Korean Ducks Fall 2008

KD ma g azine Fall 2008 Volume 3 Issue 1

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features 12 BREEDING AN ATHLETE

Bull rider Jared Block rides and breeds bulls for a sport that’s not just eight seconds.

Story EMILY GILLESPIE Photos JASON REED

18 THE OTHER SIDE OF JAPAN

Anecdotes on a Chinese American’s experience of the country with his half Japanese, half Swiss German girlfriend on a trip to visit old friends and relatives.

Story & photos ROGER BONG

24 TAKING THE RIGHT STRIDES

A look at the running culture in Eugene from the perspective of a lifelong distance runner and coach.

Story MELISSA HOFFMAN Photos ROGER BONG

30 BAREFOOTIN’ IN MISSISSIPPI

University of Oregon student Lisa Anderson spends nine weeks in Mississippi and assimilates into the South with the widow of famed author Willie Morris.

Story & photo LISA ANDERSON

online TEACHING ENGLISH IN BRAZIL Brian Ward travels to Brazil to teach English and find himself a Brazilian girlfriend. This story is available online at kdmagazine.com.

Story & photos BRIAN WARD

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departments 4 EDITOR’S NOTE

Letter from the editor.

6 PASSPORT Experience the culture of Basque, located in both France and Spain, through its food, language and sport.

8 DIALOGUE Ajeet Khalsa discusses his life growing up in India and Eugene while learning the teachings of Sikh.

10 FORUM

People from around the country answer questions about this year’s election.

36 SPICES AND SPIRITS Tom’s Teahouse delivers an Eastern cultural experience, serving authentic Chinese meals and philosophies to the community.

34 COLORS AND SHAPES

Cottage Grove residents express their history and culture with murals painted on the town’s walls.

38 SOUNDWAVES A director of the St. Vincent de Paul Society of Lane County in Eugene, Oregon, puts a new spin on the vinyl record culture.

40 THE LAST A student investigates the erotic nightlife of the Galapagos Islands that is causing local law enforcement to lose all control.

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EDITOR’S NOTE

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clear theme has arisen in 2008: change.

The uproar of support for Barack Obama’s Campaign for Change caught the attention of the other candidates. Eventually, all of the presidential campaigns were following Obama’s lead. Hillary Clinton’s campaign slogan went through several incarnations before becoming “Ready for Change.”

John McCain has emphasized that, if elected, he will be the right person to change the country. We hunger for what each candidate promises—changes in Washington D.C. and foreign relations, how we see ourselves, and how America will be represented to the world.

KD Magazine has changed this year as well.

We began working on this issue with a handful of interesting stories, and as we went through the editing process, the theme of change became apparent.

Our copy editor traveled to Japan for two weeks, not as a tourist, but as a guest of his girlfriend’s family. After embracing her homeland and cultural heritage, he has come to regard the country as a second home (“The Other Side of Japan”).

Few of us knew there was more to the sport of bull riding than trying to hold on for more than eight seconds (“Breeding an Athlete”). An Oregon student took a summer internship in Jackson, Mississippi, where she lived with the widow of beloved Southern author Willie Morris. She confronted racial issues, danced with strangers, and learned to live an uninhibited lifestyle. Her attitude toward life was changed in profound ways (“Barefootin’ in Mississippi”).

Furthermore, this issue of KD challenges our perceptions of sex trafficking in an unlikely place (“Locked in Lust”), the ways we can recycle vinyl records (“The Vinyl Destination”), how a town represents its history (“Small Town, Large Canvas”). We look at the culture of running and, as a Eugene resident of 27 years explains, its importance to the community (“Taking the Right Strides”).

And we selected people from around the country who share their opinions about the decisions we face in this year’s election (“My America”).

In keeping with KD’s mission to celebrate diversity in Oregon and abroad, we’ve seen the diversity around us, and we’ve talked at length about how important a diverse culture is, what it has meant to each of us, and the change it has permeated in our lives.

For the past year, ever since Barack Obama began his campaign, I’ve been humming the Sam Cooke song, “A Change is Gonna Come.” This is an important year for America, regardless of who wins the presidential election. The people have demanded a change, and it’s going to come.

Lastly, thank you to everyone who helped fund and sustain us. It has been a thrill and a privilege to work on this issue of KD Magazine. It could not have been done without the dedicated and devoted staff of creative individuals working as a team to complete something we’ll be proud of for years.

Sincerely,

Peter Barna Editor in Chief

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KD ma g azine Fall 2008 Volume 3 Issue 1

EDITOR IN CHIEF Peter Barna MANAGING EDITOR Shalamar Clark COPY EDITOR Roger Bong ASSOCIATE EDITORS Simone Nash-Pronold, Emily E. Smith, Sarah Wilson WRITERS Lisa Anderson, Inka Bajandas, Melissa Bennett, Roger Bong, Kevin Bronk, Mengwei Deng, Abby Diskin, Emily Gillespie, Melissa Hoffman, Jason Reed, Emily Smith, Brian Ward, Scott Younker ART DIRECTOR Stuart Mayberry DESIGNERS Roger Bong, Kevin Bronk, Whitney Highfield, Rihana Kimball, Melissa Rezada PHOTO EDITOR Dave Martinez COVER: Jared Block prepares to ride one of his bulls. Learn more about Block in “Breeding an Athlete” on page 12.

PHOTOGRAPHERS Roger Bong, Ayaka Koyama, Jason Reed DIRECTOR Kelly Walker

CONTACT Mail: KD Magazine Executive Office EMU, Suite 4 Eugene, OR 97403 Email: kdmagazine@gmail.com KD Magazine is published quarterly by Korean Ducks, a nonprofit organization in Eugene, Oregon. The views and opinions expressed by KD members are strictly those of the authors. All contents of KD Magazine are legal property of Korean Ducks, except when noted. Permission is required to copy, reprint or use any text, photographs or artworks presented in KD Magazine.

ADVERTISING MANAGER Megan Taylor PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR Melissa Bennett PUBLIC RELATIONS Mengwei Deng WEB MANAGEMENT Kellie Hirata, Melissa Rezada, Vera Westbrook

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PASSPORT

ABOVE: Pintxos are a traditonal Basque snack made with green onions, tuna, egg, pimento stuffed olives, and anchovies all served on a baguette.

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he Basque country is an autonomous community comprising the northernmost region of Spain and a portion of southwestern France. Among the major cities within its hazy borders is San Sebastian, a culinary haven of unique and exquisite foods.

San Sebastian is one of the world’s overlooked gastronomic destinations and a thriving center for one of Basque’s most notable and replicated culinary traditions: the famous pintxo (pronounced pEEn-sho), or Basquestyle tapa. Pintxos are served in numerous bite-sized forms that most often consist of a slice of toasted baguette topped with combinations of fish, cheese, potatoes, eggs, and sometimes a subtle, light sauce for creative décor and a crowning flavor. Also

common is a tiny, savory omelet with similar ingredients.

Perched on the sunny coast of the Cantabrian Sea, San Sebastian enjoys a prime location for the finest of sea cuisine.

According to Bruce Schoenfeld of Food and Wine Magazine, Basques consume nearly

abundance of hake, baby eel, squid, shrimp, sea urchin, clams, crab, and cod, which is often bathed in salt and dried before being reconstituted and prepared for eating.

Txikiteo, a Basque-style pub-crawl, is the common pre-dinner ritual of pintxo tasting.

Before a typically late evening meal, Basque friends visit several pintxo bars, staying long enough at each to enjoy one or two pinxtos—prepared and beautifully arranged on the bar—and a small glass of zurito (beer). No one is seated, and afterward napkins are crumpled and dropped on the floor. Each person often pays for their pintxos through the honor system, rather than tracked by a bartender or waiter.

Pintxos represent an invaluable cultural tradition of the Basques, cherished in a region that lacks a national identity. - Kelly Walker

Pintxos represent an invaluable cultural tradition.

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four times the amount of seafood as the average French person, and for good reason: Fish is the shining star of most pintxos, creatively prepared to be daringly delicious.

The often underappreciated anchovy, for instance, graces dozens of Basque dishes, pleasantly surprising even the humblest of palates. Famous yet modest chefs of San Sebastian also make artful use of an

Photo and illustration by roger bong

To Eat Like a Basque

A Tongue The Devil Couldn’t Speak

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ne is born Basque, one speaks Basque, one lives Basque, and one dies as a Basque. The Basque language is a patrie, I almost said a religion.” So wrote Victor Hugo on a journey through the Basque country in 1833, and his words remain true today.

Although Castilian Spanish is the declared language of Spain, Basques have kept their traditional language of Euskera alive for centuries. This unique tongue supports historians’ claims that Basques are an indigenous population descending directly from prehistoric times, partly because many Euskeran words contain the root word “aitz,” meaning “stone.” Historian James E. Jacob notes that Euskera “is the only non-Indo-European language native to Europe and occupies a separate place in most linguistic atlases.”

According to legend, the devil tried for seven years to learn Euskera in order to tempt the Basques, but was unable to speak the language. The devil returned to hell

frustrated and bewildered after successfully pronouncing only two words: “yes” and “no” (“bai” and “ez”).

The powerful exclusiveness of a language so difficult to learn and so fervently guarded by its speakers has helped the Basque population to endure nearly 2,000 years of invasions, foreign domination, and pressures of cultural assimilation.

During Francisco Franco’s 40-year dictatorship over Spain, for instance, all things Basque were forbidden because Franco’s vision for Spain was solely Castilian. The Basques suffered repression and an attempted erasure of their history.

Today, however, Euskera remains at the heart of the Basque culture, sustaining a strong nationalism where even national borders are denied.

Through the Pyrenees Mountains echoes the Basque proverb, “Izan gabe eman dezakegun gauza bakarra da zoriona,” meaning “Happiness is the only thing we can give without having.” - Abby Diskin

Heavy Gaming

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lthough the best-known Basque sport is likely pelota, now widely called jai alai, Basque is also considered the home of the world’s strongest men. From a history of farming and a deep connection with nature has arisen a tradition of rural sports, including wood cutting, stone lifting, stone dragging, grass cutting, tug-of-war, hay bale lifting, corn carrying, and sheepdog trials.

Harrijasoketa, or stone lifting, likely evolved from early quarrying and young men aiming to prove their strength.

Matches are judged on the shape and weight of the stone, the number of times the stone is lifted, time taken to do so, and other factors. The most revered of stone lifters is Iñaki Perurena, affectionately known as the “Colossus of Leiza,” who became a champion stone lifter at age 17 and continued to break his own records year after year. In 1987, he broke the 300-kilogram barrier and went on to lift 318 kilograms in later years. Today, lifting records exceed an amazing 325 kilograms, or 716 pounds.

Aizkolaritza, or woodcutting, is perhaps the most deeply rooted of Basque customs.

Rich mountain forests initiated flourishing charcoal and lumber industries, leading

to a great workforce of woodcutters and eventually to the creation of related games.

In a typical competition, each man attempts to split a row of beech logs, standing on each and swinging his axe between his legs. Such a sport requires meticulous care and extreme strength, making it a popular exhibition in village competitions.

A native Basque, and sponsor of the World Championships of Basque Woodcutting, told reporter Jerome Socolovsky, “Rural sports really show how old the Basque nation is, because our sports are based on the work of the farm and rural life—cutting wood, lifting weights, moving weights. What man did when he arrived on earth is what we do as sports.” - Kelly Walker

Bacalao A La Vizcaina (Basque Codfish) 1 pound salt cod 1-2 cloves crushed garlic 2 eggs beaten 1 jar (1/2-1 cup) pimientos flour for breading 1 small onion (optional) 1/2 cup oil Soak codfish overnight in cold water to remove salt. Will need to change water several times. Dry fish with paper towel and cut into serving pieces. Roll each piece in the flour and then dip in beaten egg mixture. In hot oil, sauté chopped onions and garlic cloves. Brown cod pieces and place in casserole dish.

