Another week of living -- partly in the now and mainly in the past ... .

Careth and I spent all of Veterans Day working on the Joseph Collection, and marveling at the marvelous condition of these vintage negatives -- despite the many decades since these photos were taken. There have been relatively few of the thousands before us that are beyond salvation. Most are going straight from our hands to a volunteer photographer, Mr. Chan, who is giving them life by developing and printing them out to be attached to new packaging.

We're "re-housing" them in new manila envelopes after carefully clipping the front of each of the now crumbling original ones, making notes of the dates and number of negatives in each. We save any of his original notes; in some cases identifying the subjects and/or short articles he submitted to the press for newsworthy events or persons. We're using inner transparent envelopes into which we separate the articles and original envelope front and another for the negatives -- making a manageable packet ready for the next steps in the process.

Since E.F. Joseph was the photographer for the major Negro newspapers as well as the chronicler of every kind of event imaginable, and with War Department clearance for photographing sensitive government home front locations, you can imagine the kinds of pictures we're finding.

For instance: There are

• 15 negatives of a hero of Pearl Harbor, Doris "Dorie" Miller, the messman who seized an anti-aircraft gun and brought down several Zeros when his commander was downed by incoming gunfire. Miller later died at Tarawa. Prior to the war he was an amateur boxer who trained in Richmond, California. Despite proven heroism, at the time of his death (ironically) he'd been promoted to 1st Cook. A black man could go no higher at that time in a racially segregated Navy.
  

• We've found 11 negatives of the launching of the SS John Hope, named for the great educator and co-founder of the Seneca Conference with Dr. W.E.B. Dubois. The ship was built and launched at Kaiser Shipyard 2. These photos include many well-known African American dignitaries, people recognizable to both Careth and myself.

• There are photos of the Buchanan Street, Vallejo, and Richmond USO dances -- photos where many of today's young can undoubtedly find their grandparents; and
  

• a demonstration demanding presidential intervention in the trials of the Port Chicago "mutineers" that was staged in front of San Francisco's Fairmount Hotel.

• We found a number of pictures taken at a Boilermaker's A-36 (Black union auxiliary) fundraiser given for the purpose of fighting for greater representation and union privileges.

• There are several of labor organizers A.Phillip Randolph and C.L. Dellums in meetings having to do with the Brotherhood of Pullman Porters and or the NAACP for which Dellums served as Northern California Chairman for many years.

• Great on-the-job scenes of men and women working at Oakland's Moore's Drydock.

• We found several taken of "Rosies" working at Oakland's Pabco Factory, a subcontractor for Kaiser's Shipbuilding enterprise. Careth's mother was a worker there in a factory that was in the local headlines for years for problems associated with asbestos exposure of workers.
  

• There are 30 or more negatives of pictures shot at the meetings at the creation of the United Nations at the San Francisco Opera House.

• We have the wedding photos of the noted Orville Luster of the S.F. Redevelopment Agency where the eminent Dr. Howard Thurman conducted the ceremony at San Francisco's historic Fellowship Church during the war years.
  

I could go on, but I think this short list gives some sense of the historic nature of this collection, and of its value in the telling of the stories of the home front during WWII. I'm attempting to set aside for processing everything from 1941 through the end of the war in 1945 -- with some exceptions when an event such as the Port Chicago trials demonstrations that occurred a year after the war ended -- is clearly an extension of events that rose from WWII. There is an overwhelming number of packets to go through, and we're under no illusion that the two of us will ever accomplish this worthy goal, but it will be a beginning. I'll continue to devote at least one day of my work week to working with Careth in the firm belief that at some point, we will begin to scope out the next steps in the process.

With the catalog numbers Joseph assigned to each packet, we've found some that number in the 13,000 series. That means that Careth's original estimate as to the number (perhaps 10,000?) in these endless boxes and plastic garbage bags of countless packets was really quite low. I'm told that there are still countless bags and boxes at her place in San Francisco waiting to be transferred to her Oakland living room "Sorting and Re-packaging Laboratory." (... wondering if this is the way the Library of Congress started out, or the Schomburg... .)

One of E.F. Joseph's photos, that of African American Gladys Theus of the well-known upturned welder's mask that was taken at a Kaiser Shipyard 2 ceremony where she was awarded the prize as the fastest welder on the Yard, made its way into the Roosevelt Presidential Library where the Kaiser Permanente Heritage Department staff located it years ago.

We're now ready to hire Brian, Careth's grandson, a student currently attending Claremont College on a 5-year full scholarship and a tech wizard to begin to create a data base program (FilePro?) so that the cataloging can begin. Hopefully we will find grant funds for that. He'll spend his Christmas break setting that up for us and then we can continue doing the data entry into infinity!

You may one day hear about the birth of the E.F.Joseph Library of Bay Area history. It is now clear that it cannot be contained in the story of the local Black history since it is so much more than that. We've found a portrait dated in 1935 of the father of former California State Senator and Speaker Don Perata. The late Emmanuel F. Joseph was the cameraman for his times. Researchers will soon discover this treasure trove that I've been granted the privilege of previewing and processing over the past several months.

From such humble beginnings as the living room of my friend, Careth "Diddy" Bomar Reid, one day a new museum may begin to rise.

As you've undoubtedly already guessed, I'm going to leave this world kickin' and screamin'!

Photos: top left is 2nd Class Messman, Doris "Dorie" Miller, and yes, this is my wedding photo that we discovered among the packets. I now have the complete set taken May 24, 1942 in the garden of the home where I grew up in East Oakland, California. In these days of excess, can you imagine a cotton wedding dress? It was made of organdy by my sister,Marjorie, the Maid of Honor. Never had I felt so beautiful!

Well the gloom didn't last long ... .

Before the tears dried up I was in the advanced stages of absolute delight! Manic? Maybe, but I doubt it.

Two things happened to change the mood and sweep me up in the next wave of experience. First, a message came from Martha, our superintendent, who is at this very moment in New Orleans sitting in a jazz concert at the Louis Armstrong National Park there.

The first message said a simple, "...wish you were here!," and was written from her Blackberry. In a short time the second message arrived and I could read her excitement over the miles. She was charged up from watching a fantastic music program being conducted there that brings together older jazz musicians with young kids to learn and to play the songbook from old New Orleans.

