A Day of Remembrance at Port Chicago with Ranger Shelton Johnson of Yosemite ... .

... it was a day of chill winds and patriotism -- of the best kind.

Among the hundreds of those who gathered at the monument for this 66th anniversary of the tragic explosion that vaporized 2 ships and 320 young Americans were dignitaries like Rep. George Miller who carried the legislation to turn this monument into the 392nd unit of the National Park System; from Washington, Deputy Director Micky Fearne of the NPS; the mayor of the City of Concord, reps from Senators Boxer and Feinstein; survivors of the no longer existent small town of Port Chicago; park rangers from surrounding NPS sites; Sea Scouts who provided the honor guard for the proceedings; friends, families of the lost as well as the survivors.

In his poetic fashion, Ranger Shelton Johnson embraced the cutting wind and by so doing, removed the chill and gave it personality; made it into the central character in his moving address.

Someone in the audience used his/her cell phone and created this video and had it online within 24 hours.  Of course the professional DVD that was produced of the entire event will be available within a reasonable length of time, but in the interim ... enjoy!

Photo:  all that's left except for memories.

Port Chicago Great Explosion - A Belated Thank You

... and then there was one ...

My youngest sister, Lottie Charbonnet Balugo Fields (on the right facing us), passed away this day -- July 17, 2010 at around noon -- on the 66th anniversary of the explosion at Port Chicago.  We were attending the annual Day of Remembrance when word of her death came only moments after arriving at home.  

My eldest sister, Marjorie Charbonnet Brooms (seen here on my left), left us many years ago in mid-life on the day that President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, or during those few chaotic days before his burial.  I remember traveling by train to attend her funeral and the radio broadcast of the moving of the cortege down Pennsylvania Avenue being aired on the train as the miles slid by ... all those silent stunned faces.  I'm not sure that I ever properly grieved over Marjorie's loss -- somewhere it all blended into some horrific nightmare.  So many thoughts, both beautiful and troubling -- as it is always with those of us left behind ... how awful it is when time runs out on things unsaid ... .

I remember that when Uncle Louis, my father's younger brother died -- how my dad was distressed that "God has sent his messenger's to take away Louie out of sequence.  I should have died first!"  

Is that what I'm feeling; survivor's guilt?

Photo from the E.F. Joseph collection

Looks like Boys Day at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial ... .

I do so enjoy interacting with youngsters -- especially those who are from other cultures.  We always seem to be able to surmount whatever generational differences that may lie between us in short order.  

These were middle school Latino boys who are enrolled in the PAL (Police Athletic League) summer program which includes sleeping on board the SS Red Oak Victory, the last ship built in the Kaiser shipyards during World War II.  

That was yesterday.  Today I met with a group of about 8 young African American men (18-22) and one young woman who  are members of the Student Conservation Association (SCA), and who are doing a remarkable job painting and cleaning up the old ship and the dock against which she's moored.  This is a paid summer job sponsored by a city program called Youth Works.  They are proud to be engaged in such meaningful work on this iconic ship.  They're doing such a fine job that praise is being heaped upon them by everyone who is observing their work and the purposeful way they're going about it. 

I went aboard at their invitation today, and shared a brief history of World War II Richmond, making the assumption that these would be the stories of their grandparents who may have arrived in the West as migrant workers to help to build these 747 ships.  Since I'm a contemporary of those grandparents; I can make those stories live for these grandchildren.  Maybe in the telling I'm adding a layer of dignity to those lives.  It is such a privilege to be able to spend even these short periods with the young -- you can see the lights turn on behind their eyes as they listen!  I share my own stories as well over brown bag lunches.

Summertime is going to be rich and exciting for us all, I think.  This park-in-the-making has come such a long way in its development since it was legislated into being in the year 2000, and the community is gradually awakening to the importance of its history in the context of the national stories.  The National Park Service is "America's best idea," and being a part of bringing that to life in this place is magical -- and such a privilege ... .

Photos by Ellen Gailing

Think I mentioned some posts back that there is nothing more satisfying to me than to become incorporated in someone else's art ... .


It was so with the Shotgun Players when the opportunity arose to assist young playwright, Marcus Gardley, in the development of a new play, "This World in a Woman's Hands" ...  and I got to piggyback on the artistic achievement of an important young playwright of an exciting theater experience.  It was so when the Richmond Art Center's program of community arts made possible a multimedia-event that allowed me to work with a young high school male student; or with author Summer Brenner's presentation of "Where I'm From", a visual arts exhibit that placed elders with teens in a show that is still traveling about after two years.  It was so when I was invited to participate as one of the subjects for 4 young women from Richmond High who produced a wonderful video while learning their craft and -- in some cases -- forging a potential career path. And it was so when Director Kathy McCarty cast Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues with those remarkable local actors and moi earlier in this year of surprising adventures in the Arts.


