My dad and I stand in front of a plaque set in stone. Mexican fan palms tower on either side, sand at their base cordoned off by concrete. Families walk by distracted by conversations or by keeping an eye on their own children. Rollerbladers and bicyclists glide across the bike path, dodge pedestrians strolling in their way.
No one pauses to read the plaque’s words. I don’t see anyone glance over.
The first and biggest words read in capital letters: “THE INK WELL.” And underneath: “A place of celebration and pain…an important gathering place for African Americans long after racial restrictions on public beaches were abandoned in 1927…they encountered less racial harassment [here] than at other Southland beaches…”
We scan the wide expanse of footprint-laden sand. A sky blue lifeguard tower keeps watch near the horizon, a line of dot-sized sunbathers and recovering swimmers extending from either side. Volleyball nets are strung above the granules and Latinos relax on the short concrete divider between the sand and bike path.
I can’t picture this section of Ocean Park Beach separated, a hotel fence dividing it from the white Casa del Mar Beach Club. Only a quarter mile separating Bay and Bicknell Streets.
Before we arrived at Ocean Park Beach, I asked my dad if he knew what the Inkwell was.
“No. What is it?” I showed him the entry in A People’s Guide to Los Angeles. “Huh. I never knew.” His eyes ran over the final sentences—an entry in a book formatted as a travel guide, set to “[reimagine]…what Los Angeles has been and will become.” Someone who’s lived in Los Angeles for over 50 years had never heard about a beach set aside for African Americans.
We observe this stretch of beach between the Venice Boardwalk and the Santa Monica Pier, this smaller section that is the Inkwell. Not far from the plaque, on the sand, dodgeball has broken out. Rubber balls sting bare skin. At the café, south along the bike path, conversations in accented English intermingle with the conversations of other customers. A couple walking by speaks French.
Before there was the Inkwell, in the early days of the 20th century, parishioners of the Philips Chapel Christian Methodist Episcopal (CME) Church, four blocks up on Bay, would head to Ocean Park Beach after services. For picnics. For good conversations with warm friends. Yet, here, they were harassed by police on behalf of white beachgoers simply for their presence.
Simply, for being at the beach while Black.
Memorial Day 1920. A young African American chauffeur, Arthur Valentine, settled on “Whites Only” Topanga Beach. With friends and family, he stepped from his truck. Three sheriff’s deputies demanded that they leave. One commanded, “Niggers” are not allowed on this beach.
They were near Topanga Canyon, allegedly trespassing on Deputy Sheriff Archie Cooper’s land. But it was not uncommon for visitors to pitch their tents in the sand along this slender beach front, the Santa Monica Mountains rising almost abruptly behind them in crags and crevices of chaparral.
Undoubtedly Valentine understood his party’s options to enjoy the holiday with flags flying and fireworks exploding were virtually nonexistent. Even as he found no problems in his mostly white neighborhood near San Pedro Street downtown. The numbers of African Americans in Los Ángeles County were now rivalling that of eastern cities. Indeed, the wives and children arrived wanting to bask in the warm salt tinged air, listen to the waves lap at the Topanga shore, 15 minutes from the Ocean Park Pier, from its “beautiful and alluring Egyptian Ballroom.”
Several hundred feet south of the short, plain Crystal Pier.
Bay and Bicknell Streets were a quick stroll, where, what would be the Inkwell, was already attracting African Americans to the only section of sand where they were mostly left alone.
Certainly these children threw off their shoes, sand creeping between their toes, and waded into the blue waters of the wide Pacific. They’d jump as the initial chill slid over their skin. Giggle as the water chased them up the sand.
Valentine and his party refused to leave. Why vacate when they’d caused no harm, when they were acting like every other beachgoer, eager to throw their worries aside for the holiday?
An officer grabbed and threw aside a small Black child who impeded their progress. One of the deputies gripped a police club. Valentine was rushed, slammed into the sand. Beaten. Then shot. Still alive, his body ached under the weight of added bruises.
