She greets me at the door with a smile. I place plastic booties on my shoes. She directs me past the large screen TV silently displaying pictures of war-torn Syria. Inside the bathroom, she explains that her marble floor has spots in a strange circular pattern.

“I think it was the cleaning lady,” she says.

The marble floor is calcium carbonate. “The easiest way to think of it,” I explain, “is that you are walking on bones, a bed of long-dead sea creatures crushed and compressed by time, mined and polished. The acid from her cleaning solution ate away the shine.”

“Can you fix it?” she asks. “It’s driving me crazy.”

I nod, write up a bid. Long before this, I worked in the optical industry, explaining lenses and dispersion and the bending of light.

We walk past the TV again. A talking head reports on the possibility of another planet with similar characteristics to Earth, one in which there may be life.

I thank the woman and head for the company Prius. I turn on the radio, mixing the rantings of right wing doomsayers with the auto-tuned voices of pop stars. My windshield has a horizontal crack caused by a small pebble from a concrete truck, mass times acceleration, the sun glinting off of it, stinging my retina. I squint and pull over in the shade.

I accept that the world is a random sequence of events strung together to make it Monday. I know that a too careful examination of the universe — even with my limited understanding of it — will open a door to the measure of my importance, or lack thereof, in this world. I choose to go on, knowing that not accepting value for my brief and infinitesimal time on Earth would be a mistake.

This is life. Family and friends await. And lemon meringue pie. And a baby’s laugh.

Then a song comes on the radio, filled with angst and love and unrealistic hope, and I shift into drive.

With a Perspective, I’m Les Bloch.

Les Bloch is a construction project manager.

To most, mud is wet dirt to be avoided whenever possible. To Andrew Dickson, its primordial ooze is full of life.

I love mud. Most kids do. And when my Dad passed I spent many days on this water.  When the water rolls away, mudflats are revealed and birds come alive, slurping up guppies stuck in muddy tide-pools. This is not chlorinated pool or crystal clear tap water void of life.  This is where life begins again.  Where saltwater and freshwater meet.  The lungs of the Bay. A mixing zone for birds to nest and hunt from the sky when days grow short and waters clear, revealing schools of bait fish.

This tidal soup helps imagine the Dinosaur Era.  Views of dormant volcanoes Mt. Diablo, Mt. Tamalpais and pterodactyl-like Blue Heron riding the wind .  Prehistoric Sturgeon trolling Carquinez Strait.  Old Monterey Bay Shipwrecks from an era when boats fished salmon and “Nappa” was a native american word meaning “fishing village.”

And there are volcanic valley’s to the north shaped by muddy waters.  With roots that ebb and flow each growing season making the long journey down.   Volcanic veins give passage to the water table below.

This mud breeds life.  Dressed by waters that change color from rays of the sun.   Shades of blue and brown, rich with tidal energy.  We don’t consume it, we fish from it and spend our summers in it. Organic water filtered by roots and trees without chlorine; fresh and cold in the winter, salty and warm in the summer.  Mysterious at low tide, brilliant at high tide.  It lives a dynamic existence like people of the Bay Area.  Blue when the sun is low, brown when the sun is high.
And when we paddle for miles the sunlight dances with the breeze, sparkling on riffles ahead, nurturing our curiosity for what is to come around the next bend.

We are all visual beings. And sometimes what we view to be clean is dirty.  And what seems dirty is actually full of life.

With a Perspective, I’m Andrew Dickson!

Andrew Dickson guides paddle board tours on the Petaluma River and Northern Reaches of San Pablo Bay.

It’s the time of year for when highly-informed lovers of forest fungi forage for their favorites, and Peggy Hansen is one of them.

They’re secretive and fussy. They hide themselves annoyingly and cleverly, under sheets or mounds of leaves, perfect dark, damp cover to hide them as they grow. They don’t like just any kind of forest, or any kind of tree, or even any kind of soil. More often than not, they keep close company with poison oak, far too close for my particular comfort. They’re dirty, full of frills and folds, packed with debris and soil, and sometimes bugs. And mistakes can be deadly: this game is not for the untrained. So, it’s completely fair to wonder, why do I hunt for mushrooms?

