A long week with inconclusive endings ... .

Started out as an addition to the National Park Service staff. Am replacing a friend from the Arts Commission who has moved into the slot as Arts chief for the city (Parks and Recreation Dept.) Michelle will work with me one day a week during the transition period -- amd while I learn the routine. The work just doesn't feel challenging enough to demand that, but this may just be that I don't yet understand the process well enough to know. We'll see.

It's been years since I've done "reactive" rather then "creative" work, and -- for the time being -- it's relaxing. I'm doing some cataloging, data entry, bits and pieces of larger projects created by others. Feels not unlike those early-in-life jobs involving file cards and "Girl Friday" stuff. Not sure I can last too long at this, unless I can find some ways to work with policy. The "Bureaucratic Waltz" is of little interest to me, but, the calvary is on the way, it seems.

As luck would have it, the mayor's personal secretary announced her retirement just this week. This has come at a time when the city is in crisis and the demands on Mayor Irma Anderson are unprecedented. The National Park Service is located in city hall, so her office is not far down the hall from where I'm located. That means that we've met in the halls a time or two, and exchanged greetings. I've had many contacts with her in my capacity as Dion and Loni's rep, so there is some relationship to build upon.

"Hi, Irma! Heard about Bobbie's leaving. I know that this is a bad time and that you need help. Do you suppose I could be of assistance?"

The upshot of that is that it is quite possible that my work with the NPS will be short-lived, and that I'll be moving up the hallway to Irma's office. Details not worked out yet, but at least two city council members have recommended that this happen, and my attorney/broker is delirious! Motivation is the fact that the city is under the same retirement system as the state (PERS) and that I'll be able to complete those much-needed 3 months that I walked away from when I resigned impulsively "on principle!". As you may recall, I quit my job with a mere 90 days to go to qualify for my pension,fulfilling the 5 year requirement. Isn't this all just too co-incidental?

The 3-hour meeting with Ken Berrick (Seneca Centers) and Dion on Wednesday went terrifically. We're proceeding with the exploration of an innovative education program for high-risk poor youth. We're looking at several Bay Area cities and towns as possible sites. I like both the people and the concepts, and will continue to work with them, informally, while doing what I need to do to protect my financial stability by staying at City Hall for the present.

On another front, Jennifer and I continue to pursue the Arts & Culture element involving the convention center, but will need to wait until the new city manager is hired (interviews are presently in progress), before any decisions can be made on that front.

With the ongoing work in preparation for this fall's elections, I'm having to stay pretty much in the present so writing will be necesssarily sparse, I suppose. Besides the national campaign where every vote is needed in order to defeat the current office holders, there are the three local candidates that I'm hoping to help to seat. I'm personally committed to Joe Wallace, running for a second term on the Alameda County Transit (ACTransit) board where he is now president; Eddrick Osborne for Richmond city council, Gary Bell and Mindell Penn (incumbents) who are also running for their second terms. All of this requires a major committment to voter registration, so weekends will be intensely active for a while. Registering every eligible voter within spittin' range is the goal, and some beyond.

As luck would have it, at that Point Richmond fundraiser last week, I ran into a woman who has a copy of a draft manuscript of a book I started some years ago. "Did you ever publish your bio for small business owners," she asked? (Couldn't recall what she was referring to.) Then I remembered. She still has a copy and has promised to dig it out for me. As I recall, it is a terrific accounting of those years in the store (1978-1985 or there abouts), and undoubtedly contains lots of material that I've love to recover for this blog. It was written shortly after I left the store, so will be filled with those small but vital bits and pieces that were the lessons learned in that remarkable life experience.

So, maybe Cindy Howell may provide that framework upon which the next pages can be drawn -- which will give me the time to devote my time to the unfolding "next chapters."

The fall promises to be life-changing for us all. This year's election cycle is fearsome. For the first time in my life, I believe, I'm feeling victimized by the unknown. I've probably contributed more of my hard-earned and shrinking funds this year to political campaigns than ever before.

I've been a MoveOn activist since the beginning. Am watching George Soros, People for the American Way, the ACLU, for leads, and -- though always the political activist -- am feeling even more the need to effect change. I would love to see Kerry move to the Left. Am disturbed by his listening too closely to the Centrists -- a move I hated in Clinton. But he's all we've got, and that has to be enough. I keep harking back to the times when I watched him (Kerry) -- spellbound -- appearing before Congress as a peace activist with Veterans Against the Vietnam War. THAT Kerry, I loved. Inside that Lincolnesque craggy face and body lives that eloquent warrior, still, hopefully. I'm praying that the edges haven't been worn down to nothing, and that all those years in the congress haven't smoothed off those rough places. I'm trying to convince myself that the office, itself, will bring out those aspects of character, and that we and the world will be the better and the safer for it.

More later ... .

Wonderful party.

Point Richmond is a very interesting little community. Its residents live on the Bay shore edge and literally in the shadow of the Chevron/Texaco refinery. It is separated only by the Interstate that forms the gateway to the Richmond-San Rafael bridge. It's a little village of historic Victorians on tiny lots, combined with an occasional modern architectural gem. This is where the arts community has settled, with many well-known architects, engineers (oil related), photographers, designers, chemists, and actors -- creating a vibrant place to work and play. There are former city council members, retired state legislators, and at least one former mayor of the city, a resident for 40 years. It's a stable community with some of the most dramatic scenic views in the entire Bay Area. Unlike many cities along the waterfront that have squandered their shorelines to industrialization, Richmond has retained much of its bayfront for future development. The reasons have less to do with wise planning than with the fact that much of the shoreline consists of brown-fields -- ground so heavily contaminated during the war years that -- only over the past few decades has the technology existed to return the land to safe redevelopment. We're in the beginnings of the upsurge of that development now, and it's an exciting place to be. Being in a position to help to shape of the changes is exciting to ponder.

It's also true that Point Richmond is largely white-owned, with a significant percentage of its residents being petroleum industry retirees.

Not more than two miles away, in the Iron Triangle section, exists the poorest section of the city. That area is composed of 90% of the 40% African American portion of the population. It has the highest crime rates in the city plus an (unsurprising) 40% unemployment rate. The contrasts are staggering. Nowhere are the social and economic differences more stark than here. However, I'm fascinated by the fact that the same demographics one finds in the welfare and food stamp lines are present on the country club golf course. This city, though racially separated residentially due to economic factors, it has reached a level of successful social and racial integration that is rarely seen elsewhere in my country.

The Summer Music Festival I attended last night (and fundraiser for Eddrick) featured the Dave Matthews Blues Band. The attendees as well as the performers were a blend of the African American, Euro-Americans, and Latinos that make up the lion's share of the city's population. However, there was a noticeable absence of the large Asian (Laotian) refugee folks who haven't yet acculturated into the mix. These are the boat people who arrived here about 25 years, and are still dazed by western culture, I believe. Their numbers are substantial, but their presence is rarely seen except in those instances where they've been specifically sought out. The language barrier is still too strong to allow for easy access into that world. Translators are still necessary for even the most elementary kinds of cross-cultural activities. I'm sure that this will change over the next 5 years as their young people now graduating from our educational institutions, begin to take their places in the larger world.

This is a fascinating city, but one that is a study in contradictions. Though less than four miles (by interstate) from Berkeley and within plain view of San Francisco, little of the political sophistication of those cities has reached Richmond. I've found here a unique and distinctive Richmond culture, stubbornly provincial on the one hand, and a repository for national history found nowhere else in California. The provincialism forms a kind of coating around the political life and is not easily whisked away, despite all efforts to the contrary.

Except for Point Richmond and the exclusive nearby Brickyard Cove (similar to Tiburon and Belvedere across the Bay), most of those who spend their days in the office parks and laboratories here actually live elsewhere. After five o'clock, the city is returned to the locals, with even the public safety personnel leaving to spend their money and time in surrounding cities and towns. I suspect that the same might be said for Oakland, which appears void of all life in the downtown areas after dark.

The inner core of many major cities may boast majority-minority representation in their civic governments, while being actually controlled by regional and corporate power beyond their city limits. There is the illusion of power, always. Those who work in this city but live beyond the borders don't have to live with the effects of policies influenced into place by outside players. It's a Catch 22, and a political anomaly that has thus far defied solution. To try to debate this openly could topple what fragile political structure there is, and might seriously threaten the stability of the institutions that govern our daily lives.

Nonetheless, I see opportunity everywhere I look, and innumerable chances to alter the dynamics in one way or another. I'm not nearly smart or powerful enough to actually effect such changes, but the mere possibility keeps me trying. So long as I continue to feel the "seduction of the possible," I will surely remain in the game.

The fact that I've progressed to the point where I can be satisfied to mentor potential new leadership and to see that as an important contribution, may prove that I'm still evolving. The next step will come when I'm willing to accept the possibility that others can be trusted with the 'changing of the world' -- as I step off the stage and into the wings of the next one... .

Busy time!

After explaining to Rick Smith (Park Ranger in charge of Interpretation) that I needed another week before committing to his offer, I did agree to come in for a few days as a volunteer -- to get a feel for the position. Yesterday was the beginning. The person that I'll be replacing leaves after today, to return one day a week during the transition period. My assignment is to work five days a week, on my own and one day (Fridays) with Michelle.

