Life with Dorian, continued ... .

My developmentally disabled daughter and I spent an unusual amount of time together over the 4th of July weekend. I'd been planning for weeks to include her in (what will surely become) the First Annual Oakland Symphony Free Concert and Fireworks Extravaganza at the Craneway Pavilion. We'd talked about it constantly of late -- when I'd pick her up for the drive to her art center for the day. It was particularly exciting because this weekend would also include the High School Musical at the same venue the following night. Dorian isn't big on symphony (can't hum along too well), but is ecstatic about this tween phenomenon brought to the world by television. She would tolerate the first at my insistence, but WOW! To see Troy and Gabriella of East High in the flesh would be almost too good to imagine. Dorian is now 50 going on 10, and as a fitting cultural event, this is the absolute best.

I'm aware that my conduct and attitude changes radically when she's along. I put on invisible blinders so that others are essentially shut out of my immediate line of vision. I make a subconscious choice -- either I'm with her or in the room with others. If I'm with her the situation demands that I see the experience through her eyes and that adjustments set in place since she was a small child kick in. It's not always possible to remain in my world and bring her along so I learned long ago to opt into hers for limited periods. My intellect slips into limbo; eyes are half-closed; and I move onto her plane for whatever time is required. It's something she's taught me in order for us both to survive in the weird dimension she would otherwise experience alone. I've never fully understood it, but am sure that other parents of the handicapped will understand what I'm struggling to describe.

Dorian is like a brightly-painted Volkswagen in a world of Cadillacs. She has all of the essentials, but none of the extras. The subtleties and nuances pass her by. She can only handle the basics; and she handles them reasonably well, thank you.

As we sat down at our front row table at the concert her first words to Kate (seated directly across from us) were, "tomorrow is my cat's birthday." True. Kate who is the president of the Arts Commission has known Dorrie through NIAD (program for handicapped artists) and is aware of her limitations so took it in stride. A stranger would have been completely taken aback.

Dorian is confident and functions relatively well in social settings. She's always been included in the family activities and trips and displays a rare ability to meet a stranger and immediately set the subject and boundaries of the conversations by stating the ground rules with her first sentence. From childhood she figured out that if she doesn't do so she will be lost in verbal exchanges that she cannot possibly relate to. She found a way to not become lost in other people's words. Makes for some uncomfortable social situations. I tend to find myself putting my hand on her arm or around her waist with the intention of re-directing the interaction. This allows a way to subtly include her while also shutting her down -- so that the other person can both recover from the shock of that first sentence and find a way to respond, or, to find themselves hopelessly lost in talk that is completely controlled by Dorian. She has no understanding that conversations are meant to be two-way and that there needs to be room for the other person to have a word or two. It's all send. No receiving. She is ever creating and managing a social world in which she can function. It's defensive. It's also aggressive.

Not only is the experience emotionally exhausting, but it means that when I take her along I've committed to limiting my own social experience. It means holding her hand under the table as a way of reassuring her that I know that she's being made miserable by the constraints. She is very sensitive and aware that she's being restrained which she clearly resents. She's gregarious and wants desperately to be free to share in the chit-chat around her. It means that I become reluctant to interact with those around us and feel at times that this may be read as aloofness. The more gregarious she becomes, the quieter I tend to be. I begin to withdraw as if by some subtle manipulation I can provide the example for her to follow; a guaranteed failure as witnessed over a lifetime. I've never learned to allow others to take care of themselves in relating to her; as it will be when I'm no longer here to act my part.

I really do understand why we rarely see any of those who people her everyday world of others like her attending public events. It means that when she is with me in these situations, she is always off-key -- different -- odd and out of sync. When she was a little girl I almost always picked her up from school for a weekend or field trip bringing along at least one other child from her world. The practice worked for us. It's the reason I've always been opposed to mainstreaming, but I've never been able to convince anyone of my point of view.

The magic of NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities) is that Dorian has a chance to function as one of the high-achievers in that special world. Out here in the world where the rules vary greatly, she is always bringing up the rear -- or having her mother holding her hand under the table so that (mother) won't be embarrassed by her brashness and inappropriate though sincere pronouncements about her precious cat's birthday, or something equally as strange.

There was a time during the concert when the orchestra played a lovely medley from The Sound Of Music and invited the audience to sing along. Dorrie lay her head on my shoulder and, blissfully, together we sang every word -- both on and off key -- happily finding a few moments of being totally in sync with the several thousand music lovers around us in that magnificent space.

Happy Independence Day!


Photo: Dorian playing in the Special Olympics basketball tournament last season and competing in a swim meet a few years ago. Of course she was awarded medals; as were all who competed. That's the way it should be, right?

Fourth of July weekend is at hand--and I believe I'm ready ... .

Today will be a work day in that I'll be meeting for lunch with two professors from the Black Studies department of the University, and another from Dominican College in Marin County. I've been hopeful over the past months that a way might be found for that to happen. I've been flying off the seat of my pants for years now, working from memory and little else in the interpretative areas of my position. Being blessed with a remarkable memory and reasonable ability to articulate those recollections has formed the basis of my qualifications of this late-blooming career as a ranger with the park service. But it worries me at times. Could it be that I've simply out-lived all those who might challenge my assumptions and conclusions? Just because I've lived long enough to be able to see the patterns and know how it all turned out may not be sufficient to warrant the kinds of attention and validation that my declarations get from the public.

I'm confident in my positions, and am rewarded every time I see an elder on one of my bus tours smile quietly -- a comforting affirmation. I'm reassured by the silent "amens" that I see around me. It appears that over the years I've been able to use candor to release conversations across the racial barrier in ways that I've seen only rarely over my lifetime. I suppose that's my gift if there is one operating here.

Last week a professor, Prof. Waldo Martin, from the Black Studies Department at the University of California visited with me at the office, returned for a tour on Wednesday, and invited me to lunch today to meet one of the other professors, Prof. Leon Litwack, whose studies of black life on the home front during WWII I've read and reread over time. This will provide the chance to explore just how one might go about involving African American graduate students to do some advance study around the premise that the modern civil rights movement found its roots here in the Greater Bay Area as the result of the human forces -- black and white -- brought here to work together to forge the home front effort that may have saved the world. It's an amazing story, and one -- in all of its complexity -- that has been largely omitted from the history of the times. Their story provides the baseline against which one must measure social change in this country that led, eventually, to the presidency of the first black American. What happened here in this place where social change was fast-tracked (and remains so) enough to change the racial dynamics of the nation.

Today's coming together of two men whose work in the university can bring validity to the life experience of one who lived the history but whose only advanced degrees were gained by an alert mind, a lifetime of social activism, and by mothering four children. This may be the beginning of that validation. I worry about what might happen in the event that I die leaving my part of the work incomplete so that the foundation out of which that history can be brought into the present will go with me. Those men have the education, but I have the megaphone. So in a very limited way -- I must bring those things together in order for the work to go on.

