Womens' History Month observance ... and ... suggestibility ...

I was invited to be the guest speaker at a brown bag lunch at the National Park Service's regional offices in downtown Oakland. It was an honor to be appreciated, though I'm always a little uncertain about what's expected of me. For those who work from an acquired body of knowledge, one draws from accumulated academically-approved research. For me, it's a case of working from memory, and finding them shifting from time to time depending upon the stimulus that nudges them to the forefront. A song, a few lines from a poem, a photograph from some fading news clipping, all have the power to thrust me back in time -- and because of our growing collection of artifacts that lie within an arm's length of my desk -- I never know when something I pick up will trigger a flow of fresh memories that change my presentation significantly. So giving my talk is often like working from a moving target. That constant element of surprise leaves me feeling insecure at times when I most need confidence. It may have been this that set the trigger, but:

As I climbed into the car (all decked out in my ranger garb) with the fancy-schmancy arrowhead decals adorning the doors, I slipped the key into the ignition -- turning on the radio (tuned to NPR) and drove out of the parking lot. From the speakers came the voice of the interviewer in conversation with former Justice Sandra Day O'Connor. They were discussing her recent appointment to a seat on an important commission on Alzheimers disease. I was aware of the tragic story of her husband being stricken years ago and of the heart-breaking effects upon their marriage and her life. There followed a torrent of alarming calls from members of the listening audience describing their experiences with the caretaking of loved ones. These, unfortunately, included graphic descriptions of clinical symptoms that were truly frightening.

As I slipped easily into the freeway traffic I found myself glued to their conversations. During the 20-minute drive into an increasing traffic flow, the feelings of insecurity began to mount as I felt myself tightening up -- as my breathing became more shallow. My palms were now damp and began to slip ever-so-slightly on the steering wheel ... .

By the time I reached my destination and turned into the underground garage (headed for parking space 55 as directed), I had acquired the symptoms! I was in full-blown Alzheimers mode. Though a competent driver (quite good according to my race car driving mechanic), today I simply could not park the car. I inched back and forth between two cars, twisting and turning the wheels back and forth with no success, and finally becoming hopelessly wedged awkwardly "on the bias," until I finally got out of the car to walk to the security kiosk to ask the guard if he would please park it for me. He didn't offer to do so, but did come over to direct me into the space. By then I was completely unstrung! I'd spent about twelve minutes in the vain attempt and my composure was shot to hell!

Imagine my surprise upon entering the first floor to find the security person and the NPS staff member who was there to greet me -- looking at a computer screen at the reception desk trying to hide their laughter unsuccessfully. They'd been watching the crazy drama going on in the garage! Instantly I saw the insanity of the situation and staggered up to the desk giggling helplessly! Through the laughter I told them about my "alzheimers" attack -- and decided that I had the opening to today's luncheon talk.

It worked. I was able to relax into my presentation and decided to never again allow myself to be defined by external forces -- until next time.


Note: If you'll type Sedona into the search bar (small white strip above my photo on the far left side of the screen) you'll see that this curse of succumbing to definition by external forces has happened before. It will appear as if you've not accessed earlier posts because this entry will appear at the top because the word Sedona is mentioned -- so scroll down to the second post and those that follow.

Lovely day -- exciting young people ... the perfect combination ... .

Earlier in the day we'd met with a large group of perhaps 50 students from a Richmond High school history class. They'd come to visit the memorial to Rosie the Riveter; the home front women who replaced the men who were fighting overseas during World War II.

I love the "interpreter" role here in this place. The memorial is such a moving site that tells its story so well with or without anyone's help. It was designed by two remarkable Bay Area women who understood their subject and blended their talents so fluidly that it's all there; the story, the feel of the times, the heroism of the ordinary people whose lives were forever changed, but who have all but forgotten "what they did here."

At around noon the second wave arrived to visit this important part of our new national park. The entire city of Richmond with its many deteriorating scattered historic sites has been declared by Congress to be one of our most recently created urban parks. Some years ago Fort Mason and the Marin Headlands became two of the formerly war-related sites to become a "Swords into Ploughshares" parks. Point Reyes and Alcatraz Island prison make up the other national parks in our region. Port Chicago is a national monument with legislation pending that will make it, too, a national park. Parks established in the names of naturalist John Muir and playwright Eugene O'Neill NHP's are also part of our 4-park consortium here in the East Bay. These are the sites where the nation protects and preserves stories of national relevance for succeeding generations. There are memorial sites, historic sites, urban parks, wilderness areas, all set aside by Acts of Congress to be protected for all time. As Ken Burns' soon to be released latest documentary claims, "The National Park Service; America's best idea." (I'm paraphrasing since I'm not certain of the title.)

The second wave of young people to arrive today were students from the California College of the Arts. They're working on a community arts project whose work is based on looking at the city of Richmond as a living entity. They have been interviewing various community leaders with an eye toward developing a product through which they will try to identify which are the circulatory system, the heart, the source of lung power, etc. Haven't the foggiest idea where I fit in with all this, but we spent almost two hours walking the memorial and talking about the city, my work, my feelings about my work as well as my response to the times of my youth and how that was effected by the war of my generation.

I'm never sure just how much I'm able to communicate, but I liked the conversation as it flowed, felt comfortable with the young women and their instructors. The day was blissfully serene and the weather beautiful ...

Was introduced to yam sandwiches(?), and have to admit that the experience was a trifle strange. My Creole taste buds are tuned to hot baked yams smothered in butter, or, candied with brown sugar then sprinkled with orange zest and chopped pecans. I just may not make it as a vegan ... ever. It may be a generational thing; do you suppose?

Meanwhile, it was lovely day that left me feeling well-used.

The day after my trip north I returned to a very special gift of Dorian-designed happy blue jeans... .

And boy-oh-boy was her mom in desperate need of some genuine happy blue jeans!

One of her instructors, Andres, at NIAD (Nat'l Institute for Artists and Disabilities) led her through the process of painting on textiles -- little different from painting on canvas, I suppose. And how beautiful they are -- and how impossible it is to carry around sorrow and pain while wearing your happiness on your bod!

