7/8/17, “The Home Front”
San Francisco, California
I could sit here forever. I have a great view of the San Francisco skyline,
am sitting in a comfortable chair, and am smoking my favorite pipe. When people think of World War II, the Bay
Area is probably the last place that comes to mind, yet it played a key role in
the war efforts on the home front. That
is what today was about, visiting the sites that memorialized the home
front. As I learned today, this was an
effort predominantly carried by blacks and women.
While white men
were fighting the enemy over there, the home front was how blacks and women
were allowed to contribute to the war effort, in contrast to the integration we have now. Whether it was black men loading munitions at Port Chicago or women
working at factories and shipyards in Richmond, the effort they put in on the
home front was no less noble, nor any less dangerous, than the work that white
men were allowed to do in Europe and the Pacific.
There were many fronts in World War II, and
my time in American Oceania later this summer will visit many such sites, from
Pearl Harbor to Guam to Saipan, but we cannot forget the war that was fought on
the home front.
After I closed last
night, I fell asleep almost as soon as I got back to my room, and I managed to
get two full REM cycles before I headed down for breakfast. I then experienced something that I may have
never experienced at a hotel before: a wait for a breakfast table. I was starving, so this annoyed me. The hotel was at capacity, and it was not
equipped to handle its full capacity.
Soon enough, I was seated, and it was more of a wait to get coffee,
which I knew I would need before I would get my first plate, as the last thing
I wanted was to have a plate of food with no coffee. When the coffee came, I headed to the buffet
to get my cold plate. The highlight was
a mini bagel with cream cheese and lox.
I also got a slice of bread with various meats and cheeses. I felt like I was back in Scandinavia.
I then went back for my hot food. I got two mini waffles, two fried eggs,
potatoes, and sausage, but, they were out of bacon. How?
HOWHOWHOWHOWHOW?!? How could a
buffet be out of bacon? They weren’t
even on top of it. The next batch was
still cooking, when they should have had the batch ready before the current
batch ran out. The quality of the food
earned the buffet a B+, but the service brought it down to a B-. My hot food was getting cold while I waited
for the bacon. On the plus side, though,
they had small jars of real maple syrup, and I got one jar for my plate of food
and two more to take with me. Finally,
the bacon came out, and I filled the rest of my plate with bacon. The plate was delicious, and I was outraged
that a 15% service charge (on top of the expensive charge for the meal). “For what?” I asked myself.
I then headed up to my room to resituate
myself and head out. The main event for
the day was to go to Port Chicago Naval Magazine National Memorial, which was
actually the whole reason for the trip.
I had to be at John Muir National Historic Site (not Muir Woods National
Monument, which I had previously visited) at 12:45 PM for the shuttle to the
memorial, so I would actually be getting two sites in one. I had hoped to stop at Eugene O’Neil National
Historic Site on the way in and Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National
Historical Park on the way back.
I
calculated I would need to leave my hotel at 10:15 AM, a hard 10:30 AM
departure, if I wanted to stop at Eugene O’Neil NHS on the way. It was 10:30 AM by the time I got to the
valet station, and it was another fifteen minutes before I had my car. I was now very annoyed that I would not be
able to stop at Eugene O’Neil NHS. I was
about twenty minutes short, and I knew that the delays in being seated, the
coffee, the bacon, and the time spent waiting for the car were the difference
between making it and missing it. I
would have to go straight to John Muir NHS.
I lit up a Fuente and drove to the NHS.
It was in the 60s when I left SF, and the drive was less than an hour. Before long, I noticed that the air coming
into the car was oddly warm. I then
looked at the dashboard and saw that the outdoor temperature was 95
degrees. My phone confirmed that these
temperatures were, in fact, that disparate.
Separated by less than 30 miles, the temperatures were 30 degrees
apart. Soon enough, I was at the VC for
John Muir NHS, and it was scorching out.
The time was now 11:45 AM. It was
a dry heat, but, still, it was in the high 90s.
I went inside to the VC, got my brochure and stamps, for both this site
and Port Chicago Naval Magazine NMem, and got two pins (both for John Muir
NHS). I then retrieved my cigar and
walked around the homestead. I do not
need to tell my reader who John Muir was, but, unbeknownst to me, he took up a
life as a fruit rancher, and this was his home.
There were plenty of fruit trees on the grounds, along with his
house. I finished my Fuente as I walked
around and then took a look inside the house before returning to the VC.
I then saw that they had a third pin and that
one of the pins was also made the same design in a keychain. I knew that I would have buyer’s remorse if I
didn’t get those, so I asked if I could swap the pins and also buy the
keychain. The ranger said I could, and
we worked it out. At 12:45 PM, we began
the program for the NMem. It started
with a lecture on the accident, the deadliest accident on the home front. 320 deaths as a result of a munitions
explosion, due in no small part to not following proper safety procedures. The workers were all black, and the officers
were all white. The blacks were
undertrained, a point that they constantly made, even asking for a training
manual. They were not given a training
manual because, in the infinite wisdom of their white superiors, the black
workers were too stupid to know how to read a training manual.
The ranger talked about how the survivors
were traumatized and refused to return to work after the accident, many of them
court martialed and jailed for continuing to refuse, while others did wind up
going back to work. He talked about how
we fortunately now have better ways to deal with PTSD. A member of the group asked about the
difference between “shell shock” and PTSD, wondering if his understanding was
correct that shell shock refers more to a flaw in the person, while PTSD is
more environmental factors. The ranger
asked if anyone could answer the question, as he could not. This was my chance.
