It's hard to believe that almost an entire week has passed... since I last wrote

Last time I remember exhaling was some time on Sunday night, after the Academy Awards had ended (dull show...glamorous, but dull!). Dropped off to sleep only to be rudely thrust from my bed in the dead of night by another of those shrill calls from the blackness. Dorian in crisis. Nothing to be done but to slip my sweats over my peejays and into my car for the fast and furious drive down I-80 to Oakland. Can hardly recall precisely what the problem was except that it involved Kyle (her strange young man) and impending doom of one kind or another. Not unusual these days, but frustrating. The situation escalates with each day -- and fear for her safety escalates right along with it.

By staff decision, she was moved out into the community about 15 years ago -- after spending the earlier years in at St. Vincents in Santa Barbaba. She then returned to the Bay Area where she worked her way through a really exemplary program here in Oakland. This meant starting out in a very nice (safe) sheltered community setting near the shores of Lake Merritt, in a district of fine old large homes that had been in transition for some years -- from affluent to working class. 'Clausen House' consisted of a number of homes purchased within walking distance of the original old house -- the beautiful old historic family home of Justice Earl Warren -- cheerfully painted yellow and surrounded by mature landscaping and huge redwood trees. Within a six block area a cluster of beautifully restored homes had become Clausen House, each a group home holding 8-10 clients with a house manager. All were nestled into a fine lake front community of old homes and quality apartment buildings.

In time, the institution bought a four-story apartment building very close by that would make it possible for clients -- higher-functioning -- to live in pairs with staff on site. Wonderful plan that thrived during the early years when adequate funding was in place and endowments and fundraising teams of parents and benefactors were hard at work in support, year-round. This was another of the model programs that has been decimated by budget cuts over the years, and is presently facing even more -- unless private moneys can be raised with some consistency.

Ultimately, as the years passed and client pairs were adequately aculturated to community living, they were moved out into an independent living program that would continue support with job coaches, teachers, social workers, etc., thru entitlements for the mentally retarded under the Lanterman Act. Dorian progressed through all of the stages over time, and her final stop -- about 15 years ago was into her very own apartment directly across the street from the original old Earl Warren Home. Couldn't have asked for more. She had been travel-trained and moved around town on public transportation -- took BART when necessary -- enjoyed supportive-employment through a series of little jobs that gave her a sense of real independence. She handled her own finances with budgetary help and managed (with a handy little calculator) to maintain her own checking account and pay her own bills. What a success story.

Over time, due to budget cuts -- three of the six beautiful homes from the complex were sold off and resources consolidated. There had to be critical staff cutbacks and -- for those who remained -- cuts in staff time. The program began to be shaped by shrinking resources rather than by the needs of those being served. These are fine people doing remarkable work on behalf of this population. Those who moved Dorian toward that limited independence gradually began to turnover so that she rarely had the same social worker more than a few months before they'd leave. By this time the support system that made it possible her to be living on her own has all but evaporated, and (it's my sense that) there are few left who have any recollection of why she's "out there" or just how to respond to her needs. Along with staff changes, necessarily, went institutional memory. I'm afraid that I've refused every indication along the way -- that this was a failing system. Simply couldn't face moving her away from even this frail system and into something even less familiar and more threatening to her limited understanding of the world. My answer was to move closer into her life (as close as I dared to without threatening her independence) and to be less trusting of those who were working with her. I've surely added to the problem by encouraging her independence and making her a fairly strong woman who knows how to get her needs met -- come hell or high water! However, I see a tendency in the teachers now assigned to her (now many years younger than she), to deal with her in relation to her behavior rather than to her pathology. She's not easy, except for me, I think. We still have a remarkable relationship, more friend than parent. It feels like a successful and necessary transition to me. Problem is that new and changing staff isn't any longer meeting a pretty little girl, but an often obstinate middle-aged woman with a mind of her own!

Which brings us to now.

Where once there was full coverage, staff time hours now goes from 9:00-5:00 with weekends off. Kyle "lives" at the apartment building -- about 4 blocks away from Dorian's place. He is a serious alcoholic with a history of drug abuse. He is paranoid-schizophrenic, with no retardation that I can see. He is pathologically controlling, clever, appears relatively "normal" to the casual observer. To Dorian this is Brad Pitt, personified. In the world she lives in, he is the highest-functioning male around. Since her intellectual-functioning comes as the result of congenital brain-damage, she has a spread of anywhere from 4 years to age-level on test scores. She has moments of clarity that are astounding. She has an impressive vocabulary. However, for the most part she functions in retarded range. She has not yet hit a learning plateau, and still goes on learning and growing, though she can't live long enough to ever be "normal." Her abstract ability is clinically far below normal so "what ifs" are beyond her. She has no way to weigh consequences, but is beginning to approach that ability in some small ways. This means that she's developing some new fears that her deficits tend to cloud over, leaving her wary without understanding why much of the time.

The one place where we've been fortunate of late is that Dorian was assigned a terrific therapist who's been calling on her weekly and counseling by phone on an as-needed basis. What a lovely person! But the last round of budget cuts eliminated Carol from our lives about a month ago. She and Dorian were making great progress, and I had the feeling that this professional could read my daughter in ways that had never happened before. She was also a tremendous support to me, and over time, we'd become quite a team. Losing her has been traumatic to me -- and in time -- I'm sure that I'll see the effects in Dorrie as well.

All of that background was carefully laid as prelude to telling you that Kyle's alcoholism has progressed to the point where insomnia has become a real problem. With staff leaving at five o'clock each day -- he's free to roam the streets. He lived with Dorian for some time before I learned of the seriousness of his illness. In time, he became threatening to her was moved out and transferred to the more sheltered apartment house form of the program. I was relieved. It was clear that Dorian was obsessive about him and that he was being smothered by her demands for his full attention at all times. Must have been terribly hard for him. They do not have compatible neuroses, clearly. Having him live a few blocks away would allow him to be away from her smothering attention at least some of the time.

What I didn't know was that his insomnia created situations where he would arrive at her place very late at night, well past midnight. He kept his stash there. He would spend his nights drinking and playing video games in silence until dawn. The upshot of that is that her inner clock has been reversed to the extent that -- unless interrupted -- she sleeps soundly until 3:00 or 4:00 in the afternoon, making it impossible to have any kind of constructive day life. She feeds and clothes him to the best of her ability to do so. She buys him beer and liquor when he demands it. He drinks what little money he has then steals hers. She washes his clothes and spends her entire existence waiting for him to pay attention to her. Her visits home have become rare unless I'm insistent. All of the space that I purposely left for her (to grow toward eventual independence), he has absorbed. I've learned that I unwittingly left a vacuum that he's filled. Where I often left her questions unanswered, he supplied them all. She takes her cues from him. She's begun to emulate his every move and bad habit. For a time, she dressed only in black. Lost a job because of shoplifting an item (that he wanted). He'd walk to work with her and then hang out all day waiting for her to get off. Her (supported) employer, PetFood Express, simply couldn't deal with it and let her go. I soon began to smell tobacco smoke on her breath and to suspect that he was teaching her to drink along with him, though I've not seen her under the influence, except for New Year's Eve. His influence started showing up in her speech with phrases and words popping up that I didn't know she had ever heard. Her therapist explained that she was showing all of the signs of a rebellious teen. The day came when she let fall the fact that they'd been hanging out in a pool hall in a questionable downtown community. That, I think I squashed -- as far as I know.

I started shamelessly competing with him, but he cleverly picked up the game and his control of her increased. For a long time he was winning. Eventually, he began to sleep around among the women-clients, and life became harder for her. He became abusive as he found other desparately lonely women in their community. All were also severely handicapped women.

I began to fear for her ever more as the months passed. She is now on sedation but her meds ($10/100 in November) are now $300. Her living conditions are no longer tolerable, but I've been reluctant to pick her up and move her out of an environment that has held her for 20 years. It will mean having to reconstruct her entire social structure. She's known no other setting since she was a 19 year-old. It will mean travel-training and trying to build a new life for her without Kyle. There are few choices left. Her physical safety is at risk. That social safety net you've heard about has, indeed, disappeared, and Dorrie is only one of the many casualities.

So, on Sunday night I brought her home. Returned her on Monday at her insistence (and against my better judgement), only to find myself responding to another middle-of-the-night call early on Tuesday morning (2:30 am) because she'd had another encounter with him and was hysterical. Brought her home this time, complete with her two cats in carriers and more than a day's change in clothing. She began to sound as if she'd reached some level of real understanding of the ghastly situation she was in -- though it would pass -- but I made the firm decision that we will finally close her apartment, give 30 days notice -- and that she will live with me until we find some answers.

Have spent this week sharing my bedroom. She's here with her cats and a growing wariness that she's losing her independence (she speaks of it in those terms), but I'm seeing little reason to not follow through. My condo is small for two. Will have to give up my little office that will now become a second bedroom. Will look for a program for the retarded -- the California Foundation for Autism is only a few blocks away. Have had some contact with the organization through my work for the State. Am planning to take her there next week to explore the possibility of her volunteering for a while -- at least it will give her a place to begin to construct a new social set among her peers. She may even know some of those clients through her Special Olympics participation over the years. It's worth a try. Have talked with her social worker at the Regional Center of the East Bay (her agency) who will surely be of help in our transition and is fully supportive of our decision to move her here. Unfortunately, we'll be moving her from one county system to another.

