On the packed trains from Yakima to Chicago and Chicago to D.C. were many others traveling to war. It seemed to Flo like the whole country was traveling east. Many on the train were wives of servicemen. Some fellow travelers were American Red Cross workers. Two sisters, identical twins, got on at Spokane on Washington’s far eastern border. Louise and Lucine Suksdorf grew up in the tiny Eastern Washington town of Rosalia. They were heading to D.C. and the ARC training school as well, and the women bonded immediately.
Flo was no rube. She had taken the train cross-country to YWCA meetings in Columbus, Chicago and Minneapolis, and she’d visited New York City in 1941. She had disembarked at Grand Central Station, the biggest train station in the country, but that was before the U.S. had entered the war. Nothing prepared her for Washington’s Union Station in April 1944, ground zero in war-related transport.
Stepping down from the train, the women found themselves in what felt like an anthill. The Beaux Arts vaulted ceiling arches of the station lent a turn-of-the-century air to the scene of rushing bodies down on its marble floors. They were just three of thousands (millions?) of people milling in all directions. The station itself was alive with frantic activity, its denizens dressed mostly in khaki uniforms. Soon, Flo would be one of them, shipping out to some unknown theater of war, somewhere in the world.
Washington, D.C. Interior view of the Union Station with Office of War Information (OWI) poster in the background reading Americans will always fight for liberty. Gordon Parks, 1912-2006, photographer. Library of Congress
The women had heard that the presidential suite in Union Station had been converted to a USO club during the war. They had to see it. Explaining at the door that they were about to enter service as ARC workers, they were ushered into the suite, admiring the opulent decorations. Service members in uniform lounged on leather-covered chairs and couches. They played cards and chatted at tables. This would not be Flo’s last encounter with the USO. She would work with the USO during her ARC service and she would later direct her own USO club back in Yakima after the war.
The Suksdorf sisters had received the same ARC letter as Flo and they would be staying at the same place while they went through the two-week training for overseas service workers. The Burlington Hotel was on 14th NW in downtown Washington, near the American University where they would attend training classes. The women succeeded in catching a cab to their destination, which was only a few blocks from the White House.
The women knew not where in the world they would be sent to work, but they kept close track of the war, raging in countries around the world. In April, 1944, in Europe and the Pacific, the war heated up. Bombs were dropped on cities; on April 18, the Allies dropped more than 4000 tons of bombs over Germany, the highest single-day total of the war so far. Submarines, liberty ships and destroyers were torpedoed and sunk, British and Indian forces fought against a Japanese offensive, Japan launched a series of battles against China, and Soviet forces invaded Romania. Hungarian authorities ordered all Jews to wear the yellow star. On the Italian front, the bloody battle for Anzio advanced.
October 1943. Murphy lands at Salerno during the Allied invasion of the mainland.
Clip from a Life Magazine story pasted in Flo’s WWII album
Italy has surrendered, and the road to Rome appears deceptively simple. Yet, the journey is anything but straightforward. Many thousands of lives will be lost on the road to the Eternal City.
“We land with undue optimism on the Italian mainland near Salerno. The beachhead, bought dearly with the blood and guts of the men who preceded us, is secure….We are prepared for a quick dash to Rome,” wrote Murphy in his autobiography, To Hell and Back.
This was far too optimistic. The Third Division will be fighting and dying on the Italian beaches and mainland until May, 1944.
The troops of the Third Division must first push through Salerno, cross the Volturno River, and take Anzio, Mignano, Cassino, and Cisterna before they can approach Rome.
Audie Murphy leads a small, diverse squad of men. Among them are an Italian immigrant, a Cherokee Indian manning the machine gun, an Irishman, a Pole, a Swede, and a Smoky Mountain bootlegger.
Members of Murphy’s squad begin to fall almost immediately. One soldier hesitates under heavy Nazi fire as he runs for a bridge and is cut down. The squad carries his body to the highway where it can be easily found.
“In death, he still bears the look of innocent wonder. He could not have lived long after tumbling. The bullet ripped an artery in his throat,” wrote Murphy.
Another fighter takes out a German machine gun nest and a foxhole with grenades, killing five Germans.
From Flo’s WWII album
The small victory is short-lived.
Later, the five remaining men find themselves trapped in a cave, surrounded by the enemy. The cave is infested with fleas, and the men are bitten mercilessly as they wait, parched and desperate.
We come to know and care for the men in Murphy’s squad, only to witness their deaths or injuries that force them out of the fight. Murphy becomes the last man standing at the end.
“All my life I wait to come to Italy,” says the Italian soldier. “I write my old man that the country stinks. Wait till you get to Rome, he says. Wait’ll you see your grandfather’s place. Then you’ll see the real Italy.”
The Italian never makes it to Rome. After three days without water, he breaks under the strain, running out of the cave only to be hit and killed by enemy fire. “He has come home to the soil that gave his parents birth,” wrote Murphy.
Finally, American troops break through the German lines and rescue the remaining men. Relief arrives with rations, water, and ammunition.
The next morning, they cross the Volturno River and join the push toward their next major objective: the communications center at Mignano.
Quotes are from Audie Murphy’s autobiography, To Hell and Back.
The photo album that my mother, Flo Wick, shared with Audie Murphy when they reconnected in 1955 is massive. The scrapbook is filled with photographs, newspaper clippings, letters, and travel paraphernalia and it tells the story of Mom’s two years as an American Red Cross (ARC) “donut girl” in Europe during World War II.
It also tells the story of the Third Infantry Division, the only American division that fought the Nazis on every front—North Africa, Sicily, Italy, France, and Germany. “The Fightin’ Third” had more casualties—nearly 35,000—than any other division, and it holds the record for high combat citations.
Throughout our childhoods my brothers and I pulled out the album, looked through it, and listened to our mother’s war stories. We kids especially liked the sketches by Flo’s comrade Liz Elliott of the everyday lives of the “donut gals.”
When my mother died in 1983 at the age of 70, I claimed the album and it’s been stored in garages and closets ever since, occasionally brought out for perusal by relatives or friends with an interest in World War II. For a time, it lived in a mold-infected storage room and so it was infected along with other archives. I exposed each page to sunlight in an effort to reduce the mold and that helped, but when I really wanted to examine the book, I donned a respirator to avoid breathing in clouds of invisible mold spores.
Mom was a scrapbook maker and for that I am now grateful as I try to piece together the events of her life during the war. Perhaps she had the idea for the album even before she sailed to Europe on a hospital ship in May 1944. I do know that the act of putting it together when she returned home after the war in 1946 salved her sadness at the deaths of so many and helped her readjust to life stateside where it seemed Americans had moved on and no longer wanted to think or talk about the war.