I have rainbows, flowers that were never wilter, cats and dogs, suns-of-power-to-transform-feelings, and besides all that there is a giggle packed lovingly into each pocket.


I'm planning to light up the very next out-of-uniform event. It wouldn't surprise me one whit to discover that they glow in the dark!

Such finery makes up for an awful lot of stored up misery.

(And, yes, I'm splendid in both directions. The back is gorgeous, too!)

Think I'll go light up a gas station ... .

Black History Month has come and gone ... will it one day be folded in with American history?

Might just as well. As the great Dick Gregory used to say, "...they gave us the month with two days missing, anyway!"

Perhaps that will take a bit longer to achieve, but we're working on it.

This year it was easier -- less of the generic to deal with -- with the great Inaugural events to report on; the trip to Washington, D.C., and sharing thoughts about what it all means.

The city employees hosted their annual luncheon with speeches and great food and so much to celebrate. I'm doing a bit better at the celebrity thing, but it's still not quite "me."

Sad note: I hope you've read the obituary published today at the death of John Hope Franklin at the age of 94. What an impressive man -- and what an exceptional life he lived. The grandson of a slave who rose to great heights as an educator. Black History Month was his brain child. Please take the time to do so if you've haven't.

Another argument for transparency ...

I've been unable to shake the disturbing flood of feelings upturned over the past few days; feelings that grew out of the visit with friends from the past. In thinking back to Thursday evening I realized that -- though many years have passed since our last visit -- the ability to enter into intimate conversation was so powerful and so fast that it was less than an hour into our visit that I began to learn things about Don that had gone unspoken over many years of friendship. It provided further evidence of just how natural is this sense of urgency that is now a part of my everyday being. Talk among peers is rarely "small" anymore.

He is no longer the young husband of my friend, Jewell, and the father of 3 lovely little girls. He is now 86 and a veteran of WWII who landed on Normandy Beach just one day after D-Day. Perhaps it was the fact that we've reached the apex of our lives and are now re-tracing our steps ... I don't know. For whatever reason, he rose and went to his room to bring back recent writings which he wanted to share with me. (He'd mentioned that he was leading a creative writing class for men at his church.)

Don settled back into his chair and searched through a sheaf of papers and came up with a most moving piece of writing. It was his account (read in the calmest of voices) of having visited Buchenwald on the second day after it was liberated. It was brief; little more than a scant half-page; typical of my friend -- New England terse. It was stunning in its restraint -- leaving room for the imagination to soar through the giant empty spaces left between words and the moments of brief hesitation as he read. Time had not softened the impact of the unspeakable images on the mind of this kind and loving man sitting now in this built-with-his-own-hands beautiful home deep in the redwoods. He'd wordlessly communicated to me (his old friend), "this I need you to know." The silence, when his voice stopped, was weighted with the not yet spoken.

Don had been in the room during my presentation at the college that afternoon -- which obviously cast him back to the era of WWII. The presentation placed us both in that history; a walk back through time that we'd avoided over all the years.

I drove home yesterday with a copy of my shy friend's account of the holocaust tucked into my bag -- never ever having guessed that he'd been carrying around those images since they were seared onto his brain long ago. Small wonder that his chosen career was one of compassion -- that of a social worker. Or that he would have been so actively involved in trying to save the world from its self-inflicted wounds. He was as motivated by the horror he'd witnessed as I am by my own family's history -- so deeply grounded in slavery.

Long after the Fords had gone to bed I found myself tossing sleeplessly on the sofa bed in their living room; wondering what kinds of secrets we all are holding to our detriment? Blogging has saved me from taking mine to the grave, but what about others close to me? After Don's revelation I suddenly felt an urgency to know -- to scream to elders around me to please speak their truths to one another. Find someone, anyone, with whom some of the awfulness and (perhaps more importantly) the wonders that we've lived can be shared and lifted from the entrapment of our minds. Which brought up the certainty that dementia is surely one mechanism created by the brain to withstand the pain of remembering the unthinkable.

Is it possible that my generation is as often as not slipping quietly into our graves taking those critical lessons learned with us? Are we bleeding away the power to learn and change, progress, and evolve by silently clutching desperately to the most horrific of life experiences instead of shouting out the warnings and leaving visible markers for succeeding generations to follow?

It was only moments later when Don read a second piece consisting of a short poem: It described in a few words how -- when he was 12 years-old -- while on a family outing, he and his brother had walked into a stream on a dare and only he had returned. He spoke of no one in his family ever taking the time to talk with him about his younger brother's death by drowning. I felt a huge responsibility to react in a way worthy of his trust in me -- but the trauma in the listening outweighed any attempt to find a response fitting to the moment. All I could muster was a timid completely inadequate, "thanks, Don."

It was this double-whammy that set off the depression that followed me the next morning up Highway 101, through from Cloverdale, Yorkville, Boonville, Philo, Navarro, the redwoods, up the Coast Highway past the historic town of Mendocino to Tom's and the intended brief respite at the ocean's edge.

It was impossible to chat idly over dinner that night -- about bank bailouts, presidential appearances on Leno, credit default swaps & derivatives, the First Lady's upper arms, White House victory gardens, etc., and there was simply no place to tuck away the new awareness of the kinds of pain so many of us are squirreling away into the back recesses of our minds day after day as we age into oblivion.

Small wonder I'm having such a hard time climbing out of this emotional abyss this Sunday morning ... .


Yet -- tomorrow will bring another day of increasingly important work and another opportunity to help to shape a park that holds the power to help us to better understand that period of unprecedented social change. A chance to influence the way we examine that history -- placing the bottom low enough to capture the worse of what we've been as a country and a world -- in order to understand (when measuring against today's reality) just how huge is our capacity to grow and change.

What a challenge, and how on earth do I have the audacity to imagine in my wildest dreams that I have the power to do that? I don't. But we do. I know because we've already done it. And I've lived long enough to know that -- to have a real sense of just how that story is ending -- if,

indeed, it is.


Note: See Cbreaux Annex (under my photo above the archives), click to read Don's writings.

Two big events now in the past ... and it's just as well. I'm running out of mental pegs to hang things on.

