It occurred to me that it might be wise to post my book-signing schedule here for those interested ... .

Wed Mar 7  San Francisco Main Library, Civic Center

Thu Mar 8  Commonwealth Club, San Francisco  (not certain when this will be aired)

Sat  Mar 10 East Bay Women's Political Caucus

Mon Mar 12  Signing at Passages (Marin)

Mar Wed 14  Video Interview re Redlining (Home)

               Mar Thu --       To Portland for presentation at Nike Corporate Offices

Mon Mar 25  Brickhouse Gallery - Sacramento

Mon Mar 26  Radio interview with Joni Eisenberg (Washington, D.C.)

Wed. Mar 26 Presentation at Pixar Campus in Emeryville.

Mar Wed 28  Presentation at SalesForce (Mosconi Center, San Francisco)

Mar Fri 30   Interview with Sheryl Sandberg at FaceBook, Silicon Valley (postponed)

Mar Sat  31  Cafe Society Book Signing, Kaleidoscope, Point Richmond

Apr Fri 6  Woodside First Friday

               Apr Tue 9th  To Washington, D.C. to receive the Robin Weeks Award

Apr. 14 Book signing at the African American Civil War Museum in Washington, DC.

               Washington through April 14th -- then to NY

April 16, "The Moth" at the Lincoln Center in NY, for NPR (yes, I'm one of the storytellers for broadcast on National Public Radio stations, nationally.

April 21, afternoon Book signing for the Japanese American Citizen's League at two o'clock, El Cerrito

April 27, Acheson Village book signing, seven o'clock

April 28, Pegasus Books, downtown Berkeley, book signing (part of the SF Book Festival).

May 17, Women's Leadership Summit, Richmond Auditorium and Convention Center

May 20, Book signing, Berkeley Historical Society, 1931 Center Street, Berkeley

Life has become so complicated that blogging is beginning to fade into the background ... .

... but these postings remain important in my feeble attempts at processing the happenings as they occur -- a necessary element in maintaining even the slightest sense of control over the hours, the days, and whatever there is left of weeks and months to spend.  How ironic that my public life has moved to center stage when it is so late, but then ... .

Spent last weekend in Bend, Oregon, a lovely little city high up in desert country.  This was not the Oregon that I'd imagined; the lush green forested Oregon of the Coast.  Bend is at 4000 ft. where there was once a thriving lumber industry, but now appears to be largely dependent upon the tourist trade.  Became my 6 year-old self while walking from the lovely Oxford Hotel to the conference site 3 blocks away through a snowfall.  What magic!  

The World Muse conference of activist young women -- a racially diverse collection of about 300 gathered there for workshops and lectures that were so reminiscent of Esalan with Fritz Perls and Charlotte Selvers et al, Werner Earhardt's EST, Sam Keene's Psychology Today, etc., that I had to keep reminding myself that the year is 2018 and not the Eighties!  

Mindfulness has taken the place of the Tibetan concept of Compassion practiced by my husband, Bill, and his cohorts at the University, and it was impossible to escape the feeling that Deja Vu had taken over my life.  

Had to keep reminding myself to not express that -- that each generation has the right and the privilege to re-discover its place on those ever uprising rungs on the spiral of change, and that the essence of those uprisings spells the never-ending progress of generations.

It was so obvious that the Women's Movement (Black Lives Matter, TimesUp, MeToo, etc.) has many parts, and that it is an idea whose time has come; that it is being invented -- simultaneously -- in many  places throughout the world by a caring and courageous new generation of young women.

I was asked as a replacement for a brilliant and courageous, Janna, an 11-year-old Palestinian girl who
was invited as presenter.  She was denied entry into our country though her escort, a woman from South Africa, sat across from me at our shared table for dinner the first evening.  Can you imagine how exciting it was to find myself among what clearly are the leaders of the future?

There was a video from Tarana Burke, the African American woman presenter -- the creator the MeTooMovement who'd found herself trapped by the Nor'easter on the East Coast so had her flight cancelled.  Yet, here was I, the on-site Elder for those creating our future for 3 days, and so aware of how precious this was!  After returning home -- watching the Oscars -- there she was on stage with the other movement leaders.

I (magically) received two standing ovations!  One that followed a short 4-minute video made by The Makers filmmaker, Sara Wolitzky, for their recent conference in Southern California, and another that followed a short interview.

There were a number of Muse members who had shared the Makers experience with me only a few weeks ago, and it was so wonderful to find myself caught up in the sheer exuberance of young women in the process of discovery of their emerging empowerment.  For the first time I find myself seriously considering that Faustian bargain, if offered... (just a few more years, please!) 

I remember someone in the Green Room asking if I were nervous just before going onstage.  I thought for a moment and answered, "no, just excited."  It was true.  It also was a reminder that this has been true now for months (years?).  When had the change come?  I wasn't certain, but in thinking about it on the flight home I realized that it is hard to take any of this seriously at my age.  Having lost my sense of "future," it has no place to go.  I'm no longer building a resume.  Everything now is viewed in retrospect; through a rearview mirror.  I'm no longer "becoming," but simply "being."  My view of the world has shifted, so that NOW really is all there is, and that's no longer nervous-making.

Bend was another amazing, awe-inspiring, event that will fill my days with quiet joy into my unknown but ever-exciting whatever days-to-come!

Oh my", and if those word don't date me, nothing will ...!

But nothing short of "cool" can describe the turn life has taken over past week, but "Cool" is a near miss, even when I capitalize the first letter.

On Monday it was an evening of book-signings (my first) at St. Marys College in Moraga hosted by Sharon Sobotta, executive director of the Women's Center there.  On Tuesday Bob and I drove to KPFA-Pacifica FM station in Berkeley for a taping with Cat Brooks (wonderful interviewer!) of an hour-long talk for UpFront programming.  On Wednesday it was Paul Chambers of local Channel 2 (our FoxNews) who came to my apartment with his cameraman/editor to film a piece for their Black History Month programming. Thursday's assignment was a telephone interview with a delightful young woman for the Audubon Society.  Then came Friday that was jam-packed with interviews -- first NPR's Forum with Mina Kim followed by televising a piece for KQED's Newsroom with Thuy Vu (even more beautiful in person) after a meeting in the mirrored makeup room where I fully expected the first step would be sand-blasting, but that proved useless so we settled for the usual applications of potions and dips into exotic tiny pots of various creams of tints and colors applied with brushes of all sizes and shapes by the ultimate professional (who turned out to be from Richmond) -- a fascinating process.

There's something about that ritual that is a reminder of the child, Betty, playing dress-up in my mother's closet and dressing-table; interesting throw-back to a time of innocence ... .


