By Gabriel Duncan, Researcher, Alameda Native History Project
Ozone is increasingly discussed as a way to manage stored acorns intended for food. It is already permitted in the United States as an antimicrobial agent for certain food uses when applied under good manufacturing practice. Because acorns are rich in unsaturated fats, the question is not only whether ozone reduces microbes, but whether it also changes the underlying lipids in ways that matter for quality and compliance.
When ozone reacts with unsaturated fatty acids, it follows a defined chemical pathway. It can form primary oxidation products (lipid hydroperoxides, measured as peroxide value), secondary oxidation products (aldehydes and ketones), and cyclic peroxides called ozonides. Studies on ozonated vegetable oils and high fat foods show that these reactions can be significant and persistent, and that ozonated lipids are chemically modified compared to the original oils.
Food science uses objective indices to evaluate oxidative quality. Peroxide value is a marker of primary oxidation. Aldehyde related tests, such as p-anisidine value, indicate secondary oxidation. Many commercial and compendial standards treat materials with values above defined limits, often around 10 to 20 milliequivalents of active oxygen per kilogram for refined oils, as oxidatively deteriorated and out of specification. These tools can be applied to ozone treated acorns to see whether their lipid quality remains within accepted ranges.
Regulatory principles are also relevant. Ozone is allowed as a processing aid when its use does not result in unsafe residues or unfit food. Food that is decomposed or that contains unsafe added substances can be considered adulterated. Ingredients that do not meet applicable quality criteria are not used as standard raw materials in foods represented as wholesome.
For these reasons, ozone treated acorns proposed for food use should be evaluated through established analytical tests, rather than assumed equivalent to traditionally processed acorns in the absence of data.
This is the kind of careful, evidence based work we do at Alameda Native History Project. We research, we verify, and we translate complex science into clear information our communities can use. This supports the revival of Indigenous foodways and shows a real, measurable contribution to STEM rooted in Native leadership and priorities. If you value this work, please consider supporting it with a donation.
Ohlone people buried their loved ones in mounds long before any of us ever came here.
They’re called shellmounds.
The “Ancient Indian Burial Mounds” of Ohlone people–ancestors of the present-day Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area.
They were built long before any of this was here.
Long before some old dead white dudes squatted on what was then a peninsula. Before it got dredged into an Island and eventually called “Alameda.”
Long before this place was called la Bolsa de Encinal to Mexicans, land grant parcels on the extension of former Mission Lands that stretched north from San Jose de Guadalupe, to the Carquinez Strait.
Long before Ohlone were called Costanoan, when Portola came through in who-cares-when. Before the missions were founded in 1776[–which is the same time a meddlesome group of colonists declared their independence from England on the East Coast of this continent.]
Even longer before: when this area was just a valley with a little river in it…..
THIS PLACE HAS BEEN OHLONE TERRITORY SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL
10,000+ years of habitation meant those shellmounds were real, and big.
There were thousands of shellmounds all over the San Francisco Bay Area. Some of the biggest recorded shellmounds were in Emeryville.
At least 4 shellmounds were right here, in Alameda.
And while many may not exist above ground.
Ohlone Ancestors still lie in wait below.
To be discovered during foundation upgrades, trenching, and in-ground pool installations.
The Shellmounds of Alameda
I grew up in a pre-victorian house on Court Street, about a block away from my grandparent’s house, which was firmly on the edge of the Mound Street Shellmound, around Santa Clara and Mound Street.
Being an Indian kid, adopted out of his tribe from birth, raised on an island that’s just as well known for its racism as it is the former naval air station, things were tough. And, I’ll be honest, I only ever wanted to go home.
So, maybe it was my spirit calling that influenced what I saw as a child. Because my white adopted parents’ money paid for all the psychological and physical testing that proved I wasn’t suffering from some psychosis or more serious condition. [Laying down in a dark room with electrodes attached to my head was an interesting experience.]
I never really got a lot of peace in that house when I was alone. From an early age, I learned not to go too far into the basement by myself. Not necessarily because it was dangerous; but because other things lived there.
The House on Court Street
The Bad Dream Light
Before my sister came to live with us, (she’s adopted, too; and came home in 1989,) I slept in the room which would become hers.
It was a small, narrow room, with popcorn ceiling, and walls; with access to the attic through a panel in the ceiling of the closet.
Next to the was an old “ancient” light fixture which had probably been there since the house was electrified. [It was also moved from the corner of Benton & Santa Clara to the place on the 1300 block of Court Street where this all occurs.]
