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<title>Stop ‘Avoiding Politics’ at the Holiday Table, Says This Expert</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2024/12/19/stop-avoiding-politics-at-the-holiday-table-says-this-expert/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Alexander Gonzalez]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Thu, 19 Dec 2024 12:00:29 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=12018790</guid>
<description><![CDATA[A communications professor at Cal State East Bay explains how to approach politics and why it’s unavoidable during the holidays.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>In Amira Barger’s family, there are three rules they use to navigate difficult conversations — especially about politics.</p>
<p>The first, Barger said, is, “Who are we going to break bread with?” The second: “Who do we build a boundary with?”</p>
<p>And the third rule: “Who are we burning a bridge with?”</p>
<ul>
<li><strong>Jump straight to: </strong><strong><a href="#expert-tips">This expert’s four tips for bringing politics to your holiday table</a></strong></li>
</ul>
<p>Barger, a communications professor at Cal State East Bay, has thought a lot about these questions. But it’s a whole other thing when the talking points and strategy involve your own family. She said that since 2016, elections have created especially tense moments.</p>
<p>“Much of our family, on both sides, voted very differently than my husband and I did, for reasons that we don’t necessarily and personally understand,” she said. “Through years of conversations, we’ve had to make the difficult decision to build boundaries.”</p>
<div><span class="aside"><img decoding="async" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/44/2024/11/JennyFanRaj-1020x1360.jpg" /><a href=""></a></span></div>
<p>“And in some instances, burn bridges with my father-in-law, my brother, and even my own mother,” she added.</p>
<h2>Why tackle difficult conversations head-on?</h2>
<p>Barger said this approach is not based on any “arrogance” she has. Rather, it’s an attempt at self-preservation as a former registered Republican who grew up in a deeply conservative environment surrounded by evangelical Christians.</p>
<p>“My current identity, a registered Democrat, is not a result of misunderstanding or elitism,” she said. “For me, it’s a consequence of a profound and personal understanding of a mindset and a life and a set of beliefs that I actually left behind — which is where some of the anger and confusion and hurt comes from with my family.”</p>
<p>The holidays are a time when these kinds of tensions particularly flare. For many, the prospect of navigating political differences with loved ones around the table has become something of a seasonal villain — a buzzkill on a par with the Grinch or Scrooge. (Or the mega-developer who wants to buy out a town’s only holiday shop.)</p>
<p>Since the 2016 presidential election, many news organizations have offered advice to readers on how to gracefully navigate such conversations while minimizing conflict, like CNN’s “<a href="https://www.cnn.com/2016/11/22/health/thanksgiving-holiday-conversation-survival-guide-trnd/index.html">How to talk politics at your family holiday meal this year</a>,” NBC’s “<a href="https://www.nbcnews.com/better/health/how-survive-thanksgiving-when-politics-loom-large-ncna821206">How to survive Thanksgiving when politics loom large</a>” or NPR’s “<a href="https://www.npr.org/transcripts/1257825199">Science-backed tips on how to navigate holiday arguments</a>.” Or, for that matter, KQED’s “<a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11967137/how-to-handle-hard-conversations-with-family-this-holiday-season">How to Handle Hard Conversations With Family This Holiday Season</a>.”</p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"></p>
<div><span class="aside"><img decoding="async" src="" /><a href="">The Latest Politics News</a></span></div>
<p></span></p>
<p>In a recent survey, the American Psychological Association found that nearly 40% of adults reported being stressed by the thought of politics coming up at holiday gatherings. An equal number said they’d rather avoid it altogether.</p>
<p>But Barger argues otherwise. For her, difficult conversations help put families on a path toward growth — and she said those discussions have become more necessary now than ever before.</p>
<p>So, if avoiding conflict isn’t your aim either, here’s how you can brace for potentially awkward, messy conversations like these over the holidays — and how to prepare for the reality that things could get tense:</p>
<h2><a id="expert-tips"></a>1. Politics is unavoidable, so plan ahead</h2>
<p>In this era of hyper-political polarization, Barger believes that at the core of disagreements among loved ones is a lack of empathy. She said that now, more than ever, the tensions aren’t just differences of political opinion — they’re actually over human rights and values.</p>
<p>“There really is this clash of fundamental principles about people’s humanity that is being attacked. My humanity as a Black woman,” she said. “Or if I look at some of my friends, their humanity or dignity as members of the LGBTQ+ community, as an immigrant family, as someone who is unhoused or underemployed, or someone who is hungry.”</p>
<p>“Our voices and our vote are things that we can control and choices that we can make to protect people around us, based on who’s in power and the policies that are promoted and that are actually passed,” Barger said. “So I think it’s a conversation about values. That’s what’s at stake.”</p>
<p>In short, Barger suggests that people make a plan that recognizes who they’ll engage with — and what their own limits might be.</p>
<figure id="attachment_12018740" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 2000px"><img fetchpriority="high" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-12018740" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/20241217_PoliticsHoliday-6.jpg" alt="" width="2000" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/20241217_PoliticsHoliday-6.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/20241217_PoliticsHoliday-6-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/20241217_PoliticsHoliday-6-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/20241217_PoliticsHoliday-6-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/20241217_PoliticsHoliday-6-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/12/20241217_PoliticsHoliday-6-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Amira Barger, Communications professor at Cal State East Bay, poses for a photo at her home in Benicia on Dec. 17, 2024. Barger, now progressive in political beliefs, grew up in a conservative, Christian family. She will not be joining her family for the holidays and instead will stay at home with her husband, child and little brother. <cite>(Gina Castro/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<h2>2. Show up with curiosity and humility</h2>
<p>According to Barger, a “real” conversation is partly about growth. But people have to start with an open mind, she said — and be ready to have their perspectives challenged.</p>
<p>Consider these questions:</p>
<ul>
<li>Is there something in this world that I am wrong about or halfway right about and need to learn more about?</li>
<li>What about what I’m hearing from these perspectives around the table might be understandable?</li>
</ul>
<p>You are encouraged to say “I don’t know” and follow up later, Barger said.</p>
<h2>3. Think “yes and ….”</h2>
<p>It’s not just a trope of improv and comedy sketches. There’s a reason that “yes and” has become a mainstay of corporate ice-breakers and summer camp circuits.</p>
<p>Common ground can help create understanding, Barger said, “because that helps people to build trust with one another and to strengthen connection.”</p>
<p>“There are some things that we agree on. We may not agree on the solutions to those things, but maybe we agree on what the challenge or the problem is,” she said.</p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><!-- to be implemented later --></span></p>
<h2>4. If all else fails, hit the reset button</h2>
<p>Barger said if conversations escalate, people should take a verbal pause — or a physical one. In the past, she said she’s gone for a walk around the block or pivoted the conversation to innocuous topics like upcoming travel plans.</p>
<p>“That’s about building a boundary,” Barger said. “Boundaries aren’t about controlling others.”</p>
<p>“They’re about honoring your well-being and your values and what’s important to you.”</p>
<p><em>KQED’s Brian Watt contributed to this report.</em></p>
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<media:description type="html">Amira Barger, Communications professor at Cal State East Bay, poses for a photo at her home in Benicia on Dec. 17, 2024. Barger grew up with a conservative, Christian family who voted for President-elect Trump. She will not be joining her family for the holidays and instead will stay at home with her child and husband.</media:description>
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<title>She Almost Lost Custody of Her Baby; a Unique LA County Court Gave Her a Second Chance</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2024/09/17/she-almost-lost-custody-of-her-baby-a-unique-la-county-court-gave-her-a-second-chance/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Daisy Nguyen]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Tue, 17 Sep 2024 11:00:56 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=12004917</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Babies and toddlers are placed in the child welfare system far more than older kids. A unique courtroom in Compton is trying to change that pattern by supporting their parents so they can better care for their kids.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><span style="font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia">O</span>ne of the tallest buildings in South Los Angeles is the Compton courthouse. It’s an imposing monument to justice in a city plagued by crime and poverty.</p>
<p>Beyond the security checkpoint and up the elevator to the 12th floor, there is a one-of-a-kind courtroom in California that’s taking a different approach to handling child welfare cases involving babies and toddlers.</p>
<p>Outside its door, books and toys fill a waiting room. In one corner, there’s a cozy gliding chair to nurse or rock a baby to sleep and a soft mat that invites kids to play on the floor. Colorful paintings hang on the wall, showcasing Compton’s unique features, like the black cowboys who ride horses through the city.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11998822" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1999px"><a href="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-117_qed.jpg"><img decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11998822" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-117_qed.jpg" alt="A woman dressed in black clothing stand in a room with a play set and toys behind her." width="1999" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-117_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-117_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-117_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-117_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-117_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-117_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="(max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Judge Ashley Price inside the general waiting room that she has revamped to be more welcoming to families visiting her courthouse in Compton on July 31, 2024. Zaydee Sanchez/KQED <cite>(Zaydee Sanchez for KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>“We realized that we really wanted to create a space where the children and their families could wait and feel a little bit more comfortable when they have to come to court,” said Ashley Price, a dependency court judge who oversees this courtroom, “It’s already stressful and overwhelming as it is.”</p>
<p>In California, young children, especially babies under 1 year old, are removed from their homes and placed in the child welfare system <a href="https://www.cdss.ca.gov/inforesources/cdss-programs/child-welfare-early-childhood/data">far more than older kids</a>. They also tend to have longer stays in foster care. It’s a traumatic experience that takes place during a pivotal period of attachment and development.</p>
<p>Judge Price is transforming the way she handles cases involving children under 3 years old by intentionally putting their mental health at the center of decision-making.</p>
<p>“The bedrock of our court is recognizing how harmful separation can be and can we find a way around that with extra help and support,” she said.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11998533" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 2000px"><a href="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-120-ZS-KQED.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11998533" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-120-ZS-KQED.jpg" alt="The outside of a tall building with a few palm trees in the front." width="2000" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-120-ZS-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-120-ZS-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-120-ZS-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-120-ZS-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-120-ZS-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-120-ZS-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The Los Angeles County Superior Court in Compton. <cite>(Zaydee Sanchez for KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Parents come to dependency court when child protective services investigate them for mistreatment or neglect. A judge holds hearings to decide whether the allegations are true and whether the child should be a dependent of the court, which gives it authority to make decisions about the child’s care and home placement. The judge and lawyers work out a temporary living arrangement, which may require placing the child with a relative or in foster care while the parents work on meeting certain safety and behavioral criteria – like completing substance abuse treatment or parenting classes – to keep their parental rights.</p>
<p>Price modeled her courtroom after <a href="https://www.zerotothree.org/our-work/itcp/the-safe-babies-court-team-approach/">Safe Babies</a>, a national program by the child advocacy organization Zero To Three, which prioritizes building relationships with parents and providing them the social services they need so they can meet the court’s requirements and quickly reunify with their babies. While not every baby gets returned to their parents, the program aims to provide services that strengthen the parent-child relationship, even if the baby is ultimately placed with a relative or adoptive parent.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11998821" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 2000px"><a href="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-109_qed.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11998821" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-109_qed.jpg" alt="A sign on a table that says "Free hugs."" width="2000" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-109_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-109_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-109_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-109_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-109_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/Judge-Ashely-Price-109_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">A table with a sign providing free hugs can be seen inside Judge Price’s courtroom in Compton. Zaydee Sanchez/KQED <cite>(Zaydee Sanchez for KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>To do that, Price partnered with attorneys representing the parents, children and Los Angeles County’s Department of Children and Family Services. The same attorneys from each team appear before her court every day, so they’re familiar with every case and family they see. Before starting the program, they visited social service providers in the community so they could better refer families to those organizations.</p>
<p>“For example, if we’re going to send our families to a place to have anger management classes, our courtroom has been there, too,” she said.</p>
<p>Compared with other courtrooms in LA County’s vast dependency court system, this one has a lower caseload and is specially staffed with a community coordinator to connect families to the social services they need.</p>
<p>Ben Falcioni, an attorney with Los Angeles Dependency Lawyers, said he typically handled 130 cases before being assigned to the Compton dependency court.</p>
<p>“In Compton, with what we’re doing here, which is arguably radically different than the existing system, my caseload is right around 50,” he said. While every dependency court’s goal is to reunify families, he said the lower caseloads in Price’s courtroom give the judge, lawyers and social workers more time to weigh factors, like the parents’ circumstances or the baby’s mental health, that other courts may not have.</p>
<p>“We’re able to provide a lot more oversight, not like a police state type of oversight, but in a more restorative justice mindset of how do we come alongside this family that could be hurting, could be dealing with that level of dysfunction that’s placing their children at risk of harm, to breathe peace and sanity and restoration into this family,” he said.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11998534" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 2000px"><a href="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-121-ZS-KQED.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11998534" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-121-ZS-KQED.jpg" alt="The outside of a building with a sign that reads "Superior Court of California County of Los Angeles Compton Court."" width="2000" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-121-ZS-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-121-ZS-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-121-ZS-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-121-ZS-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-121-ZS-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-121-ZS-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Los Angeles County Superior Court in Compton. <cite>(Zaydee Sanchez for KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Leslie Heimov, executive director of Children’s Law Center, said her organization is dedicating more financial resources to allow her staff to maintain a low caseload in Price’s courtroom.</p>
<p>She said when she began defending children 30 years ago, there was no process for ensuring that when a baby is removed from home, the parent shares information to the foster caregiver about the baby’s favorite lullaby, eating or sleeping routine.</p>
<p>“Because we’re in such an adversarial, high-stress and often law enforcement-involved situation, all the things that are good for babies and small children are out the window because there’s this focus on safety first, but safety to the exclusion of well-being,” Heimov said.</p>
<p>She said she’s excited about Price’s courtroom style because it asks all parties to work toward a solution that promotes the baby’s mental health and well-being.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11998531" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 2000px"><a href="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-105-ZS-KQED.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11998531" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-105-ZS-KQED.jpg" alt="A stuffed animal giraffe stands in the back seating area with a blue illustration on the wall of cars on the road." width="2000" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-105-ZS-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-105-ZS-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-105-ZS-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-105-ZS-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-105-ZS-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/JUDGE-ASHELY-PRICE-105-ZS-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">A stuffed giraffe stands near a seating area inside Judge Price’s dependency courtroom at the Los Angeles County Superior Courthouse in Compton. <cite>(Zaydee Sanchez for KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>In her courtroom, Price provides snacks and crayons to help families get through their hearings. In one corner, there’s a tall stuffed giraffe that she said has been a hit with the kids. She also makes a point of sitting at a desk facing parents instead of presiding from a bench above them.</p>
<p>“A lot of times, I think that has contributed to this feeling that parents are constantly being judged and criticized,” she said. “And so I like to kind of take away that dynamic and come down and sit with them at their same level and look at them eye to eye and talk to them about what do you need? How can we help you? How can we support you?”</p>
<p>Moana Galala, 28, appeared before the judge last November after giving birth to her second daughter, Eliza. A social worker was worried Galala wasn’t fit to care for the baby because she had a history of addiction.</p>
<figure id="attachment_12001982" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 2000px"><a href="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-119-KQED.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-12001982" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-119-KQED.jpg" alt="A woman holds a young child dressed in green on a inflatable apparatus." width="2000" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-119-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-119-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-119-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-119-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-119-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-119-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Galala plays with her four-year-old daughter, Nevaeh, in Carson on Aug. 24, 2024. <cite>(Zaydee Sanchez for KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Four years earlier, she lost custody of her first daughter, Nevaeh, after the newborn tested positive for drugs. The circumstances were dire: In June 2020, Galala underwent an emergency C-section alone in the hospital because of pandemic restrictions. She was placed in a medically-induced coma after her blood pressure spiked, and she suffered cardiac arrest. When she was released from the hospital, she wasn’t allowed to see the girl she named “Heaven” in reverse.</p>
<p>“Right after I gave birth to her, they took her from me,” Galala said.</p>
<p>Galala said that experience sent her spiraling downward. A dependency court in Monterey Park, east of downtown Los Angeles, gave Galala’s sister custody of Nevaeh.</p>
<p>“I went through a bad depression. My postpartum was horrible,” she said. “You know, it made me drown myself in drugs even worse.”</p>
<p>When she was ordered to appear before Price, Galala begged the judge for a chance to prove herself as a mom.</p>
<p>After consulting with social workers and lawyers, Price allowed Galala to stay with Eliza – on the condition that they move in with a relative and that she undergoes rehab.</p>
<figure id="attachment_12001983" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 2000px"><a href="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-120-KQED.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-12001983" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-120-KQED.jpg" alt="Two young children play in a white inflatable house." width="2000" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-120-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-120-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-120-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-120-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-120-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-120-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Nevaeh and Eliza play in the jumpy house with their one-year-old cousin Kassy at a family event in Carson. <cite>(Zaydee Sanchez for KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>“At first, I was only allowed to be with Eliza at my mom’s, but I was not allowed to go anywhere with Eliza until I had proof that I was able to stay in program for at least 30 days,” she said.</p>
<p>When she did, she celebrated by taking her daughter to the park.</p>
<p>“And even though the baby was still a baby, it was just the principle,” she said.</p>
<p>Galala said the court team celebrated every milestone, like when her husband Eric got clean and took parenting classes. When the couple won back their parental rights eight months later, Galala thanked Price.</p>
<p>“I told her she gave me a chance to bond with my baby that let me know the importance of my part to her as a mom. And that’s what made the difference in my drive to do good, continue being sober,” she said.</p>
<figure id="attachment_12001986" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 2000px"><a href="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-129-KQED.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-12001986" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-129-KQED.jpg" alt="A woman holds a young child with other adults in the background." width="2000" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-129-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-129-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-129-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-129-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-129-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-129-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Galala holds her daughter Eliza as she and her sisters buy from a local clothing stand in Carson. <cite>(Zaydee Sanchez for KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Galala said her entire family came to the last court hearing, and Price and the lawyers gave her a framed picture with the word “HOPE.”</p>
<p>The word stands for the court’s name: Helping Our Parents Excel. The court team also signed their names and included their phone numbers on the back of the frame, Galala said, to let her know she can call whenever she needs them.</p>
<p>She thanked them for treating her fairly.</p>
<p>“I have this saying that I tell my sister all the time: ‘I’m never above you, never below you, always beside you.’ And I was telling them, ‘this is how I feel about you guys,’” Galala said. “‘You guys weren’t better than us, and we weren’t below you guys. We were just side by side trying to accomplish a goal together.”</p>
<p>What’s more, her recovery from addiction has led Galala to heal her relationship with her sister, which allowed her to be more involved in Nevaeh’s life.</p>
<figure id="attachment_12001985" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 2000px"><a href="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-128-KQED.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-12001985" src="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-128-KQED.jpg" alt="A woman wearing a white shirt holds the hand of a young child in a bounce house as another young child watches above them." width="2000" height="1333" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-128-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-128-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-128-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-128-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-128-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/SAFE-BABIES-COURT-128-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Galala’s sister, Apo, plays with Nevaeh and her daughter, Kassy, in the bounce house at a family event in Carson. <cite>(Zaydee Sanchez for KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<div><span class="aside"><img decoding="async" src="" /><a href="">Related Stories</a></span></div>
<p>The court is compiling data to measure the impact of this work, but Price said so far she’s seeing a difference. The court team has reunified families more quickly, reflecting <a href="https://www.zerotothree.org/resource/resource/safe-babies-approach-evidence-and-impact">a similar outcome seen by Zero to Three</a> at more than 140 courtrooms in 30 states that are taking a similar approach<a href="https://www.zerotothree.org/resource/resource/safe-babies-approach-evidence-and-impact">.</a> <a href="https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0190740923005236?via%3Dihub">A study found </a>children whose cases went before a Safe Babies courtroom had a higher rate of reunifying with their parents than a comparison group and were more likely to exit foster care to a permanent home.</p>
<p>“What the attorneys are telling me is that the parents leave the courtroom, and even if they don’t get a favorable ruling, they understood what happened,” Price said.</p>
<p>When parents feel like they’re being heard and are treated respectfully, they’re more willing to continue cooperating in their child’s best interest, she said.</p>
<p><strong>Editor’s Note</strong>:<em> An earlier version of this article incorrectly named Ben Falcioni’s organization. He is an attorney with Los Angeles Dependency Lawyers, not Children’s Law Center.</em></p>
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<media:description type="html">Judge Ashely Price inside the general waiting room that she has revamped to be more welcoming to families visiting her courthouse in Compton, California, on July 31, 2024. Zaydee Sanchez/KQED</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">The Superior Court of California in Compton on July 31, 2024.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">A table with a sign providing free hugs can be seen inside Judge Price’s courtroom in Compton, California, on July 31, 2024. Zaydee Sanchez/KQED</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">The Superior Court of California in Compton on July 31, 2024.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">A stuffed animal giraffe stands in the back seating area inside Jude Price’s courtroom at the Superior Court of California in Compton on July 31, 2024.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Galala plays with her four-year-old daughter, Nevaeh in Carson on Aug. 24, 2024.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Nevaeh and Eliza play in the jumpy house with their one-year-old cousin Kassy at a family event in Carson on Aug. 24, 2024.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Galala holds her daughter Eliza as she and her sisters buy from a local clothing stand in Carson on Aug. 24, 2024.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Galala’s sister, Apo, plays with Nevaeh and her daughter Kassy in the bounce house at a family event in Carson on Aug. 24, 2024.</media:description>
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<title>‘Share and Speak From the Heart’: How Can Families Foster Communication This Passover?</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2024/04/22/share-and-speak-from-the-heart-how-can-families-foster-communication-this-passover/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Alexander Gonzalez]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 22 Apr 2024 23:00:41 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11983738</guid>
<description><![CDATA[As Jewish people prepare for the first night of Passover on Monday, some families are gearing up for potentially difficult conversations given the tense geopolitics in the Middle East.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Over the last few weeks, during holy periods for several major religions — Ramadan, Easter and Passover — faith and political frictions have often collided.</p>
<p>And as Jewish families meet around the Seder table Monday night, it’s yet another time when an otherwise joyful holiday can also usher in difficult conversations and painful reflections.</p>
<p>Since the attack by Hamas on Oct. 7 — which killed 1,200 and <a href="https://www.npr.org/2024/04/21/1244741937/gaza-hostages-raise-painful-reminders-as-jews-prepare-for-passover">claimed 130 hostages, </a><a href="https://www.nbcnews.com/news/world/number-hostages-still-alive-gaza-remains-mystery-officials-say-rcna148294">according to Israel’s government</a> — Israel’s siege on Gaza has stretched into its sixth month.<a href="https://www.politico.eu/article/israel-strike-rafah-kill-13-gaza-death-toll-surpass-34000/"> 34,000 Palestinians have now been killed</a>, according to the latest figures from Gaza health authorities, and <a href="https://apnews.com/article/israel-palestinians-un-humanitarian-famine-gaza-malnutrition-cf622f843fe531fb6dbd5657a39d6b49">the United Nations has warned of the danger of an imminent famine</a>. (Read more about the decadeslong conflict from <a href="https://www.npr.org/series/1205445976/middle-east-crisis">NPR’s “Middle East crisis — explained” series</a>.)</p>
<p>Bay Area Rabbi Amy Eilberg called the current moment the “elephant in the room” likely to fuel discussions and debates during Passover Seders.</p>
<p>“How do we encourage robust conversation at the Seder about what is on all of our minds and in all of our hearts without descending into relational warfare at the seder table?” <a href="https://jweekly.com/2024/04/10/how-to-talk-about-the-elephant-in-the-room-at-this-years-seder/">Eilberg wrote in a recent opinion column for J. The Jewish News of Northern California</a>.</p>
<p>Like other Jewish traditions, Passover brings together people of different generations, which can often create an environment for hard, tense conversations — discussions that Eilberg stressed were happening already just weeks after Oct. 7.</p>
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<p>“There are political and generational differences in my own family. And I’m listening to a lot of people in the Jewish community where families are riven with conflict,” she <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11967916/it-is-possible-to-love-people-and-disagree-for-these-two-friends-hard-conversations-are-key-right-now">told KQED</a> last fall.</p>
<p>“I’ve heard several cases in which parents and adult children are not speaking to one another, and that’s incredibly sad. But it is possible to love people and disagree, and to talk and to listen, and to feel our pain.”</p>
<p><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11967137/how-to-handle-hard-conversations-with-family-this-holiday-season">How to navigate potentially incendiary discourse at family gatherings </a>isn’t new. For more insight from one of the many Jewish people getting ready for the Seder, KQED’s Adhiti Bandlamudi spoke to Hilary Elfman, director of a rabbinical office in San Francisco.</p>
<p><i>This conversation has been edited for brevity and clarity.</i></p>
<p><b>ADHITI BANDLAMUDI: Passover tells the story about the ancient Hebrews’ enslavement and liberation in Egypt. How do you think about this tradition in light of the latest geopolitics?</b></p>
<p><strong>HILARY ELFMAN:</strong> Being in conflict and at war is nothing new for the Jewish people. And it’s highlighted in the story of Passover. It really lends itself to have opportunities to have discussions. Seder this year is a little bit commensurate with what someone might feel when they are apprehensive or anticipating Thanksgiving with family members that might hear differing political views. And it’s very possible that there’s going to be pressure on people to kind of shake things up a bit.</p>
<p><b>How do you approach that? I mean, this is a particularly emotional topic right now.</b></p>
<p>I think for this year, people need to find what’s right for them. For some tables, it might be casual, allowing for different topics to come up organically. And for some, they might have questions prepared to specifically address this conflict, war, from Oct. 7.</p>
<p><b>Do you expect people at your table to get into current events?</b></p>
<p>So one of the beautiful things about Passover is the variety of ages and opinions and views and biases that can be around the table. Historically, my Passover Seders have been peaceful. And so what I would want people to think is that people have a choice to stick to the ritual, or people have a choice to integrate some of the traditions and rituals into modernity — whether they want the Seder to be more political and have a lot of discourse and dialogue, or people can choose to stick with rituals that have been done for thousands of years.</p>
<p><b>I wonder if you could tell me a little bit more about the traditions that surround Seder, and also of the symbols on the Seder plate?</b></p>
<p>It’s become a bit customary these days that people will add additional items to their Seder plate, and they act as symbols. I’ve heard this year that some people are putting an olive branch, which is native to the entire region where the conflict is going on and a symbol for peace.</p>
<p><b>What’s going to be on your plate this year?</b></p>
<p>I thought of the idea to put a key on my plate, which represents freedom for all. People are being held hostage in both Gaza and in Israel. It’s a sign of optimism.</p>
<p><b>What would you tell people who are nervous about joining loved ones for Passover this year? What advice would you give them?</b></p>
<p>There’s an opportunity to share and speak from the heart. Some people are speaking because they just want to be heard, or they want to be right, or they want to be validated. Maybe even stir the pot a little bit. And the way that I believe could be effective communication is perhaps just listening and actually hearing them out.</p>
<p>There’s something at the end of each Seder that people often say, which is “next year in Jerusalem.” So I was reflecting for this year, that will be taken both very figuratively and literally.</p>
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<title>How a Childhood Prank Accidentally Helped My Newly Widowed Grandmother Face Her Grief</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2022/11/04/how-a-childhood-prank-accidentally-helped-my-newly-widowed-grandmother-face-her-grief/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Spencer Whitney]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 04 Nov 2022 14:00:55 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11930939</guid>
<description><![CDATA[In honor of Day of the Dead and Halloween, storyteller JP Frary shares a tale from his childhood in Mendocino County — about spirits, and a couple of mischievous kids.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>JP Frary is a storyteller and woodworker who creates art in a studio on the old Naval air base in Alameda. Frary has won six Moth StorySlams, StorySlam Oakland and Westside Stories and has been a featured storyteller on BackPocket Productions, Beyond Borders Storytelling and Six Feet Apart Productions.</em></p>
<p><em>In honor of Day of the Dead and Halloween, he brings us this tale from his childhood in Mendocino County — about spirits, and a couple of mischievous kids.</em></p>
<p>I had to give up my bedroom to our Super-Sad Grandma when she came to live with us a year after Grandpa died. Us kids never called her that to her face, but always behind her back. Even my parents started calling her Super-Sad Grandma whenever she would stay locked up in my bedroom, which was most days.</p>
<p>My mom would say something like, ”Go tell Super-Sad Grandma that dinner’s ready. I mean, go get your grandmother for dinner.” Grandma was still wearing black dresses every day and she went to church a lot.</p>
<p>So I got moved into the attic with the slanted ceilings where you could only stand up straight if you were in the middle of the room. It had these exposed, splintery rafters that I kept bumping my head on, and the furnace was up there and it looked like some sort of giant mechanical octopus with all the pipes heading off in different directions.</p>
<p>I protested the move at first, because it was creepy up there, but my sisters already shared a room and there was no way Super-Sad Grandma could climb the ladder up to the attic.</p>
<p>I was 12 then. And I wasn’t getting along with my sisters. They were some kind of unified front that always voted against me whenever my folks let us choose anything. If I wanted to play Monopoly, they voted for Mystery Date. If I wanted fish sticks for dinner, they said macaroni and cheese. I wanted a dog … they made us get a cat.</p>