After Valentine filed a complaint, he was charged with assault with a deadly weapon. But no records confirm he had one, much less what kind of weapon he carried. And the Los Angeles Civil Service Commission refused their power to investigate Valentine’s complaint. They couldn’t. Not with the charges against him.
This was Los Ángeles, the early L.Á. County that enacted restrictive real estate covenants to prevent African Americans from buying property in certain areas, and left roads as mere dirt paths, in some of the Black neighborhoods, some around Watts.
Yet, a Black community was growing in Ocean Park/Pico. The CME Church helped foster this sense of community and realized with the Valentine incident that they needed a beach of their own.
One of the remaining institutions of the Black Ocean Park/Pico community is the CME Church. It’s still on 4th Street, a gate now protecting the front entrance from the sidewalk. The building has been recognized for its cultural importance by the city of Santa Monica. Friends and neighbors came together for support and strength to create and maintain a community with different circumstances than the ones they left. The church organized outings to the beach, to the Inkwell, after services, organized picnics and games. This, as public pools became more restrictive—and could only be used by African Americans the day before they were cleaned, as they could only attend certain movie theaters and concert venues, and then could only sit high above in “Nigger Heaven” seats.
The CME Church moved to the corner of Bay and 4th Streets in 1908, before the resort beach clubs and Ocean Park pleasure pier pushed the burgeoning African American community to develop to the north and northeast. I’ve lived on the Westside (Culver City, Venice, Santa Monica, Brentwood, Pacific Palisades, etc.) nearly my entire life. I know this landscape better than anywhere else in the world. However, in a region where the automobile is so iconic, I used Ocean Park as a drive-through neighborhood, streets I passed through to get to my destination. This was a street (4th) and neighborhood, growing up, that I never thought about.
4th Street is on a gentle hill and on a mild, mid-November Sunday, I pass queen palms with leaves like feather dusters that rise from the medians, curbs congested with parked cars, mostly Japanese. Apartments of hipsters and yuppies line both sides of 4th, a few remaining craftsman bungalows tucked in-between, from back before most of these homes in diverse south Santa Monica, the city claimed, were “dilapidated,” were blight.
These apartments rise three, four, five stories and block the view and the calm, cool emptiness from the blue Pacific, creating a mild sense of distance from a communal atmosphere. And along the street, a slight sense of being on one’s own. It’s the two convenience stores—conversations with the cashier, between familiar faces—and Hotchkiss Park that most prominently foster a sense of community.
When I reach Hotchkiss Park, I sit on a bench under what I assume is an oak tree. I breathe in the clear ocean air. To my left, a middle-age white woman walks a dog, and runs into a neighbor with a toddler and they fall into an easy conversation. Across the park’s north side a white couple strolls, fingers entwined. Yet, behind me on a bench next to the park’s restroom sits a dark-skinned Latino wearing a blue and white trucker hat, face buried in some newspaper I can’t identify. When I notice a black bulging backpack next to him, I realize how poor he must be. I wonder if all his belongings are in that pack or if he even has a roof to put over his head. Did he immigrate from Mexico, Guatemala or El Salvador? Or is the United States his country of origin? How did this man end up here, in this park?
I get the sense that no one has noticed him, that this Latino is invisible. With the destruction of these craftsman bungalows, came the first sign of gentrification. Of who gets to live where.
Down the hill on Main Street, the only sign of the past among the boutiques, coffee shops and cafés is in the architecture. A brick building built in 1924, a Streamline Moderne built in 1936 that combines the Streamline Moderne and the Art Deco styles with an ocean liner tower and a wave motif in its ornamental trim.
I stand, my hands in my pockets, my footsteps slow. Retracing my steps, I pass two friends, an attractive, fit, light-skinned Black woman and a light-skinned Latino or white man. She smiles at something he said. Their bodies are loose and free. Then a bicyclist speeds past and keeps to the bike lane.
In 1907 Gilbert McCarroll opened Santa Monica’s first Black-owned business on Pier Ave: a shoe-shine parlor. The city was 32 years old.
The business failed, white clientele staying away, but African Americans still told relatives back home of this city by the ocean, having fled the Southern land they knew best.