These days, wild mushrooms can be found at many markets, cleaned and trimmed and without risk of getting ‘oaked’ when reaching out to harvest them. They’re pricey, to be sure, but maybe not outrageous for a special treat with a short seasonal window. And when you figure in the time I spend foraging, and the average yield per outing, in truth they might be cheaper than ones I wildcraft.

So now you’re thinking its just nuts to try to find them on my own, risking poison oak, or even poisoning–why not just buy them? The answer is all those things, all the mysteries that make them impossible to predict and difficult to find. It’s the chance to find and follow deer trails, to visit and revisit secret spots year after year and see what may be waiting. It’s the challenge and the lure of reforging a connection to our heritage, of retraining the senses to interpret so much more, and much more differently, than most of modern life allows. And, of course, it’s the omelettes, or pasta dishes, or simple slices sauteed in melted butter. It’s wilderness itself, and it tastes like nothing else.

With a Perspective, I’m Peggy Hansen.

Peggy Hansen is a photographer and organic farmer in Santa Cruz.

You’re sitting across from me at the table. It’s our date night, something we don’t do often enough. This is what’s between us: Refinancing our mortgage, investing in the kids’ 529’s, our parents getting older, a bigger car, our work, fatigue, the next family vacation, time. We wonder loosely whether to go with the mushroom tortellini or the shrimp risotto.

I look at you. Deeper than I’ve had the breath to do in weeks.

There are new lines on your face, each one a story of concern for us, your family. I look at you, only half-hearing the words of explanation and regret.

“You’re not listening to me,” you say.

I look at your face, the face I’ve loved every day since I met you, and this is what I want to say:

This morning I woke up to something complete — to you, the simple sound of you, steady and warm. This morning I woke up and all the things that unsettle me, keep me hurtling forward, were for that moment hushed, because you were there. This morning, before the sun split the sky, the world was perfect, because our children were near in their beds and I was next to you.

This morning you walked out the door after a short kiss and we went on with our days. The small and large crises, the trifling errands, the lost instruments and heartbeats, the contracts and calculations, the needs of others wrestling with our own wants — but you kept coming back to me. In moments at the computer on the road, in conversation, I was reminded of you, and why my life is always brimming.

I was reminded of you — the man who looked at me and said, Yes.

You are sitting across from me at the table. It’s our date night, and you are right. I’m not listening. I’m just holding you with my eyes and thinking, You. Always You. Only. You.

With a Perspective, I’m Susan Dix Lyons.

Susan Dix Lyons lives in St. Helena.

Mac Clayton invests personal stuff with memory, and it’s never more stubborn than when its connected to your children.

Remember setting up house? Pots and pans. One pan, anyway. A dish or two. Coffee pot. A decent knife. Laundry basket, or maybe not, maybe just a corner of the closet. You were busy and free. You weren’t worried about all that stuff.

But it piled up, and then you moved in with someone else and his or her stuff and pretty soon you needed more room not just for the stuff but for the baby that was on the way, a prospect both exhilarating and terrifying.

That baby did it. Before her, stuff was just stuff. Now it became the cradle, an ornate antique with lace linens, in imagination if not reality. The flowered wallpaper. The changing table. The rocking chair. The toy box. The soccer goal. The study desk and lamp. The stereo. The couch with popcorn between the cushions. The television with fingerprints on the screen. And finally, the duffel bag for college.

You keep her bedroom like a silent migratory marsh pond. When her visits become less frequent, you begin saving things you think she would like for her new apartment. A set of plates she always loved. The pots you cooked all her meals in. The lamp she read by. Your attic becomes a shrine to both her past and her future.

But she never comes for her old things. She sets up her own house and finds her own mate and has her own kids. You begin to save her childhood toys for your grandchildren. Your attic is getting crowded.

