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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://video.kqed.org/video/brief-but-spectacular-1678142686/\">Judy Heumann\u003c/a> never felt ashamed to use a wheelchair. Rather, what she felt most consistently throughout her life was fury at the many ways she was routinely excluded by a world that treated disabled people as second-class citizens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Disability isn’t a tragedy,” she said in 1990. “The tragedy is being excluded from contributing to society because of a narrow doorway, or lack of a diploma or job.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13955066']Heumann knew all about being excluded. After losing her ability to walk in 1949 after a bout of polio at 18 months old, the New Yorker was denied a place in her local school because the administration there considered her “a fire hazard.” At 9 or 10, she was permitted to join special education classes in the basement of a Brooklyn school. (“We respected each other,” Huemann later said of her classmates, but “in some way, even when we were that young, we all knew we were being sidelined.”) In 1970, despite being qualified to receive her teaching license, the New York City Board of Education deemed her too much of a risk to allow in classrooms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Heumann quickly realized that even organizations set up to battle discrimination might exclude her. When she called the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/aclu\">ACLU\u003c/a> for legal assistance in her fight against the Board of Education, the 22-year-old was told that being denied a teaching license for “medical reasons” didn’t count as discrimination. Heumann wrote in her 2020 autobiography \u003cem>Being Heumann\u003c/em>, that she was frustrated to realize that even the 1964 Civil Rights Act excluded her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[The act is] intended to end discrimination on the basis of race, color, religion and natural origin, but made no mention of disability. There was no law I could quote or legal precedent to cite … There were no disability rights organizations.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was then that Heumann began her lifelong work to methodically and systematically transform America for people with disabilities. She refused to be daunted in the face of much more powerful forces. She refused to back down from any of her battles, no matter what blocked her path. And by the time of her death in 2023, at the age of 75, Heumann’s impact was seismic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Heumann’s life of activism began when she decided to ignore the ACLU’s assessment that she wasn’t being discriminated against. Instead, she sued the Board of Education and won. As a result, Heumann became the first wheelchair-using teacher in New York. In the course of that battle, she also founded and became president of \u003ca href=\"https://www.disabledinaction.org/\">Disabled in Action\u003c/a> (DIA). The disability rights organization used protests, letter-writing campaigns, statements at public hearings and calls to public officials to make headway with their struggles. Its members absolutely refused to blend into the background.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966863\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1662px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966863\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest.jpg\" alt=\"Men and women — some of them using wheelchairs — carry protest signs in the street.\" width=\"1662\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest.jpg 1662w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-800x963.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-1020x1227.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-160x193.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-768x924.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-1276x1536.jpg 1276w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1662px) 100vw, 1662px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Judy Heumann, protesting at San Francisco’s Civic Center in May 1980. \u003ccite>(San Francisco Chronicle/Hearst Newspapers via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“We didn’t just come to meetings,” Heumann said in the 2020 documentary \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13877373/now-playing-crip-camp-recalls-coming-of-age-through-activism\">\u003cem>Crip Camp\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. “We yelled out at meetings, we challenged people. We were definitely considered a militant organization because we were very strong in our actions; because we disrupted things.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Heumann brought that energy with her when she first came to study at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/uc-berkeley\">UC Berkeley\u003c/a>. After earning a degree in speech therapy from Long Island University in 1969, Heumann got her master’s in public health at Berkeley in 1975. On campus, she was energized by the wealth of student organizing taking place during the era and joined the board of the \u003ca href=\"https://thecil.org/\">Center for Independent Living\u003c/a> (CIL) in 1973. CIL had been founded a year earlier by Ed Roberts, the first wheelchair user to attend UC Berkeley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13964200']The organization was determined to act as a support network for people with disabilities, offering accessible transit, personal assistant referrals, help locating suitable housing and jobs, and even running a wheelchair repair shop. CIL’s end goal was self-sufficiency for all disabled people. Heumann’s focus, as always, was turning community frustration into positive action. Her talent for doing so would become abundantly clear in April 1977, when she and around 100 other protesters staged a 26-day sit-in at the Department of Health, Education and Welfare inside San Francisco’s Federal Building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lengthy protest was all part of an effort to get Section 504 of 1973’s Rehabilitation Act signed and enacted by the Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare. Section 504 prohibited discrimination by any organization that was receiving federal funds. (Incidentally, President Nixon only signed the Rehabilitation Act after Heumann and 50 other protesters shut down a major intersection of Manhattan with a protest outside Nixon’s New York headquarters.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Heumann and her cohorts knew that getting the measure signed would force a major change in how public transport, public buildings, schools and a variety of other institutions accommodated people with disabilities. The sit-in was especially arduous for the protesters due to their reliance on medications, assistants and therapeutic equipment. Nevertheless, they persisted, with Heumann often singing to keep spirits lifted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13877414\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13877414\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER.jpg\" alt=\"A woman in a wheelchair speaks enthusiastically into a microphone. She is wearing an anorak and glasses.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER-1020x574.jpg 1020w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Judy Heumann at the mic in 1980. \u003ccite>(HolLynn D'Lil)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Heumann and her friends had outside support too. Civil rights groups across the Bay Area rushed to support the sit-in. The Black Panthers brought the protesters hot meals on a nightly basis. Union members, multiple civil rights organizations and key leaders at GLIDE (including Rev. Cecil Williams) were vocal supporters who stepped up to offer assistance in whatever way they could.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a lengthy standoff — including attempts to cut off protesters’ access to phones, hot water and food (several, including Heumann, had opted to go on hunger strike regardless) — Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare Joseph Califano finally signed Section 504. Heumann highlighted to the press that the sustained protest was proof of disabled people’s “stamina, strength [and] intelligence.” She understood how limited public perceptions were at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elated at their victory, Heumann and her fellow protesters knew there was still much to be done. Though on paper, Section 504 meant federally funded entities must accommodate disabled people, excuses were made repeatedly about why action would not be taken immediately. (The American Public Transit Association, for example, said it couldn’t afford to put wheelchair lifts into buses, even though the cost was the same as installing air conditioning). To make matters worse, better legal protections were still badly needed at a federal level to make all public places more accessible, and to make employer discrimination illegal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13919491']During this period, Heumann continued to campaign in earnest as CIL’s senior deputy director. In Oakland, she co-founded the World Institute on Disability (WID) to begin advocating for disability rights around the globe. CIL also set up a new organization to better handle ongoing legal matters. The \u003ca href=\"https://dredf.org/\">Disability Rights Education and Defense Fund\u003c/a> (DREDF) was the first legal organization run by and for people with disabilities. As such, it was inundated with calls from people all over the U.S. seeking advice on how to make their own towns and cities more accessible. But DREDF had already begun formulating a big idea to touch every corner of America in one swoop: the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took until 1988 for the first version of the ADA to reach Congress. It failed to pass. A second version arrived in May 1989, but when it still hadn’t passed 10 months later, 1,000 protesters descended on Washington, D.C. to make their voices heard. Scores of disabled activists dropped to the ground and literally dragged themselves up the 83 inaccessible steps of the Capitol building. It was an image that lawmakers wouldn’t soon forget.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On July 26, 1990, President George H.W. Bush finally signed the ADA into law. “Let the shameful wall of exclusion finally come tumbling down,” he declared.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just three years later, Heumann would take on the role of assistant secretary for the Office of Special Education and Rehabilitative Services in Bill Clinton’s Department of Education. She served for the duration of the president’s term, as she did when Barack Obama gave her the role of special advisor for international disability rights in the Department of State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the rest of her life, Heumann never, ever stopped advocating for people with disabilities. And when she received praise for the multitude of ways she helped change countless lives for the better, her response was always rooted in humility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As she wrote in her 2021 book, \u003cem>Rolling Warrior\u003c/em>: “All we did was refuse to believe that we were the problem.”\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>To learn about other Rebel Girls from Bay Area History, visit the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rebel Girls homepage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A book celebrating women from the Rebel Girls series, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">‘Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area,’\u003c/a> is available now from City Lights.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was then that Heumann began her lifelong work to methodically and systematically transform America for people with disabilities. She refused to be daunted in the face of much more powerful forces. She refused to back down from any of her battles, no matter what blocked her path. And by the time of her death in 2023, at the age of 75, Heumann’s impact was seismic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Heumann’s life of activism began when she decided to ignore the ACLU’s assessment that she wasn’t being discriminated against. Instead, she sued the Board of Education and won. As a result, Heumann became the first wheelchair-using teacher in New York. In the course of that battle, she also founded and became president of \u003ca href=\"https://www.disabledinaction.org/\">Disabled in Action\u003c/a> (DIA). The disability rights organization used protests, letter-writing campaigns, statements at public hearings and calls to public officials to make headway with their struggles. Its members absolutely refused to blend into the background.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966863\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1662px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966863\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest.jpg\" alt=\"Men and women — some of them using wheelchairs — carry protest signs in the street.\" width=\"1662\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest.jpg 1662w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-800x963.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-1020x1227.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-160x193.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-768x924.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/judy-protest-1276x1536.jpg 1276w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1662px) 100vw, 1662px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Judy Heumann, protesting at San Francisco’s Civic Center in May 1980. \u003ccite>(San Francisco Chronicle/Hearst Newspapers via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“We didn’t just come to meetings,” Heumann said in the 2020 documentary \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13877373/now-playing-crip-camp-recalls-coming-of-age-through-activism\">\u003cem>Crip Camp\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. “We yelled out at meetings, we challenged people. We were definitely considered a militant organization because we were very strong in our actions; because we disrupted things.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Heumann brought that energy with her when she first came to study at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/uc-berkeley\">UC Berkeley\u003c/a>. After earning a degree in speech therapy from Long Island University in 1969, Heumann got her master’s in public health at Berkeley in 1975. On campus, she was energized by the wealth of student organizing taking place during the era and joined the board of the \u003ca href=\"https://thecil.org/\">Center for Independent Living\u003c/a> (CIL) in 1973. CIL had been founded a year earlier by Ed Roberts, the first wheelchair user to attend UC Berkeley.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The organization was determined to act as a support network for people with disabilities, offering accessible transit, personal assistant referrals, help locating suitable housing and jobs, and even running a wheelchair repair shop. CIL’s end goal was self-sufficiency for all disabled people. Heumann’s focus, as always, was turning community frustration into positive action. Her talent for doing so would become abundantly clear in April 1977, when she and around 100 other protesters staged a 26-day sit-in at the Department of Health, Education and Welfare inside San Francisco’s Federal Building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lengthy protest was all part of an effort to get Section 504 of 1973’s Rehabilitation Act signed and enacted by the Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare. Section 504 prohibited discrimination by any organization that was receiving federal funds. (Incidentally, President Nixon only signed the Rehabilitation Act after Heumann and 50 other protesters shut down a major intersection of Manhattan with a protest outside Nixon’s New York headquarters.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Heumann and her cohorts knew that getting the measure signed would force a major change in how public transport, public buildings, schools and a variety of other institutions accommodated people with disabilities. The sit-in was especially arduous for the protesters due to their reliance on medications, assistants and therapeutic equipment. Nevertheless, they persisted, with Heumann often singing to keep spirits lifted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13877414\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13877414\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER.jpg\" alt=\"A woman in a wheelchair speaks enthusiastically into a microphone. She is wearing an anorak and glasses.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/03/01078_HolLynnDLil_504-early-rally_folder-0-image-13_REF_COVER-1020x574.jpg 1020w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Judy Heumann at the mic in 1980. \u003ccite>(HolLynn D'Lil)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Heumann and her friends had outside support too. Civil rights groups across the Bay Area rushed to support the sit-in. The Black Panthers brought the protesters hot meals on a nightly basis. Union members, multiple civil rights organizations and key leaders at GLIDE (including Rev. Cecil Williams) were vocal supporters who stepped up to offer assistance in whatever way they could.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a lengthy standoff — including attempts to cut off protesters’ access to phones, hot water and food (several, including Heumann, had opted to go on hunger strike regardless) — Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare Joseph Califano finally signed Section 504. Heumann highlighted to the press that the sustained protest was proof of disabled people’s “stamina, strength [and] intelligence.” She understood how limited public perceptions were at the time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elated at their victory, Heumann and her fellow protesters knew there was still much to be done. Though on paper, Section 504 meant federally funded entities must accommodate disabled people, excuses were made repeatedly about why action would not be taken immediately. (The American Public Transit Association, for example, said it couldn’t afford to put wheelchair lifts into buses, even though the cost was the same as installing air conditioning). To make matters worse, better legal protections were still badly needed at a federal level to make all public places more accessible, and to make employer discrimination illegal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>During this period, Heumann continued to campaign in earnest as CIL’s senior deputy director. In Oakland, she co-founded the World Institute on Disability (WID) to begin advocating for disability rights around the globe. CIL also set up a new organization to better handle ongoing legal matters. The \u003ca href=\"https://dredf.org/\">Disability Rights Education and Defense Fund\u003c/a> (DREDF) was the first legal organization run by and for people with disabilities. As such, it was inundated with calls from people all over the U.S. seeking advice on how to make their own towns and cities more accessible. But DREDF had already begun formulating a big idea to touch every corner of America in one swoop: the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took until 1988 for the first version of the ADA to reach Congress. It failed to pass. A second version arrived in May 1989, but when it still hadn’t passed 10 months later, 1,000 protesters descended on Washington, D.C. to make their voices heard. Scores of disabled activists dropped to the ground and literally dragged themselves up the 83 inaccessible steps of the Capitol building. It was an image that lawmakers wouldn’t soon forget.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On July 26, 1990, President George H.W. Bush finally signed the ADA into law. “Let the shameful wall of exclusion finally come tumbling down,” he declared.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just three years later, Heumann would take on the role of assistant secretary for the Office of Special Education and Rehabilitative Services in Bill Clinton’s Department of Education. She served for the duration of the president’s term, as she did when Barack Obama gave her the role of special advisor for international disability rights in the Department of State.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the rest of her life, Heumann never, ever stopped advocating for people with disabilities. And when she received praise for the multitude of ways she helped change countless lives for the better, her response was always rooted in humility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As she wrote in her 2021 book, \u003cem>Rolling Warrior\u003c/em>: “All we did was refuse to believe that we were the problem.”\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>To learn about other Rebel Girls from Bay Area History, visit the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rebel Girls homepage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A book celebrating women from the Rebel Girls series, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">‘Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area,’\u003c/a> is available now from City Lights.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Inspiration can spark in the most mundane circumstances. In 1964, a young composer named Terry Riley was on his way to work — playing ragtime piano at San Francisco’s Gold Street Saloon — when he had a light bulb moment that would alter the American musical landscape. A tiny, hiccuping, 2-note seed unexpectedly came to him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was riding to work on the bus when I heard this first line come into my consciousness like somebody was playing it to me,” Riley recalls. “And I got quite excited, so as soon as I got off work that night, I went home and wrote down the first line.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzmi7Wm10Y0\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That seed blossomed into \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>, a piece which essentially launched the musical movement later known as minimalism.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early ’60s, Riley was among a cohort of free-thinking West Coast musicians experimenting with music, especially tape loops, and psychedelic drugs. The rest of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> came to him quickly, but even after he had gathered all the musical ingredients, the piece wasn’t quite ready for prime time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When we first started rehearsing it, nobody, including me, knew how to play it,” Riley says. “I had a kind of idea of how it should sound, but to rehearse it and actually turn it into music took a bit of doing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took some doing because one of the things that makes \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> innovative is that it carries so few guidelines. And that’s the idea — the composer gives up control to the performers. The score is just a single page containing 53 short musical “riffs” that any number of musicians can play in order, but at their discretion. Every performance, by design, will sound completely different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13967652']One challenge the players faced in those early rehearsals was the lack of a solid pulse, a kind of click track to keep the players together. Enter Steve Reich. He was among the musicians who helped Riley introduce the piece, along with other soon-to-be-legendary composers Morton Subotnick and Pauline Oliveros.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>William Robin, a University of Maryland music professor, has written about the history of the music in his book \u003cem>On Minimalism — Documenting a Musical Movement\u003c/em>, co-authored with Kerry O’Brien. He believes Reich’s contribution to \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> can’t be overstated. “Reich makes a simple but profound suggestion: What if a pianist simply plays two Cs high on the keyboard in octaves to start the piece and go continuously throughout?” Robin notes. “Basically it functions as a human metronome.” That pulse, he adds, is fundamental to the sound of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>, giving it an infectious groove.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967715\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967715\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley.png\" alt=\"A young man in a shirt and vest plays a piano inside a bar.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1488\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley.png 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-800x595.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-1020x759.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-160x119.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-768x571.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-1536x1143.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-1920x1428.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Terry Riley in 1961 at San Francisco’s Gold Street Saloon, where he played ragtime piano. Three years later, on a bus ride to the Saloon, he first formed the idea for ‘In C.’ \u003ccite>(Terry Riley Archives)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Finally, on Nov. 4, 1964, Riley and his group of like-minded musicians debuted \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> at San Francisco’s Tape Music Center, a haven of electronic and new music. Four days later, the headline for a review of the concert in the \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> read: “Music Like none Other on Earth.” The reviewer, Alfred Frankenstein, ended by declaring \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> “the evening’s masterpiece.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cellist Maya Beiser agrees. She first heard \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> as a 17-year-old high schooler who stumbled across the LP in a record shop. “I immediately felt that it was such a genius thing, akin to E=mc\u003csup>2\u003c/sup>,” she says. “The idea of an open score was just so beautiful and revolutionary. I was blown away by that simple idea and by the notion of freedom that it presented.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13967625']Beiser released her own unique version of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> earlier this year. Her experiment began as an off-the-cuff gift for Riley, then after his blessing, it blossomed into a recording.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Appropriate to Riley’s improvisatory way of thinking, Beiser and her recording engineer began with a mostly blank slate, just Riley’s spartan score. “We started to kind of loop all those melodic modules and I literally found my way into it as I was going because I deliberately didn’t want to decide anything,” she recalls. Armed with just her cello, a looping machine and a pair of percussionists, Beiser emphasizes the deep, sometimes headbanging, grooves inherent in the music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She broke it down into sections and integrated each section very distinctly,” Riley says. “Something I hadn’t thought of doing myself. There’s always somebody finding new ways to use these materials.” In Beiser’s rendition, there’s a grungy section with whiffs of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir,” a vocal passage interlacing her voice and cello in a nod to the medieval hocket style of singing, and plenty of lovely droning with the low C string of Beiser’s processed cello ricocheting off the drummers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kMXABhDw5zw\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-embed is-type-video\">\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Unlike Beiser’s mostly solo approach, \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> is usually played by at least a dozen or more musicians, which emphasizes its communal powers. “One of the things that \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> has done over the years, has helped to connect people of different backgrounds,” Riley says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That connection mushroomed in 1968, when Riley recorded \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> for Columbia Records. Suddenly, this strange new music was catapulted directly into the mainstream, while taking aim at the new, youthful counterculture. \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> was on the map, with an album that actually \u003cem>contained\u003c/em> a map to the piece itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was an incredibly popular recording,” Robin says. “It stayed in Columbia’s catalog, unlike plenty of other avant-garde records. And one of the cool things is that it actually prints the full score for the piece on the sleeve of the record. So they were empowering people, potentially, to actually organize their own performances of this piece.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This was at a time, Robin points out, “when a lot of American composition is extremely inaccessible in terms of the musical language — composers writing highly atonal, cerebral scientific music.” \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>, in its singular way, thumbed its nose at the academy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13967509']“Terry just came into it from a completely different place,” Beiser notes. “Because he studied in India, he was influenced by Indian classical music, by African music, by all these other non-Western traditions, and of course, free jazz improvisation.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Improvisation is at the heart of much of Riley’s music. And one way in which \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> takes a page from Indian classical music is that within strict parameters there’s room for the player to make their own decisions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What makes \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> such a landmark work is that it is kind of right at the center of pushing the boundaries of what music could be,” Robin says, “while also having this incredibly rich and attractive soundscape that’s groovy in a way that pop music was groovy in the mid-’60s.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>In C\u003c/em> has been groovy enough to attract a surprisingly wide array of musicians. A brief survey of recordings includes: an\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGCp4PPaRSg&t=181s\"> orchestra of Chinese instruments\u003c/a> from Shanghai,\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDd9WY9ddDs\"> musicians\u003c/a> from West Africa, a Swiss\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQpHLbDI-b4&list=PLOpS8ze-MAmFecrwk9N0szxKWr4A5O0rS&index=8\"> industrial band\u003c/a>,\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gO5xa01tfV8\"> Indian musicians\u003c/a> from Brooklyn, Japanese\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fH0ml4yp-Rs\"> acid rock\u003c/a>, a group of\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7FmozBZBG8\"> 10 harpists\u003c/a> in Holland and an orchestra of\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmttdbOW3Ys\"> electric guitars\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmttdbOW3Ys\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Riley’s piece also works perfectly in amateur settings. With his students, Robin organizes annual performances of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>. “It is just one of those joyful experiences as a musician,” he says. “The nature of the music — it is at once fully notated, but it has the sound, the ethos, of this kind of communal jam session, where musicians are repeating these little riffs over and over and over again.” At Robin’s most recent performance in May, bassoon, tuba and piano traded riffs with banjo, vibraphones and Robin’s own alto sax, amid a wash of another dozen players.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even at the beginning, Riley understood how \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> was influential. “Other composers were taking an interest in what I was doing,” he remembers. “So I knew that it was going to have some significance.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13967351']It turned out to be game-changing. Both Philip Glass and Steve Reich quickly embraced Riley’s evolving repetition. It’s hard to imagine minimalist classics like Glass’\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRerJeYmUgY\"> \u003cem>Einstein on the Beach\u003c/em>\u003c/a> from 1976, or Reich’s\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ou9J844io0\"> \u003cem>Music for 18 Musicians\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, completed that same year, without \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>. And today, the music is all around us, from Taylor Swift’s song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HpxX4ZE4KWE\">Peace\u003c/a>,” with its copycat Riley pulse, to music for television, film and\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAFIWlEUXoQ\"> commercials\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While we’re not living in the same counterculture-fueled moment as Riley was when he wrote his most famous piece, there is a strong appetite today for ambient and electronic music you can bliss out to, and for performances of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> itself. “People want to go hear an hour of transcendent music,” Robin suggests. “And it’s a tribute to this lightning rod moment for Riley, where he put it all down to the endurance of minimalism as an artistic movement that’s been so profoundly influential on popular culture.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At 89, Riley still composes every day, with a view of Mount Fuji from his home in Japan. And he doesn’t mind looking back to that bus ride so long ago, and the spark of inspiration that helped ignite a musical movement with a piece of music that, after 60 years, continues to fascinate new audiences and evolve in the hands of anyone who plays it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“\u003cem>In C\u003c/em> is like one of your children,” he says with a wry chuckle. “They went out, became famous, did some good things, met some other people. And turned out to be something different than you imagined at the beginning.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Inspiration can spark in the most mundane circumstances. In 1964, a young composer named Terry Riley was on his way to work — playing ragtime piano at San Francisco’s Gold Street Saloon — when he had a light bulb moment that would alter the American musical landscape. A tiny, hiccuping, 2-note seed unexpectedly came to him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was riding to work on the bus when I heard this first line come into my consciousness like somebody was playing it to me,” Riley recalls. “And I got quite excited, so as soon as I got off work that night, I went home and wrote down the first line.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/qzmi7Wm10Y0'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/qzmi7Wm10Y0'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>That seed blossomed into \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>, a piece which essentially launched the musical movement later known as minimalism.