Roundup: August 10 2022

Roundup Synopsis

Taken From Branding Iron 307 Summer 2022. 

In August, the Westerners welcomed Jillian Moore to the Corral. The Wyoming native, and Ph.D. candidate in English at Duquesne University, spoke of subjects related to her forthcoming dissertation. Her talk, entitled “Selling the Image of ‘The West’: Frontier Economies,” challenged us to take stock of what we enjoy about the American West, to ponder the reasons for our interest, and to take care to be appreciative of the history and culture of its Native inhabitants, rather than appropriative. Speaking on such topics in front of a body founded almost solely on appreciation of the West posed some danger, but Ms. Moore rather deftly navigated those choppy waters to enlighten where others may have admonished. If we were to distill the thesis of her discussion into a single phrase, perhaps the most apt would be, “Give credit where credit is due.”
Perhaps the most impactful section of the presentation featured a historic, Blackfoot-made capote, juxtaposed against a modern, Native-”inspired” coat from the Pendleton company. Ms. Moore highlighted the specific elements of the historic garment, illustrating its connection to a specific time, place, and ethnic group. No such specificity was present in the Pendleton coat, as it was simply a mishmash of Native-like designs in a stereotypically Southwestern color scheme. This comparison served to drive home the point that we should be wary of objects and ideas formed from disparate bits of the art and history of marginalized groups, like America’s indigenous communities, and forcing them through a cultural meat-grinder to arrive at something more readily digestible to consumers unfamiliar with the originals.
In the question-and-answer section following the main presentation, Ms. Moore reiterated that the intention of efforts to mitigate this type of co-option is not to demonize those who occasionally stray from appreciation into appropriation (“Let he who is without sin,” etc.), but rather to properly attribute artifacts and ideas to the cultures that bore them. Most scholars would never use a source in their research without citing it. The same thinking could be applied to consumers in the context of the art and artifacts of our indigenous neighbors. It is possible, and likely preferable, to spend our money on goods made by the people whose culture such products represent. Or, at the very least, we can give credit where credit is due.
— Alan Griffin

Speaker Jillian Moore and Sheriff Pete Fries

Roundup: July 13 2022

Roundup Synopsis

July’s Roundup had Denny Thompson take us out on a history of Dodger Stadium. We enjoyed complimentary peanuts and Cracker Jack, but it was hard to root, root, root for the home team as Denny recounted the murky circumstances surrounding the Dodgers’ acquisition of the stadium site—the once vibrant community of Chavez Ravine. City councilman Julián Chávez purchased the rugged ravine in 1844. From its beginnings, Chavez Ravine was a refuge for many peoples. In the 1850s, it hosted a “Pest House” for Chinese and Mexican smallpox victims. Jewish-Americans settled the ravine in the 1860s, but were forced to relocate their cemetery to make room for oil derricks. By 1900, the area was largely Latino, closely knit, and civically engaged. Denny’s own father and grandparents lived in the Ravine at this time, between 1907 and 1922, before winning a dairy farm in Santa Clarita in a poker game. Chavez Ravine residents won a victory against the oil companies in 1926, when the city council banned industry there. However, the community could not resist the next challenges to its integrity. After WW2, city authorities designated Chavez Ravine a “blighted” neighborhood in need of redevelopment. In 1949, the new Los Angeles Housing Authority secured federal funding to build a public housing project on the site. Utilizing eminent domain, the city purchased the land for $10,300 per property. Homeowners felt pressured to accept this price, which dropped if they held out. As consolation, all former residents were promised preferential placement in the proposed housing project upon completion. Yet by the early 1950s, a specter haunted Los Angeles—the specter of communism. At least, that is how it was seen through the redtinted lens of McCarthyite paranoia. Several prominent “Citizens Against Socialistic Housing,” including then-actor Ronald Reagan, successfully pushed for a referendum that killed the Chavez Ravine housing project in 1952. However, Los Angeles had signed a housing contract with the U.S. government, and in 1954 the Feds only agreed to resell the property to the city for $1.3 million on condition the land be used for “a public purpose.” For 22-year-old city councilwoman Roz Wyman, that purpose was obvious. Los Angeles was a “Big League town” without a Big League baseball team, and needed one badly. Fortuitously for her, the Brooklyn Dodgers were an A-grade team with a D-grade home stadium. Wyman encouraged the Dodgers to move to L.A. in 1957, and team owner Walter O’Malley purchased Chavez Ravine from the city for $494,000 in order to build a new stadium. A 1958 ballot initiative to block the purchase narrowly failed, partly due to wording that confused voters. Sheriffs forcibly evicted the last remaining ten families from Chavez Ravine on May 9th, 1959, a day called “Black Friday” by some. Photos of the Archiga family being dragged out of their home made national headlines, but public sympathy diminished with the revelation that the family owned other properties elsewhere in L.A. Construction of Dodger Stadium was completed in 1962, to the tune of $20 million. The human cost was the exile of a thousand families from Chavez Ravine, the result of broken promises. No alternative public housing project was ever offered. These families were scattered all across Los Angeles, with many members having to split up as dictated by the availability of jobs and housing. The Dodgers, meanwhile, took two decades to find acceptance among Latino Angeleños, but the recruiting of Mexican southpaw pitcher Fernando Valenzuela finally broke the ice in 1980. The community of Chavez Ravine is now a fading memory, but their story is a timeless one concerning questions of eminent domain, public housing, and “public purpose” private property. Many thanks to Denny Thompson for this fascinating discussion. — John Dillon

