Generational habits have always shaped how people connect, but the shift from phone calls to texting is especially stark. For Monica O’Brien, a communications scholar based in southwest Florida, the contrast has become part of her research and her daily life.

“For Gen Xers, using the phone was a privilege,” she said. “Every kid dreamed of having a phone in their bedroom. I probably had a hundred numbers memorized, and now I can’t remember anyone’s.”

O’Brien recalls her father being strict about phone use, a reminder that in the 1970s and ’80s, making a call was not just convenience but standard. Today, she sees that context missing from her younger coworkers’ experiences.

“A lot of them feel anxiety about answering the phone on the sales floor,” she said. “They just never had to learn those skills. They’re so used to screens.”

That difference in comfort is borne out in research. A survey conducted by the recruitment firm Robert Walters found that 59% of young professionals prefer to use email or messaging instead of phone calls, and about half report feeling uncomfortable making business calls. Only 16% said phone conversations are an effective use of time. Older workers, by contrast, often worry that fewer calls and in-person meetings undermine relationships.

The split between generations appears in personal life as well. A 2023 YouGov poll covering 17 countries found that 40% of people said text messages were their most-used method of staying in touch with loved ones. Voice calls came in second at 29%. Among 18-to-24-year-olds, nearly half favored texting, while adults over 55 were more likely to pick up the phone.

For Keisha R., a Gen Xer from Berkeley, the choice depends on context.

“Texting is definitely more convenient,” she said. “I can schedule a text and communicate when I’m available.”

That balance between efficiency and intimacy captures the current divide. Texting offers flexibility and control, but the human voice conveys emotion that words on a screen can’t always deliver.

O’Brien recognizes both.

“I’m actually a Gen Xer who likes to text a lot,” she said. “But if I have to have a serious conversation with someone, it’s better not to text because things can get misinterpreted.”

Gen Xers, O’Brien argues, stand out for their versatility: Raised on phone calls but fluent in texting, they occupy a unique middle ground between the call-oriented Baby Boomers and the text-first Gen Zers.

“We can do it all. We’re in that sweet spot,” she said.

For Anna Trinh, who is in her early 20s, the calculation is very different. Texting is not just convenient—it is low-pressure, safe and even creative. Saying most of her discomfort stems from social anxiety, her experience echoes that of many people her age.

“I find that texting is a low-pressure form of communication, especially when compared to calls. It allows for a lot of freedom,” Trinh said.

She described the practical benefits of being able to respond on her own schedule.

“I can choose when to text back,” she said. “If I’m busy or if I’m not feeling up to responding yet, I can reply at my own convenience. This is a benefit to the other party as well.”

Texting also allows her to be mindful and expressive in ways calls cannot. She described the joy in being more mindful of what she says and using memes to creatively convey how she is feeling with friends. Safety and privacy are also factors for her. Trinh pointed to the rising number of spam and scam calls, as well as potential AI misuse of voice clips.

“There’s been a lot of scams nowadays, which is another reason why I really don’t like phone calls,” she said. “Tech is advancing rapidly, and there’s been talks of people using AI to take voice clips to impersonate others. Not only that, but I get a TON of spam calls from random VOIP numbers every day.”

Her “motto” captures her generation’s approach to phone calls: “If it’s that important, they’ll leave a voicemail,” she said.

Statistics reinforce her experience. A 2022 survey from Communication Research Reports of 18-to-24-year-olds found that 81% reported feeling anxiety before making a phone call, while most reported texting as their preferred method of communication. While older adults continue to rely on calls, young adults treat the ring with caution or avoid it entirely.

The ring of a phone may be less common among the youth today, but it has not disappeared. Instead, it competes with pings, vibrations and unread notification bubbles. For some, it provokes anxiety. For others, it signals intimacy. For many, like O’Brien, Keisha and Trinh, the real skill lies in being able to switch between modes depending on the moment.

“I think the goal is not to lose the ability to talk,” O’Brien said. “You need to be able to do both. There’s a lot you can tell from someone’s voice that you’ll never get from a text.”

Still some, like San Jose Baby Boomer Alison England, are firmly rooted in old-school ways. She believes texting is “lazy.”

“I do not even own a cell phone,” England said. “I have a landline. Personally I hate the idea of being reduced to a text recipient.”

Still, there are Gen Zers who prefer calls, Boomers who favor text and a spectrum of habits in between. O’Brien reiterates that the focus should not be on the generational divide itself, but on bridging the differences so that everyone can communicate effectively in a variety of settings. 

“You need to be able to switch,” O’Brien said. “That’s what makes you a good communicator.”

On Sept. 6, Black and Brown in San Jose will transform into a gallery alive with analog energy. Eric Weiss’s portraits of 1980s and ’90s icons, from Madonna to Tupac, will hang beside rows of restored vintage cameras, including Leicas, Nikon Rangefinders and large-format machines.

At the center are two men: Eric Weiss, the photographer who captured the pulse of New York’s cultural heyday, and Tomek Maćkowiak, a Bay Area craftsman dedicated to reviving the tools of film photography.

Their collaboration is not just about nostalgia. It is a meditation on memory, patience and the tactile joy of film in a digital world, reminding us that slowing down can be the boldest act of all.

Eric Weiss’s journey into photography began suspended between boyish play and artistic awakening. Babysitting younger cousins as a 12-year-old, he detected a glow of alchemy in his cousin’s makeshift darkroom, a moment he describes as luminous and irrevocable. Books his mother kept at home, with anthropological photographs, further fueled his desire to see how others lived and to traverse worlds via images. A security gig at the Brooklyn Museum brought him face-to-face with a Life photographer’s exhibition—Eliot Elisofon’s African reportage—and crystallized his path.

“It was like a miracle, seeing a blank sheet of paper suddenly having an image on it,” Weiss said, romanticizing his first experience in a darkroom at his cousin’s house.

By his early twenties, Weiss was deep in New York’s frenetic rush for celebrity and fashion. Without formal pathways into the glossy magazines, he navigated through event PR networks, offering to photograph events for agencies so his work could be seen in Women’s Wear Daily. One morning after photographing a high-profile event, he delivered contact sheets to the editor, who not only published them but told him he’d like to hire him for future projects. That day marked the start of a career spanning Vogue, NYT and behind the velvet ropes of pop culture’s upper echelon.

Before long, Weiss found himself brushing shoulders with the elite. Not every encounter was pleasant—he recalls moments of rudeness, like a sour exchange with Madonna—but others left him with lasting warmth. While photographing backstage at the Grammys for The New York Times, he crossed paths with Beyoncé. Expecting a carefully guarded star, he was struck instead by her openness. When he asked to take her portrait, she agreed without pretense, leaving him with an impression that has stayed with him.

“She was so just so polite and was like ‘I hope it turns out good,’” he recalled.

What propelled his work from snapshots to artifacts was his approach: like a surfer, he waited for the perfect wave—the decisive visual moment. Surrounded by photogs flashing relentlessly in the chaos of film-era event lighting, he learned to be quiet, respectful, invisible, patient.

