and my reservation number. He asked me for the initial payment, informed me that the amount was due each morning, and gave me the keys to my room. No other questions were asked, and there was no interest in engaging in conversation. He turned back to the television and continued watching his show.
The room was like a prison cell. It couldn't have been larger than ten by ten feet, with a twin bed covered with thin, moist sheets, a small table and chair, and an old boxy television. There were no windows in the room, and to my surprise, there wasn't an in-unit bathroom. I soon discovered a community bathroom down the hall, which may have been why the hotel was ridiculously cheap.
It wasn't until a few years later that I learned that I'd checked myself into a "single room occupancy" (SRO). In San Francisco, even if you are gainfully employed, it is not uncommon to have two or three adult roommates. So, if you are bordering on being homeless, there aren't many options. The SRO provides an opportunity to maintain a baseline for shelter. Unfortunately, SROs were notorious for attracting a mix of characters, often who struggled with drug addiction, mental illness, or were involved in sex work.
Undeterred, I put my suitcase on the desk, sat on the bed, and finally processed the day. Even in my grimy surroundings, a sense of relief swept over me. I made it. I defied my father, mother, and my own self-imposed image of acceptability and decided to take a chance to discover what I wanted for myself. That night marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I became the author of my own story—one that I would dictate, transcribe, and publish.
The next day, I got up and went on a long run. Walking outside, I was thrilled to see the sea of people starting their day. It was exactly what I expected—the hustle of a major metropolitan city. There was a slight chill in the air, but the sun was out. I started my run through the Tenderloin. Tourists and locals alike streamed through the historic neighborhood. As I ran up Market Street toward downtown, giant billboards and brightly lit vintage neon signs proliferated along my journey. On the side streets, large apartment buildings were covered with graffiti, and groups of men were standing on the corners. The sidewalks transformed into an obstacle course complete with hurdles that morphed into trash, human feces, or exposed needles. Horns trumpeted in the air, pushing through the cacophony of noise emitting from both humans and canines. If you’ve ever lived in San Francisco, it is safe to characterize it as a city in perpetual spring. That morning, it must have been 58 degrees Fahrenheit, which dulled the scent of feces sprinkled throughout my run. Despite its unique charm, I was thrilled to be in San Francisco—the city by the bay.
After the run, I went back to the hotel to shower. I gathered my toiletries from my room and went to the communal showers. Luckily, I found the space unoccupied. The bathroom was bare bones. It had two of everything: shower stalls, toilets, and sinks. Above the sinks were two small, murky mirrors. There was a single window facing the interior of the building. The linoleum flooring was missing in parts, exposing old wooden floors hidden beneath. Entering the shower, I immediately noticed the rusted showerhead; however, the rest of the stall was clean, to my relief.
After my shower, I dressed and hit the streets of S.F. with a mission to find a job. I printed twenty resumes at a nearby copy and print center. My initial idea was to go door to door, handing out copies of my resume. My targets were art galleries. Honestly, there wasn't a strong reason behind this decision other than that I fancied myself to be a Black gay version of Charlotte York MacDougal, working my way up the ranks as a respected art dealer. This was pure fantasy; I had no idea about the credentials needed to gain employment; this was a product of never holding a full-time job in high school or college and a high level of naivety.
At lunch, I searched for a coffee shop with free Wi-Fi. I found one between Tenth and Eleventh on Market St. It was a donut shop owned by an East Asian American family. I would grow to love these little shops, which weren't hard to find in S.F. I sat down, ordered my sandwich and coffee, and searched for jobs on the classified advertisements website, Craigslist. I sent my resume in response to several ads, and, as luck would have it, within an hour, I heard back from a guy named Ahmed. He owned a furniture store called Loft Living located in South of Market (SOMA) on the corner of Eleventh and Harrison.
In my email correspondence with Ahmed, he asked me to come in immediately for an interview the next day. I couldn't believe that I had an interview so fast. There was little time to prepare, which made me panic. I had only interviewed one other time, and it didn't go well. It was in Milwaukee. Some time had passed after I withdrew from medical school. I decided to apply for a job as a pharmaceutical sales representative. I created a book of my accomplishments to share with my interviewer, including awards I achieved in college and copies of my artwork. When applying to academic institutions, I thought employers wanted to see well-rounded individuals with varied interests. I was mistaken. No surprise, I didn't get the job, and I didn't want a repeat of that failure with Ahmed. Later that night, I would research commonly asked questions during interviews and role-play my responses in the mirror. Lucky for me, the actual interview proved to be more casual.
Next on my agenda was finding an apartment. I knew I couldn't stay at the hotel indefinitely. Again, I started my search on Craigslist. Initially, I looked at "roommate wanted" ads. I saw a posting by two gay men in their mid to late twenties looking for a gay roommate. The situation seemed ideal. I wanted to meet other gay men in the city, and I thought having gay roommates would make it easier. I sent my information immediately, describing myself and asking to see the apartment.
