R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

and the upcoming Centennial ...

My work with the National Park Service (NPS) ended yesterday. After completing my 60-day assignment, it ended appropriately enough at a luncheon at the newly revived Port of Richmond where the AutoWarehousers (from Korea) entertained Bay Area officials and members of the industry -- along with Park personnel. The elaborate luncheon for about 200 dignitaries was simulcast to the home port in Spokane, and video-conferenced to other sites. Huge social event, and the introduction of this new industrial enterprise to the world.

The reactivated port is now the home of the 4400 brand new imported autos at any one time and that arrive on ships about 4 times each month. They're warehoused here at the port where they're prepped for shipment by rail, water, or truck throughout the country. They've brought a significant number of jobs to a city that needs them. It's an exciting operation.

Under an agreement with the National Park Service, this actively-working port co-exists with the emerging national park. Kaiser Shipyard #3 holds many of the historic landmarked park structures (the huge machine shop recently restored to historical landmarked criteria, the supply storage facility, and the slips where the 743 victory ships were launched). There is a brand new roadway that allows tourists and other park visitors to drive through to see those structures and renew the sense of the frantic 24-hour-a-day shipbuilding operations that brought women into the workforce for the first time and that contributed critically to the winning of the war against Fascism.

In addition to the restored port and waterfront, there is the continuation of the 400-mile long Bay Trail that -- when completed -- will encircle the bay for hikers, cyclers, and kayakers. The Bay Trail is incorporated into the new national park. This piece is a critical part of Richmond's 32 mile scenic shoreline, and brings us closer to completion of our part of the trail; connecting us to Alameda, Solano, and Marin county trails.

I learned so much while "running barefoot" through those studies and articles and ...

Spent lots of time being quietly enraged to discover that -- though credited with advancing racial integration by many years through his hiring policies at the shipyards -- it is also true that Henry J. brought racial segregation to the West Coast in all of its ugliness. Though by bringing the races together in Richmond's shipyards -- Kaiser may well have accellerated the move toward racial equality by a good many years -- if only as an unintended consequence of those policies.

Discovered that -- though the shipyards introduced the concept of 24-hour daycare for his workers (which enabled Rosies to enter the workforce), it is also true that those facilities were not open to African American families, who may have introduced the world to the latch-key child. And, though the federal government (HUD) hastily constructed housing on marshlands where none had been before, that housing was racially segregated, with structures built to house African Americans destroyed within 3 weeks of war's end. This in the hope that black sharecroppers would return to the south from whence they'd come. The only war housing still standing within the park boundaries are those built for white workers (Atchison and Nystrom Villages).

Being a Librarian-Technician allowed the time to spend hours reading studies produced by many historians. The collected stories and artifacts that came as a response to a national media campaign by the Ford Motor Company -- paint a fascinating picture of life in that era. I'm grateful for having had the chance to explore that. Among the lessons learned over the past 60 days:


There was some recognition by the government of the need to reward the African American workers in some significant ways. By that time the Tuskeegee Airmen; the Pearl Harbor naval hero, Dorie Miller; and the heroic tank division that fought so valiantly in Southern Europe, had earned an indisputable place in the lore of the country. In response, there were 17 victory ships named for famous black citizens. Three that were built and launched to great celebrations here in Richmond were the SS George Washington Carver, the SS Robert S. Abbott (Publisher of the Chicago Defender), and the SS John Hope (black educator). In addition there were three victory ships named for historically black colleges; the SS Fisk, the SS Xavier, and the SS Talledega.

By far the most intriguing find in the log of ships launched in Richmond in March and April of 1944, the SS Ethiopia and the SS Touissaint L'Ouverture (the latter named for the great black revolutionary leader who led Haitians against the French. What I wouldn't give to be able to unearth records of the discussions that led to these choices! When we recall that these honors were conferred at a time when segregation was still full-blown and when the country was still locked in the grip of Jim Crow, it seems miraculous that -- even then -- there were those who were trying desparately to "get it right." And, there still are.

This suggests an important rationale for the teaching of Black History to African American children. Embedded in such teachings is the invisible pride-builder of self-respect. "We, too, have heroes and I, too, can be one" comes from knowing what's gone before. I learned as a small business owner in Berkeley -- in a very low-income community -- that people learn to respect only by being respected, and that it is rarely otherwise.


Richmond was incorporated in August of 1905. This will be our Centennial year. That year begins in little more than 3 months -- and I see little preparation for what should be a monumental opportunity to share some of this history -- and to re-visit the era of the re-birth of Richmond when it grew -- almost overnight -- from a sleepy little industrial town of 20,000 to 108,000 at the beginning 1942.

Coming together in the back of my brain are some seemingly unrelated but surely connected events:

A few weeks ago we reeled from the senseless killing of a 17 year-old African American honor student, Terrance Kelly. He was only 2 days away from escaping a questionable future in a crime-ridden corner of the community. He'd received an athletic scholarship and was leaving for Oregon to enter college. The 16 year-old youngster who wielded the gun that ended Terrance's life's only defense was that he'd been "Dissed." (i.e., disrespected.) I'm not sure that any of us is aware of just how important that word has become in communities where -- since slavery, Jim Crow, (yes) and the struggles for equality in this city following WWII -- there has been so little respect to draw upon.

Due to inadequate education from revisionist textbooks that left out all references to meaningful black history until recent years and despite the efforts of a few enlightened teachers ... with little opportunity to understand the why of it, the lack thereof may have become lethal in some frightening way. "Dissing" is the word used by youth, but the feeling expressed by the word is universally recognizable ... a feeling that crosses the generations and robs us all of some immutable something that we can rarely define, that by now is buried deep in the DNA of our children, that bleeds out of our pores, restricts our vision, and profoundly limits opportunities to gain and live a lifestyle worthy of achieving it.

My work with the National Park Service has ended far too soon. I was just getting into the rhythm of it. Now I'm seriously considering ways to get this city to engage me to oversee a yearlong centennial celebration. Far fetched? Of course it is. They have no idea that they even need one, or that they need me to give it life. As has been true many times in the past, I'm running around with answers to questions that nobody is asking!

Tragic Five Degrees of Separation --

Some years ago we received news from a dear cousin living in Southern California that her 21 year-old son, Billy, had died the night before in a horrible gun accident. He was serving in the navy, and while sitting on his bed in conversation with his best friend -- somehow, the gun in the hand of his buddy was discharged and Billy was killed instantly. We mourned. No charges were filed. It was a complete tragedy.

My late sister's son, Thurmon, about a year later ... was shot and killed in his own home under circumstances we never understood. No one was ever charged. His only sibling, Gail, was left alone. My sister and her husband having both died a few years earlier of natural causes. He was a 29 year-old father of three daughters.

Then, about five years ago, the 23 year-old young male cousin was driving home at around midnight on an Oakland freeway when a sniper killed him in a random act of violence. A few weeks later, and after terrorizing late night drivers, he was caught, but before that happened -- several other innocent victims had lost their lives to his rifle aimed from ambush - and all just for the hell of it! He's serving time now in prison.

This weekend was my birthday (or at least a few days prior), and toward late afternoon my son, David, and his two younger daughters arrived with five live crabs purchased in the Pacific Market in El Cerrito. He came prepared to do a crab feed; multiple cloves of garlic, a fragrant bunch of parsley, lemons, and a package of Zatarains Louisiana crab boil fixings. They spent the afternoon with Dorian and me, with David busily in the kitchen doing the honors, and Tamaya and Alayana watching videos while Dorian busily crocheted her latest colorful afghan.

Something was wrong. I could feel it. Within the hour David began to talk. "Kokee was almost killed last night, Mom."

On Saturday night, his eldest daughter -- 22 years old, and her boyfriend were leaving a sports bar in Sacramento and were stopped by two young men with a gun. There was an attempted robbery. They took her cellphone and what they could find in her wallet, and while busy with her they began to get rough. Her boyfriend took on one of the assailants screaming to her to run for the car. A gunshot rang out in the night! She ran as fast as she could -- terrified! In her telling of the story later -- after dinner (she and the other grandchildren joined us after six o'clock), she tearfully told us how she'd run frantically -- hearing footsteps running behind her -- and thinking that she was about to be shot to death (thinking that her friend lay dead). But -- just before reaching the car he overtook her. It was her friend who had survived, and she was safe for the moment.

They drove away without realizing that he'd been shot in the neck. The bullet had entered soft tissue and exited without penetrating any vital organs. He didn't know that he'd been shot until she saw the blood. She took off her t-shirt and applied pressure to the wound as he looked for the nearest hospital. It was in Davis, a few miles out of Sacramento, but they made it safely.

It was a sobering birthday party. We felt particularly close. Rhico (her younger brother) brought his girlfriend for me to meet for the first time. They're both seventeen and in love. Such beautiful and loving kids. It was all so bittersweet. The fragility of life was keenly evident to us all.

After they'd left and I was picking up the gift boxes and tissue paper and absently folding it as if I have some guarantee that we'll all be here this Christmas when much of it will be recycled. I found myself remembering Thurman, Billy, and Christian, all in their graves so young.

Ours is a loving family with little contact with the world of violence. There are no questionable lifestyles to worry over among the young. Nonetheless, how typical is it that four young people in one family will have encountered death or threat of death by gunfire? I truly don't know... .