Mid-week the big public meeting to present and review the General Master Plan for our park arrived. The report is the culmination of 8 years of hard work by some very capable staff people, both locally and regionally. I had no direct involvement is creating it (except for being one of the many voices that mulled over hours, days, and weeks, of meetings in various configurations and levels of dream-makers). The document that is the outcome of all that work is really impressive.

Last week I spent many work hours driving around the area delivering copies to museums, libraries, agencies, nonprofits, civic partners, etc., and feeling really welcomed at each stop. My uniform continues to open doors and produce smiles of greeting. I'm always aware that I'm announcing a potential career option each time I enter into new territory. Feels good. There are always questions from those who have no idea that there is a national park any closer than Yosemite; that, indeed, there is one in development less than 30 minutes away -- how exciting is that?

Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front Historical National Park is still relatively unknown beyond the boundaries of the city of Richmond, but with each new phase in park-building the circle of those-who-know grows a bit larger.

On Thursday afternoon I drove up to Santa Rosa Community College to appear as a panelist for their school's Women's History Month celebration. Stopped by my office to pick up my goodie box of handouts; stuffed it in my car's trunk along with an overnight bag (for staying over with long time friends in nearby Occidental). I planned to join Tom at his Mendocino oceanfront home on Friday morning for some whale-watching before returning home to attend the Rosie Trust annual dinner tonight (Saturday).

Hit a bump in the road along the way that disrupted my anticipated happy holiday. First of all, the panel that was advertised on the widely-distributed posters as consisting of 3 panelists -- turned out about the same as one I'd participated in last spring at the Oakland Museum. The event had been several months in the planning and by the time the date arrived -- I was the only one left standing! The others had passed away ... so sad. So depressing. Upon arrival in Santa Rosa I discovered that the other two women (both "Rosies" over 80) had cancelled out and I was again going to be doing a solo presentation. Except that -- in this instance -- two instructors quickly were added to the mix and did a really credible job of creating the replacement program we needed.

But it set a tone that dampened my spirits and I found myself feeling old and out of context. Those feelings were still clinging upon arrival in Occidental where Don and Jewell and I spent a late evening remembering. It was impossible to not be aware of how much we were all aging -- and of how little time is left now. These were two dear friends I've known and loved since the early days when we were all hard-working members of that brave ahead-of-its-time little Unitarian Universalist Fellowship in Walnut Creek. We'd raised our children together while working toward a more equitable community in which to grow them.

I drove away toward Mendocino on Friday morning feeling a sense of sorrow at how fast our world is changing and wondering just how much longer I can retain some sense of relevance ... .

I keep forgetting -- since my everyday world is peopled by those at least a generation below my own -- that it is I who is out of context. My own generation is making peace with the end times and coming to terms with their mortality in ways that -- perhaps -- I've not yet begun to consider -- to slow my pace one whit. I'm ordinarily not even aware of the need to do so.

Will Time wake up one morning soon and notice that he has forgotten me, and that Age will then arrive with a vengeance and cart me away unceremoniously -- without warning?

And wouldn't that be a wonderful way to make an exit?

It was in this mood that I hopped into my little red Beamer with its inappropriately loud muffler to (prematurely) drive away from Tom, the whales, threatening skies, to head for home along magnificent Coast Highway 1; through the Navarro River gorge with its 14 mile stand of redwoods; through to Highway 128 -- through the Anderson Valley now busily dressing for spring; with the hope that this pall will lift and isn't a signal that I'm reaching another plateau where age will (finally) become a factor to be reckoned with.

I looked back as I drove out of his driveway to see Tom standing in the doorway looking puzzled and patient, as always.

I could never have explained ... .

Walking back through time ...

It appears that my son, Bob, also recently engaged in nostalgia for times past. On the occasion of his Del Valle high school reunion -- he took the time to do something I've never had the courage to do. He returned to the home of his childhood and took his camera along. I've only driven past that lovely home twice in all the years since we left it. Both times were accidental in that I was a passenger in Tom's car and tried to pretend I didn't notice as we took the curve at Boulevard Way. He lives within a quarter mile of 2501 Warren Road in Walnut Creek.

I'd forgotten how lovely it was -- and of how much life we lived there ... times both awful and wonderful beyond measure. This lovely view of Mt. Diablo from the property often returns in dreams ... .

The house was on the market when Bob visited so he had a chance to walk around among the trees and let the memories lead him back. I'm not sure that I could do that, even now. But then I've never returned to the house that Bill and I shared on the topmost ridge of Berkeley; high above the university campus during the 80's. For reasons I've not given much thought to; I've never willingly retraced my steps -- not even to the home where I grew up in East Oakland. Wonder what that means?

I've lost track of the architect, Sewell Smith, the courageous Quaker who designed it. He would hardly recognize his masterpiece at this point. Over the years the redwood 4-bedroom home has been painted and the interior completely altered (according to Bob who managed to walk through). The swimming pool has been bulldozed and filled in and many of the fruit trees removed or replaced by ornamentals. No more wisteria nor any sign of the huge English walnut tree that overhung the deck. The Las Trampas creek which borders the back acreage still meanders through though I'm sure its bed has changed many times since we left. And it's no surprise that Bob thoughtfully included snapshots of a place where raccoon families shared the land with us and where tadpoles could be found in spring.

I'm sure that he remembered those hot summer evenings when he and David (and sometimes Rick) would drag their sleeping bags out behind the pool to bed down under the giant oaks. I remember how disconcerting it was for their less than courageous young mother who watched them traipse out for their starlight adventure knowing that I was almost too timid to go out with a flashlight to check on them should there be a call in the night; certainly not without my eyes cast downward and fingers in my ears! The sound of an owl or the sight of a possum could send me into sheer panic!

Looking at these snapshots reminded me how Biz, a neighbor's loving cocker spaniel used to sneak in at night and join the kids as they slept out. I remembered Helsa, our wonderfully protective German shepherd -- then later Barnaby -- the hilarious Old English Sheepdog we loved so much. The puppies, cats, turtles, rabbits; pets galore who shared that home with us for years on end.