Besides, I decided on my 86th birthday to speak only in declarative sentences for the rest of my lifetime. I may give new meaning to the word pomposity over the next few years as I draw back into a more normal expression of "elderness." But for today's lunch, I see no need for reticence. I need to hold onto enough edge to be able to inspire the young to help to bring that history alive into our time.

Wish I'd known decades ago how all this stuff works ... that, individually, we're relatively powerless human beings who must combine forces in order to bring the change needed to move us forward as a people. The reason being that life experience out of which real change comes is collective, collaborative, in the aggregate so must contain all of the elements -- both positive and negative -- in order to be broad and strong enough to carry us along into the next phase of social evolution.

Bless all ye saints and sinners! I'm a published author with a cover article yet ... !

I'd almost forgotten it was out there ... the piece written for the California Historian last spring. But this weekend was the annual gathering of the Conference of California Historical Societies this year held in Martinez. The issue was printed and distributed "...in time for everyone to have a chance to read it before our visit to Rosie the Riveter National Park today," (according to editor, Mary Ellen Jones -- formerly of the University of California's Bancroft Library). And here were all 6 pages in fine print -- with pictures -- of the article I'd had so much trouble editing for space! All 6 pages! The editors didn't lay a glove on it except to improve the headings a bit -- and give it a better title.

You have no idea how honored I felt last night seated at the head table with President and Mrs. Richard Kimball, Ms. Jones, Ms. Andrea Bachman, my NPS colleague and archivist Carola DeRooey and husband, John, -- just like a "regullah" author with a resumé and bio and all.

Not only that, but during the lovely dinner Ms. Jones reached past my wine glass to slip into my hand a brochure and what appeared to be a press release for an about-to-be-published book by a noted author saying, "... Betty, I have the dummy copy of this new book in my car, and was wondering if you'd be interested in reading it and writing a review for me?" It is being published by HeyDay Books (publication date October, 2009), a publisher of progressive California authors. I remembered that Elaine Elinson, communications director of the ACLU of Northern California, was a guest on one of the bus tours I'd guided a few years ago with Ranger Lucy Lawliss -- and how enthusiastic she'd been about the experience. I also read the short paragraphs from two other reviewers, Dr. Robert Allen, author of The Port Chicago Mutiny and actor Mike Farrell, a leader in the anti-death penalty movement. Pretty impressive company to be in, right? This was a serious proposal being requested of Betty Reid Soskin, newly-acknowledged somewhat over-ripe fledgling author at the absolute top edge of life.

Wherever There's a Fight
How Runaway Slaves, Suffragists, Immigrants, Strikers, and Poets
Shaped Civil Liberties in California
Elaine Elinson and Stan Yogi, co-authors

Looks like my kind of folks, right?

Never has "better late then never" held more meaning than now.

The magazine is a limited edition that I believe is distributed mainly within the organization and perhaps to history museums and libraries, but I've been given multiple copies for our NPS staff. This issue also carries a fine article about one of our other parks, the John Muir National Historical Park, so it becomes a twofer for us.

This Saturday morning I will not wash clothes and match socks. This is a day to do something of relative significance. Maybe Dorian and I will take a trip over to the new Aquarium in Golden Gate Park. Been intending to do that for some time -- and this is the day to reward myself in some meaningful way. There's no better way to rein in one's ego than to bear witness to the wonders of the natural world; especially in watching such wondrous life forms as giant jellyfish and/or watching synchronized schools of silvery smelt slithering silently through the water in their primordial dance ... . Been thinking about that since Tom and I chatted recently -- mulling over the possibility of a visit there before my work schedule intervened, again ... .

Now I'll call my daughter to see if she'd like to go out and play with me today. No one will be able to see my invisible C-List badge of celebrity, but I'll know it's there on my lapel. Maybe I'll even wear my celebratory hand-painted Dorrie-designed happy jeans. (You'll notice that I've moved myself up a notch from the D-List.)

During a long conversation this morning with Jerome Smith, community activist and poet ...

I recalled what I now recognize as a remarkable story from years ago:

My friend, Joan Adams Brann, had received a federal grant to conduct a drug prevention program in our South Berkeley neighborhood. Joan's program was actually kicked off by an invitation to Washington where she met with First Lady Nancy Reagan who named the program, "Just Say No." Remember?

Joan had recently returned from an amazing adventure -- having been named as the head of the State Department Reception Center in San Francisco by President Jimmy Carter early in his term of office. After he left office Joan served for several years as head of an African Institute in Washington, D.C. This would be her return to South Berkeley, the community where she'd grown up. She'd come home.

By this time I was sole proprietor of Reid's Records, the little business Mel and I created years before in an area that had since become a hotbed of poverty and criminal activity. The streets were filled day and night with young hustlers pushing drugs and old men feeding on their misadventures.

There were often RV's parked along the street in which gambling was openly being conducted and prostitution was probably being pretty broadly practiced. It was a scary place to be -- yet here I was, attempting to conduct a legitimate business in the heart of the drug trade. It was crazy! Not only that, but I'd invited my friend, Joan, to move her newly-funded drug prevention program for kids into a corner office in my building and she'd accepted.

Loni Hancock was mayor at the time, and South Berkeley was the political football that got kicked around every four years as each local politician opened their campaigns by coming down to this small yet infamous crime-ridden mostly black community to make grand promises, usually to order up new studies of just how to bring peace and order to those who had no choice but to live within its borders. Though it would be on Loni's watch that the rehabilitation of the community started under Mayor Gus Newport would be completed. I strongly suspected that almost every urban area like ours gets used as a magnet for federal moneys that go into the general fund never to be expended as promised. If it were ever to be actually cleaned up, the magnet would be lost so the problems of the inner city tend to be perpetually "studied" and never really addressed. Such thoughts are cynical surely; but with a strong suspicion that they were more true than not.

The office was newly-painted and furniture moved in with bright posters in the windows and on the walls. Joan would run films for the neighborhood kids; provide activities of all sorts, and see if she could put a dent in the fatal draw of the negative street activity. It was a brave attempt doomed from the start.

Saturday would be the grand opening with punch and cookies and introductions all around. Joan's stature insured that the town's political figures would surely attend. I was determined that we would make this work. For several days I walked up and down Sacramento Street personally delivering colorful printed invitations. I approached everyone in sight; some I knew by name but most were strangers. The streets were always teeming with activity and every street corner and storefront was populated with those idle from lack of employment and few alternatives. I was greeted with both surprise and pleasure.

I think that it's fair to say that most "uptown" folks avoided this part of the city as much as possible, and that the mayor probably as much as anyone -- and for good reason.

Saturday came and the party was scheduled for about two o'clock. At about noon the streets began to clear. By one o'clock there was not a single soul within sight. It was as if someone has gone along the street and spread the word that Miss Betty was expecting company and things needed to straighten up. This was in no way anticipated; a total surprise to me.