<p>I felt isolated and outnumbered.</p>
<p>So the greatest day of my life was when my cousin Dennis’ parents got divorced. I don’t mean that like it sounds. I’m sure it was terribly sad for them and for him, too, but his parents were so flat broke and each of them was trying to figure out their own lives, that neither his mom or his dad could take him with them yet.</p>
<p>I begged my parents to let Dennis live with us.</p>
<p>He was my age and he was the closest thing I had in the world to a brother. The day he climbed that creaky ladder into the attic, it was like winning the lottery.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11930944" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Paddy-Caps.jpeg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11930944" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Paddy-Caps-800x781.jpeg" alt="A vintage photo of two boys. The boy on the left has his arm around the boy on the right." width="800" height="781" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Paddy-Caps-800x781.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Paddy-Caps-160x156.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Paddy-Caps.jpeg 985w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Cousins Dennis Goebel (left) and JP Frary wearing the ‘Paddy caps’ their grandparents brought back from Ireland, circa 1977. <cite>(Courtesy of JP Frary)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>We went everywhere together, riding bikes through the orchard to talk with neighbor girls who smoked cigarettes and catching a bunch of crawdads in the Russian River and letting them all go in the same deep pool to see if they’d fight. Sometimes we’d even outvote my sisters and get to watch a Western or professional wrestling on the TV. It was the answer to my prayers — to have an instant brother.</p>
<p>Every night, we’d lie in our beds up in the attic and talk and talk and talk until one of us fell asleep. There was a furnace pipe that ran right next to Dennis’ bed, and one night, long after we’d been yelled at to go to sleep for the fifth time, he cocked his head and said, “I can hear Johnny Carson.”</p>
<p>My parents were in the living room watching TV, and the furnace pipe next to Dennis’ bed led directly to a vent over the couch they were sitting on. The two of us put our ears against the metal furnace pipe and we could make out every word Johnny was saying. His guest that night was Robin Williams. We stayed glued at the hip with our heads on the furnace pipe until the closing music.</p>
<p>The next day, we went from pipe to pipe to pipe putting our ears up against them. We could hear into every room in the entire house. We listened to my sister talk on the phone in the kitchen. We listened to my mom and dad argue about whether or not to buy a second car. And we listened to Super-Sad Grandma whispering words we could not make out at all, until we realized just by the rhythm that she was saying the Rosary prayer over and over: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee … ”</p>
<p>At first, we just listened, to listen. But being 12-year-old boys, it quickly escalated to full-on spying. It became our evening entertainment. We both learned about menstruation from listening to my mom explain what was going on to my younger sister’s body to her, but we couldn’t let on that we knew she had just gotten her first period.</p>
<p>Because we were spies.</p>
<p>Tracing the pipes back to the furnace, we saw that each pipe had a big sliding gate before it attached to the metal housing. And we realized that you could pull the door open on this gate and, not only was the sound clearer, but you could send sound the other way, too.</p>
<p>So Dennis could be down in the kitchen getting us root beers and I could say into the pipe, “Get Ding Dongs and corn chips, too.” And he could hear me. It became a big game where we were talking to each other all over the house without anyone knowing.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11930945" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/JP-and-Dennis-in-kitchen-e1667417652569.jpeg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11930945" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/JP-and-Dennis-in-kitchen-e1667417652569-800x1181.jpeg" alt="Two young men wearing white shirts in a kitchen with one holding a cooking tool in a bowl." width="800" height="1181" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/JP-and-Dennis-in-kitchen-e1667417652569-800x1181.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/JP-and-Dennis-in-kitchen-e1667417652569-160x236.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/JP-and-Dennis-in-kitchen-e1667417652569.jpeg 996w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The author (left) and his cousin/best friend, Dennis Goebel, causing trouble in the kitchen, circa 1980. <cite>(Courtesy of JP Frary)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>It was the week before Halloween and the whole family, except Super-Sad Grandma, was watching “Night of the Living Dead,” when my older sister just out of the blue said she didn’t believe in ghosts or zombies. The way she said it, it was like she was saying that Dennis and I <em>did</em> believe in ghosts or zombies. I made eye contact with him, and I think we both had the same idea at exactly the same time.</p>
<p>When the movie was over, Dennis and I went straight up the ladder and right to the pipe that connects to my sisters’ room and listened in. We waited until we thought we heard my sisters get in bed, and once we didn’t hear them moving around, we started making moaning ghost sounds.</p>
<p>“Ooooh. Oooooooh,” we moaned, and then we listened. But we didn’t hear anything. So we made more sounds.</p>
<p>“Ooooh. Oooh,” we tried again, and then we listened. But we didn’t hear them scream or anything.</p>
<p>And I don’t know where it came from, but I started whispering really loudly, “I’m waiting for you. I’m waaaaaitinnnng for yooooouu!”</p>
<p>We went on and on for 20 minutes and there was no reaction from their room. And that’s when I noticed that the furnace pipe door to my old bedroom, which was now Super-Sad Grandma’s, was also open. We had been sending ghost sounds to her, too.</p>
<p>I snuck down the ladder and saw my sisters at the dining room table sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my mom, who was braiding their hair. So they weren’t even in their room. And I looked at my old bedroom door, but it was shut and I couldn’t see any light coming from underneath. So I just crept back up the ladder.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11930946" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-scaled.jpeg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11930946" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-800x1165.jpeg" alt="A woman wearing glasses and black shirt with a white collar has her hands on a man wearing glasses wearing a white sweater." width="800" height="1165" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-800x1165.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-1020x1485.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-160x233.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-1055x1536.jpeg 1055w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-1407x2048.jpeg 1407w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-scaled.jpeg 1758w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The author’s grandparents, Evelyn and Bob Hunt. Their love for each other spans this world and the next, circa late 1970s. <cite>(Courtesy of JP Frary)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>The next morning at breakfast, Super-Sad Grandma wasn’t wearing a black dress. She had on regular grandma clothes. And she looked a lot less sad somehow.</p>
<p>My dad asked her how she was feeling, and she said, “I finally got an answer back from Grandpa. He said he will wait for me.”</p>
<p>To this day I don’t know if she knew it was me and my cousin Dennis and not Grandpa, speaking to her from the great beyond. But I do know she never wore black again.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
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<media:thumbnail url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Paddy-Caps-160x156.jpeg" />
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<media:title type="html">Paddy Caps</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Dennis Goebel and JP Frary wearing the “Paddy Caps” their grandparents brought back from Ireland.</media:description>
<media:thumbnail url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Paddy-Caps-160x156.jpeg" />
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<media:content url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/JP-and-Dennis-in-kitchen-e1667417652569.jpeg" medium="image">
<media:title type="html">JP and Dennis in kitchen</media:title>
<media:description type="html">The author and his cousin/best friend, Dennis Goebel, causing trouble in the kitchen.</media:description>
<media:thumbnail url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/JP-and-Dennis-in-kitchen-e1667417652569-160x236.jpeg" />
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<media:content url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-scaled.jpeg" medium="image">
<media:title type="html">Bob and Evelyn Hunt</media:title>
<media:description type="html">The author’s grandparents, Bob and Evelyn Hunt. Their love for each other spans this world and the next.</media:description>
<media:thumbnail url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/11/Bob-and-Evelyn-Hunt-160x233.jpeg" />
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<title>‘They Make Me Smile Inside’: The Power of Family Heirlooms to Keep Loved Ones Close</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2022/08/24/they-make-me-smile-inside-the-power-of-family-heirlooms-to-keep-loved-ones-close/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Jasmine Garnett]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Wed, 24 Aug 2022 20:39:52 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11923381</guid>
<description><![CDATA[KQED Forum listeners share their most treasured possessions passed down by family.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Recently, KQED Forum asked listeners: <a href="https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101889960/family-heirlooms-unexpected-and-traditional-and-what-they-mean-to-us">Do you have a treasured possession from your family?</a></p>
<p>“What’s an object you treasure, that you’d be devastated if you lost?” asked host Mina Kim. “Maybe a family heirloom — a portrait, a wedding dress, a chess set linking generations — that speaks to who our families are? Or maybe something you’re hoping to pass down someday?”</p>
<p>The answers resulted in a conversation between Kim, New Yorker magazine staff writer Hua Hsu and visual artist Ari Bird about <a href="https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101889960/family-heirlooms-unexpected-and-traditional-and-what-they-mean-to-us">the significance of heirlooms</a>.</p>
<p>Bird noted that sometimes the objects that become heirlooms are unexpected, saying, “These are objects that their loved ones actually used, and maybe they didn’t intend necessarily for those to be the heirlooms right there.”</p>
<p>“Those are, I think, the objects that many of us are drawn to — that have that meaning,” said Bird.</p>
<p>One listener, Ian, commented on KQED Forum’s Instagram that his abuela gifted him her brother’s stamp collection. It had stamps from all over the Americas and some from Europe, dating back through the 1930s.</p>
<p>Another listener, Beth, wrote that her favorite heirlooms were her dad’s fountain pen and his bamboo fly-fishing rod. She wrote that those had previously been gifted to her father himself when he graduated university during the Great Depression.</p>
<p>We ultimately received so many answers about family heirlooms from listeners that they couldn’t all fit into <a href="https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101889960/family-heirlooms-unexpected-and-traditional-and-what-they-mean-to-us">the hour-long KQED Forum show</a>, so we’ve compiled more of your stories here.</p>
<p>A clear through line in all the responses? It’s that our heirlooms, no matter how big or small, can help us feel closer to a loved one who is no longer with us — something that’s often totally disconnected from the actual monetary worth of an object. Or as KQED Forum listener Cassandra put it: “Isn’t it funny that our most valued objects have little value?”</p>
<p><em>Submissions have been lightly edited for length and clarity.</em></p>
<figure id="attachment_11923438" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 1920px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11923438" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2022/08/pexels-suzy-hazelwood-1157151.jpg" alt="A handwritten letter lies on a table, with a stack of blue-toned envelopes -- presumably containing more letters -- in the background, tied with twine." width="1920" height="1127" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/08/pexels-suzy-hazelwood-1157151.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/08/pexels-suzy-hazelwood-1157151-800x470.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/08/pexels-suzy-hazelwood-1157151-1020x599.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/08/pexels-suzy-hazelwood-1157151-160x94.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2022/08/pexels-suzy-hazelwood-1157151-1536x902.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">From letters and jewelry to clothing and furniture, you shared your treasured family heirlooms with us. <cite>(Suzy Hazelwood/Pexels)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>As I grew up, I always loved a ring my grandmother wore with multiple diamonds. When she passed, it was going to be broken up so that my half-sisters could each have a piece of it. They voted, unbeknownst to me, that since I was the oldest girl, I should receive it.<span style="font-weight: 400"><!-- to be implemented later --></span></p>
<p>I cry twice when I see it sparkle — once missing my grandmother and thinking of memories — sometimes laughing. And twice at the generosity of my sisters. <strong><em>— Anonymous</em></strong></p>
<p>I have two cherished heirlooms from my late mother: her wedding and engagement rings. I wear these only for the Christmas holiday. My mother wore her wedding band often, but rarely wore her one-carat diamond engagement band. I once asked her why and she thought it was “too much.”</p>
<p>My mother had a signature scent and it was called Blue Grass. She only wore it when she and my father went out, which wasn’t very often. After she passed away, I made sure to take her (almost full) bottle of this cologne, which I still have over 20 years after her passing. <strong><em>— Susie</em></strong></p>
<p>In the early ’60s, my father managed a machine shop. Once to thank him, the owner gave him a gold diamond ring. My dad appreciated it but would never wear it.</p>
<p>When I was 16, I asked my dad for it. He was happy to have to give it to me. I put it on my finger then and I have been wearing it ever since, now as a reminder of my father, who was the most wonderful dad ever. <strong><em>— Martin</em></strong></p>
<p>My grandma, Ruth Murillo, was an avid crocheter and used to make everyone a very intricate mantle as a wedding gift. She stopped when her eyesight worsened and her hands got tired. But she made an exception for my wedding in 2014. She has since passed, but I hope to pass my mantle to my children to show her amazing craftsmanship.<span style="font-weight: 400"><!-- to be implemented later --></span>I’m a designer at Levi’s that works on women’s 501s [jeans]. I recently had my initials embroidered onto my personal favorite pair of 501s, as a way to celebrate my success at this company and in this industry. These jeans will be passed on to my kids once they don’t fit anymore. And with proper care, they’ll be worn by generations to come. <em><strong>— Marisela</strong></em></p>
<p>My grandmother had some beautiful silver that had been passed down to her. I loved to go underneath her bed and look at it, and one day she taught me how to polish it.</p>
<p>My mom gifted it to me and I cherish it. It reminds me of my childhood, and the joy my grandmother showed when she taught me about all the different pieces. Also, when my dad passed away, I got a gold coin and a chain from him, and I never took it off. It stays right over my heart.<em><strong> — Sparrow</strong></em></p>
<p>I wear my grandmother’s wedding ring every day. In a moment of lucidity a few years ago, before her Alzheimer’s got really bad, she slipped it on my finger and asked me to keep it safe after she was gone.</p>
<p>It is the only object she kept since the day she received it. I wear it every day because I will remember her life, even when she doesn’t.<strong> — <em>Marina</em></strong></p>
<p>My grandfather went to the Cleveland School of Art in 1914 and made a living in commercial graphic art. So we have various items that he made that are loved by our family.</p>
<p>For instance, a plaster cast of my mother’s hand when she was about 5 years old. Also two diaries that he and his wife-to-be kept for five years apart, including through his time in WWI, when he was working in a Base Hospital Unit in Rouen, France. And a pastel portrait of him made by a French artist acquaintance of his during that time. <em><strong>— John </strong></em></p>
<p>My mother, Irma Maidenberg, was an amateur artist in a small Indiana town. She was inspired by the greats — Picasso, Miró, Klee — in creating whimsical figurines. People saw them and fell in love with them.<span style="font-weight: 400"><!-- to be implemented later --></span>She made hundreds and I have many. They make me smile inside, and I love sharing them with visitors. They convey a sense of joy and whimsy she embodied in her life. <strong><em>— Reed</em></strong></p>
<p>My husband died young, at age 47. We discussed what he wanted to keep for our daughter. But something so surprising and wonderful is that I opened his closet and garage to friends.</p>
<p>I love to hear that they wore his cuff links to a wedding, or took his ski jacket or bike gear on a far-flung trip. And I know that those friends feel it, too. <em><strong>— Anonymous</strong></em></p>
<p>My father moved our family to California from Rhode Island in 1955. I was 8 years old and heartbroken at leaving my grandparents and aunts behind. When I got to California, I started writing letters to my grandmother. I kept the letters she sent back to me. She died in 1965, and I flew back to Rhode Island for the funeral. When I was there, I found she had saved the letters I had written to her, and I took them home to California.<span style="font-weight: 400"><!-- to be implemented later --></span>I still have that correspondence and it has prompted me to keep a journal for my 2-year-old granddaughter. I hope she’ll treasure this as much as I’ve treasured the correspondence between me and my grandmother. <strong><em>—</em></strong> <em><strong>Pat</strong></em></p>
<p>My mom passed away in December 2020 in Germany. I had little time to choose what I wanted to keep and pack things up.</p>
<p>I took what was closest to my heart, her favorite cups, books, photos, her notebooks and the stuff passed down by previous generations. Then I invited my mom’s friends and family to take what they wanted to remember her, followed by neighbors and friends to take what they needed. <em><strong>—</strong> <strong>Anonymous</strong></em></p>
<p>I have brought back from France the lamp my mother kept on her bedside table. It was one of the gifts she and my father received when they got married in 1943. Because of the war, it is made out of wood — not metal or pottery.</p>
<p>I replaced the shade. I have it now in my living room, enjoying its soft light and remembering both of my parents. <strong><em>— Genevieve</em></strong></p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
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<media:title type="html">pexels-suzy-hazelwood-1157151</media:title>
<media:description type="html">From letters and jewelry to clothing and furniture, you shared your treasured family heirlooms with us.</media:description>
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<title>For Some Californians, Family Leave Is ‘Unattainable.’ This Bill Seeks to Change That</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2021/07/13/low-wage-workers-in-california-cant-afford-to-take-family-leave/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Carlos Cabrera-Lomelí]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Wed, 14 Jul 2021 00:30:35 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11881047</guid>
<description><![CDATA[AB 123 would increase the wage replacement rate for employees in California who go on family leave. Currently, family leave is deducted from the paychecks of Californians.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Miranda Griswold and her partner were thrilled to grow their family when they had their first child in 2018. The less thrilling part: adding baby costs to their existing expenses — alimony payments, student loans and credit card bills.</p>
<p>Griswold had a C-section and her doctor recommended she stay at her Merced home for six weeks of recovery time. Her fiance, who works at a commercial printing press, returned to work after one week of vacation because they couldn’t afford for him to take more time off using family leave, which would replace only 60% of his wages.</p>
<p>“There was no way we could make that percentage work,” said Griswold.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later -->That’s the case for many workers in California. Assemblymember Lorena Gonzalez, a Democrat from San Diego County, authored a bill this year to increase that percentage — making it more realistic for low-income earners to use the leave that they’re required to fund with 1.2% of every paycheck.</p>
<p>Assembly Bill 123, which the Assembly <a href="https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billVotesClient.xhtml?bill_id=202120220AB123">passed on a 65-0 vote</a> in May and is now in the Senate, would <a href="https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=202120220AB123">increase the wage replacement rate</a> from at least 60% to 90% of a worker’s highest quarterly earnings in the past 18 months.</p>
<p>“I think it is cruel that we actually deduct the 1.2% from their paycheck and yet we are dangling something that is unattainable if you can’t afford it,” Gonzalez said in an interview.<br />
<!-- to be implemented later --><br />
Under current law, California’s paid family leave is often being used by those who can more easily afford going without full pay.</p>
<p>Workers making less than $20,000 a year filed nearly 48,000 family leave claims in 2019, only slightly more than the 46,000 filed by those earning $100,000 or more a year, <a href="https://www.edd.ca.gov/about_edd/pdf/Impact-of-Increasing-the-State-Disability-Insurance-Wage-Replacement.pdf">according to the state Employment Development Department</a> (EDD). And between 2017 and 2019, the <a href="https://www.edd.ca.gov/about_edd/pdf/Impact-of-Increasing-the-State-Disability-Insurance-Wage-Replacement.pdf">number of claims from the lowest-wage workers declined</a> while claims by workers of every other income group increased, with claims from the highest earners rising most of all, by one-third.</p>
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<p>In total in 2019, the state paid nearly $1.1 billion in family leave benefits, including $287 million to those making $100,000 or more a year. The maximum benefit is $1,300 a week, for as long as eight weeks. </p>
<h3>Expanding Access to Leave</h3>
<p>AB 123 is the latest in a series of efforts to make paid family leave a more financially realistic option for more employees.</p>
<p>In 2002, California became the first state to adopt a family leave benefit. It was included as an expansion of the state’s disability insurance program, compensating employees who took time off to care for a seriously ill family member or to bond with a new child.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later -->In 2016, then-Assemblymember Jimmy Gomez of Los Angeles authored a bill to <a href="https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=201520160AB908">increase wage replacements based on income</a>: 70% for those earning below one-third of the state average, and 60% for those who earn more.</p>
<p>In 2019, Gov. Gavin Newsom extended the amount of time employees could take off from six to eight weeks. And last year, he <a href="https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/billTextClient.xhtml?bill_id=201920200SB1383">signed a bill</a> authored by Sen. Hannah-Beth Jackson of Santa Barbara, which expanded the law requiring large employers to <a href="https://calmatters.org/politics/2020/09/family-leave-bill-working-moms/">grant 12 weeks of unpaid leave</a> to any employer with at least five workers.</p>
<p>The wage replacement rates in the 2016 law were due to expire on Jan. 1, 2022. In the budget deal last month between Newsom and the Legislature, the higher rates were extended to Jan. 1, 2023.</p>
<p>The wage replacement of at least 90% was also advocated in a December 2020 report from the California Health and Human Services Agency <a href="https://cdn-west-prod-chhs-01.dsh.ca.gov/chhs/uploads/2020/12/01104743/Master-Plan-for-Early-Learning-and-Care-Making-California-For-All-Kids-FINAL.pdf">outlining a revamp of the state’s early learning and child care system</a>.</p>
<p>Jill Thompson, directing attorney of the Audrey Irmas Project for Women and Girls’ Rights at Public Counsel, said she would like to see the higher benefits available for at least the lowest-wage earners.</p>
<p>“I almost feel like low-wage workers are subsidizing the rest of us because they’re paying into the system but not reaping the benefits,” she said.</p>
<p>Now, full-time workers at small businesses making California’s current minimum wage of $13 an hour get $6.24 a week deducted from their paycheck for family leave. Their pay before taxes is $520 a week, which means a weekly benefit of $364 under current law.</p>
<p>“That amount is under the poverty line,” Thompson said. “They’re expected to live under the poverty limit? No wonder people don’t do it. It’s not viable.”</p>
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<h3>Paid Family Leave in Real Life</h3>
<p>For Jerry Sandoval, a 36-year old San Diego resident, the 60% wage replacement was not enough. He made about $1,000 a week in 2014 and took paid family leave after the birth of his daughter. But he went back to work after getting his first reduced paycheck.</p>
<p>Sandoval, who now helps advocate for increased wages with the California Work and Family Coalition, recalls his hustle as a new father, working in a hotel by day and a graveyard shift at a casino at night. For a few hours in between, he’d go home to spend time with his baby.</p>
<p>“It’s tough. You don’t realize how hard it is until you go through it,” he said. “I do feel like in the future, if I ever have to use paid leave, I want to be able to take full advantage of it.”</p>
<p>Even for higher wage-earners, the coronavirus pandemic added new layers of financial difficulty to trying to take California’s paid family leave.</p>
<p>Arissa Palmer, 44, of Orange, brought her mother-in-law for a visit from Maryland before the pandemic but she was unable to fly back. She suffers from dementia and needs care 24 hours a day. But with a mortgage to pay and a household to maintain, neither Palmer nor her husband could afford to take leave or hire someone to take care of her.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11881098" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 1024px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11881098" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_10.jpg" alt="Two adults are sitting on the couch, looking at a baby, who is resting on the lap of one of the adults. Another young child plays with a dog on the carpet not too far from them." width="1024" height="682" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_10.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_10-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_10-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_10-160x107.jpg 160w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Miranda Griswold dresses 23-month-old Jax for bed with her fiance, Matt Calhoun, while 3-year-old Rhys plays with the family dog at their Merced home on July 8, 2021. ‘What are we doing to our families?’ asked Griswold of the current family leave policy, and adds, ‘there’s no support.’ <cite>(Anne Wernikoff/CalMatters)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>“We didn’t even know if it was safe to have someone in the home caring for her — and honestly, couldn’t even afford it,” she said.</p>
<p>Palmer switched jobs so she could work from home. She serves as the executive director of BreastfeedLA, which has been advocating for the passage of the bill alongside the Work and Family Coalition.</p>
<p>“Allowing that paid time where parents and the babies can learn to get to know each other and learn each other’s cues is so important,” she said.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11881099" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 1024px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_04.jpg" alt="The camera views at the arm of a child who plays with a toy train. The toy train is red and made of wood and moves around wooden railroad tracks that are set in a circle." width="1024" height="682" class="size-full wp-image-11881099" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_04.jpg 1024w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_04-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_04-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2021/07/070821_FamilyLeave_AW_sized_04-160x107.jpg 160w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Matt Calhoun, plays with this son Rhys, 3, at their Merced home on July 8, 2021. Calhoun was only able to afford to take one week off from his job at a printing press when Rhys was born in 2018. <cite>(Anne Wernikoff/CalMatters)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<h3>Looking at the Bottom Line</h3>
<p>The bill does not increase employer contributions; instead, it increases the amount that employees pay into the state family leave fund from each paycheck.</p>
<p>While businesses will adapt and accommodate leaves as needed, the bill may be a bad deal for employees, according to the Central Valley Business Federation.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later -->“In terms of this legislation, it’s a tax increase on everyday Californians, and so many workers in the state of California are having a hard time making ends meet with the cost of things going up,” said Clint Olivier, CEO of the federation, which represents about 70 businesses and associations across five counties, including Chevron and the California Association of Food Banks.</p>
<p>The bill would increase worker contributions by 0.1% to 0.2% per year, which Olivier estimates will be about $300 out of workers’ paychecks by 2025.</p>
<p>“The state says, well, this is such a small amount of money the worker won’t be able to feel it. But the situation on the ground is much different,” Olivier told CalMatters. “It begs the question: Who is in a better place to determine how that money is spent, the individual or the state? And so I believe it’s the individual.”</p>
<p>Miranda Griswold and her partner had their second child in 2019, when they had fewer debts to pay off. Her fiance picked up extra shifts beforehand, so his paychecks would be higher and he could take the full six weeks off.</p>
<p>“We still ended up having to save a ton to make up the difference. Rent is still due, bills are still due,” she said. “On the one hand I almost feel grateful that we got what we did. Having two kids, there’s no way I could have done it by myself.”</p>
<p>“At least California offers this,” she said. “But for a lot of families, it’s still not enough.”<br />
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<media:description type="html">Miranda Griswold dresses 23-month-old Jax for bed with her fiancé, Matt Calhoun, while three-year-old Rhys plays with the family dog at their Merced home on July 8, 2021. “What are we doing to our families?” asked Griswold of the current family leave policy, and adds, “there’s no support.”</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Matt Calhoun, plays with this son Rhys, 3, at their Merced home on July 8, 2021. Calhoun was only able to afford to take one week off from his job at a printing press when Rhys was born in 2018.</media:description>
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<title>In a Year of Isolation, Remembering Thanksgiving Togetherness</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2020/11/27/in-a-year-of-isolation-remembering-thanksgiving-togetherness/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[KQED News Staff]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Sat, 28 Nov 2020 00:00:27 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11848660</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Listen to this and more in-depth storytelling by subscribing to The California Report Magazine podcast. This weekend, when so many of us have had to make the difficult choice to spend the holiday away from our loved ones, we’re inviting you to a virtual family gathering, with some of our favorite stories from Thanksgiving 2017. … <a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2020/11/27/in-a-year-of-isolation-remembering-thanksgiving-togetherness/" class="more-link">Continue reading <span class="screen-reader-text">In a Year of Isolation, Remembering Thanksgiving Togetherness</span> <span class="meta-nav">→</span></a>]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/the-california-report-magazine/id1314750545?mt=2"><i>Listen to this and more in-depth storytelling by subscribing to The California Report Magazine podcast.</i></a></p>
<p>This weekend, when so many of us have had to make the difficult choice to spend the holiday away from our loved ones, we’re inviting you to a virtual family gathering, with some of our favorite stories from Thanksgiving 2017.</p>
<h2><strong><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11629987/a-family-expanded">My ‘Family-Esque’</a></strong></h2>
<p>You know the saying, “You can’t choose your family but you can choose your friends?” Well, for KQED’s Bianca Taylor, her friends have become her family. Literally. She tells us how her unconventional family was transformed by an unexpected romance.</p>
<h2><strong>Food and Family From Students at 826 Valencia</strong></h2>
<p>Food is a big part of spending time with family over the holidays. For 13-year-old Makhai Hunt, it’s a chance to learn recipes passed down through generations. Twelve-year-old Stevie Rivas is thinking about sharing with people who don’t have enough to eat. They bring us two essays we first aired back in 2017, produced with the San Francisco writing program, 826 Valencia.</p>
<h2><strong><a href="https://www.kqed.org/arts/13812974/trans-singer-encounters-mother-and-bathroom-laws-on-tour-in-the-south">Trans Singer Encounters Mother (and Bathroom Laws) on Tour in the South</a></strong></h2>
<p>For more than 40 years, the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus has used its music to help create community and inspire activism. In 2017, they toured five southern states to support local LGBTQ communities. KQED’s Chloe Veltman caught up with them on the tour bus and brought us the story of a reunion between one of the singers and his mom.</p>
<h2><strong><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11632699/the-sons-of-the-soul-revivers-lifting-up-spirits-outside-the-church-walls">Vallejo’s Sons of the Soul Revivers: Lifting Up Spirits, Outside the Church Walls</a></strong></h2>
<p>Some families figure out their groove together by making music, like the Bay Area gospel quartet, the Sons of the Soul Revivers. They’ve been singing together for 50 years, since they were kids in church. They’re the Morgan brothers: Dwayne, James and Walter Jr., together with their nephew Quantae Johnson. Back in 2017, they had a new album out, “Live at Rancho Nicasio,” and we invited them to our studio to give a mini concert.</p>
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<title>Saying No to the Holidays During COVID-19? How to Break It to Family (or Friends)</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2020/11/10/saying-no-to-a-covid-thanksgiving-holidays-how-to-break-it-to-family-or-friends/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Carly Severn]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Tue, 10 Nov 2020 23:23:41 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11846759</guid>
<description><![CDATA[So you've decided not to visit family for the holidays. How do you broach that conversation?]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Updated Dec. 1 at 11:30 a.m.</em></p>
<p>Traveling during the COVID-19 pandemic raises a person’s risk of contracting — or spreading — the coronavirus. Gathering in groups with other households, especially indoors, does just the same.</p>
<p>Put these two facts together and it’s clear: Even when following all advised precautions, traveling to visit your family for the holidays carries undeniable risk factors.</p>
<p>Nationally, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention strongly<a href="https://www.npr.org/sections/coronavirus-live-updates/2020/11/19/936715870/dont-travel-for-thanksgiving-cdc-warns"> recommended that people stay home for Thanksgiving</a> last month. In California, nonessential travel outside of the state was already strongly discouraged by Gov. Gavin Newsom’s <a href="https://www.kqed.org/coronavirusliveupdates/news/11847404/newsom-urges-against-out-of-state-travel-advises-quarantine-for-those-who-do">travel advisory</a> issued before Thanksgiving, which continues to ask people to self-quarantine for 14 days after arriving from another state or country.</p>
<p>This state guidance comes on the heels of <a href="https://cchealth.org/press-releases/2020/1109-ABAHO-Holiday-Recommendations.pdf" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">recommendations</a> that were recently released by the nine Bay Area counties plus the city of Berkeley around travel, with the holidays specifically in mind. The guidance states that “nonessential travel, including holiday travel, is not recommended. Traveling outside the Bay Area will increase your chance of getting infected and spreading the virus to others after your return.”</p>
<p>So it’s no surprise that many people chose to forgo Thanksgiving with their families and friends altogether, and are planning on doing the same for Hanukkah, Christmas or Kwanzaa during the pandemic. But how can you have that tricky conversation with loved ones without creating a rift, or unduly hurting someone’s feelings?</p>
<ul>
<li><strong><a href="https://www.kqed.org/science/1970886/visiting-family-over-the-holidays-heres-how-to-lower-your-risk-for-covid-19">Determined to visit family or friends for the holidays after all? Get prep tips and harm reduction guidance from experts</a></strong></li>
</ul>
<h3>Remember: This Is <em>Always</em> Your Choice</h3>
<p>Let’s get this out of the way: Even in a holiday season without a pandemic to consider, your movements and actions regarding an event like Thanksgiving are always yours to decide. Regardless of what others — family, friends, strangers — may think, your time and your personal space are completely and utterly your business and yours to direct as you see fit.</p>
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<p>There are many reasons why a person might not welcome visiting with family over the holidays. Money issues around travel, scarcity of vacation time, simmering family drama, tension with relatives over core beliefs or their failure to respect your identity, your lifestyle or your boundaries, a lack of desire to mark certain holidays or just <em>wanting to sit your behind at home instead;</em> these are all 100% valid reasons to forgo a family gathering — pandemic or no pandemic.</p>
