Yesterday brought the 65th anniversary of the Port Chicago disaster which took 320 lives, 202 of whom were young African Americans ...

On Friday I had the great honor of providing a tour of the Rosie the Riveter Memorial for a group of men (the "mutineers") who survived that tragedy and returned for this year's commemoration.

These are my contemporaries. It's so hard to hold that in mind when I'm surrounded by younger people most of the time. It all seems to have happened in the very recent past. There is the illusion that time collapses in on itself in some strange way (awkward wording but I don't know quite how to describe it). When I'm surrounded by those from my own age group, it's disorienting in some way and I have to remind myself that I'm now at the age where birthdays come every six weeks and that others are experiencing life at the same incomprehensible speed and with this same sense of urgency!

Prior to arriving to meet me for the tour, they'd traveled in a caravan consisting of two large vans and a sedan to the national cemetery at San Bruno on the San Francisco Peninsula where they'd visited the graves of those who perished in that conflagration on July 17, 1944. Yesterday I learned during the ceremony a fact long forgotten. It was that their graves are separated from the others by race. At that time no servicemen of color were buried with the whites, but were segregated into a section "for colored only", and not in some southern graveyard, but here in California where such practices were little known. Of course this would have happened before the desegregation of the armed forces so would not have been questioned at the time. What a cruel irony to revisit! We have so much still to atone for as a nation, don't we? As I've said before, if others will continue to work on atonement, we'll continue to strive valiantly to find forgiveness.

Yesterday about 250 friends and family gathered at the monument in a beautiful ceremony to honor those lost. (Numbers are limited by available space.) It was the annual Day of Remembrance hosted by the National Park Service. State Senator Mark Desaulnier and representatives of all of our local, state, and federal elected officials were present to honor the day. Legislation is now pending in the Senate (after recent passage in the House) to raise the Port Chicago monument to full status as a national park. After introduction by Rep. George Miller in the House, Senator Barbara Boxer is carrying the bill in the Senate with passage anticipated in the very near future.

You must read University of California at Berkeley's Prof. Robert L. Allen's "Port Chicago Mutiny" for the story of the tragedy that occurred on that fateful day in 1944. It was the response to the subsequent mutiny trials of the men who refused to return to the docks to load ammunition without further training that caused President Harry Truman to mandate desegregation of the Armed Forces in 1948 by presidential order. By so doing he inadvertently ushered in the modern civil rights movement that would continue to build over the next 20 years into that which we now remember as the Civil Rights Revolution of the Sixties.

I am so proud of the role being played by the National Park Service in giving voice to the stories of our times without reservation, and for allowing the conflicting perceptions of what happened to resurface so that we can, black and white together, process that history and support one another in growing past the bitterness that has silenced our voices for such a long time. Let those conversations flourish now that we're able to finally bear the pain of remembering. The correctives are not yet all in place but the stage has been set for those exchanges to occur and for a purging of the debilitating hatred to be set in motion.

In January change could be felt in the air at the Inauguration. I feel it still among those who gather at our parks to learn of that history. I felt it again yesterday in that sterile Army building at Port Chicago that came to life again as a diverse group of people came to remember, and to honor by their presence those fallen young heroes long since dead. Our numbers now including the men who came to add their voices -- now aging but still proud of what their standing tall initiated for us all by their honest defiance of that shameful unenlightened past that we've somehow managed to survive into a more promising future. I'm told that only six remain, most of whom traveled from great distances to be with us yesterday. We were deeply honored by their presence.

Incidentally, I was reminded upon seeing him again among the visitors yesterday, that Dr. Robert Allen was one of my guests on a July 15th bus tour of the Richmond park sites. Rather than feeling intimidated by his presence (as one might expect -- given my amateur status as a scholar), it's interesting to note that I came away from the tour feeling affirmed as "historian." One day I may take those quotes away and declare myself (grin).

Betty the Vintage Tour Guide ... .

I'm again guiding tours of the scattered sites that constitute this developing new national park. So far this summer I've conducted 3 2-hour bus tours with 3 more scheduled between now and the end of August. In the process I'm meeting some very interesting people -- some of whom are older -- having had parents who were the veterans of WWII or of the home front mobilization. Some are young workers from local green businesses now located in the restored Ford Assembly Plant, one of the sites included in the park. Many of the elders are coming back to revisit that history and to contribute what they can to the stories. Younger visitors are learning for the first time in most cases what happened here and are deeply impressed with what they're discovering. We're building ourselves a park, one story at a time, and the park visitors are checking in to help in that effort. This is such a fascinating phase in park development.

Interest is high, but for the most part the visitors are coming from outside the immediate community. Visitors from the university and nearby colleges and folks from the area's museums are beginning to turn up on the guest lists, and that is both cause for celebration and makes for just a bit of insecurity. After all, my stories are generated from my memory bank and not from objective study. My analyses come straight out of personal living history and -- though I'm confident in the telling -- there is still that fear of seeming too audacious for my own good.

Read back over my California Historian article today after avoiding doing so since it was published earlier this month. I've had the magazine sitting atop my desk, propped up on my copy holder so that I can see it, but have been unable to make myself read it for fear I'd be disappointed or embarrassed in some way.

It will be posted soon on my web pages so that it will be available for you to see within a few days; and then I'll want feedback -- if you'll be kind enough to take the time.

Meanwhile, I must admit that after spending some time with it this afternoon, I came away feeling that I've made my case adequately. There is nothing therein that I would want to change. It reads well and gives a fresh insight into those eventful years.

I recognized a consistency in my on-the-bus interpretation along the tour route and the content of the article. Truth as I lived it comes through loud and clear.

I will be curious to learn what you think of my claims.

I felt confident enough to have forwarded a copy to one of yesterday's guests -- a noted author and a professor in the Black Studies Department at the University of California. Maybe I, too, can now claim to be an historian. After all, I once found myself listed by the National Women's History Project as a cultural anthropologist -- and I had to check the dictionary to figure out just what that was!

Truly, these are remarkable times.

After a few hours of living with that last entry about Michael Jackson ... .

as a way of doing penance I forced myself to sit before my television set -- tuned to MTV -- and watched a full hour of his videos. I then watched "Living With Michael Jackson" (BBC). What a sad experience! This was an artist of and for my children's generation. I felt shame for sitting in judgment of this vulnerable artist, though I was left even more conflicted than before.

