There are times when the world is moving too fast to record the process...

This is one such week. And it isn't due to my inability to keep up for reasons of inadequacy. It's because the rate of change and the need to pause long enough to allow for absorption demands it.

Case in point:

How does one separate the political from what are surely huge societal adjustments of the kind that may be life-altering? How can I write (without political advocacy) about how it felt as a black woman to watch a candidate for the presidency confront the nation around our most challenging national issue -- continuing cancerous racial inequality -- and to watch him do it without one scintilla of hatred? What can one say when to say anything that even hints of endorsement is forbidden by one's professional role? So -- I've chosen silence. At least until today when I'm confronted by the need to work through a work-related problem that brings it all front and center in a way that makes silence difficult if not impossible.

I'm still struggling with how best to talk about those feelings and about how they're effecting my day-to-day existence, but that may change. In the interim, I'm working through memories of a period that exemplifies a personal history of the World War II era -- a period of racial inequality that must be revisited if we're to grow beyond it. And that historic speech -- if nothing else -- challenged us to enter into a long-deferred national conversation. But maybe there is an opportunity to engage others without advocacy if I can do so with sensitivity to where the boundaries lie.

All this is to say that we're in the beginnings of planning this year's 2nd Annual World World II Home Front Festival here in Richmond, California. Last year it was a rousing success, but there were some bumpy places for me, personally. Meeting blank stares when I tried to remind others what life was like for me -- and others like me. It was like being a skunk at the garden party.

When the Saturday night USO dance was being planned by the Chamber of Commerce last year, I tried to remind the committee that black servicemen and women were barred from those activities. That it would be no surprise if there were no black folks attending the commemorative dance. And so it was. Very few black or brown faces were in the festive red-white-and-blue crowd that night last fall, and those few who did attend probably were too young to remember or to be carrying any of the scars of that rejection. And the white veterans; couples who came back to remember and to celebrate, were unaware and/or were untouched by that history and could continue to be so because the reminders were deliberately missing from the collective mindset of the party goers as well as to the planners.

What to do?

This year we'll use folk and union music traditions through which to tell the stories of the home front. Great! Right? New problems: both movements -- though rich in Americana -- were almost exclusively White. African Americans sang from a different songbook, and our music was used only as raw material from which to form "American" music, and held no intrinsic value of its own.

The unions were segregated and the music that grew from those movements was coming from Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and the Weavers, Peter, Paul and Mary, et al, (good folks all) but it would be decades before black artists would be allowed to cross over into the mainstream of arts and culture. Then Josh White, Odetta, Oscar Brown, Jr., and the great blues singers began to be recognized and appreciated -- but only in a special category called "race" music. I know because we got our start in the music business at the end of the war, in June of 1945, when we opened Reid's Records in Berkeley, oriented to a black clientele.

So -- we bring together the Folk Music Society of San Francisco and the Union Chorus to this year's festival to reunite and celebrate. We've made the initial contact and it looks likely. It will be exciting. Some of those singers and musicians are veterans of the home front story -- shipyards, aircraft plants, munitions, Red Cross workers, USO volunteers, and some are Rosies. But how do we address the old race questions without breaking with our obligation to not advocate politically? Or, do we seize the opportunity to finally re-visit that period and those issues in a healing and inclusive way in order to get beyond them and in a way that exercises the commitment to community outreach which falls well within the bounds of my job description? If this sounds convoluted, it's because my pathway through this is still unclear.

Finding the balances will be critical.

Typing out the words is helpful. I'll begin by asking for a meeting with those music groups so that we can explore the questions and invite them to help in the planning. It will be our chance to open the conversation and re-visit that historic period together. We can recognize that there were Americans of every race trying to get it right then -- just as there are now. That we can find ways to honor those efforts by sharing the hopes and dreams of a generation sharing the mission to save the world -- even while denying its collective humanity and need for one another.

And we can do it through the music of the period ... music that nurtured a generation and -- in time -- effected the direction of our progress. Despite whatever feeble efforts that were made by many, it would take another two decades to bring us to where we are now. There is much work still to be done. It may be that the opening of a new conversation on race relations is finally underway due to the candor and wisdom of a new generation of leadership.

