I don't believe that -- since starting this journal -- I've ever allowed so much time between entries ...

Fear not for my prevailing good health; but just know that an overwhelming amount of activity has been covered (yes, even more than is ordinarily true), that has not allowed for much introspection. 

Will catch up over the next few days, but meanwhile:

• Know that Dorian has moved into her own studio apartment and has been living more or less independently for about 10 days now;
• and, that I'm no longer sleeping in my living room scrunched up with legs hanging over the ends of a love seat never intended for that purpose -- and my back is grateful for the relief;
• that the Lena Horne tribute at the USO dance went gloriously well, and that Robin Gregory was able to carry off the dramatic few paragraphs in Lena's voice to an unknowing and appreciative audience;
• that the Japanese/American series, "Blossoms & Thorns", was even more successful in more ways than we'd dared to hope.  The photographic exhibit at the Richmond Art Center is still going on with its exquisite pictures of those abandoned handmade greenhouses with those defiant roses gone wild cascading out of broken glass of rotting rooftops;
• I've participated in several interviews on film, 
• continued to conduct interpretive bus tours of the scattered sites that form the Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park;
• Attended many planning meetings in preparation for an unprecedented year of growth and development of not only the Richmond park, but contributing to that of Port Chicago, the newly legislated 392nd unit of the National Park System, and that's for starters.

Our four-park consortium which includes Port Chicago at the Weapons Station in Concord, Eugene O'Neill Historic Site in Danville, John Muir National Historic Site in Martinez, and our own at Rosie the Riveter in Richmond has enjoyed a tripling of staff at all levels over the past year, and is still expecting more.  For some perspective, I've only been with the parks (for some years as a consultant and the past 3 and-a-half as a full-fledged park ranger) since 2003.  All four parks fall under one management team.  There is only one other staff member who exceeds my seniority by mere months.  This should indicate just how dynamic these sites are, and of how steep the learning curve.  All of the new staff members are seasoned in their fields, but have gained their earlier experience at other parks in the system.  Many come from the wilderness parks, and are having their first urban park experience -- and learning the lore -- the history of their new assignments.  They bring newness and enthusiasm and a curiosity to the work that enlivens our days and challenges stereotypes.

But I'm finding that my continuing value to the work is my maturity -- having survived the historic times commemorated by this park and lived into the "Now" places a heavy responsibility to try to recover those lost conversations and untold stories in order that those years and all that pain and anguish of the war years will not be lost to those who are trying to "get it right" in these years of continuing and enduring social change.  So far I seem to have fulfilled that goal; at least in my own mind.  Now the challenge will be to remain cognizant enough to know when it's time to leave ... .

Who could have ever believed that I'd live to see the day when age and maturity would be an asset of inestimable value, and even into one's 89th year?

Just a thought:  This morning as I was waking from a deep sleep my bedside radio was reporting on  Condoleeza Rice's newly-published autobiography.  What I heard was that the subtitle is "Extraordinary Ordinary People."  Suddenly I was wide awake.  This was a phrase that I created to describe the heroic generation of those that produced those 747 victory ships in 3 years and 8 months during WWII.  I wrote about it here.  I spoke the phrase in my interview online with renowned muralist Prof. Judy Baca of UCLA, and she (I believe), may have chosen it as a theme for a city-commissioned public art project that will be created some time in the next year.  It hardly seems likely, but do you suppose that Secretary Rice borrowed those words from this blog, or, that two minds might simply have chosen them by chance?  If so, this might be the only thing upon which we might agree, but it's nice to think that at least -- as two sisters of color so-to-speak -- this might be true.   And it only took a minute or two for my ego to shrink back to normal and for reality to set in.  It's like all that music by all those millions of artists -- that are derived from an 8-note scale.  Nothing strange about it at all, really.  But for a minute there I felt a kinship and maybe a little competitiveness with one who has played on the world stage.

... and, maybe as one of those extraordinary ordinary people, I'm entitled.

Photo:  Can you imagine my surprise upon attending the grand-opening of the exhibit for the De Anza Trail in the historic adobe at John Muir National Historic Site in Martinez and finding this photo of myself in the exhibit?  I recall being requested to meet a photographer at that site about a year ago, and being asked that I be in plain clothes.  So often these requests come in the course of my work, and I think nothing more of the incident.  Here my poly-racial appearance is used to indicate the demographics of the times that Juan Bautista de Anza's party settled in what would eventually become the State of California, but at that time was northern Mexico.  There were black people in the Anza party, mastizos, in addition to those of Spanish descent, so there is a basis for using this image.  I felt honored to have my likeness used in this way. My Creole ancestors would have been proud.  My paternal great-grandparents, Islenos, who were Spanish and originally from the Canary Islands, would have been ecstatic.  Photo by NPS photogrpher, Tony Gleaton.

Publicity tends to feed on itself and to become self-perpetuating ... or so it appears to be this week .. .


A radio interview that first appeared on one of the local PBS (KALW) stations out of San Francisco has appeared on the Internet  along with this photograph that was taken in our administrative office in Richmond.  It features this giant poster by graphic designer, Rich Black, of the Shotgun Players of Berkeley.  It was displayed in the window of the Berkeley Main Library and was presented to us by the theater company at the end of the play's run.


If you'll enter into the little white search bar above my photo (left top of the screen above the banner) the play's title, "This World in a Woman's Hands", you'll find the full story of Marcus Gardley's wonderful play and of our role in its development.


I love it!

