A Beacon of Light

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  • My name is Kevin Carroll. I was born and raised in San Francisco, California, where I attended Saint Ignatius College Preparatory. I am a graduate of both Santa Clara University and the University of San Francisco. Following a 40-year career in teaching and pastoral ministry, I launched a new career as a writer and speaker.

    I live in San José, California. My wife, Kathy, and I have three adult sons and five precious grandchildren. I have much for which to be grateful.

    I can be reached via email at kmc43sjc@gmail.com

    My books are available for purchase online from Amazon. I also have copies of some of these titles at my home for those who would like to buy them directly from me.

    A Moment’s Pause for Gratitude  (2017)

    Cherries in the Summer  (2021)

    The Ambassador of 38th Avenue  (2022)

    Dad: 12 Questions…  (2023)

    A Focus on Gratitude  (2024)

    Through the Lens of Gratitude  (2024)

    A Bahamian Odyssey (2026)

  • What’s Your “Why”?

    “Find a purpose to serve,
    not a lifestyle to live.”
    Criss Jami, Author

    “Who am I now?” I’m fairly certain this is a common question pondered by retirees who spent thirty to forty years of their life identifying themselves with what they did for a living rather than who they were as individuals. Some seem better equipped to handle this question than others. 

    Well, I used to be Battalion Chief Tom Carroll of the San Francisco Fire Department, but now… For years, this was a difficult one for my Dad.

    I’m Hobie Landrith. I used to play major league baseball, but now… Indeed, he did. On July 19, 1960, Landrith, now in his mid-90s, was the catcher for the San Francisco Giants when pitcher Juan Marichal made his major league debut. Marichal pitched a no-hitter into the seventh inning. He ended with a complete-game, one-hit, 2-0 victory over the Philadelphia Phillies. I ran into an aging Hobie at a podiatry office in Mountain View just a few years ago.

    My wife, Kathy, struggled with the same question after her retirement from the phone company. I remember her saying, “It used to be ‘Hi, I’m Kathy Carroll with AT&T,’ but now who am I?” The struggle is real.

    With all the perks that come with one’s retirement, many feel the burden of identity loss. Who am I now? I’ve been giving this some thought lately. I used to be Mr. Carroll, the teacher. Then, some got to know me as Kevin Carroll, the author. But do either of these impressions do justice to who I am? I don’t think so.

    Many of my former students and colleagues experienced me as a good educator. Others, I’m sure, had a very different opinion of me. Many readers of my books consider me to be a competent writer. No doubt, there are those who think otherwise. That’s just how life works. So do I really want to be identified by what I did, rather than by who I am?

    Okay, I find myself getting a little off-topic here, but rather than delete and restart, I’ll press on. Psychologist Viktor Frankl is remembered for being a survivor of the Holocaust. He is also recognized as an inspiring author. In his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, he wrote, “He, who has a why to live for, can bear almost any how.” This statement explains why some prisoners in concentration camps survived while others perished. Frankl never gave up hope that he would have a future. He envisioned a purpose for his life after the horrors of the concentration camp experience. This helped sustain him, and strengthen him, to endure the hardships of Auschwitz. 

    While Frankl’s situation was markedly different from ours, his statement can serve as an inspiration for all of us. It invites us to ask the question, “What’s my ‘why?’”

    For those of us who spent half of our life being productive, earning a living, and, perhaps, providing for others, retirement can be a humbling reality. I have a modest pension, and yes, I draw on Social Security, but I don’t have the earning power I had in the prime of my life. So what motivates me now? What enables me to get up in the morning and look forward to the day ahead? For our own mental health, we must have a response to these questions.

    I had some vague ideas of what I hoped my retirement would be. I envisioned traveling. I looked forward to getting together on a regular basis with friends for lunches. And I intended to do some reading and writing. Only the reading and writing have become realities. So what do I do? I help Kathy with the task of taking care of my younger two granddaughters while their parents go to work each day. This is not what I expected to be doing, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. They are my purpose to serve. They are my “Why.”  

