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Whitewashed Adobe

Whitewashed Adobe

The Rise of Los Angeles and the Remaking of Its Mexican Past

William Deverell

U n i v e r s i t y o f C a l i f o r n i a P r e s s

B e r k e l e y L o s A n g e l e s L o n d o n

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California

University of California Press, Ltd. London, England

© 2004 by the Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Deverell, William. Whitewashed adobe : the rise of Los Angeles and the

remaking of its Mexican past / William Deverell. p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-520-21869-8 (alk. paper) 1. Mexican Americans-California—Los Angeles—

History. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Ethnic relations— History. 3. Los Angeles (Calif.)—History. I. Title.

F869.L89M515 2004 979.4'94046872-dc22 2003065066

Manufactured in the United States of America 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992(R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).8

Frontispiece. The “city of the future” in the late 1880s. Courtesy of the Huntington Library, San Marino, California

For Albert Camarillo, David Gutiérrez, and Jenny Watts

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous contribution to this book provided by the Lisa See Fund in Southern California History.

Americans have their leveling ways: La Ciudad de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles de Porciuncula has become, in one hundred years, L.A.

Richard Rodriguez

Days of Obligation:An Argument with My Mexican Father

C o n t e n t s

L i s t o f I l l u s t r a t i o n s a n d Ma p s / xi

Ac k n ow l e d g m e n t s / xv

In t r o d u c t i o n : C i t y o f t h e Fu t u re / 1

1 / T h e Un e n d i n g Me x i c a n Wa r / 11

2 / Hi s t o ry o n Pa r a d e / 49

3 / Re m e m b e r i n g a R i v e r / 91

4 / T h e C o l o r o f Br i c k w o r k I s Brow n / 129

5 / Et h n i c Q u a r a n t i n e / 172

6 / T h e Dr a m a o f L o s A n g e l e s Hi s t o ry / 207

C o n c l u s i o n : W h i t e wa s h e d Ad o b e / 250

n o t e s / 253

In d e x / 321

I l l u s t r a t i o n s a N d Ma p s

x i

Frontispiece: The “city of the future” in the late 1880s / ii

1. Sonoratown, the “Spanish part” of Los Angeles, ca. 1870s / 16

2. The corner of Aliso and Los Angeles Streets in downtown, 1886 / 27

3. Racial types of “Life in the Feudal Era” of nineteenth-century Los Angeles / 33

4. A page from an early twentieth-century diary of a mission-to-mission tour / 35

5. Building Los Angeles, ca. 1910 / 37

6. Mexican workers in downtown Los Angeles, early twentieth century / 38

7. “A Typical House-Court” / 39

8. “Greasers in Embryio”: Early twentieth-century tourist photograph of Mexican boys in Los Angeles / 40

9. Troops marching in La Fiesta de Los Angeles, 1894 / 51

10. Float at La Fiesta de Los Angeles parade, 1894 / 55

11. Local royalty, La Fiesta de Los Angeles, 1894 / 56

12. Children marching in La Fiesta parade, 1894 / 57

13. Representing old Spain: “Caballeros” / 61

14. La Fiesta poster, 1896 / 63

15. Representing Aztecs? Native Americans and La Fiesta’s revival of a mythic regional past / 67

16. The Chinese dragon parading at La Fiesta / 69

17. The river that was: The Los Angeles River, late nineteenth century / 95

18. The Los Angeles River flowing next to the Elysian Hills, late nineteenth century / 96

19. The Los Angeles River in flood, 1880s / 104

20. Flood damage in the 1880s / 105

21. Los Angeles River, north from the Seventh Street Bridge, February 19, 1914 / 112

22. Salt Lake Railroad at Macy Street and the Los Angeles River, February 20, 1914 / 112

23. Photographer Charles Puck adrift following 1916 floods / 113

24–26. 1930s channelization of the Los Angeles River / 124 –125

27. Mexican workers, Simons brickyard, early twentieth century / 131

28. Making adobe, early twentieth-century Los Angeles / 134

29. The Simons Brick Company’s Yard No. 3 in Montebello / 140

30. The Simons company band / 157

31. Ernestina Macias on the lap of Walter Simons, 1920s / 159

32. Building industrial Los Angeles together / 165

33. Trucks ready to haul at Simons Brick Yard No. 3 / 167

34. Growing up in Yard No. 3: The young Walter Malone Jr. / 170

35. A “typical” postcard view of early twentieth-century Southern California / 174

36. A photographic representation of supposedly “typical” ethnic traits, early twentieth-century Los Angeles / 175

37. 742 Clara Street, Los Angeles / 177

38. 741 Clara Street, with siding removed to trap rats / 180

39. Plague survivor Raul Samarano / 181

40. The Baptist Mission church, plague abatement headquarters / 185

41. Plague abatement wrecking crew / 188

42. Mexican shack in rear of tortilla factory, 612 N. Alameda / 189

i l l u s t r a t i o n sx i i

43. Looking west on E. 6th Street from Imperial / 189

44–45. Wrecking crew at work, back of 2039 E. 7th Street / 190

46. “Negro shack in business section, near 2039 E. 7th Street” / 192

47. Plague abatement as erasure, 2039 E. 7th Street / 192

48. Plague eradication destruction in the Utah Street district east of the Los Angeles River / 193

49–50. Vernon colonia burning / 194

51. John Steven McGroarty / 213

52. Act 1 of The Mission Play: Return of Portolá from Monterey / 218

53. Act 2 of The Mission Play: Fiesta scene / 221

54. Progress as linear tableau: A Mission Play advertisement / 222

55. Mission Play window advertisement, ca. 1920 / 227

Maps

1. Southern California, ca. 1850 / 20

2. Los Angeles River, stream flow over time / 102

3. Bird’s-eye view of Los Angeles / 107

x i i ii l l u s t r a t i o n s

Ac k n ow l e d g m e n t s

I have had an enormous amount of help with this book. I never would have finished it otherwise. I am most grateful to the dozens of friends and col- leagues who have been so generous with their time, patience, and knowl- edge. This project also received significant institutional support, for which I am also very thankful.

