latimes--2020-05-23--Column: First one death in the family, then another, and the toll kept mounting for Inglewood couple

The first death from COVID-19 came toward the end of the first week of May , and that alone was hard enough to deal with .
The came another death in the family , and another , and another .
Inglewood resident Tony Wafford and his wife Diane Walker lost four relatives to COVID-19 in a week .
“ They were dropping so fast , I couldn ’ t even register the loss , ” said Wafford .
“ My house looked like a florist ’ s shop , with flowers and fruit coming in from every direction.
” Walker @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s Department commander , counted off the deaths .
First , her 63-year-old brother died in Baltimore and exactly one week later Wafford ’ s 60-year-old brother died in Cincinnati .
In between , Wafford lost a 49-year-old nephew in Brooklyn and a 50-year-old nephew in Dallas .
Wafford learned of his Dallas nephew ’ s death when “ my daughter called , crying , ” he said .
“ That was her first cousin.
” For Wafford , grief and rage are sometimes hard to separate .
For decades , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ address disparities in disease rates among people of color .
As he sees it , the coronavirus is no equalizer .
It seeks out injustice and piles on , in Baltimore , in New York , in New Orleans , in Los Angeles and just about everywhere else it has hit , hitting African American families like his particularly hard .
“ COVID comes in and takes advantage of all the other issues you have , ” Wafford said , “ and with black people being No .
1 with every health problem @ @ @ @ @ @ @ just wreaked havoc.
” According to L.A. County health data , black people have been twice as likely to die of COVID-19 as white people , with the Latino death rate almost as high as that among blacks .
According to the county , people living in the most impoverished areas died of COVID-19 at a rate of 29 per 100,000 , compared with eight per 100,000 in some of the county ’ s most affluent areas .
Wafford said that among the four relatives he lost , only his brother could be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the other three had underlying health issues , despite being middle-class .
Wafford questioned the quality of the healthcare they got , and he also worries that his wife ’ s brother and his own brother may not have been as vigilant as they should have been about protecting themselves with masks and distancing .
“ It is such a tragic irony that Tony ’ s family is going through this , ” said UCLA psychologist Dr. Gail Wyatt , who told me she has worked with Wafford on public health outreach @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Wafford is the one who goes into the community and educates people who may not trust the healthcare system about what is available to them , whether for AIDS treatment or COVID-19 prevention .
Wyatt has seen up close how higher rates of diabetes and cardiovascular disease among low-income people and minorities put them at high risk for whatever ailment comes along .
“ All that ’ s changed is the disease ” he said .
They live in our most environmentally unhealthy and dangerous neighborhoods .
They don ’ t always have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , quality healthcare .
They struggle with trauma and the stress of daily struggle , and healthy food is not always easy to get or affordable .
“ If we knew how to take better care of ourselves , we wouldn ’ t be at such risk , ” said Wyatt .
“ This is a battle people themselves have to be engaged in .
We don ’ t talk enough about healthcare .
We talk about food , games , celebrities .
But we don ’ t talk about health.
” Wafford @ @ @ @ @ @ @ South Los Angeles clinic where he leads sessions on sexual and cardiovascular health .
Dr. Wilbert Jordan , who runs the clinic , told me he learns a lot about his patients and the economic and cultural reasons for high rates of disease when he visits them in their homes .
“ You might see eight people sleeping to a room .
This is true of some blacks and some Latinos , ” Jordan said , and if one person is sick , everyone else in the room may soon be .
Jordan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ might also have been fueled by faith , in a manner of speaking .
“ Drive down any street in South Los Angeles and you ’ ll pass four or five small storefront churches , ” said Jordan , who suspects that , before social distancing began , congregants meeting in tight quarters may have been exposed .
On Friday morning , Dr. Elaine Batchlor got a text informing her of an increase in the number of COVID-19 patients on ventilators at Martin Luther King Community Hospital , where she is the chief @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hospitalized at MLK with the virus has remained fairly stable , at around 30 , Batchlor told me , but even without a pandemic , the hospital ’ s daily challenge is monumental .
“ In South L.A. we have a baseline of chronic disease that is poorly treated , ” Batchlor said .
“ We have over 100,000 visits to our ER each year because of the high rates of diabetes , hypertension , pulmonary disease and mental health conditions .
The rate of diabetes is over three times higher than average @ @ @ @ @ @ @ frequent procedures , ” Batchlor continued .
“ The average life expectancy in South L.A. is 10 years shorter than the California average.
” Why ?
Because 12 % of the patients have no insurance at all and 70 % have Medi-Cal , which means that the hospital has trouble recruiting doctors to work for the low reimbursement rates offered by the government health program .
And as if that isn ’ t a sad enough commentary on how fractured and unbalanced the healthcare system is in the world ’ s wealthiest nation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s projected $ 54-billion budget deficit has led to proposed cuts that include elimination of a supplemental fund that was established for King Community Hospital when it opened five years ago .
Batchlor said her hospital stands to lose $ 30 million .
“ That ’ s a devastating cut .
We ’ d have to close some services and eliminate some physicians , ” said Batchlor .
“ Thirty million dollars is 10 % of the budget.
” The proposed cut from Sacramento might be a tool to pry more money @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gaps created by the pandemic .
But just in case its doesn ’ t work , L.A. County Supervisor Mark Ridley Thomas says he and his colleagues are already lobbying state and federal officials to spare King Community Hospital from crippling cuts .
“ We absolutely have to keep the pressure up , ” said Ridley Thomas .
“ There is no sector that has more profound healthcare needs than the southeast quadrant of the county.
” Wafford , 63 , said one of the hardest things about his family ’ s ordeal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gather to honor those who had “ transitioned , ” as he called their passing .
Shaken by the lethal force of the virus , Wafford said he went in for a COVID-19 test .
Two weeks later , he still hadn ’ t gotten the results .
( I am still waiting , as of Friday , for the results of my own test , but I only had mine on Monday . )
Wafford said he was reminded of words spoken in 1966 by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. : “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ injustice in healthcare is the most shocking and inhumane.
” “ That ’ s more than 50 years ago , ” Wafford said , “ and it ’ s absolutely worse now .
”

The first death from COVID-19 came toward the end of the first week of May, and that alone was hard enough to deal with.
Then came another death in the family, and another, and another.
Inglewood resident Tony Wafford and his wife Diane Walker lost four relatives to COVID-19 in a week.
Advertisement
“They were dropping so fast, I couldn’t even register the loss,” said Wafford. “My house looked like a florist’s shop, with flowers and fruit coming in from every direction.”
Walker, a retired Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department commander, counted off the deaths. First, her 63-year-old brother died in Baltimore and exactly one week later Wafford’s 60-year-old brother died in Cincinnati. In between, Wafford lost a 49-year-old nephew in Brooklyn and a 50-year-old nephew in Dallas.
Martin Luther King Jr. Community Hospital, where this woman is being treated for COVID-19, has been hard hit by the coronavirus, and it now faces the possibility that state budget cuts will reduce its budget as well.
(Francine Orr/Los Angeles Times)
Wafford learned of his Dallas nephew’s death when “my daughter called, crying,” he said. “That was her first cousin.”
For Wafford, grief and rage are sometimes hard to separate. For decades, he has worked as a community activist to address disparities in disease rates among people of color. As he sees it, the coronavirus is no equalizer. It seeks out injustice and piles on, in Baltimore, in New York, in New Orleans, in Los Angeles and just about everywhere else it has hit, hitting African American families like his particularly hard.
“COVID comes in and takes advantage of all the other issues you have,” Wafford said, “and with black people being No. 1 with every health problem known to man, it’s just wreaked havoc.”
According to L.A. County health data, black people have been twice as likely to die of COVID-19 as white people, with the Latino death rate almost as high as that among blacks. According to the county, people living in the most impoverished areas died of COVID-19 at a rate of 29 per 100,000, compared with eight per 100,000 in some of the county’s most affluent areas.
Advertisement
Wafford said that among the four relatives he lost, only his brother could be called indigent. But at least two of the other three had underlying health issues, despite being middle-class. Wafford questioned the quality of the healthcare they got, and he also worries that his wife’s brother and his own brother may not have been as vigilant as they should have been about protecting themselves with masks and distancing.
“It is such a tragic irony that Tony’s family is going through this,” said UCLA psychologist Dr. Gail Wyatt, who told me she has worked with Wafford on public health outreach projects for more than 30 years. Wafford is the one who goes into the community and educates people who may not trust the healthcare system about what is available to them, whether for AIDS treatment or COVID-19 prevention.
Wafford at his home in Inglewood (Kent Nishimura/Los Angeles Times)
Wyatt has seen up close how higher rates of diabetes and cardiovascular disease among low-income people and minorities put them at high risk for whatever ailment comes along. “All that’s changed is the disease” he said.
They live in our most environmentally unhealthy and dangerous neighborhoods. They don’t always have access to good schools or to convenient, quality healthcare. They struggle with trauma and the stress of daily struggle, and healthy food is not always easy to get or affordable.
“If we knew how to take better care of ourselves, we wouldn’t be at such risk,” said Wyatt. “This is a battle people themselves have to be engaged in. We don’t talk enough about healthcare. We talk about food, games, celebrities. But we don’t talk about health.”
Wafford had been working of late at a South Los Angeles clinic where he leads sessions on sexual and cardiovascular health. Dr. Wilbert Jordan, who runs the clinic, told me he learns a lot about his patients and the economic and cultural reasons for high rates of disease when he visits them in their homes.
“You might see eight people sleeping to a room. This is true of some blacks and some Latinos,” Jordan said, and if one person is sick, everyone else in the room may soon be.
Jordan added that the spread of the virus might also have been fueled by faith, in a manner of speaking.
“Drive down any street in South Los Angeles and you’ll pass four or five small storefront churches,” said Jordan, who suspects that, before social distancing began, congregants meeting in tight quarters may have been exposed.
Doctors and nurses rush in to save a patient’s life in the ICU unit at Martin Luther King, Jr., Community Hospital. (Francine Orr/Los Angeles Times)
On Friday morning, Dr. Elaine Batchlor got a text informing her of an increase in the number of COVID-19 patients on ventilators at Martin Luther King Community Hospital, where she is the chief executive. The total number of patients hospitalized at MLK with the virus has remained fairly stable, at around 30, Batchlor told me, but even without a pandemic, the hospital’s daily challenge is monumental.
“In South L.A. we have a baseline of chronic disease that is poorly treated,” Batchlor said.
“We have over 100,000 visits to our ER each year because of the high rates of diabetes, hypertension, pulmonary disease and mental health conditions. The rate of diabetes is over three times higher than average, and amputations are among our most frequent procedures,” Batchlor continued.
“The average life expectancy in South L.A. is 10 years shorter than the California average.”
Why? Because 12% of the patients have no insurance at all and 70% have Medi-Cal, which means that the hospital has trouble recruiting doctors to work for the low reimbursement rates offered by the government health program.
And as if that isn’t a sad enough commentary on how fractured and unbalanced the healthcare system is in the world’s wealthiest nation ever, consider this:
The state’s projected $54-billion budget deficit has led to proposed cuts that include elimination of a supplemental fund that was established for King Community Hospital when it opened five years ago. Batchlor said her hospital stands to lose $30 million.
“That’s a devastating cut. We’d have to close some services and eliminate some physicians,” said Batchlor. “Thirty million dollars is 10% of the budget.”
The proposed cut from Sacramento might be a tool to pry more money out of the federal government for budget gaps created by the pandemic. But just in case its doesn’t work, L.A. County Supervisor Mark Ridley Thomas says he and his colleagues are already lobbying state and federal officials to spare King Community Hospital from crippling cuts.
“We absolutely have to keep the pressure up,” said Ridley Thomas. “There is no sector that has more profound healthcare needs than the southeast quadrant of the county.”
Wafford, 63, said one of the hardest things about his family’s ordeal was that loved ones couldn’t gather to honor those who had “transitioned,” as he called their passing. Shaken by the lethal force of the virus, Wafford said he went in for a COVID-19 test. Two weeks later, he still hadn’t gotten the results. (I am still waiting, as of Friday, for the results of my own test, but I only had mine on Monday.)
Wafford said he was reminded of words spoken in 1966 by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.:
“Of all the forms of inequality, injustice in healthcare is the most shocking and inhumane.”
“That’s more than 50 years ago,” Wafford said, “and it’s absolutely worse now.”
steve.lopez@latimes.com


