Last night as I was reviewing my day against closed eyes at rest..

... I knew what it was that I wanted to explore with that interesting group.  It was that I'd discovered long ago that it's the givers who grow.

Learned that just before leaving the University of California system back in the 70's, where I was coordinating the Four H programs for the State.  That program was one of the long time offerings through the Department of Agriculture, and was being conducted out of the University of California statewide offices in Berkeley.  I didn't last long.  If I were to choose one area of failure in my work career it would surely be that position. 

The Four H programs were created long ago at a time when the nation's farming community was where poverty was most visible.  It was in order to try to draw that community into the educational system that the original Land Grant colleges were formed, and Four H programs were used to attract children and their families into considering college educations and studying for advance degrees.

Of course, by the time I was hired as a 4H program representative, California's farms were nearly all  giant agribusinesses, and the State's small farms had all but vanished.  The children of the farming community were by then from some of the state's most affluent families.  There were private planes in many barns originally built for cows.

I managed two state conferences before I crashed and burned -- one at the State Fair in Sacramento and another on the University of California campus at Santa Barbara.

One day I found myself in a staff meeting where the subject under discussion was how to bring the children of farm workers into 4H programs.  For that meeting there were several Latino community organizers brought in from the San Joaquin Valley farm worker community to participate in the planning.

I was horrified to discover that the group was planning to introduce gardening projects for farm workers kids.  I'm not sure where it came from, but I saw this as comparable to bringing little African American children into programs where they'd learn to pick cotton as recreation!  No one else could see what I was so appalled by.  My communications skill left a lot to be desired at that point.

I tried to explain by presenting an alternative that went over like a lead balloon! This was after I'd seen a flyer that was being prepared for distribution for the Santa Barbara teen conference. It was advertising workshops bearing the titles listed below (fortunately I found a copy of this flyer in my files). 

The list reads:

Growing up Asian
Growing up Black
Growing up in a Broken Home
Growing up Chicano
Growing up Delinquent
Growing up Handicapped
Growing up Native American
Growing up Poor

 I fully understood the intent was to create sensitivity in 4-H members, but it missed its mark -- if the rising discomfort that it caused in me was any sign.

Mind you, these are all privileged white teens with nary a child of color among them.  I was appalled by their proposed program.  For me, a workshop entitled "Growing up Racist" might have been more appropriate. The over all feeling was this list, which equated racial identity with behavioral and physical deficits, was stupid and insensitive beyond all measure.

I drafted an alternative program that would have children of the high schools of Merced and Fresno in the San Joaquin Valleys -- where the clusters of Barrios with Latino children needing programs -- I would have those white kids bused in from the towns.  I'd have turned things around so that the children of color would be the teachers by offering an immersion experience in the Spanish language being taught by farm worker youth.  How great would that be?  I would turn the tables, making the non-white kids the givers -- the teachers!

My supervisors were underwhelmed by my "brilliance," and there were no takers.  The Latino organizers simply looked puzzled by my attempt at re-directing to a format where they could not see a role for themselves.  I left the program after several weeks of frustration, and I've never looked back.

But that concept of moving us away from allowing young white people always having their supremacy reinforced through serving as saviors to the under-served, and our kids always seen as being little more than creatures of need is damaging in ways still to be determined.  Maybe this is the stage beyond Peace Corps and AmeriCorp, both great service programs, but both providing growth for the givers and encouraging dependency in the takers.

My hope is that the National Park Service in its wisdom, will one day send white youth onto historically black college campuses on six month details -- where they can have the experience of  being in the minority in an all-black environment, among peers.   That would be a rare experience that white youth should have in their formative years, and unfortunately rarely do.  The park service is well-equipped to provide it. And black youth would be seen as providers, equally as rare.

In an odd way, the Hip Hop community over the past decades has accomplished that quite naturally.  The market doesn't give them credit, but JayZee and Dr. Dre et al are operating in that dimension, and they've gone beyond the possibility of having their talents and marketable skills expropriated.  They've been more than willing to share their expertise with anyone with the interest and the ability to use them.  That generation has moved black culture from being seen merely as raw material with which to enrich American culture, to a place where it's gaining respect and a place of its own in world culture. 

New experience -- met with a group of members of a National Park Service African American leadership staff in a conference call ...

For about an hour we participated in a Q&A that -- hopefully will serve as the beginning of a new edge to grow from.

The format -- with folks scattered from coast-to-coast and me sitting at my desk at the Visitor Center talking into a telephone with the voices filling the room on loudspeaker -- served as a great way to be introduced into the process, but left me somewhat frustrated at the notion of having to give bumper sticker responses to huge questions that required at least being seated in a lounge chair with a glass of sherry in hand, and preferably after sundown.

After cradling the phone I went on dialoguing for hours with them  ...  inside my head, and decided that I would try over the next few days to flesh out some of those questions and provide answers from a deeper place.  Or, maybe I've already answered them and can point those answers out in archived posts that are still available here by using the little white search bar at the top left side of the screen.

There has to be a way to do that -- and I have two weeks of annual leave saved up and won't have to return to work until August 19th -- and can  do a search.  I can't imagine that I haven't written such thoughts over the past several years ... .

At this advanced age, surprisingly little is really new ... .

 ... and I thought that interviewer was calling from New York ...

http://www.business.com.au/betty-reid-soskin-interview-2015-7 

Here's the link to the Business Insider Australia article that appeared today online.   (Copy and paste into your browser.)

The world has shrunken considerably, and I cannot imagine why anyone across the world would be interested in such a mundane story -- or maybe I'm not seeing the whole picture -- but it does seem to be much ado about nothing, or at least very little.

But then in a world where the Kardashians and Donald Trump command more ink than the Pope ... .

After months of acknowledging requests for interviews, photos, etc., then letting the pleasant feelings of being appreciated wash over me --  

... then unceremoniously hitting the trash button in disbelief!

