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Monday, February 13, 2017

If End of Life is defined by whether or not one has ceased to have first time experiences, I'm here for the duration ... .

Yesterday I got to see myself depicted as one of the main characters in an original play performed by a company from Southern California.  It is entitled, Dare to Remember, and tells the tragic story of the 1944 Port Chicago Explosion and mutiny trials during World War II.  The play was written by David Shackleford, and was taken from various sources; Dr. Robert Allen's great book called The Port Chicago Mutiny, and (from what I can tell) perhaps some references from my blog.  But that's only a guess when I make an attempt to explain to myself how I got into their story.

About two weeks ago I received a telephone call from the playwright inviting me to attend one of the performances in the city of Pittsburgh, California, and -- since Port Chicago is one of the sites of our 4-park consortium (John Muir in Martinez, Eugene O'Neill in Danville, Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park in Richmond are the others) it didn't strike me as odd, but something I was mildly curious about.  I agreed to try if time allowed ... .

Then, a week later there was another call from Mr. Shackleford, this time more insistent.  "Can we offer transportation?  We'd love for you to be there."  Then he revealed that I was one of the lead characters in his play and that they'd love the chance to pay homage to me if I could attend.  This cast a new light on everything, and I agreed to attend the Sunday matinee."

That was yesterday:

The program listed me as Betty Reid Soskin in the first scene, Act One.

Suddenly there I was, a 35-ish voluptuous woman standing behind a living room bar with liquor bottles lined up beside her elbow.  She was chatting with two soldiers about (... couldn't tell because they were not miked) but it was clear that she was a "Mother Earth" character doing her best to comfort boys away from home.

At first the transformation was disturbing.  Found myself picking away at the obvious:  In 1944 at the time of the tragedy I was in my early twenties, still "wet behind the ears" and looking forward to having my first drink.  I'd been married just 3 years to Mel -- the assistant recreation direction at San Pablo Park where young servicemen would gather to share time with the locals on weekends.

Given the fact that the USO (United Service Organization) was not yet racially integrated, those of us who were not a part of the great migration to defense plants tried to host those young people in our homes -- just a part of the war effort and as an expression of patriotism.

Saturday afternoons were set aside for lemonade parties in our small living room in Berkeley where our neighbors and friends would join us to extend friendship toward our fighting forces.

It was an innocent activity with punch and cookies, records on the turntable, conversations that consisted of small talk of family and "home", mostly, for those who were homesick with few ways to express it in the macho social climate of a nation at war.

I was yet to become Betty Reid Soskin, a surname that I would acquire many years ahead.  I now know that I have little control over how I'm to be remembered.  If I'd been as defined in this play (a far older woman) I would surely have been long dead by now, yet here I sat watching one of the leads being the "Betty" of years ago.  It wouldn't be until the early Seventies that I would have become Mrs. William F Soskin.

So there I sat in the audience trying to make sense of the transformation I'd gone through in the interpreting of my history.  But there is that thing called poetic license, right?  I had to let reality go and focus purely in the now.

Before the play ended and I'd relaxed into this new reality, I found reasons to celebrate.

Here was a new generation of young artists exploring that dark history, bringing this long forgotten story to life at a time when the nation and the world are experiencing another of those cyclical periods of chaos -- something that I, alone, in that theater, was old enough to fully realize.  Only I, one of the few (probably) still living, who had lived through enough such times before now so that the pattern is recognizable.  The Democracy has survived many such periods, starting in 1776.  These troubled times happen when life has become so tense and confused --  are times when the meaning of Democracy is being re-defined.  Times that give us ordinary people (the We) the opportunity to bring significant and sometimes radical change.  This art form with these players was something to grab onto as we steady ourselves for another round of "... forming that more perfect Union."


Yes, that's me, sitting in front of the woman holding the microphone
I fell asleep hours later bathed in the scent of the dozen beautiful scarlet roses in a vase on the  nightstand beside my bed -- providing the much-needed balm of recovery after viewing the disturbing evening news.  Felt satisfied and  deeply honored -- one more time.   Allowing the fact that today had brought another  of those first time experiences to a woman of 95 years, and I knew just before drifting off that I will return a call from the producer/director, Kathy McCarthy, for a repeat performance reading of the great Eve Ensler's groundbreaking Vagina Monologues, and tell her that I will indeed be there on Sunday afternoon February 26th for the reading with the others at two o'clock for the benefit of Planned Parenthood.