With any luck, this transition period will be relatively brief. She needs to be on her own just as soon as we can arrange it. Saving up "first and last and cleaning deposit" will take a while. This time I may want to revert to a group living situation for her, but that would be a backward step, I know. She knows what it's like to be on her own and won't easily accept what she will see as regression. She'll know. I want to honor that, and I know that there is danger that I will infantalize her if this doesn't turn over pretty quickly.

What I'm thinking is that -- to move out of her home of 15 years and a total community -- will be of such powerful disruption in her life -- that I'd like to keep her with me here while she begins to rebuild her new environment and social structure. I can't see her trying to do that while living in totally new surroundings. When that's in place (or at least when it's taken root), we can begin to look for housing that isn't too far away. One day she'll live here in my condo (when I'm no longer around) so having her in this general area makes sense and some important continuity.

Today? Dropped her off in Berkeley to basketball practice for Special Olympics. She then will take BART to her place in Oakland where she wants to work on her apartment and "pick up some things." Loosely translated, "...will try to reach Kyle and see if he can come over." We've pre-arranged that I will pick her up between four and four-thirty. Will drive her to and from her place and her programs and return her home with me each evening while we figure out how to get her apartment ready for the move and her possessions packed in here someplace ... . Arrggghhh!!!!!

But you know what? Given this horrendous week of changes, I still managed to vote (as did Dorrie); to get to a potluck dinner with my friend, Jennifer, and the Arts bunch in their Berkeley loft on Monday night (before all hell broke loose!), and then -- on Tuesday -- the two of us strolled for two hours through the brilliant Romare Bearden exhibit at the S.F. Museum of Modern Art. Life stops just about there, though.

And -- I've found my tango teacher, despite all.

Dinner last night for 90 year-old family member, Dorothy Reid Pete, was wonderful ...

The room was filled with well-wishers and family members from far and wide. It was held in a marvelous downtown Oakland multi-floored club facility owned by one of her sons, Geoffrey, and another political activist figure in the extended family. Geoffrey and I come together rarely since we are of different generations, but I'm always aware of his movements around town. Dorothy is someone whose age is close to that of my late sister, Marjorie. She's been the quiet strength to the surviving members of her large family of siblings (13) for many years. These are folks related through Mel (my first spouse). As the elders die off and the family contracts -- I feel less and less related to all those unfamiliar young faces who've been taking our places. Wish I knew more about them. I'm guessing that they'd like to know more about us, too. This may be more important than I realized; a truth that I've aged into.

Learned that Dennis, one of Dorothy's sons who lives elsewhere in the country, had discovered my blog and has been reading this journal for a while. He'd followed the link from cousin Doug's page (California Black Pioneers). Realized that I'd lost the awareness that anyone but a few friends were reading these pages (really intended for my kids and theirs), and felt so pleased to learn that the counter over there on the side held some family members as well as any other friends and/or friendly strangers who happen upon them by accident. Nice. Now if only I could get someone to begin to gather together a catalog of the email addresses of other kin ... If there are any cousins out there reading this, do let me know by email that you've visited. I can then forward any new pages, automatically, I'm told.

Experienced a strange contradiction when I arrived back home last night:

Climbed into bed and flipped on the TV to CSpan to find Michael Dyson ranting in his hyperbolic cadence from a stage filled with African-American leaders (economists, social scientists, journalists, educators, etc.) in a program out of Los Angeles hosted by Tavis Smiley. There sat the usual suspects as represented by Prof. Cornell West, Journalist Stanley Crouch, CNN Financial Consultant Valerie Coleman, Ayana Vanzandt, etc. This was the second annual (I believe) conference on the Status of the Black Family.

Probably because I'd just come from an event filled with love and admiration for a most-deserving family elder, but for whatever reason, I found myself unable to stay with the program. Watched the debate for about 30 minutes and tuned out. Lay in bed in the dark wondering why I felt so turned off by what I saw as a kind of negative "rant" that tended to reinforce all of the stereotypical bad impressions that have held us captive for generations. Where did the differences lie? I wasn't sure.

Surely all of the pain of the human experience was present in our lives. There was the tragedy of Rick -- duplicated more often than we might wish. There was the collapse of Mel's formerly successful business adventure. Surely we'd seen the usual number of unanticipated pregnancies and job losses and substance abuse that plagued others. There sat Dorothy's grandson, Noonie, in a wheelchair for life as the result of a gunshot wound. But Noonie was "dancing" and exuberant in his praise of his grandmother and of what she'd done for him through the legacy of love he'd known through his father. All of the drama being lived out in inner cities everywhere was present in that beautifully decorated banquet room -- with dozens and dozens of long-stemmed red roses at every table -- and with the expression of Dorothy's wish that there be no birthday presents -- only donations to the Hunger Project of her Lakeshore Avenue Baptist Church.

Here were all of the strong women who had survived our mates -- as with any other racial group -- but probably with losses experienced much earlier in our lives due to the higher mortality rate of black males. There were four Reid (widowed) sisters at my table; sisters of Dorothy. There were some younger members missing from the party, but not many, and for a variety of reasons -- some of which might illustrate the tragedies being expressed from the dais there at the L.A. church and being beamed to us by CSpan.

But that's only one side of the picture. Such programs are dramatically one-sided, I believe. To the extent that we create our own reality, what was missing was the fact that the music (last night) was being made by a terrific professional jazz trio headed by a family member; that the venue where we were gathered was owned and operated by another family member; that what we'd all achieved may have been far more important that what we'd survived. And that society may have simply reinforced the negative by constantly holding up the mirror of our deficits before us, and impeding our way toward solutions that may be far more visible were we not blinded by the spectre of failure that even we have bought into.

I found myself dropping off to sleep feeling warmed by a beautiful evening of familial love and pride yet frustrated by my inability to bring that into alignment with the too-loud and apparently irresolvable conflicted picture of the Black Family as described by the Tavis Smiley conference. Conflicting truths? Maybe. But I know that we've surely not escaped the problems being confronted throughout the Black World. It is also true that something precious and powerful has withstood much of the trauma that has destroyed others. In this, we're probably not unlike those who survived a long history of systemic abuse and benign neglect, but -- if true -- we've also inherited a powerful will to learn and move on.

If there's a failure to be recognized before it's too late for our youngsters, it is in the passing on of the legacy of power that lives within and motivates our families. There is a collective wisdom that is moving through us from the days of the Civil War to the present time, and our youngsters need to know how we, the elders, have survived through it all. Even more important is the fact that there is no predicter of the future than the record of the past. Dorothy in her quiet strength represents that past magnificently!

And, I'm hoping that this journal is a contribution toward that end ... .

On Monday the 23rd (while I was crashing) ...

the 60 Minutes crew complete with Ed Bradley arrived in town to put together their piece on Death Row inmate, Stanley "Tookie" Williams. Regretfully, I missed the entire adventure and -- was only dimly aware of having done so. That's either a sign of incipient Alzheimers, or, my life is so full so much of the time that an occasional missed adventure is relatively meaningless. I hope it's the latter (grin).

Between sneezes (have about decided that what's going on here is spring allergy and possibly not a cold at all), I managed to remember that Bradley was due in town and that I had a commitment to my friend, Barbara, to help out. Tried to reach her several times but -- except for once when she answered her cell phone with "...can't talk right now, I'm in the middle of patching in a call from Ed Bradley with Stan at San Quentin. I'll call you right back." Heard nothing more from her for 3 days, but guessed that she was totally absorbed by the 60 Minutes production crew -- and that we'd probably not connect until the big stuff was over. I was right.

We didn't meet up again until Thursday morning (they'd packed up and left early that day) and talked endlessly about all of it. Everything had gone extremely well. Ed B. and Stan had several conversations by telephone (access to death row inmates by the press is still limited). There had been photo ops and interviews with children who had been working from Stan's books written from behind bars. There was a class at a San Francisco middle school that was very much aware of his work and of his Nobel Prize nomination. Barbara was ecstatic with what had been accomplished.

I'd missed a Saturday press conference with the anti-death penalty forces, plus all of the activity around the 60 Minutes production. That segment will be aired on April 4th (I believe). That's a week prior to the showing of "Redemption" on FX Channel on cable. Watch the TV guide.

Meanwhile, Jennifer and I drove over yesterday to the Yerba Buena Cultural Center in San Francisco for a theater presentation of Joanna Haigood's (Zaccho Dance Theatre) "Ghost Architecture." What a remarkable piece! I'll not try to describe the show here, its complexity defies any attempt at doing that, but telling you something about Joanna, herself, may provide some insight into some of the character of at least one of the artists who inhabits my life:

Profile: JOANNA HAIGOOD, choreographer, relocated to the San Francisco Bay Area from New York in 1979 and co-founded Zaccho Dance Theatre. Her creative work focuses on making dances that use natural, architectural and cultural environments as a point of departure for movement exploration and narrative. Haigood's works involve in-depth research into the history and the character of sites and typically integrates aerial flight and suspension as a way of expanding the dancers' spatial and dynamic range. Her work has been commissioned by leading arts presenters both nationally and internationally. Among them are the National Black Arts Festival, Festival d'Avignon and Festival d'Arles in France, the Exploratorium Museum, Capp Street Project, Dancing in the Streets, the Walker Art Center and the Tryon Center for Visual Art. Her choreography had also been commissioned by Alonzo King's LINES Contemporary Ballet and Axis Dance Company and is in the repertory of the Joffrey Ballet of Chicago. Ms. Haigood has received many distinguished fellowships for her work as a choreographer and director, most notably from the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the W.A. Gerbode Foundation, the Irvine Foundation and Meet the Composer. She has also been honored with the 1989 Bay Guardian Local Discovery (GOLDIE) Award, with three Isadora Duncan Dance Awards for performance and visual design and with the 1999 Cal Arts/Alpert Award in recognition of her contribution to the field of dance. Ms. Haigood has taught aerial and contemporary dance forms for 25 years and has had the pleasure of being an artist in Residence at the Center National De Danse Contemporaine and the Centre National des Arts du Cirque in France; the Laban Centre in England, the Headlands Center for the Arts, Spelman College in Atlanta, Stanford University and the Exploratorium Museum.