Last week I spent several hours  at the Visitor Center as the subject of a photo shoot that will accompany an upcoming article in the National Parks Conservancy publication; another phone call in which a hopelessly young female voice announced that I'd been selected as someone's favorite ranger and could I answer a few questions for the readers of Pathways? Then a 30-minute telephone interview for a NY Business Insider magazine article.   I've lost count of those requests and now they're hardly recognizable except as items on my Google calendar with little meaningless notations as reminders that fail to remind me of anything due to the speed and urgency my life has taken on of late.

... I've become increasingly aware of the fact that there are out there, artists, writers, documentarians, videographers, poets, artists of various disciplines who have attended my presentations in our little theater over time.  And it's not just the "Polygrip crowd" as one might expect, but a cross-section of the community from near and far. They've become too numerous to ignore, and too insistent to brush off, and their message has finally penetrated through my resistance that the magical "something" needs to be documented.

That thing that happens is clearly not an accident, and has by now become part and parcel of my new "normal".  What I was assuming was a mere temporary "bump" in visitation as the direct result of the NPR Krasny Forum interview is growing with each day, and shows no signs of ebbing any time soon.

My presentations have been raised to 5/week instead of 3, and each event now runs at full tilt with every seat filled.  We're having to pass out numbers in order to not go over the seating capacity as ordered by the fire department.  Next we'll  have to go to a reservation system. Who knew?

And I'm now beginning to realize -- as Earth time is clearly winding down -- that there needs to be a way to capture on film or videotape those elements that make up my American Story since that piece will establish the way I'll be remembered when I'm no longer here.

That is becoming important to consider.  Any false modesty is beginning to fade away, and I'm finally admitting to myself that it matters to me.

My 94th birthday is only one month away.

Wish I hadn't trashed all those requests ... and could now give them the serious thought they deserved ... .

I've enlisted a small group of friends to act as advisers.  We shared a lovely dinner last night to begin to explore next steps.

I'm so grateful to have their counsel at a time when I'm no match for the incoming public attention.

In this final decade the insights come frequently and with the clarity of those that I experienced as a 6 year-old... 

... which should make them suspect, right?

This morning as I listened to the continuing coverage of the senseless and brutal killing of those marines last week, the insights came fast and furiously -- so much so that I almost called in to the station with what seemed so obvious.

They were talking about whether this should be classified as Terrorism or not;  what the motives of the shooter may have been; why ISIS was being so successful recruiting young idealistic foreign and domestic millennials; announcing that the FBI had confiscated his computers for removal and studying of his favorite websites; his family and friend's responses to questioning, etc., and all at great cost to taxpayers and aggravated fear of a deepening threat to our well-being as a nation.

When will we stop allowing the "enemy" to set the agenda; the Terms of Engagement?

By the establishing of a policy of shooting to disable instead of shooting to kill, we could eliminate the motivation of "Lone Wolves" who are deliberately bringing about their own demise in as dramatic a fashion as can be created.  They can count on our participating in the tragedy -- elaborately, in costume,  in armored personnel carriers, in great numbers, in all of the color and style worthy of a legendary Cecil B. DeMille or a D.W. Griffith epic!  These young assassins have the power to set all that off at will and turn our police protectors into executioners.

What would my alternative accomplish?

If announced as policy well in advance of the next strike we would rob these disillusioned young men the passage into oblivion after glory.  Instead of the cost of investigating every minute detail of their former lives and motivations, ambitions and associations, we would have a live perpetrator to question and/or rehabilitate (if possible).

Would this not be a move toward eliminating the ISIS promise of a glorified martyrdom?

If the potential Lone Wolf would have to consider the possibility of imprisonment and/or permanent physical impairment from the violence of the arrest, could this not serve as a deterrent to the recruitment and kill the "romantic" motivation of martyrdom?

May be worth a try.

And -- I thought of calling in to suggest to the experts just how they were on the wrong track, but   then cringed upon remembering how embarrassed I feel for the call-ins while listening to their cockamamie orders to "authority".

But -- after thinking about it over the past few hours -- I'm certain that our marksmen and women are expert enough to shoot the weapons out of the hands of a shooter, if that is what they intend.  I'm wondering why that hasn't been considered before now?

Even given the fury and chaos of such an event and the possibility of the shooter being killed in the melee, in my scenario, that death would be accidental and never intentional.  In a successful arrest the culprit would be incapacitated and never eliminated.  That life is needed in order to have the chance to learn as much as possible about the level of desperation of a generation that may see nothing to live for and little expectation for change in their lifetimes.  These tragic events have one thing in common; they're all intended as suicides. 

Maybe the greatest motivator of all is not ISIS at all, but the never-ending sense of helplessness ... .

.. but then where could we place blame?  

 In thinking back to those compassionate forgiving members of the congregation of Emmanuel A.M.E.... .


In the wake of today's breaking news -- another horrendous shooting -- this time four marines, and the shooter with some others suffering gunshot injuries; again.

I'm thinking of the unbelievably generous forgiving of the heartless murderer whose horrific act a month ago left us all in awe.   I'm struck by something that may be obvious only to me.

 I'm sure that everyone in the nation was grateful to them for setting the tone that would quell any thought of a violent reaction.   We must not ever forget that the assassin's goal was to start a race war by his actions.

Those loving Christians did not ask the death penalty.  Instead they offered him their forgiveness.

Fractious Southerners, black and white, spoke of it passionately throughout the South in the days that followed -- and in their legislature during the debate around the removal of the Battle Flag of the Confederacy. 

Does it not follow that this provides the answer for the divisive questions around the debate over the  possible elimination of the death penalty?  I believe the Supreme Court will tackle that question in the upcoming term.  Our national response to heinous acts of murder is to come at it from the position of an eye for an eye; at least until now.

