It only took a moment ... and then decades of misguided impressions dropped away... .

Standing as tall as I could stretch my five-foot-three-inch frame, gave me just about enough heft to get myself through the lobby and into the elevator of the War Memorial. I'd removed my fedora just as I entered -- but once in the elevator -- placed it back on my head for just a bit of extra courage. It worked.

Once on the second floor I walked the long hallway to another that led to a door standing ajar and the sound of genteel voices that grew louder as I approached. Their meeting was in progress and I slid as quietly as I could into a seat just inside the door to await my time at the lectern.

It was soon evident that there was little to fear in this room. Whatever was to come could be handled. These were clearly lovely mostly Southern(?) ladies tending to business. And the business was reverence for God, country, and home -- in that order. Despite the initial feeling of being a jarring element in this orderly setting, I found myself relaxing into the mood of the room.

When a flyer was passed around advertising the upcoming Kentucky Social which promised mint juleps and Derby Pie I felt the last of the up-tightness melt away and in its place came a silent giggle of curiosity and warmth for this sisterhood that seemed both at home and absolutely alien in San Francisco. Funny. It was only "alien" in my everyday world; surely not here in this most cosmopolitan of world cities with something for everybody. Surely this Southern -- all White -- sisterhood was just another collective under the diversity tent. Just a few blocks over in the Fillmore there might well be an all-Japanese tea ceremony going on; and a few blocks beyond that -- an all-Black group preparing for a Gospel Concert over barbecue, mustard greens, and macaroni-and-cheese while planning next year's Juneteenth celebration! It occurred to me that the operative word here should be authenticity; the art of being precisely who you are. This is the common denominator for all such cultural groupings.

I could do this. Martha was quite right. It only took a slight shift in perspective.

When the business of the meeting ended and a touching candle ceremony held -- it was my turn.

Not sure just how I opened my remarks, except to introduce myself, my Great-Grandmother Leontine Breaux Allen, and my mother, with a statement that I'd arrived with much uncertainty about their expectations and just how I might fill them. "Did you understand that I was an African American?" No one ever really answered the question ... but it ceased to matter.

After a brief bio of sorts and some personal history of my WWII past, I looked around and spoke directly; "...you know ... such conversations across these barriers were not possible 20 -- maybe only 10 years ago. We must have them now -- informed by all that has happened in human relations since the Martin Luther King era." It was true. With those simple words I'd placed us all beyond those damning social barriers -- placed us all on the same side -- and it felt right. Could it really be so simple after all?

I spoke for no more then ten minutes and we dissolved into chattering females, "...my what a beautiful hat!", and it was over. The room felt larger and the sounds softer somehow as we sipped tea and grazed the table loaded with homemade cakes and pies.


On the day after I received a lovely note from someone who'd been in the audience. It was enough to bring tears -- it was she who had visited my blog and discovered my references to Marian Anderson. She wrote about the event of long ago at Constitution Hall as her own history -- learned from her grandmothers. Were it not for a feeling that I would be intruding on her privacy I'd post it here, however -- she ended her beautiful note with these words:

“I really, really want a world in which the only time anyone's skin color matters is when they're picking out clothing and deciding what colors look best with it.”

Amen.

Photo: Ms. Dixie Lee Mahy, Chairperson of the meeting. And, yes, that is a small metal cross in the center of her forehead, a unique expression of her faith. Though I seem to have been the only person to notice. Photo by Kathy Samuels of the DAR.

It was a most unusual day -- for any place but San Francisco. There it was the most ordinary of days.

I'd spoken briefly on Thursday with Regent Henriette Gordon of the DAR in order to confirm my appearance as the speaker at their monthly meeting at the War Memorial on Saturday. Until that moment I was unsure of what would be expected of me. How would I reconcile my "Woman of Color-ness" with this particular assignment? Were they expecting a speaker from "Rosie the Riveter World War II/Home Front National Park"? Surely there was little in my telephone voice that would suggest that I might be a woman of color. Did the group have any idea -- and if so - what might that mean? A few questions into the conversation and that was determined. They were interested in "Rosie." I felt a shiver as I realized that I might still be a surprise.

I would not wear my simple black crepe suit with mandatory string of pearls and black suede pumps (pure Betty) as planned, and would instead go in full regalia as Betty the park ranger -- hatted, badged, and properly uniformed. There was some comfort in that. I recalled a colleague saying that she was (at heart) very shy and that she could face public demands with far more confidence when uniformed. I needed to do the same in this moment of uncertainty.

At around noon I drove to the El Cerrito BART station, parked conveniently, checked to be sure that I'd remembered to bring along brochures and friend, Jane Stillwater's, newly-published book, "Bring Your Own Flak Jacket!" to read en route, and boarded the crowded train for the trip across the bay. It was filled with families from the surrounding East Bay suburbs headed for Fleet Week activities in the City. Remembered then that the Blue Angels would be streaking through the skys in another hour or so and hoped that I'd catch a glimpse of them, too. It could hardly have been a more beautiful day with a more perfect blue sky as a canvas upon which to paint their death-defying aerial maneuvers.

After boarding at the Del Norte Station and working my way gradually back through the many bodies blocking the aisle, I managed to find a place to stand where I could hold on. Being accustomed in recent years to having young people rise to offer their seats to me (the elder), it was a surprise to find myself standing all the way to San Francisco's Embarcadero station. It was the uniform! In my full regalia I surely didn't give the impression that I needed the particular consideration commonly held in reserve for the old and the infirm. I'd given up my senior advantage and felt silently amused. I stood just a bit taller in my boots which I planted firmly -- feet some distance apart -- and precariously balanced my way under the bay and into the city for the next twenty minutes.

Once out into the sunlight at the Civic Center I, again, marveled at the site of those magnificent structures that make up the site of the political and cultural life of this great city; walked past the Bill Graham Auditorium and remembered this colorful entrepreneur who lent so much color and character to San Francisco of the Sixties and beyond. Felt properly dwarfed by the huge S.F. Public Library on my right just before the scene enlarged into the mall across from City Hall with its usual collection of citizens gathered on the front steps marking something of importance by their presence ... then I saw them. The Mall lawn on my far right was covered by maroon-robed monks with their supporters (also wearing colors) chanting in support of... then I remembered the plight of Burma (Myamar?) and felt a chill as the first of the practice runs of the Blues Angels split the sky with their thunder -- a grim reminder of the world at war -- yet again.

Walked hurriedly past the Mall toward McAllister and Van Ness where a young man waiting for a bus stopped me to ask if I had (no, not money) something he could read. He'd seen my clutch of brochures held tightly. Ranger-like, I stopped to hand him one with a warm feeling. We made eye contact and in that flash of an instant -- made human contact. It felt good. The stranger's bus approached and as it noisily lumbered past there emerged -- less than 100 feet beyond -- today's destination. I had to stop for the crossing signal which gave just long enough to get the full impact of the gold lettering above the stairs that spelled out, " Herbst Theater, Art Museum, then -- the War Memorial.

Upstairs in Room 212 -- I, Betty Reid Soskin, "Woman of Color," would soon meet with the San Francisco Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and I'd (as promised) left Marian Anderson at home... .

San Francisco never disappoints.

Today would hold no exception.

Been nursing a cold all week, and am now up against a commitment that is probably the reason for the virtual collapse into a sniveling matriarch ... .