<p>Yet in the most communicative of family dynamics, telling loved ones that you won’t be joining their gathering is still no picnic. As a teacher and sex educator in the Bay Area, <a href="https://www.givingthetalk.com/">Julia Feldman</a> advises on navigating delicate, difficult conversations when it comes to health and harm reduction. She’s previously shared her advice for clear, respectful communication around <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11825738/negotiating-safe-socializing-has-a-lot-in-common-with-negotiating-safe-sex">socializing</a> and <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11826988/sex-and-dating-during-coronavirus-from-masks-to-kissing-a-guide-to-your-risks">dating during the pandemic</a>, and “COVID Thanksgiving” was a subject particularly close to Feldman’s heart.</p>
<p>That’s because she herself made the decision to decline a wider family Thanksgiving this year because of the pandemic and the need to preserve her own family’s “pod.”</p>
<p>“We kept trying to find a way to make it work,” Feldman said. “And at a certain point realized that like a lot of things this year, we just need to approach things differently.”</p>
<p>Why <em>does</em> it feel so much tougher declining an invitation to a family holiday gathering than, say, a party or a birthday?</p>
<p>“There’s a lot of sentimentality, and a lot of history and a lot of tradition there,” Feldman explains. “And so it’s a lot for people to let go of.”</p>
<h3>Be Firm, But Lead With Feelings</h3>
<p>When navigating a difficult conversation, or delivering “bad news,” there can sometimes be a temptation to stay extra-firm and resolute in your communication — in case the recipient interprets any hesitation as a cause for hope that you haven’t <em>really</em> made up your mind. Being firm in what we can and cannot do is great, Feldman says, but don’t let that stop you from “expressing [your] sadness and regret,” she says.</p>
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<p>Many of us are taught that to effectively traverse tough talks, we need to be “very decisive, and and maybe even kind of emotionless or unemotional about it,” Feldman says. But rather than shying away from emotion in such a discussion, it’s actually better to embrace it, and in this case, “express our genuine sadness.”</p>
<p>Of her own Thanksgiving situation, Feldman says, “I needed to be able to tell my family ‘I really wish we could be with you, and it’s really hard for us that we can’t.’ ” Being honest about the difficulty of the decision <em>and</em> the pain it’s causing — for you and for your family — is the best way to ask for and hopefully achieve some understanding.</p>
<p>Ultimately, you’re making this decision to reduce your family’s risk of contracting and spreading COVID-19, and it’s your way of keeping them safe from harm. “That is an ultimate act of care and we need to focus on that,” Feldman says.</p>
<h3>Acknowledge That This Sucks …</h3>
<p>Addressing the pain your decision may cause can be productive — and so can acknowledging the magnitude of it, and how disappointing it is. Over these last eight months, the pandemic has forced many people to cancel dearly anticipated plans and forgo contact with loved ones. Rather than minimizing the impact of your decision and the disruption caused by the virus that led you to <em>make</em> it, make it clear, advises Feldman, that this is nobody’s ideal, and, frankly, it sucks.</p>
<p>It perhaps becomes even harder to make and stick to a decision like this because of a collective fatigue with the pandemic and its pernicious ability to alter seemingly every plan in our lives. And yes, it’s tempting to throw your hands up in the air and soften those boundaries you might have firmly held at the beginning of shelter-in-place.</p>
<p>Staying strong is tough, but <em>you</em> know why you’re doing this: to keep your loved ones safe. Pretending it’s not a big deal isn’t being truthful, and you — and your family — are <em>allowed</em> to be saddened, frustrated or downright pissed off about it.</p>
<p>“If we deny that,” Feldman says, “there’s going to be a lot of pent-up resentment and sadness and miscommunication later on.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11846886" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1920px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11846886" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/11/pexels-breakingpic-3056.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/11/pexels-breakingpic-3056.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/11/pexels-breakingpic-3056-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/11/pexels-breakingpic-3056-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/11/pexels-breakingpic-3056-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/11/pexels-breakingpic-3056-1536x1024.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Changing plans for the holidays because of the COVID-19 pandemic can result in difficult conversations with loved ones. <cite>(Ketut Subiyanto/Pexels)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<h3>… But Make Your New Plans Clear</h3>
<p>During difficult discussions, you might find that family members are holding out hope you’ll change your mind — whether they articulate that or not.</p>
<p>Communicating that you have new plans for the holidays can greatly aid your kind-but-clear efforts to let folks know you’re not changing your mind.</p>
<p>For Feldman, ordering her own turkey for her different Thanksgiving this year was a big deal.</p>
<p>“For me, that was kind of like a decisive move,” she says, and one which she actually found helpful to communicate to her family. To introduce this conversation, Feldman says a helpful phrase might be: “I’ve decided to make other plans so that I can feel like I’m celebrating this holiday.”</p>
<p>Again, you can keep it real with your family, and convey the strangeness or jarring nature of your new plans to sustain that crucial emotional honesty: “This is what I’m going to do this year, and it feels right in the context of this crazy world that’s going on right now,” suggests Feldman. You don’t have to convey that you’re thrilled with your new plans — only that you <em>have</em> them, and you’re sticking to them.</p>
<h3>What if Your Family Downplays COVID-19?</h3>
<p>If your family — incorrectly — believes that the pandemic isn’t “that big a deal,” or doesn’t think it’s enough reason to forgo the usual holiday gatherings, that’s undeniably a tough situation to navigate.</p>
<p>Trying to “convince” your loved ones of the pandemic’s devastating seriousness by sending them statistics and literature probably isn’t going to change their minds at this point, Feldman says. So, what can you do?</p>
<p>“You just really have to come from an emotional place of being honest,” Feldman says.</p>
<p>Be clear with your family that the travel process alone puts both you and them at a heightened risk of contracting or spreading COVID-19 — and that regardless of their feelings about that, you’re personally committed to your responsibility to keep your family safe. Be honest that you know the decision could cause some hurt, but because your priority is their safety, “you’re still acting from a place of love, and that’s going to have to guide you,” Feldman says.</p>
<p>This is, after all, your way of showing your care for the people you love.</p>
<h3>What if It’s Friends, Not Family?</h3>
<p>Because of the variance between family dynamic and friend/peer dynamics, declining to gather with friends for a holiday celebration will be quite a different conversation to have. In some cases, it might feel even <em>harder</em> to inform your best friend than your family.</p>
<p>Our friendships can be complex in origin, form and dynamics, so emotions between peers can be highly mixed — and can quickly get fraught. Friends can also have very different expectations from each other, Feldman says: “So I could imagine that a friend could feel like you have a sense of loyalty, or maybe a sense of responsibility, or maybe that you respect them and trust them,” in a way that you <em>don’t</em> necessarily trust your relatives. Which might make hearing your decision even tougher for a pal.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later -->Feldman recommends that you navigate holiday discussions with the same honesty, frankness and emotional openness that you’d bring to your family. If it’s breaking your heart that you can’t celebrate with your friend, tell them that — and propose any ideas you might have for how to meet virtually or at a distance outside instead.</p>
<p>One extra element to remember where friends are concerned: Make sure that they know that you trust and respect them, especially when it comes to their conduct around COVID-19. When you decline a holiday gathering, bear in mind that many folks can — even unconsciously — infer moral judgments around socializing during the pandemic. They might think that you don’t feel comfortable gathering with <em>them</em>, because of how they’ve been behaving during the pandemic.</p>
<p>“There’s a lot of reading into this that people can do,” Feldman says, “that somehow you’re suggesting that people aren’t being careful, or being safe, because you’re not going to celebrate with them.”</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>If you sense that a friend suspects you’re declining their holiday gathering because you don’t trust them, be sure to reassure them — and bring it back to the big picture.</p>
<p>“It has nothing to do about someone being ‘safe’ or ‘careful,’ ” Feldman says. “Our priority is to make sure that everyone that we want to celebrate with next year is going to be alive, and healthy, and well, and able to do that. And this year, we’re making a lot of sacrifices. We’ve got bigger goals here.”</p>
<p>“[L]et’s really focus on being thankful for what we have and thankful for the future that we can have,” Feldman says. “And not be reckless now, at the expense of of all the things we’re thankful for, or at the expense of loved ones.”</p>
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<media:description type="html">Changing plans for Thanksgiving because of the COVID-19 pandemic can result in difficult conversations with loved ones.</media:description>
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<title>‘I Had to Stand Up for My Parents’: Your Childhood Memories of Translating for Family</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2020/07/30/i-had-to-stand-up-for-my-parents-your-childhood-memories-of-translating-for-family/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Carly Severn]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Thu, 30 Jul 2020 22:38:44 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11830886</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Many kids grow up acting as a translator or interpreter for their families. Here are your stories.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>When a 10-year-old girl named Maggie <a href="https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101878641/coronavirus-disproportinately-hits-latinos-in-california">called KQED Forum</a> recently to ask a COVID-19 question on behalf of her parents, thousands of listeners heard her interpret from Spanish to English live on air — and recognized their own childhood in that moment.</p>
<p>KQED’s Adriana Morga was one of them. And when she <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11829745/when-a-10-year-old-translated-for-her-parents-on-live-radio-thousands-recognized-themselves">wrote a story</a> about that experience, and how Maggie’s call “represented the epitome of what immigrant children have to do in order to get information to their parents,” it struck another chord with our readers.</p>
<p><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11829745/when-a-10-year-old-translated-for-her-parents-on-live-radio-thousands-recognized-themselves#hearken">We asked you</a> whether Maggie’s story reminded you of your own experiences growing up. The stories you sent were moving, proud, painful, bittersweet and frank, each one emphasizing the shared aspects that unite your experiences across place and culture.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11829854" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11829854" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Maggie1.jpg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Maggie1.jpg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Maggie1-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Maggie1-1020x687.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Maggie1-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Maggie1-1536x1035.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Maggie Carillo, who called KQED Forum to ask a coronavirus question on behalf of her parents <cite>(Courtesy Rosibel Vazquez Alvarado)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Your stories also reveal the full responsibility young multilingual family members now face while navigating the coronavirus crisis on behalf of their loved ones — and the sheer weight of that potentially lifesaving role. That’s why we’ve collected <a href="#resources">a list of resources</a> to support kids like Maggie, or any families looking for multilingual information about COVID-19.</p>
<p>Scroll to read your stories and find those resources.</p>
<p><em>Some of these responses have been edited for length.</em></p>
<h3>Being someone like Maggie for your family can be a heavy responsibility…</h3>
<p>When I saw the tweet about Maggie, I cried. It was the first time I have ever heard or read anything in my whole life that so completely resonated with my experience as a young immigrant child translating for my mother. We immigrated to the Peninsula Bay Area when I was 5 years old, from Ukraine. I made so many calls, sent so many messages, did so many tasks as a kid that required me to translate between Ukrainian and English. These experiences forced me and many other kids to grow up too quickly. It’s now only exacerbated during these tumultuous times. Now I work in the state Legislature, hoping to be a part of improving how information is shared with all communities in our state, especially those most in need like Maggie’s family. — <strong>Anya</strong></p>
<p>I could share so many stories of parent/teacher conferences, doctor’s visits, immigration appointments or visits from the landlord (among other things) when I would hear the familiar “Ven, ven, Marisol… Dime qué dijo.” Over the years, I picked up on certain words that I knew were important to know in preparation for these encounters, but there was always that moment of panic when an unfamiliar word would pop up. I would immediately imagine the possibility of being held back a grade, or having to pay extra for something, or leading to a misdiagnosis. Nothing that bad ever happened, but that pressure was always present. (As a teacher) my hope now is to be a part of and create learning communities and spaces where our students and our families can engage without having to imagine worst-case scenarios. — <strong>Marisol</strong></p>
<figure id="attachment_11831200" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11831200" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Glenda.jpg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Glenda.jpg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Glenda-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Glenda-1020x687.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Glenda-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Glenda-1536x1035.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">‘Being the child of an immigrant always comes with its own series of ‘club rules’,’ said Glenda Cota, who grew up supporting her family with her language skills. <cite>(Glenda Cota)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<h3>…but for many, there are positive memories and pride</h3>
<p>Being the child of an immigrant always comes with its own series of “club rules.” If you know them, you know them. It’s a hard club to be a part of at times, but I’m happy to be a part of it. I’m happy to sacrifice my time and energy to an immigrant parent who has sacrificed so much, for me to be American. — <strong>Glenda Cota</strong></p>
<p>(At 8 years old) I had to go to my grandmother’s doctor’s appointments specifically to translate. It was just her and I, navigating our way through public transportation. I was intimidated by the front desk ladies, and scared of hospitals, afraid to miss important information to translate. However I was proud to stick up for my grandmother (the staff was not always kind) and be able to help her. To this day I still feel the same compassion to help translate for co-workers, family members and strangers that I see that need help. We all need the power of information. — <strong>Zara</strong></p>
<p>There was a period of time where I resented it a bit, because I felt like I was forced to grow up very quickly in order to help out when my parents didn’t understand something. However, I learned to embrace my role because it was my way of giving back to my parents, for all that they have done for me. Growing up under the circumstances that I did is what forged the distinct Chicanx identity I have today. I knew what I was doing was important and bigger than me. I was helping my family navigate a system that I’d later learn was tricky and discriminatory. — <strong>Omar Vega</strong></p>
<figure id="attachment_11831201" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11831201" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Omar.jpeg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Omar.jpeg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Omar-800x539.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Omar-1020x687.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Omar-160x108.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Omar-1536x1035.jpeg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">‘Growing up under the circumstances that I did is what forged the distinct Chicanx identity I have today,’ said Omar Vega, pictured here age 7. <cite>(Omar Vega)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<h3>Your childhood experiences can steer your career path</h3>
<p>My Vietnamese refugee parents resettled in Santa Ana, California after fleeing from the Vietnam War. Growing up, I translated documents for my parents and helped them navigate life here in the United States. I learned how to be an advocate at an early age because I had to stand up for my parents when I saw them experience discrimination. I am the first in my family to pursue a Master’s degree and I chose to work in education because I want to work with youth who have gone through similar experiences. I want them to know that coming from an immigrant family is their superpower and to encourage them to keep advocating for their families even when times are hard. I also want to challenge our government agencies to be more inclusive of these immigrant experiences. Having translated documents is just the bare minimum. — <strong>Kathy Tran</strong></p>
<figure id="attachment_11831202" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11831202" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Kathy-Tran.jpg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Kathy-Tran.jpg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Kathy-Tran-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Kathy-Tran-1020x687.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Kathy-Tran-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Kathy-Tran-1536x1035.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">‘I learned how to be an advocate at an early age because I had to stand up for my parents when I saw them experience discrimination,’ said Kathy Tran, pictured here with her father. <cite>(Kathy Tran)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>When I was 14, I translated for my grandmother when she was battling cancer. That experience has left an indelible mark on my life. Because of those early experiences translating for my family, I have pursued a career in science, and am now working on my masters in public health at UC Berkeley and applying to medical school. — <strong>Daniel Mota</strong></p>
<p>I began interpreting for my parents as a child at school, stores, doctor’s offices and pretty much anywhere my parents needed services. Both my parents are indigenous Mexicans, whose primary language is Mixteco and secondary language is Spanish. I was raised speaking Spanish, and so I primarily interpreted from English to Spanish and vice versa. I have dedicated my entire life to advocate for those that can’t be heard, and today I’m a proud co-founder of Herencia Indigena (Indigenous Heritage). We specialize in training trilingual individuals to become qualified advocates/interpreters for hospitals, clinics and government agencies both private and public. — <strong>Irebid Gilbert</strong></p>
<figure id="attachment_11831203" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11831203" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Daniel-Mota.jpg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Daniel-Mota.jpg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Daniel-Mota-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Daniel-Mota-1020x687.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Daniel-Mota-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Daniel-Mota-1536x1035.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Translating for his grandmother during her cancer treatment ‘left an indelible mark on my life,’ said Daniel Mota, and led him into the career path he’s pursuing today. <cite>(Daniel Mota)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<h3>For many, there’s a standout memory that lingers</h3>
<p>As a second-generation Vietnamese American, my parents relied on me often to look over everything from utility bills to dealing with landlords. One moment stands out to me when I was a teenager and having to write a letter to appeal to the landlord who wanted to take my family’s whole security deposit, which would have been a lot of money. I remember trying to use everything I learned in English composition classes to write this letter, and I recall feeling a great sense of justice. We didn’t end up getting that security deposit back, but I’m glad I was able to help my parents regardless. — <strong>Jeannie Pham</strong></p>
<p>When I was six-years-old, I traveled to Mexico with my grandmother. Upon our return we were held at immigration at LAX and the TSA agents expected me, a six-year-old child, to explain my grandmother’s immigration status and to translate a very complex conversation using words I had never heard before. It was so scary. I did my best because I was worried my grandmother would be deported, because I was told by the TSA agent if my grandmother could not give them the information they needed she would be sent back to Mexico. I did not completely comprehend everything that was being said, yet I was expected to translate. — <strong>Anonymous</strong></p>
<figure id="attachment_11831204" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11831204" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Irebid.jpg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Irebid.jpg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Irebid-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Irebid-1020x687.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Irebid-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Irebid-1536x1035.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Interpreting for her Indigenous Mexican parents led Irebid Gilbert (right, with siblings Vianey and Judith) on the career path she has today. <cite>(Irebid Gilbert)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>My mother had a court date for a traffic citation (come to think of it, this may be where my fear of public speaking began). She took me as the designated interpreter. As I stood before the judge and hearing mother tell me “dile, dile lo que te dije” (tell him, tell him what I told you), I froze. When I finally spoke, my voice was low and timid. I no longer recall what I said but luckily the judge sympathized with me. He asked me my age (I must have been 13 or 14 at the time) and then proceeded to tell me there were careers in the future for me. Nevertheless, the look I got from my mother told me I had failed. Many years later, I did in fact become a trained interpreter. Although that particular memory is bittersweet, I recognize the dire need for my mother to want to relay her thoughts and emotions, something perhaps she felt only a family member could do. — <strong>Anonymous</strong></p>
<p>One of the most memorable (recollections) was how my mother loved the show “Friends,” but did not understand a lot of the jokes. So I would translate it for her. — <strong>Anonymous</strong></p>
<figure id="attachment_11831205" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11831205" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Sally.jpg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Sally.jpg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Sally-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Sally-1020x687.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Sally-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Sally-1536x1035.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">As a child, Sally Seraphin translated for Haitian relatives who were newly arrived in the U.S. With COVID-19, she said, the responsibility of kids doing this kind of work for families ‘is doubly hard.’ <cite>(Sally Seraphin)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>One summer day, when I was 9, I was home alone with my mom. That’s why, when the phone rang and it was her boss, she asked me to translate for her. I introduced myself to the man on the other end of the phone and he brusquely, and without preamble, said “Tell your mom I’m laying her off, so she doesn’t have to come to work on Monday.” I didn’t know what that meant so I asked him if she could go on Tuesday. — <strong>Anonymous</strong></p>
<h3>You frequently tackled complex adult administrative work…</h3>
<p>As a young girl, I often translated for Haitian relatives who were newly arrived in the U.S. I would take them on rounds to all the usual places one needs to go in order to get established in a new land, such as the Social Security Administration. It taught me a sort of resourcefulness and built my resilience, but it was also a challenging burden for someone so young. Under normal circumstances, the life of an immigrant child is not carefree and often complicated by real economic hardship. With COVID their work is doubly hard. Immigrant children and families deserve better support. — <strong>Sally Seraphin</strong></p>
<figure id="attachment_11831206" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11831206" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Elodia.jpg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Elodia.jpg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Elodia-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Elodia-1020x687.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Elodia-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Elodia-1536x1035.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Elodia Caballero said she began supporting her parents with her language skills ‘as soon as I learned to write and read in English.’ <cite>(Elodia Caballero)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>As soon as I learned to write and read in English, it was my responsibility to fill out applications and write letters of earned household income so my siblings and I could get Medicaid. I was also responsible for reading all government and official documents for my family. I had a hard time reading the documents, and don’t know if I told them the right thing every time. — <strong>Elodia Caballero</strong></p>
<p>As the oldest kid, just having turned 13 when we arrived (in San Francisco from Mexico in 1984), I remember the many times I translated for my parents things that children should not be aware or exposed to. My mother became pregnant shortly after our arrival and I had to go to her medical appointments and translate. One time I had to translate the risk of her pregnancy and the possibility that her baby in the womb might have Down syndrome. Even as a teen or young adult, translating legal and financial issues is intense as one becomes fully aware of the fragility of our family’s situation. — <strong>Maru Salazar</strong></p>
<figure id="attachment_11831209" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11831209" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Angel-and-Manuel.jpg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Angel-and-Manuel.jpg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Angel-and-Manuel-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Angel-and-Manuel-1020x687.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Angel-and-Manuel-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Angel-and-Manuel-1536x1035.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Angel Luis Martinez, now 80 (pictured here around the age of 12 with his uncle Manuel) said navigating the attitudes of U.S. officials after he and his family arrived from Puerto Rico left ‘a bitter taste in my soul.’ <cite>(Angel Luis Martinez)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<h3>…and you learned a lot about adult systems of power and discrimination</h3>
<p>I am 80 years old and arrived in NYC from Puerto Rico in 1947. I was the oldest child in our family and the first one to learn English. I still have a bitter taste in my soul from having to translate the scorn of the then-called “home relief” (later welfare, later AFDC) workers who queried every aspect of our lives. I send Maggie love and admiration. — <strong>Angel Luis Martinez</strong></p>
<p>My parents were hard-working immigrants from Nicaragua. While they eventually became somewhat fluent, I was the one they depended upon to navigate their dealings in their adopted country. It was always so interesting to hear the change of tone, clarification or additional information I would get once I took over, when they were having a hard time communicating with others. So sad that so many others did not have the benefit of a daughter who could go toe-to-toe with those who sought to take advantage of their lack of English-speaking skills! — <strong>Anita Martinez</strong></p>
<figure id="attachment_11831211" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1900px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11831211" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Anita-Carlos.jpg" alt="" width="1900" height="1280" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Anita-Carlos.jpg 1900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Anita-Carlos-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Anita-Carlos-1020x687.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Anita-Carlos-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Anita-Carlos-1536x1035.jpg 1536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1900px) 100vw, 1900px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Anita Martinez (here with brother Carlos) recalls translating for her Nicaraguan parents, and observing the ‘change of tone … I would get once I took over, when they were having a hard time communicating with others.’ <cite>(Anita Martinez)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>I remember feeling frustrated and fearful trying to make sense of bills, notices, and other official documents. At the same time, there was such an acute awareness that I had to do it. I remember accompanying my parents to health care appointments to fill out forms and translate. I don’t ever recall anyone questioning it. Why did that ever seem acceptable? I’m now a health care professional and it’s one reason I feel so strongly about advocating for appropriate and consistent access to language resources. It’s not OK for a child to be in a position to interpret important information for others. Our immigrant parents deserve better. — <strong>Anonymous</strong></p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>In the ’90s, medical letters were sent in English only, so imagine having to translate life-changing medical notices at 8 years old to your parents. It took advocates years of fighting for language access to be available in publicly funded places like rec centers, libraries, public transit, DMVs, public hospitals, etc in San Francisco. As a kid of monolingual immigrant parents, you learn early on how to navigate large institutions like courts, hospitals, schools, etc. It’s a feeling that never leaves you. You witness at a young age how these institutions make your relatives matter less just because they don’t speak English. You grow up with a “get shit done because no one else will help you” mentality. More people need to know our stories. Having language access allows for immigrant communities to thrive and regain agency. — <strong>Vida</strong></p>
<h3><a id="resources"></a>Multilingual Resources for Families</h3>
<p><strong>COVID-19 Information from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC)</strong></p>
<p>The CDC’s website is available in Spanish <a href="https://www.cdc.gov/spanish/">here</a>. The organization also has printable information about the coronavirus and preventing the spread of COVID-19 available in 64 languages <a href="https://wwwn.cdc.gov/pubs/other-languages?Sort=Lang%3A%3Aasc">here</a>.</p>
<p><strong>KQED en Español</strong></p>
<p>We have coronavirus information, guides and advice available in Spanish <a href="https://www.kqed.org/elcoronavirus">here</a>. Sign up for the bilingual <a href="https://www.kqed.org/elcoronavirus">newsletter</a>.</p>
<p><strong>Legal Assistance</strong></p>
<p><a href="https://www.centrolegal.org/">Centro Legal de la Raza</a></p>
<p><strong>Financial</strong></p>
<p><a href="https://missionassetfund.org/immigrant-families-grant/">Mission Asset Fund’s Immigrant Families Fund</a></p>
<p><strong>Housing & Shelter</strong></p>
<p><a href="https://baylegal.org/homepage/baylegals-covid-19-response/resources-and-news-for-tenants-during-the-covid-19-emergency/">Bay Area Legal Aid’s ‘How to Protect Yourself If You Can’t Pay Rent On-Time During the Emergency’ guide </a>is available in:</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://baylegal.org/covid-19-protecciones-para-inquilinos/">Español</a></li>
<li><a href="https://baylegal.org/covid-19-bao-ve-nguoi-thue-nha/">Trong tiếng việt</a></li>
<li><a href="https://baylegal.org/covid-19%e6%96%b0%e5%86%a0%e7%97%85%e6%af%92-%e7%a7%9f%e5%ae%a2%e4%bf%9d%e9%9a%9c/">用中文（表達</a></li>
</ul>
<p><strong>Tenants Rights Consultation</strong><br />
<a href="https://www.centrolegal.org/tenants-rights/">Centro Legal de la Raza</a></p>
<p><strong>Free Shelters in San Francisco via <a href="http://www.freeprintshop.org/">Free Print Shop</a></strong></p>
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.freeprintshop.org/download/shelter_english.pdf">English </a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.freeprintshop.org/download/shelter_spanish.pdf">Español </a></li>
</ul>
<p><strong>Bay Area Newspapers and Media</strong></p>
<p>El Tecolote</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="http://eltecolote.org/content/en/">English</a></li>
<li><a href="http://eltecolote.org/content/es/">Español</a></li>
</ul>
<p>El Tímpano</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://www.eltimpano.org/">English</a></li>
<li><a href="https://www.eltimpano.org/pagina-de-inicio">Español</a></li>
</ul>
<p>The Oaklandside</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://oaklandside.org/">English</a></li>
<li><a href="https://oaklandside.org/tag/en-espanol/">Español</a></li>
</ul>
<p>Mission Local</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://missionlocal.org/">English </a></li>
<li><a href="https://missionlocal.org/es/">Español</a></li>
</ul>
<p>El Observador</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://el-observador.com/">English + español</a></li>
</ul>
<p>Univision KDTF</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://www.univision.com/local/san-francisco-kdtv">Español</a></li>
</ul>
<p>Kstati</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://issuu.com/kstatinews">Pусский</a></li>
</ul>
<p>KTSF</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://www.ktsf.com/">中國傳統的</a></li>
</ul>
<p><strong>Immigration/Migration</strong></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400">State of California’s COVID-19 Guide for Immigrant Californians</span></p>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-weight: 400"><a href="https://files.covid19.ca.gov/pdf/wp/listos_covid_19_immigrant_guidance_es_daf.pdf">Español</a></span></li>
<li><a href="https://files.covid19.ca.gov/pdf/wp/covid-19-immigrant-guidance_ch-traditional-accessible-2.pdf">中國傳統的</a></li>
<li><a href="https://files.covid19.ca.gov/pdf/COVID_immigrant_guidance-zh-Hans.pdf">简体中文</a></li>
<li><a href="https://files.covid19.ca.gov/pdf/COVID_immigrant_guidance-ko.pdf">한국어</a></li>
<li><a href="https://files.covid19.ca.gov/pdf/COVID_immigrant_guidance_Tagalog.pdf">Tagalog</a></li>
<li><a href="https://files.covid19.ca.gov/pdf/COVID_immigrant_guidance_Vietnamese.pdf">Tiếng Việt</a></li>
</ul>
<p><a href="https://carecensf.org/">Carecen SF</a></p>
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<media:description type="html">Maggie Carillo, who called KQED Forum to ask a coronavirus question on behalf of her parents</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Glenda</media:title>
<media:description type="html">"Being the child of an immigrant always comes with its own series of 'club rules'," says Glenda Cota, who grew up supporting her family with her language skills</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Omar</media:title>
<media:description type="html">"Growing up under the circumstances that I did is what forged the distinct Chicanx identity I have today," says Omar Vega, pictured here age 7</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Kathy-Tran</media:title>
<media:description type="html">"I learned how to be an advocate at an early age because I had to stand up for my parents when I saw them experience discrimination," says Kathy Tran, pictured here with her father</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Daniel-Mota</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Translated for his grandmother during her cancer treatment "left an indelible mark on my life," says Daniel Mota, and led him into the career path he's pursuing today</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Irebid</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Interpreting for her Indigenous Mexican parents led Irebid Gilbert (right, with siblings Vianey and Judith) on the career path she has today</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Sally</media:title>
<media:description type="html">As a child, Sally Seraphin translated for Haitian relatives who were newly arrived in the US. With COVID-19, she says, the responsibility of kids doing this kind of work for families "is doubly hard."</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Elodia</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Elodia Caballero says she began supporting her parents with her language skills "as soon as I learned to write and read in English"</media:description>
<media:thumbnail url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Elodia-160x108.jpg" />
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<media:title type="html">Angel-and-Manuel</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Angel Luis Martinez, now 80 (pictured here around the age of 12 with his uncle Manuel) says navigating the attitudes of U.S. officials after he and his family arrived from Puerto Rico left "a bitter taste in my soul."</media:description>
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<media:content url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2020/07/Anita-Carlos.jpg" medium="image">
<media:title type="html">Anita-Carlos</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Anita Martinez recalls translating for her Nicaraguan parents, and observing the "change of tone, clarification or additional information I would get once I took over, when they were having a hard time communicating with others."</media:description>
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<title>‘It Was Hell’: When Both Parents Get COVID-19</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2020/05/26/it-was-hell-when-both-parents-get-covid-19/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Farida Jhabvala Romero]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Tue, 26 May 2020 21:45:14 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11820290</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Latinos represent more than half of California's confirmed COVID-19 cases. One family shares their nightmarish experience recovering from the disease.