I'm certain that were I to have to face one who took the life of one of my loved ones,  in the heat of passion I, too, might want revenge -- and aren't we lucky that I don't have the responsibility of making that decision.   Not any of us should, personally, have that responsibility.

But how about our ability to respond as a nation to such crimes in the same humility and compassion as those loving churchgoers? Would not imprisonment for life without the possibility of ever being released be adequate? When will we learn that we only diminish ourselves and our humanity when we continue to kill people to teach that it's wrong to kill people?

I've always had the nagging feeling that, Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma bomber, was granted a state-sanctioned suicide, and went to his execution still defiant, steely-eyed, and without remorse.

I suppose it makes as much sense as fighting wars to defend democracy with a segregated armed forces.

Louis Charbonnet

Learned, sadly, that one of the patriarchal figures of our Charbonnet family passed away yesterday ...

Our fathers were two of the seven brothers of the family.  In addition, there were three sisters. 


Armand was one of the funeral co-directors of the historic Charbonnet-Labat Funeral Home in New Orleans.  His brother,  former state senator Louis Charbonnet, and he had partnered for decades in this family enterprise that came into being in the year 1893, as I've been told, having inherited the institution from their parents, Louis and Myrtle, who -- in turn -- inherited it from theirs.  This was the birthplace of the legendary jazz funerals and the memorable "Second Line" processions that are as much a part of the New Orleans story as is Mardi Gras.   The Charbonnet family also owns and operates the picturesque horse & buggy concession that is so much a part of the French Quarter tourist's experience.

Also, in the wake of that sad news, another bit of history turned up that needs addressing, but I'm not certain just what to do with it yet ... .


In December of 2012 I visited the grave of Amable Charbonnet, the ancestor-in-common with (white) cousin, Paul Charbonnet, and recall how he and his wife, Shirley, and I doggedly searched -- row-by-row -- for hours through St. Louis Cemetery #1 hoping to discover his grave.  Paul had researched prior to my arrival to prepare for this by turning up a picture to help identify the grave.  In it the site had a protective ornamental iron fence around it, which (when we found it) had turned to dust with the centuries, which made it difficult to locate.

Amable's grave is shared with his young daughter, Emma, (another of our ancestors) who died in childhood at the age of seven.

The beautiful white marble tomb(?) carried the signature of the Parisian artist who had created it, and was a true work of art.  The years had not been kind, and occasional catastrophic flood waters had contributed to the gradual deterioration.  The grave stands just a stone's throw away from that of the legendary Voodoo Queen Marie Leveau.

Armand and I at the grave of Amable

Paul and I talked briefly about the need somehow to raise the subject with other family members, but the project disappeared into the past and I'd not given it any thought since that great adventure.  (See December 16th, 17th, 2012 in the archives.)

Armand's death brings the subject to the forefront again, as I sent word of his passing to Paul in Baton Rouge.  His response came this morning and included word that he'd continued his research on Amable's place in our shared family history -- that Amable is the earliest ancestor of  our branch of the family, and that -- if that grave is to be restored and cared for -- today's family members might want to share in that responsibility.  Something to think about, cousins.  For those of us who may be able to afford it, of course.  It's probably just a pittance if shared widely enough.   There are surely enough of us -- though scattered widely -- to make it well within the realm of possibility.   Maybe we can ask Louis for some guidance since this would fall in his area of expertise.

When the dust has settled on this most recent loss, I'll contact Armand's daughters and try to figure out just how we might handle the care of this important family landmark -- this mark of our (still traceable) beginnings -- for future generations.

I'm reminded by these recent posts just how deeply embedded are all of our lives in southern history despite a long life of living in the Far West ... .  Small wonder that I'm almost traumatized by events rising from those roots.  It's as if my DNA is disturbed and writhing from generations of assaulting memories, as if it's all been accumulated over many generations, yet lies in some shallow place to be re-awakened by each succeeding unprocessed "insult" to the psyche by continuing unrelenting and unresolved pain.

Could this be true for the entire nation?  Is this what I'm living in microcosm?

Do we not need to bring Truth to that history as a people in order to wrest some kind of relief from the unending misery?  Should we not re-visit those painful places in order to own that history -- so that we can forgive ourselves ... to enable us to move into a more compassionate future ...

... together?

.

Wonder of wonders ...

Increased visitation at the Visitor Center due to the recent NPR Forum interview has made it necessary to add several programs to my weekly schedule, and we'll just have to see how much added stress is manageable.

On Wednesday the first of the newly-scheduled hour-length programs came and when it did I was half-way across town at my desk busily working at park headquarters!  Had totally forgotten the changes until a colleague alerted me by asking, "... shouldn't you be at the Visitor Center about now, Betty?"  It was ten minutes 'til eleven and I was deeply into a questionnaire from Business Insider, an online magazine out of New York --and had been all morning.  Had to abruptly shut down computer, grab flat-hat and dash for the elevator -- hie to the parking lot and take off on the frantic ten minute drive to the Visitor Center where an Oakland book club was waiting in the theater ... phew!

So much for the third person Betty's ability to deal with change.  This was the first morning out and I'd failed miserably.

I arrived out of breath but it only took only a few minutes to climb onto my stool and get wired up and into the stories, so -- as a test -- it's working if somewhat crazily.

Returned to the Civic Center office after the presentation, completed the 4-page single-spaced questionnaire for the magazine, and then headed for home a bit earlier than usual.

Vertigo is now all but gone, and blood pressure back to normal, and -- after witnessing the removal of the Confederate Battle Flag from the capitol grounds in Columbia, South Carolina early this morning, my world is far less emotional.  CSPAN's coverage of the wild and robust debate over the threatened removal of all such flags (all sales and exhibitions) from National Park Service sites (except where appropriate to the telling of that history) exposed the very real possibility of another governmental shutdown resulting from Congress's inability to follow the lead of South Carolina in removing that symbol of hate.  There has been a tacking-on of an amendment to the important funding bill for the Armed Forces budget which would have enabled this to happens -- which brought about a raucus shouting session in the House chambers that could not be quelled.  To prevent the Congress from having to go on record by voting in support of a continuation of the Confederate flag controversy, the House voted to send it to committee which essentially will kill the amendment without action. 