Yesterday being the day of her farewell lunch, I joined Judy Hart, project director; Rick Smith, and Michelle, for lunch in Point Richmond. Lovely relaxed introduction to primary staff.

Michelle is taking a position as Arts Manager for the Parks and Rec Department of the city, replacing someone who has just retired. It's a six month's position for a job that will be posted for the permanent replacement after that time.

"What will happen when you want your job back at the end of six months? (asks I)
"Don't know," says she.
"May not matter anyway, at my age, in six months I may not remember that I HAVE a job!" (laughter all around).

This city is truly in a meltdown. There are signs of it everywhere. It may be in the same state of entropy that I am in these years.

Today I spent the entire day learning more about the NPR job and its duties. (If I decide to accept it) I will be what Rick calls a Librarian Technician. That's a new area for me(!). Today I scrounged around amongst the cartons so carefully stored in locked cabinets for the many artifacts, photos, audio and videotapes of oral histories, all gathered from Rosie's across the country. Ford Motor Company awarded a substantial grant with which appeals for the material was solicited through all the major publications and on the Internet. A web site was established last year. There are also wonderful artifacts from the war -- fascinating stuff. There are transcripts and summaries to scan and catalog into a data base for retrieval by researchers who will come from far and wide to discover this historical material to further their personal projects or to fill in gaps in their family histories. This will be the primary feature of the Rosie The Riveter Memorial National Park.

The time flew by as I absorbed the newness! After I'd completed the logging and transferred my lists to the computer, it was time to pick up Dorian from NIAD. I could enjoy this. It appears that I will also be the person who interfaces between the National Park, the community, and related agencies. I will take the phone calls from former Rosies and/or their sons and daughters when they contact the office for information. I'll answer their letters and write acknowledgments for materials received; that kind of thing.

Really quite interesting... .

Now I have to leave this to attend a fundraiser for Eddrick Osborne, my city council candidate, and a music festival out at Point Richmond. Dorrie will spend the evening with the original Music Man DVD, so we're both well occupied for the next several hours.

More later.

Voice from the past ... .

Answered the telephone to the unfamiliar woman's voice on Saturday last. She announced herself hesitantly as "Emily Fox," and -- despite the 30 years between -- instantly came the image of a little 15-year old brunette -- wise beyond her years but still very much the girl child. Here was one of the teens who were participants in Project Community, Bill's research project at the university. How in the world had she found me, and what kind of bonding could there have been that would have brought her back into my life at this point? One can only guess. After all, I was just one of the many grownups who sat behind a desk and interacted informally with the kids from time to time. Can't recall that I actually participated as a leader in any of Emily's groups, yet here she was, out of the blue from across the years!

"I've been living in Boston for many years, working at one thing or another, but still return home to visit my aging parents from time to time. Could we meet for lunch while I'm here?"

"Yes!" And in answering I could instantly visualize her sitting in a group of 8-10 adolescents, deep in soul searching up on the second floor of that lovely old frat house on the edge of campus. I could close my eyes and bring back the intimate conversations I was privileged to view as a part of my work in the project. All sessions were videotaped, and I was in charge of culling specific information, trends, etc., from the hours and hours of tapes the project produced over its 5-year run. I LOVED (subject) Emily! She was so articulate and wise and so loving. But I only knew her as a subject on the videotapes. Of all the kids that I'd come to know in this somewhat distant way, she was probably the most clearly etched. And there was Jeff Raz, the dark-haired Adonis of a boy, Middle Eastern in appearance, who literally went off to join the circus. These two are still easily called up from memory. I've seen his name on many a playbill, including that of the Pickle Family Circus (precursor of Cirque de Soleil) and the renowned San Francisco Mime Troupe. Have always imagined Jeff as the strongman at the bottom of the pyramid holding up the rest. I've never seen him in performance, but have occasionally caught sight of him on the streets of Berkeley, brawny and bold and as handsome as could be.

We arranged to meet this very day in Berkeley. It wasn't until I was driving up Solano Avenue that the thought occurred to me that I had no idea what my young friend would look like after thirty years. Neither of us had thought to ask for signs of identity. Yet, as I pulled up in front of Walker's Pie Shop, there was grownup Emily -- after 30 years -- and a lifetime of changing, and immediately we both grinned. She had also wondered about changes I would have surely made in all that time. We needn't have worried. It was all so natural. The major change was that we met as peers this time.

We exchanged stories of where our lives had taken us. I was a little taken aback by the fact that we had really not met before, officially. Our lives at the Project were anything but similar. I was involved with the work of being one of the adult leaders (in the front office most of the time), and she -- a little girl subject of an important experiment. Later, when I was working as a co-leader in the school's programs, she was no longer involved. She was one of the participants at the Berkeley House while my work was eventually based at school sites in the Napa Valley and Mt. Diablo Unified School Districts.

"Project Community changed my life," says she.
"Where are the research results?"
"Have there been followup studies?"
"I've been home many times, but have never been able to interest anyone in re-uniting."


What a lovely lunch! I so enjoyed re-visiting that part of my life again after so many years, and having the feeling that Emily is proof enough that those years were well-spent. I, too, wondered about the fate of those studies, and just where that vital work had ended up. But I do know that I saw remnants of our work picked up and emulated in other drug prevention programs throughout the area. I still find bits and pieces bleeding through brochures and in the pages of scientific journals.

Project Community was the first truly innovative work of its kind, and seeing Emily today served as a reminder that there is still stored up in me training and practical experience of working with teens in growth-producing ways.

Emily Fox and Seneca Family Programs move into my life at a time when I'm getting ready to meet with Ken Berrick about new possibilities. They're coming together almost simultaneously has just a hint of that serendipitous quality that follows me through life, doesn't it? Like coming onto the Bay Bridge and moving seamlessly into someone's movie script ... .

Do these things happen to everyone? I find myself wondering ... .

Do I simply connect the dots differently?

Tomorrow Emily flies to Southern California to continue her coastal visit with family there, and then a return to Boston where she will go on with the many interesting bits and pieces of the life she's fashioning for herself. Hope she enjoyed our visit as much as I did.

Can't escape the feeling that today's lunch will inform the interview with Ken on Wednesday, July 14th.

See what I mean?

As luck would have it,

on Tuesday last I attended a party at the offices of my former boss, Assemblywoman Dion Aroner. She's now a powerful California State lobbyist with tastefully appointed offices in Berkeley's chic Fourth Street Avenue along the Bayfront.

Because of the difficulty of parking anywhere nearby, I left my car about a block away from the site. As I did so I noticed that the car that pulled in behind me was that of the executive director of a very effective and successful program for emotionally disturbed teens. Ken Berrick has been a longtime supporter of Dion's so we've met before on many occasions though not often been in contact recently. We chatted idly on the walk to the party -- and in the process he mentioned that he'd been considering an intensive psychological/educational program for the troubled teens of Richmond. The interest had been heightened by his discovery of a great program being conducted by someone in New York. "Geoffrey Canada," I asked? "Yes," answered Ken. I'd just seen (African American Harvard educated) Canada interviewed on the Charlie Rose show a week or so ago and had been intrigued as well. We chatted for a few minutes about this exciting work ... Ken was obviously excited. It was a conversation that held great promise but was quickly extinguished as we approached the party and someone snagged him as we neared the site -- and engaged him in another conversation as I continued on.

After a few canapes and a margarita and after re-connecting with many friends of long-standing, I left to meet Dorian for supper together before another evening of watching the Richmond city council meeting on cable, my Tuesday night ritual.

The thought of Ken and his thoughts along the path melted away in the rush of busyness, but returned in the night as I lay awake playing over the Canada study in my relentlessly busy brain.

Slip to two days later. I logged on and clicked my way into the Seneca Family Programs website, wrote a short email to Ken telling him that I was keenly interested in his idea about emulating some of the Canada program in Richmond. Told him in a paragraph about my frustration around the ill-fated Barbara Alexander Academy, my interest in Washington, D.C., SEED boarding school that had just graduated its first class of 21 poor black kids (after four years of heavy educating) -- all of whom have been accepted at colleges across the nation, including Stanford. These are not the highly motivated and exceptional kids, but children chosen by lottery from one of the poorest communities in the nation. I'd met with SEED's creators while working for Loni. One of the two innovators called about a week ago to tell me proudly about their graduating class, and to let me know that SEED will be adding two schools to their program over the next few years; one in Oakland in 2006 and another in Richmond in 2007. All the fascination with education and troubled kids surfaced for me again, and I wanted to encourage Ken to pursue the Richmond possibility.

Told him in my email about the NPS job offer, but that I really wanted to explore the possibilities of helping Seneca to move into Richmond before finalizing that. "After that, I have a date with Al Zheimers, a guy who's been waiting in the wings for some time now!" (grin) I figure a good two years more before I slow down enough for him to catch me.

Within an hour Ken returned my email message (but by phone). The old excitement that I'd heard in his voice as we walked to the party was still there. "I'm thinking of both Emeryville and of Richmond as possible sites. I agree that we need to sit down and talk, Betty. How about the afternoon of the 14th in Dion's Berkeley office -- from two o'clock until four, maybe?"


This morning:

Rick Smith from NPS just called to say that he is on his way to the regional office and wanted to confirm whether or not I'd actually accepted their job offer (to start on July 12th).