Add pimientos, sliced or chopped, to fry pan. Scrape pieces from bottom of pan and pour mixture over codfish. Bake in 300 degree oven for 50-60 min. Enjoy!

The origin of bacalao, or salt cod, is hotly debated among historians, many who track it back to the Basque country. Basques are renowned for their rich history of fishing and whaling. The invention of salt-curing, adapted from the Vikings’ dry-curing methods, allowed fishermen to make longer excursions, even out to cod-abundant Norway, without their catch spoiling. Basques marketed bacalao across the globe, and today it is a staple to southern European diets. The fish is cured by covering it in a thick layer of salt, and letting it dry for at least several days, sometimes years.

Before consumption, the flimsy fillet must be soaked and rinsed many times in cold water until it is reconstituted and nearly its original size. However, this technique is not always used, for there are reportedly more than 1,000 bacalao recipes.

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DIALOGUE

Being the Sikh Ajeet STORY KEVIN BRONK PHOTO DAVE MARTINEZ

ABOVE: Ajeet Khalsa has fallen in love with the culture and teachings of Sikhism. From the age of six until his freshman year of college, Khalsa spent much of his time in an Indian boarding school.

Ajeet Khalsa discusses his life and faith as a Sikh, what it means to him and the people around him, and his drastic transformation that challanged his practices.

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At 6 years old Ajeet Khalsa boarded a plane with his twin brother to Amritsar, Punjab in northern India where he would start his first year of school at Miripiri Academy, a private Sikh (pronounced like the word “seek”), boarding school. His hair, grown down past his waist, was neatly tied up in a white turban. This flight was Khalsa’s commencement to a pattern of annual commutes from Eugene to Amritsar.

Eugene was still considered Khalsa’s home (as well as more than 140 other Sikhs and Sikh companies like Yogi Tea, Golden Temple Food Products and Akal Security), but for the next 12 years, he would spend three quarters of his time in India.

In fall of 2004, Khalsa didn’t return to

India; instead, he began his freshman year at the University of Oregon. Prior to this, he had never attended an American school.

Twelve years in India had taught Khalsa about the Indian culture and the beliefs of Sikhism, the religion his parents had fallen in love with and converted to in 1972 after learning about the faith from their yoga teacher and mentor.

However, in the last four years Khalsa has been confronted with his personal beliefs of Sikhism and its interaction with the ideology of Western culture.

What is Sikhism?

We’re to have to a human experience.

You don’t go off to hills and meditate and not interact with life. It’s all about a balance that creates a good life, or creates “Sikh,” which is “to learn” in Punjabi. We are part of one God, every living being has energy, and that is the so-called God. When you feel powerful, that is the God within you waking up. Connecting to that energy is the point of life, in a way. If you can connect to that energy, then you can find happiness.

What role has Sikhism played in your life?

It’s played a huge role since I was young.

I was born in Eugene as a Sikh. My mother and father converted into Sikhism in the ‘70s. They got into yoga and then they became interested in Sikhism because of their teacher, our teacher. He was an Indian Sikh who came to Eugene to teach yoga, but his students started asking about Sikhism and he started talking about it.

As time went on, he kind of started teaching more about Sikhism because that became a bigger part of what he was doing, but he was really focused on yoga. My parents were really into it, so they became Sikhs also because they wanted to emulate what he was. And I was born into that.

Sikhism in one essence, sent me to India for my entire grade school. But Sikhism has also allowed me to view the world in a very unique way as far as just looking at our teachings, practicing yoga, and understanding that we all come from one source. Although I might look different, or anyone might look different, we are all coming from the same places. The differences don’t separate us, they actually bring us together.

Tell me about boarding school in India.

For some reason I always had a longing to go. But when it came time to go, god, that was shocking. I remember flying over there on the plane. I was so freaked out.

I was probably crying half the time. At 6 years old, I was, in a way, by myself. My twin brother and I lived in a dorm with 172 other Indian kids, and very few of them spoke English. It was rough times, but it was fun. We were young, and we stuck together.

But when I was 10, I really started to realize I was in this whole new culture and all of a sudden I got into learning the language, and understanding what Sikhism meant to several million Indians.

And that’s how I fell in love with Sikhism. I realized that Sikhism was a religion, in my opinion, that meant to learn—it meant to learn in your own way.

So Sikhism to me meant one thing, but to

somebody sitting right next to me, it totally meant a different thing.

Do you believe there is an afterlife?

Sikhs believe in reincarnation. We’re here to learn, so it’s our choice to be here on this earth in this physical body. And once we learn what we need to learn, we then don’t get reincarnated—we become energy with no physical form.

Does Sikhism object to other religions?

There is no writing that I can think of that condemns any other religion. There is definitely writing that says I don’t agree with what these people do. I’m not going to deny that. But as long as you are completing your tasks on this earth you’re fine. You want to experience love and getting your heart broken. You want to experience bliss in the human form. You want to experience giving all your wealth to somebody else— whatever it is I know that’s a hard thing for people to get around.

Do you ever question Sikhism?

Yes, but that’s the beauty of being a human. You get to question things. I think everything should be questioned. That’s where I am in my life; I’m starting to question a lot of what I’ve become.

What’s prompted that?

I’ve now been in the U.S. for four straight years. In India, I kind of got away from the fact that there are conscious people who are not Sikhs. After being back here my mind started thinking, if you’re not a Sikh, you’re doing something wrong. And all of a sudden I was confronted with that, and I was like you don’t believe that, Ajeet.

And I just revaluated it. I was having a really bad night, and I went into Gurdware, the Sikh church. I was in a lot of pain, and I just wasn’t happy. All I thought to myself is let it all go, let my ego go, let it come to me, stop going out and trying to grab it. And I let it all go. After that it just got worse. I swear to god I fell off a cliff after that. I woke up with chest pains and having panic attacks. All of a sudden my body really started to change. In yoga we believe your body is trying to tell you what your soul is going through. I asked, “What’s wrong with my life?” I dropped out of school, sold a company I had started, and I began to focus on myself. That’s what got me thinking, why do I have turban?

cleanses our energy through our hair. If we cut it, then our body has to use all this energy to grow it back out. A lot of people don’t know there is a point when your hair just stops growing. Your hair is like an antenna to your soul. In a practical sense, the turban keeps it all up and neat because your energy is in your hair. When it gets all tangled and dirty, then you get all cramped up. Your hair is then a very powerful thing.

A lot of people shave their heads because they just want to cleanse themselves, and that’s what happened to me. I just wanted to start new, so I cut all my hair and cut off my beard.

Did that help?

It worked in some ways. It probably wasn’t the easiest way to do things. The easiest way would have been to use what I knew and meditate. But I was just not in a place to meditate at that time. I couldn’t get myself to sit and calm down. I really don’t suggest it to my other Sikh friends. My hair meant a lot to me—it was my identity, and I’ve kind of lost that. But maybe that’s what my soul wanted. There are certain things we all want to experience, and maybe I wanted to experience this kind of rebirth.

Do people react to you differently now?

A lot of my friends from the States were much more shocked. They didn’t treat me different; they just didn’t understand where I was coming from. I started to have to recreate who I was to people and show I wasn’t entirely different. I do still have the same beliefs as before.

What do you see of Sikhism in the future?

I think religions will die out eventually.

I just don’t think they are part of the Aquarian age, the age of experience, the age of awareness. I think people will start to be aware of everything themselves, and they won’t need all these rules and dogma to steer them in the right direction. Putting all these rules and regulations in front of you isn’t, to me, part of the experience.

So does that set apart Sikhism from other religions?

Well, in Sikhism, we do not convert whatsoever. We don’t tell you it’s the right way to do it. We have no interest in making more Sikhs.

Why did you wear a turban?

So how does Sikhism survive?

I wore it for the scientific yogic part of it. We grow our hair long because our body

People just see what we do, and if they like it, they just come by. KD WWW.KDMAGAZINE.COM

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FORUM

My America People across the country answer questions about the 2008 Presidential Election STORY PETER BARNA & SHALAMAR CLARK REPORTERS MELISSA BENNETT & KEVIN BRONK A

Instructions to Voter Use a pencil or a pen to ensure your vote counts, completely fill in the oval to the left of the response of your choice.

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Name: Nathan M. Newlun Age: 22 Eugene, OR

Attention!

Let the people speak for a change in America. As President Bush prepares to say goodbye to his eight-year presidential term this January, the race for the White House has become a historical event marked by the groundbreaking nominations of Barack Obama and Sarah Palin.

The election has called Americans to confront issues regarding age, gender, race, foreign affairs, war, energy, and a devastated economy. Inspirational speeches, heated debates, and investigative news reports will help voters decide the future of America. So we ask the people: How do you see this year’s race?

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What were your reactions to McCain’s and Obama’s convention speeches?

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What top three issues do you feel are most important in this year’s election? a) b) c)

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What bearing does race, gender, and age have on your decision of president and vice president?

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What are your personal feelings about the 2008 Presidential Election?

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What is your party affiliation? a) Democrat; b) Republican; c) Independent; d) decline to answer

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Editors’ Note

Some responses have been edited in length while maintaining original context.

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2

Unfortunately, I missed them.

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a) Stopping the wars over seas and preventing another one. b) Becoming more eco-friendly and energy independent as a country c) Helping fix our economy None at all. To me experience isn’t necessarily a must either, just someone that will stand up for the people rather than there own and corporate interests.

I’m excited but nervous to find out who America is going to choose to lead this country. If McCain gets elected I may have to run to Canada.

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I registered as a Republican so I could vote for Ron Paul, but I consider myself more of an Independent.

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There really is only one choice and that’s Obama.

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The New York Times, CNN, The Washington Post.

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[The] DNC was most respectable and applicable to [a] variety of audiences compared to the speech McCain gave, which [was] geared towards specific audiences.

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a) International polices b) Funding for higher education c) Health care

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It’s time for a change. The American people need a new look for the diverse people that make up [the] citizens of the USA.

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Seems like a movie scene but it’s not, it’s reality, and [it’s] happening. Quite interesting.

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Democrat.

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Obama.

Name: Lynnette Baer Age: 52 Littleton, CO

Name: Anonymous Age: 22 New York, NY

Who are you voting for? a) McCain; b) Obama; c) other; d) undecided

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Mainly CNN, they seem to be the most unbiased.

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What news sources are you getting your election coverage from?

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1

4

Questions

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CNN, FOX News, MSNBC, nightly news, Internet—email and news.

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Chose not to listen.

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a) Economy b) Iraq c) Illegal immigration and the effect on the economy

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None.

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I’m excited that there seems to be an effort to create change from both parties. I am concerned about the tax increases promised by Obama as well as his experience. I really like the fact that the Republicans have a woman on the ticket.

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Republican.

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McCain.

Name: Andy Alcocer Age: 20 Monterey, CA

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The Associated Press, Drudge Report, Fox News, and blogs.

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I thought Obama’s was decent enough, very safe and non-controversial. A little broad as to specifics and a little too lofty with his whole “change” theme. McCain’s was well done but a little too much reference to his resumé; Sarah Palin’s selection overshadowed him.

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a) Economy

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b) Afghanistan and Iraq c) Illegal immigration 4

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was mind blowing. I was lucky enough to see it at Mile High [Stadium]. I did not see Biden’s speech because I was volunteering. Palin’s speech angered me because half of it was her bio and the other half was smart-ass remarks about Obama to get the crowd going.

McCain…I was not impressed by his speech.