This is far from over, but I'm hopeful that we may be finally-- as a nation -- entering an era of  the belated processing of the Civil War -- something that's been festering beneath the surface for more than a century.  Maybe the South will lead the nation in that work, and would that not be ironic?

I believe that we here in Richmond's Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park are well into that dialogue, and we're drawing folks of every race and ethnicity into the conversations.

Given the possibility of another governmental Shutdown ... maybe this is only the beginning of another exciting chapter in our nation's history.

.... and maybe I'm well-placed as a link between then and now -- at a crucial time in our story.

This morning my radio/alarm went off at around six as the NPR male voice was sounding my name ...

... and I'm wide awake with a suddenness that cut through the room like a shiv through warm butter!
"... this morning at 10:30 Forum will re-air from the archives a memorable interview by Michael Krasny with Ranger Betty Reid Soskin of the National Park Service ...".   Without warning or expectation here I was on rotation on All Things Considered.  That announcement was aired several times before breakfast, each time with the same effect.  I really have begun to think of myself in the third person.  Could hardly wait to hear her! 

Yesterday, just as I was about to start my two o'clock program a woman in the front row of our little theater whispered to me that she and her husband had heard the interview on NPR a couple of weeks ago, and that they had driven all the way from Redwood City to hear my talk.  It's so hard to know how to respond to this kind of attention, especially when the anger is so near the surface, and when I'm having such a hard time keeping my emotions in check.  The vertigo is still a problem, so there's a feeling of imbalance that makes my steps unsure and confidence shaky. 

Yet, once the lights are turned up so that the faces, the eyes, are connected with mine, the magic begins -- and the words come ... still ... as if I've been pre-programmed for this precise moment in time ...  as if this is the first time I've spoken these now familiar words... .

This morning I sat alone propped on pillows hugging my knees at 10:30 and listened intently to Michael Krasny's voice as he announced the interview with this "third person," Betty Reid Soskin.  I listened intently and, surprisingly, found myself lost in tears as it ended 30 minutes later.  This time the tears were not from anger, but from somewhere deep inside -- tears of humility and wonder.  I think -- before the interview closed I was hearing my voice from an ego-less state -- hearing myself from somewhere beyond myself -- a warm but raspy voice speaking truth spontaneously and guilelessly.  Speaking of shameful things without shame.  Speaking in a proud voice that was strangely not prideful.

Is this then, what is happening -- the magic?

 

For obvious reasons,  I'm sitting on a powder keg of unspent rage ... .

... and so far it seems harmless enough since it appears to be totally powered by tears, so I burst out in sobs at the slightest provocation, and embarrassment quickly follows.  There are places in my talk that are hard to get through since every time I dip back into the darkness of those years (1942-1945) I become vulnerable and control is difficult to maintain.  But that's part of the cost of indulging Truth, and I've always been willing to pay it.

I suspect that some of it can be attributed to the lingering effects of the concussion, and the dizziness of vertigo that has caused some of my confidence to bleed away from the fear that each step might end up in another fall ... .

The Michael Krasny Forum on NPR has stirred a public response that has increased visitation substantially.  Audiences have doubled and yesterday we had to add a second presentation at three o'clock in order to meet the need.

I've never felt more vulnerable or as filled with rage as I am in this aftermath of the Emmanuel
A.M..E. church killings, or, the re-visiting of the debate over the presence of the Confederate Flag on the grounds of the Capitol.

But my anger was further fueled by the timing of the SCOTUS announcement of the decision regarding same-sex marriage at a time when I was literally sitting at the foot of my bed waiting for the president's eulogy for Senator Rev. Clementa Pinckney and the 8 others slain in that brutal killing in South Carolina.

Why on earth did they not wait until Monday morning -- traditionally when the last and most important decisions are handed down every year?  Why did they not allow us to complete the mourning process before stepping on it?  There was an incongruity in the entire country bursting into revelry just as we were waiting for the funeral services to begin in South Carolina.  I was hopelessly split since my mind and heart were with both events, and the clashing of emotions was exhausting and schizophrenic!

Then something about it began to dawn as vaguely familiar:

Just two years ago SCOTUS had positioned two critical decisions in competition when they decided against DOMA (Defense of Marriage Act) and the scuttling of the Voters Registration Act which pitted the LGBT and the African American communities in direct competition for national attention.  The danger of widening the gap between two equality-seeking segments of society was evident.

Intentional?  Coincidental?  Strategic?  Meant to sow the seeds of dissension between two "minority" segments of the society in the interest of the continuance of white privilege?  Keeping the fragmentation in place when we're fast-approaching a time in our social development as a nation, when there will no longer be a racial majority?

It's the same strategy that causes even the so-called wisest among us to continue to refer to our demographics using the term "78% minority" to describe the non-white cohort, or, "... 85% women and minority" when that is as meaningless when some of us are both -- female and non-white."  There is no such things as a 78% minority.  That, friends, is the majority.  The stupid distortions by the manipulation of language is meant to express pure nonsense loudly and constantly enough to dull the senses and hopelessly confuse.

This makes about as much sense as having gone to war in 1942 to "save Democracy with a racially-segregated Armed Forces," which is simply delusional.

Maybe the only appropriate response to such nonsense IS unspeakable debilitating rage!

... but that gets us nowhere, right?

... but it beats packing a gun for retribution.

Maybe those kindly Christian believing survivors in Charleston, South Carolina, were right after all in their almost unbelievable forgiveness of the killer ...

... but forgiveness is still beyond my reach.

Back to the tears.

I really should cut all media until I'm feeling more whole ... .