Recently I went through the album page by page, photographing all. That’s when I discovered that Flo had had a friendship with Audie Murphy that began somewhere in France when she served him donuts and continued after the war.
This story follows two narratives: one chronicles Flo Wick and the other chronicles Audie Murphy. They were both attached to the Third Division but mostly in different parts of the North African and European theaters. Their paths intersect in the Vosges mountains of France and as the Third pushed its way into Germany. For Audie’s tale I’m referencing his autobiography To Hell and Back, as well as letters and artifacts saved in Flo’s album.
A Little Background
She came of age during the Depression
Born in 1913, Florence Wick had graduated high school at 16 after being allowed to skip ahead a grade. Her class graduated in 1929½. Flo was excited about the prospect of going to college. She planned to enroll at the state college, but the Great Depression intervened. Instead, she completed a secretarial course at a trade school. At 17 she started working to help support her family. In 1931 she found a job as a stenographer for the Washington State Department of Highways.
Flo (R) at the Highway Dept.
By the time she learned about the ARC program, Flo had been working full time at that job for more than a decade. No doubt she was ready to do something else—maybe anything else. This seemed like an opportunity to travel outside of Washington State and to see other places in the world. And she was anxious to help the war effort.
He always wanted to be a soldier
Flo’s photo of Audie 1945
Even as a little boy Audie Murphy had wanted to be a soldier. His share cropper father abandoned his mother and their children leaving the family destitute. Then, when he was 16, his mother died. Born in 1925, the seventh of twelve kids, Audie tried to provide for the others, dropping out of school in fifth grade to pick cotton for a dollar a day. But he knew he had to get out of Farmersville, Texas. He tried to join the paratroopers and the Marines, but was told he was too short at five feet five. The Army took him and trained him to be a soldier. The baby-faced kid earned the nickname Baby. He was already a good shot, having fed the family with wild game. He couldn’t wait to shoot the enemy.
Murphy was assigned to the Third Division, then part of the Third Army under the command of General George Patton. He joined them in Sicily in 1943, on the way from Morocco and North Africa. They would fight their way through Italy and France into Germany. Murphy would be one of a very few of his company left standing and would become the most decorated American soldier of the war.
My Regular Pagan holiday post:Mysteries of Santaland
Even as a little kid, I was skeptical. The story is preposterous: a jolly rotund man in a red suit operates a workshop at the North Pole where elves make toys for children. On Christmas Eve, he loads them into a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer and delivers gifts to every child in the world by descending through their chimneys.
Did adults really expect us to believe that! How could that fat guy even get down a chimney? And what if you don’t have a chimney? And visiting every child in the world on one night! Give me a break. And how can wingless reindeer fly anyway? Wouldn’t it make more sense to harness a herd of Pegasuses,* or even a flock of owls? My parents were unable to satisfactorily answer these questions.
But it all starts to make sense when you look at the traditions of Arctic indigenous peoples. Turns out, Santa’s origins might involve a bit more…tripping.
Santa is a modern counterpart of a shaman, who consumed mind-altering fungi by drinking the urine of reindeer.
A Ten Thousand Year High
Santa’s story bears striking similarities to the winter solstice practices of Arctic shamans—specifically those of the reindeer herding Koryaks of Siberia and the Sámi of Sápmi (formerly called Lapland) who used hallucinogenic mushrooms in their winter solstice ceremonies. These shamans consumed the mind-altering Amanita muscaria mushroom—the iconic red-and-white fungus often depicted in Christmas decorations—to commune with the spirit world.
Shamanic rituals involving A. muscaria date back over 10,000 years. During Siberian midwinter ceremonies of Annual Renewal, shamans, dressed in red-and-white fur-trimmed coats and tall black boots, gathered the mushrooms from beneath sacred pine trees. These mushrooms are the fruiting bodies of fungi whose mycelial networks interlace with tree roots underground. The association of red mushrooms with green pine trees might explain the colors of Christmas.
Gifts of Vision and Insight
In winter, heavy snow often blocked the doorways of Arctic yurts, forcing shamans to enter through the roof. They slid down the central birch pole, carrying a bag of dried A. muscaria—a probable origin of Santa’s descent through chimneys with a sack of gifts.
Amanita muscaria, found growing under pine trees in Northern California. Photos by author.
After consuming the mushrooms or drinking the urine of reindeer that had eaten them, shamans would enter altered states of consciousness. Amongst the Siberian shamans, the reindeer was an animal spirit to journey with in their vision quests. The gifts shamans brought to their communities included the visions and insights from their psychedelic experiences, as well as portions of the mushrooms themselves.
Flying Reindeer Explained
Reindeer play a crucial role in this story. These animals can eat A. muscaria without suffering its toxic effects, metabolizing the mushroom’s compounds in a way that makes their urine safe—and still hallucinogenic—for humans to consume. Drinking reindeer urine allowed people to experience the mushroom’s psychoactive effects while avoiding its more unpleasant toxins.
The hallucinations induced by A. muscaria often include sensations of flying, contributing to the myth of Santa’s airborne sleigh and reindeer. After ingesting the mushrooms, the shamans were said to experience heightened senses, bursts of energy, the desire to sing, feelings of joy, and increased muscle tone, so any physical effort was easier to perform.
Stockings Hung by the Fire
Indigenous peoples dried their mushrooms on tree branches or by hanging them in socks near fires, practices reminiscent of today’s Christmas stockings. As with many pagan traditions, Christians appropriated these shamanic elements, attributing them to Saint Nicholas, a 4th-century Turkish bishop known for his generosity to children and the needy.
Incidentally, the plural of shaman is shamans, not shamen. There were female shamans among the indigenous peoples, just as there are in many cultures today.
Koryak shaman woman, photo from Jesup North Pacific Expedition 1900. (PD-US)
The Arctic shamans might have been jolly, but probably were not fat. That image was exploited in ad campaigns by Coca cola, starting in 1930 (although folks are mad that the company’s latest AI video ad focuses on trucks instead of Santa).
Mushrooms and Me
My own relationship with mushrooms is one of wonder and deliciousness. Wonder-ful because mushrooms are witchy and mysterious. Scientists estimate that as many as 95% of fungal species on Earth are still unknown! Many mushrooms are associated with particular species of trees, so in learning about ‘shrooms, we learn about the forest and its ecosystem too.
Deliciousness because I’ve foraged, eaten and enjoyed many mushrooms. But A. muscaria is not one of them. The poison is not a deadly one like some of the other Amanitas, but it does make you sick. And while I am curious about hallucinations, I’m not so curious about regurgitations.
