Happy Fourth of July Shawna

I came down to interview you about your life for an essay. I came to learn about you, gain insight to your reality, your America Shawna. We talked about the why of it all. You mentioned straight off that you were 24 hours outside of someone ripping off your tent, with all your clothes and supplies, so now you had to room with a buddy in his small tent. I said I’d get on trying to replace that. It was your eyes Shawna, what I saw in your eyes as you kindly asked that your face not be revealed.
”My son’s father just passed away, 43 years old, just like that. I just don’t want my son to have to see me, ya know, like this, on top of it all.”
I listened as you told me what I thought I’d hear.

”You know, I got a bachelor’s degree. I was gonna start my Masters in the medical field before it all went to shit.”

There were so many words spoken in that short sentence, I heard them all. I told you that I was honored to be working with a group of economic, development, and supportive service and housing leaders who had an idea. A stellar idea to bridge the housing gap for folks like you, right in the middle of one of this nations most prevalent economic depressions. We were in the beginning stages. Time, it all takes time. Funny how the antidote always seems a little too late sometimes. We talked about your experience, your surreal experience of being the victim of Trump’s America, a first-hand eye witness to the BLM revolution all while navigating the deadly street life. Feels like a movie, but it’s real, it’s all too real. It all seems so easy, doesn’t it? Take this step, then that step. Then you explained the nuances of always being disqualified for something. Steps.

”You’d apply for something and then find out, some other dynamic of your life disqualifies you, ya know the endless cycle of denial. Waitlists are so long.”
Yeah, steps. We talked about what it is to navigate this hardship, but also feel the pain and witness the injustice of the Black Community. What it is to suffer and watch another suffer in a terrible, unjust way. Poverty is such a torturous abuser. Imagine being its victim and black.

We talked about the future, and what it might look like for you, for me, the victims of racial violence and injustice. Streetlife was hard four years ago, but now? Now it will take nothing short of God, jumping straight into the picture and parting the red seas. You needed medical attention that went beyond my first aid. I gave you the address to CCC’s 12th Avenue clinic you were relieved to learn about that resource. We parted ways, a dismal and sinking feeling that always creeps in when you review a dark and impossible place.

I went home and rifled through my closet and medicine cabinet. A woman in between jobs myself at the moment, thanks deconstructor of all things stable, COVID-19, I’ve not much at my disposal, but I pulled together what I could.

It’s when I met back up with you Shawna, to give you the supplies, that moment will stay with me like the prevalent memory that it is. You brushed your hair back and found a bright colored hair wrap. You found some makeup and applied it. Primrose pink lipstick. I imagined it had been a while. Your eyes changed. You felt something, I wish I knew what that feeling was. That feeling that said today, I wear the Primrose Pink Lipstick.

Happy Fourth of July Shawna. Here’s to the future. Let hope right?
I swear I can hear God himself sing Hank William’s ‘Hey Good Lookin’ to you now.

There Is Still Beauty In The World

First In Leadership Series

“Hotel Business Magazine has published my blurb about Portland’s Nines Hotel. This is the first of my articles on leadership in commerce in the COVID era”

'Equal' Parts Disappointment

I took this image at artist Grace Weston's studio. We were chatting over tea about all things art, leadership and women's empowerment. She was considering bringing back to life an artist group she successfully founded and operated. This group was a think tank whose objective was to guide ideas for projects and endeavors from the lighted drawing board into realization. Like everyone, we had no idea that a few months later, a despot who seized control of the White House would become so much worse and we would be grappling with a worldwide pandemic. But here we are.

On a table of Grace's art pieces, I positioned two of them together and took an image. At the time, I'd had no idea why I chose those two symbols, at the time I didn't understand it's significance as clearly as I do now. Fast forward a few months and I am here, suddenly back at my lighted drawing board, starting from square one. Millions of Americans with their lives upended, unemployed, furloughed, stymied. A curious mega force called COVID-19 is now the author of my surreal story.

Furlough jobs could be anything, a bakery, an assisted living facility, a landscaping crew, an office temp worker. It's the attempt to position myself back in my career that I find eye-opening. Public Works, building, engineering, architecture, and municipal bureaus, like water and utility management are still considered a man's world. There are more occasions where a man is chosen over a woman.
Recently the political landscape has further complicated our plight as women in these roles. There is a subtlety in unequal treatment. Say you are a woman who answers an employment call for a construction project manager. construction project managers serve in very straight forward roles. Yes, extremely critical and require a high degree of credentials and experience, but when interviewing time rolls around, I can tell you the number of times increasing that I've had to sit through an interview taking on a decided 'differing' trajectory from the straight forward job description. Suddenly, the questioning and job description leads into 'babysitting' territory. The pay offered always lower. I'll NEVER forget the time while standing on a job site as a public works inspector that one of the older generation silver-haired crewmen, asked me how I got to where I was. “This world of inspectors don't like women much” he says shaking his head. That isn't necessarily all true, but I was stunned nonetheless. That unfortunate bias still exists.

