James' World 2

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Catherine Garcia was the only one of four siblings raised by her grandmother, as opposed to her mother. Over the years, she and her abuela from Puerto Rico would often switch roles as caregivers. Ultimately, Garcia took on this role full-time until her grandmother passed away.

There is a remarkable story that transpired between the time Garcia first moved in with her grandmother and the day she laid her to rest and beyond. Not only is it inspiring and a profound example of beating the odds, but Garcia’s story echoes the journeys of many other first-generation Latines in the United States who have had to support parents and caregivers while creating a life all their own.

On average, the typical Latine caregiver in the U.S. is 43 years old — which is younger than caregivers of other races and ethnicities — and caring for parents, parents-in-law, or grandparents who average about 67 years old and have one long- or short-term physical condition.1 More often than not, these caregivers have children under the age of 18, who are also living in their home, along with a partner or spouse. While Latine caregivers take on a lot of responsibilities within their household, they have lower incomes and education than their peers.

Today, Garcia is the OB/GYN Administrative Director and Mt. Sinai Academic Coordinator for BronxCare Health System in the Bronx, NY. The road it took for her to get there was anything but a smooth ride. Still, she preserved, the strength behind her resilience from the start and still today has always been her abuela.

Multigenerational families living together is very true to Latine culture in the United States and beyond. Approximately one-third or around 32 percent of Latine households in the U.S. are considered multigenerational,

meaning they include multiple adult generations living together and translate to a significant portion of Latines likely caring for an elderly family member within their household.2 Among those caregivers in Latine familias, women are significantly more likely to take on that role.

At times, it isn’t so much about wanting to be the caregiver as much as it is about adhering to cultural influences that instill strong family values within Latine families, which often means caring for elderly family members at home. 

Abuela’s Girl

“I was raised by my grandmother since kindergarten. She had three boys and always wanted a girl,” Garcia fondly recalls being raised in the Spanish Harlem neighborhood of Manhattan in New York City by her Abuela Ana Celia Alvarez from Arecibo, Puerto Rico. “She came to New York from Arecibo after she got married, seeking a better life for her children.”  

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Vivek Ramaswamy, a key member of President-elect Trump’s team, recently reignited the debate around tiger parenting, equating it with “tough love” and framing it as a surefire path to success. His comments painted tiger parenting as a deliberate strategy for raising high-achieving, resilient children, but they overlooked the deeper roots of this parenting style.

Every time “Tiger Moms” enter the cultural discourse, I chuckle. I remember reading Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother as a young mom, and laughing as I imagined telling my deceased father that these practices are supposed to be reserved for Asian kids.

My reaction to that book seemed so much less judgmental than that of my friends—I read it as Amy Chua’s sincere desire to raise strong, healthy children. I thought her observations that nothing is fun until you attain mastery and that parents shouldn’t assume fragility in healthy children were particularly astute.

My friends seemed to see her as a one-dimensional figure: the demanding mom with her arms folded, demanding endless hours of violin practice. But I read a funny, conflicted mom who is truly struggling to figure out what her parenting practices should be in the face of a culture that believes otherwise.

Not having gotten the memo that these practices are only for Asian women, my father demanded academic excellence. He expected me to write book reports on books I had read for pleasure. If I brought home a grade that was less than 100 percent, my father wanted to know where the other two points went.

His higher education had been cut short by economic circumstances, and his chronic illness meant we relied on my mother’s job as a guidance counselor for our income. He always praised my mother’s master’s degree and stated his foregone conclusion that I’d attain a Ph.D. “Imagine…” he’d muse. “You get to write a thesis. And a dissertation.” His tone of voice made these sound like treats. (They weren’t, mostly.)

Even on his sickbed, my father expected me to write a detailed error analysis of my mistakes on tests. I protested in vain that the test was over, I got an A, even if two points were “missing,” and I really didn’t want to. He told me that disciplined scholars faced their mistakes, and he was right.