This is from yesterday's program notes. Why is it important? Because I serve on both Joanna's board as well at that of the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts. Those two interests are merging in an exciting project for which the EBCPA recently received a planning grant. Joanna is an aerialist/dancer. She studied with the Flying Wallenda's earlier in her life and has morphed the two artistic disciplines in the most interesting ways. Her development of site-specific pieces also fits into this new venture that will bring them together.

As I've shared earlier, I'm very much involved in the new urban national park dedicated to Rosie the Riveter. A part of that new park's features is one of the Victory ships, the Red Oak, that was constructed in and launched from the Richmond Shipyard #3 during World War II. The Red Oak is now owned by the city of Richmond (having been donated by the Navy) and is harbored on the shoreline within the park limits. It is being lovingly restored by some of the veterans who either helped to build her, or, served in the Pacific under her flags.

Joanna's work will involve the development a 3-4 year project that will create community interest by her research of the war years its effects upon the area; the people stories of the wartime home front; working with school children to create curriculum relevant to the city's history and of their parents' and grandparents' migration to the coast from deep in the rural South. It will culminate at some point -- probably related to the park's opening festivities -- in a spectacular aerial show high in the rigging of the Red Oak Victory that will be choreographed by Joanna and executed by her company.

It will be reminiscent of "Invisible Wings," a show performed at Fort Point in San Francisco and repeated at Jacob's Pillow some years ago, and of a show at Red Hook, New York, that Zaccho performed to rave reviews by the New York Sunday Times (a half-page!). That show was staged against the huge silos that mark the place, in space. This is all huge and exciting to think about. I feel honored to be even peripherally involved in such an endeavor.

Hope this gives some sense of the scope of the work and that I can keep you informed as we progress through the stages of development.

At the moment, the Red Oak still sits in the harbor undergoing rust-removal and spiffing up by loving hands. Met last week with the team that is designing a set of 6-8 graceful 35' signs in the shape of a ship's bow as it cuts through the water. These will mark the location of the new memorial park (they're really imaginative), visible from a distance. Early in April I'll meet in a two-day charrette with others to continue the master planning with the National Park Service folks -- none of whom are really aware of the fine arts part of my vision -- and Joanna.

So much to do. So little time... .

Guess the work goes on. It's the salaries that do not. This needs some work!

There is little more humbling than the attack of the common cold ...

Nothing. For the past few days I've been sniveling and sneezing and feeling put upon and miserable and -- so glad to be alone with no other human around to be brave for. Pure unadulterated crap! I don't do "ill" terribly well.

Came in from the theater on Sunday evening, kicked off my shoes and climbed into bed fully clothed and just pulled the covers over my head! Woke up on Monday morning with a scratchy throat, no voice, and little of anything else -- except a head that seemed to have swollen at least one-third -- with crud dripping from every opening... .

Spent the last two days listening to the rain beating down on the roof, grateful to have no place to have to be. Maybe the way to beat a cold is to simply give in to it and be glad you can do it without anyone to bear witness.

Today has been a combination of blustery rainstorms and occasional power outrages. But I'm feeling less growly and more Betty, and tomorrow there is lunch with Sharon at Salute on the shoreline with the panorama of San Francisco Bay to look out upon. There are warnings of high tides and huge waves today, with flooding expected up-country, but what we in the Bay Area experience as extreme weather is child's play to other parts of the country. I love it most of the time. Huge thunder clouds are rarely warnings of danger, but simply lend drama to the skys. There are rarely more than 3 days at a time of rough weather, and the sun generally manages to brighten things considerably between showers -- a few minutes at a time. Tomorrow will be an ideal day for lunch on the marina. With promises of more rain, the skies should be awesome!

I'm feeling good enough to attend a scheduled meeting (later today) of the Design Team for the redevelopment of the Macdonald Avenue corridor -- a mayoral appointment not connected with my job with the State. This is a project that I'm hoping will lead to the creation of an African American-oriented Arts & Entertainment District in the old abandoned downtown of Richmond. Been dreaming about that for several years, and -- after "seeding" the idea around town -- I'm now hearing it echo back from other voices. With any luck at all, it will be one of those ideas whose time has come and no one will know the genesis of it. That's the best outcome of good work. Learned a long time ago that the sign of good leadership is that when best executed, is virtually invisible.

The heart of this city has a number of lovely old brick buildings that were abandoned over 30 years ago when the redevelopment agency walked away from the "old town" parts and created a new shopping center some miles away on the far edge boundary adjacent to the city of Pinole. At this point, Pinole has created its own generic cookie-cutter shopping center to connect with that of Richmond, and much of the commercial life of this city has slowly oozed over the line. With cities largely dependent upon permitting fees, property and sales taxes to feed their general funds, the loss of sales taxes is a serious thing. It is all the more so in these days of state budget cuts. To have abandoned the central core of the city to crime and poverty is something I have a hard time comprehending.

No one seems to be willing to place a dollar figure on what it is costing to not redevelop those buildings; costs in lives lost, grafitti, loss of tax revenue, civic image and pride -- all casualties to the abandonment as a commercial center. The city would do well to give those buildings away to anyone with the financial wherewithall to rehabilitate them, and to thereby renew the life of the inner city for all to enjoy.

Have been working on that for some time now, and am beginning to be heard -- by everyone but the redevelopment agency, that is. Haven't figured out that piece yet, but I'm working on it... .

Had plans to write extensively today ...

It's another rainy Sunday and the best of times to do just that. However, the phone rang a few minutes ago with an invitation to attend a Berkeley Rep performance of "Yellowman" preceded by dinner at Giovanni's. Can't imagine anything better. Life does have a way of livening up the empty spaces, doesn't it?

Last night Bob and Jenny arrived at Dorian's dinner party with an advance copy of an upcoming HBO special on the life of the award-winning African American (she would prefer "Black") actor, Beah Richards. What a documentary! It is moving. She is dynamic and brilliantly "human," and I could hardly bear for it to end. Jenny's brother participated in its production as an editor -- this allowed him to share it with us prior to airing on this Wednesday (I believe. Check the listings). You must see this extraordinary film. The last two minutes -- after the emotional roller-coaster of the earlier parts -- will lift you beyond reason!

There is much to say about this, but not now. There is barely time to shower, dress, and drive in to meet friends for this evening's performance.

Later ... .

Musing about the men who so influenced my life for so many years ...


has provided a new lens through which to see them. Maybe -- because I now have such an extensive range of experience -- given all the years of living that have softened memories, there is little that can be defined in black and white terms. The "greys" feel so much more right. Comparisons are inadequate measures of almost anything.

Did I love Mel? Yes, and deeply felt as only a romantic 19 year-old can. He was everything I needed within the limits of what my inadequate experience would have demanded. To measure that love against the mature relationship Bill offered to a 50 year-old mother of four who had lived so many more experiences would be unfair. But by the time I married Bill, most of the "first times" had been used up in my first marriage to Mel. There would never again be a first childbirth, our first home, etc. But there were many new experiences of an entirely different order and not yet lived. These were beyond my expectations at the time and would be later shared with Bill -- and were.

I married Mel at a time when total reliance on my father's wisdom was waning. Dad was by now far less mysterious and was beginning to develop flaws that I'd never been able to see during those years when I needed him to be all things against a world I wasn't quite ready to take on. Forgiveness of one's parents for just about anything comes with the advent of one's own parenting. In addition, moving from a father's hand to husband's was the path to leaving home at the time, with few alternatives. College was hardly a practical choice for a young woman -- unless she couldn't find a good husband. How times have changed! A woman's fulfillment was in finding her place as wife and mother, in that order, and my acceptance of those terms fit the mold of the times precisely. I can blame no one for my later frustration when this choice proved to be inadequate to the demands of my expanding personal universe.

No one told me how much growth comes with the creation of life. Each of my children -- in their varying strengths provided views into "being" that I'd never have guessed were there. Yes, even Dorian, with her obvious deficits -- pushed me to my limits over and over again. And, I wasn't simply learning about her, but about myself through her. There is no greater source of "knowing" than the experience of motherhood. Wish I'd known that earlier. That emerged through life with Mel and the sharing of parenting, for good or ill. Nothing in my life with Bill compared with this. This is the debt that I owe to my children. In many ways, they ushered me into my own deeper self, and they still do.

If you can imagine, after years of being a suburban homemaker and mother of four, I would find myself in a failed marriage and beginning a totally different life -- unrelated to anything that has gone before.

