This beautiful young woman's name is Nadiyah Sherref; and you'll be hearing more from her in the future ...

Nadiyah is a GirlSource student who has completed her training and -- at 22 has returned as a member of the staff.

She gave the welcome address which was relatively brief, but in those few moments we learned that she'd entered the program in her early teens after some encounters with the juvenile justice system; had completed her highschool requirements in the program; had graduated from college; and in June is traveling to Washington, D.C., where she is leading a training program for young women.

And,  Nadiyah stopped at my table and shared the news that she has been accepted into law school.

On the way home when the celebration had ended but I was still in my paper hat, I found myself wondering if we're paying enough attention to those programs that are truly making a difference, and whether we're supporting these efforts in ways that will keep them thriving?  The souvenir program states that this was their 27th year, so that means that this wonderful experiment has stood the test of time, and now has a proven track record.

I'm wondering how to support their work in ways that might have meaning?  Empowering young people should be the justification for old people to continue to inhabit the planet, right?  On the cover of the souvenir program the words, "Wisdom Inspires Youth" are featured.  If so, I need to brush up on my sources so that I can continue to provide whatever it was that brought me to their attention.  I suspect that the other two honorees share this sense of awe at this remarkable organization and the young women who are leading it.

From the program:

 GirlSource envisions a world free of poverty and oppression by unleashing the potential of young women to transform their lives and their communities for generations to come.

Photo:  Bottom pic was taken at my home during the interview conducted by a team of about a half-dozen young women in the media program.

The honor of all honors -- I was among this year's 3 WAVE  (Women of Achievement, Vision, and Excellence) award honorees ... .

bestowed lovingly by GirlSource, the innovative and life-giving program that is changing lives of adolescents who -- in many cases -- have been abandoned or thought damaged beyond redemption -- and releasing them into futures filled with promise. 

I simply wasn't prepared for the emotions that churned up from somewhere deep within.  Found myself sitting with several hundred others in the beautiful banquet room of San Francisco's Nikko Hotel witnessing the rolling out of my own life across decades of an ever-evolving Betty Reid Soskin.  That, in itself, was not a new experience.  As life would have it, I've been able to watch myself in extended interviews more often than not of late, and have gotten pretty used to looking beyond the inevitable self-criticisms to a fairly objective view of Betty on Camera.  What was, though, was that my far younger self was sitting there with me.  It was an unexpectedly emotional experience.

Several weeks ago when that crew of young documentarians from GirlSource -- with their instructors -- arrived with mikes and cameras to gather the raw material from which they would produce a 10 minute video for presentation at the yesterday's celebratory luncheon, they took away not only images from many that line the walls of my den or from my blog, but they took away 3 original songs on a jump drive as well.  I had no idea what magic would be produced by editing, and there wasn't the luxury of time to worry too much about what that might be -- what with Dorian's travails and the demands of my work of late.  As a rule, I don't ordinarily carry over very much "stuff" from day to day, but tend to live life as one grand improvisation; in a constant state of surprise.

There I was, yesterday, surrounded  by family and friends when my life (the last of the 3 presentations) began to unfold on a giant screen.  I became an audience to myself, and was pushed into another realm of consciousness by my own voice from over 40 years ago ... singing ... it was fresh ... and clear ... and quite beautiful; and so young!  It filled the room. The music was so lovely; an unforgettable moment in time. And, strangely, there was little ego involvement.  This was just a vaguely familiar young voice of a young mother rising out of a tangled and often troubled past; kind of "once removed."  And, here "she" was being presented publicly in a grand hotel in San Francisco before an audience which included me!

The moment brought sudden tears and I felt completely unhinged!  In a few minutes I would be invited with long distance runner, Sister Marion, and former cabinet member under President Carter, Arabella Martinez; the two other WAVE honorees, to be seated on the dais.  I'd need to "say a few words" for which I was now totally unprepared.  Oh, I'd informally rehearsed 3 minutes of thanks while talking with granddaughter Rosie the night before, but now those few sentences had escaped into the void left by the experience of being crowded out by my younger self and I couldn't remember a bit of the "few words" that had Rosie's approval.

I think it was she who rose to the occasion; she, the long hidden, vulnerable, and suppressed Betty who had experienced this sudden unveiling into the glare of the reality of the 21st Century.

I have no idea what words rose from somewhere deep inside, but they felt right in those moments.

The Poet, Betty, has finally emerged from the shadows.  Whatever will I do with her now?

The most important thing that happened may be that her presence served as confirmation that long ago I'd made the right choices.  I'd opted for my children and supporting their lives instead of chasing the seductive influences and possibly lucrative career of being a performer.  How could I have known that there would be such recognition in these final years by a world she could not have imagined? 

Maybe the tears were the result of the complete integration of all of my selves yesterday, and that at long last --  my poet has taken her rightful place among them.

Photo:  Posters from GirlSource of girls who were in yesterday's audience.

Will two twenties cancel out a pet theory about the power of giving for Dorian?  If so, how? 

When full realization set in that our only daughter and youngest child had suffered brain-damage from birth trauma, it was devastating.  Not only was I struggling with bringing up 3 little boys, but was doing it at a time that offered little in the way of help in the form of research into the field.  The mentally-retarded were still being hidden behind closed doors, and were segregated from "normal" children in educational settings.

Not only that, but I had little exposure to other parents of children with mental disabilities and was left alone to try to "read" my special child for clues for the parenting she would need in a world not designed to support or protect her.  That was probably the wisest course one could follow since my "reading" of Dorian proved to be the most valuable asset as the years piled on.  When it became obvious that she was functioning at the level of the retarded, she was about 18 months.  I'd depended upon the works of "The Child From One To Five" by Gessell & Ilg," child psychologists whose work was the guiding force in the field at that time.  I'd bought the complete 5-volume set when we adopted Rick, and before I felt competent as a parent (does one ever?).  I remember telling Rick on his 13th birthday, "we'd better read this together, hon, cause if it's right we're going to hate each other by the time you reach 16!"


When Dorian was about 5 and I needed to enroll her in "the World", I visited the local elementary school to learn about what that scene would be like for my special child.  When I walked into the portable where such children spent their days, the classroom was quiet.  They were brought to school each day by a special bus, and spent their time separate and apart from other children.

