To my mother who would have turned 100 today

My mother and I always celebrated our birthdays together, hers falling on Feb. 4, a day after mine. We are exactly 30 years apart, so as I neared 70, I knew she was reaching the century mark. Or would reach it if she were still alive. She died suddenly at the age of 77 in 1994. This morning I remember her life and wisdom and speculate on what she might make of life were she with us today. Here's one of the earliest photos I have, taken with me when she was about 35.



Here's one of my favorite pictures of her, taken circa mid-1980s with my sister Joan and me.


Angeline Josephine Bogdanski was the middle child of an emigrant Polish family who came to America in 1909, settling in Chicago. Barbara and Leon, having lost their first child during the sea journey, went on to have 7 more: Marie, Stephanie, Joseph, Angeline, Edward, Wanda and Virginia. Angeline--or Angie as she was known to everyone--was the middle child in this struggling family. She almost didn't make it past childhood. A priest was called in when at age 7, she seemed to be dying from--was it scarlet fever? It was a pre-antibiotic era when childhood deaths were not uncommon. She pulled through--and my future existence remained a possibility.

Angie had a bilingual education when that was considered a very normal, non-controversial thing in her Catholic elementary school: Polish in the morning and English in the afternoon. While Polish remained the language at home, she along with her siblings soon became English-dominant. Unlike most of her siblings, she finished high school, graduating from Carl Schurz High School in 1934. She used to laugh about saving her streetcar money for sweets, necessitating a long multi-mile walk from home each day. Perhaps that's where she gained her prowess as a walker, honed all through life by the fact that she never learned to drive.

Four years later, her beloved mother, the mainstay of the family, died from complications of a freak accident---no doubt the worst event of Angie's young life. She was 21. The Depression had not yet ended. Like her older sisters, she worked to help support everyone.  Her youngest sister was only 13. As World War II began, her elder brother entered the Army. Earlier dreams of becoming a nurse were on permanent hold.

She was working as as a cashier at the Chopin movie theater on Division Street when a brash subway construction worker, John Riley, started to flirt with her. She rebuffed him, but one day he followed her sister Wanda home, pretending to have a date with Angie but having lost the address. Arriving home later, Angie was "blown away" as we'd say today, at seeing John and her father laughing and talking.  John did not speak Polish and Leon spoke no English. "Your father has the gift of the gab," she often said to me and Joanie. I think she admired his skill while she remained the introvert, the one who would just as soon spend a quiet evening reading or talking to someone she knew well.

Angie and John married in 1944 in a civil ceremony. A church wedding was out of the question, as they had been excommunicated by the Catholic Church. John had been married before, and divorce was not recognized by the church. Did Angie really mind that? I don't remember her telling us, but she did talk about being in love, and awash in that grand emotion, perhaps religion and its rules receded in importance. That severing set her on the spiritual course I remember as Joanie and I grew up. She attended church every Sunday--and we with her for much of childhood. She felt that religion was a personal matter between God and herself, and that was a constant in her life. She did not take the sacraments and did not miss joining church groups. She was not a "joiner"; her extended family comprised her social circle, and they had frequent get-togethers even after we moved from Chicago to Hammond, Indiana. Years later, when Angie had a hysterectomy in a Catholic hospital, the priest arranged to have her marriage formally blessed in the hospital chapel, as John's first wife had passed away by then. She was very pleased, but I don't believe that event really changed anything in her spiritual practices.

During our years in Hammond, Angie was a stay-at-home mom, sometimes working part-time jobs, like serving food samples at the Jewel supermarket. John was proud that he was making good money during the construction boom of the 1950s, and that his wife "didn't have to work." She told me later, when I was discovering the fledgling women's movement via Betty Friedan and the feminist critique of housework, that those years were the best of her life. "And you hated it when I went off to work when you were little and your father was in the hospital," she would say, puzzled that I would reject what she held most dear.

