Taking Journalism to the Streets of Portland

 "The social change is in your pocket."

This is the slogan I've been playing with in my mind recently as I begin my summer project with the Portland newspaper, Street Roots. In hopes of keeping busy and building my journalism portfolio this summer, I contacted the non-profit organization, asking if I could aid them in any way while developing my video production skills. After meeting with Executive Director Israel Bayer, we decided that I will make short promotional videos for the newspaper explaining what it does and how Portland readers have received it. The paper's mission is to "create income opportunities for people experiencing homelessness and poverty by producing a newspaper and other media that are catalysts for individual and social change." 

Basically, the newspaper functions as a sort of halfway house or in-between for people who have gone through major setbacks in life – mental and physical disabilities, alcohol and drug issues, layoffs – and have taken it upon themselves to turn their lives around. The newspaper is not a handout; vendors must work for their earnings. The newspaper is run by a small staff who writes the majority of the content, designs, and prints the paper. The vendors then buy the newspaper for 25 cents (to cover printing costs) and resell it on the streets of Portland for the suggested price of $1, which allows them to pocket 75 cents per paper. In this way, the producers of the newspaper lose no money, and the vendors must be personally responsible for their sales.

Vendors sell their newspapers to on the streets of Portland to earn money.

Which is why I think this system is so great. I have heard people say too many times that homeless are lazy people. They deserve no welfare and should just "get a job." However, after talking with numerous vendors, I believe that for the most part, the homeless are no more lazy than the average American; they just happen to either possess much less to begin with, and/or suffer from mental handicaps and disabilities. They have not made the best decisions and they admit to that. I asked them what their lowest point in life was, and they all answered "living on the streets." I can't even begin to imagine what that's like. They described it as cold and frightening, not knowing what's coming next. One man named Charlie described how he had always wanted to travel as a child. He laughed because he described that after he became homeless, he traveled all the time: down south to Texas in the winter, farther north to Seattle and Portland in the summer. 

After working at Street Roots, some of them earn enough to find cheap housing and/or afford food. When I asked them what brought them to the streets in the first place, they would stare off into space with a distant look and think for a minute before answering. I assured them they didn't have to answer, but today every one of them did. Drugs, alcohol, loss of jobs. Making bad decisions. Things they weren't proud of. For some of them, Street Roots is a temporary job as they look to find something more permanent. For others who are older or disabled, this is enough for them. It's more than they could have asked for, and they expressed their gratefulness. Personally, I can't imagine a life where the best I could wish for myself is selling newspapers on a street corner everyday. But for them, it's good. It's work. It gives them the chance to interact with customers and form friendships. They are a working part of society, not feeling helpless on the streets. The office provides a place to get warm and use a computer. Their priorities may not match mine, but they are happy and most definitely not lazy.

After conducting the first of my interviews for my project for Street Roots today, I feel much more comfortable talking with these people. Where at first I was a bit apprehensive, by the end of each interview I practically forgot their situations. I felt that I was having a conversation with an individual whose life had just as much value as mine. As much as I didn't want to, I went into the project with a bias. I still have a bias, and I always will, being a middle-class white girl with enough money to attend university. It's natural that I feel very disconnected from any situation these people have had to deal with. However, at least I can recognize this and strive to overcome it as I continue my project. I enjoy conversing with the street vendors and look forward to working with them more.

And I wish them the best of luck because they deserve it.

For more information, visit: http://streetroots.org/

Dentist Office Music

Why do dentist offices play such mind-numbing music?

What type of music was it that was SO BAD? you might ask. That's not the point.

Sitting in the waiting room today, I couldn't even focus on my book it was so bad. How does the receptionist stand it? Wait, she's probably the one who chooses the music... How horrific was her childhood life that her parents never trained her to avoid such melodic oozing?

The sappy, simple-minded words seeped slowly into my ears. Enduring the music felt like I was voluntarily jabbing a knife gradually into my brain. Such agony.

A commercial for the station came on. "Listen to 106.7!" it screamed at me in an annoying megaphone tone. I made a mental note not to ever listen to 106.7.

I thought I'd never be so happy for the dental hygienist to call my name.

Little did I know it would continue in the torture room: mirrors, probes, drills...

and the music.


