The Brief

Southern California beaches are a big part of life here. We’ve probably all spent at least one hot summer day on the sand, and of course, it’s one of the largest draws for tourists.

But did you know that if you name almost any big issue, the coastline has probably been part of it? From privatization to environmental struggles, it’s been the focus of much debate. And how and why we enjoy the beach has changed with it.

Elsa Devienne is an assistant professor of history at Northumbria University in the U.K. and author of the new book Sand Rush: The Revival of the Beach in Twentieth-Century Los Angeles.

The growth of beach culture

A football team works out on the beach at Santa Monica, circa 1926.

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Devienne’s book came from an interest that brewed when she was a French exchange student at UCLA around 2006.

“As I started researching the history of segregation, I got really interested in the particular realm of leisure and how you would go about segregating pools, you know, nightclubs," Devienne said. "Then I got to the beaches.”

Over the years, and between multiple pet-sitting stints in Santa Monica, Devienne explored how even the notion of what a beach can be used for has evolved. In pre-colonization times, the Indigenous populations here used them for fishing and resource collection. Fast forward to today, it’s where people go to kick back.

How did it get that way? Before the late 18th century, most people weren’t hanging out near the water.

“This was seen as a place where you didn't spend a lot of time, and it was associated with pirates, with shipwrecks, with these kinds of bad associations,” Devienne said.

But when Los Angeles started to become a big city in the late 1800s, the real estate boom changed things. Developers had numerous ideas about leisure to draw from. There were already beach resorts in other parts of the world, like Great Britain, and ones closer to home, like the amusement parks in Coney Island. The French Riviera was also enormously famous in the 1920s.

That all influenced how L.A. County beaches were marketed. Venice got sold as the “Coney Island of the West.” Malibu was deemed the “Hollywood Riviera.” There was a lot of work done on the imagination because many of these places didn’t have direct access to the water, Devienne said.

“L.A. being very good at selling a dream, does that really, really well,” Devienne said. “They sold a dream sometimes in the sense that it didn’t exist much. But it also must have been in such a pristine condition that people must have fallen in love with it just as they came along.”

Building the beach

The beaches were eventually built up to try and match that dream.

Venice Beach circa 1925.

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Devienne recalled seeing photographs from the early 20th century when the first beach houses arrived on the coast. Back then, beaches were much narrower. There weren’t roads connecting cities to the beach, so traveling to it took a long time.

“You would have been on a really bad road — a rocky, not a proper road,” Devienne said. “You would be probably traveling on some sort of carriage, and you'd be one of the lucky few going.”

But then more stable roads and routes were constructed to make access to the beach easier. Our beaches were also artificially expanded with sand brought in mostly from dunes near the Hyperion sewage treatment plant in Playa Del Rey. A lot of that happened under L.A. engineers in the 30s and 40s, who sought to prepare Santa Monica and Venice for the incoming coastal highway.

Who are beaches for?

The Jonathan Beach Club, a private and highly exclusive club in Santa Monica in 1910. For much of its history, the club was accused of discrimination.

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These relaxation spots ended up in trouble. In the late ‘20s, with L.A.’s quick population growth, there were sewage issues, erosion problems and crowded beaches — environmental and social issues that persist today.

But back then, much of the beach was private. Many of these problems manifested among people in disputes through public policy and social rules over who should have the right to visit beaches and how humans should care for them.

Beach clubs were popular, but they were also exclusive to elite and white patrons. According to Devienne, at least four Black beach clubs were shut down or prevented from opening because of discrimination. Racial violence became commonplace in the 1930s as fights broke out. It drew more police attention and at times, more enforcement of rules like the night curfew.

It took decades of organizing to curb discriminatory practices on the shores and open up beach access to the public. Today, L.A. County’s coastline is 75 miles long with 60% in public hands.

Devienne said unpacking this period of growth, struggle and influence is ultimately what she wants people to think about.

“I think that’s exactly what I was getting at,” Devienne said. “You know, what is a beach for? Who is a beach for?”