My dad remembers that I called that the “Bad Dream Light”. He doesn’t remember why specifically. But, he told me, when it came time to pick which room I would sleep in once my sister arrived, I picked the room at the front of the house–not the one with the light.
This is only a footnote about myself that was told to me. And it shrouds the next story in even more mystery because it makes me wonder if it came from the attic.
Ruby In the Attic
My earliest memory of something being a little off seems somewhat inconsequential. It’s more of a passing note.
But, at some point, I remember finding some jewelry in my mom’s jewelry box and somehow knowing that it was the kind of jewelry that Ruby used to wear.
I never met someone named Ruby; and I have no idea how I could know that. But I remember telling my dad that Ruby was the woman who lived in the attic.
Of course, nobody could live in the attic; it was just a crawl space.
This whole thing was forgotten until many years later, into my adulthood, when I remembered this, and asked my Dad who Ruby was. [In fact, I asked both my parents, and my birth mother.]
It turns out: Ruby is the name of my father’s great aunt.
The Procession in the Hallway
I don’t like talking about this. Because, out of all my experiences, this is the one that legitimately makes me seem crazy. Despite the confidence of having had a total psychological and physical work up, and knowing this wasn’t the product of some kind of illness: it’s still something that bothers me to this day.
Have you ever had a light shined in your eyes that you could see even after you closed them? Like a silvery, shadowy afterimage burned into your retinas? Some people call them “eidetic images”, mental images with unusual vividness–an exceptional ability that only children between 6 and 12 are able to possess.
Now, imagine you’re a 6 year old who can’t sleep; so you went into the living room, and are watching late-night/early-morning television on the big recliner in front of the T.V.
At some point, you become aware of something moving out of the corner of your eye. So you look. And what you see is the outline, a silvery shadowy outline of a person. And it’s walking down the hallway.
You watch, as it walks down the hallway, behind the living room wall…. And then appears in the other living room entryway, at the same pace, in the same manner. Just minding its own business.
It can’t be real. Because it looks just like the afterimage of a bright light shined in your face. And you know no one’s there, because it’s too late, it’s night time, and there’s no one there.
But it is.
Except, it’s not minding its business. It has noticed you. So it’s stopped, and turned to face you directly, staring back. With no face, no details, just this weird shadowy figure.
You will the thing to go away, to leave you alone. But it does not disappear when you close your eyes and open them again. It turns back and walks down the hall on its own time.
In the beginning it was just one figure watching me from the hallway. Then it was two or three.
If I kept my eyes on the TV and pretended like I didn’t notice them, they would keep going, only occasionally stopping to look at me.
It terrified me to see them. But my room was also terrifying on its own, too. Sometimes the bed would move, vibrate, or I would … feel like there was something waiting to pour forth from my closet the whole time.
But it wasn’t as simple as just ignoring them.
They never came into the living room. Never approached me. Never made a sound.
But there were so many that the hallway seemed crowded.
Something changed that made it stop. I can’t remember what.
But it’s worth noting that from the time I was born and lived in that house, the neighboring block, the former site of Lincoln School, had been razed and was being developed into the south-west inspired houses that sit there now. [From 1986 to 1991 at least.]
Considering how many burials are still being unearthed in 2025: Who knows how many burials were hiding just below the surface of the former high school grounds.
Is it possible that I saw Ohlone ancestors wandering through my house, searching for their way back home? Or were they the figment of an overactive imagination?
The Basement Double
Because the house had been moved from its original lot at Benton Street and Santa Clara Avenue, it never had a real foundation. At some point, my dad had paid for a foundation to be built underneath the half that held our bedrooms, but the rest of the “foundation” was a collection of 4×4 posts sitting on piles of bricks.
This meant the “basement”–the ground floor of the house–was mostly dirt, covered by plywood.
The basement was always spooky. Not because it was dark, or dangerous. But because I could tell something else lived there. And that I was an interloper. It’s a feeling that never left me, no matter how well let, or how cozy it ever became.
When it was still mostly unfinished, the two most recognizable rooms were the laundry room, and the workshop. Early on, my dad spent a lot of time in both. Mostly doing laundry, and sometimes tinkering in the workshop. If he couldn’t be found upstairs, he was downstairs doing either.
To get to the “basement”, you would go out a side door in the back of the house, and walk down a staircase that wrapped around to the exterior door–which was padlocked shut when no one was in there.
Usually, I could be left to my own devices. I would entertain myself or play games, read books. But at this point in the day, I got bored and went looking for my dad.
I checked the bedrooms, the kitchen, and the bathroom. No one was around. So, I figured he was probably downstairs.