Following the Newsroom taping was a Facebook session with Thuy that was unexpected but manageable since I'm so far beyond being taken aback by almost anything that I've begun to appear non-plussed (always loved that word but never needed it before).


Being a D-List celebrity is beginning to hold fewer surprises now than before, and that's good.  Having a chronic dry mouth takes some getting used to but having rushes of saliva that threatens to ooze from the sides of your mouth when you're being filmed in Hi-Def TV tends to make one plussed!


When the filming was over and we found our way to the elevator for the descent into our normal reality for the drive home in the usual rush-hour traffic it all began to feel surreal.  The drive was relatively uneventful except for the stop at home to pick up my forgotten wallet, then to the supermarket to re-stock foodstuff.  I was surely overdressed for the checkout line but being in civvies, I actually attracted less attention than when in uniform.

After a day like that one would think that I'd surely be waiting to see the public appearances, wouldn't one?  Not so.  Came home and changed into my pajamas (in the middle of the day!), propped myself upon pillows -- turned on the idiot box to watch the Olympics, the goings-on in Washington, and today's antics with our Leader of the Free World, eventually dozed off for hours and missed Newsroom.  Dorian telephoned to say that she'd seen me on the TeeVee -- that's when I remembered ... .

I then dug my I-Pad out from under the blankets where it had been stashed, located NPR's Forum in the archives, listened closely, and was pleased.  Later I may watch Newsroom, but I really much prefer to just do the pieces then move on.  Watching myself is something I prefer not to do, and I haven't the vaguest notion just why that is.  Listening to myself hasn't the same effect.  Crazy, right?

But in the listening, I believe that I done good!

Is Makers a game changer ... ?

Bob, my son and manager, has been warning me to be prepared for my life to become more complex than ever with the publication of Sign my name, but despite his attempts at preparing me for this, the effects are almost overwhelming ... .

The moment my on-stage interview ended and I was backstage being detached from my microphone, Dyllan McGhee, founder of Makers rushed back into the hubbub of behind-the-scenes calling out excitedly as she entered, " she's trending equal to Hillary!"  I had no idea what this meant, except that it was surely something special in this world since I was aware that Hillary Clinton had been last year's honoree and at a time when she was a candidate for the presidency of the United States of America.  But what on earth did "trending" mean?  This was a familiar term from the world of social media, but it was not something that I'd ever had to concern myself with before now,  so now that it mattered, I realized that I had no idea what it meant -- yet here it was being applied to me.

It was clear that this was BIG!  Hollywood BIG!  Maybe even national BIG.

After being de-miked I left backstage and took my seat back in the audience to a very different atmosphere.  Something new was in the air.  I must have hit it over-the-fence, whatever "it" was, and suddenly everything was lighter as if the room had been filled with helium.

I suddenly became aware from looking at a monitor just below and beside the stage upon which the text of everything in that space was being streamed throughout the nation, that it wasn't just the 400 attendees that I'd just appeared before, but also an unseen audience of countless others who'd been witness to what was occurring in this room.  The full implications of this reality hit me with the force of such ferocity that I took my seat in silence while all of this settled in to fulfill Bob's warning.

Things would now be different than before.

This was the future that I'd grown into, that had grown out of the work that I've been doing over the past decade.  This was where it was all leading to.  But why at such a late hour, and at what cost?

Is this what it's like to be discovered by the World?

... but it would certainly be great to have my old hair back ... maybe I need to buy me some.  Nah.  There are just so many follicles to a lifetime, and I've apparently used mine up.  Wish I'd paid them the proper respect while cleaning my brush.  To think that I just scraped them out with my comb and flushed those precious strands without a second thought.

Yup!  Here I am at the Universal Studios in Hollywood ... .

Upon arrival after the long drive from LAX we arrived at the studio -- drove past vaguely familiar buildings of various historic periods -- easily recognizable as stage sets from movies seen long ago, to a series of trailer villages where the Hallmark shows are shot.  It all has a temporary feel to it, as much of Los Angeles has had for me over visits over time.

There I was ushered into my green room, comfortably furnished with two sofas, a TV monitor, hanging space for change of clothing.  After a time guided to the make-up trailer where several specialists were waiting to transform and "youth-ify" those of us in need of such, and -- in time -- onto the set for the taping of my segment of the Hallmark Home & Family Show.

All the while, my chauffeur had been waiting, and promptly at three he magically materialized for the trip to Hollywood and the Makers Conference.

But first there was check-in at the London Hotel(!), and I have never nor will I ever again know such luxury!  My suite (most of my Richmond condo might well have fit into it) consisted of the most luxurious bathroom on the planet, the king-sized bed area, then a sitting room looking out over whatever part of Hollywood we were in -- had reached the London Hotel somewhere along the legendary Sunset Boulevard.

My limo lined up behind the others waiting to gather in their temporary clients (me being one such), and the thought ran across my mind that I'd never seen this many luxurious chariots in one place before, and that this hotel must be filled with many more of the 1% than the likes of me.

Took the elevator to my suite on the 5th floor and gasped as I entered into my designated space for the next 72 hours!  WOW written in italics and followed by 50 exclamations point is the understatement of the year!  And here I was without my cellphone to record it for later savoring back in my ordinariness. It was here that we met Luciano, our limousine chauffeur for the entire time of the Conference.  He would pick us up (granddaughter Alyana and me) each morning promptly at 7:30, deliver us to the proper venue where we would spend whatever time in "Neverland", would wait for us, wait at each site until time to deliver us back to the London after events had ended in the evening.  Can you imagine?

I'd invited Alyana, who is attending UC Irvine on a 4-year scholarship and in her senior year, to share the Makers experience.  We had a great time in our borrowed celebrity status that would be fleeting for me, but that might be a great beginning for a neophyte communications major where she would be exposed to the highest level of "makers," women who were the leaders in their fields.  Her heroes were here to inspire, and who knows where this glitzy adventure might lead?

For a young student of color who is studying in the field of media -- to be in the presence of the celebrated screen director, Ava DuVernay, was a gift to be envied, and something this grandmother hadn't dreamed was even a possibility, yet here was that gift in this world where dreams are finally attainable.  What a magical thing ... .

But by far the most meaningful time for us both proved to be in the later hours -- after the noise had died down -- after a day of ogling and nudging one another constantly as we encountered more celebrities than we'd ever seen gathered in one place -- and we were in our fancy hotel suite in the very first deep grandmother/granddaughter conversations we've ever had.  In Nana's words,  "we got past the "how's school/how's work" stuck place and into the deep grownup stuff like "what if I told you that I might not ever want to marry," and "have you ever had a lover, Grandma?" (of course!).  It was a bridge crossed from which we'll never retreat ... and how memorable it was for us both.

