LB and I were driving back from the Palm Springs International Film Festival. We were going to visit friends in Los Angeles, my hometown, on the way back. But we changed our plans because of the apocalyptic fires. Our friends agreed that was a good idea. One of them had a whole family of fire refugees moving into her house on the day we'd planned to get together. So we were going to drive straight through to San Francisco.
At a certain point, we had to get off the freeway and find somewhere to pee. It happened to be Altadena. We found a cafe that seemed open. People were bustling inside. A woman came to the door. "We're not open," she said. "We're cleaning up. But are you okay? Do you need anything?"
What?!? Did I need anything? Why was she asking? Then we understood that, even though nothing around us had been burned, we were near the pathway of the fire.
Three women were bustling around cleaning up the cafe. The whole place stank inside of smoke, even though the immediate area had been untouched by flames. She warmly invited us in to use their bathroom. It was only when I came out that I noticed the sign "WE LOVE YOU ALTADENA & PASADENA" next to the cafe -- and all the boxes of clothes and water bottles. The evidence of disaster, and of people coming together to help each other, was painfully clear. |
|
That was Tuesday, January 14th. I came home to a pile of unread New York Times. I sat down to riffle through the pages, to see if anything caught my eye that I absolutely had to read. I came upon this story, published on January 13th. I read it over several times.
And on this auspicious and terrifying day, the first full day of Trump's Presidency, I choose to focus on Anthony Mitchell, who lost his life when the Eaton fire consumed his home. I don't want to talk about the tragedy of Mr. Mitchell's death or whether it could have been prevented. I want to celebrate the life of The Good Man of Altadena. |
|
According to Claire Fahy, who wrote this article for the New York Times: |
|
| "Altadena, though minutes away from a large city, had a small-town feel, Mitchell's surviving son, Anthony Jr., said. The neighborhood was full of families whose homes had been passed down through generations. It had been a magnet for Black families in particular. The houses were in a picturesque spot, surrounded by hills and forest on three sides, but they were still affordable. Mr. Mitchell lived on Terrace Street in Altadena with two sons, both in their 30s. It was a modest white house wth a green front gate and green trim. Trees towered above the home's carefully tended garden. The edge of the woods climbing into the San Gabriel Mountains was just 10 blocks away. Mr. Mitchell used a wheelchair after his leg was amputated last year, a complication of his diabetes. One of his sons, Justin, was born with cerebral palsy and was 'bedridden,' according to Mr. Mitchell's daughter, Hajime White. Ms. White, 50, said that her father was 17 years old when she was born, the child of two high school sweethearts. Ms. White's mother moved to Arkansas not long after she found out that she was pregnant, but Mr. Mitchell always kept in contact with his daughter while she was growing up. 'He would call me a lot of times, and he would ask me, Baby, what do you want for Christmas?' Ms White recalled. 'He would sometimes start in June and July.' Her father would ask around about what the latest trends were. Big boxes of presents would then show up on Ms. White's doorstep, filled with the latest fashionable clothes and in-demand items, such as Air Jordan shoes, Reeboks and, once, a keyboard." |
|
My eyes, mind and heart were stopped in their tracks. A 17-year-old boy stays connected with the daughter he fathered who he had never seen. She lives across the country. And yet he showered her with Christmas gifts to remind her that he loved her and was always thinking of her. How many 17-year-olds would do that? Quite frankly, if I were in that young boy's shoes, I really don't think that I would. Mr. Mitchell was an extraordinarily loving man, even as a teenager. Loving and responsible. |
|
| " Ms. White first visited Altadena when she was 10 years old, in 1986, the first time she met her father and the extended family in person. It felt like home, she said. 'The first time that I laid eyes on my dad, it was the most happiest moment of my life,' Ms. White said." |
|
I savor that moment of reunion in my imagination. For 10 years, Mr. Mitchell expressed his love for his daughter in the only way he could -- with loads of Christmas presents. How amazing for the two of them to be able to actually touch. I imagine they hugged for a very long time. I imagine they could not stop smiling and laughing and holding on to each other, for the whole visit. |
|
| "Ms. White said that her children had called him 'Fafa' instead of 'Papa' because they lived far away from him in Arkansas. But though they were far, they stayed in close touch. In November, they had all gathered for Mr. Mitchell's 68th birthday. Mr. Mitchell was a fixture in the community -- always checking in with the neighborhood children to see how they were getting on in school and giving them advice, his family said. 'My dad was just one of those people, you would meet him and he would make friends with you real quick,' his oldest son Anthony Jr., 46, said. 'He was an old-school guy.' He worked in sales at Radio Shack and then studied to become a respiratory therapist. But the work was sad -- many of his patients, including children and older people, died. He quit and went back to sales." |
|
There's that tender heart again. I imagine Mr. Mitchell felt he could study to enter a profession -- to help people breathe! Of course it sounds wonderful. What could be more loving than helping people breathe? But many people who need that help must be close to death. And some of them do die. A respiratory therapist must want to love people by helping them to breathe. But he must also find a way to handle the deaths of some of these people.
No, Mr. Mitchell was not the man for that job. Certainly, in his work, he went out of his way to befriend every patient, just like he befriended his neighbors on Terrace Avenue in Altadena. Mr. Mitchell was not going to distance himself from his patients. And so the grief piled up. He had to go back to sales. |
|
| "In his neighborhood, Mr. Mitchell was known for his skills at the barbecue and was often recruited to cook for a crowd. In the charred remains of his backyard , next to several blackened cars, were the tools of Mr. Mitchell's craft -- a gas grill, a charcoal grill and a smoker. His son Justin loved to read, particularly books ordered from Amazon. Whenever someone asked if he wanted a present, he answered simply, 'Amazon.' But he also liked reading the newspaper with Mr. Mitchell. 'They would both sit there, reading the paper,' Ms. White said. 'My brother was phenomenal, too, just like my dad.' 'He wasn't going to leave my brother,' Anthony Mitchell Jr., said. He would never leave his kids. We were his legacy. We were his diamonds.'" |
|
Thanks to reporter Claire Fahy, for bringing us a glimpse into the life of this beautiful man. I grieve the death of Anthony Mitchell, who regarded his children as precious jewels, and was a master of the barbecue and too soft-hearted to be a respiratory therapist. And I grieve the death of his son, Justin, who was devoted to reading the paper and books from Amazon. But most especially I celebrate the great heart and loving life of Anthony Mitchell, The Good Man of Altadena. |
|
|
|
|
