Science
The Teacher in Room 1214
It was 45 seconds too late, but the teacher had a plan.
A gunman had just barraged her classroom with an AR-15, killing two students and injuring four others before turning to a classroom across the hall. The bullet-riddled walls were crumbling. Ceiling tiles were falling. If the shooter came back to kill more of her students, the teacher decided, she would stand up and shout, “We love you.”
The teacher was Ivy Schamis, whose husband would be waiting at home with a Valentine’s Day dinner; whose son was planning a wedding she couldn’t imagine missing; whose curriculum for this class — History of the Holocaust — had just moments earlier stirred a discussion about hate on campuses.
We love you. These would surely be her final words, Ms. Schamis thought. She knew her plan was futile — irrational, even. But with no stop-the-bleed kit, no shield, no help, words were all she had to show the children that an adult had put up a fight.
The moment never came. The gunman doubled back to the class across the hall, but not to Room 1214. At the command of a SWAT team, Ms. Schamis climbed over bodies and ran with her surviving students down the blood-smeared hallway, out the doors, and into the blinding light.
What waited for her there, in the days and months and years ahead, would be a whole new role in the lives of the 30 students who had survived. For them, she would be what she couldn’t be for the two who died: a lifeline.
She felt she owed them that. She had been the only adult in the room.
Attending to Her Students
The morning after the 2018 massacre at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla., Ms. Schamis rose before dawn and began cleaning her bloodstained suede boots. Seventeen people had been killed, including Nick Dworet and Helena Ramsay, who had been in her class. Some of the surviving students had abandoned their blood- and glass-caked shoes on the school pavement, but Ms. Schamis had the strange feeling she ought to take hers home and wipe them down, over and over, until they came clean.
She left the boots out by the closet to dry and then phoned the moving company that was set to relocate her family to a new neighborhood in a few weeks. She no longer had time to pack boxes, she explained to the movers. She needed to attend to her students.
Within a few hours, Ms. Schamis was corresponding with her students by text. Today, she adamantly denies that she started the Room 1214 text thread, but everyone else seems to remember it that way. She used it to organize car pools to wakes and funerals, to check in on the wounded and to plan a meet-up at Cold Stone Creamery, just so everyone could be together.
When the school reopened two weeks later, Ms. Schamis was there, shuffling between campus buildings with a cart of teaching supplies. The school’s psychological support offerings for students included coloring books and Play-Doh. She found them useless. She arranged to instead have a service dog, Luigi, a golden retriever, join her classes for the rest of the year.
When Luigi arrived, tail wagging madly, students from throughout the school came to play with him — including some who had otherwise refused to return to campus. The following fall, Ms. Schamis arranged to have everyone from Room 1214 placed in her study hall for support.
Ms. Schamis had known some of the students for only six weeks before the shooting, but she seemed to have a preternatural sense of what each of them needed. Rebecca Bogart, who had been a senior, felt so lost after what she had witnessed that Ms. Schamis encouraged her to apply for a scholarship to go abroad to Ecuador. The physical distance finally gave her mental space from the event.
Ally Allen, who had watched the killer approach through a glass door panel, kept waking in the night with tears pouring down her face. When Ms. Schamis dropped a picture of a German shepherd puppy in the Room 1214 group chat — a future service dog, in need of a home — Ally felt deep down the dog was meant to be hers. She received Dakota the morning after the one-year anniversary of the shooting: a new beginning.
And Kelly Plaur, who had called 911 four times during the shooting, was at a music festival when the crowd began running from what sounded like gunshots. This time, it was Ms. Schamis she called. Keep calm, the teacher coached. Keep me on the phone, and keep running.
Students called and texted her with their grief, their panic attacks, their drug use, their suicidal thoughts. What their own parents could not fully understand — the worst moment of their lives — Ms. Schamis could.
One day, she took some of the students to meet with a survivor of the 1999 Columbine High School shooting in Colorado. His experience of being shot and watching a friend die was remarkably similar to theirs, and Ms. Schamis hoped that his journey toward healing would assure them that together, they could persevere.
But weeks later, Ms. Schamis’s phone began buzzing incessantly. It was the Room 1214 text thread. The Columbine survivor had died of an overdose.
Leaving Parkland
Ms. Schamis committed herself to staying at Marjory Stoneman Douglas until every surviving student from Room 1214 graduated in the spring of 2019. It was not easy. On her commute each morning, she had the same troubling premonition: her car plummeting off the expressway overpass. Finally, her husband, Jeff, suggested a daily ritual. When she approached the bridge, she was to call him to discuss something grounding and ordinary, like what they would have for dinner.