Still, A. muscaria fascinates me, not just for its beauty but also for its potential. Recent research explores its psychoactive compounds, muscimol and ibotenic acid, for therapeutic uses. These compounds show promise in treating conditions such as stress, anxiety, insomnia, addiction, and even neurodegenerative diseases like Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s.
Solstice Spirits
As the winter solstice approaches on December 21, I’m reminded of the deep connections between ancient rituals and modern traditions. So, whether you celebrate with a cup of cocoa or an appreciation for fungi, happy solstice to all—and to all a good long night.
*The proper plural of Pegasus is Pegasi but I like Pegasuses better
Gay Man Will Rollins Running Against Anti-Gay Incumbent
Californians will be sidelined again in the upcoming presidential election. With nearly 40 million residents, the state won’t play a decisive role in choosing the next president until the electoral college system is changed. Instead, the focus remains on swing states, leaving many Californians feeling left out, and me outraged again.
But we are not twiddling our collective thumbs. We’re shifting our attention to key down ballot races. A strong coalition, Mobilize—comprising Indivisible, California Grassroots Alliance, and others—is targeting six red districts in an effort to flip the House blue.
One candidate I’m particularly excited about is Will Rollins, who is openly gay and has a great shot at winning. When the districts were reorganized, he gained the queer-friendly city of Palm Springs in California’s 41st District. Rollins, a former federal prosecutor, is running again after nearly defeating Republican Ken Calvert, an incumbent with a long anti-LGBTQ voting record, in the last election. Polls show Rollins with a six point lead. https://willrollinsforcongress.com
I can’t vote for Will. I’m in a safe blue Congressional district. But, like hundreds of other Californians, I’m writing postcards to voters, getting out the vote, posting yard signs, and wearing my Kamala swag. Let’s paint Congress blue!
In the 2000s, I began to deconstruct my Bernal Heights home. In opening up the walls, I started to uncover the house’s history, leading me to an investigation into its owners and architectural evolution from the distant past to its having been bought by my lesbian collective in 1980. The story of 386 Richland Avenue is one of Bernal Heights, San Francisco, and California more broadly, speaking to themes of land ownership and development, the legacies of slavery, and the role each person has in shaping their neighborhood.
386 Richland Avenue 1980.Photo: Molly Martin
An old house holds the ghosts and remnants of all the people who have occupied it over the years. When you live in an old house I believe you must acknowledge all the people who have lived there and the people who built and worked on the house.
When I got to San Francisco in 1976, I decided there was no place I’d rather live. I had never owned a house before and really had no hope of ever owning a building in San Francisco until my living collective of four lesbians agreed to pool our money.
I got curious about the history of our Bernal Heights building as soon as we bought it in 1980. How old was it? Real estate records said it was built in 1900, but that is the default date for all San Francisco buildings built before the earthquake and fire of 1906 destroyed city building department records. So I knew it was probably built before 1900. It was always a weird looking building: three stories with three flats over a garage. Notice the weird roofline and window placement. What architect would design such a building?
I wanted to know who had lived there before me.
The Land Underneath
Ohlone village
The first human residents of this land of gently rolling grassy hills were the Ramaytush Ohlone. Hundreds of shell mounds have been uncovered all around the San Francisco Bay and there is evidence of a great Ohlone settlement at the mouth of Islais Creek, which once flowed just down the hill south of my house where Alemany Blvd and Interstate 280 now flow with traffic. Before progress changed its course and buried it, Islais Creek formed a deep gorge on the south side of my neighborhood of Bernal Heights. The creek was long ago undergrounded and replaced by freeways but the gorge remains.
I was delighted to learn that islay is an Ohlone word naming a native bush called the islais cherry (Prunus ilicifolia) that grew along the creek and still grows in forgotten corners of San Francisco. The shiny leaves look like a cross between holly and oak. And the fruit is edible. They were eaten by the Ohlone along with plentiful bay creatures, shellfish, fish, birds, deer, and other land animals.
Spain had laid claim to San Francisco and what it called Alta California in 1542. Starting in the 1760s the Spanish established missions from San Diego up to Sonoma along the king’s highway or El Camino Real, now Mission Street and Highway 82. The Spanish and the Indians they enslaved built San Francisco’s Mission Dolores in 1776, and so the road from San Jose and the south had come sometime before that. These are well-traveled pathways that extend quite far back in time.
After Mexico won independence from Spain in 1821, it secularized the Catholic missions. In order to receive a Mexican land grant, a man had to be a Catholic. But the land was not handed out to the church as it had been by Spain.
José Cornelio Bernal was granted a league, about 4,400 acres, by the Mexican government in 1839. José was the son of Juan Francisco Bernal who, with his family, arrived in San Francisco with the Spanish Anza expedition in 1776. José and his family were cattle ranchers, some of the original Californios. Over time they lost the land to squatters, lawyers, and bankers. The family first defaulted in 1859 to William Tecumseh Sherman, a banker before he became a Civil War general, who had loaned the Bernal patriarch money. The Bernals finally relinquished their last 25 acres to foreclosure in 1917. It marked the passing of the very last bit of San Francisco real estate from the families of original Mexican land grantees—the Californios.
The area south of the Mission including Bernal Heights was not platted until after the Civil War. At that time the lack of transportation infrastructure made lots hard to sell.
Large sections of southern San Francisco fell into the hands of the real estate developer François Louis Alfred Pioche. Pioche platted and developed much of southern San Francisco. A French financier, Pioche is described as a suave and cultured European who introduced fine French wine to San Francisco’s elite, an influential player who lived openly with his male lover and business partner, L.L. Robinson. No one is sure why he committed suicide in 1872.
Bernal Hill in 1875.Photo: Carleton Watkins, courtesy of California State Library
Carleton Watkins (1829-1916) was one of the most famous outdoor photographers of the American West. He also made many pictures of the growing city of San Francisco, like this one taken in 1875. From around Silver Avenue, looking north to Bernal Heights, the bare grasslands of southwest Bernal are revealed with the Mission District and the town of San Francisco in the distance. The prominent enclosure nearby is the site of St. Mary’s College. It faced Mission Road (now Street), the principal route at the time. College Hill Reservoir is the flat area near the center of the picture. The fenced circle denotes Holly Park, donated to the city in 1862 by the silver mining baron James Graham Fair. On the extreme right is the top of Bernal Heights. My house would be just to the right of this picture near the east edge of Holly Park.
Building 386 Richland
When we bought 386 Richland, the place was a mess. The most recent owner had “remodeled” by covering the walls and even wood window trim with quarter inch sheetrock. I’m an electrician. Trying to solve an electrical problem, I discovered live bare wiring between the sheetrock and tongue and groove finish wall in the kitchen of the lowest unit. This was very disturbing but I didn’t have time to demo the walls. That would have to wait 20 years until I retired.