Chasing the Light

Even today, Weiss shoots film, not for nostalgia but for its mindful precision. And though the process is more involved than digital, the photography veteran declares that film remains gratifying. While portraiture is still his first love, he now mostly captures Northern California’s landscapes for pleasure.

“I love going out to Death Valley and chasing the light with a 4×5 view camera,” Weiss said.

Film photography’s decline was dramatic but not total. In the U.S., photography reporter Pete Brook discovered sales of film cameras plummeted from 19.7 million units in 2000 to under 250,000 by 2010. Camera brands, labs and empires disintegrated. Kodachrome processing ended in 2010, and the last roll developed in a Kansas lab in January 2011, according to a Wikipedia article.

But analog isn’t dead, and the market has slowly revived. By 2023, global film production rose 18% year-over-year, distributing over 20 million rolls worldwide, according to Market Growth Reports. Gen Z and millennials are embracing film for its authenticity, imperfections, and “romantic mistakes” like grain and light leaks, journalist Ellie Violet Bramley reported last year. 

Why? It’s not just visuals, it’s the process. Film photography demands presence: manual loading, focused composition, and timed exposures. Both Maćkowiak and Weiss say that “Digital fatigue,” “dopamine overload,” and the desire for slow craft propel film’s resurgence. Analog photography offers delayed gratification, mindfulness, and a tangible artifact in a commodified digital flood.

Yet constraints remain: fewer than 1,200 full-service labs worldwide (in 2023), processing delays, and rising costs challenge the analog revival, another Market Growth Report states. Still, art schools, workshops and analog festivals are growing fast. East Bay Photo Collective, for example, is an Oakland-based nonprofit aiming to provide inspiration, education and community through photography.

Accessible High Art

Tomek Maćkowiak’s relationship to film is hands-on. A self-identified technical person, Maćkowiak found grounding in the analog process when other art forms like painting proved to be too challenging for him. He shoots plenty in his free time, but his main focus is vintage camera collection. He collects, repairs and rebuilds everything from WWII-era Leicas to medium and large format systems, with the hope of providing film photographers with access to working tools.

“It’s my little way of giving back to the film community,” he said.

He sees analog photography as an accessible form of high art. One roll only yields one or two perfect frames—but those frames become cherished and more meaningful. Film demands precision, offers physicality, and gives emotional rewards that the fast shooting nature of digital cannot, he argues. In a world of instant everything, Maćkowiak says analog is deliberate beauty.

Tomek invited Weiss into what began as a solo camera show because he admired his extensive body of high-profile work. On Sept. 6 from 5 to 10pm, upstairs at Black & Brown (751 W. San Carlos), attendees will browse grids of Weiss’s celebrity portraits—fashion icons, musicians, political figures. They’ll also see Tomek’s restored vintage cameras. The two photographers hope the show can inspire people wanting to learn more about the world of film.

“I hope people can feel that my work touches a part of their soul,” Weiss said.

An Instagram reel from LeVant Dessert’s Sunnyvale location pans across a buzzing Eid celebration: tables packed with customers, plates of various sweets, and live musicians filling the room with Arabic melodies as guests clap and sing along. The scene feels more like a festive community gathering than a storefront bakery: a place where food, music and culture intertwine.

As LeVant Dessert cements its role as a hub for Bay Area Arab diaspora in the South Bay, another beloved institution called Reem’s is preparing for a return to Oakland, hinting at a wider regional resurgence of Arab-owned food spaces.

Arab bakeries are emerging as cultural touchstones across the Bay Area, serving not just desserts but a sense of belonging. LeVant Dessert—with Oasis Baklava in Sunnyvale and LeVant Dessert in Menlo Park—reflects this shift through its blend of hospitality, heritage and community-building. Its growing presence in the South Bay comes amid the highly anticipated return of Reem’s in Oakland, suggesting a broader revival of Arab-owned food spaces and their role in shaping the region’s culinary and social landscape.

Arab and Middle Eastern North African (MENA) communities have long been part of Northern California’s diverse fabric, with waves of immigration dating back decades. Recently, there’s been a notable surge in popularity of Arab culinary ventures across the Bay Area, fueled by a growing second-generation population eager to reconnect with their heritage and by wider local interest in authentic, regional flavors. This has led to increased demand for traditional Arab desserts and breads, from flaky baklava to za’atar-spiced flatbreads.

Founded in 2017 by Maya Fezzani, who is half Lebanese and half Syrian, LeVant Dessert began spontaneously. Friends praised her traditional family-style sweets, but she assumed Bay Area Arabs already had access to such recipes in their own kitchens. It wasn’t until she started making smaller, café-friendly portions for catering events that she realized the wider market potential.

Demand “took off very quickly,” she recalls, prompting her move from a home operation to a storefront. Today, most of LeVant Dessert’s customers are non-Arabs drawn to the unfamiliar flavor profiles—orange blossom, rose water, salep—and modern presentation of classic treats. Bite-size knafeh became an early bestseller, while items like pistachio-rose cake and “booza” Middle Eastern ice cream now routinely sell out.

Fezzani says she never set out to serve only her own community. 

“Back home, everyone makes these desserts—I wanted to introduce them to people who don’t,” Fezzani says.

Beyond its sweets, LeVant Dessert has evolved into a cultural gathering point in the South Bay. Fezzani sees the café as a space for celebration and connection—from Eid catering orders to afternoon meet-ups over coffee and baklava. She emphasizes that Levantine pastries are rooted in ingredients rarely used in Western baking, like shredded phyllo for knafeh, orange blossom syrup, and mastic, which gives the desserts a distinct identity while also sparking curiosity among new diners. Balancing tradition with innovation has helped the shop thrive: recipes are inherited from grandmothers, but presentation and size are adapted for American café culture. Fezzani says the most rewarding part of the business is watching people gather around her desserts.

“I get to see people loving what I grew up with,” she says.

When Reem’s first opened its Arab street bakery in Oakland’s Fruitvale neighborhood in 2017, it quickly became both a culinary destination and a symbol, celebrated for its mana’eesh flatbreads, political murals and community-focused mission. The pandemic forced the beloved space to close, leaving a void for loyal East Bay regulars who saw the bakery as more than a place to eat.

Now, after several years away, local news outlets report Reem’s is preparing a long-awaited return to Oakland. For many longtime customers, its comeback represents more than nostalgia; it signals a re-investment in Arab visibility and hospitality in the Bay Area, and underscores how much the region’s food landscape has changed during its absence.

In a post-9/11, post-Trump America, and against the backdrop of ongoing conflict in the Middle East, Arab-owned bakeries have taken on an outsized symbolic power. These spaces offer not just knafeh and baklava, but pride, cultural safety and public presence. At LeVant Dessert, owner Maya Fezzani says customers are often curious first—then delighted—by ingredients they’ve never tasted before.

“People enjoy discovering something different,” she notes, adding that introducing new flavors is part of her mission. Reem’s, meanwhile, has long embraced a politicized identity, fusing Palestinian food with calls for liberation and justice. Together, the two represent a quiet yet powerful form of resistance: insisting that Arab culture belongs boldly on Bay Area streets.

