My very own home-grown observation of the 60th Anniversary of the Desegregation of the Armed Forces in July of 1948 ...

Jason Allen is a 21 year-old Floridian and a member of our large Allen clan. We've never actually met except through the magic of the Internet. He stumbled upon our website and in so doing connected with his ggrandfather's descendants (his ggfather, Louis Allen, was the youngest brother to my maternal grandfather, George Allen, Jr.). Can you imagine his surprise and delight?

When read alongside the entry below which describes the WWII wartime experiences of Fred Reid and my husband, Mel, it is possible to track social progress since desegregation took place in the Armed Forces to a snapshot of today's young fighting men and women. This is a dynamic time line that we are now beginning to revisit and honor.

26 July, 2008

Cousin Betty,

Hey cousin, Betty!! How have you been doing? I hope your health is well. It's been a while since I last wrote, I know. I've just been tied up a lot (not literally) here in tech school. I'm still here in Gulfport, Mississippi. I'll be graduating in about 5 1/2 weeks -- on September 5th to be exact. That's when I will be a level 3 civil engineer! You gain higher levels by being in a particular field for a certain period of time. There's level 5, 7, and I think 9. Anyway, I enjoy doing what we do here. It's a little different because I'm on a Navy installation instead of an Air Force one. We work with both the Army and the Navy. So far we have done floor framing, wall and roof framing, exterior finishes, concrete work, stair construction. Right now we're doing some welding. We actually just finished our first welding project. First we drew layouts of an A/C duct system then we fabricated the sheet metal to assemble what we drew. After all that, we installed the mini duct system. I won't be stationed to Travis AFB like I wanted to. Instead I will be outside of Abilene, Texas, at Dress (sp?) AFB. I hope all is well with you and your side of the family. P.S.- I found out more info on the family history. I'll let you know what I have.

Jason.


Now here's a proud young man who has found his calling in serving his country. What a contrast with the stories of the soldiers of 60 years ago.

He's a really handsome young cousin and I'm anxious to meet him one day. We had been hoping that he'd be stationed on the West Coast at some point, but that is not to be. Meanwhile, we all wish him well and hold him in our hearts for a good life and a safe return.


Photo: The photo of a reproduction of the 1964 Ebony magazine cover featuring Josephine Baker. This is of the cover of his little 4"x6" card.

I seem to have worked it through ... the initial response was one of confusion -- but we've grown past that now ...

Once beyond the visceral response to the reading of the script of "All God's Chillun," and a long conversation with Cousin Doug (columnist for the Berkeley Daily Planet), I was off and running. Never one to turn my back on controversy without reason, the challenge of the material soon outweighed any discomfort I found with either Eugene O'Neill's writings or with the new acquaintances with whom I'll be working over the next few weeks. All it took was some applied logic to move into what will be a fascinating new chapter.

This play is important and it is timely. There must be sensitivity and care taken to "do the work" required to make it accessible to today's audiences, but that can be accomplished, we're certain. The project is in good hands with this director, and the material -- though challenging -- provides a backdrop for the kind of dialog that needs to occur in these changing times if we're to grow beyond present limitations; and there are many still.

In the wake of the controversial New Yorker "Obama" cover -- the most constructive critics suggested that the satire would have been obvious had the editors taken the time to bring their readers along by adding a small statement that brought them in on the joke; something that indicated that we were all on the same side. Without that caveat, those of us who were regular readers (while "getting" the joke) still felt fearful that others would see the work as supporting the very things that were being satirized. There was nothing to do after the fact other than to become defensive; as did the New Yorker staff.

Doug and I agreed that the addition of a unifying 8-10 minute prologue from the stage that provides context for the times (1924); that talked about the courage shown by bringing this play to an audience that had never before seen black actors on stage in roles that were normally played by white actors in black-face (think D.W. Griffith's "Birth of a Nation"); to an audience that would find any relationship between a black man and a white woman totally unacceptable; and to an audience in a nation where marriage between such couples was illegal in most states. There must be some device that allows us to view the play from a place of common ground. Without preparation, oft-repeated words like "nigger" would distract to the point where some members of the audience would be unable to receive the important messages that O'Neill intended to convey. I'm not at all sure that I wouldn't be among them. The emotional power of the word is a spoiler that I've not yet -- and may never -- move beyond.

Doug is a brilliant journalist and a sensitive writer on the subject of race. He's lived both on the west coast and in the deep south so brings a level of understanding to the subject that I may lack. He's agreed to create such a prologue for me to present as a draft to the committee for consideration. I trust his judgment and also theirs. I believe that we're all on the same side in wanting to make this work. We all share deep respect for both O'Neill and Robeson and a sincere wish to be worthy of their efforts enough to want to bring this important work from their turbulent past into our still troubled times. If we can add a Q&A to the end of each performance in order to allow us all to exhale before leaving -- we'll have accomplished what we've needed to.

Maybe my job here is to be the conduit through which we can face into the winds of change by my being open and clear with my feelings in order to encourage the same from those with whom I'll be working over the next few weeks. This may be the place from which we all grow just a little.

Now I need to think about how we can broaden the experience so that our audiences will reflect our changing times, demographically; a state in which the art world in far ahead of the general public.

We're still a work in progress ...

But we're trying, Mr. O'Neill.

The actor and the playwright ... two icons out of the context of their times ...

I learned some months ago that the Eugene O'Neill Foundation associated with the National Park Service historic site in Danville, California, was considering the staging of "All God's Chillun Got Wings," a play the brooding playwright wrote and produced in 1924. It will be the centerpiece of this year's Eugene O'Neill Fall Festival. The play featured legendary singer/actor Paul Robeson. At the time Robeson was a 26 year-old Pullman porter with advance degrees and dreams of greatness, plus a following in the art world as the result of his growing reputation as a dramatic baritone.

Robeson was one of five children born to a runaway slave father and a mother from a Quaker family that worked for the abolition of slavery in Princeton, New Jersey. His father graduated from Lincoln University; a major accomplishment for those times. Robeson, himself, graduated from Rutgers University on a 4-year scholarship where his athletic prowess on the gridiron was equaled by his law degree and later world acclaim on the concert stage.

