The Rice Family and Napa’s Hidden History of Resistance

Yesterday's America Editorial Team
-
0
The Rice Family and Napa’s Hidden History of Resistance

Napa Valley is known for its wine and winemakers, but just beneath the fertile soil lies another, more complex version of its history. One intrepid historian took her hometown to task to uncover the stories that for too long have been conspicuously absent in the region’s story of itself.

The following story is excerpted from Hidden History of Napa Valley by Alexandria Brown. Brown is also the author of Lost Restaurants of Napa Valley. Listen to an interview with author on the Rice Family and her research here.

Struggle & Progress in the Early Days of California’s Statehood

In 1850, California was inducted into the Union as a free state, but racial equality was far from settled. Antislavery legislation was inconsistently enforced—if it was enforced at all. No laws prevented slaveholders from bringing their slaves to California based on false promises of freedom, nor were there any limits as to how long a slaveholder could sojourn in California with his or her slaves. One of the most common ways to bring enslaved African Americans into California was through a bondage or indenture contract. An agreement was made between slaveholder and enslaved person wherein the latter would agree to work for a set amount of time or to earn his or her purchase price. When the terms of the contract were met, the slave was freed—or was supposed to be freed.

 Nathaniel and Aaron Rice tested Napa County’s tolerance for slavery in 1860, when they went up against slaveholder William Rice. Rice inherited Robert and Dilcey and their son and daughter-in-law Aaron and Charlotte and brought them from the North Carolina cotton plantation where all four of them were born to Missouri. In 1859, William Rice and his family set out for California along with Robert, Dilcey and Aaron and Charlotte and their two sons, Nathaniel and Lewis. Shortly after arriving in Napa, William Rice freed Aaron, Charlotte and Lewis but not teenaged Nathaniel. What must it have felt like to be a child brought to an unfamiliar land and then torn from your family by a man who did not care at all about your welfare?

 Nearly all the slave cases brought to the California courts in the 1850s were instigated by free African Americans who pooled money together to pay for legal expenses, hired white lawyers to defend the enslaved and submitted petitions for a writ of habeas corpus (a court order requiring the accused to produce the imprisoned person so the court can determine if the imprisonment is valid). Aaron did just that and tried to rescue Nathaniel. William Rice was arrested, but because state law barred all people of color from testifying in court, the justice of the peace threw out the case. Not only did William retain his contract over Nathaniel, he also sued Aaron for perjury by claiming Aaron and Nathaniel had lied about being coerced into a bondage contract. Yet again, Aaron was denied the right to testify, and the justice of the peace saddled him with a bail of $500. Prominent Black Napans Edward Hatton and John Sinclair paid Aaron’s bail. Nathaniel remained under William’s control for a while longer but was eventually freed.

 Finally free, Aaron Rice and his family settled into life in Napa. Robert purchased a large farm near what is now Napa State Hospital, and the family ran it together for years. Robert also frequently preached at Napa’s African Methodist Episcopal Zion (AMEZ) church. Sadly, Lewis died of tuberculosis in 1862; he was not yet twelve. When African Americans won the right to vote, Robert, Aaron and Nathaniel were among the first in the county to register to vote. Nathaniel married twice, first to Rebecca, who died of tuberculosis in 1875, then to Annie Elizabeth Dyer, Edward Hatton’s stepdaughter. Robert passed away in 1875, followed by Dilcey a year later and Charlotte two years after that.

 William Rice relocated to Walnut Creek two months after the 1860 court cases against Aaron and Nathaniel; he died there in 1885. His widow, Louisa, somehow convinced an almost eighty-year-old Aaron to move into her mansion as her live-in servant. Aaron may have continued living in the house after Louisa died and her daughter Zarrissa Hill inherited it. Aaron Rice died in 1905, but rather than being interred at Tulocay Cemetery with the rest of his family, he was buried at the Alhambra Cemetery in Martinez down the hill from William Rice. Nathaniel moved in with the Canners, another family of formerly enslaved African Americans living in Napa, and died sometime shortly after 1900.

 Other than that of the Rices, there is little known history about the first Black pioneering families in Napa. Some will never have their stories told, like “Negro Billy” and “Negro Girl C,” two African Americans listed on the 1852 state census, but some information is known about others. The earliest on record is Elizabeth “Lizzie” Brooks, who arrived in 1849 at sixty years old and lived in town for another forty-five years.

 Abraham Seawell and his sister Matilda were enslaved first in Tennessee and then in Missouri before arriving in Napa around 1857. Once in California, Abraham married Judy, another newly freed African American, and eventually ran a two-hundred-acre farm in Napa. Both Abraham and Matilda were well liked by Napans of all races and were pillars of the Black community.

