With Dolores Huerta of the Farm Workers Union

I've not written yet about the Boilermaker's Banquet ... haven't known just how much to share ...

but today someone from the Union forwarded photos taken at the time, and I was reminded ...
besides, there were a thousand witnesses in that ballroom so what's there to withhold?

I'd been invited to attend at the request of Mr. Newton B. Jones, International President of the Union.  I was not asked to represent the National Park Service, but was told by my supervisor that Mr. Jones was traveling from headquarters in Kansas City to San Francisco for this occasion, and that he had especially requested my presence.

And, of course, the organization sent a limo to Richmond to transport me to the Union Square Hilton Hotel that evening.  It was Cinderella time, and, having spent the morning hours being filmed by their team -- there was a surreal character to the entire weekend.

But on arrival in a rainstorm at the hotel, and being greeted by Union officials with whom David and I would spend the evening among a ballroom filled with 1000 union members celebrating their National Labor Awards.   Mr. Jones was receiving the International Labor Leadership Award; the reason for his being in San Francisco that evening.

There were other honorees, each giving a speech of acceptance.  Mr. Jones was the last to speak, being the "star" among stars.

David and I were seated at #1 Table, just below the dais and within a stone's throw of the speakers.

Mr. Jones spoke for about ten minutes -- a speech with lots of inside references with lots of names of those unknown in my world, but noted in theirs.  Suddenly, as he was coming to the part where he was introducing me to the house -- and I stood to receive their applause -- he lost control.

He provided  to the gathering background that could only have been known if he'd been reading my blog or paying very close attention to articles and/or interviews I've done over years.  But as he referred to his regret that I'd worked for the Union at a time before it was racially integrated he was overcome by emotion and the tears came, and -- before 1000 Unionists he simply couldn't go on.  The room was absolutely silent.  You could hear the proverbial pin drop as he struggled to gain control.

As he struggled to regain his composure and without warning I was suddenly being asked to join him on the platform; this was not planned, but the room faded away and there was only this dear man who had just apologized for the entire International Boilermakers Union and there was nothing to do but grant forgiveness after more than 70 years of struggle.  So that was what I did and without hesitation.

In a strange way it didn't feel personal at all, but purely symbolic.  It was as if this was a conversation the Union was having with itself, and that I was only incidental to the outcome.  But that it was a role that someone (me?) needed to play in order to exorcise the demons of bigotry, finally, so that they might be able to own that awful history and forgive themselves.  But ultimately it is the Union of today that holds the power to forgive the Union of 1944, because, of course, this is the only way to find the peace we're seeking in these troubled times.

It was all over in a few minutes after decades of angst and guilt.  Mr. Jones wrapped me in his arms and planted a kiss firmly on my cheek as the room filled with 1000 dinner guests melted away for us both.

If only it could be so easy ... .

I'm beginning to find myself increasingly performing the role of "celebrity," which was probably predictable -- given the continuing public exposure ... .

Last night I served as honorary co-chair at the 40th anniversary Gala of the LifeLong Medical Care program held in The Rotunda -- a most beautiful building in Oakland's Frank Ogawa Plaza.  What a spectacular evening it was; one which started out by being picked up (again)  at my condo by a chauffer-driven Lexux town car and delivered right to the steps and into the able hands of a board member who would escort me to the guest registry counter then down the marble staircase into a transformed lobby now furnished with decorated dining tables and 300 hundred well-dressed celebrants.

The gathering was made up of political figures from my past; some with whom I'd shared causes -- and some with friendships.  The room felt warm and welcoming; either that, or, I'm beginning to enure to my growing celebrity status and find it less undeserved over recent weeks.  (Maybe this is when Betty the Persona goes off the rails!)

At a moment in the proceedings I delivered my hastily-written one-page triple-spaced little speech which received a standing ovation (and I'm still not quite understanding how that continues to happen), something I've given much thought to over the weekend in quiet moments ... .

I spoke of being a child and adolescent during the Great Depression, and that meant that the only medical attention I'd ever received was subsidized by the County.   I was a frail child thought to be at risk for tuberculosis so was sent to Del Valle in Livermore, California where I spent almost a year -- at no cost to my struggling family. 

That was because I was a child of the service worker's generation with our fathers and uncles employed as Pullman porters, waiters, janitors, bell hops, elevator operators, cooks, etc., and our mother's were 50 cents an hour domestic servants.  At a time when it took $47.25/wk to support families -- if you were white, our fathers and uncles earned $25-$35/wk (Pullman porters earned $18/wk plus tips) so there simply was no money to pay for routine health care. 

One might well wonder -- if the costs of such basic health services could be absorbed by society when the nation was so stressed economically -- why, in a far rosier era, is that not possible today?  This was in the Thirties when bread lines were a common sight, and childhood diseases more prevalent and less controllable.

Though I made my way out of the need for such assistance programs long ago, there are many children of color still trapped at that economic level; children who are still in crying need for such services. 

My speech:

People forget that those of my age were children and adolescents during the Great Depression.  The only health care we ever knew was subsidized by the Alameda County Department of Public Health.  Free clinics were the only clinics I'd ever experienced until the grownup and married Betty became a member of the Kaiser Permanente Health Plan much later in life.   I suppose I was the recipient of "Universal Health Care" before the concept was born since everyone in my universe was served by that system so there was no stigma to have to bear.  I was a child of the service worker's generation at a time when the nation's economy was in a shambles.

Because I was a frail child, considered at risk for tuberculosis, I spent a year in what was then called a preventorium (a word my spellchecker doesn't recognize), Del Valle Sanitarium in Livermore, California.  That health-giving facility is no longer in existence.  There was no cost to my family, ever.

It would be the first time I was away from home, spending that year with parents unable to bear the cost of visits more than a few times over that period.  I was about 11 years-old.  It was during those long months that much of the autonomy and independence I enjoy now as an elder were born.  It was a brush with loneliness of a kind rarely experiences by children, I think.  It was a time to develop inner resources for the sake of mere survival.

I doubt if there is anyone around with a greater sense of the meaning of collective health care being assumed by one's community when life's problems grow beyond even loving parent's ability to provide for or cope with.  I was surrounded by caring adults who helped me to grow through early adolescence without too much scarring.  It was during that time that I learned that even strangers in stiffly-starched uniforms and pointed white caps could care deeply about kids, and that both givers and receivers could benefit by such programs.

I'm honored to be involved in giving recognition to such critically important work, and value the chance to re-visit a long-forgotten past.  I'm so far beyond the reach of that lonely child that it almost feels as if she never really existed... .

