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As I get out of my car, I hear two male voices shouting “Hey white girl!” It sounds good-natured, rather than sinister, so I get my stuff out, get my camera ready, then take off—I want to explore a little bit in here. It must be safe in the broad daylight, I tell myself.

Actually, for me this may be true, I’m sort of safe—but for the youth here, daylight does not bring with it any special reprieve from danger. Walking around inside Alice Griffith (Double-Rock) with a camera feels really risky. it’s just the feeling that everyone here knows everyone else—it’s a small community. Everyone who sees me knows I am not a member of it. As I explore and snap images of the overflowing trash and the kids riding bikes and playing in the street
(in a nice way, the street looks pretty safe—no kids will be hit by cars here, their potential perils are much more complex than that), one man calls over and asks me what I’m doing. He looks curious—I go over to chat with him. Sometimes people here assume I’m a cop.

I go and introduce myself to the guy, his name is Alapati Sagote Jr., and he’s really friendly. We talk about living in the projects. Mr. Sagote has been here for about ten years, though when I ask how long he has been here he answers “not long.” I tell him that I am trying to show people what it is like to live there—I want to show that regular people live here. Most of the people I see around here are doing regular Sunday stuff like grilling on their postage-stamp-sized Charlie Brown front lawns with tiny charcoal Hibachis or sitting in the sun on folding chairs—lots of guys working on their cars outside their homes and little children roller-skating around.

A group of people stands outside one unit in the shade talking. I take a photo of them from a distance and I hear one woman say “is that @$&^* bitch taking our picture?” I am pretty far away, but I turn around and approach the group. This could be an opportunity to meet some people. I show them the pictures and assure them that their faces can’t be seen. Their bristles settle a bit. We introduce ourselves. One man asks to see my badge. I laugh and shrug. Then they ask me sarcastically if I am from the Chronicle. I laugh again, say “no, I’m a freelance journalist.”

There are five of us standing under the trees. There are two men and two women, and they all say that this would not be a bad place to live if the powers that be would fix it up a little bit. Repairs are rare, and the grounds are not kept up well, they say. One woman, who looks pregnant says, “It isn’t the place, it’s the people in the place. Theses buildings aren’t the cause of any crime, just some of the people who live here.” This is the same thing I have heard each time I ask someone what it’s like living here. The buildings are shoddy. No repairs ever get done, and there are no playgrounds for the children. (Bayview has the largest population of kids in San Francisco, but only one pediatrician and Double Rock only has one playground and that’s for the Church near the opportunity center—the pregnant woman says it isn’t open to the general public. The playground half a block away was burned to the ground by vandals and never replaced. I guess that’s why the children here are all playing on the sidewalks and in the streets. They look like they are having fun, though. There is a basketball court near the community garden, but so far, I have never seen anyone using it.

I was waiting to meet someone on Cameron way for an interview last week, and I noticed a van pulling up with suited city employees getting out of it. They were touring units before and after renovation. Apparently they are fixing some of the units up, but most people I talk to say that improvements tend to happen right before the mayor is due for some photo-op visit, and that the Housing Authority is unresponsive to complaints about the conditions there.