latimes--2020-12-13--Riverside County fire grows to 1,933 acres but evacuation warning is lifted

Authorities lifted an evacuation warning Sunday for a small number of Riverside County residents as a wind-driven wildfire that broke out overnight burned through 1,933 acres of rugged terrain south of Beaumont .
An attack by ground crews , air tankers and helicopters stopped the forward spread of the flames before midday , but firefighters were still struggling to contain the edges of the blaze , officials said .
“ It ’ s no longer growing , ” said Tawny Cabral , a spokeswoman for the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection and the Riverside County Fire Department , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ work on further containment.
” No injuries or structural damage were reported .
The evacuation warning centered on fewer than a dozen homes north of Gilman Springs Road and south of Timothy Lane , Cabral said .
Authorities lifted it at 12:45 p.m. By noon , smoke from the fire had created unhealthful air conditions down the I-15 corridor , from Corona to Lake Elsinore and beyond , according to the South Coast Air Quality Management District .
Dubbed the Sanderson fire , the blaze erupted near Laborde Canyon Road around 1 a.m. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to 30 mph pushed it through the canyons .
About 130 firefighters battled the flames on the ground with the help of six air tankers and three helicopters .
Cabral said the retardant- and water-dropping aircraft were crucial to the effort .
“ The terrain has been difficult , ” she said .
“ There aren ’ t roads that go back into those areas.
” As of Sunday , California had been struck by 9,639 fire incidents , burning 4.1 million acres , killing 31 people and damaging or destroying more than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
December fires are not unusual in the Inland Empire and other parts of Southern California .
Earlier this month , the Cerritos fire broke out near the rural community of Nuevo in Riverside County , prompting evacuations .
That followed two other early December fires in Riverside County and the Bond fire in Orange County .

Firefighters battle the Cerritos fire near the Riverside County community of Nuevo on Dec. 3. On Sunday, crews in the county battled another dangerous blaze, the Sanderson fire.
Authorities lifted an evacuation warning Sunday for a small number of Riverside County residents as a wind-driven wildfire that broke out overnight burned through 1,933 acres of rugged terrain south of Beaumont.
An attack by ground crews, air tankers and helicopters stopped the forward spread of the flames before midday, but firefighters were still struggling to contain the edges of the blaze, officials said.
“It’s no longer growing,” said Tawny Cabral, a spokeswoman for the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection and the Riverside County Fire Department. “Now, we work on further containment.”
No injuries or structural damage were reported. The evacuation warning centered on fewer than a dozen homes north of Gilman Springs Road and south of Timothy Lane, Cabral said. Authorities lifted it at 12:45 p.m. The fire was 24 % contained by Sunday evening.
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By noon, smoke from the fire had created unhealthful air conditions down the I-15 corridor, from Corona to Lake Elsinore and beyond, according to the South Coast Air Quality Management District.
Dubbed the Sanderson fire, the blaze erupted near Laborde Canyon Road around 1 a.m., officials said. Winds of up to 30 mph pushed it through the canyons. About 130 firefighters battled the flames on the ground with the help of six air tankers and three helicopters.
Cabral said the retardant- and water-dropping aircraft were crucial to the effort. “The terrain has been difficult,” she said. “There aren’t roads that go back into those areas.”
As of Sunday, California had been struck by 9,639 fire incidents, burning 4.1 million acres, killing 31 people and damaging or destroying more than 10,400 structures, according to Cal Fire.
December fires are not unusual in the Inland Empire and other parts of Southern California. Earlier this month, the Cerritos fire broke out near the rural community of Nuevo in Riverside County, prompting evacuations. That followed two other early December fires in Riverside County and the Bond fire in Orange County.


latimes--2020-12-13--This year was not supposed to be anything like 2019 — and COVID made sure of it

Before we started getting sick , we had time — time to meet , to talk and gather , to sing , to cheer and roar .
The minutes in the hour , the days in the week , were luxuries no one could steal from us .
2020 was to be nothing like 2019 , with its mosque attacks in New Zealand and a fire in Notre Dame , an investigation into the 2016 election and the futile calls for order .
We turned the calendar page , and the promise of a new year lay before us .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ then we had time for nothing — nothing except the virus .
Patricia Dowd of San Jose was 57 .
She watched her diet , exercised and took no medication , and in early February , she was the first known COVID-19 fatality in the nation .
How quickly then the novel coronavirus mocked our assumptions and challenged our simplest routines .
A trip to the market , a drive to drop off the kids at school brought the specter of unfamiliar peril .
It left some of us struggling to breathe , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to keep their distance .
Forgotten were the fires that had ravaged Australia , an assassination in Baghdad .
Impeachment and acquittal of the president belonged to the past .
The theatrics after the State of the Union , anxiety over Brexit , relegated to another time and place .
No past , no future — all we had was the moment before us .
Only the loss in January of Kobe , 13-year-old Gianna and seven others in a fiery crash on a foggy hillside in Calabasas still pulled at our hearts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ahead .
Cities fell quiet .
We stared out windows and measured lives in modest increments .
Weddings were postponed , holidays disappeared .
Politicians stood beside doctors .
They admonished .
They consoled , and the virus , lifted by the slightest breeze , flouted their words .
We grew confused .
Neighbors in Culver City donned masks .
Protesters in Huntington Beach decried their use .
Stay-at-home orders were issued in March , and by August , tens of thousands of motorcycle enthusiasts filled the streets of Sturgis , S.D.
, @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t think there was nothing that was going to stop me , ” said one rider , who later fell ill. Two Americas were on display .
For some , caution meant fear and repression .
For others , it was a sign of respect .
We became armchair experts in economics and public health , and we argued as we have about everything else .
A nonessential class emerged , buoyed by an essential class who rang doorbells with deliveries , stocked shelves with food , carried our mail and attended @ @ @ @ @ @ @ searched for words to describe this moment .
Dystopian , post-apocalyptic came to mind as if we were living a Hollywood dream run amok .
Jackals roamed Tel Aviv , monkeys marauded through a village in Thailand , and an offshore algae bloom lighted the midnight surf neon blue .
But the suffering was too grim to be scripted .
Refrigerated trucks for the dead pulled into the parking lot for a hospital in Queens , where 13 patients died in 24 hours .
Many lost all that they had .
By the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ million had filed for unemployment , 23 million were at risk for evictions , and the numbers kept rising .
By mid-December , the United States had counted more than 16.1 million coronavirus cases and over 290,000 deaths .
In addition to this terrible accounting , the virus exploited our weaknesses .
Inadequate healthcare , inadequate housing , inadequate working conditions and food deserts had left Black , brown and Indigenous communities in mourning .
For every white person who died of COVID-19 , people of color buried three or more .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the universe and witness stars being born in a distant galaxy .
We could find moments of grace : a daffodil placed on body bags , a porch concert in Pasadena , arias rising from the balconies of Rome , the streets of San Diego , the hills of Silver Lake .
But we could do little to alter the course of this disease .
No wonder then that we began to lose patience .
Tired of lockdowns , tired of restrictions , we gave this tiredness a name : pandemic fatigue .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ time .
Some of us had to take action .
When George Floyd was killed in Minneapolis on May 25 , a coalition of the concerned — activists , protesters , families and friends — took to the streets .
Eight minutes , 46 seconds became a rallying cry for the reckoning ahead .
They chanted the names of Floyd , of Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor .
They washed their eyes of tear gas .
They salved the sting of rubber bullets .
They did not disperse .
From Washington , D.C. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Los Angeles , they shouted their demands : Defund the police , ban chokeholds , release body cam footage , end cash bail , prohibit stop-and-frisk .
And amid these cries , we caught a fleeting glimpse of the moral universe ’ s long arc in tributes and farewells to Rep. John Lewis and Supreme Court Associate Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg .
NASCAR banned the Stars and Bars .
Mississippi redesigned its flag .
Quaker Oats retired Aunt Jemima , allowing her real-life forebearer , Nancy Green , to step out of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The attorney general of Mississippi declined to prosecute Curtis Flowers for a seventh time , and Merriam-Webster updated an entry : Racism , a noun ( rac ism \ ‘ rā- , si-zəm also – , shi - \ ) , is not just a belief in the supremacy of one race over another .
It is oppression , an unjust or cruel exercise of authority or power , based on race , resulting in social , economic and political inequity .
But not everything could be rewritten .
As spring turned to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , smog and an endless succession of hurricanes and typhoons that battered our weary coasts .
Centuries of neglect , years of indifference had caught up with us .
Once unable to imagine this warming future , we worried that we had squandered the time when we had it and were left now to crank up the AC or take to higher ground .
We sought diversion as we do so well .
Houseplants , TikTok , Jerusalema , waacking , the Lakers and Dodgers helped .
But the pandemic was relentless .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” the president declared from the White House after falling ill and being treated for COVID-19 .
If only we felt the same .
Eleven days earlier , we had tuned into either “ a hot mess , inside a dumpster fire , inside a train wreck ” or , more simply , “ a disgrace , ” as one television host struggled to describe the first debate between Trump and Joe Biden .
Soon , however , November was upon us , and as the darkest winter drew near , nearly 160 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
They mailed their ballots .
They stood in line .
They confirmed their faith in the promise of a more perfect union .
When the counting was over , the most important election in our history was declared the most secure .
Trump got 74 million votes , but Joe Biden and Kamala Harris , with 81 million votes , will set a new course for America , and maybe they will have time and , with a vaccine , hope .
After four years of derision and marginalization , science was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ than 11 months to questions that often take years of study , and we are poised to benefit from that research and commitment .
Time , we all know , is a measurement of the movement of our planet in space , but in 2020 , it became so much more .
In days , weeks and months , it measured how long since most of us last embraced our family , laughed with friends , sang in choirs or cheered our teams .
And one day it will mark our reunions .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ end and a beginning , and as this year concludes , it leaves us once again with hope for what lies ahead .

