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From our recording studio in Brooklyn, we make audio that celebrates human creativity, history and the spaces we live to learn about.

Migration allows people to adapt and survive. It also transforms a city into a community. Walk through downtown Oakland to uncover these interconnected migration stories.

Created in the Summer of 2021

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Oakland

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SF + Bay Area

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San Francisco.jpg

San Francisco Cover.jpg

Stand here and I’ll let you know when to start walking.

On a street like this one, cars and construction noises may drown out the subtle cues of nature that remind us what this land looked like before Oakland existed. This area has been a landing spot for migratory birds for thousands of years. Even with the city here today, birds still migrate along this corridor, en route to Lake Merritt. Birds like pelicans, egrets, and geese. Others are more permanent residents, like the black-crowned night heron, which is actually the official bird of Oakland. You might spot this particular heron by the lake. It stands with its neck tucked into its body, and has a black cap and back that contrasts with a pale grey belly and wings. If you listen closely now, you may hear the calls of other birds. But Oakland is also a landing place for other forms of migration. If you listen to the city, you’ll hear stories about human migrations as well.


Though these journeys to Oakland are a far more recent phenomenon, they’ve left clues all over downtown. To find these clues, you have to listen in a different way. Migrant cultures intersect here, creating an ever-evolving community.

Migration is a throughline in my own story. I grew up in Oakland, but my parents moved here from New York and Chicago. Their parents and grandparents migrated from European countries they could no longer safely call home by World War II. As a documentarian and an Oaklander, I believe Oakland’s migration stories can teach us about solidarity and survival. 

Follow the brick stairs down to the arcaded passageway and find a seat. I want to tell you a story before you start walking. 

This story begins at the end of a long railroad track. Beginning in 1869, the Transcontinental Railroad brought migrants from distant stations and dropped them off three blocks from where you’re sitting. The arrival of the first train also coincided with the reconstruction of the South after the Civil War. Millions of formerly enslaved African Americans migrated north to escape violent racism and find opportunities in Northern cities. Thousands of these migrants ended up in the Bay Area. This diaspora came to be known as the Great Migration. More on that later. These migrants joined others, transforming this city from a sparse settlement into a metropolis. 

It’s important to remember that migration connects us to a difficult history we’ve inherited. There are sidewalk stamps throughout the city with red painted words that read “Stolen Land.” This land wasn’t empty when settlers arrived here. Before the train rolled in, and before Oakland was Oakland, this place was home to the Ohlone people. Ohlone is a collective name that encompasses 50 groups with distinct languages. 

The people who first inhabited this land spoke Chochenyo, and they lived in villages along the estuary and Glen Echo Creek. They harvested native plants, gathered acorns from oak trees, and fished in the estuary before Spanish and other European colonizers laid claim over the Bay Area. The Ohlone were all but decimated by disease and forced relocation near the Spanish missions. By the time Oakland got its name, few Ohlone remained. But some of their descendants still call the Bay Area home.

Spanish and Anglo settlers had an indelible impact on the Ohlone way of life. That’s typically what happens when migration breeds colonization. Settlers arrive and indigenous communities are forced to adapt. Two hundred and fifty years and countless migrations after this land was colonized, we’re still learning how to come together. 

On a corner not far from here, on a day like this, not long ago, a figure in a full face mask, wearing a Black Lives Matter t-shirt, stepped up to a shuttered storefront and quietly installed a quartet of wheat pasted posters. Those posters read “UNITED. NOT DIVIDED.”

It’s amazing what can happen when you listen to your city and take in the small symbols of unity that exist on street level. Whether it’s sidewalk stamps and wheat paste posters of hope and dissent. Or migratory birds flying above the city, moving in concert without ever colliding. Just as birds migrate perennially, our migrations help us to adapt and survive. They transform cities into communities. 

Now, start walking up the other brick staircase to emerge at street level. Turn left at the top of the stairs and walk halfway down the block. 

Keep those two messages in mind -- “Stolen Land” and “United. Not Divided” -- as you walk today. The first message acknowledges the ongoing damage of colonization.  The second asks us to envision a city where unity transcends division. The tension between these two messages resonates today just as much as it did during Oakland’s founding era. 

Turn left at the top of the stairs and cross the street to continue walking in that direction. Try to match my footsteps so we stay together.

We’re going to walk through downtown, from Old Oakland to Lake Merritt. Along the way, we’ll trace the footsteps of other people who have cut across this land and uncover the marks they left on the city. As Oakland transforms, migration remains a constant. The past is not passed.

476 9th Street \|||// Stand here and I’ll let you know when to start walking.

On a street like this one, cars and construction noises may drown out the subtle cues of nature that remind us what this land looked like before Oakland existed. This area has been a landing spot for migratory birds for thousands of years. Even with the city here today, birds still migrate along this corridor, en route to Lake Merritt. Birds like pelicans, egrets, and geese. Others are more permanent residents, like the black-crowned night heron, which is actually the official bird of Oakland. You might spot this particular heron by the lake. It stands with its neck tucked into its body, and has a black cap and back that contrasts with a pale grey belly and wings. If you listen closely now, you may hear the calls of other birds. But Oakland is also a landing place for other forms of migration. If you listen to the city, you’ll hear stories about human migrations as well.


Though these journeys to Oakland are a far more recent phenomenon, they’ve left clues all over downtown. To find these clues, you have to listen in a different way. Migrant cultures intersect here, creating an ever-evolving community.

Migration is a throughline in my own story. I grew up in Oakland, but my parents moved here from New York and Chicago. Their parents and grandparents migrated from European countries they could no longer safely call home by World War II. As a documentarian and an Oaklander, I believe Oakland’s migration stories can teach us about solidarity and survival. 

Follow the brick stairs down to the arcaded passageway and find a seat. I want to tell you a story before you start walking. 

This story begins at the end of a long railroad track. Beginning in 1869, the Transcontinental Railroad brought migrants from distant stations and dropped them off three blocks from where you’re sitting. The arrival of the first train also coincided with the reconstruction of the South after the Civil War. Millions of formerly enslaved African Americans migrated north to escape violent racism and find opportunities in Northern cities. Thousands of these migrants ended up in the Bay Area. This diaspora came to be known as the Great Migration. More on that later. These migrants joined others, transforming this city from a sparse settlement into a metropolis. 

It’s important to remember that migration connects us to a difficult history we’ve inherited. There are sidewalk stamps throughout the city with red painted words that read “Stolen Land.” This land wasn’t empty when settlers arrived here. Before the train rolled in, and before Oakland was Oakland, this place was home to the Ohlone people. Ohlone is a collective name that encompasses 50 groups with distinct languages. 

The people who first inhabited this land spoke Chochenyo, and they lived in villages along the estuary and Glen Echo Creek. They harvested native plants, gathered acorns from oak trees, and fished in the estuary before Spanish and other European colonizers laid claim over the Bay Area. The Ohlone were all but decimated by disease and forced relocation near the Spanish missions. By the time Oakland got its name, few Ohlone remained. But some of their descendants still call the Bay Area home.

Spanish and Anglo settlers had an indelible impact on the Ohlone way of life. That’s typically what happens when migration breeds colonization. Settlers arrive and indigenous communities are forced to adapt. Two hundred and fifty years and countless migrations after this land was colonized, we’re still learning how to come together. 

On a corner not far from here, on a day like this, not long ago, a figure in a full face mask, wearing a Black Lives Matter t-shirt, stepped up to a shuttered storefront and quietly installed a quartet of wheat pasted posters. Those posters read “UNITED. NOT DIVIDED.”

It’s amazing what can happen when you listen to your city and take in the small symbols of unity that exist on street level. Whether it’s sidewalk stamps and wheat paste posters of hope and dissent. Or migratory birds flying above the city, moving in concert without ever colliding. Just as birds migrate perennially, our migrations help us to adapt and survive. They transform cities into communities. 

Now, start walking up the other brick staircase to emerge at street level. Turn left at the top of the stairs and walk halfway down the block. 