Within the next few hours I'll shower and dress to take BART across the bridge to San Francisco where I'm scheduled to address the Daughters of the American Revolution at their monthly meeting. Superintendent Martha Lee has assured me that I can handle this. I hope I'm worthy of that trust. The event is being held at the War Memorial Building in the Civic Center. And if that isn't enough to curl my toe nails, I'm doing it alone. My partner, Lucy, is on a panel at the Mosconi Center at a conference of landscape architects.

I'm not at all sure what I will say, and will sure try to remember not to mention Marian Anderson ... .

But I'll try to report on this new adventure later this evening.

Oh my!

Author, Emily Yellin, of "My Mother's War" giving her address at Friday evening's Gala banquet hosted by the Rosie the Riveter Foundation.











Photos by Tom Butt, Richmond City Councilman.

Photo 1: Representative George Miller speaking at the "Launch" on Saturday afternoon.

Photo 2: Inside the Craneway at the beautiful Ford Building on Sunday. Rosie's came from faraway places to be celebrated at the 1st Annual Home Front Reunion. This magnificent historic structure will eventually house the Reception Center for the Park.

It's over! The great 1st Annual Homefront Festival was hugely successful -- and will take its place now as "Tradition!"

...and that's precisely the way it felt; like we were in on the birth of something immensely important. Every moment was filled with meaning and every person who stood witness seemed to reflect it.

After months of preparation; seeing things fall apart; dealing with missteps and challenges; starting over a million times; then learning to trust that somehow it would all work out; the sheer act of faith of every such endeavor. The National Park Service was everywhere, beautifully efficient, proud, excited, and ready to serve. It was our moment.

On Friday evening the invited guests (corporate types, community and business leaders, elected officials, etc.) gathered in the magnificant Albert Kahn-designed Ford Assembly Plant re-named "Ford Point") for an elegant Gala banquet hosted by the Rosie Trust. This is the Foundation formed to support the work of the park. I was a guest of historian, Tom Debley, of the Kaiser Permanente Corporation at a special KP table -- one of several. The house was sold-out and the ambiance like nothing I've ever felt in this city. Success and goodwill have arrived on the wings of the establishment of this long-awaited new national park, and that feeling was reflected in the faces of all those gathered.

The guests had come from as far away as Washington, D.C., and represented the National Parks Foundation, the Kaiser Permanente Corporation, the Coalition of Kaiser Permanente Unions, PG&E national leadership, local and regional banking industry reps, Chevron-Texaco Refineries, regional Chambers of Commerce, the Council of Industries, etc. These were the board members of major contributors who may hold the future of our park in their hands over these next years of our early development. This was an incredible start to partnerships that see our work as a vitally important contribution to the telling of the stories of this nation for posterity.

What an honor.

Sunday morning brought together from the far away places, at least 150 "Rosies," in a reunion that would last from eleven o'clock in the morning until three in the afternoon. They came in on two feet, in wheelchairs, with walkers, many supported by family members, and all beaming and eager for recognition -- finally!

I shared emcee duties with Kaiser historian, Steve Gilford, with whom I've been working for weeks in preparation for this new role. Steve and I and Artistic Director of the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts, Jordan Simmons, had created a program for the day that would feature young actors from the Center reading from oral histories; Steve doing historic pieces, vintage music, and reminiscences from those gathered. We might have done well to have skipped everything else and just turned the mike over to the women who'd come to be honored.

It was my job to move about the audience with a microphone as hands were raised to share memories evoked by Steve's factoids ("who was the original Rosie? What about rationing?, where were you on December 7th?" etc.). Mattered not what the subject was, as the mike was placed before them almost every woman started with, "...I worked in shipyard (or aircraft plant, or munitions factory, etc.) as a riveter (welder or bucker or dispatcher, or, etc.) and off she went! There was no need for prompting. They were there to tell their stories and little else mattered. Finally the nation was taking the time to listen. What a moment to be a part of! One woman started her statement with "... my husband recently died, and..." at which point she dissolved into tears -- my arms went around her, automatically. In that moment she granted permission to every other women in the room to be real and to use the moment in ways that held meaning for themselves.

They'd been primed by the Ken Burns' series that is being aired nationwide and further encouraged by this weekend's homage to their service when the country beckoned long ago.

The universal theme for the poignant and beautiful story of the afternoon was, "...why did our country wait so long? When will this Reception Center be completed? It was clear that each feared that she would not live to see it fully operating and felt frustrated. How sad! But that will be true for me, too. I can only be grateful for the chance I'm having to be in the middle of the work of moving that reality "with all deliberate speed."

We'll have to pray that this dream has a better chance of being realized more rapidly than that other dream -- the one projected by Brown vs. the Board of Education that appears to have been gradually derailed over time.

What a wondrous day it was for us all. What a wonderful future lies ahead; if we can only move fast enough now for those heroic women of the WWII Homefront to see it unfold -- with "Rosie" on the marquis.

Will try to recapture some of the highlights of the weekend -- with photos -- but right this minute I'm a little too close to it -- and find myself blinded by the muchness of it all.

I'm being strangely tearful today ... yesterday was my birthday ... and ...

I'm guessing that this is the result of weeks of re-living the war years. I'm feeling an insistent rage that won't be quieted. It's almost as if I'm being two people simultaneously ... a 20 year-old homefront worker experiencing the humiliation of those years while being a respected elder American woman with every right to feel humiliated! Only problem is that this small body is a little crowded and this age-sharpened mind is rebelling at the imposition.

On Friday evening I watched the second documentary, "The Bay Area At War" I believe it was; the hour-long production of Channel KQED in San Francisco. I watched myself doing this truncated version of "Betty at War" and felt more anger than pride, and hated myself for not being able to enjoy the public exposure.

On camera was my longtime friend, Vangie Buell (I knew her as Vangie Elkins) of the old Berkeley Co-op days. She was telling the story of her father, a Filipino serviceman in the war who had been the cook of Admiral Nimitz. It was another of those tragic tales that illustrated the irony of "The Good War." Her father is buried at the Presidio in San Francisco after serving, eventually, as a fine musician in the Navy Band. The Admiral having made the exception for him and intervened so that he could do so. That was when the tears began to fall.

I was reminded of Mel Reid, my young husband, who refused to serve as a messman when he'd volunteered to fight for his country. I remembered his shame upon the return home to Berkeley after being "honorably" discharged after 3 days of shameful interrogation at Great Lakes Naval Base in Illinois. He'd felt so ashamed and I'd felt so angry -- and here were all those tears sitting behind my eyes for 67 years waiting to burst forth. I hadn't cried then. I did cry on Friday night -- but not in shame but in rage! Mel went to his grave in 1987 still silent about his failure to serve his country in 1942. His country had failed him.

I didn't see the end of Friday's documentary. After a time I simply couldn't watch. The ego satisfaction of seeing myself on the small screen didn't hold up under the emotional stress of the painful memories.

I lay on my bed with Dorian on her futon beside me -- sound asleep -- and wondered how I'd make it through the next ten days of the Ken Burns documentary dominance of the airways; and the Home Front Festival next weekend? Soon after ten o'clock dear friend, cousin Doug, called and we chatted for a long time. I said nothing about my increasing distress. But having someone to talk with about almost anything before falling into a fitful sleep felt comforting.

Yesterday I kept an appointment with the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts actors who are going to be performing at next week's Reunion at the Ford Building. I listened to them doing readings from the Bancroft Library's oral history project transcripts. They were wonderful. The material was stunning and memorable. In the middle of that two of my co-workers arrived with celebratory birthday cupcakes and lots of singing of good wishes and I felt properly celebrated and a bit more relaxed. But I was surely aware of the growing storm inside.

