Monday, May 28, 2012
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| Photo by Linda Blake |
... so far, interest in my age rivals interest in the exhibits, and my public persona may be getting in the way of my work! Wish I could think up a good quip about the aging process. Maybe I'll just tell them about having been recently wooed by an online advertising agency which matches bloggers with businesses for profit (true). They were very flattering about my writing, but I turned them down when it occurred to me that the only firms that might be interested in my blog would be those selling adult diapers, step-in bath-tubs, and scooters!
But that might not do, right?
Sunday, May 27, 2012
This photo speaks to the numbers who attended, but can't possibly express what the day meant to those who've been waiting so long for the Visitor's Education Center to become a reality.
It took hours on end to get to sleep last night. It was impossible to move on since savoring and reliving every moment kept me on edge until the wee hours of the morning. Whatever passes for "normal" in these dwindling days will again bring sleep in a day or so, but for now -- it's all too wonderful to spend time passively in an unconscious state.
It begins to look as if each day now arrives with an aliveness that demands complete attention. It's fatiguing at times, but not in a bad way. I'm paying close attention to each moment as it is lived (or so it seems), so that nothing will escape without thorough examination and evaluation as to whether it's worth memorizing. I'm saving only the best stuff, I think, and tossing the irrelevant.
... and yes, time now is being lived out in hurried cycles, with Christmas arriving every six weeks.
Another day or so will be needed before I can possibly absorb what this new Visitor's Center will mean to the work. I do know that this place will bring monumental changes, but I do have some control over the nature of those changes -- at least as they apply to me, but it's enough for now just to savor the immediate past hours before leaving them to re-start the future ... .
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Does the name Lloyd C. Douglas mean anything to you? He was an important author of my youth with The Robe, The Magnificent Obsession, and personally most meaningful "The Green Light" among his novels. It took almost two hours of stubbornly probing memory to finally bring his name to mind. It wasn't until I was lying in bed mulling over the headiness of the commencement experience that the dots began to connect like metal shavings on a magnet, and Douglas emerged as a major influence for me . How little we credit those people and incidents that have moved us through life over time.
Something jogged him into the forefront as I was emptying the pocket of my black crepe suit and as my fingers fell upon the string of cultured pearls I'd (without conscious thought) placed there just before choosing a small diamond star on a platinum chain -- to wear for this occasion. For some reason I didn't return the pearls the little black velvet case, but instead slipped them into my pocket ... strange, but in keeping with this eerie power I've always had to be out of sync and out of sequence with time; naturally.
They were a wedding gift from Mel, my husband and the father of our four childrens. Over time they'd been relegated to non-use as the marriage began to deconstruct with all the attendant misery of mid-life.
Let's move now to the turbulent Sixties, and the night before the daughter of a friend, Don Sanford and a university student, was scheduled to leave for a stint as a teacher in a freedom school under the leadership of C.O.R.E. in Canton, Mississippi. It was Freedom Summer, 1964, and I was hopelessly tied to the care and feeding of four children at a time when I envied young (white) Susan Sanford's ability to do this daring and revolutionary thing. I'd been invited to share the farewell dinner with the Sanfords, and as it ended I secretly slipped my pearls into her hand with the words, "wear them every day under your T-shirts and only return them to me when your work is done." Her letters to her family were shared with me that summer and their words became embedded in song lyrics in the creative cultural explosion in which I found myself. They were returned, but over the passing years have rarely been worn. They'd taken on the patina of service and could no longer be mere "jewelry". Those pearls were anointed by a life experience too painful and meaningful to be squandered as "ornament." So there they have lain all these years.
By all rights, if memories were informing me as well they should, this would all have revealed itself with the Fannie Lou Hamer announcement. but it didn't. It was tantalizing close, though, because I'd picked them up -- finally -- as "jewelry' only to slip them into the pocket just before leaving for the commencement celebration.
Then "The Green Light" and Lloyd C. Douglas now enter the scene:
In it (as I recall) the premise upon which the novel rests, is that there is power in giving only if there is an unbreakable promise that neither giver nor receiver will ever disclose the source of the gift. By so doing, power is endlessly multiplied, like compounded interest accrued by intent and sealed by silence.
... and I'm realizing that -- despite the fact that by wearing my magical pearls yesterday, and sharing this connection to Fannie Lou Hamer and the Mississippi Freedom Movement that she founded -- might have added drama to the proceedings, I chose to "keep the power," by holding it close on my body without disclosing the story publicly in my two-minute acceptance speech. And it was done without conscious intent. Yet when I removed it a moment ago from its velvet case and let the little necklace drape over my fingers, I found myself wondering how The Green Light may have influenced other moments in time? Reluctance to allow myself to accept credit for what are clearly exceptional feats that have perhaps changed lives is surely related to this simple though profound concept.
