Sebastian Miño-Bucheli is a bilingual multimedia reporter and contributor to KQED Digital News. His reporting has been featured for Bay Curious, the California Report Magazine and KQED Arts.
La Llorona, Legend and Protector, in the Streets of San Francisco
Inside a Community For Farmworkers and Low-Income Families Near Half Moon Bay
The Provocative, Rebellious and Flamboyant Origins of Lowriding
How a Coffee Boycott Helped End a Civil War
No Vacation: 'Yam Yam'
A New Record Store Is Bringing Latin Vinyl Home to the Mission District
The Time a Bay Area Coffee Boycott Helped Stop a Civil War
'We Dance United': Aztec Dance Troupes Preserve a Proud Heritage for Bay Area's Latinx Community
How Fruitvale Honors the Dead During a COVID-Era Día de los Muertos
Are You Inked? How a San Francisco Tattoo Artist Changed the Industry
Latinos in La Misión: A Story of Resistance and Community
Some of the Most Famous People Buried in Colma (With Map)
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This story first aired in November 2021.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you find yourself in San Francisco’s Mission District at the corner of 24th and York streets, you can’t help but notice the massive, blue-toned mural that stands there — rising over two stories high and spanning 60 feet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This intricate mural, called \u003ca href=\"https://juanaalicia.com/la-llorona-project-san-francisco/\">“La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” and created by Bay Area artist Juana Alicia\u003c/a>, is filled with expressive female figures that draw the eye with their depth and scale. In the center of this intricate mural, there’s Chalchiuhtlicue, the Aztec goddess of lakes and streams. In the background, there are women from Bolivia, women from India, women from the Mexico-U.S. border — all standing together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And in the foreground, there’s a woman standing apart, stretching out her hand like she’s reaching out to the viewer. A tear falls from her eye, and she’s holding a child in her arms, as if to protect them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC7962812002&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alicia’s mural has been a fixture on this San Francisco wall for the last 17 years. And if you grew up with the legend of La Llorona, you might be surprised to see her like this in this mural.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s because in the popular telling — the one that’s most common in Mexico, and here in California — La Llorona is a ghost. She’s the spirit of a woman who haunts watery places, wailing for her lost children, not protecting them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So how did a traditional legend come this far, and take so many forms?\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The stories we hear\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>For many Latinx people here in California, the story of La Llorona is one you hear growing up — told slightly differently each time. And because the legend is something so many people grow up with, many of my co-workers had something to say about what they remember first hearing about La Llorona.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896436\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896436\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“My family mainly used it as a scare tactic for my mom and my tías when they were younger,” says Gabriella Frenes of KQED’s The California Report.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Among all the variations of the legend, there are common themes: the weeping ghost of a woman, who haunts the waters, crying out for her children.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She wails this: like, ‘Mis hijos! Mis hijos!,’ which means, ‘My kids! My kids!'” says Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí, a reporter and producer with KQED News and KQED en Español. “They said that she had drowned her own kids, and that she would walk around the … river, where she drowned them, feeling guilty of what she had done.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She drowned her children, and they say that her soul is not rested because she also killed herself,” adds Frenes. “With Catholicism, that’s a huge sin, suicide. They say that since her soul is not laid to rest, she’s out there searching for her children.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And because of this, La Llorona is often made into a terrifying spirit on the lookout for new children — whom she wants to take. Or maybe, as Cabrera-Lomelí says, she’s defending something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She’s looking for [her kids] and pushing away anybody that threatens things that are special to her — like her children, or rivers,” says Cabrera-Lomelí. “Because rivers, both in Mexico and in the rest of the world, can really be the lifeline of a city or a community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Ecuadorian American, and my parents say they never heard the story of La Llorona until they arrived in Los Angeles in the early ’90s. As for me, I remember that my childhood friends who were Mexican would warn me that if we didn’t behave, La Llorona would come to get us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But if you only know La Llorona from childhood stories, trust me: This legend goes far beyond those. And it’s the deep history, and the evolution of the legend, that brings us all the way to her very different appearance on that mural by Juana Alicia in the Mission.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The origins of La Llorona\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>To learn more about how the legend of La Llorona got started, I called up Profesora Leticia Hernández — a writer, artist and poet who teaches oral history at San Francisco State University.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For many, La Llorona symbolizes the real-life 16th-century woman Malintzin, or La Malinche — the woman said to have been kidnapped by Hernán Cortés to aid his invasion of Mexico in 1519 (or who helped him by choice, depending on who’s writing the history books).\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896433\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896433\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Detail from Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In this telling, La Llorona becomes a symbol of the injustices of colonization. But then it goes even deeper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Others say [the legend] predates conquest with all of these incredibly complex and mythical Aztec goddesses and deities,” says Hernández. “Then you have the rendition that La Llorona is associated with Coatlicue the Aztec Earth goddess, who gave birth to the sun, moon and stars — and that’s connected to Cihuateteo, which is the the deity of women who die in childbirth.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It could get really complex there, right?” says Hernández.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even if this legend predates Cortés and colonization, the way European colonizers then wrote the history books about Malintzin/La Malinche lays the emphasis firmly on her as a negative force: a woman who stepped out of line.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The way that the female figure of La Malinche has been demonized and constructed throughout history is problematic,” says Hernández. “Especially because that narrative has been controlled by the heteropatriarchy, and makes a woman who was most likely a victim into a villain.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are variations on not just who La Llorona is, but what she’s doing — and what \u003cem>happened\u003c/em> to her children, specifically. It’s this element, says Hernández, that contains a great deal of mystery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the version of the narrative that has La Llorona as a scorned lover, she drowns her children out of grief, and must remain grieving forever in this limbo. “All of that gets close to that whole bad mother narrative,” says Hernández.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Around Latin America, the many mirrors of La Llorona\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>“Even though there’s La Llorona myths throughout Latin America, I often associated it more with Mexican culture,” says Hernández. “And I think that’s how we hear about it in California or the United States, in the southwest, as mostly associated with Mexican culture.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896438\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896438\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Detail from Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>However, Hernández’s heritage is Salvadoran, and she says so much of the La Llorona legend reminds her of La Siguanaba — a Central American story that shares a lot of DNA with La Llorona. La Siguanaba is a supernatural creature that takes the form of a woman cursed by the rain god, Tlaloc. Like La Llorona, she stalks the waters and brings vengeance upon men and children.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The story of La Siguanaba instantly reminded \u003cem>my\u003c/em> parents of a similar story told exclusively in Guayaquil, a major port city in Ecuador. I remember the story of La Dama Tapada — the Veiled Lady — being told to me when I was about 5 years old while visiting my great-uncle’s house, to stop me from wanting to stay up late.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the legend goes, La Dama would walk the city at night stalking drunken men and luring them into dark alleys with her beautiful scent. Once alone with a man, she would reveal her skeletal face, and the next morning, the man would be found dead foaming from the mouth. No Guayaquileño man would dare walk alone at night, I was told, out of fear of meeting La Dama.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of the story of La Siguanaba, Hernández says that “if you look at the legend, it gets more problematic because it becomes more like ‘a spirited girl’ or ‘a woman with spirit’ is monstrous.” In one version, she says, the god Tlaloc turned her into La Siguanaba as punishment “for being a bad mother and a bad wife.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Who determines that?” asks Hernández. “What \u003cem>is\u003c/em> a bad woman? Why is it bad to have spirit?” They’re questions that could equally be asked of the legend of La Dama Tapada — especially given that she stalks drunken men.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, says Hernández, for many people the legends of La Llorona, La Siguanaba and La Dama Tapada are “just” simple ghost stories, and that’s OK. When analyzing the role of folklore, she stresses that she’s “wearing her ‘profe’ hat” — and says that knowing the roots of the stories we tell ourselves is always powerful.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Reimagining La Llorona through art\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://juanaalicia.com/content/57/\">Hernández has written about Juana Alicia’s Mission mural of La Llorona\u003c/a>, and how the artwork “frees the spirit of women from roles as monstrous creatures of folklore to warrior women of history.” And Juana Alicia herself explains that, because La Llorona contains multitudes, she can be used as a symbol for so many things in a mural like this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896437\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896437\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>( Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“In the Llorona mural, the issues of water and climate justice and feminism all come up,” says Alicia. “Racial justice, mixed heritage issues — they’re all there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On that wall, La Llorona isn’t a ghost: Instead, she’s flesh and blood. She’s protecting a child, not threatening it. And if you recall my colleague Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí’s words on how La Llorona is known to defend the very waters she haunts, you might say she’s playing that water protector role right here on the mural.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even where Juana Alicia chose to paint her mural on the corner of York and 24th is symbolic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a neighborhood that I love. It’s where the raza is. It’s where people were being evicted rapidly,” says Alicia.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s like a cultural anchor. It’s like holding on to sacred space in a neighborhood that I could no longer afford to live in, and most of my compatriots could not afford to live in either.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>A powerful emblem of grief\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>La Llorona the legend can be a meaningful symbol of so many things, past and present. Above all, she can signify loss, of many kinds. And because of this, how people interpret her can be incredibly personal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>KQED News producer Lina Blanco knows this more than most. “The figure of La Llorona, as like a ghost who wanders at night? It was never one that scared me,” says Blanco. “Because I’ve seen scary things in my life that are not about a ghost wandering at night wanting to steal children.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896434\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896434\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Detail from Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For Blanco, La Llorona wasn’t someone to be afraid of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The stories of La Llorona that I gravitated to never showed La Llorona as a victim, never showed her as a vengeful spirit,” says Blanco. Instead, the legend as she learned it, from the work of \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/DCtMfkYyKjM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">musicians like Chavela Vargas \u003c/a>and Latinx writers like Gloria Anzaldúa, was more of someone to learn from.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They showed this model of someone who was \u003cem>looking\u003c/em>, but then also a bridge and a connecting force between the world that is living and the world that is dead,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a queer, mixed Chicana coming of age in different places, Lina said she didn’t see something to fear in the story of La Llorona. Instead she saw parts of herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>La Llorona wanders in the night making those wailing sounds because she’s grieving. She makes her pain loud and clear. And sometimes, says Blanco, people can find visible grief in someone a frightening experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As someone who went through deep loss and grief as a child, when she lost her own mother, this is something Blanco says she knows firsthand. Because people sometimes just “don’t know how to engage with someone experiencing grief,” says Blanco. “They shy away.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Not being able to hold someone in their grief sometimes shows up as ignoring them, fearing them, casting them aside,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Blanco, the way La Llorona grieves isn’t scary — it’s relatable. As a child experiencing the pain of grief, “no one knew how to \u003cem>talk\u003c/em> to me,” she says. What’s more, she can identify with La Llorona’s vocal calls in search of lost family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Parts of me,” says Blanco, “have gone around the world calling out for [my mother].”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Finding your own La Llorona\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Complex womanhood, being torn between two worlds, protecting threatened waters, reaching out for lost loved ones: As a symbol, La Llorona can mean so many things to so many people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On one of these cold winter nights, just as the sun is starting to set, perhaps you yourself might like to go to the Mission District in San Francisco and encounter La Llorona on that huge mural by Juana Alicia. If you’ve only heard the ghost story, she might not look exactly like you expect.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But if there’s one thing about La Llorona, it’s that she keeps her power to surprise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896435\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896435\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Detail from Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Juana Alicia’s interview used courtesy of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, recorded as part of the SFMOMA Mission Murals Project documenting the Latinx mural-making culture that emerged in San Francisco’s Mission District during the 1970s. \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfmoma.org/\">The project launches soon on SFMOMA’s website.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This episode of Bay Curious was reported by Sebastian Miño-Bucheli and edited by Carly Severn and Olivia Allen-Price. Special thanks to Lina Blanco, Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí, Erika Aguilar and Gabriella Frenes.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> In the heart of the Mission District in San Francisco, at the intersection of 24th and York, there’s a massive blue mural — one that will stop you in your tracks.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Standing two stories high and 60 feet long, the intricate mural draws your eyes in with its depth and scale. It’s a world of blue tones, like standing in front of a waterfall. And it’s packed with figures — female figures.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> In the center, there’s Chalchiuhtlicue\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, Aztec goddess of lakes and streams. In the background, there are women from Bolivia, women from India, women from the Mexico-U.S. Border, all standing together. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And in the foreground, there’s a woman standing apart, stretching out her hand, like she’s reaching out to you. A tear falls from her eye, and she’s holding a child in her arms, as if to protect them.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This mural is called “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters”, painted by the Bay Area artist \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Juana Alicia. And it’s been a fixture on this San Francisco wall for the last 21 years. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">If you’ve grown up with the legend of La Llorona, you might be surprised to see her like this in this mural. Because in the popular telling, the one that’s most common in Mexico and here in California, La Llorona is a ghost — the spirit of a woman who haunts watery places, wailing for her lost children … not protecting them.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">To understand how a traditional legend has come this far, and taken so many forms, we’re going to delve deep into the story of La Llorona. This story first aired in 2021, but we’re bring it back in honor of Latino Heritage Month and Spooky October.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’m Katrina Schwartz and you’re listening to Bay Curious. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Sponsor message\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Today we’re exploring the legend of La Llorona, and how she’s evolved for new generations. Bay Curious reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli brings us the story.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli\u003c/b>\u003cb>: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">For many Latinx people here in California, the story of La Llorona is one you heard growing up — told slightly differently each time. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Gabriella \u003c/b>\u003cb>Frenes\u003c/b>\u003cb>: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">My family mainly used it to as like a scare tactic for my mom and my Tias when they were younger. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">That’s Gabriella. Because the legend is something that so many people grow up with, I asked her and some of my coworkers what \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">they \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">remember first hearing about La Llorona. Among all the different variations of the legend, there are common themes: the ghost of a weeping woman, who haunts the waters, crying out for her children. Like my coworker Carlos says:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carlos Cabrera Lomelí: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She wails this: like “Mis Hijos, Mis Hijos!” which means my kids, my kids. And they said that she had drowned her own kids and and that she would walk around the rivers where she had the river, where she drowned them, feeling, you know, guilty of what she had done.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Gabriella \u003c/b>\u003cb>Frenes\u003c/b>\u003cb>:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Because you know with the story of La Llorona she drowned her children and she they say that her soul is not rested because she also killed herself. You know, with Catholicism, that’s a huge sin, suicide. And so they say that since her soul is not laid to rest, she’s out there searching for her children. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And because of that, she’s often made into a terrifying ghost, on the lookout for new children — and she wants to take them. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Or maybe, as Carlos says, she’s defending something:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carlos Cabrera Lomelí: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She, you know, is looking for them and pushing away anybody that threatens things that are special to her, like her children or rivers. Because rivers, you know, both in Mexico and in the rest of the world can really be the lifeline of a city or a community. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There’s also a traditional song about La Llorona. You might have heard it sung growing up, or, more recently, in the movie Coco:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">La Llorona song from the movie “Coco”\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’m Ecuadorian American — and \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> remember being warned by my childhood friends who were Mexican that if we didn’t behave, La Llorona would come to \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">get us\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But if \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">you \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">only know La Llorona from childhood stories, trust me: this legend goes far beyond those. And it’s the deep history, and the evolution of the legend, that brings us all the way to her very different appearance on that mural by Juana Alicia in the Mission.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I wanted to know more about how the legend of La Llorona got \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">started\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">. So I called up Professora Leticia Hernández, a writer, artist and poet who teaches Oral History at San Francisco State University. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Even though there’s your own myths throughout Latin America, I often associated it more with Mexican culture. And I think that’s how we we hear about it in California or the United States, in the southwest, as mostly associated with Mexican culture.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">For many, La Llorona symbolizes \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Malintzin\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> the woman who was said to have been kidnapped by Hernan Cortes to aid his invasion of Mexico, or helped him by choice, depending on who’s writing the history books. In \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">this \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">telling, La Llorona becomes a symbol of the injustices of colonization. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Some folks say that it starts at, you know, conquest. Others say it predates conquest with all of these incredibly complex and mythical Aztec goddesses and deities, right? Then you have the rendition that you know your honor is associated with, quite like where the Aztec Earth goddess who gave birth to the Sun Moon and stars, and that’s connected to see what that they’re all right, which is the the deity of women who die in childbirth. I mean, it could get really complex there, right?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Professora Hernandez says that even if this legend predates colonization in 1519, the moment Hernan Cortez arrived, the way European colonizers then wrote the history books about Malintzin, or La Malinche, lays the emphasis on her as a \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">negative \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">force — a woman that stepped out of line:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The way that the female figure of La Malinche has been demonized and constructed throughout history is problematic, especially because that that narrative has been controlled by the hetero patriarchy and makes a woman who was most likely a victim into a villain.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There are variations on not just who La Llorona is, but what she’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">doing\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> — and what happened to her children. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And there’s a lot of mystery around it, too, right? It’s like, Oh, she was scorned by a lover. So she, you know, drowned her children out of grief. But then she’s grieving forever in this limbo. And that kind of gets close to that whole bad mother narrative, too, right? So super complicated.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Professora Hernandez’s heritage is Salvadoran, and she says so much of the La Llorona legend reminds her of \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">La Siguanaba\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> — a Central American story that shares a \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">lot \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">of DNA with La Llorona. La Siguanaba is a supernatural creature that takes the form of a woman\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> cursed by the river god Lalog\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, who also stalks the waters, and brings vengeance — upon men and children.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">If you look at the legend, it gets more problematic because it becomes more like a spirited girl or a woman with spirit is monstrous. So one version is that Lalog punished her and turned her into Siguanaba for being a bad mother and a bad wife who determines that? What is a bad woman? Why is it bad to have spirit?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Of course, says Professor Hernandez for many people La Llorona \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">is \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">a simple ghost story — and that’s okay:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Sure, I’m wearing my Profe hat right now, but like, Hey, you know, I’m not trying to steal anybody’s scary story or or criticize or even patronize our our our folklore and our, you know, and our sayings. But it is important to know the history and the roots and also how to how to rethink, rethink it.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And to connect us back to Juana Alicia’s mural \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">of \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">La Llorona in the Mission for a moment? Professor Hernandez has actually written about this artwork a bunch — and how it, in her words, “frees the spirit of women from roles as monstrous creatures of folklore to warrior women of history.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">As Juana Alicia herself explains, because La Llorona contains multitudes, she can be used as a symbol for so many things in a mural like this:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Juana Alicia: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">In the Llorona mural, the issues of water and climate justice and feminism all come up. Racial justice, mixed heritage issues, they’re all there.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">On that wall, La Llorona isn’t a \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">ghost — \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">she’s flesh and blood. She’s protecting a child, not threatening it. And remember how my colleague Carlos mentioned how La Llorona is also known to defend the very waters she haunts? You could say she’s playing \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">that \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">water protector role right here, on this mural.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Even where Juana Alicia chose to \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">paint \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">her mural is symbolic:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Juana Alicia: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The importance of putting La Llorona, Sacred Waters, on the corner of York and 24th in that neighborhood is multiple. First of all, it’s a neighborhood that I love. But it’s where the Raza is. It’s where people were being evicted rapidly. [11:29:51:11] Again, it’s like an anchor. It’s like a cultural anchor. It’s like holding on to sacred space in a neighborhood that I could no longer afford to live in, and most of my compatriots could not afford to live in either. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">La Llorona can be a symbol of complex womanhood; of being torn between two worlds. But also of loss, of many kinds. How people interpret her can be incredibly personal. Just ask journalist Lina Blanco, my colleague here at KQED:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The figure of La Llorona, as like a ghost who wanders at night? It was never one that scared me. Because I’ve seen scary things in my life that are not about a ghost wandering at night wanting to steal children. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">For Lina, La Llorona \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">wasn’t \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">someone to be afraid of. The legend, as \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">she\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> learned it from the work of Latinx writers and musicians, was more of someone to learn from.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The stories of La Llorona that I gravitated to never showed La Llorona as a victim, never showed layered as a vengeful spirit, but instead showed this model of someone who was looking, but then also a bridge and a connecting force between the world that is living and the world that is dead.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">As a queer, mixed Chicana coming of age in different places, Lina said she didn’t see something to fear in the story of La Llorona. Instead she saw… parts of herself.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Because La Llorona wanders in the night making those sounds because she’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">grieving\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">. She’s in pain, and showing it, and sometimes… other people \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">can \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">find grief kinda frightening.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I think also one thing that I’ve learned from grief, whether or not this this mother figure La Llorona lost her kids because she killed them, or lost them because they they were lost to the dark night or by colonization, whatever it is, I think when someone is grieving and when someone is holding on to a deep loss, people fear that too. They don’t know how to engage with someone experiencing grief. They shy away. And so not being able to hold someone in their grief sometimes shows up as ignoring them, fearing them, casting them aside.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">For Lina, the way La Llorena grieves isn’t scary — it’s relatable. Because she knows how it feels to be misunderstood this way.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And having experienced grief as a young kid, no one knew what to do with me, no one knew how to talk to me. And then they were like, They let me go into this fantasy world of my own to find my own ways of navigating through that. So I was on the other side. I lost my mom. She didn’t lose me, but I lost my mom. So I. Parts of me have gone around the world calling out for for her. And that’s why I feel the connection to, you know, someone who goes looking for their loved ones who are gone. We all do some of that.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Just like the story of La Llorona shifts and evolves, so does that song about her. It takes on new words, gets new verses. And this is the version Lina herself likes to sing:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">(Singing) La Llorona, La Llorona…\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And maybe, on one of these colder nights, just as the sun is starting to set, you’d like to head over to the Mission District and encounter La Llorona on that huge mural by Juana Alicia. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">If you’ve only heard the ghost story she might not look exactly like you expect. But if there’s one thing about La Llorona? It’s that \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">she \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">keeps her power to surprise.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Lina Blanco singing\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">That story was reported by Sebastian Miño-Bucheli, and edited by Carly Severn. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Tape from the interview with Juana Alicia is courtesy of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. It was recorded as part of their Mission Murals Project, which documents the Latinx mural-making culture that emerged in San Francisco’s Mission District during the 1970s. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">You can see the mural, “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters,” at 24th and York Street in San Francisco. We’ve also got a picture online at BayCurious.org.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Our show is a production of member-supported KQED in San Francisco.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Bay Curious is made by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">With extra support from Maha Sanad, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Ethan Toven-Lindsey and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Have a great week!\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This story first aired in November 2021.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you find yourself in San Francisco’s Mission District at the corner of 24th and York streets, you can’t help but notice the massive, blue-toned mural that stands there — rising over two stories high and spanning 60 feet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This intricate mural, called \u003ca href=\"https://juanaalicia.com/la-llorona-project-san-francisco/\">“La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” and created by Bay Area artist Juana Alicia\u003c/a>, is filled with expressive female figures that draw the eye with their depth and scale. In the center of this intricate mural, there’s Chalchiuhtlicue, the Aztec goddess of lakes and streams. In the background, there are women from Bolivia, women from India, women from the Mexico-U.S. border — all standing together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And in the foreground, there’s a woman standing apart, stretching out her hand like she’s reaching out to the viewer. A tear falls from her eye, and she’s holding a child in her arms, as if to protect them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC7962812002&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Alicia’s mural has been a fixture on this San Francisco wall for the last 17 years. And if you grew up with the legend of La Llorona, you might be surprised to see her like this in this mural.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s because in the popular telling — the one that’s most common in Mexico, and here in California — La Llorona is a ghost. She’s the spirit of a woman who haunts watery places, wailing for her lost children, not protecting them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So how did a traditional legend come this far, and take so many forms?\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The stories we hear\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>For many Latinx people here in California, the story of La Llorona is one you hear growing up — told slightly differently each time. And because the legend is something so many people grow up with, many of my co-workers had something to say about what they remember first hearing about La Llorona.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896436\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896436\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52560_20211102_1549141-qut-1-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“My family mainly used it as a scare tactic for my mom and my tías when they were younger,” says Gabriella Frenes of KQED’s The California Report.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Among all the variations of the legend, there are common themes: the weeping ghost of a woman, who haunts the waters, crying out for her children.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She wails this: like, ‘Mis hijos! Mis hijos!,’ which means, ‘My kids! My kids!'” says Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí, a reporter and producer with KQED News and KQED en Español. “They said that she had drowned her own kids, and that she would walk around the … river, where she drowned them, feeling guilty of what she had done.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She drowned her children, and they say that her soul is not rested because she also killed herself,” adds Frenes. “With Catholicism, that’s a huge sin, suicide. They say that since her soul is not laid to rest, she’s out there searching for her children.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And because of this, La Llorona is often made into a terrifying spirit on the lookout for new children — whom she wants to take. Or maybe, as Cabrera-Lomelí says, she’s defending something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She’s looking for [her kids] and pushing away anybody that threatens things that are special to her — like her children, or rivers,” says Cabrera-Lomelí. “Because rivers, both in Mexico and in the rest of the world, can really be the lifeline of a city or a community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Ecuadorian American, and my parents say they never heard the story of La Llorona until they arrived in Los Angeles in the early ’90s. As for me, I remember that my childhood friends who were Mexican would warn me that if we didn’t behave, La Llorona would come to get us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But if you only know La Llorona from childhood stories, trust me: This legend goes far beyond those. And it’s the deep history, and the evolution of the legend, that brings us all the way to her very different appearance on that mural by Juana Alicia in the Mission.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The origins of La Llorona\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>To learn more about how the legend of La Llorona got started, I called up Profesora Leticia Hernández — a writer, artist and poet who teaches oral history at San Francisco State University.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For many, La Llorona symbolizes the real-life 16th-century woman Malintzin, or La Malinche — the woman said to have been kidnapped by Hernán Cortés to aid his invasion of Mexico in 1519 (or who helped him by choice, depending on who’s writing the history books).\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896433\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896433\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52557_20211102_155531-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Detail from Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In this telling, La Llorona becomes a symbol of the injustices of colonization. But then it goes even deeper.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Others say [the legend] predates conquest with all of these incredibly complex and mythical Aztec goddesses and deities,” says Hernández. “Then you have the rendition that La Llorona is associated with Coatlicue the Aztec Earth goddess, who gave birth to the sun, moon and stars — and that’s connected to Cihuateteo, which is the the deity of women who die in childbirth.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It could get really complex there, right?” says Hernández.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even if this legend predates Cortés and colonization, the way European colonizers then wrote the history books about Malintzin/La Malinche lays the emphasis firmly on her as a negative force: a woman who stepped out of line.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The way that the female figure of La Malinche has been demonized and constructed throughout history is problematic,” says Hernández. “Especially because that narrative has been controlled by the heteropatriarchy, and makes a woman who was most likely a victim into a villain.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are variations on not just who La Llorona is, but what she’s doing — and what \u003cem>happened\u003c/em> to her children, specifically. It’s this element, says Hernández, that contains a great deal of mystery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the version of the narrative that has La Llorona as a scorned lover, she drowns her children out of grief, and must remain grieving forever in this limbo. “All of that gets close to that whole bad mother narrative,” says Hernández.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Around Latin America, the many mirrors of La Llorona\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>“Even though there’s La Llorona myths throughout Latin America, I often associated it more with Mexican culture,” says Hernández. “And I think that’s how we hear about it in California or the United States, in the southwest, as mostly associated with Mexican culture.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896438\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896438\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52558_20211102_155135-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Detail from Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>However, Hernández’s heritage is Salvadoran, and she says so much of the La Llorona legend reminds her of La Siguanaba — a Central American story that shares a lot of DNA with La Llorona. La Siguanaba is a supernatural creature that takes the form of a woman cursed by the rain god, Tlaloc. Like La Llorona, she stalks the waters and brings vengeance upon men and children.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The story of La Siguanaba instantly reminded \u003cem>my\u003c/em> parents of a similar story told exclusively in Guayaquil, a major port city in Ecuador. I remember the story of La Dama Tapada — the Veiled Lady — being told to me when I was about 5 years old while visiting my great-uncle’s house, to stop me from wanting to stay up late.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the legend goes, La Dama would walk the city at night stalking drunken men and luring them into dark alleys with her beautiful scent. Once alone with a man, she would reveal her skeletal face, and the next morning, the man would be found dead foaming from the mouth. No Guayaquileño man would dare walk alone at night, I was told, out of fear of meeting La Dama.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of the story of La Siguanaba, Hernández says that “if you look at the legend, it gets more problematic because it becomes more like ‘a spirited girl’ or ‘a woman with spirit’ is monstrous.” In one version, she says, the god Tlaloc turned her into La Siguanaba as punishment “for being a bad mother and a bad wife.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Who determines that?” asks Hernández. “What \u003cem>is\u003c/em> a bad woman? Why is it bad to have spirit?” They’re questions that could equally be asked of the legend of La Dama Tapada — especially given that she stalks drunken men.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, says Hernández, for many people the legends of La Llorona, La Siguanaba and La Dama Tapada are “just” simple ghost stories, and that’s OK. When analyzing the role of folklore, she stresses that she’s “wearing her ‘profe’ hat” — and says that knowing the roots of the stories we tell ourselves is always powerful.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Reimagining La Llorona through art\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://juanaalicia.com/content/57/\">Hernández has written about Juana Alicia’s Mission mural of La Llorona\u003c/a>, and how the artwork “frees the spirit of women from roles as monstrous creatures of folklore to warrior women of history.” And Juana Alicia herself explains that, because La Llorona contains multitudes, she can be used as a symbol for so many things in a mural like this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896437\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896437\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52559_20211102_155031-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>( Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“In the Llorona mural, the issues of water and climate justice and feminism all come up,” says Alicia. “Racial justice, mixed heritage issues — they’re all there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On that wall, La Llorona isn’t a ghost: Instead, she’s flesh and blood. She’s protecting a child, not threatening it. And if you recall my colleague Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí’s words on how La Llorona is known to defend the very waters she haunts, you might say she’s playing that water protector role right here on the mural.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even where Juana Alicia chose to paint her mural on the corner of York and 24th is symbolic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s a neighborhood that I love. It’s where the raza is. It’s where people were being evicted rapidly,” says Alicia.