Where am I from?
Montclair Village, Oakland, California, circa 1960
My haven, my home – A memoir of my growing up years
By Cheryl E. Harrison
I could be traveling somewhere in Europe, Scandinavia, Japan, India, Northern California, or visiting a major city east of the Mississippi...
The conversation opens, "So, where are you from?"
For me, it's never a short response.
"Well, I'm from San Francisco. I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. Family on my mother's side is Dutch, from Amsterdam. Family on my father's side is from Atlanta Georgia, the deep South."
Then, I pause for a reaction or expression. If there's further interest, I continue.
"As a child, I lived in Montclair. It’s near San Francisco, about a 30 minutes drive across the San Francisco Bay Bridge, not far from the Golden Gate Bridge. Montclair is a tiny, unknown village in the East Bay hills, just south of UC Berkeley."
I describe Montclair with fond memories of the “good ol’ days”. A positive, safe, friendly, and picturesque place where my childhood was created. “I am proud and grateful to have grown up inside of Montclair Village, a charming enclave within the hillsides of the greater San Francisco Bay Area.”
But, there's one detail I don’t mention. I fear my conversation will have a negative, complicated misinterpretation of the roots defining my childhood identity.
I don’t mention that Montclair is located inside of - - and is, therefore, a part of - - the City of Oakland.
In my conversation, I don’t mention “Oakland”. I don’t want to try to explain its reputation of escalating crime, its harbored history of racial divides, and galvanized flatland neighborhoods, nor its tense fights among neighborhood gangs. I don’t choose to mention Oakland’s surrounding urban and industrial ghettos, its tent cities or its destitute inner core that encroach upon the boundaries of serene village enclaves such as Montclair – causing threats to fragile white-zoned district edges.
Oakland exudes stark, divided contrasts.
How can I explain Oakland’s complex irony? A city too raw and uncomfortable for me to fathom its dark side and ugly grit. Yet, it’s a city blessed by expansive hillside forests, scenic views, deep canyons, public lakes, and spacious parklands, that surround the charming, quiet residential neighborhood of Montclair.
Montclair is the place where I grew up. It’s where I came home to our family house in the hills. As for Oakland. I don’t relate to it. I learned to avoid its dark side and to skirt its dangers.
For those familiar with Oakland’s dire crime and poverty, they know that its image is not a positive one. Certain districts of Oakland have violent crime rates that are 690% over the national average.
Districts on the borders set apart
Oakland's reputation emerged before I was born. Since the post-war years of the mid-'40s red-lining policies and strict zoning kept black ship workers, and food canning factory immigrants far apart from districts destined to be white-only neighborhoods. Oakland's black ghettos, its colorful eclectic downtown Chinatown with busy produce sheds in Old Oakland, have remained distinct. Smaller communities of Hispanics, Filipinos, and Italians maintain their heritage with regional street slang, blasting rap music, and urban graffiti that bleed out the raw cultural histories and street attitudes spilling into the sidewalks and alleys at all hours.
But, the overlapping cultures in these parts still do not mix.
Black communities and immigrant neighborhoods, struggle to improve, and also continuously suffer from ever-rising crime. Transitionary residential and industrial neighborhoods surrounding “Old Oakland’s” historical downtown regions, extend widely into the city’s southern lowlands north of San Leandro and west to the Port of Oakland. Deep in the flat areas, near the industrial yards, Oakland is known for its low-income areas, with crack houses, crime-laden streets, dank and dirty tent communities, peppered with dilapidated wood homes, destitute citizens, and decrepit shanties. Shattered glass and abandoned automobiles punctuate the filth, piles of industrial waste, and rusted-out railroad container cars.
Due to massive freeway construction, these neighborhoods still show neglect and isolation. Elevated freeway overpasses constructed since the 60’s era of racial zoning, include major highways 580, 880, and highway 13 that slice, pierce, and harshly divide Oakland's diverse and contrasting neighborhoods. These towering concrete pillars, support wide highways with offramps, noise walls, and congested traffic along miles of elevated snaking roadways. These are the hard-line structures running north and south, splitting Oakland apart between the hills and the flatlands.