And second; I then did something I rarely ever do. I looked up at the search bar on this journal (just above my picture over the archives) and entered the word "Jazz." Up came several posts that dated from around 2006, and that I'd totally forgotten about. I loved them! It was like rediscovering an old friend -- someone I've known but had let slip away. I felt all of the passion of the subject, and found little that I would not have written today.

It was cause to wonder if I've stopped growing, or, if this means that I've found a consistency that is at the foundation of a philosophy that I hadn't realized I'd adopted? Am I now drawing conclusions? Is this the place in life where I begin to summarize? Are there still areas of discovery open to me, or, am I closing down new avenues of personal development as the years pile on? I think that might be worse than death.

But there was such pleasure in reading my own words that it must be a good thing ... hopefully.

When she returns mid-week, we'll begin to scope out how we might bring such a program to Richmond -- a part of the Home Front story and WWII. This was where jazz and blues were transplanted to the West Coast as the historic African American migration swept musicians in and as the shipyard workers, and the City of Richmond and the Greater Bay Area began to develop new and reclaimed old sounds that today's young are probably totally unaware of.

A new edge to explore; and those earlier writings about jazz may provide the way in. I'll print them out and share them with our interpreters.

So many pieces coming together -- I'm hoping there will continue to be the time and the necessary energy ...

O what I would give for a Faustian bargain ... just another decade or two!

I would hate having to leave in the middle of this movie!

I should never have read them ...

Out of curiosity, I just went back to the Peter Fimright article in today's S.F. Chronicle to read the comments from the readers. I wasn't prepared for what was there. Within the first few minutes I was sobbing. Unsympathetic and vicious racist comments dominated the column -- and I couldn't stop reading. I clicked the forwarding numbers at the bottom of the screen 1, 2, but didn't have the courage to click 3. By that time I'd become completely unstrung. The emotions were coming from somewhere deep inside, and were beyond my control.

I don't feel prepared to explain it now -- maybe later -- but the disappointment was more than was bearable tonight, but I do understand the feelings. I've been here before. And in the past I've always been able to transform those destructive feelings into something positive in some way. I suppose I'm still doing so with each day, but there is a cost; one that I've always been willing to pay.

Maybe I'm simply tired tonight ... and disillusioned.

I guess I'd begun to believe that we'd come further than we have.

Maybe ... .

Photo: Click to enlarge.

Veteran's Day at Port Chicago ... .

I knew during the photo shoot yesterday that these were going to be spectacular photographs. The man behind the camera, the Chronicle's Lance Iversen, captured so much with such a sense of composition that I could hardly wait to get a look at what he'd seen through his lens. These pictures are classics, and I feel so honored to have been invited to be a part of his imagery.

The most dramatic of these, for me, shows the shadow of my fellow ranger, Thaddeus Shay, captured with the dummy torpedoes that are a part of the monument. He is a stand-in for those who are gone -- but whose presence is still felt so powerfully at the site.The story was written by Peter Fimright, and can be accessed online at today's S.F. Chronicle, Bay Area section (D1), lead story. Title: Port Chicago a national park.

There are 5 photographs with the story. These are my favorites. The reflection of the flag captured by the marble monument against the names of the fallen men excited Lance. On the ride back in the van at the end of the shoot, he was reviewing what he'd photographed -- this was the photo that he seemed particularly excited by.

The magic of being able to see with the photographer's eye is something that I envy. Artists like Iversen undoubtedly see so much more than ordinary people do. Before he clicks the camera, he has already seen his picture. And I'm not talking about what is seen in the camera's window -- but before he even sets it up.


I could see his excitement grow as he worked yesterday, and knew in advance that this would be no ordinary shoot. I knew that I'd be grateful for having been invited into his art.


It has been a day of thoughtful quiet.


I worked for a few hours with my friend, Careth "Diddy" Reid, on the E.F. Joseph collection (an almost overwhelming job that neither of us will live to see the end of); painfully, ever-so carefully, separating the thousands of ancient negatives -- is becoming more and more intriguing. Careth's living room has long since become a laboratory of sorts, with packets of once manila packets now stained brown by time -- strewn about. They date from the late 20's through 1979 at the time of this prolific photographer's death.

There is an infinite number of school graduations, Lodge gatherings, church doings, weddings and baptisms, political rallies, sports and entertainment figures, and individual portraits of old friends and strangers who look vaguely familiar but who defy identification. There are the once famous indiscriminately tossed in with the ordinary folks -- but who knew at that time which of these would figure prominently in history? It's one of the joys of age -- the ability to connect our youth with the nation's important stories as they evolved over the decades. It's a bit like glimpsing one's life in reruns.

Then, every now and then, a treasure. This week it was a complete collection of eleven perfect negatives taken at the launching of the SS John Hope at Richmond's Kaiser Shipyard #2 in 1943. Hope was an educator and co-founder of Seneca with W.E.B. DeBois many years ago. Not only are the negatives clear, but we both recognized the participants -- we believe we have Walter and Elizabeth Gordon doing the honors -- he, who later became the Governor of the Virgin Islands.

This has been a week worthy of having yielded at least 10 days within the 7 it was responsible for.

Photos: Do take the time to click on these thumbnails. They're pretty dramatic when enlarged.

Recently I boasted that the value of my work lies in the fact that I'm old enough to know how all the stories turned out ...

Not so. Not completely. Not even close.

On Wednesday, October 28th, at the same hour -- eleven o'clock -- that I was standing beside the SS Red Oak Victory with the NIAD artists, the president was signing the legislation that brought the Port Chicago Naval Weapons Station into the National Park System system as the 392nd national park. I was keenly aware of the ceremonies going on in Washington, D.C. and mentioned to Chris Treadway of the Contra Costa Times that there was another story happening at that very moment, and that it was an important one. We stopped long enough in his covering of the NIAD story so that I could catch him up on what would be coming out of the Capitol. I promised to forward the essential contact numbers when I got back to my office so that he could follow the story. He told me that his father had lived in the little town of Port Chicago at that time and has memories of the blast. Then I put it away.

