I've been side-tracked ever since entering the lyrics to Ebony more than a week ago ... .

It occurred to me that somewhere in the blogger help feature I'd seen the instructions for adding audio to a blog. Suppose I could fix it so that the song begins as the button(?) is pressed. I happen to have in my I-Tunes library several songs I've written -- sung at different times under differing circumstances more than 40 years ago. I stopped long enough to listen to myself singing.

I've captured an online MP3 player and added it to my desktop along with the song I'd stashed in I-Tunes - but that's as far as I've managed to get in the process.

If you can dwell for just a minute on the pure magic of being able to listen to one's (much younger) self singing before an audience with the applause in the background as the song ends -- to drop back into your own history to such a moment ... well. It was something I'll not forget soon. I was mesmerized by my own voice. I felt no particular relationship to this young voice, though I knew it was mine. I was moved by my own singing ... how strange. There was no ego. I judged "her" not, but found myself able to just listen and be caught up in her music without the need to either cringe or exalt. Just to be with my younger self. What a rare experience to live myself into.

Then the frustration set in as I tried to figure out how in the world I could add that music to the blog entry so that you could hear it, too. The instructions were simply beyond me. The technical words meant nothing; it was about then that I realized how far out of my generation I've been living and working.

I flunked geek!

I then got lost for days and days in trying to decipher the language of the audio instructions, and nothing else mattered. If I continue to record my thoughts, that particular entry will move down the page and get lost in the archives before I figure out how to bring the song to life with sound. The little poem holds little meaning to me without the voice and the music, and all of the color drains away from the empty words on the screen.

Meanwhile, if you can help ... .

(Use the link on the left just under my photo where it says, "email me.")


Photo: Taken in concert in Cleveland (circa 1965).

An evening at the California College of the Arts -- a panel experience ... .

Some weeks ago a call came from a faculty member from the college asking if I'd participate in a panel before their students in Community Arts. The subject of the evening would be "Are we living in a post-racial era?" This sounded like a reasonable request, but first we needed to determine whether this was something being asked of me as an employee of the National Park Service, or whether (in this case) it was an invitation to my personal self? Being firmly identified in both worlds after all these years and in many roles, I don't always know. It's an important question in some instances, since without establishing the context in which I'm functioning at any given (public) moment -- quite rightfully -- I may not feel free to express opinions that might be seen as "political;" not permitted when in uniform. It was clear in this instance, that the persona being called upon here was Betty, a private citizen in simple black suit, with no need to be circumspect, but full-voiced and unrestrained.

Upon entering the building where the panel was to take place I was immediately faced with a two huge blowups of a familiar photo of President Obama and his family, set apart by some 12' feet but on the same wall was another of Prof. Henry Louis Gates handcuffed on his front porch surrounded by police in the now-famous incident of his being charged with breaking and entering his own home. These photos set the stage for the evening which was to deal with the subject of whether we were now in a post-racial era. No problem, right? This would be a cake walk. Or would it? Where on earth was the argument? There could be but one answer.

Dr. Chiang, the psychologist who was the other panelist, was new to the faculty, a member of another minority, and someone who would be working from a professional position; from an acquired store of knowledge and a distinguished academic record. This is always a little scary since I'm always working off life experiences with all the biases and the limitations that so often come with the lack of academic credentials. There is no way to prepare for this since I'm always speaking from life experience and what I've gleaned from them, and often with not much more. I tend to simply show up and depend upon an ability to listen closely then draw my presentation from whatever precedes "my turn" at the lectern. Risky, but it seems to work. It's probably an extension of the candor I work with each time I enter anything into this blog.

After an introduction by the school's president, Dr. Chiang rose to speak. We'd each been given 20 minutes -- then would entertain questions from those gathered. I'd learned from his bio that he'd recently published a book on hate crimes in America, and had joined the faculty after teaching for some years at the University of Iowa. (Would I be able to live up to expectations again by the skin of my teeth, or would this be the night that I bombed disgracefully?) What on earth was there to draw from except age, experience, and goodwill extended by the community?

Dr. Chiang rose to stand at the lectern with his briefcase close by, his notes nicely organized, the little gadget in hand with which to move through his well-prepared PowerPoint presentation. He started his talk with the large white screen behind him suddenly coming to life with a large "NO!" and we were off. This was his answer to the question of the day, and he would spend his next 20 minutes very effectively justifying that powerful graphic.

I listened closely; trying to form my response. Working hard to figure out just what on earth I could possibly say that would not simply be "ditto!," "me, too!" But as he spoke I found that I really didn't feel in total agreement with his presentation. In listening intently, I found myself not nearly as certain as he, about where we were/are in history.

As he ended, having made his case, it slowly dawned that my answer had to be "Yes, no, and, maybe." I realized that the experience of the Inauguration last January held the answer. That being that all of those states of being exist simultaneously -- perhaps each in its own dimension -- out of which I'd always had to find my way in order to create my own reality depending upon which dimension was dominating my life at any given moment in time.

Case in point: After several days of moving about Washington, D.C., walking the Capitol Mall among 2 million people of like mind, it felt as though I could have started a conversation in the middle of the 5th paragraph with anyone within arm's reach. And I did. I recall walking up to a total stranger, a woman in an ankle-length silver fox coat (it was 17 degrees!), asking if she would take a picture with me? Her arm quickly wrapped around my shoulder and we embraced as old friends while Martha snapped the photo.

We remained for a couple of days after the ceremonies in order to visit the museums, the galleries, the Department of Interior, and the National Park Service -- and over that time all of my new "very best friends," the revelers, boarded planes and buses; climbed back into their cars, and left the Capitol. Their places were now taken over by an estimated 20,000 Americans who had come to Washington on the occasion of the anniversary of Roe vs. Wade to demonstrate for their cause. It was as though a genie had swooped in during the night and transformed "Yes we can!" into "Oh no you don't!". There were signs and posters everywhere with bloody fetuses and shoutouts of angry rage at anyone supporting a woman's right to choose. They'd been there all the time. These realities exist as powerfully as all others, and with just as strong a sense of the "rightness" of those beliefs. We returned to the airport in a completely different dimension than the one that had brought us into town only a few days before -- at a time when -- upon landing -- the pilot welcomed the planeload to Washington and everyone on the plane applauded!

• So, yes, we have entered a post-racial America -- if we choose to see only those positive aspects of how far we've come without recognition of what is still left undone.
• No, we have a long distance still to go before post-racialism is fully realized, despite great strides achieved over the recent past. And,
  
• maybe, since our place on the trajectory of change could suddenly shift into a future not yet defined, and cynically conceived.

