Thoughts on a walk through downtown Denver

Taking a walk in a once-familiar place is like reading one of those layered books showing changes over time. That’s what I felt yesterday morning when I made a rare visit to what was once the center of Denver, the “overgrown cow-town”, as some called it when I arrived here in 1976. There was no 16th Street Mall then, just a busy downtown street with department stores, restaurants and offices, and sidewalks filled with people. The long-gone May D&F department store created a large ice rink in the winter, and the street looked like an auto parade route on Saturday nights.I worked for a time in the Petroleum Club Building near Broadway and Colfax, a short walk from the small central library and an art museum that looked like a castle. I stayed for a decade and more as changes came and visited during my Japan years. Following the construction of the mall, skyscrapers came to dot the town, and the library and museum grew new additions. 

And so I remembered these things when I went downtown yesterday, a warm December morning—three tasks in mind. I walked  from the Cultural Center parking garage adjoining the library down to a pharmacy on the 16th Street mall, blocks away. And during that walk I saw and felt the changes of recent years. A microcosm of the US, as the year rolls to an end. A familiar sight in many cities, only with different names.

As I walked along the perimeter of Civic Center Park, sandwiched between the Courthouse and the Capitol Building, I immediately saw the fencing keeping everyone out, put up in September to evict homeless campers and control trash and drug activity. One path leading to a small cluster of tents, the Christkindl market, looked like a mirage in an urban desert. I walked on. The library was fenced off too—a construction project no doubt timed by pandemic closures. 

I continued, crossing into a street bordering the mall, and came across a bunched sleeping bag on the street, wheelchair by the side of the person who was probably inside. I paused, uncertain, but decided not to disturb.  As I walked further, it took me a few moments to start seeing what wasn’t there on the streets—crowds of shoppers, tourists or workers heading to their offices, days before Christmas. There was very little traffic as well, and it was easy to cross against the light. Just a few pedestrians on their way to somewhere, workers hosing down outdoor tables on the 16th Street Mall, and a solitary waiter wiping tables on the patio of the Hard Rock Cafe. But there were signs of manufactured cheer, like this merry-go-round, no kids in sight.

Walking along the mall, I saw the empty storefronts, a few covered with murals promoting a Denver that once existed—snow-capped mountains in the distance, packed restaurants, city attractions. 

Department stores were few, and the open businesses tended to be franchises, a few fast food places, and the two pharmacies I was headed for. I was in search of a rapid covid test kit, and an online listing led me to believe that the downtown CVC had them in stock. In reality, no luck and no need to enter the store. Leaving the pharmacy, I encountered a woman in a wheelchair, asking for a dollar. I gave her the cookies in my bag and she seemed pleased. As I continued my return journey down 16th Street, I passed several other apparently homeless people, seeking donations. I sometimes carry protein bars to hand out when I think I might encounter those in need, and I regretted not having done that on this trip. 

I turned around and headed toward my next destination. Approaching Broadway, I saw well-kept thriving institutions—the real success stories of these past two years—banks and lending institutions. Starbuck’s was also open and well-tended. I passed by, aiming for the RTD office where I bought a packet of discount bus tickets. I haven’t been on a bus since pre-lockdown days, but I expect to hop on when necessary this coming year. Then my major destination of the morning appeared—a rally on the West steps of the Capitol. 

                                        

It was a rally for justice on behalf of Rogel Aguilera-Mederos , a 26-year-old truck driver who was recently sentenced to 110 years in prison for a 2019 crash  on I-70, that led to the deaths of four people. You can read about it here—about the mountain-inexperienced driver whose brakes failed and who missed the runaway ramps. The result was a crash that killed four people, caused by a man who was not reckless or impaired, a man with no criminal record or intent to harm, an immigrant from Cuba. Just about everyone agrees the sentence was wildly unfair, the judge included, but apparently required under the state’s mandatory sentencing laws. 