]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>In early April, as coronavirus outbreaks spread rapidly across the San Francisco Bay Area, Lorena found herself trapped in her apartment obsessively disinfecting surfaces, wearing gloves to cook meals and abstaining from holding her own two children.</p>
<p>Both Lorena and her husband, Jorge, had tested positive for COVID-19.</p>
<p>“It was hell, to be honest with you,” said Lorena, 30, who works as a receptionist at a doctor’s office.</p>
<p>KQED is only using Lorena’s first name because she worries her daughter will be bullied if classmates learn both of her parents were diagnosed with the disease.</p>
<p>Lorena was terrified of transmitting the coronavirus to their 1-year-old son, who wheezes and needs an inhaler if he gets sick with a simple cold.</p>
<p>But a doctor told Lorena and Jorge that their baby and 8-year-old daughter had likely already been exposed to the virus and they must quarantine together. The normally active family who loves spending weekends at parks suddenly found themselves confined to their three-bedroom apartment in Richmond.</p>
<p>The pandemic’s toll has disproportionately impacted Latinos statewide, who comprise more than half of all confirmed COVID-19 cases, according to the <a href="https://www.cdph.ca.gov/Programs/CID/DCDC/Pages/COVID-19/Race-Ethnicity.aspx" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">California Department of Public Health</a>. Lorena’s story is one family’s nightmarish experience with recovering from the disease. But it also points to vulnerabilities many Latinos and others face as they get sick with the coronavirus.</p>
<p><strong>The Ordeal Begins</strong></p>
<p>On March 21, Jorge came down with a bad cough, high fever and intense headaches. His sweat soaked through the bed sheets at night. Lorena’s worry for her husband grew. <!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>Doctors at Kaiser Permanente initially declined to test Jorge, 34, for COVID-19. At the time only a limited number of test kits were available in the Bay Area, and Contra Costa County public health officials <a href="https://cchealth.org/coronavirus/pdf/Health-Alert-Coronavirus-2020-0320.pdf" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">recommended</a> tests be prioritized for the most vulnerable symptomatic patients, including those who were hospitalized.</p>
<p>Six days later, Jorge’s symptoms worsened. He landed in the emergency room at the Kaiser Permanente Richmond Medical Center. He was tested and confirmed positive for COVID-19. But doctors believed Jorge would recover on his own and sent him home.</p>
<p>“I did worry a lot because he had to sleep almost sitting down, he couldn’t breathe when he would lay on his back,” said Lorena, a legal permanent resident originally from Mexico. “He’d cough so much that his chest wouldn’t stop hurting all day.”</p>
<p>Lorena’s symptoms were relatively mild compared to her husband’s: light headaches, exhaustion and a loss of sense of smell and taste. She was able to cook and keep an eye on her kids at home. And she avoided hospitalization, as well as a potentially costly health care bill down the road.</p>
<p>Unlike her husband, Lorena doesn’t have health insurance. Her employer, a workers’ compensation doctor, doesn’t offer the benefit to her 12 employees, Lorena said. Under the Affordable Care Act, only businesses with 50 or more full-time employees may be <a href="https://www.coveredca.com/forsmallbusiness/mandate/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">financially penalized</a> if they don’t offer health coverage.</p>
<div><span class="aside"><img decoding="async" src="" /><a href="">More coronavirus coverage</a></span></div>
<p>While Jorge has insurance through his maintenance job at a seniors apartment complex in San Francisco, Lorena is not on his plan because the premiums are too expensive, she said.</p>
<p>But her family’s income, about $60,000 per year, means Lorena earns too much to qualify for Medi-Cal, the state’s coverage for low-income people.</p>
<p><strong>Latinos Have Highest Uninsured Rates</strong></p>
<p>Lorena’s story is not uncommon. Latinos are more than twice as likely to be uninsured than other racial or ethnic groups in the state, according to a <a href="https://healthpolicy.ucla.edu/publications/Documents/PDF/2019/LatinoInsurance-policybrief-aug2019.pdf" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">study</a> by the UCLA Center for Health Policy Research. That’s in part because only about a third of Latinos get their health coverage through an employer, the lowest job-based coverage of all racial or ethnic groups.</p>
<p>As the pandemic continues, the state has committed to covering the cost of COVID-19 testing and treatment for uninsured Californians who need it. The demand for that safety net may increase as the pandemic ravages the economy, and millions of Californians lose their jobs and health coverage for themselves, their <a href="http://laborcenter.berkeley.edu/health-coverage-ca-workers-at-risk-of-job-loss-covid-19/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">spouses and their children</a>.</p>
<p>Still, it’s unclear how much medical treatment related to COVID-19 the state would ultimately pay for those who lack full coverage, said Anthony Wright, executive director of the consumer advocacy coalition <a href="https://health-access.org/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Health Access California</a>.</p>
<p>“Frankly, if you end up in the ICU on a ventilator for a week, it may not cover the follow-up care afterwards,” Wright said.</p>
<p>Lorena said she used to be covered by Medi-Cal in the past. She has received medical care for years at the Lifelong Brookside <a href="https://www.lifelongmedical.org/locations/our-locations/brookside-san-pablo-health-center.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">San Pablo Health Center</a>. Now that she’s uninsured, she pays for medical visits at the community clinic on a sliding scale. That’s where she, and eventually her children, were tested for COVID-19 free of charge.</p>
<p>In retrospect, Lorena said the risks of being uninsured weren’t top of mind while she was sick with the coronavirus, as her symptoms didn’t deteriorate.</p>
<p>During the nearly three weeks it took for Lorena and Jorge to recover, they tried to stay away from their kids at home to avoid getting them infected. Their 8-year-old girl took on more responsibilities, helping to feed the baby, change his diapers and carry him.</p>
<p>“Having to do things that she shouldn’t be doing ‘cause she’s a kid,” Lorena said.</p>
<p>Lorena said she was overcome with sadness as the baby would stare out of the window and then come towards her and ask to be picked up, holding his little arms up. She told herself, as emotionally hurtful as it may be, she would not touch or hold her children, even when they were afraid, sad or worried.<!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>“My daughter was scared when she heard that I was positive, too. And of course, she needed a hug,” she said. As she spoke, Lorena started to cry, and said, “We couldn’t give it to her. Not being able to hold the baby, it was just … bad.”</p>
<p>The family got by with Jorge’s paid leave from work. Lorena filed for disability. Her parents, both diabetics in their 50s, left bags of groceries at her door. While grateful for the help, she worried her mom and dad would contract the virus while at grocery stores or streets.</p>
<p>“This whole experience drains you mentally,” she said.</p>
<p><strong>Recovered and Relieved</strong></p>
<p>Lorena and Jorge are back at work. Both kids tested negative for COVID-19, Lorena said with relief.</p>
<p>But in some ways, the family is still dealing with the trauma of their experience. When Lorena and Jorge were finally able to touch their children without fear of getting them sick, their son wouldn’t let his parents hug him.</p>
<p>“I don’t know if the baby was mad, but he wouldn’t want to come to us,” Lorena said. “I felt so bad. Like, ‘Hey, it wasn’t our fault.’ ”</p>
<p>Their daughter is recovering emotionally from her fear her dad wasn’t going to make it. She recently told Lorena that she’d stay up at night, hearing her father’s labored breathing and coughing fits.</p>
<p>“I’m so happy my dad got better because I was really scared,” Lorena’s daughter said.</p>
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<title>‘Feeling Like We Belong’: U.S. Adoptees Return to South Korea to Trace Their Roots</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/12/28/feeling-like-we-belong-u-s-adoptees-return-to-south-korea-to-trace-their-roots/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[KQED News Staff]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Sat, 28 Dec 2019 21:53:39 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11793182</guid>
<description><![CDATA[South Korea was once the largest source of children for international adoptions. Now some adoptees are building ties with birth family members. Critics say South Korean adoption laws need improvement.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>In September, Seattle resident Barbara Kim celebrated Chuseok — the Korean midautumn festival — with her family members in Seoul. Chuseok is a time to give thanks for plentiful harvests, and for Kim, who was adopted by an American family in the 1960s, this was a particularly special occasion: She was able to spend the holiday with several of her birth relatives.</p>
<p>At the celebration they, and a group of South Korean orphans now in their teens and 20s, dug into platters of bulgogi, kimbap, japche and other traditional Korean dishes.</p>
<p>Kim was among the first wave of a 200,000-strong exodus of adoptees, as South Korea became the world’s first source of international adoptions. She was born in 1955, two years after the Korean War cease-fire.</p>
<p>In recent decades, adoptees like Kim have been returning to South Korea to find out more about where they come from, build ties with their birth families and connect with others with similar experiences.</p>
<p>After being separated from her three siblings for about half a century, Kim managed to track all of them down and reunite with them. She says they have overcome an initial sense of awkwardness in knowing one another and feel proud to be part of the same family.</p>
<p>“We have a lot in common, even though we grew up so far apart,” she said. “I feel like there’s this sense of feeling like we belong.”</p>
<h3>Abandoned, then adopted</h3>
<p>Now 64, Kim was the eldest child born to impoverished parents at a time when South Korea was recovering from the conflict that killed millions and left about 100,000 children orphaned.</p>
<p>After giving birth, Kim’s mother abandoned her in the hospital. Korean society traditionally <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5272884/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">prefers</a> boys over girls, and Kim was born with <a href="https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/hip-dysplasia/symptoms-causes/syc-20350209" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">hip dysplasia.</a> Kim’s grandmother raised her until she was about 8. Her parents wanted nothing to do with her, and eventually, she was sent to an orphanage.</p>
<div><span class="aside"><img decoding="async" src="" /><a href="">Related Coverage.</a></span></div>
<p>The orphanage was run by <a href="https://www.holtinternational.org/historybg.shtml" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Harry Holt</a>, the American evangelical Christian who, with his wife Bertha, founded an international adoption agency that matched thousands of Korean orphans with parents in the U.S. in the 1950s and 1960s. A family of dairy farmers in Nebraska adopted Kim, but when they fell on hard times, she says, they vented their anger by abusing her.</p>
<p>“And I remember one time thinking: ‘Dear God, wasn’t it bad enough I had a first mother that was so horrible? Did you have to bring me to a second mother that was like this?’ ” Kim recalls.</p>
<p>Kim later went into the U.S. foster care system. Studying became her refuge. She earned a bachelor’s degree, then a master’s degree and, after that, worked for the very adoption agency that sent her to the U.S.</p>
<h3>“For the first time, we’re developing this relationship”</h3>
<p>Despite the difficulties she faced growing up, Kim says she feels grateful for the opportunities that adoption by a U.S. family brought her — particularly when she considers the stigma and other challenges disabled people often contend with in South Korea.</p>
<p>Others are still wrestling with their experience of adoption. Denver-based filmmaker Glenn Morey, who was adopted by an American family after he was abandoned as an infant in Seoul, interviewed 100 Korean orphans raised in the U.S. for <em>Side by Side, </em>a <a href="http://sidebysideproject.com/about" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">film project with his wife Julie Morey<em>.</em></a></p>
<p>Despite the diversity of adoptees’ experiences, certain threads connect their stories, he says. Chief among these is “a sense of loss, sadness and perhaps even trauma related to thinking about it, or remembering in some cases their time in Korea and how their lives got started.”</p>
<p>One woman, born in 1979, told Morey: “I feel like I was sold. I feel like I don’t know who I am. I don’t even know if my name is real or my birthdate is real.”</p>
<p>Another said, “I never felt I was actually Asian until later on in life.”</p>
<p>When Kim first became acquainted with her siblings in South Korea in the 1970s, she didn’t speak Korean and they didn’t speak English. They found one another after one of her sisters happened to read a Korean magazine piece in which Kim had written about her life story. Through the magazine publisher, who contacted Kim’s father, Kim, her sister and a brother were able to meet.</p>
<p>After that, there were decades of little or no contact, and they only started to build their relationship in earnest over the past year, when Kim decided to spend more time in Seoul.</p>
<p>“I decided that I wanted to stay here to learn the language so I can get to know my family,” Kim explains, “and for the first time, we’re developing this relationship.”</p>
<p>She and her sister and brother found another sister who had been placed in an orphanage. Nobody had adopted her, and she had gone to work in a factory.</p>
<p>When Kim and her siblings visited her in 1978, “They all cried to see me because maybe they thought I was not doing so well,” the sister recalled at the Chuseok gathering.</p>
<p>She asked that NPR not use her name because of the stigma of being an orphan in South Korea. “But I just didn’t feel anything, because I had lived my whole life thinking that I was alone. I didn’t have anybody. So I just felt blank, empty.”</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<h3>“Children who were not fully Korean would never be accepted”</h3>
<p>Unlike Kim, many of South Korea’s early adoptees were biracial children whose fathers were American GIs fighting in the Korean War.</p>
<p>In a country that valued homogeneity, “adoption initially was thought of as like the ‘solution’ to mixed-race children,” says <a href="https://faculty.sites.uci.edu/eleanakim/" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">Eleana Kim</a>, an anthropologist at the University of California, Irvine.</p>
<p>In its early years, the South Korean government crafted a narrative of a racially homogeneous nation, she says, “the idea being that children who were not fully Korean would never be accepted in South Korean society. And the South Korean government realized that there was an interest among Americans to adopt these children.”</p>
<p><span style="font-weight: 400"><!-- to be implemented later --></span></p>
<p>In 1965, Son Jeong-seon, then vice minister of welfare and society, <a href="http://law.nanet.go.kr/lawservice/knowledgemanagement/knowledgemanagementView.do?searchCon=total&searchKey=&searchValue01=&searchValue02=&searchValue03=&code01=2&code02=MA&number01_str=6&number01_end=6&number02_str=48&number02_end=48&searchFromDate=&searchToDate=&pageUnit=10&pos=7&pageNum=1&cn=PROC2014010828&sort=SessDate_SORT&dir=reversealphabetical" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">told lawmakers </a>debating South Korea’s adoption law: “One can’t help but feel ashamed by the fact that [an ethnic Korean] would get together with a foreign person and give birth to a baby that doesn’t belong to our homogeneous people.”</p>
<p>Critics of South Korea’s adoption system say the government also sought to “export” other stigmatized groups, including disabled children or those born to unmarried women, via adoption.</p>
<p>There were also economic factors in play, says Eleana Kim, noting that South Korea spends less on social welfare than almost any other developed economy. “Why do people believe that it’s better to remove a child from its country of origin rather than to provide money for the parents who can’t afford to raise it?” she asks.</p>
<p>Many Korean adoptees were not truly orphans, she says. They were abandoned because their parents couldn’t afford to raise them, and international adoptions allowed South Korea to shift some of its welfare burden overseas. Adoption agencies charged adoptive parents hefty <a href="https://www.holtinternational.org/adoption/fees.php" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">fees</a>, which at times exceeded Korea’s gross domestic product per capita.</p>
<h3>“A law that produces orphans”</h3>
<p>“We can ask if South Korea is fulfilling the state’s duty to protect children, and the answer is pretty doubtful,” says Kyung-eun Lee, the director of Amnesty International Korea and a former South Korean official who worked on adoption policy.</p>
<p>Lee says that according to international law, children must not be separated from their parents unless a court rules it’s in the kids’ interest. But South Korea, she said, leaves it to parents and adoption agencies to make the decisions, which South Korean courts simply rubber-stamp.</p>
<p>She argues that South Korea’s government has allowed parents and adoption agencies to erase children’s identities in order to make them more adoptable.</p>
<p>“They were made orphans,” she says.</p>
<p>In 2013, South Korea’s adoption law was revised, requiring all international adoptees to have family registration showing whom the birth parents are. This appears to have reduced abuses of the system, says Lee.</p>
<p>Sung Changhyun, an official with South Korea’s Ministry of Health and Welfare, told NPR via email that since the 2013 reforms, Korean courts have “held adoption confirmation hearings with sufficient review and investigation required to approve adoptions.”</p>
<p>Sung did not respond to NPR’s request for comment on allegations of birth record falsification.</p>
<p>Since the 2013 reforms were enacted, South Korea’s number of international adoptions has declined. There were 755 in 2012 and 303 last year.</p>
<p>Sung said the government will initiate additional reforms that “will further strengthen public responsibility over the entire adoption procedure and establish adoption system that prioritizes children’s interests.”</p>
<p>While reforms have stopped the falsification of documents, Lee believes the government still fails to do an adequate job of protecting children’s rights throughout the adoption process.</p>
<p>“The [adoption] law, even after many amendments, to this day is basically still a law that produces orphans,” she says.</p>
<div class="fullattribution">Copyright 2019 NPR. To see more, visit https://www.npr.org.<img decoding="async" src="https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=%27Feeling+Like+We+Belong%27%3A+U.S.+Adoptees+Return+To+South+Korea+To+Trace+Their+Roots&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)" /></div>
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<title>Impeachment Update, ‘The Nancy Pelosi Way,’ Holidays and Family Stress</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/12/06/impeachment-update-holidays-and-stress-the-nancy-pelosi-way/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[KQED News Staff]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Sat, 07 Dec 2019 00:16:25 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11790015</guid>
<description><![CDATA[A new book describes the political and negotiating skills that have made Speaker Nancy Pelosi such a formidable leader on Capitol Hill. ]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><strong>Democrats Press Ahead With Impeachment as Harris Ends Presidential Bid<br />
</strong>On Thursday, Speaker Nancy Pelosi said the House of Representatives would begin drafting articles of impeachment against President Trump. A day earlier, four constitutional law scholars testified before the House Judiciary Committee, with three of the experts testifying that the president had committed impeachable offenses in pressuring a foreign power to open an investigation into a political rival. Also this week, California Sen. Kamala Harris announced she was dropping out of the presidential race. Harris had gotten off to a strong start with an impressive performance at the first Democratic presidential debate in June. But since then, her campaign was marred by infighting and muddled messaging on key issues such as health care.</p>
<p><strong>Guests:</strong></p>
<ul>
<li>Melanie Mason, political reporter, L.A. Times</li>
<li>Carla Marinucci, senior writer, Politico</li>
</ul>
<p><strong>‘The Nancy Pelosi Way’<br />
</strong>Democratic House Majority Leader Nancy Pelosi is the most powerful woman in America. In January, she became speaker a second time after Democrats flipped control of the House and sent a record number of women to Congress. In recent weeks, Pelosi has championed House Democrats’ impeachment investigation of President Trump, and weathered personal attacks by the president and his allies while making a case for impeachment to a skeptical public. A new book by her daughter, Christine Pelosi, describes the political and negotiating skills that have made Speaker Pelosi such a formidable leader on Capitol Hill.</p>
<p><strong>Guest:</strong></p>
<ul>
<li>Christine Pelosi, author, “The Nancy Pelosi Way”</li>
</ul>
<p><strong>‘Tis the Season for Venting<br />
</strong>We’re well into the holiday season, a time of year when we gather with friends and family to enjoy good food and good times. But we’re not all alike. Family members come in all stripes, so how do we stay connected with those we love, despite political or religious differences?</p>
<p><strong>Guest:</strong></p>
<ul>
<li>Daniel Ellenberg, marriage and family therapist</li>
</ul>
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<title>How an Old-School L.A. Video Store Thrives in a Netflix World</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/05/31/how-an-old-school-l-a-video-store-thrives-in-a-netflix-world/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Marisol Medina-Cadena]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 31 May 2019 23:44:50 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11750104</guid>
<description><![CDATA[In ’89, two Mexican-American brothers from East Los Angeles started a business in their garage, delivering VHS movie magic to their side of town. And Fastlane Video is still going strong.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>The year was 1989. Movies like “Batman,” “When Harry Met Sally” and “Back to the Future Part II” were Hollywood hits.</p>
<p>On the other side of Hollywood, miles from the production studios and industry gatekeepers, two Mexican-American brothers from East Los Angeles embarked on a plan to deliver movie magic to their side of town.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>Martin and Eddie Felix purchased used VHS tapes from the rental stores on the Westside of Los Angeles. Once they had a sizable collection of ’80s crowd-favorites, they converted their parent’s garage in East Los Angeles into a video library.</p>
<p>They called their business Fastlane Video, and unlike the nearby video rental spots, they took their cue from pizzerias. They advertised free delivery and pickup, with a free bag of microwavable popcorn for every two-movie rental.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11750247" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 729px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37368_156702-qut.jpg" alt="An original flyer Martin and Eddie Felix printed and mailed to households across East Los Angeles." width="729" height="900" class="size-full wp-image-11750247" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37368_156702-qut.jpg 729w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37368_156702-qut-160x198.jpg 160w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 729px) 100vw, 729px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">An original flyer Martin and Eddie Felix printed and mailed to households across East Los Angeles. <cite>(Courtesy of Martin Felix)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Already running a successful print shop out of the same garage, 21-year-old-Martin and his older brother Eddie designed mini catalogs of their VHS inventory. </p>
<p>They mailed them out to households across East L.A so customers could call in their orders.</p>
<p>“We were one of the first to actually pioneer [movie delivery],” says Martin Felix.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>More than a decade before Netflix would come to dominate the rental market and mail DVDs in red envelopes, the Felix brothers were finding innovative ways to collect their share of the lucrative movie industry.</p>
<p>Martin and Eddie enlisted their neighborhood buddies with cars to deliver from Soto Street to Whittier Boulevard, all the way to the 10 freeway.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11750245" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1920px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11750245" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37367_fastlane-video-1990-pico-rivera-qut.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1567" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37367_fastlane-video-1990-pico-rivera-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37367_fastlane-video-1990-pico-rivera-qut-160x131.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37367_fastlane-video-1990-pico-rivera-qut-800x653.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37367_fastlane-video-1990-pico-rivera-qut-1020x832.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37367_fastlane-video-1990-pico-rivera-qut-1200x979.jpg 1200w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Fastlane Video began as a movie delivery service to households throughout East Los Angeles. <cite>(Courtesy of Martin Felix)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Business got so good that eager customers started showing up to the Felix’s family home — the address was noted on the return address of the mailed catalogs and flyers — expecting a storefront, only to find a garage.</p>
<p>“We needed a new location because more people wanted to actually come into a shop than for us to deliver,” says Martin.</p>
<p>In 1990, the brothers expanded from their parents’ East L.A. garage to a storefront in the nearby suburb of Pico Rivera. Two years later, the brothers went their separate ways but remained close.</p>
<p>Martin moved Fastlane Video to the city of Whittier and Eddie opened his own printing shop, Fastlane Printing, next door.</p>
<p><iframe loading="lazy" title="Fastlane Records Commercial in Whittier, CA 1993" width="640" height="360" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EkNxT89CgFE?feature=oembed" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" referrerpolicy="strict-origin-when-cross-origin" allowfullscreen></iframe></p>
<p>Since Martin was a party promoter before the days of Fastlane Video, he knew how to attract large crowds to the store.</p>
<p>In the ’90s he often organized autograph-signings with acts like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XB91QfyBuz8">Sweet Sensation</a> and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Of-uhhQWNeA">Miranda</a>, and eager teens would show up to get the latest mix-tapes and CDs for their backyard parties.</p>
<p>The part-video-store, part-record-shop quickly became a hub for local DJs and big name recording artists in the house music and <a href="https://tropicsofmeta.com/2016/11/30/the-other-freestyle-recovering-80s-latin-dance-music/">freestyle</a> scene.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11750249" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37364_clubs-mannequinz-49-qut-800x405.jpg" alt="In the '80's and '90's, the Felix brothers promoted big warehouse parties where freestyle and house music reigned supreme among the mostly Latino crowds." width="800" height="405" class="size-medium wp-image-11750249" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37364_clubs-mannequinz-49-qut-800x405.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37364_clubs-mannequinz-49-qut-160x81.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37364_clubs-mannequinz-49-qut-1020x516.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37364_clubs-mannequinz-49-qut-1200x607.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37364_clubs-mannequinz-49-qut.jpg 1670w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">In the ’80’s and ’90’s, the Felix brothers promoted big warehouse parties where freestyle and house music reigned supreme among the mostly Latino crowds.<br /> <cite>(Courtesy of Martin Felix)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Unable to compete with the free digital music market kick-started by Napster, Martin discontinued the music side of the business in 2002. When his customers began requesting the newest releases on DVDs, he shifted his business model once again, this time from analog to digital.</p>
<p>“Our location is so small, we got to the point that we had to give away all our VHS tapes,” says Martin.</p>
<p>Today the only VHS tapes in the store are collecting dust in the back closet, left over from DVD transfers Martin makes for customers.</p>
<p>Now that streaming platforms have replaced video stores it’s hard to believe that <a href="http://www.fastlanevideo.com/">Fastlane Video is still standing</a>.</p>
<p>“There used to be a video store on every corner,” says Martin. “I was surrounded by 15 video stores, but we’re still here.”</p>
<p>It’s not a hipster spot with retro decor and underground art house films. Instead, Martin has the big blockbuster titles on 4K and Blu Ray DVDs.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11750248" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1279px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11750248 size-full" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37369_fastlane-records-dj-trajic-qut.jpg" alt="" width="1279" height="994" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37369_fastlane-records-dj-trajic-qut.jpg 1279w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37369_fastlane-records-dj-trajic-qut-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37369_fastlane-records-dj-trajic-qut-800x622.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37369_fastlane-records-dj-trajic-qut-1020x793.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37369_fastlane-records-dj-trajic-qut-1200x933.jpg 1200w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1279px) 100vw, 1279px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">A flyer for autograph signings at Fastlane Video & Records, a hub for fans of freestyle and house music. <cite>(Courtesy of Martin Felix)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Martin says keeping his shop modern is key to its survival.</p>
<p>“Either we move with the technology and learn from it or just close our doors and say, ‘I’m not going to deal with it,’ ” he says.</p>
<p>The modest place is crammed with more than 15,000 DVDs, leaving little room to move around. Stark fluorescent lighting beams from the ceiling — reminiscent of the early days when Fastlane Video began 30 years ago out of a garage.</p>
<p>“Making that customer smile. That’s the only thing that hasn’t changed in this industry,” says Martin.</p>
<p>He’s even kept his free popcorn special from the early days.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11750236" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11750236 size-medium" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-800x600.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="600" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-1200x900.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-1832x1374.jpg 1832w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-1376x1032.jpg 1376w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-1044x783.jpg 1044w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-632x474.jpg 632w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37365_IMG_7039-qut-536x402.jpg 536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Martin Felix started Fastlane Video with his older brother at age 21, and hasn’t closed his doors since. <cite>(Courtesy of Martin Felix)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Just like Martin’s original customers from 1989, who preferred the experience of visiting a store over the convenience of home delivery, so do today’s customers, like Angelo Sarni.</p>
<p>“I use Netflix, but I still like walking into a video place and renting videos the old school way,” says Sarni, who on this day is renting copies of “The Equalizer 2” and “Crazy Rich Asians.”</p>
<p>For others, paying subscription fees to various streaming platforms on top of their internet bill is out of reach. Fastlane Video is an affordable alternative that comes with the bonus of face-to-face interaction.</p>
<p>Whittier resident Louie Davis frequents the store to rent the latest Marvel movie, and chat about superhero trivia with a familiar face.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11750244" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37366_fastlane-video-front-day-qut-800x600.jpg" alt="Fastlane Video is still going strong in the Los Angeles suburb of Whittier." width="800" height="600" class="size-medium wp-image-11750244" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37366_fastlane-video-front-day-qut-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37366_fastlane-video-front-day-qut-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37366_fastlane-video-front-day-qut-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37366_fastlane-video-front-day-qut-1044x783.jpg 1044w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37366_fastlane-video-front-day-qut-632x474.jpg 632w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37366_fastlane-video-front-day-qut-536x402.jpg 536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37366_fastlane-video-front-day-qut.jpg 1145w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Fastlane Video is still going strong in the Los Angeles suburb of Whittier. <cite>(Courtesy of Martin Felix)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>“Many customers come here to just talk to somebody. That’s what I am to most of them,” says Martin. “Some of them rent movies, some of them don’t, but I enjoy being here.”</p>
<p>The crowded store every Christmas Eve is a testament to Fastlane Video’s popularity in the community, explains customer Donald Calkims. In order to clear up shelf space for newer movies, Martin sets up tables in the parking lot stacked with overstocked DVDs that are free for his customers to take home.</p>
<p>“Now, I have a lot of customers that [bring] not just their kids but even their grandkids. So I have four generations that come in here to rent movies,” says Martin.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11750254" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-800x600.jpg" alt="Longtime customers turned out for Fastlane Video’s annual Christmas giveaway." width="800" height="600" class="size-medium wp-image-11750254" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-1200x900.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-1832x1374.jpg 1832w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-1376x1032.jpg 1376w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-1044x783.jpg 1044w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-632x474.jpg 632w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/05/RS37370_fastlane-video-christmas-drawing-2018-qut-536x402.jpg 536w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Longtime customers turned out for Fastlane Video’s annual Christmas giveaway. <cite>(Courtesy of Martin Felix)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>While streaming platforms have altered the way we consume media, Fastlane Video is a reminder of a time when movies brought people together instead of isolating us on our individual screens.</p>
<p>And as long as the neighborhood keeps coming, Martin Felix says he plans to keep his doors open for as long as he can.</p>
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<media:description type="html">An original flyer Martin and Eddie Felix printed and mailed to households across East Los Angeles.</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">RS37367_fastlane video 1990 pico rivera-qut</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Fastlane Video began as a movie delivery service to households throughout East Los Angeles.</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">RS37364_clubs mannequinz-49-qut</media:title>
<media:description type="html">In the '80's and '90's, the Felix brothers promoted big warehouse parties where freestyle and house music reigned supreme among the mostly Latino crowds.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Martin opened a record shop inside Fastlane Video, making it a hub for fans of freestyle and house music.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Fastlane Video is still going strong in the Los Angeles suburb of Whittier.</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">RS37370_fastlane video christmas drawing 2018-qut</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Longtime customers turned out for Fastlane Video’s annual Christmas giveaway.</media:description>
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<title>Childhood Poverty: California’s ‘Moral Outrage’</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/04/03/childhood-poverty-californias-moral-outrage/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Scott Shafer]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Wed, 03 Apr 2019 07:01:36 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11736901</guid>
<description><![CDATA[A lack of affordable housing and scarce subsidized child care are two reasons why California has the nation's highest rate of child poverty.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><span style="font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia">W</span>hen Norma Sandoval of Merced looks at her baby son Alex, and really stares into his eyes, she sees a wise, old man. His eyebrows have this way of zigging and then zagging, he sucks his lips into his mouth as if he is pondering the universe. He makes Sandoval laugh, because really, what could a four-month old be contemplating? For Sandoval, Alex is the best thing in her life, which is otherwise full of challenges.</p>
<p>Like many first-time moms, Sandoval has been on a steep learning curve caring for Alex. She gets a lot of help from her own mother, who has eight other children, and from the child care workers who care for Alex while she finishes high school.</p>
<p>Sandoval’s mother was a teen when she had her, and despite swearing she wouldn’t do the same, here she is at 17 with a four-month old.</p>
<p>“I would see all these mothers so young and I would be like, oh my god they’re so stupid, how did they get pregnant so early,” Sandoval said. She laughed and added, “and then I got pregnant and now I’m like them.”</p>
<p>Sandoval knows what everyone thinks of her being a teen mom, but she is resolute — she wants the best for her baby.</p>
<p>His mom’s determination might mean Alex will have a very bright future ahead of him, but right now he is part of a statistic that doesn’t bode well for his life chances: <a href="https://www.kidsdata.org/blog/?p=8727" target="_blank" rel="noopener">43 percent of all children under three years-old in Merced county live in poverty</a>. Sandoval doesn’t know a single person her age who isn’t struggling to make ends meet. It’s just how life is, she said.</p>
<p>Poverty has long been a political football, and the current polarized climate lays bare the tussle. At one end, child poverty has been called a “moral outrage” by California’s progressive governor, Gavin Newsom, who has vowed to end it. At the other end of the political spectrum, Housing and Urban Development Secretary Ben Carson has said poverty is a “state of mind,” echoing the Trump administration position that government aid is not the answer.</p>
<p>Almost two decades ago, Norma Sandoval was herself born into an impoverished family. Her father, an immigrant from Mexico, went off daily to work the fields and her mother ran an ad-hoc childcare service out of their tiny apartment, mostly to help other families so parents could go work in the fields while she looked after the children.</p>
<div><span class="aside"><img decoding="async" src="" /><a href="">The Starting Blocks Series</a></span></div>
<p>Despite both her parents working full-time much of her life, in her 17 years, Sandoval nor her parents have been able to climb above their challenging economic circumstances. So, like her mother before her, and <a href="https://www.kidsdata.org/PovertyDeeperLook" target="_blank" rel="noopener">285,162 parents statewide</a>, she too now raises her baby while living below the federal poverty line.</p>
<p>Sandoval has all the usual concerns and anxieties of a 17-year-old, but on a recent Wednesday morning she was particularly worried about how many times Alex had pooped. Her brow was deeply creased as she discussed what to do with Emily Maltva, the lead teacher at the child development center that sits on the campus of Yosemite High School where Sandoval is a junior.</p>
<p>“He pooped like twice,” Sandoval told Maltva. “I changed him and then like 10 minutes later he pooped again.” Maltva reassured her that this was completely normal for a baby. Then Sandoval confessed that it wasn’t really the pooping that worried her. Diapers are expensive. Sandoval’s brow furrowed further.</p>
<p>“We don’t have like that money or nothing,” she confessed. “But I don’t think money makes you a good mother or not,” she said, declaring that she was a very good mother for Alex. Not having money just makes things harder, Sandoval said as she prepared Alex for the half-hour trudge to her boyfriend’s parents’ apartment where they are currently living.</p>
<p>“Child poverty in California is definitely a serious problem,” said Sara Kimberlin, senior policy analyst with the California Budget and Policy Center (CBPC).</p>
<p>It’s a problem that has gotten steadily worse over the years as the numbers of babies and children living in poverty has increased. The numbers are stark. One in five babies and toddlers in California were born into poverty in the last few years. That’s down from five years ago when one quarter of all babies statewide lived below the federal poverty line. In some places it is much higher, like Alex’s home, in Merced County, and the counties of Glenn, Colusa, Trinity and Tehama, where almost half of all babies born start life in impoverished families.</p>
<h3>Is California’s Housing Crisis to Blame?</h3>
<p>The earliest data on early childhood poverty came soon after standards for measuring poverty were first developed in the 1960s. By 1970 — one of the first years this data for young children was collected — about 14 percent of kids under five were poor in California. That number climbed steadily over the years. In 2012 it was 26 percent of all children statewide, according to Census and American Community Survey data.</p>
<p>More recent studies, like one from the San Francisco-based Center for the Next Generation, highlight the long-term economic threat posed by California’s high rates of childhood poverty.</p>
<p>So how did the baby poverty numbers get so high? The answer has little to do with babies themselves. While the cost of diapers and infant formula has risen, Kimberlin points to macro-economic factors that have seen more families fall below the poverty line.</p>
<p>The CBPC’s Kimberlin said California’s rising housing costs have perhaps been the biggest factor in pushing more families out from self sufficiency.</p>
<p>“From 2006 to 2016, rents in California rose by about three times as much median annual earnings for a full-time worker,” said Kimberlin. “That just creates a long-term problem where more and more families find themselves squeezed trying to cover their basic costs.”</p>
<p>When the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis hit, the number of California children under two-years-old in poverty climbed steeply, Kimberlin said. “The great recession definitely made things worse.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11737459" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11737459" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Alex-And-Mom-Mobile-800x544.jpg" alt="Alex Sandoval, age four months, begins his day at a child care center with his mom, Norma, playing with one of his favorite toys. Norma attends Yosemite High School while Alex attends the child care center attached to the school." width="800" height="544" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Alex-And-Mom-Mobile-800x544.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Alex-And-Mom-Mobile-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Alex-And-Mom-Mobile-1020x694.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Alex-And-Mom-Mobile-1200x816.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Alex-And-Mom-Mobile.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Alex Sandoval, age four months, begins his day at a child care center with his mom, Norma, playing with one of his favorite toys. Norma attends Yosemite High School while Alex attends the child care center attached to the school. <cite>(Matt Rogers/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Kimberlin said the recession’s impact can be traced to the spike in impoverished babies and toddlers. One of the most decisive budget cuts in the years of the recession was to subsidized child care that the state of California provided for low-income families. So add to the stagnating wages and high housing costs the “shrinking availability of affordable childcare,” and Kimberlin said and you have “a perfect storm that really made it difficult for families with children to make ends meet.”</p>
<p>Yet during the years of the recession, many Californians suffered, and the worsening situation for the state’s youngest residents didn’t sound alarm bells. Many children who are now in elementary school were babies and toddlers during the recession. They missed out on quality early education as preschool seats disappeared after 2008, and parents had to figure out babysitting or drop out of the workforce. With less family income the nutrition they received in their critical early development years was likely poorer, too.</p>