Running an Arab bakery in the Bay Area comes with unique pressures: commercial rents are sky-high, ingredients such as pistachios, salep and orange blossom water are expensive to import, and many customers still need to be educated about what, exactly, they’re eating. Staffing, especially with people familiar with the nuances of Middle Eastern desserts, has been another hurdle. Yet Fezzani remains ambitious.

“We’re still young, but growing,” she says, adding that expansion could someday include locations in the East Bay, San Francisco or Los Gatos. For now, she’s focused on extending her menu, reaching new audiences and making LeVant Dessert a staple in an increasingly globalized local food scene. 

LeVant Dessert can be found at 842 Santa Cruz Ave, Menlo Park. Sister restaurant Oasis Baklava is at 907 E Duane Ave., Sunnyvale. For more information, call ; 650.402.2525 or visit levantdessert.com.

Even in progressive strongholds like California, signs of a nationwide retreat from Pride visibility are surfacing. In early June, Target stores in the Bay Area noticeably reduced their Pride-themed displays compared to previous years, echoing a company-wide decision to limit merchandise placements after facing backlash in 2023, according to The Mercury News. A similar quieting is happening online; many national brands with a local footprint, including Levi’s and The North Face, opted for toned-down Pride messaging this year or skipped it altogether.

As corporations retreat from Pride, “rainbow capitalism” is fading, leaving queer-owned businesses and grassroots organizers to carry the visibility.

South Bay baker Rachel Turkal also isn’t backing down. At her pop-up bakery booth, a colorful sign advertising a rainbow-swirled Rice Krispy treat called “The Gay Agenda” draws both chuckles and raised eyebrows.

“It’s fruity and a bit salty,” Turkal says with a smile. “It lets people know we’re here, we’re queer, and there’s nothing you can do.’”

Turkal, owner of Browned Butter Babe Co., launched her San Jose-based cottage bakery in 2022 after rediscovering her love of baking during the pandemic. She first started selling publicly at the Lynbrook High School craft fair and now maintains a steady rotation of pop-ups through SJ Made, the Italian Family Festa at History Park, and custom orders—all while proudly flying Pride flags at her booth.

Originally from California but raised on the East Coast, Turkal said her journey from PTA bake sales to full-time business owner was gradual but organic.

 “When my son was in elementary school, I’d bring baked goods to parent meetings and people came just for that,” she said.

What sets her apart is not just the browned butter flavor profiles or playful marketing, it’s the unapologetically queer identity infused into the business. Turkal named her signature rainbow treat “The Gay Agenda” as a way to “acknowledge people for who they are.” Although it was meant to be a seasonal item, she kept it year-round due to its popularity and symbolism.

“It’s nice to see people come up to the booth and laugh because they feel seen,” she said. “Humor is a great icebreaker.”

Still, visibility comes with risks. Turkal recalls a tense encounter with an anti-LGBTQ+ group at a food festival and said some passersby refuse to approach her booth because of the Pride symbols. Aside from the occasional disinterested passerby or pushback from a few religious groups, Turkal says the response to her business has been overwhelmingly positive: something she credits to living in a region with a long-standing reputation for LGBTQ+ inclusion.

“Honestly, it’s scary,” she said. “I feel insulated and lucky to live here, but the way things have gone in mainstream culture is reminiscent of Nazi Germany. We see how the current administration is othering trans people, and it’s abhorrent.”

Despite this, Turkal finds encouragement in her connections through the Silicon Valley Rainbow Chamber of Commerce, which has helped generate orders and year-round catering partnerships. “You come for Pride Month, then you stay,” she said of corporate clients who discovered her through the chamber’s LGBTQ+ business directory.

For Turkal and her wife, who helps run the business, Browned Butter Babe is a vehicle for community, visibility, and joy.

Just a few years ago, landing a tech job felt almost inevitable for those with the right skills. Before the pandemic, startups boomed, Silicon Valley was awash in venture capital, and companies eagerly hired junior developers, designers and data analysts, even those fresh out of bootcamps. 

During the early pandemic, tech demand soared further as businesses rushed to digitize, opening even more doors for remote tech workers across the country. But that momentum didn’t last. As the dust settled, mass layoffs swept through the industry, and a new force began reshaping the landscape: artificial intelligence. 

Tools like ChatGPT and automated code generators started handling tasks once assigned to entry-level workers. Now, job seekers face a market defined by tighter hiring, global competition and a growing reliance on automation. What was once a high-wage career path has become risky and uncertain.

Artificial intelligence in the workplace isn’t new. Factories have relied on automation for decades, but the rise of generative AI marks a turning point in how technology interacts with white-collar work. The release of tools like ChatGPT in late 2022 pushed AI into the mainstream, making it possible to instantly generate code, marketing copy, legal memos and even visual designs. What was once considered uniquely human work is now subject to rapid automation.

According to a 2023 McKinsey report, AI could automate tasks that make up 60–70% of time spent across jobs, especially in fields like customer service, legal work, finance and administration. Meanwhile, sectors like healthcare, STEM and creative tech roles are expected to grow, fueled by new AI-driven innovations.

The World Economic Forum projects 83 million jobs could be lost globally by 2027 due to automation, but also estimates 69 million new roles will emerge, many requiring new skills. Pew Research found that while most Americans expect AI to significantly impact the workforce, few feel personally at risk, highlighting a potential disconnect between perception and reality.

Despite alarm over job displacement, some economists argue that AI will augment rather than eliminate many roles, particularly those involving complex judgment or human interaction. But one thing is clear: the divide between routine, automatable work and roles requiring adaptability is widening, leaving workers and employers scrambling to keep up.

Narrow Pathways

Lisa Countryman-Quiroz, CEO of the San Francisco-based nonprofit Jewish Vocational Service, has spent years helping people without four-year degrees access stable, middle-class careers. Her organization provides job training in sectors like healthcare, skilled trades and technology, with a focus on economic mobility for underrepresented workers. But as AI transforms the labor market, she says even previously reliable pathways into tech are narrowing.

Over the past two years, Jewish Vocational Service has phased out several of its entry-level tech training programs. Roles the nonprofit once emphasized—such as frontline IT support or tech sales—are now increasingly automated.

“The positions we were training for are gone,” Countryman-Quiroz says. “There’s been a real shift in what’s possible.”

She notes that post-pandemic optimism around tech hiring has given way to layoffs, hiring freezes and a growing preference for AI-driven tools. As businesses look to streamline operations, automation is becoming a priority, not just in engineering roles, but across support and administrative functions too.

This shift is especially tough on young workers. Recent college grads already face higher-than-average unemployment, and now they’re competing with laid-off tech employees and federal workers re-entering the labor market. Countryman-Quiroz worries that workers without degrees or formal experience will find it harder to access family-sustaining jobs.

Still, she sees potential in this moment, if business and political leaders act quickly.

“There’s a bright spot here,” she says. “New industries and companies will emerge, but we need to invest in training now to make sure people aren’t left behind as the market shifts.”

