Another extraordinary day in the extraordinary ordinary life of one woman ...

Today I met with 50 young (and not so young) teachers from a program called "Expeditionary Learning." They came from all over the country to experience the park, the memorial, and the collections. It was our time to show off a bit, and share our work.

I was their just-before-lunch speaker and was joined by four other "Rosies" of the period of World War II who shared their experiences informally during lunch. We each have done this before and are beginning to get more and more effective at doing so.

I opened with, "I have nothing prepared (true) so will simply talk until truth runs out." That lasted about 20 minutes, I believe, and was just about right for the setting. Their questions were on target and allowed for an expansion of the themes raised. I'm really beginning to enjoy these outings and becoming really comfortable in making these presentations.

I've learned to invite listeners into exploring those "...lost conversations and untold stories" with me, and relying heavily on the differing realities experienced by my war generation. Find myself wondering if war makes any more sense to those youngsters fighting and working now than it did for those of us who were involved in those years?

I recall saying today that I was so confused at 20 and as an African American young woman that I wasn't all that sure who the enemy was ... strange thing to say. I didn't know that I'd felt that until the words slipped through my lips. It was true. I need to give that more thought before I leave for the NWHP ceremonies in Los Angeles and in Washington, D.C. next week. My words will be weighted differently. The setting will be formal and the occasion sobering. I'll be asked to say a few words of acceptance for being honored, possibly, and I must give some serious thought to just what those words should be.

...but how does one encapsulate a lifetime into a phrase or two?

Maybe it will take no more than to recognize the importance of those wise words of the Monk, David Rendl Nast, "...there are two simplicities; one that comes before and the one that comes after -- complexity." I've lived long enough to understand and appreciate the second of those, and -- to not lose the strength and purity of the first while growing into that understanding.

Those cannot be the words uttered, but reminding myself of the importance they hold in my understanding of the world will help the right words to express themselves -- if I stay centered and just let the life flow through.

... but that won't make sense to anyone but me, I think.

The trick will be to live the moment and not try to prepare for it -- as I did today.

It was a good day well shared.

Photo: Speaking at Saluté Ristorante on the Richmond marina. Only a small portion of the group can be seen, but the room was full and the audience receptive and easy to interact with.

About the Act of Honoring ... .

Been thinking about the role these rites and ceremonies play in our lives. Thinking about a letter received recently from a very successful member of my community -- one who is paid thousands of dollars to advise and counsel in financial circles all over the country but who told me with obvious pain how little he feels valued at home.

I thought about any number of local young people's sports teams that have placed at the top of their field in arenas, fields, and courts across the country but were unknown and undervalued where they live and have to fight for the subsidies that are so essential to their continuance.

Except for a perfunctory ritual played out on occasion at city council meetings where little plaques are presented and bows mechanically taken, little heed is paid to all those who bring glory to their community; and there are so many who are so worthy.

Learned recently that former Surgeon General Joycelyn Elders, whose family originally hailed from Arkansas, is the child of World War II homefront defense workers and grew up in North Richmond -- having attended elementary and high schools here in this city. I learned it by sheer accident when going over some vintage photos with a member of a Richmond African American pioneer family who had them in her collection. How could this city not have made some notice of this? Should her picture not be prominently displayed on the wall of Peres Elementary School for every student to see and be inspired by?

This is the city where great bluesmen Lightnin' Hopkins, Jimmy McCracklin, T-Bone Walker and blueswoman Big Mamma Thornton made their big break and elevated the status of this important American music to the top of a cultural revolution in music that had its birth here in this community during the war years. Yet there is no marker to celebrate those contributions. Not a blues club in sight nor in any future plans that I know of.

And, most of all, there is the giant of industry, Henry J. Kaiser, whose innovations in ship-building re-shaped the Bay Area and quite possibly won the war -- yet it took an act of congress to mark this as the place where it all happened and to begin the historic preservation process that is now the Rosie the Riveter/Home Front National Historial Park under development. The city, itself, made little attempt at claiming its rightful role in one of the epochal events of the 20th Century. The structures that now make up the park have lain rusting away for 60 years, awaiting demolition when we could get around to it. They only remained through benign neglect until Congress acted to preserve them for the telling of the story of World War II for the nation.

We're racing against time and the redevelopment agency to preserve those structures still-existing -- before the bulldozers of progress and the giant claw machines begin to replace them with more "rooftops," more "units," cover more ground with concrete parking lots, in the ongoing ritual of covering the past with the unknown future and losing the lessons we so sorely need to learn in the process of city-building.

The practice of taking on only those projects than can pencil out and find completion within the tenure of any current city elected official works against the best interest of the communities they represent. Master Plans that span decades demand a commission (not yet created) charged with long-range planning -- kind of like a mini-supreme court with members appointed with unlimited terms of service. It just might take such a strategy to get Richmond past its life of always hovering on the brink of disaster. Maybe it's the ghost of those 24-hour days when folks slept and worked in 3 shifts and rented out their beds that never cooled. Maybe it's the carryover from having completed 747 ships over a 4 year period. Maybe we can pause now and see where we are -- honor those who brought us this far, and celebrate the new leaders among us. I think, sometimes, of returning to Berkeley where I always had such a strong feeling of the future and the possible. Here in Richmond the struggle to preserve and grow from the past is burdened by the constant sacrifice to short-term gains -- a legacy from the war years when time was such an overwhelming force? Could it be that it's worked its way into our civic DNA?

Wondering now why all this comes up for me today? It surely has to do with feelings of being overlooked, maybe? Though it doesn't appear to me unexpected. It's the norm, I think. There are bigger questions here than bruised feelings; of that I'm sure. Over time I've enjoyed much appreciation for my work and am blessed with an enviable reputation for service. I've been affirmed in so many ways, and it continues. No, it's not for want of praise or appreciation. Then what?

Maybe it's because when I look around I see lack of fulfillment expressed in so many ways. So many good people doing such good work -- and going without recognition and unable to ask for it because that's so awkward to do. So much emotional energy is wasted when we don't take the time to acknowledge one another; energy that provides the strength and the will to do the work of community-building that is so vital to the quality of life in any human enterprise. I see the frustration expressed by those stalwart passionate ordinary citizens who attend city council meetings; doing their best to call attention to civic problems, support the work of city staff when warranted, chastise offending members of city council, but (if you look closely) are almost always speaking for others whom they believe have been overlooked or unappreciated.

I'll think of this as justification for the ceremonies of appreciation and recognition that I'll participate in soon. It gives me a context in which to function. And -- it may be one of those truths that women have always known... .

Photo: Left to right: Starr King School for the Ministry President Rebecca Parker, honoree Dorothy Patterson; me, making the presentation; and President Arliss Ungar of the Board of Trustees. Dorothy is receiving her honorary doctorate after a lifetime of service with the UU-Service Committee, worldwide. This is on the occasion of the Starr King commencement ceremonies at the San Francisco Unitarian-Universalist Church.

A dash of reality -- and "a prophet in her own home town ..."

After days on end of trying to feel humble in this spate of such unanticipated acclaim, I've come face-to-face with just how fragile all that is, and how transitory at best.

After receiving the materials from the National Women's History Project (banners, posters, booklets, bookmarks, balloons, placemats) all proclaiming the importance of the ten of us being honored, I tried to figure out just what to do with them.

• First took a poster to Reid's (our store in Berkeley) where my family immediately taped it proudly to the front door for all of our customers to see as they entered.
• Then another went to the Berkeley Arts Magnet School with Alyana (10) and Tamaya (8), my proud granddaughters, to share with their 2nd and 4th grade classes. I plan to visit with them after all the hoopla is behind us.
  
• Slipped one onto park superintendent Martha Lee's desk surreptiously at the end of a work day.
• Presented the mayor's office with another (just down the hall where my friend and former co-worker from Loni Hancock's office now sits as the mayor's administrative aide.) There was no response from the mayor; a woman. I didn't notice at the time -- but today I thought of it.
  
