The unresolved issues about the rights of undocumented immigrants just beginning to take shape in the White House and the Congress ... .

... are causing some sleeplessness these winter nights, and as is so often true, are becoming interwoven with another stubborn issue -- our disturbing numbers of American citizens of color living lives of desperation within the walls of our prisons.  (Read "The New Jim Crow" by Prof. Michelle Alexander for a more complete picture.)

I've now been blogging for so many years that there's a personal record of my having anguished through these issues before, and repeatedly.  No need to repeat that diatribe here.

I just took myself back a few years (by entering a few key words in that little white search bar on the left side of the screen just above the banner) where I was able to read back over earlier writings on these troubling subjects.

What makes today's news that the Post Office is threatened with further closures -- and that 1 in 5 postal workers has been African Americans since the 1880s -- means that literally thousands of unemployed people of color are soon to be added to the ranks of the unemployed in a national economy too weak to sustain them and their families.

I believe I've found them -- those displaced African American service workers.  They have been moved from the projects and welfare lines into our prison system where they are facing either life sentences, or, are faced with disenfranchisement upon release and re-entry without rehabilitation of any kind; stripped of the right to vote (in many states); having to register on job applications as having a criminal record, and with little hope for a future of any kind except the return to the prison as a means of survival.

Note: The passage of time and our failure to solve some basic issues as a nation, means that little has changed, except that I've grown older without finding comfort around these questions.  If you'll enter the words displaced service workers and/or Immigrant Rights into the search bar you'll bring up those discussions -- me with myself  -- on these subjects.   

Lately I've been thinking about the dangers of absolutism and its expression thereof ... .

There's been a shift in the way I interpret philosophical issues these days ... a kind of re-thinking of long-held views.  I'm clinging less to my own analyses and finding fragments of opposing views creeping in --even when hopelessly contrary to my own strong beliefs.  Another developmental stage in the aging process?  It's likely.  I'm less subject to suffering fools of late, but more trusting of others to find their way without benefit of advice from me.  Finding more universality in myself and of the other's ability to figure it out without my interference; even my children and grandchildren.

Sitting in the audience of a gospel concert surrounded by "believers" might have shaken my agnosticism at some earlier time;, but at my age it's easy to not be intimidated, or, to feel envious of the fervent believing of others -- but I'm perfectly comfortable to sit as an outside observer to what I now see as the difference between faith and fact; to draw what I need from the experience (the magic of this amazing and soul-stirring roots music) and to leave what I cannot use behind.

That one believes something to be true does not make it so; not for oneself nor for others.  But when sitting among many who share beliefs-in-common, the seduction is palpable!  Small wonder that faith healers and shamans can perform their miracles.  There is an almost visible magnetism present, and the wanting to be healed is powerful enough to meet the healer half way.   Would that we could bend this power to our will in other areas of life.  For instance maybe gun conttol would not seem so unachievable.

Puts me in mind of the time that I was alone on the streets of Boston; a city I'd never before visited.  My destination lay several blocks away.  I'd been told that it was an easy walk from my hotel.  Except that it was five o'clock, and I was walking against a mass of people rushing past on the sidewalk -- with some even slipping off into the gutters in their haste.  It was all I could do to not turn around and fold into this stream of humanity.  Was there some incident up ahead -- out of sight -- some unforeseen danger that they were running from? Were they fleeing in fear from some unseen evil?  It took every ounce of human strength I could muster to not turn around and join the crowd rushing past!  I stopped for a minute -- leaned against a newsstand for support  to take another look at my hastily-written directions for reassurance.  At that moment I caught sight of a sign on a nearby lightpost that explained my dilemma.  That great moving mass of humanity was just getting off work at the end of the day and heading for the Metro.

The mind is quixotic:  The image that rose to mind a moment ago was -- that long ago during a menopausal hot flash I couldn't imagine that anyone in the room couldn't see the steam spewing from my ears!  Surely it was clearly visible.  Why did they not see?  If you could see my grin right now you'd know that the next thought was that -- if men experienced hot flashes -- a verse would have appeared somewhere in the bible that this was undeniable proof of the existence of the Soul.  And -- that for most of my life I just may have been moving on a path filled with people rushing swiftly for the Metro of life, and, that just might be okay -- if I just take the time to reassure myself every now and then.

... but I digress.

Giving a talk on board the USS Hornet some years ago

Lots to ponder ... .

Last week a call came from our Chief of Interpretation inviting me to think about giving the welcoming address at an upcoming celebration on March 5th.  This is a traditional National Park Service program that will take place in the beautiful cathedral-like expanse of the Craneway.  This is a first-time ceremony for our park, the birth of a new tradition?  It will celebrate the status of 75 brand new naturalized American citizens, their friends, and families.  What an honor!

The call came at a time when I'd just returned to the administrative offices after a ten minute "cool down" drive following a presentation in our Visitors Center theater.  As always, I feel spent, but affirmed by the experience which tends to leave me always with an emotional high -- though the why of it is puzzling but in a good way.  The urge to escape immediately into my car and onto the highway -- caged into its isolation chamber where I can climb back into my skin and re-set all the buttons into a neutral position.  Since the end of my work day coincides with the end of my commentary at these "performances," I usually hastily head back to the office where there is quiet and a way to disengage from public scrutiny in the confines of my cubicle before heading home. 

It was in just such a state that Morgan's call came -- I heard it as just another outreach assignment which of course was not to be questioned, but to be added to my to-do list and noted on the big shared calendar.

On the drive home it began to dawn -- how significant an event this could be.  It will surely require much more than my usual impromptu oral history talks which that have been so successful in our little theater's twice-weekly sessions.  Those only required an active memory and a willingness to share experiences of the home front of WWII.  This was radically different.  I just may have to actually write this one down, lest I lose control in mid-speech.

Could I, an African American, find it within me to create a welcoming speech as an "American," in a nation whose half-hearted treatment of its minorities over time has so effected my entire existence?  Would I need to acknowledge that duality in public, and at the same time, be ready to set aside criticism of my country and its incomplete journey toward "liberty and justice for all", at least long enough to uphold our pride of national purpose?  And -- could this be done without forfeiting at least a bit of my own integrity?

Such thoughts have kept me awake these past nights, but have also convinced me that it can be done.

Last night I went to my bedroom bookshelves to retrieve my copy of the fellow rebel, author Ken Kesey's, "Sometimes a Great Notion" from its place where it has lain for so many years (except for an occasional dusting).  I opened to a page where  a small shriveled dried-up nosegay of wild flowers the late Kesey had picked from the dunes -- and which he presented in an act of mock-courtliness --and in a game of self-imposed silence.  It was a fog-bound morning at Asilomar where I'd gone to reassert myself as an American, and to reclaim the symbols that had been given up over a lifetime of cynicism and political discontent.  It was the early 50s, and a time of a nation's chaotic but ever-lasting transformation.

Note:  If you'll type the name, Ken Kesey, into the little white search bar on the left side of the screen -- above my photo and the banner -- you'll better understand the references in this post.    