(But then, unwisely perhaps, I went home and watched an hour or so of the coverage of the demonstrations at Jena, Louisiana, on behalf of the Jena 6.)

With spirits bolstered by the lovely tribute, I changed my mind about not attending the Richmond Museum of History's opening reception exhibiting a selection of the wonderful children's art from World War II. About 50 pieces of the 4000 recently discovered -- were tastefully hung on backgrounds of bright primary colors. This would be the community's first viewing of the work. I adore children's art. But the art didn't work its magic, and I soon found myself quietly raging inside. I looked around the gallery and noticed that I was the only African American in the room of perhaps 60 people. I recalled that the Maritime Child Development Centers were not open to black children and therefore, why would the African American community feel any relationship to any of this?

This city, after all, for African Americans is only 67 years old -- dating not from its founding in 1905 -- but from 1941, the time of the great migration west. Despite the fact that the old Carnegie Library building that now holds the Richmond Museum of History holds little of relevance to today's multiracial population. Its board of trustees and its staff does not reflect today's demographics at all. The building and its occupants cringe fearfully at the corner of old Fourth Street Park, a scarred and desolate hangout for the homeless, the disenfranchised, and the disaffected -- mostly black.

I could not keep myself from speaking out. When I noticed the guard sitting at the door -- a bulky man with enough armament hanging from his body to protect a regiment -- the anger grew. I was helpless in the face of it. And when the good Dr. Joe Fischer finished his lovely presentation, the words began to tumble out, "...has anyone noticed that we don't in any way represent the demographics of this city?" "Do you know that the period of these lovely children's paintings, according to the dates, was a time when black children were not served by the child development centers -- so therefore no nostalgic parents or descendants to view them with us?"

(I could see Jena, Louisiana's, worried parents of those youngsters facing sentencing, and Mel Reid, and Vangie's father; Ethel Dotson with whom I'd spent a hour only yesterday in a Berkeley hospital where she is terminally ill from cancer she is certain came from her years as a child in the wartime Seaport housing projects that had been built upon contaminated brown-fields; and I knew that they (those in the room) didn't know ... .but I wanted someone to forgive or to be forgiven by... .)

My challenge was taken up by Donald Bastin, the museum's curator, who insisted that none of this was true. That indeed, black families were not discriminated against. He brought forth from the group a former teacher (about my age) who insisted that this was an unfair charge and that there were black children in her classes. She told us that the problem was that you had to be worker at the shipyards in order to find a placement for your child. It felt useless to remind her that there were surely black female workers at the shipyards. Then I began to wonder if I were mistaken? If black women were not hired until late in 1944, would this explain it? I felt embarrassed, but then angrier at being unsure. But then I also knew that this was no myth. That black mothers and grandmothers in this community knew that they were not served by the Maritime Child Development Centers and spoke about it among themselves. It was acknowledged on our bus tours as well by our African American "tourists".

I then reminded myself -- after driving away to cry myself home -- that the period was filled with conflicting truths. That life does not live itself out in prescribed ways, and that I would drive myself crazy if I persisted in dissecting that period of utter confusion. That one cannot make rational the irrational, especially not in retrospect.

Better I should wait until next week's edition the National Park Service's magazine, Common Grounds, is released and I can read myself as I lived it 3 weeks ago when interviewed. Or, listen to myself as NPR reporter, Krissy Clark, and I toured Richmond for some upcoming air time soon. It all makes a kind of sense when I'm responding to questions of others about the period. It's when I sit alone with my own thoughts that it gets bottled up and implodes.

Just sobbed my way through a long distance conversation with my son, Bob, who was calling with a "Happy Birthday, Mom." He was wonderful and supportive and maybe the tears were just a case of "... but my birthday was yesterday and I didn't hear from you." Sometimes it's just that simple. And that complex.

Maybe... .

Picked up the Sunday S.F. Chronicle and nowhere in the two-page spread was my photo ... .

This is as it should be, I guess. When the photographer called on Friday afternoon to tell me that the editor wanted to use my photo (and it was then that I reminded him to have the editor look at the blog entry of 3/15/2007), it was all over. The decision to use other subjects was made and I (probably rightly) ended up on the cutting room floor.

It feels right. I would have felt hypocritical at best, and compromised at worst.

I really must watch the complete Ken Burns series when it airs next week, so that I can begin to put away some of the long-held anger, finally, lest it move through me to the next generation. There is surely too much of that already in the world. My children and grandchildren will need to process the wars of their generation, and come to terms with their roles in it, or lack thereof.

There's still work to do. This afternoon I'll attend the meeting of black leaders who are coming together to discuss the issue of illegal immigration.

And I'm still not sure of my position. I have a lot of listening to do -- this one will haunt me in days to come; I'm certain of it.

In the interest of full disclosure ...

I found myself suggesting to the S.F. Chronicle photographer who had arrived at my cubicle to take me on a photo shoot for this weekend's spread on the Ken Burns' epic -- that he check out my blog. I was uncomfortable that I'd written a scathing critique on "The War!" back in the spring when I'd been a member of the pre-screening audience at San Francisco's Castro theater. I was furious! (See March 15, 2007 in the archives - "Betty bitchin' in the balcony!")

I wasn't all that sure that they'd want to use me as their subject after reading what I thought of the Burns documentary. After all this spread is to be published in support of the presentation of the 15-hour series (check your listings for times and dates in your area).

In subsequent days I've been increasingly unhappy with the fact that the Latino community had raised so much hell that Ken Burns had eventually succumbed to the criticism and gone back into the studios to increase coverage of their role in the war. Where was my community? Why was there no outcry from African Americans? In seeing just pieces of each segment that night, had I simply not seen the story of the black experience? Was I grossly unfair to Ken Burns?

As I write this, I have no idea whether the writer (the photographer mentioned that the story would be done by one of the staff writers) read that piece and therefore decided to edit out all references to me, or, if he had decided to ignore the rantings of an old woman and written his story using existing online information from my blog or oral history from the Bancroft Library. Have no idea. I do know that he did not call for an interview. But I'll pick up a copy of the Sunday Chronicle and learn whether I wound up on the cutting-room floor after all.

If it means a retraction of my impressions of the Ken Burns epic, ... that's not possible. When I went back to re-read what I'd written that night, it felt real and true, and an accurate description of how it felt to sit in the back row of that balcony and have all of the pain of rejection and humiliation rise again in my throat, feel the rush of blood block my ears against the sounds around me, and threaten to cut off my breathing -- and to be unable to scream lest I embarrass myself and those around me... .

The story of our lives ... .

There has never been a time when I've had more to write about ...

Yet I'm finding it impossible to write -- from the center of a vortex. My fingers freeze over the keyboard, and I sit here in virtual silence while my brain races on wildly! So much is happening to me at a time when everything I know would suggest the opposite should be true at this stage in life. This writer's block has been true for two weeks now, and there seems to be little to be done about it.

I'm learning that "celebrity" is neither comfortable nor a guarantor of self-confidence. I'm forgetting things and losing a sense of control over small but important facets of my life. I worry that the confusion is less related to the multiple demands on my psyche and more by my newfound fame. It may be no more than the simple fact of aging. Is it beginning to happen now -- after this long stint of slipping by the physical and mental slowdown being experienced by so many of my contemporaries?