It all goes together, however patchwork and unrelated it may seem ...  .

We will form that more perfect Union, eventually ... come hell or high water!





Tuesday, January 24, 2017

There's is a memoir in the works, and I'm beginning to become excited ...

It is being edited from this blog combined with my oral history that has been collected by the Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley.  The publisher is Hay House out of New York.

Apparently, this collection of brief essays that started out rather aimlessly, has yielded several books over time, and I've now been assigned a fine editor, author J. Douglas Allen-Taylor, who is combing through for at least one such, and then pulling it all together for publication in September of this year.  In looking back, there's a lot of living chronicled here since September of 2003.

It had never occurred to me that there was anything here worth publishing.  The original goal of leaving a record of my life for my kids has always been the dominant theme, and these notes to myself -- mostly written stream-of-consciousness with a glass of milk and a few cookies at my elbow as I sit at my MAC at the end of the day in my pj's and well-worn slipper socks with the right foot big toe threatening exposure any moment -- who knew?

I had no idea that my hands had become tools -- that is -- until a member of my audience sent this photo (taken with his iPhone) about a week ago, and at first I cringed with embarrassment at what looks like a display of outrageous histrionics.  The more I lived with it though, the better I liked the image.  I have no idea at what point in my talk this occurred, but it is not posed, nor is it meaningless.  The point I was making naturally demanded emphasis, I guess, and old ladies have earned the right to be outrageous; if that's what it is.

Given what's happened over past months, weeks, and days, on the national level -- I'm going to need all the ego-strength I can muster.

... as are we all.



Monday, January 09, 2017

Not certain of the reasoning involved, but blogging either is no longer serving its original purpose as a way of leaving a record of my life for my children, or, the fact that I've become a public figure over time with a public following is effecting the way I use the medium ... .

Either way, things have changed considerably, and a self-consciousness has crept into the process over time, and I'm aware of viewers in ways that makes my random thoughts on life begin to seem unworthy of the attention they're attracting.  

That is until today.

Something in the news shouted out over the usual noise and I find myself moved to my MAC -- as happens over time -- as a way to work through something that puts me at odds with conventional wisdom; an uncomfortable stance to take:

It is the image on CNN a few moments ago when the boyish image of Dylann Roof, the brutal assassin of those 9 good folks at Mother Immanuel Church in South Carolina, appeared on camera. Such a deceptive appearance with that innocent Buster Brown hairstyle -- as if straight out of the pages of Dick and Jane -- standing before the court, dead-pan,  and without any sign of contrition for the pain he wrought on so many -- a nightmare we've seen repeated so often of late.

There was something nauseatingly familiar about that scene.

When was the last time I'd seen this scenario?  Ah yes!  It was Timothy McVeigh at his sentencing for the Oklahoma federal building bombing with multiple human lives lost.  He, too, expressed no regret for the horrendous act he'd committed, nor show fear of the death penalty.  I'm certain there were admirers, those from his warped world of white supremacy who surely viewed him as macho, brave, facing with courage his fate for his unspeakably violent criminal act. 

I recall at the time that this may have been the greatest argument against the death penalty, when fully understood.  Was this not State-sanctioned suicide?  Would not those who seek vengeance through the Justice system have the State apply greater punishment by demanding life sentences without the possibility of parole?  To have to live the rest of one's life with the painful realization of the cost in innocent lives destroyed in spasms of what can only be classified as madness.  And, of course the madness includes the State's being tricked into killing to teach that it is wrong to kill!

Something here might be closely related to the radical extremist's suicide bombings so common in the Middle Eastern battle zones, and the marauding armies of young men on rampages of genocide on the African continent.  What is this pathology now victimizing the world's young, and why? It is increasingly obvious that it knows no boundaries.  And, are there signs hidden in plain sight but masked by out-of-control political posturings and changing territorial ambitions?  Can it be that the causes lie in the fact that my great-grandmother (woman I knew) was born into a world population of less than two billion -- and that in only four generations, we are living in a world population of seven-and-a-half billion?  And, in a world facing not only the threat of nuclear annihilation, but global warming, climate change, and rising sea levels?

Are we beginning to see the unraveling of the world as we know it?