Today I would have the language to tell her how much I understand and appreciate the work she did; understand that homemaking was indeed a liberation for working class women who, unlike Friedan, never expected jobs outside the home to be "fulfilling". Angie worked well inside: getting a husband off to work early in the morning, the kids up and dressed and off to school, the house tidied, food prepared and served. There were moments of quiet amid all that, moments she--not a boss--awarded herself--for a nap, time for reading, and in the summer, tending flowers under the sun in the backyard. Her reading tastes ran to Reader's Digest condensed novels, as well as Proust and Cervantes.

A Chicago resident all of her life, Angie loved and enjoyed nature. She told us of summers (or was it just one?) when she spent time in the country. (A friend of her family's farm?). In Hammond she enjoyed our small garden yard--no doubt a real treat for a woman who spent her first 35 years in various Chicago apartments). She loved going to the beach, and Lake Michigan afforded several, all accessible by bus.

John died in 1977, when she was 60 years old. I had moved to Colorado a year earlier, and Joanie had left home and married. Recently I found some letters Angie wrote to me during those early years of widowhood, when she had to make a new life for herself. She acknowledged difficulties, but never really complained. She tried to learn to drive, but later sold the car, saying she just couldn't. For the most part, however, she showed a resilient spirit. She continued working in a secure secretarial job with the Illinois Department of Mental Health. Then came retirement and a move to a new apartment shared with her sister Stephanie (who died in 2001). That relationship brought companionship as well as some stress. Here she is in front of the typewriter, circa late 70s. She was a master typist, schooled in the days before correcting buttons or word processors, when speed and accuracy counted.



One terrible day Angie was hit by a car. Nothing broken, but within a couple of years, she developed significant mobility problems. Undiagnosed neurological damage? Treatment ensued, no relief, then a heart attack, which killed her almost instantly. I was living in Japan then, and on our last visit, a couple of months before she died, she wept that she might soon be crippled, unable to walk--an ability essential to her sense of personhood and freedom.

No doubt she had no intention of dying young--at age 77--but she would not have wanted to live beyond a time when she lost the abilities that made life worth living: mobility, eyes to read, a sharp mind. She would have been relieved that she did not suffer for a long time before dying and that she did not become a "burden on you kids". I don't think she would have envied the stuff of 21st century life: electronic devices that must constantly be charged or replaced, the scam-ridden Internet, the 24-hour news cycle. She was never political, but always leaned Democratic. She would be appalled at the results of the last election, no doubt suggesting that she knows someone in the Dept. of Mental Health that the current president should see.

Conversely, Angie would be pleased to see any efforts that made Chicago cleaner and brighter (pollution controls on the lake and river), and the growth of senior affordable living communities. In her day, when you got old and living independently became problematic, you were shoved aside into a "home". Today she would joyfully visit Joanie and her husband Jim in their Chicago condo overlooking the magnificent Millennial Park, and then me in my senior community in Denver, happy that both of her kids were settled, secure and happy.

Happy Birthday, Angie. Love you and miss you, today and always.

Jan. 21, 2017: Pride and power in a sea of pink

It's been 10 days since I joined the Women's March on Denver, one of many sister marches to the massive gathering in Washington D.C. Altogether it was the largest protest in US history and it was a global event: nearly 700 sister marches were scheduled in more than 60 countries, and the estimated number of participants is nearly 5 million.

The terrible first week of the Trump Presidency unfolded after that, and I know I'm not the only one who carried the strength and determination of that march with me through the following days. I'm writing today about why that was so, and how that was so. I know I'll draw on that energy over the coming months and years.