Parts of Whitewashed Adobe have appeared elsewhere. My thanks go to David Wrobel and Mike Steiner for soliciting an essay in which I tried out many of the ideas from several of the following chapters; that essay appeared in the Many Wests volume they brought out with the University of Kansas Press. Portions of this work also appear in early form in a piece I co-wrote with Doug Flamming in John Findlay and Richard White’s Power and Place volume on the North American West published by the University of Washington Press. I’d like to thank Blake Allmendinger and Valerie Matsumoto for helping me refine ideas about the 1924 plague outbreak in Los Angeles; chapter 5 is a newer version of an essay that first appeared in their coedited volume Over the Edge: Remapping the American West, pub- lished by the University of California Press.

Several institutions have generously aided in the research and writing of this book. I’d like to thank the Getty Research Institute, where I spent a period as a visiting scholar during the “Perspectives on Los Angeles” the- matic year. The Institute staff and other visiting scholars made my time there extremely stimulating and enjoyable. I am grateful to the Office of the

x v

President of the University of California system for generous support in the form of a President’s Fellowship in the Humanities, 1994–1995. With my friend and colleague Doug Flamming, I spent an extremely productive period as a visiting scholar at the Clark Library during its yearlong inves- tigation of the American West. My thanks extend to UCLA’s Center for Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Studies for support during that year, as well as to the Ahmanson Foundation, for its support while I was at the Clark and at the Getty Research Institute. The first full draft of White- washed Adobe was completed while I was a Fellow at the Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences during the academic year 1998– 1999; the Center, the California Institute of Technology, and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation made that year possible, for which I am exceedingly grateful. Neil Smelser, former CASBS Director, and Robert Scott, former CASBS Associate Director, deserve special mention for their collegiality and congeniality.

It is a pleasure to acknowledge the support of my friends in the history department at the University of California, San Diego, where this project first began a long time ago. I continue to be grateful for the tremendous support I have received from the Division of the Humanities and Social Sciences at Caltech. John Ledyard, former chairman of the division, and division administrator Susan Davis deserve special thanks in this regard. My thanks to the members of the social history workshop at the University of Chicago, particularly Gabriela Arredondo (now of UC Santa Cruz), who invited me to present some of my work before the group. I am grateful to the students and faculty of the history department at the University of California, Davis, whose response to a paper I presented helped me rethink a number of points in the book. I also thank the members of the Los Angeles History Group, a collegial collection of the “usual suspects,” who can always be relied upon to offer good words, good questions, and good ideas. The tragic death in 2003 of Professor Clark Davis, co-convener of this group, robbed the history profession of a talented scholar and teacher, and his passing stole from us all a man of abiding decency.

Research assistants George Ingersoll and Stacy Kamehiro helped me track down valuable sources. Helga Galvan and Victoria Seas of the Division of the Humanities and Social Sciences at Caltech assisted me at several junctures. Professor Ralph Shaffer provided research help on the Los Angeles River and its flood cycles. George Miles, Curator of Western Americana at the Beinecke Library, Yale University, helped me locate terrific sources that I would otherwise never have encountered. Patti Murray,

a c k n o w l e d g m e n t sx v i

Walter Malone, Gene Chávez, Ray Ramirez, Ernestina Macias, and Jess Garcia opened my eyes to the world of Simons Brick Yard No. 3. Historian Charles Montgomery’s perceptive thoughts and writings, especially his book The Spanish Redemption: Heritage, Power, and Loss on New Mexico’s Upper Rio Grande, pushed my thinking forward in a number of ways.

My thanks to Howard Markel of the University of Michigan, who shared with me work that shaped my ideas about ethnicity and illness. Dace Taub of the Regional History Center at the University of Southern California offered her usual generous research help and equally generous kindness. Monsignor Francis Weber, Andrew Sherman, Kevin Feeny, Sister Mary Rose Cunningham, and Viola Carlson offered me help at a number of junc- tures. Caltech’s Interlibrary Loan staff, especially Shadye Peyvan, saved my research life on innumerable occasions. Thanks, too, to the entire Readers Services staff at the Huntington Library, the librarians of the Center for Advanced Study, and Janet Clemmensen of the California State Library.

Others in the community of scholars deserve thanks for sharing ideas with me: Jared Orsi, Jane Apostol, the late Martin Ridge, Jennifer Tucker, Kevin Starr, Kevin Gilmartin, Alan Taylor, Roy Ritchie, Anne Hyde, Doug Sackman, Michael Bellesiles, Laura Edwards, Jim Scott, Natalia Molina, and Becky Nicolaides. Insightful readings by Virginia Scharf, Philip J. Ethington, and Robert Dawidoff improved this book. Miriam Feldblum and Doug Smith reminded me to think about things in different ways and to pose different questions. Kate McGinn, formerly of the Fuller Theological Seminary Archives, helped me with my research. Philip Goff, Director of the Center for the Study of Religion and American Culture at Indiana University–Purdue University, Indianapolis, also aided me in many ways. Alan Jutzi, Avery Chief Curator of Rare Books at the Huntington Library, helped me track down materials and deserves general credit for his unstinting support of scholarship. Blake Gumprecht helped me under- stand the Los Angeles River better. Janet Fireman never failed to offer a good idea or smart question. Dr. Ellen Bogen Alkon helped me with ques- tions about her father, public health physician Emil Bogen. My friends in the Social History Reading Group helped me sharpen ideas about 1920s Los Angeles. Special thanks to David Igler, Philip Goff, Doug Smith, and Alan Jutzi for putting in long hours helping build our informal institute for the study of the American West.