His talent and charisma cannot be overstated. I could feel the years peel back as I watched his magic unfold. Incredible!

Among the selections presented was one with Lisa Marie Presley called, "You are not alone," and there it was; the exhibitionism of the baring of his body just as I remembered. The discomfort that I'd felt returned as sharply as before. Wanting to look away ... embarrassed for him in some weird way. I was struck with how long those impressions and images remain in the subconscious to be called up with all of the affect originally experienced. How many years ago was, that, anyway?

Strange.

What an amazing performer was this fragile genius!

He is called the ultimate showman. Transcendent! Legendary. And now, I, too, am a believer.

... but I came away also convinced that he may have been as damaged by his early life experiences as was my Dorian by irreversible birth trauma. Emotionally, he may not have matured much more than she has over the years. Watching him being interviewed evoked empathy usually reserved for the "wounded" who make up her world. I could feel myself mentally lowering expectations and making the necessary allowances ... (this is familiar territory).

Perhaps he was precisely what he needed to be in order to survive his extraordinary fame.

I couldn't help but suspect that -- had Dorian approached with the opening statement, "...tomorrow is my cat's birthday," Michael without hesitation would have asked -- "... and how old will she be?"

Sleep well, Peter Pan... .

The loss of an icon ... .

Been wondering whether to speak of the sudden tragic death of Michael Jackson, and trying to tell myself that -- in a time of so many celebrities passing -- there was really little need to deal with this particular one. But the news has been impossible to avoid. Looking away did little to eliminate the persistent drumbeat of Billie Jean and the brilliance of this flawed young idol. To watch him dance - ghostlike -- hour after hour in the news coverage was like watching poetry personified moving gracefully across the screen. It was impossible to look away ... .

His troubled life was something I didn't really want to think about. It stirred so many painful memories of others I've known about whom there were similar disturbing whispered stories of sexual misconduct. Just another human story among many?

I thought of other larger than life figures from the world of entertainment and the excesses that marked their lives and contributed to their self-destructive choices. Was this one really any different? I don't really know, except that his stature in the world carried with it all of the weight that comes with public scrutiny and notoriety that the lesser known might escape.

Found in myself a mother's tendency to want to forgive and protect, but a large part of me could not exalt. Found myself turning away from the apologists and their pleas that all be forgiven; that we understand the damage done to the child Michael whose loss of his own childhood had formed this flawed adult we all adored and loathed in turn over the years.

His flaws will be examined and dissected into the future; and rightly so. His imperfections will be studied and reviled as his genius is celebrated. Maybe this is as it should be. Maybe this will be his legacy; the much-needed corrections to the laws and regulations that govern the lives and careers of children exploited by those upon whom their lives depend. But then I thought we'd taken care of that with the long ago Jackie Coogan laws and those which developed around child star, McCauley Culkin's, court battles. Maybe not. There is urgent need to correct the system that allows for the abuse of prescription drugs for those with the money to afford them and to limit access from those who are the enablers for a price.

I find it hard to believe that Michael's skin lightening was due to a disease. Given the rest of the dramatic physical transformation that we've watched over the years, it seems far more likely that he'd undergone chemical treatments that whitened his skin -- and may well have shortened his life. We didn't experience the changing along with him -- only the change. And once that change was complete, in his stage appearances we began to see a flaunting of that new white skin with a dramatic baring of his half-naked body on stage and on camera. I remember how uncomfortable it felt to watch those exposures, as if this young man's struggle with the racism we knew so well was being dealt with in a way that we sensed as wrong and feared would lead to more tragedy. It was clear that we were witnessing a psychiatric nightmare! The songs he composed over that period are so contradictory; so in denial, so riddled with conflict, that I wondered why so little was being made of it by the critics and reviewers? He was consumed by "black and white," thematically.

The clue for me was in the fact that from the time of his complete skin transformation we never again saw him out of doors without a hat, long sleeves, and sheltered by a large umbrella, rain or shine. "Avoid exposure to direct sunlight with this medication," screamed loud and clear.

The conclusive evidence for me that this gifted young man was an emotional train wreck came with the fact that -- at the point where he elected to become a parent -- it was not brown children that he chose to "father," but children who could hardly have been born to handsome dark-skinned Michael Jackson -- but children who instead reflected the distorted artificially white-skinned-straight-haired-wigged-self-created man that he'd unnaturally become with the help of unscrupulous plastic surgeons of no conscience. That makes those lovely children little more than extensions of the Michael Jackson fantasy along with Neverland and its Merry-go-rounds and Ferris Wheels.

Oh how I feel for those 3 beautiful and confused children he left behind! That they will be loved is a given. There are enough responsible grownup Jacksons to see to that. However, what in the world can ever make up for their distorted life experiences to date?

Make me no speeches about what a loving father was this tortured man. Watching the kind of strange lives that were imposed on these innocent kids was almost as sad as the spectacle Michael's own life has always been. Were it not for his genius and great wealth, he might well have been charged with child abuse in time, though his power and wealth had long ago cast him far beyond the reach of accountability.

There are lots of questions still to be asked, and they're not all about the mysterious circumstances surrounding his death. They have nothing to do with his obvious gifts to black culture and to the entertainment world that will surely not see his equal for a very long time. Those facts are indisputable.

That there has been a persistent feeling of sadness marking these past few days surely is caused by the loss of this sensitive, flawed, and sad young Michael Jackson. But the cruel images we've been fed by CNN suggests that this was a deeply-troubled life on a downward spiral that might not have survived the upcoming 50 concert schedule anyway.

So sad ... .

For the sake of the young and the vulnerable among us, I'm hoping that we're taking the right lessons from his undeniably productive life as a performer. I seriously wonder whether he ever knew how loved he was?

Or was he?

Really?

It seems probable that -- despite the international acclaim that deservedly came with his remarkable career on the world stage -- the gentle Michael seems never to have been convinced that he'd overcome what he must have perceived as the stigma of being the socially-despised black "man in the mirror," the dark specter who must have haunted him since childhood in Gary, Indiana.

Life with Dorian, continued ... .

My developmentally disabled daughter and I spent an unusual amount of time together over the 4th of July weekend. I'd been planning for weeks to include her in (what will surely become) the First Annual Oakland Symphony Free Concert and Fireworks Extravaganza at the Craneway Pavilion. We'd talked about it constantly of late -- when I'd pick her up for the drive to her art center for the day. It was particularly exciting because this weekend would also include the High School Musical at the same venue the following night. Dorian isn't big on symphony (can't hum along too well), but is ecstatic about this tween phenomenon brought to the world by television. She would tolerate the first at my insistence, but WOW! To see Troy and Gabriella of East High in the flesh would be almost too good to imagine. Dorian is now 50 going on 10, and as a fitting cultural event, this is the absolute best.