I thought then of the NRA and of the empty arguments in defense of "The Right To Bear Arms" and it felt so hollow and so meaningless. I recalled those faces of gun advocates smugly chanting their mantra, "guns don't kill people, people kill people!"

I called Kokee earlier this evening to assure myself that she's okay, and that her young friend is recovering well. "He is in a lot of pain, but seems alright considering." She is so young. I am so frightened this night... .

Michele, my co-worker has been visiting her son-in-law for the past nine months. He's been hospitalized after suffering grave gunshot wounds. He was kept alive for weeks on a ventilator. No one knows if he'll survive, eventually, or whether he will ever walk. I'm not sure just why, but I worked all day today without mentioning Kokee's brush with death to her. Got home more tired than usual, I suppose from the effort it took to spare her the confirmation that the world has gone mad.

When did life become so cheap and good people so expendable?

Do you suppose this is in anyway related to our having been in a continuing state of war for such a long time? Or, despite studies to the contrary, does the expression of violence all around us de-sensitize the living so that death becomes no more than the ordinary state of un-being?

I must admit that lately

(since starting my last position), I've been aware of how constricted I was feeling. So much of what I've been feeling might have bled into my work day -- much was rising that I've been holding back for fear of crossing some invisible line that I've set for myself. The result is that I'm more and more aware of the anger building. I've a new appreciation for the times that I've used my computer as a way to vent, and to work through the accumulating discomfort caused by the necessary re-visiting of a painful past.

This morning I watched the author of "We Also Serve," on CSpan's Booknotes. She has written a new book about African American participation in all of the nation's wars since 1776. She spoke in her introduction about how little she'd listened to her own late father's war stories, and of how much she regrets it now. Found myself nodding with understanding at her revelations gathered from the stories of old warriors of earlier wars; WWII, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, and the current occupation forces in the Middle East.

Though her book deals specifically with black veterans of the armed forces, my own experiences over the past weeks -- while being immersed in studies of the Home Front is really not much different.

She arrived at the same place that I have in some important ways. She stated during her interview that these people had fought valiantly, were passed over for advancement, were not considered full-fledged members of the fighting forces until the Korean war when integration finally was enacted and advancement was finally possible. Most worked in support service branches, and as valets and maids to officers, or served in segregated units with white commanding officers. There was a heartbreaking account of one soldier whose work consisted of burying the dead in the field. I could barely listen ... .

Those men and woman came home as broken and maimed as their white counterparts, but faced the evils of full-blown segregation upon their return, and few of the benefits enjoyed by others. So it was with the homefront workers. The firsts Medals of Honor were awarded to black heroes in 1990, several decades after WWII during which they were earned for valor.

I discovered only this week that one of the several historic sites that have been incorporated into the Rosie the Riveter/Home Front National Historical Park was the Maritime Child Development Center, a state of the art 24-hour child care center that had a staff of 30, a fulltime psychiatrist, medical staff, etc., in the first of its kind and credited to Henry J. Kaiser's dynamic leadership -- but was reserved for white children, only. And this was not in some southern state, but here in California in what has become the most progressive area of the country.

The author of "We also served" arrived at the same conclusion that has consumed me over the past weeks. I, too, believe that the African Americans still struggling for survival against all odds in this city are owed a tremendous debt. This was the heroic generation that gave all, were hated and despised, were discouraged from putting down roots in this land of promise. We were just two generations out of slavery. I know, because I am one of them.

I was spared the degradation of having lived in the South, so had a head start on progress. I cannot imagine what it was like for those who were faced with abandonment at war's end, with no chance to have meaningful work or an education. Returning to the sharecroppers life was no longer an option, but facing a future in the hostility of Jim-Crow America must have been challenging beyond imagination.

I'm finding ways to address this need to tell the stories. This city will celebrate its centennial in 2005. WWII which came mid-century is the epochal event in its life. It will afford us the opportunity to re-visit some of that history and, perhaps, approach the celebration of that earlier time armed with the wisdom gained two decades later, during the Civil Rights Revolution of the Sixties.

Perhaps the most hopeful thing I'm discovering is that -- where there are still many mountains to climb in the overcoming of racism -- the numbers of people willing to climb them, together -- has grown exponentially over the years since WWII. And, there are now a significantly large number of us working hard to "get it right."

Caught sight of three Tibetan lamas on the street today

-- all saffron-robed and humbly sandalled. They were standing in front of the BART station, looking lost. It brought to mind a time when Bill -- a devout student of Tibetan Buddhism and involved in studies at the Padma Ling Center on the borders of the campus. He'd learned that two refugee lamas were visiting from Dharmsala and asked Tarthang Tulku, Rinpoche, if it would be possible for us to take them sight-seeing that weekend. They'd been at the center for several weeks, but had never been outside the ivied walls. Bill had learned that they would be returning to India within 24 hours.

In a rare act of trust Rinpoche agreed and we started to make plans. It was September, and the Rennaisance Faire was in full bloom across the bay in Marin. That would be a wonderful event to share with them. It was colorful and nicely-peopled, and the weather was warm and heavy with approaching autumn.

We drove to Padma Ling at around ten, and picked up our guests (who spoke no English and we spoke no Tibetan). It would be an interesting day.

Before we could take off for the countryside, Bill needed to cash a check at the local supermarket -- a huge bustling Consumer's Co-op in the center of Berkeley. I sat in the car with the two quiet and wide-eyed lamas to wait for him to return.

When I saw how excited they were at the sight of people with heavily-laden shopping carts with all kinds of wonders therein, I decided that we should not wait in the car, but take the opportunity to go inside so that they could experience this thoroughly western Saturday afternoon ritual. We did so, and the first sight my two guests encountered was just inside the doorway -- a display featuring those huge white plastic eggs that held Leggs! They pointed, and I laughed! How on earth could I ever explain what kind of bird produced these strange products, and what on earth did all that have to do with the pictures of women that shown on the cardboard display?

Thought about those dear men today, and wondered where on the planet they are now? I'm sure that they're teaching somewhere in Canada or in Switzerland where many of their brothers are now living.

As I drove on today, I was reminded of just what it as that I missed about not living in Berkeley -- those few short miles away. It's the cosmopolitan character of the city. It really HAS managed to retain that tossed salad kind of lifestyle. There's little self-conscious "pot-melting." Instead, there is a strong value placed on the recognition of differences, and that those differences are presumed to add to the whole. The differences are celebrated! I'd forgotten that, and of how easily my own "differences" slipped into the background until evoked by some cultural trigger.

I met this full-blown later in life, when I became aware of the Hip Hop generation through an exposure to those exciting young people through the Upper Room in Oakland. Rarely did I hear words like "diversity" or "multi-culturalism" during those years. These young internationalists simply assumed those goals of the generations before them had been achieved, and rather than being a hope -- they were by then simply their state of being. I have great hope for the world to be. All one has to do to see it fully formed is to spend an extended period with those now in their 20s and 30s and in the performing arts, especially among the poets.

This weekend I'll attend the Choreographers Festival in San Francisco. I'll see Robert Moses and his dance company and Robert Henry Johnson, and hear the jazz harpist, Destiny, and be reminded that the world may have already been saved -- and that the nightmare of the Middle East is just that, a nightmare from which they will rouse me if only for a few hours.


Photo: Lama Wangdor of Rewalser, India, shown here in front of the cave in which he lived and taught. He escaped from Lhasa when the Dalai Lama left the country. He brought out his mother's ceremonial garments with dzi stones sewn into the hemlines. He sent them to me as a gift years ago; gifts I treasure dearly. He came to this country years later and spent Bill's last days at bedside, then returned to Rewalser. He had a contact telephone from India some time after Bill's death -- to tell me that -- according the the Tibetan Book of the Dead -- Bill had "made it over." Such a dear friend ... .

Bless Berkeley!

Just about the time that I've begun to think that the entire world has gone dormant, or, that the prevailing wisdom has dropped ten notches -- I re-visit my old home and am regenerated.

Last night three women from Richmond and I drove in to the Jewish Community Center for an evening that promised to be spirit-lifting. The event was entitled: "RECLAIM DEMOCRACY: Acting for Change". After some networking over fresh pizza slices and caesar salad in the courtyard, we moved into the small auditorium to hear speeches by Ronnie Gilbert (peace activist and member of The Weavers) who read from the words of the inspirational Granny D of New Hampshire (who is running for the senate at 94), then sang a topical song for us that was recently written by Holly Near.

Oh, I should mention before going further, that Ronnie was introduced by the evening's moderator, Arlene Blum -- Berkeley climber who led the first all-woman ascent of Annapurna, and who has since led several more.

Patricia Ellsberg, who contributed to the decision to release the Pentagon papers that helped to end the Vietnam War was scheduled to appear, but cancelled with a letter that explained that she and Dan were in Washington, D.C. attending a large gathering of potential whistle blowers. "Since you believe that you won't have a job if the current administration remains in power anyway -- then do it now." Makes sense to us, right?

Then came wonderful, humble, and delightfully wide-eyed (at her success) Joan Blades, co-founder of MoveOn.org.
What an inspiration! What started as a plea for some sanity during the Clinton impeachment craziness with a single paragraph to her family and mail list of about 100, total, turned out to have a response of 100,000 in just a couple of weeks. "The rest is history," as we say. Joan announced that MoveOn has registered over 400,000 non-voting citizens in the swing states. It has raised over 2.3 million dollars online, with the average contribution being $35. Now THAT's grass roots!