Photos from the Roundup

TBD

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Roundup: May 11 2022

Roundup Synopsis

Paul Clark took the reins in May, to present us with the exhilarating tale he called “The Rise of the Gasoline Cowboys: Outdoor Motorcycle Recreation in PreWWII California.” A rough and tough subject like this was sure to please those in attendance, just as it must have pleased Ernest Hemingway, to whom the quote which Paul selected is attributed, “There are only three sports: bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering; all the rest are merely games.” Let’s get on with the sport, then. Paul described the first motorcycle—and he used the term loosely—as a two-wheeled, steam-powered monstrosity, the painting of which showed two stokers following closely behind to keep it fired; hardly reasonable, but the idea was there. As gasoline engines matured, the concept was revived, this time as a three-wheeled contraption resembling early wheelchairs. The shape we have come to expect was introduced around the turn of the century, and Harley-Davidson and Indian quickly became the premier U.S. brands. In the early years, the motorcycle’s popularity followed its practicality. As it became more reliable and affordable, it became more widespread, with numbers in Los Angeles expanding from a few hundred in 1905, to 3000 in 1910, to 7500 by 1917. The reason for the popularity of L.A. as a haven for enthusiasts was the quality of roads and the quality of the weather; you can get a much better return on investment if you are able to ride year-round, as you can in Southern California. Motorcycle clubs sprang up throughout California starting with the Indian Motocycle Club in Los Angeles in 1904. So new was the fad, that they hadn’t even settled on weather they rode “motor-cycles” or “moto-cycles.” These early clubs were keen to be seen as respectable types, which meant that their members showed up to events in their Sunday best and invited photographers and newsmen to document their fine behavior. The publicity seemed to help with popular acceptance of the new machines. What helped even more were organized rallies exhibiting these bikes’ capabilities. Races on dirt and banked wooden ovals, hill climbs, and desert crossings wowed crowds, and newsreels captured the imagination of the region. Hill climbs were the most popular events, with the Capistrano Hill climb drawing an estimated thirty to fifty-thousand attendees by the early 1920s. While these daredevils were risking life and limb storming up hills, the L.A. Motorcycle Club organized “picnic runs” for its members to cruise sedately on the weekends. Endurance racing became more popular as the cycles improved to the point where they could actually endure. With the onset of Prohibition, an L.A. to Tijuana race was organized and billed as a race to a place “where the bar-rigs are still saturated with stronger stuff than grape juice.” 1920 saw the start of the iconic Big Bear “Hare and Hound” Annual Classic, a midnight run on New Year’s Day that ran until 1960. With the onset of WWII, the motorcycle community packed up and went to war. When they returned, the machines they rode were changing, and so was the country. Motorcycle riding was no longer as respectable as it had been prior to the war, and the culture surrounding it changed drastically from its original form. Like with so much else, the Second World War had forever altered part of the American lifestyle. — Alan Griffin