Maybe, we're on our way toward true " .... freedom and justice for all!".


Photo: Can you place yourself in the shoes of the man being ushered out of this "Whites only" waiting room? Do you wonder whether his smile is from subservience -- or is it fear? By their dress one must assume the photo depicts a period during our lifetimes. Would not anger be the appropriate response to the situation -- even if it's delayed a generation or two?

Brain Theory ... .

Discovered about a year ago that I'd crossed a threshold in brain development that brought with it the capacity to filter out all extraneous messages. It's marvelous! I listen -- and if the incoming signal doesn't announce an emergency or if it doesn't require action on my part over the next 48 hours -- poof! It passes only momentarily between my ears then disappears into outer space never to be heard from again. I know that there are those who may see this as momentary memory lapses, but don't be fooled. It's a well-earned asset that deserves to be studied as one of the benefits of aging.

This new ability was most helpful during my recent two week training session where I found myself in learning mode for the first time in many decades. The format was a reminder of another earlier training -- for my First Communion at the age of 7 -- where I learned the Catholic catechism and could recite the entire booklet by rote memory at the drop of a proud godmother. Sister Richard Marie at St. Bernard's Church on 64th Avenue in Oakland was my hero then.

This time it was the NPS catechism (names, dates, factoids) but it was coming at a time when my new talent for filtering had kicked in and -- where I could have recited the Catholic version had I been asked (yes, even after years of humanism) -- however dedication to the process was missing now and Sister Richard had died long ago. The brain just kicked the non-emergency items out and refused to hold anything that didn't need my attention over the following two days.

Consequently, I sat in classes listening intently to the presenters while searching hard for relevance to my work life. I was far more involved with the natural surroundings; the magic of snow-laden evergreens; of mule deer and the sounds of coyotes in the night; of the wonder of the Grand Canyon at sunset or at moonrise ... images of the red sandstone rock formations of Sedona ... the "people" world with its "to do" lists and factoids simply didn't make a dent in my consciousness.

I'm afraid that if I were going to be able to benefit from the catechismic teachings it would have to be at some place far less seductive than this. My 86-ness was not to be denied, having predetermined what would and what would not be allowed into a mind now struggling with over-filled "files".

Day after day I sat in the classroom with the others -- more frequently than not looking out of the large windows at the falling snow outside instead of listening for the facts that should have been imprinted on my nerve ends -- ready for the last day's exam.

I could not spend these precious and slowly-diminishing days and hours in any way other than in full appreciation for these magical hours that wrapped themselves around me and held tight!
Olmstead, Mather, Albright, Muir, et al would have to be immortalized by others.

I'm collecting other kinds of memories these days; the kind that become brighter as time speeds by and days become ever more memorable.

"Of Lost Conversations and Untold Stories ..."

(Written for the April park newsletter)

It never dawned – while filing change-of-address cards or taking dues payments in the small office of the racially segregated Boilermakers A-36 union hall -- that I might live long enough to actually become black history; but so it seems. Despite a fading memory of working in that unassuming little office at 10th and Barrett Avenue in Richmond, and a reluctance to identify as the proverbial “Rosie the Riveter,” life has placed a soapbox under my feet and I’m speaking publicly for a generation for whom my presence in the workforce was questionable at best. As one of the diminishing female home front workers of World War II still standing, I often feel undeserving of the “Rosie” title. I’m increasingly called upon to speak for a generation that helped to save the world from Nazi imperialism – but often feel that I’m fulfilling that role by default since so many of those voices have been silenced by time. And since the equality for which we worked, fought, and died, has yet to be fully realized.

Due to working far from the shipyards, and despite being a part of 93,000 home front workers who moved in and out of the Kaiser Shipyards 24-hours-a-day and 7-days-a-week in one of the most intensive production efforts in human history, I never saw a ship under construction; never witnessed a launching. Neither do I recall feeling the surge of patriotism that inspired the monumental achievement of completing 747 ships in 4 years and 5 months of the war.

Time tends to soften, alter, and revise history, and the home front stories of WWII are no exception. As a 20-year old politically naïve woman of color with little understanding of the war except for the disruption it brought to everyday life. Confusion reigned as if a major fault line had shifted under the weight of the unprecedented population explosion that changed the social fabric of the Bay Area, the West Coast, and the nation.