When I poked my head out of the side door, I saw the back of him turn the corner at the bottom landing.
I shouted, “Dad!”
And jumped down the stars a landing at a time. Reaching the bottom and turning just in time to see him disappear into the basement.
At this point I’m thinking he’s playing a game. So I rushed into the basement calling out for him.
But the basement was dark. There was no sign my dad was down there. The washing machine wasn’t running. There were no lights on anywhere, not in the workshop. Not in the garage.
I realized very quickly that I was alone.
That, maybe, this was a trap.
And with these realizations, things started to feel like they were closing in on me. I felt exposed. Viscerally. Almost … in danger.
Even though I knew I should probably run, I felt frozen.
It wasn’t until I heard the toilet flush upstairs that I was able to gather my wits, and zoom out the door.
I caught my dad just as he was coming out of the bathroom door.
Not wanting to let on about the terrifying experience I just escaped, I cried, “Oh, there you are!”
The Vertebra
I found a bone in the dirt in this little room in the back of the basement. The room itself was squared off by walls, and it had a large step of poured concrete, much like a bulk-head–but very much unlike every other part of the basement. This looked like the most built up part of the whole house to be honest. Even though it lacked real walls, and a real floor.
I was messing around in the dirt in the back there, because it was so powdery and light. It was just dust, I liked running my hands through it because of its smooth, silky texture.
And that’s when I found it.
A bone, pale, pitted, but whole. With no obvious cuts or missing pieces: I could tell it was a vertebra. [Because reference books were my only friends.]
When I showed my mom, she told me it was a dog.
Or a cow, when I pushed back. But I knew.
I kept that bone for years. The last time I saw it was in my room, on my bookshelf. But I can’t tell you where it is today. It’s probably somewhere in storage, waiting to be re-discovered.
Living on a Haunted Island
My house wasn’t the only place where I experienced things. Most of Alameda is haunted by its own past. The Shellmounds of Alameda had long been used as overspread, the bones of Muwekma ancestors used for fertilizing rose bushes … and paving Bay Farm Road.
But even its more contemporary history echoed in the abandoned halls of buildings long forgotten.
My personal history of exploring the abandoned buildings on the former Alameda naval air station as a teenager is extensive.
And some of the most heart-pounding experiences I have ever shared with my friends have taken place in buildings that no longer even stand today.
This is not to introduce a story so far away from home as it is to introduce the fact that I have had experiences which have been shared and witnessed with other people.
The Swaying Woman in the Closet
At some point during my teenage years, I had removed the door from my closet. My childhood fears of what lurked inside had been abandoned.
In that version of my bedroom layout, my bed was positioned directly across from the closet.
One night, a friend was sleeping over. The lights were off. We were getting ready to go to sleep. I was just starting to relax when I noticed some movement out of the corner of my eye.
In the doorway of the closet, there was the outline or shadow of a woman with long hair.
She was standing there. Her feet were planted. But she was swaying side to side–moving left to right unnaturally fast. Ping-ponging in place between the door jambs.
No human could move that way. And no one else was in the room besides us. This woman wasn’t really there. Even though I could see her, and feel her angry, unsettled energy.
I saw it. But, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to scare my friend.
After a moment, they asked, “Do you see that?”
Which meant they saw it too.
I just replied, “Go to sleep,”
And pulled the blanket over their head.
Rosa in the Den
Rosa was a rescue dog from Guatemala. A collie type dog with calico colors and spots.
At this point, I was in my 20’s. The house had been renovated almost a decade ago, so there was a den in the basement now, with a real locking door to the rest of the still-unfinished basement.
My sister’s dog had recently passed. He was a miniature Dachshund who succumbed to old age. This happened not long after.
Rosa and I would sit downstairs on the couch in the den and watch TV together. (She had actually started watching it with me, commenting in her own way on what was happening on the screen. Which was … almost more fun to watch than TV.)
Tonight was no different.
Except, Rosa suddenly cued up on something.
She started, and looked at the recliner across from us. Then she seemed to watch something go from the recliner to the floor. And continued to track something as it went under the coffee table directly in front of us.
Then she let out a whimper. And covered her eyes with her paws.
I couldn’t ask her what she saw. But it seemed like it was small, almost like another animal. I still wonder about it to this day.
The Bureau Shadow
Sometimes it was hard to tell if I was just imagining things. If something was really there. Or if I were somehow picking up on the echoes of the past.
Upstairs, on the main floor, the renovations to the house saw an addition of a bathroom in my parents’ room, as well as the removal of the walls separating the living room from the hallway and the dining room. We now had an open floor plan, and stairs leading down into the den from the dining room.
