latimes--2020-12-31--For decades, she's been the unsung hero of California's coast

When Californians dig their feet into the sand and marvel at a seascape uncluttered by Miami high-rises or a Jersey-like shore , some might know to thank the state ’ s hard-fought history of coastal protection .
A unique law , willed into existence by the people of California , declared decades ago that the coast is a public treasure that must be shared by all .
Entrusted with this mission is an unusual government agency that has waged many epic battles against the state ’ s most powerful and wealthy .
One woman has been there since the very @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the California Coastal Commission , Susan Hansch has kept the pulse of the agency beating for more than four decades .
She is the lesser-known half to the one in charge , the longtime deputy to the numerous men who have taken the helm .
Have a question that can ’ t be answered ?
Ask Susan .
Unsure about some arcane piece of legislation ?
Call Susan .
She ’ s the gut check , the one who dots the I ’ s and catches all the blind spots .
A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this petite second-in-command has stood up to some of the biggest oil companies and the most challenging controversies .
Now , at the end of the month , after 46 years at the commission , the agency ’ s longest-serving guardian of the coast is finally moving on .
She tried to retire years ago , but there always seemed to be another crisis that could use her wise counsel .
“ Susan is the most important person to the coast you ’ ve probably never heard of , ” said Assemblyman Mark @ @ @ @ @ @ @ former coastal commissioner .
“ She is absolutely the unsung hero of the coast.
” Hansch , 68 , first fell in love with the California coast when she was in the seventh grade .
Her father , a Navy man turned English teacher , was fed up with shoveling snow on their small farm in Illinois and moved their family to Gilroy , Calif .
The eldest of four , Hansch remembers her mother making the 40-minute drive over the hill toward Santa Cruz and the sea .
On summer days when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ day by the ocean would bring so much joy .
Every time she returned , the coast would amaze her in some new way — the waves would be different , the colors , the little shorebirds that emerged some days but not others .
By 1972 , Hansch had joined a fervent movement to save the coast from an unimaginable future : Unchecked development , beaches controlled by the wealthy , devastating oil spills like the one in Santa Barbara that horrified all those who loved the shore .
While fellow classmates @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with headline-grabbing tactics , Hansch , who was studying biology and environmental studies , busied herself with collecting signatures , paperwork and whatever else was needed to get a measure on the ballot that would safeguard the shore .
The scrappy brigade faced intense odds , with big developers and oil companies pouring immense power and money into fighting the voter initiative .
But after months of phone calls and an impassioned call for action , the people of California approved Proposition 20 .
The coast , voters agreed , belongs to everyone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ whose name has become synonymous with coastal protection , got to work crafting the state ’ s Coastal Act .
Signed into law in 1976 , the legislation declares a bold set of principles that balance environmental protection and the interests of the people .
It enshrined one of the nation ’ s most powerful land-use agencies : the California Coastal Commission .
“ It ’ s such a beautiful piece of legislation , ” said Hansch , who worked on the coastal plan as a volunteer , then a student assistant , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I was just like ‘ Wow , this is amazing , the public cares about the coast enough to get this done.
’ ” Hansch ’ s sharp mind and dedication stood out , moving her quickly to junior staffer , then an analyst for the unit handling offshore oil issues .
In 1985 , Douglas , who had become the agency ’ s executive director , tapped Hansch to lead the energy unit — a position others assumed would be given to a man .
With her bright-colored blazers and Farrah Fawcett @ @ @ @ @ @ @ power plays , the lawsuits , the developers who hated being told what to do by a woman barely 5 feet tall .
She led with a quiet intensity and took the bullets for the public at a time when the federal government sought to open almost the entire state ’ s coastline to oil drilling .
“ I would be freaking out , we all felt so vulnerable , and Susan — Susan would just stay calm , ” said Linda Krop , chief counsel at the Environmental Defense Center , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ She did everything she could to uphold the integrity of the institution and to uphold its integrity in the eyes of the public.
” It was a challenging time for the commission , whose spirited independence faced the constant ire of those in power .
Douglas held no punches in upholding the Coastal Act , and Gov .
Jerry Brown infamously called the staff “ bureaucratic thugs.
” When Gov .
George Deukmejian came into office in the 1980s , he slashed the commission ’ s budget so much that half the staff @ @ @ @ @ @ @ those same years ( not unlike the most recent four ) , the Reagan administration tried to strip the agency ’ s power to block offshore oil operations in federal waters .
“ We were totally under assault , ” said Mark Delaplaine , who joined the commission in 1976 and retired last year .
“ The battles that we fought in the early days taught us so much .
It explains how Susan was able to accomplish a lot of the later things … She ’ s got a lot of courage @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of stamina.
” After a particularly tense meeting with a big utility company , Hansch remembered Douglas giving her some tough love on how to survive this male-dominated world : “ You can be strong , you can be forceful , but don ’ t let your emotion show .
You ’ ll lose your power , ” she recalled him saying .
So she armed herself with facts , not fervency .
Douglas , whom she misses every day , persuaded her in 1999 to become his chief deputy .
The first @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she now manages a staff of 182 people with a warmth that she wished her younger self had known how to balance .
Through the long days and towering stacks of budget papers , she still remembers birthdays and makes time to personally pick up an intern from the airport .
Many notice how much heart she puts into training a new and diverse generation of coastal guardians , and today , a striking number of women are calling the shots at the commission .
“ Susan has been such a key force @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pursuing racial equity , ” said Sumi Selvaraj , who was recruited by Hansch in 2015 as a graduate student and is now the agency ’ s environmental justice manager .
“ She has a good way of identifying people ’ s strengths and helping them realize their potential … She ’ s like the commission mom.
” The agency is indeed family .
Her daughter , Rachel Wright , remembers coloring in the corner of Hansch ’ s office as a little kid and speaks today of commission staff like they ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother quietly found a way to do it all , she said , whether it ’ s spending a day at the tide pools teaching her the scientific names of all the sea animals , picking up trash on the beach , completing a master ’ s degree on weekends or rushing to the local university after work for a leadership coaching program .
The antidote to exhaustion , after all , is not necessarily rest , one of her favorite poets once wrote .
The antidote to rest is wholeheartedness .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of herself she gives to everybody .
She works 12-hour days … and then she comes home , she ’ ll have dinner , and then she wants to talk about all of our days , ” Wright said .
“ She also has like a million friends that she keeps up with all the time.
” Hansch ’ s husband , Richard Wright , laughed when asked if he ’ d known he was marrying the coastal commission .
He speaks of his wife with a tender admiration .
“ What ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” said Wright , a CPA who shares Hansch ’ s love for scuba diving and hiking across different parts of the world .
“ It has always been a quiet passion of : What is the best for the coast ?
” That goal has been tested over the years , through the whiplash of different administrations and hundreds of commissioners — the decision-making half of the agency .
Appointed by the governor and state legislative leaders , these voting members occasionally challenge staff and come with their own agendas .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ soliciting bribes .
Hansch also guided staff through the darkest of times : the political pressures to fire Douglas , losing their beloved leader in 2012 to cancer , then the dramatic firing of his recommended successor , Charles Lester , which many saw as a power move against an agency that fiercely answered to no one but the Coastal Act .
“ She has been our rock and our guiding light , ” said Jack Ainsworth , who was appointed executive director in 2017 amid the turmoil .
She took care of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the public — devoting time to education programs that inspire more people to understand the pressing issues of today .
She oversaw the publishing of a number of books filled with coastal history , maps and beach access points along the state ’ s more than 1,200-mile shore .
Not one to sit still , she has also personally worked on sea level rise adaptation and other complex issues that loom ever larger over the coast .
In a tribute in December that brought commissioners to tears , Ainsworth held up a box @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s retirement .
His voice cracked : “ How do you thank someone for 46 years of service and sacrifice for the protection of our coast and ocean ?
” Hansch has not quite processed that she ’ s leaving .
She feels good about the people at the commission today — they remind her of the young , mission-driven cadre she first joined in the 1970s .
There were no computers in those early days , she recalled .
Reports were literally cut and pasted together .
Now she ’ s retiring @ @ @ @ @ @ @ must be said virtually as the pandemic rages on .
Looking forward , she has already volunteered to support the eight employees who have been reassigned to COVID-19 contact tracing ( the state has asked almost every agency to dedicate 5 % of staff to this heartbreaking task ) .
With climate change looming as “ the existential issue that will shape all else , ” Hansch hopes the commission will continue to find ways to protect what coastal habitats are left — and ensure that access to the shore is truly equitable @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reality sinks in as she ponders how else to fill her newfound time .
The words of another favorite poet , Mary Oliver , come to mind — words that have guided younger staff over the years as she brought them on board .
Her eyes crinkle into a smile .
It ’ s now her turn to answer this question anew : Tell me , what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life ?

