...and I was sitting next to the heroine of the story -- but no one knew, not even she ... .

When playwright Marcus Gardley came to our offices about 3 years ago to begin the research for "This World," we met for the first time. Lillie Mae Jones (whom he'd never met) and I met in the course of my work for the State of California some years ago -- long before I became an employee of the National Park Service. Through the twists and turns of fate, it wasn't until yesterday at the Nevin Community Center when she rolled up in her wheelchair to sit beside me in the audience that I made the connections.

Marcus's grandmother came to the west coast from the deep south to work in the Kaiser shipyards. Like his grandmother, Lillie was one of the migrant workers who also answered the nation's call to join the home front work force during WWII.

Plain-spoken Lillie smiled quietly as the play unfolded. I couldn't tell what she was thinking. Not much gets past her and I was concerned about whether we'd gotten it right. Everything (for me ) hinged on her approval. All I could get from her as I tested quietly was, "it's in-trestin'."

I was reminded of an exchange we'd had earlier in the week when I stopped by prior to a scheduled meeting with a member of Redevelopment Agency. Months ago I'd begun to include the story of the Wisdom Tree on our bus tours. I'd recently learned in watching a rehearsal that the tree had become one of the important themes in the play and now it was important to document the stories I'd been sharing about it over recent years. The bus would stop across from the strip mall where it stood and I would relate the story that had come to me casually from several of those who knew of it (Judy Morgan, the long time president of the Richmond Chamber of Commerce; some of the seniors who were known to meet there from time to time) but I was beginning to be concerned that I may be passing on little more than rumor instead of documented history, and it was troubling. Future interpreters would need more than my word in order to incorporate the story into their tours.

I knew that, at that time, there had been many meetings before the city council when the property was being negotiated that would become the site of the new strip mall, and that there was much controversy surrounding the purchase. The owners of the site would not complete the sale unless there was a guarantee that the Wisdom Tree would be allowed to remain in its place for all time. We knew that it was at least 100 years old according to a botanist on our staff. Somewhere in the city's files there had to be a record of those proceedings. I would soon know after my meeting with a member of the Agency.

The day before that meeting I stopped by to check the story out with my Iron Triangle sage, Lillie Mae Jones, and -- in my typical somewhat stilted speaking style I asked what she could tell me about the tree. I then related what I'd learned, "...I understand that the men in this community have been gathering under those branches for decades -- since WWI. I understand that it has been an important male bonding site for almost 100 years." Lillie looked at me and with head down and chin thrust forward said, " ...them old turkeys been pee-in' on that tree for mor'n 50 years, I guess." I suppose that's another way of saying it, right? Only her way was far more succinct and to the point. Embarrassed, I could hear my own words in the echo chamber of my mind, and wondered when I'd become so pompous? That kind of stuff would never pass Lillie Mae's b. s. detector. Not in a million years!

I sat through the first act riveted to the character of "Gloria Cutting," the central figure in the story, with Lillie at my elbow. This was her life. I noticed how the playwright had made his Gloria grow into an articulate activist during the course of the play - all the while retaining her gritty outer shell. I knew that Lillie had grown herself into a force of nature through a course of study with legendary political organizer Saul Alinsky, and had achieved a masters degree somewhere along the way. I knew that she had established a scholarship program with her own meager funds to see to it that deserving youngsters would make it into a better life than the one she'd known. That fund gave away over $17,000 -- given by businesses and individuals who shared her dream -- the last time I attended the annual awards banquet. She has operated her program for teens within the borders of this troubled community for many years, with or without the support of the city. Due to her long history of service to her Iron Triangle, there is a new housing development for the disabled that will bear her name to begin construction in October. For all that time she has been the bane of the redevelopment agency and any and all who've tried to contain or prevent her good works, or do wrong by those she deems as her people.

Lillie Mae was silent through most of the play but at one point something jarred her memory and she whispered to me, "...they give us jes twenny-fo hours to move out when they tow down the Projects after the wah." Then she laughed heartily as she added, "but we stole dey mattresses when we left!"

Marcus could never have known in the writing of his play that he was telling her story.

I wondered if she could recognize herself up there on the stage?

...and I hadn't made the connection until I watched it all unfold in "This World in a Woman's Hands" without proper stage lighting, sound, with a stripped down stage set consisting mostly of tall ladders, and all dependent upon the talent of 9 young women and their ability to bring it all to life for us to witness. The original music, the fine acoustic bass soloist, Marcus Shelby, who accompanied the stage action so smoothly and so well that I often forgot that he was there (weird compliment, right?). The direction was flawless. The music was jazz-based, and showcased the talents of singer/arranger/music director, Molly Holm, so-oo-o beautifully! The jazz elements were sharp and well-placed for effect. I was particularly impressed with the way rhythmic chirps and bleeps were used to create a racial separation at particular points in the script. It worked magnificently in one scene -- as all of the white women chirped their way offstage after a particularly divisive exchange -- leaving only the women of color on stage. There was a perfect integration of music with script. It never intruded but enhanced each step of the story line.

I will never forget yesterday, and of how grateful I was/am to have been sharing those hours with the most extraordinary ordinary woman of them all, heroic Ms. Lillie Mae Jones!

Now I'll get ready for the expanded theater experience of seeing it all again at their Berkeley Stage this weekend -- where I can do so without the distraction of seeing it through Lillie's eyes -- maybe this time seeing myself; for some reason I didn't seem to be up there at all. But I'm remembering now that this rings true since in the war years I had the same problem. It wasn't my fight. As an unsophisticated 20 year-old file clerk in a Jim Crow union auxiliary, I wasn't all that sure just who the enemy was, or just what sense could be made of any of it. I've never been convinced that there has ever been any such thing as a "good" war, or, that we were the "greatest generation." But I'm fascinated by this work that has allowed me the time and the resources to re-visit those years in order to begin to make sense of it while I still have the ability to re-live them through the arts, the talents, the souls, and hearts and minds of a new generation of seekers after truth.

Whiplash!

There are times when I feel like a yo-yo. That may characterize the past few weeks as I've bounced from highs to lows and back again with little sense of control over events or my reactions to them.

Lay awake last night wondering about just how it is that life as lived within my skin carries with it an entirely different reality from the lives of those around me?