Upskilled Labor

Prathma Rastogi, a San Jose–based full-stack software engineer, has been watching the slow creep of automation in her field for years, but says the pace accelerated dramatically in the last 12 months. Tools like GitHub Copilot and ChatGPT began gaining serious traction in engineering teams, assisting with tasks like writing boilerplate code, generating unit tests and even brainstorming fixes during debugging sessions.

“It’s not just hype anymore. AI is actually showing up in how teams work,” Rastogi says.

She agrees with the assessment that entry-level tech roles are the most vulnerable, particularly junior developer positions, saying AI can already handle basic coding tasks and that what’s left to humans is solution design and higher-level thinking.

This shift has changed the expectations of engineers at every level. Rastogi says developers now have to embrace continuous learning, especially in AI-related tools and methodologies. “If you’re not staying curious and learning about AI, you’re falling behind.”

Where a project once required a team of ten, she says automation means it can now be completed with two. That efficiency is appealing to companies, but it also means fewer job openings and greater pressure on existing workers to upskill or shift focus. Rastogi believes the future of work will depend on people strengthening the areas AI can’t replicate: product strategy, ethical decision-making, systems thinking and human-centered design.

She urges employers and policymakers to recognize the importance of investing in the current workforce.

“Companies should prioritize reskilling their people instead of just hiring for AI roles,” she says. “And the government can support that with grants or incentives to help workers stay empowered and not replaced as these technologies evolve.”

Marco Sciorelli, an engineering professional based in San Jose, views artificial intelligence as a natural evolution in the tech industry: one that’s rapidly shifting both how people work and where new opportunities are emerging. While many focus on white-collar job loss, he emphasizes that AI is also fueling demand in less obvious sectors, particularly energy and infrastructure. As more data centers are built to support AI operations, roles for electricians, mechanical contractors and utility technicians are on the rise.

“Someone has to build and power these systems,” he says. “That’s creating work, but also pressure on the grid.”

At the same time, Sciorelli has seen firsthand how companies are using AI to cut labor costs, especially in the wake of COVID-19. In his own workplace, tech support was one of the first departments to be automated. With internal databases already compiled, bots quickly replaced human staff for most routine inquiries.

He also sees generative AI outperforming humans in some areas of software development, particularly in writing code.

“AI doesn’t forget or develop bad code-writing habits,” he says.

While he admits that even he’s questioned his job security, Sciorelli believes workers should focus on adapting. The future, he says, belongs to those who can complement automation with strategic thinking, creativity and skills that can’t be easily replicated by machines.

This mindset is reflected in local initiatives. In San Jose, city government staff recently completed a 10-week AI Upskilling Program, in partnership with San Jose State University, that trains public employees to build AI assistants and work tools. The initiative reportedly saved the city tens of thousands of staff hours and cut consulting costs by around $50,000 per department. This reflects a broader push toward collaborating with humans and AI.

The Human Touch

Across Silicon Valley, educational institutions are launching focused credential programs in AI-related roles. The Silicon Valley Leadership Group, in partnership with Foothill–De Anza Community College District, has rolled out an AI Fellowship Program to develop curricula for emerging careers like prompt engineering, AI ethics and systems integration. UC Santa Cruz Extension also offers U.C.–approved certificate tracks in AI application development and prompt engineering, accessible to current professionals and non‑technical learners alike.

These paths mirror national trends: roles that optimize how AI tools respond are increasingly in demand, sometimes commanding top-tier salaries without requiring traditional tech degrees, according to political reporter Nik Popli. Local experts emphasize that people who can’t be easily automated will hold the most resilient roles moving forward. As tech professionals often put it: adaptability and AI literacy are the keys to remaining competitive and contributing meaningfully in this evolving landscape.

As artificial intelligence continues to evolve, its impact on the labor market is no longer theoretical—it’s structural. From San Jose to the broader Bay Area, both displacement and opportunity are unfolding simultaneously. While automation is reducing demand for certain roles, especially at the entry level, it is also accelerating the creation of new positions and industries that require different skills.

Whether AI ultimately deepens inequality or drives broad-based economic growth depends on how stakeholders respond today. The future of work is being shaped now, and readiness, not reaction, will determine who benefits.

An anonymous Reddit user from San Jose said, “I’ve kinda given up on dating, I just enjoy myself and my hobbies. I work, take care of my folks as they get older. I guess you could call it the MGTOW (Men Going Their Own Way) thing.”

The concept of “men going their own way” isn’t new. While it’s been popularized in recent years thanks to influencers and podcasts, the phenomenon of men rejecting romantic relationships with women dates back to the early 2000s. In 2004, two men using the pseudonyms “Ragnar” and “Meagainstthestate” launched the first recorded MGTOW website, titled Men Going Their Own Way (now defunct). The site laid out an early MGTOW manifesto and encouraged men to reject what they viewed as a gynocentric society in favor of autonomy from women and traditional expectations.

As Men’s Mental Health Month unfolded in June, conversations around men’s emotional wellbeing began circulating on social media. One of the most viral topics is Red Pill ideology—a broad term for misogynistic, anti-feminist online subcultures. While much of the backlash comes from feminist voices condemning the harm these spaces inflict on women, criminologist researchers like Sarah Daly are now highlighting a less examined perspective: What draws men into these communities in the first place. Daly argues that understanding the underlying feelings of rejection, loneliness and emotional neglect that attract men to these groups is crucial for addressing the deeper issues fueling the ideology’s growing influence.

“When I first started I thought this was just a bunch of men being gross online. It was easy to disregard them. But when you really talk to them one on one, they share painful experiences,” Daly said.

The term “Red Pilled” in this context is borrowed from the movie The Matrix and centers around the belief that society lies to men about gender, power and relationships, and that “taking the red pill” reveals the “truth.” Some of the major Red Pill factions, as identified by Daly and other researchers, include Men Going Their Own Way (MGTOW); Pick-Up Artists (PUAs), who focus on strategies to manipulate women in romantic contexts; Men’s Rights Activists (MRAs), who concentrate on legal and social issues they view as discriminatory against men; and Incels, or “involuntarily celibate” men who feel unable to find romantic or sexual partners.

Red Pill communities have steadily migrated across platforms—from Reddit to YouTube, TikTok and now private Discord servers. Daly says this shift helps them evade moderation and reach wider, younger audiences through algorithm-driven feeds. Media scholars Alice Marwick and Rebecca Lewis identified YouTube as a “radicalization pipeline” in a 2017 Data & Society report. A 2021 Violence & Gender study tied Red Pill content to misogyny, isolation and, at times, real-world violence. Daly warns Discord’s encryption complicates intervention.

The paradox, Daly says, is that while these online spaces often foster toxicity, they can also provide a place of comfort for Red Pilled men, as they realize that they are not alone.

Locally, the Red Pill conversation has been heating up in recent years as well. In March 2024, UC Berkeley computer science professor Jonathan Shewchuk faced widespread criticism after advising a student on the EdStem platform to “get out of the Bay Area” if they wanted to find a girlfriend. He claimed that “almost everywhere else on the planet is better for that” and that students would be “shocked by the stark differences in behavior of women in places where women are plentiful versus their behavior within artillery distance of San Jose and San Francisco.” His comments were deemed inappropriate and misogynistic by students and faculty alike.