Is this tragic life drama not being played out yet another time with Dylann Roof who is refusing any kind of defense, but forcing the hand of the State -- manipulating the courts to gain his "right to die?"  

Have we lost the capacity to think analytically by a failing system of public education? 

Can we justify maintaining a legal system that includes the death penalty in such cases while denying the "right to die" to those terminally ill and existing in excruciating endless pain and suffering because of some distorted sense of who-knows-what?  With medical science misusing the Hippocratic Oath in a form of denial similar to those who believe climate change to be a hoax, it is difficult to find rhyme or reason ... .

There remains questions that I will never live long enough to find answers for, and many involve questions around life and death.  Maybe my age and the advancing of the End Times is pushing this, but I was asked in a radio interview last week what my position was on abortion.  Without much thought I heard myself saying that I was against it, and that I am also completely supportive of a woman's right to choose; and that I realized that those positions are diametrically opposed but that this was nonetheless my position.  Am  I one of a few who know that the debate is simply badly framed, and that nuance goes missing?

I find that those who oppose abortion tend to be the same people who foolishly oppose  contraception and birth control of any kind.  It is that position that I see as wildly irrational.  I see no reason for a woman to ever need an abortion, and, if all else fails (which sometimes happens), and though one would surely not wish to ever have to consider such an option -- that decision clearly lies with the woman.  Fortunately I've never had to make that choice, and feel empathy for those for whom it was necessary.  I know no one who is for abortion.

Why has all this become confused today and demand time and space in my consciousness?  

Could this be because as our gracious First Lady recently stated, "... I think we're now learning how it feels to live without hope," and I realized that this is the state that I'm finding myself in over past days.

A temporary state of affairs?  Maybe.  But I'm not looking for any white-hatted tall stranger to gallop on his horse up from over the horizon to save us all, at least not in the immediate future.  

Think I'll just keep to the foreground and get back to taking care of those "...500 feet" around me that I can manage.  Maybe it's time to leave the saving of the world to those better equipped to discover fresh answers to overwhelming problems by virtue of youth and an increasingly deepening collective wisdom.

I can no longer see a way forward; at least over the next few hours ... .

Besides, I think I've got tickets to Hamilton which opens in San Francisco on March 10th.  I know that his world was threatened by unspeakable disasters; of yellow fever, tuberculosis, cholera, war, all limiting life spans, "Acts of God" against which there were few good answers in his century -- yet here we are in a brand new year of 2017, still leading the world, albeit precariously.  Surely the new generation of geniuses now in kindergarten will grow into their brave new world (as did we), and don their white hats and hop into their self-driving SUVs and ride from across the horizon to save us from ourselves ... .

"... As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be world without end; Amen."

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Just returned from a weekend in Mendocino ...




... the occasion was for the intimate memorial service for my longtime friend and fellow traveler, Tom Freund.  It was a sorrowful event, but inevitable as it is for all of us mortals.  It was held in his beautiful home on a bluff at the ocean's edge with family and friends gathered to remember ... .

Tom was of the scientific world; a chemist -- and the son of the eminent chemist Jules Freund; Ivy League educated and a naval veteran.   But more than that, he was a gentle and compassionate being who worked passionately for those causes in which he believed fully until it was no longer possible to do so, though his irascibility and gruffness might deceive the uninitiated.  If there was a flaw in any endeavor, tool, instrument, composition, or thesis, Tom would find and bring it to light -- even when you didn't really want to know!

His failing health made it necessary to maintain two homes, one in suburban Walnut Creek where he spent about 25% of his life and where his small family lived, and where his doctors were reachable -- just in case, but also in the scenic splendor of quaint Mendocino where most of his time and community involvement took place.  He was an inveterate political activist and art enthusiast.  He gave generously of both time and financial support to those things in which he believed fervently.

It was this friendship that provided for me a place in life that offered context.  He was my contemporary and had become more and more important to me when our peers began to die off, and my world was increasingly made up of the young.  Each year this friendship seemed to become more important to my sense of balance.  There was never any doubt that he was intensely proud of the work that I was doing in the world, and never questioned my dedication to my chosen role in life.

Romance?  No, there are things that become more important as time wanes.  Companionship moves into prominence, and mutual respect, and a sense that one is appreciated in ways that may have been invisible at an earlier time; ways that transcend gender or sex or even power or a sense of powerlessness.  Those things just don't factor in when time becomes precious and the end times begin to emerge into everyday consciousness.