When I arrived, the rally had already started, a bilingual one, aimed at organizing people to understand what mandatory sentencing laws have created. Originally designed to eliminate racial disparities in sentencing, they have instead led to more injustice, in the opinion of rally speakers, particularly former State Rep Joe Salazar. Salazar gave a fiery speech, lambasting the misuse of power by prosecutors who often use the law to browbeat accused criminals into a plea bargain. Rogel’s mother, who spoke in Spanish wept through most of her speech, her pain so obvious that words were unnecessary. The crowd broke into chants of Justice Now, justicia ahora!. The crowd was small, perhaps 100, and there were several TV cameras. 

In just a few days this has become a high profile case. More than 5 million people, including me, signed a petition asking Gov. Polis to grant clemency to Rogel—either setting him free or reducing his sentence. Attendees were encouraged to call Gov. Polis’ office to request clemency, and there are legal moves underway to reduce Rogel’s sentence. Gov. Polis’s legal team is considering this as I write, and a decision is expected soon.

I returned to the parking garage, walking past History Colorado and the Denver Art Museum, both of which appear to be thriving. claimed my car, and returned home. And I thought of how easy it is to let the what counts as legal reform in one decade—in this case mandatory sentencing—lead to a whole new set of abuses unless underlying causes are addressed.  I had the feeling as I listened that this was a kind of George Floyd moment—an individual case that was so horrendously unjust that it might take us closer to creating a more just law enforcement system. A year past the Rallies for Black Lives Matter, we see that change can happen, but it’s often limited or non-existent in places, and will remain that way unless the patient work of nurturing change continues, both inside and outside the system.

Remembering Stephanie Bogdanski Mack who would turn 110 this month

When I was growing up in the 50s, Aunt Steph was the aunt who never failed to slip me five bucks anytime we had a Bogdanski family get-together. A generous gift, perhaps the equivalent of $20 today. When she visited my childhood home, she was always a force to be reckoned with, often to be found with the men of the family in the living room, while my other aunts gathered in the kitchen. One topic in the living room was union politics at the Mercoid Corporation, an electrical parts factory on Belmont Avenue. It was as close as we get to a family business, as several of my uncles and aunts worked there for a long time.

As a child, I equated her loud voice and strong opinions with power, not having learned yet that it sometimes means just the opposite. Still, Aunt Steph was perhaps my earliest model for an outspoken woman. She cut a fine figure too--usually wearing a body-hugging dress and heels to family affairs. Her presence was never unnoticed, and I always looked forward to seeing her. Not just for the five bucks. I was fond of her and perhaps a little in awe, shy little girl that I was.

Steph, often called Stefka by her siblings, was the second child of Leon and Barbara, born in November of  1911. I know very little about her early life, other than she was born at home and did not finish high school. She went to work at Mercoid, like her older sister Marie (Myne-ka), and her earnings no doubt helped keep the family afloat during the Depression. She was a dark-haired beauty in her youth (and later as a blonde), and was named the Mercoid May Queen in 1940. (Factories had May queens? you may wonder, as do I).

Stephanie married a quiet man, a bartender named Frank Mack. They had no children, and Frank died of cancer in the early 60s. Later, Steph partnered with a co-worker, Ronnie Wronski, though they never married and the relationship ended after several years. Ronnie had become a friend of the family during Frank's lifetime and you can see all three of them here, along with other family members, in this photo, circa 1960. Taken in the backyard of the Hammond, Indiana home where my sister Joan and I grew up, this photo shows (from left): Ronnie Wronski, Steph, Kitch, Jack Beck, Marie Beck, Frank Mack, Joan Riley and Edward Bogdanski.

After Steph and Ronnie separated, Steph remained in Chicago, living alone, until the mid-70s. It was then that she and my mom, Angie (Anielka) moved into an apartment on the northwest side. They called themselves "the odd couple": Angie liked good books, plain wholesome food, and simple comfortable clothes. Steph, (who "likes everything fried", Angie once confided), was fond of The National Enquirer, and quiz shows. But they both kept a neat house and kept each other good company--at least in the beginning.

By the time Angie and Steph moved in together, I was living in Colorado, but made regular visits back to their home every summer. One year, on a visit back from Colorado, I drove them to the country home of their youngest sister, Virginia (Gina), near Toledo, Ohio. Here they are,  circa 1985, "the girls", as Gina called them, waving to the camera.

