Category Archives: history

Women’s March on Portland

“No country can preserve its political liberties unless its rulers know that their people preserve the spirit of resistance.”
Thomas Jefferson

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“I inherited the instinct as a true-born American bred to the worship of both machinery and money; an appreciation of its force I acquired during a lifetime of reading newspaper reports of political uprisings in the provinces of the bourgeois world state—in China, Israel, and Greece in the 1940s; in the 1950s those in Hungary, Cuba, Guatemala, Algeria, Egypt, Bolivia, and Iran; in the 1960s in Vietnam, France, America, Ethiopia, and the Congo; in the 1970s and 1980s in El Salvador, Poland, Nicaragua, Kenya, Argentina, Chile, Indonesia, Czechoslovakia, Turkey, Jordan, Cambodia, again in Iran; over the last twenty-four years in Russia, Venezuela, Lebanon, Croatia, Bosnia, Libya, Tunisia, Syria, Ukraine, Iraq, Somalia, South Africa, Romania, Sudan, again in Algeria and Egypt…

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“…the plot line tends to repeat itself—first the new flag on the roof of the palace, rapturous crowds in the streets waving banners; then searches, requisitions, massacres, severed heads raised on pikes; soon afterward the transfer of power from one police force to another police force, the latter more repressive than the former (darker uniforms, heavier motorcycles) because more frightened of the social and economic upheavals they can neither foresee nor control.”

Lewis Lapham

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“Poverty gives rise to the desire for change, the desire for action, and the desire for revolution. On a blank sheet of paper free from any mark, the freshest and most beautiful characters can be written, the freshest and most beautiful pictures can be painted.”
Chairman Mao Zedong

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“Who has time to think or care about political change when it’s more than enough trouble to save oneself from drowning in the flood of technological change?”
-L. Lapham

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“One magic word today seems capable of compensating for all sufferings, resolving all anxieties, avenging the past, curing present ills, summing up all future possibilities: that word is revolution…This word has aroused such pure acts of devotion, has repeatedly caused such generous blood to be shed, has constituted for so many unfortunates the only source of courage for living, that it is almost a sacrilege to investigate it; all this, however, does not prevent it from possibly being meaningless.”
Albert Camus

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“The Civil Rights movement and later the anti–Vietnam War protests were reformative, not revolutionary, the expression of democratic objection and dissent in accord with the thinking of Jefferson, also with President John F. Kennedy’s having said in his 1961 inaugural address, Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country

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“The fantastic fears of violent revolt awakened by a news media in search of a profit stimulated the demand for repressive surveillance and heavy law enforcement that over the last fifty years has blossomed into one of the richest and most innovative of the nation’s growth industries. For our own good, of course, and without forgoing our constitutional right to shop…

 

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“The television camera…isn’t much interested in political reform (slow, tedious, and unphotogenic) and so, even in the first years of protest [in the 1960s], the news media presented the trouble running around loose in the streets as a[n armed, violent] revolution…

 

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“The medium is the message, and because the camera sees but doesn’t think, it substitutes the personal for the impersonal; whether in Hollywood restaurants or Washington committee rooms, the actor takes precedence over the act. What is wanted is a flow of emotion, not a train of thought, a vocabulary of images better suited to the selling of a product than to the expression of an idea.”
-Lewis Lapham

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“No attempt at revolt could ever hope to set up even a minimum of resonance in the rest of society, because that society is ‘soporific,’ submerged in a consumer rat race…Even if revolt were possible, however, it would remain the solitary gesture of a few isolated individuals, and they would be opposed not only by a gigantic apparatus of national (and supranational) power, but also by the very society in whose name they were mounting their revolt in the first place.”

Václav Havel, poet, playwright,  former president of Czech Republic

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“Governments are not overthrown by the poor, who have no power, but by the rich—when they are insulted by their inferiors and cannot obtain justice.”

-Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 20 BC

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Standing Home

I’ve never had a home to fight for. I moved around so much as a child that I graduated from my seventeenth public school as a new kid. Throughout my twenties, money in my bank account equalled passport stamps equalled minority status in most countries I trekked through. A local woman in rural Nepal once waggled her permanently broken arm in my face, grunting muted guttural sounds from her throat. When she opened her mouth to, I assumed from her body language, yell, I saw that she had no tongue, and few teeth. With her good arm she smacked my jacket pocket. Unable to comprehend, I dumbly stared at her. I remember smelling dried sweat and dal, the traditional local cuisine, on her sleeve. My role became clear to me that day: I was a privileged Westerner come to voyeur foreign squalor. Shame washed over me. I had no place there.

I told myself to go home, but I didn’t know where that was. 

This autumn, in an effort to make believe, I began building a tiny house on wheels. A place of my own. Before I started, I told myself that because I had no land yet on which to put it, I didn’t actually deserve it a roof over my head, a place to own and take responsibility for. That I hadn’t earned the right to a place to exist, or feel safe. Doesn’t everyone deserve that, one might wonder. Let me tell you: as I continue to build the tiny home, I choose to trust that I am also building something within myself that might one day belong within it. 

My friend Ari was headed out to Standing Rock to support the water protectors in their fight against the Dakota Access Pipeline. He knew no one out there, and had little money. When he announced on social media his intention to go, someone he didn’t know bought him a train ticket in support, or solidarity, or perhaps lack of knowing how else to help the water protectors keep their ancestral home but to put people on it who wouldn’t budge.

“Do you want to come out, Sean?” Ari asked.

My anger and sadness flared. My body shook in resonance. I sensed that the Native Americans knew in their souls that home was more than just a plot of land in a nice neighborhood, a piece of wisdom long lost to my ancestry. I thought that I could go to Standing Rock, and that my white maleness would declare my alacrity to heal the genocidal rift between our cultures. It seemed to fit my pursuit: I needed to know what it was to fight for home. I wanted viscerally to make eye contact with a man in riot gear from the other side of the line. To reach across the gulf between us: not just politics, but the narcissistic colonialist values that would keep a modern American man from honoring the Native struggle, not impeding it. I could empathize with the very human motivation to feed, clothe, and show one’s family that they loved them, but supporting a family at the expense of the freedoms police are employed to protect is another thing. I wanted the mercenary to see himself in me. I wanted my mother, who was a cop when I was a child, to see which side of the line I stood on.

To be sure, at Standing Rock I would stand isolated from my brethren in riot gear, and from the people I sought to aid. Maybe ‘aid’ was the wrong verb for what I wanted to do. Aid was what privilege-guilty Americans did to Africa; I wanted to be present, to listen. I wanted to wash dishes, chop firewood, build camp structures warm and strong enough to endure the frigid North Dakota winter. 

“Yes, I want to come,” I wrote back.

I contacted another friend who was moving his family to Omaha in three days. He replied immediately. Yes, there was room for me in the moving truck, if I would help with driving. 

Resistance set in. Did I have enough money? A warm enough sleeping bag? Was it ironic that I would consume heaps of fossil fuels in order to protest them? How long would I spend out there? My mother was coming to visit in a couple of weeks; would I be back in time? Would she understand if I wasn’t? 

I also had my own structure to build. The Northwest’s autumnal rains left me with precious few weather windows to work. Sunshine was forecast for the week. I had planned to sheathe and put up the walls, the most significant visual progress of the build: that of raising a pile of fastened lumber into a tangible house. 

Both options—going to Standing Rock; staying to build the tiny house—were noble holes to sink money into. Neither made sense. Why didn’t I just abandon both, give in to the poverty consciousness I was raised to believe—that there is never enough—and call my boss to pick up some more work, like a good American man? 

Fervent and confused, I backpedalled, and deferred choosing my destiny until morning.

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I’ve never seen an animal willingly subject itself to physical violence. I doubt that even David Attenborough has seen an impala in pursuit of a cheetah. Impalas know who wins that fight. 

