Touring the Golden Gate Park Commission Vault

Back in April of this year, I learned of the “Commission Vault Mini Museum” via SFGate.com, the online arm of the San Francisco Chronicle. I immediately booked a reservation to tour the museum, which is so backlogged, it takes month to get in. I only visited on July 9th, three months later.

The Commission in question the San Francisco Park Commission, which governs the city’s Recreation and Parks Department. The museum houses photographs and artifacts from the department’s century and a half tenure, which extends back to 1871.

This must be one of the smallest museums on the West Coast—it’s housed inside a walk-in vault. The floor dimensions are perhaps twelve feet by four feet. It’s so compact only four or five people can comfortably stand in it at once. You begin to understand why open reservations are months out.

For me, the tour began when I entered the Commission’s headquarters, located at the eastern entrance to Golden Gate Park, inside McLaren Lodge. It was built in the late 19th century for John McLaren, the most famous and prominent superintendent of San Francisco’s Parks Department. The lodge not only served as offices for his staff, but was also home for him, his family, and personal staff. It was as though all 1,017 acres of Golden Gate Park was his personal backyard.

It’s a grand structure, with rustic stone exterior and rough columns and arches, topped with red clay roof tiles. Historian-in-residence Christopher Pollock told me it’s often described as a mixture of Mission Revival and Craftsman architecture, although at least one source dubbed it “Scottish Baronial.” It’s a fitting term for horticulturalist McLaren, who immigrated to America from Scotland in his youth, and was known in his later years as bearing a kind but kingly manner.

Either way, McLaren Lodge’s architecture is oddly familiar but strikingly unusual compared to San Francisco’s other architectural styles. Its’ the kind of building a Hollywood millionaire might build in the mountains near Lake Tahoe, or you might read about in The Day of the Locust. In that sense, the lodge is uniquely Californian: A style evocative of another place or time, but not of any other time or place.

As a boomtown, early San Francisco had few public green spaces. The thousand-acre Golden Gate Park on the city’s west side was the solution. The first problem to be solved was the land itself. The acreage was barren and covered in windswept sand dunes blown eastward from the Pacific ocean. (No, really—check out some photos to see for yourself.)

McLaren and his predecessor William Hammond Hall spent decades terraforming this desolate stretch of wasteland into a woodland reserve, with rose gardens, rhododendron dells, groves of sequoias and Monterey cypress, and wide meadows of Kentucky bluegrass. For entertainment, McLaren installed lakes, fishing holes, lawn bowling courts, horse stables, and much more. Golden Gate Park was California’s first Disneyland, a theme park before there were theme parks, showcasing the state’s natural beauty.

McLaren’s decades of devotion to building the greatest city park in the world, and the resulting grandeur, made him one of the most popular public servants in San Francisco history. The city amended its charter in order to appoint him Park Superintendent for life, a post he held for over four decades. The meeting room where the Vault Museum is found features a prominent portrait of McLaren, still overseeing the Commission’s agenda decades after his passing.

The vault & museum

The vault holding the museum was where the Commission originally stored cash and valuables, from a time when physical currency was more common for things like park permits and payroll. Later, the vault was cleared out and used for storage, which included several filing cabinets of paperwork. Those papers turned out to be historical documents unto themselves. They’re now stored at the San Francisco Public Library.

With the vault cleared out, the idea came to use it for a display of the Park’s history, which led to the creation of the Mini Museum.

The Museum itself is a picturesque but brief travel through the decades of Golden Gate Park’s long life. Photographs of the early years show the sand dunes that had to be tamed by McLaren and Hall, as well as the cemeteries originally lining the northwestern border of the park. (Those graves would eventually be moved down the peninsula to Colma; some of the broken headstones would wind up lining the pathways and gutters in Buena Vista Park, a few blocks from McLaren Lodge.)

Each decade thereafter depicts the city’s and park’s development, recording the growing population and an increasing number of public parks throughout San Francisco. (One surprise for me: the nondescript Colombia Square, which I gave short shrift to in my “San Francisco streets with confusingly similar names” page, is actually one of the city’s earliest neighborhood parks.) The timeline also shows Golden Gate Park as a civic meeting place and cultural lodestone, such as when it hosted now-legendary rock acts in the late 1960s.

For over a hundred years, San Francisco has been known as a “city of hotels.” It’s also a city of museums and tours, mainstream as well as quirky, cool, odd, and now tiny. It’s hard to call the Commission Vault Mini Museum a must-see for visitors in town for only a few days. I do think it’s worth your while if you love San Francisco history—especially the history of its parks—and can line up a spot for an afternoon viewing. I wasn’t disappointed at all; I’m just unsure if my enthusiasm for Golden Gate Park’s history is widely shared.

Someone on the tour asked if they offered tours of McLaren Lodge itself, which apparently is under consideration. Combining a tour of the vault with a tour of house itself would make an afternoon visit a no-doubter.