Note:  The radio interview (KALW-FM) can be heard by putting "Remembering the African American Rosie the Riveters" into your search engine.  It was produced by Callie Shanafelt.  The transcript is on the SF Gate/Chronicle pages, date 9/25.

It was right there under my fingertips ... the answer to the "Lena" dilemma ... .



On a hunch that there would be understanding and agreement, I emailed Robin Gregory, the jazz singer who will be "Lena" in an homage to the original, giving her the link to my blog and asking her to read the relevant entry (below).  Though we've met,  she is still a relative stranger to me, so I had no inkling of what her reaction might be.  

I sent as attachments two accounts of the Camp Robertson incident with the assurance that it was the single paragraph account from Lena's daughter, Gail Lumet Buckley, that I would rewrite in the first person for her to use as a preface to her presentation in the persona of Lena Horne.  Inspired?  I thought so, but only if I could convince both the artist and the coordinator of the stage performances on the evening of the USO Dance.  


The National Park Service is only one of many partners in the sponsorship of the annual Home Front Festival; the Richmond Chamber of Commerce is lead on the USO dance, and there may be some sensitivity on the part of some about what may be seen as a last minute intrusion in their signature event.  There is, after all, some hint of the old skunk at the garden party aspects to this insertion into their (until now) benign nostalgic revisiting of an era now enshrined in 'Good War" bunting.


An email to stage manager Elmina Green with copies of the information sent to Robin was convincing enough for there to be both understanding and consent.  The need to include an honest statement reflective of the times was apparent to both if we were to honor the memory of this iconic figure now consigned to history - and in truth.  There's no escaping the fact that -- as  3 women of color -- our race has influenced the issue.  


So it will be.


Robin's email -- sent late last night assured me that she is not only willing, but grateful for the opportunity to perform this preface to her songs.  


I am quietly thankful for the chance to enter this vignette of resistance into the record as we honor  one of my personal heroes.  


And, this year I will attend the USO dance, both in body and in spirit,  and for the very first time.

Been procrastinating shamefully about a project that has been seething in the back of my mind for several years ... .

It has to do with a feature of the Home Front Festival that the NPS and partners will co-sponsor again this year.  This fourth annual festival will again celebrate the enormous contributions of the great civilian mobilization from the years 1941 through 1945. That historic period consumes my days as our park continues to evolve, and I with it.  One would think I'd have made peace with that world as we lived it then, but apparently not.  It takes little for those embers of outrage to billow into full flame as memories flare anew.

I've come to terms with my painful personal history as it relates to the home front narrative.  Facing  those conversations at the Rosie Memorial as we guide visitors through the plaques which so movingly etch that history into minds that have either never known it or have forgotten the complexity of the times, should have become routine by now.

On the evening of October 1st, the commemorative USO dance will be held in the Craneway of the historic Ford Building.  As before, it will feature a big band playing the songs of the times, and there will be re-enactors in full regalia -- and there will be little recalling of the fact that -- in a city with a black population of about 30% there will be few people of color among those attending. Remnants of racial hatred are still suspended over the City of Richmond and other inner cities like a pall, but for the most part, those ghosts go unrecognized by today's black communities except when reminded -- as in this instance.  We Americans will have all but forgotten that during WWII Black and White Americans did not socialize together even during "the war to save the world for democracy".  The USO as an organization was racially segregated.

What has this to do with me?  As it turns out, my discomfort with the concept of the USO has been stifled (by me).  It was filed away in that corner of my mind that always fell silent on the Pledge of Allegiance with the words, "...with liberty justice for all."  That is, until January 20, 2009 when they were finally given full voice at the presidential inauguraion.

I've not been involved in the planning meetings for the festival this year, and for that I've been grateful.  It was awkward to sit in the room with these gnawing feelings of being the only grownup in the room as the Chamber of Commerce-led committee planned its USO dance.  How could they not know?  How could anyone have forgotten that I could not have attended had I wanted to, or, that I would have had to attend the one across town where the black USO hostesses served punch and cookies to black servicemen and women? And that Glenn Miller's "Tuxedo Junction" or the Andrews Sister's "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy", brought no wartime memories of either patriotism or youthful exuberance.

I solved that by holding my silence and simply not attending after the first year.  But as with the Pledge, I was sure that others around me were unaware and that I needed to be forgiving -- and silent.

However, I've been asked to plan a tribute to Lena Horne for this year's event.  Lena Horne, who created one of the most memorable incidents of political activism long before such stories of black resistance were reported in the national press.  But Lena Horne also was one of the few African Americans with enough acclaim that she was invited to the Kaiser Richmond shipyards to star in the launching of the SS George Washington Carver, one of the 17 ships named for prominent African Americans.

But let her daughter, Gail Lumet Buckley tell you:

"A USO-sponsored junket to Camp Robertson, Arkansas, stopped Lena in her tracks  She was scheduled to give two performances, one for the white officers, and one for the black men.  She was surprised as she glanced out at the audience in the pre-show darkness at the second performance, however, to see the first two rows of white faces.  "Who are these soldiers," she asked.  "They're not soldiers, they're German war prisoners" was the reply.  "But where are the Negro soldiers?"  Lena asked.  "They're sitting behind the German POWs," was the answer.  To that Lena replied, "screw this!" and walked out of the auditorium to find her black driver and say, "Take me to the NAACP!"  The NAACP's lone Little Rock representative was a woman, Daisy Bates, future heroine of the 1950's Little Rock school crisis.  After Lena and Daisy Bates drafted a  statement of protest regarding Camp Robertson Lena returned to Hollywood and hot water.  She was censured by the USO and was kicked out but continued to visit black army bases at her own expense."

