Photograph by Matthew Lickona

Cortez Hill is home to many churches, banks, and restaurants. The high rise condos are mixed in with Victorian homes and row-style townhouses, and you get a community feel.

Cortez Hill is tucked away east of Little Italy and south of Balboa Park. Interstate 5 is its northern boundary and Front Street to the South. It’s named after the El Cortez building, which is named after the famous Spanish explorer. It was built in 1927 on the former site of Ulysses S. Grant Jr.’s home, 175 feet above sea level The El Cortez sign could be seen from many miles out to sea. It was a San Diego landmark. The building added an exterior glass elevator in 1950. It was San Diego’s tallest building for many years, and was visited by presidents and other celebrities. The swimming pool is shaped like a whale. Later, it fell on hard times, and was converted to condominiums. Today, it houses modern apartments in one of the city’s oldest neighborhoods.

Photograph by Matthew Lickona

Cortez Hill is home to churches, banks, and restaurants. The high-rise condos are mixed in with Victorian homes and row-style townhouses. You get a community feel; it doesn’t have the concentration of commercial space found in other neighborhoods. It’s also home to the Gary and Mary West Senior Wellness Center, located in a former car dealership at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Beech, up the road from the trolley station at Fifth and C and down the road from Balboa Park. That’s the place where I hang out, eat two meals, and interact with the diverse people who gather there.

The center is a welcoming place that supplies people over 60 with game rooms, a cyber cafe, and a TV room that shows news, films, and football on Sundays. A dental clinic is upstairs, as are case managers for housing, health, and Social Security issues. But the best things about the center are its members. Mostly, they are people with low incomes, consisting of veterans, the disabled, and the retired. I’ve met retired teachers, restaurant owners, and guys who served 10 years in prison.

You see many members at the free feeds at the First Lutheran Church two blocks away on Third Avenue and at St. Paul’s Episcopal on Sixth. Men outnumber the women by about 20 to one; they live in the SRO apartments nearby. A few homeless sleep outside and use it as a base. But the center has strict rules: no shopping carts and no sleeping inside. People with wheelchairs get priority in lines, and dogs must be legitimate service animals. Anyone breaking rules will be banned. What I don’t like are the complainers — as they say, beggars can’t be choosers.

The Chinese are well represented, but have limited English skills and mostly stick to themselves. Spanish is spoken by the Mexican-Americans. Quite a few African-Americans volunteer in the cafeteria, as well as young students and good-hearted people with New York and Southern accents.

Lots of activities are available: exercise classes, trivia contests, and cooking demos. Bone building, a singing group, and bingo. They supply bus passes to the needy for doctor’s appointments and help with people’s smartphone problems. They present speakers from the city council who answer questions about pot holes, safety, and the cleanliness of the sidewalks. The location is perfect for walking, as you can go up to Balboa Park, down to the trolley, across to Little Italy. Tweet Street Park, built for people and birds, is a new addition nearby, great for a stroll.

I came to San Diego after teaching ESL in Thailand for 25 years. When Covid came, the country shut down, and I couldn’t work and drained my savings. Having little money and knowing a few people, I had to establish an identity. I set about getting an ID, applied for Medi-Cal coverage, opened a bank account and got an EBT card. I stayed at a hostel that accepted locals with a 619 phone number. The place was filthy, full of bed bugs. The other residents were in rehab or recently released from prison The worst part was the manager, who was a bully who insulted me, called me “old man,” and could care less about being friendly. The online reviews were horrible, one saying he needed a personality transplant. He is the worst person I ever dealt with. To call the place toxic would be understating it.

Cathedral Tower for low-income people: “You cannot beat it.”

Photograph by Matthew Lickona

Then I found the Senior Center and my life changed. A case worker got me a room downtown. The center gave me a sense of belonging and I felt happy. I ate breakfast and lunch there every day and made some friends. I see a lot of old timers who are socially isolated and part of the epidemic of loneliness. The center does a wonderful job of rehabilitating some of them. This place in Cortez Hill is one for which I’ll be forever grateful.

— Ed Ross

I have lived in Cathedral Plaza next door to St. Joseph’s Cathedral at Third and Beech since October of 2019. You cannot beat it. We like to pretend we are all holy. From 1887 to 1936, there was a Catholic school and a convent at the corner of Third and Beech. (I’ve seen old pictures in the church’s community area, men and women dressed up in old-time clothes. Children all around. Horses and buggies on dirt roads.) Then in 1964, it became a HUD residence. The Cathedral Tower was built for low-income people.