At the 2019 graduation ceremony, Ms. Schamis wept: Helena should have received a diploma. Ms. Schamis found Helena’s brother and hugged him, but Helena’s mother stood back. Ms. Schamis wondered what the woman felt seeing the teacher who had been with her daughter.
That fall, she took the semester off and then moved to Washington, D.C., forgoing her full pension in search of peace.
Washington was where Ms. Schamis truly began to mourn. She joined a two-year waiting list for therapy. She reached out to Ally Allen, whom she had referred to a breeder for a service dog, realizing for the first time she needed one of her own.
But two Parkland survivor charities she approached for financial aid to train a dog said they could not help her. As a teacher, she wasn’t entirely surprised: She didn’t recall a school administrator ever once checking in on her. She had never heard any school official admit that she had not received active shooter training, or that her classroom had no stop-the-bleed kit. And she had never been able to reclaim mementos of almost 20 years of teaching that remained inside Room 1214.
Ms. Schamis, who has a master’s degree in education and specialized in Holocaust studies, had spent almost her entire career at Marjory Stoneman Douglas. She had loved teaching social studies in part because it allowed her to watch students see themselves anew: As they made sense of current events in the context of history, she witnessed their opinions changing and their prejudices being renounced.
There was nothing more meaningful to her. But she could not return to another classroom.
So she took a job as an office manager at a small private school, accepting a major pay cut to avoid being in a classroom where she would again be responsible for students’ safety.
When she started, she discovered the office manager station was in the front foyer of the building — in a way, the first line of defense.
‘Always Available’
The students, too, scattered around the country, but the Room 1214 text thread bound them together. Over time, there were updates: Ally Allen, inspired by Ms. Schamis, was preparing to become a teacher. Hannah Carbocci was pursing a career in criminal justice and writing her thesis on warning signs in school shooters. Catie Krakow was getting a degree in mental health counseling and shared tips on how the others could care for themselves as another anniversary approached.
I hope everyone is doing as well as they could be, wrote Elena Blanco, who had been assigned to the seat behind Nick.
You guys are forever family, replied Matt Walker, whose desk had been next to Helena’s.
As long as I am breathing, Ms. Schamis told them, I will always be available for you.
A year later, soon after the Uvalde, Texas, shooting, Ms. Schamis woke up to a message on the thread that had landed during the night: Uvalde was one too many, a student wrote; he couldn’t take his anguish anymore.
Ms. Schamis had taken a suicide prevention course the summer after the massacre. She knew the steps. She called the former student, asking if he had a specific plan to end his life. He did. She kept him engaged with questions — what was something he was looking forward to? — while she sought emergency help for him from five states away.
She spent the next five hours in a maze of dead ends. She tried the suicide hotline, but they could not help her, since she was not the person in distress. She did a 40-minute intake call with a Florida behavioral health center, only to learn they did not serve his region. She connected with a mental health hospital, but it turned out to be private. By now, she was weeping.
Eventually she reached the instructor of her suicide prevention class from all those years ago, who told her to call the West Palm Beach Police Department and explain that the distressed young man was a survivor of Parkland’s school shooting.
The boy ultimately received emergency care and survived. But not before the dispatcher who answered Ms. Schamis’s call admitted that with all the school shootings, she could not specifically recall what happened in Parkland.
‘That’s My Girl.’
Four years after the shooting, a process server arrived at Ms. Schamis’s home with a subpoena calling on her to testify at the killer’s sentencing trial. Ms. Schamis hid.
The text thread began to buzz with messages from former students who would also be required to appear. Ms. Schamis reverted to her usual role. I’m with you as you testify, she wrote.
Daniela Menescal, who had gone on to study psychology in Boston and still had shrapnel embedded in her leg and back, was distressed about going alone.
I’ll ask if I can be with you, Ms. Schamis told Daniela.
As the sun rose on a Wednesday morning, she texted the group that it was her turn. Dylan Kraemer, who had already taken the stand, replied fast.
You got this! If you look straight when u testify, he wrote, you can’t see the shooter.
On the witness stand, Ms. Schamis spoke with the tone of a teacher in front of a class, nodding for emphasis and gesturing around the room. Her gold necklace glimmered under the lights as she described the layout of Room 1214, the lesson she had been teaching, the first deafening blasts.
