CBreaux Speaks

Who on earth is this?

Just received my first lesson in data-mining, I think ... .

A young cousin with a sudden interest in family history began to send inquiries about photographs online that I assumed were coming from the family tree I'd posted long ago (see The Betty Reid Soskin pages).  It soon became clear that -- from the questions being raised, this was not the source she was using.  At a point in the exchange of messages she mentioned Google Images -- an online website I was totally unaware of  -- with the words, "You're famous, Aunt Betty.  And these are the images people will be seeing forever!"  Enough for me to take a look.


What a revelation!  There are hundreds of photos under my name with most strangely unrelated to me at all.  (Try typing yours into the search bar on the site.)  I'm appalled!

Admittedly, those taken from my blog are fair game since they've been online for years (since 2003 when I started blogging), so I can't complain about their being used.  But anyone who has ever been photographed with me is also there, including my friends and relatives, and without their permission.

But it is the 75% that are not related to me nor to my name in any way that concern me.  I'm nowhere in those photos and among them are mug shots of suspects, at least one of skimpily-clad Elizabeth Hurley (former girlfriend of actor Hugh Grant) wearing nothing but a g-string; many men and women with whom I've never had any knowledge of nor contact with; anyone with whom I may have ever shared a cup of coffee or a conversation on a bus or in a waiting room (apparently) -- and it concerns me more than you know.

... or this?

In light of current news about the collection of personal phone messages and email accounts by the (NSA) National Security Agency, and that I'm working for a federal agency with Hatch Act limitations (and with which I comply judiciously), I feel that the invasion of my privacy and Fourth Amendment rights are being seriously violated.

At my advanced age this may seem irrelevant.  What possible harm can be done by publishing such material -- given my limited future?  Probably little if any, but it should matter to readers, I think.  I'd advise you to check out Google Images -- both under my name, Betty Reid Soskin, and your own.  Maybe we should all be paying more attention to how we're being perceived out in the world by losing control over what we put out there for public scrutiny.

... now back to reading today's reports on those issues ... .  I cannot help but feel that there will be a chilling effect on what I choose to disclose here in the future.

Maybe not ...  

Had the honor of addressing the Women of Labor Conference in Sacramento on Monday ... and what a time it was ... !

There is no question that women are on the rise in society, and if what I witnessed was any indication of what the future holds, we're in fine shape.


Those now serving in the Congress, in corporate leadership in all fields, in the current administration, and now matched with those in the Labor Movement are exciting, ambitious, and capable of world-changing.  All signs indicate that this upsurge in empowerment is worldwide, and not limited to this country.  The influences being felt everywhere would suggest that it's only the beginning.

... do you suppose that the genesis of what we're seeing all started with Rosie the Riveter of WWII?  Maybe I'm being swayed by my current everyday life and work with the National Park Service -- and am limited by the context. 

... but maybe not.

Still vibrating from the excitement of the Chiodo installation ceremony on Friday ...


... and of the words by descendants of some of those represented in the "largest bronze sculpture west of the Mississippi,"  ... all most memorable.

Seeing grownup Ruby Bridges  again, and hearing her speak  thoughts on being included as the 6 year-old who broke the barriers to racial integration in New Orleans schools with the help of the National Guard so long ago.   She's now memorialized among the "Champions" for all time. Watching and listening to Ruby being serenaded by the children from the local elementary school named in her honor was warm and deeply touching.

Witnessing the dynamic Ambassador Attallah Shabazz, eldest daughter of Malcolm X and Betty Shabazz, and her passionate recollections of their family life was most moving.   It's refreshing to hear descriptions of the lives of those we've so long been awed by-- and from those who knew them best and loved them most dearly. The impact of her father's being on the life of this stately woman is as deeply etched in her presence as is his image that this brilliant artist has so magnificently cast in bronze for all time.  

