Marcy Wong stopped by the Visitor's Center today ... .

... and was reminded of an unfulfilled item on my bucket list; that of getting Marcy Wong, Astronauts Mae Jemison and the late Sally Ride; brilliant  and feisty Rachel Maddow; courageous journalist Amy Goodman, et al, recognized as present-day successors to Rosie the Riveter.  This park must not end up dying because it became a mausoleum for women of the past.  While celebrating those of us who served our country on the home-front at a time of need is a worthy cause, the social changes that accompanied our emancipation have continued to have an impact on the nation and must be noted.  Today's young women's lives are a reflection of our on-going struggles for equality in the workplace.  Equal pay for equal work is not yet fully realized, and the Equal Rights Amendment has never been ratified.  Even equal representation in Congress, though growing, falls far short of the 50% that would be needed to match our percentage of the population.

Marcy is the award-winning designer/architect responsible for the restoration and reconstruction of Ford Point, the old Ford Assembly Plant at the end of Harbour Way South -- on the scenic shoreline in Richmond.

Ford Point - Craneway Pavilion

The magnificent quarter-mile long structure was designed by Albert Kahn in 1931, and built to assemble Model A autos.  About ten years later, the plant was taken over for the assembling of 43,000 tanks and jeeps for the war in the Pacific theater of WWII.

The building was almost totally destroyed by the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1987, and -- for a time its continued existence was seriously threatened by those who firmly believed the property would be of  far greater value if the hopeless ruins could be dismantled and hauled away. Fortunately for us, the preservationists won out in the end and the iconic structure was saved

Visitors Education Center

Enter the dynamic developer, Eddie Orton, of the Emeryville-based Orton Development Company -- with brilliant Marcy Wong onto the scene, and not only was it restored to historic preservation standards, but its Craneway Pavilion's cathedral-like grandeur is now available for public events on a scale previously undreamed of.  Not only that, but the building is filled to capacity with green businesses, plus being included as one of the scattered sites that form the Rosie the Riveter /WWII Home Front Historical National Park.  Our Visitors Education Center now welcomes visitors from throughout the country and the world.

I mentioned this to someone yesterday, and the fact that we might want to be thinking about creating a Feminist Hall of Fame someday, a place where young women who have found their way into the workplace in non-traditional careers and occupations might be recognized and celebrated.  He reminded me that Maria Shriver had established such a place in Sacramento, and that I should look into it:

... so?  Should there be only one such site?  Does that site reflect the relationship between women entering the trades, politics, arts and culture, and corporate leadership with Rosie the Riveter's entrance into the American workforce?  If it doesn't then it's missing a critical linkage between then and now.  We can establish that connection.  Someone should.  The Women's Movement of today is but one expression of the struggle that has been going on since early in the 20th Century -- and before.  Today's young women harken back to Lucretia Mott, Susan B. Anthony, and Sojourner Truth, but the historic record tends to skip over the times celebrated by Rosie's era; at least until we came into being ten years ago as the omission was finally realized.  The Movement needs to double back and pick up those unlearned lessons in order to fully understand our history in order to move into the future better informed.

Maria Shriver's contribution to the cause of the women's and human rights is immeasurable.  Her televised annual conferences were/are unforgettable and profoundly effective.  That's indisputable.  But it doesn't stop there.  There's still work to do, and -- the responsibility for continuing that work falls to those of us who temporarily have the public's fickle attention.

Marcy Wong personifies a great achievement in her field, and public recognition does more than simply add to her list of personal achievements, but also serves as a model for young women whom she might inspire to follow in her footsteps.  In my imagination, her work on Ford Point and the Visitors Education Center are equal to that of Maya Lin, Kazuyo Sejima, Zaba Hadid, or Julia Morgan, and should be celebrated as such.

Sincerely dreaming,

Betty

A fragment from the life of Leontine Breaux Allen, family matriarch for many decades ... .

My mother's younger sister, Aunt Vivian Allen-Jernigan, adored her grandmother, and loved to tell about how -- once the chores were completed in the fields, and at the end of the day,

"When I was a small child "Mammå" would sink into the living-room rocking chair and with an ever-so-slight motion with her hand would send me to a secret place beside the fireplace to bring forth a little corncob pipe and tobacco pouch from behind a loose brick.  She made me feel as if this was a secret shared between us.  She would then send me to bed while she remained seated -- silently drawing on her pipe until the house of many people would settle down for the night.  It was only then that she would climb under the mosquito netting of the big bed -- until the first morning light."

By far the most intriguing story had to do with the critical role Mammå played in the little community of St. James.  She was the town "medical assistant," serving as "intern" for the circuit-rider doctor who came through on horseback about every 3 months.  She also served as the town's midwife and delivered not only family babies, but for most of the women in their village.  I suspect that this would have been for African Americans, only, though I'm not sure about this.  After visiting the African American Historical National Park in Anacostia -- and seeing the exhibits of those women who served as midwives -- it wasn't made clear.

During the few days before the doctor's visit it was she who rode her horse through St. James calling on all those who may need medical attention.  The routine was that she'd place a white towel on the gate posts of each home where help was needed, and that this determined just where he would stop. According to Vivian's account, the doctor would confer with Mammå  on patient's aftercare, and that it was she who would be accountable for their health issues until his return months later.

Those stories made her one of my personal heroes early in life, and during the 1995 honoring ceremonies -- being named one of ten outstanding women by the National Women's History Project I had cause to wonder ... one never feels worthy, I suppose, but I came to terms with the proceedings upon realizing that I'd spent my whole life -- never seeking public office or acclaim (though surely was courted from time to time) but that, instead, I'd been completely satisfied to find fulfillment in draping symbolic "white towels" over imaginary gateposts anywhere help might be needed throughout not only my community, but as a field representative for the 14th Assembly District in later life, and, now in my role with the National Park Service.

"Children will listen,"

It is her work that provides shape and form to mine to this day, and she is cited in my commentaries at the twice-weekly theater presentations -- and with great pride and humility.  She and I are players in the great American narrative, as are so many extraordinary ordinary people.

The story of Leontine Breaux Allen; my great-grandmother ...