It can be the small, curved horn of a ram or the dramatic spiral of an African antelope. The sound it creates is unmistakable.

Creating that sound is not difficult, but it does take some practice, said Rabbi Alicia Jo Rabins, a musician based in Portland, Oregon.

You take a deep breath and purse your lips, like you are playing a brass instrument.

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, begins at sunset Friday. Across the world, Jews will spend the two-day holiday in prayer, reflection and celebration. And for many, a highlight will be hearing the shofar: an animal's horn blown like a trumpet.

How did this primal instrument become a holiday's spiritual soundtrack?

" The most basic answer is that it makes noise, right? It calls people to attention," said Daniel Picus, an associate professor at Western Washington University in Bellingham who researches religious practices and rituals. "All of the instances in which a shofar is used in the Hebrew Bible, that is what it's doing."

Abraham Ribak , an Israeli, blows a shofar, a musical instrument used in Jewish religious ceremonies made from the horn of a ram.

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Ariel Schalit

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Shofar blasts marked the revelation of the Torah at Mt. Sinai and the start of the Jubilee year, Picus said. Priests blew shofars when they circled the walls of Jericho to bring down the walls. The shofar marks moments of heightened experience and emotion — and Rosh Hashanah.

"In the Hebrew Bible, Rosh Hashanah is the day of trumpeting and the day of remembrance," Picus said. "The association of the shofar with Rosh Hashanah is right there in the Biblical text."

Centuries later, the Mishnah, the earliest rabbinic codification of law, drilled down into greater detail in the tractate Rosh Hashanah, laying out exactly how a shofar should be prepared (hollowed out), repaired (it depends), blown (a complex series of blasts at several times during the service, thanks to debate over linguistic interpretation), and whether or not it can be blown when Rosh Hashanah falls on Shabbat (no, although some modern synagogues have changed course).

And within the Talmud and for centuries thereafter, people have debated the meaning of the shofar.

Shofars are on display for sale at the Barsheshet-Ribak Shofarot company, in Tel Aviv, Israel.

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Ariel Schalit

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Rabbi Micha'el Rosenberg, who teaches at the Hadar Institute, a center for Jewish learning based in New York City, pointed to several sources that compare the sound of the shofar to the cry of a mother in pain — the mother of the slain biblical military commander Sisera, and the cries of a woman in labor.

Rosenberg said you can hear that in the sound — especially the broken staccato blasts, known as "teruah."

"You can really imagine someone so caught up that they can't get the full sound out even, that they're gasping with their cries," he said.

Another interpretation comes from Maimonides, the medieval Jewish rabbi and scholar known as the Rambam, who wrote "The Laws of Repentance." He describes the blast of the shofar as a sort of spiritual wake-up call to become your best self.

"In Jewish law, we have this expression of daled amos, my four cubits: I focus on the 6 feet around me, as it were," he said. "It's easy to do that — and there's value in doing that sometimes. But the shofar, per the Rambam, wakes us up and says, 'No, there's more beyond what I can immediately see around me.'"

Rosenberg also pointed to Hasidic theories that the blowing of the shofar reenacts the breathing of life into the world. But he said one of the most powerful things about the shofar is that it doesn't say anything at all. "It transcends my words, it transcends my rational thoughts, and it really is just a feeling that I can hope to hold onto," he said.

Rabins, the Portland rabbi and musician, said the shofar can call across time to speak to those wordless places inside us. "It really brings you into the moment, and you also feel connected to your ancestors, who have been hearing this sound and making this sound for thousands of years," she said.

It's a sound, Rabin said, that can wake you up to all the joy and sadness of life, whether it be a birthday horn or a mother's cry. And it makes you pay attention — both to this moment, and to the year to come.

This story was created through a partnership between NPR and Religion News Service.
Copyright 2026 NPR

TV critics care a lot about the people who bring us the shows we love, so of course we each have folks we're pulling for this Emmy season. The Pitt, Hacks, Widow's Bay and Pluribus are leading the Emmy nominations pack this year. Here's who we'll have our fingers crossed for during the ceremony on Monday night.

