Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts

Sunday, November 30, 2025

Sustaining This Sustenance

It was five minutes until the lighting of the Boardwalk Christmas tree. Dusk settled into early evening and there were people everywhere: adults, teens, and families with little ones running around. Santa was spotted and kids rushed over to meet him. The weather was cool but mild with only the need for sweaters, sweatshirts, or light jackets. 

We had found a table right around the corner from the tree across from the pirate ship ride and listened to one of the local high school jazz combos play on the small stage next to the ride. They were amazing. Of course I focused on listening to the drummer who had some fabulous stand-alone jams. 

"It's like we're in a holiday jazz club," my wife Amy said. 

"I know. They're great," I said, and kissed her. We'd never been to a jazz club together, and even though it really wasn't one, it was still a pleasant first.

Our kids, Beatrice and Bryce, were off with their own friends enjoying the Boardwalk evening. It was two days after Thanksgiving and the upbeat crowds moved and sparkled like overlapping projection lights. That was great to see considering the current state of the U.S. and the world around us. Higher prices and fewer jobs weren't holding these folks back. Plus, the free hot chocolate and cookies were nice motivators. 

The countdown commenced, the tree lit up, the crowds cheered, and the kids screamed. No matter where all the people around us were socioeconomically or ideologically, the only thing that mattered were these moments of togetherness and holiday cheer. It sated our appetite for connection and community, of safety and wellbeing, and knowing there's always room to grow.

We moved onto the beach in anticipation of the holiday drone show, a faux fireworks spectacular. Hundreds of people poured onto the beach as well and the drone show commenced. Fireworks would've been prettier but the drones were cool. They morphed into various holiday shapes and words. We all shared our oooo's and ahhhh's, and after 15 minutes, it was over. 

After the Boardwalk holiday tree lighting and drone show, we packed up our chairs and blanket and headed to dinner. But first I again feasted on our community's love of family, friendship, and all the other ingredients for the American values revival we've longed for. Sustaining this sustenance beyond the holidays will be the key for a better future. 

Sunday, February 9, 2025

Hope Is Always "Here"

We watched it together as a family. That wasn't unusual, as we do watch various shows together, but there's not too many movies that we all agree on.

And this one wasn't necessarily agreed upon at first; our youngest Bryce usually doesn't like the movies that Mom and Dad pick out. Our oldest Beatrice doesn't feel the same way, but it's still harder to align likability for all of us. 

Everyone seemed interested in this one, though. The movie was Here starring Tom Hanks and Robin Wright and the reviews were not very good. There was still something intriguing about it with the primary movie scene set in the same place over time: a living room with a big window to the world beyond. There was also something Wes Anderson-esque about that, which is why Bryce and me really liked the way it was filmed. It was also based on a graphic novel by Richard McGuire, something both our artist teens like, especially Beatrice. 

The story itself focused more on one family over time, but the movie didn't always work. What did work was the theme and it resonated with all of us. The theme for us, of loving where you live and who you live it with -- "here". Bryce and I cried; we are the family criers, that's for sure. Amy (Mom) and Beatrice are feelers, just not criers. 

While we watched together, Beatrice laid on Amy and Bryce laid on me. This "here" for me has always been special. We've lived here for nearly 19 years and are grateful for every moment that we've had in this house. We lived here before we decided to have children. Bryce was born in this house. Beatrice was supposed to be. Our kids have grown up in this house (and continue to). They shared a room until middle school, and after some renovating, now each has their own. 

We've lived in every inch of this house. We've loved, laughed, cried, screamed, brooded, and laughed and loved some more. There's no other place we'd rather be than here while the world keeps spinning outside our front window. That spinning "here" includes the community we live in, the state we live in, the country we live in, the world we live in. We're Americans who love our "here".

But our "here" is in danger; we've never lived in fear until now. American democracy has certainly had its challenges and setbacks, but today it's being transformed from the inside-out by a fast-moving coup that's doing everything it can to take away our civil rights, our education, our livelihoods, and our safety, all for the sake of oppressive power and control. Even those who supported it all and who think these changes will benefit them will lose it all in the end, too. 

That's the point -- that we all lose in the end except for a wealthy few. And in the meantime, these dismantling actions are supposed to make your head spin. To make you scared. To paralyze you. To make you give up. But we stand tall where you are and stay vigilant. Fight the good fights about human rights when and where you can. Speak up, speak out, and speak truth for a better bigger picture. 

Today, our morning meditation mantra was this: Hope is my source of strength. It provides the endurance needed for positive and sustained change. As I look around our house and out our window, I know that hope is always "here", and our family is all in. 

Sunday, August 11, 2024

We Can Do It

The 2024 Wharf to Wharf 10K race had started and our group number finally was able to move. As we got closer to the Beach Boardwalk arcade building, I noticed two police officers on the roof. One of them had what looked like a high-powered sniper rifle (never in America; now in America). Both were scanning the diverse 16,000 participants from the Santa Cruz area and beyond, serious racers to friends and family enjoying this annual community event, all of whom would run and walk from the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk to the Capitola Wharf. My wife Amy and I, and many others, saw the rifle clearly on its stand right above the roofline.

I scanned the roof of the restaurants across the street from the arcade, and there were two more officers, one with another sniper rifle on its stand. After all the Wharf to Wharf's we've done over the years, I don't remember ever seeing officers on the roofs above us. They might've been there and I just never looked up, but I don't think so. I mean, every year there is plenty of police presence along the over six miles of race route to ensure safety since we're walking and running along city streets. But it felt different this year. 

If there were other snipers along the race route, we didn't see them, and frankly, didn't want to see them. This was a depressing sign of the times, where the threat of potentially random violence feels like it's everywhere, even though violent crime is actually down. We live in a moderate-to-liberal community ideologically and politically, but there are still vocal extremes everywhere. 