And now here you are with all that stuff, which is not stuff to you but the memoir of your life. Long after you know it won’t be needed, not even by you, you keep it, knowing without admitting it that one day you will be gone and those bits of your life will remain, knitted together like the gray twigs of an old robin’s nest, still sturdy and serviceable, but abandoned.

With a Perspective, I’m Mac Clayton.

Mac Clayton is an author. He lives on the Peninsula.

President Trump is said to have expressed a preference for more immigrants from countries like Norway and fewer from Africa and the Caribbean. That got the attention of Dr. David Anderson.

It is unlikely that your new cardiologist will be Norwegian.
I myself am a 67-year-old cardiologist of Norwegian heritage. Our people were farmers, my grandfather a hospital janitor and my hard working parents did not go to college. They made many sacrifices and I applied their work ethic to college and medical school. My medical school class was overwhelmingly male and white, largely Jewish and also second and third generation European from hard working families like mine.

In 2018, as I walk the halls of the hospital and confer with hospitalists, surgeons and other specialists, I am struck by how much has changed. Almost to a woman, my younger colleagues are non-European. They — or their parents — struck out from Pakistan and India and China and Iran and Nigeria to make a new life for themselves and their families.

As we work together to deliver the best of care to our patients, what do we have in common? Certainly it is not our ethnicity. No, it is more about our approach to our lives and work. Its shaped by what we saw in our parents, their hard work, their self-sacrifice, their pioneer spirit and their knowledge that they had to do more than the next guy to make it. I think our backgrounds lead us to place a high value on community and the need to serve. We understand at a basic level that all are equal and deserve our care and attention.

Of course, it is not just the doctors that have changed my world. I am mindful of the porter from El Salvador, the ward secretary from Guatemala, the charge nurse from Nigeria, all consummate professionals doing their job and often raising a family. As we chat about those families I learn that often their hard working kids will be filling future medical school classes.

I am witness to a microcosm of the American dream. Let us hold it up as an example and be happy that there will be a Fatima to replace a David and an Alvarez to replace an Anderson.

With a Perspective, I’m Dr, David Anderson.

David Anderson is a cardiologist in the East Bay with Stanford Healthcare.

The national political climate is generating anger and division and young students are soaking it in like sponges. Shane Safir believes we can create safer spaces for them.

A few months ago, a local high school was shaken by the discovery of a student Instagram account featuring racist, anti-Semitic, and ableist memes. There were swastikas plastered across student photos, anti-black slurs and students doing the Nazi salute.

At a South Bay high school where I train teachers around unconscious bias, an Asian American student posted a video of himself ripping the head off a Black doll with the caption, “Just another Tuesday morning in the South.”

And last year, my own son — an intelligent brown boy of Filipino, Irish, and Jewish descent — was called a ‘Mexican dummy’ and taunted with a Spanish accent on the playground. I saw firsthand how these slights can erode a child’s confidence.

The fear and finger-pointing in our larger political culture is showing up in our schools. In a national survey of amore than 10,000 educators, 8 in 10 reported heightened anxiety in students of color and 4 in 10 had heard derogatory language directed at marginalized groups. This isn’t an accident. Our children are sponges, constantly absorbing the messages around them.

As a parent and an educator, I think about what my own responsibility and what we all can do. First, we can listen and believe students who bring these stories forward. It’s easy to minimize the impact of harmful speech, but learning requires children to feel emotionally safe and supported, not under threat.

Second, we can respond. Four in 10 educators didn’t think their schools had action plans to address hate and bias. If your child’s school doesn’t have one, now is the time to develop it. Words like inclusion and equity must be more than words.

And as parents, we can have hard conversations with our children around race and difference. Instead of offering platitudes like “treat everyone the same,” let’s acknowledge racism and other forms of injustice. Let’s teach our children to be allies and upstanders instead of bystanders.

A moment of crisis is a moment of opportunity. Creating more inclusive and humane school communities takes will and it takes courage.

With a Perspective, I’m Shane Safir.

Shane Safir is a parent, educator and author who works with schools to promote educational equity.