 Hiram Grigsby was born into slavery in Tennessee around 1824 and arrived in California in his thirties. Hiram married Anne Hurges, a widow from New York who worked as a cook, in 1861. By the end of the Civil War, he had forty head of stock on 30 acres, and six years later, he acquired 133 acres just west of Yountville. In 1873, he, like thousands of other former slaves, placed a newspaper notice requesting information on his wife and children; they were named Patsey Stokes and Margaret, Amos and Hiram Jr., respectively. He had not heard from them since they were all enslaved in Pulaski County, Missouri. It is unknown if he ever reunited with them.

 Paul Canner was born enslaved in Missouri. Once freed, he used the money and livestock he was given to head west; he arrived in the valley in 1856. Paul and his wife, Julia, lived on a ranch in Dry Creek, where he hauled tanning bark and worked as a teamster for neighboring ranchers. A few years later, the Canners relocated to Napa to ensure their children would get a good education. Tragically, several of their children died from tuberculosis contracted during an outbreak in the 1890s. Matthew died in 1894, followed by Richard and Polly in 1897 and Polly Ann in 1902. In 1862, Den Nottah, an African American man living in Napa, recorded 43 Black people in Napa city alone, including “8 farmers, 2 blacksmiths, 2 carpenters, 3 barbers, 5 wood speculators and poultry dealers, 4 jobbers. There are 13 families; 9 of them own the houses they live in.” Pioneering Black families, both free people and former slaves, were staking their claim on the valley.,

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Alexandria Brown grew up in Napa and attended Mills College, San José State University and Adams State University. She has a MS in library and information science and an MA in U.S. history. She was the head of the Research Library at the Napa County Historical Society and is currently on the board. She is a high school librarian and writes for Tor.com. In everything she does, diversity, equity and inclusion are at the forefront. Alexandria lives in the North Bay with her pet rats and ever-increasing piles of books. She can be found on Twitter (@QueenOfRats) and on her blog (www.bookjockeyalex.com).

Birmingham’s Foot Soldiers for Justice

Yesterday's America Editorial Team
-
0
Birmingham’s Foot Soldiers for Justice
A tribute to foot soldiers in the Birmingham movement is on the plaque and in the scene depicted in this sculpture at Kelly Ingram Park.
A tribute to foot soldiers in the Birmingham movement is on the plaque and in the scene depicted in this sculpture at Kelly Ingram Park.

Normally on Crime Capsule, we’re interested in criminals who end up in jail against their will. The kind who never planned to get caught, who bungled the job, or who got outfoxed by a wily lawman.

This week, we’re looking at a different kind of criminal.

As May and June are the anniversary months of the 1960s Freedom Riders, pouring into the South from across the country, we wanted to honor those men and women (and children at the time) who were unjustly imprisoned, who voluntarily entered detention centers, and those who pursued civil disobedience in search of a greater justice. We’ve already explored some of this history in Mississippi; thanks to journalist and historian Nick Patterson, we’re now able to meet some of the “ground troops” of the Birmingham civil rights movement, those who fought bravely and sacrificed dearly to bring equal rights to their community—and yet, in the shadow of more prominent figures of the era, whose stories might have been lost.

In his book Birmingham Foot Soldiers: Voices from the Civil Rights Movement, Patterson introduces us to over a dozen key activists, organizers, and citizens from the Magic City, telling their stories in riveting detail—some of which have never before been told in print. Here at Crime Capsule, we’re proud to offer a different kind of jailhouse lineup, a photo gallery of those whose time in lockup, protesting segregation and a racist regime, succeeded in changing not just a city but a nation.

Read the full story at our sister site dedicated to True Crime, Crime Capsule.

KEEP READING>>

Lafayette Park’s Long History of Protests

Yesterday's America Editorial Team
-
0
Lafayette Park’s Long History of Protests

Situated just a short walk from the White House Lawn, Lafayette Square is surrounded by landmarks and steeped in a fascinating history of rebellion.

The following stories are excerpted and adapted from Trouble in Lafayette Square: Assassination, Protest & Murder at the White House by Gil Klein, Foreword by John Kelly, Washington Post Metro Columnist.

“What is Lafayette Park? It’s a public space where, in times of national crisis, national anger or national exultation, crowds will gather, in front of the White House—protesters can be sure that the president will hear them.”