What a time ... .!

After an uncomfortable and tentative live interview on FoxNews, and a less than satisfying experience on the Hallmark Home & Family show (through no fault of my gracious hosts) I arrived at the Noya Center in Hollywood for the Makers Conference, "Raise your Voice!" and it all came together magnificently.

Prior to the announcement that I'd been chosen as this year's honoree by this hugely successful women's organization, Makers was unknown to me.  I'd suppose I might blame that on my having gradually but definitely begun to drop away from all those causes and issues that are outside the parameters of the National Park System.  My work with the NPS has truly become all-consuming, and as that aspect of my life rose to dominance, all else except my immediate family has begun to fade into the background.

You'll want to know that past recipients of this great honor has been such illustrious women as Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, feminist icon Gloria Steinem, and last year's presidential candidate and former First Lady Hillary Clinton.   One might well ask (as I did) "why me?" which remains a mystery to this day, but these days I question not.  I just show up to watch what happens!

 On Monday morning, February 5, I arrived at LAX and promptly lost my cellphone.  I made my way to Baggage where I was to be met by "ground transportation" (that I assumed would be Uber or Lyft) identifiable by someone standing there holding a Soskin sign.  Got to the lower level thoroughly confused and feeling old and irrelevant (despite all) and looked for my phone and discovered it missing.  Went to Lost and Found to report it having been left on the plane so that it could be retrieved before the next departure ... nothing.  No driver holding a "Soskin" sign.  No idea what to do or whom to call since all of that information was stored (of course) in my phone.  The driver could not reach me because he only had that number.  Decided to stand out at the curb in that impossibly busy terminal and just wait for someone to claim me.  What else does one do under such circumstances?

In my active imagination, I must have wandered between known worlds for perhaps 15 perilous minutes -- which seemed like hours -- until unknown forces took over and the Universe righted itself.  It was great to learn that this even happens in Hollywood.

After gradually subsiding waves of panic, a stately uniformed limousine chauffeur rose magically at my elbow, rather tentatively,  holding out a cardboard sign with Soskin printed prominently on it before a thoroughly addled old woman sitting on her luggage with a vacant stare.  I was completely outclassed by this setting, and felt it,  and by his courtly manner, it was clear that he knew but was willing to play the game.

Temporarily (as one does in such cases) I cast eyes heavenward and praised the God that I tend to believe in only under such circumstances, otherwise I'm agnostic, of course.

We crossed into the garage -- where such elegant machines are parked for brief periods -- and my driver  whom by now I realized spoke with an exotic foreign accent ushered me into the luxurious back seat with the darkened windows to protect anonymity for those needing it, and we were soon on the infamous L.A. freeways en route to the Universal Studios in Burbank to tape the Hallmark show from twelve 'til three.

I sat in that posh limo feeling completely out of place, out of character, and wondering (embarrassingly) just how I would get through the rest of this day, this conference, this City without any idea what, who, why, etc., with no itinerary, agenda, no cell phone to guide me?

How on earth could this organization of brilliant young women have wasted their "honorations"  (and, yes, I know that isn't really a word) on someone so stupid and careless as this year's honoree?  Besides that, these brown age spots were really going to show through the makeup, and would they notice that my eyebrows (having disappeared along with the rest of the time-limited hair follicles) were non-existent, and I wasn't always certain that I'd applied the pencil where it should have been drawn ...).

But those insecurities only lasted a few hours before the world got back on its axis and JOY! (yes, joy in italics) began to reign!

More later ...

Finally better understand the debacle of the Fox News experience ... .

 It would be impossible for anyone to know that -- due to restraints related to my status as a federal employee -- I've been granted a 4-week leave from my ranger position in order to enable my ability to work with the publisher in the launch of my memoir, Sign my name to freedom.  The book is being shipped this week to bookstores nationally.  During this time I am totally out of uniform and into civvies as my private person, Betty Reid Soskin, self.   It's a question of a serious conflict of interest as a federal employee subject to restraints that are important within the system, with necessary negotiations connected with each and every personal appearance and/or interview I'm involved in.  I cannot be seen as profiting in my private life from my federal position, the last thing I'd ever intended.

But then my entire later life has happened in a series of disconnected circumstances and experiences; that "constant state of surprise" that I seem to have been born into.

Most of the media has been cooperating, and the local press has been willing to go along with the federal protocols by carefully wording their stories to avoid the conflict.  It's a tight line to navigate since I'm now so firmly identified as a national park ranger, though over the 85 years prior to this I've known a complicated set of identities, been many women, sequentially.

There are now many conversations with publicity people, agents, producers, who have little reason to even be interested in private Betty Reid Soskin since she certainly didn't rise to this level of public attention until becoming a ranger.  Why should they?  Besides, there's all that buzz out there in the media -- now worldwide -- related to that public persona to take advantage of.

It's a tight line to try to hold.  After today it feels almost impossible ... .

Since I couldn't see Arthel Neville (she was represented by the tiny red light against a black screen), and we'd not spoken prior to this interview, I had no idea whether she or her producer had been briefed on the prohibitions prescribed by my position as a federal employee.  Also, this was LIVE television, so there was no possibility of managing the situation without scrubbing the whole thing and embarrassing everyone in the process!

My breath became immediately restricted, my mouth ran dry, the interview was out of control within seconds of the opening.  There was -- within minutes -- the book cover on the screen, further complicating the situation.

An hour after returning home an email arrived from Fox with the entire short interview as an attachment. I had no idea that the segment had opened with stills of me in various aspects of my work -- all in uniform and on duty.  The first question the host asked placed the interview smack into the middle of forbidden territory! The visuals on screen were Betty the Ranger in full uniform, as prohibited by the agency, followed by mention of my soon-to-be-launched book!  Embarrassing in the worst way.

There had been hours of preparation prior to my going on leave, small meetings held to be sure that I,  Betty Reid Soskin, private citizen, fully understood where those lines were.  All this for the purpose of making this 4-week period free of NPS connections -- free to allow for book-signings, media events, etc.  Small wonder that the words dried up in my throat in those 5 awful minutes!  In watching the piece a few moments ago, I found myself wondering what in the world had we expected?  Maybe we were attempting the impossible.  We were naive and untested in the world of entertainment.

Would it not be crazy were I to have to retire from the important work that I'm doing before I'm ready to do so simply because we couldn't control this aspect of the book release?