Susan Hansch, right, was tapped by Peter Douglas, left, in 1999 to be his chief deputy. Quiet and behind the scenes, she’s an unsung hero of the coast, people who know her say.
When Californians dig their feet into the sand and marvel at a seascape uncluttered by Miami high-rises or a Jersey-like shore, some might know to thank the state’s hard-fought history of coastal protection.
A unique law, willed into existence by the people of California, declared decades ago that the coast is a public treasure that must be shared by all. Entrusted with this mission is an unusual government agency that has waged many epic battles against the state’s most powerful and wealthy.
One woman has been there since the very beginning.
Considered the heart and brains of the California Coastal Commission, Susan Hansch has kept the pulse of the agency beating for more than four decades. She is the lesser-known half to the one in charge, the longtime deputy to the numerous men who have taken the helm.
Advertisement
Have a question that can’t be answered? Ask Susan. Unsure about some arcane piece of legislation? Call Susan. She’s the gut check, the one who dots the I’s and catches all the blind spots. A firm but friendly force of reason, this petite second-in-command has stood up to some of the biggest oil companies and the most challenging controversies.
Now, at the end of the month, after 46 years at the commission, the agency’s longest-serving guardian of the coast is finally moving on. She tried to retire years ago, but there always seemed to be another crisis that could use her wise counsel.
“Susan is the most important person to the coast you’ve probably never heard of,” said Assemblyman Mark Stone (D-Scotts Valley), a former coastal commissioner. “She is absolutely the unsung hero of the coast.”
Hansch, 68, first fell in love with the California coast when she was in the seventh grade. Her father, a Navy man turned English teacher, was fed up with shoveling snow on their small farm in Illinois and moved their family to Gilroy, Calif. The eldest of four, Hansch remembers her mother making the 40-minute drive over the hill toward Santa Cruz and the sea.
On summer days when temperatures would break 100 degrees, a day by the ocean would bring so much joy. Every time she returned, the coast would amaze her in some new way — the waves would be different, the colors, the little shorebirds that emerged some days but not others.
By 1972, Hansch had joined a fervent movement to save the coast from an unimaginable future: Unchecked development, beaches controlled by the wealthy, devastating oil spills like the one in Santa Barbara that horrified all those who loved the shore.
In 1972, activists bicycled from San Francisco to San Diego in support of Proposition 20, a voter initiative that ultimately led to the passage of the Coastal Act and the establishment of the California Coastal Commission. (California Coastal Conservancy)
Advertisement
While fellow classmates at UC Santa Cruz drummed up support with headline-grabbing tactics, Hansch, who was studying biology and environmental studies, busied herself with collecting signatures, paperwork and whatever else was needed to get a measure on the ballot that would safeguard the shore.
The scrappy brigade faced intense odds, with big developers and oil companies pouring immense power and money into fighting the voter initiative. But after months of phone calls and an impassioned call for action, the people of California approved Proposition 20. The coast, voters agreed, belongs to everyone.
Peter Douglas, the larger-than-life visionary whose name has become synonymous with coastal protection, got to work crafting the state’s Coastal Act. Signed into law in 1976, the legislation declares a bold set of principles that balance environmental protection and the interests of the people. It enshrined one of the nation’s most powerful land-use agencies: the California Coastal Commission.
“It’s such a beautiful piece of legislation,” said Hansch, who worked on the coastal plan as a volunteer, then a student assistant, for $3.03 an hour. “I was just like ‘Wow, this is amazing, the public cares about the coast enough to get this done.’”
Susan Hansch, left, at a meeting in the 1970s with Charlotte Higgins, the coastal commission’s press officer at the time. Hansch joined the commission as a student volunteer and is the agency’s longest-serving employee. (California Coastal Commission)
Hansch’s sharp mind and dedication stood out, moving her quickly to junior staffer, then an analyst for the unit handling offshore oil issues. In 1985, Douglas, who had become the agency’s executive director, tapped Hansch to lead the energy unit — a position others assumed would be given to a man.
With her bright-colored blazers and Farrah Fawcett hair, she pushed through all the power plays, the lawsuits, the developers who hated being told what to do by a woman barely 5 feet tall. She led with a quiet intensity and took the bullets for the public at a time when the federal government sought to open almost the entire state’s coastline to oil drilling.
“I would be freaking out, we all felt so vulnerable, and Susan — Susan would just stay calm,” said Linda Krop, chief counsel at the Environmental Defense Center, a nonprofit based in Santa Barbara. “She did everything she could to uphold the integrity of the institution and to uphold its integrity in the eyes of the public.”
It was a challenging time for the commission, whose spirited independence faced the constant ire of those in power. Douglas held no punches in upholding the Coastal Act, and Gov. Jerry Brown infamously called the staff “bureaucratic thugs.”
When Gov. George Deukmejian came into office in the 1980s, he slashed the commission’s budget so much that half the staff had to be let go. In those same years (not unlike the most recent four), the Reagan administration tried to strip the agency’s power to block offshore oil operations in federal waters.
“We were totally under assault,” said Mark Delaplaine, who joined the commission in 1976 and retired last year. “The battles that we fought in the early days taught us so much. It explains how Susan was able to accomplish a lot of the later things … She’s got a lot of courage and determination and Jesus, a lot of stamina.”
Susan Hansch’s work on offshore oil issues was featured in a December 1988 issue of Today’s Supervisor, a journal published by the Assn. of California State Supervisors. (California Coastal Commission)
After a particularly tense meeting with a big utility company, Hansch remembered Douglas giving her some tough love on how to survive this male-dominated world:
“You can be strong, you can be forceful, but don’t let your emotion show. You’ll lose your power,” she recalled him saying.
So she armed herself with facts, not fervency. Douglas, whom she misses every day, persuaded her in 1999 to become his chief deputy. The first woman to take on this role, she now manages a staff of 182 people with a warmth that she wished her younger self had known how to balance.
Through the long days and towering stacks of budget papers, she still remembers birthdays and makes time to personally pick up an intern from the airport. Many notice how much heart she puts into training a new and diverse generation of coastal guardians, and today, a striking number of women are calling the shots at the commission.
“Susan has been such a key force and key advocate for environmental justice and pursuing racial equity,” said Sumi Selvaraj, who was recruited by Hansch in 2015 as a graduate student and is now the agency’s environmental justice manager. “She has a good way of identifying people’s strengths and helping them realize their potential … She’s like the commission mom.”
The agency is indeed family. Her daughter, Rachel Wright, remembers coloring in the corner of Hansch’s office as a little kid and speaks today of commission staff like they’re dear aunts and uncles. Her mother quietly found a way to do it all, she said, whether it’s spending a day at the tide pools teaching her the scientific names of all the sea animals, picking up trash on the beach, completing a master’s degree on weekends or rushing to the local university after work for a leadership coaching program.
The antidote to exhaustion, after all, is not necessarily rest, one of her favorite poets once wrote.
The antidote to exhaustion is wholeheartedness.
“I find it pretty amazing how much of herself she gives to everybody. She works 12-hour days … and then she comes home, she’ll have dinner, and then she wants to talk about all of our days,” Wright said. “She also has like a million friends that she keeps up with all the time.”
Hansch’s husband, Richard Wright, laughed when asked if he’d known he was marrying the coastal commission. He speaks of his wife with a tender admiration.
“What’s the goal? Save the coast,” said Wright, a CPA who shares Hansch’s love for scuba diving and hiking across different parts of the world. “It has always been a quiet passion of: What is the best for the coast?”
Susan Hansch enjoys going for long walks along the coast of Half Moon Bay, where she lives with her husband. (Richard Wright)
That goal has been tested over the years, through the whiplash of different administrations and hundreds of commissioners — the decision-making half of the agency. Appointed by the governor and state legislative leaders, these voting members occasionally challenge staff and come with their own agendas. One commissioner was sentenced to jail for soliciting bribes.
Hansch also guided staff through the darkest of times: the political pressures to fire Douglas, losing their beloved leader in 2012 to cancer, then the dramatic firing of his recommended successor, Charles Lester, which many saw as a power move against an agency that fiercely answered to no one but the Coastal Act.
“She has been our rock and our guiding light,” said Jack Ainsworth, who was appointed executive director in 2017 amid the turmoil.
She took care of not just the agency, but also the public — devoting time to education programs that inspire more people to understand the pressing issues of today. She oversaw the publishing of a number of books filled with coastal history, maps and beach access points along the state’s more than 1,200-mile shore.
Not one to sit still, she has also personally worked on sea level rise adaptation and other complex issues that loom ever larger over the coast.
In a tribute in December that brought commissioners to tears, Ainsworth held up a box of tissues as he announced Hansch’s retirement. His voice cracked: “How do you thank someone for 46 years of service and sacrifice for the protection of our coast and ocean?”
Hansch has not quite processed that she’s leaving. She feels good about the people at the commission today — they remind her of the young, mission-driven cadre she first joined in the 1970s.
There were no computers in those early days, she recalled. Reports were literally cut and pasted together. Now she’s retiring at a time when even the goodbyes must be said virtually as the pandemic rages on.
Looking forward, she has already volunteered to support the eight employees who have been reassigned to COVID-19 contact tracing (the state has asked almost every agency to dedicate 5% of staff to this heartbreaking task).
With climate change looming as “the existential issue that will shape all else,” Hansch hopes the commission will continue to find ways to protect what coastal habitats are left — and ensure that access to the shore is truly equitable to all.
She paused. The reality sinks in as she ponders how else to fill her newfound time.
The words of another favorite poet, Mary Oliver, come to mind — words that have guided younger staff over the years as she brought them on board. Her eyes crinkle into a smile. It’s now her turn to answer this question anew:
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?


latimes--2020-12-31--Column: In the face of a COVID-19 onslaught, it's time to get angry — but hopeful