The Tonga castaways don’t disprove “Lord of the Flies”

Book cover of "The Lord of the Flies" by William Golding

With the release of a new Netflix adaptation of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies comes another round of media reminders that the book’s most famous plot element—shipwrecked children turn barbarous and violent—was “disproven” fifty years ago on an island in the South Pacific.

The logic goes something like this:

In 1965, six Tongan teenagers were shipwrecked on ‘Ata, an uninhabited island on the southern tip of the Tonga archipelago. Rather than descend into savage violence, as the children do in Lord of the Flies, the Tongans managed to survive and form a communal-like existence. They shared duties, kept spirits up, and even tended to one another, such as setting one’s boy’s fractured leg. After fifteen months, they were rescued and returned to their families.

The story of the Tongans has grown into a modern parable warning against taking Golding’s book seriously, or even simply discarding it outright. One example comes from a recent article, where Lenore Skenazy recounts the Tongan success story with the brisk conclusion, “So much for barbarism.”

The popular linking of the true-life Tongan incident with Golding’s novel appears to have begun with Dutch historian Rutger Bregman. His 2019 book Humankind: A Hopeful History sets out to prove that people are fundamentally decent and eager to build a better society. Whatever Golding’s fictional account may depict, he says, real children do not become wild and bloodthirsty creatures once removed from the watchful eyes of civilization.

Bregman followed his book with a 2020 Guardian article headlined “The real Lord of the Flies: what happened when six boys were shipwrecked for 15 months.” The story went viral on social media, leading to years of articles reiterating that the uplifting story of the Tongan castaways refutes Golding’s grim worldview. A sampling of subsequent headlines mirror the Guardian‘s, almost down to the word:

Since the Tongan teenagers didn’t turn against each other, the logic goes, Lord of the Flies has been proven wrong. It’s as if we should discard the lessons of Animal Farm because there exists not one recorded episode of farm animals forming an authoritarian Marxist collective.

The best at everything

As Scott Alexander writes, “Beware the man of one study.” A single example that ends well does not slam the door on Golding’s book, and it’s pretty sad that so many people think it would.

But if one example is proof positive, is a single counterexample dispositive? Consider the Sugamo child abandonment case. In 1988, a mother left her four young children alone in a Tokyo apartment for nine months. No, they weren’t shipwrecked like the Tongans or the Lord of the Flies boys—but that’s kind of the point. The children had modern shelter, clean running water, and easy access to food, which they procured from local convenience stores using money the mother had left for them. The children did a remarkable job of taking care of each other, but it wasn’t enough.

When finally discovered by social workers, they were malnourished, and one of the children was missing. The eldest boy admitted that two of his friends had assaulted and killed the youngest girl. While the eldest boy was not present at the killing, he helped his friends bury her body.

Still from Nobody Knows (2004), a Japanese film based on the Sugamo case.

When reports reached the public, the response in Japan mirrored an underlying question posed many times in Lord of the Flies: “How could Japanese children be reduced to this behavior?”

In Lord of the Flies, it’s the English who are puzzled: “I should have thought that a pack of British boys…would have been able to put up a better show than that,” one character remarks at the end of the book. The boys were raised well and taught in boarding schools. Each had a reading diet of British Empire adventure books about self-sufficient boys who always act as proper young gentlemen, even in the face of adversity. “We’re English, and the English are best at everything,” young Jack declares, a statement which turns out to be surprisingly empty by the final chapter. “The northern European tradition of work, play, and food right through the day, made it possible for them to adjust wholly to this new rhythm,” the narrator of Lord of the Files declares, another statement found to be empty after only a few pages.

After all, the book most often named the first prose novel in the English language is none other than Robinson Crusoe, a story about a shipwrecked Englishman surviving due to self-discipline, routine, and his education. Crusoe was written for adults, but over the years it developed a younger audience. It also became a model for how every Englishman should act under duress.

It’s not hard to imagine Ralph, Jack, and the others reading Crusoe while in school. Yet Golding’s book feels like a rebuttal to Defoe’s classic, tearing down its colonial-era pride with cool precision.

“How can you be surprised that Tongans survived on an island?”

Contrary to popular depiction, the children in Lord of the Flies don’t immediately descend into barbarism. Upon their arrival on the island, the boys form rules, coordinate efforts, and develop routines, just as their boarding school education taught them. They choose a leader in the fair-haired (and fair-minded) Ralph, who sets about in assigning duties. He even leads the boys in building a signal fire atop the island’s sole mountain, exactly as the Tongan boys did.

The Tongans numbered six teenagers, aged 13 to 19. They were friends at a Catholic school. They ran away, gathered food and supplies, and stole a boat. That is, they were working together before they even reached the island.

In contrast, the number of children in the book is not stated with precision, but it’s likely close to twenty or thirty. The children do not know each other, and none are pubescent. The “littleuns” are so numerous that, after the mountaintop fire grows into an inferno, the older children are unsure if one of them perished in the blaze.