latimes--2020-05-23--Marin's health officer developed antibodies. He's now in a unique spot to fight coronavirus

Dr. Matt Willis holds the dubious distinction of being one of the only California public health officers known to have come down with COVID-19 .
He may also be the state ’ s only public health officer to have developed antibodies to the coronavirus .
That potentially puts him in the category of “ super-worker ” — someone who can operate freely with little risk of re-infection — except that much remains unknown about developing immunity to the virus .
His unique status is not one that Willis expected when he fell ill in March , just as he was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the pandemic .
“ I was sure when I got the disease that in a few months , everyone was going to get it , ” he said .
“ I was certain my story was going to be boring .
Just one of many .
That hasn ’ t really happened.
” In an interview Tuesday at the Marin County Emergency Operations Center in San Rafael , Willis , 54 , said he thinks he was infected at a joint Bay Area county news conference on March 16 in Santa Clara — @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were telling people not to wear masks.
” Even though he was socially distanced from the five other Bay Area county public health officers — as they announced some of the nation ’ s earliest and most stringent shelter-in-place orders — they were in an enclosed space , in front of a jostling throng of unmasked reporters , photographers and videographers .
“ It feels like a lifetime ago , ” he said , cringing at his memory of the virally unaware behavior that took place that day — behavior that now seems @ @ @ @ @ @ @ conference room , Willis spoke about his illness , his concerns for his community , his uncertainty about the disease and his hopes for a slow , uneventful reopening of the county where he grew up , and returned to in 2012 to raise his own family .
Willis , who once raced with the U.S. National Cycling Team , has worked around the nation as an infectious disease expert with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and with the Navajo nation .
His biggest concern now : “ More than 95 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Testing — both RNA and antibody — indicates that roughly 1 % of the population , “ maybe 5 % ” has been infected , he said .
That means the disease has barely yet made an imprint on his community .
“ We ’ re really still near the beginning of this , ” he said .
One of the more baffling aspects about the disease , he said , comes from his own family ’ s experience with it .
Willis is married with three children , ages 10 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feeling ill , on March 20 , he was able to schedule a test the following day at one of Marin County ’ s first drive-through testing clinics .
“ I was kind of like a secret shopper , ” he said , rolling into the clinic to get swabbed and to see how it was functioning .
A day later he got the news : He had tested positive .
Willis , the public health officer , had to let the public know .
He delivered a video message that night from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his 20-year-old daughter got the disease .
And then his 16-year-old son .
But his wife , who is also a physician , and his 10-year-old son never became infected — despite being in the same house .
Willis said that once each of them developed symptoms , they self-quarantined in separate rooms .
But before that , while he and his two infected children were asymptomatic , they were presumably shedding virus and exposing others .
Especially his wife , who continued to care for them all .
He said she ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the virus , and at least once for the antibodies .
All her test results have been negative .
Willis has also had two antibody tests , both of which were positive .
“ People now use my serum as a way of validating their tests , ” he said .
Then there ’ s the range of symptoms his family experienced .
Willis ’ 16-year-old son had two days of a high fever , during which he mostly slept .
His 20-year-old daughter had a longer bout , with the classic respiratory @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , as well as fever .
Willis , who had the worst case — he was out of commission for nearly three weeks — also had the “ most random and diverse ” symptoms , he said .
Those included fever , cough , shortness of breath , low oxygen levels , headache , ringing ears , nausea , diarrhea , numbness in his hands and his toes turning purple — symptoms that ricocheted around his body .
“ It seemed to bounce around different systems .
Attacking different organs , ” he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , was respiratory distress along with general fatigue , “ like that truck-ran-over-you kind of feeling .
Literally getting up to go to the bathroom was like , ‘ Is it worth it ?
’ ” The variation that occurred within his own household suggests to Willis that there is still much unknown .
It will be critical for scientists , physicians and drug-makers to study the disease and its impact on different people , he said , in order to figure out its sometimes seemingly arbitrary behavior .
He also said he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that is also seeking answers to these questions — and turning to scientists and physicians for information .
“ There ’ s a healthy respect for science in Marin County , ” he said .
Which isn ’ t to say everyone is happy with the way he is doing his job .
He said he gets a lot of feedback from the county ’ s residents complaining that he ’ s opening things up too quickly , or too slowly , and that he ’ s being too protective , or not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Marin County ’ s Board of Supervisors , had only praise for Willis ’ performance in flattening the curve while “ balancing the risk of the reopening of our economy at the appropriate time.
” Willis has secured for the county 1,000 pulse oximeters , devices that measure blood oxygen levels , so that people who get the disease can monitor themselves from home .
Those will be included in home-kits that the county has prepared for COVID-19 patients , which also include a thermometer , sanitizer and masks .
He said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and made clear the challenges that others will face when they get the disease .
“ I couldn ’ t get out of bed .
I could barely function , ” he said , underscoring the privileges he was afforded by being married , having space in the house to quarantine , and being part of a network of doctors who helped him .
“ I can ’ t imagine doing it while trying to work , or caring for small children , alone.
” Asked if he now feels invincible , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and carries the antibodies , he said no .
But he is somewhat comforted to know that when he has a runny nose , it ’ s probably just allergies .
He said there ’ s still too little information to know whether he ’ s actually protected from the disease , or how long any immunity might last .
Therefore , he behaves as he ’ d want all of his neighbors to behave : He wears a mask , he limits his time away from home to essential travel and is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ others .
He also has lingering effects from the disease : He gets winded easily , and his hands get splotchy areas when he ’ s been sitting still for a time .
“ That is totally new .
I never had that before , ” he said , looking down at his hands .
He said the experience of being a public health officer , during this time , has its similarities to those he endured as a professional cyclist .
It was through cycling , he said , that he learned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ teamwork , working through hard patches and coming out the other side .
”