"Have another possible job offer, Rick, with an exploratory meeting just two days later on the 14th. Would you have any objection to waiting a bit before we tie things down?"

"Oops! We'll need to sweeten the pot, maybe?"

"No. Just need some time to hear what this means, and whether or not it's a better fit for my abilities."

"Sure, Betty, we can wait."

"Would it be allright if I come in for a couple of days next week to do some volunteer work -- just to get a feel for the work?"

"Of course. Take your time. We can wait."


So you'll just have to keep tuned. With only a couple of years left, I'd sure hate to find myself doing something uninteresting and where my years of such varied experience is not utilized fully. Time is precious now, and spending it wisely is more important than ever before.

Who says that options cease with age? Apparently not anyone we know.

Keep forgetting to mention the young African American man with whom I've been working for several years now. Mentoring Eddrick Osborne is a labor of love. (You might want to look up his campaign website.) He's bright and receptive and dedicated to the political process and to a continuing role in public service. He's running for the Richmond city council in November and is finding broad support throughout the community. Gave him a copy of now-retired Congressman Ron Dellums' autobiography to read. It's called "Lying down with the Lions" and traces Dellum's rise from the "Hood" of Oakland to national prominence in Congress. His seat is now occupied by Rep. Barbara Lee, a former member of his staff and one who is destined for greatness as well. I see Eddrick as having high potential for that kind of leadership. He's 35 with a lifetime ahead to make his mark. I'm loving the fact that there is the chance to influence just how that contribution will be made.

So much to do -- so little time ... .

Call came today to finalize my position with the NPS.

My answering machine spoke it's message as I came in from dropping Dorian off at NIAD for her art classes. "Betty, would you stop by some time today to drop off your resume? And, you'll need to include your academic stuff." Did so a little while ago, after editing it to include the last place of employment, "Office of Assemblywoman Loni Hancock of the 14th Assembly District, Field Representative." Since I met the NPS people while representing Loni, this one had to be a slam dunk, right? Nope. Not so.

Stopped by with neatly-typed resume in hand and presented it to the director of the Rosie project. "We're bringing you in as a park ranger (classification), Betty." That apparently has some criteria that my resume -- impressive though it may be -- just doesn't have. Rick Smith scanned the 4-pager with all its interesting accomplishments and achievements then asked for my academic credits. (Gulp!)

Since I married at 19 and spent the next 25 years raising a family of four kids, there had never been time for formal study.

My first job of any significance was with the University of California at Berkeley, where I was brought on by a friend who was hired as chief administrator for a research project. Though I had no "resume," I was not only hired immediately but was married to the Principal Investigator six months later! UC personnel figured that they simply didn't have the right boxes for me to fit into in the job application, but took a chance. Told Rick that I'd entered into a ten-year non-traditional doctoral study project by being married to Bill and being exposed to the world of the academy.

Since that time I've experienced more of life than most and learned from every new challenge. Told Rick that -- if they want to hire me -- he'd just have to convince his personnel department that I am a one-of-a-kind-talent-who-can't-be-quantified-or-measured-by-ordinary standards! Crazy? Sure, but that about sums it up. The poor man then asked for the name of my high school so that he can secure whatever records are still there. (Got those little boxes to fill in, donchaknow.) Weird? Right. Let's see, that would be about 62 years ago. How relevant would such records be? The bureaucracy is such a slave to those little boxes, isn't it? How could a grown man with advanced degrees allow himself to be influenced by anything so stupid? Judy Hart, the CEO and Head Ranger, holds her degrees in English Lit! She told me so today, laughing all the while.

He's apparently set aside the fact that he's been working with me for about three years, during which time we've sat together in meetings with historians, engineers, park rangers, architects, politicians, museum directors, etc., in planning operations for the new national park. The reason they offered to me, specifically, the position was because they'd obviously been impressed by the quality of my participation in their projects, right?. Otherwise..? Wassup?

It appears that they have to confer and get back to me after they've received my Castlemont High School transcript(!)

Meanwhile, I've had time to re-read my resume and find it a pretty good sketch of where my "professional life" has taken me, with or without advance degrees. Have never felt more ready for next steps in a new direction. Being a Park Ranger is a little far-fetched, but what the hay ...!

Life's adventures continue ...

Just about the time that I figure that my dzi beads have lost their power, that age has caught up with me at last, that the string has run out and that my rabbit foot is no longer operative; guess what? Not so. Cradled the phone a moment ago from a brief conversation with Rick Smith of the National Park Service. It was a job offer "starting immediately!" ...and I hadn't even applied. I'll become a staff member of the Rosie The Riveter Memorial National Park. Had been working with that team as a representative from my state office for several years, so have some familiarity with the assignment.

He said, "...we'd like for you to start ASAP. We can do a 60-day emergency hire, then the job will have to be posted and you'll need to submit your resume for consideration with others who might apply once this is posted. Oh, and the criteria includes a Bachelor's Degree" (which I do not have). I laughed and said, "...you'll have to accept the equivalent. Anything I'd have learned that far back would hardly be relevant to anything today. Math probably involved an Abacus, if I recall correctly. A bachelors degree from 60 years ago would be meaningless. Who's running this crazy government agency anyway?" Then it was HIS time to laugh! Two months is surely enough time to make myself invaluable,right?


On Saturday I met with my attorney/broker to finally complete my income tax forms, and to explore the possibility of refinancing that small commercial building I own in Berkeley (yes, finally reached that point). It was disheartening to find that home loans are attainable at very low interest rates, but that commercial property is very hard to refinance. My present mortgage carries an interest rate of 11.5%. That comes to $36.21 a day. Must DO something, says I (to which he agreed). But what?

Gave serious consideration to selling my condo and moving into senior housing nearby with Dorian. It would have meant deeding all of my assets into my Living Trust, or turning all over to my kids now in order to qualify for senior housing. Not an attractive alternative but perhaps sensible -- given my chances of continuing to be independent.

But now I'm called back to work and in a new field where there is lots to learn and much to do. And, it improves my financial position dramatically at a time when I'd begun to believe the next "incarnation" would not be happening.

So ...

Will start this new chapter in a day or so, and now I need to toss out these sack cloths and ashes and get back to work!

Finally got that call from Bob.

Feeling more comfortable and have lost that sense of being in suspension around "I know not what."

Was reminded of a story I've been meaning to share when the immediate pressures from the awful overseas news slowed down a bit. The state of the war and the world have tended to keep me mired in the present with less inclination to be nostalgic. However, in a quiet moment recently when I ran across the script for a documentary I wrote and performed the music for. It was one of those moments in time that defies explanation but that simply is:


I'd experienced several episodes that were symtomatic of mental illness. It manifested in an inability to drive through tunnels or to cross bridges, even those not more than 100 feet. During that time I'd blacked out at the wheel of my car while driving through the long Broadway tunnel that separates Oakland/Berkeley from the Diablo Valley. Someone driving behind saw me slump slowly behind the wheel. She straddled the double line to keep anyone from trying to pass -- while following me closely out of the tunnel. Fortunately, I was close to the eastern end, on the Orinda side, and with my car still in gear but with no pressure on the gas pedal -- my car slowly rammed into the side of the hill at the exit. Woke up moments with a Highway patrolman at my window checking me out -- with kindness.

At another time I attempted to drive across the S.F./Oakland Bay Bridge only to find myself unable to make it all the way across -- suffered a panic attack halfway and wound up on Treasure Island. A Coast Guard escort eventually escorted me to the other side; embarrassing, and equally dangerous. My tendency as always was to grit my teeth, crash up against my fears and court disaster. I think that's called a suicide wish, but it certainly wasn't what I thought I was experiencing. Later in therapy I would discover that at least one obvious explanation was that both tunnels and bridges took one to definite destinations -- and once entered into or upon -- there was nothing to do but proceed through or over to the end. It was the divorce decision that I was simply unable to make.

We were still living in Walnut Creek, and all of the "good" surface things were present in my life -- a family that I loved, a kind husband who provided for our wants as well as our needs, a lovely home on a wooded acres bordered by a creek and 4 huge oaks, a swimming pool in the backyard, the wood-paneled station wagon and correct wardrobe for suburban life. It was all there. Why on earth would I want more? And, what on earth was that "more," anyway? Except that I had at least one troubled teen and a beautiful little 3 year-old who was hopelessly brain-damaged and a husband too resistant to accept the implications of that. I was pretty much alone with Dorian's disabilities at that point. My parents were telling me not to worry, that she was "... just a little slow and would eventually catch up".

The mental illness sharpened my already overactive intuitiveness and sensitivity. I'd begun to write music and produce wildly colorful abstract paintings, all in an attempt at traveling without leaving home. Pure survivalist escape.


While that was all going on, I performed with other artists singing a growing repertoire of original songs from time to time -- in concert or evenings among friends. One such evening there was a woman in the audience who turned out to be the wife of a filmmaker studying for his masters at S.F. State. She approached me at the close of the show with the words, "...you're singing my husband's footage! If you'd be interested, I'm sure that he'd love to meet you. He's just about ready to add the musical score to his work. It's his master's thesis."

How exciting! Exciting enough for me to -- in the days ahead -- meet Charles Petersen and agree to make the trip to San Francisco State's studios to tape two songs for his documentary, phobias be damned!