  

I've now lived long enough to BE Back History ... and my week is fast coming up ... .

On my January 18th bus tour (where I serve as tour guide) a reporter for the Richmond Pulse -- complete with camera -- was along for the trip.  I've become pretty used to having this happen, and it doesn't take long before such folks fade into the background and are barely noticeable -- either by the other passengers or by me.

He remained behind when the trip ended two hours later, and wanted a  brief interview with which to complete his story; easy enough to comply.

A few days later he emailed a request for permission to use a photograph I'd posted online when someone entered my name into my high school online yearbook.  In the picture I'm a pretty and naive 17 year-old.  Since I have no way to know what shape his story is taking, I didn't want to try to influence his work, but at 91 I can hardly remember that young girl -- and it didn't seem appropriate somehow -- and how on earth would it be fitting? But maybe I need to just wait and see the article. 

That being said, I sent a current photo in the hope that it might influence his decision about the article.  I really am not caught up in the past, and am perfectly content with the current version of Betty.  Maybe the bar is simply lower by now, and my expectations for what life should look like for what we call "the Golden Years" is far different from anything that young girl might have ever envisioned in her wildest dreams!

Re-inventing myself as the times and conditions underwent changes -- living life in a constant state of surprise -- has led to every possible kind of challenge, and highs, lows, and in-betweens, that always held enough promise to propel me into the next year, month, day, and -- sometimes, hour. 

Besides, where were the reporters when that pretty young girl was building her resume and looking into a future -- dimly -- in an unenlightened nation?

Better late than never?

Maybe.

   

... but you can see from this National Park Service short video that there was magic enough to capture the moment ... .

This morning, while the grand folks were being shepherded in and out of the Chapel and moving in the impressive caravan of limos to the site of the ceremony at the Capitol --  I was remembering the first inauguration in 2009 when Martha Lee and I were making our way from our little rental (just for the occasion) near the Capitol -- on foot in the gathering crowds on the streets.  We stopped long enough to visit the bronze statue of Mary McLeod Methune, the great educator, and then on to the Mall where nearly two million new best friends were amassing at the gates where we would show credentials and find our seats.  Poor Martha was trapped in that tunnel -- folks who never got to see the ceremony at all.  I was more fortunate, and found my seat without problems.

But, unlike today when I'm comfortably dressed in my pajamas and warm socks -- and munching on toast and cinnamon tea (as opposed to being bundled up against 17 degree cold with steam coming out of my ears and icicles hanging from my nose), I'm seeing it all courtesy of CSPAN.

In the last inauguration -- even though seated in a VIP section as an invited guest of my representative -- I watched the entire pageant on the giant screens that were standing nearby.  The major players were tiny images high up on a platform, and only identifiable because of associated memories and the familiarity provided by years of seeing them on the small screen in my bedroom.  Otherwise I might just as well have watched at home -- as I do now -- without the travel.  But it wouldn't have been forever memorable.

Would I have preferred today's more comfortable viewing to the live experience of 4 years ago?  Of course not.  The energy of the shared experience was palpable.   Nowhere on earth was there more goodwill and fellowship concentrated in one place.  Being together magnified the experience for each  of us.  We'd come from great distances on every possible mode of transportation.  It was unforgettable.  Life-changing.

Funny ... now that I've seen the more complete pictures with the background filled in by knowledgeable historians ... it feels as if I went through the last inauguration encased in a 3' x 3' bubble that limited sight and sound.  But there was so much life in those moments that there was no awareness of what we were missing, factually.

The live experience was real, beyond imagination, with a spiritual element that more than made up for what was missing.  But this morning's viewing completed the very different experience of four years ago.   I'm so grateful for having this fuller picture to add to that personal history and to treasure always.

Now I'm going to have another cup of tea and just meditate on how far we've come in our time.

The speech was all I'd have wished it to be.

I'm no longer seeing the promise of democracy as unfulfilled.  My sense of self as an American has evolved over time.  Not only that, but I now see myself among those with the power to -- together with others -- make it real for generations yet unborn.

That, I now realize, is true -- and new, and will enrich my work from this day forward.

This video was created by the National Park Service for national distribution on "Inside NPS" for the first inauguration on January 20, 2009 ... the ritual as experienced by this ranger ... .

This morning I've been watching the opening ceremonies of the (private) presidential inauguration for a second term ...

... and am reminded of four years ago and the feelings prior to that event  The following post is dated January 10th, ten days before Inauguration Day in the year 2009.  

I've been asked so often how this year's event compares with that experience, and it occurred to me that going back into the archives to retrieve those feelings just might suffice.  There are things that one never has the chance to re-live, and it may be futile to try to make such comparisons.  But I feel misty as I watch today, and all of the affect of this moment are with me still as I watch this peaceful change of governance and marvel at possibilities that still lie ahead  ... .

 

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Not only will I be going to the Inauguration next week, but I'll be audible!

The strange things that the mind holds in reserve ...

Somewhere between the years of 11 and 13(dated by the image of the Elmhurst Jr. High School auditorium that crops up in the remembering) there was a blinding insight that has been a major factor in the becoming of Betty for over a lifetime. This had to be associated with the absolutism of childhood combined with an awakening sense of social responsibility. The insight was life-altering and has been incorporated into a value system that persists to this day.

I recall that it was in that school assembly while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance that it hit me with the force of revealed "truth." I found myself instantly falling silent at the words, "...with liberty and justice for all." Not only that, but I continued to mouth the words while holding back the sounds. I recognized the phrase as absolutely untrue. I realized, perhaps for the first time, that the words didn't include me or anyone like me, surely not my dearest friend and grandfather, dark-skinned Papa George. I also realized, instinctively, that those young classmates standing around me with hand over heart and the piety of youth didn't know that. That the teacher whom I adored and who was leading the pledge -- was unaware, as well. I didn't know at that point where the blame should lie, but it wasn't with anyone here in this hall. That I was certain of, and I had no wish to dishonor their patriotism by allowing them to be witness to my dissent. I only knew that somewhere I'd read an anonymous quote (perhaps in a tiny box in the center of a page in the Readers' Digest) the words, "Every day in every way what I am to be I am now becoming. Words to live by" -- and with the passion of a small well-read and uncompromising little girl to support it. I would not participate in the lie. Not then -- and not ever.

Later I would extend the practice to falling silent at the words, "...under God" and not because I'd intellectually worked my way out of religious orthodoxy; that would have required a far higher level of sophistication than I could claim, but because I found the words non-inclusive of other belief systems (whose God?), and was inserted into the Pledge for all the wrong reasons. But that came much later and from a far more reasoned place.

So that left two "audible" blanks in my personal pledge to my country though I continued to rise in respect and participate to the extent that my values would allow. I'd never discussed this with anyone and presumed that I was alone in this practice of censoring and deleting appropriate to my personal beliefs.