Very little for me personally because I vote on a basis of the candidate’s position on the issues that matter to me, and also on a basis of their personal character.

Regardless of who wins, I think it will be a semi-good thing for the country because either administration will have a groundbreaking achievement for America in the form of either a black president or female vice president. I feel that the election of Obama would be a bad thing for the country from his stated intentions of raising taxes on nearly every income group of the country for the “common good,” his intention to possibly expand the war in Afghanistan to northern Pakistan (a nuclear-armed state), and his liberal social views.

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Republican.

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McCain.

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Name: Jessica Williams Age: 19 Eugene, OR 1

CNN, late night comedy shows, friends, local newspaper.

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Inspiration and anger.

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a) Health care b) Troops/war c) Funding for colleges (young generation education funding).

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Nothing in terms of the candidates’ stances on issues/topics. A lot in terms of making history.

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Democrat.

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Obama.

Name: Katie Tate Age: 21 Littleton, CO 1

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D

A wide range. I am a little biased, CNN, Yahoo, candidate’s website.

I was at the DNC, so I was super excited. I thought his [Obama’s] speech E

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MSNBC.

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a) War b) Dependency on foreign oil (and drilled in Alaska) c) Health care

I thought Obama was very inspiring, while I felt like I was being lied to by McCain.

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a) Foreign policy b) Energy c) Health care

Race does not matter. Gender does not matter. Age...just because McCain is so old and has health problems.

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None.

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I feel like it’s been very interesting, and I am glad so many people are becoming interested. I just get so annoyed watching the Karl Rove-type politics of the McCain campaign.

I am really excited about the election.

I have been volunteering with the DNC and I just started helping with the Obama campaign. I am excited about the presidential debates. People are more into having debates with each other and more people have stronger opinions than the last election. Yes, both candidates have their flaws. I hope people vote on ideas and issues rather than who they would rather hang out with. I think a lot more younger people are going to vote [in] this election.

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Democrat.

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Obama.

Democrat.

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CNN, BBC.

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Obama.

2

I was really impressed with Obama’s speech. I thought he had a good balance pointing out the weak points in McCain’s campaign, but also emphasized his future policies. However, I am a little worried about how he is going to execute his visions with [a] lack of funding.

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The local news, and the Internet.

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I did not watch either convention, but I heard Barack Obama’s speech was really good.

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a) Iraq War b) Energy crisis c) Environment

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a) Health care b) Gas prices c) The War on Iraq (I would really like for our troops to come home).

4

If I was a Republican, I would be a little worried about McCain’s age and his health history. That may have swayed my vote a little, but I don’t vote that way.

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Race, gender, nor age has an effect on my decision for President and Vice President.

I hope that whoever is elected into office will make a positive change for our country because our country needs it.

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Democrat.

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Obama.

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Name: Christina Diamond Age: 21 Lake Oswego, OR

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Name: Catrice L. Tidwell Age: 23 Clackamas, OR

Inspiring because of it being my first election and the media coverage directed toward my generation.

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Name: Steve Ruff Age: 22 Springfield, MA

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I think this year is very exciting.

Everyone is getting involved and has [an] opinion of the candidates.

It is getting a lot of coverage because we are in serious need of change.

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Democrat.

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Obama.

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Raising and riding bulls STORY EMILY GILLESPIE PHOTOS JASON REED

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s dusk fades to nightfall and the stadium lighting grows in intensity, the dust-filled air slowly settles in the large horse arena where a crowd of roughly 5,000 awaits the main event, one which elicits wide smiles and cheers that can turn to cringes and moans within seconds.

A young man wearing a plaid shirt, leather vest, helmet, and flashy white chaps with green and purple ribbons mentally prepares himself for one thing: staying mounted on a 2,000-pound bull for eight seconds.

Although young, the rider exudes the confidence of a veteran as he focuses on staying on the beast. The crowd grows quiet as he raises his arm and nods his head, indicating that he is ready. A bullfighter opens the gate of the small bucking chute to the arena.

An announcer calls the scene as the fast-paced competition begins.

The mostly-brown bull with white spots and long horns to match its feisty personality, fights, kicks, spins and bucks with all its might to get the rider off its back. Both rider and bull have been preparing for this competition for years, and the possible outcomes could range from a clean, safe, exhilarating ride to a bone-breaking, blood-spilling disaster. This is what they live for.

Jared Block, 21, has been riding bulls since his junior year in high school. He grew up raising cattle in Silverton, Oregon, going to rodeos as a spectator with his family. Throughout his childhood, he participated in sports like soccer and snowboarding, but eventually turned to an extreme sport he had always wanted to try: bull riding. “It’s just one big, fast, rough dance, pretty much,” Block says. “And you’re not always leading.”

“I figured the first time he did it and hit the ground, that would be all,” Block’s mother, Jeri, says. “But instead, his very first ride he won money; so that was that.”

Just one year later, Block got his two younger brothers, Brian and Mikey, involved in the sport of riding bulls. Now, the Block family has changed its lifestyle, going from the days of quiet farm life to traveling forty weekends out of the year to compete in rodeos around the country. “When I was younger and learning, I would always have a lot of jitters, whether it’s because I’m anxious to win or afraid of getting hurt,” he says. “Nobody likes getting hurt…people say they’re not afraid, but everyone’s afraid.”

Block, 6 feet tall with dark brown hair, has ridden bulls for close to five years and has overcome most of his beginner’s fears.

He rides in professional competitions that award the top rider as much as $5,000 in prize money.

After a few years of using friends’ ranches for their bulls and practice pens, the three brothers decided to start their own business, Block Brothers Cattle Company. Their ranch, 170 acres of grass and hay fields, is home to over 200 cattle and bulls, which the brothers raise and breed. Bordered by a creek and wooden fences, their property of trees and hilly terrain provides ample space for their animals and rustic lifestyle. “I owned my first couple cows when I was in the third or fourth grade,” Block says. “It pretty much came natural to me.” This business gave Block a good perspective on the animals and sparked his interest in breeding bulls. Through bull riding and raising cattle, Block says he understands that the bull is just as important as the rider in the sport.

Bull riding is revered by most as the main event at rodeos, but few people know that the bulls are regarded as athletes in this sport, accounting for half of the rider’s score. After the rider has successfully stayed mounted on the bull for eight seconds without his free hand touching the bull or himself, the bull and rider are then scored. The bull is judged on the difficulty of the ride he gives the cowboy. The judges base their scores on speed, power, drops and kicks, direction changes, and body rolls, when the bull kicks his hind feet to the side while midair. The rider is judged on how well he matches the bull’s movements and the level of

ABOVE: Having just taken a nasty spill on his head, Block picks up his braided bull rope from the soft dirt floor of his training arena. LEFT: Block trains on his bulls at his family’s personal arena which is about 20 meters in diameter and located about 20 minutes east of Salem, Oregon.

control and rhythm he displays throughout his ride. “Style points” are awarded to the rider for difficult stunts like spurring the bull, kicking his heals into the bull’s side. The bull and rider are each scored out of 50, making a flawless ride worth 100 points. “It’s like you and the bull are a team. You’re competing against each other, but you’re also working together for that final score,” Block says.

Even when the rider falls off before the eight-second mark, the bull is still scored. Ultimately, the bull wins the competition if it bucks off the rider, and riders consider it a feat to “cover” a bull, staying mounted on the animal for eight seconds, especially if the bull is bred to be aggressive. The Professional Bull Riders (PBR) presents an annual Bucking Bull of the Year award for the most accomplished bull. This prestigious award is decided by the scores the bull receives and by the number of cowboys it has bucked off. The bulls can also receive a handful of titles such as World Champion Bull, which is earned at the PBR World Finals.

These kinds of bulls are what good riders want—the rank bulls.

Rank bulls are sought out for their athletic ability and their high buck-off rate. They are the bulls that typically make it to the final round, called the “short-go,” and are known to get the riders to the pay window every time. However, Block says that the money is rarely what keeps cowboys going in the sport. “The guys that really crave it want to be on those best bulls to challenge themselves as a person, as an athlete, as a bull rider,” he says. “It’s not about the money; it’s because they love it.”

“It’s just one big, fast, rough dance.”

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ABOVE: Sitting on a snorting, feisty bull in the chute, Block prepares for the wild ride about to commence by tightening a bull rope that has been caked with sticky rosin to help him keep a firm grip. His tight fist is worked into the “sweet spot” of the bull, the part of the bull’s back that “breaks” when bucking.

Many bulls today are as well-known for their good performances as their riders, and pairs often receive equal attention by announcers, who discuss the reputations each have created during their careers in the sport. “The animals are having just as much fun as the boys are,” Jeri says. “I guess when you’re around them all the time and see them in the field, [you] see they have different attitudes.” She describes how easy it is to tell that the bulls are invested in the sport: the bulls get excited to load up in the trailers, knowing what they are getting ready to do. “After [the riders] get thrown off, you’ll see a lot of them will take a lap around the arena with their head up. That’s bull talk for ‘look at me,’” she says with a laugh.

Block continues to gain new perspective on the sport and the animals through his transition from rider to breeder. “There’s definitely a different technique to raising them,” Block says. He explains that the bulls are not animals that spend their days idly in fields; they get run around the pasture by their owners to maintain their strength. “A lot of work [goes] into their diets.

They’re just like any human athlete, they need that energy and those carbohydrates to keep them going and staying healthy,” Block says. The bulls at the Block ranch eat high-energy diets.

They get carbohydrates from grain and feed mixed with molasses, protein from alfalfa, and fiber from straw. Haylage, which is hay that is baled before it has dried, is also a good food source to keep

the bulls in top shape; it is fermented, which allows for easier digestion and for the bull to retain more of the vitamins and proteins.

Young bulls, not strong enough to withstand the weight of riders, are trained to buck in practice arenas with a machine called a bucking dummy. This machine is a small, aluminum, box-shaped contraption that attaches to the bull’s back to simulate the weight of a rider.

To train the larger bulls and to practice themselves, the Block brothers have built a practice arena, roughly 20 meters in diameter, inside one of their barns. The arena is lined on one side by hay bales, where Jeri watches her boys. The Block boys ride the bulls while their father, Mike, helps bullfight in the arena.

Occasionally, they invite neighbor and friend Bobby Brooks, a professional rodeo announcer, and play music to create a realistic rodeo atmosphere.

Block gets ready to ride one of his favorite bulls, Don Vito, a large white bull with black spots. He prepares the thick, braided bull rope by rubbing it with rosin, a substance used to improve the rider’s grip. He ties the stiffened rope around the girth of Don Vito’s massive body. The bull rope is the only thing Block has for control. He works to position his gloved hand securely under the rope, looking for the bull’s “sweet spot”—the part of the bull’s back that “breaks” when bucking. When a bull bucks, its hind legs can get so high that its back concaves and appears to break. “You have to keep your fist closed tight around that rope,” Block says.

Don Vito grunts and shifts his weight in the chute, hitting the gate with his muscular body. Once Block has everything in place, the chute opens. Don Vito, free from confinement, whips his head out and charges his body. Practice is underway.

Bulls in the rodeo industry are often as famous as their riders.

The names of legendary bulls live on in their bloodlines and are common knowledge to the stakeholders of the sport. Names like Oscar, Little Yellow Jacket, Blueberry Wine, Scat Cat, and Bodacious are famous in the history of bull riding, and some are even commemorated in the form of action figures. These bulls are highly admired by the rodeo community and their reputations create high expectations for their offspring. A large amount of research goes into the genetics of the animals and getting them to buck. American Bucking Bull, Inc. documents the bloodlines of registered bulls by creating a database of ownership, breeding, and training for bulls today. The semen of famous bulls can run for as much as $1,300.