It was a few days later that a call came to my desk from the San Francisco Chronicle. The reporter had been sent by my supervisor who knew this story meant much to me. The paper wanted an interview about that day long ago when my young husband, Mel, and I had held an afternoon lemonade and hot dogs party at our little duplex in Berkeley where a dozen or so young servicemen from Port Chicago were present. It was the practice in our community to entertain servicemen and women on weekends (though I can't recall ever having an Africa American servicewomen in the mix) because the USO was not racially integrated at that time. We were living under a strict rule of segregation in most facets of our lives during WWII; something that we'd not known a lot about here in the Bay Area until the war came. We were aware of racial prejudice but it was mostly embedded in custom but only rarely codified into law.

That was the Saturday afternoon of July 17, 2004. That very evening the tragic explosion occurred and 320 men were lost, 202 or whom were black. The white men who survived were given 30 days off to recover from the trauma. The black men were ordered back to work immediately, cleaning up the debris and collecting body parts. Their refusal to do so brought 50 of them under court martial and imprisonment. Public response to those events brought about the desegregation of the armed forces under an Executive Order by President Harry Truman. That process took 5 years to complete, but it changed the course of military history.

I'd never met those young men before so there has never been any way to learn if any who'd been with us that day had survived. I'm assuming not. Since becoming a park ranger, each Day of Remembrance when I've participated in the ceremony at the memorial, I look carefully at the 302 names and wonder ... feeling haunted by the sharp memory of those young faces. The only fragment that remains is the name Richert. As I recall, he was only 16 years-old, having lied about his age to enlist to fight for his country. I'm not even sure that that name is the correct one since it is not among those carved into the marble of the memorial plaque.

Last Friday the Chronicle called to ask if I would be willing to be photographed at the memorial for the story which will probably appear in next Sunday's edition. Having relived the story again and again over the years, I was surprised at how much I'm still haunted by this unfinished story even after all the years since. It's freshened again and the feelings of never having known the ending will return in sharp focus tomorrow as the cameraman does his work. He'll never know how little of the trauma will show in his print -- and how deeply-etched are those memories still.

We were all so young ...

...and their lives ended so abruptly. Gone -- with no warning. And they were too young to have left survivors. I cannot recall that any of those youngsters were of an age to have been married.

They continue to live only in the minds of those of us who remember them ...

Again, tomorrow morning, I'll stand at those plaques and try hard to do just that. This is a story that needs desperately to be held in the collective memories of the nation. Now, with thanks to the hard work of Rep. George Miller and Sen. Barbara Boxer, Dr. Robert Allen, Rev. Diana McDaniel, and all the others who have worked so hard and so long to make this a place to be honored and revered. It is now designated as a National Park that will one day have full staffing and a Visitor's Center. Another of the sites that tells the story of our nation.

A story we dare not forget, but one I'm unable to fully remember --

... and I'm still haunted by it.

Photo: Betty at about the age of most of those lost in the Port Chicago explosion. This gives a sense of just how young those young men were.

Here 'tis! Ten feet of imagination and love -- in a direct line from the heart ... .

It's all there; the bridge, the ship, the people, the shoreline, the trains, the birds -- all of the essence of the city -- and, a ranger who shall be nameless.

Can't wait to see it installed in the waiting room of the Richmond Police Department. Should be quite a ceremony with everyone in attendance, including the mayor.

If you'll look carefully at the right side of the painting -- in right center, you'll see what is clearly a park ranger under a gigantic yellow hat. That's me -- just past that line of green trees. And all of the elements are there, hat, glasses, and, no, that's not a cigar growing out the left side of my head, it's my ponytail with nowhere to else to go but essential to my identify; clearly.

Oh to be immortalized in such a Picasso-esque fashion! Picasso, who took the essential elements of his subject and re-arranged them to his own liking and sense of art -- and the world said a resounding "yes!"

Dr. Elias Katz and his artist wife, Florence, believed that art was something buried deep in each of us; not dependent upon talent or education; simply lying dormant waiting to be released. Their aim was to open studios where people of any capacity or disability -- could find materials of every possible kind; clay, paint, needles and thread, rags, chalks, brushes, etc., and through which a staff of sensitive artists ... capable of resisting the temptation to "teach" but could help to open Aldous Huxley's "Doors of Perception" and bring into the world work of meaning and joy through people like my daughter, Dorian, and her community of "disabled" fellow artists.

Dr. Katz developed three such studios, I believe; N.I.A.D. in Richmond, Creative Growth in Berkeley, and another in San Francisco (though I'm not sure about the last one).


Dr. Katz is now in his 90's and rarely turns up at the arts openings anymore; in addition, I believe he is now blind. Mrs. Katz died some years ago, but her work is being featured this month in a special exhibit at the Richmond NIAD studio. Their gift to a population of artists who are finding themselves appreciated and celebrated through colorful and delightful work that is satisfying and which adds to their incomes through a 50% split on all sales of their pieces is a resounding endorsement of their worth.

Thank you, Dr. Katz, for your firm belief in the capacity of all human beings to be capable of expressing their internal spiritual lives in all of its forms -- if encouraged to. Through those beliefs, you've enriched us all.

Photo: click to enlarge thumbnails to view details. For more information on NIAD, check out their website online.

Field trip with the artists from National Institute for Artists and Disabilities ... .

A few months ago the Richmond Police Department commissioned a mural for the wall of their waiting room from the artists of NIAD. There was such excitement! And -- there has been growing interest at the studio in the Rosie the Riveter national park that is becoming more and more of a presence in the city. The fact that Dorian's mother is a ranger and often picks her up at the end of the day in full uniform has sparked additional interest.

Since the handicaps and physical and mental challenges of this community are varied and -- in some instances -- profound, there is little knowledge of the themes the park inspires. For the most part, there is little sense of past or future; most live completely in the moment. That means that WWII or Rosie the Riveter or the significance of the home front mobilization so central to our work has little relevance in their world.

However, when work on the mural began, bits and pieces of the surrounding civic environment gradually made their way into the work; and someone brought in the SS Red Oak Victory ship. And -- Dorian had mentioned in passing one day that I was also in the mural. I later saw a small figure in a far right upper section standing proudly under a huge yellow hat that was instantly recognizable as that of a park ranger. The proportions are interesting. The hat was equal in size to everything under it, so that my body takes up only about a third of the image. And -- that's about right in the scheme of things.