There have been other times; but none more rewarding than a leisurely Sunday morning spent with muralist, UCLA Professor Judy Baca, who has been commissioned to create an important work for the City of Richmond.  


The video below is an example of her work which is boldly exciting with an appeal that transcends boundaries and enters some realm that unites us all in her experience.
 

Professor Baca was in town meeting with community people in order to find some direction from which to create what promises to be a work of national import.  She invited me to the Richmond Arts Center one morning last October to talk about what that focus might be.  We talked for what turned out to be 4 videotaped parts of a conversation that is now available online in several places.  During that talk the concept emerged of "extraordinary ordinary people" (my description of that heroic generation of Richmond's migrant workers of WWII) -- has been adopted as the theme of the work.  I've not yet figured out how to add the link so that it is accessible here.  Meanwhile, you might try Judy Baca Betty Reid Soskin Vimeo which may bring it up if you're interested.  Maybe www.richmondmuralproject will work as well.


I learned only a day or so ago that the conversation had been posted online; though it has been many months since it occurred.


Meanwhile, I'm going to run this Danza de la Tierra video again just to bask in reflected glory!

It was Dorian's attorney on the other end of the line ... "Just wanted you to know that I'm hereby nominating you for sainthood!  (His grin was audible.) ... .


I laughed long after he'd hung up -- it had only taken a minute or two for him to tell me that he'd just gotten off the phone with Dorrie who had called with an 11 minute uninterrupted litany of complaints about her mother's acting out (I figured he was regretting having handed her his business card in that first meeting!) and, Wow!  But with all the nonsense about client's rights and all -- it's what we do -- even when said client's best interests can rarely be served by such edicts.  (And with that statement I just eliminated all chance of my ascension to sainthood.)

I was at my desk  when the call came, and when I stopped laughing it occurred to me that -- where this diatribe must certainly be a mystery to any outsider who was wondering how caretakers of the mentally-disabled can maintain their sanity? There really are strategies that develop that allows us to not only withstand the verbal abuse, but to actually get beyond it into areas of mutual enjoyment. Dorrie and I have an honest loving relationship most of the time; the exceptions prove the rule since we rarely end the day in anger. 


I've become a master manipulator; and am unapologetic and as unrelenting in the exercise of those techniques as Dorian is at pushing buttons.  And the important thing he didn't know was how easily she is redirected.  Often it takes no more than, "....did I leave my glasses on the nightstand?" and we're off into a new conversation, or, "did we remember to write kitty litter on the shopping list?"  But how could he possibly know that?


I learned early-on to limit her choices.  That's basic.  When she was a little girl I would never ask if she wanted to go to bed.  It was always, "do you want to wear the blue or the pink pajamas tonight?"   That sets the pattern for much that has followed in our relationship.  It's also what didn't follow her into "The World" where social workers and case managers -- adhering to the strict rules (justifiably) about "patients rights" and "client's rights," added complexity to what I consider common sense. 


It was clear that my daughter would never have the capacity to use judgment in matters critical to her survival in the general population.  The professionals who would guide her life would or could not pre-screen her options the way that I had been free to.  They were at a disadvantage of what I saw as some pretty weird regulations -- all in the interest of fairness.  Maybe it's all in the interpretation of those regulations; interpretation that requires less rigidity from those with the power to express it.  How else does one allow someone with my daughters mental limitations -- who has the physical ability to bear a child but who is without the capacity to parent -- to be denied her right not to bear children? The legal reason being because she lacks the ability to give informed consent.  Hogwash!


I fully understand the rationale behind that state ruling.  It came onto the books in order to protect poor and minority women from being sterilized unknowingly; a practice shamefully performed in an earlier time in order to save the state welfare funds.  It's like those cuts placed in the sidewalks at the curb to enable those in wheelchairs a way to cross the street -- but that thoroughly confused the blind who rely on that curb to tap their way through traffic.  Interpretation is essential almost without exception.


Right now, I'm needing Dorian to be apart from me; for both our sakes.  Our long range campaign for life beyond her mother requires that.  The past 8 months have served to regress us both, and I've become "Mommy" with a vengeance!  She is settling into being treated as a protected child when that is terribly destructive to her future.  


Perhaps her attorney and her case manager (both men of good intent) needed to be exposed to her wrath and inconsistencies in order to get some measure of her deficits.  They're both new in her life.  I have faith in them both, but they may not understand that the subject of her rage (mostly around control of her finances), and her mother's insistent dominance over her check book, are intentional parts of the next steps in her future.