<p>Lori Turk of the Lucile Packard Foundation for Children’s Health (LPFCH) wonders why the moral outrage at the increasing child poverty numbers isn’t more widespread.</p>
<p>“One in five babies being born into poverty in California is just absolutely unforgivable,” Turk said. During the recession years, one quarter of all babies were born into poverty.</p>
<p>Perhaps the demographics of the impoverished babies and toddlers has something to do with the lack of attention and action. In California it’s disproportionately babies of color that are born into poverty, something Turk said has nothing to do with the babies themselves. “Really this is about historical discriminatory practices.”</p>
<p>Each year Kidsdata, a project of LPFCH, releases a report documenting the number of children in poverty. Turk said the high numbers of children of color in poverty comes from the discrimination their parents have suffered over the years. “For housing, for employment, the parents may be treated differently,” she said.</p>
<p>It has been well documented that African-Americans, Latinos and other immigrant groups <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2018/03/28/redlining-was-banned-50-years-ago-its-still-hurting-minorities-today/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.f359268f5cfc" target="_blank" rel="noopener">have encountered redlining in housing</a>, <a href="https://www.revealnews.org/article/for-people-of-color-banks-are-shutting-the-door-to-homeownership/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">banks not lending to them</a>, and <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/eriksherman/2017/09/16/job-discrimination-against-blacks-and-latinos-has-changed-little-or-none-in-25-years/#8f4a5fc51e3e" target="_blank" rel="noopener">outright discrimination in the job market</a>.</p>
<p>Turk said if a parent deals with discrimination when they try to rent a home, or in the job market, “there’s a trickle down effect [to] their babies and their children.” Unstable employment and housing “means then their babies are directly impacted by this,” Turk said.</p>
<h3>Social Safety Net Helps</h3>
<p>In California, poor families are not completely on their own. Experts estimate that the child poverty numbers would be almost 15 percent higher — around one in three kids — if it wasn’t for the social safety net, a tapestry of local, state and federal programs that give help to impoverished families. From Section 8 housing vouchers, to food stamps, cash aid and subsidized preschool, the welfare benefits in California are robust.</p>
<p>“There is funding for providing healthful food, milk or other dairy products. There’s subsidies for parent to make sure they’re in housing for their children. There are child care subsidies,” Turk said.</p>
<p>She said these programs are clearly helping families from falling into complete disaster. Norma Sandoval agrees.</p>
<p>“My mom she works, my dad works, my boyfriend’s parents they work, so no one would be able to watch the baby,” Sandoval said.</p>
<p>She gets MediCal for her baby and food stamps, both state and federally funded programs. Her child care is also free, paid to her high school child care center by the state of California. But she’s one of the lucky ones. <a href="https://calbudgetcenter.org/resources/1-2-million-california-children-eligible-subsidized-child-care-not-receive-services-state-programs-2015/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">According to a 2016 report</a> from the California Budget and Policy Center, six out of seven parents eligible for child care subsidies did not get them, and the waiting list can be more than 1 million people.</p>
<p>“I think if I didn’t have child care I wouldn’t make it,” Sandoval said.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11737401" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11737401" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Baby-in-Mirror-800x668.jpg" alt="Merced County resident Norma Sandoval holds her four-month-old son, Alex." width="800" height="668" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Baby-in-Mirror-800x668.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Baby-in-Mirror-160x134.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Baby-in-Mirror-1020x852.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Baby-in-Mirror-1200x1003.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Baby-in-Mirror.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Merced County resident Norma Sandoval holds her four-month-old son, Alex. <cite>(Matt Rogers/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Despite the subsidies she gets, Sandoval still can’t buy all the basics for her baby. So she leans on her family, her unofficial safety net. She doesn’t pay rent to her boyfriend’s parents, and her own parents buy her extra food and the baby’s diapers, which add up to a lot.</p>
<p>And while the safety net that holds parents like Sandoval is working, it’s also a byzantine system to navigate. It’s something that Monika Grasley, president of a nonprofit community organization in Merced called Lifeline CDC, sees parents struggle with every day.</p>
<p>“I don’t understand why we have food stamps that allow us to buy junk food but do not provide diapers, it makes no sense to me,” Grasley said. “So what it encourages parents to do is sell their food stamps so they can purchase diapers for their babies.” And with less resources, parents tend to choose the cheapest food option for their children, which oftentimes have little nutritional value, she said.</p>
<p>Grasley said there are also many issues that impoverished families deal with for which government help is limited or nonexistent. Many that she works with don’t have transportation. They struggle to find child care, and some don’t even have a cell phone.</p>
<p>“It’s all about how do I survive, not how do I thrive,” Grasley said.</p>
<p>Norma Sandoval herself grew up with very little. But she wants better for her baby.</p>
<p>“Slowly slowly we’re going to learn, slowly we’re going to get that help that we need to get a better life for us and our kids,” Sandoval said.</p>
<p>And so, on top of everything else she is juggling, Sandoval shows up to Yosemite High School which has a special program for teen moms like her. She’s got big dreams.</p>
<p>“My plan is to finish high school, go to college and be a nurse,” Sandoval said. She admits before getting pregnant she hated school and used to ditch classes often. Now she wouldn’t do that, “because I have a baby and I want a better life for him and me.”</p>
<p><em>Note: This story is part of KQED’s series <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/series/starting-blocks" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Starting Blocks</a>, which is examining the hurdles faced by California’s kids, especially those in low income families.</em></p>
<p><em>Deepa Fernandes is an Early Childhood reporting fellow at Pacific Oaks College, which is funded in part by First 5 LA.</em></p>
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<media:description type="html">Alex Sandoval, age four months, begins his day at a child care center with his mom, Norma, playing with one of his favorite toys. Norma attends Yosemite High School while Alex attends the child care center attached to the school.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Merced County resident Norma Sandoval holds her four-month-old son, Alex.</media:description>
<media:thumbnail url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/04/Baby-in-Mirror-160x134.jpg" />
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<title>Student, Sales Clerk, New Mom: This 20-Year-Old Is Not Your Average City Council Member</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/03/22/student-sales-clerk-new-mom-this-20-year-old-is-not-your-average-city-council-member/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Mary Franklin Harvin]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Sat, 23 Mar 2019 00:09:03 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11734152</guid>
<description><![CDATA[In the midst of critics doubting her capability as a candidate and her instincts as a mom, Jewel Hurtado fought to victory by eight votes in Fresno County. Her supporters included first-time congresswoman, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>“I still get really nervous, even though I guess I’m supposed to be good at public speaking because I’m a politician now,” said newly-elected City Councilwoman Jewel Hurtado of the Fresno County city of Kingsburg, as she rushed in to give a talk at Fresno State University.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>Hurtado was getting ready to address graduate students about charting her own path in public service. Her son, Anthony III, and her fiance, Anthony Jr., were waiting outside. Baby Anthony was about to turn 1, and Hurtado still needed to nurse him, so his dad was watching him while she gave her speech.</p>
<p>It has been a while since Hurtado was on the campaign trail making speeches regularly. But also, as she noted, most of these students are probably older than she is.</p>
<p>At age 20, Hurtado is balancing motherhood, city council and a part-time job, while still pursuing her own degree. But she wouldn’t have it any other way: She tells the students she wants to have a say in the community where her son is growing up, and she wants to give a platform to unheard voices, like her own as a young Latina mother.</p>
<p>“It’s funny to see me — Jewel, brown, city council — in a Swedish village, but it’s about representation and that is why I ran,” she told the students. Today, around a third of the Central Valley city’s residents, including Hurtado, identify as Latinx but Swedish immigrants settled Kingsburg, and echoes of this history are everywhere.</p>
<h3>Strong Female Mentors & Public Service in Her Blood</h3>
<p>One of Hurtado’s early mentors — and now her colleague — is Kingsburg Mayor Michelle Roman, the city’s first female mayor. She helped spark Hurtado’s interest in community politics when she came to speak at her high school a few years ago.</p>
<p>When Hurtado was 18, she asked Roman how she could get involved, and Roman appointed her as a youth commissioner to the city’s Community Services Commission. Hurtado now oversees this commission as one of her council assignments.</p>
<p>“I get asked about Jewel — ‘How do you feel about having a 20-year-old on your city council?’ — and, well, I think it’s great, because she’s inspiring that next generation,” Roman said.</p>
<p>Hurtado’s skeptics have questioned her credentials because of her age, but politics and community organizing run in her blood. Her mother works for Assemblymember Anna Caballero and her grandmother and late grandfather worked side-by-side with Cesar Chavez, the labor leader and civil rights activist who co-founded the National Farmworkers Association.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11734788" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11734788" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-800x800.jpg" alt="Jewel Hurtado, photographed during the evening she was sworn in as a Kingsburg City councilwoman in December 2018." width="800" height="800" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-32x32.jpg 32w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-50x50.jpg 50w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-64x64.jpg 64w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-96x96.jpg 96w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-128x128.jpg 128w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-912x912.jpg 912w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-550x550.jpg 550w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut-470x470.jpg 470w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member_City-Hall-2JPG-qut.jpg 1080w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Jewel Hurtado, photographed during the evening she was sworn in as a Kingsburg City councilwoman in December 2018. <cite>(Courtesy of Elisa Rivera)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<h3>Trusting Instincts & Taking Votes</h3>
<p>Hurtado, her fiancé and baby Anthony live with her grandmother, Obdulia Flores Rivera. When Hurtado was growing up, Flores-Rivera toted her to union rallies and places she felt were historically and politically significant, like the room where Chavez did his hunger strike.</p>
<p>“I had thought, maybe the day I retire I’m going to run for city council, and then [Jewel] says, ‘Nonni, I’m gonna be running for city council,’ and I go, ‘Well, I guess there goes my idea out the window! Yes, mija! Yes! We need young people out there.’ I was so happy!” Flores-Rivera said.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>Hurtado said she ran on community, voices and values: “That’s not typical appearing in a campaign, I feel like, because usually we’re talking about jobs, or business or public safety, but all of those things fall under community.”</p>
<p>Despite the enthusiastic support from family and friends, the campaign was a grueling one for Hurtado. She schlepped door-to-door with infant Anthony in the blistering heat of the Central Valley summer. And when she wasn’t campaigning, she was working weekend shifts at Victoria’s Secret in Fresno and going to class at Fresno City College, where she’s majoring in political science.</p>
<p>She and her fiancé, Anthony Jr., were also on opposite schedules while they were still figuring out parenting. He was working graveyard shifts plus some at a packing house and would be getting up for work when she was taking a break from canvassing. “I would wake up to hearing her bust through the door covered in sweat,” Anthony said.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11734798" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11734798" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member-Strike-qut-800x819.jpg" alt="Student Sales Clerk New Mom This 20-Year-Old Is Not Your Average City Council Member Strike-qut" width="800" height="819" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member-Strike-qut-800x819.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member-Strike-qut-160x164.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member-Strike-qut-32x32.jpg 32w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member-Strike-qut-50x50.jpg 50w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/Student-Sales-Clerk-New-Mom-This-20-Year-Old-Is-Not-Your-Average-City-Council-Member-Strike-qut.jpg 938w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Jewel Hurtado talks to workers striking at the Sun-Maid plant in Kingsburg on Sept. 12, 2018. <cite>(Courtesy of Elisa Rivera)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>During the campaign, Anthony III was having seizures, and about a week before election day, he was diagnosed with tuberous sclerosis. It’s a rare multisystem disorder that can cause tumors in different parts of the body, and Anthony’s are in his brain. He has monthly MRIs and EEG brain scans to monitor them.</p>
<div><span class="aside"><img decoding="async" src="" /><a href="">The Long Run</a></span></div>
<p>“I knew that my son was not OK throughout my campaign,” Hurtado said, noting many people chalked up her concern to being a new, young mother. Anthony is doing much better now that they know what’s going on and they’re taking the right precautions, she said.</p>
<p>In the midst of critics doubting both her capability as a candidate — and her instincts as a mother — Hurtado fought through to a victory by a margin of eight votes. Her supporters reached as far as the <a href="https://twitter.com/jewelhurtado_/status/1070163827608567808">U.S. Congress</a>.</p>
<p>Now that she’s in office, Hurtado sees the future through her young son’s eyes. And while her youth may have been a rallying point for her critics, she says it’s now giving her the energy to get the job done</p>
<p>“This fight was not won very easily. Took a village, and we did it. And I’m still tired. But, I’m young, so they always tell me, you have a lot of energy so you can do it. If anybody can do it, it’s you,” Hurtado said.</p>
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<media:description type="html">Jewel Hurtado, photographed during the evening she was sworn in as a Kingsburg City councilwoman in December 2018.</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Student Sales Clerk New Mom This 20-Year-Old Is Not Your Average City Council Member Strike-qut</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Jewel Hurtado talks to workers striking at the Sun-Maid plant in Kingsburg on Sept. 12, 2018.</media:description>
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<title>More Retirees Find Themselves Taking Care of Mom and Dad</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/03/06/more-retirees-find-themselves-taking-care-of-mom-and-dad/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[David Marks]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Wed, 06 Mar 2019 23:54:27 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11731072</guid>
<description><![CDATA[People are living longer compared to decades ago, spawning a trend: Senior citizens taking care of their very elderly parents. ]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>At 3:00 p.m. on a windy February day in San Diego, 100-year-old Ginny Davenport — with her smiling eyes and flawless manicure — is excited about the evening ahead.</p>
<p>“I hope about five o’clock, before the girls leave, that we’ll sit down and have a vermouth,” Ginny said. </p>
<p>The girls, as Ginny calls them, are her daughters. There’s 69-year-old Kelly and 67-year-old Riley. Both sisters are married. Riley is retired and Kelly is semi-retired. They have children. Kelly has a grandchild. </p>
<p>And both have taken responsibility for Ginny, as they call her, after their father’s recent death.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>“We basically share her … two weeks at my house and two weeks here at my sister’s house,” said Riley Davenport. “It helps us not get responsibility fatigue if you will.”</p>
<p>At a time in life when 60- or 70-something seniors anticipate retirement, and maybe some downtime, some are becoming caregivers and guardians of their parents. No stats exist on how widespread this is, but the trend is expected to intensify. </p>
<p>“People are living longer,” said University of Southern California gerontology professor Donna Benton.</p>
<p>Caregiving by younger seniors — amid their own aging process — has its costs.</p>
<p>“For family caregivers, almost 50 percent report some type of strain or symptoms of depression,” Benton said.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>At 65, Debbie Nichols of Huntington Beach continues to work full time in sales so she can financially help her two adult children as well as her elderly parents.</p>
<p>“My generation feels caught in the middle,” Nichols said. “We have responsibilities on both ends. There are a lot of financial commitments my generation has and that is why we’re still working.”</p>
<p>Riley Davenport said for her family, resources and planning have been key in taking care of her mom while maintaining the freedom of retirement.</p>
<div><span class="aside"><img decoding="async" src="" /><a href="">The California Dream Series</a></span></div>
<p>“We do have caregivers during the day so that I can work or play or do whatever I am going to do,” Riley said. </p>
<p>The professional caregivers help Ginny out of bed and bathe her. They take her to doctor’s appointments and track her medications.</p>
<p>Ginny’s older daughter Kelly Davenport said the sisters considered moving their mom to a senior community.</p>
<p>“But I think that just neither of us can imagine that it would be the best thing for her, or us really,” Kelly said.</p>
<p>While they take turns living with their mom, they learn more about her every day. They recently came across a letter Ginny’s first husband, not their father, wrote during World War II.</p>
<p>“He’d written her saying, `You know I’m going to go on this bombing mission tomorrow and I don’t expect to make it home alive so you go ahead and have a life, marry and have kids like we talked about,’” Kelly said. </p>
<p>Ginny did just that after her husband was killed in World War II. She ultimately fell in love again and married Bill Davenport. They had Kelly and Riley and settled in Point Loma where they lived until he died in October.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11731093" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/GinnyWithDog-800x678.jpg" alt="Ginny visits with Kelly’s dog, Willow." width="800" height="678" class="size-medium wp-image-11731093" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/GinnyWithDog-800x678.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/GinnyWithDog-160x136.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/GinnyWithDog-1020x865.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/GinnyWithDog-1200x1018.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/GinnyWithDog.jpg 1631w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Ginny visits with Kelly’s dog, Willow. <cite>(Amita Sharma/KPBS)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>“I’ve lost people I’ve loved deeply and learned how to deal with it,” Ginny said.</p>
<p>And she has lived fully. Kelly said Ginny got to hang around Winston Churchill after she joined the United States Foreign Service and worked for former U.S. Ambassador John Winant.</p>
<p>“Winston Churchill gave her her first sip of champagne,” Kelly said.</p>
<p>Today, Ginny reads novels about that era. There’s the romance about a time-traveling World War II nurse. “I’ve been rereading The Outlander because I like it,” Ginny said.</p>
<p>She likes to watch “The Golden Girls” on television. And she talks with her daughters about her life and their lives.</p>
<p>“I can’t think of anything we haven’t shared,” Ginny said.</p>
<p>Gerontologist Benton says the Davenports’ story is atypical when it comes to seniors caring for their elderly parents. Too often families don’t have the relationships, resources or health to age together so gracefully. But when they do, Benton said it’s ideal.</p>
<p>“It does allow for everyone to grow throughout their lifetime,” she said.</p>
<p>Ginny said living with her daughters couldn’t be more comfortable.</p>
<p>“They’re a part of me,” Ginny said. “Having grown up with them, I’m still growing up with them. It doesn’t sound right. But that’s what it’s like.” </p>
<p><em><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/series/californiadream/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The California Dream series</a> is a statewide media collaboration of CALmatters, KPBS, KPCC, KQED and Capital Public Radio with support from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the James Irvine Foundation and the College Futures Foundation.</em></p>
<p><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-11660142" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner.jpg" alt="" width="1867" height="512" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner.jpg 1867w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-160x44.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-800x219.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-1020x280.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-1180x324.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-960x263.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-240x66.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-375x103.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-520x143.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1867px) 100vw, 1867px" /></p>
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<media:description type="html">Ginny visits with Kelly’s dog, Willow.</media:description>
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<title>Migrant Families Arrive in Busloads as Border Crossings Hit 10-Year High</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/03/06/migrant-families-arrive-in-busloads-as-border-crossings-hit-10-year-high/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[David Marks]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Wed, 06 Mar 2019 20:10:45 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11730932</guid>
<description><![CDATA[The system is "overwhelmed," says Manuel Padilla, director of Joint Task Force-West. The migrants apprehended at the Southern border in February made for the highest monthly total in almost a decade.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>The U.S. Border Patrol apprehended more than 66,000 migrants at the Southern border in February, the highest total for a single month in <a href="https://www.cbp.gov/sites/default/files/assets/documents/2017-Dec/BP%20Total%20Monthly%20Apps%20by%20Sector%20and%20Area%2C%20FY2000-FY2017.pdf">almost a decade</a>. </p>
<p>The majority of those arrested were migrant families or children traveling alone or without a parent, according to figures released Tuesday by U.S. Customs and Border Protection. Many of the migrants say they’re fleeing criminal gangs and poverty in Central America to seek asylum in the United States.</p>
<p>“This is clearly both a border security and humanitarian crisis,” said CBP Commissioner Kevin McAleenan <a href="https://www.cbp.gov/newsroom/video-gallery/cbp-live">at a press briefing</a>. </p>
<p>Between October and last week, Border Patrol agents have picked up more than 260,000 people — a 90 percent jump over the same period a year ago. </p>
<p>“The entire system right now is at full capacity. Actually, it’s overwhelmed,” said Manuel Padilla, a veteran Border Patrol agent who’s now director of Joint Task Force-West in San Antonio, part of the Department of Homeland Security.</p>
<p><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/NPREmbed-800x618.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="618" class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11730968" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/NPREmbed-800x618.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/NPREmbed-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/NPREmbed-1020x787.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/NPREmbed-1200x926.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/03/NPREmbed.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /></p>
<p>Even with the recent climb, illegal border crossings are still well below historical highs. But the makeup of the migrant population has changed dramatically from 20 years ago, when it was mostly single men from Mexico. Border Patrol officials say their infrastructure wasn’t designed for the flood of migrant families and children arriving now. </p>
<p>“Everything is maxed out and it’s causing a lot of issues, because the agents are being assigned to areas that are not border security related,” Padilla said, like providing food and medical care for the families and children in their custody.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>Since last year, Border Patrol agents say, they have routinely encountered large groups of a hundred or more migrants at the border, many of them arriving by bus from Guatemala. According to immigration authorities, the passengers consist almost entirely of families and children who are looking for Border Patrol agents to turn themselves in to. Agents say they’ve encountered 70 large groups since last year.</p>
<p>That leaves agents scrambling to transport and process the migrants, Padilla said, and allows drug traffickers to take advantage of the distraction. </p>
<p>Humanitarian groups near the border say the surge of migrant families is straining their resources too. </p>
<p>“It takes an immense effort to do this,” said Ruben Garcia, the director of Annunciation House, a nonprofit organization in El Paso, Texas, that provides shelter, food and medical care to migrants after they’re released from government custody. </p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>Most migrants spend just a few days in El Paso, Garcia said, before joining friends or relatives elsewhere in the country, where they’ll wait for their day in immigration court. </p>
<p>President Trump has decried the surge of people crossing the border illegally from Mexico as “an invasion” — and a chief reason that the U.S. needs to extend its border barriers. </p>
<p>But Padilla, the Border Patrol veteran, believes that a wall alone will not stop these migrants.</p>
<p>Many of the migrants are crossing in areas that already have border fencing. And they’re not trying to evade the Border Patrol, Padilla said. In fact, these asylum-seekers are trying to turn themselves in as soon as they set foot on U.S. soil. </p>
<div><span class="aside"><img decoding="async" src="" /><a href="">Family Separation at the Border</a></span></div>
<p>“So the wall is not going to do anything with this population,” Padilla said. “This requires a legislative fix.”</p>
<p>Immigration hard-liners say the U.S. needs to close what they call “loopholes” in the law that allow Central American migrants to avoid quick deportation and that prevent immigration authorities from detaining families for long periods of time. </p>
<p>Migrant advocates counter that the Trump administration has made the problem at the Southern border worse by allowing just a few migrant families a day to cross at legal ports of entry. They believe that this is driving many migrants to cross illegally in big groups and in remote stretches of the border. </p>
<p>“They’re very vulnerable people,” said Garcia at Annunciation House. “Let’s strive not to lose or let go of our history as a people of immigrants, who are profoundly committed to human rights.”</p>
<p>Humanitarian groups and immigration authorities are bracing for even more migrants in the months ahead. The number of people crossing the border illegally typically crests in the spring, as temperatures warm. </p>
<div class="fullattribution">Copyright 2019 NPR. To see more, visit https://www.npr.org.<img decoding="async" src="https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=Migrant+Families+Arrive+In+Busloads+As+Border+Crossings+Hit+10-Year+High&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)"/></div>
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<title>From Tortillas and a Jazz Club to Chips and Salsa: The Legendary Evolution of Casa Sanchez</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/01/26/from-tortillas-to-jazz-club-to-chips-and-salsa-the-evolution-of-casa-sanchez/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Marisol Medina-Cadena]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Sun, 27 Jan 2019 00:33:24 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11717944</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Nearly 100 years since the original Mexican food business opened, the family behind Casa Sanchez is still coming up with new ways to keep up with the changing times. ]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Back in 1999, a Mexican restaurant in San Francisco’s Mission District made national news for an unconventional marketing deal. The family-run business Casa Sanchez advertised a special: anyone who got a tattoo of their logo was entitled to a free lunch for life.</p>
<p>And as wild as the idea was, so many people wanted to ink the logo — a man riding a corn-shaped rocket wearing a yellow sombrero known as “Jimmy the Cornman” — the Sanchez family had to cap the promotion to the first 50 people.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11718225" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11718225" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34658_008-qut-800x660.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="660" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34658_008-qut-800x660.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34658_008-qut-160x132.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34658_008-qut-1020x842.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34658_008-qut-1200x991.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34658_008-qut.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Beginning in the early 1920s, the Sanchez family ran a shop and factory in San Francisco’s Fillmore District before moving to the Mission District. <cite>(Courtesy of Robert C. Sanchez)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>But the family behind the business had been pioneering Mexican food staples in Northern California long before Jimmy the Cornman gained a cult-like following.</p>
<p>Despite family deaths, changing trends, location moves and fierce competition, the Sanchez family has managed to keep the business going for nearly 100 years.</p>
<h3>Shape Shifting to Keep Up with Changing Times</h3>
<p>The Casa Sanchez story begins in the early 1900s when Roberto Sanchez left Nayarit, Mexico, for San Francisco. According to family lore, he made the journey with a 20-pound wrought-iron tortilla press and dreams of running a successful business.</p>
<p>Together, he and his wife, Isabella, opened R. Sanchez and Co. in San Francisco’s Fillmore District in 1923. The Mexicatessen sold enchiladas, tamales and tortillas by the pound. By the 1950s, the family opened the first mechanized tortilla factory in Northern California.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11718216" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11718216" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34657_015-qut-800x581.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="581" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34657_015-qut-800x581.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34657_015-qut-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34657_015-qut-1020x741.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34657_015-qut-1200x872.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34657_015-qut.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">In 1923, Roberto Sanchez established R. Sanchez & Co. and nearly 100 years later, his descendants continue to carry on the business. <cite>(Courtesy of Robert C. Sanchez)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>In the 1960s, when the Fillmore was known as a hot spot for jazz and bebop, the Sanchez family decided to open a jazz club next to their tortilla factory.</p>
<p>They called it Club Sanchez, and as a Mexican-American establishment, it attracted a multicultural audience, including jazz legends like Charlie Parker.</p>
<p>“They had opera singers, they had belly dancers. There were a lot of spontaneous musicians that would just come in. It was just so vibrant,” explains Martha Sanchez, Roberto and Isabella’s granddaughter. She is part of the third generation Casa Sanchez owners.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11718219" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11718219" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34659_012-qut-800x683.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="683" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34659_012-qut-800x683.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34659_012-qut-160x137.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34659_012-qut-1020x870.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34659_012-qut-1200x1024.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34659_012-qut.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The Sanchez family opened their own jazz club called Club Sanchez during the heyday of the Fillmore’s jazz and bebop scene. <cite>(Courtesy of Robert C. Sanchez)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>As a child, Martha and her siblings would hang out at Club Sanchez. She remembers eating too many cherries reserved for cocktail drinks and admiring her stylish tías (aunts) who ran the club. They wore ’60s bouffant hairstyles and off-the-shoulder blouses.</p>
<h3>New Location, New Casa Sanchez</h3>
<p>When the Sanchez family noticed their Latino customer base moving out of the Fillmore, they closed the tortilla factory and jazz club and headed to San Francisco’s Mission District.</p>
<p>In 1968, they reopened their factory on 24th Street, this time with a Mexican restaurant called Casa Sanchez. The restaurant wasn’t just a place to eat; it became a neighborhood institution.</p>
<p>“I remember on Sundays my mom would make breakfast at the restaurant,” Martha said. “The whole neighborhood would come. I thought they came to see me, but they came for my mom’s bacon and eggs that you could smell up and down the streets.”</p>
<p>https://www.instagram.com/p/BBGpFswpDjX/?utm_source=ig_web_options_share_sheet</p>
<p>While the restaurant side of the business boomed, the tortilla enterprise began struggling in the late ‘80s.</p>
<p>“A loaf of bread went up to two dollars, but the tortillas stayed at 25 cents,” said Liz, Martha’s sister.</p>
<p>Wholesale tortilla production, once the backbone to their business, was no longer profitable. Their big restaurant clients were manufacturing their own, and they had to compete with newer tortilla factories in the Mission.</p>
<p>So once again, the Sanchez family needed to figure out a new way to keep their doors open.</p>
<h3>Salsa as Savior</h3>
<p>As it turned out, the answer was salsa. The Sanchez family had already been making their own homemade red salsa in their restaurant, but once plastic became readily available in the 1970s, the opportunity to sell their salsa outside the restaurant opened up.</p>
<p>After months looking for the right kind of plastic tub — one that could preserve fresh ingredients the longest — the family began selling their fresh-packaged red salsa. Up until this point, store-bought salsa was limited to the jarred kind.</p>
<p>In the 1990s, they landed a big contract with Safeway Inc. and began selling their “mild salsa roja” to other major grocery stores as well.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the leftover tortillas that weren’t commercially selling were being used to make tortilla chips.</p>
<p>“I’d use my mom’s minivan to go and deliver the product,” said Rob Aranda, a fourth generation Sanchez family member, who remembers delivering tubs of their salsa to local grocery stores around the city as a teenager. “I got pulled over for not having a license. But they would just give me a ticket and not tow the car.”</p>
<p>Aranda was so committed to his delivery route that the only day he skipped was the day of his junior prom.</p>
<p>“I’d get up every day at 5 in the morning [when I was] 8-, 9-years-old and help my grandmother out,” Aranda said. “I naturally learned the business just watching and looking.”</p>
<p>His love for the business runs skin deep. He even has his own Jimmy the Cornman tattoo.</p>
<p>In 2010, during the recession, the Sanchez family brought back the famous tattoo special. This time they called it the “stimulus social” to appeal to locals hit by hard financial times.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11718227" class="wp-caption alignright" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11718227" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34656_IMG_4778-qut-1-800x1067.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="1067" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34656_IMG_4778-qut-1-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34656_IMG_4778-qut-1-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34656_IMG_4778-qut-1-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34656_IMG_4778-qut-1-900x1200.jpg 900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34656_IMG_4778-qut-1.jpg 1440w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The Casa Sanchez restaurant that attracted national attention for its special: a free meal for anyone with a ‘Jimmy the Cornman’ tattoo. <cite>(Marisol Medina-Cadena/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>The following year, Robert’s grandmother (also named Martha) died — she was the restaurant owner and matriarch of the family who came up with the idea to sell chips and salsa — so, four years later her children closed their restaurant doors.</p>
<p>But this was not the end of the Sanchez story. The family moved once again and expanded to two separate locations to focus solely on wholesale fresh salsa and tortilla chips.</p>
<h3>Casa Sanchez Today</h3>
<p>These days, Rob Aranda runs the factory located in San Francisco’s Bayview, and he’s bringing up the next generation to help out.</p>
<p>“My son comes in during the summer and loves to put the labels on the containers and be part of everything,” he said.</p>
<p>Inside the factory kitchen, there’s the strong aroma of onions and jalapeño peppers. Workers are busy mixing large tubs of the mild red salsa.</p>
<p>So far, no one has been able to figure out the secret to the family’s red salsa.</p>
<p>“There was a website dedicated to deciphering the recipe,” Martha Sanchez said. “One person posted that it was a combination of seven different chiles.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11719370" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11719370 size-medium" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/e2055435-rs34684_jimmy-the-cornman-2-qut-800x588.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="588" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/e2055435-rs34684_jimmy-the-cornman-2-qut-800x588.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/e2055435-rs34684_jimmy-the-cornman-2-qut-160x118.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/e2055435-rs34684_jimmy-the-cornman-2-qut-1020x749.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/e2055435-rs34684_jimmy-the-cornman-2-qut-1200x881.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/e2055435-rs34684_jimmy-the-cornman-2-qut.jpg 1920w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Jimmy the Cornman has become an icon of San Francisco’s Mission District. <cite>(Marisol Medina-Cadena/KQED )</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>The secret has more to do with the process than the actual ingredients. Aranda notes that one employee spends his mornings massaging more than 12,000 pounds of tomatoes to unlock the fresh taste.</p>
<p>The factory itself is tiny, but bustling. Outside the kitchen is the warehouse where boxes of Casa Sanchez tortilla chips crowd the space. The chips get made at their factory in Hayward and ship out to the Bayview location every day.</p>
<p>“It’s like Grand Central Station at 4 in the morning here,” Martha said. “You can’t get through.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11721171" class="wp-caption alignright" style="max-width: 598px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11721171 size-full" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/Screen-Shot-2019-01-25-at-3.35.25-PM.png" alt="" width="598" height="573" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/Screen-Shot-2019-01-25-at-3.35.25-PM.png 598w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/Screen-Shot-2019-01-25-at-3.35.25-PM-160x153.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/Screen-Shot-2019-01-25-at-3.35.25-PM-32x32.png 32w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 598px) 100vw, 598px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">“Just another day at the office.” Instagram photo by @casasanchezfoods</figcaption></figure>
<p>Images of La Virgen de Guadalupe and family photos adorn the walls. There’s one prominent picture featuring young Martha and her family posed in front of their businesses. It looks like the Mexican-American version of “The Brady Bunch.”</p>
<p>Together the Sanchez family is still coming up with new ways to keep up with the changing times. Recently, they produced a Casa Sanchez IPA beer named “Holy Guacamole” and a smartphone game called “Salsa Shooter.”</p>
<p>“We don’t really think of ourselves as businesspeople,” Martha said. “We’re just doing things together.”</p>
<p>While the family has no plans to reopen its Casa Sanchez restaurant, the Jimmy the Cornman sign remains on the former Mission storefront. A pupuseria run by a different family now fills the space, and as part of its lease, the restaurant offers free pupusas to anyone with the Jimmy the Cornman logo.</p>
<p>https://www.instagram.com/p/Bq8E0chA9cw/?utm_source=ig_web_options_share_sheet</p>
<p>Casa Sanchez delivery truck drivers honor this legendary special too. If you see a Casa Sanchez truck at your nearby grocery store, just flash your ink of Jimmy the Cornman and you’ll get your share of fresh salsa and chips.</p>
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<media:title type="html">RS34658_008-qut</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Beginning in the early 1920s, the Sanchez family ran a shop and factory in San Fransisco's Fillmore district before moving to the Mission district.</media:description>
<media:thumbnail url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34658_008-qut-160x132.jpg" />
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<media:title type="html">RS34657_015-qut</media:title>
<media:description type="html">In 1923, Roberto Sanchez established R. Sanchez & Co. and nearly 100 years later, his descendants continue to carry on the business.</media:description>
<media:thumbnail url="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34657_015-qut-160x116.jpg" />
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<media:title type="html">RS34659_012-qut</media:title>
<media:description type="html">The Sanchez family opened their own jazz club called Club Sanchez during the heyday of the Fillmores jazz and b-pop scene.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">The Casa Sanchez restaurant that attracted national attention for it's special, free meal for any one with a Jimmy the Cornman tattoo.</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">RS34684_Jimmy the Cornman (2)-qut</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Jimmy the Cornman has become an icon of San Francisco's Mission District.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">"Just another day at the office." Instagram photo by @casasanchezfoods</media:description>
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<title>Award-Winning Frank Fat’s Restaurant Serves Up Pot Stickers, Pie and Political History</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/01/18/award-winning-frank-fats-restaurant-serves-up-potstickers-pie-and-political-history/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Bianca Taylor]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Sat, 19 Jan 2019 01:25:48 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11665886</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Famous deals were inked on the backs of cocktail napkins at this 'third house' of the state legislature.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em>Originally published on May 4, 2018.</em></p>
<p>When you walk into the kitchen of <a href="https://frankfats.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Frank Fat’s</a> restaurant in Sacramento, the first thing you see (and smell… and hear…) are huge woks sizzling with fragrant oils and noodles.</p>