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early ’60s, Riley was among a cohort of free-thinking West Coast musicians experimenting with music, especially tape loops, and psychedelic drugs. The rest of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> came to him quickly, but even after he had gathered all the musical ingredients, the piece wasn’t quite ready for prime time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When we first started rehearsing it, nobody, including me, knew how to play it,” Riley says. “I had a kind of idea of how it should sound, but to rehearse it and actually turn it into music took a bit of doing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It took some doing because one of the things that makes \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> innovative is that it carries so few guidelines. And that’s the idea — the composer gives up control to the performers. The score is just a single page containing 53 short musical “riffs” that any number of musicians can play in order, but at their discretion. Every performance, by design, will sound completely different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>One challenge the players faced in those early rehearsals was the lack of a solid pulse, a kind of click track to keep the players together. Enter Steve Reich. He was among the musicians who helped Riley introduce the piece, along with other soon-to-be-legendary composers Morton Subotnick and Pauline Oliveros.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>William Robin, a University of Maryland music professor, has written about the history of the music in his book \u003cem>On Minimalism — Documenting a Musical Movement\u003c/em>, co-authored with Kerry O’Brien. He believes Reich’s contribution to \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> can’t be overstated. “Reich makes a simple but profound suggestion: What if a pianist simply plays two Cs high on the keyboard in octaves to start the piece and go continuously throughout?” Robin notes. “Basically it functions as a human metronome.” That pulse, he adds, is fundamental to the sound of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>, giving it an infectious groove.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967715\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967715\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley.png\" alt=\"A young man in a shirt and vest plays a piano inside a bar.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1488\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley.png 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-800x595.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-1020x759.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-160x119.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-768x571.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-1536x1143.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/11/riley-1920x1428.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Terry Riley in 1961 at San Francisco’s Gold Street Saloon, where he played ragtime piano. Three years later, on a bus ride to the Saloon, he first formed the idea for ‘In C.’ \u003ccite>(Terry Riley Archives)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Finally, on Nov. 4, 1964, Riley and his group of like-minded musicians debuted \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> at San Francisco’s Tape Music Center, a haven of electronic and new music. Four days later, the headline for a review of the concert in the \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> read: “Music Like none Other on Earth.” The reviewer, Alfred Frankenstein, ended by declaring \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> “the evening’s masterpiece.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cellist Maya Beiser agrees. She first heard \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> as a 17-year-old high schooler who stumbled across the LP in a record shop. “I immediately felt that it was such a genius thing, akin to E=mc\u003csup>2\u003c/sup>,” she says. “The idea of an open score was just so beautiful and revolutionary. I was blown away by that simple idea and by the notion of freedom that it presented.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Beiser released her own unique version of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> earlier this year. Her experiment began as an off-the-cuff gift for Riley, then after his blessing, it blossomed into a recording.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Appropriate to Riley’s improvisatory way of thinking, Beiser and her recording engineer began with a mostly blank slate, just Riley’s spartan score. “We started to kind of loop all those melodic modules and I literally found my way into it as I was going because I deliberately didn’t want to decide anything,” she recalls. Armed with just her cello, a looping machine and a pair of percussionists, Beiser emphasizes the deep, sometimes headbanging, grooves inherent in the music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She broke it down into sections and integrated each section very distinctly,” Riley says. “Something I hadn’t thought of doing myself. There’s always somebody finding new ways to use these materials.” In Beiser’s rendition, there’s a grungy section with whiffs of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir,” a vocal passage interlacing her voice and cello in a nod to the medieval hocket style of singing, and plenty of lovely droning with the low C string of Beiser’s processed cello ricocheting off the drummers.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/kMXABhDw5zw'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/kMXABhDw5zw'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cfigure class=\"wp-block-embed is-type-video\">\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Unlike Beiser’s mostly solo approach, \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> is usually played by at least a dozen or more musicians, which emphasizes its communal powers. “One of the things that \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> has done over the years, has helped to connect people of different backgrounds,” Riley says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That connection mushroomed in 1968, when Riley recorded \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> for Columbia Records. Suddenly, this strange new music was catapulted directly into the mainstream, while taking aim at the new, youthful counterculture. \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> was on the map, with an album that actually \u003cem>contained\u003c/em> a map to the piece itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was an incredibly popular recording,” Robin says. “It stayed in Columbia’s catalog, unlike plenty of other avant-garde records. And one of the cool things is that it actually prints the full score for the piece on the sleeve of the record. So they were empowering people, potentially, to actually organize their own performances of this piece.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This was at a time, Robin points out, “when a lot of American composition is extremely inaccessible in terms of the musical language — composers writing highly atonal, cerebral scientific music.” \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>, in its singular way, thumbed its nose at the academy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“Terry just came into it from a completely different place,” Beiser notes. “Because he studied in India, he was influenced by Indian classical music, by African music, by all these other non-Western traditions, and of course, free jazz improvisation.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Improvisation is at the heart of much of Riley’s music. And one way in which \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> takes a page from Indian classical music is that within strict parameters there’s room for the player to make their own decisions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What makes \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> such a landmark work is that it is kind of right at the center of pushing the boundaries of what music could be,” Robin says, “while also having this incredibly rich and attractive soundscape that’s groovy in a way that pop music was groovy in the mid-’60s.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>In C\u003c/em> has been groovy enough to attract a surprisingly wide array of musicians. A brief survey of recordings includes: an\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YGCp4PPaRSg&t=181s\"> orchestra of Chinese instruments\u003c/a> from Shanghai,\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDd9WY9ddDs\"> musicians\u003c/a> from West Africa, a Swiss\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fQpHLbDI-b4&list=PLOpS8ze-MAmFecrwk9N0szxKWr4A5O0rS&index=8\"> industrial band\u003c/a>,\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gO5xa01tfV8\"> Indian musicians\u003c/a> from Brooklyn, Japanese\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fH0ml4yp-Rs\"> acid rock\u003c/a>, a group of\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7FmozBZBG8\"> 10 harpists\u003c/a> in Holland and an orchestra of\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmttdbOW3Ys\"> electric guitars\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/LmttdbOW3Ys'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/LmttdbOW3Ys'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Riley’s piece also works perfectly in amateur settings. With his students, Robin organizes annual performances of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>. “It is just one of those joyful experiences as a musician,” he says. “The nature of the music — it is at once fully notated, but it has the sound, the ethos, of this kind of communal jam session, where musicians are repeating these little riffs over and over and over again.” At Robin’s most recent performance in May, bassoon, tuba and piano traded riffs with banjo, vibraphones and Robin’s own alto sax, amid a wash of another dozen players.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even at the beginning, Riley understood how \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> was influential. “Other composers were taking an interest in what I was doing,” he remembers. “So I knew that it was going to have some significance.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It turned out to be game-changing. Both Philip Glass and Steve Reich quickly embraced Riley’s evolving repetition. It’s hard to imagine minimalist classics like Glass’\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRerJeYmUgY\"> \u003cem>Einstein on the Beach\u003c/em>\u003c/a> from 1976, or Reich’s\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ou9J844io0\"> \u003cem>Music for 18 Musicians\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, completed that same year, without \u003cem>In C\u003c/em>. And today, the music is all around us, from Taylor Swift’s song “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HpxX4ZE4KWE\">Peace\u003c/a>,” with its copycat Riley pulse, to music for television, film and\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAFIWlEUXoQ\"> commercials\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While we’re not living in the same counterculture-fueled moment as Riley was when he wrote his most famous piece, there is a strong appetite today for ambient and electronic music you can bliss out to, and for performances of \u003cem>In C\u003c/em> itself. “People want to go hear an hour of transcendent music,” Robin suggests. “And it’s a tribute to this lightning rod moment for Riley, where he put it all down to the endurance of minimalism as an artistic movement that’s been so profoundly influential on popular culture.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At 89, Riley still composes every day, with a view of Mount Fuji from his home in Japan. And he doesn’t mind looking back to that bus ride so long ago, and the spark of inspiration that helped ignite a musical movement with a piece of music that, after 60 years, continues to fascinate new audiences and evolve in the hands of anyone who plays it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“\u003cem>In C\u003c/em> is like one of your children,” he says with a wry chuckle. “They went out, became famous, did some good things, met some other people. And turned out to be something different than you imagined at the beginning.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "ghost-legends-from-around-the-world-paranormal-hauntings-apparitions-legends",
"title": "Scary Legends From Around the World You Probably Haven’t Heard",
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"headTitle": "Scary Legends From Around the World You Probably Haven’t Heard | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>Some are well-worn warnings as familiar as the changing of seasons. Others are slow burns that end with a bang. Still others are just plain eerie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13884403']Stories of spiritual entities, paranormal activity and creepy cryptids are passed through generations the world over, becoming local legends that only sometimes reach across borders and cultures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So if the sordid tales you grew up with no longer make you shiver, it’s time to reanimate your roster with global tales of ghosts, hauntings, and petrifying processions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With Halloween nigh, and the season in many parts of the world ripe for campfires and spooky stories, people gravitate toward fear even in a complex and sometimes scary world. Here are some favorites — lore and fiction, with maybe some truth sprinkled throughout — that The Associated Press gathered from its journalists around the planet:\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967490\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2464px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967490\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043.jpg\" alt=\"An Asian person in white face paint posing in a menacing position.\" width=\"2464\" height=\"1648\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043.jpg 2464w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-800x535.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-1020x682.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-768x514.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-1536x1027.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-2048x1370.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-1920x1284.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2464px) 100vw, 2464px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Yo-ho, yo-ho, beware fake paper money scatterings! \u003ccite>(K. Y. Cheng/South China Morning Post via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>China: The corpse walkers\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>If you were out on the road in China in the old days — if you believe the stories, that is — you might have encountered a strange procession.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, a man carrying a white paper lantern and scattering fake paper money ahead of them, chanting, “Yo ho, yo ho.” Then, a towering, hooded black figure wearing a ghastly mask and marching in an awkward, wooden gait. Bringing up the rear, another man guiding the giant by touch, perhaps with a black cat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were corpse walkers — and the giant was the corpse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13883118']Bad things happen when someone gets buried far from home: Without descendants to feed their spirit and keep their grave clean, they’ll have a hard time settling in. They could even come back as a hungry ghost. So when a traveler died, the family would hire people who knew the strange art of walking a stiff body home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When interviewer Liao Yiwu asked about memories of corpse walkers in the 2000s, some said they’d use a black cat to imbue the body with static electricity to make it walk. Others said there was a third man hiding under the cloak and giving the corpse a piggyback ride.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>People kept their distance, he wrote, but the corpse walkers were always welcome at inns because they paid three times the normal rate and were said to bring good luck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By David Cohen in Bangkok\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>France: The legend of St. Denis\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of France’s oldest spooky legends is also one of its most gruesome, because it involves a walking headless corpse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Said to have been Paris’ first bishop, Denis — later St. Denis — went on to lend his name to what is now the northern Paris suburb of Saint-Denis, famous for its magnificent basilica, its soccer stadium and the Olympic village that housed athletes during the Paris Games.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The third-century Roman rulers of what was then Gaul were apparently less than thrilled that Denis and companions Rustique and Éleuthère were making converts. Even after tossing them in prison, Denis continued to celebrate Mass. In some accounts, Denis suffered all manner of unspeakable tortures to make him renounce his faith — not just run-of-the-mill flagellation, but also mauling by famished wild beasts and being locked in a scorching oven.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eventually, the three were sentenced to death and beheaded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Legend has it that Denis’ corpse, lifted by two angels, picked up his severed head and walked from the Mount of Martyrs — the supposed execution site now called Montmartre — for about 6 kilometers (nearly 4 miles) before collapsing in the village of Catulliacum, now the town of Saint-Denis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Montmartre today, Suzanne Buisson Square has a statue of St. Denis holding his head, which he is said to have washed in the waters of a fountain there before staggering away with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By John Leicester in Paris\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Mongolia: The death worm\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Slithering beneath the vast dunes of the Gobi Desert, legend has it, is the monstrous Mongolian Death Worm. It kills prey by squirting lethal venom and can even electrocute from a distance. So goes the folklore that has since inspired depictions of deadly giant worms in movies and fiction. In Mongolia, the creature is known as olgoi khorkhoi, which roughly translates as “intestine worm.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13894837']The critter became known abroad after American paleontologist and explorer Roy Chapman Andrews wrote about it in his 1926 book, “On the Trail of Ancient Man: A Narrative of the Field Work of the Central Asiatic Expeditions.” During a meeting with the Mongolian premier, Andrews was asked to capture a specimen of the giant worm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“None of those present ever had seen the creature, but they all firmly believed in its existence and described it minutely,” he wrote. “It is shaped like a sausage about two feet long, has no head nor legs and is so poisonous that merely to touch it means instant death.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some believe the lore began with a more common animal — a snake called the Tartar sand boa. Others, undeterred, believe the giant worms exists. Subsequent expeditions have yet to yield any proof.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Emily Wang Fujiyama in Beijing\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967491\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13967491 size-full\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A traditional print depicting a woman throwing a knife at a man's chest. Behind her stands a demon with a a bent nose and long ears.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1771\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-800x553.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-1020x705.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-160x111.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-768x531.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-1536x1062.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-2048x1416.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-1920x1328.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Maybe don’t get involved with Bárbara, fellas… \u003ccite>(Sepia Times/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Brazil: Bárbara of the Pleasures\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It’s the turn of the 19th century, and colonial Rio de Janeiro is bustling. There are merchants, vendors, enslaved people, sailors — and a Portuguese immigrant, about 20 years old, named Bárbara. Legend says she stabbed her sleeping husband to run off with a lover, who then began exploiting her. Bárbara killed him, too, and was on her own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the story goes, she turned to sex work inside the Teles Arch. The dank, dark passage led off the plaza where the Portuguese emperor sat, and members of the royal court became faithful clients of the beautiful courtesan known as Bárbara of the Pleasures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But age and disease caught up to her. One chronicler, Hermeto Lima, wrote in 1921 of a hole in Bárbara’s nose, her bulging eyes, scratched eyelids and skeletal hands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13919589']To rejuvenate, Bárbara started washing with animal blood. When that failed, it’s said, she used blood from infants abandoned in the Wheel of the Exposed — the revolving compartment for foundlings outside a Catholic institution. Between 1738 and 1848, 20,966 babies were left in the wheel, according to text of an imperial ministry report provided by Esther Arantes, a retired professor in the infancy department of the State University of Rio de Janeiro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Arantes’ archival research yielded no evidence of Bárbara, but Rio’s rumor mill claimed otherwise:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whenever someone brought a baby to the wheel, “the miserable woman, like a toad, came out from her hiding place, and ran to steal the child,” Lima wrote, adding Bárbara would make sure to drip its blood upon her leprous ulcers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bárbara disappeared, but her story lingers. Word is that she still prowls Teles Arch by night, surviving on the blood of babes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By David Biller in Rio de Janeiro\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Nigeria: Madam Koi Koi\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In Nigeria, the “Madam Koi Koi” ghost story was a nightmare for students in boarding secondary schools.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The “madam” in question often walked around hostels with her red heels, especially at night, the sound of “koi koi” trailing behind her. You dare not come out if anyone raised an alarm that they heard the sound. Sometimes horrified students ran out and hostels were shut until morning, or even for days.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The backstory? No one knows for sure, but one popular theory was that she was fired as a teacher and died days later — vengeful, jobless and sad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Dyepkazah Shibayan in Abuja, Nigeria\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Britain: The Talbot Hotel\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A sobbing woman. Ghostly, dressed in white — or, sometimes, black. And a storied oak staircase with royal connections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The spooky stories revolve around a staircase that still stands at The Talbot Hotel in Oundle — a United Kingdom market town about 85 miles (135 kilometers) north of London that’s been around since the 1500s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13892672']Mary, Queen of Scots — rival to England’s Queen Elizabeth I — is said to have descended the very same flight of steps on the way to her execution in 1587. But at the time, the multilevel structure was part of nearby Fotheringhay Castle, the site of Mary’s beheading.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nearly four decades later, the Talbot was rebuilt using stones and other material salvaged from the abandoned Fotheringhay — including the castle’s storied staircase.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Guests and staff have reported seeing a ghostly woman on the stairs, and some have said they heard sobbing in the wee hours — all thought to be the doomed queen. The Associated Press has visited several times and can confirm quality coffee and cakes, but not the presence of ghosts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Laurie Kellman in London\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967514\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967514\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A ghostly woman wearing a long white dress stands on some train tracks, at a distance.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A train collision killed 139 passengers in 1987, giving rise to many mystical stories around the railway. \u003ccite>(Lord Henri Voton/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Indonesia: Ghosts of the Bintaro train tragedy\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Bintaro train tragedy of October 1987 is well known in Indonesia. The head-on collision between two commuter trains in the southern area of Jakarta is considered one the deadliest train accidents in the country’s history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The collision killed 139 passengers, giving rise to many mystical stories around the railway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 37 years since the crash, many local residents and railway workers have reported seeing apparitions of people dressed in old, bloodstained clothing, wandering near the tracks where the tragedy took place. As the local urban legend goes, these ghostly figures are believed to be the spirits of those who perished in the accident and remain unable to move on to the afterlife. Some people also say there was a figure wandering around and looking for his body parts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2013, another train accident happened at the same track, only 200 meters (yards) from the 1987 accident. The commuter train hit a petrol truck in the crossing gate, killing seven people, including the train engineer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Edna Tarigan in Jakarta, Indonesia\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Philippines: The ghost on Balete Drive\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Ask anyone in Manila about Balete Drive and many will associate it with the mysterious “white lady” who appears at night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The street, named after trees that used to line its sidewalks in suburban Quezon city, has been the subject of scary stories that have been told and retold since the 1950s. There are claims that a beautiful woman with long hair dressed in white would sometimes suddenly appear at night — then just disappear without a trace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13881990']It is said that the sightings were reported by taxi drivers working on late-night shifts. Some claim she would appear asking for a ride and then suddenly disappear from the passenger seat as the vehicle moves. Others say her image would appear at the rearview mirror of drivers driving alone and vanish just as quickly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I haven’t seen her,” says 53-year-old Roberto Perez, who works part-time near Balete Drive, “but when I pass there between midnight to about 1:30, I get goosebumps, so I just quickly turn to another street.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tale’s origins are unknown. There are varying accounts why the ghost appears along Balete Drive, but the most common story is that decades ago, a girl died due to a car accident along the street. Horror movies in the Philippines have been produced based on this urban legend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Celine Rosario in Bangkok and Aaron Favila in Manila, Philippines\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967492\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13967492 size-full\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Closeup of a bronze statue of a bride with cobwebs on her face.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A marble bride in Argentina. Because marble brides are everywhere. \u003ccite>(Rosie Betancourt/Jeffrey Greenberg/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Hungary: The marble bride\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Through the branches of stately trees on a leafy avenue in Hungary’s capital, passersby can spot an unusual figure keeping solemn watch from above: the statue of a woman with a mournful expression peering from a stone balcony.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The sculpture, known as the “marble bride,” is unlike any of the other frescoes on surrounding buildings in Budapest, and the mystery of its presence has produced legends going back nearly a century.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In one, a young couple shared an apartment in the building when the husband was called to fight in World War I. The wife waited patiently on the balcony each day for his return, and when a letter arrived with news of his death on the front, the woman died of a broken heart.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the letter had been mistaken. When the husband returned home and found his wife had died, he had a sculpture carved in her honor and placed where she had spent so many days faithfully waiting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another legend says that the husband never returned from the war and, unable to accept his death, the woman stayed waiting on the balcony and eventually turned to stone, and still waits today for a reunion that will never come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Justin Spike in Budapest, Hungary\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Thailand: Lady Nak of Phra Khanong\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Bangkok is home to one of Thailand’s most famous pieces of folklore: the tragic love of Mae Nak, or the Lady Nak of Phra Khanong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13917340']The young and pregnant Nak was waiting for her husband, Mak, to come back from war to their home on the banks of Phra Khanong canal. Nak and her baby died during childbirth, but Mak still came home to see them waiting. With his unwavering love, Mak rejected warnings that Nak was a ghost until he saw her stretching her arm from the upper-floor porch to the ground to pick up a lime. He fled, and Nak started terrorizing the town in grief and fury.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In one variation of the story’s ending, Nak was stopped either by a shaman who captured her in a clay jar, or a powerful Buddhist monk who performed a rite to rest her spirit in peace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The story has been reinterpreted into dozens of movies, with the critically acclaimed 1999 version becoming the first Thai movie to gross over 100 million baht — about $2.7 million at the time. The shrine dedicated to Nak at Wat Mahabut, the temple where her body is believed to be buried, is famous for worshippers seeing their prayers about love and children being answered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Jintamas Saksornchai in Bangkok\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Some are well-worn warnings as familiar as the changing of seasons. Others are slow burns that end with a bang. Still others are just plain eerie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Stories of spiritual entities, paranormal activity and creepy cryptids are passed through generations the world over, becoming local legends that only sometimes reach across borders and cultures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So if the sordid tales you grew up with no longer make you shiver, it’s time to reanimate your roster with global tales of ghosts, hauntings, and petrifying processions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With Halloween nigh, and the season in many parts of the world ripe for campfires and spooky stories, people gravitate toward fear even in a complex and sometimes scary world. Here are some favorites — lore and fiction, with maybe some truth sprinkled throughout — that The Associated Press gathered from its journalists around the planet:\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967490\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2464px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967490\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043.jpg\" alt=\"An Asian person in white face paint posing in a menacing position.\" width=\"2464\" height=\"1648\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043.jpg 2464w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-800x535.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-1020x682.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-768x514.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-1536x1027.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-2048x1370.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1126292043-1920x1284.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2464px) 100vw, 2464px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Yo-ho, yo-ho, beware fake paper money scatterings! \u003ccite>(K. Y. Cheng/South China Morning Post via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>China: The corpse walkers\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>If you were out on the road in China in the old days — if you believe the stories, that is — you might have encountered a strange procession.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, a man carrying a white paper lantern and scattering fake paper money ahead of them, chanting, “Yo ho, yo ho.” Then, a towering, hooded black figure wearing a ghastly mask and marching in an awkward, wooden gait. Bringing up the rear, another man guiding the giant by touch, perhaps with a black cat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were corpse walkers — and the giant was the corpse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Bad things happen when someone gets buried far from home: Without descendants to feed their spirit and keep their grave clean, they’ll have a hard time settling in. They could even come back as a hungry ghost. So when a traveler died, the family would hire people who knew the strange art of walking a stiff body home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When interviewer Liao Yiwu asked about memories of corpse walkers in the 2000s, some said they’d use a black cat to imbue the body with static electricity to make it walk. Others said there was a third man hiding under the cloak and giving the corpse a piggyback ride.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>People kept their distance, he wrote, but the corpse walkers were always welcome at inns because they paid three times the normal rate and were said to bring good luck.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By David Cohen in Bangkok\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>France: The legend of St. Denis\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of France’s oldest spooky legends is also one of its most gruesome, because it involves a walking headless corpse.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Said to have been Paris’ first bishop, Denis — later St. Denis — went on to lend his name to what is now the northern Paris suburb of Saint-Denis, famous for its magnificent basilica, its soccer stadium and the Olympic village that housed athletes during the Paris Games.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The third-century Roman rulers of what was then Gaul were apparently less than thrilled that Denis and companions Rustique and Éleuthère were making converts. Even after tossing them in prison, Denis continued to celebrate Mass. In some accounts, Denis suffered all manner of unspeakable tortures to make him renounce his faith — not just run-of-the-mill flagellation, but also mauling by famished wild beasts and being locked in a scorching oven.