I struggled to open the door to my wife ’ s business the Monday after Thanksgiving , but the problem wasn ’ t the lock .
It was me .
And my rage was rising .
She had to shut down her Santa Ana market for the busiest retail weekend of the year — Black Friday , Small Business Saturday , and Pozole Sunday — because of a COVID-19 scare .
It ’ s one thing to write about pandemic-triggered shutdowns and how they have wrecked small businesses and livelihoods .
It ’ s quite another to live the pain @ @ @ @ @ @ @ negative for the coronavirus because it was the right thing to do — but , man , did it hurt .
So I was already annoyed as I fumbled with my keys .
Then , a random guy passed by and asked if I needed help .
He then must ’ ve seen the sign on my wife ’ s store that told people about our temporary closure , because he mumbled something to the effect that the latest restrictions Gov .
Gavin Newsom had imposed on Southern California to try to flatten @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unfair .
I responded that we wouldn ’ t be in this situation if it weren ’ t for “ idiots ” who refused to wear masks .
Not now , I thought .
Not as my wife worried about how she would make up for all the lost sales .
Not as I feared for our future .
After a quick back-and-forth , my wife opened the door from the other side .
And I walked in and didn ’ t look back .
Because we needed to open for the day @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t going to take out the trash or run the register while my wife whipped up breakfast quesadillas .
Despair wouldn ’ t prepare us for the day when the coronavirus is finally contained , and she could once again host people for company parties and wine-tasting classes .
Anguish isn ’ t what ’ s needed when we could once again enjoy the simple pleasures of life — holding nephews and nieces , kissing the hands of grandparents , even just a maskless jaunt in a favorite store — that 2020 cruelly @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
It ’ s high time to be angry — but not without the requisite ingredient to making it constructive : hope .
When I debuted this column back in September , I declared myself a Mexican Tom Joad , ready to be there wherever there ’ s a fight for our future .
Three months later , better days seem so far away as to be forever unattainable .
So much ugliness during my short stint .
Sheriffs who imagine themselves heirs to the Minutemen by not enforcing coronavirus restrictions .
Citizens @ @ @ @ @ @ @ damned drought .
And the bad is just getting started .
Southern California is going through a horrendous coronavirus spike crashing especially hard among people of color and the working class .
Jobs keep disappearing while housing prices obscenely continue to rise .
Mass evictions loom for renters .
We ’ re lonely and frightened and tired — and a lot of people are just giving up .
Others are just quitting the state altogether , and have done so for a while .
The California dream that doomsayers for decades have said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hallucination .
But I look forward to what ’ s ahead for us .
Because I have a feeling I know what ’ s on the other side of our current nightmare .
When people ask me what ’ s the gist of my column , I say I try to capture who we were , are , and are becoming as Californians .
I maintain we can never move ahead unless we know where we came from .
That approach has always kept me cleareyed about our history and present .
That @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s best of times weren ’ t at the beach with Gidget , or grooving at Coachella , or skiing the slopes of Mammoth .
They happen during our worst of times .
That ’ s when fighters were forged in the depths of hatred and rancor and emerged ready to deliver a new California for themselves and the next generation .
This series of disasters we ’ ve lived through in 2020 has turned us all into warriors .
We ’ re all angry — and that can set us on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ There ’ s no use in being a berserker whose most potent weapon is spittle .
So what are you going to do with your fury ?
I think of the people I have profiled so far .
A warehouse worker who used his spare time to promote small businesses in La Puente with no expectations of reward .
Mexican families who survived the Juniper Hills fires of the fall .
A widower in Joshua Tree whose wife couldn ’ t get the medical aid she needed because hospitals in Southern California were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ transfer .
Everyone I ’ ve profiled has tackled problems this year larger than mine , and has every right to stew in their sadness .
Hobbled or heartbroken , they trudge ahead and shared their stories with me so that they might inspire others to imagine another California .
A state where the inequities that we always accepted as part of our DNA will no longer be tolerated .
Where the red staters in “ Calabama ” can feel kinship with the kids in Calexico .
I ’ m no deluded Care @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it .
I ’ m a cynic who feels the American tendency toward Ayn Rand-style selfishness has bloomed this century at the expense of collective sacrifice .
But it ’ s those small acts of kindness and and selflessness that keep you on the righteous path .
To paraphrase that old slogan of the left : 2020 tried to bury us , but it didn ’ t know we were seeds .

Chaplain Kevin Deegan kneels to talk with Domingo Benitez in the COVID-19 unit at Providence Holy Cross Medical Center on Tuesday in Mission Hills.
I struggled to open the door to my wife’s business the Monday after Thanksgiving , but the problem wasn’t the lock.
It was me.
I was angry.
And my rage was rising.
She had to shut down her Santa Ana market for the busiest retail weekend of the year — Black Friday, Small Business Saturday, and Pozole Sunday — because of a COVID-19 scare.
It’s one thing to write about pandemic-triggered shutdowns and how they have wrecked small businesses and livelihoods.
Advertisement
It’s quite another to live the pain.
We shut down until everyone tested negative for the coronavirus because it was the right thing to do — but, man, did it hurt.
So I was already annoyed as I fumbled with my keys. Then, a random guy passed by and asked if I needed help. He then must’ve seen the sign on my wife’s store that told people about our temporary closure, because he mumbled something to the effect that the latest restrictions Gov. Gavin Newsom had imposed on Southern California to try to flatten the coronavirus curve — again — were unfair.
I responded that we wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for “idiots” who refused to wear masks.
“You know,” he shot back, “masks don’t work.”
Not now, I thought. Not as my wife worried about how she would make up for all the lost sales. Not as I feared for our future.
After a quick back-and-forth, my wife opened the door from the other side. And I walked in and didn’t look back.
Because we needed to open for the day, and spite and malice weren’t going to take out the trash or run the register while my wife whipped up breakfast quesadillas.
Advertisement
Despair wouldn’t prepare us for the day when the coronavirus is finally contained, and she could once again host people for company parties and wine-tasting classes. Anguish isn’t what’s needed when we could once again enjoy the simple pleasures of life — holding nephews and nieces, kissing the hands of grandparents, even just a maskless jaunt in a favorite store — that 2020 cruelly denied us for the last nine months.
It’s high time to be angry — but not without the requisite ingredient to making it constructive: hope.
When I debuted this column back in September, I declared myself a Mexican Tom Joad, ready to be there wherever there’s a fight for our future.
Three months later, better days seem so far away as to be forever unattainable.
So much ugliness during my short stint. Sheriffs who imagine themselves heirs to the Minutemen by not enforcing coronavirus restrictions. Citizens alleging a fraudulent election. Probably another damned drought.
And the bad is just getting started.
Southern California is going through a horrendous coronavirus spike crashing especially hard among people of color and the working class. Jobs keep disappearing while housing prices obscenely continue to rise. Mass evictions loom for renters.
We’re lonely and frightened and tired — and a lot of people are just giving up. Others are just quitting the state altogether, and have done so for a while.
The California dream that doomsayers for decades have said is endangered now seems like a perverse hallucination.
But I look forward to what’s ahead for us.
Because I have a feeling I know what’s on the other side of our current nightmare.
When people ask me what’s the gist of my column, I say I try to capture who we were, are, and are becoming as Californians.
I maintain we can never move ahead unless we know where we came from. That approach has always kept me cleareyed about our history and present.
That’s why I know that California’s best of times weren’t at the beach with Gidget, or grooving at Coachella, or skiing the slopes of Mammoth.
They happen during our worst of times.
That’s when fighters were forged in the depths of hatred and rancor and emerged ready to deliver a new California for themselves and the next generation.
This series of disasters we’ve lived through in 2020 has turned us all into warriors.
We’re all angry — and that can set us on a path onward or dangerously backward. There’s no use in being a berserker whose most potent weapon is spittle.
So what are you going to do with your fury?
I think of the people I have profiled so far. A warehouse worker who used his spare time to promote small businesses in La Puente with no expectations of reward. Mexican families who survived the Juniper Hills fires of the fall. A widower in Joshua Tree whose wife couldn’t get the medical aid she needed because hospitals in Southern California were too overwhelmed by COVID-19 to accept her transfer.
Everyone I’ve profiled has tackled problems this year larger than mine, and has every right to stew in their sadness.
But they don’t.
Hobbled or heartbroken, they trudge ahead and shared their stories with me so that they might inspire others to imagine another California.
A state where the inequities that we always accepted as part of our DNA will no longer be tolerated. Where the red staters in “Calabama” can feel kinship with the kids in Calexico.
Where hope reigns.
I’m no deluded Care Bear of wide-eyed optimism — far from it. I’m a cynic who feels the American tendency toward Ayn Rand-style selfishness has bloomed this century at the expense of collective sacrifice.
But it’s those small acts of kindness and and selflessness that keep you on the righteous path.
To paraphrase that old slogan of the left: 2020 tried to bury us, but it didn’t know we were seeds.
Be angry, but hopeful.


latimes--2020-12-31--Newsom's friendship with lobbyist who threw French Laundry party brings questions