• Presented one to my friend, Tom, which he has subsequently framed and hung for me to see the next time I'm there.
  
• Drove to the office of the Main Street Initiative where an excited Executive Director Ramona Braxton-Samuels received another and added it to the stack of NWHP catalogues I'd dropped off earlier.
• Stopped by the Richmond main library where I left catalogues for their Women's History Month display.
  

Now what to do? I'm thinking that a real celebrity would have called a press conference, right?

Oh yes, packed up a poster, bio-booklet on the honorees, and a catalogue and mailed them off to son, Bob, so that he wouldn't feel slighted -- though I had mixed feelings about doing so -- and I'm not at all sure what that's about. The self-promotional aspects bothered me and still does.

As the time draws near and there's need for decisions to make about travel arrangements, etc, I've become really nervous and having some problems about the worthiness of it all, I suppose. Tom would like to attend the event in Los Angeles on the 19th. He knows that I hate to fly and would like to have us take the train down on Friday, visit the Getty Art Museum on Saturday, and then the ceremony on Sunday at the Autrey. Martha (my boss) and her mother would like to attend since this all coincides with a family gathering at their home in Pasadena. My son, David and his family are considering traveling down as well. Not sure yet about Bob, but that's a possibility.

I've been offered the opportunity to be honored not only in Southern California, but to travel to Washington, D.C., for the festivities being held at the Hay Adams Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue on March 22nd, as well. Lifetime Television is picking up the tab for that event, and the National Park Service would surely benefit by the public relations aspects of it all.

See how huge it's gotten by now?

Well, relax.

Yesterday I decided to drive down the hill to the nearby campus of the Contra Costa Community College to present the last of my large lovely colorful posters to the college president (whom I know casually) along with some catalogs from NWHP. I called ahead to see if he was in his office and he was. I noticed some discomfort but couldn't attribute it to anything when he said, "...I didn't know, Betty. Would you be willing to come to our Women's History Month Celebration on Saturday, March 11th at 3:00?" I was so busy mumbling something about how I'd hesitated to bring this in before, but that I'd finally decided that it might be important for the young women at the college to know that important things sometimes happen to ordinary people ...", it was lame but true. I then heard him ask if I'd be willing to come and speak to some groups and I happily agreed.

Within an hour or so there was a call from him asking if I had a picture they could use in their publicity for the upcoming event (and again he apologized for not realizing that I was an honoree). If I didn't have one, would I be willing to come in to have their graphics department take one for their purposes? I agreed. This morning I did that -- though my photos now look more like my mother than like me - or so I imagine... .

It was only then that I realized (when someone mentioned that those posters were hanging all over the campus) and that no one had recognized me; the penalty for using a 20-year-old photo, maybe? (We'd been asked to submit a favorite picture.) But my name and birthdate were there under my picture. My picture is prominently placed on the posters, no one knew who I was and -- even if they did -- I was only important in the aggregate. It was the ten that mattered, not the one. And there's an appropriateness to that. No one had noticed that a local woman was being honored nationally, and that it was no small thing. Everyone is a little embarrassed, even me.

Today in the mail a letter arrived from the college president with all of the information about their Women's History Month celebration -- with a packet of tickets listing the names of the women being honored -- and an apology that my name was not among them. They didn't know. His letter in part says:

"...We are terribly sorry we did not realize you had been nationally recognized at the time we developed our invitations. Had we known, we would have included your name among the list of honorees. However, we would be honored and graced by your presence if you would attend our sixth annual Women's History Celebration program on Saturday, March 11, 2006. We have included you in our program and would like to present you with a special award..."

Sincerely yours,

McKinley Williams,
Interim President

There it is. The ego adjuster. I needn't have worried. Life does have its way of getting us into line when occasion demands.

For reasons unknown, I find his letter reassuring. I'm far more comfortable in the aggregate.

Photo: Speaking my "thank yous" before an audience at the Contra Costa Community College Sixth Annual Women's History Celebration. This was a week prior to the events in Los Angeles and Washington, D.C.

Hope I'm not just "making words," because this jambalaya of a life that I'm living at the moment defies description ...

Attended an economic development workshop at city hall on Friday. Every high roller in the region was in the room. The main event was State Treasurer Phil Angelides, my favorite gubernatorial candidate, who was here to introduce the city to his "Green Wave" program that promises to bring an economic boom to the state through energy-saving programs involving the introduction of new businesses designed to address our need to commit to a changing commerce to reflect concerns in re global warming. It all made sense. California is the sixth largest economy in the world. Change has historically sprung from what happens here and spreads to the rest of the country and the world. We must address global warming independent of what happens in Washington. Angelides spelled out a plan for starting that process. I'm convinced that he is the leader that I'd like to follow this November. The job now will be to move him from his position of defending capital punishment to one that will accept a moratorium.

On Friday afternoon I drove to Mendocino immediately after the workshop and on Saturday morning attended the Mendocino Democratic Club breakfast where, again, I heard Angelides speak. On Friday he spoke as the state treasurer. On Saturday morning I heard his campaign speech for the first time. There was almost no repetition. That was comforting. He has more complexity than might be expected from one honing his message for the Primary.

During the period of schmoozin' that followed his talk (during which he introduced his wife and daughter who were present), I was able to approach him for the few minutes that it took to say, "...hello, I'm Betty Reid Soskin. We met yesterday in Richmond. I'm also the former field rep for Assemblywomen Dion Aroner and Loni Hancock, and, I was a recent demonstrator at the gates of San Quentin in protest of the 3 recent executions. I'm aware that you're on record as supporting capital punishment. I want to know whether you're in support of the moratorium?" He was obviously not comfortable with my directness, but to give him credit, he held my eye-to-eye contact without flinching. He then broke his gaze -- looked down and said, "... I think that I need to tell you that I'm alone in my house -- my daughter believes in your cause." I knew now that I had a strong ally who was close to him and loved -- and that at some point this might not be a lost cause. I will work for his election and hope that his position will soften on this most critical issue. I don't have the power or the clout to bring that about, but I know enough others who are close enough to him to influence his position.

In addition to his staff, In Richmond he brought along CalPERS (the state retirement program) and CalSTRS (another) in combination with foundations and developers and financial advisors in a workshop designed to introduce that world of investors to this city that is poised on the brink of a period of renewal that will rival that of WWII, I think. There are opportunities everywhere one looks -- and entrepreneurs are arriving by every means possible. The room was crackling with the vibrations of opportunism and competition.

We three who represent the park staff gave no presentation -- it was not our time -- but I had a chance to renew old friendships with that world of financial enablers and it felt good. My head immediately turned to planning our next leadership tour to include that world -- I'd almost forgotten.

Noticed something else, too. There they were, Landon W. (San Francisco Foundation), Joe G. and James N. (forgotten the name of their multi-million dollar development enterprise); John T. (Sr. Director of Cushman & Wakefield); et al, all with warm greetings (kisses all around). I've never been in a position of needing to use any of their services so they are just Landon, Joe, James, and John; though they represent access to millions and millions of dollars in their professional roles. Do I need to think of them differently now that I'm hoping to help to expand the role of the new national park in this city? There's great need for historic preservation, restoration of historic sites, and youth programs around this history that gave the city its second birth -- and may provide the economic engine that will drive its third. This will be a new role for me. Wonder if I can make the transition?

Am waiting for one more announcement of a candidate who will enter the governor's race soon, but meanwhile -- will continue to think about how to relate to the candidacy of Phil Angelides. The 'til now undisclosed candidate is relatively unknown in the political world, but is one with a strong and vital message that resonates deeply for me. When she announces, I'll have some adjusting to do in my own thinking about just how much I'm willing to compromise.

You may be of the opinion that it hardly makes a difference about just how much power a single voter has in the process. Not so. I firmly believe that one can effect the shape of change in critical ways. We may not be totally responsible for that judge's decision to halt the last execution -- but I don't hesitate for one minute to take credit for it. If I've lived up to my own principles and acted on behalf of them -- then I claim the right to assume that I've been rewarded by fate. If I didn't believe that I couldn't get out of bed in the morning ... and then how on earth would "The World" manage?