Case in point:

I wrote in an earlier post about the dozen or so young people from a youth group known as C.Y.C.L.E. directed by my intrepid friend, Lillie Mae Jones, from her motorized wheelchair. She'd brought them to visit our offices to experience my presentation, and to walk the Rosie Memorial at Marina Bay Park. There were perhaps a dozen teens. Only a week or so later, a 17 year-old ready to enter the community college this fall was shot in the back 5 times but survived. Two days ago I dropped in to visit with Lillie as I often do when time allows. Lillie is the Iron Triangle district's gatekeeper and a fearless advocate on behalf of its children.

Lena answered the door and warned me that Lillie Mae wasn't alone. When I walked into the room there was a police officer busily taking notes as she grimly answered his questions. I didn't stay, but backed out of the room as inconspicuously as I could manage.

Within a few minutes I'd learned from Lena that a second one of the teens with whom I'd shared that visit to the memorial had been shot a few days before in Fourth Street park. This time it was a 16 year-old who is still hospitalized and (hopefully) recovering. That would be 2 out of 12 -- and are those not deadly odds?

I recalled then reading about the city having made the decision to increase police presence in the Iron Triangle. And then I remembered Lillie's words, "Betty, the Nevin Street Community Center closes every day at five o'clock." The Nevin Center is located in Fourth Street Park. "There's absolutely nothing for these kids to do around here." "The Center closes and they're still hanging around," she continued in frustration. Her fists tightened in her lap and her eyebrows gnarled. It seems ironic that the Nevin Center was recently refurbished to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars -- new landscaping, entrance changed to face inward to the park, fences installed between the children's playgrounds and spaces for teens and elders; all for a park that is closed to idle young people evenings and weekends.

It was so obvious to me. Hiring playground directors and program people for the recreation center so that it might be kept open until ten o'clock or later with basketball, homework assistance, games -- both indoor and out -- would surely go a long way toward changing the environment in the Iron Triangle. Would that not be economically more effective than hiring more highly-paid cops? Every community center in the city should be open in the evenings; everywhere throughout this troubled city. But then I realized that I hadn't realized that they were closed. Does anyone else know? If adolescents are expected to be in school during the day, and schools have eliminated music, arts, and most athletics due to state budget cuts, and the city-funded recreation centers close at 5:00 pm, what good are they except as gathering places for pre-schoolers and moms?

For the first time I found myself wondering (while drifting off) if I couldn't effect some of these weird decisions and be more helpful to the community were I more of an ordinary citizen. Maybe it is time to retire and try to bring some of whatever-it-is-that-brings-me-such-acclaim to promote some change of the kind that Lillie Mae Jones has given so much of her life to? And how on earth can I make a difference from my current position? Can we ever make this park truly relevant to the people who need it most?

I remembered then that - as I was leaving Lillie said to me in great earnestness, "...please don't quit your job, Betty, that was the worst thing I ever did. You're doin' good work."

Today at 3:00 o'clock I'll be in the audience for playwright Marcus Gardley's "This World in a Woman's Hands," a work based on his African American grandmother's experiences as a migrant worker in the Kaiser Shipyards during WWII. The play will be held in the Nevin Center of Fourth Street Park in the Iron Triangle, is free and includes dinner. It will run for 3 matinee performances, today, tomorrow and Labor Day. This will be its premiere before opening for a full run at the Berkeley Stage of the Shotgun Players theater company through September and into October. I attended their final rehearsal on Monday evening and can hardly wait for the full experience as a part of a live audience in the place where those lives were lived.

I'm hoping that the community's young people will be well represented in the audience. They truly need to be made aware that they are the descendants of the extraordinary ordinary people who helped to save the world from Fascist domination 69 years ago. I believe that this Gardley play can provide some of the background that's been missing from their history books, and that has tragically cheated this generation of youngsters of their rightful legacy ... the sense of belonging ... the feeling of being part of something larger than themselves -- that thing that provides the sense of worth that gives life meaning and that just might possibly provide for today's children the now-missing will to survive in an often unsympathetic world; a world where their only power seems to be the ability to instill fear in others.

Lillie Mae Jones will be in the audience today. I can hardly wait to experience this with her. She and Lena helped to spread the word about these events so that -- just maybe -- some of those kids will be in the audience as well. I'm told that Lena went from door-to-door to try to bring out the audience to witness the telling of their own stories.

.. and I suppose that I'm one of the still-living links between our times and theirs ... would that be enough reason to continue doing the work? Maybe so, if only because I'm convinced that real change comes not from edicts nor from mandates, but through the arts in all of its forms. And that as long as I can act as a conduit through which those connections can be made, there is a reason to continue.

I've been invited to participate in a community mural project by a contractor who is working with the Richmond Art Center ... and there's the newly-formed committee to give greater visibility through the arts to the tragedy at Port Chicago ... over the next year and beyond ...

Yes!

Magic happens when one's work starts to merge with the art-making of others ... .

Spent the afternoon in the audience of a new play inspired by WWII, Rosie the Riveter, and the home front stories. "Rivets," a delightful musical, was staged on board the SS Red Oak Victory, the last ship built and launched in the Kaiser shipyards during 1944.

Her #2 Hold had been cleared of all of the clutter that's been accumulating over the many years since she was towed from her berth in the mothball fleet at Mare Island to be reprieved for an extended life as a part of the Rosie The Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park. After serving in the South Pacific theater during WWII, and ending her seagoing in the Vietnam war, her decks now serve Sunday morning pancake breakfasts to Bay Trail walkers and cyclists during the summer months, and a Thursday evening film series from that era (this week saw the last in this summer's series, "The Best Years of Our Lives") hosted by our NPS interpreters. I can only imagine how thrilled the young cast of "Rivets" is to be recreating those stories in the very place where they were lived; in the #2 Hold where the stage is expansive and the audience seated on folding chairs in a semi-circle -- close enough to touch.

The many subplots are carried along by a rousing musical score, but what marred the performance for me was the need to force myself to allow the playwright the freedom to create a reality of racial mixing on stage that would not have occurred in that time period in that place. The conflict was not in the work but in the contradictions in real time -- and mostly in my own head. What is possible today on stage would not have been allowed in the reality of life as we lived it during those years. And, after all, is this not precisely what we were working toward? Would I wish it otherwise? Of course not!

Black and white folks during the war years shared working spaces (albeit on an unequal basis), but socially it would not have been possible. The scenes in the play where black culture was reflected through song and dance, the cast was (necessarily) racially integrated. It was the only way the scenes could be played. But here in my head were those memories that screamed that black servicemen and women were not served by the USO, and that Sweets Ballroom near the shores of Lake Merritt in Oakland had 3 nights for public dancing, one for whites, one for Latinos, and another for African Americans. Never were we in the same places, socially, at the same time. We entertained black servicemen in our homes, or, at San Francisco's Buchanan Street USO, for blacks only.