Other changes had been made. For instance, the front door now had a frosted glass oval window in the center, and another window frame on top. This allowed the porch light to illuminate the whole space with a gentle glow.
I could basically walk in a diagonal line from my room to the bathroom. I guess that’s not really a big deal now that I think of it. But I wonder why I didn’t just take that route one night when I saw a shadow in the hallway.
It wasn’t one of the things I used to see walking through the hall when I was younger. This was different.
In the hallway, along the wall between my sister’s bedroom door–the narrow bedroom between my parents’ and mine … was a bureau of draws, about waist height, with a mirror mounted lengthwise on top.
It was long, sturdy. And it used to belong to my mom’s parents. My grandmother used it, and it used to have a picture of me and her wedged in the frame. But that was long ago.
Now it was in the hallway. And it held linen and place settings for the dining room table.
But there was something else there tonight.
A shadow of a person. Standing in front of the bureau, its hands flat on the table top, gazing into the mirror.
I could have walked around it, like I said. I probably should have. But, for some reason, I didn’t. I thought, like all of the other strange things, it would just disappear as soon as I came too close to it.
I was wrong.
It only became more solid the closer I got.
Until I was standing next to it.
Realizing that it was blocking the light.
And that I could sense its presence like you can sense someone standing next to you.
I didn’t walk through it. I didn’t touch it. In fact, I moved around it, and said, “Excuse me”, as I passed.
Then I went into my room. Locked the door. And didn’t leave for the rest of the night.
The Grandparents’ House on the Shellmound
My dad’s parents lived three blocks away from us. At about Santa Clara Avenue, and Mound Street. Well within the bounds of the shellmound on Mound Street.
I never felt alone in that house. And I never really felt at ease. It always seemed like I was just one corner away from seeing something I was really prepared for. Whatever that thing would be. I felt it lurking in the walls, behind every door, and inside every cabinet.
The place vibrated with a strong, unsettling feeling. Even outside, I felt like everything inside was watching me through the windows. Was waiting for me behind the trees. Even in the open space of the backyard, the detached shed–which was actually a nice, newer, single room building–had that vibe to it.
Something not necessarily foreboding, but just not entirely welcoming or at-ease.
I was the most scared of the dorm room on the third floor my dad and his three brothers (my uncles) shared growing up. But the basement–real basement–with my grandpa’s den and the cellar were a very close second. However, I felt like I could stay there for a little longer without feeling too creeped out.
Up on the third floor, I became paranoid that things were happening on the floors below me, just out of sight. But down in the den, I didn’t want to turn my back on anything.
My fear of the house was so strong that I never wanted to stay the night. Ever. And I don’t think I ever stayed more than one night at any time.
The last time I slept there, I slept in the living room on the couch because I didn’t want to go any deeper into the house.
My dad’s cousin said he and my uncles used to dig up arrowheads in the cellar. I never ventured onto the dirt over there. Even after both my grandparents had passed, it was my job to pack up the house. My partner at the time was there, working with me.
Our workflow was to pick up stuff, wrap it in packing paper, then put it in a box, label the box, seal it up, and transfer it to storage.
One of the first things I did was teach myself how to use the security system, and assign myself and all my family members separate pins for the alarm. It seemed important because I wanted to make sure the house was secure since no one was living inside it anymore. It was a basic system that chimed and announced when a door or window was opened.
So my partner and I had managed to make really good progress on packing everything up, and had managed to work our way down to the den.
At some point, we ran out of some packing supplies. My partner stayed working in the den as I locked the door and left to get more.
When I came back, he was visibly shaken. And he wanted to know if I had come back earlier.
When I asked him why, he told me that he heard someone come into the house, and walk all the way to the back room, where my grandparents used to sit and watch TV all the time.
No one else was in the house. The alarm would have announced an open door. But there was no record of any event other than my return.
Maybe I never saw anything in the house because I never wanted to. Because I was scared enough just being there that I didn’t need to.
I still dream about both my childhood house, and my grandparents’ house. They’re usually nightmares about growing up on the burial mound.
It wasn’t until I started doing local research that I learned about the other shellmounds in Alameda.
I know I’m not the only one who’s had these experiences.
Hopefully this gives other people the courage to reach out and share theirs.
On Sundays, August 17 and August 31, the Alameda Native History Project will host Acorn Harvest Training, a hands-on, field-based workshop rooted in Indigenous tradition and ecological stewardship.