Keep those two messages in mind -- “Stolen Land” and “United. Not Divided” -- as you walk today. The first message acknowledges the ongoing damage of colonization.  The second asks us to envision a city where unity transcends division. The tension between these two messages resonates today just as much as it did during Oakland’s founding era. 

Turn left at the top of the stairs and cross the street to continue walking in that direction. Try to match my footsteps so we stay together.

We’re going to walk through downtown, from Old Oakland to Lake Merritt. Along the way, we’ll trace the footsteps of other people who have cut across this land and uncover the marks they left on the city. As Oakland transforms, migration remains a constant. The past is not passed.

blue bottle.jpg

Blue Bottle (480 9th St)

Tour Item

English

Blue Bottle 5.12.mp3

Look across the street at the facade of G.B. Ratto’s Deli, and pause here for a moment. The awning tells you something about Ratto’s late 19th century origins, and the name should hint you to this delicatessen’s migration story. Giovanni Battista Ratto left Italy at the age of 13. After settling in Oakland, he opened Ratto’s on Washington Street in 1897. Those who knew Ratto called him an argonaut, because his life seemed like a never ending adventure. He distinguished his deli from others in the area by shipping products in from all over the world. Salumi arrived from Italy, chocolate from Venezuela, and saffron from Spain. 

Ratto’s Deli survived the Great Depression, a devastating fire in the 1970s, and the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989. It’s still owned by the same family, the fourth generation, and it’s one of the oldest delicatessens in the city. Glance at the small window to the right of the deli. You’ll see that this entire block is named for Ratto -- a cue that he was the original owner of this building at the end of the 19th century. 

Now look left, down the block, and up to the top of that brick building on the corner, the one with the jade green ghost billboard that reads “M.J.B. Coffee - Why?” Ghost ads like this one haunt the city’s present with the memory of Oakland’s past. M.J.B. Coffee was founded in San Francisco by Max J. Brandenstein in 1881. His roastery’s original name was M.J. Brandenstein & Co, but he changed it to M.J.B. Coffee in an effort to hide his German Jewish origins during an era of rampant anti-semitism. You may be wondering about the “Why?” posed in the billboard. That question became M.J.B.’s first ad campaign in 1910, when the Brandensteins unveiled it at a boxing match in Reno. Within a few years, the slogan could be found on buildings across the Bay Area.

Now look to your right to the end of the next block, and up to the top of the sandy brown Convention Center. You’ll see a ghost sign of a much more recent passing -- the Golden State Warriors’ migration from Oakland to San Francisco. Oaklanders still cheer on the basketball team with as much hometown pride.

Walk back toward the stairs you just came up, cross 9th Street, and turn right down that block. 

821 Washington Street \|||// Look across the street at the facade of G.B. Ratto’s Deli, and pause here for a moment. The awning tells you something about Ratto’s late 19th century origins, and the name should hint you to this delicatessen’s migration story. Giovanni Battista Ratto left Italy at the age of 13. After settling in Oakland, he opened Ratto’s on Washington Street in 1897. Those who knew Ratto called him an argonaut, because his life seemed like a never ending adventure. He distinguished his deli from others in the area by shipping products in from all over the world. Salumi arrived from Italy, chocolate from Venezuela, and saffron from Spain. 

Ratto’s Deli survived the Great Depression, a devastating fire in the 1970s, and the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989. It’s still owned by the same family, the fourth generation, and it’s one of the oldest delicatessens in the city. Glance at the small window to the right of the deli. You’ll see that this entire block is named for Ratto -- a cue that he was the original owner of this building at the end of the 19th century. 

Now look left, down the block, and up to the top of that brick building on the corner, the one with the jade green ghost billboard that reads “M.J.B. Coffee - Why?” Ghost ads like this one haunt the city’s present with the memory of Oakland’s past. M.J.B. Coffee was founded in San Francisco by Max J. Brandenstein in 1881. His roastery’s original name was M.J. Brandenstein & Co, but he changed it to M.J.B. Coffee in an effort to hide his German Jewish origins during an era of rampant anti-semitism. You may be wondering about the “Why?” posed in the billboard. That question became M.J.B.’s first ad campaign in 1910, when the Brandensteins unveiled it at a boxing match in Reno. Within a few years, the slogan could be found on buildings across the Bay Area.

Now look to your right to the end of the next block, and up to the top of the sandy brown Convention Center. You’ll see a ghost sign of a much more recent passing -- the Golden State Warriors’ migration from Oakland to San Francisco. Oaklanders still cheer on the basketball team with as much hometown pride.

Walk back toward the stairs you just came up, cross 9th Street, and turn right down that block. 

ratto.jpg

G.B. Ratto & Co.

As you walk this block, which locals call Victorian Row, see if you can find the name at the top of each building’s facade, along with the year each building was completed. “Snyder’s Block” is on the right at the very top in white and “Nicoll Block” is on the left, in cream-colored paint against white. On the Nicoll Block is the former Arlington Hotel. 

Look left at the entrance to the red-brick building and you’ll see “The Arlington” in gold painted letters against a transom window. Pause here for a moment. If you scan the top of the facade, you’ll see an array of gargoyles. Back in the 19th century, these gargoyles protected the Arlington from evil spirits, or so the owner believed. His name was John Nicoll and he migrated here from Ireland in 1849 during the Great Famine. Perhaps that experience left Nicoll superstitious. Or maybe he wanted to recreate the European cathedrals he grew up with in his new home. Either way, these Old World vestiges connect Oakland to the largest migration Ireland has ever seen. The four-leaf clover on the window is another clue about Nicoll’s heritage. Keep walking down the block.

At the time these Victorians were built, Oakland was just a Gold Rush town, only made relevant by its proximity to San Francisco. Thousands of 49ers -- the nickname for gold miners who rushed to California for gold back in 1849 --  migrated here with dreams of making their fortunes and settled in Oakland to escape the rowdy vice of San Francisco. When Mark Twain first moved to San Francisco in the 1860s, he remarked that it was a city of “gold, whiskey, fights, and fandangoes.” Migrant families who settled in Oakland during the Gold Rush wanted to replicate the respectable villages they had left back east. 

Cross 9th Street now to the right side of the block. There’s an alleyway to your right. Head over to the alley now. It showcases recent murals created by an artist who calls herself Black Siren. The mural on the right side of the alley memorializes the lives lost to police brutality in colorful angel wings. This unspoken migration to the afterlife is among the city’s most tragic. Each feather belongs to a different individual. When you’re ready, head back to 9th Street. Continue in the same direction and then take a left on Broadway. 

The red lanterns hanging overhead are your first hint that we’re on the outskirts of Oakland’s Chinatown. It begins on the other side of the street and stretches eight blocks down. Broadway’s alternate street sign, in Chinese script, should be your second hint. The first wave of Chinese immigrants created a community here in Oakland’s Chinatown during the Gold Rush. I’ll tell you more about the Chinese Diaspora in Oakland when we get closer to Chinatown. After you take a left on Broadway, you’re now walking on Oakland’s original main street. We’ll keep going uptown on Broadway for five blocks.

485 9th Street \|||// As you walk this block, which locals call Victorian Row, see if you can find the name at the top of each building’s facade, along with the year each building was completed. “Snyder’s Block” is on the right at the very top in white and “Nicoll Block” is on the left, in cream-colored paint against white. On the Nicoll Block is the former Arlington Hotel. 

Look left at the entrance to the red-brick building and you’ll see “The Arlington” in gold painted letters against a transom window. Pause here for a moment. If you scan the top of the facade, you’ll see an array of gargoyles. Back in the 19th century, these gargoyles protected the Arlington from evil spirits, or so the owner believed. His name was John Nicoll and he migrated here from Ireland in 1849 during the Great Famine. Perhaps that experience left Nicoll superstitious. Or maybe he wanted to recreate the European cathedrals he grew up with in his new home. Either way, these Old World vestiges connect Oakland to the largest migration Ireland has ever seen. The four-leaf clover on the window is another clue about Nicoll’s heritage. Keep walking down the block.