Entered a summer seminar on mid-life career changes and met someone who had just taken a position at the University of California as chief administrator. One evening after class he asked if I'd consider interviewing as his assistant on a research project. My very naive answer was, "...I'm not sure I can do that, but would be willing to work for you for two weeks without pay to see if I'd like to." Three months later I was not only an employee of UC Berkeley, but was romantically involved with the principal investigator of the project! Within a year I was married to a Dr. William F. Soskin, PhD., psychologist of note.

I'm not sure that being single was ever an option for me. Didn't know it at the time, but the thought of not being in a relationship was still not quite normal. I was still being externally defined in relation to the male in my life. Without that, I had no idea just who I was. That was to come much later.

But now it's time to pick Dorian up for the weekend. Today's her birthday, and I have a cake to bake. Everybody will be home for a celebratory dinner!

Photo: Married to Bill by dear friend and mentor, Rev. Aron Gilmartin, Unitarian-Universalist pastor of the Diablo Valley UU Church in Walnut Creek, California (1975).

The continuing drama at San Francisco's city hall heightens my anxiety and stirs painful memories of Rick's death. I won't linger on the implications of a parent outliving her young. This has happened to countless others, and brings up the natural feelings of regret and the guilt of survival for each of us, I'm certain.

But maybe this is a chapter on mortality as much as it's a chapter about the loss of my son -- and what sense I've been able to make of it as one without a belief in divine intervention:

It was a day of changes. I'd decided to sell the home in El Cerrito. I'd bought it ten years before in order to accommodate mother's last days. Dad died at 95 in 1987. Mother survived him by six years, to the age of 101. Eventually, she'd passed on and the cost of maintaining "a house that could accommodate the Christmas tree," could no longer be justified. I'm sure that I wasn't alone in this. Many parents continue the myth of being the center of the universe long after it's appropriate to do so.

I'd located a one-bedroom condo in Richmond's Hilltop Village, and was in the process of crating up all the "stuff" that would go to storage when the call came. It was Rick's landlord. "Mrs. Soskin, we haven't seen your son for three weeks, and there is growing concern among his neighbors that ...". My heart stopped for a fraction of a second, and I could hardly catch my breath.

Called my niece, Gail, who lived reasonably close by -- and David (by now hysterical) in Berkeley to relay the news, knowing that I couldn't drive across town to learn the truth. They immediately dropped everything and took over. David still does "'s'ponsible" very well. I sat and waited with a growing feeling of numbness, my body magically preparing to protect itself against what was sure to come.

The phone pierced the silence with a shrill ring and the landlord's voice on the line with, "...I'm so sorry, Mrs. Soskin." I screamed! David hadn't reached me yet. He'd opted to drive to tell me in person rather than to speak those fateful words by phone knowing that I was alone. When he did arrive, we called Bobby, together. David's words now engraved on my brain, "...it's over, Mom. It's over." How difficult, even now, to admit that embedded in the horror and pain of grief lurked the feeling of relief. He was right. It was over.

This wasn't new. There was a familiarity about this strange mixture of feelings. It was a reminder that in 1987 and within three short months, the key men in my life had all passed away. My father first of all, then Mel (my first husband and children's father), then Bill -- the man I'd married at 50 after the first marriage ended. I was at first devastated with grief. I'd been at the foot of my father's bed at the hospital when I heard his last breath being expelled. Bill lay in a coma for months before the end came. Mel died after years of living as an amputee -- living death for a former athlete. I'd experienced his death as merciful. They'd all died in that brief period.

Imagine my surprise to find that, only a few months later, right behind the grief lay the exultation of emancipation. I'd had no sense of my individuality, my womanness. As it is with many women in my age group, I'd been consistently defined by the men I'd loved for an entire lifetime, and without question. I don't think that I'd yet decided whether feminism was a step up or down, and my life as "part of a whole" seemed destined to be.

How many months I lived in that space of silent joyful/sadness I'm not sure. It wasn't something to be talked about. But springing out into the world with new horizons and unfamiliar mountains to climb became all-consuming. Having married at a very young 19, I'd experienced being child, daughter, wife, mother, but had skipped over "woman," without any idea of just what meant, or awareness that I'd not lived out that essential part of myself; nor had I missed her. Tapping into new capacities in myself drowned out the eulogies in a flurry of activities and interests. The need to maximize the second half of life moved to the top of my priorities, and I sensed a new sense of purpose and preciousness of time -- made the more urgent by the loss of those I'd loved and lost.

Rick had been dead on his bathroom floor for three weeks when his body was found. He'd died of cirrhosis from years of alcoholism. He'd died alone. His death followed that of his lover, Gordon, by no more than a year. His death had been one of the longest acts of suicide imaginable; a slow inescapable descent into the hell of self destruction. David was right. Rick's life had never really started. A bright potential had been snuffed out years before for a variety of reasons -- some beyond my understanding. Some not. I'll never know how much I contributed to that despite all the love invested. None of us can ever know that, and it's probably just as well.

But the mystery would deepen in days to come.

Both Bob and David had a sense of having reached Rick a few months before his death, at a time when he was hospitalized in crisis. His blood pressure had risen to dangerous levels and though close to death, he'd survived for the moment. Both younger brothers had spent time visiting with him in the hospital. Bob's approaching wedding (only two weeks later) held excitement for us all. Bob believed that Rick had every intention of participating with us, and that they'd connected meaningfully after a long period of separation. Bob lives on the Monterey Peninsula and has for many years, so their lives rarely crossed at that time. Though we didn't give it words, I suspect that we each knew that he'd not live much longer.

Knowing doesn't soften the shock or finality of death at all. Nor do the lost lives of those who went before. Each loss is all-consuming. Experience does little to prepare one for losing a loved one though, as we age, there is some movement toward the acceptance of one's own ending. A child cannot imagine non-existence. I can. Maturity may be measured by just when we accept the fact that we must die as all beings do, and the emphasis begins to center on just how well we are using and have used the privilege of life. A friend said to me on the occasion of my mother's death, "...remember, Betty, no life is complete without a death." He'll never know how important those words would become in my own struggle with the acceptance of my own mortality. Being all used up before the end, has become a driving force -- an obsession. The growing sense of urgency has added spice to my days and lightness to my step in this most recent decade when life has become more precious than ever before.

Just stopped long enough to scan through the binder that holds the records of Rick's last days and read through the descriptions of the strange events that gave a date certain for his last hours. Will copy them here if only to reinforce the experience and remind myself (and you) of how wondrous is the capacity of the human mind to skip across the limitations of time and space when the need is great enough and openness undisputed.

More later.

The plight of all those hopeful Gays and Lesbians ...

camping out at San Francisco's city hall (thought of them as the heavy rains pelted down during the night) in the hope of getting married today ... . Thought of Rick, and wept in the night.

Rick's homosexuality was obvious from infancy (as I look back). I recall reading an article in Parents Magazine when he was about five. Something about testes that fail to drop by a certain age, or glandular development that might be delayed -- not sure what it was, but whatever caused my questioning, I made an appointment with our pediatrician to talk about what I suspected. She was shocked by my questions and let me know it. "This is simply a gentle child. You Americans are so strange. In Europe we allow our men to be gentle without suspecting homosexuality. In America it is different." She continued, "children don't choose gender until they reach puberty and it is impossible to tell anything until that choice is made."

I continued, "but if a child is continually having his/her gender questioned, isn't that choice somewhat prejudiced?" She didn't answer me. I figured that this information was suspect and that my "gentle child" was gay and that it was okay with me. One can't share life with a youngster for his five earliest years and not be smitten for life. My biggest problem would surely be to protect him from his "testerostonous" father!

I remember (very athletic) Mel -- on the occasion of about the tenth time Kenny Allen (around the corner toughie) sent Rick home bloodied and bent-- decided to teach Rick to defend himself. Perfectly ordinary thing for a Dad to do, right? Wrong. I knew that this was a gentle child who would never make it against the strength of a bully like Kenny! This ritual went on for weeks. Mel would kneel with both hands held out before him for Rick to punch his little fists into. First left, then right, then crossover, then upper-cut ... made me nervous to watch this futile game day after day.

Some time later Rick came home from play -- nose bloodied, chin scratched, tears of humiliation and fear of facing his dad mixing with outrage! I ran to gather him up for comforting before Mel could get to him -- but it was too late. Mel popped out of the kitchen with, "...why didn't you hit him like I taught you?" Poor little Rick, "...but he wouldn't hold his hands up!"

There was no male killer instinct in my child, and there never would be. He loved dolls and math, in that order. Built his first crystal set for radio reception when he was eight. Taught himself algebra with books from the library when he was in 6th grade because he needed it for a science project he was working on. This was a special child. He was bright, a linear thinker, sharp, and far more feminine than masculine in some important ways. And he'd been so since he came into my life at only a few months of age.

When he was in third grade I attended a teacher-parent conference and was told that Rick was a good student but that he was often seen "passing notes with another little sissy boy." At about the same time, my mother-in-law visited the house and noticed Rick washing dishes. Her warning, "...Betty you mustn't let that boy do those kinds of things...". But the pediatrician had told me years before that boys needed to play with dolls and do household chores just as girls did because "...they grow up to be parents just as girls do." An early feminist? At least she was partly right, but just a little twisted in her diagnosis.

The part that stuck was the part about there being a choice at puberty. I tried very hard to keep open and accepting so as not to effect that "choice." (If there was the slightest possibility that she was right.) Never allowed myself to hint that I knew, at least until it was so obvious that Mel and I were unable to discuss his homosexuality at all. We never did, though I heard Mel call him a sissy in anger -- but only once. Their's was a love/hate relationship that tore them both apart for years.