One day I drilled a hole in a closet wall to pull some low voltage wiring. I used a four-inch hole saw and was surprised that when the saw got through a layer of sheetrock, it hit wood. When I finished I pulled the four-inch-round block of wood out of the saw. It was inch-thick redwood. I turned it over and found newspaper pasted to the inside, a primitive type of insulation. It was a racing form dated 1893. Well, that was a clue.
The San Francisco Call applied directly to redwood for insulation.Photo: Molly Martin
Someone told me the San Francisco Water Department records had been kept in a safe and survived the 1906 fire. All you had to do was ask at the headquarters. The clerk stepped into a big safe and brought out a single piece of paper, a Xeroxed copy of the permit, which said water was provided August 1, 1893. It was signed in a clear hand by the owner, G. Shadburne.
The document contained several other clues. The Spring Valley Water Company (we didn’t yet have a publicly-owned water department) supplied water to what was then a single-family building of 825 square feet. The property owner paid $10 in gold coin. Listed were two wash trays, one wash basin, one bath, one water closet and 30 square yards of irrigation. E. J. Fisk of the water company had charged for two cows and then apparently been convinced to erase them along with some other notes. Were the cows just visiting? Had a family been living at 386 Richland without running water? It would have been possible; there were several active springs on the hill and many early homes had been built without indoor plumbing. But while Shadburne could have bought the property earlier, all evidence points to 1893 as the year a building was first erected here.
George David Shadburne during the Civil War
From the census record I learned that the house’s owner in 1900 was George David Shadburne, a lawyer originally from Texas who had moved to San Francisco in 1868. He did all right for himself in San Francisco, well enough to be published as a person of note in the city’s blue book in 1894-95. He never lived at Richland Avenue, which he developed and rented out to poorer tenants. He lived instead in a tonier neighborhood on “California Hill,” and his business address was 429 Montgomery in downtown San Francisco, a building which he owned.
Shadburne might have been the original slumlord.
Once I had his name, I went to the San Francisco History Center at the San Francisco Public Library main branch where helpful librarians point you to volumes of historical data. Even though building department records were lost in the earthquake and fire of 1906, the history room contains a wealth of other supporting historical documents. I learned about the Sanborn insurance maps (most every city has them) and found that my neighborhood had been surveyed in 1905 and 1915.
A Sanborn Fire Insurance map showing the Holly Park tract in 1905
386 Richland is part of the Holly Park Tract. Development in Holly Park had only just started in 1905. Except for a small addition that was added to the rear of our building in 1961 (there was a building permit), the footprint is the same as today. It was still a single family dwelling then.
Sanborn map in 1915
By 1915 our neighborhood had been fully developed. Along with five neighbors I published a pictorial book about Bernal Heights history: San Francisco’s Bernal Heights. We learned that Bernal saw its greatest surge of development after the earthquake and fire of 1906. Some people moved earthquake shacks here and some built homes. By this time 386 had been turned into two flats, 386 and 386 1/2. Rather than a D, the map says 2F meaning two flats and adds the ½ to the address.
Deconstructing
Barb Schultheis building a shoring wall after we discovered that there were no studs in existing walls.Photo: Molly Martin
It wasn’t until the year 2000, 20 years after my original collective had bought the building, that I had the time and inclination—and also a partner who wanted to get her hands dirty—to begin to open walls and really see the structure. My then-partner Barb Schultheis and I started just a little kitchen remodel in my unit on the third floor. We opened one wall in the kitchen, pulling off many layers of finishes including sheetrock, oil cloth, and newspaper. What we found was worse than anything I’d imagined. Underneath it all was one-inch coarse sawn redwood planks, some as wide as 20 inches, and under the redwood was cross bracing and nothing else: no studs in this part of the third story apartment. And there was another story on top! The redwood was structural. We quickly built a shoring wall.
I’d never seen this building method. My carpenter girlfriend in New England called it a plank house, a more common style of building there in the 1800s.
Our demolition progressed to the front room of our unit. Here we found another construction method, more common in today’s buildings–platform construction. The walls had 2×4 studs 16 inches on center and the finish was lath and plaster.
As we deconstructed the building, we kept wondering why it is so oddly shaped, why construction methods differed from floor to floor and room to room, why floors were different heights in adjacent rooms, why floor and ceiling joists sometimes went north and south, sometimes east and west, why when wall coverings were removed we could see sky through cracks in the exterior walls.
Another clue: the staircase had been open and was closed in to create a third unit.Photo: Molly Martin
Then one day when I was standing across the street looking at the building I had an epiphany. Our home was never a plan in some architect’s mind. The different construction methods told us that these were different buildings, constructed at different times and later nailed together. It was a collection of buildings set on top of one another, cut off, pushed together, raised up, and without benefit of removal of siding, spiked together with a few big nails. Suddenly all the mysteries we’d cataloged made sense.
The old house had been turned so that its side, not the front, faced the street. Houses were often moved at the turn of the century. A builder would build a single-story house and later raise it up to add a second story. There were few systems like electrical and plumbing to disconnect as there are today. I believe this building was moved from another location where its rounded entryway faced the street. I propose that the three buildings were given to Shadburne or sold to him cheap.
Illustration of my “many buildings” theory
In this drawing I removed the double stairs to better see the different parts. I had always thought the oldest building, the yellow part, was the first house on the lot, but the square footage didn’t add up. Then I realized that the original 825 square foot house is the pink building turned so its side faces the street.
Here we can see three different buildings built with different construction methods: the yellow building had planks joined with square nails and no studs, insulated with 1893 newspapers. The pink building had modern platform construction, rolled nails (invented around the turn of the 20th century), and lath and plaster finish. The blue building below had old fashioned balloon framing with 4×4 studs 24 inches on center, also finished with redwood planks, but with rolled nails.
Our remodel progressed to the garage where we demolished a shelving unit made of old doors and metal pipes attached to a wall of sheetrock with no studs. Barb and I were standing at the base of a four-story building. We were right under three stories of kitchens with heavy appliances. We looked up to see the floor above bowing toward us. We rushed to build another shoring wall. That’s how we figured out that the bearing wall under all the kitchens had been removed! My search for building permits had uncovered a 1917 project to raise the building and add a garage. I believe the bearing wall was removed then. The building inspector didn’t notice. The building had been slowly falling down for a hundred years! So, with help from carpenter friends Carla Johnson and Pat Cull, we dug up the garage floor, poured a footing, jacked up the building, and built a new bearing wall.