I'm aware that my conduct and attitude changes radically when she's along. I put on invisible blinders so that others are essentially shut out of my immediate line of vision. I make a subconscious choice -- either I'm with her or in the room with others. If I'm with her the situation demands that I see the experience through her eyes and that adjustments set in place since she was a small child kick in. It's not always possible to remain in my world and bring her along so I learned long ago to opt into hers for limited periods. My intellect slips into limbo; eyes are half-closed; and I move onto her plane for whatever time is required. It's something she's taught me in order for us both to survive in the weird dimension she would otherwise experience alone. I've never fully understood it, but am sure that other parents of the handicapped will understand what I'm struggling to describe.

Dorian is like a brightly-painted Volkswagen in a world of Cadillacs. She has all of the essentials, but none of the extras. The subtleties and nuances pass her by. She can only handle the basics; and she handles them reasonably well, thank you.

As we sat down at our front row table at the concert her first words to Kate (seated directly across from us) were, "tomorrow is my cat's birthday." True. Kate who is the president of the Arts Commission has known Dorrie through NIAD (program for handicapped artists) and is aware of her limitations so took it in stride. A stranger would have been completely taken aback.

Dorian is confident and functions relatively well in social settings. She's always been included in the family activities and trips and displays a rare ability to meet a stranger and immediately set the subject and boundaries of the conversations by stating the ground rules with her first sentence. From childhood she figured out that if she doesn't do so she will be lost in verbal exchanges that she cannot possibly relate to. She found a way to not become lost in other people's words. Makes for some uncomfortable social situations. I tend to find myself putting my hand on her arm or around her waist with the intention of re-directing the interaction. This allows a way to subtly include her while also shutting her down -- so that the other person can both recover from the shock of that first sentence and find a way to respond, or, to find themselves hopelessly lost in talk that is completely controlled by Dorian. She has no understanding that conversations are meant to be two-way and that there needs to be room for the other person to have a word or two. It's all send. No receiving. She is ever creating and managing a social world in which she can function. It's defensive. It's also aggressive.

Not only is the experience emotionally exhausting, but it means that when I take her along I've committed to limiting my own social experience. It means holding her hand under the table as a way of reassuring her that I know that she's being made miserable by the constraints. She is very sensitive and aware that she's being restrained which she clearly resents. She's gregarious and wants desperately to be free to share in the chit-chat around her. It means that I become reluctant to interact with those around us and feel at times that this may be read as aloofness. The more gregarious she becomes, the quieter I tend to be. I begin to withdraw as if by some subtle manipulation I can provide the example for her to follow; a guaranteed failure as witnessed over a lifetime. I've never learned to allow others to take care of themselves in relating to her; as it will be when I'm no longer here to act my part.

I really do understand why we rarely see any of those who people her everyday world of others like her attending public events. It means that when she is with me in these situations, she is always off-key -- different -- odd and out of sync. When she was a little girl I almost always picked her up from school for a weekend or field trip bringing along at least one other child from her world. The practice worked for us. It's the reason I've always been opposed to mainstreaming, but I've never been able to convince anyone of my point of view.

The magic of NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities) is that Dorian has a chance to function as one of the high-achievers in that special world. Out here in the world where the rules vary greatly, she is always bringing up the rear -- or having her mother holding her hand under the table so that (mother) won't be embarrassed by her brashness and inappropriate though sincere pronouncements about her precious cat's birthday, or something equally as strange.

There was a time during the concert when the orchestra played a lovely medley from The Sound Of Music and invited the audience to sing along. Dorrie lay her head on my shoulder and, blissfully, together we sang every word -- both on and off key -- happily finding a few moments of being totally in sync with the several thousand music lovers around us in that magnificent space.

Happy Independence Day!


Photo: Dorian playing in the Special Olympics basketball tournament last season and competing in a swim meet a few years ago. Of course she was awarded medals; as were all who competed. That's the way it should be, right?

Fourth of July weekend is at hand--and I believe I'm ready ... .

Today will be a work day in that I'll be meeting for lunch with two professors from the Black Studies department of the University, and another from Dominican College in Marin County. I've been hopeful over the past months that a way might be found for that to happen. I've been flying off the seat of my pants for years now, working from memory and little else in the interpretative areas of my position. Being blessed with a remarkable memory and reasonable ability to articulate those recollections has formed the basis of my qualifications of this late-blooming career as a ranger with the park service. But it worries me at times. Could it be that I've simply out-lived all those who might challenge my assumptions and conclusions? Just because I've lived long enough to be able to see the patterns and know how it all turned out may not be sufficient to warrant the kinds of attention and validation that my declarations get from the public.

I'm confident in my positions, and am rewarded every time I see an elder on one of my bus tours smile quietly -- a comforting affirmation. I'm reassured by the silent "amens" that I see around me. It appears that over the years I've been able to use candor to release conversations across the racial barrier in ways that I've seen only rarely over my lifetime. I suppose that's my gift if there is one operating here.

Last week a professor, Prof. Waldo Martin, from the Black Studies Department at the University of California visited with me at the office, returned for a tour on Wednesday, and invited me to lunch today to meet one of the other professors, Prof. Leon Litwack, whose studies of black life on the home front during WWII I've read and reread over time. This will provide the chance to explore just how one might go about involving African American graduate students to do some advance study around the premise that the modern civil rights movement found its roots here in the Greater Bay Area as the result of the human forces -- black and white -- brought here to work together to forge the home front effort that may have saved the world. It's an amazing story, and one -- in all of its complexity -- that has been largely omitted from the history of the times. Their story provides the baseline against which one must measure social change in this country that led, eventually, to the presidency of the first black American. What happened here in this place where social change was fast-tracked (and remains so) enough to change the racial dynamics of the nation.

Today's coming together of two men whose work in the university can bring validity to the life experience of one who lived the history but whose only advanced degrees were gained by an alert mind, a lifetime of social activism, and by mothering four children. This may be the beginning of that validation. I worry about what might happen in the event that I die leaving my part of the work incomplete so that the foundation out of which that history can be brought into the present will go with me. Those men have the education, but I have the megaphone. So in a very limited way -- I must bring those things together in order for the work to go on.

