In a city where every block tells a story and every hill bears a name, San Francisco has recently witnessed the digital erasure of one of its controversially christened neighborhoods: The East Cut. This nomenclature, a subject of resistance and mockery since its inception about seven years ago, has now vanished from the virtual cartographies of Google Maps, as observed by keen-eyed Reddit users. The deletion extends to Apple Maps, with a catch; The East Cut only emerges upon deliberate search and recedes once more into obscurity.
The East Cut's ambit - were to command any - spanned from the east side of 2nd Street to The Embarcadero, and the north side of Mission to Harrison streets. Its residents disproportionately bore the cost of its identity, one that was envisioned by a branding exercise to the tune of $68,000 as reported by SFGate.
A survey organized by neighborhood veteran Tad Bogdan revealed a staggering 90% disapproval rating among its denizens, with the undesirable costs further highlighted by NBC Bay Area (KNTV), putting the average added tax burden at "an extra $120."
Yet this is not the first time voices have rung out in disdain against The East Cut's renaming. When it was first introduced as the new identity for Rincon Hill, comments on our old Hoodline SF article showcased the community's displeasure and skepticism.
A comedian and union activist, Nato Green, likened the rebranding to a colonial imposition, with an undertone of gentrified indifference, in a statement obtained by Hoodline SF, “East Cut conveys the warmth of the community,” he continued sarcastically.
Wry humor was also at play, with other residents ridiculing the change – "um.......No. Rincon Hill," "What was the problem with Rincon Hill exactly?" and "East Cut sounds more like a type of sirloin."
Amidst these echoes of discontent and digital expunging, it remains to be seen whether The East Cut will sustain as a footnote in San Francisco's rich tapestry or if it will regain its place both in conversation and on maps. For now, the name’s disappearance from prominent mapping services suggests a quiet return to former identifiers, a nod perhaps to an identity that naturally resonates with its inhabitants. The narratives knit into the fabric of San Francisco's communities emerge from the voices that dwell within them, voices that, at times, reverberate with dissonance against manufactured monikers. As the saga of Rincon Hill shows, the imposition of a new identity can falter against the persistent tide of history and collective memory.
