Still here -- and still in recovery, but all signs of depression seem to have vanished ...

... but just in case,  since this is my day off and I've no plans except for doing the mundane Monday stuff -- I'm going to drive to the civic center and photograph myself as painted by UCLA's Judy Baca on that beautiful new mural that was installed a few months ago -- and that I've been extravagantly ignoring each time I drive or walk past it going to and from our offices, trying to be blasé about this unbelievable honor.  No one mentions it, yet there I am depicted among community members living and dead; young and old; all representing life as it is and has been lived here in Richmond over the centuries, since the Ohlone Indians occupied this area long before the nation was formed; before the rose growing Japanese and Japanese/American families began to settle here in 1906; and long before WWII brought its migrant work force into this city.  We're all there in brilliant color!

It's very exciting to be immortalized in an important work of public art among others who are seen as stand-ins for a community proud of its diversity.  I've been waiting for some kind of ceremony that would mark its installation, but that doesn't seem to be happening, and the mural was completed weeks ago.


(for a closer look:  go to Judy Baca Richmond Mural Project)

I figure that I'm needing an ego boost about now (after the storm), and a boost is appropriate as a balance for unseen misery and pain experienced over the past several weeks.

Guess I should at least tell my family, and include it here for posterity, right?

This will require that you do some research while I try to figure out how to gather the strength to do the writing ... .

Look at the top left side of the screen, above my photo and the banner -- for that little white search bar.  Enter the name of my late son, Dale Richard Reid.  Relevant posts will be displayed -- but you'll need to scroll down to the one dated Wednesday, October 6, 2004.

It's all there; the haunting background to these last three weeks of depression.  Today, September 3rd is the anniversary of the day that his body was discovered on the bathroom floor.  He'd been dead (it was estimated) about 3 weeks.

If you'll note the dates, I place his death with confidence at August 17th for reasons given in that post.

In an unrelated series of acts, about 3 weeks ago I'd received a message from a best friend from his childhood, John Marshall, now living in Arizona -- saying that he was planning to visit the Bay Area soon to attend their high school class reunion, and would love to see me and to learn more about Rick.  I'd not seen John since they were both children.  I answered, inviting him to come to the Visitors Center while he and his Ana were in town, and that I'd love to talk about Rick.  Told him that the pain of the loss was now firmly in the past and that I was comfortable with it now.  On Saturday, John and Ana and I visited for perhaps an hour.  He'd brought class pictures in which he and Rick had shared life from perhaps fourth grade on through high school.  I so enjoyed their visit, and the chance to reminisce about life in Walnut Creek -- a childhood that had been so painful for my son for so many reasons -- and not all of them racial.

Then Barbara, another former student friend from Del Valle High got in touch through my blog and asked about Rick just a few days after John's initial contact.  She was not someone I remembered, but appeared to have been acquainted through high school with Rick.  She was working on the class reunion dinner (held last Saturday evening,  8/31) and was sure that others would want to know and that -- though she'd heard that he'd died -- didn't want to pass that along until confirmed.

I told both these voices from the past that the entire story was available on my blog, and gave them the dates to look up.  Secret-keeping could bring no consolation at this point, and these two young people seem to care.

... all the while the darkness was building, and in my mind's obvious attempts to layer over the pain of those memories -- the Supreme Court decision that gutted the Voters Rights Act, seeing The Butler film; being aware that the 50th anniversary of the bus burnings at Anniston, Alabama; and this past week's anniversary of the Great March in Washington, D.C.; all became an incomprehensible ball of disembodied angst, and they all happened over the same 3 weeks -- the anniversary of that tragedy of the fateful 3 weeks that Rick lay dead and undiscovered.   I'd simply never made the connection with current developments and those underlying awful memories.  I was being protected from myself, I suppose.

Today, September 3, 2013, is the anniversary of that discovery -- and the realization of the pall that fell over my life exactly 3 weeks ago has visibly lifted.

The sadness left as unceremoniously as it came.  I simply needed to understand what was happening to me, and whether the feelings were appropriate to the causes.  Not sure that makes sense to anyone but me, but being able to explain myself to myself tends to bring serenity, eventually -- even in the throes of such devastating memories.

I'm free again.