I felt loved by my father, if frustrated by him, and I read Chua’s book in the same light. I knew that he was afraid of poverty and that he saw higher education as a buffer against that fate. He also knew that he was dying. He was trying to protect—and prepare—me.

Now, Vivek Ramaswamy has brought high-demand parenting back into cultural discourse.

As someone who works with parents navigating their own post-traumatic experiences, I’d argue that tiger parenting is, at its core, a trauma response. It’s not just about wanting your kids to succeed; it’s about needing them to. And that distinction matters because it tells us something profound about how trauma shapes our parenting.

What Is Tiger Parenting?

Amy Chua described tiger parenting as a style that demands excellence. Kids are pushed to master difficult skills, often at the expense of leisure or emotional validation. While this approach can foster resilience, discipline, and achievement, it can also come with significant emotional costs—for both child and parent.

But why would a parent adopt such a rigid, high-pressure approach in the first place? Let’s explore how trauma influences parenting styles.

Trauma and the Fear of Failure

Trauma leaves an indelible mark on the way we view the world. For parents with unhealed trauma, especially trauma related to scarcity, poverty, or persecution, the stakes of “failure” can feel unbearably high. If you’ve experienced a world where not being the best meant losing opportunities—or worse, safety—it makes perfect sense that you’d do everything in your power to prevent your child from ever facing that reality.

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Hmmm…A president for the people?

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CLIMATEWIRE | President Donald Trump’s cancellation of a 31-year-old environmental justice directive threatens the health of tens of millions of people in minority or low-income communities, which have often been dumping grounds for pollution, waste sites, and heavy industry, said civil rights advocates and experts.

Revoking a 1994 executive order by President Bill Clinton removes a mandate that survived four subsequent presidencies, including Trump’s first term, and required federal agencies to address the “high and adverse” environmental and health effects of their decisions on areas with high rates of poverty or large minority populations.

“It’s turning the clock back on decades of work,” said Peggy Shepard, co-founder and executive director of WE ACT for Environmental Justice, based in New York. “They’re working to eliminate policies and programs that support equity, support environmental and climate justice, and that’s just going to have a harmful effect on the health and well-being of so many people in these disadvantaged communities.”

Clinton’s Executive Order 12898, signed in February 1994, required federal agencies to analyze environmental and public health hazards in minority or low-income communities and to avoid adding to them.

Trump, in his own executive order that repealed the Clinton-era mandate, said the policies violate federal civil rights laws, sow racial division, and “deny, discredit, and undermine the traditional American values of hard work, excellence, and individual achievement in favor of an unlawful, corrosive, and pernicious identity-based spoils system.”

Following Trump’s revocation, agencies will review each program for areas where “race and other marginalization identities are considered by the agency and how they are considered,” George Washington University law professor Emily Hammond said. Political appointees will lead the reviews and give reports to the White House Office of Management and Budget.

“It will be OMB that’s actually giving the final say to policies that are eliminated,” said Hammond, who was Energy Department deputy counsel in the Biden administration. “This process takes a while.”

Trump framed his revocation — and several others Tuesday — as an effort to end “illegal preferences and discrimination” in government.

Trump’s directive also will bar most federal grant programs from prioritizing projects that help minority or low-income communities. It also axes a 60-year-old equal employment executive order and several diversity and inclusion policies. Critics said the president’s moves ignore research about the health and financial effects of pollution on poor people.

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WHEN ABC BROADCAST A REMAKE OF AN episode of All in the Family, shot before a studio audience in 2019, the network recreated the Bunker family home In Queens, New York, down to the doilies and faded wall­paper, with Woody Harrelson and Marisa Tomei taking up Carroll O’Connor and Jean Stapleton’s roles as Archie, the ultraconservative loading-dock worker, and his kindly wife, Edith. Set in 1976, the episode centers around the unexpected arrival of David Brewster, their son-in-law Mike Stivic’s high school friend, a Vietnam War draft dodger who fled to Canada but just sneaked home for Christmas. When Edith invites David to join them for the holiday dinner, Mike cautions his friend not to tell Archie what he’d done—and to avoid such topics as “politics, religion, sex, books, movies, war, peace, guns . . . grapes, lettuce.”   

