Can you imagine ... ?

.., I was asked to serve as interpreter for a bus tour of the scattered sites that make up Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front Historical National Park.  It was to accommodate a request from the director of California State Department of Parks and Recreation in Sacramento.  The special guest was award-winning Morrie Turner, nationally-syndicated cartoonist (featured in over 100 newspapers), the creator of Wee Pals.  He had been following stories about me and wanted to know more about my work and that of the National Park Service.  Occasionally, he does a Soul Corner in which some person of interest is featured -- and it seems that I've come to his attention.   

We spent 3 hours wending our way through the city while I told the stories of the WWII era and what was happening on the home front at that time.  During the course of the tour I discovered that he'd grown up in Berkeley, that he knew my husband, Mel Reid, and that we'd crossed paths many times over the decades.  He was wonderfully warm and engaging, and as our visit came to a close he presented me with his original draft of the pen and ink original sketch on Betty Reid Soskin that will be featured in full color in about 8 weeks in the Sunday comic sections!

Can you imagine being presented with an honorary doctorate and appearing as a cartoon character in the same summer -- or even the same lifetime?

Next thing you know I'll be dancing on coffee tables and playing my kazoo (which I'm practicing just in case my position comes to a close in a few weeks as my current contract ends)!

...and i just had to say:

Regarding the lost inkiness of the night sky that you wrote of so thoughtfully on 11/2/07, I recalled an account of an old woman whose first reaction to a room lit up with an incandescent bulb was to exclaim “But what about the darkness?  Where has the darkness gone?”

Some might think she was trying to comprehend the science of artificial illumination.  But it struck me that she was really expressing a sense of loss.
She is not alone.

Diane
Richmond, CA

Every now and then souls touch, as may be the case in this exchange with an online reader who felt obliged to respond to something I'd written.  In this instance, it was musings long since forgotten -- written on November 2, 2007 about the visit to my granddaughter's fifth grade class at Arts Magnet School in Berkeley.  I was -- for the day, "Show and Tell."

This beautiful passage caused me to search the archives for the post referenced, and I found myself lost in space for the next hour or so; remembering those young faces and the feelings evoked by the experience of standing  before that class for the Q&A.  Those feelings were well-captured in the writing, and powerful enough to bring the experience into the present for an encore.

Rarely do I hear from readers, only a few times a year, and I tend to forget anyone is "out there."  Odd, because I sometimes have the feeling that I do leave openings for dialogue, but then maybe not.  I normally tend to be "uploading" into my own reality without any idea that anyone is listening.

Not so, apparently.  Diane was on the same wave length -- even crossing time -- which allowed me to revisit something truly meaningful.

Upon reading her message and re-reading my 11/2/2007 post, I recalled that I'd never shared those feelings with Tamaya -- who is entering high school this fall.

I will send her to this post.

Taking a breather ... but I'm glad it may not be permanent ... .

Learned last week that I've made the cut with Human Resources and am still in the running for an extension of my contract with the NPS.  This means that -- at the resumé level -- where only the facts are being dealt with in assessing one's qualifications for a position (nothing about age or race involved), I'm still competitive.  That, in itself, is a minor miracle.  Next steps will be for the local staff to determine which of the remaining applicants from the national pool will best serve the needs of our park.  One can only hope, but I've decided that I can live comfortably with whatever the final choice is.  If another applicant can match or surpass my resumé, and have the added advantage of youth -- then the choice is obvious. But my record is a formidable one to measure up to -- and I say that with full confidence in those making the decision to have taken experience into account. 


Took a week off to come down from the high of commencement and the lows of anticipated legal actions having to do with Dorian's auto/pedestrian accident of 11/27/2009 (and, yes, the case is finally working its way through the legal system).  Our attorney has been working diligently on the case over the past months and, come July, Dorian has her first depositions with the examiners (orthopedic and psychiatric) to determine whether our claims are legitimate and just in a court of law.  Fortunately for us, the accident didn't involve an uninsured driver, but in this case she was struck by an auto operated by the police department of a neighboring city.   

She has unquestionably sustained permanent physical injuries (both legs fractured and two rounds of surgery - 4 nursing homes then rehabilitation that is on-going).  The damages are more obvious with each day.  The psychological damage in terms of increasing dependence and regression on both our parts is almost impossible to assess at this point, and I'm not sure that we can ever make up for what has been lost.  And, after a lifetime of working toward leaving her equipped to live beyond my lifetime; those losses are devastating.

So, having meaningful work to do as this unfolds has been most important.  I'm not sure that I'd have made it this far without having this amazingly worthwhile career in the National Park Service in a position where I'm confident that I'm making a difference.  Helping to shape a new national park feels vitally important -- and to honestly believe that I'm performing a role that few people are as fit for as I -- well, that's about the best one can ever expect to achieve.  It may not be superior qualifications, but that I'm one of the few left with the experience, physical strength, and who can still tie her own shoes!  I've outlived all those whose memories differ from mine, so I've become an authority of sorts.  Who's to argue with a dinosaur?

So, I'm tossing papers and stopping to update photo albums and re-reading old letters and articles and vegetating gloriously!  But I wouldn't want too much of this idleness.  I've got a world to save and a park to create ... and that takes staying in the arena at least until something better turns up, or, until the National Park Service decides to send me to the dugout, or into retirement, and/or Lawrence Welk Land where old folks go to dance and play kazoos!


Bottom photo:  If there are no more days ahead, I'll always have the memory of being included in this mural by students at NIAD which hangs on the walls of the Chief of Police of Richmond, California, with that clearly identifiable park ranger right in the middle of it -- the one with the cigar extending from her left ear (that's my pony tail, actually). 

The sounds of revelry are beginning to fade ... banners stored away... and life is back to what passes as normal ... .

One would hardly think that so recently we were in the throes of celebrations that rival Mardi Gras and New Year's Eve rolled into one.  Tossed the fading bouquets out of their temporary places on tables and desktops around our offices, and finally ... gradually ... life has become breathable again.

Monday morning I checked into my week's schedule to find that I was booked to give a talk for the womens's group at Downs Memorial United Methodist Church in South Berkeley on Saturday (that was yesterday).  Actually I've been looking forward to this engagement since the church is in my old neighborhood and has an African American congregation.  Its pastor at one time was an old friend, the late Rev. Roy Nichols, whom I remember most fondly.  This was a rare opportunity to share my work for the National Park Service with an all-black audience, and that feels good.  On Tuesday, 5/31, I'm scheduled to be the luncheon speaker for the Mill Valley Rotary Club in affluent Marin County.  The audience will probably be mostly male and white.  That  provides an interesting challenge to deliver the messages of the era of the Home Front before vastly differing audiences without compromising the truth.  