Have we really forgotten that Lena Horne was in Jackson, Mississippi, entertaining at a fundraiser for SNCC with Medgar Evers the night before he was fatally gunned down in the driveway of his home?

I've rarely been so torn.

I feel so honored to be chosen to help in the honoring of this no longer living beautiful and universally-celebrated artist (Antoinette Perry Award, the Drama Desk Award, the Critics Circle Award, the Handel Medallion, the Actor's Equity Paul Robeson Award, the Kennedy Center Honors, and the NAACPs Spingarn Medal, to name a few).

There will be a lovely young jazz singer, Robin Gregory, who will sing as "Lena," and there are suggestions of just how a display might be created to give an honest portrayal of this complex woman whose life was scarred by the limitations of her times (and ours); but I've not yet figured out just how that can be, or if, indeed,  this is the appropriate venue for honoring her life -- or the ironic sponsorship under the banner of the USO.  Or, if I'm the person to try to make whole in our times that which we barely survived during those painful years; or if anyone could?

'Tis a dilemma.

In preparation for this assignment I've read "The Horne's -- An American Story" by her daughter, and am starting to read another biography by James Gavin, "Stormy Weather," that may be helpful.  But time is running out, and  so far all that seems to be happening is that my anger and outrage are being refreshed.  At times I'm energized by these feelings, and at other times paralyzed by them.  Then there are times when I fear that those powerful emotions will consume me.

... but then I remember that it is this quiet rage, properly channeled, that fuels my work -- and perhaps it will this time, too.


Photo:  Top, Lena at one of the African American USOs.
             Bottom:  Taken at the launching of the SS George Washington Carver at the Kaiser Permanente Shipyards in 1944 which makes this event in Richmond an appropriate venue for bestowing a belated honor. 

Yup!  That would be moi standing in the front row waiting outside the ballpark before the game ... .

It was Rosie the Riveter Day at the L.A.Dodgers/S.F. Giants ballgame on Thursday night -- which ended in a victory for the Giants (11-2) which moved them into 1/2 game ahead of the pack and into first place. 
 
The other Rosies are Agnes Moore; Marian Wynn to my right; and Priscilla Elders with Ranger Elizabeth Tucker standing behind; Deputy Superintendent Tom Leatherman; Mary "Peace" Head; Ford Point developer, Eddie Orton of Orton Development with his wife, Amy, standing behind; and another Marian to her left.  Lance, the Ford Point manager is standing behind Tom Leatherman.

This was the scene of the pre-game ceremony honoring us all before a sold out stadium and countless roaring fans!

You cannot imagine how difficult it was to not turn around from the "facing-the-crowd" position to view myself on that giant screen behind us.  There we were in living color in real time and with a series of clips of the Rosie the Riveter story, and advertising the upcoming Home Front Festival to be held on October 1st and 2nd at the Ford Building and the SS Red Oak Victory in Richmond.  We were introduced individually to the enthusiastic roar of the crowd.  Pret-ty heady stuff, I'll tell you!

For the Museum at the Visitor's Center (once completed) we were presented a Giant's team jersey with "Rosie" printed thereon with the year "45" (1945).  It was left behind though, for both teams to autograph for posterity.  I'm holding one sleeve flanked by Priscilla and Elizabeth.  (But I'd have exchanged the privilege for permission to look behind at that giant screen!)  I understand that we'll receive a copy of that videotape for our Visitor's Center that should be ready for the public in about a year.

Photos:  These are thumbnails and can be enlarged by clicking on.

Pitchin' and tossin' and discoverin' papers and photos long forgotten ... .


Fortunately, one of the benefits of moving  ( this time it's for Dorian; requiring empty boxes)  comes with the need to finally rid myself of all of those stashes of items that needed further examination before tossing; things that have withstood a cursory examination through several previous moves but by the time we've lived as long as I have -- that collection has become gigantic!  Now's the time to stop procrastinating and either seriously save for posterity or toss!  Unfortunately, the "save" pile is disappointingly generous still.  The only way I can guarantee riddance is to put everything else through the shredder! 


Today was the day to dive in before the closet police stake out my apartment for a raid!


Such memories were waiting there ... and so many emotions ... .


For instance, I don't recall this photo at all, but I do remember the event.  That Sunday I was in the pulpit (at my request) at the Mt. Diablo Unitarian Universalist Church in Walnut Creek.  The portrait behind the lectern is of my mentor, and great friend, the late Rev. Aron Gilmartin.  (The subject of the sermon and description of the event is in the archives under June 8, 2004.)


I believe that there is a biography online about this true scholar, social activist, and humanitarian.  I could never do that history justice, but author Arliss Ungar has done so in a published paper that is available online. 


I so wish he was still present in my life ... but I know that his influence is still being felt through those of us whom he taught so well.

Wondering (at the first light of dawn this day) whether I've now lived out the crest of my personal life's journey? 

Was it January 20, 2009, sitting on that frigid metal folding chair in front of the Capitol witnessing the inauguration of our new president with two million other dreamers?  That surely seemed so at the time -- and often since; on the good days.  Was it the unanticipated rise to the highest office in the land that made it so?  Was there enough of a crescendo building toward that auspicious day to even begin to prepare us for this miracle? Was there sufficient cause to exult (as we surely did) in the rare experience of wandering up and down the Capitol Mall that day with a sea of ecstatic Americans who were as astounded as I at the course our nation had taken before the entire known world -- at long last? Had the promises of our fledgling nation finally been fulfilled? Should we not have foreseen the blow-back that was certain to follow in the succeeding months and years? Were we naive in supposing that -- this time -- the pendulum that has marked this nation's progress since 1776 would suddenly be stilled?

