I've crossed some trip wire and received my first angry response from a reader... .

The letter came today from the director of the Richmond Museum of History. He'd been alerted by someone to an entry I made some months ago when I attended an exhibit and expressed (pretty negatively) my disappointment at the experience. I remembered it vaguely as I read his angry response. The letter was sent to my office and therefore I read it with my "ranger" eyes and felt real concern. My blog is simply not a part of my work life so it felt like an invasion of some sort. I'd written that entry (as I almost always do) while sitting in my pj's and bathrobe, usually barefoot and completely "Betty", with none of the trappings of my public identity. In that place I'm not defensive nor guarded and write pretty much stream-of-consciousness at all times. I rarely if ever edit my writings after the fact. In fact, I almost never re-read anything I've written, but tend to move ahead into whatever the next experience suggests. That's that way of journaling, I suppose. Had I received this letter as an email through the blog (while at home) it would have been far less jarring. At my desk at work it was out of context. It was disturbing.

After reading the furious letter (written in longhand which made it feel even more serious), I answered it by email. Not sure precisely what I wrote today, but it wasn't angry -- maybe a little sad -- I suppose, and remember now that I did suggest that I would go back into the archives and read what I'd written. I remember saying that whatever I'd written was probably an accurate description of what I was feeling at the time, and that I wasn't quite sure just how one can undo feelings. This particular bell would be hard to un-ring!

I've been home now for several hours, and have decided that to re-read that post with the idea of retracting what I wrote at another time didn't make a lot of sense. In all the years since I started writing there have never been more than a dozen readers in any 24 hour period, according to the counter. Usually no more than ten. I've always taken comfort in that figuring that my readers were probably members of my family, with an occasional stranger who may have stumbled in from time to time. Those numbers are pretty insignificant, especially since I've been blogging since September of 2003. So, I'm writing for myself and my nieces and nephews for the most part.

It is quite true (as I mentioned in my email to the museum director), that I carry around a lot of residual, disembodied, and justifiable rage, and that I'm at an age where I no longer feel compelled to hold it in. I'm not as apt to suffer in silence as I did for a lifetime. I'm hoping that I'm providing a balanced picture of life these days -- that I'm neither paranoid nor being unnecessarily combative, though I'm not sure that's always true. It depends a lot upon what I'm seeing around me on any given day.

It occurred to me as I sat at my MAC tonight, that the director and his informant might have fared better had they turned their energy toward exploring just why there were no African Americans in attendance at that event (except for me), and to wondering if anything I expressed carried a hint or two of just why race relations in this city are still so difficult to confront? His museum, after all, sits in the middle of a black community.

He mentioned that his board would be "...looking into the matter." I would hope that they would invite me to attend their meeting. If my writings -- however controversial -- have opened a long-stifled civic conversation -- how wonderful that would be. This might well be the greatest gift we can give to this troubled community. Perhaps he will read this (while looking for my response) and see the importance of using this opening as the best possible course to take -- and will be in keeping with my work life -- which has its controversial elements as well, at least if I'm doing it as it should be done. And ... I do believe that I'm doing my work well. Though I may be the cause of some discomfort for some.

There are few universals here. We each have lived and are living -- our own reality. Mine has produced what you read in these pages.

None of it can be un-lived!

A delightful memory of Miyoko ... .

It was some years ago while I was serving as a member of the Board of Trustees of Starr King School for the Ministry; a Unitarian-Universalist seminary and a member of the prestigious Graduate Theological Union on "Holy Hill" on the northern border of the campus of the University of California, Berkeley.

Miyoko was a young woman and citizen of Japan who had been awarded a foreign student scholarship to study for one year in this country. In a moment of madness I offered to share my home with her until student housing could be secured nearer to the campus. Miyoko spoke no English. I, of course, knew not a word of Japanese. She was in her mid-twenties and I in my mid-seventh decade, I believe.

My mother had recently passed away and my fairly large 3-bedroom home had developed echoes and hollows I'd not yet become used to. After many years of caretaking, having a young person around again might be helpful while I figured out just what I would do with the rest of my life.

For about two weeks she went off to classes and I to my work. When we found ourselves in a room together we smiled a lot. I did a lot of stupid pointing and identifying objects and foods and ... and gradually the smiles turned into giggles as we struggled our way through the demands of communicating without words.

On the second Sunday after our adventure in living started I invited her out for a drive. On an impulse I drove to the University campus -- past the soccer fields -- the Memorial Stadium - through Strawberry Canyon and finally, into the parking lot of the Lawrence Hall of Science sitting on the uppermost ridge of the city's skyline. We stood together for a while looking out on the magnificent panorama of the entire Bay Area. No need for words here. Just wonder.

We then entered this magical museum -- filled with the sounds of happy parents and children going through the exhibits and experimenting with the hands-on displays. I'd spent times past here with my grandchildren, and felt in my soul that the magic would be communicated and that here -- age and language were mere conveniences and not essential to the experience. We still had few words in common, but had grown more content to share the silences.

As we rounded a corner at one point a large Grandfather's clock loomed into view. Miyoko pointed ahead excitedly and quickened her step. I followed. Suddenly she burst into song:

"O my grandfather's clock stood alone on the shelf
so it stood ninety years on the floor
It was taller by far than the old man himself
though it weighed not a pennyweight more
It was born on the morn of the day that he was born
it was always his treasure and pride
and it stopped - short -- never to go again
when the old man died"

Ninety years without slumbering (tick tock, tick tock)
His life seconds numbering (tick-tock, tick tock)

And it stopped -- short -- never to go again
when the old man died.

It was sung in perfect English! She'd learned the song phonetically at summer camp (where else?) in Japan. Her singing expressed all of the pent-up frustration of living in an alien environment where her words were not understood and where those around her were locked out. In that moment there was no one else in the room. She looked straight into my eyes and sang almost defiantly, beaming with the biggest grin she could muster!

By the time she reached the second line we were both singing loudly and continued through all of the verses without shame. By the time we'd reached the third line voices had begun to chime in from everywhere around us and smiling singers were gathering 'roun'! The many deep-voiced unself-conscious "tick tocks" from husbands and fathers in the hall were wonderful! Lawrence Hall of Science was transformed into one great summer camp reunion! It was a Sunday afternoon in Berkeley that I never thought I'd forget.

Miyoko had finally arrived in America! We spent the next few nights singing through her campsite repertoire and finding commonalities that we could experience no other way. She knew the entire score to The Sound of Music -- and we did a lusty and magnificent duet in harmony of "Climb Every Mountain", while preparing dinner and sorting laundry. And my pointing out of ordinary items as those words came up in the lyrics proved to be an invaluable tool.

I felt a heart tug when word came that dormitory space had been found and that our little adventure in international relations would now come to an end. I attended her graduation ceremony at the San Francisco UU Church that next spring -- but there had been a mix-up in communication and she was missing from the group when the others arrived from Berkeley. After a full year of study, Miyoko missed her Commencement.