There was a teacher seated on a low stool holding up flash cards to several children who were attempting to parrot back the large printed numbers.  There was a sadness that I was unaccustomed to.  Dorian was loved by her brothers and fared pretty well in social situations.  As a family, none of us were scarred by the deficits she would carry for a lifetime.  At home and in most social situations she seemed well accepted and psychologically healthy.  She developed early the capacity to stand her ground and knew how to get her needs met.

I chose not to enter her into the public school system, but chose an alternative; a decision I've never regretted.

After spending about an hour I approached the teacher to ask if there was music in the classroom, and that I'd be happy to volunteer to bring my guitar and sing with the children on a regular schedule.  I told them that I'd learned from my daughter that what I said to her may or may not be retained, but that what I sang to her was clearly integrated immediately and remained with her as a guide.  However, there was no literature to back this up, it was one of the many techniques I discovered along the way. I made up songs that we shared that covered the rituals of our daily lives.  I was told in no uncertain terms that the school district could not allow the untrained into the classroom with these fragile children.  Nonsense! 

As it turned out, later psychological testing confirmed that Dorian had developed  rote memory skills as compensation for the brain-damage, and that this, combined with the music that was so important in our household -- made it possible for her -- at the tender age of 8, to repeat back in proper sequence 22 items in the camping fireside game "I took a trip, and I took along ...".

I learned to trust myself where her training was concerned, and over time my observations turned up some truths that have had lifetime implications.  For instance; I learned that those who were the givers in life experienced growth and made out more successfully than those who were takers.  This was a strategy that could be taught that might determine how she was viewed by the world.  It's the reason that she's been crocheting miles and miles of "gifts" over time, (scarves, afghans, bed spreads,) and presenting them to others who are so visibly touched by her generosity that she gets immediate and life-affirming feedback.  Dorian has created over 500 colorful afghans for wheelchair patients who reside in nursing homes.  Whenever she's produced a couple of trash-bags full, we drive to an institution where she presents them (a dozen or so at a time) to appreciative patients with nursing staff beaming and cameras snapping.  Dorian is a Giver Supreme.

She has been in 4 nursing homes for rehabilitation since the accident at the end of November.  She has created gifts of her handiwork for staff and patients, alike.  I've now invested considerable dollars in skeins of yarns in a variety of colors.  I consider this as occupational therapy that maintains her sanity and good spirits despite the dim prospects for her eventual release back into the world with physical in addition to mental challenges to adjust to for the balance of her life.

Last week, as I was placing freshly-laundered clothes in her drawer two twenty-dollar bills crackled up!  Dorian looked guilty and reached frantically for the money.  I yielded and returned it to her. Her reaction was startling and I wondered ... she quickly crushed them into the pocket of her sweatshirt. Had her brother David stopped by and given her $40 for incidentals?

My mind made a giant leap into the irrational -- why would anyone want to chip away at her reason for being?  But then, how could anyone know the importance of being a giver if no one told them about our longstanding formula for living a life of meaning?  Obviously some well-intentioned person wanted to compensate her for her work and had gladly given her a "tip." Why would they not want to contribute something to her for the work?  Was I robbing someone else of their ability to express generosity?  Is the concept too subtle to serve her needs -- did this simple philosophy only serve mine?

I was confused and felt resentment for no reason; except that it may be that one of my theories had been corrupted.  I knew that I didn't want Dorian's gifts to become commodities for cash.  This felt so terribly important.  She's learned the satisfaction of "earning" at the National Institute for Artists and Disabilities through the arts program where she gets 50% of the price of any sales of her work.  Giving carries with it the factor of growth of a kind that acts as an equalizer in human relations; a faculty not dependent upon mental capacity.

I asked if she wanted me to deposit it into her savings account (the fund where she saves her NIAD checks for summer vacations).  I suspect that, in fact, I was trying vainly to remove any hint of contamination of a principle -- so -- out of sight out of mind?  But I was missing something important; underestimating her ability to have learned the difference for herself?  It won't be the first time.  There have always  been surprises; in the way of the unpredictably complex effects of brain damage. 

She said, "No, Mom.  I need it for Mother's Day."  I'd spoiled her surprise.

Perhaps there is no harm done, after all.

But then ... .

Photo 1:  Dorian at 4 months ... before we knew.
Photo 2:  Bob and Dorrie taken in our backyard under the oaks ... after we'd learned.
Photo 3:  Dorian Leon Reid  on graduation day at St. Vincent's Academy in Santa Barbara.

Enjoy! 

It was a remarkably sophisticated evening of theater in Richmond.  The house was full and the audience amazing coming together of women across lines of, race, ethnicity, and politics, and even generations -- now to find ways to further this experiment in civic engagement.   I'm not sure that the creators of the concept had this in mind when it developed the manual, but I believe we nailed it in our community.  Violence Against Women and the Rape Crisis Center were the beneficiaries, financially, but we cast members gained much that is simply not measurable.

This was one of the adventures shared with my dear friend, Martha Lee, whose role demanded far more gumption than the reading assigned to me.  What a delight!



Thanks to Eve Ensler for her powerful script, and to Director Kathy McCarty for allowing us to believe that we were capable of giving it life.

Richmond V-Day 2010 Eve Ensler's THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES

Sometimes it just be's like that ... .

Over the past weeks there was the second installment on property taxes to meet; another round of surgery for Dorian, the much-needed replacement of my washing machine which suddenly died; auto insurance installment due; Triple-A needing renewal; annual auto registration and smog check needing attention or else; then my car was struck from the front by an unknown driver in a mall parking lot causing severe damage to the motor that allowed me to drive for a couple of weeks then it, too, died and is parked in my carport awaiting a mechanic who was suppose to pick it up last Monday and now it's Friday and still no action.

I've been driving a $40/day Kia from a car rental agency for the past five days in a jam-packed week that included guiding three 2-and-a-half-hour tours involving a busload of teachers from UCLA on Tuesday, two classes (45-50?) from Dominican University from Marin County last Friday, and 17 Board members and friends of the Eugene O'Neill Foundation in Danville.  These tours, plus a reception in San Francisco on Tuesday evening at the Girls Source Center made it an unusually heavy work week that called on whatever power I have to compartmentalize since the negative script was running on background right through the "interpretation" of the stories of the Home Front sites we visit.  In many ways, though, even the woes tend to diminish in the face of the telling of the stories, and provide escape when much-needed.