Participants will learn to identify local oaks, distinguish between red and white oak by leaf shape, bark, and acorn characteristics, and understand the significance of mast years in acorn production. We will explore how acorns nourish entire ecosystems, not just people, and why respectful harvesting ensures that “all flourishing is mutual.”
This training is grounded in the Honorable Harvest, a principle passed through generations:
Take only what is freely given.
Never take more than you need.
Give thanks, and give back.
Our harvesting protocol reflects these values. We use low-impact wooden acorn tenders, tapping branches lightly. No climbing, pruning, or mechanical shakers. Only acorns released by gentle taps or natural fall are gathered, and our collective harvest is capped at less than 15 percent of the seasonal crop, well below ecologically safe limits. Viable acorns we do not keep are buried nearby, replenishing the seed bank and echoing the work of squirrels that help oak forests regenerate.
These sessions are not about extraction. They are about building a respectful, living relationship with the land. The work is grounded in Traditional Ecological Knowledge and supported by the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe, which recognizes the importance of restoring Indigenous foodways as a living practice of cultural sovereignty and environmental stewardship.
People who signed up for the Indigenous Land Lab and the Acorn Harvest using our volunteer form received text messages with exclusive offers for free tickets. If you would like to join us on the harvest, and receive exclusive offers and special invitations such as private willow harvests and other events at the Indigenous Land Lab, sign up at https://nativehistoryproject.org/volunteer.
Space is limited for each session to ensure a meaningful and safe learning environment.
On June 14, 2024, Gabriel Duncan, founder of the Alameda Native History Project, delivered a speech at the Alameda No Kings Rally that challenged white progressives’ role in Gatekeeping, and Kingmaking.
But if we think “No Kings” only means no Trump, we’re missing something deeper. Kings don’t always wear crowns. Sometimes they wear progressive credentials. Sometimes they come wrapped in good intentions. Sometimes they’re lifted up—not because they earned it, but because people would rather believe a lie than sit with discomfort.
In a pointed speech, Gabriel Duncan made the difference between performative allies, and Accomplices clear:
You say you want to be allies. But performative allies want credit. Accomplices show up when it’s risky, when no one’s watching.
If you need to be thanked or centered or safe, you’re not in solidarity. You’re just performing.
He went on to draw the distinction between white allies who have the privilege to join the struggle, and BIPOC people who are forced to live it every day:
You weren’t born into this fight, but you can choose to join it. Not to be centered—but to be useful.
And then he went on to introduce the performance of a song called “Ain’t Nobody Gon’ Turn Us ‘Round”: a 1964 Civil Rights Era, Black Spiritual and Protest Song, written and sung by Black People in jails and churches, while Black People were facing police brutality, high pressure water hoses, police dogs, and police brutality, just for a crumb–for human rights.
This song was performed by “Paul Andrews [an old white man] and the Democracy Out Loud Band [a group of white singers enlisted days before the event]”, who would be singing this song at an even where no black voices were heard.
That was incorrect, Nika Kura, who sang in the beginning of the program, identifies as Black. And–after I had called out the organizers and Paul Andrews–a black mother and educator, named Katherine Castro (who you can hear saying “I’m trying!” in the recording), took the stage and spoke, and counted how many black people were even present in the audience.
We’re proud to have made this space for black voices–because it was the right thing to do. And we hope that this moment becomes a teachable moment for the organizers of this event, and our allies.
A Note About Paul Andrews, The Old White Man Who Grossly Appropriated A Black Civil Rights Song About Segregation:
We’re deeply disappointed that Paul Andrews thought it was appropriate to sing a Black Spiritual even though he is not black, and the song is about segregation. We’re even more disappointed that Paul Andrews attempted to defend his choice–and even go so far as to try and claim “Ain’t Nobody Gon’ Turn Us ‘Round” was not a Black Song; even though he himself admitted the song was created by Black People. It’s 2025, and this type of misappropriation of BIPOC identity, culture, and struggle is not not welcome in these spaces anymore.
We plan to interview the main organizer of this rally, Tina Davis, a volunteer with Indivisible. So stay tuned for that. We’ll also be releasing our interview with Mary Claire, of All Rise Alameda, soon.
If “No Kings” means anything, it has to mean the end of white progressives deciding who gets heard and who gets erased.
For the record: between 3,000 and 4,700 people were in attendance at the Alameda No Kings Rally on June 14, 2025.
This is the complete speech:
Text of the speech:
NO KINGS – 3-Minute Rally Speech (Condensed Version) “How the Pressure Is Working” Gabriel Duncan
We came here today because we know what’s wrong. Because we see injustice. Because we feel the weight of it. No one should have the power to strip rights, silence truth, or rule unchecked.