Retired union carpenter Pat Cull oversaw our project and taught us much about carpentry.Photo: Molly Martin
Another shocking discovery resulted in more unplanned structural work: not one but two bearing walls had been removed to make way for the garage in 1917. Engineer Marg Hall helped us to understand the physics of load bearing (one test: have your girlfriend run up to the floor above and jump up and down) and did calculations required for the permit. I drew plans and waited in line at the Dept. of Building Inspection. This second un-wall we rebuilt as an engineered glue lam wood beam on posts.
Postcard found in the ceiling, maybe from 1903.Photos: Molly Martin
When Barb and I opened the ceiling above unit B, the third story, we found a crib full of about a ton of plaster that had been discarded when the buildings were tacked together (no wonder the ceiling was bowing). We had to remove it by hand, scooping it into buckets to take to the dump. This was the most disgusting job of the whole project. This postcard was in there. I asked Ancestry buffs brother Don Martin and cousin Richard Juhl for help researching this. They found John Hargens at this address in a 1907 city directory. He was an immigrant from Germany, born about 1868. His wife Minnie was also German which might account for the florid cursive. They lived at 386 in 1907 with their five children but moved to Santa Marina (a nearby street) in 1908. Did they move because of construction on 386? How did this postcard get into a pile of plaster left in the attic?
Some of the objects found in the walls, dating back as early as the 1800s, gave us clues to the tenants in different eras. Coffee can metal (bottom right) was used to patch holes in the fir floors.Photos: Molly Martin
Demolition was like an archeological dig and while we didn’t find anything valuable, we uncovered lots of clues about the building of the house. When I finally saw the wiring inside the walls, I couldn’t believe the building hadn’t burned down. In my time as an electrician and inspector I’ve seen the insides of a lot of walls in San Francisco but I’d never seen such hazardous wiring. Much of the building was wired with the equivalent of zip cord.
Thanksgiving 2000 was our last dinner party in my old apartment B. By Christmas I had moved up to Barb’s penthouse apartment and moved all my stuff out to the shed we’d built the year before, clearing room for the remodel. We spent the last days of December pulling apart my kitchen. Our four-story, three unit building required near complete rebuilding, a far more difficult task than simply constructing a new building from the ground up. If only I’d known what we were in for, I’d have sold the building. But there’s probably a real estate disclosure law requiring truth telling, so once we started, we had to forge ahead.
Rebuilding
In those first two years of destruction and construction of the lower two units, Barb and I did all the demolition, carpentry, and electrical work ourselves, with the help of many dear women friends. Scores of women helped us on this years-long project. We couldn’t look at the whole big project or we’d get depressed at the overwhelming amount of work ahead of us and think of suicide. Instead, we focused on each small project and celebrated whenever we finished framing a wall (virtually all the walls had to be reframed) or laying a subfloor in one room.
Carla Johnson jackhammers for new footing
In November of 2002 we celebrated having gotten the house closed up for winter and ready for sheetrock. Barb had taken off a couple of weeks in October and we’d worked our butts off replacing siding, installing new windows, patching, caulking, weatherproofing, and painting the back and west side of the building and rear stairs.
We knew the building was funky—the three-story utility “shed” which enclosed bathrooms had been added on at the turn of the 20th century with no foundation, so it had gradually separated from the main building over four inches near the top. Bad carpenters and handyman homeowners had been plugging the gap for 100 years. But we figured 21st century caulk might buy us a few more years. We decided we would tackle rebuilding the back of the house after this remodeling project was complete.
The rear side of 386 Richland before the storm; all of this work had to be torn down.Photo: Molly Martin
Then in mid-November 2002, the winter’s first storm hit. The four-story wood frame building had always moved in the wind. You’d lie in bed in a storm and feel it shimmy and buck on any floor (I’ve lived on all three and lying in bed in the bottom unit I could tell when the couple in the top unit were having sex), but especially on top. I figured it had survived a century and two big earthquakes probably because of its profound flexibility.
That night of the storm it felt like the building was on the verge of falling down. Of course! We’d removed all the many layers of wall coverings and completely gutted the two floors below. Like scotch tape and gum, the interior finishes had been holding us up. Upstairs in the top unit, lamps were swaying and everything was moving. We could see the glass in our living room windows bow in the wind and worried they might shatter. So we closed the blinds and finally went to bed, though I don’t think either of us got much sleep.
The storm caused plenty of damage in San Francisco and the area. Folks in some places were without power for weeks. I guess we were lucky. The only thing we had was water in places it didn’t belong—lots of water. One corner looked like a waterfall, and of course had been leaking for years. Only now with all the walls open could we see it. For Barb and me, this was the lowest point. It seemed as if the project would never end.
The upshot is we spent the next year tearing off the whole back of the building, including deck and stairs, and rebuilding it. All the new windows and doors we’d hung and trimmed (making casing by planing the salvaged redwood) had to be taken out, projects we’d sweated and cried over for hours and redone time after time as we learned the rudiments of carpentry.
Contractor John Burton reframing the roof.Photo: Molly Martin
To demo and rebuild the back of the building we hired a contractor, my old friend John Burton, who I’d worked with to remodel the People’s Cultural Center on Valencia Street in 1978.
We recycled the redwood stairs, reusing them as stairs when we could and building planter boxes with the rest. Barb and I bolted the foundation, put in hold-downs wherever we could to hold the various parts of the building together. Then we sheared all the open walls in the front of the building with plywood. The new rear walls have been sheared on the outside. Afterward in a windy storm I laid on the bed slightly disappointed that the house hardly moved at all.
My Local 6 electrician sisters and I showing off our tools. We were some of the first women to get into our trade.Photo courtesy of Molly Martin
With help from my women electrician sisters from International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers (IBEW) Local 6 and Local 617 I rewired the building and installed a 200 amp four-meter electric service. The job was signed off by city electrical inspector Sylvia Montiel, who had worked with me when we were electricians wiring high rises back in 1981.
The building’s plumbing–water, drains, waste, gas, and venting had to be replaced. I calculated the size of piping and drew plans. We installed on-demand water heaters in all the units, as well as heating systems. The two chimneys were demo’d and the tons of bricks recycled. We replaced all the windows, keeping only the existing old growth redwood sills.
Our remodel (perhaps it should be called a rebuild) took nearly a decade. The San Francisco Building Department granted us a building final and certificate of occupancy in 2009.
Legacies of 386 Richland
I didn’t learn much more about the house’s original owner, G. Shadburne, until the Internet made researching so much easier. He was a Confederate soldier, a captain who had been wounded, had spied for the Confederacy. During the summer of 1864 Shadburne became one of Wade Hampton’s notorious “Iron Scouts,” who hid along the Blackwater River just two miles from Grant’s lines near City Point, Va. Wearing Yankee uniforms, they skillfully eluded capture while they killed and captured Union pickets and couriers and interfered with wagon trains and telegraph lines. Shadburne also helped lead the Beefsteak Raid, stealing 2,500 head of Union cattle, Union supplies, and capturing 304 Yankee prisoners. Shadburne was captured on March 6, 1865, near Fredericksburg. He was sent to Fort Monroe, Va., then to Wallkill, a Union prison barge at City Point. Charged with being a spy, he faced hanging, but escaped on March 10th and returned to the Iron Scouts.
