“She was known as Princess Leia, because she often wore her long hair in two buns on the sides of her head, sometimes held together with syringes.”

A quote from an article by Heather Knight.                    SF Chronicle, 12/08/2020

A few weeks ago, I sat on the front steps of my house, in Daly City. The sun was up and it felt great to bask in it.

We live right across the street from San Francisco. Many still call this neighborhood “Manila Town.” It is an old and false stereotype. It is not funny, because it is not quite true.

Although many Filipinos (or Pilipinos, as some insist to be called, alleging that “We are not descendants of King Felipe!”) live in our Lincoln Park area, the “barrio” also houses many Latinos, Chinese and even a few African American, plus some white Euro Americans. A very diverse working-class population share the space. I like that very much.

I had just picked the newspaper from our steps and I was reading a sobering story about a young White woman who had died of an overdose in the Castro district of San Francisco. The “Princess Leia” from the quote that heads this article.

The story was an oft-repeated one. She came from “somewhere-else USA,” perhaps feeling the overrated lure of San Francisco. Or perhaps running away from herself.

San Francisco did not receive her well. In fact, it failed to protect her and her dreams.

The Castro district, located very close to the Mission “barrios,” although it is known for housing a relatively thriving LGBTQ population, it also has its share of destitution and despair.

The Castro is not alone. Mental health issues and drug addictions affect many of the inhabitants in The City by the Bay.

The life of the young woman seemed to have been complicated with untreated mental health issues.

She died on the cold pavement of a Castro street. Of an overdose. She was 28 years old.

The mere fact of living in the U.S. in a time of great pandemic confusion and obscenely unleashed greed, makes the pursuit of happiness that all of us are (supposedly) constitutionally entitled to, increasingly difficult.

Adding drug addiction, untreated mental health issues and homelessness to the mix can be fatal.

Illustration: Cruz

To read about the death of that woman was a sad example of the above…as sad as the loud sobbing that I suddenly heard coming around the corner. 

“Oh, no!” I thought. “Maybe it’s our local ‘loquito.’” With that, I got up and went back into our house, closing the front gate.

It was him. I know that to call him “loco” or “loquito” is not as politically correct as calling him “a person suffering from untreated mental health issues.” But “loquito,” albeit a euphemism, seemed to fit the case. It is a term of endearment.

The term describes a shared understanding in our neighborhood: that young man who stands in the park yelling loud threats to nobody in particular, was not a threat to others. A bit scary perhaps, but not enough to involve the police or some other form of authority.

I know that to call him “loco” or “loquito” is not as politically correct as calling him “a person suffering from untreated mental health issues.” But “loquito,” albeit a euphemism, seemed to fit the case. It is a term of endearment.

Carlos Barón

Maybe the ethnic make-up and the working-class characteristics of the neighborhood protected that young man? After all, he was “one of us.” Only more afflicted by pressures that we all shared. But it would be better if he could get treatment. Benign neglect is not the answer.

At least he still lives, he still screams. Maybe he screams for many among us?

Two days ago, I read news from my native country, Chile. In the southern Chilean city of Panguipulli, a young man had been shot dead by the local police.

His name was Francisco Andrés Martínez Romero. He was 24 years old. A street artist. A juggler of fake swords. Suffering from schizophrenia.

As I usually do in this column, as I try to bridge generations and countries, my heart and my attention flew back to Chile.

Why was that juggler killed?

“Pancho was a quiet guy. He kept to himself.” “He was not a threat. He had good relations with the neighbors.” “I even built him a little house on my backyard, so that he could sleep there…but he’d rather stay outside, on the beach. He had issues, yes. At night, he used to walk around here, talking to himself.” 

Statements from people who knew him. Because he was well-known. He had moved from a modest neighborhood in Santiago, the capital, to this place in the south, that seemed to have accepted him.

The police also knew him. But could not accept him. They had orders to harass him and people like him. To get them off the streets. To protect tourism.

When the five policemen who cornered him and demanded—yet again—that he show his identification, Pancho reacted in fear, his fake juggling swords swung wildly, as wild as his eyes, as wild as his heart was racing. So, they killed him.

Whether it is untreated mental health issues, or drug addiction, or poverty, or a combination of all, the U.S. and Chilean authorities cannot pretend that those problems do not exist.

In an extremely militarized society, such as Chile is today, the answer will be harsher. But the end results might be the same. Death.

Let us support the “Princess Leias” and our local “loquitos””and “loquitas.” Support your “Loco” artists. Street and otherwise.

Support life.