latimes--2020-12-27--Christmas in the ICU: Prayers, pain, few miracles. 'Jesus is holding your hand. Don't let go'

In the morning , Angelica Rojas got the best present of her life .
The doctor told her that the man she had married six years ago was awake and getting better after nearly a month in the intensive care unit at Providence St. Jude Medical Center .
By the afternoon , the virus sought to steal back the gift .
“ Heavenly Father , please eradicate this fever out of his system , ” Rojas prayed Friday , as she watched Eduardo through an iPad screen .
A damp washcloth lay on the 50-year-old ’ s head .
A @ @ @ @ @ @ @ On Christmas Day in the intensive care unit in Fullerton , there were no carols — just a chorus of beeps that nurses knew signaled a low heart rate or oxygen levels dropping .
There were no decorations , no tree , not much joy .
The only splashes of red and green in the 32 rooms were the wires snaking across some patient beds .
“ Heal him from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet , ” Rojas pleaded .
“ We ask this in the precious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Holy Spirit , amen.
” In the summer , at its peak , Providence St. Jude in Orange County had about 70 patients with COVID-19 .
As of Christmas morning , there were 190 .
Of those , 42 were in the ICU .
That day , in 4 North ICU , a family said goodbye to a loved one taken off the ventilator .
The painful Christmas scene unfolded in a county that has been the most vocal against statewide restrictions .
Earlier this month , the sheriff said he would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s stay-at-home order .
In Huntington Beach — ground zero for protests against statewide shutdowns — the mayor pro tem has refused to wear a mask at public events .
Dr. Harry Peled , medical director of the ICU , called the last few weeks , “ incredibly grim when you look at the numbers of cases and the people refusing to wear masks.
” He called the resistance to following health directives , “ highly aggravating for all of us in healthcare.
” They had come up with a solution for those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ You get to walk the COVID rooms without any PPE.
” For healthcare workers , the dire 2020 holiday season has underscored how dangerous and volatile the pandemic has become .
In Orange County , as of Saturday there are nearly 2,000 people hospitalized , 432 of them in the ICU .
“ We see what these patients are going through , ” said Dr. Michael Katz , a critical care doctor .
“ It ’ s hard for us to predict which person once they get the coronavirus will be one of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lot of the ones who become severely ill don ’ t do well , despite our best efforts.
” Suffering through a surge that they believe stems from Thanksgiving travel and gatherings , they fear what ’ s coming next .
“ We ’ re very concerned that people getting together for Christmas and New Year ’ s is going to lead to an even bigger wave , ” Katz said .
Every room is a window into the indiscriminate cruelty of the virus .
There are patients in their 90s , 50s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the night before and others who have been there for weeks .
Behind sliding doors , some wore pressurized masks — the max level of support patients can receive , short of going on a ventilator .
Many of the patients were sedated .
When they woke up , nurses had to tell them where they were .
Staff shifted patients ’ positions throughout the day so they wouldn ’ t get bed sores .
Inside Room 22 , nurse practitioner Gloria Franklin held a purple iPad up to Margaret Gallegos-Capetello .
Her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ their two children were waiting to greet her .
“ We love you Aunt Margaret , ” her family called out from the screen .
The 91-year-old , who once helped put together airplanes for McDonnell Douglas , had gotten sick with COVID about a week before in her senior living community .
When her oxygen level dropped , she was admitted .
“ You need to try and get better , OK ?
” said her niece , Rosemary Kinder , her voice cracking with emotion .
“ Stay strong for me.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , her nurses urged her to take deep breaths .
When the aqua number — which signaled her oxygen level — began to drop , Franklin told the family they would have to end the call .
“ For all that you ’ ve been through , you ’ re doing great and we love you very much , ” her great nephew , Robert Kinder , said .
“ Aunt Margaret , we want you to know that we ’ re here for you and we ’ re always watching you.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Angelica Rojas told her husband over and over that she loved him .
When she asked if he loved her , he moved his mouth to form the words but was unable to speak .
The virus had swept through Eduardo ’ s family .
First it was Eduardo ’ s brother , then his parents , another brother , then himself and his wife .
Then two of her daughters were infected ; one is 22 , the other is 31 and pregnant .
Eduardo , Katz said , “ almost @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Christmas Eve was the first day that he began to wake up .
The next morning , Katz saw him communicating with a nurse , the first time he ’ d seen him able to do so .
“ When I heard this morning that he said good morning to the nurse in ICU , it was like the best feeling I ’ ve ever felt in years , ” Rojas said .
“ This is the best Christmas gift that I ’ ve ever received in my entire life.
” Like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Rojas said a prayer , thankful that her husband ’ s eyes were open .
This , she said , was “ the most beautiful Christmas.
” “ Jesus is holding your hand , ” Rojas told her husband .
“ Don ’ t let go.
” That afternoon , nurses called their own families from the break room , where someone had brought in surgical masks decorated with snowmen , trees and candy canes .
“ Merry Christmas , I love you guys , ” a registered nurse told his mom over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ board , a sign read , “ There is hope even when your brain tells you there isn ’ t. ” Elizabeth Waite , a registered nurse , volunteered to work Christmas because she doesn ’ t have children and she wanted some of the other nurses to be able to spend time with their kids .
That morning , she and her husband exchanged cards before she started her shift .
In an attempt to be festive , she wore Christmas-tree earrings , her surgical mask featured Santa and her grey socks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Christmas and I don ’ t mind , it ’ s normally not a big deal .
But it ’ s sad here , ” Waite said , tears rolling out of the corners of her eyes behind her protective lenses .
“ It ’ s harder this year.
” “ I just pray every night for these people.
” Joan Pung , a registered nurse , had celebrated the holiday the night before with her husband and two sons , 7 and 2 , after she finished her shift at 7:40 p.m @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The next morning , she was back by 6 a.m. , ahead of another 12 hour shift .
She marked the occasion with a long-sleeved green shirt that read , “ All I want for Christmas is peace rainbows and unicorns.
” “ I do miss them , ” she said of her sons .
“ But then I know work is also in need.
” The last few weeks , Pung said , had been “ unbearable.
” For a while , it felt as if every day there was a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ She barely got a chance to take a drink of water or sit down .
But Christmas , Pung said , felt “ like a good day.
” There weren ’ t many patients they had lost or come close to losing .