The two artists came together in the creation and production of "All God's Chillun" which brought Robeson to the Broadway stage in one of the earliest of O'Neill's most controversial plays. Though O'Neill received mixed reviews for his script which brought hate mail and bomb threats, Robeson seems to have fared relatively well in the role of Jim Harris. "Chillun" would be the first of 3 plays O'Neill would cast him in; "Emperor Jones," and "The Hairy Ape" would follow despite negative public reaction. Robeson is reported as having been troubled by the role of Jim Harris, a submissive black husband to an abusive white wife -- and tried to influence the way the role was played. There are indications in reading news clippings of reviews that it was at times an uneasy alliance.

The role of Jim was viewed as stereotypically demeaning and (by today's standards) hopelessly naive. Nonetheless, I was excited at the prospect of the Foundation's courageously taking on this staging at a time and in a place where it would be least expected. That being so, I asked to be assigned as liaison to the Foundation's planning committee since the Eugene O'Neill park site belongs to our 4-park consortium. Great, right?

Since accepting the assignment I've had a chance to read a synopsis of the play and to meet with the committee. The planning group and the artistic director were wonderful. It was easy to fall into their rhythm and to defer any concerns I'd had early-on about the play itself. Having never read it, but having recently viewed a repeat of PBS's "American Experience" documentary on the life of "America's greatest playwright", Eugene O'Neill, I had a sense of excitement about what may lie ahead. This would be new ground for me in my work -- and in an artistic field where I've great interest but little experience; a new and welcomed challenge.

The play was a hard read for me. Even with the allowances I was making for the times it represents and the social climate in which it was created and produced in the early Twenties -- the dialog was even more repugnant than I imagined. The lens through which the famed playwright viewed African American males was so distorted -- so naive -- that I wondered how on earth it could ever be staged without resulting in the same kind of public response suffered by the (I believe) well-intentioned New Yorker satiric "Obama" cover that brought such negative reactions from even the most liberal and sophisticated of readers.

I'm firmly convinced that there's a way to do this. I've no doubt that the director and the cast and the committee are approaching this production in the spirit of joining the new and long-deferred national conversation on race that we're so in need of. How these words and concepts will play before ethnically-diverse audiences is an unknown. Will the generous use of the "n" word be unforgivably offensive in mixed company? Any altering of the script would be unthinkable, of course, but with little collective memory of the period -- can we dare to evoke those unresolved emotions? Will the 70 minutes that "Chillun" takes to play out be supplemented by enough after-the-show Q&A to defuse feelings of embarrassment and not reinforce those same stereotypes O'Neill may have intended to expose through his work? Have we yet reached the point where -- in an otherwise "white" community -- we can retain enough compassion and generosity of spirit to get us through such an evening without increasing the distance between our worlds? Will these be risks worth taking?

The answers to those questions are illusive in this moment, but I think it's precisely at these edges that the country and the world can now explore new possibilities in human and race relations. O'Neill and Robeson and the O'Neill Foundation and hard-working producers and directors in the theater world may be leading us through these earlier works -- helping us to forge new attitudes through presenting old images of lives that illustrate so painfully where we've been. Maybe it's our role now to ferret out the new directions through revisiting a past that we've yet to process -- and that may indicate how compassion and understanding might move us toward a more enlightened future.


The casting (all Equity players) is in progress and the play will be performed as a part of the Eugene O'Neill Festival where there will be the awarding, posthumously, of honors to the late great and legendary Paul Robeson. His son, Paul Robeson, Jr., and his wife will be arriving from New York to receive the honor. They will be guests of the Foundation and the City of Danville for the 3-day weekend of performances of "All God's Chillun Got Wings" and other related activities. There's much to be excited about -- despite the quiet concerns that I'm sure are shared by the committee though -- with only one meeting under my belt -- those fears have yet to be voiced. I only know one other member of the group and I'm the only person of color in the room at this point. It will take at least another meeting to break through to candor, I suppose. But given my ever constant sense of urgency -- that state we'll move through ever so quickly, I'm sure. This is that place where age kicks in and ceremony gets booted to the curb because time is a luxury that I can no longer afford.

How we work our way through the anticipated difficulties that may be associated with this project will be interesting if troubling at times. I'm looking forward to the experience. It's another opportunity for learning, and I've never ducked out on occasions that present such lively reminders that I'm alive!

Meet Fred Reid, Radioman stationed in Naples ...

...and one of our guests at this year's Day of Remembrance at Port Chicago. And herein lies one of the untold and unheralded heroic stories of WWII:

Sitting comfortably in his magnificently-restored Victorian near the Panhandle entrance to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, one would hardly guess that the still-handsome 84 year-old former Buffalo Soldier was also the victim in one of the many shameful chapters in the history of our armed forces and our nation.

I'd arrived by pre-arrangement at ten o'clock to spend some time trying to capture this story. I had no hint of what might follow though I'd known Fred Reid casually for almost a lifetime. Stories such as his have been too humiliating to share but in this year 2008 -- the community and the nation appear to be finally ready to have these long-silenced conversations. I'm so privileged to be able to be one of those with some limited power and resources to facilitate their exposure to light and subsequent reconciliation.

There's so much to tell -- where to start?

With the very young army radioman Fred? With the proud Buffalo Soldier -- member of the 10th Calvary stationed at Camp Lockett near the California/Mexican border? With the artist Fred Reid who -- along with other black artists -- traveled to Nigeria in 1977 to participate in the historic festival of arts and culture as guests of the State Department? I might describe for you the beautiful stained-glass piece that sits on a lovely antique mahogany table capturing the sunlight in his living-room window (it was his entry into the FESTAC exhibition). Perhaps I could tell you about Fred Reid, head of the Department of Parks and Recreation for the City and County of San Francisco for 16 years. Any or all of these would be fascinating aspects of this one African American man.

But the story that probably is the signature tale since it veers so far from the spirit -- the ideals -- of the nation at a time when we were far less enlightened -- would be this one:

Fred was at that time (1943-44?) serving in Naples in WWII and, as the war in Europe was winding down, Fred (with many others) was re-deployed to the South Pacific theater. He was among 5000 young black serviceman put aboard a ship to join the battles somewhere in the Phillipines.

