Last Wednesday was another remarkable day in a remarkable year of growth and change ... for both me and the park.

Attended a special day at Fort Mason where the members of the media, PBS staff, and some members of park staffs from those parks surrounding the bay gathered to meet Ken Burns. I've rarely seen so many rangers in one place at the same time. We'd been invited to preview parts of the latest PBS documentary created to tell the story of the NPS. It's called, "The National Park System, America's Best Idea." It was an all day event that included a preview not only a part of the 12-hour piece to be shown in late September, but we also heard speeches by Ken Burns and Dayton Duncan plus others who figured prominently in a number of parks and programs that are featured in the work.

Burns is indisputably the documentarian of our times, and to have been included in that audience was a great honor, but as with his latest epic "The War," I came away with a sense of frustration.

The work has taken ten years to complete and starts with the early development by men (and they were all male) like John Muir, Theodore Roosevelt, Mather, Albright, etc., and those magnificent pristine wild places that were saved for posterity. Yellowstone, being the first followed by Yosemite and other places of natural wonder would later include the historic sites -- the battlefields, monuments, and memorials that tell the story of the nation.

At one point it was realized that the visitation "by the people" who were the owners of the national park system tended to be restricted only to those who could afford the trips and that there was limited access for those who could not. In more recent times the NPS has concentrated on bringing the parks to the people by legislation created to include the protection and preservation of urban historic sites that now enshrine the heroic stories of the Underground Railroad, the Civil Rights Movement, the Native American stories, the Women's Movement, etc., all critically important to the telling of the more complete story of America.

As with "The War" in which the Burns documentary told the western story through Sacramento. It almost completely ignored the Greater Bay Area where the shipbuilding industry pretty much turned the fate of the war in the Pacific by building supply ships faster than the enemy could sink them. Instead he chose to use the (albeit compelling) story of a Japanese family's internment instead. An important story, but the stories that I and millions like me lived as home front workers were missing from the narrative. When taking 12 hours to tell the story, one might suppose that both could be accommodated.

In this week's Burns experience, I felt the disappointment at having the documentary end with the creation of Denali National Wilderness Park in Alaska in the year 1980; more than 20 years ago. That meant that we had not yet reached the point of the beginnings of the urban parks movement and the new more inclusive aspects of park development; so much of which were the "swords into plowshares" parks which included the entire Presidio, Fort Mason, the Marin Headlands, Fort Kronkite, and surely not the entire home front story now being told through the addition of our Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front NHP.

Of course he had to stop somewhere, I suppose, but it certainly begs another series that is inclusive of the new directions. Besides, it might have been more enjoyable had he thought to bring Wendy and the Lost Boys along, too.

More later.

Uncompromised truth has its day ...

Insight!

Leaning against the wall yesterday at the premiere of the "Untold Stories" (trying to be as inconspicuous as possible) it dawned; the effect this newly-created national park is having on this city. The insistence upon total honesty as we re-visit the era of what is remembered as "The Good War" has proven to be unquestionably wise. The epiphany came at a moment when our mayor rose to honor the young high school students, Crystal Johnson, 18, Sara Moran, 16, Maria Esparza, 17, and Veronica Godinez 18, in the ceremony following the viewing of their production. I suddenly could see that everything was dependent upon through which lens that history was being viewed. Mayor Gayle McLaughlin, as one voice of many sincerely dedicated peace activists, is seeing it through the lens of the brutal and senseless carnage of war; though one facet of the greater story.

It would be understandable for Kaiser Permanente Corporate leaders of today to view that same history primarily through the remarkable industrial achievements of Henry J Kaiser's total re-structuring of the shipbuilding industry; a history that has had profound implications throughout the years since ... years of unprecedented progress in so many fields -- preventive health care, early childhood education and development, union/management relations, mass production and prefabrication systems.

The Ken Burns documentaries and The Saving of Private Ryan are important if the lens used was one exploring the body count stories; those of human degradation created by armed conflict; our known human capacity for violence and brutality; military sacrifice and heroism. All are critically important to the telling of the story of WWII, but those are not Richmond's story. Those were not the stories that the teens had given up a year's worth of Saturdays to tell.

Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park is providing the narrative of the "Great Mobilization"; the coming together of people from Everywhere, USA, in response to a world threatening international crisis. Those years saw the creation of the cauldron into which the nation's conflicting social mores and patterns were cast resulting in two decades of life-changing chaos out of which the causes of civil and human rights were painfully carved bringing us more in line with the promises of our founding documents and loudly-professed but sorrowfully unfulfilled national ideals.

Since 1776 we've been a revolutionary country painfully at odds with a set of core principles and values for which we've been willing for generations to fight and die but by which we've miserably failed to live. We've deceived the world by holding out a tempting imaginary chalice of peace and freedom while holding to contradictions and an arrogance that denied their ever entering into our reality. The WWII home front mobilization and subsequent struggles for redefinition forced us to move through to a more honest alignment with those core beliefs. But -- as a nation of diverse ordinary people in transition -- it all happened with mind-numbing speed -- far too rapidly for us to process.

It is that story that Richmond tells. By initial attempts such as this important work by these young women, we're building a bridge back to that period for us all to re-visit. They're helping us to build a baseline against which to measure the dramatic social changes that have brought us to a new and more enlightened national ethos. Those years (1941-1964 and beyond) forced us to re-examine the relationships between human and civil rights and even the possibility of a world at peace. Without the insistent stress upon the everyday lives of ordinary people living in extraordinary times -- without the urgent demands of the war years to find ways to live and work together despite a non-supportive and unforgiving social system -- and without their persistent and sometimes combative resistance to continuing to any longer endure the contradictions, the nation might never have reached this place of transformation.

"Untold Stories" revealed the raw material from which the new understandings have been carved. Out of such sorrowful history world peace may yet be born. I believe that the City of Richmond provided the background against which the country first began to confront its contradictions and correct its course -- entering a period of 20 years of social upheaval --echoes of which still resonate from our nation's lecterns, pulpits, and town squares. We're still a work in progress, but yesterday's gathering at the Museum suggests that here in this place -- after 6 decades of accelerated change -- this relatively young community of strangers is still asking the right questions, and through the National Park Service, the nation is listening.

Meanwhile, those awful wounds born of hatred and racial injustice are best cauterized by Truth.

