Night before last brought a late call from Dorian in distress ...

Drove in at almost midnight to pick her up (complete with her family of two precious cats in carriers) and tucked her into the futon beside my bed -- for the night. These calls usually involve her sometimes live-in, alcoholic, and paranoid-schizophrenic lover who is either moving in or moving out -- depending upon whatever is shifting his body at the moment.

This "living in the community" feature of dealing with the mentally handicapped has a definite down side. When she was much younger, the State was, too. The Lanterman act made it possible to move many patients out of institutions into communities because -- through several Regional Centers scattered throughout California -- services were provided to enable each to live up to his or her potential (whatever that might be) within the general population. A valiant goal. Through a series of successive budget shortfalls and an ever-increasing population, those services have been drastically cut and we now have barely-functioning mentally deficient souls struggling out there with less and less to support them. It's really tragic. Many living under bridges and on warm grates throughout the country are those without family members to fill in the gaps for them. They fall through the cracks and often die from neglect, heartbreak and total confusion. As parents and siblings die off, they're left without advocates.

Dorian's young man is one such. He was born to parents who abandoned him, and was later adopted by another pair who did likewise after much abuse. He is clever, ego-maniacal, and domineering. I have to continually remind myself that he is impaired and not simply pathologically narcissistic. Staff cutbacks have provided a situation that supports his alcoholism and aggravates an already compromised life. And, my daughter adores him. He controls her every move and overrides my influence with her. That's new for me. She and I have always had a fine relationship that evolved intentionally and over many years from "mom" to "best friend." That's all but shattered, except that I can still count upon her honesty when things get really rough. Otherwise, she is so protective of him that I fear that she is being silently abused and shields him from criticism when she can.

I'd picked up the "Sea Biscuit" and "Whale Rider" DVDs on Tuesday, and we climbed into bed and watched them late into the night (both terrific!). Dropped her off at NIAD for her art class yesterday. She was obviously depressed and non-productive. She'd worked on a block print but had trashed it as not worthy of her effort. She a fine judge of when she's done well or failed at whatever she's working on.

Yesterday I drove her back to her apartment in Oakland in the early evening -- her therapist was coming at seven -- so she stayed there overnight. She called early this morning to check on just how her cats had fared without her. Kyle was apparently still gone.

Today I have lunch with a former co-worker (friend), a meeting with the National Park Service folks at 4:30 and dinner tonight at Marilyn's about the Barbara Alexander School. Dorian has Amy (her teacher) this afternoon from 2 until 4:30 so will be occupied fairly well. Tomorrow morning I will pick her up for another day at NIAD. Saturday morning there is basketball practice for Special Olympics -- I'll drive her in to Oakland for that. Then we'll spend the weekend together, hopefully.

That is, if Kyle allows it.

...and I find myself wondering just how long I'll be able to fill in the gaps in funding for her by partially supporting two households? Were I to die tomorrow, despite all, would my Dorian drift out into the social abyss and end up under a bridge somewhere?

Collapsing our lives into a single living space will undo all the years of training her to live without me. It's been such a long and painful process, but may have been an exercise in futility after all. I still hope to not infantalize her this late in life, but must try to continue to confirm her independence in every way possible. That involves taking some worrisome risks.

It seems less likely now than a month ago, but -- given a bit more effort -- maybe I can salvage something beyond my principles. That resignation may be have more costly than I'd realized. It troubles me to think that I may have compromised Dorian's future as well as my own, and she has a lot more future than I have, at least potentially. And therein lies the undercurrent that rules our lives ... the theme that dominates everything.

What will happen to Dorrie?

One might think that being unemployed would allow for more free time than before ...

Not working out that way. Looking for another position before I default on my mortgage or lose my insurance coverage keeps me not only busy but with a sense of urgency that surpasses even that which comes with the natural course of aging. This is something else. It probably equals the disquiet that everyone feels -- regardless of age -- when living from paycheck to paycheck. Any interruption in that process brings a sense of sheer terror. I'm beginning to experience shallow breathing -- now clearly noticeable because of the absence of the normal sense of power enjoyed for so many years. Always believed that I was facing the world with honesty and directness, and ever conscious of my ability to handle almost anything, given the time and the energy. Have rarely felt helpless and have climbed a respectable number of mountains in my day and made a hell of a lot of lemonade!

Let's get to the good stuff:

Kevin Cooper's execution has been set aside, and the anti-death penalty movement can stop and catch its breath. Turned out to be a celebration instead of a wake at the prison gates last night. Wonderful! The 9th Circuit Court of Appeals turns out to be the factor that turned the march toward death into a dance of victory. That panel is still deliberating the fate of Stanley "Tookie" Williams, but did the unprecedented thing of recommending that the governor give full consideration to clemency when handing down their last response to his case. That decision is still pending.

The film, "Redemption" is continuing to cause a great stir in festival circles with invitations to several more. Sundance gave it buzz that has excited the public far beyond the anti-death penalty movement. C.H. Pounder plays Winnie Mandela in the movie. Mandela called Barbara as she was leaving LA/Ex for home. A friend of Winnie's was in the audience and called South Africa to rave about the film. What resulted was an invitation to Barbara to bring it to South Africa for a showing before the Parliament. Channel FX is thrilled and is already working on it.

Spent Sunday lazing under the tallest eucalyptus forest imaginable (a monarch butterfly migration site), within reasonable rock-tossing distance to the ocean. This is the A-Frame home of an artist friend on whose board I'm serving. I so love interacting with these creative minds. There was a stage-lighting specialist, a grants-writer-capacity-building woman of the arts, a dancer-aerialist and one of her dancers, the beautiful black-eyed 4-year old son of Joanna, and a choreographer called "Baby Jose." Jose (the stage-lighting specialist) is from Argentina whose ultimate life plan is to purchase an old castle in central Mexico for a Bed and Breakfast. His specialty is cooking. He created a fine dinner for us all while we huddled before the fireplace and sipped tea that Joanna had brought back from South Africa ... they talked of Paris, the time they'd spent together in Peru ... Jose's upcoming trip to Brazil (we're all invited to go along, of course), and his most recent trip to Italy.

Jennifer and I spent last Sunday at a dance concert at the Yerba Buena Center where we'd accidentally run into Jose (who stage-manages the Center) and out of that came the invitation to Joanna's on Sunday. It was instantly clear that life grows out of life, and that I must continue to move about in the world in whatever way life presents itself. To not do so is to begin the slow and inevitable surrender to death. This may be one of the unstated but driving life forces ... maybe. Also, in a flash this very obvious truth rose out of nothing into full bloom while looking at the moon out of the car window as the others chatted comfortably about things I knew little or nothing about. It felt warm and right, and like one of those obvious truths that was more like a memory than an epiphany. There's a kind of elegance about that ... like something that rose at some elemental level from the experience of 6 year-old Betty long before she had the language to describe it ...

For the thousandth time in my life, on Sunday someone asked if I'd been a dancer at some earlier time in life. I said (again) "no." But silently -- with no future plans at the moment -- I decided then and there that it's not one minute too late. Will save some time in my new (non)schedule to enter a dance class. My body is lithe and moves well. The fact that I've led a relatively active life suggests that my bones can still take some stress without disintegrating. I've no sign of bone loss, yet, and my energy level is still high. But bonuses will surely begin to ebb if I find myself wasting away in front of the TV. Since I'm still a member of the board of the East Bay Center for Performing Arts -- and, since there are no age barriers -- why not? Maybe no one has yet tested the upper edges of the age levels for dance.

Phone just rang: It was a dear friend from Dion's staff inquiring about how I'm feeling, whether I've found work, (checking on signs of depression in my voice, I'm sure). Fortunately, since she didn't reach me when I was writing those first two paragraphs, she caught me contemplating dance lessons. The mind is oddly mercurial, isn't it? Another important truth? Maybe depression comes in short bursts, and can be dispensed with in quixotic ways. Think I'll set aside my job search for today and create for myself a new reality -- one that includes dancing. (Felt such a deep response on Sunday -- to the sound of a concertina in the background of conversation -- of something on CD -- a tango! Wouldn't that be a hoot!) Think I'll come out from behind this screen and pick up a leotard and maybe some maracas -- in case I can find flamenco dancing somewhere. That, too, stirs something deep inside... .

