Talk went well, I think, and I learned some "what not to do" things that will serve me well next time out ... .

There was an interesting group of women gathered in the Rockridge Library yesterday. They came from as far away as Sacramento, Pleasanton, San Jose, and San Francisco. There were a few old and dear friends and some new faces. A reasonable number of the faces that looked like mine. The audience was receptive and easy to connect with -- and the subtle smiles and nods of agreement and grins of relief that I was telling "our" stories with candor and without apology was effective, I think. That I could do this and be appearing before them as a fully-credentialed park ranger held its own power, and I believe spoke well for the NPS.

I'm beginning to enjoy my role and to know how civic engagement and community outreach are implemented in my work life. There is much still be to learned, and not too much time in which to do so, regrettably. Wish I could go back and begin this all again somewhere in my 25th year! The confidence and skills I've begun to acquire are developing too late in life to benefit the work -- work that is so terribly important in these years of monumental change.

Thoughts of all those things I forgot to say haunted me late into the night, but fortunately it isn't too late. There are all those upcoming speaking engagements to prepare for. Yesterday was important in that it enabled me to begin to better shape the message. To have been able to fill 20 minutes with talk and then to handle a Q&A for another 20 was a monumental achievement for one who usually can't fill 6 minutes (before an audience) before going mute!

Discovery: The weight of being the focus of attention for that extended period of time can be overwhelmingly powerful. It was an instant flash -- electric -- something at the psychic level -- unfamiliar. Adrenaline rush? As I became aware of it -- the old reticence clicked in and I unceremoniously (and not too gracefully) ended my talk and dropped into a seat in the front row -- without even a concluding sentence or two. Not even a "thank you" to the audience or to the organization. It was awkward. The woman conducting the meeting asked me to rise again for a Q&A -- and I rose immediately to my feet and took their questions. It was as if the strange sensation had never happened. I'm certain that no one was aware of how that instant response to the realization of the intensity of the moment had effected me. It brought the talk to an abrupt end. I was suddenly quite literally speechless The feeling came and went in seconds -- but embedded within it was sheer panic.

After giving it some thought later -- sipping a hot cup of herbal tea in my pajamas and bed socks -- it occurred to me that -- one who speaks, acts, or performs before audiences professionally -- has probably pushed through that phenomenon to the other side -- and by so doing has been able to transform it into excitement. It must move through from panic to pleasure at some point. If such a transformation does take place, I can readily see where one's ego could become addicted to the experience. It was too new for me to benefit from or to even fully understand.

Next time I'll watch for it and be better prepared to move through it with more grace.

It only took an instant ... but I'll remember.

That's another unheralded thing about aging: I'm beginning to fully realize the preciousness of time. Of perhaps living the last of experiences each time something new or extraordinary happens in my life. There's a kind of savoring ... .

...the smelling of the roses?

Here I sit ... properly uniformed and more than an hour too early to leave
for the Rockridge Library ... .

At two o'clock I'm scheduled to speak before an audience of the San Francisco Bay Area's activist feminists. I need to climb into my Rosie the Riveter persona and talk about the role of women of color on the home front during WWII. Me. Betty the file clerk who never saw a ship!

In order to prepare for today as well as the next several weeks of role-playing, I've been reading feminist literature well into the night (Emily Yellin, Gretchen Lemke-Santangelo, Karen Anderson). Somewhere along the line I've come to the conclusion that -- whether or not I felt worthy of the attention -- a soapbox has been created upon which I now stand. I can turn away, or, I can use the power to make a statement for at least some of us. It's all so subjective. There is no way to speak for a generation. And -- I have the uncomfortable feeling that I'm only here by default -- having outlived most of those other voices.

It brought to mind something I'd not thought about in years:

It was in the Sixties. The drums of the coming Civil Rights Movement were easily heard by those who knew what to listen for. The McCarthy Un-American Activities Committee was meeting in San Francisco. There were demonstrations everywhere and the one on Cadillac Row was most often in the news. There were many African Americans seen on the daily television news.

We were living then in the suburbs (all-white) and I found myself -- in my liberal Unitarian- Universalist community -- being constantly asked to explain it all. At first it puzzled me. I knew no more than what I read in the daily newspapers; as they did.

One day I drove to the church office to talk with Rev. Aron Gilmartin (my dear friend) to tell him that I was planning to go to San Francisco that day to join the demonstrators. I feared that I might be arrested and that my children and my family wouldn't know where I was. When he asked for my reason I found myself saying, " ... I live out here miles from the scene of the action. I'm being asked everyday for explanations about what's happening by my white suburban friends. If it it I who is being asked the questions, then it is I who must go there and find the answers. This may be the role of a middle-class suburban black citizen. I'm living among those who hold the power to bring the changes being demanded by those who are demonstrating. I need to become informed. No one is going to cede power to a guy with a brick in his hand.

Maybe that's what today is about. My role on the home front effort was barely minimal. Filing change of address cards and collecting dues in a powerless Jim Crow union hall may have been most forgettable - but even there I was an unknowing witness to history being made.

Today the more memorable (white) "Rosies" who actually wielded the rivet guns that built the ships are rare and in many cases, no longer able to participate in such events.

If it is I who hold the power of the soap box -- then (maybe) it is I who should voice that history for those no longer able to; warts and all.

We were a heroic generation of women; and maybe not always for the reasons that history has assigned to us.

Rose this morning after a sleepless night fully intending to go back to re-read some of the lines in those marvelous books that I'd highlighted so carefully in preparation.

Instead I came into my den -- turned on my computer -- clicked into one of my favorite sites -- online Solitaire -- and have been playing for all of the hours since!

Now it's nearing one o'clock and I'm back at my keyboard gathering my thoughts -- and feeling overwhelmed but ready to set out into another rainy day ...

Maybe all I need to do is tap into whatever is waiting behind my eyes ...

then I'll listen for the music ... .

I really shouldn't wait so long to post ... so much is happening in my life right now ...

The effects of the AP (Associated Press) Rosie coverage are sweeping across the country as newspapers pick up the stories in their own time and as space permits. The interviews were done many months ago -- some time last summer -- but almost every day there is another article published somewhere that brings more attention to our work. It begins to appear that Rosie the Riveter is enjoying a revival and I'm being swept along with her. That, combined with the Martin Luther King holidays and Black History Month, has created a demand that has catapulted me into competition with Brittany Spears for news space! You simply wouldn't believe ... .

Last week it was an "at home" interview for a television series on East Bay Area black pioneers (complete with a lead story and photos in the local press), and on the coming Saturday I am the speaker for the Black History Month program for the National Organization for Women (NOW) and a sponsoring group of six other women's groups including the Association of University Women; the National Women's History Project; Women of Color; etc., which has me hopelessly intimidated. I've been interviewed by Women'sRadio.com; will serve on a panel at the Oakland Museum on the subject of the role of African American women in WWII on February 25th; and I'm the luncheon speaker for the West County Welfare Department at the end of February. In addition I'll be speaking for the spring luncheon of the Association of University of California retirees in mid-March and as the Women's History Month lecturer for the US Department of Agriculture as well. A formidable list of activities and one which has my children and grandchildren shaking their heads in utter disbelief.