Perhaps Rosie was more than a mere riveter, but the ultimate symbol for change of a kind that we're only now beginning to fully understand and appreciate; understanding provided by yet another set of lenses -- those of 4 young students exploring their history and (hopefully) being awed by both what we've endured and how far we've come.


Bottom photo: Director Lois Boyle, SS Red Oak Victory; Luciano del Rio, Richmond Youth Media Project; Crystal Johnson, me, Assemblywoman Nancy Skinner of the 14th Assembly district; Sara Moran, Richmond Mayor Gayle McLaughlin; Veronica Godinez. The fourth member of the group (not shown), student Maria Esparza has joined the Air Force as a direct result of her experience in the program (as she reported on camera).

Note: You can be there by clicking on the thumbnail for enlargement.

Student Conservation Association (SCA) doings ... .

This afternoon -- 5:00 'til 7:00 -- I will get to experience myself as one of the subjects in a 15-minute documentary created by a group of high school girls in a multimedia workshop. The project was conducted under the imaginative leadership of Carla Koop, a member of our ranger staff at Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front NHP.

After the release of a timely story in the Contra Costa Times, we've received enough calls from members of the community and beyond to cause no little concern about whether the Richmond Museum of History with a 40-person room-capacity for seated guests will be able to accommodate the crowd!

We've learned that among the guests will be Assemblywoman Nancy Skinner. She will present commendations to the kids (how exciting it that?), and from the telephone calls I've received at home, we may have to run the film at least twice.

There's a part of me that is always scanning the horizon for my replacement; until something like this happens. Then I wonder just how anxious I am to leave the stage ... .

Watching young minds grow and having some sense of contributing to that process is heady stuff. These feelings of pride and humility must be what teachers experience in their later years. Maybe I, too, am a teacher or sorts.

From my young friends from the California College of the Arts ...

Dear Betty,

I hope all is well, and thank you for meeting with us at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial Park two weeks ago. It was an honor to be amongst your presence.

Our lunch with you marked our final meeting with community leaders of Richmond, and thus we have reached a conclusion of what our final project will be.

As we mentioned to you before, we have decided to create a book of illustrations, bio's, quotes, and info on the wonderful people we've met in Richmond. We are honored to ask your permission to include you in our book.

We have a number of interview questions we would like to ask you if you are interested in participating. I will include them in this text. If you choose to participate, feel free to answer the questions by email, or we can contact you by phone. Just let us know what you are comfortable with and what is most convenient for you.

We hope for this book to be resourceful and informative to the community of Richmond and beyond.

With warm regards,

Madeleine Tonzi
Kathrine Canton
Aria Caton
Camille Hoffman
Sasha Gainor
Katy Chmura

Here are the questions for you to consider if you choose to participate:

What is your role within Richmond?

Besides being a resident, of course. I moved to the city from nearby Berkeley (in Alameda County) while serving as a field representative for two members of the California state assembly; Dion Aroner, and later for her successor, Loni Hancock. I was responsible for all of West Contra Costa County and after a year or so decided that I needed to live in the community in order to best serve both it and those I represented. That evolved into my current position as a NPS park ranger where I've become more and more deeply involved in helping the city to discover and honor its colorful history.

How does your background and practice contribute to the health of Richmond?

I suppose the fact that I am a member of the African American community and therefore one of the many cultural groups who reside here, and partly because I am by nature a very open person of an age where I'm given permission to express that candor, I seem to have the capacity to release the same in those around me. That means that I've found a way to maximize that openness within the context of the work that I'm doing. That's an amazingly empowering way in which to move through life. I'm not at all sure that all of those elements could have come together before my present age (87). I seem to have outlived the need for artifice. I'm no longer becoming, but in a constant state of "being." Perhaps this translates into my community life.

What do you want to share with others about Richmond's history?

It's probably the fact that Richmond played such a pivotal role during those years (1941-1945) when the great mobilization occurred. Total strangers were brought together in this place from many parts of the nation to build the supply ships that would change the course of WWII. In the process the city found itself unwittingly participating in the greatest social upheaval of a kind that re-shaped the country for all time. Extraordinary ordinary people came together under an inherited system of racial segregation yet found the ways to transcend -- to struggle through the next 20 year of confrontations -- both militant and peaceful -- to create new social patterns that eventually changed the course of history. The Greater Bay Area was the nerve center for the war in the Pacific. Richmond was the nerve center of that nerve center with its 4 shipyards. By virtue of the social forces unleashed here for the first time, Richmond later became the cradle of social change. One day the descendants of those humble home front workers will realize that legacy and the city will rise to its rightful place as the "place where it all happened."

If you could send a message to your community, what would it be?

That the time spent in fighting crime and violence would be better spent in replacing it with more positive elements. We choose our reality; I truly believe that. What we choose has the capacity to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. We must free ourselves of externally-imposed images and re-direct our energies into creating and being what we want to see.

Where do you think the heart of Richmond is? and why?

I'm not sure that I've been here long enough to answer this question. Or, maybe a more honest answer is that I'm not sure that anyone knows that yet. My sense of the city is that it is a community in search of an identity. Having started out as a company town; been taken over by the great mobilization and the war; having only now become engaged in any kind of collective introspection; its heart may still be undiscovered. That there is one I do not question. Maybe -- if I live long enough -- that question will be answered.

What growth do you hope to see in Richmond's future?

I'm not sure that I'm as interested in growth as I am in consolidation. I'd love to stop the calendar and the clock long enough by some magic to figure out where we'd like to go. This new national park and my own work on its behalf -- I'm more and more convinced -- will help to shape whatever future is out there to be explored and actualized by helping to forge a shared history of a fascinating community.

Betty

Whadayaknow! I'm about to become an actual published author.

I'm beginning to get antsy waiting for the spring issue of the quarterly journal, The California Historian to hit the stands.

I think I mentioned some months ago that our chief of interpretation stopped by my desk one day with a stack of the magazines in hand and a request that I heard as something being assigned as "busy work" since I appeared to be at loose ends. "Betty, do you suppose you could write a piece for this magazine? You're a good writer and it might serve to spur interest in their upcoming annual meeting that will be held in June." We will be hosting one day of that weekend gathering. Historians will be coming from all over the state.