So, whether or not local law enforcement had received threats to the race, we may never know, but it was unsettling nonetheless. The ideological and political extremists today thrive on divisiveness and hate that threatens to crater the middle of the road for us all. In fact, fringe violence has left more and more pot holes of fear faster than we can fill them, but fill them we must. What compounds this is that too many of us are too quick to fuel the fear and hate when we judge and tear each other down for being different, and when we don't see eye to eye on issues that affect us all. In front of our own children, God, and everyone. We revel in it, actually. Amy and I have been guilty of that ourselves, and our children called us out on it every time. 

Amy and I finished the race without incident and headed home, exhausted but exhilarated that we finished another Wharf to Wharf. Throughout the race I kept thinking about the police snipers keeping watch, and the majority of us walking and running in the race in the middle of the road, celebrating community and enjoying the live bands playing along the route. The race promotes the health and fitness of the youth of Santa Cruz (our schools). For those physically able to participate, it's also all about the joy of feeling alive and active, a vibrant mindfulness of empathy and love for oneself, and for the thousands of others across generations with a variety of backgrounds and beliefs. And along the entire route, locals cheered us on with "you can do it" signs.

That's a more relevant theme that extends beyond this fun annual race. Our family, and I'd argue the majority of families in communities big and small across ideologies, do not want to live in fear and loathing, or continue to enable the hateful disabling rhetoric, and will do everything we can to be stable, safe, and thrive. And to empower our children to do the same. 

We can do it. And we will do it. We have to do it. Our children are counting on us. 

Sunday, May 26, 2024

Freedom to Celebrate

The ride attendant called out over the loudspeaker if anyone wanted to get off the ride. I feebly raised my hand and the ride slowed to a stop. I'm sure my face was sickly white and drenched in sweat. The ride was called the Lobster and it was a multi-armed metallic monster that turned round and round, faster and faster, and the cars we were strapped into along each arm also turned round and round, faster and faster. 

We were at Magic Mountain in Southern California a couple of hours from where I grew up in the Central Valley. I was 11 years old at the time and my sister was 9. She also rode the Lobster ride with me but didn't get sick like I did. I realized then rides that went round and round would make me motion sick every time, and I would never be an astronaut. Ever. Sigh.

However, roller coasters were my jam, as the kids say. Not sure if the kids still say that, but still, roller coasters were and are my jam. At that same park in Southern California in the 1976, the Revolution was a new roller coaster at the time that had one full upside-down loop, and I loved it. After that, I always went on all the coasters. 

My wife Amy and I have lived in Santa Cruz for nearly 27 years now and we've loved having an amusement park in our own backyard -- the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Our kids have loved it, too. Now teens, we all go to the Boardwalk multiple times every spring and summer. Our youngest Bryce likes the rides that go round and round, faster and faster. Ugh. Our oldest Beatrice can handle some of those, but Amy's with me on those; she gets motion sickness and can't do them. Nor can she handle many roller coasters or faster virtual motion rides. The kids can, but only Bryce will ride the Giant Dipper with me. 

The Giant Dipper at the Boardwalk is the 5th oldest working roller coaster in the U.S. today. It's fast and fun and just turned 100 years old. We were at the 100th birthday celebration last weekend that included a big fireworks spectacular. Bryce would've ridden it with me, but instead was off with friends riding a round-and-round ride called the Fireball (blech), Bea was on the beach with her friends running around, and Amy sat with some of our friends on the beach waiting for the fireworks. I wanted to ride the coaster, so I waited in line for the Giant Dipper with another friend of ours and one of her kids.

The fireworks started while we waited in line, only two train loads away from riding, and we worried we'd miss them. But we didn't! The fireworks exploded above us when it was our turn to ride the old wooden roller coaster. It was fantastic!

I even had time to run back to the beach and give Amy a big kiss during the fireworks finale. So grateful to live where we live and not think twice about going to an amusement park and hanging out with family and friends. The freedom to celebrate our community. Especially when there are so many places around the world that don't have the same freedoms. 

Blessings to those who sacrificed their lives for our freedoms this Memorial Day Weekend. Amen. 

Sunday, July 23, 2023

Dump Free

If I had water in my mouth, I would've sprayed it everywhere. My wife Amy and I were on our way to the 51st annual Wharf to Wharf race when she said something that cracked me up.

"After we park and walk, there will be plenty of time to use one of the porta-potties," I said. "We always have to pee before we start the race."

"Ugh. I hate the porta-potties because everybody always has to take a big ol' dump before the race, and then I get that one."

God, that was funny, because she's also not wrong. I seem to find those, too. I guess we don't have to look down when we enter a porta-potty, but we always do. (I'll bet you do it, too.)

The Wharf to Wharf Race is a super-fun annual10K race that goes from the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk to the Capitola Wharf and usually attracts over 15,000 people. The race donates proceeds to Santa Cruz County youth sports and running programs. We've done it for many years together, and I think I've participated in it myself for 15 years now (the earliest I documented the race here was the 2nd year I ran it in 2008). I ran this 10K race until 2014, because that's when I hurt my knee and couldn't run or walk it that year (I had knee surgery that year). 

After that we mostly walked the race each year. During the covid years when there was no in-person race, we did our own 6-mile hikes and tracked them on their app. We did try to run again a little last year for the big 50th year, but that was rough on my legs. This year, we walked. One of the fun parts of the race is that there are live bands and other musical groups sprinkled throughout the race route. Good times! 

After we parked downtown and walked to the Boardwalk before the Wharf to Wharf race started, we approached the infamous porta-potties. I smiled thinking about Amy's "everybody always has to take a big ol' dump before the race" comment in the car.

"You know, they should have dump-only porta-potties," Amy said. 

I chuckled. "Yes, and pee-only ones, too."

We laughed and stood staring at the dozens of porta-potties for a few seconds. So many people and so many dumps, I thought. 

"I'm going to go," I said. "What about you?"

Amy looked at them and said, "Yes, I guess I'll go." 

Afterwards, as we headed to the race starting area, I gave her a big smile. 

"Any dumps in yours?" I asked.

"No! Dump free! What about you?"

"Same!"

And then we were off to start another Wharf the Wharf race. Good times!

Sunday, April 24, 2022

Feeling Ducky

It had been four years since we went last. We didn't go in 2019, but then COVID-19 hit and there hadn't been another in-person event until now. 