On Inauguration Day in this year 2009, I will stand and (for the first time since childhood) I will bring sound to the Pledge. I'll take my place as one of "We the People," and I'll "promote the general welfare" and "form a more perfect Union", and boldly proclaim my part in the re-creation of all that may restore our once glorified and now badly tarnished image as the undisputed leader of the nations of the free world. And those words held suspect for so long will finally ring true.

...and I'll do all that while witnessing the swearing in of the nation's first black president -- completely awed by the arc of all of our American lives that has brought us to this place of reconciliation and patriotism of a kind that now begins to make sense to those of us who have been silent and/or conditional in expressing it.

As I watch that historic national rite on Inauguration Day from the stands, I will be the only member of that audience of flag-pledging Americans who will know that I've uttered those words

"With Liberty and Justice for All!"

aloud, for the first time in over 70 years, and that I will be doing so as the full-fledged member of

"We, the people!"

The more things change ...

I've been mulling this over since returning from New Orleans.  It's a scene that rises every now and then -- mostly when I'm needing a shot of humility to balance off some of the awesome things that happen unexpectedly and leave me feeling just a little intoxicated ... heady ... disbelieving.

It happened earlier this week when there were calls seeking commitments for engagements -- first as a presenter at Stanford for students in Feminist Studies.  A professor had traveled from the campus in Palo Alto to hear my commentary in the regular Saturday afternoon theater presentation.  She hung around afterward to extend the invitation.  I'd already accepted a role as panelist at St. Mary College's International Women's Day all-day conference there on March 9th.  (By now my head-band is showing signs of tightening ever so slightly!)  And -- I'm this year's speaker for the City of Richmond's Black History Month program in our Convention Center.

Then the invitation came from the Department of Citywide Administrative Services in New York City -- the writer of the email wanted to know if I would be willing to travel to New York anytime during the first two weeks of February -- for their Black History program.  What an honor! 

The first 3 months of the year are the busiest; January with its Dr. King observances; February as Black History Month; then March being Women's History Month.   I've been scheduled for months, and there was just no way to even think about trying to make such a trip for a single engagement.  Besides, my persona may be getting in the way of my work, and I could get lost in the hoopla and forget what's important.

Just about the time that I was threatened with a spasm of what could be terminal self-importance, I was reminded of the man in the elevator back in December:

I'd just finished my speech for the International Conference of the WWII Museum in New Orleans.  Again, it had happened; that magical thing where I'm just coming to the end of my speech and I become aware of the dead silence in a room of 500 people -- painfully aware of the responsibility one has for delivering something of meaning into that void when you've become the object of pure focus -- and I felt my voice trail off -- uttered something inane and returned to my seat on the dais.  At which point the audience rose as one in a standing ovation and my knees threatened to cave ... but didn't.  It was a magical and unforgettable moment in time!

Because one never knows what to do after such moments, I sat and waited for it to end, then headed head down for the elevator hoping for a few minutes of stillness before returning to join the other presenters for a walk through the French Quarter to Armand's Restaurant for the celebratory banquet.  For now I needed time to reset my buttons, allow the adrenalin to flow back into balance, and then I'd be good to go again.

As I pushed the elevator button for the 9th floor of the Astor Crowne Plaza hotel, a huge hulk of a Southern gentleman rose up beside me.  Here was Big Daddy straight out of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof".  Only the straw hat, white suit and stogie were missing.    When the elevator arrived he followed me in and stood quietly in the back.  After a few minutes he spoke in an unmistakable Mississippi drawl, ".... Lil lady, Ah wants you to know that you are a credit to yo race!"

There it was.  Pure Senator Claghorn (who?) and should have been followed by "that's a joke, son!"  What scriptwriter would dare use such words these days?  Does anybody really talk like that any more?  I looked back at him and smiled a smile that threatened to explode into an undignified giggle!  I could think of nothing to say in response, but the quick glance back assured me that this southern gentleman was sincere. He was doing his level best to reach out beyond the barrier.  He was praising me for what had happened in that ballroom a few moments ago.  This was the deepest part of the South, and only I was out of context.  He continued as we approached my floor, "... and Ah sho would like to know what kind of pills you takin' to stay so young!"  The little light for the 9th floor flashed and the elevator slowed as I answered,  "No pill, sir, but it just might be that race mixin' enhances the gene pool!"

The elevator door closed behind me and my hero was on to the next level; probably muttering  to himself!

Today, in thinking back on my rising profile, I was again reminded of just how far there is yet to go, and of how small a cog I am in the Wheel of Life. 


... the more they are the same ... .

Still nursing a miserable cold and finding it impossible to hold a thought longer than it takes to sneeze ... .

... since the day after Christmas life has been moving with less speed and minimal clarity due to this year's version of "the Crud."  Decided that I failed to allow enough rest between the landing of my return flight on Wednesday evening, and appearance at the Visitors Center at ten o'clock the very next day!  Foolish, I suppose, but with adenaline still flowing, and the eagerness to share the trip with ranger colleagues, docents, made it impossible to turn off -- at least not yet.  Tomorrow I may not remember ... the details ... the new information ... the new memories that needed sorting out, a process that required other ears and voices with whom to debrief.  There was the added complication of not being able to access the photos in my camera, or, having enough energy to sit before my computer at night to "write it out" here.  Now it becomes clear that much of the inability to organize my thoughts was due to the fact that I was incubating an illness that would bring everything to a halt within a few days, demanding detachment from everything until "the bod" could catch up with the brain!

After a week of idling, yesterday came my official return to work, and I'm back in the swing of things -- feeling properly recovered -- and vitally interested again in whatever needs doing.  That includes writing year-end reports for our division chief, and returning to a schedule of activities in preparation for the first 3 busy months of the new year; Dr. King's January birthday celebrations, Black History Month observances; and in March, Women's History Month -- all with commitments to fulfill.

Looking back over last year's datebook for material for my part of the year-end report, I was dumbfounded by all that was accomplished.  It was a busy and productive year, filled with fascinating people, assignments, panels, awards, recognitions; far more than I'd remembered.

Let's hope that 2013 will prove as interesting and fulfilling as the past year has been.  When one reaches these final years, the preciousness of time; the continuing sense of urgency imposed by a growing acceptance of just how finite life must be. Time becomes something almost palpable, certainly priceless and not to be captured by containment in relentlessly insistent clocks, forward marching calendars, and the perennial hourglass, but -- by definition -- being another dimension; a plane of existence, it becomes an enticing -- more than theoretical element -- and subject to a growing need to understand and accept the inevitability of its passing in irreversible pulsations into the forever after.  Fears of endings are gradually being replaced by a new appreciation and respect for "order," and "succession."

Fascinating how life begins to narrow the lens of the living as age closes in on itself.

Ninety-one holds the promise of new worlds of experience; and the newness continues with each waking day. Surely there's room for a year ninety-two, right?  What is there left undiscovered out there beyond tomorrow?

...  I'm ready for whatever that might be ... .

Does my visit to the ancestral home of the Charbonnet attest to the differences in racial relations in New Orleans, as opposed to other places ... ?