Youth Radio’s Sierra Fang-Horvath is facing a classic first generation problem; wishing her mom could be a little more woke.

My mom came to the U.S. from Taiwan when she was seven. As an immigrant in the 70s, she faced racism, daily. I cringe when I hear her stories about kids on the playground calling her “chink,” squinting their eyes, and mocking her accent.

So, it’s puzzling to me, now when she makes highly questionable statements about other groups.

We were talking about an ISIS terrorist attack. My mom shook her head and said, “Islam is a violent religion.” I confronted her, “It’s not okay to generalize an entire group based off of an extremist minority.”

We also fight over gender pronouns. I have a non-binary friend whose pronouns are “they/them,” but my mom keeps saying “she/her.” Whenever I ask her to try to use the correct pronouns, she complains that “they/them” is confusing.

We go back and forth. “So you think clarity is more important than respect?”

To her, I’m too politically correct. To me, she’s disrespectful. Sometimes I walk away with tears of frustration running down my face. How can someone I love so much think like that?

The problem with my mom isn’t hate — it’s lack of awareness. She was raised in a different generation and with a different culture. Her very traditional Chinese household didn’t exactly support different points of view.

But for me? I’ve grown up in a woke world. And some things that feel natural to me, will take her longer to catch on to.

Sometimes in public I still hiss at her, “Mom. You can’t say that. Not here, not ever.” But in the end, I need to be patient while she grows. And I know it’s not easy to let go of outdated beliefs that were ingrained in her as a child. But I see her trying. And to me, that makes a world of difference.

With a Perspective, I’m Sierra Fang-Horvath.

Sierra Fang-Horvath is 17 and lives in Oakland. Her commentary was produced by Youth Radio.

The debate over the Bill of Rights was one of the most contentious of our Constitutional Convention. The proponents and their antagonists represented the two poles of human behavior: the need to be governed and the desire to be free of all restraint. In the end, the creative tension produced an ingenious, if imperfect, compromise consistent with the living spirit of the Constitution itself. A momentous event for us, yes, but just another battle in the on-going conflict between John Locke’s view that government is the true source of freedom, and John Jacques Rousseau’s exaltation of the natural state, where reason is uncorrupted by the compromises civilization requires.

At different times, one gains the ascendancy and then the other. The French Revolution started as a libertarian bloodbath and ended with a return to monarchy. Our own revolution pitted loyalists against rebels, as did the Civil War, and the contest continues down to this moment, making us what we are for better or worse. To whom the common good is to be entrusted is a question in which everyone feels they have a stake. Traditional group allegiances are shattering as we shift toward the exercise of individual identity.

Edward Snowden and Daniel Ellsberg are heroes to some, traitors to others. Citizens now assert a right to recall judges with whom they personally disagree. California ballot propositions promote direct democracy. Social media provides an instant channel for expressing personal opinions with little or no regulation or accountability. Corporations fly whichever flag is convenient to them: creatures of the state on some issues, individuals on others. In a box office breaking musical featuring we, the people, the hero is an avowed elitist bent on curtailing immigration.

Back and forth the pendulum swings, in personal and public life, never resting for long in one spot. A good thing, too, because too much of anything is too much: we’ve seen what happens when either the establishment or the mob wields absolute power. The Greek fabulist, Aesop, may have had the final say on the matter thousands of years ago. The frogs demanded a king. So, they were given a log. When they complained that the log did nothing, they were given a stork. Who ate up all the frogs.

With a Perspective, I’m Richard Friedlander.

Richard Friedlander is a mediator and an actor in the East Bay.

Years ago, while driving in the East Bay, I was stopped in my tracks by an astonishing sight. Several cars ahead, drivers had come to a halt as a mother duck and five ducklings waddled onto Highway 80 toward San Francisco Bay on the other side. I gasped as they crossed the asphalt, the cars in the lanes where they passed idling quietly, as the ones in the farther lanes whooshed by. “They’ll never make it,” I moaned.