Her eyes trailed over to the defense table. There he was, the man who had stolen Nick’s chance to swim at the Olympics; who had robbed Helena of her plans to attend college in England.
The killer kept his head down. The prosecutor, Mike Satz, brought over a photograph, Exhibit 3S, and asked Ms. Schamis to name the subject.
“That’s my girl,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth, her voice cracking. “Helena. Helena Ramsay.”
Then he brought over another, Exhibit 3R.
“And that’s Nicholas Dworet,” she said. “Handsome boy.”
Parents in the courtroom shifted in their seats. Others shook their heads. Ms. Schamis looked up to the ceiling, blinking the tears from her eyes, patting her cheeks with a tissue and adjusting her glasses back on her nose where they had been.
Hannah Carbocci — watching the trial live from home — knew her teacher wouldn’t see the group chat until later, but she sent an encouraging message anyway: Mrs Schamis you’re a rockstar, she wrote.
There were no further questions, the lawyer in the courtroom said.
Ms. Schamis climbed down from the stand. That afternoon, she typed a response in the thread: Love you so.
A Demolition
As the sixth anniversary of the shooting approached last year, Lexi Gendron was struggling. She had tried to go to college, but like many of the others, found herself too preoccupied with classroom seating arrangements to focus. She couldn’t have her back to the door, but facing it meant watching for a killer.
After one class, she dropped out, instead working at a casino and a winery before moving to Texas. Now, she was about to start nursing school in hopes of a career in pediatrics — which meant returning to a classroom once again.
Just spilling my heart out, she wrote on the thread one night. Lexi had thrown away all her #MSDStrong memorabilia in search of a fresh start in Texas — only to realize that those tangible objects had been her puzzle pieces to a day that had never fully sunk in.
I’m so upset with myself for letting that stuff go, she wrote. I can’t believe I did that.
Ms. Schamis was the first to reply, offering to send T-shirts, bracelets, buttons and pins. Let me know whatever will make you feel better, she wrote.
She understood the pull of Parkland. When the school’s 1200 building was set to be demolished, Ms. Schamis had reached out to the school board, desperate to return to her classroom one more time. The jury, bereaved parents, journalists, and even Vice President Kamala Harris were granted permission to enter the building, but Ms. Schamis was not. Instead, prosecutors sent a package to her home in Washington: a five-year-old box of stale Valentine’s Day chocolates from her desk in Room 1214.
On the morning the demolition was set to begin, Ms. Schamis heard a radio segment as she drove to her new school in Washington. Bereaved families in Parkland were cathartically hammering off bits of the school building before the team came in to clear it away.
Ms. Schamis, shaking, called Jeff. They discussed the weather.
Her last mental image of her own classroom comes from a press pool report in which strangers described the artifacts left inside her fourth-period Holocaust class: a 2017-18 school year planner; a whiteboard bearing Ms. Schamis’s learning objective, “to be aware of the world and its surroundings”; bullet strike marks across the desks; and the dried blood of Nick and Helena coating a book titled “Tell Them We Remember.”
‘The only adult in there.’
Last summer, Ms. Schamis sat on the patio of a Mexican restaurant in Washington, recounting that day in 2018. Her German shepherd, Sayde, sprawled beneath her chair. All these years later, she still seemed uneasy. “That’s what keeps me up at night, thinking I was the only adult in there,” she said.
Jeff sat across from her. He reminded her of the bonds she had forged with her students: the pancake breakfasts at their place; the letters of recommendation for graduate schools; the tattoos that several had gotten — Room 1214 — including one who had it drawn in Ms. Schamis’s handwriting.
“But I didn’t save them — I didn’t save them,” she said. Her words hung in the air, jarring against the faint mariachi music coming through the patio speakers.
Jeff leaned forward and said with a seasoned assurance, “How could anybody save somebody from an AR-15?”
Science
Social media users in the Central Valley are freaking out about unusual fog, and what might be in it
A 400-mile blanket of fog has socked in California’s Central Valley for weeks. Scientists and meteorologists say the conditions for such persistent cloud cover are ripe: an early wet season, cold temperatures and a stable, unmoving high pressure system.
But take a stroll through X, Instagram or TikTok, and you’ll see not everyone is so sanguine.
People are reporting that the fog has a strange consistency and that it’s nefariously littered with black and white particles that don’t seem normal. They’re calling it “mysterious” and underscoring the name “radiation” fog, which is the scientific descriptor for such natural fog events — not an indication that they carry radioactive material.