I can hardly imagine that I haven't put this story to words before now, but a quick scan of the archives indicates that this may be so.  The story is one told by both "Papa" George Allen, her eldest son, and his youngest daughter and my aunt, Vivian Allen Jernigan:

Leontine was born into slavery in 1846 and with her mother, the slave Celestine, was a house servant.  Vivian tells of their cooking in the kitchen of their plantation owner, Edouard Breaux, and walking down to the fields 3 times a day bringing meals to the field hands.  After the Civil War she would marry Corporal George Allen of the Louisiana Colored Troops -- a man who served his country as a soldier on the side of the North.

The lovely family tale is that she was sitting in her front yard pecan tree when the soldiers came marching down the road.  George Allen left ranks and coaxed her down from the limb and carried her on his shoulders for more than a mile before letting her down.  He later became a boarder in the New Orleans home of a family member and their courtship continued.  I believe he was originally from Ohio, but that's not certain.  George remains a shadowy figure in our lives, without even a photograph to remind us of his existence.  It's said that there once was a large portrait hanging on the wall of their little home beside the levee in St. James Parish, but that home was destroyed by fire long after her death and the photo must have been devoured by the flames.

I remember the day that the marriage records turned up in the archives of the Catholic Diocese of Baton Rouge in the form of a brief statement written in French attesting to the marriage of Edouard Breaux and her mother, Celestine ("of no last name").  There it was, his signature and her "X".  That occurred in 1865, at the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation,  At that time, Leontine was 19 years-old. And, yes, Edouard Breaux was the master who owned them both.

Knowing that England had outlawed slavery in 1833 -- and that the importing of human beings from Africa as chattel was no longer legal, the trade no longer involved those shipped into the country, but were now "property" traded for goods; won and lost to settle gambling debts; left in Wills at the death of some owners; and sold and traded within the nation's boundaries as the foundation of the economy.  When it was no longer possible to bring human beings into the country, plantation owners routinely created their own "stock" by brutal rape and other forms of sexual exploitation of black slave women.  Those unprincipled white men were quite literally selling their own children.  Only by a continuing practice of dehumanizing people of color could they have done so, and we have many stories that illustrate this unspeakable truth.

You can imagine my surprise and delight to have discovered this important marriage document that proved that the family lore that told of how the Cajun people -- who were agrarians -- worked the fields with their slaves, and that it was fairly common for deep friendships to be formed, and marriages between Cajuns and black folks were often seen.  Apparently Edouard and Celestine had been in a common-law relationship throughout Leontine's nineteen years, and married in a Catholic ceremony as soon as it was possible to do so -- at the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation.  Leontine's marriage to George Allen, Sr., followed soon thereafter.

In going back through the voluminous packet of legal documents received from the National Archives some years ago, I've been able to pull together (along with those family stories I learned as an inquisitive teenager) a picture of those lives.  Since my great-grandmother, Leontine, lived to be 102, (1846-1948) I was privileged to have actually known my slave ancestor.  I was a 27 year-old married woman and mother of two when she died -- 3 years after the end of WWII.

More later ...

Thoughts about Leadership ... .

A few weeks ago an email notice from our Chief of Interpretation arrived in my mailbox announcing that all of the Interpretive staff were enrolled in a workshop on leadership -- "for personal growth."  Felt the rise of resistance as I read it, and without hesitancy wrote back to say that -- at my age and status in life, it seemed a waste of training resources for me to be included.  Offered to be on duty in the Visitors Center in order to enable other members of staff who would surely benefit more than I.

I wasn't really certain where the resistance was coming from, but it was clear that at some subliminal level I knew that -- for me -- this would be a repeat of past times during my marriage to psychologist, Bill Soskin, when self examination was practiced almost as a religion.  It harkened back to the "Me!" era of EST and Esalan, weekends gazing at our navels -- and sitting on zafus while chanting "Ohm."  Surely there was little here that could possibly benefit either me or the NPS, so I would resist.

Sent in to the workshop leader (and to my supervisor) a note expressing (in good humor) my reasons for opting out, and found them accepting, but gently suggesting that I reconsider.  I did not.

This local election this year with its often raucus and defaming campaigning has brought into focus the question of leadership in some new ways:

The most obvious would be that there are at least two kinds; those who grab their baton and megaphone and head for the head of the parade as a matter of entitlement, and those who become leaders simply by being followed.  And may I hasten to add that I've seen the first evolve into the second on more than one occasion.  I believe that I fall into the second category.

I've never sought or aspired to public office, and it is quite clear that I've been seen as a leader over the past few decades, at least.  I'm not certain of the reason, but I've come to believe that it has to do with those stories told in the kitchen garden of my grandparent's home when I was a child -- and my best friend was Papa George, chief gardener and family raconteur.  Stories about his mother, Leontine Breaux Allen (as we tied the tendrils of the beans to those little poles) serving her village as the midwife and intern for the circuit-rider physician who rode his horse through their little community every 3 months -- have always intrigued me.  Not sure I've ever put it into words in this journal, but I've told the story publicly on at least two occasions as justification for awards I've been honored to receive (in her name).  "Children will listen" comes to mind as I remember ... .

I really must do that since my great-grandmother has become an important element in my commentaries in the Visitors Center theater.  There's no time for going into enough detail at such times, but -- at some point, I'm feeling the need to flesh that story out.

I don't believe the connections are at all hard to understand since these later years have become the time to connect the dots -- make the summations for the younger family members who may be looking for themselves in my story as I do with those who preceded me in the family hierarchy.

She is so present in my life ... in my current work ... and as I interpret leadership, I believe.

Look for that story, and soon, it feels increasingly important.

Blue Spark

Photo by Heather Hiatt

For Director Heather Hiett's accounting of the Sea Shadow caper ... .

the story

This is the link that will take you there.

You'll find additional photos, as well.

(click to enlarge)

Let it be a dance!


Maybe words are not really needed  ...


True beauty speaks with eloquence enough to command attention without the spoken or written word ... .

Maybe its name is Faith.












Just maybe ... the Sea Shadow is having her say ...

Betty and Athena

It was less dance than simply movement  -- from somewhere deep within.  It felt wonderful to be
responding spontaneously to the exotic sounds filling that cavernous space after decades of voluntary wall-flowering.  I'd forgotten what it was like, and found that just yielding to the rhythms was sensual, heady, intoxicating.  How long has it been since I'd allowed myself to simply surrender my body to the moment?  The only thing that mattered was now!