But just then, a good Samaritan leaped out of his idling vehicle and shooed the ducks back toward the aquatic park from where they had come. Although they were saved this time, statistics are not in their favor. An estimated 100 million animals are killed on the nation’s highways every year, and highways aren’t the only obstacles. Human development of all types has severely fragmented wildlife habitat, making it impossible for animals to move between whatever small amounts of space we have pushed them into.

We share the Earth with over 6 million terrestrial species, yet allow the others very little room. Our parks and preserves function as islands, and, like many true islands, experience high rates of extinction due to insufficient size. According to the World Wildlife Fund, this has resulted in the loss of half the planet’s wildlife over the last 40 years. To counter this trend, the Pulitzer Prize-winning biologist E.O. Wilson advocates setting aside half the Earth for wildlife. More parks are important, he says, but it’s equally important to provide animals room to move between them.

Many conservation groups have taken up the call for what are known as landscape linkages, areas that connect one wildlife habitat with another. Some are as small as underpasses beneath highways. Others are thousands of acres. Even in the crowded Bay Area, several groups are working on such a plan. When complete, it would result in almost half the Bay Area and surrounding counties as suitable for wildlife, an idea any duck family trying to cross a local highway would surely applaud.

With a Perspective, I’m Carol Arnold.

Carol Arnold is an environmental planner and writer in San Francisco.

At a recent meeting concerning foster youth, I met a young woman, Shamir. Waif-like, with immaculately coiffed hair, she clicked her long nails nervously on the table.

Abandoned as a toddler, she passed through dozens of foster homes before ending up homeless in Vegas where she worked as a “dancer”. She returned home with a young baby, but no one, she found, would take her. That’s when she decided she would go to college. She dreamt of opening a shelter for foster youth with children.

Right now, she said fiercely, the only thing keeping her from her goal was an Algebra class that she’d failed twice. “I got this thing with math,” she said.

By any standard, foster kids perform abysmally. Abandoned, they find it notoriously hard to trust the world. These are the throw-away kids who’ve grown accustomed to being failed by the system. More than half end up homeless or exploited.

At break, I asked Shamir if she would like some help. Later, we sat with her seven-year old boy, who demanded her attention. He needed help with homework. He was hungry. Someone at school had taken his lunch.

Shamir struggled with equations that involved inequalities. She didn’t understand why if you divide by a negative number the equation shifted. You have to flip the sign for the equation to remain true. I struggled to explain why this was so. Shamir, though, had little time for it. She just needed to make it through the next test. So I gave her simple rules, she tried some problems, and they seemed to work. She smiled with relief.

“Now that’s good,” she said. “I like it.”

But then her phone rang. “Is she okay?” she asked abruptly. “Are they still in lockdown? Did they get her out?” She left the table.

Her boy looked up. “My school was in lockdown three times last month,” he said. Shamir returned, clearly shaken.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m okay,” she said.

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m ready.”

“Are you ready for the inequalities?” I asked.

With a Perspective, this is Andrew Lewis.

Andrew Lewis works with at-risk youth while working on a memoir about the emigre experience. He lives in Sebastopol.

I have never looked at a photo on my phone for so long. I could not take my eyes off him.

It was a picture of our first grandchild. I hadn’t seen him in person yet. This was our introduction. And it was love at first sight.

Yeah, yeah, I know. We grandparents can be a bit much. There’s nothing quite like one of us armed with a smartphone full of photos and videos.

But we can’t help ourselves. When you hold that child in your arms a switch goes off inside you. I think we are hardwired to go nuts when our kids have kids of their own. Indifferent grandparents wouldn’t have helped the survival of the species.

The old saw about being a grandparent is that it’s great because when you’re done doting on them, you can give them back to their parents. But what that really means is that you feel love unencumbered by responsibility, and that love is a surge of pure, unalloyed tenderness.

But although we appear to appropriate the experience by proclaiming our new identities as grandparents, this is not about us. Quite the contrary. When we hold our newborn grandchild we are acknowledging and celebrating that life does, and will, go on without us.