Next week I'll travel with two other members of our staff to the Grand Canyon for a two-week training course for the National Park Service. I've never seen the Grand Canyon so it's thrilling to anticipate. However, I found myself resistant at first on the basis that -- as a taxpayer -- I strongly objected to having my tax dollars used for such a silly purpose. After all, what in the world could possibly justify someone my age being trained for anything? I'm at the far end of a long career and have received such an extended stay already that any more can hardly be justified. It was humbling to hear these words, "...it works in more ways than one, Betty. Perhaps students might benefit through interactions with you." Another way to give back? For whatever reason, it felt comforting and most flattering to hear those words and no further urging was needed. My son, Bob, has agreed to come up from San Juan Bautista to stay in my apartment to be near Dorian, and I'm free to go. I've never been away from her for so long. So I'll fly out on the morning of February 11th and will report when I get back on the 23rd.


A sobering development: Received a call at my desk this afternoon from a member of staff from the Oakland Museum who was calling to complete plans for the public event on February 25th. She was asking if I would be willing to do a promo for a local television channel -- but mostly she was calling to let me know that I am the only panelist scheduled to appear on February 25th as of today. She wanted me to suggest another women of color (or two) who might appear on stage with me to talk about the war years. It sounded strange. I'd naturally assumed that the panel would consist of several women ... then it came. "We had two other women scheduled but they both died since the invitation was extended some months ago."

How bewildering ... .

Women of the period of WWII are dying off now which makes me, officially, a survivor. That's a new thought. I guess I've never really thought of the word in connection with myself. I'm becoming increasingly aware that death extends no special privileges to minor celebrity nor to good works. That, along with the billions of departed souls over time, I, too, am inexorably tied to this cosmic waltz and payment may soon be exacted for having participated in the dance.

Tonight I'm feeling quite vulnerable ... and old ...

but I can still hear the music ... .


Photo: Crossing the bridge at Selma, Alabama, and Rosa Parks on that fateful afternoon that launched the Montgomery bus boycott.

A week filled with pleasant surprises ... .

Did two long-distance interviews on Wednesday; each quite different, and both really interesting.

By prearrangement, and having grown out of an Associated Press story that broke in various places over the past weeks, I'd received a call from a young teacher in a high school in Bakersfield, California. This is the last major valley city before one reaches the "Grapevine" a mountainous drive that forms the entrance to Los Angeles County. I know little about Southern California but would have thought it to be relatively conservative, politically. This is surely a misconception, judging by this experience with the educational system.

The teacher told me that her history class had been studying the period of World War II, had come across the story about Rosie the Riveter Home Front Historical National Park (in which I'm quoted pretty generously), and would love to interview me by telephone, if possible. Of course -- this had to be a great example of civic engagement, right?

We agreed upon a time -- 3:00 on Wednesday -- when I would be in my office undisturbed and without interruption. In preparation the students prepared and emailed ahead a series of questions that would be asked (heaven bless technology!).

At the appointed hour I sat with notes in hand and when their call came I felt a moment of panic as I remembered my last assignment at the charter school where I'd not felt totally successful. But I should not have worried. It was quite wonderful.

Three young girls acted as interviewers. They asked their questions -- but then I asked mine. I learned that this class had studied the Civil Rights Movement, were familiar with the Little Rock Nine (I believe), and were at the moment in the middle of Dr. Robert Allen's book, "Mutiny at Port Chicago." They were knowledgeable about the subject -- and they were keenly interested. It was a wonderful meeting of the minds. I enjoyed every minute of it.

Those young people provided a model for sharing that history across the generations with high school classes; something I'll build on. Sitting alone in an office being a disembodied voice speaking into a communication device that amplified the incoming voices so that it feels as though we're all in the same room ... any self-consciousness drops away. Even knowing that they were taping the interview for further study added no pressure to speak of.

Later that evening there was another interview, this time for WomensRadio.com, a promo for an upcoming Black History Week speaking engagement for the National Organization for Women (NOW). This time the audience would be unseen and out there somewhere in the ether -- and I'm not sure when it will be aired. But it also went well. The interviewer had a friendly voice and asked reasonable questions that allowed space to make my points easily. Under ordinary circumstances this would have caused some anxiety, but because of the earlier experience with those youngsters -- I felt capable and worthy of being listened to.

Had no idea that I'd live long enough to BE black history -- or that I'd grow into the age where one begins to get credit for being able to tie your own shoes!

What on earth could the tragic August death of the Oakland Post columnist Chauncey Bailey; St. Benedict's Catholic Church, and Monarch butterflies have in common?


They all became a part of my kaleidoscopic mind during the services held yesterday for my newly-found and forever lost cousin, Rae Louise Hayward.

Rae was unknown to me until earlier this week (as described in the last post).

I learned from our excited long time family priest, Father Jay, on my cellphone on Thursday in the middle of late afternoon freeway traffic -- that he had this very week learned of the passing of one of my cousins. This would be the third such call from someone close to me with the same message. "I learned in a conversation with your cousin, Joyce (Rae's mother), in answer to a casual question during our Monday meeting for the funeral arrangements -- that her maiden name was Charbonnet."

He was stunned. This was his story:

At the time of Chauncey Bailey's tragic murder on Oakland's streets back in August, Rae Hayward (being his close friend) offered to his overwhelmed and grieving family to handle the funeral arrangements and help to plan his memorial service.

St. Benedicts was Chauncy's church home which connected her with Fr. James Matthews. Remember, Rae lived a considerable distance away in the town of Pinole, a half-hour's drive across town in another of the small cities that make up the East Bay Area community.

During the time spent together planning, Rae, whose health was failing from a rare form of cancer she'd suffered since childhood, decided to make advance arrangements for herself with "Fr. Jay." With him she planned her funeral. She, too, would be buried from St. Benedicts. That was August-September. Rae died on January 3rd.

As stated in the previous entry, Rae (and her mother, Joyce) would not know that this was the "church of our fathers," since my father and her uncle, Dorson Louis Charbonnet, was one of its founding members, or, that this was the church of my childhood and that most of the members of our family, including both my parents, were buried from this altar.

Fr. Jay -- who has baptized, married, and buried Charbonnets for many decades; Fr. Jay who had grown up in the East Oakland neighborhood where I'd been a classmate of his parents at Castlemont High School; Fr. Jay who had been "one of us" for all these years -- would officiate. He included some of this in his sermon, including the fact that -- without knowing of her blood ties to St. Benedicts -- she had come home. That --

"in death, she was bringing together for the first time -- the 12th and 13th generations of Charbonnet family members at this very moment and in this place."

I looked down in my hands and noticed that the car keys that I was holding tightly were held together by a giant metal butterfly. The symbolism formed in my subconscious in that moment to appear later in sleep.

I looked around during the singing of Amazing Grace and noticed that this was no longer the building of my childhood (the old modest St. Benedicts held no more than 100 parishioners at any one time); that I didn't recognize these stained glass windows nor this apse or pulpit. I visualized my father, Dorson Charbonnet, solemnly joining his fellow member of the Knights of Columbus as they passed the long-handled collection baskets then retired to the little room at the back of the church to count the collection. I remembered my parents celebrating their Golden Anniversary here in the social hall surrounded by friends and family - his Southern California brother, Melbourne and wife Grace, among them.