The staff of teaching artists whose dedicated work with these clients so enriches their daily lives, seized upon the inspiration bubbling up from their students -- went to the library for photos of the SS Red Oak Victory for them to see and work from.

After visiting over lunch at Ford Point recently with NIAD staffers Belinda and her co-worker, Brian, it was decided that it could be very exciting if we could arrange a field trip to the actual victory ship moored in the Kaiser Shipyard less than 3 miles away. Within a week, I'd received permission from my supervisor and plans were quickly completed. Our NPS bus and driver, Don Holmes, were available for the trip. It would involve 3 members of staff (2 of whom followed by car), 14 artists, plus two in wheelchairs; all excited and inspired and ready to even tackle the scary gangplank to be on deck of the historic ship for the first time. I'd not envisioned our actually boarding, but once there it seemed reasonable to make the attempt. Almost everyone rose to the occasion, though coming back down posed problems for at least one -- but we made a game of it and she prevailed in the end.

It was a delightful excursion!

The police chief was invited to meet us at the ship for a photo-op, but he had been up-ended by the awful situation at the high school that was suddenly drawing national media attention to Richmond and long hours defending the department and meetings with school officials and irate and frightened parents were making his joining our adventure impossible. However, the West County Times columnist and a photographer answered the call to cover the story despite the sensational goings-on across town -- and this weekend there will be a story out of Richmond, California, that will be ignored by that same national press, but that will include photographs of the mural as well as the field trip. It will also have brought together the National Park Service, the Richmond Police Department, and the Richmond Museum of History with the National Institute for Artists and Disabilities.

That's surely not an insignificant day's work, right?

Will post the mural when I receive the photographs in a few days.

Photo: And that would be my daughter, Dorian, in red.

I've been side-tracked ever since entering the lyrics to Ebony more than a week ago ... .

It occurred to me that somewhere in the blogger help feature I'd seen the instructions for adding audio to a blog. Suppose I could fix it so that the song begins as the button(?) is pressed. I happen to have in my I-Tunes library several songs I've written -- sung at different times under differing circumstances more than 40 years ago. I stopped long enough to listen to myself singing.

I've captured an online MP3 player and added it to my desktop along with the song I'd stashed in I-Tunes - but that's as far as I've managed to get in the process.

If you can dwell for just a minute on the pure magic of being able to listen to one's (much younger) self singing before an audience with the applause in the background as the song ends -- to drop back into your own history to such a moment ... well. It was something I'll not forget soon. I was mesmerized by my own voice. I felt no particular relationship to this young voice, though I knew it was mine. I was moved by my own singing ... how strange. There was no ego. I judged "her" not, but found myself able to just listen and be caught up in her music without the need to either cringe or exalt. Just to be with my younger self. What a rare experience to live myself into.

Then the frustration set in as I tried to figure out how in the world I could add that music to the blog entry so that you could hear it, too. The instructions were simply beyond me. The technical words meant nothing; it was about then that I realized how far out of my generation I've been living and working.

I flunked geek!

I then got lost for days and days in trying to decipher the language of the audio instructions, and nothing else mattered. If I continue to record my thoughts, that particular entry will move down the page and get lost in the archives before I figure out how to bring the song to life with sound. The little poem holds little meaning to me without the voice and the music, and all of the color drains away from the empty words on the screen.

Meanwhile, if you can help ... .

(Use the link on the left just under my photo where it says, "email me.")


Photo: Taken in concert in Cleveland (circa 1965).

An evening at the California College of the Arts -- a panel experience ... .

Some weeks ago a call came from a faculty member from the college asking if I'd participate in a panel before their students in Community Arts. The subject of the evening would be "Are we living in a post-racial era?" This sounded like a reasonable request, but first we needed to determine whether this was something being asked of me as an employee of the National Park Service, or whether (in this case) it was an invitation to my personal self? Being firmly identified in both worlds after all these years and in many roles, I don't always know. It's an important question in some instances, since without establishing the context in which I'm functioning at any given (public) moment -- quite rightfully -- I may not feel free to express opinions that might be seen as "political;" not permitted when in uniform. It was clear in this instance, that the persona being called upon here was Betty, a private citizen in simple black suit, with no need to be circumspect, but full-voiced and unrestrained.

Upon entering the building where the panel was to take place I was immediately faced with a two huge blowups of a familiar photo of President Obama and his family, set apart by some 12' feet but on the same wall was another of Prof. Henry Louis Gates handcuffed on his front porch surrounded by police in the now-famous incident of his being charged with breaking and entering his own home. These photos set the stage for the evening which was to deal with the subject of whether we were now in a post-racial era. No problem, right? This would be a cake walk. Or would it? Where on earth was the argument? There could be but one answer.

Dr. Chiang, the psychologist who was the other panelist, was new to the faculty, a member of another minority, and someone who would be working from a professional position; from an acquired store of knowledge and a distinguished academic record. This is always a little scary since I'm always working off life experiences with all the biases and the limitations that so often come with the lack of academic credentials. There is no way to prepare for this since I'm always speaking from life experience and what I've gleaned from them, and often with not much more. I tend to simply show up and depend upon an ability to listen closely then draw my presentation from whatever precedes "my turn" at the lectern. Risky, but it seems to work. It's probably an extension of the candor I work with each time I enter anything into this blog.

After an introduction by the school's president, Dr. Chiang rose to speak. We'd each been given 20 minutes -- then would entertain questions from those gathered. I'd learned from his bio that he'd recently published a book on hate crimes in America, and had joined the faculty after teaching for some years at the University of Iowa. (Would I be able to live up to expectations again by the skin of my teeth, or would this be the night that I bombed disgracefully?) What on earth was there to draw from except age, experience, and goodwill extended by the community?

Dr. Chiang rose to stand at the lectern with his briefcase close by, his notes nicely organized, the little gadget in hand with which to move through his well-prepared PowerPoint presentation. He started his talk with the large white screen behind him suddenly coming to life with a large "NO!" and we were off. This was his answer to the question of the day, and he would spend his next 20 minutes very effectively justifying that powerful graphic.

I listened closely; trying to form my response. Working hard to figure out just what on earth I could possibly say that would not simply be "ditto!," "me, too!" But as he spoke I found that I really didn't feel in total agreement with his presentation. In listening intently, I found myself not nearly as certain as he, about where we were/are in history.

