The Woman on Mission
Mission St.
San Francisco, California
Rain falls in light curtains, appearing and disappearing, leaving little evidence behind, save for the dampness on my skin and the puddles on the pavement.
Colors.
The glowing, gaudy neon lights; the bright flesh of exotic produce displayed in beautiful disarray; the turquoise green sweater that peers at me through the window of a thrift store.
Sounds.
The muffle of rain; the tires on wet roads; a calm cacophony of phone calls and heckling and haggling.
Tastes.
Slightly acrid; cigarette smoke, with the light airy promise of a sweetness unfulfilled – perhaps the whisper of a boba shop?
The scene is filled with sensations. It bubbles and bustles, but comfortably so; it leans on the assurance of normalcy.
A figure in a rose-colored duster coat steps out of a modern coffee-shop-meets-laundromat at the corner of Mission St. and 20th. Carrying an umbrella in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, the figure makes its way across the crosswalk, towards me and pauses in front of a bookstore display. Her face, framed by an unexpected shock of brown wiry curls, comes into view as she tilts her head. Skin. Lightly freckled, smooth but imperfect. Eyes. Piercing, intrigued, intelligent. They flit from side to side, observing, wondering, questioning.
After a few minutes, she continues walking but pauses at a neighboring boutique. She glances at the pale, faceless mannequin that stares stiffly back at her through a glass pane, as if sizing it up. She shakes her head nearly imperceptibly, yet somehow definitively.
A display of harsh white racks filled with artfully and precisely crafted gowns and blouses sits past the mannequin – clothing for the working woman, the woman across the bar, the lover, the independent spirit. It all hangs with wistful beauty, longing for animation. She could set them free from their tagged and barcoded confines, from their status as long, laborious numbers in a catalog, but she won’t. Not today at any rate.
For a brief moment, her eyes fixate on her own lavender-tinted reflection in the window and she frowns – her hand immediately reaching to fix the dancing strands of hair framing her face. No, even she isn’t immune to frizzy hair or the burdens of perfection, but they do not plague her. They merely annoy her in their insignificance, like a fly on her rose-hued sleeve. We are two women on Mission St. Both unpleasantly damp, far from perfect, and finding our paths in a world that at times cherishes us, frustrates us and overwhelms us, but never, never conquers us.
The crowd of pedestrians molds and shifts. I lose sight of her momentarily, only to spot her again in fleeting windows as she continues down Mission St. A dusty pink lapel and two graceful coattails mark her progress – purposeful yet unhurried. She moves with familiarity and confidence around the chaos of vendors and teenagers and rushing cars, carrying a nonplussed, assertive identity. I wonder to myself how she manages to stand out yet blend in effortlessly with the shifting, evolving, undefined harmonious chaos of hipster cafes and Indian-Mexican fusion and scandalous thrift shops and Asian grocers. Here, on Mission, a street where everything one could imagine exists (a coffee-shop-meets laundromat!). Here, she is somehow wholly individual.
I do not know her story, but I know that she commands attention with her gently piercing gaze shaped by blessings, injustices, and trials that are unique to her yet somehow shared by all women.
Including me, a wide-eyed college student with (often) questionable judgement.
She stands at the street corner two blocks away. Just before turning out of sight, she swivels around. Through hazy grey pleats of water, I can imagine that she sees me, standing in front of a storefront offering durian fruit at half price. When she walks away, I realize that I will never see her again, yet the image of her will always remain with me.
Modern womanhood: dynamic, imperfect, and worthy.
By Annie Lu
Duke Student, undercover hipster and baby freshman feminist forever.