It was a perfectly COVID Christmas.
In the morning, Angelica Rojas got the best present of her life. The doctor told her that the man she had married six years ago was awake and getting better after nearly a month in the intensive care unit at Providence St. Jude Medical Center.
By the afternoon, the virus sought to steal back the gift.
“Heavenly Father, please eradicate this fever out of his system,” Rojas prayed Friday, as she watched Eduardo through an iPad screen. A damp washcloth lay on the 50-year-old’s head. A tube stuck out from his neck.
Brenda Lorenzo wears a Santa hat and a leopard mask over her N95 in the ICU at Providence St. Jude Medical Center. (Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
On Christmas Day in the intensive care unit in Fullerton, there were no carols — just a chorus of beeps that nurses knew signaled a low heart rate or oxygen levels dropping. There were no decorations, no tree, not much joy. The only splashes of red and green in the 32 rooms were the wires snaking across some patient beds.
“Heal him from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet,” Rojas pleaded. “We ask this in the precious name of your son Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, amen.”
Advertisement
In the summer, at its peak, Providence St. Jude in Orange County had about 70 patients with COVID-19. As of Christmas morning, there were 190. Of those, 42 were in the ICU.
RN Joan Pung weaves her way through IV lines as she brings medication to a patient’s room. (Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
That day, in 4 North ICU, a family said goodbye to a loved one taken off the ventilator.
The painful Christmas scene unfolded in a county that has been the most vocal against statewide restrictions. Earlier this month, the sheriff said he would not enforce Gov. Gavin Newsom’s stay-at-home order. In Huntington Beach — ground zero for protests against statewide shutdowns — the mayor pro tem has refused to wear a mask at public events.
Dr. Harry Peled, medical director of the ICU, called the last few weeks, “incredibly grim when you look at the numbers of cases and the people refusing to wear masks.” He called the resistance to following health directives, “highly aggravating for all of us in healthcare.”
They had come up with a solution for those people, he joked wryly: “You get to walk the COVID rooms without any PPE.”
Advertisement
Nurse practitioner Gloria Franklin holds an iPad up to patient Margaret Gallegos-Capetello, 91, as RN Ana Ramos, right, assists. (Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
For healthcare workers, the dire 2020 holiday season has underscored how dangerous and volatile the pandemic has become. In Orange County, as of Saturday there are nearly 2,000 people hospitalized, 432 of them in the ICU.
“We see what these patients are going through,” said Dr. Michael Katz, a critical care doctor. “It’s hard for us to predict which person once they get the coronavirus will be one of the ones who become severely ill. A lot of the ones who become severely ill don’t do well, despite our best efforts.”
Suffering through a surge that they believe stems from Thanksgiving travel and gatherings, they fear what’s coming next.
RN Ana Ramos holds the hand of Margaret Gallegos-Capetello as her family talks to her over an iPad.
(Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
“We’re very concerned that people getting together for Christmas and New Year’s is going to lead to an even bigger wave,” Katz said.
Every room is a window into the indiscriminate cruelty of the virus.
Advertisement
There are patients in their 90s, 50s, 40s and 20s, some admitted the night before and others who have been there for weeks. Behind sliding doors, some wore pressurized masks — the max level of support patients can receive, short of going on a ventilator.
Many of the patients were sedated. When they woke up, nurses had to tell them where they were. Staff shifted patients’ positions throughout the day so they wouldn’t get bed sores.
Inside Room 22, nurse practitioner Gloria Franklin held a purple iPad up to Margaret Gallegos-Capetello. Her niece, niece’s husband and their two children were waiting to greet her.
Nurse Elizabeth Waite begins to cry. “I always work Christmas and I don’t mind, it’s normally not a big deal. But it’s sad here,” she said.
(Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
“Margaret, open your eyes darling,” Franklin coaxed.
“We love you Aunt Margaret,” her family called out from the screen.
The 91-year-old, who once helped put together airplanes for McDonnell Douglas, had gotten sick with COVID about a week before in her senior living community. When her oxygen level dropped, she was admitted.
Advertisement
“You need to try and get better, OK?” said her niece, Rosemary Kinder, her voice cracking with emotion. “Stay strong for me.”
RN Ana Ramos helps Margaret Gallegos-Capetello in the ICU.
(Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
As Gallegos-Capetello struggled against her mask, her nurses urged her to take deep breaths. When the aqua number — which signaled her oxygen level — began to drop, Franklin told the family they would have to end the call.
“For all that you’ve been through, you’re doing great and we love you very much,” her great nephew, Robert Kinder, said. “Aunt Margaret, we want you to know that we’re here for you and we’re always watching you.”
Down the hall, in Room 3, Angelica Rojas told her husband over and over that she loved him. When she asked if he loved her, he moved his mouth to form the words but was unable to speak.
Joseph Demesa of RCP Respiratory Services works with a patient.
(Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
Advertisement
The virus had swept through Eduardo’s family. First it was Eduardo’s brother, then his parents, another brother, then himself and his wife. Then two of her daughters were infected; one is 22, the other is 31 and pregnant.
Eduardo, Katz said, “almost died every day for about two weeks.” Christmas Eve was the first day that he began to wake up.
The next morning, Katz saw him communicating with a nurse, the first time he’d seen him able to do so.
Daniel Guerrero, left, and RN Joan Pung don their isolation gowns in the hallway. The IV stands have been placed outside the rooms of COVID patients to minimize nurses’ exposure. (Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
“When I heard this morning that he said good morning to the nurse in ICU, it was like the best feeling I’ve ever felt in years,” Rojas said. “This is the best Christmas gift that I’ve ever received in my entire life.”
Like she does every time she calls, Rojas said a prayer, thankful that her husband’s eyes were open. This, she said, was “the most beautiful Christmas.”
Advertisement
“Jesus is holding your hand,” Rojas told her husband. “Don’t let go.”
RN Kat Yi holds an iPad up to Eduardo Rojas so that his wife can talk to him. Rojas is director of maintenance and operations with San Gabriel Unified School District.
(Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
That afternoon, nurses called their own families from the break room, where someone had brought in surgical masks decorated with snowmen, trees and candy canes.
“Merry Christmas, I love you guys,” a registered nurse told his mom over video chat. On a nearby bulletin board, a sign read, “There is hope even when your brain tells you there isn’t.”
Elizabeth Waite, a registered nurse, volunteered to work Christmas because she doesn’t have children and she wanted some of the other nurses to be able to spend time with their kids.
That morning, she and her husband exchanged cards before she started her shift. In an attempt to be festive, she wore Christmas-tree earrings, her surgical mask featured Santa and her grey socks had snowflakes.
Advertisement
A COVID patient in a negative-pressure room inside the ICU. Patients with COVID, active TB or shingles are placed in negative-pressure rooms whenever possible. (Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
“I always work Christmas and I don’t mind, it’s normally not a big deal. But it’s sad here,” Waite said, tears rolling out of the corners of her eyes behind her protective lenses. “It’s harder this year.”
“I just pray every night for these people.”
Joan Pung, a registered nurse, had celebrated the holiday the night before with her husband and two sons, 7 and 2, after she finished her shift at 7:40 p.m. They had opened presents until midnight.
Juan Richardson of RCP Respiratory Services dons his isolation gown before entering Eduardo Rojas’ room.
(Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)
The next morning, she was back by 6 a.m., ahead of another 12 hour shift. She marked the occasion with a long-sleeved green shirt that read, “All I want for Christmas is peace rainbows and unicorns.”
“I do miss them,” she said of her sons. “But then I know work is also in need.”
The last few weeks, Pung said, had been “unbearable.” For a while, it felt as if every day there was a code. Another life slipping away. She barely got a chance to take a drink of water or sit down.
Advertisement
But Christmas, Pung said, felt “like a good day.” There weren’t many patients they had lost or come close to losing.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” she said.
Times staff photographer Francine Orr contributed to this report.


latimes--2020-12-28--The surreality of a "Prohibition"-style dinner as ICU availability hits zero

The other day , I saw two headlines right next to each other on the L.A. Times website that made my head hurt .
The first was an up-close look at overwhelmed hospitals around Southern California bracing for a post-Christmas wave of COVID cases , describing hospitals running out of oxygen they need to keep people alive , patients waiting up to eight hours in ambulances before entering the emergency rooms and doctors making impossible decisions about which terminally ill patients will receive care .
The second was a story about an indoor , “ speakeasy ” -style New Year @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Beverly Hills restaurant La Scala .
The restaurant slipped invitations into takeout bags that encouraged diners to “ keep this discreet , but tell all your friends.
” The articles seemed to describe worlds in direct contradiction .
One story described a group of incredibly brave people facing down the terrifying , lethal reality of the pandemic .
The other was an unapologetic , even playful , attempt to escape from that reality .
To the organizers of the dinner , the pandemic is occasion dining , so distant a threat that its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the source of a fun “ prohibition ” vibe .
“ Surreal ” doesn ’ t even begin to describe the feeling .
It ’ s painful , enraging and deeply troubling to see all these realities , all interacting with each other in contradictory and cruel ways .
At the end of the year I find myself with two questions : How did we get here , and where do we go from here ?
I could argue that a schizophrenic public response is the natural result of terribly constructed policies that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ responsibility and blame rather than keeping people safe .
It ’ s also true that the miscommunication of the virus ’ danger during the pandemic ’ s early stages was a fatal mistake that can ’ t be unmade .
A chaotic political discourse made scientific reality a matter of ideology , and many of the ruinous policies that emerged catered to industries and corporations , showing us just how little value a human life is worth .
But in truth , I don ’ t believe that the behavior of institutions and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of this growing feeling of surreality I ’ m struggling to describe .
La Scala ’ s dinner organizers aren ’ t the only ones trying to escape the pandemic ’ s reality .
Regional ICU availabilities are at zero , yet the malls were full of Christmas shoppers last week .
Coronavirus kills someone every 10 minutes in Los Angeles County , but at least there are NFL and NBA games on TV , and families are getting together for the holidays .
Social media and its distorting algorithms have always allowed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ social realities .
But in a pandemic , when these realities contradict , people die .
This is happening as the isolation and psychic toll of quarantine also forces us to turn away and cultivate private happiness , to even ignore the pandemic , for a moment , if we are privileged enough to do so .
What ’ s unprecedented about this crisis is the fact that our ability and desire to dissociate from our painful reality may have hurt our response to it .
Things aren ’ t normal , yet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ We have tried to live life , even knowing that life creates disease vectors .
And it ’ s not just a contradictory factual reality we try to escape from — it ’ s also a contradictory moral reality .
A few days ago , as ICU availabilities hit zero , I ordered from a local Jamaican restaurant on Uber Eats , and an older woman brought a plate of curry goat and red beans and rice to my doorstep .
I tipped well , but it did not ease the guilt that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with my laziness .
There are multiple pandemics , and I live in the one where people are made comfortable by paying others to take risks for them .
In one moral reality , what La Scala did is detestable and I can comfortably condemn them .
But I also can ’ t help but think of the desperation of people running restaurants right now , how no help is coming , and how I can not judge what that desperation would make me do because I ’ ve never experienced it .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ I might be forcing some employees to continue working in unsafe conditions with this order , but I may also be helping to keep the restaurants afloat and generating essential income for a delivery driver .
Where do we go from here ?
As I ’ ve said before and will continue to say in this column , I don ’ t have all the answers .
But in a world of multiple factual and moral realities , I think we have to learn to see each other with compound vision , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the borders of our awareness beyond what ’ s comfortable .
We need to form and maintain our own connections to reality outside social media .
Our information ecosystem today hardly resembles an “ information superhighway ” or “ World Wide Web ” — it ’ s more like an open world video game , where the player embodies a character that interacts with a vast , continuous environment .
The player believes they are experiencing a complete world , but in reality , the game renders the images , environments and textures @ @ @ @ @ @ @ field of view .
What you see is decided by lines of code , and no matter where you turn , the only part of the world that exists is what ’ s directly in front of your face .