Archie, meanwhile, has invited his pal Pinky Peterson, whose son Steve was killed in the war. Mike’s worst fears are realized—David’s secret spills out and the joyous gathering quickly devolves into a bitter confrontation over the war, with a spitting-mad Archie yelling, “What he done was wrong!” Finally Pinky stands up and makes peace. “My kid hated the war too,” he says. “But he did what he thought he had to do. And David here, he did what he thought he had to do . . . if Steve was here, he would want to sit down with him. And that is what I want to do.” Pinky then walks over to David and shakes his hand.  

All in the Family debuted 50 years ago in January 1971, two years before the United States withdrew from Vietnam, and four years before that divisive conflict ended. Fifty-eight thousand Americans died in Southeast Asia, and when the Christmas special originally aired in 1976, the war was still a festering wound. The very day ABC restaged the show in 2019, Congress had started impeachment proceedings against President Donald Trump, and the country found itself as polarized as ever. So much had changed in four-plus decades—and yet so little.   

Back in the 1970s, of course, it was bold for a sitcom to take on such a sensitive topic as the war. But All in the Family was unlike anything seen before on television. Up until then, TV had a blandly homogenous quality. Three networks, ABC, CBS, and NBC, ruled the airwaves, and the newly created Public Broadcasting Service had a niche audience. They all worked under a draconian Television Code, and offered wholesome and uncontroversial family entertainment. There was no political content, and situation comedies were inhabited by white middle-class families, noble lawmen, and quirky country folk. One of the few working-class shows was The Honeymooners, which centered around Brooklyn bus driver Ralph Kramden, his wife, Alice, his sewer worker friend, Ed Norton, and Ed’s wife, Trixie. It went off the air in 1956 after just one season, but would gain classic status in reruns. The Honeymooners influenced another series about working stiffs—this one animated: The Flintstones, which first aired in 1960 and featured Fred Flintstone, a prehistoric quarryman from the town of Bedrock, his wife, Wilma, best buddy, Barney, and his wife, Betty.   

That was about it for blue-collar comedy until Archie Bunker barged into America’s living rooms. Here was a full-throated “angry white man” from the borough of Queens who proudly proclaimed, “I hate change.” Americans had never seen a character like Archie on their television screens. He epitomized President Richard Nixon’s Silent Majority—conservatives who felt overlooked by the general public and Washington politicos—and he broadcast his biases and prejudices every week as he jostled with Mike and his feminist daughter, Gloria, while demeaning the superficially dim but disarmingly insightful Edith.  

Yet though Archie was proudly reactionary, he harbored a hidden kindness, and the show possessed a subversive and not so subtle radicalism. During All in the Family’s nine seasons on CBS, creators Norman Lear and Bud Yorkin used their series as a televised soapbox to masterfully portray the upheavals and concerns racking the United States. They slyly wove current events into a sitcom and used the medium to explore the rifts within American society and culture. The show pondered the war, the Watergate scandal, and the liberal-conservative divide and depicted the country’s changing views on such topics as politics, race, sex, religion, and women’s rights.   

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It is time to act as people of a responsible republic. Don’t be complacent!

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A thrilling crush, excruciating embarrassment or fervent dedication to a cause—adolescence can mean all of these things. For me, it involved a burning curiosity about the natural world, which led one time to my grandmother discovering a bag of cow eyeballs in the fridge. My dad had helped me collect them at a slaughterhouse for dissection.

I didn’t mean to upset anyone; I just wanted to figure out how sight works. Like others my age, I was also driven to understand why things are the way they are and how they could or should be different. A while after my eyeball phase, I declared myself a humanist and took to wearing a four-inch peace sign around my neck. My sister and I began writing and performing (admittedly somewhat histrionic) folk songs through which we attempted to express our discontent with various global, local, and historical injustices.