  • A Close Call

    “Sharing food with another human being
    is an intimate act that should not
    be indulged in lightly.”
    ~ M.F.K. Fisher

    I didn’t exactly forget that today is Valentine’s Day. I mean, I knew that yesterday’s date was February 13th. I knew that I would be taking Penny to her preschool class this morning and that she would have a bag of valentines for her classmates. I knew that I had a routine dental cleaning today and that the appointment was scheduled for Valentine’s Day. So when I woke up this morning without a sweet, romantic Valentine’s Day card for Kathy, I felt terrible.

    To make matters even worse, Kathy remembered this year! She gave me a beautiful card with a heartfelt message:

    Valentine’s Day is a good day
    for looking back. 

    And when I look back,
    I smile at the man who
    first won my heart,
    at the tenderness, love, and
    friendship we’ve shared since then…

    I smile at how far we’ve come —
    through trials and triumphs,
    tears and joys —
    to the closeness we share today.

    My love, my partner, my best friend,
    I celebrate us with all my heart.

    Nice, huh? To exacerbate the situation even more, Kathy thoughtfully inserted two $25 gift cards to See’s Candies. It’s absolutely true what Peanuts cartoon creator Charles Schulz said about love: “All you need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.”

    Oh, boy. I was in quite a predicament. I had to think quickly.

    After getting dressed, I told Kathy that I had to take my car down the street to get gas. This was actually a genuine need, so I wasn’t being dishonest. Before returning home, however, I stopped by Rose Café at the corner of Saratoga & Williams Road and picked up a veggie breakfast burrito for Kathy. When I got back home, I put it on a plate and gave it to her.

    I’m grateful for the words of author Alan D. Wolfelt, who wrote, “Food is symbolic of love when words are inadequate.”

    Whew!

  • Golfing with Dad

    “Life doesn’t come with
    an instruction book.
    That’s why we have fathers.”
    H. Jackson Browne

    My Dad enjoyed the game of golf. He occasionally watched television coverage of professional tournaments on Sunday afternoons. He spoke highly of his golf heroes, which included the legendary Ben Hogan, as well as Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Ken Venturi, Al Geiberger, Sam Snead, and the lovable Lee Trevino. He spoke of them as if he knew them personally. I had the pleasure of watching Dad play golf on several occasions when I was just a kid. He hit a good ball off the tee, but like so many other recreational golfers, struggled with his short game.

    Dad didn’t have the opportunity to play golf as often as he would have liked. He embraced the traditional paternal role of provider for our family, often balancing multiple jobs, which left little time for golf. During his years in the San Francisco Fire Department, he continued to work a variety of side jobs on his days off. And by the mid-1960s, he devoted countless off-duty hours to preparing for SFFD promotional exams. Opportunities to get out with his friends for a round of golf came few and far between.

    I’ll never forget the day Dad invited me to caddy for him. He and some buddies were going to play a round of golf in Sonoma. I’m not sure if it was a summer day or if Dad actually allowed me to take a day off school, but I remember it as a special day. I was probably in fourth or fifth grade at the time. I’m fairly confident that it was on that day that I developed a genuine interest in the game.

    Dad and I would occasionally spend an hour or two at the driving range at Harding Park in The City. On other days, usually in the late afternoon or early evening, we’d practice putting on the public practice greens at 19th & Wawona Street. I listened attentively as Dad would teach me both the fundamentals and the etiquette of the game. Eventually, I found the courage to venture out on my own. I began with several rounds on the 9-hole Jack Fleming Course, which is located in the middle of Harding Park. When I gained a bit of confidence, I was ready to take on the challenge of the big course, knowing full well that on the 18th tee, I would have to hit my drive over a corner of Lake Merced to reach the fairway. More than just a few of my golf balls found their final resting place at the bottom of the lake.

    Strangely, I can recall only once when I played a round of golf with Dad. We played at Harding Park. By the time I was beginning to play regularly, Dad was dealing with significant back issues which precluded him from swinging a club. I know I caddied for him a few times early on, and that, on several occasions, Dad met up with me on the eighteenth tee at Harding Park just to check-in and watch me play the last hole. He also surprised me one day when I reached the 10th green at Lincoln Park Golf Course. He was standing there, just outside the back of the Palace of the Legion of Honor, with my son, Tom, who was about two years old at the time. Great memories, but I would have enjoyed playing more rounds of golf with him. 

    Author Roland Merullo, in his entertaining novel, Golfing with God, wrote, “There are 8,187 golf courses in heaven.” Perhaps it’s not too late after all.