Which dimension we choose to inhabit is still dependent upon our capacity to trust and to love. And it's quite possible that the dynamism of our Democracy is driven by the constant clashing of realities; the waxing and waning of all of those social forces that constantly redefine who we are and what kind of future we're forging every moment of our existence, and out of which comes the vitality that stokes the fires of our passions. Maybe the secret is to make the most of those times when we're delivering on our best hopes, and pray that we'll be allowed enough time to create a mutually beneficial reality that most of us can share. Perhaps the opposition is necessary to keep us honest and ever-reaching toward the forming of that "... more perfect Union."

This Democracy is still a work in progress. Perhaps it must always be; each succeeding generation with the mission to rise to the task of nation-building, based upon our founding documents, traditions, and dedicated to the common good.

So these thoughts and words formed the gist of my presentation (though I never remember the exact words), and it felt right for the moment. But then that was the dimension in which I was living in that hour in that place.



Note: In the interest of full disclosure, I need to say that my presentation wasn't nearly as coherent as it appears to be here. I'm sure that I struggled with it on my feet; finding the right words at the right time to make my case. In the days that followed I've had time to clarify for myself and come to a fuller understanding. But the feelings are real, and were I to have a second run at the subject -- I'm more than ready.

"We Did it!

Joined with Susan Wittenberg (assisted by Barbara Johnson of Rep. George Miller's staff) of Building Blocks (a nonprofit affiliated with Jeffrey Canada's "Zone" program out of Harlem) to provide for a group of local youngsters their first experience of live theater. It was a smashing success! They loved every minute of "This World in a Woman's Hands" and so did we.

Ranger Elizabeth Tucker and I served as chaperons; giving the on-the-bus briefing and serving as interpreters for 56 youngsters and some parents. I could overhear many Spanish speakers as I moved through the group, so have no idea how much may have been lost in translation; but for the sake of their kids, it may not have mattered.

I can hardly imagine a more rewarding Sunday afternoon. The kids were ages eleven through high school age, and as well-behaved as any group we've ever accompanied.

It was pleasing to note that not one word of the script was altered because the audience was young (there is some profanity), making it clear that this was a grownup experience not watered down in any way for them, thereby honoring their ability to deal with it.

I noticed in passing, though, that during the Q&A with the cast after the performance and during the de-briefing en route home only the boys asked questions. Though the girls outnumbered them by far, all were silent. Is this a teen thing? I can't recall at what age I became assertive. The boys were not only highly verbal, but their questions had an aggressive quality -- and were not always on target. There's something about the need to establish a male presence that dominates. Will be interested to learn how others read this.

The Shotgun Players donated their Sunday afternoon performance to these children of the troubled Iron Triangle district of Richmond, including the rental of the huge bus that brought us to Berkeley which was donated by one of their benefactors. We shared a light dinner on the trip to Berkeley (sandwiches and fruit) courtesy of Building Blocks.

I've now seen this amazing play enough times to be able to understudy all nine of the roles, I suspect. And each time I've seen it I feel enriched by the truths this remarkable work reveals. I feel affirmed in my efforts to support those revelations in my work as an interpreter of that historic era.

I'm hoping that these children will grow into this experience; that they will understand gradually but in significant ways, that many of them are the descendants of those heroic characters so richly drawn by playwright, Marcus Gardley. The frustration is that I'll never know if we're making a difference, certainly not in the immediate future.


This week our staff will be meeting with a film crew from the east coast who will arrive to spend 3 days with us developing the scenario for the National Park Service film to be shown in the Visitor''s Center when completed sometime within the next two years. Found myself wondering how yesterday's experience will inform that work? If it doesn't, then perhaps we've missed something ... .

Photos: Remember; these are thumbnails and clicking on them will expand for better viewing.

The stirring of the creative spirit upon return from the first of 3 National Black Caucus conferences held over the succeeding 3 years; this one in Chicago in February, 1968 ...

Ebony, the Night

Verse:
As I lie 'neath the stars on this night of my day
playing the game that some poets play,
find synonyms for black, both poetic and good.
Sounds simple? You try. I do wish you would.
The world made the rules
and established the ante
proclaimed white as sinless,
and black straight from Dante ... .

Chorus:
Ebony, the night
Ebony, satin bright!
Star jewels held in black velvet hands
of Ebony, the night.

Onyx, set with a dream
that weaves through my mind 'til I seem
kiss warm and black born,
jet jazz of love.
Onyx, the dream.

Black image cries behind shuttered eyes
trying so hard to be good
glaciers and skies of ebony lies
I'd sing them away if I could.

Ebony, the night
Cradle me, O night!
Dark chin cupped close in black velvet hands
of Ebony, the night,
Ebony, Ebony, the night.

(copyright 1968, Betty Reid)


These are the lyrics to a song written upon return from that life-altering Chicago conference; one of many inspired by the experience of moving into my black identity fully and completely and without apology or regret.

I am still grateful to those African American brothers and sisters with whom I shared those days of confusion, discovery, and dedication to an American experience far greater than we ever might have imagined. And to those UU's (especially those from my own church) who supported that fateful journey at a time when it truly mattered. I'm convinced that throughout the ages there has always been those who were trying their utmost to "get it right." Unfortunately, much of history has been written by those who thought otherwise.

Witness to Revolution ... the year was 1968.

Received an email this morning from Dr. Mark Morrison-Reed, Unitarian Universalist professor at Meadville/Lombard Theological School, and a noted Canadian Unitarian author. (I can't recall that we ever actually met.) He was seeking permission to include in his new book something I wrote many years ago. I'd totally forgotten about this life-changing experience in Chicago at the dawning of the black intellectual response to the Civil Rights struggle then at its apex. I recall being totally awed by being in the presence of the widow of the poet, Countee Cullen; writer-publisher-historian, Lerone Bennett; "Eyes on the Prize" creator, Henry Hampton; young and ambitious Jesse Jackson, Alex Poinsett; poets and artists and progressive theologians and educators; all humanists. It was for me like being a part of a new "Harlem Renaissance". I came home completely committed to changing the nation and the world. I suppose this has been my obsession ever since that time; if passion is any measure.

Reading this excerpt taken from a much longer piece published at the time, I found myself weeping helplessly this morning, remembering the excitement of those days, and wondering about those with whom this experience was shared.


(October 10, 2009)

Following the formation of the Black Unitarian Universalist Caucus in October 1967, during the Emergency Conference on the UU Response to the Black Rebellion, the first National Conference of Black UUs was held in Chicago, IL in February 1968. Afterwards Unitarian Universalist Betty Reid Soskin (b.1921) a cultural anthropologist, writer and community activist who in 1995 was named“Woman of the Year” by the California State Legislature, who was a member of the Mount Diablo Unitarian Universalist Church in Walnut Creek, CA wrote the following in a letter which reflected upon what the gathering had been like for her.