Have we forgotten that true democracy is formed and exists in the balances between opposing political forces, and that the greatest one can hope for is to weigh in on the direction perceived best for the majority at any stage in its dynamism; and hope to prevail in those efforts for measured periods only as the great pendulum resumes it's rhythmic dance into whatever unknown future awaits us?

A definition of Freedom?  (Nah, maybe it's just a Betty-ism.)

In watching the drama of today's political scenes unfold it is hard to escape the notion that the greatest problem we face may be the steady dismantling of our previously enviable system of public education.  It is hard to imagine that a democracy can long exist without an informed electorate.

How else does one explain the Beck phenomenon; the growing resistance to immigration or even immigration reform, or, the stories coming out of the great Southwest that are so disturbing in that they may indicate just how far we've strayed from the intent of our founding documents?

Nor is there any particular comfort to be found in the potential for restoration of regulations in the world of high finance, or, in support for the sciences, agriculture, and environmental protections.

Maybe I need to give up the Sunday morning television seminars and get out my PPG (Personal Prognostication Gear),  and maybe if I adjust the antenna on my space beanie and call up some audacity - the future won't seem so formidable.

After watching the on-camera freeze of the governor of Arizona this morning, it wouldn't surprise me one iota to learn that I've now lived out the crescendo in the up-cycle of my allotted time on the planet and that it's all downhill from here.

Y'all better stand ready to catch the next up-draft!

Is there anyone else who doubts that neither John Adams nor Thomas Jefferson, himself, could get the Bill of Rights passed by today's Congress?  And just how many of our States would be willing to ratify the Constitution were it to make the rounds today?

... and what do you suppose that means?

Writing that last entry brought musings on mortality and new inevitabilities to ponder... and every indication that I'm still processing Lottie's death ... .


Yesterday I found myself jotting the first requests in my calendar for public appearances for next year; for January and March.  I'm certainly aware of commencement ceremonies at California College of the Arts the week of May 14th; and that my term with the National Park Service is due to end in July of 2011, unless extended.  It will all pass so quickly -- with little sense of control -- unless care is taken now to gain some sense of order over what time is remaining.  (That's time as in a years, decades, and nearly a century of a lifetime.)


Which brings me to the need to begin to plan -- and I'd love to include visits to other park sites in that planning.  There is so much still that I'd love to experience before too much more precious time has passed.  In the course of my work I can still do that, I believe, even in my role in the NPS, maybe as an extension of that work.  


With my sister's death a few weeks ago, I'm reminded that I was so grateful -- even in grief -- that she didn't have a long period of lingering half alive and suffering in unmitigated agony.  Though I have no idea how long she knew that the end was near or what fears she endured; the family had little warning before she slipped into eternity. 


I remember in 1987 while lying at the foot of my father's hospital bed as we shared his last hours (at the age of 93) -- during a blinding flash of insight -- that it may be just an illusion that medical science has extended human life.  To me it seems more likely that what has been extended is death. His death process claimed the last ten years of his previously productive life.  My proud father spent his final decade blind and bedridden and totally dependent upon those around him.


Since I have another birthday in 3 weeks (yes!).  After 70 they come every 6 weeks.  Time is becoming more of a constant presence in my life.  I'm considering giving it a name, and issuing it a serial number!  How that which remains is spent is critically important if only to me; not to be squandered.


... and .. after due consideration (of at least the last ten minutes) ... I see little reason to not proceed on the trajectory that has brought me thus far into the 21st Century!


How's that for a simple declaration of intentions?

Strangest thoughts keep rising to the top ... as I push back as if to confine them to some "crazy" corner of my mind ... still ...


They might be accounted for by the weird life of contrasts I've lived over the past 10 months since Dorian's accident.  On the one hand I'm embraced by a world of the young by day in the service of the national parks system, with exciting challenges, always.  But that world comes sharply to a close at four each day on my return home with senses tuned down to Dorian's intellectual capacity by some magical process that is activated between the gathering of the mail and the turning of the key in the lock -- as I trade my place in the world of a park ranger for my place in the scaled-down dimension that her mental deficits confine her to.  After sharing supper, the choice is either to sit at my desk and commune with my MAC, or, lie down beside her on the bed and watch the Disney Channel through our feet -- all in the interest of not having to hold a conversation.  Mind-numbing describes life over the past traumatic year of daily hospital visits, wheel chairs, endless paperwork, unanticipated changes; a way of life that is now coming to an end.


Lately -- in order to minimize the need for mindless chat, and the effort to better understand a developing phenomenon -- I've been watching the oral history tapes received from the Bancroft Library.   I'm trying to learn more about what it is that "the World" is seeing in me that brings such attention and recognition so late in life and is so far beyond the way I see myself.


It happened last week when I was the keynote speaker for the employees of the Regional Office of the Social Security Administration.  It was the kick-off day of the agency's annual Diversity Week-long observance, and perhaps 200-plus of the 1400 who work in that huge facility gathered in the state of the art auditorium for the talk.  As always, when introduced I rose to the lectern and - without notes -- gave my now-familiar account of the great home front mobilization story as it unfolded during the WWII years from 1941-1945. The story is never the same, since different parts of it rise to the surface as I look out over any audience.  Were that not so I don't believe I could give these talks, since the words and thoughts need to hold at least some semblance of freshness in order for them to continue to excite me in the telling.