I can breathe freely ... and, though I do miss him still .... I'm secure in the knowledge that the deep depression was an appropriate response to living events and past trauma.

That it was.

comes the dawn

It's almost over now, "The Blues" ... .

Finally figured it out and by so doing am almost free of the darkness ...

... and writing it into the open surely is demanded before this miserable feeling of suspension in space and time is behind me ...

but for the moment -- having cried it out into consciousness -- giving it a voice must wait until the immediacy of life in the now has been satisfied.

Perhaps over the weekend, and after Mary's memorial service on Sunday afternoon.

Meanwhile, know that my rhythm has returned and all is well, considering, that is ... .

Just returned after three days of rest on the scenic north coast of Mendocino ... 

... but I'm still feeling "coiled," and tense, and the rest I was seeking failed to kick in as anticipated.  Maybe it had to do with the fact that -- instead of driving up Route 128 through the scenic Anderson Valley which ends with a burst of ocean breakers at the merge with Coast Highway 1 -- at the crest -- I'd decided at Cloverdale to continue on the faster and less curvy inland Highway 101 past Ukiah to Willits.  The dramatic first sight of the Pacific where the Navarro river bed widens as it empties into the sea -- and which gives such a burst of whatever it is that happens at that point on the drive where you suddenly move beyond the redwood forest and meet the wisps of fog carrying the scent of sea foam ... the roar of breakers against those monstrous rocks ... I missed it all this time.

... and for all his loving effort, poor Tom's gracious attempts at satisfying my every need went unrewarded.  The usual drive to Fort Bragg accompanied by his running commentary about the history; the current economic conditions; the small businesses now gone; the beautiful homes in the historic districts where the lumber barons once reigned; all reduced this time to little more than inevitable change produced by time ... and all met with my silence -- something I was increasingly aware of. 

Maybe how I enter Highway 1 is an essential element in this particular journey, and perhaps it was lost and therefore something in my imagination went unfulfilled.  I just don't know ... but something of importance was missing and never recovered.

I did meet two new friends, a writer and her husband, a woodworker artisan/photographer with whom I experienced similar feelings on January 20 of 2009 at the presidential inauguration.  It was on the Capitol Mall that I met over 2 million new best friends, any one of whom I could begin a conversation in the middle of the sixth paragraph.  Norma and Les make that 2 million and two, I think.  And I'm not certain how I know that, but I'd been reading Norma Watkins' online journal for months now as the result of Tom's sending the link, and have developed the trust that one feels when you encounter someone whose great questions match yours; and Norma is a white southerner whose history should have been antithetical to all that I believe in.  She hails from Mississippi, and lived for a significant time in Florida.  Unlikely?  Right.  But there you have it.  In her written words there is harmony with my thoughts and life lessons learned over decades.  And -- that feeling that our first conversation could start in the middle of the fourteenth paragraph!

Still not "uncoiled," but today is Sunday and tomorrow is a holiday so I still have 48 hours to try to recapture a sense of serenity that -- at least over the past weeks -- has been lost ...

... but next Sunday, September 7th, holds another memorial service, this time for Mary Towns Adams, a lifelong friend, and with it a deepening sense of urgency that may be becoming terminal now ... .

Could this be the answer for the general feeling of restiveness?
  

Escape back into my old world ... spent yesterday in Sacramento with my former boss and former Assemblywoman Dion Aroner ...

... and I'd forgotten what a pressure cooker that life is!  Since leaving the legislature Dion has become a powerful lobbyist (the best kind) who spends at least 3 days/wk and sometimes more in the Capitol -- meeting with legislators, old friends, reps from corporations and unions, and -- like yesterday -- participating in social events that further her (and our) causes.

The pace of life in those hallways and offices is unbelievably and awesomely fast!  I'd forgotten.  Several times during our time together I found myself sitting in (another former boss) Senator Loni Hancock's outer office while Dion was conferring with any number of people as she crossed them off her to-do list.  Loni's scheduler stopped by the reception desk to go over airline reservations for tomorrow; a union lobbyist popped in to press for time with Loni's Chief of Staff, only to be cautioned that "his people" were being too aggressive, and that urgent conversation was occurring less than 3 steps from my knees as I sat leafing through a magazine trying to look invisible.  A string of messengers from other offices kept popping in the door to drop off documents and memos into the In Box fixed to the wall in a place where they didn't need to even enter the room fully, but just reach in and breathlessly move on.  The numbers of men in 3-piece business suits and ties -- women in "business casual" as well -- all demanding attention and "time, time, time!" The corridors are alive with lobbyists and their targets -- legislative aides, attorneys, wanna-be candidates for public office next time around -- so that several 5-sentence  micro "meetings" occurred between our stepping out of Loni's office and getting in and out of the elevator to leave the Capitol building!  No exposure is wasted. 