His remarks drew a variety of responses, including a comment with which hundreds of Redditors agreed: “Red pill comments in this sub are why guys struggle. Failure to acknowledge self sabotage. Can’t blame gender ratios for everything as that is not the only thing or main thing holding you back.” At the same time, many male-identifying anonymous users were in agreement with the professor, with one saying, “Guy is getting scolded for honesty. Lol classic Bay Area.” And another, u/trumpet88 saying, “This is such a mild (and commonly understood) take. The backlash is insane.”

Beyond straining relationships with the opposite sex, the rise of Red Pill ideology has also fractured friendships and social circles. A San Jose-based Reddit user, u/enterthedragonball, shared a post describing the painful decision to cut off a longtime friend after he began expressing Red Pill rhetoric.

“I boiled it down to pure stupidity, lack of education, and simply too much screen time,” the user said.

Daly began studying incels in 2019, shortly after completing her doctorate dissertation on mass shootings. As an expert in mass violence, gender and online communities, she shifted her focus when her initial research reached a dead end. Over the next four years, Daly conducted in-depth interviews with incels to better understand their experiences. In 2022, she was invited by Palo Alto University to co-lead a “Primer on Incels” workshop, bringing together researchers and mental health professionals to develop strategies for addressing incel-related issues.

“I didn’t want my research to just die in the halls of academia,” Daly said. “There’s a serious mental health component to this.”

When she first embarked on her area of study, Daly found the expected common theme: a general hatred of women. But a finding that surprised her was the chances of them actually turning violent. According to a 2022 study co-authored by Daly and others, approximately 5% of individuals identifying as incels or within related online subcultures are considered at higher risk of engaging in real-world violence. This study, conducted by researchers at Swansea University and the University of Texas at Austin, surveyed 561 men in the U.K. and the U.S. who self-identified as incels.

“There’s an assumption that they will all turn violent,” Daly said. “But in my research I’ve found that they’re more likely to harm themselves.”

According to Daly’s UT Austin study surveying 561 self-identified incels, approximately 75% met the criteria for moderate to severe depression, while 45% experienced severe anxiety. Furthermore, about 25% of participants scored at a level suggesting a likely diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder, a rate substantially higher than the general population’s prevalence of around 1%. Daly argues that social differences can increase an incel’s risk of being bullied, often triggering deeper social withdrawal and fueling a vicious cycle of isolation.

“Many have a lifetime of bullying and mistreatment,” Daly said. “I think individual therapy is fantastic to uncover the roots of some of this trauma.”

San Jose resident Jason Pham says he is a testimony that therapy works. He shared that, like many young men, he once fell down the Red Pill rabbit hole.

“It’s a defensive shield for people who don’t want to do the hard work of looking inward,” he said.

For a long time, he believed his resentment was justified. It wasn’t until he committed to consistent therapy, reading and journaling that his mindset began to shift.

“You can’t shortcut healing,” Pham said. “The growth has to come from within.”

Teslas were once a status symbol—fast, sleek and fully electric, drawing in drivers eager for a futuristic ride. Now, with the CEO tied to a polarizing president and mired in political controversy of his own, the once-formidable tech empire is showing signs of strain.

With the commander-in-chief firmly in his corner, Musk is sparing no effort to save his brand, which has seen a 45% plummet in European sales since the beginning of the year, according to Business Insider. On March 12, Musk appeared with Trump on the White House South Lawn for what may be one of the most conspicuous promotional stunts by a senior government official. The two stood together as the president proudly declared his intent to purchase a Tesla Model S, the brand-new, glossy red vehicle gleaming in the sunlight behind them.

Meanwhile, calls to boycott Tesla are reverberating throughout the Bay Area, home to the company’s flagship Fremont factory, as protests in the East Bay have surged from a few to over three hundred strong. Owners who bought when it was “cool,” grapple with shame and regret now that their ride of choice has negative associations.

“He was always crazy, I never liked the guy,” said Bikramjit Gill, a Fremont-based owner of a Tesla Model Y.

Gill originally bought the Tesla for his wife when their old car broke down. She had always dreamed of owning a “small SUV,” and with gas prices soaring, the idea of switching to electric intrigued them. In March of 2022, he bought her the Tesla, and she immediately fell in love with it.

By the end of that year, Gill had acquired a back injury that made driving painful. The seats in his Prius offered little support, so he started driving the Tesla. The combination of comfort and eco-conscious driving had him sold. But his honeymoon period with the car has since ended. Now, if he were to buy another luxury vehicle, he says he’d be looking at other brands.

“I prefer Mercedes now,” Gill said, laughing.

Francisco Padorla, a self-proclaimed “die-hard car guy,” was so captivated by Tesla that he bought one in 2020 and another just two years later. Initially, the brand wasn’t even on his radar, as he had always favored European cars over American ones. But as the buzz around Tesla grew louder, he couldn’t resist and eventually gave in.

“It checked all my boxes,” Padorla said.

Padorla enjoys Tesla’s infotainment system, short-person-friendly driver’s seat, and the convenience of charging. His home charging station lets him time his vehicle’s charge to coincide with off-peak hours, usually around midnight, saving on electricity costs. While he’s not yet ready to completely part with his car, he copes with the growing controversy by slapping on “I bought this before Elon went crazy” stickers.

“I’d buy another electric car, but after all the Musk stuff, definitely not Tesla,” Padorla said. “Plus, everyone has one now.”

Since toddlerhood, Gabriella Bibb has attended the California School for the Deaf (CSD) in Fremont, a longstanding haven for local deaf children. Now, as a high school senior, she fears the collapse of the institution, as underfunding drives away teachers and staff, and those who remain struggle to make ends meet.

“I don’t know how I would be able to live life without my second home,” she said.

Staff continue to make extraordinary sacrifices to keep serving students. Some live out of their cars, while others endure grueling daily commutes of more than 100 miles from more affordable cities. But these measures are not sustainable.

After decades of unsuccessful lobbying, CSD staff and families can see the end on the horizon. Without state intervention, Northern California’s only Deaf school may be forced to close its doors, leaving hundreds of deaf students without a culturally informed learning community.

“Our buildings are falling apart, and we can’t afford rent,” said Aselefech Tiku, a CSD high school counselor who lives in her car. “If we can’t keep this school open, where will the students go?”

With no current plan for closure, CSD’s doors should remain open for the foreseeable future. But with the financial issues and subsequent staffing shortages, the question is, for how long?

Since 1860, CSD has been a leader in bilingual education, offering deaf students language-rich opportunities in both English and ASL. Theophilus Hope D’Estrella, born in 1851, was among the first students at CSD and later became the first deaf student to attend the University of California, Berkeley. Over a century later, the school has become a revered model in the Deaf education community, leading trainings at Deaf schools across the country and earning distinction as the only Deaf school ranked by U.S. News & World Report.

Despite proving itself on the national stage, the school has pushed for staff pay increases since the ’70s. A first-year teacher’s salary after taxes at CSD sits at around $2,750 a month, compared to the state average of just over $4,000 a month, according to the California Department of Education. The CSD community believes that the school’s neglect is rooted in audism: Discrimination or prejudice against people who are deaf or hard of hearing.