They left the vicious legal mob lynchings, the uncertain dread that pressed down on their bodies like the strain of physical labor, that consumed their thoughts when they interacted with the larger world. The white man’s world. When were they or their sons going to be persecuted for walking on the wrong side of the street or for staring at a white man’s wife just because, when he looked straight ahead, she happened to fall in his line of sight? And how could they keep their girlfriends, wives or their daughters, especially their daughters, away from the prying eyes of white men with evil thoughts?
African Americans continued to arrive in pursuit of the California dream. Left behind Tennessee, Kentucky, Louisiana. They did not encounter the signs displayed in shop windows, mounted beside bathrooms and drinking fountains. But they grew to understand there were activities to steer clear of and certain businesses to avoid.
By the 1920s, this community and these circumstances were what a small cluster of African Americans had expanded into, pushed across Pico Boulevard, creating the Belmont Triangle. It also inched north towards 17th Street and Broadway. Yet, it still revolved around the CME Church. The Inkwell was still mostly four blocks away, children’s wet hair heavy with the smell of salt water, parents chasing them with tender smiles.
The homes in the Belmont Triangle were near the Arkansas Traveller Inn at Belmar and Main Street. Fingers might be covered with barbeque sauce, used napkins stained and crumpled, customers downing every last morsel of this “genuine” sauce. Maybe the smell of fried chicken, warm and crisp, might bring back good memories of family functions and holidays, of Momma or Auntie cooking up their own barbeque specialties to accompany the meat the men were grilling outside. African Americans from L.Á.’s Central Avenue would stop in on their excursions to the coast.
“This was nothing but a country town,” James Maxwell said, a Black Kentucky transplant. Carnation fields had once overlooked Ocean Park Beach from 4th Street that certainly created a carpet of yellows and reds. Rural, undeveloped land, lima bean and strawberry fields, still remained in-between the growing developments that gradually incorporated into Los Angeles, to the east. The Black community was small enough, Maxwell said, where “everybody knew everybody and were all good to each other,” where Gilbert’s Grocery and Soda Fountain sprouted, McCaroll’s second business.
At 18th and Broadway Streets, in Midtown, Gilbert’s was a gathering place where friends and couples could engage in good conversation, grab a cold drink on a warm, dry, cloudless summer day, before the cool salt-tinged air cooled off the early evening. Laughter carried in the air. A teenage boy’s gentle hand might have rested lightly over the smooth skin of his date’s hand, two straws curved out from a glass of Coke or maybe a milkshake, lips possibly surrounding the straws in unison.
This, in California, in Santa Monica, was safer than the South.
Santa Monica, Los Ángeles, L.Á. County, the Southland—the entire region—has history. There used to be a thriving Chinatown around present day downtown Riverside, California. In Los Ángeles, the first Chinatown the city claimed, became an eyesore and condemnation proceedings were filed on November 6, 1946. On Terminal Island where the ports of Los Ángeles and Long Beach meet, a quarter mile from shore, after federal agents took away every Japanese native with a fishing license, on February 9, 1942, frightened women and children were surrounded by soldiers with bayonets. More than half the island’s 4,000 residents were Japanese farmers. The heads of all Japanese families were under Presidential arrest.
Communities of color that no longer exist.
Roots that were destroyed.
Can white communities be displaced? Be destroyed? Do they have roots?
Or will they always be predominantly more affluent with more political power?
I find myself in Santa Monica. Midtown. It’s December, midafternoon, and semi-dark clouds hang in the near distance. A few blocks east is Calvary Baptist Church. It’s Santa Monica’s second Black church, where in 1927, a handful of members made their first commitment in a home here on 17th Street near Broadway.
But with Interstate 10 cutting through South Santa Monica and the Black community a few blocks south, mid-century, and newly built lofts with angled corners and aluminum-like facades dotting the city, it’s hard to feel the lingering impact of the African American community here. That their culture is still prevalent enough to influence the city’s iconic narrative.
This happens in cities across the country, cities like San Diego, Minneapolis-St. Paul or Cleveland. Not only to African American communities, but to any community of color.