– John Kelly, Washington Post Metro Columnist

The Never-Ending Protest

From Chapter Twelve

The women suffragists lit a fire both literally and figuratively that still burns today. When they took their protest for demanding the right to vote to Lafayette Park and the White House fence—including burning Wilson’s words in urns—they developed a tactic for political activism that has been embraced by American civil rights and antiwar groups. Even international activists seeking to draw attention to the plight of citizens in their homelands make regular appearances with their banners, chanting their slogans for freedom.

State-by-State Race to Ratification of the 19th Amendment ...
A suffrage demonstration at Lafayette’s statue in 1919. Lucy Branham (center) is burning Woodrow Wilson’s words. Library of Congress.

While protests that draw hundreds of thousands of people take over the National Mall and Ellipse on the other side of the White House, Lafayette Park is considered a more “personal venue” for demonstrators, according to the White House Historical Association. “Lafayette Park, as the front yard of the White House, played an integral role in bringing the government and the people within reach of each other. The president could not ignore what the people were saying.”

Not to say presidents didn’t want to ignore them.

As writer Roger McDaniel pointed out, “During the Gulf War, President George H.W. Bush was annoyed with an anti-war demonstration in Lafayette Park. An ‘incessant’ drumbeat used by protestors was so loud he ordered the drums silenced. ‘Those damn drums are keeping me up all night,’ Mr. Bush told a group of visiting congressmen. But a federal court held the park was a public place. The whole point of free speech was to get the attention of the President. The beat went on.”

Some sort of protest is happening practically daily. The National Park Service requires any group of twenty-five or more to obtain a permit before launching a rally in Lafayette Park. In 2016, that amounted to 114 permits, the same as the year before. That does not include protests on the sidewalk in front of the White House—another 26 permits in 2016. Not included is any group of fewer than twenty-five people. They can show up and exercise their First Amendment rights any time they want. 

Alice Paul led her Lafayette Park protest for more than a year and a half. But that was just a blink of an eye compared to what a five-foot-tall Spanish-born woman by the name of Concepcion Picciotto endured. From 1981 until her death in January 2016, she and a small group of antiwar protestors held an around-the-clock vigil in the park across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House. 

Alice Paul’s protests had a finite ending. When women achieved the right to vote, it was over. But Concepcion, who went by the name “Connie,” was calling for the abolition of nuclear weapons and the end to U.S. intervention in foreign wars. That’s a goal that may not have a resolution anytime soon.

Picciotto wore a helmet covered by a huge wig and scarf that framed her weather-beaten face. Only two teeth were apparent when she opened her mouth. When I interviewed her in May 2001, the twentieth anniversary of her vigil, schoolchildren were studying her poster that said, “Stay the Course and This Will Happen to You” with pictures of mounds of skulls, charred bodies and suffering people. In her constant battle with National Park police, she had become a lesson in First Amendment rights. “I’m going to be here until the government comes to its senses and eliminates the weapons of mass destruction and stops provoking wars,” she told the children. “There’s too much greed for money and control inside there,” she said, pointing at the White House. “They’re stealing money from social programs.” And that was before the Afghan and Iraq wars that started just months later and outlasted Concepcion’s life.

File:Concepción Martín Picciotto 2015.jpg - Wikimedia Commons
Concepcion Picciotto in place at her decades-long protest in Lafayette Park. Wikimedia Commons.

William Thomas began the protest on June 3, 1981, with a sign saying “Wanted: Wisdom and Honesty.” He was soon joined by Picciotto, and they created a makeshift shelter and squatted there, spelling each other around the clock, defying the Park Service that wanted them out. In the process, they became an institution of their own, a regular stop for school tour groups, whose leaders made them lessons in freedom of speech and the right to protest government policies.

As the Washington Post’s David Montgomery wrote in the Post on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the protest, “Take Lafayette out of Lafayette Square—the monumental statuary likeness of the Frenchman, with Colonial braid, big boots and a sword—and hardly anyone would notice. But get rid of the shelter made of a tattered patio umbrella, a weathered plastic tarp and those faded anti-nuke signs erected by Thomas and Picciotto? It wouldn’t be the same park.”

One thing they did accomplish was helping to pass what was known as Proposition One, which grew from petitions handed out by the vigil and led to an initiative approved by District of Columbia voters in 1993 that called for nuclear disarmament. Eleanor Holmes Norton, D.C.’s non-voting delegate to the House of Representatives, crafted the language of the initiative into a nuclear disarmament and conversion act, which she repeatedly introduced in the House—to no avail. “They want to keep the issue of nuclear proliferation and its potential terrible consequences before the public,” Norton told Gibson. “And they have chosen a prime spot to do it. … We won’t ever know what the success is, because it doesn’t have a specific end of the kind we are used to.