On Friday, the day before, my friend Roberta and new friend Suzanne drove down from Boulder to stay overnight with me. We enjoyed dinner with some of my neighbors and then had a sign-making party. Suzanne, a novice to marching, came with a very clever trick of the trade: take a poster board, fold it in half and tape it, leaving room for a hand in the center. When tired of carrying it, it slips easily in a backpack. Two different messages on front and back. Here you see one with Suzanne and the other later with me. Organizers had asked participants to make signs with the C.A.R.E. acronym--another reason for the gentle vibe of this event. I didn't make my own sign, guessing correctly I'd have no trouble finding one. Suzanne later left her sign with me.



Here's Roberta with her sign: the rights of Mother Earth played a strong role in this march.



In the morning, we breakfasted and donned our pink hats, a gift of Roberta's sister, Bunnie, and Jackie, a friend in my square dance club. We joined others in the lobby of my building--neighbors as well as 3 other friends who wanted to start the day with us. A minute later we were at the bus stop, naively expecting to hop on one heading toward Civic Center Park downtown. We soon learned that full buses were passing people by further up the line. Thanks to neighbor Sid who offered to drive, we arrived downtown in 15 minutes. As we joined hundreds walking toward the park along the 16th Street Mall, we got a preview of the joyful, peaceful event this would be.

I was delighted by the signs--by their creativity and also the range. Though history shows achievements can be reversed, the underlying connections among people are less easily changed. The signs were so diverse. Some visual images in collage form, thanks to Roberta's work with my photos:



And more...



I don't often say I'm proud to be American--shame being the first feeling coming to mind these days when I think of this country's impact on other countries under the Trump administration. However, that morning I was proud, and it was oh, such a good feeling.

The march snaked through downtown streets--there was a shorter and longer option for walkers--returning us to Civic Center Park. There were an array of speakers and performers, all women. I didn't hear all of them, as we left early that chilly day. It was also not easy to hear everyone, the crowd being much larger than expected. (115,000 the latest estimate). But I was impressed by the accomplishments of these women, listed on the march website here.

For me the memories were in the walking, the spirit of being "for" rather than "against", waves from onlookers. There were no counter protesters that I saw. It was easy to walk on that sunny/cloudy morning, chatting briefly with sister/fellow walkers, enjoying our energy, reminding ourselves that we are not alone in our belief that America could become great--not again, but perhaps for the first time.

Finding a ride back home with two friends, we continued the event online. Roberta, Lauren and I watched speeches at the Washington rally; we talked all afternoon about ways to resist, to continue work important to us, to keep our lives in balance. It was good we did this, as we did not yet realize how many civil liberties and constitutional issues would be challenged in the coming week.

We talked more over dinner; it grew dark, Lauren headed back home, and Roberta and I continued on to our monthly square dance event. I laughed to myself, thinking that the day was the political equivalent of a visit to Lourdes. I threw away my metaphorical crutches (fears/limitations) and drew on an energy I didn't know I had. I didn't dance every tip that night, but I could have. The important thing then and now is that I know how to pace myself.
(NEXT: Post-march resistance)

Meeting MLK on his birthday, in a dream cafe

It was a snowy, cold day in Denver yesterday, the day of what is usually the largest march/parade in honor of the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I sat at my desk, listening to the megaphones in City Park, as a hardy band organized itself, and suddenly I found myself sitting in a cafe facing the Marade route, Colfax Avenue. An elderly gentleman sat next to me, and as he turned to acknowledge me taking the seat next to him, I gasped in surprise. Beneath the wrinkled forehead and thinning hairline, there was no mistaking those eyes and calm gaze.

"Dr. King," I stammered. "I can't believe what I'm seeing....."
"I can't either," he said smiling. I turned 88 yesterday. Hard to believe. Especially when you don't expect to live to old age, you can't quite imagine what it's like."
"But...how....how is this possible? You died in 1968....and now...."
"Yes, I passed when I was 39, but I took the return option--leave a little sooner and you can come back once a year to see how things turned out."
"You can do that?! I always wanted to.... Never mind, I have so many questions! First--why here?"
"Well, I always loved Soul Food, and....", he glanced back at the chef, lowering his voice, "and this isn't exactly the best place for that, but when the marchers come down Colfax in a bit, we'll have an excellent view. Every year I go to a different city, and usually I march too, but today...."
We smiled at each other. "Me too," I answered. "As my friend Linda puts it, 'you don't want to break an old lady bone' by going out in bad weather. But enough about that. I want to know what you think about today, about what's happening, about your birthday being a national holiday, about Obama, about who really carries your legacy, about...."