It's important to remember that at that time black soldiers were largely assigned to the quartermaster corps; were collecting bodies from battlefields; were working as cooks and waiters in the mess halls, serving as valets to white officers, driving supply trucks, and loading ammunition. They were assigned to all-black companies headed by white officers. Such was life in the armed forces at that time. It was several years after the war's end before President Harry Truman -- under strong pressure and threats of boycotts from black leader, A.Phillip Randolph -- would issue his order to end racial segregation in all branches of the armed forces. That was enacted in July of 1948. Though we tend to forget that it would be another six years before the last units were desegregated -- not until 1954.

Fred spoke unemotionally about how those men were aboard the ship and held at sea for 3 months. They'd been sequentially assigned to Manila, Guam, Hawaii, and other ports -- none of which would allow them to leave the ship. No port or company would accept 5000 black servicemen! They sailed endlessly -- reduced to two meals a day to conserve food supplies -- for 90 days in limbo with no sense of how it would eventually end. Idling at sea while the brutal "War to save Democracy and the world" raged on and the white American military power structure tried to figure out what to do with Americans whose skin color was seen as even more onerous than the threat presented by world domination by Facism.

Mel standing top row center

Looking across at Fred last week, I was reminded of my young husband, Mel (also a Reid but unrelated), who never made it into the Navy because his entry point (after volunteering to serve in his senior year at USF) was limited to being a messman. Mel died in 1988 never having told anyone but me of his 3-day service record at Great Lakes, Illinois. After many hours of interrogation he was given an honorable discharge and sent home with mustering-out pay and a pat on the rear.

"By your record, Reid, you're a natural leader of men.  Why didn't you come in as a white man (he was fair-skinned) You could have avoided all this." And, "We can't afford to place you on board a ship with men who might be easily led. It might spell mutiny on the high seas."  How's that for blaming the victim?

Mel died in 1988 never having told anyone but me of his 3-day service record at Great Lakes, Illinois. After many hours of interrogation he was given an honorable discharge and sent home with mustering-out pay and a pat on the rear.

The nation failed both these young Americans and countless others.

The interview with Fred ended with his promise to attend last Saturday's commemoration of the tragic explosion at Port Chicago. He came. Maybe at some level some of that bitterness was -- if only slightly -- lifted. On Saturday, those 320 young men (202 of whom were black) who were lost in that home front tragedy were acknowledged and honored in another of the somber annual ceremonies hosted by the National Park Service. Perhaps, Fred and Mel (had he lived to see it) can find some peace and reconciliation in having the Department of Interior honor their sacrifices; sacrifices of a kind rarely publicly acknowledged until recent years.

In a few weeks I plan to bring the Richmond high school students who make up the television production crew in their media department to Fred's beautiful home to see his art collection; to hear his stories; and to televise proceedings for their peers.

I'm not sure where all this fits in my job description, but since my position allows me to explore the outer edges of community outreach, then perhaps I'm involved in the redefinition of what it means to do this work. Maybe the important thing is to use my long and sometimes painful life experience to open doors for others to walk through ... toward the healing that has no known path. Maybe I'm in the process (with others) of drawing the new map toward reconciliation ...

Maybe.

It's time to bring new minds together -- the young and the tried and true who have survived to face the new frontier -- climate change. In an evolving world, there's little time for reflection. Occasions like the memorial service on Saturday allowed time for that. It also allowed me to renew a sense of obligation to the telling of the stories that are still disturbing to so many -- and with the full support of the National Park Service.


Photo: Fred Reid, his wife Careth Bomar Reid, and Electra Kimble-Price pictured at the Port Chicago Memorial anniversary event on Saturday, July 19, 2008.

Meet my niece, Danyel Smith, with unidentified subject ...

Danyel is the brilliant young managing editor of VIBE magazine. As such she was in Washington, D.C. to oversee a photo shoot for a cover of a recent issue of the magazine.

When I think of the long list of accomplished women in our family I feel a growing sense of pride laced with frustration -- and not as an African American -- but as an American. It is clear that the cost of racial segregation has been inestimable over all the decades; costs borne by us all. When one remembers that we've probably sacrificed at least 1/10th of the human potential of our nation at the altar of racial bigotry, it is staggering! And from the look of things, we're not out of the woods yet. A walk through any inner city school is ample proof that we have a long way still to go before full equality of opportunity has been achieved for all who aim high.

At an earlier time Danyel and the many like her would have been encouraged to forego any thought of entering into journalism -- particularly women -- due to the lack of opportunity for those of color. She came along when the bars were being lifted and she has soared!

But what of all the other Danyels wasting away in inadequate educational institutions in a dying system of public education?

And what of yesterday's' Bettys whose fate -- until 1941 -- was limited to working in the fields and/or the service industry (mopping floors, making beds, and tending white children)? We made it, but at what cost -- and against what odds?

I interviewed a Buffalo Soldier this past week, and learned more about the lives of black servicemen and women during WWII... .I'll save that for another post. I'm still absorbing his story while awed by his ability to "forgive us (Americans) our trespasses".

But yesterday I attended the 64th Annual commemoration of the Port Chicago Explosion at the Concord Weapons Station (now a NPS memorial monument site) and I haven't yet shaken off the effects of meeting with the few still-living survivors and/or families again. It was a weekend of contrasts. With few as stark as is represented here in these photos.

The emotional distance between these two pictures above is on the one hand excruciatingly slow to those of us who lived it; but dizzyingly fast when viewed in terms of the time normally required for significant social change to occur; often centuries.

Nothing is more indicative of progress than these two photos.

It was the tragic explosion at Port Chicago on July 17, 1944, in which 330 young Americans (220 or whom were black) lost their lives in the worst home front accident in our nation's history. That event brought about the beginnings of the modern Civil Rights Movement that unfolded over the next twenty years. In 1948, after continued unrest as the result of public reaction to the mutiny trials (see Robert Allen's book, "Mutiny at Port Chicago") President Harry Truman was finally convinced to eliminate all racial barriers throughout the armed forces.

But we must now revisit those years and have those conversations that we've avoided for the past 64 years. And anything that invites that discussion (yes, even the now infamous New Yorker cover) will facilitate that happening is a godsend. We must take the time to process the changes we've experienced in order to get some measure of the road traveled -- to gain a sense of just where are in history -- and of how we got here.

(Congratulations, Danyel, if you're reading this!)

A song I wrote many years ago ... could it have been a message across time and space to a granddaughter whose existence would not be known for decades?