How my Big Sur poet friend, the late Ric Masten, would have enjoyed this scene!  I fell asleep last night with a fragment of one of his songs, "Let it be a dance!" playing against the night:

... everybody turn and spin

                                                             Let your body learn to bend
                                                             And like a willow with the wind
                                                             Let it be a dance.
                                                             A child is born, the old must die
                                                             A time for joy, a time to cry
                                                             So take it as it passes by
                                                             And let it be a dance ... !
                                                       
Ric would have so loved this scene.


Photos by Heather Hiett

... and then the Sea Shadow enters from stage left ... .

... as if I didn't live life in a constant state of surprise ... there was still the unanticipated, totally out-of-the-blue and spectacular introduction of this bizarre chapter in the ongoing saga called "... So You Think You've Seen It All!" 

It was an ordinary afternoon of rangering at the Visitors Center when my cellphone vibrated in my pocket.  Surely this was another of the frequent calls from Dorian -- calls that I've had a lifetime of having to accept.  My daughter is incapable of understanding that there are hours in the day when Mom is inaccessible -- and Heaven knows this time it just could be that emergency that is always in the wings waiting to happen ... but it was my niece, Gail, calling from the Out Back,  a little dress shop where she works part time -- and that is the informal Point Richmond gathering place for some of the community's most interesting women.

"How would you like to be a fairy-spirit in a filming to be done day after tomorrow?"  Just my kind of madness, and before she added the rest of the story I was already on board for another adventure.  I stopped by the shop later in the afternoon where I met Heather Hiett, photographer/surfer/exciting artist and director of the project; was outfitted with the suitable gown and jewelry for the shoot; and given the details that were head-spinningly exciting!

Leslie, one of the Out Back patrons and her husband had recently purchased at auction, the Sea Shadow.  This is a secret ship developed by the CIA at Lockheed during the Seventies.  It is currently housed in the humungous hangar-type Howard Hughes-built structure in which it was constructed, and that now sits on a great barge moored at Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay.  Intrigued?  So was I.

After make-up session, waiting to go on ...

The condition of purchase was that whoever acquired the vessel would have to dismantle it within two weeks -- and into pieces no larger than 5 feet.  (Now why would anyone want to do that remains a mystery.)  However, while it remains intact, a group of photographer/artists would have a last chance to use it as a setting for concept pieces that would exist beyond its life.  The 4-hour afternoon event would be videotaped, simultaneously, from many angles for a variety of projects -- that I'm assuming -- will be designed in the editing process.  The finished projects will be posted on YouTube.com; become podcasts, still photographs, etc.

We gathered last Wednesday at the site; Faith, a statuesque and stunningly beautiful model and her little daughter, 6 year-old Athena; Leslie, who -- with her husband -- is the current owner of the ship; Dori, the beautiful District Attorney of Marin County; and Betty, the ridiculously late-blooming author of this blog!  Dori and Leslie were wearing masks and wings, but my mask was my own, and my wings were the white scarf that would allow me to feel airborne -- and it did.

It was early evening, and we were being filmed underneath the Sea Shadow with the Oakland skyline behind us through the opening of the HMB-1 superstructure that held us all.  As a tape of exotic music played and under glaring lights, we (the spirit-fairies), would emerge from the shadows and dance toward the cameras.  It took only a few minutes to accomplish, but -- in my "fashion-forward" chiffon garb with a filmy scarf I emulated a kind of ectoplasmic ethereal Theodora Dumbkin spirit.  What a wondrous experience!  It felt great to be dancing after years of wall-flowering!  I may be the only 91 year-old fairy you'll ever see, but let me tell you -- it was absolutely magical!


Photo:  Leslie Cameron photo.  Gail Clifton in background.

It seems like only yesterday ...

... and another of those unimaginable moments in history

Prior to Democratic Convention in 1972.  Candidate McGovern was so gracious ...

Another of the iconic figures of my life -- now gone.  It feels good to remember
that I was able to give him his flowers
while he could still appreciate their
fragrance ... .

The urgent need to defend ...

What do these people  have in common?

Photographed on the Richmond Greenway

Dr. Martin Luther King
                Rosa Parks 
                Malcolm X
                Susan Sarandon
                Joan Baez
                Tim Robbins
                Daniel Ellsberg
                Jane Fonda
                Cesar Chavez
                Cindy Sheehan
                Brothers Berrigan
                Danny Glover
                Alice Walker
                Harry Belafonte
                Gore Vidal
                Lewis Hill
                Jane Stillwater
                Rep. John Lewis
                Muhammad Ali
                Helen Keller
                Sojourner Truth
                Susan B. Anthony

                                               A. Phillip Randolph
                                               Doris Haddock (Granny D)
                                               James Baldwin

      plus the entire American Revolutionary Army who told King George to get lost!

All were dissenters who questioned authority under the protection of the 1st Amendment-- and by so doing helped to change the course of history.

... and of course, internationally, we have Nelson Mandela,  Ghandi, and who can ever forget Burma’s courageous and beautiful Aung San Suu Kyl?

To this illustrious list I’d add my long time friend, Marilyn Langlois, for a lifetime of speaking truth to power, and whose values and principles have served us all by calling attention to human and environmental injustices.

The recent and sustained personal attacks upon her character have revealed the ignorance of those opposing her candidacy for public office.  They obviously have no idea of how important and essential is the role of the dissenter to participatory democracy.

Whatever would the world have done had these brave souls not walked among us, holding us to live up to our highest ideals -- and the nation to keep to its promises granted by the Constitution and Bill of Rights?

How dare they?

For those of you who believe that I'm gone to join the ancestors ...

Not yet.

There has never been a time -- since this blog was created in 2003 -- when so much time has been allowed to elapse between posts.  There also has never been a time when life has been so all-consuming.  It takes everything I have to keep up with the rhythm that my life has created -- and I've begun to fall into bed each night content to just savor time ... .

Work goes well and I've never felt so complete.   Questions still rise and answers have begun to become tantalizingly, teasingly, awesomely, near.   And it all seems to come back to that axiom that I ran across long ago -- quite accidentally -- embedded in the middle of the page in some ordinary magazine; "there are two simplicities; one that comes before -- and one that comes after, complexity."  Somewhere in that hauntingly lovely sentence is the essence of truth.  I think the words can be attributed to the Monk David Rendl-Nast, and may be one of the most elegant secrets of life.   Mine appears to have broken through to the second -- slipping silently into a dimension where I'm finding myself having outlived my rage without losing my passion, which appears to be a forerunner to that ultimate simplicity.  It isn't so much that important things don't matter anymore, it's just that they matter differently now.  More about that later.