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Eventually, the three were sentenced to death and beheaded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Legend has it that Denis’ corpse, lifted by two angels, picked up his severed head and walked from the Mount of Martyrs — the supposed execution site now called Montmartre — for about 6 kilometers (nearly 4 miles) before collapsing in the village of Catulliacum, now the town of Saint-Denis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Montmartre today, Suzanne Buisson Square has a statue of St. Denis holding his head, which he is said to have washed in the waters of a fountain there before staggering away with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By John Leicester in Paris\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Mongolia: The death worm\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Slithering beneath the vast dunes of the Gobi Desert, legend has it, is the monstrous Mongolian Death Worm. It kills prey by squirting lethal venom and can even electrocute from a distance. So goes the folklore that has since inspired depictions of deadly giant worms in movies and fiction. In Mongolia, the creature is known as olgoi khorkhoi, which roughly translates as “intestine worm.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The critter became known abroad after American paleontologist and explorer Roy Chapman Andrews wrote about it in his 1926 book, “On the Trail of Ancient Man: A Narrative of the Field Work of the Central Asiatic Expeditions.” During a meeting with the Mongolian premier, Andrews was asked to capture a specimen of the giant worm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“None of those present ever had seen the creature, but they all firmly believed in its existence and described it minutely,” he wrote. “It is shaped like a sausage about two feet long, has no head nor legs and is so poisonous that merely to touch it means instant death.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some believe the lore began with a more common animal — a snake called the Tartar sand boa. Others, undeterred, believe the giant worms exists. Subsequent expeditions have yet to yield any proof.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Emily Wang Fujiyama in Beijing\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967491\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13967491 size-full\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A traditional print depicting a woman throwing a knife at a man's chest. Behind her stands a demon with a a bent nose and long ears.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1771\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-800x553.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-1020x705.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-160x111.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-768x531.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-1536x1062.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-2048x1416.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1288523353-1920x1328.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Maybe don’t get involved with Bárbara, fellas… \u003ccite>(Sepia Times/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Brazil: Bárbara of the Pleasures\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It’s the turn of the 19th century, and colonial Rio de Janeiro is bustling. There are merchants, vendors, enslaved people, sailors — and a Portuguese immigrant, about 20 years old, named Bárbara. Legend says she stabbed her sleeping husband to run off with a lover, who then began exploiting her. Bárbara killed him, too, and was on her own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the story goes, she turned to sex work inside the Teles Arch. The dank, dark passage led off the plaza where the Portuguese emperor sat, and members of the royal court became faithful clients of the beautiful courtesan known as Bárbara of the Pleasures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But age and disease caught up to her. One chronicler, Hermeto Lima, wrote in 1921 of a hole in Bárbara’s nose, her bulging eyes, scratched eyelids and skeletal hands.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>To rejuvenate, Bárbara started washing with animal blood. When that failed, it’s said, she used blood from infants abandoned in the Wheel of the Exposed — the revolving compartment for foundlings outside a Catholic institution. Between 1738 and 1848, 20,966 babies were left in the wheel, according to text of an imperial ministry report provided by Esther Arantes, a retired professor in the infancy department of the State University of Rio de Janeiro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Arantes’ archival research yielded no evidence of Bárbara, but Rio’s rumor mill claimed otherwise:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whenever someone brought a baby to the wheel, “the miserable woman, like a toad, came out from her hiding place, and ran to steal the child,” Lima wrote, adding Bárbara would make sure to drip its blood upon her leprous ulcers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bárbara disappeared, but her story lingers. Word is that she still prowls Teles Arch by night, surviving on the blood of babes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By David Biller in Rio de Janeiro\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Nigeria: Madam Koi Koi\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In Nigeria, the “Madam Koi Koi” ghost story was a nightmare for students in boarding secondary schools.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The “madam” in question often walked around hostels with her red heels, especially at night, the sound of “koi koi” trailing behind her. You dare not come out if anyone raised an alarm that they heard the sound. Sometimes horrified students ran out and hostels were shut until morning, or even for days.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The backstory? No one knows for sure, but one popular theory was that she was fired as a teacher and died days later — vengeful, jobless and sad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Dyepkazah Shibayan in Abuja, Nigeria\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Britain: The Talbot Hotel\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>A sobbing woman. Ghostly, dressed in white — or, sometimes, black. And a storied oak staircase with royal connections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The spooky stories revolve around a staircase that still stands at The Talbot Hotel in Oundle — a United Kingdom market town about 85 miles (135 kilometers) north of London that’s been around since the 1500s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Mary, Queen of Scots — rival to England’s Queen Elizabeth I — is said to have descended the very same flight of steps on the way to her execution in 1587. But at the time, the multilevel structure was part of nearby Fotheringhay Castle, the site of Mary’s beheading.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nearly four decades later, the Talbot was rebuilt using stones and other material salvaged from the abandoned Fotheringhay — including the castle’s storied staircase.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Guests and staff have reported seeing a ghostly woman on the stairs, and some have said they heard sobbing in the wee hours — all thought to be the doomed queen. The Associated Press has visited several times and can confirm quality coffee and cakes, but not the presence of ghosts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Laurie Kellman in London\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967514\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967514\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A ghostly woman wearing a long white dress stands on some train tracks, at a distance.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1707\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1166220179-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A train collision killed 139 passengers in 1987, giving rise to many mystical stories around the railway. \u003ccite>(Lord Henri Voton/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Indonesia: Ghosts of the Bintaro train tragedy\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The Bintaro train tragedy of October 1987 is well known in Indonesia. The head-on collision between two commuter trains in the southern area of Jakarta is considered one the deadliest train accidents in the country’s history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The collision killed 139 passengers, giving rise to many mystical stories around the railway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 37 years since the crash, many local residents and railway workers have reported seeing apparitions of people dressed in old, bloodstained clothing, wandering near the tracks where the tragedy took place. As the local urban legend goes, these ghostly figures are believed to be the spirits of those who perished in the accident and remain unable to move on to the afterlife. Some people also say there was a figure wandering around and looking for his body parts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2013, another train accident happened at the same track, only 200 meters (yards) from the 1987 accident. The commuter train hit a petrol truck in the crossing gate, killing seven people, including the train engineer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Edna Tarigan in Jakarta, Indonesia\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Philippines: The ghost on Balete Drive\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Ask anyone in Manila about Balete Drive and many will associate it with the mysterious “white lady” who appears at night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The street, named after trees that used to line its sidewalks in suburban Quezon city, has been the subject of scary stories that have been told and retold since the 1950s. There are claims that a beautiful woman with long hair dressed in white would sometimes suddenly appear at night — then just disappear without a trace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It is said that the sightings were reported by taxi drivers working on late-night shifts. Some claim she would appear asking for a ride and then suddenly disappear from the passenger seat as the vehicle moves. Others say her image would appear at the rearview mirror of drivers driving alone and vanish just as quickly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I haven’t seen her,” says 53-year-old Roberto Perez, who works part-time near Balete Drive, “but when I pass there between midnight to about 1:30, I get goosebumps, so I just quickly turn to another street.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tale’s origins are unknown. There are varying accounts why the ghost appears along Balete Drive, but the most common story is that decades ago, a girl died due to a car accident along the street. Horror movies in the Philippines have been produced based on this urban legend.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Celine Rosario in Bangkok and Aaron Favila in Manila, Philippines\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967492\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13967492 size-full\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Closeup of a bronze statue of a bride with cobwebs on her face.\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1706\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1347423986-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A marble bride in Argentina. Because marble brides are everywhere. \u003ccite>(Rosie Betancourt/Jeffrey Greenberg/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Hungary: The marble bride\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Through the branches of stately trees on a leafy avenue in Hungary’s capital, passersby can spot an unusual figure keeping solemn watch from above: the statue of a woman with a mournful expression peering from a stone balcony.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The sculpture, known as the “marble bride,” is unlike any of the other frescoes on surrounding buildings in Budapest, and the mystery of its presence has produced legends going back nearly a century.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In one, a young couple shared an apartment in the building when the husband was called to fight in World War I. The wife waited patiently on the balcony each day for his return, and when a letter arrived with news of his death on the front, the woman died of a broken heart.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the letter had been mistaken. When the husband returned home and found his wife had died, he had a sculpture carved in her honor and placed where she had spent so many days faithfully waiting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another legend says that the husband never returned from the war and, unable to accept his death, the woman stayed waiting on the balcony and eventually turned to stone, and still waits today for a reunion that will never come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Justin Spike in Budapest, Hungary\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Thailand: Lady Nak of Phra Khanong\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Bangkok is home to one of Thailand’s most famous pieces of folklore: the tragic love of Mae Nak, or the Lady Nak of Phra Khanong.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The young and pregnant Nak was waiting for her husband, Mak, to come back from war to their home on the banks of Phra Khanong canal. Nak and her baby died during childbirth, but Mak still came home to see them waiting. With his unwavering love, Mak rejected warnings that Nak was a ghost until he saw her stretching her arm from the upper-floor porch to the ground to pick up a lime. He fled, and Nak started terrorizing the town in grief and fury.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In one variation of the story’s ending, Nak was stopped either by a shaman who captured her in a clay jar, or a powerful Buddhist monk who performed a rite to rest her spirit in peace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The story has been reinterpreted into dozens of movies, with the critically acclaimed 1999 version becoming the first Thai movie to gross over 100 million baht — about $2.7 million at the time. The shrine dedicated to Nak at Wat Mahabut, the temple where her body is believed to be buried, is famous for worshippers seeing their prayers about love and children being answered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>— By Jintamas Saksornchai in Bangkok\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "A World-Premiere Oratorio for a Anti-Slavery Abolitionist",
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"headTitle": "A World-Premiere Oratorio for a Anti-Slavery Abolitionist | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>A few years ago, the pianist and composer Allison Lovejoy was looking into her family history when a name of a distant relative caught her attention.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elijah Parish Lovejoy, born in 1802 to a deeply spiritual family, was a newspaper editor and devout abolitionist. Decades before the Civil War, Lovejoy received what he referred to as a calling from God to fight for an end to slavery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Missouri, Lovejoy was warned to stop printing and distributing his anti-slavery materials, and his printing presses were destroyed multiple times. Lovejoy kept replacing them, and continued his work until a pro-slavery mob murdered him in 1837. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Allison Lovejoy shared her findings with longtime friend and former San Francisco Poet Laureate Jack Hirschman. Hirschman recognized the Lovejoy name, and asked if she knew about Elijah’s legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I said Jack, yes, I was just reading about him the other night,” Lovejoy tells me today. “I was thinking of writing an opera.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week, Lovejoy is in rehearsals with the with the Golden Gate Symphony Orchestra and Chorus to premiere her oratorio dedicated to Lovejoy, \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>, on Sunday, Nov. 3 at the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. It’s the culmination of years of work, sparked by a single family discovery, and a desire to honor a fearless ancestor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967445\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2015\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967445\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-800x806.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-1020x1028.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-160x161.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-768x774.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-1525x1536.jpg 1525w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-1920x1934.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Allison Lovejoy. \u003ccite>(Artist Photo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>An Internal Conflict\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Elijah Lovejoy’s mother taught her children to read the Bible. But in early adulthood, Elijah felt lost, waiting for God to show him his life’s calling. Restless, he set out on an incredible journey on foot, walking from his hometown in Maine to what was then the edge of the country: St. Louis, Missouri.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was this internal conflict, Lovejoy says, that would become the starting point for Lovejoy’s work. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Needing a librettist, Lovejoy brought in San Francisco writer and historian Gary Kamiya. Together, the two dove head-first into Elijah Lovejoy’s life and career. Kamiya helped select the most significant events of Lovejoy’s life to include; he also wrote lyrics, using Elijah Lovejoy’s words as a guide. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We interpolated quite a few of Elijah Lovejoy’s own writings, as well as statements made by his enemies — political defenders of slavery,” Kamiya tells me. He studied books for added context, as well as family histories written by other relatives.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[There was] a book written by his brothers, Joseph and Owen Lovejoy, called Memoir of the Reverend Elijah P. Lovejoy that has a lot of lengthy quotations, including poems that he wrote,” Kamiya says. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Allison Lovejoy, meanwhile, researched the language of the time to better understand Elijah Lovejoy’s rhetoric, and its influences from the era’s church preachers. She also read up on music of the 1820s. “I didn’t want to write in that style,” she says, “but I wanted to understand that sound.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ultimately, Lovejoy felt that an oratorio, not an opera or a cantata, would best tell Elijah Lovejoy’s story. She was worried, though.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oratorios sound scary because it sounds very biblical, very intimidating, like Handel’s \u003cem>Messiah\u003c/em>,” she says. “And I said, well then, I can’t call it ‘Elijah.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She kept thinking about Lovejoy on his long trek to St. Louis, waiting for his life’s calling, and about the moment he’d found that calling in abolition work. The oratorio’s title came to her: \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967443\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967443\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Kamiya and Allison Lovejoy in rehearsal for ‘Elijah’s Call.’ \u003ccite>(Kate Stilley Steiner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Life Cut Short By a Violent Mob\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“The whole thing about ‘the call’ is someone walking, step, step,” Lovejoy says. “A tired person, walking with this constant motor with this ostinato rhythm underneath, so you have a feeling of movement, but then you also have the voices of the chorus like a Greek choir, calling his conscience. ‘What are you going to do? Where are you going?’ And they give him the courage to move forward.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Courage was certainly a necessity for an abolitionist in the slave state of Missouri. As the editor of the \u003cem>St. Louis Observer\u003c/em> in the early to mid-1830s, Elijah Lovejoy published editorials that began as anti-slavery pieces, but over time grew more radical, eventually calling for universal emancipation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As his writings spread, Lovejoy’s enemies grew larger in rank, destroying his presses. Eventually Lovejoy left Missouri for the free state of Illinois and his family’s safety. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Settling across the Mississippi River in the town of Alton, Lovejoy ordered a new printing press to begin his work again. When it arrived in 1837, a violent mob formed and stormed the warehouse where the printing press was stored. While trying to stop the mob, Lovejoy was shot and killed. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reviewing the tragic events of Lovejoy’s life and death, Allison Lovejoy thought long and hard on how to best evoke emotion through the oratorio. Lovejoy’s choices of tempo and key are one piece of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But in addition to that, it’s dynamic layering and buildup,” she says. To that end, Lovejoy opted to tap a variety of influences for \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>, including Black gospel music. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967430\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967430\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Walter Riley. \u003ccite>(Courtesy photo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Civil Rights Attorney Joins\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Lovejoy’s initial dive into her family history began around 2020, when George Floyd was murdered. Lovejoy saw parallels between Elijah Lovejoy and Floyd — how their murders are part of a larger, intersectional fight for justice and safekeeping of Black lives and those who advocate for them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In choosing the narrator of \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>, then, Lovejoy found a perfect fit in Oakland-based civil rights activist and lawyer Walter Riley. The father of musician and filmmaker Boots Riley and a longtime friend of Lovejoy, Riley was immediately drawn to Elijah Lovejoy’s story. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The idea of fighting slavery … and the history of those folks who were building a movement resonates with me,” he says. “It’s the kind of work I do now: civil rights activism, social justice issues.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I ask Lovejoy what it’s like working with Riley, she smiles warmly. “It’s wonderful,” she says. “I’ve always admired his insights. His wisdom brings something to the piece that elevates it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967446\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967446\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R, from behind) Walter Riley, Urs Leonhardt Steiner, Michael Desnoyers, Gary Kamiya and Allison Lovejoy in rehearsal with members of the Golden Gate Symphony Orchestra and Chorus for ‘Elijah’s Call.’ \u003ccite>(Kate Stilley Steiner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Connecting the Past to the Present\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Elijah Lovejoy may not be widely known today, but Lovejoy hopes the oratorio will help change that. For both Lovejoy and Riley, Elijah Lovejoy’s story is directly connected to modern social movements, present-day civil rights efforts, and the language thereof. The phrase “I lit a lamp,” for example, which appears more than once in the oratorio, holds multiple meanings. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t know that that [phrase] was a symbolic line — the lighting of the lamp of the Underground Railroad,” Lovejoy says. “I use that throughout the oratorio to say, light your lamp, keep it shining.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Riley, the connection between Elijah Lovejoy and today’s fight for racial justice was instantaneous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s the exact kind of story we see today,” he tells me. “It’s part of the struggle we face. And every time we see an example from history from… the folks who came before us, it’s useful to pay attention to that, and celebrate that, and then maybe we become a more…enlightened society.” He points a finger as he speaks. “That’s what Elijah learned in this story. He learned about and accepted the humanity of these Black folks…but they attacked him and killed him for it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before Lovejoy has to head back into dress rehearsal for the oratorio, I ask what she hopes audiences will take away from \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Mainly,” she says, “Inspiration to do the right thing, and inspiration to stand together.” \u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Elijah’s Call’ premieres Sunday, Nov. 3, at the Palace of Fine Arts Theatre in San Francisco. Details here. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>A few years ago, the pianist and composer Allison Lovejoy was looking into her family history when a name of a distant relative caught her attention.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Elijah Parish Lovejoy, born in 1802 to a deeply spiritual family, was a newspaper editor and devout abolitionist. Decades before the Civil War, Lovejoy received what he referred to as a calling from God to fight for an end to slavery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Missouri, Lovejoy was warned to stop printing and distributing his anti-slavery materials, and his printing presses were destroyed multiple times. Lovejoy kept replacing them, and continued his work until a pro-slavery mob murdered him in 1837. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Allison Lovejoy shared her findings with longtime friend and former San Francisco Poet Laureate Jack Hirschman. Hirschman recognized the Lovejoy name, and asked if she knew about Elijah’s legacy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I said Jack, yes, I was just reading about him the other night,” Lovejoy tells me today. “I was thinking of writing an opera.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week, Lovejoy is in rehearsals with the with the Golden Gate Symphony Orchestra and Chorus to premiere her oratorio dedicated to Lovejoy, \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>, on Sunday, Nov. 3 at the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. It’s the culmination of years of work, sparked by a single family discovery, and a desire to honor a fearless ancestor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967445\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"2015\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967445\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-800x806.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-1020x1028.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-160x161.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-768x774.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-1525x1536.jpg 1525w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Allison-Lovejoy_Composer_Elijahs-Call_2024_usedforPressRelease-1920x1934.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Allison Lovejoy. \u003ccite>(Artist Photo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>An Internal Conflict\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Elijah Lovejoy’s mother taught her children to read the Bible. But in early adulthood, Elijah felt lost, waiting for God to show him his life’s calling. Restless, he set out on an incredible journey on foot, walking from his hometown in Maine to what was then the edge of the country: St. Louis, Missouri.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was this internal conflict, Lovejoy says, that would become the starting point for Lovejoy’s work. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Needing a librettist, Lovejoy brought in San Francisco writer and historian Gary Kamiya. Together, the two dove head-first into Elijah Lovejoy’s life and career. Kamiya helped select the most significant events of Lovejoy’s life to include; he also wrote lyrics, using Elijah Lovejoy’s words as a guide. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We interpolated quite a few of Elijah Lovejoy’s own writings, as well as statements made by his enemies — political defenders of slavery,” Kamiya tells me. He studied books for added context, as well as family histories written by other relatives.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[There was] a book written by his brothers, Joseph and Owen Lovejoy, called Memoir of the Reverend Elijah P. Lovejoy that has a lot of lengthy quotations, including poems that he wrote,” Kamiya says. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Allison Lovejoy, meanwhile, researched the language of the time to better understand Elijah Lovejoy’s rhetoric, and its influences from the era’s church preachers. She also read up on music of the 1820s. “I didn’t want to write in that style,” she says, “but I wanted to understand that sound.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ultimately, Lovejoy felt that an oratorio, not an opera or a cantata, would best tell Elijah Lovejoy’s story. She was worried, though.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Oratorios sound scary because it sounds very biblical, very intimidating, like Handel’s \u003cem>Messiah\u003c/em>,” she says. “And I said, well then, I can’t call it ‘Elijah.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She kept thinking about Lovejoy on his long trek to St. Louis, waiting for his life’s calling, and about the moment he’d found that calling in abolition work. The oratorio’s title came to her: \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967443\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967443\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Gary-and-Allison-phto-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Gary Kamiya and Allison Lovejoy in rehearsal for ‘Elijah’s Call.’ \u003ccite>(Kate Stilley Steiner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Life Cut Short By a Violent Mob\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“The whole thing about ‘the call’ is someone walking, step, step,” Lovejoy says. “A tired person, walking with this constant motor with this ostinato rhythm underneath, so you have a feeling of movement, but then you also have the voices of the chorus like a Greek choir, calling his conscience. ‘What are you going to do? Where are you going?’ And they give him the courage to move forward.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Courage was certainly a necessity for an abolitionist in the slave state of Missouri. As the editor of the \u003cem>St. Louis Observer\u003c/em> in the early to mid-1830s, Elijah Lovejoy published editorials that began as anti-slavery pieces, but over time grew more radical, eventually calling for universal emancipation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As his writings spread, Lovejoy’s enemies grew larger in rank, destroying his presses. Eventually Lovejoy left Missouri for the free state of Illinois and his family’s safety. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Settling across the Mississippi River in the town of Alton, Lovejoy ordered a new printing press to begin his work again. When it arrived in 1837, a violent mob formed and stormed the warehouse where the printing press was stored. While trying to stop the mob, Lovejoy was shot and killed. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reviewing the tragic events of Lovejoy’s life and death, Allison Lovejoy thought long and hard on how to best evoke emotion through the oratorio. Lovejoy’s choices of tempo and key are one piece of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But in addition to that, it’s dynamic layering and buildup,” she says. To that end, Lovejoy opted to tap a variety of influences for \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>, including Black gospel music. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967430\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967430\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/ratio3x2_1920_-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Walter Riley. \u003ccite>(Courtesy photo)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Civil Rights Attorney Joins\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Lovejoy’s initial dive into her family history began around 2020, when George Floyd was murdered. Lovejoy saw parallels between Elijah Lovejoy and Floyd — how their murders are part of a larger, intersectional fight for justice and safekeeping of Black lives and those who advocate for them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In choosing the narrator of \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>, then, Lovejoy found a perfect fit in Oakland-based civil rights activist and lawyer Walter Riley. The father of musician and filmmaker Boots Riley and a longtime friend of Lovejoy, Riley was immediately drawn to Elijah Lovejoy’s story. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The idea of fighting slavery … and the history of those folks who were building a movement resonates with me,” he says. “It’s the kind of work I do now: civil rights activism, social justice issues.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I ask Lovejoy what it’s like working with Riley, she smiles warmly. “It’s wonderful,” she says. “I’ve always admired his insights. His wisdom brings something to the piece that elevates it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967446\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967446\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Walter-Urs-Allison-and-Mike-_photo-by-Kate-Stilley-Steiner-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">(L–R, from behind) Walter Riley, Urs Leonhardt Steiner, Michael Desnoyers, Gary Kamiya and Allison Lovejoy in rehearsal with members of the Golden Gate Symphony Orchestra and Chorus for ‘Elijah’s Call.’ \u003ccite>(Kate Stilley Steiner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Connecting the Past to the Present\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Elijah Lovejoy may not be widely known today, but Lovejoy hopes the oratorio will help change that. For both Lovejoy and Riley, Elijah Lovejoy’s story is directly connected to modern social movements, present-day civil rights efforts, and the language thereof. The phrase “I lit a lamp,” for example, which appears more than once in the oratorio, holds multiple meanings. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t know that that [phrase] was a symbolic line — the lighting of the lamp of the Underground Railroad,” Lovejoy says. “I use that throughout the oratorio to say, light your lamp, keep it shining.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Riley, the connection between Elijah Lovejoy and today’s fight for racial justice was instantaneous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s the exact kind of story we see today,” he tells me. “It’s part of the struggle we face. And every time we see an example from history from… the folks who came before us, it’s useful to pay attention to that, and celebrate that, and then maybe we become a more…enlightened society.” He points a finger as he speaks. “That’s what Elijah learned in this story. He learned about and accepted the humanity of these Black folks…but they attacked him and killed him for it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before Lovejoy has to head back into dress rehearsal for the oratorio, I ask what she hopes audiences will take away from \u003cem>Elijah’s Call\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Mainly,” she says, “Inspiration to do the right thing, and inspiration to stand together.” \u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967078\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1496px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967078\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett.jpg\" alt=\"A young Asian woman operates a switchboard, while wearing a silk gown and telephone headset.