Photo: State Treasurer Phil Angelides speaking informally with members after his talk at Mendocino Democratic Club breakfast.

So much to write about -- so little time ... .

First let me tell you that the film -- "Farallon Light" -- arrived yesterday -- two copies on DVD as promised. The images are clear but there's a red cast to the film. The narration is clear. No scratches are visible. The woman at the film library that processed it told me that they'd used a kind of gel that helped to mend the flaws created by time and overuse. I could hear every word. The music, however, sounds garbled and my voice is "trembly" and "wavy" with the lyrics almost impossible to understand. But -- all-in-all -- it's a beautiful documentary that I'm very proud to have been a part of. I know what I'm singing about -- and because I do -- I just fill in the inaudible and slushy parts for myself. What a wonderful thing to finally own... .

And, today I drove to Mare Island in Vallejo to serve on a panel with two others in a three-program, three-day observance of Black History Week for the U.S. Forest Service. It went extremely well, I think. I was second on the program, following a very informative presentation on the Buffalo Soldiers by a National Parks Ranger; and followed by Daphne Muse, poet and historian faculty member from U.C. Berkeley and Mills College, author of several books that includes a beautiful collection of poems for children written by black poets; She is also an authority on the late Ms. Rosa Parks who spent a week as a guest in her home in Oakland at one time. Wonderful stories ... told well.

Am becoming more comfortable with my role as a speaker at such events -- and also with my status as an elder with a history to share. As I grow older and wiser (yes), I'm finding that my story is fairly universal, and that others tend to recognize themselves in them.

Today was a very good day.

Tomorrow I'll attend a workshop on economic development opportunities opening up in Richmond. It will bring State Treasurer Phil Angelides, CalPERS investors, and his staff together with those seeking state funding for worthy projects. The Park will play a role in the historic preservation of some of the structures now dormant by partnering with local non-profits. That will end in the early afternoon and I will head immediately for Mendocino and a weekend of quiet and reflection. First, though, I will again see Angelides at a Saturday morning breakfast fundraiser in nearby Fort Bragg. We're in the beginning phases of the governor's race in the California Primary and Angelides is one of three prominent candidates (the others being present governor Arnold Schwarzenegger and former EBay executive Steve Westley). There's one more name -- not yet announced -- that I will support through the primary, but that news must wait until after the weekend. She will announce in the next few days. Suffices to say that we spent the afternoon -- after the Mare Island gig -- sipping tea at the Point Richmond Starbucks and talking strategy ... .

Stay tuned.

Photo: Speaking on the subject of African American Homefront workers during World War II -- before U.S. Forest Service employees as one of 3 panelists.

And they said we couldn't do it ... who's smilin' now?

After months and years of braving the cold and the jeers of the non-believers, word came last night after a 24-hour postponement that the anesthesiologists slated to assist in the execution by lethal injection had resisted the call in the final hours and refused to participate in the killing of another human being. There was not enough time to find replacements and the entire question of death by lethal injection is now up for re-examination. The next state execution cannot be carried out until May, at the earliest. The moratorium bills may have been heard by that time, and the debate is now fully on.

Strange that it was only yesterday -- after months and years of trying to form my thoughts into words -- that it all came together. I've always felt that I was rambling when a mike was pushed into my face and I was expected to deliver some rational defense of my position on the death penalty. I knew it was wrong -- and heaven knows there were enough generic cliché-riddled statements to borrow from, but I couldn't seem to find my own words and thoughts that were succinct and true for me. On Monday I did. I opened my mouth and they fell out as clear as a bell.

Newsman: "What about the families of the victims? Don't they have a right to closure? Wouldn't you want vengeance, too?"

Me: "Of course I would. I'm as human as they with the same wish to have the offender torn limb from limb in the event that a member of my family had been similarly brutally murdered. But I'd be fortunate if I lived in a society that would protect me from myself -- and my immediate demand for retribution which is little more than a permanent answer to a very emotional but temporary state of being. When sanity returned I'd know that nothing would bring my dear one back to me -- and that widening the field of violence would serve no one, but would only increase the hatred in the world and make us all less safe. Lock the offender away for life to protect us all from further harm. That would suffice. To participate in the killing serves no purpose save vengeance -- and we've surely evolved beyond that."

Tomorrow I'm one of the speakers at the Forest Service Black History Celebration at Mare Island. Will take along my little DVD and wing it -- as always -- depending upon the ability to pick up signals of interest and acceptance from the assembled group. It will be great to not be distracted by the death penalty question.

This evening I'll meet with Barbara Becnel to talk about the newly-discovered evidence that appears to support the innocence of the late Stanley "Tookie" Williams, executed by the state in December. We'll have dinner and catch up on events. She's been to Venezuela for a world conference since last we talked. I've not actually seen her for more than a year. Only since Stan's death have we again been in direct contact.

Now I'm off to pick up Dorian at NIAD and then back home to wash blue jeans and match socks or plan to stay in bed next week for want of clean clothing!

Photo: This is a typical press conference at the East Gate of San Quentin. These women are a part of the larger group just off camera. All of the networks, channels, radio stations are present and hoping for news -- someone being arrested in an act of civil disobedience. One of these women crossed the line and was taken away a few minutes after this photo was taken. The woman in the white coat is a local physician.

A time of contrasts ... One-Star Betty in the Five-Star Ritz Carleton Laguna San Niguel ... .

About ten days ago I received a call from the daughter of a dear friend announcing that her mother's 80th birthday was in the offing and would
I like to fly down for the big weekend family gathering as her guest? "Of course," says I, never dreaming of what was ahead. Travel arrangement arrived by email a few days later that had me scheduled to leave on Friday on the 2:50 pm Southwest Airlines plane due at John Wayne Airport in Orange County an hour and twenty minutes later. All went as scheduled.

About 45 minutes after a very surprised Charlotte (she didn't have a clue) arrived with Susan to pick me up and I found myself entering wonderland; the RitzCarleton San Niguel on the beach in Laguna Hills! The next two days were straight out of Paris Hilton country, with opulence and luxury of a kind this little ole lady hadn't witnessed except as shown from a movie screen in a movie starring the dazzling Charlize Theron. All that was missing was the proverbial red carpet. They probably keep that rolled up until Nicole Kidman's arrival is anticipated.

Fancy dinner in "The Grill" was followed later by "tapas" and desserts served on the fourth floor, only accessible for we who held keys that were slipped into a slot in the elevator floor indicator to be delivered -- with crystal chandelier even in the elevator -- to heaven where they keep chocolates and custards and toffee and, coffees and exotic teas, a fireplace to gather 'round, and flowers everywhere .

After several hours of playing "Dorothy" without Toto, after taking a shower and slipping into a luxurious white robe and slippers (hotel provided, of course); and falling into a bed (one of two) high enough to require a step stool then dropping into a down-covered mattress and drawing up an exquisite pure white down-filled douvet -- leaning against five (counted them!) five pillows of differing softness, we watched "Rent" on the large flat-screen television on the wall.

Read through the brochure supplied by the beauty salon on the first floor -- my hosts invited us to get a massage or a facial if we wished. The brochure listed the only facial that interested me ("immediate differences noted') at the cost of $200. Now that's decadent! Just reading the words was sobering enough to get me back in line. I suspect that this could cause a complete breakdown in one's value structure -- a week or so of such exposure to the good life and I might begin to see all this as an entitlements and begin to be concerned about "the little people."

But it wasn't to be. After the festivities with this wonderful family of warm and loving friends, I boarded my plane for the return to the Oakland Airport on Sunday -- miraculously remembered where I'd left my car parked in Economy Parking far from the terminal -- and drove home. (Almost fainted when the parking attendant presented the $48 parking tab!) After I reminded myself that I'd seen a brochure that gave the starting costs per room at the hotel as $892/rm/per day -- and this because it was off-season --, I figured I was about as lucky as anyone could be. It didn't take long to reach my modest little condo on the northern end of Richmond, and to remember that I'd promised to drive to San Quentin tomorrow for another round of protests against this third execution in as many months.

