Category: Things You’ve Never Heard Of

  • Woody Guthrie’s Song “Deportee”: Well-Meaning Fantasy

    Woody Guthrie’s Song “Deportee”: Well-Meaning Fantasy

    It was a plane crash that killed 32 people, mainly illegal immigrants, and spawned Woody Guthrie’s song “Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos).” For over 70 years, “Deportee” has come to signify the heartlessness of the American public, media, and law enforcement system towards illegal immigrants.

    Recorded by Joan Baez, Kingston Trio, Hoyt Axton, Nanci Griffith, Concrete Blonde, Billy Bragg, Bruce Springsteen, and countless others, “Deportee” is a tight little package that protests what Guthrie considered to be racist mistreatment of the passengers before and after the accident. One typical contemporary mainstream media approach to the song comes from NPR, seeking to connect the 1948 deportation of 32 Mexican nationals with Trump administration immigration policies, saying that the immigrants’ “death [was] marked by anonymity when their names were lost in the accident.”

    Except it wasn’t quite that way. The truth is a little more nuanced and less cruel than Guthrie made it out to be.

    The Crash in Los Gatos

    On January 28, 1948, a DC-3 plane carrying 32 people went down in rugged Los Gatos Canyon, near Coalinga, California, about 200 miles south of the San Francisco Bay Area. The crash killed the 32 people on board: 28 Mexican nationals, all men except for one woman, and four Americans. The Americans were a husband-and-wife pilot/stewardess team, Frank and Billie Atkinson; co-pilot Marion Ewing; and Immigration Inspector Frank Chaffin.

    A road crew working in the area saw the plane go down and they were the first responders. Some bodies were strewn so far away from the plane that newspaper accounts at the time speculated that some of the men had tried to jump before the plane crashed. No solid explanation for the crash was ever produced.

    Living in New York at the time, Woody Guthrie likely picked up the New York Times on January 29 and, seeing only the names of the four Americans listed and none of the Mexican nationals’ names, wrote about how the unnamed Mexicans were left “To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil / And be called by no name except deportees.”

    Since no names are supplied in the newspaper account, Guthrie makes up a few names:

    Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
    Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
    You won’t have your names when you ride the big airplane,
    All they will call you will be “deportees”

    Attempts Made to Identify Bodies

    Some have speculated that Guthrie’s song was only uninformed and well-meaning. Since Guthrie did not read past that first initial account, he did not know that officials “eagerly sought” the names of the Mexican nationals on the second day. Yet because the crash was not a local story, the New York papers did not extend their coverage beyond that first day.

    On the day of the crash, even the local Fresno and Bakersfield, California newspapers did report just the names of the four Americans and none of the Mexican nationals. But already by the second day, as reported by the Bakersfield Californian, both American and Mexican officials were working to identify the names of the Mexicans. Another local newspaper, the Fresno Bee, listed every Mexican national confirmed or believed to be on that doomed flight.

    By sifting through the burning debris and mangled bodies, officials were able to positively identify 11 of the Mexicans; that is, they matched a body to an identity. Another 16 names that were listed as being on the transport list but not matching bodies were still publicly listed by immigration officials and published in the newspapers.

    One aspect that complicated matters, according to I.F. Nixon, regional immigration director in San Francisco, was the fact that all were “agricultural workers who had slipped across the border without a passport or had overstayed their work permits.” So, in any kind of fiery plane crash, identification is difficult. Identifying the Mexicans in the Los Gatos crash was made even more difficult due to the pervasive lack of identification. Some were workers overstaying their work permits as part of the Bracero Program of the 1940s that standardized living conditions and a living wage for migratory workers. Thus, some of the workers were braceros who had timed out their permit and were now forced to leave.

    In the end, positive identification of the remaining bodies was simply not possible due to the incredible impact of the plane crash and subsequent fire. Fresno County Deputy Coroner L.R. Webb said, “The rest may never be identified, so badly were the bodies broken and burned.”

    Facts

    Though Guthrie’s version of the story is overwrought and incomplete, some facts do remain:

    • All 28 Mexicans were buried unidentified in a mass grave at Holy Cross Cemetery, Fresno, California.
    • After that first identification, no attempts were made by officials to contact families of the Mexicans.
    • The location of immigration guard Frank Chaffin’s remains are unknown, but he is marked on the mass grave memorial with the Mexican nationals.
    • Marion Harlow Ewing (b. 1915) the co-pilot, was buried at Ivy Lawn Memorial Park, Ventura, California.
    • Both Francis Atkinson and Lillian (Billie) Atkinson are buried at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, Rochester, New York.
    • Subsequent writers such as Tim Z. Hernandez in his book All They Will Call You give a more complete version of the story. Hernandez spent six years searching for families of the dead and he was instrumental in obtaining funding for a new memorial that lists the names of all of the dead.
    • By the third day, media reports of the Los Gatos crash and practically all other new items were buried by an event of international importance: Mahatma Gandhi was assassinated.

