Apodaca: What inclusivity looks like in Orange County
By all accounts it was a happy day at San Miguel Park in Newport Beach when, late last month, the city dedicated its first playground designed to be accessible to people of all ability levels.
As reported by the Daily Pilot, the completion of the 5,500-square-foot play area was the culmination of a six-year effort inspired by a young resident, Alexis Portillo, who envisioned a facility that her nonverbal sister, Alanis, could safely use.
The renovated playground includes such features as a long tube slide that visitors with mobility issues can reach via a spiraling belt of suspended play mats, instead of stairs or ladders. It also has a wee-saw, a reimagined version of a see-saw that has seats with back support.
City leaders, speaking at the dedication, heaped praise on the Portillo family and others who worked on the project.
'This is a place where children and all of those who play can grow and connect together,' Mayor Joe Stapleton said. 'On behalf of the entire city of Newport Beach and our entire City Council, I would like to thank the families, advocates and city staff who helped bring this dream to life. You've made Newport Beach a more inclusive, joyful place for everyone.'
Perla Portillo, mother to Alexis and Alanis, was equally effusive. She called the playground 'a blessing,' and said she pictured her daughter using it every day.
'There's very limited parks that have an all inclusive feel, that are accessible for children to go on ramps or feel safe on playgrounds, very few in all of Orange County,' she said.
Newport Beach's Director of Recreation and Senior Services Sean Levin shared a statement.
'Today's grand opening is a celebration of community collaboration, vision, and the guiding principle that every child deserves a place to play,' Levin said.
'We are proud to open this space and set a new standard for inclusive play.'
And there it was again. That word. 'Inclusive.'
It's gotten a bad rap lately due to the efforts by many politicians, including President Trump, to end initiatives aimed at improving inclusivity. I'm referring, of course, to the anti-DEI hysteria that is pressuring schools, workplaces, government agencies, states, and municipalities to abandon programs and policies that have helped their organizations operate more fairly.
DEI stands for diversity, equity and inclusion. The term refers to measures used to prevent discrimination, comply with civil rights laws and foster environments more welcoming to those from marginalized backgrounds — including people with disabilities.
Proponents of DEI maintain that efforts undertaken to value diverse viewpoints and experiences benefit all of society by creating opportunities that lead to safer, healthier, happier, more robust communities.
But DEI has become, in the minds of some, a means of discrimination itself, by subverting merit-based systems and putting white people — particularly white men — at a disadvantage.
The irony is that — absent the negative connotations attached to DEI — diversity, equity and inclusion are widely viewed as worthy goals.
Consider the above quotes, which all reference the opening of a more inclusive public space as a positive development. Whether they realized it or not, the people involved in the playground redesign gave credence to one of the primary objectives of DEI.
It's also ironic that the demonization of DEI means that all such efforts are being painted with the same broad brush. Rather than conducting a careful and meaningful examination of what is working well among such initiatives — as well as which programs have missed the mark or would benefit from revisions — many organizations are capitulating and rolling back anything and everything viewed as DEI.
One more ironic twist is worth mentioning.
The $900,000 cost of the San Miguel Park renovation was paid for in part through federal Community Development Block Grant allocations.
Would such support be forthcoming in our climate today, where even the mention of the word 'inclusive' can doom a project's major source of funding?
Some companies, universities and other organizations are fighting back against the pressure to purge DEI, while many others are adopting a strategy involving changing the language they use and going quiet on their efforts to foster more diversity, equity and inclusion.
Amid this push and pull, it remains unclear how extensive and long-lasting the anti-DEI movement will prove to be. But the damage is already occurring. That's why it's imperative that we understand what it actually means to promote diversity, equity and inclusion.
I visited San Miguel Park on a recent afternoon.
Several children were cheerfully climbing, sliding and running about. As far as I could tell, they were all able-bodied and perfectly content with the play structures. I suspect they were unaware, or unbothered, that modifications were made so the playground is more accessible to kids who otherwise might not be able to join in.
That's inclusivity. No one lost anything because someone else had an opportunity to participate.
