Dogging perceptions ...

Spent a few days this week nursing a stubborn digestive tract irritation and -- simultaneously -- some anger I couldn't trace to its source. The two (as always) were related.

As mentioned, I'm scheduled to leave early on Tuesday morning for Ashland, Oregon. The first vacation I've had in more years than I can recall. I do believe the last was the trip with my late husband that took us to the island of Kauai for an extended stay in the mid-80s. Since he died in 1987, you can see that it's been ages. I did travel for a weekend or two -- a cruise to Ensenada and one to New Mexico. But those don't really count as vacations; hardly enough time to unpack my bags.

During those trips with Bill, Dorian was living in Santa Barbara at St. Vincents Academy in the safe care of the good nuns. She graduated at 18 at which time she entered Clausen House in Oakland where she'd moved up over the years to independent living status. That's all changed now.

Early in 2004 -- and for reasons brought on by state budget cuts -- we gave up her apartment, stored her possessions, and combined our lives here in my not-nearly-large-enough condo.

Due to my really complex work and civic life, though I've lived here for several years -- I don't know any of my neighbors except for passing them on occasion in the parking area. Not true for Dorian. She's here when I'm not, and is gregarious and open and speaks with everyone whether they're responsive or not. They are surely aware of her mental deficits. She's not been treated badly in any way that I can see, nor has she been isolated.

Dorian comes in each day from her art classes (5 hours a day, 5 days a week) and plops down her bags and immediately takes off to collect the mail (she holds power over our one key) then heads for the shopping mall just two blocks away. It's a ritual. She walks around a pattern she's set for herself, and visits with kiosk personnel and picks up sample cookies at the bakery and chocolates from See's Candy. Then makes a call home on her cell to reassure me that she'll make it back before dark (usually 3:30 or 4:00). This has become a ritual and serves us well. She's made friends with the security staff, and enjoys their protection, I'm sure. Where I don't know my next door neighbors, I have gone over to meet some of the folks on her route and assured myself that she wasn't abusing the system in any way.

Back to Ashland:

When I arrived back from Mendocino a couple of weekends ago after a heavenly stay at oceanside, and as I was getting my overnight bag out of the car -- my downstairs neighbor was just driving in. She's also a senior. She mentioned that Dorian had told her that I'd been away for the weekend and that she was alone with her cats. There was no indication that this was a criticism, but a just quiet remark in passing. But I felt gently chastised. Dorrie and I had been in contact by phone each night and David had responsibility for looking in on his sister.

For reasons I'm not quite sure -- I felt the sting of criticism. My neighbor was under the perception that I was an irresponsible mother who'd gone off for whatever reason, and left this helpless young woman alone in the apartment!

It had never occurred to me to take my neighbors into my confidence by telling them that this handicapped daughter had been living independently for many years in an apartment two towns away, or that she had been learning since her sixth birthday to live beyond the life of her mother by gaining independence over many years. That coming home after the experience of learning to depend primarily upon a team of case managers, social workers, therapists, and teachers, was a regression. That those professionals and I were still working to retain what we could of those lessons over those years -- by building in some times when she was left very deliberately alone to handle her life. I'd done none of that. They couldn't possibly know. How on earth could I tune them in now? It would seem so self-serving; much more related to my new male interest than to my daughter's welfare. I'd let it get away from me. And, I couldn't live with even the perception that I was being irresponsible. What to do? At that point my gastro-intestinal system took over and rebelled! Climbed into bed and pulled the blankets over my head and tried to sleep past the dilemma.

Since Dorian really enjoys having the place to herself, to hire a "sitter" would have offended her and appeared like a measure of mistrust on my part. She, after all, is a fully grown woman who uses every single modicum of brain power that she has, and does pretty well with that. That's more than can be said for most of us, right?

Finally, an inspired thought: She loves Kokee, David's 22 year-old daughter, and Dorrie's niece. Gave a call and learned that Kokee is free to spend the nights next week at our place. It only means late evenings to morning when she leaves for work and Dorian leaves for NIAD. No problem. David is around in the event that the terrorists strike Chevron-Texaco or Berlex Chemical just up the road apiece, or if the Hayward Fault decides to slip. Dorian will not feel babysat. And, I will feel free to fully give myself to George Bernard Shaw, William Shakespeare, August Wilson et al -- on the first carefree vacation in at least two decades. My neighbors will simply have to hold their fire until I get back. But there is surely a need to take the time to clue them in on life with Dorrie, at some point. On this score I've been neglectful.

So saying, I'm up and totally symptom-free, ready to attend an evening of award-presentions at the Richmond Main Street Initiative event this very evening. And a chamber music concert and dinner tomorrow afternoon and evening. Dorian has a Special Olympics basketball tournament all-day on Sunday, so it will be a full weekend. You may not hear from me for a bit.

I'm feeling cherished, valued, beautiful, and "young." I've about decided that "youth" is in many cases simply a case of arrested development. All are feelings that go on being felt even as the years pile on, and are surely not restricted to only those young in years.

It's quite possible that a lifetime with Dorian who's stuck in childhood in many ways, has spilled over onto her mother. My concept of youth may have been distorted by that experience. I live every day with proof that years may hold little meaning with respect to the maturation process, and, with little relevance to chronological age -- the feelings and the capacity for continual growth is widely varied and Quixotic at best.

Most of life is illusory, and what we make of it depends largely upon which end of the lens we're looking through at what moment in time ... .

Photo: Three little "beauty queens" in a contest on Treasure Island during the World's Fair. I'm the 17 year-old on the left, my cousins, Ruth (Warnie-Romine-Strange) and Elaine (Allen-Wilson) were two other runners-up in this news clipping. It may be interesting to note that the young lady who actually won the contest (the ticket-selling kind) would have appeared in the bottom center of the picture -- but she was neatly clipped out by I know not whom. (T'weren't I!)

Living History ...

Happened to catch a PBS presentation of a truly fine documentary entitled "The Tallest Tree in the Forest," a leisurely look at the life of the undisputed genius, Paul Robeson. What a treasure! This discredited American will someday grace the history books as one of the greatest Americans of his or any other time. I'm sure of it.

The jerky and sometimes almost inaudible pieces of film collected over many years by those with the foresight to see through the veil of slander that damned him gave an astounding picture of the man. Participating as narrators along with his son, Paul Robeson, Jr., were Harry Belafonte, Ossie Davis, and a host of others who must have come together to share their history in common. These are also giants among black men of action and patriotism.

Robeson held a law degree from Rutgers University, was an All-American on the Rutgers football team, spoke seven languages fluently, was a concert baritone known and revered internationally, and led the black community in the earliest struggles against the bigotry that crippled the nation throughout the earliest phases. He opened up baseball by questioning its racial hiring practices -- allowing Jackie Robinson to be brought on as the first black player ever to be fielded. He challenged racial prejudice through the United Nations because it threatened our status across the world through hyprocrisy it exposed. Few would argue whether he was right in his criticism.

How does one ever know when the epochal events are interwoven with one's own life? I watched that documentary -- remembering marching in a picket line with Mr. Robeson in my youth. We were under the marquee of the Oakland Paramount theater where the disputed Walt Disney film, "Song of the South" was being shown. Later that afternoon we returned to Matt Crawford's home in Berkeley to have punch and cookies and to a playful game of "Spin the Bottle." Got kissed on the cheek by this wondrous man ... how could I have known?

Some time later my husband and I were in the audience at the Curran Theater in San Francisco to see Robeson, Jose Ferrer, and Uta Hagen, starring in Shakespeare's "Othello." It was my first experience with the work of Shakespeare. I knew little of "The Bard." I was only there to see Paul Robeson in performance. A kind of "supporting a brotha" kind of action. Funny. Again, how on earth could I have known?

It was like that evening when Mel and I and others -- at the invitation of one of our record distributors traveled to Grace Cathedral to sit in the sanctuary of that great edifice to experience Duke Ellington's first Jazz Mass (featuring Bunny Briggs in tap shoes floating before the altar as if levitating). It was when I first heard and responded to the magnificent "Come Sunday" featuring Johnny Hodges on alto sax. Small matter that much of the sound wafted up into the vaulted ceilings instead of out into the pews. I knew that the sounds I was hearing were making musical history -- but there was little understanding of just how important this worship service would be in looking back.

A few days ago I was invited to attend a film to be shown this very night at the Grand Lake theater on the shores of Lake Merritt in Oakland -- sponsored by Congresswoman Barbara Lee and honoring the memory of Congresswoman Shirley Chisholm. When the invitation came I recalled that it was at the 1972 Democratic Convention in Miami that we met. She was at that time the first woman to run for president of the nation, and the first African American woman to challenge the system by so doing. She was a small woman, not particularly impressive to one as new to politics as I was at that time, and even less knowing about the eastern movements. I know now that I slept through an important part of feminist history -- as well as African American.