Tourism authorities or visitors bureaus can contribute and cultivate how the public thinks of a city, the narrative the city tells about itself. I remember such a commercial for San Diego. In 30 seconds it highlights its weather and except for one image, the footage depicts visitors under the perpetual 72 degree sun. Over half shows the sand or water of its beaches, with mostly white yuppies and families; cute kids carrying a surfboard over their heads, a youthful couple kayaking, two teens riding a skateboard among beachside palms. The only nod to any history is a brief image of a red tiled roof atop mission architecture and a sign that reads: Gaslamp Quarter: Historic Heart of San Diego, lit up in the night, nearly too blurry to read.
In Midtown, I find it hard to picture African Americans socializing with neighbors from their front porches or friends and acquaintances hopping on red cars or carpooling to work as a plasterer or janitor in Ford Touring Cars. Now with my camera, I capture the continued creep of gentrification. These new and recent arrivals who don’t understand the area, its history, may not take into account the residents who are deeply rooted here and have an entrenched stake in the community.
Set back from 17th Street is a lone craftsman bungalow, a half-block south of Broadway. It’s tucked between a stucco apartment building and a shotgun bungalow. Its low slung roof extends over the white-colonnaded front porch, evoking warmth and company. Along with my light jacket it keeps the chill off my skin and loneliness from the atmosphere. Yet, left of the front steps is a white official sign staked into the dirt. Notice of Pending Demolition Permit. The hand-written date is from yesterday.
The warmth evaporates. The sidewalk’s vacant.
Is the eminent demolition of this home progress?
As former Georgia state representative Billy McKinney said regarding the gentrification of Black neighborhoods in Atlanta: “Regentrification, that’s just a nice word for taking Black folks’ property.” This is seen when poor residents of color are forced out of their community, from their lives, by new wealthier residents for the largely perceived benefits of social rehabilitation. This can occur through official political and law enforcement channels, to stigmatize their use of public spaces. Spaces like parks or beaches then become inhospitable to these residents of color as their freedom of movement is constricted now falsely connected with engaging in the neighborhood’s worst elements.
Now, as vehicles pass by, they don’t stop at any of the stores or the Jewish synagogue on Broadway. They don’t stop at any of these houses or apartments. The landscape whizzes by and the drivers’ eyes remain on the road.
That’s why I’m walking, and as I reach Broadway and 17th Court I pay closer attention, I see the Crescent Bay Masonic Lodge. It was started by Black men and the plaque I take a picture of reads 1911. It’s a registered city historic landmark, a social organization, which addressed important issues in hopes of wielding political influence. This was before the 10—“The Santa Monica Freeway”—signaled white progress.
Shortly after the Second World War, the Black community tested their political influence. Picket lines formed around the new Sears near Third Street, next to the Belmont Triangle: 250 protesters, Black and white. They wanted to keep and build on their middle-class gains from war-time employment. Some likely gripped the wooden handles of picket signs, the crowd likely shouting demands in unison. The young African American George Whittaker, a returned army vet, had applied for a sales job. He was the cause of the pent-up anger and frustration aimed at the Santa Monica location. Sears refused him the job. They refused to integrate their workforce. Refused Black Veterans. Whittaker sued, but Sears remained firm.
Then Sears caved. They hired one Black employee as a sales clerk.
Semi-dark clouds continue to hang in the near distance. The sidewalk remains dry. A Black woman on her cell pulls into the parking lot behind the Masonic Lodge’s adobe like clay. The driver’s side door hangs open for a long moment.
“Oh I know. But girl, I just got here. I’ll call you later.”
The door closes and the car beeps. The woman disappears behind the Lodge, into the Santa Monica Classroom Teachers Association.
“This is such a subtle city,” former African Methodist Episcopal Church Reverend Felix Dancy once said, “…the conditions are so well painted over that it’s difficult to tell what is happening underneath.”
The warm sand covered a young Ralph Bunche’s feet and a cap hid his black hair. A cloudless baby blue sky stretched above. A smile spread across his lips as thoughts of UCLA must have been far from his mind.