It occurred to me after listening to the southern defenders of the Right to fly the flag of the Confederacy at the State Capitol that - were I that young man sitting in a cell awaiting the wrath of judgement to come down -- I might be wondering why I'm not being hailed as a hero for saving the nation from the army of the Black America!  He does have his defenders who will declare him mentally ill.   I'm beginning to wonder whether he doesn't represent a growing number of perfectly sane white southerners with lingering smoldering leftover remnants of the Reconstruction period running in their veins.

The rhetoric that includes code language such as, "... we must take back our country ..." coming out of those in Washington's seats of power sends messages that encouraged the tragic scene at Mother Emmanuel.  This has got to refer to the presidency, right?  The hatred of President Obama and the outrage of southern racism is so strong that the "Solid South" is willing to sacrifice everything to prevent what is seen as the rise of black America to full equality.

Yet, there has obviously been a significant change in South Carolina despite all.  Those crowds gathered as mourners have been racially integrated and the obvious warmth of the citizenry holds promise even on that hallowed southern ground.

One would have to be really out of touch to not see the possibility of the obvious, and we've not yet arrived at real democracy -- not yet.

That we're still ready to fight and die for, but are not yet ready to live by its principles. 

I can't recall a time when I've felt greater despair; or as hopeless as I do this day ... . 

I'm not sure that I any longer believe ...

... and as I sit at my computer to try to find words that will help me to understand the merciless slaying  of nine praying people ...  paralysis overcomes my body and my fingers refuse to move ...

My brain goes into dull/normal mode, and -- at some level I know that this has to be -- at least until I can wrap my mind around the horror without bursting into unstoppable hysterical rage.  It will take a few days.  I've stopped watching the news coverage in order to protect myself.

I suppose singing hymns and linking hands serves the same purpose for black congregations in mourning all over the country today, but how long can that be enough? Perhaps my barely-controlled anger serves no good purpose, except maybe to provide a vent in order to preserve what sanity I have left.  Today I'll just try to sleep the pain away.   

It has been several days since the latest chapter in this horrific American nightmare occurred, and -- for the first time -- I'm finding my words scrambled at times when I'm doing my work -- and the tears are so close to the surface that the temptation to just walk away in the middle of a sentence is almost irresistible.  Yesterday's two o'clock presentation was almost impossible to get through ... .

... were it not for the feeling that everyone in that little theater shares the despair and are as close to tears as I am ... but is that enough?  Are there enough of us leaning in the direction of compassion, unity, fairness, equality, to even make a dent in the ignorance and evil that threatens to consume us? 

I'm not sure that the time hasn't come to just admit that we're beyond saving as a nation, and that maybe the madness is overwhelming now, and we're just not redeemable.

Maybe it IS time to hang it up and retire -- leave the mopping up to someone younger whose disillusionment is less profound, and whose hope is still alive.

I'm having a hard time finding mine.

My rage has reawakened, and I simply cannot understand the compassion of those surviving church members who so humbly offered forgiveness to the mindless young murderer ...

... all I can think of are the 4,725 black people who were lynched in this country from the time of the Civil War until 1968.

How on earth is this different ... or is it just another chapter in that ugly unending saga of domestic terrorism?   

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself" (President Franklin Delano Roosevelt - 1941)

I'm not so sure of that.  Not any longer. 

Once the thought entered my mind that my great-grandmother was born in 1846  into a world population that was under two billion -- and that -- only 4 generations later --I'm living in a world of seven and-a-half-billion people, I've not slept well.

Several things came together in the stillness of those sleepless nights that have made me question the place that fear may have been meant to play in the human equation, particularly -- the differences between rational and irrational fear.

One was an incident from a time when I was working as an administrator in a treatment clinic for emotionally disturbed children.  Over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich one warm lunch hour -- seated under a great walnut tree in Prof. Michael Cjaza's back yard I scanned through a case history of a 6 year-old adopted child of caring parents.  He was surely acting-out, often with violence, from some deep-seated trauma.   The symptoms were almost impossible for the family to either understand or to survive.  It was the diagnosis that both surprised and puzzled me, while it presented an intriguing supposition that I'd find myself mulling over many times in later life.

The conclusion drawn by a brilliant young psychologist was that -- after an I.Q. test revealed that this youngster had an intelligence score of over 150, and was being parented by a couple with a combined I.Q. well within the low-normal range.

The result was that this child was living in a world in which -- even at six -- he could out-think those upon whom his life would depend, and that because of this he could not expect the protections that he would need in order to survive.  The professional opinion was that his acting out grew from a general lack of security, and the inability to address it at his early age.  He could not be expected to develop the tools with which to cope until much later in life.  Fascinating?  I've never forgotten his tragic story, and often wondered what happened to him.  Would this lead him toward the life of a sociopath?  This example of rational fear has returned often to cause wonder ... .

His story rose to the surface during the NPR interview last week.   I'm not even certain of the connections, but here it was again. It was when I was asked about my optimism, and my answer reflected recent thoughts about the population explosion and the awesome scientifically-based environmental changes anticipated over the next several decades.  Those world population figures are scary, and embedded in them is my sense that fear should be playing a larger role in our considerations these perilous days, and that if we're not afraid we're not paying attention.

The fact is  that in my thirties I suffered a mental break that may have saved my life.  It was at a time when I was living in a breaking marriage with four children whom I loved dearly topped by one approaching adolescence as a confused gay black male, and a toddler who was clearly mentally-retarded as the result of brain damage suffered at birth.  I was living with all of this without the support of a husband with whom none of this could be discussed -- who was in denial about the gender issues with our eldest, and who also refused to recognize the mental deficits of our youngest child and only girl.   He was struggling to support a family, with the demands of running a small business, and simply not capable of dealing with the problems posed by dealing with such volatile human issues.  He was coping the best he could, I'm sure.  The marriage ended after years of agonizing emotional pain.