A few days later I attended a performance of the wildly successful musical 'Hamilton' at Segerstrom Hall in Costa Mesa. The racially diverse cast performed before an enthusiastic audience, while a few people to the side of the stage translated into sign language.
That's inclusivity, too. And we'd do well to recognize what it would cost us if we stop trying to achieve it.
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CNN
7 hours ago
- CNN
Once home to the CIA, this tiny Southeast Asia runway was considered ‘the most secret place on Earth'
Deep in the sweltering jungles of central Laos, a 4,500-foot stretch of cracked concrete cuts through the trees — an airstrip without an airport, in a village where many have never been on a plane. But behind its crumbling control tower and bomb-cratered runway lies a hidden chapter of America's Cold War history — a site once known as 'the most secret place on Earth.' The village of Long Tieng sits in central Laos, about 80 miles northeast of the capital, Vientiane. Today, it's a sleepy settlement of a few thousand people who mostly rely on the land to carve out a living. There are a couple of restaurants, two guesthouses and a handful of multipurpose shops selling everything from rice to farming tools made from repurposed bombshell metal — a nod to the village's agricultural roots and wartime past. At the village center lies the airstrip. It no longer serves aircraft, instead now functioning as a kind of outdoor community center: children ride scooters, farmers herd cattle and elderly villagers take early morning strolls before the intense heat engulfs the valley. But 50 years ago, the scene was vastly different. From the 1960s to the early 1970s, Laos played a central role in the United States' fight to stop the spread of communism in Southeast Asia. Long Tieng was the secret headquarters of a US-backed Hmong anti-communist army fighting against the communist Pathet Lao forces, which were supported by the North Vietnamese Army. At its height, tens of thousands of inhabitants — Hmong soldiers, their families, refugees from other parts of Laos, Thai soldiers and a small contingent of American CIA operatives and secret US Air Force pilots, dubbed 'Ravens' — called this place home. It was the heart of the largest paramilitary operation ever conducted by the CIA. At one point in time, the tiny airstrip handled 900 daily take-offs and landings, making it one of the busiest airports in the world. Cargo planes would offload crucial supplies including ammunition and food, which would then be loaded onto smaller planes that flew to even smaller airstrips around the country. Despite the scale of the base, it was so secret even some of those participating in the war in other locations did not know of its existence, says Paul Carter, a Laos Secret War specialist who lives in Southeast Asia. 'The war in Laos was so compartmentalized … I knew guys who participated in that war, they did not even know Long Tieng existed until the late 1960s when they started letting the reporters in there,' he tells CNN. From this remote mountain village, the CIA-backed Hmong army, led by the charismatic General Vang Pao, fought not only the communist Pathet Lao forces but also conducted guerrilla operations — destroying North Vietnamese supply depots, blowing up critical supply routes and generally harassing communist forces — all with full support from the US. As part of this secret war, the US launched a brutal bombing campaign that paralleled its broader military operations in Vietnam. And because international agreements barred direct military involvement in Laos, the effort fell almost entirely on the CIA. American pilots flew thousands of missions from Long Tieng's airstrip, which was known by the codenames Lima Site 98 and Lima Site 20A. Fifty years after the fall of Long Tieng in 1975, I set out to explore the remnants of the US presence in the area. I was drawn here after reading the book, 'A Great Place to Have a War' by Joshua Kurlantzick. It pulled me into a world I'd never known — a hidden Cold War battleground on the sidelines of the Vietnam War. Watching old, grainy newsreels of reporters wandering around the base only deepened my fascination. Somewhere along the way, I realized I needed to see Long Tieng with my own eyes. Before long, I find myself in Vientiane with an old college friend who I've convinced to come along for an adventure and Mr. Pao — the only driver I could find with a car suitable for the journey. Pao says he used to work at the mines near Long Tieng and is familiar with the area, though he admits he's only visited the village once before. Several tour companies organize trips, but the number of tourists that visit Long Tieng still pales in comparison to Laos' major tourist destinations like Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng. Chris Corbett, owner of Laos Adv Tours and Rentals, tells CNN that his company operates around 10 motorbike tours a year to the site, taking a total of around 40 people to the village. He said his guests mainly come from the United States, Australia and Europe. Today, the village remains largely cut off from the rest of the country. Though just 80 miles from Vientiane, the drive takes over eight hours. Beyond the capital's outskirts, roads quickly degrade — first into unsealed dirt tracks, then into rugged mining roads scarred by landslides and