Photos from the Roundup

TBD

Roundup: April 13 2022

Roundup Synopsis

April’s Roundup saw the corral miss out, yet again, on the long-awaited “Postcards from Mecca” presentation by Steve Lech (don’t worry, it’s coming soon). Johnny-onthe-spot, however, was Brian-on-the-spot, as Dr. Dillon regaled us with his tale of an American hero, Navy Admiral Fightin’ Bob Evans. As Brian told it, it was Evans, not Jesse James nor Billy the Kid, who was the most famed pistolero 120 years ago, and we sure found out why. Fightin’ Bob’s story began in Virginia, where he was born Robley Dunglison Evans, in 1846. After being expelled from school for fighting at age thirteen, Bob’s uncle suggested a career in the Navy. Unfortunately, both Naval Academy seats allotted to Virginia were already filled. Bob agreed to move to Utah, as it was the only territory with allotments available. It was to be a fateful decision. Prior to the Transcontinental Railroad, wagon trains were the name of the game, and so it was with the party that Evans accompanied out west. Wagon trains, however, were vulnerable to Indian raids. Just such an attack befell Evans’ train upon leaving Ft. Laramie, after a wagon got mired in the mud. Thirteen-year-old Evans killed a man in his escape, made it back to the fort, and set out again with just a single wagon. His party was attacked again and Bob was shot in the ankle by an arrow, his foot pinned to the mule he was riding. Eventually, he made it to Salt Lake City where he established residence. Young Evans entered the Naval Academy in 1860. He was trained aboard the USS Constitution, “Old Ironsides.” The Civil War interrupted his tutelage, however, and half his class left to join the Confederacy. Evans stayed true to the Union and ended up fighting his own brother in the rebel navy. As a junior officer taking part in the assault on the “Rebel Gibraltar,” Ft. Fisher, North Carolina, Evans led an assault party of sixty-two sailors and marines. Horribly outgunned and isolated on the beach, his assault force was cut down, with 58 men killed or wounded. Evans was one of only eight men to breach the rebel fort, although he was shot four times for his efforts. He killed the sniper who had wounded him with a miraculous pistol shot from his Whitney .36 Navy revolver. Bob was left for dead on the beach, but was finally rescued and taken to a hospital. He threatened to shoot anyone trying to amputate his legs, so he kept them, along with two bullets that couldn’t be removed. His wounds forced him to use two canes for the rest of his life. Evans moved quickly through the ranks thereafter, taking postings throughout the world, and eventually commanded a gunboat, the USS Yorktown. It was on the Yorktown that he earned his appellation. His refusal to back down during a tense standoff with Chilean warships left him known as “Fightin’ Bob” ever after. After taking a leading role in the largest naval battle of the Spanish-American War, Bob reached the pinnacle of his career when he was given command of the Great White Fleet. Under Admiral Evans’ command, the the Atlantic and Pacific Fleets were combined for the first time in May 1908, in San Francisco Bay. This achievement marked a turning point for San Francisco in its postearthquake rebuilding, and also a bridging of the gulf between America’s East and West. If you’d care to read more about this American hero on both land and sea, you should pick up his autobiographies, A Sailor’s Log and An Admiral’s Log. I’m sure I’m not alone in my anticipation for what Brian Dillon has in store the next time someone calls in sick and he’s called to fill in again. — Alan Griffin

Photos from the Roundup