Our oldest Beatrice really wanted to go again. To play the games and race the ducks. Our youngest Bryce wasn't as enthusiastic, but was willing to go. My wife Amy and I were in either way; it was always a fun community event, especially for kids.

Bea was 9 and Bryce 7 the last we went to the Duck Derby, a community event put on by a service organization called Omega Nu. They raise money for the local community in various scholarships and educational materials for teachers, and community programs and charities. 

But for the kids, it was all about racing rubber ducks for prizes, playing fun carnival-like games to win tickets to exchange for prizes, eating hamburgers and hot dogs and lots of treats. Music played, bouncy houses bounced with little kids, and fun in the spring sun lit up everywhere we looked when we arrived.

Bea didn't look happy. "These are really games for little kids," she said.

"Yes, but you still wanted to come," Bryce reminded her. 

"Yes, they are," I said. "Let's check it out and see what's up."

Bea nodded. We bought the girls their racing ducks, their take home ducks, their game tickets, and I got a hot dog. We watched one of the duck races, and then the girls played the kiddie games and won more tickets for prizes.

There's a big difference between being 9 and 7, and being 13 and 11, but the girls still held onto their childhood memories of this event as they played the kiddie games. After about an hour they were done and cashed in their tickets for prizes and treats. All around us the pent up demand for families to be outside together at events like this was palatable. There were smiles everywhere. Joy was bountiful.

Watching all the ducks rush by us in the blue tarp-lined racing river reminded me of how fleeting childhood can be. Our girls watched them fly by with a bittersweet smile, as did we. As we left, our joy washed away the bittersweet, leaving us feeling ducky in its wake. 

"I want to volunteer next year," Bea said as we got in the car. "Seems like there's a lot of older kids helping out."

My smile stretched beyond my ears. 

Saturday, April 2, 2022

Those That Just Might Reconnect

I had no idea how to reconnect the speakers or the mic. I stood there in the sun wiping my sweaty brow even though it wasn't very warm outside. They were the same two speakers from two and a half years ago, the ones that a past parent had loaned to the school for our elementary school back-to-school barbecue fundraiser. I picked up one cable, stared blankly at it, set it down, and then picked up another. I remember the last time I had connected them, it was a struggle, but I did it. This time, I completely blanked, and I was near panic-attack overwhelmed. 

Our daughters have gone to this elementary school since preschool. For the past 10 years, my wife Amy and I have dropped off and picked up Beatrice and Bryce to and from school countless times. We've done classroom volunteering, dance assemblies, band, back-to-school barbecues, school auctions, science fairs, an overnight trip, a teacher parade when the pandemic screwed the world up, distance learning, and so much more in between. Amy was also the PTA president at our school for two years, vice-president for two years. Since then, Beatrice has moved onto middle school, and Bryce is now finishing her 5th grade year and will join her sister this fall. 

The last time I emceed the back-to-school barbecue was September of 2019. This time, over two years of pandemic later, I helped coordinate the barbecue with many other great volunteers and emceed again. And this time, unlike last time, I had no idea how to reconnect the speakers or the mic.

We were less than one hour from the long awaited PTA fundraiser barbecue to start. I kept frantically handling the cables hoping they'd magically reconnect for me. Of course, they did not. Finally, the school principal came over and helped me reconnect the speakers. I joked that it was way above my pay grade, and he joked that I was only a supervisor anyway. We tested the mic and iPhone connections and presto! Everything worked! Just in time for me to welcome everyone. 

Our school community has always been very supportive. From the teachers, to the principal, to the staff, to the parents -- we've had some generous friendships over the years, and still have them. But the pandemic was challenging on so many levels, destructive to relationships because we had to stay isolated from each other for so long, and our children suffered academically and socially (except maybe not as much for those who had friend pods like us that we still keep going today). Plus, we can't forget the heartache for those who were seriously ill and died from coronavirus, and still are. 

And it wasn't only challenging to our school community relationships either -- many of our extended friend and family relationships were strained to breaking points, to being broken. The isolation and existential crises we all went through exacerbated our social differences, ideologies, inequities, and irreparable incidents from a pre-covid past. 

We're still in the pandemic's shadow, and now a there's a war halfway around the world, but back to some normalcy we go. There we were, hundreds of kids and parents having fun at a school barbecue fundraiser that hadn't happened for two and a half years. I emceed and played DJ and everyone laughed and played and reconnected with each other while eating yummy hamburgers and hot dogs. 

Afterward, as I unplugged the mic and speakers to pack them away, I thought about how at first I couldn't figure it all out, how overwhelming it all was. Disconnections aren't always fixable, but with a little help, there are those that just might reconnect. 



Sunday, October 4, 2020

Awash in Love and Hope

"But time
Keeps flowing like a river (on and on)
To the sea, to the sea
Till it's gone forever
Gone forever
Gone forevermore..."

–Alan Parsons Project, Time


Twelve years ago, shortly before our oldest Beatrice was born, I thought about when I was 12 years old. I remembered imagining then what my life would be like when I turned 35, in the year 2000. I was full of anxious hope back then. Where would I live? Would I be married? Have a family? Would I be healthy? Would I be happy? What kind of work would I do? Would I be successful? Would I be a writer? 

Back then, 35 felt so far away. Goodness, 13 felt so far away. Time is funny and fluid that way, and it eventually brought me to the sea, literally. And every day, my mental tides then wash away the remains of my experiences, leaving a few foamy bits sparkling in the sun. I pick through them sometimes, hold them in my hand and reminisce. 

When I eventually hit 35 in 2000, I don't remember imagining what life would be like when I would turn 55 in 2020. At that point in my life, I lived in Santa Cruz, was with my now wife, Amy. I had already been married once, but with no children, and kids were light years away with Amy (eight years to be precise). I was fairly healthy back then, but would become even healthier two years later after I quit smoking (although years later I'd have another health scare). I still struggled with my blue genes then, too. I wasn't exactly professionally successful either, but I was a writer and was happy. 

