It was a beautiful spring morning in Coloma at the South Fork of the American River, where I met Jonathan Burgess, descendent of Black Pioneers in California. An hour earlier, enjoying my breakfast coffee and pastries, I watched a family of deer cross a meadow on my Bed and Breakfast's property. I heard creeks gurgle and smelled moist dirt coming from the woods around me.

The whole scenery with lilies of the valley and blackberry bushes blooming next to lush grass reminded me of the region where I grew up. No wonder, I thought, that a settler who traveled west from the border of Southern Germany and Switzerland called this area New Helvetia. John Sutter is still a celebrated name in his hometown of Kandern and all around Sacramento for building a fort and for his role as a pioneer in fulfilling the American Dream. Before my visit to Coloma, I had not heard that Sutter built his fortunes on the exploitation and killings of Indigenous people. And learning more about this seldomly told part of the Wild West was only one reason why taking in the views, the smells, and the sounds of the lovely scenery in front of me left a bitter aftertaste.

There are observatories on the ground gathering data from our neighboring galaxies, and we just got a glimpse of stunning images the James Webb Space Telescope sent from space to NASA. But: there is only one observatory on board a vintage 70s Jumbo-Jet. A flying Boeing 747 SP with a gigantic hole in its fuselage—SOFIA, short for Stratospheric Observatory For Infrared Astronomy. The program might come to an early end this year, which made me even happier to get one of the rare SOFIA boarding passes.

The words in the jury's comment that made me most happy were "with lots of heart".

I had hoped to show heart in the radio story that I wrote about high school students: children of immigrants who graduated five months after Donald Trump's inauguration. I followed them from June to Christmas of 2017. We had a text message group. The senior from Honduras created it with a title that summed up their spirits perfectly: "cool kidz".

I tasted birria for the first time in one of their homes, with a spoon directly from a big pot on the stove. I sat between stacks of tires in a car shop where another one was looking for a job, and on a wooden bench in the back of a court room listening to proceedings that determined her and her sibling's destinies. I was sweating on a desert campus as I watched how the third one started to fulfill her dreams.

They told me about hopes, goals and aspirations. They also talked about a shadow hovering over them because of rhetoric and actions from the White House against immigrants.

Last week I interviewed a couple whose 19 year old grandson was stabbed to death most likely because he was Jewish and gay. They told me about his love for food, for travel and for helping others. They described what it felt like to hold him in their arms for the first time. They remembered how they taught him to go down a slide on the playground head first and fast. They showed me a lemon tree he planted in the backyard and his recipe for spiced plum upside down cake.

They said the heavens opened after nine months of no rain to expose the shallow grave where the killer left their grandson, and that they are thankful to at least know what happened to him.

They told me what they say to him each night before they go to sleep.

The same day I tutored a high school junior to help with her college application essay. She told me about nights on the street being homeless, about her Mom not knowing where to take her kids, about sleeping among strangers and later in a crowded house with relatives she barely knew.

She described how she always makes sure to get her younger brother to school on time and why she misses early classes because of that. She asked how to best explain 'F's on her report card and whether she should still apply for a spot at the college of her dreams.

I would have never guessed any of this by seeing how they walk through life. Just regular folk, one couple close to 80, the young woman 17.

So, here's my pledge: Never will I forget that everyone I meet carries some kind of sorrow in their heart. Always will I remember not to judge by what I see. Each day I will talk and act accordingly.

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"How about holding?!!!!" the husband shouts at the TV.

I guess, the team that just scored a touchdown is not the one he marked as winning in his office pool. He leans back into the sofa. His feet rest on the couch table. Black socks between a plate of self made cookies, two tea mugs, a box of matches I wrapped in shiny paper, a stack of books and Sunday paper clutter. It's mostly advertising for last minute shoppers. Toys. Cameras. Sweaters. Diamond rings and necklaces. Washer/dryer combinations. My mind plays videos of people covering washers and driers in humongeous Christmas wrapping and the faces of those who receive the bulky gifts, a red mega-bow on top.

Next to the TV, our funky Christmas tree stands tall and twinkles.

We did not want to buy a tree this year and opted for branches from the front yard juniper. I thought, we were going to cut two, three big old limbs from the bottom. I thought, we would put them into our biggest vase. I thought, we would decorate those with a few ornaments and place the whole ensemble in front of our fire place, right in the middle, so you can see it when you walk down the hallway towards our living room.

That was not what the husband thought.