I got to know Steph better on those visits. I asked her once how she felt about her job at Mercoid, which she kept for 40-plus years, until she retired at the age of 72. She had been a "floor lady" at one point. She told me that she was proud that the electrical parts she made were used all over the world. I don't know that Steph ever had hobbies, but she enjoyed dressing up, going downtown, visiting department stores like Marshall Fields, and eating at Berghoff's Restaurant. She loved fine food, a highball or two, and always took pride in her appearance. She was also proud that she had what she considered good Polish skills, having once been a secretary for a Polish organization.

Steph never had children, she said, because she had a "tipped womb". Perhaps there were other reasons, as  that condition is not considered a barrier to fertility, I later learned. I never had the sense that she missed being a mother of young children, but later, when her nieces and nephews were grown, she spoke of her regret at not having had kids. Toward the end of her life, when she was in the Alden nursing home with advanced dementia, she was convinced that Joan and I were her children, and perhaps we were in a sense. Joan, especially, as she and her husband Jim navigated Steph's medical issues until Steph died in 2002.

Steph was devastated when Angie, her younger sister by 6 years, died suddenly of a heart attack in 1994. Both had suffered some health issues in the last few years, and Steph had become fearful, which caused Angie stress. After Angie's death, Steph coped for a few years on her own in the apartment they had shared, but after a fall and an injury, she was moved to Alden,  By then, dementia had set in, and she could no longer live on her own. Joan and I and others visited her there until her death. She was not an easy patient/resident, being confined to a locked ward and being a smoker.  On my visits I would take her to the patio to smoke. Conversation was difficult, and one time, at one poignant moment, she opened a compact in her purse, looked at herself and said, "How did I become a hag?" More than anything, this broke my heart, for this once-proud and attractive woman.

Steph would have shuddered at the idea of living to 110, which she would be on Nov. 26 this year. "I want to go like Marilyn Monroe," she used to say more than once, referring to that star's death from an overdose of sleeping pills. Yet I doubt she would have ever taken steps to end her life, even knowing the coming end. Had she been asked, I think she would have agreed the end should be left up to God, as was the beginning and everything in between.

Reflections on the passing of Alix Dobkin

 When news of Alx Dobkin’s stroke and immanent death broke last week, I felt a twinge of guilt before recognizing my sorrow and sense of immanent loss. As I thought of her occasionally during recent years, the first memory to pop up was an uncomfortable conversation with her at a conference over a political disagreement several years ago. In the face of death, the great equalizer, all disagreements seem trivial, and I suddenly felt it was churlish and a waste of time to even remember it. What’s worth remembering are the gifts she had in her life and the difference she made in mine. 

Alix, who died at 80, was a pioneer of what became “women’s music", a genre she helped birth in the early 70s. It was a genre that celebrated women’s autonomy, our right to love and make love with each other and our proud membership in what was called the second wave of feminism. With Kay Gardner and other lesbian-feminist musicians, she recorded the first recorded album of lesbian music: Lavender Jane Loves Women in 1973.  Then no mainstream recording label would touch an album by an artist who only wanted to perform for women, so Alix formed her own record company, Women’s Wax Works. It was a breakthrough album for lesbian-feminists seeking a sound track to our lives. 

Alix was already a celebrity of sorts, having played with Bob Dylan and other early folk greats of the 60s. At one point, her obituary in The Washington Post notes, she reportedly turned down the chance to record one of his songs. She married and had a daughter, but later separated from her husband and made a major life change. The catalyst was a radio interview with British feminist Germaine Greer, one of many consciousness raising events that marked that period. She took her daughter, partnered with a female lover, Liza Cowan, and took a new turn in music and toward lesbian-feminist organizing.