Among the local "Champions," was the father of a family of youngsters I grew up with.  He was Oakland's first black firefighter but oh so much more; Royal Towns.  Roy was my parents' friend, and his wife, Lucille, a  member of my mother's gathering of ladies who regularly met to play whist in a club called "The 500" for reasons unknown or forgotten by now.   He was the colorful father of my childhood friends, Mary, Gloria, and Roy, Jr, and the grandfather of Dale Adams, George and Dennis Bagby; the Wilson twins and younger brother, Steven, whose father was Lionel Wilson, Oakland's first black mayor who served as Judge Wilson in later life; and another grandson named "Something" Blackburn (whose first name escapes me in this moment) -- and now Royal Towns, or "Boo" (as he was known affectionately by family and friends), is immortalized in bronze as a "Champion of Humanity."  

It's eerie to find myself living into a time when those I knew personally are slipping into the past and being memorialized in bronze; having streets, public buildings, and airports named after them ... who knew?  The past, present, and future are no longer linear, but have a simultaneity that is mind-boggling.

... and renewing the friendship with Juliana Roosevelt, charming granddaughter of Franklin Delano and Eleanor, the first administration that I was ever aware of.  Juliana is a noted landscape artist and environmentalist based in Los Angeles, but who is working closely with Mario Chiodo's Studio and with upcoming projects thereof. 

Why am I so excited about this amazing Oakland project?  It's because we're beginning explorations for the continuing development of Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park and these are some of the visionaries whose imaginations may help to determine the continuing shaping of the next phase of the dreaming.

Nothing definite yet, but listening to the speeches of those most powerfully influenced by the "Champions" kept me spellbound for the full two hours of pure magic.  We're in the best phase of "growing a national park," where things are still fluid and anything is possible, and where things can turn on the utterance of a phrase or the discovery of an image or a long-forgotten story ...

What I wouldn't give for a Faustian bargain at this point!

Exciting weekend of firsts ... and, yes, I'm still having "firsts" even into my tenth decade... .




On Friday there was the installation of the third and final section of the noted sculptor, Mario Chiodo's, Remember Them, Champions of Humanity" in the Henry J. Kaiser Memorial Park in downtown Oakland.  Two years ago we attended the setting in place of the first two of the three giant bronze statues --  with the third 40' high stunning piece unveiled on this day.  (For a history of this exciting arts triumph type Mario's name in the search bar on left side of screen above the banner to pull up earlier posts.)

Can't talk about it quite yet, but -- if only we can convince Richmond of this city's growing importance as a national park comparable to any other -- such as Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, the GGNRA, etc., with a future resembling Golden Gate Park in San Francisco or New York's Central Park (yes, that big!) over the next few years of park development ... if only ... .




There must be enough visionaries in this city who can dream big enough

... and if there are, I intend to find them over the next few months and ignite a fire of inspiration enough to light up the sky over our magnificent 32 miles of shoreline!

Well maybe not all by myself, but with the help of other staff and some amazing friends plus a national agency providing enough wind at our backs to allow the continuing making of history.

Oh the magical workings of the  human mind ...

... flicking through photos while trying to select the one that best illustrates yesterday's post, stirrings of old images came to mind and took over completely for the rest of the afternoon.  I'd tentatively accepted an invitation to visit the S.F. Museum of Modern Art today with Tom, but my mind stayed fully occupied with memories that refused to let go:

The photo below (labeled "Pensive") is one taken by my husband, Bill, at the San Mateo home of our friend, Archdeacon John Weaver of Grace Cathedral.  John's wife, Jean, was the benefactor who'd been supporting Bill's UC Berkeley research project through her Orleton Trust through which her considerable philanthropic work was carried out.  His Project Community was co-funded by the  W. Clement & Jessie V. Stone Foundation out of Chicago.  Stone's son, Norman Jr., was a graduate student doing his doctoral studies in psychology on the staff of Bill's program.

I'm listing names here because they're important.  Who these people are is a critical element of the story.  The fact that it was in this same lovely apartment that -- on another Sunday -- we'd watched the thrilling game between the Forty Niners and the Cleveland Browns, the team owned by Jean Weaver's brother. 

