"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself" (President Franklin Delano Roosevelt - 1941)

I'm not so sure of that.  Not any longer. 

Once the thought entered my mind that my great-grandmother was born in 1846  into a world population that was under two billion -- and that -- only 4 generations later --I'm living in a world of seven and-a-half-billion people, I've not slept well.

Several things came together in the stillness of those sleepless nights that have made me question the place that fear may have been meant to play in the human equation, particularly -- the differences between rational and irrational fear.

One was an incident from a time when I was working as an administrator in a treatment clinic for emotionally disturbed children.  Over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich one warm lunch hour -- seated under a great walnut tree in Prof. Michael Cjaza's back yard I scanned through a case history of a 6 year-old adopted child of caring parents.  He was surely acting-out, often with violence, from some deep-seated trauma.   The symptoms were almost impossible for the family to either understand or to survive.  It was the diagnosis that both surprised and puzzled me, while it presented an intriguing supposition that I'd find myself mulling over many times in later life.

The conclusion drawn by a brilliant young psychologist was that -- after an I.Q. test revealed that this youngster had an intelligence score of over 150, and was being parented by a couple with a combined I.Q. well within the low-normal range.

The result was that this child was living in a world in which -- even at six -- he could out-think those upon whom his life would depend, and that because of this he could not expect the protections that he would need in order to survive.  The professional opinion was that his acting out grew from a general lack of security, and the inability to address it at his early age.  He could not be expected to develop the tools with which to cope until much later in life.  Fascinating?  I've never forgotten his tragic story, and often wondered what happened to him.  Would this lead him toward the life of a sociopath?  This example of rational fear has returned often to cause wonder ... .

His story rose to the surface during the NPR interview last week.   I'm not even certain of the connections, but here it was again. It was when I was asked about my optimism, and my answer reflected recent thoughts about the population explosion and the awesome scientifically-based environmental changes anticipated over the next several decades.  Those world population figures are scary, and embedded in them is my sense that fear should be playing a larger role in our considerations these perilous days, and that if we're not afraid we're not paying attention.

The fact is  that in my thirties I suffered a mental break that may have saved my life.  It was at a time when I was living in a breaking marriage with four children whom I loved dearly topped by one approaching adolescence as a confused gay black male, and a toddler who was clearly mentally-retarded as the result of brain damage suffered at birth.  I was living with all of this without the support of a husband with whom none of this could be discussed -- who was in denial about the gender issues with our eldest, and who also refused to recognize the mental deficits of our youngest child and only girl.   He was struggling to support a family, with the demands of running a small business, and simply not capable of dealing with the problems posed by dealing with such volatile human issues.  He was coping the best he could, I'm sure.  The marriage ended after years of agonizing emotional pain.

All of this was occurring at a time when we were living day-to-day in a hostile suburban environment where racism was a constant element to be dealt with.  My break was an appropriate response to what was going on around me.  Mine were rational fears, and escape into a mental break was probably predictable and the only defense available to me at the time.

Enter, Betty the Artist ... .

But the over-riding factor -- and the one that lay beneath all of the daily problems -- was the fact that I had been slowly coming to the realization that I was living in and attempting to adjust to an irrational world.  Fear became my protector in those awful times, contrarily, in a world where it could not be acknowledged as a legitimate response to the very real dangers that threatened my existence.

Once full recognition of the bizarre reality in which I was living, my therapy was over, and my real life began.  I was not mad, the world was!  The serious business of learning to live with and not deny my "madness" made survival possible, and does to this day.

The ultimate proof of that wild theory is that I was a citizen of a nation which -- under the leadership of that same trusted president -- had the audacity to have waged a war  to save democracy with a segregated Army Forces  which could only be diagnosed as delusional!


Anyone not living in fear at this moment in time may be a threat to humankind's ability to sustain itself -- not only as a nation, but as a species, and to begin to take the necessary steps to halt the planetary deterioration now clearly evident.

Maybe "... the only thing to fear is fear itself" is a truism that no longer serves us well.

For those of us who are fearful for the planet, be assured that such fears are rational.  They need to activate us enough to break out of denial, and begin to put forth the effort needed to save the planet.

Mars is not the answer.  It merely provides a great adventure on the way to Doom.

How I'd love a conversation with astrophysicist Neil Degrasse Tyson before I take leave of this dimension... .

I so love his ability to make space make sense ... .

I wonder about his fears ...?

Dr. Tyson is one of the few intellectual leaders among us for whom I'm certain that Truth is more than merely curiosity satisfied.

Here is the link to the National Public Radio (NPR) Michael Krasny's Forum PodCast ...

http://www.npr.org/podcasts/510075/kqed-s-forum

(I think you need to go to Audio Archives Search to find it.)

I'm not sure how to make it "live" so that you can just click on it, but if you copy and paste it I'm sure it will come up.  Just scroll down to June 10th.

It was an interesting experience which made me more aware that there is a huge difference between doing an interview by telephone, and sitting with a warm and engaged interviewer in a live encounter.  This was a wonderful opportunity to be involved in a conversation about something that means a great deal to me, and speaking face-to-face makes all the difference.

The experience bears some resemblance to the fact that I insist upon the lights in our little theater being at full tilt when I'm speaking.  I hate to be presenting under a spotlight that prevents my ability to see into the faces and the eyes of those with whom I'm speaking.  In one case some time ago, I was serving on a panel at the Berkeley Black Repertory theater where it was impossible to see the audience due to the lighting.  We were sitting under a spot with the audience breathing somewhere in front of us, with the spot preventing them from materializing into human form.

When it was my time to speak, I remember asking that the house lights be turned up and found that it was impossible for some reason.  I found myself doing my few minutes on stage trying to somehow walk out of the spotlight all during my talk, totally frustrated!  I was shading my eyes with my hand, and trying to peer into the void hoping to connect with a face or two ... it was pret-ty awkward, I'll tell you.  The audience must have viewed it as pretty strange.

This interview was so comfortable, despite the obvious signs of technology with its multiple mikes and cords and wires, but the setting was about as non-obtrusive as it was possible to make it.  Mr. Krasny was so warm and welcoming.  The time went by so quickly that -- in the blink of an eye it was all over.

It was even possible to later listen to my raspy voice at home later in the evening, and to lose myself in my own words; a strange experience ... but it happened.