Outstanding drama series: Pluribus 

Rhea Seehorn in "Pluribus."

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Apple TV

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HBO Max hit The Pitt likely wins here. But Apple TV's Pluribus triumphs as a revolutionary sci-fi story; a virus, created with instructions sent from the stars, unites humanity in a giant hive mind, creating paradise or the largest cult in history. — Eric Deggans

Outstanding lead actor, drama: Noah Wyle, The Pitt 

Noah Wyle in "The Pitt."

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Warrick Page

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MAX

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It's easy to overlook the massive feat star Noah Wyle achieved on The Pitt's second season; pushing a beloved character to the brink of unlikability. Wyle plays struggling Dr. "Robby" Rabinovich as a good guy in serious crisis, finding new depths. — Eric Deggans 

Outstanding lead actress, drama: Rhea Seehorn, Pluribus 

Rhea Seehorn in "Pluribus."

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<i>Apple TV</i>

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At least half of this show is just watching Rhea Seehorn's Carol all by herself, parsing out the rules of a new post-apocalyptic world while mourning her wife. Yet it's always compelling, because Seehorn is a talent who should already have an Emmy! — Aisha Harris

Outstanding supporting actress, drama: Karolina Wydra, Pluribus 

Karolina Wydra in "Pluribus."

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Apple TV

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Hoping Emmy voters look past the four actresses nominated from The Pitt to honor a performer who brought empathy and depth to a thankless role: Karolina Wydra as Zosia, the voice of the global hive mind, talking to Rhea Seehorn's Carol in Pluribus. — Eric Deggans 

Outstanding comedy series: Margo's Got Money Troubles  

Elle Fanning in "Margo's Got Money Troubles."

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<i>Apple TV</i>

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Apple TV's Margo's Got Money Troubles is a comedy nominee that doesn't seem like one. But the story of a young woman leaning into problematic choices to build a life with her baby and quirky family was the year's most surprising, energizing show. — Eric Deggans 

Outstanding lead actor, comedy: Yahya Abdul-Mateen II, Wonder Man  

Yahya Adbul-Mateen II in "Wonder Man."

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Suzanne Tenner

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This nomination was a surprise after Marvel cancelled its creative, quirky superhero series, Wonder Man. But star Yahya Abdul-Mateen II is spellbinding as a superpowered guy who just wants to be a successful actor, blending comedy, pathos and drama. — Eric Deggans 

Outstanding lead actress, comedy: Lisa Kudrow, The Comeback   

Lisa Kudrow in "The Comeback."

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Emma Simkin

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The category's stacked, but Lisa Kudrow's Valerie Cherish threads many needles beautifully: self-absorbed yet caring, oft-humiliated yet resilient, wacky but grounded when necessary. As a character in Season 3 says to her: "To me, you're it." Indeed. — Aisha Harris  

Outstanding supporting actress, comedy: Kate O'Flynn, Widow's Bay  

Kate O'Flynn in "Widow's Bay."

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Apple TV

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It's all there in Episode 4, the one in which Patricia's desperate play to improve her social status — a cocktail party — goes awry. Kate O'Flynn knows this character, what drives her and what makes her so cringe (to us). It's utterly mesmerizing. — Aisha Harris 

Outstanding supporting actor, comedy: Nick Offerman, Margo's Got Money Troubles  

Nick Offerman in "Margo's Got Money Troubles."

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Nick Offerman excels playing macho guys who are more sensitive than anyone expects. But he scales new heights as Jinx, an ex-wrestler/once-estranged dad, struggling with addiction while trying to support his daughter in Margo's Got Money Troubles. — Eric Deggans 

Outstanding writing for a comedy series: The Comeback 

Lisa Kudrow in "The Comeback."

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Erin Simkin

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A new season comes around every 10 years (like the census!) to provide us a clear-eyed accounting (like the census!). This show was right about reality TV and streaming services; we ignore this season's dire, hilarious warnings about AI at our peril. — Glen Weldon 

Outstanding limited or anthology series: DTF St. Louis  

Jason Bateman and David Harbour in "DTF St. Louis."