I vacillate between wanting to proudly preen in my fancy ranger uniform and distinctive hat and hiding under my desk or losing myself behind the screen of my computer for hours at a time. I've gradually grown used to telephone calls from reporters and columnists -- but always with the nagging question about where they all were when I was 26 -- 36 -- and surely just as aware and thoughtful as now; though surely without the experiences of later life which defined me.

And what of all the Bettys in all of the towns throughout the nation, young black women with the potential to be special and who were doomed to marginal back room jobs in marginal back room facilities, or other people's kitchens, of making beds in hotel rooms, because of skin color, alone? What a tragic waste of human potential to the nation! And it continues ... .

I feel so ordinary in so many ways, yet here they are with their notebooks open and pens poised for my "words of wisdom." I'm fitting into a scenario that is ripe for exploitation -- but only at a time when I'm years past my prime -- and so close to the end of life. Yet -- over the past weeks I've found myself on the front page of local newspapers; on the small screen in several documentaries; being featured as one of three women in a cover article in a national magazine being published this month; and in so many ways, without a firm conviction about my worthiness of such attention. Could this be residual scars leftover from the life of that 20 year-old over-achiever from the blacks-only Boilermakers Auxiliary union hall many years ago? Maybe.

But -- as Cousin Doug continues to say -- "... just enjoy it."

He may be right.

I almost believed him when a night or so ago (while re-playing the daily "movie" against my closed eye-lids just before sleep), there was a flash of insight:

I thought about the experience of watching "California at War," the KCET production in which I am on camera for 3-4 seconds at most. I thought about how impressed I was at the fairness -- the evenhandedness of the documentary in matters of race and ethnicity in the telling of their story. Then it dawned on me that the 3-4 seconds was not the issue at all. It was the fact that those talking heads (and mine among them) were all elderly people who had lived the era either as players or as children whose lives were effected by the war. We were being interviewed many years after the events, and at a time in life when we had nothing to gain by not being completely truthful. Obviously we all were.

After viewing the hours of interviews (mine was perhaps 90 minutes) necessary in order to cull those 3-4 seconds, our individual stories were embedded into the work. We (those interviewed) had created the documentary as surely as those who then applied the technology that gave those stories life. It was our experiences that shaped the work, and it was in the long hours -- the effects of the intimacy of our images and words on the producers -- from the computer screens and storyboards that produced the documentary. The metaphor might be that the interviews themselves were the live embers and that final 3-4 seconds on-screen little more than the (albeit still warm) ashes of the completed on-screen experience.

Now I can hardly wait to see the other documentaries in which my interviews may well have played a similar role; that of influencing the artists and technicians, and ultimately, the telling of the story of that heroic and tragic chapter in the history of the nation.

And -- yes, it's still difficult to write from the center of the vortex. But maybe it's the vortex, itself, that I need to be writing about... .

Photo: Dates from 1942 and is a picture taken at a baby shower for Marguerite Roles, wife of the secretary-treasurer of Boilermakers A-36, the Jim Crow union where I worked as a file clerk during WWII. I am in the front row in the left corner of the screen. Little did I know how time, alone, would transform my life many times over.

Those WWII-related PBS Specials are about to be aired... .

On the weekend of September 29-30th the 1st Annual Home Front Festival by the Bay (www.homefrontfestival.com) will be held here in Richmond. We've been gearing up for it for weeks with bi-monthy meetings now morphing into bi-weekly ones, and at times, daily meetings standing in doorways or quick sessions in the parking lot. It's a crazy time for us all.

The festival will fall during the showing of Ken Burns' epic series, "The War!" with several PBS one-hour local specials airing that week as well. I've been interviewed for at least 3 of those about to be aired.

Received an advance copy of the KCET-TV PBS production on Saturday. This would be the session with the California Connected production crew that came up from Southern California some weeks ago. So much has happened since that time, I had no idea what would show up on the DVD. As it happens, I'm on camera for all of 3 seconds, in two places. In the first -- a single line clipped from the hour-and-a-half of talk is absolutely untrue! They've taken out of context the line, "...African Americans could not live in the city of Richmond." Anyone with half a brain knows that Richmond was the site of the largest HUD program of temporary war housing constructed in the nation and that many of those units were occupied by African Americans. The second line is accurate and I spoke it well through my veil of wrinkles (but didn't my necklace of garnets look great?). It was this, "...it registered on the Richter Scale in Berkeley." That's it; the sum total of my part in the proceedings. This followed scenes of the tragic explosion at Port Chicago in July 0f 1944.

And you know what? It's a great production. It bears the title, "California at War" and is a truly impressive account of the war years with many film clips that I've never seen before, and with an overview of the period that was great. Original music (I think), and the careful and evenhanded telling of the story made this a major production fine enough for Emmy consideration.

Some of the other talking heads were people known to me; Tom Debley, Kaiser Permanente historian; Kevin Starr, esteemed State of California historian; Maggie Gee, of the University of California, Berkeley; and others.

Watch for it. It has already been shown in Southern California -- twice during late August -- and is scheduled for viewing in the Bay Area on September 20, at 3:00 in the afternoon, I'm told, but you'll want to check your own program schedules for changes.

Despite my less than compelling performance, I'm really proud to have been a part of this important work. Now I can't wait to see what the other two documentaries will show. I believe that I'm seen for an additional ten seconds (I'm sure) in both the KTEH (PBS-San Jose) one-hour special, then again in one that was created by KQED (PBS-San Francisco). I'm guessing that -- all together -- my on-screen appearances will amount to less than a minute, and that may be an exaggeration; and it's probably just as well.

It matters not. These are fine documentaries, and to have been chosen to help tell this important story is to be greatly honored by some very creative professionals.

But now I'm real-ly curious ... .

Photo: The launching of the SS Red Oak Victory, one of the last victory ships built in the Kaiser Permanente Shipyards in Richmond. She served as late as the Vietnam War and is presently moored at Shipyard II while being lovingly restored by veterans of the Maritime Service, and others.

The immigration issue keeps gnawing at me. It sits there at the front of my brain waiting to be resolved ...

And -- I surely don't have enough ego to believe that I, alone, can solve it. The problem is that this is one of those times when I have friends on all sides of the issue -- friends whom I respect and admire. It's my own ill-defined position that troubles me.

It came up again for me this week when an invitation arrived announcing a big meeting being held at Easter Hill United Methodist church where the matter will be discussed by leaders of the black community. The questions to be explored are those that I've asked myself repeatedly over time. To hear the opinions of other African Americans who are struggling with the same issues would be extremely valuable. Why, then, have I not responded to the invitation? Why do I remain so conflicted? Did I just accidentally trash the email? Or, does the fact that I did so indicate a reluctance to face my own feelings about it? Interesting questions.

I've rarely ever ducked out on confronting controversial issues -- but this one continues to gnaw at me without resolution.

Think I'll go back to my mailbox -- read it over (if it's still there) and try to struggle my way through it this weekend. I need to know for myself just where I stand -- and in a way that is direct and uncomplicated and that will resonate with my family and friends who still look to me for guidance from time to time in matters of politics.

If I can't find a solid position that I can defend in my present state of mind-- then I must reconsider by re-framing the questions in order to allow myself to change the way I'm thinking about it.

Maybe it is this that is so difficult.

This sure beats the hell outa Bingo Nite at the Senior Center!

I'm not at all sure that this is what is meant by the term "Civic Engagement," but hey ...!