I'm beginning to know that -- whenever it comes -- death will be a rude interruption in a lifelong search for experiences. If only birth came with a built-in rehearsal feature and a place to Slo-Mo the best parts! Other than that small flaw, life's a bargain at any price, even when times are uncertain and the future only dimly lit... .

Dropped Dorian off at NIAD ... .

(National Institute for Artists with Disabilities) this morning and drove away with the first signs of depression. Couldn't decide what to do with myself with no destination in mind. Haven't been this open for many years, which is a way of saying that I had nowhere to go. Have never been the StarBucks type. With home the likely place to head for at the moment, I find myself sitting here at my computer with nothing of note to report.

The phone rang, "...this is Marilyn. Wanted to report that Maury (the man who met with us on Tuesday) has agreed to contribute to the Barbara Alexander Academy and has suggested that he will seek matching funds from Chevron/Texaco as well." "I'm having a dinner on Thursday next for other contributors and wondering if you would join us?" Agreed. The work on this remarkable charter school must continue. I, of course, accepted, and wondered if I should tell Marilyn how important this call was to me? She pulled me back into an unknown future by setting a date for me to pin myself to.

It's always been true that I need options. I can be comfortably alone only if I have a choice about it. At those times when I'm at loose ends with nothing to do -- slipping from chair to chair and watching "television" instead of specific programs -- I experience loneliness. But, if the phone rings and someone at the other end of the line asks, "...want to go to a movie?" Then, and only then, I can say "no, I plan to spend the evening doing laundry (or a report, or writing, or doodlin')," and at that moment I've chosen to spend the evening at home, alone. It's having someone present an option that makes the difference. Funny. It's always been so. Marilyn had innocently presented the option that transformed time into a living space.

So now that I've chosen, I'm writing here and planning to spend the afternoon making calls and updating my calendar to include new items more closely related to my new open schedule. Lunch with Mindell, another with Michelle, and still another with Isiah are new items. Talk with my broker about my portfolio and the need to begin to transfer dividends into my checking account instead of redepositing. Practical things now must move to the top of my "to do" list. Must contact someone to finish hauling possessions out of the storage place so that another monthly bill can be eliminated. So I'll be a little crowded -- maybe a yard sale?

Has anyone else on earth accumulated as much paper as I? Time to plug in the paper shredder and rid myself of records that go back beyond 7 seven years (isn't that the legal time allowance?). That should take up several days of browsing and tossing, a task I've delayed far too long.

Who knows what gems may turn up among the debris? Or, just how much garbage I've been hoarding for lo these many years ... .

Maybe I've found another compelling activity, at least until another Marilyn calls ... .

Spent a frustrating day ...

Changes are hard enough to deal with when they're the result of one's own doing, but when they're brought on by forces beyond one's control ... well, that's a horse of another color.

On Monday State Senator Perata's office called to say that "the senator's not ready for prime time." With the Kevin Cooper execution scheduled for next week and with protestors already sitting-in at San Quentin, and with full-page ads being placed in the national press by the anti-death penalty forces, I suspect that the issue is just too controversial to take on at the moment. It means that the 60 Minutes interview team has come to town to do the initial background interviews in preparation for the Stan Williams segment, but that there will be no announcement of a bill on the moratorium. Since we've passed the deadline for bill submission for this year's session, it wouldn't have been introduced until after September, anyway. Timing didn't work out. Therefore, Ed Bradley is not scheduled to arrive until around the 23rd of February.

Today Barbara left for the Pan African Film Festival in Culver City and a series of meetings arranged by Tom Hayden to follow on Friday and Saturday. Declined the invitation to go along (despite the fact that Blockbuster is picking up the tab) in the interest of updating my resume and getting the word out -- in the event that someone has an available position. Crazy? Maybe, but I really can't afford to be idle for long or I'll have to start drawing on dividends and reducing my investments prematurely. There isn't too much in reserve and Dorian's expenses grow with each month (this week brought the announcement of another rent increase). A couple of days at the Beverly Wilshire wasn't all that easy to walk away from, though. That was probably my last chance to do "luxury beyond reason!"

There will be a screening of "Redemption" in Sacramento for members of the legislature sometime before the television airing in mid-March. Will be helping to set that up over the next week or two.

Next week will be emotionally draining. Plan to attend the vigil for Kevin Cooper at San Quentin. Will join with others -- probably not on the night of the execution though, but on the night before. It's just too painful to be present at the gates that night. If I can find it somewhere on my hard disk, I wrote a description of that experience. It's hard to explain just why I feel drawn to such actions, but I am. To have a life taken in my name (and yours) should not be taken casually. To place oneself at the scene sharpens the awareness of just how inhumane an act is capital punishment. for the USA to be so far behind the rest of the world in outlawing this murdurous practice defies logic. But then death of young people through war is still beyond my understanding, too.

With the 9th Circuit Court still deliberating his case, Stanley Williams is at least a year away from his execution date (with luck), but having met him and seen his transformation -- having worked so closely with Barbara on his behalf over the past 4 years -- I cannot imagine what it will feel like to experience the effects of his execution on us all, when and if that day comes.

There have surely been unbelievably horrific acts committed by twisted individuals who must be shut away from society for the balance of their lives. "Life without the possibility of parole" is justifiable. That I do believe. But to kill in order to discourage killing makes no sense. The State (being me and thee) has not the right to take life. If one is capable of dropping the pellet, or, personally performing the act of giving a lethal injection, then I suppose the aversion that I feel is my problem, alone. But, there is no virtue in committing such acts in the aggregate if we would be unwilling or incapable of doing it as a lone individual. That's the acid test for me.

Since my work to date has allowed much variety and constant change, there is a risk that I will be drawn into specific areas of concern and lose the ability to balance the highs and lows and levels of intensity in my days. Must be careful. There has to be time to watch the kites, children at play, moving water and changing skies, art and artists, hear music and work with those young people who are on their way into public service. Without those balances, my life may start to be lived defensively and without intentionality. I've seldom had that problem, but then there has always been a central focus. That's what I must find now. If not through another position, then through a carefully-planned program of volunteering. I'll need to be ever alert to opening doors.

Tomorrow will meet with the people at the Chamber of Commerce about the Arts & Entertainment District, and then follow up on resumes sent out by email. These were sent by invitation, so I'm hopeful.

Entering a precarious period, but with lots of hope and some excitement.

Photo: Me, grandson Rhico, Ms. Winnie Mandela, and granddaughter, Kokee Amanda Reid.
Right photo: Ms. Mandela and I visited the Laura Hunter Learning Center in North Richmond on the day that we visited Death Row inmate, Stanley "Tookie" Williams. She'd flown from South Africa to lend support to the anti-death penalty movement and, specifically, to help to plead the case of this five times this Nobel Peace Prize nominee. He was also nominated for the prize in literature. This month (10/2005) his last appeal was turned down by the Supreme Court. His execution will now be scheduled unless the governor acts in his behalf.

Met with Barbara Becnel and Assemblyman Tom Hayden yesterday, I like him,  and, of course, Barbara and I have forged a lasting friendship over the past years ... .

Working with him will be wonderful. He's dedicated to the idea of a moratorium on the death penalty and is committed to changing the criminal justice system in any way he can. Is anyone aware that the cost of educating a child in this state is about $6000/year while the cost of maintaining one prisoner is $27,000/year? That has to stop anyone with common sense in their tracks, right? How have we come to this?

Watched the PBS documentary on the state of the schools (hope you can catch it) called "First to Worst." Shocking story of the continuing effects of Prop. 13 on the education of our young. Helms Middle School is in my district. It's a school that I'm familiar with and what is seen on the small screen is both accurate and disgraceful. The Orinda high school shown is also in the 14th Assembly District, with its unbelievably rich educational culture and hardworking parents who have the financial ability to make up for the deficits that rob innercity kids of so much. Had to keep reminding myself that I'm no longer working for the District ... .

But this morning I'm off to a meeting of the Ma'at Youth Academy, as a board member -- an assignment I'll continue to serve -- I'm still in touch with a group that brings environmental education into the schools. This afternoon I'll meet with someone who may be interested in contributing to the revival of the Barbara Alexander Academy.

Haven't yet sent out those resumes, but have been asked by several interested people to submit ASAP so there may be interest in a continuance of my "career," despite the break in employment. Lots of possibilities ... but now I must leave for Ma'at board meeting.