No, in the year 2000 I never imagined that 20 years later we'd be raising a family in a global pandemic, another global recession (the first two were already on their way), chronic homelessness, global unrest due to systemic racial injustice and social inequity, and a world filled with uncertainty, shame and hate. I also never imagined our family, along with millions of other families and individuals, would be part of affecting positive change in communities around the world. 

Time is always now again, its fluidity a constant. Suddenly I'm 55 and all of the above is here, today. But a moment later I'm swept away from mindfulness, and I briefly imagine what life will be like when I'm 75, in the year 2040. Where will our daughters live? Will they be married? Have their own families? Will they be healthy? Will we be healthy? Will we all be happy? Will I still be writing? Will the world be a better place? 

My mental tides wash away those questions and it's now again. All I really know today is that I'm grateful for our daughters. I'm grateful for my wife. I'm grateful for my life. I'm grateful for my family and friends. I'm grateful for my community. I'm grateful for your impact on me, and my impact on you. 

I'm also grateful each week to spend time on the beach in Natural Bridges State Park near where we live. We've been going there for years and we've taken our girls there since there were both babies. Whether it's walking with Amy and our dog Jenny to Natural Bridges and back again, boogie boarding in the ocean with our daughters, or doing my weekly beach workout by myself (usually listening to my favorite band Rush), Natural Bridges is a sacred place to me. It's about a mile from the beach where I met Amy (another sacred place), and only a quarter mile from where we were married. There's something about the one remaining Natural Bridge, the beach and the sea -- this place where I ask for God's grace and wisdom. 

Tides will always come and go, and although my time will disappear into the sea someday, this is where I'll be forever, awash in love and hope. 

"We still feel that relation
When the water takes us home
In the flying spray of the ocean
The water takes you home..."

–Rush, High Water




Sunday, August 30, 2020

Loving Community Wide Shots Abound

The beep woke me. The camper kitchen fan remained on, but everything else was still and dark, inside and outside. I knew then that the power had gone out in our camper and the campground. No one else in my family stirred. 

I reached for my phone. It lit up when I touched the screen, revealing the time of 3:30 AM, and a text and a missed call. The text was the fact that our home motion alarm had gone off at 10:30 PM, five hours earlier. The missed called was the alarm company. That meant that, since we didn't cancel the alarm, they would've called 911. 

My first thought was to check our doorbell video camera, but since the wifi was out at the campground, and we had no cell service where our site was in the campground, that wasn't going to happen. Maybe I should walk to the front of the campground where I'll get service, I thought. 

My mind raced. Did someone break into our house? Our neighbors who were home were looking out for those who weren't, but that thought brought the sick feeling of being violated, of things trashed and lost. Burglary and looting were top of mind for those evacuated and those just getting out of the smoke due to the CZU August Lightning Complex fires burning in our areas. We've all been so stressed of late due to the fires, coronavirus and civil unrest. 

"What's wrong?" my wife Amy asked. She was awake. Good.

"Our house alarm went off last night at 10:30," I said. 

The power went back on in the campground, and a few minutes later wifi was back up. I checked our video camera footage, and sure enough, two police officers had rung our doorbell shortly after our alarm went off. That sick feeling throbbed again. 

"I need to go check the house," I said. 

"Yes, you should," Amy said.

We were only about 25 minutes from home, but it was far enough for us to get out of the smoke for a couple of nights. Smoke that still permeated much of the Westside of Santa Cruz where we live. We had been prepped to evacuate, but were fortunate that we didn't have to. Going to the campground with our camper was our choice. For nearly 80,000 people in our area, it was not a choice. We were grateful to be able to donate some bedding and other items for evacuees the day before, volunteering at one of the donation centers for evacuees and helping to sort donations.  

As I drove back to our house at 4 AM, that sick feeling grew. I thought about the time in college when I rented a house with three other guys. It was near the holidays and we had a house party. There were people there we didn't know, but hey, we were partying and all was well. The next day after we had all gone off to classes and jobs, our house was broken into. Our rooms ransacked. All the Christmas presents I had bought for my family were gone, along with other valuables, never to be recovered.

As I got closer to home, the feeling of being violated fed my fear and anger. Earlier in the week in our neighborhood, there had been a shirtless guy wearing shorts, a baseball cap and a scarf covering his mouth and nose, riding his bike around and calling out, "Here kitty kitty." He claimed to be an evacuee from the mountains and was looking for his cat he had brought with him, but his story changed after talking with other neighbors of ours. We were all convinced he was casing our houses, seeing who was house and who wasn't. There were others as well going down our street. Plus, we already had an RV homeless camp across the highway from our neighborhood that had been growing for weeks. And there had already been looters arrested in the mountain community above us, and one who had stolen from a firefighter. 

I pulled into the driveway and everything looked fine. My wife had texted if everything was okay. Beatrice was up too and texted she loved me. I texted back I was home. We had left the porch light on even though we have motion-activated lights. There was a package on our porch that had been delivered the day before. I was surprised it was still there. I picked it up and held it like a weapon. Later when I opened it, it was cookies from the RV dealer we had bought our camper from, so I was going to bludgeon the intruder with chocolate chip cookies. 

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. I turned off the alarm, the package held tightly in my other hand. Nothing askew inside. Everything was how we left it. Our rabbit was in his cage in the living room staring at me and chewing hay quietly. I checked the rest of the house -- all was well. Relief washed away the sick feeling. I fed our rabbit some vegetables, locked up and headed back to the campground with the cookies. 

I let our neighbors know what had happened with our alarm and that I had come home to check on things. Everyone who was home continued to keep an eye out for each other, just as the greater community where we live -- civilians, law enforcement and firefighters alike -- all doing their best to keep each other safe and to help each other. There has been an outpouring of donations and volunteers -- donations that are still needed for the 40,000 who still remain evacuated. 

In the midst of so much fear and loathing today, driven by singular events, short sensational clips and soundbites, loving community wide shots abound. Like those continuing to mobilize and help one another because of fires, hurricanes, COVID-19, racial injustice and more. 

Bless you all and your communities. 