At the University of California Press, Monica McCormick’s good cheer, good ideas, and patience buoyed this project. Also at the Press, former Director Jim Clark and Director Lynne Withey deserve my gratitude for

x v i ia c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

their insights and loyalty to this book. Randy Heyman and Marilyn Schwartz, both of the Press, aided me in the process as well. It has been my good fortune to work with copyeditor Kay Scheuer once again, and I am grateful as well to David Peattie of BookMatters for his help in shepherd- ing this book from manuscript to hard covers. Friends and colleagues Ben Johnson, Roberto Lint-Sagarena, Shana Bernstein, Michelle Nickerson, Daniel Hurewitz, Clark Davis, and Mark Wild offered many ideas on the chapter addressing Simons Brick Yard No. 3. I owe a scholarly debt of no small proportion to the two outside readers who commented on White- washed Adobe for UC Press. The great western historian Robert Hine was one of these readers, and I am grateful for his encouragement and advice. Historian Edward Escobar lugged the manuscript around twice. I admit that I was at first reluctant to recast the book along the lines he suggested. His second reading (and second set of comments) convinced me that I was being stubborn at the book’s expense. While disagreements yet remain between us, I know that his insights and care strengthened this book. I am also grateful to Professor Vicki Ruiz of the University of California, Irvine; Professor Ruiz read the book as a member of the editorial committee of UC Press, and her detailed report offered a number of excellent scholarly and editorial suggestions.

It has been more than decade’s worth of privilege to work with talented graduate students at UC San Diego. I want especially to thank former stu- dents Phoebe Kropp, Mark Wild, and Sarah Schrank, whose fine work on the history of Los Angeles has shaped my own in lasting ways. Doug Flamming of the Georgia Institute of Technology, my former Caltech col- league and research partner at the Getty and the Clark, helped shape this book more than he knows. His patient, insightful reading of draft chapters improved them immeasurably. My friend Bryant Simon of the University of Georgia is a font of penetrating insight, historical and otherwise. David Igler of the University of California, Irvine, offered constant encouragement and support to the project; he also read the draft with care and wisdom. Mike Davis has taught us all a great deal about Los Angeles, and I’m pleased to acknowledge his unstinting support and generosity here. My thanks as ever to friend and valued collaborator Tom Sitton of the Los Angeles County Museum of Natural History, who read the manuscript and reminded me that I really ought to get the thing published. I hope some- day to know as much about Los Angeles as Tom does, but I know I’m only kidding myself. David Gutiérrez gave this study the kind of sustained and critical read that only he can provide; his ideas and uncompromising insis-

a c k n o w l e d g m e n t sx v i i i

tence on sharpening aspects of the book’s structure and argument were of great help. Had I not started work on this book, I probably wouldn’t have gotten to know Greg Hise of the University of Southern California as well as I have, and I’d be the lesser person for it. Greg has taught me an enor- mous amount about Los Angeles and other topics, scholarly and not, and I’m proud to collaborate with him on a number of projects.

My mother, my father, and my sister have always stood alongside me in what I do, what I teach, and what I think. As I have gotten older, the extent of their patience and unwavering support become even clearer to me. I want especially to acknowledge the expertise of my father, Dr. William F. Deverell, who helped me locate and interpret medical documents related to the 1924 plague outbreak in downtown Los Angeles.

This book is dedicated to three remarkable people. For more than twenty years, the historian Albert Camarillo of Stanford University has helped shape me as a scholar and a person. The same is true of two decades of friendship with David Gutiérrez of the history department at the University of California, San Diego. Jenny Watts came up with this book’s title. For that, for sharing in the joy of Helen Watts Deverell, and for countless other reasons, my river runs to thee.

x i xa c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

Introduction

City of the Future

Tomorrow shall be the flower of all its yesterdays.

Motto of the Southwest Museum,

founded 1907, Los Angeles

The adventurous pioneers, who were the warp and woof of that pueblo, even in the early days had a curious prophetic feeling about the destiny of Los Angeles.Always one of their favorite sports, indoor and outdoor, was to make bold prophecies about the future of California.

Boyle Workman, The City That Grew, 19351

I am a foresighted man, and I believe that Los Angeles is destined to become the most important city in this country, if not in the world.

Henry E . Huntington, ca. 19202

Can there be any doubt but what Los Angeles is to be the world’s greatest city . . . greatest in all of the annals of history? Can there be any doubt but what MAN wants her to so become . . . or doubt that she has touched the imagination of general public opinion as no other city in history has touched the millions?

Sherley Hunter,

Why Los Angeles Will Become the World’s Greatest City, 19233

1

Los Angeles has been the city of the future for a long time. Even as far back as the 1850s, at the moment of California statehood, people thought and spoke and wrote about Los Angeles as urban destiny in the making. Seventy-five years ago, John Steven McGroarty, journalist, playwright, and poet, wrote that Los Angeles was “the old new land of promise.” “The City of Destiny,” McGroarty called it.4 Indeed the city seems almost able to bend time, at least in the ways people described it and talk about it even today. Los Angeles, they say, forges a relationship between the past and the pres- ent that makes every tomorrow unnaturally close by. Even more auda- cious, something about the place made people believe that their Los Angeles present was the rest of America’s, if not the world’s, future. Los Angeles as crystal ball.