By the time the mayor's entourage and other dignitaries arrived, Sacramento Street and the folks who hung out there were invisible. Apparently those invitations were accepted gratefully. The community had gone home and gussied themselves up and at two o'clock they began to arrive in family groups. They were dressed for church -- women were all prettied up and men were freshly-shaved and dressed in Sunday best. Little girls were wearing lace-topped bobby socks and ribbons in their hair. It was impossible to tell that these were the same people we'd been seeing every day partying in doorways and peddling drugs.

I remember wondering at the time if the hundreds of thousands of dollars paid out to clean up neighborhoods and fight crime can ever equal simply inviting everybody to the party? I thought about that today while Jerome Smith and I were exploring just how we would go about reclaiming the Wisdom Tree site and bringing it back to a place where those who gather there can do so in the spirit of the past -- when it was an important male bonding site for perhaps 100 years of Richmond's colorful history? When did we stop seeing those rituals as socializing and begin to view them as places of loitering? It surely can't be anything so simple as the fact that the skin colors of those men changed from white to black and brown over the decades?

It can't be anything so simplistic as that. I'm far too smart to believe such nonsense -- but there's the germ of something important here that may have been overlooked ... .

Next week Jerome and I will meet again and by that time maybe I'll have fleshed this out into some kind of workable ... .

Are the spirits of the ancestors doing cartwheels in St. Louis Cemetery?

Word arrived midweek that -- due to a critical illness of someone dear to them -- our newly-discovered Charbonnet cousins have had to cancel their trip to the West Coast in July. I am devastated! Had already sent out word to local members of the family to expect an invitation to a no-host reception at a picturesque hotel in San Francisco. Everyone was psyched up for the grand reunification of the Charbonnets across the racial divide. But it is not to be; at least not yet.

When the message came I felt cheated -- who knows just how much longer I'll be around to see this miracle occur? I so want it in to happen in my time!

After sitting with the disappointment for a few days, Sunday morning I searched through my e-mailbox for the contact information he'd sent earlier -- picked up the telephone and dialed the number -- that of not-yet-met Paul in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Suddenly his voice was on the line and it all felt so natural; as if we'd been friends for a lifetime. "But you sound like someone in her twenties," says he in disbelief. Not sure what he expected, but surely not the sound of my voice.

We chatted like old friends and when the conversation ended I was sure of one thing. That we will meet when the time is right. That his emergency situation will end and that when it does -- either here or there -- the "Twain shall meet"!

In the dark later just before sleep, I visualized the white Charbonnet ancestors slipping out of their shrouds and their eerie above-ground vaults in St. Louis Cemetery to dance in celebration that (for the moment at least) the separation twixt the family's white and brown branches would hold. I can only imagine that the brown Charbonnet ancestors were clinging tightly to their crypts -- wondering just what kind of mojo was operating that would have allowed these upstart generations to believe such a thing to be possible anyway? After all, you know what happened to Plessye v. Ferguson, right? ... and right there in New Orleans.

Well, there's been a reprieve. Maybe they're expecting that we'll sober up and come to our senses now that there's been a break in the proceedings. Perhaps we were catapulting toward this in-gathering cavalierly with little thought of what it all means. Perhaps a little reverence here is in order.

I say time is on our side, and that the great Charbonnet clan will rise to the occasion and begin to do some serious planning about just how we'll bring this historic American family into the 21st century, together, disquieted ancestors notwithstanding. It's a serious undertaking, and one that deserves serious consideration. We must come to this willingly and with openness. That we all won't be ready for this step at the same time is a given. Some will need more time to ponder the over-turning of centuries of cultural mores and attitudes. Some will embrace the concept but find that they're simply not emotionally ready for the leap. All in good time. After all, we've been on this journey on parallel tracks for more than 300 years. A few more months can't matter all that much.

I'm so looking forward to wherever these first steps lead ... .

Maybe Paul and I will play drum major for awhile until the parade begins to form behind us.

I'm giddy with anticipation!

Photo: St. Louis Cemetery grave in the Tremé

It's so hard to know how or when it will happen ... .

...that tiny spark that springs from mid-air from friend-to-friend and ignites the creative energy that always seems to be waiting in the spaces between ...

This time it was a casual conversation with my friend and author, Summer Brenner, Berkeley writer and all-around good person who has worked -- often as a volunteer -- in the Richmond and Berkeley schools and nonprofit programs for many years supporting the teaching of literacy. We were talking about the Wisdom Tree* that has stood proudly through many generations of Richmond's children and whose story is almost completely unknown; except for some of the men of the community who have been meeting in its shade for more than a century. Says I to Summer, "you should write a book about the Wisdom Tree for the children." Answers Summer, " ... perhaps I'll do that."

The last time we worked together was on another Summer-created project called "Where I'm From". This was a program conducted at Richmond High School that paired elders with teens and which I'm sure I've written about before (try the search bar). It was an imaginative project that ended up as a major exhibit featured at the Richmond Museum of History. The show is now making its way around the Greater Bay Area to be enjoyed by a wider audience, and most deservedly.

So said, at the book-signing yesterday -- Summer looked over to where I was perched on a library table along the side wall against the windows -- and in answer to a child's question about how she came to write Tales -- "... my friend, Betty, asked me to write about the Wisdom Tree and I wrote a note to myself on a little slip of paper; and over the months have been adding other little notes on little slips of paper about Richmond -- and finally I ended up with this book,

"Richmond Tales - Lost Secrets of the Iron Triangle,"
with illustrations by Miguel Perez.

(from the brochure)

"Richmond Tales, written for 4th and 5th graders, is sure to appeal to a wider audience as the characters learn the history of Richmond, experience cultural differences, and explore the possibilities of Richmond's future. Literature rarely reflects the local experiences of our students in the West Contra Costa County Unified School District. This book seeks to provide relevancy and strengthen students' connection to the community. Undoubtedly, the story reaffirms that our community is powerful and that our students' potential is unlimited."

Funded by: CreativeWorkFund


The book was supported by the school district which purchased 5000 copies to be distributed to all of the fourth and fifth graders throughout the district. Yesterday the library was filled to overflowing with youngsters and their parents listening intently to Summer reading in her warm southern drawl and clutching their copies for autographing later with the lemonade. A big day in the Iron Triangle of Richmond, California.

The book -- through the protagonists, pre-teens Mario and Maisha, through a kind of time capsule trip through the history of this community-- the now decaying historic core of the city (but undergoing rehabilitation) -- from the 2000 years-ago era of the Ohlone Indians when this part of the city was largely made up of hills and wetlands; of the early settlers of the wealthy early Californios, the Mexican and Spanish ranchers; of Rosie the Riveter and the boom of WWII, (and, yes, there is a chapter on the Wisdom Tree), to today as a place of racial and cultural diversity moving quickly to a new 21st Century Green Economy. It's personal yet universal in its themes, and empowering to the lives of young children living in these times of uncertainty and fear so much of the time in a community under constant threat of violence.