The confusion was driven by still raw memories of a nation that, in 1941, assigned 91% of black women to work in few categories – agricultural, household, and industrial service jobs. Performing clerical work – menial though it might be in the scheme of things – working in a segregated union hall was a step up from making beds, caring for children, and mopping floors for white Americans.

Yet, in the wake of having become a full time park ranger for the National Park Service, I find myself invited to speak for that generation – to share the stories of the times (and there are as many stories as are there are workers who lived them) – to groups large and small. Over the past months I’ve been invited to participate in black and women’s history observances throughout the Bay Area. I’ve served as the representing “Rosie” as a panelist for the Oakland Museum; given talks for the US Department of Agriculture; Bay Area NOW; the County Welfare Workers; the Republican Women’s Club, the DAR, and the Valley Baptist Church. In the past I’ve appeared before the Social Security Administration, The Department of Forestry, before Berkeley Arts Magnet’s fifth grade classes, in a long distance interview with middle school history classes in Bakersfield. Over the next month or two I’ll be speaking for the University of California retirees and the American Association of University Women among others.

Does it feel real? Have I learned to accept my role as spokesperson for a period in history that holds painful and often humiliating memories? Oddly enough, the answer is yes. I find that today’s audiences are ready to explore the WWII era with an openness that holds the potential for promoting a continuing movement toward positive social change. This might well insure that my granddaughter’s generation will benefit from my participation in this long overdue national conversation.

The silence that worked against change has given way to new possibilities for measuring progress toward a more equitable society, and Rosie the Riveter World War II/Home Front National Historical Park is in a position to accelerate that movement through the “Lost Conversations and Untold Stories”* that I’m able to provide in this new public role.

Perhaps the trajectory of my life from a young and confused file clerk to full time national park ranger on a soapbox illustrates as much as today’s campaigns for the presidency – a woman and an African American – just how far we’ve come in the on-going process of growing our imperfect democracy to the benefit of the world.



*YouTube.com
March 9, 2008

A study in exoticism ... .

We were on a field trip to Hopi tribal lands and a remarkable archealogical dig that had unearthed a village complete with pueblo and blow holes ("...where the wind God lives").

It was here that we met the most unlikely National Park ranger. He was about 5'7", "portly," with a protruding rounded belly and a waist-length jet black braid that bounced loosely against his back as he walked. This was Ruben, a member of the Wupatki people of the Hopi tribe upon whose land this national park had settled. In his park uniform Ruben appeared cartoon-like. I felt sorry for him in this inappropriate "costume" that did not fit the image of a bronze present-day Hopi warrior. How sad, I thought! He seemed more captive than ranger in these clothes. Given the history, I found myself wondering how his people viewed him dressed so...in the garb of the invaders ... .

The reception center features murals that tell the tragic story of a time in the not too distant past when our government came to the decision that the Hopi had over-grazed the land with their sheep and that they must go. The lands were then confiscated by the NPS and the tribes burned out of their pueblos. The Hopi were then dispersed across the deserts of Arizona. To its credit, the National Park Service owns that history and the murals on the panels of the reception center are true to events just as they occurred; despite the discomfort this surely must bring to today's more socially aware park administration. The saving grace in all this may be that -- as a nation -- we're finally having these long-silent conversations and owning responsibility for our past through our system of national parks which are actively engaged in the telling of the stories of the nation in countless ways.

After our class had inspected the excavated Wupatki Pueblo and learned something of its history through a quick study of the exhibits in the reception center, we gathered outside within sight of the excavation to hear a presentation from our unlikely interpreter and park ranger; Ruben.

And then it happened: This chubby dark-skinned oddly-garbed park ranger turned to one of the instructors. He quite deliberately removed his NPS ranger hat and handed it to someone standing nearby -- clearly by prearrangement; and in that simple act of apparent but practiced defiance, reclaimed his identify. It was a moment not unlike the act at the end of the movie, "Miss Jane Pittman," when -- after a lifetime of humiliation and racism -- Miss Jane walked up those stairs and took a drink from the "Whites Only" water fountain. This was Ruben's moment of transformation. One that he could not have brought off standing under the traditional and honored hat of the NPS. This would be about his people.