Farai Chideya, founder of popandpolitics.com and author of Color of Our Future, plus her latest book, Trust, followed. Farai is a Zimbabwean-American Stanford Fellow, former White House correspondent, CNN journalist, spoke about the "100 million missing voters," those who have stopped dreaming the dream of democracy. "We must begin to dream it back into being, or democracy will surely perish." We've met before and it was great to renew and catch up.

Re-connected with a number of acquaintances from my life as a university spouse, and it felt good. I'd not seen some of these friends for almost twenty years, though it surely didn't feel that long. Another incarnation ... .


On the drive home, we got busy planning a youth candidate's night, and a Sunday Salon featuring some of the women we'd just been inspired by. This may be the way to break through what I perceive as a kind of urban isolationism that prevails in Richmond. It's peculiar and disturbing, especially in times such as this when the whole is threatened by the disunity and alienation of its parts. Berkeley and Richmond are a mere 4 miles apart in physical distance, but light years apart in political activism and a world view. Maybe that's more closely related to Berkeley's being a university town than anything else. Richmond may be far more like its nearby coastal neighbors that have yet to put down permanent roots to look beyond their own borders and their generically-scarred shopping centers.

But Richmond can be far more than that. Unlike the bordering extensions that have incorporated into townlets, it has a rich history and a colorful past. Richmond has been here for a very long time, but seems to have reached a kind of "old age" without ever going through the process of maturation. It's a strange thing ... .

But now it's morning and I'm off to re-live World War II yet another day at the National Park Service office, and that could get to be less and less satisfying when the present is so compelling and the future is so uncertain ... .

Harry Who?

Cleaning out my files this morning I ran across this exchange and decided to share them here. This is the kind of entry that humanizes history in ways that nothing else can -- and should be shared.

For many years I've been participating in Seniornet, an online community that brought together seniors from all over the country. It was created by San Francisco's Mary Furlong, it started out as a master's thesis, I believe. In the early nineties it took on a life of its own that changed lives and deepened the meaning of friendships in unexpected ways.

In those early days, the only elders online were those who were savvy enough, and brave enough, to enter the cyberworld of the young. There were many retired professionals who'd been introduced to this brave new world through their work. There were also those who were dragged into cyberspace by their children as a way to keep us current with the accellerating rate of change lest we be lost along the way. It was also a given that we be able to afford the hardware required to enter the "Gates of Progress." I recall a post one day when a member of Seniornet announced proudly that she'd just "blown the estate on a brand new Power PC, and the kids would just have to make it on their own!"

There were some unexpected consequences that I'm sure addled almost anyone who chose to enter in to this new forum. Little did we dream of where it would take us, or that at some time in the future would rival political powers by creating this crazy and wonderful invisible though powerful new system that could challenge regimes and blunt the ability to wage wars. I truly believe that we are seeing the creation of the balancing international world power that may well rival even that of what we now refer to as "The First World."


But I digress.


Subject: Harry Who?
Date: Sat. Aug 9, 2003 1:59 PM
From: CBreaux
Msgld: <2--3-9-0165922.13940.00021116@mbs-m03.aol.com>

Yesterday I attended the American City Planners Association's annual conference in downtown Oakland, Californa. I was covering two workshops for our office -- one on "The Criminal Justice System" and the other, "Environmental Injustice." During the course of his presentation, the first presenter used an old device to involve his audience. He tossed out a purely rhetorical question, "who among you can name the most powerful union force in the State of California?" Since I was sitting close to the front of the room -- hand raised and waving -- he called on me. With all of the confidence of my impressive name tag (Field Rep for Assemblywoman Loni Hancock), and as Michael Jordan might wave others away to sink his famous air-bourne rim shot from 80 feet out -- I shouted out, "Har-ry Bridges!" Our leader looked stunned. Unknowing. So did everybody in the room. Talk about yer old lady response! I laughed at myself all the way home!

What he was fishing for was, of course, the prison guards union of the California criminal justice system. Nothing I could have said would have dated me more. Those folks didn't even know who Harry Bridges was! I'd have done better had I thought to mention Cesar Chavez! That would at least have come from a later period in history, right?

Despite my relatively youthful appearance and carefully chosen style of dress and ability to talk the talk (most of the time), my frame of reference rises right out of my personal history. Ain't a whole lot to do about that, I suppose, but laugh!

Betty

Betty of Berkeley
"Women in Progress!"


Some online reponses:



Subject: Remembering Harry Bridges: a vignette
Date: Sat, Aug 9, 2003, 3:12 PM
From: InSoMannyWords
Msgld: <20030809181231.14502.0003047@mbs-m01.aol.com>

Betty, if it's any comfort to you, I haven't forgotten Harry Bridges either, and he's vivid in my mind. I knew him slightly when he lived in the Haight-Ashbury, and I met him socially at my cousin's house, but then I met him in a professional capacity many years later (and many years ago). He made an appointment in the Kaiser-Permanente urology clinic in San Francisco. He was elderly at the time, and he kept apologizing for taking up so much time when there were others in great need of care. He was physically a tiny guy, not at all the man of muscle one would expect for the leader of the longshoremen.

Anyhow I reminded him that he was the last that should apologize for taking up time since in Kaiser-Permanente he was very much the VIP. Shortly after World War II there was a big question whether KPMG (Kaiser Permanente Medical Group) could survive as a peacetime deliverer of health care and make money as a prepay deliverer of health care. Harry brought the longshoremen in, and then it was an avalanche for other unions and organizations, but he was the first. I told him that he was a big hero to me and my partners. He thanked me, but then reminded me that his days as heroic figure were long over to the younger longshoremen who by then considered him an old fuddy-duddy, but what a guy! And like all great men, as pleasant (and as modest) as they come.


Subject: Re: Harry Who???
Date: Sat. Aug 9, 2003 4:05 PM
From: SaJanina
Msgld: <20030809190506.14539.00031179@mbs-m01.aol.com>

Betty before I got the name, I thought of him, and of his strength ....and then realized you had written his name! I knew him...he was a relative of my next door neighbor and when he would come to visit I would sit with them in the living room in awe. Those were such exciting evenings.

His daughter and I became friends ...she died about ten years ago, after him, of breast cancer that wasn't found until it was too late ...leaving an eight year old boy.

I didn't know him during the time of his great triumphs ... I only knew him in his old age ...and through my beloved neighbors. Without my neighbors I might not have known of his courage and spirit.

He was skinny and smoked like crazy. He was something else! I am so glad that you've reminded me of the kind of fighter he was ... He was an absolutely incredible man. PBS did a very fine documentary about him about five years ago..I would love to see it again ...it was beautiful

SaJanina, happy for the memories.



Subject: Re: Harry Who???
Date: Sat, Aug 9, 2003 4:50
From: CBreaux
Msgld: <20030808195056.12940.00021571@mbs-m03.aol.com

Aha! Manny, Saj! I wasn't so wrong or out of date after all; just out of context. The name Harry Bridges should be held up as heroic and well-remembered (as, obviously, he is) on the short list of strong union organizers. I'm sure that Saul Alinsky and Cesar Chavez followed closely in his footsteps, but it was Bridges who created the mold. We all had to be pretty young at the time of his reign, but we remember. That's comforting.

The humor was not lost, however, because on a scale of relevance -- I wasn't even in the ballpark in that young crowd.

Wonder how those giants would be addressing the current conditions? Wish we could revive their attitudes, if not their work. I work fairly closely with Labor (AFL-CIO, CTA, and SIEU) here in my county, and there are times when I have the sense that - for the sake of "jobs, jobs, jobs" -- many would accept a contract to manufacture guillotines! And I'm a champion of the labor movement. The prison guards are a union, the union that achieved a $20,000/year raise at a time when the state budget deficit is at 38 billion, and when we're quite literally grabbing crutches from the lame and eliminating food for guide dogs.

Where's Harry when we need him? Wonder if we could make a list of outstanding union leaders currently functioning? Surely they'll surface during this recall of our governow. I know at least two whom I'd certainly put on such a list. The State AFL-CIO leadership has taken a strong no-recall position. I'm not all that sure about the membership, though. It's hard to keep a clear sense of who the players are and of what they bring to the table, isn't it?

The Avatar who lived and worked among us as Harry Bridges so long ago surely left his mark, and those of us who still remember have created for him -- immortality.

Betty



Note: I'm wondering how much important and humanizing history is imbedded in these exchanges that are accessible only through these intimate-though-abstract online conversations among peers of our generation? I've never met SaJanina, though we've been sharing the past this way for many years. She's an artist/anthropologist and lives a portion of each year among the Maroons in Surinam. She is at other times a resident of Upstate New York. Manny is a San Francisco retired urologist and creator of crossword puzzles for the New York Times. He's since emerged into my "real life" as a friend and occasional co-participant in an inner-circle of local folks who met online years ago and now meet for lunch from time to time.

New fears ...

While absently watching the television shows that followed Washington Week in Review last night, I was again struck by the mediocrity that has replaced so much of what once felt enlightening and worth viewing. Not only the obvious dumbing down of what we once referred to as "the arts," but these reality shows that have replaced the entire field of the performing arts is deadening. There are obviously few script writers and editors and actors now, only producers and casting agents and ad men and women -- and -- a seemingly endless stream of attractive young people willing to do almost anything before the cameras for instant fame. The degradation of young women that has been a growing phenomenon for several years now has become totally embarrassing. There has to be something between the burkha and the bikini, really! I'm so appalled by body-piercings and tattoos -- and am so sure that there will be regrets for most as the years pile on and lifestyles change.