When I think of how warmly, how easily Paul, and Shirley, and I interact -- and of how the stories of the accommodations to traditions of the times fit that profile, it's cause to wonder.  I sensed no holding back; no self-censoring -- in the leisurely evening talks in the kitchen at the end of each day of my brief visit.  We honored the opportunity to share meaningful time together, and used it to exchange the most intimate details about where life had taken us over the eons of separation, especially with Paul.   I've grown so fond of them both .  We have truly closed the circle, and are inside, together. 

I'm not certain that this new relationship across the racial lines are much different from those of our fathers and grandfathers of old.  Surely there are enough stories among those passed along by my father that would suggest this.  He spoke often of how Judge Charbonnet would intervene when one of his 7 brothers ran afoul of the law; would speak with them privately and send them home to their father with a caution that they mend their ways and pay attention to his word.

The story that brought Paul and I together was my writing of how his father, Paul, and my uncle, Louis,  both contractors -- would bid on the jobs that fell on either side of Canal Street in order that there be an equal distribution of opportunity.   I'm not certain that this wasn't just some silent gentlemen's agreement.  Surely there was no formal contract; just "family". They apparently did not defy southern tradition by mixing socially, as Paul and I do, but it was a different era, and there was custom and southern tradition to be honored.  There was something to be said for everybody having a place in the society, and honoring whatever status they enjoyed in life.

Though today's residents of the Tremé are very aware of Congo Square as a place of slave-trading, I'm not certain that Creoles ever considered themselves as a part of that story.  Surely my parents never passed any hint of a consciousness of the slave experience as personal.  That story needs more fleshing out.  My mother's slave ancestry is recognized, however, on our paternal side, there are few if any slave references -- yet ... .

Ours is surely a historical pattern indicative of the uniqueness of New Orleans culture, which recognized Creoles as a third class with relationships to both sides of the racial equation.

I often wondered at my Dad's reference to "when the Americans came."  I'm more and more certain that this referred to non-New Orleanian whites who brought with them from other parts of the country a different form of racial prejudice; one that was less tolerant of the subtle variations in attitude that was specific to the times and place.

The Charbonnet Family was probably typical of an easy-going cultural landscape with complex liaisons that may have had to do with a liberal sexual attitude brought from France where such affairs were tolerated by society, and only gently frowned on by the Church.

Surely this was true of Amable Charbonnet, who experienced in Haiti a culture that was led by a mulatto elite --  made up of sons of the Napoleonic French fighters who defended against the rebel forces of Toussaint L'overture -- bi-racial sons who'd been sent back to France to be educated then returned as the ruling class.  It was among the members of that brown culture that he seemed to have found meaning, at least comfort enough to have returned after the Revolution for a significant period of time before returning to New Orleans to take up life in one of the cultural centers of the new nation.  It was surely that experience which prepared him for taking up life with a mulatto woman with whom he fathered the descendants that formed my branch of the family tree.

Ken Norton's "Lydia Bailey," resonates as a wonderful telling of my story.  Also, Isabel Allende's more recent, "Islands Beneath the Sea" reads like Amable's personal account of that history.

 

Revising history after visiting with relatives ... .

I remember clearly the day cousin Ruth (Isabel Allen LeBeouf Warnie's daughter) and I were driving back from the Golden Gate Federal Cemetery in San Bruno after discovering the earliest microfiche records of our great grandmother.  In the Catholic Church records in Baton Rouge that of Leontine's mother, Celestine ("of no last name"), had turned up as being married to slave owner and planter, Edouard Breaux, of St. James Parish, Louisiana.  That was in 1865 as enabled by the Emancipation Proclamation.  At the time of that marriage, Leontine was 19 years old.

I'd assumed that this was an intact family that consisted of Celestine, Eduoard, Leontine, and Theophile (whom we've lost track of).  According to Diocesan records, 3-year-old Theophile's birth was legitimized by the marriage.  I remember wondering just how it had been possible to limit that little family to two children, and by what method was their spacing accomplished?

But the important fact to me was that -- atypical of many black family histories -- ours had not resulted from rape or sexual exploitation, but that there was a traceable familial relationship sanctioned by the church.  How naive was I?  Having learned over time that it was because of the fact that the Cajuns were an agrarian people with a long history of working the fields alongside their slaves at that time, that marriages were not a rare event, but were fairly common.  It was clear that Leontine was the result of a bi-racial union of some sort. 

I suppose that I was so wedded to that positive story, that when we received the documents from the War Department that included testimonies by the neighbors and friends in St. James, I failed to notice that Leontine provided the name of her father as Sylvestre Breaux, who is listed in the census of the time as Edouard's older brother.  These were the testimonies submitted to justify her as deserving of a widow's pension ($45/mo) for her husband, George Allen's, Civil War service to his country.

It is cousin Sandra's suggestion that Celestine had been raped 19 years earlier than the 1865 date of her mother's marriage to Eduoard, and that Leontine had been aware of her parentage all of her life.

I suspect that rape would have been so common at that time, that it would have been of no particular importance in the scheme of things.  In 1846 -- more than a dozen years after the British had outlawed slavery (1833) -- American slave-owners were producing their own "stock" by impregnating their female slaves in order to compete in the marketplace; in order to have chattel to pass along to their heirs; in order to preserve the Southern economy and the time-honored southern way of life which had been built upon the slave trade.  I've never gotten over the fact that those planters were quite literally producing and selling their own children.  Under those circumstances, it was necessary that Blacks be regarded as less than human.  Were that not so, the entire system would be undermined.  You can imagine that such a practice would been one of the inhumane results of human bondage that ended with the Emancipation Proclamation -- but would have been left out of history books in defense of our national integrity, or at least the integrity that we claim in theory.

But then I would not have been viewed as a part of the "we," at that time, since white male supremacy ruled the day, much as it has since that time.  White supremacy along with white privilege have been prohibitive of social change and has resisted any attempt at altering the lens through which we see "American" life in the century that followed.  

Small wonder that we've never been able to process that history. It says horrific things about us as a nation and of our trail of cruelty and abusiveness since we landed on these shores over 300 years ago. 

That's a part of my maternal family history, and there is no escape from its influences upon my life to this day.  Maybe the best we can hope for is that the country gradually begins to own its history and find ways to excise the trauma in order to move on.  There are visible signs that this is happening, at least in my world.

There is still significant work to be done before we're home free.

Mecca!

... Paul, Shirley, and I searched in vain on Sunday morning.  We arrived at the wrong St. Louis Cemetery (there are four), for the tomb of our Charbonnet ancestor-in-common; the elusive Amable -- whose history involves some years in Santo Domingo (now known as Haiti) both during and after the Revolution in the early 1800s.  According to Paul's narrative, he was apparently quite comfortable living among the native population, so returned  to spend at least a part of his life on the island before his eventual return to New Orleans.

Amable was married for a time to a French wife, but took up life with my ancestor, Marie Beaulieu, (a mulatto enslaved woman) with whom he fathered a separate family -- here's where the Charbonnets went to "living color" somewhere around the mid-1800s.  It is of interest to me that, according to the records, Marie lived to the age of 104.