The stories of that era are so engrossing that I, too, am captured by them.

The power in that narrative is so compelling ... .

Last week's post-concussion interview for ParkLeaders online program ... .

http://parkleaders.com/betty-soskin/

This is the link to a PodCast published yesterday on this National Park Service website.  I'd only been home for two days after a hospital stay for treatment and observation.

For just a few minutes I considered the possibility that this was the beginning of the end of all existence, and that the fear that every elder feels from time to time  -- of losing control of one's mind. But yesterday I listened for gaps, hesitations, slurs, etc., and -- unless I'm missing something -- none surfaced.  That rush you hear is the sound of relief as I exhale with the release of a short-lived panic!

After the opening questions from Jody Maberry, the interviewer, confidence returned and the accident became a non-event in an otherwise italicized life.

I figure we've still got some miles to go before we close shop and move to the next dimension.

It's a good interview, I think.

Wish I'd had that confidence when the young Betty needed it to navigate through the hazards of everyday life on the planet.  But maybe I'm better able to benefit from having it now -- when I have the maturity to value it and the audacity to wield it for those things held dear.

I've wondered just when the public attention would begin to creep into front row center ... 

... and now it has.  Pretending it away has ceased to work, I think, and here it is and I suppose the only way to deal with it is to acknowledge its existence.  And, yes, I know you're there, but how I feel about it is still unclear ... .

I attended an annual event last night that was sponsored by the National Park Conservation Association that was held in their offices in San Francisco.

From the moment I walked in from the elevator, it was clear that something had changed -- and that I'd been preceded by word of mouth.  This was easy to assume since the group had attended one of my talks in our theater about two weeks ago, and I'd received a spontaneous standing ovation the likes of which are rare indeed.  It was heady!  It was also dumbfounding ... and I have no idea what that means even as I type the words.  But the feelings I remember were so mixed; humbling and exhilarating at the same time - inexplicable.  I was so grateful and relieved to see Tom Leatherman suddenly appear at my stage right to stand with me before the group that afternoon.

I knew the magic had happened ... again ... and the feeling of panic plus pleasure that always comes with it were in the moment as well.  Whatever had happened was undeniable, and wondrous!

Maybe the reason I'm so conflicted is due to the fact that I'm being hailed as an exemplary "interpreter" when I've never seen an interpreter at work except the one time when -- prior to my becoming a ranger -- I took the tour of Tao House at the Eugene O'Neill site and experienced a superb presentation by Ranger Joann Jarvis.  That was my only experience.   I've also seen others of our staff do their stories, but only in bits and pieces.

I've seen the noted Yosemite Park ranger, Shelton Johnson, reenacting the Buffalo soldier role, but only on film and never in the flesh.  It's easy to see the power in Shelton's interpretation, but is what's being reacted to the truth-telling that occurs?  If so, then that may be the common denominator between us.  That may be what I need to explore.

It's difficult to feel receptive to such acclaim in a role that I've no way to compare with what might be considered the norm.  Shelton Johnson is surely not the norm, but the exception, and if he draws as much magic from his audiences as I experience from mine ... .

One day I hope to sit down with him ... one day ... .

"You're a natural interpreter," Betty, "there's no reason to question the why of it.  You're the best!"  Those are the encouraging words of our Chief of Interpretation, Kelli English.

... and when I say, "but I'm not certain whether I'm being hailed for what I do or what I am," few seem to understand the statement."  It can't be for what I know because I haven't a clue of what an interpretive ranger is or does; I haven't paid the dues nor completed the education and training essential to produce same, so if I'm confused -- is it not understandable?

What they can't be aware of is that this is precisely what I experienced long ago when I was singing.  I walked away from the acclaim -- not because I feared failure -- but because I feared that it would consume me with a passion that I didn't understand then -- nor do I now.

When I listen to myself on audiotapes done at the time I hear nothing that would be worthy of the breathless silent attention one can almost hear in the background.  The thin reedy young voice is not so arresting, though the original poetry (lyrics) holds up well.

What is different about this?

What is different about now?

... maybe it's that this time I won't run away ... .

that is, if destiny will allow just a little longer ... .

This should take you to the Weekend Today Show segment that aired this morning on NBC:

http://www.today.com/video/meet-the-nations-oldest-park-ranger-446563907764

Since I'd discontinued cable (again) I couldn't watch it until after the fact, and it was curious to know that it was being telecast everywhere but in my living-room.

It also gave a few moments of watching my mother on the screen  when I knew that was not possible since she passed on in 1995 -- yet here she was.

I don't think that my inner-image of myself has been updated for some years because the woman in that piece looks far more like my mother than the one who inhabits this body these days.

Although that might have been caused by the fact that this week I found myself occupying a hospital bed for a couple of days and nights due to an inexplicable incident involving finishing my work day standing at the teller's window of my bank -- feeling perfectly well -- waiting for the completion of a transaction and waking up some time later in an ambulance en route to John Muir hospital in Walnut Creek!

That was on Tuesday and today is Saturday and in between are some days of uncertainty and lots of unexpected bed rest and a bump with a gash on the right side of the back of my head that sports a few stitches and tenderness to the touch.  Apparently the fall to the stone slab floor caused a concussion that I'm still recovering from, but I'm definitely on the mend at this point, except for the reawakening of vertigo that has lain dormant over many months, but has now returned with a vengeance.  Had forgotten how miserable a state that is with its nausea and dizziness making moving about impossible.  It responds to Meclizine, fortunately, and seems under control at this point, though I won't stray far from home for a few days. 

The diagnosis is that the meds that had been prescribed for me for a "marginally high blood pressure" were ill-advised.  With 36 hour monitoring (every 45 minutes) it was discovered that I apparently had a precipitous drop in blood pressure that had caused the fall.  Medication has been ordered stopped until my primary physician can reassess.  I was also in need of hydration and once a couple of pints were administered intravenously the problem was solved.  I recall grinning to myself as I watched the drip-drip-drip from that plastic bag if things might improve if that were chicken soup or even bourbon, but maybe that was just an indication of my state of mind at the time.

Within a few hours was moved back (by ambulance) to Kaiser Medical Center in Oakland from   John Muir hospital emergency, where a catscan, ekg, blood work, etc., were administered, and my all around good health was confirmed yet again, and the scare was over.

