This article is written by Alexandria McKenzie, one of the People’s Tribune Summer interns.
“Today, the Allensworth State Historic Park holds up a mirror to the centuries long, state sponsored deprivation of resources that has hindered the African American population. To not only refuse erasure, but memorialize oneself as a pillar of California’s history, is what makes Allensworth extraordinary. While a historical site cannot bring back the haven of possibility that Allensworth once was, its presence forces a reckoning for anyone it reaches — a ceaseless act of resistance in itself.”
In the 1970s, agricultural towns sprawled across the San Joaquin Valley. Life was peaceful, solitary: the sun-baked desert plains were dozens of miles from any major city. Throughout the early 1900s, domestic and international migrants scattered across the valley, mostly for farming opportunities. Alongside labor, they also brought communities, building homes, churches, and schools. They set the foundation for the valley’s global productivity, which today sources a quarter of the nation’s food.
On October 6th, 1976, something changed. Locals and visitors alike interrupted the valley’s slow pace and quiet murmurs. They erupted in a lively celebration, performing music and dancing for hours on end. It was the opening day of Colonel Allensworth State Historic Park. This was a dedication like no other — commemorating the preservation of California’s only town founded and governed by African Americans.
The history of Allensworth and the San Joaquin Valley reaches far beyond economic and agricultural development. For African Americans, Allensworth was not only an escape from the vicious constraints of Jim Crow, but an opportunity for a degree of autonomy they hadn’t obtained in the United States.
Amidst the celebration was Ed Pope, a landscape architect who had lived in Allensworth when he was eight years old. He had fond memories of the town — Allensworth was a place that shaped his upbringing completely. Even as he later left Allensworth, it never left him.
In the early twentieth century, Allensworth was entirely self-sustaining. Residents fostered a flourishing agricultural system, raising pigs, cows and chickens, and growing alfalfa, wheat, hay and barley. Some opened small businesses; others were teachers or staffed the community library. By 1912, the town had established itself as a school district. The schoolhouse was Allensworth’s largest investment, central to the community’s culture of excellence in the face of disenfranchisement.
By 1973, however, Allensworth could not even be found on a map. In mere decades, the country’s anti-Black infrastructure stripped Allensworth of its natural and economic resources. The town’s economy was hindered and the population declined until it could no longer stay afloat.
When Ed Pope came across news of its scheduled demolition, he took it upon himself to protect the town that was ahead of its time.
Fifty years ago, the park’s opening day marked the success of Ed Pope’s diligent work. While Pope is briefly recognized in histories of Allensworth’s revitalization, the true lengths he went to ensure the town’s preservation have gone largely unseen. Moreover, his efforts reflect a greater movement of Black Californians to create possibilities out of seemingly impossible conditions.
A History of Allensworth
Allen Allensworth was an emblem of African American resistance long before he founded Allensworth. Born into slavery in 1842, Allensworth did not allow his conditions to dampen his curiosity. He learned to read and write by playing “school” with his master’s son, and later escaped slavery after being auctioned and sold twice. In 1862, he joined the Union Navy and fought for his freedom. With his bravery, charisma and diligence, he rose through the ranks. By the end of his service, he was a chief petty officer and discharged with honor.
In the years following his first round of service, Allensworth continued to feed his curious spirit and obtained a doctorate in theology. He taught in Freedmen’s Bureau schools, was an ordained minister, and represented Kentucky as its only Black delegate to the Republican National Conventions of 1880 and 1884. He returned to the U.S. military in 1886 as a chaplain to the 24th infantry, one of four African American regiments at the time. Many of his soldiers were barely literate, so Allensworth devised a three-level course in basic education, a resource that was unheard of for Black soldiers. So, it was no surprise when in 1906, Allen Allensworth retired as the first African American to attain the rank of lieutenant colonel, making national history. He was known for his firm belief in education and merit as necessary tools for African Americans to transcend the impacts of slavery. All that was missing was the adequate investment to bring the change he hoped to see.