Found myself wondering, while dropping off into troubled sleep last night -- just how well did we prepare our children for the world they would grow into? The pain inflicted by racism surely left its scars on their lives; pain we were unable to protect them from. How fair was I in so stubbornly demanding my rights to full equality at the expense of their well-being? I'm not at all sure that our good intentions compensated for the psychological and emotional damage they were exposed to. Yet -- despite all -- I love the people they've grown up to be. We're good friends who enjoy one another -- and being together when time and distance allows; Bob, David, Dorrie, and me. If only we'd been able to save Rick ... and if Mel had lived long enough to have known all of his grandchildren.

I see what are sincerely affectionate feelings being expressed for Sasha and Malia Obama, and great admiration for their parents. It's heartening to see, but for some of us it has come at least a generation too late.

...but one thing was perfectly clear in looking back at these idyllic photos. Mel and I surely did our very best to provide a good life for our children. Our world at that time didn't support us in that effort.

Would I want to do it all again? Only if I could live it this time with the acquired wisdom and courage that came with years and years of growth and change -- both for me and for the country.

Maybe we were just too far ahead of the curve.


Still missing Rick today, but a visit back to our early days as a family through Bob's photos seems to make it all a bit less painful. Maybe this can be considered a part of letting go ... not only of a son, but of memories of the good, the bad, and the ugly -- all essential parts of life, and in Rick's case, death.

Next week it's back to "rangering," with a panel at Santa Rosa Community College.

How wonderful to have meaningful work with which to anchor a life.

How strangely doth the mind work ...

I've been feeling weary. Listless. Not quite "in or of this world" ... all day.

Just noticed the date as I closed out that last entry.

Today is March 11th. It would have been Rick's birthday -- had he lived to celebrate it. Has it really been ten years?

I'm making progress in a small way. Ordinarily I would have been aware much earlier in the day -- or anticipated a renewal of the pain for at least a week leading up it.

I suppose one never really lets go of a son whose life was cut short.

In a few hours it will be March 12th, and the memory will again fade and life will go on as before.

Writing on my journal has moved down on my list of priorities ... and I've missed it (and you) ... .

There have been many demands on my time of late, and I must admit to some creeping fatigue. Am not ordinarily at such a low ebb as I've felt these past several days -- not sure just why that is, but it could be simply the demands of the past two months.

Found myself a couple of weeks ago sitting before an assembly-hall filled with little ones. I was the centerpiece for the Black History Month celebration at the invitation of the African American parents of Quail Run Elementary School in San Ramon, California. There were two assemblies; the first for K-3rd grades and the second 4th & 5th. Beautiful children who filed into the room and seated themselves on the floor in a most orderly fashion.

It was lovely to notice that this collection of bright little faces was quite possibly the earliest evidence I've actually seen to date -- of the non-majority-majority status now enjoyed by this state. I noticed on their website that one-third of the student body is East Indian. The racial groups in the room represented not only East Indian but other Southeast Asians, Native American, African American, European-American, in almost equal numbers. I suspect -- a number of kids were from below our borders in South and Central America and Mexico, though they were not nearly as visible among these children. It was a veritable rainbow of faces -- the world as it is fast-becoming.

Since this is a very new community with the new school isolated on otherwise empty acreage for at least a mile around -- bordered on one side by newly-built homes giving way to a vista of empty fields for as far as the eye could see. It was a safe guess that these were children of Silicon Valley techies and scientists from nearby Mountain View for the most part and pretty much of a relatively privileged class. San Ramon is also the corporate base for Chevron-Texaco worldwide operations.

One of the parent planners who emceed our assembly presented a PowerPoint on a large drop-down screen of black icons (Dr. King, Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, W.E.B. DuBois, etc.,) -- asking the children to identify each and introducing those unknown with brief bios. This was followed by a choir of little ones singing "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing" (the poet James Weldon Johnson's Negro National Anthem) followed by another small group performing "step dancing," an art practiced in historically black colleges throughout the south. They'd been coached lovingly by another of the moms.

I was delightfully surprised at how well-informed these children were with many hands raised excitedly -- great participation! These were far and away the best informed kids I've seen at these grade levels.

It was my turn, finally. So, seated at the edge of the stage looking "rangerly" in full uniform including my impressive Stetson and gold badges and name plate, I read 3 poems to them -- poems written by black poets (I liked the Nickie Grimes poem best) -- and was well received. I asked as an opening how many poets did we have in the room? Three fourths of the children raised their hands. Great!

Then it struck me: This roomful of beautiful multiracial-multicultural children were only one part of what was before me. As I looked out at the adults in the room, I noticed (seated around the edges of the audience) that every member of the teaching staff and the few administrators in the hall were white. There were 4 African American mothers (the planning group), and one or two fathers.

I'd originally wondered how this assignment fit into my outreach role with the NPS but as the programs came to a close and the children filed out, the African American children and parents remained behind and gathered 'roun with their cameras. It was picture taking time and everyone wanted to be photographed with the park ranger.

I knew then why it was important that I accepted this engagement. In this San Ramon school on this day I was the only authority figure (besides their parents) who looked like the audience! Small wonder that I was feeling almost revered. They'd listened in total silence as I read the poems. It certainly was not because I was a reader of the caliber of Maya Angelou or Nicki Giovanni. Those young ones were awed by the uniform. Maybe (as I often suspect) my garb was announcing a career choice to some who might not ever have considered such. Something that was unattainable to me during my own childhood. I hope I never forget that; or of just how dramatically the world has changed.

The teachers had obviously done a great job in preparing their students for this day. It was evident in their responses. Yes, they were white teachers. But in these days of increasing costs of training -- fewer people of color are coming out of the schools of education, right? Maybe it matters not how open our institutions are to the need to democratize the teaching profession -- if only those who can afford to get into the colleges and universities get to become teachers and if fewer and fewer students of color can do so -- our good intentions will be pointless. Given the 52% dropout rate among minority high school students in this state -- what hope for change is there really?

I'm accustomed to occasionally working before school audiences in the inner city. How different this was. Appearing before an obviously middle-class audience of children who enjoyed privileges afforded by attentive parents and a good teaching staff -- offered a very different environment than some of the classrooms I've been exposed to in Richmond. It gave lots of food for thought on the long 45 mile drive home.