"Whoa," he stopped me. "Let's start with one of those". Then he continued, using the more sonorous language he's known for. First, about my birthday. I'm honored, not because I need ego satisfaction, not because Martin Luther King Jr. needs people to look at him, not because the past needs exalting, but because the nation needs a day to focus on its soul, on its ability to love and to seek justice above all." He stopped and looked at me.
"Sometimes," I said, it seems that gets lost amid all the press speculation about possible disruptions or loss of corporate sponsors or news about your oldest son meeting with Trump."
He winced. "I'd prefer to not talk about that... Let's just say our children are always going to chart their own paths." He paused. "I wonder sometimes if I wasn't home enough, that too much burden fell on Coretta. I still miss Yolanda. We used to play and swim together when I was home...."

Seeing his eyes mist, I changed the subject. "Please tell me, Dr. King, who carries your legacy today? I mean in the community."
"Why, everyone, of course. Everyone who carries the message of love and commitment to justice. There will always be a special place in my heart for my contemporaries, those who shared the struggle of the early days with me. John Lewis especially. He's been carrying on for a long time and is getting some pushback this year."
"Yeah," I mumbled. "War by Twitter...." Hoping to pin him down a little more, I asked, "Who were you marching with last year and where were you?"
He smiled, seeing where I was going. "I could say I was marching with everyone, but in fact...I was in Ferguson, walking with Black Lives Matter. Some people think my spirit wasn't there, but it was. And those young people knew it was. I'm still with them."
"As you probably know--your know everything now, right?--the Denver organizers said the BLM disruption last year cost them some corporate sponsors--the people whose money pays for scholarships and all the costs of marching these days."

"Corporate sponsors." He tilted his chin, staring into the distance. "Did you know when I went to college back in 1944, Morehouse College said it would accept any high school junior who could pass its admissions exam? They were trying to fill classrooms. So many young men and women had left to fight in World War II. I got in, got my degree and then went on to the seminary. Free of encumbrances."
"Very different situation today," I responded.
"Yes," he nodded slowly. "And I think we have to remember that corporate scholarships are not the answer. We need justice: an educational system dedicated to excellence, affordability and non-discrimination. That's really the root of everything," I've become convinced. Today's young people will inevitably create the future. Our life spans are limited, and we must always be aware of what we are passing on. I think Mr. Obama understands that."

"Do you ever wish human life spans were just longer?" I asked. I mean that a person could live to see more of the 'moral arc of the universe', as you used to call it--could live to see more of what happens with the struggles they were part of, could live, for example, to see the first African-American president take office."



"I think about that every year when I come back," he admitted. And I've concluded....well, the answer is no. The Creator knew what he was doing when he gave us 'fourscore and 10'. You see, I've realized that 'arc' was not the best metaphor for progressive change. Change doesn't move in a line, we see. It's more like a spiral, and with every return to an old issue, the issue becomes more complex. I don't know how I could lead if I were still on earth today. Perhaps I would have learned to cope the technology, continued to reframe my assumptions...lived through the death of a child...." His voice trailed off. Then he turned to me and said, "No, it's best that we have new leaders, new chances for youth to show us new directions to the promised land. I do wish I had had a chance to shake Mr. Obama's hand, though. I'm 88, two years shy of 'fourscore and 10'. Had things been different...."
"I remember that day," I said, turning to him. "I was a college senior, walking home from the library when I heard the news. I couldn't believe it. I remember feeling frightened about this world I would soon graduate into."
We both grew silent. Our food had arrived, and the first marchers were passing by, braving the cold and tapering snow. "Look at them," Dr. King said, sipping his coffee. "We have hope, yes, we have hope."