On the website of one of Sacramento ’ s most influential lobbying firms , partner Jason Kinney boasted of his close connection to Gavin Newsom , noting he has advised the governor for “ nearly 14 years.
” The plug suddenly disappeared last month , days after Newsom drew national criticism for attending Kinney ’ s 50th birthday dinner at the famed Napa Valley restaurant the French Laundry .
The event turned into a political disaster for Newsom , drawing charges of hypocrisy at the very time the governor urged residents to avoid gatherings and stay home as much as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coronavirus .
But the episode also exposed something that has long been the subject of quiet discussion in Sacramento : Newsom ’ s decision to maintain a tight relationship with Kinney , who is director of a lobbying firm with business before the governor .
Kinney is well known around the state Capitol as a strategist , ghostwriter of Newsom ’ s speeches and unofficial fixer summoned to help loosen the governor from political jams .
His dual roles as an advisor to Newsom and a lobbyist paid by companies to influence the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about potential conflicts of interest for the administration .
“ I think it certainly can cause the public to question whether any advice the governor is getting is in the public interest or in the interest of the companies that have paid Kinney ’ s firm to lobby , ” said Emily Rusch , executive director of the California Public Interest Research Group , an independent consumer advocacy organization .
“ It ’ s common sense to question that.
” Kinney ’ s firm , Axiom Advisors , has lobbied on behalf of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Newsom ’ s office , including Netflix and unsecured creditors of Pacific Gas & Electric , records reviewed by The Times show .
According to the firm , Kinney has built a firewall between his work for Newsom and Axiom ’ s clients , makes money only on work for his individual clients and does not profit from the firm ’ s overall earnings .
California law doesn ’ t expressly prohibit lobbying the administration while also advising the governor , and some of Newsom ’ s predecessors sought the input of Sacramento @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and professional alliance with Newsom has given him and his firm a unique position of power .
In its list of the top players in state government and politics , Capitol Weekly described Kinney as “ a sort of majordomo ” for the governor who “ makes strategic policy and political recommendations.
” Axiom Advisors was launched shortly after Newsom ’ s election and has become one of the state ’ s top-grossing lobbying businesses .
The relationship , many in Sacramento say , was bound to draw attention to the ethical boundaries @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spoke with more than two dozen lobbyists , Capitol staff members , legislators and political consultants about the governor ’ s work with Kinney .
Many of them spoke on condition of anonymity , citing concerns that discussing Newsom and his advisor could affect their working relationships with both men .
Newsom and his office declined to answer any questions for this story .
“ The Governor has been successful throughout a twenty year career in public service because he makes decisions in the interest of the public good , ” said Sahar @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a statement .
“ His decisions are rooted in good public policy , and he ’ s never hesitated to say no to organizations and individuals he has long relationships with when their priorities run counter to the public good.
” Molly Weedn , a spokeswoman for Kinney , said he separates his role as “ an outside communications advisor on political issues ” from his lobbying work .
“ He adheres to strict ethical standards and fully and transparently discloses all lobbying activity , ” Weedn said .
“ He does @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to benefit the firm ’ s clients.
” Axiom reported receiving $ 582,266 from clients in the first three months of Newsom ’ s term — a figure that ballooned to $ 2.3 million by the end of the second quarter .
From Newsom ’ s inauguration in 2019 through the end of September 2020 , Axiom reported a total of $ 10.9 million for lobbying work .
While apologizing during a news conference last month for attending the French Laundry dinner , Newsom described Kinney as a friend he ’ s known @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Newsom ’ s time as a San Francisco supervisor .
Kinney said he met Newsom in 2002 during a statewide homelessness conference while working as a senior communications advisor and chief speechwriter for former Democratic Gov .
Gray Davis .
He described Newsom as the one the “ most capable , dedicated human beings I ’ ve ever met.
” Newsom “ was literally one of the few elected leaders in the nation with the courage and compassion to talk honestly about California ’ s homelessness crisis , and he was putting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to help people get off the streets , ” Kinney said in a statement .
Kinney , who advertised himself as a senior strategist for Newsom , helped run the then-lieutenant governor ’ s 2016 campaign to legalize marijuana .
For years , Kinney has worked behind the scenes to strengthen Newsom ’ s relationships with influential leaders and delegates within the California Democratic Party , for which he has consulted during much of the last decade .
But the French Laundry dinner has prompted Kinney to edit his list of clients .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ with the state Democratic Party this month .
The change came shortly before the governor ’ s office released a new ethics policy that prohibits anyone from working as a paid advisor to the party , the governor or his campaigns while also lobbying the administration .
The rule , which was introduced just weeks after the French Laundry dinner , applies to all of the consultants who were on the governor ’ s or the California Democratic Party ’ s payrolls when it was announced on Dec. 11 , Newsom ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ work with the party before that date and was not included on a list the governor ’ s office released of paid consultants who would be affected by the policy .
Like many established political operators in Sacramento , Kinney offers some services and communications strategy advice to the governor for free — a show of goodwill and a form of investment in a candidate — but has previously accepted payment to work on Newsom ’ s initiatives , state filings show .
The lobbying ban does not address Kinney ’ s unpaid @ @ @ @ @ @ @ roster of clients includes dialysis provider DaVita , Marathon Petroleum , Poseidon Water , Acadia Healthcare and several companies in the marijuana business .
Netflix executives hired Kinney ’ s firm this year to lobby for a change in state law that could have made the company eligible for a tax credit potentially worth millions of dollars , according to state filings .
Those familiar with the tax bill said it came from the governor ’ s office — with Kinney ’ s involvement — in the final hours of the legislative session @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that it required a special rule waiver to be considered .
The proposal ultimately failed , but records show that the Silicon Valley streaming giant paid Axiom Advisors $ 52,500 for working on the change to the tax credit from July through September .
Earlier filings show the firm received an additional $ 87,500 for working on “ tax issues ” for Netflix from April through June .
Kinney declined to say whether he discussed the tax credit proposal with Newsom or his staff .
Newsom did not respond to a question about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from his office and if he or anyone on his staff discussed it with Kinney .
Sources close to the governor say he and Kinney have long been cognizant of the potential for conflicts of interest stemming from their relationship and note that Newsom scrutinizes issues involving any of his political advisors .
Newsom ’ s departing chief of staff , Ann O ’ Leary , also tried to establish boundaries and screen outside advisors for potential conflicts , according to the sources .
After announcing the new lobbying policy this month , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s political watchdog agency for ideas on practices to further limit undue influence .
During Newsom ’ s transition into the governor ’ s office in late 2018 , Kinney ‘ s firm said he recommended candidates for jobs in the administration , an unpaid volunteer role that also has been deleted from his biography on the Axiom Advisors website .
Kinney declined to answer a question about whether he has ever lobbied any of the people he recommended after they landed positions in the administration , or connected them to other members @ @ @ @ @ @ @ before Newsom was sworn in , a spokesman for the governor said he adopted a rule that prevented those who worked on the transition from lobbying transition officials .
Kinney already had deregistered as a lobbyist before working on the transition .
But that ban , the governor ’ s staff said , was short-lived and ended when Newsom officially took office .
Three weeks after Newsom was inaugurated as California ’ s 40th governor — delivering a speech Kinney helped craft — Kinney registered as a lobbyist for his new firm , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to advise the politicians they seek to influence .
Government accountability advocates , including Rusch of CalPIRG , say that even if efforts were made to address lobbyists influencing the elected officials they advise , it would be difficult to establish effective legal boundaries on a tight friendship .
Kinney also has served as an advisor to Sacramento Mayor Darrell Steinberg and was a spokesman and communications strategist for the state Senate ’ s Democratic Caucus and president pro tem ’ s office .
Kevin de León , a former leader of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Los Angeles City Council , said Kinney ’ s work for him and his Democratic colleagues never conflicted with his lobbying clients .
“ He never , in one single instance , lobbied me on behalf of any of his clients , ” De León said .
“ He had the good sense to know you keep a separation of church and state.
” Kinney ’ s activities have drawn the attention of the state ’ s political watchdog agency in the past .
The Fair Political Practices Commission fined Kinney in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a lobbyist and file disclosures about his activities .
An examination of Axiom ’ s clients through filings with the secretary of state shows the firm has been hired by several companies seeking to influence the governor and his administration .
Some of those clients received favorable outcomes on their bills or issues , while others fell flat .
While Newsom grappled with the bankruptcy of PG & E , the largest investor-owned utility in California , Axiom made $ 220,000 to lobby him and the Legislature on behalf of a court-appointed panel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The firm wrote in court documents that it spent a significant amount of time meeting with lawmakers and the governor ’ s office to discuss a law that established a $ 21-billion fund for PG & E and Newsom ’ s approval of the company ’ s reorganization plan , both described as major milestones in the case .
Its work included efforts to “ understand the governor ’ s views regarding the plan.
” Weedn , Axiom ’ s spokeswoman , said Kinney “ did not lobby on behalf of the unsecured @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not had conversations with any officials about those issues.
” The Official Committee of Unsecured Creditors of PG & E , which represented financial institutions , contractors and electrical workers , paid Axiom $ 20,000 a month to lobby on the bankruptcy case for nearly a year .
Axiom was required to file court documents requesting that a judge approve the payments and detailed more than 500 hours of work .
Kinney reported a small number of hours worked , which included meetings with the Axiom team about the case , and other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the firm ’ s work , court filings show .
The firm said that Kinney ’ s work did not involve lobbying .
Meanwhile , California environmentalists and government watchdog groups have been sounding the alarm about Axiom ’ s ties to a major oil company with business before the Newsom administration : Aera Energy , a partnership of Shell Oil and ExxonMobil .
Since April , the California Geologic Energy Management Division , known as CalGEM , has issued more than 50 new hydraulic fracturing permits to Aera Energy and Chevron @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lobbying fees in 2019 and 2020 , records at the secretary of state ’ s office show .
The Newsom administration and CalGEM were listed among the agencies that Aera lobbied .
“ Newsom ’ s close personal relationship with Kinney raises serious concerns that corporations that pay big money to Axiom can obtain preferential treatment from the governor , ” said Derek Seidman of the Public Accountability Initiative , a Buffalo , N.Y.-based nonprofit focused on government and corporate accountability .
The oil permits issued to Aera came after a 2019 announcement @ @ @ @ @ @ @ new hydraulic fracturing permits until the projects could be reviewed by an independent panel of scientists at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory .
State Oil and Gas Supervisor Uduak-Joe Ntuk said in August that the permits issued since April underwent that independent environmental review .
In October , Newsom called on the California Legislature to ban hydraulic fracturing , an action he said is not within his executive authority as governor — an opinion disputed by environmentalists .
Less than 10 days after Newsom made that announcement , CalGEM issued six new fracking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Aera , Axiom also lobbied legislators on a bill that would have mandated health and safety buffer zones around oil and gas wells and refineries near schools , playgrounds , nursing homes and other sensitive residential areas .
The legislation was strongly opposed by the oil industry and failed to pass in the state Senate .
Weedn said Kinney did not conduct any work or receive any personal compensation from Aera .
With the coronavirus surging , large regions of the state under stay-at-home orders and a budding recall effort to boot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s French Laundry gaffe couldn ’ t come at a worse time , said Matt Rexroad , a former Yolo County supervisor and Republican political consultant .
“ It ’ s one little problem snowballing and becoming a big deal , ” Rexroad said .
“ Right now he ’ s under the microscope.
” Although Rexroad said Newsom ’ s decision to attend Kinney ’ s dinner raises questions about his leadership during the pandemic , he noted it ’ s not out of the ordinary for governors to have close friends @ @ @ @ @ @ @ moonlight as lobbyists .
“ It ’ s not a problem if the candidate and the consultant are both aware of the motives and it ’ s fully disclosed , ” Rexroad said .
“ The governor is a politician .
He ’ s going to hang out with political people , and Jason Kinney is a political person .
”