In the hills and highlands, Oakland boasts curving tree-lined roads with residential mansions, craftsman-style bungalow residences with surrounding gardens, and stunning panoramic views among oak groves, old-growth redwoods, and pines, sprinkled with eucalyptus. Shaded community developments are flanked by classical entry gateposts. The greens of Broadway Terrace Golf Course, “The Hills” Country Club, luxury apartments at Lake Merritt, the hidden and gated campus enclaves of Mills College, and the grand 1915 Claremont Hotel & Spa, renowned California College of the Arts, and Mountain View Cemetary are nestled nearby. The trendy Piedmont Avenue Grocery Store and traditional Fenton’s Creamery (the authentic originators of Rocky Road) are local favorites ever since the 1890s. Artisanal bakeries, beauty salons, and national banks skirt the Lakeshore and Rockridge districts with local shops and local cuisine-savvy restaurants inspired by Alice Waters.
Since my birth, Montclair Village has been the place that built my fondest childhood memories. Sheltered between the rolling hills and Piedmont’s mansion-lined roads, estates, and lakeside homes, Montclair is sandwiched between the highway on one side, and the steeper, winding hills up to the Skyline and Tilden Ridge on the other side. Montclair is known to be a quiet, intergenerational community. Montclair Village is still walkable, accessible, convenient, and friendly. Five blocks long and two blocks wide.
Village memories
On our way home from junior high school, my older sister and I would stroll our bicycles along the Montclair sidewalks from Moraga Boulevard into the village center, just past the swanky Cy’s Fish Restaurant. We’d pass under the wide awnings of the familiar merchant shops to enjoy a warm western glow on the sunny side of the Mountain Boulevard sidewalks.
Sometimes we’d splurge for an 18-cent single-scoop ice cream cone at Baskin Robbins to check out all their 31 flavors. Behind the glass freezer counter was the Skyline high school teenager from the public school who typically worked the afternoon shifts. He’d generously give us tasting spoons full of exotic ice cream and sherbet combinations before we made our favorite flavor picks.
On the next block, we’d wave to Mr. Ramandi, the owner of Morewear Paints through the shelves of stacked paint cans behind the front entry glass window. Mid-block, we could not resist running our hands through the sidewalk hang rack at the entry of “The Little Daisy” which displayed a selection of colorful women’s fashion skirts and dresses. All garments were way too big for us, but it was fun to imagine wearing the most elegant of them, as we held up the flowing fabric dresses which cascaded from our chins straight down to our ankles, concealing for just a few moments our pleated green and blue plaid school uniform skirt, with its matching green cardigan sweater, white collared shirt, bobby socks and white laced saddle shoes. Occasionally, Lois, the saleswoman, would come out and offer to put aside our pick of favorite dresses aside for Mom, since Lois seemed always to remember Mom’s preferences, the shape of her figure, size, and fit.
On the corner at Medau Place, Mr. Stevens, the bald-headed pharmacist, was running out wearing his unbuttoned white lab coat. He dashed out to catch us from behind his corner cashier counter inside Guys Drug store, the moment he spied us passing by. Apparently, Mom had phoned ahead that she needed a small pack of bandages and a bottle of fresh buttermilk. Mr. Stevens already had these ready in a white paper carry bag. Having no cash in my backpack to pay for these items, Mr. Stevens insisted that I take whatever items my mother needed. He knew that Mom would pay for the goods at some point when she stopped by Guys Drug later in the week or next week.
I reached for the hidden silver dime taped underneath my front bike frame – an emergency coin ready for making a local pay phone call. We were running late getting back home and still wanted to stop by Freeway Variety and swing into the Sporting Goods Shop, before heading home. The Lucky’s Market had a phone booth out in front. We could call home that we’d be a little late cycling up the hill. Not to worry. Still enough time for practicing our classical duet for our piano recital, and for making time for the ten-minute walk to our weekly piano lesson with Mrs. Collins up on Colton Street. If we hurried, we’d also get a head start on homework before dinner.