This would be the first time I've been asked (formally) to submit a piece for publication and for a minute there I hesitated. Then I agreed to take a crack at it, but asked Naomi if she'd provide some guidelines (number of words, etc.) but she had no idea what was required. "Take a look at these earlier issues and maybe you'll get some guidance from that." Okay.

Over the next several weeks I wrote and rewrote, copied and pasted, tried to edit for length (it really did get away from me for a while there) but was unsuccessful. As an untrained writer, I discovered how hard it is to try to edit content without finding the edits taking you completely off course with no way to tie the new parts back into the body of the article. It was crazy-making! I finally asked if someone would read what I'd put together and take a first cut at editing. Ours is a busy and small staff so finding a volunteer with the time to devote proved futile. Besides, I'd fallen in love with every word and couldn't possibly make the necessary cuts myself. I had no idea how to shrink what had by that time become at least 6 pages of single-spaced type with no end in sight!

Somewhat embarrassed, I submitted the final draft to Naomi hoping that she would take a red pencil to the entire mess and save me the pain of editing my priceless piece. She looked pained as she handed it back to me unchanged. I took this to mean that she a) hadn't found the time to read it; b) had been intimidated by its length, and was returning it with an unspoken apology. I explained that I'd looked carefully at the back editions and that there were articles at least as long as mine and that I'd failed to find any criteria or guidelines to work from. We eventually decided to simply submit it as an attachment with an email giving their managing editor the freedom to edit however she wished based upon available space. I thought little more about it, once released. There was no expectation of acceptance. It was enough to have fulfilled my responsibility for delivering on schedule.

Weeks later while we were intensely involved in an all-day meeting involving the Visitor's Center an email arrived from the Editor. "We loved your writings and will be using it as the cover article in the spring edition and would like to arrange a visit to Rosie the Riveter Park to select about 5 photos to accompany it."

Panic time! I'm (of course) flattered beyond all reason, but since I'd written my article based upon my memories of the WWII era, and, since no one other than Naomi had even read the piece -- how on earth would it stand up being released under the aegis of the National Park Service to a reading audience of historians? It had to be accurate. It might even be quoted from at some future time -- and neither Naomi nor I had dreamed it would be accepted for publication so no one from our staff had actually fact-checked a word of it. What to do?

Took it to Martha with an urgent plea that someone (anyone) please take some time to carefully read the work for factual accuracy before it was submitted. It went then to our cultural resources manager who went over the entire lengthy document carefully and changed almost nothing -- just one sentence for clarification. "Looks good to me," says Ric. Then he added, "it will take at least 3 years for my scholarship to catch up with your memory!" I could feel myself grow at least an eighth of an inch.

Still not quite satisfied, I drove to the Richmond Museum of History to hand the article to curator Donald Bastin with the words, "please critique this, Don, and return it to me right away. The journal editor will be stopping in tomorrow to select the photos from your archives." He agreed. He is meticulous in his own work and could be counted on to be demanding in his criticism. He was familiar with and respectful of the publication. Also, in the past we'd had some fairly heated disagreements on issues involving my remembrances vs. his research findings of the era. This is precisely the kind of hard scrutiny needed here. I could trust Don's judgment, completely.

Imagine my surprise when -- upon arrival the next day he gave it back to me with the words. "Found one error. You state twice, Betty, that Henry J. Kaiser and his band of amateur ship builders built and launched 747 ships in 4 years and 7 months. It was actually 3 years and 8 months!" I'd actually understated this incredible feat! His correction added strength to the narrative. The entire article passed muster with the curator. I'd done it! My memory proved to be dependable and accurate (if dramatically overactive), and sometime next week the article will be published for the readership of the California Historical Societies throughout the State of California.

It's quite possible that one day we'll hear some unwitting soul state, "I know its true because I read it in the California Historian." And who's the authority?

Me!

Womens' History Month observance ... and ... suggestibility ...

I was invited to be the guest speaker at a brown bag lunch at the National Park Service's regional offices in downtown Oakland. It was an honor to be appreciated, though I'm always a little uncertain about what's expected of me. For those who work from an acquired body of knowledge, one draws from accumulated academically-approved research. For me, it's a case of working from memory, and finding them shifting from time to time depending upon the stimulus that nudges them to the forefront. A song, a few lines from a poem, a photograph from some fading news clipping, all have the power to thrust me back in time -- and because of our growing collection of artifacts that lie within an arm's length of my desk -- I never know when something I pick up will trigger a flow of fresh memories that change my presentation significantly. So giving my talk is often like working from a moving target. That constant element of surprise leaves me feeling insecure at times when I most need confidence. It may have been this that set the trigger, but:

As I climbed into the car (all decked out in my ranger garb) with the fancy-schmancy arrowhead decals adorning the doors, I slipped the key into the ignition -- turning on the radio (tuned to NPR) and drove out of the parking lot. From the speakers came the voice of the interviewer in conversation with former Justice Sandra Day O'Connor. They were discussing her recent appointment to a seat on an important commission on Alzheimers disease. I was aware of the tragic story of her husband being stricken years ago and of the heart-breaking effects upon their marriage and her life. There followed a torrent of alarming calls from members of the listening audience describing their experiences with the caretaking of loved ones. These, unfortunately, included graphic descriptions of clinical symptoms that were truly frightening.

As I slipped easily into the freeway traffic I found myself glued to their conversations. During the 20-minute drive into an increasing traffic flow, the feelings of insecurity began to mount as I felt myself tightening up -- as my breathing became more shallow. My palms were now damp and began to slip ever-so-slightly on the steering wheel ... .

By the time I reached my destination and turned into the underground garage (headed for parking space 55 as directed), I had acquired the symptoms! I was in full-blown Alzheimers mode. Though a competent driver (quite good according to my race car driving mechanic), today I simply could not park the car. I inched back and forth between two cars, twisting and turning the wheels back and forth with no success, and finally becoming hopelessly wedged awkwardly "on the bias," until I finally got out of the car to walk to the security kiosk to ask the guard if he would please park it for me. He didn't offer to do so, but did come over to direct me into the space. By then I was completely unstrung! I'd spent about twelve minutes in the vain attempt and my composure was shot to hell!