Thanks to Lifelong Health Care for providing the opportunity for me to express long overdue gratitude to those caregivers of my childhood who are no longer with us, and to offer whatever assistance in my power to those continuing this important and life-giving work to those in need of such services today and in the future.

As we entered the US Mint we met security measures unequaled ever before in life ... .

Despite the fact that we were invited guests of their administrators, both in the uniform and badges of the National Park Service, arriving in a fleet van bearing the logo of a federal agency, Tom was required to pop the hood as two security officers went over the vehicle with their wands -- including the interior and the storage areas.   Upon completion of this meticulous inspection (as I waited on a level above after submitting federal smart cards plus California I.D.) a humungous monster contraption that looked like nothing I've ever before seen -- with a great roar was swallowed up by the ground that lay just beyond the reinforced iron gate.  It just rolled away to reveal a flat surface that Tom drove up toward the parking lot above. 

I've visited San Quentin Prison, and this display of security made that one look like it was put together by rank amateurs.

We walked into the next level of security, one that resembled those in play at airports nationwide, with the addition that it was necessary that we turn over any coins in our possession.  This meant that I'd have to leave my wallet to be put in a secure place to be retrieved on return.  (Unknowingly, I neglected 3 pennies, 2 dimes, and a quarter in the pocket of my trousers.)

All this had to do with the need to protect the products from being pilfered by visitors -- though this Mint is not open to the public.  Even the employees can only use paper bills to make purchases in the vending machines.  They cannot bring coins of any kind into the building.  Anything brought in unintentionally is confiscated by management, never to be returned.

When the ceremonies ended we were taken on a walking tour so that we could see staff at work, and marvel at the robotics, machinery, and processes in operation.  Really interesting stuff!

... but that brings us to an embarrassing and crazy exit!

The last stop was walking back through the security process with several uniformed guards, the trays that hold anything containing metal (rings, watches, belt, badges, etc.,) to be put through the machine that detects such objects.  There's the walk-through structure that is so nervous-making when the bells and whistles go off declaring that you may be smuggling contraband out of the Mint!

It was like a comedy skit.  It took 6 attempts to get through those gates, each time without success ... and those telltale bells and whistles announcing my "crime" attempt each time.  None of us could figure out what was setting off the alarms, but I suspected -- finally -- that it must be the underwires of my bra.  We'd been through what began to resemble a strip tease routine as we discovered those 3 pennies, 2 dimes, and a quarter in my pants pocket, the clasp on my belt loop that held my smart card, my ring, my watch, etc.

It became laughable, and the guards finally just let me pass without incident, and I suspected that we were all caught up in a process that no one was taking too seriously, except for the sober-faced guards.  I didn't feel in any way threatened, or that anyone believed that I was trying to sneak out with a coin or metal of any kind, but it gives you a sense of how much value is placed on those commemorative coins, and how difficult it would be to get away with what starts out as a 20 cent product in process, and that would come out at the end as a 50 cent piece selling for $25!

Pretty crazy, right?

 Who would ever have thought that, at 94, one would still be having first time experiences ... ?

... but yesterday Superintendent Tom Leatherman and I were guests of the US Mint in San Francisco. 
We were both invited to "say a few words" at a ceremony created to celebrate the striking of the first silver coin commemorating the 100th anniversary of the National Park Service.  Tom would speak on the park service and then introduce me prior to the actual creation of that first 50 cent coin.  Then, under the supervision of a Mint specialist, I would press the two buttons that controlled the striking of three coins that would roll down for inspection.  The sheer power felt in that process is awesome.  Can't recall the metric tonage involved, but it is truly wondrous!

The imposing building sitting atop one of the great hills overlooking the city offered  one of the most thorough security experiences I've ever been through.  Fort Knox could not have been better guarded.  It proved, however, far more difficult to get out of then in!

After the commemorative coin has been struck, both sides are photographed as seen here being held for the cameras by one "grown-up" park ranger and Chief of Staff Elisa Basnight of the US Mint.

There are roughly 250 employees at the facility, and it was clear to see that diversity and inclusivity issues were faced long ago, and that the ratio of male to female and racial questions are by now non-issues, and that this governmental agency is at the forefront of the march toward full equality in the workplace.

I failed to get his name, but there was an African American worker who approached with a young blond woman co-worker during the informal gathering at the end of the ceremony.  He was totally deaf.  He was also comfortable enough to come over to express his pleasure at my brief comments (through his interpreter) and to not seem hurried or awkward.  It was a great moment for me, too, and added an exclamation point to my sense of the depth of the inclusivity in that governmental agency.

Only question for me was:  How in the world do we have such an impressive agency that does not make coins for distribution, but that only makes commemorative coins that cost 20 cents to make but which sell for $40?   Is that legal?  Is it like that famous President Nixon quote, "... if the president does it it can't be wrong?"

In an article that came out today from one of the members of the press who attended the proceedings, it was stated that the coins will sell for $18 online on the Mint's website.  That's better, but still pretty stilted, right?  My information came from one of the workers in conversation after the ceremony.

Another day, another life experience to savor, and I can't imagine what tomorrow may hold ... .  

What a day it was ... .

I've known for weeks that on March 5th I would be a guest of the International Boilermakers Union at their Instituto Laboral De La Raza 2016 banquet at the Union Square Hilton Hotel in San Francisco.   There didn't seem to be any special instructions for the evening, though, just that they would be sending someone to my condo to pick me up at four o'clock on that day, and that I would be returned some time after nine o'clock that evening.  No need to prepare "...just a few words"; just be a "presence" as I've been many times before under differing circumstances.

The instructions from Tom Leatherman included the fact that a film crew from the Union would be at the Visitor Education Center to film me that morning, and that I was to come in early (9 o'clock, we don't normally open until ten) in order to comply.  This would be another work day -- maybe just a bit more special -- but then most of my days are that these days.

I arrived at nine to find a film team of 5 plus a make-up artist waiting.  This was going to be important if numbers were any indication.  They were here from Kansas City, Kansas, and the footage would be edited for purposes that were unclear at this point.  Surely Tom would know, and, at some point I'd be informed.

They spent about two hours filming a Betty-led tour of the exhibits.  The steady rain made it possible for us to work uninterrupted by visitors and the work went well, I think.

The "someone will pick you up" turned out to be a stretch limo (with at least a half block between me and the driver!) complete with uniformed chauffer who appeared at my door promptly at four.  You'll want to know that my apartment is in a modest complex where I'm fairly certain a limo has never before been seen!  I was smothering giggles all the way to Berkeley where we picked up my son, David, who would serve as Mom's escort for the evening.