How else to explain the signs? Readers of the city’s dominant newspaper, glancing at its masthead eighty years ago, couldn’t possibly miss the clues. A ship glides across the top of the paper, just above the relentless urging to “Sail on, sail on, sail on, and on.” Starker and more telling was the tiny yet unmis- takable printer’s bug at the upper left corner of the Los Angeles Times mast- head: a bright star encased in a circle, with a band spelling out “DESTINY” strung across its middle.5 Los Angeles has always been a city on the make. And Los Angeles’ destination and Los Angeles’ destiny have always been the same: the future. Sail on, sail on, sail on, and on.

Prophecy and its symbols sprang from relentless ambition. A century ago, calculating city builders looked across the Los Angeles basin, even across the Pacific Ocean, and saw their personal destinies inextricably linked to the future of a then-small city. They explained Los Angeles’ distinctiveness simply by suggesting that it already existed in a space ahead of the tempo- ral curve. The rest of the state, nation, and world would watch, copy, and catch up. The city as time machine: come aboard and try out the future. Eighty years ago, real estate tycoons and booster wannabes reminded every- one of the city’s steep demographic trajectory, proud of the equation that made population increase into the very definition of progress. “In 1901,” an advertisement chided, Angelenos “laughed” at projections of the city’s 1910 population. But Los Angeles hit that projected 350,000 mark with room and years to spare. By 1911, the city had exploded and had thereby grown full of true believers. A million people would be in the basin by 1920, “and it will come true.”6 Thus it was. “Here will be the greatest civilization the world has ever known,” promised the usually taciturn John Fredericks, district attorney of Los Angeles, with all the unquestioning conviction of one of the chosen.7

i n t r o d u c t i o n2

In the early 1920s, Los Angeles realtors trying to outboost one another entered the “City of Los Angeles” poetry contest sponsored by their trade magazine. In one breathless stanza after another, they described the city “of eternal youth—a city without slums,” an “inspirational vision of destiny,” “the fulfillment of history’s prophecy,” “the most famous city in the entire world.” Los Angeles: a place where “the best blood, intelligence and man- power from every state in the Union, crystallized into a composite loyalty for one city.”8

Even great poets felt the fever of the future. A dazed William Butler Yeats, wandering around Los Angeles in the mid-1920s, wrote, “Here if anywhere in America, I seem to hear the coming footsteps of the muses.” “Ask the older congested cities of our country if they can parallel such a promise,” a representative booster pamphlet of the period queried—“whether or not their greatness lies in the future or in their proud achievements of the past. Los Angeles has everything in the future.”9 “Greater Southern California,” declared the slogan printed on Los Angeles newspaperman, power broker, and real estate mogul Harry Chandler’s 1920s stationary, complete with an arrow aimed at the future “Straight Ahead.”10

Prophecy, faith, and wide-eyed optimism, shot through with presumptions of the racial superiority of self-identified Anglo Saxons. Los Angeles sailed on, through the 1920s and into the Great Depression, through the Second World War and postwar suburbanization, and on through the upheavals and violence of the 1960s, even unto today. Time only rephrased the in- evitable as the slightly questionable. Thirty years ago, scholars and policy wonks gathered at the Los Angeles campus of the University of California for a symposium called “Los Angeles: Metropolis of the Future?” The ques- tion mark only took up space, only made an academic conference slightly provocative. Of course Los Angeles and the future worked together, the notion insisted. The metropolis would inherit the future and other places would grow to resemble Los Angeles. The future belonged to Los Angeles, the future was Los Angeles. Or so presumption promised.

Prophecy in the city of destiny, like all prophecy, can have its portents of darkness, even apocalypse. We need look no further for a recent version of this than Mike Davis’s tremendously influential book City of Quartz, with its provocative subtitle “excavating the future in Los Angeles,” not to men- tion its back cover suggestion that in Los Angeles “we may glimpse our own future, mirrored with terrifying clarity.”11 Los Angeles just may be the city of destiny, Davis argues, but that future is hardly a pretty one.

Yet myths die hard. Dire predictions—which in the case of the Davis

3i n t r o d u c t i o n

book came all too true in 1992—seem not to dispel faith in Los Angeles as some kind of prophetic urban quilt, a fabric optimistically suggestive of what America or the world could be, might be, will be. Associations of place and time include assessment of the city’s ethnic and racial diversity as somehow a precursor, anticipating what other cities, other places will be or look like. In this way, Los Angeles trends supposedly become templates for urban futures everywhere. A book like David Rieff’s Los Angeles: Capital of the Third World suggests, even predicts, as much. Immigration trends, cou- pled with the region’s already stunning ethnic, racial, and national diversity, will create a multicultural Los Angeles of the near future that global cities will eventually come to mimic. Of course the question always remains, posed either implicitly or explicitly, whether demographic complexity alone can encourage peaceful interactions between people.12