She must have been crushed ... !

"Speechifying" can be quite wonderful ...

Yesterday we laid Ethel to rest from Pilgrim Rest Missionary Baptist Church in Richmond. The spirited celebration of her life would have pleased her. From the rhythms of the African drums that began the church service -- the magnificent gospel singing from her church members. It all set the stage for a four-hour long celebration (counting the service, the graveside ceremony, and the repast) that was worthy of this very special woman.

Met her son, Kariti Hartman, for the first time -- with plans to come together to explore what the future may hold for her little hotel and its colorful history.

Today I fulfilled a longtime commitment to be the luncheon speaker at Valley Bible Church in the nearby town of Hercules. What an honor to be the centerpiece of a well-planned event that -- obviously -- was built around you and your subject. The ladies brought artifacts related to World War II (i.e., vintage sheet music, miniature posters from the homefront, -- a trunk that held the army uniform, hat, personal papers from one woman's late father). Much thought had gone into this luncheon. Tables were decorated for Thanksgiving and a complete turkey with-all-the-trimmings dinner was served.

I spoke about the park for about thirty minutes to an audience of women who -- in many cases -- might have been the ages of my own children. It is often disconcerting to look out on the faces of older women with white hair and realize that -- except for two -- all had been born after World War II. It was their parents who served in the war and in the war industries. Strange ... .

Also, there were only two women of color in the audience; one Asian and the other African American. I changed not a word of my talk. The most important lesson I believe I've learned over this past year is that the trick is to talk until you run out of truth -- then stop! The truth for me is highly colored by my experience as a black woman -- so that's what forms the core of my stories. To the extent that I'm able to communicate the feelings of that experience -- those stories are universal. The knowing nods around the room, are enough to validate my life experience.

I'm more certain than ever that the secret is in being authentic. The women of the Daughters of the American Revolution were authentic. These women were pious, believing, born-again dedicated-to-Jesus members of the Valley Bible Church. They, too, are authentic. I share few of their beliefs -- except that -- I, too, am authentic. Agnostic, at times -- Atheist, but authentic. Therefore we had no problem communicating across the superficial barriers of race, religion, or politics. There is surely enough shared human experience to celebrate. Today -- as I did at Ethel's funeral -- I felt envious of the certainty I saw all around me. To be surrounded by the kind of faith that provides indisputable answers to the great questions of life leaves me in awe. I felt it again today as I joined the women of Valley Bible Church in singing hymns of praise and giving thanks. And I felt a deep kinship and an "at homeness" that has stayed with me throughout the rest of the day.

It was a beautiful afternoon.

To hell with the vacuuming!

I'm in the midst of a major brainstorm here, and the imagination shall not be denied.

What if it were possible to secure the International hotel by getting the city to purchase it for safekeeping while we wade through these intriguing possibilities? This would allow Ethel's son to inherit the proceeds of the sale (the building surely has little value in today's market) in order to get on with his life. His needs must not get lost in any of this. There may be some way to get the Redevelopment Agency to turn its attention away from that long-neglected part of the community for a while longer ... maybe ... and restrain its tendency to bulldoze the site for the purpose of another scattered site project.

Then, supposing, if that were accomplished through the benevolence of the city -- we would be able to design a program that would bring together (for the purposes of educating the community and its young people to this important history) preservationists, union craftspeople, and the youth of the city to study and restore the building to take its rightful place in the colorful history of the Bay Area? The International Hotel could become the training laboratory for teaching all of the skills needed for careers in historic preservation where youth could be trained in electrical wiring, carpentry, masonry -- all of the skills associated with construction denied their parents and grandparents at the time when those two great union organizers and civil rights leaders made their life-changing contributions. What a way for the labor unions to become accountable for past sins, find atonement, and claim redemption. Alright, that's strong language -- a bit over the top -- but not too far from the reality as lived at that site at that time. The effects of their denial of equal opportunity for members of the black community are surely still visible in this city and others like it across the country.

Not to be discounted is that fact that -- like so many of the make-work projects designed by well-intentioned social agencies and nonprofits for young African Americans -- this work could hold deep meaning to those who participate, adding dignity and self-esteem. A partnership with the Black Studies Department of the community colleges would be an exciting possibility.

There must be grants available -- perhaps from the unions -- that would underwrite such an undertaking. Do you suppose?

Perhaps this building, then, could house Richmond's first version of an African American history museum.

Crazy? Maybe, but I'll bet Ethel Dotson would say a grand "Amen!" to such dreams.

And now I really do need to make that trip to the dumpster and get another load in the washer ... . Such wool-gathering is time-consuming -- but I still have the entire holiday weekend in which to find a better use for time away from my desk. My non-ranger time may be slowly shrinking -- but the complexity of Betty Soskin still demands time and space -- and that's probably as it should be.

Photo: Ethel at a happier time.

Documented connections found between Randolph and Dellums ...

There is no question. Just located an interview online, "Conversations with Ron Dellums" which has this paragraph:

"...C.L. Dellums, as you know, joined with A. Philip Randolph. These were guys that came out of the twenties, these were the old left-wing guys in the twenties. The came together (Ed. at the International Hotel?) and organized the first African American trade union in the history of America, the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. These were guys who placed a great premium on the spoken word as a way of organizing, to be impressive when they challenged people. You know, people thought A. Philip Randolph and C.L. Dellums and these guys were Harvard graduates, because they developed an affect that challenged the system to deal with them intellectually, at an eyeball-to-eyeball level."

Since Dellums was at that time leading the Northern California NAACP, that work of organizing must have happened here in the Bay Area. Where would they have met but in Richmond at a site that housed the very workers they were attempting to organize?

It has been a fruitful day, thus far. However, there's still the vacuuming to do and the mountain of trash (oh how the junk mail doth accumulate when you're not looking!) to tote out to the dumpster, but I'll feel much better at Ethel's funeral services on Tuesday knowing that the work is proceeding and that hope is not lost.

Still need help, though, everybody ... .

Photo: Taken at the unveiling of the statue of C.L. Dellums that stands at the recently restored 16th Street Southern Pacific station in Oakland, California.

The ultimate irony ... .

I'm not at all sure that Ethel Dotson's determination to save her precious historic landmark won't have been in vain. How sad! We discovered midweek that she died as one of the millions of the uninsured, and that there was a desperate need to quickly raise the funds to take care of her funeral expenses. And, yes, her friends and admirers came through, and her services are being held next week, as planned. A cemetery plot was donated anonymously, and her church congregation, her Neighborhood Council, and many friends, gave as generously as they could. You must remember that this is a very low income community -- but it takes care of its own.

This is not to say that the little landmark hotel won't need to be sold at some point to satisfy her creditors or to take care of her only son who surely can't be expected to hold it for posterity when his needs are immediate.