My ranger replacement has not turned up yet, and -- if that replacement is intended to be the documentaries now in production, they won't be released for months, maybe not 'til 2019 in the case of the 90 minute film.  The shorter film will probably be in distribution in summer of this year.

I'm off to Los Angeles for the Makers Conference on Monday morning.  Will the problem deepen if an answer is not found?

Has the time arrived for me to have to choose between careers; ranger or author and not both?

... but is it not a miracle that I'd even need to make such a choice in my tenth decade?

It was a Fox News experience ...

Found myself in an alternate universe today, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Picked up at  at my condo at 12:30 by a uniformed chauffeur in a limo and driven to a studio in San Francisco for an interview segment on the Fox News channel hosted by Arthel Neville.  Strange.  Down the rabbit hole it was, and a few hours later  I'm home again (it's now four o'clock).  It all feels like a dream; as if it didn't happen at all.   A pure fantasy ... .

Driver stopped, went around the car to open the door for me (I'd forgotten about that ritual) and escorted me to the entrance to a studio on Battery Street near the tourist-crowded SF waterfront.  The building appeared to be closed, though a woman could be seen sitting in the small lobby.  She rose to tell me that the technician "working the show" was on his way, that he had the key to the elevator, and that we had to simply await his arrival before we could get to the third floor studio.  She turned out to be the make-up artist, and I was her client.

We waited for about ten minutes before he arrived with the key, and the 3 of us proceeded to where whatever this was would occur.

I'd not been prepared in any way for what was to happen, and had no idea what to expect.

I sat in a tall chair as the make-up person prepared her materials from a large bag she'd brought with her; she arranged an array of various-sized brushes, tubes, lipsticks, little containers of cosmetics of one kind or another, and she quietly went to work rising bravely to the challenge of  trying to renew a 96 year-old face in the day of the Millenials.  No conversation.  No instructions.  No nothing.  She completed her work and then ushered me into the Green Room where I would wait for instructions that I'd learned by now were arriving via radio/cellphone directly into the ear of the techie, apparently, and all emanating from the studio in New York.

This was a mere satellite, nothing more.  The real Fox world was on the other Coast.

After a short period Techie came for me, seated me on a chair under bright lights, clipped a microphone to my collar, told me to look at the red light on the equipment in front of me -- then placed a receiver in my right ear through which the New York news team was telecasting Fox news!

I'd entered an alternate Universe.  Truly.  The panel was discussing the recently-released House Intelligence Committee's  Devin Nuns memo.  The conversation in no way resembled that of CNN's panels last night, nor the more balanced coverage of C-SPAN that I'd listened to for hours before sleep.  I rarely watch Fox News, so wasn't prepared for the wide variance of opinion, though I'd heard of it for years.

After about 15 minutes the NY producer came into my receiver to say that I would be on right after the next commercial.  I was in no way prepared.  Hadn't learned until moments before that the little red light wouldn't turn into an image of a real person with whom I could chat about whatever she was primed for.  I'd had experience with Skype sessions over great distances, and expected to be able to see the interviewer on the screen as we chatted.  With without the image, there was no relationship established, even virtual.  No one to speak with directly.  I was totally lost!  No eyes to look into, a prerequisite for any presentation I ever make in my work.  Couldn't make the experience come alive in any way.  Couldn't get past a feeling of vague discomfort ... . Suddenly -- as suddenly as it had begun -- it was "thank you" time, and I was still alone in that room with no one to tell me that it was over, and that I could disconnect from the mic ... mouth dry ... panic ... but it was over, at least.

The interview had lasted all of 5 minutes.

For this I'd been picked up by a limo for the 45-minute drive in weekend traffic and past the countless homeless who inhabit the underpasses that border the freeways between Richmond and SF -- where that (patient and expensive) driver had waited for me through it all.  Then the long drive home feeling stupid and that it had been a total waste of everyone's time, and that the platitudes exchanged (called an "interview") were simply a part of some ruse so that everybody could feel as if they'd contributed something of value to life on the planet.

Despite all, I came away satisfied that I'd received the most perfect set of eyebrows in the world!  Maybe that's about the best one can expect in these chaotic times.

It has been a week of interviews by phone, and public events on a scale never imagined ... .

Just finished a conversation with a producer from the Hallmark Family Show.  I'm involved in a one-hour on-camera interview on Monday, February 5th, at Universal Studios in Los Angeles.   It will be telecast the following day. This was the pre-airing interview that sets the guidelines for the experience.   The interview was initiated by my publisher, Hay House NY, as a part of the launching of Sign my name for freedom.  That's a good thing, right?

She was easy to talk with, and asked good questions.  But I felt gently guided away from anything "too controversial."  "Ours is a program designed for women who are family-oriented," and we try to do only those things that fall into that category (gardening, career matters, parenting, etc.,).

I found myself becoming quietly resistant. That's the Disney view of the world, right?  Forming that more perfect Union requires a far more robust attitude, and I found myself finally blurting out, "...but don't you think that runs against what we ought to be doing as feminists?"  There was a silence, then this warm and friendly young stranger answered after a long and awkward pause with a simple, "yes."

We then continued our extended conversation about my former slave great-grandmother, Leontine Breaux Allen's life as it related to mine -- and how in the world does one do that while at the same time trying to detoxify the words so that no one is offended?  Slavery is brutal, and since we've still not processed that history as a nation, from a time when the women of my world (women of color) fell into 3 categories (house slaves, fields slaves, and "breeders").   And for a period of 300 years!  From a time when white men were using rape as a tool with which to increase their "stock" after the English had outlawed slavery and no longer were the ships bringing human beings for purchase into our ports.  From a time in our history when white men were quite literally selling their own children on the block.  Tell me how one does that in today's world without explosive rage begging to be released?  And while moving toward the change needed in order for the idealism in our system to outweigh the brutality and cruel injustices that still prevents our rise from relative powerlessness to full equality?

How could this kind young woman know what her questions were releasing into our innocent chat?  Those wounds resurface each time I walk past the portrait of my great grandmother that hangs in my hallway, even today, at a time when her photo is tucked into my wallet along with the credit cards, appointment slips, spare change.  She's with me almost every moment of my day ... .

Yet I understand the constraints the woman on the other end of the line is under.  That each of us are under even in today's world when the power to reach into the void and wrest that history from its moorings -- in order to find the reconciliation and atonement that we must someday confront if America is to ever move beyond its cruel past.

My great aunts, Leontine's daughters - the 1st generation out of slavery

How do we grow past the inclination to try to recapture and reclaim the real history through Disney-tization -- myths that belie the truths that we must face bravely into in order to rise above?