Imagine my surprise upon entering the first floor to find the security person and the NPS staff member who was there to greet me -- looking at a computer screen at the reception desk trying to hide their laughter unsuccessfully. They'd been watching the crazy drama going on in the garage! Instantly I saw the insanity of the situation and staggered up to the desk giggling helplessly! Through the laughter I told them about my "alzheimers" attack -- and decided that I had the opening to today's luncheon talk.

It worked. I was able to relax into my presentation and decided to never again allow myself to be defined by external forces -- until next time.


Note: If you'll type Sedona into the search bar (small white strip above my photo on the far left side of the screen) you'll see that this curse of succumbing to definition by external forces has happened before. It will appear as if you've not accessed earlier posts because this entry will appear at the top because the word Sedona is mentioned -- so scroll down to the second post and those that follow.

Lovely day -- exciting young people ... the perfect combination ... .

Earlier in the day we'd met with a large group of perhaps 50 students from a Richmond High school history class. They'd come to visit the memorial to Rosie the Riveter; the home front women who replaced the men who were fighting overseas during World War II.

I love the "interpreter" role here in this place. The memorial is such a moving site that tells its story so well with or without anyone's help. It was designed by two remarkable Bay Area women who understood their subject and blended their talents so fluidly that it's all there; the story, the feel of the times, the heroism of the ordinary people whose lives were forever changed, but who have all but forgotten "what they did here."

At around noon the second wave arrived to visit this important part of our new national park. The entire city of Richmond with its many deteriorating scattered historic sites has been declared by Congress to be one of our most recently created urban parks. Some years ago Fort Mason and the Marin Headlands became two of the formerly war-related sites to become a "Swords into Ploughshares" parks. Point Reyes and Alcatraz Island prison make up the other national parks in our region. Port Chicago is a national monument with legislation pending that will make it, too, a national park. Parks established in the names of naturalist John Muir and playwright Eugene O'Neill NHP's are also part of our 4-park consortium here in the East Bay. These are the sites where the nation protects and preserves stories of national relevance for succeeding generations. There are memorial sites, historic sites, urban parks, wilderness areas, all set aside by Acts of Congress to be protected for all time. As Ken Burns' soon to be released latest documentary claims, "The National Park Service; America's best idea." (I'm paraphrasing since I'm not certain of the title.)

The second wave of young people to arrive today were students from the California College of the Arts. They're working on a community arts project whose work is based on looking at the city of Richmond as a living entity. They have been interviewing various community leaders with an eye toward developing a product through which they will try to identify which are the circulatory system, the heart, the source of lung power, etc. Haven't the foggiest idea where I fit in with all this, but we spent almost two hours walking the memorial and talking about the city, my work, my feelings about my work as well as my response to the times of my youth and how that was effected by the war of my generation.

I'm never sure just how much I'm able to communicate, but I liked the conversation as it flowed, felt comfortable with the young women and their instructors. The day was blissfully serene and the weather beautiful ...

Was introduced to yam sandwiches(?), and have to admit that the experience was a trifle strange. My Creole taste buds are tuned to hot baked yams smothered in butter, or, candied with brown sugar then sprinkled with orange zest and chopped pecans. I just may not make it as a vegan ... ever. It may be a generational thing; do you suppose?

Meanwhile, it was lovely day that left me feeling well-used.

The day after my trip north I returned to a very special gift of Dorian-designed happy blue jeans... .

And boy-oh-boy was her mom in desperate need of some genuine happy blue jeans!

One of her instructors, Andres, at NIAD (Nat'l Institute for Artists and Disabilities) led her through the process of painting on textiles -- little different from painting on canvas, I suppose. And how beautiful they are -- and how impossible it is to carry around sorrow and pain while wearing your happiness on your bod!

I have rainbows, flowers that were never wilter, cats and dogs, suns-of-power-to-transform-feelings, and besides all that there is a giggle packed lovingly into each pocket.


I'm planning to light up the very next out-of-uniform event. It wouldn't surprise me one whit to discover that they glow in the dark!

Such finery makes up for an awful lot of stored up misery.

(And, yes, I'm splendid in both directions. The back is gorgeous, too!)

Think I'll go light up a gas station ... .

Black History Month has come and gone ... will it one day be folded in with American history?

Might just as well. As the great Dick Gregory used to say, "...they gave us the month with two days missing, anyway!"

Perhaps that will take a bit longer to achieve, but we're working on it.

This year it was easier -- less of the generic to deal with -- with the great Inaugural events to report on; the trip to Washington, D.C., and sharing thoughts about what it all means.

The city employees hosted their annual luncheon with speeches and great food and so much to celebrate. I'm doing a bit better at the celebrity thing, but it's still not quite "me."

Sad note: I hope you've read the obituary published today at the death of John Hope Franklin at the age of 94. What an impressive man -- and what an exceptional life he lived. The grandson of a slave who rose to great heights as an educator. Black History Month was his brain child. Please take the time to do so if you've haven't.

Another argument for transparency ...

I've been unable to shake the disturbing flood of feelings upturned over the past few days; feelings that grew out of the visit with friends from the past. In thinking back to Thursday evening I realized that -- though many years have passed since our last visit -- the ability to enter into intimate conversation was so powerful and so fast that it was less than an hour into our visit that I began to learn things about Don that had gone unspoken over many years of friendship. It provided further evidence of just how natural is this sense of urgency that is now a part of my everyday being. Talk among peers is rarely "small" anymore.

He is no longer the young husband of my friend, Jewell, and the father of 3 lovely little girls. He is now 86 and a veteran of WWII who landed on Normandy Beach just one day after D-Day. Perhaps it was the fact that we've reached the apex of our lives and are now re-tracing our steps ... I don't know. For whatever reason, he rose and went to his room to bring back recent writings which he wanted to share with me. (He'd mentioned that he was leading a creative writing class for men at his church.)

Don settled back into his chair and searched through a sheaf of papers and came up with a most moving piece of writing. It was his account (read in the calmest of voices) of having visited Buchenwald on the second day after it was liberated. It was brief; little more than a scant half-page; typical of my friend -- New England terse. It was stunning in its restraint -- leaving room for the imagination to soar through the giant empty spaces left between words and the moments of brief hesitation as he read. Time had not softened the impact of the unspeakable images on the mind of this kind and loving man sitting now in this built-with-his-own-hands beautiful home deep in the redwoods. He'd wordlessly communicated to me (his old friend), "this I need you to know." The silence, when his voice stopped, was weighted with the not yet spoken.