Poor Rick! His alcoholism was his only out from the misery. He was -- first of all -- an adopted child in a family that later produced three more biological children. He was an only child until he was five, then Bobby and in quick succession, David. He suffered the agony of being the only black child in that suburban school where he was scorned. He was Black and Gay. He was a lost soul.

After a tumultous and painful adolescence, at twenty-one he moved into town from Walnut Creek, into his first apartment. He was on his own. The call came, the one I'd expected all our lives. "Mom, can you come to dinner next Wednesday? Dress your prettiest. It's something special." When I arrived that evening, a young woman was waiting in the livingroom with Rick. He introduced us, and announced that he had something terribly important to tell me. It was at that moment that he told me about Ron, a handsome (white) man in his early thirties and owner of a kind of "Sharper Image" store in San Francisco. "He wants me to move in with him as his roommate, Mom." "And will you," asked I? "But you don't understand, Mom." "Yes, I do," says I. The young woman (obviously here for moral support) enters the conversations at this point with, "yes, she does, Rick." "You've always known, haven't you" says Rick? "Yes."

We left to join Ron at a fine restaurant where he announced that he and Rick were planning a trip to Amsterdam soon, and that he'd not wanted to take off without our family knowing about their relationship. Ron's family lived in Connecticutt -- a place they would visit on the return trip from Europe. I felt relieved and grateful that we'd together crossed some threshold that freed us all. We'd all come out, that evening.

But all that's left of that relationship are a few shares of Ford Company stock, given to Rick as a Christmas present years ago. The documents have been in my safe deposit box for all these years, a box I thought I'd closed out long ago when I moved. He had a key and had placed them there in a sober moment, I guess. I knew nothing of them until recently when they appeared in my name in an announcement of unclaimed property from the State of California. Have sent in proof of ownership and one day soon they'll arrive, the last vestige of a lost life... .

Leisure doesn't play well today ...

It's Saturday and I'm finding that a Saturday that isn't preceded by a busy week holds little meaning.

Read The Nation cover to cover, and gave due diligence to the pundits on the Left and decided that I need to locate a new base for political activities and soon. Came to the conclusion that -- for good reason -- the Democrats have clearly come together in the hope of unseating the Bush presidency by supporting the "electable" John Kerry. S'okay. I can live with that, though I find myself hoping that Dennis Kucinich and Howard Dean will remain in the race through to the end in order to provide a ballast on the Left that may keep Kerry from doing the "Centrist" thing by moving to the perceived middle after the primaries are over. Clinton with the help of Dick Morris moved to the right of Nixon when running for his second term, and the temptation will be great for Kerry to do likewise. His positions were far more conservative at the beginning of the primaries than in the more recent past. It wasn't until he adopted Dean's far more feisty anti-Iraq Bush policies that Kerry's fortunes began to change. Becoming more critical of Bush's stance on both economic issues and foreign policy turned the tide for him. Were Kucinich and Dean to remove themselves from the race prematurely, I fear a pulling back on his part. By liberalizing his views, he's given a political home to a brand new constituency -- one that will quickly disintegrate if there are signs of that kind of "Clintonism." That would mean a far closer and more perilous fight for the presidency against a powerfully-financed George Bush.

Am finding MoveOn and People for the American Way essential to my ability to track events. I've come to trust a host of sources; George Soros, the Guardian, The Nation, Le Monde, Al Jazeera, and (yes) the Berkeley Daily Planet for local stuff, adds a sense of being part of something larger than myself these days. This is new, and largely made possible by the Internet. Having access to CSpan and the cable coverage of city, county, and state governance is making a difference in campaigns and the way we've come to use political power. Never have ordinary citizens had the tools to move governments in quite this way. We've magnified power of the electorate a thousandfold through technology. Hope enough of us are aware of that and are using it wisely. Eli Parisher and MoveOn have surely changed access and provided the means by which we can bring accountability into the equation, raise funds, and have our voices heard in an effective way.

And -- today is Valentine's Day. Noticed on the last pages of The Nation a column of personal ads. I'm aware that many folks my age read the obituaries with the same interest. Sometimes read the personals for entertainment value, and for what little vicarious thrill there is in seeing bold and sophisticated men and women with enough daring to say precisely what they want for the entire world to see. Smart! Not sure that I could ever do that, but I did see one ad by "a professional man (mid-eighties, it said) who lives on the east coast and is seeking companionship," sounded mildly interesting. "Has home in New York and summer place ...". Now if that had been "lives on the west coast with a summer home on Tiburon or Belvedere," who knows. Maybe would have answered it. Felt daring just thinking about it. Nah, he'd probably be a Republican anyway.

It did stir memories of living in relationship and brought up some nostalgia for times past. Guess I've kept myself too busy to have regrets about living singly, but -- maybe it's just the effects of February 14th. Remembered with a grin of the Valentine's Day that I baked a heart-shaped meatloaf for Bill. He told that story for years, and embellished it with descriptions of sprigs of parsley placed strategically to suggest God knows what! He always made me sound clever and Noel Coward witty in the telling. It's also true that it takes an awful lot of "busy" to re-direct all that sexual energy elsewhere -- and an equal amount of self-delusion to convince oneself that none of that matters. It does.

I'm thinking that I may need to re-think the entire notion of romantic love, and embrace a broader definition of just what that is, and just how that might be achieved. I may have more time on this planet than previously thought, and updating my conception of just how that time might be spent may need consideration (grinning wickedly!).

Now, back to those tango lessons ... .

Though little has changed and the future is still "dimly lit," yet ... .

I woke to a more hopeful day today.

Dinner with Marilyn Langlois and her Jasper was productive and found some new friends who may prove to be very helpful in getting the school open and running again this fall. I'm always buoyed by contact with other productive people, and the Goode's (husband from the legal staff of now-deposed Governor Gray Davis, and wife, Erica, a physician) proved to be wonderfully warm and innovative and shows all the signs of becoming good friends in the future. Became reacquainted with Maury, about my age and a recent widower. Met him a week ago and enjoyed good conversations with him and with Marilyn. There's a brightness of eye and animation in body that announces the presence of the Goodes in a room -- I've sensed it before in others who've come into my life in the past. Chemistry? I liked them and Maury, and of course, the Langlois. Jennifer Ross, grants writer and dear friend, and Melita Sims, principal and adminstrator of the school, completed the group. We agreed to come together for a celebration exactly one year from last night -- assuming that we will have by then breathed new life into the Barbara Alexander Academy.

With my stockinged feet resting on the warm body of the family Newfoundland (whose favorite place during meals is under the dining-room table), we shared a wonderful feast and a wealth of goodwill. Good wine, good food, good company, and a great project to worry into being, plus a spectacular view of the night sky over the San Francisco Bay from Point Richmond. Can life be better? Hardly.

Home about ten thirty to the sound of a telephone and the plaintive voice of Dorian who was not scheduled to be picked up until this morning ... .

Still feeling well-fed in both soul and body, it didn't feel like too much of an imposition to climb back into my car and drive to Oakland to gather her up. She was grateful to see me (Kyle was rarely mentioned) and chatted happily all the way home. (Okay, so some of it was complaints about him, but with something added -- a growing recognition of his considerable flaws, with a matching impatience with his inability to change.) But, either I was in too good a mood to have my paper hat displaced, or, she is actually feeling it better to be with me tonight in a place of safety than at home, alone. Either way, we arrived back at my apartment pleased with ourselves despite the late hour. We even did some giggling before falling asleep, always a good sign.

This morning she rose with the expectation of going to NIAD. After a fleeting complaint about feeling a cold coming on, there was no resistance and a sense of anticipation for what she would create today. We're making progress.

Having the time to re-think just how she and I will move into the future is a luxury that I didn't anticipate. There are some programs I'd like to look into and will do so over what might be a short window of opportunity -- until Kyle figures out how to seduce her back into his control. How weird that I find myself in a competition for her affection. How healthy can that be? Feel uncomfortable even typing the words ...

I must be careful to make some corrections in the balances in my own life -- now that my work life has been interrupted. Will have to make a real effort to resist the temptation to bury myself in satisfying her needs and neglecting my own. That would be so easy. So justifiable since she is so impaired. My sons and my grandchildren need me as well, and maybe most of all -- I need myself. The choices don't seem to get any easier as experience mounts. If that were not true, this last stretch would be a breeze, wouldn't it?

Bill used to rise every morning at five o'clock to meditate. For the entire ten years that we were married, this was his practice. "Need this for focus," he'd say. It's a thought...may be a way to get in touch with that being who lives behind my eyes and directs my every move.

If ever there was a time ... .

Night before last brought a late call from Dorian in distress ...

Drove in at almost midnight to pick her up (complete with her family of two precious cats in carriers) and tucked her into the futon beside my bed -- for the night. These calls usually involve her sometimes live-in, alcoholic, and paranoid-schizophrenic lover who is either moving in or moving out -- depending upon whatever is shifting his body at the moment.

This "living in the community" feature of dealing with the mentally handicapped has a definite down side. When she was much younger, the State was, too. The Lanterman act made it possible to move many patients out of institutions into communities because -- through several Regional Centers scattered throughout California -- services were provided to enable each to live up to his or her potential (whatever that might be) within the general population. A valiant goal. Through a series of successive budget shortfalls and an ever-increasing population, those services have been drastically cut and we now have barely-functioning mentally deficient souls struggling out there with less and less to support them. It's really tragic. Many living under bridges and on warm grates throughout the country are those without family members to fill in the gaps for them. They fall through the cracks and often die from neglect, heartbreak and total confusion. As parents and siblings die off, they're left without advocates.