Celebrated my 91st birthday two weeks ago, and it was a non-event.  Not that my world ignored another milestone, it was just that there is no way to ever surpass my 90th, celebrated with the "Road not taken" concert with Bob and Margaret, and surrounded by a warm blanket of friendship that exceeded all of our expectations.  Hardly anyone mentions it, but I have the feeling that the event ranks for us all as one enchanted evening.  However many birthdays are left to me will be simple markings of the passage of time.  I need no more celebrations. 

In this new space and time I'm finding as much newness as at any other time of life.  I'm still waking to challenges and still slaying an occasional dragon; still awed by dawns and sunsets; still thrilled by the magical glint of sunlight on the waters that lie ahead as I round the corner of the Visitors Center each morning  -- and pause just long enough to appreciate my beautiful Bay's expanse across my universe ... .

Disappointment doesn't go down too easily when things have been going so well for so long ... .

I don't normally work on Sundays, but feeling that the Port Chicago video shouldn't be out in the world without the young men being aware of its release, I planned to be the presenter in our little theater for this important screening.  Having been with them on the SS Red Oak Victory two years ago when the filming was being done, it only seemed logical.

One week ago (two days after receiving the first copies), I searched our records for their contact information, and -- being successful -- tried to reach each by phone.  I did make contact with Peter Gray and told him that there would be a showing on the next Sunday at two o'clock -- then I tried to connect with the other four but found myself leaving messages on voice mail.  One week ago I wrote out invitations to each inviting them to the premiere showing, and extending the invitation to their friends and families.

Eight days later, on Sunday, I went to the Visitors Education Center to wait.  Having no response to either my voice messages or to the invitation, I was edgy and anxious.  As the hour approached and it was obvious that no one was going to attend, my disappointment became obvious. I did the presentation for the visitors who happened to choose that moment to drop in, but ...

For whatever reason, two o'clock came and went without a sign of the five young brothers.  Since they're from the troubled Iron Triangle district, I have no idea whether the reason was due to the opening of the Olympic Games, or, if there was a political reason for the no show,  or .....  ?

There is growing discontentment throughout the city stemming from the fact that we're in an election cycle which always provides fertile ground for exploitation.  I'm concerned that the racial barrier is being resurrected for political gain, and that differences are being fueled by politicians who might benefit by appealing to those caught in the web of persistent need and denied opportunities.  There are still inequities and injustices to be addressed, and -- we may be paying the price for that.

I just don't know ... 

Wondering ... .

A moving 11-minute film by filmmaker, Doug McMains, may be a life changer for 5 young men who stood in for those lives lost ... .


This is one of the films produced for the anticipated Visitors Educational Center at Port Chicago in Concord.  It memorializes the tragic event that occurred on July 17, 1944 when 320 lives were lost.  The film has been entered into a dozen or so film festivals starting next month in Sacramento.  Will keep you posted on how it is received by audiences and judges.

Meanwhile, on Sunday, July 29th we will be sharing -- for the first time -- the screening of "... Into Forgetfulness -- with these five young men, their friends, and families.  The young men only learned of the story of the horrific explosion and the mutiny trials during the filming, and have no idea that their images have been immortalized in this moving piece as it will be shown for the next few decades in our Visitors Center and with the whole world on the Internet.

They were filmed aboard the historic Kaiser-built ship, the SS Red Oak Victory, where they learned to "square" their sailor hats from Chief Engineer, Bill Jackson, and heard the stories of that fatal day from Park Ranger Ed Bastien who assisted on the shoot.

As is so often the case, I'm cited in the credits, but can't recall a single thing I contributed -- except for being present and accounted for.  But now that the work is done and being publicly seen,  I'm finding guilty pleasure in having my name associated with still one more brilliant artist's creation.  Maybe I shouldn't question the why of it; just sit back and enjoy, right?

... maybe it is a question of simply being -- and not doing.

Photo:  Peter Gray, Aaron Sio, Francois Johnson, Ismaeel Muhammad, and Marquez Johnson.

... into forgetfulness. from McMains on Vimeo.

Can't imagine that I've lost the rhythm so completely ...

Just living takes up all of the available energy these days ... with so little time for reflection, without which writing is nearly impossible.  The words have to mean something, otherwise it makes no sense.

My days are filled with adventure, creativity, newness, never-before-experiences -- and all in italics and living color!

With the opening of the Visitors Education Center behind us, we're settling in to building a routine and figuring out what we'd like the experience to be for those who enter our doors.  The temporary exhibits are highly successful -- even more than I'd ever have dreamed possible.   The installation of the permanent ones is still a year away. Those displays borrowed from other national parks around the country that were relevant to our mission (production, propaganda, health, women's work, civil rights, Japanese internment, etc.) are clearly having the intended impact.   I love to watch people gather around patiently taking in the texts, and experiencing -- in many cases -- history that is unfamiliar, but  truly moving.  Their comments bear this out as many stop at the front desk to tell their own stories or those of their parents or grandparents.  Many are from the generation whose experiences are chronicled here.

My hours have been "upped" for the summer, and I'm in the Visitors Center on Tuesdays and Saturdays for my entire work day.  I present the two o'clock film and give a talk that is generally well-received.  On the other days my project work is done at our administrative offices about ten minutes away from the VC.

I still do public appearances -- the most recent being one of several invited to speak to those on board for the annual LaborFest S.F. Bay cruise of the AFL-CIO.  The photo above was taken at that time and the young woman with me is Shell Marie, the granddaughter of the legendary Harry Bridges, one-time head of the ILWU (Longshoremen and Warehousemen's Union).  (I've referred to Harry Bridges in an earlier post -- July 18, 2005 -- which you can bring up by the little white search bar on the lefthand side of the screen above the banner.)

My talk over the PA system to all of those on board followed narration by 3 union historians of the sites along the San Francisco Bay shoreline as we sailed by.

Having worked along with the rest of the interpretive staff as consultants for several original films made for the purpose, the short films reflect the mission that guides all of our work -- that of making this Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park inclusive of all who lived that history.  We're building that baseline against which to measure all of the social progress that we've experienced as a nation since that time.  And, magically, despite the many negative aspects to that painful history, we're managing to create a positive experience for our visitors as we deal with the conflicting truths inherent in the maintenance of the democracy.  I'm not sure how that happens, but it does -- and powerfully.