 

Reception of Ambassadors: A Glimpse Outside the Textbook (1/16/12)

Last week, I was invited to a lecture by the Ambassador of U.S. to Gabon, who is also a University of Oregon alumnus. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend the actual event because I had class at that time; however, I was invited to a reception afterwards by the Honors College, and I attended and actually had the chance to converse with Ambassador Eric Benjaminson's wife, Paula, and the ambassador of Gabon to the U.S., Ambassador Michael Moussa. Currently, I am a Journalism major, but I have recently considered double-majoring in International Studies because I want to travel and learn about other cultures. Thus, my talk with these people who have traveled so much was a great experience to have.

I spoke the most with Paula, who gave me great insight into the life of an ambassador. She explained that she and her husband moved roughly every two to three years. Because of this, she has learned bits of many languages, including Chinese, Russian, French and Spanish. One of the trade-offs of having the opportunity to live in so many different countries is that they cannot take their own furniture with them. New furnishings are provided wherever they go. There are certain items they can box up and take with them, but she said learning to not become so attached to material items comes with the job.

When I mentioned I wanted to travel to India at some point, she told me about her experience living there and being the only blond woman around. Her job was to issue visas, so she said it was difficult because people could easily identify her and attempted to ask her about the status of their visa anywhere she went. She talked about wanting to go on walks sometimes, but feeling like she could not leave her house without having some work-related interaction. This, she said, is something to consider as a Westerner living in a foreign country. Especially as a woman.

Paula also explained that when the U.S. government provides the ambassador with a job to be completed in a certain nation, he must comply, even if he disagrees with what it may entail. This, of course, was fairly vague, as she could not give me a specific example, but it was also a thought that had never occured to me. Would I be able to put my personal beliefs aside to carry out a command I could never agree with? I asked Paula how a job like this might differ from one such as the Peace Corps, and she answered that working for the Peace Corps would involve more interaction with people affected by poverty and how to solve issues such as hunger, water quality, or education. The ambassador's job deals more with international relations between governments, which also has a great effect on society, just in a different way. Since she knows several people who have served in the Peace Corps, she was able to give me great information about the differences, which may aid me in deciding what kind of path I might want to take if I end up working internationally in the future.After talking with Paula, I had the chance to speak briefly with Ambassador Michael Moussa from the Republic of Gabon in West Africa. He now works in D.C. and enjoys his job. He came to the U.S. in his early 20s without hardly any support, but worked hard to eventually become the Ambassador of Gabon to the U.S. His main piece of advice was to persevere. He said that if we desire to travel, then make it happen. If we have our eye on a job we think is unattainable, do all we can to attain it. He ended by telling the students who were listening to him that if any of us ever wanted a summer internship, contact him. This alone was intriguing, as I never imagined the Ambassador of Gabon would say this to a group of college students.

I am glad I had the opportunity to at least attend the reception. I find myself thinking about the advice these two people gave me, and it lies in the back of my mind as I continue my studies. It was a nice glimpse outside the textbook.

We Met in a Cemetery (9/19/09)

We met in a cemetery.

            I was alive, she was dead.

            I saw her name printed on the gravestone in front of me: Hannah Georgia Patterson. Aged 52 when she died, and the words on her headstone, “loving mother and dearest wife,” were the only things I knew about her.

            As with any grave.

            But what drew my attention to this particular gravestone, other than the beautiful, vivid flowers ensconced around the stone, was the weeping boy beside it.

            We met in a cemetery.

            We were both very much alive.

            As I walked down the dirt path through the cemetery that day, I felt a sense of calm and peace that I knew I needed. Life can get that way sometimes—stressful, evoking your blood to its boiling point, pushing you to your limit—and the cemetery counteracts that for me.

            I breathed in the sweet air; some fragrant flower happened to be at its best, and the sun shined just right through the leaves of the trees, as if they were stained glass.

            The green glow of leaves gleamed down upon the boy as I approached.

The first thing I liked about him was the way he didn’t try to hide his tears from me, although I was a complete stranger. The second was the ingenious way he had laid out the flowers. They were patterned blue, lavender, yellow, pink, and stacked so they formed a sort of topless pyramid around the base of the stone.

I don’t know why I sat down by him. Most times, I would leave someone to honor their loved ones in peace. But I sat down, right there in the grass next to him, and that was that.

And, before either of us had said anything, I started to cry, too.

It’s a funny thing, when you cry alongside someone. You both share a feeling of deep sorrow, emotion, compassion. To cry with someone is to let them see into your heart, into your feelings, your mind. Nothing is hidden, you just cry.