<p>Cooks are chopping fresh vegetables and blocks of white tofu into cubes. And around the corner, banana cream pies are being carefully topped with whipped cream.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11665928" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11665928 size-medium" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-800x600.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="600" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-1200x900.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-1180x885.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-960x720.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-240x180.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-375x281.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30647_IMG_3022-qut-520x390.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Cooks cover the pies with homemade whipped cream. Banana cream pie is one of the restaurant’s specialties. <cite>(Bianca Taylor/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>That’s right, banana cream pies. Not a typical Chinese dessert.</p>
<p>But Frank Fat was not a typical guy.</p>
<p>Frank’s son, Jerry Fat, says his father wasn’t a chef per se, but that “it was his personality that brought him into the business.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11665929" class="wp-caption alignright" style="max-width: 640px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-large wp-image-11665929" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-1020x1339.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="840" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-1020x1339.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-160x210.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-800x1050.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-914x1200.jpg 914w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-1180x1549.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-960x1260.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-240x315.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-375x492.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925-520x683.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30436_Franks806BW-qut-e1525459935925.jpg 1484w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Frank Fat founded his namesake restaurant in 1939. <cite>(Courtesy of the Fat Family Restaurant Group)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Jerry Fat is the CEO of what is now the Fat Family Restaurant franchise. I met him in the dining room of the original Frank Fat’s in downtown Sacramento — one block away from the state capitol building.</p>
<p>The long narrow space is lit with red lanterns, and Chinese tapestries and art decorate the walls. If these walls could talk, they would tell you a lot about California political history.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11665930" class="wp-caption alignleft" style="max-width: 640px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-large wp-image-11665930" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-1020x1339.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="840" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-1020x1339.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-160x210.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-800x1050.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-914x1200.jpg 914w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-1180x1549.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-960x1260.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-240x315.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-375x492.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142-520x683.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30655_alt_712-e1525460049142.jpg 1516w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Jerry Fat is Frank’s son, and CEO of the Fat Family Restaurant Group. <cite>(Bianca Taylor/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>“We became known as the ‘Third House of the Capitol,” he tells me. “We’ve had some famous deals that have been made here in the booths on the back of cocktail napkins.”</p>
<p>That includes a <a href="http://capitolweekly.net/frank-fats-an-iconic-eatery-celebrates-its-70th-birthday/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">famous deal</a> brokered in 1987 by then-Assembly Speaker Willie Brown that changed the state’s civil liability laws.</p>
<p>And more than 30 years before that, then-California Gov. Earl Warren was a regular at the restaurant.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11665932" class="wp-caption alignright" style="max-width: 640px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-large wp-image-11665932" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30650_alt_713-1020x1360.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="853" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The infamous “napkin deal” napkin is framed on the wall of Frank Fat’s. <cite>(Bianca Taylor/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Warren’s appointment as Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court was big news. When Frank Fat was in Washington, D.C., he paid his friend a visit.</p>
<p>Jerry Fat smiles when he recalls the event, which he says was one of his dad’s favorite memories: “He invited my dad into his chambers. And he said the chief justice opened the drawer, had a shot of whiskey and they had a drink in his chambers.”</p>
<p>For a Chinese immigrant to be toasted by a chief justice in the 1950s seems … incredible. And it is. But Frank Fat’s whole incredible story doesn’t begin there.</p>
<p>Fat immigrated to the United States from Canton, China in 1919. He was 16 years old. He came here not just for a better life, but to search for his father.</p>
<p>When Fat finally tracked his father down in Ohio, Jerry says the meeting was short and terse. “It was like he gave my father some money and said go make a life,” Jerry Fat recalls. “And that was it.”</p>
<p>So Frank took the money and went to Sacramento, where his uncle lived. In 1939, he had saved up enough to buy an old Italian restaurant downtown.</p>
<p>This was the beginning of Frank Fat’s. The restaurant quickly became a fixture for state workers, drawn in by Frank’s warm outgoing personality.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11665934" class="wp-caption alignleft" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11665934" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-800x1053.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="1053" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-800x1053.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-160x211.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-1020x1342.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-912x1200.jpg 912w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-1180x1553.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-960x1263.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-240x316.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-375x494.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut-520x684.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30431_Earl-Warren-and-Frank-Fat-at-Frank-Fat27s-qut.jpg 1231w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren shakes hands with Frank Fat. When Warren was governor of California, he was a regular at Frank Fat’s. <cite>(Courtesy of the Fat Family Restaurant Group.)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>But even when people flocked to the restaurant to eat his Chinese food, Frank faced discrimination for being Chinese.</p>
<p>His son Jerry says when they were kids, neighbors organized to prevent them from buying a house downtown. So they had to move way out into the suburbs. But that didn’t stop Fat.</p>
<p>“He was an activist in a subtle way,” says Jerry. “He said he wanted to bring Chinese culture to the people of Sacramento.”</p>
<p>Fat founded the Pacific Rim Street Fest, which features Chinese food, dance and music. It’s still one of Sacramento’s longest running street festivals.</p>
<p>Aside from a few remodels, not much has changed at Frank Fat’s in 80 years. They’re still serving up heaping plates of their classics: honey walnut prawns, steak in oyster sauce and Peking duck.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11665937" class="wp-caption alignright" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11665937" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-800x1002.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="1002" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-800x1002.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-160x200.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-1020x1278.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-958x1200.jpg 958w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-1180x1478.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-960x1203.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-240x301.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-375x470.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30433_fat1-qut-1-520x651.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Frank Fat immigrated from Canton, China in 1919. <cite>(Courtesy of the Fat Family Restaurant Group)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Well, actually, there are a few more plaques on the wall…</p>
<p>In 2013, Frank Fat’s won the <a href="https://www.jamesbeard.org/blog/americas-classic-frank-fats" target="_blank" rel="noopener">James Beard America’s Classics Award</a>. It’s an award that honors a restaurant for having timeless appeal and quality food that reflects the character of its community.</p>
<p>This award really gets at the heart of what makes Frank Fat’s such a beloved institution: the Fat family. Jerry Fat has five siblings who were all involved in the family business at one time or another.</p>
<p>And even though Frank Fat died in 1997, today there are nephews, aunts and even in-laws working in everything from recipe development to restaurant operations.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11665938" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11665938" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-800x580.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="580" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-800x580.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-1020x740.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-1200x870.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-1180x856.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-960x696.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-240x174.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-375x272.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30432_familybw-qut-520x377.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The whole Fat family worked in the family restaurant. <cite>(Courtesy of the Fat Family Restaurant Group)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Jerry says this experience is pretty normal for immigrant families. “You’re just expected to help out in the business,” he says.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11665942" class="wp-caption alignright" style="max-width: 640px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-large wp-image-11665942" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-1020x845.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="530" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-1020x845.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-160x133.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-800x663.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-1200x994.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-1180x978.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-960x796.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-240x199.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-375x311.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30649_alt_715-e1525460694452-520x431.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Frank Fat’s won the James Beard America’s Classics Award in 2013. <cite>(Bianca Taylor/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>When it comes to the next generation of Fats taking over, Jerry says that it’s up to them. He knows running a restaurant is hard work, especially when your name is literally attached to the business.</p>
<p>“Restaurant is so personal,” he says. “It’s not like running a factory where you could just turn on the machines and have somebody watch it.”<br />
Whether or not the fourth generation picks up the baton, Jerry Fat is happy to keep his father’s legacy alive, one pot sticker — and banana cream pie — at a time.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11665943" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11665943" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-800x450.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="450" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-800x450.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-1020x574.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-1200x675.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-1180x664.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-960x540.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-240x135.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-375x211.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS30437_FrankwithCateringTruckedit-qut-520x293.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Frank Fat with the restaurant’s catering truck. <cite>(Courtesy of the Fat Family Restaurant Group)</cite></figcaption></figure>
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<media:description type="html">Frank Fat founded his namesake restaurant in 1939.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Jerry Fat is Frank's son, and CEO of the Fat Family Restaurant Group.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">The infamous "napkin deal" napkin is framed on the wall of Frank Fat's.</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">RS30431_Earl Warren and Frank Fat at Frank Fats-qut</media:title>
<media:description type="html">When Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren was Governor of California, he was a regular at Frank Fat's.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Frank Fat immigrated from Canton, China in 1919.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">The whole Fat family worked in the family restaurant.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Frank Fat’s won the James Beard American Classics Award in 2013.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Frank Fat with the restaurant's catering truck.</media:description>
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<title>The Curious Second Life of a Prather Ranch Cow: Biomedical Research</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2019/01/18/at-prather-ranch-cows-are-raised-for-fine-steaks-and-biomedical-research/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Lisa Morehouse]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Sat, 19 Jan 2019 01:20:37 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11718100</guid>
<description><![CDATA[The California ranch’s co-owner emphasizes using the whole animal. ‘This animal is giving its life not only for food, but also to improve the quality of life for people for medical reasons.']]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><span style="font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia">I</span>n a slaughterhouse in Macdoel, a speck of a town in Siskiyou County, just south of the Oregon border, seven workers step around each other and four cow carcasses on the kill floor, their movements almost a dance.</p>
<p><a href="http://www.pratherranch.com/">Prather Ranch</a> co-owner Mary Rickert explains the process.</p>
<p>“Just on the other side of that panel, the animal’s knocked unconscious,” she says. “The throats are slit, they have to be bled out. Then they’re laid on this cradle,” where they’re skinned. Workers remove the animal’s organs and spinal cord, then cut the carcass in half with a saw.</p>
<p>That’s where Emily Rosecrans, sporting brightly painted nails, takes over. She trims off imperfections from the carcass.</p>
<p>“I look for hair, feces, bruises, pretty much anything I wouldn’t want to eat,” she says.</p>
<aside class="pullquote alignright">‘If we’re gonna take the animal’s life, I believe we have the moral obligation to utilize the animal as much as possible. First, it’s good business; but it’s good morals.’<cite>Jim Rickert, Prather Ranch co-owner</cite></aside>
<p>After an on-site USDA inspector looks the carcass up and down, Rosecrans says, “I wash it and then I spray with vinegar, which is a <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/9713753">natural antiseptic</a>, so it stops the growth of any bad bacteria and helps to stop E. coli.”</p>
<p>She then moves the carcass into a cooler.</p>
<p>Mary’s husband, Jim Rickert, works away from the main action.</p>
<p>“I’m boning out the cow head,” he explains. “You kind of have to know how an animal is put together so you can take it apart.”</p>
<p>He puts all the meat he says he wouldn’t feed to his grandchildren on one tray — that’ll be sold as pet food — and the really good stuff goes on another tray.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11719407" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11719407" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/6ae6a537-pratherjim-800x897.jpg" alt="Jim Rickert removes meat from the cow head. Some will go for pet food, some will go to market." width="800" height="897" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/6ae6a537-pratherjim-800x897.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/6ae6a537-pratherjim-160x179.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/6ae6a537-pratherjim-1020x1144.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/6ae6a537-pratherjim-1070x1200.jpg 1070w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/6ae6a537-pratherjim.jpg 1440w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Jim Rickert removes meat from the cow head. Some will go for pet food, some will go to market. <cite>(Lisa Morehouse/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>“There’s a nice beef cheek right there,” he says. “It goes down to a restaurant in San Francisco, and as I recall they sell a dinner there, a beef cheek dinner, and for $75. I’ve never been able to afford one, but that’s what I hear.”</p>
<p>The people in this room work carefully. There are the USDA standards and Jim’s “grandchildren test.”</p>
<h3>Beef Is Much More Than ‘What’s for Dinner’</h3>
<p>Aside from food sales, Prather Ranch will also sell parts of these animals to companies in the biomedical field. The hides, for example, go to make a purified collagen solution used in cell research. And bones? Some have been made into screws for things like knee surgery.</p>
<p>“Cow bones are real popular,” says Jim Rickert. “There’s one company that takes all this stuff for dental work,” grinding bones up for fillings.</p>
<p>Another company is researching ways to replace parts of human bones. They’re using Prather Ranch cow bones, which have been 3D-printed with human cells.</p>
<p>“Pretty strange science, but really fascinating,” says Jim Rickert. “And we like doing our part of it. If we’re gonna take the animal’s life, I believe we have the moral obligation to utilize the animal as much as possible. First it’s good business; but it’s good morals.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11718929" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1920px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11718929" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34650_IMG_0533-qut.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1440" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34650_IMG_0533-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34650_IMG_0533-qut-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34650_IMG_0533-qut-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34650_IMG_0533-qut-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34650_IMG_0533-qut-1200x900.jpg 1200w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Mary Rickert outside a pasture where Prather Ranch cows eat organic grasses. <cite>(Lisa Morehouse/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Companies come to Prather Ranch for a variety of bovine parts, Mary Rickert says. “We’ve done all the way from pituitary glands to eyeballs to uteri to pericardium.”</p>
<p>In some ways, this is nothing new. Indigenous people around the world have used plants and whole animals for medicine as well as food.</p>
<p>Jim Rickert says that in Western medicine, “There’s clear evidence of people using bones from pigs clear back to the 1700s,” though not very successfully.</p>
<p>“You’ve heard of catgut?” he asks, “Well I think that was one of the things that was used at times for suturing.”</p>
<h3>A ‘Closed Herd’ and a Beauty Trend</h3>
<p>The Rickerts met and fell in love at Cal Poly-San Luis Obispo, and within a decade, they came up to Prather Ranch to manage the operation. They faced a money-losing business, and had to get creative, Jim explains.</p>
<p>“I shrunk the herd down to about 250 mother cows. We just didn’t buy replacement females,” he says.</p>
<p>That created what’s now known as a “closed herd.” All animals in the herd are born within it; no new ones are introduced. That decision changed everything. Because, at the same time, in the early 1990s, two things were happening that, on the surface, seem to have nothing to do with each other.</p>
<p>The first was an animal health scare.</p>
<p><a href="https://www.centerforfoodsafety.org/issues/1040/mad-cow-disease/timeline-mad-cow-disease-outbreaks">Mad cow disease</a> — more formally known as bovine spongiform encephalopathy — “was really developing into a real serious health crisis in the United Kingdom and Europe,” Mary says.</p>
<p>The second? A beauty trend: dermal fillers.</p>
<p><!-- to be implemented later --></p>
<p>Remember the pillowy lips of actresses in the 1990s? That look came from collagen injections that came from cowhides. Jim says an old friend, an early pioneer in collagen dermal fillers, knew that Prather Ranch had a closed herd, which made it much less susceptible to problems like mad cow disease. He knew he could make a cleaner, safer collagen with their cowhides. So he called them up.</p>
<p>“And I remember going, ‘Really?’ ” Jim says with a laugh.</p>
<p>“Puffy lips wasn’t exactly our primary life goal at that point,” Mary adds.</p>
<p>But the Rickerts wanted to keep the ranch going. That collagen company built them the slaughterhouse on-site. Eventually, biomedical companies came knocking for cow parts, too. He won’t talk about the financials, but Jim says there have been years when they’ve made more money selling beef byproducts for medical use than they made selling beef.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11718934" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1920px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-full wp-image-11718934" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34646_IMG_0537-qut.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1440" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34646_IMG_0537-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34646_IMG_0537-qut-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34646_IMG_0537-qut-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34646_IMG_0537-qut-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2019/01/RS34646_IMG_0537-qut-1200x900.jpg 1200w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Employee Craig Holbrook prepares a femur for a medical client. <cite>(Lisa Morehouse/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>The companies that buy from Prather Ranch sign confidentiality agreements, but one executive — whose company turns Prather Ranch cowhides into purified collagen for cell research, cancer research and 3D bio printing — says that a hide from Prather Ranch can cost him thousands of dollars more than those from other sources.</p>
<p>In the processing room, employee Craig Holbrook preps a femur bone for a medical client. He saws the bone, double-bags it in plastic, then sends it through a vacuum sealer. Packages like this are then sent via FedEx to customers across the country.</p>
<p>One result of meeting all the FDA standards to sell the parts to medical companies? The Rickerts set themselves up to produce really high-quality beef.</p>
<aside class="alignright">
<h3><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/10791095/sierra-cattlewomen-work-off-ranch-to-help-family-stay-in-the-business">Sierra Cattlewomen Work Off-Ranch to Help Family Stay in the Business</a></h3>
<figure><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/10791095/sierra-cattlewomen-work-off-ranch-to-help-family-stay-in-the-business"><img decoding="async" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2015/12/CattlewomenMain-1038x576.jpg" alt="" /></a></figure>
<p><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/series/california-foodways" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Follow reporter Lisa Morehouse’s full California Foodways series</a></p>
</aside>
<p>Mary says they do DNA testing on bulls specifically for genes that increase the likelihood of marbling and tenderness in the beef. It’s a sought-after quality, and pretty expensive.</p>
<p>Mary also says she and her husband share a core belief: that they should handle animals gently until the very last minute.</p>
<p>At the “knock box,” where cows get knocked out by a stun gun before being moved to the kill floor, she points out a quote by animal behaviorist Temple Grandin, who advocates for humane slaughter of livestock.</p>
<p>It reads, “I believe that the place an animal dies is a sacred one. The ritual could be something very simple, such as a moment of silence, no words, one pure moment of silence. I can picture it perfectly.”</p>
<p>Mary says, “I wanted to put that over our knock box so we always remember that this animal is giving its life not only for food but also to improve the quality of life for people for medical reasons.”</p>
<p>She says she wants everyone at the slaughterhouse to think about that.</p>
<p><em>This piece was produced in collaboration with the <a href="http://thefern.org/">Food & Environment Reporting Network</a>, a nonprofit investigative news organization.</em></p>
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<media:description type="html">Jim Rickert removes meat from the cow head. Some will go for pet food, some will go to market.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Mary Rickert by a pasture where Prather Ranch cows eat organic grasses.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Employee Craig Holbrook prepares a femur bone for a medical client.</media:description>
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<title>Migrant Family Separations Didn’t End Despite Executive Order</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2018/12/06/migrant-family-separations-didnt-end-despite-executive-order/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Audrey Garces]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Thu, 06 Dec 2018 22:40:42 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11710491</guid>
<description><![CDATA[The Trump administration separated 81 migrant children from their families at the U.S.-Mexico border since a June executive order that stopped the general practice, according to data obtained by The Associated Press.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>The Trump administration separated 81 migrant children from their families at the U.S.-Mexico border since the <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11675975/speaker-ryan-plans-immigration-votes-amid-doubts-that-bills-can-pass">June executive order</a> that stopped the general practice amid a crackdown on illegal crossings, according to government data obtained by The Associated Press.</p>
<p>Despite the order and a <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11686294/judge-pleased-with-progress-but-hundreds-of-migrant-children-still-separated-from-parents">federal judge’s later ruling</a>, immigration officials are allowed to separate a child from a parent in certain cases, such as serious criminal charges against a parent, concerns over the health and welfare of a child or medical concerns. Those caveats were in place before the <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11684978/the-california-report-talks-zero-tolerance-with-the-chief-patrol-agent-in-san-diego">zero tolerance policy</a> that prompted the earlier separations at the border.</p>
<aside class="alignright">
<h3><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11708703/judge-orders-reunification-of-mother-and-son-from-el-salvador">Judge Orders Reunification of Mother and Son From El Salvador</a></h3>
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</aside>
<p>The government decides whether a child fits into the areas of concern, worrying advocates of the families and immigrant rights groups that are afraid parents are being falsely labeled as criminals.</p>
<p>The data showed that from June 21, the day after President Trump’s order, through Tuesday, 76 adults were separated from their children. Of those, 51 were criminally prosecuted — 31 with criminal histories and 20 for other, unspecified reasons. Nine were hospitalized, 10 had gang affiliations, four had extraditable warrants and two were separated because of prior immigration violations and orders of removal, according to the data.</p>
<p>“The welfare of children in our custody is paramount,” said Katie Waldman, a spokeswoman for the Department of Homeland Security, which oversees U.S. immigration enforcement.</p>
<p>“As we have already said — and the numbers show: Separations are rare. While there was a brief increase during zero tolerance as more adults were prosecuted, the numbers have returned to their prior levels.”</p>
<p>At its height over the summer, more than 2,400 children were separated. The practice sparked global outrage from politicians, humanitarians and religious groups that called it cruel and callous. Images of weeping children and anguished, confused parents were splashed across newspapers and television.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11710504" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1920px"><a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-982169900.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11710504 size-full" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-982169900-e1544131078252.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1603" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-982169900-e1544131078252.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-982169900-e1544131078252-160x134.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-982169900-e1544131078252-800x668.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-982169900-e1544131078252-1020x852.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-982169900-e1544131078252-1200x1002.jpg 1200w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">A migrant child looks out the window of a bus as protesters try to block a bus carrying migrant children out of a U.S. Customs and Border Protection Detention Center on June 23, 2018, in McAllen, Texas. <cite>(Spencer Platt/Getty Images)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>A lawsuit brought by a mother who had been separated from her child resulted in a federal judge barring further separations and ordering the government to reunite the families.</p>
<p>But the judge, Dana Sabraw, left the caveats in place and gave the option to challenge further separations on an individual basis. American Civil Liberties Union attorney Lee Gelernt, who sued on behalf of the mother, said he hoped the judge would order the government to alert them of any new separations, because right now the attorneys don’t know about them and therefore can’t challenge them.</p>
<p>“We are very concerned the government may be separating families based on vague allegations of criminal history,” Gelernt said.</p>
<aside class="alignright">
<h3><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11683618/judge-orders-reunification-plan-for-deported-parents-aclu-presents-evidence-of-ice-coercion">Judge Orders Reunification Plan for Deported Parents, ACLU Presents Evidence of ICE Coercion</a></h3>
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</aside>
<p>According to the government data, from April 19 through Sept. 30, 170 family units were separated because they were found to not be related — that included 197 adults and 139 minors. This could also include grandparents or other relatives if there was no proof of relationship. Many people fleeing poverty or violence leave their homes in a rush and don’t have birth certificates or formal documents with them.</p>
<p>Other separations were because the children were not minors, the data showed.</p>
<p>From October 2016 through September 2017, 1,065 family units were separated— 46 due to fraud and 1,019 due to medical or security concerns, according to data. In most cases, this means a child and a parent faced separation.</p>
<p>Waldman said the data showed “unequivocally that smugglers, human traffickers, and nefarious actors are attempting to use hundreds of children to exploit our immigration laws in hopes of gaining entry to the United States.”</p>
<p><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11708447/fact-check-whats-happening-on-the-u-s-mexico-border">Thousands of migrants</a> have come up from Central America in recent weeks as part of a large caravan. Trump used his national security powers to put in place regulations that denied asylum to anyone caught crossing illegally, but a <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11698629/parents-deported-without-their-kids-face-untenable-choice">judge has halted that change</a> as a lawsuit progresses.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11710531" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 1920px"><a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-980555774-e1544131063773.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11710531 size-full" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-980555774-e1544131063773.jpg" alt="" width="1920" height="1278" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-980555774-e1544131063773.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-980555774-e1544131063773-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-980555774-e1544131063773-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-980555774-e1544131063773-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/GettyImages-980555774-e1544131063773-1200x799.jpg 1200w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Children take part in a protest against U.S. immigration policies outside the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City on June 21, 2018. <cite>(Pedro Pardo/AFP/Getty Images)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>The zero tolerance policy over the summer was meant in part to deter families from illegally crossing the border. Trump administration officials say the large increase in the number of Central American families coming between ports of entry has vastly strained the system.</p>
<p>But the policy — and what it would mean for parents — caught some federal agencies off-guard. There was no system in place to track parents along with their children, in part because after 72 hours children are turned over to a different agency, the Department of Health and Human Services, which has been tasked with caring for them.</p>
<p>An October report by Homeland Security’s watchdog found immigration officials were not prepared to manage the consequences of the policy. The resulting confusion along the border led to misinformation among separated parents who did not know why they had been taken from their children or how to reach them. Longer detention for children at border facilities meant short-term stays and difficulty in <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11698560/families-remain-separated">identifying and reuniting families</a>.</p>
<p>The report also found backlogs at ports of entry may have pushed some into illegally crossing the U.S-Mexico border.</p>
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<media:title type="html">Despite Trump Executive Order, Over 2300 Migrant Children Still Held In Camps</media:title>
<media:description type="html">A migrant child looks out the window of a bus as protesters try to block a bus carrying migrant children out of a U.S. Customs and Border Protection Detention Center on June 23, 2018 in McAllen, Texas.</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">MEXICO-US-migration-PROTEST</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Children take part in a protest against U.S. immigration policies outside the U.S. embassy in Mexico City on June 21, 2018.</media:description>
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<title>Where Do People Get Money to Buy California Homes These Days? Often, From Mom and Dad</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2018/08/01/where-do-people-get-money-to-buy-california-homes-these-days-often-from-mom-and-dad/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[KQED News Staff]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Wed, 01 Aug 2018 21:41:37 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11684066</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Federal data show first-time buyers in California increasingly rely on family for help.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><span style="font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia">W</span>hen Melanie Gerber started working as a mortgage loan officer in Riverside seven years ago, she didn’t see many first-time buyers hitting up their parents for help.</p>
<p>Now she sees it all the time.</p>
<p>“I have one that just went into escrow yesterday,” Gerber said. “They’re having money gifted from the family.”</p>
<p>She estimates about half of her borrowers are now getting money from mom and dad.</p>
<p>“I think the parents just want them to make it on their own and know they can’t do it,” she said.</p>
<p>Gerber’s observations are backed up by federal data. If you want to buy a home in California, it increasingly helps to have relatives who can chip in.</p>
<h2>California Real Estate Is Flush With Family Money</h2>
<p>KPCC crunched <a href="https://www.hud.gov/program_offices/housing/rmra/oe/rpts/sfsnap/sfsnap">the numbers on more than 600,000 FHA loans</a>, a type of government-backed mortgage that’s common with first-time buyers.</p>
<p>FHA borrowers can use money from relatives for their down payment. In recent years, that kind of family financial help has been on the rise in California.</p>
<p>Back in 2011, about one in four FHA loans in California included down payment money from relatives. Today, it’s one in three.</p>
<p><strong><em>Percent of family-assisted down payments for FHA loans, by county</em></strong></p>
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<iframe loading="lazy" src="https://projects.scpr.org/charts/fha-loan-counties/" frameborder="0" height="420px" scrolling="no" width="100%" class="iframe-class"></iframe></p>
<p><em>County-level data via HUD; current through May 2018</em></p>
<p>Family down payment support is playing an even bigger role in many parts of California, outstripping the <a href="https://www.hud.gov/sites/dfiles/Housing/documents/2017fhaannualreport.pdf">national rate of 26 percent</a>.</p>
<p>Last year, in dozens of California ZIP codes — covering parts of East San Jose, North Hollywood, South Central Los Angeles, Santa Ana and Alpine in eastern San Diego County — at least half of FHA borrowers were getting family members to help with the down payment.</p>
<p>Many first-time buyers choose FHA loans for their low down payment options and relaxed credit requirements. FHA loans have been declining as a share of California’s overall mortgage market. Still, in 2017 about 15 percent of all homes sold in California had an FHA loan, according to <a href="https://www.car.org/marketdata/surveys/ahs">a survey</a> from the California Association of Realtors.</p>
<p>These loans can help young families get into lower to mid-priced California homes. However, lending limits max out at close to $680,000, making FHA loans unrealistic for California’s most expensive markets. Very few people use them to buy homes in areas like San Francisco or L.A.’s Westside.</p>
<p><strong><em>FHA loans with family down payment assistance by ZIP Code, 2011 – May 2018</em></strong></p>
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<iframe loading="lazy" src="https://projects.scpr.org/charts/fha-loan-counties/maps/bay.html" frameborder="0" height="470px" scrolling="no" width="100%" class="iframe-class"></iframe></p>
<p><em>Data via HUD, U.S. Census; ZIP codes with fewer than 50 loans not shown on map</em></p>
<p>Loan officer Gerber gave her son nearly $10,000 to get him into a $365,000 house in Riverside.</p>
<p>“I saw the prices going higher and higher. And I knew that if we didn’t help him, he would not be able to buy something when he was actually ready to purchase,” she said.</p>
<p>Gerber’s 24-year-old son, Brandon Miller said, “I could not be in this house without my family’s help.”</p>
<p>Miller has embraced homeownership. His modest ranch house has a nice front yard where his two massive Great Danes can run around. He enjoys watering the plants and looking for midcentury furniture to highlight the house’s 1950s charm.</p>
<p>Living here keeps Miller close to his parents.</p>
<p>“I do everything possible to show that I’m grateful for what they did,” he said. “I keep my house nice. I try to improve my house when I can. I want to show that what they invested in is actually going toward something good.”</p>
<p>Miller shares the house with a few renters, so he can easily cover his portion of the monthly payments. He said it costs him less than renting an apartment. And he’s building equity.</p>
<p>“I definitely feel like I was able to achieve the California Dream, since a lot of people nowadays can’t afford houses,” he said.</p>
<h2>Parental Help Takes Many Forms</h2>
<p>Median California home prices are now more than double the national average. Student loan debt and <a href="http://www.kpbs.org/news/2018/may/29/californias-high-rent-leaves-many-one-crisis-away-/">unaffordable rents</a> can make it hard to save. When parents see their kids struggling under those pressures, of course they want to help.</p>
<p>And they’re not just gifting down payments to their kids. They’re also co-buying houses.</p>
<p>A recent <a href="https://www.attomdata.com/news/market-trends/mortgage-origination/q1-2018-loan-origination-trends-report/">quarterly report</a> from Irvine-based real estate data firm Attom Data Solutions found that 48 percent of houses purchased in San Jose had sales deeds that listed multiple non-married buyers (often an indication that parents are co-buying with their children). The same was true for 38 percent of homes purchased in San Francisco.</p>
<p>Some parents are making <a href="http://www.scpr.org/programs/take-two/2017/07/12/57900/socal-so-curious-who-are-the-cash-buyers-in-socal/">all-cash purchases</a> for their kids. Family money can be involved in other ways that are harder to detect. Buyers can purchase homes with inheritances or trust fund money, which don’t show up in data on FHA loans.</p>
<p>Parental help is happening in many non-FHA loans as well.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11684255" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11684255" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-800x659.jpg" alt="Raphael Leib opens the gate to the City Terrace home he shares with his wife and two young children, July 21, 2018." width="800" height="659" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-800x659.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-160x132.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-1020x840.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-1200x989.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-1180x972.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-960x791.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-240x198.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-375x309.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/Raphael-520x428.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Raphael Leib opens the gate to the City Terrace home he shares with his wife and two young children, July 21, 2018. <cite>(David Wagner/KPCC)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Labor union representative Raphael Leib used a conventional mortgage to buy a $390,000 house on the Eastside of Los Angeles three years ago with his wife, a high school French teacher.</p>
<p>The couple is raising their two young children in the three-bedroom house thanks in part to about $40,000 worth of help from their parents.</p>
<p>“Having a gift from both our sets of parents really meant that we could find a place that our family could grow into,” Leib said.</p>
<p>Leib has seen others also tapping into generational wealth to buy homes in Los Angeles. He doesn’t want to see long-term residents priced out of his City Terrace neighborhood.</p>
<aside class="pullquote alignright">‘Who has wealth now — and who can bequest that wealth to their children — is a direct consequence of our government lending practices 50 years ago.’<cite>Carolina Reid, UC Berkeley</cite></aside>
<p>“This is a nice neighborhood. The neighbors have been here a long time. I know them all well. They know me well. It’s a close-knit community,” he said. “I’d rather not see it be gentrified.”</p>
<h2>Who Has Wealth to Share?</h2>
<p>Housing experts worry about the rising reliance on family wealth in California.</p>
<p>“We have huge wealth inequality and homeownership inequalities by race and ethnicity,” said UC Berkeley’s Carolina Reid.</p>
<p>Many black and Hispanic families today don’t have as much wealth to share as white families, said Reid, because past government policies shut them out of homeownership. As recently as the 1960s, the practice of “redlining” explicitly denied government-backed home loans to residents in minority neighborhoods.</p>
<p>Reid predicts today’s wealth gaps will only get worse if first-time buyers increasingly need to have parents who can help.</p>
<p>“Who has wealth now — and who can bequest that wealth to their children — is a direct consequence of our government lending practices 50 years ago,” Reid said.</p>
<p>Richard Green, the director of USC’s Lusk Center for Real Estate, said families that have owned homes in California for generations have an advantage. Others may need to leave the state if they want to purchase a house.</p>
<p>“It’s almost like we’re feudal now,” Green said. “You inherit the manor from your family if you happen to be a landowner. If you’re not a landowner, it’s really hard to get in.”</p>
<h2>For Some, Family Money Can Be a Leg Up</h2>
<p>However, money from relatives isn’t just benefiting families that have always been homeowners.</p>
<p>Jackie Dillon, a social worker at a Los Angeles hospital, was raised by a single mom who immigrated to the United States from Mexico.</p>
<p>Dillon’s family has always rented. Which is why getting an FHA loan to buy a house in South Los Angeles earlier this year was such a big deal.</p>