It's raining and gray and the house is still. I'm so rarely here at this hour. It's strange... .

Feeling a little insecure this day,

it's been a long time since I've had to wonder just what I might be doing come Monday ...

When I allow myself to think about the audacity of a woman my age thinking that she can resign any position on a question of principle? How crazy is that? What in the world would give me the idea that I can walk away from any great job and pick up another at the drop of a resume? But, in thinking back over the past weeks, I can't imagine any other course of action. I could not have stayed, but walking away with only 3 months to go for my retirement benefits to kick in is probably not the brightest thing I've ever done. The state system requires five years of service, and I've worked under the PERS retirement system for 4 years and 9 months. One day less and you're on your own.

There is an alternative. Since both the city and county use the PERS system, if I can find some limited project (3 month stint), I can continue to accumulate credits for time served. Have put out word along the network and will hope that something will turn up. Otherwise, I will be one very expensive volunteer! Can't imagine not being involved in something. Will continue to do consultancies when possible, and to work on special projects with Barbara Becnel, but the steady income that I've grown used to, and that supports both my life and Dorian's has come to an end. Severe cutbacks in the state budget have eliminated her psychotherapist, her rent has seen another increase, and her meds that cost $10 in November rose to $300 after January 1st when she went for a refill. One might certainly question my timing, right?

Meanwhile, this afternoon I helped to celebrate the birthday of an old friend, and tomorrow is a concert of Dimensions Dance Theater with Omar Sosa, pianist, at the Yerba Buena Center in San Francisco. Am dreaming of tickets to see the long-awaited Lion King that opened this week and will be in S.F. until September.

Will meet on Monday with Barbara Becnel and Tom Hayden, then will complete engagements with those still in my datebook and that I can take into my personal life (some interesting projects), and plan to spend the next week lunching with friends and seeking more permanent work arrangements. Wednesday brings the 60 Minutes interviews and Ed Bradley. Have contacted my state senator to announce the introduction of his bill on the moratorium. Will have his answer on Monday. Probably should set aside the next week for worrying about approaching income tax preparation and then property tax filings, then, and only then, aarrggghhhh!!!!! Screaming time! But not until at least 60 days have elapsed.

My chances for employment at Hooters are pretty low, and I'm not sure I'll qualify for flight classes due to excessively sweaty palms -- but there must be something. There's a community college just down the hill from my condo. Maybe they can use a busybody type for something. Maybe I'll take those art classes I've been wishing to take -- "one day when there is time."

Don't think it's crackup time yet, but today my usually mind-bending drive on the freeway yielded little other than questions. Usually my best thinking is done while stuck in traffic. I keep a little tape recorder in the dash compartment, and have often been known to work out some pretty hefty questions while stuck between two SUVs and an oil rig on I-80. Today I couldn't focus, so noticed all of the negatives -- deisel smoke, sirens, garbage on the road, sinister-looking skid marks, angry drivers. Funny, that stretch along the bay usually brings up marine views, sailboats, windsurfers, an occasional kite, weird license plates, interesting sky patterns as the fog moves in stealthily from the sea... .

Was reminded again of just how true it is that we create our own reality... .

Lots of changes...

Resigned from my position and have spent most of this week closing out an important chapter in my life. It was somewhat sudden and involved a matter of principle, and one that I don't feel free to discuss publicly. However, I've been moving in the direction of a career change for some months. It was simply a matter of time.

Have discovered over time that an important stage in the aging process involves a growing sense of urgency. I'm far less patient in these years, and -- having a compressed period in which to accomplish so much -- drives me mercilessly at times. Unfortunately, most of the rest of the world is in a "hurry up and wait" place, with the luxury of time working in their favor.

Today the staff took me out to lunch at my favorite restaurant on the marina, and I felt the sadness of separation deeply. They've become so dear to me, and I was so touched by their caring. We've been together barely two years, but parting was still difficult.

Almost before I managed to move my personal files and pictures back home, the new pages of the next chapter began to unfold:

Very close to my heart has been the work of the anti-death penalty movement. Will be meeting with my friend, Barbara Cottman Becnel, and Tom Hayden (former legislator but now teaching at Occidental College in Southern California) on Monday. Barbara is the woman who managed to get Stan Williams, inmate on San Quentin's Death Row, nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize two years in succession. He's been nominated again this year for both the Nobel Peace Prize and the Nobel Prize for Literature. He is the subject of "Redemption," a film made for television but shown twice at Sundance Film Festival last week. It will be shown nationwide in April on FX Channel. Jamie Foxx plays Stan and Lynne Whitfield, Barbara. On Wednesday and Thursday of next week it opens the Pan African American Film Festival in Hollywood.

With the next execution scheduled for midnight, February 10th, the debate is heating up again in California with a member of the legislature considering putting forth a bill that will seek a moratorium until the system can be studied more closely. Death Row inmate Kevin Cooper may not be saved, but there is a new governor in place who will have to decide on the clemency issue, and he may be more receptive than was Governor Gray Davis who was so heavily-funded by the Prison Guards Unions. The next two weeks will give us a chance to see if there's been any change in the attitude of the citizens in this state. They voted 90% to support capital punishment some years ago, but with so many innocent prisoners caught up in a flawed system, sentiments are changing markedly across the country. We have no measure yet of the effects of the debate on the citizens of this state. Our executions are not as frequent as those of Texas, for instance, so the debate carries no urgency.

All that is to say that Sixty Minutes is sending Ed Bradley to the Bay Area to work on a segment on Death Row inmate Stanley "Tookie" Williams (the subject of "Redemption"). It will be aired in March. I have the responsibility of meeting with both Bradley and the legislator who is preparing a moratorium bill, in the hope that he can be persuaded to make his announcement on Sixty Minutes -- thereby getting national coverage. That'll be on Wednesday afternoon. But tomorrow (my last day at the office) will be the first day of my new assignment.

Not sure where all this will lead, but I'm feeling right about having freed myself from this last chapter in the Saga of Betty, and can't wait to see where life will take me next. It feels good. There's a quiet excitement about this unanticipated change.

Attended a retirement dinner for our city manager last night, and in looking around the room at that familiar crowd of actively involved people, it felt like home. There are two candidates for city councils that I'm working closely with -- that will continue. There is the Arts Commission that I can now work more closely with (been missing a lot of meetings due to the demands of my job). There is the Chamber of Commerce that is showing great interested in my vision of a now-abandoned downtown redevelopment into an Arts & Entertainment District. Will be meeting with the Chamber staff to explore that one day very soon.

I'm guessing that I'll become more of a player in the city than in the state, and that feels right. It's so much easier to effect change in the smaller arena. This is always where I've done my best work, I think.

This is a city in chaos, with a budget crisis of enormous proportions, and with most of the management team gone and replaced by interim staff. With firehouse closures, and public safety threatened in a time of a national emergency. This is also the time of great opportunity. It's a time when there is the greatest chance for making a difference. It's at precisely such times that the adrenaline flows wildly, and I see possibilities everywhere I look. To be free to explore those opportunities is the best of all worlds. It was truly time to move on. It feels right. But I'll sorely miss those wonderful young women with whom I've spent these last several years working to save the world. There are some exceptional young people working in public service. I wonder if we really appreciate just how many there are out there, doing their best to serve us all?

Now I'll look for the batteries to fit into my beautiful crystal mantel clock -- a most thoughtful gift from young women who have enriched my life and kept me whole for even more years. The inscription embedded in a small silver plaque (taken from an original painting that hung on my office wall) reads, "Against the ruin of the world there is only one defense; the creative act." The painting was given to me many years ago by an artist friend, Clarice Bois. It's meant a lot to me. It hung near my work space at home, always. I brought it along to my office when I went to work for Loni. I'd thought that painting only spoke to me, but obviously Clarice had made her impact on each of them as well. She died several years ago, but this tribute to her work touched me deeply.

...I will wear the exquisite handpainted "wearable art" scarf of muted purples, greens, lilacs, and pale yellows, when I want to feel particularly pampered and regal.

The future is in good hands.

Truly ... .

Photo: Painting by Clarice Bois - 1968.

...and whom shall we say represents "normal" in this cautionary tale?