It was 1923 and Bunche was attending the young university on an athletic scholarship, gifted at football and basketball. A group of friends accompanied him at the Inkwell, among them four attractive young women. One was Connie, with light skin, short boyish cut hair and a neck tie looped in a simple knot. It was at UCLA where Bunche sustained a knee injury that bothered him for the rest of his life.
That day Bunche wanted to hang out with friends at the Inkwell. “You would see everybody…All your friends where there.” Some friends would arrive together and others would meet up, arriving by themselves. Still, others would arrive with friends and met up with more once there, as Ralph Bunche must have done. Several of his male friends wore black fedoras and stretched their legs and toes out on the sand.
Five years earlier when Bunche’s grandmother moved him and his sister Grace to Los Ángeles, they were allowed to live in a bungalow in a mostly white South Los Ángeles neighborhood. Restrictions not as fierce as on the coast.
This day, the future Nobel Peace Prize winner likely listened to the seagulls squawk as they made footprints in the sand and flew through the near smog-free air of the coast. Several times the friends paused for pictures. Once, Bunche rested his arms around the shoulders of Helen and Margaret, the young women leaning slightly towards his chest. Their wool bathing suits hugged their bodies more like dresses than swim suits. Behind them, groups of friends laughed and gossiped. In the far distance, on the rise, a couple left the beach, holding hands.
Beachgoers would often take the bus or ride the Red Car trolley to reach the Ocean Park coast, rolling across tracks that branched west. They’d sit in brick-red cars, the curved glass windows raised up, a breeze trickling in, before it made the boxy turn from Venice Boulevard to Pacific Avenue. Surely smiles enlivened countless faces, quiet contemplation on others. Passengers
stared out windows, possibly caught glimpses of the canals and lagoon between the low-slung buildings.
Whenever Bunche made it to the coast, certainly between shifts as a janitor—scrubbing floors and cleaning scum from toilets, at the women’s gym on campus—he’d make sure to stop at the CME Church. There, he’d visit with his friend Reverend James A. Stout and his family, the church’s first minster.
Yet, young female visitors to the Inkwell often found it a place where they could meet the “L.A. Boys.” Their crushes looking good even in wool bathing suits. It was an opportunity for these teens to blush, stammer over words, force confidence into their conversations and movements. Possibly that day, this was the reason the four women hung out with Ralph Bunche and his friends, looking dapper in collared shirts and ties.
In these ways, Blacks in Los Ángeles County made the Inkwell their own.
What is left of Santa Monica’s Black community?
What is left of an African American or any community of color in desirable locations?
What is left of the craftsman bungalows deemed unsanitary, condemned and destroyed by the city—wood splintered into sharp fragments and windows shattered, glass sprinkled across the soil in jagged pieces—shifting the demand of the working class infrastructure to other surrounding cities?
I can’t help but think about these questions now, whenever I’m in Santa Monica. I can’t help but think of all the good aspects of the Ocean Park/Pico community—its character—the deep-rooted residents have created, that are lost or fading. What this tells us about Santa Monica. What incidents like this tell us about the country. Our relationship with our national history. Tells us about our ability to understand one another. About the social and historical claims a community’s deeply-rooted residents have.
Blue-collar, middle-class African Americans found these bungalows—where they retired to after-hours scrubbing floors, their knees pressing into linoleum; where they stood for hours on end as elevator doors closed asking, “what floor?”; after rivets were screwed into sheet metal constructing C-47s at Douglas Aircraft—a place to rest their feet, toss their shoes aside, toes free from the warm confinment of leather. Exhaustion would lift from their shoulders inside the safe, familiar walls. A home with character they knew well.
As mid-century neared, these homes in the Belmont Triangle were considered on the “other side of the tracks.”35 This tight-knit section was in the way of progress, the city’s improvements for tourist dollars. In the way of creating more “culture.” Eventually, portly men in white suits, wearing white fedoras stood with an air of authority, watched as smoke rose from these front porches and roofs caved in. A cop would accompany to officiate.
In 1958, a completed Santa Monica Civic Auditorium stood in place of the Black-owned properties.
It was four blocks from the Inkwell. The most iconic stretch of California coast.