Before we started getting sick, we had time — time to meet, to talk and gather, to sing, to cheer and roar. The minutes in the hour, the days in the week, were luxuries no one could steal from us.
2020 was to be nothing like 2019, with its mosque attacks in New Zealand and a fire in Notre Dame, an investigation into the 2016 election and the futile calls for order. We turned the calendar page, and the promise of a new year lay before us.
We had time for everything, and then we had time for nothing — nothing except the virus.
Patricia Dowd of San Jose was 57. She watched her diet, exercised and took no medication, and in early February, she was the first known COVID-19 fatality in the nation.
Advertisement
How quickly then the novel coronavirus mocked our assumptions and challenged our simplest routines. A trip to the market, a drive to drop off the kids at school brought the specter of unfamiliar peril. It left some of us struggling to breathe, others trying to help and most hoping to keep their distance.
Forgotten were the fires that had ravaged Australia, an assassination in Baghdad. Impeachment and acquittal of the president belonged to the past. The theatrics after the State of the Union, anxiety over Brexit, relegated to another time and place.
No past, no future — all we had was the moment before us.
Ernest Wilson of Dallas writes a message on a mural in South Los Angeles honoring Lakers legend Kobe Bryant and daughter Gianna, who died in January. (Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)
Only the loss in January of Kobe, 13-year-old Gianna and seven others in a fiery crash on a foggy hillside near Calabasas still pulled at our hearts, a premonition of grief that lay ahead.
Cities fell quiet. We stared out windows and measured lives in modest increments. Weddings were postponed, holidays disappeared.
Politicians stood beside doctors. They admonished. They consoled, and the virus, lifted by the slightest breeze, flouted their words.
We grew confused. Neighbors in Culver City donned masks. Protesters in Huntington Beach decried their use. Stay-at-home orders were issued in March, and by August, tens of thousands of motorcycle enthusiasts filled the streets of Sturgis, S.D., rallying for themselves.
“I don’t think there was nothing that was going to stop me,” said one rider, who later fell ill.
Two Americas were on display. For some, caution meant fear and repression. For others, it was a sign of respect. We became armchair experts in economics and public health, and we argued as we have about everything else.
A nonessential class emerged, buoyed by an essential class who rang doorbells with deliveries, stocked shelves with food, carried our mail and attended to the sick and dying.
We searched for words to describe this moment. Dystopian, post-apocalyptic came to mind as if we were living a Hollywood dream run amok. Jackals roamed Tel Aviv, monkeys marauded through a village in Thailand, and an offshore algae bloom lighted the midnight surf neon blue.
But the suffering was too grim to be scripted. Refrigerated trucks for the dead pulled into the parking lot for a hospital in Queens, where 13 patients died in 24 hours.
Many lost all that they had. By the end of April, more than 30 million had filed for unemployment, 23 million were at risk for evictions, and the numbers kept rising. By mid-December, the United States had counted more than 16.1 million coronavirus cases and over 290,000 deaths.
Advertisement
In addition to this terrible accounting, the virus exploited our weaknesses. Inadequate healthcare, inadequate housing, inadequate working conditions and food deserts had left Black, brown and Indigenous communities in mourning. For every white person who died of COVID-19, people of color buried three or more.
Funeral director James Plummer sprinkles rose petals over the casket as Nicholas Jackson, middle, mourns his father, Charles Jackson Jr., who died from COVID-19, at a service in Inglewood on April 15. (Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)
The tragedy was clear: We could probe the universe and witness stars being born in a distant galaxy. We could find moments of grace: a daffodil placed on body bags, a porch concert in Pasadena, arias rising from the balconies of Rome, the streets of San Diego, the hills of Silver Lake.
But we could do little to alter the course of this disease.
No wonder then that we began to lose patience. Tired of lockdowns, tired of restrictions, we gave this tiredness a name: pandemic fatigue. We knew we were running out of time. Some of us had to take action.
A couple wait to be arrested along with other protesters on Fairfax Avenue in Los Angeles. (Wally Skalij / Los Angeles Times)
When George Floyd was killed in Minneapolis on May 25, a coalition of the concerned — activists, protesters, families and friends — took to the streets. Eight minutes, 46 seconds became a rallying cry for the reckoning ahead.
They chanted the names of Floyd, of Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor. They washed their eyes of tear gas. They salved the sting of rubber bullets. They did not disperse.
Advertisement
A protester has her eyes washed after being sprayed with pepper spray by riot police on May 30 in Minneapolis, five days after the death of George Floyd. (Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)
From Washington, D.C., to Portland, Ore., Minneapolis to Los Angeles, they shouted their demands: Defund the police, ban chokeholds, release body cam footage, end cash bail, prohibit stop-and-frisk.
And amid these cries, we caught a fleeting glimpse of the moral universe’s long arc in tributes and farewells to Rep. John Lewis and Supreme Court Associate Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
We counted a few gains.
NASCAR banned the Stars and Bars. Mississippi redesigned its flag. Quaker Oats retired Aunt Jemima, allowing her real-life forebear, Nancy Green, to step out of the shadows of a minstrel past. The attorney general of Mississippi declined to prosecute Curtis Flowers for a seventh time, and Merriam-Webster updated an entry:
Racism, a noun (rac ism \ ‘rā- , si-zəm also – , shi - \), is not just a belief in the supremacy of one race over another. It is oppression, an unjust or cruel exercise of authority or power, based on race, resulting in social, economic and political inequity.
But not everything could be rewritten. As spring turned to summer, summer sparked heat, fires, smog and an endless succession of hurricanes that battered our weary coasts.
Advertisement
Centuries of neglect, years of indifference had caught up with us. Once unable to imagine this warming future, we worried that we had squandered the time when we had it and were left now to crank up the AC or take to higher ground.
We sought diversion as we do so well. Houseplants, TikTok, “Jerusalema,” waacking, the Lakers and Dodgers helped. But the pandemic was relentless.
“I’m feeling great!” the president declared from the White House after falling ill and being treated for COVID-19. If only we felt the same.
Eleven days earlier, we had tuned into either “a hot mess, inside a dumpster fire, inside a train wreck” or, more simply, “a disgrace,” as one television host struggled to describe the first debate between President Trump and Joe Biden.
Voters line up at Marine Avenue Park in Manhattan Beach to cast their primary ballots on March 3. (Christina House / Los Angeles Times)
Soon, however, November was upon us, and as the darkest winter drew near, nearly 160 million found their way through the gloom. They mailed their ballots. They stood in line. They confirmed their faith in the promise of a more perfect union.
When the counting was over, the most important election in our history was declared the most secure. Trump got 74 million votes, but Biden and Kamala Harris, with 81 million votes, will set a new course for America, and maybe they will have time and, with a vaccine, hope.
Advertisement
After four years of derision and marginalization, science was vindicated. Laboratories found answers in less than 11 months to questions that often take years of study, and we are poised to benefit from that research and commitment.
Time, we all know, is a measurement of the movement of our planet in space, but in 2020, it became so much more.
In days, weeks and months, it measured how long since most of us last embraced our family, laughed with friends, sang in choirs or cheered our teams. And one day it will mark our reunions.
Time is the promise of both an end and a beginning, and as this year concludes, it leaves us once again with hope for what lies ahead.


latimes--2020-12-13--Founded in 1888, this Asian antiques shop hopes to put 2020 in the past