Besides, I decided on my 86th birthday to speak only in declarative sentences for the rest of my lifetime. I may give new meaning to the word pomposity over the next few years as I draw back into a more normal expression of "elderness." But for today's lunch, I see no need for reticence. I need to hold onto enough edge to be able to inspire the young to help to bring that history alive into our time.

Wish I'd known decades ago how all this stuff works ... that, individually, we're relatively powerless human beings who must combine forces in order to bring the change needed to move us forward as a people. The reason being that life experience out of which real change comes is collective, collaborative, in the aggregate so must contain all of the elements -- both positive and negative -- in order to be broad and strong enough to carry us along into the next phase of social evolution.

Bless all ye saints and sinners! I'm a published author with a cover article yet ... !

I'd almost forgotten it was out there ... the piece written for the California Historian last spring. But this weekend was the annual gathering of the Conference of California Historical Societies this year held in Martinez. The issue was printed and distributed "...in time for everyone to have a chance to read it before our visit to Rosie the Riveter National Park today," (according to editor, Mary Ellen Jones -- formerly of the University of California's Bancroft Library). And here were all 6 pages in fine print -- with pictures -- of the article I'd had so much trouble editing for space! All 6 pages! The editors didn't lay a glove on it except to improve the headings a bit -- and give it a better title.

You have no idea how honored I felt last night seated at the head table with President and Mrs. Richard Kimball, Ms. Jones, Ms. Andrea Bachman, my NPS colleague and archivist Carola DeRooey and husband, John, -- just like a "regullah" author with a resumé and bio and all.

Not only that, but during the lovely dinner Ms. Jones reached past my wine glass to slip into my hand a brochure and what appeared to be a press release for an about-to-be-published book by a noted author saying, "... Betty, I have the dummy copy of this new book in my car, and was wondering if you'd be interested in reading it and writing a review for me?" It is being published by HeyDay Books (publication date October, 2009), a publisher of progressive California authors. I remembered that Elaine Elinson, communications director of the ACLU of Northern California, was a guest on one of the bus tours I'd guided a few years ago with Ranger Lucy Lawliss -- and how enthusiastic she'd been about the experience. I also read the short paragraphs from two other reviewers, Dr. Robert Allen, author of The Port Chicago Mutiny and actor Mike Farrell, a leader in the anti-death penalty movement. Pretty impressive company to be in, right? This was a serious proposal being requested of Betty Reid Soskin, newly-acknowledged somewhat over-ripe fledgling author at the absolute top edge of life.

Wherever There's a Fight
How Runaway Slaves, Suffragists, Immigrants, Strikers, and Poets
Shaped Civil Liberties in California
Elaine Elinson and Stan Yogi, co-authors

Looks like my kind of folks, right?

Never has "better late then never" held more meaning than now.

The magazine is a limited edition that I believe is distributed mainly within the organization and perhaps to history museums and libraries, but I've been given multiple copies for our NPS staff. This issue also carries a fine article about one of our other parks, the John Muir National Historical Park, so it becomes a twofer for us.

This Saturday morning I will not wash clothes and match socks. This is a day to do something of relative significance. Maybe Dorian and I will take a trip over to the new Aquarium in Golden Gate Park. Been intending to do that for some time -- and this is the day to reward myself in some meaningful way. There's no better way to rein in one's ego than to bear witness to the wonders of the natural world; especially in watching such wondrous life forms as giant jellyfish and/or watching synchronized schools of silvery smelt slithering silently through the water in their primordial dance ... . Been thinking about that since Tom and I chatted recently -- mulling over the possibility of a visit there before my work schedule intervened, again ... .

Now I'll call my daughter to see if she'd like to go out and play with me today. No one will be able to see my invisible C-List badge of celebrity, but I'll know it's there on my lapel. Maybe I'll even wear my celebratory hand-painted Dorrie-designed happy jeans. (You'll notice that I've moved myself up a notch from the D-List.)

During a long conversation this morning with Jerome Smith, community activist and poet ...

I recalled what I now recognize as a remarkable story from years ago:

My friend, Joan Adams Brann, had received a federal grant to conduct a drug prevention program in our South Berkeley neighborhood. Joan's program was actually kicked off by an invitation to Washington where she met with First Lady Nancy Reagan who named the program, "Just Say No." Remember?

Joan had recently returned from an amazing adventure -- having been named as the head of the State Department Reception Center in San Francisco by President Jimmy Carter early in his term of office. After he left office Joan served for several years as head of an African Institute in Washington, D.C. This would be her return to South Berkeley, the community where she'd grown up. She'd come home.

By this time I was sole proprietor of Reid's Records, the little business Mel and I created years before in an area that had since become a hotbed of poverty and criminal activity. The streets were filled day and night with young hustlers pushing drugs and old men feeding on their misadventures.

There were often RV's parked along the street in which gambling was openly being conducted and prostitution was probably being pretty broadly practiced. It was a scary place to be -- yet here I was, attempting to conduct a legitimate business in the heart of the drug trade. It was crazy! Not only that, but I'd invited my friend, Joan, to move her newly-funded drug prevention program for kids into a corner office in my building and she'd accepted.

Loni Hancock was mayor at the time, and South Berkeley was the political football that got kicked around every four years as each local politician opened their campaigns by coming down to this small yet infamous crime-ridden mostly black community to make grand promises, usually to order up new studies of just how to bring peace and order to those who had no choice but to live within its borders. Though it would be on Loni's watch that the rehabilitation of the community started under Mayor Gus Newport would be completed. I strongly suspected that almost every urban area like ours gets used as a magnet for federal moneys that go into the general fund never to be expended as promised. If it were ever to be actually cleaned up, the magnet would be lost so the problems of the inner city tend to be perpetually "studied" and never really addressed. Such thoughts are cynical surely; but with a strong suspicion that they were more true than not.

The office was newly-painted and furniture moved in with bright posters in the windows and on the walls. Joan would run films for the neighborhood kids; provide activities of all sorts, and see if she could put a dent in the fatal draw of the negative street activity. It was a brave attempt doomed from the start.