I found my mind wandering during the intermission, wondering -- in light of the upcoming Home Front Festival (weekend of October 2nd) -- if those conversations about the USO dance being a strictly segregated activity ever occurred? Have those who are resurrecting it as a feature of the festival understood what those barriers meant to black workers? I'm wondering if -- in our racially diverse city -- just how today's community people can deal with that reality? There are so few of us still alive who remember, that maybe it's no longer an issue. Should it be? I'm not at all sure. What can possibly be gained by making others aware of such old pain? But what will be lost by ignoring those experiences?

Maybe, as in Rivets, we should all simply revisit that miserable past with eyes wide open so that we can -- belatedly -- begin to process that history -- but this time, together, from the same side of the racial divide.

This is precisely what playwright Kathy McCarty and her multiracial cast of talented young people are doing. By their example; by their ability to confront those painful issues from a position of love; they may well be setting the stage for the next phase of this unpredictable and imperfect reality that we share, across races, cultures, and generations.

As I walked down the gangplank as the sun was setting, I could hear ringing in my ears the words "...in order to form a more perfect union...".

Photo: Yes, that would be me in the center with Kathy McCarty (in blue) on my left, surrounded by members of the cast.

I'm puzzled at how touched I am by the passing of Senator Ted Kennedy ...

...almost as though he were a beloved friend -- someone with whom I'd shared life experiences. Strange. All the more strange because the feelings bubbled up from a place inside about which I was unaware; a place where resistance to his magic had been locked over many years.

I was in his presence only once. Some years ago I attended a Congressional Black Caucus weekend in Washington, D.C., where then president, Jimmy Carter, addressed the crowd at the Hilton Hotel gala. Carter was a simple and unassuming man who appeared comfortable in this African America crowd and his few words of welcome were less impressive than the fact of his being there. I remember feeling the thrill of simply being in the presence of a president of the United States.

Just before he arrived other dignitaries greeted the crowd. I can remember feeling more than a little put off by Teddy Kennedy who seemed to push his way through the crowd to get to the mike, and who greeted us brashly with a feigned southern drawl overlaying his thick Boston accent that was condescending -- insulting. I remember coming away with very mixed feelings, including the suspicion that he might be drunk. The table where we were seated was too far away from the podium to be certain. I can't recall ever speaking of those feelings with anyone since. Maybe I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, or, maybe there was some hint of greatness to come. I truly don't know. But, for whatever reason, those old unexplored feelings were nowhere in sight as I listened to the eulogies of those close to him. The incident surely came to mind, but it was now in context. This was a part of who this giant teddy-bear of a man was. Maybe taking on the idiom and cadence of blacks to the extent that he could was simply a part of his reaching out. And ... maybe it was no more than an embarrassing display of bad taste. Perhaps it was an example of a man desperately wanting to relate. While listening to his wife, his children, nieces and nephews, those with whom he's worked over the past 47 years to improve life for the least of us, I felt the resistance melt away. In its place came the tears, and a willingness to believe that many have been inspired to carry on in his wake and that "the dream will never die."

There are those who have walked among us who touched lives far beyond their reach, times, or exalted stations in life. Is this what we've come to recognize as immortality? Few reach that level of eminence, but surely this man did, and he did it -- not by becoming godlike -- but by retaining his humanness to the end.

Could it have been because he was obviously flawed, mortal, vulnerable? Perhaps.

Watching and listening to his humanness as described by countless friends and those with whom he sparred politically over time has been so revealing -- as much about something within ourselves as about this imperfect man who grew into his greatness without leaving the essential "Teddy" behind.

Even from this great distance, the contagion of the Kennedy Dream may live on through those who will succeed him.

And maybe -- at least for this weekend, we're all Kennedys.

Okay; so now that I've dug in with fingernails (no easy feat with balled fists!) to climb back on the planet ...

where do we go from here?

Surely it was the contrasts lived out over the past couple of weeks that knocked me off kilter ... hitting the stratosphere with Rosie's Girls one week then plummeting without warning to the depths as the sirens screamed relentlessly on mean streets and talk radio pundits smirked their hypocrisy hour after endless hour reminding me that it is sheer madness to pay cable for the privilege of allowing them into my home to corrupt my sense of well-being by creating the illusion that what is local is universal and that the whole world is aflame ... .

Fortunately, most of life is not lived at those extreme edges, but somewhere in the middle -- and today it appears that I've regained my equilibrium and -- if I stretch tall enough -- I can again peer over the countertops of life. Trauma is known to reduce even the apparently invincible to 6 year-old status, and that's about where I wound up last night. A good high-volume unrestrained sobbing session combined with a hot cup of Swiss chocolate with or without marshmallows does the trick if backed up by enough years of good psychotherapy, reminders of a loving family, good friends, and meaningful work to fill the days.

Resilience, thy name is Betty.

Allright. Now let's talk about the real reason I've not been writing this past week ...

He was seventeen and expecting to enter Contra Costa Community College this fall semester. (I can still see him in my mind's eye, a handsome dark-skinned youth, neatly-dressed, seated at our conference table just two seats over listening intently). This youngster was one of about a dozen local kids from a program known as C.Y.C.L.E. Their director is Ms. Lillie Mae Jones, a feisty aging Saul Alinsky-trained community organizer and activist who is my friend, and who has been conducting a program for disadvantaged youngsters in Richmond's troubled Iron Triangle neighborhood for many years. And what makes this story the more poignant is that Lillie Mae conducts the program from her wheelchair and has done so for as many years as I've known her.

One morning just two weeks ago, my friend, and her daughter and very capable assistant, Lena, called to ask if it would be possible for me to conduct a guided tour of the Rosie the Riveter Memorial for her summer youth program. "We have our own van, and can be there in a few minutes." With only an hour's notice, my ranger partner and I quickly organized a mini-tour.

As Elizabeth and I ran through our PowerPoint and my short "Of lost conversations" DVD in our conference room, I noticed how rapt were those kids, and realized how unknowing they were about their own local history. It was a great morning, and though they drove ahead while I took care of some items waiting at my desk, the adventure ended up with my joining them at the Memorial in Marina Bay Park where we walked the time line of WWII together, and read each panel aloud and talked about meanings. It was rangering at its best, and I felt rightfully "in the moment."

Lena phoned me at home later that evening to say how moved she had been by our presentation and of how excited the kids were; how animated was the talk on the way back to their center.