But even this expectation, that the racial future of Los Angeles has spe- cial meaning for other places, that ethnic and demographic features of the city’s neighborhoods somehow foreshadow an “everyurban” tomorrow, is not really new, at least not in its broadest characterizations. On the contrary, an old theme in the city’s history posits, even expects, an explicit and inter- twined relationship between race and time. Gone, however, are the social mathematics in the old equations associating ethnicity with prophecy; they have been reformulated in ways that render a different, a very different, sum. In days past, fortune-telling about Los Angeles commonly equated the promise of the twentieth century with Anglo Saxon ascendancy and white ethnocentrism. In the words of one representative booster from the 1920s, sentiments unabashedly published in the region’s premier business journal, it was merely grade school figuring that in Los Angeles “Anglo-Saxon civ- ilization must climax in the generations to come.”13

One of the winners in the 1924 poetry contest spelled out the racial logic. Los Angeles was the spot—city leaders of the 1920s liked to call it, without a trace of irony, the “white spot”—where prophecy met history, where a place inherited millennial destiny. The poetry was tortured, but the gist is concise: “Dominion over land and sea of this enduring Race— Supreme Historic Prophecy—is now in final consummation.”14 It was not hard to imagine a world in which all this came to pass. We should not be surprised that such pronouncements could be made. We may cringe at such racial and racist determinism, but we should not think of it as happenstance or merely the wishful thinking of bigots. On the contrary, such visions are but the expected product in a city constructed precisely around racial cate- gories and racial exclusion. Los Angeles is not so much a city that got what

i n t r o d u c t i o n4

it wished for. It is a city that wished for what it worked diligently to invent. And that inventing in part entailed what this book is about, the white- washing of other stories, other cultures, and other people’s memories on the landscape.

Yet now, in much popular discourse, associations between city, future, and ethnicity have fundamentally changed. On one hand, the “Los Angeles as End of the World” race war phantasmagoria has been and remains, as Mike Davis reminds us in his book Ecology of Fear, an important histori- cal and cultural expression of the city’s darkest visions.15 Will such charac- terizations accelerate in the twenty-first century?

But there exists another temporal thread that extols Los Angeles (often in neo-booster breathlessness) as the one place in America, if not the world, where the “multicultural future” exists now. Somehow—no one seems too inclined to offer the social blueprint—Los Angeles will by sheer example pave the way for a rainbow coalition future. Now it must be that this future works or will work precisely because that older futurist vision of Anglo Saxon ascendancy never got fully realized, derailed by second thoughts or by collisions with civil rights activism or the hard facts of demographic change. The same kind of language that once described Los Angeles as the best urban example of eugenic hygiene is now supposed to conjure up images of multicultural harmony. The Los Angeles future now is championed as diverse for, it seems, diversity’s sake. As the notion goes, the region has been brought fast to its egalitarian ethnic senses by the hard lessons of Rodney King, the spectacle of the O. J. trials, or complacent acceptance that majority and minority populations will soon (at least by census reckoning) change places.

Yet a future foretold is not a future come true. Optimistic forecasts about ethnic and racial common ground, about a common future for the city of destiny, evince worthy aims. But as a historian, I am obliged to suggest that the city of the past deserves concentrated study before that leap to the city of the future is possible. It is imperative to continue digging into the soil of the Los Angeles past. What we find is a city that, even in its expressions of institutional and infrastructural growth, adhered to patterns of racial privilege and ethnocentrism. Pronouncements about a multicultural future that works may only be so many naive words and empty phrases. Or they may be lies, deliberate ones at that. We should be suspicious of the elastic- ity of language to defy the concrete reality of social problems. In other words, it was not at all that long ago that similar language and optimism promised a very different Los Angeles of the future. Los Angeles was once

5i n t r o d u c t i o n

to be the world’s urban beacon because racial supremacy worked here, because Anglo Saxons in charge worked so diligently to maintain particu- lar lines of racial and ethnic privilege. If latter-day suggestions of racial and ethnic harmony in the future are to prove at all feasible, it seems to me important that we better understand the former expressions of racial sin- gularity and supremacist triumphalism. Wrestling with memory and history in this way just might be socially therapeutic. It certainly is overdue.

This book is about the interplay between cultural authority and ethnic stratification in Los Angeles from the 1850s until the coming of the Second World War. It is primarily concerned with how processes of urban matu- ration reveal patterns of ethnic relations. In particular, Whitewashed Adobe focuses upon ideas and behavior of whites toward Mexicans. To narrow the focus even more, the following chapters concentrate especially on those whites with social, political, economic, and cultural power at their disposal. It is the web of their actions and perceptions that concern me most in this book. An earlier generation of scholars called them “city builders,” and that description fits here as well.

At the heart of Whitewashed Adobe are two assumptions. This book’s scholarly objective is to make a convincing argument that Los Angeles came of age amidst (and in part because of ) specific responses to Mexican ethnicity and Mexican spaces. This “ethnic stance,” one of the American Southwest’s most important and troubling cultural markers, often at- tempted to isolate Mexicans in time and space. Understanding Los Angeles requires grappling with the complex and disturbing relationship between whites, especially those able to command various forms of power, and Mexican people, a Mexican past, and a Mexican landscape. The broader point at the core of Whitewashed Adobe is that coming to terms with these historical patterns—and thence, we can hope, deviating from them—is critical to the forging of a city true to a different Southern California future.