All of this was occurring at a time when we were living day-to-day in a hostile suburban environment where racism was a constant element to be dealt with.  My break was an appropriate response to what was going on around me.  Mine were rational fears, and escape into a mental break was probably predictable and the only defense available to me at the time.

Enter, Betty the Artist ... .

But the over-riding factor -- and the one that lay beneath all of the daily problems -- was the fact that I had been slowly coming to the realization that I was living in and attempting to adjust to an irrational world.  Fear became my protector in those awful times, contrarily, in a world where it could not be acknowledged as a legitimate response to the very real dangers that threatened my existence.

Once full recognition of the bizarre reality in which I was living, my therapy was over, and my real life began.  I was not mad, the world was!  The serious business of learning to live with and not deny my "madness" made survival possible, and does to this day.

The ultimate proof of that wild theory is that I was a citizen of a nation which -- under the leadership of that same trusted president -- had the audacity to have waged a war  to save democracy with a segregated Army Forces  which could only be diagnosed as delusional!


Anyone not living in fear at this moment in time may be a threat to humankind's ability to sustain itself -- not only as a nation, but as a species, and to begin to take the necessary steps to halt the planetary deterioration now clearly evident.

Maybe "... the only thing to fear is fear itself" is a truism that no longer serves us well.

For those of us who are fearful for the planet, be assured that such fears are rational.  They need to activate us enough to break out of denial, and begin to put forth the effort needed to save the planet.

Mars is not the answer.  It merely provides a great adventure on the way to Doom.

How I'd love a conversation with astrophysicist Neil Degrasse Tyson before I take leave of this dimension... .

I so love his ability to make space make sense ... .

I wonder about his fears ...?

Dr. Tyson is one of the few intellectual leaders among us for whom I'm certain that Truth is more than merely curiosity satisfied.

Here is the link to the National Public Radio (NPR) Michael Krasny's Forum PodCast ...

http://www.npr.org/podcasts/510075/kqed-s-forum

(I think you need to go to Audio Archives Search to find it.)

I'm not sure how to make it "live" so that you can just click on it, but if you copy and paste it I'm sure it will come up.  Just scroll down to June 10th.

It was an interesting experience which made me more aware that there is a huge difference between doing an interview by telephone, and sitting with a warm and engaged interviewer in a live encounter.  This was a wonderful opportunity to be involved in a conversation about something that means a great deal to me, and speaking face-to-face makes all the difference.

The experience bears some resemblance to the fact that I insist upon the lights in our little theater being at full tilt when I'm speaking.  I hate to be presenting under a spotlight that prevents my ability to see into the faces and the eyes of those with whom I'm speaking.  In one case some time ago, I was serving on a panel at the Berkeley Black Repertory theater where it was impossible to see the audience due to the lighting.  We were sitting under a spot with the audience breathing somewhere in front of us, with the spot preventing them from materializing into human form.

When it was my time to speak, I remember asking that the house lights be turned up and found that it was impossible for some reason.  I found myself doing my few minutes on stage trying to somehow walk out of the spotlight all during my talk, totally frustrated!  I was shading my eyes with my hand, and trying to peer into the void hoping to connect with a face or two ... it was pret-ty awkward, I'll tell you.  The audience must have viewed it as pretty strange.

This interview was so comfortable, despite the obvious signs of technology with its multiple mikes and cords and wires, but the setting was about as non-obtrusive as it was possible to make it.  Mr. Krasny was so warm and welcoming.  The time went by so quickly that -- in the blink of an eye it was all over.

It was even possible to later listen to my raspy voice at home later in the evening, and to lose myself in my own words; a strange experience ... but it happened.

The stories of that era are so engrossing that I, too, am captured by them.

The power in that narrative is so compelling ... .

Last week's post-concussion interview for ParkLeaders online program ... .

http://parkleaders.com/betty-soskin/

This is the link to a PodCast published yesterday on this National Park Service website.  I'd only been home for two days after a hospital stay for treatment and observation.

For just a few minutes I considered the possibility that this was the beginning of the end of all existence, and that the fear that every elder feels from time to time  -- of losing control of one's mind. But yesterday I listened for gaps, hesitations, slurs, etc., and -- unless I'm missing something -- none surfaced.  That rush you hear is the sound of relief as I exhale with the release of a short-lived panic!

After the opening questions from Jody Maberry, the interviewer, confidence returned and the accident became a non-event in an otherwise italicized life.

I figure we've still got some miles to go before we close shop and move to the next dimension.

It's a good interview, I think.

Wish I'd had that confidence when the young Betty needed it to navigate through the hazards of everyday life on the planet.  But maybe I'm better able to benefit from having it now -- when I have the maturity to value it and the audacity to wield it for those things held dear.

I've wondered just when the public attention would begin to creep into front row center ... 

... and now it has.  Pretending it away has ceased to work, I think, and here it is and I suppose the only way to deal with it is to acknowledge its existence.  And, yes, I know you're there, but how I feel about it is still unclear ... .

I attended an annual event last night that was sponsored by the National Park Conservation Association that was held in their offices in San Francisco.

From the moment I walked in from the elevator, it was clear that something had changed -- and that I'd been preceded by word of mouth.  This was easy to assume since the group had attended one of my talks in our theater about two weeks ago, and I'd received a spontaneous standing ovation the likes of which are rare indeed.  It was heady!  It was also dumbfounding ... and I have no idea what that means even as I type the words.  But the feelings I remember were so mixed; humbling and exhilarating at the same time - inexplicable.  I was so grateful and relieved to see Tom Leatherman suddenly appear at my stage right to stand with me before the group that afternoon.

I knew the magic had happened ... again ... and the feeling of panic plus pleasure that always comes with it were in the moment as well.  Whatever had happened was undeniable, and wondrous!