To each of me ...
to love within the reach of me
and if this love could teach to me
why each of me, in turn,
should torture so the soul of me
and tear apart the whole of me
within life's play each role of me
must speak to me -- must learn
that blackness and the white of me
are just the day and night of me
are not the wrong or right of me
can't you see -- there's got to be
some answer to this planet's pain
my microcosmic world insane!
If only I could make you see
it's here to see --
just look at me
there is -- within me -- all of you
from distant lands -- the whole of you
the dreams, the heart, the soul of you --
if only you would see
that black and white are part of it
my brown is at the heart of it
and blending was the start of it
and someday it shall be
that blackness and the white of us
will be the day and night of us
and not the wrong or right of us
weakness or might of us
then we'll be free!



If you'll go back and read the entry for June 17th you'll find the preface to this song.


When time permits I'll add the sound to this post. It might be helpful to be able to listen ... and not have to imagine.

It's really quite a lovely song, I think.

And here are my granddaughters ... each a one-of-a-kind yet universal beauty!


Photos: Rosie, Kokee Amanda, Tamaya and Alyana.

Second thoughts ... on retirement ... or not,

And no, I'm not about to dash off into some sensational late-in-life marriage either. Besides, most of the men in my age bracket don't do "dash" anymore. It was just one of those entries that got away from me. I tend to forget that anyone is actually reading this stuff, and when I do my fingers take over from my brain and havoc reigns!

A couple of dear friends were alarmed by what they thought might be impulsive decisions on my part and picked up the phone to say, "...Whoa, Betty!"

And of course they were right. This simply isn't the way such things are done. When I make that important decision, it will be after very careful consideration. However, it's quite possible that I'll leave my office one of these days horizontal and feet first! And maybe that's as it should be. What better way to go -- hell-bent on changing the world and defying fate to the end!

But I was also reminded of something else that removed some of the sting of the momentary dip into depression (if that's what it was): Nostalgia for the sweet sound of children in the background of my life may be rooted in something quite real. After all, living within extended family clusters (until the fairly recent past) was the norm for most of my generation. We've only ghetto-ized age groups with communities made up of elders, others for teens, men, gangs, women, singles, married folks, children, living in social groupings isolated from one another. We're now little more than "markets," and that may be the norm of the present and the future, but for those in my age group it is still not what some would define as the "good life".

My earliest memories are of sitting in my grandmother Victoria's lap -- brushing her waist length hair -- in that creaky old rocking chair on the front porch of the house on Lapyrouse Street in New Orleans. I suspect that my mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner for the family. I can't remember much else from those early years (I must have been about 3), but my grandmother still looms large and real and loving in those memories. And I am probably that laughing child whose sounds I'm still drawn to from far far back in time. Having several generations living under one roof was the norm for most families.

But the lifestyle disappeared during my own children's childhood. We lived some miles from both sets of grandparents, and except for late in my mother's life when she came to live with me after my father's death, we never lived under one roof. Both sets of grandparents prided themselves for their independence.

But I can't remember separate senior housing developments until fairly recently, can you?

Was I experiencing an unsatisfied hunger -- an unanswered need?

At some subconscious level I suspect that I was reaching back to another time and remembering ... .

Perhaps the best thing about this year's Fourth of July is the fact that I found those laughing voices -- they were there all the time -- in today's children and someday -- in theirs -- and I also discovered just what it was that I needed and the means to satisfy the hunger once identified.

Being intuitive has it's rewards, though sometimes it takes a journey through pain to find them.


Photo: Meet young cousin, Desmond.

Woke this morning thinking seriously about retirement for the first time in a long time ... maybe ever ... .

Wondering if the time hasn't come when there is a need to begin to fold my tent, pull up the pegs, and join my contemporaries on the BarcaLounger watching reality television?

Not sure why such thoughts on this particular morning. I'm certainly not showing any signs of slowing down. No sense of fatigue. Still feeling the juices of creativity coursing through my veins. I continue to enjoy good health and boundless energy. From what part of my being do you suppose such thoughts arise?

Maybe it's that I'm not sure that I'll ever recognize the best time to leave the stage -- to exit gracefully ... and will I know before it's perceived by others? If not, that would be tragic. Will my ability to sense the subtle signals get lost because I've lost the will or the capacity to receive them?

It may have been such thoughts (rising from a place far beneath the surface) that caused me to leave the SS Red Oak Victory before the fireworks display got underway the other night. This is admittedly the best site in the world from which to watch the Independence Day annual spectacle. And I'm sure that it was that for the many who chose to return this year for another round in this important evolving Richmond tradition. (But someone really needs to explain why we celebrate on the third rather than the fourth of July.)

Dorian and I boarded the old ship just before six o'clock along with several hundred celebrants in holiday colors and traditional white sailor hats. We were to have dinner and music before the show would begin at nightfall. I remembered how much we'd enjoyed it last year -- watching the barge laden with the neatly-arranged pyrotechnics pass within close range alongside the ship -- close enough to look down and watch the fury of activities on the barge as well as the rousing spectacle in the sky! The anticipation was enhanced a thousand-fold by the sight of that barge. What a night!

Nonetheless, long before nightfall (with recorded music playing loudly in the background) I found myself impulsively gathering up my daughter in preparation for leaving the grand old ship for some place where we might escape the chill that was increasing with each minute. The feeling had come without warning. I was with pleasant company and surely enjoying the moment to that point. But something was missing. Then I thought of the children. There were so few in sight. What on earth are fireworks without the sounds of children gasping in awe? The median age of the crowd on board was closer to my own than to Dorrie's and she is surely no longer a child, at least not in actual years.

Dorian was puzzled but cooperative when I told her that we needed to find a place where we could watch without having to huddle against the cold night air; the kind that catches tourists shivering in their tee shirts while we natives sit smugly in our long johns and parkas; a typical July evening in the Bay Area. It was not quite dark at that point and the fireworks were still perhaps 45 minutes away.

We found it; the perfect place. After a short drive we were in
the midst of hundreds of families with excited children of all
ages running about filling the night air with their own kind of music -- a cacophony of sounds of the many languages of this ethnically-diverse city. The late Lucretia Edwards, for whom this beautiful little park was named, would have been ecstatic! Many families spread picnics on the grass. Everywhere we looked there were people wearing phosphorus-filled bracelets and neck bands that glowed in the dark. This was the Fourth of July! Here were the sounds of the children that I'd not recognized as the critical missing element until the moment when we heard the first screams of delight while parking the car. Until that very instant I had no idea why I'd felt the urgent need to leave the ship. I only knew that I needed to fill some unnamed void ... .