New Year Resoluteness

I stopped making new year resolutions years ago.  A combination of reasons for that; tops on the list were a desire to avoid embarrassment at the likelihood of failure and a growing appreciation for the difficulty of changing a habit --however small. Gradually I learned that letting new things into my life bit by bit and then seeing where I wanted to take them was a much better approach. And so it is this year as well. That means life is more like this:


And less like this:


A major thing that I have let into my life since the November election is exploring ways to resist likely assaults from the Trump administration on human rights and the climate.  Have to confess I wish we had a sudden change away from all that, but it's not likely. And so I think about how to focus and stay committed for the long haul. Recently I found this graphic on my Buddhist newsletter (Lions Roar) from a teacher who made this mind map of the process.



The A section--Use "right effort"--has a plant-nurturing image, a perfect fit for me. Then there's B--Use "right mindfulness" to determine the situation, clarify intention, make a strategy, and determine what's needed to allow that to happen. Good stuff there, and I believe I've made some steps in that direction. Determining the dimensions of this resistance movement and making my own strategy should get a boost next week when I join the Women's March on Denver, a sister march to the massive one planned for D.C. on Jan. 21.

Open to everyone, these events are called women's marches because they were planned and organized by women. In Denver all of the speakers and performers are women, and you can find more about that, as well as any other aspect of this march and rally here. I expect that many ideas and strategies will be offered, and perhaps one of them will become mine. This week I'm spreading the word among friends and neighbors at my new address and inviting them to join me in traveling to Civic Center Park by bus that morning.

Meanwhile, I've been looking at how to keep balance in my life. See "C" on the mind map above. A major question is how will new activity find room in my life, which already seems quite full. I've realized that much as I enjoy Facebook, I don't need to access it every day or more than once a day, as I've been doing lately. I also don't need to feed fear and worry with reading endless speculative articles on the new regime's plans. I can better use my time on the day's chosen tasks.

Today's tasks in the spirit of "right effort": redesign my work space, write letters to two treasured friends, take a walk, laugh, make a big bowl of miso vegetable soup, and most important: post this blog, tell you, the reader, about the march and sending you my best wishes for a mindful, productive, joyful new year.

My American "bonenkai" season

During my years in Japan, December was bonenkai season, time for "forget the year" gatherings among friends and co-workers. The tradition grew out of drinking parties at work, where supposedly bosses and employees could speak the truth and all that would be forgotten by the next morning. It was never quite like that for me. Our school parties were usually delicious dinners and polite talk, a departure from our sometimes mind-numbing faculty meetings, those broken only by the excitement of someone actually speaking their mind. I digress....

This December, when so many of us needed a "forget the election" break, the Christmas-Hanukkah season brought some excellent opportunities to do just that--though it proved impossible to really forget the guy due to take office in January, as new horrors unfolded everyday. Still, I tried, and before the season slides into a more purposeful new year, I want pull out the best moments, thanking all those who shared with me times of  joy and hope and good food and company, all those essential things for life and survival.

The season opener for me was the annual Lavender Gala, designed for LBGT elders in Boulder County. And since we've all had a lifetime to hone our party skills, it was a lavish affair. The invitation postcard with a collage of photos from the 2015 gathering, shows some of the spirit of the event. (Yes, that's me laughing, left middle). Lots of happy guests, along with our emcee, Ms Eda Bagel (upper right), and dance instructor extraordinaire, Susie Pringle (lower left)

This year was just as much fun--with entertainment, door prizes, dancing, and a tasty buffet. Two photos from that afternoon at Nissi's Bistro in Lafayette. My dance partner in this artistic blur of red is Susan Osborn.