Also, in the interest of another personal project, I was scheduled to finally meet with Tom Debley, recently retired Kaiser Permanente journalist/historian/archivist, who will lead me through the process of researching a tiny 20-room hotel in Richmond that figures in the Pullman Company history. The International Hotel was a "Jim Crow" facility where porters stayed while the luxury sleeping cars were being serviced and stocked in the huge terminal on Carlson Boulevard and South Street before heading back across country.  The Pullman Company served as a major employer of African Americans as laborers during the 20's through the 40's. The main Pullman hotel, where white employees were housed (a short distance away at the corner of Carlson), has been long since torn down with no sign that it ever existed.  The International, on the other hand, still stands isolated and abandoned in a state of decay that is heartbreaking.

Fortunately, I've found someone willing and anxious, and who has the financial resources to purchase it for purposes of restoration, and since it falls well within the interpretive areas of my work (related to WWII housing for blacks), there is hope that we'll bring it back from the edge.  It was formerly owned and furiously protected by the late Ethel Dotson.  It was left to her son and only heir with whom we're negotiating its fate. 

"... foremost of Ethel's concerns was an obsessive dedication to the restoration of the tiny International Hotel that housed black railroad men on their layovers prior to and during the decades preceding WWII. She continually called out for whatever action might be necessary to save this important landmark. My ranger partner, Lucy, and I visited her there one day and were treated to a tour of the 20 tiny upstairs single-occupancy rooms and the cluttered large reception room on the ground floor that reflected her personal taste for the flamboyant. She proudly showed us her collection of newspaper articles and vintage photographs that spelled out the history of her struggle to protect the building for posterity -- for the telling of this important Black migration story that preceded that of World War II. The stories of black waiters, cooks, and Pullman porters who discovered the West Coast and the Bay Area (as did the men of my own family) at the far western end of their railroad runs on the Acheson, Topeka & Santa Fe and Southern and Western Pacific rail lines -- decades before World War II."

(for the complete post see the entry for 11/4/2007)

If our work is successful, we'll provide justification for its restoration in order to be able to interpret the Pullman story.  It is of value to the black migration story as it is one of the few remaining structures -- not destroyed by redevelopment agencies and/or loss of institutional memory.

On a related mission, I drove in on Wednesday evening to a meeting where members of the A.I.A. were doing a series of PowerPoint presentations from a list of endangered historic sites for re-consideration.  Our little hotel is on that list.  I sat through them all believing that it would come up, but they didn't get around to it at this meeting, but I've been invited to return in the very near future to make a case for its restoration.

Meanwhile, Debley and I have had our first meeting and I've received from the Redevelopment Agency a study of the Pullman Company that is fascinating as much for a profile on Bay Area labor history as it is specific to the story of the little hotel. 

Now, would you believe that my 4-year contract (what's called a term position) with the National Park Service comes to an end in July?  My job has been posted -- I've applied for it, again, of course -- but stay tuned.  This all may fall to someone else to complete.  As it works in the system, the decision is made elsewhere in the country from a national pool of applicants, and only if my application is in the final selection among those who are being seriously considered for the position, will I be re-hired. 

If only the job had been posted with the proviso that "no one under 85 need apply."  Or, "must hold honorary doctorate with a degree in the Fine Arts"! But that may be asking too much; do you suppose?

It may just be that I'll have to leave in the middle of this movie ... but ... in all fairness, I'm not certain that I'll ever know when it's time to leave ... .

It would be terribly sad if I stayed beyond my capacity to serve ... and how on earth will I recognize the signs?

About my commencement speech ... .

Words actually do fail.  In this case I was so overwhelmed by the size of that audience that I instantly froze!  The plan was to thank a list of people starting with President Beal, Sanjit Sethi, the Board of Trustees, faculty, my family and friends, the students and Class of Spring 2011, and by that time the nervousness was (theoretically) to have subsided.  Instead, I remember mentioning President Beal and then everything became a jumble!

I managed to give a speech -- and from the silence in that huge hall -- it must have reached the audience, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember a word of it!  I must have uttered a reasonable series of words of some sort in a logical sequence, but everything seemed scrambled. After a reasonable length of time (maybe 10 minutes that seemed an eternity) I heard myself ending with best wishes to the Class of 2011 before returning to my seat (forgetting my folder on the lectern).  At that point I found myself distracted by a parade of interesting, outrageous, wildly inventive, highly-varied, shoes on the feet of the graduates as over 400 of them paraded within 8 feet of my chair in the ceremony of acceptance of diplomas and stoles not unlike my own.  (I'd leave the self-criticism until later.)

It felt as if I'd failed, totally, but as the grand recessional ended, I could see that the audience was not sharing my sense of failure.  They were smiling and reaching out to me as I marched by.  Somehow the words must have all come out in some coherent form - or surely it would have been evident in those smiling faces.

The later blow-up with Dorrie meant that there was no time to re-live those moments, or, to sort out those negative impressions, and I'm sure that the residual feelings of that failure to live up to my own expectations became confused with her accusations and added to my sense of being profoundly undeserving of this great honor; obviously bestowed in error!  Yet, my family and friends had been glowing in their pride when we met after the program; I could feel it.  Those balancing good feelings were lost in the melt-down -- but have since returned, and for that, I'm grateful.

It may interest you to learn that I've since "edited" that speech (having had it return in bits and pieces just before dropping off to sleep each night since), and it's now nearly perfect.  Wish that had happened before the last time to have my say before the world had passed by; but maybe there were enough fragments in whatever came forth in those moments, and they'll have to suffice.

None of it makes any sense, but at the feeling level, there is fulfillment of a kind that few of us mortals ever experience; I'm certain of that.  Maybe it's at this exalted level that life makes about as much sense as is possible to achieve -- but only if we stay on a spiritual emotional plane.  It's fragile, and tends to fall apart until we go beyond the rational.  But once there, the epiphany generates its own light and the brightness is blinding -- so much so that one can only hold on with a steadying and stunning parade of shoes ... .


On Friday I gathered up six original songs (written over 40 years ago) and burned them onto a CD ; enclosed them in cards of thanks -- and mailed one each to President Beal and to my friend, Sanjit.  I'm hoping that these bits of myself which contain words of meaning carried by a really lovely young voice I barely identify with now, will communicate the gratitude that will follow me for the rest of this remarkable life.

Photos by Liz Fisher except for
Bottom left;  Professor of Community Arts, and my friend, Sanjit Sethi, who introduced me to the audience and held my hand in the days leading up to the big event (the first of those taken by the assigned photographer).

 Niece, Gail Brooms Clifton, and granddaughter Rosie Reid Funk, Bob's daughter..

So Dorie and I did a "crash and burn," but now the air is cleared ... .

and the confetti and paper hats have been resurrected, and all because I finally had a chance to view the photos stashed in my camera -- and the images carried enough power to grant  a re-run of all that glory!