I remember playing songs from Lavender Jane in the Chicago apartment I shared with five other women in the early 70s. We lived collectively and felt we were part of something new. I had just quit my first job, writing for The Lerner Newspapers, and was searching for something that I hadn’t quite defined yet. I had been volunteering with the Emma Goldman Women’s Health Collective, which was trying to help women navigate a sexist health system and get good screening and counseling services for their reproductive needs. In the larger culture women were questioning whether the traditional career path of marriage and children was the only way to go—or whether it was wise at all in an often-oppressive culture  “I am a woman giving birth to herself” was the phrase on a poster, one of many aimed at women’s autonomy in that era. Alix’ s song “The Woman in your Life is You”, resonated with me and so many other women I know or once knew. I realized after her death was announced this week that the feelings of sorrow I had came not only from the end of a fine woman’s life, but also losses in mine: a person who was familiar to me over half a century, a reminder of my youth, and part of what seems a stream of losses as I age. 

At 74, I confess that I am a regular reader of obituaries—not out of a morbid search for who’s dying at a younger age than mine. Rather it’s because obits have become a kind of art form, the ultimate short story of the arc of someone’s life. In papers like The Washington Post, the writer is aware that readers want to know the deceased ’s contributions to the larger culture—a new invention or contribution to some field. In Alix’s obit in The Post, she was identified as the source of a meme that resonates in our time: ”The future is female”. Her lover, Liza Cowan, photographed her wearing a T-shirt with that phrase, and decades later it was echoed by Hillary Clinton and young feminists empowered in ways Alix could only hope for in her and my youth. It made me laugh, as I had not even been aware of the origin of the meme in the years since I first heard her songs.

Social media posts by friends and admirers focus on her music, and a tribute from Liza, her lover in those early days, told more of the story. Alix “called on her roots in folk music, Broadway musicals, and Balkan songs…based on storytelling.” Her confidence came early, “from a loving Jewish family in Philadelphia”, members for a time in The Communist Party, “and  she spent her early years listening to the music of Paul Robeson—who once visited her family—Pete and Peggy Seeger, Leadbelly, The Red Army Chorus” and others. There, Liza writes, “she gained a passion for civil rights and storytelling.” She later published a biography of her young years as a “red-diaper baby”.

Alix recorded 5 more albums after Lavender Jane and toured various countries, always performing for women. As she aged, she remained a performer and organizer, especially with Old Lesbians Organizing for Change (OLOC). In the last half of her life, Liza writes, she lived in Woodstock, New York, raising her daughter along with former husband Sam, leaving only to tour. And in her last years, performing took a back seat to helping care for her three beloved grandkids. This recent photo was taken in Woodstock.

Alix, like all of us, had many influences in her life, and no doubt she made decisions she either regretted or wished she had handled differently. Our uncomfortable discussion at the 2016 OLOC gathering revolved around the steering committee’s decision to disallow a Native American drumming circle from performing at the event because the group included men. The drummers had been invited by the guest speaker, a Native American poet, who later called out the conference for racism during her address. As an attendee, I felt embarrassed and angry. When I asked whether the issue would be discussed, Alix responded with a vague answer: it could be brought up at the Sunday finale. I did not follow through with that, leaving the gathering with the feeling that such a lesbian separatist stance, perhaps appropriate in the second wave’s early feminist days, was clearly inappropriate in the present. Perhaps Alix later re-evaluated that decision as both OLOC and the white-majority culture began to deal seriously with racism in following years. Like many, I have a tendency to freeze my ideological opponents in the past. 

Alix contributed much to music, lesbian-feminism and to those who loved her. Looking at the arc of her 80 years, it seems to me that she expanded more than she rejected the traditional family. She and her ex-husband Sam both raised their daughter, Adrian, for years. At the end her daughter  and son-in-law were with her, and lesbians around the world kept vigil online and perhaps in person. Obituaries select sections of a life to make a short story for the news. As we know intuitively, we all deserve a novel. If our lives end with the love and admiration Alix experienced, we will definitely be fortunate.

The beauty of armchair travel

While a number of my friends are happily planning trips now that pandemic restrictions are eased, I'm not one of them. The exceptions are my upcoming summer sojourns on Linda Lane's land near Guffey, a beautiful place where my tiny house sits; the other, a trip to Chicago, where until last year I travelled every year to visit family and friends. What I'm talking about here are the other kinds of trips, the ones to new places or adventure opportunities. 