Saturday would be the grand opening with punch and cookies and introductions all around. Joan's stature insured that the town's political figures would surely attend. I was determined that we would make this work. For several days I walked up and down Sacramento Street personally delivering colorful printed invitations. I approached everyone in sight; some I knew by name but most were strangers. The streets were always teeming with activity and every street corner and storefront was populated with those idle from lack of employment and few alternatives. I was greeted with both surprise and pleasure.

I think that it's fair to say that most "uptown" folks avoided this part of the city as much as possible, and that the mayor probably as much as anyone -- and for good reason.

Saturday came and the party was scheduled for about two o'clock. At about noon the streets began to clear. By one o'clock there was not a single soul within sight. It was as if someone has gone along the street and spread the word that Miss Betty was expecting company and things needed to straighten up. This was in no way anticipated; a total surprise to me.

By the time the mayor's entourage and other dignitaries arrived, Sacramento Street and the folks who hung out there were invisible. Apparently those invitations were accepted gratefully. The community had gone home and gussied themselves up and at two o'clock they began to arrive in family groups. They were dressed for church -- women were all prettied up and men were freshly-shaved and dressed in Sunday best. Little girls were wearing lace-topped bobby socks and ribbons in their hair. It was impossible to tell that these were the same people we'd been seeing every day partying in doorways and peddling drugs.

I remember wondering at the time if the hundreds of thousands of dollars paid out to clean up neighborhoods and fight crime can ever equal simply inviting everybody to the party? I thought about that today while Jerome Smith and I were exploring just how we would go about reclaiming the Wisdom Tree site and bringing it back to a place where those who gather there can do so in the spirit of the past -- when it was an important male bonding site for perhaps 100 years of Richmond's colorful history? When did we stop seeing those rituals as socializing and begin to view them as places of loitering? It surely can't be anything so simple as the fact that the skin colors of those men changed from white to black and brown over the decades?

It can't be anything so simplistic as that. I'm far too smart to believe such nonsense -- but there's the germ of something important here that may have been overlooked ... .

Next week Jerome and I will meet again and by that time maybe I'll have fleshed this out into some kind of workable ... .

Are the spirits of the ancestors doing cartwheels in St. Louis Cemetery?

Word arrived midweek that -- due to a critical illness of someone dear to them -- our newly-discovered Charbonnet cousins have had to cancel their trip to the West Coast in July. I am devastated! Had already sent out word to local members of the family to expect an invitation to a no-host reception at a picturesque hotel in San Francisco. Everyone was psyched up for the grand reunification of the Charbonnets across the racial divide. But it is not to be; at least not yet.

When the message came I felt cheated -- who knows just how much longer I'll be around to see this miracle occur? I so want it in to happen in my time!

After sitting with the disappointment for a few days, Sunday morning I searched through my e-mailbox for the contact information he'd sent earlier -- picked up the telephone and dialed the number -- that of not-yet-met Paul in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Suddenly his voice was on the line and it all felt so natural; as if we'd been friends for a lifetime. "But you sound like someone in her twenties," says he in disbelief. Not sure what he expected, but surely not the sound of my voice.

We chatted like old friends and when the conversation ended I was sure of one thing. That we will meet when the time is right. That his emergency situation will end and that when it does -- either here or there -- the "Twain shall meet"!

In the dark later just before sleep, I visualized the white Charbonnet ancestors slipping out of their shrouds and their eerie above-ground vaults in St. Louis Cemetery to dance in celebration that (for the moment at least) the separation twixt the family's white and brown branches would hold. I can only imagine that the brown Charbonnet ancestors were clinging tightly to their crypts -- wondering just what kind of mojo was operating that would have allowed these upstart generations to believe such a thing to be possible anyway? After all, you know what happened to Plessye v. Ferguson, right? ... and right there in New Orleans.

Well, there's been a reprieve. Maybe they're expecting that we'll sober up and come to our senses now that there's been a break in the proceedings. Perhaps we were catapulting toward this in-gathering cavalierly with little thought of what it all means. Perhaps a little reverence here is in order.

I say time is on our side, and that the great Charbonnet clan will rise to the occasion and begin to do some serious planning about just how we'll bring this historic American family into the 21st century, together, disquieted ancestors notwithstanding. It's a serious undertaking, and one that deserves serious consideration. We must come to this willingly and with openness. That we all won't be ready for this step at the same time is a given. Some will need more time to ponder the over-turning of centuries of cultural mores and attitudes. Some will embrace the concept but find that they're simply not emotionally ready for the leap. All in good time. After all, we've been on this journey on parallel tracks for more than 300 years. A few more months can't matter all that much.

I'm so looking forward to wherever these first steps lead ... .

Maybe Paul and I will play drum major for awhile until the parade begins to form behind us.

I'm giddy with anticipation!

Photo: St. Louis Cemetery grave in the Tremé

It's so hard to know how or when it will happen ... .

...that tiny spark that springs from mid-air from friend-to-friend and ignites the creative energy that always seems to be waiting in the spaces between ...

This time it was a casual conversation with my friend and author, Summer Brenner, Berkeley writer and all-around good person who has worked -- often as a volunteer -- in the Richmond and Berkeley schools and nonprofit programs for many years supporting the teaching of literacy. We were talking about the Wisdom Tree* that has stood proudly through many generations of Richmond's children and whose story is almost completely unknown; except for some of the men of the community who have been meeting in its shade for more than a century. Says I to Summer, "you should write a book about the Wisdom Tree for the children." Answers Summer, " ... perhaps I'll do that."

The last time we worked together was on another Summer-created project called "Where I'm From". This was a program conducted at Richmond High School that paired elders with teens and which I'm sure I've written about before (try the search bar). It was an imaginative project that ended up as a major exhibit featured at the Richmond Museum of History. The show is now making its way around the Greater Bay Area to be enjoyed by a wider audience, and most deservedly.

So said, at the book-signing yesterday -- Summer looked over to where I was perched on a library table along the side wall against the windows -- and in answer to a child's question about how she came to write Tales -- "... my friend, Betty, asked me to write about the Wisdom Tree and I wrote a note to myself on a little slip of paper; and over the months have been adding other little notes on little slips of paper about Richmond -- and finally I ended up with this book,

"Richmond Tales - Lost Secrets of the Iron Triangle,"
with illustrations by Miguel Perez.

(from the brochure)

"Richmond Tales, written for 4th and 5th graders, is sure to appeal to a wider audience as the characters learn the history of Richmond, experience cultural differences, and explore the possibilities of Richmond's future. Literature rarely reflects the local experiences of our students in the West Contra Costa County Unified School District. This book seeks to provide relevancy and strengthen students' connection to the community. Undoubtedly, the story reaffirms that our community is powerful and that our students' potential is unlimited."

