And the prize goes to ...

How to tell the story ... particularly when I'm still so caught up in the wonder of it all?

Wide-eyed granddaughter, Kokee (young "Miss Ginglehopper), and I met Molly (NWHP Executive Director) at the Oakland airport at the ungodly hour of 5:00 am for the 6:50 flight to Washington. It was comforting to see her since I was taking off with no idea of what would happen once we landed in Baltimore and not even which hotel we'd be staying in for the next several days. Having been in Los Angeles until less than 24 hours before, all of the instructions for the flight to the east coast were sitting on the hard drive of my office computer and I was quite literally flying blind! Molly couldn't know that I'd not received word of the arrangements. It all worked out.

We arrived five hours later after a relatively smooth flight across country, and took the shuttle to the Hyatt Grand Hotel -- and how grand it was!

Martha Lee had arrived a bit earlier and called our room to announce plans for the evening. She picked us up in a borrowed Prius (terrific), and we headed for the Japanese Internment memorial. It was so moving ... even with the water features turned off for fear of freezing. With most of the tourists gone for the day and the tour buses gone to wherever tour buses spend their nights -- we had the streets to ourselves. We then visited the Washington Monument and thrilled at the sight of the lagoon under the night skies -- envisioning Martin Luther King's timeless oration -- and the great Marian Anderson's defiant concert at Lincoln's feet with Eleanor Roosevelt at her side in that shameful but triumphant event meant to shame the Daughters of the American Revolution, and did.

We walked silently through the Vietnam Memorial alongside the late night visitors who were equally and quietly trying to cope with the countless names of those whose lives were sacrificed in that duplicitous war that saw the erosion of faith in our leaders that has never quite healed. Not too far away is a most astounding memorial to the veterans of the Korean war -- those dimly-lit larger than life figures of a company of fighting men on the field of battle. They stand in various poses in full battle regalia with guns drawn and fear and courage etched into their faces. They are chalk-white and bring death chillingly close -- especially when visited in the sequence of Lincoln (Civil War), the names of the Vietnam War dead, and then -- those of the Korean "Police Action."

It was at the Korean Memorial that I first started to experience the disturbing sense of our nation's glorification of war -- and though that may be an over-statement -- it is nonetheless real. We'd not yet visited those places where some of that might be mitigated by the softness of the arts and science (the Smithsonians, the Space Museum, the National Archives, the Supreme Court, etc.) and the feeling that we were simply about war and the sacrificing of young lives came to the forefront and I couldn't shake it off until far into a sleepless night. Those feelings would again overwhelm me while standing on the steps of Arlington House overlooking the eternal flame at the Kennedy graves and the endless field of the stark white grave markers of those whose lives have been sacrificed to a succession of wars that continues to this day.

Maybe tomorrow it would be different. After all -- this was only the first evening and the next day would bring the NWHP celebration at the historic Hay Adams hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue (across the street from the White House), and the company of the other wayfarers with whom we share the planet, the nation, and -- for whatever it's worth -- the next stretch of time that may test our ability to save ourselves and the world from known and unknown perils.

Went to sleep at some point while pondering just how we'd managed to squander so much greatness? Remembered just before dropping off to sleep -- the press conference being aired on the radio of the shuttle that took us from the Baltimore airport to our hotel. How on earth does one think about the powerful and moving words that graced the walls of the Lincoln Memorial compared with the babble that was coming from that broadcast -- the exchange between White House correspondent Helen Thomas and the boy-president? How had we come to this?

Maybe tomorrow would hold some of the clues and provide some comfort ...

...and it did.

Photos: That is a shot of the interior of our hotel -- only about six minutes away from the Hay Adams Hotel in the heart of the White House area. The other is a moment I'll not forget soon -- as shared with Kokee who was seeing Washington and the nation's treasures for the first time. It was an unexpected privilege through the auspices of the NWHP for which I'll be eternally grateful.

Autrey Museum Celebration lives up to the reviews ...

Despite the GPS (global positioning system) female voice (we named her Mabel) in our rental car we managed to get ourselves lost on the way from the L.A. County Art Museum and the Autrey Museum in Griffith Park. Only after several wrong turns with Mabel having to re-calibrate our course each time before we could move, did we reach the NWHP event a mere 10 minutes late.

I'm not too high on cowboy stuff, and this place screams that history with the subtlety of Dolly Parton in full hooker regalia! Was feeling the laugh crawling up from my belly to my throat when NPS superintendent Martha Lee popped up out of the crowd (with her delightful mother in tow) and announced that my family had arrived earlier and were waiting anxiously for me. At that point irreverence was all I could feel -- and the absurdity of all of it.