The interviews scheduled for tomorrow in San Francisco with Creole host Arthel Neville of Fox News, and Monday's appearance on the Hallmark Channel can't possibly put a dent in the vast ocean of misconceptions we've held for centuries now.  Far more is needed in order for the social change I've given most of my life in search of -- and that I'll continue to strive toward til' life comes to an end.  I'll simply have to hope that a few segments of my inexplicably long life has contributed to one more piece of the sometimes seemingly futile attempts at forming our "more perfect Union."

Perhaps my book will add a few steps in that direction, but it's a modest memoir not intended to do much more than to tell what it has meant to have lived a life as me.

I will temporarily bury the anguish, and continue to address "the World" in ways not too disturbing, in order to continue to fulfill the vision and dreams of our young nation and, over time, I just may find myself among an enlightened citizenry finally ready to engage in meaningful exchanges that are worthy of the many who've spent their relatively ordinary lives, as I did, trying desperately hard to get it right.

The first books arrived almost at the same hour that my friend, Farai Chideya popped in ... .

Farai is a noted media person, a dear person who lives in New York, and whose visits to the West Coast are far too rare.  She has a sister, Sekai, a physician on the staff of LifeLong Health Care in Berkeley, so that means a guaranteed meeting of we three on occasion.  The Chideya's are originally from Zimbabwe.  Farai's career had taken her around the world many times.  She just returned from a trip to South Africa.

Having arrived early, we stopped off at the magnificent sculpture, Remember Them, a monumental work of Mario Chiodo where Farai took the first photos of the author, Betty Reid Soskin, at the site of that great work.  The leaders memorialized there were those who had served as inspirations for me over my long and eventful life.  This is where I would launch my book, here where all of that greatness has been preserved forever in bronze by my friend, Mario.

Farai had planned that we would have dinner somewhere near the Paramount theater, and then would make our way to see W. Kamau Bell's sold-out appearance with Conductor Michael Morgan's Oakland Symphony -- and it was glorious! An evening of the symphony playing Nina Simone, Prince, Coltrane, etc., with occasional participation by a great group of jazz singers as well as the symphony chorus!  What a time it was!

Some months ago I'd received an invitation from Kamau to be on his show.  Shyness took over and I simply ignored his request -- didn't even respond.  Arsenio Hall had been experience enough for this lil ole lady, and I wasn't looking forward to a repeat. After all, surely he wouldn't know what to do with me when I turned up at his studio.  I gave myself all sorts of excuses, but in the end, simply pretended that he simply had made a mistake and had never intended ... silly, right?

Not only were there 3 tickets provided, but an opportunity to meet him in his dressing room at the  end of the performance.  He was gracious, almost little-boy-like, and I was so sorry to have not been as welcoming at his invitation months ago.  Met his proud mother, his wife, his two lovely little girls, and came home smiling into the night at a most memorable evening of great music, and an amazing experience of fellowship and joy.

Judi Yaeger and me with thousands of our new best friends

What a day it was ....!

Went to the City Hall Plaza in downtown Oakland on Saturday for the march and rally for Women's Day -- exciting just to be with so many of like mind.

On Wednesday of last week books arrived from Hay House NY intended for promotional purposes.  Seeing a real hard copy of a book with my name on the cover and the spine gave me a feeling that was new and novel, and previously unimaginable!  Yet, here it was.  And -- a statement by the renown historian/filmmaker Ken Burns on the book jacket ... unbelievable.

My last day at work was on Friday, with my 4-week leave from duty beginning immediately.  I've now been off for several days, and am already getting antsy to get back to work.  Not certain what to do with myself, though I've had 3 interviews for publications over the past three days, and more such sessions anticipated.

I will be leaving for the Makers Conference in a bit over a week, which includes a visit to Universal Studios for a 3-hour on-camera interview for Hallmark prior to registering for the conference.  Can't imagine what that will be like, but if I'm lucky -- they won't discover their mistake until after I'm back in Richmond!  I'm still not certain that all this attention is deserved, and that someone won't suddenly notice that some monumental error had been made by some unsuspecting new hire -- and the red carpet will be rolled up and stored somewhere obscure -- as the world gets back on its axis and all returns to what new normal we can achieve together in our unwieldy Democracy.

Am anxious to learn what readers think of "Sign my name for freedom", and what the reviews will say about it ... so far I've had two interviewers sitting in my living room who had read the book and whose very comprehensive notes from which they formed their questions were proof that they'd done so -- and who seemed to be positive about my story -- which means my life, after all.

This should be a fascinating few weeks as we lurch awkwardly but clearly forward into time and into a new career as the author of a first book at 96!

Can't wait to see what happens next ... .

I've been hesitant to include a link for ordering my book ...

... from my blog.  It's sometimes difficult to discern when I'm being a park ranger, and when my identity is that of Betty, Private Citizen.  In the first case it feels less than comfortable to do so because I'm a federal employee in my other life where it's not permissible.  When I'm at home and out of uniform, that Betty seems other worldly, and not quite real.  Here, surrounded by family photographs, artifacts, and memories, I'm still living the life described in Sign my name to freedom, and -- from this place -- those rules don't apply.

It is here that -- when I remind myself of those Reids Records days -- that little record and book store that Mel and I established in June of 1945, where our eldest child, Rick, learned to spin records at the turntable, but had to stand on an orange crate to do it, where I ran the shop while Mel worked at San Pablo Park then to the Kaiser shipyards for duties on the swing shift.  Where we promised ourselves that, as soon as the war was over we would never work for white folks again.   Where we stocked our albums and 45s in orange crates, made change in the wooden cigar box.  Where we cut out a window in the wall of the garage of our little duplex on Sacramento Street in Berkeley through which we sold the latest blues and jazz to the recently-arrived black migrant workers looking for culture they'd left behind in the southern states from whence they'd come seeking work in the defense plants -- sometimes successfully -- sometimes not.

Then in the exciting year of 1964 we were successful enough to acquire the lot next door to our little duplex and erect a two-story building to house our enterprise, a true sign of success -- well, almost... .

We'd both been introduced to formal bigotry and segregation that arrived in the Bay Area in 1942, our Bay Area where we'd both grown up as second generation Californians.  Though, of course, those practices had existed as gentlemen's agreements and inserted in property deeds that limited our access to many advantages enjoyed by others.  But all that was encoded, informal, unstated ... .

We were relatively successful in business, though we crashed and burned some years later and nearly lost everything when we simply lacked the business savvy -- without enough generations in the marketplace, or the sense to know that we didn't know.

It was only a matter of years before the discount houses caught on that there was a neglected market for black music, and we were shoved unceremoniously out of the field because we simply could not compete.  But we proved too stubborn to close shop, and we still are.