Just two days ago I learned that our 17 year-old student had been accosted on the street by an assailant and shot 5 times in the back! That he had survived the murder attempt but may be suffering permanent physical damage. The psychological damage must be overwhelming. The kind of hatred that would bring 5 shots to the back might well indicate that the shooter will return at some point -- and ...what does one say or do in the face of that kind of awfulness?

And ... what are the relationships between my earlier post (below) and this one? And why have I held the story for so many hours without sharing it with anyone, not even with my co-workers?

Is it just an illusion that putting it into words makes the terror more real?

I truly don't know.

"Leave the guns at home", says EJ Dionne, Washington Post columnist ... .

There has been little or no comment on the differences or similarities between Mr. Dionne's thought-provoking and moving editorial which brought to mind the chilling and long-familiar images of the Black Panther Party marching in formation -- fully and legally armed -- through the halls of the State Capitol in Sacramento during the early Sixties. That act ushered in the era of CoInTelPro and the relentless and brutal siege staged against black militancy, nationwide, over the following decade. With militias now blessed with legal permission to publicly arm themselves in many states -- and with the NRA fiercely defending their 2nd amendment rights -- is skin color the only difference? How were J. Edgar Hoover and his FBI justified in shutting down black militancy by use of deadly force then, and where are those powers now? What has changed? I'm not at all sure of the answers to this new and seemingly irrational show of force -- and this time not by our government but by the citizenry -- nor do I support or defend the Panther's deliberately provocative strategy back in the Sixties. It's the loss of control over the issue that is so disturbing.

But the irony was inescapable -- of the young black brother decked out in his strapped-on shoulder holster assault rifle plus his openly displayed revolver; given that history. Out of what rabbit hole do you supposed he climbed? About the time that his image slid into view -- being interviewed by a white dude with a revolver strapped to his leg(!) -- I found myself giggling helplessly! Testosterone on the rampage! What in the world? It was about at that point that the "deja" became completely unglued from the "vu" and I lost it! Maybe laughter is the only defense reasonable folks can have to such behaviors; but surely that isn't enough. Something critically important to our survival may be at risk here; something activated by decades of unending war and ceaseless urban violence. Have we become so desensitized that we've lost the ability to respond appropriately? This morning the grin has disappeared and my skin crawls with fear for what may lie ahead ... .

We graduated our Rosie's Girls yesterday and a prouder gaggle of grownups have rarely been seen ...

The girls were gathered in a circle at the head of the community room at the Coronado YMCA -- seated in beautiful chairs they'd constructed from scratch and painted in every shape and color imaginable after their introduction to the use of power tools. Such a proud collection of happy faces is rare, indeed.

There were proud parents (mostly moms), two of the NPS women equestriennes from Fort Mason who'd met with them during the session; several Sheroes who returned to be with them on this final day of the program; members of the City's Public Works Dept. who had been in on the project from the start; the director of YouthWorks, a city summer job's program into which many of the girls will transition for the rest of the summer; members of the Richmond Police Dept., YMCA staffers, some funders (including Chevron/Texaco and Wells Fargo Bank), and as many rangers as are in our management system. What a day! If grins were dollars we'd have made up the richest collection of wealth on the planet.

Our Rosie's Girls spent Thursday night aboard a submarine moored in the San Francisco harbor and were still excited! They wished for "just one more week." As for the adult leaders, immediate discussions were already initiated -- hints of plans for next year. Burned out? Hardly. Even Ms. Vanessa "Mom" Calloway," their intrepid program director, appeared ready for another round. The community came together to make this happen and is ready to roll up its sleeves to continue to develop its model.

As an aside, there were moments -- especially after being drawn in against my will to present as a shero last Thursday -- that I truly felt irrelevant and old. My age placed me so far beyond even the imaginations of these youngsters that I found it almost impossible to relate to them - at least not from that perspective. I was perfectly at ease as just another adult figure in the room; on human terms, which holds its own value. But when re-introduced to them as a "Shero" I stumbled and felt incoherent. The distance between was simply too great and the time line impossible to comprehend. I felt embarrassed standing before them . I could have been their great-grandmother, ferheavensake! Until that point, I'd been simply, "Miss Betty," a comfortable being in the room. We'd been together a number of times, but now I was setting myself apart -- or so it seemed. I'd become a "Shero," and it felt different somehow.

I know when my presence is relevant and contributes to events -- and when it does not. It's a feeling thing. Perception. Hard to explain without sounding self-deprecating. Yesterday I wanted to simply be in the room, uncelebrated, blending in -- and regretted being singled out in any way. Fortunately it was short-lived; a gesture of little consequence, after all. But it may have heralded a new phase in the aging process. Will I begin now to find myself in places where I've lost relevance, really? Was it because I have grandchildren in the middle school years and with whom my relationship is clearly-defined -- where their love and respect is unquestioned but -- are they impressed with Grandma's exploits? -- a little, maybe, but that's old stuff. My sons are far more taken with their park ranger mom and her derring-do. Maybe one generations is about as far back in time most of us can go before we lose focus.

Maybe that's it.

Photo: Victoria Jones, Vice-president of Clorox Corporation, who visited on Tuesday, August 13th.
Pamela Freund-Striplin, Violist for San Francisco Opera, Symphony, and Artistic Director for
the Gold Coast Chamber Music group of Lafayette, California.

Life is good ... no, not good ... sensational!

...and it is not because I've won the lottery (refuse to play on principle, actually), or, that I woke up this morning wrinkle-free and with hair follicles reactivated. Nah. It has simply been one of those stretches of time when even the smallest wishes have been granted, even those unspoken and deeply buried in my psyche.

Various segments of my past were reunited, starting with Paul and Shirley, but from my more recent past -- times from years of working with the community in other capacities. My world has always been nicely peopled, a fact that has enriched life considerably and added to the self confidence I now seem to have achieved.

Case in point: A brand new program, "Rosie's Girls" (a local version of a national program) was introduced into our daily park lives this summer that is so exciting and that called upon the wealth of years of contacts with some of the most exciting women one might wish for. The assignment meant going through my contacts list to gather together an impressive group of women with whom I'd shared segments of my own life over the years.