Mark Morrison-Reed

Witness to Revolution

February 1968

It has something to do with all of the people that I am.
My black. My woman. My mother. My person.
I arrived in Chicago pretty well integrated within my being.
Now: My black wants to fight!
I can feel the weight of the brick in my black hand
and black muscles straining to hurl it!

My woman, to love,
and to somehow bring about manhood through my womanhood.
My mother, to pick up my children and leave the country
to protect my young.
My person, my human, to bring all those I love
(black and non-black) together
and tell them that the me who lives behind my eyes,
the real me, and the you, behind yours,
are placing far too much emphasis
upon the housing we are encased in;
black, brown, and white.

That we're falling into the trap
which humankind has constructed for its own destruction.
Perhaps my fear has a great deal to do with this inner revolution
which is perhaps where the real battles are fought,
the outer revolution being only the physical manifestation of this.

I shall not forget
Mwalimu Imara and the “Requiem to a Black Prince.”
Val Gray Ward and letting myself get lost in her beauty in
“What Shall I Tell My Children?”...
The “Happening” of Gospel Singing for well over an hour
on Sunday morning which started timidly
and swelled in meaning until we were weeping
with the power of the old songs.
I shall not forget.

My perception, which is keen,
saw people bursting from the womb,
still wet and shining...
and BLACK!
What an awesome sight!
Night found me exhausted, unable to sleep,
crying with the sadness of the days which surely must follow
and the joy of witnessing the new birth of blackness...

for the sadness of the white liberal,
whose work in past years has allowed
the first stages of our blackness to emerge ...
and who are now being asked to bear the pain of our growth;
and the rejection of them now,
and the bewilderment ...
the fear, yes, the fear,
yet I sense the pride they feel at our release.

I cry for them.

This was written as a letter, but I found (as I was copying it this moment) that turning it into a poem may be more fitting.

I'd love to see the complete letter at some point. These were the opening lines, but I remember writing far more. I believe it was published by the magazine of the Layman's League or UU World. I'll ask to have it sent to me at some point. I do still have notes I made at that conference somewhere in my files, and perhaps they should be sent to the repository (I believe that's at Harvard University) to add to other works archived there.

I'm considering raffling off the franchise for the popcorn concession at the upcoming Betty Soskin Film Festival ... .

There are enough snippets and film clips now floating around on the various PBS channels to enliven the breaks in Bingo games in senior centers all over the state of California. I've not yet caught the most recent release on air, but did receive a copy of California Communities, hosted by Huell Howser (kind of a warm country cousin type only louder) and I like it. He's the man who brings us California Gold on the PBS channels. I believe that you can also view his programs on the Huell Howser website as well. The star of this one is the magnificent old Ford Assembly Plant now beautifully restored and renamed, Ford Point. Watch for it. Park Superintendent, Martha Lee and I are featured during the last 15 minutes of the program as we are included in his tour of the plant and the anticipated new National Park Service Visitor's Center that will become part of Ford Point some time over the next year.

Our 3rd annual Home Front Festival was held this past weekend, and is the reason I've not been doing much writing over the past couple of weeks. Though a lot has happened leaving much to write about. Will try to catch up this weekend.

Let's see -- there was the meeting at the Richmond Art Center with a noted muralist from UCLA. That was on Sunday and involved a video interview (not for airing but as a way of note-taking for their later purposes). Professor Judith Baca had been in the community for several days holding workshops as a way to become familiar with the people of the city and to find a focus for the commissioned mural. I was approached at the festival to meet with her in the attempt to use my ranger interpretive background as a way to tease out a theme around which to organize the work. It felt good. I think that hour in the middle of my Sunday was well spent. It didn't take long to warm to the subject. This was simply an extension of the work that fills my days anyway, so took little or no effort on my part. In order to fill in gaps I might have left, on Monday I forwarded to her my cover article published in the June issue of the magazine, the California Historian, and the URL to my blog.

Oh -- and then there was the evening at the California College for the Arts (CCA) last week. But that deserves an entry all by itself, I think. It was fascinating to visit the school and to meet with students who were exploring the topic, "Are we living in a post-racial time?" Yes. That. I was one of two panelists, Dr. Chiang, a psychologist whose most recent book is on the subject of hate crimes in America, and recently from the University of Iowa, was the other. But we'll get to that tomorrow; or maybe tonight if I don't fall asleep after Rachel Maddow. Then I may make it to Jon Stewart's Daily Show -- maybe between those programs ... .

Just slid past another birthday -- or at least tried to ...

... but it was not to be. After 80, birthdays are not allowed to arrive unannounced; not while there are those around you who take such occasions more seriously than you do. And when you're the oldest person for at least 3 blocks around. Well! Say no more.

Since the big day was actually last Tuesday; and how does one deal with a Tuesday birthday anyway? There was Saturday when son, Bob and his Margaret arrived for a weekend visit. On Sunday morning granddaughter, Rosie, flew in from Southern California with luggage filled with "window treatments," to replace my awful came-with-the-condo plastic vertical blinds, while never mentioning the word "birthday." Then the Wednesday evening celebration with Tom and his family at a lovely restaurant on the Berkeley Marina, and the surprise staff gathering (Julio's email said, "staff meeting in the conference room at 2 o'clock," and I should have guessed but didn't) complete with 3 cakes and a respectable number of candles that didn't risk setting off the smoke alarms!

Tonight there will be time with son, David, and his family (they were in Los Angeles last weekend), and Dorian for dinner and the proper odes to Grandma. So I suppose the way to deal with Tuesday birthdays is to splinter them into a week-long event. It worked nicely, thank you.

Tomorrow will be the viewing of Grandma on the TeeVee in that PBS documentary which will be its own kind of celebration; then followed by "America's best idea" the blockbuster series by Ken Burns. Big weekend. (Actually, it's already up on the KTEH website accessible at http://www.kteh.org/video-audio/#, if you're interested. Click on "This is Us" then look to the right for Betty Reid Soskin's segment.)

But what I haven't yet mentioned is the lovely little quietly-presented gifts from the cast and crew of "This World in a Woman's Hands" that appeared out of the blue the night I attended the Ashby Stage (their home theater) performance. They consisted of a copy of the script, an autographed photo of the 9 cast members, and a rhinestone tiara! That makes me Queen of the Wisdom Tree and all things Worldly! And the little tiara was slipped quietly into my hand as I stood in line in the lobby waiting to enter the theater. No big deal. Just the way I'd wish that to happen. No fanfare.

The most special dream-come-true is that I learned yesterday that on the last performance of this run -- on October 11th -- the Shotgun Players have arranged for 92 school children of middle and high school ages to meet at the Nevin Center in the Iron Triangle to board 2 buses to travel to nearby Berkeley for the final performance of "This World." And all free of charge. The arrangements are being made by members of the community, inspired by this important work, and I and two other park rangers from Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park will serve as escorts so that we can participate in the preparations as well as the conversations on the trip back to Richmond after the performance. That's what interpreters do, right?