Dr. Matt Willis holds the dubious distinction of being one of the only California public health officers known to have come down with COVID-19.
He may also be the state’s only public health officer to have developed antibodies to the coronavirus. That potentially puts him in the category of “super-worker” — someone who can operate freely with little risk of re-infection — except that much remains unknown about developing immunity to the virus.
His unique status is not one that Willis expected when he fell ill in March, just as he was leading his county’s response to the pandemic.
“I was sure when I got the disease that in a few months, everyone was going to get it,” he said. “I was certain my story was going to be boring. Just one of many. That hasn’t really happened.”
Advertisement
In an interview Tuesday at the Marin County Emergency Operations Center in San Rafael, Willis, 54, said he thinks he was infected at a joint Bay Area county news conference on March 16 in Santa Clara — “back in the days when we were telling people not to wear masks.”
Even though he was socially distanced from the five other Bay Area county public health officers — as they announced some of the nation’s earliest and most stringent shelter-in-place orders — they were in an enclosed space, in front of a jostling throng of unmasked reporters, photographers and videographers.
“It feels like a lifetime ago,” he said, cringing at his memory of the virally unaware behavior that took place that day — behavior that now seems foolhardy and dangerous.
Science & Medicine Sign up for our free Coronavirus Today newsletter We’ll bring you the latest news, our best stories and what they mean for you — plus answer your burning COVID-19 questions.
Sitting in a conference room, Willis spoke about his illness, his concerns for his community, his uncertainty about the disease and his hopes for a slow, uneventful reopening of the county where he grew up, and where he returned in 2012 to raise his own family.
Willis, who once raced with the U.S. National Cycling Team, has worked around the nation as an infectious disease expert with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and with the Navajo nation.
His biggest concern now: “More than 95% of the public is still susceptible.”
Advertisement
Testing — both RNA and antibody — indicates that roughly 1% of the population, “maybe 5%,” has been infected, he said. That means the disease has barely yet made an imprint on his community.
“We’re really still near the beginning of this,” he said.
One of the more baffling aspects about the disease, he said, comes from his own family’s experience with it.
Willis is married with three children, ages 10, 16 and 20.
When Willis started feeling ill, on March 20, he was able to schedule a test the following day at one of Marin County’s first drive-through testing clinics.
“I was kind of like a secret shopper,” he said, rolling into the clinic to get swabbed and to see how it was functioning.
A day later he got the news: He had tested positive. Willis, as public health officer, had to let the public know. He delivered a video message that night from home describing his situation.
Within days his 20-year-old daughter got the disease. And then his 16-year-old son. But his wife, who is also a physician, and his 10-year-old son never became infected — despite being in the same house.
Willis said that once each of them developed symptoms, they self-quarantined in separate rooms. But before that, while he and his two infected children were asymptomatic, they were presumably shedding virus and exposing others.
Especially his wife, who continued to care for them all. He said she’s now been tested three times for the virus, and at least once for the antibodies. All her test results have been negative.
Willis has also had two antibody tests, both of which were positive.
“People now use my serum as a way of validating their tests,” he said.
Then there’s the range of symptoms his family experienced. Willis’ 16-year-old son had two days of a high fever, during which he mostly slept.
His 20-year-old daughter had a longer bout, with the classic respiratory symptoms of cough and shortness of breath, as well as fever.
Willis, who had the worst case — he was out of commission for nearly three weeks — also had the “most random and diverse” symptoms, he said.
Those included fever, cough, shortness of breath, low oxygen levels, headache, ringing ears, nausea, diarrhea, numbness in his hands and his toes turning purple — symptoms that ricocheted around his body.
“It seemed to bounce around different systems. Attacking different organs,” he said.
Most consistent, he said, was respiratory distress along with general fatigue, “like that truck-ran-over-you kind of feeling. Literally getting up to go to the bathroom was like, ‘Is it worth it?’”
The variation that occurred within his own household suggests to Willis that there is still much unknown. It will be crucial for scientists, physicians and drugmakers to study the disease and its effects on different people, he said, in order to figure out its sometimes seemingly random behavior.
He also said he feels fortunate to live in a community that is also seeking answers to these questions — and turning to scientists and physicians for information.
“There’s a healthy respect for science in Marin County,” he said.
Which isn’t to say everyone is happy with the way he is doing his job. He said he gets a lot of feedback from the county’s residents complaining that he’s opening things up too quickly, or too slowly, and that he’s being too protective, or not enough.
Dennis Rodoni, a member of Marin County’s Board of Supervisors, had only praise for Willis’ performance in flattening the curve while “balancing the risk of the reopening of our economy at the appropriate time.”
Willis has secured for the county 1,000 pulse oximeters, devices that measure blood oxygen levels, so that people who get the disease can monitor themselves from home. Those will be included in home kits that the county has prepared for COVID-19 patients, which also include a thermometer, sanitizer and masks.
He said his experience with the disease was humbling and made clear the challenges that others will face when they get the disease.
“I couldn’t get out of bed. I could barely function,” he said, underscoring the privileges he was afforded by being married, having space in the house to quarantine, and being part of a network of doctors who helped him. “I can’t imagine doing it while trying to work, or caring for small children, alone.”
Asked if he now feels invincible because he’s had the virus and carries the antibodies, he said no. But he is somewhat comforted to know that when he has a runny nose, it’s probably just allergies.
He said there’s still too little information to know whether he’s actually protected from the disease, or how long any immunity might last. Therefore, he behaves as he’d want all of his neighbors to behave: He wears a mask, he limits his time away from home to essential travel and is vigilant about maintaining a healthy distance from others.
He also has lingering effects from the disease: He gets winded easily, and his hands get splotchy areas when he’s been sitting still for a time.
“That is totally new. I never had that before,” he said, looking down at his hands.
He said the experience of being a public health officer, during this time, has its similarities to those he endured as a professional cyclist.
It was through cycling, he said, that he learned about “stamina, the value of teamwork, working through hard patches and coming out the other side.”


latimes--2020-05-23--Column One: They survived a school shooting. Then coronavirus stole Saugus High's senior year

When Adam Bratt studied the faces of his Advanced Placement psychology students that morning in December , he saw trauma .
Little blue ribbons fluttered outside , and therapy dogs zigzagged through Saugus High School ’ s solemn campus .
In his classroom , Bratt locked eyes with his students , telling them he ’ d had a fulfilling career , and he wasn ’ t going to let the Nov. 14 shooting on their Santa Clarita campus define him .
He pulled up a PowerPoint presentation and flipped to a slide labeled “ The Game of Life , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of 33 things that his students , many of them seniors , had to look forward to .
“ Going on an ice cream date with your kid.
” That evening , when several students emailed asking for a copy of the PowerPoint , none could know that their opportunity to cross an item off the list — “ Bearing witness to a turning point in history ” — would arrive in a few months in the form of a global pandemic .
Born in the panicked days after 9/11 and into the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the high school class of 2020 has become a cohort bookended by two generation-defining tragedies .
They will soon graduate — most of them virtually — into a world whose routines are defined by a deadly disease and an economy potentially decimated to levels never before seen by their parents or even many of their grandparents .
“ We ’ ve really gone through it , ” said senior Megan Puettmann , one of the editors in chief of Saugus ’ yearbook , who in the hours after the shooting tweeted , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ EnoughIsEnough # GunControl , ” then spent the day after her classmates were gunned down thoughtfully responding to people tweeting at her that guns weren ’ t the problem .
When the pandemic shut down several end-of-senior-year traditions , Puettmann said , it only compounded the still-raw feelings of loss from that morning in November , when a student pulled a handgun from his backpack and shot several classmates , killing Dominic Blackwell , 14 , and Gracie Anne Muehlberger , 15 , before turning the gun on himself .
The slayings stunned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s sense of itself .
That week in Central Park , just down the street from campus , someone left a note in blue ink : '' Our safe , quiet town lost that title yesterday .
Now we ’ re just another statistic.
” At first , Puettmann dreaded returning to campus after the shooting , , fearing she ’ d flash back to the image of backpacks abandoned on the floor .
But she eventually returned , buoyed , in part , by anticipation for the next few months — attending @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yearbook she ’ d helped create , trying for a personal best in the 100-yard fly at swimming competitions .
That Friday afternoon , when Saugus students learned that they ’ d be out of school for three weeks because of the COVID-19 pandemic , the news came as a welcome relief to many .
An extended spring break , they thought , a breather .
A chance to start social distancing so they could all be back by graduation .
Andrei Mojica , Saugus ’ student body president , said he initially @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up on homework .
But he was monitoring the news , and his parents work as registered nurses — his mother in an ICU — so reality quickly settled in .
There would be no senior night for his lacrosse team , he realized , no more In-N-Out Burger hangs with his friends .
“ School just ended on a random Friday in March , ” Mojica said , sighing and explaining that , although he ’ d planned to attend the University of Washington , he recently made the difficult decision to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and the uncertainty during the pandemic .
For now , he said , he will study political science at the College of the Canyons in the fall .
Now that he knows he won ’ t return to Saugus , he wishes he had packed more into those last few weeks on campus — that he ’ d savored the last walk through the halls of the school that taught him about resilience and grit and empathy .
It feels like losing that tiny sliver of your life when the unencumbered lightness of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ adulthood .
That time , Mojica said , when you can drive yourself anywhere you want to go , but you ’ re not yet too worried about student debt .
Time to swap yearbooks and scrawl earnest things you ’ ve never told each other in person and to gather for “ senior sunset , ” when you roll out blankets and watch the glow melt into the horizon together .
On March 19 , the day Gov .
Gavin Newsom issued a statewide stay-at-home order , senior Priscilla Arguelles pulled out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sad for my class 2020 , ” she wrote , “ not being able to have prom or graduation , or just having our last few moments with friends and teachers we could never see again.
” Missing prom , in particular , bummed her out .
She already had a date , her best guy friend , and she had bought her dress , a red gown with an open back and a sparkly top , five months earlier , determined to wear something unique .
Most of all , she was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ friends .
She ’ d gotten close to many of them this year , she said , and it felt especially lucky after mostly keeping to herself junior year .
But the biggest disappointment for her and many of her classmates is graduation .
For years , Olivia White , one of Arguelles ’ friends , had envisioned that moment onstage when she would turn to look at her mother and father and grandmother in the crowd and beam beneath her white cap , a sign that she ’ d graduated with honors @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s dream , ” she said , adding that even though the school is planning a virtual graduation in June , she hopes there ’ s a chance for an in-person ceremony in the future .
On the day she found out she would finish her senior year online , White , not one to cry in front of others , went to her room and sobbed .
She thought about how fiercely she had wanted to avoid campus after the shooting and how completely she wanted to be back there now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ loved ones to the virus , and she felt anxious about her parents getting sick .
She thought about the economy — about people whose parents now couldn ’ t afford to help pay their college tuition and about how hard it would be for classmates who weren ’ t going to college to find a job this summer .
She thought about her fellow seniors and the year they ’ ve had .
“ We really didn ’ t get any good luck.
” Many Saugus seniors see their final year on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and after the shooting .
On Nov. 12 , Mojica retweeted rapper Lil Nas X , lightheartedly asking why , exactly , Clifford the Big Red Dog was so big .
His next tweet , two days later , was encouraging everyone to hug their loved ones tightly .
“ I love you all , ” he wrote .
“ Let ’ s stick together , Centurions.
” Around 7:30 a.m. on Nov. 14 , someone swung open the door of his AP government class to say there was a shooter on campus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ extinguisher and stood near the door .
In another classroom , White was correcting a math worksheet when students ran inside screaming , “ School shooter !
” She figured it was a false alarm like the one from freshman year .
But then a voice boomed over the intercom telling them to lock the doors and get down .
At 7:43 a.m. , while hunched on the carpet in the back of her classroom , she gripped her phone .
“ hey mom , ” she texted .
“ there is a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ classroom , Arguelles heard what she thought was a drum dropping in the nearby music room , but then she watched her teacher sprint to lock the door .
Arguelles ’ body started shaking , and she could tell she was wailing louder than anyone else in the classroom .
She clasped her hand over her mouth , and two words echoed in her mind : “ It ’ s happening.
” Nearly three weeks later , after vigils and funerals and Thanksgiving , they returned to campus , forever changed .
If @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they left one earbud out .
Whenever a silhouette whirred outside a classroom window , everyone ’ s heads swiveled in unison .
One morning in the middle of January , as they were beginning to get back into a groove , someone drove a school golf cart over a plastic water bottle , creating a loud popping sound .
Muscle memory kicked in , and students dropped their backpacks and ran .
Senior Carli Chorpash was still in her car when she saw a group of students running from campus .
Not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the sound of a trash-can lid slamming shut sometimes spooks her , and on Super Bowl Sunday , when she heard several loud pops — they turned out to be fireworks — she started crying , convinced there was a gunman on her street .
She has learned that healing from trauma isn ’ t linear .
Sometimes she goes a full week without thinking of the shooting , but the next week she thinks about it every day .
“ You have to be gentle with yourself , ” she said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ guidelines on how to heal from this.
” On the morning of the shooting , Bratt , the AP teacher , was pulling into a parking lot on a hill when he saw students sprinting toward him .
In nearly 30 years of teaching , six of them at Saugus , he had guided students through the days after 9/11 , earthquakes and fires .
All those tragedies had hit close to home , he said , but now one had hit home .
He later returned to that hill and listened to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was OK , he realized , and now he needed to focus on his students .
He became obsessed with finding ways to keep them connected to their education .
He still saw sadness in their eyes some days , but mostly he saw resilience .
Sometimes a student who had skipped a test a few days earlier would email him or come up to him in class , determined to catch up .
“ Bratt , when can I take the exam ?
” they ’ d ask .
He wouldn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he said .
But teaching , like life , is about learning to pivot .
In his class , they spend a lot of time talking about divergent thinking , about coming up with multiple solutions to a problem .
And this year ’ s seniors , Bratt said , will no doubt grow into some of the most divergent thinkers he ’ s ever taught .
“ Do a longitudinal study , ” he said , proudly .
“ Some of these kids are going to have the highest emotional intelligence you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ top of Bratt ’ s “ 33 things that still lie ahead ” PowerPoint from December , there was an entry in curling green letters : “ Graduating from school.
” But below that , in smaller font , a more universal adventure :

