Guided another bus tour today, of the scattered sites that form Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home

Front National Historical Park ...

... and found that I've now grown so accustomed to sharing those personal stories with the public that -- even the presence of a camera person on board and being wired up for sound no longer phases me in the least.  Not sure that's good.  It's also true that his presence and all the trappings disappear into the environment before we've boarded the bus, something I never thought would happen, but it has.  But it's also true that I've eliminated cable from my life (and budget) after running across my image on the screen more often than is comfortable.  Seeing myself on camera is not something that I particularly enjoy, so radio is now my favorite mode of entertainment.

Fortunately, the cameraman is a personal friend by now -- having worked with me often over the past year.  He's also a history buff, and is as interested in the content of the tours as I am, so his presence is reassuring, if anything.

The intention is to gather enough of my presentations on video- and audio-tape so that the material can become a part of Pod Casts and edited into usable pieces for a variety of projects when I'm no longer with the NPS (awful thought!).

But the temporary fall into depression over recent national events is giving way (as is always the case) to new adventures:

If you'll look over to the left side of the screen at the bottom item under Links, you see a line for Zaccho Dance Theater.  This is the dance company founded by dancer/choreographer/aerialist Joanna Haigood.  Joanna is a dear friend and one of my heroes.  If you'll follow the link to Joanna's website, you will understand just why that is.  I've so admired her work over the years. She has worked internationally, and splits her time between the coasts, part of the time in New York, and the rest in her local studio at Hunters Point in San Francisco.

On a visit to Facebook earlier in the week I discovered that Joanna and Zaccho has won yet another distinguished award for her work on the East Coast.  I responded to the announcement with a brief statement that congratulated her on this new award and a statement expressing my wish to "be" her just long enough to fly!

A member of her company read my short post and apparently mentioned it to Joanna.  Then it came, "I think we can do it, Betty!"  and, "I will work up something for the two of us to do together" says Joanna -- and at some point when there's enough of an opening in her schedule -- I will be rigged up for flight!  I cannot wait!

Suffering from a lifelong fear of heights, this challenge is enormous -- but also freeing.  I can hardly believe that this is happening, but it is.

Immediately went to the nearest 24 Hour Fitness Center to sign up for training.  Filled out the forms and got myself a personal trainer.  I'm committed to 1 hour a day 5 days a week until further notice.  I think the gym staff must have had a wild time figuring out just who would be assigned a 91 year-old wannabe gymnast fossil!  But I'm still a fit and trim 118 pound woman with a dream to fulfill, and -- the only disadvantage I see that might get in the way is questionable balance that seems to have loomed up over the past year or so.  Standing on one foot with my eyes closed is enough to turn the world upside down.  The master trainer says we can get that under control by a regimen of strengthening exercises.

I went in for my first interview with the trainer this afternoon, and after about 30 minutes left him standing there with a look of sheer disbelief on his face; maybe it was wonder.  ("Have I just enrolled a 91 going-on-92-year old woman?")

We've got a plan, and I went to Mountain Hardwear where they carry active sportswear and found that I look absolutely not a day older than 75 in my black tights and top with the built-in sports bra!

Joanna trained with the Flying Wallendas of Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus at one time, so I'm expecting great things from this adventure.  This "performance" will surely not be public (I don't believe that's what she has in mind, nor do I), but will happen at her studio.  But it will be a guaranteed high point in my life, and I can cross another item off my bucket list.
  

*Just received news that Zaccho Dance Theater is appearing on the PBS Great Performance Series tomorrow night, July 26th, (check for local listings) in a work called Never Stand Still that was performed at Jacobs Pillow.  Bill T. Jones narrates.  Do watch.

When a person wakes up in the morning to discover she's been named "The most awe-inspiring park ranger" by the East Bay Express ...

(in their annual "Best of" issue)

... and when there is every indication that the honors (deserved or otherwise) will be refreshed and proliferate throughout the day by friends and family -- and maybe even a few strangers -- and maybe even into tomorrow ...

In a fair and just world that person should never -- under any circumstances whatsoever --  be expected to change the cat box!

Today was July 17th, and I was scheduled for one of my monthly now graduated to twice-monthly bus tours ... .

I'm not the only ranger giving bus tours of the scattered sites that define Rosie the Riveter National Historical Park, but since few on staff have yet been trained as interpreters of this specific history -- and the only other experienced bus tour guide is now lead ranger for the Visitors Center with little time to take the tours on.  At this point, the impression with the public is that I'm the "only game in town," thus my next several tours are all booked up, and it's just too early to begin to book September.