At no point in this experience with the theater group have I had any idea what path this would follow. It was so organic, even from the first contact with the playwright and artistic director 3 years ago. This must be what is named (after the fact) "civic engagement" but I'd never have known how to program for this outcome. In the end, the theater group, the park, the community, the civic leaders, the schools, and now the young people -- have come together around the history of an era long ignored and almost forgotten, and that is now being given life through this new national park, an inventive theater company, and a gifted young playwright.

And it is impossible for me to figure out just what my contribution to this remarkable venture actually was; but I cannot deny that -- though I could never find a word of mine in the script if my life depended on it-- and certainly not in the production -- my fingerprints are all over it! From the first moments sitting for that first read-through, to the performance on Labor Day in the Iron Triangle; to sitting in the second row seeing it fully staged with lights and sound and stage sets on opening night -- I've felt like a collaborator. It's strange and exciting! I'd never in a million years know how one replicates such an experience, but I'm sure that someone has figured out a way to document process and write out strategies for the "how to" of it all. But I suspect that when art presentation is created collectively, and as naturally as this was, there is some magical element that may or may not be present when the more contrived "how to's" are applied. In the end, all of these elements; cast and crew, community people, artists - both visual and performing, civic leaders, youngsters, and "the park" were guided by the magical power of the playwright and his words.

And, to participate as a chaperon for what will undoubtedly be the very first experience of live theater for kids who have been so deprived of so much for so long is such a privilege. And to be able to do so in one's 88th year is almost beyond belief.

Photo: Apples play an important role in the symbolism of the Wisdom Tree.

Back from the edge ...

I'm not at all certain when it began to unravel, but somewhere along the way I began to feel just a bit unsteady, physically. That is completely new. A strange sensation that was more than unsettling. I would start to cross the room and my feet would take a circuitous route from here to there as though unhinged from my brain ... not sure what that's about. And, no, I have no known physical ailments and a recent physical gave me a clean bill of health except for a vitamin D deficiency; something fairly common in the later years.

The drive to Mendocino was uneventful and long overdue. Traffic was light and the weather most pleasant. The fall color has not yet begun its annual change and I wondered if I'd see it this year. I'll surely not be driving this way again until well into November, given the state of my calendar. Maybe. I can't imagine missing the vineyards in full dress for autumn, and the golden aspen against the deep evergreens of the pines. The hills are golden but not in the way that they were with wild oats standing tall and undulating so gracefully in the breezes the last time I drove through the Anderson Valley in midsummer. Most of the tall grasses are now bent or flattened against the earth as if resting while waiting patiently for some sign of rain with which to nourish its seeds that will begin to green the pastures immediately after the first scattered drops hit the parched earth. I felt both a little too early and a bit too late for nature's changing of the seasons extravaganza. Couldn't wait to get through the 14 miles of redwood forest and the last 2 mile stretch to Highway one which opens out dramatically to the great expanse of ocean!

I always feel a quickening as I drive up that last stretch to the top, and the dropping away of urbanism and too fastness! Somewhere down deep my inner amoeba takes over; something primal surfaces and I feel the urge to park my car and take off barefoot on the warm sand -- to run beside the breakers and not stop until I fall in my tracks.

But that was last Tuesday and now I've had my two days of peace and am back in the saddle ready for another round. Returned on Thursday to find that little has changed and that the 3rd Annual Home Front Festival looms large on the horizon. That comes up on October 3rd and involves the National Park Service, the Chamber of Commerce, the School District, the Private Industry Council, Corporations, and non-profits. We're having to be pretty inventive this year due to drastic cutbacks in city and state budgets, so no one is sure how these civic celebrations will be effected by the new economic realities.

Though not as noticeable in the San Francisco Bay Area, the threatened closure of the state parks is devastating to Mendocino County where tourism is the major economic engine now that fishing and lumbering are no longer viable industries. There is a sadness and grave uncertainty everywhere in the north counties.

"America's best idea," the 12-hour Ken Burns series on the National Park System comes at a critical time for us. The importance of all of our nearby national parks will become even more obvious in days to come. We will be called upon to fill in for a large segment of the population that will no longer have access to the wonders previously offered by a great resource now closed to them. Visitation will surely increase for us, and our park is one that is still in the process of becoming and not yet fully matured into its mission. This should be a challenging year for Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park.

Oh; I should let you know that on September 27th at 6 o'clock I am one of the subjects (9 minutes, I believe) in the local PBS production created to augment the Ken Burns series that opens that same night. I haven't seen the footage, so have no idea what they'll be showing of the several hours of tape they shot. Mine is only one small segment that will feature several other NPS rangers and nearby parks in a variety of brief vignettes that make up the hour-long documentary.

I've accidentally caught myself at least once, briefly, in a promo being aired on the local PBS channels, and I'll tell you there is nothing more disconcerting than seeing your wrinkles in HD-TV! Or having folks walk up to you in the checkout line at the supermarket with, "... hey! I seen you on the Teevee!"

It's a mixed blessing ... .

Burnout! ... or ... why the oldest park ranger on the planet high-tailed it to an ocean retreat and endlessly patient Tom... .

Contrary to common belief -- Betty Reid Soskin, mother of 3, grandmother to 5 and occasional Tilter at Windmills and all-around Shero does occasionally run out of gas. I've been running on fumes for the past week or so and have been dangerously close to a meltdown; or so it appears. For the first time in my park career I stood in the middle of my supervisor's office and wept unashamedly. I was furious! And I wanted to be. I definitely did not want to be consoled. It was clearly a PMS-worthy tantrum, and it felt good once the tension had run its course.

I was reminded of a time when my poor puzzled young husband, Mel, tried to comfort me unsuccessfully. He stood there looking helplessly confused asking, "what is it that you want, Betty?" I screamed back him, "...what I want most in the world is never to have to tell you what I want! Poor guy. It made perfect sense to me. But when a woman gets to that point logic has become irrelevant. Reason is an empty concept. Being furious is its own reward. Crazy? Sure it is. It's cathartic as nothing else could ever be. It's happens to me no more than one or twice in a decade, and is always memorable.

Today I closed the books; logged off from my office computer for the next 36 hours; announced that my work was caught up, and that I would head for Mendocino early tomorrow morning. There will be no sounds of sirens or gunshots. There is no cell phone reception; only the roar of the ocean just 90 feet away and the wind in the gnarled cypresses ... lying on my back in bed watching the wisps of fog drift across the skylights ... and the silence ... oh, the silence ... .