Instead of "shall we wear the pink or the blue pajamas," what this situation requires is enough expressed love and support from me to continue her recovery to the extent that is possible, but with enough abrasiveness in our relationship so that she will soon be ready to move out into her own apartment (with an attendant) of her own volition, and not have the feeling of having been rejected by her mother.  I need to reestablish myself in her life as "Mother as best friend."  She needs to feel that it was she who made the choice to move on.


There is a lovely apartment available for her to move into -- about ten minutes from mine -- and soon those of us charged with her welfare should be showing her the variety of options open to her (a residential institution for the disabled; another group home with other mentally-challenged clients; or a great apartment in a development with 3 swimming pools and a small gym for her continuing physical therapy), but among the choices will not be the option to remain in a living arrangement with her mother.  See what I mean?  


Limited choices is the strategy that is missing from the rule book that social scientists live by, and the practice might well improve the lives of both clients and families caught up trying to get from day to day in a world filled with contradictions and hardships that often defy logic.

Sainthood?  Nah.  Manipulator?  Sure, and unabashed.  


Patience?  Not so much. 

Love?  Most definitely.  It's the balm that makes all else possible.

"Just posted my new website, Grandma!"

It was Rosie announcing in an email that her new venture (she designs elegant jewelry and is venturing into songwriting and singing a la grandmother and father, Bob), and,  being entrepreneurial as is her legacy -- has set herself up in the marketplace online.  Not only that, but with Grandma's  permission has generously included 6 single Betty Songs (from over 40 years ago) for sale along with hers.

Would it not be ironic if one of those songs caught on (despite the fact that I'm an octogenarian with very few years to go before I've left the "octo" and entered the "whatever is left" part of my life, and found myself selling DVD's alongside Taylor Swift, Lady GaGa, and Justin Bieber?  Would that not be wild?   Talk about eclectic!


Anyway, I immediately clicked myself onto her website (it's really colorful and lovely); enlarged her bee-yoo-ti-ful jewelry pieces with my mouse (featuring crystals and magnets in truly original designs); ordered a necklace for Alyana (a younger granddaughter who just graduated herself into high school in the fall; and then went to the music feature therefore becoming Rosie's virgin sale.  Saw the photo of myself beside one of Rosie and marveled, again, at having lived into such a time ... .

Visit Rosie Reid Funk and CreoleRox Jewelry (http://www.rosiereidfunk.com) and roam around, and tell her that Grandma sent you. 

Top Photo by Bob Reid 

His name is Dr. Trevor Stack, and, as a referral from Museum Director, Andrea Blachman of the Martinez History Museum, I was to meet him at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial on Thursday afternoon ... .


The only thing I'd learned from our brief phone conversation was that he was giving lectures on citizenship.  And just where do you suppose I fit into that topic?  I wasn't sure; and that his return to Europe is only a few days away (on Sunday, I believe) and this would be a first and last conversation, so there would be no time for re-thinking positions, or self-editing. 

Looked him up on the Internet after the call and learned that he holds a B.A. from Oxford University in Britain; a Masters and Ph.D. from the University of Pennsylvania; that his subject is Hispanic Studies and that he is on a sabbatical from the University of Aberdeen in Scotland. 

During his visit to Martinez on his speaking tour, he'd been given a copy of the cover article I'd written for the California Historian in the June, 2009 edition (online), and wanted to meet and speak with me.  Could it be that he had assumed me to be a credentialed legitimate "historian"?  Would he be disappointed upon discovering that this was not true?  Would I feel like a fraud passing myself off as a scholar?  The answer is "no," on all counts, and that this unassuming professor simply wanted to discuss the ideas I'd presented, and that his extensive travels and times spent in Mexico made him sensitive to racial issues and those of citizenship in relation to people of color, particularly relationships between Latinos and African Americans.  A legitimate interest, and my article had spoken to that, though not substantively.

Yet, just before our hour-long conversation while basking in the warm sun in Marina Bay Park ended -- I felt my toes curl up in my sensible brown government regulation oxfords as he told me that he will be using my lengthy article with his students at Aberdeen University upon his return to Scotland.

Can you ever imagine in your wildest dreams ... ?

Hoo Boy!  It's gettin' rough in here ... .

...sorry to be so long in entering anything, but life has not gone as smoothly in this makeshift housing arrangement as one might wish, and taking time out to make notes only added to the pressures.

Won't go into the problems we're having, that would not make any sense.  It suffices to say that coming home for Dorian has had some unintended glitches, and her mother's well-intentioned moves have not been particularly helpful.  Fortunately, the professionals have finally kicked in, and help is not only on the way, but the cavalry can now be viewed just outside our condo.