The bus tours are really the only way to experience the full context of this new national park, and they've become very popular with visitors, both from the City itself (where folks have known little about the history of this WWII Boom Town), and from the greater Bay Area public.

It might be of interest to note that on a recent survey of the guest book that visitors sign voluntarily, since opening on Memorial Day weekend in 2012, we've had 98 international visitors from 27 foreign countries.  This doesn't count the out-of-state visitation, nor those from the  nearby suburbs where so many of the descendants of the shipyard workers of the WWII era now reside.   Our figures (despite the absence of proper signage) are respectable (averaging maybe 2500-3000/month), and growing daily.

Today is post-Trayvon Martin demonstrations, both local and national, and I found myself factoring in recent painful history as I narrated today's tour. It was unavoidable.  But I found that -- since I have nothing to draw upon in my interpretation except personal history and experience -- I was processing that most recent history over the full range of the two-and-a-half hours of the tour, not often, not always aloud, but Florida and the trial surely were clearly a presence on the bus.

Came up with some remarkable conclusions that I'd not had a chance to even know were being drawn ...

and -- as I heard the unrehearsed sentences being uttered aloud during the commentary -- there were some surprises ...

I think they may need a few hours of fine tuning before I try to etch them into words in this screen ... but it may be enough to state that a weight seems to have been lifted ... a weight that had been gaining over weeks without notice ... but I've grown into new territory ... and I need to live with the newness for some hours before trying to move them onto a page. 

Suffering a bout of depression, I think ...

... and can't seem to shake myself loose ...

To say the George Zimmerman trial for the murder of young Martin is alone causing my world to suddenly cave in on itself might be an exaggeration, though there is surely a connection.  May have begun with the Supreme Court's gutting of the Voters Rights Act -- but it's far more than that.  Those are just the most obvious signs to point to.

Combined with my twice-weekly commentaries in the theater where the only material I have to draw upon is my own personal history -- and the steady decline of the whole social system of my country, it's becoming so clear that I cannot push it back from the forefront of my mind much longer and retain my sanity.

About two weeks ago -- the day I participated in the Juneteenth parade followed by my usual two o'clock screening of "Home Front Heroes" with commentary in the theater is when I began to feel out of balance; off-center.

As usual, as my presentation ended, with head down I went to the lobby and retrieved my purse and hat from behind the front desk and headed out the door for the parking lot.

Within a few miles I was already in some other mind-space and ready to begin my 2-days of "offness" before beginning another week.  It doesn't take more than driving a few blocks before I'm on to the next thing on my list and in this case I can distinctly recall going over possible eating places to take Dorian for an evening out.  This was surely not a state of anxiety. It's been quite a while since we've done that, and I knew that the little amber light on my cell phone was blinking her voice mail message into my subconscious for a call back as soon as I arrived home.

I was about a mile short of the end of the 5 mile drive to my home.  The traffic was fortunately light or the next few moments might have been tragic, indeed.

Suddenly -- out of nowhere -- I became disoriented.  The world looked vastly different somehow.  The sunlight had changed character -- by several shades.  There was no pain, and I never lost consciousness, but pulled into the next intersection and waited for the world to get back into focus.  There was no panic.  Could this be a warning for the onset of a stroke?  I was acutely aware of the need to act quickly so that effects had a chance of reversal.  These signs were not familiar, and it all seemed to be at brain-level.  A truck drew up behind me and I heard the driver press his horn, only once, -- it appeared that I was blocking his way into that intersection so I needed to make a quick decision.


The incident lasted no more than a few minutes -- maybe no more than seconds -- and left me shaken, but completely coherent.  I'm perhaps a mile from my apartment, but between here and there was a fire house.  It would not be wise to drive home where I would be alone when it might be possible to stop in at the fire station for help.

Knocked on the door and was greeted warmly by a uniformed fireman.  I explained what had happened and when a second man popped in from the next room, they quickly got out equipment and began to take my blood pressure which was (apparently) alarmingly high.  (I'm sure by that time panic had set in because in my mind this was a beginnings of a stroke.) 

By now I'm feeling humiliated as if I'd somehow done something horribly wrong, but at their insistence found myself being tucked onto a gurney, loaded onto an ambulance that had magically pulled up, and we're off to Emergency!