Time feels abstract at F. Suie One Co. , one of the oldest Asian antique stores in the United States .
A Cambodian 15th century wooden Buddha stands near kitschy 1960s Chinese alarm clocks with the face of Mao Zedong .
A carved stone Rakshasa head from 9th century Indonesia stares into a room where a Chinese ceramic horseman from around 200 B.C .
is on display .
A 1930s rickshaw is parked near the front door on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena .
For owner Leslee Leong , whose immigrant grandfather established the business in 1888 , it always seemed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like its wares , withstand the test of time .
“ We had periods of great feast and periods of great famine , ” Leong said her mother told her .
“ She said we just rode through them all .
Sometimes the economy was good .
Sometimes the economy went down .
... We kept going.
” But this is 2020 .
And in this pandemic year that has been especially cruel to small businesses , Leong , 75 , is contemplating something that always seemed unimaginable : the end .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” added Joe Schulman , her 78-year-old husband .
Even for a place as storied as F. Suie One — run by the family that author Lisa See ( Leong ’ s cousin ) chronicled in the 1995 bestselling memoir “ On Gold Mountain : The One-Hundred-Year Odyssey of a Chinese-American Family ” — this year has been brutal .
“ It is somewhat astounding that a family-owned business is still operating anywhere after 132 years , ” said Paul Little , chief executive of the Pasadena Chamber of Commerce .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , hard work and ingenuity of the family , their expertise and the dedication to their customers.
” This year , Leong gave the Huntington Library , Art Museum and Botanical Gardens a collection of the family ’ s papers and photographs , as well as business records and other materials from F. Suie One .
“ Chinese American history has been neglected for a very , very long time , ” said Li Wei Yang , curator of Pacific Rim Collections at the Huntington .
He said walking into F. Suie One @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , like a museum.
” But these days , he said , it ’ s difficult to get people interested in Asian antiques .
The trade is now dominated by big auction houses .
“ Small family stores like this , it ’ s harder for them to survive , ” Yang said .
“ It would be a tremendous loss if F. Suie One were to close its doors someday.
” Businesses all along famed Colorado Boulevard , part of Route 66 , have closed in recent months .
With coronavirus cases @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the holiday shopping season , nonessential retail stores throughout most of California are now limited to 20 % of capacity , and health officials are pleading with a weary public to stay home .
Little says he worries especially for locally owned businesses that are struggling to navigate ever-changing health restrictions and have used up what little local , state and federal assistance they received as the pandemic stretches into its ninth month .
Distraught store owners call him about every week , asking : “ What am I supposed to do ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
” Deemed nonessential early in the pandemic , F. Suie One closed for several weeks this spring before reopening by appointment only .
A $ 10,000 disaster relief grant for struggling small businesses from the city of Pasadena helped purchase personal protective equipment and to build the first website for the 132-year-old company , which relied almost entirely on word-of-mouth and people who happened to walk by .
“ Our daughter said we were hopelessly outdated , ” Leong noted .
But the days without a sale stretched into weeks .
Even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , customers have been few .
“ Once the pandemic started , it was next to no business , ” Schulman said .
Still , buying antiques , Leong said , is addicting , and “ collectors can only hold out for so long.
” Customers started trickling back in around October , when , the couple said , people just seemed to be tired of staying at home .
As they spoke with the front door open to improve ventilation , cars rushed by on Colorado Boulevard .
Coronavirus numbers may be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ d never know it by looking outside .
“ This is a shutdown , right ?
When they originally shut down , there was like one car passing every three minutes , ” he said .
“ Now , look at the traffic .
It was just fatigue of staying home .
Fatigue of not buying .
We got some business.
” But it is a fraction of what it once was .
So , Leong and Schulman started putting more items up for auction .
Some pieces that have been in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sale .
“ It took us a hundred years to decide to sell this , ” Leong said , motioning toward an enormous , intricately carved wooden bed from 19th century China .
But it ’ s time , she said , “ to be realistic ” about the future .
F. Suie One was started by Leong ’ s grandfather , Fong See , a Chinese immigrant who came to the U.S. at age 14 in 1871 .
Twelve years later , the U.S. passed the federal Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a young See made a name for himself by selling crotchless underwear made from Chinese silk to brothels .
“ He would have fancy underwear made for ladies , ” Leong said , laughing .
“ Very fancy underwear , ” she said , for “ fancy white ladies.
” See eventually hired Letticie “ Ticie ” Pruett as a saleswoman .
Leong said her grandmother , a white woman , could talk to the female customers in a way that , “ as a Chinese gentleman , he could not.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a sharp mind for business , quickly fell in love .
But interracial marriage was illegal in California .
So , in 1897 , they had a lawyer draw up a social contract between the two to formalize the union .
Pruett encouraged her husband to expand the lingerie business and start selling antiques .
They moved to a burgeoning Los Angeles and set up shop .
They ran several branches throughout the Southland .
Regular customers at F. Suie One , Leong said , included Frank Lloyd Wright , the famed interior @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who used the store ’ s wares to build movie sets that looked like China .
F. Suie One moved to its current location , a two-story building with green awnings on East Colorado Boulevard near Pasadena City College , in the early 1980s .
The rooms are a warren of art , furniture and collectibles ; a drafty warehouse in the back is stuffed floor to ceiling with things that don ’ t fit up front .
Schulman , a writer and cinematographer who collected Asian art , first walked through the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ then a single mother of two young children who was running the business alone — promptly pushed him out in the middle of the day .
She had to close the store so she could pick up her daughter .
Schulman came back .
They hit it off .
“ I was looking to buy antiques ... ” he said .
” ... of which I was not one , ” she teased .
“ He ’ s going to try and say I was an antique.
” They married in 1999 .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ high-fived .
The septuagenarians realize they are getting older and that their children , who have their own successful careers , won ’ t be taking over the store , where a painting of See , a man who lived to see his 100th birthday , still hangs in the front room .
“ We don ’ t have any plans of retiring , ” Schulman said .
“ We love to do this .
But we won ’ t live forever .
”

Joe Schulman and Leslee Leong are owners of F. Suie One Co., founded in 1888 by Leslee’s grandfather. The Pasadena business is one of the oldest Asian antiques store in the United States and is among the small businesses hit hard by the COVID-19 pandemic.
Time feels abstract at F. Suie One Co., one of the oldest Asian antique stores in the United States.
A Cambodian 15th century wooden Buddha stands near kitschy 1960s Chinese alarm clocks with the face of Mao Zedong. A carved stone Rakshasa head from 9th century Indonesia stares into a room where a Chinese ceramic horseman from around 200 B.C. is on display. A 1930s rickshaw is parked near the front door on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena.
For owner Leslee Leong, whose immigrant grandfather established the business in 1888, it always seemed as if F. Suie One would, like its wares, withstand the test of time.
“We had periods of great feast and periods of great famine,” Leong said her mother told her. “She said we just rode through them all. Sometimes the economy was good. Sometimes the economy went down. ... We kept going.”
Advertisement
But this is 2020. And in this pandemic year that has been especially cruel to small businesses, Leong, 75, is contemplating something that always seemed unimaginable: the end.
“I try not to think about it,” added Joe Schulman, her 78-year-old husband.
Even for a place as storied as F. Suie One — run by the family that author Lisa See (Leong’s cousin) chronicled in the 1995 bestselling memoir “On Gold Mountain: The One-Hundred-Year Odyssey of a Chinese-American Family” — this year has been brutal.
“It is somewhat astounding that a family-owned business is still operating anywhere after 132 years,” said Paul Little, chief executive of the Pasadena Chamber of Commerce. “That is a tribute to the dedication, hard work and ingenuity of the family, their expertise and the dedication to their customers.”
This year, Leong gave the Huntington Library, Art Museum and Botanical Gardens a collection of the family’s papers and photographs, as well as business records and other materials from F. Suie One.
“Chinese American history has been neglected for a very, very long time,” said Li Wei Yang, curator of Pacific Rim Collections at the Huntington. He said walking into F. Suie One is like “walking into living history, like a museum.”
Advertisement
But these days, he said, it’s difficult to get people interested in Asian antiques. The trade is now dominated by big auction houses.
“Small family stores like this, it’s harder for them to survive,” Yang said. “It would be a tremendous loss if F. Suie One were to close its doors someday.”
Businesses all along famed Colorado Boulevard, part of Route 66, have closed in recent months. With coronavirus cases and deaths soaring in the midst of the holiday shopping season, nonessential retail stores throughout most of California are now limited to 20% of capacity, and health officials are pleading with a weary public to stay home.
Little says he worries especially for locally owned businesses that are struggling to navigate ever-changing health restrictions and have used up what little local, state and federal assistance they received as the pandemic stretches into its ninth month. Distraught store owners call him about every week, asking: “What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to keep going?”
Deemed nonessential early in the pandemic, F. Suie One closed for several weeks this spring before reopening by appointment only.
A $10,000 disaster relief grant for struggling small businesses from the city of Pasadena helped purchase personal protective equipment and to build the first website for the 132-year-old company, which relied almost entirely on word-of-mouth and people who happened to walk by.
A 1st or 2nd century Buddha from the Gandhara period is one of the oldest pieces at F. Suie One Co. in Pasadena. The store was founded in 1888 in Sacramento and is one of the oldest Asian antiques stores in the United States. (Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
“Our daughter said we were hopelessly outdated,” Leong noted.
But the days without a sale stretched into weeks. Even after the store reopened to in-person shopping, customers have been few.
“Once the pandemic started, it was next to no business,” Schulman said.
Still, buying antiques, Leong said, is addicting, and “collectors can only hold out for so long.” Customers started trickling back in around October, when, the couple said, people just seemed to be tired of staying at home.
As they spoke with the front door open to improve ventilation, cars rushed by on Colorado Boulevard. Coronavirus numbers may be skyrocketing, Schulman said, but you’d never know it by looking outside.
“This is a shutdown, right? When they originally shut down, there was like one car passing every three minutes,” he said. “Now, look at the traffic. It was just fatigue of staying home. Fatigue of not buying. We got some business.”
But it is a fraction of what it once was. So, Leong and Schulman started putting more items up for auction. Some pieces that have been in the family for generations are now for sale.
“It took us a hundred years to decide to sell this,” Leong said, motioning toward an enormous, intricately carved wooden bed from 19th century China. But it’s time, she said, “to be realistic” about the future.
F. Suie One was started by Leong’s grandfather, Fong See, a Chinese immigrant who came to the U.S. at age 14 in 1871. Twelve years later, the U.S. passed the federal Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 that barred Chinese immigration.
In Sacramento, a young See made a name for himself by selling crotchless underwear made from Chinese silk to brothels.
“He would have fancy underwear made for ladies,” Leong said, laughing. “Very fancy underwear,” she said, for “fancy white ladies.”
See eventually hired Letticie “Ticie” Pruett as a saleswoman. Leong said her grandmother, a white woman, could talk to the female customers in a way that, “as a Chinese gentleman, he could not.”
See and Pruett, who each had a sharp mind for business, quickly fell in love. But interracial marriage was illegal in California. So, in 1897, they had a lawyer draw up a social contract between the two to formalize the union.
Pruett encouraged her husband to expand the lingerie business and start selling antiques. They moved to a burgeoning Los Angeles and set up shop. They ran several branches throughout the Southland.
Regular customers at F. Suie One, Leong said, included Frank Lloyd Wright, the famed interior designer Tony Duquette, and Hollywood filmmakers who used the store’s wares to build movie sets that looked like China.
Regular customers at F. Suie One over the years included Frank Lloyd Wright, the famed interior designer Tony Duquette, and Hollywood filmmakers who used the store’s wares to build movie sets that looked like China. (Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)
F. Suie One moved to its current location, a two-story building with green awnings on East Colorado Boulevard near Pasadena City College, in the early 1980s. The rooms are a warren of art, furniture and collectibles; a drafty warehouse in the back is stuffed floor to ceiling with things that don’t fit up front.
Schulman, a writer and cinematographer who collected Asian art, first walked through the front door in 1994. Leong — then a single mother of two young children who was running the business alone — promptly pushed him out in the middle of the day. She had to close the store so she could pick up her daughter.
Schulman came back. They hit it off.
“I was looking to buy antiques ...” he said.
”...of which I was not one,” she teased. “He’s going to try and say I was an antique.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
They married in 1999. After describing how they met, they high-fived.
The septuagenarians realize they are getting older and that their children, who have their own successful careers, won’t be taking over the store, where a painting of See, a man who lived to see his 100th birthday, still hangs in the front room.
“We don’t have any plans of retiring,” Schulman said. “We love to do this. But we won’t live forever.”