Funded by: CreativeWorkFund


The book was supported by the school district which purchased 5000 copies to be distributed to all of the fourth and fifth graders throughout the district. Yesterday the library was filled to overflowing with youngsters and their parents listening intently to Summer reading in her warm southern drawl and clutching their copies for autographing later with the lemonade. A big day in the Iron Triangle of Richmond, California.

The book -- through the protagonists, pre-teens Mario and Maisha, through a kind of time capsule trip through the history of this community-- the now decaying historic core of the city (but undergoing rehabilitation) -- from the 2000 years-ago era of the Ohlone Indians when this part of the city was largely made up of hills and wetlands; of the early settlers of the wealthy early Californios, the Mexican and Spanish ranchers; of Rosie the Riveter and the boom of WWII, (and, yes, there is a chapter on the Wisdom Tree), to today as a place of racial and cultural diversity moving quickly to a new 21st Century Green Economy. It's personal yet universal in its themes, and empowering to the lives of young children living in these times of uncertainty and fear so much of the time in a community under constant threat of violence.

And -- buried in one of the chapters is the original thesis, my "Wisdom Tree." It deserves its own book, I insist. A sequel? Meanwhile, this is a truly exciting outcome to just another ordinary conversation between friends.

(*post of Friday, August 25, 2006)

Speaking of arrogance ... .

Did I fail to mention how deeply disappointed I was in the Reverend Jeremiah Wright's most recent anti-Semitic statements? I should have. Little of that overt arrogance was present in his person or his talk at the recent gathering at Starr King School for the Ministry.

How sad that his anger hasn't yet eased and that it would now be expressed in ways that cause embarrassment to those who are trying hard to support him at a time when attacks upon his character have been so damaging -- so painful -- and in many instances -- so undeserved.

So sad ... and so alienating.

I'm not sure what if anything compares to the feelings associated with being able to share in the creative process of others ... .

Whether it's the yard sale fundraiser held yesterday at NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities) where I was assigned to the check out table for a couple of hours while Dorian folded for sale shirts and sweaters on the tarp spread out on the asphalt, or later at the Berkeley Repertory rehearsal studios on Center Street in Berkeley for two exciting hours of theater-in-the-making in the afternoon -- it was a Saturday well-spent.

Many months ago I'd been visited by Patrick Dooley, Artistic Director of The Shotgun Players; Playwright Marcus Gardley, graduate of the Yale School of Drama and recipient of the prestigious Eugene O'Neill scholarship; Director Aaron Davidman, and Musical Director Molly Holm, jazz singer and collaborator with Bobby McFerrin, creator of Voicestra. The company was at the beginning of the process of creating a theater piece based on Rosie the Riveter of WWII fame. This was the conceptual stage and the Richmond-born author (now teaching at Columbia University) was seeking information and inspiration in order to begin the work of bringing this brand new work to life.

Over several visits to tour the scattered sites of the park, the group met and interviewed surviving Rosies and hosted a lovely luncheon at Saluté restaurant on the shoreline. They were able to gather up research materials (including some of my own writings from short essays written over time); and begin their work. Marcus returned to the east coast for another year of teaching, and recently returned at the end of the school year to cast and stage their production to be premiered locally in September as a part of the upcoming Home Front Festival season.

Upon return from Mendocino, I'd found an invitation to attend their first complete read-through being held yesterday afternoon. It runs two full hours with one intermission. This was the time to meet the cast of 9 talented young women, and to get a sense of the story and original musical score that was now ready for final editing. What an afternoon!

The WWII story, "This World in a Woman's Hands," was complete -- in all of its complexity around the issues of roles, race, and gender. The sense of the times was well-captured and the history accurately documented. I'm not at all sure what I expected, but by the time the final lines were spoken I was more deeply-touched than I could ever have imagined. Aspects of the several story-lines were a surprise to me -- moving into life stories of those historic young home front workers that I'd never really considered. The play opened new doors of understanding that I'm not sure I was even aware had been sealed over all those years.

There were a few unclear transitions in time and place that will surely be smoothed out when all of the magic of "theater" is applied; lighting, costumes, sets, etc., (which I'm guessing will be minimal -- abstract). The dialogue is rich and colorful and revealing of the times and the casting is superb, consisting of 5 women of color - one Latina and four African American; and four white young women -- all of exceptional talent.

... and ... best of all ... I felt myself an active element in their creative process; as an essential living bridge between the generations, helping to bring life to an era of critical importance to history. Sound pompous? You betcha! Pomposity goes right along with my recent stated intention of speaking only in declarative sentences in these final years. These days I'm thoroughly enjoying the feeling of my own weight in my shoes; finally.

Fortunately, I'd thought to invite my 11 year-old granddaughter, Tamaya, to come along, and, as the only child in the room -- her presence provided a symbol of future woman adding to the power of the moment. She also served to anchor me to reality so that her grandma didn't blissfully levitate up into the ceiling from the sheer wonder of it all!

The play will probably undergo minor continuing editing changes over the coming weeks, but I can hardly wait to experience the final production. (I need to clarify whether Marcus is aware that the explosion at Port Chicago occurred at 10:30 at night and not in the morning -- or did I misunderstand something? Also, I'm unclear about what happened to Gloria Cutting's husband, eventually... or was that deliberately left unresolved?)

Photos: top photo, Patrick Dooley, Molly Holm, bottom left, Marcus Gardley.

Time out after a particularly intensive few weeks ...

Escaped for a few days to visit my friend, Tom, and the magnificent wild rhododendron (some as tall as 20 ft.) deep in the redwood forests -- and the colorful wildflower displays on the Mendocino Headlands. It was glorious; a balm to the spirits!

No brilliant sunsets this time, and an ocean that appeared to be at peace. There was no sign of the dramatic crashing breakers or even wind-driven whitecaps to provide the sense of movement and cadence that I find myself almost instantly in harmony with. Fog and mist reminiscent of the northern coast now less frequent than before; nothing like the environment that I remember from years ago. Missing are the winds that shaped the gnarled cypresses growing near the ocean's edge -- as if stretching from their roots vainly trying to reach inland. Climate change? Surely another sign to be ignored at our peril. Over recent years the fog has visited less often and the winds seem more gentle. The oldtimers in the area decry the end of both the lumbering and fishing industries and, of late, fear the predicted disappearance of tourism -- given the economic forecasts for the State. The certain closure of state parks in response to budget cuts hangs like a pall over this picturesque village of artists and lovers.