Using what I learned in Intro to Psych last
semester and improvising a little, I raised my hand. I explained that PTSD is a broader term and a
more clinical one, that PTSD could refer to many things beyond loud noises,
such as a dog bite or the death of someone close. I explained that there were many ways to get
PTSD in the context of a war beyond just gun fire and artillery
explosions. I also explained that PTSD
was a term that was more clinically defined, so that it is just a better term
to use in a modern context, while “shell shock” is outdated. The ranger (and tour group) was clearly impressed
with my answer, and he thanked me, saying that he does not like to “guess out
loud.” I have no such qualms.
We soon left for the memorial, which is on
active base. It was actually the second
least-visited unit of the NPS second only to a site in the Aleutian Islands,
due to the onerous access restrictions.
You have to register in advance and pass a background check to be
allowed on-base. It was a bit of process
to get to the memorial, passing through an PASS and ID office, but we were soon
there. We were allowed to wonder on our
own, up and down an area much smaller than a football field, maybe more like
the size of an Olympic swimming pool. I
separated from the group so that I could light up my Romeo y Julieta. It was over 100 degrees now. I took my ceremonial picture and maintained
my distance from the group, close enough to hear the ranger, far enough that no
one complained about my cigar.
There was
an older couple that was doing their own thing, and the man had a Labrador
shirt. The area in Canada, not the
dog. We talked about our trips there,
and, soon enough, it was time to go back.
I was in my car at 3:15 PM. My
reader will note that that was three-and-a-half hours after I parked my
car. I knew that I would not have enough
time for both Eugene O’Neil NHS and Rosie the Riveter NHP. While I was on the bus back, I checked the
times for Eugene O’Neil NHS, and I learned that it was only available by timed
tours, and I realized that it would have been impossible to visit this
morning. In fact, if I had been on
schedule this morning, I wouldn’t have even checked, and I would have learned,
with great disappointment, that I had gone there for nought.
I would get a late lunch at In-N-Out Burger,
the state’s most iconic fast food restaurant, and then continue to Rosie the
Riveter NHP. I made a reservation to do
a tour at Eugene O’Neil NHS tomorrow. I
got the In-N-Out and order a simple meal from their simple menu: a double
cheeseburger, animal fries, and a chocolate shake. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The food was cheaper than McDonald’s and much
better. It took time, since they cook it
fresh, but it was good, so good.
I was
done a little after 4 PM, and, as I was about to leave the parking lot, I got a
call from Eugene O’Neil NHS. When I
picked up the phone, I asked, “Is this Eugene O’Neil?” I half expected him to say either, “No, this
is [Joe Schmoe],” or, “Eugene O’Neil is long dead, but this is the National
Historic Site.” He merely said that it
was. He confirmed my reservation for 2
PM, which was perfect timing and would allow me to visit San Francisco Maritime
National Historical Park and Point Reyes National Seashore before the
tour. Then, after the tour, I could go
straight to the Old Clam House for dinner before my flight back home. If it goes well, I will, at last, be able to
say, “Bay Area Complete,” tomorrow.
I
headed to Rosie the Riveter NHP, and there was a bit of a confusion with the
GPS. I wound up stopping at a turn,
putting on my flashers, and confirming the directions on my phone. As I was doing this, a cop car pulled up and
slowed down. I thought for sure he would
pull me over. He did not. Remembering everything I learned today, I
wondered if my skin color saved me a ticket.
Sandra Bland was pulled over for much less. I concluded in the affirmative that it very
well may have.
I cleared up the
confusion and continued to the NHP. It
was a bit of more confusion to find the VC, and I got there fifteen minutes before
it closed. It was at a repurposed Ford
Assembly plant, next some shipyards.
This was great place to memorialize the contribution women made on the
home front. The temperature was now in the
60s with a brisk wind. I was actually
cold. I had lit up an Aroma de Cuba
after lunch, but the wind put it out as I walking to the VC, so I was able to
bring it inside with me. After doing my
business at the VC and walking around the museum, I went back outside, relit my
cigar, and took my ceremonial picture.
I
then headed back to the car and drove back to my hotel, hitting some brutal
traffic before I went over the Bay Bridge.
It was almost 6:30 PM, which put me way behind schedule for the
evening. Further, I was not hungry,
having had such a large and late lunch.
I went to my room, resituated myself, and headed up to the roof, where I
sat down in view of the SF skyline, sat down, lit up my trusty Ardor and
proceeded to write this entry, which I will now close so that I can
publish. I was supposed to go to
Chinatown for dinner, but now I’m not sure.
I have no appetite. I might just
crash when I get back to my room.
Oh,
one more fun thing. There is a cigar
shop in the hotel, and I stopped there on the way to the roof. They had ridiculously expensive pre-embargo
Cubans, which were the same price for one stick as I would pay for a box at
duty-free. He tried to sell me those,
pretty aggressively. He then showed me
the Dominican and Nicaraguan cigars, which were also drastically overpriced,
just like the rest of the city. He
sneered at me, dressed in my cargo shorts, sandals, and t-shirts, as if I
couldn’t afford them. That was not the
issue. I just know how much cigars
should cost, and they should not cost that much. It was not worth the premium to sit in his
cramped lounge, which was due to close in less than thirty minutes,
anyway. I just said that it was more
than I wanted to spend and walked out to the roof.
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