Dorian's young man is one such. He was born to parents who abandoned him, and was later adopted by another pair who did likewise after much abuse. He is clever, ego-maniacal, and domineering. I have to continually remind myself that he is impaired and not simply pathologically narcissistic. Staff cutbacks have provided a situation that supports his alcoholism and aggravates an already compromised life. And, my daughter adores him. He controls her every move and overrides my influence with her. That's new for me. She and I have always had a fine relationship that evolved intentionally and over many years from "mom" to "best friend." That's all but shattered, except that I can still count upon her honesty when things get really rough. Otherwise, she is so protective of him that I fear that she is being silently abused and shields him from criticism when she can.

I'd picked up the "Sea Biscuit" and "Whale Rider" DVDs on Tuesday, and we climbed into bed and watched them late into the night (both terrific!). Dropped her off at NIAD for her art class yesterday. She was obviously depressed and non-productive. She'd worked on a block print but had trashed it as not worthy of her effort. She a fine judge of when she's done well or failed at whatever she's working on.

Yesterday I drove her back to her apartment in Oakland in the early evening -- her therapist was coming at seven -- so she stayed there overnight. She called early this morning to check on just how her cats had fared without her. Kyle was apparently still gone.

Today I have lunch with a former co-worker (friend), a meeting with the National Park Service folks at 4:30 and dinner tonight at Marilyn's about the Barbara Alexander School. Dorian has Amy (her teacher) this afternoon from 2 until 4:30 so will be occupied fairly well. Tomorrow morning I will pick her up for another day at NIAD. Saturday morning there is basketball practice for Special Olympics -- I'll drive her in to Oakland for that. Then we'll spend the weekend together, hopefully.

That is, if Kyle allows it.

...and I find myself wondering just how long I'll be able to fill in the gaps in funding for her by partially supporting two households? Were I to die tomorrow, despite all, would my Dorian drift out into the social abyss and end up under a bridge somewhere?

Collapsing our lives into a single living space will undo all the years of training her to live without me. It's been such a long and painful process, but may have been an exercise in futility after all. I still hope to not infantalize her this late in life, but must try to continue to confirm her independence in every way possible. That involves taking some worrisome risks.

It seems less likely now than a month ago, but -- given a bit more effort -- maybe I can salvage something beyond my principles. That resignation may be have more costly than I'd realized. It troubles me to think that I may have compromised Dorian's future as well as my own, and she has a lot more future than I have, at least potentially. And therein lies the undercurrent that rules our lives ... the theme that dominates everything.

What will happen to Dorrie?

One might think that being unemployed would allow for more free time than before ...

Not working out that way. Looking for another position before I default on my mortgage or lose my insurance coverage keeps me not only busy but with a sense of urgency that surpasses even that which comes with the natural course of aging. This is something else. It probably equals the disquiet that everyone feels -- regardless of age -- when living from paycheck to paycheck. Any interruption in that process brings a sense of sheer terror. I'm beginning to experience shallow breathing -- now clearly noticeable because of the absence of the normal sense of power enjoyed for so many years. Always believed that I was facing the world with honesty and directness, and ever conscious of my ability to handle almost anything, given the time and the energy. Have rarely felt helpless and have climbed a respectable number of mountains in my day and made a hell of a lot of lemonade!

Let's get to the good stuff:

Kevin Cooper's execution has been set aside, and the anti-death penalty movement can stop and catch its breath. Turned out to be a celebration instead of a wake at the prison gates last night. Wonderful! The 9th Circuit Court of Appeals turns out to be the factor that turned the march toward death into a dance of victory. That panel is still deliberating the fate of Stanley "Tookie" Williams, but did the unprecedented thing of recommending that the governor give full consideration to clemency when handing down their last response to his case. That decision is still pending.

The film, "Redemption" is continuing to cause a great stir in festival circles with invitations to several more. Sundance gave it buzz that has excited the public far beyond the anti-death penalty movement. C.H. Pounder plays Winnie Mandela in the movie. Mandela called Barbara as she was leaving LA/Ex for home. A friend of Winnie's was in the audience and called South Africa to rave about the film. What resulted was an invitation to Barbara to bring it to South Africa for a showing before the Parliament. Channel FX is thrilled and is already working on it.

Spent Sunday lazing under the tallest eucalyptus forest imaginable (a monarch butterfly migration site), within reasonable rock-tossing distance to the ocean. This is the A-Frame home of an artist friend on whose board I'm serving. I so love interacting with these creative minds. There was a stage-lighting specialist, a grants-writer-capacity-building woman of the arts, a dancer-aerialist and one of her dancers, the beautiful black-eyed 4-year old son of Joanna, and a choreographer called "Baby Jose." Jose (the stage-lighting specialist) is from Argentina whose ultimate life plan is to purchase an old castle in central Mexico for a Bed and Breakfast. His specialty is cooking. He created a fine dinner for us all while we huddled before the fireplace and sipped tea that Joanna had brought back from South Africa ... they talked of Paris, the time they'd spent together in Peru ... Jose's upcoming trip to Brazil (we're all invited to go along, of course), and his most recent trip to Italy.

Jennifer and I spent last Sunday at a dance concert at the Yerba Buena Center where we'd accidentally run into Jose (who stage-manages the Center) and out of that came the invitation to Joanna's on Sunday. It was instantly clear that life grows out of life, and that I must continue to move about in the world in whatever way life presents itself. To not do so is to begin the slow and inevitable surrender to death. This may be one of the unstated but driving life forces ... maybe. Also, in a flash this very obvious truth rose out of nothing into full bloom while looking at the moon out of the car window as the others chatted comfortably about things I knew little or nothing about. It felt warm and right, and like one of those obvious truths that was more like a memory than an epiphany. There's a kind of elegance about that ... like something that rose at some elemental level from the experience of 6 year-old Betty long before she had the language to describe it ...

For the thousandth time in my life, on Sunday someone asked if I'd been a dancer at some earlier time in life. I said (again) "no." But silently -- with no future plans at the moment -- I decided then and there that it's not one minute too late. Will save some time in my new (non)schedule to enter a dance class. My body is lithe and moves well. The fact that I've led a relatively active life suggests that my bones can still take some stress without disintegrating. I've no sign of bone loss, yet, and my energy level is still high. But bonuses will surely begin to ebb if I find myself wasting away in front of the TV. Since I'm still a member of the board of the East Bay Center for Performing Arts -- and, since there are no age barriers -- why not? Maybe no one has yet tested the upper edges of the age levels for dance.

Phone just rang: It was a dear friend from Dion's staff inquiring about how I'm feeling, whether I've found work, (checking on signs of depression in my voice, I'm sure). Fortunately, since she didn't reach me when I was writing those first two paragraphs, she caught me contemplating dance lessons. The mind is oddly mercurial, isn't it? Another important truth? Maybe depression comes in short bursts, and can be dispensed with in quixotic ways. Think I'll set aside my job search for today and create for myself a new reality -- one that includes dancing. (Felt such a deep response on Sunday -- to the sound of a concertina in the background of conversation -- of something on CD -- a tango! Wouldn't that be a hoot!) Think I'll come out from behind this screen and pick up a leotard and maybe some maracas -- in case I can find flamenco dancing somewhere. That, too, stirs something deep inside... .

I'm beginning to know that -- whenever it comes -- death will be a rude interruption in a lifelong search for experiences. If only birth came with a built-in rehearsal feature and a place to Slo-Mo the best parts! Other than that small flaw, life's a bargain at any price, even when times are uncertain and the future only dimly lit... .

Dropped Dorian off at NIAD ... .

(National Institute for Artists with Disabilities) this morning and drove away with the first signs of depression. Couldn't decide what to do with myself with no destination in mind. Haven't been this open for many years, which is a way of saying that I had nowhere to go. Have never been the StarBucks type. With home the likely place to head for at the moment, I find myself sitting here at my computer with nothing of note to report.

The phone rang, "...this is Marilyn. Wanted to report that Maury (the man who met with us on Tuesday) has agreed to contribute to the Barbara Alexander Academy and has suggested that he will seek matching funds from Chevron/Texaco as well." "I'm having a dinner on Thursday next for other contributors and wondering if you would join us?" Agreed. The work on this remarkable charter school must continue. I, of course, accepted, and wondered if I should tell Marilyn how important this call was to me? She pulled me back into an unknown future by setting a date for me to pin myself to.

It's always been true that I need options. I can be comfortably alone only if I have a choice about it. At those times when I'm at loose ends with nothing to do -- slipping from chair to chair and watching "television" instead of specific programs -- I experience loneliness. But, if the phone rings and someone at the other end of the line asks, "...want to go to a movie?" Then, and only then, I can say "no, I plan to spend the evening doing laundry (or a report, or writing, or doodlin')," and at that moment I've chosen to spend the evening at home, alone. It's having someone present an option that makes the difference. Funny. It's always been so. Marilyn had innocently presented the option that transformed time into a living space.