Other "Days of Coronavirus" posts:

Sunday, April 19, 2020

The Healing Hope We Can Give

The white woman kept shouting at us all as we walked by. I heard her before I saw her, although it seemed like most people in the local Martin Luther King, Jr. Day march ignored her. We were there with our family -- me, my wife and our two girls. We'd taken our family to local peaceful marches like this before, wanting our girls to become good global citizens and activists of inclusion, fairness and critical thinking.

Last year's march for us evoked hope and embodied peace and love for all peoples and races, not anger and hate, and it denounced bullying, harassment and assault wherever and however it appears. But this year's march felt different, much more somber than previous ones. There were pockets of celebratory joy and healing hope, but overall it was much more subdued, awkward even. And the white woman kept shouting at us all as walked by.

"This march isn't for you! You are not black! You have no idea what they've gone through! This isn't for you! Stop pretending it's for you!"

Again, most people ignored her as we walked past. We finished the march and I just wanted to get out of there, further triggered by my involvement last year in taking on workplace bullying in local politics. But she was right about one thing -- even those most enlightened, empathic and privileged of us don't know what brown and black people have gone through in our country, never experiencing institutionalized discrimination like they have for hundreds of years. Yes, it was an awkward march for me, made more so by the fact that my family was on the front page of our newspaper.

Less than three months later, our world has been swallowed up by a pandemic (COVID-19) and the combined levels of human loss and economic loss are beyond overwhelming. Government assistance has failed many small businesses and the self-employed. Add in the loss of personal freedoms and liberties due to distancing and shelter-in-place orders and it's no wonder that anger, frustration even depression are on the rise. Domestic and sexual violence are are the rise too, a dangerous byproduct of the lockdown, where people in violent home situations have no where to go.

Combine the macro with the micro and everyday decisions we used to make become mind-bending existential threats -- We have to go to the grocery store, so when do we go? Will the shelves be stocked with what we need? And if they have what we need, we'll still have to wear a mask inside, and when we get home wipe and/or wash down everything we bought, and then even change our clothes if we carried things against our bodies.

Repeat that process with every essential errand that needs to be ran. I wasn't sure what to call it until I read that we're all suffering from moral fatigue, where the everyday things we did in the old days are now daunting and emotionally and physically depleting.

In our latest weekly family meeting, which are more important now than ever, we always share what we've noticed about each other, how appreciate each other and what we're grateful for. Our youngest Bryce said, "I'm so grateful we're wealthy." Both her mother and I looked at each other, and then responded, "No, we're not really."

"Well, I'm grateful we can go to the store and get food," she added.

Both our girls have an understanding of what's happening in the world, and the fact that Bryce equated our ability to go to the store when we need to with being wealthy really wasn't a surprise. The fact is while our financial runway may be longer than some, it still ends on the edge of a cliff like most folks. We've all already lost so many other things. Which is why we recommended donating date nights to help feed hungry families.

Coronavirus hasn't discriminated over who gets sick and dies, and how quickly it can spread, but it certainly has exposed all our glaring socioeconomic and cultural differences and inequalities. The anger and frustration has led to protests that are understandable; it's an existential conundrum over whether we continue to destroy our very fragile economic livelihoods, or not, because of this deadly virus. A deadly virus that we have no idea how many are infected until testing improves, and will spike again until a vaccine is developed that still could be 12-18 months away.

But this moral fatigue and viral frustration has also exposed irrational thinking and unlocked a growing backlash of comparative personal suffering. The latest protests claiming government overreach with shelter-in-place has had their plight equated to that of African Americans and the civil rights movement. I get the existential conundrum, but I don't get the comparison.

I urge us all to be careful of comparing incomparable historical suffering to current personal suffering. Fact is, we're all suffering today; we've never had to experience so much disruptive change so fast in the modern day. We should be empathic to each other and help each other as much as we can. And at the very least, if this means sacrificing some of our personal freedoms for the health and safety of others -- our friends and families and communities -- then this is the healing hope we can give to everyone, regardless of race, and because of it.

Saturday, March 21, 2020

This Is The Life

"You can learn about life
When you play the game of Life..."

–The Game of Life


I skipped college and became a dancer. Although I loved dancing, the work was grueling and the pay wasn't great, so then I decided to go to night school and become a veterinarian. I loved animals, so it made sense. Kids, not so much, so I didn't have any. I did get married, though, and my wife and I enjoyed our travels, bought multiple properties over the years, made risky stock market moves and retired with over $2 million in the bank.

All in the span of one hour.

This was family game time playing the board game Life, time we used to carve out each week when the world was a much different place. Family time is still a priority, and now that we can't do much elsewhere or with anyone due to coronavirus and the shelter-in-place order in California, we're spending a lot of time together in our house working, schooling, playing, venting, stressing and the list goes on. My wife Amy has put together a great home school program for our girls and soon our school district will start distance learning. We can still get out and go for walks and exercise, just as long as we keep our distance from others. We're also learning how to play tennis together since we have free courts down the street from us.

Even with the structure, our family is stressed. It's scary and complex how big of a disruption this has become is such a short time. We've never experienced anything like this and our girls certainly never have. Five days of home school and we've only just begun. Our oldest, Beatrice, is struggling with going to sleep with her mind racing; she misses her friends and school and is worried about the virus. And Mom and Dad are struggling with staying asleep because of everything that's disrupting our lives. It also doesn't help that our new dog Jenny is starting to bark at any new distant sound she hears, including in the middle of the night. Ugh, that better not be a pattern. The most mellow of all of us is our youngest, Bryce, although she misses her friends and school just as much as Beatrice does.

The game of Life was always a fantasy game about living your life as an adult. However, playing it today isn't even close to the surreal landscape of what's happening to us all now. Nearly 300,000 infected globally with COVID-19. Over 10,000 dead. The numbers change hourly due to more testing (still woefully unavailable in the U.S.). Community lockdowns are the becoming the common denominator -- don't go out if you don't have to, non-essential businesses shut down, store shelves empty of staples, supply chains struggling to stay in place. By the end of March, over 1 million people will be laid off and/or furloughed in the U.S. alone, and that could go to upwards of 5 million in April.