In the times (at home) that I give to blogging I need now to spend researching the connections between the Northern California chapter of the NAACP during the war years when it was headed by C.L. Dellums (yes, that would be the uncle of Oakland mayor, Ron Dellums) and his connections with A.Philip Randolph, creator of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. I've made an appointment to visit with the mayor next week to explore this. There must be some way to establish the historic value of Ethel's building so that its worth to black history will bring the help we'll need to get it purchased toward the goal of restoration. The Pullman Company figured powerfully in that era and (surely) in the life of the International Hotel. That history will be important now to the justification for national landmarking and eventual restoration. The International Hotel must first be saved.

In searching the web I found this from California Newsreel:

"...In response to the race riots of 1919, Randolph and Chandler Owen formed the National Association for the Promotion of Labor Unionism Among Negroes. Soon a group of Pullman car workers asked Randolph to help them organize the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. The film revisits the group's bitter 12-year battle with the notorious Pullman Company, which tried repeatedly to destroy the union using spies and firings. The 1934 Wagner Act finally created a level-playing field, enabling the Brotherhood to win an organized contract in 1937, the first ever between a company and a Black union."

and:

"...When WWII began, the federal government was still segregated and African Americans
excluded from all but menial defense industry jobs. Randolph leapt onto the national stage when he called for a march on Washington in protest. (According to CORE founder, James Farmer, "Roosevelt could not take the chance that 25,000 people would be protesting in Washington when he was calling the U.S. the arsenal of democracy." Roosevelt signed Executive Order 8002 banning such discrimination and the march was called off."

plus:

"...Later, as the Cold War heated up, President Truman announced the first peace-time draft. But he left the armed forces segregated. Randolph called on Black men to resist the draft until Truman relented, presaging the protests against the Vietnam War. Truman was furious, but in 1948 he issued an executive order integrating the military."

The piece ends with:

"...In 1963, Randolph called again for a march on Washington. He was the only civil rights leader who could unite other leaders in the movement. 250,000 came in response. When he introduced Dr. King, "symbolically, the torch was passed from one generation of fighters to another."

Would it not be incredible if this tiny (seemingly) insignificant International Hotel can be proven to have played a prominent role in the telling of the story of railroading as a change agent in African American life; could elevate this important labor history; and could become a critical factor in the telling of the story of this remarkable leader, Asa Philip Randolph?

Anybody out there want to help me make these connections? I believe much of what we'll need can be found online. We'll need to tie him to the War years and to a period spent in Northern California. His association with C.L. Dellums might prove fruitful in our search. The possibilities are tantalizing ... .

For Ethel Dotson ... .

For us all.

Requiem for a most courageous hero ... .


Let me tell you about this vital life force called Ethel Dotson:

She came to my attention only in recent years -- pressing environmental issues at city council meetings; speaking to the injustices and the constant dangers of ignoring the brownfields under our feet; toxic lands left over from war-related industries created during World War II. She was the bane of corporate interests -- the chemical laboratories and petroleum refineries that dominate life in this community. She challenged them all fearlessly on our behalf. Ethel watched as those poisonous lands were restored to use by ambitious real estate developers with short memories -- re-defining what brownfields means, and creating housing where her life experience would surely prohibit. Ethel and her siblings were born to WWII war worker parents in Seaport -- one of the temporary housing projects built on the lands of former chemical plant; a site that -- in the years since -- has produced a cell of cancer victims far above the national norm. She was relentless in her warnings.

Foremost of Ethel's concerns, however, was her almost obsessive dedication to the restoration of the tiny International Hotel that housed black railroad men on their layovers prior to and during the decades preceding WWII. She continually called out for whatever action might be necessary to save this important landmark. My ranger partner, Lucy, and I visited her there one day and got a tour of the 20 tiny upstairs single-occupancy rooms and the cluttered large reception room on the ground floor that reflected her personal taste for the flamboyant. She proudly showed us her collection of newspaper articles and vintage photographs that spelled out the history of her struggle to protect the building for posterity -- for the telling of this important Black migration story that preceded that of World War II. The stories of black waiters, cooks, and Pullman porters who discovered the West Coast and the Bay Area (as did the men of my own family) at the far western end of their railroad runs on the Acheson, Topeka & Santa Fe and Southern and Western Pacific rail lines -- decades before World War II.

Though still under a system of informal racial segregation, the Bay Area provided a sanctuary for black families where these men might bring their wives and children out of a hostile south. Ethel purchased the little crumbling building some years ago, knowing that it would some day be important to the telling of those stories. She knew that one day Richmond would be an important destination in Black Tourism. She was preparing for that. The development of Rosie the Riveter World War II/ Home Front National Park might well lend importance to those stories, and she gave her life to saving this critical element for the preserving of that history. But it is important to note that her work on saving the structure predates the existence of the park by some years.

The tiny hotel lay just across the street from the vast Pullman Yards where those famous sleeping cars would pull in for cleaning and restocking before being coupled to trains that would take travelers back across country. The Pullman company maintained -- only a block away at the corner of South Street and Carlson Boulevard -- a standard full-service hotel for whites, only, (conductors, brakeman, engineers, etc.), but did not accommodate black workers. That "white" hotel was torn down years ago as the neighborhood changed. The huge Pullman yards currently house a number of warehouse-type discount businesses. The train tracks leading into the huge buildings have long since been filled in or paved over for parking. Ethel's little hotel has little to identify it, except for her persistent reminder of its importance to the telling of the African American story. It was probably built sometime in the 1920s or before. She had succeeded over the years, in getting the City to grant it historic landmark status. Federal recognition is yet to be achieved. She'd gotten herself named to the Commission on Historic Preservation in the hope of advancing that goal over time.

Because of her instinctive sense of its future importance, she lived in it, alone, without utilities (no gas service) and therefore no heat for years. I'm sure that she saw the need to protect it by taking up residence against the day that the wrecking ball would descend upon a building that would be marked for abatement as abandoned property at some point. She never could hope to be able to afford, financially, what would be needed to fully restore it. Meanwhile, she was determined to hold it by sheer moral force until the cavalry arrived to save the fort!

Lucy and I (with the full support of our superintendent) were able to include Ethel as one of our informal "docents" on a later bus tour, and to add the International Hotel to our interpretive agenda as one of Richmond's historic points of interest. She was so proud! At some point there may well be ways to create culturally-specific tours that will allow us to tell the multiple stories this developing park has to tell. At that time, Ethel's little hotel will be as important to African American history as the Maritime Child Development Center is as the progenitor for Head Start programs in the field of education, or, as the Kaiser Field Hospital marks the birth of the HMOs.

A member of city staff came to my cubicle one day recently to tell me that Ethel was at Alta Bates hospital -- that her cancer had progressed beyond hope of recovery. That she was expected to die within the next two weeks. They didn't know our Ethel. That was at least two months ago. On that very day I drove in to visit -- in full uniform, hat, badges, and all. This visit was meant to give at least a hint of how important she was not only to me as a friend, but officially, as a sister non-traditional historian, and that she and her quest for recognition of that little hotel would be fulfilled somehow. That there were many who had heard her plea over the years and that the issue was vital to us all. I counted upon not having to say the words that would make a promise that I had no power to keep in any real sense. She knew that and made no demands. Instead she gave me contact numbers for her son, told me that she had given him her Power of Attorney, and that I should get in touch with him upon her death. She never actually uttered the word, "death," but only "after ... ".