The other day, I saw two headlines right next to each other on the L.A. Times website that made my head hurt.
The first was an up-close look at overwhelmed hospitals around Southern California bracing for a post-Christmas wave of COVID cases, describing hospitals running out of oxygen they need to keep people alive, patients waiting up to eight hours in ambulances before entering the emergency rooms and doctors making impossible decisions about which terminally ill patients will receive care.
The second was a story about an indoor, “speakeasy”-style New Year’s dinner being organized by the Beverly Hills restaurant La Scala. The restaurant slipped invitations into takeout bags that encouraged diners to “keep this discreet, but tell all your friends.”
Advertisement
The articles seemed to describe worlds in direct contradiction. One story described a group of incredibly brave people facing down the terrifying, lethal reality of the pandemic.
The other was an unapologetic, even playful, attempt to escape from that reality. To the organizers of the dinner, the pandemic is occasion dining, so distant a threat that its terrors were simply an edgy backdrop, the source of a fun “prohibition” vibe.
“Surreal” doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling. It’s painful, enraging and deeply troubling to see all these realities, all interacting with each other in contradictory and cruel ways. At the end of the year I find myself with two questions: How did we get here, and where do we go from here?
I could argue that a schizophrenic public response is the natural result of terribly constructed policies that seem designed primarily to protect politicians from responsibility and blame rather than keeping people safe. It’s also true that the miscommunication of the virus’ danger during the pandemic’s early stages was a fatal mistake that can’t be unmade. A chaotic political discourse made scientific reality a matter of ideology, and many of the ruinous policies that emerged catered to industries and corporations, showing us just how little value a human life is worth.
But in truth, I don’t believe that the behavior of institutions and leaders and corporations are the only source of this growing feeling of surreality I’m struggling to describe. La Scala’s dinner organizers aren’t the only ones trying to escape the pandemic’s reality. Regional ICU availabilities are at zero, yet the malls were full of Christmas shoppers last week. Coronavirus kills someone every 10 minutes in Los Angeles County, but at least there are NFL and NBA games on TV, and families are getting together for the holidays.
Social media and its distorting algorithms have always allowed us to construct our own factual and social realities. But in a pandemic, when these realities contradict, people die. This is happening as the isolation and psychic toll of quarantine also forces us to turn away and cultivate private happiness, to even ignore the pandemic, for a moment, if we are privileged enough to do so.
Advertisement
What’s unprecedented about this crisis is the fact that our ability and desire to dissociate from our painful reality may have hurt our response to it. Things aren’t normal, yet we have all desperately sought normality. We have tried to live life, even knowing that life creates disease vectors.
And it’s not just a contradictory factual reality we try to escape from — it’s also a contradictory moral reality.
A few days ago, as ICU availabilities hit zero, I ordered from a local Jamaican restaurant on Uber Eats, and an older woman brought a plate of curry goat and red beans and rice to my doorstep. I tipped well, but it did not ease the guilt that I might have created multiple disease vectors with my laziness. There are multiple pandemics, and I live in the one where people are made comfortable by paying others to take risks for them.
In one moral reality, what La Scala did is detestable and I can comfortably condemn them. But I also can’t help but think of the desperation of people running restaurants right now, how no help is coming, and how I cannot judge what that desperation would make me do because I’ve never experienced it.
Take my patronage of takeout places: I might be forcing some employees to continue working in unsafe conditions with this order, but I may also be helping to keep the restaurants afloat and generating essential income for a delivery driver.
Where do we go from here? As I’ve said before and will continue to say in this column, I don’t have all the answers. But in a world of multiple factual and moral realities, I think we have to learn to see each other with compound vision, and in every way we can, push the borders of our awareness beyond what’s comfortable. We need to form and maintain our own connections to reality outside social media.
Our information ecosystem today hardly resembles an “information superhighway” or “World Wide Web” — it’s more like an open world video game, where the player embodies a character that interacts with a vast, continuous environment. The player believes they are experiencing a complete world, but in reality, the game renders the images, environments and textures only in the player’s limited field of view.
What you see is decided by lines of code, and no matter where you turn, the only part of the world that exists is what’s directly in front of your face.


latimes--2020-12-28--In East L.A., coronavirus has rewired the rhythms of daily life

It wasn ’ t yet noon and Magda Maldonado had already overseen her second funeral of the day .
The 58-year-old director at Continental Funeral Home in East L.A. had another service scheduled in four hours , but for a moment she sat down and closed her eyes .
She thought about her grieving employees and how , in less than a week , four of them had lost loved ones to COVID-19 .
“ I don ’ t have words , ” she said , holding back tears .
Seven minutes from the funeral home , in a storefront @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weddings , Elizabeth Garibay arranged rose buds and baby ’ s breath into funeral bouquets at J & I Florist — some of the only orders that haven ’ t dwindled during the pandemic .
North of the shop , in two separate homes , high school seniors Itzel Juárez and Karen Rodríguez stared into screens , turning in virtual assignments and researching the logistics of starting college in a pandemic .
Nearby on Hammel Street , outside Our Lady of Guadalupe Church , which now runs a food pantry , Paloma Yanez @ @ @ @ @ @ @ subcompact vehicle .
She picks up veggies and milk and something warm such as tamales or orange chicken — a welcome break from the sopa de fideo , a simple soup , that has sustained her family in recent months .
It has been 284 days since California first went into lockdown and here in East L.A. — a hot spot of infection — nearly every street corner holds some sign of the virus that has stolen more than 24,000 lives statewide , the wealth gap and rewired the rhythms of how we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
You can see it in the “ We cash all stimulus checks ” banner hanging outside a payday-loan spot on Atlantic Boulevard and in the way three women outside a clinic along Cesar Chavez Avenue quietly reposition their bodies when someone nearby lets out a rattling cough .
You can hear it , too , in the whining ambulance sirens barreling west toward White Memorial Hospital .
Across the predominantly Latino neighborhood , which spans seven square miles , more than 15,000 residents — 1 in every 10 people — have tested @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recorded tally of any region in the county and serving as a stark reminder of the virus ’ unequal impact .
Across L.A. County , as in most every corner of the nation , Black and Latino people have been hospitalized and died at — a testament to how the jobs we work , the number of people we live with , the level of healthcare we receive and our access to generational wealth shape so much about our lives and even our longevity .
Beneath the bougainvillea archway outside Continental Funeral Home @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , there ’ s a back room with a whiteboard so wide it fills an entire wall .
There , on a recent Sunday afternoon , Maldonado stared at the 69 names written in green marker , signifying the upcoming funerals planned at the East L.A. location .
Dozens of other names in purple , red and black accounted for services at locations in Ontario , Santa Ana and Hawthorne .
“ How many cases do we have active right now ?
” Maldonado asked a longtime employee , who was sitting at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ screen .
She let out a slow sigh — that was more than quadruple their typical caseload , she said , and 80 % of the current cases are COVID-19 deaths .
The funeral home ’ s Instagram feed , which was once populated with reassuring quotes about mourning , has now transformed into a steady stream of posts about COVID-19 safety protocols , including “ # MásSeguroEnCasa , ” a hashtag encouraging people to stay home .
Maldonado often thinks back to earlier in the pandemic when we knew less about how @ @ @ @ @ @ @ precaution , the funeral home temporarily barred viewings .
She can still see the expressions of anguish on people ’ s faces when they realized they ’ d never get to look into the casket and say goodbye .
These days , her mind is almost always on her employees .
She was stunned recently when the funeral home ’ s cosmetologist , who prepares bodies before viewings , showed up for his 5 p.m. shift .
Why didn ’ t you stay home , she asked , knowing his mother had just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother ’ s presence here , he told her .
In the early days of the pandemic , Maria Sandoval , a counselor at the funeral home , lost her nephew , Valentin Martinez , to die of complications from COVID-19 .
Less than two weeks ago , her father died after contracting the virus .
Her personal grief was now overlapping with the other suffering she ’ d witnessed since March .
The 46-year-old counselor often thinks about the family who lost four relatives to the disease and the heartbreaking moment a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ afford to bury his mother at the cemetery she ’ d picked out .
She thinks of all the small services — limited to 35 people or so— which are now held under a white awning in the funeral home ’ s parking lot and how sometimes people use FaceTime for relatives who can ’ t attend .
Because of all that she ’ s witnessed , it angers her deeply to hear people dismiss the virus ’ severity .
“ They just see a number or a statistic , ” she said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the pain .
I get to see the broken families.
” Garibay ’ s shifts at J & I Florist are long and quiet .
She and her three children arrive at the shop before 8 a.m. , giving Jacqueline , 17 , Iris , 12 and Nicolas , 6 , a few minutes to log in before their online classes begin .
On a recent weekday , as the children studied , Christmas music played in the background and Garibay focused on crafting a floral basket for a funeral .