Some years later, in the 80s, it was my privilege to house the Northern California headquarters for candidate Jesse Jackson in my building in South Berkeley -- and to recall now that we'd pretty much forgotten that it was (female) Ms. Chisholm who opened that door and not (male) Mr. Jackson. I was as guilty as anyone for the omission. We gloriously celebrated him for opening up the process to the under-represented, but failed to credit his predecessor in that role. Shirley Chisholm also preceded Geraldine Ferraro (vice-presidential candidate) in breaking through. We tend to forget that, too.

Makes me wonder now how future historians will look at these disturbing times we live in, and just how many times any of us have been unwitting participants in history while it was being created? Makes me want to -- even more than usual -- account for my actions by taking public positions.

How on earth can we ever know? But does it matter?

I believe that it does; critically.

Undelivered ...

This morning I discovered in AlterNet a column written by Christopher Rabb of Afro-Netizen. It was sharp and cogent and struck a nerve that sent me to his website to respond. The email was returned by Daemon as undeliverable. I felt frustrated. I wondered how many other African Americans who inhabit cyberspace simply knew nothing about this valuable resource, and that he had been "our" man in New York during the November convention as a credentialed blogger? How I wish I'd known. It may take years before we'll learn to organize using the power of this magical instrument and make of it the kind of political asset that it has begun to create in other communities. There has to be a beginning place. Maybe this is one of them. There may be other African Americans reading here for whatever reason, and just maybe they'll find a way to help to connect the dots between the various forms of "The Drum" so that our power can be expanded and enhanced. If anyone knows Mr. Rabb, do let me know so that I can add at least one more small fragment to the quilt he's been trying to create over what appears to be several years.

This was my message:

Dear Mr. Rabb:

"I'm a West Coast African American elder (83) who has been online since the Internet was called "The Well," and blogging since fall of 2003 (http://cbreaux.blogspot.com/)

I, too, am anxiously waiting for greater black representation among the
bloggers, so that through this magical medium, we can skip through the
generations of change by passing along the history that precedes current
struggles.

Those of us whose lives have spanned slavery, Jim Crow, the Civil Right battles of the Sixties, the periods of regressions that followed, have a duty to inform. I was 27 when my slave ancestor joined hers. She was born in 1846 and died at 102 in 1948. I was born in 1921. Just think of the history embedded in brains like mine; and the opportunity now to "download" that into the Blogosphere for our progeny to build upon. It's mind-boggling! But we're not only hauling around this genetic windfall but many of us are continuing to contribute to and mold history through activism and continuing influence.

Not sure how many of my contemporaries are "out there" and still coherent, but given the longevity that my own family enjoys, it would not surprise me a bit to find many. It's quite possible that those of us who are descendants of those hardy survivors of the Middle Passage carry strengths as yet unrecognized.

Delighted to have found you.

Betty Reid Soskin,
Richmond, California


If Afro-Netizen has gone dormant it would be a pity. Mr. Rabb has made an important contribution to black online political life and nothing would please me more than to become a part of that in some small way. I found his listed links to be an extension of my own. Perhaps you'll find the same. Perhaps one day I'll list the places online that I visit regularly; should that be of interest. That might mean that -- should we ever meet -- we can start our conversations in the middle of the sixth paragraph.

Watched an interesting discussion on CSPAN yesterday --

of an event that happened mid-week, I gathered, though I tuned in after it started and missed the introductions. The words weren't particularly new. I've been getting them in bits and pieces but the hysteria was simply too strong to allow them into my cortex. This time I heard both the words and the meanings. By the time I'd watched for a fair amount of time I could feel myself relaxing ... feeling as if someone had placed a hand on my chest and held me back from I know not what.

They were discussing the nation's gradual slide into Fascism (though no one used the word). They were doing a retrospective on the past years. What was different was that these were not the conspiracy theorists; the usual suspects. This was the honored mainstream "establishment." Their names were recognizable as members of wellknown think tanks, foundations, study groups -- and from both sides of the Atlantic. A number of speakers agreed that our present world-dominating stance had not happened yesterday or the day before, or even ten years ago, but had been a slow but steady meticulously planned takeover that started at least forty years ago. That was the point where I felt myself exhale. Of course. This critical debate has finally risen to prominence in the national consciousness. Surely this is the beginning.

The point was made that it took many years for Spain to come back from Franco and that the Soviet Union was still recovering from a succession of takeovers. Italy and Germany had been different in that their military losses had forced change almost overnight.

Seeing ourselves in this context was both frightening and sobering in that it removed the expection of having to restore our systems between now and the next election cycle. There is some small relief in that. I surely will not live to see how it all turns out. We'll need to re-educate our population before that restoration can even begin. The task is enormous and turning the juggernaut of Democracy is far more difficult than any other form of government, I'm sure. There's not yet enough recognition among our citizens that a change of course is needed at this point, and probably won't be until after we've suffered through the coming economic and ecological collapse that heads wiser than mine have forecast.

Though disturbing, the good thing about that discussion was that I finally could accept the fact that sharp minds with power were grappling with these issues, and that the corrective course is surely being designed even as we speak. These analyses helped me to see that the chaos is not total, and that we are not yet powerless. Progressive think tanks are pouring over the developments of the last administration and are preparing for the next. The wheels are turning and the pendulum has already begun to trace the arc toward the Left.

It will be hair-raising, I'm sure, but when the program ended I felt better -- at least in the moment. I can only pray now, that those flawed but wise old dead white men of vision who designed our Constitution and Bill of Rights will have placed enough "give" in them to rein us in one more time, and that by the end of the next decade, at least, recovery will be well on its way to restoring our freedoms -- and will have removed the threat of a nuclear holocaust from the rest of the world.

But, it's not a good sign that Camilla and Charles have now relegated stories on the Middle East to page seven!

I'm fast becoming an escapist;

losing any ability to connect with the headlines. I cancelled the subscription to the local newspaper months ago and haven't missed it -- and I'm a news junkie. I scan the headlines in the Washington and New York Posts daily, giving more attention to AlterNet and TruthOut, but skipping all but the editorial columns much of the time. At some point the day-to-day outrages have so fueled my fears that even the Six O'clock News fails to draw me in anymore. However, I never miss the Daily Show and Jon Stewart's outrageous satire. Maybe the indirect view is less frightening for me. It's so hard to tell the real from the unreal now, and made-up news is less crazy than what is coming out of the Capitol. The final blow was to discover that "made-up news" is also coming out of official sources and paid for by taxpayer dollars, at that. It's becoming even more difficult to tell where to place one's trust in news sources than ever before.

I continue to wait for reactions to come from leadership -- from anywhere; the arts, the state capitol, Washington, city hall, county seat. I'm beginning to suspect with increasing dread that much of the nation is precisely where I am; paralyzed with fear and no longer able to respond. And this is probably just as true for those blue cities caught in red states. This must not be!

I keep reminding myself that what is happening to us all -- worldwide -- is a runaway global takeover by hostile forces (yes, I know that's wild talk), and that crossing the point of no return on the environmental breakdowns can only be topped by the impending economic collapse, and the resulting panic and devastation of the planet. I also remind myself that such words would have been seen as hyperbole only a short time ago, but now are highly possible -- and my grandchildren will not be spared, nor will yours.

Today I will prod myself into acting somewhere beyond my self-imposed limits. Last night I was in the audience at Berkeley Arts Magnet school where my two youngest granddaughters are students. The innocence of those children, the hope shining from the faces of young parents, convinced me that giving up and continuing to cede power to forces beyond my control has never been a valid response. I must return to the old ways of acting on pure faith that invisible others are out there waiting for me to help to shoulder the burden of change as in the past, and that I'm still capable of doing so.

Whistling in the dark may be all we have left, but whistle I will! (At least until the next awful disclosure, appointment, or act of aggression.)

Oh, word has come from army recuit, granddaughter Jessica, from the South Carolina Boot Camp. She's terrified, angry, disappointed, and wants to come home. At 18 she is just one more youngster who yielded to the temptations set forth by the recruiters in the inner city, and exemplifies the new "all volunteer" army. This will take more than whistling... .

Just a thought in passing (my computer):

Realized upon reading that last post that I'd coupled the name Vivaldi with Billy Strayhorne and Duke Ellington. Any reader might see that as odd, in a way. Surely these could not be seen as peers, or could they? In my world the answer is a resounding "yes!"

His daughter is a very fine musician who doubles as artistic director of a great chamber music group with which she performs. She plays viola, magnificently. Have attended her concerts and am struck by how disciplined and exact is European music; so unlike that which I've heard and/or participated in for most of my life. I was never serious musician, but surely possessed a knowing and educated ear with some small talent to match. I've been creating music since childhood, and performed with those with greater expertise than my own on occasion. Most of my own music comes from somewhere deep within; is not intellectual. Not learned. Simply "known." I'd always believed that what I knew, everyone knew.