Despite my love of travel--I've had so many opportunities, especially during my Japan years--I find that the relative solitude of the past year jumpstarted a new appreciation for travel via a screen. In January I decided to do an informal project--look for international films that would give me the sense of having visited places. I looked for films from countries I never had the chance to visit, and given the narrowing window of opportunity brought about by getting older, I probably never will. Consequently, I avoided historical dramas or fantasy in favor of more current offerings, preferably those including a road trip or characters using a lot of shoe leather on city streets. The project is still ongoing and is still very limited in scope, but I'd like to share a few of my favorites from the past 5 months. If you're in the "I've seen everything already" doldrums, here are a few you might have missed:

1. Cuba and The Cameraman. This 2017 Netflix original documentary by Jon Alpert covers 45 years of this journalist's visits to post-revolutionary Cuba. The film got a rather stunning 100% rating from Rotten Tomatoes, and  I think it's deserved. Alpert, who gained the trust of Fidel Castro early on, had unprecedented access to the late leader. Brief interviews are sprinkled throughout the film, but what really makes it outstanding is its focus on stories of ordinary Cubans over time. On each visit Alpert looks up the same people, and if you're like me, their stories, told with humor and heart in the face of suffering and resilience, stay long after the film is over. (113 minutes in English and Spanish)

2. One Man and His Cow (La Vache). This French language 2016 film directed by Mohamed Hamidi takes viewers on a road trip from Algeria to Paris. It's a"charming and feel-good" production which will take you to Paris, mostly on foot, from a small Algerian town  where our protagonist devotedly cares for his cow, Jacqueline. After years of unsuccessful tries, he finally gets an invitation to enter Jacqueline in a Paris agricultural fair. Along the way he meets a variety of kind and eccentric people, gets embroiled in a social media scandal, and in the end transforms just about everyone's life or viewpoint in both countries. Yes, I'm betting you'll cry and laugh, as I did, wishing it were a whole lot longer. And, of yes, you'll see a lot of scenery along the way. (91 minutes.Available for rent on Amazon Prime, Vudu or Apple TV)

3. Atlantics. This 2019 drama from Senegal is a genre-bender, blending social commentary with the paranormal--generally not my favorite genre. A group of desperate construction workers, unpaid for months, set off by boat for Europe, but their boat capsizes and they are lost. How they "return" is the mystery of the film which is beautifully photographed and directed by Mati Diop, a woman making her debut as a director. The protagonists of the film are the women left behind and the lost men who are "with" them. It took me awhile to figure out just what was going on, but when I did it drew me in through its beauty and message. (105 minutes, original language Wolof, subtitled in English. On Netflix)

4. The Mole Agent. This 2020 documentary from Chile got a 95% rating from Rotten Tomatoes for its portrayal of the residents of a home for the elderly. Our protagonist, an 80-something widower, is hired to infiltrate the home and check to see that a client's mother is being treated properly. You'll quickly see that this is less an investigation of possible abuse and more a look at the varied stories of residents and workers there. Our investigator knows how to listen with an open heart and he is valued for that. The film ends with a message for the client and a feeling among viewers like me that we've gotten a view of Chilean society that would be impossible to get on any tour. (90 minutes, on Hulu. In Spanish with English subtitles)

5. The Disciple. This 2020 music-filled drama comes from India, a recent addition to Netflix that has a 95% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. It's the story of a vocalist who has devoted his life to the spiritual practice of Indian classical music. However, he struggles with his ability to achieve his goal of mastery amid challenges both internal and external. This is no standard drama of success after beating all odds. Rather it's a very nuanced look at talent, perfection, a media-saturated music environment, and the necessity of choice in an imperfect world. (127 minutes) As a traveler-viewer, you'll ride with our protagonist on the streets of Mumbai and attend a number of concerts. It's too good to be depressing, but feel-good is not the first word that comes to mind.