On Sunday we arrived to find that the cemetery was closed for the day, and that we'd need to come back on Wednesday, prior to boarding time at United Airlines.

Louis, Shirley and Paul, Betty, Armand, Simone, and Kim Charbonnet

After some hours spent searching, Paul felt "summoned," just as we were about to give up what was obviously a failed odyssey.  He called out to us that, indeed, the protective iron fence -- which had been our clue to identifying the tomb had disappeared -- obviously a victim of Time -- yet it was evident from the inscription that here lay Amable Charbonnet, b. 1790.   His daughter, Emma, a girl only 7 year's old, shared his burial place.  

The grave had suffered years of neglect and  surely had suffered the effects of Katrina, but its beauty was still awesome.  It was carved of white marble and was created in Paris.  The artist's signature was prominent on the front of the tomb, and one can only wonder who was responsible for commissioning this work of art?  Did Amable order it prior to his death?  It would have been brought by ship, of course, but that would have been some years after his demise.

Our cousin, Armand Charbonnet (of the Charbonnet-Labat Funeral Home -- about a two blocks away from the cemetery) -- explained that -- from the appearance of the grave,  Amable's body had been lowered into the ground, and the tomb added at a later time.

It was a moment that will be remembered always.  After centuries, the Charbonnets are now one ... and it appears that I've become the matriarch of a legendary American Family.  

A simple act of kindness in the information age ... .

Received an email message from new friends, Nigel and Raynel Hamilton, shortly after reaching home.
Their brief words confirmed that the New Orleans experience was, indeed, not wrought by my imagination, but had really happened.  They've promised to stay in touch, and to visit our park when next they travel to the West Coast where Raynel's mother still lives.

Corpus Christi School

Haven't yet decided just how I will begin to incorporate the new chapter into my twice-weekly presentations in the Visitors Center theater.  They were surely important to capturing my life as it progresses now with the speed of light!

There are still things learned that are too disturbing to share -- at least not yet.  I'd not realized how wedded I've become to what was once purely speculative and now needs to be given up for the sake of truth-telling.  But then I'm still not certain that -- since there is no way to know when one's speculations outweigh those of others in geneaology -- just why I shouldn't just keep to a "truth" that may be less disturbing remains a mystery.

There are two new elements in the tracing of our family histories that may provide a more accurate record than before.  My late  sister, Lottie, was doing some great work -- separate from mine -- using Ancestor.com's program.  My work was largely based upon stories passed down from my mother's sister, Vivian, and my grandfather, Papa George.  I'd gathered what I could from census records and the Family History Center of the Mormon Church.  Two family researchers had helped along the way, son, Bob, and cousin Doug Allen.  Together we'd built a fairly accurate history that is online and accessible on the left side of the screen above the archives.

Recently, Cousin Paul Charbonnet (paternal line) opened up the Ancestry.com work and invited me to join him in that endeavor, and a new channel of learning popped up in my life, and Lottie's earlier work was revealed to me for the first time.  How I wish we'd worked together before she took leave of this dimension!

This is also true of Cousin Sandra Colomb (maternal side), with whom I was able to share a wonderful day during my visit, and it was her work that revealed new speculations on our great grandmother Leontine Breaux Allen's origins that begins to make sense when one considers the times in which she lived.

If my visit to our ancestral home accomplished what I'd hoped for, it was that the Circle of Life was completed for me.  In the Tremé I was able to remember the sounds of the street vendors (now gone), and remember things from early childhood as if there had been no interruption that brought me so far from what was surely home.

I now have the answer to the question of what to do with the dozen or so engineering volumes, the blueprint of the banana conveyer; the fading photographs of my grandfather, Louis Charbonnet; of buildings, a baseball field in the Treme, and other structures should be sent to the Amistad Collections at Tulane University.  There are already articles based on his work there, and -- with what I've learned of the value of ephemera through our park's cultural resources division -- I need to send those artifacts home.   I will send copies of the original blueprints to be exhibited at the Charbonnet-Labat funeral home to be hung beside the rest of the family photos. The processing firm that reproduced a copy of the banana conveyor included a disk from which more copies can be made -- will donate that to Armand and Louis for their collection.

But first I will confer with my children over Christmas dinner on Tuesday. 

My friend, Lewis Watts, Professor at the University of California at Santa Cruz sent these great black and white photos of a jazz funeral at the Charbonnet Funeral Home and they begged to be shared ... .

... found myself wishing that he'd been along on this pilgrimage.  My photos are still in my camera, waiting for me to find the installation disc to free them from lock-up. I've acquired a new computer recently, and the software isn't able to make them accessible, so I've been scavenging whatever others have sent until Olympus or those Mac geniuses answer my calls for help!


Lew was reading my blog and it reminded him of the unforgettable experience of his first jazz funeral, so he sent his images along.  Hope he doesn't mind my sharing them.  They'll be included in his soon-to-be-published photo book on New Orleans life.

R.I.P. Uncle Lionel Batiste Funeral Fri, July 20, 2012

I want to share this amazing video. It almost defies logic, but is the work of my cousins at the Charbonnet-Labat Funeral Home in New Orleans ... .

"Uncle" Elliott Batiste was an old jazz musician who's family decided that they wanted him to be standing up at his service (he was laid to rest in a casket the day after the viewing).  He was "second-lined" for 3 days after, according to my cousin Armand, co-director of the mortuary.

This is a fine example of cultural differences between white and black religious traditions.  There is little distance between the sacred and the profane in African American culture.  It's all a part of life and to be celebrated in the cultural language of the deceased.  The funeral procession with its somber dirge-like cadence of Amazing Grace contrasted with the spirited jazz once the procession reaches the Mahalia Jackson Auditorium in Congo Square is a fine example of this.   The traditional, "Oh didn't he ramble" is a favorite of the second-liners, and in the case of Uncle Elliott's funeral -- it's clear that every jazz musician in town was in that procession.   According to cousin Armand, "they second-lined him for 3 days!"

The Charbonnet brothers have never revealed how they managed to pull this one off, and it remains a mystery to this day.

We Charbonnets do rise to the challenges though, right?

Uncle Lionel Batiste's Last Stand

It occurred to me that new readers may need some context through which to catch up with my stories, thus the re-posting of "This is Us" ... .

This was produced about 3 years ago by PBS, and gives a fairly good portrait of my work with the National Park Service. 

This Is Us! Betty Soskin

Musings on the 2012 WWII International Conference in New Orleans ... .

Thinking about that audience of WWII historians, authors, veterans, and descendants of that generation.  I've mentioned that I seem to have outlived my rage without losing my passion, and never has that been more true than now.

In the dark of evening -- long after we'd left Arnaud's restaurant in the French Quarter where the presenters had been wined and dined with elegance by our hosts -- the sorting out was well underway. Seated to my right was author historian, Nigel Hamilton, who wrote the definitive book on JFK: Reckless Youth and the authorized biography on Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery, among others.  To my left, my co-presenter earlier in the evening, Jerry E. Strahan, author of Andrew Jackson Higgins and the Boats that Won World War II. 
I'd just been photographed standing with the grandson of General Omar Bradley, a tall distinguished kindly man of grace and humility.  These were the giants of that history; all men of great accomplishments.  I felt honored to be among them.  I've rarely experienced greater respect.  I was treated as an equal in every way.