latimes--2020-12-14--For years, California police agencies have rejected almost every racial profiling complaint they rec

For years, California police agencies have rejected almost every racial profiling complaint they received

The more time attorney Chris Martin spent in handcuffs on a February night in South L.A. earlier this year , the more it became obvious to him why he was being detained .
Martin — the 32-year-old director of legal services for Black Lives Matter Los Angeles — was driving to a mentoring program when he came upon what he described as a “ police perimeter.
” He asked if he could go through .
Instead , he said , officers asked him to exit his vehicle .
Within minutes , Martin said , he was frisked and handcuffed .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ a shooting suspect described only as a “ Black man in dark clothing.
” They offered no further reason for the stop , Martin said .
Eventually , Martin was released .
He filed a complaint alleging officers detained him only because he was Black .
But he already knew how the investigation would end .
“ I still have to file the complaint , even though I know that it ’ s highly likely to be futile , at least as far as whether or not the department is going to hold @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ We know that they won ’ t. ” Martin ’ s assumption is almost always right .
Police agencies across the state upheld just 49 racial profiling complaints from 2016 to 2019 , less than 2 % of the roughly 3,500 allegations filed , a Times analysis of California Department of Justice statistics found .
Of the 250 law enforcement agencies that received at least one racial profiling complaint in that time frame , 92 % of them upheld none of them , according to the analysis .
A number of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , including the Oakland Police Department , the California Highway Patrol and the sheriff ’ s departments in San Bernardino and San Diego counties , were among the agencies that sustained zero profiling complaints .
The Los Angeles County Sheriff ’ s Department sustained two out of 146 complaints in the same time span , according to the analysis .
Despite receiving 883 racial profiling complaints during that four-year period , the most in the state , the Los Angeles Police Department upheld only two .
An LAPD spokesman declined to respond to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ On that night , Martin said , he refused to speak with the officers and alleged that a detective on scene threatened to arrest him for obstruction of justice , a dubious legal claim the attorney says he laughed off .
Police agencies in California have a long history of rejecting allegations of officer misconduct .
A prior Times analysis found that from 2008 to 2017 , police throughout the state upheld only 8 % of roughly 200,000 allegations of wrongdoing they had received from the public .
The more recent data focusing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s Racial and Identity Profiling Act , which cleared the state Legislature in 2015 , though some agencies in large cities had previously produced annual reports on the issue .
The analysis in this article focused on profiling complaints based on a person ’ s race or ethnicity , and excluded those based on gender , sexual orientation or disability .
The data reported to the attorney general ’ s office provide the most complete statewide portrait of law enforcement ’ s response to profiling complaints at a time when more and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for a reimagining of criminal justice and questioning whether policing has a disparate effect on communities of color .
Walter Katz , former independent auditor of the San Jose Police Department , said that despite numerous reports that have highlighted racial bias in police stops and searches , proving an individual contact between an officer and a civilian is racially biased can be extremely challenging .
That divide often infuriates those who file complaints , who inevitably see an officer ’ s version of events validated over their own .
“ You know @ @ @ @ @ @ @ discriminatory , but being able to prove that is different , ” said Katz , who is now vice president of criminal justice policy for Arnold Ventures .
“ Really , in the absence of a statement by the officer or deputy proving racial animus , proving such complaints is really difficult.
” Many of the agencies with the lowest rates of sustained complaints in the state have previously been the subject of studies highlighting racial disparities in their vehicle stops or other contacts with residents .
This year , a report from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Black and Latino drivers were far more likely to be stopped by police than white motorists , though white drivers were more likely to have contraband when searched .
A 2016 Stanford University study also found that 60 % of the people stopped by Oakland police in a one-year period were Black , even though just 28 % of the city ’ s population was Black at the time .
Although he understands why the numbers might concern some , LeRonne Armstrong , a deputy chief in the Oakland Police Department , said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
If an allegation of racial bias is made in the field , he said , a supervisor is immediately dispatched to the scene .
Oakland ’ s Community Police Review Agency also conducts parallel investigations into profiling complaints and concurred with the department ’ s findings on each of the 251 allegations that investigators rejected from 2016 to 2019 , according to Executive Director John Alden .
Armstrong said footage from body-worn cameras often disproves allegations of racial profiling .
But he understood why diminished trust between the public and police might @ @ @ @ @ @ @ believes and what an internal investigation can substantiate .
“ It ’ s so hard sometimes , to prove what people feel , ” he said .
“ Not to say that their feeling is wrong , or what they perceive is completely off base , but it ’ s just sometimes very challenging when you have investigative standards that you need to reach to hold somebody accountable.
” But asking the public to simply trust the validity of internal investigations can be a hard sell , experts say .
California law shields @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from public view , except when the allegation concerns lying , sexual assault or use of force ending in death or serious harm .
Those who make racial profiling complaints , however , will receive only a form letter noting that their complaint was upheld or rejected .
Priscilla Ocen , a member of the L.A. County Sheriff Civilian Oversight Commission , said that one-way flow of information leaves people who make profiling and misconduct allegations feeling as if they were not heard .
Statistics such as those revealed in The Times ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will not police themselves , she said .
“ This is the problem that we have , where there ’ s an implicit trust and belief in whatever the officers ’ account is , ” she said .
“ The complainants ’ account is the one that is being subject to scrutiny .
I think that ’ s really the problem .
There ’ s an inherent power imbalance in these investigations .
The deputy ’ s word is almost always taken at face value.
” Some police agencies scoffed at the suggestion @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In a statement , San Bernardino County Sheriff ’ s Lt. Eddie Bachman said profiling allegations often stem from subjective claims .
Although internal reviews may sometime turn up other minor misconduct on the part of the deputy , he said , all rejected complaints simply lack evidence of bias .
“ Nothing is unsettling about the fact we have no sustained findings regarding profiling and/or discrimination , ” wrote Bachman , an internal affairs supervisor .
“ I believe in the majority of the alleged ones we have , the complainants @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the incident.
” Los Angeles County Sheriff ’ s Lt. John Satterfield argued the way the California Department of Justice tracks statistics oversimplifies the actual results of the agency ’ s investigations .
In many cases , he said , a profiling complaint may not have been sustained , but an internal investigation may have found that the employee ’ s conduct could have been improved , which is different from an outright dismissal .
The LAPD ’ s record of rejecting complaints of biased policing — a broader universe of allegations that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ based on factors including gender , ethnicity or age — has prompted aggrieved responses from activists and even some city officials .
In a recent report , the LAPD acknowledged it had not upheld any of the 399 such complaints it received in 2019 , raising the eyebrows of civilian Police Commissioner Dale Bonner .
“ What does that say to you about how well this system is … detecting that kind of misconduct ?
” Bonner asked during an October meeting of the Police Commission .
“ Is it really capturing enough @ @ @ @ @ @ @ how does it have any credibility in terms of potential sanction against biased policing ?
” LAPD Chief Michel Moore pushed back , arguing the sheer number of complaints didn ’ t mean they were all valid .
“ When you have 60 % of complaints that are proven to be unfounded or demonstrably false , this issue of the pure volume of allegations , I don ’ t buy that as bias either , ” he said .
The actual number of bias complaints the LAPD determined to be unfounded or false @ @ @ @ @ @ @ department ’ s report .
Although the standards for sustaining racial profiling complaints might make it difficult for police agencies to uphold more complaints , Katz said agencies can do more to make residents feel as if their allegations aren ’ t simply being tossed off .
A number of police agencies , including the LAPD , use mediation programs in which an accuser and officers can discuss the conduct in question outside the confines of an internal investigation or disciplinary process .
Otherwise , Katz said , the gap between statistical evidence @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lack of action on individual cases will only continue to harm the public ’ s trust in law enforcement .
“ I think that the evidence is clear and ample research backs this up .
There is evidence of racial bias and discriminatory policing , ” he said .
“ The challenge is how does one connect together what is evidence of systemic bias , down to the individual officer level .
Two different standards are being applied .
”