My life doesn't allow much time to interact with my neighbors, so we nod politely when we meet at the mailbox or the dumpster, but rarely share more than greetings.  This surely blew my humility quotient to smithereens!

But this would not prepare me for what would happen in the evening ... .

Made my presentation before City Council on the tragic Dormitory O fire in 1944 ...

... and it was well received.

Last week there were two front page articles about the project, and several calls for interviews in various media.  It may be that I've exhausted every avenue into this story, and need to back away for a spell.

Funny, something was expended in the sharing of that history with the public, and I'm finding that I'm ready to move on now and leave further development in the hands of others.  Not sure what that's about, but the feeling is decisive; firm.

I may be operating on the edge of an overload.  It may be fatigue setting in, knowing what lies ahead over the next weeks is more daunting than before.  For whatever reason, I'm back to living an hour-at-a-time, and trying to not look ahead more than 24 hours.  There's a lesson in this somewhere, and -- if experience holds the secret -- this may mean that a pause is needed about now ... .

But then the tour bus rolled up and 35 lovely and lively African American women arrived at the Visitor Education Center from the Bayview District of San Francisco, all in the mid- and later years, dressed in Sunday best, chattering happily and smiling broadly; the leader offering a lovely bouquet of flowers, and whatever had been missing returned to my day and we were soon off into the Home Front experience.

They spent about two hours with me -- touring the exhibits, learning the stories, viewing films, then attending my talk, and -- as always -- I was richly nurtured by their warmth and generosity, and whatever that magic is appeared on cue and the  overcast day was again alive and magnificent!

They took photos to share with their families, and I felt affirmed and appreciated in my work by their enthusiasm.  It was clear that the history being shared belonged to us all, and that we were united -- not only as American citizens whose life experiences varied greatly -- that we were all survivors of a badly broken social system, but that we were still one people willing to share love beyond any previously limiting boundaries.

I promptly left them at the end of our session; climbed into my car and drove to our Civic Center headquarters for an appointment after taking the time to drive along the Parkway where there were highway plantings of cerulean blue/purple ceanothus in full bloom to wonder at.  I was so needing to hold onto those warm feelings for just a few more minutes before plunging back into work ... .

But maybe it's work that I, as a primary source of that important Era, am best suited to do.

... and how brilliant of Life to have set me down in this space and time with a whole busload of loving Sistahs!

Class of ?  Maybe 1938? Can't recall ...

Living life "One day at a time" has gained a deeper meaning over past weeks ... .

There are more items on my To Do list than usual, and each holds excitement and fulfillment within, and I wouldn't know where to prune -- were that to become necessary:

l. Tomorrow I will be installed in the Castlemont High School Hall of Fame by the Alumni Association at a luncheon in Oakland, the city where I grew up, but it will be in absentia.  My acceptance speech (4 minutes on a DVD) has been prepared and sent to the organization where Mr. Darryl Bartlow will represent me.  Me?  I'll be at work, as advertised, giving my presentation at two o'clock.

2. On Tuesday evening, February 23rd, we're presenting the story of the tragic fire that destroyed Kaiser Dormitory 0 and cost the lives of 8 black male shipyard workers in Richmond; this in the hope of raising awareness of the community toward the need to memorialize those lives as representative of the 37,600 civilian deaths that occurred on the Home Front during WWII.  That will happen during a study session of the Richmond City Council.  I will present that history through a PowerPoint. It will be this year's observance of Black History Month, and will be reflective of this community's rich history,  to a city unaware of its own stories in many ways -- since the happenings are so recent.

3. Next week I will be the guest speaker at a meeting of the Berkeley Breakfast Club in the beautiful historic building designed by architect Julia Morgan -- at seven-thirty in the morning!  Then will be back at the Visitor Center for my eleven o'clock talk.

4 Then there is the honorary chairmanship of the LifeLong Medical Association at a banquet in the Rotunda in downtown Oakland to be enjoyed.  No speaking commitments connected with this event, just being "honored at," I think.

5. ...  and then we're into March 5th when I'll be the guest at the Boilermakers International Union banquet in San Francisco in the evening -- preceded by filming at the Visitor Center by their team that morning that (I'm guessing) will be shown at the dinner.  The honored dignitary will be the international Head of the Union, President Jones, who will be in the area for this event.

6.  On March 9th I have a commitment to be at the old Mint in San Francisco for an event that I have little or no information about at this point, except to just be there.

7.  Learned yesterday that I will be giving the keynote speech for the Naturalization Day ceremonies on March 24th in the Craneway Pavilion (for the third year), and I'm so grateful that the speech has been saved on my hard drive so needs no further work.  This annual event is co-sponsored by the Office of Homeland Security and the National Park Service. It is such a moving experience for the new Americans who are welcomed into citizenship, and for me, as well. 

From the raised lectern, whatever cynicism I've experienced as an African American over the decades tends to evaporate  before those upturned radiant faces of every race and ethnicity that are before me in that brilliantly sunlit space.  To be privileged to represent my country in this ritual is humbling and dramatically deepens my patriotism to match theirs; a consistently memorable experience. 

During the rest of this month and the next there will be all the usual 3 to 5 one-hour presentations to give in our theater while the team of 3 filmmakers do their work documenting my work -- and adding weight to the proceedings.  They've been accumulating footage for months now, so I suspect that there may not be many more sessions to film.  Then will come the editing and that's something I'm not involved in.  Have mixed feelings about viewing what's been captured thus far, but will either need to step out of the room or willingly expose myself to that experience at the Rosie Trust dinner in April.  I'm responsible for a 15-minute talk -- as a part of the dinner program -- plus being subject to a few minutes of the work especially edited for introduction of the film project at this time.

Somewhere in there -- some time in April -- there will have to be enough space cut out for cataract surgery and recovery.   There's the long-promised trip to Yosemite with Dorian, now scheduled for a couple of days the week of April 5th, returning in time for the Rosie Trust Annual Dinner on April 9th ... .

I really am beginning to see myself in the third-person, since so much of me is now split off into an entity I'm only just meeting along with the rest of you... .

Can't see time to accommodate that deep depression yet, can you?

Maybe next year.

This has been one of the busiest weeks of my new year ...

... and one of the most exciting!

Besides my regularly-scheduled programs in our theater, on Wednesday we tucked in an extra presentation for 10 rangers from Santa Monica augmented by a group of 25 rangers from the East Bay Regional Parks District.  The little theater was filled with receptive faces and lively eyes of the young, and  it was a great morning.