Mud Pie is one of the Blocks’ young and promising bulls, and is the first bull they have bred on their own. His sire was a professional bull named Mudslide, and his grandfather was the legendary Mossy Oak Mudslinger, who in his prime was ranked the third-toughest bull to ride in the nation. Although still in its training stages, Block says Mud Pie should have an exciting career; only 1 year old and already bucking hard with the bucking dummy. Although the breeders spend a lot of energy training the bulls by getting them used to the chute and the arena, the bulls either buck or they don’t. But that is not a concern with Mud Pie. His strength and ability is apparent as he bucks and spins in the Blocks’ arena, throwing the bucking dummy from his back within a few seconds. “He’s bred pretty well,” Block says. “We have really high hopes for him.”

Learning to raise and train the bulls has given Block a newfound respect for the animals. He plans to continue to ride bulls while maintaining his business. “I’ll be riding for a while,” he says. “Someday will be that day when I decide to quit, but I love it all.” As he sits on Don Vito in his practice chute, he looks down with pride at his pet, competitor, and companion. He pats Don Vito and says, “They have to be treated and respected, because they’re half the game.” KD

“Nobody likes getting hurt… people say they’re not afraid, but everyone’s afraid.”

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ABOVE: Mud Pie, a young bull in training, chases Block around the arena and sends the cowboy flying over the railings. BELOW: One of the Block family’s many bulls takes a break from grazing in the dirt to gaze at the intruder in his pen. The old bull has been retired but still has a hot streak in him and plays the protector role for the younger bulls on Block’s ranch.

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The Other Side

of Japan With the right people, a trip to the Land of the Rising Sun is more than just a vacation—it’s the way back home

STORY & PHOTOS ROGER BONG

E

xotic, perhaps, but just the opposite is true. Where trees grow tall, seeds are planted. Here lie the memories of childhood, where such nostalgia could never exist. For some, the wind blows with familiarity. For others, it sweeps them off the ground.

Photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson once wrote, “All too often, tourists get lost in comparisons with their own country.” I couldn’t agree more, for my hopes are to know Japan as intimately as Melanie does.

I snap a photo of a sign that reads “700 Yen” in large, red type. “Is this amazing for you?” Melanie asks.

I turn around. “Why, is it not for you?”

She shakes her head in agreement. Everything is normal here. The narrow roadways, the crowds of people, the near silence in train cars and the vending machines on almost every street—all these are common to her.

Melanie was born to a Japanese mother and a Swiss German father. Her experience as a “half” in Japan gives her an advantage over her pupils—she knows the country from both native and European perspectives. She grew up in Yokohama with her brother, Teddy, and her sister, Pamela.

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When Melanie was 10, her family moved to Honolulu, which is where I met her. We have been dating since July 2006.

Outside, the summer symphony of cicada, or semi, that fills the humid air is as familiar as the July heat. Semi live underground as nymphs for up to 17 years, but they spend a small fraction of their lives as adults above ground.

“It’s sad,” Pam says. “They only survive for a few weeks, yet they try so hard to sing.” Melanie’s aunt later finds a dead semi when we are staying in Izukogen. She holds it between her fingers, happy to show us the insect whose large body is no more tremendous than the high-pitched songs it once produced. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen one.

Back in Fujisawa, where Melanie’s aunt and uncle reside, the smell of trees, concrete, automobiles, and salt water mix to create a fragrance Melanie recognizes as home. She and her siblings frequently visited Fujisawa during their childhood.

This is a privilege for me, to experience Japan with Melanie and her family. I’m not another foreigner staying in hotels and touring places often shown in travel books or on television shows. Old friends, relatives, and familiar places like Yamate eki or the tako koen—these are my tour guides.

T

his may be the last chance they have to see their ojiichan. Melanie’s grandfather moved into a care home almost a decade ago.

Since then, they visit him whenever they return to Japan.

Despite my Chinese-Indonesian heritage, the qualities I share with Melanie and her siblings are clear: tall, slim bodies, round eyes that slant slightly, thick eyebrows and dark hair. To ojiichan, I might look like another member of the family.

I just hope he greets me warmly, because I’m the first non-relative to visit him at his care home.

The ash-colored hairs atop his head look like metallic fibers reaching for a nearby magnet. His light-yellow polo shirt and navy slacks are, at best, too dressy to sleep in, but his disposition exudes indifference.

He doesn’t remember their names, so Pam opens a photo album.

“Dare?” she asks in Japanese, and points at a picture of Melanie and me standing in front of our Eugene apartment, where we live while I attend school and Melanie works.

He scratches his forehead and shrugs.

“Me...” Pam hints to him, “Mela...Melanie.”

“Melamie,” he says. We chuckle at his mispronunciation, our eyes gleaming from the humor and sorrow the old man stirs in us.

Sunlight passes through the drapes and casts a soft yellow across the room. We spend the next forty-five minutes playing a game of catch, laughing when ojiichan fakes a throw in one direction and sends it another.

Unlike his impaired memory, his reflexes are remarkable for a man nine decades old.

ABOVE: Melanie’s aunt shows off a dead semi. PREVIOUS LEFT: An advertisement for haircuts in the Asakusa train station. PREVIOUS RIGHT: Tourists browse the shops in the Nakamisedori at Sensoji Temple in Tokyo.

I

n a Japanese class at the University of Oregon I once saw a video of an American student with a home-stay family in Japan. The family spoke to her quietly and ended each sentence with desu or masu, a grammatical way of expressing formality. I was prepared to do the same with Melanie’s relatives.

“Arigatougozaimashita,” I say to her uncle on our last day in Japan, just before we board the train to Narita airport. I spoke informally to him during the entire trip, so I want to sound polite when thanking him for his hospitality.

He waves his hand and grunts, saying something I can’t comprehend.

Teddy translates for me: “He said you don’t need to be so formal.”

Their uncle is also a generous person. His favorite time to give gifts is after supper.

“Pamela present, grapefruit,” he grins, and reaches for something else.

“Teddy present, kiwi,” he says, and hands Teddy four fuzzy fruits.

Melanie’s uncle never laughs at his own jokes, so it’s hard to tell if he’s serious.

“Melanie present,” he says, pausing to search for the English equivalent, “plum.” He puts the plastic tray down and smiles.

“Roger present, daikon,” he says, holding up a pale, ten-inchlong radish. He has either an odd sense of humor or a strange way of educating me. Not only is daikon a common food in Japan, but it is also a metaphorical part of Japanese human physiology.

He points at the root, then at the calf of his leg. “All Japanese girls, daikon ashi,” he says, explaining that ABOVE: Pam (front center) rides a train to a nearby shopping mall. “It gets even worse during rush hour,” she Japanese girls’ legs resemble the says of the crowds. (Photo courtesy of Yuko Otake) radish. I laugh and tell him I already knew that—not that it’s true, but it’s a stereotype similar to “all blondes are

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ABOVE: Yuka (left) and Haru (right) rest after a game of tag at Sensoji Temple. BELOW: Paper lanterns hang outside a temple during a summer festival in Fujisawa.

dumb.” He nods his head and looks down. Without the ability to elaborate further on the subject, he gets up and leaves the table.

Rarely do I speak Japanese with him because he so often talks to me in English. His vocabulary is impressive, though

“Azuki, my daughter.” A watermelon with the dog’s likeness would compliment the framed pictures, calendars and personalized tote bags on display inside his house.

“Baseball bat,” he adds, this time in English. I burst with laughter and the tea I’m drinking goes back in my cup. I

I’m not another foreigner staying in hotels and touring places often shown in travel books or on television shows. he lacks key grammatical elements.

The next evening, he points out that I’m the only person to spin a cob of corn while eating it. Everyone else eats a row first and then spins it.

“How do you eat watermelon?” he asks us in Japanese.

Some dive face-first into a slice, others cut it for a cleaner approach. I inquire about square watermelons, which sell for 10000 Yen in Japan—about $100 US. “Don’t they genetically modify the DNA to make it?” I ask.

“What?” Teddy says. “No, it’s all natural. They put it in a box at a certain stage and it grows into a cube.” I’m not convinced, but before I can debate Teddy’s claim we begin to explore the possibilities of watermelonshaping: triangle, octagon, hand, and face.

“Azuki mold,” Pam says.

Azuki is a red bean used in many Japanese foods. Azuki is also the name of their uncle’s 5-year-old shiba inu, a native Japanese dog breed.

The night before, he held Azuki in his lap and said to me,

cover my mouth and close my eyes, hoping I’ll quickly regain composure, though I don’t mind the embarrassment—I already feel comfortable in their presence.

It’s a good thing Melanie’s uncle speaks English.

Otherwise, I would have sat there with corn kernels stuck in my teeth as an outsider to the family’s conversation.

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ABOVE: A view of Izukogen. The building in the foreground is the Wan Wan Lodge, where hotel patrons can stay with their dogs (e.g. Azuki). Wan wan is the Japanese equivalent for a dog’s ‘woof.’ BELOW: (From left) Teddy, Pam, ojiichan, Melanie, and Roger sitting in ojiichan’s apartment. (Photo courtesy of Yuko Otake)

W

e are on a train westward to Hakone with Haru and her sister, Yuka, who are daughters of a longtime family friend.

“Don’t worry, they’ll like you,” Teddy says. “They’re just shy right now,” he explains. “My friend met them last year and after three hours they started holding his hand.” I want to

white overalls, her eyes big with childlike curiosity. Yuka, 9, is quieter, her eyes smaller, and whenever she’s not smiling her front teeth stick out.

Haru comes by with treats again. This time, however, I pull out the desiccant that reads, “Do Not Eat.” They roll with laughter.

“You scored 10 points,” Melanie says, nudging me with her elbow. Ten points indeed, because within the hour I am holding their hands.

Days we later browse the shops that fill Nakamisedori, a pedestrian-only street on the grounds of Tokyo’s famous Sensoji Temple, where thousands of tourists visit daily. But the crowds don’t bother me, for I’ve been here long enough that it’s normal.

Haru pulls my hand and leads me into a toyshop.

“Kawaii,” she says, admiring a cat charm.

“Mite,” I say, pointing to a rack of colorful name badges. I

“I love belonging to two different cultures, but at times it can be frustrating,” Melanie says. show the girls I’m a friendly person so that they will hold my hand, too.

Haru walks over to offer me a chocolate doughnut. I thank her as I reach into the bag and take one.

They can’t quite tell if I understand what they say to me.

Regardless, both are adorable. Haru, 6, wears a bucket hat and

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BELOW RIGHT: The tako koen, or octopus park, near the home of Melanie’s uncle, in Fujisawa.

speak carefully to suppress my accent. “Haru no namae wa doko,” I ask, wondering where her name is. I studied Japanese for one year, but this is the first time I’m applying what I’ve learned outside the classroom. We search the badges and find one for Haru and her sister.

During our stay in Hakone, we couldn’t sleep simply because the girls wouldn’t let us.

Only after every light was out did they stop playing and go to bed. But in Asakusa, Tokyo, I have no such trouble: I sleep in a separate room for lack of space.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” Teddy asks me at breakfast.

“Why?” “Right when I went to bed you put your hand on me,” he says. “Then you turned over and said, ‘daijobu.’” In other words, I had asked him if he was “OK.” “The funny thing is, your pronunciation was perfect—even better than when you’re awake.” I’m embarrassed yet proud of my subconscious accomplishment. Not fourteen days in and I am already dreaming in Japanese.

“It’s because you’re always with the girls,” explains Teddy. “You probably thought I was Yuka.” So, for the rest of our time together I ask Haru and Yuka—and Teddy—if they are fine.