It felt good in many respects to have been a part of something of meaning to those children, and for that I was grateful. I'd had a glimpse of what is possible -- given enough resources, attention from parents with the time and the energy to participate in their children's school lives -- and teachers willing to go the extra steps to satisfy the need for cultural identification ...

It was another good day.

Adventures in the Media ... or, Betty in Television Land ...

The call had come shortly after our return home from the east -- one of several requesting appearances for a variety of Black History Month programs. Nothing unusual. It has been so for the past few years and I've begun to look forward to them now that I've lived long enough to be black history.

One of the early calls came for an on-camera interview to be done at the Pacific Medical Center in San Francisco where I would participate in a video on lifelong learning for the Centennial Commission of the National Park Service. My segment will be combined with others in preparation for a national conference to be held at Gettysburg in August. I was asked to be in uniform and would be filmed for about an hour for what will end up as a brief part of the final presentation. Easy. I've gradually become more comfortable with this aspect of my work.

Because these interviews were all related to either my recent visit to Washington or to Black History Month, I was not prepared for the call from KPIX - Channel Five, in San Francisco. I'd agreed -- expecting more of the same -- only to find myself sitting in the lobby of their building the day after the Medical Center taping, learning that I'd agreed to serve on a panel on the subject of bi-racialism! This had apparently grown out of the feature article which appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle on the eve of our trip. Yes, the same article that had caused me to object to as being out of sync with my self-identification.

It wasn't until the other panelists arrived that it slowly dawned - what I'd gotten myself into inadvertently. And -- here I was in full ranger regalia at an assignment that really required my conservative black crepe suit with pearls -- conservative dignified older woman garb. Chalk one more up to confusion caused by events-moving-far-faster-than-I.

Dana King, news anchor, (also bi-racial), had brought together a small group (4) of light-skinned "African Americans" to discuss "living as bi-racial citizens in today's national scene." This, being clearly related to the racial status of our new president.

I felt totally out of place. I did not feel appropriate to the subject or to the panel since I do not identify as bi-racial. This may seem nuanced to others, but it's very basic to me. Had this happened in any other decade of my long and varied life I might have given any number of answers as to my skin color's effect on that life. In these final years I'm quite clear about who I am and of what it means in the scheme of things. I am African American. Black! No ambivalence about that. I would have it no other way. As stated during the interview, I'm no longer becoming. I'm now simply being, and it matters greatly to me just how that is viewed.

My problems around skin color come from external sources. I look out of this casing, not at it for the most part. Were it a matter of race being determined by the degree of melanin in one's skin, tanning salons would have taken care of this debate long ago. It is not. If it were, actor George Hamilton and golfer Vijay Singh might find themselves with a lot of 'splainin' to do!

I am Black because I've lived the Black Experience. That cannot be changed. The ultimate test for me is that -- if suddenly out of nowhere the sound of Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On;" Aretha's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T!": or anything by Ray Charles or James Brown were to fill the room my head would begin to bob to the right; my middle fingers and thumbs would itch to connect, and my chromosomes to leap up in a grand high five! I can join any conversation in the middle of the fourth paragraph with any other black person who walks into my presence (providing they're not speaking some other language) ... and ... though I've acquired enough culture to know not to applaud at the end of a movement during a chamber music concert ... (along with other folks like me), I secretly suspect that there is no Bach composition that couldn't be improved upon with a little Miles on trumpet, Max Roach or Joe Jones on drums, and Charlie Mingus on bass!

At this age, I'm convinced that there are more cultural than biological elements to race and that they're produced by life experience. I will forever be marked by having grown up under the "one drop rule."

So be it.

I could only vaguely identify racially with the beautiful brown-skinned curly-haired young panelist seated to my left during the interview -- whose mother was "a green-eyed fair-skinned blond" and whose father was obviously not. She made it a point to mention that she operates a camp for bi-racial children (suggesting race as pathology?). Her plight was as alien from my life experience as could be; more like that of our new president. She stated during the course of the interview that she now identifies herself as a "barack."

Bi-racialism occurred in my family during the mid-19th century but we (like most other people of color) are by now polyracial and forerunners of what the world's people are now or will become within the lifetimes of future generations.

But I'm praying that -- what is culturally rich and distinctly different from all others -- will not be lost to the whole. That -- as has happened with my magnificent African-French-Cajun-Creole New Orleanian heritage -- what is African American in the culture will not be sacrificed upon the altar of acculturation.

If we could strip all of the black jazz/gospel/blues influences from America's music -- there would be little left but Lawrence Welk!


Photo: Dana King, news anchor - KPIX-Channel 5.

This has been a memorable week, even more than is usually true in my extraordinary ordinary life ... .

We're in the middle of Black History and at the onset of Womens' History Months; both tend to move me front and center due to my increasingly visible role as a national parks ranger. Since returning from Washington there has been a rise in public interest, furthered by the article published in the S.F. Chronicle just before we left for the Inauguration. I came home to a full calendar of events to which I'd committed before leaving and then spent the last couple of weeks fulfilling those obligations.

Returned late on Thursday evening, so stayed at home on Friday to try to move myself through the time zone glitches and emotional fatigue. On Saturday I'd promised to meet with the Rosie the Riveter Youth Corps -- a group of young high school students for whom I'd done an interview some weeks earlier. They're learning to use media to collect oral histories and I'd been one of their subjects. Today they would be videotaping for a later presentation to the community. Still later (last Saturday) I would be photographed for their project. Easy. Right. It was an unmitigated disaster!

Keep in mind that this on-camera interview was taking place within two days after returning home and before I'd spoken a word to anyone about the experiences in Washington. I'd not even called in to my office on Friday so all of the affect that had built up over the previous week of larger than life experiences was dammed up behind my eyes and in my heart and right in the middle of answering one of my young interviewer's questions I found myself sobbing uncontrollably! Fortunately it came late enough in the interview so that I could simply stop and call it a day. I left the kids looking confused and me -- feeling miserably embarrassed, but hoping that we could have a do-over in a few days when the dust had settled and some kind of normalcy had returned. Offering to come back to re-shoot, I walked to my car across the empty Saturday afternoon school parking lot in the light rain and headed for home dejected but recognizing more fully my very real limitations.