Phew!

If that paragraph is run-on, it's the "run-on" life that I've been living over the past few weeks, leaving little room for blogging.

Included in that list of mounting pressures is a drive to Berkeley to visit with Dorian every day to pick up and deliver her laundry and provide an unwavering center for her troubled universe until times get better.

Life does have a way of keeping a balance between the ups and downs, doesn't it?

I guess on May 7th when I'm being (again) honored along with two other "Women of Achievement" by Girls Source at the trendy Hotel Nikko in San Francisco, my morale will be well able to use the ego boost.  At first it felt awkward to submit a list of ten guests for my table at the luncheon -- how does one do that -- ask friends to come to pay homage to oneself?  But in light of happenings, I bravely turned in my list at the reception on Tuesday evening, firmly believing that by May 7th I'll be needing an infusion of love and affection to make up for this deadly run of negative karma that's been in force since Dorian's accident in late November.

For a few months there I felt in need of a humility transplant, but now that's hardly necessary.  I've been quite properly taken down a few pegs by the natural process called daily life; the Great Equalizer.

Photo:  Backstage at the recent production of Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues.  Photo by Ellen Gailing.

This is one of those times when it's hard to distinguish between ...

... when it is that I'm relaxing in my big chair, a loving representative of the human species generously sharing the evening with one of Dorian's two felines (now my housemates) and when it is that I'm simply sitting under a cat.

... but I've finally exhaled.

Final rehearsal for The Vagina Monologues, and it's lucky because I'm about at the end of my extended string ...


I'm finally beginning to experience symptoms of stress.  Can't hold a thought long enough to express it -- not only in the script -- but even in conversation.  I'm not sure that I've ever experienced this before, and it's frightening.

Now that Dorian is beginning to crumble and the tears flow at the sight of me on each visit, my objectivity is crumbling right along with her.  After 5 months of living in a nursing home environment, the signs of depression are undeniable.  My feelings of having failed her after a lifetime of carefully preparing her for living without me are now being fully realized.  I'm finding it was all in vain.  We're here in a time when we're most vulnerable, and all the training in the world could not have protected us from the inevitable gamble that even the best-intentioned cannot escape; random awfulness.

Last night we had the final rehearsal for tonight's staging of Eve Ensler's marvelous play, and I'm no more ready than I was at the first.

I slept most of yesterday (instead of rehearsing my lines) and only rose because the clock said it was time to go to the Craneway to zombie-walk my way through the final reading (the other women have memorized their lines and I'm so ashamed!).

The best part of this adventure is that I've met some of the most exciting women of my long lifetime.  Such an array of wonderful women -- from teens to elders -- and all warmed up and ready to roll!

As the evening wore on -- it was a strange experience in that they became my contemporaries; as if recognizable in each of them is a part of what has accumulated in me over the decades. What should have made me feel old and irrelevant actually served to allow me to tap into those parts of myself already lived and that they are on the threshold of; strange, but meaningful and utterly fascinating.  There is one other octogenarian in the cast, and several mid-lifers, but I'm the oldest member of the cast.  Wonder why it doesn't feel that way?  Denial?  Probably not; just that I'm becoming aware of one of the features of aging; an increasing ability to see oneself in all of humanity, both the good and the bad.  I suspect that the  concept of empathy was discovered by someone in their eighties; and probably a female at that.

I wonder what it would have been like these past weeks had I not been carrying the fears (now realized) that  Dorian has suffered irreparable and permanent injuries and will be physically disabled as well as mentally-retarded for the rest of her life? 

Wonder what those other women are carrying around in the back of their minds and why it doesn't show in their work as I'm certain it does in mine?  Is the difference that when we're young there is always hope that time will lend a hand; and that time is a luxury that elders can no longer afford?

Is this the difference?  Am I, predictably, losing resilience?

Am I finally and undeniably growing old?

But it's  now Monday morning and the show is tonight.  I need to arrive at six o'clock for a seven o'clock performance.  I will now take my script and go into the bathroom and memorize my lines before the mirror.  Maybe I'll get my friend and neighbor, Jennifer,  to give me the cues.  I'm almost there so it won't be difficult with a little effort.  Only a lack of confidence kept me from tossing the script away at last night's rehearsal.  I don't really have that many lines, and I've done "performances" for years while guiding bus tours,  so what's the hang-up?

I will make my daily visit to Elmwood and try to not be dissuaded by tears and those unanswerable questions, "...when can I come home, Mom?", and then I'll come back and shower and don my black and red "classy" finery and be ready to trod the boards with those other Vaginas!

Photo:  The lighting didn't allow for a decent image, but here are a few of the cast (that's Martha Lee, Park Superintendent (and my boss) standing in the back row on the left side.  When I hesitantly told her while we shared lunch one day, "...I'm in the cast of The Vagina Monlogues." Rather than gasp in shock, her response was, "I'd LOVE to do that!"  "I'll inform the director," says I, and the rest is history.   She's terrific!  If you'll click on the photo it will enlarge and become clearer.  Left to right, Carolyn whose 80th birthday is today, Martha Lee, Shirley Butt, moi, and Michelle Itagaki.

Miracle at Elmwood Rehab Facility ...

While visiting Dorian at Kaiser Permanente post-surgery,  she mentioned that back at the nursing home where she'd been living for the past several months recovering from fractures of both legs -- there was a plastic bag containing soiled laundry which needed picking up.  Since I pass through Berkeley on my way to my home in Richmond, it was convenient to stop by and relieve her concerns.


Dorian shares a room with another patient who has only been under treatment for a few weeks, and who had never been communicative -- always with the curtain drawn when I visit with Dorrie -- and, though my gregarious daughter knows the names of every C&A, physiotherapist, RN, and social worker in the facility, she did not know that of the woman who shares her room.  Very odd.  Dorian, who is developmentally disabled, has the personality of the Great Dane puppy and romps in her wheelchair about the halls and visits constantly throughout the building. 

I probably should tell you that our roommate is taken by ambulance 6 days a week for dialysis, and is rarely out of bed, but I have no idea what her ailment is, though she is obviously in pain much of the time, and her legs are visibly swollen ... .

When I went in to pick up the laundry I was surprised and delighted to see the room filled with sunlight (curtain between the beds was drawn back) and the patient was busily crocheting on a beautiful bed coverlet.