This is what "making sausage" looks like.  I'd forgotten.

I'd been invited by Dion to attend a luncheon officially ushering in a speaker series sponsored by the 34 members of the Women's Caucus of the California State Legislature.  The lead-off for the series was Facebook CEO Sheryl Sandberg whose recently-published book has been on the NY Times bestseller's list for many weeks and is still climbing.

Her message to her audience held few surprises, and it wouldn't surprise me in the least if this attractive and personable young woman isn't aiming for a life of public service.  Governor?  State Senator?  Perhaps, but since she's at the top of the food chain in the corporate world -- and (obviously) is still reaching for the brass ring -- I'd bet on a run for public office in the not too distant future.

Her book title, "LEAN IN", is the running theme of her talks, and it got me to wondering if that wasn't where we made our mistake (Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, Fannie Lou Hamer, Rosa Parks, Mary McLeod Bethune, etc.,) all must have been leaning out! 

... but it was good to be with my dear friend, Dion, on the long drive to and from Sacramento -- good talk; great rapport; so glad to feel the comfort of being with a grown-up again.  It feels like it's been years!

While it's true that I've outlived my rage without losing my passion ...

This is the 50 year anniversary of the bus burnings at Anniston, AL.

... it is also true that on these occasions when I re-visit those periods of anger and outrage all of the affect returns along with the memories.  The pain is full-blown as if I'm again trapped in the experience with no way to flee its agony.

The above statement is true only as long as I stay in this particular time warp and don't wander too freely into the once-lived; then all bets are off.

There is need to protect myself from that which I cannot go back and change -- even when I see the nation in denial that it ever was -- and that "it's all over now" -- and that there is no need for protective legislation or defenses against those things over which so many human lives were lost or stunted by social injustices too burdensome to overcome; yet we did -- despite all.

I'm guessing that the underlying angst started with that dastardly Supreme Court unraveling of the fabric of the great struggles of Black Americans for the simple right to vote.   What is being expressed throughout the South and beyond through Stand your Ground laws giving license to vigilante justice, and Stop & Frisk practices -- assuring the further degradation in the lives of young African American and Latino males.

Those things are playing in the background right now, and unlike those younger days when I could pick up a picket sign and join the marchers to mute the pain and straighten my spine, now I can only try to remind those around me of the dangers of peeling back our visible social progress to the quick against a rising tide of ignorance that continues to exercise the right of White Privilege to the detriment of all else.

While I do acknowledge the vast changes made over time, that's now being combined with a sense of hopelessness.  My logical mind is resistant to allowing those two concepts to co-exist -- I suspect that  the collision is going on somewhere in my head that reflects that which we're all living out in the great society.  Maybe my radar is simply picking it up more accurately than is true for some.

I admit to identifying with Mr. Allen, the White House butler, in more ways than one might suppose.  How could I not?

Surely there is room for these conflicting truths to co-exist as we sort out our next moves toward that "more perfect Union" that we've promised ourselves.

Meanwhile, the knowledge that I probably won't live long enough to see it is at the bottom of these feelings of helplessness, but that was never meant to be.  We only get to influence Fate through our tenure upon the Earth for microscopic bits of eternity.

Maybe my main reason for being, after all, is to deliver the Charbonnet/Breaux/Allen DNA safely through this century without spilling it or otherwise despoiling the human gene pool.   Maybe that's enough.

... but then what is the mission of those who so stubbornly stand in my way?

Do you suppose ... ?

Took the evening off on Friday to see the Lee Daniels' new film, The Butler, starring the brilliant Forest Whitaker, and found myself catapulted back into the Sixties and before -- during a time of re-identification of racial ties; of life as a middleclass black at a time when to be such was to be suspect by the Black Nationalists among my acquaintances; of such schisms twixt generations and races and genders.  Of trying to live a black life in the white suburbs with mixed successes and failures.