An X user with the handle Wall Street Apes posted a video of a man who said he is from Northern California drawing his finger along fog condensate on the grill of his truck. His finger comes up covered in white.
“What is this s— right here?” the man says as the camera zooms in on his finger. “There’s something in the fog that I can’t explain … Check y’all … y’all crazy … What’s going on? They got asbestos in there.”
Another user, @wesleybrennan87, posted a photo of two airplane contrails crisscrossing the sky through a break in the fog.
“For anyone following the dense Tule (Radiation) fog in the California Valley, it lifted for a moment today, just to see they’ve been pretty active over our heads …” the user posted.
Scientists confirm there is stuff in the fog. But what it is and where it comes from, they say, is disappointingly mundane.
The Central Valley is known to have some of the worst air pollution in the country.
And “fog is highly susceptible to pollutants,” said Peter Weiss-Penzias, a fog researcher at UC Santa Cruz.
Fog “droplets have a lot of surface area and are suspended in the air for quite a long time — days or weeks even — so during that time the water droplets can absorb a disproportionate quantity of gasses and particles, which are otherwise known as pollutants,” he said.
He said while he hasn’t done any analyses of the Central Valley fog during this latest event, it’s not hard to imagine what could be lurking in the droplets.
“It could be a whole alphabet soup of different things. With all the agriculture in this area, industry, automobiles, wood smoke, there’s a whole bunch” of contenders, Weiss-Penzias said.
Reports of the fog becoming a gelatinous goo when left to sit are also not entirely surprising, he said, considering all the airborne biological material — fungal spores, nutrients and algae — floating around that can also adhere to the Velcro-like drops of water.
He said the good news is that while the primary route of exposure for people of this material is inhalation, the fog droplets are relatively big. That means when they are breathed in, they won’t go too deep into the lungs — not like the particulate matter we inhale during sunny, dry days. That stuff can get way down into lung tissue.
The bigger concern is ingestion, as the fog covers plants or open water cisterns, he said.
So make sure you’re washing your vegetables, and anything you leave outside that you might nosh on later.
Dennis Baldocchi, a UC Berkeley fog researcher, agreed with Weiss-Penzias’ assessment, and said the storm system predicted to move in this weekend will likely push the fog out and free the valley of its chilly, dirty shawl.
But, if a high pressure system returns in the coming weeks, he wouldn’t be surprised to see the region encased in fog once again.
Science
Trump administration, Congress move to cut off transgender care for children
The Trump administration and House Republicans advanced measures this week to end gender-affirming care for transgender children and some young adults, drawing outrage and resistance from LGBTQ+ advocacy organizations, families with transgender kids, medical providers and some of California’s liberal leaders.
The latest efforts — which seek to ban such care nationwide, strip funding from hospitals that provide it and punish doctors and parents who perform or support it — follow earlier executive orders from President Trump and work by the Justice Department to rein in such care.
Many hospitals, including in California, have already curtailed such care or shuttered their gender-affirming care programs as a result.
Abigail Jones, a 17-year-old transgender activist from Riverside, called the moves “ridiculous” and dangerous, as such care “saves lives.”
She also called them a purely political act by Republicans intent on making transgender people into a “monster” to rally their base against, and one that is “going to backfire on them because they’re not focusing on what the people want,” such as affordability and lower healthcare costs.
On Wednesday, the House passed a sweeping ban on gender-affirming care for youth that was put forward by Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-Ga.), largely along party lines.
The bill — which faces a tougher road in the U.S. Senate — bars already rare gender-affirming surgeries but also more common treatments such as hormone therapies and puberty blockers for anyone under 18. It also calls for the criminal prosecution of doctors and other healthcare workers who provide such care, and for penalties for parents who facilitate or consent to it being performed on their children.
“Children are not old enough to vote, drive, or get a tattoo and they are certainly not old enough to be chemically castrated or permanently mutilated!!!” Greene posted on X.
“The tide is turning and I’m so grateful that congress is taking measurable steps to end this practice that destroyed my childhood,” posted Chloe Cole, a prominent “detransitioner” who campaigns against gender-affirming care for children, which she received and now regrets.
Queer rights groups denounced the measure as a dangerous threat to medical providers and parents, and one that mischaracterizes legitimate care backed by major U.S. medical associations. They also called it a threat to LGBTQ+ rights more broadly.