"Oh, so you're an artist, too," says I.  How lovely that you and Dorrie have this to share."

She smiled and said, "Oh, no.  I didn't know how to crochet, your daughter taught me to do this.  I never made nothin' so beautiful.  It's for my daughter."

Dorian is not only brightening up the home with her handmade presents to staff, visitors, and patients, but she's teaching!  I may go broke buying skeins and skeins of yarn, but I'll go happy.  She gets such pleasure from keeping her little book of "commissions" and taking orders for these lovely colorful gifts of love. 

Photo 1:  Happy roomie!
Photo 2:  Dorian and one of her latest projects.  This was taken 3 days after her second surgery and one day after her return from Kaiser Hospital to Elmwood Rehabilitation Facility. I'm heading out to see her in a few minutes -- and she's progressed to the point where she's again cruising the halls in her wheelchair and no longer bedridden.  It's been less than two weeks (3/31) since the corrective surgery was performed.

Life has been fraught with activity -- rehearsing for Vagina Monologues plus the usual workload plus driving to Berkeley to visit with Dorian each day ... 


This last sentence in that paragraph from the Golden Gate National Cemetery has continued to haunt my days ...

"...  Additionally, 24 African Americans who perished while loading Liberty Ships in the Port Chicago incident on July 17, 1944, and whose remains were unidentifiable, are buried as unknowns in Section P."

•  Why are those men not identified as Navy men, only as African Americans, who may well have been civilian stevedores?  We know they were sailors.  Does that mean that the Navy didn't claim them as real servicemen and therefore not entitled to full military protocols in these final rites?
• ... but that could hardly be true since they were tried for mutiny in trials conducted by the Navy.
• And, why is the word "ammunition" not used before the words "Liberty Ships" which would have given the sentence more relevance, and
• in describing the deadly Port Chicago explosion that vaporized two ships and 302 lives as an "incident," did it not dramatically understate both the magnitude of the tragic event and the loss of life? 
• When there were 302 lives lost in all (220 of whom were black), why was the number reduced to "24 African Americans," though I'm sure the intent was to use the 24 as proxy for the many who died on that day.  The sentence as stated fails to account for 196 young black men as never having lived at all.
• Of the 302 who perished, 82 were white servicemen (Maritime and Navy). Where are they buried since the graveside rites in the Joseph photo are being held in the Negro Section P.  Were the others given full honors, including flag-draped caskets?
• Since the memorial has the names of all those who died on that fateful day etched in the marble monument at Port Chicago, one would suppose that there would have been an updating of the information in the annals of the national cemetery that might answer these questions.
• And, finally, after six lines of description of the burials of German and Italian Prisoners of War, almost as an afterthought, "additionally, 24 African Americans ... "

You can see by my questions that little has been resolved, though I've posed them to a military expert who is a specialist in all things WWII, and -- though I'm not sure when -- I should hear soon and will pass what I learn along to you.  There must be a story here that needs telling.  And in the telling, we are describing circumstances in which a fair trial was impossible.  As the nation's history has continued to evolve toward enlightenment, it is time to support those working to remove the stain of what many sincerely believed to have been unjust convictions.  Finding answers to questions long buried with the victims may be critical. One would hope that exoneration is still possible before any more die in shame.

Three responses to my last entry about the absence of flags on the caskets of those lost in the explosion at Port Chicago ...

"You could be right, Betty.  Maybe there were not enough flags during the war for all of those lost but I imagine the flags were given to the European Americans first." 

"Perhaps the burial was over or the draping had not been done yet.  Hate to think the worst."

"... another reason could be that the flags were removed before lowering into the ground."  (all of them at once?)


Would it help to know that this burial was taking place in the Negro Section of the National Cemetery at San Bruno?  I hadn't known that there was such a thing in California until two years ago when several of the living survivors were invited to participate in the Day of Remembrance.  I was to meet them at the Rosie Memorial for a guided tour of that site.  They were late and explained upon arrival that they'd been caught in traffic on the S.F. Bay bridge.  Prior to joining me they'd been taken to San Bruno to visit the graves of those African Americans who perished in the explosion.  It was then that I learned for the first time that racial segregation had followed those black navy men into the grave -- and not in the South -- but here in California.  It is a National cemetery and therefore subject to the times and political environment in which the greatest home front tragedy occurred.  It would be 3 years before President Truman would order the desegregation of the Armed Forces; full compliance would be achieved by 1954. 


I suppose it was from the back of my mind where things too disturbing to process get stored, that suddenly the information surfaced with that "sharp involuntary intake of breath" on Tuesday.  As much as I'd prefer to think we're better than that -- history has proven that it wasn't always so.

 I continue to be persuaded by my original premise that the withholding of the flags was deliberate and that, symbolically, it is in keeping with the fact that the graveside where this burial service was held was in the Negro Section of the National Cemetery.

From the cemetery's website:

One of America's most valiant naval officers -- Admiral Chester W. Nimitz -- is buried at Golden Gate National Cemetery.  A number of distinguished officers who served are also buried there.   The 44 German and Italian Prisoners of War are interred here were captured in North Africa after the collapse of the German Afrika Corp under the command of Lt. General Erwin Rommel in 1943.  The P.O.W's were housed at Camp Beale and Camp Cook in California and Camp Rupert in Idaho, where they were originally buried at the respective post cemeteries.  When the posts closed, the P.O.W.'s were re-interred at Golden Gate.  Additionally, 24 African Americans who perished while loading Liberty Ships in the Port Chicago incident on July 17, 1944, and whose remains were unidentifiable, are buried as unknowns in Section P.

It would be wonderful if more of you would enter the conversation.  I'm open to discovering another possible answer than the one I'm left with.

Why is this important?  I am truly convinced that unless we re-visit those unfinished and untold stories and excise the toxins from that history, and measure that against where we are today (with a long way to go still), we'll have no idea how far we've come in comparison to where we've been -- or how powerful is our system of governance to have accommodated such monumental changes without more civil unrest.  Those of us who've lived long enough to have experienced those changes first hand know how much cause there is for hope for eventual freedom from the bigotry, brutality, and for continued heroism in the face of unspeakable shame.  Our Democracy continues to be a dynamic uncompleted story of courage and valor.   We know there is cause for hope because we've witnessed a past strewn with the ashes of hatred and degradation, and lived to see the possibility of fulfillment of the promise of America, and to participate in the nation's atonement and redemption.