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s like a cultural anchor. It’s like holding on to sacred space in a neighborhood that I could no longer afford to live in, and most of my compatriots could not afford to live in either.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>A powerful emblem of grief\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>La Llorona the legend can be a meaningful symbol of so many things, past and present. Above all, she can signify loss, of many kinds. And because of this, how people interpret her can be incredibly personal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>KQED News producer Lina Blanco knows this more than most. “The figure of La Llorona, as like a ghost who wanders at night? It was never one that scared me,” says Blanco. “Because I’ve seen scary things in my life that are not about a ghost wandering at night wanting to steal children.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896434\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896434\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52556_20211102_155117-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Detail from Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For Blanco, La Llorona wasn’t someone to be afraid of.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The stories of La Llorona that I gravitated to never showed La Llorona as a victim, never showed her as a vengeful spirit,” says Blanco. Instead, the legend as she learned it, from the work of \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/DCtMfkYyKjM\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">musicians like Chavela Vargas \u003c/a>and Latinx writers like Gloria Anzaldúa, was more of someone to learn from.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They showed this model of someone who was \u003cem>looking\u003c/em>, but then also a bridge and a connecting force between the world that is living and the world that is dead,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a queer, mixed Chicana coming of age in different places, Lina said she didn’t see something to fear in the story of La Llorona. Instead she saw parts of herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>La Llorona wanders in the night making those wailing sounds because she’s grieving. She makes her pain loud and clear. And sometimes, says Blanco, people can find visible grief in someone a frightening experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As someone who went through deep loss and grief as a child, when she lost her own mother, this is something Blanco says she knows firsthand. Because people sometimes just “don’t know how to engage with someone experiencing grief,” says Blanco. “They shy away.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Not being able to hold someone in their grief sometimes shows up as ignoring them, fearing them, casting them aside,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Blanco, the way La Llorona grieves isn’t scary — it’s relatable. As a child experiencing the pain of grief, “no one knew how to \u003cem>talk\u003c/em> to me,” she says. What’s more, she can identify with La Llorona’s vocal calls in search of lost family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Parts of me,” says Blanco, “have gone around the world calling out for [my mother].”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Finding your own La Llorona\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Complex womanhood, being torn between two worlds, protecting threatened waters, reaching out for lost loved ones: As a symbol, La Llorona can mean so many things to so many people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On one of these cold winter nights, just as the sun is starting to set, perhaps you yourself might like to go to the Mission District in San Francisco and encounter La Llorona on that huge mural by Juana Alicia. If you’ve only heard the ghost story, she might not look exactly like you expect.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But if there’s one thing about La Llorona, it’s that she keeps her power to surprise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11896435\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11896435\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1081\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/11/RS52555_20211102_155938-qut-1536x865.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Detail from Juana Alicia’s mural “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters” at 24th and York streets in the Mission District of San Francisco. \u003ccite>(Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Juana Alicia’s interview used courtesy of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, recorded as part of the SFMOMA Mission Murals Project documenting the Latinx mural-making culture that emerged in San Francisco’s Mission District during the 1970s. \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfmoma.org/\">The project launches soon on SFMOMA’s website.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This episode of Bay Curious was reported by Sebastian Miño-Bucheli and edited by Carly Severn and Olivia Allen-Price. Special thanks to Lina Blanco, Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí, Erika Aguilar and Gabriella Frenes.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> In the heart of the Mission District in San Francisco, at the intersection of 24th and York, there’s a massive blue mural — one that will stop you in your tracks.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Standing two stories high and 60 feet long, the intricate mural draws your eyes in with its depth and scale. It’s a world of blue tones, like standing in front of a waterfall. And it’s packed with figures — female figures.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> In the center, there’s Chalchiuhtlicue\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, Aztec goddess of lakes and streams. In the background, there are women from Bolivia, women from India, women from the Mexico-U.S. Border, all standing together. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And in the foreground, there’s a woman standing apart, stretching out her hand, like she’s reaching out to you. A tear falls from her eye, and she’s holding a child in her arms, as if to protect them.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This mural is called “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters”, painted by the Bay Area artist \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Juana Alicia. And it’s been a fixture on this San Francisco wall for the last 21 years. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">If you’ve grown up with the legend of La Llorona, you might be surprised to see her like this in this mural. Because in the popular telling, the one that’s most common in Mexico and here in California, La Llorona is a ghost — the spirit of a woman who haunts watery places, wailing for her lost children … not protecting them.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">To understand how a traditional legend has come this far, and taken so many forms, we’re going to delve deep into the story of La Llorona. This story first aired in 2021, but we’re bring it back in honor of Latino Heritage Month and Spooky October.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’m Katrina Schwartz and you’re listening to Bay Curious. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Sponsor message\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Today we’re exploring the legend of La Llorona, and how she’s evolved for new generations. Bay Curious reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli brings us the story.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli\u003c/b>\u003cb>: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">For many Latinx people here in California, the story of La Llorona is one you heard growing up — told slightly differently each time. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Gabriella \u003c/b>\u003cb>Frenes\u003c/b>\u003cb>: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">My family mainly used it to as like a scare tactic for my mom and my Tias when they were younger. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">That’s Gabriella. Because the legend is something that so many people grow up with, I asked her and some of my coworkers what \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">they \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">remember first hearing about La Llorona. Among all the different variations of the legend, there are common themes: the ghost of a weeping woman, who haunts the waters, crying out for her children. Like my coworker Carlos says:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carlos Cabrera Lomelí: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She wails this: like “Mis Hijos, Mis Hijos!” which means my kids, my kids. And they said that she had drowned her own kids and and that she would walk around the rivers where she had the river, where she drowned them, feeling, you know, guilty of what she had done.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Gabriella \u003c/b>\u003cb>Frenes\u003c/b>\u003cb>:\u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Because you know with the story of La Llorona she drowned her children and she they say that her soul is not rested because she also killed herself. You know, with Catholicism, that’s a huge sin, suicide. And so they say that since her soul is not laid to rest, she’s out there searching for her children. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And because of that, she’s often made into a terrifying ghost, on the lookout for new children — and she wants to take them. \u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Or maybe, as Carlos says, she’s defending something:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carlos Cabrera Lomelí: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She, you know, is looking for them and pushing away anybody that threatens things that are special to her, like her children or rivers. Because rivers, you know, both in Mexico and in the rest of the world can really be the lifeline of a city or a community. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There’s also a traditional song about La Llorona. You might have heard it sung growing up, or, more recently, in the movie Coco:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">La Llorona song from the movie “Coco”\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’m Ecuadorian American — and \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> remember being warned by my childhood friends who were Mexican that if we didn’t behave, La Llorona would come to \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">get us\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But if \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">you \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">only know La Llorona from childhood stories, trust me: this legend goes far beyond those. And it’s the deep history, and the evolution of the legend, that brings us all the way to her very different appearance on that mural by Juana Alicia in the Mission.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I wanted to know more about how the legend of La Llorona got \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">started\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">. So I called up Professora Leticia Hernández, a writer, artist and poet who teaches Oral History at San Francisco State University. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Even though there’s your own myths throughout Latin America, I often associated it more with Mexican culture. And I think that’s how we we hear about it in California or the United States, in the southwest, as mostly associated with Mexican culture.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">For many, La Llorona symbolizes \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Malintzin\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> the woman who was said to have been kidnapped by Hernan Cortes to aid his invasion of Mexico, or helped him by choice, depending on who’s writing the history books. In \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">this \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">telling, La Llorona becomes a symbol of the injustices of colonization. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Some folks say that it starts at, you know, conquest. Others say it predates conquest with all of these incredibly complex and mythical Aztec goddesses and deities, right? Then you have the rendition that you know your honor is associated with, quite like where the Aztec Earth goddess who gave birth to the Sun Moon and stars, and that’s connected to see what that they’re all right, which is the the deity of women who die in childbirth. I mean, it could get really complex there, right?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Professora Hernandez says that even if this legend predates colonization in 1519, the moment Hernan Cortez arrived, the way European colonizers then wrote the history books about Malintzin, or La Malinche, lays the emphasis on her as a \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">negative \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">force — a woman that stepped out of line:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The way that the female figure of La Malinche has been demonized and constructed throughout history is problematic, especially because that that narrative has been controlled by the hetero patriarchy and makes a woman who was most likely a victim into a villain.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There are variations on not just who La Llorona is, but what she’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">doing\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> — and what happened to her children. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And there’s a lot of mystery around it, too, right? It’s like, Oh, she was scorned by a lover. So she, you know, drowned her children out of grief. But then she’s grieving forever in this limbo. And that kind of gets close to that whole bad mother narrative, too, right? So super complicated.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Professora Hernandez’s heritage is Salvadoran, and she says so much of the La Llorona legend reminds her of \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">La Siguanaba\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> — a Central American story that shares a \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">lot \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">of DNA with La Llorona. La Siguanaba is a supernatural creature that takes the form of a woman\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> cursed by the river god Lalog\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, who also stalks the waters, and brings vengeance — upon men and children.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">If you look at the legend, it gets more problematic because it becomes more like a spirited girl or a woman with spirit is monstrous. So one version is that Lalog punished her and turned her into Siguanaba for being a bad mother and a bad wife who determines that? What is a bad woman? Why is it bad to have spirit?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Of course, says Professor Hernandez for many people La Llorona \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">is \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">a simple ghost story — and that’s okay:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Leticia Hernández: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Sure, I’m wearing my Profe hat right now, but like, Hey, you know, I’m not trying to steal anybody’s scary story or or criticize or even patronize our our our folklore and our, you know, and our sayings. But it is important to know the history and the roots and also how to how to rethink, rethink it.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And to connect us back to Juana Alicia’s mural \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">of \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">La Llorona in the Mission for a moment? Professor Hernandez has actually written about this artwork a bunch — and how it, in her words, “frees the spirit of women from roles as monstrous creatures of folklore to warrior women of history.”\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">As Juana Alicia herself explains, because La Llorona contains multitudes, she can be used as a symbol for so many things in a mural like this:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Juana Alicia: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">In the Llorona mural, the issues of water and climate justice and feminism all come up. Racial justice, mixed heritage issues, they’re all there.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">On that wall, La Llorona isn’t a \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">ghost — \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">she’s flesh and blood. She’s protecting a child, not threatening it. And remember how my colleague Carlos mentioned how La Llorona is also known to defend the very waters she haunts? You could say she’s playing \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">that \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">water protector role right here, on this mural.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Even where Juana Alicia chose to \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">paint \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">her mural is symbolic:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Juana Alicia: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The importance of putting La Llorona, Sacred Waters, on the corner of York and 24th in that neighborhood is multiple. First of all, it’s a neighborhood that I love. But it’s where the Raza is. It’s where people were being evicted rapidly. [11:29:51:11] Again, it’s like an anchor. It’s like a cultural anchor. It’s like holding on to sacred space in a neighborhood that I could no longer afford to live in, and most of my compatriots could not afford to live in either. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">La Llorona can be a symbol of complex womanhood; of being torn between two worlds. But also of loss, of many kinds. How people interpret her can be incredibly personal. Just ask journalist Lina Blanco, my colleague here at KQED:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The figure of La Llorona, as like a ghost who wanders at night? It was never one that scared me. Because I’ve seen scary things in my life that are not about a ghost wandering at night wanting to steal children. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">For Lina, La Llorona \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">wasn’t \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">someone to be afraid of. The legend, as \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">she\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> learned it from the work of Latinx writers and musicians, was more of someone to learn from.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The stories of La Llorona that I gravitated to never showed La Llorona as a victim, never showed layered as a vengeful spirit, but instead showed this model of someone who was looking, but then also a bridge and a connecting force between the world that is living and the world that is dead.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">As a queer, mixed Chicana coming of age in different places, Lina said she didn’t see something to fear in the story of La Llorona. Instead she saw… parts of herself.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Because La Llorona wanders in the night making those sounds because she’s \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">grieving\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">. She’s in pain, and showing it, and sometimes… other people \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">can \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">find grief kinda frightening.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I think also one thing that I’ve learned from grief, whether or not this this mother figure La Llorona lost her kids because she killed them, or lost them because they they were lost to the dark night or by colonization, whatever it is, I think when someone is grieving and when someone is holding on to a deep loss, people fear that too. They don’t know how to engage with someone experiencing grief. They shy away. And so not being able to hold someone in their grief sometimes shows up as ignoring them, fearing them, casting them aside.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">For Lina, the way La Llorena grieves isn’t scary — it’s relatable. Because she knows how it feels to be misunderstood this way.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And having experienced grief as a young kid, no one knew what to do with me, no one knew how to talk to me. And then they were like, They let me go into this fantasy world of my own to find my own ways of navigating through that. So I was on the other side. I lost my mom. She didn’t lose me, but I lost my mom. So I. Parts of me have gone around the world calling out for for her. And that’s why I feel the connection to, you know, someone who goes looking for their loved ones who are gone. We all do some of that.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Just like the story of La Llorona shifts and evolves, so does that song about her. It takes on new words, gets new verses. And this is the version Lina herself likes to sing:\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Lina Blanco:\u003c/b> \u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">(Singing) La Llorona, La Llorona…\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And maybe, on one of these colder nights, just as the sun is starting to set, you’d like to head over to the Mission District and encounter La Llorona on that huge mural by Juana Alicia. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">If you’ve only heard the ghost story she might not look exactly like you expect. But if there’s one thing about La Llorona? It’s that \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">she \u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">keeps her power to surprise.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Lina Blanco singing\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katrina Schwartz: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">That story was reported by Sebastian Miño-Bucheli, and edited by Carly Severn. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Tape from the interview with Juana Alicia is courtesy of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. It was recorded as part of their Mission Murals Project, which documents the Latinx mural-making culture that emerged in San Francisco’s Mission District during the 1970s. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">You can see the mural, “La Llorona’s Sacred Waters,” at 24th and York Street in San Francisco. We’ve also got a picture online at BayCurious.org.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Our show is a production of member-supported KQED in San Francisco.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Bay Curious is made by Gabriela Glueck, Christopher Beale and me, Katrina Schwartz. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">With extra support from Maha Sanad, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Ethan Toven-Lindsey and everyone on team KQED.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Have a great week!\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u003cbr>\n\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>"
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"content": "\u003cp class=\"p1\">\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Moonridge is an affordable housing community of 160 homes for low-income residents and farmworkers just outside of Half Moon Bay. It was built more than 20 years ago.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Half Moon Bay debates the issue of farmworker housing construction, reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli visits Moonridge to see how living there stacks up with negative comments from city residents.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"card card--enclosed grey\">\n\u003cp id=\"embed-code\" class=\"inconsolata\">\n\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC3900585725&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\n\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Links:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.coastsidenews.com/magazine/take-a-closer-look-at-moonridge/article_ee68ceef-927f-5485-b13c-e4a1b817138e.html#comments\">Take a closer look at Moonridge\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp class=\"p1\">\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong> I’m Ericka Cruz Guevarra and welcome to the bay. Local news to keep you rooted. If you think the housing crisis is bad, it’s even worse for farm workers whose housing is often tied to their work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>But just outside of Half Moon Bay is a housing development for farmworkers and low income families that’s been there for decades. It’s an example of housing that farmworkers can actually own and a place to build community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>My neighbors, my best friend, we’ve been friends since we’re born, so everyone’s nice to each other. Everybody knows each other and it’s comfortable here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Moonridge which is just south of Half Moon Bay in the unincorporated outskirts. And some in the city say there should be more farmworker housing like it. After a mass shooting last year uncovered just how bad farm worker living conditions can be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>But some residents also say Moon Ridge is an example of what not to build in Half Moon Bay. They claim it’s overcrowded and unsafe. So today, reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli takes us to Moon Ridge to talk with people about what it’s actually like to live there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Moonridge was developed by Medmen. They’re a nonprofit developer. It’s south of having Bay. It’s an unincorporated area of San Mateo County. 160 homes. Some of the homes are 1 or 2 story townhomes, and it’s all in a 42 acre development spread out when they built it back 20 years ago or so.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The whole point was phase one was going to be for income earners. And then the second phase was for farm workers. And the point was we want to give them affordable housing that they could actually pay rent and they could feel like they own something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>What were people saying about Moon Ridge before you went there? Where were the kinds of things people were saying about this community that really drove you to eventually go there yourself?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Some residents were saying online or next door or they said it in a public comment setting that a lot of people are living in one room or that they’re renting a hallways, that there’s not even farm workers anymore. At the housing development.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Unknown Speaker \u003c/strong>If you look at Moon Ridge, what’s going on down there, that is a mess. They ought to be embarrassed. The county and Midwin should be embarrassed that way. That’s being run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>And I think the other thing I heard a lot was that there was that it was unsafe, that a lot of the times that people hear sirens is because it’s probably going to Moon Ridge. They were painting it like we don’t want more affordable housing because it might bring people that we don’t want into our town.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Unknown Speaker \u003c/strong>The project will cause a density parking problem that is uncomfortable. The residents of this project will have family and friends likely for extended visits, creating an unwanted density and parking problem. Just look to the street parking around Moon Ridge and other similar projects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And that, I guess, is what prompted you to actually go to Moon Ridge when you got there. What did it look like for people who may have never been there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I went for two separate days, just for a couple hours. I got a tour of this site.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Wow. So have the characteristics of, like, a farm town. You know, there’s some space. They have access to a community garden. There are playgrounds spread out even throughout the whole area. There’s a soccer yard. They have access to childcare, free childcare. There’s also a community hub where residents can go and take classes. I attended a graduation of the second Group of eight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They were taking ESL online classes and it was great to be amongst them because then I could just care for myself that these are residents who are are happy to be there, that they are taking advantage of all the programing that’s being offered to them. I mean, to me it was like. A mini town with a hub, and it was more community focus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>Actually, my neighbors, my best friend. We’ve been friends since we’re born, so.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So I met Giovanni. He’s a 16 year old who lives there in Moon Ridge. He attends Huffman Bay High and is in the soccer team. He was there to watch his dad graduate from one of those ESL programs. And you’ve been here all your life?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>Yes. All 16 years of my life I’ve been here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>I mean, how does he feel about living there? What does he tell you about that?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He tells me that his friends that he’s made at Moon Ridge, they’re like his neighbors. So they’ve grown up together, that they play soccer on their off time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>Where I live, there’s a big, like, yard outside our house. It’s all grass like that. We would build goals. We just play soccer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He feels very much like happy to be amongst everyone there. Something I picked up in Moon Ridge was that people who pass by, they’re going to do the laundry or something. They strike up a conversation like, Hey, neighbor, it’s been a minute since I seen you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Or How’s your kid? Some other kids might tell the adults. Hi, Theo. You know, they’re like, We’re not related, but they feel like they’re related because they’ve just grown up together for such a long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Yeah, it’s just very much a tight knit community. It sounds like everyone knows everyone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Yeah. Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>One thing I really love about living in Moonridge is the peace that we have here. Everyone’s nice to each other. Everybody knows each other, and it’s comfortable here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Was he aware of how people talk about his community, this place where he grew up?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Giovanni knows he’s seen some of the comments being spread online.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>There’s a lot of stuff about one image that they’ve put on there, like about the shootings and all of this stuff and.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Johnny brought up that, you know, there has been some crime in the past, but he also said it’s just, you know, we should focus on the good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>It’s like if they’re just seeing that our neighborhood is like trash, basically. Right. And it’s really not it’s I think it’s a good neighborhood to live in. It’s peaceful and everything that’s that’s a fence for them to see that. And they’ve never stepped in Wynonna’s ever in their life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So and you know, when I was there on the tour, we came across a patrol car just driving by, probably under five miles per hour. And it was just waving at us and just went on by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>By the central hub, there’s like a little office for San Mateo County sheriffs who operate in having to talk about it that bring some sort of sadness to his eyes, something that I could I could see not just him with other men, which presents when I asked them, how do these comments make you feel? And they respond like it’s hurtful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Over the last few months, a vocal critic of Moon Ridge has been the San Mateo County Farm Bureau, which represents farmers and ranchers in the area. They claim Moon Ridge is mismanaged and that there wouldn’t be a farmworker housing crisis if mid pan housing. The property developer did a better job of tracking whether farm workers actually live in Moon Ridge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Middlemen told Sebastian that they do check on this. But either way, it’s clear that the perception of Moon Ridge has big implications for how people talk about building new farmworker housing in Half Moon Bay. How did I guess all the conversation about Moon Ridge stack up with your experience of actually being there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I left feeling a little heartbroken that it’s like this is a community that they’re not going to respond back online. I’m sure that they don’t want to fight people or they don’t want to argue at a public setting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>This housing talk is not going to go away anytime soon. In San Mateo County in California, cities in California are going to have to deal with needing to build more housing. Now, knowing what I know, what I’ve seen, it’s like this is a great place to live in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>This is a housing project that works. You know, this is something that maybe we see more of this around, that it would solve some of the housing problems that are happening on the coast side.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Well, Sebastian, thanks so much for sharing your reporting. I appreciate it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Thank you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>That was Sebastian Miño-Bucheli, a local news fellow with cosigned news in Half Moon Bay and a reporter for KQED. We’ll leave you a link to his reporting in our notes. This 35 minute conversation with Sebastian was cut down and edited by senior editor Alan Montecillo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>I produced this episode, scored it, and added all the tape music courtesy of Audio Network. The Bay is made by me and Alan Montecillo with support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan. We are a production of listeners supported KQED in San Francisco. I’m Ericka Cruz Guevarra. Thanks so much for listening. Talk to you next time.\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp class=\"p1\">\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Moonridge is an affordable housing community of 160 homes for low-income residents and farmworkers just outside of Half Moon Bay. It was built more than 20 years ago.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">As Half Moon Bay debates the issue of farmworker housing construction, reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli visits Moonridge to see how living there stacks up with negative comments from city residents.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"card card--enclosed grey\">\n\u003cp id=\"embed-code\" class=\"inconsolata\">\n\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC3900585725&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\n\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Links:\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli>\u003ca href=\"https://www.coastsidenews.com/magazine/take-a-closer-look-at-moonridge/article_ee68ceef-927f-5485-b13c-e4a1b817138e.html#comments\">Take a closer look at Moonridge\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp class=\"p1\">\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong> I’m Ericka Cruz Guevarra and welcome to the bay. Local news to keep you rooted. If you think the housing crisis is bad, it’s even worse for farm workers whose housing is often tied to their work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>But just outside of Half Moon Bay is a housing development for farmworkers and low income families that’s been there for decades. It’s an example of housing that farmworkers can actually own and a place to build community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>My neighbors, my best friend, we’ve been friends since we’re born, so everyone’s nice to each other. Everybody knows each other and it’s comfortable here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Moonridge which is just south of Half Moon Bay in the unincorporated outskirts. And some in the city say there should be more farmworker housing like it. After a mass shooting last year uncovered just how bad farm worker living conditions can be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>But some residents also say Moon Ridge is an example of what not to build in Half Moon Bay. They claim it’s overcrowded and unsafe. So today, reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli takes us to Moon Ridge to talk with people about what it’s actually like to live there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Moonridge was developed by Medmen. They’re a nonprofit developer. It’s south of having Bay. It’s an unincorporated area of San Mateo County. 160 homes. Some of the homes are 1 or 2 story townhomes, and it’s all in a 42 acre development spread out when they built it back 20 years ago or so.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The whole point was phase one was going to be for income earners. And then the second phase was for farm workers. And the point was we want to give them affordable housing that they could actually pay rent and they could feel like they own something.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>What were people saying about Moon Ridge before you went there? Where were the kinds of things people were saying about this community that really drove you to eventually go there yourself?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Some residents were saying online or next door or they said it in a public comment setting that a lot of people are living in one room or that they’re renting a hallways, that there’s not even farm workers anymore. At the housing development.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Unknown Speaker \u003c/strong>If you look at Moon Ridge, what’s going on down there, that is a mess. They ought to be embarrassed. The county and Midwin should be embarrassed that way. That’s being run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>And I think the other thing I heard a lot was that there was that it was unsafe, that a lot of the times that people hear sirens is because it’s probably going to Moon Ridge. They were painting it like we don’t want more affordable housing because it might bring people that we don’t want into our town.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Unknown Speaker \u003c/strong>The project will cause a density parking problem that is uncomfortable. The residents of this project will have family and friends likely for extended visits, creating an unwanted density and parking problem. Just look to the street parking around Moon Ridge and other similar projects.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And that, I guess, is what prompted you to actually go to Moon Ridge when you got there. What did it look like for people who may have never been there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I went for two separate days, just for a couple hours. I got a tour of this site.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Wow. So have the characteristics of, like, a farm town. You know, there’s some space. They have access to a community garden. There are playgrounds spread out even throughout the whole area. There’s a soccer yard. They have access to childcare, free childcare. There’s also a community hub where residents can go and take classes. I attended a graduation of the second Group of eight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They were taking ESL online classes and it was great to be amongst them because then I could just care for myself that these are residents who are are happy to be there, that they are taking advantage of all the programing that’s being offered to them. I mean, to me it was like. A mini town with a hub, and it was more community focus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>Actually, my neighbors, my best friend. We’ve been friends since we’re born, so.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So I met Giovanni. He’s a 16 year old who lives there in Moon Ridge. He attends Huffman Bay High and is in the soccer team. He was there to watch his dad graduate from one of those ESL programs. And you’ve been here all your life?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>Yes. All 16 years of my life I’ve been here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>I mean, how does he feel about living there? What does he tell you about that?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He tells me that his friends that he’s made at Moon Ridge, they’re like his neighbors. So they’ve grown up together, that they play soccer on their off time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>Where I live, there’s a big, like, yard outside our house. It’s all grass like that. We would build goals. We just play soccer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He feels very much like happy to be amongst everyone there. Something I picked up in Moon Ridge was that people who pass by, they’re going to do the laundry or something. They strike up a conversation like, Hey, neighbor, it’s been a minute since I seen you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Or How’s your kid? Some other kids might tell the adults. Hi, Theo. You know, they’re like, We’re not related, but they feel like they’re related because they’ve just grown up together for such a long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Yeah, it’s just very much a tight knit community. It sounds like everyone knows everyone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Yeah. Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>One thing I really love about living in Moonridge is the peace that we have here. Everyone’s nice to each other. Everybody knows each other, and it’s comfortable here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Was he aware of how people talk about his community, this place where he grew up?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Giovanni knows he’s seen some of the comments being spread online.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>There’s a lot of stuff about one image that they’ve put on there, like about the shootings and all of this stuff and.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Johnny brought up that, you know, there has been some crime in the past, but he also said it’s just, you know, we should focus on the good.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Giovanni: \u003c/strong>It’s like if they’re just seeing that our neighborhood is like trash, basically. Right. And it’s really not it’s I think it’s a good neighborhood to live in. It’s peaceful and everything that’s that’s a fence for them to see that. And they’ve never stepped in Wynonna’s ever in their life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So and you know, when I was there on the tour, we came across a patrol car just driving by, probably under five miles per hour. And it was just waving at us and just went on by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>By the central hub, there’s like a little office for San Mateo County sheriffs who operate in having to talk about it that bring some sort of sadness to his eyes, something that I could I could see not just him with other men, which presents when I asked them, how do these comments make you feel? And they respond like it’s hurtful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Over the last few months, a vocal critic of Moon Ridge has been the San Mateo County Farm Bureau, which represents farmers and ranchers in the area. They claim Moon Ridge is mismanaged and that there wouldn’t be a farmworker housing crisis if mid pan housing. The property developer did a better job of tracking whether farm workers actually live in Moon Ridge.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Middlemen told Sebastian that they do check on this. But either way, it’s clear that the perception of Moon Ridge has big implications for how people talk about building new farmworker housing in Half Moon Bay. How did I guess all the conversation about Moon Ridge stack up with your experience of actually being there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I left feeling a little heartbroken that it’s like this is a community that they’re not going to respond back online. I’m sure that they don’t want to fight people or they don’t want to argue at a public setting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>This housing talk is not going to go away anytime soon. In San Mateo County in California, cities in California are going to have to deal with needing to build more housing. Now, knowing what I know, what I’ve seen, it’s like this is a great place to live in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>This is a housing project that works. You know, this is something that maybe we see more of this around, that it would solve some of the housing problems that are happening on the coast side.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Well, Sebastian, thanks so much for sharing your reporting. I appreciate it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Thank you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>That was Sebastian Miño-Bucheli, a local news fellow with cosigned news in Half Moon Bay and a reporter for KQED. We’ll leave you a link to his reporting in our notes. This 35 minute conversation with Sebastian was cut down and edited by senior editor Alan Montecillo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>I produced this episode, scored it, and added all the tape music courtesy of Audio Network. The Bay is made by me and Alan Montecillo with support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan. We are a production of listeners supported KQED in San Francisco. I’m Ericka Cruz Guevarra. Thanks so much for listening. Talk to you next time.\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"slug": "the-provocative-and-flamboyant-origins-of-lowriding",
"title": "The Provocative, Rebellious and Flamboyant Origins of Lowriding",