That’s why we say: No Kings.
But if we think “No Kings” only means no Trump, we’re missing something deeper.
Kings don’t always wear crowns. Sometimes they wear progressive credentials. Sometimes they come wrapped in good intentions. Sometimes they’re lifted up not because they earned it, but because people would rather believe a lie than sit with discomfort.
That’s not justice. That’s curation. That’s not solidarity. That’s theater.
Real change comes from those who risk something. And lately, more people are risking more breaking ranks, refusing comfort. That’s how we know: the pressure is working.
For too long, white progressives have been kingmakers. Choosing voices that made them feel good. Even when those voices weren’t real. That wasn’t solidarity. That was projection. That was control.
Crowning someone because they’re convenient is how white supremacy adapts. It cloaks itself in “progress,” selects leaders who keep critique shallow and power safe.
The danger of performative allyship isn’t just that it’s fake it’s that it props up lies that do real harm. Harm to truth. Harm to movements. Harm to us.
If “No Kings” means anything, it has to mean the end of white progressives deciding who gets heard and who gets erased.
You say you want to be allies. But performative allies want credit. Accomplices show up when it’s risky, when no one’s watching.
If you need to be thanked or centered or safe, you’re not in solidarity. You’re just performing. You can’t say “No Kings” while defending the figureheads you crowned just because they made you feel progressive.
Being an accomplice means you put yourself in the way of ICE, of cops, of injustice and say: “You’ll have to go through me first.”
That’s what pressure looks like. Truth without applause. Risk without reward.
You weren’t born into this fight, but you can choose to join it. Not to be centered—but to be useful.
So when we scream NO KINGS don’t just cheer. Don’t just post. Live it.
Say it with your whole chest. Say it in every space where your voice still carries more weight than ours.
No Kings. No Gatekeepers. No Masters. TOTAL LIBERATION.
Shalom Bruhn opening remarks at the rally, on a cold windy, Monday afternoon in Alameda.
People gathered outside of Alameda City Hall on Monday, February 3, 2025, to show their unified resolve for Alameda’s Sanctuary City status.
I was honored to be among such speakers as Shalom Bruhn, Amos White, Rev. Michael Yoshi, Dr. Cindy Ackert, Kimi Sugioka, Rev. Vathanak Heang, Hiro Guida, and more people spoke during the open mic session.
Kimi Sugioka (left) holds a sign reading “Alameda Stands United Against Hate”; Amos White (right) speaking at the rally.
These are the remarks I delivered.
Remarks at the Alameda Display of Unity Rally
On February 3, 2025, in Alameda, California
“Hello, my name is Gabriel Duncan. I’m the founder of the Alameda Native History Project. I’m a mix of Paiute, and Mexican (Chichimeca). I’m Gay, Two-Spirit, and Queer. I’m also disabled; I have AIDS. I’m a mix of many things that are being targeted for deportation, defunding, and disenfranchisement.
“That’s why I want to talk about the fear of belonging to a group of people being targeted. Of the fear I felt when I first came out (just like now.) And how I did it, even though I was afraid.
“I came out not just for myself. But for my LGBTQ and Two-Spirit cousins who could not do it themselves–to stand up and advocate for the other members of my community who were isolated, targeted, and attacked because of who they are–to defend our humanity, and demand to be treated with dignity and respect. I stand up because my conviction and belief in justice and equality give me strength.
“Even now, even though I am afraid, I cannot let people I called my friends, my neighbors, even my family–I cannot let them go on terrorizing the innocent people who came here to escape violence and persecution, who came here looking for a better life, for a brighter future. We cannot allow them to continue demonizing our differences, chasing down our most vulnerable, and subjecting them to more violence, and more persecution.
“Because, the reality is, our diversity gives us strength.
“This is why sanctuaries exist. Sanctuaries exist to give refuge, to provide safety. To allow people to live, and thrive with liberty, justice and dignity. The pursuit of happiness, living in freedom. This is the promise of the American Dream. America is supposed to be a sanctuary.
“As we stand here today, to let out our cry for dignity, inclusivity, and respect, we do this as a diverse community of people who still believe that the American Dream is just as much ours as everyone else’s.
“I stand before you here to re-affirm my commitment to support, advocate, and fight for the inclusion of the people who built this city, this state, and this nation–and who this place was built upon!
“People who provide us with the food we eat, the care for our children, for our sick, and elderly, who do the jobs no one else will do–I will advocate for them because they belong here more than many of us.