From the opening brutal scenes of rape and senseless murder it was clear that this was going to be traumatic, and a trip back in time to the period of enslavement that features so prominently in my presentations of my personal history in the afternoon commentaries.  I probably don't need the additional pain to fix on at this point in life.

Turned out to be an important film -- but one with uneven performances by a cast that probably donated their talents for the sake of the story -- and it was evident.  Forest Whitaker's performance was remarkable but anticipated as simply another in a long line of great roles he's brought to the screen by his particular form of magic.  

I've written a couple of Facebook reviews of the movie, and in so doing unearthed painful feelings long forgotten, or, plowed under in the search for new places to stand, and unexpected re-setting of standards learned through years of struggle in a too rapidly-changing world.

It may be no more than this ...

We've finally produced enough black actors, screenwriters, directors, artists at every level of filmmaking, to now have produced enough films, documentaries, filmed essays, that give us a composite portrait of African American life.   The bench is deep, and deepening with each day. No one of their films -- from "Color Purple" to "The Help,"and "Fruitvale Station," can tell the whole story, but they're beginning to present to the world the complexity of black life in the full spectrum of the Black Experience up through time.  Each of these films contributes -- by providing the bits and pieces of the whole -- windows through which we can catch glimpses of ourselves as we move into an unknown future. 

I hope we, as a people, are beginning to understand that most of these films were created by black's for blacks, and that we needn't use the monetary measuring stick that defines success at the box office used for general film screenings.  I do believe we've found a new voice through which to process what is happening in our world -- both to ourselves and our children -- and that we must leave ourselves open to having them inform our continuing struggle for freedom and equality with open minds and hearts.

... but having said all that, I think I'd like to take leave of the re-living, and allow myself to pass the baton along to the young.  Not sure how much longer I want to carry the weight of social change, or, feel the urgency of times that are now moving too swiftly to find a proper footing.

 

But now I'm needing to get out of my pajamas and into my weekend garb to pick up Dorian at the BART station in El Cerrito.

And, yes, she called a moment ago and can be crossed off my worry list.

More on this later.

Sunday has progressed far enough along that the emotional storm may have subsided ...

Remembered how delighted I was on Friday on approaching the Ford building to discover that our maintenance crew (Thanks Randy, Brian, and Ken) had finally completed the installation of a new grand entrance sign for the Visitors Center.

It's impressive -- standing 7' x 14' in matching brick and large enough to not be dwarfed by this quarter mile-long amazing architectural wonder designed by Architect Albert Kahn and built during the years 1929 and 1931 by auto magnate Henry Ford to assemble Model A's.   The Ford Assembly Plant has been restored to its original splendor by Orton Development Corporation.  Our NPS Visitors Education Center stands behind this structure in the old oil house that supplied the energy for the building and now holds the exhibits related to the WWII Home Front; the little theater where we've established programming based on that history;  as well as stories of this city and across the nation of that era as lived by an "At War!" America.

The Ford Assembly building was converted to assembling tanks and jeeps during WWII.  Many of today's Richmond citizens descend from that heroic generation.  When combined with the 4 shipyards built by Henry J. Kaiser -- Henry Ford and the Santa Fe Railroads formed the basis of the city's defense-related industries.  There were 55 other such enterprises scattered throughout Richmond acting as subcontractors to those 3 giants who participated in the major corporate world of Roosevelt's "Arsenal of Democracy".


Wish I could pin-point the source of my uneasiness ... .

Woke this morning in a strange mood … hostile … tearful …

… without any sense of having had a bad dream, or, that there was anything that happened to set this up over the past 24 hours … yet I woke with that feeling that I remember from childhood -- when you've cried all the tears away and are left with only dry sobs.  Heaving spasms of grief that leave one with fatigue that only a long nap can begin to cure. The only hope for relief came with just ending this tragic day and waiting to begin another; exhausted.

Where is all this stored?  I don't think I've had this feeling since the day when my dog, Buttons, disappeared never to return.  It took years to recover from that one.  I'm not sure I ever did, when I think of it.