Don had been in the room during my presentation at the college that afternoon -- which obviously cast him back to the era of WWII. The presentation placed us both in that history; a walk back through time that we'd avoided over all the years.

I drove home yesterday with a copy of my shy friend's account of the holocaust tucked into my bag -- never ever having guessed that he'd been carrying around those images since they were seared onto his brain long ago. Small wonder that his chosen career was one of compassion -- that of a social worker. Or that he would have been so actively involved in trying to save the world from its self-inflicted wounds. He was as motivated by the horror he'd witnessed as I am by my own family's history -- so deeply grounded in slavery.

Long after the Fords had gone to bed I found myself tossing sleeplessly on the sofa bed in their living room; wondering what kinds of secrets we all are holding to our detriment? Blogging has saved me from taking mine to the grave, but what about others close to me? After Don's revelation I suddenly felt an urgency to know -- to scream to elders around me to please speak their truths to one another. Find someone, anyone, with whom some of the awfulness and (perhaps more importantly) the wonders that we've lived can be shared and lifted from the entrapment of our minds. Which brought up the certainty that dementia is surely one mechanism created by the brain to withstand the pain of remembering the unthinkable.

Is it possible that my generation is as often as not slipping quietly into our graves taking those critical lessons learned with us? Are we bleeding away the power to learn and change, progress, and evolve by silently clutching desperately to the most horrific of life experiences instead of shouting out the warnings and leaving visible markers for succeeding generations to follow?

It was only moments later when Don read a second piece consisting of a short poem: It described in a few words how -- when he was 12 years-old -- while on a family outing, he and his brother had walked into a stream on a dare and only he had returned. He spoke of no one in his family ever taking the time to talk with him about his younger brother's death by drowning. I felt a huge responsibility to react in a way worthy of his trust in me -- but the trauma in the listening outweighed any attempt to find a response fitting to the moment. All I could muster was a timid completely inadequate, "thanks, Don."

It was this double-whammy that set off the depression that followed me the next morning up Highway 101, through from Cloverdale, Yorkville, Boonville, Philo, Navarro, the redwoods, up the Coast Highway past the historic town of Mendocino to Tom's and the intended brief respite at the ocean's edge.

It was impossible to chat idly over dinner that night -- about bank bailouts, presidential appearances on Leno, credit default swaps & derivatives, the First Lady's upper arms, White House victory gardens, etc., and there was simply no place to tuck away the new awareness of the kinds of pain so many of us are squirreling away into the back recesses of our minds day after day as we age into oblivion.

Small wonder I'm having such a hard time climbing out of this emotional abyss this Sunday morning ... .


Yet -- tomorrow will bring another day of increasingly important work and another opportunity to help to shape a park that holds the power to help us to better understand that period of unprecedented social change. A chance to influence the way we examine that history -- placing the bottom low enough to capture the worse of what we've been as a country and a world -- in order to understand (when measuring against today's reality) just how huge is our capacity to grow and change.

What a challenge, and how on earth do I have the audacity to imagine in my wildest dreams that I have the power to do that? I don't. But we do. I know because we've already done it. And I've lived long enough to know that -- to have a real sense of just how that story is ending -- if,

indeed, it is.


Note: See Cbreaux Annex (under my photo above the archives), click to read Don's writings.

Two big events now in the past ... and it's just as well. I'm running out of mental pegs to hang things on.

Mid-week the big public meeting to present and review the General Master Plan for our park arrived. The report is the culmination of 8 years of hard work by some very capable staff people, both locally and regionally. I had no direct involvement is creating it (except for being one of the many voices that mulled over hours, days, and weeks, of meetings in various configurations and levels of dream-makers). The document that is the outcome of all that work is really impressive.

Last week I spent many work hours driving around the area delivering copies to museums, libraries, agencies, nonprofits, civic partners, etc., and feeling really welcomed at each stop. My uniform continues to open doors and produce smiles of greeting. I'm always aware that I'm announcing a potential career option each time I enter into new territory. Feels good. There are always questions from those who have no idea that there is a national park any closer than Yosemite; that, indeed, there is one in development less than 30 minutes away -- how exciting is that?

Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front Historical National Park is still relatively unknown beyond the boundaries of the city of Richmond, but with each new phase in park-building the circle of those-who-know grows a bit larger.

On Thursday afternoon I drove up to Santa Rosa Community College to appear as a panelist for their school's Women's History Month celebration. Stopped by my office to pick up my goodie box of handouts; stuffed it in my car's trunk along with an overnight bag (for staying over with long time friends in nearby Occidental). I planned to join Tom at his Mendocino oceanfront home on Friday morning for some whale-watching before returning home to attend the Rosie Trust annual dinner tonight (Saturday).

Hit a bump in the road along the way that disrupted my anticipated happy holiday. First of all, the panel that was advertised on the widely-distributed posters as consisting of 3 panelists -- turned out about the same as one I'd participated in last spring at the Oakland Museum. The event had been several months in the planning and by the time the date arrived -- I was the only one left standing! The others had passed away ... so sad. So depressing. Upon arrival in Santa Rosa I discovered that the other two women (both "Rosies" over 80) had cancelled out and I was again going to be doing a solo presentation. Except that -- in this instance -- two instructors quickly were added to the mix and did a really credible job of creating the replacement program we needed.

But it set a tone that dampened my spirits and I found myself feeling old and out of context. Those feelings were still clinging upon arrival in Occidental where Don and Jewell and I spent a late evening remembering. It was impossible to not be aware of how much we were all aging -- and of how little time is left now. These were two dear friends I've known and loved since the early days when we were all hard-working members of that brave ahead-of-its-time little Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Walnut Creek. We'd raised our children together while working toward a more equitable community in which to grow them.

I drove away toward Mendocino on Friday morning feeling a sense of sorrow at how fast our world is changing and wondering just how much longer I can retain some sense of relevance ... .

I keep forgetting -- since my everyday world is peopled by those at least a generation below my own -- that it is I who is out of context. My own generation is making peace with the end times and coming to terms with their mortality in ways that -- perhaps -- I've not yet begun to consider -- to slow my pace one whit. I'm ordinarily not even aware of the need to do so.

Will Time wake up one morning soon and notice that he has forgotten me, and that Age will then arrive with a vengeance and cart me away unceremoniously -- without warning?