How on earth did we come to this? Am I finally exhibiting those long-delayed symtoms of simply getting old and out of touch? Is this what I once thought of as "crochety"? Am I one of only a few who cringe with embarrassment and revulsion at the sight of Donald Trump with his cantilevered hairdo on his "You're fired!" show. And I've never actually seen it, only long enough to grab the remote and zap him into the ether. And I'd zap model Tyra Banks right along with him into celebrity oblivion!

Those screamingly rude pundits who are everywhere on the screen, on almost every channel, it seems, are equally appalling. At one time it was only Jerry Springer and Howard Whathisname that I felt such revulsion for, but now they pale by what passes as entertainment almost everywhere I look. Then there's Paris Hilton and Britney Spears (a dead-on imitation of Janet Jackson in white-face, of course, without giving credit). Are these the harbingers of lifestyle for my 6- and 8-year old granddaughters? Did my grandmother feel this way about my passions for my youth idols -- examples, Katherine Hepburn (who wore trousers, after all), ballerina Moira Shearer, and Lena Horne? (That was well before I discovered Eleanor Roosevelt and Fannylou Hamer, of course.) I don't think so. This pattern is something quite different, I believe.

Seems related to the numerous "if you don't like the face and body you were born with -- see your nearest plastic surgeon!" shows. Are you as concerned about this as I am? Have we really reached the time when -- not only do we expect to medicate ourselves into instant mood-changes, but now there's instant cosmetic surgery to change our outer shell into something more fitting -- and to whom? And we sit in our living rooms and look into the most awful surgical procedures night after night in this latest form of the living Cinderella myth; and it's considered entertainment. I'm appalled! Would I feel differently were I younger?

My late husband, Dr. William F. Soskin (formally), would be horrified to see that psychology is being practiced on television -- with the most intimate disclosures before the world by troubled parents, spouses, and children. And Dr. Phil's brash treatment protocols probably have created some answers for many over these past years, but will we ever really know at what cost? I truly don't know, but find myself picking up the remote when I find myself squirming uncomfortably during some of the more revealing sessions.

We've MacDonalized the entire urban landscape through those cookie-cutter commercial developments that now cover the earth and destroy the entire concept of individual entrepreneurship so that small family-owned shops have all but disappeared, now replaced by mega-marts that sell us our everyday needs on flatbed hand trucks! Everyday items are now packaged in such huge sizes that we're challenged for places to store the surplus, so must rent storage spaces often miles away. It's crazy! While the environmenalists encourage us to give up our cars in favor of bicycles -- the thought of bringing home that case of 24 rolls of toilet paper dictates otherwise. But it was such a good buy! At least until we add in the cost to our wallets and to the air quality when we drive to Costco to pick it up!

I'm beginning to hate franchises! The nearest small bakery shop is rarely to be found, except by driving to Berkeley. What I wouldn't give to have one close enough to pick up the aroma of hot bread through the screen door as I pass by on a cool Bay Area morning; one of life's small but nearly forgotten pleasures ... .

But now I'm off to a campaign fundraiser for an incumbent candidate I'd like to see returned to office. Maybe I can convince her to open a small bakery, or get the redevelopment agency to demand that every new housing developer add front porches to their designs, or, say "no" to WalMart's latest proposal to build a super center; or, insist that small businesses find the protections needed to co-exist with the giants -- at least until those giants pick up their flatbed hand trucks and move on to greener parking lots!

This is one of my crustier mornings... .

On second thought, given the state of the union as described above, it may not be so unthinkable -- after all -- that we'd find sitting at the helm of this grand old ship of state, a C-student anti-hero who might be far better suited to play Eddie Haskell in some new retro-styled reality show!

Maybe cream doesn't always rise to the top ... .

Received this note yesterday from a sister-friend --

from another old California family who took the time to confirm some of these uneasy feelings I've been writing about. It isn't a figment of my imagination. There were others who noticed the same emotionally disfiguring events in those war years that I did. History has so romanticized that period ("The Good War" as reported by Studs Terkel and "The Greatest Generation" as told by Tom Brokaw) that my own history appears to have been erased completely. Not so. Gerri describes her own memories of Richmond and a tragic variation on the home front stories that coincides with my own.



September 4, 2004

Hi, Betty,
I've been having a debate with myself about filling out another form. I haven't sent for a packet for that reason. I would be happy to contribute some anecdotal information for your project, but I just cannot do it that way. I throw away forms or surveys I receive. :-( I guess I have a phobia. I'm sorry about it. I am really torn, because I would like to help you. I hope you will understand.

I can give you one example:
When I was in the Supply Officer's office, the man who was responsible for scheduling the trains to bring workers from the South used to come in and vent his frustrations to me. I think he felt I was the only person he could talk to honestly. He said the recruiters for the shipyards would promise anything -- pie in the sky -- a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow -- to get them to leave home and come to California. They were given no preparation for the life they would have here, and they were disillusioned at what they found on their arrival. He said they were crammed into cattle cars, under sub-human conditions, for the trip. He was very upset that no one would listen to him. He could do nothing.

That may not be the heroic story you are looking for, but it happened.

All my best, Gerri



Met this morning with the editor of a local weekly newspaper (Black). Have decided that this unwritten history is desparately in need of being included in the record of the times. She and I are going to combine efforts, add another interested cohort or two, and begin to plan what will be a series on the homefront stories of the African Americans who lived it. It will be published shortly after the elections -- when we won't be distracted by current events. Have discovered some remarkable photos of African American members of the armed forces, launchings of the SS Harriet Tubman and the SS Booker T. Washington online that are available through the Library of Congress, and downloaded some of the most interesting.

When I let myself dwell on the fact that the present black population of this city are the descendants of those heroic sharecropper "come-westers," I'm so touched. The word "toleration" comes to mind and brings up the bile to the back of my throat. These struggling under-educated and hard-working people didn't have a chance. Due to the prevailing racism, they were abandoned without the ability to climb out of the poverty as had their equally poorly-educated and hard-working white counterparts. It is ironic that -- in future years they would be blamed for their inability to move into the mainstream with little consideration of the root causes. Despite unequal status in all avenues of life; segregation in the unions and in housing and lack of education in most cases -- they nonetheless picked up the tools to help to build the ships and went to war on the back of the damned bus! Most would be consigned to be the chambermaids and cooks and valets with no opportunity to rise above their stations in life in or out of the Armed Forces. Black men fought the war in racially segregated units headed by white commanding officers. Black women stepped in to earn 35-50 cents an hour as housekeepers and babysitters so that white women could become the Rosies of the day. They would not be allowed into the war plants until 1944. None of the Aircraft plants were ever racially-integrated, though the shipyards did so with some important caveats, like working out of Jim Crow powerless union auxiliaries.

Since existing history is dominated by the white experience, I'm seeing the need to contact members of the Japanese community, the Italian-Americans whose lives were impacted uniquely, and the German immigrant community that was forced to move 100 miles from the coastline. These, too, are important homefront stories. These are American stories. It was in those years that the seeds of discontent were planted that would burst forth 15-20 years hence in the greatest social revolution of the century -- the days of Dr. King and Malcolm X, the Kennedys and Fanny Lou Hamer and the Mississippi Freedom Party.

I have to keep reminding myself of just how recent in time all that was. And -- that the first African American school teacher hired in the state of California, U.C. Berkeley-educated Mrs. Ida Jackson, wasn't hired until 1944!



The Rosie story is being well covered after years of neglect, and that's just fine, I think. These stories well worth the re-telling. But the truth is that that heroic generation of African Americans should not be tolerated but celebrated! These were extraordinary human beings, and their children and grandchildren should be made aware of their dedication to the cause of freedoms they would not, themselves, enjoy for 15-20 more years, and in many cases are still dreams unfulfilled.

Maybe through this new national park we can begin to confront our history in ways that are transformative and life-sustaining. I've sat in with my friend, Donna, a historian who has worked for many years with the Rosie Memorial and the oral history project of the Bancroft Library of the university. It was Donna who headed up the project that did my oral history and those of members of each of the Japanese, Italian, German and Italian communities. I've attended presentations by the Japanese seniors who many years ago created the many plant nurseries that still stand in some areas of North Richmond. Japanese-Americans who were interned in relocation camps during those years. I heard their stories at a recent presentation, and wondered at how much I'd missed in my concern over my own perceived inequities. One had the feeling in listening that day, that most had suffered in silence, and that maybe -- through this new opportunity -- that conversation, too, can be opened to outsiders.

The catharsis might be wonderful for us all. Perhaps it could not have happened until now. Maybe we're ready to revisit those times, bolstered by the experience of the Sixties, Seventies, the Vietnam War, and current tragic misadventures in far off lands.

This is a tall order. I'm with the National Park Service for a very limited time -- an emergency hire -- that will end mid-month. But that's no reason to not start the process, right? Someone else can pick it up and move it across the board later on. In a way, that may describe all of life. Taking care of your leg of the journey as well as you can, trusting that another will pick up the strings when you drop them ... .