Read Nadine's email report on her trip to New Orleans with Downs Memorial Church group and was so proud of my young friend and the others who'd spent several weeks helping to de-construct homes no longer livable in an environment of death and decay. Everything fell into line again. Having contributed modestly to her travel expenses (only $2 more than my parking tab), this felt really good to me, as if I, too, had helped in some small way. It's all relative.

I'd had a weekend glimpse of another lifestyle. Spent some time learning about the exciting work being done by the young family whose guest I'd been -- unimaginably futuristic projects involving the design, engineering, and construction of towns -- quite literally. Experimental small cities situated in previously uninhabited areas where training scenarios, re-enactments, problem-solving laboratories for all kinds of enterprises are tested and carried out. It was a glimpse of tomorrow, and I was jealous of their ability to extend into time in ways no longer open to me. I could understand that the economic structure of their lives was far beyond what I have the ability to imagine. I was grateful for their having included me in their wonderland -- at least for a time.

But yesterday found me back at the Gates with the others; predominantly Unitarian-Universalists from social action groups -- and it felt right. Learned that my friend, Barbara Becnel was expected to join the demonstration later in the evening but I wouldn't wait for her. I'm just not capable of being that close to the actual execution in the cold dark night. Much prefer doing my protesting in the full light of day, when the helicopters aren't droning overhead in the blackness -- trying to drown out the speaker's bull horns. And when I won't have to hike the two or more miles on that desolate road to the East Gate. The prison places barriers along both sides of the road for that distance to make the trek as forbidding as possible -- no sidewalks and no street lighting -- only flashlights, if you remembered to bring one along. Then there's the awful walk back in the blackness, when you know that the awesome deed has been done and that none of your protests effected the killing ... .

No, it's far better at noontime when there are only the news trucks to contend with and the knowledge that, again, you may show up on the eleven o'clock news, an hour before another life will be taken in your name.

Grandmothers Against the War ... Keith Olbermann wudda loved it!

Received an alert from the network of old feminist pacifist activist friends with whom I've marched and sang and protested since the Sixties. We were young then, but no more. We were dedicated and idealistic and exuberant in the traditions being newly forged in this part of the country and the world. There was such a dead earnestness about those days with tears shed and speeches screamed at those who would bring the horrors of our time upon ourselves and our young.

Yesterday I felt something new. We've mellowed! The call that came (no longer from the Quakers or the Women For Peace but from MoveOn and CodePink, etc.) but it rang with the same urgency and achieved the same response. Roughly 350 of us -- now grey-haired and softer of body and quieter of soul -- turned up at the Oakland Armed Forces Recruitment Center at 21st and Broadway to enlist!

This time we laughed! Oh how we laughed! Inside these old lady bodies lived, still, the young rebels against the rulers as before. And, there scattered among the grandmothers were a fair number of "Grandfathers Supporting Grandmothers Against War!"

Those young uniformed armed forces recruiters behind the bolted doors (yes!), must have wondered, "what in the world...?" That was inside. Out on the streets (where the Oakland police had closed off a two block area as the crowd spilled out over the sidewalks the comments were hilarious!" Signs were poignant; "Take us instead, we've already lived our lives." And, some carried signs with photographs of grandsons and daughters now fighting in Iraq or stationed in Afghanistan.

My favorite comments, "We'd be cheap to deploy -- you wouldn't have to supply us any body armor -- we've got 'em built in -- just some sturdy aluminum walkers, some crutches, a few motorized wheelchairs and a generous supply of Depends and we're good to go!" And another woman added, and you wouldn't even have to ship some of us home! Gallows humor? Most decidedly.

There was a woman with a hand drum, a guitar or two, the old songsheets, and all of the old songs we've been singing now for at least 30 years. "We shall not moved," and "Blowing in the Wind," and "Joe Hill," plus some lovely rounds I'd not heard before but reflect the more recent generation of women ... nice ... .

As I walked back to the parking lot to return to my desk in Richmond, the grin of freshened memories persisted. How on earth could I have felt such joy at an occasion such as this? I'd spent over an hour renewing friendships -- spending that extra several seconds as my eyes were able to slowly get behind the wrinkles and white hair and see those wonderful women whom I now barely remember that I've missed.

I drove away letting the tears fall where they may without notice. Maybe we did have an effect on the wars of our times, maybe. Maybe not. Vietnam took so much from us all - even those who survived it. And there is irony in the fact that I work every day in the shadow of the Kaiser Shipyards where we once built ships faster than the enemy could sink them, and won the war of my youth in the process. The irony is that on that very site -- in that very shipyard -- present day use is the storage of new autos shipped in for USA consumers, made in Japan, the nation of the enemy that we fought to its knees!

Then I remembered the joy of today and Barbara and Dion and Elizabeth and Judith and Becky and Wendy and all of the others who came together one more time before sunset to say "No" to the sending of our grandchildren to far away lands to kill the grandchildren of other women whose lives will be diminished by the arrogance of power gone mad.

Our symbolic attempt to enlist in the armed forces to take the places of those whose lives are just beginning made a statement. And ultimately, I'm sure that each of us knew that we'd have little effect upon the warmongers, but that -- one more time -- we'd done what we had to do for ourselves and for the sake of our own sanity.

There was also comfort in knowing that in 16 other cities in faraway places other women of our time had joined with us in simultanous solidarity.

Sisters all!

There appears to be both a bottom and a top ... . I've now seen both.

Long ago when Rick was at his hardest places -- alcoholism counselors would insist that I needed to allow him to "bottom out" in order to begin to find his way to sobriety. It was a cliché that we both knew well. I visualized it as a place where he was underwater drowning but needing to touch the pool floor in order to kick himself back to the surface. It was more poetic than real, I think. It never worked because love always managed to get in the way, paradoxically.

This past week or so I found myself with the opposite dilemma -- working so hard to bring off my latest project -- the second Leadership Tour of the park. The first had been phenomenally successful with so much positive buzz that virtually no recruiting had been necessary for this one. People had been calling in asking to be included since the day after.

On Thursday, February 10th, we gathered in the Shimada Room at City Hall for coffee at 8:30, boarded our tour bus at 9:10 for the Rosie The Riveter Memorial at the shoreline, enjoyed a guided tour past World War II structures (Newell Supermarket, the Old Greyhound Bus Station, the Japanese Oishi-Sakai Nurseries (41 handmade greenhouses that survived the years), the Park Florist that supplied the flowers for launchings at the shipyards, the Winters Building that served as an air raid shelter, Atchison Village war housing, the Red Oak Victory Ship and Whirley Crane at Shipyard #3, ending at the magnificant Ford Assembly Plant where the park's reception center will eventually be housed. We gathered for lunch and a de-briefing at the Harbormaster's Offices on the Marina shortly after noon. It was a great event.

That day I'd received a large package from the National Women's History Project containing the large posters and NWHP catalogs. I felt momentary excitement but instantly knew that I needed to stash them away for later. Among our tour passengers was the director of the National Parks Foundation who had flown out from Washington, D.C. He was obviously impressed by the work Naomi and I had done in breathing life into the concept of Civic Engagement.

It was then that I found "The Top." I was experiencing something previously unknown for me. It felt as though my persona was beginning to overwhelm my work. It was getting in the way. The tour I'd worked so doggedly to bring off successfully needed to move to the forefront. This day couldn't be about me.

I'd touched the sky and now was the time to come down.

After the tour ended and the guests (all 28) had scattered back into their lives, I quietly placed the beautiful poster on (Superintendent) Martha's desk - stashed the catalogs in the trunk of my car -- and went home for the day. It felt right.

On March 19th I'll bring out my paper hat again and celebrate.

Everyone should touch the sky, at least once, but that isn't a place that sustains life for long, I think.