I'm taking along the latest book by Toni Morrison and leaving behind the troubling draft of a book I'd agreed to review for Heyday book publishers. I've gotten partway through it, but given the schedule I've been keeping, the contents added to the stress that I'm now needing desperately to escape. It needs reading, but not by me -- not now -- not when I'm feeling so off-balance. It is an important book entitled, "Wherever There's a Fight," by co-authors, Elaine Elinson and Stan Yogi. Subtitle: How runaway slaves, suffragists, immigrants, strikers, and poets shaped civil liberties in California. Maybe what I need right now is something by Nora Ephron or Sarah Vowell, just until the world slows down a bit.

See you on Thursday.

Betty

September 10 through October 11th - Ashby Stage

... and it kept growing and growing into the barn burner it was surely destined to become ...

On Labor Day the last of the three free performances of "This World" was staged for the Iron Triangle community. The first two days had seen good audiences, but on Monday, they came to fill the community center to bursting! Every chair that could be located anywhere in the building was brought into service, and then it was "standing room only", and for a two-hours-and-twenty-minute-with-one-intermission play. And no one left the room before the (imaginary) final curtain was drawn.

There were 6 or 8 little girls (some of whom I remembered from the recent Rosie's Girls day camp) who staked out the front row and turned up all three days for each of the performances where they sat at rapt attention. It was amazing. It was as if they'd stumbled in from the outside playground and found the end of the rainbow. The cast has invited them to attend the play on Sunday at the 5 o'clock matinee in the Berkeley opening weekend so that they can have the full experience with a stage set, projected on-screen graphics, theatrical lighting, proper sound; the whole works. Now I need to find a way to get them there and back, but it'll work some way. Here at the Nevin Center the director had 9 talented actors and about six tall ladders with which to create the interior of a ship under construction. And "They did it!"

The Monday experience was so emotional that -- at one point when one of the characters mounted a soapbox at the front edge of the (imaginary) proscenium and gave an impassioned short speech with raised fist about the need for women to "Stand! Demand their rights to equal pay ... stand! " ... and black and white women, together, shot up from their chairs spontaneously -- as if shot from an (imaginary) cannon! It literally brought the on stage ensemble to tears. No one had expected that. It was overwhelming.

It is not hyperbolic to say that on Monday in Richmond in the infamous Iron Triangle we experienced revelation, redemption, forgiveness, and atonement, and on both sides of the (imaginary) footlights, if only for those two-hours-and-twenty-minutes-with-a-ten-minute-intermission of pure theatrical magic.

Yes, Shotgun Players,

You did it!

(Congratulations, Marcus Gardley. This may turn out to be your signature piece.)

...and I was sitting next to the heroine of the story -- but no one knew, not even she ... .

When playwright Marcus Gardley came to our offices about 3 years ago to begin the research for "This World," we met for the first time. Lillie Mae Jones (whom he'd never met) and I met in the course of my work for the State of California some years ago -- long before I became an employee of the National Park Service. Through the twists and turns of fate, it wasn't until yesterday at the Nevin Community Center when she rolled up in her wheelchair to sit beside me in the audience that I made the connections.

Marcus's grandmother came to the west coast from the deep south to work in the Kaiser shipyards. Like his grandmother, Lillie was one of the migrant workers who also answered the nation's call to join the home front work force during WWII.

Plain-spoken Lillie smiled quietly as the play unfolded. I couldn't tell what she was thinking. Not much gets past her and I was concerned about whether we'd gotten it right. Everything (for me ) hinged on her approval. All I could get from her as I tested quietly was, "it's in-trestin'."

I was reminded of an exchange we'd had earlier in the week when I stopped by prior to a scheduled meeting with a member of Redevelopment Agency. Months ago I'd begun to include the story of the Wisdom Tree on our bus tours. I'd recently learned in watching a rehearsal that the tree had become one of the important themes in the play and now it was important to document the stories I'd been sharing about it over recent years. The bus would stop across from the strip mall where it stood and I would relate the story that had come to me casually from several of those who knew of it (Judy Morgan, the long time president of the Richmond Chamber of Commerce; some of the seniors who were known to meet there from time to time) but I was beginning to be concerned that I may be passing on little more than rumor instead of documented history, and it was troubling. Future interpreters would need more than my word in order to incorporate the story into their tours.

I knew that, at that time, there had been many meetings before the city council when the property was being negotiated that would become the site of the new strip mall, and that there was much controversy surrounding the purchase. The owners of the site would not complete the sale unless there was a guarantee that the Wisdom Tree would be allowed to remain in its place for all time. We knew that it was at least 100 years old according to a botanist on our staff. Somewhere in the city's files there had to be a record of those proceedings. I would soon know after my meeting with a member of the Agency.

The day before that meeting I stopped by to check the story out with my Iron Triangle sage, Lillie Mae Jones, and -- in my typical somewhat stilted speaking style I asked what she could tell me about the tree. I then related what I'd learned, "...I understand that the men in this community have been gathering under those branches for decades -- since WWI. I understand that it has been an important male bonding site for almost 100 years." Lillie looked at me and with head down and chin thrust forward said, " ...them old turkeys been pee-in' on that tree for mor'n 50 years, I guess." I suppose that's another way of saying it, right? Only her way was far more succinct and to the point. Embarrassed, I could hear my own words in the echo chamber of my mind, and wondered when I'd become so pompous? That kind of stuff would never pass Lillie Mae's b. s. detector. Not in a million years!

I sat through the first act riveted to the character of "Gloria Cutting," the central figure in the story, with Lillie at my elbow. This was her life. I noticed how the playwright had made his Gloria grow into an articulate activist during the course of the play - all the while retaining her gritty outer shell. I knew that Lillie had grown herself into a force of nature through a course of study with legendary political organizer Saul Alinsky, and had achieved a masters degree somewhere along the way. I knew that she had established a scholarship program with her own meager funds to see to it that deserving youngsters would make it into a better life than the one she'd known. That fund gave away over $17,000 -- given by businesses and individuals who shared her dream -- the last time I attended the annual awards banquet. She has operated her program for teens within the borders of this troubled community for many years, with or without the support of the city. Due to her long history of service to her Iron Triangle, there is a new housing development for the disabled that will bear her name to begin construction in October. For all that time she has been the bane of the redevelopment agency and any and all who've tried to contain or prevent her good works, or do wrong by those she deems as her people.

Lillie Mae was silent through most of the play but at one point something jarred her memory and she whispered to me, "...they give us jes twenny-fo hours to move out when they tow down the Projects after the wah." Then she laughed heartily as she added, "but we stole dey mattresses when we left!"

Marcus could never have known in the writing of his play that he was telling her story.

I wondered if she could recognize herself up there on the stage?