Just take a look at these gems!  And the promised shots of those taken by the professional photographer have not yet arrived  -- can you imagine what those will show?

These were taken at the dinner on Thursday, May 12th, in honor of John Baldessari and me -- I'd almost forgotten in the agony of the past few days -- just how wonderful that evening was.

Left:  Co-honoree, the world-famous photographer, John Baldessari. Six foot eight inches of creativity, with a resume that includes many prior academic honors.  His photographs are in the Smithsonian collections.

 CCA president, Stephen Beal and members of the Board of Trustees






                  My youngest granddaughter, Tamaya Reid, David's daughter.  
                      I've not yet located a photo of her sister, Alyana, but I will.


Betcha thought I'd never recover, right?  Not so.

The storm has passed, and life is good, again.

(Let's hope the quick turnaround between these last two posts didn't give you whiplash!)

Note:  Click on any of these photos to view details.

"The Rapture!"-- succeeded by the descent into Hell!

It simply didn't occur to me to not include Dorian in last week's events, though doing so was sure to produce some challenges.  I long ago developed the ability to factor those in and make do with whatever results.

At some point in an earlier blog (maybe last year just after 4th of July?) I tried to describe the schizophrenic state I have to place myself in when she's included in my social activities -- the choice  is between staying with my "normalcy" in relation to others,  or, leaving her all alone in the chaotic world of intellectual deficits that she inhabits.  The choice to stay in her world I've learned to make willingly, and to trust that others (who may read my behavior as socially withdrawn or deliberately isolating myself) to understand.

Without too much thought or planning -- and being preoccupied with my own over-the-top acclaim of the past months -- I took advantage of the fact that she was nursing a sore throat and running a low-grade temperature and excluded her from the Commencement dinner on Thursday evening.  I admit that I felt relieved at not having to deal with tending to her at my time of celebration.  I used the excuse that I had to attend a meeting in San Francisco (not so unusual) so would not be at home when she called to say good night, her usual nightly practice.

But she was with me all that evening in that I chose to wear one of her delightful creations (a black beaded,  sequined, and appliqued blouse with her signature cats and flowers over black crepe trousers), and used them as a conversation piece in those (often difficult for me) small talk encounters that are typical of receptions.  The choice served well since, in chatting about NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities), I learned that there was a significant number among the celebrants who were parents or siblings of the mentally-retarded or physically disabled, including at least one member of the Board of Trustees, and President Beal, himself.

When I returned to CCA for the Friday evening fashion show, I choose to wear my incredible Dorian-hand-painted "happy pants," which seemed appropriate since this was the California College of the Arts, after all, a school which supplied the interns who served as instructors at NIAD.  Though her fever had subsided, there was no thought of taking her along since she knew that she needed to heal in order to attend Saturday's commencement ceremony.

So far, so good.

Dorrie's throat and slight fever subsided over the next 24 hours, and (of course) there was no question that she would be included in the great event of the day.  I picked her up early on Saturday from her apartment and prepared her as far as I could with a description of what the day might hold.  I'm not sure that I gave her anywhere near a full understanding of just how "honored at" her mother was to be, however.  There was no clear way to do that, or at least I couldn't find one.  An important omission, as it turned out.

The limo (sleek black Lincoln Continental) arrived at 12:15 as scheduled, and we were off.  I'd tried to prepare her for this, and was amused with her remark as we rode in the back seat behind our uniformed driver that she'd been in a limo before, "... this is like Grandpa's funeral, isn't it?

She'd not been prepared for arriving at the Concourse and 4000 jubilant people gathered there -- with flashing cameras, strange people in black robes, unfamiliar cousins, friends, fellow park rangers, people who obviously knew me but who were completely unknown to her, nieces and nephews seldom seen, and her two brothers all in the mix.  She must have been totally overwhelmed!  Unfortunately, her mother, who is usually running interference, interpreting, and keeping close at hand, was too personally involved to notice the pressure building.

She managed to get through the celebratory dinner at a lovely East Bay restaurant  following the ceremony, but just barely.  There was her mother seated at the head of the table surrounded by proud family and friends, draped in "honorary doctorate stole" with bouquets being placed in water by the waitress -- wearing two leis draped 'round her shoulders, and being hailed like a rock star!  My preoccupation with self in those moments made me insensitive to the storm building in the background.


We arrived at home in the early evening to a nightmare of reactions to the day.

"It's always about you, you, you!!!!!  Justified or not, that has been disturbingly true over the recent past.  It must have been just awful for her.  She was now totally out of control and into a screaming rage!  I'd completely forgotten that it was she who is the artist, and not her mother.  Hadn't I always celebrated her for that? Had I invaded her world unwittingly? Was the wearing of her designs a mere exploitation of her artistry?  Why on earth was all of the attention being centered on me?  What on earth had I ever done (to her understanding) to deserve this amount of public attention?

Dorian's limited brain-power has provided her with no filters.  She could not possibly hide deep feelings of hurt, envy, and unmitigated rage! Was I truly as undeserving as I've always suspected, and could it be that my children and grandchildren share her negative feelings but were unable to express them as honestly as she? 

Over the entire weekend she ranted and raved about her own accomplishments -- bragged loudly and outrageously in an irrational but understandable display of what-ever-it-was until -- by nightfall on Sunday -- the fever had returned and her throat was now inflamed from screaming her pain.

Eventually, I felt terribly bruised from the onslaught of her charges, but there was just enough truth in them to overturn the elation of my extraordinary moment in time.  My long-restrained response to the unfairness that I've been feeling invited doubt to re-enter the ring for a return match.  I felt angry at her for her inability to understand and appreciate all that had happened for me -- and I felt helpless to combat those deficiencies that her retardation has caused to so relentlessly dominate my existence over a lifetime. And, I simply didn't like her at this point, for raining on my parade.  That said, we need to get on with life and continue the love that sustains us both through these extremely difficult places.  Maybe what saves us, eventually, is the ability to face up to circumstances that are beyond our control honestly, and ride them out with as little carryover as possible.

On Monday morning, I made an appointment with the Urgent Care department at the hospital and took her in for an examination.  The fact that -- added to a flare-up of allergies -- this was purely an emotional response to all that had happened.  My guess was that it would soon pass.  Predictably, she was seen by her primary physician and my diagnosis confirmed.  I then gathered up all of the lovely bouquets and the beautiful leis and brought them to my office cubby.  All signs of the celebratory weekend had to be removed from my home in order for peace to return to our lives.

A week has now passed.  She returned to her apartment on Monday as I got back into my work and -- except for an occasional reminder -- Commencement has been put on a back burner, except for my writings.   She holds nothing back nor does she carry such episodes into the future.  For her, it's over.  From her attitude since she came home for the weekend yesterday, one would hardly guess what a traumatic period we've just come through.  At this moment she's sitting in the big chair in my living room busily working on an art piece (making a crocheted pillow cover) and bragging to no one in particular about her hand-painted toy box at NIAD that sold for $140 during the week -- and that she has a new piece in an exhibit in San Francisco this week ... .