I remembered then that the fragile Monarch butterfly whose home is in Canada and up and down the Pacific Coast -- that they travel thousands of miles to end up on a single mountain top in Mexico each year in November. That they cannot fly above a certain altitude and that they mate along the way feeding on nectar. That their individual life span is but 25 days and that those that arrive at the southern terminus of their long migration are not the same butterflies that left the north. They repeat the process on the return journey north; one of nature's great mysteries.

I thought then of Rae Louise Hayward -- then as Fr. Jay lost himself in the liturgical part of the mass (uttering to himself quietly the familiar Latin rite of the offering of the Eucharist -- raising the goblet skyward then accepting the "body and blood of Christ") I found myself moved to a place I hadn't experienced since adolescence. I turned to my niece, Gail, and whispered. "After more than fifty years, I'm going to receive communion." And, this non-believing, atheistic-agnostic, sometimes cynical elder -- drawn by the casket draped with African mud cloth holding a cousin I'd never met -- walked to the altar rail to receive the host from a smiling Fr. Jay. I wondered if he knew that I'd not gone to confession since I was about 16. "Bless me father for I have sinned ..." was a long way from now, and irrelevant in this moment.

Somehow my failure at Catholicism; my stubborn lifelong need to form my own beliefs unrelated to orthodoxy or dogma -- based upon logic and intellect was of little importance. This was much larger than that. What needed honoring in whatever form was at hand was that mysterious blood connection rooted in human relationships and legacy in common -- the importance of being a member of a family which shared genes and dna for centuries, at least since 1620, according to our research. That the lovely woman in that casket and I never got to meet was of less importance than the fact that there in that little church -- we were both at home.

How I wish we'd met -- that she'd known ... but maybe ...

Rae Louise (Charbonnet) Hayward; in death you accomplished the impossible. You reunited your family -- and me with my beginnings -- the how of our journey through this life hardly matters.

Almost there ... .
For a number of years I've been working on the Charbonnet family tree. I knew that the story of my family was fascinating; had hints of a rich Creole culture through my parents, and -- most of all -- through watching my father, Dorson Louis Charbonnet, sitting in the auditorium of the University of California Department of Public Health -- giving six hours of oral history over two days in a student seminar. My psychologist husband, Bill Soskin and his friend, Dr. Leonard Duhl (then head of the department) were the interviewers. This would be the first time I would hear Dad talk about his childhood and family life in New Orleans as a mature woman. (We never listen as children, do we?) I was spellbound. This may have been where my passion for family history got its start. Those interviews were done about 20 years ago, I believe.

I remember that this experience occurred after Dad had lost his sight, so there were long periods where he talked (not being aware of the cameras and microphones) uninterrupted -- into a profound silence. The listening was intense; even my own. I have in my possession those treasured tapes that I need to go back and watch one day soon.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that the research was finally completed and put online in the hope that Charbonnet family members from far and wide would find it and contribute to our story over time. I'd envisioned that we would begin the in-gathering process that would bring the 13-14 generations together over the years and miles of separation. (Link to Charbonnet Pages is located above the archives on the left side of this screen.)

It happened. Cousins popped up from everywhere; many scattered by Katrina and some still in New Orleans living in the painful aftermath. I learned of an anticipated family reunion planned for spring of 2009, and had a visit from a young cousin from Washington, D.C., who is bringing all that together. She plans to return in March to complete her interviews.

Then, only two days ago I received a sad note from a cousin announcing that -- in the bordering city of Pinole (only two miles from my home) -- there had been the death of a family member I've never met . The only information was that she'd died over New Year's weekend and that her family would be coming from Southern California for the funeral services to be held on Friday (1/11). "I'll let you know more when I can, Betty," says Gail. How ironic that it would be the death of this young cousin whom I'd never met that would bring me together with the Southern California branch of the family, whom I've also never met. And, of course, I'll take the morning off to attend.


Then today: A member of city staff whose desk is about 50 feet from my own stopped by my cubby today to ask if I planned to attend the memorial service on Friday for a well known member of the arts community; the woman who had created the annual "The Art of Living Black" exhibition held during Black History Month each year. Something clicked. Could this be? I had no name to go by; nothing but this amorphous "...an unmet cousin who lived in Pinole had died," yet ... .

Can you imagine? This turned out to be Rae Louise Hayward, celebrated artist and former member of the Richmond Arts Center board. Over the years I'd served on the city's Arts Commission and attended many AOLB openings. We'd lived within a stone's throw for at least the past ten years. We've undoubtedly been in the same room many times -- never aware of our biological connections.

Rae Louise Hayward was the granddaughter of my father's eldest brother, Joseph Charbonnet. A few minutes ago I watched two short DVDs on YouTube.com -- both interviews with Rae. Yes, she looks very familiar. How sad that we remained strangers; but how incredible that it will be her death that brings together members of her extended family who might never have bridged the divide except for her passing.

I'm having such mixed feelings of joy and profound sadness for what might have been.


See YouTube.com -- TAOLB: Rae Louise Hayward - 1st Inspiration
TAOLB: 2007 Artist Talk, Rae Louise Hayward

Aha! Eureka! I found it -- the Key to Life! (or maybe just to the fuse box?)

Alright, that's a little excessive -- but I'm onto something huge and I know it. All it took was a power blackout which stilled all sound and movement and created a cocoon in which to fold myself and wait ... .

We're in the midst of what passes as a "major west coast storm" -- an atmospheric condition that would get little more than a yawn anywhere else. Nonetheless the creeks are rising to a threatening flood stage, all of the major bridges have been closed due to high winds, and the Interstate highways have become parking lots. No ferry or rapid transit service. What better time to prop the pillows, pull up the blankets, and meditate?

The last discussion I heard before the power failed had to do with an unfamiliar African American journalist giving an assessment of just what kinds of reactions might be expected in the black communities across the nation in light of last night's Iowa outcomes? I'd seen Stanford's Hoover Institute's resident black conservative Shelby Steele giving a generally positive reaction last night on CNN just before falling asleep. He used words like, "transformative" and "revolutionary," but reserved some enthusiasm until he could get some sense of just how much he was going to have to adjust his public statements and just how much it would cost his image to support this young genius of an unknown and ill-defined political stance... .

In my meditative technologically dis-empowered state a few minutes ago the black reaction morphed into one thought having to do with the expected and "fast-developing split" between the "old Civil Rights generation" and the one led by this newly-anointed-by-white-America, young Senator Barack Obama. The old warriors referred to his perceived lack of sensitivity by failing to show up among the demonstrators at Jena, Louisiana, during the recent dust-up over hanging nooses. "He ain't black enough!" Nonsense! What the old guard has forgotten is that there is a newly evolving and all-inclusive Vanguard. It is being formed by a generation which doesn't even use such words as "multiculturalism," and "multi-racial," because they simply assume what our generation of black and white peace and justice activists are still stretching desperately to reach for -- racial equality!

Relax, guys. We did it! We birthed and raised the reformers; with the help of Sesame Street, of course. The children and the grandchildren of the pundits and the privileged as well as those of the new racial and ethnic majorities are forging a world of their own -- and, if we behave they may let us share it. But we no longer get to call the shots because we've proven that we can't be trusted.

Here's the insight: In that quiet place behind my eyes -- in the lull-- I can see clearly that many generations are living in different dimensions -- simultaneously -- on the planet. We're in parallel universes -- and only the young and the brightest (and maybe a few sensitive and perceptive elders), can see across the dimensional divide.