At the time these Victorians were built, Oakland was just a Gold Rush town, only made relevant by its proximity to San Francisco. Thousands of 49ers -- the nickname for gold miners who rushed to California for gold back in 1849 --  migrated here with dreams of making their fortunes and settled in Oakland to escape the rowdy vice of San Francisco. When Mark Twain first moved to San Francisco in the 1860s, he remarked that it was a city of “gold, whiskey, fights, and fandangoes.” Migrant families who settled in Oakland during the Gold Rush wanted to replicate the respectable villages they had left back east. 

Cross 9th Street now to the right side of the block. There’s an alleyway to your right. Head over to the alley now. It showcases recent murals created by an artist who calls herself Black Siren. The mural on the right side of the alley memorializes the lives lost to police brutality in colorful angel wings. This unspoken migration to the afterlife is among the city’s most tragic. Each feather belongs to a different individual. When you’re ready, head back to 9th Street. Continue in the same direction and then take a left on Broadway. 

The red lanterns hanging overhead are your first hint that we’re on the outskirts of Oakland’s Chinatown. It begins on the other side of the street and stretches eight blocks down. Broadway’s alternate street sign, in Chinese script, should be your second hint. The first wave of Chinese immigrants created a community here in Oakland’s Chinatown during the Gold Rush. I’ll tell you more about the Chinese Diaspora in Oakland when we get closer to Chinatown. After you take a left on Broadway, you’re now walking on Oakland’s original main street. We’ll keep going uptown on Broadway for five blocks.

arlington.jpg

Victorian Row

Victorian Row 5.12.mp3

Two brothers, Glenn and Rich Storek, painstakingly restored Victorian Row to its former grandeur in the 1980s. These architects first encountered Old Oakland in the late 60s, when the buildings here were in complete shambles. They had a particular interest in Oakland’s Victorian roots. The Storek brothers acquired, renovated, and restored Victorian Row over the next two decades, updating the buildings to withstand earthquakes and fires. 

At the end of this block is an empty gallery on your left. Pause by the windows. If you peer through, you’ll see a plywood mural against the back wall. Plywood murals have become a powerful signifier of the COVID era, but throughout downtown Oakland and other cities, you find them mostly along the sidewalk. Though the images you see across plywood may change, the sentiments endure. The indoor plywood art you’re passing now shows the degree to which creative resilience has pervaded both our exterior and interior worlds. Keep walking up Broadway for four blocks. 

Back in the 1860s, Oaklanders were sharing a very different collective experience. Residents rejoiced along this block when the nation’s first transcontinental railroad chose Oakland, out of all other California cities, to be its western terminus. On November 8, 1869, the first transcontinental railroad arrived along 7th Street and throngs of people celebrated with flags, evergreen boughs, and horses adorned with flowers. Oakland may have started as a Gold Rush town in the 1850s, but in 1869, the railroad made it a city. When the railroad opened, people called Oakland “the town at the end of the line.” The golden state enticed Americans to seek their fortunes here. Whether or not they struck gold, the town at the end of the line was a decent consolation prize: a young city with breathtaking views of the bay and an even better climate. Though, maybe I’m a bit biased. Keep walking straight on Broadway.

In 1906, thousands of refugees from San Francisco fled their crumbling city and migrated to the East Bay. Their homes had just been decimated by an earthquake of cataclysmic strength. The sidewalk you’re walking on and the street to your right was filled with rubble. Cross 11th Street. A couple of blocks from here, a 200-foot chimney toppled, bricks flying every which way. But the damage didn’t come close to what happened in San Francisco.

Most of the earthquake refugees returned to SF after the city’s swift resurrection. Thousands of others remained in Oakland, and the population doubled.

Do you see the staircase down to 12th Street BART to your right? Keep walking past the entrance but see if you can hear the metallic hum of trains passing underground. When the Transcontinental Railroad track was built on 7th Street, city planners probably didn’t have the faintest idea that a high-speed electric train would criss cross through Oakland someday. Or that it would be able to transport Oaklanders underneath the Bay through a tube in a matter of minutes. The creation of BART took somewhere around 13 million minutes between 1946 and 1972. BART shaved off hours of commute time during a period when Oakland was growing more diverse with new waves of immigration from Latin America in particular. It catalyzed a brave new world in which Oakland’s communities were more connected than ever.  

As in most cities, BART station names typically correspond to the street they’re on or the neighborhood they’re in. Part of what transforms a city into a community is the way we celebrate our local heroes. With that idea in mind, the Oakland Museum of California contains a “decolonized BART map.” This cartographic tribute to individuals who stood up for social justice is part of an exhibit on view through 2022 called “You Are Here: California Stories on the Map.” On the decolonized BART map, this particular station honors Frank H. Ogawa, a civil rights leader and the first Japanese-American to serve on Oakland City Council. Other decolonized station names on this line include important figures like Bruce Lee, who was born in San Francisco. The map honors freedom fighters like Huey P. Newton, whose Black Panther Party was founded in Oakland in 1966. And there’s a decolonized BART stop named for the Ohlone tribe.

Look up at the skyline to your right, at the first appearance of Tribune Tower in your eye-line. Pause for a moment by the planter to your left. Tribune Tower stands like a beacon in the middle of downtown Oakland. The mansard roof is coated in copper, topping the sandy brick structure. 

What’s more unusual here is Tribune Tower’s four-sided neon sign and clock. Neon is rare in contemporary construction. A Parisian named Georges Claude pioneered these tube lights in the early 1900s. By the 1920s, he brought his tube lights to the US, and cities absorbed the technology into America’s blend of ideas from around the world. That’s when Tribune Tower was built. 

At the tail end of the twentieth century, hefty maintenance costs made the popularity of neon wane. Neon also took on seedy connotations in the context of urban red light districts. Tribune Tower eludes this pitfall. It’s captivating and graceful against the modern monoliths of downtown. If journalism is the first draft of history, then this newspaper tower is an eyewitness to downtown Oakland’s evolution. 

Sometimes when you listen to your city, you hear sounds of protest. Oaklanders have gathered on this street for decades to demand social justice and call for peace. Today, you can see similar messages painted across plywood on either side of Broadway. Keep walking straight until you reach 14th Street.

Racism is a painful throughline between Oakland’s colonial era and the present day. The Black Panther Party and Black Lives Matter connect Oakland to the history of the Great Migration. After the Civil War, thousands of Black Southerners migrated to the Bay Area.

Once the railroad was built, Oakland’s African American population soared. Many worked on the train as sleeping car porters, also called Pullman porters. The company’s founder, George Pullman, required all porters to be African American men, many of whom were formerly enslaved. Pullman mainly wanted cheap labor, but by hiring men of color, he helped to create a new Black middle class. Pullman porters also started a chain migration of African American families to Oakland. 

In 1892, the first Black newspaper in the city, The Oakland Illustrated Guide, hit the presses. A century after this first wave of migration out of the Jim Crow South, Oakland elected its first Black mayor in 1977. His name was Lionel J. Wilson.

Do you see that triangular building across 14th Street? That’s the Lionel J. Wilson Building. It was renamed for the first Black mayor of Oakland in 2000. Cross 14th Street and head to the street clock on the corner. The building dates back to 1908, just two years after the earthquake catalyzed new development across downtown Oakland. Back then, it was the First National Bank Building. It’s an eight-story Beaux-Arts Classical structure designed as a miniature of the Flatiron Building in New York. Grand and stately, it’s another symbol of Oakland’s transformation from town to city.

Pause here under the street clock. This is Oscar Grant Plaza. In the early hours of New Year’s Day, 2009, Oscar Grant III was shot and killed by an Oakland police officer while he was lying facedown on a BART platform. He was 22 years old, he was Black, and he worked at Farmer Joe’s in the Dimond District. This plaza became an epicenter for protests in the aftermath of his killing. Oscar Grant’s story circulated around the world with the release of the 2013 film, Fruitvale Station. More than a thousand people die at the hands of the police each year. In 2020, there were only eighteen days when police didn’t kill someone. Since the night Oscar Grant was killed, his passing has become a symbol of police brutality and the ongoing fight for racial justice in Oakland. 