As he ended, having made his case, it slowly dawned that my answer had to be "Yes, no, and, maybe." I realized that the experience of the Inauguration last January held the answer. That being that all of those states of being exist simultaneously -- perhaps each in its own dimension -- out of which I'd always had to find my way in order to create my own reality depending upon which dimension was dominating my life at any given moment in time.

Case in point: After several days of moving about Washington, D.C., walking the Capitol Mall among 2 million people of like mind, it felt as though I could have started a conversation in the middle of the 5th paragraph with anyone within arm's reach. And I did. I recall walking up to a total stranger, a woman in an ankle-length silver fox coat (it was 17 degrees!), asking if she would take a picture with me? Her arm quickly wrapped around my shoulder and we embraced as old friends while Martha snapped the photo.

We remained for a couple of days after the ceremonies in order to visit the museums, the galleries, the Department of Interior, and the National Park Service -- and over that time all of my new "very best friends," the revelers, boarded planes and buses; climbed back into their cars, and left the Capitol. Their places were now taken over by an estimated 20,000 Americans who had come to Washington on the occasion of the anniversary of Roe vs. Wade to demonstrate for their cause. It was as though a genie had swooped in during the night and transformed "Yes we can!" into "Oh no you don't!". There were signs and posters everywhere with bloody fetuses and shoutouts of angry rage at anyone supporting a woman's right to choose. They'd been there all the time. These realities exist as powerfully as all others, and with just as strong a sense of the "rightness" of those beliefs. We returned to the airport in a completely different dimension than the one that had brought us into town only a few days before -- at a time when -- upon landing -- the pilot welcomed the planeload to Washington and everyone on the plane applauded!

• So, yes, we have entered a post-racial America -- if we choose to see only those positive aspects of how far we've come without recognition of what is still left undone.
• No, we have a long distance still to go before post-racialism is fully realized, despite great strides achieved over the recent past. And,
  
• maybe, since our place on the trajectory of change could suddenly shift into a future not yet defined, and cynically conceived.

Which dimension we choose to inhabit is still dependent upon our capacity to trust and to love. And it's quite possible that the dynamism of our Democracy is driven by the constant clashing of realities; the waxing and waning of all of those social forces that constantly redefine who we are and what kind of future we're forging every moment of our existence, and out of which comes the vitality that stokes the fires of our passions. Maybe the secret is to make the most of those times when we're delivering on our best hopes, and pray that we'll be allowed enough time to create a mutually beneficial reality that most of us can share. Perhaps the opposition is necessary to keep us honest and ever-reaching toward the forming of that "... more perfect Union."

This Democracy is still a work in progress. Perhaps it must always be; each succeeding generation with the mission to rise to the task of nation-building, based upon our founding documents, traditions, and dedicated to the common good.

So these thoughts and words formed the gist of my presentation (though I never remember the exact words), and it felt right for the moment. But then that was the dimension in which I was living in that hour in that place.



Note: In the interest of full disclosure, I need to say that my presentation wasn't nearly as coherent as it appears to be here. I'm sure that I struggled with it on my feet; finding the right words at the right time to make my case. In the days that followed I've had time to clarify for myself and come to a fuller understanding. But the feelings are real, and were I to have a second run at the subject -- I'm more than ready.

"We Did it!

Joined with Susan Wittenberg (assisted by Barbara Johnson of Rep. George Miller's staff) of Building Blocks (a nonprofit affiliated with Jeffrey Canada's "Zone" program out of Harlem) to provide for a group of local youngsters their first experience of live theater. It was a smashing success! They loved every minute of "This World in a Woman's Hands" and so did we.

Ranger Elizabeth Tucker and I served as chaperons; giving the on-the-bus briefing and serving as interpreters for 56 youngsters and some parents. I could overhear many Spanish speakers as I moved through the group, so have no idea how much may have been lost in translation; but for the sake of their kids, it may not have mattered.

I can hardly imagine a more rewarding Sunday afternoon. The kids were ages eleven through high school age, and as well-behaved as any group we've ever accompanied.

It was pleasing to note that not one word of the script was altered because the audience was young (there is some profanity), making it clear that this was a grownup experience not watered down in any way for them, thereby honoring their ability to deal with it.

I noticed in passing, though, that during the Q&A with the cast after the performance and during the de-briefing en route home only the boys asked questions. Though the girls outnumbered them by far, all were silent. Is this a teen thing? I can't recall at what age I became assertive. The boys were not only highly verbal, but their questions had an aggressive quality -- and were not always on target. There's something about the need to establish a male presence that dominates. Will be interested to learn how others read this.

The Shotgun Players donated their Sunday afternoon performance to these children of the troubled Iron Triangle district of Richmond, including the rental of the huge bus that brought us to Berkeley which was donated by one of their benefactors. We shared a light dinner on the trip to Berkeley (sandwiches and fruit) courtesy of Building Blocks.

I've now seen this amazing play enough times to be able to understudy all nine of the roles, I suspect. And each time I've seen it I feel enriched by the truths this remarkable work reveals. I feel affirmed in my efforts to support those revelations in my work as an interpreter of that historic era.

I'm hoping that these children will grow into this experience; that they will understand gradually but in significant ways, that many of them are the descendants of those heroic characters so richly drawn by playwright, Marcus Gardley. The frustration is that I'll never know if we're making a difference, certainly not in the immediate future.


This week our staff will be meeting with a film crew from the east coast who will arrive to spend 3 days with us developing the scenario for the National Park Service film to be shown in the Visitor''s Center when completed sometime within the next two years. Found myself wondering how yesterday's experience will inform that work? If it doesn't, then perhaps we've missed something ... .

Photos: Remember; these are thumbnails and clicking on them will expand for better viewing.

The stirring of the creative spirit upon return from the first of 3 National Black Caucus conferences held over the succeeding 3 years; this one in Chicago in February, 1968 ...

Ebony, the Night

Verse:
As I lie 'neath the stars on this night of my day
playing the game that some poets play,
find synonyms for black, both poetic and good.
Sounds simple? You try. I do wish you would.
The world made the rules
and established the ante
proclaimed white as sinless,
and black straight from Dante ... .