After having spent the years from six to twelve at a fine Summerhillian private school in the Alhambra Valley, it was time for Dorian to move on. She'd spent the years relatively happily, but she was the only mentally-handicapped child in this small progressive school, and as the children she'd entered with grew older and intellectually more capable and less tolerant of her deficits she tended to seek friendships with younger and younger children. I was convinced that she was becoming grotesque to the littler ones and now needed a different educational environment in which to continue to grow at her own far slower rate. I'd learned about a fine school in Marin County that might better serve her changing needs. I think that experience colored my feelings about mainstreaming such children. Dorian needed a place where it was she who was at the higher end of achievement scales. Something I've never regretted.

The Cedars was a boarding school, heavily endowed, obviously well-run, and recognized and supported by Lanterman funding (State of California). It was a reasonable 35 or so miles from Walnut Creek, in Ross, and therefore practical for us, though extremely difficult to think about since it was to be our first separation. Our family was defensively close and I wasn't sure how to prepare the boys for this next step in Dorian's move toward whatever independence she could achieve before I die and leave her in the world without our support.

I'd noticed from the first newsletter that no surnames were used when reporting on activities of the residents. This should have been a tip-off that -- despite outward appearances -- this was a people bank in which to deposit embarrassing relatives. This was my first brush with the mentally-handicapped community since Dorrie had never been exposed to that world, nor had we.

Also noticed that -- on my every-other-Sunday visits -- I rarely ran into other parents. I did become acquainted with several of the young staffers and volunteers who were students at Marin Junior College. They quickly became accustomed to my more frequent visits and could be counted on to see that my girl was content and cared for.

When Dorian was about fourteen, she struck up a friendship with 17 year-old blond Larry, a very sweet and well-mannered youngster who appeared far younger than his years. On our visits she and I would take walking tours along the marina, visit downtown San Rafael or Sausalito, attend any public event we might happen to run across in the Sunday papers, sometime go to church together, etc. After her innocent friendship with Larry began, I would include him in our visits, with consent of the staff.

One day Joylene (young staffer) called me at home to say that Larry's parents were coming from Portland, Oregon, the next weekend on their annual visit. They would like permission to take Dorian to dinner with them at that time. They'd obviously heard from Larry about his new friend and (I'm guessing) were grateful that he'd matured to the level where he could have such a friendship with its signal of approaching manhood.

After talking with a very excited Dorrie, I agreed to bring a new dress for the occasion the very next day, and would postpone our next visit until a later time so that she could tell me all about her "date."

The day came. The phone rang late in the afternoon. It was Joylene with a hysterical Dorrie! It seems that the staff had neglected to tell Larry's parents that his new friend was not white, and that -- though his father had arrived with a bouquet of roses for Dorrie -- his wife refused to get out of the car. She was outraged and wouldn't budge! Dorian was left waiting in her new dress and first heels -- with a bouquet of roses -- and Larry was sent off with his parents without her... .

As was almost always the case in the lives of our children, the institution did not protect her. This was the pattern that mystified and enraged me over the years. Where it was surely not possible for the institution to either foresee or prevent such racist atrocities by individuals that so damaged others, the "institution" does have a responsibility to protect and defend those individuals who are the victims of such misdeeds. There was a responsibility to the institution to not acquiesce to the tantrum of Larry's mother, but instead of confronting her, they were embarrassed that it hadn't occurred to anyone to warn her in advance, therefore an acceptance of the rightness of her position.

It gets worse.

I'd tried to comfort my distraught daughter by phone, but she was not to be consoled. Some hours later, when Larry had been returned to the Cedars by his parents, he avoided contact with her. He'd explained to other residents to the best of his mentally-retarded ability that his father told him that something was terribly wrong with Dorrie's mother's skin ... which poor little Larry obviously read as something physical, physiological, and probably contagious! Upon hearing this from others -- Dorrie became frantic -- thinking that something awful had happened to her mother since we'd last been together! She could not be consoled until -- after another call from Joylene -- I drove the long drive to the Cedars so that Dorian could actually see me and be comforted that I was just fine and that my skin had not turned green or purple or scaly!

That may represent the absolute lowest point in the saga of the struggle with racism.

I have no idea what I'd say to that mother were I to meet her today. There are no words. That may make a nice epitaph for my tombstone ...

There are no words ... .

The demons will out!

Since the big event on Monday I've had scarcely a moment to get out of my paper hat and quiet down enough for the significance of what has happened to surface. Held it all together until last night. This was the long-anticipated opening night of the Henry J. Kaiser exhibit attended by Kaiser family members, museum patrons, foundations, individual funders, city and state officials (Loni, of course), historians, and me. It may seem strange, but I'd completely forgotten about it until around three in the afternoon when I was reminded by another staffmember that it was on my calendar. I was to staff Loni for the evening. And I'd not yet told Loni that my image and audio strip were a part of the exhibition. No accounting for such a slip, except that it was an extraordinary week in my extraordinary life.

Getting to sleep each night this week has been more and more difficult. Seeing old friends on Monday had served to churn up memories -- both joyous and painful -- with each crowding out the present and replacing it with "mini-documentaries" that played out in the dark against my closed eyelids, often only to be washed away by cleansing tears. Would that this had happened long ago. My pride had robbed me of the chance to rid myself of the pain, even during several years of psychotherapy. Admitting that such things were happening to us somehow made them the more deadly. I'd not even shared such things with my family or childhood friends who lived within driving distance of no more than 30 minutes -- across the hills. Not even my hard-working young husband knew what some of the days were like in our new life among hostile strangers. The catharsis of Monday cannot be overstated.

The image of my poor dear Rick looms large in these playlets. His early onset alcoholism was marked by the fact that -- when under the influence -- anger would rise in him that was terrifying! He was a slightly-built teenager, but could hardly be contained at such times by his father who outweighed him by 50 pounds.

Let me describe just one incident in his troubled life:

For Christmas one year, Mel's gift to me was a beautiful beige Mercury stationwagon with the simulated wood side panels and a ski-rack on top. It was -- until the year before when he'd give me a magnificent Martin concert guitar -- the most extravagant gift of my life.

On an afternoon, two days after Christmas, I gave 17 year-old Rick the keys so that he could drive to his friend's home about 3 miles from ours -- such a thrill! His drinking was still well hidden, and only occasional until much later. He was a good driver and an otherwise responsible youngster. We had a loving relationship, and this was -- after all -- the new "family" car. He'd been driving my old one for some time.

When he reached Kevin's, and before he could get properly parked, a man rushed out of the house next door with a hammer held high and hurled it at Rick! It crashed against the side panel beneath the window on the driver's side (missed Rick), and made a huge dent in the paneling. All the while the brute was yelling "Nigger get the hell out of here!" Rick was terrified both of this wild man and -- of course -- at how he could face his parents.

A few hours later my phone rang and Florence Pierson's voice on the other end said, "...Betty, Rick is here with us. He's afraid to come home." She then explained to me what had happened and put him on the line. He had no words, only sobbing. There was nothing he could say. There was no way for me to explain or for him to understand. It was all totally irrational. It was another of those times when reaching down inside my mother-self to be helpful yielded nothing. My mouth was as dry as cotton. I simply told him to come home and that I loved him, and that we would talk to Dad together.

Then there was the impossible question of explaining to the insurance company ... and then just quietly paying the deductible and moving on. I believe now that the "moving on" may have done more to harm my children than anything else might have done. Life forced us to learn to cope and to become complicit in our own psychological devastation because there simply were no rational responses to the irrational. My children probably learned from me to stifle their responses in quite the same way, so that over time, I ceased to learn of such things -- except when they were too agregious to contain, or those rare times when such incidents were funny enough to afford a good laugh. We learned to share the ironic more easily as they grew older and wiser.

Then there's the inexplicable story of Dorian and her first date ...

Somewhere in an earlier post ...


I'm sure that I've entered the lyrics to this song. However, since the MLK Day speech I have received a number of requests for the words. I used this as a closing:

To Each of Me ...