6. Magical Andes. This two-season series of short half-hour episodes was my favorite pre-bedtime viewing for several weeks. It is an incredible photographic journey along the Andean mountain range which extends through various countries along the western edge of South America. Each episode focuses on a different area and introduces you to locals whose livelihoods or passions are connected to this amazing 7000-km long mountain range. It makes no attempt at social commentary in favor of letting viewers tag along for the ride. I've mentioned this series most often when people ask what I've been watching. May well watch again for the sheer beauty of the photography and the joy of visiting 7 different countries--Colombia, Argentina, Peru, Chile, Ecuador, Venezuela and Bolivia. (On Netflix)

7. If you're in the mood to stay awhile longer in South America, consider El Pepe: A Supreme Life in Uruguay. It's a 2018 documentary about Jose Pepe Mujica, known as El Pepe, a 1970s revolutionary who later became president of the country and then a farmer devoted to teaching kids about sustainable agriculture. Based on interviews conducted by Serbian director Emir Kusturica. I watched this film in January and it still echoes with me. "My youth belongs to the world of illusion", El Pepe tells the camera. The real revolution is in our minds and cultural values. 

Happy viewing and traveling, reader.

Remembering Joanne Hauschild Kastrul

 In sorting through my digitized family photos lately, I've been especially touched by those of my oldest cousin, Joanne. She died last year in February, just days after her 84th birthday, of pancreatic cancer. Because it was a cancer with a poor prognosis and often rapid spread, Joanne chose to forego treatment for that reason and another more important one: She had met the love of her life just 15 years before. "He is the most wonderful man I've ever met," she told me just months before her death, saying that she wanted every moment of quality time with him--without the side effects of treatments unlikely to extend her life. The wonderful man was Jack Kastrul. Joanne and Jack married in 2008--her for the first time, he for the second--at the tender ages of 72 and 71.

Another wonderful man in Joanne's opinion was Joe Biden, who she thought was just about the kindest man she had ever heard in the political arena. She would have proudly cast her vote for Joe and Kamala had she lived, and when Joe and Kamala succeeded, I felt I had to celebrate double--for me and Joanne, and of course, for the world too.

Here are Jack and Joanne on their wedding day. In front are me--one of the lucky maids of honor, my sister Joan and brother-in-law Jim. Also part of the wedding party were Sandee Kastrul, Jack's daughter, and her partner Kim Crutcher. We all felt like we were creating a new family that day.

Joanne and Jack's wedding reflected one of the important things that brought them together: love of the Bible. What was somewhat unusual was that Jack was Jewish and Joanne Catholic. Their wedding, at the Catholic church Joanne had long attended in her Chicago neighborhood of Rogers Park, included a priest and a rabbi--something unthinkable in my Catholic childhood. They continued attending services--both at a church and a synagogue--for several years after their marriage. They also shared a love of music, having met in a choir. It seemed to me that for the ensuing decade each gave the other what they most needed--a family. Joanne, who had no siblings or children, had lived with her late mother, Marie, for decades. Jack had lost his beloved first wife, Clair, to cancer years before.

Before their marriage, I had met Joanne yearly on my visits to Chicago, and our relationship bloomed again after years of relatively little contact. Starting in the late 90s, we would usually make a date to go to the cemetery, where my mother, her mother and adopted father were buried. Joanne had been tending their graves regularly for years, and she understood, after my mother died in 1994, how healing cemetery visits could be. Then we would go out to dinner and talk and get-reacquainted telling family and teacher stories. Joanne had been an elementary school teacher all of her life, most of the time teaching second graders, and she had the energy and enthusiasm that I've seen with others who spend their daytime hours with young children. Here she is (circa 1980) with her mother, Marie, my mother's oldest sister.

Joanne blossomed after her marriage. She cut and dyed her hair--previously worn in a graying bun--and started calling herself JoJo. She and Jack built a life together in an apartment on North Kedzie Avenue, traveled often, and developed a close relationship as a couple with Jack's daughters, Sandee and Kim. Every year when I visited my sister and brother-in-law in Chicago, we would visit them. We'd talk, eat pizza, and sometimes Joanne would play the piano and sing. Here's a picture from the early years of their marriage.