What a party!

Something wonderful is happening in this city, and we're all a part of it. The somber beginnings of the Fourth Street Park's annual picnic and barbecue gave way to a most wholesome and delightful community event imaginable. There were children everywhere, and families; nonprofits tabling and food vendors galore. There was great entertainment from a portable stage -- headed up by the New Orleans Gumbo Jazz Band from who knows where -- who were wonderful followed by the performers from the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts -- located in the Iron Triangle for about 40 years! The music was irresistible and when these photos were taken I'd succumbed to the traditional "Second Line" lure and found myself snaking my way in rhythm with the rest, waving my white rag while dancing along beside Jacqueline Vaca from the Redevelopment Agency twirling her purple umbrella! We circled the park a couple of times dancing to "When the Saints go marchin' in...", gathering more and more folks along the way as the contagion spread and caught others up in the joy of it all.

Back story: Within the first few minutes after I arrived from Berkeley, a photographer/historian friend from U.C. Santa Cruz approached and told me that he'd heard one of the men who hang out in this park regularly say to someone, "...if they wanna do sumpthin' good with this park, we can always do our boozin' someplace else!" Here was someone with absolutely nothing to his name offering to give up even his turf for the good of the order.

But the best was yet to come.

An hour or so later as I walked the long block back to my car -- and in so doing passed an open garage where; sitting in a back corner -- was Mrs. Lillie Mae Jones, matriarch of the Iron Triangle. She has been valiantly battling city hall for many decades for this community and is about to be honored by having a new housing development named in her honor. She has been wheelchair-bound for years and spends almost as much time now in the hospital as she does at home.

Lillie is visibly fragile now, and looks weary and in pain much of the time. I heard my name called while walking past so turned and headed back to where she was sitting in her wheelchair at the back of the garage -- two dogs and a small child huddled nearby. Lillie Mae said little, but waved to the child and asked that she go upstairs and "...get that picture for me." She greeted me with few words -- I sensed that she wasn't feeling well. It was also clear that this encounter was no accident. I waited for the child to return without a lot of talk; just a few pleasantries between us. She had been at the picnic earlier and may have been waiting to catch me in just this way.

When the little girl came back she was clutching something quite small in her little palm which she handed to Lillie Mae who then gave it to me with the words, "...this is my brother. He worked on the Home Front in the war. I want you to have it." Here was what was obviously a treasured possession and this was really a mini-ceremony as she released it to me with great solemnity. It was his worker's badge from Bethlehem Steel Yard in San Francisco. It held a tiny photograph. "I got some other stuff to give you when you have time to stop by." With those few words I felt dismissed. It was a precious moment I won't soon forget.

And now I was quietly pleased that I'd not changed out of uniform. This was an extremely important gift that was being presented not to me, but to an institution. This was gaining status for her now deceased brother by giving this record of his existence and his work to be honored by a federal institution. I could not have been more deeply honored than to serve as the bridge between this remarkable African American woman and a national agency that I'm growing to revere more with each day.

Tomorrow I will go back to take the proper forms that will give even more shape and solemnity to the ritual of the giving of this important artifact to our museum collection. This may be the first such gift we have from an African American male veteran of the Home Front war effort.

Maybe we need to add a chapter to the manual on Civic Engagement that will validate my non-traditional approach.

What an amazing and glorious day!


Photos by Ellen Gailing

Okay, let's get back to the unfolding of my new life as park ranger Betty ...

Over the weekend I got to test my ability to adapt to the demands of being (like comic Kathy Griffin) a "D-list celebrity". It's a mixed blessing. On the one hand I fully enjoy the new respect being shown for the National Park Service and for my role in it. The wearing of the uniform will take some getting used to since hardly anyone is as impressed by it as I am. Truly. I'm in awe of it, and will probably have to watch myself closely for signs of arrogance in the days to come. I feel at least six inches taller, and it is never more apparent than when I'm acting as a tour guide with my ranger partner.

Before I was uniformed, properly hatted, and badged, I sat quietly in one of the seats on the bus (somewhere near the middle) believing that the most important part of my work had already been completed in the managing of the logistics of the tour; taking the reservations; keeping the roster and doing the confirmations; seeing to it that the physical arrangements were properly completed, etc. That was enough. Since by the time all of this was accomplished, I had established a relationship with the 20 "tourists" and it felt right to be a part of the tour, itself. I had become a kind of link between the park and our guests. I saw this as proper civic engagement. That has changed rather dramatically.

Since becoming an authentic tour guide, I stand proudly behind the driver with my co-guide (a fantastic historian and interpreter) who carries the lion's share of the narration, but now I'm actively adding to the presentation; filling in the blanks; sharing my own stories of the period being careful to include any and all references to the racial segregation effects extant during those years. I'm discovering that there were a lot more words under this hat than I've ever have guessed! I'm fast becoming a kind of "authority" on the period, and am finding it easy to do that presentation factually and with little anger or emotion. It has the flavor of being a performance, so to speak. That history simply was. I've arrived at these advanced years with a sense of moral rightness being on my side and with little need to blame. Truth makes its own statement, and I can see people "getting it." What an amazing experience... .

Back to this weekend: I'd been invited to attend the centennial celebration of San Pablo Park in Berkeley. It was to include the unveiling of a huge plaque honoring Mrs. Frances Albrier, legendary activist/feminist who'd played a role in my own life. She was a dear friend of my grandfather, "Papa George" Allen, my best friend in childhood. Frances Albrier was one of the first "Rosies," having actively crashed through the barriers of racism of the unions and gotten herself hired at the Kaiser Shipyards as one of the first black women to get work. It felt right to be there as a uniformed representative of the Rosie the Riveter new national park -- to honor her memory.

Papa George and I would drive out from East Oakland to San Pablo Park in his little Model T every Sunday where I would sashay around the courts and shyly check out the boys (I was about 14) while Papa and uncle, "Daddy Joe" Warnie watched the barnstorming black baseball clubs play the California Eagles. I remember the Birmingham Black Barons well, one of my uncles knew one of the players.

It was those trips to the black baseball games that inspired those two old codgers to go into business together making and selling the most god-awful pralines (pronounced prah-leens, thank you) at the games. I still remember those ghastly bright pink coconut "splats" that would stain your hands for days! I think it took no more than one baseball season to discourage any more concoctions in the ole Kandy Kitchen in Daddy Joe's backyard! But the games went on as did the Penny Ante card games on Saturday nights and our trips to San Pablo park.

This was also the park where the Northern and Southern California African American tennis clubs competed every year with our players, (later Judge and Oakland Mayor Lionel Wilson, Attorney and newspaper publisher, Tom Berkeley, et al) drawing huge crowds of spectators. This park was the background of much of my social life as an adolescent.

It was at San Pablo Park on just such a Sunday that I met Mel Reid, the man I was to marry a few years later. He was a handsome 17 year-old sitting on his bike with the canvas saddlebags holding the newspapers he was delivering that day. He later -- during WWII -- served this same park as its head playground director days while working in the Kaiser Shipyards in Richmond on the swing shift. This was a big one, "nostalgia-wise" for me. So much so that I decided to attend in full uniform. It was a kind of coming home since Frances Albrier was a dear friend of Papa George's with whom he occasionally played cards on weekends.

Once there I felt over-dressed. My "honoring" of their memory was a private thing. I had no reason or need to impress anyone. I'd asked my supervisor on Friday whether I should consider this invitation to attend the Berkeley celebration an official event and she'd given the go-ahead. I was not all that comfortable once there.