She stuffed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a white bucket and pierced them with the stems of three bright red gladiolus .
She added white pom-poms , red carnations and green fern fronds , filling it until the rim of the bucket disappeared .
She stepped back to examine her work .
“ This my husband could do in like 10 minutes , ” she said , chuckling .
“ I don ’ t work that fast yet.
” Still a novice , Garibay , 43 , has begun to teach herself the basics of floristry out of necessity @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was deported to Mexico , leaving her to run the business alone .
Both of Pineda ’ s parents died within two years of bringing him to the U.S. at age 11 , he said , and he quit high school at 17 to start working at a flower shop .
Seven years later , while delivering an arrangement , he met his wife .
They built a life together , dedicated to their children and their Catholic faith .
Pineda worked as the lead florist at a shop in Montebello for more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ retired .
He thought about taking a job at a shop in Beverly Hills , but he worried that the long commute from East L.A. would keep him from his wife and children .
He soon spotted a shop a block from Beth Israel Cemetery with a “ For Rent ” sign and before long he ’ d opened J & I Florist , named for his daughters ’ initials .
The couple ’ s son , Nicolas , was born two years later , and Pineda felt reaffirmed in his decision to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Over time , however , Pineda struggled to control his alcoholism , he said .
Between 2001 and 2010 , he was arrested on three occasions related to drunk driving .
The crimes landed him in deportation proceedings , but immigration court hearings and appeals bought him many years .
“ Unfortunately , ” he said , “ over the course of my life I committed certain errors that I should not have.
” During a check-in visit with immigration authorities in December 2019 , after his final appeal was denied , Pineda @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and deported to Mexico .
He opened a shop in Mazatlán , but realized he was hemorrhaging so much money that it made more sense to join an established florist .
He now lives in a small town in Jalisco , a five-hour drive down the coast from Puerto Vallarta , in a two-bedroom home he bought four years ago for $ 26,000 .
After decades of watching the immigration system separate families , he said , he decided it made sense to have a backup plan .
Back in East L.A. , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rent at both their home and the flower shop , so she and her three children moved into a single room at a friend ’ s home .
On the hardest days , she pleaded to God for strength and as she gained confidence in her floral skills , she started sending her husband photos of her arrangements .
“ Está chingón !
” he ’ d tell her .
It looks badass .
Then , in March , the flower shop was forced to shut down and since reopening in May , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Garibay added a plastic barrier around the cash register .
Nearby , a wall decal reads “ Choose joy ” and a sign on the counter features a prayer to St. Martin of Tours : “ God bless my business , my work and my clients.
” Customers occasionally try to barter for lower prices , saying they could find something cheaper in the downtown L.A. flower district .
“ Where ’ s Celso ?
” they sometimes ask .
Unsure of what to say , Garibay simply says that he ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ family will join him in Jalisco after the school year ends , but Garibay is worried about their children .
Nicolas is young enough to adjust , she thinks , but she wonders how Iris , who is shy and struggles with Spanish , would adapt .
“ Because of them , I am here , ” Garibay said .
“ But my husband is there .
I can not divide myself in two.
” Their eldest , Jacqueline , has applied to four schools in the California State University system with dreams @ @ @ @ @ @ @ For a long time , she told herself that if her father ever got deported , they ’ d all move to Mexico to be with him .
Now she ’ s not as sure .
On the first day of December , Itzel , a senior at Collegiate Charter High School , spent much of her day refreshing Instagram account .
She was waiting for an update from QuestBridge — a national nonprofit that connects students from low-income backgrounds with top universities — about the status of her application .
Groggy and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , 17 , wandered into her mother ’ s bedroom and hit refresh again .
This time a new post popped up , saying the decisions were in .
She took a deep breath and logged into the nonprofit ’ s website .
Then , she screamed .
Her sisters rushed in and their mother ran out of the shower to join them as they jumped up and down .
Still dripping with water , the proud mother began dialing everyone she knew to tell them the news : Her daughter had gotten @ @ @ @ @ @ @ days later , Rodríguez , a senior at the Humanitas Academy of Art and Technology , got identical news and broke down in tears .
A full ride to Stanford feels good any year , but getting in now — amid a global pandemic that has decimated college enrollment numbers , particularly in poorer school districts — felt especially momentous .
It was testament , both girls said , to their wide support systems .
Rodríguez , 18 , thought of the friend who had texted her , “ I ’ ll be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ before she received her decision , and Itzel thought of the many educators who had checked in on her after her aunt died of cancer earlier this year .
Itzel thought , in particular , of Celeste Davidson , an interventionist who met her one day in detention and committed to mentoring her .
The weekend Itzel ’ s application was due , Davidson stayed up past midnight , refusing to go to bed until she knew the application had been submitted .
But her most steadfast champion , Itzel said , has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , who was brought to the U.S. from Mexico at age 9 .
Because she never had the opportunity to study at a university , González said , she has always stressed the importance of manifesting their educational goals to her daughters .
“ A plan , ” she often told them , “ not just a dream.
” For González , who works the night shift at UPS , loading boxes onto delivery trucks , her daughter ’ s admission to Stanford was a bright spot in an otherwise bleak year .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ contracted COVID-19 and became gravely ill .
Her partner couldn ’ t travel , so he asked her to make the trip to the Mexican state of Puebla to ensure that his mother , who was hospitalized , received proper medical attention .
González , who hadn ’ t returned to Mexico since leaving as a young girl , was terrified of getting infected , but ultimately made the trek .
While there , in her quest to secure an oxygen tank for her mother-in-law , she got exposed to the virus .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ positive and had to miss work for several weeks , devastating the family ’ s finances .
Although the Stanford news buoyed her spirits , the idea of her daughter leaving home pains her .
She knows she won ’ t be there to soothe Itzel if she gets sick and she worries about her daughter ’ s safety as a student of color on campus .
“ I ’ m not ready .
I ’ ll probably never be ready , ” she said .
“ But this is her time .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ You can almost hear the despair in Yanez ’ s voice as she reflects on everything the pandemic has taken from her family .
Her husband , Benny , a forklift driver , has arthritis in both knees but returned to work from disability leave in September , eager for a full paycheck .
Almost immediately , his hours were cut .
Her 7-year-old son , Benny Jr. , an introvert , had finally started to open up , making a core group of friends at Our Lady of Guadalupe Elementary School on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ online , the 43-year-old watched as her second-grader zoned out on Zoom , constantly talking about how much he missed his friends .
And , in an instant , the outings she had once relished , such as picking up groceries for her family , felt exceedingly risky , given her health history with diabetes .
She yearned for a home with a yard or some green space — somewhere Benny Jr. could run around — but all they could afford to rent right now was the top story of a home , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
As an escape from their tight quarters , Yanez and her son sometimes drive to Obregon Park and run around in the grass together .
When it ’ s not locked , her son frolics in the playground .
“ It ’ s just been a struggle , you know ?
” Yanez says , fighting back tears .
“ We ’ re behind on most bills .
I can ’ t work because of my illnesses and we ’ re just barely getting by .
It ’ s tough , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” And so far , she said , her faith — and her parish — have helped sustain her .
Her son ’ s school , located in the parish , loaned Benny Jr. and about 50 other students iPads with built-in hot spots .
The school also awarded the family a scholarship to cover a third of the $ 3,150 annual tuition .
She and her husband considered the possibility of putting Benny Jr. in a public school , she said , but want to do everything they can to keep him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ impressed and humbled by the efforts of her son ’ s teachers — Laura Flores , Jessica Salazar and Angelica Carrillo — who have worked hard to keep him engaged , while also maintaining a challenging curriculum .
And almost every weekday morning recently , Yanez has pulled up to the school ’ s food pantry , which is funded by the federal government ’ s Seamless Summer Option program .
It is on hiatus for the holidays , but during the busiest day this summer , Principal Nancy Figueroa said about 1,900 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ itself is struggling as well .
School enrollment is down 17 % and the church is operating on about half the revenue it did last year — a drop due , in part , to the cancellation of a four-day fiesta that typically brings in about $ 60,000 .
“ It ’ s hard to lose that , ” said Jose Ruiz , the parish ’ s business manager .
Still , he said , they ’ ve managed to give about $ 7,000 in small , one-time grants , which families have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , funerals or medical bills .
While the church began offering small , socially distanced Masses again in mid-July , most parishioners , including the Yanez family , still prefer to watch virtually from home .
She hasn ’ t missed a Sunday yet , Yanez said .
Over the last several months , Father Marco Solis said , he has watched in admiration as his congregation has united amid profound suffering and fear .
We are called to serve one another , he said , to lighten another ’ s loads .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ he sees that happening all around him .

