The Brief

The email came while the fires were still burning across Los Angeles.

It was less than 48 hours since the Eaton fire sparked in the San Gabriel foothills that would burn Altadena Community Church to the ground. It hadn’t even been a day after a photo was sent to the Pasadena Chorale showing the church – its rehearsal space – ablaze.

And choir director Jeffrey Bernstein had lost his own home, too, along with others in the group, made up of musicians, educators, JPL scientists and people of all types that gather every week to sing together. I am one of them. Seeing and reading about the devastation, it seemed impossible to imagine gathering for rehearsal again anytime soon.

But two days after the fire, Bernstein wrote to the group that the upcoming rehearsal would not be canceled on the weekend.

So on the appointed date, we assembled in a new, unfamiliar church in a familiar half-circle around the piano. And before much at all was said about the fires, we began to sing.

A strong community 

Founded in 2009, the Pasadena Chorale is a community choir that’s grown from a smaller group to a force of around one hundred people.

Some in the choir have been singing together for years, and others are brand new to the mix. This means the weekly rehearsals have a lovely small-town feel, where people look forward to the 20-minute break so they can catch up with friends or chat with someone they haven't met before. As a newer member of the choir, I've found refuge in a group so at ease in each other's company, and so joyful in its dedication to choral music.

The common ground is a commitment to showing up each Monday night from 7:30 p.m. to 10 p.m., when most are home recovering from the first work day of the week, ready to sit in a folding chair and sing.

" Churches aren't buildings… and choirs aren't buildings. They're groups of people," Bernstein said last Saturday. "Being here today is a very tangible way of remembering that."

The Pasadena Chorale rehearses at a church in La Verne after the Eaton Fire.

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Libby Rainey

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Stories of destruction and hope

The smoke was still hanging in the air in many parts of Los Angeles last weekend when the choir assembled for the first time after losing the church. Almost everybody had a story to tell.

Chris Tickner evacuated his home near Eaton Canyon with his wife in terror, only to learn that his home miraculously survived.

Siobhán Dougall and Jen Wang piled their kids into their cars in the middle of the night and fled their home in Monrovia, along with their giant pet tortoise named Strawberry. The next day they heard that their children's school had been lost to the fire.

There were others who didn't come that day at all – some having lost homes or entire neighborhoods. It's these stories that were being shared between songs, in tears and in laughter. Together, people were processing the loss of so many shared spaces.

"We spend so much time in Altadena and so many of the places we love are there. And it's not even like just the places we love. It's the McDonald's where the french fries were always cold. Or the Arco station you always go to right after you dropped off your kids and you're out of gas," Wang said.

"There's this guy on Altadena Drive who always had a sign out for very local honey. I always meant to go and I never did. And I wonder if his bees are okay."

The Pasadena Chorale rehearsed at the Church of the Brethren in La Verne after the Altadena Community Church burned down.

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Libby Rainey

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Lessons from music-making

Where the choir will gather in the long-term is still undecided. For now, it's being plotted out rehearsal by rehearsal. The locations for each meeting are reminders of all the landmarks that remain despite the terrible fires: one of last week's meetings was held in the historic First United Methodist Church. This week, the group will gather at the 100-year old Pasadena Playhouse.

For us, rebuilding will also happen through the music itself. To sing in a choir is to sing with one voice – or to try your very best to. To blend in with your fellow singer rather than stand out, trusting that together you can make something deeper and more interesting than one voice alone can.

This idea – that we can do more together than on our own – will be important in the months to come, not just for the choir but for all of Altadena as it faces a long and uncertain recovery.

" I have no doubt that this community is going to come back. And it's going to be pretty special," Tickner said. "But it's going to take time, and we're all going to do it together. And singing in this choir is a part of that."

Tracking sharks off the California coast is a full-time job. One program that does that is on the brink of losing its funding, even as they want to help track sharks during the 2028 Summer Olympics.

The Shark Lab at Cal State Long Beach recently announced a plea for private contributions to fund another year of research and data collection focused on keeping the public safe.

The plan leading up to the 2028 Summer Olympics is to create a tracking system specific enough to share real-time monitoring information with local lifeguards through state-of-the-art autonomous boat and drone technology.

“There are going to be Olympic events in Long Beach Harbor, down in San Clemente – there are white sharks in all those places,” said Chris Lowe, director of the Shark Lab, highlighting the importance of the tools not only for athletes, but for the public also visiting from all over the world.