Now, let your eyes drift over to the great oak tree across the plaza. It sits under City Hall, a different symbol of civic power and justice. This Beaux-Arts stunner was constructed between 1911 and 1914 under the administration of Mayor Frank K. Mott. Oaklanders nicknamed City Hall “Mayor Mott’s wedding cake” because it was built the same year Mott married his wife Gertrude, and of course, because it looks like a lacy, three-tiered wedding cake. It was also Oakland’s first skyscraper, the tallest building west of the Mississippi, and the only government-operated highrise when it was completed. 


On January 28, 2019, Oaklanders showed up to this plaza in record numbers to see one of their own, a daughter of Indian and Jamaican immigrants named Kamala Harris, announce her presidential bid in her hometown. Her parents are just two of countless immigrants who raised a generation of leaders.

Cross Broadway now, following 14th Street toward the lake. Across the way, both sides of 14th Street are flanked by murals and posters on plywood that demand justice for Breonna Taylor and George Floyd, as well as messages of anti-capitalist dissent.

 \|||// Two brothers, Glenn and Rich Storek, painstakingly restored Victorian Row to its former grandeur in the 1980s. These architects first encountered Old Oakland in the late 60s, when the buildings here were in complete shambles. They had a particular interest in Oakland’s Victorian roots. The Storek brothers acquired, renovated, and restored Victorian Row over the next two decades, updating the buildings to withstand earthquakes and fires. 

At the end of this block is an empty gallery on your left. Pause by the windows. If you peer through, you’ll see a plywood mural against the back wall. Plywood murals have become a powerful signifier of the COVID era, but throughout downtown Oakland and other cities, you find them mostly along the sidewalk. Though the images you see across plywood may change, the sentiments endure. The indoor plywood art you’re passing now shows the degree to which creative resilience has pervaded both our exterior and interior worlds. Keep walking up Broadway for four blocks. 

Back in the 1860s, Oaklanders were sharing a very different collective experience. Residents rejoiced along this block when the nation’s first transcontinental railroad chose Oakland, out of all other California cities, to be its western terminus. On November 8, 1869, the first transcontinental railroad arrived along 7th Street and throngs of people celebrated with flags, evergreen boughs, and horses adorned with flowers. Oakland may have started as a Gold Rush town in the 1850s, but in 1869, the railroad made it a city. When the railroad opened, people called Oakland “the town at the end of the line.” The golden state enticed Americans to seek their fortunes here. Whether or not they struck gold, the town at the end of the line was a decent consolation prize: a young city with breathtaking views of the bay and an even better climate. Though, maybe I’m a bit biased. Keep walking straight on Broadway.

In 1906, thousands of refugees from San Francisco fled their crumbling city and migrated to the East Bay. Their homes had just been decimated by an earthquake of cataclysmic strength. The sidewalk you’re walking on and the street to your right was filled with rubble. Cross 11th Street. A couple of blocks from here, a 200-foot chimney toppled, bricks flying every which way. But the damage didn’t come close to what happened in San Francisco.

Most of the earthquake refugees returned to SF after the city’s swift resurrection. Thousands of others remained in Oakland, and the population doubled.

Do you see the staircase down to 12th Street BART to your right? Keep walking past the entrance but see if you can hear the metallic hum of trains passing underground. When the Transcontinental Railroad track was built on 7th Street, city planners probably didn’t have the faintest idea that a high-speed electric train would criss cross through Oakland someday. Or that it would be able to transport Oaklanders underneath the Bay through a tube in a matter of minutes. The creation of BART took somewhere around 13 million minutes between 1946 and 1972. BART shaved off hours of commute time during a period when Oakland was growing more diverse with new waves of immigration from Latin America in particular. It catalyzed a brave new world in which Oakland’s communities were more connected than ever.  

As in most cities, BART station names typically correspond to the street they’re on or the neighborhood they’re in. Part of what transforms a city into a community is the way we celebrate our local heroes. With that idea in mind, the Oakland Museum of California contains a “decolonized BART map.” This cartographic tribute to individuals who stood up for social justice is part of an exhibit on view through 2022 called “You Are Here: California Stories on the Map.” On the decolonized BART map, this particular station honors Frank H. Ogawa, a civil rights leader and the first Japanese-American to serve on Oakland City Council. Other decolonized station names on this line include important figures like Bruce Lee, who was born in San Francisco. The map honors freedom fighters like Huey P. Newton, whose Black Panther Party was founded in Oakland in 1966. And there’s a decolonized BART stop named for the Ohlone tribe.

Look up at the skyline to your right, at the first appearance of Tribune Tower in your eye-line. Pause for a moment by the planter to your left. Tribune Tower stands like a beacon in the middle of downtown Oakland. The mansard roof is coated in copper, topping the sandy brick structure. 

What’s more unusual here is Tribune Tower’s four-sided neon sign and clock. Neon is rare in contemporary construction. A Parisian named Georges Claude pioneered these tube lights in the early 1900s. By the 1920s, he brought his tube lights to the US, and cities absorbed the technology into America’s blend of ideas from around the world. That’s when Tribune Tower was built. 

At the tail end of the twentieth century, hefty maintenance costs made the popularity of neon wane. Neon also took on seedy connotations in the context of urban red light districts. Tribune Tower eludes this pitfall. It’s captivating and graceful against the modern monoliths of downtown. If journalism is the first draft of history, then this newspaper tower is an eyewitness to downtown Oakland’s evolution. 

Sometimes when you listen to your city, you hear sounds of protest. Oaklanders have gathered on this street for decades to demand social justice and call for peace. Today, you can see similar messages painted across plywood on either side of Broadway. Keep walking straight until you reach 14th Street.

Racism is a painful throughline between Oakland’s colonial era and the present day. The Black Panther Party and Black Lives Matter connect Oakland to the history of the Great Migration. After the Civil War, thousands of Black Southerners migrated to the Bay Area.

Once the railroad was built, Oakland’s African American population soared. Many worked on the train as sleeping car porters, also called Pullman porters. The company’s founder, George Pullman, required all porters to be African American men, many of whom were formerly enslaved. Pullman mainly wanted cheap labor, but by hiring men of color, he helped to create a new Black middle class. Pullman porters also started a chain migration of African American families to Oakland. 

In 1892, the first Black newspaper in the city, The Oakland Illustrated Guide, hit the presses. A century after this first wave of migration out of the Jim Crow South, Oakland elected its first Black mayor in 1977. His name was Lionel J. Wilson.

Do you see that triangular building across 14th Street? That’s the Lionel J. Wilson Building. It was renamed for the first Black mayor of Oakland in 2000. Cross 14th Street and head to the street clock on the corner. The building dates back to 1908, just two years after the earthquake catalyzed new development across downtown Oakland. Back then, it was the First National Bank Building. It’s an eight-story Beaux-Arts Classical structure designed as a miniature of the Flatiron Building in New York. Grand and stately, it’s another symbol of Oakland’s transformation from town to city.

Pause here under the street clock. This is Oscar Grant Plaza. In the early hours of New Year’s Day, 2009, Oscar Grant III was shot and killed by an Oakland police officer while he was lying facedown on a BART platform. He was 22 years old, he was Black, and he worked at Farmer Joe’s in the Dimond District. This plaza became an epicenter for protests in the aftermath of his killing. Oscar Grant’s story circulated around the world with the release of the 2013 film, Fruitvale Station. More than a thousand people die at the hands of the police each year. In 2020, there were only eighteen days when police didn’t kill someone. Since the night Oscar Grant was killed, his passing has become a symbol of police brutality and the ongoing fight for racial justice in Oakland. 

Now, let your eyes drift over to the great oak tree across the plaza. It sits under City Hall, a different symbol of civic power and justice. This Beaux-Arts stunner was constructed between 1911 and 1914 under the administration of Mayor Frank K. Mott. Oaklanders nicknamed City Hall “Mayor Mott’s wedding cake” because it was built the same year Mott married his wife Gertrude, and of course, because it looks like a lacy, three-tiered wedding cake. It was also Oakland’s first skyscraper, the tallest building west of the Mississippi, and the only government-operated highrise when it was completed. 


On January 28, 2019, Oaklanders showed up to this plaza in record numbers to see one of their own, a daughter of Indian and Jamaican immigrants named Kamala Harris, announce her presidential bid in her hometown. Her parents are just two of countless immigrants who raised a generation of leaders.