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Tina Rowden

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HBO

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It's tough to explain how a show about the mysterious death of a schlubby guy stuck in a love triangle became the year's most creatively quirky limited series. Somehow, star David Harbour turns this tale of middle-aged desperation into poignant, dark comedy. — Eric Deggans 

And already announced

I'm happy to report that two of my picks already took home their Emmys in a ceremony last weekend formerly known as the Creative Arts Emmys. So congratulations to Betty Gilpin, who won outstanding guest actress in a comedy for Widow's Bay, and to The Muppet Show for outstanding writing for a variety special. (A third pick — Connor Storrie's game, goofball turn as SNL host — didn't end up winning outstanding guest actor in a comedy, but seeing as that award went to the late Rob Reiner for The Bear, I'm not complaining.) — Glen Weldon
Copyright 2026 NPR

A Spanish-language TV singing competition from Mexico is doing something that mega-popular shows like The Voice are not. México Canta brings contestants from the U.S. and Mexico together to share the stage — and cultural ties.

“I am very connected to my Mexican side and those roots, [but] I've never really gotten to perform for such a big Mexican audience,” said Tiffany Galaviz, who performed on the show last month. She was born and raised in L.A. County and lives in Glendale.

The semifinals were held in L.A.’s Orpheum Theater on Aug. 23, and the winners were chosen by hundreds of thousands of people who cast votes online. Galaviz made it through, which means she’ll be one of seven finalists who will perform in the competition on Sunday, Sept. 13 at Mexico City’s prestigious Auditorio Nacional.

Three will be named winners and will receive recording contracts.

“It's a huge, huge venue [that’s]  very important to the Mexican culture,” Galaviz said. “More than anything, I just feel really proud, especially making my family proud. Most of my family is from Sinaloa, and I spent a lot of summers there growing up."

Tiffany Galaviz is a mariachi musician in Southern California.

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Studying mariachi since she was 8

The U.S. semi-finalists included performers from Arizona, Illinois and New York, while finalists from Mexico came from Morelos and Mexico City, among other places.

Galaviz is 24 and first started learning to play violin and sing in mariachi bands when she was 8. She plays violin and sings in mariachis across Southern California now and makes a living from it.

“I signed up for México Canta because I feel like I have everything that I need except the connections, the resources, the producers, the studios,” she said.

Created as an alternative to songs that glorify violence

The Voice and its Spanish-language counterpart La Voz create a platform for celebrity and the potential for stardom. But that’s less so for México Canta. The competition was created by Mexico’s Secretary of Culture to bring together people of Mexican heritage from both sides of the U.S.-Mexico border around songwriting that’s an alternative to music that glorifies violence.

“We’ve strengthened fraternal ties between people in Mexico and the U.S.,” said Claudia Curiel de Icaza, Mexico’s culture secretary, when she presented the seven U.S. semi-finalists at a morning press conference on July 23. The seven semi-finalists from Mexico were presented a week later.

“Youth are front and center in the transformation of culture. [The contest has shown] that music has no borders, and it is furthering fellowship between Mexicans and Mexican Americans,” Curiel said.

Galaviz said that’s another important reason she signed up for México Canta.

She picked the corrido musical genre for the song she performed at the Orpheum. She’s had a love-hate relationship with corridos, she said, because many contemporary songs in the genre glorify drug dealing and violence.

Tiffany Galaviz performed at the México Canta semifinals at the Orpheum Theater in downtown L.A. on August 23, 2026.

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“I felt like I could make a positive impact, not just me but the rest of the contestants [too] by doing songs that are a little bit more positive in nature in their lyrics,” she said.

The song is about a breakup and begins with a description of a photo torn in two. It’s about a woman’s heartbreak, she said, “ but then it kind of shifts to an empowerment, you know, of being able to be by yourself as a woman.”

Galaviz began to get teary after finishing the song and talking to the presenter on stage.