Meanwhile, I've had the distraction of doing a 2 and-a-half hour video for ROHO (Regional Oral History Office) from the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley today, and it served to focus me and my work a bit.  It was requested by ROHO as an updating of the oral history that is already online but was done in the 90's.  I'd never actually read that transcript through until this week in preparation for today's effort and noticed some errors that had occurred in the transcribing that needed correction.  These were mostly proper names or places that were mis-heard.  It seemed a worthy thing to do.  It was interesting to discover that there was nothing of substance that I would have wanted not to have said, or, that I didn't regret on any terms whatsoever.  I may watch the video of that interview one day soon.  I've never had the wish to do so before now.  It also allowed me to stay at home for the work since there was not adequate space at the office, nor much control of sound. 

Maybe having had the experience of being reintroduced to my artist self at the Hotel Nikko, has had the effect that I can now dare to retrace steps taken in the past.  I have watched video interviews of myself done in the recent past, and found them not embarrassing -- in fact I actually discovered that I could watch those done at Port Chicago and found them both interesting and relevant.

The existing oral history that was done in the nineties predates my position with the National Park Service, so ROHO would like to do another soon that deals with my experience with the NPS and life as a park ranger.  That may be meaningful since my work started so early in the development of Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front Historical National Park  (around 2002) that it coincides with that of the park's beginnings -- a valuable contribution, perhaps.

So, with the distraction of meaningful work I've been able to survive the mounting tensions of trying to combine lives with my recovering daughter; but I'll tell you ... we're just barely makin' it!

Tomorrow, we'll attend the 1st Annual Native American Festival at Lucretia Edwards Park together.  She now has an attendant from Nightingale Nursing Service, Kathy, a dynamic former cheerleader who is about to go off into the Army for training, and who is a gem who will go along with us to the Festival.  She drives a jeep so is ultra "cool" in Dorian's eyes.  I'll be in uniform and helping in whatever ways are required of me.  Having had today out of the office to work with ROHO means that I'm rested up for tomorrow -- but whether we'll be coming home in one piece is still to be determined!

... then there's the bus tour on Monday for 18 teachers from the Oakland Unified School District.  Dorian will return to NIAD.

...and we'll have survived another week of adjusting.

Photo:  This is Dorian's sculpture of  "Tsunami," which was created at the time of the Asian tragedy.  We're living our version of an emotional tsunami right now, so this seemed an appropriate choice.  This is all one piece but was impossible to photograph without using two shots in order to retain the detail.  Note that she included a way for people to escape the oncoming deluge.  Maybe we'll be so lucky!

... been a long time since the last entry ...


and it surely isn't because life has slowed down a whit.  I've just been too busy livin' it.  Little time to write about it.


Let's see:


I've guided tours -- strangely enough, my last tour consisted largely of other rangers though not in uniform.  Not sure what that was about, but it may have had to do with the fact that ROHO (Regional Oral History Office -- of the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley) --  was filming this tour and there was the need to show the seats on the bus filled with "tourists".  Not sure; but it was novel for me.  In a way it felt as if I might be being evaluated, but it didn't feel the least bit negative.  As always, I improvised my way through the 2 and-a-half hour tour and even found some newness in my interpretation.  Maybe that was because I was aware that many of them had heard my stories before and that I needed to dig deeper for some freshness.  And, as always, I stopped before I ran out of truth.


And -- an exciting thing has happened in that the Generations Project of Brigham Young University Media has invited me to be a subject for their nationally-viewed show (cable channels).   It means "maybe 2 and-a-half weeks of filming," and (the most exciting part of all -- an invitation to allow their genealogists to explore my family history with me -- around a question of import to the narrative.  


If you've used the links under my photo and have seen the work already completed on both my maternal and paternal lines, you may have noticed that -- prior to the Civil War -- there is much that is missing, except for the history of the white ancestors whose lines are traceable.  It is the difficulty of piercing the Slave Curtain that is so frustrating.  How I would love to know where my black ancestors originated; even to the region, if not the actual family lineage!  


I'd give almost anything to learn about the origin of the free woman of color "of high birth" (according to cousin Paul Charbonnet) who became the consort of the Charbonnet man with whom she bore 9 children, one being my gggrandfather, Dorson Charbonnet, for whom my dad was named.  And how about my mother's grandfather,  Corporal George Allen, about whom we've learned so little; except that he was a Louisianian who fought with the Colored Troops on the side of the North in the Civil War.  There is so much left unlearned and untold.  


It would be so wonderful if, through me, those doors on the past can be unlocked so that the current and next generations of family historians will have access to the material that will complete the narrative.  What a gift that would be to many yet unborn.