When Adam Bratt studied the faces of his Advanced Placement psychology students that morning in December, he saw trauma.
Little blue ribbons fluttered outside, and therapy dogs zigzagged through Saugus High School’s solemn campus. In his classroom, Bratt locked eyes with his students, telling them he’d had a fulfilling career, and he wasn’t going to let the Nov. 14 shooting on their Santa Clarita campus define him.
“You shouldn’t either,” he assured them.
He pulled up a PowerPoint presentation and flipped to a slide labeled “The Game of Life,” where he’d created a collage of 33 things that his students, many of them seniors, had to look forward to.
“Leaving a family home,” one read.
“Falling in love.”
“Going on an ice cream date with your kid.”
In nearly 30 years of teaching, Adam Bratt had guided students through the days after 9/11, earthquakes and fires. All those tragedies had hit close to home, he said, but the Saugus shooting hit home. (Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
That evening, when several students emailed asking for a copy of the PowerPoint, none could know that their opportunity to cross an item off the list — “Bearing witness to a turning point in history” — would arrive in a few months in the form of a global pandemic.
Born in the panicked days after 9/11 and into the dire reality of an increasingly inhospitable planet, the high school class of 2020 has become a cohort bookended by two generation-defining tragedies. They will soon graduate — most of them virtually — into a world whose routines are defined by a deadly disease and an economy potentially decimated to levels never before seen by their parents or even many of their grandparents.
‘Our safe, quiet town lost that title yesterday. Now we’re just another statistic.’ — Note placed at Central Park
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“We’ve really gone through it,” said senior Megan Puettmann, one of the editors in chief of Saugus’ yearbook, who in the hours after the shooting tweeted, “When will this stop? #EnoughIsEnough #GunControl,” then spent the day after her classmates were gunned down thoughtfully responding to people tweeting at her that guns weren’t the problem.
When the pandemic shut down several end-of-senior-year traditions, Puettmann said, it only compounded the still-raw feelings of loss from that morning in November, when a student pulled a handgun from his backpack and shot several classmates, killing Dominic Blackwell, 14, and Gracie Anne Muehlberger, 15, before turning the gun on himself.
The slayings stunned Saugus students and confounded Santa Clarita’s sense of itself. That week in Central Park, just down the street from campus, someone left a note in blue ink:”Our safe, quiet town lost that title yesterday. Now we’re just another statistic.”
Students sign a card in memory of 15-year-old Gracie Anne Muehlberger, who was killed in the shooting at Saugus. (Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)
At first, Puettmann dreaded returning to campus after the shooting, , fearing she’d flash back to the image of backpacks abandoned on the floor. But she eventually returned, buoyed, in part, by anticipation for the next few months — attending prom, laying her hands on the yearbook she’d helped create, trying for a personal best in the 100-yard fly at swimming competitions.
Then came March 13.
That Friday afternoon, when Saugus students learned that they’d be out of school for three weeks because of the COVID-19 pandemic, the news came as a welcome relief to many. An extended spring break, they thought, a breather. A chance to start social distancing so they could all be back by graduation.
Column One A showcase for compelling storytelling
from the Los Angeles Times. More stories
Andrei Mojica, Saugus’ student body president, said he initially relished the opportunity to chill and catch up on homework. But he was monitoring the news, and his parents work as registered nurses — his mother in an ICU — so reality quickly settled in. There would be no senior night for his lacrosse team, he realized, no more In-N-Out Burger hangs with his friends.
“School just ended on a random Friday in March,” Mojica said, sighing and explaining that, although he’d planned to attend the University of Washington, he recently made the difficult decision to waive his admission, given the cost and the uncertainty during the pandemic. For now, he said, he will study political science at the College of the Canyons in the fall.
Now that he knows he won’t return to Saugus, he wishes he had packed more into those last few weeks on campus — that he’d savored the last walk through the halls of the school that taught him about resilience and grit and empathy.
Andrei Mojica, student body president at Saugus, says he wishes he had savored the last few weeks on campus.
(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
It feels like losing that tiny sliver of your life when the unencumbered lightness of childhood momentarily overlaps with the freedoms of adulthood. That time, Mojica said, when you can drive yourself anywhere you want to go, but you’re not yet too worried about student debt.
Time to swap yearbooks and scrawl earnest things you’ve never told each other in person and to gather for “senior sunset,” when you roll out blankets and watch the glow melt into the horizon together.
On March 19, the day Gov. Gavin Newsom issued a statewide stay-at-home order, senior Priscilla Arguelles pulled out her journal.
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“i am so sad for my class 2020,” she wrote, “not being able to have prom or graduation, or just having our last few moments with friends and teachers we could never see again.”
Missing prom, in particular, bummed her out. She already had a date, her best guy friend, and she had bought her dress, a red gown with an open back and a sparkly top, five months earlier, determined to wear something unique. Most of all, she was excited to take photos with all her friends. She’d gotten close to many of them this year, she said, and it felt especially lucky after mostly keeping to herself junior year.
But the biggest disappointment for her and many of her classmates is graduation.
Senior Olivia White hopes there’s a chance for an in-person graduation ceremony in the future. (Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
For years, Olivia White, one of Arguelles’ friends, had envisioned that moment onstage when she would turn to look at her mother and father and grandmother in the crowd and beam beneath her white cap, a sign that she’d graduated with honors.
“It’s every kid’s dream,” she said, adding that even though the school is planning a virtual graduation in June, she hopes there’s a chance for an in-person ceremony in the future.
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On the day she found out she would finish her senior year online, White, not one to cry in front of others, went to her room and sobbed. She thought about how fiercely she had wanted to avoid campus after the shooting and how completely she wanted to be back there now.
She felt heartsick for people losing loved ones to the virus, and she felt anxious about her parents getting sick. She thought about the economy — about people whose parents now couldn’t afford to help pay their college tuition and about how hard it would be for classmates who weren’t going to college to find a job this summer. She thought about her fellow seniors and the year they’ve had.
“We really didn’t get any good luck.”
* * * * *
Many Saugus seniors see their final year on campus in two distinct chapters: before and after the shooting.
On Nov. 12, Mojica retweeted rapper Lil Nas X, lightheartedly asking why, exactly, Clifford the Big Red Dog was so big. His next tweet, two days later, was encouraging everyone to hug their loved ones tightly.
“I love you all,” he wrote. “Let’s stick together, Centurions.”
Around 7:30 a.m. on Nov. 14, someone swung open the door of his AP government class to say there was a shooter on campus. Terrified, Mojica grabbed a fire extinguisher and stood near the door.
In another classroom, White was correcting a math worksheet when students ran inside screaming, “School shooter!” She figured it was a false alarm like the one from freshman year. But then a voice boomed over the intercom telling them to lock the doors and get down. At 7:43 a.m., while hunched on the carpet in the back of her classroom, she gripped her phone.
“hey mom,” she texted. “there is a shooter on campus.”
“Omg,” her mother responded.
“one student got hit.”
“Ok stay hidden.”
In a different classroom, Arguelles heard what she thought was a drum dropping in the nearby music room, but then she watched her teacher sprint to lock the door. Arguelles’ body started shaking, and she could tell she was wailing louder than anyone else in the classroom. She clasped her hand over her mouth, and two words echoed in her mind: “It’s happening.”
Saugus High School is planning a virtual graduation in June. (Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
Nearly three weeks later, after vigils and funerals and Thanksgiving, they returned to campus, forever changed. If they listened to music while studying, they left one earbud out. Whenever a silhouette whirred outside a classroom window, everyone’s heads swiveled in unison.
One morning in the middle of January, as they were beginning to get back into a groove, someone drove a school golf cart over a plastic water bottle, creating a loud popping sound. Muscle memory kicked in, and students dropped their backpacks and ran.
Senior Carli Chorpash was still in her car when she saw a group of students running from campus. Not again, she thought. Even now, the sound of a trash-can lid slamming shut sometimes spooks her, and on Super Bowl Sunday, when she heard several loud pops — they turned out to be fireworks — she started crying, convinced there was a gunman on her street.
She has learned that healing from trauma isn’t linear. Sometimes she goes a full week without thinking of the shooting, but the next week she thinks about it every day.
“You have to be gentle with yourself,” she said. “There’s really no guidelines on how to heal from this.”
On the morning of the shooting, Bratt, the AP teacher, was pulling into a parking lot on a hill when he saw students sprinting toward him. In nearly 30 years of teaching, six of them at Saugus, he had guided students through the days after 9/11, earthquakes and fires. All those tragedies had hit close to home, he said, but now one had hit home.
Football fans at West Ranch High School offered support to Saugus in the wake of the shooting. Haley Sawyer)
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He later returned to that hill and listened to music for a couple hours. He was OK, he realized, and now he needed to focus on his students. He became obsessed with finding ways to keep them connected to their education. He still saw sadness in their eyes some days, but mostly he saw resilience.
Sometimes a student who had skipped a test a few days earlier would email him or come up to him in class, determined to catch up.
“Bratt, when can I take the exam?” they’d ask.
“You tell me!” he’d respond.
He wouldn’t always have reacted that way, he said. But teaching, like life, is about learning to pivot. In his class, they spend a lot of time talking about divergent thinking, about coming up with multiple solutions to a problem. And this year’s seniors, Bratt said, will no doubt grow into some of the most divergent thinkers he’s ever taught.
“Do a longitudinal study,” he said, proudly. “Some of these kids are going to have the highest emotional intelligence you’ll ever see.”
Toward the top of Bratt’s “33 things that still lie ahead” PowerPoint from December, there was an entry in curling green letters: “Graduating from school.”
But below that, in smaller font, a more universal adventure:
“Experiencing disappointment.”


