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| bingo! |
Nevertheless, let's talk about the Gold Rush. Having grown up here, I never was much interested in the history of this time. Every year, my family goes camping in the Sierra Buttes, doing our shopping at small pioneering towns like Graeagle and Sierra City. If you've ever been there, as a child, you'd remember them as hot and dusty, populated with one tiny graveyard with headstones made out of wood. The buildings would be covered in animal bones and surrounded by white picket fences. In one of the cities, they had a library about the size of my bedroom where you could check books out on good faith.
One year, I think I was maybe eight or nine, we were in Nevada City doing laundry and this man came up to me out of nowhere. "Hey little girl, put your hand out."
Now, in hindsight... my mother should have pulled me away from this potentially creepy scenario, but this was the '80s and people just did stuff like that. I obliged. He wound up pouring a very small handful of gold into my hand, loose gold dust which I held in such a tight fist until we found a jeweler who had a case. By the time we got there, only six of seven little nuggets remained.
That was the beginning of my obsession with all things sparkly. Imagine how both dirty and brilliant the Gold Rush time was. The streets full of manure, people unbathed, gun battles everywhere...
On the local level, the impact of such a large migration was detrimental. "Hordes poured in, and it was these gold-seekers spreading into the hiterto unviolated homelands of the foothills and Sierra tribes of California, who committed by sheer brutality, and by numbers, and by ecological devastation, and by plan, the worst genocide in our state's history."
Obviously, back then, the city was undeveloped. Portsmouth Square, originally Yerba Buena, was separated from the Mission by swamps and sand dunes, and it was in the Mission (surprise surprise) where vice ran rampant. Up until the 1850s, there was the Mansion House right next door to Mission Dolores, a building that was part priests' quarters, part tavern, part gambling hall.
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| mansion house |
Because the acquisition of wealth actually seemed possible, everyone wanted it.
Ambrose Bierce : "Ambition: an overwhelming desire to be vilified by enemies while living and made ridiculous by friends when dead."
There was little to no law.
"In the earlier years - that is, in 1849 and 1850, fatal frays were of frequent occurence in the streets and in every place of public amusement, in the gambling saloons, pistols, loaded with bail, would every night be discharged by some hot-headed, revengful, or drunken fellows - the crowd around were liable to be wounded, if not killed."
I don't know about you, but this, with the awesome storms we've been having, make me want to buy a bottle of whiskey and start a Clint Eastwood movie marathon.
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| whoa. babe. |
Still, it's difficult to imagine. Near Dolores Park, in some ramshackle wooden building, "The professional gamblers, who paid great rents for the right of placing their tables in these saloons, made large fortunes by the business. Their tables were filled with heaps of gold and silver coin, with bags of gold dust and lumps of pure metal, to tempt the gambler."
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| my entire savings |
Clearly, at this time, prostitution and gambling went hand in hand, and were both considered socially acceptable. One fabulous couple included Bella Cora, "The Gold Rush's most notorious madam" and her gambling husband, Charles Cora. Having killed his ex-best friend/ US Marshall, Charles went to court, was acquitted, and then tried again, this time without a defense lawyer. The self appointed "Vigilante Committee" demanded his death, declaring that "No longer would wide-open, rip-roarin' gamblin' and whorin', with its attendant shootings and lootings, be allowed to flourish quite as openly as it had during the first five years of the Gold Rush."
The Vigilante Committee said, "These hooligans are deserters and shirkers, they deserve our scorn and punishment."
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| coworkers at a catering event |
As I've said before, in every city there is the division of the Haves and Have Nots, and there's something so intrinsically American about the strength behind the Have Nots. In a recent altercation with my Danish roommate, I realized that what was happening was a cultural barrier. From what I understand, when Europeans live together, they "live" together. They are social, they share, the participate. Americans are the opposite. We come home to be alone, we covet, we write our names on things. Well, that is until we don't have anything, and then we band together. This makes me wonder when, for example, concepts of Rags to Riches suddenly changes who we were. Is it that first moment when you realize that wealth has been achieved / is possible? Or when you finally have it? Or when you change your life because now you have options?
This is a pointless thing to spend the rest of my day thinking about, but I can't help it. Any crime movie raises the same issue. When is enough enough? When is not enough too little?
I was reading about the Ingleside Track, now reduced to a single looping road, wealthy houses, and home to what once was claimed as the World's Largest Sundial. But, back in the day, it was (self) named "The Most Perfect Winter Race Track in America" where, "the elite did meet to drink and eat and cheat to the sweet beat of fleet equine feet." Famous regulars included Wyatt Earp and Fung Jin Toy, "Little Pete", "an ex-con who dressed like a million bucks and liked to bribe jockeys. He won $100,00 at Ingleside and Bay Vew before being busted in 1897. Shortly thereafter he was executed gangland style while being barbered on Washington Street."
I was reading a little about this fellow, and how he was considered invincible. Single-handedly, he killed fifty Tong members, walked through the streets wearing chain-mail, flanked by three guards as he accepted bribery from all the city officials. I bet if he had avoided that last little run at the track, they wouldn't have shot him five times in his spine, beneath his armor. Just saying.
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| wyatt earp. babe again. do i have a type? |
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| little pete |
Ah, but the inevitable happened. The Haves never like it when the Have Nots seem to be getting along. Someone figured a way to create a link from Portsmouth Square to the Mission, bringing the rich folks. They marked this territory a good spot for their "country homes" and effectively chased out the '49ers.
Bierce again, "Economy: Purchasing the barrel of whiskey that you do not need for the price of the cow that you cannot afford."
As I'm writing, images of the google protests are flooding my facebook page, and I would just like to reiterate that I'm not choosing sides. There will always be disrespectful and greedy rich people who take from those that are deserving, just as there will always be criminals and con-artists who also take what is not theirs. RIch and poor ebb and flow like the tide, and what will be will be.
However, I will end this with a heartwarming story. I don't know about you, but I think taking money from the church is always a wonderful idea, and when I hear of some local hero sticking it to them, I can't help but smile.
Samual Brannan was once a Mormon Elder from New York. He and Brigham Young moved West together, and Brannan was sent to California to recruit and raise money. When he left the church and didn't give them what he had made, they sent some officials his way to collect. He said that if this indeed was God's money, then he was going to require a receipt, signed by the Lord himself.
Brannan became $5 richer that day.
Some photos for you:
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