And -- buried in one of the chapters is the original thesis, my "Wisdom Tree." It deserves its own book, I insist. A sequel? Meanwhile, this is a truly exciting outcome to just another ordinary conversation between friends.

(*post of Friday, August 25, 2006)

Speaking of arrogance ... .

Did I fail to mention how deeply disappointed I was in the Reverend Jeremiah Wright's most recent anti-Semitic statements? I should have. Little of that overt arrogance was present in his person or his talk at the recent gathering at Starr King School for the Ministry.

How sad that his anger hasn't yet eased and that it would now be expressed in ways that cause embarrassment to those who are trying hard to support him at a time when attacks upon his character have been so damaging -- so painful -- and in many instances -- so undeserved.

So sad ... and so alienating.

I'm not sure what if anything compares to the feelings associated with being able to share in the creative process of others ... .

Whether it's the yard sale fundraiser held yesterday at NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities) where I was assigned to the check out table for a couple of hours while Dorian folded for sale shirts and sweaters on the tarp spread out on the asphalt, or later at the Berkeley Repertory rehearsal studios on Center Street in Berkeley for two exciting hours of theater-in-the-making in the afternoon -- it was a Saturday well-spent.

Many months ago I'd been visited by Patrick Dooley, Artistic Director of The Shotgun Players; Playwright Marcus Gardley, graduate of the Yale School of Drama and recipient of the prestigious Eugene O'Neill scholarship; Director Aaron Davidman, and Musical Director Molly Holm, jazz singer and collaborator with Bobby McFerrin, creator of Voicestra. The company was at the beginning of the process of creating a theater piece based on Rosie the Riveter of WWII fame. This was the conceptual stage and the Richmond-born author (now teaching at Columbia University) was seeking information and inspiration in order to begin the work of bringing this brand new work to life.

Over several visits to tour the scattered sites of the park, the group met and interviewed surviving Rosies and hosted a lovely luncheon at Saluté restaurant on the shoreline. They were able to gather up research materials (including some of my own writings from short essays written over time); and begin their work. Marcus returned to the east coast for another year of teaching, and recently returned at the end of the school year to cast and stage their production to be premiered locally in September as a part of the upcoming Home Front Festival season.

Upon return from Mendocino, I'd found an invitation to attend their first complete read-through being held yesterday afternoon. It runs two full hours with one intermission. This was the time to meet the cast of 9 talented young women, and to get a sense of the story and original musical score that was now ready for final editing. What an afternoon!

The WWII story, "This World in a Woman's Hands," was complete -- in all of its complexity around the issues of roles, race, and gender. The sense of the times was well-captured and the history accurately documented. I'm not at all sure what I expected, but by the time the final lines were spoken I was more deeply-touched than I could ever have imagined. Aspects of the several story-lines were a surprise to me -- moving into life stories of those historic young home front workers that I'd never really considered. The play opened new doors of understanding that I'm not sure I was even aware had been sealed over all those years.

There were a few unclear transitions in time and place that will surely be smoothed out when all of the magic of "theater" is applied; lighting, costumes, sets, etc., (which I'm guessing will be minimal -- abstract). The dialogue is rich and colorful and revealing of the times and the casting is superb, consisting of 5 women of color - one Latina and four African American; and four white young women -- all of exceptional talent.

... and ... best of all ... I felt myself an active element in their creative process; as an essential living bridge between the generations, helping to bring life to an era of critical importance to history. Sound pompous? You betcha! Pomposity goes right along with my recent stated intention of speaking only in declarative sentences in these final years. These days I'm thoroughly enjoying the feeling of my own weight in my shoes; finally.

Fortunately, I'd thought to invite my 11 year-old granddaughter, Tamaya, to come along, and, as the only child in the room -- her presence provided a symbol of future woman adding to the power of the moment. She also served to anchor me to reality so that her grandma didn't blissfully levitate up into the ceiling from the sheer wonder of it all!

The play will probably undergo minor continuing editing changes over the coming weeks, but I can hardly wait to experience the final production. (I need to clarify whether Marcus is aware that the explosion at Port Chicago occurred at 10:30 at night and not in the morning -- or did I misunderstand something? Also, I'm unclear about what happened to Gloria Cutting's husband, eventually... or was that deliberately left unresolved?)

Photos: top photo, Patrick Dooley, Molly Holm, bottom left, Marcus Gardley.

Time out after a particularly intensive few weeks ...

Escaped for a few days to visit my friend, Tom, and the magnificent wild rhododendron (some as tall as 20 ft.) deep in the redwood forests -- and the colorful wildflower displays on the Mendocino Headlands. It was glorious; a balm to the spirits!

No brilliant sunsets this time, and an ocean that appeared to be at peace. There was no sign of the dramatic crashing breakers or even wind-driven whitecaps to provide the sense of movement and cadence that I find myself almost instantly in harmony with. Fog and mist reminiscent of the northern coast now less frequent than before; nothing like the environment that I remember from years ago. Missing are the winds that shaped the gnarled cypresses growing near the ocean's edge -- as if stretching from their roots vainly trying to reach inland. Climate change? Surely another sign to be ignored at our peril. Over recent years the fog has visited less often and the winds seem more gentle. The oldtimers in the area decry the end of both the lumbering and fishing industries and, of late, fear the predicted disappearance of tourism -- given the economic forecasts for the State. The certain closure of state parks in response to budget cuts hangs like a pall over this picturesque village of artists and lovers.

Found myself wondering if these environmental changes are as dramatic as they seem, or, if it is simply no longer possible to ignore them since we've developed the technological capacity to notice, measure, predict, and attempt to effect the slightest variations in nature's patterns through research, practices, and changing human behaviors.

One hundred years ago we would hardly be aware of earth tremors that occur in the Far East or in Antarctica. Now our Richter spits out a report within minutes (seconds?) of the event.

Finding myself outside the range of the sound of urban gunfire and sirens in the night -- my mind probes far different questions and dilemmas -- but does it rest, ever? I'm not sure.

I know that sleep is harder to come by in these later years and that may be due to the millions of questions and quandaries collected -- unanswered -- over a lifetime. Most nights I fall into deep sleep for a few hours after playing out my day against inner eyelids for what seems endless hours. Dropping into sleep comes without warning; going from a highly alert state to the void of nothingness until consciousness returns with a suddenness somewhere around three a.m. It's then that I take on the monumental task of solving the world's problems (the big stuff like world peace and how on earth does one deal with wrinkles and sagging jaw lines, etc.) and connect with my greater self which includes others; the all-inclusive "We." Its hard to explain -- but I do sense a oneness with all that I can't seem to access at other times; except when I find myself in an empty church or temple of any denomination ... .

...only in Mendocino does life in the foreground give way to a panoramic view of what lies before me -- in this place where I can hear the sound of the ocean, feel its rhythms, taste the salt in the air ... and experience the fragile beauty of the Headlands wildflowers ... .