Sitting in that big chair with the expanse of an 180 degree view of crashing waves against monstrous rocks; with a lighthouse piercing its blinding rays into the blackness of night every 9 seconds -- from just a couple of miles away; with deer frolicking in the greening meadow just below; with 3 months of New Yorkers stashed right beside your big chair waiting for your return ... .

We'd celebrated birthdays together  for years -- mine being on September 22nd, and his on the 28th.  This year -- while I was in Washington -- he passed into eternity on the night of mine.  I knew the end was near, but I'd spoken with him by phone the week before leaving, yet I was not prepared for the news when it came after a day of celebration at the Department of Interior; such irony.  A few days after returning home I attended his burial with his small family and the caretakers who'd been so important in those final days when the way back was no longer in sight.

I will miss him.

I hadn't visited for over a year, though we'd had an occasional dinner together when he was in the Bay Area. This became less and less frequent as his health continued to weaken and as his future became darker.



You can imagine my surprise and delight when -- on Saturday in an idle moment I -- for the first time sat in my big chair to reach for the pile of New Yorkers and -- as I lifted them to sort through for the most recent, found lying underneath a copy of Elaine Ellison and Stan Yogi's book, Wherever there's a fight, a brilliant  history of the ACLU in California.  Though I have a copy given to me when it was published (there's mention of me and my  work with the National Park Service on two pages), I hadn't known that Tom was even aware of it.  I tend not  to mention such things.


I opened it to the dedication page and noticed a handwritten inscription from Elaine Ellinson which read:

          
To Betty --
Thanks to Tom you are getting another copy of this book. Thank you for sharing your story with us and for all your work for social justice. You inspire me!

Elaine Ellinson


It was like a message from beyond ...

... obviously Tom had attended a book signing at his favorite bookstore in Mendocino at some point during the year, and had bought this copy for me; had set it beside the chair that is mine alone when I'm there;  and -- though I'd not visited him for more than a year -- it had been dusted around and carefully replaced in wait for my return -- whenever ... .

That my return was for his memorial was almost too much to bear.

Out to celebrate Bastille Day
Sweet memories of walks on the Headlands covered with spring wildflowers; drives in the little red  Deux chevaux to find wild rhododendron hidden among the redwoods far back from Highway 1; visiting his favorite seaside winery above Fort Bragg; dinners at Noya harbor;  trips to Mendosa's for organic whole milk in glass bottles (because he wanted the very best for me); stopping in at the small shops where the most beautiful of the woodworker's pieces in every imaginable shape could be seen and -- if you weren't caught doing so -- fingered to feel the richness and texture; then to Nancy's -- his jeweler friend just to see what new designs she may have dreamed up to tempt the tourist ... then back to the Timbers -- the name of his oceanside home above the sea just in time for the magnificent sunset or the sight of the fog rolling in silently to enclose us in that wonderland I'd come to so love ... .

The Timbers was constructed some years ago from the redwood logs salvaged from the old bridge at Casper when it was torn down and rebuilt.  Craftsmen built in all of their love of wood long before Tom discovered and purchased it.  He then seamlessly added to the original design and the result is breathtaking! Can you imagine a beautiful redwood structure covered by a copper roof now oxidized to a soft grey/green patina ... ?  I know, it's just as beautiful as mere words would have it sound.

I will miss him dearly, at least until the healing begins -- as it is wont to do over time.  Yet one cannot live in the sadness too long lest it diminish those things we cherished in the living of it.

Rest in peace, dear friend.


How on earth does one respond to the state of the Union?

As are we all, I've been in a state of shock for a week, and grateful for whatever was built into the human anatomy that allows us to retreat into ourselves for whatever time it takes to recover.  That, I suppose, is what we call "shock."  How else can this state of numbness be described?

I'm guessing that I'd secretly kept a corner of my mind in enough doubt to retain the capacity to see the possibility that my country might well slip into a period of regression.  The hints have always been lurking in there somewhere.  We all must have known this, but chose to ignore it.

The fact that the electorate had been persistently dumbed down over past decades by a failing system of public education colored by the introduction of reality television being pumped into every home at the sacrifice of the nation's values and eating away at our cultural base until little is left with which to fight off cynicism and hate of "other-ness" and the empathy needed to support community.