“Should this bill become law, doctors could face the threat of prison simply for doing their jobs and providing the care they were trained to deliver. Parents could be criminalized and even imprisoned for supporting their children and ensuring they receive prescribed medication,” said Kelley Robinson, president of the Human Rights Campaign, one of the nation’s leading LGBTQ+ rights groups.
On Thursday, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services announced that the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services are proposing new rules that would ban such care by medical providers that participate in its programs — which includes nearly all U.S. hospitals. The health department said the move is “designed to ensure that the U.S. government will not be in business with organizations that intentionally or unintentionally inflict permanent harm on children.”
The department said officials will propose additional rules to prohibit Medicaid or federal Children’s Health Insurance Program funding from being used for gender-affirming care for children or for young adults under the age of 19, and that its Office of Civil Rights would be proposing a rule to exclude gender dysphoria as a covered disability.
The U.S. Food and Drug Administration, meanwhile, issued warning letters to manufacturers of certain medical devices, including breast binders, that marketing their products to transgender youth is illegal.
“Under my leadership, and answering President Trump’s call to action, the federal government will do everything in its power to stop unsafe, irreversible practices that put our children at risk,” Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. said in a statement. “Our children deserve better — and we are delivering on that promise.”
The proposed rule changes are subject to public comment, and the Human Rights Campaign and other LGBTQ+ organizations, including the Los Angeles LGBT Center, urged their supporters to voice their opposition.
Joe Hollendoner, the center’s chief executive, said the proposed changes “cruelly target transgender youth” and will “destabilize safety-net hospitals” and other critical care providers.
“Hospitals should never be forced to choose between providing lifesaving care to transgender young people and delivering critical services like cancer treatment to other patients,” Hollendoner said. “Yet this is exactly the division and harm these rules are designed to create.”
Hollendoner noted that California hospitals such as Children’s Hospital Los Angeles have already curtailed their gender-affirming services in the face of earlier threats from the Trump administration, and thousands of transgender youth have already lost access to care.
Gov. Gavin Newsom issued a statement contrasting the Trump administration’s moves with California’s new partnership with The Trevor Project, to improve training for the state’s 988 crisis and suicide hotline for vulnerable youth, including LGBTQ+ kids at disproportionately high risk of suicide and mental health issues.
“As the Trump administration abandons the well-being of LGBTQ youth, California is putting more resources toward providing vulnerable kids with the mental health support they deserve,” Newsom said.
California Atty. Gen. Rob Bonta’s office is already suing the Trump administration for its efforts to curtail gender-affirming care and target providers of such care in California, where it is protected and supported by state law. His office has also resisted Trump administration efforts to roll back other transgender rights, including in youth sports.
On Thursday, Bonta said the proposed rules were “the Trump Administration’s latest attempt to strip Americans of the care they need to live as their authentic selves.” He also said they are “unlawful,” and that his office will fight them.
“If the Trump Administration puts forth final rules similar to these proposals, we stand ready to use every tool in our toolbox to prevent them from ever going into effect,” Bonta said — adding that “medically necessary gender-affirming care remains protected by California law.”
Arne Johnson, a Bay Area father of a transgender child who helps run a group of similar families called Rainbow Families Action, said there has been “a lot of hate spewed” toward them in recent days, but they are focused on fighting back — and asking hospital networks to “not panic and shut down care” based on proposed rules that have not been finalized.
Johnson said Republicans and Trump administration officials are “weirdly obsessed” with transgender kids’ bodies, are “breaking the trust between us and our doctors,” and are putting politics in between families and their healthcare providers in dangerous ways.
He said parents of transgender kids are “used to being hurt and upset and sad and worried about their kids, and also doing everything in their power to make sure that nothing bad happens to them,” and aren’t about to stop fighting now.
But resisting such medical interference isn’t just about gender-affirming care. Next it could be over vaccines being blocked for kids, he said — which should get all parents upset and vocal.
“If our kids don’t get care, they’re coming for your kids next,” Johnson said. “Pretty soon all of us are going to be going into hospital rooms wondering whether that doctor across from us can be trusted to give our kid the best care — or if their hands are going to be tied.”
Science
His computer simulations help communities survive disasters. Can they design a Palisades that never burns?
In what used to be a dry cleaner’s on Sunset Boulevard, Robert Lempert listened, hands clasped behind his back, as his neighbors finally took a moment to step away from recovery’s endless stream of paperwork, permits, bills and bureaucracy to, instead, envision a fire-resilient Pacific Palisades in 2035.