David and my grandson, Rhico, plus his lady suddenly emerged from somewhere with grins all around and a big presentation bouquet that I'd receive later in the proceedings. They'd left the Bay Area at six in the morning to be here for the 3:30 ceremonies. They would leave immediately afterward to arrive back to Berkeley at around 1:30 am! No greater love hath a son for his mother. David was bursting with pride and delight. I thought of Bob and missed him terribly. Thought of Rick who died enough years ago and who should have retired to the background long ago but who continues to rise to the front of my mind at times such as this. Dorian was back home -- this would have been too much for her to deal with, given her level of understanding. Today it was David representing the family -- and stepping in to do it with such warmth and dignity.

He greeted me excitedly with, "...Mom, come see! Our ancestors are shown here in a mural in the museum gallery." Followed him and found a depiction of the Louis and Clark trek with their guide and interpreter, the Shoshone woman called Sacagewa and her husband, Toussaint Charbonneau, who led the expedition west and the opening of the Northwest Passage. Charbonnet is the spelling of our paternal family surname -- part of the family having moved to the Louisiana territories with the spelling, "Charbonnet," while others went into Canada where the name changed to "Charbonneau." This was one of the many cul de sacs that turned up in our family history project that has yet to be followed to some conclusion. But it was so exciting for David and Rhico to get this glimpse of why I find this research so exciting. The tantalizing possibility of an bloodline link to Sacagewa makes me tremble just thinking about it.

When the presentation began, it was obvious that I would have to make some kind of acceptance speech and that was a problem since I rarely think ahead and tend to say whatever comes to me as a response to what is happening around me. This time was no exception. I found the words, somehow, but can't for the life of me recall what it was that got expressed.

The crystal "Oscar" is so beautiful! It is an abstract shape of curves and planes, 8" x 9" by 2", with my name, the date, and the National Women's History Project logo etched into the surface at the back. When the light comes through it is awesome -- but I'm not sure just what I'll do with it. Can't take it to work. A bit ostentatious, wouldn't you say? Have it in my bedroom beside the lovely clock received from the staff of Assemblywoman Loni Hancock's office when I left a few years ago. To feel deserving of such a magnificant award was again a challenge, and in the company of women of such stature shook what little poise I could command. I still had the tendency to want to look behind me for the woman it was really intended for.

It would take the flight all the way to Washington, D.C., two days later, and visits to the Japanese Internment Memorial, the Korean War Memorial, the moving Vietnam Monument so stunning in its simplicity; to the Lincoln Memorial at night when the tourists were gone; the unbelievably moving memorial for FDR; the WWII memorial (a bit disappointing), the majestic but unabashedly phallic Washington monument upthrusting from the earth surrounded by briskly waving flags; the Jefferson monument seen at night with cherry blossoms about to burst into color against snow falling gently seen through the amber light; all of that before I started to feel deserving. But that feeling did come, finally, and when it came it was stunning! I now understand the why of it -- and that it was meant to be; and how humbling that was.

But that's for later. I need to savor these powerful though fragile feelings just a little longer before sharing.

Photo: Isn't this about the loveliest ...!

Yes, I'm home again -- trying hard to absorb the past ten days in some reasonable fashion and not succeeding very well...

I've sat down at my computer a number of times and given up before my fingers could take over. It's hard to describe -- this sense that my brain and the rest of me are operating at different levels -- barely related -- and at differing speeds.

Returned home on Friday after what seemed an endless flight across a nation made up of little more than cloud cover. Beautiful -- but the ephemeral billowing grey-white below us added to a sense of non-reality. Would I be able to hold it all without losing my sense of balance? Wasn't all that sure at times. Landing in Oakland at the end of the exhausting flight (had to help hold the plane up, of course) in a pouring rainstorm brought me back to some stability. The stormy weather cooled whatever magic spell I'd been under and life was quickly brought back to whatever normalcy I still enjoy.

Shall we start with Los Angeles on Friday, March 17th? Tom accompanied me to Southern California where we managed to visit the Armand Hammer Art Museum in Beverly Hills on Friday afternoon. What a collection! Saw the old masters again (Van Gogh, Matisse, Manet, Sargent, Chagall, etc.) and for a few minutes there couldn't see how on earth they could ever be equated with the modernists (Jackson Pollock, Warhol, Picasso, etc.), and shouldn't we have some other category through which to describe their works?

On Saturday we took ourselves out to visit the Getty Center high in the hills and overlooking the "river" below, that was the San Diego freeway and conceived as a part of the "art" presentation by the architect, Richard Meier. One has to ride a tram up the hillside to reach the museum made of Italian alabaster stones cut into a beautiful repetitive series of structures composed of squares. It is totally white except for a lovely violet arbor holding wisteria now dormant but beginning to bud. I had the feeling of what it must be like to visit the pyramids. The grandeur of the site and the magnificent buildings that make up the center are overwhelming.