There's another image; that of my most-beloved baby doll, Bobbie, thoughtlessly left out in the rain in her orange-crate crib in our packed-dirt roofless playhouse overnight -- and discovered by my older sister, Marjorie, with hopelessly blistered face and kapok-filled body bloated beyond hope of recovery.   I couldn't have been older than six or seven at most.

Not only is it true that "children will listen," (thanks Stephen Sondheim) but children rarely forget, I suppose.

It was that kind of awakening.  The storm has been building for days, as I can see in re-reading my most recent posts.  Something is brewing -- and I know not what …

This promises to be the last busy week before a break.

This may be the first warning of something …

It may simply be that I'm tired and needing to recharge my batteries prior to upcoming fall events, and if so, a few days in Mendocino may be all that is needed for a rebound.

Seems "major," though.  Something primal ...

Maybe a cup 'o tea and a call from Dorian ... .

Looking forward to taking a week off to vegetate properly ...

feeling pretty well used up of late, and I think it's beginning to show.

The work continues to go well, and the weight of having become a minor public figure is growing more comfortable, while still providing a measure of surprise when I find myself singled out for attention.

Received an email from a university professor asking permission to use a couple of quotes from my commentary.  They were both comments that I feel are insightful and original, and it felt good to know that I will be cited in her soon-to-be-published book.  Though those thoughts and words have an "of course" feeling about them, that causes one to wonder just why they resonate so -- but I can see them register in the faces of audiences when spoken.

They rise up for me when I'm speaking about the fact that advancing years has brought at least two noticeable differences in everyday living.  When it happened I'm not certain, but I've found myself in a place where I've outlived my rage without losing my passion.  Though my rage surely served me well at an earlier time.  I suspect that without it I'd never have been able to face up to the ravages of life as a woman of color.  It kept my back straight and my gaze steady at those times when I had little else to call on.

The other is that -- over the past few years I've slid seamlessly into a place where I've become comfortable with conflicting truths.  Aging into this final decade brings with it the realization that it's all true -- for someone, and that we need places that accommodate our complexity, and where our truths can co-exist.

... and I do believe that this Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park is fast-becoming that place, and that my participation in its development is contributing to that outcome.

I do hope this is true.

I recall stifling a grin when Papa George explained his third wife, Louise, in these words ... .

"Some things you just gotta have in order to know you don't need!"

Given the chasm that has developed between the haves and have-nots in this country -- one can hardly imagine how we're going to save ourselves from the doom of environmental disaster being brought on by our country's excesses.  It is we who have consumed the King's share of the earth's resources over time, and it is within our power to try now to trim our needs to what is more equitable for the sake of humanity.
 
And ... there's a racial factor here in that so many people of color have been held down for so many decades that a backlog of wants and needs has developed through advertising and incessant promotional campaigns, and that we're now being encouraged to set aside in order to save the planet.

White folks tell us that many of the conveniences that we've been educated to see as essential are not.  We're being told that we not only don't need them, but that we must now simplify our lives by living in more sustainable ways.  "We've had all that stuff, and we know that you don't need it -- not only that, but your having it will put us all at risk of losing our space ship, Earth!"

I'm not sure just how well that's working out for us ...

From the look of the photos taken at the protest march from the Civic Center to the Chevron Refinery in Richmond yesterday, not as many African Americans as one might expect in a city with a 25-30% demographic were among the 1200-2000 passionate activists in that crowd.  Hope I'm wrong.  We've got work to do, environmentalists, and, unfortunately, the debate is shaped by decades of greed,  unequal opportunity, and access that precedes our recent urgent concerns about survival of our species and sustainability of the planet.  It won't be easy to undo an international appetite whipped into a frenzy by corporate power and that has now grown out of control.

It will be difficult, indeed, to convince a family without a roof over its head that sleeping under the stars is a privilege to be savored. 

We have generations of folks, worldwide, who have yet to learn the lessons of Papa George's at least one too-many marriages.

Return of "The Blues" ... .

Trauma of that dastardly Supreme Court decision gutting the Voters Rights Act must have been deeper than suspected.  I'm having a difficult time climbing up out of the Pit of Depression that caused my $1992 ambulance trip to Kaiser Permanente's emergency room two weeks ago.  While it has been possible to push it to the back of my mind during the day, the pain runs deep; penetratingly so as night falls.