Needless to say, I will take the time off my work to make this adventure possible.  I'm guessing that this segment will go into production soon.  This is far too important to ignore, and I do have lots of vacation time available to draw upon.  

Not sure how this will be managed with Dorian now living with me, but we do have 24 hours-a-week of personal aide services granted by the Regional Center of the East Bay, and there are family members to enlist into service, so I'm going to proceed as if -- whatever problems there are -- will be worked out to make this once-in-a-lifetime experience possible.


Will keep y'all posted.  (By the way, have I told you that the plural of y'all is alla y'all?) 


Photos:  Dorian and I rode in the Juneteenth Day Parade in celebration of the day that word of the Emancipation Proclamation issued by President Lincoln reached Texas -- months after freedom came to the rest of the Old South. The National Park Service maintains a presence at all of the city's parades and festivals; a role I thoroughly enjoy.

When life begins to close in and becomes threatening to the psyche ... it's time to go line-dancing!

There was not only the close-up stuff, like Dorian's slow recovery and this-week's-move in to my small apartment, but then there was the Flotilla attack off Gaza that involved some local folks; continuing BP oil gushing uncontrollably in the Gulf;  up-coming California Primaries for which I've not yet studied the ballot; the sudden explosion of my supermarket checkout line celebrity with its unexpected never-quite-ready-for-it fame; all that stuff that makes up my days now ... so why not?

Dion's birthday party brought together old friends and acquaintances for an afternoon of noshing on great food -- a genuine caller who was the only male in the room at the Hillside Club -- and what fun!

Maybe ya gotta have whimsy to balance off what is often a far too purposeful life.

Except that I found that I'm hard-wired for the Electric Slide and never quite got the hang of the Texas two-step.  Maybe if they'd had some James Brown on the turntable, or a little Aretha or Marvin Gaye ...

As it turns out, there's really little to worry about.  We've already accomplished the goal of independence ... I just failed to notice.

It was clear when we were going through the discharge procedures at Elmwood yesterday, that Dorian has left a trail of expressed love that will follow her as she pursues her place in the world.  The staff was obviously sorry to see her leave and will welcome her back as she continues to visit those for whom she has incomplete projects.  She has a carefully drawn list of deliveries to make over the next few weeks -- after all she spent several months in their care, and will need to withdraw gradually from this world that she's created for herself these past weeks.

She and DotCom (and Elizabeth) will work out their schedule of occasional visits which will become her reason for being; in addition to her return to NIAD tomorrow on a 3 day-a-week schedule for a few weeks until the physicians give permission for a full schedule.

Now -- if I can only back off the mothering in favor of again becoming "mother as best friend," maybe we can consider this storm having been "weathered."

Her final project was this double-bed sized blanket for her niece, Rosie, who purchased the yarn and shipped it from Southern California to be made into a coverlet.  Dorian completed the task in about 3 weeks while whipping through the halls in her wheelchair; undergoing stretching exercises, learning to walk again (twice!),  practicing walking up and down stairs; helping to lead the exercise class; and teaching her roommate to crochet!

Dorian is ready to return to the world and is more than adequately prepared for the changes she must endure.  And, maybe her mother is, too.

Now for the learning to live together in my small apartment; finding places to stash her belongings; tripping over her two cats; at least temporarily while waiting for more permanent arrangements to be made ... still much to work our way through.

I feel confirmed in the belief that the secret to acceptance is to strive to be a giver.  Takes no effort, and establishes ones value in the world in many ways.  Takes little mental capacity and nothing more than a willingness to extend whatever is of value to you into the lives of others.  Her obvious effort in creating her gifts gains respect and affection that nothing else can achieve.  Both she and the receivers gain so much in the exchange; that's immeasurable, but it must be remembered that the growth is with the giver.

Photo:  Do click to enlarge so that you can see that each of these tiny loops that make up this completely hand crocheted blanket had to be caught in the crochet hook, twisted around, drawn into the knot that, when collected with others becomes a work of art -- what a wondrous thing is the heart.  And, no, selling them is not an option.  It's all in the giving.

Oh, before it's forgotten or pushed back because "Life" has gotten in the way ... .

I need to tell you about filming yesterday at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial:

Some weeks ago I was introduced to Kendall Wilcox, Executive Producer from BYU Broadcasting when he visited our offices in Richmond.  He was working on a documentary series entitled "The Generations Project"  (a program based on tracing family histories) which is being aired on cable channels nationally.  This segment is about an African American woman who was one of the migrant workers who arrived in the Bay Area as the result of the Kaiser recruitment efforts that swept through her town in Louisiana during WWII.