And wouldn't that be a wonderful way to make an exit?

It was in this mood that I hopped into my little red Beamer with its inappropriately loud muffler to (prematurely) drive away from Tom, the whales, threatening skies, to head for home along magnificent Coast Highway 1; through the Navarro River gorge with its 14 mile stand of redwoods; through to Highway 128 -- through the Anderson Valley now busily dressing for spring; with the hope that this pall will lift and isn't a signal that I'm reaching another plateau where age will (finally) become a factor to be reckoned with.

I looked back as I drove out of his driveway to see Tom standing in the doorway looking puzzled and patient, as always.

I could never have explained ... .

Walking back through time ...

It appears that my son, Bob, also recently engaged in nostalgia for times past. On the occasion of his Del Valle high school reunion -- he took the time to do something I've never had the courage to do. He returned to the home of his childhood and took his camera along. I've only driven past that lovely home twice in all the years since we left it. Both times were accidental in that I was a passenger in Tom's car and tried to pretend I didn't notice as we took the curve at Boulevard Way. He lives within a quarter mile of 2501 Warren Road in Walnut Creek.

I'd forgotten how lovely it was -- and of how much life we lived there ... times both awful and wonderful beyond measure. This lovely view of Mt. Diablo from the property often returns in dreams ... .

The house was on the market when Bob visited so he had a chance to walk around among the trees and let the memories lead him back. I'm not sure that I could do that, even now. But then I've never returned to the house that Bill and I shared on the topmost ridge of Berkeley; high above the university campus during the 80's. For reasons I've not given much thought to; I've never willingly retraced my steps -- not even to the home where I grew up in East Oakland. Wonder what that means?

I've lost track of the architect, Sewell Smith, the courageous Quaker who designed it. He would hardly recognize his masterpiece at this point. Over the years the redwood 4-bedroom home has been painted and the interior completely altered (according to Bob who managed to walk through). The swimming pool has been bulldozed and filled in and many of the fruit trees removed or replaced by ornamentals. No more wisteria nor any sign of the huge English walnut tree that overhung the deck. The Las Trampas creek which borders the back acreage still meanders through though I'm sure its bed has changed many times since we left. And it's no surprise that Bob thoughtfully included snapshots of a place where raccoon families shared the land with us and where tadpoles could be found in spring.

I'm sure that he remembered those hot summer evenings when he and David (and sometimes Rick) would drag their sleeping bags out behind the pool to bed down under the giant oaks. I remember how disconcerting it was for their less than courageous young mother who watched them traipse out for their starlight adventure knowing that I was almost too timid to go out with a flashlight to check on them should there be a call in the night; certainly not without my eyes cast downward and fingers in my ears! The sound of an owl or the sight of a possum could send me into sheer panic!

Looking at these snapshots reminded me how Biz, a neighbor's loving cocker spaniel used to sneak in at night and join the kids as they slept out. I remembered Helsa, our wonderfully protective German shepherd -- then later Barnaby -- the hilarious Old English Sheepdog we loved so much. The puppies, cats, turtles, rabbits; pets galore who shared that home with us for years on end.

Found myself wondering, while dropping off into troubled sleep last night -- just how well did we prepare our children for the world they would grow into? The pain inflicted by racism surely left its scars on their lives; pain we were unable to protect them from. How fair was I in so stubbornly demanding my rights to full equality at the expense of their well-being? I'm not at all sure that our good intentions compensated for the psychological and emotional damage they were exposed to. Yet -- despite all -- I love the people they've grown up to be. We're good friends who enjoy one another -- and being together when time and distance allows; Bob, David, Dorrie, and me. If only we'd been able to save Rick ... and if Mel had lived long enough to have known all of his grandchildren.

I see what are sincerely affectionate feelings being expressed for Sasha and Malia Obama, and great admiration for their parents. It's heartening to see, but for some of us it has come at least a generation too late.

...but one thing was perfectly clear in looking back at these idyllic photos. Mel and I surely did our very best to provide a good life for our children. Our world at that time didn't support us in that effort.

Would I want to do it all again? Only if I could live it this time with the acquired wisdom and courage that came with years and years of growth and change -- both for me and for the country.

Maybe we were just too far ahead of the curve.


Still missing Rick today, but a visit back to our early days as a family through Bob's photos seems to make it all a bit less painful. Maybe this can be considered a part of letting go ... not only of a son, but of memories of the good, the bad, and the ugly -- all essential parts of life, and in Rick's case, death.

Next week it's back to "rangering," with a panel at Santa Rosa Community College.

How wonderful to have meaningful work with which to anchor a life.

How strangely doth the mind work ...

I've been feeling weary. Listless. Not quite "in or of this world" ... all day.

Just noticed the date as I closed out that last entry.

Today is March 11th. It would have been Rick's birthday -- had he lived to celebrate it. Has it really been ten years?

I'm making progress in a small way. Ordinarily I would have been aware much earlier in the day -- or anticipated a renewal of the pain for at least a week leading up it.

I suppose one never really lets go of a son whose life was cut short.

In a few hours it will be March 12th, and the memory will again fade and life will go on as before.

Writing on my journal has moved down on my list of priorities ... and I've missed it (and you) ... .

There have been many demands on my time of late, and I must admit to some creeping fatigue. Am not ordinarily at such a low ebb as I've felt these past several days -- not sure just why that is, but it could be simply the demands of the past two months.

Found myself a couple of weeks ago sitting before an assembly-hall filled with little ones. I was the centerpiece for the Black History Month celebration at the invitation of the African American parents of Quail Run Elementary School in San Ramon, California. There were two assemblies; the first for K-3rd grades and the second 4th & 5th. Beautiful children who filed into the room and seated themselves on the floor in a most orderly fashion.

It was lovely to notice that this collection of bright little faces was quite possibly the earliest evidence I've actually seen to date -- of the non-majority-majority status now enjoyed by this state. I noticed on their website that one-third of the student body is East Indian. The racial groups in the room represented not only East Indian but other Southeast Asians, Native American, African American, European-American, in almost equal numbers. I suspect -- a number of kids were from below our borders in South and Central America and Mexico, though they were not nearly as visible among these children. It was a veritable rainbow of faces -- the world as it is fast-becoming.