The subject matter was of interest since it was based on the fact that the beacon light on the Farallon Islands was to be deactivated soon and when that happened, the wildlife would be placed in jeopardy. His documentary would be presented to the Coast Guard and to the Audubon Society in hope of keeping the light in operation as a deterrent to boaters approaching too close to shore. Any seacraft passing close to the island would cause some birds to leave their nest and take flight and, in so doing, their eggs or nestlings would be devoured by the less-shy gulls who were fierce predators. An entire year's nestlings could be destroyed without casual passersby being aware of the peril they'd caused. An important message. This was enough reason to risk the drive across the bridge.

I'd learned from my therapist that what happened at such moments was that -- in my panic -- breathing would become increasingly shallow and that I would eventually hyperventilate, losing consciousness at some point (as in the tunnel). Devised a way to handle such a situation. It was logical and sensible. I would drive across the bridge in heavy traffic with the windows open and singing all the way! When I sing (with the radio) my breathing would be natural -- determined by regular phrasing of the lyrics -- and even -- predictable. I could not run out of breath. If it became shallow, I would be aware and pull over if possible. It worked. On the appointed day I drove all the way from Walnut Creek, through the tunnel to Oakland, then across the Bay (through another tunnel at Treasure Island) and onto the busy freeway to South San Francisco. Spent the few hours that it took to record the sound track then repeated the process on the trip home. The return trip was more of a challenge since I entered the horrendous afternoon commute traffic at that hour.


Now we skip to a few months later when we (Mel and I) were invited to the S.F. State Film Festival on the night that the winners were to be screened. Mel drove us there. Charles Petersen's "Farallon Light" had won the competition and was being shown last on the program, in "star" position. It was a 30 minute documentary designed for showing on the local PBS stations.

Just before the last film was to run, the second-to-the-last, second prize winner, came on screen. It was a shorter piece that opened with a dramatic helicopter shot picturing the western end of the Bay Bridge at commute time. The narrator was saying, "...in any given year _____drivers spend_____months on this heavily-traveled bridge. In any month____ hours, in a week____, in a day___. (He'd done the multiples.) Then he went on, "how is this time spent?" At that point the camera zoomed in on closeups of people shaking their fists at other drivers, swearing out the window, screaming 4-letter words, giving one-finger-salutes, changing tires while other drivers yelled their disapproval, and then... suddenly a yellow coupe is zoomed in on -- merging into the traffic easily, and -- with windows down, head and shoulders back, singing with all her soul is Betty! I'm looking for all the world like a carefree woman on her way to a cocktail party or to meet a lover! In addition, this was probably my first trip across the Bay in over a year -- in comparison to the many thousands of commuters who drive that route every day of their lives. Serendipity thy name is Betty.

Can anyone even guess the odds of that happening? There were literally thousands of drivers on that bridge approach. There was no way for anyone to sit and wait in that traffic for my car to appear. There was simply no way for me to "drive into his script." I sat there beside Charles Petersen and his wife that night knowing that no one knew that this was I up there on that screen. It was crazy! The image was just fuzzy enough so that I was not immediately or easily identifiable. Looked over at Mel but he obviously didn't recognize the image. I remembered, then, the day when a station wagon with its back portion covered with an old tarp drove alongside for a long while in the barely-moving commute traffic --- all the way to Treasure Island. I noticed it at the time and eventually closed my car window -- feeling strangely invaded, but not knowing why. Now I knew. The feeling was right on. The irony was that of all the people filmed, I was probably the most uptight, and not at all what was being depicted up on that screen. No one could know that. Only I knew the truth.

Charles Petersen's documentary (with my voice singing the score) went on to win prizes at the Atlanta Film Festival, in Toronto, and eventually in San Francisco that year. It was the film that has been regularly shown at the Lawrence Science Museum high in the Berkeley hills on the U.C. campus for some years. I discovered it there the day that I took my 6 year-old granddaughter, Kokee, to the Museum and -- as we walked down the hallway past the labs to the theater -- sounds of my own voice drifted out to us. I walked in with her just as the last song was being sung and the credits were running on the screen. "Music by Betty Reid." The theater was dark and empty. By this time I was remarried and living in Berkeley and far removed from my "poet" self. It was like listening to someone I barely knew. I again marveled at the secondary story that few would ever know. Now you do.

Have never been able to obtain a copy of the film or videotape, but still have the script with text, stills of the bird life, scenes of the island here in my files. There is also the memory of the trip to the Farallons on the day that the last Coast Guard light tender was removed from the island. The film was shown on board that day. The ultimate effect of the documentary was that the Audubon Society moved their staff onto the site, permanently, for the protection of the wildlife. The Farallons became a sanctuary and still is.

Nice to remember ... .

Photo: If you've ever wondered about what the effects of suburban racism, life with a troubled teen, a too-busy husband, plus a developmentally-disabled daughter might look like, click this thumbnail open. Were it not for the sanctuary provided by the artist Betty who emerged to take over, I'd never have survived. Of that I'm quite certain.

Beginning to worry about finances ...

maybe giving up my condo and moving into senior housing? That would feel strange to me, but maybe there is good reason to consider such an option. What I most dread is separating myself from other ages -- losing the sound of kids at play (the pool is near our apartment), and interacting with young families. Something important would be lost to me, I believe, were I to spend my life among seniors, only. An age "ghetto" suffers the same kind of isolation as any other in my mind, and that may be a notion I'm going to have to rid myself of. Probably need to begin to look at that more closely ... .

It surely has little to do with wanting to deny my age. According to the great blues singer, Bobby "Blue" Bland, "Age Ain't Nuthin' But a Numbah." Having never looked my age, anyway, I've spent most of my life seeing the mounting years as an asset. Having the examples of my great grandmother who raised 13 or her own children alone after being widowed, plus 6 or 7 of her grandkids, then living to be 102 despite all, effects me. Then there was my mother who died at 101, and Great Aunt Camille who reached 107, if we got the count right. (I believe she admitted to being only 105.) Aging has never been a problem. The women in our family are a formidable bunch!

Now that I'm beginning to look at the grim fact of diminishing financial assets, the alternatives are to either sell my condo and move (with Dorian) into a nearby affordable senior complex -- or, to remain where I am and gradually reduce my relatively small estate to nil as I become less productive. I will thereby leave nothing for my kids to build on. The fact that I've been able to delay this decision for so long is probably what I need to think about. I've been one of the lucky ones. Many people in my age group have long since retired and are spending these years RV-ing around the country clipping coupons. I'm still sitting in city council meetings, mentoring candidates, joining with decision-makers, etc., and all in the company of the next generation of world changers. Accepting the inevitable won't be easy. I seem to thrive on the dynamics of change.

Jennifer and I are still working hard to bring in the convention center management contract, but the city is in such disarray that getting any forward movement may come too late to keep us solvent. She is much younger, the age of my eldest son, so can afford the wait for stability to return to Richmond. Not so for me. I may have a year or two left in which to continue to be productive and during which to clone myself through mentoring my successors. And, I may be stretching even that too far for comfort.

As an aside:

About a year ago I suffered food poisoning at one of those many banquets I attended in relation to my work. The next day I found myself crawling along the floor reaching for the phone to call 911. I was in a semi-conscious state after suffering gastro-intestinal misery for hours. Finally, was picked up and carted off in an ambulance where (because of my age) an MRI was ordered to be sure that I hadn't suffered a stroke. Spent the greater part of the day on a gurney, felt just fine after a short time, but waited for the test results for hours. When the doctor finally arrived his comment was, '...lady, your chronological age may be in the lower eighties, but your brain is not a day over 35!" We all laughed, but that felt about right. For unexplained reasons, my body and mind have been spared the effects of aging pretty well. Except for those years of smoking (quit over 20 years ago), it's my guess that even these wrinkles would be less visible as well. I've learned that the "feathering" around one's lips is thought to be caused by tobacco use. I know that mother's skin did not ever become wrinkled, and she never smoked. She didn't have hormone replacement therapy, either. Except for a few years in the mid-seventies, nor have I. She was still making her every-Saturday-afternoon shopping trips downtown in 3 inch heels at 95, and on the city bus at that. I'm still battling the social and economic demons and still being fairly effective at it. And I'm still enjoying excellent health in every way.

"Age Ain't Nuthin' but a Numbah" may be more than a song title. Maybe. But I suspect that I'm about to enter a period where the disadvantages will begin to be more and more apparent with each day. Hope accepting these changes will come easily and that I can accept slowing down with more grace than seems available to me at the moment. Goin' down kickin' and screamin' comes to mind!


Meanwhile, I've found a club where I can get those tango lessons in San Francisco -- and will be enrolled as of next week. A friend of Jennifer's, Jose from Argentina, will arrange it.

Having ODd' on memorializing of a leader of whom I find little to admire,

Ronald Reagan is not high on my list of national heroes. Tonight I'm off with friend, Ann, to Yoshi's, a great jazz venue in Oakland (dinner before) to hear Freddie Cole, brother of the late Nat. The distraction will serve me well.

Have had Bobby on my mind for a couple of weeks. Made several calls that give me a cheerful Bob voice from his answering machine, but with no response. I'm assuming that he's working some children's summer camp, or is preparing to leave soon to do so. It's that time of year. We get out of touch from time to time, and it's worrisome... .