Note: Our tours began with a viewing of "Of Lost Conversations ... and Untold stories," the DVD that is now available if you'll click on Cbreaux Annex (the link in the left hand column.) Do leave a comment. Would love to know if the information is new to you. It's all been carefully documented. I don't think Ken Burns needs to worry, though. We're no competition, yet ... .

Breathless ... .

I'm having a difficult time staying in focus right now. So much is happening so fast -- and I'm having a problem keeping on top of it all. Funny what rises to the top at such times.

Yesterday I attended an event honoring Frances Albrier, political activist in Berkeley over many years. The community center in San Pablo Park in South Berkeley was named in her honor years ago. Mrs. Albrier was a friend of my grandfather, Papa George's. I was his buddy for baseball games. He often stopped in at the nearby Albrier home when we visited San Pablo Park to watch the Negro barnstorming baseball teams play the California Eagles. This was long before the major leagues were racially integrated, of course.

Papa George and Daddy Joe would often sell caramel-colored pecan and overly-pink coconut pralines that stained your fingers -- at the games. They had a candy kitchen for a time -- in the back yard of Daddy Joe's home in the Fruitvale Area of Oakland -- one of their many ill-fated moneymaking schemes. In looking back I'm reminded that these two old guys were the African-American version of Steinbeck characters out of the Cannery Row or Sweet Thursday. Wish I'd paid closer attention to their antics at the time. Their entrepreneurial efforts allowed me to get to know the youngsters across town -- we lived far out in East Oakland. They were reasonably trustworthy to oversee my care but were enough involved in the games and their vending to allow for freedom and some growing space at a time when a little girl could use both.

It was here that I'd met my husband, Mel. I was 14 and he, 17. He was sitting on his bike (with newspaper saddlebags attached) near the clubhouse. I remember trying hard not to be obvious as I watched him from atop the fence where I was seated - only half watching the game. He was shy. I was even more so. It was not an auspicious meeting, surely not one that predicted that he would become my husband in May of 1942. But yesterday was Mrs. Albrier's day, and I was invited to attend as one of the elders with a memory of her and of her times. I'd been asked to say a few words of remembrance along with others

Later in the evening I joined Tom, his daughter and son and Peter's beautiful young fiancé for dinner in San Francisco. On the drive home I found myself with that little bit of nonsense that kept drifting in and out of focus and finally rose to the top riding on a hidden grin:

At 19 I'd married Mel Reid, celebrated extravagantly handsome football hero (quarterback for USF) which allowed me to learn more than I ever wanted to know about football with the bonus of seats on the 50-yard line for all important games; both in college and later at professional games. At 20-something that's nothin' to sneeze at.

After a failed but 35-year marriage; at fifty-something I married Bill which gave me access to the world of the university. Bill was the grey-bearded pipe-smoking yellow cashmere sweater with leather patches on elbows and tweed slacks with Brooks Bros. button-down shirt and loafers -- university psychology professor-- but even more important -- he had a University of California, Berkeley, parking space with his name on it. There were moments when I jokingly insisted that it was for this perk alone that I'd agreed to marry him. Sometimes he laughed -- sometimes not -- depending upon who was in the room when I'd blurt such nonsense.

It's all relative. Tom has a bright blue plastic handicap placard -- better than valet parking! You can't imagine how much that simplifies life in the Greater Bay Area which has such a glut of cars (he, for reasons that escape me, owns three). We have such poor public transportation, and so many fascinating places to visit. Memberships in the MOMA, the DeYoung Museum, and Ashland Shakespeare Festival doesn't hurt this friendship, but it's that bright blue plastic handicap placard that equals Bill Soskin's Cal parking space and Mel Reid's seats behind home plate or on the 50-yard line. The fact that he is one of the nicest gentle men I've known over a long lifetime doesn't hurt, either.

Life does have its compensations, doesn't it? You just have to be able to recognize the blessings when they surface. And wouldn't it be sad if I really was this shallow?

...and I do need to do something about arranging for some ambling lessons. I still find myself sprinting when a simple leisurely one foot in front of the other -- rhythmically and considerately will do just fine. Bill often expressed a wish that I could be tethered to his ankle when we window-shopped along Union Street in San Francisco (one of his favorite pastimes). His annoyance was clearly visible. When I'd find myself two stores ahead -- he'd deliberately hang back to force me to slow my pace.

I think I'm getting a little better at it, but have a long way to go before I've mastered it. It's particularly noticeable when I'm with Tom at art galleries. I tend to be always at least one exhibit ahead -- constantly running back to alert him to something up ahead that he has yet to reach ... .It must be frustrating as hell! He is so patient and long-suffering and never yet has he complained. But I notice and feel embarrassed and guilty at my irrepressible enthusiasm at such times. His health is poor and the condition is long-standing. I'm blessed with energy to burn ... and enough curiosity to wear out all but the heartiest of men. To his credit -- Tom continues to hang in and tolerates my exuberance with the grace of a saint. I'm so-oo-o grateful for his patience.

The Calder show is coming to the MOMA in March. Maybe this time ... .

The pendulum continues to swing into the stratosphere ... and I'm hanging on for dear life ... !

Is this how celebrity happens? And, if so, why on earth did it take so long? In a very disconcerting way -- it appears to feed on itself -- creating its own energy and crowding out humility. But that part of me that tends to sit outside myself monitoring events as if from afar keeps things in perspective pretty well. If it gets too crazy I just remind myself that I'm outliving my hair and that -- given a few more years I'll be as bald as an eagle! That's when the giggles come.

The week continued to unfold with surprises around every corner. On the day after word came that my songs were available to me (and the cassette is now in hand, thanks to Charlotte), and that my film would be on its way soon; I arrived at my office and unloaded voice mail (had the weekend's accumulation) and here it was. Here was a call from the office of Rep. Barbara Lee asking if it would be possible to obtain 30 copies of the DVD. What DVD? Another story:

My co-worker, Naomi, and I had created a 4-and-a-half minute production intended as a discussion starter for our evolving outreach program (we specialists call this a "strategy"). Impressed? It turned out to be a barn burner; a little piece with a narration written and added to a cascade of images of the WWII period that shows ship launchings involving African Americans, news pieces; vintage photos from the albums of Marguerite Roles, widow of union official Mahlon Roles; and a background score by a jazz guitarist. It was never intended to be any more than something that we could use at Neighborhood Council meetings to get the community into discussions about that historic period. It's still in draft form, awaiting cleaning up of a faulty sound track. Naomi did the technical work. I provided content. We named it, "Lost Conversations ... and Untold Stories." It's causing a minor sensation with everyone who views it, because -- even in that short piece -- much of the information is previously unknown -- dug up from research studies collected here in the park's growing archives for scholars who will one day want to access it and add to the nation's knowledge of the period.

I'd given a copy to my friend who is chief of staff for Barbara Lee just before Christmas. I'd learned that the Congressional Black Caucus was planning a weekend visit to the Bay Area on January 26th as guests of the congresswoman and suggested that a tour of the new park might be an interesting field trip for the representatives. I'd talked about it briefly with our staff and we figured it was a workable plan. This park will be important to the telling of not only the story of the Rosies, but of the stories of black homefront workers on the west coast, and of the Japanese-Americans who were interned and later returned to Richmond; history that is little known and long neglected. The park tour plan got lost in the Christmas holidays and I'd heard nothing more about that possibility until the brief message turned upon Monday.

Now the phone message was asking if our office could supply them with 30 copies to include in the packets of the national representatives along with our little tour booklet and the General Market Plan Newsletter (added as an important afterthought). There wouldn't be enough time in which to fit a park tour, but they were greatly interested in a later tour for Rep. Lee and her staff when it could be scheduled. Meanwhile, our little DVD would take off across the country in the briefcases of every member of the Congressional Black Caucus. What a coup!

On February 23 I will appear on a panel at Mare Island, Vallejo, California, as a part of the Forest Service's Black History Month's observance. I'll use the little DVD to introduce my part in the proceedings. I'll be presented along with a member of the Buffalo Soldiers, and another panelist who will talk about the contributions of the late Rosa Parks.