For me, there is a clear difference between black and white cultures. White (European) culture seems to reward adherence to what has gone before. Faithful emulation of style and substance in the arts provides the measure of worth. The great masters have already made their brilliant contributions, and (like the bible to the Christian), are the paragons -- provide the template -- for what follows down through time. The "translations" are quite literal. Interpretation is subtle and can rarely be detected by the untrained ear, but only by those educated to the original presentation of a composition by the composer.

On the other hand, Black culture tends to reward originality,innovation, and creativity. We continue to set the pace in the arts (particularly music), and to create the road map for others to follow. Until recently, one would rarely hear any new black artist rise to prominence without having created some new sound or pattern or beat. The Billie Holidays and Duke Ellingtons and Charlie Parkers and Ella Fitzeralds each brought individuality (style) into the music, and set new standards for their imitators. It seems only since the world of black music has been effected by its commercial worth that this has changed. What can be "marketed" now dictates what rises to the top and not what is a strong new direction by some innovative vocal or instrumental artist. The marketplace is changing the criteria slowly but surely. But "the beat" within us will survive even market trends, I trust.

We're continuously creating and re-creating language from the streets, the music, dance, decade after decade, and having an effect upon the cultures of the rest of the world despite all. Hip Hop has replaced bebop and fusion of my time, and ushered in this worldwide phenomenon that the young people of every country now reflects back to us.

I cannot believe that any "great master" at any time in history could have -- as did choirmaster Terrence Kelly -- molded that choir at his illustrious father's funeral into the stirring "instrument" that could perform the thrilling soul-piercing original rendition of "Steal Away" that brought unshed tears that remained for hours afterward -- waiting for release and finding none. There are no words ... .

It's occurred to me in sitting in the audience in (middle American) Lafayette, that if my friend or his daughter has a deaf ear for or lack of understanding and appreciation of Jazz or Hip Hop they are seen as expressing their personal "taste" in music. On the other hand, if I have no ear for or understanding of chamber music or the symphonic works of Haydn, it tends to be seen as a cultural deficit -- a flaw in my education or training -- and surely indicates my level of sophistication.

This also may simply be associated with my declining interest in European cultures over the past several decades, since re-discovering more of African sensibilities. But it gives me some inkling into the distances still to be negotiated between worlds, and of my own need to continue to locate the bridges -- and cross them when possible.

Home again from a restful weekend at Mendocino... .

The contrasts in my world have always been somewhat extreme, but never more so that at this moment. Driving in a warm springlike rain into the Anderson valley with the two-lane road pretty much all to myself was a departure from the crowded freeways that I weave through day after day in the auto-polluted cities. Seeing bright pink blossoms of trees meant to bear and not simply ornamental as they are here just outside my door in Richmond. Fields of what I've always thought of as Scotch Broom but am told is a similar but highly invasive plant that is threatening to crowd out native flora all along the coastal plains and valleys, but whose sharp yellows today make up for the varying greys of the rain-laden skies. The drive up Highway 128 -- through the redwood forest of the Navarro river was fragrant and greening for spring... beautiful! But the promised heavier rains would come soon, surely ... .

Last week I stood shoulder to shoulder at the retirement party for Judy Hart, the superintendent of the new national Park. It was a gathering of Richmond's inner circle -- the mayor and city council, reps from state and federal office holders, good friends and still-living "Rosies" (I believe there were at least three of us present. Still have problems relating to being named among that group.) The reception and dinner were held at Salute (should be an accent over the "e" but can't find it now), one of my favorite restaurants -- and one of the few in the area appropriate for more formal events. A lovely place on the marina sitting comfortably amid sailboats of Richmond's more affluent and with a fine cuisine and a story that needs telling:

Ten years ago this month, "Memby," a stunningly beautiful young woman from Ethiopia came to this country as an immigrant and single mother. She spoke no English. She found a job in this lovely resturant doing whatever needed doing and learning the business as she tended tables and greeted guests. She placed her young son in a Catholic school then worked 3 jobs simultaneously to support them both. About 18 months ago -- after working incredibly hard and saving every penny -- she bought the place, lock, stock, and cuisine. Without changing the menu or the fine service that had served the previous owners so well for so long, she's managed to do the impossible. Memby's is a story worth telling. She's has not yet been celebrated as is warranted by her performance.

Were I a member of the quaint village of historic Mendocino, I would know nothing about Memby, I suppose. There are so many like stories in Richmond, stories that I've been privileged to discover over the years. These heroes and heroines people my life and enrich my days. They provide the balances so needed when the headlines scream out the sensational day-to-day deaths and near-deaths. The sensational feeds upon itself and it all begins to make up the tension that I feel drop away as I hit that place in the road -- just as I leave the last trees of the redwoods -- where Highway 18 merges with Coast Highway #1 -- where the Navarro meets the ocean. I can feel the fear drop away and my jaw loosen as I free the bite that I had no idea I was holding ... .

This time I turned off Porgy and Bess by the Houston Opera Company. Those familiar sounds had filled the car all the way from Cloverdale -- pressed the buttons that opened the window on the driver's side -- and filled the car with the scent of decaying leaves and salt sea spray. Made note of the fact that "Eden" in Mendocino was but 4 and a half cd's from Richmond, and that Porgy and Bess was not appropriate here. Vivaldi would have been a better and Ellington or Billy Strayhorne even better than that. On the way home I'd plan my listening experience more carefully. Recalled in the listening to Gershwin's masterpiece that the last time I'd seen this opera I'd found it racist for the first time. Written by someone outside the black experience -- and despite the beautiful score -- it was a reminder of a time when the stereotypical was the order of the day, and losing myself in the arias (Summertime and Bess, you is my woman now" no longer worked well enough to erase the pain we were then covering less than effectively. I hated Crown but saw Porgy as pitiful and less than heroic ... as I wanted my black icons to be. No Martin Kings here, only the Cab Calloways.

Wonder if anyone is thinking seriously of writing the score for the story of Tupac Shakur or Diallo or Nelson Mandela? Wonder what the differences might be? Maybe somewhere behind prison walls there is an opera being carved out against a wall with some carefully-hidden and fiercely-guarded prison-made spoon handle ...

With such a high ratio of blacks incarcerated, it is probable that a fair number are from the population of the visual and performing artists. Wouldn't I love to know what those figures are ... and how to reach them.

Oh, the stories!

But that's not what I wanted to talk about today, but time has past far too quickly and there is catching up to do ... more later.

Photo: One of the cedars that flanks the driveway and forms the gateway of "The Timbers," the only home that I've ever known that rates a name of its own. It is most fitting. it's situated on a bluff 80 feet from the edge of the ocean and is one of the most beautiful places I've ever known.

Message to Him:

What a glorious celebration of a life! The large church was filled to overflowing with music lovers, old friends, relatives, students, and a mass choir of about 80 voices of all races and ages -- singers that he and Terry (his son) had worked with over the years. They raised the roof with soulful gospel music, spirituals, and the best jazz I've heard in years. The elite of the Bay Area's musicians (Peter Barshay on bass, John Santos on congas, Babatunde on drums and John Stewart on keyboards) were there in praise of Ed's life. Wish you could have been there to hear the music and the eulogies.

Ed Kelly's music has been heard the world over, from his years of study at the prestigious Berkley School of Music, to concerts in Japan, Switzerland, Paris, both coasts, and for the past 20 years or more from the classroom of Laney College in Oakland. His awards have been many, from Downbeat Magazine to the Bammies here in the Bay Area. He was named Humanitarian of the Year by the Black Gospel Music Academy a few years ago, so his fans and admirers were countless and today filled the church of his lifetime with a loving and melodic sendoff into eternity.

All of the prominent Bay Area black preachers were present and accounted for, led by Rev. J. Alfred Smith, Sr., Ed's pastor at Allen Temple Missionary Baptist Church -- his eulogy was very moving and heartfelt -- a proper balance between the sacred and the profane -- gospel to jazz, though today jazz was accorded full status as Black America's classical music. Today jazz was sacred. I'm so glad to have been in that congregation. Even sang out a few "Praise the Lords" and "Amens" along with the rest of the brethren. (Atheism doesn't hold up terribly well in the black church.)

Not sure I'll arrive until late afternoon tomorrow, surely in time for the art show openings. Saturday is a big day at the store and I'm not at all sure that David can get away to pick Dorian up from practice. It will add some miles to my driving -- having to go to Oakland and back, but I'll be ready to roll shortly after noontime. Should arrive between 3:00 and 4:00 if the traffic is relaxed and easy. The rest of this day will be spent doing last minute tasks in order to leave Dorrie set up for the weekend without me. Will probably get little sleep tonight since I do tend to get burned up by anticipation -- been true ever since I was about six. Christmas was a disaster until I gave up on Santa Claus much later than most kids, actually; ever the dreamer optimist.

Guess I've gotten past my eulogizing now and can get back to living concerns again, like civic meetings, matching socks, and feeding cats. Will get out of my mourning suit and into my blue jeans and tee shirt and catch up with things I've neglected for the past few days.

