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Title: From Rancho Acalanes to Lafayette: How the Town Got Its Name (and Why It Wasn't Always Lafayette!)
If you’re driving east from Oakland, the cityscape gives way to rolling oak-dotted hills, and soon enough you’ll spot the sign: Lafayette. On the surface, it’s a quintessential Bay Area suburb. But beneath the surface, Lafayette’s name—and its identity—are rooted in a legacy older than the town itself.
The story starts nearly two centuries ago, in 1834, when California was still under Mexican rule. The government, eager to encourage settlement, parceled out large tracts of land as ranchos. This region was called Rancho Acalanes, 3,300 acres granted to Candelario Valencia, a soldier from the Presidio of San Francisco. Valencia never settled here for long, and like much of California’s early land, the ownership quickly changed hands. By the early 1840s, William Welch briefly held title, but the most influential early resident arrived in 1846: Elam Brown.
Elam Brown was a farmer from Illinois, traveling west with his family on the overland trail. Brown purchased much of Rancho Acalanes from Valencia’s successors, determined to build a new life far from the Midwest. He established a homestead, grew crops, and, in time, helped draw other settlers to the area. Still, the community was sparse and nameless. Locals referred to it simply as “Acalanes,” after the original rancho.
By the 1850s, the Gold Rush was transforming California, and the need for infrastructure grew. Residents petitioned for a post office—an essential step for any aspiring town. Their first suggestion, “Centerville,” reflected the town’s location in the center of the valley, but the U.S. Postal Service rejected it: there was already a Centerville in Alameda County. Next, they tried “Acalanes,” but postal officials again declined, reportedly due to possible confusion and pronunciation concerns.
The townspeople needed a new idea. In the 19th century, America was still enamored with the memory of the Marquis de Lafayette, the French general who fought alongside George Washington in the Revolutionary War. Lafayette’s name, associated with ideals of liberty and unity, was popular across the country. So, in 1857, the community’s post office and, by extension, the settlement itself, adopted the name “Lafayette.”
But, as with many things in early California, change was gradual. For years, locals still used “Acalanes” and even “Brown’s Corners,” a nod to Elam Brown’s central role in the community’s early days. Maps from the late 19th century are a patchwork of these names, reflecting the area’s evolving identity. It wasn’t until the arrival of the Central Pacific Railroad in the 1860s and 1870s that “Lafayette” began to take hold in earnest. The train station bore the new name, and as the town grew—with more businesses, homes, and visitors—the name stuck.
A piece of the old rancho lives on in today’s Lafayette. The local high school, Acalanes High, bears the original land grant’s name, and you’ll still hear longtime residents refer to the valley as “Acalanes.” It’s a subtle reminder that place names, like the land itself, are shaped by generations of settlement and change.
Elam Brown’s story, too, is woven into the town’s fabric. He donated land for the first school and the Methodist church, and his homestead became a gathering place for early residents. Brown died in 1889, but his descendants and his legacy lived on as Lafayette grew from a rural outpost into a thriving community.
Today, Lafayette is known for its excellent schools, vibrant downtown, and scenic trails. But every street sign and school crest carries echoes of its layered past—from Rancho Acalanes to Lafayette, from Valencia to Brown, from a nameless valley to a community with a name that honors freedom and resilience.
So, next time you stroll through Lafayette, know that the name on the sign is the product of ambitious settlers, a stubborn postal service, and a long memory for the land’s earliest days. Like so many towns in California, Lafayette’s story is a reminder that history is never far from view—it’s right there, beneath your feet, and in the name you say every day.