On a Sunday in San Francisco’s Castro neighborhood, a prize wheel promising zany items invited passersby to try their luck.
Out on an afternoon walk, Matt Melnicki took a spin. The wheel landed on a picture of a skull and crossbones surrounded by jelly beans, meaning he had to eat a mystery flavor.
Melnicki guessed a red jelly bean was either cappuccino or liver and onion. He took a bite and grimaced.
“It … doesn’t taste like coffee,” Melnicki said, laughing.
The wheel of fortune and a host of other activities, including whimsical petitions — “Abolish the raven vs. crow distinction” and art supplies for drawing on strangers’ faces, seemed fantastically varied, but fit the name of the station’s organizers: Creative Mutual Aid.
Mutual aid, an idea that gained traction during the pandemic, is defined broadly as people caring for one another by building “new social relations that are more survivable” than those traditionally provided (or not) by the government, according to some researchers.
Conventional examples of mutual aid include online crowdfunding to help people cover emergency bills or neighbors sharing food or skills with one another.
San Francisco’s Creative Mutual Aid, a volunteer-led collective, also provides this kind of grassroots support to the community. At their pop-ups, there’s a “Free Mall” — usually a blanket laid out with donated items, such as canned food, used books and clothes. They also provide free fentanyl test strips in a heart-shaped tin.
“You can give something to someone who’s spending, you know, more nights under the stars than they’d like to,” said Joe Mitchell, an organizer with Creative Mutual Aid. “Give them some toilet paper, give somebody some water.”
Or, dial their hotline at 252-697-8379 (“MYSTERY”). You’ll hear Sara Rubenstein’s voice saying, “You’ve reached the gifts request hotline. Please make your request, and our links in the chain will fulfill it,” — with the “links” being their community of volunteers.
These requests run from the artistic to the absurd, Rubenstein, another organizer, said. One early request was for a painting of a sunset, fulfilled by a community member who created a watercolor for the caller. Someone once requested a blueprint for a time machine. Another there requested a scented bar of soap — an item Rubenstein calls “small acts of care.”
“It can be anything as deep as something helping somebody out of a really depressed state, or it can be something funny — like the other day we got a request for unusual Rice Krispies treats,” Rubenstein said.
Once someone texted the line and asked for some words of wisdom. Rubenstein texted back a passage from Herman Hesse’s novel Steppenwolf.
“Thus, like a precious, fleeting foam over the sea of sufferings arise all those works of art in which a single individual lives himself for an hour or so high above his personal destiny that his happiness shines like a star … .”
The response: “Beautiful. I feel my precious fleeting foams arising already.”
Creative Mutual Aid launched informally around last spring. Rubenstein had recently made the switch from a career as a preschool educator to working at a nonprofit, and she missed the creativity and playfulness of working with children.
“I was trying to figure out how to engage with the public in a way that was natural to me and was my giving self,” she said.
One day, she and Mitchell decided to set up a table of art supplies in Golden Gate Park. At first, only children showed up, but they soon dragged adults along with them.
Rubenstein and Mitchell started doing the pop-ups nearly every week, on Sundays from noon to 6 p.m. at public parks in San Francisco.
The collective mainly does art, but they mentioned needs that might not be met by governments or nonprofits, citing examples like raising money for rent to prevent sudden eviction, or paying emergency medical bills.
They try to address serious and immediate needs, too. Rubenstein remembered a man named Stanley who approached her on the street. She said he needed a dress shirt and shoes for a job interview he had coming up, and a mobility scooter. Through the Creative Mutual Aid network, they were able to crowdsource what he needed.
“Except for the scooter,” Rubenstein said, undeterred. “That’s still on the list!”
As a part of the group’s theatrical flair, Mitchell wears chainmail on his head during tabling, and Rubenstein has some wrapped around her hands. Mitchell thinks the attire is an appropriate metaphor for what the group tries to provide, connecting the medieval-themed accessories to the current political atmosphere.
“I mean, let’s face it. These are dark ages. And we want to be a light,” Mitchell said. “ Neighbors have to be around for each other, supporting each other — without needing anything in return.”
The group is supported through donations, volunteers and self-funding. While most interactions are positive, some aren’t, and there are times when hardly anyone shows up at all.
The Sunday in the Castro was particularly slow. Toward the end of their shift, a man named Teddy stopped by with his partner, David, spun the wheel and got a temporary tattoo of a skull from Rubenstein.
Before he left, she rummaged under the table and found a bookmark with a teddy bear design to give him. The gratitude was evident in Teddy’s voice and eyes.
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate you,” he said. “And you’re our neighbors, yeah?”
Interactions like that, for Rubenstein, are what make the group’s efforts worthwhile.
“The idea of being part of a beautiful experience for somebody in this destabilized world is a joy and a sacred honor to me.”
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