Will Fertman believes in the mission of CSD, and that’s why he drives his 6-year-old son there from Berkeley every weekday. But he and other parents are quickly losing patience as their children continue to bear the effects of understaffing while their emails to the superintendent’s office go unanswered.

“Tony Thurmond [the State Superintendent of Public Instruction] clearly thinks my children are nothing, and will spend nothing on them,” Fertman said.

Last year, Fertman’s son was diagnosed with a hand-strength deficiency and referred to an occupational therapist (OT). Fertman picked up his kindergarten-age student from school early on a weekly basis so the child could see an OT in his home district. Unfortunately, the only available ASL interpreter served another deaf student at the school at the time, and was pulled from that student in order to serve Fertman’s son.

Stories of deaf students missing out on critical services in mainstream schools are common across the country. The Individuals with Disabilities Act, enacted in 1975, proposed that the federal government would cover up to 40% of services for students with disabilities. But according to the Special Needs Alliance, federal funding only covers just under 15% of these costs, creating a shortage in the billions of dollars.

“It’s a bigotry problem,” Fertman said, asserting that CSD teacher wages do not adequately reflect the specialized bilingual skills they bring to the role.

In a desperate letter to Superintendent Thurmond, CSD parent John Pong called the school a lifeline for his family. Pong, a hearing father, navigated the learning curve of caring for a deaf child. Without CSD, he says his son could have missed out on critical early language learning opportunities. While grateful that his son thrives with teachers who understand him, he’s disheartened by the low pay those teachers receive for their invaluable work.

“My heart goes out to them. They’re working so hard to give these kids a shot,” Pong said.

Pong says the frequent shuffling of staff caused by high turnover disrupts his son’s second-grade education. To fill the gaps during severe staffing shortages, he hires a speech therapist, a privilege he acknowledges many families cannot afford. While he considers himself fortunate to be able to provide this extra support, it requires significant expense not covered by insurance.

Despite these challenges, Pong’s son says he enjoys being a part of CSD. He loves his teachers, the close-knit community he’s found and the pride he feels as an “Eagle.” Pong, however, dreads the thought of one day having to tell his son that his beloved school is closing.

“I don’t want to think about telling my kid that,” Pong said. “We have immersion programs in other languages, why can’t the state support ASL?”

Concerned CSD mother Haruna Matsumoto has developed a profound appreciation for Deaf education. She grew up deaf in Japan and attended a mainstream school, where Japanese Sign Language was not taught and no interpreters were available. With no way to absorb the material during critical instruction time, the young Matsumoto picked up what she could solely by reading her textbooks.

“I felt isolated, but I just had to accept it,” she said.

She later moved to Fremont, where she first heard about the Deaf school and also met her husband, a CSD alumni and counselor. Impressed by the school’s reputation, the Matsumotos swore to themselves they would send their child there if they ended up being deaf. When their daughter was born deaf, they felt lucky to be able to send her to a school that catered to her needs.

“I wanted to give her access to an experience I never got as a kid,” Haruna said.

While uncertain about the future of her daughter’s school, Matsumoto is certain about one thing: Her daughter must continue receiving a Deaf education. Reflecting on her experience as the only deaf child in a hearing school, she is determined to keep her child in a non-mainstream educational setting.

“I’m living proof that it doesn’t work,” she said.

Research backs the concerned mother’s sentiments. According to the National Association of the Deaf, 70% of deaf children lack language access. A combination of being born to hearing parents, which is the case for over 90% of deaf children, and inadequate supportive services in mainstream schools means many deaf youth fall behind in language development.

Impact of Early ASL Exposure

Naomi Caselli, a Boston University associate professor of Deaf education, researches the impact of early exposure to ASL, and says there’s a window in the first few years of life where access to language is most critical.

“If we don’t get access to language during that critical period, it wreaks havoc,” Caselli said.

In July, Caselli conducted an empirical study on CSD learning outcomes. She sought to find disparities in educational achievement between deaf children with deaf caregivers, who are more likely to be “linguistically enriched,” and deaf children with hearing/non-signing parents, who are considered to be at high risk for language deprivation.

Her hypothesis was that if early immersion in a bilingual—ASL and English—education environment promotes ASL proficiency among deaf students with hearing caregivers, their ASL scores should overlap entirely with deaf children who have deaf caregivers.

Comparing them against a Reference Group of deaf students with deaf caregivers, Caselli analyzed ASL test scores of 20 “Early Entry” students, defined as students who entered CSD by age three, and 406 “Late Entry” ones who enrolled after that age. While students in the Early Entry category began with lower ASL scores than their peers in the Reference Group, their scores completely overlapped by around fourth grade, and the overlap persisted through high school. Conversely, Late Entry students on average scored much lower than their Early Entry peers, a disadvantage that persisted into high school.

The same disparities were found when testing both groups of students in math, reading, science and writing, showing that early access to English-ASL bilingual education was linked to not only better acquisition of language, but better academic outcomes overall. In recent years, disability advocacy groups like the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) have pushed back on special schools, believing mainstream integration to be more inclusive than segregation.

Caselli argues that while this is often true for students with other conditions, it has the opposite effect for deaf students, leaving them isolated as their condition directly impacts communication. For deaf students, inclusion means having peers one can socialize with, and Deaf schools offer just that.

“We best learn language in community with our peers,” Caselli said. “That’s where the magic happens.”

In Caselli’s study, 95% of students were considered “Late Entry” into CSD, which she said suggests that parents send their students there as a last-ditch effort when the mainstream approach is not working. Deaf schools as a last resort could be due to the audist stigma that they provide an inferior education, a myth CSD’s ASL teacher, Ty Kovacs, set out to squash.

While ongoing staffing shortages could have serious implications for the quality of education at CSD, Kovacs remains a beacon of hope. For more than a decade he has served on the front lines, advocating for the school through the Service Employees International Union (SEIU Local 1000). With lifelong ties to CSD, beginning as a student, he returned to CSD for his first role as a counselor, and has fought for better wages ever since.

“The situation has only worsened,” Kovacs said, reflecting on his long history of organizing.

With Kovacs as their steward, the school makes small strides in improving the state of Deaf education. In 2000 he played a role on the Save Our School committee, where he presented the same cost-of-living concerns they face today to state officials. In November, Gov. Gavin Newsom adopted a proposal to increase CSD’s visibility by allowing for the installation of highway signs.

But with no real progress on wage negotiations, Kovacs continues to explore new potential ways forward, including a relocation of the campus to a cheaper city, housing assistance for staff and families, and staff property tax waivers. No plan is set in stone yet, but Kovacs is adamant about hosting community gatherings for CSD staff, parents and alumni to weigh in on next steps.

With just three to five years before he retires, Kovacs is turning up the heat as he demands action from senators, assembly members and other local leaders. Looking back, he’s saddened to know the school could be on a different trajectory if the state had responded to their initial calls 30 years ago. But the same resiliency that carried him through decades of advocacy hasn’t faded yet. And so, he continues to fight.