“I

love belonging to two different cultures, but at times it can be frustrating,” Melanie says as we wave goodbye to ojiichan from the end of the street.

As we turn the corner, we wave once more.

Melanie’s last living grandparent is now out of our sight.

“I don’t want to leave Japan,” I tell Melanie on our second-to-last day before returning to Oregon.

“You see,” she says, “I’ve lived in Japan for 10 years, so I know what I’m missing.”

At our apartment in Eugene, we empty our belongings onto the carpet. After almost three weeks, our clothes now bear the scent Melanie knows so well. Nostalgia fills us both; I finally know what it feels like to miss Japan, to miss being home. KD

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T H G I R ING THE

S E D I R T S

TAK

27

A lifeti

nderso

ds Joe He

ning lea me of run

al of the

ack capit n to the tr

world

STORY MELISSA HOFFMAN PHOTOS PETER BARNA & ROGER BONG

J

oe Henderson arrives at the Eugene Running Company at 7:15 a.m. every Sunday, fifteen minutes before the runners begin congregating. Clad in running shoes and carrying icy water bottles, members of Joe Henderson’s marathon training team gather around him. Standing on a cement planter, his 5’5” frame rises above the heads of these lanky runners. Despite the bite of the cool August morning, a simple singlet and shorts cover their shivering bodies. More than fifteen athletes show up today for a 19-mile run, while a few are elsewhere participating in marathons across the country.

After giving instructions for the day’s run, he sends them off. As the last runner disappears around the first bend, Henderson lingers. The cold will not bother them long—half a century of early-morning runs has taught him that much.

Henderson, a 65-year-old farm boy with a contagious smile, was raised in the small town of Coin, Iowa, where he was surrounded by his family’s passion for athletics—his mother and father eagerly followed track and field. The heart of the town was Coin High, where the community gathered on game nights and the home crowd would outnumber the town’s population of less than 200 people. The Henderson kids spent many summers performing manual labor on their father’s 20-acre farm outside city limits. “He first trained me by putting me to work on his farm, then by taking me with him to track meets. Although his father, a collegiate track and field star, did not intend to raise a distance runner, Henderson says, it was inevitable. “I learned to run by chasing escaped pigs,” Henderson says.

He remembers counting down the days until his family would make the annual 150-mile trip to watch the Drake Relays in Des Moines. As soon as the mile relay would conclude, the young Henderson with sparkling blue eyes would jump over the grandstand railing and run a couple laps. “Distance and time didn’t matter,” he recalls. “I just wanted to feel a cinder track under me.”

In 1954, Roger Bannister ran the world’s first sub-fourminute mile, which inspired Henderson to take his own run-

ning beyond his stolen laps after meets and the neighborhood competitions. He challenged two of his friends while the rest of the gang assisted with measuring and timing the race. Henderson’s mile was clocked at 7 minutes and 23 seconds. “I’ll never forget the time,” he says, or the shin splints that set in afterward. “The pain soon went away, but my fascination with this distance never did.” His passion for running earned him a spot on the Coin High track and field team.

Opening the 1958 high school track season at the tri-state relays, Henderson was unprepared for the mile-long run, having only run once in his limited preseason training. The sound of the starting gun echoed through the grandstands at Tarkio College, Missouri, as Henderson, who was the last to leave the line, sprinted to close the distance between him and the runners ahead. After the second turn, he became aware of how labored his breathing was. “I began to surrender the

“Distance and time didn’t matter. I just wanted to feel a cinder track under me.”

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ground won with the speed burst,” he says. With three laps to go, Henderson slowed to a stop and threw himself onto the grass, fighting back tears as regret welled up thick in his throat. Head coach Dean Roe ran over and squatted next to him. Speaking over Henderson’s protests, Roe explained that quitting in the middle of an event was not an option. Quitting was worse than losing.

In the weeklong interim period before the next meet, Roe cautioned Henderson: try to beat everyone and you’ll always be disappointed. Compete with yourself. Run for your own best times and run at your own best pace. That way no one can beat you but yourself.

The next week, although he barely worked his way up to the middle of the pack, Henderson finished the race.

Roe’s lesson has remained an important part of Henderson’s personal running and teaching philosophies. Winning can be separated into levels, Henderson says.

ABOVE: Joe Henderson climbed his way through the journalism industry to eventually become the editor in chief of Runner’s World. He has lived Eugene, Oregon, the mecca of track and field, for more than 27 years.

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ABOVE: Henderson never expected to become a journalist. After he became frustrated with his local newspaper’s minimal coverage of track and field, he wrote a few letters to the editor, which earned him a reporter’s position covering high school sports. BELOW: Henderson stands with runners Bryan Belcher, Sergio Nava, and Kristena McAlister.

Henderson wanted to become a high school track coach, but found that his resumé led him to writing.

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The first level is completing what you set out to do. “By finishrial position with Runner’s World magazine. “We had an editorial ing, you’ve beaten everyone who started but dropped out early, department of three full-timers, plus a pair of part-timers,” he or who hasn’t started and never will,” he says. The second level of recalls. “With this lean staff we issued a monthly magazine,” and winning is improving. The third and highest level is continuing afwith great success. ter the improvement stops. “Slower and shorter running still beats In his eight years as editor in chief, he saw the circulation no running at all,” says Henderson. increase from a solid 2,000 to over 100,000, which Henderson Later that season, Henderson ran as part of a relay team in the credits to the rise in the sport’s popularity during the 1970s. Since state championship meet. The following year, he returned to the Henderson’s retirement from the magazine in 2004, the readermile with sufficient preseason training. That season and the two ship has grown to more than 500,000. following, Henderson Henderson has writfinished within the top ten more than 25 books three at the state champion running. Some had onships. already been published Although both his when he stepped down parents were trained jourfrom his editorial position nalists, Henderson’s exin 1977 to remain on perience with writing was staff as a columnist. The limited to the confines of royalties generated from the local schoolhouse. In his books gave him the 1959, he began a personal chance to return to writjournal to record his runs, ing full-time, a welcome writing down distances turn from administrative and times. duties. This new position “Routes,” he says, “were gave him the oppormeasured by car. Times tunity to write two or were taken with watches three stories each month that still had hands.” At while speaking to running first, the entries were just groups all over the world. numbers, but he slowly He was entrusted with began writing sentences promoting the sport as about his runs, eventually well as the magazine. It forming entire paragraphs. was this job that allowed Henderson soon him to move to Eugene, became frustrated that the where he has continued small town’s newspaper to reside for the past 27 did not cover track and years. field in its sports section.

Before moving to After writing a letter Track Town USA, Hento the editor, the sports derson was at the 1972, editor assigned Hender1976, and 1980 Olympic son to cover high school Trials in Eugene as a resports. He published his porter for Runner’s World. first article, a short piece At the trials, he met about the season-opening runners from all over the football game, during his country, many of whom high school senior year. were mesmerized by the Henderson followed city’s massive running his track and field dreams community. at Drake University, where “Nowhere else in the he studied education. He country are people so had hoped of becoming a lucky to have such an high school track coach, amazing number of runbut, he laughs, “I essenning trails and resources,” tially majored in running.” he explains, his blue eyes ABOVE: Henderson will never forget his first mile. It was that run that hooked him on running. His His plan was to also teach reflecting his passion. passion earned him a spot on his high school track and field team. (Photo courtesy of the Clarinda Herald Journal) whatever subject was Today, he says there are easiest for him, perhaps a more runners per capita social science. in Eugene than anywhere But this rosy-cheeked runner from Iowa had a different path else in the world. The Amazon/Rexius Trail, River Trail, and Pre’s converging in front of him.

Trail all contribute to an array of running resources unlike that of Searching for a job after graduation, Henderson realized his reanywhere else in the country. sumé consisted of writing and chasing pigs. “I couldn’t do anything “The 1960s through the early ‘70s has come to be known else except go to work as a journalist,” he says, laughing. In 1967, as the ‘running boom’ period,” he says. “It’s when the sport first The Des Moines Register hired him based solely on experience. became big.” Henderson credits a large part of the rise in track and “They assigned me to the sports copy desk,” he says, where he field popularity to the work of Bill Bowerman and the Men of Orcomposed short news articles from phoned-in sports reports. “I egon. Bowerman wrote the book Jogging, a revolutionary new look hated the job,” he explains, “but I loved what it did for me.” He at running as a sport, which, explains Henderson, was a catalyst spent many evenings indoors writing and rewriting. “It was great for the boom. By the mid-1960s, Eugene was considered the track training,” he says, “I learned to write fast and well.” capital of the world as starry-eyed runners flocked to Track Town In 1970, Henderson relocated to California to accept an editoUSA.

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ABOVE: Henderson, the shirtless runner in the foreground, is seen here running the 1976 Boston Marathon. Henderson’s fascination with running grew into full-blown obsession. He soon began teaching his own philosophies about running. (Photo Courtesy JEFF JOHNSON)

“Bill Bowerman is a hero and mentor of mine,” he says. “From the time I first became aware of him, in the early 1960s, he influenced my running—and later my coaching.” Bowerman believed that track and field was a community event, says Henderson, and organized summer all-comers meets that still take place each July. Bowerman treated Hayward Field as an asset to the public rather than university property, which gave Eugenians a sense of ownership, says Henderson.

Bowerman built his coaching career around the belief that every athlete learns and trains differently. Counter to popular coaching techniques at the time, Bowerman pioneered the hard/ easy method, which allowed his athletes easy days to let their bodies recover from a previous day’s hard run. Bowerman’s Men of Oregon won 24 NCAA individual titles and four NCAA team titles. Bowerman, who died in 1999, is “such a magic name in the sport,” explains Henderson. “Even today I honor him by running past his statue at Hayward Field and slapping his hand.”

Steve Prefontaine, one of Bowerman’s most electrifying runners, was famous for being undefeated at Hayward Field in distances longer then two miles. He held every American record from the 2,000 to the 10,000-meter. Unfortunately, he was killed in a car crash in 1975 on Skyline Boulevard, east of the University of Oregon campus near Hendricks Park.

“In my view, without Bill Bowerman there wouldn’t have been a ‘Pre’ as we knew him,” Henderson says, who saw Prefontaine run twice. Bowerman “kept Steve from running himself into the ground. Few other coaches could or would have shown such restraint with such a talented and driven runner.”

Yet despite the excitement of hosting three consecutive Olympic track trials, by 1983 the Eugene running community had entered into a doldrums. The University track team contin-

ued to compete, Henderson explains, but its success level was not as high, nor was it as popular. The University of Oregon community fan base eroded, leaving the grandstands at Hayward Field nearly empty.

In 2005, the University of Oregon hired track coach Vin Lananna, who has since succeeded in restoring Track Town USA as the mecca of the running world. “The title of head coach doesn’t do him justice,” Henderson explains. “He was hired to, in a sense, be the next Bill Bowerman.” But Lananna faces an entirely different sport than the one Bowerman coached. The sport has entered a previously unexplored dimension. Now, collegiate track and field athletes have the option to become professional runners, obtain sponsors, and earn a living from the sport—a choice Bowerman’s Men of Oregon never had.

Eugene successfully hosted the 2008 Olympic Track Trials in July, and will host the trials again in 2012. The U of O men’s team ended the 2007-08 season with a NCAA championship in cross country and Pac-10 team titles in both track and field and cross country. Support for track and field is growing again, says Henderson.

“I’ve never felt so much excitement in Eugene,” he says. “The stands are filling again.” The enthusiasm can be felt in all aspects of the community. Professionals like 800-meter runners Nick Symmonds and Christian Smith are coming to Eugene to train. Running clubs are starting up all over the city for amateurs and elite athletes.