As a teen, I was swimming in big ocean waves, so to speak—watching, listening, questioning, and grappling to make sense of all the complex cultural and emotional information coming my way. Who are we humans, anyway, and who am I? Now, 35 years later, I am still fascinated by these questions and by the ways in which adolescents struggle to make sense of what they witness and experience.

Take these responses from teens in urban Los Angeles to my asking them why they think some people in their neighborhood commit violent crimes:

“They have, like, a lot of emotions. They’re really mad, so they just kill somebody. Like, overly aggressive.”

“Everyone has a history. Like, everybody has an action or choice or some sort of history—some sort of thing happened to them that affects how they act in the future.”

The difference between the quotes is subtle but critical in its implications for brain development. The first one describes the proximal reason for a crime and represents the kind of focused thinking people need to keep themselves safe and to respond appropriately to shifting circumstances. But the second reveals awareness of the broader historical, cultural or social context in which individuals do the things they do.

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Cinta Fosch

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We were just a couple hours outside of Billings, Montana, when we saw our first bison. It was a stunning, hulking, fuzzy, and otherworldly beast. My 9-year-old son Silas’ first comment was, “I can’t wait to tell my brother about this.”

Over the next four days, he mentioned his 2-year-old brother, Sunny, many times—to me, to our very tolerant Austin Adventures guides in Yellowstone National Park, to strangers we passed on the trail. “My little brother loves grizzly bears! My little brother is way too small to do this hike.”

He showed his baby brother’s photo to the friendly hotel bar staff once we were back in Billings enjoying happy hour at The Northern (milk for him, sage-smoked Old Fashioned for me): “This is my little brother. He’s two. He is going to be so jealous that I saw Old Faithful.”

Will his little brother indeed feel a bit jealous at this adventure we took without him? Probably. But soon, he’ll get a special mom-and-me trip of his own. And parenting experts say this is a great idea.

Perks of Traveling With Just One Child

Traveling with just one of your kids has several benefits, but the biggest might be uninterrupted quality time. “Solo time with a parent is critical for a child’s development, particularly in households with more than one child,” says Joy Kennedy, PhD, developmental psychologist and researcher with the Education Development Center. She explains that 1:1 time helps everything from bonding to language development, and ensures that each child gets the attention they need.

“This is something I have been recommending to parents for almost 20 years,” says Tammy Gold, LCSW, MSW, CEC, licensed family therapist, and parenting coach. She explains that while quality time with the whole family is crucial—whether that’s nightly dinners at home or an annual group trip to grandma’s house—“it’s also important to get one-to-one time with your children.”

Otherwise, “children might fight for attention or ‘air time’ or become covertly upset at the children getting the most attention,” she explains. Or worse, the quieter child—or if you have one child with a disability, the “glass child” sibling—can “become apathetic and give up trying to bond if there are other, louder siblings,” adds Gold. The last thing you want is for these children to feel there is no hope for special attention, she explains. Dr. Kennedy shares that, in her family, she needs to prioritize solo time with her younger child since her older one tends to dominate family conversations at home. In my family, it’s the opposite; my 2-year-old is wild and wonderful and loud, and my more easygoing and reflective 9-year-old can get a bit lost in the shuffle. This was the motivation behind our Montana trip: Letting Silas be the star of the show, once again.

Here are some other benefits of traveling with just one child at a time,

Travel tailored to their interests

Have you heard the Dylan Moran quote, “You can’t please everyone, nor should you seek to, because then you won’t please anyone, least of all yourself”? The same is true of family travel.

Going middle-of-the-road with all activities, trying to ensure it’s something all your kids enjoy, can be a recipe for a dull destination. Instead, “personalizing activities without any potential interruptions or changes that larger groups can inherently bring gives the parent and child more leeway to plan around what suits their needs,” says psychiatrist Doug Newton, MD, MPH.