It was Fall of 1975 and Bill and I were active members of the Vallombrosa Conference which met annually at a stately conference center down the Peninsula.  The organization served as the Think Tank for the Northern California Episcopal Diocese, then headed by Bishop J. Kilmer "Kim" Myer.  Vallombrosa was the equivalent of the Club of Rome which serves in the Vatican as advisory to the Pope and to which some of the professionals within this circle were also appointees.  These are the world academic leaders, and for reasons unknown -- fate had me sitting among them as a faculty spouse and "co-equal."

The two-day conference drew the elite of the educational institutions among them being Dr. William F. Soskin (my "Bill), who often served as counsel to both the Archdeacon and Bishop of the Northern California Diocese.

Over time of attending Vallombosa I'd heard papers that led to highly-acclaimed books; among them was Paul Ehrlich's Population Zero, Stanford's Economist Hazel Henderson theories, and Ken Watts' groundbreaking non-fiction The Titanic Effect.   It was here that I was exposed to all sides of the debate on the Peripheral Canal, and met the leaders of the Farm Worker Movement, including Cesar Chavez;  and Beclee and John Wilson, VP of Bank of America worldwide -- and president of International Church Women United, respectively.    At the time I was struck by the fact that there was this coterie of brainiacs who knew the future and were sharing critical information that would not be known by the rest of us for months and maybe years.  These were the futurists.

It was in those years when we served on the planning group out of which came the Golden Gate National Recreation Area.  Some of those meetings were held in the living-room of our Berkeley hilltop home. Those were heady times that preceded my work as a field representative for two California State Assembly members.  This was where I cut my political teeth, and developed both the will and the desire to serve in some public capacity, if needed.

It was in these circles that the growing interface between eastern (Tibetan Buddhist) thought and western physics was beginning to emerge.  Sam Keen's Psychology Today, Fritz Perls at Big Sur's  Esalan, and Werner Erhardt's Est were changing the social sciences through revolutionary programming.  It was a dizzying time of change -- and I loved every minute of this new world of intellectualism that I'd married into by sheer accident.

The evening that this photo was taken we'd gathered as a small committee to begin the initial planning for the Bicentennial Celebration at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco.  There were probably no more then 8-10 members present and there was electricity in the air.  I don't know why Bill chose that moment to aim his camera, but quite obviously he sensed the storm  gathering, and that my initial excitement was beginning to turn to anxiety... pain ... he knew the signs ... .

There was talk about how the lower level of the Cathedral would be decorated and the  Archdeacon disappeared for a few minutes into another part of the apartment and returned with a long antique musket and a lovely though worn handmade quilt with the announcement that these had been in his family for generations -- since the Revolutionary War.  We would all bring family artifacts and ephemera from 1776 to display!  This would be the group who would surely own such treasures, right?

I should mention here that Bishop Myers and his wife had adopted two children, one white and one black; children who were now in adolescence.  He was surely sensitive to the issues that would enter the room in the next few minutes.

I was silent as long as it was possible to restrain the rising emotions that were making it hard to breathe, and then -- tearfully but quietly -- wondered aloud if I should then bring my shackles and chains to exhibit? In the shocked silence that followed everyone understood that this celebration would be uniquely "white" and privileged since many American ancestors were owned by others at the time of our nation's founding, and many more had been cruelly vanquished as the "Patriots" took over the ancestral lands of the American Indian. 

I now know that it was in those moments that I first learned that one could speak truth to Power -- and that Power would listen.

They did.

They still do -- on Tuesdays and Saturdays at two o'clock in the afternoon.

Pensive

Insight ... .

The incident happened  about a week ago and is only now coming into consciousness ...