I've mentioned that I was the only person of color among the 500 participants in the 2012 International Conference of the WWII Museum.  But the reasons were  obvious when I'd had time to give it some thought.  These were the descendants of WWII at a time -- 3 years before the desegregation of the Armed Forces by executive order from President Harry Truman.  That would not happen until 1948.  Separation of the races was clearly their reality, and it could hardly have been otherwise, given the seriously-flawed social system under which we were living at the time.  No one knows better than I of the importance of telling that story as it was lived in order to provide a baseline against which to measure how far we've come over the 70 years since.  Any revising of that history would rob us of the truth of what has been endured over time, and of the gains we've made in the process of making the much-needed corrections.  By re-visiting those years with eyes wide open, we can find the hope needed to complete the transformation to true democracy over the years ahead. 

When I started to speak on Friday evening, the first sentences that came to mind as I looked out at those white faces in the audience were, "... what gets remembered is a function of who's in the room doing the remembering." I repeated those words to provide emphasis -- as the truth of that experience rose to consciousness.

At the time  -- early in development of Rosie the Riveter/World War II Home Front Historical National Park --  I had to give up any notion that my story was omitted from history through some grand conspiracy.  My stories had simply slipped from memory through neglect.  There were no villains around the table of planners in the early stages of park development.  I was the only person of color in those days, acting as a field representative for a member of the State Assembly, and the only one with a memory bank that included so much of that forgotten history.  I recall how shocked I was upon realizing that we were about to create a national park that would enshrine sites of segregation, and that no one else was aware of it,  or had any reason to be.

It should be no surprise that these good folks of the WWII Conference had no awareness of the need to include the descendants of the Tuskegee Airmen, the highly-decorated 442nd Americans of Japanese descent -- in some cases drafted to serve out of relocation camps to fight the bloody battles in Italy; the heroic All Black tank battalion, the 761st, that fought so valiantly under General George Patton in the invasion of Germany.  Were they included, that room would have looked very different.  But whatever places of honor that have been established to honor their service are still separated by the racial barrier from the mainstream -- as represented by the WWII Museum.

... and I saw no villains in that ballroom, either.  Just an unknowing of the need to present the complexity of those times, and that by sacrificing that complexity, they've omitted a substantial portion of "Truth."


Photo:  by Sandra Colomb

My father, Dorson Louis Charbonnet

About that anger sensed by cousin Paul as the first words of my speech began to form ...

Earlier in the day I'd visited the Charbonnet-Labat Funeral Home on Claiborne and St. Phillips with my first cousin, Armand Charbonnet.  He is a co-director with his brother, former Louisiana State Senator, Louis Charbonnet.  They are both among the notables of the Creole world of New Orleans.  Together, they are the  team known for the legendary jazz funerals of New Orleans.  This impressive family enterprise was established in 1893, and has survived even Katrina, when it was inundated by 4 feet of flood waters.

He'd gathered me up at the WWII Museum on that day for a lunch of stuffed shrimp at Dookie Chase restaurant in the 7th Ward -- where there were huge photos of both President Obama seated at a table feasting on one of the specialties of the house, and George W. Bush doing the same.  This was storybook New Orleans Creole cuisine with art-to-die-for hung from the walls of the newly-restored building; post-Katrina.

Grandfather, Louis Charbonnet

During the visit I learned the answer to a question I'd wondered about all of my life.  Why on earth was I born in Detroit, Michigan?  My parents were both from families firmly-rooted in New Orleans, yet both my sister, Marjorie, and I came into the world in Detroit.

Armand:  "It was awful! Your daddy, Dorson, was working on a job with our father when a white man approached with a question for your grandfather.  Now -- as was the custom that no black man ever addressed a white person by their first name, and only by the surname.  On the other hand, no white man ever addressed a black person by their last name."

On that particular day, the white man spoke to my proud grandfather and in so doing called him, "Louie."  On that note my equally proud father, Dorson, called him on it saying, "... do you know who you're talking to?  And followed the impertinent question by using the forbidden first name of the offender.

click to enlarge

"Our father had to rush him out of the State, and to Detroit where your mother had relatives (the Breaux/Allens) until it was safe to come home."  That must have been in about 1917 and my mother was probably pregnant with my sister, Marjorie.  I was born 4 years later in 1921, and we returned to New Orleans shortly thereafter when my grandfather's health failed and the end was in sight.  My father joined with his brothers to complete work on St. John de Bertrand's Convent, for the first Order of Black Nuns in this country -- the Sisters of the Holy Family.

These photos tell the story, I believe.  I'm not sure there were ever two more prideful and handsome men.  The little business card served as my grandfather's resume, I suppose, and provides a picture of his eminence in the community.  He was a legend in his time.

Hearing this unknown ('til now) story just before having to face that audience of white faces in that grand ballroom of the Astor Crowne Plaza -- in the place where it had all happened -- was almost unbearable.  I stuffed it down into a corner of my brain until I could get through my speech, then cried myself to sleep upon reaching my room that night.  It was only in realizing the full impact of how much the human condition has changed with the times, and that some of the angst and hurt could be washed away by the triumph of the event in the grand ballroom earlier in the evening, that I was able to "let it go," and continue to exalt in the present.

Tomorrow cousin Paul and his wife, Shirley, who were my hosts on this trip -- would take me to St. Louis cemetery where we would locate the tomb of our ancestor-in-common, Amable Charbonnet, b. 1790 d. 1833, and reset our personal histories to take us into the future in truth.

More to come ... .

Challenges of entering WWII examined

Challenges of entering WWII examined

Down the rabbit hole once more ...

Where does one start?  Maybe with the culminating event of the WWII International Conference at the Astor Crowne Plaza Hotel on Canal Street -- just outside the French Quarter.  Yes, we'll work our way from there:

After three days of presentations by eminent scholars and historians from a list that boggles the mind, plus noted authors and military experts from every branch of the service, and all of them male save one -- a Holocaust survivor who was interviewed by her son.  I had just about overdosed on "The War!"  In order to see the presenters in the grand ballroom (500 attendees), we had to peer through a veil of testosterone dense enough to obscure  all but the most obvious.  And the most obvious was that there were no other people who looked like me in that audience.  Only the hotel maids, bellhops, clerks behind the reception desk, and other assorted service staff were African American.   But it was also true that there were some hotel guests of color at the time, just not connected with the Conference.

I was reminded that it wasn't all that long ago that my relatives could only be admitted to such a hotel in the city of New Orleans through the back entrance, and only if they were providing a service or making a delivery.  That's a kind of progress, right?