Police agencies across California upheld 49 racial profiling complaints from 2016 to 2019, less than 2% of the roughly 3,500 allegations filed, a Times analysis found. Above, a man is handcuffed in South Los Angeles last year while police search the car in which he was riding.
The more time attorney Chris Martin spent in handcuffs on a February night in South L.A. earlier this year, the more it became obvious to him why he was being detained.
Martin — the 32-year-old director of legal services for Black Lives Matter Los Angeles — was driving to a mentoring program when he came upon what he described as a “police perimeter.” He asked if he could go through. Instead, he said, officers asked him to exit his vehicle.
Within minutes, Martin said, he was frisked and handcuffed. The officers said they were looking for a shooting suspect described only as a “Black man in dark clothing.” They offered no further reason for the stop, Martin said.
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Eventually, Martin was released. He filed a complaint alleging officers detained him only because he was Black. But he already knew how the investigation would end.
“I still have to file the complaint, even though I know that it’s highly likely to be futile, at least as far as whether or not the department is going to hold itself accountable,” he said. “We know that they won’t.”
Martin’s assumption is almost always right.
Police agencies across the state upheld just 49 racial profiling complaints from 2016 to 2019, less than 2% of the roughly 3,500 allegations filed, a Times analysis of California Department of Justice statistics found.
Of the 250 law enforcement agencies that received at least one racial profiling complaint in that time frame, 92% of them upheld none of them, according to the analysis.
A number of the state’s largest law enforcement agencies, including the Oakland Police Department, the California Highway Patrol and the sheriff’s departments in San Bernardino and San Diego counties, were among the agencies that sustained zero profiling complaints.
The Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department sustained two out of 146 complaints in the same time span, according to the analysis. Despite receiving 883 racial profiling complaints during that four-year period, the most in the state, the Los Angeles Police Department upheld only two.
Advertisement
An LAPD spokesman declined to respond to questions about Martin’s case. On that night, Martin said, he refused to speak with the officers and alleged that a detective on scene threatened to arrest him for obstruction of justice, a dubious legal claim the attorney says he laughed off.
Police agencies in California have a long history of rejecting allegations of officer misconduct. A prior Times analysis found that from 2008 to 2017, police throughout the state upheld only 8% of roughly 200,000 allegations of wrongdoing they had received from the public.
The more recent data focusing on bias complaints were mandated under California’s Racial and Identity Profiling Act, which cleared the state Legislature in 2015, though some agencies in large cities had previously produced annual reports on the issue. The analysis in this article focused on profiling complaints based on a person’s race or ethnicity, and excluded those based on gender, sexual orientation or disability.
The data reported to the attorney general’s office provide the most complete statewide portrait of law enforcement’s response to profiling complaints at a time when more and more members of the public are calling for a reimagining of criminal justice and questioning whether policing has a disparate effect on communities of color.
Walter Katz, former independent auditor of the San Jose Police Department, said that despite numerous reports that have highlighted racial bias in police stops and searches, proving an individual contact between an officer and a civilian is racially biased can be extremely challenging. That divide often infuriates those who file complaints, who inevitably see an officer’s version of events validated over their own.
“You know the undercurrent of what is occurring is discriminatory, but being able to prove that is different,” said Katz, who is now vice president of criminal justice policy for Arnold Ventures. “Really, in the absence of a statement by the officer or deputy proving racial animus, proving such complaints is really difficult.”
Many of the agencies with the lowest rates of sustained complaints in the state have previously been the subject of studies highlighting racial disparities in their vehicle stops or other contacts with residents.
This year, a report from the LAPD’s inspector general found Black and Latino drivers were far more likely to be stopped by police than white motorists, though white drivers were more likely to have contraband when searched. A 2016 Stanford University study also found that 60% of the people stopped by Oakland police in a one-year period were Black, even though just 28% of the city’s population was Black at the time.
Although he understands why the numbers might concern some, LeRonne Armstrong, a deputy chief in the Oakland Police Department, said his agency thoroughly reviews each profiling complaint. If an allegation of racial bias is made in the field, he said, a supervisor is immediately dispatched to the scene. Oakland’s Community Police Review Agency also conducts parallel investigations into profiling complaints and concurred with the department’s findings on each of the 251 allegations that investigators rejected from 2016 to 2019, according to Executive Director John Alden.
Armstrong said footage from body-worn cameras often disproves allegations of racial profiling. But he understood why diminished trust between the public and police might put a chasm between what a person believes and what an internal investigation can substantiate.
“It’s so hard sometimes, to prove what people feel,” he said. “Not to say that their feeling is wrong, or what they perceive is completely off base, but it’s just sometimes very challenging when you have investigative standards that you need to reach to hold somebody accountable.”
But asking the public to simply trust the validity of internal investigations can be a hard sell, experts say. California law shields virtually all information about internal affairs allegations from public view, except when the allegation concerns lying, sexual assault or use of force ending in death or serious harm. Those who make racial profiling complaints, however, will receive only a form letter noting that their complaint was upheld or rejected.
Priscilla Ocen, a member of the L.A. County Sheriff Civilian Oversight Commission, said that one-way flow of information leaves people who make profiling and misconduct allegations feeling as if they were not heard. Statistics such as those revealed in The Times’ analysis only cement the impression that police will not police themselves, she said.
“This is the problem that we have, where there’s an implicit trust and belief in whatever the officers’ account is,” she said. “The complainants’ account is the one that is being subject to scrutiny. I think that’s really the problem. There’s an inherent power imbalance in these investigations. The deputy’s word is almost always taken at face value.”
Some police agencies scoffed at the suggestion that the data were cause for concern. In a statement, San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Lt. Eddie Bachman said profiling allegations often stem from subjective claims. Although internal reviews may sometime turn up other minor misconduct on the part of the deputy, he said, all rejected complaints simply lack evidence of bias.
“Nothing is unsettling about the fact we have no sustained findings regarding profiling and/or discrimination,” wrote Bachman, an internal affairs supervisor. “I believe in the majority of the alleged ones we have, the complainants do not have a total understanding of the incident.”
Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Lt. John Satterfield argued the way the California Department of Justice tracks statistics oversimplifies the actual results of the agency’s investigations. In many cases, he said, a profiling complaint may not have been sustained, but an internal investigation may have found that the employee’s conduct could have been improved, which is different from an outright dismissal.
The LAPD’s record of rejecting complaints of biased policing — a broader universe of allegations that also includes complaints that officers mistreated people based on factors including gender, ethnicity or age — has prompted aggrieved responses from activists and even some city officials. In a recent report, the LAPD acknowledged it had not upheld any of the 399 such complaints it received in 2019, raising the eyebrows of civilian Police Commissioner Dale Bonner.
“What does that say to you about how well this system is … detecting that kind of misconduct?” Bonner asked during an October meeting of the Police Commission. “Is it really capturing enough reports in the right ways, and how does it have any credibility in terms of potential sanction against biased policing?”
LAPD Chief Michel Moore pushed back, arguing the sheer number of complaints didn’t mean they were all valid.
“When you have 60% of complaints that are proven to be unfounded or demonstrably false, this issue of the pure volume of allegations, I don’t buy that as bias either,” he said.
The actual number of bias complaints the LAPD determined to be unfounded or false was roughly 79%, per the department’s report.
Although the standards for sustaining racial profiling complaints might make it difficult for police agencies to uphold more complaints, Katz said agencies can do more to make residents feel as if their allegations aren’t simply being tossed off. A number of police agencies, including the LAPD, use mediation programs in which an accuser and officers can discuss the conduct in question outside the confines of an internal investigation or disciplinary process.
Otherwise, Katz said, the gap between statistical evidence of systemic bias in policing and the lack of action on individual cases will only continue to harm the public’s trust in law enforcement.
“I think that the evidence is clear and ample research backs this up. There is evidence of racial bias and discriminatory policing,” he said. “The challenge is how does one connect together what is evidence of systemic bias, down to the individual officer level. Two different standards are being applied.”


latimes--2020-12-14--Column: Meet Suely Saro, the first Cambodian American elected official in Long Beach history