“Lifeguards will be scrambling for monitoring data, and they won’t have it if we run out of money,” Lowe explained.

In 2019, the lab’s Shark Safety program began after it received nearly $4 million from the state to set up a research program to tag white sharks and use drones to monitor them from the air, while using new EDNA technology to measure their presence in the water.

“That money was scheduled to last 5 years; we made it last 6,” Lowe said. “Last year we tried to get state money back, but we were told ‘the budget’s too bad, we can’t fund you this year.’”

State Sen. Tony Strickland of Huntington Beach put in a request this year for $1.7 million in NOAA funding. “The funds requested for FY 2026–27 represents the immediate need to prevent program reductions as existing funding expires and to maintain continuity of operations,” said Strickland in his budget request. The lab’s annual operating budget is around $1 million, and the hope was that the extra funding could expand the program to Monterey Bay.

Since Strickland’s request was denied from this year’s budget, the lab’s funding is set to run out in September. Going a year without funding would be detrimental to the program’s support system, Lowe said. He says half of the budget goes toward the salaries and training of highly experienced and educated technicians, required to keep the program moving.

The lab monitors sharks up and down the California coastline.

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Cal State Long Beach Shark Lab

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Roughly $700,000 worth of equipment is set up in the ocean, monitoring around 260 white sharks from Morro Bay to San Diego. “That’s a lot of money in the water that we have to constantly maintain and download… but it provides huge amounts of data, and we share that data with everybody,” said Lowe.

Lowe is also worried about the potential crisis local beaches may face in the event of an incident such as a shark bite, as the public may be dissuaded from visiting a beach following an incident.

Lowe sees education as a crucial way to mitigate that risk and raise awareness. The Shark Lab created summer outreach programs led by undergraduate students that visit beaches along the coast, teaching beach safety surrounding marine life and risks like rip currents.

“We’ve teamed up with psychologists to look at people’s perceptions, and we’ve teamed up with an economist to look at what those costs really are,” Lowe explained.

“These are all projects with the goal of keeping both people and sharks safe,” Lowe said. “We just need help. We need financial help.”

This article was originally published by the Long Beach Post, an LAist partner newsroom.

SAULT STE. MARIE, Mich. — The idea came to Danielle Boyer in a toy store. The inspiration? It was Tickle Me Elmo.

"Whenever you'd press his belly, he would talk, and he would teach you things," she said. "There are toys that teach us in English, but there aren't toys that teach us Anishinaabemowin. And I wanted that to be different."

Anishinaabemowin includes the Potawatomi, Odawa and Ojibwe languages. Exact estimates vary, but there are fewer than 10,000 people in the U.S. who speak Anishinaabemowin. That number is around 25,000 in Canada. Some Native languages have just a few dozen fluent speakers, while others have none.

Boyer has seen how quickly language loss can happen. Her grandmother speaks Anishinaabemowin, but she is one of the last fluent speakers of their dialect.

"It is devastating to feel like your language could be lost," said Boyer, a member of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians. "You lose your culture, you lose a way to describe who you are."

U.S. Indian boarding schools played a major role in the loss of Indigenous languages. Children separated from their families were taught, sometimes violently, not to speak their native tongues, and many did not pass them on to their children.

Today, some Native youth are learning their languages in schools. But Boyer said many of them still aren't invested. "They see it as another homework assignment."

Boyer and Hoy work on some last-minute adjustments to his AI-powered SkoBot before presenting at his school's end-of-year showcase, called the STEAM Museum.

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That's why she invented the SkoBot. It's a customizable toy robot designed to get Indigenous children excited to learn their languages.

"I can say 'Hey SkoBot, what is bear?' And it will say, 'Bear is makwa, makwa,' and it'll repeat it, right? So I can say, 'What is crane?' It'll say, 'Crane is ajijaak, ajijaak.'"

SkoBots use a form of artificial intelligence to speak Indigenous languages, and they're small enough to mount on the user's shoulder. They sort of resemble mini R2-D2 droids, from Star Wars, except these robots are designed to look like woodland creatures and decorated in Native American florals.

Through a nonprofit she started when she was 18, Boyer, now 25, has mentored hundreds of Native American children across the country, teaching them to build SkoBots of their own. One of them is 12-year-old Holden Hoy in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

"I was already a big fan of robotics and how they work, how you can bring inanimate objects to life," he said. "And I'm Ojibwe, and so I've always wanted to save the Ojibwe language."