Commentaries at the two o'clock programs are beginning to draw a small following.  I've started to notice people who've been in those audiences a number of times, bringing friends and relatives.  Invariably there's a growing closeness as my 15-20 minute talk comes to an end, and people begin to file out past me -- each obviously moved by my words.  I'm not yet comfortable with the deep feelings that are tapped into as we go through what has become a parting ritual -- I stand against the wall on the stairway as they're leaving - with almost everyone pausing to say a personal word or two -- and as the last person moves past, with head down I exit through the west stairway -- retrieve my belongings from the drawer in the upstairs office -- and bolt for the parking lot.   The emotions that rise with the memories is sometimes draining, and I'm suddenly tired.  Sometimes I sit in my car for a time before driving into the afternoon traffic for home.  How a 45-minute program which includes a 16-minute film can produce such intensity remains a mystery ... .

Without realizing it, I'm discovering the reason why I'm still here.  Whenever some one asks, "how'd  it go today, my answer is usually, "okay, I guess," but without an ability to say precisely what went on.

Time has taught me that how people in that little theater feel about me is far less important than how they feel about themselves as the result of my work.  Sound crazy?  Not so.  I truly believe that the reason that -- though there are all races represented in the room -- they tend to have a similar emotional response to my stories. Maybe it's because each hears him/herself somewhere within.  Ultimately, the social changes that have occurred over a lifetime are largely due to enough of us, together,  bending in the direction of fairness and justice so that we've changed society in significant ways, and that we continue to do so.

Then it happened:

In the middle of my commentary a large elderly man and the 3 people who were with him rose in the middle of my talk and walked out!  It was a total surprise.  I brushed it aside to finish my remarks, refusing to take it personally.  Maybe he just needed a bathroom break, right?  But that was about two weeks ago, and today the scene rose to mind as I was slowly waking to the day.

I opened my eyes and stared into the dark wondering if I shouldn't do some editing?  Maybe I was becoming too comfortable in this role and had ceased noticing rising resentment that might be present in the room.  Was I missing something important in those moments? 

Maybe there was doubt about the literal truth of my stories ... but I've never claimed to be an historian, always sharing my history as personal; an oral history, and nothing more or less than an accounting of my own experiences.  There was no reason to believe that anyone thought of them as anything else.

... and the flash of insight that occurred this morning before day broke through -- as I felt a smile breaking with the dawn.

It matters less that my stories are "true" (when of course they are) and that they match recorded histories of the professionals whose work it is to be accurate and proven.  It does matter than I'm rising out of my own shoes -- that I'm authentic.  Oh how I wish I'd learned this lesson earlier in life.  It's an important one.  Comparing my work to that of scholars is like apples and oranges.  We are on different paths.

I suspect that it is that authenticity from which the acclaim that I'm experiencing in the world  comes.  And it is authenticity that cuts through the walls of separation on Tuesday and Saturday afternoons at the two o'clock presentations in our little theater.

... and it won't catch 'em all.  It doesn't have to, really.  It still matters how people feel about themselves as the result of the work that I'm doing, and I can see the wheels turning as we part on the stairway -- when they clasp my hands in theirs as we go our separate ways.

Maybe I've found the source of the power and the reason for continuing on -- at least for now. 

There are magical days ... more of them of late -- and Saturday came at the end of building toward a string of translucent pearls of days not to be believed ... .

It began as an ordinary Saturday's duty at the Visitors Center -- but something about it was different.  Colors more vibrant, intense, penetrating.   Sounds of children playing along the shoreline and soaring gulls overhead blended melodically.    I felt more alive than should have been expected at the end of a busy work week.

My schedule was busier than usual with two groups scheduled for my presentation of the orientation film, "Home Front Heroes," plus commentary.  The two groups would be in the little theater -- back-to-back-- at one and two o'clock sessions.  One would be 16 African American members of Easter Hill United Methodist Church for whom I'd given a black history talk in February.  To that group would be added other visitors who were in the building at the time. The other would be a local bicycle club that has become engaged and excited about Richmond's history, and were of varied ages and races, plus those visitors who remained for a second viewing.  Our little theater holds only 45 seated, so it is an intimate setting -- a plus for me.    