Maybe that was the genesis of these feelings ... feelings that clearly draw the line of separation between my worlds. I belong with those who gathered on board the old ship. That is my world; and it may be little more than the persistent hunger for the sound of children's voices and laughter that continues to hold me in the wrong generation.

Do you suppose it's as simple as that ... ?

I'd parked my car deep into the parking lot -- way up near the shoreline where I knew I'd have difficulty getting out at the end of the sky show -- when we all would be headed for homes on the other side of town. It didn't matter. This was a reasonable price to pay for the luxury of being smack-dab in the middle of "Life!" And, yes, when the show ended we spent the better part of another 45 minutes untangling ourselves from the mob of criss-crossed traffic -- but the elation of the experience of the booming earth-shaking sounds of the bursts of color and light arcing against the sky and the delighted shrieks of children remained suspended in the space around me for long hours well into the night.

What has that to do with my feelings of having "stayed too long at the fair"? Not sure. Except that I'm more aware this morning of the distances between my alternating worlds -- and am wondering if I don't need to spend the rest of my years shrinking those so that I don't lose my way -- or my relationship to my own generation... this way could prove lonely ... in time.

The seduction of the laughter of children may be a telling clue. It may be a sign that I'm not nearly as at home in my shoes as I believed myself to be. It could mean that I'm clinging inappropriately to youth even as I protest (perhaps too strongly) of how comfortable I am with the approaching end of existence.

Is this the universal fear of death masquerading as something else? Is my work actually continuing to provide any real contribution to the whole -- or am I merely postponing the inevitable by remaining in the work force for reasons that are no longer justifiable by anyone's standards?

Maybe by the time I must leave for work tomorrow morning I'll have moved past the doubts ...

Maybe not.

Maybe I'm needing to have a frank talk with my co-workers in the hope of some guidance.

But then they've never lived this part ...

I'm in uncharted waters ... .

Maybe this is the place where some decide to marry ... again.

But then ... .

Rene Marie's "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing!"

What incredible memories this evoked:

Craig came to my cubby a few days ago to ask if by any chance I'd heard about the African American singer who had opened a meeting of the Denver city council with a version of the Star Spangled Banner that combined the music of the national anthem with the James Weldon Johnson lyric known as the "Negro National Anthem." I'd missed it. But I instantly knew that it would have been highly controversial and at a level that few would truly understand. I knew because I'd been there -- long ago.

It had nothing to do with disparaging the old chestnut that few of us could sing anyway -- given the impossible range. It had to do with my personal reactions -- even in those early years -- to the very fact of a separate national anthem for black folks. An alternative anthem added to the confusion as I tried to search through a bewildering range of shifting identities for some kind of meaning... .

As a teenager who had grown up in the West and knew little about separate but equal treatment of people of color; little of white- or blacks-only school systems except only marginally -- and in a way that was far removed from a day-to-day ordinary neighborhood life where I grew up in a racially-integrated community among working class second generation Europeans for the most part. Who knew? But then came WWII and the great southern migration of folks for whom segregation was an accepted though surely demeaning way of life.


It was a neighborhood event. I'd seen hand-printed signs posted on telephone poles and bulletin boards around the neighborhood announcing that the noted African American educator, Mrs. Mary McLeon Bethune, would be coming to speak in the auditorium of Highland Elementary soon. The event was being sponsored by Rev. Marion Wildy's little Baptist church (now the imposing 5000-member Allen Temple) whose congregation met in a converted bungalow on 85th Avenue -- just around the corner from our home. I'd learned to say nothing to my parents about these programs (non-Catholic) but had learned to watch for them since hearing the great poet of his day, Langston Hughes, read from his work earlier that year in that same school auditorium. I would sneak away from time to time to test the waters beyond our Creole Catholic doorstep.

This would be my introduction to the Negro National Anthem. It was sung movingly by the audience just before Mrs. Bethune rose to speak. I knew the National Anthem -- and who on earth needed another one? I heard this unfamiliar "anthem" as vaguely subversive. Alien. Why on earth would there be a separate anthem for Negroes, anyway?

I later learned that this great hymn has been sung in historically black schools and colleges throughout the southern states since it was written by the Johnson brothers over a century ago. It was resurrected during the Civil Rights struggles in the 50s and 60s. Its lyrics speak of the road of immeasurable pain and sorrow that has been the course of black Americans for centuries. But it also speaks of the inextinguishable ray of hope that persists among America's people of color to this day, despite a history that bespeaks of misery and rejection that has never been completely understood or resolved.

That Rene Marie has found a way to wed "O Say Can You See" with "Lift Ev'ry Voice" unites those disparate and often warring parts of myself and finally gives a "home" to those unresolved feelings that the old standard Anthem evokes each time I hear it. I hear and feel the power in the black hymn's lyrics differently; more deeply.

In time my life mirrored the lives of African Americans around me as the nation polarized around race in the mid-50s. I then began to find it thrilling to stand shoulder to shoulder with others who have "trod those stony roads," too. I memorized the words long ago, and now sing lustily along as if I'd never had that brief doubt about their legitimacy. In a nation that has never processed its shameful history of slavery and Jim Crow-ism; in a nation that has never apologized to those for whom the James Weldon Johnson poetry speaks so eloquently -- so profoundly -- this shrieks with irony! Cries that now demand an apology for expressing her variation on the theme of patriotism are ludicrous! Rene Marie's version of reality is beautifully captured by her arrangement and therefore speaks for millions who've shared that reality and who have little reason to be deceived by the oft-quoted, "... with liberty and justice for all," and every reason to want to jar the complacency of those who go through these nationalist rituals with little awareness of that irony. This, after all, has been the role of the artist throughout history. Up-ending hypocrisy is her calling. Rene Marie follows in the honorable tradition forged by the change-makers who preceded her; the poet, James Weldon Johnson among them.

Lift ev'ry voice and sing, till earth and heaven ring,
ring with the harmonies of liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise, high as the listening skies
let it resound loud as the rolling sea.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us,
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod,
felt in the days when hope unborn had died,
Yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet
come to the place for which our fathers sighed?