Bottom line is, it blows to have to grapple with a global pandemic, financial crisis, and the added strain of needing to prove on so much more of an extravagant level that women can not only meet, but exceed expectations. I have seen extraordinary leadership this past two years, more than in all of my years past. An engineering company owned by a woman. A public works inspection civil municipal department headed by a woman. A woman architect leading an architecture department at a university. A water scientist, yep a woman. So, we know that it works. I just wonder when we will happen upon a day when that inalienable truth is not so vastly affected all over again, by political influence. We are facing a global pandemic. We need the strength, excellence, and fortitude of women more than ever.

The Mask

My best friend Rio Wrenn, a high fashion couture designer and owner R.A.W Textiles, taught me how to make the filter mask. Fitting around all of the lower face and leaving an entry at the bottom for an N95 Respirator or filter, it seems to be a really good option in design and durability. All of us mask makers are trying to find ways to reduce face marks or behind the ear discomfort for the medical professional who wears them for hours. Yesterday at Main Street Sewing where I took my sewing machine for maintenance a fellow mask maker was saying that she’s come up with a head band fascinator that the masks clips to instead of looping behind the ear. It’s been interesting to see the different designs and ideas out there.

cotour

New Reality

This is it, this is our new reality now isn’t it?
My reality is currently balancing interviewing, furlough work search, assisting elderly, working on a manuscript, navigating a pandemic landscape, sewing masks for loved ones, middle east social analyst studies, Aramaic and Arabic language studies.
There is a deep pull that I have been feeling lately that won’t leave my blood. A year ago, if you told me this is what I’d be doing, I’d look at you and tell you to lower your microdose. It’s such a strange thing to feel something so heavy and strong at a time of such great uncertainty. I’m seeing this in so many of my creative friends. I am looking forward to the post-pandemic. I’m looking forward, not to the financial and economic hellscape, but to the birth of a people who’ve allowed this time to sculpt them into something profound. I’m looking forward to the fruits of a people brave enough to peel away the layers of the old way of living, thinking, socializing and impacting this earth, letting go of outdated idealisms, breaking forth some self-contained bubbles and refusing to become a by-product of a universe that form the pliable and break the rigid. Yes, I am looking forward to the Great Post Pandemic

Person of The Year Indeed #beautifulfaces

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My Childhood Friend & Personal Hero At The Moment Jennifer Dent Arsenault (Jenny Dent)

A Memory In the Touchless New Age

Scanning Facebook recently to see how my lovely friends were faring in the new Touch less Pandemic Landscape, I see the usual:

Arguments for taking the family to the beach in quarantine, arguments for not leaving the house in any circumstance.
Questions on what is acceptable for venturing out to get a little sun on their faces while still following the new social distancing rules.
Argumentatively figuring out what social distancing means.
Pictures and stories of friends quarantine experiences, some that reminded me of a story I’d heard about the Great New York Blackout November 9, 1965, conversely, some that looked like stay-cations.
As I scrolled and read, I found that one central theme governs this new day: our society has become touch less. A necessary measure now it seems to flatten the curve of exposure to an aggressive, invasive new virus currently ravaging our planet.
Necessary as it may be, it has its own side effects.
I scroll, taking in the information of others, reading about their politics, perceptions, and responses and mid sentence, an ‘FB memory’ pops up for me. You know, those little adages that FB offers every so often that can come off like a lovely little gift or a nasty curse depending upon the memory and where you now sit with that memory’s scenario. Today it appears, it was a gift. It was a memory of an experience I had with a fingerprinting shop over in Northeast. It had me thinking about our Touch less New Age, mostly it has me hoping that we can one day return to normal, if possible, even better off with that ever so slowly dying spectrum of human culture. There is healing in the human connection. I don’t imagine any pandemic can stop that.