This must be my week for chewing on the old, the unfinished, the unresolved. Am wakeful at night and listening for I know not what ... something not yet formed. An event waiting to happen? Not sure. There's just this sense of the impending ...

An evening of good music will help to nail some of that down, I believe.

It could simply be the effects of the constant drumbeat of death we've been exposed to all week. It was impossible to escape. In order to do so I found myself out on the highway more often and spending more time with Dorrie doing inconsequential errands.

Yesterday on one of our trips we happened upon a 13 acre grass fire that provided much excitement for an hour or so. Since it was only a block or so away from our home and accompanied by a stiff wind, there was the sense of danger. Had forgotten about the fury of nature and of how close to disaster we are much of the time. Coupled with the sounds of death and interment we'd left at home; eulogies and flyovers; this became more ominous than exciting after a while. Felt some relief when the police moved us on and closed off the streets.

Tomorrow we're adding another blog (link is listed) where photographs can bring the text to life. That is, when I figure out just how to upload photographs. Have never taken the time to really learn about the wonders here at my fingertips on any given day, but will explore some of that over the next few days.

Meanwhile, Dorian is out doing laps in the pool and I'm about to check out some fine jazz -- a treat I've not experienced for far too long.

More to come ... .

Interesting twist on political philosophies.

Learned long ago from a master, the late UU minister, Aron Gilmartin of the Mt. Diablo Unitarian-Universalist church, all that I needed in order to succeed as an organizer activist. "Three things must never be forgotten, (1) "always make others look good," (2) "great things can happen if you don't care who gets the credit, and, (3) the best leadership is when that leadership is invisible to those being led."

An article prominently displayed in today's West County Times served as a reminder of these important truisms. There is a photograph of my legislator announcing a request for a formal state audit of the city's finances. Granted, there's a horrendous budget deficit of a projected 28 Million dollars (or more), but I suspect that at closer observation we'll find less malfeasance than mismanagement. In a state that has projected an even larger deficit, this is hardly surprising. City and county treasuries have been raided to satisfy state needs for many years. As in the innocent early days of my little store's struggling recovery, it was clear that -- as long as there was sufficient money in the pipeline -- one could move it around to cover the gaping holes. When things grew tight, disaster reigned! The state and city seen in microcosm. Bigger budgets, bigger deficits.

Over the past years of observing from an official position, it's been clear that most people at these lower levels of government are doing their level best to be competent. Most are people of integrity, and are making the best decisions they can under their particular circumstances. On occasion this turns out to be unreliable as a measure of intent, but for the most part I've found it so.

Ours is a majority minority city council with an African American mayor. Few of us have generations in public service to fall back on. All those at higher governmental levels are white and years ahead of the game. Political sophistication comes with experience, a rare asset not easily come by until the last fifty years. That's but a brief moment in time when viewed from a historical perspective.


Spring circa 1979:

After the heady victory of the re-naming of Grove Street to Martin Luther King Way (a move later adopted by the city of Oakland by ordinance), I started to immediately plan for the redevelopment of the 3000 block of Sacramento Street. It would take learning the political process well enough to move boards and commissions. It would take hiring myself out to a city hall position with Councilman Don Jelinek. With the assistance of a city-hired contract consultant, I'd need to create a Housing Development Corporation so that it was not something that I was doing to but with the community. That meant learning just what a HDC was -- along with other novices from the neighborhood. Then I'd need to not place myself in a position of obvious leadership. It would be important to begin to create strength toward social change in the community and that could not be done if I simply tried to drag others along. It would be important to move from the ranks and not try to be a drum major. Gil's formula was not only workable, but proved to be critical to all of the successes that followed. It took hard work to be what I wanted to see in the community, but in time it became second nature.

After several years of hard work and despite the occasional setback, we were finally at the point where the site had been secured (Berkeley put 8.5 million dollars into the project plus additional tax credits from the state), the architect chosen, the plans drawn, fancy cardboard model created, and -- ego began to rear its ugly head. I'd done such a good job of deflecting credit that I was beginning to feel burnout from lack of appreciation. Weird!

Made a call to my old (now rarely visited) UU church in Walnut Creek for a chat with Gil. "I've done such a great job of subtle leadership that no one knows the tremendous thing I've accomplished. What do I do now? I'm feeling in need of a standing ovation, and I can't get one without destroying all I've worked so hard to create! I can't steal the credit now, but I need confirmation of my worth."

Gil and I decided that it would be safe for me to return to Walnut Creek (psychologically 1000 miles away from Berkeley) to do a Sunday service where I would share the story out of hearing range of South Berkeley. On that Sunday I borrowed the large artist's renderings of the site, the table model of our 41-unit development, and set up impressive wall and table displays at the front of the sanctuary. I stood in the pulpit and told the story of "Betty's 500' Project" to this collection of old friends and colleagues and got my standing ovation as promised.

A few weeks later Mayor Loni Hancock (yes, the same legislator for whom I most recently worked), joined by members of the Berkeley city council, and -- a number of my suburban friends drove in to join with the South Berkeley community for the ground-breaking. I learned that day that -- despite my really carefully managed "invisible" leadership, many knew and respected that invisibility but tempered it with secret shared smiles. I felt more than adequately rewarded without sacrificing anything. The momentary lapse into ego-gratification didn't last. In fact, the successes of having honestly faced it and found a remedy helped me to move on. I learned that the rewards were often silent but rarely unnoticed, and my confidence in my own abilities soared and strengthed future efforts. Those rewards were not dissipated by vanity, surprisingly enough.



Today, June 2004

The West County Times article announcing Loni's request for a state audit of the city's books flies in the face of everything I believe about political leadership. The audit promises to be embarrassing to her local constituents (quite possibly a politically costly move). If I've read the signs correctly over the years, the problems will prove to be the result of mismanagement with a smattering of corruption. It will undercut leadership in that many will see the failures (rampant in many cities and states at the moment) as race-related rather than the result of the continuing effects of state and federal budget cuts and the residual structural problems related to Prop. 13. There is a lot to be corrected and some painful steps to be taken before financial stability returns to Richmond, but it would strengthen our state and federal politicians were they to apply their considerable power to bolstering the efforts of local leaders to help themselves to help their people. At this point we're seeing little that would suggest that kind of sensitivity.

It's also true that "invisible" leadership is antithetical to political leadership when the level is beyond that of the community. Higher office -- especially given term limits -- demands so much involvement in the process to continue one's tenure in office. Upon election, one must begin to create the next pathway to continuing power. "Visibility" is mandatory for survival in the political arena. To think otherwise is naive,I'm sure. I suppose that any aspirations I may have had for seeking public office were made untenable because of the experience of having the Gilmartin paradigm in my book of strategies.

I'd have had it no other way... .

Photo: I'm at the far right with then Berkeley mayor, Loni Hancock and city councilwoman (white-haired) Maudelle Shirek next to her. The others are community residents who lived within my proverbial "500 Feet," called South Berkeley.

I've developed an informal style of writing ...

that allows me to skip back and forth in time fairly easily. Today I'm finding the present so compelling that moving back is less natural than before. Maybe some retracing of steps would help. Stopping to read back a few weeks may be in order. I've avoided doing that but choose to risk the possibility that I'm repeating myself on occasion by just plugging ahead. In the interest of continuing to simply stay with answering the dictates of my mind -- and going wherever memory takes me -- I'm hoping that I'm being coherent.

There are lots of feelings coming up around the weekend events. I'm sensing a burning undercurrent of anger, but have little sense of what it means. Of this much I'm sure, it rises from an "American" place and not from blackness. My outrage bears no color or age or race or gender. It simply IS. And now it's compounded by the knowledge that there is little I can contribute to change at this point in my life; a new feeling for me. Feeling disempowered is an unfamiliar state of being. Even when faced with the insurmountable, I don't recall feeling so helpless in times past. There was always the sense of unseen others sharing my concerns and acting in concert with my efforts. That seems to be diminishing. Feeling much more alone now. Stepping off the stage when I resigned from my state position has set new patterns that I'm not yet comfortable with. Haven't really identified the other cast members in this new production (smile).

The juxtaposition of the sight of those 10,000 markers of dead youngsters (18-22) sacrificed on the beaches of Normandy -- being threaded through with the barrage of coverage on the life, death, and times of former President Ronald Reagan brought things to the surface that I'd thought were safely buried. Within a few hours (as the archival footage became available), they were gradually crowded off the screen. The Reagan coverage was so disproportionate -- so overdone -- that my anger eventually forced me away from the television set and out into the sunlight of the day. Dorian and I drove down to the marina to watch the windsurfers -- always comforting.

Was reminded that the entire Reagan administration -- those still living -- are now back in the seats of power. This time with another empty suit sitting at the top of the pyramid. Why haven't we seen this and found ways to prevent it from happening? Cheney, Negriponte, Ashcroft, Rumsfeld, North, Powell, Wolfowitz, et al, who brought us the death squads of Guatemala and El Salvador, the takeover in Nicaragua, the revolutions in Haiti, the invasion of Graneda and the killing of over 5000 innocents in Panama while capturing our former CIA asset, Manuel Noriega, and ultimately, Iran-Contra and the dramatic return of hostages as act three in the Reagan inauguration ceremony! Have we really forgotten all that?