\" width=\"1496\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett.jpg 1496w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-800x1070.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-1020x1364.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-160x214.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-768x1027.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-1149x1536.jpg 1149w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1496px) 100vw, 1496px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Harriett Ng, an operator at the Chinese Telephone Exchange, date unknown. \u003ccite>(George Rinhart/Corbis via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At the turn of the 20th century, as more and more homes and businesses began utilizing telephones, an issue arose in San Francisco. The white operators tasked with connecting calls around the city were struggling to understand the residents of Chinatown. Not only was this a source of frustration for the operators, it meant that the Pacific Telephone and Telegraph Company was failing an entire population of the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13914487']The phone company solved this problem by giving Chinatown its very own telephone exchange and dedicated set of operators. Not only did these operators need to memorize hundreds — and later thousands — of local phone numbers (and who they belonged to), they needed to do so in several different dialects. What’s more, while each phone in San Francisco was being used roughly four times a day, the phones of Chinatown were a lot more active — used, on average, eight times a day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Chinese Telephone Exchange’s switchboard operators, with their exceptional memory skills, quickly became a point of public fascination. For decades, spectators would frequently stop outside the Chinatown building’s windows to watch the operators working. The exchange finally closed down in 1949, as more and more people installed phones that could be self-dialed at home. But for many, the fascination with this most unusual operation has persisted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here are five things you may not know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967075\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967075\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte.jpg\" alt=\"A man with a long braid dressed in traditional Chinese clothing sits at a switchboard with headphones on. A middle-aged man is standing near him, as is a small boy in an outfit that resembles a bell hop. \" width=\"2000\" height=\"1526\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-800x610.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-1020x778.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-160x122.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-768x586.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-1536x1172.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-1920x1465.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Chinese Telephone Exchange in 1904. \u003ccite>(Underwood Archives/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Female operators were hired after the male ones kept fighting\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The original Chinese Telephone Exchange was established in 1887 when a single small switchboard was installed in the offices of \u003ca href=\"https://fleming-collections.uvm.edu/objects/13558/chinese-newspaper;jsessionid=837DD2F0CDA09FEA5C4920215DB80FC9?ctx=2cb9cd42-225c-4fcc-9b84-63888fffc3ab&idx=2#gsc.tab=0\">\u003cem>Mun Kee & Co\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, a Chinese newspaper located at 821 Washington St. The telephone exchange got its own headquarters a few years later, before moving into its permanent home at 743 Washington St.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Until the offices were destroyed by the 1906 fires, the telephone exchange was operated exclusively by six men and one errand boy. Only after a 1909 reopening did the exchange turn to women to keep things running. Why? Because the male operators kept getting into spats with customers that apparently needed to be settled in person.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to an issue of \u003cem>Electrical Engineering and Telephone\u003c/em> from 1901, “Every little while a difference of opinion between an operator and a subscriber is settled at arm’s length out of office hours. This mode of arbitration disturbs the equilibrium of the service and never happens when the operator and the subscriber are of different sexes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13960578\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13960578\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/1926-directory-scaled-e1719614271985.jpg\" alt=\"The cover of a 1926 phone directory and row after row of Chinese lettering, as seen on the inside pages.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1127\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The 1926 Chinese Telephone Directory. The original pages were hand-painted using a small brush and ink made from cuttlefish. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra/Courtesy of the San Francisco History Center)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>There was something fishy about the phone directories\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 1898, the Chinese Telephone Exchange had just 54 subscribers. By 1936, that number had swelled to 2,200. Each and every year, as subscriber numbers increased, sending out new phone directories was a necessity. But even as these phonebooks got longer and longer, the methods of making them changed very little.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The original pages were hand-lettered using a small brush and homemade ink, then duplicated. What kind of ink, you ask? Well, from the sacs of \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuttlefish\">cuttlefish\u003c/a>! The ink was purchased in a dry form, ground in a mortar using a pestle and then mixed with water. That concoction was then poured over a sponge which acted as a sort of ink pot for the writer’s paintbrush.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, no. They don’t make ’em like they used to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967084\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1566px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967084\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte.jpg\" alt=\"Two Asian women wearing intricate gowns sit in front of a switchboard.\" width=\"1566\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte.jpg 1566w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-800x1022.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-1020x1303.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-160x204.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-768x981.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-1203x1536.jpg 1203w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1566px) 100vw, 1566px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two Chinese Telephone Exchange operators in 1941. \u003ccite>(Bettmann/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Being an operator could be a family affair\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>When Chan Yung Lai retired his position at the Chinese Telephone Exchange, he wanted his daughter Choy Chan to take his place. Choy was already familiar with the way the exchange worked — as a girl, she would run and fetch women so they could receive long distance calls. Not only did Choy take her father’s place at the exchange, she stayed in the position until the Chinese Telephone Exchange finally closed in 1949.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13897608']It wasn’t unusual for women to stay working at the phone exchange for many years. In part, because they didn’t lose their jobs the moment they got married — a common practice elsewhere. Grace Wong and Maud Chin both served for more than 20 years each. Nellie How broke 15. And in 1936, the \u003cem>Red Bluff Daily News\u003c/em> paid tribute to Ho Lee, an operator who worked at the exchange for over 25 years. When Lee retired, her daughter Elizabeth swiftly took her place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Ho Lee’s] soft intonation as she queried ‘Del Huey bin she ah?’ (‘Number please?’) will be heard no more in the world’s most interesting telephone exchange,” the newspaper reported. “In calamity, her voice was quick and rapid and assistance swift. In grief she was consoling, understanding. But though she has retired to domestic life, her work at the telephone office is carried on. Elizabeth Lee, dainty, nimble-fingered, almond-eyed daughter of Ho Lee … will pick up the threads in this tapestry of life begun by her family, and continue the weaving.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13960579\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1861px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13960579\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"The colorful cover of a Chinese directory of phone numbers from 1949.\" width=\"1861\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-scaled.jpg 1861w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-800x1101.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-1020x1403.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-160x220.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-768x1057.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-1116x1536.jpg 1116w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-1489x2048.jpg 1489w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-1920x2642.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1861px) 100vw, 1861px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This souvenir directory was released in 1949 — the same year the Chinese Telephone Exchange became obsolete. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra/Courtesy of the San Francisco History Center)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Underpaid operators fought back\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 1943, 30 Chinese Telephone Exchange workers joined the Telephone Traffic Employees Organization to fight for better working conditions. With the help of the local union, the operators filed several complaints with the War Labor Board. These workers kicked back against their grueling seven-day work week and demanded back pay and overtime for hours they’d never been compensated for. And they won — including $5,000 in back pay. (The equivalent of about $90,000 today.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This action and others like it around the country inspired the National Federation of Telephone Workers to call a nationwide strike of switchboard operators in 1947 that went on for five weeks. AT&T, the Bell Telephone Company, the New York Telephone Company and others caved to their employees’ demands, forced finally to recognize the importance of their work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967085\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967085\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard.jpg\" alt=\"A postcard depicting women lined up around the perimeter of a wooden, attractively decorated room. They are all working at a switchboard while one standing woman watches on.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1277\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-800x511.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-768x490.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-1536x981.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-1920x1226.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Chinatown’s Telephone Exchange building was erected in 1909. \u003ccite>(Rykoff Collection/CORBIS/Corbis via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The exchange was also a tea room of sorts\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Though an image persists of rows of women sitting dutifully at a large switchboard, the Chinese Telephone Exchange was much more than that. Because it was necessary for people to come into the building in order to receive long distance calls, it also was a social space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13880286']In 1905, a writer from \u003cem>Telephone Magazine\u003c/em> reported that when people entered the exchange: “A smiling official extends a cordial welcome. Steaming hot tea is served in little china cups with lids. Tobacco and cigarettes are also offered … In this un-American way, the tedium of waiting for a message or a long distance call is beguiled.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1913, \u003cem>Pacific Telephone\u003c/em> magazine noted that the exchange was “built in conformity with the best Chinese architecture” and also marveled at the beauty of the exchange’s decor. “The interior is elaborately frescoed with dragons and Chinese designs,” the magazine said, “the woodwork being finished in ebony and gold.” At one point, there was a painted Chinese phrase on the wall inside that translated to “A line will convey good news to you.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, the exterior looks much the same as it did when it housed the telephone exchange. Say hello next time you’re in Chinatown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13960574\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2327px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13960574\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A three-tiered building styled after traditional Chinese pagodas.\" width=\"2327\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-scaled.jpg 2327w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-800x880.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-1020x1122.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-160x176.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-768x845.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-1396x1536.jpg 1396w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-1862x2048.jpg 1862w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-1920x2112.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2327px) 100vw, 2327px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This building at 743 Washington St. used to house the Chinese Telephone Exchange. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967078\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1496px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967078\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett.jpg\" alt=\"A young Asian woman operates a switchboard, while wearing a silk gown and telephone headset.\" width=\"1496\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett.jpg 1496w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-800x1070.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-1020x1364.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-160x214.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-768x1027.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Harriett-1149x1536.jpg 1149w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1496px) 100vw, 1496px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Harriett Ng, an operator at the Chinese Telephone Exchange, date unknown. \u003ccite>(George Rinhart/Corbis via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At the turn of the 20th century, as more and more homes and businesses began utilizing telephones, an issue arose in San Francisco. The white operators tasked with connecting calls around the city were struggling to understand the residents of Chinatown. Not only was this a source of frustration for the operators, it meant that the Pacific Telephone and Telegraph Company was failing an entire population of the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The phone company solved this problem by giving Chinatown its very own telephone exchange and dedicated set of operators. Not only did these operators need to memorize hundreds — and later thousands — of local phone numbers (and who they belonged to), they needed to do so in several different dialects. What’s more, while each phone in San Francisco was being used roughly four times a day, the phones of Chinatown were a lot more active — used, on average, eight times a day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Chinese Telephone Exchange’s switchboard operators, with their exceptional memory skills, quickly became a point of public fascination. For decades, spectators would frequently stop outside the Chinatown building’s windows to watch the operators working. The exchange finally closed down in 1949, as more and more people installed phones that could be self-dialed at home. But for many, the fascination with this most unusual operation has persisted.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here are five things you may not know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967075\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967075\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte.jpg\" alt=\"A man with a long braid dressed in traditional Chinese clothing sits at a switchboard with headphones on. A middle-aged man is standing near him, as is a small boy in an outfit that resembles a bell hop. \" width=\"2000\" height=\"1526\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-800x610.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-1020x778.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-160x122.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-768x586.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-1536x1172.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1904-cte-1920x1465.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Chinese Telephone Exchange in 1904. \u003ccite>(Underwood Archives/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Female operators were hired after the male ones kept fighting\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The original Chinese Telephone Exchange was established in 1887 when a single small switchboard was installed in the offices of \u003ca href=\"https://fleming-collections.uvm.edu/objects/13558/chinese-newspaper;jsessionid=837DD2F0CDA09FEA5C4920215DB80FC9?ctx=2cb9cd42-225c-4fcc-9b84-63888fffc3ab&idx=2#gsc.tab=0\">\u003cem>Mun Kee & Co\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, a Chinese newspaper located at 821 Washington St. The telephone exchange got its own headquarters a few years later, before moving into its permanent home at 743 Washington St.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Until the offices were destroyed by the 1906 fires, the telephone exchange was operated exclusively by six men and one errand boy. Only after a 1909 reopening did the exchange turn to women to keep things running. Why? Because the male operators kept getting into spats with customers that apparently needed to be settled in person.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to an issue of \u003cem>Electrical Engineering and Telephone\u003c/em> from 1901, “Every little while a difference of opinion between an operator and a subscriber is settled at arm’s length out of office hours. This mode of arbitration disturbs the equilibrium of the service and never happens when the operator and the subscriber are of different sexes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13960578\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13960578\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/1926-directory-scaled-e1719614271985.jpg\" alt=\"The cover of a 1926 phone directory and row after row of Chinese lettering, as seen on the inside pages.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1127\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The 1926 Chinese Telephone Directory. The original pages were hand-painted using a small brush and ink made from cuttlefish. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra/Courtesy of the San Francisco History Center)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>There was something fishy about the phone directories\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 1898, the Chinese Telephone Exchange had just 54 subscribers. By 1936, that number had swelled to 2,200. Each and every year, as subscriber numbers increased, sending out new phone directories was a necessity. But even as these phonebooks got longer and longer, the methods of making them changed very little.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The original pages were hand-lettered using a small brush and homemade ink, then duplicated. What kind of ink, you ask? Well, from the sacs of \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuttlefish\">cuttlefish\u003c/a>! The ink was purchased in a dry form, ground in a mortar using a pestle and then mixed with water. That concoction was then poured over a sponge which acted as a sort of ink pot for the writer’s paintbrush.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, no. They don’t make ’em like they used to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967084\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1566px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967084\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte.jpg\" alt=\"Two Asian women wearing intricate gowns sit in front of a switchboard.\" width=\"1566\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte.jpg 1566w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-800x1022.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-1020x1303.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-160x204.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-768x981.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/1941-cte-1203x1536.jpg 1203w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1566px) 100vw, 1566px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two Chinese Telephone Exchange operators in 1941. \u003ccite>(Bettmann/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Being an operator could be a family affair\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>When Chan Yung Lai retired his position at the Chinese Telephone Exchange, he wanted his daughter Choy Chan to take his place. Choy was already familiar with the way the exchange worked — as a girl, she would run and fetch women so they could receive long distance calls. Not only did Choy take her father’s place at the exchange, she stayed in the position until the Chinese Telephone Exchange finally closed in 1949.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It wasn’t unusual for women to stay working at the phone exchange for many years. In part, because they didn’t lose their jobs the moment they got married — a common practice elsewhere. Grace Wong and Maud Chin both served for more than 20 years each. Nellie How broke 15. And in 1936, the \u003cem>Red Bluff Daily News\u003c/em> paid tribute to Ho Lee, an operator who worked at the exchange for over 25 years. When Lee retired, her daughter Elizabeth swiftly took her place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Ho Lee’s] soft intonation as she queried ‘Del Huey bin she ah?’ (‘Number please?’) will be heard no more in the world’s most interesting telephone exchange,” the newspaper reported. “In calamity, her voice was quick and rapid and assistance swift. In grief she was consoling, understanding. But though she has retired to domestic life, her work at the telephone office is carried on. Elizabeth Lee, dainty, nimble-fingered, almond-eyed daughter of Ho Lee … will pick up the threads in this tapestry of life begun by her family, and continue the weaving.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13960579\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1861px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13960579\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"The colorful cover of a Chinese directory of phone numbers from 1949.\" width=\"1861\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-scaled.jpg 1861w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-800x1101.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-1020x1403.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-160x220.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-768x1057.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-1116x1536.jpg 1116w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-1489x2048.jpg 1489w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_150533-1920x2642.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1861px) 100vw, 1861px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This souvenir directory was released in 1949 — the same year the Chinese Telephone Exchange became obsolete. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra/Courtesy of the San Francisco History Center)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Underpaid operators fought back\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 1943, 30 Chinese Telephone Exchange workers joined the Telephone Traffic Employees Organization to fight for better working conditions. With the help of the local union, the operators filed several complaints with the War Labor Board. These workers kicked back against their grueling seven-day work week and demanded back pay and overtime for hours they’d never been compensated for. And they won — including $5,000 in back pay. (The equivalent of about $90,000 today.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This action and others like it around the country inspired the National Federation of Telephone Workers to call a nationwide strike of switchboard operators in 1947 that went on for five weeks. AT&T, the Bell Telephone Company, the New York Telephone Company and others caved to their employees’ demands, forced finally to recognize the importance of their work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13967085\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13967085\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard.jpg\" alt=\"A postcard depicting women lined up around the perimeter of a wooden, attractively decorated room. They are all working at a switchboard while one standing woman watches on.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1277\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-800x511.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-768x490.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-1536x981.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/cte-postcard-1920x1226.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Chinatown’s Telephone Exchange building was erected in 1909. \u003ccite>(Rykoff Collection/CORBIS/Corbis via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The exchange was also a tea room of sorts\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Though an image persists of rows of women sitting dutifully at a large switchboard, the Chinese Telephone Exchange was much more than that. Because it was necessary for people to come into the building in order to receive long distance calls, it also was a social space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In 1905, a writer from \u003cem>Telephone Magazine\u003c/em> reported that when people entered the exchange: “A smiling official extends a cordial welcome. Steaming hot tea is served in little china cups with lids. Tobacco and cigarettes are also offered … In this un-American way, the tedium of waiting for a message or a long distance call is beguiled.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1913, \u003cem>Pacific Telephone\u003c/em> magazine noted that the exchange was “built in conformity with the best Chinese architecture” and also marveled at the beauty of the exchange’s decor. “The interior is elaborately frescoed with dragons and Chinese designs,” the magazine said, “the woodwork being finished in ebony and gold.” At one point, there was a painted Chinese phrase on the wall inside that translated to “A line will convey good news to you.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, the exterior looks much the same as it did when it housed the telephone exchange. Say hello next time you’re in Chinatown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13960574\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2327px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13960574\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"A three-tiered building styled after traditional Chinese pagodas.\" width=\"2327\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-scaled.jpg 2327w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-800x880.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-1020x1122.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-160x176.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-768x845.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-1396x1536.jpg 1396w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-1862x2048.jpg 1862w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/06/20240627_160924-1920x2112.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2327px) 100vw, 2327px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">This building at 743 Washington St. used to house the Chinese Telephone Exchange. \u003ccite>(Rae Alexandra)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "suburban-fury-documentary-review-sara-jane-moore-gerald-ford-assassination-san-francisco",
"title": "‘Suburban Fury’ Allows Attempted Gerald Ford Assassin to Tell Her Own Story",
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"content": "\u003cp>On Sept. 22, 1975, a 45-year-old mom named Sara Jane Moore drove to downtown San Francisco, positioned herself in a crowd outside the St. Francis Hotel and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13953890/st-francis-hotel-san-francisco-history-arbuckle-jolson-crocker-gerald-ford\">attempted to shoot President Gerald Ford\u003c/a> with a .38 pistol. (She missed only because the gun had an inaccurate sight.) After her arrest, it was revealed that Moore had spent the previous 18 months infiltrating radical Bay Area political groups and working as an FBI informant. She has been a confounding figure in Bay Area history ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The prospect of hearing Moore speak at length about her life, then, is a tantalizing one. Her participation in the new documentary \u003cem>Surburban Fury\u003c/em>, which \u003ca href=\"https://roxie.com/film/suburban-fury/\">screens Dec. 20 in San Francisco\u003c/a>, was agreed to on the condition that she be the only interviewee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The film gives Moore the space to tell her own story from different locations: the back of a station wagon, a grand room in the St. Francis Hotel, the rear of a house in Danville. These interview clips are interspersed with narration drawn from Moore’s recollections of conversations with her FBI control agent. The movie is rich with archival footage of the turbulent political and social events of 1970s Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13953890']The choppy structure of \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> often makes for a disjointed viewing experience, exacerbated by Moore herself. At times, the would-be assassin seems thoroughly irritated by the interview process, entirely incapable of introspection or empathy, and unwilling to consider that her actions as an informant may have brought harm to the activists she reported on. The way she describes her decision to kill the president is utterly devoid of emotion. Moore provides only an overview of events in her life, as they happened — a surface rendering of an extraordinary turn of events that would greatly benefit from deeper analysis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Moore’s versions of the conversations she had with FBI control agent Bert Worthington offer additional illumination, but frequently raise more questions. At one point, the Worthington narration is heard stating: “In the last ten months, [Moore] has created divisiveness and mistrust in many organizations by her personal actions and rumor mongering. Sally Moore is a dangerous individual and a security risk to all movement organizations.” Did Moore somehow see Worthington’s notes about her? Did he tell her this directly? \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> never explains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966744\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966744\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f.png\" alt=\"An elderly woman sits in the rear seat of the back seat of a Plymouth car, looking stunned. Behind the car, a man in a suit looks over a city skyline at night.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1187\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f.png 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-800x475.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-1020x605.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-160x95.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-768x456.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-1536x912.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-1920x1140.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sara Jane Moore in ‘Suburban Fury.’\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Moore first became involved with the FBI after volunteering to help the Hearst family when \u003ca href=\"https://www.tiktok.com/@kqedofficial/video/7358614755134770474\">Patricia Hearst was kidnapped\u003c/a> by the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA) in 1974. This one action placed Moore on a path that exposed her to a wide variety of radical political groups, most of whom opened her eyes to wider social issues and apparently impressed her. (At one point, it’s noted here that Moore thought the SLA were “charismatic, compelling people.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her positive feelings about activist groups did not, for some reason, stop Moore from informing the FBI about them, an explanation for which is never given. She describes eventually telling the truth about herself to one group that she’d infiltrated (“I’m a pig,” she apparently announced) but it’s difficult to pin down exactly what led to this moment. Shortly after she blew her own cover, Moore made her Ford assassination attempt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='pop_101956']Because of the limitations Moore imposed on \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> in regards to other interviewees, the documentary misses an opportunity to examine the parallels between Moore and Hearst. Both were sheltered women who, once exposed to radical Bay Area politics, took extreme actions that endangered their own lives and landed them in prison. A much richer examination of the period might have been possible in the documentary if this element of Moore’s story was given more commentary — especially since Moore is quoted as calling Hearst “stupid and foolish,” and stating that “she was not the brightest bulb on the string.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end, the most satisfying and rewarding aspect of \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> is its wealth of wonderful archival footage. The clips of national politicians and news events, juxtaposed with footage of radical Bay Area political groups, are a joy to behold, as are the street scenes of San Francisco and Oakland in the tempestuous 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Director Robinson Devor seems to assume his viewers are arriving to \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> fully armed with a solid knowledge of 1970s Bay Area political groups and events. Those who are will marvel at the footage he presents here. For those less knowledgable on the topic, \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> is likely to be almost as confounding as Moore has always been.