latimes--2020-05-23--Teaching the coronavirus outbreak in Los Angeles as a crash course in crisis management

Crises disrupt .
Crises test us .
Crises force us to find new ways to function on the fly .
Zev Yaroslavsky knows this .
How could he not after nearly 40 years in public office in Los Angeles ?
The former longtime city councilman and county supervisor , who was at the center of our region ’ s every major moment for so long , knows just how much a crisis can teach us — about who we really are and what we need to care more about and what we have to do better and do differently .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ s Luskin School of Public Affairs , right as students were showing up on Zoom to take it , he scrapped his plans for the graduate-level seminar he ’ s been teaching for the last four springs on the leaders , institutions and interests that shape Los Angeles ’ civic policies and quality of life .
Once the coronavirus arrived , he told me of his usual curriculum , “ I thought to myself , this doesn ’ t make sense .
It feels trivial.
” So out went the old syllabus .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ crash course in real-time Los Angeles coronavirus crisis management .
Yaroslavsky , 71 , reached out to me to tell me about his class after I wrote in my column last week that in my ideal high school right now , I ’ d make the pandemic the textbook for everything .
That ’ s how he feels too , he told me , about the educational power of this time we are living in .
“ There comes a moment when you can change the trajectory of a student ’ s life @ @ @ @ @ @ @ This can be that moment.
” If you ’ ve lived in Los Angeles any length of time , you know those sharp brown eyes , you know that mustache , you know that blunt , sometimes gruff , no-nonsense voice .
You may have wondered where all that energy was going since Yaroslavsky termed out after five terms as a supervisor in 2014 .
In fact , he ’ s still a part of many a civic discussion — and is making good on his strong commitment , through his alma mater @ @ @ @ @ @ @ experience with the next generation of leaders .
Ordinarily in the spring seminar , Yaroslavsky and his former chief deputy and co-teacher , Alisa Belinkoff Katz , might draw on their vast contacts to bring in a city planner to talk about land-use policy , a prominent journalist to discuss how media coverage influences the public debate , the head of the L.A. Opera to talk about the role of arts and culture in the city .
In this new version of the class , L.A. County Supervisor Kathryn Barger spoke to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ televised daily coronavirus briefing .
Supervisor Mark Ridley-Thomas showed up to talk about efforts to help homeless and other marginalized communities in the crisis .
Elan Shultz , senior health deputy first for Yaroslavsky and then for his successor , Supervisor Sheila Kuehl , who is now on loan to the county ’ s Department of Health Services to serve as its COVID-19 community testing manager , spent more than two hours talking passionately about the many challenges — led by a lack of centralized federal leadership — complicating the public health response @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , executive director of the Coalition for Economic Survival , broke down for students the many ways in which the coronavirus crisis was rapidly exacerbating an already extreme crisis in housing affordability .
And each week Yaroslavsky has shared his own wisdom in analyzing the fast-changing government response to the virus .
Recently , he talked to students about the constant balancing act of Gov .
Gavin Newsom , Mayor Eric Garcetti and other public officials as they keep reiterating that they are going to be guided by science and data while simultaneously @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , offering a light at the end of the tunnel .
Any crisis , he told them , had a tipping point , when public sentiment would shift directions .
For now , Californians mostly were willing to follow the new rules — but chances are that pretty soon , many of them no longer would be .
Leaders have to pay close attention to those shifts , which can lead to a sudden lack of support , he said .
“ There ’ s a fine line between being a leader and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the class .
“ If you ’ re trying to lead and you have no followers , you ’ re a loner.
” The spring seminar , Yaroslavsky said , usually attracts students in such fields as urban planning , public health and environmental science who want to go into some form of government or nonprofit work .
What better way to counterbalance their theoretical and quantitative training than to show them real-world , life-and-death decision-making in the moment ?
And what else could his students really be expected to concentrate on fully @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weeks , he learned that three of them already had come down with the virus .
One was Dulce Vasquez , 34 , who works full time for Arizona State University and is about to graduate with a master ’ s in public policy .
She got sick in March and lost her sense of smell and taste , before that became a well-known symptom of the virus and before testing was widely available .
Asked why she took the seminar , she answered “ Zev , ” whom she described as an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to take his class regardless .
He could teach me how to make a pretzel .
That would be great , ” she said .
But what he ’ s been teaching her in this retooled seminar has gone beyond even her high expectations , she said .
“ I think the creativity and the work it took to shift the curriculum has been amazing.
” Spike Friedman , a former sports journalist who is getting a master ’ s in urban planning with a focus on housing policy , told me , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ particularly well suited to the moment .
It ’ s not the easiest time to concentrate on schoolwork .
This has been my most engaging class this quarter .
What you ’ re getting is up-to-the-second , really relevant information.
” Jason Ballou , 46 , who simultaneously is pursuing master ’ s degrees in public policy and social welfare , said he briefly thought about dropping the seminar when he learned that its focus had shifted to the coronavirus .
“ I thought , oh my gosh , I ’ m so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ told me .
“ That ’ s really all we ’ re going to talk about ?
” But then Barger appeared before the class from her office , straight from her briefing , at the tail end of an already long day .
Zoom somehow made the moment especially intimate .
Talking to the students while alone in her office , Barger took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes and the bridge of her nose .
He wears glasses too , Ballou told me , and recognized in these small gestures @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she talked about her fears of the virus ’ impact on those who are in the country without legal permission , as well as those who are stuck at home in abusive situations .
Ballou , who wants to help people in need , grew up in a small town in the Midwest where cynicism about politicians and public servants ran deep .
In that small , personal moment , he saw a very different , life-choice-affirming reality .
“ You could see how exhausted she was and how much she cared , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t get any more real than that.
” Or any more likely to form a lasting impression .