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"headTitle": "The Provocative, Rebellious and Flamboyant Origins of Lowriding | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To some, a lowrider might just be a car with hydraulics, but amongst the most passionate followers, lowriding is a culture with its own aesthetic, attitude and history. Lowriding aficionados can now be found globally — in the streets of France, Japan, Dubai and more — each with their own style. But the origins of this artistic automotive subculture are still hotly debated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Bay Curious listener heard that lowriding got its start in both Los Angeles and San José. They asked us to explore the lowriding origin story or stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Professor John Ulloa, the Dean of Arts and Social Science at West Valley College, has spent time researching the history of lowriding for his podcast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He says to start at ground zero we have to focus on one group of lowriders, the subculture of \u003ca href=\"https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20230913-pachucos-the-latinx-subculture-that-defied-the-us\">pachucos\u003c/a> in East Los Angeles in the 1940s. Pachuco is Spanish for punk, and the group was made up of primarily Mexican American youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>‘All my friends know the lowrider’\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“Pachuco culture is provocative in nature, it really comes out of jazz culture, big band and swing,” Ulloa said. “These kids, by a white dominant paradigm, \u003ca href=\"https://www.pbssocal.org/shows/artbound/pachucos-not-just-mexican-american-males-or-juvenile-delinquents\">were othered and seen as foreign\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pachucos were children during the Great Depression, and they’d seen friends and family members deported en masse to Mexico — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12002189/over-1-million-were-deported-to-mexico-nearly-100-years-ago-most-of-them-were-u-s-citizens\">even if they were legal citizens\u003c/a>. So these kids were about fighting assimilation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001113\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001113\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1235\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-800x494.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1020x630.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1536x948.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1920x1186.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The engine of ‘El Diablo,’ a 1963 GMC truck at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pachuco culture developed in the shadow of World War II, at a time when many Americans were rationing gas, food, and not buying new clothes to save resources for the war effort. Rationing was seen as patriotic, but the pachuco style was extravagant. They wore zoot suits: a clothing style from jazz culture that was popular with Black, Latino and Filipino youth. It featured ballooned pants, exaggerated shoulder pads, and nice hats topped off with a single large feather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The whole presentation was really flamboyant and seen as not only criminalized but completely un-American,” Ulloa said. “It was the antithesis of the white Anglo picket fence.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001111\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001111\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pachucos also went against the grain when it came to American car culture. In the late ’40s and early ’50s, white Americans were hacking their hot rod cars to go fast. But the pachucos were doing the exact opposite. They bought less expensive, older cars and customized them to go low and slow. Before the advent of hydraulics, that meant making the car heavier to force it lower to the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You ‘slam it,’” said Ulloa, “Literally with sandbags, with rocks, with cinder blocks, with bricks, whatever you could find that was heavy to put in the trunk.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the argument for Los Angeles being the birthplace of lowriding is compelling. But, Ulloa said, the San José scene is extremely significant in terms of lowrider history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001107\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001107\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tracy Gallardo sits in her dream car, a 1958 Chevy Impala, at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose?’ \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“The San José argument largely has to do with [it being] the birthplace of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101875250/san-jose-founded-lowrider-magazine-icon-of-chicano-car-culture-goes-out-of-print\">\u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine\u003c/a>,” Ulloa said. “It was a lifestyle magazine, it wasn’t just cars and vehicles — it was people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1977 while studying at San Jose State, Sonny Madrid launched \u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>magazine, a monthly publication that celebrated Chicano culture. A small staff, including some of Madrid’s friends, wrote articles about fashion, music, politics — it was a hit at the newsstands at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001102\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001102\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The steering wheel of a Buick Regal with ‘SF’ on it at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Ulloa stamps the first five years of \u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>being published as the “Golden Era,” because people were already lowriding but its circulation was able to reach audiences beyond San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“\u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>magazine was able to give everyone access to see what people were doing all over the Southwest,” said Ulloa. “The youth had \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, whether they were lowriding or not — they were able to see themselves at a car show as participants.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001105\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001105\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Monte Carlo parked on three wheels outside of the Palace of Fine Arts during the annual King of the Streets car show on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> solidified lowriding as a culture in California, and then the circulation of the magazine went international. The Letters to the Editor section of the magazine was filled with submissions from readers in Great Britain, France, all over the world, giving praise for the magazine’s content.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When there’s a global phenomenon, there’s always a local take on it. Each city adds their own flare to lowriding. People in the know can often spot a Bay Area lowrider versus one from L.A., or San Antonio, or Japan. Maybe it’s a custom paint job, or a tire size popular in a certain area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001110\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001110\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A 1963 Chevy Impala enters the Palace of Fine Arts during the annual King of the Streets car show on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Everywhere lowriding goes, the community leaves a mark. Ulloa won’t settle the debate about the origins starting in Los Angeles or San José. He said it originates in the Mexican American experience in the southwestern part of the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To Ulloa, where lowriding started doesn’t matter. But why people care does. Everyone wants to own a piece of history, he said, especially when there are communities who have had their histories systemically erased.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To learn more about lowriding, check out these episodes of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923205/best-of-roll-with-us-a-sisterhood-of-lowriding\">Rightnowish \u003c/a>and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/trulyca/99/everything-comes-from-the-streets\">Truly CA\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>And if you want to know how lowriding — once banned in California — finally became legal, check out this episode of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966254/california-lifts-decades-old-ban-on-lowrider-cruising\">The Bay\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001112\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001112\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A car with a sign reading ‘I’m not old, I’m classic’ is displayed on a 1964 GMC truck at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>When Naomi Barrios and her sister Rosie were teenagers in the 1980s, they would look forward to cruising around Salinas every Friday and Saturday night. They’d roll low and slow, down Alisal Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>(music begins)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios: \u003c/strong>That was the best. Meeting people, seeing cars, having fun, enjoying the music, flirting with guys. It was fun!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Naomi and Ros would cruise in a burgundy Pontiac Firebird … sporty looking car … with a regal yellow firebird painted on the hood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios:\u003c/strong> After we would cruise a little bit, a couple times, you know, three times. Then we would park, at a Winchell’s Donut place. That was our spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> In the parking lot people, mostly from Salina’s Chicano community, would line up their immaculate cars and show off their newest modifications. I’m talking leather seats, shiny rims and precise paint jobs. These cars weren’t simply modes of transportation. They were creative vessels, canvases for artistic expression, one’s pride and joy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios: \u003c/strong>It was a big crowd hanging out there outside. Inside everybody ordering, chatting. Everybody had their music on. Again, just looking at their cars, meeting new people, making new friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The whole thing … it was a scene. One that was popping up in communities all across California. That’s because California is the birthplace of lowriding culture … but where exactly that birthplace is has been a point of contention. Some folks say Lowriding started down in L.A., others say things got going in San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> A Bay Curious listener asked us to unpack the dispute. You selected the question in a public voting round. So, today on the show, we’ll explore the lowriding origin story … or stories. Then, we’ll learn how lowriding became criminalized, and catch up on where things are at today. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. We roll … right after this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor Message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, did lowriding start in San José or L.A.? Or somewhere else all together? To start today’s episode, Bay Curious intern, Ana De Almeida Amaral, headed out to a car show to get the lay of the land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral (in tape):\u003c/strong> So I’m in a parking lot and there are dozens of cars just parked along both sides, and they’re painted all sorts of beautiful colors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Right behind the palace of fine arts in San Francisco, over a hundred people are gathered for the King of the Streets car show. In the middle of the parking lot, a sparkly, lime green Chevy is parked — with the hood popped revealing a shiny chrome engine. Nearby is a light blue two-seater, with a painting of a nude woman on the hood. The car is balanced on three wheels — one wheel 3 feet in the air — showing off its hydraulic suspension.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>People stand around cars that look like art pieces, drinking, eating, and talking all about the features. A car owner named Carlos brags about his ride.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos:\u003c/strong> That’s my car right there, El Mas Gangster de Todos. It’s a 1948 Buick Super 50. It’s all original … original chromes, original paint.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> As I walked down rows and rows of lifted, candy painted, and tricked out cars, I bumped into Anthony, who was wiping his white car’s exterior with a towel even though, to me, it already looked pristine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> This is a 1969 Chevy Caprice, it has a 350 small block, uh brand new block. It has hydraulics, it’s lifted front and back — were from the BLVD Kings Car Club.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> And how long have you been working on cars?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> Oof, since I was a kid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> He points to an older man working on the car with him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> He basically taught me everything I know, the first car I remember him having was a ’72 Impala, so that basically got me into it. And then I remember growing up in the mission, seeing all the mini-trucks going up and down the mission. So, it’s been all my life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Other people I spoke to shared the same passion for this art form and a deep pride in the lowriding culture. But when I asked about the origins of lowriding, I got a lot of answers …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral (in tape):\u003c/strong> Where do you think that it got started?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony: \u003c/strong>Oh, L.A. all day. Everybody knows, lowriding got started in L.A.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 1 at the car show:\u003c/strong> In my hometown, Turlock, California. Cause I was a kid from there! [laughs]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 2 at the car show:\u003c/strong> Hmmm, it’s been said San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 3 at the car show:\u003c/strong> From what I understand, it started somewhere in Baja California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robert:\u003c/strong> I think it started with every little kid who had a Hot Wheels and stole their mom’s nail polish and started candy painting their hot wheels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Out on the streets, Ana didn’t find a straight answer, so we passed it off to reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli to dive deeper into the world of lowriding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> It’s clear that within the lowriding community, this matter isn’t settled. So I talked to someone who has been studying lowriding for a long time … Professor John Ulloa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> It’s debatable. I mean, it’s hotly debated. Hotly debated. Everybody wants to claim ground zero for low riding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Ulloa is the dean of arts and social science at West Valley College. He says one tough thing about this question is that lowriding has evolved a lot over time …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> A lot of people say, well, it’s a it’s a car with hydraulics on it. But if you’re looking at culture and you’re looking at stance of car, you’re looking at attitude, you’re looking at aesthetics. Um, you know, the clothing and in tandem with the cars and, you know. Just the presence of, you know, how one presents themselves culturally… I think that we really have to be looking at the pachucos of the 1940s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Jazzy mellow music from the 1940s era)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Here comes the argument for Los Angeles being the birthplace of lowriding …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The pachucos were a subculture of predominantly Mexican American young people that thrived in East Los Angeles around World War II. Pachuco means “Punk” in Spanish\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were kids during the Great Depression, and had seen their friends and family members of Mexican descent deported en masse, even those who were American citizens. It was part of the U.S. government’s “repatriation” program … which ultimately saw the mass deportation of about a million people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>These kids, by a white dominant paradigm, were othered and seen as foreign.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The U.S., and white society had not treated their families well, so the pachucos were all about resisting assimilation, and instead creating something of their own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Pachuco culture is provocative in nature.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(music ends)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> During World War II, many Americans were showing their patriotism by rationing … using less gas, eating less food, not buying new clothes. The idea was to save resources for the war effort. But the pachucos … they were rocking the Zoot suit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>You have an exaggerated aesthetic with ballooned out pants, exaggerated shoulders in the coats. Um, you know, topped off with a nice hat with a big single feather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> This clothing style came from jazz culture and it was popular amongst Black, Latino and Filipino youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>So the whole presentation was really flamboyant and seen as not only criminalized but completely un-American.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Around this time, in the ’40s, White Americans were hacking their hotrod cars to go fast. So pachucos did the exact opposite. They went low and slow … sending a clear message about their nonconformity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Necessity is the mother of all invention, right so. It was cheap to get a ’30s car and work on it, you know make it your own. You lower it in the back or you lower it all the way around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> And this was decades before hydraulics came on the scene, so getting low meant filling the trunk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>You slam it quote unquote as we say. Literally. With sandbags, with rocks, with cinder blocks, with bricks, whatever you could find that was heavy to put in the trunk. What that would do is that would take the car from sitting level, to being lowered in the back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The pachucos also pushed against the grain with candy-colored paint jobs and Chicano art. These cars were a loud and proud statement about their culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Low and slow was the antithesis of hot rod fast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> So if we’re looking at who are the OG lowriders, the first to start driving low and slow, Los Angeles and the pachucos have a compelling argument. But then where does this San Jose argument come from? What stake does that city have in lowriding culture?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The San José argument largely has to do with it’s the birthplace of \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Mellow 1970s era music)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>In 1977, a guy named Sonny Madrid was a student at San Jose State. With a few friends, he launched \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, a monthly that celebrated Chicano culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> It was a lifestyle magazine. It wasn’t just cars and vehicles. It was people. Right …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The magazine had articles about fashion, music, politics. And it was hitting newsstands at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The Golden Era, as I’ve timestamped it, was from 1977 to 1982 and those were the first five years of \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine. People were already lowriding prior to \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, but now what \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine did is it was able to give everyone access to see what people were doing all over the Southwest, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>It helped solidify lowriding as a culture. And then it exported that culture making it into a global phenomenon. The Letters to the Editor section of the magazine put that on full display.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> There were letters in there from Great Britain, Scandinavia, France, Germany, all over the world. People are saying, “Hey, I just got your magazine in my hand, and this is so cool. We don’t have this here, but as soon as we can, we will.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>And when there’s a global phenomenon going around, there’s always a local take on the phenomenon. Each city adds their own flare to lowriding. People in the know can often spot a Bay Area lowrider versus one from L.A. or one from San Antonio, or Japan. Maybe it’s a custom paint job. Or a tire size popular in a certain area. Everywhere lowriding goes, the community leaves a mark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Blues begins)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>At the end of the day, Ulloa won’t settle the debate about if lowriding started in Los Angeles … or if what came out of San José and \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine was so unique it was something new altogether …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> Safely we can say that lowriding originates in the Mexican American experience in the southwestern part of the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>To Ulloa, where lowriding started doesn’t matter. But why people care does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The real question is why are people planting that flag? That’s the deeper question and everybody wants to own history. Especially communities that have historically had their histories systematically erased, swept under the rug, ignored, altered, unheard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Music in the clear for a few seconds and then fades)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sebastian, Lowriding has such a fascinating history in this state. And while we can celebrate that it was born here, it hasn’t always been accepted here. Can you explain how lowriding first became criminalized?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>If we go back to the pachucos in the 1940s, they were surrounded by military personnel in Los Angeles waiting to leave to fight in World War II. And the presence of pachucos did not sit well with them. They thought zoot suits were unpatriotic … a sign of gang affiliation. And that’s a narrative that the local press really fed into.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>There were a series of violent clashes where off-duty servicemen, police and white civilians attacked the pachucos, known as the Zoot Suit Riots. Anyone caught by the mob were stripped of their zoot suits and beaten. That’s where we start to see pachuco culture become targeted by police. Racial profiling is happening. And it extends to people driving lowriders. This criminalization of lowriding would play out for decades to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>In 1982, the state of California passed a law that allowed cities to implement cruising bans … over concerns about traffic, noise and crime. It also set limits on how much a car could be lowered. And then Soon after that cities like Sacramento, Fresno, L.A. and San José all had cruising bans on the books. What happened to the community in those places?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The culture didn’t go anywhere, but people did get creative. People kept lowriding, eventually car shows started happening. These were sanctioned events where the lowriding community could still gather. But ultimately, activists started working to change things. And it worked! Just last year, California passed AB 436, a law that overturns the cruising bans, and lifts that prohibition on how low cars can go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’re still seeing how it all plays out on the local level, but this last May, East San José had their first lowrider event since the ban was lifted for Cinco de Mayo. And people I spoke with there were optimistic about the future. And they were really happy to be there that day to share in the community and culture. They said finally we’re able to do this again!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli. Thanks for your reporting on this one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>You’re welcome.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Music with trumpets begins)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>KQED’s podcast The Bay has an excellent episode from when the cruising ban was lifted last year, that gets a lot more into how it was criminalized. It’s called “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966254/california-lifts-decades-old-ban-on-lowrider-cruising\">California Lifts Decades-Old Ban on Lowrider Cruising.\u003c/a>” We’ll link to it in our show notes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Also in our show notes is a link to the web story for this Bay Curious podcast episode — check it out for some awesome photos of that lowrider car show our intern Ana went to, along with several videos KQED has produced about lowriders over the years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. If you like what we’re doing here at Bay Curious, please consider becoming a KQED member today. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This episode was produced by Ana De Almeida Amaral, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, and me Olivia Allen-Price. Special thanks to Katrina Schwartz, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price … hoping you have a wonderful week. Bye!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To some, a lowrider might just be a car with hydraulics, but amongst the most passionate followers, lowriding is a culture with its own aesthetic, attitude and history. Lowriding aficionados can now be found globally — in the streets of France, Japan, Dubai and more — each with their own style. But the origins of this artistic automotive subculture are still hotly debated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Bay Curious listener heard that lowriding got its start in both Los Angeles and San José. They asked us to explore the lowriding origin story or stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Professor John Ulloa, the Dean of Arts and Social Science at West Valley College, has spent time researching the history of lowriding for his podcast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He says to start at ground zero we have to focus on one group of lowriders, the subculture of \u003ca href=\"https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20230913-pachucos-the-latinx-subculture-that-defied-the-us\">pachucos\u003c/a> in East Los Angeles in the 1940s. Pachuco is Spanish for punk, and the group was made up of primarily Mexican American youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>‘All my friends know the lowrider’\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“Pachuco culture is provocative in nature, it really comes out of jazz culture, big band and swing,” Ulloa said. “These kids, by a white dominant paradigm, \u003ca href=\"https://www.pbssocal.org/shows/artbound/pachucos-not-just-mexican-american-males-or-juvenile-delinquents\">were othered and seen as foreign\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pachucos were children during the Great Depression, and they’d seen friends and family members deported en masse to Mexico — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12002189/over-1-million-were-deported-to-mexico-nearly-100-years-ago-most-of-them-were-u-s-citizens\">even if they were legal citizens\u003c/a>. So these kids were about fighting assimilation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001113\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001113\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1235\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-800x494.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1020x630.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1536x948.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1920x1186.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The engine of ‘El Diablo,’ a 1963 GMC truck at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pachuco culture developed in the shadow of World War II, at a time when many Americans were rationing gas, food, and not buying new clothes to save resources for the war effort. Rationing was seen as patriotic, but the pachuco style was extravagant. They wore zoot suits: a clothing style from jazz culture that was popular with Black, Latino and Filipino youth. It featured ballooned pants, exaggerated shoulder pads, and nice hats topped off with a single large feather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The whole presentation was really flamboyant and seen as not only criminalized but completely un-American,” Ulloa said. “It was the antithesis of the white Anglo picket fence.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001111\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001111\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pachucos also went against the grain when it came to American car culture. In the late ’40s and early ’50s, white Americans were hacking their hot rod cars to go fast. But the pachucos were doing the exact opposite. They bought less expensive, older cars and customized them to go low and slow. Before the advent of hydraulics, that meant making the car heavier to force it lower to the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You ‘slam it,’” said Ulloa, “Literally with sandbags, with rocks, with cinder blocks, with bricks, whatever you could find that was heavy to put in the trunk.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the argument for Los Angeles being the birthplace of lowriding is compelling. But, Ulloa said, the San José scene is extremely significant in terms of lowrider history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001107\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001107\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tracy Gallardo sits in her dream car, a 1958 Chevy Impala, at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose?’ \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“The San José argument largely has to do with [it being] the birthplace of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101875250/san-jose-founded-lowrider-magazine-icon-of-chicano-car-culture-goes-out-of-print\">\u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine\u003c/a>,” Ulloa said. “It was a lifestyle magazine, it wasn’t just cars and vehicles — it was people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1977 while studying at San Jose State, Sonny Madrid launched \u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>magazine, a monthly publication that celebrated Chicano culture. A small staff, including some of Madrid’s friends, wrote articles about fashion, music, politics — it was a hit at the newsstands at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001102\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001102\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The steering wheel of a Buick Regal with ‘SF’ on it at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Ulloa stamps the first five years of \u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>being published as the “Golden Era,” because people were already lowriding but its circulation was able to reach audiences beyond San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“\u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>magazine was able to give everyone access to see what people were doing all over the Southwest,” said Ulloa. “The youth had \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, whether they were lowriding or not — they were able to see themselves at a car show as participants.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001105\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001105\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Monte Carlo parked on three wheels outside of the Palace of Fine Arts during the annual King of the Streets car show on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> solidified lowriding as a culture in California, and then the circulation of the magazine went international. The Letters to the Editor section of the magazine was filled with submissions from readers in Great Britain, France, all over the world, giving praise for the magazine’s content.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When there’s a global phenomenon, there’s always a local take on it. Each city adds their own flare to lowriding. People in the know can often spot a Bay Area lowrider versus one from L.A., or San Antonio, or Japan. Maybe it’s a custom paint job, or a tire size popular in a certain area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001110\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001110\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A 1963 Chevy Impala enters the Palace of Fine Arts during the annual King of the Streets car show on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Everywhere lowriding goes, the community leaves a mark. Ulloa won’t settle the debate about the origins starting in Los Angeles or San José. He said it originates in the Mexican American experience in the southwestern part of the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To Ulloa, where lowriding started doesn’t matter. But why people care does. Everyone wants to own a piece of history, he said, especially when there are communities who have had their histories systemically erased.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To learn more about lowriding, check out these episodes of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923205/best-of-roll-with-us-a-sisterhood-of-lowriding\">Rightnowish \u003c/a>and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/trulyca/99/everything-comes-from-the-streets\">Truly CA\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>And if you want to know how lowriding — once banned in California — finally became legal, check out this episode of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966254/california-lifts-decades-old-ban-on-lowrider-cruising\">The Bay\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001112\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001112\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A car with a sign reading ‘I’m not old, I’m classic’ is displayed on a 1964 GMC truck at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>When Naomi Barrios and her sister Rosie were teenagers in the 1980s, they would look forward to cruising around Salinas every Friday and Saturday night. They’d roll low and slow, down Alisal Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>(music begins)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios: \u003c/strong>That was the best. Meeting people, seeing cars, having fun, enjoying the music, flirting with guys. It was fun!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Naomi and Ros would cruise in a burgundy Pontiac Firebird … sporty looking car … with a regal yellow firebird painted on the hood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios:\u003c/strong> After we would cruise a little bit, a couple times, you know, three times. Then we would park, at a Winchell’s Donut place. That was our spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> In the parking lot people, mostly from Salina’s Chicano community, would line up their immaculate cars and show off their newest modifications. I’m talking leather seats, shiny rims and precise paint jobs. These cars weren’t simply modes of transportation. They were creative vessels, canvases for artistic expression, one’s pride and joy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios: \u003c/strong>It was a big crowd hanging out there outside. Inside everybody ordering, chatting. Everybody had their music on. Again, just looking at their cars, meeting new people, making new friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The whole thing … it was a scene. One that was popping up in communities all across California. That’s because California is the birthplace of lowriding culture … but where exactly that birthplace is has been a point of contention. Some folks say Lowriding started down in L.A., others say things got going in San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> A Bay Curious listener asked us to unpack the dispute. You selected the question in a public voting round. So, today on the show, we’ll explore the lowriding origin story … or stories. Then, we’ll learn how lowriding became criminalized, and catch up on where things are at today. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. We roll … right after this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor Message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, did lowriding start in San José or L.A.? Or somewhere else all together? To start today’s episode, Bay Curious intern, Ana De Almeida Amaral, headed out to a car show to get the lay of the land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral (in tape):\u003c/strong> So I’m in a parking lot and there are dozens of cars just parked along both sides, and they’re painted all sorts of beautiful colors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Right behind the palace of fine arts in San Francisco, over a hundred people are gathered for the King of the Streets car show. In the middle of the parking lot, a sparkly, lime green Chevy is parked — with the hood popped revealing a shiny chrome engine. Nearby is a light blue two-seater, with a painting of a nude woman on the hood. The car is balanced on three wheels — one wheel 3 feet in the air — showing off its hydraulic suspension.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>People stand around cars that look like art pieces, drinking, eating, and talking all about the features. A car owner named Carlos brags about his ride.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos:\u003c/strong> That’s my car right there, El Mas Gangster de Todos. It’s a 1948 Buick Super 50. It’s all original … original chromes, original paint.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> As I walked down rows and rows of lifted, candy painted, and tricked out cars, I bumped into Anthony, who was wiping his white car’s exterior with a towel even though, to me, it already looked pristine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> This is a 1969 Chevy Caprice, it has a 350 small block, uh brand new block. It has hydraulics, it’s lifted front and back — were from the BLVD Kings Car Club.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> And how long have you been working on cars?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> Oof, since I was a kid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> He points to an older man working on the car with him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> He basically taught me everything I know, the first car I remember him having was a ’72 Impala, so that basically got me into it. And then I remember growing up in the mission, seeing all the mini-trucks going up and down the mission. So, it’s been all my life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Other people I spoke to shared the same passion for this art form and a deep pride in the lowriding culture. But when I asked about the origins of lowriding, I got a lot of answers …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral (in tape):\u003c/strong> Where do you think that it got started?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony: \u003c/strong>Oh, L.A. all day. Everybody knows, lowriding got started in L.A.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 1 at the car show:\u003c/strong> In my hometown, Turlock, California. Cause I was a kid from there! [laughs]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 2 at the car show:\u003c/strong> Hmmm, it’s been said San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 3 at the car show:\u003c/strong> From what I understand, it started somewhere in Baja California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robert:\u003c/strong> I think it started with every little kid who had a Hot Wheels and stole their mom’s nail polish and started candy painting their hot wheels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Out on the streets, Ana didn’t find a straight answer, so we passed it off to reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli to dive deeper into the world of lowriding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> It’s clear that within the lowriding community, this matter isn’t settled. So I talked to someone who has been studying lowriding for a long time … Professor John Ulloa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> It’s debatable. I mean, it’s hotly debated. Hotly debated. Everybody wants to claim ground zero for low riding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Ulloa is the dean of arts and social science at West Valley College. He says one tough thing about this question is that lowriding has evolved a lot over time …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> A lot of people say, well, it’s a it’s a car with hydraulics on it. But if you’re looking at culture and you’re looking at stance of car, you’re looking at attitude, you’re looking at aesthetics. Um, you know, the clothing and in tandem with the cars and, you know. Just the presence of, you know, how one presents themselves culturally… I think that we really have to be looking at the pachucos of the 1940s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Jazzy mellow music from the 1940s era)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Here comes the argument for Los Angeles being the birthplace of lowriding …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The pachucos were a subculture of predominantly Mexican American young people that thrived in East Los Angeles around World War II. Pachuco means “Punk” in Spanish\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were kids during the Great Depression, and had seen their friends and family members of Mexican descent deported en masse, even those who were American citizens. It was part of the U.S. government’s “repatriation” program … which ultimately saw the mass deportation of about a million people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>These kids, by a white dominant paradigm, were othered and seen as foreign.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The U.S., and white society had not treated their families well, so the pachucos were all about resisting assimilation, and instead creating something of their own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Pachuco culture is provocative in nature.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(music ends)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> During World War II, many Americans were showing their patriotism by rationing … using less gas, eating less food, not buying new clothes. The idea was to save resources for the war effort. But the pachucos … they were rocking the Zoot suit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>You have an exaggerated aesthetic with ballooned out pants, exaggerated shoulders in the coats. Um, you know, topped off with a nice hat with a big single feather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> This clothing style came from jazz culture and it was popular amongst Black, Latino and Filipino youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>So the whole presentation was really flamboyant and seen as not only criminalized but completely un-American.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Around this time, in the ’40s, White Americans were hacking their hotrod cars to go fast. So pachucos did the exact opposite. They went low and slow … sending a clear message about their nonconformity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Necessity is the mother of all invention, right so. It was cheap to get a ’30s car and work on it, you know make it your own. You lower it in the back or you lower it all the way around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> And this was decades before hydraulics came on the scene, so getting low meant filling the trunk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>You slam it quote unquote as we say. Literally. With sandbags, with rocks, with cinder blocks, with bricks, whatever you could find that was heavy to put in the trunk. What that would do is that would take the car from sitting level, to being lowered in the back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The pachucos also pushed against the grain with candy-colored paint jobs and Chicano art. These cars were a loud and proud statement about their culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Low and slow was the antithesis of hot rod fast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> So if we’re looking at who are the OG lowriders, the first to start driving low and slow, Los Angeles and the pachucos have a compelling argument. But then where does this San Jose argument come from? What stake does that city have in lowriding culture?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The San José argument largely has to do with it’s the birthplace of \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Mellow 1970s era music)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>In 1977, a guy named Sonny Madrid was a student at San Jose State. With a few friends, he launched \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, a monthly that celebrated Chicano culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> It was a lifestyle magazine. It wasn’t just cars and vehicles. It was people. Right …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The magazine had articles about fashion, music, politics. And it was hitting newsstands at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The Golden Era, as I’ve timestamped it, was from 1977 to 1982 and those were the first five years of \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine. People were already lowriding prior to \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, but now what \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine did is it was able to give everyone access to see what people were doing all over the Southwest, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>It helped solidify lowriding as a culture. And then it exported that culture making it into a global phenomenon. The Letters to the Editor section of the magazine put that on full display.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> There were letters in there from Great Britain, Scandinavia, France, Germany, all over the world. People are saying, “Hey, I just got your magazine in my hand, and this is so cool. We don’t have this here, but as soon as we can, we will.