But that was not the end of the story—or the end of the protests. On an exceptionally hot July day in 2017, I wandered through Lafayette Park to see what was happening. Under the banner of the Hip Hop Caucus, dozens of protestors moved out of the park onto Pennsylvania Avenue. They represented such groups as the National Organization for Women, the ACLU and the NAACP. They were protesting what they saw as the Trump administration’s moves to suppress voter turnout that would diminish participation among minorities, the poor and the young. They waved signs that read, “End Voter Suppression” and T-shirts that read, “Election Protection.” A leader juiced up the crowd’s energy: “We’re saying you will respect our vote!” he shouted. “Everyone do me a favor, put your right hand in the air,” and the crowd responded. “Say, Power,” he urged. “Power,” they shouted back. “Say, Power,” he urged again. “Power,” they shouted back. “One last time, say it like you mean it so they can hear it in the building behind me. POWER.” And the crowd responded with a rousing “POWER.”

Demanding that the White House hear their rally for voter rights on the edge of Lafayette Park? Alice Paul would have been pleased.

Just a few feet away, a group of Chinese people held up banners with their own messages: “Chinese Communist Party Is Harvesting Organs from Falun Gong Practitioners,” read one. “Falun Dafa Is Great,” said another in both English and Chinese. Said a third, “Destruction of CCP [Chinese Communist Party] Mandated by Heaven. Quitting the CCP Is Helping Oneself.”

Tourists mingled among the protestors. Take a picture of Junior in front of the White House, get a shot of Sis with Lafayette’s statue. Get a family group shot with some protestors. It was all part of the Washington experience. And along the fence separating the White House from the crowd, uniformed Secret Service and White House police, seemingly more heavily armed than in years past, watched warily. In the past year, some people had leapt over the fence to gain entry to the grounds. One had made it all the way into the East Room. Another makeshift barrier had been set up to make it harder for people to reach the main fence. Skateboarders, strollers and rollerbladers had largely disappeared from the avenue. The guards seemed more willing to push people back, close the avenue entirely by extending “Do Not Cross” tape.

But what is that on the sidewalk, behind the voting rights protestors, next to the Chinese Falun Gong? It’s the makeshift encampment with its signature tarps and signs warning of catastrophe unless nuclear bombs are banned. Eighteen months after Connie’s death, the nation’s longest protest continues. Sitting on a wheelchair in the heat is Philipos Melaku Bello, his long dreadlocks tied under a knit cap, a big smile of welcome on his face. He’s glad to see you. He says his father was Thomas’s good friend and his godfather. He has been involved in the protest off and on since its inception, as well as antiwar rallies in other parts of the country. When he saw Connie’s health declining, he said, he started coming every day.

He insists he does not have a political agenda, just an agenda of peace. “I am not a left-winger or a right-winger,” he says. “I’m here because I stand up for humanity. I love the civilians of the planet, and I don’t believe any civilian should be targeted by any nation’s military in an act of war.” After the death of Picciotto, Philipos Melaku Bello took over leadership of the thirty-four-year-old antiwar protest across the street from the White House. He says he logs about one hundred hours per week. 

It is getting harder to maintain the vigil, he says. At one time, it had nineteen volunteers so that no one had to do more than three shifts a week. “One of the volunteers just quit, so now there’s me and two others. One does 38 hours a week and one does 30 hours. There are 168 hours in a week, so I do 100.” But he says he will keep going as long as he can. After all, he comes from a good pedigree.

“Do you remember the Drums of Thunder in 1991?” he asks of the protest that drove President George H.W. Bush to distraction. “That was us and a lot of my friends.” A big smile crosses his face.

Sometimes it’s hard to hear Philipos because behind him a woman with a sign that identifies her as evangelist Melodie Crombie is preaching and singing into a bullhorn. With police restricting access to the avenue, it’s gotten a little tight along the sidewalk. But as I move north from the avenue away from the White House, the hubbub starts to die away. Even in the heat, people are sitting on benches in the shade, chatting and relaxing. The Bernard Baruch bench still offers a spot for inspiration.

Yes, all is peaceful in Lafayette Park—until it isn’t.

