OAKLAND, Calif. — The first time she ran for president, Kamala Harris launched her candidacy with a splashy rally that filled downtown Oakland with more than 20,000 cheering supporters.

It was a wholehearted embrace of her birthplace and a nod to the city's aspirational history.

But the feeling wasn't necessarily mutual. For some — mindful that Harris decamped and made her name across the bay in San Francisco — the imagery rang hollow. It was like a seldom-seen relative showing up at a wedding to give an elaborate toast, then horning her way into the photos.

"It was a political move," Oakland resident David Omosheyin scoffed as he crossed the nearly empty City Hall plaza a month after Harris' big 2019 bash.

As she tries one more time for the White House — running at a sprinter's pace — Harris is again embracing Oakland as an integral part of her identity. The soul. The grit. The rainbow vibrancy.

This time, though, local sentiments are different.

If the vice president and Democrats' new standard-bearer wants to wrap herself in the aura and energy of Oakland, many in this proud, struggling city are happy to accept the accolade.

"It's good to see a candidate we can identify with," said Deb Tisdale, 71, who has a part-time administrative job at City Hall and lives where the Oakland Hills meet the Flatlands, a defining social and geographic divide that Harris notably mentioned in her convention speech. "It's good to see her put Oakland in the spotlight."

"Local kid does good," said Fred Haliburton, 57, who works in the city's finance department and lives in East Oakland.

Harris' relationship with the city is complicated — or, at least, requires some explanation.

Although she was born in Oakland, Harris grew up mostly in neighboring Berkeley. (There were also stops in Evanston, Illinois, and Madison, Wisconsin.) She moved to Canada at age 12, where she went to high school. After graduating from Washington's Howard University, she attended law school in the Bay Area. In 1990, Harris began her professional career in Oakland as a local prosecutor.

Ten years later, she crossed the bay to work in the San Francisco city attorney's office. In 2003, Harris was elected San Francisco's district attorney, starting a political career that took her to Sacramento as state attorney general and, from there, the United States Senate.

Today, when Harris is not living in the vice presidential mansion in Washington, she resides in the Brentwood neighborhood of Los Angeles.

That frequent change of address makes Harris not unlike a number of migratory Californians. But it does make her Oakland connection somewhat fleeting.

"I think of her as 'Bay Area,' " said Kelly Pschirrer, 52, a resident of the Oakland Hills, citing the political and cultural commonalities that blur the lines between the closely spaced cities of Oakland, Berkeley and San Francisco. "We're all connected here."

From a political standpoint, Harris' choice to affiliate herself with Oakland is not difficult to understand. The city is not as snooty and pretentious as San Francisco. (Which fancies itself The City — capital "'T," capital "C.") Nor does Oakland have the crazy-lefty, hippy-dippy reputation of Berkeley. ("Berzerkeley," as some have it.)

Rather, the city has long been a scrappy municipal underdog — an image Harris, who's made the word "fight" an integral part of her campaign — is eager to project.

Of course, not everyone here is enamored with the "daughter of Oakland, California," as Harris now styles herself.

Bella Ramir, 37, who lives in the hills and works in criminal justice mediation, is no fan of Donald Trump. "But at least you know what you're going to get with him," said Ramir, who plans to vote for the GOP nominee over Harris. "I know the answer he's going to give me is real. With Kamala, I feel like I have to guess what her true intentions are."

Aether Cavendish, an artist who lives on the waterfront in Oakland's bustling Jack London Square, questioned whether the vice president's celebration of the city was more calculated than sincere.

"Everything now is buzzwords and sound bites and memes," said Cavendish, pausing outside the Alameda County Court House, where Harris once prosecuted sex crimes. "If I were in her shoes" — as a history-making Black and Asian American woman — "and I wanted to play the card of inclusivity, I would say to people, 'I'm from Oakland. It's a cool place. Look how far we've come.' "

(Having no faith whatsoever in the political system, the 53-year-old Cavendish has no intention of voting in November.)

On a recent sunny morning, the plaza outside City Hall was stirring to life.

A spirited game of dominoes was underway at a card table on the sidewalk, as pumping hip-hop poured from a set of speakers. Past a row of boarded-up storefronts, a work crew arrived and began setting up canopies and chairs on the wide front lawn. Purple and white balloons lent a festive air; the gathering spot was intended to mark International Overdose Awareness Day.

It was a reminder of the buoyant spirit and deep-seated troubles that make Oakland such an inviting and vexing place.

"It would be better if the city was in a better position," Haliburton said of its moment of national notice.

Stepping outside his office, Haliburton pointed to where his new car was recently stolen in broad daylight. "As everybody knows, right now the crime rate is not great," he said. "Our mayor is facing a recall. There's a lot of things wrong in Oakland."

Haliburton realizes that, as president, Harris would have a whole country to worry about. Still, he said, perhaps the city could benefit.

"Maybe," Haliburton said, "just maybe, in some kind of way that'll trickle down, she'll say, 'Oakland really needs some help.' And something positive will happen."

Pschirrer, on a break from her post in the public works department, said, at the least, Harris topping the Democrats' ticket means the city could become known for something other than the maladies — murders, shootings, alleged civic corruption — that produce one disheartening headline after another.

"We have a lot of great heart in this city and a lot of things to offer that you don't hear about on the news," Pschirrer said. She lifted her hands and crossed her fingers. "If," she began. "No, when, [Harris] becomes president, maybe we can turn around some of the imagery people have in their heads and turn it into something positive."

For many here, eager for improvement, supporting Harris is not just a matter of civic pride but an act of hope and faith.

It turns out you can go home again.

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