On Thursday morning we experienced our first distance learning trial from Richmond with an auditorium full of high school students in Eugene, Oregon.  Being a first, it presented some unexpected problems on their end -- after a week's practice run by our staff and theirs there were unanticipated snafus with the use of the technology.  We diddled away at least 20 minutes trying to get the audio and video synchronized, but it finally worked out.

I've suspected all along that my presentations depend upon being able to see real live faces -- and this time involved peering at a tiny screen on a laptop -- faces that never came "alive," so neither did I.  We need to work out the bugs before trying this again, but it makes possible another way of communicating with groups and reducing the distance between generations.  Failure was not the result of not trying hard enough, it was simply that we were in uncharted territory.  The solution will surely be worked out soon.

Friday brought another memorable experience as I was presented with eleven other honorees to the California State Legislature in their Black History Month observance.  The only disadvantage was that I'd not been able to attend a celebratory banquet the evening before with the others, where our hosts and hostesses read our biographies before the group.  Sacramento is 90 miles from my home, and with a day that held both the Oregon experience as well as one of my regular one-hour theater presentations, trying to take in the dinner would just be more than could be managed comfortably.

This meant that I dropped into the experience as a total stranger -- as in the middle of the movie -- on Friday morning, and I just never quite caught up with the proceedings, and learned little about the other honorees despite the fine descriptive introductions we each received.  'Tis the pity!   Nerves tend to shut down ears at such times, and mine were used up listening for my name to be called, so I missed the details.  These were all such high achievers and I'd loved to have had a chance to know  each of them personally.

After a somewhat lengthy program with short speeches by the twelve African American legislators, we were escorted down the aisle by our hosts to receive beautiful framed Resolutions extolling our virtues and worthiness -- before being marched to the Senate chambers for further recognition.  California has two African American senators.

It was a lovely ceremony.

I was reminded of how important these rituals are and how much we need heroes as a people.  It's difficult to see oneself in such roles, but as I was walked up the aisle on the arm of Assemblyman Tony Thurmond -- I imagined myself for just a few seconds watching the proceedings from the gallery high above -- and being impressed by not only the implausibility, but also by the grandeur of this moving ritual in this historic space created as the People's site of governance and celebration.  To be so honored was humbling... .

with the grandson of Gen. George C. Marshall

Received a large FEDEX packet at the end of last week ... Julio had thoughtfully set it next to my computer to be discovered... .

Love receiving unexpected packages ... this one was very special.

Opened it to a 2-page letter that, in part, read,

"On behalf of the Board of Trustees at The National WWII Museum, it is my honor to share that you have been selected to receive the 2016 Silver Service Medallion at our American Spirits Awards Gala on Friday, June 10, 2016 at the Museum in New Orleans."

The American Spirit Awards celebrate individuals and organizations whose work reflects the values and spirit of those who served our country during the World War II years.  We honor those who inspire others through their own acts of courage, sacrifice, initiative and generosity - particularly in the areas of leadership, service to country or community, and education."

It was in December of 2012 that I served as a panelist for the Museum's annual convention in New Orleans; an unforgettable experience.

Met the iconic leaders and heroes of the period in a memorable setting on the edge of the old French Quarter of New Orleans -- the ancestral home of both my maternal and paternal lines -- the Breaux/Allens and the Charbonnets.  Can you imagine what this will mean to those relatives still living in this historic city?

(... and the walls come a-tumblin' down?)

Can't wait to tell them!

Now I'm being invited for a reprise of that experience, and this time as an honoree.

Among former recipients on the list are Major Norman Hatch,  Senator George McGovern, Harry Connick, Sr., Senator Robert Dole, Carl Reiner, Rear Admiral Robert F. Duncan, and a score of others too numerous to name.  It's interesting to note that -- on a list of 30 there is but one other woman, Elizabeth Dole, in 2010.

I will probably spend the rest of my life figuring out how in heaven's name I ever got on this list! Not complaining, mind you, just wondering ... .

Still waiting for some kind of response from inner Betty about that dire diagnosis ...

... still nothing.

I assumed for a few days that the prognosis of the onset of irreversible blindness was so devastating that I'm in a state of denial, and, that at some point the ominous dark clouds will gather and I'll be engulfed by a deep depression.  Maybe.  But I've lived with the news for 3 weeks now, and nothing ... .

I did speak with my eldest son, Bob, and with our superintendent -- in the interest of full disclosure.   We even laughed at my bad Boston Marathon with the guide dog joke!  If this is cause for retirement soon, my colleagues need to know.  Neither was particularly alarmed, but took the news in stride.  I was assured that my work will go on for as long as I want or need it to.   There's a full calendar of events to take me through 'til summer, at least.  I see no need to contemplate retiring any time soon, or ever -- for that matter.  Maybe I'll just go from the park to the cemetery (crazy?).

It was after speaking with them that I wondered why I'd not hesitated blogging about it last week.  Was that wise?  Should I have not done so?  Being a public person now, this might be cause for sensationalizing.   Would never have written about it on Facebook, but my blog is my private personal space, and I didn't hesitate for one minute.  This is where I sit in the lamplight in my pajamas and bunny slippers at day's end, and process life.  Family and friends remain my perceived audience, but there's more awareness of others in the mix now, but they remain "virtual."  There's a growing suspicion that my only real audience is myself. 

After thinking it over I decided that to have held the news in secret would be giving it too much power over me.  It just isn't that important, I think, but is a part of a naturally-occurring development in the aging process.  There's surely need to deal with the changes that should be anticipated, but there's time to adjust, learn, and to adapt.

All this is barring accidents, of course, one can never count on having that much control over life.

Decided yesterday after running into our city councilman Vinay Pimplé at a reception -- an
accomplished attorney who has probably dealt with blindness over a lifetime, but who has been active in politics of my city for a number of years.  This raises the possibility that this will simply be a new edge to grow from.   Vinay provides such a great example of positive energy well used.

His woman friend and escort stopped me to say that Vinay would love to hear my talk at the Visitor Center and wished to know my schedule.  We'd never met, though I've been watching his work on the council on the public access channel every Tuesday evening, so he didn't feel like a total stranger to me.

I found myself standing very close; at least close enough to place my hand on his arm.  Intuition was operating at full tilt, and I sensed the need to make physical contact.  He didn't recoil at my touch, so it must have been right.  There must be residual knowings that carry over from life with my sightless father in his final years. 

It could be that -- at this point in life -- I'm being affirmed in so many ways -- that the downside is having a difficult time getting through to me.

I'll settle for that, and prepare for a busy and exciting next few months.

Wait'll you hear!   

 

A long time between posts ... and, frankly, it's puzzling ... .