I'm praying that those of my generation -- the veterans of the Civil Rights Movement and the Vietnam Era -- don't get in their own way. There is no reason to have to make choices here. We are all needed.

The "wars" of our time never really ended. Maybe wars never do. There are those of us from the political Left and the Right, both white and black -- Americans from all political persuasions and economic levels -- who froze in place at some point along the great journey and never quite made it all the way through to the peace process. They're stuck. Either that, or they dropped out of the culture wars around race to embrace those around gender and sexual orientation. For all human beings with compassion, there is a visceral response to the ongoing aberrant behavior (like the Jena case and the awful Matthew Shepherd murder) and some of us need to back up and fill in from time to time; need to continue the mopping up that must go on until all such evil disappears into oblivion. This is where the heroes of the Sixties (Andrew Young, Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, yes, and even poor benighted Bill Cosby) are absolutely essential to the total transformation needed to restore the American dream to its former level of respect in the world. But we must not saddle this new generation with that responsibility. They have other work to do.

The Barack and Michelle Obamas and the Russell Simpsons and the Hip Hop young must be allowed free reign to help to create the new Vanguard. This would be in the tradition of Frederick Douglas, Sojourner Truth, Carter Woodson, A.Philip Randolph, Booker T. Washington, W.E.B. Dubois, Martin Luther King and James Farmer, Daisy Bates, Fannie Lou Hamer, Bayard Rustin and James Baldwin, and all of the others who moved the ball up the court inch-by-inch over decades to where we are now. Each had their detractors and each forged on to create the vanguard of their era.

It is my guess (looking at my own grandchildren) that the criteria for moving into the brave new world that was affirmed last night will have little reference to race. Mixed-race people of color have been with us since the country was formed and the combinations have become more and more complex as our armies have roamed the world leaving exoticism wherever they landed. Barack is more than simply another mulatto (mastiso, creole, etc.) but a brand new category -- he embodies internationality. He is not only the child of mixed race, but of the expanded world and has experienced that world close up and personal. He is truly somewhere beyond our experience, and I, for one, couldn't be more excited by his brilliance and of how he has used that life experience in forging his principles.

Here in the Bay Area multiracial couples and children are so commonplace that they no longer cause notice. When I was a teen, my very fair-skinned and natural blonde cousin had to leave the state in order to marry her brown-skinned young husband since racial intermarriage was forbidden in California and she was not believable as a "negro" to the reigning bureaucrats. In today's world -- their eldest son is married to an Indonesian woman and -- the last I heard -- they were living in Costa Rica! This is a new world, guys! Only a few nights ago I ran across a snapshot of a beautiful young cousin who was conceived and born to my African/Creole cousin and his Italian partner on the Isle of Ibiza off the coast of Spain. (Can it get more romantic than that?) Last I heard she was in Europe studying flamenco dance. She's lived all of her life on the island, except for a brief visit to my home about ten years ago. This is a new world -- and we need to help this new generation let the light in.

We may hear some quiet grumbling from our old leaders as they re-adjust, but I'm certain that among them are enough forward-looking elders to hold their contemporaries off while the vanguard of this new movement is forming and finding its path. Among those who can hear the new voices are Reps. Barbara Lee and (I suspect) Maxine Waters. It would surprise me if Eleanor Holmes Norton wouldn't be their strong supporter as will Dr. Lani Guinnere and Randolph Robinson, but I'm projecting wildly here.

Meanwhile, I'm certain that the mopping up operations (like Jena and prison reform and death penalty movements) will still go on and that those with the experience and the courage to continue that work will continue to do so. That work is also now completely multiracial with people of compassion working together with a deep commitment. I know, I've been with them at the San Quentin prison gates in protest from time to time over the years.

I'm planning to get myself as far into the movement as I can, in a supporting role, of course. I'm excited by a generation that has produced the likes of New York's Hayden Planetarium director; Astro-physicist Neil deGrasse Tyson; the incomparable Tiger Woods; NASA's Mae Jemison; that brilliant young heart surgeon whose name I promised to never forget but have; yes, and all the rest of these remarkable young people who will join with those of other races and, together, usher in a far more promising "Brave New World" where we can become what we have so long professed to be but never quite attained. They are the products of the world after Dr. King, Rosa Parks, the moon landing, and Jim Henson and the Sesame Street gang.

Relax, guys! Our generation delivered. We Progressives -- who marched and sang and demonstrated and were jailed together and apart and who changed the world in tiny increments by proving that love matters and that justice will eventually prevail. These are our children and grandchildren who brought it all together last night in a 97% white state of Iowa among ordinary extraordinary people who dared to dream in a contest where all that counted was the "...content of his character." It is upon our shoulders that they are standing.

Here's to the 239,000 Iowans who came together to help to restore the American dream by taking the risk toward change of a kind that may save us all from ourselves. But the work is only beginning -- and we will all be needed in the living of these next perilous years.

(... and, yes, the use of the color purple is intentional.)

Amen.

Photo: Director Neil deGrasse Tyson of the Hayden Planetarium.

Yech! Just climbing out from under the blankets after days of tanglin' with "the Crud" ... .

At some point last Thursday the world stopped spinning on its axis and life came to a grinding halt. It was the ushering in of the annual Soskin session with whatever version of the flu virus passes through about now. It's about now that I remember that I've skipped the flu shot yet another time in the firm belief in my invincibility. Not so.

It's only now that it's over that I know how much my sorry state of mind just before Christmas was influenced by my sorry state of health. It's no mystery. The incubation period is always marked by the blahs. It wasn't the gift from the wandering Magi that saved the holiday, but the one from Walgreens that a commandeered neighbor delivered after a feeble cry for help and the promise of some crab gumbo some evening soon.

But yesterday ushered in the New Year and for endless days and hours I've been watching the world go by on the tube (through my feet) -- and a sorry world it is, too!

Not being much of a TeeVee watcher ordinarily, I had no idea what is placed before the public that (I suppose) is meant to mirror reality. Dear God! After endless hours of peering out from under the blankets at Cop shows; morbidly obese 900 lb. poor souls who appear to have dieted and exercised away at least 2-to 5 of me (122 pounds dripping wet) with each episode; animals either copulating or consuming one another (or both); miserably abused pets; on camera Interventions of alcoholics, gamblers, and those addicted to narcotics; blondes, blondes, blondes - mostly upper-income housewives the likes of which I've never known. Not to mention predatory males being caught in the act of soliciting children for sex; Dr. Phil and his daily parade of lost souls willing to bare all on camera before a national audience(!); Oprah, Montel, Ellen, Morey, Tyra -- I've now seen 'em all! And I've not yet mentioned some new form of sport where wrestling, boxing, kick-boxing, plus the kitchen sink are combined by a strange group of men in baggy shorts and bare feet who've waived all rules of conduct and resort to everything but biting.