... the quiet ... .

Where is film director Robert Altman now that we're ready for him ? (Oh yes ... I'd forgotten) ... .

Some years ago an email arrived from a member of the white Charbonnet clan -- a branch of the family I'd not ever expected to hear from. I think it's probably fair to say that they simply never existed for me. It's like ... we have no black ancestors prior to the dropping of the slave curtain around the time of the Civil War, and no white descendants since. Funny. An illusion but quite real; defying logic. I suspect that this is a common and perhaps defensive attitude among African American families, but I don't recall ever discussing it with anyone.

Paul was writing to confirm something I'd written in my blog about the casual nature of the family relationships that existed between his (white) father and my (colored Creole) dad's younger brother, Louis. Both were contractors working throughout the city of New Orleans. My father and his seven brothers followed in the footsteps of their talented father, the highly-respected elder Louis Charbonnet, inventor, millwright and builder of note in the city. Many of the Creole Charbonnet men were expert craftsmen and had been for generations. Paul wasn't sure, but felt the story likely. He certainly was aware of our side of the family. In later generations Uncle Louis's eldest son, another Louis, would enter the Louisiana legislature as a state senator which must have brought more prominence to the family. But my dad, Dorson, had settled our family here on the West Coast long before that happened, as the result of the great flood of 1927 which followed the bombing of the levees.

Unknown to me, Paul has apparently been following my blog for years, and had become familiar with the genealogical work that I'd completed and posted online. Since the family tree (under the Betty Soskin Pages link) tracked ancestors whom we shared over many generations (since the 1600s). The family story must have become more important to him over time. Our Creole branch emerges in the mid-1800s when a member of the family (said to have been trapped in an unhappy marriage) left his wife and chose a woman of color as his mate. Their union produced 9 children; children who were obviously educated and trained and none of whom were enslaved. Uncovering that history proved to be difficult but finally -- through Lisa, a researcher in Atlanta, surfaced from some arcane code of silence created by the taboos associated with crossing color lines. She somehow managed to break through it while doing some research for another member of our family whom I've also never met.

All that is to say that a few days ago Paul's note came suggesting that we unite the black and white branches of our families by bringing my genealogical work onto a new all-inclusive family website which he would maintain. I was stunned! I am also wildly pleased since I'd always intended that my work might become the foundation upon which others would eventually edit, correct for errors, build upon, and continue the research into the future.

After many generations of Charbonnets descending from two brothers who arrived on this continent at a time before the Louisiana Purchase, for the first time since before the Civil War -- we will come together to begin the work of becoming one family. Through the wonders of technology, we can do that virtually, and -- in time perhaps ... .

I've been lying awake the past two nights dreaming of the possibility of having an interactive website designed in such a way that Charbonnet descendants in all of their permutations can sign themselves in in some way and become known to one another. There are by now hundreds (and perhaps thousands) of us scattered through the country and the world.

The exciting prospect is that Paul, his wife, and I, will meet -- symbolically uniting our historic American family across the lines of racial separation -- in San Francisco, perhaps soon. He suggested that possibility in our last exchange, and I am thrilled!

We're moving quickly to bring the new website into being. It will be linked to these pages, of course, but will take on a life of its own.

Life continues to unfold -- and to grow into wherever our colorful Charbonnet past will continue to lead us -- but perhaps now it will be -- as the one great American family that we are.


Photo: My father, Dorson Louis Charbonnet, 1894-1987; My grandfather, Louis Charbonnet, Sr. (died in 1924)

Life is moving by at such an accelerated pace that I think of things I must write about and before I can reach my computer 3 new even more exciting events are taking place ... .

First, there was a bus tour last weekend that brought together assorted folks from near and far (3 from Tucson, Arizona). It was the first tour I'd conducted for months -- not since we'd been overwhelmed with so many requests that we eventually found ourselves staring at a wait list of over 400 enthusiastic "tourists." Until about a year ago I'd been conducting interpretive tours with partners, but rarely alone. My work mostly consisted of the taking reservations and recording confirmations, etc., and going along as a kind of specialist on the African American nuances while Lucy or Naomi would mainly carry the interpretation. My work has recently become more and more centered in public speaking and community outreach.

At one point we were discovered by the press and several prominent stories appeared in the dailies and the race was on! We are so young in our development at this point that we simply lacked sufficient staff to accommodate the numbers we were attracting. Our little 15-passenger bus has to serve the four sites that operate under one management team and sharing it and a single driver became too much to cope with.

Over the past year our staff has grown a bit, and with new edges opening up -- we're going to try again. Though the respite may be short-lived since one of my tours this week, on Tuesday, was arranged at the request of the San Mateo PBS affiliate, KTEH, that brought a 4-person film crew to shoot the tour plus an on-camera interview that will be one 9-10 minute segment among others -- in a one-hour production being developed to accompany this fall's Ken Burns 12-hour special on the National Parks.

It was an intensive 5 hour period of being "on," but I do admit that I seem to be getting the hang of this D-List celebrity thing. I was relatively relaxed throughout, though really really tired when evening came. There's an emotional component to these things, I think. Kind of like that old primitive suspicion that the camera actually drains life from its subjects (the old theft of image thing). There may be something to that after all. I don't recall feeling particularly strained during the filming, but at the end of the day ... .

During the long day I became reacquainted with something I'd almost forgotten: It is that this park, unlike others in the NPS system owns nothing. It exists in the partnerships and relationship with the City, the Chamber of Commerce, local corporations and businesses, nonprofits and County entities. That being so, it's a park more closely related to people and their stories than to the sites and structures scattered throughout the city and named in the legislation. Richmond resembles Lowell, Massachusetts, in that respect. Lowell, also a waterfront town, was the home of the long-abandoned textile mills. Richmond holds the greatest number of WWII still-standing mostly abandoned structures in the nation through which to interpret the story of the emancipation of women, and the story of the greatest wartime industrial mobilization in the nation's history. Both cities were wounded by the passage of time and catastrophic technological change. Lowell has been reclaimed as a successful National Park site brought to live again as a performing and visual arts center. The city itself, is "the park."

What I rediscovered over the past week is how true it is that this park will be built one story at-a-time and that those stories are evoked in conversations as people remember fragments of the lives of their elders now gone. Each time something precious is revealed and another "park co-builder" emerges -- someone who promises to go home and root around in those old trunks and attics for more stories and artifacts. After each tour the calls and emails arrive telling me about a book I should read or deepening my knowledge about one or more of the sites we visited on our tour.

