Hoo Boy!  It's gettin' rough in here ... .

...sorry to be so long in entering anything, but life has not gone as smoothly in this makeshift housing arrangement as one might wish, and taking time out to make notes only added to the pressures.

Won't go into the problems we're having, that would not make any sense.  It suffices to say that coming home for Dorian has had some unintended glitches, and her mother's well-intentioned moves have not been particularly helpful.  Fortunately, the professionals have finally kicked in, and help is not only on the way, but the cavalry can now be viewed just outside our condo.

Meanwhile, I've had the distraction of doing a 2 and-a-half hour video for ROHO (Regional Oral History Office) from the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley today, and it served to focus me and my work a bit.  It was requested by ROHO as an updating of the oral history that is already online but was done in the 90's.  I'd never actually read that transcript through until this week in preparation for today's effort and noticed some errors that had occurred in the transcribing that needed correction.  These were mostly proper names or places that were mis-heard.  It seemed a worthy thing to do.  It was interesting to discover that there was nothing of substance that I would have wanted not to have said, or, that I didn't regret on any terms whatsoever.  I may watch the video of that interview one day soon.  I've never had the wish to do so before now.  It also allowed me to stay at home for the work since there was not adequate space at the office, nor much control of sound. 

Maybe having had the experience of being reintroduced to my artist self at the Hotel Nikko, has had the effect that I can now dare to retrace steps taken in the past.  I have watched video interviews of myself done in the recent past, and found them not embarrassing -- in fact I actually discovered that I could watch those done at Port Chicago and found them both interesting and relevant.

The existing oral history that was done in the nineties predates my position with the National Park Service, so ROHO would like to do another soon that deals with my experience with the NPS and life as a park ranger.  That may be meaningful since my work started so early in the development of Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front Historical National Park  (around 2002) that it coincides with that of the park's beginnings -- a valuable contribution, perhaps.

So, with the distraction of meaningful work I've been able to survive the mounting tensions of trying to combine lives with my recovering daughter; but I'll tell you ... we're just barely makin' it!

Tomorrow, we'll attend the 1st Annual Native American Festival at Lucretia Edwards Park together.  She now has an attendant from Nightingale Nursing Service, Kathy, a dynamic former cheerleader who is about to go off into the Army for training, and who is a gem who will go along with us to the Festival.  She drives a jeep so is ultra "cool" in Dorian's eyes.  I'll be in uniform and helping in whatever ways are required of me.  Having had today out of the office to work with ROHO means that I'm rested up for tomorrow -- but whether we'll be coming home in one piece is still to be determined!

... then there's the bus tour on Monday for 18 teachers from the Oakland Unified School District.  Dorian will return to NIAD.

...and we'll have survived another week of adjusting.

Photo:  This is Dorian's sculpture of  "Tsunami," which was created at the time of the Asian tragedy.  We're living our version of an emotional tsunami right now, so this seemed an appropriate choice.  This is all one piece but was impossible to photograph without using two shots in order to retain the detail.  Note that she included a way for people to escape the oncoming deluge.  Maybe we'll be so lucky!

... been a long time since the last entry ...


and it surely isn't because life has slowed down a whit.  I've just been too busy livin' it.  Little time to write about it.


Let's see:


I've guided tours -- strangely enough, my last tour consisted largely of other rangers though not in uniform.  Not sure what that was about, but it may have had to do with the fact that ROHO (Regional Oral History Office -- of the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley) --  was filming this tour and there was the need to show the seats on the bus filled with "tourists".  Not sure; but it was novel for me.  In a way it felt as if I might be being evaluated, but it didn't feel the least bit negative.  As always, I improvised my way through the 2 and-a-half hour tour and even found some newness in my interpretation.  Maybe that was because I was aware that many of them had heard my stories before and that I needed to dig deeper for some freshness.  And, as always, I stopped before I ran out of truth.