Former L.A. councilman and supervisor Zev Yaroslavsky on the rooftop balcony of the County Hall of Administration office in 2014, the year he was termed out of office.
Crises disrupt. Crises test us. Crises force us to find new ways to function on the fly.
Zev Yaroslavsky knows this. How could he not after nearly 40 years in public office in Los Angeles?
The former longtime city councilman and county supervisor, who was at the center of our region’s every major moment for so long, knows just how much a crisis can teach us — about who we really are and what we need to care more about and what we have to do better and do differently.
Advertisement
So in April, at UCLA’s Luskin School of Public Affairs, right as students were showing up on Zoom to take it, he scrapped his plans for the graduate-level seminar he’s been teaching for the last four springs on the leaders, institutions and interests that shape Los Angeles’ civic policies and quality of life.
Once the coronavirus arrived, he told me of his usual curriculum, “I thought to myself, this doesn’t make sense. It feels trivial.”
So out went the old syllabus. In came a new one — a crash course in real-time Los Angeles coronavirus crisis management.
Yaroslavsky, 71, reached out to me to tell me about his class after I wrote in my column last week that in my ideal high school right now, I’d make the pandemic the textbook for everything.
That’s how he feels too, he told me, about the educational power of this time we are living in.
“There comes a moment when you can change the trajectory of a student’s life,” he told me. “This can be that moment.”
Advertisement
If you’ve lived in Los Angeles any length of time, you know those sharp brown eyes, you know that mustache, you know that blunt, sometimes gruff, no-nonsense voice. You may have wondered where all that energy was going since Yaroslavsky termed out after five terms as a supervisor in 2014.
In fact, he’s still a part of many a civic discussion — and is making good on his strong commitment, through his alma mater, UCLA, to share his vast experience with the next generation of leaders.
Ordinarily in the spring seminar, Yaroslavsky and his former chief deputy and co-teacher, Alisa Belinkoff Katz, might draw on their vast contacts to bring in a city planner to talk about land-use policy, a prominent journalist to discuss how media coverage influences the public debate, the head of the L.A. Opera to talk about the role of arts and culture in the city.
In this new version of the class, L.A. County Supervisor Kathryn Barger spoke to the class in early April fresh from her televised daily coronavirus briefing.
Supervisor Mark Ridley-Thomas showed up to talk about efforts to help homeless and other marginalized communities in the crisis.
Elan Shultz, senior health deputy first for Yaroslavsky and then for his successor, Supervisor Sheila Kuehl, who is now on loan to the county’s Department of Health Services to serve as its COVID-19 community testing manager, spent more than two hours talking passionately about the many challenges — led by a lack of centralized federal leadership — complicating the public health response.
Los Angeles tenants advocate Larry Gross, executive director of the Coalition for Economic Survival, broke down for students the many ways in which the coronavirus crisis was rapidly exacerbating an already extreme crisis in housing affordability.
And each week Yaroslavsky has shared his own wisdom in analyzing the fast-changing government response to the virus.
Recently, he talked to students about the constant balancing act of Gov. Gavin Newsom, Mayor Eric Garcetti and other public officials as they keep reiterating that they are going to be guided by science and data while simultaneously laying out plans to slowly loosen restrictions, offering a light at the end of the tunnel.
Any crisis, he told them, had a tipping point, when public sentiment would shift directions. For now, Californians mostly were willing to follow the new rules — but chances are that pretty soon, many of them no longer would be. Leaders have to pay close attention to those shifts, which can lead to a sudden lack of support, he said.
“There’s a fine line between being a leader and being a loner,” he told the class. “If you’re trying to lead and you have no followers, you’re a loner.”
The spring seminar, Yaroslavsky said, usually attracts students in such fields as urban planning, public health and environmental science who want to go into some form of government or nonprofit work.
What better way to counterbalance their theoretical and quantitative training than to show them real-world, life-and-death decision-making in the moment?
And what else could his students really be expected to concentrate on fully but the pandemic? In the first weeks, he learned that three of them already had come down with the virus.
One was Dulce Vasquez, 34, who works full time for Arizona State University and is about to graduate with a master’s in public policy. She got sick in March and lost her sense of smell and taste, before that became a well-known symptom of the virus and before testing was widely available.
Asked why she took the seminar, she answered “Zev,” whom she described as an L.A. icon. “I was going to take his class regardless. He could teach me how to make a pretzel. That would be great,” she said. But what he’s been teaching her in this retooled seminar has gone beyond even her high expectations, she said. “I think the creativity and the work it took to shift the curriculum has been amazing.”
Spike Friedman, a former sports journalist who is getting a master’s in urban planning with a focus on housing policy, told me, “I think this class has been particularly well suited to the moment. It’s not the easiest time to concentrate on schoolwork. This has been my most engaging class this quarter. What you’re getting is up-to-the-second, really relevant information.”
Jason Ballou, 46, who simultaneously is pursuing master’s degrees in public policy and social welfare, said he briefly thought about dropping the seminar when he learned that its focus had shifted to the coronavirus.
“I thought, oh my gosh, I’m so sick of the coronavirus,” he told me. “That’s really all we’re going to talk about?”
But then Barger appeared before the class from her office, straight from her briefing, at the tail end of an already long day. Zoom somehow made the moment especially intimate.
Talking to the students while alone in her office, Barger took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes and the bridge of her nose. He wears glasses too, Ballou told me, and recognized in these small gestures just how tired she must be as she talked about her fears of the virus’ impact on those who are in the country without legal permission, as well as those who are stuck at home in abusive situations.
Ballou, who wants to help people in need, grew up in a small town in the Midwest where cynicism about politicians and public servants ran deep. In that small, personal moment, he saw a very different, life-choice-affirming reality.
“You could see how exhausted she was and how much she cared,” he said. “It doesn’t get any more real than that.”
Or any more likely to form a lasting impression.


latimes--2020-05-22--Actress Lori Loughlin and her husband enter guilty pleas in college admissions scandal

Actress Lori Loughlin and her husband pleaded guilty Friday to charges of fraud in the college admissions scandal , admitting they scammed their daughters ’ way into USC with lies and illegal payments .
But the case against Loughlin and her husband J. Mossimo Giannulli remained unsettled after the judge in the case put off a decision on whether to accept the couple ’ s guilty pleas and the terms of deals they struck with prosecutors .
Under those deals , Loughlin would spend two months in prison and Giannulli would be sentenced to five months behind bars .
Nonetheless @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was held remotely over a video conference , marked a sharp about-face for the couple .
Since their arrests more than a year ago , Loughlin and Giannulli had maintained their innocence , repeatedly pleading not guilty as prosecutors ratcheted up pressure on them with enhanced charges , including conspiracy to commit fraud , bribery and money laundering .
Before they said a somber “ guilty ” under oath Friday , the television star and fashion designer acknowledged what they had long denied : that they schemed with William “ Rick ” Singer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ heart of the scandal , to pass off their two daughters , Olivia Jade Giannulli and Isabella Rose Giannulli , as rowing recruits — a scam that cleared the way for the girls ’ admission to the elite university .
Seated next to their attorneys , Loughlin and Giannulli listened with stony expressions as assistant U.S. Atty .
Eric Rosen read an exhaustive account of their dealings with Singer , including how they paid him a total of $ 500,000 , took staged photographs of the girls on rowing equipment to bolster the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lied to administrators at USC and the girls ’ tony private high school who had grown suspicious .
Afterward , under questioning from U.S. District Court Judge Nathaniel M. Gorton , Loughlin , 55 , and Giannulli , 56 , acknowledged the allegations laid out by the prosecutor were true .
From his chambers in a Boston courthouse , Gorton said he would wait to decide whether to accept the guilty pleas until he received detailed reports on the case and the couple from probation officials .
If he ultimately decides that the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fines called for in the plea agreements are too lenient , Gorton said he would give the pair the chance to withdraw their guilty pleas or stick with them and accept the judge ’ s more severe punishments .
Sentencing is set for Aug. 21 .
It was not clear if the judge would decide on whether to sign off on the plea deals before then .
There are reasons to think he could have concerns with the proposed punishments .
Gorton has already sentenced four other parents in the wide-ranging scandal and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for a mother who paid Singer far less money than Loughlin and Giannulli .
Gorton also ordered Douglas Hodge , a former investment manager executive , to serve nine months in prison , the stiffest sentence handed down in the scandal so far .
The decision by Loughlin and Giannulli to plead guilty came after the couple lost an ambitious legal counterattack earlier this year .
They and other parents charged in the case argued that Gorton should dismiss the case or at least toss out incriminating recorded phone calls after notes taken @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he appeared to claim federal agents pressured him to lie and elicit incriminating yet false evidence against his clients .
Gorton opted to do neither .
Singer , who has pleaded guilty to multiple felonies , has been cooperating with investigators since they confronted him in 2018 after getting a tip about his dealings .
In all , prosecutors in the U.S. Attorney ’ s Office for Massachusetts have charged more than 50 parents , coaches , college administrators and others who allegedly participated in Singer ’ s scheme that targeted wealthy , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ get into USC , Yale , Stanford and other elite universities where Singer had made in-roads .
While he ran a legitimate college admission consulting business , Singer offered a menu of illicit services to parents willing to overstep ethical and legal lines .
For a fee that ran from about $ 15,000 to $ 75,000 , Singer arranged to have an accomplice take a teen ’ s college entrance exam or correct their errors .
For about $ 250,000 , parents could access what Singer called the “ side door ” he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he essentially paid off coaches and athletic administrators for admission spots reserved for athletic recruits .
Many of the accused have pleaded guilty , while about 20 who have persisted in their innocence are slated to go to trial in proceedings scheduled to start later this year and early next year .
On Friday , prosecutors announced that yet another parent had been charged in the case and has agreed to plead guilty .
Under the terms of a plea deal , Peter Dameris , 60 , of Pacific Palisades , will plead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ payments to sneak his son into Georgetown University as a bogus tennis player .
While all the parents in the case came from rarefied , privileged circles of one sort or another , the sheen of fame and glamour on Loughlin and Giannulli led to outsized fascination — and ire — from the public .
In April 2019 , Loughlin ’ s fans and detractors lined the sidewalk outside the federal courthouse in Boston where she made her initial appearance .
Since then , supermarket tabloids , citing unnamed sources said to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ updates on her state of mind , her relationship with her daughters and other salacious , unfounded rumors .

