Tag: Hillsborough

Fog blog

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Blogging is hard. I am now going to write about the rain because right in front of me is a large window with water droplets on it.

At one moment, I looked out the window and all I saw was white. A wooly white fog settled in the valley, blocking out the hills. It looks cold and damp, but sitting in the journalism room, typing this blog, I am neither.

Now, the fog has disappeared. I’m not sure of the science behind it. Perhaps it was tired of hanging in the air, and it fell deeper into the valley to sit on leaves and grass. Maybe the sun came, and the fog dispersed, thinning but leaving us in a perpetual but indetectable fog.

Nonetheless, the hills are a vibrant green in the absence of the fog. Whenever it rains here in the valley, the skies turn white, and the hills take up the role of vibrancy. The dusty chaparral becomes an unreal green garden, and the clay-like earth blooms into a bright brick red.

Picture Credit: Nick Nice

Bridge School

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Bridge School

Last weekend I went home to San Francisco, or more specifically, Hillsborough, California. I attended two out of three elementary schools, one being called “North School” while living in Hillsborough. At North, each student was required to help out in some sort of community activity such as helping out with the lower grades or working at the Bridge School. I was one of the very few in my class to choose the Bridge School.

The Bridge School was not something you’d find at an average elementary school. The definition provided on the website “a non-profit organization whose mission is to ensure that individuals with severe speech and physical impairments achieve full participation in their communities through the use of augmentative & alternative means of communication (AAC) and assistive technology (AT) applications and through the development, implementation and dissemination of innovative life-long educational strategies.” I have vivid memories of working with a girl who had a tube through her belly button so she could eat, and a boy who could not speak or walk. I worked mostly with the boy, hand feeding him, playing with him, and reading to him. I was ten, and he was thirteen, but I felt like we were on the same page. I’m not sure about what happened to him after I graduated, and I’m not sure if he’d remember me, but I do know that I’ll always remember him.

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