Modern Los Angeles is an urban phenomenon unlike any other in the history of the United States. It has prompted numerous scholarly investi- gations of its rise to metropolitan prominence. The city and region have also generated numerous historical analyses of the resident population of Mexicans and Mexican Americans. Both scholarly patterns are of great importance. The city’s booming rise out of the 1880s, roaring on through the 1920s, is a historical marvel. And there can be little doubt that the region’s complex and very often troubling history of ethnic relations, of which the history of Mexicans and Mexican Americans is of course a major part, makes up an important urban chapter in the story of race relations in

i n t r o d u c t i o n6

America. My discussion starts from an assumption that these two themes might analytically be joined or at least examined side by side. The chapters analyze the growth of Los Angeles through prisms of ethnic relations, eth- nic contact and conflict, and ethnic representations. Whitewashed Adobe is an exploration of the deep implications of what prominent Angeleno Joseph P. Widney meant when he wrote that “the Captains of Industry are the truest captains in the race war.”16

How did Los Angeles grow? Better yet, how did Los Angeles mature? How did it reach a level of urban self-consciousness, and what are some of the forms that urban identity took? Whitewashed Adobe examines the mat- uration of Los Angeles by paying attention to ideas about race and ethnic- ity, to ideas whites, particularly elite, city-building whites, held about Mexicans. Its pages also explore the ways in which Los Angeles, once part of Mexico itself, came of age through appropriating, absorbing, and occa- sionally obliterating the region’s connections to Mexican places and Mexican people. Six chapters investigate these processes from 1850 through the Great Depression. At the dawn of California statehood, Los Angeles yet seethed with the racial enmity characteristic of the recent war with Mexico. Within a generation, Los Angeles business interests, looking for a com- mercially viable way to establish urban identity, hit upon a way to borrow Mexican cultural tradition in a brilliant public relations maneuver, an urban carnival called La Fiesta de Los Angeles. Faced with environmental catastrophe in the shape of an unreliable and occasionally unyielding Los Angeles River, early twentieth-century city leaders found themselves forced into a brief history lesson that demanded they listen to the Mexican voices in the Los Angeles landscape, if but for an instant, if but for memory’s sake alone. What Los Angeles of the 1910s and 1920s had rather do with the res- ident Mexican population, as we especially see in chapter 4, was put them to work on the job of literally fashioning modern Los Angeles by shaping millions upon millions of clay bricks. When the resident population of Mexican laborers became unruly, as a very few did by crossing paths with a deadly disease vector in the 1920s, the city of Los Angeles responded with a ferocious campaign that obliterated Mexican homes and neighborhoods. But restraining the region’s ethnic history and ethnic peoples could be done in ways more subtle than fire and destruction, as we will see in the final chapter.

Los Angeles matured, at least in part, by covering up places, people, and histories that those in power found unsettling. Los Angeles became a self- conscious “City of the Future” by whitewashing an adobe past, even an

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adobe present and adobe future. That whitewashing was imperfectly, even crudely, accomplished—adobe yet showed through—but it was nonetheless a way by which white Angelenos created distance (cultural or personal) between themselves and the Mexican past and the Mexican people in their midst.

Thanks to the pioneering efforts of a collection of talented scholars, we know a great deal about the Mexican and Mexican American history of Los Angeles. In the early twentieth century, sociologist Emory Bogardus and economist Rockwell Hunt of the University of Southern California sent dozens of graduate students into the field, and by so doing, into Mexican Los Angeles. These young scholars returned with studies rich in social detail, detail still relevant these many decades later.17 Soon thereafter, anthropologist Manuel Gamio and his assistants collected ethnographies and oral histories of ethnic Mexicans in the region.18 Then came the his- torical morality tales of the great Carey McWilliams. Later, the burst of intellectual and political energy erupting from the civil rights movement and infant Chicano studies programs in the 1960s and 1970s produced insightful analyses of the social and political history of Mexicans and Mexi- can Americans in Southern California.19 In recent years, scholarly investi- gations of the ethnic history of Southern California (as well as the entire Southwest) have grown increasingly sophisticated. We have a baseline understanding of ethnic community and cultural development, to which has been added a more complicated story of intra-community and inter- generational fissures, conflicts, and divergence.20

Such scholarship, to which this book is deeply indebted, is rich and important. It confirms Los Angeles as a site from which to gauge national attitudes and behavioral response to both Mexicans and Mexico. After all, Los Angeles was once part of the Republic of Mexico: the abrupt transitions of the 1840s and 1850s offer case-study insights into national opinion. What is more, Anglo Americans in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Los Angeles exhibited the common tendency to use Mexico and Mexicans as interchangeable identifiers and metaphors. Lastly, Los Angeles encoun- tered, again during the period from just prior to California statehood for- ward into the new century, those various geographic and demographic imperatives that forced the city to address what white Angelenos stub- bornly persisted in describing as “the Mexican problem.”

Whitewashed Adobe has a slightly different purpose and a different his- torical angle to pursue than most of these other studies. It is a book less

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about the resident Mexican population than about white (or, as this book generally refers to the class, Anglo) perceptions of and behavior toward the ethnic Mexican population of Los Angeles. A model for this study is found in the work of the historian Alexander Saxton. As Saxton described it, his classic 1971 monograph The Indispensable Enemy examined “the Chinese confrontation on the Pacific Coast, as it was experienced and rationalized by the white majority.”21 This book proceeds from a similar vantage, exam- ining contact between white Los Angeles, especially elite white Los Angeles, and the resident Mexican population, even the Mexican landscape, over the course of several critical generations. These perceptions, attitudes, and behaviors are themselves woven in important ways into the very fabric of the modern city of Los Angeles.

Along with a grateful nod to Saxton, this perspective owes a heavy debt to the writings of the journalist, lawyer, and historian Carey McWilliams, a scholar whose work seems to grow in importance with each passing year. In his many books, McWilliams presaged much of modern western American and California history. The single theme of McWilliams’s mul- tifaceted work that most informs this book is his analysis of changing eth- nic representations in the transition from Los Angeles village to Los Angeles metropolis.