To each of me
to love within the reach of me
and if this love could teach to me
why each of me, in turn,
should torture so the soul of me
and tear apart the whole of me
within life's play, each role of me
must speak to me, must learn
that blackness and the white of me
  are just the day and night of me
are not the wrong or right of me,
can't you see ... there's got to be
some answer to this planet's pain
my microcosmic world -- insane!
if only I could make you see
it's here to see
just look at me!
there is within me all of you
from distant lands the whole of you
the dreams, the heart, the soul of you
if only you would see
that black and white are part of it
my brown is at the heart of it
and blending was the start of it
and someday it shall be
that blackness and the white of us
will be the day and night of us
and not the wrong or right of us
the weak or might of us

then we'll be free!
Betty Reid Soskin
copyright 1969
never published

It's been an eventful week. Not sure that I'll be able to respond to those who've sent words of caring and best wishes, but surely sometime this weekend I'll be out of my paper hat enough to write sensibly about all that's happened.

Probably the most important is that today there was a message from the reporter who covered the Martin Luther King celebration informing me that she is planning a series on racism and diversity for her paper in the near future and would like to use parts of the original interview. That such a conversation has begun in the Diablo Valley is far more than I'd have imagined. I couldn't be more pleased.

But I've just returned from the kickoff party for a young man I've been working with as a mentor. He is a candidate for the Richmond city council in November, and is someone I'm so very proud of.

So much is happening. If I only had another couple of decades to complete the work ... .

Shouldn't really take this on tonight,

but if I don't -- much will be lost in the accumulation of busyness that's already pushing the events of yesterday to the back of my mind ...

Spent much of Saturday writing my speech for MLK's celebration. Pulled together a number of pieces from my blog with the intention of doing a cut and paste. Really thought I'd done enough musing and writing to be able to connect it all with a bit of re-writing.

Had to interrupt the process to attend David Pierson's memorial service -- and what a beautiful ceremony it was! This remarkable family had come together from Spain, Switzerland, and several other points around the country to honor their father and comfort their mother. I would have expected no less from these loving people. This death -- as others before it over the past two or three years -- are slowly closing a chapter on my own life that tells me that -- for all the evil things that happened to us in the Diablo Valley, love triumphed over all. I could not have found dearer friends.

After ten years of suffering the gradual deterioration from Alzheimers, David's daughter, Joan, read in her statement that -- as his ability to speak began to diminish from the ravages of the disease, he gradually lost all of his words except terms of endearment. "I love you" were the last words to disappear. He died peacefully in his sleep.

Fresh from the experience, and by the time I drove back across the hills to Richmond, I'd lost the rage that was re-surfacing to drive my speech, and a new direction hadn't surfaced yet. Went to bed not knowing where to take this.

On Sunday, I drove in to pick Dorian up for our weekly trip to the supermarket, and returned home to prepare to drive to Oakland for the annual MLK Concert at the Calvin Simmons Auditorium. Gospel choirs, jazz choirs, a children's choir, with brief film clips of Dr. King at pivotal moments in his career. All in a packed house filled with the greatest diversity imaginable. The city of Oakland has it all. How sad that one only hears of the murder rate. Inspiring!

When I reached home at the end of the evening, I walked into my den and trashed everything I'd written, walked down the hallway and looked around at my gallery of historic family portraits and made a decision. I would go with the Love Legacy of Martin Luther King. I would gather up the portrait of great-grandmother Leontine Breaux Allen, the two large binders that held my family history, a photograph taken at Dorian's christening with Mel and the children and me taken at one of the temporary little cottages that our UU church had used on its way to full churchhood, two documents (the marriage license of great-great-grandmother Celestine (slave) and her slaveowner husband dated July 1865, only days after the Emancipation Proclamation was declared and greatgrandmother Leontine's christening certificate). Fairly sure that there would be no more than a couple dozen of the stalwarts there to hear my little presentation, I would just share my history and ad lib my speech.

Just before going to bed I went to the kitchen to drink a glass of milk and listen to any messages that may have collected on my answering machine. There was one of particular interest. It was the voice of Theresa Harrington, the Times reporter who had done the interview. She sounded really distressed. She was giving a long apology for the article that was appearing in the paper on morning edition. "I want you to know that I turned in an article that my editor altered drastically. He removed all of the positive things you said, and printed only the negative, and cut the article severely. I also write for another journal and would like to have your permission to submit the article to that editor if I could." I had no idea what that meant, but decided to not read whatever it was before speaking.

On Monday morning I showered and dressed casually, drove out with plenty of time and my box of papers and photos to share. Arrived at the Civic Center and entered a large room without noticing that there was a Channel 5 truck in the lot. Had no idea what the agenda was, or with whom I was sharing the program.

Was delighted to find a friend from my everyday world sitting in the front row. I hadn't known that he would come. He'd read the article. Then others began to arrived and as the room filled -- several people came up to say that they'd read the article and wasn't I courageous??? There were many friends arriving -- from my old life of 30 years ago -- come to lend support and to share the celebration of Dr. King's day together. As the room filled, it was clear that this was a big thing! It was important. My vision of sharing my pictures and family history documents -- and "winging it" -- was hardly appropriate to the occasion. But it was too late to do anything else. I'd trashed my speech.

The mayor spoke. The head of the InterFaith Council spoke. An African American gospel choir shook the roof with singing! The Native Americans did a ceremony of peace. The Buddhists in traditional dress performed a blessing. I was only one part of something very important to this community.

I'd invited my son and his children to attend. It was the first time in all the years that David had returned. Bob wasn't able to make it, but had sent his blessing.

As the keynoter, my "speech" followed the other elements, and there was time to grow tense -- but, surprisingly -- I didn't tighten up. Felt welcomed and "at home."

On cue, and without panic -- I stood up at my introduction and began to speak. I finished at some point (felt about like the allotted 15 minutes) when it seemed natural to end, and there was a spontaneous heartfelt standing ovation that shook the rafters! No notes, no preparation. Just memories and the introduction of my David and his brood.

I eventually saw the article. David picked up a paper for me near the restaurant where we lunched. The piece pretty well blasted the town as having not changed a whit despite years of national change. In 1952 when we moved in as one of the first non-whites to dare to do so, we were pioneers. While trying to write my speech I'd learned that the census figures give the African American population in that city as 1.0% -- in a city that has grown to be at least ten times what it was when we knew it. The reporter was quite right. The article had been sensationalized, but there was not one word in it that I hadn't said, or that was untrue. I could see that she'd done a good job, despite the editing. I stand by my words.

It was also true that as people began to arrive, they were smiling and congratulatory about what they obvious saw as my courageous ability to "tell it like it is!" David (who had read it before driving out from Berkeley) may have had it right. He met me grinning with, "...me and the kids figured we better get out here and watch Grandma's back! As we all sat at lunch together, 17 year-old grandson Rhico said, "grandma, I watched the mayor while you were speaking. I'll bet he was hoping you wouldn't come back here again." But it was all said in fun, and I could sense the pride in them all as we at our pancakes and glowed in the "coming home" that the day had provided.

There were so many hugs from so many old friends, that served to remind me that what we'd all lived together had been so much more important than the dreadful things that our little family had endured over those years. I fell asleep last night remembering that they'd been there with us through it all, and that Dr. King's work had given us all permission to cross the great divide of racial disharmony. I hadn't been alone, after all.

I'll try to tell you what I said. I'm not sure that I can since it was stream-of-consciousness. However, I know where it led -- and I know that it turned out to be an important statement that I wish someone had taped. Isn't that always the way?

Maybe tomorrow... .

Photo: Greatgrandmother, Leontine Breaux Allen, the year before her death. She was enslaved until 1865, the year of emancipation. She was 19 when freedom came with the Emancipation Proclamation. She died at the age of 102 having lived from 1846 to 1948. I was 27 when she died. Slavery for me is not an abstraction.

Time moves so swiftly ...

I've been joking about the fact that -- on the downhill side of the years past fifty -- Christmas comes every six weeks. Time does speed up as the years pile on. Feel breathless at times from the effects of the rate of change. The collapsing of time this weekend is having a strong effect on me, trying to remain contemporary while being asked to dip into years past, causes some shift in the fault lines of age -- and I'm feeling just a bit off balance... .

Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock the West County Times reporter will come to do a profile for release in Monday's edition. The photographer will come at around one to do his thing.
At 4:30 I'll attend a meeting with a group created by the Redevelopment Agency's Rosie project to go over ideas for signage for the areas leading to the new national park. At six we'll leave for San Jose and the Democratic Convention. The important evening event is the convening of the Black Caucus at seven-thirty. This will give me some idea of what issues will be involved in the creation of the platform. These discussions are rich and often contentious and never dull.