It was during that period that -- white musicians were discovering that, by expropriating the talent and skills of black entertainers, they could make millions, while black artists were being required to use the back door at the places that hired them, while they were not allowed access to the clubs they worked in except when they were "on"!  The Britishers were robbing black musicians blind and sending the music back across the Atlantic to huge and enthusiastic audiences throughout our country.  This, while the white record shops were doing the same in the industry, and Reid's simply could nor purchase with enough volume to begin to hold our own as retailers.  Banks would not provide Lines of Credit to black entrepreneurs, a practice widely used by whites in the industry to get over the rough places that invariably arise in every small business.  Not unlike the time when Louis Charbonnet, my grandfather, could not get a patent on his inventions as a black man, nor could he work except under the license of a white contractor.

We still had a long way to go as a nation, did we not?

Mel with 16-year-old Aretha Franklin

That little store is still standing.  Our patrons over all the years were 99% African American.  We gradually began to change our inventory from jazz and blues to black gospel music, church supplies, and choir and pulpit robes, since this was a developing market not yet  discovered by white retailers.  Mel began to promote gospel concerts featuring national stars, Reverend James Cleveland, Rev. C.L. Franklin and his daughter Aretha, Shirley Caesar and the Caravans, the Mighty Clouds of Joy, Soul Stirrers, etc.  Their concerts would play to up to 5,000 black churchgoers on any given Sunday.  They filled the huge Oakland Auditorium to the rafters with the most moving music imaginable this side of Heaven!

My husband, Mel, and his uncle, Paul Reid were the giants in the newly emerging industry -- an industry they were actually creating -- and they were relatively successful.  It wouldn't last, however, but long enough for us to know that we'd accomplished our goal of being independent and productive.

That was then.

Now:  Mel is gone, as is Paul.  Mel died in 1987, but our youngest son, David, and his daughter, Kokee, have been operating the shop for many years, against all odds.  The industry has seen great change.  It has unalterably moved into cyberspace and the old practices have become outmoded.  Fast-changing technology has decimated old forms of trade.  Few choirs are uniformed in robes anymore, and tapes, cd's, record albums, are all things of the past.  Music is streamed online and purchased one song at a time, with few complete albums any longer being sold.  Vinyl may return at some point, but only as artifacts, antiques, souvenirs of a time long past.  David has raised his family while making a real effort to continue in his parent's footsteps, if only for the historic value and that inherited fierce family pride.  The neighborhood has gentrified.  The surrounding black community has vanished almost completely -- slowly priced out of the City of Berkeley -- moving ever deeper into the valleys and miles from the old haunts where there was a center in which black culture could survive, and maybe be built upon with our family's help; to establish new roots in the West.  The dream is contagious, and it has long since invaded David's DNA!

David, Mom, Bob, Tamaya, Alyana Reid at the WWII Museum, New Orleans

Now:  Never imagining such a thing would be possible, at 96 I've entered the final phase of a long life by becoming an author of a first book, "Sign my name to freedom," a memoir, that will be launched on February 6, 2018 by my publisher, Hay House of New York.  That places me in direct competition with the behemoth of the industry, Jeff Bezos of Amazon!  History repeats and somewhat ironically.  This is the old and dreaded discount house of the present -- the kind that dominated the gradual demise of a small business started by two daring young people of color at a time when such a thing was unthinkable but still possible, and a local black community that faithfully supported them in their effort at trail-blazing.

It would be absolutely happily-ever-after if that little memoir somehow provided the stimulus to keep Reids Records in business until we're ready to give it up after 70 years.

This is only to say that you can put in an advance order for my book online, but it would be really great if you did so through this link

                                                 SignmyNameToFreedom

The Reid Family would be most grateful, and I don't think Amazon would miss much by your doing so.

Such twists and turns to life ...

... and some are not only unexpected, but equally unwelcome and disturbing.

Just as I'm caught up in the wonder of watching the counter (now at 9.6 million!) that accompanies that 'lil ole lady park ranger good news video on the Al Jazeera web page, a call comes announcing that -- among the males caught up in the sexual misconduct controversy is Tavis Smiley, national public television host.  Tavis also brought Betty the Author into public view, and served to introduce me to a national audience through 2 evenings of interviews that are still resonating out there somewhere.

Tavis also graciously wrote the foreword for my upcoming memoir, "Sign my name to freedom."

Before the questions could rise in my mind (what are the implications for the February book launch?), a call came from my publisher saying that within 24 hours of the release of the awful news Tavis Smiley turned up at their New York headquarters to request that his foreword be cut from the book, and that anything that carried his name be eliminated from the pages.   "I don't want my problems to effect Betty's book."

Since the printing was in the final stages, but still open for minor changes, his request was granted, and, sadly, that beautiful foreword will now be replaced by a blank page... but it will remain in this blog as a legitimate event in my history.

I have no idea whether or not the charges made against him are fair or just, but I can surely attest to the fact that I've not witnessed anything but respect, support, and admiration from this man.  That his readiness to protect whatever potential success may come to this first book author, is a testament to his generosity of spirit and deep sense of integrity.

The long overdue dialogue between men and women around the issue of sexual assault and harassment  in this country is finally in progress.  That fact is clearly indicated by recent headlines.  Maybe we're at the beginning of a process that will bring an end to the abuses women have endured for centuries, but we must create a fair and just judicial process so that we can establish a system that will move us all toward a more caring future, together.   It appears that Rep. Jackie Spear is on the way to achieving that, and by the look of things, the women and the feminists among the men of Congress are positioning themselves to support her efforts toward that end.

Maybe Tavis Smiley will be able to face his accusers and be vindicated,  meanwhile ... I'm waiting for answers to this disturbing development in social dilemmas along with everyone else, and will continue to wish my friend, Tavis, success in reclaiming his good name and career when the dust has settled and the Earth is back on its axis.

Just another day of surprises ... learning to rise to the unexpected with grace ...

Up until this morning -- The Makers Conference had merely been words of a listing on my calendar among other items with which I was mostly unfamiliar. Between the postings for "Of lost conversations," which is the title of my theater talks -- and are typed in green on each Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Wednesdays and Fridays are usually when unusual assignments are scheduled -- those off site, or that will be before larger audiences than our little 48-seat theater can accommodate, as with the Coast Guard on their Base in Alameda last week.

I sometimes have been contacted directly by an organization, agent, program provider, etc., and the request is forwarded to my superintendent or supervisor, and the listing doesn't usually come "alive," until the "day of."  Fortunately, those two colleagues provide a screen for me so that I'm not overwhelmed by requests that are not appropriate, or that can be passed along to other rangers.