Since this is a very new community with the new school isolated on otherwise empty acreage for at least a mile around -- bordered on one side by newly-built homes giving way to a vista of empty fields for as far as the eye could see. It was a safe guess that these were children of Silicon Valley techies and scientists from nearby Mountain View for the most part and pretty much of a relatively privileged class. San Ramon is also the corporate base for Chevron-Texaco worldwide operations.

One of the parent planners who emceed our assembly presented a PowerPoint on a large drop-down screen of black icons (Dr. King, Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, W.E.B. DuBois, etc.,) -- asking the children to identify each and introducing those unknown with brief bios. This was followed by a choir of little ones singing "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing" (the poet James Weldon Johnson's Negro National Anthem) followed by another small group performing "step dancing," an art practiced in historically black colleges throughout the south. They'd been coached lovingly by another of the moms.

I was delightfully surprised at how well-informed these children were with many hands raised excitedly -- great participation! These were far and away the best informed kids I've seen at these grade levels.

It was my turn, finally. So, seated at the edge of the stage looking "rangerly" in full uniform including my impressive Stetson and gold badges and name plate, I read 3 poems to them -- poems written by black poets (I liked the Nickie Grimes poem best) -- and was well received. I asked as an opening how many poets did we have in the room? Three fourths of the children raised their hands. Great!

Then it struck me: This roomful of beautiful multiracial-multicultural children were only one part of what was before me. As I looked out at the adults in the room, I noticed (seated around the edges of the audience) that every member of the teaching staff and the few administrators in the hall were white. There were 4 African American mothers (the planning group), and one or two fathers.

I'd originally wondered how this assignment fit into my outreach role with the NPS but as the programs came to a close and the children filed out, the African American children and parents remained behind and gathered 'roun with their cameras. It was picture taking time and everyone wanted to be photographed with the park ranger.

I knew then why it was important that I accepted this engagement. In this San Ramon school on this day I was the only authority figure (besides their parents) who looked like the audience! Small wonder that I was feeling almost revered. They'd listened in total silence as I read the poems. It certainly was not because I was a reader of the caliber of Maya Angelou or Nicki Giovanni. Those young ones were awed by the uniform. Maybe (as I often suspect) my garb was announcing a career choice to some who might not ever have considered such. Something that was unattainable to me during my own childhood. I hope I never forget that; or of just how dramatically the world has changed.

The teachers had obviously done a great job in preparing their students for this day. It was evident in their responses. Yes, they were white teachers. But in these days of increasing costs of training -- fewer people of color are coming out of the schools of education, right? Maybe it matters not how open our institutions are to the need to democratize the teaching profession -- if only those who can afford to get into the colleges and universities get to become teachers and if fewer and fewer students of color can do so -- our good intentions will be pointless. Given the 52% dropout rate among minority high school students in this state -- what hope for change is there really?

I'm accustomed to occasionally working before school audiences in the inner city. How different this was. Appearing before an obviously middle-class audience of children who enjoyed privileges afforded by attentive parents and a good teaching staff -- offered a very different environment than some of the classrooms I've been exposed to in Richmond. It gave lots of food for thought on the long 45 mile drive home.

It felt good in many respects to have been a part of something of meaning to those children, and for that I was grateful. I'd had a glimpse of what is possible -- given enough resources, attention from parents with the time and the energy to participate in their children's school lives -- and teachers willing to go the extra steps to satisfy the need for cultural identification ...

It was another good day.

Adventures in the Media ... or, Betty in Television Land ...

The call had come shortly after our return home from the east -- one of several requesting appearances for a variety of Black History Month programs. Nothing unusual. It has been so for the past few years and I've begun to look forward to them now that I've lived long enough to be black history.

One of the early calls came for an on-camera interview to be done at the Pacific Medical Center in San Francisco where I would participate in a video on lifelong learning for the Centennial Commission of the National Park Service. My segment will be combined with others in preparation for a national conference to be held at Gettysburg in August. I was asked to be in uniform and would be filmed for about an hour for what will end up as a brief part of the final presentation. Easy. I've gradually become more comfortable with this aspect of my work.

Because these interviews were all related to either my recent visit to Washington or to Black History Month, I was not prepared for the call from KPIX - Channel Five, in San Francisco. I'd agreed -- expecting more of the same -- only to find myself sitting in the lobby of their building the day after the Medical Center taping, learning that I'd agreed to serve on a panel on the subject of bi-racialism! This had apparently grown out of the feature article which appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle on the eve of our trip. Yes, the same article that had caused me to object to as being out of sync with my self-identification.

It wasn't until the other panelists arrived that it slowly dawned - what I'd gotten myself into inadvertently. And -- here I was in full ranger regalia at an assignment that really required my conservative black crepe suit with pearls -- conservative dignified older woman garb. Chalk one more up to confusion caused by events-moving-far-faster-than-I.

Dana King, news anchor, (also bi-racial), had brought together a small group (4) of light-skinned "African Americans" to discuss "living as bi-racial citizens in today's national scene." This, being clearly related to the racial status of our new president.

I felt totally out of place. I did not feel appropriate to the subject or to the panel since I do not identify as bi-racial. This may seem nuanced to others, but it's very basic to me. Had this happened in any other decade of my long and varied life I might have given any number of answers as to my skin color's effect on that life. In these final years I'm quite clear about who I am and of what it means in the scheme of things. I am African American. Black! No ambivalence about that. I would have it no other way. As stated during the interview, I'm no longer becoming. I'm now simply being, and it matters greatly to me just how that is viewed.

My problems around skin color come from external sources. I look out of this casing, not at it for the most part. Were it a matter of race being determined by the degree of melanin in one's skin, tanning salons would have taken care of this debate long ago. It is not. If it were, actor George Hamilton and golfer Vijay Singh might find themselves with a lot of 'splainin' to do!

I am Black because I've lived the Black Experience. That cannot be changed. The ultimate test for me is that -- if suddenly out of nowhere the sound of Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On;" Aretha's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T!": or anything by Ray Charles or James Brown were to fill the room my head would begin to bob to the right; my middle fingers and thumbs would itch to connect, and my chromosomes to leap up in a grand high five! I can join any conversation in the middle of the fourth paragraph with any other black person who walks into my presence (providing they're not speaking some other language) ... and ... though I've acquired enough culture to know not to applaud at the end of a movement during a chamber music concert ... (along with other folks like me), I secretly suspect that there is no Bach composition that couldn't be improved upon with a little Miles on trumpet, Max Roach or Joe Jones on drums, and Charlie Mingus on bass!