Marisa Gerber, Andrea Castillo, Julia Barajas, Andrew J. Campa

Leer en español
It wasn’t yet noon and Magda Maldonado had already overseen her second funeral of the day.
The 58-year-old director at Continental Funeral Home in East L.A. had another service scheduled in four hours, but for a moment she sat down and closed her eyes. She thought about her grieving employees and how, in less than a week, four of them had lost loved ones to COVID-19.
“I don’t have words,” she said, holding back tears.
Seven minutes from the funeral home, in a storefront with signs boasting specials for quinceañeras and weddings, Elizabeth Garibay arranged rose buds and baby’s breath into funeral bouquets at J&I Florist — some of the only orders that haven’t dwindled during the pandemic.
Advertisement
North of the shop, in two separate homes, high school seniors Itzel Juárez and Karen Rodríguez stared into screens, turning in virtual assignments and researching the logistics of starting college in a pandemic.
Nearby on Hammel Street, outside Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, which now runs a food pantry, Paloma Yanez pulls up most mornings in her black subcompact vehicle. She picks up veggies and milk and something warm such as tamales or orange chicken — a welcome break from the sopa de fideo, a simple soup, that has sustained her family in recent months.
It has been 284 days since California first went into lockdown and here in East L.A. — a hot spot of infection — nearly every street corner holds some sign of the virus that has stolen more than 24,000 lives statewide, widened the wealth gap and rewired the rhythms of how we mourn, learn, work and worship.
You can see it in the “We cash all stimulus checks” banner hanging outside a payday-loan spot on Atlantic Boulevard and in the way three women outside a clinic along Cesar Chavez Avenue quietly reposition their bodies when someone nearby lets out a rattling cough. You can hear it, too, in the whining ambulance sirens barreling west toward White Memorial Hospital.
Across the predominantly Latino neighborhood, which spans seven square miles, more than 15,000 residents — 1 in every 10 people — have tested positive for COVID-19, marking the highest recorded tally of any region in the county and serving as a stark reminder of the virus’ unequal impact.
Across L.A. County, as in most every corner of the nation, Black and Latino people have been hospitalized and died at disproportionately high rates — a testament to how the jobs we work, the number of people we live with, the level of healthcare we receive and our access to generational wealth shape so much about our lives and even our longevity.
Advertisement
The funeral home
Continental Funeral Home director Magda Maldonado scans a color-coded whiteboard with upcoming funerals in East L.A. and other locations. She is overseeing quadruple the typical number of cases, with 80% of them COVID-19 deaths. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
Beneath the bougainvillea archway outside Continental Funeral Home and past the table with hand sanitizer, there’s a back room with a whiteboard so wide it fills an entire wall.
There, on a recent Sunday afternoon, Maldonado stared at the 69 names written in green marker, signifying the upcoming funerals planned at the East L.A. location. Dozens of other names in purple, red and black accounted for services at locations in Ontario, Santa Ana and Hawthorne.
A family member holds a portrait of Julio Aguilar at Continental Funeral Home in East Los Angeles. Aguilar, 74, died Nov. 28 from complications of COVID-19. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
“How many cases do we have active right now?” Maldonado asked a longtime employee, who was sitting at his computer.
He squinted at the screen.
“176.”
She let out a slow sigh — that was more than quadruple their typical caseload, she said, and 80% of the current cases are COVID-19 deaths.
The funeral home’s Instagram feed, which was once populated with reassuring quotes about mourning, has now transformed into a steady stream of posts about COVID-19 safety protocols, including “#MásSeguroEnCasa,” a hashtag encouraging people to stay home.
Maldonado often thinks back to earlier in the pandemic when we knew less about how the virus spread and, as a precaution, the funeral home temporarily barred viewings. She can still see the expressions of anguish on people’s faces when they realized they’d never get to look into the casket and say goodbye.
“It was traumatizing.”
These days, her mind is almost always on her employees.
She was stunned recently when the funeral home’s cosmetologist, who prepares bodies before viewings, showed up for his 5 p.m. shift. Why didn’t you stay home, she asked, knowing his mother had just died of COVID-19. I feel my mother’s presence here, he told her.
Sister Dolores, right, and Dulce Chavez touch their mother, Edith Fernandez, as Dolores’ husband Antonio Elizalde and son Valentine, 12, stand beside the casket at Continental Funeral Home. Fernandez died of complications from the virus. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
Advertisement
In the early days of the pandemic, Maria Sandoval, a counselor at the funeral home, lost her nephew, Valentin Martinez, the first sworn LAPD employee to die of complications from COVID-19. Less than two weeks ago, her father died after contracting the virus.
Her personal grief was now overlapping with the other suffering she’d witnessed since March. The 46-year-old counselor often thinks about the family who lost four relatives to the disease and the heartbreaking moment a young man realized he couldn’t afford to bury his mother at the cemetery she’d picked out.
She thinks of all the small services — limited to 35 people or so— which are now held under a white awning in the funeral home’s parking lot and how sometimes people use FaceTime for relatives who can’t attend. Because of all that she’s witnessed, it angers her deeply to hear people dismiss the virus’ severity.
“They just see a number or a statistic,” she said. “But I get to see the pain. I get to see the broken families.”
The florist
Elizabeth Garibay prepares a floral arrangement while her son Nicolas Pineda, 6, watches videos at the family business, J&I Florist in East Los Angeles. Business is down more than 50%, but orders for funerals haven’t dwindled much during the pandemic. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
Garibay’s shifts at J&I Florist are long and quiet.
She and her three children arrive at the shop before 8 a.m., giving Jacqueline, 17, Iris, 12 and Nicolas, 6, a few minutes to log in before their online classes begin. On a recent weekday, as the children studied, Christmas music played in the background and Garibay focused on crafting a floral basket for a funeral.
She stuffed wet, foam bricks into the base of a white bucket and pierced them with the stems of three bright red gladiolus. She added white pom-poms, red carnations and green fern fronds, filling it until the rim of the bucket disappeared. She stepped back to examine her work.
Advertisement
“This my husband could do in like 10 minutes,” she said, chuckling. “I don’t work that fast yet.”
Still a novice, Garibay, 43, has begun to teach herself the basics of floristry out of necessity. Her husband, Celso Pineda, was deported to Mexico, leaving her to run the business alone.
Both of Pineda’s parents died within two years of bringing him to the U.S. at age 11, he said, and he quit high school at 17 to start working at a flower shop. Seven years later, while delivering an arrangement, he met his wife. They built a life together, dedicated to their children and their Catholic faith.
Pineda worked as the lead florist at a shop in Montebello for more than a decade, until his boss retired. He thought about taking a job at a shop in Beverly Hills, but he worried that the long commute from East L.A. would keep him from his wife and children.
He soon spotted a shop a block from Beth Israel Cemetery with a “For Rent” sign and before long he’d opened J&I Florist, named for his daughters’ initials. The couple’s son, Nicolas, was born two years later, and Pineda felt reaffirmed in his decision to pick a shop close to home.
Over time, however, Pineda struggled to control his alcoholism, he said. Between 2001 and 2010, he was arrested on three occasions related to drunk driving. The crimes landed him in deportation proceedings, but immigration court hearings and appeals bought him many years.
Advertisement
“Unfortunately,” he said, “over the course of my life I committed certain errors that I should not have.”
Iris Pineda, a sixth-grade student at Eastmont Intermediate School, does extra credit math assignments online while her mother, Elizabeth Garibay, prepares arrangements J&I Florist in East Los Angeles. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
During a check-in visit with immigration authorities in December 2019, after his final appeal was denied, Pineda was detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement and deported to Mexico. He opened a shop in Mazatlán, but realized he was hemorrhaging so much money that it made more sense to join an established florist.
He now lives in a small town in Jalisco, a five-hour drive down the coast from Puerto Vallarta, in a two-bedroom home he bought four years ago for $26,000. After decades of watching the immigration system separate families, he said, he decided it made sense to have a backup plan.
Back in East L.A., Garibay knew she couldn’t afford rent at both their home and the flower shop, so she and her three children moved into a single room at a friend’s home. On the hardest days, she pleaded to God for strength and as she gained confidence in her floral skills, she started sending her husband photos of her arrangements.
“Está chingón!” he’d tell her. It looks badass.
Across the predominantly Latino neighborhood of East L.A., more than 15,000 residents — 1 in every 10 people — have tested positive for COVID-19. Above, passengers pack a bus on Whittier Boulevard. (Luis Sinco / Los Angeles Times)
Then, in March, the flower shop was forced to shut down and since reopening in May, sales have fallen by more than half. Garibay added a plastic barrier around the cash register. Nearby, a wall decal reads “Choose joy” and a sign on the counter features a prayer to St. Martin of Tours: “God bless my business, my work and my clients.”
Customers occasionally try to barter for lower prices, saying they could find something cheaper in the downtown L.A. flower district.
“Where’s Celso?” they sometimes ask.
Unsure of what to say, Garibay simply says that he’s not around.
Pineda hopes his family will join him in Jalisco after the school year ends, but Garibay is worried about their children. Nicolas is young enough to adjust, she thinks, but she wonders how Iris, who is shy and struggles with Spanish, would adapt.
“Because of them, I am here,” Garibay said. “But my husband is there. I cannot divide myself in two.”
Their eldest, Jacqueline, has applied to four schools in the California State University system with dreams of becoming a crime scene photographer. For a long time, she told herself that if her father ever got deported, they’d all move to Mexico to be with him.
Now she’s not as sure.
The students
Itzel Juárez, 17, left, a senior at Collegiate Charter High School in East Los Angeles, with her mother Idalit González. To Itzel, who received a full ride to Stanford, González is her greatest source of inspiration and support. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
Advertisement
On the first day of December, Itzel, a senior at Collegiate Charter High School, spent much of her day refreshing Instagram account.
She was waiting for an update from QuestBridge — a national nonprofit that connects students from low-income backgrounds with top universities — about the status of her application. Groggy and anxious after a sleepless night, Itzel, 17, wandered into her mother’s bedroom and hit refresh again. This time a new post popped up, saying the decisions were in.
She took a deep breath and logged into the nonprofit’s website. Then, she screamed. Her sisters rushed in and their mother ran out of the shower to join them as they jumped up and down. Still dripping with water, the proud mother began dialing everyone she knew to tell them the news: Her daughter had gotten a full ride to Stanford.
Ten days later, Rodríguez, a senior at the Humanitas Academy of Art and Technology, got identical news and broke down in tears.
A full ride to Stanford feels good any year, but getting in now — amid a global pandemic that has decimated college enrollment numbers, particularly in poorer school districts — felt especially momentous. It was testament, both girls said, to their wide support systems.
Karen Rodríguez, 18, is a senior at the Humanitas Academy of Art & Technology in East Los Angeles and has been admitted early to Stanford University — with a full scholarship. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
Rodríguez, 18, thought of the friend who had texted her, “I’ll be praying for you,” the night before she received her decision, and Itzel thought of the many educators who had checked in on her after her aunt died of cancer earlier this year.
Itzel thought, in particular, of Celeste Davidson, an interventionist who met her one day in detention and committed to mentoring her. The weekend Itzel’s application was due, Davidson stayed up past midnight, refusing to go to bed until she knew the application had been submitted.
But her most steadfast champion, Itzel said, has always been her mother, Idalit González, who was brought to the U.S. from Mexico at age 9.
Advertisement
Because she never had the opportunity to study at a university, González said, she has always stressed the importance of manifesting their educational goals to her daughters.
“A plan,” she often told them, “not just a dream.”
For González, who works the night shift at UPS, loading boxes onto delivery trucks, her daughter’s admission to Stanford was a bright spot in an otherwise bleak year.
In October, González’s in-laws contracted COVID-19 and became gravely ill. Her partner couldn’t travel, so he asked her to make the trip to the Mexican state of Puebla to ensure that his mother, who was hospitalized, received proper medical attention.
González, who hadn’t returned to Mexico since leaving as a young girl, was terrified of getting infected, but ultimately made the trek. While there, in her quest to secure an oxygen tank for her mother-in-law, she got exposed to the virus. Back in Los Angeles, she tested positive and had to miss work for several weeks, devastating the family’s finances.
Although the Stanford news buoyed her spirits, the idea of her daughter leaving home pains her. She knows she won’t be there to soothe Itzel if she gets sick and she worries about her daughter’s safety as a student of color on campus.
“I’m not ready. I’ll probably never be ready,” she said. “But this is her time. I have to let her go.”
Advertisement
The family
Paloma Yanez, right, and her son, Benny Jr., 7, parishioners of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, pick up bags of groceries at a food pantry in East Los Angeles. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
You can almost hear the despair in Yanez’s voice as she reflects on everything the pandemic has taken from her family.
Her husband, Benny, a forklift driver, has arthritis in both knees but returned to work from disability leave in September, eager for a full paycheck. Almost immediately, his hours were cut.
Her 7-year-old son, Benny Jr., an introvert, had finally started to open up, making a core group of friends at Our Lady of Guadalupe Elementary School on Hazard Avenue. But when classes moved online, the 43-year-old watched as her second-grader zoned out on Zoom, constantly talking about how much he missed his friends.
And, in an instant, the outings she had once relished, such as picking up groceries for her family, felt exceedingly risky, given her health history with diabetes. She yearned for a home with a yard or some green space — somewhere Benny Jr. could run around — but all they could afford to rent right now was the top story of a home, which they share with an elderly couple.
As an escape from their tight quarters, Yanez and her son sometimes drive to Obregon Park and run around in the grass together. When it’s not locked, her son frolics in the playground.
Advertisement
Paloma Yanez and her son, Benny Jr., stop by a park. “It’s just been a struggle, you know?” says Yanez, a wife and mother, of recent hardships. Her faith — and her parish — have helped sustain her, she says. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
“It’s just been a struggle, you know?” Yanez says, fighting back tears. “We’re behind on most bills. I can’t work because of my illnesses and we’re just barely getting by. It’s tough, but we have faith things will get better.”
And so far, she said, her faith — and her parish — have helped sustain her.
Her son’s school, located in the parish, loaned Benny Jr. and about 50 other students iPads with built-in hot spots. The school also awarded the family a scholarship to cover a third of the $3,150 annual tuition. She and her husband considered the possibility of putting Benny Jr. in a public school, she said, but want to do everything they can to keep him where he is.
She has been impressed and humbled by the efforts of her son’s teachers — Laura Flores, Jessica Salazar and Angelica Carrillo — who have worked hard to keep him engaged, while also maintaining a challenging curriculum.
And almost every weekday morning recently, Yanez has pulled up to the school’s food pantry, which is funded by the federal government’s Seamless Summer Option program. It is on hiatus for the holidays, but during the busiest day this summer, Principal Nancy Figueroa said about 1,900 meals were handed out.
A woman shops in a store along Whittier Boulevard in East Los Angeles, which has the highest recorded tally of any region in L.A. County. (Luis Sinco / Los Angeles Times)
The parish itself is struggling as well.
School enrollment is down 17% and the church is operating on about half the revenue it did last year — a drop due, in part, to the cancellation of a four-day fiesta that typically brings in about $60,000.
“It’s hard to lose that,” said Jose Ruiz, the parish’s business manager. Still, he said, they’ve managed to give about $7,000 in small, one-time grants, which families have used to cover the cost of rent, funerals or medical bills.
Advertisement
While the church began offering small, socially distanced Masses again in mid-July, most parishioners, including the Yanez family, still prefer to watch virtually from home. She hasn’t missed a Sunday yet, Yanez said.
Over the last several months, Father Marco Solis said, he has watched in admiration as his congregation has united amid profound suffering and fear. We are called to serve one another, he said, to lighten another’s loads.
And these days, he said, he sees that happening all around him.