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>And when there’s a global phenomenon going around, there’s always a local take on the phenomenon. Each city adds their own flare to lowriding. People in the know can often spot a Bay Area lowrider versus one from L.A. or one from San Antonio, or Japan. Maybe it’s a custom paint job. Or a tire size popular in a certain area. Everywhere lowriding goes, the community leaves a mark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Blues begins)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>At the end of the day, Ulloa won’t settle the debate about if lowriding started in Los Angeles … or if what came out of San José and \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine was so unique it was something new altogether …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> Safely we can say that lowriding originates in the Mexican American experience in the southwestern part of the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>To Ulloa, where lowriding started doesn’t matter. But why people care does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The real question is why are people planting that flag? That’s the deeper question and everybody wants to own history. Especially communities that have historically had their histories systematically erased, swept under the rug, ignored, altered, unheard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Music in the clear for a few seconds and then fades)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sebastian, Lowriding has such a fascinating history in this state. And while we can celebrate that it was born here, it hasn’t always been accepted here. Can you explain how lowriding first became criminalized?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>If we go back to the pachucos in the 1940s, they were surrounded by military personnel in Los Angeles waiting to leave to fight in World War II. And the presence of pachucos did not sit well with them. They thought zoot suits were unpatriotic … a sign of gang affiliation. And that’s a narrative that the local press really fed into.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>There were a series of violent clashes where off-duty servicemen, police and white civilians attacked the pachucos, known as the Zoot Suit Riots. Anyone caught by the mob were stripped of their zoot suits and beaten. That’s where we start to see pachuco culture become targeted by police. Racial profiling is happening. And it extends to people driving lowriders. This criminalization of lowriding would play out for decades to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>In 1982, the state of California passed a law that allowed cities to implement cruising bans … over concerns about traffic, noise and crime. It also set limits on how much a car could be lowered. And then Soon after that cities like Sacramento, Fresno, L.A. and San José all had cruising bans on the books. What happened to the community in those places?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The culture didn’t go anywhere, but people did get creative. People kept lowriding, eventually car shows started happening. These were sanctioned events where the lowriding community could still gather. But ultimately, activists started working to change things. And it worked! Just last year, California passed AB 436, a law that overturns the cruising bans, and lifts that prohibition on how low cars can go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’re still seeing how it all plays out on the local level, but this last May, East San José had their first lowrider event since the ban was lifted for Cinco de Mayo. And people I spoke with there were optimistic about the future. And they were really happy to be there that day to share in the community and culture. They said finally we’re able to do this again!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli. Thanks for your reporting on this one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>You’re welcome.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Music with trumpets begins)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>KQED’s podcast The Bay has an excellent episode from when the cruising ban was lifted last year, that gets a lot more into how it was criminalized. It’s called “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966254/california-lifts-decades-old-ban-on-lowrider-cruising\">California Lifts Decades-Old Ban on Lowrider Cruising.\u003c/a>” We’ll link to it in our show notes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Also in our show notes is a link to the web story for this Bay Curious podcast episode — check it out for some awesome photos of that lowrider car show our intern Ana went to, along with several videos KQED has produced about lowriders over the years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. If you like what we’re doing here at Bay Curious, please consider becoming a KQED member today. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This episode was produced by Ana De Almeida Amaral, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, and me Olivia Allen-Price. Special thanks to Katrina Schwartz, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price … hoping you have a wonderful week. Bye!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">An often-overlooked moment in Bay Area activism took place in the 1980s and 90s, when a broad coalition of activists targeted San Francisco’s coffee industry to protest the civil war in El Salvador. KQED’s \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/author/sminobucheli\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sebastian Miño-Bucheli\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> joins us to talk about how it happened.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"card card--enclosed grey\">\n\u003cp id=\"embed-code\" class=\"inconsolata\">\n\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC3318445824&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\n\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Links: \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13928571/salvadoran-coffee-boycott-folgers-fred-ross-san-francisco\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Time a Bay Area Coffee Boycott Helped Stop a Civil War\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.fredrossproject.org/fred-ross-jr-timeline\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A timeline of Fred Ross Jr., executive director of Neighbor to Neighbor \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\n\u003c/p>\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>I’m Ericka Cruz Guevarra, and Welcome to the Bay. Local News to Keep You Rooted. One day in February of 1990, about 100 protesters gathered at Pier 96 in San Francisco’s Bayview neighborhood. They came to stop precious cargo from moving for the San Francisco ports, coffee beans from El Salvador. For the activists, those coffee beans were the moneymaking engine behind a brutal civil war going on in El Salvador. And if San Francisco’s big coffee companies were buying up those beans, they thought they were effectively funding a civil war, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>They argue that El Salvador $400 million worth of annual coffee exports mainly benefited a handful of families in El Salvador, which was in turn financing the military atrocities against the local civilians there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Despite the Bay Area’s iconic history of activism, the history of Salvadorians and port workers throughout the eighties and nineties is a lesser known story. So today we’re going to talk with reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli about how these efforts by Bay Area activists would eventually help end a war. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So I spoke with Felix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>Felix Kury.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He’s a retired lecturer who taught mental health classes at State for 30 years in Latino Latino Studies Department. He was born in San Francisco but went back to El Salvador. And it was in that time that there was this repression going on because of a military dictatorship that had been ongoing since the 1930s in 1932.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>Right. There were about 30,000 people that were killed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He tells me that, you know, the repression is so bad that if you were from a different class, you couldn’t walk on a certain street without getting harassed by the military or the police.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>We understood and we knew that the military controlled the state. And behind them they were pure in their right to the oligarchs. They controlled absolutely everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He went through all of this basically, and came to a time where he went back to the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>So he was here in the United States as a student. He was going to school in San Francisco. But he was also very much aware of what was happening in El Salvador. How did he describe what it was like to be a student during that time? And what were some of the things that were like on his mind?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So he and other Salvadorans were following the news back home. They were constantly checking to see if something had happened, if their family members were okay. This is a time period where, you know, if you spoke out against the government, you disappeared.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>What it was really important for many of us of my generation, is the massacre of 1975 in El Salvador of university student. And that’s how we began to organize. And we met, you know, with oil companeros and and also Salvadorians, and decided that we needed to do that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Even got to the point where they even occupied the Salvadoran consulate here in San Francisco just to raise awareness about what was going on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>To stop the war, to stop doing the repression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And was there a moment in particular where he was like, Whoa, this is really, really bad?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>That was really the assassination of Monsignor Oscar Romero. He was an archbishop in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>And he was the spiritual advisor of my school. And I will see him all the time when I was in Selma, Ala. And so I will go to confession to him and all of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He was telling me all of this in his living room where there was a a portrait of Archbishop Romero.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>You know, Archbishop Romero began to talk about what was happening until now, what didn’t matter, the unknown. They were they probably said later, we all share this and no matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The archbishop was assassinated tearing homily. He’s denouncing the government and the repression that someone went up and assassinated the archbishop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>The murderer of the of the bishop gave a signal for many of us that no one would be safe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I spoke to him on the day that the anniversary had happened where he was assassinated. And so it was this like heavy moment for both of us. We’re like, I’m sorry, we’re living through this trauma. Other Salvadorans can tell you this, that it was very detrimental to to them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And it also was a moment that sort of began to kick off what would become a civil war in El Salvador, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>And then all of us began to say, what do we do? You know, what do we do? We have to go beyond working with Salvadorians to develop a movement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Felix Khoury joined other like minded people to form the Eastbay Interfaith Task Force on El Salvador in November of 1980. This group teamed up with port workers to stop the U.S. government from shipping weapons and tanks from the Port of Oakland. This action spread up and down the West Coast. This blockade also set the stage for another protest action that tried to hit the Salvadoran government where it would hurt the most. Its coffee industry, which at the time was really important to San Francisco to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Here in San Francisco, you have the big three coffee companies along with Hill’s brothers and MJB, which was founded in San Francisco in the late 19th century. A lot of coffee that was coming from Latin America was being offloaded in San Francisco or, you know, in the Bay Area. From here. I would just go on to the East Coast, to Southwest, etc..\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>So it was a big deal in San Francisco. But how big of a deal was coffee for a country like El Salvador at the time? Like what was the connection that people were making between coffee and the war?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So like the way that El Salvador was able to generate income around this time was that the country itself became a monoculture of coffee, that people who are benefiting from this, they were called the 14th families. They were these rich landowners, but they also had their hand in politics and also the military. So we can also say that they’re oligarchs. By just funding coffee, you are also helping the Salvadoran government and military regime. So that’s like one thing to keep in mind. Like when people were trying to target Salvadorian coffee, it was because they wanted to hurt the pockets of the 14 families.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>One of the most important groups that led these coffee protests was called Neighbor to Neighbor, and it was led by a labor organizer from San Francisco named Fred Ross Jr. Their goal was to stop U.S. aid to Nicaragua and El Salvador, and they had members all over the country. How do these activists begin to impact the coffee industry? Like, what did that look like exactly for these activists in the Bay Area?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So it really began with like TV spots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Commercial \u003c/strong>Your tax dollars are putting America into the red, the red of El Salvador. $4 billion in ten years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Where they were just trying to raise awareness that as Americans, we should stop drinking coffee that comes from El Salvador. Those ads never really got to air because they were considered too violent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>News Anchor: \u003c/strong>With four w mtw is not alone. No network affiliate in the Portland area will run the ad for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They show just brutal images from the war. They show like a coffee cup that has blood spilling out of it. And so that was one of the ways that they were trying to do this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>So neighbor to neighbor began organizing. But things I know really picked up in 1990. Can you tell me about what happened in 1990?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Around 60% of Salvadoran coffee harvests were being shipped to United States. And it was at that time it was like the biggest buyer, the market.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>And what happened was you had a little war going on down there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Monika Trobits is a historian and author Bay Area Coffee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>And what they wanted the dockworkers to do was not unload any ship, any freighter coming in from El Salvador carrying all these coffee beans, just flat out, don’t do it. And one fine day in February of 1990, one of those freighter sales it with 34 tons of Salvadorian coffee beans. That is a lot of coffee beans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They set up picket lines to stop Salvadorian coffee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>And it is met by neighbor to neighbor protesters, about 100 of them marching back and forth along the dock and longshoreman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They did not want to cross the picket line. So they also joined in on the effort to stop the offloading of Salvadorian coffee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>The freighter was now being unloaded. So the captain decided to move on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They were able to stop this cargo ship from undocking all over the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>Sailed up to Vancouver near Canada, met the same kind of resistance, went down to Seattle, same thing happened. Headed down to Long Beach. Exact same thing happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The captain of the ship that went over into the said, We’re going to have to just go back home. We can’t dock anywhere and offload our coffee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>So in the end, this freighter had every one of those beans, ended up going back to El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>So I know this protest spread from San Francisco up and down the West Coast. How long did it ultimately last?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>This boycott lasted two years while it was going on. The San Francisco Board of Supervisors voted to boycott Salvadoran coffee beans. The California state legislature formally protested human rights violations against civilians by the Salvadoran military. They were neighbor, really did their job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And how about El Salvador? I mean, what impact did these protests end up having there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>A series of events where you had a grandson from The Gamble family, from Procter and Gamble.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>Folgers by this point was owned by Procter and Gamble.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They were trying to raise awareness that, you know, we got to stop buying coffee from El Salvador. We got to do something. We can’t continue on with this boycott. The fear of a boycott happening to a company, in essence, is enough to scare the company, to just follow through with the message that people want. Procter Gamble, Nestlé and Kraft took out ads in the Salvadoran newspaper urging the government to negotiate a peace settlement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And so when did a peace settlement ultimately happen?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So it happened between that like New Year’s Eve of 1991, 1992, when it was formally signed. Two months later, they were neighbors saw that this was a win and they just stopped the boycott.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>The story is really cool and like amazing to see just such a cross-section of people coming together in this effort that really originated here in the Bay Area and then had such a big impact in another country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I initially read this book on Bay Area History and Coffee, and one thing I really loved about it was like this, this solidarity to come together. You have, you know, people who are being displaced from the country because of war. They’re coming together to help others in their time of need. You have a collaboration between two unions. They want to help each other. And then you also hearing from the people and what they’re going through. Like, these are real people telling me what they were feeling back in the eighties and the early nineties, and I really wanted to tell their story. So it’s more reflected in the history that we know today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Yeah. And I was just thinking, too. I mean, I grew up here in the Bay Area and we are known for like these really cool and amazing just moments in our history of activism. But this is like, not quite a story that I was actually aware of. And I wonder if, like, it was like an overlooked sort of part of our history of activism here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I didn’t grow up here in the Bay, and I’ve heard about these, like you said, like grand stories of of activism. I really wish that this was a part of that, too, now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And I guess it is. Yeah, reporting on it. Well, Sebastian, thank you so much for sharing your reporting with us. It was really fun talking with you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Thanks for having me on the day. It was great. Speak with you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>That was Sebastian Miño-Bucheli, a reporter for KQED. This conversation with Sebastian was cut down and edited by our senior editor, Alan Montecillo. Producer Maria Esquinca pitched this episode, scored it and added all the tape. Extra production support from me. Shout out to the rest of the podcast squad here at KQED. That’s Jen Chien, director of Podcasts. Katie Sprenger, Podcast Operations Manager, Audience Engagement Support from César Saldaña, and Holly Kernan is our chief content officer. The Bay is a production of member supported people powered KQED. I’m Ericka Cruz Guevarra. Talk to you next week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\n\u003c/p>\n",
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"description": "An often-overlooked moment in Bay Area activism took place in the 1980s and 90s, when a broad coalition of activists targeted San Francisco’s coffee industry to protest the civil war in El Salvador.",
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"headline": "How a Coffee Boycott Helped End a Civil War",
"datePublished": "2023-08-18T03:00:32-07:00",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">An often-overlooked moment in Bay Area activism took place in the 1980s and 90s, when a broad coalition of activists targeted San Francisco’s coffee industry to protest the civil war in El Salvador. KQED’s \u003c/span>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/author/sminobucheli\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">Sebastian Miño-Bucheli\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> joins us to talk about how it happened.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cdiv class=\"card card--enclosed grey\">\n\u003cp id=\"embed-code\" class=\"inconsolata\">\n\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm/?e=KQINC3318445824&light=true\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\n\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Links: \u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cul>\n\u003cli style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13928571/salvadoran-coffee-boycott-folgers-fred-ross-san-francisco\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">The Time a Bay Area Coffee Boycott Helped Stop a Civil War\u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003cli style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003ca href=\"https://www.fredrossproject.org/fred-ross-jr-timeline\">\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">A timeline of Fred Ross Jr., executive director of Neighbor to Neighbor \u003c/span>\u003c/a>\u003c/li>\n\u003c/ul>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\n\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>I’m Ericka Cruz Guevarra, and Welcome to the Bay. Local News to Keep You Rooted. One day in February of 1990, about 100 protesters gathered at Pier 96 in San Francisco’s Bayview neighborhood. They came to stop precious cargo from moving for the San Francisco ports, coffee beans from El Salvador. For the activists, those coffee beans were the moneymaking engine behind a brutal civil war going on in El Salvador. And if San Francisco’s big coffee companies were buying up those beans, they thought they were effectively funding a civil war, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>They argue that El Salvador $400 million worth of annual coffee exports mainly benefited a handful of families in El Salvador, which was in turn financing the military atrocities against the local civilians there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Despite the Bay Area’s iconic history of activism, the history of Salvadorians and port workers throughout the eighties and nineties is a lesser known story. So today we’re going to talk with reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli about how these efforts by Bay Area activists would eventually help end a war. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So I spoke with Felix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>Felix Kury.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He’s a retired lecturer who taught mental health classes at State for 30 years in Latino Latino Studies Department. He was born in San Francisco but went back to El Salvador. And it was in that time that there was this repression going on because of a military dictatorship that had been ongoing since the 1930s in 1932.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>Right. There were about 30,000 people that were killed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He tells me that, you know, the repression is so bad that if you were from a different class, you couldn’t walk on a certain street without getting harassed by the military or the police.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>We understood and we knew that the military controlled the state. And behind them they were pure in their right to the oligarchs. They controlled absolutely everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He went through all of this basically, and came to a time where he went back to the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>So he was here in the United States as a student. He was going to school in San Francisco. But he was also very much aware of what was happening in El Salvador. How did he describe what it was like to be a student during that time? And what were some of the things that were like on his mind?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So he and other Salvadorans were following the news back home. They were constantly checking to see if something had happened, if their family members were okay. This is a time period where, you know, if you spoke out against the government, you disappeared.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>What it was really important for many of us of my generation, is the massacre of 1975 in El Salvador of university student. And that’s how we began to organize. And we met, you know, with oil companeros and and also Salvadorians, and decided that we needed to do that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Even got to the point where they even occupied the Salvadoran consulate here in San Francisco just to raise awareness about what was going on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>To stop the war, to stop doing the repression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And was there a moment in particular where he was like, Whoa, this is really, really bad?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>That was really the assassination of Monsignor Oscar Romero. He was an archbishop in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>And he was the spiritual advisor of my school. And I will see him all the time when I was in Selma, Ala. And so I will go to confession to him and all of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>He was telling me all of this in his living room where there was a a portrait of Archbishop Romero.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>You know, Archbishop Romero began to talk about what was happening until now, what didn’t matter, the unknown. They were they probably said later, we all share this and no matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The archbishop was assassinated tearing homily. He’s denouncing the government and the repression that someone went up and assassinated the archbishop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>The murderer of the of the bishop gave a signal for many of us that no one would be safe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I spoke to him on the day that the anniversary had happened where he was assassinated. And so it was this like heavy moment for both of us. We’re like, I’m sorry, we’re living through this trauma. Other Salvadorans can tell you this, that it was very detrimental to to them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And it also was a moment that sort of began to kick off what would become a civil war in El Salvador, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Felix Kury: \u003c/strong>And then all of us began to say, what do we do? You know, what do we do? We have to go beyond working with Salvadorians to develop a movement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Felix Khoury joined other like minded people to form the Eastbay Interfaith Task Force on El Salvador in November of 1980. This group teamed up with port workers to stop the U.S. government from shipping weapons and tanks from the Port of Oakland. This action spread up and down the West Coast. This blockade also set the stage for another protest action that tried to hit the Salvadoran government where it would hurt the most. Its coffee industry, which at the time was really important to San Francisco to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Here in San Francisco, you have the big three coffee companies along with Hill’s brothers and MJB, which was founded in San Francisco in the late 19th century. A lot of coffee that was coming from Latin America was being offloaded in San Francisco or, you know, in the Bay Area. From here. I would just go on to the East Coast, to Southwest, etc..\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>So it was a big deal in San Francisco. But how big of a deal was coffee for a country like El Salvador at the time? Like what was the connection that people were making between coffee and the war?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So like the way that El Salvador was able to generate income around this time was that the country itself became a monoculture of coffee, that people who are benefiting from this, they were called the 14th families. They were these rich landowners, but they also had their hand in politics and also the military. So we can also say that they’re oligarchs. By just funding coffee, you are also helping the Salvadoran government and military regime. So that’s like one thing to keep in mind. Like when people were trying to target Salvadorian coffee, it was because they wanted to hurt the pockets of the 14 families.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>One of the most important groups that led these coffee protests was called Neighbor to Neighbor, and it was led by a labor organizer from San Francisco named Fred Ross Jr. Their goal was to stop U.S. aid to Nicaragua and El Salvador, and they had members all over the country. How do these activists begin to impact the coffee industry? Like, what did that look like exactly for these activists in the Bay Area?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So it really began with like TV spots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Commercial \u003c/strong>Your tax dollars are putting America into the red, the red of El Salvador. $4 billion in ten years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Where they were just trying to raise awareness that as Americans, we should stop drinking coffee that comes from El Salvador. Those ads never really got to air because they were considered too violent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>News Anchor: \u003c/strong>With four w mtw is not alone. No network affiliate in the Portland area will run the ad for.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They show just brutal images from the war. They show like a coffee cup that has blood spilling out of it. And so that was one of the ways that they were trying to do this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>So neighbor to neighbor began organizing. But things I know really picked up in 1990. Can you tell me about what happened in 1990?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Around 60% of Salvadoran coffee harvests were being shipped to United States. And it was at that time it was like the biggest buyer, the market.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>And what happened was you had a little war going on down there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Monika Trobits is a historian and author Bay Area Coffee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>And what they wanted the dockworkers to do was not unload any ship, any freighter coming in from El Salvador carrying all these coffee beans, just flat out, don’t do it. And one fine day in February of 1990, one of those freighter sales it with 34 tons of Salvadorian coffee beans. That is a lot of coffee beans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They set up picket lines to stop Salvadorian coffee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>And it is met by neighbor to neighbor protesters, about 100 of them marching back and forth along the dock and longshoreman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They did not want to cross the picket line. So they also joined in on the effort to stop the offloading of Salvadorian coffee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>The freighter was now being unloaded. So the captain decided to move on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They were able to stop this cargo ship from undocking all over the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>Sailed up to Vancouver near Canada, met the same kind of resistance, went down to Seattle, same thing happened. Headed down to Long Beach. Exact same thing happened.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The captain of the ship that went over into the said, We’re going to have to just go back home. We can’t dock anywhere and offload our coffee.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>So in the end, this freighter had every one of those beans, ended up going back to El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>So I know this protest spread from San Francisco up and down the West Coast. How long did it ultimately last?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>This boycott lasted two years while it was going on. The San Francisco Board of Supervisors voted to boycott Salvadoran coffee beans. The California state legislature formally protested human rights violations against civilians by the Salvadoran military. They were neighbor, really did their job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And how about El Salvador? I mean, what impact did these protests end up having there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>A series of events where you had a grandson from The Gamble family, from Procter and Gamble.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Monika Trobits: \u003c/strong>Folgers by this point was owned by Procter and Gamble.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>They were trying to raise awareness that, you know, we got to stop buying coffee from El Salvador. We got to do something. We can’t continue on with this boycott. The fear of a boycott happening to a company, in essence, is enough to scare the company, to just follow through with the message that people want. Procter Gamble, Nestlé and Kraft took out ads in the Salvadoran newspaper urging the government to negotiate a peace settlement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And so when did a peace settlement ultimately happen?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>So it happened between that like New Year’s Eve of 1991, 1992, when it was formally signed. Two months later, they were neighbors saw that this was a win and they just stopped the boycott.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>The story is really cool and like amazing to see just such a cross-section of people coming together in this effort that really originated here in the Bay Area and then had such a big impact in another country.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I initially read this book on Bay Area History and Coffee, and one thing I really loved about it was like this, this solidarity to come together. You have, you know, people who are being displaced from the country because of war. They’re coming together to help others in their time of need. You have a collaboration between two unions. They want to help each other. And then you also hearing from the people and what they’re going through. Like, these are real people telling me what they were feeling back in the eighties and the early nineties, and I really wanted to tell their story. So it’s more reflected in the history that we know today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>Yeah. And I was just thinking, too. I mean, I grew up here in the Bay Area and we are known for like these really cool and amazing just moments in our history of activism. But this is like, not quite a story that I was actually aware of. And I wonder if, like, it was like an overlooked sort of part of our history of activism here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>I didn’t grow up here in the Bay, and I’ve heard about these, like you said, like grand stories of of activism. I really wish that this was a part of that, too, now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>And I guess it is. Yeah, reporting on it. Well, Sebastian, thank you so much for sharing your reporting with us. It was really fun talking with you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>Thanks for having me on the day. It was great. Speak with you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003cstrong>Ericka Cruz Guevarra: \u003c/strong>That was Sebastian Miño-Bucheli, a reporter for KQED. This conversation with Sebastian was cut down and edited by our senior editor, Alan Montecillo. Producer Maria Esquinca pitched this episode, scored it and added all the tape. Extra production support from me. Shout out to the rest of the podcast squad here at KQED. That’s Jen Chien, director of Podcasts. Katie Sprenger, Podcast Operations Manager, Audience Engagement Support from César Saldaña, and Holly Kernan is our chief content officer. The Bay is a production of member supported people powered KQED. I’m Ericka Cruz Guevarra. Talk to you next week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp style=\"font-weight: 400\">\n\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sundaymusicdrop\">\u003ci>The Sunday Music Drop is a weekly radio series hosted by the KQED weekend news team.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> In each segment, we feature a song from a local musician or band with an upcoming show and hear about what inspires their music.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sab Mai, lead member of No Vacation, started the indie pop band in San Francisco back in 2014 when they were going to USF as a freshman. Mai wanted one thing and one thing only: a band.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The very first class I found a founding member, and we started to write songs together,” said Mai, and soon after they were ready. “We were like, ‘let’s play some live shows.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mai’s push to play live shows was motivated by watching artists perform at concerts. They liked the way artists were able to express themselves. It inspired Mai enough to put all their energy into the band while in school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One song in particular has climbed to the top. No Vacation’s “Yam Yam” from the 2017 album \u003cem>Intermission\u003c/em> has over 83 million streams on Spotify and is featured on several indie playlists for music streaming apps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I would say [Yam Yam] is a song about loving someone and not wanting to let them go,” Mai said. “But also like accepting whatever happens, happens — I think that acceptance allows you to have an openness.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The song’s vibe is a mixture of a mellow, sad, nostalgic feel, which initially came out from a riff that the three members of the band were playing around with. In 2017, the band had relocated to New York and Mai was attending school there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We really didn’t think ‘Yam Yam’ would pop off in the way that it did,” said Mai. “We just want to write something good and somehow it just kind of went off and it got everyone’s attention.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mai understands that No Vacation’s music is a mixture of happiness with a tinge of sadness but that’s because it’s a universal feeling. They understand that a lot of their listeners tend to feel kind of sad but by being able to bond together over a mood, listeners are able to experience something beautiful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the course of 10 years, No Vacation have released an album, several singles, EPs, had multiple tours across the United States and a brief hiatus from making music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mai says that all the band members of No Vacation have moved back to the Bay Area and are going at a slower pace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re all going through our life things but at the same time,” Mai said. “Everyone is still working on music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Accompanying Sab Mai on “Yam Yam” is Harrison Spencer on drums. Mai is working on some new music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No Vacation will perform in San Francisco at the California Academy of Sciences on August 10 and at Outside Lands on August 12.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "In this episode of the Sunday Music Drop, Sab Mai, lead member of the indie pop band No Vacation, says their song 'Yam Yam' is about loving someone and not wanting to let them go, while also being accepting of changes.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/sundaymusicdrop\">\u003ci>The Sunday Music Drop is a weekly radio series hosted by the KQED weekend news team.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003ci> In each segment, we feature a song from a local musician or band with an upcoming show and hear about what inspires their music.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sab Mai, lead member of No Vacation, started the indie pop band in San Francisco back in 2014 when they were going to USF as a freshman. Mai wanted one thing and one thing only: a band.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The very first class I found a founding member, and we started to write songs together,” said Mai, and soon after they were ready. “We were like, ‘let’s play some live shows.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mai’s push to play live shows was motivated by watching artists perform at concerts. They liked the way artists were able to express themselves. It inspired Mai enough to put all their energy into the band while in school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One song in particular has climbed to the top. No Vacation’s “Yam Yam” from the 2017 album \u003cem>Intermission\u003c/em> has over 83 million streams on Spotify and is featured on several indie playlists for music streaming apps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I would say [Yam Yam] is a song about loving someone and not wanting to let them go,” Mai said. “But also like accepting whatever happens, happens — I think that acceptance allows you to have an openness.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The song’s vibe is a mixture of a mellow, sad, nostalgic feel, which initially came out from a riff that the three members of the band were playing around with. In 2017, the band had relocated to New York and Mai was attending school there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We really didn’t think ‘Yam Yam’ would pop off in the way that it did,” said Mai. “We just want to write something good and somehow it just kind of went off and it got everyone’s attention.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mai understands that No Vacation’s music is a mixture of happiness with a tinge of sadness but that’s because it’s a universal feeling. They understand that a lot of their listeners tend to feel kind of sad but by being able to bond together over a mood, listeners are able to experience something beautiful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the course of 10 years, No Vacation have released an album, several singles, EPs, had multiple tours across the United States and a brief hiatus from making music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mai says that all the band members of No Vacation have moved back to the Bay Area and are going at a slower pace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re all going through our life things but at the same time,” Mai said. “Everyone is still working on music.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Accompanying Sab Mai on “Yam Yam” is Harrison Spencer on drums. Mai is working on some new music.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>No Vacation will perform in San Francisco at the California Academy of Sciences on August 10 and at Outside Lands on August 12.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "A New Record Store Is Bringing Latin Vinyl Home to the Mission District",
"headTitle": "A New Record Store Is Bringing Latin Vinyl Home to the Mission District | KQED",