And -- an exciting thing has happened in that the Generations Project of Brigham Young University Media has invited me to be a subject for their nationally-viewed show (cable channels).   It means "maybe 2 and-a-half weeks of filming," and (the most exciting part of all -- an invitation to allow their genealogists to explore my family history with me -- around a question of import to the narrative.  


If you've used the links under my photo and have seen the work already completed on both my maternal and paternal lines, you may have noticed that -- prior to the Civil War -- there is much that is missing, except for the history of the white ancestors whose lines are traceable.  It is the difficulty of piercing the Slave Curtain that is so frustrating.  How I would love to know where my black ancestors originated; even to the region, if not the actual family lineage!  


I'd give almost anything to learn about the origin of the free woman of color "of high birth" (according to cousin Paul Charbonnet) who became the consort of the Charbonnet man with whom she bore 9 children, one being my gggrandfather, Dorson Charbonnet, for whom my dad was named.  And how about my mother's grandfather,  Corporal George Allen, about whom we've learned so little; except that he was a Louisianian who fought with the Colored Troops on the side of the North in the Civil War.  There is so much left unlearned and untold.  


It would be so wonderful if, through me, those doors on the past can be unlocked so that the current and next generations of family historians will have access to the material that will complete the narrative.  What a gift that would be to many yet unborn.


Needless to say, I will take the time off my work to make this adventure possible.  I'm guessing that this segment will go into production soon.  This is far too important to ignore, and I do have lots of vacation time available to draw upon.  

Not sure how this will be managed with Dorian now living with me, but we do have 24 hours-a-week of personal aide services granted by the Regional Center of the East Bay, and there are family members to enlist into service, so I'm going to proceed as if -- whatever problems there are -- will be worked out to make this once-in-a-lifetime experience possible.


Will keep y'all posted.  (By the way, have I told you that the plural of y'all is alla y'all?) 


Photos:  Dorian and I rode in the Juneteenth Day Parade in celebration of the day that word of the Emancipation Proclamation issued by President Lincoln reached Texas -- months after freedom came to the rest of the Old South. The National Park Service maintains a presence at all of the city's parades and festivals; a role I thoroughly enjoy.

When life begins to close in and becomes threatening to the psyche ... it's time to go line-dancing!

There was not only the close-up stuff, like Dorian's slow recovery and this-week's-move in to my small apartment, but then there was the Flotilla attack off Gaza that involved some local folks; continuing BP oil gushing uncontrollably in the Gulf;  up-coming California Primaries for which I've not yet studied the ballot; the sudden explosion of my supermarket checkout line celebrity with its unexpected never-quite-ready-for-it fame; all that stuff that makes up my days now ... so why not?

Dion's birthday party brought together old friends and acquaintances for an afternoon of noshing on great food -- a genuine caller who was the only male in the room at the Hillside Club -- and what fun!

Maybe ya gotta have whimsy to balance off what is often a far too purposeful life.

Except that I found that I'm hard-wired for the Electric Slide and never quite got the hang of the Texas two-step.  Maybe if they'd had some James Brown on the turntable, or a little Aretha or Marvin Gaye ...

As it turns out, there's really little to worry about.  We've already accomplished the goal of independence ... I just failed to notice.

It was clear when we were going through the discharge procedures at Elmwood yesterday, that Dorian has left a trail of expressed love that will follow her as she pursues her place in the world.  The staff was obviously sorry to see her leave and will welcome her back as she continues to visit those for whom she has incomplete projects.  She has a carefully drawn list of deliveries to make over the next few weeks -- after all she spent several months in their care, and will need to withdraw gradually from this world that she's created for herself these past weeks.

She and DotCom (and Elizabeth) will work out their schedule of occasional visits which will become her reason for being; in addition to her return to NIAD tomorrow on a 3 day-a-week schedule for a few weeks until the physicians give permission for a full schedule.

Now -- if I can only back off the mothering in favor of again becoming "mother as best friend," maybe we can consider this storm having been "weathered."