At this age, I'm convinced that there are more cultural than biological elements to race and that they're produced by life experience. I will forever be marked by having grown up under the "one drop rule."

So be it.

I could only vaguely identify racially with the beautiful brown-skinned curly-haired young panelist seated to my left during the interview -- whose mother was "a green-eyed fair-skinned blond" and whose father was obviously not. She made it a point to mention that she operates a camp for bi-racial children (suggesting race as pathology?). Her plight was as alien from my life experience as could be; more like that of our new president. She stated during the course of the interview that she now identifies herself as a "barack."

Bi-racialism occurred in my family during the mid-19th century but we (like most other people of color) are by now polyracial and forerunners of what the world's people are now or will become within the lifetimes of future generations.

But I'm praying that -- what is culturally rich and distinctly different from all others -- will not be lost to the whole. That -- as has happened with my magnificent African-French-Cajun-Creole New Orleanian heritage -- what is African American in the culture will not be sacrificed upon the altar of acculturation.

If we could strip all of the black jazz/gospel/blues influences from America's music -- there would be little left but Lawrence Welk!


Photo: Dana King, news anchor - KPIX-Channel 5.

This has been a memorable week, even more than is usually true in my extraordinary ordinary life ... .

We're in the middle of Black History and at the onset of Womens' History Months; both tend to move me front and center due to my increasingly visible role as a national parks ranger. Since returning from Washington there has been a rise in public interest, furthered by the article published in the S.F. Chronicle just before we left for the Inauguration. I came home to a full calendar of events to which I'd committed before leaving and then spent the last couple of weeks fulfilling those obligations.

Returned late on Thursday evening, so stayed at home on Friday to try to move myself through the time zone glitches and emotional fatigue. On Saturday I'd promised to meet with the Rosie the Riveter Youth Corps -- a group of young high school students for whom I'd done an interview some weeks earlier. They're learning to use media to collect oral histories and I'd been one of their subjects. Today they would be videotaping for a later presentation to the community. Still later (last Saturday) I would be photographed for their project. Easy. Right. It was an unmitigated disaster!

Keep in mind that this on-camera interview was taking place within two days after returning home and before I'd spoken a word to anyone about the experiences in Washington. I'd not even called in to my office on Friday so all of the affect that had built up over the previous week of larger than life experiences was dammed up behind my eyes and in my heart and right in the middle of answering one of my young interviewer's questions I found myself sobbing uncontrollably! Fortunately it came late enough in the interview so that I could simply stop and call it a day. I left the kids looking confused and me -- feeling miserably embarrassed, but hoping that we could have a do-over in a few days when the dust had settled and some kind of normalcy had returned. Offering to come back to re-shoot, I walked to my car across the empty Saturday afternoon school parking lot in the light rain and headed for home dejected but recognizing more fully my very real limitations.

Interestingly enough, they've since decided to not re-shoot the interview. I've agreed as long as they agree not expect me to ever have to watch it. I'm not sure I could bear that, but I'm not persuaded that "keepin' it real" for young people is a bad thing. By mutual agreement, we'll let it stand.

I don't think that I'd realized before the incident that so much pent-up emotion was lying in wait ... and that I really needed to process the experience before I tried to share it.

That's where you come in. It was sitting here at my keyboard that the real debriefing began; culling through the photographs and re-living the moments. I'm not sure what I'd have done had I not been able to share the experience where no one can see the tears or sense my vulnerability ... .

A few more of my 2,000,000-plus new best friends ... .

"The lifetimes of three women" ... starting with Mammá who was born into slavery in 1846 ... freed at the age of 19 with the Emancipation Proclamation ... .

(Still having problems -- have no idea how to get rid of the clone image -- but am posting anyway and will work it out later.)

Have been trying for days to upload the PodCast that was created at the National Park Service headquarters in Washington ... no luck yet ... but I'm still trying.

The reason I'm so anxious to post it here is because I'm having such a hard time making any sense of the actual experience at the Inauguration ceremony. I believe that -- in those few words (the video is about 5-minutes) on camera -- I may have described it all. No amount of thinking improves on those few sentences.

Unfortunately, my camera didn't work for reasons I still don't understand, but that appeared to be true for others seated around me. It may have had something to do with the frequencies in the atmosphere. I simply don't know. Tried to take some photos with my cell phone but it was very new and I'd never tried to take pictures with it before. They're in the phone somewhere, but I haven't the foggiest notion of how to transfer them to my computer.

I've reached the point in my technological development that there are wires and cables and transformers scattered throughout my den -- and I've completely lost control over the entire domain! They've been separated from their "parent" apps, and at this point I have no idea whether they're meant to service the cell phone, my computer, my portable DVD player, the printer, scanner, little rechargeable battery charger ... see what I mean?

The very thin veneer of technological expertise that I've been hiding behind for lo these many months is beginning to give way to Doofus-ness, and there seems to be very little to be done about it.

Until I either figure this out, or, am able to find some Nerd upgrade somewhere buried in my aging persona, I'd suggest that you go to www.nps.inau/ then follow the link for "The National Park Service, Where History Happens." I know it's there but I can't figure out how to bring it here. Tomorrow I'll call public relations and ask them to send a DVD. That may solve the problem and bring back my badly-damaged self-confidence!

Incidentally, except for the staff at the National Park Service, these interviewers seemed to be approaching anyone who they thought might be a "story." They had no idea who I was or how important I may or may not be. It was not personal at all. They were simply searching for the story and I caught their eye; probably my obvious senior status. We're the ones with the memories and the obvious connections to the struggles of the past. On January 20th we became relevant to the young as the carriers of the lore of our times. These encounters with these young black media professionals had the quality of respect and status in this new age that stretches somewhere far beyond cynicism. It was a good feeling; an experience I thoroughly enjoyed. It felt as though in some way I was invited into a partnership in their work. I didn't need to see the final product. It was enough to be involved in the process -- together recording history.






Photo: Top left Jody Lyles, producer of the PodCast at NPS.
Center left: Interview at Lincoln Memorial for Canadian Television.
Bottom: One of several on-camera interviews done at the Lincoln Memorial for various channels.