After the Civil War, like other Confederate slaveholders, he considered relocating to Brazil where slavery was still legal, but that didn’t work out. In 1868 Shadburne and his wife arrived in San Francisco where he opened a law practice. He gained a reputation as a bulldog litigator who never gave up until the last appeal failed and who was not above resorting to physical violence or verbal attacks on his opposing counsel.
The back of an 1858 appraisal of Shadburne’s property lists the names of his 20 slaves and their values.Image: Xavier University of Louisiana
Then I found an appraisal of Shadburne’s property from 1858 in Louisiana in the online archives of Xavier University of Louisiana. It lists the land he owned as well as his 20 slaves. What happened to them? When Shadburne moved to San Francisco slavery was illegal. I could find no evidence that he brought any of them with him. Tracing the lives of enslaved people is made difficult because only their first names and ages are recorded, sometimes with a note saying “cook” or “lame.”
Many of California’s settlers were Southerners and slave owners who sought to make California a slave state. Shadburne, who founded the Southern Society and immersed himself in civic projects, certainly contributed to the culture of San Francisco. He presented himself as a Civil War hero. He lived in San Francisco until his death in 1921.
Various owners followed Shadburne. Some actually lived there. But the property remained a rental, at least in part, in the working class neighborhood of Bernal Heights until my collective of four lesbians bought the building in 1980.
Lenders didn’t know what to do with four unmarried women buying a building together. Women had only just won the right to our own credit. We were tenants in common, not very common then, but now a common way for unrelated people to buy property together.
Lesbians Against Police Violence.Photo: Ruth Mahaney
My collective household was part of a movement. The collective living movement developed from a critique of the nuclear family and patriarchy. We sought to build alternatives. We envisioned a world without war, police violence, discrimination, imperialism, capitalism, and private property. We protested. But we also worked to build new institutions and new ways to live. For nearly 40 years of its 130-year history the building was a center of lesbian and women-centered culture and activism.
386 Richland after the remodel.Photo: Molly Martin
The lesbian collective slowly dissolved, but with numerous refinancings, 386 Richland helped the partners finance more woman-owned houses in San Francisco. I moved out of the building in 2018; today is a new chapter in Bernal history. The neighborhood, colonized by Californios, then working class immigrants from Ireland, Italy, and European countries, Communists and leftists, Mexicans and Latin Americans, and lesbians, is now being taken over by techies. The neighborhood of Bernal Heights has never been static since Europeans invaded.
As citizens and historians we don’t want to forget our own part in history. We all play an important part in shaping the culture of our neighborhood and our city.
When I learned about the quarterly circumambulation of Mt. Tamalpais, I pledged to complete it for the summer solstice. A sister hiker, Dolores, agreed to join me.
The practice was begun in 1965 by poets Gary Snyder, Allen Ginsberg and Philip Whalen–a ritualized walking meditation around Mt. Tam. Following the traditional clockwise direction, they selected notable natural features along the way, performing Buddhist and Hindu chants, spells, sutras, and vows at each stop.
There are two walks, the longer one is 17 miles, the shorter 6.2 miles. At 89, Dolores was the oldest hiker, and I at 74 was likely the second oldest. We chose the shorter walk.
We met up at Rock Spring with about 40 long hikers, who had started earlier in the morning at Muir Woods. The temperature was a warm 74 degrees. Fog was coming in from the ocean down below us.
The short walkers join the long walkers for three of the nine stations. Our first stop was the serpentine rocks overlooking the ocean and the Golden Gate, where participants joined in ceremonial readings.
Ascending the serpentine hill; Leader Gifford Hartman reads a Gary Snyder poem to the group
In a poem, Gary Snyder advises us to learn the flowers. On this walk we did our best, focusing especially on native plants.
Few plants can grow in serpentine soil because of its high levels of toxic heavy metals, and low levels of water and nutrients. But a few plants have adapted to serpentine. Some grow right out of the rock.
Native buckwheat (Eriogonum luteolum), native cobweb thistle (Cirsium occidentale) and fog
Next we hiked on to Potrero Meadows for lunch and more readings. One hiker composed limericks just for us. Snyder envisioned the circumambulation as a joyful, creative endeavor, encouraging participants to be imaginative. He emphasized the importance of paying attention to the surroundings and oneself: “The main thing is to pay your regards, to play, to engage, to stop and pay attention. It’s just a way of stopping and looking — at yourself too.”
Walkers gathering at Potrero Meadow. In this area is mostly a Douglas fir, live oak and Bay laurel forest
Hiking through the Bay laurel leaves gave off a wonderful pungent menthol-like fragrance.
Watching for ticks in the meadow; native Mariposa lilies (Calochortus) and Ithuriel’s spear (Triteleia laxa) peeking out of the tall grass
Our next station was the serpentine cairn. We circumambulated the cairn, each tossing a stone upon it and chanting Women Life Freedom. Zan, Zendigi, Azadi.
The chant was led by an Iranian-American woman. The spark for this chant and an uprising of Iranian women was the death of Mahsa Amini, a young Kurdish woman who died after being detained by Iran’s morality police for “improper hijab.”
For me this was the highlight of our trip. I was delighted to be led in this chant, joining Iranian women who have been risking their lives to protest for women’s rights and equality.
Dolores and the cairn (L); a closer look at the green serpentine rock
After that Dolores and I and three others went our own way, leaving the large group behind. We headed along the International trail toward the West Point Inn where I hoped to score a cold drink and maybe a popsicle.
California hedge nettle (Stachys bullata); Tanoak (Notholithocarpus densiflorus)
We saw lots of tan oak, the tree that has been devastated by sudden oak death (SOD). This species seems to be recovering. Soon the younger hikers walked on ahead of us. No problem we said. We have maps! Dolores and I continued together.
Me on the trail to the east slope; native chamise (Adenostoma fasciculatum) in bloom
We entered a plant community of chaparral, characterized by manzanita and scrub oak. Many of the native wildflowers had bloomed, but we found a few late bloomers.
Coming around to the east side of Tam we were treated to spectacular views of the Bay Area.
Looking toward Mt. Diablo (L) we could see smoke from north bay fires blowing into the Napa Valley. The city of Oakland on the far right.
More blooming plants greeted us.