“If you believe in liberty, equality, and justice; then it is your duty, too. It is your duty to create and protect a sanctuary as a group, as a collective, that we can share with our friends and neighbors–and even strangers–when they need it most.
“Let us make sure that Alameda is a Sanctuary City – NOW AND FOREVER!”
Special thanks to EB-FLOW (East Bay Fierce Loving Organized Women) for organizing this rally.
This is EB-FLOW organizer Shalom Bruhn reading her poem at the rally.
Update: After receiving the signed petition from Monday’s rally, during the Alameda City Council Meeting on Tuesday, the City of Alameda released the following statement on Wednesday.
“The City remains committed to the values of dignity, inclusivity, and respect for all individuals, regardless of ethnic or national origin, gender, race, religious affiliation, sexual orientation, or immigration status. We are committed to upholding the Constitution and ensuring a safe community for everyone, consistent with the City’s Sanctuary City policy.”
February 5, 2025 “Statement from the City of Alameda”
Native History Project Condemns White Supremacy and Threats to Native American Sovereignty
Alameda, California – Today, the Alameda Native History Project issued a strong statement affirming its values and condemning racist ideologies.
“Alameda Native History Project vehemently condemns white supremacy, racism, xenophobia, and fascist ideologies. We abhor Trump-era policies destroying civil rights gains, threatening Native American sovereignty, and deporting indigenous peoples from their ancestral lands. Our project stands unwaveringly against bigotry, discrimination, and hate – affirming equality, justice, and dignity for all.”
Contact:
Gabriel Duncan info@nativehistoryproject.org (510) 747-8423
So, I know the whole “plant thing” might not make sense to people who want to build bigger levees, and sea walls.
I’m trying to say we can’t manage with walls alone. Walls cost tons of money. We don’t know how tall to build them, or how fast. The earth is continuing to warm at a runaway pace. And we need to plan accordingly.
Currently, much of our shores are covered with riprap and sand that has been trucked into, and poured upon the surface of the shore. Sometimes the riprap is covered with a steel mesh, and cabled and bolted into place. But it doesn’t matter. Every time we get big waves, increasingly bigger pieces are being taken away from the shore.
Consider the fact that the pre-1900 [“alameda”] peninsula was encapsulated by lush, verdant, thriving wetlands; and that the south shores and bay farm coast were rich in oyster and clam beds.
Just like the rest of the earth, the Bay Area is a living, breathing, place. Our environmental systems sustain life in and around the bay. And floodwaters are supposed to be a regenerative force in the lifecycle of our ancient coastal blue carbon ecosystem.
The roots of fast growing estuarine and aquatic plants (like eelgrass, tule, etc.) stabilize shorelines by trapping sediment in their root systems and creating a buffer zone that absorbs floodwaters. The rising tide and sediment bury plants and form nutrient-rich (low-oxygen) soil which builds up the land mass, and gives rise to new fast-growing growing plants. The interring of carbon captured by the plants, which are buried in a low-oxygen environment, is the main mechanism behind what is now being referred to as coastal blue carbon habitats.
Restoring our ecosystems is the best chance we have to survive as a species. We need to learn how to terraform our own planet before we attempt to colonize another.
A series of events in the community. We invite community members to come together and challenge themselves to create an Acorn Granary, a traditional Native American Storage device to hold acorns throughout the year—but, specifically, built for the purpose of holding acorns over winter, because the Acorn Harvest is in the fall.
Through gathering natural materials and processing them into the supplies we use to build the granaries, participants will gain first-hand knowledge and experience of the importance of access to natural materials and the challenges of preparing for winter. Community members will discover that survival cannot be done alone and that the challenge of the Acorn Granary is not one person against nature. It is about how communities come together and build natural, regenerative systems to adapt and evolve with the landscape in a respectful and sustainable way.
When we came together in July, we came as a small group of individuals taking part in the first-ever Granary Challenge. Our participants ranged from 2nd and 3rd graders, college undergraduates, parents, and grandparents, from diverse social, cultural, and economic backgrounds. And we want you to know, that the framework of our granary was built by our youngest participants—and we are amazed, grateful, and humbled by their instinctive expertise and boundless enthusiasm.
About the Granary
Our Acorn Granary is hosted in the community by the Alameda Point Collaborative Farm2Market. Our granary was built using willow reeds and bay leaves donated from the Land Partners in Castro Valley, pine boughs and poles gathered locally, twine from local hardware stores, and the granary is topped with marine canvas donated from Pacific Crest Canvas.