It is certainly immodest to admit that I know that I'm an effective speaker.  I could hardly be unaware of that while looking out over the audience from the dais and seeing heads nod, faces looking as though each is in a private conversation with me.  I've even imagined that I can hear them exhaling in unison at the end of expressed thoughts.  Strange and powerful. The experience is still so new that I've not had the luxury of comparing notes with others who experience this regularly.  But then I'm not sure that I know anyone like that, anyway; anyone whose life in any way compares with the one I'm living.


At the end of my  talk the audience rose as one in a standing ovation!  That, I was not prepared for.


As always, I tucked the experience away on return to our offices -- and then delicately drew it out of its "crazy corner" (to savor) last night just before falling asleep.


It may be outrageous to type these words; but do you suppose -- due to living with (mentally retarded) Dorian which places my intellect on stand-by for half my days and all of my weekends --  meaning that -- when I am out of Dorrie range I'm compelled to speak only words of meaning and power as though to compensate for that half when my intellect is set on hold? Is this the power that is there on tap until called upon? 


I watch myself on tape and am struck by the fact that I am an effective storyteller.   It's when I become self-conscious about being taken for an historian or a public speaker in a formal sense that confusion reigns.  As long as the goal is to share my personal experiences of life as I can recall -- in context -- then I believe that I'm capable of making a truly valuable contribution to those seeking to better understand what has gone before and its effects upon those years of unprecedented and enduring social change that followed.


Perhaps it is this compensatory asset that is Dorian's gift to me.


Weird?


Maybe not so weird at that ... . 


This will end soon. After almost a year she's ready to move into a great studio apartment within ten minutes of my condo.  She will have services that will maximize her ability to survive on her own now.  Her fractured legs have healed sufficiently so that even her dependence on a walker is becoming less and less essential, though her sense of balance is seriously compromised.  There is a significant permanent glitch in her mobility, but now that she's back in the arts programs at NIAD 3 days-a-week -- she's ready for launching back into her now more limited independent living program.

Wonder if I'll see a diminishing of my public speaking effectiveness in a few weeks of not having to dumb down for 12 hours of each 24?  Will that reservoir of creative oratory power disappear when she's no longer with me?


Now that's ridiculous!


... an illusion?

We'll see.

Illusions?  Recurring madness ... ?

I'm beginning to suspect that a break in my everyday life  might be in order just about now.  I keep reminding myself that I haven't visited Mendocino since that fateful day after Thanksgiving last year.  I do miss those idylls at the ocean; endlessly watching the rhythmic breakers pounding relentlessly against the great rocks... gulls soaring against the approaching fog bank of a soon-to-be night sky ... .  Either I'll escape soon, or a break in my sanity may be just around the corner! I've been under extraordinary stress over the past 10 months -- since Dorian's accident -- and the distraction provided by a very interesting work life may be losing its power to offset the surreal aspects of my daily life. 

There is some slippage occurring in my reality, but just when I think I'm losing touch -- the insanity presented on the small screen makes me think that my personal take on the national scene pales in comparison to the unbelievable madness and distortions that are actually reflected there.  Beck-o-mania? 

For instance, we'll take Thursday's schedule:

At about ten thirty, by prearrangement, I met a group of about 20 Japanese tourists (students, instructors, elders) and their hosts and translator at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial for a guided tour.  It would be my first experience conducting one with non-English speaking visitors.  Not only that, but dealing with the sensitivity of having visitors who were "the enemy" at the time those home front stories were lived added a new dimension to interpretation.  I've worked that site with Japanese/Americans in the past, but this would be far different.

I found it interesting that an English-speaking Japanese college professor who was traveling with the group whispered as we stood at the plaque of the memorial that described the shameful internment of 120,000 Japanese during WWII -- 70,000 of whom were American citizens -- "there is little about the Japanese American experience taught in our schools. This is new information for us."  It was then that I remembered that the anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima had been observed only recently at the sites of the utter destruction by the dropping of the atom bomb, and that, this year, for the first time in history we had sent emissaries to attend those ceremonies.

It was at that moment that I chose to identify myself as an African American, and to speak of then and now in terms of social change.  Chose to say to them that I had been a 20 year-old clerk in a segregated union hall during the years of the infamous relocation, and compared that with a brief description of sitting in awe at the inauguration of the first Black president in January of 2009, therefore subtly indicating how far our nation had come since that ill-conceived relocation edict had been ordered and executed.  It was then that the translator -- in an aside to me -- said, "... we're minorities, too."  It was a moment of reconciliation, a bridge between us.  She was an older woman, too,  an American of Japanese descent and, as such, was perhaps closer to me than to those for whom she was translating.  It was a strange and poignant moment of insight.  Our eyes met in a flash of recognition -- she felt it too; I'm sure of it.

We spent about 45 minutes together, and a warmer more special time I've rarely spent with a tour.  I measured the success of the morning by the fact that several of our younger guests made direct attempts at communicating in halting English; daring to break through the language barrier.  The number of cameras that came out of their cases in a barrage of picture-taking as I was getting into my car was pretty impressive.  Unfortunately, mine proved to have a dead battery so there are no photos to include, though one of the hosts has promised to send copies of her photos and I will add them to this post when they arrive.

.... then I drove away for lunch at the Boilerhouse restaurant in the Ford Building  that would serve as my re-introduction to California College of the Arts President Stephen Beal and to visit with Sanjit Sethi to talk of next spring's commencement and my role in their adventure; maybe to get a better idea of just what it all means;  over the coming months -- what will precede the spring ceremonies?  When will I get to visit their S.F. campus? And how on earth did they come to select me as honoree?

Speaking of madness; would you believe that -- along with about 9 other "Rosies" -- on the evening of September 16th I will be a guest of the management of AT&T baseball park for the Dodgers/Giants game?

I'm considering -- upon the calling out of my name --  running around the bases and maybe sliding into home plate!

See what I mean?

Photo:  At the peace memorial completed in Horishima, Japan, in 2005.  Click to enlarge for detail.

An evening at the San Leandro Library ...


... and what a evening it was, too.

Not sure why I remained seated throughout the program, but upon arrival the librarian in charge of the event pointed to that chair and I remained glued to it for the rest of the evening.  My colleague,  Elizabeth, opened the program on stage at the lectern and presented her introduction -- standing quite properly before it.  Moi?  I seemed to not have gotten the memo, and never moved toward stage center or to the lectern.  It was all the way across the stage, and seemed to put more emphasis on my talk than I felt it warranted.  I think that I much prefer to be in conversation with an audience, but I suppose that's not always appropriate.  Being a "special person" is not yet natural to me, and always suggests that I'm going to say something worth standing before a lectern -- when in fact, I'm always speaking extemporaneously, and always from memory of events.  There's a disadvantage to not working from an acquired body of knowledge, though in a way, I'm guessing that -- if there is any power in my words (and there surely seems to be) -- it comes from the fact that my thoughts originate with me, and only I can be credited or blamed for what gets expressed.  I guess that's what comes with being one's own authority.


I've been known to say on occasion, "... now that I've outlived all those whose recollections of that era differs from mine, I have the last say -- and the bull horn!"  And there's some truth in that absurdity.

It was also my first experience with having someone walk out in the middle of my talk, though I was told that she may have only been going to the restroom, but I did find myself watching for her to return to her seat -- and it never happened that I recall.  It was discomforting, but then my candor may be off-putting, and I shouldn't be surprised.  Expanding the Rosie story beyond the generic may not always work.   It is, after all, a white woman's story, and my insistence upon bringing in the variants on that story diminishes the myth as some would wish to remember it.

The ages of those gathered in that audience was probably in the range that would make them my contemporaries.  This was evidenced by the fact that several "Rosies" rose during the Q&A to reach for the hand mike, and when the opportunity presented itself, each took it eagerly to share her story of her experience in the work force on the home front; and my words had been simply something to wait through until the chance came to share hers.  And that's quite alright with me.  We try to leave plenty of room for those experiences.  Women have waited a long time to tell these stories and there are ears now ready to receive them, thanks to the establishing of the Rosie Memorial and to the park now dedicated in their name and for which I'm an interpretive ranger.

So maybe my talk wasn't nearly as earth-shattering as indicated by my "walk-out".  Perhaps she just didn't wait long enough for us to bring it into the present -- which is the point of it all, actually.

NIAD Fashion Show

Dorian's recovery has been dramatic -- at least the physical aspects, and for that I'm most grateful ... .

She has returned to NIAD 3 days-a-week, and is being productive and showing signs of making, if not a full recovery, at least enough so that I feel confident that life will return to whatever the new "normal" will be.

She has been practicing her solo performance of "O Happy Day" as done by the Edwin Hawkins Singers for days on end, and last week was a part of the annual show shared with the rest of the artists of NIAD (National Institute for Artists and  Disabilities).  It was quite a production that I regretted having to miss due to work that couldn't be put off for another day.  We had staff visitors from Harpers Ferry who had requested a bus tour that would emulate the visitor's experience.  These are folks charged with the creation of the park brochure that will be in process over the next two years -- and their two days of preliminary information gathering couldn't be postponed.

I knew that the NIAD show would be videotaped, so today I checked into YouTube.com to see if it had been uploaded yet.  It hasn't been.  But I discovered this video of the fashion show of two years ago, and thought you might like to share this infectious happy amazing event with me.

One simply can't watch these gleeful faces of these very special artists and remain glum.

Together with this photograph of my mother on a Hawaiian vacation at 95, these two pieces make a powerful statement about resilience and longevity.

Note:  On the video I can be seen in the audience on the left side of the room taking photos, if you look carefully.  Also, Dorian is identified on the runway -- this was a year before the accident that fractured her legs.  It may interest you to learn that she performed in last week's show without her walker.

Okay, so who mentioned the word depression?  Who, me?

Nah.

Sorry to have been so long between entries ... didn't realize I would be missed ... .


(Thank you, Mona.)


So much is happening -- it's almost dizzying.  Maybe I'm slowing down without realizing it ... maybe not.  But since Lottie's death and the subsequent period of introspection and regret at those unfinished conversations, I seem to be living with a bit more effort somehow.  I'm painfully aware of the passage of time ... maybe that's natural, just something that's developed over years, and that I'd failed to notice.  Time is tangible -- a kind of graffiti in Braille on the walls of my condo that rush through my body like an electric shock when accidentally brushed against ... ticking away audibly from my little bedside clock.  Hadn't noticed that.  Silences now have weight and a presence of their own, and remain suspended inexplicably in the air as thoughts take longer to arrange themselves before being spoken; strange... .


Then I remember my mother and her quick walk and sassy grin, even at 95 (she would live to celebrate her 101st birthday), and realize that this movie may not be over quite yet.  Long ago I decided that the rest of my life would be lived in vignettes, and that there may be a few chapters in this saga left.

Was reminded by running into an artist friend (and a member of the faculty of the California School for the Arts), the evening that we viewed "The Man From Frisco" on the SS Red Oak Victory. He reminded me that President Beal wanted to meet over lunch soon to begin plans for next spring's commencement at the college where I'm to give the address and also receive an honorary doctorate.  Would you believe that I'd almost forgotten?  At the time of the announcement last spring, there was such a scene at our office that it was as though the honor had already been awarded.  In fact, I remember that I'd felt some confusion when someone pointed out that it was commencement of 2011 that this was all going to happen, and not in the few weeks in May of 2010.  For a time there I was in danger of showing up in the middle of this year's ceremonies with great expectations!  Wouldn't that have been wild?  How was I to know that these things are planned at least one year ahead since the recipients need that kind of lead time to clear their busy schedules (you should see the list of former eminent honorees, and you'd understand).  


There is something surreal about all this, but when I wasn't blogging over the past couple of weeks, I've been taking the time to try to get re-oriented in the light of all of the changes that need to be incorporated.


The Bancroft Library has taken many hours of my oral history at different times over the past decade.  They recently videotaped one of my bus tours and updated the work done earlier.  I'd never watched the footage, figuring that I knew me fairly well -- after all, I've been blogging for a very long time now -- and much of this serves as oral history, right?  


After being reminded of the upcoming spring event it occurred to me that -- since I'm still not quite sure why this is happening at all -- maybe I could find the clues in watching myself on tape.  Maybe I'd find something out of which I could begin to form that commencement speech ... .


... it was quite an experience.  I'm not sure what I learned from watching myself for several hours -- until ego dropped away and she appeared as a third person.  I'm not sure where it took me, but I experienced a vulnerability that was unfamiliar, and the awareness that she merged with the Betty who writes -- and suddenly it felt as if I'd dropped my towel in the public square!  In the days over the past 2 weeks I'd sit at my computer ... fingers motionless ... words refusing to flow from the tips with ease as before.  The strange paralysis must have arrived with the messenger who'd brought news of endings ... and grief. 


... kept telling myself that the weird feelings would disappear tomorrow ... and tomorrow... 


That's today, isn't it? 


Photo:  One Sunday morning at breakfast in midlife; bare-faced and caught by a friend just as Bill leaned over to present a fresh-picked lemon from our tree in the garden.  Hated the photo then.  Love it now.
  

Change of plans ... and just in the nick of time, too ...

Thinking about whether to try to drive to Southern California for the memorial service for Lottie next week -- and about how to fill in the time between now and then. 

There was the AYUSA young people whose program I was prepared to participate in by conducting a walking tour of the historic Nystrom District of Richmond, but that seems to have disappeared from the matrix I received today, and now I can choose between attending a commemorative event at Mare Island in Vallejo (the site of the Port Chicago mutiny trials during WWII) -- a follow-up to our Port Chicago Day of Remembrance last week -- and the annual Kite Festival on the Berkeley Marina with Dorrie on Saturday.  And just maybe I've had enough of remembrances and memorials and am hungry for a day of simply lying on my back in the tall grass watching the antics of a thousand kites of every shape and size against the blue sky.  Actually, I'd like to be alone in that crowd -- not having to speak a word ... maybe I need to admit that I'm feeling emotionally spent and soul weary ... .

Except for the fact that there was an email yesterday from a 19 year-old cousin who found me on the internet through a family search, and Taylor Charbonnet Brown, a philosophy major at St. Marys College in Moraga, California, is anxious to meet soon. She's lived within a few miles of my apartment without my being aware of her for all of her life.  What a time to be alive -- when the Internet brings such magic without warning.

Then there was another email from Jason Allen (maternal line), another young cousin whom I've never met, but with whom I've been corresponding for a couple of years.  I saw him through his enlistment in the armed forces; a tour of duty in Kandahar, Afghanistan; and now his safe return home to Florida.

Life does have a way of pressing us into the future whether we're ready or not.  And maybe -- after a few hours of lazy kite-watching ...  the future won't appear so threatening.

The truth is that tomorrow and tomorrow are the "future," and no one on earth can make any promises about how, if, or what they will hold.  My tomorrows will surely be as surprising as my yesterdays.

Today is all there really is, anyway, and that, my friends is more than enough, especially if there is even the hint of kites over the next horizon.

Funny how the lens keeps narrowing when I'm striving so hard to see life through  a panoramic view that takes me away from this closeup of the inevitable ... .

Last night during the early evening I drove out to Kaiser Shipyard 3 to the old SS Red Oak Victory where my fellow ranger, Craig, and historian Steve Gilford were showing a vintage film, "The Man from Frisco."  This would be a special screening of a rare movie that fictionalizes the story of the great WWII industrialist, Henry J. Kaiser, whose exploits in shipbuilding at that time are so much a part of the narration in my role as a NPS interpreter.  It was a way to escape the gloom that had descended since Saturday morning.