Found myself wondering if these environmental changes are as dramatic as they seem, or, if it is simply no longer possible to ignore them since we've developed the technological capacity to notice, measure, predict, and attempt to effect the slightest variations in nature's patterns through research, practices, and changing human behaviors.

One hundred years ago we would hardly be aware of earth tremors that occur in the Far East or in Antarctica. Now our Richter spits out a report within minutes (seconds?) of the event.

Finding myself outside the range of the sound of urban gunfire and sirens in the night -- my mind probes far different questions and dilemmas -- but does it rest, ever? I'm not sure.

I know that sleep is harder to come by in these later years and that may be due to the millions of questions and quandaries collected -- unanswered -- over a lifetime. Most nights I fall into deep sleep for a few hours after playing out my day against inner eyelids for what seems endless hours. Dropping into sleep comes without warning; going from a highly alert state to the void of nothingness until consciousness returns with a suddenness somewhere around three a.m. It's then that I take on the monumental task of solving the world's problems (the big stuff like world peace and how on earth does one deal with wrinkles and sagging jaw lines, etc.) and connect with my greater self which includes others; the all-inclusive "We." Its hard to explain -- but I do sense a oneness with all that I can't seem to access at other times; except when I find myself in an empty church or temple of any denomination ... .

...only in Mendocino does life in the foreground give way to a panoramic view of what lies before me -- in this place where I can hear the sound of the ocean, feel its rhythms, taste the salt in the air ... and experience the fragile beauty of the Headlands wildflowers ... .

... the quiet ... .

Where is film director Robert Altman now that we're ready for him ? (Oh yes ... I'd forgotten) ... .

Some years ago an email arrived from a member of the white Charbonnet clan -- a branch of the family I'd not ever expected to hear from. I think it's probably fair to say that they simply never existed for me. It's like ... we have no black ancestors prior to the dropping of the slave curtain around the time of the Civil War, and no white descendants since. Funny. An illusion but quite real; defying logic. I suspect that this is a common and perhaps defensive attitude among African American families, but I don't recall ever discussing it with anyone.

Paul was writing to confirm something I'd written in my blog about the casual nature of the family relationships that existed between his (white) father and my (colored Creole) dad's younger brother, Louis. Both were contractors working throughout the city of New Orleans. My father and his seven brothers followed in the footsteps of their talented father, the highly-respected elder Louis Charbonnet, inventor, millwright and builder of note in the city. Many of the Creole Charbonnet men were expert craftsmen and had been for generations. Paul wasn't sure, but felt the story likely. He certainly was aware of our side of the family. In later generations Uncle Louis's eldest son, another Louis, would enter the Louisiana legislature as a state senator which must have brought more prominence to the family. But my dad, Dorson, had settled our family here on the West Coast long before that happened, as the result of the great flood of 1927 which followed the bombing of the levees.

Unknown to me, Paul has apparently been following my blog for years, and had become familiar with the genealogical work that I'd completed and posted online. Since the family tree (under the Betty Soskin Pages link) tracked ancestors whom we shared over many generations (since the 1600s). The family story must have become more important to him over time. Our Creole branch emerges in the mid-1800s when a member of the family (said to have been trapped in an unhappy marriage) left his wife and chose a woman of color as his mate. Their union produced 9 children; children who were obviously educated and trained and none of whom were enslaved. Uncovering that history proved to be difficult but finally -- through Lisa, a researcher in Atlanta, surfaced from some arcane code of silence created by the taboos associated with crossing color lines. She somehow managed to break through it while doing some research for another member of our family whom I've also never met.

All that is to say that a few days ago Paul's note came suggesting that we unite the black and white branches of our families by bringing my genealogical work onto a new all-inclusive family website which he would maintain. I was stunned! I am also wildly pleased since I'd always intended that my work might become the foundation upon which others would eventually edit, correct for errors, build upon, and continue the research into the future.

After many generations of Charbonnets descending from two brothers who arrived on this continent at a time before the Louisiana Purchase, for the first time since before the Civil War -- we will come together to begin the work of becoming one family. Through the wonders of technology, we can do that virtually, and -- in time perhaps ... .

I've been lying awake the past two nights dreaming of the possibility of having an interactive website designed in such a way that Charbonnet descendants in all of their permutations can sign themselves in in some way and become known to one another. There are by now hundreds (and perhaps thousands) of us scattered through the country and the world.

The exciting prospect is that Paul, his wife, and I, will meet -- symbolically uniting our historic American family across the lines of racial separation -- in San Francisco, perhaps soon. He suggested that possibility in our last exchange, and I am thrilled!

We're moving quickly to bring the new website into being. It will be linked to these pages, of course, but will take on a life of its own.

Life continues to unfold -- and to grow into wherever our colorful Charbonnet past will continue to lead us -- but perhaps now it will be -- as the one great American family that we are.


Photo: My father, Dorson Louis Charbonnet, 1894-1987; My grandfather, Louis Charbonnet, Sr. (died in 1924)

Life is moving by at such an accelerated pace that I think of things I must write about and before I can reach my computer 3 new even more exciting events are taking place ... .

First, there was a bus tour last weekend that brought together assorted folks from near and far (3 from Tucson, Arizona). It was the first tour I'd conducted for months -- not since we'd been overwhelmed with so many requests that we eventually found ourselves staring at a wait list of over 400 enthusiastic "tourists." Until about a year ago I'd been conducting interpretive tours with partners, but rarely alone. My work mostly consisted of the taking reservations and recording confirmations, etc., and going along as a kind of specialist on the African American nuances while Lucy or Naomi would mainly carry the interpretation. My work has recently become more and more centered in public speaking and community outreach.

At one point we were discovered by the press and several prominent stories appeared in the dailies and the race was on! We are so young in our development at this point that we simply lacked sufficient staff to accommodate the numbers we were attracting. Our little 15-passenger bus has to serve the four sites that operate under one management team and sharing it and a single driver became too much to cope with.