"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931714\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut.jpg\" alt=\"Three people in front of a window with a large tiger mural painted on it\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931714\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Co-owners (from left) Ruben “Ruffy” Rangel, Maria Jose “Majoo” Salguero, and Miles Ake stand outside their record store Discodelic Disco Viajantes on 24th Street in San Francisco’s Mission District on July 15, 2023, during a grand opening celebration. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>With its bold block letters above 24th Street, the \u003ca href=\"https://missionloca.s3.amazonaws.com/mission/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/24th-Street_Photo-by-Ekevara-Kitpowsong-6668.jpg\">Discolandia\u003c/a> sign is an icon of the Mission District. But Discolandia, a Latin-focused record store, \u003ca href=\"https://missionlocal.org/2018/04/a-blast-from-the-past-discolandia/\">closed over a decade ago\u003c/a>. Since then, there’s been no record store in the neighborhood that caters specifically to the Mission’s Latinx population.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That finally changes this week with the July 15 opening of Discodelic, which specializes in vinyl from Latin American and Caribbean countries, offering Latin soul, cumbia, salsa, boleros, Cuban music, reggae and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_11835183']The store, a physical home for the record label of the same name, will operate at 3174 24th St., in a space where two vinyl record stores, Pyramid Records and Explorist International, once stood years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A musical archaeological expedition\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Discodelic founders Ruben “Ruffy” Rangel, 43, and Maria Jose “Majoo” Salguero, 30, met through MySpace 13 years ago, bonding over their shared love of ska, rocksteady and reggae. Their conversations soon grew into travel plans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Since the ’90s, I have always been looking for discos in stores, at swap meets, everywhere,” said Rangel. “But I never traveled much until I started traveling together with Majoo.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931636\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Records fill the bins at Discodelic Disco Viajantes record store\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931636\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Records start to fill the bins at Discodelic Disco Viajantes record store in San Francisco’s Mission District on July 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The duo began to travel all over Central America, looking for vinyl that was pressed in the 1960s and 1970s, much of which was presumed lost due to wars in the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While both were passionate about their mission, it was especially meaningful for Salguero, who is Salvadoran; record stores were practically nonexistent in the country in the early 2010s. This crate-digging mission turned out to be a musical archaeological expedition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We went to old bodegas, old radio stations, and houses,” Rangel said. “We went looking for artists, old labels that were closed for decades, and we ended up accumulating a large amount of old recordings.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931634\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13931634\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-800x380.jpg\" alt=\"in a diptych, two people search through records and 45s\" width=\"800\" height=\"380\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-800x380.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-1020x484.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-160x76.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-768x364.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-1536x729.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-1920x911.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig.jpg 2023w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Once the Discodelic team arrives in a country, they look through old bodegas, old radio stations and defunct record label warehouses. At left, Majoo searches through a collection spread throughout a bedroom in Perú. Ruffy is seen searching through a collection of 45s in Costa Rica. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Discodelic)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 2015, the duo opened their first brick-and-mortar record store, Discodelic, in El Salvador. But they weren’t content to just sell records — they began to track down musicians and collaborate with record labels to reissue some of the older records they’d found. This soon became their \u003ca href=\"https://discodelic.bandcamp.com/music\">very own reissue label\u003c/a> — also named Discodelic — which now has 10 releases under its belt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In the beginning, we knew we only wanted to be in El Salvador for one year because we’re ‘Discos Viajantes de Otros Dimensions (Traveling Vinyl Discs from Other Dimensions),’” Rangel said, a name that came out of years spend traveling around Central America to find vinyl. “We stayed in El Salvador to start a vinyl community there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931632\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 960px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_.jpeg\" alt=\"a Latino man and a Latina woman stand together outside the door of a record store they own\" width=\"960\" height=\"719\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931632\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_.jpeg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_-800x599.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_-768x575.jpeg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 960px) 100vw, 960px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ruben ‘Ruffy’ Rangel and María José ‘Majoo’ Salguero stand outside their store, Discodelic, in Guatemala in 2016. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Discodelic)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Though the Salvadoran store was a success, attracting young people first learning about vinyl as well as older folks who shared stories about the music, Rangel and Salguero decided to pack it up in 2016 and move to Guatemala.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rangel wanted to bring something to Guatemala beyond the retail store, so the Discodelic duo began connecting with DJs in Guatemala and from other countries to start parties, working with artists and DJs from Mexico, Japan, Costa Rica, Germany and more. Soon, the duo’s interests expanded beyond Central American music. They set off to visit neighboring countries like the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, Trinidad and Tobago, Cuba, Barbados and Panama.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931631\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13931631\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-800x581.jpg\" alt=\"two Latinx people and two Kenyan people stand holding 45s in a village in Kenya\" width=\"800\" height=\"581\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-800x581.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-1020x741.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-768x558.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-1536x1116.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya.jpg 1842w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The duo behind Discodelic, in the middle of an 18-month world tour to find vinyl and 45s. Here they are pictured visiting with music fans in Kenya. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Discodelic)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When it comes to buying valuable records in countries where vinyl might not be popular anymore, Rangel said that Discodelic maintains their own code of ethics, and they want to be known for paying a fair price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When we went to Mexico, we gained a sort of reputation,” Rangel said. “‘The Discodelics are the crazy ones who go around the world looking for strange discos.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The San Franciscan connection\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Making DJ connections at parties came easily for Rangel and Salguero. One night, they befriended a 37-year-old San Franciscan named Miles Ake, a chef and a part-time DJ.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931713\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A young woman in a blue jacket and glasses browses a record bin\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931713\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Karla Herrera browses records at Discodelic Disco Viajantes on 24th Street in San Francisco’s Mission District on July 15, 2023, during a grand opening celebration for the record store. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 2018, Discodelic invited Ake to DJ at a music festival in Mexico City called Latinos Con Soul. Ake helped the duo with contacts in the States and with shipping vinyl. Working together, the three brought the festival \u003ca href=\"https://dothebay.com/events/2018/11/3/revoluciones-tropisoul-festival-djs-xicasoul-philippe-noel-ruffy-tnt\">TropiSol\u003c/a> to the Bay Area in the same year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That reputation and connections helped the store flourish — but again, the duo missed traveling. So in the same year, they packed their house into a storage room and went on an 18-month tour to buy more vinyl, visiting Guyana, Surname, Turkey, Ethiopia, Egypt, Kenya, Portugal, Bolivia and Peru.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3VICu0BAxhI\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after the duo’s return to Mexico, the COVID-19 pandemic hit, and closed the physical Discodelic storefront.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around the same time, back in San Francisco, Miles Ake lost his job as a chef. Ake suggested the duo open a Discodelic store in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I knew that the location of a Discodelic would be perfect on 24th Street,” Ake said. “It’s just a way to bring back a Latin record store to the neighborhood.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ake also knew that there was a local scene ready to support and benefit from a Latin and Caribbean-focused record store, with the DJ collective Chulita Vinyl Club, Latin soul collectives, vinyl collectors and numerous Bay Area fans all eager to embrace a new space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931712\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931712\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Co-owners Ruben “Ruffy” Rangel and Maria Jose “Majoo” Salguero talk with shoppers at Discodelic Disco Viajantes on 24th Street in San Francisco’s Mission District on July 15, 2023, during a grand opening celebration. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The store on 24th Street\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The three business owners have an ambitious plan for the storefront, promising art exhibitions, conferences, the launch of their book publishing company Que Bonito, a podcast and, of course, DJ events.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>LPs and 45s on offer represent a wide range of artists, from Latin America and beyond, including Joe Baatan, Ralfi Pagan, Clive Zanda, The Skatalites, Rabbits & Carrots, Leo Acosta, Mulatu Astatke and Poder de Alma. One of Ruben’s favorites is Leo Soto’s “Caballo Psicodelico,” a rare 45 they were able to find in Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Discodelic’s inventory will also include records from their own label, and new music the team enjoys, like that of \u003ca href=\"https://earenas.bandcamp.com/music\">É Arenas\u003c/a>, a founding member of Chicano Batman. There’s also Bay Area music, like Oakland’s \u003ca href=\"https://ritmostropicosmos.bandcamp.com/\">Ritmos Tropicoso\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931640\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13931640\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"a poster from a concert in panama hangs on the wall of a record store\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-1920x1280.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Artwork and records fill the wall at Discodelic. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The prices also vary widely, with some records priced at $10, and other rarer ones at $80, $500 and up to $800. Those are special outliers, though, and “we have a lot of classic records at accessible prices,” Rangel said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While in San Francisco, Discodelics’ founders want to strengthen connections here: they hope to collaborate on events or reissues with Jose “Chepito” Arias, a percussionist who recorded with Santana, as well as Poder de Alma in San Leandro, and Los Vampiros, who hail from Stockton.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We want this place to be a place of entry for nostalgia,” Salguero said. “What better place than the Mission District?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Launched by a world-traveling DJ crew, Discodelic will highlight Latin soul, salsa, reggae and more. ",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931714\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut.jpg\" alt=\"Three people in front of a window with a large tiger mural painted on it\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931714\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67022_230715-Discodelic-11-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Co-owners (from left) Ruben “Ruffy” Rangel, Maria Jose “Majoo” Salguero, and Miles Ake stand outside their record store Discodelic Disco Viajantes on 24th Street in San Francisco’s Mission District on July 15, 2023, during a grand opening celebration. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>With its bold block letters above 24th Street, the \u003ca href=\"https://missionloca.s3.amazonaws.com/mission/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/24th-Street_Photo-by-Ekevara-Kitpowsong-6668.jpg\">Discolandia\u003c/a> sign is an icon of the Mission District. But Discolandia, a Latin-focused record store, \u003ca href=\"https://missionlocal.org/2018/04/a-blast-from-the-past-discolandia/\">closed over a decade ago\u003c/a>. Since then, there’s been no record store in the neighborhood that caters specifically to the Mission’s Latinx population.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That finally changes this week with the July 15 opening of Discodelic, which specializes in vinyl from Latin American and Caribbean countries, offering Latin soul, cumbia, salsa, boleros, Cuban music, reggae and more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>The store, a physical home for the record label of the same name, will operate at 3174 24th St., in a space where two vinyl record stores, Pyramid Records and Explorist International, once stood years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A musical archaeological expedition\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Discodelic founders Ruben “Ruffy” Rangel, 43, and Maria Jose “Majoo” Salguero, 30, met through MySpace 13 years ago, bonding over their shared love of ska, rocksteady and reggae. Their conversations soon grew into travel plans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Since the ’90s, I have always been looking for discos in stores, at swap meets, everywhere,” said Rangel. “But I never traveled much until I started traveling together with Majoo.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931636\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Records fill the bins at Discodelic Disco Viajantes record store\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931636\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS66971_230713-DiscodelicRecords-18-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Records start to fill the bins at Discodelic Disco Viajantes record store in San Francisco’s Mission District on July 13, 2023. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The duo began to travel all over Central America, looking for vinyl that was pressed in the 1960s and 1970s, much of which was presumed lost due to wars in the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While both were passionate about their mission, it was especially meaningful for Salguero, who is Salvadoran; record stores were practically nonexistent in the country in the early 2010s. This crate-digging mission turned out to be a musical archaeological expedition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We went to old bodegas, old radio stations, and houses,” Rangel said. “We went looking for artists, old labels that were closed for decades, and we ended up accumulating a large amount of old recordings.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931634\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13931634\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-800x380.jpg\" alt=\"in a diptych, two people search through records and 45s\" width=\"800\" height=\"380\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-800x380.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-1020x484.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-160x76.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-768x364.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-1536x729.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig-1920x911.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Dig.jpg 2023w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Once the Discodelic team arrives in a country, they look through old bodegas, old radio stations and defunct record label warehouses. At left, Majoo searches through a collection spread throughout a bedroom in Perú. Ruffy is seen searching through a collection of 45s in Costa Rica. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Discodelic)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 2015, the duo opened their first brick-and-mortar record store, Discodelic, in El Salvador. But they weren’t content to just sell records — they began to track down musicians and collaborate with record labels to reissue some of the older records they’d found. This soon became their \u003ca href=\"https://discodelic.bandcamp.com/music\">very own reissue label\u003c/a> — also named Discodelic — which now has 10 releases under its belt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In the beginning, we knew we only wanted to be in El Salvador for one year because we’re ‘Discos Viajantes de Otros Dimensions (Traveling Vinyl Discs from Other Dimensions),’” Rangel said, a name that came out of years spend traveling around Central America to find vinyl. “We stayed in El Salvador to start a vinyl community there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931632\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 960px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_.jpeg\" alt=\"a Latino man and a Latina woman stand together outside the door of a record store they own\" width=\"960\" height=\"719\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931632\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_.jpeg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_-800x599.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/DIscodelic.Duo_-768x575.jpeg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 960px) 100vw, 960px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ruben ‘Ruffy’ Rangel and María José ‘Majoo’ Salguero stand outside their store, Discodelic, in Guatemala in 2016. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Discodelic)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Though the Salvadoran store was a success, attracting young people first learning about vinyl as well as older folks who shared stories about the music, Rangel and Salguero decided to pack it up in 2016 and move to Guatemala.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rangel wanted to bring something to Guatemala beyond the retail store, so the Discodelic duo began connecting with DJs in Guatemala and from other countries to start parties, working with artists and DJs from Mexico, Japan, Costa Rica, Germany and more. Soon, the duo’s interests expanded beyond Central American music. They set off to visit neighboring countries like the Dominican Republic, Jamaica, Trinidad and Tobago, Cuba, Barbados and Panama.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931631\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13931631\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-800x581.jpg\" alt=\"two Latinx people and two Kenyan people stand holding 45s in a village in Kenya\" width=\"800\" height=\"581\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-800x581.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-1020x741.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-768x558.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya-1536x1116.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/Discodelic-Kenya.jpg 1842w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The duo behind Discodelic, in the middle of an 18-month world tour to find vinyl and 45s. Here they are pictured visiting with music fans in Kenya. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Discodelic)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When it comes to buying valuable records in countries where vinyl might not be popular anymore, Rangel said that Discodelic maintains their own code of ethics, and they want to be known for paying a fair price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When we went to Mexico, we gained a sort of reputation,” Rangel said. “‘The Discodelics are the crazy ones who go around the world looking for strange discos.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The San Franciscan connection\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Making DJ connections at parties came easily for Rangel and Salguero. One night, they befriended a 37-year-old San Franciscan named Miles Ake, a chef and a part-time DJ.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931713\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A young woman in a blue jacket and glasses browses a record bin\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931713\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67018_230715-Discodelic-02-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Karla Herrera browses records at Discodelic Disco Viajantes on 24th Street in San Francisco’s Mission District on July 15, 2023, during a grand opening celebration for the record store. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 2018, Discodelic invited Ake to DJ at a music festival in Mexico City called Latinos Con Soul. Ake helped the duo with contacts in the States and with shipping vinyl. Working together, the three brought the festival \u003ca href=\"https://dothebay.com/events/2018/11/3/revoluciones-tropisoul-festival-djs-xicasoul-philippe-noel-ruffy-tnt\">TropiSol\u003c/a> to the Bay Area in the same year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That reputation and connections helped the store flourish — but again, the duo missed traveling. So in the same year, they packed their house into a storage room and went on an 18-month tour to buy more vinyl, visiting Guyana, Surname, Turkey, Ethiopia, Egypt, Kenya, Portugal, Bolivia and Peru.\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/3VICu0BAxhI'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/3VICu0BAxhI'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Soon after the duo’s return to Mexico, the COVID-19 pandemic hit, and closed the physical Discodelic storefront.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around the same time, back in San Francisco, Miles Ake lost his job as a chef. Ake suggested the duo open a Discodelic store in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I knew that the location of a Discodelic would be perfect on 24th Street,” Ake said. “It’s just a way to bring back a Latin record store to the neighborhood.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ake also knew that there was a local scene ready to support and benefit from a Latin and Caribbean-focused record store, with the DJ collective Chulita Vinyl Club, Latin soul collectives, vinyl collectors and numerous Bay Area fans all eager to embrace a new space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931712\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13931712\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/RS67019_230715-Discodelic-06-BL-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Co-owners Ruben “Ruffy” Rangel and Maria Jose “Majoo” Salguero talk with shoppers at Discodelic Disco Viajantes on 24th Street in San Francisco’s Mission District on July 15, 2023, during a grand opening celebration. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The store on 24th Street\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The three business owners have an ambitious plan for the storefront, promising art exhibitions, conferences, the launch of their book publishing company Que Bonito, a podcast and, of course, DJ events.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>LPs and 45s on offer represent a wide range of artists, from Latin America and beyond, including Joe Baatan, Ralfi Pagan, Clive Zanda, The Skatalites, Rabbits & Carrots, Leo Acosta, Mulatu Astatke and Poder de Alma. One of Ruben’s favorites is Leo Soto’s “Caballo Psicodelico,” a rare 45 they were able to find in Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Discodelic’s inventory will also include records from their own label, and new music the team enjoys, like that of \u003ca href=\"https://earenas.bandcamp.com/music\">É Arenas\u003c/a>, a founding member of Chicano Batman. There’s also Bay Area music, like Oakland’s \u003ca href=\"https://ritmostropicosmos.bandcamp.com/\">Ritmos Tropicoso\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13931640\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13931640\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"a poster from a concert in panama hangs on the wall of a record store\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster-1920x1280.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/07/discodelic.poster.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Artwork and records fill the wall at Discodelic. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The prices also vary widely, with some records priced at $10, and other rarer ones at $80, $500 and up to $800. Those are special outliers, though, and “we have a lot of classic records at accessible prices,” Rangel said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While in San Francisco, Discodelics’ founders want to strengthen connections here: they hope to collaborate on events or reissues with Jose “Chepito” Arias, a percussionist who recorded with Santana, as well as Poder de Alma in San Leandro, and Los Vampiros, who hail from Stockton.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We want this place to be a place of entry for nostalgia,” Salguero said. “What better place than the Mission District?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "The Time a Bay Area Coffee Boycott Helped Stop a Civil War",
"headTitle": "The Time a Bay Area Coffee Boycott Helped Stop a Civil War | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>When you spot the red Folgers tin in the coffee aisle at your local supermarket, you might think of the iconic tagline that says, “The best part of wakin’ up is Folgers in your cup.” But what many coffee lovers might not remember is the time in the early ‘90s when Folgers Coffee was the target of a nation-wide boycott that started right here in San Francisco. The goal? To help stop a civil war in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With all of the newer, trendier coffee brands that now dominate the Bay Area, it’s easy to forget that Folgers has a long history in San Francisco. It was one of the “Big Three” coffee companies, along with Hills Brothers and MJB, that was founded in San Francisco in the late 19th century. These days, the company is probably best known for the convenience of its instant coffee and ground coffee blends. But in the beginning, Folgers built up its reputation as one of America’s leading coffee brands on the basis of quality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Good quality beans, roasted properly, produce good quality coffee — and that was the name of the game,” says Monika Trobits, a coffee historian and the author of \u003ca href=\"https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52771645-bay-area-coffee\">\u003ci>Bay Area Coffee\u003c/i>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In those early years, the highest-quality green, unroasted coffee beans arriving at the Port of San Francisco came from Central America — including a large quantity that was imported from El Salvador. \u003cb>\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around the same time, in the late 19th century, coffee had become one of the main sources of income for El Salvador’s wealthy landowner class. These coffee plantation owners were oligarchs who, over the course of the next 100 years, took more and more land from the country’s indigenous people, got rich off the crop and used that wealth to exert influence over the country’s politics and military. By the 1970s, socioeconomic inequality in El Salvador had become even more stark, and the country began to experience widespread civil unrest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Salvadorans needed agrarian reform, immediate education and healthcare,” explains Felix Kury, a retired San Francisco State lecturer who taught mental health courses in the Latin American Studies Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928589\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928589\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury.jpg\" alt=\"Man in glasses shows an article that he's loaded onto his iPad.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Retired SF State lecturer Felix Kury was active in the grassroots movement advocating for political change in El Salvador. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Young Salvadorans like Kury began to leave their country to organize abroad, sending aid home or participating in direct protest actions such as occupying their local Salvadoran consulate. Back in El Salvador, left-leaning guerillas took to arms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The 1980 \u003ca href=\"https://www.reuters.com/article/us-el-salvador-romero-idUSKCN1MY03P\">assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero\u003c/a>, who was popular for denouncing violence and criticizing the Salvadoran military, proved to be the last straw that plunged the country into civil war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[A soldier] shot him right as he was lifting the hostia (communion bread)…en el momento más sagrada” — the most sacred moment, Kury recalls. “The murder of the bishop gave a signal to anyone that no one will be safe.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o15gEAdlMUQ\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, in the U.S., Kury says, “All of us began to say, ‘What do we do? We have to go beyond working with Salvadorans to develop a movement.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here in the Bay Area, Salvadorans like Kury joined other like-minded supporters to form the East Bay Interfaith Task Force on El Salvador. One day in November 1980, he recalls, Salvadoran port workers informed the task force that the U.S. government was bringing tanks and heavy artillery to the ports in Oakland — and that they planned to send those arms to support the military regime in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the help of the International Longshore and Warehouse Union, the task force sprang into action, organizing a blockade that prevented ports all over the West Coast from sending arms to El Salvador. Similar to the United Farm Workers’ organizing efforts in the ‘60s, Salvadoran activists had begun to seek broad support for their movement. It was no longer just Salvadorans protesting the civil war — Chicanos and Americans showed up at the port too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The blockade also set the stage for an even more ambitious protest action to hit El Salvador where it would hurt the most — the coffee industry that enabled the military regime’s most powerful members to build up their wealth.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Grassroots Movement\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Around this time, a media organization called the Central American Television Project was working to spread awareness about U.S. policy in Central America. In 1985, it hired Fred Ross Jr., a San Francisco-based labor organizer — who \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2022/12/01/fred-ross-jr-obituary\">passed away last year \u003c/a>— as its new executive director. The organization’s name changed to Neighbor to Neighbor, and under Ross’ direction, it took a grassroots approach to stopping U.S. aid to Nicaragua and El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This organization had people all over the country,” Ross’ widow, the labor attorney Margo Feinberg, recalls. “They impacted many congressional races to try to change the numbers in the legislature to cut back on the funding to El Salvador.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928599\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928599\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott.jpg\" alt='A flyer reads, \"The Death Squad\" and \"Boycott Salvadoran Coffee.\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"2485\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-800x1035.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1020x1320.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-160x207.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-768x994.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1187x1536.jpg 1187w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1582x2048.jpg 1582w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of Neighbor to Neighbor’s flyers in support of the Salvadoran coffee boycott. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Neighbor to Neighbor)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>According to Feinberg, her late husband first witnessed the connection between what was happening to Salvadoran refugees and the U.S. role in the war when he worked as a public defender in San Francisco. Ross and his fellow organizers had already begun contemplating the idea of a coffee boycott when the murders of six Jesuit priests, a housekeeper and her daughter in 1989 \u003ca href=\"https://www.fredrossproject.org/fred-ross-jr-timeline\">propelled Neighbor to Neighbor to take immediate action\u003c/a>. The boycott’s main target was Folgers Coffee, for selling Salvadoran coffee beans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time, around 60% of Salvadoran coffee harvests were shipped to the United States, the biggest buyer on the market. Neighbor to Neighbor argued that those coffee earnings were part of a vicious cycle of violence through which the wealthy plantation owners continued to finance the Salvadoran government and its death squads.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Folgers claimed it only purchased 2% of its beans from El Salvador,” says Trobits, the coffee historian. “But Neighbor to Neighbor wanted them to not purchase any.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928588\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928588\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249.jpg\" alt=\"Woman wearing glasses sits in front of a wall covered in old newspaper clippings and coffee advertisements.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bay Area coffee historian Monika Trobits’ wall is decorated with old coffee advertisements. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Trobits says once the news came out that a freighter carrying 34 tons of Salvadoran coffee beans was due to dock in San Francisco in February 1990, about a hundred Neighbor to Neighbor protesters gathered at Pier 96 in the Bayview to establish a picket line, with the support of the longshoremen’s union. \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1990-02-17-me-515-story.html\">Agents of the shipping company convinced the terminal operators\u003c/a> to offload all of the Colombian and Costa Rican coffee – but nothing from El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So the captain decided to move on, sailed up to Vancouver and met the same kind of resistance,” Trobits says, detailing the ship’s journey up and down the Pacific coast. “This freighter — and every one of those beans — ended up going back to El Salvador.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928594\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928594\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001.jpg\" alt='Black-and-white image of protestors taking a knee, holding signs that read, \"Boycott Folgers\" and \"U.S. Out of El Salvador.\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"1443\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-800x601.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-1020x767.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-768x577.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-1536x1154.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Supporters of the Salvadoran coffee boycott form a picket line at Pier 80 in San Francisco in February 1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Dennis Hearne / The Fred Ross Project)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Neighbor to Neighbor kept its picket lines going for the next two years. Around the same time, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors also voted to boycott Salvadoran coffee beans, and the California state legislature formally protested the human rights violations against civilians by the Salvadoran military.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a direct result of the boycotts, one of the grandsons from the Gamble family, which founded Procter & Gamble — Folgers’ parent company — pushed for the company to stop buying Salvadoran coffee. P&G, Nestlé and Kraft even took out ads in Salvadoran newspapers urging the government to negotiate a peace settlement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8TZq_GLmR8&t=407s\u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of this pressure eventually paid off: Hours before the New Year rang in for 1992, the Salvadoran president and the rebels signed a \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1992-01-01-mn-1052-story.html\">United Nations–sponsored peace accord\u003c/a>. The 12-year war in which 75,000 civilians died finally came to an end. Months later, Neighbor to Neighbor ended its two-year boycott.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Legacy of Coffee Activism\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It’s been 30 years since the last shots were fired, but the Salvadoran coffee protest’s legacy hasn’t lost its relevance. Feinberg says the boycott’s success made it a model for all types of organizing that have taken place since then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">[aside postID='arts_13918088,arts_13899379,arts_13887962']\u003c/span>Today, coffee accounts for a much smaller portion of the Salvadoran economy, and the industry is no longer exclusively dominated by huge plantations — there are \u003ca href=\"https://web.archive.org/web/20090907031039/http://www.usaid.gov/stories/elsalvador/cs_elsalvador_coffee.pdf\">also smaller, more sustainability-focused farms \u003c/a>that now supply beans to some of the Bay Area’s trendier third-wave coffee shops. At least one of those shops specifically identifies as Salvadoran — \u003ca href=\"https://sf.eater.com/2021/5/20/22445160/abanico-new-coffee-shop-opens-mission-san-francisco\">Abanico Coffee Roasters\u003c/a> in San Francisco’s Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, the coffee world continues to be fertile ground for progressive activism. There were, for instance, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/12/business/starbucks-blm-ban-reversed.html\">calls to boycott Starbucks\u003c/a> when it initially banned its employees from wearing Black Lives Matter attire. More recently, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/06/30/1106884406/coffee-shop-starbucks-baristas-union-election-cafe\">baristas across the nation have been pushing to unionize their local shops\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, just like during the Salvadoran coffee boycott, the ethics of where a coffee company sources its beans continues to be an important issue. In fact, Trobits says there’s a sort of “fourth wave” of coffee happening right now that’s defined by ethical sourcing, how coffee growers respond to climate change, and baristas and other workers organizing to better their working conditions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re not at the end,” Trobits says of the movement to make the coffee world more just. “It will probably not ever be over because I don’t see the coffee is going away.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Trobits says we’re all in this game, those of us who buy, sell or even just appreciate coffee. Like it or not, we all are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Correction: The article originally stated that Archbishop Romero was assassinated in 1979 instead of 1980; it has been updated to clarify the timeline of El Salvador’s left-wing guerrilla movement.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>When you spot the red Folgers tin in the coffee aisle at your local supermarket, you might think of the iconic tagline that says, “The best part of wakin’ up is Folgers in your cup.” But what many coffee lovers might not remember is the time in the early ‘90s when Folgers Coffee was the target of a nation-wide boycott that started right here in San Francisco. The goal? To help stop a civil war in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With all of the newer, trendier coffee brands that now dominate the Bay Area, it’s easy to forget that Folgers has a long history in San Francisco. It was one of the “Big Three” coffee companies, along with Hills Brothers and MJB, that was founded in San Francisco in the late 19th century. These days, the company is probably best known for the convenience of its instant coffee and ground coffee blends. But in the beginning, Folgers built up its reputation as one of America’s leading coffee brands on the basis of quality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Good quality beans, roasted properly, produce good quality coffee — and that was the name of the game,” says Monika Trobits, a coffee historian and the author of \u003ca href=\"https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52771645-bay-area-coffee\">\u003ci>Bay Area Coffee\u003c/i>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In those early years, the highest-quality green, unroasted coffee beans arriving at the Port of San Francisco came from Central America — including a large quantity that was imported from El Salvador. \u003cb>\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around the same time, in the late 19th century, coffee had become one of the main sources of income for El Salvador’s wealthy landowner class. These coffee plantation owners were oligarchs who, over the course of the next 100 years, took more and more land from the country’s indigenous people, got rich off the crop and used that wealth to exert influence over the country’s politics and military. By the 1970s, socioeconomic inequality in El Salvador had become even more stark, and the country began to experience widespread civil unrest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Salvadorans needed agrarian reform, immediate education and healthcare,” explains Felix Kury, a retired San Francisco State lecturer who taught mental health courses in the Latin American Studies Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928589\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928589\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury.jpg\" alt=\"Man in glasses shows an article that he's loaded onto his iPad.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"2560\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-768x1024.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1152x1536.jpg 1152w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/felix-kury-1536x2048.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Retired SF State lecturer Felix Kury was active in the grassroots movement advocating for political change in El Salvador. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Young Salvadorans like Kury began to leave their country to organize abroad, sending aid home or participating in direct protest actions such as occupying their local Salvadoran consulate. Back in El Salvador, left-leaning guerillas took to arms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The 1980 \u003ca href=\"https://www.reuters.com/article/us-el-salvador-romero-idUSKCN1MY03P\">assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero\u003c/a>, who was popular for denouncing violence and criticizing the Salvadoran military, proved to be the last straw that plunged the country into civil war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[A soldier] shot him right as he was lifting the hostia (communion bread)…en el momento más sagrada” — the most sacred moment, Kury recalls. “The murder of the bishop gave a signal to anyone that no one will be safe.”\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/o15gEAdlMUQ'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/o15gEAdlMUQ'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, in the U.S., Kury says, “All of us began to say, ‘What do we do? We have to go beyond working with Salvadorans to develop a movement.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here in the Bay Area, Salvadorans like Kury joined other like-minded supporters to form the East Bay Interfaith Task Force on El Salvador. One day in November 1980, he recalls, Salvadoran port workers informed the task force that the U.S. government was bringing tanks and heavy artillery to the ports in Oakland — and that they planned to send those arms to support the military regime in El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With the help of the International Longshore and Warehouse Union, the task force sprang into action, organizing a blockade that prevented ports all over the West Coast from sending arms to El Salvador. Similar to the United Farm Workers’ organizing efforts in the ‘60s, Salvadoran activists had begun to seek broad support for their movement. It was no longer just Salvadorans protesting the civil war — Chicanos and Americans showed up at the port too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The blockade also set the stage for an even more ambitious protest action to hit El Salvador where it would hurt the most — the coffee industry that enabled the military regime’s most powerful members to build up their wealth.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Grassroots Movement\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Around this time, a media organization called the Central American Television Project was working to spread awareness about U.S. policy in Central America. In 1985, it hired Fred Ross Jr., a San Francisco-based labor organizer — who \u003ca href=\"https://www.berkeleyside.org/2022/12/01/fred-ross-jr-obituary\">passed away last year \u003c/a>— as its new executive director. The organization’s name changed to Neighbor to Neighbor, and under Ross’ direction, it took a grassroots approach to stopping U.S. aid to Nicaragua and El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This organization had people all over the country,” Ross’ widow, the labor attorney Margo Feinberg, recalls. “They impacted many congressional races to try to change the numbers in the legislature to cut back on the funding to El Salvador.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928599\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928599\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott.jpg\" alt='A flyer reads, \"The Death Squad\" and \"Boycott Salvadoran Coffee.\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"2485\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-800x1035.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1020x1320.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-160x207.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-768x994.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1187x1536.jpg 1187w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/savadoran-coffee-boycott-1582x2048.jpg 1582w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of Neighbor to Neighbor’s flyers in support of the Salvadoran coffee boycott. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Neighbor to Neighbor)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>According to Feinberg, her late husband first witnessed the connection between what was happening to Salvadoran refugees and the U.S. role in the war when he worked as a public defender in San Francisco. Ross and his fellow organizers had already begun contemplating the idea of a coffee boycott when the murders of six Jesuit priests, a housekeeper and her daughter in 1989 \u003ca href=\"https://www.fredrossproject.org/fred-ross-jr-timeline\">propelled Neighbor to Neighbor to take immediate action\u003c/a>. The boycott’s main target was Folgers Coffee, for selling Salvadoran coffee beans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time, around 60% of Salvadoran coffee harvests were shipped to the United States, the biggest buyer on the market. Neighbor to Neighbor argued that those coffee earnings were part of a vicious cycle of violence through which the wealthy plantation owners continued to finance the Salvadoran government and its death squads.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Folgers claimed it only purchased 2% of its beans from El Salvador,” says Trobits, the coffee historian. “But Neighbor to Neighbor wanted them to not purchase any.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928588\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928588\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249.jpg\" alt=\"Woman wearing glasses sits in front of a wall covered in old newspaper clippings and coffee advertisements.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/Monica-Trobits_CoffeeInterview03242023-2249-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bay Area coffee historian Monika Trobits’ wall is decorated with old coffee advertisements. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Trobits says once the news came out that a freighter carrying 34 tons of Salvadoran coffee beans was due to dock in San Francisco in February 1990, about a hundred Neighbor to Neighbor protesters gathered at Pier 96 in the Bayview to establish a picket line, with the support of the longshoremen’s union. \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1990-02-17-me-515-story.html\">Agents of the shipping company convinced the terminal operators\u003c/a> to offload all of the Colombian and Costa Rican coffee – but nothing from El Salvador.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So the captain decided to move on, sailed up to Vancouver and met the same kind of resistance,” Trobits says, detailing the ship’s journey up and down the Pacific coast. “This freighter — and every one of those beans — ended up going back to El Salvador.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13928594\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13928594\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001.jpg\" alt='Black-and-white image of protestors taking a knee, holding signs that read, \"Boycott Folgers\" and \"U.S. Out of El Salvador.\"' width=\"1920\" height=\"1443\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-800x601.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-1020x767.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-768x577.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/05/boycottfolgers2_001-1536x1154.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Supporters of the Salvadoran coffee boycott form a picket line at Pier 80 in San Francisco in February 1990. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Dennis Hearne / The Fred Ross Project)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Neighbor to Neighbor kept its picket lines going for the next two years. Around the same time, the San Francisco Board of Supervisors also voted to boycott Salvadoran coffee beans, and the California state legislature formally protested the human rights violations against civilians by the Salvadoran military.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a direct result of the boycotts, one of the grandsons from the Gamble family, which founded Procter & Gamble — Folgers’ parent company — pushed for the company to stop buying Salvadoran coffee. P&G, Nestlé and Kraft even took out ads in Salvadoran newspapers urging the government to negotiate a peace settlement.\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/D8TZq_GLmR8'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/D8TZq_GLmR8'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp> \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All of this pressure eventually paid off: Hours before the New Year rang in for 1992, the Salvadoran president and the rebels signed a \u003ca href=\"https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1992-01-01-mn-1052-story.html\">United Nations–sponsored peace accord\u003c/a>. The 12-year war in which 75,000 civilians died finally came to an end. Months later, Neighbor to Neighbor ended its two-year boycott.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Legacy of Coffee Activism\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>It’s been 30 years since the last shots were fired, but the Salvadoran coffee protest’s legacy hasn’t lost its relevance. Feinberg says the boycott’s success made it a model for all types of organizing that have taken place since then.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/span>Today, coffee accounts for a much smaller portion of the Salvadoran economy, and the industry is no longer exclusively dominated by huge plantations — there are \u003ca href=\"https://web.archive.org/web/20090907031039/http://www.usaid.gov/stories/elsalvador/cs_elsalvador_coffee.pdf\">also smaller, more sustainability-focused farms \u003c/a>that now supply beans to some of the Bay Area’s trendier third-wave coffee shops. At least one of those shops specifically identifies as Salvadoran — \u003ca href=\"https://sf.eater.com/2021/5/20/22445160/abanico-new-coffee-shop-opens-mission-san-francisco\">Abanico Coffee Roasters\u003c/a> in San Francisco’s Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Meanwhile, the coffee world continues to be fertile ground for progressive activism. There were, for instance, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/12/business/starbucks-blm-ban-reversed.html\">calls to boycott Starbucks\u003c/a> when it initially banned its employees from wearing Black Lives Matter attire. More recently, \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/06/30/1106884406/coffee-shop-starbucks-baristas-union-election-cafe\">baristas across the nation have been pushing to unionize their local shops\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And, just like during the Salvadoran coffee boycott, the ethics of where a coffee company sources its beans continues to be an important issue. In fact, Trobits says there’s a sort of “fourth wave” of coffee happening right now that’s defined by ethical sourcing, how coffee growers respond to climate change, and baristas and other workers organizing to better their working conditions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We’re not at the end,” Trobits says of the movement to make the coffee world more just. “It will probably not ever be over because I don’t see the coffee is going away.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Trobits says we’re all in this game, those of us who buy, sell or even just appreciate coffee. Like it or not, we all are.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Correction: The article originally stated that Archbishop Romero was assassinated in 1979 instead of 1980; it has been updated to clarify the timeline of El Salvador’s left-wing guerrilla movement.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"disqusTitle": "'We Dance United': Aztec Dance Troupes Preserve a Proud Heritage for Bay Area's Latinx Community",
"title": "'We Dance United': Aztec Dance Troupes Preserve a Proud Heritage for Bay Area's Latinx Community",
"headTitle": "The California Report Magazine | KQED News",
"content": "\u003cp>This week, communities across California celebrated Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, with processions and ceremonies honoring the loved ones they've lost. In San Francisco’s Mission District, festivities kicked off with Aztec dance troupes blessing altars on 24th Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You were born in these traditions and this is what's going to surround you to the day you die,” said Chabela Sanchez, who performs with Danza Azteca Xitlalli and has danced in events like these for more than 30 years. “You will be surrounded by the ancestors and prayer in this way. So we're going to bless you with the ceremony.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For some Mexican Americans, Aztec dancing helps them feel connected to their Indigenous roots. But if you see a performance and notice a crucifix being held or a guitarist strumming religious hymns in Spanish, those are European symbols and traditions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So even though there's a Catholic image behind it, there's that syncretism of why it had to be,” said Sanchez. “To be able to survive and be preserved.”[pullquote align=\"right\" size=\"medium\" citation=\"Roberto Vargas, Aztec dancer\"]'Danza represents the cosmos, and the cosmos has an order.'[/pullquote]\u003ca href=\"https://www.mexicolore.co.uk/aztecs/spanish-invasion/syncretism-aztec-christians\">Syncretism\u003c/a>, Sanchez explained, is the blending of two contradictory religious traditions. To keep dance traditions, Aztec performers trying to protect their Indigenous spiritual roots often concealed them under the guise of Catholicism, which helped divert unwanted hostility from Spanish colonizers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days some Indigenous people with roots in Latin America still practice some aspects of Catholicism as well as Indigenous traditions, and many Aztec troupes reflect a melding of those two religious traditions in their ceremonies throughout the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Xilonen ceremony\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In addition to Day of the Dead festivities, Aztec dancers perform at ceremonies throughout the year. During the summer solstice, drummers and dancers are key to the Xilonen, or the ceremony of the young corn, which is a coming-of-age ceremony for Latinx teenagers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It really is kind of an Aztec quinceañera,” said Sanchez. “Our girls run from ages 13 to 17.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At this summer’s Xilonen in the SOMA neighborhood of San Francisco, different dance troupes, each in their own matching Indigenous regalia, performed at a local park as part of an event hosted by Danza Azteca Xitlalli. Five teens in white knee-length dresses donned colorful feathers on their wrists and crowns made of corn husks, as Aztec dancers encircled them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Xilonen ceremony is one of many annual cultural milestones hosted by an Aztec dance troupe rather than by a family or a church.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Dancing nonstop for 30 hours\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>At least five Aztec dance troupes in San Francisco perform their own ceremonies throughout the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It can be a big commitment for the dancers, who sometimes get called at a moment’s notice to support a birth or death ceremony.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One of the kids that grew up here on the street died,” said Louie Gutierrez, director of Danza Azteca Coyolxauhqui, who lives in the Mission. “So they wanted to do a ritual for them, burn some sage, some copal.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11931036\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg class=\"size-full wp-image-11931036\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Aztec dancer in traditional dresswith head raised dances with others in a Mission District alley surrounded by colorful murals\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1703\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-800x532.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-160x106.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-1536x1022.jpg 1536w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-2048x1363.jpg 2048w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-1920x1278.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Louie Gutierrez (foreground), director of Danza Azteca Coyolxauhqui, and other Aztec dancers commemorate the Day of the Virgin Guadalupe by dancing in front of murals depicting the Virgin of Guadalupe around the Mission District during Paseo \u003cem>Artístico\u003c/em> on Dec. 9, 2017. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For a typical ceremony, performers may dance for 30 hours with breaks for prayer and food. There’s one annual event in December — a Catholic tribute to the Virgin Mary — where Gutierrez and his dancemates dance nonstop for an entire day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dancers show up for these marathon late-night events and practices while juggling full-time jobs. Gutierrez \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100057615303390\">runs the popular La Reyna bakery in the Mission\u003c/a>. But showing up for his community as a dancer is an unpaid gig.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Generals and captains\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Aztec dance groups are organized in \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100057615303390\">strict hierarchies\u003c/a>. Here’s how it works: Each dance group has a sergeant who reports to a regional captain, and the captains report to the highest-ranking position in Aztec dance: an Aztec dance general. That person is usually someone living in Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sanchez's husband, Roberto Vargas, also a longtime Aztec dancer, explained how the strict militaristic order of command helps everyone dance in unison.[pullquote align=\"right\" size=\"medium\" citation=\"Louie Gutierrez, director, Danza Azteca Coyolxauhqui\"]'The point of dancing is to bring health and well-being.'[/pullquote]“Danza represents the cosmos, and the cosmos has an order,” said Vargas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://mexicayotl.org/our-board/\">The Aztec dance higher-ups — the generals in Mexico\u003c/a> — set the rules and the tone on how dancing should be performed and on which events dance troupes are allowed to participate in. For a long time, Vargas said, the elders have shied away from participating in political events or protests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They don't want to align themselves with politicos because somebody could be cool one day and the next day, not cool,” he explained. “So you can't be affiliating with people who are wishy-washy, so it's sort of like the spiritual mission is more important than any political [one].”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A history of violence against dancers\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Another big reason why many Azteca dancers have avoided protests is because historical violence has been etched into their memory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Vargas remembers the Tlatelolco massacre in the days before the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico. Eyewitnesses say government forces opened fire on student protesters, killing hundreds. \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=97546687\">The tragedy and its aftermath had a chilling effect on student activists and cultural performers.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Over there [in Mexico], they have memories of once again people being killed,” said Vargas. “You risk your life standing up against the government.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That comes on top of historical violence against Indigenous people — including dancers — since colonization.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“During the early years of bringing the danza out to the public, people were getting attacked and jailed and killed for practicing these traditions,” explained Vargas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11930976\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg class=\"wp-image-11930976 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut.jpg\" alt=\"An Aztec dancer in colorful feathered head dresses garb plays a traditional percussion instrument as another dancer stands in the background on a lawn surrounded by onlookers\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1278\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut.jpg 1920w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut-1536x1022.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Teokalli Aztec Dancers from the Bay Area and Mexico City dance during the third annual Indigenous Peoples Day Commemoration at Yerba Buena Gardens in San Francisco on Oct. 11, 2021. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But in the U.S., Sanchez said, many dancers see performing as an inherently political act because they are reclaiming their Indigenous cultural identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A number of troupes, for example, performed at the \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Indians-gather-on-Alcatraz-in-memory-of-occupation-5019944.php\">Indigenous Peoples Day Sunrise Gathering\u003c/a> last month, an event that challenges centuries of colonization and genocide with a gathering on Alcatraz Island that features both Aztec and Native American dancers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The point of dancing is to bring health and well-being,” said Gutierrez, adding that dancing has helped him focus his energy in a positive direction. It’s a huge part of his quest for a healthier lifestyle and of his spiritual journey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gutierrez and Sanchez are always keeping an eye out, scouting for the next generation of dancers to carry on this tradition. They know it may take a while for younger dancers to fully understand how vital they are to the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When you see a Danza Azteca performance and you feel pulled in by the dancers, Sanchez said, that’s your heart being conquered. You want to be a part of it. She recited the motto that guides all Aztec dancers: \"Union, conformidad y conquista.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Loosely translated, it means: We dance united, we dance together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"headline": "'We Dance United': Aztec Dance Troupes Preserve a Proud Heritage for Bay Area's Latinx Community",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>This week, communities across California celebrated Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, with processions and ceremonies honoring the loved ones they've lost. In San Francisco’s Mission District, festivities kicked off with Aztec dance troupes blessing altars on 24th Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You were born in these traditions and this is what's going to surround you to the day you die,” said Chabela Sanchez, who performs with Danza Azteca Xitlalli and has danced in events like these for more than 30 years. “You will be surrounded by the ancestors and prayer in this way. So we're going to bless you with the ceremony.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For some Mexican Americans, Aztec dancing helps them feel connected to their Indigenous roots. But if you see a performance and notice a crucifix being held or a guitarist strumming religious hymns in Spanish, those are European symbols and traditions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“So even though there's a Catholic image behind it, there's that syncretism of why it had to be,” said Sanchez. “To be able to survive and be preserved.”\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.mexicolore.co.uk/aztecs/spanish-invasion/syncretism-aztec-christians\">Syncretism\u003c/a>, Sanchez explained, is the blending of two contradictory religious traditions. To keep dance traditions, Aztec performers trying to protect their Indigenous spiritual roots often concealed them under the guise of Catholicism, which helped divert unwanted hostility from Spanish colonizers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days some Indigenous people with roots in Latin America still practice some aspects of Catholicism as well as Indigenous traditions, and many Aztec troupes reflect a melding of those two religious traditions in their ceremonies throughout the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Xilonen ceremony\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In addition to Day of the Dead festivities, Aztec dancers perform at ceremonies throughout the year. During the summer solstice, drummers and dancers are key to the Xilonen, or the ceremony of the young corn, which is a coming-of-age ceremony for Latinx teenagers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It really is kind of an Aztec quinceañera,” said Sanchez. “Our girls run from ages 13 to 17.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At this summer’s Xilonen in the SOMA neighborhood of San Francisco, different dance troupes, each in their own matching Indigenous regalia, performed at a local park as part of an event hosted by Danza Azteca Xitlalli. Five teens in white knee-length dresses donned colorful feathers on their wrists and crowns made of corn husks, as Aztec dancers encircled them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Xilonen ceremony is one of many annual cultural milestones hosted by an Aztec dance troupe rather than by a family or a church.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Dancing nonstop for 30 hours\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>At least five Aztec dance troupes in San Francisco perform their own ceremonies throughout the year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It can be a big commitment for the dancers, who sometimes get called at a moment’s notice to support a birth or death ceremony.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One of the kids that grew up here on the street died,” said Louie Gutierrez, director of Danza Azteca Coyolxauhqui, who lives in the Mission. “So they wanted to do a ritual for them, burn some sage, some copal.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11931036\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg class=\"size-full wp-image-11931036\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Aztec dancer in traditional dresswith head raised dances with others in a Mission District alley surrounded by colorful murals\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1703\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-800x532.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-160x106.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-1536x1022.jpg 1536w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-2048x1363.jpg 2048w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/012_Calle24_PaseoArtistico_12092017_7693-1920x1278.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Louie Gutierrez (foreground), director of Danza Azteca Coyolxauhqui, and other Aztec dancers commemorate the Day of the Virgin Guadalupe by dancing in front of murals depicting the Virgin of Guadalupe around the Mission District during Paseo \u003cem>Artístico\u003c/em> on Dec. 9, 2017. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>For a typical ceremony, performers may dance for 30 hours with breaks for prayer and food. There’s one annual event in December — a Catholic tribute to the Virgin Mary — where Gutierrez and his dancemates dance nonstop for an entire day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dancers show up for these marathon late-night events and practices while juggling full-time jobs. Gutierrez \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100057615303390\">runs the popular La Reyna bakery in the Mission\u003c/a>. But showing up for his community as a dancer is an unpaid gig.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Generals and captains\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Aztec dance groups are organized in \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100057615303390\">strict hierarchies\u003c/a>. Here’s how it works: Each dance group has a sergeant who reports to a regional captain, and the captains report to the highest-ranking position in Aztec dance: an Aztec dance general. That person is usually someone living in Mexico.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sanchez's husband, Roberto Vargas, also a longtime Aztec dancer, explained how the strict militaristic order of command helps everyone dance in unison.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“Danza represents the cosmos, and the cosmos has an order,” said Vargas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"http://mexicayotl.org/our-board/\">The Aztec dance higher-ups — the generals in Mexico\u003c/a> — set the rules and the tone on how dancing should be performed and on which events dance troupes are allowed to participate in. For a long time, Vargas said, the elders have shied away from participating in political events or protests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They don't want to align themselves with politicos because somebody could be cool one day and the next day, not cool,” he explained. “So you can't be affiliating with people who are wishy-washy, so it's sort of like the spiritual mission is more important than any political [one].”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A history of violence against dancers\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Another big reason why many Azteca dancers have avoided protests is because historical violence has been etched into their memory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Vargas remembers the Tlatelolco massacre in the days before the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico. Eyewitnesses say government forces opened fire on student protesters, killing hundreds. \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=97546687\">The tragedy and its aftermath had a chilling effect on student activists and cultural performers.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Over there [in Mexico], they have memories of once again people being killed,” said Vargas. “You risk your life standing up against the government.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That comes on top of historical violence against Indigenous people — including dancers — since colonization.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“During the early years of bringing the danza out to the public, people were getting attacked and jailed and killed for practicing these traditions,” explained Vargas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11930976\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg class=\"wp-image-11930976 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut.jpg\" alt=\"An Aztec dancer in colorful feathered head dresses garb plays a traditional percussion instrument as another dancer stands in the background on a lawn surrounded by onlookers\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1278\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut.jpg 1920w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/RS51910_083_SanFrancisco_IndigenousPeoplesDay_10112021-qut-1536x1022.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Teokalli Aztec Dancers from the Bay Area and Mexico City dance during the third annual Indigenous Peoples Day Commemoration at Yerba Buena Gardens in San Francisco on Oct. 11, 2021. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But in the U.S., Sanchez said, many dancers see performing as an inherently political act because they are reclaiming their Indigenous cultural identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A number of troupes, for example, performed at the \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/Indians-gather-on-Alcatraz-in-memory-of-occupation-5019944.php\">Indigenous Peoples Day Sunrise Gathering\u003c/a> last month, an event that challenges centuries of colonization and genocide with a gathering on Alcatraz Island that features both Aztec and Native American dancers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The point of dancing is to bring health and well-being,” said Gutierrez, adding that dancing has helped him focus his energy in a positive direction. It’s a huge part of his quest for a healthier lifestyle and of his spiritual journey.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gutierrez and Sanchez are always keeping an eye out, scouting for the next generation of dancers to carry on this tradition. They know it may take a while for younger dancers to fully understand how vital they are to the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When you see a Danza Azteca performance and you feel pulled in by the dancers, Sanchez said, that’s your heart being conquered. You want to be a part of it. She recited the motto that guides all Aztec dancers: \"Union, conformidad y conquista.\"\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Loosely translated, it means: We dance united, we dance together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"disqusTitle": "How Fruitvale Honors the Dead During a COVID-Era Día de los Muertos",
"title": "How Fruitvale Honors the Dead During a COVID-Era Día de los Muertos",
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"content": "\u003cp>Día de los Muertos celebrations, taking place through Wednesday across the Bay Area, evoke messages of healing and reflection that are particularly resonant as the pandemic stretches well into its third year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the biggest events happened Sunday in Oakland’s Fruitvale neighborhood, which is majority Latino and was among \u003ca href=\"https://calmatters.org/projects/california-coronavirus-overcrowded-neighborhoods-homes/\">the ZIP codes facing the highest case rates in California\u003c/a> at the height of the pandemic. The theme was “Honoring Our Essential Workers” — the roles that kept the economy moving during lockdowns and were predominantly \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11815391/in-bay-area-women-and-people-of-color-shoulder-most-front-line-work-during-pandemic\">made up of people of color\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Fruitvale is the land of the essential workers — from our merchants, to small-business owners, our restaurant workers, campesinos, firefighters,” said Caheri Gutierrez, senior manager of communications and external affairs with The Unity Council, which organizes the festival. “Everyone in the Fruitvale is an essential worker, so we’re honoring them and uplifting them.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the ofrendas, or altars, along the Fruitvale Village complex was dedicated to farmworkers: A masked skeleton wearing a bright orange shirt, jeans, a straw hat, work gloves and boots tends the soil, with a can adorned in cempasúchil, or marigolds, to hold the maize. The ground, made of real soil, also included a variety of indigenous maize ranging from purple to red.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11931053\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg class=\"size-medium wp-image-11931053\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A person stands to the right wearing a long black dress with matching veil and face mask. Behind them, an ofrenda described in the story with a skeletal worker tending to some corn.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-800x533.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-160x107.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The artist of this ofrenda , Nahui Tochtli, dedicates the altar to the farmers workers. Tochtli includes the the farmworker skeleton tending real-life soil and in the foreground viewers can see the with range of different types of corn from domesticated to the multi-color indigenous corn. Photo taken at the Fruitvale Village complex on October 30, 2022. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“In our culture, corn is a very important vegetable because it’s also a symbol of growth,” said Nahui Tochtli, the artist who created this ofrenda, who is dressed as La Catrina, an elegant skeleton associated with the holiday, with a black veil. “It doesn't really die, but it just keeps on living.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tochtli, who has been participating in the festival for eight years, said her altar this year is inspired in part by her own personal loss. Her uncle died a year ago from COVID-19. He worked two jobs, one as a shoemaker and the second as a farmworker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He died in a hospital and I didn’t get the chance to see him again,” she said. “None of us were able to go inside the hospital and say their goodbyes or farewells. It was really sad.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around 25 ofrendas were featured at the festival. They were multisensory, featuring everything from the songs enjoyed by departed loved ones to cinnamon-scented pan de muerto, to sugar skulls in eye-popping colors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11930979\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg class=\"size-medium wp-image-11930979\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1634-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A group of dancers wearing various styles of traditional clothing, several including feathered headpieces, stand in a line side by side. Their arms extended, most appear to hold goblets with smoke coming from them. The performers stand amid a larger crowd of onlookers. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Marisol Solis Luna's daughter pats for attention during a Danza Azteca performance at Oakland's Día de los Muertos festival in the Fruitvale neighborhood on October 30, 2022. The Aztec Dance performance incorporates all the groups from Oakland to bless the altars or ofrendas. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Stephanie Jauregui, a first-time ofrenda maker, had a cempasúchil flower arrangement and a bottle of Modelo beer honoring youth from Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Even understanding that, like, students from Oakland, like sometimes we did dabble in like stuff like that,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jauregui’s altar is dedicated in part to her own personal friends whom she has lost over the years. The 22-year-old youth organizer for Californians for Justice said this tribute doesn’t end on Día de los Muertos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I just want to honor them in a bigger scale than what I've done, like in my own altar at home,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11931055\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg class=\"size-medium wp-image-11931055\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A person in a white dress appears to walk toward the camera. They have face paint on half of their face and a headpiece. Behind them, similarly dressed dancers perform on a stage. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-800x533.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-160x107.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A dancer from Ballet Folklorico Netzahualcoyotl smiles as their group exits the stage at Oakland's Día de los Muertos festival on October 30, 2022. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Día de los Muertos celebrations, taking place through Wednesday across the Bay Area, evoke messages of healing and reflection that are particularly resonant as the pandemic stretches well into its third year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the biggest events happened Sunday in Oakland’s Fruitvale neighborhood, which is majority Latino and was among \u003ca href=\"https://calmatters.org/projects/california-coronavirus-overcrowded-neighborhoods-homes/\">the ZIP codes facing the highest case rates in California\u003c/a> at the height of the pandemic. The theme was “Honoring Our Essential Workers” — the roles that kept the economy moving during lockdowns and were predominantly \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11815391/in-bay-area-women-and-people-of-color-shoulder-most-front-line-work-during-pandemic\">made up of people of color\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Fruitvale is the land of the essential workers — from our merchants, to small-business owners, our restaurant workers, campesinos, firefighters,” said Caheri Gutierrez, senior manager of communications and external affairs with The Unity Council, which organizes the festival. “Everyone in the Fruitvale is an essential worker, so we’re honoring them and uplifting them.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the ofrendas, or altars, along the Fruitvale Village complex was dedicated to farmworkers: A masked skeleton wearing a bright orange shirt, jeans, a straw hat, work gloves and boots tends the soil, with a can adorned in cempasúchil, or marigolds, to hold the maize. The ground, made of real soil, also included a variety of indigenous maize ranging from purple to red.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11931053\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg class=\"size-medium wp-image-11931053\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A person stands to the right wearing a long black dress with matching veil and face mask. Behind them, an ofrenda described in the story with a skeletal worker tending to some corn.\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-800x533.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-160x107.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1596-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The artist of this ofrenda , Nahui Tochtli, dedicates the altar to the farmers workers. Tochtli includes the the farmworker skeleton tending real-life soil and in the foreground viewers can see the with range of different types of corn from domesticated to the multi-color indigenous corn. Photo taken at the Fruitvale Village complex on October 30, 2022. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“In our culture, corn is a very important vegetable because it’s also a symbol of growth,” said Nahui Tochtli, the artist who created this ofrenda, who is dressed as La Catrina, an elegant skeleton associated with the holiday, with a black veil. “It doesn't really die, but it just keeps on living.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tochtli, who has been participating in the festival for eight years, said her altar this year is inspired in part by her own personal loss. Her uncle died a year ago from COVID-19. He worked two jobs, one as a shoemaker and the second as a farmworker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He died in a hospital and I didn’t get the chance to see him again,” she said. “None of us were able to go inside the hospital and say their goodbyes or farewells. It was really sad.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Around 25 ofrendas were featured at the festival. They were multisensory, featuring everything from the songs enjoyed by departed loved ones to cinnamon-scented pan de muerto, to sugar skulls in eye-popping colors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11930979\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg class=\"size-medium wp-image-11930979\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1634-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A group of dancers wearing various styles of traditional clothing, several including feathered headpieces, stand in a line side by side. Their arms extended, most appear to hold goblets with smoke coming from them. The performers stand amid a larger crowd of onlookers. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Marisol Solis Luna's daughter pats for attention during a Danza Azteca performance at Oakland's Día de los Muertos festival in the Fruitvale neighborhood on October 30, 2022. The Aztec Dance performance incorporates all the groups from Oakland to bless the altars or ofrendas. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Stephanie Jauregui, a first-time ofrenda maker, had a cempasúchil flower arrangement and a bottle of Modelo beer honoring youth from Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Even understanding that, like, students from Oakland, like sometimes we did dabble in like stuff like that,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jauregui’s altar is dedicated in part to her own personal friends whom she has lost over the years. The 22-year-old youth organizer for Californians for Justice said this tribute doesn’t end on Día de los Muertos.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I just want to honor them in a bigger scale than what I've done, like in my own altar at home,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11931055\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg class=\"size-medium wp-image-11931055\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"A person in a white dress appears to walk toward the camera. They have face paint on half of their face and a headpiece. Behind them, similarly dressed dancers perform on a stage. \" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-800x533.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-160x107.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-2048x1365.jpg 2048w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/20221030FruitvaleFest-1766-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A dancer from Ballet Folklorico Netzahualcoyotl smiles as their group exits the stage at Oakland's Día de los Muertos festival on October 30, 2022. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Are You Inked? How a San Francisco Tattoo Artist Changed the Industry",