     

     

  • Capping San Francisco’s Panhandle Freeway: a Plan That Never Happened

    Capping San Francisco’s Panhandle Freeway: a Plan That Never Happened

    The plan made a lot of sense. If you were going to have a freeway running right through San Francisco’s Panhandle, which itself connects to the eastern end of Golden Gate Park, why not partially cap it off?

    Edmund G. Burger, principal at Burger & Coplans, wasn’t the bad guy here, not by any stretch of the imagination. Burger, born in 1930, was a renaissance man, an innovator who seemed to excel at every thing he tried: basketball scholarship, founder of the Grow Homes movement preceded Habitat for Humanity, and architect for the American Pavilion at the 1992 Olympic Games, in Barcelona, among many achievements. Yet to freeway-sensitive San Franciscans, anything related to a freeway, even a sensible mitigating device such as this, was a no-go.

    Burger’s defense of the high cost of capping the Panhandle Freeway was that freeways running through difficult topography in open areas often incur extra costs to bypass, remove, or ram though those obstacles. Burger felt that dealing with a city’s topography and the related costs shouldn’t be viewed much differently.

    San Francisco Panhandle Freeway Cap, Aerial View, 1960
    San Francisco Panhandle Freeway Cap, Aerial View, 1967

    The cap would have run along a four-block section at the end of the Panhandle, partially covering a recessed freeway. Cantilevered concrete walls 60 feet high would have slanted inward 24 feet on each side over this freeway. These walls would actually be the backs of three story apartments for moderate-income residents. While the walls would have been concrete, the apartments were designed to be constructed of wood.

    San Francisco Panhandle Freeway Cap, Fell or Oak Streets, 1960
    San Francisco Panhandle Freeway Cap, Fell or Oak Streets, 1967

    The 90 foot-wide slot above the freeway would have given drivers light and air, and would have allowed exhaust fumes to escape. The walls and ground-level garages were estimated to cost $1 million per block.

    San Francisco Panhandle Freeway Cap, Inside, 1960
    San Francisco Panhandle Freeway Cap, Inside, 1967

    San Francisco and freeways don’t mix. The Panhandle Freeway and Burger’s cap would politically go down in the Freeway Revolts of the 1960s. That eyesore, the Embarcadero Freeway, literally came down during the 1992 San Francisco earthquake.

    Panhandle, 1938

    San Francisco Panhandle 1938, Showing Road
    San Francisco Panhandle 1938, Showing Road

    The idea of a Panhandle Freeway wasn’t so far-fetched. While not quite a freeway, there was a road running through the Panhandle, as shown in this 1938 photo, above.

    San Francisco Panhandle, 2018 Above View
    San Francisco Panhandle, 2018 Above View
  • Pink Floyd in 1889

    Pink Floyd in 1889

    Fans of Pink Floyd know the origin story by heart. Band member Syd Barrett combined the names of two blues musicians Pink Anderson and Floyd Council. But the name Pink Floyd predates all of that.

    We’ve got the Pink Floyd who, in 1889, killed Cornelius Lowden:

    Pink Floyd 1889
    Pink Floyd 1889

    Then, of course, there’s the Michigan Pink Floyd who made an illegal left turn in 1952 and was fined $4:

    Pink Floyd 1952
    Pink Floyd 1952

    And who can forget the famed Pink Floyd of Marietta, North Carolina, who caught a 15-pound fish?

    Pink Floyd 1931
    Pink Floyd 1931

     

  • Let’s All Check on Senator Mary Landrieu’s Fishing Camp

    Let’s All Check on Senator Mary Landrieu’s Fishing Camp

    History doesn’t always cooperate with us. The narrative that we are continually constructing often runs at odds with reality. Our outrage culture has built a story around Hurricane Katrina that’s pretty much the accepted narrative. One off-shoot of this narrative is that FEMA and its Director at the time, Michael Brown, were bumbling idiots who failed in every respect. In Dave Rubin’s interview with Brown on The Rubin Report, Brown offers a different side of Katrina. One interesting factoid that emerges is how Senator Mary Landrieu turned a Black Hawk helicopter around so that the U.S. taxpayer-financed helicopter–carrying Brown, Landrieu, and the Governor of Louisiana–could check on Landrieu’s fishing camp.