It is at times an interview by phone for some content provider, a SKYPE interview with some faraway conference room or class of young people, or, any number of public situations that would have been impossible to manage not so long ago.  For instance, last Friday evening -- by prearrangement -- I met a young African American woman who was representing an environmental organization.  We did it on SKYPE.  She was sitting at her laptop somewhere in Seattle while I'm sitting at my I-MAC fully and fittingly dressed in my little black cocktail dress while -- below the waist I'm in denims and bunny slippers!  She was delightful, curious, asked great questions, and there was an immediate connection that spanned the miles magically, and I could feel myself smiling when we cut the connection and returned to our separate universes.

This morning Sara, a media person who produces for the Makers Conference arrived to drive me to the destination where our interview would be filmed.  I've known this event simply as a listing on my calendar for months now. Sara, a beautiful young woman, abandoned her status as a mere email contact and materialized in our parking lot.  I am being honored at their 2018 annual conference at the Terranea Resort in Rancho Palos Verdes, California.  This is the beginning of that process.  She'd flown up to direct an interview for promotional purposes.  I'd been through media interviews before, but THIS was something far beyond whatever I'd experienced to date.

First of all, former honorees for this important annual were Gloria Steinem and Hillary Clinton.  (While you're trying to absorb that) it may not surprise you (though it did me) that I would be driven to a great site that apparently had been rented for the day for this shoot.  Waiting was a team of about a half dozen men (a photographer, a sound techie, cameramen, a couple I can't label). They were in a room where more equipment of all sorts was standing ready for this interview -- baffles, lights, more equipment than I'd ever seen in one place, I think, though I've been working with two filmmakers for several years now, so shouldn't have been surprised.

We started at ten o'clock and I was returned home at just after one o'clock.  I have no idea where the time went. It went by so swiftly that it was unreal.  The questions were good.  Sara had done a lot of research of my blog and oral histories in preparation for the interview, and it seemed to go smoothly. The team seemed satisfied with the work that was done.

Sandra Day O'Connor

I'd mentioned my music in the interview, and on the drive home, offered to share that young Betty of 40 years ago with  Sara from my cell phone.  There was time for about 3 songs over the 6-mile drive.  It felt right.  I'm only beginning to be comfortable with bringing my whole self into these interviews.  The artist, Betty, is finally coming home.

For the first time I went to the Makers Conference website to see just what it is that I'll be doing come February.  I had no idea how vital is this feminist organization, or how important it will be to women everywhere.  To the extent that my life may be providing an alternative for aging to women seeking guidance, maybe that's a good thing.  We've been trapped in the adoration of youth model for far too long.  Having outlived my peer group and aged into a place where I'm no longer guided by models for the end times, this crazy undisciplined and unplanned life I've lived may yet provide a kind of road map for those seeking a way forward in these chaotic times, even if it's only a prescription for what to avoid, and what not to do!

It felt fitting, like something of meaning that can still be given at a time when the guidelines seem blurred, and the way forward unclear for us all.  Those of us out here -- where there is so little remaining future -- may have the ability to hold the lamp high enough to help to light the way for those behind us in this dimension before moving on into the everlasting ... .

Photo by E.F. Joseph

How on earth does one process the totally outrageous?

Yes, this is how it feels ... .

This photo was taken in summer of 1942, and Mel and I were guests at a Ball at the International House on the UC Berkeley campus.  I'm wearing my (cotton) wedding dress, and feeling absolutely beautiful!  Dress was designed and handmade by my older sister, Marjorie. We're the couple in the middle of this trio.  We'd been married in May.


Two days ago while waiting for my ride to work, I sat at my computer to bide the time.  Clicked into Facebook, a site I don't often visit, to find a message of congratulations for something I'd not yet seen. Up popped a video announced by a gnarly wrinkled face that I recognized as my own (noticing that my wrinkles now had wrinkles of their own!), with that little "click" button which opened into a remarkable 3-minute piece on "96 year-old park ranger ... not ready for retirement."  It carried the Al Jazeera logo.

I immediately recognized the footage, but had no idea how it had gotten onto Facebook, or, into this amazing little piece.

To add to the drama, though it had only been posted for a mere 4 hours, 241,000 hits had been recorded!

This morning, as I sit here at my computer that counter is approaching 4.9 million, with 77,000 shares!

What could possibly explain this?

Can it be that the nation is so filled with despair that a tiny good news story about a lil' ole lady park ranger should hit a nerve bringing this much attention?

I cannot imagine 4.9 million of anything ... much less people ... .

Maybe this says more about the State of the Union than it does about me.

https://www.facebook.com/ajplusenglish/videos/1098904690251037/

Lunch with our Congressmen in D.C.

The second of the two may be charged to petulance on my part, maybe ... but ...

... I learned, as a casual mention by our lead ranger, Elizabeth, when she stopped by to pick me up for work on Saturday morning -- as we were going over that day's doings.  I was reminded that a group of 50 students from Los Medanos and Diablo Valley community colleges would be present for an eleven o'clock extra program today.  But, in addition, and what had not been mentioned before that very moment at a stoplight on the Richmond Parkway -- Rep. Mark DeSaulnier and his staff would be coming for my two o'clock talk, in addition to a Boy Scout Troop of ten plus members of the general public who would be in the Visitor Center at that time.

I'm not sure anyone should be surprised that I might have wished to be informed that a member of the House of Representatives and his 12-person staff would be coming to have lunch in our classroom and would attend my two o'clock program.  How could something so important have escaped notice?  ("Didn't Kelli tell you?")

I was asked if I'd like to have lunch with them, and found myself saying no, not because I wouldn't have loved to do so, but the entire announcement had come at me so fast that I couldn't imagine what it would be like if I gave it too much consideration at this point.  Best to tamp it down into insignificance and tuck it into some unoccupied corner of my mind for now.   If I were going to retain the necessary calm needed to do my program (2 programs!), I'd need to keep this at arm's length. To have lunch with them and then immediately try to regain enough composure to gather my thoughts together would simply be too much to expect of myself.  Maybe this is what separates the amateurs from the pros, right?  Since I don't work from a script or notes, but am bringing up memories from deep places each time I sit on that kitchen stool, it truly matters what happens during that hour from one 'til two when I try to enter and command that small theater space.


I did it.

But when I glanced at the clock on the back wall it was clear that my talk ended ten minutes earlier than usual, and I could not imagine what had been left out ... .

Perhaps it didn't matter.  But what does that say?

And I did feel that our Congressman got short-changed, though we'll probably never know how and why.