Toyon (Heteromeles arbutifolia), mountain coyote mint (Monardella odoratissima)
I couldn’t stop taking pictures of the view.
The skyscapers of San Francisco appear above the fog right of center.
We’d been so looking forward to a rest stop at the West Point Inn but it was closed for a huge renovation. Some bikers and hikers hung around and we were able to refill water bottles from a spigot.
Built in 1904, it was once a stop on the Mill Valley and Mt. Tamalpais Scenic Railway.
From Old Railroad Grade we headed down the Rock Spring Trail to our starting point at Rock Spring, the final leg of our journey.
California aralia, the only member of the ginseng family native to California; Yerba Santa (Eriodictyon)
We were happy not to have to compete with bikes or horses on this trail.
Sign on the Rock Spring trail, Coast silk tassel (Garrya elliptica)
We knew we were close to the end of our circumTambulation when we came to the Mountain amphitheater, the 4,000-seat open air theater opened in 1913. This is the venue for the annual Mountain Play. Structures for this year’s play, Kinky Boots, were being struck. We were beat!
The Mountain Theater seats, taking a break near the end
Back on the road we got a bit lost. Which way to Rock Spring? We flagged down a passing car. Take that trail right there said the occupants. They were two of the young 17-mile circumabulators, already finished with their long walk!
Carpenter apprentice Outi Hicks was working on a job in Fresno, California in 2017 when she encountered continuing harassment from another worker there. She didn’t complain and no one stood up for her. Then her harasser attacked her and beat her to death.
We don’t know whether Outi (pronounced Ootee) was murdered because she was Black, lesbian or just female. But we do know that being all three put her at greater risk. Outi was 32 and a mother of three.
In response, tradeswomen organized Sisters Against Workplace Violence and worked with the Ironworkers Union (IW) to launch a program called Be That One Guy. The program’s aim is to “turn bystanders into upstanders.” Participants learn how to defuse hostile situations and gain the confidence to be able to react when they see harassment.
“Outi Hicks’ murder hit me hard,” says Vicki O’ Leary, the international IW general organizer for safety and diversity. “Companies and unions need to change the focus of their harassment policies and need to get tougher with harassers.”
Often the victim of harassment is moved to a different crew or jobsite in an effort to defuse the situation. But such a response actually punishes the victim and not the aggressor, who remains unaffected and may continue to harass other workers.
O’Leary says one of the most important parts of the program is when participants take the pledge:
“It only takes one guy to talk to the harasser or to file a complaint with the crew boss. It’s even better when the whole crew stands up together to end harassment, and we are now seeing this happen on job sites around the country,” says O’Leary. She tells of an apprentice who was being harassed by a supervisor. Seeing the harassment, everyone on the crew began to treat the supervisor the same way he was treating the apprentice. His behavior changed in a day.
The IW is rolling out the program through their district councils. They want to share it with other unions and, says O’Leary, they’re hoping general contractors will jump on.
Another anti-violence program started by tradeswomen and our allies also is specifically tailored to the construction industry.
ANEW, the pre-apprenticeship training program in Seattle, created its program, RISE Up, to counter the number of people, and especially women, who leave the construction trades because of a hostile work environment. ANEW director, Karen Dove, developed the program after meetings with contractors who would say “women just need tougher skin.”
The program focuses on empowering workers and employers to prevent and respond to workplace violence. It offers a range of services, including training sessions, risk assessments, and support for workers who have experienced violence.
Training sessions are designed to help workers and employers identify the warning signs of workplace violence and take proactive steps to prevent it. The training covers conflict resolution, de-escalation techniques, and the importance of creating a positive work environment.
The program is concerned with psychological well being and is now working with a union to develop mental health services for Black workers.
RISE Up also offers risk assessments to construction companies, which help them identify areas of their workplace that may be at higher risk of violence.
Marquia Wooten, director of RISE Up, says the program is designed to change the culture of construction. Wooten worked in the trades for ten years as a laborer and an operating engineer. “When I was an apprentice they yelled and screamed at me,” she says. She notes that men suffer from harassment too. “The suicide rate of construction workers is number two after vets and first responders,” she said. “Substance abuse is high in construction.”
ANEW partners with cities, public entities, unions, schools and employers. “They do want change in the industry,” says Wooten. Less workplace violence is good for the bottom line.
But training workers is not enough. Union staff needs training in how to respond to harassment as well. Liz Skidmore recently retired as business representative/organizer at North Atlantic States Regional Council of Carpenters. They created a training to help union staff members know what to do when a member complains.
“New federal regulations require that every person on the construction job who comes into contact with apprentices go through anti-harassment and discrimination training,” says Skidmore.
“Most of corporate America requires annual training about sexual harassment, but most trainers don’t know the blue collar world,” she says. Trainers can be classist. “To be effective, the trainer has to like these guys.”
While tradeswomen have long been virtually invisible on the front lines of the Feminist and Civil Rights Movements, we still are the ones who daily confront the most aggressive kind of sexism and racism in our traditionally male jobs. For going on five decades now we have been devising strategies to counter isolation and harassment at work and to increase the numbers of women in the union construction trades. Now we are working to educate the construction industry about how to end workplace violence. Women in construction are still isolated and often the only woman on the job. We need our brothers to act as allies.
As with women in construction, queer and transgender folks must depend on allies to stand up to bullies. We can’t do this by ourselves. The anti-violence programs developed by tradeswomen are programs that we queers can adapt to protect our communities.
Our celebration took place in Santa Rosa, where we live, a city of 177,000. My honey, Holly (L), and I watched the parade with a group of friends. Afterward we checked out the booths and music at the town square. This year saw more marchers and watchers than ever. And if there were haters (as there have been in past years), I never saw them. The vibe was joyful.
The theme this year was Heroes Sheroes and Queeroes. So there were lots of superhero capes among the marchers. The Sebastopol (a nearby small town) Senior Center volunteers made 60 capes with messages, and they won the Best Overall Float prize.
I think maybe there are more old dykes in Sonoma County than anywhere else in the world! We were well represented at Pride. A new organization just started called Senior Lesbians in Community (SLIC). I’m also a member of Old Lesbians Organizing for Change (OLOC) and Lesbian Reunion. The village of Oakmont, a retirement community, has its own lesbo contingent.
The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence has a big congregation here in Sonoma County. They fundraise to support the comunity with fabulous parties, bingo games and campaigns. The Sisters were the sponsors of Gay Pride for many years when it was in Guerneville, a resort town on the Russian River.
So many queers, so little time!
The Democratic Party always shows up at Pride. They sponsor postcard writing parties to help get out the vote for Congressional races around the country. In California we are working to turn red districts blue this year.