We have come over a way that with tears have been watered,
We have come treading the path through the blood of the slaughtered
Out from our gloomy past, still now we stand at last
where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on our way,
Thou who has by thy might, led us into the light
Keep us forever in the path we pray.

Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we meet thee,
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world we forget thee,
Shadowed beneath thy hand, may we forever stand,
True to our God -- true to our native land!


Rene Marie used only the first two verses in her arrangement, and it's hard for me to know how they stand without the rest of the poem. Nonetheless, she has opened -- or maybe expanded -- a much-needed national conversation around our national symbols. It begins to look as if we're ready for those conversations, and we'll be much the richer for it.

It's high time that the rest of America learns to appreciate how powerfully our poets have captured the collective soul and spirit of a people. Try reading Harlem's late great poet, Sekou Sundiata, and Nicki Giovanni, and Gwendolyn Brooks and don't miss "Crystal Stairs" by Countee Cullen. But most of all, try reading Lift Ev'ry Voice all the way through -- imagining that you're an African American living in today's world. This surely will not tell the whole story, but it may be the start of something significant ... .

Rene Marie has provided much to think about .. and may you, too,

have a thoughtful Fourth of July ... .

Photo: James Weldon Johnson, American Patriot and Poet.

The rewarding reach of imaginative long distance teaching ...

There was a visit on Friday from Ms. Jennifer Mykytuk (interesting name), the seventh grade teacher from Fruitvale Middle School in Bakersfield, California. She'd come to hand-deliver a DVD of a play that grew from last spring's experience of my first participation in long-distance learning. It was fascinating at the time, and I had no inkling of what might evolve from it.

Her class was studying the period of WWII and the Rosie the Riveter and home front stories that are again capturing the attention of the nation as the direct result of the development of this new national park. The kids had run across stories in the media about me and of my humble WWII experiences and that brought the invitation to participate with them in preparation for a statewide history contest.

I believe I wrote about it at the time. It involved the selection of four young girls to do the interview with me. They'd thoughtfully prepared and forwarded a copy of the questions they would ask. On the date of our interview I sat in one of our offices -- miles and miles away -- to speak with them undisturbed in a conference call that lasted for about an hour. At their end the interview was being audio-taped for the classes. I learned yesterday that in the weeks that followed they'd written a play based on that interview and it was recently presented as their entry in the annual State history competition. They placed a very respectable fourth place, according to their teacher.

The youngsters actually made a field trip to the Bay Area in February (while I was on a 2-week training at the Albright Institute at the Grand Canyon) in order to meet me and to visit the park and tour the SS Red Oak Victory. I was so sorry to have missed meeting them at the time. But yesterday I was honored by receiving the DVD of their performance. What a thrill it was to sit in the quiet and view their work and the path down which our fleeting encounter had taken us. I felt humbled by hearing some of my words and thoughts that worked their way into the consciousness of the young through the magic of technology -- to reappear now in this brand new art form.

What a remarkable time to be alive ... .

What an amazing experience in education.

And ... what a responsibility to continue to keep myself informed and focused on the important lessons of this history that I'm being exposed to as time continues to pile up mercilessly behind me and more and more voices of the era are stilled.

And, Oh what I wouldn't give for a Faustian bargain that would match the time that the bank gave me on my last home mortgage refinance! Another twenty years would just about do it, I think.

Tyra Banks and Heidi Klum -- take note!

Meet the designers and models from NIAD; The Institute for Artists with Disabilities.

This week we attended a fashion show staged to introduce the
artists with whom my daughter works each day. These works come directly from the heart and are created under the guidance of imaginative and patient local artists who give these developmentally and physically disabled young people the confidence to do really innovative things. Each outfit was created by the models themselves. Such pride!

There was a "runway" created with long strips of yellow tape on the carpeting (no raised Cat Walk here); chairs were lined up 2 rows deep on the sides and at the front where absolutely delighted friends and family laughed and shouted in their pride and joy! The models -- as often as not -- spontaneously joined us in the applause from the runway as if it were contagious -- and it was.

Take a look (click on the thumbnail) at the detail work on Dorian's beaded jacket (a crushed velvet piece rescued from the Salvation Army Thrift Store). She also decorated the hat and bag as well as the shirt and shoes. Now that's what I'd call stylin'!

As an aside; Dorian asked on the drive back to her apartment, "...Mom, what's strut?" For a minute I had no idea what she was asking, but usually the second question clarifies. It did. "Just before I came out to walk on the runway, my teacher said, now Dorrie, don't forget to strut!" A word long lost for the most part and one she's never had use for until now. Then I realized why she'd done a peculiar little jerky hip-switching movement as she walked between the yellow tapes. It had caused a lot of audience reaction -- and now I knew why. Dorian was "struttin'." Even though she had no idea what was being asked of her, somehow the message got through and strut, she did! A mother peacock could hardly have been more proud than I.

Dorian's brain damage involves visual perception, mainly, though it's more complex than that. I've never known just what she sees and how she sees the world. What does that do to shapes and colors for her? Through her artwork I have a window in that nothing else can provide. It has always been a real challenge to be able to read her. Her test scores over the years have been all over the spectrum -- everything from six months to age level. Her expressive ability is reasonably good, though repetition is a problem. Her vocabulary is not limited, though comprehension suffers in some areas. Her IQ is below the level of abstract ability which means that she lacks the capacity required for making judgments or weighing consequences. She can't handle the "what ifs". But in viewing her art work; her depictions of animals and people; her use of color, etc., I've always felt assured that she uses everything she has, and that learning is still occurring in that permanently-damaged brain; and that she compensates in many ways that are beyond a mother's ability to fathom. I just have to continue to trust her (and myself) enough to allow her to stretch and grow as far as her limitations will allow. And I believe that I'm doing that, and that NIAD is immeasurably helpful in supporting us in those efforts. I must find ways to let them know that. Maybe I'll just send them a link to this entry... .

Nothing at the fashion show, however, matched the sheer joy as expressed by, Mia, one of Dorrie's friends wearing her own hand-painted jacket topped by one of Dorian's hats. She was one of several models wheeled down the "runway" by proud attendants.

It was one of those times when you're aware that the boundaries of absolute bliss have been breached and that the circle of love has expanded exponentially to embrace everyone in the room and beyond.

What a rare event this was ... the kind that causes nights of smiling long after the day has ended and just before sleep descends; the sleep of the kind that heals.