She's a very interesting subject who had survived the times and actually prospered after the war, becoming a property owner; operating a nightclub in San Francisco, and eventually becoming a political and labor union activist of some prominence before suffering a tragic end as a homicide victim in mid-life.

It was decided that -- because of our being contemporaries and both African American -- I might be able to provide context for Bessie Colvin's story by being filmed in conversation with her son (through whom the family narrative is being told). 

It was a fascinating experience in that -- though I'd been interviewed on camera fairly often in the recent past, never before had I participated in this kind of in-depth production.  The camera crew was led by a petite young woman who obviously had the entire script in mind and could envision the final product.  We filmed for several hours (though it seemed far less), and the "star" (Colvin's son) proved to be a warm and easy partner who made the adventure completely effortless.  It only took a moment after we were introduced for our souls to touch and -- if the result of the piece turns out to be as warm and comfortable as it felt -- the day went well and the production will be just fine.

The show will be aired nationwide in October.

Get out the back hoe!  Momma's gotta clean house ... .

Hadn't realized how bad it had become.  Working five days-a-week while visiting Dorian at Elmwood every day for the past 7 months -- plus keeping up a battery of activities in relation to my work has taken its toll.  I'm buried under by debris and may have to have the refrigerator hauled away without breaking the seal.  I can't imagine what pathogens might be flourishing in there.  Maybe I'll just have it delivered to the Bayer Pharmaceutical Lab for research for some new cure for the Ebola virus.

All kidding aside, with my daughter coming home to live (temporarily) with me in my small condo will bring with it a cadre of social workers, in-home help aides, physiotherapists; all with judgmental eyes with which to view her living conditions.  Since acquiring her two live-in cats and their cat box as well, things are becoming desperate, indeed. 

This move is necessary since the RCEB case management team didn't kick in until last week (after a 7 month stay in nursing homes!), and the long-range planning that should have been handled months ago means that they were not prepared for locating a living arrangement (read that group home or a residential placement in an institution) where her two felines would be accepted.  Giving them up is simply not an option; but how could they possibly know that?

So, after she worked so hard to master climbing the 16 steps (with a walker in hand) in preparation for coming home to my upstairs condo, I could not refuse to answer the door, right?

It means that living for all this time in a one-bedroom apartment with two futons decoratively stacked on the living-room floor and meant to accommodate occasional visits from grandchildren, means that grandma will be sleeping on one.  I'll have to give up my single bed to one who can't possibly physically rise from floor level, at least not for many months -- if ever.

Everything in me screams that this is an unwise decision.  I should have insisted upon finding another solution that wouldn't undermine our lifelong quest for her independence.  Unwise, maybe,  but as in most instances with me, it's intuition that takes over.  Logic aside, there's no resisting that. 

Now I'm needing to get out to the supermarket and find myself some super-strength vacuum cleaner bags and locate the nearest Goodwill store so that I can thin out my closets in order to accommodate the " Dorrie stuff" that I've been hauling around in the backseat of my car all these months because there was simply no time to unload ... .

If I don't post for a few days (I've taken two days off to try to get all this figured out), know that I'm alive and well and up to my ears in "logistics"!

Dorian's release date is May 31st and conferencing will be held tomorrow to begin the process of long range planning ... .

She has now graduated from wheelchair to walker and is attacking her physiotherapy program with a vengeance; announcing a few moments ago that she'd walked 1200 feet since rising this morning, and had climbed 14 steps to the garage (with an attendant, of course).   This has been a day of achievement -- and besides all that, Elizabeth (a ranger partner from our staff) is bringing her pet feline, DotCom, for a second lesson in becoming a therapy cat (the first was a week ago).  Elizabeth thoughtfully brought her animal friend on a leash to visit with Dorrie in the courtyard of Elmwood last week in what promises to be a first "training" in a new career.  Dorrie is ecstatic with her new position as a Trainer-in-training!

This afternoon I'll drive into Berkeley to pick her up for dinner out.  She's dying for barbecued ribs and in an actual restaurant at that.  With a walker we can manage it.  With the wheelchair it was a goal to be attained.

Her crochet work is serving backed-up orders (they're beautiful!) which she will continue upon release from the facility -- with a promise to deliver as completed.  We're hoping for her return to NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities) soon after her release.

Life is good ...  again ... maybe; at least until we learn the extent of her limited recovery, and how far they'll reach to effect her future.

... and what the implications are of her now extended disabilities, and how far they will reach into and effect my own limited future ... .

Good questions, all.