A full half-century has passed since McWilliams wrote about Southern California’s preoccupation with what he termed the Spanish Fantasy Past and the ways that preoccupation fostered ethnic assumptions and pre- sumptions.22 I’d like to think that this book takes up where McWilliams left off in describing and explaining the role of institutional racial prejudice in the maturation of metropolitan Los Angeles.

Like McWilliams, especially in his classic Southern California Country, I am convinced that narratives about Mexico and Mexicans are integral to the city’s cultural and economic rise during the period between the Mexican American War and World War II. Woven into a particular Los Angeles identity, these narratives can reveal an urban and institutional anatomy of prejudice. Through an exploration of the roots and ramifications of ethnic bordering—the construction of cultural categories in which ethnic others get placed—a great deal can be learned about the history of this city. Lest that sound too academic, let me suggest that one cannot miss these con- tainers on the historical landscape of Los Angeles. They are everywhere, and Los Angeles grew up around them. These categories might take shape as labor segmentation, as with the prevailing tendency to view Mexicans as the region’s ever-present supply of unskilled (always unskilled) labor. They

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might be the residential restrictions expressed at the boundaries of a Mexican neighborhood. They might be the containers of school or religious segregation. They might also be the bonds of memory or history, as in the ways in which Los Angeles enshrined particular visions of the Spanish, as opposed to the Mexican, past. If the city of the future is to work, we must look more closely at how these categories and containers were built, who built them, and how they got filled. Then we have to take them apart.

By this approach, I do not mean to suggest that ethnic Mexican resist- ance to such practices, however expressed, was not present and sometimes effective on the historical landscape of Los Angeles, ca. 1850–1940. At the same time, I do not wish to underestimate or deemphasize the power of the dominant society to limit and proscribe forms of class or ethnic resistance to discriminatory representations or behaviors. The following chapters concentrate almost exclusively on that latter phenomenon.23

Nor is my contention in these pages that powerful Anglos in Los Angeles rendered Mexicans invisible by insisting that they inhabit these particular cultural or other containers. It is the opposite view: borders created from discriminatory wage systems, from public memory, and from political exclusion all had to do with rendering Mexicans expressly visible, lest they disappear into the polity, into the neighborhoods, into the city of the future. Put simply, one important feature of the “Los Angeles future,” at least as old as the city’s American rebirth in the middle of the nineteenth century, has long been about race and keeping race in check. That is a com- mon feature throughout the grim history of racial exclusion, discrimina- tion, and segregation in American history, and the history of Los Angeles proves no different.

In pursuing this line of inquiry, we turn first to the 1850s and the bloody aftermath of the United States war against the Republic of Mexico. It was a little war, a war supposedly over only two years after it started. My pur- pose in chapter 1 is to examine the ways in which an Anglo and newly American Los Angeles grew amidst the brutal violence of Mexican-hating, and in consequence furthered a fateful trajectory into the city of the future.

i n t r o d u c t i o n1 0

One

The Unending Mexican War

The Mexican race now see, in the fate of the aborigines of the north, their own inevitable destiny.They must amalgamate and be lost, in the superior vigor of the Anglo-Saxon race, or they must utterly perish.They may postpone the hour for a time, but it will come, when their nationality shall cease.

Democratic Review, February 18471

We accuse Californians and Sonorenos of being enemies to us—they are so in fact and in detail.And what wrongs are theirs? Where are their lands, their cattle and horses, and their money? Gone! They are nearly all paupers.And the mercenary avarice of American gamblers has made them such.

William Wallace, diary entry, 1857

The cut-throats of California and Mexico, naturally met at Los Angeles, and at Los Angeles they fought.

Horace Bell 2

Ugly reflexive characterizations about Mexicans are deeply rooted in the California past. The expressions of 1820s and 1830s American visitors such as the sailor Richard Henry Dana anticipate the racial and ethnic pre- sumptions of later generations. Once imperial designs upon Mexico had been put into motion (exactly what Dana meant by his California com- mentary, “In the hands of an enterprising people, what a country this might be!”), it became an act of patriotism to refer to Mexicans in explic-

1 1

itly racist terms.3 The 1846–1848 war against the Republic of Mexico—a nasty, brutal affair—drove home Manifest Destiny’s darkest assumption that racial and national supremacy went hand in glove.

Scholars have disagreed about the chicken and egg quality to such a per- spective: was racial hatred followed by expansionist determinism or vice versa? Tensions within this binary could seem subtle given the euphemistic language of Manifest Destiny rising in the early-to-mid-1840s. Softened by references to God’s hand in all this, expansionist aggression could be painted in phrasings of divinity, glory, and the inevitability of Christian (read Protestant) triumph. But any blessed sweetness fell away as the proj- ect was rendered stark and grim by warfare and the lusty “All Mexico” cries of antebellum expansionists. “The truth is,” declared one U.S. senator in 1847, “the Mexicans are a rascally, perfidious race.”4

Taken as mere fact, such perceptions of a nation, a place, and a people had obvious ramifications in the far West. California, after all, was dragged to the brink of statehood by Manifest Destiny’s crude racial determinism. First came the quixotic Bear Flag Rebellion against Mexican California by John C. Frémont and confreres, followed by outright warfare between the United States and the Republic of Mexico. But surrenders and treaties hardly put a stop to the violence of racial enmity—not General Robert Stockton’s capture of Los Angeles in early 1847 nor the 1848 signing of the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo.