Interestingly enough, they've since decided to not re-shoot the interview. I've agreed as long as they agree not expect me to ever have to watch it. I'm not sure I could bear that, but I'm not persuaded that "keepin' it real" for young people is a bad thing. By mutual agreement, we'll let it stand.

I don't think that I'd realized before the incident that so much pent-up emotion was lying in wait ... and that I really needed to process the experience before I tried to share it.

That's where you come in. It was sitting here at my keyboard that the real debriefing began; culling through the photographs and re-living the moments. I'm not sure what I'd have done had I not been able to share the experience where no one can see the tears or sense my vulnerability ... .

A few more of my 2,000,000-plus new best friends ... .

"The lifetimes of three women" ... starting with Mammá who was born into slavery in 1846 ... freed at the age of 19 with the Emancipation Proclamation ... .

(Still having problems -- have no idea how to get rid of the clone image -- but am posting anyway and will work it out later.)

Have been trying for days to upload the PodCast that was created at the National Park Service headquarters in Washington ... no luck yet ... but I'm still trying.

The reason I'm so anxious to post it here is because I'm having such a hard time making any sense of the actual experience at the Inauguration ceremony. I believe that -- in those few words (the video is about 5-minutes) on camera -- I may have described it all. No amount of thinking improves on those few sentences.

Unfortunately, my camera didn't work for reasons I still don't understand, but that appeared to be true for others seated around me. It may have had something to do with the frequencies in the atmosphere. I simply don't know. Tried to take some photos with my cell phone but it was very new and I'd never tried to take pictures with it before. They're in the phone somewhere, but I haven't the foggiest notion of how to transfer them to my computer.

I've reached the point in my technological development that there are wires and cables and transformers scattered throughout my den -- and I've completely lost control over the entire domain! They've been separated from their "parent" apps, and at this point I have no idea whether they're meant to service the cell phone, my computer, my portable DVD player, the printer, scanner, little rechargeable battery charger ... see what I mean?

The very thin veneer of technological expertise that I've been hiding behind for lo these many months is beginning to give way to Doofus-ness, and there seems to be very little to be done about it.

Until I either figure this out, or, am able to find some Nerd upgrade somewhere buried in my aging persona, I'd suggest that you go to www.nps.inau/ then follow the link for "The National Park Service, Where History Happens." I know it's there but I can't figure out how to bring it here. Tomorrow I'll call public relations and ask them to send a DVD. That may solve the problem and bring back my badly-damaged self-confidence!

Incidentally, except for the staff at the National Park Service, these interviewers seemed to be approaching anyone who they thought might be a "story." They had no idea who I was or how important I may or may not be. It was not personal at all. They were simply searching for the story and I caught their eye; probably my obvious senior status. We're the ones with the memories and the obvious connections to the struggles of the past. On January 20th we became relevant to the young as the carriers of the lore of our times. These encounters with these young black media professionals had the quality of respect and status in this new age that stretches somewhere far beyond cynicism. It was a good feeling; an experience I thoroughly enjoyed. It felt as though in some way I was invited into a partnership in their work. I didn't need to see the final product. It was enough to be involved in the process -- together recording history.






Photo: Top left Jody Lyles, producer of the PodCast at NPS.
Center left: Interview at Lincoln Memorial for Canadian Television.
Bottom: One of several on-camera interviews done at the Lincoln Memorial for various channels.

Visit to the Museum of American History ... and into my own past ... .


It felt as if I'd stepped into a time warp ... and that young Betty might pop up at any moment. Strange experience. There was that sometimes feeling of standing outside myself looking at my process. Crazy!

I thought of Les Williams and Francis Collier, two young men who would later serve as Tuskegee Airmen,and whom I once dated as a teenager. Thought about my young husband, Mel's, vain attempt at serving his country; finding himself a victim of discrimination in the Navy that would have made him a messman when he'd volunteered to fight! And he'd left his senior year at the University of San Francisco to do so. Thought about his lifelong feelings of disappointment at having failed his country when his young friends had managed to bury their humiliation and give it their best. (These are thumbnails so you may want to click on the picture to read the newspaper headline.)

Those feelings in juxtaposition with the historic happenings on the Capitol Mall -- the feeling that -- despite all contrary logic, it has all happened so fast! The illusion that within the past few hours time had collapsed into some alien dimension that sharpened my sense of the pliancy of our Constitution that would have allowed us -- within my lifetime -- to have moved from that awful truth to this new reality. How could this be?

In front of the White House with a few of my two million new best friends... .



Lunch at the Corcoran Gallery. Along the walls is the Richard Avedon exhibit.

On Tuesday morning (Inauguration Day!) we woke to another frigid day; an icy cold grayness ...

The phone had screamed at around 5:30 a.m. The voice at the other end was that of Kathy Hoffman, field rep for Congressman George Miller. She was to be my guide for the day. Martha had no ticket for the seated area and would be standing in the purple section, a place we'd checked out the day before. Kathy was coming in on the Metro and we needed to make some decisions about where to meet in the crowds we were sure to encounter. Our tickets had carried the warning that we had to be prepared to go through security and be in our seats no later than 9:30 for the 11:30 start of the ceremony. Kathy's call served as the alarm to get all that started.

With sleep no longer possible after the shrill awakening, Martha and I (having timed the walk the day before) began to prepare. For me it meant getting into uniform but Martha had decided to not get into full ranger dress since that would subject her to being stopped for directions by the public at every turn. I hoped that - by being uniformed -- I just might be recognizable to my kids back home should there be a camera anywhere around. (Ya nevah know.) Besides, we were theoretically on a working mission and I was on duty -- besides being the congressman's invited guest.

I showered and slipped into my very expensive long johns (guaranteed by the label to protect me from the cold), exchanged my polyester black regulation turtleneck for my black cashmere sweater that I would wear under my government-issued gray long-sleeved shirt. For the second time I wished fervently that I'd thought to slip my little flag pin into my jewel case. I'd never ever thought of wearing it before now. I knew that it was optional -- something added after 9/11, I believe, except for this day when I'd have given anything to have had it with me.