So now that I've chosen, I'm writing here and planning to spend the afternoon making calls and updating my calendar to include new items more closely related to my new open schedule. Lunch with Mindell, another with Michelle, and still another with Isiah are new items. Talk with my broker about my portfolio and the need to begin to transfer dividends into my checking account instead of redepositing. Practical things now must move to the top of my "to do" list. Must contact someone to finish hauling possessions out of the storage place so that another monthly bill can be eliminated. So I'll be a little crowded -- maybe a yard sale?

Has anyone else on earth accumulated as much paper as I? Time to plug in the paper shredder and rid myself of records that go back beyond 7 seven years (isn't that the legal time allowance?). That should take up several days of browsing and tossing, a task I've delayed far too long.

Who knows what gems may turn up among the debris? Or, just how much garbage I've been hoarding for lo these many years ... .

Maybe I've found another compelling activity, at least until another Marilyn calls ... .

Spent a frustrating day ...

Changes are hard enough to deal with when they're the result of one's own doing, but when they're brought on by forces beyond one's control ... well, that's a horse of another color.

On Monday State Senator Perata's office called to say that "the senator's not ready for prime time." With the Kevin Cooper execution scheduled for next week and with protestors already sitting-in at San Quentin, and with full-page ads being placed in the national press by the anti-death penalty forces, I suspect that the issue is just too controversial to take on at the moment. It means that the 60 Minutes interview team has come to town to do the initial background interviews in preparation for the Stan Williams segment, but that there will be no announcement of a bill on the moratorium. Since we've passed the deadline for bill submission for this year's session, it wouldn't have been introduced until after September, anyway. Timing didn't work out. Therefore, Ed Bradley is not scheduled to arrive until around the 23rd of February.

Today Barbara left for the Pan African Film Festival in Culver City and a series of meetings arranged by Tom Hayden to follow on Friday and Saturday. Declined the invitation to go along (despite the fact that Blockbuster is picking up the tab) in the interest of updating my resume and getting the word out -- in the event that someone has an available position. Crazy? Maybe, but I really can't afford to be idle for long or I'll have to start drawing on dividends and reducing my investments prematurely. There isn't too much in reserve and Dorian's expenses grow with each month (this week brought the announcement of another rent increase). A couple of days at the Beverly Wilshire wasn't all that easy to walk away from, though. That was probably my last chance to do "luxury beyond reason!"

There will be a screening of "Redemption" in Sacramento for members of the legislature sometime before the television airing in mid-March. Will be helping to set that up over the next week or two.

Next week will be emotionally draining. Plan to attend the vigil for Kevin Cooper at San Quentin. Will join with others -- probably not on the night of the execution though, but on the night before. It's just too painful to be present at the gates that night. If I can find it somewhere on my hard disk, I wrote a description of that experience. It's hard to explain just why I feel drawn to such actions, but I am. To have a life taken in my name (and yours) should not be taken casually. To place oneself at the scene sharpens the awareness of just how inhumane an act is capital punishment. for the USA to be so far behind the rest of the world in outlawing this murdurous practice defies logic. But then death of young people through war is still beyond my understanding, too.

With the 9th Circuit Court still deliberating his case, Stanley Williams is at least a year away from his execution date (with luck), but having met him and seen his transformation -- having worked so closely with Barbara on his behalf over the past 4 years -- I cannot imagine what it will feel like to experience the effects of his execution on us all, when and if that day comes.

There have surely been unbelievably horrific acts committed by twisted individuals who must be shut away from society for the balance of their lives. "Life without the possibility of parole" is justifiable. That I do believe. But to kill in order to discourage killing makes no sense. The State (being me and thee) has not the right to take life. If one is capable of dropping the pellet, or, personally performing the act of giving a lethal injection, then I suppose the aversion that I feel is my problem, alone. But, there is no virtue in committing such acts in the aggregate if we would be unwilling or incapable of doing it as a lone individual. That's the acid test for me.

Since my work to date has allowed much variety and constant change, there is a risk that I will be drawn into specific areas of concern and lose the ability to balance the highs and lows and levels of intensity in my days. Must be careful. There has to be time to watch the kites, children at play, moving water and changing skies, art and artists, hear music and work with those young people who are on their way into public service. Without those balances, my life may start to be lived defensively and without intentionality. I've seldom had that problem, but then there has always been a central focus. That's what I must find now. If not through another position, then through a carefully-planned program of volunteering. I'll need to be ever alert to opening doors.

Tomorrow will meet with the people at the Chamber of Commerce about the Arts & Entertainment District, and then follow up on resumes sent out by email. These were sent by invitation, so I'm hopeful.

Entering a precarious period, but with lots of hope and some excitement.

Photo: Me, grandson Rhico, Ms. Winnie Mandela, and granddaughter, Kokee Amanda Reid.
Right photo: Ms. Mandela and I visited the Laura Hunter Learning Center in North Richmond on the day that we visited Death Row inmate, Stanley "Tookie" Williams. She'd flown from South Africa to lend support to the anti-death penalty movement and, specifically, to help to plead the case of this five times this Nobel Peace Prize nominee. He was also nominated for the prize in literature. This month (10/2005) his last appeal was turned down by the Supreme Court. His execution will now be scheduled unless the governor acts in his behalf.

Met with Barbara Becnel and Assemblyman Tom Hayden yesterday, I like him,  and, of course, Barbara and I have forged a lasting friendship over the past years ... .

Working with him will be wonderful. He's dedicated to the idea of a moratorium on the death penalty and is committed to changing the criminal justice system in any way he can. Is anyone aware that the cost of educating a child in this state is about $6000/year while the cost of maintaining one prisoner is $27,000/year? That has to stop anyone with common sense in their tracks, right? How have we come to this?

Watched the PBS documentary on the state of the schools (hope you can catch it) called "First to Worst." Shocking story of the continuing effects of Prop. 13 on the education of our young. Helms Middle School is in my district. It's a school that I'm familiar with and what is seen on the small screen is both accurate and disgraceful. The Orinda high school shown is also in the 14th Assembly District, with its unbelievably rich educational culture and hardworking parents who have the financial ability to make up for the deficits that rob innercity kids of so much. Had to keep reminding myself that I'm no longer working for the District ... .

But this morning I'm off to a meeting of the Ma'at Youth Academy, as a board member -- an assignment I'll continue to serve -- I'm still in touch with a group that brings environmental education into the schools. This afternoon I'll meet with someone who may be interested in contributing to the revival of the Barbara Alexander Academy.

Haven't yet sent out those resumes, but have been asked by several interested people to submit ASAP so there may be interest in a continuance of my "career," despite the break in employment. Lots of possibilities ... but now I must leave for Ma'at board meeting.

It's raining and gray and the house is still. I'm so rarely here at this hour. It's strange... .

Feeling a little insecure this day,

it's been a long time since I've had to wonder just what I might be doing come Monday ...

When I allow myself to think about the audacity of a woman my age thinking that she can resign any position on a question of principle? How crazy is that? What in the world would give me the idea that I can walk away from any great job and pick up another at the drop of a resume? But, in thinking back over the past weeks, I can't imagine any other course of action. I could not have stayed, but walking away with only 3 months to go for my retirement benefits to kick in is probably not the brightest thing I've ever done. The state system requires five years of service, and I've worked under the PERS retirement system for 4 years and 9 months. One day less and you're on your own.

There is an alternative. Since both the city and county use the PERS system, if I can find some limited project (3 month stint), I can continue to accumulate credits for time served. Have put out word along the network and will hope that something will turn up. Otherwise, I will be one very expensive volunteer! Can't imagine not being involved in something. Will continue to do consultancies when possible, and to work on special projects with Barbara Becnel, but the steady income that I've grown used to, and that supports both my life and Dorian's has come to an end. Severe cutbacks in the state budget have eliminated her psychotherapist, her rent has seen another increase, and her meds that cost $10 in November rose to $300 after January 1st when she went for a refill. One might certainly question my timing, right?

Meanwhile, this afternoon I helped to celebrate the birthday of an old friend, and tomorrow is a concert of Dimensions Dance Theater with Omar Sosa, pianist, at the Yerba Buena Center in San Francisco. Am dreaming of tickets to see the long-awaited Lion King that opened this week and will be in S.F. until September.

Will meet on Monday with Barbara Becnel and Tom Hayden, then will complete engagements with those still in my datebook and that I can take into my personal life (some interesting projects), and plan to spend the next week lunching with friends and seeking more permanent work arrangements. Wednesday brings the 60 Minutes interviews and Ed Bradley. Have contacted my state senator to announce the introduction of his bill on the moratorium. Will have his answer on Monday. Probably should set aside the next week for worrying about approaching income tax preparation and then property tax filings, then, and only then, aarrggghhhh!!!!! Screaming time! But not until at least 60 days have elapsed.

My chances for employment at Hooters are pretty low, and I'm not sure I'll qualify for flight classes due to excessively sweaty palms -- but there must be something. There's a community college just down the hill from my condo. Maybe they can use a busybody type for something. Maybe I'll take those art classes I've been wishing to take -- "one day when there is time."

Don't think it's crackup time yet, but today my usually mind-bending drive on the freeway yielded little other than questions. Usually my best thinking is done while stuck in traffic. I keep a little tape recorder in the dash compartment, and have often been known to work out some pretty hefty questions while stuck between two SUVs and an oil rig on I-80. Today I couldn't focus, so noticed all of the negatives -- deisel smoke, sirens, garbage on the road, sinister-looking skid marks, angry drivers. Funny, that stretch along the bay usually brings up marine views, sailboats, windsurfers, an occasional kite, weird license plates, interesting sky patterns as the fog moves in stealthily from the sea... .