The only saving grace was that there were hundreds of children there and seeing little girls glance at me admiringly held its own magic. I'm aware now that each time I'm in a public situation I "announce" the opening of a new career path to those children who have never seen a park ranger of color in uniform and that's a powerful message to send.

In the middle of the ceremony my cell phone rang (wouldn't you know it?) and it was someone from another celebration taking place some miles away back in Richmond -- the annual Fourth Street Park celebration, that I'd never attended before. Being in huge crowds in the infamous Iron Triangle was a daunting experience that I generally opted out of. This feeling had never prevented me from attending meetings at the on-site Nevin Center, even at night, but a festival with its large crowds of revelers was another kettle of fish.

I made a quick decision when a second call came. I would go. It was now early afternoon and the party would be in its early stages and .... but I was still in uniform.


Photo: Proceedings at the Fourth Street Park Festival started with a parade against violence that featured these coffins representing lives lost through street violence in the Iron Triangle over recent weeks. Chilling, but effective. This was followed by prayer and a brief sermon by member of the clergy. An ominous beginning to what turned out to be an absolutely glorious Day!

Back Story ...

Been thinking about that last entry since writing it. As in most instances, it tells only a part of the story. What I need to add is this:

That seemingly irrational legislation that made it impossible for the mentally-retarded to undergo tubal ligation procedures had a reasonable and rational beginning. It was originally designed to halt a cruel practice being forced upon poor and mostly black female welfare recipients who were receiving assistance through the ANC (Aid To Needy Children) program in the State of California. When such young women were seen as drains upon the system by having more children than some well-meaning social worker considered practical -- given their inability to support them financially-- they were often sterilized during a delivery -- and at times, with or without their permission. These dependent and often single women were viewed as using multiple pregnancies to garner for themselves incomes they could not otherwise have earned. They were commonly seen as abusing the system and deserving of their fate; a judgment that may or may not have been warranted, and was certainly questionable.

At some point this was challenged, and legislation came into being that would deny any agency the right to sterilize women -- especially those who were often illiterate or under-educated. The legislation was a perfectly rational answer to an irrational and punitive practice. Unfortunately, the mentally-retarded were caught in the glitch. They still are. I don't believe those laws were ever intended to accomplish what they've imposed on the mentally disabled. And most of us have forgotten how those regulations came into being in the first place and what motivated their passage into law.

The law reads (I'm paraphrasing, of course): "A woman cannot undergo sterilization who is incapable of informed consent."

It was for this reason that I took the responsibility to act on my own and disregard a ruling that I was sure was not reasonable and was quite possibly illegal. I was fully prepared to do it as an act of civil disobedience, with the full expectation that -- if challenged -- I would pay the penalty in order to have the issue addressed and the ruling overturned. I had legal counsel in anticipation of some challenge from those concerned. It didn't come to that, fortunately. It's clear that no one really wants to deal with the issue so it continues to victimize the retarded.

An analogous situation might be the curb cuts that were created to make easier the life of the physically-disabled confined to wheelchairs. No one could foresee that this wonderful and enabling adaptation of street corners would place the blind in jeopardy. Those without sight could no longer be certain when they'd come to the end of a block since a white cane may or may not pick up the curb's edge before its owner stumbled into oncoming traffic ... .

At times the law of unintended consequences can have a cruel and unseen edge.

Sometimes you truly need to go it alone ... with eyes wide open and compassion as a guide. Even then there are no guarantees.

Photo: This is a sculpture that Dorian worked on for weeks. Not sure what it represents, lots of small pieces of wood brightly painted and piled high ... she was very excited for that period and spoke about it in different ways at different times. It was eventually disassembled and became parts of other sculptures ... having many lives. Click on this thumbnail to see the detail. It's quite stunning, I think.

About that admission of having prevented Dorian from having a child ... ever.

As I became aware of the fact that her body was maturing naturally, and that it would follow that her sexuality would begin to emerge. That the hunger for sexual fulfillment would not be denied by her intellectual inadequacies. And that what we were facing was a decision that would be difficult but necessary -- if she were going to be allowed to live out that part of her being that was uneffected by her deficits. It was not her body that was disabled, but her mind.

I began to talk about my new awareness with her social workers and case manager over several months. It quickly became clear that the answers were cloudy and that the professionals (psychologists, social workers, etc.) were terribly uncomfortable with the subject, and that case law would be of little help.

The first shocking discovery came from a conference at Asilomar one summer -- one involving concerned parents and case workers and representatives from a variety of nonprofits and vendors charged with the caring for this population. When I dared to publicly ask my questions in an open session, I found myself pounced upon by several outraged parents wanting me to answer the question (when I asked about the advisability of sterilization), "...and what will you do if she finds a normal man who wants to marry her despite her mental disabilities?" I'd never even imagined such a possibility. It had never dawned ... could such a man be considered normal? What on earth were these kind people suggesting? Was this classic denial?

From a social worker: "Sterilization is against the law in the State of California due to the reality that your daughter is incapable of giving informed consent." Now. This was the awful truth. I would never have guessed at such stupidity. It was ludicrous. She would be forced to procreate, produce another life with no capacity to parent a child. While those who held the power over such decisions wanted to frame the discussion in terms of her inalienable rights, I was equally determined to find someone who would talk with me about her right not to bear children.

In an instant I suspected that such a law could only be enacted by men. Women would never agree to such a travesty. Only a man would believe that women can only be fulfilled by giving birth, and that a woman who did not follow her fate by so doing was not a woman at all. And that to prevent pregnancy in the retarded was cruel and inhumane. Hogwash!

I'd seen a parade of recently-made films romanticizing the developmentally disabled (I Am Sam, Forest Gump), and I was appalled! I loved my daughter too much to ever be persuaded to place her in such an impossible way of life.

As her mother, I was aware that doll play never worked with Dorian. She would bring the dolls to me to be dressed and fed. Problem was that she knew that I was the mother. She had no abstract ability and couldn't envision herself as a mother at all. She couldn't project herself into the future -- couldn't weigh consequences or alternatives (as she still cannot, though she has developed a bit over the years). Was I the only one in that grand hall who knew that?

I came home from the conference. In a few days I found a sympathetic and courageous physician with whom Dorian and I visited several times, until he felt she was reasonably aware of the procedure and why, and it was done. Some days later we saw one of her friends from a former program on the streets near her old group home -- pushing a stroller holding an infant with two small children holding onto her skirts as they found their way home from the grocery store. Such a pity! Her religious parents had insisted upon Sarah's right to bear ... . When the parents are gone, her siblings will fall heir to these children along with their mother -- and the weight of all those lives will move into the next generation for caretaking.

This will not happen to Dorian nor to her brothers. They are free to care for her from a distance -- leaving room for their own lives and responsibilities -- because she has been made as independent as is possible, given her deficits. Their attitude toward her is loving. She is learning -- after a fashion -- to find her own way, albeit it somewhat unsteadily, in the world. To be an artist who may be able to supplement her disability pension and social security through her art plus her share of family assets upon my death.

To any parent among you who may be struggling with a similar responsibility, your answer may not be the one that I've chosen, but I wish with all my heart that I'd known how other parents had responded to these questions when I felt so alone in making these critical choices.

It is to you that I send these words.

Follow your intuition guided by love. You have been given both.