Cross Broadway now, following 14th Street toward the lake. Across the way, both sides of 14th Street are flanked by murals and posters on plywood that demand justice for Breonna Taylor and George Floyd, as well as messages of anti-capitalist dissent.

broadway.jpg

Broadway

Broadway 5.12.mp3

As you walk across Broadway, look to your left at the Cathedral Building a few blocks down. It was the first Gothic revival style skyscraper in the West. Lakeith Stanfield looked out from its top floor windows in the Oakland-set Boots Riley film, Sorry to Bother You.

Keep walking straight on 14th Street.

At the core of Riley’s dark comedy is a razor-sharp critique of capitalism. Anti-capitalism and workers’ rights have been a throughline in Oakland’s story almost from the start. Labor unions found unprecedented strength here, and in 1946, the city became the center of a general strike after thousands of Oaklanders lost their wartime jobs. The General Strike of 1946 was one of the largest in American history. 100,000 workers walked off jobs here in downtown Oakland and all over the East Bay. The strike wasn’t successful but it captured the zeitgeist of post-war Oakland. 

Labor activism is a historical outgrowth of the immigrant experience, especially in a city created by a railroad and a port. It’s also a value that Oakland has threaded into this century. In 2011, Oakland became the West Coast hub of the Occupy movement. Activists representing the 99% gathered and marched between here and the lake for months. As movements waned in New York and other cities, it remained strong through 2011 and into 2012. Cross Franklin to keep walking down 14th Street.

A New York Times reporter called Occupy Oakland “the last place you would expect to find the most stubbornly active outpost of the Occupy movement.” That’s probably because any significant capital had come and gone from Oakland long before then. Rent was still relatively cheap in 2011 and many Oaklanders attributed the strength of the local movement to the city’s deeply rooted history of radical activism. It’s a history fortified by immigrant communities, labor unions, and the Black Panthers. Now that the tech industry has seeped into Oakland, conversations around capitalism are more complicated. They often revolve around tech’s spillover from San Francisco to the East Bay and the gentrification that has followed.

1245 Broadway \|||// As you walk across Broadway, look to your left at the Cathedral Building a few blocks down. It was the first Gothic revival style skyscraper in the West. Lakeith Stanfield looked out from its top floor windows in the Oakland-set Boots Riley film, Sorry to Bother You.

Keep walking straight on 14th Street.

At the core of Riley’s dark comedy is a razor-sharp critique of capitalism. Anti-capitalism and workers’ rights have been a throughline in Oakland’s story almost from the start. Labor unions found unprecedented strength here, and in 1946, the city became the center of a general strike after thousands of Oaklanders lost their wartime jobs. The General Strike of 1946 was one of the largest in American history. 100,000 workers walked off jobs here in downtown Oakland and all over the East Bay. The strike wasn’t successful but it captured the zeitgeist of post-war Oakland. 

Labor activism is a historical outgrowth of the immigrant experience, especially in a city created by a railroad and a port. It’s also a value that Oakland has threaded into this century. In 2011, Oakland became the West Coast hub of the Occupy movement. Activists representing the 99% gathered and marched between here and the lake for months. As movements waned in New York and other cities, it remained strong through 2011 and into 2012. Cross Franklin to keep walking down 14th Street.

A New York Times reporter called Occupy Oakland “the last place you would expect to find the most stubbornly active outpost of the Occupy movement.” That’s probably because any significant capital had come and gone from Oakland long before then. Rent was still relatively cheap in 2011 and many Oaklanders attributed the strength of the local movement to the city’s deeply rooted history of radical activism. It’s a history fortified by immigrant communities, labor unions, and the Black Panthers. Now that the tech industry has seeped into Oakland, conversations around capitalism are more complicated. They often revolve around tech’s spillover from San Francisco to the East Bay and the gentrification that has followed.

occupy_oakland.jpg

Cathedral Building

Public art has a poignant way of addressing these issues. Look up at the colorful vertical mural that faces you on the left side of 14th Street. Pause when you get to it. If there’s one mural that encapsulates Oakland’s migration story, it’s this one. The “360 Mural” was created by artist Desi Mundo and the Community Rejuvenation Project in 2020. Mundo envisioned the work as visual proof that Oakland’s immigrant and creative communities can do more than survive the displacement brought on by gentrification. The artists, athletes, and activists gathered along this wall are thriving. So is the black-crowned night heron. See if you can spot Oakland’s official bird toward the bottom of the mural.

Do you see the red train track that begins in the lower left hand corner? It’s a tribute to the African American and Chinese American laborers who built the western terminus of the railroad. The train travels along a crimson track, pointing to the history of redlining in Oakland. This pattern threads through the mural but also gives way to flashes of green, reminding us that transportation can divide communities, but it can also bring them together. Keep walking in the same direction. 

384 14th Street \|||// Public art has a poignant way of addressing these issues. Look up at the colorful vertical mural that faces you on the left side of 14th Street. Pause when you get to it. If there’s one mural that encapsulates Oakland’s migration story, it’s this one. The “360 Mural” was created by artist Desi Mundo and the Community Rejuvenation Project in 2020. Mundo envisioned the work as visual proof that Oakland’s immigrant and creative communities can do more than survive the displacement brought on by gentrification. The artists, athletes, and activists gathered along this wall are thriving. So is the black-crowned night heron. See if you can spot Oakland’s official bird toward the bottom of the mural.

Do you see the red train track that begins in the lower left hand corner? It’s a tribute to the African American and Chinese American laborers who built the western terminus of the railroad. The train travels along a crimson track, pointing to the history of redlining in Oakland. This pattern threads through the mural but also gives way to flashes of green, reminding us that transportation can divide communities, but it can also bring them together. Keep walking in the same direction.

360mural.jpg

360 Mural

Up ahead, cross Webster Street and then pause on the corner. Take in the row of international cuisine straight ahead. On the corner, Maya Halal Taqueria feels like a symbol of hope and resilience in the 2020’s. A halal Mexican restaurant maintains a loyal customer base in a quiet downtown corridor during a global pandemic. For Oakland’s Islamic community, the restaurant fills a void that chef and owner Lulu Safi discovered when she was unable to dine at Mexican restaurants as a kid. Check out the mural of a woman in an amethyst hijab on the Webster Street side of the restaurant. Another halal eatery announces itself in English and Arabic against a yellow awning down the street. Along this one block of downtown, there are kitchens serving Mexican, Japanese, Indian, Pakistani, and Afghan cuisine -- all signs of ongoing migrations into the Bay Area. 

Cross 14th Street now, with your back to Maya Halal, and keep walking down Webster. You’ll continue one block and turn left on 13th Street.

354 14th Street \|||// Up ahead, cross Webster Street and then pause on the corner. Take in the row of international cuisine straight ahead. On the corner, Maya Halal Taqueria feels like a symbol of hope and resilience in the 2020’s. A halal Mexican restaurant maintains a loyal customer base in a quiet downtown corridor during a global pandemic. For Oakland’s Islamic community, the restaurant fills a void that chef and owner Lulu Safi discovered when she was unable to dine at Mexican restaurants as a kid. Check out the mural of a woman in an amethyst hijab on the Webster Street side of the restaurant. Another halal eatery announces itself in English and Arabic against a yellow awning down the street. Along this one block of downtown, there are kitchens serving Mexican, Japanese, Indian, Pakistani, and Afghan cuisine -- all signs of ongoing migrations into the Bay Area. 

Cross 14th Street now, with your back to Maya Halal, and keep walking down Webster. You’ll continue one block and turn left on 13th Street.

maya_halal.jpg

Maya Halal

Maya Halal 4.9.mp3

Maya Halal is a newer addition to downtown Oakland’s long list of burrito purveyors. Mexicali Rose was the very first, opening in 1927 to meet the needs of the city’s growing Latinx community. That enclave had multiplied in 1910, when Mexicans fleeing the revolution settled in West Oakland. The East Bay barrio became more diverse with the addition of Stateside Puerto Ricans beginning in 1917 and agricultural laborers who migrated here as part of the Bracero program in the 1940s. Mexicali Rose closed in 2018, the same year Maya Halal opened. Neighborhoods may transform, but with migration as a constant, Oakland’s culture of pluralism carries on. Turn left on 13th Street.