It was March 22, 2018, and I was feeling pretty annoyed and taxed as I drove to the tiny shop way out on Division. They are among the few who take fingerprints for the State of Oregon and other fed background checks for less than $40 bucks. Felt like it took forever to get out there. Both the dog and I were tense when I got out and stalked in there. It was a Vietnamese gift shop stuffed to the brim with jewelry, tea sets, books and other novelties with a small corner in the home for their print business. I was stiff and my hands were cold. The young lady led me over to print board and took my right hand. Her hands were warm, she had a calming quality about her. Each finger on both hands printed on an official card, put in something that looked like an evidence bag. Card number and I.D. documented and the prints given back to me to take back to an organization who then ships it off to the State. I must've only been in there but a few moments and each moment standing in that little shop/house I felt more and more at ease. I took a deep breath and said, "I'm glad I came, it's nice in here." I noticed my hands were warm and bright pink. I walked out onto the patio and down the steps to the car and a first-generation family matron whom I never got to formally meet was playing a musical bell and burning incense in the back garden. She smiled at me as I got into my car and drove away a completely different person than who arrived. Apparently there is a little house on East Division that sells attitude changes.

Powell's Bookstore The Grand Matron Of My Life Story

I remember the day I aged out of Oregon Youth Authority and I found myself homeless. My case manager was in tears, angry that she was taken by surprise and I was in shock. She muttered 'fuck' under her breath, doing everything she could to keep her job while still managing to cram as much social service into this last day for me as she possibly could.

Two other staff members packed my stuff in black plastic bags and placed them by the door, while she spends time on the office phone feverishly trying to piece together some kind of plan. It was astounding how much she was able to put in place. She walks out of the office of the group home and finds me, stoic, frozen, afraid, standing by the front door with my black plastic bags.

She'd called the Social Security Administration, she'd called the housing bureau, she'd called the Youth Homeless Prevention organization at that time called Greenhouse. She called the powers that be at her organization, she'd called the powers that be at Oregon Youth Authority, she called everyone under the sun. Now, it was time to hit the streets.

At that time I'd held down a full-time job at The Mallory Hotel as a buser, hostess helper and dining room assistant. She called the luxury hotel to make sure they would work with me during my transition to hang on to me as much as possible. They said they would. That was a good thing, that was where I was fed.

We got into a state car and rolled over to the YWCA. She checked me in, for a short time I had a roof at a women's shelter. We rolled over the Alder House, the state's first SRO LIHTC rent-controlled building in Portland, we got an SRO room for me to rent. At that time housing practiced age discrimination so it took some serious finagling for her to convince them to rent to an individual one day into her 18th year of life. We rolled over to the Social Security Administration and got 'benefits' in place. I later found out they used my placement in Oregon Youth Authority as a base for disability benefits. Anyone's guess how they pulled that off. Now the sun starts to set and I feel a buzz on the inside of me. My exhausted caseworker takes a deep breath, looks over at me and says, "Okay kiddo, you can do this. You can do this, we got a plan. Work as much as you can at that hotel, BEHAVE yourself at that apartment complex, I mean it, don't fuck with them. I'll call the shelter in a few days." Boom! with that, I and my black plastic bags found our way into a small room with two cots. I roomed with a woman name Naezie, a young, beautiful, middle eastern woman escaping a violent husband. Naezie seemed relieved that I was her roommate. She said some of the faces she saw at the YWCA scared her. I sat on the cot and looked at her, the deep buzzing and spinning head continued. Suddenly I feel an uneasiness, a queasiness. The cots begin to screech at their base, a massive rumbling sound filled the room, we grab hold of the cots and stare at each other even more intently. "My God!" she says in her soft Sudanese accent, we've just had an earthquake.

Seems fitting.

Over the hours Naezie and I walk the streets of Portland getting to know one another. We plan our next steps, I feel better knowing I've got someone, a base, a friend. She was 15 years older than I and I was comfortable in her presence. We grab a slice of pizza on Burnside and head to Powell's Bookstore.

"Hey, you ever been to this place Naezie? Careful, you'll get lost."

At the group home, you'd find a good deal of my 'sisters' hanging out at Paranoia Park (O'Bryant Square) a punk scene, Satyricon, and Greenhouse. I frequented those places too, but most of my experience was spent idling the hours away at Burnside's Powells Bookstore. Education was never a priority to the Youth Authority in those days. We educated ourselves. I permitted my meager budget to buy books and magazines. Mostly, Powells Bookstore taught me about my fellow man. In a clean, safe environment I learned about the outside world, and now I was right in it.

Fast forward to 2020, I'm 45 years old, and right as if it was taken directly from the pages of a manuscript I'm working on, we're knee-deep in a worldwide pandemic. I see this Grand Matron Powells Bookstore, closed to the public. She's quiet, still, lonely. I sit for a moment and think, I could swear I can feel the heartbeat of the city become weaker. Yes, it has become weaker. May this great Dame rise again and give birth to another generation of stronger, more educated and united public than ever before. May she rise like a Phoenix, immune and thriving. I give a moment of great thanks to Mother Powells. I imagine a better day.