<p>“We had balloons in here,” Dillon said. “We never see my mom cry. But she actually shed a tear that day. She was just so happy. I think she felt proud of me.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11684253" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11684253" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-800x613.jpg" alt="Jackie Dillon stands in front of the South Los Angeles home she purchased earlier this year, July 18, 2018." width="800" height="613" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-800x613.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-1020x781.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-1200x919.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-1180x903.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-960x735.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-240x184.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-375x287.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/08/JackieDillon-520x398.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Jackie Dillon stands in front of the South Los Angeles home she purchased earlier this year, July 18, 2018. <cite>(David Wagner/KPCC)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Dillon shares the house with her mother. She now feels more financially secure.</p>
<p>“I did not want to be renting my entire life and not establishing any wealth,” she said. “For me, it means that we’re out of poverty and actually building a future.”</p>
<p>Dillon’s savings covered roughly half of the down payment and closing costs on the $450,000 house. But she had another source of help — money passed down to her after her grandmother’s death.</p>
<p>“My grandma was the matriarch of our family,” Dillon said. “Our family has always had very intelligent, strong and compassionate women. So that, to me, was just her helping us yet again.”</p>
<p>Dillon said if she kept saving, in a few years she might have been able to afford the down payment on her own. But then again, in a few years, who knows what a house like this will cost.</p>
<h2>‘I Would Love to Stay in California’</h2>
<p>For those who don’t have relatives in a position to help, owning a house in California can feel unachievable.</p>
<p>Stephanie Pavón has been renting in Northeast Los Angeles with her husband Fernando for about six years. The couple has a 15-month-old son. They’ve considered buying a house. But Pavón said even with their decent incomes, they can’t save up enough for a down payment.</p>
<p>“A big factor in our staying where we are is that we don’t have assistance from other family,” said Pavón.</p>
<p>They’ve watched prices in their neighborhood skyrocket. A three-bedroom house on their street recently sold for $1 million. Another house in the area — barely bigger than their apartment at 789 square feet — is on the market for $499,000.</p>
<p>“There are so many people like myself who can’t afford to live in a house like this. And I do wonder who can,” she said.</p>
<p>Pavón said her family could continue to rent in Los Angeles, or they could join her sister-in-law in Texas.</p>
<p>“I would love to stay in Los Angeles,” she said. “I would love to stay in California.”</p>
<p><em>Have you helped your kids buy a home in California? Did you get help from your parents? Join the conversation on our </em><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/cadream/"><em>CA Dream Facebook group</em></a><em>. </em></p>
<p><em><strong>Note about data:</strong> The California Dream collaborative analyzed 89 months of FHA loan data for California, from January 2011 – May 2018. That data, which represents over 600,000 mortgages, is </em><a href="https://www.hud.gov/program_offices/housing/rmra/oe/rpts/sfsnap/sfsnap"><em>available here</em></a><em>. Lenders submit the information about down payment support to HUD, and family support does not necessarily mean that relatives provided 100 percent of the down payment. On the map, we chose to show the data broken down by ZIP code, the most specific geography available. The shapes on the map are ZIP Code Tabulation Areas, which are approximations of ZIP codes, created by the U.S. Census. All ZIP codes shown on the map had at least 50 loans during this time period. Some ZIP codes are missing because they didn’t have enough loans.</em></p>
<p><em><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/series/californiadream/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The California Dream series</a> is a statewide media collaboration of CALmatters, KPBS, KPCC, KQED and Capital Public Radio with support from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the James Irvine Foundation and the College Futures Foundation.</em></p>
<p><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-11660142" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner.jpg" alt="" width="1867" height="512" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner.jpg 1867w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-160x44.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-800x219.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-1020x280.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-1180x324.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-960x263.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-240x66.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-375x103.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/04/CADreamBanner-520x143.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 1867px) 100vw, 1867px" /></p>
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<media:description type="html">Raphael Leib opens the gate to the City Terrace home he shares with his wife and two young children, July 21, 2018.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Jackie Dillon stands in front of the South Los Angeles home she purchased earlier this year, July 18, 2018.</media:description>
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<title>Trump Administration Will Miss Deadline to Reunite Migrant Kids Under 5 With Parents</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2018/07/09/trump-administration-will-miss-deadline-to-reunite-migrant-kids-under-5-with-parents/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[KQED News Staff]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 09 Jul 2018 21:44:36 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11679723</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Of the 102 young children in custody, the Justice Department says at least 54 will return to their parents by Tuesday as ordered by a court. But a judge still voiced optimism about "real progress."]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Of the nearly 3,000 migrant minors who were separated from their parents and placed in federal custody, the Trump administration says at least 102 are under 5 years old. And for several weeks, administration officials have been under a court-ordered deadline: Reunite those young children with their parents, and do it quickly.</p>
<p>Now, one day before a Tuesday deadline, the administration says authorities expect to return just over half of the kids — but that they will need more time to figure out the rest. On Monday, Justice Department attorney Sarah Fabian told a federal court in San Diego that at least 54 children — and as many as 59 — will be reunited with their families in the custody of Immigration and Customs Enforcement.</p>
<p>So far, two children under 5 years old have been returned to their families.</p>
<p>But reuniting the remainder has proved to be a much tougher task for Justice and immigration officials, who for months separated migrant families at the U.S-Mexico border under the Trump administration’s <a href="https://www.npr.org/2018/06/19/621065383/what-we-know-family-separation-and-zero-tolerance-at-the-border">zero tolerance policy</a>.</p>
<p>Trump ended the practice <a href="https://www.npr.org/2018/06/20/622095441/trump-executive-order-on-family-separation-what-it-does-and-doesnt-do">with an executive order</a> last month, but federal officials have struggled since then with how, exactly, to undo its results.</p>
<p>Fabian attributed the holdup to difficulties tracking down some parents, and to necessary background checks on those whom they’ve found. Several parents have already been deported, while authorities disqualified others due to criminal records.</p>
<p>As NPR’s John Burnett <a href="https://www.npr.org/2018/07/06/626664205/aclu-family-separation-hearing">explained Friday</a>, the Department of Health and Human Services says it has hired 250 additional personnel in the sprint to comply with the court order.</p>
<p>“They’re working nights and weekends to comply with the judge’s orders. But they say they have to do cheek swabs of the children and the parents to do DNA tests to establish parentage. They have to conduct criminal background checks of the parents. They have to determine the fitness of the parents to be able to release the kids to them,” Burnett noted. “And so the government says the tension is between a fast release and a safe release.”</p>
<p>Despite these efforts, there’s a chance the government’s list of young children awaiting reunion may actually grow before authorities can reduce it further. Attorneys for the American Civil Liberties Union, which brought the lawsuit, said activists have turned up as many as 10 more names that need to added to the number of separated kids still in detention.</p>
<p>That discrepancy in numbers is one of several disagreements both sides of the suit, the Justice Department and the ACLU, pledged to discuss later Monday. In the courtroom, they expressed openness to collaborating on several issues, including searching for parents who have been removed from the U.S. and double-checking the criminal records.</p>
<p>Among the other remaining question marks is whether authorities can streamline their vetting process for the migrant parents — which ACLU attorneys have described as needlessly cumbersome — and whether the government can pass along the locations migrant families will be released from custody, so that charity groups can more quickly offer them support.</p>
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<p>As daunting as the process appeared in court, this week’s deadline concerns less than 5 percent of the children separated from their parents in recent months. Under Sabraw’s <a href="https://www.npr.org/2018/06/27/623763875/judge-bars-migrant-family-separations-orders-return-of-children-within-30-days">order last month</a>, the rest of the minors will need to be returned to their families by July 26.</p>
<p>In the meantime, many of these children have had to face their immigration proceedings without their parents in court. NPR’s Sasha Ingber <a href="https://www.npr.org/2018/07/08/627082032/1-year-old-shows-up-in-immigration-court">pointed out</a> one incident in which a 1-year-old boy was brought before a judge.</p>
<p>“[Judge] John W. Richardson … said he was ’embarrassed to ask’ if the defendant understood the proceedings,” Sasha reported.</p>
<p>And activists, for their part, have described a “bureaucratic wall” that has prevented detained parents from finding and contacting their children.</p>
<p>“The systems that are in place are absolutely not equipped to deal with this,” Emily Kephart of the nonprofit Kids in Need of Defense <a href="https://www.npr.org/2018/06/28/624127967/reuniting-families-separated-at-the-border-proves-complicated">told NPR’s Nurith Aizenman last month</a>.</p>
<p>Still, despite the frustrations and delays, Sabraw sounded a positive note, suggesting that he would be inclined to extend the July 10 deadline given the work that Fabian presented Monday.</p>
<p>“This is real progress, I’m optimistic that many of these families will be reunited tomorrow,” he told the courtroom. “And then we’ll have a very clear understanding as to who has not been reunited, why not and what time frame will be in place.”</p>
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<title>Letter to My California Dreamer: A Place Where Dreams Are Safe to Grow</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2018/06/01/letter-to-my-california-dreamer-a-place-where-dreams-are-safe-to-grow/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[KQED News Staff]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Sat, 02 Jun 2018 00:20:18 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11671945</guid>
<description><![CDATA[We’re asking Californians from all walks of life to write a short letter to one of the first people in their family who came to the Golden State. This letter comes from Sarah Stroe, a second-generation San Francisco native, to her grandparents.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em><a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/the-california-report-magazine/id1314750545?mt=2" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Listen to this and more in-depth storytelling by subscribing to The California Report Magazine podcast.</a></em></p>
<p>For a series we’re calling “<a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/tag/letters-to-my-california-dreamer" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Letters To My California Dreamer</a>,” we’re asking Californians from all walks of life <a href="http://bit.ly/californiadreamletter" target="_blank" rel="noopener">to write a short letter</a> to one of the first people in their family who came to the Golden State. The letter should explain:</p>
<p><strong>What was their California Dream?</strong><br />
<strong>What happened to it?</strong><br />
<strong>Is that California Dream still alive for you?</strong></p>
<p>Here’s a letter from Sarah Stroe, a second-generation San Francisco native, to her grandparents:</p>
<p style="font-family: courier">To my grandparents, all of them:</p>
<p style="font-family: courier">I don’t know if you had a California dream, but I know you had dreamt of a place where dreams were safe to grow.</p>
<p style="font-family: courier">All my grandparents immigrated from Europe after World War II to South America, fleeing the discrimination they faced as Jews. They settled in countries where they could get visas and start new lives in industries they had never known, learning a new language, climate and culture, and constantly striving for more, or at least different.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11671989" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 640px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-large wp-image-11671989" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-1020x1360.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="853" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-1020x1360.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-160x213.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-800x1067.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-900x1200.jpg 900w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-1920x2560.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-1180x1573.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-960x1280.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-240x320.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-375x500.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-1-520x693.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Sarah Stroe’s maternal grandparents, Leo and Anne Hills, in front of their San Francisco home. <cite>(Stroe Family)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p style="font-family: courier">They made their way to California, and they took opportunities that were presented: one grandfather worked as a tailor in San Francisco, eventually opening an art gallery. My other grandfather re-completed his medical training and opened a doctor’s office in South Central Los Angeles.</p>
<p style="font-family: courier">They raised their children to both appreciate their roots and absorb their new homes. When my parents met, they were brought together in part by their similarities, grounded in history that was shared and known.</p>
<p style="font-family: courier">I was raised in a Jewish household with a blend of cultural particularities: salsa in our matzo ball soup at Passover Seder, a mixture of Spanish and Yiddish peppering family conversation, an entire avocado as an after-school snack.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11671990" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 640px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-large wp-image-11671990" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-1020x766.jpg" alt="" width="640" height="481" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-1020x766.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-800x601.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-1200x901.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-1920x1441.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-1180x886.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-960x721.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-240x180.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-375x282.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2-520x390.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/06/Stroe-Photo-2.jpg 2046w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Sarah Stroe with her parents, husband and brother at her parents’ house in Inverness.. <cite>(Stroe Family)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p style="font-family: courier">I feel California in my blood and in my bones. I work for the city of San Francisco, and I am proud every day to serve some of the most vulnerable Californians as a social worker in a county hospital. My California dream is a California that embraces its history as a safe haven for immigrants, that loves and celebrates difference and takes pride in the ever-changing and mixing landscape of Californians.</p>
<p style="font-family: courier">Love,</p>
<p style="font-family: courier">Sarah</p>
<p>We’d love to see your letter to your family’s California Dreamer. Maybe it was a parent, a great-great grandparent or maybe even you were the first in your family to come to California with a dream. <a href="http://bit.ly/californiadreamletter" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Fill out the form here</a> and share your story with us!</p>
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<media:title type="html">Stroe Photo 1</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Sarah Stroe's maternal grandparents, Leo and Anna Hills, in front of their San Francisco home.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Sarah Stroe with her parents, husband and brother at her parents' house in Inverness, CA.</media:description>
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<title>This Deported Nurse Is Now Raising Her Oakland Kids — From Mexico</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2018/05/25/deported-nurse-is-now-raising-her-oakland-kids-from-mexico/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Alyssa Jeong Perry]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 25 May 2018 23:15:25 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11670565</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Maria Mendoza was working as a nurse at Oakland’s Highland Hospital and raising four children with her husband, until they were both deported.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><em><a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/the-california-report-magazine/id1314750545?mt=2" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Listen to this and more in-depth storytelling by subscribing to The California Report Magazine podcast.</a></em></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia">I</span>n the winter of 1990, a private plane carrying a small group of passengers crashed on the high-altitude plateau of central Mexico.</p>
<p>For Maria Mendoza, the accident started a chain of events that sent her on a northward journey all the way to Oakland, California. And eventually, years later, back to the small town in the Mexican state of Hidalgo where she was born.</p>
<p>Sitting in her mother’s living room in Hidalgo on an armchair draped with a bright serape blanket, Maria reflected on the nursing career and family she built in California, and the deportation that wrenched her away — unexpected outcomes of that long-ago crash.</p>
<p>She was just 18 the day the plane went down, and had already earned an accounting degree and gotten a good job as a secretary in a hospital near Mexico City. In addition to answering the phones, a doctor often called on Maria to help attend patients — including the pilot injured in the plane crash. Maria got the pilot necessary blood transfusions, and his uncle was so grateful that he offered Maria a place to stay with family in Tijuana and promised to help her find a better hospital job in northern Mexico.</p>
<p>Opportunities had never just fallen into Maria’s lap. Born in Santa Monica, a small village with just 120 residents, Maria grew up with a father who farmed the land and resented the fact that most of his children were girls. Maria left home at 14 to work and put herself through school in the Mexican capital.</p>
<p>“I had to raise myself,” Maria said.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11670732" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11670732" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-800x617.jpg" alt="A baby portrait of Maria Mendoza (upper left) and her family in Hidalgo, Mexico. Mendoza left home at age 14 and put herself through school in Mexico City. "I raised myself," she said." width="800" height="617" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-800x617.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-160x123.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-1020x787.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-1200x926.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-1180x911.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-960x741.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-240x185.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-375x289.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut-520x401.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31157_Photo_5-qut.jpg 1376w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">A baby portrait of Maria Mendoza (upper left) and her family in Hidalgo, Mexico. Mendoza left home at age 14 and put herself through school in Mexico City. “I raised myself,” she said. <cite>(Levi Bridges/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Maria took the bus to Tijuana, hoping to advance her career. But when she arrived in the distant border city, the pilot’s family refused to take in a stranger. Maria says they abandoned her.</p>
<p>She found a job exchanging money at a <i>casa de cambio</i> in Tijuana near the San Ysidro port of entry into San Diego. Sometimes Maria would walk on the bridge above the Tijuana River and watch Border Patrol agents on the U.S. side chase migrants trying to run over the nearby hills into California.</p>
<p>“I never understood why people would want to risk their lives trying to cross the border into another country,” Maria said. “That wasn’t part of my dream.”</p>
<p>Love changed things.</p>
<p>While living in Tijuana, Maria started exchanging letters with an old boyfriend, Eusebio, who had also grown up in her hometown of Santa Monica. Eusebio was one of those migrants who, at age 18, ran across the border from Tijuana and crossed into California. He settled in Oakland, and Maria got a U.S. tourist visa to visit him.</p>
<p>Maria eventually decided to stay with Eusebio and they started a life together as young undocumented immigrants in California.</p>
<p>Almost three decades later, the couple has four children and a three-bedroom house in East Oakland. The letters they once exchanged are stored away safely in a plastic box in their house. The kids are in the house, too.</p>
<p>But Maria and Eusebio are more than 2,000 miles away in Hidalgo, Mexico, deported and separated from their children.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11670730" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11670730" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-800x525.jpg" alt="Eusebio Sanchez, 48, and Maria Mendoza, 47, grew up together in the Mexican state of Hidalgo and moved to Oakland, California, in their early 20s. They were deported to Mexico last August, leaving their four children behind in Oakland." width="800" height="525" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-800x525.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-1020x669.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-1200x787.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-1180x774.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-960x629.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-240x157.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-375x246.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut-520x341.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31155_Photo_2-qut.jpg 1856w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Eusebio Sanchez, 48, and Maria Mendoza, 47, grew up together in the Mexican state of Hidalgo and moved to Oakland, California, in their early 20s. They were deported to Mexico last August, leaving their four children behind in Oakland. <cite>(Levi Bridges/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Today Maria is 47, with wavy hair highlighted auburn. Every afternoon she video-chats with her kids in Oakland.</p>
<p>“How was school, baby?” she asked her 12-year-old son, Jesus, one recent evening.</p>
<p>“School was good,” Jesus said, his voice crackly over the line. The internet connection in rural Mexico frequently fizzles out and drops the calls.</p>
<p>Maria’s kids range in age from 12 to 24. As a young woman, Maria went back to Mexico to give birth to her first child, Vianney. Then she crossed back into California with the baby, illegally. The rest of Maria’s children are U.S. citizens. Vianney, now 24, is protected by the Obama-era DACA program that shields young adults who came to the U.S. illegally as children from deportation.</p>
<p>Now Vianney takes care of her siblings in California. And Maria is a long-distance mother, parenting her children over the phone.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11670734" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11670734" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-800x621.jpg" alt="Maria Mendoza's three daughters (left to right: Melin, 22, Elizabeth, 16, and Vianney, 24). The sisters have been living alone together with their younger brother, Jesus, 12, since their parents were deported to Mexico last year." width="800" height="621" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-800x621.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-1020x791.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-1200x931.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-1180x915.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-960x745.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-240x186.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-375x291.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut-520x403.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31159_Photo_7-qut.jpg 1646w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Maria Mendoza’s three daughters (left to right: Melin, 22, Elizabeth, 16, and Vianney, 24). The sisters have been living alone together with their younger brother, Jesus, 12, since their parents were deported to Mexico last year. <cite>(Courtesy of the Mendoza-Sanchez family.)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Years earlier, Maria and Eusebio tried to avoid the situation they most feared — deportation — by attempting to regularize their immigration status.</p>
<p>Jesus had been born with congenital heart disease and the couple argued in court that he would suffer extreme hardship if his parents were ever deported. </p>
<p>Both parents were granted work permits in 2002 as their case slowly worked its way through the courts. While they waited for a decision, Maria studied nursing and eventually became an oncology nurse at Highland Hospital in Oakland.</p>
<aside class="alignright">
<h3><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11612563/forced-out-when-leaving-the-country-means-leaving-your-kids">Forced Out: When Leaving the Country Means Leaving Your Kids</a></h3>
<figure><a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11612563/forced-out-when-leaving-the-country-means-leaving-your-kids"><img decoding="async" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/08/Husband_Wife__MG_3176-qut-1180x787.jpg" alt="" /></a></figure>
</aside>
<p>In 2011, a judge ruled that Maria and Eusebio couldn’t prove their children would suffer enough hardship to justify giving them legal residency. But under Obama-era priorities that favored keeping families intact, Maria and Eusebio were granted stays of deportation and continued work permits.</p>
<p>Last spring, things changed: The two parents received news that they would be deported in 90 days as part of the Trump administration’s crackdown on undocumented immigrants.</p>
<p>The couple returned to Mexico last August and have lived with Maria’s mother in a small orange house in their hometown of Santa Monica for the last nine months. No proof of hardship experienced by their children could save them.</p>
<p>“I guess nobody thought about the significant amount of emotional distress that the kids are going through right now,” Maria said. “That’s already a hardship in itself.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11670736" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11670736" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-800x533.jpg" alt="Maria Mendoza-Sanchez sits on a couch in her Oakland home on Aug. 16, 2017, hours before she, her husband and son leave Oakland for Mexico City. Her daughter, Melin Sanchez, 21, cries as she watches her mother with concern." width="800" height="533" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-1200x800.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-1180x787.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-960x640.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-240x160.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-375x250.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/WPR_RS26261__MG_3197-qut-520x347.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Maria Mendoza-Sanchez sits on a couch in her Oakland home on Aug. 16, 2017, hours before she, her husband and son leave Oakland for Mexico City. Her daughter, Melin Sanchez, 21, cries as she watches her mother with concern. <cite>(Deborah Svoboda/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Santa Monica is a quiet town with a cemetery, a school and a couple of stores, set in an arid expanse of prickly pear cactuses and mesquite trees about two hours north of Mexico City. As the setting sun poured through the windows of her mother’s home, Maria pestered her son to prepare for an upcoming exam at his Oakland middle school.</p>
<p>“You have to eat a very good breakfast before you go off to school,” Maria told Jesus over the phone. “No excuses.”</p>
<p>After Maria hangs up each night she says she can breathe easy for a moment, knowing all the kids are safe and sound at home. She has spent hours researching how she might get a U.S. visa to return. But Maria and Eusebio are both currently barred from returning to the U.S. legally for 10 years.</p>
<p>Her deportation has taken a physical toll. Maria has grappled with depression and a heart condition that worsened in Mexico because of all the stress. This whole process has been devastating. Maria said her anxiety began during the 2016 election.</p>
<p>“The night of the elections, as the map was turning red, it was like if somebody was stabbing me little by little,” Maria said.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11670728" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11670728" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-800x622.jpg" alt="Maria Mendoza, 47, sits at her mother's house in Santa Monica, Hidalgo. Mendoza was deported to Mexico last summer after living in California for more than two decades." width="800" height="622" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-800x622.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-160x124.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-1020x792.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-1200x932.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-1180x917.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-960x746.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-240x186.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-375x291.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut-520x404.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31154_Photo_1-qut.jpg 1802w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Maria Mendoza, 47, sits at her mother’s house in Santa Monica, Hidalgo. Mendoza was deported to Mexico last summer after living in California for more than two decades. <cite>(Levi Bridges/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>After President Trump was elected, Maria started working extra shifts at the hospital to save up money for the kids in case she got deported. She figured every day of work could pay for one week of food for her kids.</p>
<p>The extra money Maria saved became vital. Paying the mortgage and putting four kids through school is hard enough in the Bay Area. But supporting a family in Oakland from rural Mexico is impossible — Maria says nurses in Hidalgo make only $12 a day. Maria and Eusebio’s savings won’t last forever. Soon the kids will have to pay their mortgage.</p>
<p>Vianney and her younger siblings live together in the family home in Oakland with a flock of chickens out back. Inside there are family photos scattered throughout the living room and a big table in the kitchen where the family used to gather for meals.</p>
<p>Not long ago, Vianney was a college student. Now she’s the one who does the Costco runs, drives her siblings to school and cooks the meals. All of these new responsibilities have helped Vianney understand and respect her mother more. But parenting weighs heavily on her.</p>
<p>“I can’t afford to let anything happen to me,” Vianney said, “I don’t know what would happen to my siblings if I wasn’t here.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11670735" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11670735" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-800x578.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="578" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-800x578.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-1020x737.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-1200x867.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-1180x852.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-960x694.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-240x173.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-375x271.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut-520x376.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31160_Photo_8-qut.jpg 1697w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Melin Sanchez (left), 22, recently celebrated her first birthday in Oakland without her parents. <cite>(Courtesy of the Mendoza-Sanchez family.)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Before her parents were deported, Vianney thought about following in her mother’s footsteps and becoming a nurse. Now her dreams are on hold.</p>
<p>Her sister, Melin, 22, has struggled to finish her last year at UC Santa Cruz with a degree in human biology. She goes home to Oakland every weekend to help. She says the family’s troubles make it tough to concentrate on her schoolwork.</p>
<p>“I have much more anxiety and my classes are getting harder because it’s my senior year,” Melin said.</p>
<p>Not long ago, Melin also had plans to go to medical school and become a pediatrician. But like Vianney, she can’t continue her education now. She expects to move home and help provide for her siblings.</p>
<p>Maria and Eusebio thought about bringing their kids to Mexico. But Maria says they have far more opportunities, like better schools, in California. Many people in Santa Monica raise sheep, herding flocks along dirt roads in the desert.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11670733" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11670733" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-800x605.jpg" alt="A church rises behind the cemetery in Santa Monica, Hidalgo." width="800" height="605" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-800x605.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-160x121.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-1020x772.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-1200x908.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-1180x893.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-960x726.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-240x182.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-375x284.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut-520x393.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/05/RS31158_Photo_6-qut.jpg 1802w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">A church rises behind the cemetery in Santa Monica, Hidalgo. <cite>(Levi Bridges/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Locals in Santa Monica make a living selling lamb tacos in Mexico City at street stands on weekends. But the cash they earn makes them targets for extortion by criminals. Maria’s sister sells tacos and was recently robbed at gunpoint in her own house.</p>
<p>This is not the life Maria wants for her kids.</p>
<p>“Sometimes you don’t even make enough to survive and then on top of that you have to give some to criminals,” Maria said.</p>
<p>Maria still holds out hope that she can find a way back to her kids in California. Her old employer, Highland Hospital in Oakland, has even applied to bring her to the U.S. on an H-1B visa for skilled professionals. But those visas are chosen through a competitive lottery system. It’s still a long shot. And even if she were granted a visa, she would have to win an exemption to the bar against returning to the U.S.</p>
<p>Sitting on the serape blanket at her mother’s house, Maria said that her deportation has forced everyone in her family to grow and ultimately become stronger, better people. She has started to accept that things will never be the same. And she no longer sees herself as a victim of immigration laws that separate families.</p>
<p>“The system is broken,” Maria said, “and it just happened to be that I was there when that broken system became even more broken.”</p>
<p>Maria is proud of how her kids have stepped up during her absence.</p>
<p>Despite how hard the last year has been, her children in California still have far more advantages than Maria did when she set off to Mexico City as a 14-year-old with dreams of getting an education. And she’s found comfort in that.</p>
<p>If Maria gets denied for an H-1B visa to return to Oakland, she plans to apply for hospital jobs in Canada so she can pay the mortgage and put her kids through college and graduate school.</p>
<p>With a Canadian work visa, Maria could pay the kids’ tuition. But she won’t be able to attend their graduation.</p>
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<media:description type="html">A baby portrait of Maria Mendoza (upper left) and her family in Hidalgo, Mexico. Mendoza left home at age 14 and put herself through school in Mexico City. "I raised myself," she said.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Eusebio Sanchez, 48, and Maria Mendoza, 47, grew up together in the Mexican state of Hidalgo and moved to Oakland, California, in their early 20s. They were deported to Mexico last August, leaving their four children behind in Oakland.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Maria Mendoza's three daughters (left to right: Melin, 22, Elizabeth, 16, and Vianney, 24). The sisters have been living alone together with their younger brother, Jesus, 12, since their parents were deported to Mexico last year.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Maria Mendoza-Sanchez sits on a couch in her Oakland home on Aug. 16, 2017, hours before she, her husband and son leave Oakland for Mexico City. Her daughter, Melin Sanchez, 21, cries as she watches her mother with concern.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Maria Mendoza, 47, sits at her mother's house in Santa Monica, Hidalgo. Mendoza was deported to Mexico last summer after living in California for more than two decades.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Melin Sanchez (left), 22, recently celebrated her first birthday in Oakland without her parents.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">A church rises behind the cemetery in Santa Monica, Hidalgo.</media:description>
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<title>Homeland Security Secretary Defends Separating Families of Illegal Border-Crossers</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2018/05/10/homeland-security-secretary-defends-separating-families-of-illegal-border-crossers/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[KQED News Staff]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Thu, 10 May 2018 20:44:59 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11667587</guid>
<description><![CDATA[In a wide-ranging interview with NPR, Kirstjen Nielsen insists the administration is merely following the law.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Homeland Security Secretary Kirstjen Nielsen defended the Trump administration’s “zero tolerance” policy that calls for separating families who cross the border illegally, saying the undocumented immigrants shouldn’t get special treatment.</p>
<p>“That’s no different than what we do every day in every part of the United States — when an adult of a family commits a crime,” she told NPR. “If you as a parent break into a house, you will be incarcerated by police and thereby separated from your family.”</p>
<p>“Illegal aliens should not get just different rights because they happen to be illegal aliens,” she added.</p>
<p>In a wide-ranging interview with NPR’s John Burnett airing on <em>All Things Considered</em>, Nielsen stood by the policy announced earlier this week, as well as the administration’s broader crackdown on illegal immigration, saying her department is merely following the law.</p>
<p>She says if the public wants different immigration laws, then it is up to Congress to change them — and that the fierce criticism directed at her department is unwarranted.</p>
<p>“The pushback in terms of us enforcing the law is inappropriate and unacceptable. If somebody wants a different law, they should go to Congress and get a different law passed. But we took an oath and we will uphold the laws of this country,” she said.</p>
<p>Nielsen’s five-month tenure so far as Homeland Security secretary has already been consequential — and controversial.</p>
<p>Attorney General Jeff Sessions announced the zero tolerance policy earlier this week, and on Tuesday Nielsen appeared on Capitol Hill, where she faced questions from skeptical lawmakers.</p>
<p>Under the policy, DHS will begin referring for prosecution anyone it catches trying to enter the United States unlawfully. Immigrant advocates criticized the announcement, saying it’s cruel to separate children from their parents.</p>
<p>“The law says if you cross between the ports of entry, you are entering without inspection and that is a crime,” Nielsen said. “First time is misdemeanor.</p>
<p>“After that it’s a felony,” she added, “and then it goes on from there. So that hasn’t changed, that’s the underlying law. Our policy has not changed, and that if you break the law we will refer you for prosecution.”</p>
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<iframe loading="lazy" src="https://www.npr.org/player/embed/609480137/610161918" width="100%" height="290" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" title="NPR embedded audio player" class="iframe-class"></iframe></p>
<p>Nielsen clarified that the policy is targeting families who try to illegally cross away from a port of entry. Families who present themselves at a port of entry can ask for asylum. They will get a “credible fear” interview, and they will not be prosecuted, she said.</p>
<p>Also on her watch, DHS <a href="https://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2018/05/04/608654408/trump-administration-ends-temporary-protected-status-for-hondurans">has canceled Temporary Protective Status</a>, TPS, for immigrants from a number of countries, including El Salvador, Honduras and Nepal. The program is a form of humanitarian relief offered to immigrants of countries struggling with the aftermath of war or natural disasters.</p>
<p>The <em>Washington Post </em><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/us-embassy-cables-warned-against-expelling-300000-immigrants-trump-officials-did-it-anyway/2018/05/08/065e5702-4fe5-11e8-b966-bfb0da2dad62_story.html?utm_term=.bc78302ef52b">reported</a> this week that U.S. diplomats in those countries had cabled the State Department, urging against revoking TPS for fear that the countries could not safely reabsorb tens of thousands of returning nationals.</p>
<p>Nielsen again insisted that she is only following the law.</p>
<p>“I was required to take that action by the law, pure and simple,” said Nielsen. “The statute is very clear. If the conditions that originated from the designating event no longer exist, the statute says the secretary shall terminate. To pretend that conditions continue to exist from a hurricane 20 years ago is a fiction.”</p>
<p>Nielsen was referring to a 1998 hurricane that struck Honduras, killing thousands and creating a migrant flow to the U.S. Administration officials insist that <a href="https://www.npr.org/2018/05/05/608802896/dhs-ends-temporary-protected-status-for-hondurans">conditions in Honduras have improved.</a></p>
<p>As the Trump administration ends TPS for those countries, hundreds of thousands of people will lose legal status.</p>
<p>Nielsen, 45, previously served as chief of staff for Gen. John Kelly when he was Homeland Security secretary, then followed him to the White House when he became President Trump’s chief of staff and continued as his deputy.</p>
<p>President Trump nominated her to succeed Kelly at Homeland Security late last year. She was confirmed in December. Prior to that, she served in George W. Bush’s administration as special assistant to the president and sat on the White House Homeland Security Council.</p>
<div class="fullattribution">Copyright 2018 NPR. To see more, visit http://www.npr.org/.<img decoding="async" src="https://www.google-analytics.com/__utm.gif?utmac=UA-5828686-4&utmdt=Homeland+Security+Secretary+Defends+Separating+Families+Of+Illegal+Border-Crossers&utme=8(APIKey)9(MDAxOTAwOTE4MDEyMTkxMDAzNjczZDljZA004)" /></div>
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<title>Owning Our Own Experience: Life as a Modern Father</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2018/02/14/owning-our-own-experience-life-as-a-modern-father/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Peter Arcuni]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Wed, 14 Feb 2018 22:48:06 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11648312</guid>
<description><![CDATA[In conversations with other dads like him, KQED’s Peter Arcuni was struck by their desire to break free from prescribed ideas of what a father should be.