California Gov. Gavin Newsom has had a long friendship with Jason Kinney, a lobbyist who also acts as an advisor to the governor.
On the website of one of Sacramento’s most influential lobbying firms, partner Jason Kinney boasted of his close connection to Gavin Newsom, noting he has advised the governor for “nearly 14 years.”
The plug suddenly disappeared last month, days after Newsom drew national criticism for attending Kinney’s 50th birthday dinner at the famed Napa Valley restaurant the French Laundry.
The event turned into a political disaster for Newsom, drawing charges of hypocrisy at the very time the governor urged residents to avoid gatherings and stay home as much as possible amid an unprecedented surge in the coronavirus.
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But the episode also exposed something that has long been the subject of quiet discussion in Sacramento: Newsom’s decision to maintain a tight relationship with Kinney, who is director of a lobbying firm with business before the governor.
Kinney is well known around the state Capitol as a strategist, ghostwriter of Newsom’s speeches and unofficial fixer summoned to help loosen the governor from political jams. His dual roles as an advisor to Newsom and a lobbyist paid by companies to influence the governor and his staff have raised questions about potential conflicts of interest for the administration.
“I think it certainly can cause the public to question whether any advice the governor is getting is in the public interest or in the interest of the companies that have paid Kinney’s firm to lobby,” said Emily Rusch, executive director of the California Public Interest Research Group, an independent consumer advocacy organization. “It’s common sense to question that.”
Kinney’s firm, Axiom Advisors, has lobbied on behalf of several companies seeking to sway decision-making in Newsom’s office, including Netflix and unsecured creditors of Pacific Gas & Electric, records reviewed by The Times show. According to the firm, Kinney has built a firewall between his work for Newsom and Axiom’s clients, makes money only on work for his individual clients and does not profit from the firm’s overall earnings.
California law doesn’t expressly prohibit lobbying the administration while also advising the governor, and some of Newsom’s predecessors sought the input of Sacramento lobbyists.
Yet Kinney’s personal and professional alliance with Newsom has given him and his firm a unique position of power. In its list of the top players in state government and politics, Capitol Weekly described Kinney as “a sort of majordomo” for the governor who “makes strategic policy and political recommendations.” Axiom Advisors was launched shortly after Newsom’s election and has become one of the state’s top-grossing lobbying businesses.
The relationship, many in Sacramento say, was bound to draw attention to the ethical boundaries in the Newsom administration.
The Times spoke with more than two dozen lobbyists, Capitol staff members, legislators and political consultants about the governor’s work with Kinney. Many of them spoke on condition of anonymity, citing concerns that discussing Newsom and his advisor could affect their working relationships with both men.
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Newsom and his office declined to answer any questions for this story.
“The Governor has been successful throughout a twenty year career in public service because he makes decisions in the interest of the public good,” said Sahar Robertson, a spokeswoman for Newsom, in a statement. “His decisions are rooted in good public policy, and he’s never hesitated to say no to organizations and individuals he has long relationships with when their priorities run counter to the public good.”
Molly Weedn, a spokeswoman for Kinney, said he separates his role as “an outside communications advisor on political issues” from his lobbying work.
“He adheres to strict ethical standards and fully and transparently discloses all lobbying activity,” Weedn said. “He does not use his role as an advisor to benefit the firm’s clients.”
Axiom reported receiving $582,266 from clients in the first three months of Newsom’s term — a figure that ballooned to $2.3 million by the end of the second quarter. From Newsom’s inauguration in 2019 through the end of September 2020, Axiom reported a total of $10.9 million for lobbying work.
While apologizing during a news conference last month for attending the French Laundry dinner, Newsom described Kinney as a friend he’s known nearly two decades.
The relationship dates to Newsom’s time as a San Francisco supervisor. Kinney said he met Newsom in 2002 during a statewide homelessness conference while working as a senior communications advisor and chief speechwriter for former Democratic Gov. Gray Davis. He described Newsom as the one the “most capable, dedicated human beings I’ve ever met.”
Newsom “was literally one of the few elected leaders in the nation with the courage and compassion to talk honestly about California’s homelessness crisis, and he was putting smart, local solutions on the table to help people get off the streets,” Kinney said in a statement.
Kinney, who advertised himself as a senior strategist for Newsom, helped run the then-lieutenant governor’s 2016 campaign to legalize marijuana. For years, Kinney has worked behind the scenes to strengthen Newsom’s relationships with influential leaders and delegates within the California Democratic Party, for which he has consulted during much of the last decade.
But the French Laundry dinner has prompted Kinney to edit his list of clients.
His firm said he ended his work with the state Democratic Party this month. The change came shortly before the governor’s office released a new ethics policy that prohibits anyone from working as a paid advisor to the party, the governor or his campaigns while also lobbying the administration.
The rule, which was introduced just weeks after the French Laundry dinner, applies to all of the consultants who were on the governor’s or the California Democratic Party’s payrolls when it was announced on Dec. 11, Newsom’s office said. Kinney had ended his work with the party before that date and was not included on a list the governor’s office released of paid consultants who would be affected by the policy.
Like many established political operators in Sacramento, Kinney offers some services and communications strategy advice to the governor for free — a show of goodwill and a form of investment in a candidate — but has previously accepted payment to work on Newsom’s initiatives, state filings show. The lobbying ban does not address Kinney’s unpaid work for Newsom.
Axiom’s roster of clients includes dialysis provider DaVita, Marathon Petroleum, Poseidon Water, Acadia Healthcare and several companies in the marijuana business.
Netflix executives hired Kinney’s firm this year to lobby for a change in state law that could have made the company eligible for a tax credit potentially worth millions of dollars, according to state filings.
Those familiar with the tax bill said it came from the governor’s office — with Kinney’s involvement — in the final hours of the legislative session. The proposal was introduced so late that it required a special rule waiver to be considered.
The proposal ultimately failed, but records show that the Silicon Valley streaming giant paid Axiom Advisors $52,500 for working on the change to the tax credit from July through September. Earlier filings show the firm received an additional $87,500 for working on “tax issues” for Netflix from April through June.
Kinney declined to say whether he discussed the tax credit proposal with Newsom or his staff. Newsom did not respond to a question about whether the language in the proposal came from his office and if he or anyone on his staff discussed it with Kinney.
Sources close to the governor say he and Kinney have long been cognizant of the potential for conflicts of interest stemming from their relationship and note that Newsom scrutinizes issues involving any of his political advisors. Newsom’s departing chief of staff, Ann O’Leary, also tried to establish boundaries and screen outside advisors for potential conflicts, according to the sources. After announcing the new lobbying policy this month, O’Leary asked the state’s political watchdog agency for ideas on practices to further limit undue influence.
During Newsom’s transition into the governor’s office in late 2018, Kinney‘s firm said he recommended candidates for jobs in the administration, an unpaid volunteer role that also has been deleted from his biography on the Axiom Advisors website. Kinney declined to answer a question about whether he has ever lobbied any of the people he recommended after they landed positions in the administration, or connected them to other members of his firm.
In the weeks before Newsom was sworn in, a spokesman for the governor said he adopted a rule that prevented those who worked on the transition from lobbying transition officials. Kinney already had deregistered as a lobbyist before working on the transition. But that ban, the governor’s staff said, was short-lived and ended when Newsom officially took office.
Three weeks after Newsom was inaugurated as California’s 40th governor — delivering a speech Kinney helped craft — Kinney registered as a lobbyist for his new firm, Axiom Advisors.
California laws allow lobbyists to advise the politicians they seek to influence. Government accountability advocates, including Rusch of CalPIRG, say that even if efforts were made to address lobbyists influencing the elected officials they advise, it would be difficult to establish effective legal boundaries on a tight friendship.
Kinney also has served as an advisor to Sacramento Mayor Darrell Steinberg and was a spokesman and communications strategist for the state Senate’s Democratic Caucus and president pro tem’s office.
Kevin de León, a former leader of the state Senate who recently was elected to the Los Angeles City Council, said Kinney’s work for him and his Democratic colleagues never conflicted with his lobbying clients.
“He never, in one single instance, lobbied me on behalf of any of his clients,” De León said. “He had the good sense to know you keep a separation of church and state.”
Kinney’s activities have drawn the attention of the state’s political watchdog agency in the past. The Fair Political Practices Commission fined Kinney in 2013 for failing to properly register as a lobbyist and file disclosures about his activities.
An examination of Axiom’s clients through filings with the secretary of state shows the firm has been hired by several companies seeking to influence the governor and his administration. Some of those clients received favorable outcomes on their bills or issues, while others fell flat.
While Newsom grappled with the bankruptcy of PG&E, the largest investor-owned utility in California, Axiom made $220,000 to lobby him and the Legislature on behalf of a court-appointed panel of the company’s creditors.
The firm wrote in court documents that it spent a significant amount of time meeting with lawmakers and the governor’s office to discuss a law that established a $21-billion fund for PG&E and Newsom’s approval of the company’s reorganization plan, both described as major milestones in the case. Its work included efforts to “understand the governor’s views regarding the plan.”
Weedn, Axiom’s spokeswoman, said Kinney “did not lobby on behalf of the unsecured creditors of PG&E and has not had conversations with any officials about those issues.”
The Official Committee of Unsecured Creditors of PG&E, which represented financial institutions, contractors and electrical workers, paid Axiom $20,000 a month to lobby on the bankruptcy case for nearly a year. Axiom was required to file court documents requesting that a judge approve the payments and detailed more than 500 hours of work. Kinney reported a small number of hours worked, which included meetings with the Axiom team about the case, and other lobbyists on his team performed the bulk of the firm’s work, court filings show. The firm said that Kinney’s work did not involve lobbying.
Meanwhile, California environmentalists and government watchdog groups have been sounding the alarm about Axiom’s ties to a major oil company with business before the Newsom administration: Aera Energy, a partnership of Shell Oil and ExxonMobil.
Since April, the California Geologic Energy Management Division, known as CalGEM, has issued more than 50 new hydraulic fracturing permits to Aera Energy and Chevron.
Aera paid Axiom $200,000 in lobbying fees in 2019 and 2020, records at the secretary of state’s office show. The Newsom administration and CalGEM were listed among the agencies that Aera lobbied.
“Newsom’s close personal relationship with Kinney raises serious concerns that corporations that pay big money to Axiom can obtain preferential treatment from the governor,” said Derek Seidman of the Public Accountability Initiative, a Buffalo, N.Y.-based nonprofit focused on government and corporate accountability.
The oil permits issued to Aera came after a 2019 announcement by Newsom that he would temporarily block new hydraulic fracturing permits until the projects could be reviewed by an independent panel of scientists at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. State Oil and Gas Supervisor Uduak-Joe Ntuk said in August that the permits issued since April underwent that independent environmental review.
In October, Newsom called on the California Legislature to ban hydraulic fracturing, an action he said is not within his executive authority as governor — an opinion disputed by environmentalists.
Less than 10 days after Newsom made that announcement, CalGEM issued six new fracking permits to Aera Energy.
On behalf of Aera, Axiom also lobbied legislators on a bill that would have mandated health and safety buffer zones around oil and gas wells and refineries near schools, playgrounds, nursing homes and other sensitive residential areas. The legislation was strongly opposed by the oil industry and failed to pass in the state Senate.
Weedn said Kinney did not conduct any work or receive any personal compensation from Aera.
With the coronavirus surging, large regions of the state under stay-at-home orders and a budding recall effort to boot him from office, the governor’s French Laundry gaffe couldn’t come at a worse time, said Matt Rexroad, a former Yolo County supervisor and Republican political consultant.
“It’s one little problem snowballing and becoming a big deal,” Rexroad said. “Right now he’s under the microscope.”
Although Rexroad said Newsom’s decision to attend Kinney’s dinner raises questions about his leadership during the pandemic, he noted it’s not out of the ordinary for governors to have close friends who work as their political consultants and moonlight as lobbyists.
“It’s not a problem if the candidate and the consultant are both aware of the motives and it’s fully disclosed,” Rexroad said. “The governor is a politician. He’s going to hang out with political people, and Jason Kinney is a political person.”