Hoy, a rising seventh-grader, showed off his design at an end-of-the-year science fair at his school, JKL Bahweting Anishinaabe School in Sault Ste. Marie. Like Boyer, he is a member of the Sault Tribe.

He programmed his SkoBot to answer three questions ahead of his presentation. One of them was, "What's your name," to which the robot would respond in Hoy's voice: "Aaniin, Hello. Sabe indizhinikaaz, Bahweting indoonjibaa. I was built by Holden Hoy. I will not gain sentience and take over the world. Or will I?"

Hoy named his SkoBot Sabe, which means Bigfoot in Anishinaabemowin. In Ojibwe culture, Bigfoot represents honesty, one of seven sacred teachings.

His classmates and their parents stopped by his booth to see Sabe in action. Boyer was there too, helping Hoy with his presentation.

"I'm very happy that people are actually coming to this booth," Hoy said. "I'm happy that they are learning things, and I'm really happy that I'm part of the Ojibwe."

Sabe has one eye, a sensor that detects movement and lets it know to start listening.

Hoy's Sabe, or Bigfoot, SkoBot on display (right), alongside three other SkoBots that Boyer brought with her to show off at the STEAM Museum. Each represents a specific animal: a wolf, turtle and bear. Hoy's SkoBot is 3D printed in light gray, and its face is adorned with a footprint surrounded by floral designs.

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Kadin Mills

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"Basically, when it hears that one trigger word, it then plays a prerecorded audio file. So there isn't synthetic speech, there isn't any generative AI," said Boyer. "It's simply listening to what you're saying, identifying it and playing [audio files] that already exist."

That means the SkoBots will never make things up, often called AI hallucinations. Hoy said it's important not to use generative AI. "AI tends to falsify things a lot, not get things from trustworthy sources."

Boyer's goal isn't to replace interactions with real language speakers. Instead, it's to get kids interested in not only their languages, but in subjects like science, math and engineering as well. That includes getting them to think about how to use AI ethically.

"Artificial intelligence, especially when it's not created by Indigenous people, stands to do a lot of harm to our communities," she said. "When you are putting accurate information into these models … you're giving away sacred information to companies that don't have our best interests at heart."

And as chatbots have become more popular, Boyer said some people have turned to them to help them learn their languages. She's even seen large language models like ChatGPT invent fake words in Anishinaabemowin, which she said is dangerous. "If we're not learning our language correctly, we shouldn't learn it at all."

Jocelyn Hoy is Holden's mom. She's excited that her son is not only exposed to their culture, but he's eager to know more. She said he's even been teaching her new things.

"As someone who, at a time in my life, did not want to be identified as Native American … now as an adult, I cannot wait to learn more, and I think the SkoBots are going to help me and so many kids — so many people in general — learn their heritage and who they are."

Holden Hoy said that heritage and the language are inseparable: "The language is the culture!"

He added, "It is important to protect it, because it's some people's way of life. Generation after generation is based around this culture."

Edited by: Steve Drummond and Lauren Migaki
Visual design and development by: LA Johnson
Copyright 2026 NPR

This story first appeared on The LA Local.

Murals depicting Korean drummers, dancers and historical figures were a large part of Dave Young Kim’s childhood in Koreatown.

At the time, the Korean American artist didn’t know what all of the imagery meant, but it left a lasting impression on him.

“We don’t learn culture via formal education. It’s all gleaned,” Kim said. “It’s just what we sense, and we feel a connection to it without actually knowing anything about it. It belongs to us, and it feels very familiar.”

Many of the murals Kim remembers from his childhood have since disappeared. With his latest mural at the Korean Resource Center, Kim hopes to bring some of that visual imagery back to the neighborhood.

Completed this summer, the mural is Kim’s first in Koreatown.

The mural shows a group of traditional Korean drummers moving beneath sweeping ribbons of color, with plum blossoms blooming across the bottom of the wall. Faint outlines of traditional Korean architecture appear in the background.

At the center of the mural is 풍물놀이 (pungmulnori), a traditional Korean folk performance that combines drumming, dance and acrobatics and has long been part of village festivals and celebrations.

A close-up view of artist Dave Young Kim’s mural at the Korean Resource Center in Koreatown. The work depicts traditional Korean drummers.

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Courtesy Dave Young Kim

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For Kim, the project was a chance to reconnect the neighborhood with the kind of cultural imagery he says shaped his own understanding of identity growing up.