The Annual Acorn Harvest
The Harvest runs from September through November. The efforts of this community-led initiative are aimed at reopening indigenous foodways. Acorns have not been gathered for food in Alameda, and much of the Bay Area, for over 300 years. Part of decolonizing ourselves, our stomachs, and the places we live, relies on reconnecting with the natural world around us and partaking in the ancient practices of this land.
By practicing sustainable, regenerative agriculture, we are becoming good stewards of our natural world, making space, and opening the pathways to food sovereignty, healing, and wellness for ourselves, and for more than 25,000 Native American/Alaskan Native and Indigenous People currently living in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Even though this was the first-ever Acorn Harvest announced in the City of Alameda in recent history—with a limited budget, and not a lot of marketing involved—we were tremendously grateful and surprised by the wellspring of support from our friends and neighbors in Alameda, and from our followers on social media.
The people who volunteered with us for the Annual Acorn Harvest ranged in age from young to old and represented a large contingent from many different social, cultural, and economic backgrounds. The Acorn Harvest was truly a family event, and we were honored to create these bonds and reconnect, together, with the natural urban forest, animals, and environment we depend on, but often overlook.
Through our community-building and sustainable practices, we helped to divert edible food from waste bins and compost piles. The acorns we did not use for food, we shared with 100K Trees For Humanity, which will germinate and plant new Oak trees in an effort “to increase our urban forest canopies, restore natural habitats, increase urban carbon sequestration capacity to help cities meet carbon reduction goals and for greater equity for cooler healthier communities.”
Acorn Processing & ACORNS! Culinary Series
The acorns we harvested are now being stored over winter in safe locations around the island. In the spring, we will begin processing our harvested acorns to produce Acorn Flour, and Acorn Meal, which we will offer to local Indigenous communities, the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area, and will also be used for our ACORNS! Culinary Series—featuring Traditional and Contemporary Indigenous, and International Cuisine. Our culinary series is generously hosted by the Alameda Park and Recreation Department, at the Mastick Senior Center, and will take place every Sunday in April 2025.
Find out more!
For more information on how to attend the ACORNS! Culinary Series, volunteer for the 2025 Annual Acorn Harvest, or process acorns to create nutritious culturally significant food for our Local Indigenous Communities
An Investigative Report by the Alameda Native History Project
Preserving Accurate Ohlone History and Culture
The Alameda Native History Project is dedicated to preserving the accurate history and culture of the Ohlone people. As part of this effort, we have conducted research on Sogorea Te Land Trust, a non-profit organization [501(c)(3)], and its claims of representing the Ohlone people.
Why We Investigated
We followed this story because it was newsworthy and of significant public interest. Moreover, we believe that people have the right to know where their money is going, particularly when it comes to donations intended to support Native American communities–in this case: Ohlone people, the First Alamedans.
Concerns and Findings
Our research has raised several concerns about Sogorea Te Land Trust’s claims and actions:
Claims by trust leaders, particularly Corrina Gould, about being part of an Ohlone tribe called “Lisjan“, which is actually a Nisenan name for “Pleasanton”, not East Oakland or Berkeley.
Over the past three years, the Alameda Native History Project has reached out to Sogorea Te Land Trust multiple times seeking clarification on these issues, but they have not provided any substantive responses.
Call to Action
We encourage everyone to seek out multiple sources and consult with Ohlone elders and experts before supporting or promoting initiatives related to Ohlone history and culture. Specifically, we recommend reaching out to the Muwekma Ohlone Tribe of the San Francisco Bay Area and other Ohlone leaders who may have valuable insights and perspectives on the issues raised in this report. By engaging in open and respectful dialogue, we can work together to ensure the accurate representation and well-being of the Ohlone people.
When it comes to foraging for acorns, we have a firm policy: we don’t accept those collected from the ground.
Here’s why:
Acorns can mold incredibly quickly once picked up; especially when stored improperly in bags, boxes, or environments with little to no air circulation. It is vitally important to prevent the spread of mold and mildew to other acorns in storage.
Moldy acorns are not just unappealing; they can pose serious health risks, like hantavirus.Hantavirus is a serious disease transmitted through contact with rodent droppings or urine. Ground-collected acorns are often more likely to be contaminated by mold and pathogens, which we want to avoid.
It’s important to note that 20% or less of the acorns gathered from the ground are fit enough for storage and consumption. Since we emphasize sourcing acorns for food, we have to apply a strict standard: if it’s not something you would personally eat, we don’t want it either.
By upholding these guidelines, we prioritize health and ensure that the acorns we collect and use are safe and of the best quality.
Let’s keep our foraging practices safe and sustainable!