Was reminded again of just how true it is that we create our own reality... .

Lots of changes...

Resigned from my position and have spent most of this week closing out an important chapter in my life. It was somewhat sudden and involved a matter of principle, and one that I don't feel free to discuss publicly. However, I've been moving in the direction of a career change for some months. It was simply a matter of time.

Have discovered over time that an important stage in the aging process involves a growing sense of urgency. I'm far less patient in these years, and -- having a compressed period in which to accomplish so much -- drives me mercilessly at times. Unfortunately, most of the rest of the world is in a "hurry up and wait" place, with the luxury of time working in their favor.

Today the staff took me out to lunch at my favorite restaurant on the marina, and I felt the sadness of separation deeply. They've become so dear to me, and I was so touched by their caring. We've been together barely two years, but parting was still difficult.

Almost before I managed to move my personal files and pictures back home, the new pages of the next chapter began to unfold:

Very close to my heart has been the work of the anti-death penalty movement. Will be meeting with my friend, Barbara Cottman Becnel, and Tom Hayden (former legislator but now teaching at Occidental College in Southern California) on Monday. Barbara is the woman who managed to get Stan Williams, inmate on San Quentin's Death Row, nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize two years in succession. He's been nominated again this year for both the Nobel Peace Prize and the Nobel Prize for Literature. He is the subject of "Redemption," a film made for television but shown twice at Sundance Film Festival last week. It will be shown nationwide in April on FX Channel. Jamie Foxx plays Stan and Lynne Whitfield, Barbara. On Wednesday and Thursday of next week it opens the Pan African American Film Festival in Hollywood.

With the next execution scheduled for midnight, February 10th, the debate is heating up again in California with a member of the legislature considering putting forth a bill that will seek a moratorium until the system can be studied more closely. Death Row inmate Kevin Cooper may not be saved, but there is a new governor in place who will have to decide on the clemency issue, and he may be more receptive than was Governor Gray Davis who was so heavily-funded by the Prison Guards Unions. The next two weeks will give us a chance to see if there's been any change in the attitude of the citizens in this state. They voted 90% to support capital punishment some years ago, but with so many innocent prisoners caught up in a flawed system, sentiments are changing markedly across the country. We have no measure yet of the effects of the debate on the citizens of this state. Our executions are not as frequent as those of Texas, for instance, so the debate carries no urgency.

All that is to say that Sixty Minutes is sending Ed Bradley to the Bay Area to work on a segment on Death Row inmate Stanley "Tookie" Williams (the subject of "Redemption"). It will be aired in March. I have the responsibility of meeting with both Bradley and the legislator who is preparing a moratorium bill, in the hope that he can be persuaded to make his announcement on Sixty Minutes -- thereby getting national coverage. That'll be on Wednesday afternoon. But tomorrow (my last day at the office) will be the first day of my new assignment.

Not sure where all this will lead, but I'm feeling right about having freed myself from this last chapter in the Saga of Betty, and can't wait to see where life will take me next. It feels good. There's a quiet excitement about this unanticipated change.

Attended a retirement dinner for our city manager last night, and in looking around the room at that familiar crowd of actively involved people, it felt like home. There are two candidates for city councils that I'm working closely with -- that will continue. There is the Arts Commission that I can now work more closely with (been missing a lot of meetings due to the demands of my job). There is the Chamber of Commerce that is showing great interested in my vision of a now-abandoned downtown redevelopment into an Arts & Entertainment District. Will be meeting with the Chamber staff to explore that one day very soon.

I'm guessing that I'll become more of a player in the city than in the state, and that feels right. It's so much easier to effect change in the smaller arena. This is always where I've done my best work, I think.

This is a city in chaos, with a budget crisis of enormous proportions, and with most of the management team gone and replaced by interim staff. With firehouse closures, and public safety threatened in a time of a national emergency. This is also the time of great opportunity. It's a time when there is the greatest chance for making a difference. It's at precisely such times that the adrenaline flows wildly, and I see possibilities everywhere I look. To be free to explore those opportunities is the best of all worlds. It was truly time to move on. It feels right. But I'll sorely miss those wonderful young women with whom I've spent these last several years working to save the world. There are some exceptional young people working in public service. I wonder if we really appreciate just how many there are out there, doing their best to serve us all?

Now I'll look for the batteries to fit into my beautiful crystal mantel clock -- a most thoughtful gift from young women who have enriched my life and kept me whole for even more years. The inscription embedded in a small silver plaque (taken from an original painting that hung on my office wall) reads, "Against the ruin of the world there is only one defense; the creative act." The painting was given to me many years ago by an artist friend, Clarice Bois. It's meant a lot to me. It hung near my work space at home, always. I brought it along to my office when I went to work for Loni. I'd thought that painting only spoke to me, but obviously Clarice had made her impact on each of them as well. She died several years ago, but this tribute to her work touched me deeply.

...I will wear the exquisite handpainted "wearable art" scarf of muted purples, greens, lilacs, and pale yellows, when I want to feel particularly pampered and regal.

The future is in good hands.

Truly ... .

Photo: Painting by Clarice Bois - 1968.

...and whom shall we say represents "normal" in this cautionary tale?

After having spent the years from six to twelve at a fine Summerhillian private school in the Alhambra Valley, it was time for Dorian to move on. She'd spent the years relatively happily, but she was the only mentally-handicapped child in this small progressive school, and as the children she'd entered with grew older and intellectually more capable and less tolerant of her deficits she tended to seek friendships with younger and younger children. I was convinced that she was becoming grotesque to the littler ones and now needed a different educational environment in which to continue to grow at her own far slower rate. I'd learned about a fine school in Marin County that might better serve her changing needs. I think that experience colored my feelings about mainstreaming such children. Dorian needed a place where it was she who was at the higher end of achievement scales. Something I've never regretted.

The Cedars was a boarding school, heavily endowed, obviously well-run, and recognized and supported by Lanterman funding (State of California). It was a reasonable 35 or so miles from Walnut Creek, in Ross, and therefore practical for us, though extremely difficult to think about since it was to be our first separation. Our family was defensively close and I wasn't sure how to prepare the boys for this next step in Dorian's move toward whatever independence she could achieve before I die and leave her in the world without our support.

I'd noticed from the first newsletter that no surnames were used when reporting on activities of the residents. This should have been a tip-off that -- despite outward appearances -- this was a people bank in which to deposit embarrassing relatives. This was my first brush with the mentally-handicapped community since Dorrie had never been exposed to that world, nor had we.

Also noticed that -- on my every-other-Sunday visits -- I rarely ran into other parents. I did become acquainted with several of the young staffers and volunteers who were students at Marin Junior College. They quickly became accustomed to my more frequent visits and could be counted on to see that my girl was content and cared for.

When Dorian was about fourteen, she struck up a friendship with 17 year-old blond Larry, a very sweet and well-mannered youngster who appeared far younger than his years. On our visits she and I would take walking tours along the marina, visit downtown San Rafael or Sausalito, attend any public event we might happen to run across in the Sunday papers, sometime go to church together, etc. After her innocent friendship with Larry began, I would include him in our visits, with consent of the staff.

One day Joylene (young staffer) called me at home to say that Larry's parents were coming from Portland, Oregon, the next weekend on their annual visit. They would like permission to take Dorian to dinner with them at that time. They'd obviously heard from Larry about his new friend and (I'm guessing) were grateful that he'd matured to the level where he could have such a friendship with its signal of approaching manhood.

After talking with a very excited Dorrie, I agreed to bring a new dress for the occasion the very next day, and would postpone our next visit until a later time so that she could tell me all about her "date."

The day came. The phone rang late in the afternoon. It was Joylene with a hysterical Dorrie! It seems that the staff had neglected to tell Larry's parents that his new friend was not white, and that -- though his father had arrived with a bouquet of roses for Dorrie -- his wife refused to get out of the car. She was outraged and wouldn't budge! Dorian was left waiting in her new dress and first heels -- with a bouquet of roses -- and Larry was sent off with his parents without her... .

As was almost always the case in the lives of our children, the institution did not protect her. This was the pattern that mystified and enraged me over the years. Where it was surely not possible for the institution to either foresee or prevent such racist atrocities by individuals that so damaged others, the "institution" does have a responsibility to protect and defend those individuals who are the victims of such misdeeds. There was a responsibility to the institution to not acquiesce to the tantrum of Larry's mother, but instead of confronting her, they were embarrassed that it hadn't occurred to anyone to warn her in advance, therefore an acceptance of the rightness of her position.

It gets worse.

I'd tried to comfort my distraught daughter by phone, but she was not to be consoled. Some hours later, when Larry had been returned to the Cedars by his parents, he avoided contact with her. He'd explained to other residents to the best of his mentally-retarded ability that his father told him that something was terribly wrong with Dorrie's mother's skin ... which poor little Larry obviously read as something physical, physiological, and probably contagious! Upon hearing this from others -- Dorrie became frantic -- thinking that something awful had happened to her mother since we'd last been together! She could not be consoled until -- after another call from Joylene -- I drove the long drive to the Cedars so that Dorian could actually see me and be comforted that I was just fine and that my skin had not turned green or purple or scaly!

That may represent the absolute lowest point in the saga of the struggle with racism.

I have no idea what I'd say to that mother were I to meet her today. There are no words. That may make a nice epitaph for my tombstone ...

There are no words ... .