It seems dancing was the theme of early December, as I also enjoyed the holiday party of the Rocky Mountain Rainbeaus square dance club. Our unique blend of campiness, nerdiness and just plain silliness might be reflected in this 2015 photo. The theme was Hawaii in December, and here are a few of my dance partners during a break. I have totally forgotten why our caller, Bear Miller, is holding a red crab. At right is a photo from this year's party. By pleasant mistake, I'm wearing my Edo 8's badge--the club I belonged to when I first learned square dancing in Japan.



More dancing--this time with me as an audience member--was a visual treat when I attended the holiday concert of the Denver Gay Men's Chorus. One number was their gender-playful rendition of The Nutcracker Suite.

My best spiritual moment this year was an impromptu Solstice ceremony Dec. 21 at Deb Taylor's house. Her housemate, Kate, orchestrated it--with beautiful music, readings, and candles that we lit, knowing that the longest night of the year had just passed and the days would now be getting progressively longer. No photos from that night; just picture 3 flickering candles and whatever poem or reading you would contribute if you were there. I chose one by Mary Oliver, called Mindful.

More music: Two days before Christmas a group of fellow residents here in Montview Manor organized a carol singing event, starting in the penthouse and coming down to each floor, inviting anyone to join them. I'm on 11, so it wasn't long before they arrived and I accompanied them down to the lobby, floor by floor. Marion (with Santa hat and tambourine), a retired music teacher, tried to keep us all on key.

Christmas fell on a weekend this year, and Saturday morning was my date with my adopted niece Sable Rall and her family--husband, Ted, 7-year-old James, 5-year-old Lily and canines Hunter and Sosha. After a tasty split-pea soup lunch, James and Ted took off to do errands and the rest of us bundled up for a walk through their sunny neighborhood. Somehow I never got us all still enough for a photo, but the images remain: Sable pushing Lily's stroller over still-snow-encrusted curbs, with dogs attached--an amazing feat in strength and coordination. It had been a long time since we had an uninterrupted talk, so that morning's discussion was truly welcome and hopefully the beginning of many more in '17.

And then afternoon rolled into evening and I travelled over to Sharon and Denise's place nearby for  Christmas Eve dinner. A gourmet event it was, thanks to Denise's patient prep and cooking. We started with a blind champagne tasting, a French version in one bottle and a New Mexican equivalent in another. As is often the case, the French version won, with bubbles literally bursting on the tongue. Then came a vegetarian soup with a base that took hours to make, a crab cake main course, flavorful mushrooms, a uniquely-flavored cranberry dish and key lime pie for dessert.  Feasting was followed by an exchange of Christmas stockings, filled with small, silly and surprising gifts. Sharon and I have known each other since the '80s, when I spent a number of Christmas Eves with her and then-partner Nancy, and Nancy's mom, Helen. Lots of laughter and food and silly or sweet gifts then too. Below are photos of Sharon (holding Frosty), Denise (far right), and their other guest, Teresa.

The next day, was Sunday, Christmas Day, another occasion for feasting and lovely company. Sally Perisho, who I first met when she moved to Denver from Illinois in the late 70s, invited me to dinner at her beautiful, art-filled home in Littleton. Gourmet chefs there were Sally and our long-time friend, Gayle Novak, and I was the lucky beneficiary, along with two other friends of theirs. I humbly contributed some cheese, while the chefs put together a delicious, color and taste-balanced meal of pork roast, brussel sprouts, scalloped potatoes, and cranberries, accompanied by wine. Sally, a retired art curator, is not pictured below, but her dinner table creation is, in front of happy guests anticipating all the bites to come. (From left: Kathy, Mimsy, me and Gayle). At right is Sally's Siamese, Remy, my long-time feline crush, winning the fashion award. (Not pictured: Violet, her stylishly attired canine sister.)

Gifts and conversation continued, smiles around, and then we drove off into the evening, streets nearly empty, and I arrived home safely, counting my Christmas treasures like beads on a rosary. A year to forget and also to remember.