Is this then, the source of the "updraft" that I'm experiencing in the dramatic arc of my life's trajectory in these days of tributes; the California College of the Arts honorary doctorate of last spring; and yesterday's prestigious Hamer Award? Is this just all too "Hollywood-ian" to subscribe to? Maybe so; yet it just may be hokey enough to demand a pause for wonder ... and to appreciate the fact that had I remained a practicing Catholic, I would surely have ended up doing daily postulations in some Nunnery!
... the extent to which all of our lives are influenced by the creative acts of unknown others is probably immeasurable, yet much of it eventually defies logic and succumbs to gaps in memory. Popular culture may be wildly under-rated movers into futures most have not yet lived themselves into -- except maybe for a selected few of the lucky ones, yours truly among them.
Epiphany .... !
... it happens. Mysteries unfold at the most unexpected times, and almost always without fanfare.
Yesterday I drove in to the university's Zellerbach underground parking lot, and after presenting my VIP permit to the parking attendant, found myself in the maze of campus shops selling Cal T-shirts and student supplies with the unrelenting compulsion to follow "just anybody" dressed in a cap and gown. Not smart. That lead proved untrustworthy as I found myself surrounded by those heading for the Asian students ceremony on the second floor of the Student's Union! So much for that system. No GPS could save me now.
I then took the stairs back to the ground floor and approached 3 African American women (one of whom was "capped and gowned," with a friendly "... since you're obviously heading for the African American graduation commencement ceremony -- may I join you since I have no idea where I'm going?" The eldest of the 3 said, " of course, but we're heading for the restrooms but if you'd like to join us you're surely welcome to!"
A few more false starts that led out of the Student Union building (shudda knowed that, right?) back across the Quad and into Zellerbach auditorium where confusion ended as I was guided through the theater (had no idea there would be such a large crowd anticipated), up to the stage and then backstage to the Green Room to wait with black-robed and colorfully "stoled" members of faculty with whom I would soon march onto the stage and take my seat in the front row for the ritual of commencement as the Fannie Lou Hamer honoree.
It was then that I met Dr. Charles Henry, Chair of the African American Studies Department (and who had recommended my being named to this great honor), and was reunited with Dr. Hardy Frye, an old and greatly honored scholar and friend from at least 40 years ago. He was former head of Black Studies, now retired. Hardy and I both worked for the Berkeley City administration when he served as Mayor Gus Newport's Chief of Staff, and I was city councilman Don Jelinek's aide. It was great to see him again. Life has taken this scholar to the top of his field, and when he told that he had supported my nomination for the Hamer Award, I immediately felt both the weight of the honor, and -- in an odd way -- validated in receiving it.
It was not so long ago that I might have been totally demoralized by the experience, but you know what? I seem to be finally getting the hang of this "honoring" thing. In this context, it made a kind of sense.
Never having attended college, and, despite my ten years as a faculty wife of a UC professor (Dr. William F. Soskin) -- and the resulting "non-traditional doctorate in psychology" that came with the years I participated as a "graduate student" in his research program, this was an alien setting for me. It's always been as though I was the camel's nose that slipped under the tent in such rituals; never quite legitimate, and despite the illusion of knowing I tend to send out, I knew that it was unearned. My status as a card-carrying member of the unwashed continues to guarantee my sense of humility -- that and being the mother of Dorian Reid who has accomplished so much with so little ... .
... but to get back to the epiphany ... but now I need to stop for a cup of tea and another tissue ... more later.
... it happens. Mysteries unfold at the most unexpected times, and almost always without fanfare.
I then took the stairs back to the ground floor and approached 3 African American women (one of whom was "capped and gowned," with a friendly "... since you're obviously heading for the African American graduation commencement ceremony -- may I join you since I have no idea where I'm going?" The eldest of the 3 said, " of course, but we're heading for the restrooms but if you'd like to join us you're surely welcome to!"
A few more false starts that led out of the Student Union building (shudda knowed that, right?) back across the Quad and into Zellerbach auditorium where confusion ended as I was guided through the theater (had no idea there would be such a large crowd anticipated), up to the stage and then backstage to the Green Room to wait with black-robed and colorfully "stoled" members of faculty with whom I would soon march onto the stage and take my seat in the front row for the ritual of commencement as the Fannie Lou Hamer honoree.