Rosie's Girls recruited 24 youngsters from two local middle schools to participate in a 3 week urban summer day camp which would broaden their horizons by introducing them to non-traditional work place roles in the tradition of "Rosie the Riveter". We (the park) would partner with the school district, the city's Dept. of Public Works, a local bank, private industries, public safety agencies, the YMCA, etc., which would sponsor exciting experiences in order to expand the choices of youngsters whose own life choices might be seriously limited by a number of challenges. During camp they would be given hands-on experiences with a variety of skills (simple electrical and plumbing repairs, carpentry, cement work, fire safety, landscaping, wall-climbing, an overnight on a submarine after dinner at Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, visits to the Marine Headlands, to a fabrication studio where they would create concrete stepping stones for a victory garden planted by kids in another summer program. And all this would be experienced in jumpsuits with Rosie's Girls emblazoned on the backs and over a breast pocket, with matching baseball caps, work gloves, safety glasses; all items will be theirs to keep when the program ends. (How cool is that?)

My assignment was a relatively limited one. My outreach co-ranger, Carla, was acting as lead. I was to come up with a "Shero" (term coined by Maya Angelou for female heroes) to give a lunchtime presentation for each day; successful women from every walk of life who would share lunch and do a Q&A with these 12-14 year-olds. They were to bring along photos of themselves (maybe at their geekiest) at about those ages -- talk about what inspired them at that time and how those ambitions shifted over the years; if indeed they did change. They were asked to say something about the challenges they'd faced and how their current life measures up to those early dreams. The Sheroes were sensational!

They included the mayor of the city and two former mayors; a vice-president of an international corporation; a member of the California State Assembly; a violist from the San Francisco symphony and opera companies who also plays for soundtracks for video games and films at George Lucas's Skywalker Ranch; a popular R&B singer; the woman who heads the education committee of the Tellurite Film Festival in Colorado; a playwright with two productions currently on stage; two national park superintendents; two authors, a poet, and a publisher; a juvenile justice specialist, several feminist leaders, etc. It was an amazing collection of inspiring role models. I've already begun my list for next year's program, and we have plans to bring the original group together for an evaluation luncheon very soon. One note I do need to add is that there was not one refusal among the busily engaged women invited to participate. Some came from quite a distance away to share of themselves, and they did so with caring and enthusiasm. Something that I'm sure was contagious and filled the room to over-flowing each day.

I can hardly imagine the kind of impact such an exposure to strong and accomplished women will have on youngsters (and these were mostly children of color) in these formative years. I will provide links to the Rosie's Girls website as soon as I can figure out the process. Meanwhile, I'm anxious to share the good news.

Spent most of yesterday afternoon drafting a brief essay for an online website involved in African American tourism for the Convention and Visitor's Bureau of the City of Richmond. Since I was writing while riding high on the Rosie's Girls experience and Friday's installation of the beautiful stepping stones at Verde elementary school's victory garden -- the article wrote itself with minimal help from me.

"And the walls came a-tumba-lin' down!"

...and the sun remained in the firmament along with the stars and the moon ... and, despite the brouhaha going on in Cambridge twixt the cop and the professor; the "Twain" has met and it was good!

I suppose that throughout time there have been those who were trying their darndest to "get it right," while the oppositionists flailed and cursed change. Maybe that's who Paul Charbonnet is for me; the one of this generation who has chosen to buck the system, find a corresponding brave soul -- and courageously proceed to break the cycle of alienation that we'd ceased to even be aware of over the decades. What a wonderful man is he! It was love at first sight and I suspect that it was mutual. Both Paul and his warm and welcoming plain-spoken Shirley stepped into my world as if they'd been always standing by waiting in the wings for an invitation. Those Charbonnet genes leapt across the conference room and met in mid-air as if the centuries-old separation of our white and black families had never been. Would that all could find it so easy.

It could not have been a more dramatic opening scene. Wednesday was a day scheduled for one of my "Betty-guided" bus tours of the scattered sites of our park and on my roster were two names that caused my heart to skip -- theirs. The other 14 passengers had no idea what a huge day this was for us. I'd sent a memo around to our staff the day before letting them know how special this tour would be for me, and why.

They arrived at 9:30 from their hotel in San Francisco - having flown from Louisiana to be here. In they walked, the first to arrive for the tour -- and I was hyperventilating wildly! It was hard to allow the enormity of what was happening to sink in at that moment. I had an orientation to present and a tour to run and it was crazy -- we were the Jeffersons and the Hemmings, and all of the great slave family reunions put together, except that none in our Charbonnet family had been enslaved to our knowledge. Slavery would be in my maternal line. My father's family was alienated since the 1830's due to a French Charbonnet male joining with a "woman of color of high-standing" with whom he started our line. It is since that time that we've been two branches -- neither recognizing the other -- at least not officially. In our conversation over lunch we could both recall older members of our families referring to informal relationships that were maintained, mostly through male members. But never overt and probably subject to denial if need be. It was the "southern" way, and time honored in practice.

That's over now.

And -- could it have been a more auspicious day for them to arrive? After the tour Martha and I were scheduled to participate in a PBS program called "California's Gold," and would spend much of the afternoon on camera for a production about the magnificent historic Ford Building, one of the sites incorporated in Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front Historic National Park, and the site of the soon-to-be-constructed NPS Visitor's Center. If I wanted to impress, this sure was the way to do so. How's that for drama?

Yesterday the 3 of us met in San Francisco as guests of a young cousin, Jacques, for lunch. Tomorrow evening we'll gather at my apartment in an open house that will allow all the family members who haven't taken off on vacations to meet our cousins. Wish we'd had more time, but this visit was impulsive and unplanned and there wasn't a way to do the appropriate announcement for an occasion as important as this is. But that will come later. If you're a Charbonnet, please register at charbonnetfamily@yahoo.com so that we can grow ourselves into the proud combined American family that we truly are. The process has begun. Add you and yours to the Grand In-Gathering!

Might I add that Paul discovered me on the Internet while searching for documentation for his own family history project? He started reading here earlier this year and (according to his own words), "I've got to meet this woman!" So saying, the story began to unfold and -- here we are -- two direct descendants of two Charbonnet brothers from Thiers, in the Bordeaux region of France, who arrived here in the New World in the mid-1700s, years before the Revolutionary War. Maybe our adventure, joining together as a total family in the new millenium will prove as daring. Maybe not. But however it goes, I feel deep in my heart that it is these symbolic gestures of reaching across the racial divide in love that may save us all.

Welcome into our lives, Paul Charbonnet!

It's now posted: "The Greatest Wartime Home Front Mobilization", article published in the California Historian, Spring 2009 issue.

Click the Betty Reid Soskin pages link over on the left side of the screen -- above the archives. You'll be taken to those pages where you'll scroll down to the bottom of the directory on the left. Please do comment by email, if you will (use "email me" link at the top of the list). I would truly appreciate the feedback. Remember, I'm still a novice at this.