Science Vs. Religion: The Scopes Monkey Trial

Yesterday's America Editorial Team
-
0
Science Vs. Religion: The Scopes Monkey Trial

Do you believe scientists? It’s a hot topic lately as we grapple with a global pandemic. Strangely, Americans have a long tradition of mistrust towards the scientific community — just look at climate change deniers, conspiracy theorists, anti-vaxxers, and the classic flat-earthers. Some of us just can’t be convinced! And sometimes, secularism and spiritualism meet at a crossroads to duke it out…

The Trial of the Century — what an irresistible title. Before OJ, before Michael Jackson, before the Manson Family, and even before the Lindbergh kidnapping, there was the Scopes Monkey Trial. While it may not sound as sensational now, the 1925 court case would test Tennessee’s ban on teaching evolution and would capture the attention of the entire nation. Formally known as the State of Tennessee v. John Thomas Scopes, the Scopes Monkey Trial was America’s first “trial of the century” captivating the world and inspiring countless newspaper articles, documentaries, books, speeches, sermons, and a few political careers.

Four businessmen sitting and drinking around a small table
On May 5, 1925, Rappleyea and other Dayton businessmen met around this small table in Robinson’s Drug Store to discuss how a trial to test the newly passed Butler Act could stimulate Dayton’s economy. In this photograph, from left to right, mining engineer and trial instigator George Rappleyea poses with Walter White (superintendent of Rhea County Schools), druggist F.E. Robinson (standing), and Clay D. Green, White’s assistant and a teacher who worked with Scopes. (BC.) Image sourced from The Scopes Monkey Trial.

Desperate Businessmen

In May 1925, a group of Dayton businessmen hatched a plan to get some attention for their struggling, small town. They gambled that a show trial could test Tennessee’s newly passed law banning the teaching of human evolution, and certainly stimulate the local economy during the proceedings. Their contrived publicity stunt would bring the nation’s attention to the sleepy and stagnating community. Substitute teacher John Scopes agreed to the idea, and the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), in the group’s first major trial, signed on to help underwrite the defense. Dayton became a virtual circus with vendors hawking hot dogs, lemonade, and all manner of books on biology and religion. (Spoiler: No monkeys were harmed.)

William Jennings Bryan standing up against a brick wall
When Bryan arrived in Dayton for the Scopes Trial, he was 65 years old and his health was failing. He had diabetes, heart trouble, and an enormous appetite that had made him overweight. After Scopes’ trial, Bryan visited a physician in Chattanooga for a checkup. As had happened in the past, Bryan was told to rest, but he seldom did so. (LC.) Image sourced from The Scopes Monkey Trial.

The Prosecution

Populist politician and former congressman, secretary of state, and presidential candidate William Jennings Bryan had championed women’s suffrage and a progressive income tax. He was well-respected and popular, and, maybe cynically, the trial could be the first step in the upcoming war to restore America’s “morality.” Bryan knew a wedge issue when he saw one and declared the case was “not a joke but an issue of the first magnitude…[and would expose the] gigantic conspiracy among atheists and agnostics against the Christian religion.” Could this be his last shot at getting to the White House?

Headshot of Clarence Darrow
Chicago lawyer Clarence Darrow had supported Bryan’s early presidential campaigns but by 1923 was disappointed by Bryan’s shift to religious fundamentalism. When Bryan volunteered to help prosecute John Scopes, Darrow volunteered to defend Scopes the following day. Although Darrow had served without fee in many cases, the Scopes Trial was the only trial in which he volunteered his services. After spending $2,000 of his own money on the trial, Darrow claimed, “I never got more for my money.” (BC.) Image sourced from The Scopes Monkey Trial.

The Defense

Famed criminal defense attorney Clarence Darrow volunteered for the case the day after Bryan announced his involvement in the trial. Ironically, the defense didn’t focus on whether Scopes broke the law teaching human evolution, but instead on the perceived threat to individual liberty. Ultimately, the two sides clashed over who decides what is taught in public schools and does religion itself have a place in public schools. Both sides played up cultural differences, city versus rural, educated elite versus rural working-class.

“We don’t need anybody from New York to come down here and tell us what [the Butler Act] means…The most ignorant man in Tennessee is a highly educated, polished gentleman [when compared] to the most ignorant man in some of our northern states.” – prosecutor Ben McKenzie

Image of John Scopes
Rhea Central High School hired John Scopes for $150 per month to teach math and science, and to coach football, basketball, and baseball during the 1924–1925 school year. This was Scopes’s first and only year to work at the school. The popular Scopes, who considered coaching to be the most important part of his job, allegedly taught evolution when he substituted for the regular biology teacher in April 1925. The school was only three blocks from the Rhea County Courthouse, where Scopes would stand trial. (LC.) Image sourced from The Scopes Monkey Trial.