As we construct our ofrendas for Day of the Dead, decorate our yards for Halloween and celebrate the pagan holiday Samhain, I’ve been thinking about two other holidays we celebrate this time of year–Indigenous Peoples’ Day and Thanksgiving. This is a story about how the meaning and celebrations of American holidays can evolve to reflect new understanding of our history.
As we learn more details about our history, in the last few years Americans have been rethinking the stories connected with Thanksgiving and Columbus Day.
My generation of students learned to recite, “In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue.” We learned about the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria and that Christopher Columbus “discovered America.”
In elementary school in the 1950s I participated in those Thanksgiving pageants in which you were either a Pilgrim—boys with black buckled hats and shoes, girls in long, aproned dresses and bonnets—or an Indian with feathered headband and tomahawk. The story we enacted was a peaceful meeting and feast between Indians and pilgrims just off the Mayflower. It was the beginning of a happy long relationship between settlers and Indians.
Sadly, almost all of what we were taught was incorrect and incomplete; the myth conveniently left out the parts about genocide, slavery and land theft.
It turns out that Christopher Columbus was a homicidal tyrant who initiated the two greatest crimes in the history of the Western Hemisphere–the Atlantic slave trade, and the American Indian genocide. It’s not dissing Italians to say we no longer venerate this colonizer. Over the last few decades, Columbus Day has evolved into Italian Heritage Day in many locales.
And we are witnessing a movement to honor Native peoples on Columbus Day. It originated in 1989 in South Dakota during its “Year of Reconciliation,” in an effort to atone for terrible history.
The phrase “merciless Indian savages” is written into the Declaration of Independence. That says all we need to know about how the founders of our country viewed the indigenous people in this land.
For centuries, the American government saw Indians as the enemy, sponsoring their slaughter and “removal.” Through a series of notorious atrocities, including the Trail of Tears, the Sand Creek Massacre and Wounded Knee, (and in California, our own Trail of Tears in 1863, and the Bloody Island Clear Lake massacre in 1850, among others) the United States adopted an official expansionist policy of discriminating against Native Americans in favor of encouraging white settlers in their territories. This policy led to the subjugation, oppression, and death of many Native Americans, whose communities still feel its effects. Only in 1924 were Native Americans allowed to become citizens of the United States, and it took decades more for all states to permit them to vote.
But as we Americans acknowledge this history, our contemporary view of Native Americans is changing.
Congresswoman Norma Torres (D-CA) has introduced legislation to establish Indigenous Peoples’ Day as a federal holiday. Now, at least 13 states and over 130 cities have adopted Indigenous Peoples’ Day or Native American Day. In 2021, President Joe Biden formally recognized Indigenous Peoples Day.
Here in Sonoma County indigenous people are well integrated into our local culture and community events. Tribes are consulted by land keepers and planners. Colleges, libraries and nonprofits sponsor classes about indigenous culture. My wife Holly and I attended the Indigenous Peoples’ Day gathering at Santa Rosa Junior College, which featured native dancing, music, drumming, food, speeches and vendors. The SRJC also has a native museum whose latest exhibit features the stories and art of local basket weavers.
As with Columbus, Americans have been taught a false narrative about Thanksgiving.
Two different early gatherings may have inspired the American Thanksgiving holiday. At the first, in 1621, Wampanoagwere not invited to the pilgrims’ feast, but heard celebratory gunshots and came to the aid of the colonists. They had formed a mutual defense pact. Once there, the Indians stayed and feasted, but the feast did not resolve ongoing prejudices or differences between them. Contrary to the Thanksgiving myth, this was not the start of any long-standing tradition between the settlers and the Wampanoag tribe. The myth doesn’t address the deterioration of this relationship, culminating in one of the most horrific colonial Indian wars on record, King Philip’s War.
Ironically, Thanksgiving as a holiday originates from the Native American philosophy of giving without expecting anything in return. The Wampanoag tribe not only provided food for the first feast, but also the teachings of agriculture and hunting. Corn, beans, wild rice, and turkey are some examples of foods introduced by Native Americans.
The first written mention of a “Thanksgiving” celebration occurs in 1637, after the colonists brutally massacred an entire Pequot village of 700 people, then celebrated their barbaric victory, giving thanks to their god.
During Reconstruction, the Thanksgiving myth allowed New Englanders to create the idea of bloodless colonialism, ignoring the Indian Wars and slavery. Americans could feel good about their colonial past without having to confront its really dark characteristics.
Now children you’ve got to learn these lessons whether you want to or not! Puck Magazine 1899.
For many Native Americans, Thanksgiving is a day of mourning and protest since it commemorates the arrival of settlers in North America and the following centuries of oppression and genocide.
Indian protests in the 1960s and 70s often attacked the Thanksgiving myth. In 1969 after natives took over Alcatraz, allies and Indians of all tribes came together for Unthanksgiving Day, a gathering that’s become a tradition, welcoming all visitors to a dawn ceremony on the island.
In 1970 during a Thanksgiving celebration in Plymouth, activists from the American Indian Movement stormed the Mayflower II ship and occupied it in protest. It was then that the United American Indians of New England recognized the fourth Thursday in November as a National Day of Mourning, to bring awareness to the long lasting impacts that colonization had on the Wampanoag and other Native American tribes. This year the in-person event will also be livestreamed.
Americans are told and we want to believe that we are the saviors of the world. But historical truth is far different.
Does the acceptance of Indigenous Peoples Day in place of Columbus Day and the updating of the Thanksgiving myth mean that we Americans are beginning to acknowledge our country’s history of imperialism and genocide? I hope so.
This time of year, and these two holidays, Thanksgiving and Indigenous Peoples Day, give us the opportunity to reflect on our collective history, to celebrate the beauty, strength, and resilience of the Native tribes of North America, and also to conduct our own rituals.
Long before settlers arrived, indigenous people were celebrating the autumn harvest and the gift of the earth’s abundance. Native American spirituality, both traditionally and today, emphasizes gratitude for creation, care for the environment, and recognition of the human need for communion with nature and others. I hope we can incorporate these ideals into our American harvest celebrations while we as a species still live.
Whether or not we cook a big turkey dinner, many of us practice Thanksgiving rituals. My and Holly’s ritual is to get together with our exes. We introduced them at a Thanksgiving dinner 13 years ago and they fell in love. We were surprised, and also delighted. Barb and Ana have become our exes and besties. We are participating in a lesbian tradition of incorporating our exes into our chosen families.
No matter where you are in North America, you are on indigenous land. In Sonoma County we live on unceded territory of the Pomo, Wappo and Coast Miwok tribes.
Good Samhain, Halloween, Day of the Dead and Thanksgiving to you all.
tradeswomn musings 