There is a well-known piece of bumper sticker wisdom advising us that the best things in life aren’t things. I think it’s also true that the special events in your life aren’t special, in the sense of being unique. After all, what is more common than a birth? These events do not distinguish us as much as they connect us in different and powerful ways. Your child is now a fellow parent. You finally understand what your friends who were already grandparents were raving about. You see yourself as just another link in a chain that extends back in time, and you couldn’t be happier.

The lesson that resonates inside all this is that the earth does not revolve around us. But if we are lucky, and stick around long enough, it will carry us to these moments of blessing and joy.

With a Perspective, I’m Paul Staley.

Paul Staley lives in San Francisco.

They were an architect’s dream and they certainly improved the view. But they also had darker unintended consequences. Leila Sinclaire has this Perspective.

They say that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. I say that people shouldn’t live in glass houses.

Our addition gave us two-story floor-to-ceiling windows; huge, gorgeous, conversation-starting panes of glass. It was only a month before the first bird kamikazied into these windows with a sickening thump. We found it on the newly stained redwood deck, its perfect brown head turned too far to the side. There was no blood. We thought about a burial, but instead put the bird’s soft lifeless body in the compost bin, like it was taking a dirty nap.

Less than a month later, it happened again. This time there was a ribbon of blood next to the bird’s body, upping the horror ante. I googled “stop birds flying into windows” and purchased reusable reflective vinyl art deco stickers from Amazon. We stuck them on the windows. Now the glass looked like a bad preschool art project, a first timer’s mosaic experiment.

Architects deal in dreams. Glass, recently cleaned, looks fantastic in photos and portfolios. It’s there and it’s not there, a classy membrane, a frame for a view, heightening the indoor-outdoor relationship. It’s not supposed to cause wildlife fatalities, but it does.

Another Google search tells me that 988 million birds die each year from crashing into windows in the US alone. A billion. That’s the human population of India in the year 2000.

If we had known that our dream house would create avian havoc, we would have designed it differently. Our verdant view isn’t worth the carnage.

Do birds mourn their fallen comrades? I hear them chirping outside my house uninterrupted but perhaps their singing has a more melancholy tone. Or is it back to cheerful business as usual?

With a Perspective, I’m Leila Sinclaire.

Leila Sinclaire is a mother and 6th grade English teacher in Berkeley.

Sometimes, the end of a journey is nothing like what you imagined when you first began it. Pete Gavin has this Perspective.

Before the holidays my wife and I decided to give each other a DNA test so we could learn more about each other’s backgrounds. We spit into a tube, sealed it, sent it in and waited for the results.

A few weeks ago we received our results. Mine pretty much confirmed what I already knew about myself: mostly European Jewish, Swedish and Irish. That said, there were some exciting surprises; turns out I also have Middle Eastern, Western and Southern European and North African heritage. Cool.

I spent a little time on the website, studying the timeline of migrations from my regions to the United States. That was pretty disappointing, though, because it was mostly generic information rather than specifics. So I closed the link, thinking the whole thing was mostly a waste of money.

A few weeks later I decided to take another look to see if I had missed anything. I discovered a link titled ‘View All DNA Matches’ and saw a list of 40 to 50 people to whom I was probably related. There was one second cousin listed, a few more third cousins, and even more fourth cousins. I recognized a name under ‘Third Cousins’, someone my father had found through his research. “Hmm,” I thought, “there may be something to this.”

Then I scrolled down through the names of my likely fourth cousins. Near the bottom of the list was the name of one of my oldest and dearest friends. Right away, I knew it was him because he has a very unusual name. “Oh my God!” I thought. “Gustavo. He’s my fourth cousin!”

I immediately called Gus, and within a few minutes we figured out the most likely family connection. We were both stunned. All these years, and we never knew we were related. What are the odds?

I guess I did get my money’s worth after all. I can’t wait till the next time I see my old friend. My cousin.

With a Perspective, I’m Pete Gavin.

Pete Gavin is a retired teacher of middle school English.

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