I actually spent about an unbelievable half-hour during this period watching two men discussing the human alimentary canal and bowel movements! In another period of disbelief I saw something called "Dirty Work" where a misguided man has found a career in doing the most outrageous things imaginable. Yesterday he spent on camera time slogging through fresh cow manure in a cattle yard while quipping about "mechanical butthole" machines as we watched excrement oozing from pipes on its way to becoming flower pots! For this I'm paying a significant monthly fee??? And I'm calling them crazy"

And I haven't yet mentioned the rappers (who in hell is Flava Flav?) and awful talk show shouters who people the publicly-owned airways with more offensive dialogue than one can imagine. Black and White evangelists in clerical robes with weirdly childlike messages surely not intended for thinkers; and inane comedy shows that are so sophomoric that one wonders just who they might be intended to entertain; surely not today's overly-wise children? And am I the only viewer who has never heard of the ever-constant PBS phenomenon, Andre Rieu(?) and where did he come from before fund-raisers?

I've now visited more prison yards and cells this week than any citizen should have to witness in a lifetime. But the most disturbing are surely the on-camera breast implants and nose and chin jobs and liposuction procedures that are everywhere. Who on earth believes that young girls -- hardly fully-developed -- should be having breasts enhanced?

When did this become entertainment? Where have I been? Where has the FCC been? When ever will they allow me to determine for myself just what and who can enter my home? Shall I pull the plug before Comcast contaminates my life beyond my ability to retain sanity? We're paying at least $50/month for this service, aren't we? Is that rational on my part?

And it's all book-ended by shopping shows with hours on end of jewelry and electronic gear and "designer" garb pushed by a parade of cloned saleswomen who used to be the Sears and JC Penny sales staff -- I'm sure of it. They all went to Home Shopping Network heaven! Small wonder there's no one left to serve me at Macy's; except to take my money and bag my stuff?

Since last Thursday I've seen more car chases, crime busters, cheating spouses, stings, arrests, domestic court proceedings than should be encountered in a lifetime by any reasonable human being. I've been mind-jacked!

The upshot of all this? Easy. Will dig in my heels and resist every attempt at upgrading my life to HD-TV until the art has caught up with the technology. Eating scorpions or sniffing sheep excrement on a high definition giant flat screen wall receiver may announce the doom of western civilization; God bless Tammy Faye!

Today it will end. I'm back. Washing my hair and eating a decent meal should begin to get some of the buildup out of my system so that I can get back to work and to life. I discovered a few minutes ago that my kindly neighbor delivered a bagful of freshly-picked persimmons sometime over the past day or so. It was hanging from the front doorknob when I looked out gingerly this morning in a test drive of my recovering bronchial system.

Comcast has eliminated CSpan 2 from my service. That may be the final humiliation.

Maybe this is the day that Keith Olbermann will return to Countdown -- and before too long -- the brilliant Jon Stewart ... and maybe I'll just give up cable for YouTube and I-Tune online. Cuddn' hoit, right? That may provide enough time to decompress.

Maybe I've been spoiled by being able to choose my few hours of daily viewing.

Maybe I simply overdosed and sanity will be reinstated when I get back into my self-created reality.

I truly do believe that we each create our own reality, and for just a few days there I appear to have lost my compass ... .

Maybe a shot of humor from Jon Stewart in one of his chats with comic Larry Wilmore would work about now... .


Photo: Hilarious writer-comic Larry Wilmore of Jon Stewart's Daily Show on Comedy Central.

So who told me that I could turn off the magic?

It's Christmas morning, and all's well. Got through Christmas Eve -- the last minute shopping frenzy, the food prep for today; and no, I've not yet begun the wrapping process, but I'm ready.

The depression and rejection of all things Christmas came to a crashing end when I picked Dorian up at her apartment across town yesterday. She was carrying her precious packages of God-knows-what for friends and family. The excitement on her face was contagious. She lives all year for this day, and no all-powerful Mom was going to take it away on the pretext of common sense and rationality. Maybe Christmas isn't supposed to "make sense."

She'd fashioned beads and wire and tempura and bits of cloth and tongue depressers -- into loving gifts that made her own particular kind of sense. The wrappings were colorful and clumsy and tied up with bright ribbons with strangely-shaped bows and sometimes not ... .

I felt better. But could I tell her that we would skip trimming a tree this year? How?

But it got better.

First stop Supermarket. With all resistance put down (at least until later), I now feared that all of the trees would be gone and that -- now that I was ready -- I'd have to explain to her why I'd waited until it was too late? This would be a first and I knew that she lacked the capacity to understand how such an unthinkable thing could have happened.

We pulled up to the front of the supermarket and there -- as I remembered -- were the trees that were marked "$39.99 and up" only yesterday. I was ready to buy -- the spirit of Christmas and her look of happy anticipation had crushed all else.

As I pulled up to the curb where the trees were on display I asked only one thing, "...can you load one on my car for us?" The clerk grinned and said, "no, lady. We can't do that -- questions of liability, you know." And, no, I didn't know. A flicker of a tiny shadow of doubt returned for just an instant. This was followed by, "...if you'll open up the hatchback I'll help you slide it in. I believe it will fit nicely." And, "they're all free today, you know," he grinned as I offered my credit card.

Suddenly the magic had returned. The clerk saw the surprise and delight on my face and was thoroughly enjoying it. I would surely not be the first today to learn of the generosity. He may have remembered me and my sadness from yesterday.

After dropping Dorrie off at home with the tree that we'd happily lugged up the stairs without help, I returned to the Mall to complete gift-buying along with the Christmas Eve crowds. It felt different; less like greed and wastefulness and more like love and sharing. It's a heart thing, maybe... as advertised.

Dorian spent last night dragging out the boxes of ornaments and happily draped the lights, hung the bright varied and aged shapes; replaced dead light bulbs; sang familiar carols badly along with the radio while I candied the yams and readied the other side dishes for today. Everyone will be home; except for son, Rick, whose far too-early death still enshrouds the season. But I'm thinking that this may well be the last of the grieving. Maybe the gift of a 7 ft. tall evergreen from an unknowing corporate entity did the trick.

Who would have guessed?

Merry Christmas!

Betty and Dorian

Historians take note: I have been reborn into Grinch form as of precisely 4:36 on this day... .

It's been coming on for several years; this total disillusionment with all things Christmas. Noticed the first signs the year Dorian accepted, finally, that there was no Santa (it takes a bit longer for the retarded so it was necessary to indulge in reality hints over the year leading up to full disclosure). That wasn't easy for either of us, but in time she bought into the notion that being Santa was almost as much fun as pretending.

Being one who didn't give up on the myth until I was about nine, (I know; my imagination blew away any signs that may have suggested otherwise). There were those years as a teenager when it was great fun to exchange gifts and swig the eggnog. There were those great years when being Santa for my children was just about the greatest dream come true.

The apex was probably the year that Mel presented me with a set of car keys for a brand new simulated wood-paneled luxury Mercury station wagon sometime in the Sixties. This would have been during my "pretty little brown Doris Day in the suburbs" period. It was a big year for the Reids. I believe the following year scored nearly as high when I opened up a huge gift box containing a magnificent Martin concert guitar which still leans (though now silent) against the wall in my living room; a reminder of a Betty who once was... .

Today is December 22nd, and the first day to begin the shopping ritual. What a disappointment! Rose early this morning to drive first to HoneyBaked fully expecting to find the cars wrapped around the block (should have suspected something was amiss) but a parking spot was waiting just beyond the entrance so I thanked the parking gods and slipped in. There were no lines out front. Thought for just a minute that the place may have closed, but no; someone was coming out as I looked around for an open sign. He was clutching the familiar large plastic bag.