Dorian, the Artist, whose feelings of the unfairness of it all, has come through despite resentment at being skipped over -- of the absence of public appreciation (and isn't that a fairly universal hunger?). 

Her mother?

Not so much ...

... I guess I wanted to feel the confetti drifting down just a little while longer ... .

And more photos ...

taken by my granddaughter, Kokee, possibly with her cell phone.  The official (professional) photos will be sent by CCA, and they may be clearer -- but they won't carry the love that these do!  There will be a DVD of the proceedings in the mail in a few days.  I'm not sure I'll want to view it, ever.  Some things are better left alone.  Maybe it should be kept with this blog (I'm thinking of having it printed out in book form by an online service), but I'll need to save up for that.  Since there will be so many volumes, (since 9/2003-present), I'm not sure it won't cost as much as a complete set of the encyclopedia!

You cannot imagine such a  

glorious, confusing, affirming, crazy, wild, and wonderful day!

Speechless ... almost!  More later when the dust has settled and the petals have fallen from the bouquets.  

(Photo by Peter Freund)

The time is 10:50 a.m., the limo is scheduled to arrive at 12:15 to deliver Dorian and me to the Concourse where Commencement of the Class of 2011 will begin promptly at two o'clock ... .


It's reminiscent of those late teen years when my mother would try to talk me into not waiting for my date to arrive -- sitting on the front steps.  I'm now waiting for the limo and trying to not be looking out through the drapes for signs of arrival, two hours too early.  I will surely have wilted before the party begins! 

I've been up since six o'clock.  I lay awake for hours -- after attending the Fashion Extravaganza on campus; a most exciting event!  I hadn't planned on going, but found that I needed to have a continuing immersion in the universe that is CCA in order to fulfill the role that I've been given as mentor.  I'm finally convinced that this word is fittingly descriptive of why I'm here and being honored on this day.

On Thursday evening there was the warm reception and beautiful dinner (with bouquets of cream-colored tulips on each table) in the honor of the two of us who are being honored.  The limo's arrival at 4:30 was preceded by a ring of my doorbell and the delivery of a lovely floral bouquet with a card of congratulations from President Stephen Beal of CCA.

By midnight last night the panic set in.  Was I simply foolish to think that I could actually deliver a major address without notes?  What ever was I thinking?  This would be like performing a high wire act without a net!  And the promised carefully constructed speech of my dreams was nowhere to be found.

I spent hours trying to recall just what it was that I felt so sure would be standing by to be drawn upon.  Nary a word.  Had I become over-confident from conducting years of bus tours as an National Park Service interpreter, and for total strangers -- and doing it without notes?  I work from memory and whatever the moment held for us, together, to be expressed and explored.  Why had I put such stock in my capacity to transfer those abilities into this once-in-a-lifetime event?  Is this not what others train long years in order to do? 

Then, at about three in the wee hours of the morning the words began to line up in recognizable order to be uttered from the lectern this afternoon.  Rose about six and logged on to my computer and brought up the word processor in order to pull together at least the first few words of thanks to President Beal, my friend, Sanjit, who would be introducing me; the Board, faculty, staff, family and friends, and finally, to the graduates.  I'm counting on those important words to provide a proper foundation -- a chance to settle in and become accustomed to the setting -- and I'm gambling on this being enough to steady my emotions enough for those words of long nights of tossing and intense dreaming to come through.

It's still "Thumb prints, Gate Posts, and Bookends."  The connecting truths are there waiting in the wings of my mind.  If not, I will allow my words of gratitude to suffice.  But they will come.

I'm certain of it.

Almost ... .

Peace be with me ... please!

As one might guess, as the day of Commencement approaches -- the tension grows ... .

How on earth can one ever measure up to such expectations?  But then maybe it is only I, myself, who is setting those expectations, right?  Maybe I've already reached whatever heights others were setting for me, which would suggest their rationale for choosing me for this great honor in the first place.  But then the very fact that they're sending a limo to drive me from home and back announces their expectations in a fairly serious way, does it not? 

The big decisions have now been made; the "what to wear" and "what to say" are now set in stone.  It will be something already on hand and previously worn and guaranteed "comfortable" so that I don't have to think about appearances.  That will leave only the commencement address to concern myself with.  The title remains unchanged, "Thumb prints, gate posts, and bookends" it shall be.  Let's hope that I can weave them successfully into whatever final form they take.  At this point I'm happy to allow the content to continue to deepen and mellow.  I'm sure that I've given this talk over and over again in many settings -- in my dreams.  I'm experiencing a very active dream life from the disheveled state of the bedding in the mornings; though I'm noticing that I wake more at peace in the past few days -- a serenity that may indicate that the work is nearly done.

As foolish as it may sound, I'm reluctant to try to capture it into a paper for fear that I'll be tempted to simply read it instead of delivering the words as they present themselves at that moment at the lectern.  I know that I'm best when I can see the faces and look into the eyes of an audience; and I also know that about five minutes into my presentation, all of the paralyzing fear vanishes, and that I'll be safely home until just before the ending, with just a millisecond of panic in the silence just before the audience responds.

My colleague, Lucien, emailed that -- as she was at the StairMaster at her gym yesterday -- reading a magazine to while away the time (it was Real Simple Living) -- she happened upon a quote from me.  I vaguely recalled a writer calling from New York a few months ago (having been referred by Bruce Frankel, author of How Should I Spend the Rest of My Life).  She wanted a quote on aging to add to others from other older women whom she'd also interviewed for the article.  (It was jarring to note that those other older women were in their fifties and sixties -- the age of my children!)  By now it all seems a part of the job and a natural request that I can accomplish without losing a beat before returning to whatever I was in the middle of before my phone rang... .

Then, a few days ago a request came that seemed more important, and in keeping with my new found status as a resource in areas far beyond my ranger-ing.  This one caught my attention.   I've been invited to interview Isabel Wilkerson, Pulitzer prizewinning author of the brilliant "The Warmth of Others Suns"and then write an article for publication.  In a kind of rubber-hitting-the-road moment, I realized that it is quite possible that I'm being invited to participate just a mite above my current level of competence, and that I need to leave that kind of journalism to the journalists.  I lucked out with that article published in the California Historian, and this may be one of those times when I will over-reach and in so doing, risk this heady moment when I'm soaring far above my own expectations when I only need to bask in the rapture of having done so!