Actress Lori Loughlin and her husband pleaded guilty Friday to charges of fraud in the college admissions scandal, admitting they scammed their daughters’ way into USC with lies and illegal payments.
But the case against Loughlin and her husband J. Mossimo Giannulli remained unsettled after the judge in the case put off a decision on whether to accept the couple’s guilty pleas and the terms of deals they struck with prosecutors.
Under those deals, Loughlin would spend two months in prison and Giannulli would be sentenced to five months behind bars.
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Nonetheless, the court hearing Friday, which was held remotely over a video conference, marked a sharp about-face for the couple. Since their arrests more than a year ago, Loughlin and Giannulli had maintained their innocence, repeatedly pleading not guilty as prosecutors ratcheted up pressure on them with enhanced charges, including conspiracy to commit fraud, bribery and money laundering.
Before they said a somber “guilty” under oath Friday, the television star and fashion designer acknowledged what they had long denied: that they schemed with William “Rick” Singer, a Newport Beach consultant at the heart of the scandal, to pass off their two daughters, Olivia Jade Giannulli and Isabella Rose Giannulli, as rowing recruits — a scam that cleared the way for the girls’ admission to the elite university.
Seated next to their attorneys, Loughlin and Giannulli listened with stony expressions as assistant U.S. Atty. Eric Rosen read an exhaustive account of their dealings with Singer, including how they paid him a total of $500,000, took staged photographs of the girls on rowing equipment to bolster the charade of their athletic prowess, and lied to administrators at USC and the girls’ tony private high school who had grown suspicious.
Afterward, under questioning from U.S. District Court Judge Nathaniel M. Gorton, Loughlin, 55, and Giannulli, 56, acknowledged the allegations laid out by the prosecutor were true.
From his chambers in a Boston courthouse, Gorton said he would wait to decide whether to accept the guilty pleas until he received detailed reports on the case and the couple from probation officials. If he ultimately decides that the prison sentences, community service and six-figure fines called for in the plea agreements are too lenient, Gorton said he would give the pair the chance to withdraw their guilty pleas or stick with them and accept the judge’s more severe punishments.
Sentencing is set for Aug. 21. It was not clear if the judge would decide on whether to sign off on the plea deals before then.
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There are reasons to think he could have concerns with the proposed punishments. Gorton has already sentenced four other parents in the wide-ranging scandal and the shortest sentence has been five months for a mother who paid Singer far less money than Loughlin and Giannulli.
Gorton also ordered Douglas Hodge, a former investment manager executive, to serve nine months in prison, the stiffest sentence handed down in the scandal so far.
The decision by Loughlin and Giannulli to plead guilty came after the couple lost an ambitious legal counterattack earlier this year. They and other parents charged in the case argued that Gorton should dismiss the case or at least toss out incriminating recorded phone calls after notes taken by Singer came to light in which he appeared to claim federal agents pressured him to lie and elicit incriminating yet false evidence against his clients. Gorton opted to do neither.
Singer, who has pleaded guilty to multiple felonies, has been cooperating with investigators since they confronted him in 2018 after getting a tip about his dealings. In all, prosecutors in the U.S. Attorney’s Office for Massachusetts have charged more than 50 parents, coaches, college administrators and others who allegedly participated in Singer’s scheme that targeted wealthy, unscrupulous families desperate to see their children get into USC, Yale, Stanford and other elite universities where Singer had made in-roads.
While he ran a legitimate college admission consulting business, Singer offered a menu of illicit services to parents willing to overstep ethical and legal lines. For a fee that ran from about $15,000 to $75,000, Singer arranged to have an accomplice take a teen’s college entrance exam or correct their errors. For about $250,000, parents could access what Singer called the “side door” he had built into schools, in which he essentially paid off coaches and athletic administrators for admission spots reserved for athletic recruits.
Many of the accused have pleaded guilty, while about 20 who have persisted in their innocence are slated to go to trial in proceedings scheduled to start later this year and early next year.
On Friday, prosecutors announced that yet another parent had been charged in the case and has agreed to plead guilty. Under the terms of a plea deal, Peter Dameris, 60, of Pacific Palisades, will plead guilty to using $300,000 in bribery payments to sneak his son into Georgetown University as a bogus tennis player.
While all the parents in the case came from rarefied, privileged circles of one sort or another, the sheen of fame and glamour on Loughlin and Giannulli led to outsized fascination — and ire — from the public.
In April 2019, Loughlin’s fans and detractors lined the sidewalk outside the federal courthouse in Boston where she made her initial appearance. Since then, supermarket tabloids, citing unnamed sources said to be close to the actress, offered near-weekly updates on her state of mind, her relationship with her daughters and other salacious, unfounded rumors.


latimes--2020-05-23--Amid coronavirus crisis, L.A. County may create an inspector general to oversee nursing homes

Los Angeles County officials will consider on Tuesday whether to appoint an inspector general to oversee nursing homes , a new position that would bring “ much-needed accountability ” to the epicenter of the county ’ s COVID-19 crisis , according to a motion filed this week .
If the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors passes the motion at its Tuesday meeting , the inspector general would be selected by July 1 and begin providing interim reports every 60 days to the board until a final report has been completed .
The inspector general would be tasked with conducting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ county ’ s current system for regulating and inspecting nursing homes and determine what must change .
Supervisor Mark Ridley-Thomas , who proposed the new role with Supervisor Kathryn Barger , said the position is unlikely to be temporary , noting that the county and state have for years had issues with compliance at nursing homes .
“ It is not uncommon knowledge that these facilities operate at a less than desirable level , and that ’ s why you have to have regular routine inspections and enforcement , ” Ridley-Thomas said .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ that in order for them to treat the residents , the patients and the employees properly .
There is a question whether or not profit motive drives the substandard conditions experienced in some of these facilities.
” As of Monday , almost 4,800 residents and 3,000 staff members from such facilities have tested positive for the virus .
Across L.A. County , 52 % of all deaths from COVID-19 have been in institutional settings , particularly in skilled nursing facilities , many of which are for-profit , according to the supervisors .
For @ @ @ @ @ @ @ struggled to address complaints filed against nursing homes .
In 2014 , an audit of county skilled nursing facility inspections and investigations revealed a backlog of about 3,000 nursing home investigations .
By 2019 , that backlog had grown to 5,000 , including 2,100 new complaints each year , according to the supervisors ’ motion .
The California Department of Public Health has the responsibility for licensing and monitoring healthcare facilities , including nursing homes .
But in L.A. County , the state agency has historically shared the oversight responsibility of about 2,500 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , with the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health .
Last year , the county ’ s public health department entered into a contract with the state public health agency to fully transfer responsibility of healthcare facility investigation and monitoring activities to the county , “ with the objective of creating more operational efficiencies and improving the quality of enforcement activities , ” according to the motion .
Despite this move , thousands of complaints continue to be registered with the county each year , Ridley-Thomas and Barger said .
In mid-April @ @ @ @ @ @ @ vast majority of skilled nursing facilities battling outbreaks of the novel coronavirus in L.A. County have been cited in recent years for violating federal safety rules on preventing infections , raising questions about how prepared the facilities and regulators were to address a pandemic .
The majority of residents in skilled nursing facilities in L.A. County have very low incomes , with 62 % of residents relying on Medicaid , and do not have the means to move or hire an attorney to advocate on their behalf .
The supervisors would also create @ @ @ @ @ @ @ data for each facility , including the number of COVID-19 cases among residents and staff , the number of tests performed each month and how far along the facility is in implementing its state-mandated COVID-19 mitigation plan .
Ridley-Thomas said the dashboard will hopefully increase public scrutiny of bad actors and allow residents and their families to make informed choices before selecting a nursing home .
“ This is in the interest of consumer protection and patient safety , ” Ridley-Thomas said .
“ It would seem to me a patient ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ skilled nursing facilities ought to be the order of the day .
There is no way I could ever be convinced that these facilities are operating as they could and should , and it is our responsibility to make sure that they do .
”