potholes. Visibility is often poor — dust kicked up by mining trucks combines with smoke from slash-and-burn agriculture. At times, we crawl forward, barely reaching 5 mph. Part of the road winds over a rugged mountain pass with no guardrails, just a sheer drop into the valley below. Sitting in the back of the car, I grip the seat in front of me as our driver edges closer to the cliffside, the tires skimming loose gravel. At one point, our driver glances back and warns us that if we get a flat tire out here, we'll likely be stuck for a long time — maybe hours. There's no phone signal. We nod silently and keep going. As we approach Long Tieng, the rough dirt road suddenly gives way to smooth pavement. Cresting the final mountain pass, we expect to glimpse the airstrip — but thick smoke shrouds the valley, limiting visibility to a few hundred meters. Descending into the village as the sun sets, there's little sign that 30,000 people once lived here. Family farms now occupy land once filled with barracks and command centers. Military convoys have long been replaced by scooters and cattle. We stay in a guesthouse next to the airstrip. It's barebones — a wooden bed and a single creaky fan that spins with little effect. There's no air conditioning, and the humid air hangs heavy and unmoving. It's hard to sleep — not just because of the heat, but because I can't stop thinking about what this place had once been. The next morning, we walk down the center of the airstrip as the sun rises over the valley. Once one of the busiest runways in the world, it now lies silent. Tall grass sprouts from potholes left by artillery strikes. The crumbling control tower is only half its original height, and the hangars at the far end sit abandoned — rusting reminders of a war long past. As I walk along its length, I notice the absence of signposts, statues or any form of commemoration. Despite the airstrip's historical importance, there's nothing to mark it. Among those who operated out of Long Tieng during the war were the Ravens, a secret group of active-duty Air Force pilots who volunteered to serve in Laos. Their primary role was to act as forward air controllers (FACs), flying low behind enemy lines to identify and mark targets for US Air Force bombers. 'They were just kind of taken off the books,' Carter says. 'They operated under a different cover.' The Ravens wore civilian clothing and were issued US Embassy ID cards. In some cases, Carter notes, pilots were also issued US Agency for International Development (USAID) identity cards. The Ravens often flew in pairs — an American pilot in front and a local Hmong 'backseater' who communicated with ground forces. But they weren't alone over the skies of Laos. Pilots from Air America, a secret CIA-owned airline, also operated in Long Tieng; they flew in crucial supplies to the base and conducted daring search and rescue missions to recover downed pilots deep behind enemy lines. 'I landed there pretty much every other day,' Neil Hansen, a pilot stationed in Laos during part of the war, tells CNN. Hansen worked for Air America between 1964 and 1973 and detailed his experience in the book, 'FLIGHT: An Air America Pilot's Story of Adventure, Descent and Redemption.' 'I was flying a C-123, bringing in munitions, supplies and fuel for 'the little birds,' which would then distribute it to other sites,' Hansen recalls. As part of his mission, he also transported 'CIA customers.' During one flight in 1972, Hansen was shot down over the Plateau de Bolevan in southern Laos. 'After getting my crew out and bailing out, I watched the C-123 fall out of the sky and explode,' he says, noting he was rescued by Air America helicopters shortly after. About 100 meters west of the airstrip stands a two-story house that once served as the headquarters of General Vang Pao, the leader of the CIA-backed Hmong army. From this remote compound, Pao worked closely with American operatives to coordinate a covert war, marshaling thousands of Hmong fighters while receiving US air support, weapons and humanitarian aid in return. Set behind a tall fence and overgrown garden, the house still feels separated from the rest of the village — distant, guarded. A sign on the front door, written in English, reads: 'No entry without permission.' It's the only English sign we've seen in the entire village, and it stops us in our tracks. With no one around, we circle the property, peering through dusty windows, unsure whether we can get inside. An older man in weathered military fatigues appears nearby. Without saying a word, he approaches, slowly dangling a key in front of our faces. He doesn't speak English, but types out a number on his phone. We nod and hand over the cash. A moment later, we're inside. The house is not what I expected. I'd imagined a preserved time capsule, cluttered with mementos or forgotten artifacts — but the rooms are eerily empty. No furniture, no decorations, no posters or portraits of the general. In the foyer, dozens of artillery shells are stacked neatly in one corner, with several mortar rounds resting nearby. It's surreal to see these instruments of war arranged with such quiet precision. Through a translation app, the man warns us not to touch anything — some might still be live. Upstairs, a single wooden desk and chair have been placed near a panoramic window facing the airstrip. I sit down, imagining General Vang Pao and CIA