Humans put themselves in harm’s way daily. We ride motorcycles, drink alcohol, join the military, stay in abusive relationships, eat fast food. Some beg to be whipped; stand unarmed in front of advancing war tanks; set themselves on fire to make a point.We put ourselves in dangerous situations because we either 1) ignore or haven’t developed our intuition and risk assessment to register that it’s dangerous, 2) think we’re cunning enough to avoid harm, or 3) because we’re harmed enough already that we indulge in it. 

Consciousness is a funny thing. With it, humans invented iPhones, democracy, and given a thousand names to the Great Mystery: Allah, Yahweh, Love, God. Consciousness is powerful, too, in that an individual may choose to make herself vulnerable, to chase the proverbial cheetah when her instinct says that only death will come if she does. It’s as if we are constantly asking ourselves, what if I do this?

My friend Ari knew that he might experience violence. In part, that’s why he went to Standing Rock. It felt important for him to witness people gathering to fight. It meant they believed in something. And from what I know of Ari, he probably needed something to believe in.

The complex cost of developing our consciousness is the very problem it provides us the ability to solve: as we discover new ways to create, the greater our power, and the closer we come to the values we’ve projected onto the gods. But we’re not perfect yet. Like gods in on-the-job training, humans make mistakes. We may assume that a particular resource is infinite, like oil. While framing my tiny house, I thought that I could get away with a mis-measured window frame. It wasn’t a big deal until much later when I couldn’t fit the window into the hole I’d created for it. Doing it right the first time would have been a pain, but I would have saved time and money.

By continuing to ask ‘what happens when I do this?’, observing the results, and changing our behavior accordingly, we enact and embody the very essence of what it is to be human—to ability to think, and to choose one path over another. Sometimes that looks like exploring the home culture, language, or land of others. In the not-so-distant past, European colonists coveted the land we now call America so much that they raped and pillaged for possession of it.

We did nearly everything we could to exterminate the Native American people. At Wounded Knee, we murdered them in cold blood. We systematically destroyed the bison population, once a primary food source. For decades we stole Native children, put them in boarding schools, made them wear “civilized” clothing, punished them for speaking their native languages. In the 18th century, the corporations of the day, including Hudson Bay Trading Company, traded and sold whiskey by the barrel to villages, creating a dependency that lasts into the 21st century. Later, we brought meth and heroin, drugs so powerful and addictive that the White Man has almost succeeded in our slow genocide. Now, an oil company is burying an oil pipeline under the Missouri River, a water source depended on by 17 million Americans. 

I woke up the next morning with a stone in my gut. I couldn’t go to Standing Rock. Not now. I needed to build my home. If there’s any gulf I needed to reach across, any rift I needed to heal, it was the shame of the privilege that allowed me to take up space. This body, this land, even this tiny house—these are not mine. They are   composed of resources lent to me—to us—for a time, and I can choose what to do with them. I have always deserved a home. The Standing Rock Sioux deserve their home. We all deserve clean water.

A month into his stay at Standing Rock, Ari was among dozens who were teargassed one night at a barricade where unarmed water protectors and heavily-armed members of the Morton County Sheriff department have faced off for months. A concussion grenade exploded in front of him, followed by a fire hose spraying bear mace. Rubber bullets and bean bags were shot at the protectors. In subfreezing temperatures, the fire hose unleashed torrents of water upon the protectors.

The concussion grenade had struck a young Native woman, tearing into her arm above the elbow. She stared dumbly at her attackers. When she opened her mouth to yell, she had no tongue. Ari’s role became clear to him. He had come to witness the fact that she and her people were the Impala being driven from their ancestral home. After generations of caring for this land, they no longer had a place there. Ari knew who would win this fight, and shame washed over him.

The suffering is no longer foreign.