Los Angeles County officials will consider on Tuesday whether to appoint an inspector general to oversee nursing homes, a new position that would bring “much-needed accountability” to the epicenter of the county’s COVID-19 crisis, according to a motion filed this week.
If the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors passes the motion at its Tuesday meeting, the inspector general would be selected by July 1 and begin providing interim reports every 60 days to the board until a final report has been completed. The inspector general would be tasked with conducting an “exhaustive review” of the county’s current system for regulating and inspecting nursing homes and determine what must change.
Supervisor Mark Ridley-Thomas, who proposed the new role with Supervisor Kathryn Barger, said the position is unlikely to be temporary, noting that the county and state have for years had issues with compliance at nursing homes.
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“It is not uncommon knowledge that these facilities operate at a less than desirable level, and that’s why you have to have regular routine inspections and enforcement,” Ridley-Thomas said. “You have to have all of that in order for them to treat the residents, the patients and the employees properly. There is a question whether or not profit motive drives the substandard conditions experienced in some of these facilities.”
Read the motion to create an inspector general for nursing homes here The Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors will discuss the motion by Supervisors Mark Ridley-Thomas and Kathryn Barger at their Tuesday meeting.
As of Monday, almost 4,800 residents and 3,000 staff members from such facilities have tested positive for the virus. Across L.A. County, 52% of all deaths from COVID-19 have been in institutional settings, particularly in skilled nursing facilities, many of which are for-profit, according to the supervisors.
For years, the county and state have struggled to address complaints filed against nursing homes.
In 2014, an audit of county skilled nursing facility inspections and investigations revealed a backlog of about 3,000 nursing home investigations. By 2019, that backlog had grown to 5,000, including 2,100 new complaints each year, according to the supervisors’ motion.
The California Department of Public Health has the responsibility for licensing and monitoring healthcare facilities, including nursing homes. But in L.A. County, the state agency has historically shared the oversight responsibility of about 2,500 health facilities, including 400 nursing homes, with the Los Angeles County Department of Public Health.
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Last year, the county’s public health department entered into a contract with the state public health agency to fully transfer responsibility of healthcare facility investigation and monitoring activities to the county, “with the objective of creating more operational efficiencies and improving the quality of enforcement activities,” according to the motion. Despite this move, thousands of complaints continue to be registered with the county each year, Ridley-Thomas and Barger said.
In mid-April, a Times investigation found that the vast majority of skilled nursing facilities battling outbreaks of the novel coronavirus in L.A. County have been cited in recent years for violating federal safety rules on preventing infections, raising questions about how prepared the facilities and regulators were to address a pandemic.
California As coronavirus deaths mount, L.A. County is far behind on promise to test everyone in nursing homes A month after vowing to test all nursing home residents and staff for the novel coronavirus, Los Angeles County health officials have completed the effort in only about a third of homes and have dramatically scaled back testing plans.
The majority of residents in skilled nursing facilities in L.A. County have very low incomes, with 62% of residents relying on Medicaid, and do not have the means to move or hire an attorney to advocate on their behalf.
The supervisors would also create an online public “dashboard” with data for each facility, including the number of COVID-19 cases among residents and staff, the number of tests performed each month and how far along the facility is in implementing its state-mandated COVID-19 mitigation plan.
Ridley-Thomas said the dashboard will hopefully increase public scrutiny of bad actors and allow residents and their families to make informed choices before selecting a nursing home.
“This is in the interest of consumer protection and patient safety,” Ridley-Thomas said. “It would seem to me a patient’s bill of rights as it relates to skilled nursing facilities ought to be the order of the day. There is no way I could ever be convinced that these facilities are operating as they could and should, and it is our responsibility to make sure that they do.”


latimes--2020-05-24--Coronavirus outbreaks hits Farmer John, 8 other plants in Vernon

The Los Angeles County Department of Public Health has identified COVID-19 outbreaks at nine industrial facilities in Vernon , including four meatpacking plants .
The largest outbreak occurred at the Smithfield Foods-owned Farmer John plant — producer of the beloved Dodger Dog — where 153 of 1,837 employees tested positive for COVID-19 between March and May , the county said Sunday .
The other eight facilities with outbreaks are CLW Foods ( meat ) , Vie De France Yamazaki ( baked goods ) , Cal Farms Meat ( meat ) , Takaokaya USA ( green tea and other products ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) , Golden West Trading ( meat ) , Overhill Farms ( frozen food ) , and Rose and Shore ( deli meat and prepared foods ) .
Fewer than 25 employees tested positive at each of those facilities .
By L.A. County standards , an “ outbreak ” has occurred when five or more workers have contracted the virus .
“ We are closely monitoring outbreaks within facilities in the city of Vernon , as many of the employees reside in adjacent southeast Los Angeles communities , ” said Barbara Ferrer , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has just a few dozen residents , workers who have contracted the virus could spread it in their own communities , the county warned .
“ Our public health experts are making sure employees with the virus , and their families , remain quarantined to minimize exposure to others , ” said L.A. County Supervisor Hilda L. Solis .
In a statement , Smithfield Foods said its workers are “ crucial to our nation ’ s response to COVID-19.
” “ We thank them for keeping food on America ’ s tables and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ health and safety during this pandemic , ” the statement said .
Smithfield said the measures include a series of strict guidelines and protocols that follow or exceed guidance issued by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the Occupational Safety and Health Administration .
The company said it has boosted its supply of masks and face shields , installed Plexiglas barriers on the production floor and in break areas and implemented mass temperature scanning systems to screen workers .
Employees are offered free testing for the novel coronavirus and paid quarantine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ report to work if they are sick , Smithfield said ; the company has also relaxed its attendance policies , eliminated co-pays for coronavirus-related treatment and extended a paid leave benefit to employees deemed medically at-risk .
Of the 153 Farmer John employees who tested positive , 41 have returned to work , according to L.A. County health officials .
“ During this pandemic , our entire industry is faced with an impossible choice : continue to operate to sustain our nation ’ s food supply or shutter in an attempt to entirely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the company said in a statement issued in early May .
“ It ’ s an awful choice ; it ’ s not one we wish on anyone .
It is impossible to keep protein on tables across America if our nation ’ s meat plants are not running.
” The outbreak at Smithfield ’ s Vernon plant by the county ’ s Public Health Department in a nonresidential setting .
Coronavirus outbreaks have plagued meatpacking plants nationwide since March , when much of the country went into lockdown .
More than 10,000 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ meatpacking plants , and at least three dozen workers are known to have died as of early May , according to an analysis by the nonprofit news organization ProPublica .

The Farmer John plant, producer of the Dodger Dog, is among the facilities that have reported COVID-19 outbreaks.
Outbreaks of COVID-19 have struck nine industrial facilities in Vernon, including five meatpacking plants, Los Angeles County health officials said Sunday.
The largest outbreak occurred at the Smithfield Foods-owned Farmer John plant — producer of the beloved Dodger Dog — where 153 of 1,837 employees tested positive for COVID-19 between March and May, the Department of Public Health said.
The other eight facilities with outbreaks are CLW Foods (meat), Vie De France Yamazaki (baked goods), California Farms Meat (meat), Takaokaya USA (green tea), F. Gavina & Sons (coffee), Golden West Trading (meat), Overhill Farms (frozen food), and Rose & Shore (deli meat and prepared foods).
Between five and 24 employees at each of the facilities tested positive, county data show, although it wasn’t clear when those numbers were last updated. By the county’s standards, an outbreak has occurred when five or more workers have contracted the novel coronavirus.
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Though Vernon has just a few dozen residents and is almost exclusively industrial, workers who have contracted the virus in the city just south of Los Angeles could spread it in their own communities, the county warned. On Sunday, health officials reported 940 new cases of the novel coronavirus and 14 related deaths countywide.
“We are closely monitoring outbreaks within facilities in the city of Vernon, as many of the employees reside in adjacent southeast Los Angeles communities,” said Barbara Ferrer, the county health director.
Freddie Agyin, Vernon’s director of health and environmental control, said the city is working with L.A. County to make sure that employees who have tested positive — as well as others with whom they’ve come into contact while at work — are quarantined for 14 days.
“It’s been very concerning to see these numbers come in,” said Agyin of the outbreaks. “If everyone isn’t following the guidelines that have been given by the [Centers for Disease Control and Prevention], it makes everybody’s work a lot more difficult.”
In a statement, Smithfield Foods said its workers are “crucial to our nation’s response to COVID-19.”
“We thank them for keeping food on America’s tables and have implemented aggressive measures to protect their health and safety during this pandemic,” the statement said.
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Smithfield said those measures include a series of strict guidelines and protocols that follow or exceed guidance issued by the CDC and the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.
The company said it has boosted its supply of masks and face shields, installed Plexiglas barriers on the production floor and in break areas and implemented mass temperature scanning systems to screen workers.
Employees are offered free testing for the novel coronavirus and paid quarantine time, and are told not to report to work if they are sick, Smithfield said. The company has also relaxed its attendance policies, eliminated co-pays for coronavirus-related treatment and extended a paid leave benefit to employees deemed medically at-risk.
Of the 153 Farmer John employees who tested positive, 41 have returned to work, according to L.A. County health officials.
“During this pandemic, our entire industry is faced with an impossible choice: continue to operate to sustain our nation’s food supply or shutter in an attempt to entirely insulate our employees from risk,” the company said in a statement issued in early May. “It’s an awful choice; it’s not one we wish on anyone. It is impossible to keep protein on tables across America if our nation’s meat plants are not running.”
The outbreak at Smithfield’s Vernon plant is the largest listed by the county’s Public Health Department in a nonresidential setting.
COVID-19 outbreaks have plagued beef, pork and poultry processing plants nationwide since March. More than 10,000 cases have been linked to U.S. meatpacking plants, and at least three dozen workers are known to have died as of early May, according to an analysis by the nonprofit news organization ProPublica.
Many of those workers are members of vulnerable refugee and immigrants communities. Given the nature of the work — with hundreds of employees standing shoulder-to-shoulder for hours each day, sorting, cutting and packaging the meat that feeds Americans — such plants have become virus hot spots.
In the agricultural powerhouses of Iowa and South Dakota, close to one-fifth of the workforce in the states’ largest slaughterhouses had fallen ill, according to a CDC report released earlier this month.
In California, at least 138 employees at Central Valley Meat Co. in Hanford tested positive for the virus. That company employs about 900 workers at its two plants; the other is in Vernon.
Los Angeles Times staff writer Jaclyn Cosgrove contributed to this report.