Since last weekend my schedule of activities included;

• driving (with Dorian) in uniform representing our park in the city's Cinco de Mayo parade; 
• that afternoon guided a 3 hour bus tour of 50 Tradeswomen, Inc., (members attending a national conference in Oakland)  through the Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front sites scattered throughout the city;
• ended that same day with a 101 mile drive to Aromas, a hamlet on the road to Watsonville in Monterey County, in time to attend a 7:30 pm sold-out "Songs and Stories" concert performed by my eldest son, Bob.  Dori and I stayed with Bob at his ranch home in San Juan Bautista, a  beautiful valley surrounded by hills in the greenest of springtime glory;  since then we
• participated in the Rosie the Riveter event at the Crucible in Oakland;  and yesterday
• attended the grand opening of the brand new state-of-the-art soccer field in the Nystrom District.

Life is good on this Mother's Day on this planet.


Photo:  Lottie Allen Charbonnet, my mother at 95.  She was partying at a luau in Hawaii when this photo was taken.  She lived to see her 101st birthday, and as you can see by this picture,  savored life despite the hardships her generation endured.

It's done ... !

Sent the invitation list off today, and once the problem was pinpointed and resolved -- got into the rhythm of this great honor.

It was so helpful to have had a chance to tour the campus of the California College of the Arts on Monday; to meet a member of the board; lunch with faculty members; visit the studios filled with young artists at work.  It all fell into place, finally.

I feel far less intimidated by events, and am ready now for the celebration!

Yesterday at the request of the National Institute for Artists and Disabilities I led a delegation of service worker volunteers from Belarus and their translator on a tour of some of our park sites.  They were accompanied by their US State Department hosts.  It felt great to feel confirmed in my role as a representative of an important federal agency.  There is a system of national parks being created in their country so the interest in our park-in-development was high.  I felt a real connection with the group despite the language barrier; though that was minimal since several were able to cross over into English now and then with relative ease.

Were I to have a chance to live some of those early years over again, I'd surely want to have several languages at my command.  Though, as I recall, I had a group of visitors from Japan about six months ago, and that also worked out well.  Maybe what happens between people at the non-verbal level trumps verbal expression. 

Now that the pressure is off -- maybe I can just bask in the glory of it all, and try to get into my paper hat for the festivities on May 12th and 14th.

Maybe I should think about buying a new dress for the occasion.  I thought that I'd outlived the Age of Acquisition.  It has been years since I've felt the need to even think "fashion."  But there are some lovely things hanging in my closet that I've had no occasion to bring out for a very long time.  There was a time ... maybe just once more?

A woman can always gear up for fashion, right?

Maybe I'll try for a new hair style ... do you suppose?

That is if we can still find enough hair to style!  Maybe it's time to just cut it all off and face the truth that there are just so many hair follicles to each lifetime, and at 89 I've outlived my allotment.

Mystery solved ... .

and ... had it occurred to me to stop for just a few moments ... I might have known why I couldn't create that guest list for the commencement ceremony.  It was due two weeks ago.  After spending days pushing the envelope to the back of my desk -- and at one time slipping it into a drawer so that it would be out of sight.  I finally separated out the form for cap and gown measurements, slipped that into the envelope, and dropped it off in a FedEx box in the Civic Center.  But the request for the guest list was missing from the packet.  I agonized through an enclosed note, and felt terribly guilty, but nothing moved the task forward -- not one inch.

Then today in a casual conversation with Julio, the answer was revealed.  It was so obvious.  How on earth could I not have guessed?

I've outlived most of my guest list.  And the time to allow the sadness that this realization should have elicited was missing.  The brutal truth of that sentence was the thing that I couldn't face.  Small wonder that this simple task was so difficult to complete ...  .  It was a time to mourn, and something deep inside wouldn't allow me to move on until I'd done so.

On the drive home I stopped my car on a nearby hilltop where the din of afternoon traffic is lessened -- and let the tears flow unashamed; let myself miss all those who would have made that list; lingered over each name as it surfaced.  Up came my sisters, my parents, Papa George, my dear Aunt Vivian, Gil and Eve, my eldest son, Rick; Mel and Bill; close friends and relatives long gone, and with the tears something vitally important was released.   Tomorrow I can face what is now a mere clerical task.

I'll complete the list -- made up of my sons and daughter, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, those few remaining old friends, augmented by the many good younger souls who have become central in the living of these incredible recent years; new friends;  those with whom I work; some city staff people -- some very young folks for whom I'm "Miss Betty," (and loving it!), and then I'll move on.

If I could only remember to just stop and listen ... for my inner voice.

It's always there in the quiet.

Maybe I just need more stillness.

 "Gate posts" -- my commencement address has arrived; clear and true ... .

Yesterday I woke to clarity and self-confidence.  Not sure what brought this euphoric state about, or even if one can rely upon its staying power --  but the words have lined up as if by magic.  I know their meaning, and that there is little need to try to organize them further.  Over the days to come -- between now and the day of commencement -- they will continue to sort themselves out and deepen.  They are relevant to this graduating class, I believe.  The title; "Thumb prints, gate posts, and bookends," is the key that opened the door into the connections not only to my past, but to the arts. As suspected, they were there all the time ... sitting behind my eyes waiting for me to settle down and listen to myself, maybe ... .

Funny; I hesitate to say much more about this lest this fragile wisp of security will disappear and the awful uncertainty of the past weeks will return.  And if I write them here ...  I'm not at all sure ... .

Maybe it suffices to say that those "gate posts" are key to one of the family stories about my great-grandmother, Mammå, a precious memory from childhood -- one of the many stories told by Papa George as we tied the beans to their poles and dug up the carrots and gathered the melons in that little kitchen garden after my parents and we 3 children arrived in Oakland from the New Orleans floods of 1927.

My impression of what romance meant was formed very early in childhood.  It was the Civil War story of Leontine sitting high in the branches of a pecan tree watching the Union soldiers marching past on that dusty road from Donaldsonville.  She must have been very young, perhaps 16 or 17, and from her photographs, quite pretty.  I knew that she was barely 5 feet tall, so the exciting tale of the soldier, Corporal George Allen of the Louisiana Colored Troops, stepping out of the line long enough to coax her down from her perch then re-joining the march carrying her on his shoulders for a few miles was not hard to believe.  He would later become her husband and father of their dozen or so children.  This would be the standard for love stories that Hollywood would have to meet in order to gain my little girl approval.  And it was true.

That the child, Betty, heard such lovely stories far earlier in life than those of the unspeakable brutality of slavery or the great Civil War that brought it to an end means that I had little awareness of my great-grandmother as being enslaved; nor do I recall making the personal connection until studying American history as an adolescent.  But the intellectual connections rarely mean as much as the emotional imprinting, and there is little memory of making those linkages.  If the elders of the family spoke of such times, they must have done so in creole, a patois of French that dominated speech in our homes during those years, and placed such conversations out of reach of the children.  Perhaps it was just too painful.  They could hardly have not been scarred by such memories, but I can't recall feeling a personal relationship to that tragic history until I was a young mother, when I, too, held it at arms length from my own children ... until the Sixties.