But that wasn't all: Two days ago I received the hyperlink to that half-hour interview I did on January 20th for Pacifica Radio. And -- it really didn't sound as randomly nutty as I'd feared after re-reading the oral history from the Bancroft Library. I needn't have feared. It was lucid -- coherent. Truth carries its own power and when there are interested listeners, the words flow pretty evenly. When I clicked into the website I found that a production has been created around that little interview that begins with a poet reciting an interesting spoken word piece to music -- followed by Paul Robson singing "The House I live in." The interview ends with that great African American hero singing "Old Man River." Can you imagine? I don't think that it's been aired yet, but maybe I've missed it ... .

The Fight Against Racial Discrimination in the Richmond Shipyards:An interview with Soskin. (I found the site under Betty Reid Soskin and this title.)

An embarrassment of riches? Yes!

A re-reading of yesterday's entry surely reveals the clear fact that I woke euphoric. It's that strange phenomenon that defies understanding -- unless we factor in morphic resonance, maybe? Rupert Sheldrake may be onto something, truly. And why do you suppose that Sheldrake would have come to mind on Saturday -- 24 hours before? It's that strange experience of a feeling of getting out of sync with time ... acting on information that I don't yet have.

How on earth could I have known that later in the day there would be word from Charlotte in Southern California that -- years ago I'd given her a cassette tape of six of my songs (the tape I've been searching for with a sense of hopelessness for months now) and that she would forward it to me tomorrow? I could have shouted for joy! I'd really started to believe that only those lyrics still in my memory had been preserved -- and that my songs were lost forever. This surely means that I'll need to learn how to add sound to my journal so that you, too, can hear them. Will do.

But that's not all. Later in the day I found a message on my computer that someone was seeking permission to be lifted from the spamblocker. The name was unfamiliar -- but, in the subject line were the words, "Farallon Light." This was the title of the film that I wrote and performed the music for (two songs) lo those many years ago and that I'd never been able to find anywhere on the planet. I'd never told anyone that I'd done that work since it was a created in a time of mental illness and I wasn't all that sure it wasn't simply symptomatic of that and not much more. I knew that it had won festival prizes; and for years had been shown in the theater of the Lawrence Hall of Science on the University of California's Berkeley campus. I'd watched it there with my granddaughter who was about six at the time (she's 20-something now). Only in the past several months have I tried to trace it after re-discovering the old script and stills in my files. I wrote about that here at the time. It was then that I'd contacted this film library.

When I opened the email the message said that they have obtained "...a scratchy copy that we're willing to tranfer to DVD if you're still interested in owning it." Wow! I have a friend who heads the media department at the local community college who might be able to do some repairs or at least smooth out some of the more serious flaws. I want it no matter what shape it's in. It's proof that I've created something that might be of timeless value -- and having it to view after so many years is a priceless gift.

Today the National Women's History Project's annual catalogue arrived in the mail with a reproduction of this year's poster on the cover. I also received by email the draft of the 500-word bio that will be published soon. After reading it, I figure I could spend the rest of my life trying to live up to my own image!

If this is my obituary (so much coming together so eerily!), I'm ready to go, guys. It's gotta be all downhill from here!

Photo: This one is self-explanatory.

Another Sunday morning ... and this one feels good.

Furnace is back humming like a top. And -- naturally -- it wasn't "broken" after all. After two days of sitting in a cold apartment feeling forlorn (PG&E informed me that they couldn't send out a repairman until January 26th!) and unloved, I finally flopped face down on the floor of my den and carefully read the manual on "re-lighting the pilot" and decided (with Tom's reassurance by telephone from Mendocino) that maybe I wouldn't blow up the entire building if I simply tried to do it myself. So saying, I pushed the little button marked pilot and the thing roared on as predicted. Another problem solved; but it did little for my ego to know that the problem probably hadn't existed at all, but was my own misreading of the situation. Sound familiar? Right. It was undoubtedly the "God of Small Things" (see Arundahti Roy) getting me in line again after the ego-tripping caused by that dive into notoreity. After all, seeing one's very own face on a poster has to cause some unbalance in the psyche. I am surely not made of stone.

But to get back to Sunday. Woke slowly and lay with my eyes closed for a long time trying to recapture that feeling of reverence that Sunday used to bring when -- long ago I would have been getting ready for services at the Mt. Diablo Unitarian-Universalist Church in Walnut Creek on Eckley Lane. I might even be preparing to participate in some ceremony or doing a reading or meeting with a religious education class. This morning I truly miss that congregation of old friends, if only to share some of the joys and sorrows of the past weeks and months. There is such a backlog of feelings now -- and except for this journal -- I've no place to use them up ... .

Then there's this place in my mind where nothing ever dissipates but remains whole and retrievable until the time is right to reappear:


This song is not mine, but is a hymn, a real "Ode to Joy," that I discovered trapped in an old 2/4 German(?) march in the pages of the burgundy-bound UU hymnal. I freed it by transforming "Life" into a romantic gypsy peddler, gave it a new and lilting melody and performed it before the congregation on a Sunday morning such as this. The poem is by Sara Teasdale (thanks, Amie.)

Life has loveliness to sell -- all beautiful and splendid things,
blue waves whitened on a cliff, roaring fires that sway and sing,
and children's faces lifted up -- holding wonder like a cup --
for life has loveliness to sell, all beautiful and splendid things!

Life has loveliness to sell, music like a curve of gold,
scent of pine trees in the rain, eyes that love you, arms that hold,
and for the spirit's still delight -- holy thoughts that star the night
for life has loveliness to sell, all beautiful and splendid things.

Spend all you have on loveliness, buy and never count the cost --
for one bright shining hour of peace count many years of strife well lost,
and for a breath of ecstacy -- give all you have been or could be --
for life has loveliness to sell, all beautiful and splendid things!

Such a lovely bit of poetry ... such lush imagery!

Imagine my surprise and delight when -- appropro of nothing -- there at the gates of San Quentin prison only a few weeks ago -- Paul Sawyer mentioned that he had recently been listening to my voice singing this little hymn audiotaped at some church occasion long ago. The music and lyrics have been coming back in bits and pieces since that day. This morning it came together behind my closed eyes -- whole -- in brightly-colored fragments from the corners of my mind ... in slow motion -- drawn together irresistably like metal shavings to a magnet in a lively videographic animation ... as consciousness returned for another day of life.

Somewhere beneath the pain and disappointment; the sense of needing completion somehow and that I'll surely die without ever knowing that feeling; that despite the weight of her life upon my own -- Dorian has kept the child in me alive because that's the place where we meet without judgement. I know that the repository for the artist in me is in that child. I know that -- however The World turns out, eventually, despite my imperfections -- I will have fulfilled my self-imposed obligation to leave footprints deep enough for the children I'll leave behind, and at least as well defined as those left by the ancestors for me to follow. Together with countless others, we've helped to create a country and a world even when we were unaware of our effect upon human history.

Amen.

Time to re-direct ...

and AlterNet provided the perfect means to do just that.

This morning they're running a fascinating article about biologist Rupert Sheldrake, originally of Australia but now living in London. His was the controversial theory of morphic resonance,

"-- a complicated framework of ideas proposing that nature relies upon its own set of memories, which are transmitted through time and space via "morphic fields". The theory holds that these fields, which operate much like electrical or magnetic fields, shape our entire world. A panda bear is a panda bear because it naturally tunes into morphic fields containing storehouses of information that define and govern panda bears. The same with pigeons, platinum atoms, and the oak trees on Hampstead Heath, not to mention human beings. This theory, if widely accepted, would turn our understanding of the universe inside out -- which is why Sheldrake has so often felt the wrath of orthodox scientists.

