Merchants Form a Kind of Family on Telegraph

Unlike the throngs of UC Berkeley students that flit past Telegraph Avenue everyday, Kerlene Padilla hasn't budged from the eclectic Berkeley street for more than 30 years, selling gems and shells from her booth since 1972.

Not even slashed tires and a beaten husband with broken ribs-which Padilla encountered from other vendors when she first opened shop-could scare her away.

"Those days a lot of those people were on drugs," she says. "They had a control grip on everything. They wanted us to leave, so we stayed. We've proved we've done this for ourselves."

But today, Padilla and many other Telegraph vendors consider themselves a close-knit group of friends.

"Today we all talk to each other and we're all good friends," she says. "We hold no grudges."

Ruth Bird, who has sold jewelry on Telegraph for 27 years, attributes the change in vendor attitude to aging.

"We're all getting older and mellower," she says. "There are fewer fights."

Telegraph vendors, often considered responsible for giving Berkeley its kooky reputation, attract visitors from far and wide to browse for unique handicrafts along the bustling street.

From those who sell iron-on patches emblazoned with the words "Get Naked" to makers of hand-woven hats and dream catchers, these vendors band together to form one offbeat family.

Vendors watch out for one another and offer mutual support in times of need, says Kevin Turner, who has been selling blown glass vases, jewelry and perfume for eight years with his wife Jenee.

Members of the Telegraph vendor clan all try to keep an eye out for shoplifters and often buy items from each other when business is slow, Turner says.

"Everyone watches each other's back and supports (each other)," he says. "Everyone always does something for someone."

Jonathan Fernandez, 40, who calls himself "the baby" in the family of vendors, has only been selling tie-dye shirts on Telegraph for two and a half years, but is certain his fellow vendors will stick up for him if needed.

"One time I got this crazy guy shoving and yelling at me and a bunch of vendors came and totally saved me," says Fernandez. "Even the vendors that don't like me will help me because it's vendors against the world."

UC Berkeley senior and vendor Salma Muzaffar also says she feels the camaraderie among her Telegraph comrades.

The 24-year-old native of Pakistan, who brought traditional Pakistani art to the streets of Berkeley eight years ago, has painted hundreds of henna tattoos on patrons' ankles and backs, and says the vendor community has welcomed her with open arms.

"We're all like a family," she says. "There's some people who always have drama, but I stay out of it. It seems like the people who have been here the longest are the craziest."

Phil Rowntree, a vendor from Great Britain who sells "Berzerkeley" shirts, concedes that he and his fellow vendors are like a "deranged and dysfunctional family."

"We can't agree on what day of the week it is, but we're all in the same boat," he says.

Rowntree says the vendors will often share generators in the winter and warn each other to move their cars when the parking enforcement officer comes.

Rickey Schaller, a vendor for 18 years who makes handcrafted jewelry, says that while the vendor community veers towards the unconventional side, their loyalties run deep.

"When it really comes down to it," Schaller says, "someone has to watch your booth when you pee. That's family."

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