“I just want to retire knowing that CSD will be okay,” he said.

State Vows Support

California State Superintendent of Public Instruction Tony Thurmond responded with a statement on Jan. 22 after this story was published in Tri-City Voice on Jan. 21. Thurmond vowed to continue working to find solutions to the school’s financial challenges.

“We are committed to doing anything that we can to help this school,” Thurmond said. “Great staff works here, and we’re grateful for them. We have great students, great families. There’s no question that the staff deserve to be paid more. We are continually looking for ways to find the money to support staff, and we are committed to that.”

Thurmond said school funding is determined by the Department of Finance and the state budget, with little influence from the California Department of Education, but that that will not stop him from pushing for change. Last year, he sponsored SB 1316 to boost staff salaries at a Fremont school, but it wasn’t signed due to the state deficit. Since then, he says he has engaged with lawmakers, state officials and parents to find solutions. 

“It is a decades-long challenge, and it’s reaching a critical point,” he said. “But in spite of that, we’re not going to let this school close.”

Muggy weather on a weekday afternoon in Fremont can’t keep residents from enjoying their city. Under an oppressive sun, Umesh Velayudhan strolls slowly down a path at the popular Centerville Community Park. For him, it’s no surprise that Fremont has topped the list of “America’s Happiest Cities” for the fifth consecutive year.

“It’s very nice,” Velayudhan says. “I love the community here.”

Each year, personal finance company Wallethub conducts a study comparing quality of life in cities across America. According to company analyst Cassandra Happe, the rankings published in February were determined by evaluating 182 of the country’s largest cities based on “indicators of happiness” spanning three categories: emotional and physical wellbeing, income and employment, and community and environment. 

Pooling from sources like the U.S. Census Bureau and Bureau of Labor Statistics, Wallethub weighs metrics like depression rates, income growth, adequate sleep rates, sports participation and community engagement to form a comprehensive report. With the most recent report, Fremont’s five-year winning streak has the Bay Area buzzing.

“With our vibrant community, exceptional quality of life and abundant opportunities, Fremont has earned its reputation as a beacon of happiness and wellbeing,” Fremont Mayor Lily Mei says.

But Fremont is a happy city in a country with declining happiness. The UN’s Sustainable Development Solutions Network ranked America 23rd on a list of the world’s 25 happiest countries, citing loneliness and concerns about political leadership as contributors to people’s dissatisfaction.

“The city actively promotes health and wellness by providing access to top-notch healthcare facilities, promoting healthy lifestyles and investing in recreational spaces,” Mei says.

Golden State Rules

Seemingly, there’s something about living in the Golden State that makes people happier than most. Fremont shares the spotlight with three other California cities in the top 10 (San Jose, 3rd place, Irvine, 5th place, and San Francisco, 7th place). The other two Bay Area cities on the list made the top 30 (Oakland, 26th, and Santa Rosa, 29th). A total of 29 out of 182 cities on the list are in California, making it the state with the most cities to be ranked. The unhappiest city is Detroit, Michigan.

A statistical snapshot provides insight into Fremont’s appeal. The South Bay suburb (average July 1, 2024 home price, according to Zillow: $1.6 million) soars in multiple categories, ranking first in lowest divorce rates and third in lowest depression rates among the cities studied. Additionally, Wallethub reports that Fremont boasts the highest share of households with an income that exceeds $75,000, one of the main data points that pushed the city over its runner-up contender, Overland Park, Kansas. But Happe emphasizes that money isn’t the main factor that contributes to satisfaction, citing the United States’ place at 15th in the World Happiness Report despite being amongst the richest countries. Rather, Happe pointed to the city’s mental health data and ample parkland per capita.

“These elements create a positive environment that fosters well-being beyond financial stability.”

The new rankings come as Fremont recently also topped the list on Wallethub’s “25 Best Places to Raise a Family” list. Happe explains those rankings were particularly difficult to determine, as affordable cost of living must be balanced with factors like educational opportunities and safety.

Origin Story

Fremont sits on Ohlone land, one of the Bay Area’s main Indigenous tribes. According to the municipal website, Spanish settlers first arrived in 1797, establishing Mission San Jose. In 1846, American explorer John Charles Fremont, the city’s namesake, mapped out a trail through Mission Pass, providing American settlers access to the South Eastern Bay Area.

Fremont was a brilliant and daring explorer whose missions charted America’s expansion into the western states. He opposed slavery; during a short stint as a U.S. cabinet secretary, he issued a short-lived emancipation order which some historians believe inspired President Lincoln’s emancipation proclamation. Those historic acts would not assure Fremont naming rights by contemporary standards, however, as he was also ruthless in battles against Native Americans, leading heavily armed battalions to slaughter Indigenous resisters to America’s westward expansion.

Settlers continued to establish townships in the early 17th and 18th centuries, and by 1956, under the supervision of councilmember Wally Pond, five townships—Centerville, Mission San Jose, Niles, Irvington and Warm Springs—together joined to form the official city of Fremont.

Today, Fremont is known as one of the Bay Area’s tech hubs. From 1984 to 1992, it was the site of a plant established by Steve Jobs to manufacture early Macintosh computers. By 1999, more than 700 high-tech companies had opened headquarters and production facilities in the city. 

In 2010, Tesla established a Fremont manufacturing plant at a former General Motors plant, built in 1962, which later became home to the Toyota-GM co-venture NUMMI. Tesla is now the city’s largest manufacturer and employer.

In line with their hosting of the eco-friendly automobile brand, Fremont has been a star on the environmental stage in other ways. The city came in 4th on Wallethub’s 2022 “Greenest Cities in America” list, and in 2017 had hit a milestone of reducing greenhouse gas emissions by 25%. Some other honorable Wallethub rankings Fremont has earned are #4 in Best Cities for Women in 2023 and #14 in Healthiest Cities in 2021.

Building Community

Riding out the heat wave on his bicycle near the Fremont BART station, former Oakland resident William Davenport says he moved to Fremont to escape the crime. In 2020, a report found Fremont’s crime per 100,000 residents was 168.7, lagging significantly behind Oakland’s rates of 691.6. The same report from City Data found Fremont to have one of the lowest crime rates for cities its size in the Bay Area.

“It feels safe, like home away from home,” Davenport says.

But moving south has presented challenges. Despite a sense of community being one of the factors that helped Fremont top the list, Davenport says that’s the one aspect he feels is lacking. As an African American man, he says he struggles to find the community he found in Oakland. City Data reports Oakland’s Black population is 20%, while Fremont’s is just 2.3%. So while he says he is generally happy, he still still wants more from the city.

“It’s a tight-knit community but hard to find people who look like me,” Davenport says.

Uber driver Sayed Zaida has been in Fremont for six years and says he is happy there. Originally from Lahore, Pakistan, he enjoys the shift to a less-polluted city. He also appreciates the large South Asian community and the businesses that come from it. The Asian population in Fremont is 63%, according to City Data.

“As a South Asian person I have a lot of food options here, a good place for our community,” Zaida says.