In reading back for corrections, I noticed that I've rarely said "we" in referring to the African American population of the time. Wondered about that until I realized that -- I'm sure that I've been waiting all these years for ALL those strangers who invaded MY state to go home. My WE is that population that existed before World War II, up to December 7th. Gerri (white) would have been a part of my world, though we'd hardly have known it then. She was a Junior Leaguer, living for the most part in the most affluent part of the East Bay (in Piedmont), while I lived in the flatlands in a blue collar community (integrated) of other rag-tag "Amurricans." But I suspect that we'd have found a way to bridge the gaps between -- given another generation of uninterrupted progress in human relations. My "we" was made up of those sturdy black pioneers who preceded the two world wars by many years -- more closely related to the Civil War, actually. That's changed since the Civil Rights struggles of the Sixties, and my "we" has become broadened to include a host of cultures and peoples, and for that I'm grateful. Having re-invented myself decade by decade, my "we" now seems to encompass the entire planet!

I've come full circle, I think. My Black pride fuels my efforts these days, and for that I'm grateful. Living off my black edge is where the richness is for me. Wish I could explain that better. Maybe someday the words will come.

Yesterday at the wedding I had the chance to reconnect

with Rachel's (the bride) parents, both east coast educators. Larry teaches at Harvard.

The last time we met, I was deep in ambitious plans to try to effect Arts & Culture in the city of Richmond, and had begun to circulate a paper I'd written with the hope that I could influence others to join my vision. As it turned out, her parents had recently visited one of August Wilson's plays and -- upon their return to the east coast -- sent the program to me that included a brilliant statement about the magic and importance of theater in African American performing arts.

Yesterday, he reminded me of that in a brief conversation, and I wondered where that dream had gone to?

Jennifer and I are still very much involved in trying to interest the powers that be to allow us to take over the Arts & Cultural aspects of this city so that we can bring some of the richness of the performing arts that we've both been involved with for many years. There simply is no permanent structure to city government at this point, so no souls with whom to commune around this critically important aspect of urban life.

Over the past six months we've met with the city manager (now resigned) and with four subsequent interim managers. Every important position in this city is presently held by temporary officers. Only about a month ago yet another interim city manager was hired on a six month contract - while a national search is held for a permanent one.

Our proposal has been shelved for the time being, because the arts will probably be the last area explored for reorganization. Yet, it's the arts and culture that serve as the glue that makes all else possible. I doubt if anyone of importance has even read our proposal, or that anyone has seen the need to. As I've often said to Jennifer, "...we keep running around this city with answers to questions that nobody is asking!"

This city has a civic center that was built about 40 years ago. These buildings were awarded historic landmark status on the basis of having been the first civic center in the nation that incorporated the arts and culture as integral elements. (Have a feeling that I've written about this before ...) The campus (surrounding a spacious green plaza) consists of the main library, the convention center that holds a television station and the arts center (classes and exhibitions), the city hall, and police and fire department administrative offices. Subsequent elected officials over many years seem to have totally forgotten that legacy, and there is little interest in using the center as originally intended.

Over a year ago, due to the need to retrofit city hall for earthquake safety, the administrative offices moved (temporarily) to a lovely building on the marina, abandoning the downtown civic center to growing weeds and neglect. There is some consideration by some citizens for making this shoreline site the permanent home of government -- to the dismay of many others. However, the convention center (art center and television station) remain in use though seriously under-utilized. Due to budget restraints (a polite way of saying that the city is in financial meltdown) the library's hours and staff have seen a severe cutback. This movement of the city's main offices out of the old downtown has increased the desolation that had already eroded economic life and discouraged development over many years. Still, more "empty nester" housing is presently under construction -- in a brand new transit village just a few blocks away from the old civic center. It is a peculiar kind of planning without rhyme or reason to an eye unaccustomed to the complexities of redevelopment; mine.

How does this effect my Arts & Culture plans? Everything depends upon our ability to convince this city that it is squandering one of the most important civic complexes in the county. We already have what nearby cities are crying for -- an important performing arts center -- and despite ambitious nonprofits giving it their best efforts -- other nearby cities may be years away from realizing their dreams of having just such an asset. And, we are using the convention center as simply a space to rent out and not as the marvelous venue through which to express the rich and unique cultural life of this city.

Find myself wondering at times -- when I look around at the decaying inner core of this city -- filled with historic buildings begging for restoration -- why?

About 30 years ago downtown was abandoned in favor of building a brand new shopping mall at the edge of the northern boundary. Just as Henry J. Kaiser Corporation walked away and abandoned the shipyards and all of its associated structures at the end of World War II, the city did the same for the historic downtown that had served that population so well. The theaters and department stores and banks and offices gradually were given over to storefront churches, used clothing stores; and eventually institutions that served "the poor." Sound familiar? The only truly viable operations in the old downtown district are Kaiser Hospital, the Social Security Building, and the Social Services Agency. There is a small strip mall but the air of impermanence hangs over everything like a shroud. Micro-businesses are born and die within months of inception, and dreams die from lack of the oxygen of pedestrian traffic in an area where fear overcame trust decades ago.

In those moments when I have the time to think about it, I find myself wondering if it might be possible to estimate the millions of dollars that have been lost over those thirty years? Lost tax revenue, public safety, poor civic image, etc., and if we could calculate those losses, how on earth can we continue to let those lovely old brick buildings lie in ruins, discouraging all attempts at change? Wonder what the daily losses amount to in today's dollars? And, can any city continue to sustain those kinds of losses without economic collapse? Can we afford to NOT create the vibrant Arts & Entertainment that I envision for those long neglected sites?

What on earth is it costing us NOT to restore those buildings -- and all those lives of African Americans who wait each day fearing gentrification? Of the city's 40% Black population that has resided in Richmond since the end of the great war, I'd probably guess that 90% live in that downtown area in the Santa Fe, The Iron Triangle and North Richmond districts. These are the areas of the city that are most effected by continuing and persistent poverty, high crime rates, and desparation.

Perhaps I'll dig out that paper and add it to my blog. You never know who will see it and say a resounding "YES!"

And, yes, I'd give up the National Park position quicker than you can say "Arts District!" But meanwhile, I'll continue to explore all things "Rosie" until there are signs that the city is ready to dream along with me.

Beautiful wedding!

The bride and groom had earlier invited me to participate in the "Blessings" part of the ceremony. I was to select something (or create something) about the subject of hope. That day a few weeks ago when she'd called to confirm that I'd accepted this assignment, I knew instantly what that would be. It was ordained somewhere in the annals of time as if waiting to be called up for just this occasion:

I must have been all of sixteen. My friends were probably reading the Ruth Fielding Series for girls -- but I'd discovered Bartlett's Familiar Quotations and had been spending every waking hour reading through every line. Can't recall whether I completed it that summer, but it was close. I was utterly fascinated by these snatches of larger pieces, and wondered about the writers and lovers and poets and orators and presidents and kings represented among those pages. I'd been guided to it by a wonderful librarian at the local library, and in the years that followed -- while building my own library -- this was one of the first books I bought to place on my book shelves -- along with the Pooh Series and a worn copy of Aesops Fables received as a birthday gift from a very loving Aunt Vivian. My well-worn copy with the dog-eared pages is still here within sight.

What did I choose?

It was from Letters to Abigail by John Adams:

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


I can think of no more hopeful message in these dark days.

Since those of us chosen to give our blessings were also asked to present them to the couple for their memory book, I wrote mine on a lovely card then slipped that into a vintage invitation to a fundraiser banquet for 1984 presidential candidate Jesse Jackson. It was fitting since the bride is a young colleague with whom I'd worked under two members of the California State Assembly. The groom is the current Chief of Staff for Rep. Barbara Lee. Barbara and I were both blessing presenters, and sat together through the ceremony. The dinner invitation announced as Honorary Chairpersons, then Congressman Ron Dellums, and Guest Speaker, Assemblywoman Maxine Waters. Ron, of course, being Barbara Lee's predecessor in Congress, and (now) Rep. Maxine Waters being at that time Loni and Dion's predecessors in the State Assembly. It all seemed fitting.


There has not -- to this time -- been any way to pass along that beautiful bit of Adams wisdom. It was waiting there in some part of my brain to be reawakened at just this moment in time. About a year ago -- for a day or so -- it had flashed across my mind in fragments that I couldn't completely piece together. I recall asking online if anyone remembered that lovely piece. I'd been searching Bartlett's for it and -- try as I might -- it would not reveal itself. I'd leafed through page by page for hours in a fruitless search.

A peculiar thing happened at the time, and I took note of it. Somewhere in my memory bank or muscle memory, or someplace more metaphysically apt, it had been stored. I noticed that I was scanning with both brain and finger only the left page as I turned them. Somewhere I knew that it was in that book - on the left page -- and somewhere in the middle of the page -- only nearer to the bottom... and there it had waited for all those years.

It eluded me.

I went online and put out a plea. Someone answered with the full quotation. I was so grateful for having retrieved it, and wrote it out and attached it to the side of my computer with scotch tape; for what reason I did not know.

That is, until yesterday!

There is a feeling that comes more and more frequently these days. It is still ephemeral -- unsteady -- but nonetheless persistent. It is this; that at least some part of me (us?) exists in a dimension not effected by time and space. A place where there is only NOW, and all of life is simultaneous. In the course of things, I'll surely not live long enough to fully understand what that means, but someone at sometime will. Some have gotten close and called it "GOD." Einstein named it "e=mc squared, and the Quantum Theory and the discoveries of black holes in the universe all hint at it, but until life has been extended beyond present possibilities, it will probably remain as elusive as the beautiful continuum of life described by the hopes of John Adams for future generations.