The Teacher

Poor John Scopes. He had no clue that this trial would become the most famous court case of his lifetime, testing the constitutional guarantees of liberties, and freedoms of speech and religion. The native Kentuckian, John Thomas Scopes became famous throughout the nation on radio and in newspapers, who willingly joined the custom-made media circus. After eight days, Scopes was found guilty and fined $100, which the ACLU paid. Scopes quit teaching, and the ACLU appealed to the Tennessee Supreme Court, which ruled the Butler Act constitutional. The Tennessee legislature repealed the Butler Act in 1967.

“Your Honor, I feel that I have been convicted of violating an unjust statute. I will continue in the future, as I have in the past, to oppose this law in any way I can. Any other action would be in violation of my ideals of academic freedom, that is to teach the truth as guaranteed in our Constitution, of personal and religious freedom. I think the fine is unjust.” – John Scopes

Out of the spotlight, Scopes settled down to raise a family in Shreveport, Louisiana, working in the oil and gas industry. He lived there until his death in 1970. Both Shreveport and Paducah, Kentucky claim Scopes, but the former schoolteacher called Shreveport, not that far from the Tennessee courtroom, his hometown.

The Father of Film: Thomas Edison

Yesterday's America Editorial Team
-
0
The Father of Film: Thomas Edison

Who comes to mind when you think of innovators in the movie business? Spielberg? Hitchcock? Chaplin? What about Thomas Edison?  Following breakthroughs with the first phonograph, incandescent light bulbs, and the delivery of electricity itself, Edison made his indelible mark on one more technological revolution — motion pictures.

The Father of Motion Pictures.

In 1876, Thomas Edison set up shop in Menlo Park, New Jersey, and by the end of the century, he had become arguably the most prolific inventor in history. With Thomas Edison’s company’s creation of the kinetograph (a motion picture camera) and the kinetoscope (a motion picture viewer), the public was able to view film that moved on spools, but these “movies” only lasted for about ninety seconds. In 1893, Edison presented the first commercial motion-picture machine at the World’s Columbian in Chicago. Later, Edison opened stores called “parlors,” where the public could spend a few cents to view these early movies in a kinetoscope. Edison and others improved the kinetoscope so that the movies could be enlarged and projected onto a screen. In 1896, Edison produced the first public showing in the United States. The movie business was born.

A black and white photo of Thomas Edison sitting on the edge of a table looking at film.
Thomas Edison examines the film for his Home Projecting Kinetoscope (HPK) in 1912, an attempt to introduce educational films into schools and the home. The film format was unusual, consisting of three adjacent strips of 5.7-millimeter film that ran through the projector in an equally unorthodox way—the middle row ran in reverse. The company made many films expressly for the HPK, although some were reformatted from the existing Edison catalog. Image sourced from Thomas Edison in West Orange.


“Wizard of Menlo Park”

The world’s first motion picture studio was a small tarpaper-covered building with black interior walls. Dubbed the Black Maria, Edison’s studio produced films specifically for the use of Edison’s coin-operated Kinetoscope. His Kinetoscope parlors would increase in popularity and open around the country. Constant production from the West Orange studio kept the new tech popular, but competition diminished Edison’s profits. In response, the Wizard of Menlo Park developed the Kinetophone, combining moving pictures with sound from a phonograph. “Talkies” wouldn’t take off until the end of the 1920s, but Edison’s place in history was cemented, and West Orange, New Jersey ultimately became the birthplace of the film industry.

A sketch of people from the 1890s viewing films in kinetoscopes.
In the 1890s, after Edison’s company came up with the Kinetoscope camera, machines were developed for viewing the films in locations like this one in New York City and soon Boston. These machines were set up in rows with each showing a different moving picture short. Films ran only a few minutes, and each person watched separately. Courtesy of Thomas Edison National Historical Park. Image sourced from Boston’s Downtown Movie Palaces.

Edison’s Edifices

Did Thomas Edison realize that one of the most celebrated public building styles would grow out of his moving pictures? There would be no cinema, no picture show, no movie theater without Edison’s entertainment. Among the most beloved buildings of the twentieth century are movie houses. Once his kinetoscope parlors found an audience, entrepreneurs leaped in to find ways to make a buck. Boston, Massachusetts proved to be the perfect site for this new form of entertainment. Always a theater town, Boston grew into a world-class cultural center because of its stages.

An image of a theatre with a movie screen
Intimate in size and designed for film only, the stage was tiny. Musicians sometimes performed music for the silent films while sitting in the first row. And housed in a console in front of the stage was the first Estey 3/38 organ, which was built especially for movie theaters. Note the sloping floor guaranteeing a perfect view from any seat. Courtesy of John Toto. Image sourced from Boston’s Downtown Movie Palaces.