As the primary English communicator of her Cambodian American family , Suely Saro became accustomed to speaking up at a young age .
First , it was the kindergarten lunch tickets she had to request for her and her brother .
In elementary school she was placed in the English learners class and had to petition to be moved out of it .
A few years later she spoke up to argue her way into the honors classes that she needed for college .
Soon she was preparing income assistance applications and other official documents for her parents , other @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of family members .
She learned that there were people whom government reached , and those it did not .
“ I felt a sense of responsibility to ensure that not just my parents but that the whole community was protected and advocated for .
And that eventually extended to everyone who was marginalized or disenfranchised , ” Saro said .
When she is sworn in Tuesday , Saro , 40 , will become the first Cambodian American council member in the history of Long Beach , which has since the 1980s hosted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Cambodian American refugees .
She may also be , as she has stated , the first Cambodian American elected to office in California .
Her political concerns lean pragmatic .
She wants to paint crosswalks , increase the office ’ s response rate to quality-of-life complaints and reduce homelessness .
But the symbolic importance of her story is not lost on her .
Like a lot of Cambodian Americans in Long Beach , Saro was born in a refugee camp in Thailand , and her parents worked at factories and sweatshops after settling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on Cambodian TV networks and newspapers , sending ripples of pride through a global diaspora hungry for examples of success .
She wants her story to highlight not just the struggles of Cambodian refugees but also how their sons and daughters are strengthened and shaped by the experience .
“ People are so used to perceiving us as a population of need , as victims .
But we ’ re diverse like any community .
We can be elected officials and artists , ” Saro said .
“ I think there ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ afraid of the government .
I can testify to the fact that that is not true.
” Representation , in the Cambodian American community , can be a complicated subject .
One legacy of the “ killing fields , ” a five-year campaign of terror and genocide in the 1970s that left nearly 2 million Cambodians dead , is the shame that survivors carry into their new homelands .
That painful history leaves survivors and their children hungry for reasons to be proud of their culture .
So I ’ ve heard more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ why Cambodian chefs always seem to market their restaurants as Thai food , which is perceived as more mainstream .
I ’ ve dined at countless Cambodian doughnut shops and fried chicken joints across the Southland but never seen anyone offer nom kong , a Cambodian pastry that closely resembles a doughnut .
So I decided to call up Huey Behuynh , a second-generation Cambodian American entrepreneur who runs Knead Donuts , a gourmet doughnut shop in Long Beach .
He was surprised that I was asking about nom kong .
His family @ @ @ @ @ @ @ never thought to offer it .
But serving a Cambodian dish was just not that big of a deal to him .
In fact , he offered to make it for me , and we quickly became embroiled in a conversation about whether there was a market for the pastry , which is made of rice flour and has the chewiness of mochi .
I realized that the assumptions embedded in my question just didn ’ t seem relevant to Behuynh .
It ’ s not that he doesn ’ t value his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and his family members who run doughnut shops would have sold the pastries if they thought anyone wanted to buy them .
They have always done whatever job was needed to survive .
Behuynh , 47 , arrived in the country as a refugee .
He dropped out of high school to become the main breadwinner of his family at the age of 17 when his father was hurt in an accident .
He has worked as a Realtor , a contractor , an insurance agent , a police officer , and for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s restaurant in Cambodia Town , the banquet hall Siem Reap .
Behuynh never imagined that he could make a living and celebrate his culture at the same time .
Assimilation into white , mainstream American culture was a matter of survival , Behuynh said .
But at Siem Reap , his family ’ s restaurant , they served a rice noodle dish that most customers recognized as pad Thai , a Thai dish .
But the Cambodian version is less sour , more sweet , with a slightly drier texture and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lunches for students in Cambodia .
Behuynh said his family insisted on calling the dish by its Cambodian moniker , student noodles , because it was an important expression of their culture and history .
“ Back when I was growing up , there was no such thing as Google .
Nowadays , people want to try something different .
You got to put it out there .
Cambodians are on the map , ” Behuynh said .
After agreeing to come try Behuynh ’ s nom kong soon , I asked him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about Saro ’ s campaign .
Behuynh ’ s response was significantly more enthusiastic .
He spoke of trying to shake off a mentality of helplessness that sometimes comes from growing up in a refugee camp , and how Saro ’ s victory was empowering for people who experienced that .
And he reflected on his daughter , who recently became the first person in his family to attend a four-year university .
“ We have always been neglected , trying to survive , afraid to ask for help .
The Cambodian community @ @ @ @ @ @ @ So this is a good direction for the community , where she ’ s going .
It ’ s encouraging future generations to see what ’ s possible , ” Behuynh said .
I guess I shouldn ’ t be so surprised that this question yielded a more meaningful answer than my inquiry about doughnuts .
And it reminded me that when we talk about representation in the Asian American community , we need to look beyond positive affirmations of our cultures and toward the material needs of our communities .
Saro and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ both are also more concerned about high school graduation rates than affirmative action policies at elite colleges .
They both have heard of nom kong ; more important , they share the experience of growing up in cramped apartments with multiple families .
I asked Saro about what her candidacy meant to two Cambodian Americans in particular : her parents .
“ They ’ ve never felt like they ’ ve been a part of America , ” Saro said .
“ I hope this begins to change their perspective .
”

Suely Saro is set to become the first Cambodian American council member in the history of Long Beach.
As the primary English communicator of her Cambodian American family, Suely Saro became accustomed to speaking up at a young age.
First, it was the kindergarten lunch tickets she had to request for her and her brother. In elementary school she was placed in the English learners class and had to petition to be moved out of it. A few years later she spoke up to argue her way into the honors classes that she needed for college.
Soon she was preparing income assistance applications and other official documents for her parents, other family members, and even the friends of family members. She learned that there were people whom government reached, and those it did not.
“I felt a sense of responsibility to ensure that not just my parents but that the whole community was protected and advocated for. And that eventually extended to everyone who was marginalized or disenfranchised,” Saro said.
California How Cambodians became the kings of beloved South L.A. fried chicken chain In a restaurant rising from an overgrown parking lot at 91st Street and Central Avenue, fried chicken, chow mein and the occasional fist bump pass through holes cut in panes of bulletproof glass.
When she is sworn in Tuesday, Saro, 40, will become the first Cambodian American council member in the history of Long Beach, which has since the 1980s hosted the nation’s largest concentration of Cambodian American refugees. She may also be, as she has stated, the first Cambodian American elected to office in California.
Her political concerns lean pragmatic. She wants to paint crosswalks, increase the office’s response rate to quality-of-life complaints and reduce homelessness.
But the symbolic importance of her story is not lost on her. Like a lot of Cambodian Americans in Long Beach, Saro was born in a refugee camp in Thailand, and her parents worked at factories and sweatshops after settling in America. Her candidacy made headlines on Cambodian TV networks and newspapers, sending ripples of pride through a global diaspora hungry for examples of success.
She wants her story to highlight not just the struggles of Cambodian refugees but also how their sons and daughters are strengthened and shaped by the experience.
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“People are so used to perceiving us as a population of need, as victims. But we’re diverse like any community. We can be elected officials and artists,” Saro said. “I think there’s a perception that we’re somehow afraid of the government. I can testify to the fact that that is not true.”
Representation, in the Cambodian American community, can be a complicated subject. One legacy of the “killing fields,” a five-year campaign of terror and genocide in the 1970s that left nearly 2 million Cambodians dead, is the shame that survivors carry into their new homelands.
That painful history leaves survivors and their children hungry for reasons to be proud of their culture. So I’ve heard more than a few young Cambodian Americans wonder why Cambodian chefs always seem to market their restaurants as Thai food, which is perceived as more mainstream. I’ve dined at countless Cambodian doughnut shops and fried chicken joints across the Southland but never seen anyone offer nom kong, a Cambodian pastry that closely resembles a doughnut.
Huey Behuynh, owner of Knead Donuts & Tea, and his daughter, Amy Behuynh. (Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)
So I decided to call up Huey Behuynh, a second-generation Cambodian American entrepreneur who runs Knead Donuts, a gourmet doughnut shop in Long Beach. He was surprised that I was asking about nom kong. His family has run doughnut shops for decades and never thought to offer it.
But serving a Cambodian dish was just not that big of a deal to him. In fact, he offered to make it for me, and we quickly became embroiled in a conversation about whether there was a market for the pastry, which is made of rice flour and has the chewiness of mochi.
I realized that the assumptions embedded in my question just didn’t seem relevant to Behuynh. It’s not that he doesn’t value his culture and love nom kong. He and his family members who run doughnut shops would have sold the pastries if they thought anyone wanted to buy them. They have always done whatever job was needed to survive.
Behuynh, 47, arrived in the country as a refugee. He dropped out of high school to become the main breadwinner of his family at the age of 17 when his father was hurt in an accident. He has worked as a Realtor, a contractor, an insurance agent, a police officer, and for a while helped run his family’s restaurant in Cambodia Town, the banquet hall Siem Reap.
Behuynh never imagined that he could make a living and celebrate his culture at the same time. Assimilation into white, mainstream American culture was a matter of survival, Behuynh said.
But at Siem Reap, his family’s restaurant, they served a rice noodle dish that most customers recognized as pad Thai, a Thai dish. But the Cambodian version is less sour, more sweet, with a slightly drier texture and a completely different history, popularized as portable lunches for students in Cambodia. Behuynh said his family insisted on calling the dish by its Cambodian moniker, student noodles, because it was an important expression of their culture and history.
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“Back when I was growing up, there was no such thing as Google. Nowadays, people want to try something different. You got to put it out there. Cambodians are on the map,” Behuynh said.
After agreeing to come try Behuynh’s nom kong soon, I asked him another question about representation, this time about Saro’s campaign.
Behuynh’s response was significantly more enthusiastic. He spoke of trying to shake off a mentality of helplessness that sometimes comes from growing up in a refugee camp, and how Saro’s victory was empowering for people who experienced that. And he reflected on his daughter, who recently became the first person in his family to attend a four-year university.
“We have always been neglected, trying to survive, afraid to ask for help. The Cambodian community never asks for things, sadly. So this is a good direction for the community, where she’s going. It’s encouraging future generations to see what’s possible,” Behuynh said.
I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that this question yielded a more meaningful answer than my inquiry about doughnuts. And it reminded me that when we talk about representation in the Asian American community, we need to look beyond positive affirmations of our cultures and toward the material needs of our communities.
Saro and Behuynh share a culture, but they both are also more concerned about high school graduation rates than affirmative action policies at elite colleges. They both have heard of nom kong; more important, they share the experience of growing up in cramped apartments with multiple families.
I asked Saro about what her candidacy meant to two Cambodian Americans in particular: her parents.
“They’ve never felt like they’ve been a part of America,” Saro said. “I hope this begins to change their perspective.”