Now I need to get back to the really important Saturday stuff like sorting laundry and matching socks and figuring out just what on earth to fix for dinner!

Another Friday has arrived,

and this day will be filled with the wedding of a pair of lovely young friends. I've been asked to participate in the wedding that will join in marriage two families across the artificial barriers of race -- She is Jewish and he, African American. His father, a minister, and her rabbi will co-officiate in the ceremony and many of the customs and rituals of both races are integral to the service. It should be another remarkable event in this remarkable and eventful life of mine.

She comes from an academic family from Cambridge, MA., where her parents are still actively involved in teaching. He is the son of a prominent midwestern clergyman. They are both staffers for members of the state and federal legislatures. I love them both.

It should be a beautiful afternoon and evening, with activities round the clock. There are many who have traveled from far away places to share this day, so plans are many and varied.

The wedding is being held at another of the magnificent redwood forests high in the Oakland hills, Joaquin Miller Park, and promises to be a fitting end to a cram-filled week of the best kind of busyness -- the kind that completely blocked out the charade taking place in New York in Madison Square Garden. News of the vast numbers who marched and danced and protested on the streets was heartening. The irony of Medea Benjamin and her cohorts (Women in Pink) repeatedly getting through the barriers and onto the floor of the convention made a mockery of so-called "security." It was quite clear that -- unless one was clearly middle eastern in appearance, it was fairly safe to crash the party! I will spend tomorrow catching up and tamping down the anger and fears that lie so near the surface, and that cause me to catch my breath for a few seconds whenever I allow the space to think. I'm sure that I really didn't want to pay heed to any of it. Except for a momentary glimpse late some evenings, and doing my best to catch Jon Stewart's Daily Show each night, I managed to escape much of it.

Tomorrow I'll get back to world-saving. Today I'm off to stand with others in the filtering sunlight of those awesome redwoods while we join together in holy matrimony -- two young lives of significance.

Can't think of a more fitting way to end this week... .

Audience? Readers?

I often forget about that aspect of blogging because I sit alone at my computer when the muse visits -- and write into it as though into a storage chest that will hold my memories until called up by my family years hence. Not so. Yesterday added an element that was both a pleasant surprise and that challenged my ability to continue to remain truthful and to honor candor and avoid the withholding of what's real for me.

Dorrie and I attended a family reunion at the beautiful Roberts Park high in the Oakland Hills. We sat among towering redwoods at picnic tables with members of Mel's family. I've retained a feeling of kinship with them despite the many years since our divorce and his death in 1987. Families are like that, I suppose. Since our relationship brought together two of the state's oldest resident families, it seems only right that we and our children remain steadfast members in good standing. Bob, David, Dorian, and I were all present and accounted at this, our second reunion in as many years.

Of the original Allen-Breaux-Turner-Galt unions, there have been four occasions when later generations combined lives through marriages. We're not only family members, but in many cases -- close friendships have been a continuing and valued renewing spark in our lives. I truly hope this continues far into the future across the generations.

There was talk yesterday of our coming together to recall and create a book on this black pioneer family of California's history. We bridge the period from the Civil War to the present in this state; a period in black history that has not yet been documented. We have the writers who can do that and the willingness to try.

Yesterday a young "cousin" (can't take the time to re-trace lineage on every meeting) approached me with a big proud grin to say how much she was enjoying this blog. She discovered it on an online visit to our family page (California Black Pioneers) when she followed the links that led here. She works at the university and told me that she's passed along the hyperlink to her co-workers who are also reading it. I was so touched by her pride, "...I tell them that's MY family!" And, "...you're saying all those things that I feel and can't quite express about life." She was gesturing with her arms and legs and voice and full body -- punching the air, and flailing her arms as she spoke." I was so struck by her pride in me, so touched by something down deep that we shared as two black women -- and that -- across the years we shared feelings about gender and race and what a moment that was! Her name is Robin, and I knew in that instance that this is an important thing to be doing now. And, that I'm writing my truth for more than for my own children. I sensed, again, that each of us -- in living our independent lives has a unique responsibility to chronicle as truthfully as we can -- where that life has taken us.

We are one-of-a-kind creatures, and each history is important to the whole. Each choice made, each outcome, is critical to the creation of a life and has significance to everyone and everything else that life touches. If the years have taught anything at all, it is that the intricate web of interdependence that holds all of life together is maybe one aspect of that thing that we've named "God." Last night just before falling off into sleep I remembered something I'd almost forgotten. It is that I've come to believe that there is really only one life and that we're all living it... .

I also remembered dimly that insights are less likely to arise in the expected places (cathedrals and cemetaries), than in those moments of surprise -- like this one when a faintly remembered 3 year-old, a beautiful brown-skinned Robin, appears in the shadow of regal redwoods -- fully adult and vibrant(!) -- to help to celebrate this shared lifetime.

Thanks, Robin.

It's Saturday again, ...

as the hours and the days and the months and years pile on mercilously.

The meeting with the 27 young teachers went beautifully. I thoroughly enjoyed their visit, and felt a deep sense of pleasure that I'd been invited into their lives for those two hours.

They'd decided to break up their visit to the park into two parts; they would meet with me on Monday for a Q&A, and then return on Tuesday to explore the collections in the (temporary) museum.

In preparation for the visit, I dug out my own artifacts from home to share with them; photographs of Leontine Allen Breaux, my slave ancestor; pictures of relatives and events from earlier times; the marriage license of my great-great-grandmother, Celestine ("of no last name"), and Leontine's mother -- and the Cajun plantation owner, Eduoard Breaux who was her legal husband. Framed it some years ago to remind me that I'm the product of a long line of brave souls who crossed a lot of unimportant lines for the sake of love. Brought the thick sheaf of papers received from the Army that made up the service record of my great-grandfather, George Allen, Sergeant in the Civil War, having served in the Louisiana Colored Volunteers. There was a newspaper clipping of 17 year-old Betty Charbonnet (moi) that announced the winners of a beauty contest held at the World's Fair on Treasure Island in 1938. No, I didn't win, but finished as one of the top three. It was fun to share these treasures.

Tried to give them some context in which to ask their questions. It worked well. Through those two hours I hoped to convey that this living breathing elder was imprinted by slavery, Jim Crow, and the Civil Rights Revolution -- that it's embedded in my DNA. That there are no abstractions here. I could see by their faces that they got it.

Was unable to meet with them on their return tip on Tuesday since I was scheduled to attend the board meeting of the Proposition 40 Arts & Historic Preservation Board at the capitol in Sacramento, all day. Since outreach and public relations are my primary areas of responsibility, we didn't meet to follow up on Monday's work. I'd like to have done that, but will visit their charter school later this fall. They plan to create a product of some sort from their field trips, and that will fit nicely into my work. Their work will be around the topic of "what is missing in history as taught? What is not represented, and how do we retrieve those stories?"


More on Dorian's art:

Dorrie stayed home from NIAD most of this week due to the onset of some minor stomach upset that failed to fully bloom, so the promised visit from her brother, David, was postponed. Yesterday she returned to class. In the early afternoon she called on her cellphone, to say that David and a lady friend had visited the studio to see her work, that they'd brought her a bouquet of flowers. Her voice held all of the excitement that was expressed when Bob had come last week.

When I picked her up at the usual 2:30 end-of-day, I didn't just wait at the curb, but went inside to take another look at her huge "quilt day-flo piece" that I spoke of in my last NIAD report. I'm so glad that I did, because viewing it alone, without the distraction of a buzzing reception going on in the background and the need to chat politely with other guests, I saw much more:

This time Dorian explained the picture to me. "There's the two kittens (couldn't make these out but clearly she saw them), and over on this side are Speedy and Gracey (her two adult cats, recognizable from ears, whiskers, and tails, and color). And there YOU are." I looked more closely and saw beyond the blue shape that she pointed out before. My mother's eye and artist's soul had too quickly "interpreted" the blue blob as what I wanted to see as "mom." Not that is wasn't there. But there was so much more. The brilliance of the cobalt blue in the sea of scarlets and oranges and phosphorescence had masked another layer that lay just beneath. There was, indeed, a woman with hair, facial features, arms and legs, but all subdued, almost shadowed in browns, and blended in a way that obscured the woman there. The predominant feature was still that blue "core" that was located in her mid-section. It was so much richer to share her work without the distraction of others.

There remains some element of mystery for me since I know that her impairment lies in the destroyed brain cells that control visual perception. It's difficult to know how she sees, or, how her art reflects what and how she sees. What is plainly obvious, though, is that there are no limitations on her ability to express feelings in color and line (or lack thereof), and to communicate that to anyone who views her work. Everything is unstudied and free and guileless.

It dawned on me that there might be something to be gained by mainstreaming some "normal" people into the world of NIAD for the sake of freeing the muse that is so often restricted by the expectations of "the world." Looking around the studio yesterday -- after having a personal interpretation of her work by Dorrie -- I wondered if this might be an adventure in art that might be offered to others. I'd enroll myself, except that it would be an invasion into a world that is clearly Dorrie's. Might suggest such an experiment to the staff, for potential artists needing to be freed from themselves and their perceived limitations. I've always objected to mainstreaming for Dorian, but this would be in reverse, and the disabled would be in the majority and not the "different" ones.