...and I hadn't made the connection until I watched it all unfold in "This World in a Woman's Hands" without proper stage lighting, sound, with a stripped down stage set consisting mostly of tall ladders, and all dependent upon the talent of 9 young women and their ability to bring it all to life for us to witness. The original music, the fine acoustic bass soloist, Marcus Shelby, who accompanied the stage action so smoothly and so well that I often forgot that he was there (weird compliment, right?). The direction was flawless. The music was jazz-based, and showcased the talents of singer/arranger/music director, Molly Holm, so-oo-o beautifully! The jazz elements were sharp and well-placed for effect. I was particularly impressed with the way rhythmic chirps and bleeps were used to create a racial separation at particular points in the script. It worked magnificently in one scene -- as all of the white women chirped their way offstage after a particularly divisive exchange -- leaving only the women of color on stage. There was a perfect integration of music with script. It never intruded but enhanced each step of the story line.

I will never forget yesterday, and of how grateful I was/am to have been sharing those hours with the most extraordinary ordinary woman of them all, heroic Ms. Lillie Mae Jones!

Now I'll get ready for the expanded theater experience of seeing it all again at their Berkeley Stage this weekend -- where I can do so without the distraction of seeing it through Lillie's eyes -- maybe this time seeing myself; for some reason I didn't seem to be up there at all. But I'm remembering now that this rings true since in the war years I had the same problem. It wasn't my fight. As an unsophisticated 20 year-old file clerk in a Jim Crow union auxiliary, I wasn't all that sure just who the enemy was, or just what sense could be made of any of it. I've never been convinced that there has ever been any such thing as a "good" war, or, that we were the "greatest generation." But I'm fascinated by this work that has allowed me the time and the resources to re-visit those years in order to begin to make sense of it while I still have the ability to re-live them through the arts, the talents, the souls, and hearts and minds of a new generation of seekers after truth.

Whiplash!

There are times when I feel like a yo-yo. That may characterize the past few weeks as I've bounced from highs to lows and back again with little sense of control over events or my reactions to them.

Lay awake last night wondering about just how it is that life as lived within my skin carries with it an entirely different reality from the lives of those around me?

Case in point:

I wrote in an earlier post about the dozen or so young people from a youth group known as C.Y.C.L.E. directed by my intrepid friend, Lillie Mae Jones, from her motorized wheelchair. She'd brought them to visit our offices to experience my presentation, and to walk the Rosie Memorial at Marina Bay Park. There were perhaps a dozen teens. Only a week or so later, a 17 year-old ready to enter the community college this fall was shot in the back 5 times but survived. Two days ago I dropped in to visit with Lillie as I often do when time allows. Lillie is the Iron Triangle district's gatekeeper and a fearless advocate on behalf of its children.

Lena answered the door and warned me that Lillie Mae wasn't alone. When I walked into the room there was a police officer busily taking notes as she grimly answered his questions. I didn't stay, but backed out of the room as inconspicuously as I could manage.

Within a few minutes I'd learned from Lena that a second one of the teens with whom I'd shared that visit to the memorial had been shot a few days before in Fourth Street park. This time it was a 16 year-old who is still hospitalized and (hopefully) recovering. That would be 2 out of 12 -- and are those not deadly odds?

I recalled then reading about the city having made the decision to increase police presence in the Iron Triangle. And then I remembered Lillie's words, "Betty, the Nevin Street Community Center closes every day at five o'clock." The Nevin Center is located in Fourth Street Park. "There's absolutely nothing for these kids to do around here." "The Center closes and they're still hanging around," she continued in frustration. Her fists tightened in her lap and her eyebrows gnarled. It seems ironic that the Nevin Center was recently refurbished to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars -- new landscaping, entrance changed to face inward to the park, fences installed between the children's playgrounds and spaces for teens and elders; all for a park that is closed to idle young people evenings and weekends.

It was so obvious to me. Hiring playground directors and program people for the recreation center so that it might be kept open until ten o'clock or later with basketball, homework assistance, games -- both indoor and out -- would surely go a long way toward changing the environment in the Iron Triangle. Would that not be economically more effective than hiring more highly-paid cops? Every community center in the city should be open in the evenings; everywhere throughout this troubled city. But then I realized that I hadn't realized that they were closed. Does anyone else know? If adolescents are expected to be in school during the day, and schools have eliminated music, arts, and most athletics due to state budget cuts, and the city-funded recreation centers close at 5:00 pm, what good are they except as gathering places for pre-schoolers and moms?

For the first time I found myself wondering (while drifting off) if I couldn't effect some of these weird decisions and be more helpful to the community were I more of an ordinary citizen. Maybe it is time to retire and try to bring some of whatever-it-is-that-brings-me-such-acclaim to promote some change of the kind that Lillie Mae Jones has given so much of her life to? And how on earth can I make a difference from my current position? Can we ever make this park truly relevant to the people who need it most?

I remembered then that - as I was leaving Lillie said to me in great earnestness, "...please don't quit your job, Betty, that was the worst thing I ever did. You're doin' good work."

Today at 3:00 o'clock I'll be in the audience for playwright Marcus Gardley's "This World in a Woman's Hands," a work based on his African American grandmother's experiences as a migrant worker in the Kaiser Shipyards during WWII. The play will be held in the Nevin Center of Fourth Street Park in the Iron Triangle, is free and includes dinner. It will run for 3 matinee performances, today, tomorrow and Labor Day. This will be its premiere before opening for a full run at the Berkeley Stage of the Shotgun Players theater company through September and into October. I attended their final rehearsal on Monday evening and can hardly wait for the full experience as a part of a live audience in the place where those lives were lived.

I'm hoping that the community's young people will be well represented in the audience. They truly need to be made aware that they are the descendants of the extraordinary ordinary people who helped to save the world from Fascist domination 69 years ago. I believe that this Gardley play can provide some of the background that's been missing from their history books, and that has tragically cheated this generation of youngsters of their rightful legacy ... the sense of belonging ... the feeling of being part of something larger than themselves -- that thing that provides the sense of worth that gives life meaning and that just might possibly provide for today's children the now-missing will to survive in an often unsympathetic world; a world where their only power seems to be the ability to instill fear in others.

Lillie Mae Jones will be in the audience today. I can hardly wait to experience this with her. She and Lena helped to spread the word about these events so that -- just maybe -- some of those kids will be in the audience as well. I'm told that Lena went from door-to-door to try to bring out the audience to witness the telling of their own stories.

.. and I suppose that I'm one of the still-living links between our times and theirs ... would that be enough reason to continue doing the work? Maybe so, if only because I'm convinced that real change comes not from edicts nor from mandates, but through the arts in all of its forms. And that as long as I can act as a conduit through which those connections can be made, there is a reason to continue.

I've been invited to participate in a community mural project by a contractor who is working with the Richmond Art Center ... and there's the newly-formed committee to give greater visibility through the arts to the tragedy at Port Chicago ... over the next year and beyond ...

Yes!

Magic happens when one's work starts to merge with the art-making of others ... .