    BROWN: It became clear to me probably within, well, it came clear to me the day after the storm made landfall. Because I was on a Black Hawk helicopter with former Senator Mary Landrieu and we were supposed to be going straight to the Superdome to meet with Mayor Nagin, who I always like to joke is–remind people he’s still in federal prison–and in I’m sitting there and I’m not I’m just kind of reading my notes from my staff and I look out the helicopter and I realize that we’re going the wrong direction across Lake Pontchartrain and I asked the pilot, “Where are you going?” and he said, “Well, the senator has asked that we go check her cabin before we go to the Superdome.” I was livid. So now I have a sitting United States Senator next to me who’s just overridden what I said we need to be doing and what the priorities are. I have the governor sitting next to her who doesn’t have the wherewithal to say to the senator, “You know what, your cabin is not our priority. The priority is the people of New Orleans.” It was at that moment that I realized that I had walked into a state that was so much more corrupt–I’ve been involved in politics since I was literally six years old–that it was just so corrupt and it was so dysfunctional that I knew that everything that I had in my hand about how things should operate were gonna start going out the window.

    Mary’s brother, New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu, says of this camp in his book In the Shadow of Statues: A White Southerner Confronts History:

    In 1960, the year I was born, my grandmother Loretta Landrieu paid fifteen thousand dollars for a patch of land along Lake Pontchartrain, about thirty miles out from New Orleans, near the town of Slidell. That “camp,” which was a small house that looked like a triple-wide trailer, had a a long wooden pier that jutted out into the saltwater lake.

    In other words, pretty much the opposite direction of New Orleans. Not to mention, Mary Landrieu barely lives in Louisiana, using her parents’ home as her address-of-record so that she can continue on with her job as Senator. That Black Hawk flight was no isolated incident. Landrieu just loves spending taxpayer money for travel, it seems.

    In the Shadow of Statues: A White Southerner Confronts History, Mitch Landrieu

  • Big Sur Stabbing: Writer “Falls Onto” Knife 9 Times

    Big Sur Stabbing: Writer “Falls Onto” Knife 9 Times

    Big Sur, California, hugging the Pacific coast, is wreathed in fog and mystery. It seems like if you’re going to die there, it’s not a bad place to be. Novelist Dennis Murphy did not die–though the Fresno Bee did erroneously report his death–but he was stabbed in a most unusual way in a parking lot fight in 1963 with artist Jay Kipp.

    Long story short: Big Sur sculptor stabs Big Sur writer nine times. Neither want to say anything much to the police. The author ended up with 9 stab wounds in his chest and neck. But the sculptor concocted the bizarre story that the author either “fell” or “threw himself” onto the knife. Nine times, you remember.

    Jay David Kipp, born July 23, 1929 in San Francisco, was a Big Sur potter who was part of that loose group of artists and writers who have mingled in that seaside community since the 1920s. Alan Watts, on August 24, 1959, describes a visit to Big Sur and his meeting with Jay Kipp, saying

    Yesterday we went further south to the Bay of Lucia, where Camaldolese Benedictines have just set up a hermitage. It’s the most idyllically Mediterranean place on the coats. We were visiting a most gifted potter, Jay Kipp, who lies on a promontory where there was once a noble mansion, long since wrecked by an earthquake. He lives with wife and baby in the old servants’ cottage, surrounded with the overgrown gardens–jacaranda trees, oleander, eucalyptus, potato vines, pampas grass–all hanging above the bay. There was a light rain which had cleared the atmosphere, giving us the rarity of a visible horizon. Jay’s pottery is very much in the finest Zen tradition and somehow, if I can possibly manage it, I will try to get you a piece. Jay is gone on Subud, has done a jail sentence for growing marijuana, and was really pumping me about LSD. Oh, it’s a strange world–this great quest for ecstasy.

    Dennis Murphy, who died in 2005, was a writer of minor note. Upon Murphy’s death, SF Gate reported:

    Mr. Murphy, who spoke fluent French, started the “The Sergeant” while a student at Stanford University. Before graduation, however, he enlisted in the Army and served in France, where he spent a lot of time in jazz clubs, apparently gathering material. He later finished the novel in Ajijic, Mexico.