latimes--2020-12-14--Legislators return with new bills to help Californians hurt by the COVID-19 pandemic

Like little flowers emerging from a charred landscape , some promising pandemic relief bills are sprouting in a California Legislature devastated by COVID-19 .
They ’ ve scarcely been noticed in the fixation over President Trump ’ s immoral , undemocratic attempt to overturn the voters ’ election of Joe Biden — and Gov .
Gavin Newsom ’ s French Laundry dining and unemployment benefit debacles .
Newsom , however , made a smart move last week in an attempt to right his foundering governorship .
He recruited the politically savvy Dee Dee Myers to be a senior advisor and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s supposed to help expand California business .
The California native is best known for being the first female White House press secretary — for President Clinton — but since then has worked in corporate communications , including as a vice president for Warner Bros. Newsom , Myers and legislative leaders should take a serious look at some of the pandemic-related bills that were introduced when the Legislature convened its new session last week .
But the measures face a harsh terrain that has been damaged by efforts to control the virus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the COVID-19 outbreak in March , the Legislature has been upended by restrictions .
The Capitol is barred to outsiders — policy experts , lobbyists and the public .
Many committee hearings are relegated to awkward Zoom meetings .
Mask-wearing lawmakers are confined to distancing .
They can ’ t buttonhole one another on the chamber floors to discuss bills and negotiate .
An indispensable tool of good legislating is face-to-face dickering .
That hasn ’ t been happening .
One result was that the Legislature adjourned for the year in August amid @ @ @ @ @ @ @ especially among the leaders .
“ The process is screwed up , ” Assemblyman Adam Gray ( D-Merced ) says .
“ It ’ s difficult to navigate through this .
It ’ s hard to organize the committees .
They ’ re not as transparent and public as they should be.
” Gray introduced a bill , AB 62 , that would allow small businesses and those deemed essential — such as healthcare facilities , emergency services and food processing — to take a dollar-for-dollar tax credit on virus-protection expenses required by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ things as employee testing , masks , ventilation systems and plexiglass barriers .
The credit would be taken on state tax returns .
Spend $ 20,000 protecting employees and customers , and your taxes would be reduced by that amount .
The cost to the state treasury in lost tax revenue ?
Lots .
“ Hundreds of millions to billions of dollars , ” says Gray spokesman Adam Capper .
“ Whatever it costs , that ’ s how much [ state ] regulations cost California businesses.
” “ Instead of putting our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Gray says , “ state regulators continue to push the costs associated with COVID-19 onto employers , many of whom are already struggling to keep their doors open… .
“ I can already hear those who created and supported these regulations saying the state can not afford to spend the billions of dollars it will likely cost .
Well , now you know how small-business owners feel.
” Newsom estimated last week that the state would garner a $ 15.5-billion tax windfall in the next fiscal year .
Recently , the nonpartisan Legislative @ @ @ @ @ @ @ higher surplus — $ 26 billion .
State Sen. Andreas Borgeas ( R-Fresno ) introduced a bill , SB 74 , that would require the state to spend 10 % of its surplus — whatever the size — on grants to small businesses .
Newsom recently set aside $ 500 million for small-business grants .
The governor also allowed most businesses to delay , for three months , handing over to government the sales taxes they collect .
“ California deserves more aggressive investment in business relief efforts to revitalize our economy , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ probably doesn ’ t stand a prayer given he ’ s a lowly Republican in a Legislature that Democrats control with supermajorities in each house .
But it ’ s still a good idea .
Maybe a Democrat can steal it .
The GOP senator , a law professor , has also been pressing Newsom for data that justify restaurant shutdowns , especially outdoor dining .
“ What surprised me is they don ’ t have that information , ” Borgeas says .
“ Restaurants being locked down deserve to understand whether it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to make their case , and they ’ re not being heard.
” Assemblyman Jesse Gabriel ( D-Encino ) introduced a bill , AB 61 , that would allow local governments to permit restaurants to expand outdoor dining — once it ’ s legal again .
Assembly Budget Committee Chairman Phil Ting ( D-San Francisco ) introduced a bill , AB 10 , that would require public schools to reopen once infection rates drop .
Local districts would have less control over when they resume classroom teaching .
The state would have to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Ting says .
Under his proposal , there could be hybrid teaching — a mix of in-person and distanced .
“ Right now , many schools that are open are flouting guidelines , ” he says .
“ It ’ s not clear whether they ’ re requiring students to wear masks and if desks are distanced.
” But the vast majority of public schools are closed .
“ It ’ s harder to teach online , ” Ting notes .
“ Harder to keep kids ’ attention .
There are fewer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t even showing up for class… .
“ I ’ m worried about the learning loss — also the social isolation .
Kids want to be around other kids .
They want to see the teacher .
We have to do better.
” Gray says politicians — and everyone — should come together as they did in World War II , set aside partisanship and unite behind combating the virus and saving small businesses .
“ Stop the finger-pointing and blame — the debating masks vs. not masks , ” Gray says @ @ @ @ @ @ @ get through this tough time .
“ That ’ s my wish for Christmas.
” That may be asking too much from Santa .

Since the COVID-19 outbreak in March, the California Legislature has been upended by restrictions. The Capitol is barred to outsiders — policy experts, lobbyists and the public.
Like little flowers emerging from a charred landscape, some promising pandemic relief bills are sprouting in a California Legislature devastated by COVID-19.
They’ve scarcely been noticed in the fixation over President Trump’s immoral, undemocratic attempt to overturn the voters’ election of Joe Biden — and Gov. Gavin Newsom’s French Laundry dining and unemployment benefit debacles.
Newsom, however, made a smart move last week in an attempt to right his foundering governorship. He recruited the politically savvy Dee Dee Myers to be a senior advisor and head his agency — GO-Biz — that’s supposed to help expand California business.
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The California native is best known for being the first female White House press secretary — for President Clinton — but since then has worked in corporate communications, including as a vice president for Warner Bros.
Newsom, Myers and legislative leaders should take a serious look at some of the pandemic-related bills that were introduced when the Legislature convened its new session last week.
But the measures face a harsh terrain that has been damaged by efforts to control the virus’ spread in the Capitol.
Since the COVID-19 outbreak in March, the Legislature has been upended by restrictions. The Capitol is barred to outsiders — policy experts, lobbyists and the public. Many committee hearings are relegated to awkward Zoom meetings. Mask-wearing lawmakers are confined to distancing. They can’t buttonhole one another on the chamber floors to discuss bills and negotiate.
An indispensable tool of good legislating is face-to-face dickering. That hasn’t been happening. One result was that the Legislature adjourned for the year in August amid excessive feuding between the two houses, especially among the leaders.
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“The process is screwed up,” Assemblyman Adam Gray (D-Merced) says. “It’s difficult to navigate through this. It’s hard to organize the committees. They’re not as transparent and public as they should be.”
Gray introduced a bill, AB 62, that would allow small businesses and those deemed essential — such as healthcare facilities, emergency services and food processing — to take a dollar-for-dollar tax credit on virus-protection expenses required by the state. Covered would be such things as employee testing, masks, ventilation systems and plexiglass barriers.
The credit would be taken on state tax returns. Spend $20,000 protecting employees and customers, and your taxes would be reduced by that amount.
The cost to the state treasury in lost tax revenue? Lots.
“Hundreds of millions to billions of dollars,” says Gray spokesman Adam Capper. “Whatever it costs, that’s how much [state] regulations cost California businesses.”
“Instead of putting our money where our mouth is,” Gray says, “state regulators continue to push the costs associated with COVID-19 onto employers, many of whom are already struggling to keep their doors open….
“I can already hear those who created and supported these regulations saying the state cannot afford to spend the billions of dollars it will likely cost. Well, now you know how small-business owners feel.”
Newsom estimated last week that the state would garner a $15.5-billion tax windfall in the next fiscal year. Recently, the nonpartisan Legislative Analyst’s Office projected an even higher surplus — $26 billion.
State Sen. Andreas Borgeas (R-Fresno) introduced a bill, SB 74, that would require the state to spend 10% of its surplus — whatever the size — on grants to small businesses.
Newsom recently set aside $500 million for small-business grants. The governor also allowed most businesses to delay, for three months, handing over to government the sales taxes they collect.
Borgeas contends that isn’t enough.
“California deserves more aggressive investment in business relief efforts to revitalize our economy,” he says.
Borgeas’ bill probably doesn’t stand a prayer given he’s a lowly Republican in a Legislature that Democrats control with supermajorities in each house. But it’s still a good idea. Maybe a Democrat can steal it.
The GOP senator, a law professor, has also been pressing Newsom for data that justify restaurant shutdowns, especially outdoor dining.
“What surprised me is they don’t have that information,” Borgeas says. “Restaurants being locked down deserve to understand whether it’s science-driven. Restaurants are trying to make their case, and they’re not being heard.”
Assemblyman Jesse Gabriel (D-Encino) introduced a bill, AB 61, that would allow local governments to permit restaurants to expand outdoor dining — once it’s legal again.
Assembly Budget Committee Chairman Phil Ting (D-San Francisco) introduced a bill, AB 10, that would require public schools to reopen once infection rates drop. Local districts would have less control over when they resume classroom teaching.
The state would have to provide more clarity to its safety guidelines, Ting says. Under his proposal, there could be hybrid teaching — a mix of in-person and distanced.
“Right now, many schools that are open are flouting guidelines,” he says. “It’s not clear whether they’re requiring students to wear masks and if desks are distanced.”
But the vast majority of public schools are closed.
“It’s harder to teach online,” Ting notes. “Harder to keep kids’ attention. There are fewer hours of instruction. Many kids aren’t even showing up for class….
“I’m worried about the learning loss — also the social isolation. Kids want to be around other kids. They want to see the teacher. We have to do better.”
Gray says politicians — and everyone — should come together as they did in World War II, set aside partisanship and unite behind combating the virus and saving small businesses.
“Stop the finger-pointing and blame — the debating masks vs. not masks,” Gray says. “Focus on everybody helping everybody get through this tough time.
“That’s my wish for Christmas.”
That may be asking too much from Santa.