One of those times when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were in the presence of pure unadulterated love... .

Photo: Click on these thumbnails to see the detail of the beading on Dorian's jacket.

Capt. Charles Young of the National Park Service and the son of former slaves ... .

How sad it is that we know so little about the giants of African American history. How sad is it that young black students have reached this generation still being asked to honor "the first black whatever" when we've been contributing with valor and distinction ever since the nation was formed. There are still articles being written based upon our continuing and relentless "march into the mainstream" as though we haven't always been there moving the country forward with our black shoulders to the wheel of progress along with immigrants from all over the world. And for more than 300 years -- with our legs in irons and our minds untaught. And we've been at it far longer than most. In my own family -- it has been since before the time of the Revolutionary War.

What kind of extraordinary man did it take to leap in one generation from the illiterate life of enslavement to become an honored graduate of the prestigious West Point Military Academy?

(Think Frederick Douglas, former slave and trusted advisor to President Abraham Lincoln. In my own family, my great grandmother, Leontine Breaux Allen, born in 1846 and enslaved for her first 19 years of life -- whose grandson, George Allen, became the president of Texas Southern University.)

What kind of nation is it that can maintain a system of governance that sacrifices at least a tenth of its human potential upon the altar of blind and debilitating racial prejudice? A nation that -- 345 years after the tragedy of slavery - only now has begun to see what racism has robbed us of over a shameful, bitter, and bewildering past and is (quite possibly) now writing us into a brighter future.

And, what kind of a nation is it that has the flexibility written into its founding documents that has allowed for the insight; the forgiveness and atonement; the breadth of experience garnered from the agonies of apartheid that we are only now beginning to recognize for what it was and is? The cost of the maintenance of white privilege is unfathomable; more than any nation can continue to burden itself with and still survive as leader of the free world.

And, as one of the forgotten heroes who forged the trail upon which today's black leaders now move with growing assurance, Captain Charles Young (who attained the rank of Lt. Colonel before the end of his career) and his Buffalo Soldiers of the Negro Armed Forces stand as reminders for us to take the time to pay homage and provide recognition so that young black students who are desperately searching for role models of excellence can find them.

And -- as a reasonably informed elder -- I'm ashamed to say that I only discovered him this past week.

How sad!

What a profound statement that makes about the failures of our system of public instruction with its critical omissions of black achievement and heroism.

This is a plea for black scholars to stop carping about how others tell our stories, and gives a powerful reason for us to tell them for ourselves and for future generations.

Our National Park Service provides the tools and the resources for doing just that.

Woke this morning knowing without a doubt that I'm precisely where I need to be on the planet this day.

... a really good feeling ... .

Juneteenth Celebration!

...and in the city of Richmond this is one of the big ones!

There's a move afoot to get Juneteenth legislated into a national holiday, but so far it's still on the back burner and comes waaaay after we elect a new president; begin the ending of the war in Iraq; clean up the sub-prime mortgage debacle; create an equitable universal health care bill; renew the debate over offshore drilling for petroleum and whether or not we close Guantanamo, but someday... .

In case you're out of the loop on black history, you'll want to know that June 19th was the day that the news of the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation -- announcing freedom for all who were enslaved finally reached Texas. This was long after the rest of the states had been notified.

Having grown up in the Bay Area without the richness of that history, I knew nothing of this holiday until I reached young adulthood. It still feels very "Texan" and doesn't stir the kind of strong identification for me that comes with any mention Faubourg Tremé or the French Quarter in New Orleans, but it does speak to the diversity that exists in the black community where many of those in today's parade expressed Carnival with such joy! The Caribbean influence is strong here. I sometimes forget about just how diverse we are -- with many sub-groups expressing a variety of black cultures.

Our staff created a great display that featured panels telling of the launching of ships built here during WWII by Henry J. Kaiser and named for prominent African Americans of the times. There was a panel showing photos and a story about the first (interim) superintendent of the National Park Service, an African American named Capt. Charles Young (1864-1922), the son of former slaves and a graduate of West Point. He rose from the ranks of the Buffalo Soldiers -- the black cavalrymen who were the first caretakers and protectors of both the Presidio and Yosemite Valley. Captain Young figured prominently in the early days of the development of the national park system. What a great day for us to revive his story as a part of this important celebration.

Happy Juneteenth!

Remember that at some point the campaign for its naming as a national holiday will become an issue in your town -- and you can remember this entry, and the reason why it's important to so many.


Photo: Exuberant Janet Johnson and her granddaughter doing "Carnival!" in today's parade. If you'll click on the top thumbnail, you may be able to make out some of details of the exhibit.

Of course you've by now become aware of my granddaughter, Rosie, and her dramatic introduction into our lives only a few weeks ago ... .

Here's beautiful little girl Rosie with her two sisters. It's not hard to see why she would have been confused about her identity. That's Rosie in the center. (see link - Creolebelle's weblog)

Been thinking a lot lately about a song I wrote many years ago that may have been prescient. It was about my racially mixed bloodlines. It was written at a time when the Black Revolution was raging and racial identity was critically important to all African Americans. It was the late 60s and early 70s at a time when I was living a painfully troubled life in the white suburbs at a time of tremendous social change. It was at a time we were one of only two families of color in the entire Diablo valley.

I was very active, politically, and battling my way through an identity crisis with a passion. There were days when I was not quite white enough in my daily suburban life -- and not quite black enough in my innercity and national political life.

Living on the bridge of racial ambiguity is something that my bright and beautiful young granddaughter has been spared. The implications of that keep me awake some nights ... wondering how she'll work her way through it. Signs are that she is resilient and ready for whatever lies ahead.

How is it to discover one's African American connections so late in life? She has been spared the pain of rejection and low self-esteem that has plagued so many. In her innocence she has been free to live without ever having to doubt her abilities or to be limited by the low expectations of others due to lack of understanding about the capacity of black or mixed-race children to learn and adapt.

This is the grandchild who finally escaped the binding restrictions of race. Rosie is a forerunner of what the people of the world will look and be like in some future day when all these ideals we pretend to strive so hard to live up to are finally achieved. Rosie and people like her provide hope for us all. She is proof that miscegenation does not foul the gene pool. To the contrary! Under the Mendelian Law of genetics, it is claimed that the hybrid is superior to those from which it sprang. Not sure that theory holds up for hybrid from hybrid from hybrid, but it sounds comforting to those of us who can no longer track our bloodlines with any degree of certainty. (Tiger and Barack?) This is surely a human construct that needs reexamination.