There was a building at Third and Beech related to the church for low-income women, women in need from all walks of life. It was called the Joan of Arc Residence. It has been there since 1934; now they are going to tear it down. The question is, was it really a place for peace and honor? I think it was a place for women that had deep-rooted problems. Now down the block on Third and Beech, the women are up there in age, 76 to 80 to 85 years old. (At the nearby Luther Tower, you have old timers with fancy clothes and fancy cars to the max. Some of the old timers wear tight clothes and mod hairdos.)

It is not doing too well on Third and Beech: things have been stolen, and security is poor. Up and down the hill is the story on Third and Beech. Hoping no one gets attacked going shopping or coming home. We have a problem here for sure. Because it has happened, and there are a lot of homeless, as they call it now, walking with nowhere to go. The little old ladies with their food bags and their decorated purses are afraid they will get things stolen from them. There a few naked people on the loose on Third and Beech. Sometimes, there is a peep show at the residence; it’s real bad, with pants dropped down to you know where — my heavens. Not to mention bad computer photos of bad stuff.

St. Joseph’s Catholic Church has a community function for coffee and donuts and other food. I think that is enjoyable. The people have always been nice there. Prices are good. There’s the Gary and Mary West Center, with good coffee and a TV room that people watch and enjoy. They have a place to do puzzles and sew and knit. They do not wear tight pants at the Gary and Mary West Center yet, or high heels. They wear wigs and dye the hair. Men tend to look nice and jazzy.

Still, it was hard to settle in this hood. The changes being made. Construction and the noise of the cars and trucks. The loud voices. Usually, the retirees like quiet. We have drag racing down Cedar Street in the middle of the night, which is exciting. Loud dogs and cats and the birds.

The homeless like to sleep around the church at Third and Beech. They feel safe there. They do not ask for money or food. There are a lot of fire trucks, emergency ambulances, and police only once in a while. You see some of the homeless sleep in the street and they set the trees on fire. No one cares about the fire or the people that start it. A person can call in from another area of the hood and get better results for help.

The renovations here sent a lot of seniors to the hospitals, and some to their family, or to rest homes. There are still a few old people left, though. They come out to visit whoever is in the lobby. They get lonely too, like most of us. During the Covid scare, the nearby law school was shut down, but people kept coming in to visit their loved one ones here, no matter what. “Wear your mask,” everyone says,

There are plenty of dogs in the hood; they are dressed up better than their owners. On some days, they get grumpy too, just like their owners. Humans are the worst at a certain age. The one animal I love is my best friend. She shakes hands and she is shy and cute and polite. The only friend I have. Some dogs are getting old with their owners, and some are well behaved. There are a few that a person needs to watch out for. They can knock a person over.

As it stands now, we are getting different types of people around the hood now. Hanging out at the Joan of Arc Residence area for women. But the place does not seem to chase then off. I do not understand that. We cannot afford to have any people hanging out where we live. The seniors have to take it into our own hands to feel safe anywhere. We have had people walk in the area with no bras on and very little clothing and expose themselves to the people around them. The homeless, or any other people, have rights, but rights are not to be abused — in or out of the building. For sure, there has been a lot of stuff going on.

That is why we have the church — for ones that care for the church or not. Living alone in the hood is a shaky thing. You must be prepared for what is coming at you. It is like taking care of the ones you love the most — if there ever is such a thing anymore. We are living in a changing world. We need to be ready for it: more people and more technology creations.

“This place in Cortez Hill is one for which I’ll be forever grateful.

Photograph by Matthew Lickona

In our new construction, we will be getting a new TV and newly furnished places. We all waited a long time. We can be proud of it, if there is such a thing. I am old; I forget what that means. But I am proud of myself, because I have done some good things in my life. With some old people, you do not know if they even care anymore. We are grown now; we need to face the music. What will be will be, or we will have to move to another place. We all have choices, but we can make a stand every day,

 The Cathedral Plaza is a nice place to live. Living in a community of different cultures is a way of life now. It is a place where a person has access to everything until they go to a home. We have to take care of ourselves within reason, inside of the light or outside of the light. Everyone lives on a bracket income at the Cathedral Plaza. There is room for everyone.