It was only then that I realized that I'd not eaten all day, nor could I recall having taken any liquid so was probably suffering from dehydration.  I remember having difficulty remembering my social security number when asked -- but the lapse lasted only a few seconds and my still alert mind made note of it at the time.

The next 5 hours were spent attached to the "drip" thing and a puzzled young doctor who couldn't figure out what on earth ... because of my excellent medical record and the fact that -- despite my age -- I'm not on any meds nor have I ever in life been hospitalized for anything beyond those associated with having given birth 3 times without incident.

Five hours later, red-faced,  (and my car parked wildly at the fire station 5 miles away) I called my niece to pick me up for the drive home.  I felt so ashamed for having cost my medical plan for that 4-mile ambulance ride ($1995 was the bill -- even without the siren -- but it was not charged to me).  Small wonder that medical costs are so outrageous!

Not to worry.

I'm just fine, but in the search for what built up to the incident I've become more sensitive to how much I'm re-living the trauma of the civil rights revolution, and of the need to stay engaged with that dark past enough to extract the lessons as I continue to incorporate them into my commentaries.  And as I re-visit that pain -- it carries an emotional cost that must be paid.

That leaves me with an anomaly.  We may never know what happened (dehydration?), but it's left me with only the emotional component -- "The Blues", and a lingering feeling of hopelessness ... .

Received a follow-up call at work from the ER doctor last week to check on my state of being.  He suggested that I visit the blood pressure clinic at the very next chance I have to do so.  Did that a few days ago and checked out 134 over 63 -- well within the range of normal.

Maybe, if I allow the tears to flow freely for Trayvon and his parents; and for my sons, Rick, Bob, and David who learned early the lessons of racial profiling as one of the high costs of living in the suburbs of culturally-deprived and white-privileged America. 

Maybe the pain is guilt that I put them through that in the belief that I was justifiably exercising our rights of citizenship in the country of our birth, and 13 generations of residency.

They had a dream, too.

Find myself wondering -- in this -- the fiftieth anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington -- how these panelists would grade us on progress in actualizing the Dream ... in light of recent Supreme Court decisions.

And noting, as well, that there were no women at the table.

Civil Rights Roundtable 1963

More magic ...

So strange.  "Young Betty," is still being discovered -- validating memories that are by now so ancient that I experience them as dreamlike -- no longer as reality once lived.  The Artist Betty has been buried for so many years that I experience her as a very separate being now; like someone I once knew ... .

The song this young graphic artist is referring to is one I wrote and performed in 1965 at a church benefit (for which a vinyl disc was created of all the performances).  It was held in a high school auditorium, and I believe it was the first time of sharing my work in public.

None of my songs was ever published, so it's a mystery of just how that obscure composition made it to Chicago and into the year 2013, but it miraculously has.

The song was inspired by letters home written by my young friend, Susan Sanford, who had left the university with other young white activists from our community to spend the summer teaching in a Freedom School in Canton, Mississippi.  It was Freedom Summer, 1964. Susan was wearing a string of pearls every day under her tee-shirt -- pearls I'd received on my wedding day, and which needed 're-anointing' through something that would imbue them with meaning.  My marriage was failing slowly, and the events in the Civil Rights Revolution were providing a way to re-direct my passion.  Writing songs was providing a way to process all that was happening to me at the time. 

The story was about a black woman in whose humble home those students would gather in the evenings to talk into the night about their experiences.  There was mention of church burnings and "cotton flamin' 'neath summa skies," and  "shrouds 'o white - no name namin'" (the Klan), and about her summoning the courage to actually go to the courthouse to "sign her name for freedom."

Ironic that Mike Tewz' message would reach me on the day that the Supreme Court gutted the Voters Rights Act.

Coincidence?

Sure it is. 

Michael Tewz, Artist and Musician, reaches across the years with an inquiry. Magical!

From: ‪

‬
Date: Sun, Jun 23, 2013 at 12:38 AM
Email submitted from: tewz@tewz1.com at /rori/contacts.htm

So happy to be sending this message,
And I hope this email finds you well ...
I recently found a very old & very rare/obscure record that has a song by Betty Reid who I believe is Betty Reid Soskin.

The album is CO-OP HOOTENANNY
Recorded LIVE at the Berkeley Community Theatre, October 9, 1965 & the song titled
"Sign My Name To Freedom" - by Betty Reid.