Last week called to the appointment desk for my 3-month checkup, and in just a day or so drove in to see my physician.  All vital signs "exceptionally good," says he, and further added that he rarely saw patients beyond the age of 50 who didn't require at least some kind of prescriptions.  I am totally med-free.  No high blood pressure, no heart problems, no hearing loss, nothing.  The pride he takes in keeping me alive is evident.  We grin over it each time I show up for my routine visits.  "See you in six months," says he.

After my check up and renewals of pneumonia and tetanus vaccines, I went to the eye clinic to check on the date for cataract surgery on my right eye.  I did notice during the exam that the vision in that eye had deteriorated considerably since last May, and that now the left eye wasn't all that great.  She dilated the pupils, checked the pressure, and completed the exam.

I'd given up night driving some months ago, since noticing that my night vision had become distorted and I no longer have the confidence needed to feel safe changing lanes, or even recognizing off ramps at times.  Something was going awry, obviously.

For the first time, my diagnosis was that -- not only was the surgery necessary to remove the cataracts -- but glaucoma was now present.  Glaucoma is, of course, incurable -- and the cause of blindness.  I will outlive my eyesight.

This was not anticipated though I am aware that my paternal grandmother was someone I knew only as a small child, and at that time she was totally blind.  She died when I was about four.  My father spent his last ten years without sight.  Since they both suffered from diabetes, I'd only associated their blindness with the disease.  I've never suffered from diabetes, so had never connected glaucoma with something to be expected as I entered this past decade.  Not for one minute did I anticipate or fear this diagnosis.

Because I'd received a clean bill of health from my primary physician only an hour before, the image that came up for me was, "... WOW!  I'm fit to sign up for the Boston marathon, but I may have to do it with a guide dog!" 

I drove home with new information that should have been shocking, right?  It wasn't.  Should have caused alarm.  It didn't.  I've lived with it for almost a week now, and find that I'm still waiting for some sort of reaction.  Panic?  Nothing, still.  I've enjoyed excellent health for such a long time that I'm feeling blessed 'til now, and grateful for being alive and able to still be productive into these years.

I know that -- though there is no cure -- there are drugs that may slow the progression.   I will have time to adjust to a new way of living, and that I'm computer savvy and have time to teach myself to use the features available to me.  How different my capacities will be than what Dad could call on.  My grandmother could only sit in the rocking chair on the front porch of that house on Lapyrouse Street in New Orleans and hold me close while my mother did the housekeeping and prepared meals for the family.  My memories of her are that of a 3 year-old sitting in her lap endlessly brushing her waist-length dark hair and fondling the buttery-soft flesh of her upper underarm while falling asleep ... and being much-loved.  Maybe that's why the thought of blindness is not more frightening. 

My father left a great model for me.  I remember being awed by his ability to use what capacities he retained into the sightless years.  He knew that that little line from the top joint on his thumb to the tip measured exactly one inch.  I often watched him, fascinated, busily doing home repairs using his thumb to measure as he went along.  What he could have done if he'd lived into the kind of technology that I  have access to!  He'd been a builder all his life, and a proud one.  Blindness required some adjustments, but he lived into his mid-nineties with little complaint.

Not sure how quickly this will progress, but one thing is certain; I'm about to enter still another cycle of life with new challenges.  I'm also aware that this means that how I handle this may well determine how well my children and theirs, my nieces and nephews, will deal with this potential in their lives.  My work as mother may not be over yet; that part of parenting that influences the lives of the next generation.  And, of course, this may be something that they needn't worry about, or, by the time they reach these years a cure will have been discovered.  Medical research is moving so fast; look at the advances between my father's days and mine.

None of this is immediate.  There will be plenty of time to adjust, and if this past week is any indication, I'm still a long way from either realizing what this means, or, figuring out why it is that I'm not more disturbed by the prospect ... .

Tomorrow I will take the first steps:

I'll talk with my sons and my colleagues.  I suspect that this will be harder for those around me than it (apparently) is for me.

No plans to retire.  Nothing will change, unless ordered by wiser heads.  I'm still in unbelievably good health, and don't anticipate any major problems in the foreseeable future.   Cataract surgery will occur sometime in April, at which time there can be a more accurate assessment of just how much and how fast the glaucoma is progressing and how to plan for the necessary life adjustments.  This involves an out-patient pain-free 15-minute surgical procedure, with a relatively fast recovery.

I'm committed to giving the keynote address for the annual Rosie the Riveter Trust banquet on April 9th, and the surgery will not interfere, but will be scheduled for the following week, or later. 

I need to make some changes to my bucket list, maybe, but that's about it, I think.   Maybe I'll need to plan to see Hamilton in New York; a luxury worth saving up for.  A national tour is not slated until 2017, and that could be too late. Meanwhile, I'm planning to take Dorian to Yosemite for another look at Half Dome and Bridal Falls -- which should be amazing this El Nino year.  That trip will come in early April.
 
Meanwhile, move along folks, nothing to see here ... .

This was my moment of all moments ... .

Photo by Martha Lee

The crescendo of my Symphony of Life.   The Reckoning.  What all the decades, weeks, years, days, and hours were ever leading toward in often tiny seemingly meaningless fragments of Time.

Recognition and exultation unequalled!

One might well wonder (in the quiet moments) at the worthiness of it all? After all, none of the many elements that led to this miracle appeared exceptional at the time, except giving life to my children ... .

Maybe it was all just too over-the-top to absorb except in small increments when my breathing would get caught up somewhere in my throat, and hesitate just a fraction of a second between heartbeats.

This happened some weeks ago now, but each time a member of my audiences asks what this felt like -- it all comes back refreshed and as exciting as before -- and there's a flood of unexpressed emotion that rises to consciousness and I'm overwhelmed by yet unshed tears of wonder and humility at how little it must take to catch the Sun if I'm seen as worthy of this miraculous moment in Time.

And why did it take 94 years to find my footprints upon the earth -- and to stand tall in them?

... and I didn't realize that I could cast such a great shadow!

The next months hold promises of new adventures ... .

... not the least of which is that I will be experiencing my first SKYPE session.  Been invited to interact with Ohio's Wilberforce University students -- the oldest black private college in the country -- which means that I will be live on video from our conference room at National Park Service headquarters in the Richmond Civic Center -- and they will be participating in some gathering place on campus.  I'm told that there could be up to 90 students from 3 combined classes.  It will probably not be a formal presentation, but a Q&A covering my work and their interests, though the details have yet to be worked out.  Have no idea what to expect, but I'm up for it, and can't imagine being cowed by the distance.  Technology will take care of that, I'm certain.  What a time to be alive ... .