I need to tell you that I'd never seen her looking so radiant. Her hair was not massed atop her head as usual (creating its own unique turban), but snaked its way across her pillow in unbelievably intricately-woven thick wooley braids that would have reached her waist had she been standing erect. Her smooth cinnamon-brown skin was free of cosmetics -- with not a scintilla of her bright red rouge. No lipstick. No dangling earrings nor rings-on-every-finger. No floor-length colorful ethnic gown or multiple bracelets. Just Ethel. Lovely against the pillows and so pleased to see me. She was comfortable and glowing from somewhere inside. This was an Ethel I'd never met. She spoke of having been "...close to death only the day before and then brought back." She believed she'd experienced a miracle. She told me that she was in no pain and that she was expecting to be going home to her mother's Parchester Village house that very afternoon. Ethel was at peace. It made me recall the words of a wise friend at the time of my mother's passing. "No life is complete without a death." I believe that Ethel knew, and gracefully accepted the inescapable truth that life is finite. She had used her time on the planet well, and I believe was keenly aware of that -- deep in her soul. Seen as a Cassandra by many, I truly believe that her persistent warnings with regard to environmental injustice were heard and that some will quietly carry on her work as collectives of the concerned over the years.

I leaned over and kissed her cheek and took leave after our brief visit. This would be the last time I'd see her.

...now we'll need to get to work on restoration of the International Hotel -- as we celebrate the life of one of Richmond's heroes. The late Northern California NAACP president and union organizer, C.L. Dellums; the legendary creator of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, A.Phillip Randolph; and yes, former Pullman porter and later Justice of the US Supreme Court, Thurgood Marshall, were there to welcome her home -- a fantasy that came to mind as I dropped off to sleep last night ... .

Arrangements pending.

Betty

Who turned off the stars?

As always, the thoughts continued into the night. I'm convinced that the reason that elders sleep less is due to a subconscious awareness that time is winding down -- and that -- regardless of our physical well-being -- sleep is a total waste of time. There are so many opportunities to travel back over time and reconsider what we settled for as Truth, and that a second look may be important in these changing times.

The lively questions in yesterday's classroom wakened the answers (just before sleep) that I was unable to find while sitting before those wonderful children.

"How is the world different for you than it was when you were our age?"

My answer was superficial -- at the level of cell phones, ballpoint pens, and jet travel. It was too large a question to deal with in that little classroom. But the wheels began to turn just before sleep last night. And -- how I wish for the time to tell them where their innocent questions took me in the quiet of the night... .

When I was nine there were no bridges across San Francisco Bay. We took ferries to San Francisco, so it seemed so much further away and much more of an adventure. There were open creeks that meandered through the city, occasionally opening up into small ponds draped in willows that held springtime tadpoles to be taken home in jars of creek water -- pollywogs to watch grow legs and slowly draw tails into tiny bodies (miraculous!) as they grew into tiny frogs. There were open fields that would later hold more houses than were comfortable for any community -- which would later begin to rise into apartments and condos to hold more and more new Californians. Those open fields would host summer baseball games with homemade bases and fathers or uncles with the time to umpire and settle disputes about whether one was "out" or "safe." And -- because safe held a different meaning then -- we all played "One Foot Across the Gutter" and "Prisoner's Base" under the street lights (and without adult supervision) -- until bedtime and beyond. And -- there were small Mom & Pop grocery stores within walking distance of anyone's homes -- with owners who knew your parents and sometimes helped to stretch the budget with a loaf of day-old bread as a gift. There were ice-men in rubber aprons who came in trucks carrying blocks of ice for the kitchen icebox -- icy blocks slung over their back with menacing-looking tongs; and milkmen with glass bottles that would often be set just inside the never-locked back door out of the sun, if no one was at home to receive them. There was trust.

Those open city lots also brought us wild anise and milkweed upon which cocoons of the Monarch and lovely white Cabbage butterflies were attached -- and that one could very carefully break off the small branch to which it was attached -- to be brought home to watch in awe for the weeks it took for the miraculous mature beautiful creatures to suddenly appear to be released into the rose bushes to begin the fully-developed adult lives of all such creatures. What a powerful metaphor -- one I remember from about that age when a wise and sensitive young teacher made the connections for me. It was in this lesson that I learned the necessity of struggle -- metamorphosis may have been the earliest huge word that I truly understood. It may be the place where language became important. It was almost a private word since I doubted that my parents owned it (and even then I knew that one had to use a word in order to truly own it). It was all mine (and Mrs. Rhineger's), of course.

My preoccupation with words would set me apart from both my peers and my parents over time. I loved words with a passion, and often used them inappropriately -- though there were few at home who cared about words enough to make the corrections, but who managed to make me feel self-conscious and as if rudely "putting on airs". (I suppose today such a child might be accused of "acting white") And even at the tender age of 9 I knew that really long words (like disestablishmentarianism) were really trick words and not really interesting at all. But metamorphosis was real and true and described a dramatic life process that fascinated me. That one I continued to own well into my teens, when I discovered that it belonged to more thinkers than Mrs. Rhineger and me. Maybe this is where I began to learn about intellectualism and to respect knowledge for its own sake (...and Bartlett's Quotations, and Roget's Thesaurus, and the World Book Encyclopedia -- and Edna St. Vincent Millay!).

But the aspect of my life as a 9 year-old that I most miss would have to be stars. I don't know when we turned off the skies of my childhood, but -- over years and years -- they disappeared. I remember the magic of lying on my back in the grass and watching the night sky for hours. I could look deep into space and see billions and billions of tiny lights and that I was aware, even at nine, that children all over the world were sharing this magnificent sky with me. That it mattered not whether they were looking up from a yurt, a tent, a hogan, an igloo, a fire escape, a thatched hut, from a sled, or the back of a truck or wagon, or from the deck of a ship at sea, out of an attic window or from a city rooftop, or from the window of a train, we were sharing the beautiful night sky. It was the earliest miracle that I can remember, and the first thoughts of the internationalism that would guide my life and my politics since that time. One simply cannot make war with grownup children with whom you've shared the miracle of the skies. I knew that we spoke of it in different languages, but -- if we could just stand together looking up -- it wouldn't matter. We would all understand in the jumble of sounds or -- even in the silence -- what a wonder this was. This I knew. The night sky was probably my very first awareness of "Truth," truth that has remained constant over a lifetime.

Perhaps one light switch at a time, year after year, decade after decade, we turned off the miracle. I'm not sure when it happened. But somehow the night sky began to close in -- light pollution eventually blocked out almost every star leaving only the brightest of the planets, the sun and the moon, and the depth of the night vanished, and with it something vital was lost.