We listened to him relate his stories for the next fifteen emotional minutes; of his doubts about the wisdom of "the dig" of that Wupatki pueblo -- a construct that "probably should have been allowed to remain in the earth ... to become one with it." He spoke of the "Eaglet" story; of the decades-long legal battles for permission for his tribe to re-enter into their homeland and what was now "the national park" to capture an eaglet to be used in a 2000-year-old ceremonial ritual that was a part of the ancient Hopi religious tradition. The eaglet was to be revered as it matured under loving care. It would be raised to centuries-old tribal standards -- to be sacrificed at the end for religious purposes. The sacred feathers would then be used for traditional ceremonies. This practice, of course, clashed with the National Park Service's mandated mission of preservation of all natural resources. Needless to say, the Hopi have been continually denied their request despite years of litigation through our courts.

He talked about knowing many of the tribal land's secrets - of sites he would never disclose to anyone for fear of their exploitation and uses that would defame the long-held belief systems of the Hopi. There were hints that those secrets may be common knowledge among the Native American -- but would be withheld against further invasion from "the Invaders;" (my word, not Ruben's)

A strange thing happened as I listened. This plain little stubby man in his grey/greens might as easily have been standing before us in a feathered warbonnet, buckskins, and beaded moccasins. He was transformed in the telling of his stories. He was all pride and dignity. And -- the Anglos and others of us who stood around him were subdued and respectful. This was a giant of a man who was well able to stand on his own and not be buried by any bureaucracy. I had the distinct feeling that those park boundaries we honor have little meaning in his world, and that the Hopi world is inclusive enough to allow us to believe that those boundaries are real and unyielding.

I suddenly saw myself as the "exotic" in my park in much the way that Ruben is at the Wupatki site. I am the only African American on our staff. I wondered if I'm living my exoticism as effectively as Ruben is living his in that world? Like Ruben, I am able to speak my truth and bring my whole self into the process. And, like Ruben, I'm experiencing the respect of my community and my colleagues. I felt a deep kinship and an affirmation in my work from this quietly heroic man whose life had been shaped by events deep in human history but undying in their effects over succeeding generations and into his lifetime.

I won't forget him.

Since arriving home I've had dreams of that pueblo -- peopled and busy with life. And in those dreams Ruben appears in full native dress and holding an eaglet ... .


Click on this panoramic view of the pueblo for the full impact. It had an effect upon me similar to that experienced while visiting the slave quarters at the estate of Gen. Robert E. Lee at Arlington in Washington, D.C. Ours has been a painful history -- most of which we've never really processed. Perhaps this is the role people like Ruben and I are now fulfilling -- at a time in history when those lost conversations are finally encouraged and made meaningful.

About the Coming of Age... ?

Hadn't thought about it in quite this way, but this trip brought with it some interesting and vague reminders of the inescapable truth; that the day will come soon when I'll need to pay more attention to diminishing capacities. If that is the new truth, it is also true that I'll need to learn to distinguish between just which limitations are natural to the aging process (for me) and which are externally imposed.

When first it was suggested that I take this training opportunity -- I hesitated due to the suspicion that I would be the eldest and out of context for an entire two week period. That could be hard for me and (perhaps) might make for a less than optimal experiences for my classmates. After all, my assumption was that everyone would be young and eager and at the beginnings of their careers with the NPS. Not so, there were several men who were surely entering a second career after teaching or lawyering somewhere in the country and facing retirement reluctantly after the loss of a spouse. It was comforting to find myself not alone in my later years, but at least in a couple cases -- among contemporaries. I don't believe anyone, though, was older than I.

Nonetheless, it never occurred to me that -- once there -- I would not be able to keep up with everyone else. I'm healthy and fit and able to do about anything the training or the company called for, and so it was -- until ... .

Along about the middle of the first week we were studying concessionaires and partnerships of the NPS and as an exercise were sent out in teams with clipboards to survey the concessionaires along the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. I happily trudged along with my classmates and entered the Hopi Shop to make an attempt at being discreet while looking at and assessing a number of criteria from my list. We'd been told to try not to be too noticeable among the tourists.