Spent the afternoon in the audience of a new play inspired by WWII, Rosie the Riveter, and the home front stories. "Rivets," a delightful musical, was staged on board the SS Red Oak Victory, the last ship built and launched in the Kaiser shipyards during 1944.

Her #2 Hold had been cleared of all of the clutter that's been accumulating over the many years since she was towed from her berth in the mothball fleet at Mare Island to be reprieved for an extended life as a part of the Rosie The Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park. After serving in the South Pacific theater during WWII, and ending her seagoing in the Vietnam war, her decks now serve Sunday morning pancake breakfasts to Bay Trail walkers and cyclists during the summer months, and a Thursday evening film series from that era (this week saw the last in this summer's series, "The Best Years of Our Lives") hosted by our NPS interpreters. I can only imagine how thrilled the young cast of "Rivets" is to be recreating those stories in the very place where they were lived; in the #2 Hold where the stage is expansive and the audience seated on folding chairs in a semi-circle -- close enough to touch.

The many subplots are carried along by a rousing musical score, but what marred the performance for me was the need to force myself to allow the playwright the freedom to create a reality of racial mixing on stage that would not have occurred in that time period in that place. The conflict was not in the work but in the contradictions in real time -- and mostly in my own head. What is possible today on stage would not have been allowed in the reality of life as we lived it during those years. And, after all, is this not precisely what we were working toward? Would I wish it otherwise? Of course not!

Black and white folks during the war years shared working spaces (albeit on an unequal basis), but socially it would not have been possible. The scenes in the play where black culture was reflected through song and dance, the cast was (necessarily) racially integrated. It was the only way the scenes could be played. But here in my head were those memories that screamed that black servicemen and women were not served by the USO, and that Sweets Ballroom near the shores of Lake Merritt in Oakland had 3 nights for public dancing, one for whites, one for Latinos, and another for African Americans. Never were we in the same places, socially, at the same time. We entertained black servicemen in our homes, or, at San Francisco's Buchanan Street USO, for blacks only.

I found my mind wandering during the intermission, wondering -- in light of the upcoming Home Front Festival (weekend of October 2nd) -- if those conversations about the USO dance being a strictly segregated activity ever occurred? Have those who are resurrecting it as a feature of the festival understood what those barriers meant to black workers? I'm wondering if -- in our racially diverse city -- just how today's community people can deal with that reality? There are so few of us still alive who remember, that maybe it's no longer an issue. Should it be? I'm not at all sure. What can possibly be gained by making others aware of such old pain? But what will be lost by ignoring those experiences?

Maybe, as in Rivets, we should all simply revisit that miserable past with eyes wide open so that we can -- belatedly -- begin to process that history -- but this time, together, from the same side of the racial divide.

This is precisely what playwright Kathy McCarty and her multiracial cast of talented young people are doing. By their example; by their ability to confront those painful issues from a position of love; they may well be setting the stage for the next phase of this unpredictable and imperfect reality that we share, across races, cultures, and generations.

As I walked down the gangplank as the sun was setting, I could hear ringing in my ears the words "...in order to form a more perfect union...".

Photo: Yes, that would be me in the center with Kathy McCarty (in blue) on my left, surrounded by members of the cast.

I'm puzzled at how touched I am by the passing of Senator Ted Kennedy ...

...almost as though he were a beloved friend -- someone with whom I'd shared life experiences. Strange. All the more strange because the feelings bubbled up from a place inside about which I was unaware; a place where resistance to his magic had been locked over many years.

I was in his presence only once. Some years ago I attended a Congressional Black Caucus weekend in Washington, D.C., where then president, Jimmy Carter, addressed the crowd at the Hilton Hotel gala. Carter was a simple and unassuming man who appeared comfortable in this African America crowd and his few words of welcome were less impressive than the fact of his being there. I remember feeling the thrill of simply being in the presence of a president of the United States.

Just before he arrived other dignitaries greeted the crowd. I can remember feeling more than a little put off by Teddy Kennedy who seemed to push his way through the crowd to get to the mike, and who greeted us brashly with a feigned southern drawl overlaying his thick Boston accent that was condescending -- insulting. I remember coming away with very mixed feelings, including the suspicion that he might be drunk. The table where we were seated was too far away from the podium to be certain. I can't recall ever speaking of those feelings with anyone since. Maybe I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, or, maybe there was some hint of greatness to come. I truly don't know. But, for whatever reason, those old unexplored feelings were nowhere in sight as I listened to the eulogies of those close to him. The incident surely came to mind, but it was now in context. This was a part of who this giant teddy-bear of a man was. Maybe taking on the idiom and cadence of blacks to the extent that he could was simply a part of his reaching out. And ... maybe it was no more than an embarrassing display of bad taste. Perhaps it was an example of a man desperately wanting to relate. While listening to his wife, his children, nieces and nephews, those with whom he's worked over the past 47 years to improve life for the least of us, I felt the resistance melt away. In its place came the tears, and a willingness to believe that many have been inspired to carry on in his wake and that "the dream will never die."

There are those who have walked among us who touched lives far beyond their reach, times, or exalted stations in life. Is this what we've come to recognize as immortality? Few reach that level of eminence, but surely this man did, and he did it -- not by becoming godlike -- but by retaining his humanness to the end.

Could it have been because he was obviously flawed, mortal, vulnerable? Perhaps.

Watching and listening to his humanness as described by countless friends and those with whom he sparred politically over time has been so revealing -- as much about something within ourselves as about this imperfect man who grew into his greatness without leaving the essential "Teddy" behind.

Even from this great distance, the contagion of the Kennedy Dream may live on through those who will succeed him.

And maybe -- at least for this weekend, we're all Kennedys.

Okay; so now that I've dug in with fingernails (no easy feat with balled fists!) to climb back on the planet ...

where do we go from here?

Surely it was the contrasts lived out over the past couple of weeks that knocked me off kilter ... hitting the stratosphere with Rosie's Girls one week then plummeting without warning to the depths as the sirens screamed relentlessly on mean streets and talk radio pundits smirked their hypocrisy hour after endless hour reminding me that it is sheer madness to pay cable for the privilege of allowing them into my home to corrupt my sense of well-being by creating the illusion that what is local is universal and that the whole world is aflame ... .

Fortunately, most of life is not lived at those extreme edges, but somewhere in the middle -- and today it appears that I've regained my equilibrium and -- if I stretch tall enough -- I can again peer over the countertops of life. Trauma is known to reduce even the apparently invincible to 6 year-old status, and that's about where I wound up last night. A good high-volume unrestrained sobbing session combined with a hot cup of Swiss chocolate with or without marshmallows does the trick if backed up by enough years of good psychotherapy, reminders of a loving family, good friends, and meaningful work to fill the days.

Resilience, thy name is Betty.

Allright. Now let's talk about the real reason I've not been writing this past week ...