So much to write about ... so much happening ... and seemingly unrelated, but maybe not ...

Prof. Henry Louis Gates, eminent Harvard educator and recent humiliated proud black man.

I don't believe there is a person of color who didn't immediately grimace in pain upon learning about his arrest on his own front porch in Cambridge.

Immediately my mind rushed back to the many times when we lived in our lovely redwood creekside home in suburban Walnut Creek in the Fifties; when I would answer my doorbell to some salesman or solicitor who would look past me, over my shoulder, and ask if the lady of the house was at home. I was invariably assumed to be the maid. How I wished that I could have screamed and pushed the offender off into the bushes, but instead I would say simply, "I am the lady of the house." There was no graceful way to rescue the idiot with the egg on his face except to quietly close the door and push the insult to the back of my mind in order to get through another day of being diminished.

Then there was the time when -- at my father's invitation -- I attended the annual banquet hosted by his St. Vincent de Paul's Society at a fancy Italian restaurant in downtown Oakland. Dad was an officer of the organization and was to be honored for a year of outstanding service. I'd dressed in my most elegant outfit complete with hat and gloves and drove in from the suburbs to join him and mother for the evening of celebration. Getting there early, I found that I was the first to arrive and that the doors were still locked. I sat in my station wagon at the curb for a while, then -- as I watched -- as a man drove up who was obviously preparing to enter the restaurant, I approached cautiously to inquire about the dinner (maybe I had the wrong date or time?). He welcomed me with a smile and, assuring me that I had the right information. "Just follow me," says he. In so doing I found myself being led through a side door and into a huge bustling kitchen where he pointed to a shelf near the door -- indicating crisply that here was the place to stash my hat and purse -- so saying he handed me a checkered apron and walked away ... .

What does one do with those awful moments? Racial profiling? Of course. The kind that has followed people of color throughout our lives. They have a double-edged effect. We're not only embarrassed for ourselves, but almost always for the offender as well, because we know they're caught up in an age-old stupidity that is almost reflexive -- the default -- born of something bigger than either of us. It's this awful ambiguous situation so easily denied ("you just didn't understand") that builds up until all you can do is push back for the sake of your own sanity. For me it was many years too early so I swallowed my pride and added the incident to a growing body of insults that exploded in a quiet rage fueling my soul in marches and demonstrations and protests as I grew into my anger. This was so hard for well-intentioned liberal friends to understand or appreciate, so it was lonely. The charges were guaranteed to send conservatives into spasms of irrational rages of their own that further alienate (or did you not hear Patrick Buchanan's comments this week?).

Professor Gates could afford to push back because times have changed and there are now both black and white Americans pushing back with him from the same side of the racial divide. But the push-back comes at a very high price for everyone involved; and to him more than to anyone due to his exalted position in the academy. The unfairness adds to his rage, I'm certain. Despite this awfulness, the social climate has changed and I, too, would have expressed my outrage freely were it to happen to me today, and I'm confident that there would be many across that racial barrier who would understand and support me in my fury, as there are for him. I would have liked to count President Obama among them.

I would have preferred that our president had resisted the temptation to be so "even-handed." His first response was the right one, from my obviously biased perspective. And I'm sure he knew that. The weight of the presidency is in delicate balance -- but just this once -- I wish that he'd placed his thumb on our side of the scale. I admit to feeling the sting of disappointment in his later backing away and giving equal weight to both the young white officer's claims and those of the rightfully offended Skip Gates. The president obviously hoped to placate all who have been handed that checkered apron over a lifetime. All it did for me was to re-open old wounds and re-ignite the embers of bitterness I thought long extinguished.

We all have much work to do, still, do we not?

Photo: That would be a photo of me taken in 1957 about the time of the incident at the Italian Restaurant. How did he even know that I was African American? Beats me, except that I'm sure that I appeared more so in person than this picture would indicate. My neighbors had no problem whatsoever pegging my racial identity.

The day has come when the Charbonnet -- from across the ages will reach out and touch for the first time in 300 years of American history ... .

Suddenly, on an ordinary day less than a week ago, my cell phone rang and a voice at the other end of the line asked if it would be convenient to talk. His voice was vaguely familiar, and my heart raced as if somehow I knew the next few minutes would be like no others. It was Paul. I was sitting at my desk at the office working on confirmations for next week's bus tour and he was somewhere in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and the "Twain" is about to meet.

"Things have eased up here and Shirley and I have reservations to arrive in San Francisco for our visit on Tuesday. We have a suitcase filled with family historic items to share and can't wait to see you."

After several centuries of separation, we are slowly moving toward reunification of our black and white families -- and the excitement is almost palpable! Neither of us knows how many cousins will follow our lead, or how many generations more it might take for full realization of our hopes, but it matters not one whit. We're taking the first steps with eyes wide open and arms outstretched!

What an amazing time to be alive ... would that our fathers and theirs could have seen this day!

If you notice a slight shift in the pull of gravity on Wednesday morning at around 9 o'clock, it won't be an earth tremor or an errant comet striking the planet. It will be the moment when we meet for the first time to begin the long march toward a new future as one great Southern American family no longer apart. It is my hope that we will -- from this day forward -- be unified on the same side of the racial divide facing up to racism, together, by the simple act of an embrace that will be as significant to the two of us as the electrifying touch of fingertips between God and Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel!

"I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. Their sons ought to study geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain."

John Adams (Letters to Abigail)

Found myself thinking about this memorable quote after newly-discovered cousins Mike and Patricia Charbonnet and their lovely daughter, Fabienne, left yesterday afternoon after a much too brief first visit. We were meeting for the first time, and it was wonderful!

Fabienne is a recent graduate in art history from UCLA who is leaving in a few weeks to take a teaching position under the French Ministry. She will live there in the place from which our ancestors sailed some time in the 1700s to start a life in the New World. What an adventure! I'm hoping that she'll take the time to visit the Charbonnet's ancestral home in Thiers before returning to the States. Wouldn't that be something? Mike and Patricia will travel with her to locate and get her settled in her new living space -- stopping off in Paris before returning to their home in Santa Barbara.

We talked about how many of the current generation are into one or another of the arts (which is what brought the Adams quote to mind). I recalled how strong were the craftsmen represented in our lineage. All of my father, Dorson, and Mike's grandfather, Joseph Charbonnet's brothers, were carpenters, plasterers, bricklayers; "Builders." But then there have been the politicians and technocrats, I'm sure. Find myself wondering about just who we all turned out to be over succeeding generations? There are many writers among us, and now that I'm officially published -- I'll count myself among them.