  • I Could Use Some Help

    “I write to discover what I know.”
    Flannery O’Connor

    As much as I would like to do so, I cannot, in good conscience, refer to myself as a bestselling author. Yes, I’ve published three books. This is an accomplishment in which I take great satisfaction. More than twenty years ago, I identified “Writing & Publishing a Book” as my #1 bucket list item. The sad reality of the publishing world is that it is quite difficult, and incredibly expensive, to market a self-published book. 

    In the past few years, I’ve received hundreds of email offers to “take my books to the next level.” These don’t miss opportunities promise national, or even global exposure. My books would be featured at national book fairs. Press releases would be sent to television and radio stations across the nation, which could result in interviews to promote my books. Or not. Who knows? Even Oprah might want to spend a morning chatting with me about my books on Super Soul Sunday. Of course, all this would come at a cost — a hefty cost.

    It has never been my intention to be a bestselling author. I’ll readily admit, however, that if it happened, I’d be totally okay with it. It was also never my intention to get rich from writing books. Authorship, for most writers, is rarely a lucrative endeavor. My publishing goal was fairly simple: to use my God-given gift of writing to inspire readers in whatever way possible.

    Other than a few articles, shared in publications such as Genesis (the St. Ignatius College Prep alumni magazine), the Santa Clara Weekly, and the Sunset Beacon, my marketing has been limited to word-of-mouth, Facebook, and a few book talks at various venues. The Cherries in the Summer book, which was illustrated by a 12-year-old student from St. Victor School in San José, caught the attention of Garvin Thomas at NBC Bay Area. He produced a nice video story about the book on his Bay Area Proud segment. 

    While sales of all three books have exceeded my expectations, none of them fall into the category of bestseller. What saddens me, though, is not the number of books that have sold. It is that even people I’ve known for many years have admitted to me that they were unaware that I had written and published any books. For this reason, I think it’s important for me to put out occasional reminders, and to seek the support of people I know. Perhaps one of the books would be an appropriate gift for a friend, neighbor, or coworker. 

    I love to write. Doing so nourishes my soul. My experience of writing is similar to that expressed by author Isaac Asimov who wrote, “Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.” Unfortunately, this blog, like my books, has limited readership. I’m grateful to those who read what I write, and I’m grateful to those who have subscribed to A Beacon of Light. (It’s free!) Subscribers receive a link to each blog post in their email. I’m well aware that what I post on social media reaches a relatively small number of readers. Having the help of family and friends to market my books, and this blog, would be greatly appreciated.

    If you find my writing to be interesting, entertaining, or inspiring, I invite and encourage you to share the link to this blog with family and friends: https://abeaconoflight.life/ 

  • The Curse of Self-Doubt

    “You will find yourself in spaces
    no one thought you would be in,
    including you.
    When you get there,
    and you will get there,
    trust that you belong there.”

    Nakeia Homer

    Throughout my life, there have been many times when I questioned the validity of who I was and what I was doing. I honestly believed that if people actually knew me as well as I know myself, they would be incredibly disappointed. I believed that if people knew my background and my credentials, or lack thereof, they would consider me a fraud.

    At the age of 17, I found myself teaching a once-a-week sixth-grade religion class at Our Lady of Mercy Parish in Daly City. At the age of 18, I was hired to supervise boarding students at Bellarmine College Prep in San José. At the age of 20, and lacking a college degree, I was a full-time faculty member at a catholic high school in the Bahamas. When I was 21, I was accepted to Santa Clara University in a somewhat non-conventional way. At the age of 24, I graduated from Santa Clara with a Bachelor’s degree in English. Me,… a college graduate. Imagine that!

    A couple of years later, my principal at St. Christopher School in San José urged me to get my Master’s Degree in school administration from the University of San Francisco. After an initial rejection by the university, I was admitted to the program in, again, a non-conventional way. At the age of 30, I completed the two-year program and earned my Master’s degree. Imagine that!