Photo: This is made of mardi gras beads glued to canvas, but she didn't give it a name. It is quite beautiful. It's interesting to me that she deals with abstractions with great ease in her art while incapable of it intellectually. The mind is a mysterious and magical thing ... .

Life has its way of humbling even those of us flirting with true celebrity ...

On this past Monday, even before the confetti had stopped falling -- in fact -- at the very moment that I was standing before the cameras participating in a press conference in nearby City of Oakland's City Hall at the request of Mayor Ron Dellums' office -- it was happening. On the streets of the Iron Triangle in Richmond Dorian was fighting for her life. I wouldn't learn of it for several hours.

For the past year she has been living in public housing in mid-town Richmond as a client of the Regional Center of the East Bay and in the care of the Harmony House program, one of its vendors. The Regional Center is funded by the Lanterman Act of the State of California which was created to support the lives of the mentally-retarded and those living with Autism. She has been supported in this way since she was very young; one of the great programs of this state -- though plagued by ever-increasing budget cuts now for many years. The safety net that this ground-breaking legislation was intended to provide has now all but disappeared, making it almost impossible for its clients to live independently out in communities without almost impossible risks.

Since Dorrie was very young, I've been deeply aware of my responsibility to prepare her throughout life for living without me in it. That has meant teaching her to use the systems in place for her instead of using them myself on her behalf; not an easy assignment. It has been painful at times when it would have been so much easier to do that in ways that lent comfort to my mother's zeal. That would surely have meant holding her in a state of perpetual infancy; intolerable and unfair to her.

This has meant taking risks and at times, going against the professionals in charge of her life. Most times , I've opted to follow my own intuition and bucked the system when I felt it necessary -- like making it impossible for her to produce children in favor of allowing her to live out her sexuality without fear of bringing forth another life that she could not parent; in this state I acted illegally, but I am still convinced, wisely.

The call came on my cell phone. She was sobbing wildly and could hardly speak! She had been attacked on the street and her cell phone taken away. A woman had grabbed her around the neck leaving huge scratch marks where the skin had been torn. She had been pounded on the back with fists and knocked to the sidewalks before being rescued by passersby who rushed her to a home nearby and called the police and fire department to the scene. It must have been horribly frightening! And the little cell phone that serves as the updated version of a virtual umbilical chord to her mother had been seized by her assailant and taken away! Can you imagine the terror for her... .

I made an immediate call to the woman who is charged with directing her life (the director of her program) and who cares for a number of handicapped residents of group homes and individual apartment dwellers throughout the area, all under her supervision. I needed to set her in motion before I -- in my maternal zeal -- swooped in to save my relatively helpless daughter. I would wait until Barbara had responded before moving in. The lesson here is to always make sure that the response came from somewhere beyond me in preparation for the day when I'm no longer around and she then must depend on others. That's probably the most difficult thing to learn in mothering the mentally handicapped. Having to stand back when there's nothing in the world you want more than to sweep in and take charge is almost unbearable! This was one of those times. I withstood the test, yet another time.

I'd seen it coming. It was inevitable. The little one-bedroom apartment she lives in is situated in a gigantic six-storied building originally intended as senior housing. However, over the years and after many series of state budget cuts, it now holds about 70% of seniors eligible under public assistance guidelines intended to care for those in the lowest-income brackets, with the rest of the residents made up from handicapped adults, ex-offenders and recovering addicts. A lethal combination, right? Combining the most risky of adults with the community's most vulnerable is a prescription for disaster.

And disaster struck.

Dorian.

I have an appointment at Monday noon -- to have lunch with the director of the city's Housing Authority. I've invited him in order to talk about that policy. Maybe I can put a face on it by talking about the woman from the third floor who was the assailant -- just a block or so away from the Hacienda housing complex. The fact that she'd become an occasional visitor to Dorian's apartment who lives on the floor above -- in order to lift a Nike jacket (a prized possession won at a Special Olympics competition), some lingerie and other small items over time. That Dorian, with her ten-year-old mentality would meet her on the street and demand the return of her things which by now included her cell phone -- with the woman then brutally attacking and beating her badly enough to require a visit to the emergency room.

I'll not go to work in my new uniform on Monday, but will be muted in my serious black suit as an equally serious mother with a cause. Maybe -- quietly -- without fanfare and with nothing more than some common sense I can start the process of getting the bureaucracy to take another look at the human tragedy of bad governmental policy.

Just maybe.

Dorian is at this moment still asleep on her futon in the next room. I've brought her home again to heal. Mostly because of my fear, I'll not return her to her own apartment for another day or so. Her physical pain is about over, and I don't know what she has learned from the awful encounter. She seems relatively calm and expresses little fear at this point. But I don't know if that's a good thing. There are some things that warrant fear and that her mental capacity doesn't include. One has to be above an IQ level of at last 70 points before one is capable of judgment or weighing consequences; a fact that I once read that has always haunted me... .

Photos: On the left is a picture taken at the Special Olympics swim meet at Laney College where she won two first places ribbons and a third; though in these events everyone receives ribbons. Medals are pretty meaningless except as ornaments within this context. I've always loved that about these games where cooperation is valued over competitiveness.

Right: Dorian the NIAD artist (National Institute for Artists with Disabilities) proudly holding one of her happy paintings called "Lion with Rainbow."

Oh, I did inquire about whether restrictions against blogging might be in order now that I'm working for the national park service, officially.

It appears that -- as long as I use common sense there are no ethical issues involved, so until further notice, I'll try to trust that my judgment is sound enough to protect me from any indiscretion.

I'm guessing that blogging is a relatively new phenomenon, so hasn't had time to get into the rule books yet. Maybe if I were to ask that question a year from now, there would be regulations and codes to cite that would govern content to some degree.

I've already noticed just a hint of self-censoring when I'm under that hat. I feel about a half-inch taller and may find myself intimidated from time to time, simply because of the uniform and the feeling of responsibility to those around me who are also badged and hatted. I suppose it's a bit like being in the armed services, though that's beyond my personal experience.

I'm also aware that -- as a woman of color -- my very presence in a room in full regalia sends a message to every youngster within reach that they, too, can dare to consider this career path. Maybe that's the great message of that front page story.

Perhaps that's not such a small thing ... more than just another slow news day.

If you were to look up a definition of the phrase, "...it was a slow news day," this is what you'd find ...

Last Sunday (a week ago) there was a fairly modest story about our tours in the West County Times with an equally modest photograph of yours truly. I knew that it was coming having been forewarned by the columnist who had ridden along on one of our tours a couple of weeks before. I'd been prepared for that. What I wasn't prepared for was the following day (on Monday) when -- on an errand through the reception area of the city manager's outer office -- I caught just a glimpse of this edition of the Oakland Tribune among the collection spread out on a large round table -- of regularly displayed daily newspapers that are subscribed to for the city hall staff. I was stunned for just a minute. It couldn't be, yet it was. The front page lead article with a photograph covering the 4 first columns both above and below the fold with a continuation of the story on page 9!

It was the very next day, on Tuesday, that we woke to the news of the death of legendary San Francisco Forty Niners coach, Bill Walsh -- and the passing of brilliant movie director, Ingmar Bergman. Within 48 hours Oakland Post managing editor, Chauncey Bailey was gunned down cruelly on a street corner.

As it turned out, the article with photos apparently appeared throughout the Bay Area since I heard from friends in both the Diablo Valley and Marin County. The Oakland Tribune is one newspaper in a large family of papers that are distributed throughout the area.