...but this was the third day of the Conference, and my presentation would occur between 5:00 and 6:00 that evening.  I would share the lectern with Dr. Jerry Strahan, author of a book on Higgins Industries, and a charming and very personable man -- who gave me an autographed copy of his book on the French Quarter at the end of the evening.  The inscription is to be treasured.  Higgins was the New Orleans version of our Henry J. Kaiser, but he built PT boats.   I was later to learn from my first cousin, Armand Charbonnet, that 3 of my uncles had worked for Higgins on those boats.  They were super craftsmen.

With Omar Bradley Beukema, grandson of General Omar Bradley

As usual, I'd prepared nothing and there were no meticulously-ordered notes to lead the way -- only whatever truth I could bring to the surface in the moment.  I've learned over the years with the National Park Service to trust my memory in combination with an innate ability to read audiences.  But this was "prime time,"  after all Tom Brokaw had been among the presenters in 2011.  Whatever was I thinking?  I felt a moment of panic as Jerry Strahan brought his prepared sheaf of papers to the lectern and preceded my talk with 25 minutes of well-delivered facts about his subject.  I would depend upon my inner clock to tell me when to stop talking, and (hopefully) the words would come when summoned.

As the applause ended for Strahan, I walked to the lectern and stood silently for what seemed an eternity while waiting for the thoughts to get organized like metal shavings against a magnet.  I opened with the fact that I was a 20 year-old file clerk in a Jim Crow Union hall in Richmond, California; that I'd not ever seen a ship under construction, but that being a clerk was a step up from the only opportunities available to me as a woman of color -- working in agriculture, or, as a domestic servant.  (Later cousin Paul Charbonnet told me that I sounded angry during those first few sentences of my talk.)

I'd brought along "Lost Converations" my little 4-minutes video created with NPS Ranger Naomi Torres, in the early days of my service.  I'd handed it to the technicians prior to my presentation, but it felt like overkill, so I didn't give the signal at the point where it was to be inserted into the program.  By the silence in the room, and the looks on the faces as the words began to flow -- in much the way it does in our little theater in my afternoon talks -- we were as one.  There were suddenly no strangers in that vast room.  The magic was at hand.  And, as usual, it was an overwhelming experience, and I felt that I stopped more abruptly than intended as I realized how fully engaged they were, and of my obligation to fill the silence with meaning.

... then the thunderous applause, and the rising from the chairs in a standing ovation that still rings in my ears in the silence of the night.

But that's only the beginning ... . 

Before I get into my report on the New Orleans trip (and wait'll you hear!), I do want to share this image of a new item in our gift shop at the Visitors Center ... .

For months I've been lobbying to get products that reflect the diversity of the home front work place.  Finally, after a steady dose of nagging, cajoling, being insistent, she arrived on our shelves -- this brilliantly designed image of an African American "Rosie," -- on both red and black tee shirts.  They're stunning!

The design is by graphic artist, Rich Black, who is a Berkeleyan who does the art work for the Ashby Stage, otherwise known as the Shotgun Players.  Rich graciously agreed to donate his services and artistry to the cause, and "Richmond Rosie" is the result. 

My complaint was based on the fact that I've never been able to identify with what has become the "We can do it" Rosie we've come to accept as the symbol of the women who answered their country's call to replace the men called to the battlefronts.  She was ubiquitous, but she was not representing the women whom I knew.  There seemed to be little recognition of the fact that the universal use of that design seemed to suggest that "white" folks were the generic folks, and the rest of us were "somethin' else," or in more formal words, "exotic."  No one seemed to understand my resistance to accepting this as "my" symbol.

C'mon, guys.  You gotta see that we've extended the diversity issue and made the gift shop more relevant to a broader community by adding some spice to the mix!

In midweek I'm jetting off to New Orleans in another grand adventure ...

... it has been many years since I've visited my ancestral home.  I believe it was in the mid-Eighties when Bill and I -- on impulse -- hopped on United to spend part of the Mardi Gras season.  This would be his introduction to the Creole world of my childhood and my family's pride.

It was a strange time that started off with our landing with summer clothes in February (brrrrr!) thinking the weather would be tropical.  My last visit had been many decades earlier -- in adolescence -- when I was allowed to travel South to represent the Northern California clan at Mammá's birthday celebration.  I remembered it as steamy and overgrown with empty lots looking like mini-jungles -- with board sidewalks on unpaved streets in the parts of the city where some of my relatives lived.  I remembered short downpours almost daily during that summer.  But this was something quite different.  The steaminess was replaced by a moist chill that penetrated to the bone.  And we were like the tourists seen shivering along the Embarcadero in tee-shirts and sandals in a wintry Bay Area July.  We were completely unprepared, climate-wise.

This time I will be arriving in town as a guest presenter for the International Convention of the WWII Museum, and, as representing the National Park Service.  The conference site is the Astor Crowne Plaza Hotel, a place where my grandparents and parents would visit only when delivering goods or services, and through the servant's entrance at that.  My memories go back to a segregated city fully committed to southern tradition.

Over the past weeks I've been silently re-living that southern tradition as I recall a trip to Washington, D.C., with Bill when he was scheduled for a visit to N.I.D.A. in relation to his continuation grant, I believe, and would be my first trip to the Capitol.

While there I was anxious to see the historic places which meant renting a car to drive to Mt. Vernon and Monticello -- then to Williamsburg, Virginia.  At Mt. Vernon and Monticello, I was simply an American exploring my country's historic sites, and nothing more.  However, by the time we reached the exclusive hotel in Williamsburg, I'd experienced enough southern history to have been transformed into Betty with her white husband (I'd forgotten about that), and guilty of something that my growing up in the liberal Northern California community had not prepared me for.  In the world of the University, we were simply seen as having reached a level of sophistication that made racial and cultural inter-marriage somewhere beyond the norm.  We were "international."

I remember (shamefully) that -- as we drove into the carriage entrance to this exclusive hotel -- I was so overtaken by fear (remember, we'd been visiting slave quarters only hours before), that I was (head down and eyes averted) carrying luggage and walking a few paces behind Bill -- trying as hard as I could to escape notice.  I hovered behind a potted plant as he checked our reserverations at the desk.  I was miserable!

That night we made our entrance dressed in evening clothes for a fancy supper in the ornate banquet room. It was obvious that I was the only person of color -- other than the waiters -- in that elegant space.  I'd not been sharing my discomfort with Bill, so he was unaware of my misery.  As the neatly-uniformed all-Black dining-room staff began to peek out of the circular window of the door from the food preparation area, I was absolutely vibrating with mixed feelings.  I could imagine conversations in the kitchen about this mixed couple.  Could they be imagining that I was "passing" or at least trying to?  Or far worse, were they imagining that I was someone "of color" picked up for an evening's  entertainment?  I was surely pretty enough for tongues to wag.  A mere sexual liaison?  My imagination painted a horrifying picture, and for reasons that are unclear to this day, I felt guilty and guilty of what, I had no clue.  Makes one wonder at the potency of racism that appears to have the power to inflict its pain over generations.  Whose guilt could I be channeling, and why?