    In my second year at U.S.F., I accepted a job as vice principal at a catholic school in Los Altos. Due to less-than-desirable circumstances at the school, I requested, and was granted, a mutually-terminated contract just three months into the academic year. In need of a job, I stopped by Kennedy Business Machines in downtown San José to get my typewriter fixed. I needed to update my resume. While there, the owner, Frank Fonteyn, invited me up to his desk on the mezzanine level of the building. When I told him I was looking for a job to get me through the next few months, after which I would return to teaching, he said, “Come in tomorrow morning by 7:30,… and wear a tie.” The next morning I was introduced to the leadership team as the new Operations Manager for the company. Me? A role in management? Imagine that!

    Time and time again, I found myself in places I didn’t expect to be, doing things I didn’t know I could do. Yet, as Nakeia Homer promises in the quote above, when I got there, I had an unexplainable sense of belonging. I never doubted my ability to successfully perform the various jobs for which I had been hired. Still, I thought, “If people really knew…”  

    I guess I’m not the only person to deal with this apprehension, because there’s even a name for it: Imposter Syndrome. Wikipedia describes the condition as “a psychological occurrence in which an individual doubts their skills, talents, or accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a fraud.” I even struggled with this malady after publishing my first book. Was I really a legitimate author or was I, somehow, trying to come across as something I really wasn’t? 

    Only now, in my retirement, do I possess a true sense of authenticity. I’m a parent, and a good one. I’m a grandparent, and a good one. I’m a husband, and… well,… you’ll have to ask Kathy about this one.

  • I’m Doin’ Okay!

    “Sharing tales of those we’ve lost
    is how we keep from
    really losing them.”

    Mitch Albom

    In reference to my mother’s passing last August, a good friend asked me the other day, “How are you doing?” I’m grateful to say that my response was brief, but honest: “I’m doin’ okay!”

    For most people, the death of a loved one is a painful experience. First of all, the actual death, even when we know it’s coming, can leave us feeling a bit disoriented. When there is no prior warning that our loved one is going to die, we can be left feeling absolutely devastated. I’ve experienced both. Secondly, the rituals of paying our respects to the deceased, even when we call these events celebrations of life, can be agonizing. Whether it be a multi-day affair with a wake followed by a formal church funeral and cemetery burial, or a simple memorial service with an urn, the public farewell to our beloved can be excruciating. 

    Finally, and this just might be the most difficult part, in the weeks and months after the death of our loved one, while everyone around us is returning to business as usual, we continue to experience the sting of our loss. Seeing our family and friends moving on with their own lives can result in feelings of abandonment, or even betrayal. 

    So how do we cope? After my Dad’s unexpected death in 2008, I was overwhelmed with the reality that those around me had apparently moved on — rather quickly. I, on the other hand, struggled through a process of profound grief which lasted close to a year. No one did anything wrong, but few seemed to recognize or understand the depth of my desolation.

    My Mom’s death last August was a very different experience. We knew it was coming. We said our goodbyes. We accompanied her on her journey to death. It was a spiritual experience. Despite this, the sense of loss was real — and still is. I find tremendous solace in sharing stories about my parents. I’m not obsessed with doing so, but when I have an opportunity to mention something I learned from either Dad or Mom, I find tremendous peace in doing so. I might tell a story about my Dad’s experience as a San Francisco firefighter, or brag about Mom’s special way of treating everyone she encountered with kindness and compassion. I thoroughly enjoy doing this when the opportunity presents itself. It is a healing experience for me.

    So often, when someone we love has lost a loved one, we feel awkward mentioning the deceased person, fearing that doing so might upset the grieving person. I’ve found that, in most cases, the exact opposite is true. When we ask a friend about the person who died, we not only remind our friend that we have not forgotten their loss, but that we still care about the deceased person and are comfortable mentioning them in our conversation.

    Death makes us uncomfortable, whether the loss is our own or that of someone we care for. I think it’s important to reflect on this, to realize, as Mitch Albom reminds us, that talking about those we’ve lost helps keep the deceased person in our lives. Ernest Hemingway poignantly reminded us, “No one you love is ever truly lost.”  

  • The Calm Before the Storm

    I began my formal education when my parents enrolled me in Tiny Tots at South Sunset Playground in the fall of 1958. Mrs. Virginia Bartleson was my teacher. Having successfully completed the rigorous requirements for graduation, I moved on to kindergarten at Ulloa Annex (38th & Ulloa) the following year. There were two kindergarten teachers at the school. One was Mrs. Bamberger. Of course, the kids all called her “Mrs. Hamburger.” I had the other teacher, Mrs. Malone. My most vivid memories of kindergarten are of snack time (graham crackers and lukewarm milk in half-pint cartons), and nap time. These two years of academia prepared me well to begin my eight-year career at Saint Gabriel School.