latimes--2020-12-28--L.A. was uniquely vulnerable to this COVID catastrophe. Here is what went wrong

An explosion of COVID-19 patients has begun to flood hospitals and may soon force doctors to ration care .
The number of available beds in intensive care units is rapidly dropping to zero , as healthcare providers plead with people not to come to emergency rooms unless it ’ s a matter of life or death .
“ Ambulances are circling hospitals for hours trying to find one that has a bed open so they can bring in their critically ill COVID patient gasping for air , ” a doctor at an L.A. County public hospital said last week , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ We ’ re literally hanging on by a thread.
” And there are no signs of reprieve .
The number of COVID-19 patients in hospitals is expected to grow through January — or beyond , if Christmas traveling and social gatherings fuel further spread of the virus .
If there is yet another wave in a few weeks , it “ will result in Northern Italy-slash-New York visions of people in hallways , ” L.A. Mayor Eric Garcetti said in an interview .
“ We ’ re on the verge of that.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and dismay among Angelenos , many of whom are wondering whether their sacrifices over the past nine months have been for naught .
L.A. County was an early adopter of masks , quickly instituted stay-at-home orders in March and November and , until this point , has kept its rate of coronavirus cases and COVID-19 deaths relatively low .
So what went wrong ?
Interviews with 31 epidemiologists , health experts and public officials offer clues : L.A. was far more vulnerable to an extreme crisis than nearly anywhere else in the nation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weather and holiday travel that has led to more coronavirus transmission across the country hit here , too — and became the match that lit the tinderbox .
The popular image of L.A. — hillside mansions , urban sprawl and drivers cocooned in their cars — belies the gritty reality .
L.A. County , home to more than 10 million people , suffers from high rates of poverty and homelessness , huge numbers of essential workers and some of the densest neighborhoods in the nation .
“ There is no city as large @ @ @ @ @ @ @ might be New York .
And we saw what happened in New York , ” said Dr. Kirsten Bibbins-Domingo , an epidemiologist at UC San Francisco .
Experts also pin L.A. ’ s problems on rules that can appear inconsistent or arbitrary , as well as a confusing patchwork of policies across Southern California .
Additionally , the county is investigating whether a more contagious strain of the virus , circulating in the United Kingdom , could be partly to blame .
L.A. for the most part has taken the right steps , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bit of good luck , managed to keep a crisis at bay for months .
“ Now , some of that luck has run out , ” Garcetti said .
A surge in coronavirus cases that began in early November put L.A. County officials on watch .
By Thanksgiving week , 4,000 people were testing positive each day , at the time a record for the county .
L.A. County Public Health Director Barbara Ferrer thought the numbers had likely reached their peak .
“ We realized , ‘ Oh , my God @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , like hundreds of thousands of people are traveling , ’ ” she said in an interview last week .
“ We at that point got really scared , because we just sort of knew in our core that we were headed to a surge on top of a surge.
” The coronavirus took off throughout California in November , the beginning of a spike that had been predicted months prior .
The progression mirrored that of the 1918 flu pandemic in the U.S. , when the fall peak was five times greater @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coronavirus is thought to thrive in colder , drier weather , making transmission more likely during this time of the year .
Short days in the winter may also push people to spend more time indoors , where the virus can easily spread .
Until November , California had avoided the huge outbreaks that had erupted elsewhere in the nation , so once the virus started circulating more , a higher proportion of the state ’ s population may have been susceptible , experts say .
Additionally , having not seen as much @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had a false sense of confidence that the pandemic was manageable .
“ People get tired , ” said Dr. Grant Colfax , San Francisco ’ s public health director .
“ This has been a long 10 months , and I think people started to let their guard down a little more , because we were in relatively good shape.
” Once transmission picked up in the fall , L.A. faced unique challenges .
L.A. County has a huge manufacturing sector and two of the biggest ports in the nation — industries @ @ @ @ @ @ @ kind of close quarters that can facilitate spread of the virus .
L.A. ’ s factories — where individual outbreaks have infected more than 400 people — have been a major driver of cases throughout the pandemic .
L.A. County also has a high as calculated by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention , a measure of how severely affected a region may be by a natural disaster or disease outbreak , based on factors that include average income , education and housing status .
The county ’ s score is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or neighboring Ventura and Orange counties , suggesting that it was always going to be more difficult for L.A. to withstand a COVID-19 surge without deadly consequences .
“ That ’ s what ’ s come home to roost : that Los Angeles has the combination of poverty and density that leads to a virus like this being able to spread much more quickly and be more devastating , ” Garcetti said .
L.A. ’ s expensive housing market also hurt the region .
While density measures how many people live in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as “ crowding , ” tracks how many people live in a home .
Having more than one person per room , excluding bathrooms , is considered overcrowded .
But in L.A. , it is common for a working-class family of four , five or even more to share a costly one-bedroom apartment .
Among the 25 biggest metropolitan areas in America , L.A. has the highest percentage of overcrowded homes , according to 2019 data from the U.S. Census Bureau .
Eleven percent of L.A. homes are considered overcrowded , compared with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Bay Area .
An analysis published in June in the Journal of the American Medical Assn .
found that the odds of falling sick from the coronavirus were not significantly affected by the poverty rate or density of a person ’ s neighborhood but clearly increased as overcrowding increased .
A cramped home may have nowhere for an infected person to isolate to prevent others from falling ill. “ The more people you have infected , and the more densely people are housed , the more links there are going to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Dr. George Rutherford .
In a county as large as L.A. , that spread turned into “ exponential growth , ” with each new person infected making it more likely that others would become infected , Ferrer said .
Currently , 1 in 95 people in the county is estimated to be infectious with the coronavirus .
Ferrer is now focusing on breaking the cycle of transmission .
Her department banned outdoor restaurant dining , and state officials issued a regional stay-at-home order that lasts through the holidays .
But she knows she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ months .
In the spring , “ I would drive to work each day , and there would be , like , two cars on the road — nobody was out .
And we definitely don ’ t have that this time around , ” Ferrer said .
“ I don ’ t think people are listening as much.
” Ferrer said dissenting views from local elected public officials that have emerged in recent months have eroded adherence to regulations .
Two members of the county Board of Supervisors , Kathryn Barger and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Public Health for pushing the ban on outdoor dining .
The three other supervisors and Garcetti have backed public health officials .
“ As soon as there ’ s a sense that there ’ s not unity — that we ’ re not all speaking with one voice — also creates a different kind of confusion and , in some cases , has given rise to a lot of defiance , ” Ferrer said .
“ That ’ s a disaster for us.
” In San Francisco , where officials report that new @ @ @ @ @ @ @ off , visits to retail and recreation spots are down by 55 % compared with the baseline , according to Google ’ s COVID-19 Community Mobility Report .
In L.A. County , they ’ re down by just 24 % .
Some experts suggest that L.A. ’ s decreasing adherence to public health guidelines may be due to overly strict rules that have sown distrust among a once-compliant public .
The recent controversial closure of playgrounds ( later reversed ) and ban on small outdoor gatherings , while indoor retail businesses remain open @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are being driven by economics instead of public health considerations .
“ Gatherings with masks outside are a very low-risk activity , and so , to restrict that , I think , is misguided , ” said Leo Beletsky , a health sciences professor at Northeastern University .
“ There ’ s been a number of instances where restrictions have not been closely tailored to the evidence and haven ’ t been clearly communicated , which has opened the door to misinformation.
” Ferrer and other experts have defended rules to reinstate a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that it ’ s clear that when people aren ’ t mixing , new infections go down .
She acknowledged , however , that it ’ s a complicated message to explain that activities considered OK a few months ago are no longer safe , because of the sheer number of people who are ill .
In general , the rules in place throughout the pandemic have helped L.A. greatly , Ferrer said — a view with which many experts agreed .
While L.A. ’ s case numbers are astronomical , that is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ making it hard to compare the region to other parts of the country , she said .
When it comes to cumulative rates of death , which are less influenced by the availability of testing , 93 of every 100,000 people in L.A. County have died of COVID-19 , fewer than the 134 in Illinois , 121 in Arizona and 103 in Florida .
If L.A. County were a state , it would rank about 28th in terms of death rate .
L.A. ’ s death toll remains far from the calamity of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ York City has reported nearly 25,000 COVID-19 deaths in total , compared with L.A. County ’ s 9,400 .
But Ferrer knows that could soon change .
The sound of sirens became a soundtrack to the holiday weekend in parts of L.A. , as hospitals were swarmed with COVID-19 patients .
Early data show high rates of travel last week , suggesting that a devastating , even worse , surge looms .
Already , Gov .
Gavin Newsom has ordered 5,000 body bags , most of them earmarked for Los Angeles County .