“It was important to me growing up, and for me to see myself through very purposeful art, very intentional art,” he said. “For my own formation and identity, I think it was very important. I’d like to do that for future generations.”

Kim, 46, who was born and raised in Koreatown, said the project felt different from his other murals because it was rooted in the community where he spent his childhood.

“The formative years of my life are here,” he said.

The project grew out of the Abbey Mural Prize, a national grant program that supports community-based public mural projects.

As part of the project, Kim partnered with the Koreatown Storytelling Program, which trains youth to interview community elders. Students interviewed residents at Durae Crenshaw House, an affordable senior housing complex and home to the Korean Resource Center, and shared transcripts with Kim as he developed the mural.

The architecture in the mural reflects the idea of home that emerged repeatedly in interviews with elders, Kim said.

“There were a lot of iterations of the mockups. The very initial ones were very, very, very rooted in the stories, the narratives from the elders,” Kim said.

The interviews also left an impression on Daisy Yeon, 17, one of the students who conducted them. She said participating in the project changed the way she thinks about Koreatown and its history.

Yeon said she believes traditional Korean imagery still has a place in a neighborhood that has changed rapidly in recent years.

“Personally, the way Koreatown has evolved in these few last years from the pandemic and the shift where people move into other Korean enclaves like Buena Park and Torrance, Koreatown is partly becoming a place of pop-up matcha spots, for example,” she said. “So I think it’s important for tradition to still be here.”

Seeing the finished mural was “a full-circle moment,” she said, after spending months interviewing elders whose stories became part of the artwork.

While researching Koreatown’s public art history, Kim learned many of the murals he saw as a kid grew out of cultural initiatives and public funding that no longer exist. He also discovered an earlier generation of Korean American muralists whose work once covered parts of Koreatown.

In 1993, artist Dong-In Park completed a mural of traditional Korean farmers’ dance in the Korean Community Center at 981 S. Western Ave.

He told the Los Angeles Times he hoped “the 1.5- and second-generation Korean kids” would not forget their language and history. Park, along with artists including Sonia Hahn and Kuk Chol Han, helped establish a tradition of public art celebrating Korean culture during the late 1980s and early 1990s.

An undated photo of Dong-In Park’s mural depicting a farmers band playing music and dancing to provide entertainment for Korea’s largely agricultural population. The mural was previously located at 981 Western Avenue in Koreatown.

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Courtesy Mural Conservancy of Los Angeles

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Kim wants his mural to carry that tradition forward while also reflecting the history of the community it was created for.

The Korean Resource Center, founded by South Korean democracy activist Yoon Han-bong, has long organized around immigrant rights, workers’ rights and civic engagement. During the project, Kim learned that traditional Korean drumming has long played a role in the organization’s activism.

In the mural, an older drummer who immigrated from Korea leads the group, followed by a middle-aged performer who learned from him and younger drummers wearing sneakers, modeled after college students who continue the tradition today.

“Where we landed was very much to the core of what KRC is,” Kim said. “They are very activist and progressive.”

The Koreatown of today is filled with Korean-owned businesses and Korean-language signs, Kim said, but far fewer public murals reflecting Korean culture.

His latest mural isn’t about recreating the past so much as restoring something he believes has faded from the neighborhood.

As an artist, Kim said, public art has the power to shape how people experience a place.

“There’s something about the everyday landscape that you kind of are forced to take in,” he said, “and then as an artist, having the ability to shape what that might be.”

Lineage Logistics, the company that operates the burned cold-storage warehouse in Boyle Heights, announced yesterday it's removed “nearly half” of the food waste there.

The waste, the company said, has been sealed in deodorized containers and is being transported off-site.

Lineage estimated that demolition and cleanup of the rest of the burned structure should be largely completed in the “coming days.”

Before the weeklong fire that began on June 17, the warehouse stored approximately 44,000 tons, or 88 million pounds, of food.

The company said it has started removing the wall separating the burned and unburned sections of the building this weekend to speed up the cleaning of the unburned structure.

The process includes installing plastic sheeting where the wall used to be to help tamp down odors

That part could take up to three days and may temporarily increase odors. To mitigate the smell, the company said three carbon filters will be added on the Union Pacific side of the warehouse.

The company is trying to meet a 45-day deadline set by L.A. Mayor Karen Bass to complete the cleanup. Lineage has faced citations and warnings from L.A. County and the South Coast Air Quality Management District for "an ongoing odor nuisance" and “unsanitary and nuisance conditions.”