A room with a view--and a balcony

I'm facing City Park as I write this, having moved into a one-bedroom apartment nearby in October. After two years on the wait list, I was thrilled to be offered a unit with a long balcony facing the park I first discovered back in the late 70s. It's on the 11th floor--the highest I've ever lived--high enough that street distractions don't interfere with a wide view of the park's small lake, winding paths and trees. "I'll take it," I remember saying without hesitation when I was shown the apartment in September. By mid-November, the park was on the cusp of winter, and I took this photo as the morning light covered the tree tops.



I'm lucky enough to have a corner apartment with an east view. This was the scene in mid-October:



I lived just a few blocks away from City Park throughout the 80s and visited just periodically--as Cheesman Park to the south of my old place was a more favored spot for outings with friends.  A few image memories stand out: as a school bus driver, walking around the lake during my breaks between runs, a clean quiet place to stretch my legs and reflect. Another stroll several years later in '89 on a cold March day with my visiting sister and brother-in-law, shortly before I left for Japan. A warm November day with Paula and Linda, watching and laughing as they played touch football.

My building is just a couple of minutes from a park entrance and I've enjoyed a number of walks there since moving to the neighborhood. This photo, taken in early November, shows the restored park pavilion with a view of the Front Range mountains in the distance.



The pavilion up close, followed by my favorite sculpture, dating back to the early 1900s:





Nearby are several displays of the park's long history, starting in the late 19th century. I enjoy learning the deep history of the park, which adds another layer of seeing. There were concerts and picnics, and even an auto campground in the early 20th century. By 1914 as many as 300 "gasoline gypsies" were camped there every night, with the city offering free fuel and amenities. Later it all got to be too much and the campground was moved elsewhere.



My neighbor, Virginia, who is in her 80s and remembers growing up just east of the park, adds more context. In the summer people sat on risers to listen to free concerts--people didn't sit on the ground then--and in the winter, ice skaters could glide over the pond. It hasn't been cold enough for the pond to solidly freeze over since the 50s, she tells me.

The lake--and the smaller one just behind the pavilion--are just fine for the many birds that winter over or migrate over the park. Canada geese are the resident species--perhaps a thousand or more. Last week, when I joined a morning birding event in the park, I took this photo of geese feeding on the small lake.



It's December, and the first snowfalls have arrived, transforming the park every day. The Denver Zoo, with its holiday light display, is immediately north of the park. Every evening I've been enjoying the display and city lights illuminating the darkness. I tried to capture a photo of the park during first real snowfall last Friday evening and took this shot with my iPhone. It doesn't do nearly enough justice to the loveliness of it all. (Google Denver Zoo lights images for close-ups of the "safari" lights.)



Spring will bring new images and I can hardly wait, though of course I will.

Standing Rock and Big Mountain: two issues, two eras, same movement

Just a few days before the Dec. 3 Standing Rock victory--the decision by the Army Corps of Engineers to reroute the contested pipeline segment--I discovered an old photo from another battle for water rights. I was standing with friends in front of Safeway one November afternoon in Denver, circa 1980, and we were in costume, handing out flyers about the "true story" of Thanksgiving. Here I am (right) with Marty Mathers (center) and Kim Womantree, dressed as pilgrims and Indian, ready to talk about our interpretation of the Thanksgiving story as one of continuing oppression. That oppression was then taking place then on Indian land at Big Mountain in the Four Corners region. A lot of Indian water was being used there to transport coal in slurry pipes.



I don't remember that we had too many real conversations with Thanksgiving-dinner shoppers that day, but we enjoyed the event and felt we were contributing to the support work local activists were doing at Big Mountain, also known as the Black Mesa coal fields. There corporate interests, especially Peabody Coal Company, were exploiting land shared by Navajo and Hopi tribes, to mine coal at Black Mesa. The precious aquifer, the only source of water for the tribes, then became the source of water to carry the coal in slurry pipes to feed power plants in Arizona and Nevada. Billions of gallons of precious ground water.