After awhile, he told me his name was Nolen Patterson.

It was his mother who was buried there. She had died of cancer two months ago. He missed her very much.

He told me she was a great mother. She always put him and his brothers first. She packed their lunches, told them stories, helped them with homework, watched them grow up. She enjoyed traveling, rain walks, the ocean, wildlife, and painting.

And this is the first connection I felt to her. Painting.

I studied the grave with great consideration, then reached into my bag.

The paints emerged: brown, black, gold, indigo, crimson, emerald. They squeezed onto my palette and expanded at the tip of my wet brush. Onto the paper they washed, the vibrant colors, calmly painting the flowers, the stone, the words…

We all came from different angles of humanity, different times, different planes of existence even. And we met here, turned to the same page, and developed an understanding so simply complex, it was almost surreal.

We met in a cemetery.

           

Boxes (1/11/11)

Humans live in boxes. Tall, wide boring, mathematical boxes. Created for shelter, designed with perfection. Boxes. Towering over us, boxes fall, boxes fail. They aren’t supposed to. Humans think in boxes. Square roots, prime numbers, fact, fact, fact; repeat, repeat, repeat. Boxes are by force. Boxes confine. Humans lock themselves in and hide away the key in a box as well. Only the brightest can overcome the box, unearth the key. Boxes make us smart. Boxes make us money.

But boxes don’t

Let us live.

The Photographer (creative writing class exercise, or an attempt at comedy)

          It’s 2am. I find myself sitting at a table topped with a frilly white table cloth, royal blue napkins, and a plate of some monstrous-looking part of a sea creature drenched in red sauce that I tentatively poke with my fork to make sure it’s not alive.

            “Really, I only need the salad,” I say to the waiter dressed in a white, official-looking uniform.

            He stares at me in disgust. “It only comes with an entrée. This is your entrée,” he spits and walks away.

            I can understand his annoyance. First, I arranged to come in after hours to take photos for the magazine I work for, Bon Appetit.

            Secondly, I feel like I should be wearing a tux. I’m not. I’m wearing my pajamas. You see, I forgot about my assignment until I woke up around midnight from a dream in which a herd of cows surrounded me chanting “meat, meat, meat,” which reminded me of burgers, which reminded me of food, which reminded me of this restaurant, which reminded me that my photos are due tomorrow or I am screwed.

            So, poor Louis, or Jacques or whatever the snobby guy’s name is had to come into work and wait on me at 2am.

            I wonder if the cook purposely made my food look like rats’ guts. I’ll have to get his name and put it in the caption alongside my photos: “Chef Frenchy Français specializes in the French delicacy, roasted rats’ guts. Reviewer’s call: tastes like chicken.”

            I push the delectable dish to the side and wait for my dinner salad. From a table nearby, I see Jacques glaring at me. Tough tuna, man. I am not eating whatever is on the plate.

            To pass the time (and to keep myself from falling asleep), I closely examine the dinosaur pattern on my pajama pants. My mom bought them for me as a joke last Christmas. I wonder what my girlfriend would think if she saw me out in public with these bad boys.

            “Do these make you…more attracted to me?” I try saying suavely. You know, just for practice.

            “Yes. Yes, they do,” I hear a soft reply from across the room. A soft, manly reply.

            I swivel around in my chair to see Jacques, or whatever his name is, has paused with his table cleaning and is staring wistfully at me.

            I force a smile onto my face, wave, then turn around. My palms are sweaty and I can feel my face reddening. I want out. Now. But I am trapped here until my dinner salad comes. I need a picture of it. I need one! Be strong. Here comes Jacques! Pretend to be busy!

            I frantically pick up my napkin and begin to blow my nose excessively.

            “Your dinner salad, sir,” Jacques says, setting my food down in front of me. “Let me get you a new napkin.”

            What came over him? I thought he hated me, now he’s…he’s…practically offering me gifts of love and adoration!

            HE’S HITTING ON ME!

            “You know what? That’s all right,” I say, snapping a quick photo of the salad. “This is all I need, I’ll be leaving now.”

            Jacques suddenly looks scared. “You…you…don’t like the food?” he almost whispers.

            “No, no!” I say hastily. “The food is…great! I just have to get going…”

            “You don’t like the food?!” he asks again, raising his voice.

