Marisa Lin
I.
There is an RV parked on Sinclair Drive, where the road curves in front of a vacant youth center and a middle school, where the sky seems to swoop its blue, swirling wing over the distant foothills. The vehicle, stationed beneath the leafy ropes of a eucalyptus tree, is at once both peculiar and unassuming, with its jutting forehead, densely packed belongings, the metal head of a Texas long-horn hanging from the front grate. And around it the undisturbed aura of a slumbering, ancient beast. On my afternoon walks during the pandemic, taken when the walls of the house began to feel particularly oppressive, I would pace leftwards from my residence, past the blind corner, down the sunny, quiet road. On one side lined one-story duplexes of varying conditions, and on the other, dead grass bowing at the base of chain links fencing off properties of the Alum Rock Union School District. The merciless sun sending its heat upon car hoods and the dusty sidewalk would lend the street a desiccated, almost desolate, air. Making my way down the avenue with my sunglasses, I would imagine myself trekking upon the surface of a moon-like planet, a toxic brown tint in the air, the atmosphere too thin to keep out the star’s harmful rays. Then I would spot it: the monolith, a solitary ship moored along the lip of a crater, its bulky frame as still as a boulder contemplating the lunar plain.
II.
On my first tour of the neighborhood, my Servant Partners staff remarked how curious it was that extreme wealth and extreme deprivation seemed to coexist in the same places, like polar twins. San José, California embodies this paradox. As the tenth largest city in America and the so-called Capital of Silicon Valley, San José has one of the highest costs of living in the nation. The median cost of a home is now over $1 million; average monthly rent, more than $2,400. The plan for a new Google campus downtown has prodded the construction of glossy, market-rate apartment buildings offering homes to the white-collar populace. Exhibit 1: Miro Apartments, located across from my workplace at City Hall. Miro’s website markets the complex as “A High-Rise Urban Retreat,” offering “Vibrant, Contemporary Living” for those wishing to “Live Beyond [Their] Expectations.” The lowest priced floor plan, a one-bath studio, goes for $2,650 a month. Months before the pandemic, I watched the cranes from the fourteenth floor of my office, observing their orange beaks rotating like hour hands on a clockface, slow and meaningful. Then one day, after work, as I made my way toward the bus stop, I spotted a man pushing a cart, his hair outgrown and mussed, his clothes unkempt. I thought about Miro and dimly wondered what miracles would need to happen, for him to live beyond his expectations.
III.
It was the urine. Passing the RV was like suddenly entering a cloud, an enshrouding, piercing scent hovering over the nearby sidewalk squares, a visceral indication that this recreational vehicle wasn’t like my old neighbor’s—a dusty, underused mammoth hibernating in her family’s garage, rousing occasionally for a few weeks during the Minnesota summers. My time interning in San Francisco and now living in San Jose had trained me in the association between the odor of human waste and homelessness. In these downtowns, the effluvium was practically ubiquitous, in spite of (or because of) the affluence and corporate luxury. How significant, I mused, was the idea that what humans expel daily can be one of the most distinct signs of our presence, and that even in the shade of our most magnificent physical and economic architectures, we are nevertheless confronted by the discharged scents of those whom our society discards. How humbling it is to be reminded that at ground level, we walk the same earth. And that even those in the most downtrodden of circumstances, though they seem to occupy separate worlds, can nevertheless leave their signatures in the air, pungent testimonies to a common humanity.
IV.
The RV was no less a natural part of the neighborhood than the graffiti adorning the overpass and the mariachi melodies blasting from backyard festivities and car radios. Such sights were not uncommon in east San Jose; if one were to stroll along San Antonio Street, one would encounter a gaggle of live-in vehicles parked on the bridge over a tepid Thompson creek, which would merge into Coyote Creek, another waterway known for squatters. Biking down San Antonio, I often maneuvered around individuals lounging in the bike lane, tending their own business, with plants and chairs decked out in makeshift front yards. These inhabitants were markedly more sociable compared to that of the one parked on Sinclair. Rarely would I observe the green plastic chair set outside the front door of the mysterious RV. Indeed once, and only once, when walking on the other side of the street, did I glimpse in passing the figure of whom I assumed to be the owner—a tan, bare back of a body stooping downwards.
V.
I doubt I will ever meet him. I doubt we will ever speak. I do not know if either of us want to. Perhaps the elusive RV dweller will forever remain to me an itinerant neighbor, a renegade wanderer, a spaceship captain. And perhaps I, if I am anything to him, will remain an anonymous neighbor, a lone tourist, a woman afraid of the sun. This is where I declare that it is a privilege to wonder—to live at a distance, to observe quietly and render the world with a sympathetic and assessing eye. To roam the streets and gather images as easily as I run my hand through my hair and produce a strand or two weaved between my fingers. What do my thoughts say about this world? Or more importantly: Which world produced these thoughts? For San Jose, City of Inequality, contains an array of realities: a valley of wealth, a technological garden, a collection of shadows in which to pin one’s tent. As I walk down Sinclair, I wonder which world am I walking in—historical neighborhood, tattered avenue, or imagined planet? And what of the RV dweller’s world? What would he say to this? What protest or affirmation sits in his being? For now, the stars turn, waiting for his response. And as for me, I can only speak of the contrived worlds that make it bearable to inhabit these contradictions and disparities. Speak to how the occasional bodily aroma yanks me awake for an instant, before my mind plunges back into a dream-like stupor. Speak to how when I am awake, I see. I see as much as my privilege allows me to see, and then I wonder.
king of the sidewalk square
no one
knows
the city
better
than he
the city
knows
no better
Marisa is a former Servant Partners intern in San Jose, California.