I do remember the dark stories told by Papa George when we were working together in the garden and he was talking to himself and letting me listen; which happened on occasion with some grownups.  Those stories usually involved the Ku Klux Klan and his younger brother, Uncle Albert, suddenly leaving under the cover of darkness for parts unknown -- never to return (the family later learned that he'd escaped to Kansas City); and the many bloated black bodies that floated up in the river from time to time -- bound wrists to ankles -- and the lynchings ... but the listening was terribly hard, and the nightmares ... .

I only remember Mammå as the family matriarch; celebrated by the elders as the aunts and uncles made up the delegation who would make the annual trip back to St. James Parish each year for her birthday.  Southern Pacific railroad family passes enabled this important family ritual to continue for decades since most uncles were Red Caps or Porters during the Great Depression. Wonderful stories about their childhood in that little cabin across from the levee of the Mississippi -- where my grandfather, and my mother and her siblings and so many others were raised -- fueled most grownup conversations and colored my childhood memories, and surely provided the foundation for how I relate to "the World."

Let me live with my gate posts a little longer before sharing... .

Photo: Leontine Breaux (Braud) Allen in midlife.
Bottom:  Uncle Herman Allen and his wife, Marie Gaudet Allen

Thumb print ... ?

This is one of the key images governing my life, I think.  And I can recall precisely when it became so.  Though there's something about time with me that defies logic.  I only became aware of it late in life at a moment while watching my father -- who spent the last ten years of his life totally blind -- quietly going about making simple household repairs in the usual way -- by meticulously measuring with his thumb.  At some point during his long life he had determined that from the last crease to the tip was exactly one inch.  By so doing he made of himself a physical tool of mathematics. 

I remember that somewhere before my tenth birthday (which places this incident in 1931 -- mid-Depression), Dad and I were building a (dry) fish pond in the side garden on a summer afternoon.  There was no money for running water into the pond from the house, but nonetheless, we were working diligently on this project that would feature an island and miniature wooden bridge, and that -- as we worked -- there were always "the lessons," delivered as though gospels from on high.  I remember the sand, gravel, and bag of cement next to the galvanized water buckets; the scraping sounds of mixing with the hand trowel as we stacked the rocks in place, and then filled in with the wet mixture with Dad keeping up a patter of conversation all the while.

A nice reminder that beauty is its own reason for being, and that even a dry fish pond is justifiable if viewed as art (but this is an assessment of a mature woman -- remembering).  I have no idea what sacrifices were necessary for us to have that little pond surrounded as it was by iris, tulips, and daffodils each spring throughout my childhood.  It was sitting beside that little pond in the shade of an almond tree that I discovered Edna St. Vincent Millay in a book that arrived in a box from the nearby Salvation Army store that mother haunted at least weekly for bargains.

At that time our proud father was working for the Southern Pacific railroad as a lunch car attendant, and would be gone for days at a time with 2 or 3 days layover between runs.  With two sisters and Mom to compete with, time with him was precious, and to have it, alone, a privilege, indeed.

But this was late in life, and this always productive man was now in his early nineties, blind, and partially bedridden -- but was still going about his days being the "man of the house." As I watched, he was installing a new door knob and lock.  I stood fascinated watching the familiar "thumbing" that I now remembered as one of the lessons of the fish pond, and can still hear his voice as he said:

"My father taught me to measure carefully, and to never repeat the process.  If you can't trust yourself to cut it means that you didn't do it right the first time.  Never re-trace your steps."  

His father was the final authority.  Back in New Orleans, Louis Charbonnet was a celebrated engineer, ornamental iron worker, and millwright, and Dad had apprenticed under him since his early teens.

I'm reminded that -- when invited to write an article for the California Historian (something I'd never done for publication) - it was a complete disaster.  I could not edit my work.  Once written, all efforts to alter a single word met with failure.  I remember how -- when I tried to re-arrange sentences or paragraphs, delete for reasons of redundancy, -- the words would take me in some new direction and I could never re-connect the new text with the old.  Frustration caused me to finally submit the (far too long!) article to the editors with permission to "edit to fit," just to make the deadline.  To my total surprise, in a few weeks the editor called to say that they were not only not going to edit the piece, but were planning to run it as the cover article in its entirety, so could she stop by to select some photos?  Could it be that I'd "measured right the first time," and that it was not the lack of editing ability?  I recognize now that I'd chalked it up to a deficit when it should have been credited as an asset.  How often have I done that, and am I doing so now?

Also, not only have my music and lyrics always arrived fully formed and never change, but I remember that once written, they remain an accurate measure of the frame of mind in which they were created, and that I know that were they written even a few hours later, they would have been different songs.  They have always captured accurately for me the moment of their creation.

I've rarely retraced my steps; driven past the places where I've formerly lived -- even to the East Oakland home where I grew up and where that pond we built was created; nor have I shadowed my son, David, as he has taken over Reid's Records; or ever tried to revive my "artist" self from former lives (my guitar sits silently in its case -- as it has for several decades) until son, Bob, visits and wants to share something he's written); or, rarely read back through this blog, except to add a photo or two, and never to edit.

"Once measured,  cut and move on."

Wisdom of the Thumb Print, and a hint at just how early in life values are formed, and that children really are the sum total of all that has gone before.  One day someone will determine through proper study and peer review that we are, indeed, the product of genetic coding  --  that there well may be some esoteric forms of accumulated wisdom or gifts (yes, even the ability to bend time) that span generations -- and that -- at some point we will learn to use such knowledge wisely for the benefit of humankind, and move into the future less fearful. 

But I'm not quite there yet ... .

I'm guessing that it was a combination of things; the threat of being furloughed by the NPS on top of the financial pressures of having that possibility coincide with the property tax deadline ...

Well, we scraped by the federal budget debacle, and we're still here.

But along the way the glow of confidence that was acquired at Humboldt State University proved far more fragile than one might have hoped, and panic began to set in over the past few days. I've been inexplicably close to tears much of time; even spilling over upon discovering in an email yesterday that yet another honor (this time from the Historic Preservation Commission of the city) has been bestowed, and that I'll need to justify to myself over the days ahead(!).  The result was that the packet of information needed by California College of the Arts for commencement sits on my desk demanding attention but providing only guilt at being paralyzed by Lord knows what ... ?

I've not yet turned in my invitation list, though I did manage to get a few addresses before collapsing into this lethargic state that has produced a darkish veil of whatever this is.  It's uncharacteristic of me.  I'm not normally a procrastinator nor a depressive, but how else do I explain this?