Hope you're well and that your tests show nothing worrisome. While I'm in my temporary state of religious bliss, will send up a few prayers of support, but I don't think there's much chance that I'll be heard. Sinner status will be reinstated just as soon as I get out of my mourning clothes!

Fondly,

Betty

In an eerie case of "death comes in threes,"

yesterday brought the third announcement. It's the more bizarre because about ten days ago I woke from a disturbing dream in which the only characters were my mother, father, and sister -- all three died years ago. I wondered at the time if this was a foreboding of events to come, or, if it indicated something more personal -- a premonition of my own death, maybe? I rarely recall my dreams so this made it the more troubling... .

Yesterday, barely minutes after I wrote the last entry there was a call from Joan, a lifelong friend whom I see rarely now. I was one of her grownup friends when she was a teenager and I served as godmother to her first born son, Michael. I have two godsons, Lyn and Michael. It was Lyn's father who was memorialized on Saturday.

While a student at U.C. Berkeley during the Vietnam War, Michael left the country for Cuba in a period of deep disillusionment and nationalist anger. He was a student activist during the turbulent Sixties and one of the casualties of the civil rights movement. He was handsome and bright and talented, and eventually became one of Cuba's young intellectuals with a radio program on Havana radio to much acclaim. He could never return to the US, though his parents and sister visited him on occasion, but I've never seen him again.

Joan was calling to tell me that Michael had died two weeks ago. It had been a brief illness. Michael had died of cancer of the esophagus -- the illness that had claimed Joan's father's life when Michael was still a baby. The anniversary of that death and Michael's was but a single day apart. Joan had flown to Cuba for services and wanted to let me know that their friends here were planning a memorial in early March. I was stunned! She sounded calm and sensible as I've always known her to be. No hysteria. But it's been a while since his death and it was only I who was unknowing at this point. Michael was the age of my middle son, Bob, and memories of them as children rushed back in these moments as I tried to catch my breath. It felt like a full blow to my body, and it hurt as if I'd been hit squarely with an invisible fist!

When I cradled the phone I sat for a long time sitting still and feeling relieved that it may now be over; the cycle of death. This was the third. No more, please. Let this be the end.


This weekend I will drive to the north coast to be with him. I'm telling myself that this is as much for Dorian as for me -- building up muscles for independence again. We've both regressed since she returned home, and I'm becoming more and more "Mama" with each day; infantilizing her into the role of "child". When she was still in her Oakland apartment, we'd worked out a nice relationship as super-friends, but that's been fading fast. She is delighted to have our condo to herself for the weekend, and I'm trying to not allow myself to see this as a self-serving strategy designed to free me to exercise my rights as woman. I'm not too sure that I have the answers yet, but we both appear to be enjoying a little distance in our relationship, so I won't question too closely.

In two weeks he and I will drive up to Ashland, Oregon, for 6 days -- and this weekend will serve as the dress rehearsal. Haven't told her about that yet. Not sure why, but maybe it has to do with not wanting her to have so much warning that she can plan mischief of some sort to get into while I'm gone. (Obviously, I'm not fully confident, right?)

The special bus service will pick her up each day for NIAD where she will spend her five hours. David will check with her each evening. She's a great mother to her two pet cats and considers them her children. They will need tending, and she's never been neglectful. (Not to worry, Mom!) I'll notify her caseworker and teachers that she'll be alone -- and that should do it.

Besides, the death cycle has now ended, hasn't it?

Here's to life!

Passages ...

Attended a memorial service on Saturday -- the day after the Rennie Harris dance performance -- and the contrasts were stunning.

The setting was the nursing home where my friend, Henry "Buddy" Sims, spent his final three years of life. As the godmother of his only son, Lyn, this was a service I dared not miss. Properly dressed in my only black pants suit I managed to arrive promptly for the two o'clock service -- to find myself in a room with my contemporaries -- mostly strangers with whom he'd shared his last years. There were also his relatives, most of whom I'd not met before and at least two widowed friends.

The thing I remember most about Buddy was his enthusiastic two-finger jazz piano duets with anyone who could handle the bass end of the keyboard -- and his inventive dance steps. No one could boogie like Buddy.

I realized in looking around that here was my age appropriate group, yet I felt out more out of context here than I'd felt last night at the Yerba Buena Center; strange. I have no sense that I'm trying to escape the aging process. In many ways I'm probably more aware of the inexorable passage of time than ever before. What's different? Could it have been the nursing home setting? There were so many in the room with walkers and attached to oxygen tanks and wheelchairs ... felt a shudder. I realized how fortunate I've been for such a long time; blessed by excellent health and continuing energy with which to move through life without the hindrance of some chronic illness to contend with.

It's quite possible that the fact that I've not stopped working has added to my stamina -- but there's surely something more to pay attention to. Wish I knew what it was ... .

It's genetic, I suppose. Long-lived parents and grandparents surely account for much of it. One thing is perfectly clear, at least. Despite arguments to the contrary miscegination surely did not foul the gene pool!

Given any luck at all, a favorable response to global warming, a world eventually at peace, continuing safe journeys on the roads, I may make it to the century mark as did my mother, Lottie, and greatgrandmother, Leontine Breaux Allen. But that's a crap shoot these days, and the odds are not great, I think.

I think that I'm less afraid of death than of dying. Its not that I'm all that courageous -- it's simply that I've never been able to imagine the state of non-existence ... .

On Friday of this week there will be another memorial. This time is will be another dear friend, masterful jazz pianist, Ed Kelly who died a week ago after a long battle against a devastating stroke. This will be different, I think. The service will be held in a large African American -- Allen Temple Missionary Baptist Church in East Oakland. Every musician for miles around will be in the congregation. There will be great music and I'm certain that his life will be celebrated magnificently. His son, Terence, is the director of the internationally famed Oakland Interfaith Gospel Choir. Ed often accompanied the group so surely they will " ...make a joyful noise onto the Lord."

I will surely feel less age-isolated in that congregation since folks of every age and gender will share in that celebration and the music will erase all of the insignificant differences -- all except the love we shared for Ed and one another during his lifetime.

In a way I'm looking forward to this experience. It will be inter-racial, inter-cultural, but firmly rooted in Black culture. It will be rich and memorable, and I will be nourished for having been a part of it.

Wish Buddy could have attended. It would have been his cup 'o tea ... .

Sensational performance!

Rennie Harris is a brilliant performer...

and his dance company is astounding in what it brings together. The show is called "Exploring Outsider Art and Street Culture in Facing Mekka." The company is Rennie Harrie Puremovement. Astounding! The subtitle is "Imagine a whole new way to see. Life Amplified!" A more apt description could not be found, I think.

There were drummers, singers, film against towering screens, dancers who used the entire spectrum of movement from street dance to house dance to acrobatics to break-dancing to ballet and African-influenced movement. There was even one young musician who used only voice in an unbelievable range of sounds -- a page taken from the Bobby McFerrin songbook but expanded beyond belief. Gutterals, percussive bursts, screams and shrieks, with body movements accenting sound in a way that announced to the world that Hip Hop is indeed a worthy art form, one that now circles the globe and permeates much of the emerging art forms. Anyone who has allowed themselves to limit the definition to rapping (a single expression of a vast new world of expression) is missing something profound and as important as Dada-ism, Impressionism, Surrealism, etc. There are some new young masters making their mark in film, music, dance, and poetry (known as "spoken word")under the banner of Hip Hop. San Francisco, New York, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Boston, and large cities in between have embraced this exciting art form, and others will follow in time.

Rennie Harris, DJ Spooky, presentations by entrepreneur Russell Simmons all appear to be the leading lights right now. Their work is raw, audacious, and bold, often pushing the edges of propriety -- but then that's the role of the artist in society anyway, and always has been. And they're working from the pallette we've left to them as legacy; a legacy of unbridled violence from a constant stream of televised hatred fed to them in lieu of time and attention in a world often too busy for nurturing parenting.

In watching the show on Saturday night I realized the power of the dance as a way of dealing with profanity in ways that doesn't crash up against our hot buttons in quite the same way that speech does. Yet I saw in the multi-media backdrop fire and water and violence and guns and heinous cruelty and charging dogs all reinforced by a foreground where dancers contorted their bodies grotesquely to a cacophony of sound that was abstract and dissonant, raucous and magnificent! Had all of that been delivered in words I undoubtedly would have shut them out in the attempt to protect my senses. Dance exposed and delivered every emotion and at a feeling level that could penetrate my resistance without destroying me. It was amazing ... !

It also occurred to me that -- in this show that was devoid of sexual innuendo (almost always erroneously associated with Hip Hop) -- the new pornography is violence. But that's been true for a very long time now, hasn't it? Films and television exploit it quite freely, and we do little more than complain mildly and soothe ourselves with the belief that this is a freedom of the tawdry that we must defend as a privilege granted by the 1st Amendment, of course; and I agree. Maybe the answer is what young people are doing with it; transforming it into poetry and music and paintings and dance and reflecting it back to us for reconsideration in a plea for peace and love. If you listen closely you can hear that in the work of Eminem and others.