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘\u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt5441290/\">Suburban Fury\u003c/a>’ is showing at \u003ca href=\"https://roxie.com/film/suburban-fury/\">The Roxie\u003c/a> in San Francisco (3117 16th St.) on Dec. 20, 2025. Writer & director Robinson Devor will appear after the screening.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>On Sept. 22, 1975, a 45-year-old mom named Sara Jane Moore drove to downtown San Francisco, positioned herself in a crowd outside the St. Francis Hotel and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13953890/st-francis-hotel-san-francisco-history-arbuckle-jolson-crocker-gerald-ford\">attempted to shoot President Gerald Ford\u003c/a> with a .38 pistol. (She missed only because the gun had an inaccurate sight.) After her arrest, it was revealed that Moore had spent the previous 18 months infiltrating radical Bay Area political groups and working as an FBI informant. She has been a confounding figure in Bay Area history ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The prospect of hearing Moore speak at length about her life, then, is a tantalizing one. Her participation in the new documentary \u003cem>Surburban Fury\u003c/em>, which \u003ca href=\"https://roxie.com/film/suburban-fury/\">screens Dec. 20 in San Francisco\u003c/a>, was agreed to on the condition that she be the only interviewee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The film gives Moore the space to tell her own story from different locations: the back of a station wagon, a grand room in the St. Francis Hotel, the rear of a house in Danville. These interview clips are interspersed with narration drawn from Moore’s recollections of conversations with her FBI control agent. The movie is rich with archival footage of the turbulent political and social events of 1970s Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The choppy structure of \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> often makes for a disjointed viewing experience, exacerbated by Moore herself. At times, the would-be assassin seems thoroughly irritated by the interview process, entirely incapable of introspection or empathy, and unwilling to consider that her actions as an informant may have brought harm to the activists she reported on. The way she describes her decision to kill the president is utterly devoid of emotion. Moore provides only an overview of events in her life, as they happened — a surface rendering of an extraordinary turn of events that would greatly benefit from deeper analysis.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Moore’s versions of the conversations she had with FBI control agent Bert Worthington offer additional illumination, but frequently raise more questions. At one point, the Worthington narration is heard stating: “In the last ten months, [Moore] has created divisiveness and mistrust in many organizations by her personal actions and rumor mongering. Sally Moore is a dangerous individual and a security risk to all movement organizations.” Did Moore somehow see Worthington’s notes about her? Did he tell her this directly? \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> never explains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966744\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966744\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f.png\" alt=\"An elderly woman sits in the rear seat of the back seat of a Plymouth car, looking stunned. Behind the car, a man in a suit looks over a city skyline at night.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1187\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f.png 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-800x475.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-1020x605.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-160x95.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-768x456.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-1536x912.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/sub-f-1920x1140.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sara Jane Moore in ‘Suburban Fury.’\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Moore first became involved with the FBI after volunteering to help the Hearst family when \u003ca href=\"https://www.tiktok.com/@kqedofficial/video/7358614755134770474\">Patricia Hearst was kidnapped\u003c/a> by the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA) in 1974. This one action placed Moore on a path that exposed her to a wide variety of radical political groups, most of whom opened her eyes to wider social issues and apparently impressed her. (At one point, it’s noted here that Moore thought the SLA were “charismatic, compelling people.”)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her positive feelings about activist groups did not, for some reason, stop Moore from informing the FBI about them, an explanation for which is never given. She describes eventually telling the truth about herself to one group that she’d infiltrated (“I’m a pig,” she apparently announced) but it’s difficult to pin down exactly what led to this moment. Shortly after she blew her own cover, Moore made her Ford assassination attempt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Because of the limitations Moore imposed on \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> in regards to other interviewees, the documentary misses an opportunity to examine the parallels between Moore and Hearst. Both were sheltered women who, once exposed to radical Bay Area politics, took extreme actions that endangered their own lives and landed them in prison. A much richer examination of the period might have been possible in the documentary if this element of Moore’s story was given more commentary — especially since Moore is quoted as calling Hearst “stupid and foolish,” and stating that “she was not the brightest bulb on the string.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end, the most satisfying and rewarding aspect of \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> is its wealth of wonderful archival footage. The clips of national politicians and news events, juxtaposed with footage of radical Bay Area political groups, are a joy to behold, as are the street scenes of San Francisco and Oakland in the tempestuous 1970s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Director Robinson Devor seems to assume his viewers are arriving to \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> fully armed with a solid knowledge of 1970s Bay Area political groups and events. Those who are will marvel at the footage he presents here. For those less knowledgable on the topic, \u003cem>Suburban Fury\u003c/em> is likely to be almost as confounding as Moore has always been.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘\u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt5441290/\">Suburban Fury\u003c/a>’ is showing at \u003ca href=\"https://roxie.com/film/suburban-fury/\">The Roxie\u003c/a> in San Francisco (3117 16th St.) on Dec. 20, 2025. Writer & director Robinson Devor will appear after the screening.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>In January 1970, Violeta ‘Bullet’ Marasigan’s husband implored her to not “bring any more work home.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Quoted in a \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> profile, Pete Marasigan was, the newspaper reported, only half-joking. Because when Violeta Marasigan brought the office home with her, it wasn’t stacks of papers and files. More often than not, it was human beings that needed food or a bed for the night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan had been in nonstop action since 1968, when she was hired by San Francisco’s United Filipino Association (UFA) as a social worker. Born in the Philippines in 1939, Marasigan had moved to California to study at San Francisco State College. Shortly after graduation, the UFA brought her on to assist the elders — or \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manong#:~:text=Manong%20(Mah%2Dnoh%2Dng,given%20to%20an%20older%20sister.\">manongs\u003c/a> \u003c/em>— of Manilatown, a 10-block stretch of Filipino businesses, restaurants and social hubs centered around Kearny and Jackson Streets in San Francisco. She was perfect for the position.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13929289']“I’m very optimistic,” she later explained. “I think a lot of things can be done if we really put ourselves in it — [and] not half-heartedly.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There was nothing half-hearted about Marasigan. She spent her entire life fighting for Filipinos, both in the Bay and abroad. Her nickname “Bullet” was coined while still in her teens; “Bolet” is a Tagalog version of the name Violeta, but Marasigan’s moniker morphed into “Bullet” once her friends realized how impossible it was to stand in her way. That much became clear to San Francisco as soon as Marasigan joined forces with the UFA.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I started working with the old men,” she told the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> in 1970, “I saw that they were discriminated against in terms of their access to social services. A lot of them had been here for over 30 years, but they could still barely speak English or write. These manongs were mostly single retired farmworkers and seamen living on social security retirement benefits.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan quickly deduced that most of these men — frequently World War II veterans — were not receiving all of the SSI benefits they were entitled to. (Some were receiving less than half of the appropriate amount.) Marasigan took it upon herself to bring these men into the Social Security office and advocate for each of them, one by one, until they each received what they were owed. And they were owed a lot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the U.S. colonized the Philippines in 1898, Filipino men became a cheap labor source for American companies, particularly in agriculture, canneries and the merchant navy. In the 1920s, 100,000 workers arrived from the Philippines to the U.S. to work. But not only were these men barred from bringing their families with them, by 1933 in California, they had also been prohibited from marrying outside of their race. (That year, the California senate saw fit to add “Malay” to the state’s interracial marriage ban, thereby \u003ca href=\"https://www.cschs.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/05/History-Resources-Articles-Caragozian-Ban-on-Interracial-Marriages.pdf\">preventing Filipino men from marrying\u003c/a> most of the women in their vicinity.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13874853']With so many barriers to building a traditional family structure, it became essential for this first wave of manongs to form their own communities. Manilatown was central to that, and central to Manilatown was the International Hotel (often called the “I-Hotel”). The three-story structure at 838 Kearny Street housed 200 residents — mostly elderly and impoverished Filipino and Chinese men. The UFA’s headquarters, appropriately enough, was situated directly next door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Autumn of 1968, Marasigan and the UFA faced their biggest challenge yet. Residents at the I-Hotel began receiving eviction notices. (The business that owned the property, Milton Meyer and Company, wanted to turn the hotel into a multi-level parking lot.) Residents, students and other civil rights groups banded together to keep the I-Hotel open; Marasigan was a key player in negotiating the hotel a new three-year lease in 1969.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan couldn’t have known that just four years later, the hotel would be sold to a developer. Then, on Aug. 7, 1977, 400 police officers forced their way through a human chain around the I-Hotel and forcibly dragged out its residents, bringing an end to the hotel — and Manilatown itself — for good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966696\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966696\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel.jpg\" alt=\"Men and women in 1970s clothing cluster together outside a building with a sign that says 'International Hotel' on it. \" width=\"2000\" height=\"1427\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-800x571.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-1020x728.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-1536x1096.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-1920x1370.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Protesters gathered outside the International Hotel for days before police forcibly emptied the building. This image was taken on Aug. 3, 1977. \u003ccite>(Dave Randolph/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Marasigan was not there to see the end of the hotel she fought so hard to save. She had returned to Manila in 1971, quickly joining the resistance against Ferdinand Marcos, the dictator that placed the Philippines under martial law, put an end to the free press and began violently oppressing civilians. Marasigan proved herself once more to be an outspoken activist, visiting and raising money for political prisoners. For her trouble, Marasigan was arrested in 1982 on explosives charges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13955066']Marasigan spent a year incarcerated at the infamous \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camp_Crame\">Camp Crame\u003c/a> before being fully exonerated. During her time as a political prisoner, Marasigan helped organize inmates, held political discussions and even conducted a 22-day hunger strike. In 1995, looking back on the turbulent time, she told the \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em>, “The only thing explosive about me was my mouth and my farts.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She expanded: “Filipinos laugh a lot. We laugh at our mistakes. It’s one of the strengths we have. We can also fight.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And fight she did. Undeterred by her time in Camp Crame, in 1984, she co-founded \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gabriela_Women%27s_Party\">Gabriela Women’s Party\u003c/a> — an organization formed after 10,000 women marched against Marcos, defying a ban on protests. That same year, Maragisan also helped found \u003ca href=\"https://seldapilipinas.wordpress.com/about/\">Selda\u003c/a>, an advocacy organization by and for political prisoners. As part of her work with Gabriela and the National Council of Churches in the Philippines (NCCP), Maragisan had a hand in opening two safe havens for women: the \u003ca href=\"http://www.genuinesecurity.org/partners/buklod.htm\">Buklod Center in Olongapo City\u003c/a>, geared towards sex workers, and the \u003ca href=\"https://batiscenterforwomen.wordpress.com/about/history/\">Batis Center for Women\u003c/a> in Quezon City, which focused on female migrant workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan finally came back to the Bay in 1988 and, though there was no Manilatown to return to, went straight back to work for Filipino immigrants. She worked as a social worker at \u003ca href=\"https://www.somapilipinas.org/community-1/2018/7/13/west-bay-pilipino-multi-service-center\">West Bay Filipino Multi-Services\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.healthright360.org/parent-program/asian-american-recovery-services/\">Asian American Recovery Services\u003c/a> and the Veterans Equity Center (now known as the \u003ca href=\"https://asianpacificfund.org/affiliate/veterans-equity-center-2/\">Bayanihan Equity Center\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the 1990s, while based in Daly City, Marasigan remained focused on seniors and veterans, setting up food and clothing banks at two separate Mission Street locations. In 1993, she co-founded the Friends of Filipino American Veterans to conduct “direct action, legal aid, advocacy and outreach programs for the veterans.” In 1994, she was president of the Filipino American Human Rights Advocates. Around this time, the editor in chief of \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Filipinas_(magazine)\">\u003cem>Filipinas\u003c/em> magazine\u003c/a> Rene Ciria-Cruz called Marasigan “old reliable,” and noted: “She’s a symbol of activism. When she’s there it lends a validity to the cause being taken up.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan broadened her focus even further in the ’90s, working more with children and teens — a natural progression, after she’d raised four daughters and a son of her own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13921886']In 1995, Marasigan volunteered with the Bilingual Advisory Council of Balboa Park’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfusd.edu/school/james-denman-middle-school\">James Denman Middle School\u003c/a>, was a member of the School Advisory Council and actively worked with teens on AIDS prevention. An article in the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> that year reported that she was prone to bluntly asking the teens at the West Bay Filipino Center on Mission St. if they were sexually active.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If they cannot say ‘no’ right away,” she explained, “I grab their hand and say ‘Talk to me.’ I’m straight with them. I answer their questions and I don’t get embarrassed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan wasn’t afraid to enter a classroom and tell kids something they’d never heard before — be it about safe sex or their own history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In the curriculum,” she said at the time, “there is no cultural empowerment of other groups. Last week, we had a support group at Balboa, and we showed them Filipino history in America, and they were so surprised … How could our children have self-esteem in school when they don’t see they are part of the history of America?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sadly, Marasigan’s life of service was suddenly cut short by an accident in April 2000. She had just gotten out of her parked car when it rolled down the street, knocking her to the ground. She was 61.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At a \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Memorial-Service-Held-at-City-Hall-For-Activist-2784544.php\">packed memorial service\u003c/a> for her at San Francisco’s City Hall, tributes poured in from Mayor Willie Brown, several supervisors (including Tom Ammiano and Mabel Teng) and a plethora of friends and associates. Supervisor Leland Yee didn’t mince words.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Anyone with the name ‘Bullet,’ you don’t want to mess around with,” Yee said. “When you lose someone like that, you lose part of your soul.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of Marasigan’s final triumphs in life was successfully fighting to re-open the \u003ca href=\"https://www.galingbata.org/\">Filipino Education Center\u003c/a> — a bilingual school and daycare for immigrant children. She believed this was an essential grounding place that would enable future generations of Filipinos to thrive in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When we’re gone,” she explained in 1995, “the work will continue.”\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>To learn about other Rebel Girls from Bay Area History, visit the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rebel Girls homepage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A book celebrating women from the Rebel Girls series, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">‘Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area,’\u003c/a> is available now from City Lights.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>In January 1970, Violeta ‘Bullet’ Marasigan’s husband implored her to not “bring any more work home.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Quoted in a \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> profile, Pete Marasigan was, the newspaper reported, only half-joking. Because when Violeta Marasigan brought the office home with her, it wasn’t stacks of papers and files. More often than not, it was human beings that needed food or a bed for the night.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan had been in nonstop action since 1968, when she was hired by San Francisco’s United Filipino Association (UFA) as a social worker. Born in the Philippines in 1939, Marasigan had moved to California to study at San Francisco State College. Shortly after graduation, the UFA brought her on to assist the elders — or \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manong#:~:text=Manong%20(Mah%2Dnoh%2Dng,given%20to%20an%20older%20sister.\">manongs\u003c/a> \u003c/em>— of Manilatown, a 10-block stretch of Filipino businesses, restaurants and social hubs centered around Kearny and Jackson Streets in San Francisco. She was perfect for the position.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“I’m very optimistic,” she later explained. “I think a lot of things can be done if we really put ourselves in it — [and] not half-heartedly.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There was nothing half-hearted about Marasigan. She spent her entire life fighting for Filipinos, both in the Bay and abroad. Her nickname “Bullet” was coined while still in her teens; “Bolet” is a Tagalog version of the name Violeta, but Marasigan’s moniker morphed into “Bullet” once her friends realized how impossible it was to stand in her way. That much became clear to San Francisco as soon as Marasigan joined forces with the UFA.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When I started working with the old men,” she told the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> in 1970, “I saw that they were discriminated against in terms of their access to social services. A lot of them had been here for over 30 years, but they could still barely speak English or write. These manongs were mostly single retired farmworkers and seamen living on social security retirement benefits.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan quickly deduced that most of these men — frequently World War II veterans — were not receiving all of the SSI benefits they were entitled to. (Some were receiving less than half of the appropriate amount.) Marasigan took it upon herself to bring these men into the Social Security office and advocate for each of them, one by one, until they each received what they were owed. And they were owed a lot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the U.S. colonized the Philippines in 1898, Filipino men became a cheap labor source for American companies, particularly in agriculture, canneries and the merchant navy. In the 1920s, 100,000 workers arrived from the Philippines to the U.S. to work. But not only were these men barred from bringing their families with them, by 1933 in California, they had also been prohibited from marrying outside of their race. (That year, the California senate saw fit to add “Malay” to the state’s interracial marriage ban, thereby \u003ca href=\"https://www.cschs.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/05/History-Resources-Articles-Caragozian-Ban-on-Interracial-Marriages.pdf\">preventing Filipino men from marrying\u003c/a> most of the women in their vicinity.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>With so many barriers to building a traditional family structure, it became essential for this first wave of manongs to form their own communities. Manilatown was central to that, and central to Manilatown was the International Hotel (often called the “I-Hotel”). The three-story structure at 838 Kearny Street housed 200 residents — mostly elderly and impoverished Filipino and Chinese men. The UFA’s headquarters, appropriately enough, was situated directly next door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Autumn of 1968, Marasigan and the UFA faced their biggest challenge yet. Residents at the I-Hotel began receiving eviction notices. (The business that owned the property, Milton Meyer and Company, wanted to turn the hotel into a multi-level parking lot.) Residents, students and other civil rights groups banded together to keep the I-Hotel open; Marasigan was a key player in negotiating the hotel a new three-year lease in 1969.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan couldn’t have known that just four years later, the hotel would be sold to a developer. Then, on Aug. 7, 1977, 400 police officers forced their way through a human chain around the I-Hotel and forcibly dragged out its residents, bringing an end to the hotel — and Manilatown itself — for good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966696\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966696\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel.jpg\" alt=\"Men and women in 1970s clothing cluster together outside a building with a sign that says 'International Hotel' on it. \" width=\"2000\" height=\"1427\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-800x571.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-1020x728.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-1536x1096.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/i-hotel-1920x1370.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Protesters gathered outside the International Hotel for days before police forcibly emptied the building. This image was taken on Aug. 3, 1977. \u003ccite>(Dave Randolph/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Marasigan was not there to see the end of the hotel she fought so hard to save. She had returned to Manila in 1971, quickly joining the resistance against Ferdinand Marcos, the dictator that placed the Philippines under martial law, put an end to the free press and began violently oppressing civilians. Marasigan proved herself once more to be an outspoken activist, visiting and raising money for political prisoners. For her trouble, Marasigan was arrested in 1982 on explosives charges.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Marasigan spent a year incarcerated at the infamous \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camp_Crame\">Camp Crame\u003c/a> before being fully exonerated. During her time as a political prisoner, Marasigan helped organize inmates, held political discussions and even conducted a 22-day hunger strike. In 1995, looking back on the turbulent time, she told the \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em>, “The only thing explosive about me was my mouth and my farts.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She expanded: “Filipinos laugh a lot. We laugh at our mistakes. It’s one of the strengths we have. We can also fight.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And fight she did. Undeterred by her time in Camp Crame, in 1984, she co-founded \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gabriela_Women%27s_Party\">Gabriela Women’s Party\u003c/a> — an organization formed after 10,000 women marched against Marcos, defying a ban on protests. That same year, Maragisan also helped found \u003ca href=\"https://seldapilipinas.wordpress.com/about/\">Selda\u003c/a>, an advocacy organization by and for political prisoners. As part of her work with Gabriela and the National Council of Churches in the Philippines (NCCP), Maragisan had a hand in opening two safe havens for women: the \u003ca href=\"http://www.genuinesecurity.org/partners/buklod.htm\">Buklod Center in Olongapo City\u003c/a>, geared towards sex workers, and the \u003ca href=\"https://batiscenterforwomen.wordpress.com/about/history/\">Batis Center for Women\u003c/a> in Quezon City, which focused on female migrant workers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan finally came back to the Bay in 1988 and, though there was no Manilatown to return to, went straight back to work for Filipino immigrants. She worked as a social worker at \u003ca href=\"https://www.somapilipinas.org/community-1/2018/7/13/west-bay-pilipino-multi-service-center\">West Bay Filipino Multi-Services\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.healthright360.org/parent-program/asian-american-recovery-services/\">Asian American Recovery Services\u003c/a> and the Veterans Equity Center (now known as the \u003ca href=\"https://asianpacificfund.org/affiliate/veterans-equity-center-2/\">Bayanihan Equity Center\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the 1990s, while based in Daly City, Marasigan remained focused on seniors and veterans, setting up food and clothing banks at two separate Mission Street locations. In 1993, she co-founded the Friends of Filipino American Veterans to conduct “direct action, legal aid, advocacy and outreach programs for the veterans.” In 1994, she was president of the Filipino American Human Rights Advocates. Around this time, the editor in chief of \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Filipinas_(magazine)\">\u003cem>Filipinas\u003c/em> magazine\u003c/a> Rene Ciria-Cruz called Marasigan “old reliable,” and noted: “She’s a symbol of activism. When she’s there it lends a validity to the cause being taken up.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan broadened her focus even further in the ’90s, working more with children and teens — a natural progression, after she’d raised four daughters and a son of her own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In 1995, Marasigan volunteered with the Bilingual Advisory Council of Balboa Park’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfusd.edu/school/james-denman-middle-school\">James Denman Middle School\u003c/a>, was a member of the School Advisory Council and actively worked with teens on AIDS prevention. An article in the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> that year reported that she was prone to bluntly asking the teens at the West Bay Filipino Center on Mission St. if they were sexually active.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If they cannot say ‘no’ right away,” she explained, “I grab their hand and say ‘Talk to me.’ I’m straight with them. I answer their questions and I don’t get embarrassed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Marasigan wasn’t afraid to enter a classroom and tell kids something they’d never heard before — be it about safe sex or their own history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In the curriculum,” she said at the time, “there is no cultural empowerment of other groups. Last week, we had a support group at Balboa, and we showed them Filipino history in America, and they were so surprised … How could our children have self-esteem in school when they don’t see they are part of the history of America?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sadly, Marasigan’s life of service was suddenly cut short by an accident in April 2000. She had just gotten out of her parked car when it rolled down the street, knocking her to the ground. She was 61.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At a \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Memorial-Service-Held-at-City-Hall-For-Activist-2784544.php\">packed memorial service\u003c/a> for her at San Francisco’s City Hall, tributes poured in from Mayor Willie Brown, several supervisors (including Tom Ammiano and Mabel Teng) and a plethora of friends and associates. Supervisor Leland Yee didn’t mince words.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Anyone with the name ‘Bullet,’ you don’t want to mess around with,” Yee said. “When you lose someone like that, you lose part of your soul.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of Marasigan’s final triumphs in life was successfully fighting to re-open the \u003ca href=\"https://www.galingbata.org/\">Filipino Education Center\u003c/a> — a bilingual school and daycare for immigrant children. She believed this was an essential grounding place that would enable future generations of Filipinos to thrive in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When we’re gone,” she explained in 1995, “the work will continue.”\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>To learn about other Rebel Girls from Bay Area History, visit the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/rebelgirls\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Rebel Girls homepage\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>A book celebrating women from the Rebel Girls series, \u003ca href=\"https://citylights.com/politics-current-events-history/unsung-heroines35-women-who-changed/\">‘Unsung Heroines: 35 Women Who Changed the Bay Area,’\u003c/a> is available now from City Lights.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "How a Buffalo Soldier Changed the Life of Latin Jazz Master John Calloway",
