by Selim Richards

I am from the middle of a steep, quiet street, just where the flat part of the hill begins. The hill looks straight into the dazzling city lights of downtown San Francisco, with the night sky crisscrossed by telephone wires. 

I am from the house that is hazel-green, the color of my eyes, the house with the old door and a new sidewalk. 

I am from the whoosh of bikers passing, the tic-tic-tic hammers of neighboring construction, and the scraping noise of roller skaters and skateboarders in the street. 

I am from our avocado tree that died, but rebirthed as a whole different type of tree. 

I am from our old neighbors, and their big dark tree that drops seeds with yellow, shiny, seedy insides that fasten themselves to your shoes. You can find them jammed in the overgrown cracks of the sidewalk, or in the soles of your shoes, sticking to the floor and then making their way all over the house via the feet of the household. I am from the dog-walkers chatting and the wind blowing. 

I am from my hill, Potrero Hill.

I am from the dreams of having no kids and owning so many houses, with stunning views, in all the corners of the world. Dreams of being the “dadala” (the cool uncle) to my little brother’s kids. 

I am from the dreams of massive collections of art and all sorts of clothes. I am from daydreaming of a closet so big that I can walk around in it.

I am from looking through the RocheBobois store at all the overpriced but artful furniture. I am from looking through countless design magazines, spending hours on Sunday mornings. Elle. Vogue. NYTimes Style. Harper’s Bazaar. 

I am from these dreams.

I am from watching my döner (the original gyros) be carved off of the huge piece of lamb, layered around a rod, rotating above charcoals. Watching the long, scary, knife cut through the meat, the juices dripping onto the flames, making the fire pick up. 

I am from the strange, sticky, ice cream, served on a plate, that’s eaten with a fork, after dark, under the Ramadan lights on the Mosque.

I am from almost falling off of the couch, watching Turkish MTV on the small TV, seeing the lights on the beach finally light up, the throbbing bass beat slightly shaking our house.

Baklava, in perfect arrangements in a gold box. When you pick up the baklava, the crispy flaky layers on top separate from the syrupy and soft nutty layer, loaded with walnuts or almonds, sticking to your hands in a satisfying, perfect way. Havuç Baklava (“Carrot”), and Saragli Baklava (Rolled), both the same ingredients but different shapes, or the shredded Baklava dough on the Tel Kadayıf, or the cheese of the Künefe hidden under a golden, syrupy top. 

I am from the strange and sticky flat scoops of ice cream, in the Gumuşluk sunset.

I am from my Turkish-Pilipina-Chinese-American immigrant heritage.

I am from fogged up plastic to-go boxes, filled with neatly arranged sushi of all smells, textures, and sizes. I am from pickled ginger that I snack on shining and the imposing but delicate squirt of wasabi that I have never eaten; but I always looked at it in curiosity’s. I am from the snap of the chopsticks and the light cracking noise when they are separated. I am from these special sushi dinners on Fridays.

I am from these family traditions.

I am from the flat hill, on the east side of San Francisco, that watches over the bay at night.

This is where I am from.