We were going to run an errand today, with me running inside a store to buy something fun for our family to share, but then decided against it. We'll wait until it's available again online to be shipped to the safety of our house; we all have to acquiesce to this new life we're living.

We also need to figure out how to help those who will need our help, as there will be millions of people out of work. Governments are mobilizing to help, but we must also help on the local level. Donate food and money when you can, especially to food banks and to programs like Meals on Wheels and others that help families in experiencing financial distress, seniors who need assistance and people experiencing homelessness. Check with your local county and city leaders and community service programs to see how else you can help.

But whatever you do, do your part to flatten the curve and stem the spread of this deadly virus. When there's no where to go, keep your families safe and sound at home. Keep in touch with your family and friends from afar regularly via phone and video calls and texts and other messaging apps, as well as your employees, colleagues and peers if you're fortunate enough to stay employed during this global pandemic. And if you are hiring, please share that will your networks. Many more of us may be in a bad way as the months wear on, so supporting each other must be the new normal.

This is the life and it's not a game. Settle in, settle down and be safe. Bless you all.

Sunday, March 15, 2020

When There's Nowhere to Go

"There's gonna be nowhere to go," said Beatrice about the fact that we wouldn't be doing much outside of the house due to social distancing.

"Why don't you 'go' into a book and explore the world of imagination," I said.

She didn't find it amusing and ignored me.

"No, really," I said.

Still no response. But then I did get a glare. The good news is that before the libraries closed for an indefinite amount of time (like many public places closing temporarily to mitigate the spread of coronavirus COVID-19), my wife Amy took Beatrice and Bryce to a nearby library branch and checked out a bunch of books for the girls to read.

This is a lot for adults to get their heads around, and unfortunately too many have panicked and made runs on stores for many different kinds of staples, toilet paper, and much more. We stocked up too, but that's something we do regularly anyway since we live in earthquake and fire territory. And now we have a pandemic coursing through communities around the world. Of course, there are those adults denying this is even happening, calling it fake news and propagating conspiracy theories, and that only makes things more dangerous for those most susceptible to contracting coronavirus.

It's even more stressful for our children. Beatrice has told us more than once to stop talking about the virus. Our girls' school just closed for at least one week, but we're pretty sure it's going to extend up to four weeks through their spring break. We've talked to the girls about what coronavirus is and why it's so important to practice social distancing, the fact that it helps decrease the possible spread of the virus to susceptible older people and those with breathing problems. Check on the elderly who live alone; Amy just had a dear uncle pass away, and although we're not sure what the cause was, he was alone.

These are unprecedented times for the entire world and our girls have never experienced anything like this before. We did during the 1989 earthquake, but this is a much different animal. The girls may have a few playdates with their friends during this shut-down time, but if things further escalate, we won't be going anywhere for awhile.

Amy has lots of learning activities planned for Bea and Bryce, and since we'll all be home indefinitely, I'll be helping as well. Besides working from home, there's also house projects we've planned and there's no time like the present, especially when you're trapped at home. But even with all that, a bigger worry for me and millions of families around the world beyond the virus is the economic impact of what's happening.

I understand we're getting a little more frightened every day about coronavirus and its impact; I'm more frightened about it all. When you start shutting it all down, you start impacting all the hourly workers who work in travel, hospitality, entertainment and more, and those who work in retail and more, all of whom can't work from home, who won't get paychecks if they don't work. Thankfully some employers will continue to pay their hourly workers and provided additional sick time if needed.

And now that schools are shutting down, many hourly works with children can't work anyway because they'll have to stay home and care for them and potentially have home school them, which for those of us who have a child who struggles academically, like we do, isn't optimal. And if your spouse and her colleagues depend on schools being open because of the actual work they do, like mine does, then that impacts us, again. Our school district is doing what it can to ensure that our children continue to have lessons, whether we home school them and/or there are virtual learning options available. They're also ensuring that the lower income children who depended on breakfast and lunch meals will continue to get them.

But now the economic ripples are already turning into waves. We’ve been in a growth (bull) market for 10 years, and now we’ve hit the bear-market skids. It’s impacting the economy on all levels with the big unknowns being for how long and with what lasting effects. It's already impacting negatively smaller businesses like mine and many others. Local merchants are taking a huge hit because fewer people are going out to make purchases except for essentials, hence the run on stores (our local Trader Joes, Costco, Safeway, New Leaf and more are doing okay right now).

Plus, some of the organizations I work with are starting to slow hiring, especially those in hospitality, airlines, retail and other customer-facing industries, and this will contribute to the economy grinding slow to a stop. More and more events have been canceled and employers are shutting down travel, even locally, and asking employees to work from home.

A week ago I tried to be more light-hearted about the situation, talking about our new dog Jenny and the last of my work travel for who knows how long. That feels like 10 years ago now. But what happens six months from now when there's nowhere to go and the virus is still here and the economy bottoms out? This is why we need to support our local economies as best as we can during this time; it impacts us all.

Don't get me wrong; my glass is always half full and I believe we will survive this. And while I hope this isn't truly the end of days, I do worry that the more start acting like it, the more it will have lasting negative repercussions beyond the illness itself.

Let's all stay safe and sane during these times and help one another if we can. It may be a year before a vaccine is available, so practice social distancing, get tested if you're sick and self-quarantine if diagnosed and you don't need medical treatment, because we can all still support each other virtually from afar. What we don't want to do is to swamp the hospitals and overwhelm the nurses and doctors like we've seen in other countries.

When there's nowhere to go, we need to take care of each other, especially those who will need extra help during these challenging times.

Bless you all.

Sunday, December 22, 2019

Be a Rainbow Lullaby

"Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high
There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby..."

–The Wizard of Oz


She overheard them tell the butcher they didn't get paid until after Christmas, so no, he couldn't help them. They were just checking out the assortment of seafood in the case. That's when she bought $20 worth of crab meat for Christmas dinner.

She, being my wife, Amy. She told me this when she got home, not because she/we felt bad about buying the crab meat, but because the two men who were at counter weren't able to buy anything. She didn't know their story, whether they had families or not, only what she overheard them say briefly in that moment.