latimes--2020-12-31--'My mom died last night' A teacher lost to COVID-19, leaving a young son and so many others reeling

Two weeks before Christmas , Lisa Agredano asked her 15-year-old son , Manny , to open some of the gifts she bought him .
“ No , Mom , wait till Christmas , ” he told her gently .
“ I want it to be a surprise.
” Lisa , a 50-year-old single mom , was insistent .
She had bought her only son new clothing repping his favorite football team , the Las Vegas Raiders , and she wanted to watch as he opened it .
Manny gave in to his mother ’ s wishes .
That same day @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me a text message : I ’ m scared my fever won ’ t break .
She had tested positive for COVID-19 a few days earlier .
She didn ’ t want to go to the hospital .
I don ’ t want to leave my Manny , she wrote .
At 9:56 a.m. on Sunday , Dec. 13 , my phone rang .
“ Lisa Agredano , ” it read .
Relief washed over me .
She hadn ’ t been responding to messages .
Then I heard Manny ’ s voice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother and his grandfather , Manuel , the man he was named after .
Five days after losing his mother to the coronavirus , the soft-spoken Lawndale High School sophomore lost his 83-year-old grandfather to it , too .
As a reporter covering the coronavirus in California these last 10 months , I , like so many Americans , had become almost numb to the daily horrors — the number of new cases , the number of new deaths .
How do you process that much tragedy ?
How can you possibly wrap @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a hundred thousand Americans dead .
By November , a quarter million .
By this month , 300,000 .
For most of the year , I thanked God that no one close to me had gotten sick .
In November , everything changed .
My grandfather — a diesel mechanic and wheat farmer from rural Oklahoma who taught me that “ a cowboy never sits with his back to the door ” — died of complications from COVID-19 on Nov. 15 , the same day a colleague ’ s grandfather also died @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the new cases , suddenly became names I knew .
Immediate family members .
Friends .
And then we lost Lisa .
I met her two years ago at the South Bay day-care where she worked in the infant room .
I was a new mother bringing in my 6-month-old Charlie , who was going to be cared for by someone outside our family for the very first time .
I agonized over leaving my son .
But with a shy smile , Lisa — who called me not by my first name @ @ @ @ @ @ @ long after we became friends — assured me all would be OK. Every day , Lisa would grab my blue-eyed boy from me as soon as I walked in , wrapping him in a hug .
“ Therrrre ’ s my Charlie Charlie !
” she ’ d exclaim as he reached for her .
Lisa called all of the infants in that room “ my babies.
” She sang “ Twinkle , Twinkle , Little Star , ” off-key but enthusiastically , and she taught them sign language : Please .
More @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was almost as if growing up and leaving the infant room was the ultimate offense .
When my son started walking , she tried to hide it from other teachers so he could stay with her just a little longer .
The day he moved to the toddler room , she cried .
As transplants from rural Oklahoma , my husband and I have no family in California , so when she quietly offered to babysit , we took her up on it .
That ’ s how we met Manny , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother ’ s kind brown eyes .
For years , Lisa babysat in the evenings — even after a workday that started around 6:30 a.m. — and often brought Manny along so they could spend more time together .
My son took to Manny immediately , climbing all over him , showing him his Buzz Lightyear and Sheriff Woody toys .
Eventually , Lisa and Manny would come over just to have dinner and play with us in the park .
One afternoon , she and I watched as Manny helped Charlie blow @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Mom , ” she said of my son .
Of her own , she said , almost to herself : He has such a good heart .
Born at Torrance Memorial Medical Center on Dec. 29 , 1969 , Lisa was the youngest of seven children .
She loved baby dolls , and her dad , Manuel — a forklift driver who came to the U.S. as a young man from Guadalajara , Mexico — was always bringing her new ones , said Joyce Alonso , her 35-year-old niece from Torrance .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ herself , a part of her personality , she told me once , that came from being a chubby little girl .
A sensitive soul , she was constantly saying , “ I ’ m sorry.
” Her favorite movie was Disney ’ s “ Dumbo ” — in which the mama elephant , Mrs. Jumbo , is locked in a circus wagon after attacking a group of humans who taunted her son for his oversized ears .
The best-known song from that movie goes like this : Baby mine , dry your @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to my heart .
Never to part .
To Lisa , her son was always “ my Manny.
” “ When she found out she was pregnant with Manny , she was so excited , ” Joyce said .
“ She always wanted a baby , and when Manny came along , he was her pride and joy.
” Manny told me a week after she died that he had tagged along with Lisa to babysitting jobs since he was little .
While it could be tiring going after school , they shared @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It taught me a lot , how to take care of kids , ” he said .
“ I ’ m good at that now .
She was good at calming the babies down and making them laugh.
” He knew that “ she wanted me to have nice things , so she would work really hard.
” She loved to make Manny laugh .
In the car , she would blast Spanish-language music , roll down her windows and sing until she heard : “ Mom !
Roll up your windows !
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ with special needs and studied sign language at El Camino College , where she was one class short of a degree .
“ She ended up working with babies , but that turned out to be something she loved , ” Manny said .
Last month , Lisa and Manny went to a Vons , where a man working behind the counter at the bakery was hard of hearing .
They struck up a long conversation in sign language , with her saying the words aloud for Manny .
She worried she was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ told her she was good at it .
It made her happy , ” Manny said .
Manny knew his mother could scare easily .
If she got lost while driving , tears would well in her eyes until he calmed her down and looked up directions .
During annual flights to Mexico City to visit family , she would sit between her father and her son , squeezing their hands .
“ It felt good , ” Manny said .
“ I got to keep her calm .
I got to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the situation sometimes.
” When the world stopped in mid-March as the pandemic became a reality , I found myself crying again on the way to Charlie ’ s day-care , which stayed open even as schools quickly started shutting down .
Were we doing the right thing ?
I asked my husband .
Were we keeping our son safe ?
Were we putting his teachers , women we love , at risk ?
But then we saw Lisa ’ s blue Toyota sedan parked in its regular spot by the front @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from behind a face shield at first , then a whole series of Disney face masks as the weeks stretched into months .
She was happy to still be working , she told me .
And I was blessed to still have my job , too , she added .
It pained me to not be able to talk to her as much during the pandemic , with parents asked to not linger in the classrooms .
We would shout hellos through our masks and wave .
She told me she worried about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ early the morning of April 12 , Easter Sunday , she sent me a text : Good morning mom I lost my brother last night .
Her brother , Jessie Garibaldo , was 55 .
He had COVID-19 .
Even in her grief , everything for her was about those babies .
Before she got sick herself in early December , Lisa had already finished making Christmas gifts for all of their parents : coasters with the children ’ s pictures on them .
At work , Lisa ’ s big laugh could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her colleagues were always trying to coax it out of her .
Margie Molina , her co-worker and friend , would sneak up behind her , hide by the door if she was coming out of the bathroom , pop out at her when she was getting water .
“ Pinche Miss Margie !
You scared me !
” Lisa would shout every single time , before Margie quickly hugged her .
“ She was super funny — very emotional — but funny , ” said Margie , 30 .
“ That ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Her laugh is one of the things we won ’ t forget.
” Margie got Lisa to teach her some sign language , including a few bad words .
And she told Lisa that , as someone raised by a strong single mother , she truly admired how Lisa brought Manny with her to babysit so they had that time together .
I can ’ t count how many times since Lisa ’ s death that I ’ ve started crying at the thought of her not being there to watch my Charlie @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
He won ’ t remember this friend who loved him so dearly .
And her Manny — he ’ s surrounded by family who love him and is moving in with Joyce .
But after what COVID-19 took from the teenage boy , all I want to do is say to him what Lisa was always saying herself : I ’ m sorry .
Less than 48 hours after Lisa died , the first coronavirus vaccinations were given in the U.S .
When I spoke to him last week , Manny said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ here .
“ If only , ” he added , “ it would have been a lot sooner.
” He said he would always remember his mom ’ s joy , and the way she shared it .
“ I ’ m feeling OK , ” said the boy with his mother ’ s shy smile .
“ I know my mom would want me to be happy .
”