They're crossing racial and cultural lines to share their concerns and it's working for them. Below the age of 30 the young in urban areas show every sign of having eliminated racial bigotry from their world. The celebration of Black culture is universal in their world, and without apology. It's no longer a case of expropriation of a culture, but a crossing over of lines of separation with a full understanding of their own shared history and the "sins of the fathers" that may need atonement.

If we can keep the world from blowing up at the hands of those who make claim to fundamentalist religious beliefs, this supposedly profane generation of true believers may yet save us all.

Meanwhile -- if you live close enough and can get tickets to any of the upcoming Yerba Buena Center for the Arts dance performances this spring, do so. The Robert Moses Dance Company and DJ Spooky are both coming soon to the YBC. The Black Choreographers Festival at Project Artaud Theater, also in San Francisco comes February 11-13 with a Sunday family matinee performance. It should be really exciting.

Have been thinking over the weekend about contacting the Richmond Art Center director about the possibility of creating a program of performing arts tours that people here might subscribe to. Wonderful way to begin to build an audience for bringing shows here at some point in the future.

But for now there's work to do, like sorting laundry ... .

We've recovered nicely, thank you.

Confidence back in order and paint brushes at the ready.

For those who emailed to ask for photos of Dorian's Tsunami, I'm still working on it. Managed to send one set to a friend, but it was a bumbling attempt without the proper settings so they were not the thumbnails I'd anticipated. Really feared that her computer would crash from the overload! She did reply, however, to say that they'd arrived safely. Will try to export into CbreauxAnnex as soon as I figure the process, so patience is the keyword here.

Today I'll attend a memorial service for a very old friend from my teen years. These rites are frequent these days -- a problem associated with octogenarianism. Reminders of one's mortality and the need to live with intentionality now. But then I'm not sure that I haven't always done that anyway. Nonetheless, there's that reminder to treasure the days while mourning those who precede you into nothingness... .

That's this afternoon. Tonight I'll attend a Hip Hop Concert at the San Francisco Yerba Buena Center. An artist named Rennie Gaines, I believe, and someone we'd like to bring to Richmond at some point for a young people's concert. Though I've still not been able to convince the powers that be to turn me loose on the Centennial, as much as I'd like to. Meeting with some co-conspirators to explore ways to get this city to take advantage of this upcoming 100th year anniversary as a way of marketing itself. Wonderful opportunity that may be squandered while we continue to stumble around trying to recover financially from a period of bad decisions that drained the city coffers and caused widespread dissonance within the community. We're on the mend now, though, and I firmly believe it's time to begin the celebration, later working our way up to dancin' in the streets!

In the background is the dull drone of the world at war and my apprehension at Jessica's departure sometime this week for Boot Camp. Frightening thought....

Then there's that reminder of Iran/Contra with still another name from the past -- Elliott Abrams -- moving into position in the second term cabinet of this erratic, arrogant, and (I believe) war criminal president. Scary words to type in, but as I did so I felt a surge of anger and outrage. What a terrible thing to believe about a leader and an administration that holds the power of life over the entire world!

It is at such times as these that I envy Dorian's innocence; her inability to feel the uncertainty and terror that I wake to many nights. Then I feel the weight of responsibility to "get it right" for us both as the days unfold and I send off my letters, click petitions online, all in an admittedly weak attempt at addressing events so far beyond my -- or anyone else's -- control.

But tonight it's the Yerba Buena Art Center and an experience that may provide a look at the world that we're growing into -- the world of the young, those who will hold the fate of the nation (the world?) in their hands before long. Given the state of public education and the justice system, one can only hope that there are enough balances created by the new technologies to prepare them for leadership adequately and quickly enough to save us all. I've met some amazing young people recently, and am hopeful. The new generation may have to wrest power from those reluctant to step away from center stage. Sounds a little like revolution, doesn't it? I hope that's not what we're moving toward ... but I'm no longer sure how the drastic changes demanded to alter our disastrous course can be accomplished without drastic measures.

I think I need to stop writing now. Not sure of where I'm going, and it's troubling to entertain such thoughts, even casually.

Life does have a way of balancing the score and keeping us humble.

Dorian's great artistic triumph has now to be measured against one of those incidents that grays the hair and encourages nightmares.

As has been a new "tradition" dating back to a few weeks ago, I drove out to the suburbs to spend the day with the man in my life (new Wednesday commitment). On the drive home my cell phone rang and at the other end of the call was a distraught Dorian. She could hardly speak. It seems that as she was washing her brushes at the sink -- just before the end of her day at NIAD, there was an unprovoked attack by a young man who suffers from autism. He struck her on the right side of her face near the eye and again on her back before staff could intervene. In the process her glasses were damaged but not nearly as much as her pride and self-confidence.

He is someone who attends the program only two days a week and apparently has an attendant who accompanies him on those days. NIAD is a relatively new experience for him and he's still learning to navigate a system that has rules that he's ill equipped to either understand or comply with.

Dorrie, on the other hand, is confident and reasonably talented but lacks the mental capacity to understand autism, or, the reasons why anyone would be so out of control. The damage to her psyche was far more serious than the blows she received, though today there is still soreness and some swelling. We managed to get through the evening relatively well (once I reached home from my tryst) except for my own feelings of guilt at not being available to her at such a time.

Almost instantly as I logged off from her hysterical call, the phone rang again. This time it was from one of the staff at NIAD feeling just awful and fearful of my reaction (I'm sure), and needed almost as much reassurance as did Dorrie. I listened as well as I could while weaving through rush hour traffic, and told her that the miracle was that Dorian has reached maturity without ever having had such an experience before. Considering the population that wonderful program is working with (so beautifully), it is small wonder that they manage to balance all of the disabilities that fill the studios without experiencing anything more serious than this. As soon as I was assured that Dorian had not suffered any real physical harm, it sounded as if they'd handled it well and that I could pick up the rest of the pieces when I eventually reached home.

She was waiting at the door with an icebag on her face and tears streaming! However, despite all -- it took no more than an hour or so to make things right, and we did.

The offender has been suspended (unfortunately since he probably needs the program more than we do) and won't return for a week. He was made to apologize for being out of control, but that may beyond his power to feel -- even though the process needed to be gone through for his sake and for the sake of on-watchers. The staff tried to make it clear to Dorrie that his actions were not caused by anything she'd done or said, but I'm not sure that she could understand that to be any more true than he was to actually feel his apology. Makes me wonder about the emptiness of some of the practices that we've put in place to handle such events in our attempts at socializing the afflicted. He'll continue to feel threatened by having been placed in a program he doesn't yet value, and she will be fearful of his rage because it is irrational -- too much for even the professionals to deal with confidently. Tis a dilemma.

But, while I was still half asleep this morning under my down quilt -- I could hear her up feeding her two cats, packing her lunch, brushing her teeth, and by the appointed hour -- setting out to wait for her bus. I drove over to NIAD at noon time to pick her up to get the eyeglasses repaired (to get rid of this evidence of the traumatic event)and found her well into her new sculpture (something that defies description at this point, except that I hear the word dragon) that has her excited again. We've weathered another storm, and it won't be the last.

However, I'm planning to take off for five days in early March for Ashland, Oregon, to see several plays. It's important to me. This was going to be another attempt at exercising Dorian's reconstituted independence. I was reminded that there is always the unforeseen -- impossible to plan for or guard against. I have no doubt that she can handle being alone again, but I have a new worry to deal with. I'd give almost anything to feel just a bit less responsible. As is almost always the case, I'll have to try hard to turn down the panic buttons and give her the chance to deal with life on her own. Keep reminding myself that David is completely reliable and caring and that the risk is small.

We'll both survive.

Besides, she's been asked by a NIAD staffmember if she'd like to try to design a logo for Special Olympics -- for a postcard to be used by the local groups (I presume). This may have simply been something offered to distract her from the trauma of yesterday, but it doesn't matter. The request validates her status as "artist" and she may opt for that over "victim." Some get trapped at that place and never recover. She has a lot of good credits banked from the last art show and can draw on them now to maintain herself. My biggest job may be to stand back and let that happen and to convince myself that "the world" will continue to do the right thing by her. One day that will be her only buffer and learning how to navigate the social system now is vitally important.

I'm trying to make myself see this an another opportunity for growth and to keep my "mothering" from getting overblown and undoing all the good work we've done over the years.

Life goes on.

Can one create a tsunami as sculpture?

Of course not. Any fool knows that. But Dorian didn't, fortunately. Her mental deficits do not allow her the power of reason or judgement. It's in the arts that such deficits may become assets instead of handicaps. There are lots of "cannot do" areas in her life, but not within the walls of NIAD, where with clay, paint, glue, fabric, etc., all things are possible. The rules that govern so much of the rest of the world stop at the front door, and dream life becomes easily accessible, and a group of great teachers stand ready to help artists to see the possibilities in any chosen medium. It's a truly magical place.