It was then that I met Dr. Charles Henry, Chair of the African American Studies Department (and who had recommended my being named to this great honor), and was reunited with Dr. Hardy Frye, an old and greatly honored scholar and friend from at least 40 years ago. He was former head of Black Studies, now retired. Hardy and I both worked for the Berkeley City administration when he served as Mayor Gus Newport's Chief of Staff, and I was city councilman Don Jelinek's aide. It was great to see him again. Life has taken this scholar to the top of his field, and when he told that he had supported my nomination for the Hamer Award, I immediately felt both the weight of the honor, and -- in an odd way -- validated in receiving it.
It was not so long ago that I might have been totally demoralized by the experience, but you know what? I seem to be finally getting the hang of this "honoring" thing. In this context, it made a kind of sense.
... but to get back to the epiphany ... but now I need to stop for a cup of tea and another tissue ... more later.
Sunday, May 06, 2012
Oh, say can you see ...... that I've forgotten to mention a very significant invitation that arrived last week in a phone call from the National World War II Museum in New Orleans? Mr. Jeremy Collins wanted to know if I'd be interested in participating in a conference in that city on December 6th, 7th, and 8th. Would I? You betcha! I will be sharing the dais with Emily Yellin, journalist and author of "Our Mother's War". We will be the two female panelists, among others. We've met before when she served as keynoter for a Rosie Trust banquet a few years ago. We share a Unitarian-Universalist background. It will be great to see her again.
As you know, if you've been reading my journal for awhile, this is my ancestral home, and I've not visited for at least two decades. There are many Breauxs, Allens, and Charbonnets still living in the city, and this will be my first post-Katrina tour of the old Tremé neighborhoods where my father grew up, and from which my own family escaped after the disastrous floods of 1927 that brought us to the West.
All permissions have been granted, and anticipation could hardly be greater. An opportunity for a grand reunion? Maybe. I'm sending out the call to the family and we have several months to save up our pennies and plan for a gathering of some sort.
Small wonder that I go around breathlessly these days. Life is moving so fast and furiously, that one can hardly maintain the rhythm!
... but in that regard, this week I have tickets to hear Dmitri Matheny and his band at Yoshi's on the Oakland waterfront with my jazz friend, Anne. An infusion of jazz tends to provide an essential and stabilizing element when life becomes overwhelming -- as it is in this period of updraft!
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
An auspicious moment of discovery ...
On the weekend -- at the invitation of the Rosie the Riveter Trust board -- I attended a Gala in the Craneway Pavilion at Ford Point.
The evening opened at six with a preview of the Visitors Center that has been under construction (restoration) for the past year, followed by a banquet for several hundred guests and supporters; political and corporate leaders, representatives from industry, and National and Regional Park Service folks, and representatives from a number of Labor Unions.
The invitation had come in a casual phone call from my supervisor saying that the Trust would like me to attend. No big deal. Some of our rangers would be attending, either as guests or support staff, so there was no preparation for what lay ahead.
Small talk at receptions has never been my favorite past-time, so I wandered around feeling awkward for the better part of an hour, stopping just long enough at clusters to touch lives but not too deeply.
There came the point where it was time to move into the grandeur of the Craneway for the fancy dinner. I'd not been told where to sit, and had no idea who might have the chart. No place cards -- but this was a formal banquet so seating must surely have been planned ...
Then I saw him, Mr. John August, head of all of the Kaiser Permanente unions, based in Washington, D.C. He's a wonderfully warm human being with whom I felt personally connected through my work. Having served as his tour guide on at least two occasions over the years, he'd requested a copy of "Of Lost Conversations," (created with Ranger Naomi Torres) the little DVD on the Black experience as lived on the home front during WWII. The irony of my having started out at the age of twenty as a file clerk in a racially segregated Boilermakers Union hall in Richmond, and in these senior years to have served as an interpreter to the Leader of all of KP unions is mind-boggling! What this says about social change in the nation over a single lifetime is truly awesome.
When John Austin noticed me idling in space, he indicated that I was to be seated at his table. There was nothing to signal that he was the guest of honor who would be delivering the evening's keynote speech, or that this was the head table. (Are you still with me?) My work didn't involve any of the planning meetings.
As the formal part of proceedings opened with introductions of dignitaries in the room (Rep. George Miller, Mayor Gayle McLaughlin, among others), and the usual tributes -- things gradually built to the place where Austin was being introduced. He gathered up his notes and headed for the dais.