The sadness and suddenness of Joanne's passing was all the more jarring because she was the last of a generation in my mother's family. She was already a grown-up--age 14--when I celebrated my 3rd birthday in 1950. She's sitting across from the cake next to her friend, Babs in this photo:

To me, Joanne always seemed part of a bridge generation--almost like a much younger aunt. I was still in elementary school when she graduated from college--the first in our family to go. Her choice of career was a surprise to no one, as I remember when I was a young child, she would play school in her bedroom when we visited, and her young cousins were willingly corralled as students. Later, when she had been teaching for a few years in Arlington Hts., she was courted by the principal. Everyone expected them to marry but in the end she backed out, choosing to live with her mom and adopted dad, Jack Beck. Her birth father, Bill Hauschild, had died early in her life, and Jack was Marie's loving husband, the one who entered later in her life and became her real dad.

Joanne's death came just weeks before the world shut down due to Covid, but already it had become unsafe to fly. Add jury duty for me and an incipient snowstorm in Chicago in the days after her death. I was unable to attend her modest funeral, though I plan at some point in the future to do some tending to her grave and our respective parents' graves which I think would please her very much. 

Joanne's death took a toll on Jack, whose health declined and then exposure to Covid led to his death earlier this year. At that point he had lost two wives to cancer, a sadness that must have been so difficult to bear. I had written him a letter, sent just a week before he died, telling me how much I appreciated his being in our family, though I'm not sure he either received or read it. I hope so. May his memory and Joanne's be a blessing for those of us who loved them both.

Racism Part 2: My journey to understand race

My participation in Dr. King's 1965 march into Montgomery, Alabama, was the beginning of my journey to participate in the struggle for racial justice that emerged in the 1960s. As I wrote in a blog entry about that event, I joined a group of Mundelein College students who rode a bus from Chicago to Alabama. Our goal was to join the last leg of Dr. King's historic march. It was the first time I was in a racially diverse setting and the first time I saw that I could participate in the civil rights movement of that era. Of course, I still had a long way to go in my understanding of racism, a process that continues to this day. This blog is about what happened in years afterwards and how my thinking changed.

The march experience energized both the students and the administration of my college after we returned to Chicago. In 1965 the Johnson Administration launched the Upward Bound Program, and my school was among the first to sign up. Upward Bound was based on the premise that minority and inner city students were disadvantaged because of poverty and inferior schools. Many could succeed, however, if they were given a chance to get study skills, tutoring and encouragement. Colleges could play a role in bridging the gap between them and their more privileged counterparts by offering summer programs designed to provide these things. Perhaps because of my experience with the Montgomery march, I was hired for the first two summers. I think the program reflected what I then understood the struggle to be: bridging the gap while supporting all efforts to end poverty and erase prejudice. 

I loved my work as a tutor-counselor for Upward Bound and felt that I learned much. It was emotionally powerful as well. Perhaps the strongest benefit was the chance to be a tutor for the first time and also to get to know students who were African-American, the largest category of participants. Wanting to refresh my memory about the program, I started with Wikipedia, learning that the program exists to this day. And I was even more surprised to learn that a short 30-minute documentary was made in 1968 about the program. It's called A Space to Grow, and can be viewed on YouTube. Narrated by Henry Fonda, it was nominated for an Oscar.  As I watched it this morning, I was incredibly surprised to see that I was in it! (My brief scene is at 15:08.) This is the only fragment of my 20-year-old-self that I have, never having owned a video camera. Our lives are probably over-documented today, but for those of us who came of age then, finding such a fragment is is akin to a surprise discovery on an archeological dig. I digress.

As we all know, progress is not a straight line. Dr. King came to my city, Chicago, in the late sixties as a leader in the open housing marches held there. Due to what I later came to know as "red-lining"--the practice banks and mortgage companies used to limit where black people could live--Chicago housing remained starkly segregated: a largely white North Side, and largely African-American South Side. The exploitive parts of the real estate industry reinforced that through "block-busting"--the practice of selling a house in a white area to a Black family, prompting other white families to sell cheaply to avoid the threat of collapsing property values. And then there was my father. He was not a hateful man, but he nevertheless expressed a common form of racism at the time: segregation was good for everybody because "birds of a feather flock together", and attempts to change that often result in violence or economic ruin; furthermore, individuals should have the right to sell to whoever they chose. I didn't think I believed that, but I lacked a place to discuss it (Why I didn't raise the question in class I don't know.), a support group, or a way of dealing with the fear I probably felt about joining. (Marches were peaceful, I remember--except for angry whites who tried to disrupt them.) Things had seemed more clear-cut in The South: laws preventing African-Americans from voting amid the practice of Jim Crow.