Maybe the reason I'm so conflicted is due to the fact that I'm being hailed as an exemplary "interpreter" when I've never seen an interpreter at work except the one time when -- prior to my becoming a ranger -- I took the tour of Tao House at the Eugene O'Neill site and experienced a superb presentation by Ranger Joann Jarvis.  That was my only experience.   I've also seen others of our staff do their stories, but only in bits and pieces.

I've seen the noted Yosemite Park ranger, Shelton Johnson, reenacting the Buffalo soldier role, but only on film and never in the flesh.  It's easy to see the power in Shelton's interpretation, but is what's being reacted to the truth-telling that occurs?  If so, then that may be the common denominator between us.  That may be what I need to explore.

It's difficult to feel receptive to such acclaim in a role that I've no way to compare with what might be considered the norm.  Shelton Johnson is surely not the norm, but the exception, and if he draws as much magic from his audiences as I experience from mine ... .

One day I hope to sit down with him ... one day ... .

"You're a natural interpreter," Betty, "there's no reason to question the why of it.  You're the best!"  Those are the encouraging words of our Chief of Interpretation, Kelli English.

... and when I say, "but I'm not certain whether I'm being hailed for what I do or what I am," few seem to understand the statement."  It can't be for what I know because I haven't a clue of what an interpretive ranger is or does; I haven't paid the dues nor completed the education and training essential to produce same, so if I'm confused -- is it not understandable?

What they can't be aware of is that this is precisely what I experienced long ago when I was singing.  I walked away from the acclaim -- not because I feared failure -- but because I feared that it would consume me with a passion that I didn't understand then -- nor do I now.

When I listen to myself on audiotapes done at the time I hear nothing that would be worthy of the breathless silent attention one can almost hear in the background.  The thin reedy young voice is not so arresting, though the original poetry (lyrics) holds up well.

What is different about this?

What is different about now?

... maybe it's that this time I won't run away ... .

that is, if destiny will allow just a little longer ... .

This should take you to the Weekend Today Show segment that aired this morning on NBC:

http://www.today.com/video/meet-the-nations-oldest-park-ranger-446563907764

Since I'd discontinued cable (again) I couldn't watch it until after the fact, and it was curious to know that it was being telecast everywhere but in my living-room.

It also gave a few moments of watching my mother on the screen  when I knew that was not possible since she passed on in 1995 -- yet here she was.

I don't think that my inner-image of myself has been updated for some years because the woman in that piece looks far more like my mother than the one who inhabits this body these days.

Although that might have been caused by the fact that this week I found myself occupying a hospital bed for a couple of days and nights due to an inexplicable incident involving finishing my work day standing at the teller's window of my bank -- feeling perfectly well -- waiting for the completion of a transaction and waking up some time later in an ambulance en route to John Muir hospital in Walnut Creek!

That was on Tuesday and today is Saturday and in between are some days of uncertainty and lots of unexpected bed rest and a bump with a gash on the right side of the back of my head that sports a few stitches and tenderness to the touch.  Apparently the fall to the stone slab floor caused a concussion that I'm still recovering from, but I'm definitely on the mend at this point, except for the reawakening of vertigo that has lain dormant over many months, but has now returned with a vengeance.  Had forgotten how miserable a state that is with its nausea and dizziness making moving about impossible.  It responds to Meclizine, fortunately, and seems under control at this point, though I won't stray far from home for a few days. 

The diagnosis is that the meds that had been prescribed for me for a "marginally high blood pressure" were ill-advised.  With 36 hour monitoring (every 45 minutes) it was discovered that I apparently had a precipitous drop in blood pressure that had caused the fall.  Medication has been ordered stopped until my primary physician can reassess.  I was also in need of hydration and once a couple of pints were administered intravenously the problem was solved.  I recall grinning to myself as I watched the drip-drip-drip from that plastic bag if things might improve if that were chicken soup or even bourbon, but maybe that was just an indication of my state of mind at the time.

Within a few hours was moved back (by ambulance) to Kaiser Medical Center in Oakland from   John Muir hospital emergency, where a catscan, ekg, blood work, etc., were administered, and my all around good health was confirmed yet again, and the scare was over.

Meanwhile, I'm at home for the next week for a much-needed hiatus except for Tuesday when I'm planning to attend an event that I've been looking forward to that's being sponsored by the National Parks Conservation Association about Pullman porters/Buffalo soldiers/Harriet Tubman.  Can't imagine missing it.

Now I'm about to try my wings for the first time in days -- going on a short trip to the supermarket to pick up the things that I was planning to purchase last Tuesday after the trip to the bank for cash ... .

It's becoming routine, now, the public exposure -- the interviews ... and last week was no exception ... 

http://www.theguardian.com/travel/2015/may/08/park-ranger-rosie-the-riveter-san-francisco-us

His name was Will and he was someone from the Guardian requesting a 30-minute conversation for a Travel piece to be published in England.

Two days later the article was sent as an attachment in an email complete with an accurate interview (no misquotes) and photographs taken from the Internet I suppose, since none were requested prior to publication.

I suppose this means that we've gone international, right?  My city of Richmond is experiencing international attention as the result of having been established as the site of the greatest shipbuilding effort in the history of the world, and our park is the focus for the interpretation of that history.  Henry J. Kaiser's four Richmond shipyards with their work force of 98,000 extraordinary ordinary American workers formed a critical part of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt's Great Arsenal of Democracy. 

I suppose that -- as living primary sources -- those of us still living are becoming the link between then and now, and that we've begun to personify an important aspect of the stories at a time when racial politics continue to fuel dissension the world over.   Berlin, Paris, and London among other world centers, continue to experience racial unrest and answers remain tantalizingly and dangerously beyond reach.

Perhaps, because of this nation's youth and volatility, we're being seen as the place on the planet where breakthroughs in human relations are most likely to occur.  Maybe.  I happen to believe that just might be possible.  And I continue to believe that I'm living in the one place on the earth where that possibility might best be witnessed; the Greater San Francisco Bay Area in the State of California.

