Uneasily situated between counterculture images projected by James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause (1955) and the dawning of the “Age of Aquarius” a decade later, there emerged a motion picture interlude of innocence on the beaches of Southern California. It was fostered by Gidget (1959) and then thirty “surf and sex” movies that focused on young, attractive bodies and beach escapades rather than serious social causes.The films, argues Kirse May, “created an ideal teenage existence, marked by consumption, leisure, and little else.” Stephen Tropiano explains how their popularity helped shape “the archetypal image of the American teenager” and, reinforced by the surfin' sounds of Jan and Dean, the Beach Boys, and other recording groups, “turned America's attention to the Southern California coastline,” where “those who never set foot on its sandy shores were led to believe that life on the West Coast was a twenty-four-hour beach party.” This study examines a notable film of this genre to determine how musclemen were exploited to exhibit this playful spirit and how their negative reception reinforced an existing disregard toward physical culture. Muscle Beach Party illustrates how physical culture served other agendas, namely the need to address American fears of juvenile delinquency and to revive sagging box-office receipts within the guise of the “good life” of California.

A vibrant American Indian art scene developed in California from the 1960s to the 1980s, with links to a broader indigenous arts movement. Native American artists working in the state produced and exhibited paintings, prints, sculptures, mixed media, and other art forms that validated and documented their cultures, interpreted their history, asserted their survival, and explored their experiences in modern society. Building on recent scholarship that examines American Indian migration, urbanization, and activism in the twentieth century, this article charts these developments and argues that American Indian artists in California challenged and rewrote dominant historical narratives by foregrounding Native American perspectives in their work.

In June 2019, Governor Gavin Newsom apologized to tribal leaders for the genocide his predecessors waged against California's Native peoples, the most comprehensive such admission to date at the state level. The apology broke through widespread public denial of this historical atrocity and prompted extensive media coverage. In California's case, vigilantes, state-sponsored and -funded militias, army campaigns, and abysmal reservation conditions cut an estimated population of 150,000 in 1846 to 15,000 by 1900. Remarkably, California's tribes, augmented by migration of Native Americans from other parts of the United States, have demonstrated great resilience and are now building their cultural presence in state and nation.

In California, the 1972 campaign to ratify the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) to the U.S. Constitution pitted amendment supporters against labor leaders trying to protect women-only protective labor laws. The seven-month struggle in California resulted in a vote for ratification and motivated several years of legislative activity on women's issues. Most scholarship about ERA ratification in the United States in the 1970s has examined the reasons why the amendment failed. This article takes a different tack by investigating a state where the ERA was successful. The ERA campaign was a key element in the embrace of women's issues by the California Democratic Party. The article also provides an in-depth analysis of the relationship between labor feminists and equal rights feminists, two groups that were opposed during the ratification campaign but were frequent allies on women's issues before and after 1972.

Richmond, California, a small industrial center north of Oakland and just east of San Francisco, expanded from a prewar population of 23,000 to more than 100,000 permanent residents in 1942. While Henry J. Kaiser's shipbuilding corporation advertised for—and city leaders sought—white skilled labor, military realities and expanding Allied production needs encouraged the hiring of unskilled African American, indigenous, and Chinese American men and women in unprecedented numbers. While the early struggles of workers to find housing and adequate services in Richmond and the East Bay more broadly have been clearly documented by historians, a legacy of continued substandard housing and services disproportionately affected minority workers and their families. Redlined, or denied rental applications because of race through legal policy and unofficial neighborhood agreements, minority workmen and women disproportionately remained in substandard housing even after the construction of federally funded housing units. Exposed to industrial pollutants, urban waste, and human effluent despite the efforts of both humanitarian-minded industrialists and local, state, and federal government officials, these minority groups faced racial and class-based challenges during World War II home front production, which have been overshadowed by the triumphant image of Rosie the Riveter and the total war victory of that “greatest generation.” Research in the Bancroft Library, the Richmond Museum, and other archival databases demonstrates how public contracts became sources of private money for industrialists, leading to the development of facilities that public funds could not support, and thereby reducing the quality of life for minority residents.

The story of anti-communism in California schools is a tale well and often told. But few scholars have appreciated the important role played by private surveillance networks. This article examines how privately funded and run investigations shaped the state government’s pursuit of leftist educators. The previously-secret papers of Major General Ralph H. Van Deman, which were opened to researchers at the National Archives in Washington, D.C., only a few years ago, show that the general operated a private spy network out of San Diego and fed information to military, federal, and state government agencies. Moreover, he taught the state government’s chief anti-communist bureaucrat, Richard E. Combs, how to recruit informants and monitor and control subversives. The case of the suspicious death of one University of California, Los Angeles student – a student that the anti-communists claimed had been “scared to death” by the Reds – shows the extent of the collaboration between Combs and Van Deman. It further illustrates how they conspired to promote fear of communism, influence hiring and firing of University of California faculty, and punish those educators who did not support their project. Although it was rarely successful, Combs’ and Van Deman’s coordinated campaign reveals a story of public-private anticommunist collaboration in California that has been largely forgotten. Because Van Deman’s files are now finally open to researchers, Californians can gain a much more complete understanding of their state bureaucracy’s role in the Red Scare purges of California educators.

President Ronald Reagan often is remembered for his ability to attract disaffected Democrats—the “Reagan Democrats”—to vote Republican. Yet, long before his first Presidential victory in 1980, Reagan garnered their votes in the 1966 California gubernatorial election. In beating Republican primary opponent, former San Francisco Mayor George Christopher, as well as his general election opponent, incumbent Democrat Governor Pat Brown, he drew heavily from the ranks of disaffected Democrats. Perhaps more surprising, Reagan polled well among Mexican Americans, who were traditionally Democrats. Indeed Reagan would win by almost a million–vote margin, and this was accomplished in no small way by the help of Mexican American voters.

In 1916, Cornelius Birket Johnson, a Los Angeles fruit farmer, killed the last known grizzly bear in Southern California and the second-to last confirmed grizzly bear in the entire state of California. Johnson was neither a sportsman nor a glory hound; he simply hunted down the animal that had been trampling through his orchard for three nights in a row, feasting on his grape harvest and leaving big enough tracks to make him worry for the safety of his wife and two young daughters. That Johnson’s quarry was a grizzly bear made his pastoral life in Big Tujunga Canyon suddenly very complicated. It also precipitated a quagmire involving a violent Scottish taxidermist, a noted California zoologist, Los Angeles museum administrators, and the pioneering mammalogist and Smithsonian curator Clinton Hart Merriam. As Frank S. Daggett, the founding director of the Los Angeles County Museum of History, Science and Art, wrote in the midst of the controversy: “I do not recollect ever meeting a case where scientists, crooks, and laymen were so inextricably mingled.” The extermination of a species, it turned out, could bring out the worst in people.