Alongside Professor William Payne, Allensworth purchased 80 acres of land in the San Joaquin Valley, and Allensworth was born in 1908. A depot along the Santa Fe Railroad Line, the town was perched between San Francisco and Los Angeles, and a main transfer point for grain and cattle shipments. The cost of land was reasonable, soil was fertile, and with promotion of the town by a figure like the Colonel, Black men and women quickly began to move their families to start their new lives in Allensworth.
One of those families was that of Alice Royal. What drew them, among many others, to Allensworth was to escape the violence and limitations of Jim Crow. Allensworth was an refuge from lynchings and riots, a place where people didn’t have to worry about “whites only” spaces. From school, to labor, to something as simple as the grocery store — Black Californians, for the first time, did not have to worry about being turned away.
The Allensworth community was loving and gracious; familiarity was everywhere. “So many of the community members were friends… we were welcomed when we went to the post office, we were welcomed when we went to the drug store, we were welcomed when we went to the other stores in the community,” Royal recounted in a 2008 interview with NPR.
Royal’s grandmother had cows and chickens in a plot across the street from her home. She grew vegetables and condiments in her backyard. Self-sufficiency of this degree among Black folk, let alone Black women, was rare at the time. But Allensworth had created a society that defied the limitations of its period.
Before living in Allensworth, Ed Pope had never seen Black people work any job other than cotton picking. At 8 years old, he arrived to see Black policemen, local representatives, property owners and shopkeepers. The memory that struck him most was of one of his teachers at Allensworth Elementary, as he explained in Pamela Harris’ short film, Land of Promise: The Story of Allensworth.
“She walked up to me and hugged me the first time I came into the classroom. She said, ‘Will you promise me something?’ I said, ‘I’ll promise you anything,’ and she said, ‘Please learn something every day you come to school.’”
This transformed the meaning of school for the young Pope. It was once a place where segregation and status were magnified — as the son of migrant farm workers, Pope had always felt isolated as the only Black student. Ridiculed, attacked, and even called the n-word by his teachers, he made self-protection his priority, not learning. That is, until he made it to Allensworth. “Coming to Allensworth was like coming from hell and falling right into paradise. I needed this so badly,” said Pope in an interview with Harris.
Systemic Failure, Systemic Tragedy
For a brief period, Allensworth was a sort of utopia. Yet even in its prime, residents faced enormous obstacles, both in agriculture and greater issues of political and economic disenfranchisement. A water shortage in 1912 stunted agricultural systems, and few bordering land companies were willing to sell to Allensworth farmers. In 1914, the Colonel was struck and killed by a motorcycle driven by two white men — an incident that was deemed an “accident,” but is still being researched by historians. Through their grief, residents held on. They stepped into the administrative responsibilities the Colonel had held and kept the town alive.
That same year, however, the Santa Fe Railroad stop was transferred from Allensworth to Alpaugh, a neighboring white town six miles west. The railroad system was Allensworth’s economic foundation, crucial for commercial connections to San Francisco and Los Angeles. According to Pope, the freight business went from making $4,000 a month to only $30. Job opportunities in urban centers drew many residents out of Allensworth in the 1920s and 1930s, worsening the economic strain.
The final straw, however, was the town’s water supply. Water had always been an issue — out in the desert, dry wells were common and an expensive fix. Lack of access was not only because of the natural conditions — nearby white farmers diverted the natural stream to irrigate their own crops and cut off Allensworth’s supply. Pacific Farming Co., the company that sold the original plot to Colonel Allensworth, backed out of a promise to deliver an adequate water system for the town. For decades, residents made it work, rationing a storage tank that held only 40,000 gallons, and digging their own wells. But when arsenic was found in the water in the 1960’s, Allensworth was almost entirely deserted.
Ed Pope Takes a Stand
After leaving Allensworth, Ed Pope remained in California, and eventually became a landscape architect for the state government. By the 1960s, Allensworth was no longer the same as how he left it in his childhood. The town was abandoned, with a demolition scheduled. It was clear to Pope that the town’s downfall was a result of compounding structural racism, and that these structures were still present.