“[I'm] proud of being able to represent Mexico and my roots. … It means a lot to have my family here, who’ve always supported me,” she said.

Days after making it past the semifinals, Galaviz had not picked the song she’d sing for the Sept. 13 finals. The performance carries weight for all contestants because it’ll be three days before Mexican Independence Day. Held in Mexico’s capital, the finals will take place in front of thousands of people, with an audience on TV, radio and online on both sides of the border.

Lauren Kim works alongside her father, Hanjik, at his traditional medicine clinic on the border of Koreatown and MacArthur Park. But it took an oral history interview for her to hear parts of his story for the first time.

Filmed speaking in Korean, he animatedly described how he came to traditional medicine.

“It’s just so precious to have that captured,” Kim said.

Now that interview, along with hundreds of others about life in and around Koreatown, is being gathered into the new K-Town Archive in a partnership with UCLA that also includes photographs and ephemera.

The archive grew out of Koreatown Youth and Community Center’s Koreatown Storytelling Program, which launched in 2020 with plans to have young people interview elders. Then COVID-19 hit. Participants pivoted to delivering necessities for older residents such as masks and disinfectant.

They also started documenting what people were going through – in English, Korean, Spanish and Bangla. A current offshoot project involves interviewing people who live or work along the stretch of Third Street in Little Bangladesh.

“People hear Koreatown, they assume that it means that this is a program or an archive for Korean Americans,” said Katherine Yungmee Kim, director of the storytelling program. “But we are multiethnic. We want to represent the entire community that lives here.”

In the last several years, the teen interviewers have turned their attention to subjects including the garment industry, LGBTQIA life and food culture. As the collection of interviews grew, Kim began thinking about where they would ultimately live.

“I was always worried that we have all of these interviews and they’re just sitting on a hard drive,” she said.

A path toward a more permanent home began to emerge in 2024, when the storytelling program focused on traditional healing.

While researching Zapotec plant medicine, one high schooler came across UCLA’s Archive of Healing, a vast digital collection of knowledge about healing practices from cultures around the world.

Its materials stretch back more than 200 years and include published sources, folkloric fieldnotes and oral histories.

Kim asked UCLA’s David Shorter, a professor of World Arts and Cultures who’s overseen the Archive of Healing since 2012, to serve as an adviser to the project.

At first, the two had an idea to add Koreatown’s traditional healing interviews to the UCLA collection.

Then the idea got bigger.

Kim said she began seeing storytelling itself as a form of healing, especially as people described immigration, war, displacement and other difficult experiences.

The new K-Town Archive features recordings and photos from Koreatown and surrounding communities.

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UCLA Library Digital Collections

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“All of these stories are healing,” she said. “Why are we just narrowly looking at traditional healing modalities?”

The resulting K-Town Archive became the Archive of Healing’s first community-specific sister site. The two databases are connected, meaning material from Koreatown can also surface through searches of the larger Archive of Healing.

“What the K-Town Archive brings is real people’s stories in long form, so it's not just little snippets anymore,” Shorter said. “You actually get to hear a person, know that these are real humans, and talking from a contemporary moment.”

Kim said that it was important to populate the archives with as many voices as possible so visitors encounter more than “one historical perspective.”

The effort to create places for those conversations won’t be confined to the internet.

Lauren Kim in front of her father's apothecary cabinets. Their interviews are now preserved in the K-Town Archive.

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Courtesy of Lauren Kim

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KYCC is also setting up an art and wellness Center at Pico Boulevard and Western Avenue in a building that used to house a Dollar Tree.

Kim said the center will host Koreatown Storytelling Program events as well as arts and healing workshops. Public programming is expected to begin in January.

Lauren Kim’s family continues to stay connected to the storytelling project. She agreed to sit for an oral history of her own, talking about her childhood and connection to Koreatown.

That sparked new conversations within her family and sent them digging through old photographs, including images of her as a child posing in front of her father’s wooden apothecary cabinets.

For Kim, she was honored to contribute to the archive as “an example of what it means to work intergenerationally,” Kim said. “That felt special.”