We're having clusters of school teachers come through, which is a really important development.  Only last week a group of 25 came through from Lafayette, Louisiana, and spent the afternoon with me viewing the films and doing the guided walk of the Rosie Memorial.

The days are good.  The work continues to provide enough novelty and surprise -- and, yes, -- successes to last for whatever time is left ... but I find myself thinking less and less about those "end of life" issues than was true a few months ago.  There is simply too much to do to waste time anticipating the inevitable.

Blogging less these days ... not that there's nothing to write about ...

To the contrary -- there's a "muchness" about these days that defies everything I ever dreamed were within the realm of possibility.  Imagine this -- at my age ... .

That shadowed figure to our left is moi addressing a pre-game reception for professional women, female entrepreneurs, all devoted major league baseball fans at AT&T ballpark in San Francisco!

Prior to this moment five women executives had given their bios -- all exciting and inspiring and awesome.  Wish I could recall their names, it suffices to say that one was Janice Mirikitani of Glide Memorial; another an executive with LinkedIN; another from Silicon Valley, a banker; and the only woman in all of baseball who is the field announcer -- and for the Giants.  Fast company, indeed.

They were impressive, and so young ... .

I opened with, " I feel like Alice down the rabbit hole!"  And it was an accurate description of the moment, I assure you.  Gave a brief bio of my own and got a standing ovation!  What an amazing moment in time and space.  For just an instant time stood still ... .

We (3 National Park Service rangers and 5 veteran Rosie's from the home front era) were presented down on the field before the fans for the opening ceremony of the series between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the S. F. Giants.

Wished they'd given me a chance to toss out the first ball or to run around the bases and slide to home base, but I suppose that would have been a bit much.  I'm guessing that this was only because I was in the wrong uniform, right?

Wait'll next year!

What a day this has been (isn't that a line from a song lyric?) .... oh yes, now I remember ... .

"what a rare mood I'm in -- it's almost like being in love!"

Today held two different yet related events, each might have provided enough positive energy to stand alone.  The first I've not had the nerve to mention since it involved yet another "honoring", this time being named 'Woman of the Year" by the Delta Delta Chapter of Delta Kappa Gamma Society.  This is an international organization for educators.  I'm beginning to learn to accept the accolades as opportunities to showcase the work of the National Park Service -- and as such -- it feels less weighty somehow. The certificate read

for

Excellence in Community Education

and the dedication, relentless activism, and passion to bring the untold stories of the Richmond Home Front to the community and beyond."  (June 9, 2012)

But there's something else creeping in that is heady indeed.  Today I could give voice to the feeling that  I'm positioned in space precisely as was intended -- and where the entire focus of my life has been heading for what is now the tenth decade.  It becomes more and more difficult to cling to my atheism at such times, or those intriguing speculations on Fate, Kismet, and Predestination.

I could hardly be more comfortable in my shoes, and there's no one else on earth that I would rather be.  Yet, how helpful it would have been to have enjoyed this feeling at some earlier time of life.  But, I'm beginning to suspect that it had to be aged into.

Though I was in a room filled with strangers -- it would have been possible to have started a conversation in the middle of the 6th paragraph with any one of them -- chosen at random.  I was feeling human connections that transformed each into an old acquaintance.  I could see me in their faces as we talked, and though the words I was speaking may well have been taken as boastful at some other time, the feelings were anything but.  I could trust them with even this truth, and we could share the joy because the initial human/feminine connection was firmly in place -- so humility, and, whatever this is, could co-exist. 

It is at times like these that words fail, and we must trust one another to fill in the gaps, and we did.

After a delicious brunch in a beautiful home high in the Berkeley Hills, I drove proudly and "grinningly" down steep Marin Avenue toward the second event of the day; the two o'clock premiere of "Blossoms and Thorns," a Ken Koka short film depicting the Japanese/American internment experience.  This is one of several that take us through the forgotten stories of the Home Front era; films to be shown in the theater of the Visitor's Center of the park.  The work is a gift from local Americans of Japanese descent, the families of the cut flower industry who suffered the shameful imprisonment.  It has taken 70 years for them to share that experience with the rest of us.  I sat in the dark as the credits ran at the conclusion and -- despite the fact that I cannot with certainty point to anything I contributed to the making of this work --  there was my name listed among the others.  It feels irrational now, but I was able to make the connection with the morning's event, and felt quietly deserving of this new honor of "Woman of the Year" bestowed only hours before ... and the headiness returned ... this time with a sense of wonder at the forces that produce such happy outcomes.

Could it be that these honors have more to do with being than doing?

I could hear my own words, " ... I'm privileged to be helping to shape a new national park!"

... and it's quite true, isn't it.

Of course the euphoria won't last.  It never does.  But for now I'm so grateful for simply being alive.

Photos by Linda Blake

Today was spent "rangering" in the theater and showing visitors around the exhibits ... . 

... so far,  interest in my age rivals interest in the exhibits, and my public persona may be getting in the way of my work!  Wish I could think up a good quip about the aging process.  Maybe I'll just tell them about having been recently wooed by an online advertising agency which matches bloggers with businesses for profit (true).  They were very flattering about my writing, but I turned them down when it occurred to me that the only firms that might be interested in my blog would be those selling adult diapers, step-in bath-tubs, and scooters!

But that might not do, right?

it was simply glorious ... so much more than I'd dared dream the experience might be ...

This photo speaks to the numbers who attended, but can't possibly express what the day meant to those who've been waiting so long for the Visitor's Education Center to become a reality.

It took hours on end to get to sleep last night.  It was impossible to move on since savoring and reliving every moment kept me on edge until the wee hours of the morning.  Whatever passes for "normal" in these dwindling days will again bring sleep in a day or so, but for now -- it's all too wonderful to spend time passively in an unconscious state. 

It begins to look as if each day now arrives with an aliveness that demands complete attention.  It's fatiguing at times, but not in a bad way.  I'm paying close attention to each moment as it is lived (or so it seems), so that nothing will escape without thorough examination and evaluation as to whether it's worth memorizing.  I'm saving only the best stuff, I think, and tossing the irrelevant.

... and yes, time now is being lived out in hurried cycles, with Christmas arriving every six weeks.