1324 Webster Street \|||// Maya Halal is a newer addition to downtown Oakland’s long list of burrito purveyors. Mexicali Rose was the very first, opening in 1927 to meet the needs of the city’s growing Latinx community. That enclave had multiplied in 1910, when Mexicans fleeing the revolution settled in West Oakland. The East Bay barrio became more diverse with the addition of Stateside Puerto Ricans beginning in 1917 and agricultural laborers who migrated here as part of the Bracero program in the 1940s. Mexicali Rose closed in 2018, the same year Maya Halal opened. Neighborhoods may transform, but with migration as a constant, Oakland’s culture of pluralism carries on. Turn left on 13th Street.

latinx.jpg

Latinx Oakland

The bakeries and salons on the right side of this block tell you once again that you’re a stone’s throw from the center of Chinatown. As downtown Oakland’s Asian community grows more diverse, store owners from other countries now share walls with Chinatown’s oldest businesses. 

The Chinese Diaspora in Oakland is a complicated story, laced with decades of xenophobia and segregation on the part of the city’s white settlers. It begins during the Gold Rush. In 1854, 600 Chinese migrants arrived by boat. After learning there was a typhoid outbreak on the boat, the authorities left them stranded on Yerba Buena without food or water. 

The Chinese immigrants who survived that journey settled by the estuary, not far from present-day Chinatown, where they fished for shrimp. Discrimination, vandalism, and violence against the Chinese community continued, punctuated by the Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882. That was a federal law banning the immigration of all Chinese laborers. This form of legalized discrimination wasn’t fully abolished until 1965. Back in the late 19th century, few white residents would hire Chinese workers, so many opened laundries, making the rounds along Lake Merritt to pick up bundles of clothes at the backs of lakeside mansions. Cross the street to the other side of 13th. Now, look back and you’ll get Tribune Tower in full view. Keep walking straight down 13th Street.

Today, Oakland’s Chinatown is 46 vibrant blocks of produce markets, bakeries, offices housing environmental justice advocates, and one fortune cookie factory. In the face of another era of heightened xenophobia, it’s as vital as ever to listen to Oakland’s Asian communities. And to messages you see on plywood throughout Chinatown, like “rise in solidarity,” and my personal favorite -- “hella unity.”

 \|||// The bakeries and salons on the right side of this block tell you once again that you’re a stone’s throw from the center of Chinatown. As downtown Oakland’s Asian community grows more diverse, store owners from other countries now share walls with Chinatown’s oldest businesses. 

The Chinese Diaspora in Oakland is a complicated story, laced with decades of xenophobia and segregation on the part of the city’s white settlers. It begins during the Gold Rush. In 1854, 600 Chinese migrants arrived by boat. After learning there was a typhoid outbreak on the boat, the authorities left them stranded on Yerba Buena without food or water. 

The Chinese immigrants who survived that journey settled by the estuary, not far from present-day Chinatown, where they fished for shrimp. Discrimination, vandalism, and violence against the Chinese community continued, punctuated by the Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882. That was a federal law banning the immigration of all Chinese laborers. This form of legalized discrimination wasn’t fully abolished until 1965. Back in the late 19th century, few white residents would hire Chinese workers, so many opened laundries, making the rounds along Lake Merritt to pick up bundles of clothes at the backs of lakeside mansions. Cross the street to the other side of 13th. Now, look back and you’ll get Tribune Tower in full view. Keep walking straight down 13th Street.

Today, Oakland’s Chinatown is 46 vibrant blocks of produce markets, bakeries, offices housing environmental justice advocates, and one fortune cookie factory. In the face of another era of heightened xenophobia, it’s as vital as ever to listen to Oakland’s Asian communities. And to messages you see on plywood throughout Chinatown, like “rise in solidarity,” and my personal favorite -- “hella unity.”

chinatown.jpg

The Chinese Diaspora

The Chinese Diaspora 4.9.mp3

Across the street to your left is the Hotel Oakland, the building with two big towers. Keep walking straight. For those interested in architecture, this is in the Italian Renaissance style, and was built just after the 1906 earthquake to capitalize on the city’s growing commerce. 

It was so grand, that in 1921, a radio operators’ training school used the hotel’s west tower to broadcast experimental transmissions, and that radio station eventually migrated to Tribune Tower. 

Cross Alice Street.

During the Great Depression, the divide between the haves and the have nots was no more glaring than at the Hotel Oakland. While thousands of Oaklanders waited on soup lines, members of the high society donned their best and headed here for afternoon teas and Saturday night dances in the crystal chandeliered ballroom. Famous guests included Sarah Bernhardt, President Woodrow Wilson, and Amelia Earhart. The renowned aviator made a stop here after her first transocean flight from Oahu to Oakland. 

During that same era, a new group of migrants, refugees from the Dust Bowl, began to tumble into the Bay Area from the Plains. These Okies, as nativists pejoratively called them, were captivated by the fabled bounty described by John Steinbeck in The Grapes of Wrath. When rural California proved a dead end for many, Dust Bowl migrants drifted into the Bay Area, finding work in Oakland’s shipyards and factories. Many new arrivals even joined the effort to build the Bay Bridge.  

Documentary photographer Dorothea Lange captured the complicated adversity that Dust Bowl migrants faced. At the time she shot her best-known photographs, people questioned Lange’s choice of subjects, whether they were impoverished families from Oklahoma or Japanese American children awaiting forced evacuation to internment camps during World War II. Then and now, her photographs invoke empathy and solidarity. An ongoing exhibit of her work is on view at the Oakland Museum of California -- which, by the way, is a few blocks from here. 

On this block, a neoclassical building containing the Civic Center Post Office faces a starkly modern housing development. The newly-finished building is mostly vacant, an abrupt reminder that gentrification ran headlong into a national recession in 2020.

This post office is one of thirty thousand across the US. No post office building is created equal. In the most remote corners of America, people bring their parcels and packages to the backs of gas stations and general stores. In neighborhoods like downtown Oakland, post offices resemble Greco-Roman temples, with footprints that cover entire blocks. The Postal Service constructed this building between 1929 and 1932, also at the dark dawn of the Great Depression. Perhaps this building’s neoclassical design was another attempt to bring back a sense of dignity and grandeur.

Cross Jackson Street now.

In 2020, the USPS came to symbolize the high stakes of a democracy in peril. Citizens who came to its rescue invoked the Post’s original symbolism at its 1774 inception, during the Second Continental Congress. In that historical moment and the one we’re living through, the postal system reminds us about the power of analog human connection across great distance, in moments of conflict and isolation. If author Winifred Gallagher is right, and the post office helped to create America, then the journey of a letter from coast to coast is a migration that belongs to all of us. 

Across the street to your left, the La Peralta apartment building is a subtle nod to the Bay Area’s first colonizer, Luis Maria Peralta, in name and in neo-Spanish colonial architecture. Born in Sonora, Mexico, Peralta was the Spanish soldier who colonized the land you’re walking on. This was in 1820, decades before the Gold Rush and the arrival of the railroad. His holdings stretched roughly from present-day San Leandro to El Cerrito. Actually, those place names correspond to colonial maps from Peralta’s time. When Mexico became independent from Spain in 1834, the Ohlone gained freedom from the Spanish missions but were too far removed from their original lifestyle. With no other options, the Ohlone who lived here found work as servants on Peralta’s rancho. When American settlers showed up to find their fortune in the Gold Rush, there was a land grab over Oakland, and Peralta lost his land when California became a state. 

Up ahead, cross Madison Street.

There are many Spanish-style apartment buildings like La Peralta throughout downtown. Apartments are the most common style of residence here, but homes exist in other forms. The unhoused community of Oakland is vast. Unhoused folks are migrants of a different form. Many arrive in Oakland from cities with less friendly policy and climate. They find shelter in tents and under tarps, by the lake and by the freeway. Homelessness has long been invisibilized by local leaders and city planners, but here in Oakland, invisibility isn’t an option any longer. The Bay Area’s housing crisis has become part of any walk through downtown.