Meanwhile, I'm at home for the next week for a much-needed hiatus except for Tuesday when I'm planning to attend an event that I've been looking forward to that's being sponsored by the National Parks Conservation Association about Pullman porters/Buffalo soldiers/Harriet Tubman.  Can't imagine missing it.

Now I'm about to try my wings for the first time in days -- going on a short trip to the supermarket to pick up the things that I was planning to purchase last Tuesday after the trip to the bank for cash ... .

It's becoming routine, now, the public exposure -- the interviews ... and last week was no exception ... 

http://www.theguardian.com/travel/2015/may/08/park-ranger-rosie-the-riveter-san-francisco-us

His name was Will and he was someone from the Guardian requesting a 30-minute conversation for a Travel piece to be published in England.

Two days later the article was sent as an attachment in an email complete with an accurate interview (no misquotes) and photographs taken from the Internet I suppose, since none were requested prior to publication.

I suppose this means that we've gone international, right?  My city of Richmond is experiencing international attention as the result of having been established as the site of the greatest shipbuilding effort in the history of the world, and our park is the focus for the interpretation of that history.  Henry J. Kaiser's four Richmond shipyards with their work force of 98,000 extraordinary ordinary American workers formed a critical part of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt's Great Arsenal of Democracy. 

I suppose that -- as living primary sources -- those of us still living are becoming the link between then and now, and that we've begun to personify an important aspect of the stories at a time when racial politics continue to fuel dissension the world over.   Berlin, Paris, and London among other world centers, continue to experience racial unrest and answers remain tantalizingly and dangerously beyond reach.

Perhaps, because of this nation's youth and volatility, we're being seen as the place on the planet where breakthroughs in human relations are most likely to occur.  Maybe.  I happen to believe that just might be possible.  And I continue to believe that I'm living in the one place on the earth where that possibility might best be witnessed; the Greater San Francisco Bay Area in the State of California.

I continue to believe that it was the seeds of social change sown here during the Home Front period of WWII that gave form and substance to the Civil Rights revolution of the Sixties, and that those influences continue to radiate out from here into the rest of the country and the world to this day.  I suspect that it may well have been those of us whose lives spanned both those eras who shaped what was then the future.

... but then that's the part of the story that is told in my three-times-a-week commentaries in our little theater.

Y'all come.

Something about those stories about the Baltimore mother's being named "Mother of the Year" is worrisome ... .

Originally, my maternal empathy zeroed in on her obvious panic and fear for her teenaged son's safety, but eventually -- upon seeing her talk show interviews -- the original feelings of compassion began to fade and a nagging feeling began to surface that suggested that the real issues were being diverted at a time when the nation can least afford it.  Not now.   We can't afford to be sidetracked at this point.  Next steps will determine whether progress will continue to be made, or whether the regression being experienced in some parts of the country will be  deepened.

Had that young mother not been sitting in her living room watching the chaos on television instead of participating along with her community the outcome might have been quite different.  Had she chosen this as a teaching moment to share with her children by being out there among the protesters, her six kids would have had a model for how one deals peaceably with the infringement of their First Amendment rights, and her son might not have had to pick up that rock at all.  She would have added to the much-needed toolkit they will need in the ongoing struggle that lies ahead for us all.

We might be talking now about the obvious brutality of a predominantly black bullying over-armed police force (who were raised by mothers who loved them enough to beat the hell out of them when she felt it was needed in order to survive) rather than whether or not she had the right to publicly humiliate her teenager by physically attacking him before the world.  She may have done us all a disservice by the displaying of the much-heralded destructive behavior that passes under the guise of "my mother loved me enough to beat the hell out of me when she felt I needed it in order to survive!"   When and how do we ever begin to break the cycle of violence?

This was surely true in the day of Emmitt Till, or even earlier -- at the time that my parents had to relocate our family from New Orleans to Detroit because Dad chose to call a white man by his first name (yes!).  We must not allow the country to regress back to those eras, but we've got to continue building on past gains in the continuing struggle for equality.  Our children are growing up in a far more enlightened country than the one we so recently lived through.  Old ways need to give way to new ways of parenting.  Non-violence is the legacy left to us by Dr. King that must be acknowledged and honored in these times of continuing civil strife.

Maybe it's time we gave up that old school strategy that leads nowhere except to more violence, and begin to teach our kids about how one defends their First Amendment rights by giving them models by how we ourselves live out these years as evolving people in a still-evolving nation.  We need to be out there in the streets as families along with other families of every race and ethnicity in this current revival of the ongoing struggle for equality and justice.  One might well wonder if -- confronted by parents and children on those lines -- might this not have a calming effect on law enforcement?

I remember back in the early Seventies the day that I returned home from a day spent at the Oakland Induction Center demonstrations  against the Vietnam War to find that my son, Bob, had cut school to join the protest.  When I asked if this were true (having been notified by the vice principal's office of his high school that he'd been absent) his response was, "I'm 17 years-old facing the probability of being drafted, and there are decisions to be made for which the answers were not in the classroom but on the streets."  Right on!

A lot of our youngsters are facing the same questions now in relation to a broken justice system, and how we, ourselves, respond will guide their actions.  We must not allow their only response to be a rock in a bare fist!

The ball's in our court. 

As it is with news magazine shows, late Friday evening we received word of the postponement of our segment on the Weekend Today Show ... 

... and I experienced feelings of both excitement and relief.  Major news events had crowded out the prepared piece, and it will be shown "sometime in May", according to the producer.  "It's completed, and is great," says she.

After  eight hours of shooting, and the subsequent requests for additional photos and relevant information -- I'd completely lost any sense of what would be shown.

I was beginning to wonder if I'd remembered to comb what hair I have left; whether I'd checked my makeup after a full day (hadn't looked into a mirror since leaving home that morning); and all those things that fill the time after you've spent endless hours being on camera.  There were long stretches when I'd forget the crew was even on site, or that I was wired the whole day as I conducted my bus tour (had I said anything that might later prove embarrassing?).

It would have been great to have risen this blue-skied Sunday morning; viewed the footage along with the nation as it watched; and had it all behind me.  Now the period of nervous anticipation has been lengthened, and the doubts will continue; maybe not.  There's a level of disbelief to it that persists, and I really do forget the continuing public exposure in the course of my work days as things settle into my new normal.