The night sky was a universally-shared experience. It is no longer. It only exists in those places where the city lights have not yet invaded the atmosphere. The children in Ms. Merz's fifth grade classroom must be taken by car to a Planetarium to look at the night sky through a telescope in order to witness this -- the oldest of the natural wonders.

I will have some of the wonder restored in February when I'm enrolled for two weeks at the Grand Canyon's NPS Training Site. I cannot believe that the star thieves have stolen away the night skies from that holy place. On some nights, there are still echoes of Van Gogh's Starry Night in Mendocino when the incoming fog creates patches where single stars are isolated and therefore appear slightly fuzzy, distorted, and even more brilliant as viewed through the bedroom skylight , --- but even in that Eden the night skies have been dimmed by the pollution of city and coastal lights -- and, it all happened so-oo-o gradually that I'm not sure that too many have noticed; or that most of those who do still remember are now coming to the end of life... .

I will think of Tamaya's classmates while in that wondrous Grand Canyon National Park, and know that -- if ever the question arises again -- I'll know the answer... .

It is the miracle of the night sky -- the stars and the planets -- that I miss above all else -- and that defines the difference between the worlds of 9 year-old Betty Charbonnet and of Ms. Alison Merz's fifth graders.

Sincerely,

Tamaya's Grandmother the Ranger

What a lovely afternoon ... spent in a most unlikely place ... .

Today I was invited for a command performance as the subject of "Show and Tell" at my bright and charming 9 year-old granddaughter, Tamaya's, fifth grade classroom. The audience was made up of two combined fifth grade classes, 48 students in all. I'm not at all sure where the rumor got started that children were universally out of control and that educators were unhappy campers. Not so. Surely not at Berkeley Arts Magnet School in the heart of North Berkeley. In that holy place there were eager learners, rabid payers-to-attention, and about the most bright-eyed and busy-tailed children one would ever want to meet.

I'd received a telepone call about a week ago asking if Tamaya's grandma would like to meet with the fifth graders for a presentation on whatever I'd like to talk about. Again, it was the uniform here that is the magnet. The ranger's dimpled felt stetson gets' em every time. I was surprised by a passerby as I was parking my car in front of the school. This smiling woman stopped to admire my uniform -- but clearly had no idea just who I was or what on earth I was doing on Virginia Street in Berkeley. Obviously I was out of context here. I admitted to being a genuine park ranger, and she grinned broadly with the words, "...and you're going to meet with the kids? How wonderful! You're about love and caring for the planet!" I realized then how rare is the sight of the National Park Service ranger here in this sophisticated urban city, and of how important it is that school children be introduced to one of the more exciting and humanizing aspects of national life.

Having arrived about 15 minutes early (as planned), provided a chance to visit for a few minutes with Tamaya; to scan the binder that holds her year's work to date; to see a lengthy essay that she is preparing for posting out among the exhibits in the long corridor on the first floor. It's a journal of her trip last spring to the Philippine Islands with her family. It was a reunion that would bring my two little granddaughters into the exotic world of their mother's large family. She is obviously still absorbing that 3-week adventure. I have been gifted with hours on end of scenes taken with their video camera -- from San Francisco International to Manila and the islands of their maternal homeland. I wonder at times, at how differently the world must look to this globe-trotting generation. In my lifetime, it was exciting to simply travel from one coast to the other, and I didn't do that until I was fifty. In my parent's generation, that must have seemed daring indeed. Their lives had been confined to three states, Louisiana, Michigan, and California.

At no time during today's visit was there ever a moment when the young teacher, Ms. Alison Merz, did not have total (gentle) control over her class. It was also true that tucked in among her lessons at the university had been the key to that process, "...we learn to respect by being respected." At no time was there the slightest hint that her students were either coerced or acting out of fear. They wanted to be here with her, and the courtesy shown to me was extended from her relationship with them.

The questions were polite but real. They wanted to know - not just about my ranger life, but about me. "What was the world like when you were our age?" "What do you like least about your work?" "Were there ever any bad times?" "Do you still know any of the people that you knew way back then?" Real questions requiring real answers.

Upon questioning I learned that many of those children had visited Yosemite and that some had seen Yellowstone. I wondered if the questions asked in Richmond as opposed to Berkeley might have presented quite a different picture. I must visit a comparable group in West County soon. This, too, is an important outreach activity that cries for attention.

We talked about what a park is and why we set land apart. "Because people need them to go to when they're stressed." (This from a 9 year-old.) We talked about why civic, state, and national parks, and I hope I was clear about the answers. I asked many questions, too. There were many raised hands. I sensed their openness and willingness to participate. There was genuine interest in the subject.

While waiting for the class to begin -- a young boy brought a black box 3-dimensional display for me to inspect -- he'd created it to memorialize his deceased father. It contained a place for a candle and a photo of himself at about 3 sitting in his father's lap. It was a touching moment. He'd removed it from a window-sill exhibit the class had produced for the Day of the Dead celebration. "Ms. Merz won't like that I moved it," he told me as he returned it to its place with the others. She'd left the room for a minute to check on the other class that would arrive soon.

It was a delightful and moving hour with tomorrow's grownups. It felt like being in a room with not-quite-mature young adults who were in these very moments growing into the leaders they will surely be in time.

Tonight I'm feeling such a strong sense of faith in tomorrow.

We must hold the world together until they can take it over, right? I do wish we'd done a better job on our watch ... .

...and let's hear it for these valiant young teachers who are molding the future even as we speak!

Another symptom of the aging process?

I'm experiencing an interesting phenomenon that may not have been noticeable in former years. I appear to be entering a place (a mind space) where former life lessons are colliding with current ones, with the result that newer experiences are being crowded out of consciousness in many cases, leaving me with a head wallpapered with question marks! As crazy and convoluted as that sounds, it appears to be quite true.

It's as if I'm being forced to accept new values that contradict old ones -- yet a part of me refuses to give up the old. I'm tending to hold all of the conflicting truths in equal status -- and it all appears to be at least tolerable. It means that I'm sure of less and less as time passes -- with the assumption that this (inconsistency) is the nature of life, and that when I begin to draw conclusions based upon these fragments of truth, it will be the end.

Example: My experience with the Daughters of the American Revolution two weeks ago. I brought so much angst into the experience with me -- so much of which was associated with a past that I did not live -- a past that was the legacy of long dead generations. (And could they not echo these very words?) That legacy didn't hold up in the presence of today's DAR reality--at least not in that meeting room in San Francisco. But one might wonder -- if blame is never assigned or acknowledged -- what happens to accountability? What happens to atonement? To reconciliation? To redemption?

Yet, the noose symbolism is a direct descendant of that old "Constitution Hall - Marian Anderson" history, and is undeniably relevant to what we're seeing today. Those echoes of racial bigotry have found their way into the legislation that governs our lives -- and continues to color our times and pollute our national domestic and foreign policies. Racism remains an unresolved national dilemma. The cancer is by now so well-buried in our national psyche that the everyday effects are hardly recognizable anymore, except in the extreme. The cancer may have by now become who we are in the world. What a frightening thought!