We are still the best hope for the entire world, but it will take all of us to remain so.

Photo:  Day of Remembrance, July 2009, visiting survivors of the Mutiny Trials.

I thought it an ordinary request to participate in their Womens' History Month[Black History Month observance ...

It turned out to be far more.

After an eventful Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) trip across the bay (there had been a fire at the Montgomery Street station earlier that morning) that took what is normally a 20 minute ride -- over an hour and ten minutes of stop and start lurching to reach the Embarcadero Street terminal.  Here by arrangement a driver was to meet me for the short drive to the beautiful and historic Old Custom House on Battery Street in San Francisco where I was to give my presentation.

I was the guest (and honoree, as it turned out) of the US Customs & Immigration Field Office of the US Department of Homeland Security. 

Upon arrival (20 minutes late!) I was taken to a gathering place where the program was already in progress with an African drumming combo performing.  They were to bracket my talk at the beginning and end -- and by their presence it was obvious that this was no ordinary "Betty Talk on Rosie the Riveter Home Front Era of WWII." 

I was glad that I'd worn my dress uniform and gold earrings for this event, and that I'd arranged in advance to share the DVD, "Of Lost Conversations," as a part of my talk, something that I don't ordinarily include except during the orientations before a guided tour.

After a few introductory words the lights were dimmed and the familiar music with the image of the launching of the SS Robert S. Abbott (publisher of the Chicago Defender) came up.  I watched in the dark with the audience, looking at faces for signs of the ever-present surprise and power at the unfamiliar content.  For some reason when the photo appeared of those gathered at the burial of the Port Chicago victims I felt an involuntary sharp intake of breath.  It was a case of hiding in plain sight.  I'd never noticed it before but its impact was almost painful.  Though this was a solemn military burial rite -- the likes of which we've seen over the centuries -- something was missing.  There is a glaring omission in this photo, and I'd failed to pick it up before now.

The caskets are not flag draped. 

Four minutes and 21 seconds later the lights were turned up and -- as if the insight had not occurred -- I went on with my talk to an appreciative audience.  We had a round of questions and answers and shared two kinds of cake, and then it happened.  There was the presentation of a beautiful plaque with my name etched below the great Seal of the Department of Homeland Security in honor of the day.  It wasn't until then that I noticed that much planning had gone into the event.  The programs left at each seat had a reprint of the S.F. Chronicle's recent article on Port Chicago featuring my photo in full color.  Why hadn't I been aware of the importance of this assignment?  (I squirreled away several programs into my bag to impress my grandkids.)

Until the ride home with the commute traffic I wouldn't allow myself to think about that flash of whatever it was to rise to consciousness -- at least until there was time to figure out what it all meant.  For the time being there was the excruciatingly loud and dissonant noises of the train as it traveled through the tunnel under the Bay. There would be time when I'd gotten back to my cubicle at our administrative offices in Richmond to let it gnaw at my brain until some understanding was possible.

Was this significant?  The burial rites certainly preceded the mutiny trials, right?  Could it be that the absence of the ages-old traditional flag draping of the caskets of the fallen evidence of the Navy's refusal to accept these men as real Americans at the time?  Given the political climate in which those 302 men (220 of whom were African American) were lost in the tragic explosion --there was total segregation of the armed forces -- was this needed evidence that those men could never have been deemed worthy of a fair trial based on their being seen as lesser than ...?

Might this photograph form the basis of an appeal for exoneration for all those unfairly charged with mutiny for refusing to return to loading that ammunition until they could do so with relative safety?

After studying this photo for several days, I'm still wondering whether I'm reading more into this than is warranted ... or if that flash of insight after all these years is meaningful?

I'll ask those who are researching the events at Port Chicago on July 17, 1944 for guidance.  I wonder if anyone else had noticed the anomaly?

Early morning surprise and the remarkable day that followed ...

It was just another Monday morning until the moment that I walked into our offices to learn that we were to have a surprise visit from the (snare drums here!) Secretary Ken Salazar of the Department of Interior! The call had come in at about seven and the race was on.

Ric announced while leaning into my cubicle, "Martha would like for you to accompany Tom to Buchanan Field in Concord to meet the Secretary for a tour of Port Chicago."

He and his staff (deputy secretary, press secretary, staff photographer, executive assistant, various aides - about ten in all) were in San Diego (at the southwest corner of the state) for meetings on water issues and was due to arrive in Redding (in the northern area) for related matters concerning a groundbreaking for salmon runs and more water issues about the Delta that evening and the next day -- when he decided that, since Port Chicago was somewhere in the middle between these locations,  he might as well touch down for an hour or so to see the newest unit of the National Park Service.

Had I known that any more was expected of me, I'd probably have been begged off. Tom admits that they decided not to give me anything to be nervous about so willfully neglected to tell me that after meeting his executive jet at the airport, the party would board our NPS bus for the 20-minute drive to the Concord Weapons Station and the Port Chicago Monument where I would climb out of my passenger seat next to the driver, and into the back of the bus with the Secretary and his staff, so that I could do an en route interpretation of the Port Chicago Story.

It might have been a disaster, but Secretary Salazar is about the kindest least stuffy man one might ever expect to meet. By the time it dawned on me that I'd been set up, I was already into my stories and it was just fine. He was wonderful, so easy to relate to that it was painless. He asked questions and I provided answers -- the best that I could. The fact that I was speaking from memory of the times rather then reciting something learned by rote from the literature, probably is what makes my thin little Port Chicago story so powerful. I've decided after expressing some reluctance to continue to act as an informal interpreter for this site, that Martha may be right. This is her claim, "Betty, you were there." He and I hit it off like old friends, and he's planning to return for this year's Day of Remembrance on July 17th.

Every VIP our staff could reach was at the base to meet us when we arrived. It was a magnificent day to remember always.

And I'm happy that no one told me in advance of the role I was expected to play. I would have been so nervous! As it was, I didn't expect so much of myself that I would have experienced disappointment in my "performance." Tom and Martha allowed me to simply be myself -- something that I'm discovering in these later years -- may be quite enough.

I loved the play. It was Maxwell Anderson's Winterset and I read for the role of Miriamne ... .