.. but for this moment it's barbecued baby-back ribs and mild sauce and another session of DotCom's training as a cat therapist!  Elizabeth plans to involve Dorrie after her discharge in plans to occasionally visit nursing homes in the area with DotCom for the purpose of making life more pleasant for those whose lives are being lived in shadows.  Dorian's experience as a patient will certainly inform her new career, and her great love for felines enables her to appreciate their value as "therapists."  No need for intellect here, guys, just a loving heart and the willingness to give.  Fortunately, she was blessed with both, as was Elizabeth.

By Jove, with the loving caring support of Elizabeth Tucker, I think we've got it!

Photo:  A portrait of the late  "Speedy Reid." Dorian painted this as a tribute for a noontime memorial service she conducted at NIAD the day after he was put down by the vet at the age of 17.  Note the halo.
Photo #2:  Do click to enlarge.  The expressions on all three faces are testimony to DotCom's ability to give comfort and reduce stress.  

If you've been able to view the YouTube.com video (5/17) which features my song, " To Each of Me' ... .

you'll notice that it ends abruptly with the line, "...if you would only see;"  and thereby hangs a tale:

There are only a few lines left to sing, but they are key to understanding the intent of the composition.  At the time that the song was written (at least 40 years ago), though I was fast-becoming a prolific composer and performer of a body of songs that were having a profound effect upon the small audiences exposed to the work, that song was rarely included in my programs.  The reason being that -- though it signified a place where I'd come to terms with my own complex racial background -- I was painfully aware that audiences were just not ready for those racial lines being crossed, and surely not advocacy for miscegenation.  And perhaps that is still true ... .

This song evolved after I'd written a number of others that rose out of personal experiences of the Civil Rights Revolution of the Sixties; some expressing bitterness and pain that surely reflected that era.  But this one signified an end to my personal struggle for identity in a world that demanded that I choose sides that would necessitate denial of my own rich heritage of generations of courageous ancestors who dared to cross over those lines of separation in pursuit of lives of love and meaning.  I'd decided that it was not that I was 'nothing' but that I was "everything," and that someday the world would come to terms with that reality, too. 

The last few lines of that song -- following the line, "...if you would only see" are

"... that Black and White are part of it

my Brown is at the heart of it

and blending was the start of it

and someday it shall be

that blackness and the white of us

will be the day and night of us

 and not the wrong or right of us --

 the meek or might of us --

             then we'll be free!               

I'm choosing to believe that a possible explanation of those lines being omitted had to do with adhering to the necessary time limits for each segment of the bios of the honorees, and that it had nothing to do with censorship of the content.  But -- if it did -- what a rich discussion must have ensued among those young women in producing the video!  I'd love to have been a part of that.

Photo:  Press photo taken in concert in Cleveland, Ohio, during the turbulent Sixties.

BETTY REID SOSKIN~ 2010 Women of Achievement, Vision and Excellence awar...

"The fires of September ... ."

The story behind this would probably interest you, but it suffices to say that it's unimaginably inconsiderate for the media to wait until the year 2010, when my image in HD-TV is old and wizened!  I might have been better able to use all this public attention were I still building a resume, and with enough leftover pretty to impress.  The photo that I'm holding was taken by my late husband, Mel, in our living room in Walnut Creek.  The year was 1958, and I was about 35 then, I think, and quite photogenic, right?

It's hard to remember ever being this young ... especially today when the future seems so uncertain and I'm feeling so fearful of the days that lie immediately ahead ... .

" ... deep in December it's nice to remember although you know the snow will follow,

 deep in December it's nice to remember without a hurt the heart is hollow

 deep in December it's nice to remember the fires of September that made us mellow

 deep in December our hearts should remember ... and follow."

(final stanza in the lyrics of The September Song from the score of The Fantastics.  Composer: Billy Barnes)

Photo:  Taken at my home by GirlSource staffer, Betz Burkart, at the photo shoot for the WAVE awards. (Click to enlarge.)

Time to regroup, guys.  I'm getting seriously fragmented here ... .

Beginning to think about just how much Dorian's accident will impact both our lives, and it's sobering.  The "in-community" support systems which are guaranteed by California's Lanterman Act which was passed many decades ago  to guarantee the care of the developmentally handicapped over their lifetimes have been drastically cut back due to the economic crisis.  But actually, there has been systematic and increasingly severe reductions in services to the disabled going back several decades dating from the time I worked for the State of California as a field representative for a member of the State Assembly.

The slashing of the so-called Safety Net began under Governor Reagan and has seen major reductions with each succeeding legislative session.   We now see people in the general population who are totally incapable of living independently -- struggling to survive and failing in many cases.  They're living under bridges and over grates and they've become such a common sight in most cities that we fail to see them at all anymore.   They're mixed in with returning veterans of our many wars who are suffering from PTSD; with the mentally ill (as opposed to the mentally disabled); with those displaced by the foreclosures of homes; and with the addicts and abusers who've become the lost souls of this generation.
 