This was part of why I chose Montana and in particular Yellowstone: Silas is an adventurer and wildlife aficionado and I knew he’d be floored by the opportunities to see and learn about bison, bears, osprey, and more—and to earn his Junior Park Ranger badge. Would his 2-year-old brother be even half as interested, or manage even half of our hikes? Nope. 

Independence and autonomy

“Spending time apart from other siblings can give kids a chance to feel independent and develop confidence as they exercise a bigger role in decision-making,” says Dr. Newton.

The day-to-day at home can often leave kids going along with the group or catering to a younger sibling’s needs. Twosome trips, on the other hand, give you as the parent the opportunity to ask your child: “What do you want to do today?” And then you can actually make it happen! 

Minimal conflict

I’m no stranger to multiple-child travel, which means I’m also accustomed to separating sibling spats on the road or in the air. “Stepping in to mediate conflicts and oversee relationships within the family takes focus away from quality time parents can have with individual children on a family trip,” says Dr. Newton.

A one-on-one trip, on the other hand, gives everyone a chance to have their own space and be heard as an individual.

Secure attachment

When parents can focus their attention onto one child for any amount of time, “it strengthens their attunement and overall connection. In turn, this strengthens secure attachment, a hallmark of positive outcomes in life,” says Stacy McCann, a licensed clinical mental health therapist and parent coach.

Of course, this is not to say that deep attunement and secure attachment can’t happen in multiple-child families that can’t swing one-kid-at-a-time

travel. It’s just that planning solo travel with one child will deepen what is already there. It gives each child a chance to communicate with their parents away from the chaos of sibling dynamics, “and experience awe in the world in connection with their parents,” says McCann.

Pitfalls of Leaving Your Other Kids Behind

While the benefits of parent-child trips like mine and Silas’ tend to outweigh the cons, there are some potential shortcomings to be aware of, including the following.

Other siblings might feel envious

Of course, one sibling embarking on an adventure with Mom or Dad may well bring out the little green monster in the other sibling(s). So make sure to establish an understanding among all your children “of why one-on-one time is important and why they’re not included, and to assure them that they will have individual time dedicated to them and their travel needs as well,” recommends Dr. Newton.  

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With Donald Trump back in office, much of the world is still struggling to make sense of his appeal to so many Americans. This is especially the case now, after he became a felon, incited an insurrection, and promised to govern as a dictator. How does someone so unfiltered, unrefined, and dismissive of moral codes and norms end up getting elected?

It may be those very things that are core to his appeal—Trump is not the first head of state who has capitalized on brash behavior to gain that position. He may appeal to the average voter for the very same reasons you keep watching that reality television show you love to hate: these shows delight people by  giving them a look at something that feels both “real” and “taboo.” Trump is among many successful politicians who have succeeded by appearing more relatable, such as George W. Bush, who famously scored as the more appealing candidate “to have a beer with” in the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections, the authentic emotional appeal of Barack Obama or the “bumbling clown” image of Boris Johnson. But Trump’s appeal seems different.

In our experience as business professors, we’ve seen how business models that include seemingly repellent behavior can captivate audiences—and as a television personality, Trump has been no exception. Trump the politician has pulled from that same playbook. We have spent years studying how transgression (an act that goes against law, norms or standards), stigma and emotions affect businesses, stakeholders, and even society. Trump’s election had striking similarities to what we have observed in businesses based on voyeurism. That is, the anchor of his appeal is tied to how the perception of his authenticity and his transgressions fuel human emotion.

Think about reality shows such as Big Brother, social media influencers, erotic webcam and OnlyFans models and “slum tourism.” These are businesses that let audiences “peek” into things that are typically kept private. These are businesses based on voyeurism—they turn people’s curiosity about private and forbidden aspects of others’ lives into a product or service that generates money. Experiencing something forbidden creates a unique mix of emotions—thrill, curiosity and even discomfort—that people are willing to pay for. To succeed, such businesses balance showing enough “realness” to feel authentic and forbidden with avoiding crossing lines that might alienate their audience.