I learned, for instance, that Brooks Islands which stands only a stone's throw from the shoreline and -- which I've been describing as "the little island previously owned by Bing Crosby and Vic Bergeron (of Trader Vic's restaurants), and had been stocked with wild life to be used for target practice." I learned on Tuesday that this little island is not only a wildlife preserve owned and managed the East Bay Regional Park District (I knew that), but that it is also an important archealogical site, has a 3000 year-old history and was an important Ohlone Indian site. I learned that a retired researcher who engaged in digs there is now my age and living within the city still. ( did not know that.) Mr. George Coles may prove to be an important resource in the telling of the stories of this emerging national park. Brooks Island lies within a short kayak distance from the shores where our under-development Visitor's Center is located. It should be completed by the end of next year.

On a schedule a bit ahead of the park's, I think I've grown into my role now, and the work has taken on an importance and vitality that is truly rewarding.

Maybe that is worth filming, maybe.

Been musing a lot about bi-racialism since the Channel 5 panel discussion was aired recently ... .

Find myself wondering why that discussion continues to have resonance into the 21st century when humankind has been creating mixed race people since before recorded history?

We continue to talk about us as though we're some dire condition that will befall the human race in some future millenium when we've been here evolving all the time! Certainly since tribes invaded other tribes has this been true. Any place on the planet where armies have occupied lands and dominated populations, mixed-race children have been the outcome. Since long before the Trojans Wars to the present this has been true. The Eurasian and Amerasian children born of WWII and Vietnam can be seen everywhere throughout Japan, Korea, and Southeast Asia. In this country the slave trade produced millions of us; some from obvious sexual exploitation but a great many from courageous and often defiant young people willing to cross unimportant lines of separation for the sake of love and being together despite societal taboos.

The wonder for me is just why we continue to be seen as an aberration rather than the natural outcome of mobility and social progress? Though tanning salons are still the ultimate in luxury and bronze skin tones most desired by many Europeans, those of us without tan lines are suspect. When cosmetic surgeons are artificially thickening lips to emulate black features there is cause for wonder. At a time when there are actually lip puffer-uppers on the market for those unable to afford silicone treatments. This proved silliest when one day recently I purchased what I thought was lip gloss and got one of the lip enhancers instead. I stayed in the house most of that day -- laughing at myself -- while waiting for the swelling to go down and the slight tingling to dissipate.

Yes. There are some conversations that need to happen in order to free ourselves of some of the hypocrisy that marks our lives and may be preventing the normalizing of relations between the races.


My awareness was sharpened this week when I underwent some comprehensive blood work in connection with my annual physical. When the results came back there was one that gave the results with a racial designation (something called glomerular filtration rate, African American). At this point in my racial complexity how in the world does my physical body make that political distinction? How does one read that test result? Now that's the kind of conversation that we need to be having with our physicians, right? For the sake of my beautiful polyracial grandchildren, I'm planning to do that soon. My politics do not follow me into the examination room, nor will theirs.


Photo: Two of my grandchildren, Tamaya and Alyana, who exemplify our world as it has always been; made up of beautiful mixed children born of love and grace.

For those of us who insist upon living life in a constant state of surprise despite the warnings ... .

Today I took the time to watch all 6 segments of a rather amazing panel discussion in which I participated just after returning from the Inauguration in January. The invitation from Channel 5's "Six O'clock News" Anchor, Dana King, had come just before Martha and I flew to Washington. I'd long since forgotten that it had ever happened since during subsequent weeks my life has been filled with far more than I could process comfortably.

I'd received an email last week (5/19th) announcing that the news would be carrying the promo the very next evening and the excitement began to build -- though not enough to encourage me to alert my grandkids to watch. Who knows what embarrassing thing Grandma would do this time? So I wanted to preview the piece before subjecting myself to that kind of scrutiny.

Not to worry. I did watch the really well-produced promo and felt really proud of this small group who'd met in the Green Room only 15 minutes before air time. But it wasn't until this morning that I took the time to watch all 6 segments on the CBS5.com website. Amazing! What an honor to have been a part of this truly candid and deeply-penetrating honest discussion on a subject of such sensitivity. Take a look. I believe you can reach it online at CBS5.com then add "Multiracial in America: Changes in the Obama Age" to the search bar. If I could figure out a way to add the link here I would, but by the time I do the thrill of sharing will have disappeared and it will seem to serve only vanity to post it.

Watching it this morning in its entirety took the sting out of yesterday's BBC experience and restored my sense of self, and the feeling that it's perfectly okay to live my life in a constant state of surprise!

Betty, Phyllis, the BBC -- and my other woes ... .

My career as an internationalist crashed and burned on Saturday at Shipyard 3. This day would qualify (in Dorian's word) as a complete disastrophe! I had been dreading this event for some unknown reason and had cautioned the producer, Ms. Caroline Miller, that I didn't much see myself as appropriate for their documentary. She'd insisted and -- despite earlier misgivings, I gave in after an exchange of emails.

On Friday I'd asked for a meeting with Martha in a plea for some guidance; saying that I was feeling some need of support -- that this might need someone along to meet with the film crew. Knowing their documentary was about the Lend/Lease program (about which I knew little), I felt unqualified to add much, and said so. I was unaware that there would be 2 other women and that I would be asked to be a "Rosie."

My instructions were to meet their film crew at the old SS Red Oak Victory at five o'clock on Saturday evening. No other details. At about four o'clock I got into uniform and left 30 minutes later for the short 6 mile drive to the Port of Richmond. It was cold and dreary with the fog belt hanging over Berkeley sending stiff icy winds into Richmond and cutting through the harbor. I'd dressed in my Washington, D.C.-inspired long johns and heavy winter uniform but the bitterness cut through despite all.

Upon reaching the old Warehouse and within sight of the cameras and crew I spotted two women whom I've met on many occasions over the past years. They were the Rosies whose stories have been oft told in the inscriptions carved into the Rosie memorial and elsewhere in the literature. I believe their names are Phyllis and Agnes. Because of the cold (I thought), I chose to not leave my car to join them but instead turned off the motor at a spot overlooking the water; set the brake; and rummaged around the back seat for the crossword puzzle book I always have on hand to use at times when I'm waiting for Dorian while she's engaged in some activity or other. I was feeling depressed but without a visible reason ... .

I finally began to feel rude so put away my pen and puzzle book and left the warmth of my car to walk the 50 or so feet to join the others. This, in response to a tap on my car window from Caroline Miller letting me know that shooting was about to begin.

Three large empty wire spools had been gathered together by the film crew upon which we were to be seated with the old ship providing background. The 3 of us were to do a group interview, being questioned -- each in turn -- by a member of the team. The air was chilling! The wind was bruising. I was increasingly uncomfortable but it would be only during the first round of questioning that I would begin to understand what was happening to me. The constant interruptions by aircraft flying overhead distorting sound added to the dissonance I was feeling.

Phyllis had been asked a series of very specific questions about her experience as a young welder on the ships during the war; about her life just before being hired; about the kind of resistance she'd encountered as a women in her non-traditional role; etc. She was great with an active memory of events and feelings at the time. Agnes -- who was next -- also came through with authority and an ability to eloquently reconstruct the times and conditions under which she'd worked. She demonstrated pieces of her equipment, welding helmet, and leathers, and seemed to relish in the chance to relive the experience of her WWII exploits.