Walked into the store that was only sparsely-filled. In less than 8 minutes I'd worked my way to the front counter only to discover at least part of the answer to the missing crowds. I asked for a medium-sized ham and was told that there were none left under 9 lbs. Sounded about right so I automatically offered my Visa card as one of the many clerks behind the counter said, "that will be $54.83! Something snapped. I wasn't sure just what it was, but life would not be the same again, and in that moment I knew that we (the economy and I) had crossed a threshold of some kind. Nor will Christmas. Then I remembered that last Christmas the ham cost under $40, but still a shocker at the time. It may have weighed less, but the cost was not as stunning as today for some reason. Maybe it was because I'd spent $3.36 a gallon for gas on my way to the store, this morning. Next year I'd need to put the ham on Layaway and pay it off in installments, if there is a next year, that is! It's about time to institute ham hocks with red beans and rice as the festive "traditional New Orleans" Christmas dinner of choice. And -- that old saw about "God willin' and the creek don't rise" is no longer a joke -- given the grave warnings of mounting evidence of radical climate change underway... .

The shock didn't hit me all at once, but this was like the beginning of a kind of long-delayed sobering up after years of drunkenness. I remember then how shocked I was at the announcement during the week before Thanksgiving that the stores would be open at 4:30 a.m. for the early birds! Some stores advertised that they would be open all night. I was appalled! What have we come to? What kind of people get up in the middle of the night to head for the department stores to buy "stuff" they don't need and probably can't use before recycling time?

Alright. Time to rationalize this ham thing. Decided while driving back to Richmond that I needed to frame the question differently. If I were to take my family out for Christmas dinner, it would surely cost far more than this. Comparing it to the restaurant bill (and the fact that I wouldn't need to bake it myself), it made a kind of sense; but only barely. But this would be the last year of commercially-baked hams. I would join those who have regained their sanity and prepared their own this year.

But common sense had now risen to the front of my brain and was not to be denied. It followed me into the Mall where I walked from rack to rack looking for wearable gifts for my pre-teen granddaughters. Awful! All of the fabrics had that woody feel to them -- the feel and smell of synthetics. Everything was poorly made and styled like miniature women's wear with plunging necklines on little girl's sizes 7-10 with spangles and logos and brand names painted, sewn, and stamped on everything! The prices were outrageous! Even at the markdowns of 50-60%, there was little worth owning. (Whatever on earth are young parents doing these days?) I could not pay these prices only to turn the girls into walking billboards for some offshore sweat shop.

Left the Mall and stopped in at Barnes & Noble (no independent bookstores are left in my community) to pick up a half-dozen classic books for the children -- no problem there. Then on to the Christmas tree lot to empty my wallet in the spirit of the season.

You know what? I realized as I drove into the lot that Christmas had died at around 4:36 Pacific Coast time, on this day of December 22, 2007. I have never in my long life ever not had a live tree. I hate the artificial ones. We have an 70 year accumulation of family ornaments stashed away waiting to be hung and admired, with all of the memories attached. I've never even considered not putting up a tree... .

When I saw the sign announcing "..all trees under 5 ft. now $39.00 it was over. I was not about to buy a dead tree for $40! And as I looked at them -- regularly trimmed with an electric pruning saw -- looking identical and without the familiar pungent fragrance of evergreens (since they were cut back in October and trucked in from Oregon). The second level of "snap" happened and I turned away to buy a large poinsettia ($17.95) and headed for home with my classics books in the trunk of the car and feeling sad for the end of a long era of believing ... only it's not Santa who's lost credibility, this time it's the entire economic system based upon greed -- and our unjustifiable all-consuming way of life in a world of such need.

Tomorrow I'll set out again to check out my Christmas "pulse" for any signs of life. If this is anything more than fatigue and/or a continuation of missing Rick, I'll let you know. I don't believe it is. It is my suspicion that a lot of folks are sobering up this year from decades of over-consumption, and that the economy will take a crushing dive come the New Year.

We may have permanently lost our "Peace on Earth Goodwill Toward Men" on the battlefields of the Middle East. I hope not.

Maybe all I'm needing is a good stiff eggnog and a few choruses of "Children go where I send thee."

Stay warm.

Lazy Sunday with insights ...

After a week that included a Wednesday evening party at my little condo -- welcoming young Charbonnets and meeting older ones again plus a Saturday 3-hour bus tour that included a fascinating group of "tourists." This time there was a party of 8 Japanese-Americans; the purser from the in-the-process-of-restoration SS Red Oak Victory; two local second generation homefront worker descendants; plus a woman writer of feminist literature who had been the member of the French Resistance during WWII in the European theater. This fascinating group might well have been more eligible for leading the tour than those of us in uniform. It was a great weekend that ended with a small dinner in front of a blazing fire in the grate and good talk last night ... and dishes left in the sink for a leisurely morning cleanup.

But -- instead of jumping out of bed quickly this morning to bring order to my living space, I lay there watching the Sunday morning pundits re-hashing the week's campaign activities -- which may be what set me up for some wildly creative thoughts that surfaced later in the day.

With only a small nudge of guilt -- I lay there after briefly rising to brush my teeth and what's left of my hair -- re-stacked the pillows and flipped the channels to pick up the Target Invitational starring Tiger Woods. Watched him slowly wipe out the field, including a brief threat from Jim Furyk, and suddenly my eyes popped wide! Watched those great golfers all playing for second place, as usual, as Tiger -- with his characteristic dogged concentration played on.

Of course! Was it possible that Tiger Woods, by singlehandedly overwhelming his sport to lead the field for the past 12 years, that this handsome young black man whose race is no longer mentioned -- that it was he who opened the door to universality for Barack Obama?

Race in the game of golf is no longer an issue. Is it possible that this can now be true in the field of politics, and partially because of Tiger's demeanor and character?

I watched as Tiger performed with perfection the final putt on the 18th hole then walk slowly over to where his mother held up Sam, his beautiful 5-month old daughter. She was held up to receive him (as his father used to do at the end of each match) and he lovingly planted a kiss on her cheek. I'm certain that everyone in the crowd noticed the symbolism in this act of love. He then turned to his lovely Nordic blond wife and they embraced for just a moment. And all this occurred before the hundreds of fans applauding in the background. This scene could not have played out without a causing a riot only a few decades ago. And while there are surely still remnants of smoldering resentment in pockets of bigotry here and there, Tiger's impeccable reputation; his accomplishments on the golf course; his grace and charm; his dogged determination to be the best and to compete with integrity ... all have served to overcome whatever vestiges of racism existed in this -- the most elegant of sports. Tiger has broken down the doors of the clubhouse, and done it with such grace that we're beginning to forgot that those doors were ever closed.

It is perhaps this that has served to overcome the barriers that held those of us of color from even considering the possibility of ever aspiring to the highest office in the land. Perhaps these otherwise unrelated worlds have collided, and Tiger's quiet dignity and total domination in his sport has served to soften the white world into considering the very real possibility that another young African American, handsome young Senator Barack Obama, just might be capable of doing the same for the country and the world.

Maybe Tiger Woods is important in more ways than we've ever perceived him to be -- important as a catalyst for the change that awaits us all. By his grace and elegance, he has provided a model of American manhood that transcends the limitations of race -- and by so doing may have opened another door -- the door to the White House -- for the other young man who may well deliver the hope and inspiration for a nation and a world desperately in need of both.