As I was observing a tourist trying on a beautiful Navajo bracelet, the woman behind the counter greeted me with, "...well, hello! Are you here with Elderhostel?" Suddenly I was no longer a student of the Albright Institute on a class assignment, but a lil ole lady who may have absent-mindedly wandered away from her tour. I found myself suddenly walking a bit more slowly and noticing that my breathing was more labored than usual (the altitude, I'd been told), and remembering that I might not be paying proper attention to the warning that I stay hydrated... all nonsense, of course.

Then, during the Sunday visit to Sedona and that anticipated visit to the Vortexes (mysterious energy fields that arise from deep in the sandstone hills), I jumped out of Maggie's little sporty top-down Miata and scrambled up the hillside to experience this phenomenon. Halfway up the incline I stopped to rest for a minute or so before taking on the next level. Maggie had gone ahead. As I stood catching my breath a conversation of a group of elders drifted across the slope. A white-haired older woman was saying, "...and, oh!, I was so frightened! I found myself caught halfway up to the hillside and I panicked. I couldn't go up or down and it scared me to death until someone shouted to me to just sit down and slide down on my bottom!"

That was all it took. Again, I was suddenly old. I simply couldn't dare go up another foot lest I get caught in the embarrassingly helpless state just described. I missed the experience of the Vortex. The chance will hardly come again. And it was all because, again, I allowed myself to be limited by accepting an external view of what was possible for me. Had I not overheard that woman's conversation, I would surely have scrambled up that incline along with Maggie and thought nothing of it. Scraping up or down on my bottom would have been little more than something to laugh about later in explaining the condition of my Levis!

I decided during a moment of silence on the drive back to the Grand Canyon that I would never ever want to live in a nursing home where the expectations of what I am capable of comes from others.

I must continue to dictate life on my own terms -- while understanding that I'm bound to run into a lot of sandstone gravel-ly places over the next few years -- but somewhere at the top of the incline will be a Vortex that I must not miss.

Maybe -- if I keep listening for the music -- I'll not hear those dissonant voices that dull the senses and limit experiences.

The only limitations I experienced during the entire two weeks at Albright were those I placed upon myself.

What a pity!

Photo: A thumbnail panoramic view of Sedona from the site of the Vortex. Click to enlarge.

Suffering from a rare burst of outraged feminism!

I've seldom claimed militancy where women's issues are concerned -- been far too absorbed in dealing with racism and concern for human rights over a lifetime -- but today I'm more than a little annoyed.

After hours of searching the Internet for the name of the woman who designed this exquisite Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona, all I can come up with is "... created by a disciple of the great Frank Lloyd Wright." Now isn't that an abomination!

If anyone can do better, do let me know. I'd love to give credit to this superb architect. She deserves better treatment by the arts world -- as do the many great women artists whose work has been credited to others throughout history.

This photo can't possibly do justice to this exquisite little chapel, but maybe there's enough of a hint of the grandeur of the setting and the magnificent colors of the sandstone to encourage you to visit to see it for yourself at some point when the mood strikes and the gas tank is full. Makes me wonder why I'd never heard of the Chapel of the Holy Cross before now. Perhaps there are books published -- but then maybe -- if I'd taken the time to walk down to the lower floor to the gift shop I'd have noticed them ... but I was too totally caught up in the wonder of the moment to think of anything so obvious.

And how does one speak of Sedona? In hushed tones, or course.

Maggie, the delightful receptionist at the Albright Training Center, called one morning shortly after six o'clock (yeah, I groaned) to ask if I wouldn't like to hop into her little two-passenger Miata with the top down and do the two-and-a-half-hour trip to Sedona on our free Sunday? "Be ready by 8:30," says she. "We'll lunch on buffalo kabobs with fried rattlesnake and cactus at the Cowboy Cafe," all of which she topped off handily with a chocolate martini if you can believe ... (Lady Godiva, of course).

Earlier in the week I'd had the disconcerting experience of having been "outed" by an online article which had appeared in Inside NPS. Unlike the D-list "celebrity" I've become accustomed to being here at home, in this new context it made me appear kind of "above the fold" in importance. I later learned that it was Maggie who had discovered my more public persona and printed the piece out for posting in the classrooms. Up to that point I had been "Incog-Negro" and the added attention caught me off guard and more than a little surprised. At home the public attention from the media feels like a part of the job of doing outreach and not terribly real nor rightfully earned.