299 13th Street \|||// Across the street to your left is the Hotel Oakland, the building with two big towers. Keep walking straight. For those interested in architecture, this is in the Italian Renaissance style, and was built just after the 1906 earthquake to capitalize on the city’s growing commerce. 

It was so grand, that in 1921, a radio operators’ training school used the hotel’s west tower to broadcast experimental transmissions, and that radio station eventually migrated to Tribune Tower. 

Cross Alice Street.

During the Great Depression, the divide between the haves and the have nots was no more glaring than at the Hotel Oakland. While thousands of Oaklanders waited on soup lines, members of the high society donned their best and headed here for afternoon teas and Saturday night dances in the crystal chandeliered ballroom. Famous guests included Sarah Bernhardt, President Woodrow Wilson, and Amelia Earhart. The renowned aviator made a stop here after her first transocean flight from Oahu to Oakland. 

During that same era, a new group of migrants, refugees from the Dust Bowl, began to tumble into the Bay Area from the Plains. These Okies, as nativists pejoratively called them, were captivated by the fabled bounty described by John Steinbeck in The Grapes of Wrath. When rural California proved a dead end for many, Dust Bowl migrants drifted into the Bay Area, finding work in Oakland’s shipyards and factories. Many new arrivals even joined the effort to build the Bay Bridge.  

Documentary photographer Dorothea Lange captured the complicated adversity that Dust Bowl migrants faced. At the time she shot her best-known photographs, people questioned Lange’s choice of subjects, whether they were impoverished families from Oklahoma or Japanese American children awaiting forced evacuation to internment camps during World War II. Then and now, her photographs invoke empathy and solidarity. An ongoing exhibit of her work is on view at the Oakland Museum of California -- which, by the way, is a few blocks from here. 

On this block, a neoclassical building containing the Civic Center Post Office faces a starkly modern housing development. The newly-finished building is mostly vacant, an abrupt reminder that gentrification ran headlong into a national recession in 2020.

This post office is one of thirty thousand across the US. No post office building is created equal. In the most remote corners of America, people bring their parcels and packages to the backs of gas stations and general stores. In neighborhoods like downtown Oakland, post offices resemble Greco-Roman temples, with footprints that cover entire blocks. The Postal Service constructed this building between 1929 and 1932, also at the dark dawn of the Great Depression. Perhaps this building’s neoclassical design was another attempt to bring back a sense of dignity and grandeur.

Cross Jackson Street now.

In 2020, the USPS came to symbolize the high stakes of a democracy in peril. Citizens who came to its rescue invoked the Post’s original symbolism at its 1774 inception, during the Second Continental Congress. In that historical moment and the one we’re living through, the postal system reminds us about the power of analog human connection across great distance, in moments of conflict and isolation. If author Winifred Gallagher is right, and the post office helped to create America, then the journey of a letter from coast to coast is a migration that belongs to all of us. 

Across the street to your left, the La Peralta apartment building is a subtle nod to the Bay Area’s first colonizer, Luis Maria Peralta, in name and in neo-Spanish colonial architecture. Born in Sonora, Mexico, Peralta was the Spanish soldier who colonized the land you’re walking on. This was in 1820, decades before the Gold Rush and the arrival of the railroad. His holdings stretched roughly from present-day San Leandro to El Cerrito. Actually, those place names correspond to colonial maps from Peralta’s time. When Mexico became independent from Spain in 1834, the Ohlone gained freedom from the Spanish missions but were too far removed from their original lifestyle. With no other options, the Ohlone who lived here found work as servants on Peralta’s rancho. When American settlers showed up to find their fortune in the Gold Rush, there was a land grab over Oakland, and Peralta lost his land when California became a state. 

Up ahead, cross Madison Street.

There are many Spanish-style apartment buildings like La Peralta throughout downtown. Apartments are the most common style of residence here, but homes exist in other forms. The unhoused community of Oakland is vast. Unhoused folks are migrants of a different form. Many arrive in Oakland from cities with less friendly policy and climate. They find shelter in tents and under tarps, by the lake and by the freeway. Homelessness has long been invisibilized by local leaders and city planners, but here in Oakland, invisibility isn’t an option any longer. The Bay Area’s housing crisis has become part of any walk through downtown.

hotel_oakland.jpg

Hotel Oakland

Hotel Oakland 5.12.mp3

As you traverse the final blocks of 13th Street before it ends at the lake, the imposing monolith of the Alameda County Courthouse will enter your eye-line on the right side of the block. Set against the courthouse’s symbolism of law and order is a counternarrative about migration and resistance. On August 5, 1970, activists from around the world converged on the steps of the courthouse to meet Huey Newton upon his release from prison. 

When you get to Oak Street, turn left.

The incarceration of this Black Panther Party co-founder had catalyzed a solidarity movement. Just as the Panthers originated in Oakland and expanded to 49 chapters across the country, the call to “Free Huey!” originated here and echoed around the world over the three years of his imprisonment. 

Today, the Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation is working on a permanent monument to immortalize Newton’s -- and Oakland’s -- struggle for the Black Power Movement. Now that Black Lives Matter has inherited this history, the Courthouse steps are a landmark to the continuing fight for racial justice.

1221 Oak Street \|||// As you traverse the final blocks of 13th Street before it ends at the lake, the imposing monolith of the Alameda County Courthouse will enter your eye-line on the right side of the block. Set against the courthouse’s symbolism of law and order is a counternarrative about migration and resistance. On August 5, 1970, activists from around the world converged on the steps of the courthouse to meet Huey Newton upon his release from prison. 

When you get to Oak Street, turn left.

The incarceration of this Black Panther Party co-founder had catalyzed a solidarity movement. Just as the Panthers originated in Oakland and expanded to 49 chapters across the country, the call to “Free Huey!” originated here and echoed around the world over the three years of his imprisonment. 

Today, the Dr. Huey P. Newton Foundation is working on a permanent monument to immortalize Newton’s -- and Oakland’s -- struggle for the Black Power Movement. Now that Black Lives Matter has inherited this history, the Courthouse steps are a landmark to the continuing fight for racial justice.

alameda.jpg

The Courthouse

Once you cross Oak Street, you’ll see the side entrance to Oakland’s Main Library on your left. The relationship between public libraries and immigrant communities goes way back. Many of America’s oldest libraries were built by immigrant families. In 2018, Oakland’s librarians came up against ICE, the U.S. Customs and Enforcement agency, when their patrons were targeted. Rather than stay silent, the librarians learned how to de-escalate harassment after that incident. Oakland has been a sanctuary city since 1986. As democratic spaces that provide education to all, public libraries play an essential role in providing sanctuary.

The lake will start to come into view here through the eucalyptus, palm, and of course, oak trees across the street. I’m going to leave you off at the western shore of Lake Merritt.

Do you see that Victorian mansion on the edge of the lake? That’s the Camron-Stanford House, the last remaining mansion on the lakeshore. Walk over to the Camron-Stanford House.

1310 Oak Street \|||// Once you cross Oak Street, you’ll see the side entrance to Oakland’s Main Library on your left. The relationship between public libraries and immigrant communities goes way back. Many of America’s oldest libraries were built by immigrant families. In 2018, Oakland’s librarians came up against ICE, the U.S. Customs and Enforcement agency, when their patrons were targeted. Rather than stay silent, the librarians learned how to de-escalate harassment after that incident. Oakland has been a sanctuary city since 1986. As democratic spaces that provide education to all, public libraries play an essential role in providing sanctuary.

The lake will start to come into view here through the eucalyptus, palm, and of course, oak trees across the street. I’m going to leave you off at the western shore of Lake Merritt.