Boston’s Broadway

The history of Boston movie theaters is tied to a seven-block stretch of a narrow Downtown street. From the mid-nineteenth century, Boston’s main entertainment center was home to the Music Hall, then the huge Boston Theatre, followed by dozens of playhouses, dime museums, nickelodeons, vaudeville, and burlesque houses, and movie theaters and palaces. By the turn of the century, there were more than 50 theaters in Boston, most on or near Washington Street. By 1914, Boston was home to the 800-seat Beacon Theatre, the Boston Theatre (for live performances), the tiny Bijou, and B.F. Keith’s vaudeville house. Moviemakers were delivering 90-minute feature films, and opulent movie palaces of the era reflected the ambition of the new visual art medium. Technology was vital to staying competitive, and Boston would be the first to screen the first “talkie” to delighted audiences with The Jazz Singer.

A group of boys standing in front of a picture house with the marque displaying the movie title "The Sultan's Power!"
Youngstown’s first moving picture houses relied heavily on street-level advertising, which included primitive signage and simple theatrical storefronts. Courtesy of Thomas Molocea. Image sourced from Historic Theaters of Youngstown and the Mahoning Valley.

Youngstown, Ohio: Theater Town

The central Ohio steel town fell for movies early in the twentieth century, and nickelodeons gave solace to local factory and furnace laborers. The Dreamland, the Star Theater, the Edisonia, the Luna, and the Dome Theater were filled with citizens of the new boomtown. Following the decline of live vaudeville-style performances, motion pictures took over in four downtown Youngstown stages, the Palace, the State Theater; the Paramount; and the Warner Theater. Small Youngstown was in the same league as Cleveland and Pittsburgh. Even neighboring Warren, the second-largest city in the Mahoning Valley region, featured the Warren Opera House, the Hippodrome, and the Robins Theater.

An ad for a burlesque show featuring Rose La Rose
Rose La Rose was the Park’s most popular draw during the late 1940s and 1950s. She later opened her own burlesque house in Toledo, Ohio. Courtesy of the author. Image sourced from Historic Theaters of Youngstown and the Mahoning Valley.

In decades following World War II, Steel Belt cities like Youngstown, Cleveland, and Pittsburgh fell into economic decline, and many of the grand theaters suffered neglect. Youngstown embraced the working-class art form of burlesque, which kept many old theaters open; but, as television grew in popularity, theaters shuttered. Even today, as the public’s viewing habits change with a plethora of competing screens, fewer and fewer landmark movie palaces remain on the American landscape.

The Forgotten History of Two New Orleans Vampires

Yesterday's America Editorial Team
-
0
The Forgotten History of Two New Orleans Vampires

Vampires come in many fictional forms, some of them serious, some of them silly. But what form do real vampires come in? Do vampires exist? There is a fascinating and suggestive tale from the history of New Orleans, one of America’s most haunted cities. Indeed, the gruesome story of the Carter brothers reveals something about vampires — and maybe about the Crescent City itself.

The Carter Bros.

The year was 1932. A young girl stormed down Royal Street, visibly panicked, her stride broken only by the diligent interception of a police officer. Her story sounded a bit farfetched: tied up by two brothers, along with several other victims, and held captive so the brothers could drink their blood.

The girl claimed that she was only able to escape due to her captors’ carelessness in securing her ropes. Somewhat skeptical, the police agreed to follow her back to the home on the corner of Royal and St. Ann. Once the police and the girl arrived at the home, which was owned by the Carter brothers, they were horrified to find, as the girl had described, four other victims, half-dead, tied to chairs in one of the rooms.

All victims had their wrists wrapped with bandages, moist and stained with blood. Two more bodies wrapped in blankets were tucked away in yet another room. The unmistakable suffocating odor of death permeated the apartment.

It seemed the brothers left early each morning just before daybreak and returned every evening just after dark. Immediately upon their return, they would take the bandages off each of the captive’s wrists and, using a knife, reopen their wounds until blood flowed freely from the victims’ cuts. They caught the blood in cups from which they drank until their hunger was sated. The brothers would then redress the wounds with fresh bandages. They spoke very little and gave no concern for their victims’ well-being. Rather, the kidnapped were no more than a food source headed for certain death.

Unaware that the girl had escaped, John and Wayne Carter went about their routine as usual. Only this time, the police waited for the brothers to return. They were quickly apprehended, and upon their capture, confessed almost immediately, begging to be murdered. The brothers explained to authorities that they were, in fact, vampires and would, if released, have no option but to continue to kill, as their need for drinking blood was beyond their control. It’s said the brothers were tried as serial killers, convicted and eventually executed.