Then it was my turn. I was asked to give an overview of the City; the big picture of the times, and to describe the shipyard and harbor which lay before us. I felt the tears begin to well up behind my eyelids and fought to control them. I felt totally out of place in the role, despite the fact that I'm dealing with that history throughout my work day. I've reacquainted myself with the period through extensive reading and doing interpretive tours at the Memorial and elsewhere. That being so -- what on earth could be going on?

Then it struck me and I stopped. I said, "this doesn't make sense to me. I never saw this shipyard or even a ship in 1942 or beyond. In fact, I had never seen this shipyard until I came to work for the National Park Service. I worked across town in a Jim Crow union hall because the unions were segregated and black and white workers were processed differently at a different location -- at 16th and Barrett Avenue. My experience is not reflected in this place. I was not then and am not now a Rosie."

It was then that the cameras stopped for a brief time while Ms. Miller came over to reassure me that they were aware of this and that they were anxious that their European audiences learn something of the African American story of the time and that it was this story that I was to share with them. She whispered to me softly that England had a shared history of the colonials they'd brought in to work in their war industries then abandoned once the war ended and that "... the effects of those years are still with us." I could see the rationale for why I was here on camera, but something was happening to me emotionally that stood in the way of my being able to deliver that story. I should have been interviewed alone and not in the role of "Rosie the Riveter, the Woman of Color" version.

The cameras started again and I tried, this time trying to tell that story of inequality and shame -- but the damage had been done. The other two Rosies sitting in that little circle had become the white kids who wouldn't let me in their tree house! I'd lost focus and felt alien in that setting. My story was lost and I couldn't regain it. I mentioned about how unfair things had been and of how blacks and white were paid differently and that black men and women were held to lower level jobs and had been served by powerless unions. But I was trying to do this sitting in the cold in this alien setting in the shadow of the old victory ship and the warehouse that had played no part in my personal history. I was out of context and it was devastating!

To make matters worse. Phyllis asked if she could speak with me directly. She turned to me and said "my first supervisor was a black man" and besides that, we all worked together and were paid the same wages." I was being challenged. I was being called a liar, publicly. I looked at her and tried to figure out how to respond without going into an argument that would shame us both before the cameras. I chose to remain silent.

What I did not say was that she had only moments before told how she had been one of the first women to be hired (in 1941 under the Lend/Lease program) and that the boss had attempted to provide escorts for the few women in that first crew because they had no idea how the men would react to their presence. Think of the times: Black men were still being lynched for appearing to even leer at a white woman. Black men were assigned to lesser positions until 1945 after many labor protests and demonstrations against the Boilermakers Unions. How on earth would one ever imagine that those white workers would have allowed a young white female welder to be supervised by a black man? It's possible, of course, since I wasn't there to be able to challenge it -- but was it likely? I really don't know. But this was not the time to work that through. I swallowed hard and waited for the filming to end.

I do know, however, of the wage differences since I was a worker in the union where such information was available and protested regularly once black workers began to organize against the inequalities that they faced. Those figures have been upheld by subsequent studies that fill the volumes of accumulating information on those times in black literature today.

So, why, then was this happening now? Why was this woman in the year 2009 putting forth such an argument? I'd faced this before from those who would insist upon the unlikely story that we were all united -- embracing the concept of Democracy -- and in harmony at a time of great struggle and persistent discrimination. This revisionism is something I've sought to challenge and has formed the basis of my work with the park service. Re-visiting those times in the effort to measure more accurately the distance we've come over the decades is a prerequisite to understanding the kinds of social change we in America have endured and overcome; a true narrative far more powerful than the myth.

I kept my silence for the sake of the moment, and avoided eye contact with Phyllis for the rest of the filming, but largely because I was having such a difficult time holding back the tears and crushing down those refreshed feelings of alienation that this setting evoked.

Also, only 100 feet away stood the deck of the SS Red Oak Victory from which I'd scattered my son, Rick's, ashes combined with a dozen singly-tossed red roses ten years ago. I'd almost forgotten that until I'd climbed back into my car as soon as the cameras were shut down and driven quickly away without looking back. I'm sure that that memory was playing there in my subconscious for those few painful hours, unrecognized but powerful still. I let the tears be for Rick in a desperate move for sanity and in recognition of this Memorial Day weekend.

... and today, Sunday, May 24th, in the year 1942, Melvin Reid (1918-1987) and I were married at St. Bernard's Catholic church; an act of faith of two confused young Americans at a time when the world around us was devolving into chaos.

Leadership Group was a really good experience ... I'm growing as a speaker, I believe ...

They meet on Thursdays for an all-morning session for mutual support in the office of a progressive local real estate developer in the old historic district of Richmond. This is happening In the troubled low income, high crime, and long abandoned central district known as the Iron Triangle. They come together weekly to try to find their way back from various hard paths and -- in some cases -- paths into the main stream that some had never managed to find a place in ever.

Macdonald Avenue, the once abandoned old main artery that runs through the historic district is currently under major renewal and is fast emerging with some of its old glory; new streetscape with tree planting, street design which includes the undergrounding of utilities; the complete overhaul of parking and traffic-calming strategies; ornamental street lighting; new businesses and freshened facades on old ones. There are waiting-to-be-installed wayside markers created to tell the story of and make the connections with the WWII home front days, tying the historic district to the shoreline park sites.

Rhonda Harris, local contractor (in white sweater in the photo above), is "reconstructing" the lives of the people of the community in that it is she who has created this forward-looking "redevelopment project" of the human potential alive in the Iron Triangle. She is making a bold attempt at retraining those willing to give themselves a second chance at integrating into a social system they formerly opted out of for reasons often beyond their control.

As I slipped in as quietly as I could about fifteen minutes earlier than my scheduled talk. I could see that the room was filled to overflowing so stood with my back against the door to listen long enough to find the context into which I needed to fold.

It was clear in only a few moments that many here were returnees from incarceration and that the very able instructor (motivator) was introducing them to basic civics; that their assignments (probably on-going) were to attend city council meetings and to find their way into civic political life as one way of getting their needs met through participating. He talked about requirements for job entry and employer expectations. This was basic and oft-repeated but absolutely necessary job-training information that most of us take for granted. The quality of the listening here suggested just how intent this (mostly male) audience was for re-entry into a social system they may have never have made it into -- ever.

After about 15 minutes I was introduced. I dropped my heavy bag on a nearby table, handed my camera to someone to document this day for me, and stood before this expectant group not knowing what in the world I could say to them. Closed my eyes for a second or two and it came. I opened with a sentence or two about the importance of "place." Of how often place determines how lives will be lived, and asked how much they knew about this place called Richmond? That led into the history of their grandparent's heroic achievements during WWII -- the building of those 747 ships in 3 years and 8 months by a never-built-a-ship-before cement contractor named Henry J. Kaiser and his crew of new-to-the-workforce women, former sharecroppers of every color, shape, and gender, that saved the world from domination by Nazi Imperialism. I slowly built the case and watched their surprise and pride grow as they listened intently. Few had ever heard these stories, or of their relationship to them.