I remember looking into the bathroom mirror and seeing my mother there which brought a grin as I recognized her. Where on earth had Betty gone to? Maybe it was a sign of fatigue that made me look and feel so much older today than I did yesterday ... but I quickly pulled my hair back into its clip (have I ever worn it otherwise?), brushed on some eyebrows with a little stub of a pencil marked "charcoal", and completed the look with a little blush and lip gloss. Slipped into my hip-length regulation raincoat with down innerlining zipped into place against the bitterness, topped it off with my very distinguished dimpled ranger Stetson, packed tissues into my pockets and .. and, dropped the little snapshot of "Mammá", my enslaved great grandmother, Leontine Breaux Allen, into my breast pocket for the long walk past Mary McLeod Bethune and the Lincoln Emancipation sculpture, "Freedman," joining the thousands of folks snaking their way along the 13 blocks -- through crowded sidewalks and empty streets now filling up rapidly with eager "new best friends" from Everywhere, U.S.A. Mammá would share this day with me. It was for her as much as for myself that I was here at all. I was very much aware of her presence every minute of that historic day.

All auto traffic had been barricaded out. The crowd grew to what I would have described in the past as almost alarming proportions as we neared the Capitol, but the feeling of love and anticipation overwhelmed any apprehensions I may have been harboring. This would be beautiful and warm and caring and I had to be open to it. The long blocks may well have been automated since I had the distinct feeling of being carried along on a kind of people conveyer with little sense of effort or strain. It was like being caught up in a great tidal wave with resistance being replaced by something I couldn't name -- as we neared the site where history would be made on this day.

It was now about 7:30. Kathy met up with us at the agreed-upon intersection. We would spend the next two hours walking, lining up, waiting, waiting, waiting, being processed through security, and -- eventually -- finding ourselves seated in Section 15 within sight of the Podium but even more importantly, with a JumboTron close by -- watching this unlikely, previously unimagined pageant play out before us for the next several hours.

Magical!

Top right: Little snapshot of my great grandmother, Leontine Breaux Allen, 1846-1948, enslaved until the age of 19.

Bottom: Homeland Security!

Martha and I arrived at Dulles airport late Sunday evening, January 18th ... .

The flight was pleasant -- the plane filled with Californians flying in for the Inauguration. At landing, the pilot sent back a message over the PA system welcoming us to Washington and the great event. A general round of applause went up from throughout the plane. We were all on a mission!

We had the evening to settle into our little apartment and a full day before the historic ceremony. On Monday we rose early expecting to preview tomorrow. I layered on "smart" wool long johns with a specially-insulated long-sleeved top, added a black cashmere turtleneck sweater then the down inner-lining that zipped up inside my green trench coat, plus black wool scarf, plus ear-warming woolen head band topped by a pure wool beret and wool-lined leather gloves. I was ready for whatever lay ahead. We took off to brave frigid 17 degree weather for the 4 mile walk toward the Capitol Mall. We would visit museums and galleries -- all new for me. Martha had spent considerable time in and out of Washington recently, and had lived there for a time while doing a 3-month detail for the NPS. In the bitter cold, that day, we walked the entire length of the Capitol Mall from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial. Having her as guide removed all signs of fear at being in a strange city among greats crowds of humanity (I'm seriously claustrophobic). Anticipation pushed all of those distractions away. Being phobic just wasn't an option. Not this day.

During the walk I was able to put names on many familiar Greek-columned federal buildings that gave a majestic feel to our walk. Martha provided identification for the rest. We were taking the time to scope out where we would be sitting/standing tomorrow; where the security stations were; to marvel at the thousands of PortaPotties that were standing in wait (all locked tightly to prevent folks from sleeping in them overnight, we were told). We would learn on Tuesday that many had camped out in the cold the night before, and that tens of thousands had arrived on the Mall by 5:30 Tuesday morning.

Learned from the PR staff at National Park Service Headquarters on the day after the Inauguration that the crowd was estimated to be the largest in Washington, D.C.'s history. The next largest being at the gathering on the Mall of the Promise Keepers some years ago. Though the official count published by the Washington Post and accepted by the NPS was 1.8 million, the actual count had to be far higher since tens of thousands never made it onto the Mall to be counted. Martha would be among them since her standing-room space (purple ticket) never made it at all (along with many others including many legislative aides and campaign workers who'd given two years of their lives to see this day). But that's a sad story for another day.

On day two we visited the World War II Memorial and made the discovery of the bas relief that are relevant to the homefront story. By prearrangement we were able to have an NPS guide who filled in much information that was new and which made the visit really memorable.We stopped in to hear a presentation by a trio of African American gospel singers singing songs of liberation at the Museum of American History. I was struck by the huge numbers of young people (teens) among the listening crowd. There was also something intangible but nonetheless clearly evident in the fact that half the visitors to these museums were African Americans from everywhere who would never before have explored these important resources with the new sense of ownership that was now clearly theirs. Whole families were wide-eyed and actively involved in "our" nation's history. In the near future we should anticipate a huge increase in visitation at the country's historic sites and that bodes well for us all. Education will finally hold real relevance to ordinary young children of color. There is now the feeling that -- after a long and painful past -- America's promise has finally been kept. I remember silently hoping as I watched eager young faces -- that the warmth I was experiencing in those moments could be radiating from here out into world ... .

On the Mall were elaborate "encampments" for the news media. It was interesting to note that the largest crowds were gathered 'roun the MSNBC facilility. ABC has a similar arrangement but at that time there was no program in progress and it appeared deserted. Watched for a few minutes when Andrea Mitchell was anchoring a roundtable featuring prominent African American leaders. It was fun to see Usher ( teen idol) for the young who crowded around the trailer that was serving as a Green Room. They were obviously hoping for autographs. It was one of those times when I felt old and irrelevant because I no longer am able to spot current celebrities and am still haunted by the face of an older gray-haired man that I was sure was someone important but I simply could not put a name to. I might have lined up for his autograph had I been able to call it up from memory ... .