Somewhere along the way we entered into a practice of redefining the problem of what "disabled" means.  It's like the degrading of what "brown-fields" means; land so toxic that, at one time, our regulations would not permit builders to use them for homes.  They would be developed as parks or golf courses.  There are many such sites in Richmond, so the term has meaning here more perhaps than elsewhere.  Slowly we're seeing criteria that defines those toxic lands as unfit for human habitation being re-defined so that they no longer classified as too dangerous.  They're made whole by the changing of the few words in the definition of what a brownfield is.  So it is with those like Dorrie whose services are no longer based upon what she needs in order to survive out in the world, but are now based upon what society can financially afford to provide.  Critical services to the handicapped have been slashed to the bone, and more cuts are coming as we approach the budget hearings in June.

I've watched, over time, Dorian being expected to make decisions that require judgment -- which in turn requires abstract ability; an attribute that is missing in anyone with an IQ of under 80.  She cannot weigh alternatives.  There are no "what ifs" in her vocabulary.  She is incapable of weighing consequences.

Though her vocabulary doesn't reflect her deficits (remember, she has an incredibly sharp rote memory), and she has the capacity to make her needs known pretty accurately, and she is capable of learning things that can be encoded into "systems;" rote memory, again.  If anything slips out of order and she needs to make a judgment call, it all becomes a jumble and she can't get back on track without assistance.  And -- she has no idea that things are out of control.  That takes judgment.

I've never gone to court to have her conserved, and that's an issue.  It has always been my opinion that she would be less capable of gaining any sense of independence had I done that.  I would work on getting her as independent as I could during my lifetime, and my sons (who would be spared her care while they were raising their own young families or getting their own adult lives on track) might want to do that after I'm gone.  It was my feeling that there might be some resentment if they had to feel the burden of her care before that time, and  I wanted them to be free of that while I'm alive to assume that role.  We've discussed it all along the way, and they've been really considerate of her without restraint.  I think that's true because they've been spared that responsibility as long as possible.

The accident which resulted in making her now permanently physically disabled as well as mentally challenged, is something that came out of the blue.  Her needs will be different now, and any thought of independence has flown out the window.  Her stay in 4 nursing homes since November 27th has produced some new anxieties -- and she is showing signs of depression.  She is so concrete that -- if she is given a date or a time she is fine.  Even if one tells her that she will be released on December 15th -- she can live with it if she has a calendar to mark off the days.  She absolutely cannot live with uncertainty -- and that's our state of being right now.  We'll have another x-ray of her legs on Wednesday and probably there will be some weight bearing therapy started that will tell her that we're making progress.  She is wearing a heavy boot (today's cast) on her right leg that may be removed, and she'll return to using a walker instead of the wheelchair; maybe.  She is hoping to get out of Elmwood sometime in June, if all goes well.

Meanwhile, the Regional Center of the East Bay (RCEB) that has been charged with her care since childhood -- and with whom long-range planning has suffered such heavy budget cuts that -- though the director of the county office met with me on April 14th and promised to send their nurse for an evaluation on which we will base plans for her living arrangements -- that nurse arrived at Elmwood to meet us one month later; this past Wednesday.  The caseloads for case managers, for ILS (Independent Living Services) workers, is so impossible that the only thing open to adjustment would be the lowering of expectations on my part.  Everyone at the agencies are doing their utmost to serve this population, but despite the effort of some fine professionals,  on the news last night the Governor announced further cutbacks on those same services.

I'm really beginning to get the message that I may have come to the place where I'll need to finally give up my work in favor of taking her home to live with me. That has not been true since she left for St. Vincents Academy at the age of 14.  We've been a success story up 'til now, with a succession of living arrangements (group homes, apartments with ILS services).   

... all that time and all those lessons ... all that pain of separation over the years ... .

... and I'm not sure that I'm ready to retire -- and maybe I'll never be.  There are so many things undone, and so much yet to learn ... but then I'm sure that others will pick up the mission and life will go on. 

But having been a late bloomer, it feels as though I'd be leaving in the middle of the movie.

Photo (top):  One of Dorian's artworks, wood pieces painted and glued to a backing.
(middle):  Dorian having won her medal in Special Olympics swim meet, pictured here with the Fire Chief of the City of Alameda.
Silk scarf dyed using techniques of batik.  Cats are almost always the theme of her work.  If you'll look carefully you'll see her cat, Marilyn.  (click to enlarge)