And that includes word from our superintendent announcing that he'd received a request from the Guardian (and I mistakenly associated that with the Bay Guardian - a SF newspaper) from the UK.  They were seeking a 30 minute phone interview to be used in connection with a travel show aired in England.  "We'll send questions by email, and set a time certain if she will accept."  I said yes.

The same day I'd just responded to a request from a State University of New York (a "... small college with a student body of around 2000") for me to deliver the Commencement address at their graduation ceremonies of May 2016.  What an honor!

My response was to live rather immodestly with the sense of importance it afforded me for a few days -- let the warmth of it wash over and stoke my ever-aging ego before sending regrets.  "... While I enjoy excellent health at 93, to accept such a commitment for a full year in the future would be tempting Fate," says she.   (You'll notice how readily I slip into referring to myself in the third person these days).  I no longer plan ahead more than six months, and this proposal more than exceeded those self-imposed limits. 

Meanwhile, someone on the faculty of the University of Oregon has discovered my blog and -- on the strength of that interest -- has invited me to travel to their campus some time this fall or winter semester to present to their classes.  The NPS will grant permission, and plans are being made for me to accept their invitation.  This is a pleasant reminder of my visit to Humboldt State University in Northern California a few years ago, and of how exciting that was, and how it felt to be interacting with students and faculty women who were doing such amazing work in Feminist Studies.  I've accepted and am waiting for next steps.

Who says the Golden Years can't be quite the best ever?

I just have to be careful not to ever buy green bananas ... .

My first great grandchild, Patrick Kayden Hebert is now capable of these morning conversations with his Mommy as you can see ... .

... and I'm serving notice on the nation that I'll give y'all about a dozen years to get your act together enough so that these chats don't have to consist of warnings of how to act should he encounter problems with authority, "keep your hands always in sight!" etc.

At this point he's being loved unconditionally, and is interacting with his environment with complete trust.

I'm praying that I and others of like mind have done enough world-changing in our time to give him and others of his generations at least an even shot at success in life.  And, that the necessary social changes keep pace with global warming and rising sea levels that are no longer debatable.  That's a lot to ask, but ask it I shall.  His precious little life may well depend on it.  Today's headlines (Ferguson, Baltimore, New York, Cleveland, etc.) would suggest that we have a long way to go before progress is measurable, but I'm optimistic when looking back at past successes that I've seen over a long lifetime.

Of all of the little boys like Kayden, one or another may have brought into the world some of the answers to the unprecedented problems we'll be facing in the next decade or two.  We know not just who they are, but we cannot afford to not give each the greatest education and opportunity to contribute if we're to save ourselves and our place in the universe.

Wish I could hang around long enough to continue to influence what comes next ...  .

Meanwhile, the work goes on, and the thing that I'm fighting so hard to forget is the fact that at a recent off-site presentation -- during the Q&A following my talk, a suburban woman in her middle years raised her hand to declare proudly before an all-white audience, "... I watched The Help twice, and I even read the book!"

Shienelle Jones of NBC Today Show

Weekend Today Show hits Richmond ...

On Wednesday last, promptly at nine o'clock a 4-person team consisting of producer Caroline Gottlieb and NBC news anchor Shienelle Jones who flew out from NY,  plus a cameraman and audio tech from the local NBC Affiliate in San Francisco arrived at the Visitor Center to spend the day filming my bus tour for airing next Sunday, April 26, sometime between eight and nine o'clock.

It turned out to be a full 8-hour day for what will probably be two minutes of air time, but that's the way of these things.  Before day's end we would film at Lucretia Edwards park as the group boarded the bus for our 2 and-a-half-hour tour; then for a meet-up at the SS Red Oak Victory where we went aboard and -- with a glorious spring day with a cloudless blue sky we walked on the top deck and spoke of the ships history; then I continued the bus tour while the crew headed for the Rosie the Riveter Memorial to cover that moving site; then back to the Visitor Center for viewing of the film and my talk in our little theater.  It would be another adventure to remember. 


Surprise for me was that I had no idea that a Weekend Today Show even existed, or that its news anchor was a lovely young African American journalist, and that it would be she with whom I would interact on camera.

This would be Shienelle's first visit to the West Coast, and from her arrival at the Visitor Center with its sweeping views of the entire San Francisco Bay shoreline; with the grandeur of the Ford Assembly Plant, she was blown away!  From the first moments of the shoot it was clear that this team was totally into their assignment -- and that we would be shown in our best light.

However, had they been present in the hour leading up to this day, it would have been quite a different story:

At about 8:30 -- just a half-hour before I was due to present myself at that Visitor Center to meet with the 22 folks who'd signed up for my bus tour -- I was putting the final touches on my appearance, and, remembering that I needed to apply Polygrip before the lip gloss, and nowhere in sight was my

lower denture!

The next 20 minutes were spent frantically searching my bedroom;  on my hands and knees searching under the beds, stripping the blankets and sheets, the pillow cases, dumping wastebaskets as I tried to recall whether I'd thrown anything out; frantically going through pockets of yesterday's uniform and today's bathrobe, all to no avail!  Suddenly that defensive something that kicks in at such times, that provides the resilience -- and that allows you to view yourself in the third person -- and suddenly I was lying on my back on the bedroom rug giggling hysterically as I thought that I might have to call in to explain that the whole thing had to be shelved because Betty couldn't find her teeth!

In the middle of that spasm of laughter my eye caught something lying just under the edge of the bed near the nightstand where there lay a box that was tilted awkwardly.  It was the Walgreens vanilla caramel package with my lower stuck to the bottom! It had fallen from the nightstand where I'd absently set it while watching the Daily Show the night before.  Phew!  That was close.

With what dignity there was left, I finished dressing and headed for my big shoot.  They'd never know, right?  But it was a reminder that Life has a way of humbling the best of us and that the next time I might not be so lucky.

Yesterday there was a call in my voice mail waiting for a callback from KQED-FM in San Francisco.  I'm being invited to do an interview sometime this upcoming week for their Forum show with Michael Krasney.           

Because the subject came up during an interview after my talk last week, I find myself thinking about feminism -- and why my coming to terms with it was so late ...

... but with some background, maybe my case can be made.

When the women's movement began to hit like a juggernaut in the suburbs where I was living in the late 60's through the 80's, it tended to skip our address.

