The Clark Kerr era in the history of the University of California (1952–1967) was marked by momentous social and cultural upheaval, much of which was fought out across the UC system's then eight campuses, particularly Berkeley and UCLA. No issue sparked greater student action than civil rights, which was a challenge that Kerr confronted first as Berkeley chancellor and then as president of the entire UC system. This challenge was met in every area of the university's affairs, including its athletics programs. Kerr demanded that the university's teams schedule games with the nation's most prestigious colleges and universities, whose academic profiles matched its own. These included segregated southern institutions, whose varsity teams were still composed entirely of white athletes and, in some cases, demanded the segregation of competitors by race. These games presented unique challenges for a university that Kerr considered “a portal open to all able young people,” since such competitive and commercial affiliations with segregated institutions called into question the university's sincerity in committing itself to equal educational opportunity. By digging deeply in the university archives at both Berkeley and UCLA, this article reveals how Kerr and his administration promoted the university's affiliation with these southern institutions without taking the racial politics of these games into serious consideration. In turn, the article reassesses the university's racial record in the Kerr era and its commitment to protecting the civil rights of the black student athletes who competed on its varsity teams.

In late 1945, a group of outraged citizens in the small city of El Cerrito formed a “Good Government League” to challenge the gambling and liquor interests who controlled City Hall. In the next few years the League achieved all of its agenda: a city manager plan, civil service reform, and the end of wide-open gambling. A movement like this was fairly typical of the Progressive Era. But the city in question was not a turn-of-the-century metropolis like New York or Chicago. These events happened in the late 1940s in a small bedroom community located just to the north of Berkeley. Within a few years, El Cerrito transformed its reputation from “Little Reno” to the squeaky-clean “City of Homes.” As a case study, the El Cerrito story is interesting for a number of reasons. Most importantly, it highlights how development in the San Francisco Bay Area has involved a regional periodization that differs from what we might traditionally associate with suburban growth. The city's Old West heritage was a major source of political conflict, while the activism of the city's new middle class contrasts with what sociologists called the politically quiescent “Organization Men” of the era's “Lonely Crowd.” The El Cerrito experience also lends insight into why the Bay Area has remained politically liberal since 1945. The city's reformers embraced much of the language and platform of the turn-of-the-century progressives. But they also lived through the Great Depression and the Second World War, and desired most of all to make public policy that would ensure economic security and equal opportunity. Their emphasis on an active public sector left a legacy that can still be felt today.

This article argues that cloth items played a crucial role in establishing friendships and creating Catholic converts between the sixteenth century and the end of the eighteenth century. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, cloth products served as touchstones of friendship between California Indians and Spanish mariners. As a result of these early meetings, Indians developed a taste for cloth. This taste for cloth allowed Spanish colonists in 1769 to reconnoiter Alta California without a great deal of violence because Indians saw their initial meetings as a continuation of their previous encounters. During the mission period, Franciscan missionaries could rely on cloth items to attract Indians to mission communities. After living with the Spanish, however, especially after observing the death toll of Spanish-introduced diseases and major changes in the land, California Indian people began to reject Spanish ways, and they communicated their political views by rejecting Spanish-introduced clothing.

In 1959, Arthur Fletcher—a former professional football player and mid-level Kansas politician—moved to California. He was down on his luck, and things soon went from bad to worse. He made few inroads in Sacramento as the conservatives of his Republican party—including racist John Birchers—marginalized liberals and moderates. He suffered personal tragedy: his wife committed suicide, jumping off the Bay Bridge. Fletcher now found himself a single parent in a Berkeley housing project. As far as he had come from childhood poverty in segregated Junction City, Kansas, Fletcher was back to square one. But he had an incredible tenacity and drive—and more than a few political connections. He resolved to use politics to improve the lot of his fellow man, especially the black man. He took a job as a teacher in an inner-city special needs program, funded by the War on Poverty, and ran for state assembly. Fletcher did well in the race—for a Republican—but lost. He moved to Pasco, Washington, founding a black self-help group and winning a city council seat. This brought the attention of Richard Nixon, who in 1968 was looking for a civil rights program that jibed with the Republican Party’s corporatist ethos. President Nixon appointed Fletcher to the Labor Department, where he implemented the Revised Philadelphia Plan, earning himself the title "father of affirmative action." Fletcher’s experience was hardly typical of civil rights leaders. He preferred to work inside the system, with all the acceptance of it that that implied. But he knew what life was like in the ghetto, and resolved to put his insider’s skills to the task of undermining the very system he served. His years in California, which proved the most trying of his life, were formative, and are the subject of this paper.

Now part of a 15,100-acre restoration project, the salt ponds of the southern San Francisco Bay have a long history of industrial use and management. Early developers of these lands in the late 1800s modified the marshy tidal margin of the bay to be productive and profitable; wetlands were not valued for their own sake or for ecological values, but were considered wastelands until they could be “improved” for human utilization. The land barons behind what became the Leslie Salt Company created an elaborate landscape of dikes and ponds, but producing solar salt was considered an interim use, while the owners aimed for further, more lucrative possibilities: first planning a heavily industrialized manufacturing and distribution center, and later considering filling the marshlands to create residential developments. Ironically the vision of a filled-in Bay helped to trigger a wave of environmentalism in the 1960s and ‘70s, resulting first in the creation of a wildlife refuge and later this ambitious restoration project, circling back toward the tidal marshes’ earlier form and function. Examining their history helps us to see not only the potential conservation value of lands previously used for industrial purposes, but also to help us understand that we can live side by side with conservation lands, that their ecological or wildness values are not necessarily diminished by human presence or past.