Another day or so will be needed before I can possibly absorb what this new Visitor's Center will mean to the work.  I do know that this place will bring monumental  changes, but I do have some control over the nature of those changes -- at least as they apply to me, but it's enough for now just to savor the immediate past hours before leaving them to re-start the future ... .

The magic of memory to guide destinies ...  back to Epiphany!


Does the name Lloyd C. Douglas mean anything to you?  He was an important author of my youth with The Robe, The Magnificent Obsession, and personally most meaningful "The Green Light" among his novels.  It took almost two hours of stubbornly probing memory to finally bring  his name to mind.  It wasn't until I was lying in bed mulling over the headiness of the commencement experience that the dots began to connect like metal shavings on a magnet, and Douglas emerged as a major influence for me .  How little we credit those people and incidents that have moved us through life over time.

Something jogged him into the forefront as I was emptying the pocket of my black crepe suit and as my fingers fell upon the string of cultured pearls I'd (without conscious thought) placed there just before choosing a small diamond star on a platinum chain -- to wear for this occasion.   For some reason I didn't return the pearls to their little black velvet case, but instead slipped them into my pocket ... strange, but in keeping with this eerie power I've always had to be out of sync and out of sequence with time; naturally.

They were a wedding gift from Mel, my husband and the father of our four childrens.  Over time they'd been relegated to non-use as the marriage began to deconstruct with all the attendant misery of mid-life.

Let's move now to the turbulent Sixties, and the night before the daughter of a friend, Don Sanford and a university student, was scheduled to leave for a stint as a teacher in a freedom school under the leadership of C.O.R.E. in Canton, Mississippi.  It was Freedom Summer, 1964, and I was hopelessly tied to the care and feeding of four children at a time when I envied young (white) Susan Sanford's ability to do this daring and revolutionary thing.  I'd been invited to share the farewell dinner with the Sanfords, and as it ended I secretly slipped my pearls into her hand with the words, wear them every day under your T-shirts and only return them to me when your work is done.""  


Susan's letters to her family were shared with me that summer and their words became embedded in my song lyrics in the creative cultural explosion in which I found myself.  The pearls were returned, but over the passing years have rarely been worn.  They'd taken on the patina of service and could no longer be mere "jewelry".  They were anointed by a life experience too painful and meaningful to be squandered as "ornament."  So there they have lain all these years.

By all rights, if memories were informing me as well they should, this would all have revealed itself with the Fannie Lou Hamer announcement. but it didn't.  It was tantalizingly close, though, because I'd picked them up -- finally -- as "jewelry' only to slip them into the pocket just before leaving for the commencement celebration.

Then "The Green Light" and Lloyd C. Douglas now enter the scene:

In it (as I recall) the premise upon which the novel rests, is that there is power in giving only if there is an unbreakable promise that neither giver nor receiver will ever disclose the source of the gift.  By so doing, power is endlessly multiplied, like compounded interest accrued by intent and sealed by silence.

... and I'm realizing that -- despite the fact that by wearing my magical pearls yesterday, and sharing this connection to Fannie Lou Hamer and the Mississippi Freedom Movement that she founded --  might have added drama to the proceedings, I chose to "keep the power," by holding it close on my body without disclosing the story publicly in my two-minute acceptance speech.  And it was done without conscious intent.  Yet when I removed it a moment ago from its velvet case and let the little necklace drape over my fingers, I found myself wondering how The Green Light may have influenced other moments in time?  Reluctance to allow myself to accept credit for what are clearly exceptional feats that have perhaps changed lives is surely related to this simple though profound concept.

Is this then, the source of the "updraft" that I'm experiencing in the dramatic arc of my life's trajectory in these days of tributes; the California College of the Arts honorary doctorate of last spring; and yesterday's prestigious Hamer Award?  Is this just all too "Hollywood-ian" to subscribe to?  Maybe so; yet it just may be hokey enough to demand a pause for wonder ... and to appreciate the fact that had I remained a practicing Catholic, I would surely have ended up doing daily postulations in some Nunnery!

...  the extent to which all of our lives are influenced by the creative acts of unknown others is probably immeasurable, yet much of it eventually defies logic and succumbs to gaps in memory. Popular culture may be wildly under-rated movers into futures most have not yet lived themselves into -- except maybe for a selected few of the lucky ones, yours truly among them.

Epiphany .... !

... it happens.  Mysteries unfold at the most unexpected times, and almost always without fanfare.

Yesterday I drove in to the university's Zellerbach underground parking lot, and after presenting my VIP permit to the parking attendant, found myself in the maze of campus shops selling Cal T-shirts and student supplies with the unrelenting compulsion to follow "just anybody" dressed in a cap and gown.  Not smart.  That lead proved untrustworthy as I found myself surrounded by those heading for the Asian students ceremony on the second floor of the Student's Union!  So much for that system.  No GPS could save me now.

I then took the stairs back to the ground floor and approached 3 African American women (one of whom was "capped and gowned," with a friendly "... since you're obviously heading for the African American graduation commencement ceremony -- may I join you since I have no idea where I'm going?"  The eldest of the 3 said, " of course, but we're heading for the restrooms but if you'd like to join us you're surely welcome to!"

A few more false starts that led out of the Student Union building (shudda knowed that, right?) back across the Quad and into Zellerbach auditorium where confusion ended as I was guided through the theater (had no idea there would be such a large crowd anticipated), up to the stage and then backstage to the Green Room to wait with black-robed and colorfully "stoled" members of faculty with whom I would soon march onto the stage and take my seat in the front row for the ritual of commencement as the Fannie Lou Hamer honoree.

It was then that I met Dr. Charles Henry, Chair of the African American Studies Department (and who had recommended my being named to this great honor), and was reunited with Dr. Hardy Frye, an old and greatly honored scholar and friend from at least 40 years ago.  He was former head of Black Studies, now retired.  Hardy and I both worked for the Berkeley City administration when he served as Mayor Gus Newport's Chief of Staff, and I was city councilman Don Jelinek's aide.  It was great to see him again.  Life has taken this scholar to the top of his field, and when he told that he had supported my nomination for the Hamer Award, I immediately felt both the weight of the honor, and -- in an odd way -- validated in receiving it.