Two weeks before Christmas, Lisa Agredano asked her 15-year-old son, Manny, to open some of the gifts she bought him.
“No, Mom, wait till Christmas,” he told her gently. “I want it to be a surprise.”
Lisa, a 50-year-old single mom, was insistent. She had bought her only son new clothing repping his favorite football team, the Las Vegas Raiders, and she wanted to watch as he opened it. Manny gave in to his mother’s wishes.
That same day, Lisa, my friend, sent me a text message: I’m scared my fever won’t break.
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She had tested positive for COVID-19 a few days earlier. She didn’t want to go to the hospital. I don’t want to leave my Manny, she wrote.
At 9:56 a.m. on Sunday, Dec. 13, my phone rang. “Lisa Agredano,” it read. Relief washed over me. She hadn’t been responding to messages. Then I heard Manny’s voice.
“My mom died last night.”
Manny lived in Lawndale with his mother and his grandfather, Manuel, the man he was named after. Five days after losing his mother to the coronavirus, the soft-spoken Lawndale High School sophomore lost his 83-year-old grandfather to it, too.
As a reporter covering the coronavirus in California these last 10 months, I, like so many Americans, had become almost numb to the daily horrors — the number of new cases, the number of new deaths. How do you process that much tragedy? How can you possibly wrap your mind around it?
By May, a hundred thousand Americans dead. By November, a quarter million. By this month, 300,000.
For most of the year, I thanked God that no one close to me had gotten sick. In November, everything changed. My grandfather — a diesel mechanic and wheat farmer from rural Oklahoma who taught me that “a cowboy never sits with his back to the door” — died of complications from COVID-19 on Nov. 15, the same day a colleague’s grandfather also died of it.
The daily numbers, the new cases, suddenly became names I knew. Immediate family members. Friends.
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And then we lost Lisa.
I met her two years ago at the South Bay day-care where she worked in the infant room. I was a new mother bringing in my 6-month-old Charlie, who was going to be cared for by someone outside our family for the very first time. I agonized over leaving my son.
But with a shy smile, Lisa — who called me not by my first name, but by “Mom” even long after we became friends — assured me all would be OK.
Every day, Lisa would grab my blue-eyed boy from me as soon as I walked in, wrapping him in a hug. “Therrrre’s my Charlie Charlie!” she’d exclaim as he reached for her.
Lisa called all of the infants in that room “my babies.” She sang “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” off-key but enthusiastically, and she taught them sign language: Please. More. All done. Leche.
It was almost as if growing up and leaving the infant room was the ultimate offense. When my son started walking, she tried to hide it from other teachers so he could stay with her just a little longer. The day he moved to the toddler room, she cried.
Lisa Agredano with the reporter’s son, Charlie, in November 2019. (Hailey Branson-Potts / Los Angeles Times)
As transplants from rural Oklahoma, my husband and I have no family in California, so when she quietly offered to babysit, we took her up on it. That’s how we met Manny, a tall, bespectacled boy who shares his mother’s kind brown eyes.
For years, Lisa babysat in the evenings — even after a workday that started around 6:30 a.m. — and often brought Manny along so they could spend more time together. My son took to Manny immediately, climbing all over him, showing him his Buzz Lightyear and Sheriff Woody toys.
Eventually, Lisa and Manny would come over just to have dinner and play with us in the park. One afternoon, she and I watched as Manny helped Charlie blow bubbles.
“He’s beautiful, Mom,” she said of my son.
Of her own, she said, almost to herself: He has such a good heart.
Born at Torrance Memorial Medical Center on Dec. 29, 1969, Lisa was the youngest of seven children. She loved baby dolls, and her dad, Manuel — a forklift driver who came to the U.S. as a young man from Guadalajara, Mexico — was always bringing her new ones, said Joyce Alonso, her 35-year-old niece from Torrance.
Lisa could be shy and unsure of herself, a part of her personality, she told me once, that came from being a chubby little girl. A sensitive soul, she was constantly saying, “I’m sorry.”
Her favorite movie was Disney’s “Dumbo” — in which the mama elephant, Mrs. Jumbo, is locked in a circus wagon after attacking a group of humans who taunted her son for his oversized ears. The best-known song from that movie goes like this: Baby mine, dry your eyes / Rest your head, close to my heart. Never to part.
Manny Agredano, center, with his grandfather, Manuel, and his mother, Lisa, both of whom died of COVID-19 in December 2020. (Agredano family)
To Lisa, her son was always “my Manny.”
“When she found out she was pregnant with Manny, she was so excited,” Joyce said. “She always wanted a baby, and when Manny came along, he was her pride and joy.”
Manny told me a week after she died that he had tagged along with Lisa to babysitting jobs since he was little. While it could be tiring going after school, they shared a lot of sweet moments.
“It taught me a lot, how to take care of kids,” he said. “I’m good at that now. She was good at calming the babies down and making them laugh.”
He knew that “she wanted me to have nice things, so she would work really hard.”
She loved to make Manny laugh. In the car, she would blast Spanish-language music, roll down her windows and sing until she heard: “Mom! Roll up your windows!”
Lisa wanted to work with children with special needs and studied sign language at El Camino College, where she was one class short of a degree.
“She ended up working with babies, but that turned out to be something she loved,” Manny said.
Last month, Lisa and Manny went to a Vons, where a man working behind the counter at the bakery was hard of hearing. They struck up a long conversation in sign language, with her saying the words aloud for Manny.
She worried she was a little rusty. But the man “told her she was good at it. It made her happy,” Manny said.
Manny knew his mother could scare easily. If she got lost while driving, tears would well in her eyes until he calmed her down and looked up directions. During annual flights to Mexico City to visit family, she would sit between her father and her son, squeezing their hands.
“It felt good,” Manny said. “I got to keep her calm. I got to be able to be the brave one in the situation sometimes.”
When the world stopped in mid-March as the pandemic became a reality, I found myself crying again on the way to Charlie’s day-care, which stayed open even as schools quickly started shutting down. Were we doing the right thing? I asked my husband. Were we keeping our son safe? Were we putting his teachers, women we love, at risk?
But then we saw Lisa’s blue Toyota sedan parked in its regular spot by the front door. We saw her smiling, from behind a face shield at first, then a whole series of Disney face masks as the weeks stretched into months.
She was happy to still be working, she told me. And I was blessed to still have my job, too, she added.
It pained me to not be able to talk to her as much during the pandemic, with parents asked to not linger in the classrooms. We would shout hellos through our masks and wave. She told me she worried about Manny and online schooling.
Then, early the morning of April 12, Easter Sunday, she sent me a text: Good morning mom I lost my brother last night.
Her brother, Jessie Garibaldo, was 55. He had COVID-19.
Even in her grief, everything for her was about those babies. Before she got sick herself in early December, Lisa had already finished making Christmas gifts for all of their parents: coasters with the children’s pictures on them.
At work, Lisa’s big laugh could be heard from every room, and her colleagues were always trying to coax it out of her.
Margie Molina, her co-worker and friend, would sneak up behind her, hide by the door if she was coming out of the bathroom, pop out at her when she was getting water.
“Pinche Miss Margie! You scared me!” Lisa would shout every single time, before Margie quickly hugged her.
“She was super funny — very emotional — but funny,” said Margie, 30. “That’s what made her Lisa. ... Her laugh is one of the things we won’t forget.”
Margie got Lisa to teach her some sign language, including a few bad words. And she told Lisa that, as someone raised by a strong single mother, she truly admired how Lisa brought Manny with her to babysit so they had that time together.
I can’t count how many times since Lisa’s death that I’ve started crying at the thought of her not being there to watch my Charlie grow. He’s 2 now. He won’t remember this friend who loved him so dearly.
And her Manny — he’s surrounded by family who love him and is moving in with Joyce.
But after what COVID-19 took from the teenage boy, all I want to do is say to him what Lisa was always saying herself: I’m sorry.
Less than 48 hours after Lisa died, the first coronavirus vaccinations were given in the U.S. When I spoke to him last week, Manny said he was so happy a vaccine was here.
“If only,” he added, “it would have been a lot sooner.”
He said he would always remember his mom’s joy, and the way she shared it.
“I’m feeling OK,” said the boy with his mother’s shy smile.
“I know my mom would want me to be happy.”