Crazy? Maybe, but then maybe not.

Photo: A mosaic created by Dorian -- made of Mardi Gras beads, bits of glass, marbles, and whatever else she could find that met the pattern in her mind ... and quite beautiful.

Oh! I must tell ...

say something about Thursday evening's reception at NIAD, (National Institute for Artists with Disabilities). Dorian's work is just phenomenal! She's working on interesting surfaces; huge 4'x8' canvasses and old discarded quilts that she gives new life to. This is such a wonderful program that should be emulated everywhere. But having had Dr. Ellis Katz and his wife create this wonderland of possibilities for people like Dorian is enough to be ever grateful for. Richmond is so much the richer for its existence, and for the exceptional group of artists who've devoted their lives to freeing the souls of those whose bodies and minds have so limited their capacity to live as fully as the rest of us. Under their patience guidance, this is changing dramatically for those fortunate enough to spend the hours and the days as "artists" in every medium possible (ceramics, painting, textiles, jewelry-making, block-printing, etc.). It's such a magical place to "BE!"

Loveliest part was that Dorrie's much-adored brother, Bob, came up from San Juan Bautista where he's lived for many years, just for the occasion. She was ecstatic! He was beaming with pride at her accomplishments, and she knew it. He was surprised and delighted and Dorian and I were equally so in response to his obvious joy. She had one piece in the exhibition, "My Flower Garden," that was a lovely pastel made from a block print. But the dramatic almost Day-Glo-colored quilt piece that hung prominently on the spacious studio's wall was the breath-stopper. It was oranges and pinks in many shapes of many sizes, but in the middle was a blue "blob" that she described as "mom." Amazing! There was nothing but the color to represent me, no faint image of a feature or suggestion of an action. Only the blue in a sea of brilliant reds and oranges. In one corner there was a vague representation of her two cats -- ears, whiskers, etc., but in rusts and browns and recognizable. Only "Mom" was a deep blue shape with well-defined edges. Nice?

It was so wonderful to have Bob with us even for that brief visit. The character of the visit, the honest pride he showed in his sister and her work caused me to escape to a corner of the gallery for a quiet moment alone and a search for a napkin from the buffet table with which to dab the accumulated pride from the corners of my eyes ...

Her brother, David, called to offer his apologies to Dorrie -- couldn't find a replacement so had to work that evening. He's arranged to visit the gallery tomorrow for a private tour with her tomorrow or Tuesday.

Maybe I'll photograph some of her work and post it at some point.

She is bursting with expression and color and light and pure unadulterated joy!

Returning to live at home has been a good thing. One look at her unrestrained freedom -- daubed and painted and glued and sewn into these magical pieces is so affirming of our lives together.

And, she's now sold two paintings. Okay, so one was sold to her mother earlier in the summer, but it counts, right?

The art world is the richer for a new talent. NIAD's staff has accomplished wondrous things with her and with the others under their artistic wings -- others who are doing such remarkable work in an atmosphere of such caring... .

Life is good.

Learned mid-week from my supervisor ...

that a young principal from a Bay Area charter school has requested a guided tour for her staff of 30 teachers. It would be an in-service training requirement in preparation for the fall semester. I took the little slip of paper and gave her a call. She sounded bright (white), cheery in that kind of "up-talking" way of her generation. She told me that hers was a school with a student body of around 280 young students, 60% Latino, and characteristically "Inner City." Only a few minutes of conversation told me that this was not a dilletante, but someone clearly interested in churning up some of the untold stories of World War II, and using the park's resources to create ways to cast light upon the unrepresented. I liked what I heard. That sixth sense thing that operates somewhere behind my eyes clicked in and I knew that this was an important assignment -- and that the "why" would come later.

We agreed that she and one of her staff would visit the very next day, and that we'd begin plans for her workshop. After about 45 minutes together, before the two of them set out to visit the old Richmond Museum in the Iron Triangle (more about that later), we agreed that on Monday (tomorrow!) they would come. Upon making a decision that this could be an important event, I sent an email to my supervisor of my intentions, walked into the City Clerk's office (we're located in City Hall), and requested permission to use the council chambers from one to two-thirty tomorrow afternoon. Fait accompli! Done deal. Age grants one the right to assign "importance" to things in life, and I'm finding that principle seems to work pretty well. I will do a Q&A with them. They'll also meet with our park interns and explore some of the Rosie collections of stories and artifacts that have started to accumulate, the assigning of accession numbers, cataloging, and storing now fully underway. We're fast-becoming a museum. My role in all that is beginning to come alive. Having this experience will start the process. Another re-definition of "Betty" is underway, and my excitement is growing.

For instance, in our relatively brief conversation on Friday, and some reading of documents now in my files relative to the African American experience of the time, I learned that black women were the last to enter the home front work force. First, as white males were entering the armed forces in great numbers, women began to take their places in the war industries. That would have been in early 1942. Later that year black men started to move into the "hot, hard, and heavy" parts of the war plants (at lower wages than either white men or women). It wasn't until 1944 that black women started taking their places on the assembly lines in the shipyards. Some of the plants in the airplane industry never integrated. These were largely eastern war plants. Some of the parts manufacturers began to hire black women.

It's fascinating to now read (here at my desk) documentation contained in theses and studies done over the years that confirm much of what I've felt in isolation for all these years. To be in a position where I, and others like me, can validate those studies is of real value. Through our personal experiences we become a part of the measureable "outcomes" that give life to words that otherwise convey little more than ghosts of the past.

The obvious and most ironic part of this story is that black women -- for the most part -- took the place of white women in the kitchens and laundry rooms of the country, doing the cooking and taking care of the kids and enabling white women to become the "Rosies' of the time. In one study that I read an African American woman was quoted as saying, "..it took Hitler to get us out of white folks' kitchens!"

The Rosies whose stories I'm now reading are the women of my generation. That is, then, the source of the frustration and delayed anger and resentment that bubbles up in my throat like a bad case of heartburn day after day in recent weeks! I'm only now beginning to be able to give it a name.

I'm also just now realizing why I've been so unenthusiastic about participating in any of the womens' movements over the years, why women of color have been so reluctant to align with the National Organization for Women, and the National Womens' Political Caucus, until fairly recently. There is still an echo of that time when -- in the early days of the Feminist Movement, white women were enabled by black womens' continuing lack of opportunity to enter the work force or halls of higher education. When WE were the keepers of the children, and housekeepers that allowed THEM to declare independence. I simply never believed that our problems were the same. My native intelligence had led me to the truth buried somewhere deep in the abortion movement -- the original intent to control the black population through Eugenics and the terrifying concept of the creation of a Master Race.

Yet, the wisdom of a woman's right to the control of her own body and the right to determine when to bring life into the world are non-negotiable for me. Nothing could convince me otherwise. But the echoes of those earlier fears of a higher and more terrifying level of control over my body still linger to damper my ardor around the issue.

Confusion? Yes. And it's stultifying!

Where I've marched with Cesar Chavez and the farmworkers, celebrated with others the gains made in racial harmony through the work of Walter Reuther, and hailed A. Philip Randolph, founder of the Pullman Porters union as ground-breaking, my attitude about unions in general has been highly colored by my WWII experience as a member of the staff of a Jim Crow auxiliary that held absolutely no power and was not honored by the national body in any way. That carries over to today. I'm schizophrenic about unions and it sometimes gets in my way, politically. Theoretically, I know that they must be supported as the singlemost powerful antidote to excessive corporate power. Emotionally, I'm cynical about how their power is used at the local level and for the benefit of whom?

To be an African American is to be powerfully impacted by the residue of rage borne by centuries of deprivation and inequality. To be an American is to share the guilt of the unrealized dream of democracy and the shame left in the wake of that history. That history and the uncorrected course left in its wake continues to cost the lives and souls of so many. Being both an African American and as an American by birth and over 300 years of history in this country is to live on the edge of sanity much of the time.

Compartmentalizing is an art perfected of necessity in the ghettos and prisons of this nation, and may be the only possible response to that which can never be addressed in the whole without risk to mental stability... .

Haven't written all week.

Been reluctant to admit to myself that a casual statement by someone had a chilling effect upon my ability to speak without censoring myself. There has always been a line that I won't cross, knowingly, in what I dare to reveal, but it has to do with privacy issues, and the dictates of my own sense of ethics. I've never mentioned, for instance, precisely why I resigned from my last position -- except to say that it was a "matter of principle." That seems fair. Also, in a recent conversation with son, Bob, I discovered that something that I'd alluded to had angered him. He'd felt that his privacy had been invaded. Not sure what it was, exactly, and I've never scrolled back to monitor myself -- but I'll take his word for it. My only defense is that whatever I wrote was a figment of my own perception, and not of his reality. That's a subtlety that doesn't stand up against hurt feelings of someone I love, so I'll watch myself more closely.

It was the day I started work with the NPS, when I learned that someone on the city council had mentioned that I was writing a "public blog," and I realized that this could be a problem. Suppose I wrote accounts of my work situation and my personal interactions with my co-workers? That surely might make for some nervousness, right? Hadn't given that a thought. Though I really don't believe that this has been a problem in the past, but I might find some embarrassing entries were I to take a trip back through these archives, so I'll just hope for the best and proceed. But it's not quite the same. It's taken a week to even admit to myself that I felt intimidated ... .