 The Joan of Arc had women that were older who moved to the Cathedral Plaza. Many reasons for sure — one of them was that they are going to close the place and put a new high-rise. Some of the women there had families. Some were single at the age of 65 to 75 or older. In that place, they did not let dogs in, or children. Strictly an old ladies’ home. No one knows too much about the place. Kinda haunting place for old women. Kinda creepy.

People here are ready to meet the day, rain or shine. They are all happy and ready for the new day. The church has the power of suggestion; there are a few humans that think they too are rising. The people walking by, they are going to work. Rise and shine, same old story.

— Susan Gonzalez

On a recent daily jaunt, I stepped out of my condo building on Sixth Avenue and was making my way across the I-5 overpass en route to Balboa Park when I was stopped by a woebegone looking guy in a worse-for-wear car. From his open driver-side door, his left leg stretched onto the curb as he mumbled an indiscernible request to me. It is not unusual to encounter some down-on-their-luck types on this overpass. Another day in paradise. So I slowed down and cautiously approached him. My instincts told me the guy was chill, just somewhat beaten and bemused, his botched and faded tattoos suggesting a life crowded with regrettable incidents and choices. He explained that that afternoon, he had to do a drug test for a job. But he had smoked weed the night before and it would surely show up in his urine test. Hence his request, as he handed me a mashed up Aquafina bottle, that I go find a place in the park to piss in the bottle and bring it back to him. There was $10 in it for me.

The head-scratching moment spun me for a loop. It was only as I made my way into the park — I’d followed my instinct to avoid having my DNA scattered so wantonly — that it all hit me: the audacity of the request, the paucity of the payment, his pathetic desperation. Unless a more adventurous pissing Samaritan helped him out, the guy was surely out of a job. I was reminded that so many people live on the fringe, and have to eke out a living by hook or by crook.

On that same overpass, I often encounter a homeless trans person who has set up camp on the patch of turf on the south side of the Sixth Avenue exit. Sometimes she is on the overpass, poaching power for her phone from a street lamp outlet. Sometimes, she paces the turf like a caged panther, hurling hieratic arm gestures that look like some kind of ill-choreographed liturgical dance, or maybe a mad defrocked preacher railing and ranting, indignant at the post-lapsarian world. Sometimes she punches the air with pugilistic vigor, kicks with off-kilter, mulish abandon. She is lithe and sinewy; her body honed and toned for survival.

Just a week ago, I observed from our apartment one of her craftier performances. A small phalanx of city authorities — neon green-vested workers, white-shirted city planners, blue-black-clad police officers — had arrived to clear out what was becoming a tent colony on this, her patch of earth. (Over the previous week, it had grown from one tent to three, but the trans person was the original resident.) The procedure of eviction, packing, and removal was underway. However, while the other dwellers packed up and started to leave, the trans person engaged in a kind of sleight of hand. She appeared to energetically expedite the process of packing and exiting the area. But even after the other residents were on their way out, she continued to shift things from point A to point B, folding, disassembling, hauling, stashing. But it was all merely a mesmeric act to give the impression she was leaving the area. The city authorities, seemingly convinced they had executed their eviction mandate, started departing one by one — the dumpster drivers, the officials, the police. Lo and behold, the trans person remained with her chattel on the site, and in less than five minutes, she had re-established camp under a different tree. This was street smarts at an advanced level of savvy and derring-do — the ability to coolly stand one’s ground in a confrontation with men of power.

I was talking to a friend who lives in the hubbub of hipsterfied North Park and volunteers in community and urban development efforts. I mentioned the ransackers who empty the garbage bins and leave scattered trash in their wake. How do you remedy a problem caused by people whose refuse is a testimony to their own sense of nothing left to lose? My North Park friend observed that these people likely feel so diminished, so vilified by the social gaze that they no longer care. To erase oneself from the grid, to expel oneself from the social contract, is a dangerous form of freedom. They have become inured to notices and evictions from city authorities and the scorn of passersby. They are aware that an official warning taped onto their tents means nothing. When the trucks come, they pack up and leave, or pack up and shift to another tree twenty yards away. And so ensues a defeatist game of whack-a-mole, as my roommate once called it.