My work remains meaningful; the public encounters continues to feed me and those with whom I'm in contact on both my tours and the commentaries in our little theater.

I was reminded of a conversation with cousin Paul or his wife, Shirley, or with cousin Armand, with whom I visited in New Orleans last December.  It was after one of our visits to St. Louis cemetery in the successful search for the grave of our cousin-in-common, Amable Charbonnet (bd 1790), that talk came around to the actual burial procedures suggested by the historic setting.

(By way of explanation of how so many could be buried in the same family crypt); "... as the remains decay over the years, they're pushed to a drop slot at the back of the crypt to make room for the new burial."  There was a word for that but I've since forgotten what it is.

 For reasons unknown, this is the rising image of my thought processes of late:

Just behind memories-in-progress -- like yesterday's heady experience of awkwardly pretending to be dancing in a Green Screen Production for public access television -- with a choreographer and a

company of young robotic hip-hoppers -- there sat images of 9 black-robed ghost Justices stripping away all of the joy of our adventure.  Their awful freedom-gutting decision further eroding all that was won through the excruciating pain endured by my generation.  The contrasts in my life are crazy-making!

... and at a time when my life is winnowing away in the moments with not nearly enough left for me to do it all over again.  

There will be others to fill my place in this March through Time, but despite this feeling of urgency and purpose -- mine will surely be running out, and soon.

I'm being diminished -- gradually -- by recent deaths of dear friends and acquaintances, with each a reminder of the approach of endings ... and wondering just how well am I managing my own exit?

... and I find myself wondering if I'll know when it's time to leave the stage?

Maybe, having put such thoughts to print I can let them go.

There are two memorial services to face up to over the upcoming two weeks, and then, perhaps, the Dance of Life can begin anew.

Meanwhile ... .

Guided another bus tour today, of the scattered sites that form Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home

Front National Historical Park ...

... and found that I've now grown so accustomed to sharing those personal stories with the public that -- even the presence of a camera person on board and being wired up for sound no longer phases me in the least.  Not sure that's good.  It's also true that his presence and all the trappings disappear into the environment before we've boarded the bus, something I never thought would happen, but it has.  But it's also true that I've eliminated cable from my life (and budget) after running across my image on the screen more often than is comfortable.  Seeing myself on camera is not something that I particularly enjoy, so radio is now my favorite mode of entertainment.

Fortunately, the cameraman is a personal friend by now -- having worked with me often over the past year.  He's also a history buff, and is as interested in the content of the tours as I am, so his presence is reassuring, if anything.

The intention is to gather enough of my presentations on video- and audio-tape so that the material can become a part of Pod Casts and edited into usable pieces for a variety of projects when I'm no longer with the NPS (awful thought!).

But the temporary fall into depression over recent national events is giving way (as is always the case) to new adventures:

If you'll look over to the left side of the screen at the bottom item under Links, you see a line for Zaccho Dance Theater.  This is the dance company founded by dancer/choreographer/aerialist Joanna Haigood.  Joanna is a dear friend and one of my heroes.  If you'll follow the link to Joanna's website, you will understand just why that is.  I've so admired her work over the years. She has worked internationally, and splits her time between the coasts, part of the time in New York, and the rest in her local studio at Hunters Point in San Francisco.

On a visit to Facebook earlier in the week I discovered that Joanna and Zaccho has won yet another distinguished award for her work on the East Coast.  I responded to the announcement with a brief statement that congratulated her on this new award and a statement expressing my wish to "be" her just long enough to fly!

A member of her company read my short post and apparently mentioned it to Joanna.  Then it came, "I think we can do it, Betty!"  and, "I will work up something for the two of us to do together" says Joanna -- and at some point when there's enough of an opening in her schedule -- I will be rigged up for flight!  I cannot wait!

Suffering from a lifelong fear of heights, this challenge is enormous -- but also freeing.  I can hardly believe that this is happening, but it is.

Immediately went to the nearest 24 Hour Fitness Center to sign up for training.  Filled out the forms and got myself a personal trainer.  I'm committed to 1 hour a day 5 days a week until further notice.  I think the gym staff must have had a wild time figuring out just who would be assigned a 91 year-old wannabe gymnast fossil!  But I'm still a fit and trim 118 pound woman with a dream to fulfill, and -- the only disadvantage I see that might get in the way is questionable balance that seems to have loomed up over the past year or so.  Standing on one foot with my eyes closed is enough to turn the world upside down.  The master trainer says we can get that under control by a regimen of strengthening exercises.