Chorus:
Ebony, the night
Ebony, satin bright!
Star jewels held in black velvet hands
of Ebony, the night.

Onyx, set with a dream
that weaves through my mind 'til I seem
kiss warm and black born,
jet jazz of love.
Onyx, the dream.

Black image cries behind shuttered eyes
trying so hard to be good
glaciers and skies of ebony lies
I'd sing them away if I could.

Ebony, the night
Cradle me, O night!
Dark chin cupped close in black velvet hands
of Ebony, the night,
Ebony, Ebony, the night.

(copyright 1968, Betty Reid)


These are the lyrics to a song written upon return from that life-altering Chicago conference; one of many inspired by the experience of moving into my black identity fully and completely and without apology or regret.

I am still grateful to those African American brothers and sisters with whom I shared those days of confusion, discovery, and dedication to an American experience far greater than we ever might have imagined. And to those UU's (especially those from my own church) who supported that fateful journey at a time when it truly mattered. I'm convinced that throughout the ages there has always been those who were trying their utmost to "get it right." Unfortunately, much of history has been written by those who thought otherwise.

Witness to Revolution ... the year was 1968.

Received an email this morning from Dr. Mark Morrison-Reed, Unitarian Universalist professor at Meadville/Lombard Theological School, and a noted Canadian Unitarian author. (I can't recall that we ever actually met.) He was seeking permission to include in his new book something I wrote many years ago. I'd totally forgotten about this life-changing experience in Chicago at the dawning of the black intellectual response to the Civil Rights struggle then at its apex. I recall being totally awed by being in the presence of the widow of the poet, Countee Cullen; writer-publisher-historian, Lerone Bennett; "Eyes on the Prize" creator, Henry Hampton; young and ambitious Jesse Jackson, Alex Poinsett; poets and artists and progressive theologians and educators; all humanists. It was for me like being a part of a new "Harlem Renaissance". I came home completely committed to changing the nation and the world. I suppose this has been my obsession ever since that time; if passion is any measure.

Reading this excerpt taken from a much longer piece published at the time, I found myself weeping helplessly this morning, remembering the excitement of those days, and wondering about those with whom this experience was shared.


(October 10, 2009)

Following the formation of the Black Unitarian Universalist Caucus in October 1967, during the Emergency Conference on the UU Response to the Black Rebellion, the first National Conference of Black UUs was held in Chicago, IL in February 1968. Afterwards Unitarian Universalist Betty Reid Soskin (b.1921) a cultural anthropologist, writer and community activist who in 1995 was named“Woman of the Year” by the California State Legislature, who was a member of the Mount Diablo Unitarian Universalist Church in Walnut Creek, CA wrote the following in a letter which reflected upon what the gathering had been like for her.

Mark Morrison-Reed

Witness to Revolution

February 1968

It has something to do with all of the people that I am.
My black. My woman. My mother. My person.
I arrived in Chicago pretty well integrated within my being.
Now: My black wants to fight!
I can feel the weight of the brick in my black hand
and black muscles straining to hurl it!

My woman, to love,
and to somehow bring about manhood through my womanhood.
My mother, to pick up my children and leave the country
to protect my young.
My person, my human, to bring all those I love
(black and non-black) together
and tell them that the me who lives behind my eyes,
the real me, and the you, behind yours,
are placing far too much emphasis
upon the housing we are encased in;
black, brown, and white.

That we're falling into the trap
which humankind has constructed for its own destruction.
Perhaps my fear has a great deal to do with this inner revolution
which is perhaps where the real battles are fought,
the outer revolution being only the physical manifestation of this.

I shall not forget
Mwalimu Imara and the “Requiem to a Black Prince.”
Val Gray Ward and letting myself get lost in her beauty in
“What Shall I Tell My Children?”...
The “Happening” of Gospel Singing for well over an hour
on Sunday morning which started timidly
and swelled in meaning until we were weeping
with the power of the old songs.
I shall not forget.

My perception, which is keen,
saw people bursting from the womb,
still wet and shining...
and BLACK!
What an awesome sight!
Night found me exhausted, unable to sleep,
crying with the sadness of the days which surely must follow
and the joy of witnessing the new birth of blackness...

for the sadness of the white liberal,
whose work in past years has allowed
the first stages of our blackness to emerge ...
and who are now being asked to bear the pain of our growth;
and the rejection of them now,
and the bewilderment ...
the fear, yes, the fear,
yet I sense the pride they feel at our release.

I cry for them.

This was written as a letter, but I found (as I was copying it this moment) that turning it into a poem may be more fitting.

I'd love to see the complete letter at some point. These were the opening lines, but I remember writing far more. I believe it was published by the magazine of the Layman's League or UU World. I'll ask to have it sent to me at some point. I do still have notes I made at that conference somewhere in my files, and perhaps they should be sent to the repository (I believe that's at Harvard University) to add to other works archived there.

I'm considering raffling off the franchise for the popcorn concession at the upcoming Betty Soskin Film Festival ... .

There are enough snippets and film clips now floating around on the various PBS channels to enliven the breaks in Bingo games in senior centers all over the state of California. I've not yet caught the most recent release on air, but did receive a copy of California Communities, hosted by Huell Howser (kind of a warm country cousin type only louder) and I like it. He's the man who brings us California Gold on the PBS channels. I believe that you can also view his programs on the Huell Howser website as well. The star of this one is the magnificent old Ford Assembly Plant now beautifully restored and renamed, Ford Point. Watch for it. Park Superintendent, Martha Lee and I are featured during the last 15 minutes of the program as we are included in his tour of the plant and the anticipated new National Park Service Visitor's Center that will become part of Ford Point some time over the next year.

Our 3rd annual Home Front Festival was held this past weekend, and is the reason I've not been doing much writing over the past couple of weeks. Though a lot has happened leaving much to write about. Will try to catch up this weekend.

Let's see -- there was the meeting at the Richmond Art Center with a noted muralist from UCLA. That was on Sunday and involved a video interview (not for airing but as a way of note-taking for their later purposes). Professor Judith Baca had been in the community for several days holding workshops as a way to become familiar with the people of the city and to find a focus for the commissioned mural. I was approached at the festival to meet with her in the attempt to use my ranger interpretive background as a way to tease out a theme around which to organize the work. It felt good. I think that hour in the middle of my Sunday was well spent. It didn't take long to warm to the subject. This was simply an extension of the work that fills my days anyway, so took little or no effort on my part. In order to fill in gaps I might have left, on Monday I forwarded to her my cover article published in the June issue of the magazine, the California Historian, and the URL to my blog.