In the middle of the experience at the War Memorial I was totally unable to bring those collective memories forth -- so was only able to see the immediate scene before me -- and that scene was benign; dear well-dressed ladies in a time warp. I was as much an anomaly in their lives as they were in mine. Probably not one of us in that room would hold the experience in mind for long but would move on as if it never occurred. They would remain as an interesting surprisingly pleasant experience for me, and I -- on the other hand -- would perhaps simply become this one-of-a-kind African-American woman in a park ranger uniform who appeared out of the blue -- and is surely "not a bit like those others ... ." And we will have all survived the Saturday afternoon experience at the San Francisco War Memorial without having to alter our values or our notions about one another or the nature of our shared national Life one iota.

Is there something that is necessarily protective that enables us to re-arrange "mind matter" in ways that saves us from having to question our sanity at such times? Could I have handled the memories of those searing images of the Ethel Waters performance had it been necessary to hold those competing realities in mind simultaneously? I suspect there is. As surely as I was able to compartmentalize those two entries only inches apart here on this screen. It is as if they rose from two different lives -- from two different minds -- and several generations apart. But both lives are contained under one skull -- sharing a brain -- living my life.

But are they?

I thought again today about " e=mc squared", and of these curious bursts of intellectual energy that appear without warning from time to time -- about the relevance of the time continuum ... and about over-lapping realities .

If this all seems inconclusive -- it is. This is another Saturday -- two weeks hence -- and I'm still chewing on the dramatic contrasts life continues to present.

...there's something telling about the way my mind has separated these experiences. In a way they really are not related, except in my head.

Sunday morning: Last night I was rudely awakened by a flash of insight. The third paragraph above does a fine job of describing (in microcosm) just what may have happened to that long-awaited apology for slavery -- and reparations. You have to read it as a Reader's Digest condensed version, of course. Or maybe a Fox News or Hard Ball sound bite, but the elements are all there, I think. This may describe our national amnesia on the subject of race relations. But, of course, that's silly. Or is it? Dreams and middle-of-the-night insights have their way of collapsing wisdom into ridiculously simplistic bits and pieces -- but sometimes ... .

Yet can this huge rubber-band ball of a mind of mine be stilled -- ever -- or will my conflicting truths continue to build until I'm no longer sure of anything at all?

About those nooses ... and ... I would have been only about twelve when she was soaring on Broadway ...Her name was Ethel Waters, one of the earliest of black Broadway stars -- the very first to receive equal billing with whites. Later I would remember her co-starring in Member of a Wedding with Julie Harris and singing "Happiness is just a thing called Joe" in the old movie, Cabin in the Sky. But one of the memories that burned its way into my brain was from stills I once saw of the Broadway revue, As Thousands Cheer. In it Ms. Waters was featured in a number written especially for her by the celebrated Irving Berlin. It was highly controversial, as it would surely be today. It is this image that rises to the surface when people speak of nooses as pranks, let me describe it for you:

There she would stand alone in the spotlight dressed in a traditional plaid gingham dress covered by a long apron -- with hair tightly wrapped in a print kerchief. The stage was completely dark -- except for the giant silhouette played against the back curtain -- the shadow of a man's limp and contorted dead body hanging by the neck from a noose attached to an extended tree branch:


Against this chilling backdrop she would quietly sing:

Supper time I should set the table cause
it's supper time
Somehow I'm not able
cause this man o' mine
ain't comin' home no more

Supper time, kid's 'll soon be yellin' for their supper time
How'll I keep from tell'in 'em
this man o' mine
ain't comin' home no more.

How'll I keep explaining when they ask me where he's gone?
How'll I keep from cryin' when I bring their supper on?
How can I remind them to pray for their humble board?
How'll I be thankful when they start to thank the Lord, O Lord!

It's supper time I should set the table cause it's supper time
Somehow I'm not able cause this man o' mine
Ain't comin' home no more.

The year was 1933. The number of lynchings in the decades prior to 1930 was approximately 50 blacks annually. In 1933 Irving Berlin dared to risk reputation and economic well-being to bring this statement to the Broadway stage. In much the same way Yip Harburg would risk writing Strange Fruit for Billie Holiday to perform to stunned nightclub audiences. Both would pay heavily in years to come. Harburg would become one of the defiled Hollywood black-listed writers.

I find myself wondering whether it is really ever possible to separate out black history from our national history when so much or our fate has been facilitated by others; in this case two Jews with the determination to defend the lives of others at the expense of their own well-being.

This all came to mind upon reading today's article in the New York Times about nooses turning up across the country in a variety of settings and institutions ... .

"... Nooses have been looped over a tree at the University of Maryland, knotted to
the end of stage-rigging ropes at a suburban Memphis theater, slung on the doorknob of a black professor's office at Columbia University in New York, hung in a locker room at a Long Island police station, stuffed in the duffel bag of a black Coast Guard cadet aboard  a historic ship, and draped around the necks of black dolls in the suburbs.  The hangman's rope has become so prolific, some say, it could replace the Nazi swastika and the Ku Klux Klan's fiery cross as the nation's reigning symbol of hate ..." .

Frightening.

In case we've forgotten -- as recently as June 14, 2005, 20 members of the U.S. Senate (19 Republicans and 1 Democrat) refused to sign anti-lynching legislation. They refused to do a roll-call in order to avoid being on the public record.

Never really commented on the Ken Burns series, did I?

Haven't known just what to say about it after the huge build-up. Disappointed? I suppose so. It felt excessive and self-indulgent to me -- but then what do I know, right? A good editor could have sharpened it up by cutting drastically. The brutality was so repetitive that I found myself turning away for long periods and then tuning back in hope that it would have eased up. Never thought I'd see the day when a few commercials would have helped by providing much-needed breaks from the sheer misery of what was being shown on the small screen. However, that, after all is the nature of war. What did I expect?

Watching the replay of WWII against the background of current news from the everyday horrors of the Mid East made it even harder to deal with. But then, maybe that was the intent of the epic series. I'm not sure. I hated the fact that we've learned so little from that horrific experience not yet a lifetime away; that we're still willing to gouge out eyes as souvenirs of war and to burn small children in the interest of the protection of oil reserves and Empire. That primal cruelty is still so close to the surface of humanity. That -- in our lifetimes -- we would be splitting hairs over what constitutes torture. And -- I hated the idea (stronger with each day) that We the People are fast-becoming "the Good Germans."

I'm under no illusion that -- as an African American -- I'm exempt from such a charge. To the extent that I, too, benefit from policies that rape the planet and destroy humanity, the guilt is shared by us all. Though I feel as if we've been duped into believing that -- along with white privilege would have come white power and white wisdom. How naive a notion that should have been outgrown years ago! That, combined with current awareness that power, wisdom, and privilege can be abused by any human beings, regardless of skin color. One needs only to look at Central and West Africa and the Arab Emirates for evidence of privilege gone wild.