    Of the years I was enrolled at Saint Gabriel School, the 1964-65 academic year was the most memorable. It was my fifth grade year. I had spent the previous summer enjoying a variety of activities. I spent two weeks as a camper at Silver Tree Day Camp, located in The City behind Glen Park Playground. My family enjoyed a summer vacation at Disneyland. I earned a bit of money cutting lawns for several neighbors. Despite the ever-present Sunset District fog, it was a great summer.

    My fifth-grade teacher was Miss Juanita de Leon. Born on February 9, 1936, if she were still alive, today would be her 87th birthday. She was only 28 years old when the 1964-65 school year began. She loved baseball, especially the San Francisco Giants and the Houston Astros. In October, she let us watch some of the World Series games between the St. Louis Cardinals and the New York Yankees during class time. She encouraged my love for writing, which I appreciated. She also asked me, on several occasions, to sit in a chair next to her desk and read off the scores on student tests and assignments as she entered those scores into her grade book. I felt pretty special. After more than 50 years in the classroom, most of those years at Saint Gabriel School, Miss de Leon retired from teaching in June 2013. She passed away in January 2021 at the age of 84. 

    The 1964-65 academic year was a good year for our sports teams, too. I played on the fifth grade soccer, basketball, and baseball teams. Our baseball team won the CYO city championship that year. I cannot claim to have been a significant contributor to the success of the team, but I enjoyed the experience immensely. 

    The summer following fifth grade was pretty good, too. Again, I spent two weeks as a camper at Silver Tree Day Camp. My family enjoyed a summer vacation at Pine Grove Resort in Lake County. My parents let my siblings and me sleep outside on the deck of our cabin. It was the first time I had ever experienced sleeping under the stars. Never before had I seen so many stars in the night sky! And to earn a little money for myself, I continued to cut lawns for a few of our neighbors. 

    I felt pretty good about myself in fifth grade. That would change the following year.

  • A Subtle Reminder

    Thomas Merton’s quote is more than just an invitation. It is a challenge to all of us to do exactly what the Gospel message calls us to do.

    It’s not always easy.

  • It’s Really That Simple

    “Be kind whenever possible.
    It is always possible.”

    Dalai Lama

    For sixteen years (2006-2022), I blogged regularly on the importance of gratitude in one’s life. In 2017, I published my first book on the same topic. During these years, I became increasingly aware that there is a related topic of equal, perhaps even greater importance: Kindness.

    Opportunities to be kind to others are readily available to all of us. Lucius Annaeus Seneca, a philosopher more commonly referred to simply as Seneca, lived around the time of Jesus. Even at that point in human history, he recognized the value of being kind to others. He said, “Wherever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for kindness.” Yes, it’s that simple.

    In my younger years, there were a number of factors which contributed to the level of admiration I had for people. Some of those characteristics were pretty shallow. Others are valid even to this day. As I’ve aged, however, one trait stands out above all the rest. Yes, kindness!

    Showing kindness to others is what one might describe as self-serving, even if that is not the intention of the person extending the kindness. Generally speaking, when we are kind to others, most of us experience greater happiness, as well as an increased sense of inner peace. This is how kindness works. And on a more cosmic level, the nicer we are to those around us, the nicer we are treated by others. This, too, is how kindness works.  

    I’m sure there are some for whom kindness is a sort of currency. We invest in others by doing nice things for them with the expectation that they, or others, will recognize what we’ve done and reward us with praise and recognition. Even in such a case, while the motivation may be less than ideal, the act of kindness itself has tremendous value for the recipient. 

    There may be some few who, when provided with an opportunity to be kind to others, choose not to help the person at that time, believing that they don’t have the time, or that the person in need of kindness is undeserving of their compassionate care. Two thoughts come to mind. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, “You cannot do kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.” Similarly, the French essayist, Joseph Joubert, reminds us that “A part of kindness consists in loving people more than they deserve.” Now there’s a counter-cultural concept.