Over the past year our staff has grown a bit, and with new edges opening up -- we're going to try again. Though the respite may be short-lived since one of my tours this week, on Tuesday, was arranged at the request of the San Mateo PBS affiliate, KTEH, that brought a 4-person film crew to shoot the tour plus an on-camera interview that will be one 9-10 minute segment among others -- in a one-hour production being developed to accompany this fall's Ken Burns 12-hour special on the National Parks.

It was an intensive 5 hour period of being "on," but I do admit that I seem to be getting the hang of this D-List celebrity thing. I was relatively relaxed throughout, though really really tired when evening came. There's an emotional component to these things, I think. Kind of like that old primitive suspicion that the camera actually drains life from its subjects (the old theft of image thing). There may be something to that after all. I don't recall feeling particularly strained during the filming, but at the end of the day ... .

During the long day I became reacquainted with something I'd almost forgotten: It is that this park, unlike others in the NPS system owns nothing. It exists in the partnerships and relationship with the City, the Chamber of Commerce, local corporations and businesses, nonprofits and County entities. That being so, it's a park more closely related to people and their stories than to the sites and structures scattered throughout the city and named in the legislation. Richmond resembles Lowell, Massachusetts, in that respect. Lowell, also a waterfront town, was the home of the long-abandoned textile mills. Richmond holds the greatest number of WWII still-standing mostly abandoned structures in the nation through which to interpret the story of the emancipation of women, and the story of the greatest wartime industrial mobilization in the nation's history. Both cities were wounded by the passage of time and catastrophic technological change. Lowell has been reclaimed as a successful National Park site brought to live again as a performing and visual arts center. The city itself, is "the park."

What I rediscovered over the past week is how true it is that this park will be built one story at-a-time and that those stories are evoked in conversations as people remember fragments of the lives of their elders now gone. Each time something precious is revealed and another "park co-builder" emerges -- someone who promises to go home and root around in those old trunks and attics for more stories and artifacts. After each tour the calls and emails arrive telling me about a book I should read or deepening my knowledge about one or more of the sites we visited on our tour.

I learned, for instance, that Brooks Islands which stands only a stone's throw from the shoreline and -- which I've been describing as "the little island previously owned by Bing Crosby and Vic Bergeron (of Trader Vic's restaurants), and had been stocked with wild life to be used for target practice." I learned on Tuesday that this little island is not only a wildlife preserve owned and managed the East Bay Regional Park District (I knew that), but that it is also an important archealogical site, has a 3000 year-old history and was an important Ohlone Indian site. I learned that a retired researcher who engaged in digs there is now my age and living within the city still. ( did not know that.) Mr. George Coles may prove to be an important resource in the telling of the stories of this emerging national park. Brooks Island lies within a short kayak distance from the shores where our under-development Visitor's Center is located. It should be completed by the end of next year.

On a schedule a bit ahead of the park's, I think I've grown into my role now, and the work has taken on an importance and vitality that is truly rewarding.

Maybe that is worth filming, maybe.

Been musing a lot about bi-racialism since the Channel 5 panel discussion was aired recently ... .

Find myself wondering why that discussion continues to have resonance into the 21st century when humankind has been creating mixed race people since before recorded history?

We continue to talk about us as though we're some dire condition that will befall the human race in some future millenium when we've been here evolving all the time! Certainly since tribes invaded other tribes has this been true. Any place on the planet where armies have occupied lands and dominated populations, mixed-race children have been the outcome. Since long before the Trojans Wars to the present this has been true. The Eurasian and Amerasian children born of WWII and Vietnam can be seen everywhere throughout Japan, Korea, and Southeast Asia. In this country the slave trade produced millions of us; some from obvious sexual exploitation but a great many from courageous and often defiant young people willing to cross unimportant lines of separation for the sake of love and being together despite societal taboos.

The wonder for me is just why we continue to be seen as an aberration rather than the natural outcome of mobility and social progress? Though tanning salons are still the ultimate in luxury and bronze skin tones most desired by many Europeans, those of us without tan lines are suspect. When cosmetic surgeons are artificially thickening lips to emulate black features there is cause for wonder. At a time when there are actually lip puffer-uppers on the market for those unable to afford silicone treatments. This proved silliest when one day recently I purchased what I thought was lip gloss and got one of the lip enhancers instead. I stayed in the house most of that day -- laughing at myself -- while waiting for the swelling to go down and the slight tingling to dissipate.

Yes. There are some conversations that need to happen in order to free ourselves of some of the hypocrisy that marks our lives and may be preventing the normalizing of relations between the races.


My awareness was sharpened this week when I underwent some comprehensive blood work in connection with my annual physical. When the results came back there was one that gave the results with a racial designation (something called glomerular filtration rate, African American). At this point in my racial complexity how in the world does my physical body make that political distinction? How does one read that test result? Now that's the kind of conversation that we need to be having with our physicians, right? For the sake of my beautiful polyracial grandchildren, I'm planning to do that soon. My politics do not follow me into the examination room, nor will theirs.


Photo: Two of my grandchildren, Tamaya and Alyana, who exemplify our world as it has always been; made up of beautiful mixed children born of love and grace.

For those of us who insist upon living life in a constant state of surprise despite the warnings ... .

Today I took the time to watch all 6 segments of a rather amazing panel discussion in which I participated just after returning from the Inauguration in January. The invitation from Channel 5's "Six O'clock News" Anchor, Dana King, had come just before Martha and I flew to Washington. I'd long since forgotten that it had ever happened since during subsequent weeks my life has been filled with far more than I could process comfortably.

I'd received an email last week (5/19th) announcing that the news would be carrying the promo the very next evening and the excitement began to build -- though not enough to encourage me to alert my grandkids to watch. Who knows what embarrassing thing Grandma would do this time? So I wanted to preview the piece before subjecting myself to that kind of scrutiny.

Not to worry. I did watch the really well-produced promo and felt really proud of this small group who'd met in the Green Room only 15 minutes before air time. But it wasn't until this morning that I took the time to watch all 6 segments on the CBS5.com website. Amazing! What an honor to have been a part of this truly candid and deeply-penetrating honest discussion on a subject of such sensitivity. Take a look. I believe you can reach it online at CBS5.com then add "Multiracial in America: Changes in the Obama Age" to the search bar. If I could figure out a way to add the link here I would, but by the time I do the thrill of sharing will have disappeared and it will seem to serve only vanity to post it.

Watching it this morning in its entirety took the sting out of yesterday's BBC experience and restored my sense of self, and the feeling that it's perfectly okay to live my life in a constant state of surprise!