For the past 20 years, he has pursued further research on morphic fields even though no university or scientific institute would dare hire him. Much of his empirical explorations focus on unsolved phenomenon such as how pigeons and other animals find their way home from great distances, why people experience feelings in amputated limbs, why some people and animals can sense that someone is staring at them. He believes morphic resonance may offer answers to these questions."

the most memorable was the "100 Monkey's theory" so widely discussed during the period of the Human Potential Movement of the 80's. Sheldrake posited that -- in an experiment conducted in the south pacific involving a tipping point where, when a particular number of monkeys on separated islands were introduced to a process of a kind -- the monkeys on the neighboring island adopted it as well -- without contact of any kind, once a critical number had been reached (i.e. the hundredth monkey).

Sheldrake was one of the "heretic" scientists associated with John Lilly and his dolphin studies and others who were intrigued by Zen and Tibetan Buddhism. There was a coming together of physicists, biologists, Buddhists, psychologists, writers like Isaac Asimov and Fritjof Capra and Loren Eisley -- through astronaut Ed Mitchell's Noetic Institute at Stanford and the Nyingma Institute in Berkeley. It was a world I drifted around the edges of while married to the university and to Bill who was deeply involved in all things esoteric and edgy (in its time).

Reading today's article (more to be found at www.sheldrake.org) served as a reminder of a life I tend to forget about in the dailyness of the past 20-30 years. It all feels very far away now -- like a fine film I once watched, with players so much larger than life. It was a period that lasted only ten years of my marriage -- until Bill's death -- and it changed the direction of my life for all time.

That Betty would hardly be squashed by little things like hayfever; not knowing how to deal with a pilot light on the furnace that blew out when she tried to change the filter; finding herself again chained to a child-woman who has returned home needing tending and chauffering and patience (oh the patience!) after being seduced into believing that the time of caretaking was ending ... and that life might finally be all interesting work, art galleries, time to muse, concerts, fine dining, and feeling womanly again. At least a few of yesterday's tears were certainly related to disappointment, a dash of self-pity, and at least a wee bit of guilt at feeling so.

That's what I need; a new infusion of thought by those wonderful daring dreamers -- or today's counterparts -- who knew no limits and who believed in themselves and in all the rest of us as well. Those learned men (and they tended to be all male at that time) saw wonder in everything around them. They were the antithesis of today's scientific leaders who are all bound by the bottom line instead of the upper limits of the universe of the mind.

Today I'll read some Rupert Sheldrake and try to recapture some of that dreamdust.

Photo: Taken in the livingroom of Deacon John Weaver of the Northern California Episcopal Diocese -- listening to a discussion in preparation for the Vallombrosa Conference at Stanford (circa 1976).

Where is my brownskinned heart to hurry?

The title of a song written long ago ... and that has been playing in the back of my mind since yesterday. This morning I woke sobbing into my pillow. Why on earth ...? No meaning came -- only the music -- as if coming from another voice -- as if in a dream ... but muffled so that Dorian wouldn't wake and find me distressed. I could never have explained to her dimmed mind the cause of the tears -- I couldn't even explain them to myself. Last night I went to bed so elated! But I had spent much of the past two weeks swinging wildly between highs and lows -- the executions at San Quentin, the Martin Luther King celebration, and the honors being bestowed soon by the NWHP. Was this then what it means to be manic-depressive? Surely not, since these were all larger than life events and my feelings appropriate to each. I'd surely never had such a diagnosis, but could this be? More sobs. I lay still for a long time quieting myself in preparation for climbing out of bed and into my clothes for work. Surely this would pass soon. But I'm still here ... .

It was in those few moments of quiet that the lyrics began to come together with the music -- and the ephiphany!


I was late twenty-something and living in Walnut Creek. The racial hostility was at its worst and one of my little boys had been stoned by some teens shouting "nigger!" from a passing car as he was returning on our country road from Sam's market -- across the creek and a few blocks away. He wasn't badly hurt and came to me looking puzzled and frightened to ask why? There was no answer. He was so young. I couldn't tell him that I just didn't know. The feeling of helplessness is one that I recognize as being always there playing softly in the background of my life as mother -- over all the years -- freshening unexpectedly from time to time. Maybe that's true for every parent, but perhaps not quite to this extent.

Later that day, after hours of torment and doubt, I wrote this:

Where is my brownskinned heart to hurry?
Where will I find my song?
Why must my mind be just for worry?
To whom does my dream belong?

What are my hands to hold this morning?
Where is my place in the sun?
With what shall I fill this time of longing?
Whose will shall be done?

The fruit of my labor will tumble in soon
in search of my love and my lead
Gave all I had when they left this mornin'
Why can't they know how little souls bleed?

Where is my brownskinned heart to hurry?
To whom does my dream belong?
Why must my mind be just for worry?
Who will hear ...
my ...
song ......?

I recognized that same feeling of helplessness on the day, years later, when my now grownup son, Rick, asked tearfully why his partner, Gordon, was lying dead on a slab at the county morgue because his northeastern family would neither claim his body nor release it to us for burial? Gordon was white and Rick was not. They were a committed gay couple who'd been together for 18 years. We lived with that gruesome reality for the 30 days required by law before we could claim Gordon's remains and memorialize him. Rick was dead a little more than a year later.

All of that rushed into my mind this morning -- replacing the giddiness I'd experienced last night as I dropped off to blissful sleep with the honors front row and center.

The sobbing that wracked my body this morning suggests that I may finally be willing to give up my self-assigned role of being "...the only grownup in the room." That I cannot possibly change the basic wrongs of the world no matter how hard I try. That I never could. That no one of us can and that it may be time now to set the world back down on its axis and allow it to find its own way toward redemption.

But you know what?

There is unspeakable relief in knowing that someone may have finally heard my song! The recognition being bestowed in March will symbolize this for me. Makes me wonder about the journeys taken by the other women with whom this honor will be shared. I so look forward to learning more about each of them.

Perhaps the tears were some indication of the power of releasing all that unspent pain.

Maybe I've finally exhaled.

Another execution has been held ... with several more slated in the coming months ...

But I cannot live my life weighted down with this issue. It's all consuming and begins to block out the sun after awhile. Dues have been paid -- and I'll table it now until Paul Sawyer trumpets the call again in a few weeks -- to confront the issue for another round of protests at the prison gates. The issue of a moratorium is gaining ground nationwide, and may find some support when the several bills now in one or another committee finally makes their way to the floor of the state senate and/or assembly.

I sense that we're beginning to wake to the death and destruction that this generation is cursed with, and to react to the chaos. Change is in the offing. I can almost feel and hear the brakes being applied to the administration's ugly power surge as the constitutional questions begin to be asked, and impeachment begins to be a serious and grim possibility.

But in the meantime, I'm still wearing my paper hat from the King Birthday Celebration on Sunday. That, coupled with the news from the National Women's History Project this week has me humming to myself and generally having a difficult time getting my hat on at all! They've asked for more information to include with my bio. Our images are featured on a lovely poster being distributed by the organization. The letter announced the dates and times of the presentation of the honorees at an event to be held on March 19th at Griffiths Park in Southern California. I will fly down and will meet the other women at that time. For more information you may want to check out their website. I cannot-- in my wildest dreams -- imagine being mentioned in the same breath with such remarkable women.

Am back at work with a schedule of activities that could threaten a woman half my age, I suppose. Every new project that I take on now carries a time clock with it -- an acute sensitivity to the fact that all this energy could end at any moment -- and that the work is important and must go on with or without me. It adds a note of urgency (but also preciousness) to everything, and makes me feel breathless at times.

I'm beginning to think of all the things I've wanted to do, to complete, to begin, to re-activate, and to feel a frustration that I haven't found the cassette tapes of my songs yet and they may indeed by lost for all time; that I haven't re-framed all those great pictures that lost their glass in storage; re-written some of those fragments of essays I've found from years ago in my files, and that still have a freshness of viewpoint and insight that bears what I'm now beginning to recognize as my own particular form of genius (and do I dare use such a word?). Yes. The National Women's History Project has granted permission by anointing me one of their honored "Community Builders of Communities and Dreams!" (Immodesty feels pretty good, y'all, enjoyed in moderation, of course.)