We weren't prepared for the power of the exhibit on Thursday evening. Dorrie's wood sculpture was fantastic! Have no way to describe it except to say that it probably measured about 40 inches in length and stood perhaps 18-20 inches high and was composed of brightly-painted small bits of wood shaped into indescribable abstract suggestions of chairs and tables and other artifacts of life. There were no people (presumably post-wave). One end consisted of a single sheet of down-sloping wood painted in blues and greens and stopped by a wall she'd created to hold back the "water". She explained that the higher elevations were to give people a place to be where the waves wouldn't get them. It was all there. It was chaotic in feeling in almost florescent oranges, reds, yellows, and blues with shapes going in every direction as if wave-tossed. It was a tremendous work, and probably all inspired from the endless repetitious news coverage of the historic tragedy. It was a stunning piece of work that surprised everyone who stopped to visit her exhibit.

I felt so grateful that an imaginative instructor had chosen to not dissuade her from tackling something so abstract and impossible to create as her first attempt at sculpture. I can just imagine Dorrie saying, "I'm going to make a tsunami," and a less wise teacher saying, "no, dear. We should first try making something more familiar -- maybe a snake or an ashtray, or something ...". Instead this young woman said, "sure, go for it!" And she did. There's a message here about the danger of lowered expectations, a problem that's all too common these days.

There's that quality that Dorian enjoys that I often envy. Like the bumble bee who is not aero-dynamic and doesn't know that it can't fly -- does it anyway. Dorian has no way to know that one simply cannot capture the power of a tsunami in bits of wood and glue, so has the freedom to "soar" artistically.

There was more magic in the faces of the guests at the reception who stared with wonder as they viewed her creation. Maybe she freed us all just a bit, at least enough to get us through the weekend, and another round of horrors from the war zones.

Her Tsunami will be featured in NIAD's summer show in June, and she's now officially assuming the title of "Artist."

Makes me wonder how one measures talent and ability as expressed by people like Dorian Reid and her 22 year-old friend, Ingrid, who suffers from cerebral palsy and paints wonderful landscapes from her wheel chair -- holding her paint brush between her teeth ... .

And, no, the work at the S.F. MOMA was not better, only different.

There are more dimensions to the arts than many of us can perceive, I think.

Photo: Dorian Leon Reid, Artist studying at NIAD (National Institute for Artists with Disabilities) in Richmond, California.

I'm more and more wary of the new rhetoric --

hearing words differently, with suspicion and fear. This morning I read my email copy of AlterNet and was struck by the new jargon that places emphasis on "The Ownership Society." For all intents and purposes it brought forth the image of slavery. Not sure the capital wordsmiths thought of that, or, if the words strike fear in anyone else as they do in me ... .

Maybe the slippage in Ohio that disenfranchised so many darkskinned voters has reawakened those feelings. The fact that the voters rights legislation is up for renewal and that I'm actually fearful that what is now accomplished by diversion and chicanery will be formally achieved by law. It's possible to simply allow the law to lapse, I believe, or to get caught up in committee never to see the light of day. Feels like treading water in 30 foot depth of the ocean of life, without an oxygen tank ... and this time political expediency has allowed black conservatives to be co-opted into a corrupt system headed by those who can only maintain power to controlling the large blocs of black voters -- all for a price or political gain.

It seems unlikely that liberals will be able to sustain enough clout to undo the damage being done to the body politic over the next two years -- before another election can alter the balance of power between parties. It will take a lot of crossing over the aisle by conservatives of conscience to get us there. Olympia Dukakis and the other moderate Republicans will have to join forces with like-minded Democrats if we're to work our way back to some reasonable semblance of constitutional order. The only thing sustaining me is the feeling that this is already happening in the back halls of Congress, and that the pendulum is already beginning its swing toward equity in governance and a balance of power. Otherwise ... .

New Yorker columnist, Seymour Hersch, has been giving stinging interviews over the tube -- and the fact that his charges in re an invasion of Iran are not being denied by the administration. If there is any hope to be gained from these disturbing developments it is that he is being fed critical information by fearful and powerful staffers in high places -- or he wouldn't be able to release such information with impunity.

Fear for their lives has practically eliminated any direct news reports from Iraq so we're now totally dependent upon independent freelancers, Al Jazeera and other Mideast media, and Seymour Hersch. Our kids are out there on their own -- killing and being killed with few on site to observe the conditions under which these lives are being lost. My granddaughter will soon be among them. Jessica has enlisted -- fresh out of highschool with no prospects for employment and no way to move out to live on her own without marrying someone she's not yet met.

...a day of confusion and fear.

...tonight I'll view the innocent artwork of my daughter and her disabled classmates.

...have I told you that her latest piece is a wood sculpture (her first) that is called "Tsunami"? It must have risen from the images she's been exposed to on television. Since she's totally illiterate, it will be interesting to see what she's envisioned and how she translates that vision into an art piece. Only learned about it last night upon overhearing a phone conversation she had with a friend. I was only aware of her 3 paintings hung in the gallery for this show. They are sketches of her cats. She's spoken of her new teacher who's introduced her to sculpture as an art form, but there was no hint that the work was completed and had been named.

Naming the pieces is an important part of the work. I've sometimes sat quietly nearby -- having arrived early to pick her up. The group of artists sit in a circle. The instructor holds up a work in progress while the group reacts to it verbally. The artist is first asked to describe it, and in some cases it's quite clear that there was an intentional image in mind. As often as not, however, an artist will have simply expressed something in color and line without a theme in mind. The group will discuss what it reminds them of, and the artist reacts to what others see. Fascinating process.

Dorian is quite definite about what she's creating. The titles are in most cases intentional, and her sense of whether she's succeeded to produce what her inner eye sees is judged by whether or not others see the image she's trying to project. She has a firm expectation of her ability and is good naturedly critical of her work. Rarely is it totally ill-defined or pointless, waiting for identity from outside herself. I can see her delight when her image is confirmed by the others. I'm anxious to see how on earth she's been able to take on such a devastating event as the tsunami. Watch this space for a report.

Sunday it was the S.F. Museum of Modern Art and the recognized icons of the art world -- tonight it will be the National Institute for Artists with Disabilities (NIAD). It might interest you to know that the differences are minor. There are pieces in both places that one can be certain the artists were lucky to have had a way to express constructively! There are also pieces that express unbridled creativity -- sans rules or roadmaps and daringly capable of exploring the outer edges of who they are. I've been able to hold in my hand a ceramic object created by a young woman who has been blind from birth. To hold it is spellbinding and gives new meaning to the word "wonder". To listen while others in the group react to her projects, giving them titles and meaning within the context of their own limited understanding, and watching her face as she listens to their descriptions...is humbling.

Tonight I'll share this with experience my friend.

Dorian will be our guide.

One would never have guessed that there would be at least one more love story to be lived ... .

About a decade ago I settled for living the rest of time out in interesting vignettes, if luck held out, but never did I dream that there could be more. "Love among the ruins" is more than a great title for a drama about liaisons among the elders. There is a totally different kind of love relationship to be experienced; one not dependent upon those things that justified the investment in the past -- each in the other -- procreation, financial security, social status, etc., but one that stands alone and free of the need for caution and without time considerations. Every day is an eternity. Every day starts with promise and a preciousness now clearer than at any other time in my life. Each day sharpens both the joy and the pain of existence, if only because we're living in such a delicate balance between the two. How we spend this luxury of time has become of critical importance even while we're enjoying the lightness of being created by the knowledge that the world we'll be leaving is no longer able to hold us accountable. Our ability to effect change is now minimal so love can now move back into the foreground and purpose can recede back into negative space.

Time has been so much kinder to me than to him. I'm still active and physically blessed with extraordinarily good health. Because of his physical limitations, I'm required to slow my pace through life and am therefore seeing the world far more sharply than before. It's as though someone has changed the focus on the lens. Strange. I'm aware of every step that I take now. Holding onto his arm as we amble along is now out of pure necessity. When I forget to do so, I find myself ten steps ahead and constantly running back in embarrassment at my insensitivity. But it works for me. Even weeds thrusting violently upward through cracks in the sidewalk now get my attention. I'd forgotten the power in such natural phenomena -- and appreciate again the metaphor such images provide when needed.

Yesterday we returned to the S.F. MOMA and viewed the permanent exhibit of retro photographers, Edward Steichen, Ansel Adams, Richard Avedon, and re-visited the Modernists furniture -- Charles Eames et al with those wonderful chairs.

We're making plans to take a trip to the Ashland Shakespeare Festival in April; something I've never done. There we will see Richard III as well as August Wilson's Ma Wilson's Black Bottom, among several plays, both contemporary and medieval.