Her final project was this double-bed sized blanket for her niece, Rosie, who purchased the yarn and shipped it from Southern California to be made into a coverlet.  Dorian completed the task in about 3 weeks while whipping through the halls in her wheelchair; undergoing stretching exercises, learning to walk again (twice!),  practicing walking up and down stairs; helping to lead the exercise class; and teaching her roommate to crochet!

Dorian is ready to return to the world and is more than adequately prepared for the changes she must endure.  And, maybe her mother is, too.

Now for the learning to live together in my small apartment; finding places to stash her belongings; tripping over her two cats; at least temporarily while waiting for more permanent arrangements to be made ... still much to work our way through.

I feel confirmed in the belief that the secret to acceptance is to strive to be a giver.  Takes no effort, and establishes ones value in the world in many ways.  Takes little mental capacity and nothing more than a willingness to extend whatever is of value to you into the lives of others.  Her obvious effort in creating her gifts gains respect and affection that nothing else can achieve.  Both she and the receivers gain so much in the exchange; that's immeasurable, but it must be remembered that the growth is with the giver.

Photo:  Do click to enlarge so that you can see that each of these tiny loops that make up this completely hand crocheted blanket had to be caught in the crochet hook, twisted around, drawn into the knot that, when collected with others becomes a work of art -- what a wondrous thing is the heart.  And, no, selling them is not an option.  It's all in the giving.

Oh, before it's forgotten or pushed back because "Life" has gotten in the way ... .

I need to tell you about filming yesterday at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial:

Some weeks ago I was introduced to Kendall Wilcox, Executive Producer from BYU Broadcasting when he visited our offices in Richmond.  He was working on a documentary series entitled "The Generations Project"  (a program based on tracing family histories) which is being aired on cable channels nationally.  This segment is about an African American woman who was one of the migrant workers who arrived in the Bay Area as the result of the Kaiser recruitment efforts that swept through her town in Louisiana during WWII.

She's a very interesting subject who had survived the times and actually prospered after the war, becoming a property owner; operating a nightclub in San Francisco, and eventually becoming a political and labor union activist of some prominence before suffering a tragic end as a homicide victim in mid-life.

It was decided that -- because of our being contemporaries and both African American -- I might be able to provide context for Bessie Colvin's story by being filmed in conversation with her son (through whom the family narrative is being told). 

It was a fascinating experience in that -- though I'd been interviewed on camera fairly often in the recent past, never before had I participated in this kind of in-depth production.  The camera crew was led by a petite young woman who obviously had the entire script in mind and could envision the final product.  We filmed for several hours (though it seemed far less), and the "star" (Colvin's son) proved to be a warm and easy partner who made the adventure completely effortless.  It only took a moment after we were introduced for our souls to touch and -- if the result of the piece turns out to be as warm and comfortable as it felt -- the day went well and the production will be just fine.

The show will be aired nationwide in October.

Get out the back hoe!  Momma's gotta clean house ... .

Hadn't realized how bad it had become.  Working five days-a-week while visiting Dorian at Elmwood every day for the past 7 months -- plus keeping up a battery of activities in relation to my work has taken its toll.  I'm buried under by debris and may have to have the refrigerator hauled away without breaking the seal.  I can't imagine what pathogens might be flourishing in there.  Maybe I'll just have it delivered to the Bayer Pharmaceutical Lab for research for some new cure for the Ebola virus.

All kidding aside, with my daughter coming home to live (temporarily) with me in my small condo will bring with it a cadre of social workers, in-home help aides, physiotherapists; all with judgmental eyes with which to view her living conditions.  Since acquiring her two live-in cats and their cat box as well, things are becoming desperate, indeed. 

This move is necessary since the RCEB case management team didn't kick in until last week (after a 7 month stay in nursing homes!), and the long-range planning that should have been handled months ago means that they were not prepared for locating a living arrangement (read that group home or a residential placement in an institution) where her two felines would be accepted.  Giving them up is simply not an option; but how could they possibly know that?