It was my junior year at Castlemont High School and I'd fallen in love with the movies. I must have been all of 17 and subject to dreams that soared! Being a movie star was the secret wish of every little girl I knew, no matter how far-fetched the idea might be. If all else failed, there was always Aladdin's genie to appeal to, right? And I had the kind of imagination that knew no boundaries.

Equally unlikely would be dreams of college for one with so few family role models to try to emulate . The assumption was that I would be Mel Reid's bride shortly after graduation. After all that was what pretty girls did, and when I look at photographs of myself taken in those years now, pretty was what I was. Successful girls were those who followed the traditional path -- and going to college usually was intended as a means of gaining access to potentially successful men. Independence for women was only important if one failed to attract a husband, preferably by your 21st birthday. I would be married by my 19th.

WWII had not yet exploded into a hot war and remnants of the Great Depression were still evident.

She must have been what today would be called a Progressive since this gritty Maxwell Anderson play was based on the Sacco-Vanzetti trials; controversial material for a high school class, surely. However, what happened would suggest that the politics of my drama teacher lacked the power to carry her to the place that would encourage acting on principle. I must have caused her great pain that day.

I was reading the part of the love interest, Miriamne, (I believe she was played by Sylvia Sidney in the screen version that I remember -- or was that "Street Scene"?) in a play with limited characters, almost all male. I loved the part and I'll always remember how quiet the room became as Eddie and I read from the second act of the script. I knew that we'd nailed it. It felt wonderful, and at some later time in history might have served to build momentum toward theater as a major. It was just too early in the struggles of the times.

When the period ended, the teacher passed my desk and dropped a note asking that I come back after the break. She needed to speak with me. I was convinced that she was going to praise me for my reading and (possibly) offer me the role in an upcoming production.

The bell rang and I approached her desk smiling; confident; feeling smug; maybe even cocky.

A red-faced obviously uncomfortable young teacher speaks: "Betty your reading today was truly wonderful. You and I both know that you would make a great Miriamne, but we also know, don't we, that there are parents who would be offended to see you paired with Eddie; because you're colored, you know ..." (her voice trailed off in embarrassment). I was not prepared for this, though once uttered, the obvious truth of her words was sobering; and devastating! How could I have ever dreamed of such a thing? Of course she was right. For those few days I'd gotten lost in the play. I'd simply forgotten.

Deeply hurt, I left the drama class and never spoke of the incident again. I registered the next day in public speaking. Ironic choice, though, since there was about as much chance of my becoming a community leader needing such skills as there would have been in theater.

But then there was Mr. Bill McLaughlin who conducted that class with a colorful larger than life personality that inspired great things in his students. He became the wind beneath my wings for the rest of that semester and through my senior year. Never underestimate the power of an inspiring teacher to reclaim young lives.

Kathy McCarty, Producer/Director of the Vagina Monologues, is not aware that this will be my "return to theater" after a 60 year absence!

Come if you can to the Craneway Pavilion in the Ford Point building on April 12th. There will be only one performance, but that's enough to satisfy this almost-forgotten dream. I didn't realize that it was still alive after all these years, or that this long-dormant ambition could be reawakened after six decades of suppression.

But there you have it. There is enough character in my role and I have enough sentences to allow me to feel fulfilled, and I'll be onstage with other actors for the duration of the play making a statement for Violence Against Women. It's not enough of a part to be taxing, and I've been assured that I can read my part and not need to memorize lines. I'll look smashing. We will all be elegant in "black with a touch of red," (perhaps in the form of a silk scarlet flower pinned low in my hair?).

It will be such a time!

(Now -- I wonder where I left that belt that I keep for notching ... ?)

First rehearsal for the Vagina Monologues ...

...and what an emotional ride that was! I'd not had the time to read through the script before today, and though I thought I knew what it was about (having heard Eve Ensler being interviewed a number of times), the powerful words in the hands of a cast as capable of bringing them to life as the women on stage today I was simply not prepared for. It was the first read through, but the strength of the images evoked tears at several points even this early in the proceedings.

It just may be that I'm weary from the muchness of life right now; of the anticipation of next week's commitments; of Dorian's growing impatience with waiting for the next round of surgery and not knowing of what the future brings after her life-changing accident. Corrective surgery on both legs will happen on March 31st.

I've been using my work as a distraction from the incessant worry about how one deal's with life when it careens out of control from the barely predictable to the insane. With the complete breakdown of an aging washing machine without the time to shop for another; when there is the laundry to pick up and deliver each day to Elmwood Rehab Center (now washed and folded thoughtfully by a neighbor and left for me at my front door after she found me in total meltdown mode!) -- not because of incontinence, but because she's just not able to coordinate the urge to pee with the opening of the bathroom door while using the walker, the pulling down of the pants ... and with all that taking too long and the C&A too busy to come when you ring for her -- if you ring for her-- and if she's not busy ... .

Life is no respecter of status, even when one is featured in the national media; is the final chapter in a recently-published book by author Bruce Frankel, (and recommended by AARP); is chosen to receive an honorary doctorate next spring at California College of the Arts, and to give the commencement address; will be honored as one of 3 Women of Achievement by S.F.'s WAVE ceremonies in May; and when one is becoming recognizable in hospital waiting rooms and the supermarket checkout line. All that aside, today I would open another escape hatch. I would be an actor.

Having been the featured speaker at the monthly luncheon of the Historical Society in Martinez yesterday; after attending a retreat with the Friends of Port Chicago on Thursday night; I needed the distraction of something totally unrelated to my uniformed purposeful life. I wanted to play.
Eve Ensler's work is not something to play with. It is an emotional roller coaster.

I should have known.

Have I had acting experience? Not since eleventh grade at Castlemont High School -- and that would have been in the late 30's in the last century.

Another story that may explain why I agreed to do this -- and why it is important that I follow through with this uncompleted story line in the

"Book of Betty".

About Marleen; from a casual conversation while waiting in line for tamales and taquitos at the Women's Day of Solidarity ... .

We were strangers. She approached as we waited to snake our way to the food tables. I'd been one of the morning's speakers and -- as is always the case -- was silently wondering just what I'd said and whether it was appropriate to the gathering; improvising doesn't always work and there's little time for anything else at this point.

What started out as small talk ...

"I'm so impressed with you," were her first words.
Something about the way she spoke them invited me to ask,
"why is that?"
I never am quite sure and she didn't appear to be the kind of person who was given to small talk, She might just tell me.
She did, but it was not at all what I expected.