Rep. Mark DeSaulnier and his staff had been so gracious when we were in Washington last year, and I'd so love to have had the pleasure of anticipating his visit to our park site in Richmond.

Anticipation is such an important feature in extending pleasurable experiences, isn't it?

I'll send a message, but, since he can't possibly know what I'm regretting, just how does one do that?

So much gets trapped in the nuances of life, doesn't it?

Two things happened this week that stopped me in my tracks ...

... the first may have been simply a warning, but one that may need to be heeded.

(Fatigue setting in?)

On Tuesday afternoon there was a long-scheduled filming of my two o'clock program in the theater.  The team was one that I've grown accustomed to being in my shadow on occasion, but this day they were augmented by two others, plus a relatively well-known host of a local PBS program.  I understood that Doug McConnell would be here to briefly interview members of my audience as the presentation ended -- that would be across the hall in our classroom.  I'd been well prepared for the event, and fairly comfortable as we all arrived at around nine in the morning and as I went about my normal day picking up accumulated email on my computer -- they went directly to the theater to set up the complicated lighting so that, not only would I be lit, but the audience as well.  I wouldn't see them until just before my program was scheduled to begin at two.

At about 1:40 I entered the little theater to find tall portable bright lights, and camera gear stacked in the  rear of the room taking up the limited spaces usually set aside for extra chairs to be brought in from the classroom to deal with the overflow of our usual 48 seat capacity.

The intimacy had disappeared.

I normally come into an empty space, move my kitchen stool from its place behind the lectern to the center in front of the screen to wait for folks to arrive in ones and twos until the room is filled.  I've always avoided being formally introduced, and usually begin the interaction with folks who have normally just seen a screening of Blossoms & Thorns, the story of the internment of local Japanese and Japanese/Americans during WWII.  I begin a casual Q&A having to do with any questions or comments they may have about the film.  That lasts for about ten minutes during which I'm sizing up my audience and claiming my space.  They've entered a space that I command, and that command is slowly arrived at within those ten minutes.  I'm not sure that I could do it any other way.  But I now realize that what is being established is the intimacy that fills the room, and my very personal story can be shared honestly and without blame or shame.  That intimacy is a critical piece of the experience.  I'm sure that this is the element that sets the stage for the magic that invariably happens as if baked into the event by design.

On Tuesday, under those bright lights, cameramen, and film gear, that important factor had vanished!

I drew my stool from its hiding place, centered it in place just before the screen, but nothing seemed right.

The members of the audience (each of whom had signed releases) entered in twos and threes, sat in designated places (leaving a wide swath measured out by 2 rows of tape down the middle -- in order for the cameras to film me as object).  This meant that the audience was bisected into two distinct parts with a long space between. (Could this have caused the disconnection with a part of myself?)

As my talk began a strange thing happened.  It felt as though I were shouting!  For the entire time I was tense and edgy, and when it all ended about an hour later, I took off for home feeling embarrassed that I'd not performed well, and that all that effort by that team of fine filmmakers, that everyone on the assignment had been let down, and precious funds had been wasted ... .

Upon arrival home I sat down at my computer and wrote a brief note to Carl, the director/producer, explaining ... and was surprised when he reassured me almost immediately that nothing was amiss.  That I'd lived fully up to expectations, and that I shouldn't worry at all that I'd disappointed anyone.

I went to bed not at all convinced.

Received an electronic file the next day from Carl.  It held not only the transcript of all proceedings, but a video-file of my talk.  In addition, he included that of the audience responses that followed after I'd left for home.  They were all positive, some unbelievably so, or, if not, he'd omitted all those that weren't.  My voice was surely no louder than normal.  I was definitely not shouting.  I appeared absolutely confident with nary a sign of discomfort.

What is my body trying to tell me?

How could I have ever gotten so out of sync with myself?

My father, Dorson Louis Charbonnet,
as a young man

I believe I've found the missing piece to the puzzle ... .

... the links between my grandfather, my father, and myself.

It took the long look back through these historic photographs and musing about connections; common denominators; genetic underpinnings ... and ... what holds together this entire saga of Charbonnet is that we were -- and had to be -- self-affirming.

Affirmation was withheld from both these men throughout their lives, despite their great accomplishments and years of public service.  It was true for their generation, but also for all those who preceded them.

I must have -- over a lifetime -- drawn together from family stories, an understanding of what was mis-named Creole pride, but there is something in the word that hints of over-confidence, of ego-centrism.  There is something far more powerful at work here, and I believe it has by now become a part of who we are as a family,  as Creoles, but also as African American people.   I'm not certain that our survival as a people didn't rest upon our having developed the capacity to see beyond the unmitigated brutality of slavery, Jim Crow,  and, subsequently, continuing societal rejection, to a place deep inside ourselves that sang its own songs of freedom and justice.

Self-affirmation is clearly evident in my writings.  Upon maturing, I've rarely needed validation from outside myself.  I do not believe that my proud grandfather could have accomplished the greatness that he achieved had he waited for that to be bestowed from beyond himself.  It mattered not whose names were painted on the signs under which he built his projects.  That he built them was apparently all that mattered.   He knew!

Is it really that simple?

Probably not, but for tonight, I'll take it.

I suppose this blog is not the place for exhibiting these old photos ...

... but last night while waiting for sleep to descend and the "letting go" of the day to kick in, it dawned on me that having my grandfather's achievements finally recognized and celebrated was a possibility.  That this treasure trove of family history should rise to consciousness at this moment in time may not be accidental.  I suspect that somewhere deep inside is the awareness that this unexpected celebrity status that I'm experiencing may be useful in unanticipated ways.

Now that I have uncounted numbers of folks listening, what is it that I would want to say?

Not certain what this building would become ...

I think I'd like to retroactively honor my grandfather, and all those artisans, tradesmen and crafts-persons who built this nation without proper recognition.  To cast light on his contributions and those of others who, like him, were skipped over by history.

Interior of rice mill construction.  Millwright,  L.Charbonnet

My grandfather is in the foreground

There were so very many men of color in his day, who were the teachers and leaders of the times, but who went unrecognized and unknown.










I'm hoping that this explains just why it is that so few families of color have amassed great fortunes, or even accumulated personal wealth over the past century.  This should provide at least one explanation.  Perhaps readers of color will find this a way of understanding how this has happened, and give up blaming themselves as having failed in some way.  The system was simply stacked against that happening.  And by now there are few who are even aware of the story behind what appears to be deficits we've never overcome, or a lack of training, ambition, or ability.

Louis Charbonnet was a genius, and here is the evidence in plain view, and he was only one of many who've gone unsung.