officers in this very spot, directing B-52 bombing runs on communist strongholds. The war — so vast, so devastating — had largely been coordinated from this small, simple room. It was almost impossible to reconcile the scale of the conflict with the modesty of this setting. We climb up to the roof. From there, the view stretches across the old airstrip and into the mountains that once shielded Long Tieng from attack. Today, the village is quiet. A few people walk slowly down the main road. Stray dogs nap in the sun. It's hard to believe that tens of thousands of people once lived here. Today, the impacts of the intense US bombing campaign on Laos are still being felt. Of the 270 million sub-munitions dropped on the country, an estimated 30% did not detonate, according to the Mines Advisory Group (MAG). These unexploded ordnances continue to kill, injure and hinder development across the country, according to MAG. Around the hills of Long Tieng, villagers still rarely venture off established roads and trails to avoid unexploded munitions. Full US-Laos relations were restored in 1992 and since 1995, the US has invested more than $390 million in a Conventional Weapons Destruction program aimed at addressing the legacy of the war. However, questions remain about future US funding of explosive ordinance clearance in Southeast Asia following the Trump administration's widespread suspension of foreign aid. 'I fell in love with Laos,' says Hansen. 'I look back on my time as exciting and a place where I could immerse myself in the culture. I was fulfilling a purpose where I knew I was accomplishing something that was needed.' Back in Long Tieng, children riding scooters zoom past my friend and me, their tires bumping over the broken concrete that once launched warplanes into the sky. I now understand why the community gravitates toward the airstrip whenever they can: it's one of the few open spaces cleared of unexploded ordnance. A rare place where children can play without fear of becoming another casualty of a war that ended 50 years ago. The legacy of a secret conflict — barely remembered back in the United States.
Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
Why did Rochester build some streets too big?
Jun. 8—Dear Answer Man: Driving around Rochester, I see a couple of roads that look a little out of place among the other roads in their areas. One is the two blocks of boulevard that are 10th Avenue Northwest between 10th and 12th Streets. This road has a tree-lined median between the opposing lanes of traffic. The second is Seventh Street Northeast from 14th Avenue to 18th Avenue. This road is just extra wide compared to other roads in the neighborhood. My questions is why were these roads built like this, and will the city ever change them in the future? — The Road Worrier. Dear Worrier, You must put a lot of miles on your jalopy to find these irregular-fit roads around Rochester. Let's tackle these one at a time. The first one is one Answer Man has known about for years. In fact, our esteemed editor, Jeff Pieters, wrote about it as "recently" as 2009 . Writing a story about how the City Council denied a request from the school board to vacate part of its right-of-way along the east side of Washington Elementary — presumably, the school district had plans for that land — Pieters wrote, "The road was supposed to have been part of a grand parkway running from Assisi Heights to Saint Marys Hospital, but the parkway never was completed." He further noted that the grand parkway plan had been started a half century previously. Giving the excess 10th Avenue right-of-way to the school would have increased the campus's land by 14%, or 36,000 square feet. Why the need for this grand parkway? Well, that goes to the connection between Assisi Heights and Saint Marys Hospital, which the sisters built for the benefit of the Mayo brothers and their burgeoning health care center. It was thought there would be a lot of travel between Saint Marys and the home for the religious order. The second one had, previously, eluded even my vast quantities of knowledge. For that, I reached out to our good friend Megan Moeller with the city of Rochester. According to the city's engineering team, Moeller relates, Seventh Street Northeast was planned to be a major four-lane road back in the middle of the 1900s or so, and Seventh Street was going to become a major thoroughfare in that part of the city. Alas, in 1965, the city purchased a farm on the east side of town, and that farm became Quarry Hill Park. About the same time, the city grew so that the street grid expanded, and the big east-west road in that part of town became 12th Street, so the city did not build a road through the park. "Back then, Seventh Street Northeast carried a lot more traffic as there weren't many places to cross the Zumbro River," Moeller said. "Building more bridges has helped disperse traffic and reduce the projected volumes on that corridor." So, both roads — irregularly sized as they are at the moment — are relics of a bygone time and long-discarded plans. When the day comes to reconstruct those streets, Moeller said, "we will rebuild them to current standards." So, enjoy the grand parkway and the wide lanes on Seventh Street while you can. Some day it'll all be back to normal ... and maybe Rochester Public Schools can get that bonus land. Send questions to Answer Man at answerman@ .