For one thing, territorial aggrandizement continued, not limited to the 1853 Gadsden Purchase, with its addition of 29,000,000 acres to what would become lower Arizona and New Mexico. Not long after peace, the adventurer and land pirate William Walker rehearsed his later invasion of Nicaragua with paramilitary campaigns in Baja California and Sonora. Walker was hardly alone. The Mexican Republic faced invasion by land and sea numerous times after 1848, and these expeditions often began in California and continued, oddly enough, well into the latter part of the cen- tury. As historian Robert May has written, “the racialist strains of Manifest Destiny survived the peace with Mexico and helped inspire post-war filibustering.” Californian Horace Bell, a follower of Walker in Nicaragua, fondly recalled the postwar era: “What wild schemes, what adventurous plans were concocted overnight in those early years of the Golden State!”5

What happens to our understanding of California or Los Angeles history if we suggest that, diplomatic or treaty assurances to the contrary, the Mexican War did not end in 1848? “Poor Mexico!” an Angeleno confessed in his diary between filibustering raids in the mid-1850s. “It is supposed that

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she will now be permitted to breathe freely several times, before the next heel is placed upon her neck.”6

It had all seemed so direct and simple, California moving step by step toward its rightful American future. “The war between our government and Mexico, in a short time after, ceased to exist,” the California chronicler Benjamin Truman wrote. “California became a Territory of the United States, and, legally, Los Angeles was no longer a Mexican pueblo, but a ‘burg’ of the great Yankee nation.”7 But as early Los Angeles historian James Miller Guinn wrote in 1901, in a phrase succinct and on target, the “process of Americanizing the people was no easy undertaking.” Laid atop the Mexican War and its violent, racist exuberance were the postwar bru- talities of the Gold Rush, the beatings, the criminalization, and the lynch- ings of resident Mexicans, most of whom had, at least by treaty, become Americans. “To shoot these Greasers ain’t the best way,” declared one California vigilante in the Gold Rush period. “Give ’em a fair trial, and rope ’em up with all the majesty of the law. That’s the cure.”8

What’s more, the none-too-subtle extortions imposed by the “foreign miner’s tax” stood as frontier-era precursors of more recent California pub- lic referenda aimed at ethnic others. Such legal expressions of racial malice make the ever-widening ripples of ugly discriminatory ideas and behavior even easier to spot and track on the historical landscape. They also suggest a posture that the Mexican American War had made all too obvious to whites in California. Mexicans and Mexico were to be approached with arms and martial readiness. “This southern California is still unsettled,” wrote field scientist William H. Brewer in 1860. “We all continually wear arms—each wears both bowie knife and pistol (navy revolver), while we always have for game or otherwise, a Sharp’s rifle, Sharp’s carbine, and two double-barrel shotguns,” hardly the paraphernalia of peacetime. Did the Mexican War end?9

Horace Bell, soldier of fortune, rancher, journalist, and memoirist all rolled into one, remembered 1850s Los Angeles as an immensely violent place. First came vigilante action aimed at the sons of prominent rancher José del Carmen Lugo (the vigilantes came up on the short end of that deal). Then in 1851, with the lynching of a Mexican man named Zavalete, again the “Los Angeles mob raised its horrid head.” Things only worsened with time, as Bell notes with irony unchecked.

Such was the plane of civilization to which our people had attained in the early period of the city’s American history. . . . American rule had

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certainly demonstrated to the benighted sons of Mexico the superiority of our civilization. We had evolved a very simple rule for the classification of the population. A man was either a manhunter, or he was one of the hunted. That is, if he amounted to anything at all. If in neither classifica- tion, then he was a mere nonentity. The decent minority—for there was such a group of nonentities—wondered when and where it would all end. It was barbarism gone to seed.10

By the middle of the decade, tensions between “Americans” and Mexi- cans threatened to explode. Judge Benjamin Hayes, whose Los Angeles diaries offer an especially illuminating glimpse into the years he called “a transition state to better order and more perfect security,” felt the pressures of his times and judicial duties. In sentencing a Mexican man to death for murder, Hayes made certain to have his remarks translated into Spanish, read aloud, and then published. This was not for the condemned, he ar- gued, so much as for “his young countrymen, who are betraying too many signs of hostility to Americanos.” Yet wasn’t such hostility justified, given the legal system’s propensity for racial profiling, ca. 1850? After all, as an atten- tive journalist of the period noted, “punishment seems to be graduated by the color of the skin, and not the color of the crime.”11

Itinerant schoolteacher and newspaperman William Wallace traveled three times from New England to Southern California in the 1850s. His journal, kept with meticulous care in small leather-bound books, is a barometer of the social and ethnic tensions of the period. Looking out across the expanse of the Los Angeles basin in the early spring of 1855, Wallace could barely contain his excitement at being back in the West. His entries foreshadow the later effervescence of Los Angeles boosters. “I love the country, the climate is incomparable, the scenery is grand, the plains are beautiful, the flowers are everywhere.” Yet natural beauty could not fully mask the difficulties and the violence, “the dangers, the vices, the self- sacrifices, the cold-blooded crimes through which the pioneers have guided this unformed and malformed community.”12

Wallace felt the social hangover brought about by the recklessness of American occupation, warfare, and statehood. “We are now like fast boys upon their travels, and our imprudences have brought us into trouble,” he mused. Rapid change marked everything. “The California of ten years ago is not the California of to-day,” he noted. “The old country, with all its sim- ple manners and customs, [has] all departed; everything has become new, and is as yet unformed.” Riding out from the village center to teach school