In 1968 it was time to graduate and enter the workforce as a community journalist. At my first job, as a reporter for a community newspaper chain, I wrote a series with another reporter on poverty in Chicago, and I also covered a story on the murder of Black Panther Fred Hampton  by police. News stories of Hampton's death, including my own story, clearly pointed to a police massacre, but those stories led nowhere. We were still decades away from a reckoning with police violence against people of color. The miscarriage of justice then was part of my growing understanding that news reports would not, by themselves, lead to any change. Other concerns were growing at the time as well: the ongoing Vietnam War and my own fledgling understanding of feminism. It wasn't until the 1970s that my understanding went to another level.

In 1977, shortly after my move to Colorado, the TV miniseries Roots was broadcast, and like millions of others, I watched it.  Much of the research behind it, based on Alex Haley's novel of the same name, has since been challenged, but for me at the time it was my first real introduction to the history and brutality of slavery. And though I may not have it explained it as such, I began to see the links between that tragic episode of racism--along with more reading about the early wars against Indigenous people in the US-- and the issues of the day. The 70s were also a time when people challenged many of the assumptions of the 60s--that government programs like the War on Poverty and Upward Bound--could reverse intractable problems like war and racism.

But there was a new program that I thought might really help. As in Chicago, housing patterns were segregated in Denver and there were calls for change. During the early 80s, for a few years, I drove a school bus for the Denver Public Schools. I was one of many drivers hired for the district's attempts to desegregate schools through busing. Every morning and afternoon I drove white kids to largely black schools and vice versa. The aim was to boost the academic achievement of minority students, but once again real change failed to materialize. Years later, after I left my driving job, the program ended, and school choice became the focus of efforts to mitigate racial disparities in education. During those years, I had no ready arguments for what should be done, and my focus shifted to feminism.

By 1981, I had joined the volunteer collective of the Woman to Woman Feminist Book Center in Denver. In the larger feminist world, white women were being taken to task for insensitivity and neglect of issues important to women of color. (See This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color.) The bookstore collective, which had some diversity but was primarily white, had disagreements about many things, and in that year, about racism. White members were challenged by Jewish women and women of color, who said they, including me, were insensitive to communication differences (e.g., spontaneity vs. rules), religious symbols (a Christmas tree in the window, for example) and insufficient materials about diversity in the movement. At a collective meeting one night, four other members besides myself were told to leave. I was devastated, but the event led to a year-long study group that the five of us started for ourselves to try to understand what had happened. 

Eventually I developed an interest in different communication patterns among cultures and then followed my decision to go back to school with the aim of becoming an English teacher for foreign students. New understandings showed me that racism was not only prejudice and discrimination but also insensitivity to cultural differences and what is now called intersectionality.

By 1990 I had graduated with an MA in Education and had left Denver to teach English in Japan. During the 20 years I spent there I saw in different ways how race, gender and economic privilege can intersect and contradict each other. The setting shifted from US issues to those in Japan. For example, how did I look at my status as a white woman hired to teach a prestige language--and also a foreigner and a non-citizen in another country? There was a lot of debate among my friends about this.

At the same time, I was also absorbed in language learning and its various aspects. One was cross-cultural communication--a rather new academic field at the time. It invited us to examine how communication involved much more than learning vocabulary. Also important were a culture's values, non-verbal practices, communication strategies and cognitive processing. More and more I began to learn how important it is to really understand how our minds work in order to understand motivation, memory and many other aspects including bias and decision-making. In the 10 years since I retired and left Japan, it's psychology and cognitive bias that have come to fascinate me. More on that in my next blog: Racism: Part 3.