Dear San Francisco,

I know you best.  We are thirty years and zero years apart simultaneously. 

You are stolen Ohlone land and I’m sorry that I didn’t know this until I was 19. 

You are where my parents met on Silver and Cambridge, at the immigrant church that overlooks 280. 

Where my grandmother took culinary classes at City College of San Francisco.

You are memories of riding the 38 with high school friends to share fries at Burger King on Powell after school. Where I breathe salty Pacific ocean air, where my boba addiction began and will probably end, where I laugh and where I cry. 

You are where I struggle to speak my broken Cantonese.

You are home to many immigrants and refugees, a place to build a new life. 

You are messy, conflicted, and beautiful. 

Where wealth and poverty intersect. Where stark inequality baffles me. Where one of the largest economies in the world, still struggles to make housing, food, and healthcare a human right. 

You are where I discovered Jesus and where I struggle to keep believing in Him. Where I try to intersect faith and justice/healing work and serve grassroots communities. You are where people showed me that another world is possible. 

I’ve learned a lot about you but I need to learn more. 

I still don’t know the story of my first relative who came by Angel Island. I promise to learn more, to never stop, and devote myself to building a world where people live in their full dignity right here, right now.  

You are home and refuge to resilient people, families, and communities. You are my home. 

Love,

Hannah