I'm certain that as long as there are "first times" still happening, that life is still unfolding -- and who could possibly ask for more in one's final decade?

There is another program being done in the same way -- this time for the Annual Philadelphia Flower Show in March -- where the expected visitation is 200,000 (surely not all at the same time), but since I've never been to Philadelphia -- and will have the experience of Wilberforce to fall back on by that time -- pretty exciting, right?  Maybe this will be what the future will be like, with fewer trips to faraway places, and more opportunities to extend the boundaries of our park through technology.  Interesting?

My schedule of programs and audiences have increased from 3/wk to 5 at times, and thus far it doesn't appear to be adding to feelings of stress, but I'm mindful of the potential for that happening -- as are those around me.  I do feel supported and protected by staff and my co-workers -- and that's a blessing.  After all, these golden years can easily be reduced to pot metal if we aren't careful .. .  For that reason if for no other, it's probably wise that these televised sessions are being introduced.  I suspect that this will add to my ability to continue the work -- at least a bit longer.

Frustration of the highest sort ... .

Feels a bit like Dorothy's words to Toto!

Received electronic copies of photos from the White House today, of Tamaya, Alyana, and their grandmother with the First Lady Michelle and President Obama from our trip to the National Tree-Lighting Ceremony in December.  Only problem is that their arrival carried specific prohibitions as to their use.  "Cannot be used for any purpose beyond personal.  Cannot be posted to Betty's blog, nor, find their way onto Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc.,."  In other words, only those lucky enough to see them on my living-room wall next to the framed invitation to his 2009 Inauguration -- will ever know they exist; except in my fertile imagination.  I'll have mine mounted and framed right away, then invite my family to a hanging ceremony improvised for the occasion.

Trust me.  It was real, and I'm still vibrating from the experience.

Can you imagine how hard it will be to resist the temptation?  But, of course, there's no question that those instructions will be followed faithfully.  In time it won't matter, but this minute it's a very hard thing to deal with.  Half the satisfaction of owning such a treasure is the sharing of it with family and friends ... and the definition of "friends" has been altered beyond recognition by social media.  Wonder if the White House has taken that into account?  Of course, they have.

Wonder if those limitations will extend beyond the Obama's term of office?  Will the prohibitions still stand after November, or the inauguration of their successors in January of 2017?  That might be a great question to ask at some point. 

You can imagine how difficult this will be for my granddaughters!  They will probably have a much harder time of it, I think, but then most of their life experiences are probably well-documented on their smart phones.   But, of course these precious pictures can and will be shared privately by the kids, as ordered.

But, oh how I wish ... .

I'm back ...!!!

In a much shorter time than might have been anticipated, total recovery appears to be at hand.

Not certain how to explain it, except to say that within the first hour of my work day, yesterday, the chance to talk about the disaster of my last theater talk came within the first hour.  Together, about 3 friends and I  huddled around a small space heater, knee-to-knee, at the front desk before the arrival of the day's first visitors to try to analyze what had happened that had upended my sense of self as an "interpreter" last Tuesday.   This allowed me to talk it through.

 "Fear, itself" was threatening my sense of security before growing audiences that resulted from the new public exposure of the PBS national tree-lighting specials repeated several times over the holidays. 

Apparently, this was all that was needed to begin to regain the confidence in my work because two 1-hour talks that included a 15-minute film separated by a 1-hour break went off as smoothly as it had before that trip up the Yellow Brick Road.  Taking control of my space; sitting at the front of our little theater on my plain wooden stool as visitors filed into the little theater, played an important role (as I'd suspected it might), and I was completely in control again.

And, yes, it was that simple.

The small theater was filled to capacity twice, and it was magical -- as before.  Adding a second presentation eliminated the pressure of a lobby filled with lines of ticket-seekers which had resulted in disappointed people being turned away from that less than successful event of last week.  The pressure had simply not been allowed to build; pressure that I'd apparently picked up at some subliminal level that may have caused the disconcerting sense of the loss of control.

African American Museum under construction

I'm a very good Betty, but not a particularly good celebrity, I think.  That may take skills that I don't come by naturally; skills that I just don't have the time, the patience, or even the wish to develop.

That may be only for the young and ambitious, and neither applies to me.

Lately I've come to view myself less as an Interpreter than as a Griot, the legendary carrier of the oral histories of African peoples.  Somehow that puts the emphasis on what my work consists of as I define it to be -- and less as an outer-defined discipline/career path with specific learned practices, procedures, and goals.

It's as a Griot that I'm effective, and only I can recognize when and if I'm being successful in the role. This ancient tradition may have been transformed into something now called Interpretation -- and  today will be recognized as such in the world of the National Park Service.

My generation is centuries beyond the traditions and cultures of the Continent of Africa.  Why I would so strongly identify with that history defies any reasonable explanation.  That the strength of those influences would overwhelm my completely western upbringing may well be a testament to the power of the ancient ways of humanity.

But it suffices to say that I'm now comfortable in my own skin again, and all things Griot have returned as before, and the magic is again at hand.

Spent the morning watching the Rose Parade and wondering what 2016 can hold that can possibly match the drama of 2015, at least when viewed from the standpoint of one small life ... ?  

Pageantry and Pomp are alive and well, but lurking in the background of the gaiety is a new level of fear and national anguish over terrorism and what appears to be the beginnings of a new form of warfare for which none of our defensive armaments is being effective.

The old Fascism, newly-disguised as a less harmful Narcissism, is becoming more evident with each day, and it's hiding within a kind of super-religiosity born of zealots of many Eastern and Western faiths practicing a dangerous extremism that threatens us all.

Much of it appears to be long-ignored responses to Colonialism that continues under new guises, but that can probably be traced back to paternalistic dominance over thousands of years of what we've accepted as "Civilization," but which is now being rightfully questioned by much of the developing world.

I'm not at all certain that it won't be a relief to expect to take my place among the missing -- not too far into the future.  Mortality is less frightening now than when I was much younger.  Can't imagine non-existence.  Maybe that fact alone provides a buffer against fear. But -- nonetheless -- it is now a natural expectation after a life that feels relatively fulfilled.

It surely isn't that the world hasn't been under great threat over past millenia, but the planetary dangers now evident will need far wiser generations than mine in order to survive into another century.  On the other hand, the current generation has developed technological answers that mine could never have imagined.  Today's science may hold many of the answers that the planet must have in order to save the world as we know it, for all its inhabitants.

It begins to appear that overcoming human selfishness and greed may prove to be an even greater challenge than ISIS.