The poverty rate grew in 30% of counties between 2016 and 2018, according to a Stateline analysis of U.S. Census Bureau county estimates released this month. The poverty rate is the percentage of people in households earning less than the poverty threshold, currently $25,750 for a family of four.

Close to 13 million children residing in the United States live in families with incomes below the federal poverty line, a threshold shown to underestimate the financial needs of American households. In the United States, although child poverty has dropped by half over the past 50 years, the current level remains a serious problem.

And a staggering 2.5 million children are now homeless each year in America. This historic high represents one in every 30 children in the United States.

Amy and I both grew up poor, probably falling below and just above the poverty line at certain points throughout some of our childhoods, and I grew up with domestic violence and sexual abuse. Years later, before I met Amy, I was married without children, but severely in debt, eventually leading to bankruptcy and divorce. And then years after Amy and I were married, when Beatrice was only two and Bryce had just been born, things were really tight financially and we nearly lost our house, this during the tail end of the great recession.

We're grateful for every opportunity we've had -- for family, friends and peers who have supported along the way -- and we were able to put two dollar bills together to make ends meet like George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life, one our favorite holiday movies. We're grateful for all the things we've afforded since, the places we've traveled to, the roof over our heads, the food on our table (including sometimes $20 worth of crab meat), and the community we live in (which had a poverty rate of just over 24% in 2017).

This holiday season (and throughout the year), if you can afford more than just getting by, then pay it forward somehow, some way. A little, a lot, somewhere in between -- whatever that amount is. It doesn't have to be money either; it could be time or donated goods. The past few years we've adopted a family experiencing domestic violence and buying them Christmas presents. This year Bryce's class also adopted a family in need and we bought a present for them.

A little, a lot or somewhere in between. Don't feel bad about what you have, but just know that little acts of giving gratitude and kindness can go a long way to help others experience the hopeful rainbow of dignity, stability, safety and a little happiness. However brief that may be for far too many today. Communities can only thrive when their members live inclusively together, helping and supporting each other -- not exclusively apart, regardless of the differences and misunderstandings that all too often drive us apart. We don't have to always like each other, because we don't, but we do have to see each other, to feel empathy for those who are less fortunate and to be grateful for when you are more so, because again, we are the others to each other, and many of us have been there.

However you celebrate this holiday season, be a rainbow lullaby for someone who needs it. Bless you all.

Sunday, December 8, 2019

The Others to Each Other

"Music is a world within itself
With a language we all understand
With an equal opportunity
For all to sing, dance and clap their hands..."

–Stevie Wonder, Sir Duke


The middle of the road still holds. Or at least, it felt that way. This was more than evident than ever during our city's latest holiday parade. People smiling, clapping and waving on either side of Pacific Avenue, closed for the parade, individuals and families from all walks of life and all parts of the socioeconomic and political spectrums.

Considering how divisive the state of the political, social and culture wars still are, locally and globally, it's refreshing to have moments of peaceful community assembly and transitional healing. Especially for all our children watching the parade and participating in the parade. Children who become collateral damage of unsettling change. Children who become catalysts of transformative change.

Bryce, our youngest, just wanted to watch the parade with her mom. Amy, my wife, said she'd take Bryce down towards to the end of the parade route. She really wanted to see the flag girls in the various school bands that would traverse the parade route. Later, when Beatrice and I met up with them, Bea wanted me to march with her band, it was fascinating to watch Bryce transfixed by the flag girls (and boys -- yes, there were boys flagging too).

"Bryce," I called out to her.

She turned. Her and her older sister were standing on the street a few feet in front of us.

"You want to do that someday?" I asked.

"Yes!" she said with a big enthusiastic nod, and then went back to watching the parade.

I looked at Amy and we both smiled big. From flag girl to astronaut, dream big my daughter. Be whatever you want to be, I thought. 

Earlier, Amy and Bryce dropped Beatrice and I off at the start of the parade. Bea's been playing the flute this year, after changing from the trombone the year before, and is now in intermediate band. She loves it and has been mentoring beginning flute players as well. Her school's band combined with another to march together in the holiday parade and they all practiced so hard for weeks. One time when I picked up Bea from band practice after school, I got to watch them practice marching and playing their instruments. For those who have never done it, it isn't easy. I struggle talking and walking at the same time. Their awesome band teacher teaches both schools and truly inspires the kids.

In between talking with some of the other parents while we waited for the parade to begin, I watched Beatrice interact with her bandmates and her teacher. I was so proud. She was so much more comfortable in her own skin than I was at her age. Plus, her and the rest of the band sounded great, and watching them practice with the middle school band and the award-winning high school band before the parade started increased the parental pride even further.

"Bea, you should totally stay in band through middle school and high school. The high school has won a lot of awards this year," I said. "The more you play the better you get."

"I think I want to," she said.

"You like playing the flute, right?"

"Yes, I do."

"There you go."

Then we were off marching along the parade route, Bea's combined-school band alternating between Dr. Rock and Jingle Bells, each rotation seemingly sounding better than the last. Or, maybe I just wanted it to sound better, with the community around us cheering the kids on.

All us parents who traveled along with the band took multiple pictures and videos. The continuous rain we'd been experienced since Thanksgiving thankfully took a break. The community clapped and waved, we clapped and waved, some danced in the street like Bryce and even the chief of police, and for a couple of hours the local social spectrum shone like a rainy day rainbow. All the colors lighting up the kids faces, including our own, with the hope of diverse cohesion without denying the necessary friction of potential positive change our differences can make. In other words, civility doesn't have to be a weapon used to keep others down. It should celebrate the awareness of all the others, because we are the others to each other.

As Santa brought the holiday parade to an end, I cheered for the catalysts of transformative change.


Monday, April 1, 2019

For Everyone They Impact

That's when he showed the open wound on the back of his right calf to the cars in front of us. He held a sign that said "NEED BANDAGES PLEASE" with a meek look on his bearded face. He stood in the middle of the median moving from car to car.

My first visceral reaction: disgust and anger. Empathy was no where in sight.