So, after she worked so hard to master climbing the 16 steps (with a walker in hand) in preparation for coming home to my upstairs condo, I could not refuse to answer the door, right?

It means that living for all this time in a one-bedroom apartment with two futons decoratively stacked on the living-room floor and meant to accommodate occasional visits from grandchildren, means that grandma will be sleeping on one.  I'll have to give up my single bed to one who can't possibly physically rise from floor level, at least not for many months -- if ever.

Everything in me screams that this is an unwise decision.  I should have insisted upon finding another solution that wouldn't undermine our lifelong quest for her independence.  Unwise, maybe,  but as in most instances with me, it's intuition that takes over.  Logic aside, there's no resisting that. 

Now I'm needing to get out to the supermarket and find myself some super-strength vacuum cleaner bags and locate the nearest Goodwill store so that I can thin out my closets in order to accommodate the " Dorrie stuff" that I've been hauling around in the backseat of my car all these months because there was simply no time to unload ... .

If I don't post for a few days (I've taken two days off to try to get all this figured out), know that I'm alive and well and up to my ears in "logistics"!

Dorian's release date is May 31st and conferencing will be held tomorrow to begin the process of long range planning ... .

She has now graduated from wheelchair to walker and is attacking her physiotherapy program with a vengeance; announcing a few moments ago that she'd walked 1200 feet since rising this morning, and had climbed 14 steps to the garage (with an attendant, of course).   This has been a day of achievement -- and besides all that, Elizabeth (a ranger partner from our staff) is bringing her pet feline, DotCom, for a second lesson in becoming a therapy cat (the first was a week ago).  Elizabeth thoughtfully brought her animal friend on a leash to visit with Dorrie in the courtyard of Elmwood last week in what promises to be a first "training" in a new career.  Dorrie is ecstatic with her new position as a Trainer-in-training!

This afternoon I'll drive into Berkeley to pick her up for dinner out.  She's dying for barbecued ribs and in an actual restaurant at that.  With a walker we can manage it.  With the wheelchair it was a goal to be attained.

Her crochet work is serving backed-up orders (they're beautiful!) which she will continue upon release from the facility -- with a promise to deliver as completed.  We're hoping for her return to NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities) soon after her release.

Life is good ...  again ... maybe; at least until we learn the extent of her limited recovery, and how far they'll reach to effect her future.

... and what the implications are of her now extended disabilities, and how far they will reach into and effect my own limited future ... .

Good questions, all.


.. but for this moment it's barbecued baby-back ribs and mild sauce and another session of DotCom's training as a cat therapist!  Elizabeth plans to involve Dorrie after her discharge in plans to occasionally visit nursing homes in the area with DotCom for the purpose of making life more pleasant for those whose lives are being lived in shadows.  Dorian's experience as a patient will certainly inform her new career, and her great love for felines enables her to appreciate their value as "therapists."  No need for intellect here, guys, just a loving heart and the willingness to give.  Fortunately, she was blessed with both, as was Elizabeth.

By Jove, with the loving caring support of Elizabeth Tucker, I think we've got it!

Photo:  A portrait of the late  "Speedy Reid." Dorian painted this as a tribute for a noontime memorial service she conducted at NIAD the day after he was put down by the vet at the age of 17.  Note the halo.
Photo #2:  Do click to enlarge.  The expressions on all three faces are testimony to DotCom's ability to give comfort and reduce stress.  

If you've been able to view the YouTube.com video (5/17) which features my song, " To Each of Me' ... .

you'll notice that it ends abruptly with the line, "...if you would only see;"  and thereby hangs a tale:

There are only a few lines left to sing, but they are key to understanding the intent of the composition.  At the time that the song was written (at least 40 years ago), though I was fast-becoming a prolific composer and performer of a body of songs that were having a profound effect upon the small audiences exposed to the work, that song was rarely included in my programs.  The reason being that -- though it signified a place where I'd come to terms with my own complex racial background -- I was painfully aware that audiences were just not ready for those racial lines being crossed, and surely not advocacy for miscegenation.  And perhaps that is still true ... .