"headTitle": "Are You Inked? How a San Francisco Tattoo Artist Changed the Industry | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>The recent popularity of tattoos is undeniable. A decade ago, about 20% of Americans had a tattoo. Now \u003ca href=\"https://www.ipsos.com/en-us/news-polls/more-americans-have-tattoos-today\">that number is up to about 30%\u003c/a>. But just because their popularity is exploding doesn’t mean they’re anything new.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, the 5,300-year-old mummy Ötzi has \u003ca href=\"https://www.discovermagazine.com/planet-earth/scientists-have-mapped-all-of-otzi-the-icemans-61-tattoos\">61 sprinkled across his body\u003c/a>!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, yeah, tattooing is old, which is partly why it’s surprising that San Francisco — a relatively young city — has left a mark on American tattoo history.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>American tattoos come in many forms\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Tattoos were common in the United States long before Europeans came here. \u003ca href=\"https://uwpressblog.com/2015/03/11/tattoo-traditions-of-native-north-america/\">Tattoos meant different things in various Native American tribes\u003c/a> and many believed \u003ca href=\"https://indiancountrytoday.com/archive/native-american-tattoos-influenced-body-art-industry\">they helped protect people and heal the body\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Among Americans of European decent, tattoos were strongly associated with the military, starting around the time of the Civil War. In 1891, tattooer and inventor Samuel O’Reilly received a patent for the first electric tattoo machine. \u003ca href=\"https://edison.rutgers.edu/life-of-edison/inventions?view=article&id=533:electric-pen&catid=91\">It modified Thomas Edison’s electric pen\u003c/a>, replacing the pen with a needle that stored ink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before O’Reilly’s machine, tattoo artists punctured the skin two to three times per second. The new machine had a motor that drove the needle up and down, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sparkmuseum.org/the-first-practical-electric-motor-in-a-tattoo-gun/\">increasing the perforation rate to 50 times per second\u003c/a> and revolutionizing tattooing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917228\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-11917228\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-800x1175.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1175\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-800x1175.png 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-1020x1498.png 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-160x235.png 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-1046x1536.png 1046w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-1394x2048.png 1394w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-1920x2820.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Thomas Edison’s patent for the electric pen.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the early 20th century, tattoos were still largely seen on people outside of mainstream society: soldiers, sailors and some circus performers who showed off their heavily tattooed bodies to enthralled crowds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And because tattoos were so connected to the military, the designs were often nostalgic. Soldiers would get the names of people they wanted to remember inked on their skin — mothers, daughters and girlfriends. Or, they’d get designs that over time came to symbolize specific things. The swallow, for example, meant that a sailor had traveled over 5,000 nautical miles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This style of tattooing grew into what is now known as American traditional. It has two recognizable design features: First, the tattoos use bright, saturated colors like yellow, red and green, with black for shading. Primary colors stay clear and eye-catching over a person’s whole lifetime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Second, American traditional tattoos have easily identifiable designs and motifs like hearts, skulls, anchors, roses and other kinds of flowers. Over time this visual vocabulary became common enough that tattoo artists would display the most popular designs in their shops, called “flash.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During World War II, soldiers poured into San Francisco before shipping out to the Pacific theater. Many stopped into local tattoo shops and inked familiar flash tattoos on themselves as reminders of home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917215\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11917215\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A hand points to sheets of tattoo designs hanging on the wall. The designs feature 415 in honor of 415 Day.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tattoo artist Kyra Monterrosa points to a sheet of flash tattoos she designed for a 415 Day event at Rebel Gallery in San Francisco’s Bayview neighborhood. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And during the war, American soldiers came in contact with people from all over the world. They would have seen tattoos on people in Japan and the Pacific Islands, and they may even have gotten more tattoos while deployed. When the war finally ended, Americans didn’t want to return to the way things had been. Society was poised for some major social changes.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Counterculture movements make tattoos mainstream\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“In the decades after World War II, and particularly after 1960, we see a spread of tattoo culture throughout popular culture in the U.S.,” said Nina Jablonski, a professor of anthropology at Pennsylvania State University and author of the book “\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Skin-Natural-Nina-G-Jablonski/dp/0520242815\">Skin: A Natural History\u003c/a>.” “It becomes not necessarily legitimized, but much more popular.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>People were still getting American traditional flash tattoos, but now they were associated with countercultural movements.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, women were challenging the beauty norms of the day as part of the women’s liberation movement. Janis Joplin famously showed off her tattoo on The Tonight Show, \u003ca href=\"https://lyletuttlecollection.com/history\">done by San Francisco tattoo artist Lyle Tuttle\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>American tattoo culture is ripe for change\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917222\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"wp-image-11917222 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-800x919.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"919\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-800x919.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-1020x1171.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-160x184.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-1338x1536.jpg 1338w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-1784x2048.jpg 1784w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs.jpg 1882w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ed Hardy at a tattoo convention in Sacramento circa 1980. \u003ccite>(Manfred Kohrs/Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It was during the explosion of interest in tattooing in the 1960s and ’70s that \u003ca href=\"https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/hate-the-brand-love-the-man-why-ed-hardy-matters/\">a guy named Ed Hardy popped onto the scene\u003c/a>. Hardy was first and foremost an artist. He graduated from the San Francisco Art Institute with a degree in printmaking in 1967 and was offered a scholarship to continue his studies at Yale.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One day he decided to get a tattoo. While he was there, his tattooer, a guy named Phil Sparrow, showed him a book that changed the course of his life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He brought a book out and it was Japanese bodysuit tattooing,” said Mary Joy Scott, owner of Raven Eye Tattoo in San Francisco’s Richmond district and a student of Hardy. “When Ed saw that, he decided to leave behind the whole art world and become a tattooer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917226\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"wp-image-11917226 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-800x563.jpg\" alt=\"Mary Scott poses in front of Raven Eye Tattoo. \" width=\"800\" height=\"563\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-800x563.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-1020x718.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-160x113.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-1536x1081.jpg 1536w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-2048x1441.jpg 2048w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-1920x1351.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mary Joy Scott stands in front of Raven Eye Tattoo, a shop she opened in early 2021 in San Francisco’s Richmond District. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Mino-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Japanese bodysuits are complex, subtly shaded and beautiful. They cover the body in a way Hardy had never seen before. He wanted to know more about how Japanese tattoo artists created those effects, so he turned down the Yale scholarship and moved to Japan to study for five months with tattoo master Kazuo Oguri, sometimes known as Horihide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over thousands of years, Japanese tattoo artists have developed techniques using a bamboo stick, called a tebori, that has several needles grouped on one end. The tebori allows the artist to create much more complicated designs than were common at that time in the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917236\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 366px\">\u003ca href=\"https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irezumi#\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11917236\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/Kusakabe_Kimbei_-_153._Japanese_Tattoo.jpg\" alt=\"A Japanese man stands shirtless with his back to the camera, leaning on a fence. His entire back is tattooed in an intricate and colorful pattern.\" width=\"366\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/Kusakabe_Kimbei_-_153._Japanese_Tattoo.jpg 366w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/Kusakabe_Kimbei_-_153._Japanese_Tattoo-160x210.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 366px) 100vw, 366px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An example of classical Japanese tattooing circa 1875. \u003ccite>(Kusakabe Kimbei/\u003ca href=\"https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irezumi\">Wikimedia Commons\u003c/a>)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“There are multiple sharp needles that are dipped in some kind of a pigment and then tapped into the skin,” said Jablonski, of Pennsylvania State University. “These needles are in groups so you can get lines, you can get dots. Very complex designs can be made.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With American traditional tattooing, a person collects individual designs over a lifetime, slowly covering the body. Japanese traditional, on the other hand, is about one idea or scene taking over the entire body.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ed Hardy took the two styles and blended them. He opened a shop called Realistic Tattoo in San Francisco in 1974. He became known for custom tattoos — images designed specifically for a client, often referencing something personal in their life. Custom tattoos are often bigger than flash and complexly shaded like the Japanese style, although they don’t often cover the majority of the body the way a Japanese bodysuit does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>People loved the idea of custom tattoos, even making special trips to the city to get inked by Hardy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Ed Hardy basically spoke to that interest in not only bringing these new design elements, but personalizing them,” Jablonski said. “‘I want to express what’s in your heart, what you aspire to.'”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, \u003ca href=\"https://www.cnn.com/2013/09/04/living/fashion-ed-hardy-profile/index.html\">Ed Hardy is better known for his clothing designs\u003c/a> than for his impact on tattoo culture, but make no mistake — he was a founder. Many of the tattoos you see on people walking around today are the direct legacy of his vision.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://youtu.be/K9gGbJ9J-cA\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’d love to see your custom tattoos! Take a picture and share it with us on Twitter, tagging \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/oallenprice\">@oallenprice\u003c/a> or using the hashtag #BayCurious. Be sure to tell us what the tattoo means to you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "You may know Ed Hardy for his clothing designs, but he's also one of the most important American tattoo artists in history. He's credited with coming up with custom-designed tattoos that reflect people's personal life stories.",
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"description": "You may know Ed Hardy for his clothing designs, but he's also one of the most important American tattoo artists in history. He's credited with coming up with custom-designed tattoos that reflect people's personal life stories.",
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"subhead": "You may know Ed Hardy for his clothing designs, but he's also a big name in custom tattooing.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>The recent popularity of tattoos is undeniable. A decade ago, about 20% of Americans had a tattoo. Now \u003ca href=\"https://www.ipsos.com/en-us/news-polls/more-americans-have-tattoos-today\">that number is up to about 30%\u003c/a>. But just because their popularity is exploding doesn’t mean they’re anything new.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In fact, the 5,300-year-old mummy Ötzi has \u003ca href=\"https://www.discovermagazine.com/planet-earth/scientists-have-mapped-all-of-otzi-the-icemans-61-tattoos\">61 sprinkled across his body\u003c/a>!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So, yeah, tattooing is old, which is partly why it’s surprising that San Francisco — a relatively young city — has left a mark on American tattoo history.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>American tattoos come in many forms\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Tattoos were common in the United States long before Europeans came here. \u003ca href=\"https://uwpressblog.com/2015/03/11/tattoo-traditions-of-native-north-america/\">Tattoos meant different things in various Native American tribes\u003c/a> and many believed \u003ca href=\"https://indiancountrytoday.com/archive/native-american-tattoos-influenced-body-art-industry\">they helped protect people and heal the body\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Among Americans of European decent, tattoos were strongly associated with the military, starting around the time of the Civil War. In 1891, tattooer and inventor Samuel O’Reilly received a patent for the first electric tattoo machine. \u003ca href=\"https://edison.rutgers.edu/life-of-edison/inventions?view=article&id=533:electric-pen&catid=91\">It modified Thomas Edison’s electric pen\u003c/a>, replacing the pen with a needle that stored ink.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Before O’Reilly’s machine, tattoo artists punctured the skin two to three times per second. The new machine had a motor that drove the needle up and down, \u003ca href=\"https://www.sparkmuseum.org/the-first-practical-electric-motor-in-a-tattoo-gun/\">increasing the perforation rate to 50 times per second\u003c/a> and revolutionizing tattooing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917228\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-11917228\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-800x1175.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"1175\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-800x1175.png 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-1020x1498.png 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-160x235.png 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-1046x1536.png 1046w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-1394x2048.png 1394w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/US180857-drawings-page-2-1920x2820.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Thomas Edison’s patent for the electric pen.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the early 20th century, tattoos were still largely seen on people outside of mainstream society: soldiers, sailors and some circus performers who showed off their heavily tattooed bodies to enthralled crowds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And because tattoos were so connected to the military, the designs were often nostalgic. Soldiers would get the names of people they wanted to remember inked on their skin — mothers, daughters and girlfriends. Or, they’d get designs that over time came to symbolize specific things. The swallow, for example, meant that a sailor had traveled over 5,000 nautical miles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This style of tattooing grew into what is now known as American traditional. It has two recognizable design features: First, the tattoos use bright, saturated colors like yellow, red and green, with black for shading. Primary colors stay clear and eye-catching over a person’s whole lifetime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Second, American traditional tattoos have easily identifiable designs and motifs like hearts, skulls, anchors, roses and other kinds of flowers. Over time this visual vocabulary became common enough that tattoo artists would display the most popular designs in their shops, called “flash.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During World War II, soldiers poured into San Francisco before shipping out to the Pacific theater. Many stopped into local tattoo shops and inked familiar flash tattoos on themselves as reminders of home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917215\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11917215\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut.jpg\" alt=\"A hand points to sheets of tattoo designs hanging on the wall. The designs feature 415 in honor of 415 Day.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/RS55388_016_KQED_RebelGalleryTattoo415Day_04152022-qut-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tattoo artist Kyra Monterrosa points to a sheet of flash tattoos she designed for a 415 Day event at Rebel Gallery in San Francisco’s Bayview neighborhood. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>And during the war, American soldiers came in contact with people from all over the world. They would have seen tattoos on people in Japan and the Pacific Islands, and they may even have gotten more tattoos while deployed. When the war finally ended, Americans didn’t want to return to the way things had been. Society was poised for some major social changes.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Counterculture movements make tattoos mainstream\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“In the decades after World War II, and particularly after 1960, we see a spread of tattoo culture throughout popular culture in the U.S.,” said Nina Jablonski, a professor of anthropology at Pennsylvania State University and author of the book “\u003ca href=\"https://www.amazon.com/Skin-Natural-Nina-G-Jablonski/dp/0520242815\">Skin: A Natural History\u003c/a>.” “It becomes not necessarily legitimized, but much more popular.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>People were still getting American traditional flash tattoos, but now they were associated with countercultural movements.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the Bay Area, women were challenging the beauty norms of the day as part of the women’s liberation movement. Janis Joplin famously showed off her tattoo on The Tonight Show, \u003ca href=\"https://lyletuttlecollection.com/history\">done by San Francisco tattoo artist Lyle Tuttle\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>American tattoo culture is ripe for change\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917222\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"wp-image-11917222 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-800x919.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"919\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-800x919.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-1020x1171.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-160x184.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-1338x1536.jpg 1338w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs-1784x2048.jpg 1784w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/1882px-Ed_Hardy_1980_tattoo_collection_kohrs.jpg 1882w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ed Hardy at a tattoo convention in Sacramento circa 1980. \u003ccite>(Manfred Kohrs/Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It was during the explosion of interest in tattooing in the 1960s and ’70s that \u003ca href=\"https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/hate-the-brand-love-the-man-why-ed-hardy-matters/\">a guy named Ed Hardy popped onto the scene\u003c/a>. Hardy was first and foremost an artist. He graduated from the San Francisco Art Institute with a degree in printmaking in 1967 and was offered a scholarship to continue his studies at Yale.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One day he decided to get a tattoo. While he was there, his tattooer, a guy named Phil Sparrow, showed him a book that changed the course of his life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“He brought a book out and it was Japanese bodysuit tattooing,” said Mary Joy Scott, owner of Raven Eye Tattoo in San Francisco’s Richmond district and a student of Hardy. “When Ed saw that, he decided to leave behind the whole art world and become a tattooer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917226\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"wp-image-11917226 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-800x563.jpg\" alt=\"Mary Scott poses in front of Raven Eye Tattoo. \" width=\"800\" height=\"563\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-800x563.jpg 800w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-1020x718.jpg 1020w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-160x113.jpg 160w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-1536x1081.jpg 1536w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-2048x1441.jpg 2048w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/IMG_0964-1920x1351.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mary Joy Scott stands in front of Raven Eye Tattoo, a shop she opened in early 2021 in San Francisco’s Richmond District. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Mino-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Japanese bodysuits are complex, subtly shaded and beautiful. They cover the body in a way Hardy had never seen before. He wanted to know more about how Japanese tattoo artists created those effects, so he turned down the Yale scholarship and moved to Japan to study for five months with tattoo master Kazuo Oguri, sometimes known as Horihide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over thousands of years, Japanese tattoo artists have developed techniques using a bamboo stick, called a tebori, that has several needles grouped on one end. The tebori allows the artist to create much more complicated designs than were common at that time in the U.S.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11917236\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 366px\">\u003ca href=\"https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irezumi#\">\u003cimg decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11917236\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/Kusakabe_Kimbei_-_153._Japanese_Tattoo.jpg\" alt=\"A Japanese man stands shirtless with his back to the camera, leaning on a fence. His entire back is tattooed in an intricate and colorful pattern.\" width=\"366\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/Kusakabe_Kimbei_-_153._Japanese_Tattoo.jpg 366w, https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/06/Kusakabe_Kimbei_-_153._Japanese_Tattoo-160x210.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 366px) 100vw, 366px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An example of classical Japanese tattooing circa 1875. \u003ccite>(Kusakabe Kimbei/\u003ca href=\"https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irezumi\">Wikimedia Commons\u003c/a>)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“There are multiple sharp needles that are dipped in some kind of a pigment and then tapped into the skin,” said Jablonski, of Pennsylvania State University. “These needles are in groups so you can get lines, you can get dots. Very complex designs can be made.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With American traditional tattooing, a person collects individual designs over a lifetime, slowly covering the body. Japanese traditional, on the other hand, is about one idea or scene taking over the entire body.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ed Hardy took the two styles and blended them. He opened a shop called Realistic Tattoo in San Francisco in 1974. He became known for custom tattoos — images designed specifically for a client, often referencing something personal in their life. Custom tattoos are often bigger than flash and complexly shaded like the Japanese style, although they don’t often cover the majority of the body the way a Japanese bodysuit does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>People loved the idea of custom tattoos, even making special trips to the city to get inked by Hardy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Ed Hardy basically spoke to that interest in not only bringing these new design elements, but personalizing them,” Jablonski said. “‘I want to express what’s in your heart, what you aspire to.'”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, \u003ca href=\"https://www.cnn.com/2013/09/04/living/fashion-ed-hardy-profile/index.html\">Ed Hardy is better known for his clothing designs\u003c/a> than for his impact on tattoo culture, but make no mistake — he was a founder. Many of the tattoos you see on people walking around today are the direct legacy of his vision.\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/K9gGbJ9J-cA'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/K9gGbJ9J-cA'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>We’d love to see your custom tattoos! Take a picture and share it with us on Twitter, tagging \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/oallenprice\">@oallenprice\u003c/a> or using the hashtag #BayCurious. Be sure to tell us what the tattoo means to you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "Latinos in La Misión: A Story of Resistance and Community",
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"content": "\u003cp>If you walk down 24th Street today, you’ll see colorful murals and papel picado hanging overhead, and smell Latinx food being cooked. How did this area come to be the center of Latinx life and community in San Francisco?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Mission wasn’t always this way. It’s actually one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city and has been home to many different people. It was home to the Yelamu, who spoke the Ramaytush language and were one of more than 50 Ohlone groups to live in the Bay Area for hundreds of years before Europeans came. In 1770, the Spanish arrived and chose the Mission for their settlement. But as with most California history, when gold was found in 1848 it changed everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The news about the gold rush spread internationally, and people with mining experience from places like Mexico, Chile and Peru came looking for a shot at fortune. When they arrived, many established homes near present-day North Beach, along Broadway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s what the people will call, in so many ways, the Latin Quarter,” said Carlos Cordova, professor emeritus at San Francisco State University. “That was really the hub where people in the community would do their economic business.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The shift from gold mines to factories\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the 1860s, fewer and fewer miners were striking it rich in the gold fields. But people kept coming to San Francisco for new jobs being created here. Emigrants with capital started businesses, and San Francisco’s deep-water harbor was a thriving port. The city was growing and work was plentiful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Francisco’s early Latinx residents made their mark on the city in many ways. Take the Potrero Hill neighborhood: “Potrero” is a Spanish word.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11908448\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2646px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11908448\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission.png\" alt=\"Two black and white photos. The on top shows the Mission District without much development. The bottom photo was taken 35 years later and far more houses dot the horizon.\" width=\"2646\" height=\"930\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission.png 2646w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-800x281.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-1020x359.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-160x56.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-1536x540.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-2048x720.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-1920x675.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2646px) 100vw, 2646px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two photos of the Mission District. The top image is from 1856, the bottom from 1891. Both were taken near Harrison and 16th streets. \u003ccite>(San Francisco History Center, San Francisco Public Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“That means the place where you keep the horses and other animals, four-legged animals, cattle,” Cordova said. “And there were many slaughterhouses in that area.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tanneries and shoe factories opened in Potrero Hill, too. A lot of Latinx residents living in the Latin Quarter got jobs at those slaughterhouses and factories and moved to the neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Across town, coffee brands like Hills Brothers and Folgers established warehouses along the Embarcadero and near Rincon Hill. They’d import the coffee from Central and South America and employ Latinx people living here who knew their way around coffee production. These large employers meant that at the end of the 1800s and during the turn of the 20th century, most of San Francisco’s Latinx residents lived in what we now know as North Beach, in Potrero Hill and near Rincon Hill. Soon more manufacturing would emerge in the Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One of the oldest companies here in San Francisco was Levi Strauss,” Cordova said. “And many Latinos, African Americans and Asian women actually worked there as seamstresses.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though Latinx folk were employed at the Levi Strauss factory at 14th and Valencia streets in the Mission, they didn’t live in the neighborhood yet. Most of the homes were owned by Irish, Italian and Russian immigrants who had settled in the Mission earlier. Twenty-Fourth Street, now the beating heart of latinidad in San Francisco, was an Irish stronghold in the early part of the 20th century, said Cordoba.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t until the 1930s that the Mission District as we’ve come to know it began to take shape. Families were trickling into the area for jobs already, but the trickle became a flood when work began on the Bay Bridge in 1933. One of the massive pillars was built right through the area where many Latinx residents lived, a place known as Rincon Annex. The project forced people to relocate their homes and businesses. First they moved to the Fillmore, and eventually into the Mission District. The makings of the barrio had begun.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>San Francisco booming (1940s-1950s)\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>World War II was a boom time throughout the Bay Area, especially in shipbuilding and other war efforts. People from all over the country and world once again saw San Francisco as a place to find a good job, including people from Latin America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We had already the connections,” said Cordoba. “People follow their relatives.” This is called a social migration network: People follow their friends and relatives to new opportunities in foreign lands. The new arrivals to San Francisco needed places to live, and they found vacancies in the Mission.[emailsignup newslettername=\"baycurious\" align=\"right\"]After World War II, there was a housing crisis. Soldiers returning from war needed places to live, and there wasn’t enough housing. Housing developers built large tracts of homes on the west side of San Francisco, in places like the Sunset District and Daly City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many people who had been living in the Mission moved to these newly built neighborhoods. Latinx families, on the other hand, did not have the same opportunity. Redlining prevented them from buying in many places, and racist lending policies made it difficult for them to get the low-interest loans that white borrowers received. “The Irish and other white ethnic groups moved from the Mission, and then Latinos came to the Mission,” said Cordova.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The final factor pushing San Francisco’s Latinx residents into the Mission was the Broadway Tunnel. Its construction forced Latinx business owners to relocate their shops. Important businesses like Casa Sanchez and its tortilla chips — still a thriving business today — had to move.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>When the Mission became a barrio (1960s-1970s)\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As Latinx folks were moving to the Mission and forming a community, they were watching another community in San Francisco be destroyed: the Fillmore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Francisco City Hall had a thirst for “\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">urban renewal,”\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the practice of \u003ca href=\"https://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=Fillmore_Redevelopment\">tearing down so-called “slums”\u003c/a> to make way for new development. Fillmore residents — part of a vibrant African American community — were forced out of their homes, often without much warning or adequate compensation from the city. They had to find new places to live, and many left San Francisco all together.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Quite candidly, [the city] lied to the African American community,” said Roberto Hernandez, who was born and raised in the Mission, and remembers the destruction of the neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though the city had promised Fillmore residents they could move back after the neighborhood was rebuilt, it didn’t work out that way. High-cost condominiums and studio spaces were built in the neighborhood, and homes owned by Black families were destroyed. Black residents either couldn’t afford to move back, or had moved on with their lives. The Fillmore was never the same.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the mid-’60s, textile factories were leaving the Mission for Asia or Latin America, where labor was cheaper. That exodus left the Mission spotted with empty lots and buildings. The city’s redevelopment agency targeted it for “improvement.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11908241\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11908241 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet-800x432.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"432\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet-800x432.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet-1020x551.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet-160x86.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet.jpg 1321w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mission District Urban Design Study: 24th Street Station area section (1966) \u003ccite>(Erica Fischer/Flickr)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The city had a plan to introduce two BART stations along Mission Street. They planned to build massive high-rises with housing and offices and a plaza for commercial use. This urban-renewal plan was a red flag to Mission residents who didn’t want to see what happened in the Fillmore happen to them. Residents began organizing to fight the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Mission Coalition Organization helped organize the community into “block clubs,” ready to mobilize with a word from their block captains. The block clubs became the foundation of a larger movement for Mission residents to decide what support their community needed and how to work together to get it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a beautiful time to see how well-organized the whole neighborhood [was],” Hernandez said. “I felt like it was like Godzilla vs. Bambi because of the power that their redevelopment had at the time was to come in and literally wipe out communities.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This form of organizing was a huge success. It brought the community together and got everyone involved. And the Mission community needed that unity to fight the city over the redevelopment plan. Ultimately, the mayor at the time, Joe Alioto, gave into their sustained protests, and he listened to the Mission organizers who had their own ideas about what would help revitalize the community and support its residents. Winning the fight not only saved the Mission from redevelopment, it solidified a feeling of unity among residents proudly displaying their cultural identities.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Mission of now\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11908471\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11908471\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria.jpg\" alt=\"A neon sign reading La Victoria flickers above a glass window with rows of baked goods layed out behind it. A yellow, green and red sign sticks out from the corner of the building advertising abarrotes y reposteria.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria-1536x864.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Panaderías, or bakeries, like La Victoria are a staple in the Mission District now. \u003ccite>(Sara Bloomberg/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Two BART stations were built in the Mission, and homes and businesses were destroyed to make room for the 16th and 24th street stations. A McDonald’s opened at the corner of Mission and 24th. But a majority of the Mission survived.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s even more meaningful because [of] knowing what we as a community were able to stop,” Hernandez said, referring to the destruction of the Fillmore District. “And unfortunately, when we look today at how it wiped out the African American community, we would have been wiped out.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The residents of the Mission had pushed for the right to decide what happened in their community and won. That power carried them forward as they developed plans to invest in the well-being of its people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The neighborhood also got federal funding through the Model Cities Program, which helped support the projects they’d outlined to city leaders. They used the funding for employment, education, and legal and housing services. Important Mission organizations still working to support the community, like the Mission Hiring Hall and the Mission Housing Development Corporation, got their start.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After winning the redevelopment fight, the Mission has continued to grow and change. New immigrants arrived, notably Salvadorans and Nicaraguans who were fleeing wars at home. Organizers like Hernandez created public celebrations of Latinx identity that brought neighbors from different backgrounds together to celebrate their unique identities. Cinco de Mayo, Carnival and Fiesta de las Americas all bring the city to the Mission in celebration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11908239\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11908239 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-800x576.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"576\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-800x576.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-1020x735.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-160x115.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-1536x1106.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-2048x1475.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-1920x1383.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An Aztec dancer looks above the trees on 24th Street, during a blessing of the altars on 24th and Folsom streets to start Día de los Muertos in the Mission District, San Francisco, on Sunday, Nov. 1, 2020. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When I travel to the Mission District today, and I walk up the BART stairs, I’m grateful for my elders who fought to preserve this community. I love when I catch a glimpse of a lowrider, or hear snippets of cumbia music floating out from the shops. The smells, the colors, the sound of Spanish being spoken — this is where I can express my latinidad proudly. This is the Mission to me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But even this version isn’t safe. The Mission District is gentrifying, Hernandez said, and it’s time to get organized once again in defense of home. But for now, this barrio still stands, strong and loud.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "San Francisco's Mission District is one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city. Many people have lived there, including the Yelamu native people, Spanish missionaries and waves of European immigrants. It's now the heart of the Latino community. How did that happen?",
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"title": "Latinos in La Misión: A Story of Resistance and Community | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>If you walk down 24th Street today, you’ll see colorful murals and papel picado hanging overhead, and smell Latinx food being cooked. How did this area come to be the center of Latinx life and community in San Francisco?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Mission wasn’t always this way. It’s actually one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city and has been home to many different people. It was home to the Yelamu, who spoke the Ramaytush language and were one of more than 50 Ohlone groups to live in the Bay Area for hundreds of years before Europeans came. In 1770, the Spanish arrived and chose the Mission for their settlement. But as with most California history, when gold was found in 1848 it changed everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The news about the gold rush spread internationally, and people with mining experience from places like Mexico, Chile and Peru came looking for a shot at fortune. When they arrived, many established homes near present-day North Beach, along Broadway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“That’s what the people will call, in so many ways, the Latin Quarter,” said Carlos Cordova, professor emeritus at San Francisco State University. “That was really the hub where people in the community would do their economic business.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The shift from gold mines to factories\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the 1860s, fewer and fewer miners were striking it rich in the gold fields. But people kept coming to San Francisco for new jobs being created here. Emigrants with capital started businesses, and San Francisco’s deep-water harbor was a thriving port. The city was growing and work was plentiful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Francisco’s early Latinx residents made their mark on the city in many ways. Take the Potrero Hill neighborhood: “Potrero” is a Spanish word.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11908448\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2646px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11908448\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission.png\" alt=\"Two black and white photos. The on top shows the Mission District without much development. The bottom photo was taken 35 years later and far more houses dot the horizon.\" width=\"2646\" height=\"930\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission.png 2646w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-800x281.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-1020x359.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-160x56.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-1536x540.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-2048x720.png 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/1891-mission-1920x675.png 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2646px) 100vw, 2646px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Two photos of the Mission District. The top image is from 1856, the bottom from 1891. Both were taken near Harrison and 16th streets. \u003ccite>(San Francisco History Center, San Francisco Public Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“That means the place where you keep the horses and other animals, four-legged animals, cattle,” Cordova said. “And there were many slaughterhouses in that area.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Tanneries and shoe factories opened in Potrero Hill, too. A lot of Latinx residents living in the Latin Quarter got jobs at those slaughterhouses and factories and moved to the neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Across town, coffee brands like Hills Brothers and Folgers established warehouses along the Embarcadero and near Rincon Hill. They’d import the coffee from Central and South America and employ Latinx people living here who knew their way around coffee production. These large employers meant that at the end of the 1800s and during the turn of the 20th century, most of San Francisco’s Latinx residents lived in what we now know as North Beach, in Potrero Hill and near Rincon Hill. Soon more manufacturing would emerge in the Mission District.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“One of the oldest companies here in San Francisco was Levi Strauss,” Cordova said. “And many Latinos, African Americans and Asian women actually worked there as seamstresses.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even though Latinx folk were employed at the Levi Strauss factory at 14th and Valencia streets in the Mission, they didn’t live in the neighborhood yet. Most of the homes were owned by Irish, Italian and Russian immigrants who had settled in the Mission earlier. Twenty-Fourth Street, now the beating heart of latinidad in San Francisco, was an Irish stronghold in the early part of the 20th century, said Cordoba.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It wasn’t until the 1930s that the Mission District as we’ve come to know it began to take shape. Families were trickling into the area for jobs already, but the trickle became a flood when work began on the Bay Bridge in 1933. One of the massive pillars was built right through the area where many Latinx residents lived, a place known as Rincon Annex. The project forced people to relocate their homes and businesses. First they moved to the Fillmore, and eventually into the Mission District. The makings of the barrio had begun.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>San Francisco booming (1940s-1950s)\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>World War II was a boom time throughout the Bay Area, especially in shipbuilding and other war efforts. People from all over the country and world once again saw San Francisco as a place to find a good job, including people from Latin America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We had already the connections,” said Cordoba. “People follow their relatives.” This is called a social migration network: People follow their friends and relatives to new opportunities in foreign lands. The new arrivals to San Francisco needed places to live, and they found vacancies in the Mission.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>After World War II, there was a housing crisis. Soldiers returning from war needed places to live, and there wasn’t enough housing. Housing developers built large tracts of homes on the west side of San Francisco, in places like the Sunset District and Daly City.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many people who had been living in the Mission moved to these newly built neighborhoods. Latinx families, on the other hand, did not have the same opportunity. Redlining prevented them from buying in many places, and racist lending policies made it difficult for them to get the low-interest loans that white borrowers received. “The Irish and other white ethnic groups moved from the Mission, and then Latinos came to the Mission,” said Cordova.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The final factor pushing San Francisco’s Latinx residents into the Mission was the Broadway Tunnel. Its construction forced Latinx business owners to relocate their shops. Important businesses like Casa Sanchez and its tortilla chips — still a thriving business today — had to move.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>When the Mission became a barrio (1960s-1970s)\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As Latinx folks were moving to the Mission and forming a community, they were watching another community in San Francisco be destroyed: the Fillmore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">San Francisco City Hall had a thirst for “\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\">urban renewal,”\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400\"> the practice of \u003ca href=\"https://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=Fillmore_Redevelopment\">tearing down so-called “slums”\u003c/a> to make way for new development. Fillmore residents — part of a vibrant African American community — were forced out of their homes, often without much warning or adequate compensation from the city. They had to find new places to live, and many left San Francisco all together.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Quite candidly, [the city] lied to the African American community,” said Roberto Hernandez, who was born and raised in the Mission, and remembers the destruction of the neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Though the city had promised Fillmore residents they could move back after the neighborhood was rebuilt, it didn’t work out that way. High-cost condominiums and studio spaces were built in the neighborhood, and homes owned by Black families were destroyed. Black residents either couldn’t afford to move back, or had moved on with their lives. The Fillmore was never the same.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the mid-’60s, textile factories were leaving the Mission for Asia or Latin America, where labor was cheaper. That exodus left the Mission spotted with empty lots and buildings. The city’s redevelopment agency targeted it for “improvement.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11908241\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11908241 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet-800x432.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"432\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet-800x432.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet-1020x551.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet-160x86.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/24thStreet.jpg 1321w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mission District Urban Design Study: 24th Street Station area section (1966) \u003ccite>(Erica Fischer/Flickr)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The city had a plan to introduce two BART stations along Mission Street. They planned to build massive high-rises with housing and offices and a plaza for commercial use. This urban-renewal plan was a red flag to Mission residents who didn’t want to see what happened in the Fillmore happen to them. Residents began organizing to fight the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Mission Coalition Organization helped organize the community into “block clubs,” ready to mobilize with a word from their block captains. The block clubs became the foundation of a larger movement for Mission residents to decide what support their community needed and how to work together to get it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a beautiful time to see how well-organized the whole neighborhood [was],” Hernandez said. “I felt like it was like Godzilla vs. Bambi because of the power that their redevelopment had at the time was to come in and literally wipe out communities.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This form of organizing was a huge success. It brought the community together and got everyone involved. And the Mission community needed that unity to fight the city over the redevelopment plan. Ultimately, the mayor at the time, Joe Alioto, gave into their sustained protests, and he listened to the Mission organizers who had their own ideas about what would help revitalize the community and support its residents. Winning the fight not only saved the Mission from redevelopment, it solidified a feeling of unity among residents proudly displaying their cultural identities.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The Mission of now\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11908471\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11908471\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria.jpg\" alt=\"A neon sign reading La Victoria flickers above a glass window with rows of baked goods layed out behind it. A yellow, green and red sign sticks out from the corner of the building advertising abarrotes y reposteria.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1080\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/la-victoria-1536x864.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Panaderías, or bakeries, like La Victoria are a staple in the Mission District now. \u003ccite>(Sara Bloomberg/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Two BART stations were built in the Mission, and homes and businesses were destroyed to make room for the 16th and 24th street stations. A McDonald’s opened at the corner of Mission and 24th. But a majority of the Mission survived.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s even more meaningful because [of] knowing what we as a community were able to stop,” Hernandez said, referring to the destruction of the Fillmore District. “And unfortunately, when we look today at how it wiped out the African American community, we would have been wiped out.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The residents of the Mission had pushed for the right to decide what happened in their community and won. That power carried them forward as they developed plans to invest in the well-being of its people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The neighborhood also got federal funding through the Model Cities Program, which helped support the projects they’d outlined to city leaders. They used the funding for employment, education, and legal and housing services. Important Mission organizations still working to support the community, like the Mission Hiring Hall and the Mission Housing Development Corporation, got their start.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After winning the redevelopment fight, the Mission has continued to grow and change. New immigrants arrived, notably Salvadorans and Nicaraguans who were fleeing wars at home. Organizers like Hernandez created public celebrations of Latinx identity that brought neighbors from different backgrounds together to celebrate their unique identities. Cinco de Mayo, Carnival and Fiesta de las Americas all bring the city to the Mission in celebration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11908239\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11908239 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-800x576.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"576\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-800x576.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-1020x735.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-160x115.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-1536x1106.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-2048x1475.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/03/IMG_9034-1920x1383.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An Aztec dancer looks above the trees on 24th Street, during a blessing of the altars on 24th and Folsom streets to start Día de los Muertos in the Mission District, San Francisco, on Sunday, Nov. 1, 2020. \u003ccite>(Sebastian Miño-Bucheli/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When I travel to the Mission District today, and I walk up the BART stairs, I’m grateful for my elders who fought to preserve this community. I love when I catch a glimpse of a lowrider, or hear snippets of cumbia music floating out from the shops. The smells, the colors, the sound of Spanish being spoken — this is where I can express my latinidad proudly. This is the Mission to me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But even this version isn’t safe. The Mission District is gentrifying, Hernandez said, and it’s time to get organized once again in defense of home. But for now, this barrio still stands, strong and loud.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "some-of-the-most-famous-people-buried-in-colma-with-map",