My section of downtown San Diego exhibits a tense convergence of the old and the new: lingering sooty structures of the past and the shiny chrome of gentrification. Sometimes, on my walks down to the San Diego Central Library, I take the 10th Avenue route. On one such walk, I came upon a group of people huddled and milling about outside the Health and Human Services Agency. (A few blocks southwest of the place was the besieged Salvation Army. Such establishments are now outliers of the rapidly glossifying cityscape of downtown San Diego.)

One young woman in a hijab complained that she’d been waiting for two hours for her food card and loudly voiced her suspicion that the delay was possibly due to her Muslim name and appearance. Another middle-aged woman in a long white faux fur coat fussed at her little white terrier. Several men with apparent disabilities ambled on their wheeled walkers. A few haggard looking women blithely smoked, hacked and spat despite the sign on the wall which stated that no smoking was allowed within fifty feet of the building. The security men called out numbers, the line inched forward, the woman in hijab complained louder, gaunt people hacked. The rest of my walk to the Central Library was haunted by the image of these San Diegans who must struggle make do in this, the land of plenty.

These encounters with the city’s marginalized, however, are at times unexpectedly countered by bizarre levity. Freeway noise aside, I enjoy the enviable convenience of easy access to the southwestern entrance of Balboa Park. I frequently walk or jog across the I-5 overpass, bound up the steps and arrive at the flagpole. Just beyond the flagpole parking circle, there is a grassy slope where I sit and read. A white van is often parked nearby, and on several occasions, I have seen its driver — a white man in his late 60s, dressed in his skin-tight catsuit and high heels — slowly stepping out of the van. Tall, thin, gangly, he exits the van with a Pink Panther saunter and tests the air. He struts out, and does a few Salome slinks and Twyla twirls. At times, the dance becomes frantic and uncoordinated, and declines into animalistic humping. Then he darts back into the van. The performances are brief, mercurial, and paradoxical: this furtive exhibitionist must perform in the glaring theater of nature, but can only do so in impromptu, truncated bursts.

The Joan of Arc Residence was for women in need from all walks of life. Now they are going to tear it down

Photograph by Matthew Lickona

Further north of this site, on any given Sunday afternoon, a motley crew of mismatched drummers gathers for their weekly jam session. The vast variation of skill levels, genres and drum types always seems to take its toll. Usually, there are at least two proficient drummers who clearly have the rhythm down and valiantly try to lead. Their playing demonstrates exposure to a Brazilian samba school or Afro-Caribbean beats, and they play the djembe and the conga drums. The others – usually about eight to ten – pile on with their hobby drums, straining towards synchronicity. Syncopations and contrapuntals, which for any in sync-band would express seductive technique, here collide in mind-bending cacophony. Try as the lead drummers might, the rejoinder is invariably arhythmic. Still, the dogged effort is infectious, and everyone seems to trance out via this exhilarating convergence of energies. The drummers, all men, come with their girlfriends and wives, who flail and writhe in awkward dervishes under the eucalyptus tree as the session achingly reaches its crescendo.

My earliest memory of San Diego is from my childhood in Belize, the country of my birth. My mother had a friend in LA; once a year, she sent a care package which contained magical Americana: clothing and toys we had seen in Sears catalogs, and which had charged our febrile imaginations. In one such shipment was one of the most exotic things we had ever seen – a Viewmaster, accompanied by several rotary slides. Each tiny slide revealed an amazing world. One of them featured The San Diego Zoo. With each click of that lever, a splendid 3-D image appeared: a panoramic view of the zoo, the crusty hornbill, an orange tanager, a few cuddly koalas, the regal elephants. We could only marvel at this talismanic device that immersed us, for a few seconds, in this wondrous world a thousand miles away.

Last week, as I walked through Balboa Park, pounding the paths that have become so familiar now, I recalled how fortunate I am to call this city home. As I descended the stairs from the southern circular parking lot and crossed the Sixth Avenue exit to approach the overpass, there she was — months later after vanquishing those city officials who came to evict her. There she was, the sole queen of the hill, strutting and fretting her hour upon the stage, unmoved by the recent flood and the power of the state – a model of resilience and survival. I was left to ponder: how do we reconcile these contradictions that have become endemic to such an emblematic city, the city that etched itself in my childhood imagination with its celluloid images of zoo animals and rumors of the greatest country in the world?