I went in for my first interview with the trainer this afternoon, and after about 30 minutes left him standing there with a look of sheer disbelief on his face; maybe it was wonder.  ("Have I just enrolled a 91 going-on-92-year old woman?")

We've got a plan, and I went to Mountain Hardwear where they carry active sportswear and found that I look absolutely not a day older than 75 in my black tights and top with the built-in sports bra!

Joanna trained with the Flying Wallendas of Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus at one time, so I'm expecting great things from this adventure.  This "performance" will surely not be public (I don't believe that's what she has in mind, nor do I), but will happen at her studio.  But it will be a guaranteed high point in my life, and I can cross another item off my bucket list.
  

*Just received news that Zaccho Dance Theater is appearing on the PBS Great Performance Series tomorrow night, July 26th, (check for local listings) in a work called Never Stand Still that was performed at Jacobs Pillow.  Bill T. Jones narrates.  Do watch.

When a person wakes up in the morning to discover she's been named "The most awe-inspiring park ranger" by the East Bay Express ...

(in their annual "Best of" issue)

... and when there is every indication that the honors (deserved or otherwise) will be refreshed and proliferate throughout the day by friends and family -- and maybe even a few strangers -- and maybe even into tomorrow ...

In a fair and just world that person should never -- under any circumstances whatsoever --  be expected to change the cat box!

Today was July 17th, and I was scheduled for one of my monthly now graduated to twice-monthly bus tours ... .

I'm not the only ranger giving bus tours of the scattered sites that define Rosie the Riveter National Historical Park, but since few on staff have yet been trained as interpreters of this specific history -- and the only other experienced bus tour guide is now lead ranger for the Visitors Center with little time to take the tours on.  At this point, the impression with the public is that I'm the "only game in town," thus my next several tours are all booked up, and it's just too early to begin to book September.

The bus tours are really the only way to experience the full context of this new national park, and they've become very popular with visitors, both from the City itself (where folks have known little about the history of this WWII Boom Town), and from the greater Bay Area public.

It might be of interest to note that on a recent survey of the guest book that visitors sign voluntarily, since opening on Memorial Day weekend in 2012, we've had 98 international visitors from 27 foreign countries.  This doesn't count the out-of-state visitation, nor those from the  nearby suburbs where so many of the descendants of the shipyard workers of the WWII era now reside.   Our figures (despite the absence of proper signage) are respectable (averaging maybe 2500-3000/month), and growing daily.

Today is post-Trayvon Martin demonstrations, both local and national, and I found myself factoring in recent painful history as I narrated today's tour. It was unavoidable.  But I found that -- since I have nothing to draw upon in my interpretation except personal history and experience -- I was processing that most recent history over the full range of the two-and-a-half hours of the tour, not often, not always aloud, but Florida and the trial surely were clearly a presence on the bus.

Came up with some remarkable conclusions that I'd not had a chance to even know were being drawn ...

and -- as I heard the unrehearsed sentences being uttered aloud during the commentary -- there were some surprises ...

I think they may need a few hours of fine tuning before I try to etch them into words in this screen ... but it may be enough to state that a weight seems to have been lifted ... a weight that had been gaining over weeks without notice ... but I've grown into new territory ... and I need to live with the newness for some hours before trying to move them onto a page. 

Suffering a bout of depression, I think ...

... and can't seem to shake myself loose ...

To say the George Zimmerman trial for the murder of young Martin is alone causing my world to suddenly cave in on itself might be an exaggeration, though there is surely a connection.  May have begun with the Supreme Court's gutting of the Voters Rights Act -- but it's far more than that.  Those are just the most obvious signs to point to.

Combined with my twice-weekly commentaries in the theater where the only material I have to draw upon is my own personal history -- and the steady decline of the whole social system of my country, it's becoming so clear that I cannot push it back from the forefront of my mind much longer and retain my sanity.

About two weeks ago -- the day I participated in the Juneteenth parade followed by my usual two o'clock screening of "Home Front Heroes" with commentary in the theater is when I began to feel out of balance; off-center.

