Oakland

by Xochitl M. Perales


Victorian Houses
Rows and rows of two-story Victorian houses. In the poorer neighborhoods, chipped paint coats the exteriors in weathered flakes. Each home stands out, one from the other, in varying soft shades of color – white tones being the most prominent. The trims are what make them somewhat unique – that and their interior décor.

In the nicer neighborhoods, like Rockridge or Piedmont, the architecture is much more versatile, and the paint is solid, not flaked. There are no heaps of trash littering the sidewalks, no smells of urine and cigarettes, no bums passed out on the curb. Shop windows are not covered in layers of dirt. People smile more.

Still, I prefer the two-story Victorian houses in the poorer areas. East Oakland has nice ones, but the ones in West Oakland are even better. Whenever I drive by a line of them, I imagine having a partner who excels in carpentry and plumbing and all those other construction-type things that always come in handy. I picture myself in old, scrappy clothing, an Oakland A’s baseball cap covering my head, a paint roller in whichever hand is currently not strained, spreading paint all over my beautiful fixer-upper two-story Victorian home. Only I would choose loud, vivacious colors to brighten up the neighborhood. To chase away all of the violence and crime.

Claremont DMV
I have stopped going to the Claremont DMV. I finally got tired of the sassy attitudes given by what I am assuming are overworked and underpaid clerks.

The second to the last time that I went there, I was trying to help my dad get his out-of-state car registered for California. First, though, we had to go through the vehicle inspection.

A DMV worker motioned for me to pull my father’s car into the middle drive thru area. I pointed at it just to be sure, a question mark on my brow. She nodded impatiently, but as I pulled up, she yelled at me to move into the next drive thru, the one on the left.

“But you said to move into the other one,” I told her as I rolled into the currently indicated area.

“No I didn’t. I said this one,” she insisted.

“It looked like you were pointing to the other drive thru.”

“No, I made it perfectly clear. I pointed right at this spot.”

I thought about dropping the issue, but when the security guard came over, claiming that he saw the whole thing, and that his co-worker had indeed pointed to the drive thru we were now in, I couldn’t keep quiet. “That’s your point-of-view. But my father and my son here thought she was pointing to the other one, just like me.”

The tit-for-tat commentary continued for a little while longer, but the DMV staff had the last word. My father’s car did not pass inspection that day.

The very last time I went to the Claremont DMV, I had just lost my disabled placard for my car. I figured that while I was there, I would handle other business.

As I handed over the disabled placard replacement form, I informed the clerk, “I moved a while back, but forgot to fill out a change-of-address form. Since I’m already turning in this form for a new disabled placard, do I still need to do the change-of-address form?”

“I don’t know. That’s up to you,” she replied. When I looked at her in question, she continued, “Where do you want your mail sent? To your old address, or to your new one?”

My feathers were ruffled, and I responded, “I’d like it sent to where I actually live.”

“Then yes, you need to fill out a change-of-address form.”

“What I meant, “ I clarified, “is do I need to fill out a separate change-of-address form, or is it enough that I have my new address on the disabled placard replacement form?”

“No, you still need to fill out the change-of-address form.”

Thank you, biatch, I thought to myself.

I now go to the DMV on Hegenberger Road, out by the Oakland Airport. Over there, they treat people a little bit nicer (at least by Oakland standards) – especially if they qualify for disabled placards.

The Hustle
I love walking near one of the downtown Oakland BART/subway stops, or any grocery store, or sometimes just sitting on a friend’s porch, and listening to the prefabricated tales of how my car ran out of gas, I need to get to Vallejo, and all I need is five dollars; or I’m trying to raise money for my school so that I can go on a field trip; or whatever lame and comical hustle can be used on the spot. I thought it was cute when an old boyfriend of mine was hopeful that the man hustling him for five dollars – so he could get to San Jose to be with his wife and kids – would actually mail his money back to him.

I sometimes give money to the kids selling candy bars, because at least I’m getting something worthwhile out of the exchange. After all, I have a weakness for milk chocolate, but only without nuts.

Lake Merritt
When I was in my early twenties, I used to power-walk a lap around Lake Merritt at least a couple of times a week. A man-made lake, a walk around its entire length equals roughly three-and-a-half miles. It is a nice lake to walk around, right near the heart of downtown Oakland on one side, and the Lakeshore district on the other.

Now it is a very rare treat when I find the time and the inclination to go. It is so much better to walk with a friend, because there is less chance of being harassed by men lurking around with the express purpose of staring at women’s asses. With a friend, it is easier to pretend you don’t notice. These days it is harder to find that friend, or at least one with the same schedule as me on any given day. So instead I choose to avoid the Lake more often than not.

An ex-boyfriend and I once watched a music video in which Oakland native rapper Too Short was riding around in a yacht. My ex-boyfriend joked that Too Short was in fact sailing around Lake Merritt. I laughed so hard I almost peed in my pants.

I went walking around the Lake with a friend not too long ago. The putrid scents that greeted me near the bird estuary were a familiar experience. My friend and I exclaimed over the size of the bird feces, much of it like a medium-sized dog’s. We tried to guess which birds had managed to leave behind the largest droppings.

My friend and I laughed at one group of birds that were squawking and motioning loudly, and at another small cluster resembling tiny penguins and standing solemnly as if to say, matter-of-factly, “Wassup?”

In Oakland, even the birds have attitude.