As a researcher at RAND, Lempert has spent decades studying how communities, corporations and governments can use computer simulations to understand complex problems with huge uncertainties — from how an Alaska town can better warn its residents about landslides to how climate change is worsening disasters and what strategies the United Nations can support to address them.
In January, one such complex problem ran straight through his neighborhood and burned down his house.
As Lempert and his wife process their own trauma forged by flames, Lempert has become fixated on capturing the flickers of insights from fellow survivors and, hopefully, eventually, transforming them into computer programs that could help the community rebuild the Palisades into a global leader in wildfire resilience.
“Otherwise, we won’t end up with a functional community that anybody wants to — or can — live in,” he said. “You can spin out all sorts of disaster scenarios” for the Pacific Palisades of 2035. If the community fails to confront them in rebuilding, “you make them a hell of a lot more likely.”
Lempert doesn’t see a mass exodus from high-fire-hazard areas as a viable solution. Out of the more than 12 million buildings the climate risk modeling company First Street studies in California, 4 in 10 have at least a 5% chance of facing a wildfire in the next 30 years. (Out of the nearly 10,000 buildings First Street studies in the Palisades, 82% carry that level of risk.) And the areas without significant fire risk have their own environmental challenges: flooding, earthquakes, landslides, hurricanes, tornadoes, droughts. Learning to live with these risks, consequently, is part of the practice of living in California — and really, in most of the places humans have settled on Earth.
After two of the most destructive fires in the state’s history, The Times takes a critical look at the past year and the steps taken — or not taken — to prevent this from happening again in all future fires.
So, Lempert has taken to the modus operandi he helped develop at RAND:
Identify the problem. In this case, living in Pacific Palisades carries a nonzero risk you lose your house or life to fire.
Define the goals. Perhaps it is that, in the next fire, the Palisades doesn’t lose any homes or lives (and, ideally, accomplishes this without spending billions).
Then, the real work: Code up a bunch of proposed solutions from all of the groups with wildly disparate views on how the system (i.e., Southern California wildfires) works.
Stress-test those solutions against a wide range of environmental conditions in the computer. Extreme winds, downed communication systems, closed evacuation routes — the list goes on.
Finally, sit back, and see what insights the computer spits out.
It’s easy enough to agree on the problem, goals and environmental factors. For the proposed solutions, Lempert set out to collect data.
Poster paper with residents’ handwritten ideas now fills the walls of the former dry cleaner’s, now the headquarters of the grassroots organization Palisades Recovery Coalition. It’s through these “visioning charrettes” that Lempert hopes his community can develop a magic solution capable of beating the computer’s trials.
Lempert holds a photo of his home as it looked before it was destroyed by the Palisades fire.
The streets could be lined with next-generation homes of concrete and steel where even the tiniest gaps are meticulously sealed up to keep embers from breaching the exterior. Each home could be equipped with rain-capture cisterns, hooked up to a neighborhood-wide system of sensors and autonomous fire hoses that intelligently target blazes in real time. One or two shiny new fire stations — maybe even serving as full-blown fire shelters for residents, equipped with food and oxygen to combat the smoke — might sit atop one of the neighborhood’s main thoroughfares, Palisades Drive. The street, formerly a bottleneck during evacuations, might now have a dedicated emergency lane.
Every year, the community could practice a Palisades-wide evacuation drill so the procedures are fresh in the mind. Community brigades might even train with the local fire departments so, during emergencies, they can effectively put out spot fires and ensure their elderly neighbors get out safely.
Lempert, who now lives in a Santa Monica apartment with his wife, doesn’t entertain speculation about whether the Palisades will ever reach this optimistic vision — even though his own decision to move back someday, in part, hinges on the answer.
Right now, all that matters is that change is possible.
He pointed to an anecdote he heard once from the fire historian Stephen Pyne: American cities used to burn down — from within — all the time in the 19th century. Portland, Maine, burned in 1866 thanks to a Fourth of July firecracker. Chicago in 1871, after a blaze somehow broke out in a barn. Boston the following year, this time starting in a warehouse basement. Eventually, we got fed up with our cities burning down, so we created professional fire departments, stopped building downtowns out of wood and bolstered public water systems with larger water mains and standardized fire hydrants. Then, it stopped happening.
Now we face a new fire threat — this time, from the outside. Maybe we’re fed up enough to do something about it.
“Cities shouldn’t burn down,” Lempert said with a chuckle, amused by the simplicity of his own words. “So let’s just design them so they don’t.”
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