(Photo courtesy of Leland B Benoist)

choosing to belong

Choosing to belong is a prerequisite for an engaged democracy.
-Eden Trenor

As hordes of suburbanites flock back into cities; as migrant youth from the reddish Midwest find that the path to enlightenment (or at least social progress) leads toward the blue spots on the map; as the millennials who spent the entire Bush administration learning to hack continue to amass their fortunes, Portland now finds itself a playground for a generation of adults whose relationship to money and responsibility was largely formed to the tune of hip hop culture and trillion-dollar wars.

Portland is experiencing rapid and vulnerable change. No one knows what the external landscape will look like in five or eight years. We have occasion, however, to mold our internal landscapes – which will, in turn, influence how we see what happens in our streets.

Wait.

Before we go there, let’s back up a minute.

Hi. My name is Sean. I’m a tall, kind of awkward, white sis male. I’ve lived in Portland three years. Although I’m not particularly sorry for moving here, I’m learning that, like many places, Portland has a social history that began long before I arrived. Though I feel respectful of those who came before me, I have no idea if they would have, or do, welcome my presence.

This relatively new idea of honoring those who came before is a burden the colonists didn’t warn us about because they probably didn’t care. It’s heavy, too: as the great-great-etc. grandchildren of Euro-American “pioneers” who showed up in Native territory as cavalry or caravans looking to fill orders or find a safe plot of land, we intrinsically empathize with our ancestors (and often romanticize their quests with video games and school curriculums), but the memory comes with a dichotomous guilt, because we’re also, ideally, able to see the humanity of the colonized (read: expelled, murdered) people.

Let’s consider the name of the new pedestrian bridge that spans the Willamette River, Tilikum Crossing. After requesting the public to submit name ideas, the City refused the overwhelming consensus to name the bridge after Kirk Reeves, a famous, recently deceased Portland street performer, and instead settled on ‘Tilikum’ – a Chinook Wawa word for ‘people.’ So it was: Bridge of the People. Yes. To honor the people who lived in the region since before the last Ice Age, and who stewarded one of the most abundant salmon runs in the world until the early 1800s, when Industry arrived from the East.

It seems that everyone was happy with the name. Two installations of art donated by the The Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde sits ceremonially inaccessible at either end of the crossing, flanked by subtle No Trespassing signs. Lest a curious pedestrian meander over to gander at one of the pieces (each a part of a three-piece project called ‘We Have Always Lived Here,’ by Chinook artist Greg A. Robinson), a TriMet rent-a-cop will roll up to warn you that it’s both unsafe and illegal to sit in the grass (my wife and I had a picnic next to one on Christmas day, before we were shooed away).

Regardless of name, the ceaseless machine of progress dictates that the new bridge would have gone up and been named Abigail Scott Duniway, or Kirk Reeves, or Wy’east, and would have been everything that it is now: a pretty coat of arms for Portland’s ironic commitment to sustainability. That the former curators of the lower Willamette Valley (so named for former locals also) were given an honorable mention by the great, etc. grandchildren of their murderers and captors must be a step in the right direction. As would be, for example, a better understood history of the black community’s history in Northeast by the new residents and officers gentrifying and patrolling Killingsworth St., a history all but blotted out as social decline by the city of Portland.

Frankly, I don’t know what the ‘right direction’ is. Capitalism’s penchant for growth is chasing the tail of the American Dream, a fantastical, dragon-like character I’ve read about in Hunter S. Thompson books. I only know that if I focus on the landscape that I don’t like, on the external events I do not want to happen, I will only see that which I do not like, and do not want to happen. It’s an easy downward spiral we’re wired to follow down, down, down.

The predominant culture in the United States (media, government) did not offer an effective model to teach me to take responsibility for my actions, my feelings, or my community. I doubt I’m the only one.

Through this project, Stumptown Lives, I’m trying to make up for lost lessons. I love this town, and am choosing to belong here because I haven’t another place to go. I want to be a part of the change. It’ll be a journey – one for which I hope you’ll join me, or at least hold me accountable for my mistakes along the way.