"It's your age and fitness."
It was then that I noticed her cane.
She appeared to be about the age of one of my sons; surely of their generation.
She continued,
"you're from the last generation before DDT and Strontium 90 entered into the environment."
"I'm from the first generation to have received those toxins en utero."
"I've now had 8 surgeries."
"I have no breasts."
"I feel so guilty that my daughter received the toxins through my breast feeding."
"I'm from the first generation that will not live as long as our parents' generation."

I could hardly speak. There was not the least hint of resentment in her voice; only resignation. The words were simple statements of fact.

By now my mind was reeling -- remembering facts I'd learned while serving as a field rep in all of West County for Assemblywoman Dion Aroner -- words from Ma'at Youth Academy's executive director, Sharon Fuller, an environmental activist on whose board I'd once served. How could I have forgotten? (Recovered these sentences from one of Sharon's reports online a moment ago):

From current research findings:

A disproportionate number of toxic sites and polluting industries are located in communities of color and low income areas. More than 245 million pounds of industrial air pollutions were emitted near schools in California. The children attending schools in the heavily industrialized predominantly African American community of Richmond are within a one-mile radius of 355 toxic emitting facilities within the city's 56 square miles.

Marleen had grown up in Richmond. She is a white woman and an environmentalist working with APEN (Asian Pacific Environmental Network); one of the organizations that works hard to raise awareness of the issues and whose lives are passionately dedicated to the cause of environmental justice in West Contra Costa County.

This morning as I talked to the UU congregation in Walnut Creek (the upscale suburbs of East Contra Costa County are separated from working class West County by miles of water shed and scenic rolling hills). I heard myself saying, "...it occurred to me yesterday while participating in Women's Solidarity Day that those women gathered there were activists speaking to one another when those who should be hearing their message -- the policymakers, owners, and executives of those 355 toxic emitting facilities -- live here in the suburbs of the Diablo Valley and in Marin County just across the Bay." There are few if any industrial plant owners living in Richmond to my knowledge.

And it all made sense. As one of the bridges of connection between East and West County, I am in exactly the right place and at the right time to be able to amplify Marleen's voice by a few decibels and bring the message to precisely that population. This could be the message of meaning to the UU church as it is looking for the next directions in their social action planning for the coming year.

Marleen had brought the gift that made it all a coherent whole. The words were not new. The problem has been growing for a very long time, for at least two generations. But in those few minutes while waiting for my paper plate to fill, her story became a beacon. There should have been an aura of light surrounding her because of what I learned in those few moments. Perhaps the only thing new was that her few devastating words transmitted such powerful and disturbing truths with such quiet dignity. No polemics here. She signaled a pathway that allowed me to send them into places where they just might make a difference. Perhaps activist women in the Diablo Valley might be moved to assume the work of raising awareness among their friends and neighbors toward constructive change. She told me that she'd testified before industrial boards and commissions but that she did not feel heard. That, though she'd done many interviews over time, they were summarily edited into 10 second sound bytes and little more. Storming the gates of the refineries has its dramatic effects, I suppose, but human interactions of real meaning -- particularly between women -- may hold more.

By now our plates had been filled with rice, refried beans, and mixed fruit and the decision of just how to manage the grape punch and work our way back to our separate tables had to be made. We set them down long enough to exchange cards and I wished her well. It had all taken but a few moments in time. Her last words to me were, "...I'll not live long enough to see the effects of my work." O how I wish her more of a future than she expects to see.

And on the drive home, I thought of Dorian and her new status as a physically disabled person in addition to her mental deficits -- and despite all -- felt lucky that she is and will be alive into the days ahead. Then I remembered that she, too, is of Marleen's generation ... and that the cases of autism have risen over 600% since 1985.

The Marleen Mosaic is almost in place and order in my head is slowly being restored ... .

Note: This has been a private citizen Betty day, and it felt good to remember that there is life still even out of uniform. I often forget.

Her name was Marleen Quint, and she neatly pieced together all the disparate bits that I've been struggling with over the past days and made of them a mosaic of reason ...

One might well wonder what the traumatic and life-changing injuries that Dorian sustained have to do with that wild ride back into my Unitarian-Universalist past with Ken Kesey and the Pranksters, and well you might ask ... .

Over the past weeks I've been on a kaleidoscope of mind-bending dreams and images that -- when combined with a pretty exhaustive work schedule have been defying all attempts at making sense. Learned long ago that when confronted with this much stimulus that won't fit into any kind of order -- that I need to slip into neutral and coast for a while. It all tends to sort itself out at some point and patterns begin to come into evidence and sanity returns. A brilliant Jungian therapist once taught me that allowing my insanity is, at times, precisely the way to go. Since Dorian's accident I've been living my life an hour at a time, and sometimes in even shorter increments.

On Saturday I was one of the speakers at Richmond's all-day celebration for International Women's Day where several hundred of the community's women met for a day of singing, dancing, drumming, filmed presentations, and speeches. I noticed at the time that gathered in that auditorium were many nonprofits; activists working for women's rights, against rape, violence against women, rights for women in prisons, Solar Richmond, for sustainable food security, for Haiti, and "Free the Cuban Five!," etc., all communities of need, and that they were in dialogue with themselves. The greater community was not represented in that room, though it was our mayor who brought us together for this wonderful event. Beyond making the observation, I had no idea what to do with it. The thought followed me home, and would not be stilled.

On Saturday evening of last week I'd spoken at the Mt. Diablo UU church in Walnut Creek. It was a strange evening in a room where I was more aware of those missing than of those present. This was a church I'd belonged to for about 20 years. It was in this UU community that I experienced the Civil Rights Revolution and the turbulent years that both preceded and followed it. Most with whom those years were shared are now gone, with many markers in the Memory Garden that lies beside the Gilmartin Building. This is where my middle years were spent as a young mother; as a full-fledged black American in a white world; and as an emerging emancipated woman. I returned to live in Berkeley about the time that my first marriage ended and my children left home.

I rarely return to the valley these days. The psychological, economic, and political distances between the suburbs and the inner city community where I've chosen to make my home are simply too great to transcend. Going back to Walnut Creek has some of the feeling of visiting Disneyland, only with mortgages. I've become far more at home with the grittiness, the reality of the inner city where life may be harder, but where it feels more real, and where there is so much to be done that it's easy to make a difference.