Have already decided to skip Saturday's agenda in favor of attending David Pierson's memorial service. That will plant me firmly in the past -- but it will help me to get into the space from whence the speech must come. However, the leap-frogging between such emotional levels is dizzying. I'm hopeful that this will enhance and not hurt my ability to deliver my thoughts at the Monday event. It is a tremendous opportunity to share that trajectory I've lived through, beginning with that naive young frightened mother, and ending with the return to Walnut Creek as a person of note. And I say that with more of a sense of wonder than of false pride. There's just not room in my life for that.

It took many good and not so good people all leaning together into the winds of constructive change to make that possible. Dr. King was surely one, but then so were a lot of ordinary black men, women, children, who were willing to lay their lives on the line for the right to vote and for the right to have the kinds of educations that would lift them out of poverty (didn't do so well with that one, did we?). African Americans throughout the country, and a lot of good "people-of-no-color" came together to bring about the change that I'm now enjoying. A lot of those folks are still living in the suburbs all over the nation, and some that I know are still working hard to break down the barriers that divide us. Meanwhile, I chose in the late Seventies to return to the inner city to do my work -- and all else has blossomed from that decision. I've never regretted it for a minute.

I'd give anything to be able to sit down with Dr. King, Justice Thurgood Marshall, and Fanny Lou Hamer, and yes, Malcolm X, to give a report and get their feedback. It is so humbling to recall the sacrifices those heroes made during those torturous years. I so regret not being able to let them know that little people like me listened and learned, and that forty years later -- we're still fighting the good fight -- with a bit more sophistication garnered from years of working behind those doors they opened for us to move through.

But their work and ours is far from finished. I'm sure that we all know that. Assessing that unfinished agenda and finding ways to address it will surely take up the balance of my life, and perhaps those of my children -- and maybe yours... .

But first there's a war to stop, an environment to save, and a country in political chaos to somehow re-orient. And maybe the problem is that we haven't the time or the capacity to achieve all that if we don't take them on simultaneously. I fear the fall into Fascism and Corporatism and away from the path toward world peace and racial harmony for which Dr. King gave his life. I'm far less hopeful that we will back away from the edge in time for me to witness this transformation, personally. Except that -- just maybe -- this awesome rate of change will work in our favor. Do you suppose?

(Maybe I just wrote the closing remarks for Monday's speech...)

What a week this has been ... !

Started out on Monday with a call from someone from the National Park Service asking if I'd be willing to participate in a press conference on Thursday (tomorrow) when Ms. Lynne Cheney would be presenting a check to the National Park Service for one of its programs. This, as a "Rosie", of course. Nope. Besides having a full schedule, there was this thing about having a photo op with Republican Ms. Cheney that would not be politically correct for me (being the field rep for a Democratic legislator) -- not too cool, I think. Didn't bother to ask our staff. But I know that I'm so firmly identified with my role as a representative that this would be seen in a political light. It becomes less and less possible to have a "personal" life.

I believe this was also her book tour for a newly-published young people's book about Rosie the Riveter.

Spent the day today sitting in at the California Arts Council's meeting in San Francisco and being awed by the huge circular arrangement of the judicial chambers where the meeting was held. The room reeked of power! The great seal of the judiciary on the back wall spoke volumes. It's impossible to not be impressed. It was an all-day session (10:00 'til 3:00) that featured speakers from the NEA from Washington as well as local and regional arts advocates and organizations. Just sitting in that room gave me a feeling of the weight of the office of the vice-presidency, and I found myself wondering why I'd said "no" so easily? I'd actually forgotten about the invitation until a moment in the presentations when the feeling of awe for the office, itself, washed over me.

Attended another meeting later today at 4:30, this time a collaborative of nonprofits, unionists, political activists, several church groups, etc., and was just as awed by this exercise in the democratic process -- one that's being so foolishly trampled on by those who are presently in national leadership. This group was hard at work on getting an ordinance passed for Just Cause Evictions, getting a parcel tax measure on the next ballot with which to finance the schools ... I was reminded why I'd refused. The distance between is just too great. We are really living in a haves and have nots period, aren't we?

Learned some shocking facts at the Arts Council meeting:

In the current state budget, we have designated 3 cents per person for the arts. In the nation that figure is $110/per person. Canada budgets $238/per person. California ranks 48th in the country in moneys allotted for the arts. Small wonder that we're losing the movie industry to Canada. This, the most populus State, is losing on the quality of life issues.

We have the greatest number of citizens imprisoned, and our most recent moves to eliminate affirmative action will guarantee that -- though we are the most racially diverse state in the union, we're making sure that leadership will remain white by limiting who can and cannot enter the university system.  The controls lie in the fact that by raising the cost of tuition beyond the reach of all others, power remains with the white population.

Our school systems have all but eliminated vocational education and are dealing only with the college bound. All others are tracked out of the system in middle school. We are now seeing a 48% drop-out rate of Black and Brown students by tenth grade. It's appalling!

To demand standardized testing results without standardized resources is criminal! There is a case wending its way through our courts that will bring that issue into prominence at some point soon; hopefully.

Maybe my Martin Luther King birthday speech is beginning to write itself. At least the thoughts are beginning to form, and I'll spend all day Sunday moving it onto paper.

On Friday I'll be interviewed and photographed for the local papers. Friday evening we'll leave for the Democratic convention in San Jose (Black Caucus session is Friday night). Will skip the Saturday sessions to attend the memorial service from an old Walnut Creek friend who finally succumbed to Alzheimers. David Pierson was an artist whose oil paintings hang in my dining room and on my bedroom wall. He and his family figured strongly in my often misspent suburban days in the Fifties and Sixties. We struggled together with along with enlightened others through the Black Revolution -- across racial lines -- and, I believe, that ultimately we made a difference. I will miss him. But those stories are still ahead waiting to be told. I'm beginning to feel that there is need for that. Blogging is becoming important to me, finally. We each experience a life that is like no other. Mine has been extraordinary.

Would have been nice to have a photo in my album -- taken with the wife of the vice-president of the United States. If I live long enough, maybe I'll find one I'm more comfortable with... .

Saturday's come again, ...

and time to let my mind wander back in time ... .

Thinking about one of those periods in time when there was just enough absurdity to keep life in perspective when all else was precarious and beyond personal control. It was a time when Bobby and David were still very young and when the neighborhood children had broken through the social barricades and were spending much of their time playing in our driveway. Their curiosity won out over whatever prohibitions had been placed on them by adults, and the sounds of play had echoed out of our yard all summer long.

I believe that David was not yet in kindergarten when Georgia Wiseman came to work for us. Despite her very Jewish name, Georgia was a tall energetic African American woman who served as both cleaning woman and great friend to this rather lonely young mother living in hostile country. Georgia came on Tuesdays and Thursday every week and handled the bunch of us like the "professional" that she was. She was with us not only through those critical years, but -- after my first marriage failed -- years later, she came back to work for us for several years in the Berkeley home shared with my second husband. My kids were all grown up by then, but Bill and I were both employed by the university. Ours was an enduring friendship.

I can feel my throat tighten when I remember the day that we learned that Dr. King had been killed. It happened on a day when Georgia was not due to work. I was devastated! I was alone in the house. There was a knock on the door around ten o'clock and there she was. "Thought I could catch up on some ironing," said she walking past me with tears flowing. She'd driven over 20 miles from East Oakland because she felt needed. This was Georgia Wiseman. She knew that I would be sad but also frightened.

But that was also a time when a beautiful black Belgian Shepherd moved into our lives. He turned up one morning with a stone in his mouth. He greeted me when I opened the front door, front legs down, hips high and tail wagging. The signal was clear. I picked it up and threw it as far as I could. He dashed off and located it easily and brought it back for a re-toss; an endless game that went on for weeks. When I could toss no more, he'd lie down on the deck and wait for the boys to leave home to board the school bus down the road. He walked them to the bus -- and greeted them each to day to be escorted home. He'd adopted us. Had no idea where his owner was since there he was until late in the evening when Mel drove down the driveway to be escorted up the stairs into the house. I was careful not to feed him for fear that his (unknown) owner would think that I was trying to steal this lovely creature. It went on for weeks. He would arrive early each morning as if to his "job," staying until Mel checked in each night.