So much to do -- with diminishing time in which to fit it all in. Maybe soon. But for now there is the work of helping to create a new national park with a team of such capable and dedicated young men and women. What an awesome assignment is that, right?

I suppose that I'm still being deeply effected by the so recent deaths of the four Reid women; Dorothy, Linda, Flossie, and Maybelle, and beginning to face -- ever so gently -- my own mortality.

But not yet. There's good work still to be done.

Illustration: This year's NWHP poster taken from the website. My photo is tucked in at the far right very top - under the "N" in "women." There were 10 chosen, nationwide. What an honor! Maybe I'll buy enough to send out as greeting cards next year. Not sure that I've earned it, but on balance -- whatever is left owing I plan to make up before leaving the planet -- or have my progeny repay after I'm gone. And they'll do so in the name of the ancestors!

Garbage in, garbage out and other nightmares ... and then ...

This has been a dreadful week, but all is not lost. Until ... until being reunited with someone I've long admired from afar but lost track of years ago into the busyness of too many days of more trivial pursuits. We've been marching in different parades, with his being the more majestic. Less stressful, of that I know. More than likely it's a question of scale. While I've spent a lifetime of activism within a scant 30-mile radius -- he has served on a world stage; from social worker community organizer and later Berkeley City Councilman -- to Chairman of the powerful Congressional Armed Services Committee as 8-term Representative Ronald V. Dellums, man of peace and representing one of the most diverse congressional districts in the nation. In that role he worked to engineer the end of apartheid in South Africa and greatly influenced the freeing of Nelson Mandela and led to this legend's ascendance to the presidency of his country.


Untypically, the past week has combined forces to send me straight to the dumpster. Ordinarily I would have prevailed against all but the most impossible odds. This week exposed some vulnerabilities I'd failed to notice.

a. Dorian has returned home (temporarily) after months of sharing an apartment with another mentally-handicapped young woman under a program that specializes in providing supportive services. For the most part it has been successful until Zena suffered a psychotic break that brought a broken window, tossed chair, a kick through the sheetrock of a bedroom wall -- and risk that forced a quick decision to close the apartment and move Dorrie home again, or at least until a suitable alternative can be provided. There's a HUD 1-bedroom apartment available to her that's awaiting cleanup and painting, so all is not lost. Meanwhile, she is chafing at having to give up her independence again and yield to the (no matter how subtle) controls of an over-anxious mother (moi).

b. A miserable attack of hayfever brought on by excessive rains followed by a couple of warm days and the resulting early advent of offending pollens. That meant missing work for days while hemmed in (with Dorian) with no escape from hour-after-hour CSPAN coverage of the Judiciary Committee hearings. A recipe for disaster!


A growing depression was further worsened by the spaciness of a low-grade fever that tended to make visible the glaring idiocy of events. It was like a parody of government. How about a committee of old white guys (the Senate Boy's Club) sitting in judgement about another white guy's having once belonged to C.A.P., an organization (like their own) that looked with disdain upon women and minorities? How about a Senate Committee composed of old white males (with the exception of Senator Feinstein) placing so much emphasis on this one white guy's attitude about Roe vs. Wade -- white men who haven't a uterus between the bunch of them -- and none of whom has ever been pregnant. What happened to the idea of critical judgements from a "jury of one's peers"? How did it ever come to this? Who said that intelligence and good judgement is embedded in one gender only, and that men have some special capacity to be wise and empathic enough to rule on a woman's right to choose?

Cases have been overturned by the fact that a black defendant's guilt or innocence has been determined by a jury from which all but white jurists have been purged. Would this not be true where gender is a predictive factor in the determination of a case involving abortion? Can we not see the critical importance of having women weigh in on any such matter? Are men truly capable of the kind of objectivity that would take the issues above the level of simply enforcing the subordination of women?


Then word came down that the California Supreme Court had ruled against clemency for Clarence Ray Allen, compounded later by the governor's denial. The execution will take place tonight of one more human being -- even while the moratorium is being considered by the legislature. How can this be? Were you aware that only a months or so ago this man suffered a massive heart attack -- was hospitalized where he slipped away for a time and then was resuscitated with his execution date scheduled for tonight -- on his 77th birthday? Can anyone imagine a greater irony? Why could they not have simply allowed him to die? Who would have been harmed? Were I the doctor in that ER the choice would have been clear.

Hal, a protester who is organizing the vigil activity, called late Saturday afternoon with a reminder that the group will be gathering for several hours at the prison gates that night for a press conference, and would I join them? Rain is threatened. I could not go. It all felt so useless. I've not yet recovered from the very recent execution of Stanley Williams. This was just too much. And I was beginning to feel that pollen was not my problem as much as the feeling of powerlessness now overwhelming me since that death. But I believe that this is where I touched bottom and the rebound was begun ... .


Always there is that pendulum frantically swinging to bring balance. It was already beginning to sway to the opposite pole -- taking me with it despite all.


Weeks ago I'd received a call from Stacy Hoffman asking if there was some way that I could help her organization (Rhythmic Concepts) get former Rep. Ron Dellums as the keynoter for this year's annual Martin Luther King Birthday Concert; a truly important event. It was an easy matter that called on little more than providing a phone number or two that produced the desired result. He accepted. Last night I enjoyed a front row seat (as a grateful Stacy's guest) before an array of hugely talented Oakland musical groups (Linda Tillery and her Cultural Heritage Choir; The Oakland Children's Choir; Madeline Eastman and Faye Carroll, jazz singers; ending with the incredible Oakland Interfaith Gospel Choir led by Terence Kelly). They performed in a format that was interspersed with snippets of Dr. King's powerful speeches played upon a large screen to a reverent audience. You would not believe that evening! It was impossible to maintain the gloom that had clung so stubbornly to my being as I'd walked into that auditorium earlier.

The elegant and eloquent former Congressman Dellums (I'd forgotten) rose to speak before this audience of passionate listeners -- oh how magnificently he's aging! -- he was electrifying! He appeared proudly Lincolnesque with that angular face, shock of white hair, and signature beard. He'd announced his intention of entering the race for mayor of this city only a few months ago. More than anyone in public office today, his presence sends a message of peace and stability to those around him. He is charismatic beyond measure. I dared to allow myself to see him as "presidential," to my own surprise. For a quick minute I felt myself comparing him to the current occupant of the White House and felt a silent giggle form in my throat. This is the model that young, fast-rising, and inspirational Senator Barack Obama may well aspire to emulate. He could hardly do better. The word "statesman" fits few in today's political world. The word comes immediately to mind when in the presence of this iconic figure.

I listened raptly as he drew from the wisdom of Dr. King with great skill and confidence. He breathed new life into the words that have become so familiar over the 30 or more years since first uttered -- and that have begun to be emptily recited by rote by generations who "weren't there." It was an evening I'll not forget any time soon.

For the first time in a very long time, today I no longer feel alone ... .

I will volunteer to work in this campaign in that hope that his leadership will become regional -- will reach beyond Oakland's boundaries into my city of Richmond. Ron Dellums is the only person that I can see on the horizon with the potential to draw the like-minded Progressive community together across political and racial boundaries toward positive social and political change. As goes the Bay Area goes the State of California. As goes the State of California, eventually, goes the nation.

Maybe this is where it all begins ... the first steps toward hope and the dramatic changes necessary to rescue this nation for the next generations. Yes, it's that huge and I'm that fearful of a future as predicted by the everyday de-construction of our country's institutions and way of life ... and before so many of us have been able to benefit by the promises of the first or to achieve the second by divine right of citizenship.

There is so much still to be won.

Photo: Found this photo of Ron on his website. This picture appears younger than the man we reconnected with last night. The older (70 maybe?) Ron has whiter hair and heavier beard but with the athletic (6'4") body of a 40 year-old. Wish I'd thought to take my camera along. Will try to update this photo at the first chance to do so. Do explore his website for more information on this exceptional man.