Not long after the email was sent, I immediately received an email from Nelson asking to meet the following evening at Café Flore. Nelson and his friend Greg had recently moved to the city. Nelson moved from L.A. and worked as a flight attendant, while Greg moved from Montana. During the day, Greg worked at Wells Fargo as a bank teller, and a few nights a week, he worked as an escort—in my mind, I thought that meant he was some sort of butler. However, I would later discover that Greg offered sexual encounters to men for money. They'd met each other online and decided to search for apartments together. They recruited a third roommate to increase their chances of finding a better place.
The following morning, I walked to my job interview down Eleventh Street with two copies of my resume in hand. I dressed casually in medium blue Levi's, a red summer plaid button-down shirt, and white sneakers. I sported a low-cut fade and used magic shaving cream to achieve smooth hairless skin.
The store was located in the San Francisco neighborhood called South of Market or SOMA. This part of SOMA has an abundance of large warehouses, furniture stores, and a colorful assortment of modern buildings. SOMA is also known for its gay leather bars. The Folsom Street Fair is an annual festival that reflects the subculture in the local bar scene. Folsom is a celebration of all things "leather." All are welcome to show their appreciation for the unique brand of gay leather culture, and no moral judgments are allowed. Nudity is embraced with acceptance of all body types characterized by animal classifications. Those in the know understand the difference between wolves, cubs, bears, and otters. Jockstraps and the jocks that wear them are on parade for public consumption. My future employer would have its storefront directly across the street from the gay landmark known as the "Lone Star Saloon," which attracted men from the bear subculture.
Ahmed greeted me at the entrance. He, too, was a first-generation immigrant. His family was originally from Bangladesh, and he was born and raised in Maryland, Virginia. Ahmed was in his late twenties. His voice reminded me of Kermit the frog, quirky but well-spoken. Before owning Loft Living, he worked as a consultant for IBM. After six years, he decided to quit his job and used his savings to open the store.
When I arrived for my interview, I initially walked past the store. It didn't look like a store but an open garage. That's what it was: an oversized garage underneath an old, Victorian house.
The store's interior was like a warehouse, with piles of boxes stacked onto each other and mini display areas to show off the merchandise. Ahmed's office was located in a glass cube immediately before reaching the absolute back of the space, which contained a bathroom on the right and another door on the left that entered into more storage. The store operated under a catalog-order system. Customers would choose a sofa or bed set from catalogs and place an order with Ahmed. The items would arrive within two to three weeks unless they were back-ordered, which often happened, making the process take an additional two to three months. Ahmed overstocked a few items in the back storage, available immediately for purchase. These included chairs and the famous $99 table, which was nothing but a medium-density fiberboard (MDF) wooden veneer table with four matching chairs. For the most part, customers waited weeks to receive their orders.
There was something about Ahmed's character that was infectious. He was the sort of guy that could engage in almost any topic. I would see him interact with customers in amazement. He could quickly dip into a conversation about the San Francisco 49ers, the latest contestant on American Idol, to international news. I was not immune to his charm. We instantly connected over our immigrant parents and the push to excel in academics during the interview, and afterward, he asked me to start the next day. Until that point, I didn't know many people with whom I could commiserate my experience as a first-generation American born to immigrant parents; he uniquely understood the feeling of existing in two worlds and never fully feeling a part of either. He understood unrealistic expectations placed on children and their burdens that impacted our feelings about ourselves. I was glad to have my first real job working with Ahmed. It was one small victory in my book.
The operation at Loft Living was small. It consisted of me, Ahmed, and two delivery guys. I was responsible for opening and closing the store, sales, internet marketing (a series of daily postings on Craigslist), and maintaining invoices. The pay was $16 an hour with no benefits and occasional time off for major holidays. I opened the store Tuesday through Sunday from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. and had off on Mondays. After work, I would go to the 24-Hour Fitness gym and later grab dinner. That became a ritual for almost a year.
That evening, after my job interview, I made my way to Café Flore to meet Nelson and Greg. It was my first time venturing into the Castro, San Francisco's gay neighborhood. Initially, I thought it was strange to "interview" potential roommates to search for an apartment together. I'd never experienced this phenomenon before. I had always lived in a city where housing was relatively cheap. In San Francisco, this was not the case. At the time, rents were as high as $1,500 for a one-bedroom. I was used to paying between $450 and $550 a month for rent. I quickly understood that it was common to wait in long lines to be interviewed by roommates looking to fill a vacant room or compete with multiple people for a one-bedroom apartment. The entire process can be overwhelming, and I needed help navigating the system. Luckily, I was armed with $17,000 tucked away in my bank account to shield me from the worst effects the market dished onto me.