“There was a time when the community wasn’t welcome to run at Hayward Field,” Henderson says, his low voice reflecting the sport’s dark period. “The gates are open again and I think that’s important.

The town really needs that.”

Henderson’s marathon running club trains weekly to build endurance to run 26.2 miles. The Eugene Running Company, created in 2004, is “a community center for the sport,” says Henderson. No other running store offers as many resources, he explains, which include organized runs five days each week.

At the University of Oregon, there are usually seven running classes taught every term, each with an enrollment cap of about 40 students. The classes range from a jog or run class to a 5K and 10K. In 2001, 40 years after he started his collegiate running career, Henderson was hired by the university as one of three experts to teach these classes.

“There has been the assumption over the years that running is an aging sport,” Henderson explains. The idea that the running population is getting older is simply not true, he says. Each term, more than 200 students between the ages of 18-22 enroll in running classes at the U of O. Of the 30 students in his spring term 10K class, 20 ran the Eugene Marathon in April. With Henderson’s guidance, every one of them finished the race.

“I realized that I made the right choice in the first place,” he says with a smile, reflecting upon a lifetime of oscillating between careers in running and in journalism. Today, Henderson has found himself retiring not from either profession, but to his earliest career goal of coaching track and field.

“It doesn’t matter how fast or how far you run,” Henderson says, the important thing is not to compare oneself with other runners. It doesn’t matter how fast you are—if you focus on finishing, you’re doing your personal best. In Henderson’s 10week class at U of O, most runners nearly triple their distance and reduce their finish times by at least a minute.

Nothing can equal the feeling Henderson gets when he observes a student benefiting from running. He tells of a student who developed a habit of running and managed to lose 50 pounds. Running even gave him the confidence to apply to the graduate program at the U of O School of Law. “I’ve seen how it changes people,” he says in a joyful tone. It gives people the endurance to push through other challenges.

While he never imagined transforming his love of track and field and his writing talent into one career, Henderson has successfully made a name for himself in both worlds. “It keeps me alternately young in spirit and feeling my age,” he says. And, still running marathons at the age of 65, he must be doing something right. KD

“It doesn’t matter how fast or how far you run.”

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Barefootin ’ in Mississippi

$3,000 car rental. Unpaid internship. Keeping house with a flamboyant 64-year-old.

The adventure of a lifetime.

STORY & PHOTO LISA ANDERSON

W

hen I first see the woman with short, dark, voluminous hair dangle a cigarette between her fingers and balance a glass of red wine in her palm at the corner of Arlington Street, I know it’s her—the woman who told me over the phone before I left Albany, Oregon, “I’m gonna make an honorary Mississippian of you!” She waves her arms dramatically in a heat that lingers at 10:30 p.m., and I pull into her driveway in my red Ford Focus rental.

JoAnne Prichard Morris, 64, and I begin our summer together outside her colorful, artsy home—ruled by her cats Buddy, Mister, and Spotty—eating Southern staples like pimento cheese, crackers, and watermelon as we sway on her blue swinging bench.

“You’re going to learn more about Mississippi then you’ll ever want to know,” JoAnne tells me, laughing.

On an evening at Tougaloo College, once a haven for activists during the Civil Rights Movement, JoAnne and I are the only white people in a crowd of 100 in the gym at the Unita Blackwell Young Women’s Leadership Institute, a camp for black girls.

After growing up in a small town that lacked racial and cultural diversity, I feel like I’m in the minority—there were only two black students in my high school senior class of 300.

They seemed invisible to everyone around them, and few tried to learn more about these students’ cultural heritages.

JoAnne invites me to the catered food—catfish, hush puppies, fries, coleslaw, baked beans, and peach cobbler. I visualize my arteries clogging, but eat everything offered. It’s delicious.

Papa’s Soul Food is the closest thing to authentic Southern cuisine in Eugene, but seems more of a tourist attraction for Oregonians than a place to get a taste of the South.

The girls dance to Michael Jackson tunes in ways I’d never be able to. Unita Blackwell, 75, for whom this event honors,

sits wearing a bright purple dress. She sways her head back and forth, entertained by the girls’ moves to “Thriller.” She lights up when she sees JoAnne; they have a rich and unique friendship that transcends Mississippi’s racial complexities.

Unita grew up picking cotton in the Delta and describes how her skin thickened from plantation owners’ whippings.

JoAnne, the daughter of a dentist, was a cheerleader at high school football games. Unita protested with the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee during the Civil Rights Movement and was arrested more than 70 times. JoAnne entered the University of Mississippi during the fall of 1962 with James Meredith, the first black student ever admitted to the school. Riots ensued, resulting in two deaths. In 2005, the two Southern women wrote Unita’s life story together.

A civil rights activist and the first black female mayor of Mississippi, Unita titled her story Barefootin’: Life Lessons from the Road to Freedom.

Barefootin’ means to release your fears, walk into the unknown and get your feet muddy—to be immersed in something deeper than yourself.

“You don’t know where you’re going,” Unita says. “But you’ve got to step out, or you’ll never get anywhere. And you keep on going, one step at a time. Your spirit is in your feet, and your spirit can run free.”

In 1965, JoAnne, then a 21-year-old newlywed, hoped to leave one of the poorest states in America. Still, 43 years later, she calls Mississippi home and strives to show people like me what her state offers that others don’t—hospitable people, debutante balls, true blues music, and soul food.

JoAnne came to call Jackson home by way of Yazoo City, at the gateway to the Mississippi Delta. Willie Morris’ book North Toward Home, which chronicles his childhood spent in Yazoo City, had a huge influence on JoAnne in embracing her home state.

“Barefootin’ means getting mud between your toes and dancing on the water! Your spirit is in your feet, and your spirit can run free.”

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“When you’re starting out on the road barefootin’, you don’t know where you’re going. But you’ve got to step out, or you’ll never get anywhere.”

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PREVIOUS: Willie and JoAnne Morris pose for a picture on JoAnne’s 50th birthday. The party was thrown in their living room. The dress JoAnne is wearing is the same dress she wore at her wedding. ABOVE: JoAnne reads with her cat, Spit Magee.

“He made a very ordinary place seem special,” JoAnne says of Willie’s nostalgic description. North Toward Home, in which Willie grapples with a region’s history and identity, revealed Mississippi’s simultaneous charm and tragedy.

JoAnne first met Willie through mutual Yazoo City friends in 1967—the spring before his book came out—and both thought the other serious intellectuals.

JoAnne sought a different direction for her life after teaching high school humanities and divorcing her first husband in 1979. “I took a test to determine [what career] I would best fit, and my answers were most like a male lawyer’s,” JoAnne says, laughing. But instead, she entered a Masters program called Folk and Intercultural Studies through Western Kentucky University and then began work at the University Press of Mississippi.

For a project, JoAnne brought together Mississippian authors and artists for a series. Despite Willie’s notorious reputation for being difficult to reach, JoAnne felt determined to contact him after his book Homecomings came out.

Finally, with the help of a friend, the two reconnected. In 1990, Willie and JoAnne were married. “You couldn’t have a bad first impression of Willie,” JoAnne says. “He told me later that if he’d known I was funny, we could have gotten together

a long time ago.”

Willie, a dog lover, gave JoAnne the nickname “Cat Woman” in his book My Cat Spit Magee. Because she did not have a sibling until she was 18, JoAnne developed an affinity for felines’ company after getting her first cat in second grade.

“I grew to understand cats,” JoAnne says. “I tried to purr like the cat, talk to the cat. They would stretch and lie around and I love that kind of thing.”

She doesn’t always like to lie around, though. At 9:30 p.m.

Thursday, musicians Norman Clark and Smokestack warm up on a tiny stage. Sparkling lights illuminate the dark blue and red walls and the little wooden tables and rickety chairs quickly fill with patrons at 930 Blues Café.

JoAnne enters through the narrow staircase in a flouncy black skirt and shiny heels. “Hey Miss JoAnne!” several blues goers and 930 employees call out. “Who’s this with you? This yer daughter?” I am amazed at how connected she is within this community. And yes, I’d love to be related to her.

JoAnne wanders around to people-watch and stops to look at the art she picked out for 930 when it first opened. A young man named James taps JoAnne’s shoulder and motions his eyes to the tiny dance floor. “Sure!” she says, grabbing his hand. JoAnne stands out, dancing to “My Girl” with her chocolate hair, pink lipstick, trademark hip sway, and head bob.

I, too, step out on the dance floor with a guy named Stargell who forgives my free-form dancing eccentricities, like shaking my long, tangly hair, but giggles regardless. Before Mississippi, I had never danced with a black man because I never had the opportunity. I don’t feel nervous when he asks me to dance, but surprised that he is interested.

I used to feel out of place here, with the heavy cigarette smoke, mostly older, black crowd, and traditional blues music I had never been exposed to. Yet, I return every week. The bartenders now know me as “Oregon girl” and tease me for dancing non-stop on the wooden floor.

At the floor’s edge, JoAnne teaches my new friend and me how she danced when she was our age. We follow her moves, swaying our arms side to side in unison, snapping our fingers and letting in the rhythm. In that moment, I vow to be as uninhibited, fun and curious as JoAnne when I reach 64.

I tried to invoke JoAnne’s spirit and fearlessness often while reporting for the Jackson Free Press, an alternative weekly newspaper. As an editorial intern, I copy edited, reported, and wrote narrative articles for nine weeks. I interviewed a Freedom Rider who sat in prison for one month to challenge an already established Supreme Court ruling that interstate transportation not be segregated. The Freedom Riders used civil disobedience, not violence, to test the law.

Later, I interviewed Cedric Willis, 32, who was exonerated of murder charges in 2006 by the State of Mississippi after being in the infamous Parchmen Penitentiary for 12 years. His son was born days before his imprisonment, and now, Cedric told me, even opening the refrigerator is a liberating feeling for him. Tears lined my eyes as I spoke with Cedric and I wept on my way home, awed that Cedric still found things to love about Mississippi despite how its people held him in prison unjustly.

Two days after 930 Blues, JoAnne and I drive north toward Yazoo City in her 1998 silver Camry. She rolls down the windows and points at the whimsical kudzu vines that line the former highway. Halfway there, we stop to pick up flowers at a sparse, dried-out nursery called Poore’s. A leathery skinned man with chicken legs and a toothless grin recognizes JoAnne and calls her “Willie’s girl.”

“I don’t know what the next big adventure is for me. I’ve always lived my life barefootin’, waiting to see what comes next.”

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“You gonna go see him today?” Mr. Poore asks. “Let’s get you some Lazy Susans.”

We continue to the Yazoo City cemetery with beer, cheese and crackers, and four droopy plants to honor Willie nine years after his death. Huge trees shade the undulating grassy land where Willie used to play taps, a ceremonial trumpet piece to the “Day is Done” tune, for soldiers who died in the Korean War. I am honored to celebrate a beloved American author with his wife, not uncomfortable standing at his grave.

The influential editor in chief of Harper’s between 1967 and 1971 and an author, journalist, and essayist, Willie loved the serenity he found in cemeteries, particularly this one. JoAnne had him buried here after he died August 2, 1999, from a massive heart attack, one week after he watched a special screening of My Dog Skip, a motion picture adaptation of his memoir, in New York.

Willie’s beautiful, sculpturelike tombstone stands out from the rest, glimmering in the sun, a skinny slab of shift that also lies beneath Manhattan. JoAnne seems more celebratory of life than drowned in misery, wearing a shirt with a quote from North Toward Home: “It took me years to understand that words are often as important as experience, because words make experience last.” As we spend more and more time together, I find myself picking up her habits, like gesturing my hands about dramatically, walking with a hip sway and satisfying my curiosity.

Maintaining a life as laced with pizzazz as her’s is my goal.