As usual, as my presentation ended, with head down I went to the lobby and retrieved my purse and hat from behind the front desk and headed out the door for the parking lot.

Within a few miles I was already in some other mind-space and ready to begin my 2-days of "offness" before beginning another week.  It doesn't take more than driving a few blocks before I'm on to the next thing on my list and in this case I can distinctly recall going over possible eating places to take Dorian for an evening out.  This was surely not a state of anxiety. It's been quite a while since we've done that, and I knew that the little amber light on my cell phone was blinking her voice mail message into my subconscious for a call back as soon as I arrived home.

I was about a mile short of the end of the 5 mile drive to my home.  The traffic was fortunately light or the next few moments might have been tragic, indeed.

Suddenly -- out of nowhere -- I became disoriented.  The world looked vastly different somehow.  The sunlight had changed character -- by several shades.  There was no pain, and I never lost consciousness, but pulled into the next intersection and waited for the world to get back into focus.  There was no panic.  Could this be a warning for the onset of a stroke?  I was acutely aware of the need to act quickly so that effects had a chance of reversal.  These signs were not familiar, and it all seemed to be at brain-level.  A truck drew up behind me and I heard the driver press his horn, only once, -- it appeared that I was blocking his way into that intersection so I needed to make a quick decision.


The incident lasted no more than a few minutes -- maybe no more than seconds -- and left me shaken, but completely coherent.  I'm perhaps a mile from my apartment, but between here and there was a fire house.  It would not be wise to drive home where I would be alone when it might be possible to stop in at the fire station for help.

Knocked on the door and was greeted warmly by a uniformed fireman.  I explained what had happened and when a second man popped in from the next room, they quickly got out equipment and began to take my blood pressure which was (apparently) alarmingly high.  (I'm sure by that time panic had set in because in my mind this was a beginnings of a stroke.) 

By now I'm feeling humiliated as if I'd somehow done something horribly wrong, but at their insistence found myself being tucked onto a gurney, loaded onto an ambulance that had magically pulled up, and we're off to Emergency!

It was only then that I realized that I'd not eaten all day, nor could I recall having taken any liquid so was probably suffering from dehydration.  I remember having difficulty remembering my social security number when asked -- but the lapse lasted only a few seconds and my still alert mind made note of it at the time.

The next 5 hours were spent attached to the "drip" thing and a puzzled young doctor who couldn't figure out what on earth ... because of my excellent medical record and the fact that -- despite my age -- I'm not on any meds nor have I ever in life been hospitalized for anything beyond those associated with having given birth 3 times without incident.

Five hours later, red-faced,  (and my car parked wildly at the fire station 5 miles away) I called my niece to pick me up for the drive home.  I felt so ashamed for having cost my medical plan for that 4-mile ambulance ride ($1995 was the bill -- even without the siren -- but it was not charged to me).  Small wonder that medical costs are so outrageous!

Not to worry.

I'm just fine, but in the search for what built up to the incident I've become more sensitive to how much I'm re-living the trauma of the civil rights revolution, and of the need to stay engaged with that dark past enough to extract the lessons as I continue to incorporate them into my commentaries.  And as I re-visit that pain -- it carries an emotional cost that must be paid.

That leaves me with an anomaly.  We may never know what happened (dehydration?), but it's left me with only the emotional component -- "The Blues", and a lingering feeling of hopelessness ... .

Received a follow-up call at work from the ER doctor last week to check on my state of being.  He suggested that I visit the blood pressure clinic at the very next chance I have to do so.  Did that a few days ago and checked out 134 over 63 -- well within the range of normal.

Maybe, if I allow the tears to flow freely for Trayvon and his parents; and for my sons, Rick, Bob, and David who learned early the lessons of racial profiling as one of the high costs of living in the suburbs of culturally-deprived and white-privileged America. 

Maybe the pain is guilt that I put them through that in the belief that I was justifiably exercising our rights of citizenship in the country of our birth, and 13 generations of residency.

They had a dream, too.

Find myself wondering -- in this -- the fiftieth anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington -- how these panelists would grade us on progress in actualizing the Dream ... in light of recent Supreme Court decisions.

And noting, as well, that there were no women at the table.

Civil Rights Roundtable 1963