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"content": "\u003cp>Not many in the 21st century can say their life has been changed by a Buffalo Soldier. Then there’s John Calloway, and an entirely unexpected family tale from the Philippines that reconfigured his identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, there’s no mystery around the San Francisco flutist, percussionist and educator. Calloway is a Latin jazz master who’s nurtured generations of young musicians as a professor at San Francisco State and the director of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/10949235/a-new-generation-of-latin-jazz-artists\">Latin Jazz Youth Ensemble of San Francisco\u003c/a>. But as a mixed-race Filipino American, he’s always felt between worlds, beset by questions about how he looks and speaks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If I’m Filipino, how come I have light skin, don’t speak Tagalog and don’t have a Spanish surname?” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966676\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"938\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966676\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-800x375.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-1020x478.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-160x75.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-768x360.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-1536x720.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-1920x900.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Calloway (front row, second from right) and the Afro-Filipino Project. \u003ccite>(Courtesy John Calloway)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The astonishing discovery of the story of his Filipino roots, a saga enmeshed with the advent of United States’ global empire and a campaign of political persecution, fueled his creation of \u003ca href=\"https://johncalloway.com/buffalo-soldier-afro-filipino-project\">John Calloway & the Afro-Filipino Project\u003c/a>, which celebrates Filipino American Heritage Month at Santa Cruz’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kuumbwajazz.org/calendar/john-calloway-the-afro-filipino-project-filipino-american-heritage-month-celebration/\">Kuumbwa Jazz Center on Oct. 17\u003c/a> and the \u003ca href=\"https://museumca.org/event/spotlight-sundays-buffalo-soldiers-and-the-philippine-american-war-a-multimedia-experience/\">Oakland Museum of California on Oct. 20\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Featuring a stellar cast of African-American, Filipino, and Filipino-American artists, including bassist Ron Belcher, drummer Deszon Claiborne and Conrad Benedicto and Manuel Dragon on kulintang instruments, the ensemble will reprise Calloway’s suite \u003cem>Buffalo Soldiers and the Philippine American War: A Crisis of Conscience\u003c/em> at the Oakland Museum. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The gig at Kuumbwa is the Afro-Filipino Project, which brings together two different worlds with new compositions combining traditional instruments of the Philippines with jazz and blues, as well as Afro-Filipinos and our musical influences,” Calloway explained. “The key thing is that people come together to create meaningful music reflective of their identities.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uO7fWpgmZsI\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The long-buried answers regarding Calloway’s identity surfaced suddenly about 10 years ago, when he received a copy of the essay anthology \u003cem>Mixed Blessings: The Impact of the Colonial Experience On Politics and Society In the Philippines\u003c/em>. It included a chapter by Australian historian Gill H. Boehringer about a John W. Calloway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Calloway’s paternal grandfather, born in 1872, was a Buffalo Solider, an African-American noncommissioned officer serving in the segregated U.S. Army. He died when Callaway’s father was 13, “and we knew very little about him, but when the book showed up 10 years ago it blew us out of the water,” Calloway said, noting he shares his grandfather’s middle initial.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have a different middle name, but to see ‘John W. Calloway’ as the first three words of the chapter and to find out about his experience as a Buffalo Solider in the Philippines was more than mind-blowing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966671\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1294px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1294\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966671\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4.jpg 1294w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-800x1236.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-1020x1577.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-160x247.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-768x1187.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-994x1536.jpg 994w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1294px) 100vw, 1294px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dancers Daniel Giray and Marcela Pabros-Clark perform with John Calloway and the Afro-Filipino Project. \u003ccite>(Bob Hsiang Photography)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Among his discoveries was that struggling with identity is something of a Calloway legacy. Before his grandfather was sent to the Philippines, he fought in Cuba during the 1898 Spanish American War, the conflict that turned the U.S. into global imperial power with territories in the Caribbean (Cuba and Puerto Rico) and South Pacific (Guam and the Philippines).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Philippines, the war against Spain quickly turned into a brutal campaign to suppress the independence of the newly declared Philippine Republic. Many Buffalo Soldiers were sent to fight in a war that was cast in starkly racist terms, as British writer Rudyard Kipling’s poem “The White Man’s Burden” urged the U.S. to replace Spain as a colonial power and uplift “Your new-caught, sullen peoples / Half devil and half child.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many Buffalo Soldiers wanted to earn credit for the Black community back home by serving with distinction, a dynamic carried over from the thousands of Black men who served in the Union Army during the Civil War (and that was replayed, with disappointment, again in World War I and World War II). That hope often co-existed with sympathy for the Philippine anti-colonial struggle, a sentiment that canny independence activists fed “by scattering leaflets in Central Luzon telling Black soldiers they were fighting and dying in a war for their political masters while their kin were being lynched at home,” writes historian Gill H. Boehringer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966673\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1353\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966673\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-800x541.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-1020x690.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-768x520.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-1536x1039.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-1920x1299.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Umali Horne performs with John Calloway and the Afro-Filipino Project. \u003ccite>(Bob Hsiang Photography)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Back home, the African-American press was often vocal in opposing U.S. colonial ambitions, and Calloway was a regular correspondent for \u003cem>The Richmond Planet\u003c/em>, a Black newspaper in Virginia. His missives provided “an account of how, and why, some pro-Filipino sentiments were developing amongst the Americans, especially the Black troops,” Boehringer wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But one letter in particular, to a Filipino friend who supported the independence movement, derailed Sgt. Major Calloway’s military career. While serving in the 24th infantry, he wrote of being “constantly haunted by the feeling of how wrong morally we Americans are in the present affair with you.” The letter’s discovery by military intelligence led to his court martial; the fact that he’d married a Filipina was considered proof of his treachery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was imprisoned at the Presidio, and tried to get the conviction overturned,” Calloway said. Upon his release, he returned to the Philippines, then was deported and returned to the U.S. territory again, “where he spent the rest of his life,” Calloway said. It’s where he and his wife had 14 children, including Calloway’s father, one of the last born, in 1919.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966674\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1343px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1343\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966674\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2.jpg 1343w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-800x1191.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-1020x1519.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-768x1144.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-1031x1536.jpg 1031w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1343px) 100vw, 1343px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ting Josue Alvarez-Maquinta performs with John Calloway and the Afro-Filipino Project. \u003ccite>(Bob Hsiang Photography)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>While learning his new family history, Calloway never thought of exploring it in music. He’d spent his career in Latin jazz and Cuban music, including recordings with Cuban jazz luminaries such as bassist Israel “Cachao” Lopez, conguero Carlos “Patato” Valdez and pianist Omar Sosa. He’s recorded more than a dozen albums with fellow Mission District native John Santos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But when the California Jazz Conservatory asked him to put on a Black History Month concert in 2022, he wrote a grant to develop compositions exploring his Buffalo Solider lineage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And after a long beautiful journey playing Afro-Latin music, this whole other thing came about, a much deeper project about my inner self and identity,” Calloway said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At the deepest level, this is something I’ve carried with me since adolescence. But this project is in its infancy. I want to pay homage to all the Afro-Filipinos who play music, like Sugar Pie DeSanto and Joe Bataan.”\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>John Calloway & the Afro-Filipino Project performs Thursday, Oct. 17, at Kuumbwa Jazz Center in Santa Cruz; \u003ca href=\"https://www.kuumbwajazz.org/calendar/john-calloway-the-afro-filipino-project-filipino-american-heritage-month-celebration/\">details here\u003c/a>. The ensemble also performs Sunday, Oct. 20, at the Oakland Museum of California in Oakland; \u003ca href=\"https://museumca.org/event/spotlight-sundays-buffalo-soldiers-and-the-philippine-american-war-a-multimedia-experience/\">details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "How a Buffalo Soldier Changed the Life of Latin Jazz Master John Calloway | KQED",
"description": "An unexpected story from the Philippines reconfigured Calloway's identity — and is now immortalized in music.",
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"headline": "How a Buffalo Soldier Changed the Life of Latin Jazz Master John Calloway",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Not many in the 21st century can say their life has been changed by a Buffalo Soldier. Then there’s John Calloway, and an entirely unexpected family tale from the Philippines that reconfigured his identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, there’s no mystery around the San Francisco flutist, percussionist and educator. Calloway is a Latin jazz master who’s nurtured generations of young musicians as a professor at San Francisco State and the director of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/10949235/a-new-generation-of-latin-jazz-artists\">Latin Jazz Youth Ensemble of San Francisco\u003c/a>. But as a mixed-race Filipino American, he’s always felt between worlds, beset by questions about how he looks and speaks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If I’m Filipino, how come I have light skin, don’t speak Tagalog and don’t have a Spanish surname?” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966676\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"938\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966676\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-800x375.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-1020x478.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-160x75.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-768x360.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-1536x720.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/John-Calloway-1920x900.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Calloway (front row, second from right) and the Afro-Filipino Project. \u003ccite>(Courtesy John Calloway)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The astonishing discovery of the story of his Filipino roots, a saga enmeshed with the advent of United States’ global empire and a campaign of political persecution, fueled his creation of \u003ca href=\"https://johncalloway.com/buffalo-soldier-afro-filipino-project\">John Calloway & the Afro-Filipino Project\u003c/a>, which celebrates Filipino American Heritage Month at Santa Cruz’s \u003ca href=\"https://www.kuumbwajazz.org/calendar/john-calloway-the-afro-filipino-project-filipino-american-heritage-month-celebration/\">Kuumbwa Jazz Center on Oct. 17\u003c/a> and the \u003ca href=\"https://museumca.org/event/spotlight-sundays-buffalo-soldiers-and-the-philippine-american-war-a-multimedia-experience/\">Oakland Museum of California on Oct. 20\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Featuring a stellar cast of African-American, Filipino, and Filipino-American artists, including bassist Ron Belcher, drummer Deszon Claiborne and Conrad Benedicto and Manuel Dragon on kulintang instruments, the ensemble will reprise Calloway’s suite \u003cem>Buffalo Soldiers and the Philippine American War: A Crisis of Conscience\u003c/em> at the Oakland Museum. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The gig at Kuumbwa is the Afro-Filipino Project, which brings together two different worlds with new compositions combining traditional instruments of the Philippines with jazz and blues, as well as Afro-Filipinos and our musical influences,” Calloway explained. “The key thing is that people come together to create meaningful music reflective of their identities.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/uO7fWpgmZsI'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/uO7fWpgmZsI'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>The long-buried answers regarding Calloway’s identity surfaced suddenly about 10 years ago, when he received a copy of the essay anthology \u003cem>Mixed Blessings: The Impact of the Colonial Experience On Politics and Society In the Philippines\u003c/em>. It included a chapter by Australian historian Gill H. Boehringer about a John W. Calloway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Calloway’s paternal grandfather, born in 1872, was a Buffalo Solider, an African-American noncommissioned officer serving in the segregated U.S. Army. He died when Callaway’s father was 13, “and we knew very little about him, but when the book showed up 10 years ago it blew us out of the water,” Calloway said, noting he shares his grandfather’s middle initial.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have a different middle name, but to see ‘John W. Calloway’ as the first three words of the chapter and to find out about his experience as a Buffalo Solider in the Philippines was more than mind-blowing.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966671\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1294px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1294\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966671\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4.jpg 1294w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-800x1236.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-1020x1577.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-160x247.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-768x1187.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-4-994x1536.jpg 994w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1294px) 100vw, 1294px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dancers Daniel Giray and Marcela Pabros-Clark perform with John Calloway and the Afro-Filipino Project. \u003ccite>(Bob Hsiang Photography)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Among his discoveries was that struggling with identity is something of a Calloway legacy. Before his grandfather was sent to the Philippines, he fought in Cuba during the 1898 Spanish American War, the conflict that turned the U.S. into global imperial power with territories in the Caribbean (Cuba and Puerto Rico) and South Pacific (Guam and the Philippines).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Philippines, the war against Spain quickly turned into a brutal campaign to suppress the independence of the newly declared Philippine Republic. Many Buffalo Soldiers were sent to fight in a war that was cast in starkly racist terms, as British writer Rudyard Kipling’s poem “The White Man’s Burden” urged the U.S. to replace Spain as a colonial power and uplift “Your new-caught, sullen peoples / Half devil and half child.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many Buffalo Soldiers wanted to earn credit for the Black community back home by serving with distinction, a dynamic carried over from the thousands of Black men who served in the Union Army during the Civil War (and that was replayed, with disappointment, again in World War I and World War II). That hope often co-existed with sympathy for the Philippine anti-colonial struggle, a sentiment that canny independence activists fed “by scattering leaflets in Central Luzon telling Black soldiers they were fighting and dying in a war for their political masters while their kin were being lynched at home,” writes historian Gill H. Boehringer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966673\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1353\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966673\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-800x541.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-1020x690.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-768x520.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-1536x1039.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-3-1920x1299.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Umali Horne performs with John Calloway and the Afro-Filipino Project. \u003ccite>(Bob Hsiang Photography)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Back home, the African-American press was often vocal in opposing U.S. colonial ambitions, and Calloway was a regular correspondent for \u003cem>The Richmond Planet\u003c/em>, a Black newspaper in Virginia. His missives provided “an account of how, and why, some pro-Filipino sentiments were developing amongst the Americans, especially the Black troops,” Boehringer wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But one letter in particular, to a Filipino friend who supported the independence movement, derailed Sgt. Major Calloway’s military career. While serving in the 24th infantry, he wrote of being “constantly haunted by the feeling of how wrong morally we Americans are in the present affair with you.” The letter’s discovery by military intelligence led to his court martial; the fact that he’d married a Filipina was considered proof of his treachery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He was imprisoned at the Presidio, and tried to get the conviction overturned,” Calloway said. Upon his release, he returned to the Philippines, then was deported and returned to the U.S. territory again, “where he spent the rest of his life,” Calloway said. It’s where he and his wife had 14 children, including Calloway’s father, one of the last born, in 1919.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966674\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1343px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1343\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966674\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2.jpg 1343w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-800x1191.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-1020x1519.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-768x1144.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/meta_eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ-2-1031x1536.jpg 1031w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1343px) 100vw, 1343px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ting Josue Alvarez-Maquinta performs with John Calloway and the Afro-Filipino Project. \u003ccite>(Bob Hsiang Photography)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>While learning his new family history, Calloway never thought of exploring it in music. He’d spent his career in Latin jazz and Cuban music, including recordings with Cuban jazz luminaries such as bassist Israel “Cachao” Lopez, conguero Carlos “Patato” Valdez and pianist Omar Sosa. He’s recorded more than a dozen albums with fellow Mission District native John Santos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But when the California Jazz Conservatory asked him to put on a Black History Month concert in 2022, he wrote a grant to develop compositions exploring his Buffalo Solider lineage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“And after a long beautiful journey playing Afro-Latin music, this whole other thing came about, a much deeper project about my inner self and identity,” Calloway said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At the deepest level, this is something I’ve carried with me since adolescence. But this project is in its infancy. I want to pay homage to all the Afro-Filipinos who play music, like Sugar Pie DeSanto and Joe Bataan.”\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>John Calloway & the Afro-Filipino Project performs Thursday, Oct. 17, at Kuumbwa Jazz Center in Santa Cruz; \u003ca href=\"https://www.kuumbwajazz.org/calendar/john-calloway-the-afro-filipino-project-filipino-american-heritage-month-celebration/\">details here\u003c/a>. The ensemble also performs Sunday, Oct. 20, at the Oakland Museum of California in Oakland; \u003ca href=\"https://museumca.org/event/spotlight-sundays-buffalo-soldiers-and-the-philippine-american-war-a-multimedia-experience/\">details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "zodiac-killer-forged-letter-david-toschi-armistead-maupin-tales-of-the-city",
"title": "How the Zodiac Killer Investigation Fell Apart in 1978 ... Because of Armistead Maupin",
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"headTitle": "How the Zodiac Killer Investigation Fell Apart in 1978 … Because of Armistead Maupin | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>In 1978, San Francisco was an anarchic place to be. A burgeoning punk rock scene was in the process of eviscerating the city’s reputation as a hippie haven. Civil rights campaigns raged all over: the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/black-panthers\">Black Panthers\u003c/a> were over a decade into their struggle, LGBTQ folks were \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966077/inside-the-trial-that-overturned-californias-same-sex-marriage-ban-proposition-8-mike-johnson-lgbtq-rights\">at war with Anita Bryant\u003c/a>, and feminists were trying to “\u003ca href=\"https://www.againstviolence.art/take-back-the-night\">Take Back the Night\u003c/a>” outside of North Beach’s strip clubs. This most turbulent of years also culminated in the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/118592/relatives-remember-jonestown-35-years-after-the-killings\">Jonestown Massacre\u003c/a> \u003cem>and\u003c/em> the assassinations of Harvey Milk and George Moscone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13953890']If there hadn’t been so much going on, it’s possible that one very strange turn of events might have stayed in the public consciousness for a bit longer. Because yes, it’s almost as bonkers as everything else that happened that year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In July 1978, nine years after the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/zodiac-killer\">Zodiac Killer\u003c/a> first struck, one of the most prominent homicide cops working the case was suddenly removed from his post. By that time, Inspector David R. Toschi — who had been on the case since day one — is said to have interviewed 5,000 people and examined more than 2,000 suspects. So it’s probable that his sudden transfer from homicide to (in Toschi’s own words) “the pawnshop detail” was always going to make some headlines. The reason it blew up into a citywide reason to gossip was the person responsible for his demotion — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/pop/111091/everything-you-need-to-know-about-tales-of-the-city-before-the-netflix-update\">\u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em>\u003c/a> author and jaunty man about San Francisco, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/pop/10814/armistead-maupin-on-saying-goodbye-to-san-francisco-and-tales-of-the-city\">Armistead Maupin\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13880964\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13880964\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1296\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-160x104.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-800x518.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-768x498.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-1020x661.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-1920x1244.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Armistead Maupin, not causing any controversies. \u003ccite>(Christopher Turner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This whole thing started in August 1976 when Maupin consulted Toschi so he might better write the character of homicide detective Henry Tandy. Tandy was featured in Maupin’s \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> column and in the first \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em> book that combined many of those stories. True to Maupin’s tendency to blend fiction and reality, Toschi was also written in as Tandy’s mentor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13833330']All very normal and fine so far? Well, yes, but not for long. According to Maupin, “within the [first] week” of Toschi’s name appearing in \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em>, the author received two fake fan letters that included praise for Toschi. Maupin clocked the notes as phony only some weeks later when even more arrived, at which point he suspected that Toschi was sending them himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maupin later stated that he regarded the letters “as a harmless, if somewhat reckless action on the part of a police officer.” He also told the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>: “I was extremely embarrassed for him. The letters were so transparent, so pathetic that I couldn’t bring myself to [confront] him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966328\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13966328 size-full\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi.jpg\" alt=\"A man wearing a white shirt, bow tie and suspenders looks though a stack of paper files.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1192\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-800x477.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-1020x608.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-768x458.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-1536x915.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-1920x1144.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">David Toschi in 1976, the same year he sent Armistead Maupin fan mail… in praise of himself. \u003ccite>(San Francisco Chronicle/Hearst Newspapers via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At the same time he was sending the fake fan letters, Toschi was also sending Maupin some unusual packages, signed directly from himself. These included one containing a signed photograph of himself posing with \u003cem>The Streets of San Francisco\u003c/em> actor \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Malden\">Karl Malden\u003c/a> and another containing a felt wall calendar. (Herb Caen also reportedly received one of these calendars and, Maupin believes, phony fan mail from Toschi.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Things escalated in April 1978 when, after a four-year period of silence from the Zodiac, a new letter purporting to be from the serial killer arrived at the \u003cem>Chronicle\u003c/em>’s offices. It read, in part:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>This is the Zodiac speaking I am back with you. Tell herb caen I am here, I have always been here. That city pig toschi is good — but I am smarter and better he will get tired then leave me alone.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>After Maupin saw the letter, he began to suspect that Toschi might have faked it. For one, no prior Zodiac letters had ever mentioned any individual police officers before. In addition, Maupin thought that the tone, the “margin stops” and the shape of the Ds in the Zodiac letter looked similar to ones he saw in Toschi’s fabricated fan mail.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966330\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966330\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1669\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78.png 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-800x668.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-1020x851.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-160x134.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-768x641.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-1536x1282.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-1920x1602.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The final Zodiac letter from April 1978, that Armistead Maupin suspected Inspector David Toschi had forged.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Maupin was concerned enough that he contacted Toschi’s superiors at the San Francisco Police Department; they immediately launched an investigation. Toschi publicly admitted to sending the fake fan letters to Maupin and was swiftly removed from the Zodiac case.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a foolish thing to do,” he said at the time. “I am ashamed of it.” However, Toschi also denied meddling in the Zodiac case. He declared to the \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em>, “I wrote no Zodiac letter. I don’t need another letter. It only brings me tons of extra work.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the same interview, Toschi dismissed Maupin’s suspicions as a baseless publicity stunt timed specifically to coincide with the release of the first \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em> book.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13904265']“Can a man be destroyed because of vague accusations about ‘tone’?” Toschi said. “You bet he can! The complaint signed by Maupin and his publicist [Kenneth Maley] says that I ‘may’ have forged the last … Zodiac letter. ‘May have forged.’ ‘Similarity of tone.’ Just this. No evidence … I’ll be exonerated eventually but my credibility has been smashed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Asked what the lowest point of the controversy had been for him, Toschi explained: “Someone from Internal Affairs asked me where I had been on the night that Zodiac murdered the cab driver Paul Stine. I told him — home in bed — but I got sick to my stomach. Apparently some reporter had asked the department: ‘Could Toschi be Zodiac?’ You’ll never know how that hurt.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Regardless of the suspicions placed on Toschi, he was eventually exonerated of forging the final Zodiac letter. He stayed with the SFPD until 1985, before taking on the role of director of security at both Union Square’s Pan Pacific Hotel and St. Luke’s Hospital in the Mission. Toschi died in 2018 at the age of 86 but, as he predicted, the controversy about the final Zodiac letter never dissipated — and Toschi’s name is now synonymous with it. As the \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em> wrote on July 11, 1978: “It may just be that he is a man done in by his own admiration for newspaper stories that mentioned his name.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for Maupin, the controversy he started had zero effect on his career. As the years passed, Maupin’s association with the Zodiac case became a distant memory for almost everyone except true crime nerds. Maupin went on to release nine enormously popular \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em> books over a span of 36 years. \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em> was also turned into \u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/cultureshock/flashpoints/theater/tales.html\">a PBS series starring Laura Linney\u003c/a> in 1993 and \u003ca href=\"https://www.netflix.com/title/80211563\">rebooted by Netflix\u003c/a> in 2019.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sadly for the former cop, the David Toschi and Henry Tandy characters never made an appearance in either screen adaptation.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>In 1978, San Francisco was an anarchic place to be. A burgeoning punk rock scene was in the process of eviscerating the city’s reputation as a hippie haven. Civil rights campaigns raged all over: the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/black-panthers\">Black Panthers\u003c/a> were over a decade into their struggle, LGBTQ folks were \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966077/inside-the-trial-that-overturned-californias-same-sex-marriage-ban-proposition-8-mike-johnson-lgbtq-rights\">at war with Anita Bryant\u003c/a>, and feminists were trying to “\u003ca href=\"https://www.againstviolence.art/take-back-the-night\">Take Back the Night\u003c/a>” outside of North Beach’s strip clubs. This most turbulent of years also culminated in the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/118592/relatives-remember-jonestown-35-years-after-the-killings\">Jonestown Massacre\u003c/a> \u003cem>and\u003c/em> the assassinations of Harvey Milk and George Moscone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>If there hadn’t been so much going on, it’s possible that one very strange turn of events might have stayed in the public consciousness for a bit longer. Because yes, it’s almost as bonkers as everything else that happened that year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In July 1978, nine years after the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/tag/zodiac-killer\">Zodiac Killer\u003c/a> first struck, one of the most prominent homicide cops working the case was suddenly removed from his post. By that time, Inspector David R. Toschi — who had been on the case since day one — is said to have interviewed 5,000 people and examined more than 2,000 suspects. So it’s probable that his sudden transfer from homicide to (in Toschi’s own words) “the pawnshop detail” was always going to make some headlines. The reason it blew up into a citywide reason to gossip was the person responsible for his demotion — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/pop/111091/everything-you-need-to-know-about-tales-of-the-city-before-the-netflix-update\">\u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em>\u003c/a> author and jaunty man about San Francisco, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/pop/10814/armistead-maupin-on-saying-goodbye-to-san-francisco-and-tales-of-the-city\">Armistead Maupin\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13880964\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13880964\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1296\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-160x104.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-800x518.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-768x498.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-1020x661.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2020/05/Armistead-Maupin-by-Christopher-Turner-1920x1244.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Armistead Maupin, not causing any controversies. \u003ccite>(Christopher Turner)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This whole thing started in August 1976 when Maupin consulted Toschi so he might better write the character of homicide detective Henry Tandy. Tandy was featured in Maupin’s \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> column and in the first \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em> book that combined many of those stories. True to Maupin’s tendency to blend fiction and reality, Toschi was also written in as Tandy’s mentor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>All very normal and fine so far? Well, yes, but not for long. According to Maupin, “within the [first] week” of Toschi’s name appearing in \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em>, the author received two fake fan letters that included praise for Toschi. Maupin clocked the notes as phony only some weeks later when even more arrived, at which point he suspected that Toschi was sending them himself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Maupin later stated that he regarded the letters “as a harmless, if somewhat reckless action on the part of a police officer.” He also told the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>: “I was extremely embarrassed for him. The letters were so transparent, so pathetic that I couldn’t bring myself to [confront] him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966328\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13966328 size-full\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi.jpg\" alt=\"A man wearing a white shirt, bow tie and suspenders looks though a stack of paper files.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1192\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-800x477.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-1020x608.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-160x95.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-768x458.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-1536x915.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/David-Toschi-1920x1144.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">David Toschi in 1976, the same year he sent Armistead Maupin fan mail… in praise of himself. \u003ccite>(San Francisco Chronicle/Hearst Newspapers via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At the same time he was sending the fake fan letters, Toschi was also sending Maupin some unusual packages, signed directly from himself. These included one containing a signed photograph of himself posing with \u003cem>The Streets of San Francisco\u003c/em> actor \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Malden\">Karl Malden\u003c/a> and another containing a felt wall calendar. (Herb Caen also reportedly received one of these calendars and, Maupin believes, phony fan mail from Toschi.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Things escalated in April 1978 when, after a four-year period of silence from the Zodiac, a new letter purporting to be from the serial killer arrived at the \u003cem>Chronicle\u003c/em>’s offices. It read, in part:\u003c/p>\n\u003cblockquote>\u003cp>This is the Zodiac speaking I am back with you. Tell herb caen I am here, I have always been here. That city pig toschi is good — but I am smarter and better he will get tired then leave me alone.