Over coming months we may learn the painful lesson that Democracy cannot be sustained without an educated electorate.

My fear that the cause of the rise of hate -- gradually going dormant in our society but now being given one last chance at dominance -- may have been the growing apathy and disconnections within the democratic process. The 39% turnout in the last general election did not bode well for our ability to sustain our system of  governance, and the 50% participation in 2016 simply may not have been  enough to turn us back to the painfully slow progress being made over recent years

I suppose I'm less concerned with how the incoming administration will effect our fate as a nation as I am of the ascendance of hatred and bigotry into an electorate that has been inching its way toward forming that "... more perfect Union" over recent decades, and now will be slowed in that progress as we try to figure out where the Ship of State hit this reef!

I am fairly convinced that we may be seeing the final frantic defense in the attempt to reinvigorate white supremacy in a fast-changing world.  These may be the last gasps as the nation begins to realize and accept that our strengths are in our diversity, and that the inexorable creep toward that realization and acceptance might well be our final chance at eventual salvation.

Universal mobility and an irresistible system of communication has made of us one world; a world that might well begin to achieve a relatively peaceful existence, but only if we can come to terms with the urgent needs to save Planet Earth.

Just how we will manage to do that when the Evangelicals are now holding the reins of power -- good folks who sincerely erroneously believe that the "... scientific warnings of global warming, rising sea levels, climate change, are a hoax created by China",  -- and that this global concern is irrelevant since they are hoping to hasten the Rapture when Jesus will return to the world to carry them up to Heaven!  How do we deal with the deniers when everything in which they believe has convinced them that scientific evidence is simply humankind's wasted effort in the face of what they know is profoundly real and biblically verified by myth?

How could I have ever guessed that there would come a day when I would view Christianity as a detriment to any hope of sustaining life as we know it?

How can this be?

And how can one dare to utter such blasphemy yet feel the ring of truth in the utterance?





Monday, October 31, 2016

Almost from the day that the  first shipment containing my  ranger uniform arrived ... .

I've felt the pride that must surely be shared throughout the National Park Service -- the pride in the wearing of the "green and grey."  I was a part of that culture now, and from that first day I've felt at least 3 inches taller as I walk out into the community.  It never fades but continues to add spice to my work.

I remember being on an escalator at Macy's floating down in full view of all!  It was such an intoxicating sensation gliding noiselessly from on high onto the floor below and into a family gathered at the bottom with a lovely little young brown-skinned child looking up at me with such a look of wonder in her eyes ... and I was keenly aware that it was I who was the object of that look.

It was then that I realized the power in my image; that of being suddenly able to effortlessly and silently announce a career path into the  lives of every child of color I encountered.  To this day, that miracle repeats in elevators, on public transportation in all its forms, wherever I go and it continues to be heady and exhilarating each time it happens.

This image of "Ella" appeared yesterday through an email from 3 different people, Bonnie Allen, Judith Wilson-Pates, and Alonzo Davis.  It's a photo of Ella's halloween costume that was (according to the message) "an homage to Betty Reid Soskin, park ranger."

This 'lil' munchkin has been on my mind ever since.  There's something important here.  This little girl is probably being introduced to the concept of "respect," something she'll not understand for years, and it has little to do with me, personally, as much as with this flat hat, the brass i.d. bars and shiny badge, the meaning of respect for authority, and it will date back to this feeling that, hopefully, will be born in these early years.  This is what I saw in that little girl's face at the landing of the escalator in Macy's housewares department in those early years of the wearing of the "green and grey."

... but Ella will also know -- as we all must learn -- that one can only learn respect by being respected.  There is no other way to do so.  It may be an over-simplification, but I doubt it.  That simple truth might be useful were it given its proper place in community policing manuals.  This is the principle embedded in Black Lives Matter.

... and after so many years of reality television, this has been lost in the general population.  I truly believe that this abominable cultural development has eroded respect as well as any sense of empathy by its promoting of competition for its own sake, and selfish boorishness repeated ad nauseam throughout our systems of communication and social media --  so pervasively that we've ceased to even notice that we've been devolving now for decades, and that it is dangerously corrosive.

How else could we have ever arrived at a possible Trump presidency?