This song evolved after I'd written a number of others that rose out of personal experiences of the Civil Rights Revolution of the Sixties; some expressing bitterness and pain that surely reflected that era.  But this one signified an end to my personal struggle for identity in a world that demanded that I choose sides that would necessitate denial of my own rich heritage of generations of courageous ancestors who dared to cross over those lines of separation in pursuit of lives of love and meaning.  I'd decided that it was not that I was 'nothing' but that I was "everything," and that someday the world would come to terms with that reality, too. 

The last few lines of that song -- following the line, "...if you would only see" are

"... that Black and White are part of it

my Brown is at the heart of it

and blending was the start of it

and someday it shall be

that blackness and the white of us

will be the day and night of us

 and not the wrong or right of us --

 the meek or might of us --

             then we'll be free!               

I'm choosing to believe that a possible explanation of those lines being omitted had to do with adhering to the necessary time limits for each segment of the bios of the honorees, and that it had nothing to do with censorship of the content.  But -- if it did -- what a rich discussion must have ensued among those young women in producing the video!  I'd love to have been a part of that.

Photo:  Press photo taken in concert in Cleveland, Ohio, during the turbulent Sixties.

BETTY REID SOSKIN~ 2010 Women of Achievement, Vision and Excellence awar...

"The fires of September ... ."

The story behind this would probably interest you, but it suffices to say that it's unimaginably inconsiderate for the media to wait until the year 2010, when my image in HD-TV is old and wizened!  I might have been better able to use all this public attention were I still building a resume, and with enough leftover pretty to impress.  The photo that I'm holding was taken by my late husband, Mel, in our living room in Walnut Creek.  The year was 1958, and I was about 35 then, I think, and quite photogenic, right?

It's hard to remember ever being this young ... especially today when the future seems so uncertain and I'm feeling so fearful of the days that lie immediately ahead ... .

" ... deep in December it's nice to remember although you know the snow will follow,

 deep in December it's nice to remember without a hurt the heart is hollow

 deep in December it's nice to remember the fires of September that made us mellow

 deep in December our hearts should remember ... and follow."

(final stanza in the lyrics of The September Song from the score of The Fantastics.  Composer: Billy Barnes)

Photo:  Taken at my home by GirlSource staffer, Betz Burkart, at the photo shoot for the WAVE awards. (Click to enlarge.)

Time to regroup, guys.  I'm getting seriously fragmented here ... .

Beginning to think about just how much Dorian's accident will impact both our lives, and it's sobering.  The "in-community" support systems which are guaranteed by California's Lanterman Act which was passed many decades ago  to guarantee the care of the developmentally handicapped over their lifetimes have been drastically cut back due to the economic crisis.  But actually, there has been systematic and increasingly severe reductions in services to the disabled going back several decades dating from the time I worked for the State of California as a field representative for a member of the State Assembly.

The slashing of the so-called Safety Net began under Governor Reagan and has seen major reductions with each succeeding legislative session.   We now see people in the general population who are totally incapable of living independently -- struggling to survive and failing in many cases.  They're living under bridges and over grates and they've become such a common sight in most cities that we fail to see them at all anymore.   They're mixed in with returning veterans of our many wars who are suffering from PTSD; with the mentally ill (as opposed to the mentally disabled); with those displaced by the foreclosures of homes; and with the addicts and abusers who've become the lost souls of this generation.
 

Somewhere along the way we entered into a practice of redefining the problem of what "disabled" means.  It's like the degrading of what "brown-fields" means; land so toxic that, at one time, our regulations would not permit builders to use them for homes.  They would be developed as parks or golf courses.  There are many such sites in Richmond, so the term has meaning here more perhaps than elsewhere.  Slowly we're seeing criteria that defines those toxic lands as unfit for human habitation being re-defined so that they no longer classified as too dangerous.  They're made whole by the changing of the few words in the definition of what a brownfield is.  So it is with those like Dorrie whose services are no longer based upon what she needs in order to survive out in the world, but are now based upon what society can financially afford to provide.  Critical services to the handicapped have been slashed to the bone, and more cuts are coming as we approach the budget hearings in June.

