Editorials

In the last couple of weeks I’ve gotten forceful reminders of the finite nature of our life on earth, and probably of our corporeal existence in the universe. Three longtime friends died, and there was a memorial gathering for a fourth. All of them in their own way did their best to carry out what I understand from my Jewish friends to be our duty here, as documented by the invaluable Wikipedia: Tikkun olam (Hebrew: תיקון עולם or תקון ע. ולם‎‎) (literally, "repair of the world). Of course, as Wikipedia goes on to say, there are Jewish scholars who would dispute that interpretation of the traditional phase, but whatever the authority, repairing the world is a worthy goal.

Ben Bagdikian, Don Jelinek, Martha Nicoloff, Michael Pachovas: ¡Presente! 

Ben Bagdikian’s major achievements have been chronicled in this space several times, including at the time he died in March, as well as innumerable times in the national and international media. But a memorial for him last Saturday revealed a side of Ben which was not so well known, his life as a family member, neighbor and friend. As well as being a devoted husband for the last several decades, he was a beloved uncle, a proud father, and an honorary grandfather to a couple of generations in Berkeley and beyond. Yes, Dan Ellsberg spoke, recalling the glory days when he and Ben engineered the publication of the Pentagon papers, and colleagues remembered Ben’s time as dean of U.C.’s journalism school, but his garden, especially his flowers and tomato plants, got a good share of praise as well. 

Which brings to mind another recipe for how to live, from Voltaire, Candide’s response to philosophical musings about the purpose of life:“Cela est bien, repondit Candide, mais il faut cultiver notre jardin.”(That’s fine, answered Candide, but it’s necessary to cultivate our garden.) 

Again, scholars differ about exactly what Voltaire meant by that, but the surface meaning seems obvious to me: theory alone doesn’t cut it, you need to do stuff too. In a variety of ways, the three friends lost in the last couple of weeks acted on what they thought needed to be done in our world to make it a better place. 

Formal obituaries for Don Jelinek and Martha Nicoloff, written as is the Planet custom by family members, were in last week’s issue, so the facts of their lives have been recorded for posterity. But their place in the universe needs to be noted too. 

Don took the whole darn USA, warts and all, as his chosen field of influence. He started out as a fancy lawyer, in a job that suited a smart graduate of the fabled Bronx High School of Science, but he got sucked into the the civil rights movement and never looked back to Wall Street. Notable groups, major and minor, that he served as an attorney: the Attica prison rebellion, the Native American occupancy of Alcatraz, the Berkeley flea market vendors, and last but not least the people of Berkeley as a city councilmember. He saw the big picture in all of these endeavors, and he used his considerable legal skill to make sure that the right thing happened in all cases. 

Martha Nicoloff cared about what happened in the world and in the nation, but her special focus was closer in. In the circles I move in, she was most known for being the founding mother of Berkeley’s Neighborhood Preservation Ordinance. She may have coined the phrase “Cash Register Multiples” to denote the shoddily built apartment buildings which threatened to replace Berkeley’s sturdy, historic and often brown-shingled housing stock in the late 60s and early 70s. Most of these constructs, the ones that survived, are earthquake-hazardous soft-story buildings with open garages on the ground floor. 

The initiative that Martha backed saved hundreds of the better-built older buildings from demolition by speculators. They are still in active use today, often as charming rent-controlled apartments in the campus area, while the Cash Register Multiples are fast decaying. In many other ways she was an active participant in the life of Berkeley, and especially in her neighborhood. 

Michael Pachovas was unique. Those of you who have been around here for a while might remember him when he lived up near Telegraph, a larger-than-life guy in a very big wheelchair frequently seen tooling around downtown with a large and colorful macaw on his shoulder, or sometimes one on each shoulder. 

He came with a well-developed social conscience and a taste for risk. This is how he became a quadriplegic wheelchair user—as a Peace Corps volunteer in Africa, he dove into shallow waters and broke his neck. His salvation narrative of being airlifted out in a diplomatic plane was dramatic, and usually presented as a triumph over insurmountable odds, which it was. Some would have made it a sadder tale, but not Michael—he was a winner all the way, just ask him. 

Before I met him, he’d been one of the founding members of the disability rights movement which started right here in Berkeley when he was a U.C. student. Originally all of the students in wheelchairs were housed together in the old student health service hospital, but by the time we met he had moved into his own ground floor apartment in a brown shingle house owned by the Presbyterian Church. 

In 1994 we had both jumped indignantly into “The Campaign to Ban the Poor Laws”, Berkeley Measures N & O, the first of a dismal succession of attempts by Tom Bates and others to ban the visibly needy from our streets, which is still going on. Not long after that (we stopped them that time), Michael faced eviction himself, as his churchly landlords prepared to tear down his brown shingle to further their expansion plans. 

That one was stopped by landmarking the building as, among other things, an early historic site of the meetings which led to the Americans with Disabilities Act. In furtherance of this goal, Michael persuaded Councilmember Maudelle Shirek to appoint me to the Berkeley Landmarks Preservation Commission, where I served for almost eight years. Michael had a knack for sucking his friends into his causes. 

When he was again evicted from a different apartment and hoped to finally get into one of Berkeley’s very few public apartments for low income disabled tenants, there was a gap of a week or so between eviction and a new tenancy. He rented a U-haul truck and recruited a bunch of buddies to fill it with his many possessions until a new place opened up. Creative problem-solving! 

Another memorable adventure was the time I watched him forcefully instruct the sniffy proprietor of an unjustifiably pretentious North Shattuck café that a tropical bird could be a service animal, within the meaning of the state law which allowed such creatures to go into restaurants. In fact, his noisy macaws were excellent protection for a guy who liked to roar around town at all hours—they emitted terrifying screeches at anyone who threatened him. 

He had a long fight with the U.S. government, because according to their actuarial information he wasn’t supposed to live past age 60, so his federal stipend based on his Peace Corps service was scheduled to stop then. Eventually he won, and somehow turned that victory into his dream, a specially equipped van which he could drive with the one arm which still kind of worked. 

Now, reader, Michael Pachovas, finally well-equipped and ready to roll, drove that sucker to casinos all over the West for close to a decade, where, to hear him tell it, he made a nice living as a poker shark. No one could believe that this big old guy in a wheelchair was serious competition. 

These are only a few of a long series of Michael Pachovas tales. Friends have been calling with outrageous episodes ever since they heard of his death, which they promise to write up for the Planet. I’m looking forward to one which seems to involve rafting on a wild river with some blind co-conspirators as a form of protest—I can’t imagine the plot. 

Per Michael’s will, his sister Cynthia is finding a loving home for the macaws. A family-written obituary is in progress, and a community celebration of his life is being discussed. 

And he did beat the game in the end. Yes, he died on Monday, suffering at the last from many of the ailments which might afflict any of us in our old age, and from worse ones caused by two-score years in a wheelchair. But the triumphant point, one last victory against all odds, is that he did succeed in reaching his old age, making mockery of the statistics which had him dead and buried at 60. Michael died a winner. 

We’re poorer for losing him, but richer for knowing him. He repaired the world, for sure—and also made our corner of it a lot more fun.