by Isa Hopkins.
I grew up in Cleveland. Yeah, Cleveland. I know, hailing from a
less-than-premiere address leaves me open to a
certain amount of disdain from urban elitists. Being from the city that is
widely regarded as the “Mistake on the Lake” is urbanism’s equivalent
to being the fat kid in gym class, and it can leave one just as scarred as too
many dodgeball hits to the face.
I
don’t live in Cleveland anymore, but I didn’t leave because I wanted to be one
of the cool kids. I was stricken with the burning need to explore, to go new
places, and stake a claim for myself. And the more I
travel, the more I find myself drawn back to my Rust Belt roots—not
Cleveland per se, but some semblance of it elsewhere in the world.
When
I graduated from Georgetown in 2005, social momentum seemed to offer two
choices: Stay in Washington, D.C., or be a rebel and move to San Francisco. I chose
San Francisco. It was—it is—architecturally beautiful and politically
liberal; the weather was good and the vibe was exciting. It was expensive as
hell, too—it would be a real challenge on my meager Americorps living
allowance—but I figured that I’d get one of those fancy high-paying careers
that all San Franciscans seemed to have, then settle
in, build a family, and grow old.
It
wasn’t long after I arrived, however, that I began to feel unnecessary. San
Francisco is exciting, sure, but it’s because the city—like New York, or L.A.,
or other urban brands—churns along on its own rhythms, driven by the labors
and commitment of the hundreds of thousands of people who have already established
themselves. It seemed like every niche was filled,
and usually by someone both richer and cooler than me. I moved around for a few
years, bouncing between different addresses in the Bay Area, heading down to Southern California for a spell, and even revisiting Cleveland, a fancy
high-paying career slipping further and further from reach as the worldwide
economy imploded.
And
then, in early 2009, I discovered a little patch of
Cleveland in California, just across the Bay Bridge from San Francisco:
Oakland. Like my hometown, Oakland is ridiculed
by those from posher zip codes and written off by most outsiders (and even some
insiders). I came to Oakland for a non-fancy, low-paying job that I loved and
found my own version of paradise, replete with affordable rents and restaurants
without four-hour waits for a seat. It was just the kind of place where an
urban-minded, broke-ass, fashion victim like myself could feel at home: Wearing
sweatpants to the grocery store was socially acceptable, and I didn’t need an
impressive job title or great condo to fit in.
Like
Cleveland or any other down-and-out city across the country, Oakland is a
fixer-upper kind of town, thirsty for young people, where elbow grease and
commitment to place matter more than the state of one’s bank account. Since
moving here, I’ve found the purpose I was lacking when I lived across the bay,
and I’m gratified that my work has a real impact in the community.
Earlier
this year, a friend and I co-founded Femikaze, a feminist sketch comedy troupe.
(And if you don’t believe that “feminist” and “comedy” are
natural allies, you should come to one of our shows!) We had our first
independent production in October, a full-length show here in the East Bay that
sold out three of our four nights. We’ve already scheduled three more shows for
next year.
It’s
the kind of thing that would have been exponentially more difficult in San
Francisco, where any given Friday night offers thousands of entertainment
options, including dozens of comedy shows. We’re only a few miles away from the
frenzy here in Oakland, but it’s quiet enough that we don’t have to shout to get
anybody’s attention. There’s room for two determined women, with no patron and
no budget, to start something.
Many San
Franciscans find my decision to quit the hip side of the bay befuddling. “There’s
nothing there,” they say of Oakland. They’re not entirely wrong, either. There
really IS less (although far from nothing) in places like Oakland and Cleveland—or Pittsburgh, or St. Louis, or Knoxville, or dozens of other underrated,
underpriced, overlooked cities—than can be found in thriving urban centers
like San Francisco, New York, or Boston. But that’s just their charm.
“Less”
might be boring to some, but to those of us who strive to create and produce
and make a difference, “less” also means fewer resources are required
to start something new, and less competition comes from established entities. As
someone perpetually short on cash but long on idealistic ambition, I’ve found more opportunity in a second-tier city like Oakland than I ever knew in San
Francisco. And although some people out there like to use my address as the
butt of a joke, I’ve found it to be a rich, fertile place to build a life on my
own terms.
To
recent or upcoming college graduates, I offer my own bit of meager
counter-wisdom: Forget about Washington, D.C., San Francisco, New York, Chicago, and L.A. Look for a city that will value your presence
and appreciate your efforts, a city that doesn’t think you’re disposable just
because you’re young. It’ll be easier on both your wallet and your soul.
Sure,
you might catch some flack for moving to a place where “there’s nothing
there,” but take it from me—I came from the Mistake on the Lake, and to
my mind, “there’s nothing there” is just another way of saying
“there’s nothing in my way.”
Related Links:
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Dr. Dirt: Street artist scrubs images into the urban landscape
Perception vs. reality in ‘bike-friendly’ San Francisco
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Pacific Gas and Electric Company/San Francisco, CA
Sustainable Life Media/San Francisco, CA
California Housing Partnership/San Francisco, CA
California Public Utilities Commission/San Francisco, CA