On Thursday evening of this week he will attend the Artist's Reception at NIAD (National Institute for Artists with Disabilities) where Dorian has 3 paintings on exhibit. She needs to meet him. I've carefully chosen to bring them together for the first time in an environment where she is being celebrated and where she is known as her own person and not as an appendage to me or to anyone else. And in a way that her mental disabilities are not the most important fact about her. That feels important to me. She will surely see more of him in the future but the ground will have been laid in a way that benefits how that plays out, I think.

I've met all of his family now -- he arranged to bring us together at dinner recently. I'd not done that yet. Only told my sons about him over the past ten days or so. Haven't heard from one son, but David's response was "Be happy, Mom. You've earned it. Dorian has been well prepared for living without you over these many years, and she can surely manage to take care of herself in the apartment alone while you're away. And, I'm only ten minutes away and will see that she's safe and well." Our roles are being reversed. I was a permissive and trusting mother and he's now being a permissive and trusting son. Nice.

Maybe now I can give myself over to living more fully another chapter of this extraordinary life of mine. There are some new parts of myself to explore -- bits of me not revealed in earlier relationships. I trip over newness as these moments flash by, and I sense new possibilities still unfolding.

I'm certain that neither of us thinks beyond the next few months. Anything more would be foolish. But for the first time in my life, NOW is more than enough and TOMORROW is simply irrelevant.

He's a very dear man from whom I may be learning to see one more face of love ... .

Sorting through feelings is taking up my entire being right now.

Little time to record anything, or to react except with disbelief ... .

The fears are so close to the surface -- panic, really -- that I've been reluctant to struggle with the words for fear that panic would spill over and trigger hysteria ... .

It's like the feelings I had years ago each time I saw the Doomsday Clock move ever closer to midnight and the end of time for the planet. How have we come to this?

Couldn't bring myself to watch the ceremonies on Wednesday, but had a hard time avoiding it. Coverage was everywhere, including that of the anti-Bush demonstrations. Maybe the fear is becoming so universal that counter-forces will finally emerge to move us back from the edge. There are bits of it forming here and there, but much gets erased with each on-air interview with Bush supporters. How on earth can they not see? The duplicity is so marked. The gross bigotry profoundly expressed in every speech coming from the current administration is stunning; the more so because it is clear that the speechwriters aren't aware of what they're expressing much of the time. It got to me during one of the many quick snatches of Bush's speech wafted by last night when he mentioned "... treatment of minorities." He quite obviously has no idea that -- on the world scale -- whites are far outnumbered, and that this nation has erroneously pluralized the word "minority" in order to avoid accepting that fact. There is no such thing as "85% minority." It's an oxymoron! 85% minority is the majority. The ability to create and control how language is used often determines who controls "truth."

I'm firmly convinced that only impeachment can turn this juggernaut around. There is little chance that we can survive through another four years of wars and more wars building more and more hatred throughout the known world. It cannot wait. Today I will look up former Attorney General Ramsey Clarke's web site and sign the petition demanding impreachment. He said yesterday that there are now 500,000 signatures submitted, but that at least 5 million will be needed to gain the attention of Congress. Today there will be 500,001.

MoveOn.Org sent out an appeal for support to allow us to begin to build upon the national grassroots movement that brought victory so close last November. Eli Pariser and Joan et al are Bay Area people whom I've met. I trust their leadership. Will send off my check today right after my vote for impeachment. I know it all seems meager in contrast to the corporate power we're facing, but, if unified -- this nation's ordinary folks can still come together to save ourselves from total self-destruction. I firmly believe that. But that can happen only if enough of us believe deeply enough to act quickly and often for the change we want to see.

If you're reading this, I'll trust that we're of like mind and that we can together add numbers to Ramsey Clarke's petition.

Hopefully,

Betty

First Barbara Lee and now Barbara Boxer, ...

both California women friends to be proud of. We have at least one in the house and one in the senate raising hell and speaking for what I sense is a growing national constituency. Watching Senator Barbara Boxer take on the secretary of state designee this morning gave me hope and swept away much of yesterday's depression.

Having the governor and the supreme court both turn down the final appeal for the man whose life on Death Row ended last night at San Quentin had taken its toll. When my clock radio clicked on this morning to the hearings -- and the now familiar voices started to drone on -- I felt a momentary wave of nausea, then Barbara started her interrogation (and interrogation it was!). Every question that needed asking was asked. The anger and frustration she was feeling was evident in her voice, and she was unapologetic for it. She was expressing what so many of us are feeling. Just got off a letter of support to this tiny warrior, and hope that others are doing the same. The voting has yet to be conducted, and, though the outcome is predictable -- Barbara Boxer will stand her (and our) ground. We (our network) just received a message from her office asking for backup support by email before this afternoon's voting takes place.

How interesting that it is the women in governance who are stepping up to take the heat and lead the way. But it may be more important to note that it is this area of the nation (the San Francisco Bay Area) that continues to lead the way. The truth is that their Progressive constituencies grant them permission to do so. We've have been demanding this kind of leadership from our elected representatives now for several decades. Looking at the political landscape from the inside for all these years makes me aware of how often legislators are trapped by the limitations placed upon them by those who placed them in office. They're often far more willing to grow and change in light of new evidence than the folks back home will allow. Would that other parts of the country could reflect the growth that these good folks experience in office. The political ferment here in our region is visceral and citizen participation as natural as breathing. However, this freedom stops short just outside of the Bay Area boundaries, unfortunately, and much of the rest of the State reflects attitudes found in the newly designated red states.

Having been privileged to have worked in this field for some of the most dynamic leaders and participated in kitchen tables debates with others, I'm more aware than ever just why it is that I'm so reluctant to leave the stage. Still waiting edgily for that tap on the shoulder from my replacement. The Lees and the Boxers and those waiting in the wings to succeed them will continue to lead the way out of the political swampland we find ourselves in -- if there's enough time, that is. They're in training now in the National Womens Political Caucus, in NOW, in NARAL, and in the organization of younger women called EMERGE where the mentoring and coaching is going full steam ahead in preparation for the next decade of leadership. Both Barbaras came out of and are strongly supported by these organizations.

We're finally seeing the positive effects of female influence in high places, and it makes me hopeful. And, for the moment I'm skipping over the scariness of the image of the other image of "women in high places," that embodied by The Ice Queen, Dr. Rice! Transforming female energy into more power while holding fast to the qualities that separate us from our brothers will be the challenge of our time. Good governance probably requires a proper balance between our Yang and Ying, and will take awhile to achieve -- at least until our numbers increase in the Halls of Congress. Meanwhile, our two courageous Barbaras from home will have to do -- and we'll keep enabling them to the extent that we can for as long as we can.

Now to watch the rest of the proceedings.

I'm tired. Rarely true for me, but today I'm feeling spent; used up. Old.

Maybe it has to do with waking to the sounds of the confirmation hearings of Condoleeza Rice, Ice Queen of Empire. I suddenly felt ancient and impotent. One would have to wonder where this jog in the road toward full equality hit the fatal destructive speed bump. Shouldn't I be feeling victorious? Shouldn't this be the crowning reward for all the years of working toward seeing an African American woman in this position of supreme power? What went wrong? Why do I want to climb back into bed and pull the blankets over my head? Is what I'm feeling shame? Defeat? That this travesty should be taking place on the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King adds a note of particularly cruel irony.

Is it possible that -- by the time we African Americans reached the rarified air of the halls of power and all that implies -- we've become hopelessly corrupted by a political system so distorted that even hatred of black/brown skin is less important than out-of-control greed for power and promise of financial gain? What happened that the "water is being carried" by black conservatives for white power brokers on so many fronts? A new form of slavery to the Right? What are the payoffs for them?

What has been gained by Chairman Michael Powell (FCC), Secretary Colin Powell (now thinly-masked displacement for non-comforming to policy); soon-to-be-gone Regent Ward Connerly who has single-handedly fought affirmative action for years resulting in a dramatic loss of enrollees in the universities; Justice Clarence Thomas whose record on the court is an embarrassment to African American Progressives everywhere; and now Armstrong Williams who was an apologist and staffer for the infamous racist Senator Jesse Helms for years and clerk for Justice Thomas -- and now openly admits to taking $250,000 of public funds for lobbying the No Child Left Behind legislation to Black families. What's happened to us? The numbers of sepia turncoats grow with each day as the rewards accumulate from corporate interests and political muscle.

With governmental and corporate control now firmly in the hands of White male Republican conservatives, the voices of African Americans that would serve to balance these opportunistic ones are absent from the debate. Rep. John Conyers, Maxine Waters, and many others are speaking out but not being given the coverage that might balance the impression that we've all sold out and that the civil rights struggles have been lost. Without looking closely at the reality being lived out in the inner cities, one might believe that we have overcome. Not so. I shudder at the thought that anyone would believe the huge numbers of folks now firmly dependent upon the underground economy fueled by the drug trades. And there is apparently no attempt being made to change this reality. The destruction of the safety net and system of public education that helped to lift the willing and able out of poverty is now almost complete.