\u003c/p>\u003c/blockquote>\n\u003cp>After Maupin saw the letter, he began to suspect that Toschi might have faked it. For one, no prior Zodiac letters had ever mentioned any individual police officers before. In addition, Maupin thought that the tone, the “margin stops” and the shape of the Ds in the Zodiac letter looked similar to ones he saw in Toschi’s fabricated fan mail.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966330\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966330\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1669\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78.png 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-800x668.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-1020x851.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-160x134.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-768x641.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-1536x1282.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/zodiac-78-1920x1602.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The final Zodiac letter from April 1978, that Armistead Maupin suspected Inspector David Toschi had forged.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Maupin was concerned enough that he contacted Toschi’s superiors at the San Francisco Police Department; they immediately launched an investigation. Toschi publicly admitted to sending the fake fan letters to Maupin and was swiftly removed from the Zodiac case.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a foolish thing to do,” he said at the time. “I am ashamed of it.” However, Toschi also denied meddling in the Zodiac case. He declared to the \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em>, “I wrote no Zodiac letter. I don’t need another letter. It only brings me tons of extra work.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the same interview, Toschi dismissed Maupin’s suspicions as a baseless publicity stunt timed specifically to coincide with the release of the first \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em> book.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“Can a man be destroyed because of vague accusations about ‘tone’?” Toschi said. “You bet he can! The complaint signed by Maupin and his publicist [Kenneth Maley] says that I ‘may’ have forged the last … Zodiac letter. ‘May have forged.’ ‘Similarity of tone.’ Just this. No evidence … I’ll be exonerated eventually but my credibility has been smashed.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Asked what the lowest point of the controversy had been for him, Toschi explained: “Someone from Internal Affairs asked me where I had been on the night that Zodiac murdered the cab driver Paul Stine. I told him — home in bed — but I got sick to my stomach. Apparently some reporter had asked the department: ‘Could Toschi be Zodiac?’ You’ll never know how that hurt.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Regardless of the suspicions placed on Toschi, he was eventually exonerated of forging the final Zodiac letter. He stayed with the SFPD until 1985, before taking on the role of director of security at both Union Square’s Pan Pacific Hotel and St. Luke’s Hospital in the Mission. Toschi died in 2018 at the age of 86 but, as he predicted, the controversy about the final Zodiac letter never dissipated — and Toschi’s name is now synonymous with it. As the \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em> wrote on July 11, 1978: “It may just be that he is a man done in by his own admiration for newspaper stories that mentioned his name.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As for Maupin, the controversy he started had zero effect on his career. As the years passed, Maupin’s association with the Zodiac case became a distant memory for almost everyone except true crime nerds. Maupin went on to release nine enormously popular \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em> books over a span of 36 years. \u003cem>Tales of the City\u003c/em> was also turned into \u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/cultureshock/flashpoints/theater/tales.html\">a PBS series starring Laura Linney\u003c/a> in 1993 and \u003ca href=\"https://www.netflix.com/title/80211563\">rebooted by Netflix\u003c/a> in 2019.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sadly for the former cop, the David Toschi and Henry Tandy characters never made an appearance in either screen adaptation.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966291\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1375px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966291\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown.png\" alt=\"A book cover featuring a photograph of a 1960-era TV studio, getting set up.\" width=\"1375\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown.png 1375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-800x1164.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-1020x1484.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-160x233.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-768x1117.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-1056x1536.png 1056w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1375px) 100vw, 1375px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Countdown 1960: The Behind-the-Scenes Story of the 312 Days that Changed America’s Politics Forever’ by Chris Wallace. \u003ccite>(Random House Large Print)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Countdown 1960: The Behind-the-Scenes Story of the 312 Days that Changed America’s Politics Forever\u003c/em> is a look at a critical period in U.S. history that holds lessons for today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CNN news anchor Chris Wallace starts the book in January 1960, when U.S. Sen. John F. Kennedy of Massachusetts declared his candidacy for the presidency during a divided time in United States politics. We are introduced to mobsters, Hollywood movie stars, labor bosses and Cuba’s revolutionary leader Fidel Castro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13966099']It was the year that U.S. presidential campaigns entered the modern era, with televised debates and slick advertising. The achingly close contest was not unlike the current lead-up to the 2024 election pitting Democratic Vice President Kamala Harris against Republican Donald Trump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like now, there were charges of voter fraud and a stolen election. The results were so tight that Americans stayed up well past midnight to hear the final count.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The book is the latest in Wallace’s \u003cem>Countdown\u003c/em> series of popular histories, following his best-selling \u003cem>Countdown 1945: The Extraordinary Story of the Atomic Bomb and the 116 Days that Changed the World\u003c/em>, and \u003cem>Countdown bin Laden: The Untold Story of the 247-Day Hunt to Bring the Mastermind of 9/11 to Justice.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This time, Wallace, the son of CBS broadcaster Mike Wallace, takes us behind the scenes to view the machinations of the 1960 Democratic National Convention that led to Kennedy’s nomination over Lyndon B. Johnson, later chosen as his running mate. Kennedy went on to become the first Catholic and youngest person elected U.S. president.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13966153']Kennedy narrowly defeated Republican Richard M. Nixon, who ultimately decided not to contest the results despite reports of voting irregularities in Illinois and Texas. He said he could not think of a worse example for young nations trying to adopt free elections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we approach another consequential election this year, the book is a reminder of how 1960 was also a deeply perilous time for America. It also was a moment the nation survived because of patriotism and courage.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Countdown 1960: The Behind-the-Scenes Story of the 312 Days that Changed America’s Politics Forever’\u003c/em> \u003cem>by Chris Wallace is released on Oct. 22, 2024, via Random House Large Print.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966291\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1375px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966291\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown.png\" alt=\"A book cover featuring a photograph of a 1960-era TV studio, getting set up.\" width=\"1375\" height=\"2000\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown.png 1375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-800x1164.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-1020x1484.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-160x233.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-768x1117.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/countdown-1056x1536.png 1056w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1375px) 100vw, 1375px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Countdown 1960: The Behind-the-Scenes Story of the 312 Days that Changed America’s Politics Forever’ by Chris Wallace. \u003ccite>(Random House Large Print)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Countdown 1960: The Behind-the-Scenes Story of the 312 Days that Changed America’s Politics Forever\u003c/em> is a look at a critical period in U.S. history that holds lessons for today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CNN news anchor Chris Wallace starts the book in January 1960, when U.S. Sen. John F. Kennedy of Massachusetts declared his candidacy for the presidency during a divided time in United States politics. We are introduced to mobsters, Hollywood movie stars, labor bosses and Cuba’s revolutionary leader Fidel Castro.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It was the year that U.S. presidential campaigns entered the modern era, with televised debates and slick advertising. The achingly close contest was not unlike the current lead-up to the 2024 election pitting Democratic Vice President Kamala Harris against Republican Donald Trump.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like now, there were charges of voter fraud and a stolen election. The results were so tight that Americans stayed up well past midnight to hear the final count.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The book is the latest in Wallace’s \u003cem>Countdown\u003c/em> series of popular histories, following his best-selling \u003cem>Countdown 1945: The Extraordinary Story of the Atomic Bomb and the 116 Days that Changed the World\u003c/em>, and \u003cem>Countdown bin Laden: The Untold Story of the 247-Day Hunt to Bring the Mastermind of 9/11 to Justice.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This time, Wallace, the son of CBS broadcaster Mike Wallace, takes us behind the scenes to view the machinations of the 1960 Democratic National Convention that led to Kennedy’s nomination over Lyndon B. Johnson, later chosen as his running mate. Kennedy went on to become the first Catholic and youngest person elected U.S. president.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Kennedy narrowly defeated Republican Richard M. Nixon, who ultimately decided not to contest the results despite reports of voting irregularities in Illinois and Texas. He said he could not think of a worse example for young nations trying to adopt free elections.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we approach another consequential election this year, the book is a reminder of how 1960 was also a deeply perilous time for America. It also was a moment the nation survived because of patriotism and courage.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Countdown 1960: The Behind-the-Scenes Story of the 312 Days that Changed America’s Politics Forever’\u003c/em> \u003cem>by Chris Wallace is released on Oct. 22, 2024, via Random House Large Print.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "anton-lavey-church-of-satan-doug-brod-book",
"title": "Excavating the Truth of Anton LaVey’s Devilish Life",
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"content": "\u003cp>You’d never know it these days, but for decades, 6114 California Street was one of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.churchofsatan.com/faq-the-black-house/\">most infamous addresses\u003c/a> in all of San Francisco. As the longtime headquarters of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11964949/how-the-church-of-satan-was-born-in-san-francisco\">Anton LaVey’s Church of Satan\u003c/a>, the house — painted completely black — hosted a rotating menagerie of colorful guests (including, at one point, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/oursf/article/church-satan-lavey-lion-18444967.php\">a lion\u003c/a>) visiting the sanctuary devoted to Satan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In his revelatory new biography of LaVey, author Doug Brod attempts to parse fact from fiction, detailing how a Jewish boy from Chicago left an indelible dark mark on popular culture — and found himself labeled as a face of evil to many Americans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966166\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1734px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1734\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966166\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672.jpg 1734w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-800x923.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-1020x1176.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-160x185.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-768x886.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-1332x1536.jpg 1332w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1734px) 100vw, 1734px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton Szandor LaVey, the leader of the First Church of Satan, taps his gum-chewing 3-year-old daughter, Zeena Galatea LaVey, on the head with a sword during “baptism ceremonies” in San Francisco on May 23, 1967. A naked woman reclines on the altar during the anti-religious ceremony. \u003ccite>(Bettmann/Getty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Relying on more than 50 interviews as well as church documents and personal correspondence, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.hachettebookgroup.com/titles/doug-brod/born-with-a-tail/9781668644690/\">Born With a Tail: The Devilish Life and Wicked Times of Anton Szandor LaVey\u003c/a>\u003c/em> (Hachette; $31) shows that while many of LaVey’s most outlandish claims were clearly lies, his brilliance at combining philosophy and outrage put him on equal standing with history’s great charlatans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='news_11964949']One part pope, nine parts P. T. Barnum, LaVey nonetheless cultivated a devoted following whose exploits regularly made headlines and late-night television appearances. But the occult trappings of LaVey’s organization belied its true intent; no one was literally worshiping Satan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The church’s idea was more like a self-empowerment group,” Brod says. “LaVey wanted people to indulge in their carnal desires. It was basically a hedonistic philosophy — some might say it was a greedy and selfish philosophy — but it was about always putting the individual first.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966159\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1325px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1325\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966159\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC.jpg 1325w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-800x1208.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-1020x1540.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-160x242.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-768x1159.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-1018x1536.jpg 1018w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1325px) 100vw, 1325px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Born With a Tail: The Devilish Life and Wicked Times of Anton Szandor LaVey,’ by Doug Brod. \u003ccite>(Hachette Book Group)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In his 368-page biography, Brod recounts the Church of Satan’s colorful history from its inception at the Black House in 1966, and the Satanic marriage ceremonies and baptisms the group publicly performed to earn early press, to the devastating backlash LaVey endured as a result of the \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satanic_panic\">Satanic Panic\u003c/a> of the 1980s and his eventual retreat from public life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ahead of \u003ca href=\"https://greenapplebooks.com/event/2024-10-08/offsite-doug-brod-jack-boulware\">an appearance on Tuesday, Oct. 8\u003c/a> at 540 Rogues in San Francisco, Brod spoke with KQED by phone to discuss LaVey’s lasting impact, what his research uncovered, and where the Church of Satan stands today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966161\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1428\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966161\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-800x571.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-1020x728.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-1536x1097.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-1920x1371.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton Szandor LaVey, head of the First Satanic Church, is assisted by his partner, Diane, as they go through a satanic ceremony in 1970. \u003ccite>(Bettmann/Getty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Getting to the bottom of Anton LaVey’s life seems like a challenging task. Where did you start? Were the fact-checks previously published by journalist Lawrence Wright and LaVey’s daughters Zeena helpful?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One thing that was really essential for me was going into the archives of the \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> and the \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em>, because he was in the papers constantly: on the front page, in columns, and as a news topic. He was also on local TV news programs. Contemporaneous stories are a little more trustworthy, and perhaps more reliable, then people hearing stuff secondhand 30 years later. Yes, that \u003ca href=\"https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/anton-levey-interview-1235074429/\">Lawrence Wright piece in \u003cem>Rolling Stone\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, where he was able to debunk some of LaVey’s more outlandish claims, was essential too. I interviewed Lawrence for the book. The “\u003ca href=\"https://archive.org/details/reality-and-legend\">Legend vs. Reality\u003c/a>” piece was co-written by Zeena LaVey [now Zeena Schreck], who became estranged from her father. There was a lot of negativity surrounding that estrangement, and this piece was one of the main sources of it. There was also a very interesting book written by one of his right-hand men, Michael Aquino, who was there pretty much from the start of the Church. He wrote a 500-page account of the Church of Satan that he self-published. There’s a lot of bizarre stuff in there, because Michael Aquino was a true occult believer, while the case can be made that Anton LaVey was not. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966156\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1351\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966156\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-800x540.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-1020x689.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-768x519.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-1536x1038.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-1920x1297.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton LaVey on ‘The Joe Pyne Show’ in October 1967. LaVey remained unflappable against the combative interviewer. \u003ccite>(Walter Fischer / Courtesy of Alf Wahlgren)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>One thing that struck me about LaVey and the Church of Satan is how large they managed to appear, despite never having more than 300 members around the world at their peak. For how ingrained the Church of Satan is in today’s culture, were you surprised by how few people were involved with the organization?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>LaVey just glommed on to a really interesting philosophy and he articulated it very, very well. People basically took from it what they wanted to take from it. Eventually, it got mixed in with the devil-worship brand of Satanism that was prevalent in the media in the ’80s, which led to the Satanic Panic, but he never really wanted that. LaVey’s thing was more of a philosophical approach to life that stressed the power of the individual and the power of people. It was very effective, and he was a very effective communicator. Even down to the way he looked, he is so associated with what we see as Satanism today, with his bald head and the Van Dyke beard and his pirate earring and arched eyebrows. There are questions about how big the organization actually was, and who knows if we’ll ever get the real numbers? I certainly couldn’t get the real numbers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966157\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1325\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966157\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-800x530.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-1020x676.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-768x509.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-1536x1018.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-1920x1272.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">On a 1967 visit to magazine editor Forrest J. Ackerman’s ‘Ackermansion’ in Los Angeles, LaVey admired his friend’s vast collection of horror, sci-fi, and fantasy memorabilia. \u003ccite>(Walter Fischer / Courtesy of Alf Wahlgren)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anton LaVey died in 1997. It’s now 2024. Do you think people are aware that a lot of what he was doing was for show, or is there still a contingent of folks who believe he was truly evil?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the writing of the book, everyone I mentioned it to, at least in my circle, found it really interesting but I never heard anything especially negative. My feeling is that people do know who he actually was, and what he was actually about. Even if they don’t see him as a benign figure, they at least see him as someone who wasn’t diabolical. As I write in the book, there are cases to be made that he was indeed a bad guy in many respects, but overall, I think it was only during the time of the Satanic Panic where he was really considered to be this evil, diabolical figure. Over time, I think that’s changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966165\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1850px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1850\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966165\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512.jpg 1850w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-800x865.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-1020x1103.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-160x173.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-768x830.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-1421x1536.jpg 1421w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1850px) 100vw, 1850px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton LaVey, founder and self-proclaimed high priest of the Church of Satan, is photographed at home in San Francisco with his pet lion on June 26, 1964. \u003ccite>(Art Frisch/The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>But he did also have some garden-variety evil in him, in the form of domestic violence and animal abuse. Now that people have had a chance to reevaluate his spectacles — like \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/oursf/article/church-satan-lavey-lion-18444967.php\">choosing to keep a pet lion in his home\u003c/a> — do you think we have the distance necessary to properly evaluate LaVey’s life and legacy?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s pretty much what I set out to do, but I have to say, I was helped along by an amazing discovery. While I was working on the book, I interviewed a man named Don Frew, who knew LaVey during the Satanic Panic era. He and his wife run \u003ca href=\"https://adocentynlibrary.org/\">a research center\u003c/a> in Albany, California. They have thousands of books on the occult, and on esoteric topics like UFOs and Satanism and paganism — all this stuff. Not only did Don know LaVey, he was friends with him and was able to get his hands on boxes upon boxes of original Church of Satan administrative materials, as well as correspondence between LaVey and his friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966158\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1333px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1333\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966158\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot.jpg 1333w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-1024x1536.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1333px) 100vw, 1333px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Doug Brod. \u003ccite>(Hachette Book Group)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What’s the status of the Church of Satan today?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I write in the book, it’s no longer a clubhouse that’s centrally located in San Francisco. Now it’s more of an internet-based organization. There’s still a Church of Satan with its headquarters in Poughkeepsie, New York. It’s headed up by a married couple, Peter H. Gilmore and Peggy Nadramia, and there are still many followers. If you go on Facebook, you’ll see there are still people who really follow the LaVeyan form of Satanism, but it’s more dispersed now. It’s not so much an organized system. It’s more people doing their own thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='pop_111144']I will say this for the Church of Satan itself: \u003ca href=\"https://www.churchofsatan.com/\">their website is really fascinating\u003c/a>. It was also a very good resource for some of the research in this book. Their X — formerly Twitter — account is \u003ca href=\"https://x.com/ChurchofSatan\">very funny and very droll\u003c/a>. They’re constantly on the defense, which is amusing, but yes, it’s still around. There are also other organizations that base themselves on the Church of Satan. There’s the \u003ca href=\"https://thesatanictemple.com/?srsltid=AfmBOorurPbZKtfu_ZLyee9NwLmRjQ5WhGsTrCuUmxchw0KB2hXbdDRW\">Satanic Temple\u003c/a>, which is more like a social justice organization. They do a lot of stuff with the First Amendment. They put up, like, \u003ca href=\"https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-33682878\">Baphomet\u003c/a> statues alongside the Ten Commandments at various state halls. They’re a very active protest organization that’s less about following satanic tenets or satanic rules and more about using the idea of Satan worship to counter the overt Christian nationalism in this country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966160\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966160\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton LaVey in the early ’70s, when the Church of Satan founder was arguably at his most productive. \u003ccite>(Stanton and Sharon LaVey family / Courtesy of Alf Wahlgren)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>In terms of what this book can tell us about the times we live in now, do you see a lot of symmetry between the world LaVey lived in and the present moment?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Absolutely. People are always looking for organizations where like-minded people share their ideas and philosophies. The thing that depresses me about what’s going on today is that it feels like an amped-up version of the Satanic Panic, which happened in the ’80s and really made LaVey go into retreat, because the Church of Satan was being blamed for a lot of things it had nothing to do with. But now you have QAnon and various other belief systems where everything is conspiracy theories and lies. People are being bombarded with lies, and groups are being scapegoated as a result, which feels a lot like a repeat of the Satanic Panic. That’s something that’s still going on today. It has nothing to do with LaVey, per se, but it has a lot to do with how he was seen in the ’80s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966164\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1330\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966164\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-1020x678.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-1536x1021.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-1920x1277.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan, rises out from a hidden corridor behind a false fireplace in his study in 1967. \u003ccite>(Bettmann/Getty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tell me about the person you’ll be chatting with on Tuesday here in San Francisco. Do they have ties to the Church of Satan as well?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://jackboulware.substack.com/\">Jack Boulware\u003c/a> will be in conversation with me, and yes! He was someone I interviewed for the book because he knew LaVey. He actually \u003ca href=\"https://jackboulware.substack.com/p/32-years-of-satan\">published a fashion shoot\u003c/a> with LaVey in a magazine called \u003cem>The Nose\u003c/em> many years ago. He was friendly with LaVey for a period, so I’m hoping he’ll share some of his stories at the event too.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Doug Brod appears in conversation with Jack Boulware on Tuesday, Oct. 8, at 540 Rogues (540 Clement St., San Francisco), presented by Green Apple Books. \u003ca href=\"https://greenapplebooks.com/event/2024-10-08/offsite-doug-brod-jack-boulware\">Details here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>You’d never know it these days, but for decades, 6114 California Street was one of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.churchofsatan.com/faq-the-black-house/\">most infamous addresses\u003c/a> in all of San Francisco. As the longtime headquarters of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11964949/how-the-church-of-satan-was-born-in-san-francisco\">Anton LaVey’s Church of Satan\u003c/a>, the house — painted completely black — hosted a rotating menagerie of colorful guests (including, at one point, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/oursf/article/church-satan-lavey-lion-18444967.php\">a lion\u003c/a>) visiting the sanctuary devoted to Satan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In his revelatory new biography of LaVey, author Doug Brod attempts to parse fact from fiction, detailing how a Jewish boy from Chicago left an indelible dark mark on popular culture — and found himself labeled as a face of evil to many Americans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966166\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1734px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1734\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966166\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672.jpg 1734w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-800x923.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-1020x1176.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-160x185.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-768x886.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515036094-scaled-e1697741210672-1332x1536.jpg 1332w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1734px) 100vw, 1734px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton Szandor LaVey, the leader of the First Church of Satan, taps his gum-chewing 3-year-old daughter, Zeena Galatea LaVey, on the head with a sword during “baptism ceremonies” in San Francisco on May 23, 1967. A naked woman reclines on the altar during the anti-religious ceremony. \u003ccite>(Bettmann/Getty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Relying on more than 50 interviews as well as church documents and personal correspondence, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.hachettebookgroup.com/titles/doug-brod/born-with-a-tail/9781668644690/\">Born With a Tail: The Devilish Life and Wicked Times of Anton Szandor LaVey\u003c/a>\u003c/em> (Hachette; $31) shows that while many of LaVey’s most outlandish claims were clearly lies, his brilliance at combining philosophy and outrage put him on equal standing with history’s great charlatans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>One part pope, nine parts P. T. Barnum, LaVey nonetheless cultivated a devoted following whose exploits regularly made headlines and late-night television appearances. But the occult trappings of LaVey’s organization belied its true intent; no one was literally worshiping Satan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The church’s idea was more like a self-empowerment group,” Brod says. “LaVey wanted people to indulge in their carnal desires. It was basically a hedonistic philosophy — some might say it was a greedy and selfish philosophy — but it was about always putting the individual first.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966159\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1325px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1325\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966159\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC.jpg 1325w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-800x1208.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-1020x1540.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-160x242.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-768x1159.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Born-with-a-Tail_HC-1018x1536.jpg 1018w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1325px) 100vw, 1325px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Born With a Tail: The Devilish Life and Wicked Times of Anton Szandor LaVey,’ by Doug Brod. \u003ccite>(Hachette Book Group)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In his 368-page biography, Brod recounts the Church of Satan’s colorful history from its inception at the Black House in 1966, and the Satanic marriage ceremonies and baptisms the group publicly performed to earn early press, to the devastating backlash LaVey endured as a result of the \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satanic_panic\">Satanic Panic\u003c/a> of the 1980s and his eventual retreat from public life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ahead of \u003ca href=\"https://greenapplebooks.com/event/2024-10-08/offsite-doug-brod-jack-boulware\">an appearance on Tuesday, Oct. 8\u003c/a> at 540 Rogues in San Francisco, Brod spoke with KQED by phone to discuss LaVey’s lasting impact, what his research uncovered, and where the Church of Satan stands today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966161\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1428\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966161\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-800x571.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-1020x728.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-1536x1097.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515103210-scaled-e1697737890511-1920x1371.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton Szandor LaVey, head of the First Satanic Church, is assisted by his partner, Diane, as they go through a satanic ceremony in 1970. \u003ccite>(Bettmann/Getty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Getting to the bottom of Anton LaVey’s life seems like a challenging task. Where did you start? Were the fact-checks previously published by journalist Lawrence Wright and LaVey’s daughters Zeena helpful?