At Frederick Douglass House in Washington.
Busy and feeling hugely guilty these days ...

Ever since the home intrusion there has been this corner of my dining alcove where an accumulation of large plastic bags are stowed that hold the countless cards of best wishes, gifts from well-wishers from every corner of the nation -- all waiting appropriate thank you notes of acknowledgement ...

For a few evenings after the incident dear friends came with their own well-wishes offering to help to read through them (we did that for several healing evenings), with every intention of continuing until we'd properly expressed gratitude ... but that came to a natural end after I returned to work and to a calendar now crowded with future commitments which I've been dutifully fulfilling ever since.  The publicity created new exposure from parts of the world previously beyond my experience, and this was followed by trips to an amazing several days spent in Telluride, Colorado, participating in the Mountain Films Festival; then a few days later on to the WWII Museum in New Orleans to be honored along with others from that era; followed by ten days in Washington, D.C. for the opening of the new National Museum of African American History and Culture.  All of that was packed into just a few weeks, and in between my presentations in our little theater 3-time/wk have gathered a following that is running at capacity.  Hamilton has nothing on us except a much larger theater; ours only holds 48 seats, but we're sold out at each performance!
with the family of Emmit Till at the opening of the NMAAHC


I cannot begin to tell you how unworthy it makes me feel each time those piles of cards, letters, and thoughtful gifts loom into view each morning as I sit sipping my tea with cereal and toast beside the harvest table that is now crowded with trophies and souvenirs, certificates of awards, proclamations -- all undeserved and reflecting my feelings of guilt at having accepted such honors from my community and the world!  I know that folks need heroes, but why me?  The crown does not sit comfortably on this greying head.

I must try to find the time soon or the weight of the guilt will follow me into my grave... .

You need to know that through all of this there are two sets of filmmakers working on two separate pieces (one that will capture my theater talks -- because the parks know that my shelf life is limited -- plus other aspects of the Rosie park story -- and the other projected to be a 90 minute piece about my family through the years).  In addition, the interview with Tavis Smiley on PBS resulted in a contract for the publishing of my memoir to be released next fall by Hay Publishing out of NY in connection with the release of the longer film.

How one deals with this fame would probably cause havoc in the everyday existence of one far younger than I, yet here I am at 95 trying to deal with it all at a time when I should be concentrating on End of Life issues, right?  The problem is that this is precisely where I find myself; thinking on all those levels and attempting to remain in the present; impossible!

But Life has never felt richer, despite all.

Monday, October 03, 2016

One of the WPA (Works Projects Administration) murals in the Department of Interior Building ... .

These were from the Franklin Delano Roosevelt era, and are truly treasured artifacts of those progressive times.  They turn up throughout the building, and one can take a guided tour to see them all.

This one is by an artist's whose name I've forgotten -- but will retrieve and post -- and pictures the audience at the Marian Anderson's historic concert at the Lincoln Memorial.  If you'll recall, this was due to the Daughters of the American Revolution's refusal to allow her to sing at Constitution Hall.  First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt -- with the help of Secretary of the Interior Harold Ickes arranged for the concert to be staged on the steps of the Memorial to thousands of citizens.

The murals are controversial in some cases, reflecting the politics of the times, but were allowed expression without comment or objection.

To have the chance to see them on my 95th birthday was such an honor and a privilege.  That this would occur on the day when I met with 30 Freedom Rangers, 12-14 year-olds who had just returned from a bus trip through the South where they'd visited Civil Rights sites of the National Park Service -- to be followed by a birthday party 'down the hall' with Director Jon Jarvis and the WASO staff; then for a visit to the Ford Theater across town!



It was a day to remember.



Stopped in for a short visit with Rep. Jackie Speier before heading off for another with my representative, Congressman Mark DeSaulnier.  The invitation had arrived prior to our leaving the Bay Area.  It was our first meeting -- before we participate in an all-day conference for seniors held in her district every year.
Rep. Jackie Speier's birthday gift


Rep. DeSaulnier's role has been critical to the effort to gain the support of the president toward a final resolution of this lingering stain on the nation's home front history.  It occurred in those tumultuous times before we became more open to the lessons of democracy.



The Friends of Port Chicago has worked valiantly toward that end for years.  Since this is a member of our 4-Parks -- it seemed only fair that Kelli and I make the attempt to breathe whatever life we could manage to while at the seats of power.