    Treating someone with kindness when there is no reason nor expectation to do so, is a potent act of courage. Bob Kerry, the former governor of Nebraska, pointed out, “Unexpected kindness is the most powerful, least costly, and most underrated agent of human change.” Compelling words.

    The choice to be kind is available to all of us. We encounter countless opportunities to do so every day. Jane Goodall, the English primatologist who has devoted her life to showing genuine kindness to both humans and chimpanzees, challenged us all when she said, “What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.”

    Goodall exemplifies the reality that kindness is not simply an act. It is a lifestyle.

    [Note: For Facebook users looking
    to be inspired by the kindness of others,
    check out the Daily Dose of Kindness page.
    It will lift your spirits.]

  • That’s My Home!

    I graduated from high school in June 1972. In late August, I moved into the student dormitory at Bellarmine College Prep in San José. No, I didn’t have to repeat my senior year of high school, although that might not have been a bad idea. About a dozen college students, mostly juniors and seniors, were employed as prefects in the dormitory to supervise the boarding students in the afternoon and evening hours and on weekends. I was a college freshman, but one of my Jesuit teachers at St. Ignatius College Prep in The City had invited me to consider a job in the Bellarmine dorm. It was a good call. 

    San José and the Santa Clara Valley were quite different in 1972 than they are today. The term “Silicon Valley” did not exist fifty years ago. Apple Computers was founded in 1976. Intel had been around since 1968, but I’m not sure anyone knew what was happening there. Hewlett-Packard had been around for a long time — since January 1939, but I had never heard of them in 1972. Microsoft made their debut in 1975, Yahoo! in 1994, and Google in 1998. Facebook was the new kid on the block in 2004. In 1972, the “sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley,” as Jack London called it in Chapter 1 of The Call of the Wild, was affectionately known as the Valley of Heart’s Delight. The fertile farmland here was home to hundreds of acres of cherry, apricot, prune, peach, pear, and apple orchards. That’s the San José I experienced in 1972.

    From the very beginning, I loved living in the South Bay. Having grown up in the cold and foggy Sunset District in San Francisco, I savored the opportunity to go outside wearing shorts and a t-shirt, even in the evenings during the summer and fall. The pace was much slower here than what I had experienced in The City. Public transportation wasn’t so good, so I learned to rely on my 10-speed bicycle to get around. When I had the time, I’d ride my bike to visit friends in Los Gatos, Willow Glen, Almaden, Santa Clara, and other parts of the valley. One day, one of the other Bellarmine prefects and I rode our bikes to Pleasanton for the day to spend some time at the Alameda County Fair. I even ventured up to The City on my bike, mostly along the El Camino Real. 

    To enhance the furnishing in my room at the Bellarmine dorm, I purchased two dozen square cinder blocks and some pressboard shelving at The Handyman on Stevens Creek Boulevard in Santa Clara. My cousin, Dan, hooked me up with a guy at Santa Clara University who used to collect appliances which had been abandoned in SCU dorm rooms at the end of each school year. He sold me an old, but functional full-size refrigerator and freezer for $25. I made sure to keep a healthy supply of Wilson’s Bakery chocolate chip cookies in my room at all times. For my basic grocery items, I walked around the corner from the dormitory to Bob’s Market on Emory Street, just off Elm. And even though my meals were provided in the Bellarmine dining hall, just up University Avenue, at the Alameda, was Sambo’s, where I could get breakfast, lunch, or dinner any time of day or night. 

    The primary downside to living in San José fifty years ago was the air pollution. Unleaded gas had just been introduced, but was not yet available everywhere. There were many days when the hills to the east of downtown San José were completely obscured by a thick layer of smog. I recall playing tennis and having difficulty breathing due to the poor air quality. Much improvement has been made in this regard in the past fifty years.

    After graduating from Santa Clara University, I made the decision to stay here in the South Bay. For seven years, I rented a cozy two-bedroom home on Lincoln Street in Santa Clara. Then, a year after getting married, Kathy and I moved into our current home in West San José. The orchards are gone. Traffic on the roads can be brutally congested at any hour of the day, with an alarming number of drivers paying little heed to driving laws. Bicycle riding is a dangerous venture now. Crime is far more prevalent than it was in 1972, as is homelessness. Despite it all, as proud as I have always been of being a native San Franciscan, I am grateful to call San José my home.