Here's hoping we'll begin to come together soon in order to have the chance to explore just where life has taken us over time; to learn whether we've finally reached the place on the continuum where wars are behind us in our venerable ages-old Charbonnet Family's development -- and that final stage in social evolution so eloquently spoken of by John Adams has been attained. Perhaps we mirror the nation in that respect ... maybe. It's possible, right? We've been around long enough (since long before the Revolutionary War) to serve as a measure of national progress, don't you suppose?

Yesterday brought the 65th anniversary of the Port Chicago disaster which took 320 lives, 202 of whom were young African Americans ...

On Friday I had the great honor of providing a tour of the Rosie the Riveter Memorial for a group of men (the "mutineers") who survived that tragedy and returned for this year's commemoration.

These are my contemporaries. It's so hard to hold that in mind when I'm surrounded by younger people most of the time. It all seems to have happened in the very recent past. There is the illusion that time collapses in on itself in some strange way (awkward wording but I don't know quite how to describe it). When I'm surrounded by those from my own age group, it's disorienting in some way and I have to remind myself that I'm now at the age where birthdays come every six weeks and that others are experiencing life at the same incomprehensible speed and with this same sense of urgency!

Prior to arriving to meet me for the tour, they'd traveled in a caravan consisting of two large vans and a sedan to the national cemetery at San Bruno on the San Francisco Peninsula where they'd visited the graves of those who perished in that conflagration on July 17, 1944. Yesterday I learned during the ceremony a fact long forgotten. It was that their graves are separated from the others by race. At that time no servicemen of color were buried with the whites, but were segregated into a section "for colored only", and not in some southern graveyard, but here in California where such practices were little known. Of course this would have happened before the desegregation of the armed forces so would not have been questioned at the time. What a cruel irony to revisit! We have so much still to atone for as a nation, don't we? As I've said before, if others will continue to work on atonement, we'll continue to strive valiantly to find forgiveness.

Yesterday about 250 friends and family gathered at the monument in a beautiful ceremony to honor those lost. (Numbers are limited by available space.) It was the annual Day of Remembrance hosted by the National Park Service. State Senator Mark Desaulnier and representatives of all of our local, state, and federal elected officials were present to honor the day. Legislation is now pending in the Senate (after recent passage in the House) to raise the Port Chicago monument to full status as a national park. After introduction by Rep. George Miller in the House, Senator Barbara Boxer is carrying the bill in the Senate with passage anticipated in the very near future.

You must read University of California at Berkeley's Prof. Robert L. Allen's "Port Chicago Mutiny" for the story of the tragedy that occurred on that fateful day in 1944. It was the response to the subsequent mutiny trials of the men who refused to return to the docks to load ammunition without further training that caused President Harry Truman to mandate desegregation of the Armed Forces in 1948 by presidential order. By so doing he inadvertently ushered in the modern civil rights movement that would continue to build over the next 20 years into that which we now remember as the Civil Rights Revolution of the Sixties.

I am so proud of the role being played by the National Park Service in giving voice to the stories of our times without reservation, and for allowing the conflicting perceptions of what happened to resurface so that we can, black and white together, process that history and support one another in growing past the bitterness that has silenced our voices for such a long time. Let those conversations flourish now that we're able to finally bear the pain of remembering. The correctives are not yet all in place but the stage has been set for those exchanges to occur and for a purging of the debilitating hatred to be set in motion.

In January change could be felt in the air at the Inauguration. I feel it still among those who gather at our parks to learn of that history. I felt it again yesterday in that sterile Army building at Port Chicago that came to life again as a diverse group of people came to remember, and to honor by their presence those fallen young heroes long since dead. Our numbers now including the men who came to add their voices -- now aging but still proud of what their standing tall initiated for us all by their honest defiance of that shameful unenlightened past that we've somehow managed to survive into a more promising future. I'm told that only six remain, most of whom traveled from great distances to be with us yesterday. We were deeply honored by their presence.

Incidentally, I was reminded upon seeing him again among the visitors yesterday, that Dr. Robert Allen was one of my guests on a July 15th bus tour of the Richmond park sites. Rather than feeling intimidated by his presence (as one might expect -- given my amateur status as a scholar), it's interesting to note that I came away from the tour feeling affirmed as "historian." One day I may take those quotes away and declare myself (grin).

Betty the Vintage Tour Guide ... .

I'm again guiding tours of the scattered sites that constitute this developing new national park. So far this summer I've conducted 3 2-hour bus tours with 3 more scheduled between now and the end of August. In the process I'm meeting some very interesting people -- some of whom are older -- having had parents who were the veterans of WWII or of the home front mobilization. Some are young workers from local green businesses now located in the restored Ford Assembly Plant, one of the sites included in the park. Many of the elders are coming back to revisit that history and to contribute what they can to the stories. Younger visitors are learning for the first time in most cases what happened here and are deeply impressed with what they're discovering. We're building ourselves a park, one story at a time, and the park visitors are checking in to help in that effort. This is such a fascinating phase in park development.

Interest is high, but for the most part the visitors are coming from outside the immediate community. Visitors from the university and nearby colleges and folks from the area's museums are beginning to turn up on the guest lists, and that is both cause for celebration and makes for just a bit of insecurity. After all, my stories are generated from my memory bank and not from objective study. My analyses come straight out of personal living history and -- though I'm confident in the telling -- there is still that fear of seeming too audacious for my own good.

Read back over my California Historian article today after avoiding doing so since it was published earlier this month. I've had the magazine sitting atop my desk, propped up on my copy holder so that I can see it, but have been unable to make myself read it for fear I'd be disappointed or embarrassed in some way.

It will be posted soon on my web pages so that it will be available for you to see within a few days; and then I'll want feedback -- if you'll be kind enough to take the time.

Meanwhile, I must admit that after spending some time with it this afternoon, I came away feeling that I've made my case adequately. There is nothing therein that I would want to change. It reads well and gives a fresh insight into those eventful years.

I recognized a consistency in my on-the-bus interpretation along the tour route and the content of the article. Truth as I lived it comes through loud and clear.

I will be curious to learn what you think of my claims.

I felt confident enough to have forwarded a copy to one of yesterday's guests -- a noted author and a professor in the Black Studies Department at the University of California. Maybe I, too, can now claim to be an historian. After all, I once found myself listed by the National Women's History Project as a cultural anthropologist -- and I had to check the dictionary to figure out just what that was!