The talk was no more than about 20 minutes in all, but what a wonderful morning it was! I may have started a small flame, and I'm hoping that (as promised) I'll be invited back to continue to build on what has been started here. There is every possibility that this park will provide enough inspiration and pride that men and women of honest and good intent such as those I met today will rediscover their legacy. They are the descendants of those hardy souls who crossed the country by whatever means necessary to become the mighty shipbuilders of the home front. How wonderful it would be if -- through this park -- we are able to help them to recapture that past and build a deep reverence for place. And wouldn't that be miracle, indeed?

This must be my week for doctors ... of one kind or another... .

Attended a small gathering (I believe the capacity of the room at Starr King School for the Ministry is 50 -- including the standees in the hallway) this evening to hear Reverend Jeremiah Wright, Pastor Emeritus of Chicago's Trinity United Church of Christ. Upon learning that he would be in the Bay Area to receive an honorary doctorate at the seminary's commencement this year I wangled an invitation. As a former member of the Board of Trustees, it was relatively easy, though I was certain these invitations were prized by everyone within the Graduate Theological Union.

I had no idea what to expect, but what a brilliant theologian is this man! What appeared over-the-top in most of the (heavily-edited for the sensational) news coverage during the presidential campaign -- in the intimacy of that small space -- he was kind and warm and wonderfully humorous! What a wit!

He is theatrical to a degree but in good taste and with kindness. He talked for well over an hour and took questions, including some relating to the break with his famous former church member. His answers were honest and direct and (still) righteously angry. The residual pain is evident and he makes little attempt at hiding it. There was an instant where I was sharing both the pain of his loss and -- simultaneously -- the pride that lay just beneath it. Both were present in the glint of anger in his eyes as he spoke about the events that preceded the now famous break.

It was easily understood why one would have been captured by this charismatic preacher; that his congregation would be 6000 productive contributing Christians -- and that one might even ascend to become leader of the free world one day.

It's quite possible that my ability to hear him sympathetically had to do with the fact that I'd spent the day in my cubicle reading In Motion, a marvelous new book published by the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture. It is about the sequential black migrations over the centuries -- starting with the slave trade into the present.

In preparation for a leadership class of Richmond community members for whom I'm speaking on Thursday morning, I'd been doing a lot of reading. A few days ago I read about Pullman porters whom the author claimed to be the men who created the black middle class in the 1920's and 30's. Fascinating reading. In the process, I learned that George Pullman, owner and CEO of the Pullman Sleeping Car Company hired only dark-skinned African Americans -- all of whom were called "George." (There's another book title that I'm anxious to read called, "10,000 black men named George."*) Pullman's reasons were that the men were a part of the property of the railroad, like sheets and towels and bottles of hair tonic and whisk brooms. They were not to be seen as persons at all, but as black robots provided to serve white travelers -- to see to their every whim while aboard the luxury railroad cars. Subservience was a prized attribute in that cruelly dehumanizing system.

These were the men of my father's generation; my uncles and cousins. These were the men who were silently complicit in their degradation for the salary of $60/month for a 48- to 60-hr workweek, and a chance to eavesdrop on conversations between successful white traveling men who shared stock tips and business strategies while their shoes were being shined by "George," and which allowed George to earn enough salary and tips to insure that their children would enter the universities, medical schools, and seminaries. It would be their children who would breathe life into the growing Civil Rights struggles over the ensuing decades.

I guess I was just about ready for Rev. Jeremiah Wright tonight.

I will attend the commencement ceremony on Thursday evening in Walnut Creek at Mt. Diablo Unitarian Universalist church on Eckley Lane. I need to do that if only to experience this dynamic presence in the setting that carries so much of my coming-of-age history.

It's experiences such as this that keep me grounded, I believe. But they can be an emotional roller coaster at times.

Maybe this is another of those recently discovered dimensions. Maybe this will be one of those times when I'm unable emotionally to process all that will be incoming -- and dimensions may be the place where I hold them in suspension until -- in some quiet time of reflection I can figure it all out.


*10,000 Black Men" is also available in a film starring Andre Braugher.

Online Testing be damned!

Because his name has become so prominent, Dr. Oz of Oprah fame influenced my decision to log on to take his "Real Age" test. Might be fun, I thought. Let's see how I can challenge the experts who think they can measure such a thing. I'm doing this, of course, secure in the knowledge that I'm going to beat the system, right? How could I not? I'm an 87 year-old woman, fully employed, actively engaged in life, able to still wear clothes I wore in high school, for heavinsake!

Took the 4 minutes required and answered each question honestly and completely and guess what?

I discovered that my "real age" is 92 years and 7 months!

How could this be? I should admit going in of course, that vanity was the great motivator here. It continued to gnaw at me for hours after as I tried to rationalize how such a thing could be.

It must surely have been the exercise questions. My physical exercise comes mainly from jumping in and out of my little red car every day. No Pilates, no yoga, no "walking up several flights of stairs instead of taking the escalator;" no workout at the local gym or even walking or running or using the treadmill. Just the normal activity related to my work. So I answered all of those questions with a "no." That must have shot my score to hell!

Tennyrate, I'm still miffed enough to warn you other vain feminists not to pay any attention to such surveys.

Maybe we should challenge Dr. Oz's medical punditry credentials, at least?

On the other hand, maybe 92 years and 7 months is not as bad or as "old" as our fears might suggest. After all, my mother, Lottie Allen Charbonnet, was still spryly hopping on the bus in 3 inch heels and window-shopping for hours at the downtown department stores every Saturday at the age of 95. (She lived to be 101.) Yes, that would be Mom dancing the hula with the chorus line on the stage at a luau at a fancy hotel in Honolulu the year of her 95th birthday!

Do you suppose there might be something critical missing from these surveys?

What might that be ... ?

Is there anywhere else on the planet where one could live with such a diversity of experience?

Today I visited Berkeley's annual Himalayan Fair in Live Oak Park. Noticeable ( don't recall this from past years) was the great number of Tibetan and other Asian vendors showing their wares. They may have outnumbered the usual complement of Birkenstocked western converts -- among whom would surely have been my husband, Bill Soskin, were he still among the living. You can still recognize them by their studied serenity.

Thought of him today with every whiff of incense blowing by on the fragrant heavy summer air or the call-to-meditation rings from a tremendous array of antique copper prayer bowls being tested by potential buyers for resonance and quality of sound ... .

The perfect venue for wearing my crazy-wonderful Dorian-designed Happy Pants, right?

Remembered how much I loved living in that city all those years ago -- and of the many friends with whom I've (sadly) lost contact over recent years ...

But then ... .