Like Davenport, Zaida mentions his gripes with the city. He is concerned about the ever-growing homeless population, a phenomenon that’s rippled through the Bay Area. According to the city’s administration, Fremont’s homeless population increased by 69% from 2019 to 2022. In response, the city launched a Homeless Response Plan that includes strategies to prevent homelessness, connect people to shelter and mitigate the impact of homelessness on the community.

Those who crave a bustling big-city feel may also not feel as happy in Fremont. In a post on the city’s subreddit, a now-deleted user claims they are leaving Fremont, calling it “boring, lame, and pointless.” With a population of 225,000, it’s no dwarf city, but “lack of things to do” has been a common sentiment, especially among younger residents.

Report Card

In tandem with the “Happiest City” ranking this year is another Wallethub honorable mention for the city. In March, Fremont topped Wallethub’s list of “Best Places to Raise a Family.” One of the city’s strengths that continues to attract people is its highly ranked school system. 2023 Niche rankings show that Fremont Unified School District (FUSD) scored 2nd out of 17 for “Districts with the Best Teachers in Alameda County,” 18th out of 98 for “Districts with the Best Teachers in the San Francisco Bay Area,” 78th out of 680 for “Districts with the Best Teachers in California,” and 729th out of 11,466 for “Districts with the Best Teachers in America.” Some other notable rankings included “Best School Districts in America” and “Best School Districts in California,” both earning the school slots in the 85th percentile.

With rankings like these, it’s unsurprising that the youth are thriving. Reading and math proficiency rates soar at 77% and 69% respectively, and the average ACT composite score is 32. For comparison, the state average ACT score is 26.5, and English and math proficiency rates are respectively 47% and 33%. FUSD also boasts a 92% graduation rate, compared to the state’s rate of 84.7%.

FUSD outgoing superintendent CJ Cammack attributes this success to the city’s sense of community, saying parents, teachers and staff all work together to ensure academic success of their students. The district provides resources like family engagement workshops and multicultural events to support students and families as they navigate their children’s educational journey.

“The Fremont community has a strong tradition of supporting our schools and students, and our district’s consistent record of fostering student success and academic achievement is part of the reason families choose to live in Fremont,” Cammack says.

Recipe for Success

Over on Washington Boulevard, Patty Salas-Maciel brings a slice of Mexico to the city. Cantaritos Restaurant and Bar is a popular Mexican cuisine restaurant Maciel started with her husband nine years ago. The pair took over the space when the previous owner developed Lyme’s Disease, refinancing their home to be able to afford the cost. They still face some of the hefty financial costs of doing business in Fremont, but to them, it’s worth it.

“I love the community, we have a large clientele of people who say this space feels like home,” Maciel says.

According to USA.com data, Fremont’s Hispanic population is around 14%, with 78% of them Mexican. Maciel said one of the joys she gets to experience is people from diverse backgrounds enjoying her food. To her, it’s a reminder of the city’s diversity and intercultural appreciation.

“I think of Fremont as a melting pot,” Maciel says. “I remember when we first started, I got surprised when other races were coming in and I was like ‘wow they like Mexican food.’”

Just like the community has poured into her business, Maciel says she values making customers feel welcome and at home. Food at Cantaritos is made fresh and from scratch; tomatoes and chilis are roasted in-house, and nothing comes frozen.

“People tell me it reminds them of their grandma’s,” Maciel says.

Fridays and Saturdays are their busiest days, and people often have to call in for reservations to get their Mexican culinary fix. Sometimes, she is still in awe of the continuous support she’s received from the community and the fandom she has built. She’s glad she can be a part of Fremont’s happiness by contributing authentic, hearty Mexican dinners.

“Sometimes me and my kids look around, like, ‘Is this our place?’” Maciel says. “It’s shocking, we have so much support and it feels good.”

One of the most evident displays of happiness in the city can be found in its parks. The largest park, 450=plus-acre Central Park, offers expansive views of Lake Elizabeth, along with facilities for picnics, parties and recreational activities.

Summer days can bring oppressive heat, but evenings are much cooler as the sun sets behind the Mission Peak Hills. By 6pm, the park is bustling, with cyclists and rollerbladers cruising down the winding pathways. Whether in a stroller or using a walking cane, everyone seems to find joy as they bask in all the park has to offer.

Ohlone College student Elizabeth Prewitt sits on a bench overlooking Lake Elizabeth as she embraces her dog seated beside her. Prewitt acknowledges some of the city’s challenges, namely the homelessness crisis that many residents say is getting worse.

“Maybe it’s the happiest for the people who can afford it,” Prewitt says.

Still, Prewitt appreciates where Fremont has excelled. According to a city report, homelessness is now down 21% from 2022, numbers that show the city is ahead of others in Alameda County. As a young person she admits that the suburban atmosphere can feel “sleepy” at times. But it’s days by the lake with her dog that remind her of what the city has to offer: a melting pot of people and cultures enjoying life in a very happy city.

Happy Stance

Retiring publisher asks Metro to continue Fremont’s local weekly 

When it comes to Fremont’s reputation as America’s happiest city, William Marshak can provide  perspective.

When Marshak and his wife, Sharon, who is originally from Milpitas, relocated to the city, the couple struggled to find activities. Together, the two founded a monthly newsletter that featured upcoming events.

By 2002, that modest newsletter had blossomed into what is now the weekly Tri-City Voice. 

Recently, the Marshaks made plans to retire while also ensuring a future for the broadsheet newspaper. In June, their company, What’s Happening Inc. (WHI), joined forces with the San Jose-based Weeklys publishing group, of which Metro is the flagship.

Marshak says people enjoy the paper’s commitment to shining a positive light on the city, as opposed to bogging down readers with only crime stories. “People love Tri-City Voice. It’s become a big part of the community and we are very proud of that,” Marshak said.

The paper also serves the nearby cities of Hayward, Newark, Union City, Milpitas and Sunol, but the central focus remains on Fremont.

One of the key aspects of the city that the paper highlights is its diversity, which Marshak believes contributes to its happiness. According to Fremont’s government website, just under 50% of residents are foreign born and 62.9% speak a language other than English at home. With over half of residents being from various Asian countries and pockets of Latin, Black and Middle Eastern communities, the city offers a mosaic of cultural experiences ranging from authentic ethnic eats to places of worship.

Marshak said one of his philosophies when starting Tri-City Voice was to explore this diversity and help people see it as an opportunity to celebrate differences. He believes that the key to diffusing animosity between communities is to help them see the beauty of other cultures. Tri-City Voice won the “Media of the Year” award by the Indo-American Community Federation, as well as recognition from Princeton University Library for its coverage on African-American communities.

“We wanted to make sure people in our community could see each other as people: to see that maybe someone dressed differently or spoke a different language, but not to be afraid of that,” he said.

As he approached retirement last week, Marshak grappled with the bittersweet feelings of leaving Fremont to live with his family in Idaho. The financial limitations of retiree life force him to reconsider living in Fremont; a Payscale report finds that the cost of living there is 77% higher than the national average. As sad as he is to depart from America’s Happiest City, he is grateful for the opportunity he had to work there and call it home.

“If my kids were here, I would definitely be staying,” he says.