I've watched, over time, Dorian being expected to make decisions that require judgment -- which in turn requires abstract ability; an attribute that is missing in anyone with an IQ of under 80.  She cannot weigh alternatives.  There are no "what ifs" in her vocabulary.  She is incapable of weighing consequences.

Though her vocabulary doesn't reflect her deficits (remember, she has an incredibly sharp rote memory), and she has the capacity to make her needs known pretty accurately, and she is capable of learning things that can be encoded into "systems;" rote memory, again.  If anything slips out of order and she needs to make a judgment call, it all becomes a jumble and she can't get back on track without assistance.  And -- she has no idea that things are out of control.  That takes judgment.

I've never gone to court to have her conserved, and that's an issue.  It has always been my opinion that she would be less capable of gaining any sense of independence had I done that.  I would work on getting her as independent as I could during my lifetime, and my sons (who would be spared her care while they were raising their own young families or getting their own adult lives on track) might want to do that after I'm gone.  It was my feeling that there might be some resentment if they had to feel the burden of her care before that time, and  I wanted them to be free of that while I'm alive to assume that role.  We've discussed it all along the way, and they've been really considerate of her without restraint.  I think that's true because they've been spared that responsibility as long as possible.

The accident which resulted in making her now permanently physically disabled as well as mentally challenged, is something that came out of the blue.  Her needs will be different now, and any thought of independence has flown out the window.  Her stay in 4 nursing homes since November 27th has produced some new anxieties -- and she is showing signs of depression.  She is so concrete that -- if she is given a date or a time she is fine.  Even if one tells her that she will be released on December 15th -- she can live with it if she has a calendar to mark off the days.  She absolutely cannot live with uncertainty -- and that's our state of being right now.  We'll have another x-ray of her legs on Wednesday and probably there will be some weight bearing therapy started that will tell her that we're making progress.  She is wearing a heavy boot (today's cast) on her right leg that may be removed, and she'll return to using a walker instead of the wheelchair; maybe.  She is hoping to get out of Elmwood sometime in June, if all goes well.

Meanwhile, the Regional Center of the East Bay (RCEB) that has been charged with her care since childhood -- and with whom long-range planning has suffered such heavy budget cuts that -- though the director of the county office met with me on April 14th and promised to send their nurse for an evaluation on which we will base plans for her living arrangements -- that nurse arrived at Elmwood to meet us one month later; this past Wednesday.  The caseloads for case managers, for ILS (Independent Living Services) workers, is so impossible that the only thing open to adjustment would be the lowering of expectations on my part.  Everyone at the agencies are doing their utmost to serve this population, but despite the effort of some fine professionals,  on the news last night the Governor announced further cutbacks on those same services.

I'm really beginning to get the message that I may have come to the place where I'll need to finally give up my work in favor of taking her home to live with me. That has not been true since she left for St. Vincents Academy at the age of 14.  We've been a success story up 'til now, with a succession of living arrangements (group homes, apartments with ILS services).   

... all that time and all those lessons ... all that pain of separation over the years ... .

... and I'm not sure that I'm ready to retire -- and maybe I'll never be.  There are so many things undone, and so much yet to learn ... but then I'm sure that others will pick up the mission and life will go on. 

But having been a late bloomer, it feels as though I'd be leaving in the middle of the movie.

Photo (top):  One of Dorian's artworks, wood pieces painted and glued to a backing.
(middle):  Dorian having won her medal in Special Olympics swim meet, pictured here with the Fire Chief of the City of Alameda.
Silk scarf dyed using techniques of batik.  Cats are almost always the theme of her work.  If you'll look carefully you'll see her cat, Marilyn.  (click to enlarge)

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.