The United States has not yet become a post-racial society.
And when talking about Los Ángeles history with my dad, he thinks he knows it well.
“Most places have a history, and once you know that history, that affects the way you look at the present,” former Santa Monica Planning Commission member Frank Gruber has said.
Yet, “[the] thought that I had surfed, played and worked along the Santa Monica beaches,” my dad said, “for decades without consciously realizing that for many years until the mid-20th century Blacks had been restricted to this small patch of sand and sea on the Southern side of Santa Monica beach front,” was important local history about people of color my dad’s surprised he didn’t know. It’s five miles from where he’s lived since he attended UCLA.
The Inkwell was along the same two-mile stretch of beachfront where my dad eventually served drinks at a long-gone surf shack after he turned 21, and in the early 1970s, when it was still legal, from which he watched fireworks in the sand with my mother, on the 4th of July.
The Inkwell was left out of the narrative he learned.
In Santa Monica, it’s now all about the coast. Condos and hotels crowd and tower before the Pacific in the area between the Civic Auditorium and the pier. Street signs in residential neighborhoods inform visitors, even people from nearby neighborhoods, that they can’t park there without a specific parking permit. And in the summer, tourists flood the crosswalks surrounding the pier and the 3rd Street Promenade Mall, making it look and feel like busy New York intersections.
Across from City Hall however, is Tongva Park. It opened in the Fall of 2013 to remember the native people who lived there for thousands of years—who still live in Southern California—and to bring back a part of the native open space they inhabited. Just as the Tongva’s use of the Crescent Bay is remembered on two plaques at Ocean Park Beach, part of the city’s public arts “Beach Stories” project, with the words: “The Tongva have a special relationship with the sea…recounted in the legend of Torovim… [Torovim]…swims around the world staying ever vigilant and alert to ensure the safety of our people. It is his duty as caretaker of the ocean, and when Torovim is no more, our people will also cease to be.”
I finally reach the CME Church, where Santa Monica’s Black community began. This mid-November Sunday is the first time I see the colonial revival. Fixed to each side of the front entrance is a slender stained-glass window. Its beige walls help it blend in from the street.
In the CME’s parking lot, laughter spreads between African American and white men. Men with rough leathery skin, white faces hidden behind gray grungy beards and dirt smattered across their skin. When I overhear one of the men mention having lived in nearby Venice several decades before, hints of drug and relationship problems appear to be the reasons why he left. More laughter passes between them from new words I miss, laughter from a life of rough experience.
It’s the church’s history and cultural significance—the comfort and motivation to live a respected life stemming from the connected bonds of community—that touches me deep inside, wrapped in its tension-filled context. The plaque remembering the Inkwell. The Santa Monica Freeway. The Crescent Bay Masonic Lodge. It all creates a quiet contemplation within me.
Coming from inside the church I hear the scrape and squeak of metal folding chairs being set out, music floating through the open side door. The reverend, I assume, is preparing for more culture and community to be cultivated here.
Brian Dunlap is a native Angeleño who still lives in Los Ángeles. He explores and captures the city’s stories that are hidden in plain sight. He is the author of the chapbook Concrete Paradise (Finishing Line Press, 2018). Dunlap is the winner of a Jeff Marks Memorial Poetry Prize from december magazine judged by former Los Ángeles Poet Laureate Luis J. Rodriguez. His poems, book reviews and nonfiction have been published in PacificREVIEW, CCM-Entropy, California Quarterly, Lit Pub, and L.A. Parent, among others. He runs the blog site http://www.losangelesliterature.wordpress.com, a resource to explore L.A.’s vast literary culture.
- Alison Rose Jefferson, “‘The Ink Well’: A Place of Celebration and Pain,” Plaque, Ocean Front Walk, (2007).
- Wendy Cheng et al., A People’s Guide to Los Angeles (University of California Press, 2012), 205; Alison Rose Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space in Santa Monica: The Beach Know As the ‘Inkwell,’” Southern California Quarterly, vol. 91, no. 2, (Summer 2009): 159, 161-162.