Of course, Trump is a reality television show character turned president, and part of the success of his shows was brashness—berating hapless contestants or yelling “you’re fired” over and over. Just as voyeuristic businesses do, Trump has positioned himself as both authentic (he “tells it like it is,” people say) and transgressive (he does and says things as a political leader that people in his position normally do not). In this way, Trump has cultivated a distinct persona that resonates with certain audiences and keeps them engaged amid—and often because of—controversies. Here’s how this works.

Authenticity is about delivering experiences that feel real, connecting audiences with the unfiltered “truth” of a subject. Trump’s followers often say they like it when he resists traditional political correctness and “elite” social norms, such as the carefully calibrated communication that is often associated with people in positions of power. Despite his wealth and high status, people see him as an “authentic” figure. Trump’s blunt manner, frequent social media outbursts and disregard for polished speeches all reinforce this perception. That makes him seem more honest to his followers, regardless of whether or not he is telling the truth. They believe that he’s acting without artifice, bringing an undiluted version of himself directly to the public, which is one half of the voyeurism puzzle. In voyeuristic businesses, the same is expected. Webcam models, for example, are perceived to bring their full personality to their performances, casting aside the tropes seen in classic pornography. Reality star actors are seen as being unfiltered and unrefined—they are more “real,” even if it’s staged.

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A few years ago, when my oldest son was around 3, my husband and I started letting him watch YouTube videos of construction toys — diggers, steamrollers, dump trucks — doing their thing in the sand. My son absolutely loved it. He watched them when we’d go out to restaurants or while traveling, whenever we needed some instant mollifying or to shovel some food into our mouths.

We also had a 6-month-old baby at the time and as she got older and needed more chasing around, the YouTube time began to increase. For the most part, I didn’t see any real harm in it. I grew up on tons of TV and enjoy dopamine hits from social media as much as the next millennial; plus, these videos seemed relatively harmless, especially since they were infrequent. Over time though, he began watching videos of YouTubers reviewing new toys, his little sister peering over his shoulder, full of quick cuts, loud sounds, and an overwhelming amount of product and waste. Then, despite parental controls and making sure I was always in the room with them when they watched, the algorithm started to push content that was annoying at best (full of kids doing silly pranks) and encouraging bad behavior at worst (with scary and weird images that made the kids uncomfortable). Finally, last summer, after clocking that every time they watched YouTube they were more irritable and anxious, my husband and I decided to ban it completely. I felt like I’d been asleep to how much this app was impacting my kids, and by cutting it off, I was finally waking up.

They were upset at first and begged to watch, but it didn’t take too long for them to get over it and move on. I told them why we’d done it, about how I could see how it was making them feel, what it was doing to their bodies and brains and behavior. I simplified it as much as possible, but I needed them to know it wasn’t a random decision, that I was doing it out of love and concern for them. Does a 5-year-old get that? No, probably not, but we did it in conjunction with his best friend’s family, so at least it wasn’t totally alienating for him to not have access to it anymore.

His little sister, on the other hand, screamed, cursing me and her dad, and took every chance she could to try and sneak it, craving a hit of one of those annoying YouTubers she’d become obsessed with. I tried to tell them both that wanting it that intensely was exactly why they shouldn’t have it anymore.

Early on, I would give in sometimes — I’m only one woman — but I held more firm the longer we went without it. The change was too huge to not stick with it. It’s been over a year now and they’re not as cranky, angry, or amped up at bedtime. But we don’t live in a bubble, and one of the big reasons I think it worked is because we did alongside friends their own age. School is another story.

This school year, a mom at my kids’ school, Anna, was inspired to start a

parent council group, using Jonathan Haidt’s book, The Anxious Generation, as a launchpad to talk about taking an organized approach to cutting down smartphones and social media as a community. “So when my kid comes home in grade two and wants a phone, it won’t just be me saying no,” she says. Before reading the book, she’d already made a big change at home after realizing she’d “become dependent on my phone as a single mom during the pandemic.” She realized she couldn’t say no to TV while she was scrolling on her phone. Her usage bled over to his usage, so she made a change. The iPad only gets used during travel and the rest of the time it lives in a drawer. He isn’t allowed to play video games, there’s no YouTube, and no playing with her phone. Even the TV only comes on during the weekend. They’re not totally screen free — but it’s more extreme than probably the majority of the other parents at school.