Los Angeles is careening toward catastrophe.
An explosion of COVID-19 patients has begun to flood hospitals and may soon force doctors to ration care. The number of available beds in intensive care units is rapidly dropping to zero, as healthcare providers plead with people not to come to emergency rooms unless it’s a matter of life or death.
“Ambulances are circling hospitals for hours trying to find one that has a bed open so they can bring in their critically ill COVID patient gasping for air,” a doctor at an L.A. County public hospital said last week, describing the “apocalyptic” scene. “We’re literally hanging on by a thread.”
And there are no signs of reprieve. The number of COVID-19 patients in hospitals is expected to grow through January — or beyond, if Christmas traveling and social gatherings fuel further spread of the virus.
Advertisement
If there is yet another wave in a few weeks, it “will result in Northern Italy-slash-New York visions of people in hallways,” L.A. Mayor Eric Garcetti said in an interview. “We’re on the verge of that.”
The dire situation has prompted confusion and dismay among Angelenos, many of whom are wondering whether their sacrifices over the past nine months have been for naught. L.A. County was an early adopter of masks, quickly instituted stay-at-home orders in March and November and, until this point, has kept its rate of coronavirus cases and COVID-19 deaths relatively low.
So what went wrong?
Interviews with 31 epidemiologists, health experts and public officials offer clues: L.A. was far more vulnerable to an extreme crisis than nearly anywhere else in the nation.
The trifecta of fatigue, winter weather and holiday travel that has led to more coronavirus transmission across the country hit here, too — and became the match that lit the tinderbox.
The popular image of L.A. — hillside mansions, urban sprawl and drivers cocooned in their cars — belies the gritty reality. L.A. County, home to more than 10 million people, suffers from high rates of poverty and homelessness, huge numbers of essential workers and some of the densest neighborhoods in the nation.
“There is no city as large and complex as L.A. The closest might be New York. And we saw what happened in New York,” said Dr. Kirsten Bibbins-Domingo, an epidemiologist at UC San Francisco.
Advertisement
Experts also pin L.A.’s problems on rules that can appear inconsistent or arbitrary, as well as a confusing patchwork of policies across Southern California. Additionally, the county is investigating whether a more contagious strain of the virus, circulating in the United Kingdom, could be partly to blame.
L.A. for the most part has taken the right steps, according to epidemiologists, and with a bit of good luck, managed to keep a crisis at bay for months.
“Now, some of that luck has run out,” Garcetti said.
November brought a surge
A surge in coronavirus cases that began in early November put L.A. County officials on watch.
By Thanksgiving week, 4,000 people were testing positive each day, at the time a record for the county. L.A. County Public Health Director Barbara Ferrer thought the numbers had likely reached their peak.
Then Thanksgiving hit.
“We realized, ‘Oh, my God. We’ve got everyone traveling, like hundreds of thousands of people are traveling,’” she said in an interview last week. “We at that point got really scared, because we just sort of knew in our core that we were headed to a surge on top of a surge.”
L.A. County now averages 14,000 new coronavirus cases a day.
The coronavirus took off throughout California in November, the beginning of a spike that had been predicted months prior. The progression mirrored that of the 1918 flu pandemic in the U.S., when the fall peak was five times greater than that of the spring.
The coronavirus is thought to thrive in colder, drier weather, making transmission more likely during this time of the year. Short days in the winter may also push people to spend more time indoors, where the virus can easily spread.
Until November, California had avoided the huge outbreaks that had erupted elsewhere in the nation, so once the virus started circulating more, a higher proportion of the state’s population may have been susceptible, experts say. Additionally, having not seen as much early devastation firsthand, Californians may have had a false sense of confidence that the pandemic was manageable.
“People get tired,” said Dr. Grant Colfax, San Francisco’s public health director. “This has been a long 10 months, and I think people started to let their guard down a little more, because we were in relatively good shape.”
A high ‘social vulnerability’ score
Once transmission picked up in the fall, L.A. faced unique challenges.
L.A. County has a huge manufacturing sector and two of the biggest ports in the nation — industries staffed by people who work in the kind of close quarters that can facilitate spread of the virus. L.A.’s factories — where individual outbreaks have infected more than 400 people — have been a major driver of cases throughout the pandemic.
L.A. County also has a high “social vulnerability” score as calculated by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, a measure of how severely affected a region may be by a natural disaster or disease outbreak, based on factors that include average income, education and housing status. The county’s score is worse than anywhere in the Bay Area or neighboring Ventura and Orange counties, suggesting that it was always going to be more difficult for L.A. to withstand a COVID-19 surge without deadly consequences.
“That’s what’s come home to roost: that Los Angeles has the combination of poverty and density that leads to a virus like this being able to spread much more quickly and be more devastating,” Garcetti said.
L.A.’s expensive housing market also hurt the region. While density measures how many people live in a geographical area, another metric, known as “crowding,” tracks how many people live in a home. Having more than one person per room, excluding bathrooms, is considered overcrowded.
But in L.A., it is common for a working-class family of four, five or even more to share a costly one-bedroom apartment.
Among the 25 biggest metropolitan areas in America, L.A. has the highest percentage of overcrowded homes, according to 2019 data from the U.S. Census Bureau. Eleven percent of L.A. homes are considered overcrowded, compared with about 6% in New York and the Bay Area.
An analysis published in June in the Journal of the American Medical Assn. found that the odds of falling sick from the coronavirus were not significantly affected by the poverty rate or density of a person’s neighborhood but clearly increased as overcrowding increased. A cramped home may have nowhere for an infected person to isolate to prevent others from falling ill.
“The more people you have infected, and the more densely people are housed, the more links there are going to be,” said UC San Francisco epidemiologist Dr. George Rutherford.
In a county as large as L.A., that spread turned into “exponential growth,” with each new person infected making it more likely that others would become infected, Ferrer said. Currently, 1 in 95 people in the county is estimated to be infectious with the coronavirus.
‘I don’t think people are listening’
Ferrer is now focusing on breaking the cycle of transmission. Her department banned outdoor restaurant dining, and state officials issued a regional stay-at-home order that lasts through the holidays. But she knows she has lost some public trust in recent months.
In the spring, “I would drive to work each day, and there would be, like, two cars on the road — nobody was out. And we definitely don’t have that this time around,” Ferrer said. “I don’t think people are listening as much.”
Ferrer said dissenting views from local elected public officials that have emerged in recent months have eroded adherence to regulations. Two members of the county Board of Supervisors, Kathryn Barger and Janice Hahn, excoriated the Department of Public Health for pushing the ban on outdoor dining. The three other supervisors and Garcetti have backed public health officials.
“As soon as there’s a sense that there’s not unity — that we’re not all speaking with one voice — also creates a different kind of confusion and, in some cases, has given rise to a lot of defiance,” Ferrer said. “That’s a disaster for us.”
In San Francisco, where officials report that new daily coronavirus cases have started to level off, visits to retail and recreation spots are down by 55% compared with the baseline, according to Google’s COVID-19 Community Mobility Report. In L.A. County, they’re down by just 24%.
Some experts suggest that L.A.’s decreasing adherence to public health guidelines may be due to overly strict rules that have sown distrust among a once-compliant public. The recent controversial closure of playgrounds (later reversed) and ban on small outdoor gatherings, while indoor retail businesses remain open, have led to criticism that decisions are being driven by economics instead of public health considerations.
“Gatherings with masks outside are a very low-risk activity, and so, to restrict that, I think, is misguided,” said Leo Beletsky, a health sciences professor at Northeastern University. “There’s been a number of instances where restrictions have not been closely tailored to the evidence and haven’t been clearly communicated, which has opened the door to misinformation.”
Ferrer and other experts have defended rules to reinstate a ban on most gatherings, pointing out that it’s clear that when people aren’t mixing, new infections go down. She acknowledged, however, that it’s a complicated message to explain that activities considered OK a few months ago are no longer safe, because of the sheer number of people who are ill.
In general, the rules in place throughout the pandemic have helped L.A. greatly, Ferrer said — a view with which many experts agreed.
While L.A.’s case numbers are astronomical, that is in part due to widespread testing, making it hard to compare the region to other parts of the country, she said. When it comes to cumulative rates of death, which are less influenced by the availability of testing, 93 of every 100,000 people in L.A. County have died of COVID-19, fewer than the 134 in Illinois, 121 in Arizona and 103 in Florida. If L.A. County were a state, it would rank about 28th in terms of death rate.
L.A.’s death toll remains far from the calamity of New York in the spring. New York City has reported nearly 25,000 COVID-19 deaths in total, compared with L.A. County’s 9,400.
But Ferrer knows that could soon change. The sound of sirens became a soundtrack to the holiday weekend in parts of L.A., as hospitals were swarmed with COVID-19 patients. Early data show high rates of travel last week, suggesting that a devastating, even worse, surge looms.
Already, Gov. Gavin Newsom has ordered 5,000 body bags, most of them earmarked for Los Angeles County.


latimes--2020-12-28--Newsom shouldn't ignore an effort to recall him. Here's how he can fight it