Nature may not be looking into a finite future after all. The scientists may yet be capable of borrowing time through new discoveries about the nature of the evolving Universe.  But it will be a race against Time, and Time waits for no man or woman.

Will Life continue to unfold in totally unanticipated ways, or, will mine settle into a more predictable and reasonably sane tomorrow?  And -- is that what I really want to see?  I think not.  Having lived my entire life in a constant state of surprise, why on earth would I want anything else in these  declining years?

Hope the top of the crescendo has not been what this year brought ... .

... but then, there's always tomorrow ... .

 

... evening light at the Jefferson Memorial

Much has changed -- and I'm still trying to decide just what that is and what it means ... .

So much has happened since our return from the great adventure.  It all came to a crashing halt yesterday when I hit the proverbial wall and I'm still reeling from the impact!

In the days immediately following our journey up the Yellow Brick Road, everything seemed normal -- or however normal is now defined.

Landed at SFO on Saturday, December 5th.  Had two days off (Sunday and Monday) as is my usual schedule -- and reported to work in full uniform on Tuesday.  Except for having experienced the highest point in my long life just a few days before, one might have described my return to schedule as totally without incident.

In my pocket was the only evidence that it wasn't all a fantasy -- the presidential seal -- to be shared with my co-workers.  Otherwise, everything appeared to have returned to "all systems GO!" and I was able to close off the larger-than-life adventure; save it for re-living in those few minutes before sleep each night.

My week was completed with office time at headquarters; filling out travel information and turning in receipts for processing; answering my co-workers questions about what-it-was-like to meet the president, etc., then -- after a few days getting back into real life it was time to deal with Dorian and the need to take on Christmas shopping, finding a tree, digging out the ornaments, making the calls to find out who would be coming to dinner, etc. 

Each night I'd sit at my computer and try to post the story of the National tree-lighting ceremony, and each night I'd give up and go to bed early to avoid trying to organize thoughts that defied every attempt.

Then it was over.  Spent 5 days at home and resting.  It was then that "the world" re-entered with all the hoopla of the holiday season; the awful news of the debates of the presidential campaigns; the new dangers to America's Muslims from the unenlightened; ISIS; Trumpism!; and Tamaya's 18th birthday celebration on Saturday evening (family had postponed from December 1st).  And then it was all over -- everything in the foreground that needed taking-care-of had been done, and it was time to return to work and "normalcy."

Yesterday I returned to give my regular two-o'clock presentation at the Visitor Center and found myself unable to cope with the new celebrity status -- the image of my appearance with President Obama in an embrace on the stage before the giant Christmas tree had been aired on PBS several times, locally, and it's as if the gloves are off -- and I've become a true publicly recognizable "celebrity," and suddenly I'm experiencing a feeling of vulnerability that is new and strangely discomforting.

Did you send this to me?  Would love to know ... .

My feelings of a personality "split" has grown, and thinking of myself in the third person -- which had started out as a joke -- has become quite real, and disturbing.  "Helen" is now personified and sharing life with me.   

Found myself unable to deal with the lines of visitors in our lobby, waiting for tickets to my two o'clock presentation -- and ended up sitting in one of the downstairs offices to get away from whatever madness this had turned into.  Elizabeth, our lead ranger, found me there and said, "... we're going to have a capacity crowd, so you'll need to stay here until we clear out the theater for the next seating.  We'll call you when we're ready."  And then, after years of comfortably sharing my story with friends and strangers with ease, I was now in full panic!

Everything went as planned.  And I walked into a crowded little theater and a hushed audience -- and climbed onto my plain wooden stool to begin my talk.  My palms were sweaty.  Thoughts scrambled.  The first words somehow uttered themselves, and I was on automatic pilot.  I was miserable with no idea what had changed -- except for some X factor that was unidentifiable at that point.

My talk ended about ten minutes (by the wall clock) before it should have.  I'd left out a lot of my story in a rush to end the experience.

I was close to tears much of the time, and had no idea just why that was.  Yet, the audience was clearly not disappointed.  I'd communicated enough to satisfy expectations, but that was no more understandable than anything else ... .

It was in those few moments after my talk ended that I settled for this explanation:

This was the first time that I'd not been sitting on my stool as folks arrived.  They were always coming into my space.  I'd insisted, always, that I introduce myself to my audiences.   It was in the small chatter that the tone was set -- that identifying the faces I'd speak to, the eyes ... .  Had never wanted to be presented.  Today, they were all seated and waiting -- and I'd walked into their space.  Had I always known this?  Could it be as simple as this?

Can it be that I'll not return to the sense of magic that I've always treasured -- without the need to understand until I've processed, fully, the Great Adventure?

We'll see, as I allow myself to re-live it in small pieces over the coming days.

Maybe it's just too big for that ... .

Maybe some things are simply felt too deeply for words to convey ... .

    

It was a most memorable moment in all of the proceedings of those 3 magical days ...  a moment that threatened to compete with even the widely photographed presidential hug on that stage ... .

... and it had little to do with the historic tree-lighting ceremony, but of family, and requires some review, but it's worth that, I think.

It unfolded just moments before the girls and I were scheduled to meet Martha in the hotel lobby to leave for the National tree-lighting ceremony where we would meet the First Family.


Just as we were moving toward the door of our hotel room, one of the girls looked at the other, and saying ...  "oh, we almost forgot."  So saying Alyana turned back and dove into her luggage and came up with the exquisite little silk beaded evening bag that I'd given to their elder sister some time ago.  Along with the gift I'd included a letter explaining that this was given to Aunt Emily, eldest daughter of my great-grandmother Leontine, by her husband, Dr. Raleigh Coker, on the occasion of their 35th wedding anniversary.  It carries a Paris label, so was a treasured artifact.  It was later given by Aunt Emily to my mother's younger sister, Vivian,  upon her graduation.  Vivian had lived with the childless couple through her years at Xavier.  It was Aunt Emily who provided a home for a number of Mamma's grandchildren as they moved out of St. James Parish to pursue educations and to start lives in New Orleans. 

Years later Aunt Vivian would present the little treasure to me along with the story of its beginnings.

When my son, David's, eldest daughter grew into (what I'd hoped was) enough maturity to understand its value, I wrote a letter explaining its origin, wrapped it carefully in tissue, and passed the beautiful little gift along to my granddaughter, Kokee Amanda Reid.  By now, though never spoken of, it had evolved into a woman's ritual of love that we were all a part of.

On another track; in Freedom Summer of 1964,  we were living in the suburbs about 12 miles out of the city -- where I was a member of the Unitarian Universalist church.  It was at Fellowship status, with about 25 young families daring to form the beginnings toward full church status.