The commencement address is writing itself in the sleep state -- I've composed it countless times -- only to have it disappear into the ether come sun-up.  The title, though, remains and is unchanging.  It's called, "Thumb print, gate posts, and bookends."  I believe that I know what it means, and I believe that it will be there when I need it.  The problem seems to be that -- though I've written speeches for others, I've never really written one that I was expected to deliver.  I'm not even certain that I can.  But maybe all that will be required of me will be to stand at that lectern and allow the words to express themselves.  Maybe they're building up in the REM state, forming into shape for delivery.  I recognize the process.  It's the way I wrote music and lyrics long ago, songs that never changed, once written, and always appeared to be something I was remembering ... strange.

Maybe all I need is to trust that this is something that simply is.


For some reason, the vision of myself rising one day last spring  (as if it were just another Tuesday), mechanically showering and getting into formal summer dress uniform (white shirt and tie, 4-button coat, highly polished oxblood shoes, badges, and ID bars, topped off with flat hat), then getting into my car for the drive to the office where I'm greeted by Tom, our deputy superintendent, also dressed formally, who excitedly told me that I was to accompany him to Buchanan Field in Concord to meet Department of Interior Secretary Ken Salazar's plane whose staff person had called late last night.  It was announced -- without warning -- that the Secretary's plane would touch down for a 90-minute surprise visit to the newly-named 392nd unit of the National Park System, Port Chicago Weapons Station.  I would later learn that -- en route from the airport to the Port Chicago site -- that I would give the Secretary the story of the new park, and that a delegation of dignitaries; including Superintendent Martha Lee, the mayor of the City of Concord, the base commander,  the president of Friends of Port Chicago, a rep from Rep. George Miller's office,  plus local press who had been alerted to the big news, etc., would be waiting to greet him and his party. 

I could not possibly have known of his impending visit since the call came long after I'd left for home on the evening before.  The occasions when I am called upon to be so dressed are rare (only a few times a year), and how on earth would I have known that this would be such an occasion?  And -- it didn't occur to me until just before sleep that night that, again, the sequencing was off ... .

It is this little understood state of an unnamed and unnameable ability -- this sixth sense from one of my unnamed and unnameable dimensions -- that I need to trust now.

But can one go through life depending upon something so nebulous? Yet, is this not the way I've always lived -- intuitively sensing out directions -- often acting before the fact? Always alive -- in the moment?  And -- always aware of context?  Doesn't everybody?  (Does anybody else ... ?)

Will this be the source of my commencement speech-in-progress;  this speech that has such an intriguing title but quite literally, no content?

One can only hope ... .

Ain't I a woman ... ?

Another busy week, but a thoughtful week it was.

My mind has been spinning with new thoughts born of the visit to Humboldt State University, and exposure to information that was mind-bending in that I became more acutely aware that so many of my conclusions have been arrived at in intellectual isolation and with unguided reading and a haphazard system of self-education.   My natural intelligence has served me well, but how much more could I have accomplished had I had the advantage of attending such a university in my youth?  How I do envy those young woman of the sisterhood whose lives and achievements are being shared with a generation of the young leaders who will take us into the future.

On the long drive back (after I was beyond the snow line), I was reminded of something said in passing by my host, HSU Prof. Christina Accomando who has done extensive research on Truth:

"... Sojourner Truth's first language was Dutch.  She was born in New York where she was owned by a Dutch family.  Her legacy is oral and transcribed in some imagined southern slave dialects by various scribes whose work it was to record her words over many years."

I found myself harking back to those words that echo down through history from the Seneca Falls Conference, "Ain't I a woman?"

Those thoughts (from my undisciplined mind)  collided with  two unrelated others and the combination threatened to derail yesterday's bus tour during which I found myself expressing them aloud -- and before I'd gotten around to understanding them fully.  I'm still working it through so this post may undergo revision as I do so.

The first is that I have a persistent need to disassociate myself from the "Rosie the Riveter" story.  I've always considered that story a part of the myth of the emancipation of women into the work force -- and my contention has always been that this did not apply to women of color since we've been working outside the home since slavery. Given the fact that, until recent times, black men had been limited to the lowest-paying service sector jobs, so it had always taken two salaries to support black families.  My WWII job in Boilermakers A-36, a Jim Crow union created for blacks only, meant that I had never seen myself as the romantic Rosie of "We can do it" fame.

Yet I've become increasingly uncomfortable with my position.  It wasn't that I felt that it was untrue or unjustified, it's just that there is a legitimate white Rosie story that isn't being told, and that it needs to be.  And, that white women needed to be demanding more from that history than a catchy tune, red bandannas, posters, and belated kudos.

The equally compelling thought was of the tragic Triangle Shirtwaist Fire of 1911 in which 149 lives were lost; immigrant women working for $6 a week under such conditions that in the aftermath, the horrific conditions of the workplaces in the garment industry came under harsh scrutiny, and the movement for unionization was strengthened.

WWII did not bring American women into the workplace for the first time.  That's a myth.  Women have been working since time immemorial.  Only it was not called work until they were introduced to what had formerly been male occupations ("work").  What women did was always defined as their life roles -- to be ever in support of the men of the society.  We have always been secretaries, librarians, teachers, nurses; always supportive of men -- with few exceptions.  Women's work consisting of child care, general housekeeping, shopping, washing and ironing, budgeting, preparing meals, etc., were considered "what wives do"  until they were recruited into the work force to do welding, riveting, conducting orchestras, dispatching trucks, engineering, reading blueprints, ferrying aircraft into war zones, contracting, manufacturing munitions, assembling jeeps and tanks, etc.; all work, for the first time in history.

Despite the fact that Rosie was often a poor woman whose opportunities were limited before she entered the defense industry, the romanticized vision that endures was that she was a middle class white woman (played by Katherine Hepburn or Rosalind Russell) who called her hairdresser or manicurist to cancel her next appointments and headed for the shipyards and aircraft plants to sign on as replacements for our fighting men.  That those pioneer women who were widowed by the Civil War and WWI had not been workers -- though raising large families, alone, on farms they ran themselves -- were not workers???  That those immigrant women whose lives were lost in the Triangle fire were not workers and therefore not counted before WWII as such?  Were those migrant sweatshop workers even counted as women?

Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott, and the rest of the Suffragettes might have fared better had they heard Sojourner Truth's words as "Ain't I a worker?"  Maybe the scribes got it wrong?  But then, what do I know?

Maybe, in time, some powerful gutsy white feminist -- whose passion for her story equals mine for my black story -- will appear out of the blue to guide walking tours at that great Rosie the Riveter Memorial on the Richmond Marina -- and make the feminist story come alive!  It's one of the multiple stories inscribed along the walkway that begs re-visiting, along with the story of Henry Kaiser, masterful industrialist who changed the workplace and revolutionized ship building;  the Port Chicago explosion that brought about the desegregation of the Armed Forces; the story of the internment of Japanese, 70,000 of whom were American citizens; the moving inscription that tells of the fact that WWII gave us 54.8 million casualties, worldwide; a number reflecting the last time we included civilian deaths, before the concept of "collateral damage" was introduced into the language of war; and the story of women in all its complexity -- because we were represented in all of those stories -- except that of Port Chicago -- and with little recognition -- until recent times. 