His speech was brilliant! Most noteworthy, it got through to me -- finally -- that I could actually hear my influence woven through his words. My name was cited several times, so it wasn't my imagination. He got it!
I felt the tears begin to well up as I heard myself in John Austin's words.
This, then, is the reason for the honors? I truly am helping to shape a new national park, and the public also gets it. What a privilege we've been given.
About those tears:
It should be noted that on the drive home they were released with a cascade of giggles as I noticed something quite new. No longer were they flowing down my cheeks and dripping sloppily off my chin but some of them were ending up in my hair led by wrinkles that now re-direct the flow! It's surely not perfect, but it's novel. Maybe that's the function of crow's feet. Do you suppose? Imagine still discovering newness at my age!
On the weekend -- at the invitation of the Rosie the Riveter Trust board -- I attended a Gala in the Craneway Pavilion at Ford Point.The evening opened at six with a preview of the Visitors Center that has been under construction (restoration) for the past year, followed by a banquet for several hundred guests and supporters; political and corporate leaders, representatives from industry, and National and Regional Park Service folks, and representatives from a number of Labor Unions.
The invitation had come in a casual phone call from my supervisor saying that the Trust would like me to attend. No big deal. Some of our rangers would be attending, either as guests or support staff, so there was no preparation for what lay ahead.
Small talk at receptions has never been my favorite past-time, so I wandered around feeling awkward for the better part of an hour, stopping just long enough at clusters to touch lives but not too deeply.
There came the point where it was time to move into the grandeur of the Craneway for the fancy dinner. I'd not been told where to sit, and had no idea who might have the chart. No place cards -- but this was a formal banquet so seating must surely have been planned ...
Then I saw him, Mr. John August, head of all of the Kaiser Permanente unions, based in Washington, D.C. He's a wonderfully warm human being with whom I felt personally connected through my work. Having served as his tour guide on at least two occasions over the years, he'd requested a copy of "Of Lost Conversations," (created with Ranger Naomi Torres) the little DVD on the Black experience as lived on the home front during WWII. The irony of my having started out at the age of twenty as a file clerk in a racially segregated Boilermakers Union hall in Richmond, and in these senior years to have served as an interpreter to the Leader of all of KP unions is mind-boggling! What this says about social change in the nation over a single lifetime is truly awesome.
When John Austin noticed me idling in space, he indicated that I was to be seated at his table. There was nothing to signal that he was the guest of honor who would be delivering the evening's keynote speech, or that this was the head table. (Are you still with me?) My work didn't involve any of the planning meetings.
As the formal part of proceedings opened with introductions of dignitaries in the room (Rep. George Miller, Mayor Gayle McLaughlin, among others), and the usual tributes -- things gradually built to the place where Austin was being introduced. He gathered up his notes and headed for the dais.
His speech was brilliant! Most noteworthy, it got through to me -- finally -- that I could actually hear my influence woven through his words. My name was cited several times, so it wasn't my imagination. He got it!
The words I remember most clearly were in the place where he spoke of visiting Ellis Island for the first time; very early after its designation as a national park, when it was little more than decaying physical artifacts that would someday tell its stories. This is the state our park site was in (and still is, though much further along) when first he visited several years ago. I'll never forget his words, "... the stories of these emerging parks are under the hats of the rangers." We, the interpreters, are entrusted with that national history, and we're being effective in that work.
I felt the tears begin to well up as I heard myself in John Austin's words.
This, then, is the reason for the honors? I truly am helping to shape a new national park, and the public also gets it. What a privilege we've been given.
About those tears:
It should be noted that on the drive home they were released with a cascade of giggles as I noticed something quite new. No longer were they flowing down my cheeks and dripping sloppily off my chin but some of them were ending up in my hair led by wrinkles that now re-direct the flow! It's surely not perfect, but it's novel. Maybe that's the function of crow's feet. Do you suppose? Imagine still discovering newness at my age!
Monday, April 30, 2012
But if I really am comfortable with the acclaim ...
... why is there this feeling of embarrassment that prevents me from telling my family and friends? The graduation is less than two weeks away, and that isn't much time to plan ... .
Maybe in a day or so ...
... why is there this feeling of embarrassment that prevents me from telling my family and friends? The graduation is less than two weeks away, and that isn't much time to plan ... .
Maybe in a day or so ...
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Will wonders (and honors) never cease?
This past week a call came announcing that I've been selected to receive this year's
Fannie Lou Hamer Award
at the African American student's graduation ceremony at Zellerbach Hall, at the University of California, Berkeley. That will be on the afternoon of May 19th.