Yahoo
2 days ago
- Yahoo
Delhi Post Office mural highlighted in school, community project
The mural in the Delhi Post Office is getting some recognition 85 years after it was painted. 'It's an important work of art in our area that hasn't had much attention,' Pamela Benson, project coordinator, said. Benson and Bovina Librarian Annette Corvelo applied for and received a project grant from the Roxbury Arts Group to create broader student and community awareness of the historic mural, a news release stated. 'This is a great opportunity to expand local awareness about this important mural,' Benson said. 'The 1940 mural 'The Down-Rent War' is both a master work of New Deal era art and an important representation of the 1840s Anti-Rent War in Delaware County.' The two worked with Andes Central School fourth grade teacher Mary Pelletier to introduce the mural to her students before they took a field trip to the post office to see the mural in person, Benson said. Pelletier talked about the mural and about the Anti-Rent War. The 15 students got to see pictures of the mural that was painted by artist Mary Earley before they visited the post office June 4. Benson said the students were excited when they walked into the post office and pointed their fingers toward the painting and said 'there it is, there it is.' Bovina Historian Ray LaFever was also there to talk about the mural and answer questions from students. 'We're lucky he's here to help us,' Benson said, as he is 'very well versed in the Anti-Rent War.' LaFever wrote a book about the history of Bovina and the Anti-Rent War affected many residents of the town. Andes was at the center of the Anti-Rent War in Delaware County so it seemed appropriate to include Andes students as the first group of students to learn about the mural, Benson said. This fall, some area high school students will learn about the mural and conflict. 'Around 1839, the tenant farmers became aroused because they could not own the land they lived on and worked and must always pay rent to the manor lords,' Early stated when she painted the mural, the release stated. According to information about the conflict on the Pomeroy Foundation website, wealthy landowner Stephen Van Rensselaer and Alexander Hamilton created a 'durable lease' system that bypassed 'the fact that this idea of feudalism had been made illegal in the state of New York in 1787. Along with requiring the tenants to pay their annual rent, they were also required to pay taxes on the land even though the tenants were only allowed to use it for agricultural purposes. The land owner, or patroon, had access to everything else on the land, including timber, mineral, and water rights. Also listed in the lease was the caveat that if the tenant wished to sell the land, they would be required to pay a quarter of the sale price directly to the patroon.' The Anti-Rent War lasted from 1839 through 1846 in 11 upstate counties. In Andes, Delaware County Undersheriff Osman Steele was killed at a property sale at Moses Earle's farm Aug. 7, 1845. The state's Constitution was amended in 1846 to outlaw the durable lease system. The scene in the mural shows a meeting of farmers just before dawn discussing plans to avert a neighboring farmer's eviction, reminding viewers of the power of collective resistance in the face of injustice, the release stated. 'It's the only mural in Delaware County painted during the Works Progress Administration era,' Benson said. 'It was a big project at the time. It's an amazing piece of art. The scope, depth, size and colors are wonderful.' In addition to area students learning about the mural, LaFever will give a community presentation about the mural on Sept. 17 at the Bovina Public Library, the release stated. Benson said the time hasn't been confirmed yet. The grant also paid for a photograph of and information about the mural to be printed on oversize postcards that will be available at area post offices this fall. Benson said she hopes people will visit the mural in Delhi.