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"content": "\u003cp>Cruise south of Daly City on El Camino Real and at some point you’ll notice a shift from business and apartment complexes to florists and cemeteries. You’ve entered the town of Colma, California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early 1920s, Colma’s land was set aside specifically for cemeteries. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/10779164/why-are-so-many-dead-people-in-colma-and-so-few-in-san-francisco\">Over 100,000 bodies were exhumed and moved there\u003c/a> after the city of San Francisco evicted their dead to make room for more housing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, there are more than a million dead buried in Colma. It’s living population, on the other hand? \u003ca href=\"https://www.census.gov/data/tables/time-series/demo/popest/2010s-total-cities-and-towns.html#tables\">The 2020 census puts the population at 1,792 residents.\u003c/a> In July of this year, I became one of those “aboveground” residents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While cutting my hair one day, my barber asked me if I knew of any famous people buried in Colma. It got me wondering, so I called up Michael Svanevik, a local historian and co-author of \u003ca href=\"https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6325025-city-of-souls\">“City of Souls: San Francisco’s Necropolis at Colma.”\u003c/a> He told me there’s two categories of famous dead folks in Colma: the household names and the people who’ve made a mark on San Francisco in particular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Find a map of these graves at the bottom of this post.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Joshua Abraham Norton, aka Emperor Norton\u003c/h3>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11653321\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 522px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11653321 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH.jpg\" alt=\"A black-and-white photo of a man with puffy hair and a puffy beard wearing a Civil War-era cap.\" width=\"522\" height=\"405\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH.jpg 522w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH-240x186.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH-375x291.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH-520x403.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 522px) 100vw, 522px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Joshua Abraham Norton, better known as San Francisco’s Emperor Norton. \u003ccite>(Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Joshua Abraham Norton arrived in San Francisco just before he turned 30. He had done business in South Africa before immigrating and started investing in commodities when he arrived in San Francisco. He was quite wealthy and influential during the early years of the Gold Rush. But a bad investment and subsequent legal battles left him bankrupt at the age of 38. Norton went quiet for a time, but \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11652705/americas-emperor-san-franciscos-treasure-who-was-emperor-norton\">reemerged on the scene by proclaiming himself to be the first emperor of the United States\u003c/a> in San Francisco’s Daily Evening Bulletin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He issued many proclamations after that, many of them quite progressive for his time. He was a well-known character around town, so when he collapsed on the street and died of a suspected stroke, thousands of people attended his funeral. By then he was a poor man, but his old friends in the business community interceded and paid for his burial.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since his death more than 140 years ago, Emperor Norton has become a beloved San Francisco icon. Respected for his panache and tolerant views, he has captured the imaginations of generations of San Franciscans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>His grave is at Woodlawn Memorial Park Cemetery.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Francis Joseph “Lefty” O’Doul\u003c/h3>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11891301\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 381px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11891301\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lefty-odoul.jpg\" alt=\"Black and white photo of a man with black baseball cap looking into the distance.\" width=\"381\" height=\"559\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lefty-odoul.jpg 381w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lefty-odoul-160x235.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 381px) 100vw, 381px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Photo of Lefty O’Doul, a San Francisco baseball icon. \u003ccite>(Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Born in the Bayview-Hunter’s Point neighborhood of San Francisco in 1897, \u003ca href=\"https://leftyodoulsabr.com/chapter-information/about-lefty-odoul/#:~:text=He%20ended%20his%20career%20in,in%2011%20major%20league%20seasons.\">Joseph “Lefty” O’Doul was known for his pitching and hitting\u003c/a> while playing baseball for the San Francisco Seals, a Pacific Coast League team. Eventually he was drafted into the major league and moved to the East Coast. O’Doul spent time playing for the New York Giants, Brooklyn Dodgers, Phillies and Yankees throughout the 1920s and ‘30s. In 1935, O’Doul took a job managing the San Francisco Seals, solidifying his status as a hometown hero. He was also a baseball ambassador to Japan both before and after World War II. He was inducted into both the U.S. and Japanese Halls of Fame. Look for Lefty’s name on the Oracle Park entrance near the Third Street drawbridge, which is also named after O’Doul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>O’Doul is buried at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Joe DiMaggio\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Born in Martinez and raised in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood, Joe DiMaggio is a celebrated baseball player known for his hitting. He started his career as a player with the San Francisco Seals. In 1935, \u003ca href=\"https://www.joedimaggio.com/the-man/childhood/\">DiMaggio became the Pacific Coast League MVP\u003c/a> after helping the Seals win the team’s ninth consecutive championship. This was the same time that “Lefty” O’Doul was managing the team. DiMaggio went on to play professionally for the New York Yankees, becoming a household name after the team’s 56-game winning streak. He’s also known for his marriage to film star Marilyn Monroe — the couple were even married at San Francisco City Hall — although the marriage lasted less than a year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>DiMaggio is buried in Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The Hearst family (George, Phoebe and William Randolph)\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Many in the Hearst family have achieved fame and fortune, starting with George, a miner who made smart investments in gold, silver and copper mines. He acquired large swaths of land in California and the West, and soon became a millionaire. George bought The San Francisco Examiner in 1880 and then went on to serve as a U.S. senator. George’s wife, Phoebe Apperson Hearst, used the family’s wealth to fund local philanthropic projects. \u003ca href=\"https://www.ucberkeleyfoundation.org/history-mission/\">She put up a big portion of the money that started the University of California, Berkeley.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>George and Phoebe’s son, William Randolph, took over ownership of The San Francisco Examiner from his father. He built the paper into a successful enterprise and then expanded into the East Coast media market when he purchased The New York Daily Journal. Today, Hearst Communications owns more than 360 businesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>The Hearst family is buried in a mausoleum in Cypress Lawn Memorial Park that looks like part of the Acropolis in Athens, Greece, and is made entirely of marble.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Local people history forgot\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While there’s at least a chance you’ve heard of Joe DiMaggio or William Randolph Hearst, chances are you may not have heard of some other local legends buried in Colma. They may not be as famous nationally, but they made a mark locally.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Lincoln Beachey\u003c/h3>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11891302\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11891302\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911.jpg\" alt=\"Black and white photo of a man sitting on an early model airplane.\" width=\"1024\" height=\"818\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911-800x639.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911-1020x815.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911-160x128.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lincoln Beachey was a famous stunt pilot in his day. \u003ccite>(Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Born in San Francisco in 1887, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nationalaviation.org/our-enshrinees/beachey-lincoln/\">Beachey was a well-known stunt pilot\u003c/a>. He was best known for a trick called the “suicide dive,” in which he would fly as high as he could, turn off his engine and then hurtle toward the ground. Just before impact, he would switch the engine back on and pull out of the dive. The trick gave crowds a thrill. He performed it at the Panama-Pacific International Exposition of 1915 in front of thousands of fans. Sadly, this would be his last attempt. When Beachy went to restart the motor after his free fall it malfunctioned and he crashed to his death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Beachy is buried at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park. Look for a grave with a biplane engraved on it.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The dual: U.S. Senator David C. Broderick\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>When you have beef with someone, hopefully you settle it peacefully. Back in the day, you might have settled it with guns. Dueling was illegal in San Francisco in 1859, so \u003ca href=\"https://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=The_Duel\">when U.S. Senator David C. Broderick and California Supreme Court Justice David S. Terry had an argument, they took it over the San Mateo County line\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Local historian Svanevik says, “This duel was a personal thing.” It may have been a personal dislike, but it also was political. The two men were members of opposite political parties and regularly argued about the issue of slavery, then a hotly debated topic throughout the country. Both men had written harsh things about one another in the press, and their arguments were highly publicized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The opponents met at Lake Merced on September 13, 1859, along with a surgeon and witnesses. 3 … 2 … 1 … boom! Terry fired a fatal bullet, puncturing Broderick’s lung. The senator would die three days later and be buried in Lone Mountain Cemetery in San Francisco under a huge monument. When the city of San Francisco dug up its buried bodies, Broderick was transferred to Cypress Lawn Memorial Park in Colma. There’s a monument marking \u003ca href=\"https://www.google.com/maps/place/Broderick-Terry+Duel+Site/@37.7080262,-122.4839742,15z/data=!4m5!3m4!1s0x0:0xc893cb70461ff213!8m2!3d37.7080262!4d-122.4839742\">the site of the duel near Lake Merced\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Arthur Brown\u003c/h3>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11891304\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11891304\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall.jpg\" alt=\"Rainbow flags fly in front of an impressive white stone building with a dome.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Arthur Brown designed San Francisco City Hall. \u003ccite>(Deborah Svoboda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Some of the Bay Area’s most iconic buildings are the work of architect, and local notable, Arthur Brown. San Francisco City Hall, the War Memorial Opera House, Berkeley City Hall and Hoover Tower at Stanford all are his designs. He also was involved with designing Coit Tower. Svanevik calls Brown “the architect that designed San Francisco.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Brown is buried in Cypress Lawn Memorial Park.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Betty Ong\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Born and raised in San Francisco’s Chinatown, \u003ca href=\"https://www.911memorial.org/connect/blog/remembering-911-hero-flight-attendant-betty-ong\">Betty Ong was a flight attendant on American Airlines Flight 11\u003c/a>, the first plane to be hijacked on September 11, 2001. She became a national hero after alerting authorities about what was going on, leading the Federal Aviation Administration to close the national airspace. The information she provided also helped the FBI in their investigation of the attacks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Ong’s body was never found, but her family has memorialized her at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://www.google.com/maps/d/embed?mid=1v_xNKp8QfkRWl62v8w6EOB4UeZkoouhY\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "Some of the Most Famous People Buried in Colma (With Map) | KQED",
"description": "Many famous people are buried in Colma's cemeteries, including household names like Joe DiMaggio and William Randolph Hearst, as well as lesser known local celebrities like Lincoln Beachey and Betty Ong.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Cruise south of Daly City on El Camino Real and at some point you’ll notice a shift from business and apartment complexes to florists and cemeteries. You’ve entered the town of Colma, California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the early 1920s, Colma’s land was set aside specifically for cemeteries. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/10779164/why-are-so-many-dead-people-in-colma-and-so-few-in-san-francisco\">Over 100,000 bodies were exhumed and moved there\u003c/a> after the city of San Francisco evicted their dead to make room for more housing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, there are more than a million dead buried in Colma. It’s living population, on the other hand? \u003ca href=\"https://www.census.gov/data/tables/time-series/demo/popest/2010s-total-cities-and-towns.html#tables\">The 2020 census puts the population at 1,792 residents.\u003c/a> In July of this year, I became one of those “aboveground” residents.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While cutting my hair one day, my barber asked me if I knew of any famous people buried in Colma. It got me wondering, so I called up Michael Svanevik, a local historian and co-author of \u003ca href=\"https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6325025-city-of-souls\">“City of Souls: San Francisco’s Necropolis at Colma.”\u003c/a> He told me there’s two categories of famous dead folks in Colma: the household names and the people who’ve made a mark on San Francisco in particular.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Find a map of these graves at the bottom of this post.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Joshua Abraham Norton, aka Emperor Norton\u003c/h3>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11653321\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 522px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11653321 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH.jpg\" alt=\"A black-and-white photo of a man with puffy hair and a puffy beard wearing a Civil War-era cap.\" width=\"522\" height=\"405\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH.jpg 522w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH-240x186.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH-375x291.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/03/His-Imperial-Majesty-Emperor-Norton-I-portrait-crop-e1519862812657-JJJH-520x403.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 522px) 100vw, 522px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Joshua Abraham Norton, better known as San Francisco’s Emperor Norton. \u003ccite>(Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Joshua Abraham Norton arrived in San Francisco just before he turned 30. He had done business in South Africa before immigrating and started investing in commodities when he arrived in San Francisco. He was quite wealthy and influential during the early years of the Gold Rush. But a bad investment and subsequent legal battles left him bankrupt at the age of 38. Norton went quiet for a time, but \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11652705/americas-emperor-san-franciscos-treasure-who-was-emperor-norton\">reemerged on the scene by proclaiming himself to be the first emperor of the United States\u003c/a> in San Francisco’s Daily Evening Bulletin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He issued many proclamations after that, many of them quite progressive for his time. He was a well-known character around town, so when he collapsed on the street and died of a suspected stroke, thousands of people attended his funeral. By then he was a poor man, but his old friends in the business community interceded and paid for his burial.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since his death more than 140 years ago, Emperor Norton has become a beloved San Francisco icon. Respected for his panache and tolerant views, he has captured the imaginations of generations of San Franciscans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>His grave is at Woodlawn Memorial Park Cemetery.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Francis Joseph “Lefty” O’Doul\u003c/h3>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11891301\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 381px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11891301\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lefty-odoul.jpg\" alt=\"Black and white photo of a man with black baseball cap looking into the distance.\" width=\"381\" height=\"559\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lefty-odoul.jpg 381w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lefty-odoul-160x235.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 381px) 100vw, 381px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Photo of Lefty O’Doul, a San Francisco baseball icon. \u003ccite>(Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Born in the Bayview-Hunter’s Point neighborhood of San Francisco in 1897, \u003ca href=\"https://leftyodoulsabr.com/chapter-information/about-lefty-odoul/#:~:text=He%20ended%20his%20career%20in,in%2011%20major%20league%20seasons.\">Joseph “Lefty” O’Doul was known for his pitching and hitting\u003c/a> while playing baseball for the San Francisco Seals, a Pacific Coast League team. Eventually he was drafted into the major league and moved to the East Coast. O’Doul spent time playing for the New York Giants, Brooklyn Dodgers, Phillies and Yankees throughout the 1920s and ‘30s. In 1935, O’Doul took a job managing the San Francisco Seals, solidifying his status as a hometown hero. He was also a baseball ambassador to Japan both before and after World War II. He was inducted into both the U.S. and Japanese Halls of Fame. Look for Lefty’s name on the Oracle Park entrance near the Third Street drawbridge, which is also named after O’Doul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>O’Doul is buried at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Joe DiMaggio\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Born in Martinez and raised in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood, Joe DiMaggio is a celebrated baseball player known for his hitting. He started his career as a player with the San Francisco Seals. In 1935, \u003ca href=\"https://www.joedimaggio.com/the-man/childhood/\">DiMaggio became the Pacific Coast League MVP\u003c/a> after helping the Seals win the team’s ninth consecutive championship. This was the same time that “Lefty” O’Doul was managing the team. DiMaggio went on to play professionally for the New York Yankees, becoming a household name after the team’s 56-game winning streak. He’s also known for his marriage to film star Marilyn Monroe — the couple were even married at San Francisco City Hall — although the marriage lasted less than a year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>DiMaggio is buried in Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The Hearst family (George, Phoebe and William Randolph)\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Many in the Hearst family have achieved fame and fortune, starting with George, a miner who made smart investments in gold, silver and copper mines. He acquired large swaths of land in California and the West, and soon became a millionaire. George bought The San Francisco Examiner in 1880 and then went on to serve as a U.S. senator. George’s wife, Phoebe Apperson Hearst, used the family’s wealth to fund local philanthropic projects. \u003ca href=\"https://www.ucberkeleyfoundation.org/history-mission/\">She put up a big portion of the money that started the University of California, Berkeley.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>George and Phoebe’s son, William Randolph, took over ownership of The San Francisco Examiner from his father. He built the paper into a successful enterprise and then expanded into the East Coast media market when he purchased The New York Daily Journal. Today, Hearst Communications owns more than 360 businesses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>The Hearst family is buried in a mausoleum in Cypress Lawn Memorial Park that looks like part of the Acropolis in Athens, Greece, and is made entirely of marble.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Local people history forgot\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While there’s at least a chance you’ve heard of Joe DiMaggio or William Randolph Hearst, chances are you may not have heard of some other local legends buried in Colma. They may not be as famous nationally, but they made a mark locally.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Lincoln Beachey\u003c/h3>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11891302\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1024px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11891302\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911.jpg\" alt=\"Black and white photo of a man sitting on an early model airplane.\" width=\"1024\" height=\"818\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911-800x639.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911-1020x815.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/Lincoln_Beachey_at_Grant_Park_in_1911-160x128.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lincoln Beachey was a famous stunt pilot in his day. \u003ccite>(Wikimedia Commons)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Born in San Francisco in 1887, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nationalaviation.org/our-enshrinees/beachey-lincoln/\">Beachey was a well-known stunt pilot\u003c/a>. He was best known for a trick called the “suicide dive,” in which he would fly as high as he could, turn off his engine and then hurtle toward the ground. Just before impact, he would switch the engine back on and pull out of the dive. The trick gave crowds a thrill. He performed it at the Panama-Pacific International Exposition of 1915 in front of thousands of fans. Sadly, this would be his last attempt. When Beachy went to restart the motor after his free fall it malfunctioned and he crashed to his death.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Beachy is buried at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park. Look for a grave with a biplane engraved on it.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>The dual: U.S. Senator David C. Broderick\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>When you have beef with someone, hopefully you settle it peacefully. Back in the day, you might have settled it with guns. Dueling was illegal in San Francisco in 1859, so \u003ca href=\"https://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=The_Duel\">when U.S. Senator David C. Broderick and California Supreme Court Justice David S. Terry had an argument, they took it over the San Mateo County line\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Local historian Svanevik says, “This duel was a personal thing.” It may have been a personal dislike, but it also was political. The two men were members of opposite political parties and regularly argued about the issue of slavery, then a hotly debated topic throughout the country. Both men had written harsh things about one another in the press, and their arguments were highly publicized.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The opponents met at Lake Merced on September 13, 1859, along with a surgeon and witnesses. 3 … 2 … 1 … boom! Terry fired a fatal bullet, puncturing Broderick’s lung. The senator would die three days later and be buried in Lone Mountain Cemetery in San Francisco under a huge monument. When the city of San Francisco dug up its buried bodies, Broderick was transferred to Cypress Lawn Memorial Park in Colma. There’s a monument marking \u003ca href=\"https://www.google.com/maps/place/Broderick-Terry+Duel+Site/@37.7080262,-122.4839742,15z/data=!4m5!3m4!1s0x0:0xc893cb70461ff213!8m2!3d37.7080262!4d-122.4839742\">the site of the duel near Lake Merced\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Arthur Brown\u003c/h3>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11891304\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11891304\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall.jpg\" alt=\"Rainbow flags fly in front of an impressive white stone building with a dome.\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/10/cityhall-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Arthur Brown designed San Francisco City Hall. \u003ccite>(Deborah Svoboda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Some of the Bay Area’s most iconic buildings are the work of architect, and local notable, Arthur Brown. San Francisco City Hall, the War Memorial Opera House, Berkeley City Hall and Hoover Tower at Stanford all are his designs. He also was involved with designing Coit Tower. Svanevik calls Brown “the architect that designed San Francisco.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Brown is buried in Cypress Lawn Memorial Park.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>Betty Ong\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Born and raised in San Francisco’s Chinatown, \u003ca href=\"https://www.911memorial.org/connect/blog/remembering-911-hero-flight-attendant-betty-ong\">Betty Ong was a flight attendant on American Airlines Flight 11\u003c/a>, the first plane to be hijacked on September 11, 2001. She became a national hero after alerting authorities about what was going on, leading the Federal Aviation Administration to close the national airspace. The information she provided also helped the FBI in their investigation of the attacks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Ong’s body was never found, but her family has memorialized her at Cypress Lawn Memorial Park.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https://www.google.com/maps/d/embed?mid=1v_xNKp8QfkRWl62v8w6EOB4UeZkoouhY\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" scrolling=\"yes\" class=\"iframe-class\" frameborder=\"0\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"amazon": "https://music.amazon.com/podcasts/26099305-72af-4542-9dde-ac1807fe36d5/kqed-s-the-california-report",
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},
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"id": "californiareportmagazine",
"title": "The California Report Magazine",
"tagline": "Your state, your stories",
"info": "Every week, The California Report Magazine takes you on a road trip for the ears: to visit the places and meet the people who make California unique. The in-depth storytelling podcast from the California Report.",
"airtime": "FRI 4:30pm-5pm, 6:30pm-7pm, 11pm-11:30pm",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/californiareportmagazine",
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"order": 10
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM3NjkwNjk1OTAz",
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},
"city-arts": {
"id": "city-arts",
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"info": "A one-hour radio program to hear celebrated writers, artists and thinkers address contemporary ideas and values, often discussing the creative process. Please note: tapes or transcripts are not available",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/05/cityartsandlecture-300x300.jpg",
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"airtime": "SUN 1pm-2pm, TUE 10pm, WED 1am",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "City Arts & Lectures"
},
"link": "https://www.cityarts.net",
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"rss": "https://www.cityarts.net/feed/"
}
},
"closealltabs": {
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"info": "Close All Tabs breaks down how digital culture shapes our world through thoughtful insights and irreverent humor.",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/closealltabs",
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"order": 1
},
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"title": "Code Switch / Life Kit",
"info": "\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em>, which listeners will hear in the first part of the hour, has fearless and much-needed conversations about race. Hosted by journalists of color, the show tackles the subject of race head-on, exploring how it impacts every part of society — from politics and pop culture to history, sports and more.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em>, which will be in the second part of the hour, guides you through spaces and feelings no one prepares you for — from finances to mental health, from workplace microaggressions to imposter syndrome, from relationships to parenting. The show features experts with real world experience and shares their knowledge. Because everyone needs a little help being human.\u003cbr />\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510312/codeswitch\">\u003cem>Code Switch\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />\u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/lifekit\">\u003cem>Life Kit\u003c/em> offical site and podcast\u003c/a>\u003cbr />",
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"id": "commonwealth-club",
"title": "Commonwealth Club of California Podcast",
"info": "The Commonwealth Club of California is the nation's oldest and largest public affairs forum. As a non-partisan forum, The Club brings to the public airwaves diverse viewpoints on important topics. The Club's weekly radio broadcast - the oldest in the U.S., dating back to 1924 - is carried across the nation on public radio stations and is now podcasting. Our website archive features audio of our recent programs, as well as selected speeches from our long and distinguished history. This podcast feed is usually updated twice a week and is always un-edited.",
"airtime": "THU 10pm, FRI 1am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Commonwealth-Club-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
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"meta": {
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"source": "Commonwealth Club of California"
},
"link": "/radio/program/commonwealth-club",
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5jb21tb253ZWFsdGhjbHViLm9yZy9hdWRpby9wb2RjYXN0L3dlZWtseS54bWw",
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},
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"id": "forum",
"title": "Forum",
"tagline": "The conversation starts here",
"info": "KQED’s live call-in program discussing local, state, national and international issues, as well as in-depth interviews.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 9am-11am, 10pm-11pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Forum-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED Forum with Mina Kim and Alexis Madrigal",
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 9
},
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM5NTU3MzgxNjMz",
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"id": "freakonomics-radio",
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"info": "Freakonomics Radio is a one-hour award-winning podcast and public-radio project hosted by Stephen Dubner, with co-author Steve Levitt as a regular guest. It is produced in partnership with WNYC.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/freakonomicsRadio.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://freakonomics.com/",
"airtime": "SUN 1am-2am, SAT 3pm-4pm",
"meta": {
"site": "radio",
"source": "WNYC"
},
"link": "/radio/program/freakonomics-radio",
"subscribe": {
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/freakonomics-radio/id354668519",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/podcasts/WNYC-Podcasts/Freakonomics-Radio-p272293/",
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},
"fresh-air": {
"id": "fresh-air",
"title": "Fresh Air",
"info": "Hosted by Terry Gross, \u003cem>Fresh Air from WHYY\u003c/em> is the Peabody Award-winning weekday magazine of contemporary arts and issues. One of public radio's most popular programs, Fresh Air features intimate conversations with today's biggest luminaries.",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=214089682&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"here-and-now": {
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"info": "A live production of NPR and WBUR Boston, in collaboration with stations across the country, Here & Now reflects the fluid world of news as it's happening in the middle of the day, with timely, in-depth news, interviews and conversation. Hosted by Robin Young, Jeremy Hobson and Tonya Mosley.",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510051/podcast.xml"
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},
"hidden-brain": {
"id": "hidden-brain",
"title": "Hidden Brain",
"info": "Shankar Vedantam uses science and storytelling to reveal the unconscious patterns that drive human behavior, shape our choices and direct our relationships.",
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"airtime": "SUN 7pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "NPR"
},
"link": "/radio/program/hidden-brain",
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},
"how-i-built-this": {
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"title": "How I Built This with Guy Raz",
"info": "Guy Raz dives into the stories behind some of the world's best known companies. How I Built This weaves a narrative journey about innovators, entrepreneurs and idealists—and the movements they built.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/howIBuiltThis.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510313/how-i-built-this",
"airtime": "SUN 7:30pm-8pm",
"meta": {
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"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/how-i-built-this",
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"npr": "https://rpb3r.app.goo.gl/3zxy",
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/how-i-built-this-with-guy-raz/id1150510297?mt=2",
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},
"hyphenacion": {
"id": "hyphenacion",
"title": "Hyphenación",
"tagline": "Where conversation and cultura meet",
"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. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/Hyphenacion_FinalAssets_PodcastTile.png",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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"order": 15
},
"link": "/podcasts/hyphenacion",
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"spotify": "https://open.spotify.com/show/2p3Fifq96nw9BPcmFdIq0o?si=39209f7b25774f38",
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},
"jerrybrown": {
"id": "jerrybrown",
"title": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown",
"tagline": "Lessons from a lifetime in politics",
"info": "The Political Mind of Jerry Brown brings listeners the wisdom of the former Governor, Mayor, and presidential candidate. Scott Shafer interviewed Brown for more than 40 hours, covering the former governor's life and half-century in the political game – and Brown has some lessons he'd like to share. ",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/The-Political-Mind-of-Jerry-Brown-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 18
},
"link": "/podcasts/jerrybrown",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/id1492194549",
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}
},
"latino-usa": {
"id": "latino-usa",
"title": "Latino USA",
"airtime": "MON 1am-2am, SUN 6pm-7pm",
"info": "Latino USA, the radio journal of news and culture, is the only national, English-language radio program produced from a Latino perspective.",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/latinoUsa.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "http://latinousa.org/",
"meta": {
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"source": "npr"
},
"link": "/radio/program/latino-usa",
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"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?s=143441&mt=2&id=79681317&at=11l79Y&ct=nprdirectory",
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"rss": "https://feeds.npr.org/510016/podcast.xml"
}
},
"marketplace": {
"id": "marketplace",
"title": "Marketplace",
"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.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 4pm-4:30pm, MON-WED 6:30pm-7pm",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Marketplace-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.marketplace.org/",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "American Public Media"
},
"link": "/radio/program/marketplace",
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"rss": "https://feeds.publicradio.org/public_feeds/marketplace-pm/rss/rss"
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},
"masters-of-scale": {
"id": "masters-of-scale",
"title": "Masters of Scale",
"info": "Masters of Scale is an original podcast in which LinkedIn co-founder and Greylock Partner Reid Hoffman sets out to describe and prove theories that explain how great entrepreneurs take their companies from zero to a gazillion in ingenious fashion.",
"airtime": "Every other Wednesday June 12 through October 16 at 8pm (repeats Thursdays at 2am)",
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"officialWebsiteLink": "https://mastersofscale.com/",
"meta": {
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"source": "WaitWhat"
},
"link": "/radio/program/masters-of-scale",
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"apple": "http://mastersofscale.app.link/",
"rss": "https://rss.art19.com/masters-of-scale"
}
},
"mindshift": {
"id": "mindshift",
"title": "MindShift",
"tagline": "A podcast about the future of learning and how we raise our kids",
"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>",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Mindshift-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "KQED MindShift: How We Will Learn",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/mindshift/",
"meta": {
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"source": "kqed",
"order": 12
},
"link": "/podcasts/mindshift",
"subscribe": {
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"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5tZWdhcGhvbmUuZm0vS1FJTkM1NzY0NjAwNDI5",
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"stitcher": "https://www.stitcher.com/podcast/kqed/stories-teachers-share",
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}
},
"morning-edition": {
"id": "morning-edition",
"title": "Morning Edition",
"info": "\u003cem>Morning Edition\u003c/em> takes listeners around the country and the world with multi-faceted stories and commentaries every weekday. Hosts Steve Inskeep, David Greene and Rachel Martin bring you the latest breaking news and features to prepare you for the day.",
"airtime": "MON-FRI 3am-9am",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/Morning-Edition-Podcast-Tile-360x360-1.jpg",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.npr.org/programs/morning-edition/",
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"link": "/radio/program/morning-edition"
},
"onourwatch": {
"id": "onourwatch",
"title": "On Our Watch",
"tagline": "Deeply-reported investigative journalism",
"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?",
"imageSrc": "https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/On-Our-Watch-Podcast-Tile-703x703-1.jpg",
"imageAlt": "On Our Watch from NPR and KQED",
"officialWebsiteLink": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"meta": {
"site": "news",
"source": "kqed",
"order": 11
},
"link": "/podcasts/onourwatch",
"subscribe": {
"apple": "https://podcasts.apple.com/podcast/id1567098962",
"google": "https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9mZWVkcy5ucHIub3JnLzUxMDM2MC9wb2RjYXN0LnhtbD9zYz1nb29nbGVwb2RjYXN0cw",
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}
},
"on-the-media": {
"id": "on-the-media",
"title": "On The Media",
"info": "Our weekly podcast explores how the media 'sausage' is made, casts an incisive eye on fluctuations in the marketplace of ideas, and examines threats to the freedom of information and expression in America and abroad. For one hour a week, the show tries to lift the veil from the process of \"making media,\" especially news media, because it's through that lens that we see the world and the world sees us",
"airtime": "SUN 2pm-3pm, MON 12am-1am",
"imageSrc": "https://ww2.kqed.org/radio/wp-content/uploads/sites/50/2018/04/onTheMedia.png",
"officialWebsiteLink": "https://www.wnycstudios.org/shows/otm",
"meta": {
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"source": "wnyc"
},
"link": "/radio/program/on-the-media",
"subscribe": {
"apple": "https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/on-the-media/id73330715?mt=2",
"tuneIn": "https://tunein.com/radio/On-the-Media-p69/",
"rss": "http://feeds.wnyc.org/onthemedia"
}
},
"pbs-newshour": {
"id": "pbs-newshour",
"title": "PBS NewsHour",
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