Got to discuss the stalled petition submitted for the exoneration of the Port Chicago "mutineers", and was disappointed that so little has happened to move it forward for the families of those courageous dissenters whose convictions for refusing to return to loading explosives after the disaster of July 17, 1944.  Their brave action brought on the desegregation of the Armed Forces in 1948.

I've never understood the resistance to exonerating those young men.  If only our leaders would see -- if only we could communicate that it is not simply some isolated case of navy men disobeying an order during war time, but is the perpetual -- down through the centuries -- under-valuing of black male lives (that "3/5th of a human being" thing) -- that was the reason that over 3 thousand blacks were lynched over a century between the mid-1800s and the 1900s; the reason that they're disproportionally imprisoned; the reason black men are being destroyed today on the nation's streets in questionable police actions; and the reason those 50 young black males would have their lives dishonored by the refusal to exonerate them in the face of refusing an order under circumstances in which all white officers were given 30 days trauma leave.

If ever we are in need of sending a positive message to young black males who live every day in the fatalistic belief that their lives will end prematurely ... it is now.

This is not a new story.  To the contrary; it is centuries old.  It is tragically etched into our national consciousness, into the nation's DNA, and needs to be recognized and finally rooted out!  The exoneration of the Port Chicago "mutineers" is so much bigger than the story, alone, but could well provide a breakthrough in black and white relations between young black males and the authorities who, theoretically, are sworn and expected to protect them.

This is all of-a-piece of a despicable old normal that needs to be re-classified as an aberration!

How much more clearly could we state that Black Lives Matter?


We're still hoping to accomplish this before the Obama administration leaves office.



Wednesday, September 28, 2016

How will I ever catch up with myself?

Since the last post so much has happened; including a ten day trip to Washington, D.C., that was jam-packed with events, honors, surprises, etc., with not a minute to waste!

The YouTube Google talk happened on Monday, September 12, in the week prior to our leaving for the grand opening of the National African American Museum of History and Culture on the Capitol Mall.  This architectural wonder sits on a knoll next to the Washington monument and is the most exciting and beautiful addition to the Smithsonian museums that one can imagine!

Prior to leaving with my colleague and travel companion, Kelli English, our staffs here and in Washington had been planning an itinerary that surely have required "Helen," had I been aware of how impressive, how demanding, how intimidating that might be.

It came and went, and both "Helen" and I survived, and were none the worst for wear.

We arrived in D.C. late Thursday evening, and would you believe that I was recognized in the Baggage Claims at Reagan Airport even though not in uniform?  That should have prepared me for the week to come, but I'm suspect that I was still in denial (which I am no longer).

The trip to Google on Monday (just four days before our departure for the Capitol) had been a revelation.  Despite the publicity, I had no idea of the size of the Google campus.  It is like a city within a city, and is all that advance knowledge claimed it to be.

It seemed ironic, however, to note that in preparing for this video in one of their little theaters, 3 techies could not get the main screen to work!  We had to watch the video on a small screen because -- for all their effort -- no success.

During the first part of my talk I found myself disconnected from the audience because -- in order to meet the needs of the film crew -- it was necessary to use lighting that would cause the audience to disappear.  At home, I make certain that all of the house lights are on in our theater so that I can see the faces -- the eyes -- of those to whom I'm speaking; absolutely essential.  I need the connection in order to feel their presence.  Without that visual contact, I'm lost.

I learned in the process (after a few minutes of confusion because of the sense of being blinded and separated from the audience), that it could be overcome.  That I could still hear them stirring.  The stillness, once contact had been made, need not be threatening; and that we soon were caught up in an experience-in-common, and it was alright.  That's good to know.  This will surely happen again, and the next time I'll be prepared for the momentary loss of visual contact.

One of the delights of the Google trip was meeting this young Nigerian intern who has been with Google for about 6 months.  Here he is shown standing before a large Google Map pointing out his home, his school, and the pathway between.  The wonder of how this young man (about 20 years) has bridged the physical,  cultural, and generational distances between is miraculous.  For me it was like stepping into the future only imagined less than 20 years ago.

Wishing for a way to make a Faustian bargain for another ten years or so; at least enough to see into whatever comes next ... .



Betty Soskin: "Opportunity and Discrimination in WWII Shipyards" | Talks... 


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