If there is a blessing in all of this it is that the year is 2008 in an era that is far more enlightened than those in which my children's generation had to forge their identity. Our children's Charbonnet lineage harkens back to the late 1700s in this country -- before the Revolutionary War and with a racial legacy that embraces French, African, Shoshone, Islenos (Spanish from the Canary Islands), and the Reid's line which is African, Jewish, Seminole, English, etc. David's marriage brought Filipino bloodlines into the mix - presenting beautiful mixtures of still another gene pool to the grandchildren they brought forth. I know nothing yet of Rosie's mother's racial makeup, but surely it adds still another element to this exotic racial jambalaya!

Meditating on all this -- wondering about the implications for Rosie in this entirely new configuration of her identity -- has brought me, finally, to the realization that it's all really crazy! Does my small Afro-centric art collection and fine library of black literature suggest more determination to identify than any real knowledge of or sophistication about the genre? Just an affectation, maybe? I truly don't know, but I think not. There's a resonance that draws me in ... .

Maybe our family has joined with all those other forerunners who've made racial designation as irrelevant as those little racial identity boxes that we ceased to neatly fit into decades ago. Since I couldn't find one labeled "Creole," I took to checking them all; even "other"! I suspect that Rosie's current status totally blows away the entire box and the paper upon which it is printed!

For my other beautiful grandchildren, Alayana and Tamaya, Kokee and Rhico, I'd guess that race may continue for a little longer to be little more than a political choice. At this point they appear to approach the question individually, and with variation; a freedom they're allowed; a freedom that Rosie, too, is also free to exercise. It's like the tradition of freedom of religion in our family. I once witnessed Rhico self-identifying as Latino, and it seemed quite proper at the time. After all, Greatgrandmother Victoria Morales Charbonnet was Islenos (Canary Island Spanish). It's a floating kind of thing that each will come to terms with in their own way if and when it matters at all.

However -- I still choose to live off my black edge. I still feel that part of my being viscerally -- with music and dance and - yes, politics, and wouldn't give up my African American identity if my life depended on it.

And maybe it does ...

still.

There is no one else I'd rather be; despite all. It is my black life that is the source of strength and compassion. I'm sure of it. It is all of the pain of growth and lessons in forgiveness and atonement that provides the power that sustains me in these final years. Makes one wonder to what extent I was shaped by the black experience? It's in the humiliation, the pain, and the shared black rage that continues to fuel my work toward justice and fairness. It is whatever makes up the black sensibility that gives me this strong sense of connectedness with other people of color and that forms a deep grounding in aesthetics -- it's still with me in the sound of the drum. It's embedded in something as simple as clapping on the second and fourth beat because that's the rhythm of the African heart. Synchronized! Syncopated!

Black!

Will all of that pass into oblivion with me when time runs out?

Then the great question becomes, "what is shaping my children and theirs?"

Noticed in transferring photos from my camera onto my hard drive -- this series showed up ... .

Earlier this month a teacher from the local adult school invited me to speak before her class. These were young people, ages of 18 to 25. Most were studying for their GED and in most cases had dropped out of school long before completion.

This would be the second visit to their classes for me, and I wasn't all that sure how successful the first visit may or may not have been. It's often hard to tell with this age group.

There is also the problem of relevance. Just how much interest was there really in World War II among today's youth? There have been many wars since that time, and each with its own stories. This one was now 67 years old and most of those who fought or worked in that effort were now gone. We're talkin' grandparents generations here!

A few weeks ago I took along my little DVD of "Lost Conversations," some literature about the mutiny at Port Chicago; brochures on Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front Historical National Park (phew!) and gave it my all. They seemed interested enough, though it was hard to tell how much I was getting through with my stories. After all, how would young people -- who in many cases came from single parent households headed by women who've had to work all their lives -- relate to the stories of Rosie the Riveter?

I tried holding eye contact with those who would accept my gaze but with minimal success. The two teachers in the room were probably my best audience, sadly.

At the conclusion of my one-hour visit I invited the class to come to the Rosie Memorial soon where, perhaps, I could make the stories more real and where they could see the "swords into ploughshares" transformation of Kaiser's Shipyard II into what is now a fine shoreline housing development and city park that holds this very moving memorial to the women who had entered the nation's workforce for the very first time. It felt as if I were reaching a bit in extending the invitation -- as if -- with a bit more time the message might get through ... .

A few days later their teacher called to say that the young people really did want to visit the memorial and would I meet them there for a continuance of our WWII experience? They would have to board two city buses in order to get there, but that she'd love to have them do that if I could arrange a time.

Two weeks ago I arrived at the Memorial at precisely ten o'clock as planned to find that they'd preceded me and were eagerly waiting for whatever was to come next. This morning in sorting through photos to add to my collection, I noticed how deeply engaged they were. They were totally present in the moment. I remember how moving it was to me to walk with them the entire 433 ft. of the memorial (the length of a Victory Ship) while individual students volunteered without prompting to read aloud for the group each plaque that was embedded in the time line set in concrete - a time line telling the story of the mobilization and the home front effort of Americans to defeat the enemies of Democracy. The reading was halting and the teacher occasionally pushed through when a word was misread -- but there was no embarrassment. The content completely erased any fear of failure. Amazing! The experience of these young people who lived in this city but who had little or no information about its history to date was exciting to everyone. It was a privilege to participate in their discovery.

When I got back to my office later it occurred to me that this experience could be extended. Next month we'll make the trip out to Shipyard III together to tour the SS Red Oak Victory with one of the men who is volunteering in the restoration of this -- the last of the victory ships built in that shipyard in 1945. She sailed as late as the Vietnam War before being mothballed at Benicia then donated by the Navy to the city's Museum of History.

Whatever made me think that young people in baggy pants and caps on backwards sporting gold chains and fancy sneakers with Hip Hop as their credo couldn't be stirred by something as mundane as local history?

I don't think that -- at the time -- I was aware of just how truly engaged they were. These snapshots are wonderful to view after the fact. I might have forgotten ... .

Quite affirming, really. Something to review on those days when I'm feeling less than effective -- and old.