I was wrong about the African American story not being told. It was. However, that only served to increase the silent rage I've carried around for a lifetime by being a reminder of things I'd pushed back for decades; things I knew in the deep recesses of my mind, but that were suppressed for the most part. The extent to which I felt renewed humiliation is probably a measure of how far we may or may not have come in what is now socially acceptable behavior. That I can express the anger with hope of being heard is new. My parents simply acquiesced; made do. They expected far less than I do in the everyday living of life. Along with those new freedoms, though, comes the acceptance of shared guilt and responsibility for what my nation does in the world, and the sense that those around me are as helpless as I to bring change. That, too, is new.

The tools with which to bring change seem so fragile, don't they? "Get out and vote!" "Lobby your congresspersons!" "Conserve energy!" and the ever-constant, "Send us a check!" These all seem so useless in turning around the Ship of State. I suppose I'm no longer envious of youth, and in a strange way am somewhat grateful for having lived these last 8 decades (and more) and that time is winding down now. The next 8 are frightening to anticipate. Those will be the years that our children and grandchildren must survive.

Oh how I wish for a way to stop the clock -- just so we can gain the time to better match our future to our ideals! But then maybe the real problem involves fine-tuning our ideals so that they better conform to those who conceived the Constitution and Bill of Rights ... though flawed -- they at least created the blueprint that should have sustained us as a nation. The erosion of principle under today's policies is staggering!

I'm no longer certain that my continuing anger at Ken Burns isn't a simple case of wanting to kill the messenger.

But I have to deposit it somewhere or it will eat me alive!

It only took a moment ... and then decades of misguided impressions dropped away... .

Standing as tall as I could stretch my five-foot-three-inch frame, gave me just about enough heft to get myself through the lobby and into the elevator of the War Memorial. I'd removed my fedora just as I entered -- but once in the elevator -- placed it back on my head for just a bit of extra courage. It worked.

Once on the second floor I walked the long hallway to another that led to a door standing ajar and the sound of genteel voices that grew louder as I approached. Their meeting was in progress and I slid as quietly as I could into a seat just inside the door to await my time at the lectern.

It was soon evident that there was little to fear in this room. Whatever was to come could be handled. These were clearly lovely mostly Southern(?) ladies tending to business. And the business was reverence for God, country, and home -- in that order. Despite the initial feeling of being a jarring element in this orderly setting, I found myself relaxing into the mood of the room.

When a flyer was passed around advertising the upcoming Kentucky Social which promised mint juleps and Derby Pie I felt the last of the up-tightness melt away and in its place came a silent giggle of curiosity and warmth for this sisterhood that seemed both at home and absolutely alien in San Francisco. Funny. It was only "alien" in my everyday world; surely not here in this most cosmopolitan of world cities with something for everybody. Surely this Southern -- all White -- sisterhood was just another collective under the diversity tent. Just a few blocks over in the Fillmore there might well be an all-Japanese tea ceremony going on; and a few blocks beyond that -- an all-Black group preparing for a Gospel Concert over barbecue, mustard greens, and macaroni-and-cheese while planning next year's Juneteenth celebration! It occurred to me that the operative word here should be authenticity; the art of being precisely who you are. This is the common denominator for all such cultural groupings.

I could do this. Martha was quite right. It only took a slight shift in perspective.

When the business of the meeting ended and a touching candle ceremony held -- it was my turn.

Not sure just how I opened my remarks, except to introduce myself, my Great-Grandmother Leontine Breaux Allen, and my mother, with a statement that I'd arrived with much uncertainty about their expectations and just how I might fill them. "Did you understand that I was an African American?" No one ever really answered the question ... but it ceased to matter.

After a brief bio of sorts and some personal history of my WWII past, I looked around and spoke directly; "...you know ... such conversations across these barriers were not possible 20 -- maybe only 10 years ago. We must have them now -- informed by all that has happened in human relations since the Martin Luther King era." It was true. With those simple words I'd placed us all beyond those damning social barriers -- placed us all on the same side -- and it felt right. Could it really be so simple after all?

I spoke for no more then ten minutes and we dissolved into chattering females, "...my what a beautiful hat!", and it was over. The room felt larger and the sounds softer somehow as we sipped tea and grazed the table loaded with homemade cakes and pies.


On the day after I received a lovely note from someone who'd been in the audience. It was enough to bring tears -- it was she who had visited my blog and discovered my references to Marian Anderson. She wrote about the event of long ago at Constitution Hall as her own history -- learned from her grandmothers. Were it not for a feeling that I would be intruding on her privacy I'd post it here, however -- she ended her beautiful note with these words:

“I really, really want a world in which the only time anyone's skin color matters is when they're picking out clothing and deciding what colors look best with it.”

Amen.

Photo: Ms. Dixie Lee Mahy, Chairperson of the meeting. And, yes, that is a small metal cross in the center of her forehead, a unique expression of her faith. Though I seem to have been the only person to notice. Photo by Kathy Samuels of the DAR.

It was a most unusual day -- for any place but San Francisco. There it was the most ordinary of days.

I'd spoken briefly on Thursday with Regent Henriette Gordon of the DAR in order to confirm my appearance as the speaker at their monthly meeting at the War Memorial on Saturday. Until that moment I was unsure of what would be expected of me. How would I reconcile my "Woman of Color-ness" with this particular assignment? Were they expecting a speaker from "Rosie the Riveter World War II/Home Front National Park"? Surely there was little in my telephone voice that would suggest that I might be a woman of color. Did the group have any idea -- and if so - what might that mean? A few questions into the conversation and that was determined. They were interested in "Rosie." I felt a shiver as I realized that I might still be a surprise.

I would not wear my simple black crepe suit with mandatory string of pearls and black suede pumps (pure Betty) as planned, and would instead go in full regalia as Betty the park ranger -- hatted, badged, and properly uniformed. There was some comfort in that. I recalled a colleague saying that she was (at heart) very shy and that she could face public demands with far more confidence when uniformed. I needed to do the same in this moment of uncertainty.

At around noon I drove to the El Cerrito BART station, parked conveniently, checked to be sure that I'd remembered to bring along brochures and friend, Jane Stillwater's, newly-published book, "Bring Your Own Flak Jacket!" to read en route, and boarded the crowded train for the trip across the bay. It was filled with families from the surrounding East Bay suburbs headed for Fleet Week activities in the City. Remembered then that the Blue Angels would be streaking through the skys in another hour or so and hoped that I'd catch a glimpse of them, too. It could hardly have been a more beautiful day with a more perfect blue sky as a canvas upon which to paint their death-defying aerial maneuvers.

After boarding at the Del Norte Station and working my way gradually back through the many bodies blocking the aisle, I managed to find a place to stand where I could hold on. Being accustomed in recent years to having young people rise to offer their seats to me (the elder), it was a surprise to find myself standing all the way to San Francisco's Embarcadero station. It was the uniform! In my full regalia I surely didn't give the impression that I needed the particular consideration commonly held in reserve for the old and the infirm. I'd given up my senior advantage and felt silently amused. I stood just a bit taller in my boots which I planted firmly -- feet some distance apart -- and precariously balanced my way under the bay and into the city for the next twenty minutes.