Listening and watching the re-writing of history all weekend while realizing that no one under 20 has any idea of all that went before. Knowing that the times have eliminated all semblance of a free press and that we're being fed propaganda that can only be diluted if we have access to the Internet and through it the world press. And, that many who will vote in November still have no access to this wealth of information for economic reasons over which they have no control. And for those who do have access and control but have been dumbed down by a failing system of public education, so can't analyze the information that they do get. Such a complex set of issues ... .

Reagan's death came, mercifully for the administration, at a time when leadership has great need for deflecting the public's attention from the mounting problems in Iraq, several critical criminal investigations, charges of graft and corporate malfeasance, shouts of (what I suspect are inflated)tremendous job creation numbers, resignations in the C.I.A. top echelon, rebellion among moderate Republicans, queries about the disclosing of the identity of a member of the CIA leading right to the doors of the vice-president, and poll numbers that would (with all things being equal) predict disaster for a second term of office. We're going to be buried under Reagan nostalgia in every waking hour for as long as the corporate media can prolong it.

The dissenting voices are beginning to be heard today and that sound may grow in days ahead. This may provide balance, and herald the re-birth of the opposition. Maybe it will lend some strength to the effort to take back the airways by rescuing the FCC from Chairman Michael Powell et al, and the break the stranglehold that the pharmaceutical companies have on the FDA. Just maybe. The rape of Social Security and Medicare systems are now a fait accompli.

Meanwhile, I'm off to pick up my artist daughter from NIAD. She's working on a new 4'x 8' canvas that is so lovely! All brightly-painted butterflies and rainbows ... I'll shut down these background (samsara) voices until later. Really want to talk more about the merchant years, when I can quiet these voices enough to think more clearly.

Another strange day ...

Yesterday I drove out to the Richmond shoreline to participate in the grand opening of the Rosie National Park Interim Reception Center. It was a glorious day. I'd watched the early morning MSNBC D-Day 60th Anniversary coverage for a while before leaving home. Actually, quite by accident saw the interview, and "that Betty" making a few comments that had been edited well from the larger piece and that conveyed an honest account of my feelings. Hadn't thought to tape it, but I'm guessing that the NPS has recorded it and will pass along a copy if requested.

When I arrived at the scene of the celebration, I found myself unable to sit in the seats of honor that were obviously set aside for the Rosies. Stood apart, though not consciously rejecting the party -- there was a residual sense of not having been "invited." And surely not to THIS party, but to the original effort many years before. How crazy is that?

There were surely a number of African Americans in that mix of women of the homefront wars, and some most surely bore the names of those little cards I filed in the "auxiliary" union hall day after boring day. They were here being celebrated deservedly, but for some reason I still felt no part of that. Still couldn't accept a role in the proceedings, and this despite the fact that I'd just seen myself on national television as a spokesperson only a hour before! Surely, I had "overcome."

I watched Mary "Peace" Head, an African American who'd been among the shipbuilders of the time, as she was being interviewed live for the nation by MSNBC's James Hattori (same James). She was dressed in overalls topped by a bright bandana and sequin-trimmed accessories. It was she who eventually made the trip to Washington, D.C., two weeks ago to the reception at the White House. She received a bouquet from Mayor Irma Anderson this morning in honor of having represented Richmond at that event. Mary is much-loved in this community and it was right that she be chosen for the honor. Me? I felt nothing. James had his arms around her and she was speaking halting words of pride. What on earth made me hold myself apart from all of this? Why am I still angry?

Maybe I come closer to representing the unfinished agenda -- around the continuing scourge of racism and the need for our nation addressing that. I will settle for no less. I'm still unable to utter the words "..with freedom and justice for all" when reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Nor can I say, " ...under God." I continue to expect full justice under the law as promised by our founding documents. I cringe when I hear a repeat of those damning words, "...with all deliberate speed" in reference to the Supreme Court decision that granted Brown vs. the Board of Education, bringing a never-fully realized equity in education. The only time the court's decision was not made an immediate mandate was in that instance; and even the conversations around such things has now been stifled while we're asked, again, to fight and die for the purpose of exporting our imperfect "democracy" abroad.

Two incidents of note from the celebration: A uniformed National Park Service staffer came up and introduced himself with, "...you're Betty Reid, aren't you? You may not remember me, but I was a part of the student group who worked with you to change the name of Grove Street in Berkeley many years ago." And the other: "My name is Tucker. I knew you from the Mt. Diablo Unitarian Church years ago when Aron Gilmartin was the pastor. This (NPS ranger) is my daughter who now is working here with the Rosie project." Two Betty Reids from two different lives, and neither was the one standing here "not" celebrating the Good War.

Today I've been watching the incredible (over-used word that fits this time) coverage of the Anniversary of Normandy. Sat spellbound for hours. Interwoven were pieces on President Reagan's death and observances happening all over the country. It all felt terribly far away. I'm learning so much that I'd not known about the war. Must have sleepwalked through much of it, or, was too young and apolitical at the time to know how to feel. Now I'm seeing the drama in some new ways, but also seeing how we've glorified this horrific failure in the settling of conflicts among men (and I do believe it's a male thing). The heroism cannot be denied, and the selflessness of those young people is almost more than one can comprehend. The sight of those 10,000 white marble crosses brings tears, but the waste in human life brings rage to those tears and they burn my cheeks as they fall unresisted.

The drama of the national flags waving from the tall backdrops as planes flew overhead spewing colored smoke as they passed -- while the allied armed forces marched below against the blue seas of the Normandy coast -- bigger than Spielberg! All very stirring, but also very European. This did not represent todays world, nor did it echo today's conflicts. Europeans remain the generic people and all others remain exotic. Few black faces among the veterans. Since the armed forces were not yet integrated, most black soldiers and seaman were in the Quartermasters and Messmen's Corps, supplying arms and rations to those at the front. There were notable exceptions, certainly, 11th Tank Battallion and the heroic Tuskeegee Airmen being a case in point, but their's were segregated units that fought as exceptions to the rule, and as in the nation's prior wars, were often led by white commanding officers. My maternal greatgrandfather, Sgt. George Allen, fought for the Colored Troops of Louisiana in the Civil War. He was a cook behind the lines. On the other hand, a (white) paternal ancestor, a Charbonnet also from Louisiana, was a general on the side of the confederacy in that war to end slavery. Small wonder that my memory bank is scrambled. It could hardly be otherwise. The internal war still rages unabated.

The MiddleEast doesn't exist this day of celebration. Iraq has dropped from the headlines while we glorify the victory of the last war that we believe was victorious. None have been that decisive since. All thought of the world's active resistance to our current occupation of another land is set aside, at least for today.

The idealist that I continue to be demands that our nation be more than our current adventurism would suggest that we've become. Guess I'll never really be a Rosie, if being so means giving up of the right to demand honorable leadership and respect for the rights of other nations to follow their own pathways to freedom as they define it.

Pretty arrogant words, those, but as true as I can utter them. They're merely words. The feelings are something else. My heart aches for all those lost on foreign shores and for my contemporaries who've had to live with the awful memories of the hell that visited those bloody beaches 60 years ago. Such valor can only be imagined. It's beyond my ability to fully grasp the depth of survivor's guilt they've suffered all these years.

But -- this is all made the more awful if there is doubt that the ultimate sacrifice asked of young people was/is based upon false information; for personal or corporate financial gain; is without reference to the value of life in the abstract, or because of religious beliefs that may or may not be universally shared.

Kept wondering as I watched if it was possible for our president to sit in the shadow of those thousands of grave markers under which lie the young people of another era -- between the ages of 18 and 22 -- and not have some notion of the tragedy his war has heaped upon a new generation of kids? Could he not have been moved? Is it cynical to suspect that he may have compartmentalized the entire scene and walked away untouched? Or, will today's experience effect change in how he views the losses in human life that this adventure in Empire building is costing us all?

Salvation thy name is diversity!

So many questions...

So little time...

So close to the edge of existence... .

Wuddnya just know it?

NOW I know what should have been said, now that the opportunity's passed and the words and thoughts have come unstuck ... .

There's always been this mysterious amnesia about the war years. It came up again today. It's triggered by particular questions, questions that should be easily answered.

"Did you feel at one with the burst of patriotism that must have accompanied the homefront effort; the crushing speed and excitement of production?"

"No, I really can't recall that."

Then it came in a rush...the why of it all ...

African Americans have got to be some of the strongest people on the planet to have survived those years. We were being asked to work, fight, and possibly die for freedoms that would not be ours for another decade! How crazy-making that had to be. That -- for the most part -- we remained passive and more than that -- that we worked and fought and died despite the awfulness of national rejection.

If you've been reading this blog since the beginning you'll know that -- until the great migration to the West Coast changed the landscape for all time, my life had been relatively ordinary. My heroes were not black heroes. I was certainly familiar with Langston Hughes and Mary McLeod Bethune and Ralph Bunche, but I was far more familiar with Eleanor Roosevelt, Helen Keller, and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Our families, who'd settled in the west for more than fifty years before WWII were like any other immigrant families striving to live our version of the American Dream, the dream that would take us right up into the great middleclass if we played the game right. Small wonder that those years are clouded over for me, clouded by rampant confusion. It was quite suddenly necessary to redefine myself without reference to anything I'd lived before.