A lot of people, myself included, are still struggling to figure out the right mix of screens at home — what’s okay and what’s not — but Anna liked what changing her family’s screen time did for her household, their time together at home feels more connected and meaningful and both their moods at home have improved. But even still, it hasn’t been easy. “He still cries over it,” she said.

When I posted on my private Instagram account recently about banning YouTube, a mom I know DM’d me to say that her kids use the platform a lot

and she feels it’s actually taught them a lot, including fast-tracking her daughter’s reading and fueling her son’s creativity. “It depends on the kid,” she said.

I might have agreed with that a year ago, but it’s not about the ability of an individual kid to navigate these spaces, it’s about the damage these spaces do to the person navigating them. We’ve all seen how the people behind these platforms have taken their masks off in the past few months — Meta founder and CEO Mark Zuckerberg’s about-face on things like content moderation and what constitutes hateful language is especially horrifying — revealing how little they care about the safety of our kids. In fact, we’ve known for years that these same tech execs don’t even let their own kids go on social media. And why would they? There have been multiple studies that warn of the serious impact it can have on kids, including self-harm, anxiety, and depression. A former TikTok backend engineer recently did an AMA on X and, when someone asked if he’d ever let his kids on the app, he answered “zero chance, brainrot.”

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Photo-Illustration: by the Cut; Photos Getty Images/B)2013 Purple Collar Pet Photography

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The Los Angeles area has been at the mercy of fire and wind this month, and this weekend a third element will join the mix: water.

Rain is forecast to begin as soon as Saturday afternoon and to continue as late as Monday evening, says meteorologist Kristan Lund of the National Weather Service’s Los Angeles office. The area desperately needs the precipitation, but experts are warily monitoring the situation because rain poses its own risks in recently burned areas—most notably the potential occurrence of mudslides and similar hazards.

“Rain is good because we’ve been so dry,” Lund says. “However, if we get heavier rain rates or we get the thunderstorms, it’s actually a lot more dangerous because you can get debris flows.”

Fires do a couple of different things to the landscape that can increase the risk of burned material, soil, and detritus hurtling out of control.

When fires burn hot or long enough, they leave an invisible layer of waxy material just under the surface of the ground. This develops from decomposing leaves and other organic material, which contain naturally hydrophobic or water-repellent compounds. Fire can vaporize this litter, and the resulting gas seeps into the upper soil—where it quickly cools and condenses, forming the slippery layer.

When rain falls on ground that has been affected by this phenomenon, it can’t sink beyond the hydrophobic layer—so the water flows away, often hauling debris with it. “All of the trees, branches, everything that’s been burned—unfortunately, if it rains, that stuff just floats,” Lund says. “It’s really concerning.”

Even a fire that isn’t severe enough to create a hydrophobic layer can still cause to debris flows, says Danielle Touma, a climate scientist at the University of Texas at Austin. Under normal conditions, trees and other plants usually trap some rain above the surface, slowing the water’s downward journey. But on freshly burned land there’s much less greenery to interfere; all the rain immediately hits the ground.

And whereas healthy vegetation holds soil together with its roots, fires can easily burn off the fine roots that do most of that work. “So then you have all this loose soil that can be transported by water as well,” Touma says.

This month the three largest Los Angeles–area fires have created nearly 50,000 acres of fresh burn scar, Lund notes, and some of that scar is in mountainous terrain that facilitates mudslides. Current forecasts suggest the rain will mostly fall below the rate of a quarter-inch per hour—below the intensity that tends to increase the risk of debris flows, Lund says. But this weekend the region does face a 10 to 20 percent chance of thunderstorms, which can cause short bursts of rain that may be heavy enough to trigger flows.

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