To Pope, preserving Allensworth wasn’t solely about protecting his hometown. Allensworth held a cultural, political, and communal value that he couldn’t bear to see destroyed. He knew keeping Allensworth alive was going to need a plethora of public support, so Pope found a way to incentivize the town’s preservation for all parties involved. He sent countless letters to members of civil society and high-ranking government officials, displaying the urgent need to preserve Allensworth for all involved.
“The resources of this state are vast. Millions of dollars have been invested in its historical past. Not one penny has been invested specifically interpreting the involvement of Negroes in this State’s historical development,” Pope wrote in a 1969 letter, now kept in the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center, “Young Negroes will be able to learn of black people pioneering westward and establishing footholds in a new country against seemingly unconquerable forces. Young whites will be exposed to a more truthful interpretation of their past. No society without true knowledge of its past has a future.”
Allensworth’s inextricable role in California’s history was the foundation of Pope’s argument. His persuasion reached Senator Mervyn M. Dymally — the first foreign-born Black representative to be elected to the California legislature — and convinced him to advocate in favor of Allensworth. In May of 1969, Senator Dymally introduced California’s Senate Concurrent Resolution No. 124, a documented support for the Department of Parks and Recreation to preserve Allensworth as a townsite.
“Whereas, preliminary investigations throughout the Central Valley have shown an enthusiastic attitude and great concern over the preservation of Allensworth, and many federal, state and local political figures have been involved in this town’s survival… The Legislature expresses its support of the efforts of the State Department of Parks and Recreation to preserve the townsite of Allensworth, in Tulare County, California,” the Senator announced in the resolution, according to a copy stored in the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center.
Ed Pope knew this marked a turning point, a window of rare opportunity for state collaboration with the Black community. The California state government was eager to offer resources for Black historical preservation. The investment was there; what was missing was direction. So, he established the Advisory Committee of California Negro History. Not only did it draw academics, civic leaders, and other members of civil society into the Allensworth project, but institutionalized an official body dedicated to a greater cause of representation.
Another key alliance was Pope’s relationship with William Penn Mott Jr., director of the State of California Parks and Recreation. Not only did he find the prospect of Allensworth to be impressive, but he saw it as a necessary step towards forging an inclusive California state history.
In a letter to Governor Ronald Reagan, now housed in the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center, Penn Mott Jr. stated, “We have been delinquent in our historical preservation and interpretation program in not having given attention to the contributions made by Black citizens. The Allensworth project, at first glance, appears to be one that could give us a start in correcting this deficiency…An effort by this Department in properly representing the Black citizens’ part in the development of California would bring many rewards.”
The words of Penn Mott Jr., members of the Committee, and Pope himself, eventually swayed the Governor. In 1974, the state of California formally acquired the site, and restoration began.
Black Farmers in the United States: A Population Disappeared
Each year, Allensworth State Historic Park comes alive again for its annual rededication ceremony. Following the tradition of the 1976 opening day, people from all of California gather to dance, sing, and honor the town’s roots. For a moment, the past meets the present.
Allensworth’s history still resonates with Black Californians, even as they have largely been displaced to cities. Today, Allensworth’s population is only 9% Black, and 86% Hispanic, according to Data USA. The Black population in California, as elsewhere in the United States, has become overwhelmingly urban. The few Black farmers that are still in the state mostly work on small plots, producing specialty crops for farmers markets in city centers.
Water access is still a prevalent issue in the town. A state-funded project to support the community to overcome arsenic contamination was approved in January of this year. After decades of depriving Allensworth residents from adequate drinking water, California has agreed to construct a new groundwater well and storage tank by the end of the year.
This tale of Allensworth’s downfall is hauntingly ordinary. Today, the Allensworth State Historic Park holds up a mirror to the centuries long, state sponsored deprivation of resources that has hindered the African American population. To not only refuse erasure, but memorialize oneself as a pillar of California’s history, is what makes Allensworth extraordinary. While a historical site cannot bring back the haven of possibility that Allensworth once was, its presence forces a reckoning for anyone it reaches — a ceaseless act of resistance in itself.