I live where there is clear evidence that little is being done to stem the tide of the greatest warehousing of non-white Americans in history; the march of young black males into either the armed forces (by coercion and lack of opportunity in the public sector), or, into the prison systems -- both state and federal.

It matters little that Condoleeza Rice et al can now dine with the president while listening to Mozart -- while many of those they represent are passionately belting out gospel music while having to settle for fewer meals under fewer roofs while cowering from the all too common deaths by street violence.

At an earlier time there was an attempt at thinning out those deemed defectives through Eugenics. The same ends are now being achieved by channeling those seen as less than human into wars and prisons through policies produced by an interracial body of policymakers. I suppose that denotes a kind of progress, but does it indicate that the nation is reaching for the same stars Jefferson, Madison, Adams, and Franklin aspired to, or have we misplaced the moral compass in our time? Somewhere there was a fork in the road; one that Dr. King perceived, and surely sacrificed his life for in the effort to change the destructive course followed by the nation that he so loved.

I worry now about that "road not taken..." .

Do you suppose it's too late to make the corrections and turn the Ship of State about? We may have to sail into the wind for a while, but surely there is the will and the desire to save ourselves, our children, and a world of people who until very recent history, aspired to be just like us.

Today -- as many of those of us living under the power and the will of these strange leaders -- are fearful as they whose countries we are pillaging and occupying so ruthlessly.

We need now to grow beyond our racial prejudices for an entirely new set of reasons. Evil has no skin color. Ignorance and blind ambition come with no credentials that would insure fairness or compassion. Both Dr. King and Malcolm X arrived at those conclusions before facing extermination. Maybe that's the legacy that needs our attention and dedication if we're to survive this period of fascistic peril.


Now it's back to the East Gate at San Quentin for a day of hope with other lovers as we await tonight's execution. Perhaps we'll find that this new governor will grant us a pause while the prisoner's brain-damage (not allowed presentation during his trial) is reconsidered. I've little hope of this happening, but maybe there are some voices that the governor will hear. Maybe the moratorium will begin to gain support soon. Surely this is an issue that is gaining ground since Barry Schect's Innocence Project has so successfully freed so many who were wrongly imprisoned. Could be; if enough of us are paying attention, and care enough to enable the best in us to surface and prevail.

Amen ... .

Eventful week; mostly interesting and life-affirming.

Midweek I met for lunch with the young women with whom I worked for the past five years. Got all caught up on their lives and the "what next," since three have now left the office that had taken up so much of our lives. One will now join the staff of State Senator Pro Tem Don Perata, and should be a gift to his crew. Another is moving out of politics to do journalism on a larger scale for a major newspaper. The third has continued on in the old office with our best wishes for an expanding future. It was great to see them again. We range in age from 26 to me, and that's a broad slice of womanhood and a tribute to our ability to span the years and continue to learn from one another. It was a good run, and I miss them.

On Friday evening there was an invitation to dinner with my friend's family (son and his lady, daughter and husband and son) at his favorite S.F. restaurant, Tadich in the financial district. After dinner most of us drove out to the Exploratorium for a solo performance by the incomparable Joanna Haigood of Zaccho Dance Theatre. It was an exciting show in this unique setting where she serves as an artist in residence. Introducing this (European) family to one of my favorite African American artists was great. They were spellbound and I was as moved by her grace and choreography as ever I've been.

On Saturday evening I attended the fiftieth birthday party for Melita Sims-Agbabiaka Ph.D., where I'd been asked to say a few words of inspiration during the program at some point in the evening. This is a family of ten siblings who could fill any evening with magic -- they're all teachers and entertainers and as outgoing and loving as any group of people I've ever known. In addition to performances by the adult members of the family, thereis a group called "Prodigy" made up of their children, all under 10. They're dancers and musicians and poets, and all as talented as one can imagine. They'll be appearing in concert later this month (February?) at the Oakland Unitarian-Universalist Church in an evening of music and arts as a benefit for the purpose of re-opening their charter school in Richmond. This would be the Barbara Alexander Academy that I may have talked about way back in the archives. What an honor to be invited to be a part of their celebration to Dr. King's memory in their lovely home with their many friends and supporters. Great evening!

Sunday was a study in contrasts: Friend and I attended a concert in suburban Lafayette that featured the 12-14 musicians of the Gold Coast Chamber Music Group whose artistic director is the daughter of my more-more-more constant friend whose name I'm trying hard not to mention.

My African American world this weekend was heavily marked by the King celebrations. No mention in the suburban sold-out chamber music concert. Should be no surprise, and wasn't. The afternoon was filled with Kreisler, Vivaldi, Bach, Mozart; all totally European. We'd crossed the East Bay Hills to a world transformed totally from the one I'd left less than 40 minutes and 20 miles ago in Richmond. What may have been the greatest surprise was the fact that I didn't even notice it at the time, only now in the writing about it. I've grown accustomed to these huge cultural leaps between short distances in the Bay Area, the state, and the nation.

After the afternoon concert we drove in to meet friends for dinner at a lovely Vietnamese restaurant, La Cheval, in downtown Oakland before attending the 4th annual Martin Luther King Birthday Concert at the Kaiser Convention Center on the shores of Lake Merritt. This was an evening of excerpts from his powerful speeches projected on a huge screen, the Oakland Youth Choir, the Oakland Jazz Choir, the Gospel Hummingbirds Quartet, and the presentation of the Humanitarian of the Year award to a woman whose work has been pivotal in creating services for the homeless and those suffering from HIV-AIDS. The audience and the program was all African American inspired, though performed by an interracial cast that represented the multi-racial multi-cultural makeup of this interesting city. The audience was probably 40% African American and deeply responsive.

This morning I joined with UU minister Rev. Paul Sawyer and a number of other members of the clergy at the East Gate of San Quentin Prison to honor Dr. King's memory by participating in a worship circle in the shadow of Death Row. It was heart-warming and needed to be since the day was gray and cold and the numbers few. There was a drummer, a flutist, a woman dancer, plus about 25 good folks standing witness for what we hope are the many thousands of peace activists and anti-death penalty advocates across the country and the world whom we firmly believe we represent. There were readings and then testimonies from each of us strangers standing closely for warmth and inspiration. There were several sound trucks from the media and lots of cameras manned by silent newsmen. There were interviews by a number of reporters I didn't recognize, but whose newspapers are familiar.

At a point in the proceedings, after the singing of "We Shall Overcome" those ready to commit to the act of civil disobedience lined up at the East Gate behind a string of Tibetan prayer flags, mostly ministers but also including several young men I didn't know plus the graceful dancer who continued to move gracefully as though alone on the planet -- but now behind the string of flags, against the defining East Gate. We knew that there would be a time when those of us who would not want to be arrested would have the opportunity to walk away. There was a short conference on the other side of the gate between guards and other prison personnel. They knew the drill. All had been here before -- Paul and the others for many years since the moratorium on the death penalty was lifted long ago. Being arrested was expected -- invited, and the time had come to get through the inevitable.

I walked up to the gate to where the demonstrators were standing steadfast and whispered into Paul's ear that this time I could not commit. I'd left Dorian at home alone, and there was no way to know how long it would take for the police and the jailkeepers to get through their process. Routine though it was, I'd left her to her own devises for most of the past two days, and though she enjoys the freedom from Mom, this was a day that we needed to be together. Dr. King would understand. Paul understood.

I walked away in the cold gray fog and wondered about Stan "Tookie" William and Kevin Cooper, waiting on Death Row as the next to be exterminated by lethal injection. Everything is in order. Kevin's stay has come to an end, and Stan's appeals have been exhausted. Denied. These deaths will be as inevitable as the fate of today's demonstrators -- being hauled away and released until the next batch of protestors arrive tomorrow morning leading up to the execution on Wednesday. It's so horribly automatic. A kind of macabre dance that has now become completely routinized.

Is the downward spiral of our humanity so ordinary now that we'll stop noticing even the Abu Graib's in our future as we allow the continuing taking of lives in our names? Is not the ignoring of the Geneva Accords and the hardening against those we've dubbed "the enemy" more evidence that we're becoming de-sensitized to the taking of lives -- except for in those in the womb? Is it conceivable that language has become so polluted by rhetorical distortions that the old words have lost their meaning totally? Why the paradox of the "Right To Life" that doesn't extend to those taken in war or in the death chambers of our prisons? Or, that makes foetal life more valued than mother life? How is it that we're on a unprecedented drive to save the 173,000 lives of those crushed by the tsumani yet continue to turn our backs on those over 100,000 civilian deaths we're adding to daily in Iraq? Where can we begin to explore these anomalies without the shouting that keeps us from hearing one another?

We are diminished as a species with each intentional death.

Perhaps I'll join the others who'll gather at the East Gate tomorrow, if only to test my own courage in a place and time where I have some control. Iraq, Indonesia, and even Washington, D.C., are too far away to have an impact. This is a war that I can effect, even if only a little ... .

Maybe I'll provide the tipping point for change

Maybe ... .

When will we begin to notice?