After watching for a few moments we proceeded past those gathered around one of the many JumboTrons where re-runs of the Sunday Dr. King concert were being viewed. I was captivated for a time by the giant image of Marian Anderson singing "America" on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial long ago. I stopped for a few minutes to watch and listen. Almost dissolved into tears but the feeling was fleeting. The coming together of so much history was overwhelming. Disorienting. Surreal. Found myself wishing I'd picked up one of those little flags from one of the many vendors along the way ... or that I'd at least have worn the little lapel flag pin that was still sealed in its little plastic bag, in my jewelry box back home.

It's all so different now; as if the world has shifted noticeably under our feet and that a total re-balancing is in process.

I was beginning to understand about "patriotism" in ways previously unknown to me. It is love of country from the inside.



Bottom right photo: Taken at the Lincoln Memorial where my friend, Ranger Kawther Elmi, ( we met at Albright Training Center at the Grand Canyon in February) gave us a grand tour. The Washington Monument in the background stands at the head of the reflecting pool that was frozen over.

Several weeks before we were scheduled to arrive in Washington ...

Martha managed to secure a small basement apartment for us to rent for our 4-day visit. It was just about a mile from the Capitol in reasonable walking distance. It wasn't sheer luck but required some diligence on her part to find a place at a time when there were no hotel rooms left between Washington and Baltimore! It was located on East Capitol within the District of Columbia and was just a block away from Lincoln Park where the Freedman's statue as well as that of the great black educator, Mary McLeod Bethune were located.

The Freedman's statue was new for me. It was commissioned and financed by former slaves to honor Abraham Lincoln. The campaign was launched by a woman who contributed the first five dollars that she earned once emancipated. The plaque is so moving (see below).

I've now lived long enough to have memories that include encounters with iconic figures who are now a part of history. Mrs. Bethune is one such.

I remember being a teenager when she visited Oakland as a guest of a church group or PTA (I'm not sure which), but I recall hearing her speak at the Highland elementary school auditorium in our neighborhood. All I can recall of that day was that she looked an awful lot like one of our neighbors and that she wore a big hat and had a booming voice. I can hardly imagine that one day I'd be standing before this great sculptured likeness in awe of her contributions to black life.

It is the same way that I remember hearing the late great Langston Hughes read his poetry in that same humble setting. Can't remember that I was all that impressed at the time, but then how in the world would I have known that I was listening to greatness? Makes me wonder who among us today will be memorialized one day in statuary and murals 80 years from now? Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt or Steve Jobs and Maria Montessori? Could be.

In preparation for the trip I'd picked up a portable DVD player and a copy of the 7-hour video of John Adams; the HBO documentary. I intended to watch it on the flight in preparation for witnessing the Inauguration ceremonies. I wanted to prepare myself for this adventure in every way possible so that it would be as meaningful as I could make it. Heaven knows there's enough information in every form so that there was no excuse for not being prepared. What little I knew about the life and times of the founding fathers had atrophied over time, and I was about to witness the inauguration of the 44th president of these United States, and needed to know what that means in relation to the original intent of those men who laid the groundwork for this progressive, inventive, colorful, painful, dramatic, and sometimes horrific history that I am so much a part of. John Adams might be key to that understanding. It worked magnificently. I watched succeeding chapters each night at the end of long days of museum and gallery visits ... and, of course, on the night after the Inauguration. I felt that I pretty well understood the intent and the process before falling asleep exhausted but ecstatic at the end of that memorable day, at least to the extent that one could capture all that in a 7-hour series.

Text of plaque:

The idea and first donation for this monument was by Charlotte Scott a freed slave from Virginia, who was residing in Ohio. Having heard of Lincoln's assassination, she told her employer "colored people had lost their best friend on earth". She told her employer that she wanted to honor Lincoln with a memorial and to donate the first money for it. Along with the first $5 Ms. Scott had earned as a free woman, the employer forwarded her request on to the Western Sanitary Commission in St. Louis where the suggestion was taken up enthusiastically. The commission then offered Thomas Ball the work for the $18,000, which had taken two years to collect, all from freed slaves. The slave statue was modeled after Archer Alexander, who is said to have been the last man captured under the Fugitive Slave Act.

Still chewing on that Bi-racial thing ... so before I let it go ...

I remembered why it's so important to me.

It has always been beyond understanding that the country continues to see the issue in future terms -- as if some dire circumstance will befall humanity at some future time, if we don't take heed and maintain those walls of separation between the races ... .

Silly! There's nothing new here, folks, we're as old as time itself.

For as many centuries as we've been deploying armies throughout the world, we've been creating mixed race children. We did it during slavery when the importation of African slaves was outlawed -- slave masters began creating their own "livestock" by impregnating black slave women and eventually selling their own children (yes!) into slavery. After every one of the endless military invasions and occupations in every corner of the world, we've left children behind -- often to be abused for being different from homogeneous populations. And you can bet, in the many foreign countries where today's armed forces are based, there are mixed-race children being born and -- as often as not -- abandoned when occupation ends and servicemen return to the United States, England, France, Holland, Germany, etc., when the dread of non-acceptance back home wins out over honor and responsibility. I do, however, believe this is diminishing in our time.

There are Mulattoes, Eurasians, Indo-European, Mestizos, Creoles, and every other conceivable racial mixture on every continent where conquering armies have ever lived for any amount of time in occupation. Many children were conceived from unions based upon love, but many more were born of sexual exploitation -- as a part of the spoils of war.

Is there really anyone out there who doesn't know in their hearts that we long ago broke through those walls of separation, and that any attempt at restoring or clinging to racial purity is beyond any hope of attainment?

Why, then, is there so much fear of miscegenation when it is a simple fact of life?

That being said ...

Photo: My granddaughter, Rosie, an example of poly-racialism. (See her blog under Creolebelle's weblog listed in the links above the archives.) Alicia Keys, Mariah Carey, Jessica Alba, Hallie Berry, and Keanu Reeves, Tiger Woods, all of my beautiful children and grandchildren, and a host of other public figures can be counted among the bi- and poly-racial population.