Now for those dishes ... .

It has finally arrived -- that feeling of just being too old for something ... .

At the invitation of Lighthouse Community Charter School -- an interesting small school like many scattered throughout the city in the wake of the demise of public schools -- I arrived on Thursday morning to be their speaker. The class (perhaps 35-40 students?) were gathered together in a makeshift basement classroom tucked beneath a small office building in the heart of downtown Oakland. Beautiful faces on eager learners. That's what seems so special about these elective schools; there is that agreement made up front that this is the place where they want to be. There are no slackers here -- only the curious and the motivated combined with idealistic young educators; a winning combination.

These kids recently experienced a field trip to the Rosie the Riveter memorial in Richmond and were filled with questions about the time line embedded in the long walk (length of a Victory Ship) of the memorial. They'd read of Jim Crow-ism and racial practices that apparently needed clarification. Since I'd been the speaker at two national conferences hosted by the Lighthouse School over the past few years, their teacher placed a call to my desk a week or so ago to ask if I'd come to talk with their students who were ready to explore the WWII period and its social environment. Having had such a positive experience at Berkeley Arts Magnet only a few weeks ago, this was a no brainer; of course!

Why was this so different? I'm not really sure, but speaking with high school young people proved to be dramatically so. Either that, or, I was not prepared for what I found.

The distance between me and 9 year-olds was surmountable. It took only a few minutes to find the commonalities and to speak to them. Not sure where the match fell, but it was clearly there.

With adolescents, the difference was immense. There have been so many wars between the course of my life and theirs. WWII was the last declared war, and it was the last time we experienced war collectively -- as an entire nation; man, woman, and child. In the world these adolescents live in, governments go to war, not populations. Our nation's people are passive and only engaged incidentally. Some of them are warriors, more of them are victims, and few have any sense of the "why" of it. How does one speak of the present-day state of war? I found it impossible to do so. In that moment I could see no rational explanation for even the "justified" war of my generation. Standing before those young people, I was suddenly aware of how profoundly I simply didn't understand the inhumane concept of war. The words began to stick somewhere deep in my throat and thoughts were now a jumble of confusion. In some strange way I felt less mature -- less tested -- than they.

Yet, as I looked out on these young people (almost all youngsters of color and low income), it was impossible to not imagine that -- in a few short years -- they might well be the warriors of their time simply because their generation has run out of alternatives and the workplaces of the future has no need of them.

I wanted to cry... .My being there seemed almost incongruous. Were it possible to do so, the person sent to fill this engagement should have been someone whose age fell somewhere between their ages and that of their parents. I was simply too old. The years between were simply too numerous to span.

...so we talked about what Oakland was like when I was their age. They asked many questions, but few of them were about WWII or the Rosie Memorial or the birth of feminism brought on by women entering the work force for the first time in history. Such things were irrelevant to them and to their lives. How could these young people even imagine a time when women did not work outside their homes? Many of them come from single-parent homes headed by women.

The students were Latino, various Asian and South Pacific Islanders, a few African American students, a few white students, etc., with two white teachers. This is typical, of course, since we are still in a time when those coming out of the schools of education are still those who can afford to attend the universities in larger numbers. The effects of white privilege still prevail. It will be some years before that changes, I'm sure.

For all those reasons, I felt less than successful this time out. They wanted to know about the Black Panthers (whom I admitted supporting wholeheartedly in the Sixties) because they'd been studying them as a part of the Black Power Movement. I told them about having seen the Blackstone Rangers, a similar group out of Chicago. They wanted me to tell them how we handled drugs and violence ... and I had to admit my lack of experience with such evils in the Oakland in which I'd grown up at such a different period of the nation's history.

During the hour or so of my attempt at bridging the impossible gap, we made contact from time to time -- but I simply felt out of context. I did the best I could, but felt overwhelmed by the huge chasm between my life and theirs. I felt discouraged and -- most of all -- I felt old.

I ended the experience by reciting a poem, "Little Boy Black," I'd written at another time of confusion on a plane on the way home from that Black Caucus conference in Chicago in the Sixties. I attempted (with uncertainty) to connect with the poets in the room. Not sure I did, but it was the only bridge to them that I could find. I closed my eyes and tried to remember all of the stanzas. Not sure I did, but just maybe... .

It was a hard hour, but one in which I found warmth and a willingness to hear my words -- even when they were only slightly relevant to their perilous times.

Again -- they were so young, and I ... .

Photo: "Mac-10 w/Roses," (hot sculpted glass) by Alexander Sarkis Abajian. Exhibited at the Oakland Museum.

What a crazy couple of weeks this has been ... a time of contrasts.

And, no, I was not decked by that last entry. A little chastened and made thoughtful, but really not in the least offended. It brought a couple of healing conversations that helped to work it through and let it go. It comes with the territory, I'm sure. If one is as open about one's life process as I've become in these later years -- then there is an implied vulnerability that is inescapable. Life goes on.

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and with it renewed feelings of regret that my late son, Rick, was not with us. I still miss him dreadfully at times of celebration, but am no longer certain whether I'm still actively grieving, or whether I've forever locked myself into the silent loss that I rarely speak of aloud anymore. Holidays were always less than advertised since we never knew whether he'd make it as promised because his drinking suppressed his need for us toward the end of his life. All those years of waiting for the phone to ring -- wondering ... Now connecting that trauma with the aroma of turkey baking in the oven and released each time I open the oven door to baste the bird ... The missing is a very complex issue that is mixed with the love and relief that this particular form of waiting is over. Another aspect of the holiday.

If age has brought anything of importance to my understanding of family dynamics, it is that this kind of helpless pain is shared with wives, fathers, siblings, of every race, color, and ethnicity where the disease of alcoholism reigns. It is now impossible to look across a room anywhere and not see aspects of myself; especially where there is/was pain.

Maybe by Christmas this year, I'll find myself closer to the relief side of the equation.

But there were better things to relish over the past week:

The future looks truly exciting in that my online activities have allowed members of my Katrina-scattered family to find me, largely through the Internet. The mails brought an announcement of a 2009 Charbonnet Family Reunion to be held in New Orleans. I have so longed for this to happen, and now it has. Under the leadership of three members whom I've never met, we will spend the year re-connecting across the nation for the sharing of the stories and collecting the history. As one young cousin stated, "...you can't tell the story of New Orleans without the stories of the Charbonnets." Unimaginable, surely. After all, we date back to the 1700s, before the Revolutionary War, and when it was still only the Louisiana Territory. You have no idea how important that fact has become as I age -- and how grounded it has allowed me to become. Wish I could transfer some of that to my grandchildren, but life seems to dictate that we each find our own landing places, and theirs will be far different from my own, having been carved out by lives so different from the years of my tenure on the planet.

I'm looking forward now to a visit from the team of family researchers who will be coming in a few weeks to gather my stories (and to see my grandfather, Louis Charbonnet's, engineering text books that sit quietly on my little bookshelf). I'm hoping that someone somewhere has a photograph of my grandmother (and his wife) Victoria Morales Charbonnet whom I only remember as "Mamaire" (not sure of the spelling).

Then I'm reminded that it was in the process of researching my own family tree -- the frustration of not being able to learn anything about the women -- only through the men -- that I made the decision to chronicle my own life here for my children and grandchildren.