I was aware -- as my talk began to unfold -- that I was feeling hyper-sensitive and keenly perceptive.  It was as if someone had hit the "high intensity" button, and everything was "turned up" and magnified.  There was a deep undeniable connection between me and both audiences in that space which allowed me to see that my words were not only being heard, but felt, in ways that was unusually powerful for me.  From the expressions I could read in those faces and eyes I could feel myself being strangely energized.

This is the result of ...

having arrived at my desk some days ago to find a padded manila envelope containing a CD of an original song, "Rosies," created and recorded by an artist in Massachusetts -- with a handwritten single page neatly folded and tucked inside saying that the writer had been in the audience for one of my commentaries earlier in the year when he visited the Bay Area, and been inspired by my words.  He'd incorporated my thoughts into his lyrics.  The song is so lovely!  The heart of a young stranger has become a part of my story -- and life-of-the-moment.  His spirit was clearly in the theater over those magical two hours.

When his permission has been received, I will post it here.  Until then I will continue to be strengthened by having become a part of the art of another.  This has happened before, but I'd  almost forgotten what a powerful life force this can be.   Chris Nauman's lovely gift generated my magical afternoon -- one that I'll not soon forget.

Mother's Day, 2013 ... '

It has now been long enough since mother's death in 1995 -- that the mixed feelings of love and guilt and envy and resentment have found their way into a kind of cosmic blur -- and I've finally allowed her to be completely at rest, or so it seems, except ... .

There have been major losses of family and friends, including my eldest son, since that time -- and there is a kind of comfort with the feelings of incompleteness that comes eventually.

This morning, for the first time, I fingered my way through the file folder tabbed "obituaries," and dared to read the poem that I wrote for her funeral:

You will be remembered as a single bright feather on a pink silk hat aimed heavenward; 3-inch heels on moire sandals with small red rose on toes

As a single fragile butterfly in a windswept world of those too caught up to notice your needs for touching and loving and caring and -- most of all -- for seeing your beauty.

Bereft of world views, books unread, causes unserved, your time on earth was spent in simple ways -- ways suited to a temperament shaped by your motherless beginnings that provided no models for your own mothering but instilled a deep appreciation for family in its broader sense; the legacy of that love-filled cabin in St. James and your dear Mamma´who nurtured her brood with such warmth.

 It is that larger family that will most miss your presence on this earth -- family of all ages -- many of whom stayed with you through a long, long life as a replacement parent for those lost -- until the end came.

I will miss you deeply as we came full circle during your long lifetime -- reversing roles until -- near the end -- you quite seriously introduced me to others as "my mother".  Perhaps I became "Minette" returned, at some point.  You invariably made the correction, but I knew that no error had been made.

We honor you in death as we loved you in life.

Why is almost my last memory of her  the morning that I brought her bedside coffee for our daily ritual of greeting the day?  As she drained the last drop, and as I removed the tray to set it down on the floor beside the bed -- she reached up from her pillows to draw me to her for a kiss.  As she did so her words were, "please don't die, Betty.  Who would take care of me?"  We'd by that time celebrated her 100th birthday.  I can recall walking out of the room resolute in my intention to not live into the years where self-preservation would become my total reason for being.  Over the course of the ensuing years nothing has dissuaded me of that notion.  I suspect that I will know when the time comes to leave and will act upon that knowledge if dementia has not claimed my senses.

... except that there are more and more reasons to go on living... and perhaps that's what keeps us here long after our purpose has been outlived.

Can it be that I've never forgiven myself for not preventing her death?  I know.  That's illogical. Insane.  But it continues to haunt me in the silences ... .

Why is it that I still can't own Mother's Day?  Despite being of advanced age and the parent of 4 of my own, I've never really grown into a role that still seems to belong to you.  Is this true for all daughters; a part of the never-ending incompleteness of Life? 

Maybe next year ... .