It was not so long ago that I might have been totally demoralized by the experience, but you know what?  I seem to be finally getting the hang of this "honoring" thing.  In this context, it made a kind of sense.
Never having attended college, and, despite my ten years as a faculty wife of a UC professor (Dr. William F. Soskin) -- and the resulting "non-traditional doctorate in psychology" that came with the years I participated as a "graduate student" in his research program, this was an alien setting for me.  It's always been as though I was the camel's nose that slipped under the tent in such rituals; never quite legitimate, and despite the illusion of knowing I tend to send out, I knew that it was unearned.  My status as a card-carrying member of the unwashed continues to guarantee my sense of humility -- that and being the mother of Dorian Reid who has accomplished so much with so little ... .

As the procession was about to end, someone came up behind me on the stage to whisper in my ear, "the young man at the end would like for you to drape his stole, if you would be willing."  What an honor to be invited to participate in this precious moment in someone's personal history.  What a time!

... but to get back to the epiphany ... but now I need to stop for a cup of tea and another tissue ...  more later.

Oh, say can you see ...

... that I've forgotten to mention a very significant invitation that arrived last week in a phone call from the National World War II Museum in New Orleans?  Mr. Jeremy Collins wanted to know if I'd be interested in participating in a conference in that city on December 6th, 7th, and 8th.  Would I?  You betcha!  I will be sharing the dais with Emily Yellin, journalist and author of "Our Mother's War".  We will be the two female panelists, among others.  We've met before when she served as keynoter for a Rosie Trust banquet a few years ago.  We share a Unitarian-Universalist background.  It will be great to see her again. 

As you know, if you've been reading my journal for awhile, this is my ancestral home, and I've not visited for at least two decades.  There are many Breauxs, Allens, and Charbonnets still living in the city, and this will be my first post-Katrina tour of the old Tremé neighborhoods where my father grew up, and from which my own family escaped after the disastrous floods of 1927 that brought us to the West.

All permissions have been granted, and anticipation could hardly be greater.  An opportunity for a grand reunion? Maybe.  I'm sending out the call to the family and we have several months to save up our pennies and plan for a gathering of some sort.

Small wonder that I go around breathlessly these days.  Life is moving so fast and furiously, that one can hardly maintain the rhythm!

... but in that regard, this week I have tickets to hear Dmitri Matheny and his band at Yoshi's on the Oakland waterfront with my jazz friend, Anne.  An infusion of jazz tends to provide an essential and stabilizing element when life becomes overwhelming -- as it is in this period of updraft!

An auspicious moment of discovery ...

On the weekend -- at the invitation of the Rosie the Riveter Trust board -- I attended a Gala in the Craneway Pavilion at Ford Point.

The evening opened at six with a preview of the Visitors Center that has been under construction (restoration) for the past year, followed by a banquet for several hundred guests and supporters; political and corporate leaders, representatives from industry, and National and Regional Park Service folks, and representatives from a number of Labor Unions.

The invitation had come in a casual phone call from my supervisor saying that the Trust would like me to attend.  No big deal.  Some of our rangers would be attending, either as guests or support staff, so there was no preparation for what lay ahead.

Small talk at receptions has never been my favorite past-time, so I wandered around feeling awkward for the better part of an hour, stopping just long enough at clusters to touch lives but not too deeply.

There came the point where it was time to move into the grandeur of the Craneway for the fancy dinner.  I'd not been told where to sit, and had no idea who might have the chart.  No place cards -- but this was a formal banquet so seating must surely have been planned ...

Then I saw him, Mr. John August, head of all of the Kaiser Permanente unions, based in Washington, D.C.  He's a wonderfully warm human being with whom I felt personally connected through my work. Having served as his tour guide on at least two occasions over the years, he'd requested a copy of "Of Lost Conversations,"  (created with Ranger Naomi Torres) the little DVD on the Black experience as lived on the home front during WWII.  The irony of my having started out at the age of twenty as a file clerk in a racially segregated Boilermakers Union hall in Richmond, and in these senior years to have served as an interpreter to the Leader of all of KP unions is mind-boggling!  What this says about social change in the nation over a single lifetime is truly awesome.

When John Austin noticed me idling in space, he indicated that I was to be seated at his table.  There was nothing to signal that he was the guest of honor who would be delivering the evening's keynote speech, or that this was the head table.  (Are you still with me?)  My work didn't involve any of the planning meetings.

As the formal part of proceedings opened with introductions of dignitaries in the room (Rep. George Miller, Mayor Gayle McLaughlin, among others), and the usual tributes -- things gradually built to the place where Austin was being introduced.  He gathered up his notes and headed for the dais.

His speech was brilliant!  Most noteworthy, it got through to me -- finally -- that  I could actually hear my influence woven through his words.  My name was cited several times, so it wasn't my imagination.  He got it! 

The words I remember most clearly were in the place where he spoke of visiting Ellis Island for the first time; very early after its designation as a national park, when it was little more than decaying physical artifacts that would someday tell its stories.  This is the state our park site was in (and still is, though much further along) when first he visited several years ago.  I'll never forget his words, "... the stories of these emerging parks are under the hats of the rangers."  We, the interpreters, are entrusted with that national history, and we're being effective in that work.

I felt the tears begin to well up as I heard myself in John Austin's words.  

This, then, is the reason for the honors? I truly am helping to shape a new national park, and the public also gets it.  What a privilege we've been given.

About those tears:

It should be noted that on the drive home they were released with a cascade of giggles as I noticed something quite new.  No longer were they flowing down my cheeks and dripping sloppily off my chin but some of them were ending up in my hair led by wrinkles that now re-direct the flow!  It's surely not perfect, but it's novel.  Maybe that's the function of crow's feet.  Do you suppose?  Imagine still discovering newness at my age!   

 

Will wonders (and honors) never cease?

This past week a call came announcing that I've been selected to receive this year's
 
        Fannie Lou Hamer Award

at the African American student's graduation ceremony at Zellerbach Hall, at the University of California, Berkeley.  That will be on the afternoon of May 19th.

Never having understood how these selections are made, there's genuine surprise and humility -- and sometimes puzzlement.  For instance, I've never fully understood how the choice was made for the honorary doctorate(!) at the California College of the Arts last spring, and was never satisfied that it was deserved.  Having never watched the DVD of the ceremony  --  it still doesn't seem to fit somehow, though I'll be ever grateful for having been so honored, for whatever reason.