My world was peopled by middle class and upper-middle class wives and mothers of absentee upward-mobile husbands, and the air was filled with bitterness and resentment as the controversial book, "Feminine Mistique" hit the market.  At the time my attitude was much as it is when Rosie the Riveter is mentioned in my world of today.  In my life it was simply a non-issue; a white woman's story having little to do with my life.

Truth was that the oppression I experienced was not coming from the men in my life (father, uncles, husband) who were living under the same oppression as were we.  And ours was from the white world; and mostly from white women.   I'd had little occasion to interact with white men.  Neither did my mother nor my aunts since their roles in life, historically, involved working in private homes and being supervised by white women.   Our uncles and fathers were of the service worker generation with few if any positions open to them above that level, so racism was a strong factor in their lives.  Ever since slavery this had been true.  As women we were aware of the degrading hoops our men were forced to jump through in order to support their families.

This being so, the memory of the Sixties civil rights revolution was marked by black women being sensitive to the plight of black men and at that time there was a resistance to stepping up in front of our men or to compete for power in society where we might be called upon for leadership.

I remember that in the late Sixties while attending a national black power conference in Chicago the opportunity to become a part of a national board upon which I would be the only female -- and that I refused to accept the role while feeling that I was more than qualified to do so.  It was the Black Caucus of the Unitarian Universalist Church, an organization that had gathered together about 500 black intellectuals -- mostly humanists -- from throughout the country to struggle for equality within the predominantly white denomination.  I'd gone there with the full support of my local church which funded my participation though I was one of only 3 black members at the time, I believe.  At the time the conflicting goals of racial integration and black power were under intense scrutiny, and I was right in the middle of the debate.

The second year we came together in Cleveland where the Black Caucus was registered at the same Hilton Hotel as the general annual conference of UU's, but we were not meeting with the full body while making our claims for political and denominational power.  We met separately for several days, with our black men negotiating behind closed doors with the general body and bringing back reports of their progress to our caucus.

At the final plenary session our issues had been successfully negotiated, and our caucus was to open to celebration.  Mind you, black caucus women had participated in few if any of the negotiations up to the time, and were busy doing the behind the scenes "grunt" work and planning the caucus celebration in our self-segregated separate-but-equal hotel suites.

The hour came for our victory party.  We found ourselves sitting in small groups chatting nervously whatever nonsense came to mind as the clock ticked mercilessly on as we anxiously waited for male friends, co-conspirators, and husbands to join us.  I remember the heavy unspoken feelings of embarrassment as the ice melted in the punch, the brie began to melt into formless blobs, and the icing on the brownies grew sticky and stale ... .  Unfortunately, our men had opted for the "white" parties in other places in the hotel where the young white women they'd charmed during the week were waiting.

The evening just before leaving the conference I participated in an encounter group session called by the emotionally-bruised women.  There was a highly volatile confrontation with the men.  It was one of the most intensely-charged meetings I've ever experienced.  I cowered in a dark corner next to my friend, the late Henry Hampton (of Blacksides Productions that produced the highly-acclaimed Eyes on the Prize for PBS) who, along with several other men, shared the outrage of the tearful sistahs.  The men were petulant, defensive in the face of the brutal honesty of the women, and on an ego-centric high from their conquests.  Little of value was achieved that fateful night, and it was a prelude to the many break-ups of relationships and marriages over the following decade.

Long into the years after the women's movement was formed, memories of that evening continued to fester.  I was aware that -- as we'd stood aside to make room for our men to gain their rightful leadership roles in the workplace and in society as-a-whole -- it was often white women who unknowingly stepped into the leadership vacumn we'd deliberately left unfilled.

Early in the Movement, as white women began to crash through the glass ceiling, black women were hired to take care of the newly-abandoned households and children in order to enable former housewives to take their places around corporate boardroom tables, so there was a lag between white and black women's ability to access economic and political power.  It was eventually noticed  that black women were slow to enter the Movement and that far fewer were hired into domestic roles, as those roles were gradually and systematically taken over by undocumented immigrant women who were willing to work for less in exchange for the promise of eventual sponsorship by their employers. Despite the fact that this was a different cohort of black women, this meant that the low-skilled jobs previously filled by poorly-educated black women were no longer available with huge economic impacts to their families and communities; effecting all black lives.  Black women, in general, were again pushed to the bottom rung of the economic ladder for reasons beyond their control.

Today, with such a high percentage of black males being caught up in the underground economy fueled by the drug trade and imprisonment (and those not being claimed by Kardashian women), they are far less likely to be candidates for marriage.  Black women have had to achieve financial independence through continuing education and greater job opportunities.  Many have successfully done that, are becoming accomplished in every field, and are single mothers by choice in order to live a more complete life. 

The case for a delayed entry into Feminism may be the main reason that I'm so turned off by the identification of my role in the home front story as a "Rosie the Riveter."  I believe that there is still some residual pain that has persisted into these years, and that continues to prevent a full-fledged alignment with the cause of women's equality though, intellectually, I see the need for achieving those rights in order to have a more fully balanced society.

As long as white women are seen as the generic woman and all the rest of us continue to be seen as "somethin' else", my personal view of that reality will probably remain unresolved.

During the Q&A on Saturday, a visitor asked if the warfare currently underway in the Middle East doesn't take priority on our list of things needing direct action?

Without hesitation my response was, "no, climate change must be acknowledged and accepted before anything else can be addressed."

I found myself wondering on the short drive back to my apartment if this is what I truly believe?

It was then that I realized how enured I've become to the horrific violence we're living with every day, and how desensitized I'm becoming.  Maybe we all are falling victim to an acceptance of a level of inhumanity that not too long ago would have been unthinkable.

Not only on "the dark continent of Africa," but in our own streets against the homeless; against young black and brown men by police who have become our para-military forces; on television in a constant stream of crime shows; stories of unsolved "cold" cases; an airliner with a young depressive at the controls crashing into an Alpine mountainside; helpless young people gunned down on a faraway college campus; young women being kidnapped and sold into sex trafficking never to return; so much, so awful, so endless ... .

Is this the way of the world that has always been and that we're only now -- through the insistence of technology -- unable to escape knowing about?  Are we being de-civilized at an accelerated rate?

... then I found myself admitting that the foreground of my life; and maybe all of our lives, doesn't reflect that reality at all.  That my days are made up of good friends doing great things, kind thoughts and pleasurable prospects ... while in the background there is world misery that is almost too much to incorporate without being threatened with the onset of soul-searing depression of the kind that shared the controls with that young mentally disturbed pilot!