I'd been invited by the ministers to return this morning for another round of participating in a workshop created to sort out new directions for the congregation.

A dear friend forwarded an email the day after my talk, a message written by the adult leader of the church's youth program. It said that a few of the teens had been present when I spoke on Saturday and had returned to their group announcing that "Betty Soskin is one BadAss UU!" They then paraphrased my remarks for those who'd not attended (how I'd love to have been a fly-on-the-wall for that one). I printed out the message and posted it in my cubicle. Maybe this is what brought Kesey and the trip to Carmel to mind ...something about the generational divide ... ?

The paradox is dramatic in that my racial and political awareness and activism were developed in the white suburbs where -- for a time -- my entire everyday existence was marked by racism and bigotry, and where I'd found a community within that was accepting of me and my family unconditionally; were willing to learn from us; to bear the pain of my growth at a time when I could have been lost, or forced to alter myself to fit a "norm" of whiteness. My values were shaped by that living experience of being thrust by the times into deep blackness while living in the heart of whiteness. The dramatic contrasts defied logic, but I'm still out in the world spinning off lessons learned while in that community of seekers at a time of unprecedented social change. Friendships formed during those critical years have endured through time and were/are the closest in my experience.

But now let me tell you about Marleen ...

My son, Bob, stopped by on his drive back to the ranch from the mountains ... as he often does these days ...

and I showed him the photo below, taken at Stebbins Institute lo those many years ago -- his response was interesting. He recalled that trip into Carmel Valley on the Kesey bus, though he remembered it as an all-children's tour. I knew that it was for families because permission was not granted by the conference for the group to take the children along without their parents. There's a message in there somewhere -- maybe the parents were eclipsed by the colorful Pranksters so thoroughly that parents ceased to exist even in memory; not surprising. Everything that week was larger than life and remains so in looking in the rear view mirror.

Bob confirmed that the LSD "rumors" were well-founded. As a young teen at the time, he was probably more aware of the beginnings of the era of the drug culture than I, his abstinent non-adventurous mother, would ever have been. During that eventful week, it was my generation that was wide-eyed.

That summer was surely the threshold into an unbelievably wild and crazy decade or two; decades filled with wonder and awe and disappearing boundaries. We were witnesses to the advent of unimaginable disconnections between the generations, and between modern suburban and urban life. This would be the dawning of the sexual revolution and the emancipation of women; this time "for real," and not as in WWII when both were snatched back unceremoniously when the war ended and we were fed two decades of June Cleaver and Donna Reed in high heels and aprons. We witnessed (in my household and in the Academy) a coming-together of western physics and Tibetan Buddhism; with cults and communes replacing the family structure in many ways. We would begin to hear the word "alternative" used almost as often as today's "diversity" and "multiculturalism" are scattered throughout the most mundane of conversations.

Our family managed to survive pretty well intact over the next few dramatic years of revolutionary social change. Only our eldest, Rick, was a casualty of the times, but it was not from drug addiction but from alcohol which eventually took his life in a thinly-veiled suicide in the mid-Nineties; though his alcoholism was symptomatic of a complex combination of causal factors that were overwhelming; including sexual identity.


Yesterday, March 11th, would have been Rick's birthday. There is always some reason why he returns so sharply -- and always outlined boldly in black on each anniversary -- still.

This time it's a weird little snapshot of his mother with a star painted in the middle of her forehead ... .

Happy Birthday, Rick!

After my talk ended tonight, a lovely young women slid into the chair beside me and slipped this photo into my hand ... .

It was taken during the Sixties (not sure what that "70" means at the bottom of the snapshot). It surely was taken at the annual weeklong Stebbins Institute at Asilomar on the Monterey Peninsula during my Coffee House/Bob Dylan/Joan Baez period which was preceded by my "Little Brown Barbie in the Burbs" period of the Fifties. If it does come from the year 1970, that's close enough to trigger these memories:

This was the year that the keynoters were Rev. Paul Sawyer, Dr. Robert Kimball, and Author Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters; the week Tom Wolfe wrote about in his book, "The Electric Acid Kool Aid Test". I recall feeling as if the entire week should have been off-the-record! A group of UU ministers packed up midweek in a huff and went home -- outraged! It was a week of seeing free spirits publicly skinny-dipping and the persistent rumored use of LSD. It was also the summer of the Trips Festival in San Francisco. The Summer of Love, the Diggers, and the birth of unprecedented social change. What a time it was!

We actually rode with Mountain Girl, Ken Babbs, the Hermit, and the rest of the colorful Pranksters into picturesque Carmel-by-the-Sea on a brilliantly-painted bus named "Fur-thur" with a loudspeaker blaring "Revolution!" from the roof of the bus causing well-dressed and -coifed tourists and shoppers to stop dead in their tracks and gape in slack-jawed disbelief! And, yes, my children were included in the journey as well. I recall telling Bob to watch everything closely since this may be important. How prescient was his Mom? I can still remember the combined feelings of pure joy, excitement, and fear -- delicious!

I remember one evening just before dark -- sitting on the dunes singing my songs to Kesey as he lay sprawled upon the sand on his back; hands clasped behind his head -- with a piece of adhesive tape covering his mouth. Printed in crayon on the tape in a childlike hand was the word, "Hello!" He'd said not a word, but plopped down beside me silently pointing to my guitar -- motioning me to play. As I sang the last notes he jumped up and continued toward the ocean with tear-stained cheeks. He'd been on his way to the painted bus parked near the breakers when he saw me sitting alone. Such a moment it was. I watched as he resumed his walk along the path when he suddenly stopped to pick a small bouquet of wildflowers and returned briefly to where I was sitting to present them with a deep bow to the unheard sound of trumpets! Ken Kesey, the Pied Piper of the era. On the bookshelf in my bedroom -- between the pages of my copy of Sometimes a Great Notion -- that fragile little gift remains. I last took it out the day I learned of his death. Romance? No. Just a lovely vignette; one of the many that have enriched my life; an exquisitely tender stand-alone moment in time.

How little we know about what may or may not lie ahead in this Grand Improvisation called Life -- and how little it matters as the days, week, months, years, and decades unfold with little rhyme or reason. Looking back now, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Living life in a constant state of surprise has added to this phantasmagorical miracle of existence.