Conservatives are trying to yank Gov .
Gavin Newsom from office .
But their recall drive is probably doomed .
This is why : — California is not the politically competitive state it was 18 years ago .
Democrats now have a lopsided advantage .
All that said , Newsom would be foolish to kiss off the threat .
He should prepare for the attempted recall to qualify for a special election ballot in late summer or fall .
Because — as Davis found out in 2003 — once a recall petition gathers enough signatures to force a statewide vote @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for the target .
“ My best advice is don ’ t ignore it , ” says political consultant Garry South , the longtime strategist for Democrat Davis .
South learned that lesson firsthand when Davis became only the second governor in the nation ’ s history to be recalled .
“ Have your ducks in a row before it qualifies , ” South says .
“ You need to do three things : “ Do some polling to see whether the recall has legs .
“ Second , set up a war @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through a recall .
They have the playbook .
“ Third , scope out every person who ’ s identified with the recall .
Opposition research them.
” Translation : Dig up dirt that can be smeared all over the enemy .
Newsom ’ s political team isn ’ t saying what it ’ s doing , if anything .
“ We don ’ t want to be dismissive because all it takes is one billionaire or a few multimillionaires ” to finance effective signature-collecting , says Newsom political advisor Dan Newman .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ appropriate level of attention .
But the governor has his hands full with the pandemic.
” “ Is this what voters want us spending time and money on versus getting everybody vaccinated and reopening schools and businesses ?
” Newman adds .
“ Is a special election a good use of $ 100 million in taxpayers ’ money at a time when small businesses are in trouble ?
” South thinks there ’ s a 50-50 chance the proposed recall will qualify for the ballot .
Backers got an early Christmas present when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deadline for collecting signatures by 120 days .
He agreed with proponents that the pandemic made it unfairly difficult to solicit signatures .
Their new deadline to turn in 1.5 million voter signatures is March 17 , St. Patrick ’ s Day .
Sponsors say they ’ ve collected around 800,000 .
But they ’ ll need around 2 million to make up for invalid signatures .
Most have been collected by mail sent to Republican households .
“ It ’ s going to be close , but I think it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” says veteran GOP consultant Dave Gilliard .
He was a strategist in the Davis recall and is also advising the current effort .
But unlike Davis , Newsom has been relatively popular .
His job approval ratings have been around 60 % in independent polling .
Davis ’ ratings were in the low 30s for several reasons : He was unable to handle an electricity crisis caused mostly by Texas power pirates that resulted in rolling blackouts throughout California .
The state budget was bleeding billions in red ink .
He raised @ @ @ @ @ @ @ legislation providing driver ’ s licenses for immigrants here illegally .
Newsom is accused by recall advocates of being inconsistent in his pandemic managing .
First , he ordered “ nonessential ” workers to stay at home and closed businesses and public schools .
Then he relaxed the restrictions — and later he tightened them again .
Meanwhile , he recently got tagged with being a hypocrite for attending a lobbyist friend ’ s birthday dinner with several other unmasked couples at a fancy wine country restaurant , the French Laundry .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exposure Newsom has urged other Californians to avoid .
And he ’ s charged with incompetence because his administration sent out hundreds of millions of dollars in unemployment benefits to scammers , mostly using prisoners ’ names .
So , Newsom ’ s high approval numbers may have slipped since the last round of public polling .
But there ’ s no Schwarzenegger waiting to pounce .
The Hollywood action hero was warming up to run for governor in 2006 when Davis ’ term was to expire .
But the “ Terminator ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the recall election .
And it was all over once he announced on the “ Tonight Show.
” “ The power of celebrity .
That ’ s what ’ s different ” between the Davis recall and today , says former Schwarzenegger spokesman Rob Stutzman .
“ Arnold was the most famous person in the world next to the pope.
” By contrast , the most likely Republican to run in a Newsom recall election is barely known outside of San Diego .
He ’ s that city ’ s former mayor , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ President Bush had the good sense to avoid getting involved in the California recall .
But President Trump , who tweets incessantly and loves media attention , undoubtedly would find the recall brawl irresistible .
Former San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown recently wrote in his San Francisco Chronicle column that Newsom should paint the recall attempt in Trump red .
“ If Newsom can make it about Trump , Newsom wins , ” the Democratic sage wrote .
Trump is highly unpopular in California .
Moreover , the GOP brand has lost its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ voters outnumbered Republicans by only roughly 8 percentage points .
Currently the gap is nearly 22 points .
Two more differences between then and now .
In 2003 , Democratic Lt. Gov .
Cruz Bustamante broke his promise and ran for governor in the recall .
He was trounced , but many voters thought they could recall Davis and still have a Democratic governor , Bustamante .
It ’ s hard to imagine any Democrat betraying Newsom like that .
Back then , wealthy Rep. Darrell Issa of San Diego County dreamt of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ donated nearly $ 2 million to pay for signature collecting .
There ’ s no such benefactor around today , at least so far .
But the best way for Newsom to fight the recall is to get us all vaccinated , send kids back to their classrooms and reopen restaurants and other businesses .
And stay away from dinner parties at expensive restaurants .

California Gov. Gavin Newsom is facing a recall effort that he shouldn’t ignore, even it if it is unlikely to succeed, columnist George Skelton writes.
Conservatives are trying to yank Gov. Gavin Newsom from office. But their recall drive is probably doomed. This is why:
— Newsom is not Gray Davis.
— Kevin Faulconer is not Arnold Schwarzenegger.
— Donald Trump is not George W. Bush.
— California is not the politically competitive state it was 18 years ago. Democrats now have a lopsided advantage.
Advertisement
All that said, Newsom would be foolish to kiss off the threat. He should prepare for the attempted recall to qualify for a special election ballot in late summer or fall.
Because — as Davis found out in 2003 — once a recall petition gathers enough signatures to force a statewide vote, events can spiral out of control for the target.
“My best advice is don’t ignore it,” says political consultant Garry South, the longtime strategist for Democrat Davis. South learned that lesson firsthand when Davis became only the second governor in the nation’s history to be recalled.
“Have your ducks in a row before it qualifies,” South says. “You need to do three things:
“Do some polling to see whether the recall has legs.
“Second, set up a war council, including people who have been through a recall. They have the playbook.
“Third, scope out every person who’s identified with the recall. Opposition research them.”
Advertisement
Translation: Dig up dirt that can be smeared all over the enemy.
Newsom’s political team isn’t saying what it’s doing, if anything.
“We don’t want to be dismissive because all it takes is one billionaire or a few multimillionaires” to finance effective signature-collecting, says Newsom political advisor Dan Newman.
“We’re giving it an appropriate level of attention. But the governor has his hands full with the pandemic.”
“Is this what voters want us spending time and money on versus getting everybody vaccinated and reopening schools and businesses?” Newman adds. “Is a special election a good use of $100 million in taxpayers’ money at a time when small businesses are in trouble?”
South thinks there’s a 50-50 chance the proposed recall will qualify for the ballot.
Backers got an early Christmas present when a Sacramento Superior Court judge extended the deadline for collecting signatures by 120 days. He agreed with proponents that the pandemic made it unfairly difficult to solicit signatures. Their new deadline to turn in 1.5 million voter signatures is March 17, St. Patrick’s Day.
Sponsors say they’ve collected around 800,000. But they’ll need around 2 million to make up for invalid signatures.
Most have been collected by mail sent to Republican households.
California The pandemic fuels long-shot recall effort against Gov. Gavin Newsom Newsom faces the real chance of a statewide special election to remove him from office in 2021, a longshot effort but one that would be a stunning rebuke for a governor whose pre-pandemic approval ratings seemed to make him untouchable.
“It’s going to be close, but I think it’s going to be on the ballot,” says veteran GOP consultant Dave Gilliard. He was a strategist in the Davis recall and is also advising the current effort.
But unlike Davis, Newsom has been relatively popular. His job approval ratings have been around 60% in independent polling.
Davis’ ratings were in the low 30s for several reasons:
He was unable to handle an electricity crisis caused mostly by Texas power pirates that resulted in rolling blackouts throughout California. The state budget was bleeding billions in red ink. He raised the so-called car tax and signed unpopular legislation providing driver’s licenses for immigrants here illegally.
Newsom is accused by recall advocates of being inconsistent in his pandemic managing. First, he ordered “nonessential” workers to stay at home and closed businesses and public schools. Then he relaxed the restrictions — and later he tightened them again.
Meanwhile, he recently got tagged with being a hypocrite for attending a lobbyist friend’s birthday dinner with several other unmasked couples at a fancy wine country restaurant, the French Laundry. It’s the kind of potential virus exposure Newsom has urged other Californians to avoid.
And he’s charged with incompetence because his administration sent out hundreds of millions of dollars in unemployment benefits to scammers, mostly using prisoners’ names.
So, Newsom’s high approval numbers may have slipped since the last round of public polling.
But there’s no Schwarzenegger waiting to pounce. The Hollywood action hero was warming up to run for governor in 2006 when Davis’ term was to expire. But the “Terminator” seized the priceless opportunity to run in the recall election. And it was all over once he announced on the “Tonight Show.”
“The power of celebrity. That’s what’s different” between the Davis recall and today, says former Schwarzenegger spokesman Rob Stutzman. “Arnold was the most famous person in the world next to the pope.”
By contrast, the most likely Republican to run in a Newsom recall election is barely known outside of San Diego. He’s that city’s former mayor, Kevin Faulconer.
In 2003, Republican President Bush had the good sense to avoid getting involved in the California recall. But President Trump, who tweets incessantly and loves media attention, undoubtedly would find the recall brawl irresistible.
Former San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown recently wrote in his San Francisco Chronicle column that Newsom should paint the recall attempt in Trump red.
“If Newsom can make it about Trump, Newsom wins,” the Democratic sage wrote.
Trump is highly unpopular in California. Moreover, the GOP brand has lost its statewide appeal. In 2003, Democratic voters outnumbered Republicans by only roughly 8 percentage points. Currently the gap is nearly 22 points.
Two more differences between then and now.
In 2003, Democratic Lt. Gov. Cruz Bustamante broke his promise and ran for governor in the recall. He was trounced, but many voters thought they could recall Davis and still have a Democratic governor, Bustamante. It’s hard to imagine any Democrat betraying Newsom like that.
Back then, wealthy Rep. Darrell Issa of San Diego County dreamt of being elected governor. So, he donated nearly $2 million to pay for signature collecting. There’s no such benefactor around today, at least so far.
But the best way for Newsom to fight the recall is to get us all vaccinated, send kids back to their classrooms and reopen restaurants and other businesses. And stay away from dinner parties at expensive restaurants.