I continue to believe that it was the seeds of social change sown here during the Home Front period of WWII that gave form and substance to the Civil Rights revolution of the Sixties, and that those influences continue to radiate out from here into the rest of the country and the world to this day.  I suspect that it may well have been those of us whose lives spanned both those eras who shaped what was then the future.

... but then that's the part of the story that is told in my three-times-a-week commentaries in our little theater.

Y'all come.

Something about those stories about the Baltimore mother's being named "Mother of the Year" is worrisome ... .

Originally, my maternal empathy zeroed in on her obvious panic and fear for her teenaged son's safety, but eventually -- upon seeing her talk show interviews -- the original feelings of compassion began to fade and a nagging feeling began to surface that suggested that the real issues were being diverted at a time when the nation can least afford it.  Not now.   We can't afford to be sidetracked at this point.  Next steps will determine whether progress will continue to be made, or whether the regression being experienced in some parts of the country will be  deepened.

Had that young mother not been sitting in her living room watching the chaos on television instead of participating along with her community the outcome might have been quite different.  Had she chosen this as a teaching moment to share with her children by being out there among the protesters, her six kids would have had a model for how one deals peaceably with the infringement of their First Amendment rights, and her son might not have had to pick up that rock at all.  She would have added to the much-needed toolkit they will need in the ongoing struggle that lies ahead for us all.

We might be talking now about the obvious brutality of a predominantly black bullying over-armed police force (who were raised by mothers who loved them enough to beat the hell out of them when she felt it was needed in order to survive) rather than whether or not she had the right to publicly humiliate her teenager by physically attacking him before the world.  She may have done us all a disservice by the displaying of the much-heralded destructive behavior that passes under the guise of "my mother loved me enough to beat the hell out of me when she felt I needed it in order to survive!"   When and how do we ever begin to break the cycle of violence?

This was surely true in the day of Emmitt Till, or even earlier -- at the time that my parents had to relocate our family from New Orleans to Detroit because Dad chose to call a white man by his first name (yes!).  We must not allow the country to regress back to those eras, but we've got to continue building on past gains in the continuing struggle for equality.  Our children are growing up in a far more enlightened country than the one we so recently lived through.  Old ways need to give way to new ways of parenting.  Non-violence is the legacy left to us by Dr. King that must be acknowledged and honored in these times of continuing civil strife.

Maybe it's time we gave up that old school strategy that leads nowhere except to more violence, and begin to teach our kids about how one defends their First Amendment rights by giving them models by how we ourselves live out these years as evolving people in a still-evolving nation.  We need to be out there in the streets as families along with other families of every race and ethnicity in this current revival of the ongoing struggle for equality and justice.  One might well wonder if -- confronted by parents and children on those lines -- might this not have a calming effect on law enforcement?

I remember back in the early Seventies the day that I returned home from a day spent at the Oakland Induction Center demonstrations  against the Vietnam War to find that my son, Bob, had cut school to join the protest.  When I asked if this were true (having been notified by the vice principal's office of his high school that he'd been absent) his response was, "I'm 17 years-old facing the probability of being drafted, and there are decisions to be made for which the answers were not in the classroom but on the streets."  Right on!

A lot of our youngsters are facing the same questions now in relation to a broken justice system, and how we, ourselves, respond will guide their actions.  We must not allow their only response to be a rock in a bare fist!

The ball's in our court. 

As it is with news magazine shows, late Friday evening we received word of the postponement of our segment on the Weekend Today Show ... 

... and I experienced feelings of both excitement and relief.  Major news events had crowded out the prepared piece, and it will be shown "sometime in May", according to the producer.  "It's completed, and is great," says she.

After  eight hours of shooting, and the subsequent requests for additional photos and relevant information -- I'd completely lost any sense of what would be shown.

I was beginning to wonder if I'd remembered to comb what hair I have left; whether I'd checked my makeup after a full day (hadn't looked into a mirror since leaving home that morning); and all those things that fill the time after you've spent endless hours being on camera.  There were long stretches when I'd forget the crew was even on site, or that I was wired the whole day as I conducted my bus tour (had I said anything that might later prove embarrassing?).

It would have been great to have risen this blue-skied Sunday morning; viewed the footage along with the nation as it watched; and had it all behind me.  Now the period of nervous anticipation has been lengthened, and the doubts will continue; maybe not.  There's a level of disbelief to it that persists, and I really do forget the continuing public exposure in the course of my work days as things settle into my new normal.

And that includes word from our superintendent announcing that he'd received a request from the Guardian (and I mistakenly associated that with the Bay Guardian - a SF newspaper) from the UK.  They were seeking a 30 minute phone interview to be used in connection with a travel show aired in England.  "We'll send questions by email, and set a time certain if she will accept."  I said yes.

The same day I'd just responded to a request from a State University of New York (a "... small college with a student body of around 2000") for me to deliver the Commencement address at their graduation ceremonies of May 2016.  What an honor!

My response was to live rather immodestly with the sense of importance it afforded me for a few days -- let the warmth of it wash over and stoke my ever-aging ego before sending regrets.  "... While I enjoy excellent health at 93, to accept such a commitment for a full year in the future would be tempting Fate," says she.   (You'll notice how readily I slip into referring to myself in the third person these days).  I no longer plan ahead more than six months, and this proposal more than exceeded those self-imposed limits. 

Meanwhile, someone on the faculty of the University of Oregon has discovered my blog and -- on the strength of that interest -- has invited me to travel to their campus some time this fall or winter semester to present to their classes.  The NPS will grant permission, and plans are being made for me to accept their invitation.  This is a pleasant reminder of my visit to Humboldt State University in Northern California a few years ago, and of how exciting that was, and how it felt to be interacting with students and faculty women who were doing such amazing work in Feminist Studies.  I've accepted and am waiting for next steps.

Who says the Golden Years can't be quite the best ever?

I just have to be careful not to ever buy green bananas ... .