Therefore the blog ...

and the vulnerability.

Betty

Photo: Photo taken by a friend, City Councilman Tom Butt who, as a member of a team of prominent architects, made an inspection trip to N.O. after Katrina. At my request, he photographed the Charbonnet-Labat Funeral Home - a family and New Orleans institution.

I've crossed some trip wire and received my first angry response from a reader... .

The letter came today from the director of the Richmond Museum of History. He'd been alerted by someone to an entry I made some months ago when I attended an exhibit and expressed (pretty negatively) my disappointment at the experience. I remembered it vaguely as I read his angry response. The letter was sent to my office and therefore I read it with my "ranger" eyes and felt real concern. My blog is simply not a part of my work life so it felt like an invasion of some sort. I'd written that entry (as I almost always do) while sitting in my pj's and bathrobe, usually barefoot and completely "Betty", with none of the trappings of my public identity. In that place I'm not defensive nor guarded and write pretty much stream-of-consciousness at all times. I rarely if ever edit my writings after the fact. In fact, I almost never re-read anything I've written, but tend to move ahead into whatever the next experience suggests. That's that way of journaling, I suppose. Had I received this letter as an email through the blog (while at home) it would have been far less jarring. At my desk at work it was out of context. It was disturbing.

After reading the furious letter (written in longhand which made it feel even more serious), I answered it by email. Not sure precisely what I wrote today, but it wasn't angry -- maybe a little sad -- I suppose, and remember now that I did suggest that I would go back into the archives and read what I'd written. I remember saying that whatever I'd written was probably an accurate description of what I was feeling at the time, and that I wasn't quite sure just how one can undo feelings. This particular bell would be hard to un-ring!

I've been home now for several hours, and have decided that to re-read that post with the idea of retracting what I wrote at another time didn't make a lot of sense. In all the years since I started writing there have never been more than a dozen readers in any 24 hour period, according to the counter. Usually no more than ten. I've always taken comfort in that figuring that my readers were probably members of my family, with an occasional stranger who may have stumbled in from time to time. Those numbers are pretty insignificant, especially since I've been blogging since September of 2003. So, I'm writing for myself and my nieces and nephews for the most part.

It is quite true (as I mentioned in my email to the museum director), that I carry around a lot of residual, disembodied, and justifiable rage, and that I'm at an age where I no longer feel compelled to hold it in. I'm not as apt to suffer in silence as I did for a lifetime. I'm hoping that I'm providing a balanced picture of life these days -- that I'm neither paranoid nor being unnecessarily combative, though I'm not sure that's always true. It depends a lot upon what I'm seeing around me on any given day.

It occurred to me as I sat at my MAC tonight, that the director and his informant might have fared better had they turned their energy toward exploring just why there were no African Americans in attendance at that event (except for me), and to wondering if anything I expressed carried a hint or two of just why race relations in this city are still so difficult to confront? His museum, after all, sits in the middle of a black community.

He mentioned that his board would be "...looking into the matter." I would hope that they would invite me to attend their meeting. If my writings -- however controversial -- have opened a long-stifled civic conversation -- how wonderful that would be. This might well be the greatest gift we can give to this troubled community. Perhaps he will read this (while looking for my response) and see the importance of using this opening as the best possible course to take -- and will be in keeping with my work life -- which has its controversial elements as well, at least if I'm doing it as it should be done. And ... I do believe that I'm doing my work well. Though I may be the cause of some discomfort for some.

There are few universals here. We each have lived and are living -- our own reality. Mine has produced what you read in these pages.

None of it can be un-lived!

A delightful memory of Miyoko ... .

It was some years ago while I was serving as a member of the Board of Trustees of Starr King School for the Ministry; a Unitarian-Universalist seminary and a member of the prestigious Graduate Theological Union on "Holy Hill" on the northern border of the campus of the University of California, Berkeley.

Miyoko was a young woman and citizen of Japan who had been awarded a foreign student scholarship to study for one year in this country. In a moment of madness I offered to share my home with her until student housing could be secured nearer to the campus. Miyoko spoke no English. I, of course, knew not a word of Japanese. She was in her mid-twenties and I in my mid-seventh decade, I believe.

My mother had recently passed away and my fairly large 3-bedroom home had developed echoes and hollows I'd not yet become used to. After many years of caretaking, having a young person around again might be helpful while I figured out just what I would do with the rest of my life.

For about two weeks she went off to classes and I to my work. When we found ourselves in a room together we smiled a lot. I did a lot of stupid pointing and identifying objects and foods and ... and gradually the smiles turned into giggles as we struggled our way through the demands of communicating without words.

On the second Sunday after our adventure in living started I invited her out for a drive. On an impulse I drove to the University campus -- past the soccer fields -- the Memorial Stadium - through Strawberry Canyon and finally, into the parking lot of the Lawrence Hall of Science sitting on the uppermost ridge of the city's skyline. We stood together for a while looking out on the magnificent panorama of the entire Bay Area. No need for words here. Just wonder.

We then entered this magical museum -- filled with the sounds of happy parents and children going through the exhibits and experimenting with the hands-on displays. I'd spent times past here with my grandchildren, and felt in my soul that the magic would be communicated and that here -- age and language were mere conveniences and not essential to the experience. We still had few words in common, but had grown more content to share the silences.

As we rounded a corner at one point a large Grandfather's clock loomed into view. Miyoko pointed ahead excitedly and quickened her step. I followed. Suddenly she burst into song:

"O my grandfather's clock stood alone on the shelf
so it stood ninety years on the floor
It was taller by far than the old man himself
though it weighed not a pennyweight more
It was born on the morn of the day that he was born
it was always his treasure and pride
and it stopped - short -- never to go again
when the old man died"

Ninety years without slumbering (tick tock, tick tock)
His life seconds numbering (tick-tock, tick tock)

And it stopped -- short -- never to go again
when the old man died.

It was sung in perfect English! She'd learned the song phonetically at summer camp (where else?) in Japan. Her singing expressed all of the pent-up frustration of living in an alien environment where her words were not understood and where those around her were locked out. In that moment there was no one else in the room. She looked straight into my eyes and sang almost defiantly, beaming with the biggest grin she could muster!

By the time she reached the second line we were both singing loudly and continued through all of the verses without shame. By the time we'd reached the third line voices had begun to chime in from everywhere around us and smiling singers were gathering 'roun'! The many deep-voiced unself-conscious "tick tocks" from husbands and fathers in the hall were wonderful! Lawrence Hall of Science was transformed into one great summer camp reunion! It was a Sunday afternoon in Berkeley that I never thought I'd forget.

Miyoko had finally arrived in America! We spent the next few nights singing through her campsite repertoire and finding commonalities that we could experience no other way. She knew the entire score to The Sound of Music -- and we did a lusty and magnificent duet in harmony of "Climb Every Mountain", while preparing dinner and sorting laundry. And my pointing out of ordinary items as those words came up in the lyrics proved to be an invaluable tool.

I felt a heart tug when word came that dormitory space had been found and that our little adventure in international relations would now come to an end. I attended her graduation ceremony at the San Francisco UU Church that next spring -- but there had been a mix-up in communication and she was missing from the group when the others arrived from Berkeley. After a full year of study, Miyoko missed her Commencement.

She must have been crushed ... !