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One thing that was really essential for me was going into the archives of the \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> and the \u003cem>Examiner\u003c/em>, because he was in the papers constantly: on the front page, in columns, and as a news topic. He was also on local TV news programs. Contemporaneous stories are a little more trustworthy, and perhaps more reliable, then people hearing stuff secondhand 30 years later. Yes, that \u003ca href=\"https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/anton-levey-interview-1235074429/\">Lawrence Wright piece in \u003cem>Rolling Stone\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, where he was able to debunk some of LaVey’s more outlandish claims, was essential too. I interviewed Lawrence for the book. The “\u003ca href=\"https://archive.org/details/reality-and-legend\">Legend vs. Reality\u003c/a>” piece was co-written by Zeena LaVey [now Zeena Schreck], who became estranged from her father. There was a lot of negativity surrounding that estrangement, and this piece was one of the main sources of it. There was also a very interesting book written by one of his right-hand men, Michael Aquino, who was there pretty much from the start of the Church. He wrote a 500-page account of the Church of Satan that he self-published. There’s a lot of bizarre stuff in there, because Michael Aquino was a true occult believer, while the case can be made that Anton LaVey was not. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966156\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1351\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966156\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-800x540.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-1020x689.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-768x519.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-1536x1038.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/8-Anton-with-Joe-Pyne-1920x1297.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton LaVey on ‘The Joe Pyne Show’ in October 1967. LaVey remained unflappable against the combative interviewer. \u003ccite>(Walter Fischer / Courtesy of Alf Wahlgren)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>One thing that struck me about LaVey and the Church of Satan is how large they managed to appear, despite never having more than 300 members around the world at their peak. For how ingrained the Church of Satan is in today’s culture, were you surprised by how few people were involved with the organization?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>LaVey just glommed on to a really interesting philosophy and he articulated it very, very well. People basically took from it what they wanted to take from it. Eventually, it got mixed in with the devil-worship brand of Satanism that was prevalent in the media in the ’80s, which led to the Satanic Panic, but he never really wanted that. LaVey’s thing was more of a philosophical approach to life that stressed the power of the individual and the power of people. It was very effective, and he was a very effective communicator. Even down to the way he looked, he is so associated with what we see as Satanism today, with his bald head and the Van Dyke beard and his pirate earring and arched eyebrows. There are questions about how big the organization actually was, and who knows if we’ll ever get the real numbers? I certainly couldn’t get the real numbers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966157\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1325\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966157\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-800x530.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-1020x676.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-768x509.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-1536x1018.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/7-Forrest-Ackerman-1920x1272.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">On a 1967 visit to magazine editor Forrest J. Ackerman’s ‘Ackermansion’ in Los Angeles, LaVey admired his friend’s vast collection of horror, sci-fi, and fantasy memorabilia. \u003ccite>(Walter Fischer / Courtesy of Alf Wahlgren)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anton LaVey died in 1997. It’s now 2024. Do you think people are aware that a lot of what he was doing was for show, or is there still a contingent of folks who believe he was truly evil?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the writing of the book, everyone I mentioned it to, at least in my circle, found it really interesting but I never heard anything especially negative. My feeling is that people do know who he actually was, and what he was actually about. Even if they don’t see him as a benign figure, they at least see him as someone who wasn’t diabolical. As I write in the book, there are cases to be made that he was indeed a bad guy in many respects, but overall, I think it was only during the time of the Satanic Panic where he was really considered to be this evil, diabolical figure. Over time, I think that’s changed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966165\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1850px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1850\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966165\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512.jpg 1850w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-800x865.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-1020x1103.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-160x173.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-768x830.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-1310361512-1421x1536.jpg 1421w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1850px) 100vw, 1850px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton LaVey, founder and self-proclaimed high priest of the Church of Satan, is photographed at home in San Francisco with his pet lion on June 26, 1964. \u003ccite>(Art Frisch/The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>But he did also have some garden-variety evil in him, in the form of domestic violence and animal abuse. Now that people have had a chance to reevaluate his spectacles — like \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/oursf/article/church-satan-lavey-lion-18444967.php\">choosing to keep a pet lion in his home\u003c/a> — do you think we have the distance necessary to properly evaluate LaVey’s life and legacy?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s pretty much what I set out to do, but I have to say, I was helped along by an amazing discovery. While I was working on the book, I interviewed a man named Don Frew, who knew LaVey during the Satanic Panic era. He and his wife run \u003ca href=\"https://adocentynlibrary.org/\">a research center\u003c/a> in Albany, California. They have thousands of books on the occult, and on esoteric topics like UFOs and Satanism and paganism — all this stuff. Not only did Don know LaVey, he was friends with him and was able to get his hands on boxes upon boxes of original Church of Satan administrative materials, as well as correspondence between LaVey and his friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966158\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1333px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1333\" height=\"2000\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966158\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot.jpg 1333w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-800x1200.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-1020x1530.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-160x240.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-768x1152.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/Doug-Brod-Headshot-1024x1536.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1333px) 100vw, 1333px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Doug Brod. \u003ccite>(Hachette Book Group)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>What’s the status of the Church of Satan today?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I write in the book, it’s no longer a clubhouse that’s centrally located in San Francisco. Now it’s more of an internet-based organization. There’s still a Church of Satan with its headquarters in Poughkeepsie, New York. It’s headed up by a married couple, Peter H. Gilmore and Peggy Nadramia, and there are still many followers. If you go on Facebook, you’ll see there are still people who really follow the LaVeyan form of Satanism, but it’s more dispersed now. It’s not so much an organized system. It’s more people doing their own thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>I will say this for the Church of Satan itself: \u003ca href=\"https://www.churchofsatan.com/\">their website is really fascinating\u003c/a>. It was also a very good resource for some of the research in this book. Their X — formerly Twitter — account is \u003ca href=\"https://x.com/ChurchofSatan\">very funny and very droll\u003c/a>. They’re constantly on the defense, which is amusing, but yes, it’s still around. There are also other organizations that base themselves on the Church of Satan. There’s the \u003ca href=\"https://thesatanictemple.com/?srsltid=AfmBOorurPbZKtfu_ZLyee9NwLmRjQ5WhGsTrCuUmxchw0KB2hXbdDRW\">Satanic Temple\u003c/a>, which is more like a social justice organization. They do a lot of stuff with the First Amendment. They put up, like, \u003ca href=\"https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-33682878\">Baphomet\u003c/a> statues alongside the Ten Commandments at various state halls. They’re a very active protest organization that’s less about following satanic tenets or satanic rules and more about using the idea of Satan worship to counter the overt Christian nationalism in this country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966160\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966160\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/14-Anton-in-black-cap-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton LaVey in the early ’70s, when the Church of Satan founder was arguably at his most productive. \u003ccite>(Stanton and Sharon LaVey family / Courtesy of Alf Wahlgren)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>In terms of what this book can tell us about the times we live in now, do you see a lot of symmetry between the world LaVey lived in and the present moment?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Absolutely. People are always looking for organizations where like-minded people share their ideas and philosophies. The thing that depresses me about what’s going on today is that it feels like an amped-up version of the Satanic Panic, which happened in the ’80s and really made LaVey go into retreat, because the Church of Satan was being blamed for a lot of things it had nothing to do with. But now you have QAnon and various other belief systems where everything is conspiracy theories and lies. People are being bombarded with lies, and groups are being scapegoated as a result, which feels a lot like a repeat of the Satanic Panic. That’s something that’s still going on today. It has nothing to do with LaVey, per se, but it has a lot to do with how he was seen in the ’80s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13966164\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1330\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13966164\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-1020x678.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-768x511.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-1536x1021.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/GettyImages-515098326-scaled-e1697741191291-1920x1277.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan, rises out from a hidden corridor behind a false fireplace in his study in 1967. \u003ccite>(Bettmann/Getty)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tell me about the person you’ll be chatting with on Tuesday here in San Francisco. Do they have ties to the Church of Satan as well?\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://jackboulware.substack.com/\">Jack Boulware\u003c/a> will be in conversation with me, and yes! He was someone I interviewed for the book because he knew LaVey. He actually \u003ca href=\"https://jackboulware.substack.com/p/32-years-of-satan\">published a fashion shoot\u003c/a> with LaVey in a magazine called \u003cem>The Nose\u003c/em> many years ago. He was friendly with LaVey for a period, so I’m hoping he’ll share some of his stories at the event too.\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Doug Brod appears in conversation with Jack Boulware on Tuesday, Oct. 8, at 540 Rogues (540 Clement St., San Francisco), presented by Green Apple Books. \u003ca href=\"https://greenapplebooks.com/event/2024-10-08/offsite-doug-brod-jack-boulware\">Details here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "halloween-san-francisco-1970s-history-photos",
"title": "Revisit Halloween in 1970s San Francisco With This Photo Book",
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"headTitle": "Revisit Halloween in 1970s San Francisco With This Photo Book | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>For over 40 years, a slim book titled \u003ci>Halloween: A Fantasy in Three Acts\u003c/i> has been legendary in both art book and photography circles. Initially published in 1981 in an edition of 1,500, the volume of stark black-and-white photographs seems to chronicle a single night of Halloween celebrations in San Francisco. In actuality, it’s a composite — a paper movie, as photographer Ken Werner calls it — of five years worth of costume parties and balls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13962878']It’s easy to see why \u003ci>Halloween\u003c/i> developed such a cult following. Its rarity was one thing, but the subject matter — and the artistry with which Werner captured the creative, raunchy and irreverent energy of those nights — is immediately compelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It makes perfect sense, then, that Brooklyn-based Anthology Editions, an imprint of the record label Mexican Summer, would publish \u003ca href=\"https://anthology.net/book/halloween/\">a facsimile reissue of the original\u003c/a>. Now we can all flip through its pages, reliving a specific and very special era of San Francisco history, without paying rare-book-collector prices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965950\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965950\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000.jpg\" alt=\"Cover of book with title and person in monster costume\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1125\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween,’ originally published in 1981, republished in 2024. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘It was magical’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the time Ken Werner moved to San Francisco from New York in 1976, the city’s Halloween celebrations were well established. As he wrote in his introduction, the night was “a major civic event” in the 1920s and ’30s. The parties quieted during the war years, but reemerged in the ’50s and ’60s, reinvented by the hippies as absurdist public events.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But it was the gay community, not the hippies, that was to have an enduring impact on San Francisco’s Halloween celebrations,” Werner wrote in 1981. He attended his first San Francisco Halloween in 1976.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A friend said, ‘There’s an event on Polk Street you might be interested in — bring your camera and your flash,” Werner remembers today, talking with KQED. “And that was the start.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the next five years, Werner photographed Polk Street, Castro Street, the Hooker’s Ball and the Beaux Arts Ball, capturing elaborate costumes, last-minute assemblages and what may have been just everyday, out-there outfits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965952\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965952\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1691\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-800x752.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-1020x958.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-160x150.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-768x721.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-1536x1443.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was magical. It was incredible,” he says. “I felt like Alice in Wonderland down a rabbit hole, but maybe that rabbit hole had been burrowed by Edgar Allan Poe.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Werner’s high contrast, flash-lit shots, partygoers occasionally pose for the camera, but for the most part they look more like they’ve been caught in the act: of behaving wildly, of looking ridiculous, of having a great time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is Halloween before store-bought get-ups. It’s disheveled, playful, erotic, grotesque and sometimes downright weird. In one of the most inexplicable costumes in \u003ci>Halloween\u003c/i>, a man wears pants, gym shorts \u003ci>and\u003c/i> briefs (put on in that order) while sporting a smooth, papier mâché faceless head, button-down shirt and patterned tie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>What\u003c/i> is he? It doesn’t seem to matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965961\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965961\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200.jpg\" alt=\"person dressed as a headless in tall trench coat and someone in skull mask and hood\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1244\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-800x498.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-1020x634.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-768x478.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-1536x955.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-1920x1194.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two images from Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At the time, Werner thought of his book as not just an artistic pursuit but a political statement. “I was terrified that there were political forces arrayed against [Halloween], that were going to crush it,” he says, referring to the Board of Supervisors’ attempts to leave Polk and Castro Streets open to traffic, pushing revelers onto cramped sidewalks. “I was truly worried that it was going to disappear and that, to me, would have been a disaster.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘It tends to fall into the right hands’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Halloween\u003c/i> is split into three acts: the sun goes down and the party gets started; the night takes an erotic turn (penis costumes abound); and the sun begins to come up, capturing the bedraggled remnants of the party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Werner had a bit of a professional advantage when it came to printing his images and sequencing the book. He worked at \u003ci>Modern Photography\u003c/i> magazine and freelanced for other photography publications. In San Francisco he served at the editorial director of \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://archive.org/details/Darkroom_Photography_Volume_01_Issue_01_1979_03_Sheptow_Publishing_US/mode/2up\">Darkroom Photography\u003c/a>\u003c/i>, a national publication for amateurs and professionals alike.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965954\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965954\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07.jpg\" alt=\"people photographed in costume, including an invisible man outfit\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1355\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-800x602.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-1020x768.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-768x578.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-1536x1156.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>He self-published \u003ci>Halloween\u003c/i> under the moniker Octavia Press (“she was a mad queen”) and tried to get San Francisco bookstores interested. “It was very much an experience where I did not feel that the local community, at least as represented by bookstore owners, was getting it,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But over the years, when he checked in on Octavia Press’ one-and-only publication, he found the ISBN in a number of significant university and museum libraries, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “Even though it’s a limited number of copies,” Werner says, “it tends to fall into the right hands.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anthology Editions reached out during a particularly bleak moment during the pandemic. Werner says the experience of reissuing the book has been truly validating: “To have them say this is worthy of reintroducing to the world, it meant a very great deal to me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965955\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965955\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04.jpg\" alt=\"person in face paint smokes a cigarette\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1385\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-800x616.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-1020x785.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-768x591.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-1536x1182.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘I’d love to be back there’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Werner kept up his documentation of San Francisco Halloweens until 2001, when he says it started to feel unsafe to be in a large crowd, walking backwards with a camera up to his face. (In 2006, nine people were wounded when a shooter opened fire at the Castro Halloween party, it returned in 2023 at a much smaller and tamer scale.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Returning to the book over the years, he still feels a sense of pride. “I am amazed, honestly, that I was able to take so many strong, powerful photographs,” he says, pointing out that the entire book was made in just eight nights of shooting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He also sees a beautiful moment in San Francisco’s LGBTQ+ history. “I wish I had a time machine so I could go back to those days, because it was a time of relative innocence,” he says. “The book went to the printer two months before the first very first reports of the mysterious illness that was affecting gay people. There was that positive energy and sense of freedom that soon was blighted. And so yeah, I’d love to be back there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With this new publication — now in unlimited quantities — Werner has a second chance to find and hear from his audience. On the book’s final page, a bit of text reads “Comments and correspondence invited,” just as the original did 43 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had a wonderful time taking those pictures,” he says. “I’m glad that it’s being reintroduced to a new generation.”\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Ken Werner’s ‘\u003ca href=\"https://anthology.net/book/halloween/\">Halloween: A Fantasy in Three Acts\u003c/a>’ is available from Anthology Editions.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>For over 40 years, a slim book titled \u003ci>Halloween: A Fantasy in Three Acts\u003c/i> has been legendary in both art book and photography circles. Initially published in 1981 in an edition of 1,500, the volume of stark black-and-white photographs seems to chronicle a single night of Halloween celebrations in San Francisco. In actuality, it’s a composite — a paper movie, as photographer Ken Werner calls it — of five years worth of costume parties and balls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It’s easy to see why \u003ci>Halloween\u003c/i> developed such a cult following. Its rarity was one thing, but the subject matter — and the artistry with which Werner captured the creative, raunchy and irreverent energy of those nights — is immediately compelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It makes perfect sense, then, that Brooklyn-based Anthology Editions, an imprint of the record label Mexican Summer, would publish \u003ca href=\"https://anthology.net/book/halloween/\">a facsimile reissue of the original\u003c/a>. Now we can all flip through its pages, reliving a specific and very special era of San Francisco history, without paying rare-book-collector prices.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965950\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965950\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000.jpg\" alt=\"Cover of book with title and person in monster costume\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1125\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-768x432.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-1536x864.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/COVER-HALLOWEEN_2000-1920x1080.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween,’ originally published in 1981, republished in 2024. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘It was magical’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the time Ken Werner moved to San Francisco from New York in 1976, the city’s Halloween celebrations were well established. As he wrote in his introduction, the night was “a major civic event” in the 1920s and ’30s. The parties quieted during the war years, but reemerged in the ’50s and ’60s, reinvented by the hippies as absurdist public events.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“But it was the gay community, not the hippies, that was to have an enduring impact on San Francisco’s Halloween celebrations,” Werner wrote in 1981. He attended his first San Francisco Halloween in 1976.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“A friend said, ‘There’s an event on Polk Street you might be interested in — bring your camera and your flash,” Werner remembers today, talking with KQED. “And that was the start.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the next five years, Werner photographed Polk Street, Castro Street, the Hooker’s Ball and the Beaux Arts Ball, capturing elaborate costumes, last-minute assemblages and what may have been just everyday, out-there outfits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965952\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965952\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1691\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-800x752.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-1020x958.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-160x150.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-768x721.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_02-1536x1443.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was magical. It was incredible,” he says. “I felt like Alice in Wonderland down a rabbit hole, but maybe that rabbit hole had been burrowed by Edgar Allan Poe.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In Werner’s high contrast, flash-lit shots, partygoers occasionally pose for the camera, but for the most part they look more like they’ve been caught in the act: of behaving wildly, of looking ridiculous, of having a great time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This is Halloween before store-bought get-ups. It’s disheveled, playful, erotic, grotesque and sometimes downright weird. In one of the most inexplicable costumes in \u003ci>Halloween\u003c/i>, a man wears pants, gym shorts \u003ci>and\u003c/i> briefs (put on in that order) while sporting a smooth, papier mâché faceless head, button-down shirt and patterned tie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>What\u003c/i> is he? It doesn’t seem to matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965961\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965961\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200.jpg\" alt=\"person dressed as a headless in tall trench coat and someone in skull mask and hood\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1244\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-800x498.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-1020x634.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-768x478.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-1536x955.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_09_200-1920x1194.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two images from Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At the time, Werner thought of his book as not just an artistic pursuit but a political statement. “I was terrified that there were political forces arrayed against [Halloween], that were going to crush it,” he says, referring to the Board of Supervisors’ attempts to leave Polk and Castro Streets open to traffic, pushing revelers onto cramped sidewalks. “I was truly worried that it was going to disappear and that, to me, would have been a disaster.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘It tends to fall into the right hands’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Halloween\u003c/i> is split into three acts: the sun goes down and the party gets started; the night takes an erotic turn (penis costumes abound); and the sun begins to come up, capturing the bedraggled remnants of the party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Werner had a bit of a professional advantage when it came to printing his images and sequencing the book. He worked at \u003ci>Modern Photography\u003c/i> magazine and freelanced for other photography publications. In San Francisco he served at the editorial director of \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://archive.org/details/Darkroom_Photography_Volume_01_Issue_01_1979_03_Sheptow_Publishing_US/mode/2up\">Darkroom Photography\u003c/a>\u003c/i>, a national publication for amateurs and professionals alike.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965954\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965954\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07.jpg\" alt=\"people photographed in costume, including an invisible man outfit\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1355\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-800x602.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-1020x768.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-768x578.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_07-1536x1156.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>He self-published \u003ci>Halloween\u003c/i> under the moniker Octavia Press (“she was a mad queen”) and tried to get San Francisco bookstores interested. “It was very much an experience where I did not feel that the local community, at least as represented by bookstore owners, was getting it,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But over the years, when he checked in on Octavia Press’ one-and-only publication, he found the ISBN in a number of significant university and museum libraries, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “Even though it’s a limited number of copies,” Werner says, “it tends to fall into the right hands.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Anthology Editions reached out during a particularly bleak moment during the pandemic. Werner says the experience of reissuing the book has been truly validating: “To have them say this is worthy of reintroducing to the world, it meant a very great deal to me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13965955\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13965955\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04.jpg\" alt=\"person in face paint smokes a cigarette\" width=\"1800\" height=\"1385\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04.jpg 1800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-800x616.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-1020x785.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-768x591.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2024/10/KW_04-1536x1182.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1800px) 100vw, 1800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">From Ken Werner’s ‘Halloween.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ken Werner and Anthology Editions)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘I’d love to be back there’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Werner kept up his documentation of San Francisco Halloweens until 2001, when he says it started to feel unsafe to be in a large crowd, walking backwards with a camera up to his face. (In 2006, nine people were wounded when a shooter opened fire at the Castro Halloween party, it returned in 2023 at a much smaller and tamer scale.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Returning to the book over the years, he still feels a sense of pride. “I am amazed, honestly, that I was able to take so many strong, powerful photographs,” he says, pointing out that the entire book was made in just eight nights of shooting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He also sees a beautiful moment in San Francisco’s LGBTQ+ history. “I wish I had a time machine so I could go back to those days, because it was a time of relative innocence,” he says. “The book went to the printer two months before the first very first reports of the mysterious illness that was affecting gay people. There was that positive energy and sense of freedom that soon was blighted. And so yeah, I’d love to be back there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With this new publication — now in unlimited quantities — Werner has a second chance to find and hear from his audience. On the book’s final page, a bit of text reads “Comments and correspondence invited,” just as the original did 43 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had a wonderful time taking those pictures,” he says. “I’m glad that it’s being reintroduced to a new generation.”\u003c/p>\n\u003chr>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
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"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
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"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
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"tagline": "Politics from a personal perspective",
"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
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"possible": {
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"title": "Possible",
"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
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"pri-the-world": {
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"radiolab": {
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"reveal": {
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},
"rightnowish": {
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"title": "Rightnowish",
"tagline": "Art is where you find it",
"info": "Rightnowish digs into life in the Bay Area right now… ish. Journalist Pendarvis Harshaw takes us to galleries painted on the sides of liquor stores in West Oakland. We'll dance in warehouses in the Bayview, make smoothies with kids in South Berkeley, and listen to classical music in a 1984 Cutlass Supreme in Richmond. Every week, Pen talks to movers and shakers about how the Bay Area shapes what they create, and how they shape the place we call home.",
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"info": "The Snap Judgment radio show and podcast mixes real stories with killer beats to produce cinematic, dramatic radio. Snap's musical brand of storytelling dares listeners to see the world through the eyes of another. This is storytelling... with a BEAT!! Snap first aired on public radio stations nationwide in July 2010. Today, Snap Judgment airs on over 450 public radio stations and is brought to the airwaves by KQED & PRX.",
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"soldout": {
"id": "soldout",
"title": "SOLD OUT: Rethinking Housing in America",
"tagline": "A new future for housing",
"info": "Sold Out: Rethinking Housing in America",
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