After some weeks, the mystery was solved. One of the neighbor children was overheard calling the dog by his name, "Nig!" It was Georgia. Of course, it was impossible for the owner to call him home. How on earth could he/she stand at the edge of our property calling out " Here Nigger!" It was preposterous. It was also very funny! It was also a problem.

Coincidentally, at the time there was a construction job underway in front of our house -- pipe-laying of some sort, in deep trenches -- with workmen from the utility company (both Black and White) spending much of the day digging and pounding with their machines. Here they were working in front of a fine  home obviously owned by an African American family who owned a big black dog named "Nig." They could hear the childrens' voices calling out his name as they played. How could this be?

Georgia could hardly stand it. She finally insisted that we have the children use some other name. Only problem with that was that I couldn't find any sensible way to explain to my little ones the reason for doing so. Nig was simply the name of a creature they'd grown to love and at the time the word had no other meaning. Would he even respond to any other? My kids weren't familiar with it, and the other children were probably equally as innocent. These were really pretty young children. Georgia's embarrassment at being the housekeeper for such a family in plain view of the African American workmen was unbearable. She ceased to see the humor in the situation after a very short time.

After some weeks, I finally caught a glimpse a young woman across the road in front of a tiny rented cabin. Nig was standing beside her. Walked over and introduced myself. She moved quickly up her stairs as I arrived and was now standing behind a closed screen door. She was not unfriendly, but not very responsive, either. I told her that I was concerned that her dog was not being fed, that I'd not known where he'd come from or how to report our "find." Told her how much we loved him but wanted her to know that we were not trying to steal him. Made no mention of his name.

She told me that she'd recently moved from a ranch where there had been children for Nig to tend, and that, since moving here, she had accepted a job that kept her away from home much of the time. He was lonely for a family to tend. She was sorry if he'd been a burden to us ... but that she was planning to move soon.

We lost Nig. We never did manage to work out a solution, but we had one happy housekeeper when Nig moved away. Then we went back to laughing at the absurdity of it all!

It was then that we found a reliable breeder and bought Helsa, a German Shepherd pup, who quickly healed the pain of losing our cherished friend, something I'm not sure would have happened without the experience.

What's in a word? I'm not sure, but I suspect that some of the toxins may have been removed for my little ones -- if they can remember... .


Photo: Bob with Dorian under the big oak at our home in Walnut Creek.

Am back at work with a vengeance ...

with few empty spaces on my dance card ... .

Am acting as an adviser to two candidates for city councils in two cities in our district. That's in addition to a quickening of action around Loni's re-election campaign for a second term in the State Assembly. She will be running virtually unopposed in the March Primary (two little known men have filed) but it still means fundraisers and public events to attend where our district crew of five will take turns staffing her. It's an exciting time, but also wearing.

Still haven't gotten into the writing of my speech (this weekend, I promise) for the King Day event. Learned a little more about the Henry J. Kaiser Oakland Museum Exhibition, though. Found that Loni will attend the opening on January 31st and I'm assigned to staff her on that evening. I haven't found a way to tell her that -- included in the exhibition -- is a 1-minute audio clip of yours truly accompanying a film clip taken from the U.C. oral history project. Have warned our chief of staff that this is happening, but Loni's been in the Sacramento Follies all week, and we've not seen her since before Christmas. Maybe I'll just let it happen. Would hate to appear to be trying to upstage a legislator. Maybe she won't notice. It will flit by quickly, I'm sure.

When the clarifying call came yesterday (I'd called to ask why the clip was being used at all -- and what possible relevance could it have to telling the Kaiser story?) -- I had mixed feelings:

"You were very eloquent in your description of the migration of those who came west to work in the shipyards...". Got to thinking that I also had made quite a point during that interview of the fact that my role had been pretty insignificant in the war effort and that, in fact, I was a lowly clerk in a Jim Crow union, an important point in the telling of that story. I fear that a 1-minute clip taken out of context will do just the opposite of what I feel is the important point of my personal war front history. My image will be used to show how wonderful was the Kaiser contribution to the making of America in a time of monumental social change. But then that little piece will be but one of many, I'm sure, all making up the mosaic of the time.

There will have to be other ways to tell my story -- when the university ever gets around to doing the editing needed to tell it in its entirety. But this is the way that history gets revised, and about how we acquiesce for the sake of ego or whatever else such an experience offers. Maybe just the fact of being a part of the Henry J. Kaiser exhibit will serve as a way to begin to open that history to the public, and my tiny piece will give significance to the later release -- if ever.. . I'll probably be long gone when that oral history project is open to public view. Two and a half days is a lot of taping. I suspect that its use will be simply for scholars seeking information about those war years or the western migration. They will have access to the materials from the archives. Maybe that's the only purpose for the collection of those personal stories. (The university has promised to see that I have copy a some point, though, so if you're reading this, Bob, remember to pick it up some decade in the future when you're working on the family story.)

As I've said before, I had no idea I'd live long enough to BE black history!

Seems as if I've written reams over the past day or so,

all to avoid my main task -- that of getting a first draft done of my January 15th Martin Luther King speech in Walnut Creek. As it is with all such undertakings, the words are probably percolating in the back of my brain and will all fall into place sometime in the last few days before delivery. Maybe I'll just choose selected pieces of my blog and just read them to the audience. Nah. That won't do, surely. Needs to show some effort, at least, and carry some punch, I suppose.  Meanwhile ... .

Noticed when reading my Sunday NY Times that the article on the Mars landing doesn't show up until page A17. Can you imagine? The front page was taken up with the Egyptian plane crash and a sad item on how the proposed budget cuts in the state budget will effect a young cerebral palsy patient. All very important, but surely not mind-boggling like the Martian probe, or am I not getting the point here? I plan to turn off Mac and spent much of the rest of the evening trying to see what the astronomers, the SETI people, and the big names in the world of space exploration have to say about all this. Should be a fascinating couple of months, almost as much so as when we first landed on the moon -- or when the Hubble telescope gave us that first glimpses into deep space.

There is the chance, surely, that the news from the Middle East is so frightening to me that I'm choosing to escape to a place above the ozone layer, at last for a little while. It does all seem so utterly hopeless.

I believe, at times, that one of the primary gifts of the aging process has to do with the fact that -- in all those earlier years one could find solace in the fact that there were thousands of brilliant savants and scholars standing between you and the gaffs of ignorance. As I've entered my eighties, it's become painfully clear that there's an awful lot of ignorance out there masquerading as wisdom, and that my own common sense is emerging as a pretty good gauge of the scope of human intelligence. Being an octogenarian also has added the quality of candor that not only allows me to entertain such thoughts, but to voice them when it seems appropriate -- or not -- as the case may be. But there's little comfort in such thoughts since it then places the responsibility for acting in support or opposition squarely on one's own shoulders. As in the old hymn, "There's no hiding place down here."

Now, back to the Orange Alert... .

There's no way to remain in the past ...

while ramming into the future by way of the Mars probe, completed so successfully last night. The magic of it all is staggering!

Here I was lying in my bed in a condo on the Pacific Coast of the USA watching -- not only the anxiously-waiting scientists at NASA headquarters -- but simultaneously connected with the anticipated arrival of the new Mars lander any second! Could hardly sleep as I marveled at just how far civilization has come in some respects -- just during my lifetime -- but at how horribly behind we are in others (brutal genocidal wars rage on!).

How can it be that this morning we're seeing this monumental scientific feat sharing equal sound bites with Brittany Spear's aborted marriage in Las Vegas, and a new baby-in-the-crocodile-pen abuse in Australia? Our sense of scale has been seriously distorted, right? Michael Jackson, Scott Peterson, Kobe Bryant, Martha Stewart, and a-flight-through-the-tail-of-a-meteor-while-being-expertly-photographed and a Mars landing with another planned for in three weeks -- all being given equal time CNN!

How on earth will my grandchildren ever be able to gain any sense of wonder with this kind of bombardment? How on earth will this grandmother ever be able to adjust to this rate of change and the anomalies it's producing? I have new respect for the experience of Papa George who was born before the automobile (1870's) made its appearance and died (at 96) after having flown by jet to visit his old home in New Orleans. This should be comforting in that it proves that the human animal is capable of absorbing such extremes without disintegrating. However, I'm not all that certain that Planet Earth has the same resilience. After all, there are those melting glaciers, horrific mudslides, wildfire, earthquakes, disappearing rain forests, holes in the ozone layer, and avalanches to consider ... .

