keeping yama on the 19 polk

tonight after yoga, i hopped on the 19 polk against my better judgement, whereas i should have instead opted for the 10, which drops me off right in north beach.

never, ever again.

my ride on the 19 was hellish...a bunch of loud-ass teenagers from the projects in hunter's point were on there, shouting, hooting, cussing, just being extremely ghet-to. there was a young mother with her 3 kids across from me, and we exchanged uncomfortable and irritated glances when the teens in the back said anything particularly filthy in front of her children.

one of the guys decided he wanted some trouble, and apparently i looked like an easy target. why, i don't know, seeing as i'm 6'2" tall, but who knows what was going through his warped little mind. he got up, and as he walked past me, said, "what are you lookin at BITCH?"

i looked up and stared back, never once breaking eye contact. "who do you think you're talking to?" i replied in a calm, steady voice.


at this point, his 9 friends surrounded me, and i knew the possibility of me being beaten to a bloody pulp, a-la-19 polk style, was very real. but for some reason, the zenlike state yoga left me in this evening kept me calm, collected, and extremely focused. the kid started getting even more ghetto with me, but i never broke eye contact. we rode like this for blocks, he calling me names while i remained silent, staring back with a steely expression on my face, never breaking eye contact, never blinking.

finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he looked away and stared at his shoes. shuffling away down the aisle, he started calling me all sorts of obscene stuff, friends in tow, but still not having the courage to actually hit me or at least start something.

they got off at market street and started walking towards 6th street. i followed them out the rear door and went down the urine-soaked stairs into the civic center metro station.

thank GOD, i thought.

mama tired.



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