There was a live orchestra that was making dedications occasionally from the bandstand.   I was puzzled as I watched Bill whisper to the bandleader at one point, and surprised to hear the next dedication -- a waltz -- "to Dr. and Mrs. William Soskin of California on their 35th wedding anniversary!"  Of course we had only been married for a few years at that point and this date held neither of my anniversaries, but if you counted my earlier marriage to Mel, at least I'd been married for that long, just not to him. Giggles took over and fear was replaced by sheer joy!  Everyone applauded, and we danced on the graves of all the southern traditionalists in Virginia -- and, almost everyone in the room rose and were dancing with us before the song ended. This was a far different world than the one in which I'd been trapped for all those lonely hours in a luxurious hotel suite so far from home and the world of freedom that I'd so taken for granted 'til now.

Bill (the psychologist) had noticed.  He had found a way to help me to confront my fears in a most beautiful way.

The waiter smiled knowlingly as he served our after dinner aperitif but his insinuating grin no longer threatened my sense of self.  I quietly wept my relief into a beautiful brandy snifter and filed the memory away until now.  Strange how time and memory work together so that all of the affect of that moment has been refreshed into my fingertips as I write this -- and tears are brimming ... .

Maybe I'm the Avatar who was meant to bridge this gigantic chasm of a racial barrier for the entire Charbonnet/Breaux/Morales/Allen ancestral Grand Opera!  We are America, are we not?  We've lived the great American narrative, and it is colorful and epic.

If you hear a great hullabaloo over the next several days, it may be the white and brown ancestors either doing a stately celebratory 18th century quadrille; prancing a sprightly Mardi Gras "second line" between the graves, or, furiously hurling fragments of headstones at one another in one horrendous fit of total outrage!  Either way, cousin Paul Charbonnet and I will know that our coming together over the past years was/is a milestone in the lives of one of the great pioneer American families of Old New Orleans. 

Would that I could rid my mind of this debate  ... but it is not to be, at least not yet ... .

As I was dropping off to sleep last night, after answering Linda's last message, I was reminded of a conversation with my husband, Bill, many years ago:

It was one of those days when he was deep into grant-writing for the continuation of Project Community, the research project he had created through the psych department at the university.  He was in the early "thinking through justification" segment of the application; that part that I couldn't help with anyway, so there I stood in the doorway all bundled up ready to join some demonstration or other that would soon be underway down the hill on the steps of Sproul Hall on campus.  Somewhat petulantly but with good humor, he affectionately tucked my bright red wool scarf a bit closer to my chin saying, "you know, Hon, that it takes many decades to get measurable social change, and sometimes it takes centuries.  All of your marching and protesting and letter-writing campaigns are meaningless against that truth."  I guessed that his words were simply an expression of his wanting me to be somewhere in the house where he could hear my footsteps overhead as he worked in his big Charles Eames "thinking" chair beside the fireplace in the downstairs library.

I remember looking up at him and saying with conviction, "... but if you didn't have dedicated crazy folks like me marching, protesting, and letter-writing today, you scientists wouldn't have any social change to measure over time!"

I think my exchange with Linda speaks to that truth.

For all of my understanding of well-traveled journalist Linda's more sophisticated and informed position,  my disappointment in the president's dismissive treatment of the Rule of Law remains steadfast.  Even understanding the risks to life and limb of our citizens overseas; even understanding the dilemmas leaders are faced with in guiding the nation forward while carrying the burden of the errors of previous administrations; and, despite the limitations and vulnerabilities of being human -- somewhere among us there must be those ordinary folks, like me, who have our eyes firmly set on our ideals and demanding nothing but "perfection," even when the word has to be set in quotes.  Maybe we serve as lodestones, stars to set our compasses by, and are only meaningful when viewed from space.  Maybe we only hold influence in the aggregate, and are insignificant, individually.  But, maybe it is we who keep the faith with each succeeding generation as, together, we create and re-create participatory democracy in our time.

Maybe this is but one more example of the relative comfort with "conflicting truths" that I've matured enough to have aged into.  (and,  yes, I'm aware that this is worded awkwardly, but it's precisely what I mean.)

Took the liberty of adding you to my blog ...

---

From: Betty Reid Soskin

To: Linda 

Subject: Took the liberty of adding you to my blog ... (with no identifying mark except for your first name)

Date: Nov 26, 2012 8:02 PM

---

...was really interested in your response. It pointed up just how naive are my opinions at times, even when I dig deep for meaningful answers to great questions. My somewhat sheltered existence comes to the surface in a disconcerting way, especially when confronted with Linda, whose career and life experiences are so much more expansive. I've lived my entire life within 30 square miles, and have never been in a foreign culture except for a trip to Hawaii -- if that counts at all. It wouldn't have dawned on me -- the deadly threat to those living overseas had Osama been held for trial. It just didn't occur to me that he would not be, under our system of governance. My reaction to the brutal assassination and the sadness that followed over many months may have had to do with my needing to come to terms with a new national reality that is clearly far more gray than black or white.

I'd completely forgotten about the backgrounds of those two Nobel Laureates, Yasser Arafar and Menachem Begin, two former revolutionaries who dared to outlive their colorful pasts to become "Men of Peace." Our president's record is in no way comparable, of course.

One must factor in the Marshall Mcluhan effect before drawing conclusions. That I neglected to do, unfortunately.

Betty

Re: Wheels ever turning ...

---

From: Linda

To: Betty Reid Soskin

Subject: Re: Wheels ever turning ...

Date: Nov 26, 2012 9:28 AM

---

Betty, I've been meaning to respond to your amazingly thoughtful email. Please excuse my delay - holiday eating and shopping caught up with me.

I do hope you'll place these ideas in your blog. They are powerful and certainly release a host of heated themes. That said I often wonder if a president should be judged by his character and actions within the handcuffs/context of the era in which he governs.

The delicate race balance is a fascinating issue. Though, your comments on how Mr. Obama has worked to perpetuate the changing shape of war: endless war against unknown individuals. Though this is more a testament of the civil strife he inherited, no? Osama had, in a sense, become the only KNOWN unknown individual, a person who could be crushed and possibly symbolize the end of this type of war, the transcendence to another way forward. (just playing devil's advocate here). I do believe placing Osama before a global court of law would have been the just thing to do - though it would certainly have placed Americans living abroad in harm's way (including myself at the time).

"How on earth did he end up the only Nobel Peace prize recipient with a kill list?" I remind you that Yasser Arafat is also among the recipients.

How does America continue to be a beacon of opportunity and hope when there are such coordinated global efforts to trample it? Constitutionally speaking, it's by making sure no one is above the law. Though when has America ever truly operated under this mandate? Obama had us convinced that he would be the first and by doing so would refresh America's brand. This did NOT happen. And in that sense I truly understand your grievance.

So fascinating to engage in dialogue with you. And I'm glad this exchange helped. It appears my editor is taking the economic route for the larger in-depth video. I am disappointed, but Peter cheered me up  by reminding me of our documentary (a work in progress which will be done on our terms).

Meanwhile, we'll be sending you a wedding invite today. We're so happy that you'll be a part of our really special day.

Love,
Linda