Oh -- and then there was the evening at the California College for the Arts (CCA) last week. But that deserves an entry all by itself, I think. It was fascinating to visit the school and to meet with students who were exploring the topic, "Are we living in a post-racial time?" Yes. That. I was one of two panelists, Dr. Chiang, a psychologist whose most recent book is on the subject of hate crimes in America, and recently from the University of Iowa, was the other. But we'll get to that tomorrow; or maybe tonight if I don't fall asleep after Rachel Maddow. Then I may make it to Jon Stewart's Daily Show -- maybe between those programs ... .

Just slid past another birthday -- or at least tried to ...

... but it was not to be. After 80, birthdays are not allowed to arrive unannounced; not while there are those around you who take such occasions more seriously than you do. And when you're the oldest person for at least 3 blocks around. Well! Say no more.

Since the big day was actually last Tuesday; and how does one deal with a Tuesday birthday anyway? There was Saturday when son, Bob and his Margaret arrived for a weekend visit. On Sunday morning granddaughter, Rosie, flew in from Southern California with luggage filled with "window treatments," to replace my awful came-with-the-condo plastic vertical blinds, while never mentioning the word "birthday." Then the Wednesday evening celebration with Tom and his family at a lovely restaurant on the Berkeley Marina, and the surprise staff gathering (Julio's email said, "staff meeting in the conference room at 2 o'clock," and I should have guessed but didn't) complete with 3 cakes and a respectable number of candles that didn't risk setting off the smoke alarms!

Tonight there will be time with son, David, and his family (they were in Los Angeles last weekend), and Dorian for dinner and the proper odes to Grandma. So I suppose the way to deal with Tuesday birthdays is to splinter them into a week-long event. It worked nicely, thank you.

Tomorrow will be the viewing of Grandma on the TeeVee in that PBS documentary which will be its own kind of celebration; then followed by "America's best idea" the blockbuster series by Ken Burns. Big weekend. (Actually, it's already up on the KTEH website accessible at http://www.kteh.org/video-audio/#, if you're interested. Click on "This is Us" then look to the right for Betty Reid Soskin's segment.)

But what I haven't yet mentioned is the lovely little quietly-presented gifts from the cast and crew of "This World in a Woman's Hands" that appeared out of the blue the night I attended the Ashby Stage (their home theater) performance. They consisted of a copy of the script, an autographed photo of the 9 cast members, and a rhinestone tiara! That makes me Queen of the Wisdom Tree and all things Worldly! And the little tiara was slipped quietly into my hand as I stood in line in the lobby waiting to enter the theater. No big deal. Just the way I'd wish that to happen. No fanfare.

The most special dream-come-true is that I learned yesterday that on the last performance of this run -- on October 11th -- the Shotgun Players have arranged for 92 school children of middle and high school ages to meet at the Nevin Center in the Iron Triangle to board 2 buses to travel to nearby Berkeley for the final performance of "This World." And all free of charge. The arrangements are being made by members of the community, inspired by this important work, and I and two other park rangers from Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park will serve as escorts so that we can participate in the preparations as well as the conversations on the trip back to Richmond after the performance. That's what interpreters do, right?

At no point in this experience with the theater group have I had any idea what path this would follow. It was so organic, even from the first contact with the playwright and artistic director 3 years ago. This must be what is named (after the fact) "civic engagement" but I'd never have known how to program for this outcome. In the end, the theater group, the park, the community, the civic leaders, the schools, and now the young people -- have come together around the history of an era long ignored and almost forgotten, and that is now being given life through this new national park, an inventive theater company, and a gifted young playwright.

And it is impossible for me to figure out just what my contribution to this remarkable venture actually was; but I cannot deny that -- though I could never find a word of mine in the script if my life depended on it-- and certainly not in the production -- my fingerprints are all over it! From the first moments sitting for that first read-through, to the performance on Labor Day in the Iron Triangle; to sitting in the second row seeing it fully staged with lights and sound and stage sets on opening night -- I've felt like a collaborator. It's strange and exciting! I'd never in a million years know how one replicates such an experience, but I'm sure that someone has figured out a way to document process and write out strategies for the "how to" of it all. But I suspect that when art presentation is created collectively, and as naturally as this was, there is some magical element that may or may not be present when the more contrived "how to's" are applied. In the end, all of these elements; cast and crew, community people, artists - both visual and performing, civic leaders, youngsters, and "the park" were guided by the magical power of the playwright and his words.

And, to participate as a chaperon for what will undoubtedly be the very first experience of live theater for kids who have been so deprived of so much for so long is such a privilege. And to be able to do so in one's 88th year is almost beyond belief.

Photo: Apples play an important role in the symbolism of the Wisdom Tree.

Back from the edge ...

I'm not at all certain when it began to unravel, but somewhere along the way I began to feel just a bit unsteady, physically. That is completely new. A strange sensation that was more than unsettling. I would start to cross the room and my feet would take a circuitous route from here to there as though unhinged from my brain ... not sure what that's about. And, no, I have no known physical ailments and a recent physical gave me a clean bill of health except for a vitamin D deficiency; something fairly common in the later years.

The drive to Mendocino was uneventful and long overdue. Traffic was light and the weather most pleasant. The fall color has not yet begun its annual change and I wondered if I'd see it this year. I'll surely not be driving this way again until well into November, given the state of my calendar. Maybe. I can't imagine missing the vineyards in full dress for autumn, and the golden aspen against the deep evergreens of the pines. The hills are golden but not in the way that they were with wild oats standing tall and undulating so gracefully in the breezes the last time I drove through the Anderson Valley in midsummer. Most of the tall grasses are now bent or flattened against the earth as if resting while waiting patiently for some sign of rain with which to nourish its seeds that will begin to green the pastures immediately after the first scattered drops hit the parched earth. I felt both a little too early and a bit too late for nature's changing of the seasons extravaganza. Couldn't wait to get through the 14 miles of redwood forest and the last 2 mile stretch to Highway one which opens out dramatically to the great expanse of ocean!