We took the architectural guided tour. The hanging artworks were quite wonderful but were almost secondary to the edifice itself. Would like to return someday when I'm not so awed by the structure and can better lend myself to the art.

On Sunday, early in the day, we visited the Los Angeles County Museum for another great tour of the exhibitions. Despite the marvelous reputation of San Francisco's impressive museums and art collections, it was quite obvious to me that -- when compared to that of Southern California -- we're still in the throes of beginnings. Here we saw many of the modern masters, and, I had the feeling that the visit to the Getty had served to "clear the palate" and allowed me to better appreciate the modernists than if we'd gone straight from the Impressionists to Andy Warhol and Lichtenstein's cartoon art. That Campbell soup can just couldn't do it for me except as I could see it as a rebellion against tradition and a much-needed pushing of the envelope that freed us to see the world a bit differently.

Maybe it was because of the reason I was in Los Angeles at all -- for the ceremonies of the National Women's History Project later in the day -- I became very aware of the absence of women artists. In neither the extensive collections of the Hammer, the Getty, nor at the L.A. County Art Museum did I see the work of more than a single female artist. Only one Mary Cassatt was exhibited -- and that as part of the Hammer collection. Thought for a minute that I'd seen two, but the other turned out to be male with an ambiguous name.

The need to "...write women back into history" as stated in the written materials of the NWHP suddenly sang out to me as of critical importance. That I was going to be honored that very afternoon at the ceremonies at the Autrey Museum took on greater significance. I was going to become a part of that long-neglected history -- not only for myself, but for women as a class. The ten of us were going to be helping to make a place for women everywhere; a great honor, indeed. This feeling was reinforced as we visited the nation's capital a few days later and found ourselves overwhelmed by the glorification of war and the devastation of lost lives of the thousands of grave markers for the nation's young in Arlington Cemetery, the Korean War Memorial, that of World War II, and Vietnam. Testosterone reigns in what we've chosen to honor as national heritage -- and women and their participation and sacrifices for the country seemed only dealt with as an afterthought.

My comfort level with the process was beginning to grow -- and with any luck at all would increase enough to take me to Washington, D.C., on Tuesday.

And it did.

Photo: Vincent Van Gogh's "Irises," one of my favorite paintings.

At the  Autrey Museum

Packing up and gettin' ready ...
Tomorrow morning we leave for Los Angeles and the Autrey Museum where the National Women's History Project will hold their celebration on Sunday at three. We're leaving a day early in order to visit the Getty Art Museum while there -- I've never seen it and hear it's stunning.

Will fly home on Monday afternoon and then leave at 5:50 a.m. from the Oakland airport for Baltimore/Washington, D.C., and the festivities to be held at the Hay Adams on Pennsylvania Avenue across the street from the White House. How cool it that?

Because this is all so much larger than life and so once-in-a-lifetime in scope -- I've cashed in the family jewels to take granddaughter, "Miss Hermione Ginglehopper" along to share the honors and enjoy her first visit to the Capitol.

at the Hay Adams Hotel in D.C.

David, Kokee, and Rhico (his older kids) will drive to L.A. for the celebration there on Sunday.

Not sure when I'll get to read my messages or post to my blog -- these days are surreal -- but given this unbelievable agenda, it may take days to get myself back into my pumpkin again.

Will try to remember to take pictures and will post them in CBreaux's Annex when there's time.

Meanwhile, I'm off to see the wizard -- see Betty on the Yellow Brick Road!

Today's the day ...

and it's 8:58 by the clock on my computer. At eleven o'clock this morning my friend, Barbara Cottman Becnel, will announce her candidacy for governor from the west steps of the state capitol. Been sitting on this one for weeks -- waiting until she would go public. All of the signatures have been gathered and verified -- and this brilliant passionate capable African American woman will enter the race.

I have no idea how this will be viewed by the political parties since Barbara will be entering from the Left for the purpose of broadening the debate to include a higher minimum wage, higher taxes on the rich, and -- abolition of the death penalty. All three of the major candidates have declared that they will continue to support the death penalty and none will agree to a moratorium.

You may recall -- if you were paying attention -- that Barbara is the woman who managed to get San Quentin Death Row inmate Stanley Tookie Williams nominated 7 times for the Nobel Peace and Literature prizes over the past years. She published his 9 prize-winning books and served as his editor. She was portrayed by Lynn Whitfield in the film, "Redemption," for which Jamie Fox was nominated for the Oscar.

When we met at the Point Richmond StarBucks some days ago, she asked if I'd do some writing for her. Not sure I could do her justice. One day Barbara will be viewed as the Rosa Parks of the Movement to Abolish the Death Penalty.