"What's wrong with that guy?" our oldest daughter Beatrice said.

"Don't look, Beatrice," my wife Amy said.

"Look at what?"

"This guy has a big wound on his leg and he's showing it to us all. It's gross and you don't need to see that," Amy said.

"What? What wound?"

"It's like his leg is cut open and you can see his calf muscles," I said.

"Kevin, don't tell her that."

"Gross!"

Beatrice could see, but our youngest Bryce could not. Thank goodness. The left turn lane light changed to a green arrow and we moved past the man, his bad leg turned away from us.

"God, he could lose his leg," Amy said.

"He should go to urgent care or to one of the emergency rooms. They most likely won't refuse him with an injury like that," I said.

"Maybe he doesn't know any better."

"Sure he does; why do you think he's out here begging for money for supposed bandages with that friggin' leg? It's a sympathy play for drug money."

"Sweetie, he may not know any better. He could be mentally ill. I'm calling the non-emergency line."

And so she did. We kept making our way to the store while she talked with the police department. They said they'd do a wellness check on the guy, and when we went back the same way to continue our errands, he was gone.

Like too many west coast communities these days, the growing acrimony between local community members and people experiencing homelessness seems to be at all-time high. Where we live is no exception. Crime and drug use are quite prevalent near the local unsanctioned encampment where conditions have only worsened over time.

And again, as I've written before, we have a family like many other families in Santa Cruz that we want to keep safe, and with 39 percent of Santa Cruz homeless having psychiatric and emotional health issues, 38 percent suffering from drug and alcohol abuse, and nearly 30 percent being incarcerated for a night in the past year (as of 2017 local stats). Many of us struggle with "not in my backyard" syndrome. Because they are literally in our neighborhood backyards and the city was considering opening transitional encampments in literally our neighborhood backyards.

We continue to educate ourselves as to what's happening in our community and we most certainly understand that this isn't just a housing crisis but a drug and associated crime crisis as well. Not to mention the safety of women and children experiencing homelessness today in our community.

But this guy with the nasty leg, he's somebody's son. He could even be a father himself. We have no idea about his story and the fact that my wife was compassionate enough to call the non-emergency line, was at least something. Maybe others called, too. Giving him money wouldn't have helped; he needed to a wellness check and emergency healthcare. Could he have faked the wound? Maybe, but it looked pretty real to us. And in the end, he's not part of our family anyway.

Yet, on some greater spiritual level, maybe he is.

These crises are escalating in communities like ours at an alarming rate. They are complex and there is no unifying clear solution for everyone they impact. And they most certainly impact everyone, and every family.

Sunday, January 21, 2018

The Advocates Who Activate

And then I thought, What happened with the boy who hit Bea?

"Amy, whatever happened with the boy who hit Bea at recess that day?" I asked my wife.

It had already been a couple of weeks and I felt guilty about not following up, about not being a father and asserting myself as the patriarch protector of my girls. About not being a man.

The irony wasn't lost on me, considering that one of the sentiments I despise the most -- boys will be boys -- has written off many a legitimate abuse and acquiesced to the most aggressive provider/protector male behavior for thousands of years.

"No, but I can check. I did talk with the yard duty teacher after it happened, and she said she didn't see it happen, but would look into it," my wife said.

"Please do. Thank you."

I should've done something, I thought. I compartmentalized my guilt and frustration and went on with prepping for the day ahead, a day of community protest and political activism at the local Women's March. My wife had a Kidpower workshop to teach and would meet me and our two girls downtown.

At the time, what we could best glean from Beatrice about the recess incident, and what she initially told her Mom the day it happened, was that she was at recess playing with another friend when she accidentally kicked the boy (or something in the context of play), and he thought she did it on purpose. So he punched her in the stomach. Twice.

It's unclear if she used her voice to tell him to stop, something we've instilled in both girls, but she's still socially timid at times. We assumed it all happened so fast that the boy had moved on and then recess was over. She did say she told him to stop, but only after us asking her over and over, and I wonder if she knew that's what we wanted to hear. I told her that it's never okay for a boy (or another girl) to hit her like that. Never. She told us to stop talking about it. She was done.

Shortly after that, I read a Facebook comment from a woman who warned of the siren song, those women who lie about being harassed and/or assaulted to bring down the "great, able-bodied men who have built this nation." Oh, how I wanted to comment, but didn't, because I felt that either I wouldn't contribute any positive dialogue, and if I did, it would've been missed by those who agreed with her.

Of course there are those who fabricate abuse, but there are so many more who never speak their truth for fear of reprisal. These are the everyday women (and men) who aren't the high-profile cases we've come to know in the past year, who have to keep swimming upstream through toxic water.

And just because the boy hit my daughter in a moment of playground angst doesn't mean he'll grow up to be violent. (Although he does need to know that aggression like that needs to muted and reframed in dialogue and other constructive channels as he gets older.)

Two weeks later on a day that celebrated inclusivity and equality and social justice for women (and men) alike around the world, regardless of race, cultural background, religious affiliation or sexual orientation; a day that abhorred sexual harassment and assault with lifts from the #metoo and #timesup movements, I felt like I wasn't very good father, or even a good man for that matter. All because I wasn't there to protect my daughter on the playground and ensure justice for her.

My patriarchal guilt, thousands of years of socialized gender roles and the ever-present thin biological and religious arguments to "justify gender inequality and the continued oppression of women" dissipated for me when we made our way downtown to march with friends and about 30,000 people from our community. With my wife and daughters walking just in front of me, and the thousands of women (and men) all around me chanting phrases like "What does democracy look like? This is what democracy looks like!" -- I thought, The middle may thankfully hold, but the status quo cannot. 

After the march I sat at the CPVAW table among the 50 non-profits represented at Louden Nelson Community Center and talked with a variety of women and men from our community. I again realized what I already knew deep down -- something I had known for decades and that my own mother had instilled in me -- that we as men are just as important to the progressive equation of social justice and putting an end to sexual harassment and violence. And that we can and should be the advocates who activate other men around the world to nurture the lives of our sons and our daughters.