We still had to check out the colored pencil set and sketch pads at the Freeway Variety on Moraga alongside Highway 13. After all, it was a good excuse to meet up with friends from the public junior high school who were addicted candy consumers. Regularly after school, all the school kids flocked around the tiered counter display rack, chock full of colorful packets of gummy bears, lollipops, plastic Pez figures, and bubble gum sticks. It was the time for us to listen to the latest social gossip. Unlike the other public school kids, my sister and I were obedient to our mother’s wishes and seldom bought candy.
Across the street, Tom, at Montclair Sporting Goods, proudly showed us his brand new, winter season inventories including gorgeous shiny plastic-molded buckle ski boots and light-weight smooth fiberglass Rossignol skis with fast clip-step in bindings offering supple slalom performance. We could try the new equipment out for a small cost, applied toward the final sale. Finally, no need this ski season to lace up hand-me-down double-lace leather ski boots or use those stiff, scratched, scarred, and chipped wooden skis with cable bindings.
Cycling the hills home
The backway home was passing through a large grey corrugated metal tube called the Corte Real Tunnel, beneath the old Montclair railroad track bed. Since it offered the best cool breeze and shade on a hot day, walking through the tunnel for even one short minute, gave us the needed break so we could push hard and straight up the steep most treacherous hill of our ride.
Additional pounds of stacked textbooks, binders, and notebooks were strapped over our rear fenders. Even our ten-speed bikes crunched forward from the immense strain on the bike chain, gears, and pedals. We made serpentines back and forth across the hot black asphalt of the narrow cul de sac, holding tight to the handlebars as we climbed slightly higher with each upward turn. It was a competition to see if we could make it to the top of the hill, without popping off the bike seat to rest. Our minds were preoccupied wondering if one of the friendly neighbors in the blue and white house on the right, or the grey house with the rock garden on the left would come out to offer us cool lemonade or a chocolate chip cookie. We toiled and snaked up the steep incline to the messy house at the corner. Each time, we asked ourselves, why the family didn’t pick up their toys in the overgrown bushes or clean up the faces, hair, and clothes of their three scruffy preschool children. Approaching Snake Road, we reached the gentle slope towards a busy cross street. This was a curving one-lane paved road without sidewalks.
Homes on the uphill side included a quaint, charming Tudor-style Hansel and Grettel house, a few white Colonial-style bungalows with green painted window shutters, and some non-descript modest 50’s style modern houses made of redwood construction, with vista decks precariously secured on high pillar foundations.
On the downhill side lots, we could look over the low-pitched roofs and garages facing the street to peer through the trees to spy the fog gently rolling over San Francisco’s buildings and pouring through from the Pacific Ocean in the very far hazy distance. The tall pine trees and oaks overhung both sides, shading the last half mile of our uphill cycling journey home.
Mr. and Mrs. Skinner and their twin daughters, Pam and Valerie, (our former babysitters), lived in the freshly painted corner house with manicured hedges. It was there that we made the left turn onto Snake Road to cross the road along the bumpy black-grey asphalt shoulder and narrow dirt pathway covered with brown pine needles.. Continuing uphill, we faced the passing cars, standing up on our bike pedals, pumping hard.
Our pleated wool uniform skirts were getting hot, but if we kept going strong, we’d make it most of the way with the little momentum and energy we had left. These same winding roads in Montclair paved over original dirt logging paths, carved into the hillsides of the former Peralta Ranch redwood forests. A few decades before the Gold Rush days, these dusty paths transported the horse-drawn logging carts carrying stacks of felled old-growth logs from a steam-powered sawmill used to develop San Francisco’s housing boom through the turn of the century. Fortunately, large redwood groves further up on Skyline ridge remained as protected forests and wilderness areas for the Bay Areas’ largest State Parks.
These were the forest groves in my extended backyard where I enjoyed my summer camps, wilderness hiking, swimming, and my favorite times looking up around me within a cathedral of some of the world’s tallest redwoods and sequoia trees.