But we'll talk more about that in days to come.

An exhausting sleepless night ... the promise of today's celebratory afternoon at the college ...

and the feeling that I've been revisited by all of the significant people in my life -- now deceased -- for the purpose of reminding me that I'm a conglomerate; the sum total of them all -- and that I'd damn well better not forget it!

In the Rem sleep state I clearly recall myself -- as if at the Oscars after a long walk down the red carpet in a flowing gown fashioned by my dressmaker cousin, the late Annabelle LeBeouf Therence -- tripping on my train while receiving my statuette and doing one of those endless rambling speeches that had to be cut off by the orchestra starting up and growing louder as I tearfully struggled on -- trying to squeeze in all of my children, grandchildren, a fair number of craftsmen, bright and charming gay cousins, painters,drunken uncles, college presidents, at least one managing editor, many writers, department heads, educators, red caps and porters, maids and garbage men, bricklayers and engineers, postal clerks and musicians and artists -- just to be fair. Couldn't leave anybody out; nope. The orchestra, by the way, was playing not one of those Conductor John Williams specials, but Duke Ellington playing "Take the A Train". Whatta night! And there was mom's cousin, Wellman Breaux sitting there blowing his trumpet as he did as a sideman in Ellington's early days.

At one point I thought of Leontine Breaux Allen (Mammá), my slave ancestor who was born in 1846 and died at the age of 102 in 1948; when I was 27 years-old. I remembered the stories about how it was she who acted as the resident intern for the little community that was identifed only as Welcome Post Office, St. James Parish, Louisiana. From her little cabin beside the levee of the Mississippi, she gave birth to her own 15 children and mothered another 5-10 more of her grandchildren who shared her home; my mother among them.

During one wide awake period I thought about the story of how she was the midwife who brought the little community's babies into the world, but who in addition, supported (white) Dr. Hymel in his medical practice as the circuit rider physician who came through about every 3 months. It was Mammá who rode her horse or walked through the countryside placing a white towel on the gate posts where someone needed medical attention. It was Mammá who tended them after Dr. Hymel left the area -- and all this in addition to the raising of her own family (as the widow of a Civil War veteran) and the planting and tending of the fields that supported her brood.

Then -- at somewhere around six this morning I dropped off to sleep; feeling quieted.

Today at Contra Costa College I'll be honored along with other worthy women of the community -- but as a special honoree due to having been name nationally. It's been a sobering experience to be so singled out.

...sleep came when I realized that what may best describe my life would be that I, too, have traveled through time symbolically draping white towels on the gateposts where problems were evident, and doing my damndest to make things better by healing where possible. In my various civic roles, and as a black business woman, as a field rep to two members of the state assembly (my "Dr. Hymels"), and now -- in these advanced years -- using that legacy in my work with the National Park Service. What a powerful insight is that!

Later today I'll dress in my black crepe power suit, around my neck I'll wear the pearls Mel gave me on our wedding day in May of 1942; add to that the Lady Hamilton wristwatch that has 4 tiny diamonds (one for each child) added on a later anniversary. I'll add to that a thin gold band that married me to Bill in the Seventies. Inside my black bag will be a small beautiful beaded drawstring silk bag with a Paris label that Great Uncle Dr. Raleigh Coker gave to Great Aunt Emily on their 35th wedding anniversary (in the Twenties), presented by Aunt Emily ("Nanny") to mother's younger sister, Aunt Vivian (the trickster) when she graduated from Xavier years later; who gave it to me a few years before she died. I'll slip my grandfather Louis Charbonnet's (died in 1924) business card into my wallet beside my credit cards. On my ear lobes the tiny pearl and silver earrings and silver rosebud necklace that Tom gave me last Christmas will be added to the mix and I'll be ready. Just how many lifetimes do you suppose all that represents? Sequential lifetimes, of course, bracketed by slavery at one end and the information age at the other.

No one will ever guess that there is a huge invisible crowd there in the shadows of that stage -- all there feeling redeemed from whatever life presented in their time -- redeemed through our shared DNA -- and by what they've each invested in the living of my lifetime.

This is just the beginning. Next week I'll fly to Los Angeles for the ceremonies and then a day after returning, to Washington, D.C. for another.

I do hope they'll all stay with me until all of this is over ... .

Photo: Taken during National Women's History Project ceremonies at the historic Hay Adams Hotel in Washington, D.C. on March 22nd. Aunt Emily's lovely beaded bag is shown in my left hand as the representative of Rep. George Miller is making his presentation of a glowing letter that I will frame soon. To my right is Executive Director of NWHP, Molly Murphy MacGregor.