Of course, there was no Internet then, and like the struggle at Standing Rock, this was hardly a story that made mainstream news. Nevertheless, there were stories in counterculture papers and some of our friends travelled to the area to oppose the exploitation of the land. But then the issue dragged on in the courts, as such often do, and our own political work continued on in other ways. A line from a Judy Grahn poem, "A Woman is Talking to Death", ran through my mind: "(W)e left, as we have left all of our lovers, as all lovers leave all lovers, much too soon to get the real loving done." Substitute "causes" for "lovers", and you see the parallel.

Finding these photos in my friend Vickie Barriga's collection, I wondered what had become of the Big Mountain issue, 35 years later. I found some answers in a 2014 review of Judith Nies' Unreal City: Las Vegas, Black Mesa, and the Fate of the West. "The Indians were not the major players" in the deals taking place on their own land, Nies writes. "The real story was about energy and resources, about how coal was going to be used, and about who would make money." The leases the energy companies got from the US Interior Department violated every guideline the department had set up and the royalties were outrageously low. It was all done legally, Nies wrote, and Black Mesa became a "crucial resource colony for the expansion of the New West". By the late 1990s, the company strip mining Black Mesa was sold to a British takeover specialist,  Lord James Hanson. The review of Nies book reports, "At a 1996 stockholders' meeting in London, Hanson is surprised by the arrival of a delegation of Hopi and Navajo Indians who proceed to describe the effects of coal mining on their desert home: polluted water holes that kill their sheep, skyrocketing asthma rates caused by coal dust, and land stripped of vegetation that will never grow back thanks to desertification."

The parallel to Standing Rock seems obvious. Again, Native tribes--and the rural poor surrounding them-- are likely to pay the cost of our energy policy, still based in fossil fuels. There is reason to believe that Sunday's victory may be a mirage. A day later, the company building the DAPL announced they plan to continue building without rerouting. The pipeline, one of many crisscrossing the country is already more than 90 percent complete. The validity of 19th century treaty rights has long since been set aside in constitutional law. The President-Elect is an investor, and even if private gain were not an issue, he is advocating privatization of Native lands for energy development. Meanwhile, pipelines crisscross the nation, spills continue, the nation continues its dependency on fossil fuels.

Yet, there is reason to believe that Standing Rock can succeed in ways Big Mountain did not. I believe it is truly a victory, whether or not the pipeline is rerouted. As I write, about 10,000 protesters are camped at Cannonball, North Dakota, where the weather today is 4F and more snow is on the way. Clearly they have resilience and staying power. Tribes have come together. Millennials and their elders have come together, US military veterans have arrived to assist the water protectors. Thanks to social media, support has grown and mainstream media is now involved. A new generation is learning about Native American history, the risks of pipelines, the alternatives to a fossil fuel economy. This learning is all part of a movement that will certainly grow. The indefensible violation of civil rights by law enforcement on the land in recent weeks may be to this movement what attack dogs and beatings were to the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s--a galvanizing force.

I think back to the struggle to save Big Mountain in the 70s and 80s with sorrow and compassion for all of us who gave up too soon, who left our causes (lovers) too soon. Protestors have tools today that we didn't even dream of: the power of Facebook as a truth-telling arena and a decentralized media, the understanding of and growth of opposition to climate change, the growth of alternative energy worldwide, and best of all, a belief in their ability to succeed. Perhaps my generation, those members who became history teachers and taught a different version of Native American history can claim some credit in the process.

Last month I attended a rally on the University of Denver campus in support of Standing Rock. I think these two photos, one of students who spoke and the other of the audience, show something of the passion and determination in this movement. I look forward to finding new ways to support their vision and efforts in 2017. Here are the photos: