Who on earth is this?

Just received my first lesson in data-mining, I think ... .

A young cousin with a sudden interest in family history began to send inquiries about photographs online that I assumed were coming from the family tree I'd posted long ago (see The Betty Reid Soskin pages).  It soon became clear that -- from the questions being raised, this was not the source she was using.  At a point in the exchange of messages she mentioned Google Images -- an online website I was totally unaware of  -- with the words, "You're famous, Aunt Betty.  And these are the images people will be seeing forever!"  Enough for me to take a look.


What a revelation!  There are hundreds of photos under my name with most strangely unrelated to me at all.  (Try typing yours into the search bar on the site.)  I'm appalled!

Admittedly, those taken from my blog are fair game since they've been online for years (since 2003 when I started blogging), so I can't complain about their being used.  But anyone who has ever been photographed with me is also there, including my friends and relatives, and without their permission.

But it is the 75% that are not related to me nor to my name in any way that concern me.  I'm nowhere in those photos and among them are mug shots of suspects, at least one of skimpily-clad Elizabeth Hurley (former girlfriend of actor Hugh Grant) wearing nothing but a g-string; many men and women with whom I've never had any knowledge of nor contact with; anyone with whom I may have ever shared a cup of coffee or a conversation on a bus or in a waiting room (apparently) -- and it concerns me more than you know.

... or this?

In light of current news about the collection of personal phone messages and email accounts by the (NSA) National Security Agency, and that I'm working for a federal agency with Hatch Act limitations (and with which I comply judiciously), I feel that the invasion of my privacy and Fourth Amendment rights are being seriously violated.

At my advanced age this may seem irrelevant.  What possible harm can be done by publishing such material -- given my limited future?  Probably little if any, but it should matter to readers, I think.  I'd advise you to check out Google Images -- both under my name, Betty Reid Soskin, and your own.  Maybe we should all be paying more attention to how we're being perceived out in the world by losing control over what we put out there for public scrutiny.

... now back to reading today's reports on those issues ... .  I cannot help but feel that there will be a chilling effect on what I choose to disclose here in the future.

Maybe not ...  

Had the honor of addressing the Women of Labor Conference in Sacramento on Monday ... and what a time it was ... !

There is no question that women are on the rise in society, and if what I witnessed was any indication of what the future holds, we're in fine shape.


Those now serving in the Congress, in corporate leadership in all fields, in the current administration, and now matched with those in the Labor Movement are exciting, ambitious, and capable of world-changing.  All signs indicate that this upsurge in empowerment is worldwide, and not limited to this country.  The influences being felt everywhere would suggest that it's only the beginning.

... do you suppose that the genesis of what we're seeing all started with Rosie the Riveter of WWII?  Maybe I'm being swayed by my current everyday life and work with the National Park Service -- and am limited by the context. 

... but maybe not.

Still vibrating from the excitement of the Chiodo installation ceremony on Friday ...

... and of the words by descendants of some of those represented in the "largest bronze sculpture west of the Mississippi,"  ... all most memorable.

Seeing grownup Ruby Bridges  again, and hearing her speak  thoughts on being included as the 6 year-old who broke the barriers to racial integration in New Orleans schools with the help of the National Guard so long ago.   She's now memorialized among the "Champions" for all time. Watching and listening to Ruby being serenaded by the children from the local elementary school named in her honor was warm and deeply touching.

Witnessing the dynamic Ambassador Attallah Shabazz, eldest daughter of Malcolm X and Betty Shabazz, and her passionate recollections of their family life was most moving.   It's refreshing to hear descriptions of the lives of those we've so long been awed by-- and from those who knew them best and loved them most dearly. The impact of her father's being on the life of this stately woman is as deeply etched in her presence as is his image that this brilliant artist has so magnificently cast in bronze for all time.  

Among the local "Champions," was the father of a family of youngsters I grew up with.  He was Oakland's first black firefighter but oh so much more; Royal Towns.  Roy was my parents' friend, and his wife, Lucille, a  member of my mother's gathering of ladies who regularly met to play whist in a club called "The 500" for reasons unknown or forgotten by now.   He was the colorful father of my childhood friends, Mary, Gloria, and Roy, Jr, and the grandfather of Dale Adams, George and Dennis Bagby; the Wilson twins and younger brother, Steven, whose father was Lionel Wilson, Oakland's first black mayor who served as Judge Wilson in later life; and another grandson named "Something" Blackburn (whose first name escapes me in this moment) -- and now Royal Towns, or "Boo" (as he was known affectionately by family and friends), is immortalized in bronze as a "Champion of Humanity."  

It's eerie to find myself living into a time when those I knew personally are slipping into the past and being memorialized in bronze; having streets, public buildings, and airports named after them ... who knew?  The past, present, and future are no longer linear, but have a simultaneity that is mind-boggling.

... and renewing the friendship with Juliana Roosevelt, charming granddaughter of Franklin Delano and Eleanor, the first administration that I was ever aware of.  Juliana is a noted landscape artist and environmentalist based in Los Angeles, but who is working closely with Mario Chiodo's Studio and with upcoming projects thereof. 

Why am I so excited about this amazing Oakland project?  It's because we're beginning explorations for the continuing development of Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park and these are some of the visionaries whose imaginations may help to determine the continuing shaping of the next phase of the dreaming.

Nothing definite yet, but listening to the speeches of those most powerfully influenced by the "Champions" kept me spellbound for the full two hours of pure magic.  We're in the best phase of "growing a national park," where things are still fluid and anything is possible, and where things can turn on the utterance of a phrase or the discovery of an image or a long-forgotten story ...

What I wouldn't give for a Faustian bargain at this point!

Exciting weekend of firsts ... and, yes, I'm still having "firsts" even into my tenth decade... .

On Friday there was the installation of the third and final section of the noted sculptor, Mario Chiodo's, Remember Them, Champions of Humanity" in the Henry J. Kaiser Memorial Park in downtown Oakland.  Two years ago we attended the setting in place of the first two of the three giant bronze statues --  with the third 40' high stunning piece unveiled on this day.  (For a history of this exciting arts triumph type Mario's name in the search bar on left side of screen above the banner to pull up earlier posts.)

Can't talk about it quite yet, but -- if only we can convince Richmond of this city's growing importance as a national park comparable to any other -- such as Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, the GGNRA, etc., with a future resembling Golden Gate Park in San Francisco or New York's Central Park (yes, that big!) over the next few years of park development ... if only ... .




There must be enough visionaries in this city who can dream big enough

... and if there are, I intend to find them over the next few months and ignite a fire of inspiration enough to light up the sky over our magnificent 32 miles of shoreline!

Well maybe not all by myself, but with the help of other staff and some amazing friends plus a national agency providing enough wind at our backs to allow the continuing making of history.

Oh the magical workings of the  human mind ...

... flicking through photos while trying to select the one that best illustrates yesterday's post, stirrings of old images came to mind and took over completely for the rest of the afternoon.  I'd tentatively accepted an invitation to visit the S.F. Museum of Modern Art today with Tom, but my mind stayed fully occupied with memories that refused to let go:

The photo below (labeled "Pensive") is one taken by my husband, Bill, at the San Mateo home of our friend, Archdeacon John Weaver of Grace Cathedral.  John's wife, Jean, was the benefactor who'd been supporting Bill's UC Berkeley research project through her Orleton Trust through which her considerable philanthropic work was carried out.  His Project Community was co-funded by the  W. Clement & Jessie V. Stone Foundation out of Chicago.  Stone's son, Norman Jr., was a graduate student doing his doctoral studies in psychology on the staff of Bill's program.

I'm listing names here because they're important.  Who these people are is a critical element of the story.  The fact that it was in this same lovely apartment that -- on another Sunday -- we'd watched the thrilling game between the Forty Niners and the Cleveland Browns, the team owned by Jean Weaver's brother. 

It was Fall of 1975 and Bill and I were active members of the Vallombrosa Conference which met annually at a stately conference center down the Peninsula.  The organization served as the Think Tank for the Northern California Episcopal Diocese, then headed by Bishop J. Kilmer "Kim" Myer.  Vallombrosa was the equivalent of the Club of Rome which serves in the Vatican as advisory to the Pope and to which some of the professionals within this circle were also appointees.  These are the world academic leaders, and for reasons unknown -- fate had me sitting among them as a faculty spouse and "co-equal."

The two-day conference drew the elite of the educational institutions among them being Dr. William F. Soskin (my "Bill), who often served as counsel to both the Archdeacon and Bishop of the Northern California Diocese.

Over time of attending Vallombosa I'd heard papers that led to highly-acclaimed books; among them was Paul Ehrlich's Population Zero, Stanford's Economist Hazel Henderson theories, and Ken Watts' groundbreaking non-fiction The Titanic Effect.   It was here that I was exposed to all sides of the debate on the Peripheral Canal, and met the leaders of the Farm Worker Movement, including Cesar Chavez;  and Beclee and John Wilson, VP of Bank of America worldwide -- and president of International Church Women United, respectively.    At the time I was struck by the fact that there was this coterie of brainiacs who knew the future and were sharing critical information that would not be known by the rest of us for months and maybe years.  These were the futurists.

It was in those years when we served on the planning group out of which came the Golden Gate National Recreation Area.  Some of those meetings were held in the living-room of our Berkeley hilltop home. Those were heady times that preceded my work as a field representative for two California State Assembly members.  This was where I cut my political teeth, and developed both the will and the desire to serve in some public capacity, if needed.

It was in these circles that the growing interface between eastern (Tibetan Buddhist) thought and western physics was beginning to emerge.  Sam Keen's Psychology Today, Fritz Perls at Big Sur's  Esalan, and Werner Erhardt's Est were changing the social sciences through revolutionary programming.  It was a dizzying time of change -- and I loved every minute of this new world of intellectualism that I'd married into by sheer accident.

The evening that this photo was taken we'd gathered as a small committee to begin the initial planning for the Bicentennial Celebration at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco.  There were probably no more then 8-10 members present and there was electricity in the air.  I don't know why Bill chose that moment to aim his camera, but quite obviously he sensed the storm  gathering, and that my initial excitement was beginning to turn to anxiety... pain ... he knew the signs ... .

There was talk about how the lower level of the Cathedral would be decorated and the  Archdeacon disappeared for a few minutes into another part of the apartment and returned with a long antique musket and a lovely though worn handmade quilt with the announcement that these had been in his family for generations -- since the Revolutionary War.  We would all bring family artifacts and ephemera from 1776 to display!  This would be the group who would surely own such treasures, right?

I should mention here that Bishop Myers and his wife had adopted two children, one white and one black; children who were now in adolescence.  He was surely sensitive to the issues that would enter the room in the next few minutes.

I was silent as long as it was possible to restrain the rising emotions that were making it hard to breathe, and then -- tearfully but quietly -- wondered aloud if I should then bring my shackles and chains to exhibit? In the shocked silence that followed everyone understood that this celebration would be uniquely "white" and privileged since many American ancestors were owned by others at the time of our nation's founding, and many more had been cruelly vanquished as the "Patriots" took over the ancestral lands of the American Indian. 

I now know that it was in those moments that I first learned that one could speak truth to Power -- and that Power would listen.

They did.

They still do -- on Tuesdays and Saturdays at two o'clock in the afternoon.

Pensive

Insight ... .

The incident happened  about a week ago and is only now coming into consciousness ...

Commentaries at the two o'clock programs are beginning to draw a small following.  I've started to notice people who've been in those audiences a number of times, bringing friends and relatives.  Invariably there's a growing closeness as my 15-20 minute talk comes to an end, and people begin to file out past me -- each obviously moved by my words.  I'm not yet comfortable with the deep feelings that are tapped into as we go through what has become a parting ritual -- I stand against the wall on the stairway as they're leaving - with almost everyone pausing to say a personal word or two -- and as the last person moves past, with head down I exit through the west stairway -- retrieve my belongings from the drawer in the upstairs office -- and bolt for the parking lot.   The emotions that rise with the memories is sometimes draining, and I'm suddenly tired.  Sometimes I sit in my car for a time before driving into the afternoon traffic for home.  How a 45-minute program which includes a 16-minute film can produce such intensity remains a mystery ... .

Without realizing it, I'm discovering the reason why I'm still here.  Whenever some one asks, "how'd  it go today, my answer is usually, "okay, I guess," but without an ability to say precisely what went on.

Time has taught me that how people in that little theater feel about me is far less important than how they feel about themselves as the result of my work.  Sound crazy?  Not so.  I truly believe that the reason that -- though there are all races represented in the room -- they tend to have a similar emotional response to my stories. Maybe it's because each hears him/herself somewhere within.  Ultimately, the social changes that have occurred over a lifetime are largely due to enough of us, together,  bending in the direction of fairness and justice so that we've changed society in significant ways, and that we continue to do so.

Then it happened:

In the middle of my commentary a large elderly man and the 3 people who were with him rose in the middle of my talk and walked out!  It was a total surprise.  I brushed it aside to finish my remarks, refusing to take it personally.  Maybe he just needed a bathroom break, right?  But that was about two weeks ago, and today the scene rose to mind as I was slowly waking to the day.

I opened my eyes and stared into the dark wondering if I shouldn't do some editing?  Maybe I was becoming too comfortable in this role and had ceased noticing rising resentment that might be present in the room.  Was I missing something important in those moments? 

Maybe there was doubt about the literal truth of my stories ... but I've never claimed to be an historian, always sharing my history as personal; an oral history, and nothing more or less than an accounting of my own experiences.  There was no reason to believe that anyone thought of them as anything else.

... and the flash of insight that occurred this morning before day broke through -- as I felt a smile breaking with the dawn.

It matters less that my stories are "true" (when of course they are) and that they match recorded histories of the professionals whose work it is to be accurate and proven.  It does matter than I'm rising out of my own shoes -- that I'm authentic.  Oh how I wish I'd learned this lesson earlier in life.  It's an important one.  Comparing my work to that of scholars is like apples and oranges.  We are on different paths.

I suspect that it is that authenticity from which the acclaim that I'm experiencing in the world  comes.  And it is authenticity that cuts through the walls of separation on Tuesday and Saturday afternoons at the two o'clock presentations in our little theater.

... and it won't catch 'em all.  It doesn't have to, really.  It still matters how people feel about themselves as the result of the work that I'm doing, and I can see the wheels turning as we part on the stairway -- when they clasp my hands in theirs as we go our separate ways.

Maybe I've found the source of the power and the reason for continuing on -- at least for now. 

There are magical days ... more of them of late -- and Saturday came at the end of building toward a string of translucent pearls of days not to be believed ... .

It began as an ordinary Saturday's duty at the Visitors Center -- but something about it was different.  Colors more vibrant, intense, penetrating.   Sounds of children playing along the shoreline and soaring gulls overhead blended melodically.    I felt more alive than should have been expected at the end of a busy work week.

My schedule was busier than usual with two groups scheduled for my presentation of the orientation film, "Home Front Heroes," plus commentary.  The two groups would be in the little theater -- back-to-back-- at one and two o'clock sessions.  One would be 16 African American members of Easter Hill United Methodist Church for whom I'd given a black history talk in February.  To that group would be added other visitors who were in the building at the time. The other would be a local bicycle club that has become engaged and excited about Richmond's history, and were of varied ages and races, plus those visitors who remained for a second viewing.  Our little theater holds only 45 seated, so it is an intimate setting -- a plus for me.    

I was aware -- as my talk began to unfold -- that I was feeling hyper-sensitive and keenly perceptive.  It was as if someone had hit the "high intensity" button, and everything was "turned up" and magnified.  There was a deep undeniable connection between me and both audiences in that space which allowed me to see that my words were not only being heard, but felt, in ways that was unusually powerful for me.  From the expressions I could read in those faces and eyes I could feel myself being strangely energized.

This is the result of ...

having arrived at my desk some days ago to find a padded manila envelope containing a CD of an original song, "Rosies," created and recorded by an artist in Massachusetts -- with a handwritten single page neatly folded and tucked inside saying that the writer had been in the audience for one of my commentaries earlier in the year when he visited the Bay Area, and been inspired by my words.  He'd incorporated my thoughts into his lyrics.  The song is so lovely!  The heart of a young stranger has become a part of my story -- and life-of-the-moment.  His spirit was clearly in the theater over those magical two hours.

When his permission has been received, I will post it here.  Until then I will continue to be strengthened by having become a part of the art of another.  This has happened before, but I'd  almost forgotten what a powerful life force this can be.   Chris Nauman's lovely gift generated my magical afternoon -- one that I'll not soon forget.

Mother's Day, 2013 ... '

It has now been long enough since mother's death in 1995 -- that the mixed feelings of love and guilt and envy and resentment have found their way into a kind of cosmic blur -- and I've finally allowed her to be completely at rest, or so it seems, except ... .

There have been major losses of family and friends, including my eldest son, since that time -- and there is a kind of comfort with the feelings of incompleteness that comes eventually.

This morning, for the first time, I fingered my way through the file folder tabbed "obituaries," and dared to read the poem that I wrote for her funeral:

Lottie Allen Charbonnet

1894 -1995

You will be remembered as a single bright feather on a pink silk hat aimed heavenward; 3-inch heels on moire sandals with small red rose on toes

As a single fragile butterfly in a windswept world of those too caught up to notice your needs for touching and loving and caring and -- most of all -- for seeing your beauty.

Bereft of world views, books unread, causes unserved, your time on earth was spent in simple ways -- ways suited to a temperament shaped by your motherless beginnings that provided no models for your own mothering but instilled a deep appreciation for family in its broader sense; the legacy of that love-filled cabin in St. James and your dear Mamma´who nurtured her brood with such warmth.

 It is that larger family that will most miss your presence on this earth -- family of all ages -- many of whom stayed with you through a long, long life as a replacement parent for those lost -- until the end came.

I will miss you deeply as we came full circle during your long lifetime -- reversing roles until -- near the end -- you quite seriously introduced me to others as "my mother".  Perhaps I became "Minette" returned, at some point.  You invariably made the correction, but I knew that no error had been made.

We honor you in death as we loved you in life.

Why is almost my last memory of her  the morning that I brought her bedside coffee for our daily ritual of greeting the day?  As she drained the last drop, and as I removed the tray to set it down on the floor beside the bed -- she reached up from her pillows to draw me to her for a kiss.  As she did so her words were, "please don't die, Betty.  Who would take care of me?"  We'd by that time celebrated her 100th birthday.  I can recall walking out of the room resolute in my intention to not live into the years where self-preservation would become my total reason for being.  Over the course of the ensuing years nothing has dissuaded me of that notion.  I suspect that I will know when the time comes to leave and will act upon that knowledge if dementia has not claimed my senses.

... except that there are more and more reasons to go on living... and perhaps that's what keeps us here long after our purpose has been outlived.

Can it be that I've never forgiven myself for not preventing her death?  I know.  That's illogical. Insane.  But it continues to haunt me in the silences ... .

Why is it that I still can't own Mother's Day?  Despite being of advanced age and the parent of 4 of my own, I've never really grown into a role that still seems to belong to you.  Is this true for all daughters; a part of the never-ending incompleteness of Life? 

Maybe next year ... .

 

In a Facebook conversation with several members of my community ... this exchange  occurred ... .

Background:  I'd described the frustration I was feeling in not participating in a volatile climate of rage being experienced throughout the city due to growing racial tensions being driven by forces let loose by misguided though well-intentioned players.   I'm being urged by friends to weigh in on the heated debate that is threatening the peace and increasing the risk of who knows what?  I'd cited the restraints  as imposed by the Hatch Act for all federal employees which limits participation in specific ways.  I realized (sheepishly!) after a sleepless night that I just might be using those limitations  to keep myself from becoming mired in the disastrous effects that have made the city nearly ungovernable. We've reached a state of dysfunction that defies logic and that is paralyzing the process of governance.  The frustrations are shared; the answers, elusive.

Betty Reid Soskin

This conversation is undoubtedly one that we've all needed to have, but we're veering into sensitive territory in the last few posts, and I think we need re-directing -- also known as National Park Service 101:

First, no one -- over the ten years of my association with the NPS -- has ever censored my speech, limited my freedom, or tried to rein me in in any way.   I've worked in a supportive environment at all times, with complete trust in my judgment. I've made speeches before the public without anyone ever asking to preview the text, up to and including my recent Naturalization Day keynote address which was co-sponsored by two federal agencies. I enjoy local, regional, and national support throughout the agency. So much for imposed restraint. I am only restrained by my own integrity and rather uncommon common sense.

Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park is a new kind of national park in that we own none of the sites which are being restored and interpreted to tell the stories of women's worker roles and those of the Home Front mobilization; a partnership park. We partner with private owners, nonprofits, county offices, corporations, etc., our major partner being the City of Richmond.

Our ranger staff is as scattered throughout the city as are the sites that define the park. Ranger Paul Scolari, cultural resources chief, and his ranger crew of Veronica, Isabel and Sara, work with NURVE and the Richmond Museum of History, and the SS Red Oak Victory.  Rangers Lucien Sonder and Craig Riordan and Raphael Allen work with the Maritime Child Development Center, the Richmond Community Foundation, the YMCA and affiliated agencies in the Rosie's Girls program.  Ranger Matt Holmes, education specialist, does teacher training, youth programming and environmental work -- partnering with school districts throughout the area.  There are others doing equally fine work with the County and beyond, all toward the goal of assisting this host City to reconstruct its illustrious past in order to take its place among the great national parks in the system; Yosemite, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, GGNRA, Harpers Ferry,  etc, for the visitors from the rest of the nation and the world.

It would not occur to me to invite myself into any of their community meetings out of uniform and attempt to be "Betty Soskin, Private Citizen." Where in the past I might have become involved in any of these efforts, this is no longer appropriate since I have another important role to play these days, one especially fitting given my personal history. I've been given access to a charming little theater in which to set up my imaginary soap box to present to a growing audience an uncensored message of truth, fairness, and justice, in a historical context -- for two full hours each week -- 2:00-3:00 -- each Tuesday and Saturday afternoon. I also represent the voices of the un- and under-represented in talks far and wide, on university and college campuses; at corporate gatherings; before organized labor union events; state and federal agencies; and service organizations. That's a tall order and a great honor and privilege.

In the process, since we're in uncharted territory in building this unique urban park, I've been allowed to improvise my way toward the creation of a new non-coercive leadership model (the kind that says,"follow me, but only if you really want to") as we, together, bring this park into being.

Now for the Hatch Act and my reluctance to take on the negative forces in these troubled times:

Even without those restraints I would be foolish to trade that power for what would mean a minute-and-a-half to two minutes of words in the public hearing portion of a raucus council meeting.  And since the NPS is  a tenant of the city with our administrative offices now located in the Civic Center,  there are complex relationships to be maintained between Superintendent Tom Leatherman and/or Deputy Superintendent Sue Fritzke who have on-going negotiations with the mayor's office, the city manager, and on occasion, the city council. They shouldn't have to trip over "Betty Soskin, Private Citizen" when they enter those chambers, one reason you rarely see me at council meetings, though no one has ever suggested that I not attend in whatever identity I might wish to use at any given time.

Let's say I do attend and sign up to speak to make the case for my private citizen's point of view; do my two minutes then walk out into the lobby, take the elevator to the third floor, swipe my I.D. card against the security mechanism while listening for the click of the unlocking of the door, and enter my cubicle in the offices of the National Park Service -- just above the heads of the council in session three floors below. So much for "Betty Soskin, Private Citizen." With the swiping of that card my private citizen self has disappeared down the rabbit hole with Alice!

Which leads us back to -- either I retire from the greatest position I've ever held in order to officially go on the public record against the impossibly volatile situation the city is currently trapped in, or, I find some way to hold on to my integrity by continuing to provide that model of leadership which may, over time, be helpful to the creation of much-needed change.

I see no quick fixes here, guys. And maybe I see those Hatch Act prohibitions as a safe haven against impossible odds, at least at this moment.  One more drowning citizen in that swamp of rage may not be helpful to anyone. And maybe I'll shelve that retirement talk until another day ... .

But we need to keep talking ... I see this kind of sharing as a part of the answers we're desperately seeking.   Besides, someone needs to stay afloat with the life raft to summon help if all else fails!


Note:  Did I remember to tell you that my code name during the Black Revolution of the Sixties was Chicken Little?

Profiles of Excellence

Profiles of Excellence

Cinco de Mayo was super-fantastic, and grand-marshalling turned out to be another once-in-a-lifetime experience ... .

We rode in a 1977 scarlet (with flecks of gold sparkles), red and gold velvet-lined much-loved custom tailored convertible that had to be seen to be believed!  Our driver walked around with a polishing cloth removing fingerprints thoughtlessly imprinted by admirers.  Yes, and we "bounced" from time to time on the parade route. 

Former Mayor Joe Gomes and I were perched atop the back seat -- behind a huge banner proclaiming our status as Co-Grand Marshals, at the head of a two-mile long parade with colorful floats and marching units, brightly costumed Aztecs and Mayans and many other cultures from below the border.  There were mariachi bands blaring lively music from flatbed trucks and setting the cadence for all within earshot.  Even the parade monitors were finding the rhythms irresistible.

And, there I was riding as the honored lead carrying a large beautiful silk Mexican flag that danced with every errant breeze ... I could hardly have felt more Latin.  My paternal great-grandparents, Frafus and Estal Morales,  early Spanish (Islenos) settlers from the Canary Islands and St. Bernard Parish in Louisiana, were surely dancing atop their graves in celebration in St. Louis  Cemetery in New Orleans!

On Thursday I'd attended the NAM-Smithsonian Roundtable at the Oakland Museum of California where I'd sat among publicists and journalists from every ethnic minority media affiliate in the Bay Area; Filipino, Japanese-American, Chinese-American, Laotian and Vietnamese, African-American, etc., and been struck by the fact that most (except for the African Americans) had been in this country for a single generation or less.

I was struck by the fact that -- in this room -- my poly-ethnic underpinnings were the exception.  The fact that I'm from the 13th generation of my "American" family (we arrived in the New World long before the Louisiana Purchase of 1805).  Is it possible that when the descendants of these new immigrants have been here for 13 generations, they, too, will have become poly-ethnic?  That will mean many generations crossing unnecessary barriers of separation for the sake of love, and I suspect that may be precisely the unintended consequences of this unwieldy and imperfect democracy that we've co-created over the centuries.

Maybe we, who in our times are seen as something of an anomaly among the racial purists, really are the ultimate Americans.

Maybe our flag could be designed in multi-colored plaid of many colors!

Do you suppose?

I"m having an unexpectedly weepy Sunday ... but the tears are an odd mixture of joy and sadness ... .

Spent the past hour trying to write up yesterday's remarkable experience in the Visitors Center, but instead of feeling relief from allowing the feelings to rise - once I hit "publish" the layers upon layers of conflicting truth began to rise up to be reckoned with.

Thinking about Mr. Hicks's stunning few sentences, and the fact that this was coming from a living descendant of the Navajo nation to someone of Japanese-American ancestry in a room full of European American listeners added to the power in the words.

When I recall yesterday's  interaction between Flora and Satsuki -- two Japanese American women who represented (possibly) differing political positions in regard to the awesomely divisive demands made by their government, and that they were in this room -- each speaking her truth and allowing us to be witnesses.

Without a sense of just what it meant to create a park without ownership of the sites with little more than stories upon which to establish a new national park, we've created something new and critical to both the history of what happened in this place 70 years ago -- and critically-needed if we are to continue growing into the nation that we've for so long claimed to be.  Could that something be that we have succeeded in creating

... a safe place in which to process and learn the neglected lessons of history that are so necessary to our nation's survival in these troubled times?

Something truly important is beginning to happen here, and maybe the reason I'm finding such personal public acclaim is for having significantly contributed to this outcome over time by being pointedly honest and direct about those lost conversations and untold stories as I've lived them -- both publicly and without compromise.  Maybe a pattern of authenticity has been set that's releasing the same in others.  Do you suppose?  If so, that would be a major contribution to be proud of, and a legacy to protect and preserve for future generations -- in keeping with the mission of the National Park Service.

Surely the human stories are as worthy of as much protection as our scenic places of awe and wonder.

... and it was awe and wonder that was in the theater yesterday as the onion was -- layer-by-layer -- being peeled back on a shameful chapter in our history to a degree of honesty that leaves this vintage ranger tearfully joyous! 

"From a silk cocoon," was almost my undoing ..

Dr. Satsuki Ina was our special guest presenter yesterday in the little theater of our Visitors Center.  Her story turned out to be unforgettable and for reasons I would never have guessed.

Over the past several months I've become more and more familiar with the WWII internment stories through being the ranger on hand to assist Flora Ninomiya every Thursday afternoon when we feature the JACL-produced film, "Blossoms and Thorns."  Though her commentary varies little from week to week, there are always kernels of new truths and deeper understandings to be had, and our friendship has deepened over the weeks through the sharing of that history.

That being said, I was aware that Dr. Ina's story was going to add a new and dramatic layer on the stories since there were few similarities in the lives of these two women.   Flora had grown up in the small town of Richmond where her family had lived for at least two generations in a tight-knit community of rose grower families when War came. There was a community there that supported them throughout the awful ordeal over those 3 and--a-half years of imprisonment. Satsuki had grown up in San Francisco after being born in a prison camp while her parents were incarcerated as "No-Nos," (those who refused to sign the two loyalty questions and were eventually sent to the barren Tule Lake encampment).  As might be expected, about the only thing these two women had in common was that they were both Japanese Americans, and the fact that they "looked like" the enemy.  Today that would be called by its proper name, classic racial profiling, an evil that still causes pain and suffering for many Americans despite the fact that not a single person of the 120,000 imprisoned was ever found to have been disloyal to this country. 

After sitting through this powerful award-winning film and Dr. Ina's comments at the end, something truly extraordinary happened that I will never forget:

Sitting directly behind me was a member of our administrative staff, Bertha, who grew up in the little Box Car village here in the train yards of Richmond -- a child in one of the Native American families who've made their home here since long before the WWII era.  Sitting beside her was her husband, whom I'd never met.

At a point in the question and answer period at the end of Dr. Ina's talk Bertha's husband raised his hand to speak.  He identified himself as a member of the Navajo tribe before beginning his brief but moving story.  He spoke of being six years old and in his dentist's office when an FBI agent came to the door to ask for the doctor who he then ordered into custody.  It was at this point that this dignified elder burst into dry sobs as he said holding his arms out in front of his body as if to form a vise -- as he spoke, "... and I grabbed onto his legs and tried to stop them from taking  him away!"  

We're speaking of a time so long in the past that most of those who lived the history are now gone.  Yet, the hurting is so deep -- still -- that this man is reduced to tears as he speaks of his experience as a 6 year-old.  It was a reminder of the point in "Blossoms and Thorns" when an elderly Mr. Aebi, the Swiss-Italian nurseryman whose family maintained the Ninomiya's nurseries for the 3 and-a-half years until the war was over when it was turned it back to them, intact ... when (in the film) he breaks down in tears remembering ... as a child ... witnessing the transaction between Mr. Ninomiya and his father that created the life-saving pact that saved the livelihood of the Ninomiyas.

I will be eternally grateful to have lived into a time when the National Park Service has created a place and time for these critical long-awaited conversations to be held.  To be associated with a national agency that is encouraging the breaking of the long silence around issues vital to the health of the nation is a gift to be treasured.  This, alone, is one of the many great reasons around which to build a national park.

Maybe the answers will begin to bring some understanding to the question:  "Why do they hate us so?" and in so doing we can continue the painstaking process of repairing the deep flaws in a social system that has been so hurtful to so many -- Americans, all. 

... so many of us are still among the walking wounded.

Maybe soon the healing can begin.

One day I'll learn how to better handle all the public attention ... but it's still a work in progress ... .

In the days leading up to Norman Lloyd's (now retired) visit yesterday, I was so careful to not breathe a word except to those who needed to know.  This was surely a sign of my insecurity, and tendency to under-anticipate events.  When something really big is in the offing I tend to go into "dimmer" mode which most resembles an emotionally-unresponsive artificially-induced light coma!

On those days scheduled for my two o'clock presentations in the theater a pattern has not yet formed. We never know who will come.  On some days there are few visitors, while on others its standing-room, only.  I had no idea what to expect yesterday, but I'd been told that "the news of his visit had gone viral," and that there would be many in the seats for my short talk.  Not so.   I'd discouraged those who indicated that they might show up,  "just for support."  What I didn't need was a room filled with my friends for whom the stories are old.  What I did need would have been enough faces, eyes, for whom the stories are new so that there is a freshening of the too familiar material -- the kind of resurrection of ideas that I need in order to keep my own interest in the stories alive.  The day they become mechanical, robotic, is the day I retire, I think.

As the hour arrived there was nary a soul in the Visitors Center.  Not even Norman Lloyd had arrived at the agreed-upon hour.  Of course.  It was just as I'd figured.  No surprises here.  That's life, right?

During my presentations I always have the lights turned up when the film ends so that I can see the faces -- the eyes -- of those in the audience.  Since I'm working with material that rises from memory, and that is pretty repetitive -- I'm totally dependent upon the feedback from the people sitting on those attractive red-painted benches.  I not only need that, but could not do the talk without it.

I remember a time last year when I was invited to participate on a radio panel with 3 in the studio in San Francisco, and I, the fourth -- coming in by phone from our offices in Richmond.  I was literally sitting alone in a sound-proof room speaking into a telephone while listening to the conversation across the Bay.  It was impossible!  I never did join the conversation; only contributing dead air!  The only way to participate would have been to interrupt, and I couldn't think of anything I could say that would be important enough to warrant that.

But,  Lloyd did arrive, and with two friends in tow.  That trio was joined by a visiting park ranger and an intern he had in tow in a training exercise that had brought them to our park from Golden Gate National Recreation Area across the Bay.  I believe that there was also a woman who crept in at the beginning of my commentary, after the film ended.  I felt only half-alive in my delivery, but at some point I could see reactions on the faces -- especially that of Mr. Lloyd -- and it was finally comfortable.  As I got more deeply into the story his face became animated, alive, interested.

Lloyd and Bradley in Vietnam

We went to the classroom when the theater assignment was completed, and we were able to become acquainted.  He was obviously interested in exploring his idea of creating some interest in our story for CBS, but what was important for me was what I learned about him.

He was a close friend of my favorite on-air journalist, the late great Ed Bradley!  The two had traveled to Vietnam at one point where Lloyd was Bradley's cameraman on an assignment for a documentary that involved returning to those battlefields with 5 Vietnam veterans in a search for friends lost in those killing fields during the war.  He gave me two DVDs of his work in Southeast Asia which I'll watch when time allows.

This is just the beginning of explorations, and where it will go is hard to guess.  There was mention of at least one other producer who is currently with CBS, and who could be brought in to see if there's enough of a story for a national audience, I suppose.  But, wherever it goes, I've met some new and very interesting friends who may provide new edges to grow from.

Stay tuned ... .

The great educator, Mary McLeod Bethune

Musings on the State of the Union ... .

I cannot recall ever being as depressed about the state of the country and of our government-- even during the Sixties, when at least there was a feeling of change in the air,  marching in the streets. and the visible push-back from the American people through every cultural form then in existence.  

I really have no idea where we go from here, but the feeling that Congress is acting on at least two levels, both of which are encoded so are impossible to deal with -- and that increases the sense of hopelessness. It's as if the real problem is simply that this young president is not to be allowed the most obvious of successes, even if it costs the lives of our people -- and the honor of the nation. How can this be? Yet, we dare not call it what it is; the unexploded ordnance from the Civil War.

It is as if there are those in the Congress who've decided that -- "just because he has cleverly found a way to actually be elected into the highest office in our land -- and therefore into the position of world leader, this president must not be allowed to actually govern.  This may be our last chance to stop them."  When the opposition speaks about taking back the country, this is clearly what is meant.  No other explanation makes any sense.

Been reading Rising Tides:  The story of the 1927 Great Flood of New Orleans, and getting a close up look at a period in our history when at least 50 black people were being lynched annually throughout the southern states  prior to the great migration of WWII.  The accounts of those killings are horrifying!  Such hatred dies slowly, and the remnants are evident in the encoded language of our day.

That, added to the fact that every Thursday afternoon I'm in the theater with (internee) Flora Ninomiya as she presents the short Japanese American Citizens League-produced film, Blossoms & Thorns, the story of the Richmond rose grower families who were imprisoned in relocation camps during the war.  My awareness of those human rights struggles are being refreshed constantly as I watch the story unfold to a new generation of viewers from the darkness of our little theater. 

Included in the telling of that history is the fact that our government awarded $20,000 to each internee as reparations for the shameful disruption of their lives caused by an irrational national fear and panic later judged in error.  Though moneys could not possibly compensate for their losses,  it went a long way toward healing their wounds that the award was accompanied by a presidential apology.

Find myself wondering what happened to our "forty acres and a mule," and if we had processed the Civil War and the 300 years of enslavement of black people by awarding every African American an education through college without cost -- as reparations -- if America would have grown past this seemingly insurmountable barrier of white privilege and ignorance by now?  But this presupposes that the problem lies with us, and is not rising from the underlying problems associated with the continuing curse of White Supremacy that continues  to dominate our political life, making constructive change almost unattainable. 

... but maybe that's a discussion for another time when we've stopped the festering ... . 

Is my persona beginning to get in the way of my work ... ?

That's a real question these days.

Over the past few weeks I've had my work under scrutiny by ABC's local television Channel 7 for a half-hour special entitled, "Profiles in Excellence."  It will feature 3 Bay Area women of which I am one.  (Air time Saturday afternoon, April 27th at 4:30.)

I'm becoming fairly comfortable with cameras and interviewers since it all seems a legitimate role for one of the surviving relics of the WWII Home Front era still alive and active.  My age in this tenth decade is a part of the human story, and the stories upon which this national park are based are -- for the most part -- recent history with great interest among the visitors who are arriving in greater numbers as the weeks go by.

What I'm not comfortable with is viewing the finished product.  Seeing my wrinkles and obvious signs of advanced and unforgiving aging in HD-TV is pret-ty jarring, I'll tell you!  Since I look out of me and less and less at me (don't even need a mirror to apply makeup anymore), I'm really not too aware of how entropy has taken hold, mercilessly.  Gravity?  Not so much.   In the immortal words of the late great Ethel Mertz, "now that I don't see so good I don't look so bad!"  That is until there comes that icy splash of reality in the form of HD-TV to break the illusion of on-going youthfulness that one's vanity still permits.

On separate occasions a producer and cameraman shadowed me through a tour of the exhibits, videotaped my commentary in our little theater; and, yesterday returned to tape the 2 and-a-half-hour guided monthly bus tour of the scattered sites that make up the Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park. Out of that footage, combined with their oral interview done some weeks ago, they will edit about 7 minutes of on-air footage.

... and that leaves me wondering if the focus of this park, the stories of those extraordinary ordinary workers who helped to change the fate of the world by producing those 747 ships in 3 years and 8 months -- igniting the greatest social revolution over the ensuing 20 years -- if all of that will get lost as we pay close attention to the storyteller instead?

... I'm not sure what the answer is. That is, after all, what we do.  But does that mean that those stories will die when I do?  Have I laid enough foundation for them to survive me?

... and Mr. Lloyd will be coming on Tuesday to explore the possibility of a segment on Sixty Minutes ... .   

Voices from the past ... and the present ... .

Received a lovely note of appreciation today from a documentary filmmaker who discovered my blog while researching the story of Jackie Robinson online.  Didn't remember it, but the images rose in full color when I entered Jackie's name into that little search bar (remember, just above the banner, left side of screen above my picture), and posts from November of 2008 popped up with lovely photos of Rachel and Jackie Robinson's wedding and an account of my youthful encounter with the legendary athlete.

I wasn't aware of the new film, "42", opening this week throughout the country, but there will surely be a new generation of young people wanting to know more about him.

I recall seeing a picture of  his widow, Rachel,  being greeted by President Obama only a few days ago.  Maybe there was a private screening in the White House?


Need to pay closer attention to such things.

Wonder if I'll want to see the movie, or, if it's better to just savor the movies of my mind?

Upon arrival at the Visitors Education Center on Saturday morning after an unexpected day off...

... as usual I checked my voice-mail first thing.  Only one message by an unfamiliar woman's voice asking if I would please call back at my earliest convenience.  The next few words were almost unbelievable, "I'd like to know if you'd be willing to be interviewed for a possible "Sixty Minutes" future program.  Yes, that CBS Sunday evening prime time show.  What in the world ...?

I returned the call and learned that, indeed, it was a serious proposition requiring still another call-back, this time to the man who is interested in exploring an idea he'd like to flesh out that would feature some of the women who'd served in the home front work force during WWII; I suppose a kind of "then and now" piece.  We have several Rosies who work with us at the Visitors Center as volunteers for four hours every Friday where they interact with the public by sharing their stories of the times.   They love their work.

He will be coming next week to spend an afternoon with me where he'll take in my showing of the orientation film, "Home Town Heroes" in our little theater;  he'll be a part of my audience as I do my commentary and conduct a Q&A with whomever is present.  It's what I do every Tuesday and Saturday afternoons at two o'clock, and has become an important feature of ranger programs. 

I suspect that this is still a far cry from being substantive yet, and Mr. Lloyd will be creating something that may or may not be considered suitable by those back on the East Coast who make such decisions, but it promises to be an interesting possibility.

I still wonder where all these folks were when I was young and beautiful with a full life of adventures ahead and a resumé to build?  It all seems pretty ironic at this late date, but there's a delightful serendipitous quality to it all.  I'm not sure the world was ready for a young and daring Betty, anyway.  Besides, I didn't hit "daring" until about ten years ago.  Maybe it is I who arrived too late for the world.

Spring has sprung with a vengeance!

... and my dear friend, Ranger Kawther Elmi, a Washingtonian stationed at the Lincoln Memorial -- took the time to catch this exquisite photograph of the cherry blossoms in their full magnificence!  If you can imagine feeling nostalgic for a scene you've never experienced -- this would be a fine example.

Having a reason to be on hand on the Capitol Mall for next year's blooming is high on my bucket list.  Would that not be just about the best gift to myself that ever there could be?  Maybe I could take one of my grandchildren on just one more adventure.

I can almost pick up their scent over the miles between ... .

The long time between posts shouldn't confuse you into thinking that I'm still moping around in a blue fog, to the contrary ...

... it has been an exceedingly busy week, and there was simply no time to spend wallowing in self-pity.

The Tradeswomen's Annual Convention in Sacramento last Sunday was a total WOW!  My keynote speech was well received.  To look out over that audience of 600 amazing worker women who are the true successors to the Rosie the Riveter story -- the driving spirit of our park -- and through that image to clearly see evidence of the dream fulfilled ... .

My table held a group of pile-drivers, the woman sitting to my right was one of 19 years experience in her union.  There were carpenters, plumbers, electricians, crane operators, etc., and every one of them a proud feminist with a story to share.  It turned out that, about two years ago when their Convention was held in Oakland, I guided a bus tour for 50 of the attendees.  They'd arrived in their own bus which I'd "hopped on" for a 2 and-a-half-hour tour of our park sites with on board commentary.    My invitation to address their convention this year had grown from that experience.   

This year they'd come from as far north as Canada and as far south as San Diego to spend in this 2-day celebration.  It was impossible to not feel their enthusiasm and solidarity.

Being with them even for those few hours on Sunday swept away the cobwebs and held enough energy to sweep me along into another week of  "rangering" that seems to grow and deepen with each day.

The busyness was made up of our hosting of the design and fabrication teams from the East Coast who are here to finalize the arrangements for the installation of our permanent exhibits (they're going to be fantastic!) -- scheduled for next spring, probably.  In addition, the move of our administrative offices into the Richmond Civic Center was stalled by a week, and won't happen until Monday.  We're also on the eve of the Rosie Trust's Gala tomorrow evening, the annual fundraiser that is being held in the Craneway Pavilion this year, and promises to be super elegant and inspiring.

So you see, despite the fact that I've been reading a book called "Rising Tides" -- the story of the Great Flood of New Orleans in 1927" --- and scaring myself to death with disturbing memories of a 6 year-old refugee (me), there is enough magic in my days for the necessary balance needed to maintain a reasonable hold on sanity.

The twists and turns in my everyday existence leaves me with the chronic threat of whiplash!