latimes--2020-12-31--Activists, Christian singer's fans clash on skid row over COVID-19 'super-spreader' concert

Dozens of evangelical Christians and activists skirmished in the streets of skid row Wednesday night as controversial evangelical Christian singer Sean Feucht ’ s followers arrived for a homeless outreach event .
Activists assembled dozens of vehicles leading into skid row to try to block Feucht , who has staged largely maskless concerts nationwide to protest COVID-19 restrictions on religious worship .
The protesters worried the outreach could catalyze a coronavirus super-spreader event among skid row ’ s vulnerable homeless population .
Officers from the Los Angeles Police Department were on hand to stop any violence , Mayor Eric Garcetti @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spilled out of the vehicles , chanting , “ No mask , go home ” and “ You don ’ t look like Jesus .
You came here to kill us.
” Feucht , apparently in response , moved the outreach a block away .
One maskless worshiper , wearing a T-shirt saying “ Jesus is my lifeguard , ” laid hands on a homeless man lying on the sidewalk , reciting “ Satan , be silent .
Go away.
” She waved off hand sanitizer , and dashed a mask a protester @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stamped on it .
But many of Feucht ’ s followers were in masks , although social distancing was nonexistent .
It was unclear , however , whether Feucht was present .
Feucht has another outreach planned for Thursday at a homeless tent city in Echo Park , and a concert and party scheduled that evening for a church parking lot in Valencia .
Stephen “ Cue ” Jn-Marie , pastor of skid row ’ s Church Without Walls and a blockade organizer , said activists plan to bring their protest to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for failing to stop Feucht ’ s gatherings .
“ They should have shut down this , ” Jn-Marie said .
“ I ’ m angry.
” Added Pete White , executive director of the Los Angeles Community Action Network : “ You can not bring a super-spreader event into a community as vulnerable as skid row and think people won ’ t show up .
Even when the city has refused to stop the event , the people will .
”

Dozens of evangelical Christians and activists skirmished in the streets of skid row Wednesday night as controversial evangelical Christian singer Sean Feucht’s followers arrived for a homeless outreach event.
Activists assembled dozens of vehicles leading into skid row to try to block Feucht, who has staged largely maskless concerts nationwide to protest COVID-19 restrictions on religious worship. The protesters worried the outreach could catalyze a coronavirus super-spreader event among skid row’s vulnerable homeless population.
Officers from the Los Angeles Police Department were on hand to stop any violence, Mayor Eric Garcetti said earlier in the day. Protesters spilled out of the vehicles, chanting, “No mask, go home” and “You don’t look like Jesus. You came here to kill us.”
Feucht, apparently in response, moved the outreach a block away. One maskless worshiper, wearing a T-shirt saying “Jesus is my lifeguard,” laid hands on a homeless man lying on the sidewalk, reciting “Satan, be silent. Go away.” She waved off hand sanitizer, and dashed a mask a protester had handed her to the ground and stamped on it.
But many of Feucht’s followers were in masks, although social distancing was nonexistent. It was unclear, however, whether Feucht was present.
Pastor Stephen “Cue” Jn-Maria, left, of Church Without Walls, leads a chant during a “blockade’’ against evangelist Christian singer Sean Feucht’s event along 5th Street at Towne Avenue in skid row. (Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)
Feucht has another outreach planned for Thursday at a homeless tent city in Echo Park, and a concert and party scheduled that evening for a church parking lot in Valencia.
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Stephen “Cue” Jn-Marie, pastor of skid row’s Church Without Walls and a blockade organizer, said activists plan to bring their protest to the home of Garcetti, whom he blamed for failing to stop Feucht’s gatherings.
“They should have shut down this,” Jn-Marie said. “I’m angry.”
Added Pete White, executive director of the Los Angeles Community Action Network: “You cannot bring a super-spreader event into a community as vulnerable as skid row and think people won’t show up. Even when the city has refused to stop the event, the people will.”
This is absolutely insane— at the #seanfeucht resistance blockade pic.twitter.com/tMAuWFzrmJ — T (@waterspider__) December 31, 2020
Supporters of evangelist singer Sean Feucht pray while homeless advocates staged a blockade along 5th Street and Towne Avenue in Los Angeles. (Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)
Homeless advocates and their supporters stage a “blockade’’ against evangelist singer Sean Feucht in skid row along 5th Street at Towne Avenue. (Genaro Molina/Los Angeles Times)


latimes--2020-12-31--12th Foster Farms worker in the Central Valley dies of COVID-19, sparking new safety concerns

The death of a 12th Foster Farms worker from COVID-19 in California ’ s Central Valley is raising new concerns about safety at such food processing facilities .
The worker ’ s family said the employee , who was of Punjabi descent and in his 50s , had been called back into the Foster Farms poultry processing plant on Cherry Avenue in Fresno , got sick with COVID-19 and spent the last three weeks in an intensive care unit before dying over the weekend , according to Deep Singh , executive director of the Jakara Movement , a Central Valley @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Punjabi Sikh community .
The family said they believe the worker was infected at the plant because the family had avoided going out into the community other than for work or other essential reasons , Singh said .
Singh faulted Foster Farms for a “ callous lack of concern and protections that prioritize worker safety and their families.
” At least 193 people at the Cherry Avenue plant have tested positive for the coronavirus in recent weeks , about 20 % of the plant ’ s workers , according to the company @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Foster Farms for providing poor communication to workers in English , even though many in the workforce have limited English proficiency .
Community leaders also told The Times that the company has been asking employees to work overtime to keep production lines running amid absences .
Foster Farms has previously said that it is committed to the health and welfare of its employees and that it has implemented safety measures such as requiring the use of masks , installing partitions at workstations , staggering workers ’ breaks , expanding break areas , installing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ areas and testing employees weekly at all major processing facilities .
This is the third COVID-19 death of a worker at the Foster Farms Cherry Avenue plant in Fresno ; nine workers at the Livingston plant in Merced County have also died of COVID-19 .
“ We are saddened by the death at our Cherry Street plant and , out of respect for the family and loved ones , can provide no further details , ” said a statement from Foster Farms .
The company said the rate of positive coronavirus test results @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has been declining since mid-December .
Less than 1 % of the tests are coming back positive , it said .

The death of a 12th Foster Farms worker from COVID-19 in California’s Central Valley is raising new concerns about safety at such food processing facilities.
The worker’s family said the employee, who was of Punjabi descent and in his 50s, had been called back into the Foster Farms poultry processing plant on Cherry Avenue in Fresno, got sick with COVID-19 and spent the last three weeks in an intensive care unit before dying over the weekend, according to Deep Singh, executive director of the Jakara Movement, a Central Valley youth and family nonprofit that works with the Punjabi Sikh community.
The family said they believe the worker was infected at the plant because the family had avoided going out into the community other than for work or other essential reasons, Singh said.
Singh faulted Foster Farms for a “callous lack of concern and protections that prioritize worker safety and their families.” At least 193 people at the Cherry Avenue plant have tested positive for the coronavirus in recent weeks, about 20% of the plant’s workers, according to the company.
Family members of workers have criticized Foster Farms for providing poor communication to workers in English, even though many in the workforce have limited English proficiency.
Community leaders also told The Times that the company has been asking employees to work overtime to keep production lines running amid absences.
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Foster Farms has previously said that it is committed to the health and welfare of its employees and that it has implemented safety measures such as requiring the use of masks, installing partitions at workstations, staggering workers’ breaks, expanding break areas, installing portable HEPA air filters in common shared areas and testing employees weekly at all major processing facilities.
This is the third COVID-19 death of a worker at the Foster Farms Cherry Avenue plant in Fresno; nine workers at the Livingston plant in Merced County have also died of COVID-19.
“We are saddened by the death at our Cherry Street plant and, out of respect for the family and loved ones, can provide no further details,” said a statement from Foster Farms.
The company said the rate of positive coronavirus test results among workers at the Cherry Avenue plant has been declining since mid-December. Less than 1% of the tests are coming back positive, it said.


latimes--2020-12-31--'My mom died last night.' A teacher lost to COVID-19, leaving a young son and so many others reeling