There is a sensuality to Sedona. The natural giant rock formations are clearly phallic and must surely have given rise to myth and legends of fecundity; fertility. The color is breath-taking! Against the azure skies the varied reds and oranges of the sandstone are stunning!

We visited the tiny Catholic Chapel of the Holy Cross that juts out from the dramatic background against which it was set like a brilliant and colorful gem in a tiara of some unnamed giant goddess. It was designed by a woman student of the great Frank Lloyd Wright (and whose name I've shamefully forgotten for the moment). It seats no more than about thirty people at any one time. Pilgrims from everywhere are ambling up a winding path from below in a never-ending stream of awe-struck art worshippers -- hour after hour -- and all surprisingly quiet and subdued; a tribute to true art. Here is a perfect blending of artistic vision and natural wonder.

More later ... .

I'm home again ... and have spent the past week since returning trying to figure out how it will ever be possible to write about the ineffable ...

When our 5-hour bus trip from the Phoenix airport brought us the first glimpse of the Grand Canyon -- I was speechless. There is no way to capture the grandeur -- the wonder cannot be translated onto a postcard, or even a huge glossy expensive coffee table book ...

Reminds me of the next day when there was the opportunity to stand with others at one of the vista points along the south rim ... trying to turn away from the almost impossible-to-resist urge to jump! It's hard to explain that there was no suicidal impulse propelling me forward -- just the almost irresistible wish to fold into the universe in this wondrous place ... to become one with all that IS! Crazy? Perhaps. But in that setting it felt primal. Clean. Real. This was not the place to be alone, I think.

There was a group of young people standing nearby. I listened as they, too, were apparently seeing this scenic wonder for the first time. For the most part they were silent. Then one oohed quietly, "...Cool! WOW!" My reaction was one of quiet (grownup) contempt for the failure of education to arm kids with no more adequate ways of expressing their feelings. How had we come to this -- this impoverishment of the English language -- this lack of adjectives that would reduce youngsters to this oft-repeated and over-used nothing of an expression? "Cool indeed!"

On Wednesday evening of the second week of the training session we learned that there would be a total lunar eclipse that we might view from vantage points along the rim not too far from the training center. I could hardly imagine such an event happening during my stay here -- to witness a lunar eclipse over the Grand Canyon! What kind of serendipitous coming together of the fates could have brought this not-to-be-missed once-in-a-lifetime celestial event to insignificant me? What could possibly be more magical or more unexpected?

On Wednesday the snows returned with a vengeance. It snowed most of the day; a sight so beautiful to my unaccustomed eyes -- having grown up in coastal California. The thought of missing the eclipse was only a minor disappointment. This white wonderland may just be enough for me. I was operating on overload in all this wonder stuff anyway, right? What more could the universe possibly offer after standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon viewing every stratum of millions of years of geological evolution from Mexico to Canada and from this one astonishing place?

The snows continued to drift down soundlessly throughout the day with only occasional breaks. About 18 inches had fallen by nightfall.

Then -- as if by some magical off-stage signal by some Grand Wizard -- just minutes before the scheduled beginning of the eclipse -- the snows ceased -- the sky was suddenly crystal clear. Here -- while everything stopped save breathing -- the rare and great drama of the universe began to unfold.

I watched through tear-filled eyes which distorted the image but increased the magic by so doing -- and felt deep inside that I was absolutely essential to this unfolding. An essential part of the miracle simply by bearing witness to something multitudes of human beings have shared over the millenium; had written into our legends and cultures and painted and carved into our arts and danced and sung ... and here I was at one of the holiest of places of the world -- bearing witness, too, and feeling at one with every living creature across the planet -- over all of the ages.

And -- you know what?

All I could think of was "like waaaaaay cool!" and hecka WOW!"

...on the walk home I grinned silently to myself as I came to terms with the fact that those adjective-challenged young people were surely experiencing the awe to the same degree that I was - and that they, too, will someday make or find their own means of expressing it -- through dance, through song, through carvings and stories and rhymes -- and that this is what forms the bridge of human experience that we all must cross before time overtakes mortality.

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.