Maybe it's the result of the fact that in ancient times only the catastrophic (earthquakes, wild fires, and other natural disasters) would extend beyond the borders of our villages until a crier from the other side of the mountain brought news weeks and maybe months after the fact.  We were protected by the isolation of the times in which we were living.  That no longer is possible.  If ISIS invades Syria within hours we have not only a count of the casualties, but the most horrific details of the actual methods used to vanquish their perceived enemies.

... and the most dire of all fates tends to pale in comparison with the immediate dangers -- that most dire threat of all would be the now-impending destruction of the planet due to man's effect upon the living environment, and the destructive denial by a few of the most powerful among us who fail to see any way to profit from planetary protection.  Until they can decide among themselves just who can lay claim to the Sun, itself, we may have to stand by helpless against their all-consuming greed.

How does one mere mortal attempt to balance all that without losing any sense of control over even one's own destiny?

This is a time when I'm so aware that there is but one Life, and that we're all sharing it. 

As if having the Secretary of the Interior Jewell pay us a surprise visit last week weren't quite enough ...

... The Today Show announced through our superintendent that their crew would be visiting on Wednesday, April 15, to film my next public bus tour! 

I'm trying desperately hard to not allow myself to even think about what lies ahead, and today is Easter Sunday and I've no exciting plans to take up my thoughts and calm the anxiety so my mind is now leaping ahead with a noticeable tightening of every nerve and sinew in my body!

There are ten days until that happens, but by the time our park visitors begin to gather at our front doorway to board the bus on that morning -- I may be ready for the Looney Bin!

One would think that all of this would be routine by now, after all it's been almost two years since the governmental shutdown happened, and the public exposure that has become such a major part of my daily existence.  But for reasons I cannot explain, I'm suddenly feeling crowded and vulnerable ... and there's that familiar sense of unworthiness... this, even at a time when I'm feeling so effective in my presentations, and deeply aware that I'm doing good work that is being recognized widely.

I suspect that -- as I feel the now familiar surge of adrenaline each time upon entering the little theater and that rush of whatever-it-is that brings such closeness between me and those faces that makes for such a feeling of intimacy and that graces the room with each experience -- so it will be as we board the bus for our tour of those scattered park sites.  So it will be, hopefully, when those cameras are rolling ...

Will let you know when it will be shown.  And, as is customary, that crew will spend 4 hours with us to capture 3 minutes of air time!  So why should this seem any more than what we've been through before with these media teams?  Since the next week is National Parks Week, it's probably safe to assume that it is for this that this piece is being produced, and then life will return to whatever we deem is our new normal.

What more can lie ahead?

We keep "max-ing" out!

The question comes up occasionally during the Q&A, and I don't think that it's being answered as completely as it should be ... .

"You are obviously well-educated, Betty, what college did you attend?"  Usually asked by someone who then goes on to add, "... your vocabulary certainly reveals that."

There is usually a pause of a few seconds as I weigh just how to respond, and it may interest you to know that there is some discomfort -- uncertainty -- an awareness of what I've always seen as a deficit in my education.  My education didn't extend beyond high school, so to answer with what feels to me as a reminder that I'm among the unwashed ... .

It occurs to me that what we have here is a lack of complexity that doesn't allow the truth to be revealed; my answer should be nuanced.  It is this:

My education took place when the California public school system was the envy of the known world. This would have been prior to the enactment of Proposition 13 which started the dismantling of that system.

Also, because there were so few African Americans living in the State or the Greater Bay Area before WWII, there were few reasons to have anything but a great general education for everyone, so I escaped the handicap of being squashed under the crushing weight of low expectations that now becomes the fate of disadvantaged children of color.  For whatever it was worth, I was receiving the same training into the same culture as those around me.

Not only were my influences Jack London, Mark Twain, Willa Cather, the Bronte Sisters, Rudyard Kipling, Louisa Mae Alcott and Edna St. Vincent Millay, Alfred Noyes, James Whitcomb Riley,  and Eugene O'Neill, but by fifth grade I was singing the operatic works of Giuseppe Verdi, and Sibelius's Finlandia with our glee club!

Richard Wright's Native Son and the poems of Langston Hughes, James Weldon Johnson, and Gwendolyn Brooks I would not be exposed to until young adulthood. By then my racial designation would have become hyphenated by the experiences of WWII on the Home Front and the Civil Rights Revolution of the Sixties.  Before then I was simply a youngster being educated to the majority culture.

Of course, one might say that I was missing the black artists, authors, and scholars, and that is true. But I was being educated for the state and nation I was growing up in, and being acculturated at the same time -- which would serve me well over time.  The fact that, eventually, I would be exposed, in depth, to both black and white cultures has been a gift to be cherished.  Maybe that would be the ideal for us all.

In high school we performed Maxwell Anderson's Winterset in my junior year drama class, and I read and analyzed Shakespeare in English Lit as a senior.  The training received in Mr. Bill McLaughlin's public speaking class is still with me in our little theater every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.  "Stand straight with weight on front foot -- take a deep breath, and start the first word on an exhale, etc."  The ability to analyze material, debate issues, and defend my positions was nurtured by what happened in that exciting class where kids could differ and grow.  Where questioning was encouraged, and cynicism rewarded if rational.

And I can still hear those oratorios screamed in the thin treble-clef voices of children before the little silver pitch pipe and waving baton of full-bosomed and bespectacled Mrs. Edith Reiniger whose great passion for Giuseppe Verdi's il Trovatore fed our little souls.  No I've been working on the railroad or My Darling Clementine for us!

... and at this point it matters not that throughout my childhood and into my adult years I still remember that California was first settled by Father Wanna-pera Serra!  (How on earth did that young teacher ever get out of school without learning how to pronounce Junipero?)  But nothing's perfect, right? ...  not even the greatest educational system in the world in its day. 

"I didn't go to college," then is probably only half true.  The fact of when I was educated says it all, I think.  I'm guessing that those students who shared those years with me received what would be seen today as at least two years of learning in any community college or higher.