The part of me that moved out of that "American" side was stunned into silence (at least temporarily) while the Betty that was now lumped in with the thousands of folks (black and white) who'd dropped their hoes and picked up hardhats to save the world for democracy were strangers, indeed. They were still drinking from separate water fountains and riding in two ends of the same bus that was going in the same direction. The voting privilege had not yet been extended to many who were now being expected to get into uniform and protect the world from Facism! Confusion reigned!

African-Americans who'd moved up from the southern states to do the home front work were at the same time "moving to the front of the bus." Not so for us. We were discovering segregation of a kind we'd never known, and having our brains and emotions scrambled in the process. It should be no surprise that my memory has been dimmed over the years, in defense against the cruelty of the times.

Perhaps that's why I've never identified with the Rosie concept. She was an anomaly and symbolic of a time that produced some of the most painful growth of my life, and of the life of the nation.

I still find her little more than a paper doll. Rosie as a symbol just doesn't work for me.

Nonetheless, tomorrow at the dedication I'll catch the spirit and let go of the quiet anger that I've been carrying around all these years. Today I felt some of it drop away as I walked the memorial for those cameras. Watching myself being myself as if from some outside vantage point ... Not sure why that was, but I found myself looking back at that monument for a few minutes before starting the motor to drive back into the traffic of life ... and home again.

That 30 minute interview turned out be over two hours long.

It's now one o'clock and I just returned home.

There was a team of four, a cameraman, producer, a young woman whose role I never quite figured out, and a sound man. They'd borrowed the mayor's conference room for the shoot, and set up enough lights to raise my anxiety level to unknown heights! The interviewer, James, was easy to work with, however, and though it felt forced and a little clumsy, we managed to get through it without incident.

I was seated on a low-backed chair in front of a large poster of the traditional Norman Rockwell Rosie in bandana with muscles flexing. Since it was out of my line of vision, I wasn't intimidated by it. I'd really never identified with the image; a point made quite clear in the interview.

When it ended the producer asked if I would be willing to go with them to the memorial at Marina Bay park for some additional footage. We drove over in a few minutes and there I walked and paused and looked down and read plaques and scanned pictures until the crew was satisfied with what they had.

As I understand it, this is all a part of the MSNBC D-Day coverage that will be carried all this weekend. They will televise live from tomorrow's NPS Reception Center dedication after completing 3 more interviews with Rosies who will be attending. What was filmed today will be "looped" to run throughout the weekend but will have live pieces edited in as needed. That probably means that there will be more than one opportunity to regret a variety of things, "...why did I say that? That color green does terrible things to my complexion, why did I wear that top? My, how old I'm getting! Are those NEW wrinkles? And, why didn't I sit up straight? "Those rimless eyeglasses are not good. The black frame would have looked nicer. Yatatayatatayata!

Nice touch:

The sound man was African American. I'd assumed that they were all from the east coast. Wrong. He was obviously local. At the end of the interview, just as we were about to leave for the Rosie Memorial -- he (Vern) asked quietly and with a grin, "... aren't you Ms. Reid from Reid's Records?" Matters not who the world claims me to be, or how impressive the resume becomes -- the identity of note is as the proprietor of that little Berkeley store, and the years spent there. Having that reality check made the time spent later on camera at the park a piece of cake. Had he spoken up sooner, that earlier interview would have been a good deal more relaxed, I'm sure. It's been many years since I walked out from behind that counter for the last time and turned the business over to David. That it's still a time remembered by this man was comforting to me. And, he looked half my age, at that, so that life may by now have become the subject of myth in the hood? Makes me wonder how many other African Americans have created non-traditional institutions without realizing it? It might be an interesting project to begin to catalog some of that.

As I've often joked, "...didn't know that I'd live long enough to BE black history." But apparently I have.

Watch for me this weekend on your local MSNBC cable channel.

Now I need to alert my kids and grandkids to grandma's latest escapade so that they can set up their VCRs for taping. Would hate for them to have it flash by without warning...

It's 10:13 and I'm off to the interview in a few minutes ...

Think I've dressed properly for the occasion, but as is true of most women, I've been up since six trying on likely outfits hoping that what I've chosen won't be too young. That's a problem these days. I've remained pretty much the same size over many years and -- having lived past the age of acquisition -- have bought few clothes in recent years. Still wearing "petites," but am trying to be more careful about not wearing styles that are too young. Have to admit that "What Not To Wear" is having its effect on me. But where on earth do I find clothes designed for little old lady's whose weight stabilized 20 years ago? Don't think Armani or Donna Karan have given us much thought of late.

Tennyrate, I've settled on a conservative moss green sweater with silk vari-colored trousers and open sandals. Topped that with a beautiful ancient raw amber necklace that Bill brought back from Ladahk (on the border of Tibet) many years ago. It's stunning and will have its debut on national television sometime this weekend when the tape is shown on the news channel. It belongs in a museum, and someday that's where it will be.

Interesting how my mind is bringing up such trivia ... trying hard to not think about what I will say. There's no way to prepare for the interview -- except to stay relatively serene and let whatever truth is available to me rise to the surface. Tape is so much easier than being on live. If it's too awful, I can withhold release, hopefully. But that may not be true -- and probably isn't. Guess I'm looking for an exit strategy (to borrow a phrase from today's headlines.

That gives me something to dwell on besides myself and my appearance this morning ...

Watch for me sometime this weekend ...

Don't miss my lovely necklace!

Thoughts of the redevelopment project ...

dominate my memory bank right now. Can't seem to press them back into wherever they've been stored for all these years ...

I'm thinking of the excitement on the day when -- after seven years of organizing and debating before three successive city administrations -- the razing of the site began. There was the unmistakable sound of huge trucks on the move. We rushed to the front of the store to stare out of the windows at the sight of that hummongous claw machine chewing its way through that infamous house directly across the street. A crowd was beginning gather...

I thought of how many times I'd had people say to me, "...it will never happen. You'll never get it done. THEY'LL never allow it!" All the time I'd been plodding along identifying the steps and making the moves and drawing others along despite the protests. And here it was, HAPPENING before our eyes on this day.

Within only a few days the entire site had been neatly cleared and ground smoothed evenly. The homes behind, on Stanton Street, were now fully visible from the main street. This would take some getting used to. Q Martin's home had been chewed up in less time than it would take to tell it. I felt a deep sadness despite knowing that his family had been adequately compensated for the loss and would be eligible to relocate when the new homes were completed. We were dealing with a totally new landscape. It would take some getting used to.

In the days that followed something began to evolve that was completely unanticipated.

It was on a Saturday morning. I looked out and saw three kites flying high against the clouds. There was a family; mom and dad and several children having the time of their lives in this marvelous new play space with no obstructions in the way of pure delight! We'd never seen such innocent fun in this infamous former stretch of miserable crack houses (shooting galleries), and dens of inequity ever. It was like a lovely exorcism that announced silently and gracefully an end to evil. I cried as I watched. Traffic slowed and people stopped to smile at one another. With the utilities undergrounded not long before, there were no power poles or other obstructions to capture those beautiful kites!

A few days later there was the distinct aroma of smokey barbecue sauce and the smell of charcoal ablaze. When a customer motioned me to come outside for a look, we both laughed at the wonder of it all! There was a flatbed truck parked on the newly cleared site, with people gathering around. In a little while the blaring of a sound system ringing out the sounds of an electric guitar playing gutsy blues through loudspeakers, and the party was on! People were engaged in good fellowship for the entire afternoon, with great music and impromptu blues contests drawing everyone in from the streets. Spectators were few, everybody was a party guest! Neighbors went home to return with chairs and umbrellas and leftover potato salad from the fridge and red jello and pitchers of punch...it was pure umpromptu joy of a kind that embraced everyone within sight and sound of it.

I wasn't sure that I'd fully understood the language of the kites, except in the context of the exorcism theory, but the blues party was clearly a celebration of the triumph over misery and in anticipation of more good times ahead, though no one gave words to any of that. It was a 'feelin' thing. I locked the door and joined the party!

About four days out there was a new sound that drew me out to curbside. This time we watched in dismay as a huge truck from the City's Public Works Department noisily unloaded huge rolls of wire fencing material. My heart felt heavy for a loss I couldn't quite identify. In short order the new playground was fenced off from public use. There were no keys to the service gates mid-block -- except for city staff.

How do I respond to this? One call downtown was all it took to learn that this was something that the city must do in order to be protected from lawsuits. But of course I should have known that. It could not be left unguarded and free to community use for "insurance reasons." The reasonable logical part of me surely understood this to be an important consideration, but there was a deep sadness that fell on the neighborhood as the glow was diminished in the name of progress and safety and common sense.

Where oh where had these folks been when there was no safety to be had in my 500 feet, and when one quarter of the city's homocides had occurred in that block? Where were they when we'd witnessed four young men -- at different times -- shot dead within sight and sound of our store? Where were those "insurance considerations" when that stray bullet whizzed through our front window on a Saturday afternoon -- narrowly missing David's head as it embedded in the shelves above us? And where were they on all those times when young black sons and fathers were being hog-tied and carted off to serve time for questionable reasons, and while I watched in troubled silence?

Where was the logic?

What had been lost?

Where was the sense of it, and at what point do we balance risk against an exuberance that has been too long delayed?

Those answers are illusive. I've still not found them, though I've surely adjusted to the conundrum. Maybe I've also lowered my expectations over the years. I'm not as apt to recognize irony when I see it because I've now spent too much time among the "reasonable."