            “No, no, it’s—”

            “YOU DON’T LIKE THE FOOD!” he yells, racing into the kitchen. “HE DOESN’T LIKE THE FOOD!”

            I stand by the table feeling like I am going to wet myself.

            Suddenly, a large, middle-aged man bursts through the kitchen doors, sobbing. Frenchy. The cook.

            “I quit!” he cries in a thick French accent. “I quit, I quit, I QUIT!”

            I tremble as he approaches me, looming over me with his large meat cleaver.

            “Don’t kill me!” I squeak in a high-pitched voice.

            “I’m not going to kill you,” he roars. “I’m going to kill MYSELF!” He holds the knife to his throat.

            “NO!” I cry, launching myself toward him. We struggle for possession of the knife, and it flies into the air.

            Just as Jacques emerges from the kitchen.

            The knife lands in Jacques’s gut, and he collapses.

            “Jacques!” Frenchy and I shout.

            We race over to him. Frenchy examines the knife wound and I cradle Jacques’ head in my arms.

            “Jacques! Speak to me!” I cry.

            “I’m…I’m sorry I was mean to you,” he struggles to say. “You…you just meant so much…” he tries to finish but the pain is too much.

            As the life fades from his sparkling eyes, I realize what would make him happy. I know the one last wish he would want before he dies.

            I draw in a deep breath, close my eyes, and give him a big, wet, mouth-to-mouth kiss. I can taste the blood on his tongue as well as a bit of sweet something he must have eaten just moments before. Mmm, cinnamon…

            I lift my head, gasping for air, realizing I am crying.

            I look up and scream into the heavens, “WHY?!?!?!”

            “Listen! He speaks again!” says Frenchy, who is kneeling beside me, shocked.

            I lean close to Jacques. “What is it?” I ask.

            “I meant to say…” he whispers, “that you just meant so much…to the restaurant.”

            “What?” I ask, confused.

            “The restaurant,” he repeats. “I was only nice to you because we need a good review.”

            With that, all signs of life leave his body, and he is still.

            Frenchy stands, avoiding eye contact with me. “The bill’s on the table,” he mutters, returning to the kitchen.

            Still sitting on the floor with Jacques in my arms, I look upward once again and cry, “WHY?!?!?!”

Walking At Dusk (written 11/23/10)

It’s on nights like this, when the world is trapped between autumn and winter, that they speak to me. The temperature has dropped to below freezing, and there is a slight dusting of snow on the ground. As I walk, all I hear are our footsteps tapping on the frozen ground. The world is silent.

            The dormant atmosphere then provokes a thought: how many of the earth’s creatures died on this particular day?

            I ponder this. The number must be enormous—humans, dogs, mice, insects by the thousands… yet how much of it do I see? I have not seen anything die today.

            I pass by the house where a woman lives whose husband recently shot himself. He was dying of cancer. There was no way out. She was there when he did it. She heard the shot. She went rushing into the room where he laid; she found his body. Words cannot describe the agony she must have felt.

            She must wonder which world he has retired to.

            I hear a click from the house and I look over, trying to place the sound. I cannot.

My dog slips on the ice as we near the top of the hill. “Walk in the middle,” I say, tugging his leash toward the center of the deserted road. “It’s less icy.”

The light is fading, and as the inside of my nose comes into contact with the cold evening air, I fall under the impression that my insides are freezing.

My other dog begins to growl. I look over to the side of the road, frightened. A

plastic bag caught in the dying brambles flutters in the wind. “It can’t hurt you,” I say to her. “It can’t even move.”

            We turn around at the top.

            I see one house adorned with Christmas lights; another still with Halloween decorations. But most houses are dark and unwelcoming.

“Silent night, holy night,” I sing as we descend the hill. My voice wavers with every step, creating a false vibrato. With every word that departs my lips, a wispy white cloud forms in front of my face. My breath looks like a ghost.

            That’s when I see it. She has closed the curtains of the front window of her house. That’s what made the noise.

            I feel it. He’s here. She’s trying to forget. He died with the summer and is felt most in the winter. He accompanies the loneliness, the lifelessness, the sorrow. Every dead being in this world is present at this moment, and he is among them. She is shutting out death.

            It’s nights like this, when the world is numb, that those who are truly dead remind the world of life. The silent world can acknowledge their presence. They walk the earth in this hour of dusk, and on this night, I walk with them.