Truly, these are remarkable times.

After a few hours of living with that last entry about Michael Jackson ... .

as a way of doing penance I forced myself to sit before my television set -- tuned to MTV -- and watched a full hour of his videos. I then watched "Living With Michael Jackson" (BBC). What a sad experience! This was an artist of and for my children's generation. I felt shame for sitting in judgment of this vulnerable artist, though I was left even more conflicted than before.

His talent and charisma cannot be overstated. I could feel the years peel back as I watched his magic unfold. Incredible!

Among the selections presented was one with Lisa Marie Presley called, "You are not alone," and there it was; the exhibitionism of the baring of his body just as I remembered. The discomfort that I'd felt returned as sharply as before. Wanting to look away ... embarrassed for him in some weird way. I was struck with how long those impressions and images remain in the subconscious to be called up with all of the affect originally experienced. How many years ago was, that, anyway?

Strange.

What an amazing performer was this fragile genius!

He is called the ultimate showman. Transcendent! Legendary. And now, I, too, am a believer.

... but I came away also convinced that he may have been as damaged by his early life experiences as was my Dorian by irreversible birth trauma. Emotionally, he may not have matured much more than she has over the years. Watching him being interviewed evoked empathy usually reserved for the "wounded" who make up her world. I could feel myself mentally lowering expectations and making the necessary allowances ... (this is familiar territory).

Perhaps he was precisely what he needed to be in order to survive his extraordinary fame.

I couldn't help but suspect that -- had Dorian approached with the opening statement, "...tomorrow is my cat's birthday," Michael without hesitation would have asked -- "... and how old will she be?"

Sleep well, Peter Pan... .

The loss of an icon ... .

Been wondering whether to speak of the sudden tragic death of Michael Jackson, and trying to tell myself that -- in a time of so many celebrities passing -- there was really little need to deal with this particular one. But the news has been impossible to avoid. Looking away did little to eliminate the persistent drumbeat of Billie Jean and the brilliance of this flawed young idol. To watch him dance - ghostlike -- hour after hour in the news coverage was like watching poetry personified moving gracefully across the screen. It was impossible to look away ... .

His troubled life was something I didn't really want to think about. It stirred so many painful memories of others I've known about whom there were similar disturbing whispered stories of sexual misconduct. Just another human story among many?

I thought of other larger than life figures from the world of entertainment and the excesses that marked their lives and contributed to their self-destructive choices. Was this one really any different? I don't really know, except that his stature in the world carried with it all of the weight that comes with public scrutiny and notoriety that the lesser known might escape.

Found in myself a mother's tendency to want to forgive and protect, but a large part of me could not exalt. Found myself turning away from the apologists and their pleas that all be forgiven; that we understand the damage done to the child Michael whose loss of his own childhood had formed this flawed adult we all adored and loathed in turn over the years.

His flaws will be examined and dissected into the future; and rightly so. His imperfections will be studied and reviled as his genius is celebrated. Maybe this is as it should be. Maybe this will be his legacy; the much-needed corrections to the laws and regulations that govern the lives and careers of children exploited by those upon whom their lives depend. But then I thought we'd taken care of that with the long ago Jackie Coogan laws and those which developed around child star, McCauley Culkin's, court battles. Maybe not. There is urgent need to correct the system that allows for the abuse of prescription drugs for those with the money to afford them and to limit access from those who are the enablers for a price.

I find it hard to believe that Michael's skin lightening was due to a disease. Given the rest of the dramatic physical transformation that we've watched over the years, it seems far more likely that he'd undergone chemical treatments that whitened his skin -- and may well have shortened his life. We didn't experience the changing along with him -- only the change. And once that change was complete, in his stage appearances we began to see a flaunting of that new white skin with a dramatic baring of his half-naked body on stage and on camera. I remember how uncomfortable it felt to watch those exposures, as if this young man's struggle with the racism we knew so well was being dealt with in a way that we sensed as wrong and feared would lead to more tragedy. It was clear that we were witnessing a psychiatric nightmare! The songs he composed over that period are so contradictory; so in denial, so riddled with conflict, that I wondered why so little was being made of it by the critics and reviewers? He was consumed by "black and white," thematically.

The clue for me was in the fact that from the time of his complete skin transformation we never again saw him out of doors without a hat, long sleeves, and sheltered by a large umbrella, rain or shine. "Avoid exposure to direct sunlight with this medication," screamed loud and clear.

The conclusive evidence for me that this gifted young man was an emotional train wreck came with the fact that -- at the point where he elected to become a parent -- it was not brown children that he chose to "father," but children who could hardly have been born to handsome dark-skinned Michael Jackson -- but children who instead reflected the distorted artificially white-skinned-straight-haired-wigged-self-created man that he'd unnaturally become with the help of unscrupulous plastic surgeons of no conscience. That makes those lovely children little more than extensions of the Michael Jackson fantasy along with Neverland and its Merry-go-rounds and Ferris Wheels.

Oh how I feel for those 3 beautiful and confused children he left behind! That they will be loved is a given. There are enough responsible grownup Jacksons to see to that. However, what in the world can ever make up for their distorted life experiences to date?

Make me no speeches about what a loving father was this tortured man. Watching the kind of strange lives that were imposed on these innocent kids was almost as sad as the spectacle Michael's own life has always been. Were it not for his genius and great wealth, he might well have been charged with child abuse in time, though his power and wealth had long ago cast him far beyond the reach of accountability.

There are lots of questions still to be asked, and they're not all about the mysterious circumstances surrounding his death. They have nothing to do with his obvious gifts to black culture and to the entertainment world that will surely not see his equal for a very long time. Those facts are indisputable.

That there has been a persistent feeling of sadness marking these past few days surely is caused by the loss of this sensitive, flawed, and sad young Michael Jackson. But the cruel images we've been fed by CNN suggests that this was a deeply-troubled life on a downward spiral that might not have survived the upcoming 50 concert schedule anyway.

So sad ... .

For the sake of the young and the vulnerable among us, I'm hoping that we're taking the right lessons from his undeniably productive life as a performer. I seriously wonder whether he ever knew how loved he was?

Or was he?

Really?

It seems probable that -- despite the international acclaim that deservedly came with his remarkable career on the world stage -- the gentle Michael seems never to have been convinced that he'd overcome what he must have perceived as the stigma of being the socially-despised black "man in the mirror," the dark specter who must have haunted him since childhood in Gary, Indiana.