Meanwhile, MSNBC just called to announce that I'm to appear at the Old Ford Building for that interview tomorrow morning at eleven. Guess they've decided to go with this dissonant Rosie. I'm presuming that it will be a few sentences carved from a brief interview and that there will be other women of the period doing the traditional pieces about "The Good War."

I guess that I've yet to witness a "good" war.

I have, however, witnessed great moments in everyday life that may be cause enough to defend.

Let me know if you catch the coverage, will you?

Through conversations in my store ...

with customers who were coming now from far and wide (Monterey to Sacramento), it was becoming clear that we were all in this together and that my day-to-day progress was being shared. There was a lot of "we" in those conversations, and it felt good and right.

There were no longer any signs of graffiti, break-ins were now rare, and I was breathing more easily. Bill was beginning to relax and from time to time I'd hear him bragging to our friends about my exploits. Couldn't have managed without his strong support.

Mel had been settled in a senior housing unit nearby, and -- except for the need to pick up his groceries and take him for the occasional doctor's visits, we'd both adapted fairly well to his new life. My role as best friend eventually over-rode Betty as ex-wife. Both Bill and I felt comfortable with that. I generally tried to plan such errands when Bill was with his patients in our downstairs library. He still was in private practice though by that time was retired from the university.

My parents were requiring weekly visits. Dad was now totally blind, but still functioning surprising well. I remember watching him do little home repairs with as much confidence as he had when sighted. He knew that the distance between his fingertip and first crease (joint) was exactly one inch. He could therefore measure accurately anything that needed it, and complete the task with little difficulty. I watched him with such pride! I wondered whether he'd figured that out in anticipation of his blindness, but regrettably never thought to ask. There were some important lessons here in adapting to change with grace. I cannot recall him complaining at any point during those years. His pride and dignity held fast until death came at 94.

Dorian was at school in Santa Barbara and the boys were out living their lives in their own ways. Rick's alcoholism continued unabated and Bob's wanderlust was of concern at times. Life for us was extremely complex but manageable still with the constant need for re-appraisal for signs of stress.

Rick and two other helpers were holding the fort back in South Berkeley while I moved ever deeper into city politics and learning the ropes in a brand new field. This one would be essential to my ability to handle life as a small merchant in the inner city. This is where I would learn how political change is created and maintained. Reinventing myself as- and when-needed was becoming routine.

Bill was now deep into his Tibetan studies and spending more and more time at Padma Ling with his colleagues and on retreats at Odiyon, the Nyingma monastery, high above the Russian River two hours north. The home social gatherings were rare now. His two sisters had moved to the coast from the Midwest and needed to share his time and attention. Times were changing and our life together was reflecting that. We were clearly on different paths that were gradually moving apart, but with little trauma, and much mutual respect.

I was spending more time at city hall, now half-time at the store and half time staffing city councilman, Don Jelinek. This meant an entirely new field of learning and in a field that was as subjective as it was empowering. As a legislative aide I regularly attended weekly meetings of the city council, but in addition -- as the subject demanded -- many of the city's commissions and departments. I'd begun to do some speech-writing as well, but not for verbatim delivery as much as a way for Don and I to exchange ideas. He could often better frame his own arguments by knowing mine. That meant that we didn't need to agree, in fact, it was better when we didn't. As a practicing attorney he was used to being adversarial and I learned that my work was of more value when I could express my positions accurately and honestly. This better prepared him for the work that we did together; a very valuable way to move in the world of politics.

Since most city council seats are part time, it is the responsibility of the aides to bone up on the issues and help to prepare the packet for those weekly meetings. It means that one had to be a generalist with specialities in the areas that most interested your councilmember. It was fascinating work, and prepared me well for this past decade of serving the same function, primarily, for two members of the state assembly. The lessons of the past were easily refreshed and activated in this entirely new context.

One of the most valuable aspects of working with Don was the fact that he was Jewish, a New Yorker, had left his Wall Street office in the Sixties to join the Civil Rights Movement in Mississippi. He'd been one of the attorneys who formed Dr. King's defense team. He'd planned to spend six weeks in the deep south and stayed for three years, leaving only after Dr. King's assassination. He didn't return to the east coast, but came west instead.

Don was also the defense attorney for the Attica prisoners who were acquitted in the prison riots (in the eighties?). After coming west, he lived on Alcatraz Island for six months with the Native American tribes who claimed the site as their rightful heritage under long-neglected treaties. They were eventually ousted by the government. This idealist served two terms with the Berkeley city council and ran for mayor twice, but lost both times. It was a brutal struggle and most disillusioning. I cut my political teeth on those campaigns. And -- he lost to Shirley Dean, the same Ms. Dean who was defeated by Gus Newport in those early years of my return to South Berkeley. Ms. Dean and I go a long way back, as you can see. In the most recent election cycle in Berkeley, it was the husband of Assemblywoman Loni Hancock (my employer at the time), Tom Bates, who defeated Ms. Dean for the mayor's seat. The more things change ... .

Ms. Dean and I were to lock horns yet another time (during the 90s) over a small city-owned black theater, but that story is for another day. Suffices to say that she had both the power to frustrate my efforts and the willingness to use it. This time the mayor prevailed.

The Fourth of July in October ...

There were surely some frightening days to cope with. Like the day during the early years, before life had settled down into a day-to-day routine of ordinariness that still demanded a high degree of caution. I'd developed a highly sensitive hearing level. My ears amplified the street noises but often failed to filter out the cries of distressed children from the sounds of domestic violence somewhere out of sight but not out of hearing. This was before I'd become reasonably comfortable with the street corner cabals, and before I'd learned to read the danger signs with any accuracy -- the quickness of the lookouts -- the "runners" -- when something was "comin' down."

My problem tenant was still upstairs on the second floor and this was worrisome to me. Some of his staff had begun to report disturbing stories. I knew that he had downtown influence and that it would be difficult to deal with him without some element of threat.

On that morning in October I arrived to work to a scene that stopped my breathing for just an instant. On the Prince Street side of my building there was shattered glass everywhere! All of the display windows on the north side of the building had been blown out! At first sight I had the impression of there having been a fire.

My troubling tenant was standing at curbside -- his well-dressed long and lean body leaning against his car with a sinister grin on his face. He had been waiting for me, waiting to see my reaction to the mayhem. The corner was strangely empty of street dealers. There was an eerie silence with neighbors gathered in small groups -- staring.

As the story unraveled later, I learned that on the day before he'd hosted a meeting in his office at which the chief of police and several uniformed officers were present. That apparently signaled to the street that my second floor was being used for surveilance purposes. As a warning, barrel bombs had been taped to my windows during the night and detonated as a warning. My tenant appeared to have written the script, though proof was illusive.

Shortly thereafter I served notice of eviction for cause, but not before I'd experienced several weeks that seemed like a lifetime of living in fear. Bill was beginning to bring pressure to bear on me to give it up. Shut it down. He was increasingly concerned about my safety. He was probably justified, though in all honesty -- I always believed that eventually I would make it.

The fact that I immediately called in the glaziers to have the windows boarded up and went about the business of cleaning up the debris in plain view of everyone; that I didn't hide away in fear and trembling; may have saved the situation. Bravado thy name is Betty! When the plywood was temporarily in place I took to my "talking windows" and wrote a message in big bold black letters;


"How sad!
There is no insurance to cover this damage
...no money to pay for glass replacement.
However, while waiting to recover from this temporary setback
Reid's will do business as usual.
It would be helpful if you would not use this corner
for loitering so that our customers
will not be afraid to enter the store.
Then recovery can come more quickly.
Since I would prefer not to know your business,
conversations in my stairwell or front entry may
be unwise."

Thanks,

Betty Reid Soskin

It was clear that I was declaring turf and wouldn't be going anywhere. Come hell or high water, I planned to stand my ground and the street knew it. It was also clear that I really didn't want to know what they were doing and that I probably was not cooperating with the police, after all. They gave me the benefit of the doubt and I had no more problems. They honored my plea and left enough space around me and my building so that we became an island of sanity over time.

My customers continued to arrive in a steady stream, and the business grew with each day, though the nature of it was changing dramatically. Black gospel music was becoming more and more the centerpiece and Reid's was the location where the best could be found. And -- I was truly becoming far more comfortable as a business woman than I ever was at whatever it was that I'd become in the university community. This felt more like home for reasons I can't quite describe. Something deep inside me resonated to black life in ways that nothing else had. It still does.

Taking a stand on LL COOL J's album posed no threat to me. By the time that happened I was comfortable in my shoes. The Rappers either discounted me as being of no consequence, or, they respected my right to act on my own principles. I suspect it was the latter. If I wasn't comfortable with this genre, I (and possibly they) figured it had to be more generational than racial. I found little fascination with European music, either. Always figured that I just wasn't wired for Haydn and that Bach would sound a whole lot better with a good rhythm section with Mingus on bass, or a little Christian McBride, maybe (smile). Black gospel stood alone. Despite no history in the Black Church, Vanessa Bell Armstrong could bring a visceral reaction -- the late Thomas Whitfield might have been a fit musical companion to the great Duke Ellington. I recall writing an ad for a local paper in which I claimed ...

"Contemporary Black Gospel is Jazz Come Home!"

And it was and is.