latimes--2020-12-13--Los Angeles, Orange and San Francisco counties shatter COVID-19 records as ICU space shrinks

Record numbers of patients with COVID-19 were hospitalized this weekend in Los Angeles and Orange counties , and San Francisco hit a high for new coronavirus cases , as space in intensive care units across the state shrunk to dangerous lows .
The figures paint a dire picture just two weeks before Christmas , when holiday travel could ramp up despite warnings from public health officials .
There were 1,236 people hospitalized with COVID-19 in Orange County on Sunday and 4,203 in Los Angeles on Saturday , according to the latest available numbers — both record highs .
San Francisco @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coronavirus testing , reported a record of 323 new cases Saturday .
Intensive care units in Southern California had only 4.2 % of their capacity available Sunday , falling below the statewide level of 7.4 % , according to the California Department of Public Health .
Northern California had the highest capacity , with 29 % , while the San Joaquin Valley had just 1.5 % .
Mortality rates could surge if ICUs can no longer accommodate patients .
The scarcity is less about physical space and more about a shortage of specially @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The state ’ s stay-at-home order went into effect when the ICU capacity in several regions dipped below 15 % .
The sobering numbers come as the first doses of the COVID-19 vaccine by Pfizer and BioNTech were shipped out of a Michigan factory Sunday .
“ This is the beginning of the end , ” Gov .
Gavin Newsom tweeted Sunday about the vaccine shipments .
“ Let ’ s crush this curve and get to the finish line.
” Still , public health officials say people need to wear masks and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ yet know whether people who have gotten the vaccine can still spread the virus if infected , and only a small number of doses will be available initially .
California is set to receive about 327,000 doses in its initial batch , to be given to healthcare workers at direct risk of exposure to the coronavirus .
The state could receive about 2 million doses of vaccine by the end of the month , which would help vaccinate the state ’ s 2.4 million healthcare workers .
It may be spring or summer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a COVID-19 vaccine , public health officials have said .
Times staff writers Ben Welsh and Rong-Gong Lin II contributed to this report .

Record numbers of patients with COVID-19 were hospitalized in Los Angeles and Orange counties over the weekend.
Record numbers of patients with COVID-19 were hospitalized this weekend in Los Angeles and Orange counties, and San Francisco hit a high for new coronavirus cases, as space in intensive care units across the state shrunk to dangerous lows.
The figures paint a dire picture just two weeks before Christmas, when holiday travel could ramp up despite warnings from public health officials.
There were 1,236 people hospitalized with COVID-19 in Orange County on Sunday and 4,203 in Los Angeles on Saturday, according to the latest available numbers — both record highs. San Francisco, which had been a front-runner in coronavirus testing, reported a record of 323 new cases Saturday.
Intensive care units in Southern California had only 4.2% of their capacity available Sunday, falling below the statewide level of 7.4%, according to the California Department of Public Health. Northern California had the highest capacity, with 29%, while the San Joaquin Valley had just 1.5%.
Mortality rates could surge if ICUs can no longer accommodate patients. The scarcity is less about physical space and more about a shortage of specially trained nurses to provide 24-hour care. The state’s stay-at-home order went into effect when the ICU capacity in several regions dipped below 15%.
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The sobering numbers come as the first doses of the COVID-19 vaccine by Pfizer and BioNTech were shipped out of a Michigan factory Sunday.
“This is the beginning of the end,” Gov. Gavin Newsom tweeted Sunday about the vaccine shipments. “Let’s crush this curve and get to the finish line.”
Still, public health officials say people need to wear masks and practice distancing. Scientists don’t yet know whether people who have gotten the vaccine can still spread the virus if infected, and only a small number of doses will be available initially.
California is set to receive about 327,000 doses in its initial batch, to be given to healthcare workers at direct risk of exposure to the coronavirus. The state could receive about 2 million doses of vaccine by the end of the month, which would help vaccinate the state’s 2.4 million healthcare workers.
It may be spring or summer before the general public has access to a COVID-19 vaccine, public health officials have said.
Times staff writers Ben Welsh and Rong-Gong Lin II contributed to this report.


latimes--2020-12-14--Kaiser nurses got the first COVID-19 vaccine. Then it was back to work

They made history Monday in a conference room at the Kaiser Permanente Los Angeles Medical Center on Sunset Boulevard .
It took about 45 minutes , and it was the beginning of the end for COVID-19 in California .
The vaccine rollout to five healthcare workers started shortly after 12:15 p.m. and wrapped up around 12:54 .
Gov .
Gavin Newsom , Los Angeles Mayor Eric Garcetti , state Health and Human Services Secretary Mark Ghaly , L.A. County Supervisor Hilda Solis and other officials and medical workers were present .
After each shot was administered , cheers broke out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ This is yours ?
” Newsom asked Helen Cordova , a nurse in the intensive care unit and the first healthcare worker at the facility to receive the vaccine .
“ That ’ s mine , ” she said , pointing to the dose held by hospital pharmacy supervisor David Cheng .
“ Protect me , ” she said laughing , before Marilyn Lansangan , a senior nurse for internal medicine , gave her the vaccine .
“ I ’ m very excited that we have the vaccine , because it provides @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said afterward .
The others who received a dose were Kim Taylor , a nurse in the emergency department ; Brian Thompson , a doctor in the emergency department ; Angela Balam , a worker in environmental services ; and Raul Aguilar , a worker in respiratory therapy .
But the ceremony was just a brief respite for the personnel , who are dealing with a surge of patients sickened by COVID-19 .
Taylor , 53 , said that when she arrived at the hospital Monday morning , four patients were waiting for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ times can take hours to days .
“ It ’ s way busier now that it was initially , ” Taylor said , months after the hospital began caring for COVID-19 patients .

Gov. Gavin Newsom, far right, looks on as ICU nurse Helen Cordova receives the Pfizer-BioNTech COVID-19 vaccine Monday at Kaiser Permanente Los Angeles Medical Center.
They made history Monday in a conference room at the Kaiser Permanente Los Angeles Medical Center on Sunset Boulevard.
It took about 45 minutes, and it was the beginning of the end for COVID-19 in California.
The vaccine rollout to five healthcare workers started shortly after 12:15 p.m. and wrapped up around 12:54.
Gov. Gavin Newsom, Los Angeles Mayor Eric Garcetti, state Health and Human Services Secretary Mark Ghaly, L.A. County Supervisor Hilda Solis and other officials and medical workers were present.
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After each shot was administered, cheers broke out from the room of masked observers.
“This is yours?” Newsom asked Helen Cordova, a nurse in the intensive care unit and the first healthcare worker at the facility to receive the vaccine. “That’s mine,” she said, pointing to the dose held by hospital pharmacy supervisor David Cheng.
“Protect me,” she said laughing, before Marilyn Lansangan, a senior nurse for internal medicine, gave her the vaccine.
“I’m very excited that we have the vaccine, because it provides hope for the future,” Cordova said afterward.
The others who received a dose were Kim Taylor, a nurse in the emergency department; Brian Thompson, a doctor in the emergency department; Angela Balam, a worker in environmental services; and Raul Aguilar, a worker in respiratory therapy.
But the ceremony was just a brief respite for the personnel, who are dealing with a surge of patients sickened by COVID-19.
Taylor, 53, said that when she arrived at the hospital Monday morning, four patients were waiting for a bed in the ICU. Wait times can take hours to days.
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“It’s way busier now that it was initially,” Taylor said, months after the hospital began caring for COVID-19 patients.