The song can be heard here @7 minutes 45 seconds
http://www.divshare.com/download/launch/23770471-02d

as I write this I have been listening to the song on repeat for about an hr. It is quite simply ... Beautiful.

On her wikipedia page it states that during "1960s she wrote and performed songs, many dealing with civil rights and peace."
I wonder if it is common knowledge around your parts that Betty Reid recorded this? Were any of you aware of its existence? ... This entire record is a very rare document of America Folk music & I believe it should be added to a higher archive.

I am quite sure that I have reached the right Betty Reid but there is a small chance that I have not. It is interesting that this song was recorded in Berkley & that Betty stayed in the N. California for so long.
Another interesting/fascinating aspects of the song are the lyrics. If i'm not mistaken, it is about signing up for the military which is basically the summation of her entire life.

Anyway, if Betty gets to read this I just want her to know that Im a huge fan of her music, and I would love to speak with/interview her. I think this could make a great piece for NPR/Radio.
Betty ... You are a treasure. Thank you for the time machine. You managed to send a smile a thousand of miles & 48 years into the future. ... I LOVE THIS ...
I could listen to this song on repeat ... forever.
sending you love from Chicago.
Mike Tewz

Okay.  Down girl!  Paranoia will get you nowhere ... there are lots of real dangers to confront, and invasion of privacy is not the one to get your dander up over ...

I'm fairly certain that the Valerie Plame/Joe Wilson message was probably one forwarded by someone who's been reading my stuff and figured I might be interested in being updated on the Edward Snowden debacle.

Besides, I have very few secrets left undisclosed, and all claims to privacy are probably hopelessly irrelevant by now, and to complain at this late stage is rather foolish, wouldn't you say?

Besides, who on earth is interested in an over-ripe under-sized vintage park ranger, anyway?

Have I told you that someone announced on Facebook the other day that she'd picked up a copy of Robert Ripley's "Believe it or not" and I'm on page 162 as the oldest ranger in the National Park Service?  Since it probably takes about a year to go from the publisher to the library shelf, they have no idea that I'm now even a year older.
 
And, the week before that I learned that I've lost my standing in the National Park Service as the "oldest ranger in the system" since a 98 year-old gentleman was hired in the maintenance department at a national park in the Northwest!  All you seniors be sure to keep your resumés updated.  You never know when an offer might be made and you'll be back in the saddle.  And, no, I have no idea who the new elder is, but I suspect that he may have been a valuable volunteer who was elevated to ranger status.  It would please me to tell him that I'm really relieved to be moved back from the edge a few feet by his ascendance in the hierarchy of rangerhood!

There are so many fascinating things happening in my life right now, and I need to be sharing that.

At ease, girl!

Saturday's Juneteenth Parade ... a celebration that came late into my life  ... .

This is an African American holiday that hasn't held much meaning until recent times.  It is really a Texas event -- marking the time when black folks in that part of the country learned of the Emancipation Proclamation and that -- nearly 300 years of enslavement -- freedom had come at last.

Having grown up in California since the age of six, there was much black history that escaped notice until young adulthood.

Our unit was sponsored by BWOPA (Black Women Organized for Political Action) and I was among those honored to "bop" to the music over a blasting sound system playing Aretha's "Respect" and waving rhythmically to the crowd as we passed -- following the unit of colorful Black Cowboys on horses and just ahead of the city's public safety vehicles.


I've pretty much recovered from the paranoia of the last post, just in time for another attack brought on by opening my inbox today and discovering -- not in my spamcatcher -- but among those messages from (presumably) my regular correspondents with whom I've had prior contact.  Except that today's messages had one having to do with the current flap over Edward Snowden of the National Security Agency leak and the disappearance from the airport in Moscow -- with a long message from former CIA agent, Valerie Plame Wilson, and her husband, Joe Wilson -- a no-reply message by way of the Guardian; United Kingdom to which I've never subscribed.

Since they are surely not of my world,  so there would have been no way for their names to be in my address book (so why are they in my inbox (???).

I suppose it's a case of these  noted figures from far beyond the borders of my modest life and times sending their message out to millions of people in all corners of the world -- and that it's all purely an instance of the power of the medium to spread its message ... and not personal at all ..

Times have surely changed since that Emancipation Proclamation got waylaid for those 3 years when Texas's black folks were cheated out of 3 years of freedom while the rest of the South got on with their lives - finally out of bondage.

... it feels eerie ... .

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?

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