I have a feeling that these thoughts may undergo revision.  I managed to get myself into a fairly lively debate with two of my male colleagues yesterday which, unfortunately, gave off more heat than light -- so I'm not yet comfortable with my conclusions -- but the very fact that this history is still raising passions may be proof enough that we're finally processing it.  Maybe we'll get around to processing the Civil War before I trade my ranger flat-hat for a French beret!

The Humboldt adventure looms large this morning ... .

While writing the last entry Dorian called to ask if we could make a trip to the fabric store for some yarn she needs for a project.  This meant driving to the mall, waiting in the car under the protection of our blue handicap placard (a privilege almost equal to having valet parking) while she makes her choices.  This sometimes involves a generous amount of time -- but that's what crossword puzzles were meant for, and I always keep the latest New York Times magazine under the seat for just this kind of opportunity.  And such errands also allow time for chewing on whatever is left unprocessed in life that either was initiated by writing, or, is resisting resolution.

My mind was still occupied with the S.F. State protest of 40 years ago, and I remembered that -- (and long before blogging was even a word)  I tended to write accounts of significant events for myself.  Since these were rarely shared and certainly not meant for anyone else's eyes, my files were bulging with what I now see as first-person accounts of historic events.  Who knew?

All that is to say that somewhere in my files is that "first-person account" of that dramatic confrontation on the S.F. State campus.  My Humboldt experience suggests that it's important that I add that document to this blog (maybe under Cbreaux's Annex?).

And it is critically important to resist the temptation to make the corrections that 89 year-old far more experienced Betty might be tempted to do -- (The original was pre-computer; typed on my trusty IBM Selectric without SpellCheck or the editing capacity now available.)   I know that I must simply scan the document as is, typos and all.  As I recall, it's polemical and filled with youthful hyperbole, which may be precisely why it's important to not allow myself to try to temper young Betty's voice.  Maybe that's where the value is; value to preserving and revisiting that woman-that-I-once-was involved as a mere bystander in a major confrontation that changed the very nature of educational institutions and democratized the process in ways that bled out into every other institution and pointed the way toward freedoms promised but more often denied.

And I was only a spectator to social change.  I was on campus that day with two UU ministers (Revs. Aron Gilmartin and Harold Wilson) in a quest for understanding of the headlines we were reading almost daily.  Did I consider myself a political activist?  No.  Not then, and not even now.  When I saw the words describing me written out on the whiteboard on Thursday morning in that classroom, it was jarring.  All of those titles were endowed after the fact.  They all represented simply Betty in the process of living of a life and responding intuitively to whatever presented itself.  I recall when I first saw -- in print -- myself described as a cultural anthropologist, I had to look up what it meant!

Now I need to explore those files for that paper and hope that I don't lose the sense of its importance in the process -- and opt out of posting it.  At times second thoughts may stifle creativity.  The Sisterhood will be happy to get it, and will use it well.

It's over -- but maybe it's just another beginning -- this newest chapter in the remarkable life of Betty ... .

The Humboldt experience will mark the place where so much came together for me -- at a time when it was crucial to my next steps.

I'm in one of those periods where life is unfolding at a rate that defies understanding, and when I haven't the luxury of time to process all that is happening to me and to my ability to make sense of the world.  I've lived these periods before, but never with such a sense of urgency and import as now.   Yesterday at Humboldt State University before combined classes of young students I was a teacher.

I may have finally come to terms with the appropriateness of May 14th and the commencement ceremonies -- as the place where academic achievement equates with life equivalency.  I'm not the first, and I'll not be the last.  There are a host of extraordinary ordinary folks who have been honored by the academy, legislatures, institutions, for having taken the more circuitous route toward the same goals yet arrived at the same place having had impact along the way.  I think of cousin George Allen, a grandson of my enslaved great grandmother, Leontine, who rose to be president of Southern University -- only the second generation out of slavery, and the many African Americans of note who followed.

Most important, I discovered a sisterhood that exists on that campus that exemplifies the changes the world will need in order to survive the lightning quick rate of change that waits for no one.  This cadre of young teachers have an excitement about them that one can only hope is reflected widely across the academy. 

I rarely read back through my blog, there's
little time for that, so I'm not sure I've written about the experience of sitting in a Berkeley meeting of politically progressive elders -- mostly former east coast "red diaper babies," now grown old --  as they discussed just how we were going to change the world for the better by whatever means necessary.  These were white-haired "revolutionary" veterans of peace marches, and "Save the Whales" and "A Woman's Right To Choose," etc.  That was in the afternoon.  That very evening I drove to the Fruitvale District of Oakland to the Nu Upper Room, an artist's collective that met in the historic old Masonic Temple where the Hip Hop generation -- guided with love by guru Rafiq Bilal -- was hosting a cultural revolution of its own -- and I discovered that those goals that were being fought for so earnestly by those Gray Panthers earlier in the day had already been achieved across town and by nightfall!  One simply needed to change the lens and tilt the viewfinder a tad and nirvana was a reality.  Here were young people of every color and ethnicity; visual artists, dancers, playwrights, poets, gathering in the name of black culture and honoring it and themselves in ways that were stunningly meaningful.

It was so in Arcata.  Instead of idealistic black revolutionary Hip Hop Guru, Rafiq, here was this amazing sisterhood made up of Christina, Wurgil, Maria, Patty, Karla, Janet, Lorena and Barbara -- all leading eager and inquiring young students in an exploration of subject matter that only a few decades ago were being so valiantly fought over in our educational institutions.  And, yes, I was in that crowd  in 1968 when jauntily tam o' shantered S.I. Hayakawa stood on the rooftop of the Student's Union with his bullhorn taunting the crowd below in that dramatic confrontation over the resistance to the creation of an Ethnic Studies Department at San Francisco State.  That scene ended in tear gas and law enforcement officers on horseback swinging truncheons while plowing through a mass of determined students and supporters -- a sign of the times.

On the long drive home, at Laytonville, I found myself driving through a pouring rain sobbing convulsively!  My personal storm lasted until the outskirts of Willits many miles south.  It was a long but cleansing drive through magnificent redwood and rushing river country that I'll remember with awe for the rest of time.

And how strange that I hadn't found closure on the S.F. State event until this adventure at Humboldt State University, some 40 years later.

Connecting the dots has become a profound ritual in these concluding years.  Maybe that's reason enough for recognition on May 14th. Maybe it simply means acceptance of my role as "first source" to a history of some of the most tumultuous eras in our nation's narrative -- a time when the social landscape was altered for all time, -- and I've been witness to that history and have lived into the actualizing of what is no longer seen as alternative, but essential to the education of whole persons; whole young Americans. 

And the long drive home yielded more ...

later.