If there ever was a photo that summed up Nature’s attitude toward us at the moment:

तिहार Kukur Tihar

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Tihar (Nepali: तिहार), is a five-day-long Hindu festival celebrated primarily in Nepal and some parts of India such as Darjeeling district, Kalimpong district, Sikkim, and Assam. It is the festival of lights, , the festival begins with Kaag Tihar in Trayodashi of Kartik Krishna Paksha and ends with Bhai Tika in Dwitiya of Kartik Sukla Paksha every year.

The festival is prayer and homage to elders and gods, but also to animals such as crows, dogs, and cows that have long lived in relationship with humans. Grace and I celebrate day two Kukur Tihar, prayer to dogs for appreciation in their companionship.

The shame of complacency

“Luis Alberto Urrea’s words are some of the most important I’ve heard since this administration was set into place. I can think of no greater way to put it.”

Time.com article
The shame of the border crisis will never leave us

LUIS ALBERTO URREA

Nuclear Winter

Be very careful___of your measuring stick.

Do you measure the base, the height, the width, the length, the substance of the thing? Yourself? As folks approach you, and size you up as they do:

So, what do you do?

Who are you with?

What is your degree?

Where did you get that degree?

Who represents you?

Who are you friends with?

What's your portfolio?

Who's your agent?

As these measuring sticks break out and make their way to your being to measure you, or you, take your stick to another? Are you remembering that measurements rarely hold the balance?

I've seen grand structures, more ornate than the Duomo fall like dominoes at the slightest shake of the earth. I've seen block utility buildings survive like cornerstones of the earth through time, damage, floods, change and the human measuring stick.

The substance of the thing, the foundation of the thing shall hold the balance. If you have lost what looks like the height of your life, have you not in the cyclone of life begun to gain a stronger substance? A more unmovable foundation? So what then happens when the structure begins to rebuild itself?

For those knocked off their balance and sitting amid their rubble today, dust flying and dizzying disbelief, what looks like destruction insurmountable, is the removal of false structure. One that if you fully inhabited it, would crumble down upon your head in a fatal crush should Nature decide to test the bounds. Instead, what happens when this structure falls before your eyes? This time, we take concern for the substance of the thing. This time, we move to design a structure strong enough, worthy enough, safe enough to invite those we love in. A structure that can shelter others in the fallout. We aren't talking about storms here. We are talking about Nuclear Winter.

Angels In America, continued

Neighbors we see around town every now and then attending the street fair on Main Street. It struck me today when I saw them, the sight of their little boy clutching the American flag with determination. His grandmother instilling in her generations a sense of loyalty and respect for this nation. They work their asses off for this nation. They spend their hard earned money on the little shops on Main Street every year, helping to keep them open. I wish this nation's loyalty was returned to them. The daughter is doing an essay about this at school, I sent her this image

Forest Avenue Press Lights PDX

I'm over the moon about my friend and YOUR hometown publishing hero Laura Stanfill's recent win:

(Forest Avenue Press has acquired award-winning author Beth Kephart's memoir, WIFE / DAUGHTER / SELF, in a pre-empt)

Beth Kephart is one of my go-to literary influences for composition in visual to writing flow and presentation. She is a particularly exceptional instructor. I'm excited for you Laura, as always my friend, this town is lucky to have you 

Hank's Place on the 4th of July

I was in my old neighborhood where I was raised for a few years as a child and decided to dip in the old Dunkin Donuts (now Sesame) I don't know why, I just did.

I get to the counter and I tell the gal at the register that I'd first walked in here with my Blue Birds group in 2nd grade. She smiled and said "I hear SO much nostalgia at this location"

Behind me walks in an old gentleman with eyes that look as though they've seen thousands of years of wisdom. Immediately, I knew he was a citizen of a strained income. His stained and ripped coat looked as though it had been loved threadbare and would continue to be until it fell off of him. All the employees said in unison "Hi Hank!" They knew him. He was a daily customer. If money would provide then he'd sit and have a cup of coffee and read the print newspaper all day in their chairs out front. I said, "I'd like to buy Hank whatever he would like this morning."
His face lit up.
"Oh thank you! You know what this means right? I get to sing you a song."
With honestly the most beautiful male voice I've heard in acapella he sang the old tune 'Hey Good Lookin' He hit every note and the timing was as perfect as if he had a band accompaniment. Everyone at the register smiled. The gal at the register said, "He sings to me too! The pretty girls get the songs." I left there with this feeling that not all was lost. So Hank, you wonderful songbird, I celebrate you and everything YOU do to make this country more bearable. I'm off to go make some art today in Warm Springs. I've got your song with me and I'll play it over and over on the drive over the pass. Godspeed my friend!