]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Becoming a parent has been the most profound experience of my life — simultaneously the hardest and most rewarding thing I’ve done. As we’ve been <a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/series/beyondmetoo/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">reconsidering notions of masculinity</a> in today’s society, I went in search of the “Modern Father.”</p>
<p>[contextly_sidebar id=”jSrz7SveHlfn7ifSgSAA0u11OJ0s0JtC”]</p>
<p>I was a stay-at-home dad for nine months in San Francisco before heading to grad school. I remember those first days my wife went back to work like being thrown out in the wilderness. There didn’t seem to be a map to help me navigate it all.</p>
<p>I wanted to capture that moment and talk to other dads about what being a father meant to them. Maybe along the way we could glean some insight about the greater state of fatherhood today.</p>
<p><!--[if lt IE 9]><script>document.createElement('audio');</script><![endif]--><br />
<audio class="wp-audio-shortcode" id="audio-11648312-1" preload="none" style="width: 100%; visibility: hidden;" controls="controls" data-permanlink="" data-id3TagWidget="1" data-audioPodcastTitle="The California Report" data-audioEpisodeTitle="Owning Our Own Experience: Life as a Modern Father" data-siteName="KQED News" data-audioAirdate="" data-audioPoster="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/02/RS29257_2016-07-29-12.11.51-1180x787.jpg" data-audioComments="" data-postDate="February 14, 2018" data-perspectivesAuthor="" title="KQED The California Report / Owning Our Own Experience: Life as a Modern Father "><source type="audio/mpeg" src="https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcr/2018/02/FatherhoodArcuni.mp3?_=1" /><a href="https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcr/2018/02/FatherhoodArcuni.mp3">https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcr/2018/02/FatherhoodArcuni.mp3</a></audio></p>
<p>What surprised me most from conversations with dads in my neighborhood was their desire to break free from prescribed ideas of what a father <em>should</em> be. It seemed like us dads just want be parents — in the moment with our kids. And maybe fatherhood now is more about throwing out gender stereotypes and just owning our own experience.</p>
<p>As one dad put it, “When I say the words, ‘I’m a dad,’ I feel like all of a sudden I’m on cloud nine. … It’s the most natural thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life.”</p>
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<title>My ‘Family-Esque’</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2017/11/24/a-family-expanded/</link>
<comments>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2017/11/24/a-family-expanded/#comments</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Bianca Taylor]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 24 Nov 2017 17:30:26 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11629987</guid>
<description><![CDATA[KQED's Bianca Taylor recalls how her unique family was formed when two unlikely people fell in love.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Sometimes when you grow up with a really close friend, their parents become like your parents, and vice versa. That’s how my friend Kat and I are.</p>
<p>Kat and I met when we were seven years old. We went to elementary and middle school together, and swam on the same swim team every summer. So our families also spent a lot of time together, and our parents became close friends too.</p>
<p><audio class="wp-audio-shortcode" id="audio-11629987-3" preload="none" style="width: 100%; visibility: hidden;" controls="controls" data-permanlink="" data-id3TagWidget="1" data-audioPodcastTitle="The California Report" data-audioEpisodeTitle="My 'Family-Esque'" data-siteName="KQED News" data-audioAirdate="" data-audioPoster="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/swimteamedit.jpg" data-audioComments="" data-postDate="November 24, 2017" data-perspectivesAuthor="" title="KQED The California Report / My 'Family-Esque' "><source type="audio/mpeg" src="https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcrmag/2017/11/FamilyesqueTaylor.mp3?_=3" /><a href="https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcrmag/2017/11/FamilyesqueTaylor.mp3">https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcrmag/2017/11/FamilyesqueTaylor.mp3</a></audio></p>
<p>My dad, Erik, and Kat’s dad, Joe, quickly bonded over their eclectic taste in music.</p>
<p>“I was a big music buff and always looking for people to go to shows with me,” my dad remembers. “Joe was very willing to go to shows.”</p>
<p>When Kat and I were in 4th grade, our dads took us to a show with Cake, the Flaming Lips, and Moby. It was a little over our heads.</p>
<p>My dad laughs when he recalls it. “So here were [with] these two young girls, I think probably the first concert you’d ever been to. And it was these wild bands. [Joe and I] had a fun time watching you guys interact with the crowd.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11630293" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11630293 size-medium" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut-800x668.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="668" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut-800x668.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut-160x134.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut-1020x852.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut-1180x985.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut-960x802.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut-240x200.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut-375x313.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27973_IMG_2234-qut-520x434.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Me (left) and Kat (right) in 1996. <cite>(Courtesy of Bianca Taylor)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>But then everything started to change. When we were in 4th grade, Kat’s dad Joe came out as gay, and her parents got divorced.</p>
<p>“I had this feeling that there was this glass dropping out of my hands and shattering,” Joe recalls of that time. “And it would never be put back together.”</p>
<p>A few years later, my mom and dad were separated, and several more years after that, my dad came out as gay. My mom actually took it all pretty well.</p>
<p>“You know it’s really good to model happy behavior and authentic behavior,” she says when I ask her how she felt during that time. “So the fact that we aren’t married and that he’s gay and happy and that I’m happy seems like a very healthy way to raise children. It also seems like a very healthy way to live on Earth.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11629989" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11629989" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27958_1555502_10152562025325100_6335897947832673185_n-qut-800x498.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="498" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27958_1555502_10152562025325100_6335897947832673185_n-qut-800x498.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27958_1555502_10152562025325100_6335897947832673185_n-qut-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27958_1555502_10152562025325100_6335897947832673185_n-qut-240x149.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27958_1555502_10152562025325100_6335897947832673185_n-qut-375x233.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27958_1555502_10152562025325100_6335897947832673185_n-qut-520x324.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27958_1555502_10152562025325100_6335897947832673185_n-qut.jpg 956w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">At Outside Lands Music festival in 2014. <cite>(Jamie Rodota)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>So fast forward to 2015. Kat and I are now roommates living together in Oakland. Our brothers are both going to UC Santa Barbara, our dads are openly gay, and all four of our parents live in Sacramento. One day Kat and I discover a weird coincidence.</p>
<p>It started when my dad asks for a recommendation of a place to eat in the Bay Area. I recommend Wally’s Cafe in Emeryville. Later that night, as Kat and I are hanging out at home, she casually mentions that her dad had gone to Wally’s for lunch that day. Surprised, I tell her that <em>my</em> dad had been there too. We realize that our dads had gone out for a lunch date…maybe they were more than friends?</p>
<p>But our dads have been long-time friends, so we chalk it up to a friendship rekindling after years apart. We’re excited, but don’t want to get our hopes up.</p>
<p>A month later, I’m heading out of town on my birthday when my dad calls.</p>
<p>He wishes me a good trip, and then adds “Oh, and I’m dating Joe.” I explain that Kat and I had been hoping as much. Minutes later I get a text from Kat: “So I guess the dads are dating!”</p>
<p>Their friendship has officially moved beyond swim meets and rock concerts.</p>
<p>My dad tells me that when he came out, he and Joe were both living on their own in Sacramento. “And then we discovered some new things about one another.”</p>
<p>Joe adds, “And we finally started having conversations you don’t have as two suburban dads.”</p>
<p>My mom’s reaction? “I was just happy for [Erik]. And that it was Joe was comforting because we know Joe.”</p>
<p>Since Joe and my dad have come out as dating, things have settled into a weirdly normal domestic routine.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11630006" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11630006 size-medium" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103-800x683.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="683" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103-800x683.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103-160x137.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103-1020x871.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103-1180x1007.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103-960x820.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103-240x205.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103-375x320.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103-520x444.jpg 520w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27960_IMG_1118-qut-e1510347728103.jpg 1203w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Celebrating Father’s Day 2016. <cite>(Bianca Taylor/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>Both my dad and Joe remark how natural and fortunate it is that our two families are still so close.</p>
<p>“To see that the end result of it is a family still, and have the families expanded rather than broken, it’s really, really fortunate,” Joe says. “I don’t take that for granted.”</p>
<p>I don’t take anything about my family for granted. I know that the happiness we share with each other now was hard fought, and took a lot of patience, respect, and unconditional love – especially from our mothers.</p>
<p>At my mom’s 60th birthday, we’re all here: the dads, Kat, her mom, and our brothers. It’s Wonder Woman themed so there’s a lot of red and gold. I’m wearing a tiara and metal cuffs on my arms, my mom is in a gold sequined dress. She grabs the mic in front of the DJ and addresses the crowd:</p>
<p>“I want to thank my family which is large and unusual and wonderful. So I want to start with my newish family-esque which is Joe, which is Erik’s partner and my good friend, and his was-wife. And their children who are dear friends to my own children.”</p>
<p>During the party I ask her how she would describe this “newish family-esque.” She responds, “In French we call it ‘élargie,’ which means it keeps expanding and morphing into the most confusing and delightful thing.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11630324" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11630324" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut-800x600.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="600" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut-1180x885.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut-960x720.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut-240x180.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut-375x281.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS27974_IMG_2170-qut-520x390.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The two families at my mom’s birthday, November 2017. <cite>(Courtesy of Bianca Taylor)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>And Kat and I? We’re closer than ever. As she puts it: “Family is family. And you should be proud of your family no matter what.”</p>
<p>So this Thanksgiving, my unconventional family gathered around the table. My dad and I fought over politics, my mom and Joe were in charge of picking what movie to watch, and we all ate too much pie. You know, normal family stuff.</p>
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<media:description type="html">Me and Kat when we met in 2nd grade.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Kat Rodota and me at Outside Lands Music festival in 2014.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Celebrating Father's Day 2016 (L-R: Joan, Bianca, Erik, Kat, Joe, Kat's brother Jamie).</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">The two families at my mom's birthday, November 2017.</media:description>
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<title>The Sons of the Soul Revivers: Lifting Up Spirits, Outside the Church Walls</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2017/11/23/the-sons-of-the-soul-revivers-lifting-up-spirits-outside-the-church-walls/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[Sasha Khokha]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Thu, 23 Nov 2017 19:00:55 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11632699</guid>
<description><![CDATA[After singing together for 47 years, "The Sons of the Soul Revivers" are finding fame beyond traditional gospel audiences.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Some families figure out their groove together by making music, like the Vallejo-based gospel quartet, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheSonsOfTheSoulReviversOfSanFranciscoCA/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Sons of the Soul Revivers</a>. The Morgan brothers – Dwayne, James and Walter Jr. have been singing together in church since they were kids. Now, together with their nephew Quantae Johnson, they’re moving beyond church walls to reach a broader audience with their new album, <a href="https://store.cdbaby.com/cd/thesongsofthesoulreviver" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Live at Rancho Nicasio</a>.</p>
<p><audio class="wp-audio-shortcode" id="audio-11632699-5" preload="none" style="width: 100%; visibility: hidden;" controls="controls" data-permanlink="" data-id3TagWidget="1" data-audioPodcastTitle="The California Report" data-audioEpisodeTitle="The Sons of the Soul Revivers: Lifting Up Spirits, Outside the Church Walls" data-siteName="KQED News" data-audioAirdate="" data-audioPoster="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/sonsedit-960x427.jpg" data-audioComments="" data-postDate="November 23, 2017" data-perspectivesAuthor="" title="KQED The California Report / The Sons of the Soul Revivers: Lifting Up Spirits, Outside the Church Walls "><source type="audio/mpeg" src="https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcrmag/2017/11/SonsoftheSoulRevivers.mp3?_=5" /><a href="https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcrmag/2017/11/SonsoftheSoulRevivers.mp3">https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcrmag/2017/11/SonsoftheSoulRevivers.mp3</a></audio></p>
<p>The following is an excerpt from a conversation with Sasha Khokha, host of the California Report Magazine. They joined her in studio to talk religion, family, and what has kept their music full of life after more than 40 years. They also played a little in-studio concert!</p>
<p><em>On their name:</em></p>
<p>Walter Morgan, Jr.: “Our fathers were the Soul Revivers, and the year was 1970. I was around the age of eight, and a cousin of mine, we decided we wanted to form a group and we couldn’t think of a name. So we said well temporarily we’ll call ourselves The Sons of the Soul Revivers and the name just stuck.”</p>
<p><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-11632781" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28112_sons4-qut.jpg" alt="" width="464" height="528" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28112_sons4-qut.jpg 464w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28112_sons4-qut-160x182.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28112_sons4-qut-240x273.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28112_sons4-qut-375x427.jpg 375w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 464px) 100vw, 464px" /></p>
<p><em>On performing with family members:</em></p>
<p>James Morgan: “It’s a joy to be able to get up there and sing with my brothers and nephew. The feeling I get when I hit the stage is just hard to describe. I mean it’s just one of the greatest feelings I ever felt. And it’s a blessing; it’s a privilege for me to be a part of this group.”</p>
<p>Quantae Johnson: “Man, it’s a dream come true. I was watching these guys since I was a little guy, and so to be able to be on the same level as them, it feels great.”</p>
<p><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="alignnone wp-image-11632780 size-full" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28113_sons2-qut.jpg" alt="" width="480" height="401" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28113_sons2-qut.jpg 480w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28113_sons2-qut-160x134.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28113_sons2-qut-240x201.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28113_sons2-qut-375x313.jpg 375w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 480px) 100vw, 480px" /></p>
<p><em>On what inspires them:</em></p>
<p>Dwayne Morgan: “[Our] belief in Jesus Christ, our Savior. It’s a way for us to express the gospel through song. We just love to sing. And it’s a joy to watch the audience. Sometimes people are down and out, and sometimes a song can be very uplifting. So that’s what we’re all about. We like to spread joy through our music, and we love what we do.”</p>
<p>Walter Morgan: “Sometimes the words, through the song, can settle the mind. Whatever you’re going through, it gives you hope. It’s been tough on a lot of folks this year. And when people get so depressed, they don’t where to turn to, you need something to fall back on, a kind word, a beautiful song. Anything that can help lift a burden.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11632743" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11632743" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut-800x533.jpg" alt="Dwayne, Walter Jr, and James Morgan -- the Sons of the Soul Revivers -- have been singing together for 47 years." width="800" height="533" srcset="https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut-1180x787.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut-960x640.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut-240x160.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut-375x250.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/RS28111_Son-of-The-Soul-Revivers3500-qut-520x347.jpg 520w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Dwayne, Walter Jr, and James Morgan — the Sons of the Soul Revivers — have been singing together for 47 years. <cite>(Courtesy of The Sons of the Soul Revivers)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p><em>On reaching a broader audience outside of church, through their new album produced by the <a href="http://littlevillagefoundation.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Little Village Foundation:</a></em></p>
<p>James Morgan: “It’s a thrill. What’s cool about it for me is we can be ourselves. We don’t have to pretend to be who we’re not. Sometimes I feel like a rock star. People will be surrounding me. We’re all having a good time. After 47 years of being together as a group, the difference between singing for a traditional church and going to these festivals, it’s incredible. We’re having the time of our lives.”</p>
<p>Dwayne Morgan: “It’s wonderful to see people smile. You may not believe it, but there a lot of people that are really searching, looking for that something spiritual. And then you get to be able to share Christ with them, and what we believe in. There’s people that might be suicidal and come to you and say, ‘You know what, I wanted to end my life. But when I heard you sing, I had a change of mind.'”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11633011" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="max-width: 800px"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="size-medium wp-image-11633011" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/band1-800x533.jpg" alt="Quantae Johnson and his uncle, Dwayne Morgan, of the Sons of the Soul Revivers, perform in KQED's studios on Nov. 21, 2017." width="800" height="533" /><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Quantae Johnson and his uncle, Dwayne Morgan, of the Sons of the Soul Revivers, perform in KQED’s studios on Nov. 21, 2017. <cite>(Sarah Craig/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p><em>On having a day job:</em></p>
<p>Dwayne Morgan: “I’m a school bus driver, but I’m ready to go on the road . And when people hear me sing at the yards, they ask me ‘What are you doing here? Why are you here? Your calling is out there. You know you always talk about faith. You need to have faith and move on and go on the road.'”</p>
<p>James Morgan: “I used to deliver uniforms until I slipped and fell on the job. Unfortunately for me, I’m on disability. It is what it is. I’m learning to deal with the pain I’m in. But it has not replaced who I am. It has not replaced my joy.”</p>
<p>Quantae Johnson: “I’m a touring musician. I do this for a living. Music is what I do. I breathe it. I’ve been a drummer for Fantastic Negrito, out of Oakland. It’s the same thing, people in the audience are going crazy. But to know what you’re singing about, I can appreciate that more. I like singing with my family.”</p>
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<media:description type="html">Dwayne, Walter Jr, and James Morgan -- the Sons of the Soul Revivers -- have been singing together for 47 years.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">Quantae Johnson and his uncle, Dwayne Morgan, of the Sons of the Soul Revivers, perform in KQED's studios on Nov. 21, 2017.</media:description>
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<title>Family Biz: For Frey Vineyards, It’s Business Not-as-Usual After Wine Country Wildfires</title>
<link>https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2017/11/19/family-biz-for-frey-vineyards-its-business-not-as-usual-after-wine-country-wildfires/</link>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[April Dembosky]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Sun, 19 Nov 2017 23:58:51 +0000</pubDate>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://ww2.kqed.org/news/?p=11631909</guid>
<description><![CDATA[The fire moved so fast that it didn't have time to damage the wine. But the rest of the operation wasn't as lucky.]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Molly McCalla scours the ruins of the Frey family vineyard looking for her black cat. </p>
<p>The fire rushed over the hill so fast that there was no time to get the cat before they fled. But McCalla has been leaving food where the cat’s home used to be, and she’s seen some paw prints in the ashes.</p>
<p>“Purusha!” she calls, with a long roll on the R. “Mrow mrow!”</p>
<p>McCalla, her husband and their son had about five minutes to pile into the back of a pickup truck and leave the night of the fire.</p>
<p>“When we woke up, I thought we were going to die,” McCalla says.</p>
<p>The main road out was completely blocked by flames, so they had to go the other way — up the hill, down a treacherous dirt road and over seven creek crossings — to escape.</p>
<p>“The fire was like a lion, roaring 10 feet away from me,” recalls Osiris Frey, McCalla’s son. “It was very, very loud.”</p>
<p>Osiris was named for the Egyptian god of the afterlife. At 10 years old, he can handle the responsibility of his name. He was the one who saw the wall of flames approaching and told his parents they should evacuate right away.</p>
<p>“I’m 10 years old, but it was a really intense experience for my life,” he says.<br />
<audio class="wp-audio-shortcode" id="audio-11631909-7" preload="none" style="width: 100%; visibility: hidden;" controls="controls" data-permanlink="" data-id3TagWidget="1" data-audioPodcastTitle="The California Report" data-audioEpisodeTitle="Family Biz: For Frey Vineyards, It's Business Not-as-Usual After Wine Country Wildfires" data-siteName="KQED News" data-audioAirdate="" data-audioPoster="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/Molly-McCalla-and-Osiris-Frey-800x600.jpg" data-audioComments="" data-postDate="November 19, 2017" data-perspectivesAuthor="" title="KQED The California Report / Family Biz: For Frey Vineyards, It's Business Not-as-Usual After Wine Country Wildfires "><source type="audio/mpeg" src="https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcrmag/2017/11/TCRMagFreyFamilyVineyard3.mp3?_=7" /><a href="https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcrmag/2017/11/TCRMagFreyFamilyVineyard3.mp3">https://www.kqed.org/.stream/anon/radio/tcrmag/2017/11/TCRMagFreyFamilyVineyard3.mp3</a></audio></p>
<p>Four generations of the Frey family live and work at the Redwood Valley vineyard – the <a href="http://www.freywine.com/">first organic and biodynamic winery </a>in the country. The night the October wildfires broke out, 64 people were sleeping on the land, including family and employees. Everyone got out safely, from the 93-year old matriarch, Beba Frey, to her two-year-old great-granddaughter.</p>
<p>All but two homes on the land were destroyed. The winery offices, the bottling line and the tasting room are now rubble.</p>
<p>But the wine is okay.</p>
<p>The metal-roofed warehouse holding about 10,000 cases of bottled wine survived, and 154 stainless steel tanks that can hold 1 million gallons of wine came through intact.</p>
<p>“You can see some of them, the jackets on the tanks got charred pretty good,” says McCalla, as she surveys the destruction.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11631920" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/Charred-wine-tank-e1510956947644.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11631920 size-medium" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/Charred-wine-tank-800x600.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="600" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Some of the stainless steel wine tanks were blackened by the fire. But the wine inside is okay. <cite>(April Dembosky/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>The fire rushed through so fast, it didn’t have time to damage the wine.</p>
<p>“You think of how long it takes to boil a big pot of water on your stove,” said Katrina Frey, the vineyard’s executive director and one of the founders. “Obviously there’s a huge amount of thermal mass in one of those tanks, so they were not overheated.”</p>
<p>The winery’s reliance on steel tanks ultimately protected their wine from wildfire. As an organic winery, they cannot age their wines in wooden barrels. Air seeps through the wood, which would mean using non-organic sulfites to prevent oxidation.</p>
<p>“The business is not destroyed,” Frey says. “We have a bright future, but we also lost sales.”</p>
<p>Normally, they’d be bottling wine two or three days a week this time of year. Now, they’re planning to hire a mobile bottling plant.</p>
<p>“We would have done that by now except all the labels burned up as well,” Frey explains. “So we had to re-order a year’s worth of labels and capsules and corks.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11631930" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/Frey-Vineyard-e1510957848754.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11631930 size-medium" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/Frey-Vineyard-800x600.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="600" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The Redwood Valley fire washed through these vines at Frey Vineyard. <cite>(April Dembosky/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>As for the grapes on the vines, about half had already been harvested before the fire and were stored safely in the steel tanks. Many vines outside the fire zone survived unscathed, but about 10 percent of grapes in Redwood Valley burned on the vine.</p>
<p>Frey is worried that some of what’s left might be smoke-flavored. That’s a concern shared by all the vineyards in the fire regions in Mendocino, Sonoma and Napa counties.</p>
<p>“Everyone is sending their early wines to labs where there’s testing for smoke taint,” Frey says.</p>
<p><a href="http://www.winespectator.com/webfeature/show/id/Understanding-Smoke-Taint-in-Wine" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Smoke damage</a> occurs on the molecular level, and sometimes the smoke aroma or ash flavor isn’t released until fermentation or until a bottle of wine is opened. So wineries can’t tell right now if grapes are tainted just by sniffing or tasting them.</p>
<p>“Everyone is segregating the crops as they come in, so that if there is evidence of smoke taint, we cannot use those tanks,” Frey says.</p>
<p>For now, the harvest must go on. People are back at work, driving grape harvesters, de-stemming and crushing grapes, salvaging what they can. The air smells like young wine.</p>
<p>“It keeps everybody busy. And it keeps our mind off the depths [of the losses],” says Tom Brower, aka Tombo, a tractor driver and carpenter at the vineyard.</p>
<figure id="attachment_11631917" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/Tom-Brower-e1510957262357.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11631917 size-medium" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/Tom-Brower-800x600.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="600" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">Tom Brower drives a grape harvester and does carpentry at Frey Vineyards. <cite>(April Dembosky/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>He lived one ranch over from the vineyard and lost everything he owns in the fire. He, his 12-year-old son and all their neighbors had to flee from the fire that claimed <a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/2017/11/09/touch-football-and-a-middle-school-crush-after-the-fire-8th-graders-remember-classmate-kai-shepherd/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">nine lives</a>.</p>
<p>“Everybody is sort of holding it in,” he says. “Little by little, you let it out, and you cry with your friends.”</p>
<p>Everywhere Brower goes, he sees something that’s gone. He’d just built a new redwood deck around the tasting room in September, right before the wave of tourists usually shows up for the fall harvest.</p>
<p>“I oiled it nicely with Brazilian rosewood oil. I was proud of it,” he says. “It didn’t last very long.”</p>
<p>He’d just rebuilt a footbridge over the creek after heavy rains caused a huge oak tree to fall and wipe out the original.</p>
<p>“Then the fire destroyed it again,” he says, with a little laugh. “Like, geez! Do I have to do it a third time? And I probably will.”</p>
<figure id="attachment_11631914" class="wp-caption aligncenter" style="max-width: 800px"><a href="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/Tom-Browers-hands-e1510957140154.jpg"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" class="wp-image-11631914 size-medium" src="https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2017/11/Tom-Browers-hands-800x600.jpg" alt="" width="800" height="600" /></a><figcaption class="wp-caption-text">The hands of Tom Brower, a carpenter at Frey Vineyards. He spent much of his childhood farming. <cite>(April Dembosky/KQED)</cite></figcaption></figure>
<p>For Molly McCalla, it’s the barn. </p>
<p>Her job on the farm for the last decade was raising a family of about 10 goats. She walked them through the vineyards every day, and their manure was used to make the biodynamic compost that feeds the vines. The barn they were sleeping in collapsed in the fire.</p>
<p>“The first goat was born the day after I gave birth on the land to my son, who’s 10,” she says. “They all had names. Some had middle and last names.”</p>
<p>It’s strange, but she says she feels blessed knowing the goats are gone. Knowing her home is gone. Getting closure around those losses has allowed her to start thinking about the future.</p>
<p>But before she can truly move on, she needs to find out what happened to her little black cat.</p>
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<media:description type="html">Some of the stainless steel wine tanks were blackened by the fire. But the wine inside is okay.</media:description>
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<media:description type="html">The Redwood Valley fire washed through these vines at Frey Vineyard.</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Tom Brower</media:title>
<media:description type="html">Tom Brower drives a grape harvester and does carpentry at Frey Vineyards.</media:description>
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<media:title type="html">Tom Brower’s hands</media:title>
<media:description type="html">The hands of Tom Brower, a carpenter at Frey Vineyards. He spent much of his childhood farming.</media:description>
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