Truth is that I'd rather not write at all than to censor myself. After all, this is (hopefully) an accurate accounting of "life as lived, by Betty"

Because I was in that mindset, I found myself -- throughout the week -- in one situation after another, judging whether it was something I could share publicly?

For instance:

My immediate supervisor popped into my cubicle a few days ago with a sheaf of papers in his hand. There were a couple of assignments he needed to pass along with some instructions. I looked at the top sheet quickly and notice that it was a letter from the DAR (yes, The Daughters of the American Revolution). They were requesting a presentation on the Rosie National Park to be given late winter or early spring. I looked at him and laughed! "Do you mean that you'd actually trust me to deliver a talk before the D.A.R? Me, with the long memory that includes Marian Anderson's memorable concert at the Lincoln Memorial lo those many years ago? You mean THAT D.A.R?" It was for a chapter in the suburbs, the same suburban area where I'd given that much-talked-about Martin Luther King Day speech just last spring. Remember?

I placed the letter in my In-Box to await a time when it needs to be dealt with. Lots of lead time. Maybe I'll be long gone by then, anyway. If I'm lucky, the decision will never have to be made.

The work goes well. I'm getting into the rhythm, and -- among other things -- am finding myself with the responsibility of creating a library for documents relevant to an era that is appropriate to my age and interests. This week I will lead a tour (I'm told) of tourists. It probably won't be much different from the tours I led our staff on when working for Dion and Loni. I LOVED the Richmond that I'd adopted, and saw opportunity where others seems to see only blight. With the Park, I'll need more time to sit with the documents and cram that history into whatever "files" are left unused in the old brain. It seems strange that so much of it comes to me as brand new. After all, this is presumed to be MY history, but in many ways -- it is not at all what I lived.

African Americans functioned in a parallel universe, I think. My memories of the era differ immensely from that of the Rosie stories that have been submitted from women and men from across the country. The time may have come when I'll have the need to morph those memories into one, but I'm not at all sure that I can. The next few months will call for some stretching, as I try to bring the Park and the community and my personal past into some kind of alignment. I'll be speaking before community meetings where an honest attempt will be made to bring that all together, if possible.

Received some stories from a writer on the east coast who studied the African American participation in the shipbuilding industry during the war. He is not African American, so the 3-pager seems not to tie too closely with my recollections, but he did write about some facts that were new to me. There were 13 victory ships named for African Americans. I was aware of only one; the Robert S. Abbott, named for the publisher of the national black newspaper, the Chicago Defender. There were some obvious names listed, i.e. Frederick Douglas, Bert Williams, Robert Abbott, but for the most part -- I could not identify most of the honorees. I have photographs of the launching of the Abbott and of the festivities that followed. The writer's brief history plus my historic photos will serve as the beginnings of the building of a presentation that may encourage more participation in the park planning process by people of color in Richmond. It's a place to start.

Found myself thinking of ways to use that paper and the author's list. Will try to get some organization (black) to hold a contest for teens. "How many of these African Americans can you identify, and why were they chosen?" That brought on the thought that these names were chosen by the federal government (Dept. of Interior) as a way of rewarding and encouraging the black community's working hard in the home front war effort, and that would be why these names might not be familiar to me and others of the times. Black folk might have created quite a different list. One might have expected W.E.B. Dubois to have been among them, and surely Crispus Attucks of Boston, the first casualty of the Revolutionary War. Honoring Nat Turner of the Slave Revolt, might be a bit of a stretch, but surely there were others of equal power and but less notorious. That was a bit early for James Baldwin or Thurgood Marshall, but some sleuthing might be fun. I dream of the possibility of sending black kids to the Internet to do this kind of research. It could be more relevant to black kids than looking up the feats of Magellan, or Florence Nightengale. We might award prizes for the best essays on the subject.

It's a thought ... .

Photos: Left Bob Reid with Pete Seeger with children gathered for Pete's October Hudson River sail in New York. Bob is shown on the left with one of his horses -- at the ranch near San Juan Batista where he works with horses -- when he isn't working with children in the schools or appearing in concert somewhere on the planet -- of in one case, leading the UN Children's Choir at the United Nations World Headquarters. Beautiful Bob is a great source of pride and the son that I often envy -- living out his dreams -- as bumpy as that road might prove to be from time to time.

Where did the time go?

Life has intervened in ways that made writing impossible.

Work goes well. I'm beginning to find the rhythm of the place, and less effort has to be used in the learning process. As usual, most of what I need has already been learned at some prior time in life, and now simply hitting the "recall" button makes it accessible again -- usually under a new name.

Told someone recently that I'm beginning to feel like everyone in the world is beginning to look familiar. Maybe I've now lived long enough to know all archetypes!


Noticed yesterday that I've been coming home after work more tired than usual. Strange. My energy level has always been high with fatigue hardly ever a factor. Not so over the past week or two. Then yesterday I started to understand what was happening to me:

The period of WWII has always been difficult to call up. Never had the sense of patriotism that I saw evidenced in others. It was a time of confusion for me. Was barely 20 when the war was declared, and newly married. The world changed around me so dramatically that it felt as though the ground had given way and that an entirely new State was born under my feet. Our population increased by over 200,000 in the Bay Area almost overnight. Segregation arrived fullblown in all of its virulence. In the way that our minds tend to protect us, mine had pretty much blotted out the pain of that time, and I only remember it in fragments.

As I wrote some time ago, there was a recent invitation for me to visit the White House (with others) to be honored as "Rosies." I declined the invitation. Have always hung back from these celebrations, and had such painfully mixed feelings about being considered such, but other than honestly expressing my reluctance openly -- I continued to smile about it, and to bury the anguish. Another African American worker was chosen.

I spent some of those war years as a clerk in the office of Boilermakers A-36 on Barrett Avenue in Richmond. We were a few miles from the Kaiser Shipyards, and millions of miles away from the advent of the Civil Rights Movement. The "A" in A-36 stands for "Auxiliary," meaning that the unions were not yet integrated, and that there was a separate black union. It also meant that those cards that I spent those years filing in long trays held the information for all African American shipyard workers -- and that I knew that "trainee" was written after the name of every black worker. That, by agreement, so that at war's end -- no black worker would be in competition for jobs with white workers in the area.

It meant that -- also overnight -- the population of the city of Richmond had grown by 110,000 -- hands brought up from the southern states (Texas, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, mostly) to build the ships. They came from the tenant farms -- black and white -- and cotton fields to the west. They'd not yet shared drinking fountains, voting rights, public accommodations, and wouldn't for another 15 years. They brought the Ku Klux Klan to the west as well.

As I sat before my computer over this past week, doing data entry from blue sheets, I see that "Rosies" worked as riveters, welders, inspectors, buckers, burners, makers of ammo, etc., and I feel the old pain of discrimination. I'd spent the war filing discriminatory cards for black workers who could not rise above trainee status. And, I'd done it in a Jim Crow union hall, at that. To have myself embraced as a "Rosie" at this stage in life seems strangely inappropriate.

There seems to be a step missing in the process. I'm not even sure what that step is, just that's its missing. Maybe it's like reparations. I need someone to apologize, maybe, or to at least recognize that a wrong was done to young people -- like I was then. I was just as bright and capable then as now, sans some life experience that has deepened what was naturally inherent in that pretty young Betty.


This week, as I entered the relevant information from each of the over 400 "blue sheets" of the proud Rosies into the data bank, I felt the long-held resentment pushing up from somewhere deep within. It expressed itself in fatigue that sent me to bed each evening feeling depressed, with no sense of just why... .

I'm far too "civilized" and reasonable to deal with those feelings openly. Nothing to do but try to squish them down from whence they've come, and continue to "do the work." I've spent a lifetime of doing just that. I recognize it as a part of the concept of "white privilege," that is so poorly understood by most who enjoy it. It's so hard to defend against, since to attack that kind of tainted innocence seems beneath the intelligence of those of us who suffer from its effects. It's all so complicated, and so terribly old and tired.

Anyway, I mentioned to my co-workers yesterday at a picnic lunch at the Rosie Memorial (wonderful piece of art!), that I'd been feeling those things. The park superintendent, the eldest of the group (but far younger than I), seemed to understand. One was a contemporary, but white and not particularly aware of what I was trying to deal with. The others were much younger with no history of the war years, and certainly post the era of the Civil Rights struggles. But I felt better for having owned and expressed it aloud.

Will just continue the work and bury the feelings until I can either move past the smoldering long-held anger, or, find some way to transform those feelings into something that I can use.

We'll see.

There's something to be said for the writing of it. The work in this project may be a blessing. I'll have to confront and maybe finally put to rest some of the rage that I've buried over a long lifetime. That I have "overcome" is probably an understatement. Maybe this blog has allowed me the space to record that journey in ways that speaks to others. Maybe, too, this final assignment -- this Rosie Memorial Project -- is uniquely suited to allow for the lifting of the burden of my times.

In a way, I'm finding that the creation of this national park may present the opportunity for the recollections of a war through the eyes of woman -- being told through her feminine stories and artifacts -- will differ significantly from the memories of men who tell their stories through body counts and the machines of wars.

I'm beginning to see this work as a way to contribute to something historic. Giving up the rage may help in that process.

Is this making any sense to anyone but me?