Shaped by the Crescent City

How was it that the brothers, thinking themselves vampires, gifted with eternal life, could be so careless in their plans for survival? Perhaps it was the drastic changing environment in New Orleans that ultimately led to their demise.

During the early 1900s and Roaring Twenties, the city of New Orleans was bustling and booming. The busiest port in the country brought flourishing business and plenty of jobs. In fact, the city was coined “The Big Easy” because, at the time, work in New Orleans was so easy to find. A surplus of disposable income triggered a new sense of freedom with the celebration of nightclubs, new energetic music called jazz, loose women, the Storyville district, and excitement that was unmeasurable to anything the city had ever seen. It was a time of “anything goes,” footloose and fancy-free, that also created carelessness among residents and visitors to the city. No one was thinking of danger. If vampires truly had been in New Orleans at the time, it would surely have been easy to feast.

A black and white photo of a group of people singing and dancing on a stage, presumably in a jazz club
Carefree New Orleans, 1920s. Courtesy of the Ralston Crawford Collection, Hogan Jazz Archive, Tulane University. Image sourced from New Orleans Vampires.

However, just a decade later came the stock market crash and with it the Great Depression. Everything changed almost overnight. People stayed at home, kept to themselves. The only wanderers were derelicts who roamed the city in search of a little easy work for something to eat. The downtrodden could often be found begging for food at the back doors of the homes of fine citizens for a little yard work. More often than not, these vagrants were granted work and a plate of food but were never invited into the home. Rather they sat with their plates on the porch steps, thankful for every morsel. The rug had been pulled out from underneath what had been a flourishing city, and lifestyles changed dramatically. New Orleans, however, known for its southern hospitality, has always found the most heartfelt way to care for its people. Dr. Peter Carl Graffagnion, a student at the time, reflects on the 1930s in his journal. He gives a lovely description of the environment in New Orleans for a youngster on a budget headed for medical school. It seems that seeking out the affordable meal in depressed New Orleans was part of the adventure:

Meanwhile, in spite of its prolonged poverty and political troubles, New Orleans in the 1930s was an interesting and enjoyable place in which to spend the student years. The living was easy. Food was cheap; a “poor-boy” sandwich (a half loaf of French bread sliced longitudinally, spread with mayonnaise, and packed with hot roast beef and fixings) cost 25 cents; a five or six course lunch at Maylie’s or Tujague’s was 50 cents; and in the lake front spots at West End near Bucktown you could eat your fill of boiled shrimp or crabs or crawfish for almost nothing and wash them down with a nickel glass of beer. The French Quarter then, even though subdued and at one of its low ebbs, was probably at its best from a student viewpoint. The droves of today’s investing tourists were nowhere to be seen; the handful of drug addicts and reefer-smokers kept to themselves and stayed hidden; there was only an occasional honky-tonk or second-rate night club along all of Bourbon Street, and you could wander around the whole Quarter in complete safety and innocence and never find trouble unless you deliberately set out to seek it

New Orleans Today

One can still find the charm in simple, delicious meals when on a budget or simply desiring a little New Orleans tradition. Complimentary red beans and rice can be found on Mondays, also known as washday, in ample supply in several historical restaurants and in many nightclubs through the city. Traditionally, women would put on a pot of red beans in the morning before they started the weekly laundry and, when the laundry was done, so were the rice and beans. Plate specials and private suppers are frequently hosted by families asking under ten dollars a plate for a healthy portion, and daily specials all throughout the city for traditional New Orleans cuisine are plentiful, even in modern-day New Orleans. For a vampire, New Orleans, when it comes to acquiring adequate nutrition, would have changed just as much as it did for mortals.

An neon sign that says "Tujague's Restaurant"
Tujague’s Restaurant. Author’s collection. Image sourced from New Orleans Vampires.

In the 1930s, for a vampire, stalking vagabonds would likely have been the most reliable source of food. If the Carter brothers and vampires existed in 1930s New Orleans, it would most likely have been the environment of the city at that time that would have led to their mistake. The time of feeding on prostitutes and carefree dock workers was long gone. It was a depressing time, so feeding on the misfortune of derelicts who had nowhere to turn but to the invitation of a vampire was their peril. It is possible that a young girl may have witnessed the capture of such a derelict and the Carter brothers had no choice but to take the youngster hostage as well. One would hope that it was a fluke that such a young victim was reportedly among the brothers’ captives, but realistically, what morals do a vampire hold?

1...424344...67Page 43 of 67