- “The Valentine Case On Trial,” California Eagle (11 March 1922), 1; Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space,” 171.
- H.F. Rile (1916), Beach Near Topanga Canyon, Calif., [Online image], Image Santa Monica. http://digital.smpl.org/digital/collection/smarchive/id/5075/rec/50.
- Douglas Flamming, Bound for Freedom: Black Los Angeles in Jim Crow America (University of California Press, 2005), 183.
- Lawrence B. De Graff et al., Seeking El Dorado: African Americans in California (University of California Press, 2001), 144.
- Fred E. Basten, Santa Monica Bay: The First 100 Years (Douglas-West Publishers, 1974), 154.
- “Valentine Case On Trial,” California Eagle (11 March 1922), 1.
- Douglas Flamming, Bound for Freedom, 183-184.
- Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space,” 162.
- David Gebgard and Robert Winter, An Architectural Guidebook To Los Angeles, Revised Edition (Gibbs Smith, 2003), 65.
- Paula A. Scott, Santa Monica: A History on the Edge (Arcadia Publishing, 2004), 55; Nancy Smith, Santa Monica Evening Outlook, (17 May 1975), 3B.
- Scott. Santa Monica, 55.
- Scott, Santa Monica, 106; Smith, Santa Monica Evening Outlook, 3B.
- Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space,” 173.
- Smith, Santa Monica Evening Outlook, 3B.
- “History of Mar Vista: Lima Beans Along the California Coast,” Mar Vista Historical Society, http://www.marvistahistoricalsociety.net/history/florafauna/limabeans.htm; Edwin J Vawter (c. 1900), Vawter carnation fields, [online image], Santa Monica History Museum, https://santamonica.pastperfectonline.com/photo/933A14D0-24A9-48A6-B712-413434121860
- Smith, Santa Monica Evening Outlook, 3B.
- Susan Moffat, “Column One: A Paradise Lost, Never Forgotten,” Los Angeles Times (5 January 1994), https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1994-01-05-mn-8622-story.html
- “Happiness Happens,” San Diego Tourism Authority.
- Quoted in Robert M. Adelman and Lesley Williams Reid, “The Double-edged Sword of Gentrification in Atlanta,” Footnotes: Newsletter of The American Sociological Association, (April 2003), https://www.asamet.org/sites/default/files/savy/footnotes/apr03/indexthree.html
- Robert M.Adelman and Lesley Williams Reid, “Gentrification in Atlanta”; Andrew Deener, Venice: A Contested Bohemia in Los Angeles (University of Chicago Press, 2012), 81.
- Scott, Santa Monica, 56.
- Scott, Santa Monica, 120, 127-128.
- Scott, Santa Monica, 128.
- Smith, Santa Monica Evening Outlook, 10B.
- Photo in Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space,” 183.
- Robert D. McFadden, “Dr. Bunche of U.N., Nobel Winner, Dies,” New York Times, 10 December 1971.
- Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space,” 155.
- Photo in Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space,” 183.
- McFadden, “Dr. Bunche Dies.”
- Photo in Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space,” 183.
- Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space,” 182-183; McFadden, “Dr. Bunche Dies.”
- Jefferson, “African American Leisure Space,” 182.
- “Frank Gruber to Give Talk,” California Studies Blog, 17 February 2011, California Studies Association, https://californiastudiesblog.wordpress.com/2011/02/17/frank-gruber-to-give-talk-at-santa-monica-history-museum-on-the-history-and-fate-of-the-belmar-triangle-feb-20/; Ana K. Williams, “Frank Gruber to Shine Light on Lost Belmar Triangle,” 29 September 2011, Lookout News, Surf Santa Monica, 29 September 2011, https://surfsantamonica.com/ssm_site/the_lookout/news/News-2011/September-2011/09_29_2011_Frank_Gruber_to_Shine_Light_on_Lost_Belmar_Triangle.html
- Photo in Williams, “Frank Gruber to Shine Light on Lost Belmar Triangle.”
- Williams, “Frank Gruber to Shine Light.”
- Santa Monica Beach Stories Project, Public Art, Ocean Park Beach (2007).