But this one is less mysterious:


This followed an event of a few months ago at which I was a panelist for a service organization, Senior Moments. The engagement had naturally grown out of having served as the Black History Month speaker for the African American Employees Network at Safeway Corporate offices.    It was a good working day.  After all, I'm engaged in outreach assignments from time to time, and this is my busy season.

In the more recent event, the lectern was shared with an old friend, Jerry Lange, a former PBS talk show host, journalist, and author; and also a professor from the Black Studies Department of U.C. Berkeley.  The audience was warmly responsive.  Apparently, it was the professor who is responsible for this important nomination for the Hamer Award.

... and this one feels good.  Fannie Lou Hamer, the courageous political organizer who headed the Mississippi Freedom Party that dramatically challenged the Democratic Convention in 1968 by demanding seating for her delegation to represent her state.  Her daring move -- 4 years later in 1972 -- made possible Shirley Chisholm's historic run for the presidency of these United States as the first woman to make the attempt -- and with yours truly seated with the California delegation in Miami's huge Convention Hall.  And, having been elected to represent my congressional district by people who had threatened our very existence as we moved among them to become the first black family in the community through some 20 traumatic years before!  That's how fast social change was occurring at the time.

Having been found worthy of this award is such an honor!

I'm expected to make a two-minute acceptance speech to the graduates -- and this time we're ready.

"The future is formed by what we do or fail to do, individually, in the present." 

... and will finish with a grateful "thank you" and have one-and-a-half minutes to use elsewhere!

Whoever dubbed these "the Golden Years" wasn't just blowin' smoke through his ears. This is serious stuff!  Could this be compensation for thinning hair, sagging everything, and a creeping suspicion that one day I'll wake up to find that lots of folks have made some glaring errors in judgment and all these wonderful tributes will have to be returned to the proper honorees?  Meanwhile, I'm lining them all in a row on my library table -- and when I'm feeling unappreciated I can point to them and say, "See?"

Dorian Reid - "Colorful Cats"

I know that I've been among the missing since late in March ...

... and I don't think that I was fully appreciating how traumatic the separation from Dorian might be.  Not that she's gone out of my life, but our relationship has (necessarily) changed since I've turned her life over to a Trust, a legal/social services/team that will provide future guidance as I prepare for what should surely be my final decade.

I'd convinced myself that doing so would give me back my life (meaningless concept, that), and would provide the opportunity for me to watch (while I'm still living) just how she will fare after my death.  Sounds neatly managed, doesn't it?  Don't be fooled, guys.  At 90, it's hell to be staring into the Abyss of Non-existence when, ironically, my personal life's trajectory has caught a wild and turbulent updraft that is dizzying!  The contrasts of highs and lows have never been more stark. I'm feeling off-balance, and often on the verge of tears.  An appropriate response to the situation?  I think so ... .

I'm pleased with the decision; am assured that she is in good hands; that we've gotten most things right over the years.  I'd filled the balance of my life with meaningful work that has brought public acclaim and deep satisfaction, so what's wrong?  My work with the National Park Service has brought adventure, challenges, and a family of young friends who have enriched my life and brought great pleasure through days filled with newness undreamed of.

That all happened over the past months, and went smoothly as planned.  Dorrie talks very factually about "when you're gone," which stings a bit -- though is softened by her obvious innocence.  Haven't I worked toward this for all of our lives?

I discovered while searching for her permanent living space that, ironically, many of those security measures that used to exist for the mentally-disabled over years of state and federal cutbacks -- are now available to her in senior housing complexes.   She'd aged into eligibility (now 55), and the benefits that come with that are considerable.  How ironic!  We are truly investing our resources in the wrong end of the  life-line!  Therein lies madness.

Nonetheless she has just been confirmed for a 2-bedroom apartment within walking distance to the Mall, to her mother's condo, and across the road from "Cat City," the home of a community of feral cats that she's shared the responsibility for with other women in the neighborhood.  The care and feeding is a labor of love, and provides her with women who share her passion for felines.

So -- she and her two domestic cats will be moving within the next couple of weeks, and her mother will probably figure out just what is different about this move, and why it feels so final?  She's been living semi-independently for some time now, after spending many months hospitalized from injuries suffered in her 2009 accident.  Maybe it means that I'm trusting the world just a little less with my daughter since that time; maybe ... .

rear of building - landscapers at work

What a strange day this has been ... .

Our Visitors Center is nearing completion and we're in the process of designing temporary exhibits that will be on display over the coming months -- until the permanent exhibits are completed and installed.

The process of restoration of the historic Oil House of the old Ford Assembly Plant has taken more than a year to complete, but the grand opening is scheduled to take place on Memorial Day weekend, on May 26th.

We've not been able to enter while the structure was under re-construction, so along with the rest of our staff, I'm curious and fascinated with the occasional peeks I get walking by while conducting a tour of the scattered sites that make up the park.  The Ford Assembly Building is one of the major features of the park.

Several of us have been assigned the task of designing 6' "Pull-up" panels on different subjects -- that will be combined with appropriate and relevant exhibits borrowed from other parks around the country until those professionally-designed arrive around the end of the year.  Matt's panel has to do with the environment; Elizabeth's with the disabled; and mine (obviously) with civil rights.  There are others.  We're creating the texts and Luther, our graphics artist, is putting them into display form for presentation.  I'm pleased with the text I created, but have little sense of how the words will combine with the photos I've chosen until his expertise is applied.  This is a new experience for me, but seemed well within my abilities.  I'm continually surprised at those embedded capacities and only wished I'd had the courage to call on them before I'd grown into these final years.

All that is to say that -- I'm not sure of the reason -- but I seem to be seriously drained of energy today.  I conducted back-to-back bus tours over Friday and Saturday; unusual for me.  Each lasts about 3 hours and covers many of the scattered sites that form the boundary-less Rosie the Riveter WWII/ Home Front Historical National Park.  What is more important, though, is the fact that -- not being a trained historian working from acquired knowledge -- I'm reaching deep into my own past to retrieve personal history and sharing that with strangers on each tour.  It means that there is an emotional component that tends to leave me feeling spent for a few hours each time, so normally I try to allow a few days of recovery time between tours.  This, combined with the fact that I've had to conduct two of those tours in a drenching rainstorm which added an element of sadness to both tours, may have added to feelings of depression over the past 24 hours.  Wet feet will do it every time.

... but then maybe I'm just winding down now ... and am finally facing up to that fact... .

If the feelings linger, I'll know.