“Shoot! I forgot a shovel,” she announces, realizing she needs something to plant the Lazy Susans with. We walk behind an old shed in search of planting ABOVE: The grave of Willie Morris, who died in 1999, sits in the Yazoo City Cemetary. (Photo Lisa Anderson) supplies. There, among an army of red ants, JoAnne picks up a broken shovel head and a goitered hose and drags both back. longed for the solace of a secluded beach. Now, she can’t We connect the hose, flood the dirt surrounding Willie’s imagine living without lots of people around. Someday, she grave, and dig our hands into the mud to loosen it. She then may return to Yazoo City where everybody knows everybody. shovels the tough ground and we lower the now perky and “I don’t know what the next big adventure is for me,” watered Lazy Susans into the muddy trench. JoAnne looks JoAnne tells me. “I’ve always lived my life barefootin’, waiting peaceful and takes a swig from the hose. to see what comes next.”

“Yazoo City has the best water around,” she says as she I questioned my sanity before I ventured south for the splatters her jeans and T-shirt. She and I return to the car to summer, but in the airport headed home to Oregon, I am untoast Willie with Rolling Rock beers. able to imagine my life without Mississippi.

JoAnne keeps house with her three cats on Arlington As a civil rights leader Medgar Evers once said, “I don’t Street and continues her work as an independent writerknow if I’m going to heaven or hell, but I’m going from Jackeditor-publisher from home. She is the grandmother of five son.” For me, I know I’ll go barefoot from Jackson to my next and Jackson Free Press calls her its senior editor. JoAnne once adventure. KD WWW.KDMAGAZINE.COM

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COLORS AND SHAPES

Small Town, Large Canvas A town coated in murals turns art into landmarks

ABOVE: Jimmy Evangelista has recreated scenes using old photographs. The mural depicts children at an old school house. Evangelista is at the heart of the Cottage Grove mural scene having painted more murals than any other painter in town.

A

s you drive down Main Street into the center of town, they stare out at you, adding vibrancy to the town.

You have to look a little harder to find the others, as if you were on a treasure hunt for brilliant gems.

But one thing is for sure: they’re everywhere.

More than 20 murals color the town of Cottage Grove, depicting how the town once looked, commemorating famous people and events or highlighting its landmarks. Each mural is a source of pride for the community and local businesses.

The paintings add interest and flare to their locations: a covered bridge surrounded by fall leaves towers over a parking lot; stars and planets swirl on the ceiling of a

local café; an apparition of the Virgin of Guadalupe glows from the side of a market; butterflies dance around former Cottage Grove resident and author Opal Whiteley as she smiles calmly over the city square; a sepia tone 1920s Main Street contrasts a modern-day downtown.

were funded and directed by the non-profit Cottage Grove Mural Committee.

Cottage Grove has joined other towns flaunting their collection of murals as a tourist attraction. “It’s how a community shows itself off,” Evangelista says. “It’s a thing a community can brag and boast about.”

“I think it adds flavor to the town,” business owner Herb Hill says of the murals. Hill, owner of Herb’s Car Care Center, commissioned Evangelista to paint a mural inspired by an old photograph of the first airplanes to land in Cottage Grove. Hill wanted to honor a now deceased mentor who taught him how to fly.

Hill points out that all the murals around town add to the appeal that Cottage Grove

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The murals are a way for local businesses to express their connections and commitment to the community, says Cottage Grove resident and muralist Jimmy Evangelista. He has painted more murals in Cottage Grove than any other artist.

Most of the town’s murals were commissioned by local businesses, but five

Photos by DAVE MARTINEZ

“It really is a benefit to the community. It helps attract people to town and clean up our old buildings.”

has. Tourists will come to see its covered bridges, he says, and be struck by all the great murals, too.

Mindy Roberts, a member of the Cottage Grove Mural Committee, agrees with Hill about the positive impact of the town’s murals. “It really is a benefit to the community. It helps attract people to town and clean up our old buildings,” she says.

The committee decided to have a mural painted on an outside wall of Roberts’ shoe store, Shoestrings. Completed last year, the mural was painted by Connie Huston, a Eugene resident and former sign and billboard painter who has done several murals in Cottage Grove. Huston is currently working on one at Cottage Grove High School. The Shoestrings mural, based on an old photograph, shows what Cottage Grove’s Main Street looked like in the 1920s.

“I love it,” Robert says of Huston’s work. “I like that it is reflective of Cottage Grove’s history…I get so many positive comments about it.”

Creating public art in the community is a different experience than painting on canvas in a studio, says Evangelista.

“You’re having a conversation with people, a community conversation,” he says. He loves “coming into a community and creating a piece of art that gets people humming—that makes their lives better.”

“The right mural in the right place creates a landmark,” he adds.

“You can really affect and change a whole neighborhood.”

Perhaps most interactions between artist and public happen ABOVE: A mural of the Virgin of Guadalupe outside of Dave’s Corner Market in Cottage Grove. when muralists like Huston and Evangelista are in the process Oregon and is also an educational assistant of creating their murals. “The interaction decision. In the Shoestrings mural, she at a middle school where he has taught with the community is great when you’re painted Roberts and her husband and some of his students to paint murals. painting outside,” Huston says. She enjoys daughter on the wrought iron balcony that Kids love making murals, he says, and the meeting all kinds of people who stop was once part of the hundred-year-old advantage for to watch them painting her paint. murals is Evangelista that they can says he feels come back years later and still admire their kind of like a priest when he’s painting a building, which now houses the shoe store. work. “It’s great to transfer that experience mural because people will come by and tell Like Huston, Evangelista engages his to others,” he says. him almost anything. spectators as he paints a mural. “I love “There is a lot of history in Cottage Huston says onlookers might become putting a paintbrush in someone’s hand Grove,” Huston says. “[The residents] are subjects in her murals—she once told a when they pass by and say, ‘I can’t do that,’” very interested in keeping the awareness child to hold still because she wanted to he says. Evangelista also enjoys teaching alive.” Fortunately, the murals continue to capture his image in the artwork. She says others, especially youth, the art of creating serve as gigantic reminders of the town’s people who inspire her sometimes end up murals. He is working on his master’s in past. - Inka Bajandas in her murals, but it’s usually a spontaneous special education at the University of

“The right mural in the right place creates a landmark.”

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SPICES AND SPIRITS

Sharing a Taste for Life T

he Chinese believe that a person’s emotions and attitudes about life can be spread to others through food.

If the cook is optimistic, customers will feel happy while eating. But if the cook is negative, customers will feel the same way, too.

Tom Kowk Hing has crafted this philosophy in kitchens across the world, creating tasty meals for his customers that accentuate the feeling of happiness. Hing shares his Hong Kong roots with local residents by showing them why his latest restaurant is unique in its own way.

At the corner of 13th Avenue and Hilyard Street is Tom’s Teahouse, tucked between Dough Co. and Dairy Queen. Its location alone gives individuals in search of a good meal a wide selection of food, from oven-baked calzones to pork fried rice to classic American hamburgers and fries.

“They come to my restaurant, but after they want dessert so they go over there,” Hing says, referring to Dairy Queen.

“Sometimes my customers sit on the other side [at Dough Co.] too, because they have more tables.”

Some might easily overlook the tiny restaurant despite catching a glimpse of the Chinese religious cloths behind the sign, made from inexpensive stick-on lettering, in the front window.

Though the name may mislead unfamiliar visitors, his teahouse is not like traditional Chinese teahouses, he says, where one can spend hours relaxing while enjoying a cup of tea.

“It’s a different kind of teahouse,” the 60-year-old man explains. “If you’re in Hong Kong, a teahouse is not serving tea.” Hing says the Hong Kong-style teahouses he has been accustomed to focus on serving complete gourmet meals.

Inside the restaurant, three small tables nearly fill up the narrow, rectangular shaped interior. Colorful Tibetan banners, called thangkas, decorate the walls to honor ancient Buddhist religion.

“They’re very powerful,” Hing says. He believes the thangkas bring positive energy to his restaurant and food. “When people have a good mood, [the banners help me] cook good food and [give me] good energy,” he says. “A long time ago, I did not understand [how they helped me] and then someone told me my food has energy.”

Photos of Hing and University of Oregon students give the restaurant extra character.

Today, Hing’s untidy mustache, messy gray hair, and casual T-shirt don’t resemble the

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Photos by DAVE MARTINEZ

Happiness inspires flavor in authentic Chinese restaurant

ABOVE: Tom’s grilled chicken with cilantro and bok choy. OPPOSITE: Betty and Tom Hing own and manage Tom’s Teahouse in Eugene, Oregon. The Chinese couple offers traditional dishes that break away from the homogonous palate of many Chinese restaurants.

image of a second-generation chef—who was a in a famous restaurant in Hong Kong years ago.

The restaurant is usually open from 11 a.m. to 9 p.m., but when there are major public events in town, Betty, Hing’s wife, usually posts a note on the door notifying customers that the restaurant is closed. “We go to the event,” Hing says referring to the street fairs. “We prepare the food at the restaurant and then we cook over there too.”

“We can’t open the restaurant during street fairs and concerts because we only have two people to cook,” Betty says.

Hing and Betty’s technique of preparing meals at such events is completely different from their cooking habits in the restaurant.

“On the street, we need it fast… and easy,” Hing says. Some of their most popular meals among students and locals are chicken chow mein, marinated chicken stir-fried with noodles and a combination of vegetables, and skewered teriyaki chicken.

“We keep the food easy to cook,” he says.

During the restaurant’s busiest hours, Hing always stays in the small kitchen––a cluttered cooking area that customers can see from the front counter. Hing says cooking a good Chinese dish requires a cooking heart and good cooking skills, but a good-looking kitchen is not a requirement.

“When you work for your whole life, you know how to work,” Hing says, just before laughing.

“I [was] trained by a…master in Hong Kong when I was young, 14 years old” Hing

says. He recalls also learning his way around the kitchen from the teachings of his father, whose culinary skills improved as a chef in San Francisco.

Tom’s Teahouse serves typical Chinese dishes like kung pao chicken, mapo tofu, Yangzhou fried rice and fried noodles. But Hing and Betty offer them in larger portions and at lower prices than most Chinese restaurants. Lunch dishes cost $5 to $6 and are served with a homemade, iced Chinese

In the beef tenderloin hot pot, the rice noodles are shiny and the meat has a delightfully round shape that is unique to this style of cooking.

Ground pork for the lion’s head hot pot is marinated in soy soup before being formed into baseball-sized patties, which are then pan-fried until they have a golden brown crust. These oversized meatballs are then braised with cabbage in a light broth and served with rice.

Hing and his wife came to America in the late 1960s and moved to Eugene in 1979, where they opened their first restaurant. Tom’s Teahouse near campus is in its second year of operation, and it’s the third Tom’s Teahouse they have managed in Eugene— the first two are no longer in operation.

Although the campus restaurant is still young, the food bears the mark of Tom’s years of experience. “Customers are experts and they can tell the difference in the food right away,” he says. His personal philosophy is “always cook with [a] full heart.”

He feels satisfied living in Eugene, or the Garden City, as he calls it. Everyday, as he drives at least 20 minutes from his home in Springfield, Oregon, to his restaurant near campus, Hing likes to observe the seasonal changes in the town. On his trips, he thinks of the old Chinese saying, “Living in the happiness without knowing it,” which has always stayed with him.

Tom appreciates always having his wife at his side, cooking at a job he loves and enjoying the Garden City. How could he ask for more? - Mengwei Deng

“Customers are experts and they can tell the difference in the food right away.” tea, a specialty of Tom’s Teahouse.