Never having understood how these selections are made, there's genuine surprise and humility -- and sometimes puzzlement. For instance, I've never fully understood how the choice was made for the honorary doctorate(!) at the California College of the Arts last spring, and was never satisfied that it was deserved. Having never watched the DVD of the ceremony -- it still doesn't seem to fit somehow, though I'll be ever grateful for having been so honored, for whatever reason.
But this one is less mysterious:
This followed an event of a few months ago at which I was a panelist for a service organization, Senior Moments. The engagement had naturally grown out of having served as the Black History Month speaker for the African American Employees Network at Safeway Corporate offices. It was a good working day. After all, I'm engaged in outreach assignments from time to time, and this is my busy season.
In the more recent event, the lectern was shared with an old friend, Jerry Lange, a former PBS talk show host, journalist, and author; and also a professor from the Black Studies Department of U.C. Berkeley. The audience was warmly responsive. Apparently, it was the professor who is responsible for this important nomination for the Hamer Award.
... and this one feels good. Fannie Lou Hamer, the courageous political organizer who headed the Mississippi Freedom Party that dramatically challenged the Democratic Convention in 1968 by demanding seating for her delegation to represent her state. Her daring move -- 4 years later in 1972 -- made possible Shirley Chisholm's historic run for the presidency of these United States as the first woman to make the attempt -- and with yours truly seated with the California delegation in Miami's huge Convention Hall. And, having been elected to represent my congressional district by people who had threatened our very existence as we moved among them to become the first black family in the community through some 20 traumatic years before! That's how fast social change was occurring at the time.
Having been found worthy of this award is such an honor!
I'm expected to make a two-minute acceptance speech to the graduates -- and this time we're ready.
... and will finish with a grateful "thank you" and have one-and-a-half minutes to use elsewhere!"The future is formed by what we do or fail to do, individually, in the present."
Whoever dubbed these "the Golden Years" wasn't just blowin' smoke through his ears. This is serious stuff! Could this be compensation for thinning hair, sagging everything, and a creeping suspicion that one day I'll wake up to find that lots of folks have made some glaring errors in judgment and all these wonderful tributes will have to be returned to the proper honorees? Meanwhile, I'm lining them all in a row on my library table -- and when I'm feeling unappreciated I can point to them and say, "See?"
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| Dorian Reid - "Colorful Cats" |
... and I don't think that I was fully appreciating how traumatic the separation from Dorian might be. Not that she's gone out of my life, but our relationship has (necessarily) changed since I've turned her life over to a Trust, a legal/social services/team that will provide future guidance as I prepare for what should surely be my final decade.
I'd convinced myself that doing so would give me back my life (meaningless concept, that), and would provide the opportunity for me to watch (while I'm still living) just how she will fare after my death. Sounds neatly managed, doesn't it? Don't be fooled, guys. At 90, it's hell to be staring into the Abyss of Non-existence when, ironically, my personal life's trajectory has caught a wild and turbulent updraft that is dizzying! The contrasts of highs and lows have never been more stark. I'm feeling off-balance, and often on the verge of tears. An appropriate response to the situation? I think so ... .
I'm pleased with the decision; am assured that she is in good hands; that we've gotten most things right over the years. I'd filled the balance of my life with meaningful work that has brought public acclaim and deep satisfaction, so what's wrong? My work with the National Park Service has brought adventure, challenges, and a family of young friends who have enriched my life and brought great pleasure through days filled with newness undreamed of.
That all happened over the past months, and went smoothly as planned. Dorrie talks very factually about "when you're gone," which stings a bit -- though is softened by her obvious innocence. Haven't I worked toward this for all of our lives?
I discovered while searching for her permanent living space that, ironically, many of those security measures that used to exist for the mentally-disabled over years of state and federal cutbacks -- are now available to her in senior housing complexes. She'd aged into eligibility (now 55), and the benefits that come with that are considerable. How ironic! We are truly investing our resources in the wrong end of the life-line! Therein lies madness.
Nonetheless she has just been confirmed for a 2-bedroom apartment within walking distance to the Mall, to her mother's condo, and across the road from "Cat City," the home of a community of feral cats that she's shared the responsibility for with other women in the neighborhood. The care and feeding is a labor of love, and provides her with women who share her passion for felines.
So -- she and her two domestic cats will be moving within the next couple of weeks, and her mother will probably figure out just what is different about this move, and why it feels so final? She's been living semi-independently for some time now, after spending many months hospitalized from injuries suffered in her 2009 accident. Maybe it means that I'm trusting the world just a little less with my daughter since that time; maybe ... .
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