Makes this Atheist long for some divine presence that might monitor this planetary dilemma. It's more and more apparent that the world has totally lost its way. There are too many developments on too many fronts for us mere mortals to keep up with. The voice of science -- bravely leading the way into the future -- is being drowned out by those of the arms manufacturers and corporate raiders, and it's terrifying!

Can't help but think that Albert Einstein, Steven Hawking, and Ray Bradbury were closer to the answers than Billy Graham or Pat Robertson ever were. Maybe the race for survival is between Ariel Sharon, George Dubya, Tony Blair and the world's scientists. Makes one feel very small, indeed.

Would that there really could be some Heavenly Auditor/Monitor up there somewhere with the power to pull us back from the edge in time ... but to wish for such answers is surely as foolish as the wishes and prayers of those who are filling the pews each Sunday waiting for the Rapture.

Maybe we've had just about as much free choice as we can deal with, Lord!

Go get the Evil Doers! (smile)

When all the votes are counted and new teachings absorbed, ...

I strongly suspect that how our little community eventually worked our way through the misery of the process of racial integration was as much due to humor and craziness as to any changing legislation or moral code adjustments.

Jean Martinez enters from stage left:

Still very much aware of being the primary source of the neighborhood's on-going entertainment, I was determined to be the best little brown Doris Day on the planet. In keeping with this role-playing, (I'm sure this was the Dorothy McGuire "Egg and I" stage in my social development), I'd bought myself new pedal pushers with matching tennis shoes and a color-coordinated multi-pocketed smock with places for trowels, bulb planters, hand pruners, ties for tendrils. One good nudge and my 100 pounds of pretty would have plopped over in a heap!

Also, had gone to the local nursery and spent almost $300 at a 1 cent sale (the sign said, "buy one get another for a penny" and who could resist that?). I'd bought ornamental trees, shrubs, bulbs, wisteria in cans, fruit trees, etc., all delivered to my driveway. This was to be my staging area. For several days I poured over Sunset's Gardening Book and tried to recall to the best of my ability those lessons learned long ago at the knee of Papa George in that little truck garden adjacent to his little overcrowded shotgun bungalow in East Oakland. But it seemed to me that all that yielded was how to tie string beans to poles and how to water tomatoes and dig potatoes.  After all, I was only a child then and capable of little more. The only thing I could recall about trees was that the almond tree in our field could only bear fruit because there was a male tree on Mr. Mueller's acres. This was the extent of my horticultural expertise. So trees were sexed. Who knew?

About a week after delivery, and after walking over the land and assessing the state of viability of each tree (they all looked very old and decrepit to me -- especially the apricots and pear trees). I distributed one gallon can of new tree next to each old one that I was sure would die off within the year, at least. Most of those old trees are probably still standing. This took several days during which time Jean Martinez (I would later learn that she lived up the road about a half mile) had driven past a number of times on her trips to and from Al's grocery store. Ours was a corner lot with the house sitting below street level in a kind of amphitheater-shaped site. There was full visibility to anyone driving from either direction.

On this particular morning, deep into the process, I sat on the warm ground with my well-thumbed copy of Sunset on the ground beside me. I had my steel tape measure (in one of my smock pockets, of course) and had very carefully measured the depth of the hole I'd dug with my brand new blue-handled shovel. I must have sat there examining that peach tree with the burlap wrap covering its roots, for over an hour. Jean could stand it no longer. She pulled around the corner in her little car and into my driveway. She then walked out to where I was still pouring over Sunset and introduced herself, "...I'm Jean Martinez and this is my daughter, Juanita." Juanita was about Bobby's age, and a darling little dark-haired girl. Our very deep and abiding friendship started with this exchange...

Jean: "You seem to be stuck. Can I be of help?"

Betty: "Well, I hope you can. "It says here (pointing to my fancy Gardening Book), that I must be sure to cover the ball of the tree, and I can't seem to find it."

One of those early parental miscalculations ...

that will always haunt me was a decision I made during the construction of our home. The building period spanned from early spring to around November of that year. Rick was in third grade in a Berkeley elementary school where he was doing so well that there were suggestions from his teacher that we begin to think of having him skip the next grade and enter fourth grade on probation in the fall. I knew that we would be moving to the Walnut Creek school system in late fall so that had to be a consideration in just how the transition would be managed. In the new school he proved to be working at grade level. The differences in educational levels between the innercity and suburban schools surfaced immediately.

Mel and I (I, actually) decided that the least disruptive way to deal with the problem would be to register him at Parkmead Elementary in Walnut Creek for the fall semester and have him ride out each morning with his Dad while the house was being completed. Sensible solution, right? No. Disastrous as it turned out.

This 8 year-old was being dropped off each day into a hostile world of children who were expressing all of the venomous racism that was being freely expressed around their dinner tables each night -- ugliness that the adults in their lives were not honest enough to show publicly to Rick's parents. It must have been horrendous. Poor little guy never mentioned it, and I was too pregnant and pre-occupied with toddler Bobby and the house-building to even be aware of his pain. It had all seemed so logical, sans the race element. After all, the kids on our block had overcome their feelings of discomfort with us long before their parents had.

Sometime in the late fall I attended a parents night at school and was asked by the principal just why I'd enrolled my child in his school when I didn't live in the district? We'd moved into the new home that October, so the question held no relevance, but the principal's inability to meet my gaze suggested that his question was being asked due to pressure from other parents. Rick was the only black child in the school. We were only the second black family in the entire valley at that time. We were breaking new ground, reluctantly, but with a growing defiance and a feeling of entitlement -- but those strong feeling were not yet fully matured. There were still times when I wasn't all that sure that we were right ... .


Parkmead figured powerfully some time later when Marian Powelson, a sympathetic neighbor, mentioned that she'd picked up a flyer advertising a minstrel show fundraiser being staged at the school.  We were both horrified at the thought, but didn't have a clue about how to deal with it. The image of white people in black-face, kinky wigs, with huge white painted lips was just too impossible to imagine. This could only happen in an all-white suburban community. This was a total anomaly in present day America. But I had children in that school (by this time I believe Bobby had entered kindergarten, but I'm not sure of the timing).

Just one day before the big show I drove to the school with no idea of what to do, except that I had to act. I walked into the principal's office and sat down to wait. He was off somewhere, but his costume was hanging over the doorway. He was in the show, as were all members of the faculty. The costume was black and white and bright red polks dots with baggy pants. I could feel my chest tighten ... This was terribly terribly wrong, but I still didn't know why I was so offended.

He walked in -- almost whipped around on his heels at the sight of me -- but turned back and continued into the room. "This is wrong," I said quietly. To his credit, he answered, "I guess you're right, but I didn't know that until I saw you there." "Our faculty loves colored people, and we're only depicting them as the happy people that they are -- with their songs and jokes -- and stuff ...". My answer, "...do I look happy?" "No," says he. "Let's think this out together," says I. "Minstrel shows were originally conceived as ridicule of Negroes, and were never a black thing. They are still that. We can't afford this kind of tradition to follow us through history to continue to heap insult and degradation upon a people, least of all at the hands of educators who, above all of others, should know better." "What would you have me do," asks this man who by now was flush-faced and miserable. I felt sorry for him in that moment. It was clear that he was in a learning place, and that it hurt. He was horribly embarrassed.

I told him that -- with tonight's dress rehearsal at hand and the show only 24 hours away -- I would not ask that they cancel. I did insist, however, that a portion of tonight's rehearsal time be devoted to sharing my concerns. Also served warning that -- tomorrow evening I would be sitting front and center (with the Bessie Gilbert) to see their show. And we did just that.

It was a dreadful evening. Little was gained, I think. The experience was miserable for me. There was as much anger and resentment stirred by my act as enlightenment. I'm certain of that. It did little for my own kids since I found it impossible to talk about most of these things -- never sure that by doing so I wouldn't simply further alienate them from others... .

Only a few weeks later, there was an Aunt Jemima Pancake Feed held by the local Chamber of Commerce at a downtown park.

And ... new friend and neighbor, (very blonde and deeply-tanned) Pat Ringwood, stopped by with the gift of a few cuttings from her garden -- to show me that her tan was now darker than mine!

We were getting there, slowly ;-)

Photo: Dale Richard "Rick" Reid as Parkmead elementary school student in Walnut Creek, California.