This all happened, of course, before the systematic dismantling of public education began in this country, and before charter schools would be even dreamed of.  And those, you remember, were the years of the Great Depression, the Works Progress Administration (WPA), joblessness and bread lines, and my mother turning up at "Sally Ann's" (the Salvation Army store) early on Thursday mornings when the trucks were unloaded -- to get first crack at whatever books (for 25 cents) were among those discarded by the "Haves".

"I didn't go to college," are words that simply don't cover my educational experience.

Not even close.

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto ... .

... and the Yellow Brick Road looks unexpectedly familiar.  Though there have been rough places and demons to do battle with along the way -- little here is surprising.  And I blush to admit that so unashamedly.  It's not that I don't see the specialness of it all, it's just that the miraculous aspect of everyday life is something I'm tapping into more and more these days, with a growing sense of wonder that we tend to walk through the miracles each and every day without fully appreciating this life as it unfolds before us in whatever ways it expresses itself.

Wish I could figure out how to share the great video piece that ran throughout the Department of Interior on their weekly "This week at Interior March 27, 2015" but you can access it on YouTube.com if you wish.  I can't figure out a way to link it, or, to even fix it so that you can copy and paste, and today is Sunday and I'm at home without the benefit of being able to have our graphics person, Luther Bailey, walk me through it.

Suffices to say that last week's visit to Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park of not only the Secretary of the Interior, Sally Jewell, but Jon Jarvis, National Director of the National Park Service, and, regional director Chris Lehnertz, as well, spent Thursday afternoon with us, and a warmer more congenial group I've rarely experienced.  What a time!  Sally Jewell is someone I'd find it very easy to love.  What a charismatic and lovely woman is she!

That they were truly impressed by what we're building here was clearly obvious.  That we're layering back in the nuances and complexities of the Era of WWII at a time when those lives and times are so often compacted into bumper stickers is being appreciated by Washington.  It is clear that those whose work guides our ability to do that are fully aware of our challenges and small victories.  I don't think I've ever felt so affirmed.  So surrounded by enablers.  We all did.  

The day ended with a quick drive home to change out of uniform and into more glamorous civvies to attend a reception at Alumna House on the UC Berkeley Campus -- held in honor of the dignitaries gathered here for consideration of plans for the upcoming National Park Service Centennial year 2016, and to tackle the vitally important environmental questions that are before us as a nation and a world.

... it was during the reception in that lovely tree-shaded gracefully designed building that I felt the first pangs of being completely awestruck by the unexpected turn my life has taken in recent weeks.  Upon arrival I entered the room where there was not a single familiar face.  Having outlived most of my contemporaries, I'm now facing a re-peopled world.  I'd arrived far too early and before the others came.   But standing nearby was the UC Board of Regents Chair, Janet Napolitano, and just beyond, historian Douglas Brinkley.

The world of the Academy was alien to me, but reminiscent of the years spent as a faculty wife, Mrs. Dr. William F Soskin, Ph.D., research psychologist connected with Tolman Hall on this very campus.  I'd never quite fit into that Betty's shoes, and the ten years we spent together hardly made a dent in that insecurity, though they brought new opportunities for learning previously not open to me, and re-cast my known world with new friends and possibilities.  It was those years that launched political Betty.

This time I'm the grownup!  These are the kids.  I've attained an eminence over the years through  unsubscribed and unintentional ways but it doesn't really matter at this point.

The game's almost over ... and just when I'm finally beginning to understand the rules of engagement ... .

What a week this has been ... !

The Department of Interior's piece was released to social media, and in one fell swoop I'm big news across the whole country!  Can you imagine?

When released it was re-Tweeted by the White House (have no idea what that means), but my imagination is running wild -- and I imagine the Obamas reading about this lil' ole lady ranger on the West Coast (crazy!), and wondering if the National Park Service has lost its collective mind!  A somewhat overripe but still-functioning park ranger let loose in the system -- and at a time when any other elder with an ounce of common sense is retiring into RV travel and registering for burial insurance!

I'm more and more convinced that -- at a time when contemporary culture would have us producing more and more Botox commercials and anti-wrinkle solutions; when public television is running fundraisers on "Aging in Reverse.  When we're being treated to a full season of television based on thugs and low lifers at all levels and in all ethnicities and races; with real life crime shows almost impossible to avoid; with frequent Amber Alerts and car chases feeding our need to be charged up, emotionally.  With racism and brutality on the rise and government response inadequate to the new challenges due to partisanship and short-sightedness, especially on environmental issues that grow more terrifying with each day, maybe we're searching for relief in new lifestyle possibilities.

Maybe we're just starved for relief from all of it and, as it was during the government shutdown, the sight of a real grown-up on the media (me!) serves to provide a false sense of security.

Maybe natural grey hair and well-earned wrinkles appear less to be feared.  Maybe someone who appears to have found a way to get through life without succumbing to all that can offer an alternative to the adulation of youth model.

I've not reached this place unscathed; this journal reveals some of that, but overall I seem to have come to terms with Life, at least if one doesn't look too closely... .

There is so little in all this that seems personal to me.

I don't think that I'm being overly modest.  I know that I've done and am doing good work, and am grateful that this is being recognized, but it feels excessive at times, and it's difficult to be the hottest thing in the supermarket checkout line when you're wearing mismatched socks and no makeup -- a perfect right of any lil' ole lady whose supply of shredded wheat and prune juice is running low ... .

Besides all that the plain truth is that the secret of my success may be that I discovered by sheer accident -- if I do it just right -- putting my ranger hat on, that is.  I raise my brows as if caught by surprise -- and start by setting the front edge of the brim in place on my forehead -- then while applying gentle pressure as I set my hat in place the effect is that it gives me a $1200 nonsurgical brow lift!   Problem is that everything falls when I remove my hat ...

... but you can't have it all.

 This link should take you to the Department of Interior article ... .


http://www.doi.gov/employees/news/womens-history-month-an-interview-with-93-year-old-national-park-service-ranger-betty-reid-soskin.cfm

I think you have to copy and paste this link into your web browser.

Will keep trying to get it into a hyperlink.

18 with a long life ahead ...

The significance of my work of the past few days is only now beginning to dawn ...

About ten days ago I received an email from our superintendent saying that he'd had a request from the Department of Interior for an interview from me.  He forwarded the information with his response which had been, "here is Betty's information and you may contact her directly."