Do you see that Victorian mansion on the edge of the lake? That’s the Camron-Stanford House, the last remaining mansion on the lakeshore. Walk over to the Camron-Stanford House.

library.jpg

Main Library

This area was once a colony of Victorian homes inhabited by affluent families. That was a less than egalitarian era; remember the Chinese launderers who hauled wagons back and forth between here and Chinatown in the late 19th century? The lake wasn’t even open to the public back then. Pause in front of the house. It was built in 1871, and until 1877 it was owned by the Camron family. William Walker Camron was a wealthy real estate developer who migrated here from Iowa during the Gold Rush. Then, David Hewes, who earned the nickname “the maker of San Francisco” during the Gold Rush, moved his family here. At the opening of the Transcontinental Railroad, Hewes donated the ceremonial golden spike to symbolize the large nails that secured the tracks. The founder of Stanford University, Leland Stanford, lived here until 1903. Hence, Camron-Stanford. Once you get to the Camron-Stanford House, follow the driveway on the left down to the water.

In 1907, the city bought the house and condemned all other mansions along the lake. The twentieth century had woken up to a more progressive ethos and the city hoped to convert the entire lakeshore into a public greenspace. From 1907 to 1965, the Camron-Stanford House was Oakland’s first public museum. Over 200,000 visited within its first four years. Today, it’s a time capsule exhibiting life in Oakland during the founding era, standing against the backdrop of a more democratized Lake Merritt.

1436 Oak Alley \|||// This area was once a colony of Victorian homes inhabited by affluent families. That was a less than egalitarian era; remember the Chinese launderers who hauled wagons back and forth between here and Chinatown in the late 19th century? The lake wasn’t even open to the public back then. Pause in front of the house. It was built in 1871, and until 1877 it was owned by the Camron family. William Walker Camron was a wealthy real estate developer who migrated here from Iowa during the Gold Rush. Then, David Hewes, who earned the nickname “the maker of San Francisco” during the Gold Rush, moved his family here. At the opening of the Transcontinental Railroad, Hewes donated the ceremonial golden spike to symbolize the large nails that secured the tracks. The founder of Stanford University, Leland Stanford, lived here until 1903. Hence, Camron-Stanford. Once you get to the Camron-Stanford House, follow the driveway on the left down to the water.

In 1907, the city bought the house and condemned all other mansions along the lake. The twentieth century had woken up to a more progressive ethos and the city hoped to convert the entire lakeshore into a public greenspace. From 1907 to 1965, the Camron-Stanford House was Oakland’s first public museum. Over 200,000 visited within its first four years. Today, it’s a time capsule exhibiting life in Oakland during the founding era, standing against the backdrop of a more democratized Lake Merritt.

camronstanford.jpg

Camron-Stanford House

You’ve reached Lake Merritt. Feel free to stand by the illustrated map at the end of this path or find a bench as I finish up. Oakland is the only city in the world with a combination freshwater and saltwater lake at its center. Before it was a lake, this body of water was an estuary called San Antonio Creek, named after one of Peralta’s sons. At high tide, the creek spread out into a vast sheet of water. At low tide, it became a marsh. A rising local leader named Dr. Samuel Merritt hatched an idea to dam it in 1869, the same year the Transcontinental Railroad rolled in. He had arrived in Oakland on a boat of his own design during the Gold Rush and purchased a large tract of land along 14th Street. At first, Oaklanders called it Lake Peralta, then Merritt’s Lake, then Lake Merritt. 

It’s hard to imagine now, but Lake Merritt was open to public swimming in the early 1900s. City planners had hoped the lake could remain a swimming beach, but by 1912, tidal water management proved too difficult. That should be obvious if you take a moment now to look beneath the water’s surface and breathe in its complex tidal aroma.  

Conservation was a cause celebre of Dr. Merritt’s. He urged the government to designate the lake as a waterfowl refuge in 1870, and today, it’s the oldest wildlife refuge. This conservation effort has become a model for other cities that wish to protect their migratory bird populations. When Oakland transformed the lake into a public greenspace, the city also demonstrated the importance of making places like this accessible to all communities who migrate here.

One of the countless birds who has migrated here goes by Hank. He’s not a black-crowned night heron -- Oakland’s official bird -- though you may be able to see those herons wading in the water. Hank is an American white pelican who has lived in the Lake Merritt Wildlife Refuge since 2004. Today, you may be able to see that brown pelicans are ubiquitous here, but white pelicans like Hank are a rarity. Hank is known for his minimalist migratory bird life -- he sustained an injury years ago that makes it difficult for him to fly great distances, so he’s a true Oaklander now. Like so many people who call this city home, Hank found a place to land after years of migration. 

As you look across the rippled surface of the lake, to the hills on your left and the coastal horizon on your right, consider those wheat pasted words one more time: “United. Not Divided.” Lake Merritt is an unlikely body of water circumambulated by thousands every day. It has become a symbol of unity here in Oakland. But there are plenty of others. If we unpack the many migrations into Oakland, and into all of America’s cities, we’ll find more points of connection than division. 

Living in a global pandemic, compounded by our country’s political polarization, has pushed us into a prolonged period of isolation. It’s easy to let isolation breed complacency. But this period has also carved out space to consider whether we’re taking the things that connect us for granted. In the moment we’re living through, Oakland’s migration stories remind us to show up for each other and listen. Take a moment here. Listen to the footfalls of the walkers, runners, and folks resting along the path. Listen to the birds overhead and along the shore. Listen to your city as you move through it. 

This walk was written and produced by me, Sarah Holtz. If you’re inspired to make your own audio walk, join our community of creators at gesso.app.

1418 Lakeside Drive \|||// You’ve reached Lake Merritt. Feel free to stand by the illustrated map at the end of this path or find a bench as I finish up. Oakland is the only city in the world with a combination freshwater and saltwater lake at its center. Before it was a lake, this body of water was an estuary called San Antonio Creek, named after one of Peralta’s sons. At high tide, the creek spread out into a vast sheet of water. At low tide, it became a marsh. A rising local leader named Dr. Samuel Merritt hatched an idea to dam it in 1869, the same year the Transcontinental Railroad rolled in. He had arrived in Oakland on a boat of his own design during the Gold Rush and purchased a large tract of land along 14th Street. At first, Oaklanders called it Lake Peralta, then Merritt’s Lake, then Lake Merritt. 

It’s hard to imagine now, but Lake Merritt was open to public swimming in the early 1900s. City planners had hoped the lake could remain a swimming beach, but by 1912, tidal water management proved too difficult. That should be obvious if you take a moment now to look beneath the water’s surface and breathe in its complex tidal aroma.  

Conservation was a cause celebre of Dr. Merritt’s. He urged the government to designate the lake as a waterfowl refuge in 1870, and today, it’s the oldest wildlife refuge. This conservation effort has become a model for other cities that wish to protect their migratory bird populations. When Oakland transformed the lake into a public greenspace, the city also demonstrated the importance of making places like this accessible to all communities who migrate here.

One of the countless birds who has migrated here goes by Hank. He’s not a black-crowned night heron -- Oakland’s official bird -- though you may be able to see those herons wading in the water. Hank is an American white pelican who has lived in the Lake Merritt Wildlife Refuge since 2004. Today, you may be able to see that brown pelicans are ubiquitous here, but white pelicans like Hank are a rarity. Hank is known for his minimalist migratory bird life -- he sustained an injury years ago that makes it difficult for him to fly great distances, so he’s a true Oaklander now. Like so many people who call this city home, Hank found a place to land after years of migration. 

As you look across the rippled surface of the lake, to the hills on your left and the coastal horizon on your right, consider those wheat pasted words one more time: “United. Not Divided.” Lake Merritt is an unlikely body of water circumambulated by thousands every day. It has become a symbol of unity here in Oakland. But there are plenty of others. If we unpack the many migrations into Oakland, and into all of America’s cities, we’ll find more points of connection than division. 

Living in a global pandemic, compounded by our country’s political polarization, has pushed us into a prolonged period of isolation. It’s easy to let isolation breed complacency. But this period has also carved out space to consider whether we’re taking the things that connect us for granted. In the moment we’re living through, Oakland’s migration stories remind us to show up for each other and listen. Take a moment here. Listen to the footfalls of the walkers, runners, and folks resting along the path. Listen to the birds overhead and along the shore. Listen to your city as you move through it. 

This walk was written and produced by me, Sarah Holtz. If you’re inspired to make your own audio walk, join our community of creators at gesso.app.

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