This morning I've been trying to concentrate on the upcoming week when, starting Monday, I'll be involved in the planning for a fall series of arts projects (photographic exhibit, lectures, films, etc.) around the subject of the Japanese American story for which I'm planning two bus tours to be co-led with Toru Saito -- tours of related sites including a visit to those abandoned greenhouses with the roses still cascading out of time-shattered roofs in defiance of the destructive actions of the unknowing.  The NPS, the Richmond Museum of History, the Richmond Arts Center, and the Japanese/American Historical Society are partnering in this exciting venture.

Before that happens, I'll be working with a group of 90 high school students who are coming from all parts of the country and the world in a program called AYUSA.  They're international ambassadors for their countries and are being hosted by the Richmond Community Foundation.  They will be based at the University of California during their stay.  They're arriving on Saturday, July 31st, where -- among other activities will be a Betty-led walking-tour of the Nystrom Historic District wherein lies the Maritime Child Development Center, the Nystrom Village -- worker housing, and MLK park  (all a part of the scattered sites that form the park), which are being restored to enable the telling of the stories that are so vital to the reclamation of that era.

Unfortunately, the disembodied presence of death has narrowed my lenses so much that I'm struggling to keep some breadth to my thinking and am failing miserably.

As I walked up the unsteady see-through whatever-it's-called (hanging-on-the-side-of-the-ship stairs?) to board, I realized that I'd completely forgotten until that moment that it was from this deck of the SS Red Oak Victory that I'd scattered my eldest son's ashes about ten years ago; evidence that this, too, shall pass.  I almost turned around in the gathering dusk to drive home, feeling that there was just no hope of this fog of despair lifting, but I plodded on my unsteady climb to the top deck; made my way through the narrow passageway past the galley; down the steep ladder-like stairs to the Hold where suddenly life returned in full color as I caught sight of Steve and Craig and Lois preparing the projector and smelled the buttery aroma of popcorn in the popper -- and finally those 124 movie buffs who were entering the Hold with grins of anticipation turned up, and life began to return again.

Today Dorian's persistent and nonsensical talk is a welcome change from the gloom that has claimed me over the past week, and her innocent absence from that which has so drained the life from these past hours serves to lift the spirits and change the conversation.  I'm experiencing a re-directing, despite the need to incorporate this new reality of loss -- and by my daughter -- who is spared much of the pain by her childlike existence.

...an unseen and unexpected blessing, I think, but evidence that perspective and balance will return in time.

Photo:  Japanese Greenhouses by Richmond photographer, Ellen Gailing.

Sobering times ... unfathomable sadness  ... resignation?

I remember a dear poet friend, Benedict's, words on the death of my mother in 1995.  The words were of little comfort then, but were so resoundingly true that I found a strange kind of peace in them despite their finality.   He said, "Betty, we must remember that no life is complete without a death."  At the time they didn't make sense to me, but in the days that followed; after the flowers were wilted and the mourning clothes put away -- they were strangely comforting, and right.


I would never have been ready for this death since I could hardly imagine Lottie's life ending before mine.  It just isn't fair, in the scheme of things.  There was so much left unspoken ... but maybe that's inevitably the way that fate has of keeping a 'presence' alive -- the essence of those who've passed on -- a way to sustain life even in death.  I suppose I'll be in silent and sometimes troubling conversation with my sister for as long as I'm alive.


Photo:  by E.F. Joseph of Lottie as a vibrant teenager. 

A Day of Remembrance at Port Chicago with Ranger Shelton Johnson of Yosemite ... .

... it was a day of chill winds and patriotism -- of the best kind.

Among the hundreds of those who gathered at the monument for this 66th anniversary of the tragic explosion that vaporized 2 ships and 320 young Americans were dignitaries like Rep. George Miller who carried the legislation to turn this monument into the 392nd unit of the National Park System; from Washington, Deputy Director Micky Fearne of the NPS; the mayor of the City of Concord, reps from Senators Boxer and Feinstein; survivors of the no longer existent small town of Port Chicago; park rangers from surrounding NPS sites; Sea Scouts who provided the honor guard for the proceedings; friends, families of the lost as well as the survivors.

In his poetic fashion, Ranger Shelton Johnson embraced the cutting wind and by so doing, removed the chill and gave it personality; made it into the central character in his moving address.

Someone in the audience used his/her cell phone and created this video and had it online within 24 hours.  Of course the professional DVD that was produced of the entire event will be available within a reasonable length of time, but in the interim ... enjoy!

Photo:  all that's left except for memories.

Port Chicago Great Explosion - A Belated Thank You

... and then there was one ...

My youngest sister, Lottie Charbonnet Balugo Fields (on the right facing us), passed away this day -- July 17, 2010 at around noon -- on the 66th anniversary of the explosion at Port Chicago.  We were attending the annual Day of Remembrance when word of her death came only moments after arriving at home.  

My eldest sister, Marjorie Charbonnet Brooms (seen here on my left), left us many years ago in mid-life on the day that President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, or during those few chaotic days before his burial.  I remember traveling by train to attend her funeral and the radio broadcast of the moving of the cortege down Pennsylvania Avenue being aired on the train as the miles slid by ... all those silent stunned faces.  I'm not sure that I ever properly grieved over Marjorie's loss -- somewhere it all blended into some horrific nightmare.  So many thoughts, both beautiful and troubling -- as it is always with those of us left behind ... how awful it is when time runs out on things unsaid ... .

I remember that when Uncle Louis, my father's younger brother died -- how my dad was distressed that "God has sent his messenger's to take away Louie out of sequence.  I should have died first!"  

Is that what I'm feeling; survivor's guilt?

Photo from the E.F. Joseph collection