This being Women's History Month, it seems that the Department has decided to profile the National Park Service's "Oldest Park Ranger," and -- since I'm involved with a number of engagements already calendared and waiting -- this was just another such.  It's kind of "what I do." I hold a unique position of being an original source with the responsibility of sharing historic information when and where appropriate to the community, service clubs, agencies, educational institutions, on site, as needed.  This appeared to be within the area of my "expertise" and little more.

Now that I've completed a lengthy Q&A and had several brief phone conversations with the editor, it's beginning to be obvious that this is a bit more than out of the ordinary.

52 and counting ...

It wasn't until our deputy superintendent brought it to my attention (when I gave her the draft that had been forwarded for corrections) that this was not the National Park Service, but for the parent agency, The Department of Interior.  That the editor, Donna Margelos, was spending the major part of her work week reading and re-reading my blog; listening to video interviews that exist online; viewing DVDs and scanning my entire life as it exists online every day.

At my end -- between spare moments in my schedule of events -- I was finding myself searching out photos to send that span my entire existence since my 20th birthday!

This is big!  How big?  I have no idea, but it feels awesome.

The editor asked at one point, whether anyone at the National Park Service is capturing my blog -- and I had to admit that it had never occurred to me that anyone needed to ... that it was written as a way to process life as it whizzed by -- and -- since I'm really in conversation with my family and myself (mostly), and since I only write on my days off or late evenings ... it is strangely still a personal document.  It just never dawned that anyone else would see any value in the thoughts of an aging woman ... .

S. F. Giant's Game Day
90, and almost there ...

I'm hardly aware of any other readers, though on occasion (when someone asks) I try to check the numbers, but they're unimpressive at best, so for the most part outside readers are not my audience.  Leaving a record of my life for my family has always been the objective.

Some time this week The DOI project will be released -- where or how is still a mystery.  Ms. Margelos said something about "social media," and "a new young audience," but I know little beyond that.  It was just another assignment from superintendent Tom Leatherman, and that's about as far as it went.

Fortunately, the national attention has been incrementally growing, and each assignment (last week it was,Tom Bentley, a writer for the  American Scholar," the publication for the Phi Beta Kappa Society which has an interest in my blog; the week before it was Steve Early, Labor writer, who has a new book in process in which I'm included.) Early had been on board for two of my recent bus tours, and attended several of my afternoon presentatioins.  Until the Department of Interior's far more detailed piece required some work on my part, I really took it all in as just "what I do."

But it's far more than that, obviously.

The future is still opening up and the portals are widening even as we speak ...

What a week this has been -- so memorable ...

... among other things -- on Wednesday I finally got to Alcatraz Island, and the Ai Wei Wei exhibit.  It is so moving ... so important.  It will close in April, which is much too soon.

Learning about how it was executed -- with the artist still confined under house arrest in China and unable to participate in the installation except by long distance, and with the involvement of local artists who used his designs through detailed instructions to fabricate the disparate pieces into reality.  They're astounding! The Kite; the Wing -- the stories that came to us through interpretive Ranger John Cantwell and his 28 years of working on the Island ... .

There was a moment when standing among the reproductions (in Legos) of a worldwide collection of images of political prisoners -- when I felt a sensory overload and had to momentarily withdraw -- to remove myself from that place into myself and away from the present by turning my back on the exhibit to look out of one of the multitude of windows toward the beautiful Golden Gate ... .

The experience was beyond surreal.

Alcatraz has a visitation of 5000 tourists a day; one million per year.  Ferries are boarded at Pier 33 in San Francisco; 300/trip, and tourists from every state and nation arrive every half hour throughout the day, with every boat trip sold out.  While my friend, Ann, and I were being guided by Ranger Cantwell, there was a brief exchange with a group of four young people who were visiting from Sweden; a reminder of how far-reaching is the influence of this work of Wei Wei and the long arm of the National Park Service which has enabled this remarkable cultural exchange.

I was not prepared for the beauty of the site that is not as overwhelmed by the desolation and decay as one might expect.  Though the evidence of its lengthy Armed Forces history plus the 49 years of life as the nation's infamous maximum security prison are clearly dominant, the beautiful historic gardens and Mediterranean-like site is much as one might have expected to find somewhere in Italian waters.

And, as we boarded the ferry for the scenic trip back to Pier 33 the captain allowed me to take the wheel for a while and guide the vessel back to shore -- with 300 unsuspecting tourists on the decks below!

My "famosity" (yeah, I know that isn't a word -- yet) may be getting into the way of my work ... .

... this great cover for the in-house Geico publication arrived on my chair in the headquarters offices yesterday.  I vaguely recalled doing a phone interview early in the year, and that I'd referred the caller to our superintendent because this was one of the many media inquiries resulting from the governmental shutdown last year -- and, yes, they're still coming. Unlike most that had come from other agencies and/or nonprofits, this was clearly a commercial enterprise and might be subject to different protocols.  After all, we're a federal agency and there are regulations to cover such things.  Since such decisions come at a far higher level than mine, we needed clearance, but eventually the go-ahead came and the 30-minute interview took place, but was quickly forgotten in the busyness of daily life.

Yesterday when I reached my desk at park headquarters in the Civic Center, there was an official-looking manila envelop on my chair with the return address of the office of the superintendent of  Mount Rainer National Park in Washington State.  In it was a brief note from his secretary, Donna Rahier,  stating that this had been dropped off at their office, and that she was forwarding it hoping that it would reach me.  The envelop held this cover page and the inside article (great!) that was brief and accompanied another photo.  This was the first I'd seen it, and only then did I remember this interview ever occurring.  I loved it and her thoughtfulness in getting it to me.  I might never have known ... .

... but what it brought up for me was the fact that much of this media attention might be rising from the need of the up-coming and aging Boomer generation to have role models for later life ... could be. The old models of avoidance and denial of the aging process may be finally dying, and in its place this generation of my children may be developing a hunger for meaning of a different kind.  Maybe we elders who continue to hang in and thrive are creating hope for a generation tiring of the adulation of youth model and are searching for something more meaningful to hang their hopes on.

Do you suppose?

It seems clear that I've aged into a place where I'm receiving kudos, trophies, and certificates of honor for simply being able to tie my own shoes!  It defies explanation; and though I feel affirmed and flattered by the attention (who wouldn't be?), it's difficult to feel worthy of being singled out for such tributes.

... but whose complaining?

... with the awesome spectre of non-existence in the fast-approaching future --  I'll take it!