Two months after Bregman’s story in the Guardian, Tongan Meleika Gesa penned a rebuttal arguing the boys of ‘Ata were not the “real” Lord of the Flies. Gesa explains how Tongan values and education prepared them for survival. Not only did they know how to start a fire and catch and prepare fish, the Tongan culture instilled a familial cohesion among the group. There’s no such unity among the boys in Lord of the Flies, save for their nationality.

Amusingly, Gesa asks, “How can you be surprised that Pasifika people, specifically Tongan, can survive on an island?”

The Guardian article claims Bregman “unearthed” the forgotten story about Tongan teenagers on an island, like a paleontologist discovering a new fossil. Gesa points out the story of the teens is well known among Tongans, and not forgotten at all.

Gesa has more complaints about the way Bregman presents the story, but the overarching tragedy is that Bregman’s, not Gesa’s, account dominates public perception. “While the boys of ‘Ata have been consigned to obscurity, Golding’s book is still widely read,” Bregman wrote in 2020. That’s not so true today.

Realism and literalism

In the 1950s, William Golding wrote that Lord of the Flies “is an attempt to trace the defects of society back to the defects of human nature. … The whole book is symbolic in nature.” (Emphasis mine.)

That Lord of the Flies is a parable constructed with symbolism and metaphor, and not a detailed, realistic account of children on an island, seems incredibly obvious to me—and yet, here we are, with people treating the book as a failed thought experiment.

We all seem to agree that society is defective—otherwise, we wouldn’t spend so much time arguing over politics, policy, and taxes. If society’s defects don’t emerge from defects in human nature, where else would they come from?

I see little evidence in the world that people’s natural instincts are to work together, avoid conflict, and live peaceably side-by-side. If anything, much of our modern existence is spent pushing against those social norms. (For example, tech companies’ practice of “better to plead forgiveness than ask permission,” or people treating all criticism as a personal attack.)

But can those social values—work together, avoid conflict—be taught? At one time, they were, via humanistic education, religion, active parenting—the same institutions Western culture has been discounting over the past fifty years.

Have we adopted some system of moral instruction to fill the void? If so, I can’t locate it. What appears to have taken its place is a kind of raw, undeveloped trust in Realism and Literalism, twin brothers of interpretation which frantically attempt to nail down, rather than open up, our understanding of human nature.

William Golding wrote, “The moral [of Lord of the Flies] is that the shape of a society must depend on the ethical nature of the individual and not on any political system.”

Tongan Meleika Gesa wrote during the pandemic, “Just look at how we’re surviving Covid-19 together. My family have given away food to our neighbours and checked up on friends and family because that’s how we survive.”

Jack in Lord of the Flies says, “We’re English, and the English are best at everything.”

That’s the ethical and moral divide between the Tongan teens and the boys in Lord of the Flies. What follows flows from within.

Three early audio stories

Cover of Instant City, Issue 6: Disappeared
Instant City, Issue 6: Disappeared

Back in 2007, I had an unusual encounter at the Geary Club, a San Francisco bar near Union Square. A guy on the barstool beside me laid out his big idea—it was an era of Big Ideas—called dublit.com, a web site for people to freely upload and listen to spoken word recordings. It was to be a repository of audio essays, non-fiction, short stories, chapters from books, and so on.

I told him I was a writer, and I was interested in supporting it, if I could.

Fast forward one year: dublit.com’s launch party was a smashing success, and I vowed to make good on my pledge. Using nothing more than my iBook’s microphone and built-in audio software, I recorded two of my short stories, “Of Potential” and “Some of the Things He Thought That Year” (both available in my collection, A Concordance of One’s Life).

Later, San Francisco lit mag Instant City published my ode to The Owl Tree (another Union Square bar) and its recently-deceased proprietor, a lifelong city bartender and colorful character named C. Bobby. I read the remembrance at the magazine’s release party, which was recorded and made its way onto dublit.com as well.

Photograph of clear plastic goggles on sand

I recently discovered these old spoken word recordings on a backup. (I thought they’d been lost.) I uploaded them to the Internet Archive, where they should remain available for years to come.

You’re free to listen or download them. I’ve included a PDF of each short story alongside the audio, if you prefer to read or read along:

Sadly, many of the beautiful and sublime things I’ve mentioned are now gone: Geary Club, C. Bobby and The Owl Tree, the original dublit.com, even Instant City. So much loss against the wages of time, which ruthlessly spends down our youth with no regard for our future.

Close-up of ballpoint pen drawing a blue line on paper

San Francisco street names project

Title card for "The Streets of San Francisco" TV show

I’ve added a new page to this site, a little side-project I’ve been working on for a while now called “A somewhat subjective list of San Francisco streets with confusingly similar names.”

It’s pretty much what’s printed on the tin, but with a few surprises. Why are there two Mason Streets in the city? If Division Street divides two neighborhoods, what does Divisadero Street divide (if anything)? And is it true that two of the numbered east-west streets actually intersect?

It’s a goofy but fun way to look at San Francisco’s layout and history. I hope you get as much out of reading it as I did putting it together.