I always feel a quickening as I drive up that last stretch to the top, and the dropping away of urbanism and too fastness! Somewhere down deep my inner amoeba takes over; something primal surfaces and I feel the urge to park my car and take off barefoot on the warm sand -- to run beside the breakers and not stop until I fall in my tracks.

But that was last Tuesday and now I've had my two days of peace and am back in the saddle ready for another round. Returned on Thursday to find that little has changed and that the 3rd Annual Home Front Festival looms large on the horizon. That comes up on October 3rd and involves the National Park Service, the Chamber of Commerce, the School District, the Private Industry Council, Corporations, and non-profits. We're having to be pretty inventive this year due to drastic cutbacks in city and state budgets, so no one is sure how these civic celebrations will be effected by the new economic realities.

Though not as noticeable in the San Francisco Bay Area, the threatened closure of the state parks is devastating to Mendocino County where tourism is the major economic engine now that fishing and lumbering are no longer viable industries. There is a sadness and grave uncertainty everywhere in the north counties.

"America's best idea," the 12-hour Ken Burns series on the National Park System comes at a critical time for us. The importance of all of our nearby national parks will become even more obvious in days to come. We will be called upon to fill in for a large segment of the population that will no longer have access to the wonders previously offered by a great resource now closed to them. Visitation will surely increase for us, and our park is one that is still in the process of becoming and not yet fully matured into its mission. This should be a challenging year for Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park.

Oh; I should let you know that on September 27th at 6 o'clock I am one of the subjects (9 minutes, I believe) in the local PBS production created to augment the Ken Burns series that opens that same night. I haven't seen the footage, so have no idea what they'll be showing of the several hours of tape they shot. Mine is only one small segment that will feature several other NPS rangers and nearby parks in a variety of brief vignettes that make up the hour-long documentary.

I've accidentally caught myself at least once, briefly, in a promo being aired on the local PBS channels, and I'll tell you there is nothing more disconcerting than seeing your wrinkles in HD-TV! Or having folks walk up to you in the checkout line at the supermarket with, "... hey! I seen you on the Teevee!"

It's a mixed blessing ... .

Burnout! ... or ... why the oldest park ranger on the planet high-tailed it to an ocean retreat and endlessly patient Tom... .

Contrary to common belief -- Betty Reid Soskin, mother of 3, grandmother to 5 and occasional Tilter at Windmills and all-around Shero does occasionally run out of gas. I've been running on fumes for the past week or so and have been dangerously close to a meltdown; or so it appears. For the first time in my park career I stood in the middle of my supervisor's office and wept unashamedly. I was furious! And I wanted to be. I definitely did not want to be consoled. It was clearly a PMS-worthy tantrum, and it felt good once the tension had run its course.

I was reminded of a time when my poor puzzled young husband, Mel, tried to comfort me unsuccessfully. He stood there looking helplessly confused asking, "what is it that you want, Betty?" I screamed back him, "...what I want most in the world is never to have to tell you what I want! Poor guy. It made perfect sense to me. But when a woman gets to that point logic has become irrelevant. Reason is an empty concept. Being furious is its own reward. Crazy? Sure it is. It's cathartic as nothing else could ever be. It's happens to me no more than one or twice in a decade, and is always memorable.

Today I closed the books; logged off from my office computer for the next 36 hours; announced that my work was caught up, and that I would head for Mendocino early tomorrow morning. There will be no sounds of sirens or gunshots. There is no cell phone reception; only the roar of the ocean just 90 feet away and the wind in the gnarled cypresses ... lying on my back in bed watching the wisps of fog drift across the skylights ... and the silence ... oh, the silence ... .

I'm taking along the latest book by Toni Morrison and leaving behind the troubling draft of a book I'd agreed to review for Heyday book publishers. I've gotten partway through it, but given the schedule I've been keeping, the contents added to the stress that I'm now needing desperately to escape. It needs reading, but not by me -- not now -- not when I'm feeling so off-balance. It is an important book entitled, "Wherever There's a Fight," by co-authors, Elaine Elinson and Stan Yogi. Subtitle: How runaway slaves, suffragists, immigrants, strikers, and poets shaped civil liberties in California. Maybe what I need right now is something by Nora Ephron or Sarah Vowell, just until the world slows down a bit.

See you on Thursday.

Betty

September 10 through October 11th - Ashby Stage

... and it kept growing and growing into the barn burner it was surely destined to become ...

On Labor Day the last of the three free performances of "This World" was staged for the Iron Triangle community. The first two days had seen good audiences, but on Monday, they came to fill the community center to bursting! Every chair that could be located anywhere in the building was brought into service, and then it was "standing room only", and for a two-hours-and-twenty-minute-with-one-intermission play. And no one left the room before the (imaginary) final curtain was drawn.

There were 6 or 8 little girls (some of whom I remembered from the recent Rosie's Girls day camp) who staked out the front row and turned up all three days for each of the performances where they sat at rapt attention. It was amazing. It was as if they'd stumbled in from the outside playground and found the end of the rainbow. The cast has invited them to attend the play on Sunday at the 5 o'clock matinee in the Berkeley opening weekend so that they can have the full experience with a stage set, projected on-screen graphics, theatrical lighting, proper sound; the whole works. Now I need to find a way to get them there and back, but it'll work some way. Here at the Nevin Center the director had 9 talented actors and about six tall ladders with which to create the interior of a ship under construction. And "They did it!"

The Monday experience was so emotional that -- at one point when one of the characters mounted a soapbox at the front edge of the (imaginary) proscenium and gave an impassioned short speech with raised fist about the need for women to "Stand! Demand their rights to equal pay ... stand! " ... and black and white women, together, shot up from their chairs spontaneously -- as if shot from an (imaginary) cannon! It literally brought the on stage ensemble to tears. No one had expected that. It was overwhelming.

It is not hyperbolic to say that on Monday in Richmond in the infamous Iron Triangle we experienced revelation, redemption, forgiveness, and atonement, and on both sides of the (imaginary) footlights, if only for those two-hours-and-twenty-minutes-with-a-ten-minute-intermission of pure theatrical magic.

Yes, Shotgun Players,

You did it!

(Congratulations, Marcus Gardley. This may turn out to be your signature piece.)