Among my friends (white) was a father, Don Sanford, who'd lost his wife, the mother of two young daughters when the girls were quite young.  Over the years, Susan, his eldest daughter, and a university student then about 18 --  having been raised by a wise father in a politically liberal environment -- was now ready to try her wings as a volunteer teacher in a Freedom School in Canton, Mississippi, as a member of SNCC.  Susan was a student at the University  and -- along with others was giving up her education for awhile in order to become a part of the struggle for civil and human rights -- the challenge of her generation.

I believe I may have had Susan as a student in my religious education class at the Mt. Diablo Unitarian church.  Connections with the Sanford family were only casual, but it's interesting to note that my deepest involvement in the Civil Rights struggles of the Sixties was largely in concert with the white social activist members of my church and their children.  That congregation went through the Civil Rights Revolution right along with me, and facilitated my participation in the struggle at the national level.  

This was happening at a moment in my own history when my marriage was slowly disintegrating, and the pearls that you see were the symbol of the need for re-consecration.  The little necklace had been the gift from my young husband on our wedding day, May 24, 1942.

The evening before Susan was to leave for the hostile deep South, I was invited by Don to join the family for a farewell dinner.  It was then that I gave the pearls to Susan with the words, "... I'd love for you to wear this under your tee shirts as you work -- to keep you safe, and to give me a presence in this important undertaking."  There was no possibility of my joining that struggle since I had four young children needing care.  This struggle was far beyond my reach.  At the end of summer Sue returned home and the pearls were returned to me, having completed their work successfully.

When Alyana graduated from high school, I wrote a letter explaining the story of the little necklace without a feeling that anyone could possibly understand fully what they meant to me.  How could one so young and uninformed possibly know?  Summer of '64 was hardly a footnote by now, but at least I was passing what I believed to be a connection that one day -- maybe -- the significance would reveal itself to her.


The three girls, Alyana, Tamaya, and Kokee, had apparently gotten together just before leaving home and determined that the little bag and the pearls needed to be included in some way in this momentous occasion we would be engaged in, together, on this historic night in Washington.

If you're wondering why my face was so colorless in those photos of the event, I'd cried away my makeup hours before -- and my appearance was simply of no concern.

A few hours later, I would stand at that lectern with my great-grandmother's picture in my breast pocket, holding my notes in one hand and Aunt Emily's lovely gift in the other.  Inside it would be the blessed-by-history little pearls and the presidential seal that had been quietly slipped into my palm by the acknowledged Leader of the Free World!

Somehow the kids knew.

I needn't have doubted that.

Somehow the importance of legacy had been transmitted, and from this day forward it will go on with Leontine's descendants, despite the distractions of whatever the future holds ... .

I've returned both the items to their proper owners, but have kept the commemorative Seal for just a little longer ... .

Still processing the Washington adventure ..

                   "Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground.  They want rain without thunder and lightning.  They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters ...Power concedes nothng without demand.  It never did and it never will."

                    Frederick Douglass - Letter to an Abolitionist Friend - 1857              

   

... and, now that I've been home for a few days, those fresh memories are becoming a jumble of impressions -- out of sequence, and disorderly -- when I sit down and try to organize them into words that march together in a parade of new understandings -- and logic.  But, no, they persist in moving into my consciousness in full rebellion, refusing to line up as they should, but instead just schmush their way to my frontal cortex like some bawdy vaudeville act!

There's the continuing unfolding of thoughts born at the end of that second floor alcove window overlooking the Capitol -- when I first became aware of the great Frederick Douglass, the man, whose mansion has been preserved so beautifully, while we have less awareness of his ideas as he lived them, and -- through them -- influenced the Abolitionist Movement, and the Lincoln presidency as well.  And how today's continuing struggle for human and civil rights appears to have lost its ties to those which came before by a succession of iconic black leaders.  Oh, they're remembered because they're deeply embedded in black history, and still memorized diligently by black school children to this day, but not by mainstream American history as they should be.

Then it dawned:  Much of that history was limited to a handful of black publications -- The Pittsburgh Courier,  the Chicago Defender, the Amsterdam News, the Crisis, etc., but that means that only African Americans learned of historic events like the Double V Campaign started by James Thompson's letter to the Pittsburgh Courier; the Port Chicago Explosion that cost 320 lives, 202 being black naval  personnel; the mutiny trials for those 50 sailors who refused to return to reloading ammunition; the exploits of Bessie Coleman who went to France as a young woman where she had to learn the language in order to be trained in aviation because she couldn't do that here at home; and Fannie Lou Hamer's valiant but hopeless attempt to seat the Mississippi Freedom Party in the Democratic Convention.  So many stories that only came to light because black Pullman porters traveling across country on the rail lines, took on the responsibility of dropping off bundles of black newspapers at depots along their routes -- to be picked up locally -- and distributed by and sold in barber shops, and beauty salons, and newsstands in black communities, throughout the nation.

Such stories were simply not seen as relevant to the American Narrative; 'tis the pity!  How different it might have been had there been a recorded blended history so that we could now find ways to more accurately restore and preserve our nation's story as it was lived by all of its people. 

Our national park is dealing with a more recent history that is more easily captured because that history occurred at the dawn of a more enlightened era.  It will be more difficult to go back and try to trace the connections between the ideas of Douglass and those African American icons who followed his lead down through the last century.   But I'm sure those links are still traceable, and that America would be the greater for knowing our true and more complete history.

Brilliant Ta Nehisi Coates - activist and writer for the Atlantic

I suspect that it is those of us now living -- those of us who were readers of the black press -- who can help our National Park System to do that work, starting with the Frederick Douglass site. Today's generation of emerging black leaders need these truths in order to find the footprints left by those who've gone before.

Small wonder that we evolved as two nations, one black and one white,  "separate but not equal", without the benefit of being able to build a history in common because the lives of black people remained invisible to the rest of the population, except weakly, and often through unknowing well-meaning white voices.

We should be seeing today's Black Lives Matter as but another pulsation in the long struggle for equality -- one that extends from the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863 to the present.  Instead, from a white perspective, this most recent iteration of the Civil Rights Movement is simply seen as one more illogical spasm of unreasoning, disconnected,  inexplicable attack of madness, rising from an ignorant people hopelessly locked into a level of poverty and criminality that defies the country's greatest efforts to bring change to lost lives.

I was reminded of all this upon seeing, once again, the Capitol building and surrounding magnificent structures built long ago by black slave laborers.  

Being so overcome with good feelings about this great adventure that it was impossible to mention this painful truth to my unknowing granddaughters.

... maybe next time... when the glow begins to fade ... .