“We do not put any sugar or lemon in there,” Hing says. They prefer not adding sugar and lemon to their tea because they want to promote a healthier alternative— the tea is said to reduce fever and cool the body in the hot summer days.

Some of Tom’s Teahouse’s best dishes are not even on the menu, so patrons should ask Betty about the specials before ordering.

The specials are less-Americanized dishes with a true Chinese taste. When customers want real Chinese food, Hing doesn’t change his cooking to adapt to Americans’ palates.

Among those dishes not on the menu are steamed mini pork buns, beef tenderloin hot pot, and lion’s head hot pot.

The translucent skins of the steamed mini pork buns are carefully wrinkled so that customers can see the minced pork inside.

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37

SOUNDWAVES

The Vinyl Destination Terry McDonald has a big record collection…really big.

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Terry McDonald, the director of the St. Vincent de Paul Society of Lane County, has more records than he knows what to do with. While he seeks solutions to recycle these records into new products, some collectors worry the music lost may be gone forever.

known as PVC. McDonald, however, can’t just melt the records to recycle them. Dangerous chemical additives in PVC are both harmful to humans and

the environment and make typically easy recycling procedures complicated.

“I’d prefer not to kill my staff, so we can’t do that,” McDonald says. “If I can

Photos by DAVE MARTINEZ

M

usic collections are a source of pride for many. Mention them to self-anointed music connoisseurs and they will detail every record on their shelves. But Terry McDonald’s collection easily blows the others’ away.

McDonald, the director of the St. Vincent de Paul Society of Lane County in Eugene, Oregon, receives more than 2,000 pounds of vinyl records weekly from individual donors across the West Coast. Records not bought before the next tidal wave of donations arrive are simply dumped.

McDonald wants to change that.

He’s tried everything. He’s experimented with the records, using them as roof tiles, floor coverings, butter lids, purses, bowls, and lawn ornaments. He used some to make a giant sign labeling St. Vincent de Paul’s W. Broadway address in Eugene, where most of the donated records are sold to the public. He has even unsuccessfully solicited the community for recycling ideas with an article in the local newspaper, The RegisterGuard. As he leans back in his office chair while trying to generate more ideas, McDonald admits that he’s desperate for a solution to absorb the tons of vinyl headed for the dump each month.

“One of the ideas was to take the discs and put a piece of plywood under them to turn them into plant holders,” he says.

“Another person showed me a purse. They took a record and folded it over to create a taco shell and sewed fabric around it.”

McDonald could add another notch to his social service belt if he finds a feasible, commercial use for the records. The bulk of St. Vincent de Paul’s impact on the community lies in refurbishing old materials for resale. By taking used mattresses, old appliances, and broken furniture, the Society “mines the waste stream” for reusable products. These efforts simultaneously lower the cost of living while creating more jobs. Although McDonald is optimistic that he’ll find an effective way of dealing with the records, he hasn’t yet found a practical solution.

“It’s unlikely that any of these highly creative ideas are going to be viable,” McDonald says. “I’d have to make 10,000 of these objects a week to absorb the flow.”

Like vinyl records, alarm clocks, insulation, roofing, blood bags, medical tubing, and meat packaging contain polyvinyl chloride, a plastic commonly

get it into liquid form, I’d like to reshape them into garden objects, either into frogs, toads or sundials. The black vinyl is shiny and would look quite attractive.”

Most records for sale at St. Vincent de Paul are priced at $1, yet only a small percentage are bought. The rest find their way to the dump, and McDonald believes it’s because of the eclectic nature of the consumers.

There’s more variety than any collector could wish for. Sounds from the 1930s to the 21st century, 33 1/3 revolutions per minute to 78 RPMs. The Doobie Brothers to Nat King Cole and motion picture soundtracks to polka party essentials.

At the store, finding a playable, Billboard-worthy record isn’t a rare occasion, but unearthing a specific one is uncommon.

“You’ll have a lot of religious or Christmas music,” McDonald says.

“It’s like clothing, there may be a million items in the store but we only have a band of interest. That leaves a lot of product on the shelf.”

Recording Industry Association of America statistics show vinyl sales have been in decline since the 1940s, continually stepping aside for more convenient media such as cassette tapes, CDs, or MP3s. In 1997, first-hand vinyl sales were five times higher than today’s sales, and prior to the CDs and cassette tapes era, vinyl sales were 10 times greater.

Now, most of the used and unwanted obsidian-like discs end up in the dump or at thrift stores.

Collector Maurie Hall, 58, owns more than 400 records and 200 cassettes, mostly rock and folk music. Perusing the shelves of Tsunami Books and thumbing through the stacks at Goodwill, Hall will shop at five or six local stores and find different records during each visit, from Cream to ZZ Top, Jimi Hendrix to Ozzy Osbourne.

But just when Hall thinks he has everything he could ever want, he stumbles across something new.

“I often come home with a heap of material and figure I have everything I could possibly imagine, only to shop again and end up with 15 more albums,” Hall says as he pulls a record from the massive stack at the St. Vincent de Paul on W. Broadway.

For Hall, sifting through stacks of vinyl stokes his nostalgia. “All this material was a product of our generation. We should be reusing this music as a favor to the earth.”

House of Records music buyer Greg

Sutherland sees the situation a bit differently. “People are waking up and realizing that records aren’t so bad after all,” he says. “Playing vinyl is a different experience. You get to turn it over, watch it spin, and see the album art.

It’s a more active listening experience.”

Vinyl sales at the House of Records have increased in the last decade, and

“I still have many more vinyl albums to rescue.” the demographic identity of the store’s customers has drastically changed—the iPod generation is now buying records. While it could be a fad, Sutherland notes, “they’re

scratching the surface, they’re getting hooked.”

Vinyl’s faint resuscitation is heard on select Fred Meyer shelfs. The retail giant has begun restocking records in 60 of its stores.

For an absolute listening experience, collectors like Hall use an analog-todigital audio converter to put LPs on an 80-gigabyte iPod. “It’s so wonderful to have a vast album collection on a device that fits in my breast pocket,” Hall says. “I still have many more vinyl albums to rescue,” he adds.

The same is true for McDonald. - Dave Martinez

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39

LOCKED LUST IN

L

STORY JASON REED ART ROGER BONG

eaving Maria that night, I felt confined by a filth I could never remove. Not because of her grungy apartment or the trash-strewn ghetto, but because I’m male.

Was my sex to blame for Maria’s heart-breaking condition? She had half the world’s carnal urgings weighing on her shoulders, and I felt guilty by association. I wondered if the ugly creature of human trafficking and abuse of women in the archipelago, well known as the birthplace of evolutionary theory, could ever change.

I found Maria working in a strip club on the outskirts of Quito, where sex was ordered as easily as a round of beers. She had worked in a brothel on the Galapagos Islands for a few years and tonight she asked if I wanted to go home with her.

Did I want her as a prostitute that night? Well, yes and no.

She had a story to tell me, but with a coy smile and open palm, she insisted it was her time I had to pay for and not her body. I needed to find what this young, caramel-skinned cocktail waitress working in mainland Ecuador knew about tales of illegal prostitution spun by taxi drivers, drunken sex addicts and edgy immigration officers.

“What do you want to know?” she asked, lying back on her collage of multi-colored blankets heaped on a futon mattress with one wafer-thin pillow.

Relaxing in her work uniform, a beerstained red tank top and short jean skirt, she kicked off her black stiletto heels and pulled back her long, obsidian-black hair.

I made room for myself on the floor near the edge of her bed and asked Maria about her years working in a chongo, Ecuadorian slang for a prostitution house.

She recounted being tricked into a three-year stint working as a prostitute in the Galapagos Islands after being promised a waitress position in a hotel restaurant. Instead, Maria was thrown into a sleazy house on the island of Santa Cruz and forced to work in the sex trade.

She verified gritty accounts of young teenagers working in the chongos with her and other women who were also tricked. However, the lucrative sex trade enticed some women to lie to immigration officers so they could enter the islands illegally, she said.

While prostitution is legal in Ecuador, Edison Jaramillo, residence director for INGALA, the islands’ immigration office, said identifying illegal immigrants and underage prostitutes is difficult, which is why INGALA and the local police employ undercover spies.

Ruth Vargas Castillo, a transit coordinator with INGALA, laughed upon hearing Jaramillo’s statements. “The police don’t have a vested interest here. They don’t have a family name or reputation to protect,” she said. The problem is that police officers come from the mainland of Ecuador and stay for a year or two in the islands before heading home, she explained.

Late one night on my way to Club Amazonas, a thriving chongo on the island of Santa Cruz, my taxi driver boisterously claimed that 15, 16 and 17-year-old girls worked inside. “But,” he warned me, “look out for police,” as they love to bust gringo tourists. I dropped two Ecuadorian coins in his hand; his silver-capped teeth gleamed behind his crooked smirk.

Techno-infused salsa music shook the front door of the single-story house transformed into a sexual pit stop. Swiping at the bouncing handle, I opened the door and saw two young women in miniskirts steal a glance in my direction as they delivered drinks. The women, coupled

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with the stench of stale beer and old sex, greeted me. I lingered near the door should a speedy exit be needed.

The going rates were $14 USD for sex, $1 for a lap or face dance—$1 extra without underwear—and $2.50 for a beer.

A young woman who appeared no older than 16 was shaking her slender, 5-foot-tall body on a dull-gray metal plumbing pipe turned stripper pole. Frayed red and green Christmas tinsel decorated the stage.

The weak red light bulb illuminating the room could cast no shadows.

The darkness was as empty as the fake smiles spiked with chagrin from these women, who tried to squeeze every last dollar from the three dozen or so patrons. Old, wrinkled faces chatted with teenagers, while other men in mud-caked boots drank beers with hotel workers sporting polo shirts and khakis.

The complete ambivalence these men had towards the paraded sexuality itself puzzled me. Unlike Las Vegas strip clubs, where every man sits transfixed on naked women dancing 15feet away, dancers in Amazonas had to wedge themselves between two or three men locked in conversation for attention.

The women were more disposable concubines than entertainers, release valves and not human beings.

A balding man in his 50s with a foodstained T-shirt stretching over his beer belly headed to a back room with a young, topless woman. The drunken romantic tried to hold her hand. She balled up her fist in defiance. Leading her past me, his pudgy fingers were wrapped around her wrist. My heart sunk as I realized that in a few minutes they would be having sex, but denying him the intimate, common gesture of holding hands was the only protection left for her tattered dignity.

Without warning, the lights flashed.

The room became painfully bright. The music stopped, conversations abated and the dancing girls froze. Four uniformed police officers walked in. Anger radiated from the senior officer’s face, whose stance boasted authority and entitlement.

Two underage strippers crawled through a back doorway, hoping to go unnoticed by the officers. I shifted uneasily in my seat.

Three men in their late-twenties—the best-dressed men in the house, with slicked-back hair and polished shoes—sprang up and rushed over to the police.

One of the three men approached the senior officer, shook his hand and leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Their hands went back in their pockets, and the tension eased.

The bartender opened a beer and handed it to the senior officer, who in turn left the chongo escorted by the three men and other officers. The police never returned. The three men reappeared about 30 minutes later, sat down and, in unison, each took a long swig from his beer.

The darkness returned. Women came out from their hiding spaces, and conversations resumed.

As I left the club later that evening, I thought of Maria’s life in the Galapagos. I remembered that night lying on the pile of blankets with Maria. I witnessed her pain, her temporary escape—casual puffs from a joint—and her yearning for numbness away from the burning feeling of her story. Sadly, I doubt Maria’s will be the last tale on these islands.

She shifted over and picked up something from the bedside table.

Maria held up a picture of her son. The boy with short black hair and an innocent smile knew nothing of the demeaning sex life his mother had been chained to. KD