Not sure what it all means, but the thought that rises above all others is that it was, indeed, a very slow news day.

...but out of it comes an invitation to be the object of Show and Tell at my granddaughter's elementary school. After all, how many fifth graders do you know with grandmothers who are park rangers?

Do you suppose that blogging is out of bounds for us Park Rangers?

When completing the multiple forms required for the federal government in order to be placed on the federal payroll I found myself wondering ... ? It could well be that I saw no rules about blogging because the regulations and ethics codes simply haven't caught up with the technology -- and now that I'm no longer an independent contractor working for the National Park system -- will I be breaking some arcane rules if I continue to discuss my work in the public arena? It will be difficult to leave out such a primary part of my life and still share in any meaningful way.

I understand about the need for discretion and how not to accept an honorarium, etc., that was a necessary part of the State of California ethics code under which I worked for many years. What's different now? Was I blogging then? I don't think so. I began this journal in September of 2003 -- just after I resigned from my position as staff to a member of the State Assembly.

It's hard to see how I will be able to continue to write without the ability to share what has become my primary role in life. I'm learning so much and having a chance to do great things with such great people -- how can I not talk about it?

It is here that I visit during the rare lulls in my days and weeks -- where I can take the time to think about things that are moving so fast -- where I can sit at my computer and mull over the highs and the lows and digest so much that is so fluid -- like quicksilver slipping away -- often before I can properly integrate it. Without this magical keyboard, I'm not sure that I could process it all -- download it into my MAC and prepare for another round when the decks (and my mind) have been cleared at intervals.

I asked someone from our management team to check out the regs and to let me know whether I should drop current events and return to writing poetry or maybe take up transcendental meditation!

I'll let y'all know after they've had time to discuss it at a staff meeting soon. I suspect that I'm the only blogger among them, so there are no precedents. It's quite possible that the Department of Interior just hasn't caught up with me!

Betty the Park Ranger

Just returned from another of our wildly successful NPS bus tours ...

Today's was another in a yearlong series of bus tours that began as an experiment designed to involve the Richmond community in park-building with us. Unlike other national parks, Rosie the Riveter is situated on scattered sites throughout the city, and where the NPS owns little or nothing. There are no scenics falls or canyons, no Mt. Rushmores or Old Faithfuls or Civil War Battlefields, or parades of statuary on the Capitol Mall. The area was congressionally designated without precise boundaries. We do have the Rosie Memorial at the shoreline which was its genesis. We're defined by rusting still-existing structures from the World War II period that are privately-owned or are the property of the Redevelopment Agency, the City of Richmond, or organizations that purchased them to be adapted for other more current uses. Therefore, with a variety of partners -- we're co-creating a new national park -- and making it up as we go along. I don't remember ever a time or project that created more interest -- either in me -- or in those who are sharing the adventure with us. Little-by-little, this park is being defined by the human stories it is yielding -- with the structures, the shipyards, SS Red Oak Victory, the Kaiser Permanente and Maritime housing, the beautiful Ford Assembly Building (and the site -- eventually -- of our Reception Center), medical facilities, and prefabrication sites providing the background to those stories.

It is all so fluid at this point that it's is hard to see what form it will eventually take, which makes it all the more exciting. We're building ourselves a national park and you can feel the excitement as it unfolds and takes shape before our eyes with each of these trips into the past.

We're still in the process of identifying those relevant sites that are scattered throughout the city, and in order to do that, we invite groups of folks to board our small bus (18-passengers), and for 3 hours follow a guided tour during which (if we're lucky) our "tourists" slowly become participants in the re-living of the story of the Home Front experience from as many angles as there are people on the bus. The experience is astounding!

The fact that we're re-living times that were triumphant when viewed from the perspective of the progress made in the shipbuilding industry; times that were excruciatingly painful for the black community that entered into one of the greatest migration stories in our nation's history; a time so devastating for the Japanese-Americans shamefully interned in relocation centers for the duration; and a time that was so freeing to the women who were entering the nation's work force for the first time ... with each bus load carrying at least a few who lived some parts of those stories. Layer-upon-layer we've been peeling the onion back to a time of unprecedented social change in the nation's history, and doing it honestly, with candor, and without rancor.

Initially, it was my role as a community outreach consultant to create each group by invitation. Over the past year our past and present mayors, city manager, most department heads, some city council members, school teachers, business and professional leaders, church folks, a few teens mixed in with others, elders, all in a healthy mix of races and ethnicities have come along for the ride. There have been to date over two hundred "tourists." At one point in doing my audit I discovered to my joy that exactly 52% of our riders were African American. In lesser numbers were Latinos, with the rest of European descent. But then I was carefully controlling the makeup of the groups -- being careful to have them balanced racially, and in every other way possible. It worked beautifully. But there were some who were missing. We've had few people of Asian ancestry and none of the newer immigrants; the fairly large Sikh community or an equally substantive community of Laotians that arrived in the Bay Area as refugees after the collapse of the Vietnam War. These groups, of course, are a part of the more current migration story -- but perhaps it's too early for that kind of interpretation. We'll have to work on it.

Over the past month, we've opened the tours up to the general public. No more choreographing. Flyers were sent out. Announcements were made through the media, and a great item was published in the local newspaper by one of several reporters who've joined us from time to time. The response was overwhelming, so much so that the six tours (3 each in July and August) were oversubscribed within 4 hours of the article's release. All week I spent much of my day returning telephone calls to would-be "tourists" explaining the dilemma and promising to add their names to a bulging Wait List. But the past two groups have been totally European-American without a single person of color on board. Interesting. But not to worry. We're allowing folks to self-select now and our next scheduled group will be larger (27) and will consist of 10 African American members from Easter Hill United Methodist Church among others, a Japanese American woman from Berkeley, and a family of 3 Chinese-Americans who have history as workers on the Home Front. Another tour in mid-August will have a group of ten African American teens (14-17) from a training program -- with their director who I believe is from Nigeria. It's an exciting thought that those youngsters will be mixed in with a group of racially-mixed adults in order to encourage the direct transmission of that history to occur. The buy-in by the community is showing up in meaningful ways.

How will we deal with the overflow? Our management team has granted us permission to add two more August dates, and in addition, we're graduating from an 18 passenger model rental bus to one that holds 22 -- and for all 5 tours. However, by the time this was accomplished, my Wait List had accumulated an additional 50 names! Groups are now calling to request permission to come with their own bus (public-address-system equipped), and wanting to know if we can provide guides-only? October will see 40 members of the California Pioneers of Santa Clara County (esta. 1875) touring the still-forming Rosie the Riveter World War II/Home Front Historical National Park with two guides (I'm one) at the helm. Another group of 24 from San Francisco called to ask if we could meet them at the local Bay Area Rapid District (BART) because they like to use public transit when possible... .

And tomorrow's *West County Times Sunday edition is doing a feature story on the park and our tours and then the carefully adjusted expanded system will crash!

Come the last weekend in September we will be hosting with partners (Chamber of Commerce, the City of Richmond, and others) the 1st Annual two-day Home Front Festival. Save the date. And -- only after that date -- after October 1st -- we'll resume public bus tours and, hopefully, we'll have gained control over our popularity and the growing enthusiasm of our audience!

Success is surely the proverbial double-edged sword.

*National Park in Richmond honors women who reshaped workforce during World War II : WARTIME HEROES, The Sunday Times, West County, Sunday, July 29, 2007.
http://www.contracostatimes.com/news/ci_6493746