When I arrived at Café Flore, a group of guys was seated at a table. Two of the guys fit the description of Nelson (Filipino) and Greg (white with shoulder-length blond hair). I walked over and introduced myself. Nelson immediately got up and hugged me. Greg remained seated and shook my hand. The other guys were acquaintances who simply acknowledged me with nods. I sat down and ordered a coffee. I don't remember our conversation in detail, just that they asked me standard questions about myself: where I was from, what I did for a living, and questions about my personality. After Café Flore, Nelson invited me to go dancing with them at Badlands. We walked a few blocks from the restaurant into the heart of the Castro. The streets were teeming with a steady flow of men dressed casually in t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. I wasn't a stranger to gay neighborhoods or bars. I experienced my fair share in Columbus, Chicago, and Milwaukee, but the Castro was unique. It felt like a gay village. During the day, the area was just as lively as it was by night, and, for the most part, all the bars, stores, and restaurants were within a small perimeter. Looking back at that first meeting, I'm shocked at how bold I was at that point in my life. It was highly uncharacteristic of me to meet up with strangers and spend the night dancing with them. Up until that point, I maintained a very stoic and reserved personality for fear of exposing the facade I spent years cultivating, mainly under cover of religion.
I didn't embrace the reality of my gayness until I was twenty-two years old. Religion was an effective tool to maintain my smokescreen throughout high school and college. It gave me cover to explain my reluctance to date women. I used religion as a kind of brainwashing tool, internalizing a false sense of piety. I converted to Catholicism in junior high school and attended confession every week. In college, I visited the confessional more frequently, divulging the impure thoughts I had about men, seeking the restitution my imagined innocence required. However, as hard as I tried, I could not live up to the illusion of piety or innocence. I trapped myself on a hamster wheel, falling out of breath from falling off and jumping back on, expecting a different result. And even after that, I kept myself at a distance emotionally from other people. However, after a full year of living with my self-revelation, I began to venture out, explore, and eventually share my secret with others.
At the age of twenty-three, I lost my virginity. I met a guy at a gay bar in Columbus, Ohio. I don't remember the name of the bar. I do remember that it was spacious. It was a bi-level disco with the center of the second floor open, looking down at the bar in the center of the first level. My disguise took shape in an oversized shirt, baggy jeans, and a baseball cap. It was a night of firsts: going to a gay bar, meeting a guy, and taking him home. I remember it took two failed attempts before I entered the bar. In the end, I met an Italian guy in his mid-thirties. After a short session of conversation followed by intense kissing, we left the bar and ate at a local diner. The discussion was surface, nothing special or profound. I asked him if he wanted to come over, and we had sex.
Similarly, as fast as I lost my virginity, I allowed walls to come down in the Castro. After meeting with Greg and Nelson, I joined them bar hopping. I marveled at their banter, how freely they used her, she, and queen to describe each other—the exercise of freedom to dance, sometimes silly or sexually, without worrying about appearing too feminine. My guard was down, and I never enjoyed myself as much as I did that night. I was free to be fully present in the moment, which was a new feeling, one I wanted to experience more.
After two weeks, I was becoming more comfortable in the city. I learned about my job at Loft Living and building relationships with Nelson and Greg. I also learned how to use MUNI, the public transportation system. Initially, I avoided public transportation because I didn't know how to use it and was more comfortable getting around on foot or by taxi. Anytime I wanted to go to the Castro, I took a cab, which was about $7 each way. I knew this couldn't continue indefinitely, so I forced myself to learn how to use the subway.
Nelson and Greg eventually found an apartment, but I decided not to move in with them. I liked them, but I didn't like how much they partied. Also, after learning the duties of an "escort," I was not comfortable sharing an apartment with Greg. I harbored lots of judgments about people. At that time, I thought that If I was going to push myself and further my career, I needed to surround myself with career-driven people. I couldn't see beyond my judgments and how sweet Greg was or go deep with him about his personal story and why he decided to work as an escort. It would take time for me to exercise my empathy muscles.
At first, I attempted to search for a studio apartment. Unfortunately, the search proved unfruitful. I couldn't find anything in my price range, especially in Noe Valley, my target neighborhood. Meanwhile, during my stay at the hotel, I encountered my first roadblock to urban living in the form of bed bugs. This experience highlighted another naïve moment; I didn't even know what bed bugs were. I've heard the saying, "Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite," but I never thought deeply about the phrase or the reality of living with bed bugs!
Two weeks into my stay, I started getting mysterious itchy welts all over my body. I mentioned it to Nelson, and he immediately suspected that there might be bed bugs at my hotel. He told me to look at the mattress and search for clusters of black spots. The dark remnants come from feces left behind by the pests. That evening, I uncovered the sheets from my bed and was disgusted by the significant tell-tale black marks. Simply put, it was a nightmare to learn that I'd been sleeping alongside a colony of parasites ravishing my body for their nightly meal. I think the squalor of my living conditions hit me that night, and I was overwhelmed with shame. That night I broke down. What was I doing? Did I make a mistake? Was I crazy to leave the opportunity to go to medical school and instead come to San Francisco to work in a warehouse and sleep with bed bugs?
After a few minutes, I called Nelson to tell him what I'd discovered. In a kind voice, he suggested that I check out of the hotel and stay with them until I could find an apartment. I was speechless. Nelson didn't know me well, and I'd already turned down their offer to live together. I had formed judgments about who they were and the type of people I needed to be around to succeed in San Francisco, and with a simple act of kindness, they managed to wash all that judgment away. It was a lesson in humility. They owed me nothing and were generous enough to let me stay with them. I quickly accepted his offer, packed my things, and waited for them to pick me up outside.