He was seventeen and expecting to enter Contra Costa Community College this fall semester. (I can still see him in my mind's eye, a handsome dark-skinned youth, neatly-dressed, seated at our conference table just two seats over listening intently). This youngster was one of about a dozen local kids from a program known as C.Y.C.L.E. Their director is Ms. Lillie Mae Jones, a feisty aging Saul Alinsky-trained community organizer and activist who is my friend, and who has been conducting a program for disadvantaged youngsters in Richmond's troubled Iron Triangle neighborhood for many years. And what makes this story the more poignant is that Lillie Mae conducts the program from her wheelchair and has done so for as many years as I've known her.

One morning just two weeks ago, my friend, and her daughter and very capable assistant, Lena, called to ask if it would be possible for me to conduct a guided tour of the Rosie the Riveter Memorial for her summer youth program. "We have our own van, and can be there in a few minutes." With only an hour's notice, my ranger partner and I quickly organized a mini-tour.

As Elizabeth and I ran through our PowerPoint and my short "Of lost conversations" DVD in our conference room, I noticed how rapt were those kids, and realized how unknowing they were about their own local history. It was a great morning, and though they drove ahead while I took care of some items waiting at my desk, the adventure ended up with my joining them at the Memorial in Marina Bay Park where we walked the time line of WWII together, and read each panel aloud and talked about meanings. It was rangering at its best, and I felt rightfully "in the moment."

Lena phoned me at home later that evening to say how moved she had been by our presentation and of how excited the kids were; how animated was the talk on the way back to their center.

Just two days ago I learned that our 17 year-old student had been accosted on the street by an assailant and shot 5 times in the back! That he had survived the murder attempt but may be suffering permanent physical damage. The psychological damage must be overwhelming. The kind of hatred that would bring 5 shots to the back might well indicate that the shooter will return at some point -- and ...what does one say or do in the face of that kind of awfulness?

And ... what are the relationships between my earlier post (below) and this one? And why have I held the story for so many hours without sharing it with anyone, not even with my co-workers?

Is it just an illusion that putting it into words makes the terror more real?

I truly don't know.

"Leave the guns at home", says EJ Dionne, Washington Post columnist ... .

There has been little or no comment on the differences or similarities between Mr. Dionne's thought-provoking and moving editorial which brought to mind the chilling and long-familiar images of the Black Panther Party marching in formation -- fully and legally armed -- through the halls of the State Capitol in Sacramento during the early Sixties. That act ushered in the era of CoInTelPro and the relentless and brutal siege staged against black militancy, nationwide, over the following decade. With militias now blessed with legal permission to publicly arm themselves in many states -- and with the NRA fiercely defending their 2nd amendment rights -- is skin color the only difference? How were J. Edgar Hoover and his FBI justified in shutting down black militancy by use of deadly force then, and where are those powers now? What has changed? I'm not at all sure of the answers to this new and seemingly irrational show of force -- and this time not by our government but by the citizenry -- nor do I support or defend the Panther's deliberately provocative strategy back in the Sixties. It's the loss of control over the issue that is so disturbing.

But the irony was inescapable -- of the young black brother decked out in his strapped-on shoulder holster assault rifle plus his openly displayed revolver; given that history. Out of what rabbit hole do you supposed he climbed? About the time that his image slid into view -- being interviewed by a white dude with a revolver strapped to his leg(!) -- I found myself giggling helplessly! Testosterone on the rampage! What in the world? It was about at that point that the "deja" became completely unglued from the "vu" and I lost it! Maybe laughter is the only defense reasonable folks can have to such behaviors; but surely that isn't enough. Something critically important to our survival may be at risk here; something activated by decades of unending war and ceaseless urban violence. Have we become so desensitized that we've lost the ability to respond appropriately? This morning the grin has disappeared and my skin crawls with fear for what may lie ahead ... .

We graduated our Rosie's Girls yesterday and a prouder gaggle of grownups have rarely been seen ...

The girls were gathered in a circle at the head of the community room at the Coronado YMCA -- seated in beautiful chairs they'd constructed from scratch and painted in every shape and color imaginable after their introduction to the use of power tools. Such a proud collection of happy faces is rare, indeed.

There were proud parents (mostly moms), two of the NPS women equestriennes from Fort Mason who'd met with them during the session; several Sheroes who returned to be with them on this final day of the program; members of the City's Public Works Dept. who had been in on the project from the start; the director of YouthWorks, a city summer job's program into which many of the girls will transition for the rest of the summer; members of the Richmond Police Dept., YMCA staffers, some funders (including Chevron/Texaco and Wells Fargo Bank), and as many rangers as are in our management system. What a day! If grins were dollars we'd have made up the richest collection of wealth on the planet.

Our Rosie's Girls spent Thursday night aboard a submarine moored in the San Francisco harbor and were still excited! They wished for "just one more week." As for the adult leaders, immediate discussions were already initiated -- hints of plans for next year. Burned out? Hardly. Even Ms. Vanessa "Mom" Calloway," their intrepid program director, appeared ready for another round. The community came together to make this happen and is ready to roll up its sleeves to continue to develop its model.

As an aside, there were moments -- especially after being drawn in against my will to present as a shero last Thursday -- that I truly felt irrelevant and old. My age placed me so far beyond even the imaginations of these youngsters that I found it almost impossible to relate to them - at least not from that perspective. I was perfectly at ease as just another adult figure in the room; on human terms, which holds its own value. But when re-introduced to them as a "Shero" I stumbled and felt incoherent. The distance between was simply too great and the time line impossible to comprehend. I felt embarrassed standing before them . I could have been their great-grandmother, ferheavensake! Until that point, I'd been simply, "Miss Betty," a comfortable being in the room. We'd been together a number of times, but now I was setting myself apart -- or so it seemed. I'd become a "Shero," and it felt different somehow.

I know when my presence is relevant and contributes to events -- and when it does not. It's a feeling thing. Perception. Hard to explain without sounding self-deprecating. Yesterday I wanted to simply be in the room, uncelebrated, blending in -- and regretted being singled out in any way. Fortunately it was short-lived; a gesture of little consequence, after all. But it may have heralded a new phase in the aging process. Will I begin now to find myself in places where I've lost relevance, really? Was it because I have grandchildren in the middle school years and with whom my relationship is clearly-defined -- where their love and respect is unquestioned but -- are they impressed with Grandma's exploits? -- a little, maybe, but that's old stuff. My sons are far more taken with their park ranger mom and her derring-do. Maybe one generations is about as far back in time most of us can go before we lose focus.

Maybe that's it.

Photo: Victoria Jones, Vice-president of Clorox Corporation, who visited on Tuesday, August 13th.
Pamela Freund-Striplin, Violist for San Francisco Opera, Symphony, and Artistic Director for
the Gold Coast Chamber Music group of Lafayette, California.