Once out into the sunlight at the Civic Center I, again, marveled at the site of those magnificent structures that make up the site of the political and cultural life of this great city; walked past the Bill Graham Auditorium and remembered this colorful entrepreneur who lent so much color and character to San Francisco of the Sixties and beyond. Felt properly dwarfed by the huge S.F. Public Library on my right just before the scene enlarged into the mall across from City Hall with its usual collection of citizens gathered on the front steps marking something of importance by their presence ... then I saw them. The Mall lawn on my far right was covered by maroon-robed monks with their supporters (also wearing colors) chanting in support of... then I remembered the plight of Burma (Myamar?) and felt a chill as the first of the practice runs of the Blues Angels split the sky with their thunder -- a grim reminder of the world at war -- yet again.

Walked hurriedly past the Mall toward McAllister and Van Ness where a young man waiting for a bus stopped me to ask if I had (no, not money) something he could read. He'd seen my clutch of brochures held tightly. Ranger-like, I stopped to hand him one with a warm feeling. We made eye contact and in that flash of an instant -- made human contact. It felt good. The stranger's bus approached and as it noisily lumbered past there emerged -- less than 100 feet beyond -- today's destination. I had to stop for the crossing signal which gave just long enough to get the full impact of the gold lettering above the stairs that spelled out, " Herbst Theater, Art Museum, then -- the War Memorial.

Upstairs in Room 212 -- I, Betty Reid Soskin, "Woman of Color," would soon meet with the San Francisco Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and I'd (as promised) left Marian Anderson at home... .

San Francisco never disappoints.

Today would hold no exception.

Been nursing a cold all week, and am now up against a commitment that is probably the reason for the virtual collapse into a sniveling matriarch ... .

Within the next few hours I'll shower and dress to take BART across the bridge to San Francisco where I'm scheduled to address the Daughters of the American Revolution at their monthly meeting. Superintendent Martha Lee has assured me that I can handle this. I hope I'm worthy of that trust. The event is being held at the War Memorial Building in the Civic Center. And if that isn't enough to curl my toe nails, I'm doing it alone. My partner, Lucy, is on a panel at the Mosconi Center at a conference of landscape architects.

I'm not at all sure what I will say, and will sure try to remember not to mention Marian Anderson ... .

But I'll try to report on this new adventure later this evening.

Oh my!

Author, Emily Yellin, of "My Mother's War" giving her address at Friday evening's Gala banquet hosted by the Rosie the Riveter Foundation.











Photos by Tom Butt, Richmond City Councilman.

Photo 1: Representative George Miller speaking at the "Launch" on Saturday afternoon.

Photo 2: Inside the Craneway at the beautiful Ford Building on Sunday. Rosie's came from faraway places to be celebrated at the 1st Annual Home Front Reunion. This magnificent historic structure will eventually house the Reception Center for the Park.

It's over! The great 1st Annual Homefront Festival was hugely successful -- and will take its place now as "Tradition!"

...and that's precisely the way it felt; like we were in on the birth of something immensely important. Every moment was filled with meaning and every person who stood witness seemed to reflect it.

After months of preparation; seeing things fall apart; dealing with missteps and challenges; starting over a million times; then learning to trust that somehow it would all work out; the sheer act of faith of every such endeavor. The National Park Service was everywhere, beautifully efficient, proud, excited, and ready to serve. It was our moment.

On Friday evening the invited guests (corporate types, community and business leaders, elected officials, etc.) gathered in the magnificant Albert Kahn-designed Ford Assembly Plant re-named "Ford Point") for an elegant Gala banquet hosted by the Rosie Trust. This is the Foundation formed to support the work of the park. I was a guest of historian, Tom Debley, of the Kaiser Permanente Corporation at a special KP table -- one of several. The house was sold-out and the ambiance like nothing I've ever felt in this city. Success and goodwill have arrived on the wings of the establishment of this long-awaited new national park, and that feeling was reflected in the faces of all those gathered.

The guests had come from as far away as Washington, D.C., and represented the National Parks Foundation, the Kaiser Permanente Corporation, the Coalition of Kaiser Permanente Unions, PG&E national leadership, local and regional banking industry reps, Chevron-Texaco Refineries, regional Chambers of Commerce, the Council of Industries, etc. These were the board members of major contributors who may hold the future of our park in their hands over these next years of our early development. This was an incredible start to partnerships that see our work as a vitally important contribution to the telling of the stories of this nation for posterity.

What an honor.

Sunday morning brought together from the far away places, at least 150 "Rosies," in a reunion that would last from eleven o'clock in the morning until three in the afternoon. They came in on two feet, in wheelchairs, with walkers, many supported by family members, and all beaming and eager for recognition -- finally!

I shared emcee duties with Kaiser historian, Steve Gilford, with whom I've been working for weeks in preparation for this new role. Steve and I and Artistic Director of the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts, Jordan Simmons, had created a program for the day that would feature young actors from the Center reading from oral histories; Steve doing historic pieces, vintage music, and reminiscences from those gathered. We might have done well to have skipped everything else and just turned the mike over to the women who'd come to be honored.

It was my job to move about the audience with a microphone as hands were raised to share memories evoked by Steve's factoids ("who was the original Rosie? What about rationing?, where were you on December 7th?" etc.). Mattered not what the subject was, as the mike was placed before them almost every woman started with, "...I worked in shipyard (or aircraft plant, or munitions factory, etc.) as a riveter (welder or bucker or dispatcher, or, etc.) and off she went! There was no need for prompting. They were there to tell their stories and little else mattered. Finally the nation was taking the time to listen. What a moment to be a part of! One woman started her statement with "... my husband recently died, and..." at which point she dissolved into tears -- my arms went around her, automatically. In that moment she granted permission to every other women in the room to be real and to use the moment in ways that held meaning for themselves.

They'd been primed by the Ken Burns' series that is being aired nationwide and further encouraged by this weekend's homage to their service when the country beckoned long ago.

The universal theme for the poignant and beautiful story of the afternoon was, "...why did our country wait so long? When will this Reception Center be completed? It was clear that each feared that she would not live to see it fully operating and felt frustrated. How sad! But that will be true for me, too. I can only be grateful for the chance I'm having to be in the middle of the work of moving that reality "with all deliberate speed."

We'll have to pray that this dream has a better chance of being realized more rapidly than that other dream -- the one projected by Brown vs. the Board of Education that appears to have been gradually derailed over time.

What a wondrous day it was for us all. What a wonderful future lies ahead; if we can only move fast enough now for those heroic women of the WWII Homefront to see it unfold -- with "Rosie" on the marquis.

Will try to recapture some of the highlights of the weekend -- with photos -- but right this minute I'm a little too close to it -- and find myself blinded by the muchness of it all.