Our final right turn was where our Corvair sports car had to shift way down into first gear to climb the steeply curved turn onto Zinn Drive, which was “our street”. We knew where to cross the road at each blind curve since there were no sidewalks and only driveways to duck into to avoid the occasional passing car. We knew every neighbor and all the household members by their first name as we passed their homes and the shiny brass numbers on their mailboxes - - some were our best friends. At the base of our driveway, we jumped off our bikes, jogging straight up the steep driveway toward our single-story ranch-style redwood-painted yellow house with our lot that spanned the hillside. At the top, large picture windows and a suspended deck provided us with panoramic views all the way to the Oakland estuary, Lake Merritt where I learned to sail, and beyond to downtown San Francisco to view the stunning warm fire glow of the Golden Gate Bridge just before sunset.
The place I call home
My vista of Oakland from the hills was beautiful, peaceful, quiet, and stunning. But, the reality was that I lived in Montclair - - a place that seemed far away from the bowels of Oakland’s poverty, crisis, polluted water, and unrelenting crime. Montclair was my vantage point and my home for 20 years, where I lived and thrived for all my youth.
It was the place where my next-door neighbors became my adopted grandfather and grandmother. It’s where I gathered blackberries, picked fresh apples harvested cabbage, and chard. It’s where I dodged swarms of honeybees from beehives next door. It was within the neighboring gardens surrounding my home where I climbed old Mr. Darling’s tree to pick his ripest summer plums. It’s where I had water balloon fights with the boys next door and played capture the flag with all the neighborhood kids well into the long summer nights. In my own backyard, I cared for frogs and salamanders, caught butterflies, played with my rabbit and dog, chased hummingbirds, and captured horse flies for my pet praying mantis to catch and eat. I sketched the wildflowers and the fall leaves. I learned how to make wooden bird feeders, how to walk on stilts, roller skate, jump on pogo sticks, tumble, and do cartwheels. I played hide and seek inside Montclair’s Stage Coach park and fed dry bread crumbs to the quacking ducks paddling the adjacent pond. There, I learned how to tie-dye t-shirts and still remember the words to summer camp songs from Indian Feather Camp.
Montclair was the village and place of my home where my parents lived together until they died. It’s where my sister lives now, in our same family home on Zinn Drive.
Living in Montclair Village at Oakland’s razor’s edge
Inside Oakland’s diverse flatland districts, there were many times that I was scared.
Some theft was expected. Only twice was our house robbed and my 1888 silver dollar and entire coin collection and jewelry box were stolen. Once my mother was held up at gunpoint in an open parking lot down on Fruitvale Avenue. Then, years later, her wallet was stolen at the cheese counter from her purse from inside her grocery cart. Once I was pumping gas late at night and had to drive away very fast to safety. The Oakland Hills suffered the 1992 fire that destroyed the wooded neighborhoods, east bay homes, and large estates where fires from drought conditions are still imminent.
From first grade to high school, my parents allowed me the freedom to interact at the fringes of Oakland’s lowlands. I learned my hard lessons from Oakland. Sure, there were close calls where I ran to safety.
There were strange incidents on public bus rides and seeing drive-by Oakland shootings. I was accosted on the sidewalk, walking up to my Catholic high school’s morning assembly mass. There were three youths murdered at the Coliseum BART station, just moments after I left the station. I was an eyewitness to a few of Oakland’s many ugly circumstances.
I learned within it. I survived despite its divide. Over the years, I grew up to understand it. But somehow, I could never explain it.
The place I call “home”
My haven and my origin, and where my fond memories are kept lie within the coveted village enclave and hills where my childhood place is rich with time.
So, to answer the question, “Where are you from?”, it’s the unknown, protected Village of Montclair. It’s the place in my growing up life where I’m proud to be “from”.
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Special thanks to Neilda Pacquing Gagne, Chao Lam for your initial review of my descriptive story. Wes Melville and Sabrina Ruth generously provided valuable comments, questions, and insights which brought further clarity to my final historical memoir.