Ethos Magazine Summer 2017

SUMMER 2017 /

VOL.9, ISSUE 4 / FREE

Catch the

Wind Pg. 20

The French Soul of Oregon’s Soil Pg. 16 - Seeking Art in Suffering Pg. 28 - A Tenant’s Rights Pg. 37

2 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

DucksHousing.com

A simple way for UO students

TO SEARCH FOR

HOUSING Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 3

8 A Historic Gem on the Oregon Coast 12 Desert Rain and the Living Building Challenge 16 The French Soul of Oregon’s Soil 20 Catch the Wind 22 Riding Invincible 26 The Flutemaker 28 Seeking Art in Suffering 32 With Love, Anita 34 A Case for Content Warnings 37 A Tenant’s Rights 40 Angel: A Woman’s Calling to Work with Death 42 My Life, Turned “Inside Out” 44 Updating History

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contents

ETHOS MAGAZINE /

SUMMER 2017

PHOTO Members of the University of Oregon and Oregon State University sailing teams practice before their last regatta of the season.

(See Catch the Wind pp. 20)

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 5

EDITOR’S NOTE “the world gives you so much pain, and here you are making gold out of it. there is nothing purer than that.” - rupi kaur

J

ournalists have some of the most difficult jobs on this Earth.

There, I said it. I say this because I have seen it firsthand. I have felt it. I have lived it. I have watched my peers bear the burden of harboring a story inside themselves knowing they cannot yet tell it; it’s not the right time or the place or maybe they just fear it isn’t ready yet. Telling your own story is scary enough as it is. Telling somebody else’s is even scarier.

This year as Editor in Chief, I have seen great work. No. I have seen vibrant, colorful, heart-wrenching, go-getter, inspiring, breathtaking work. I have watched people fight for stories they believed in, and argue with me over the smallest punctuation change. I have seen the light in someone’s eyes when the story came to them – that moment they found the missing piece to pull it all together. I have had people bust into my office pulling out their hair, digging through piles of notes and interviews, and then breathe a sigh of relief when it all came together on the page. I have known them to shed genuine tears in an interview, moved by the stories of others.

This final issue of Ethos is all of this and more. You can feel this energy as you hold it in your hands. From the first page, this issue is a breath of fresh air, a look to the future, and a bright hopeful feeling in your chest. It’s the warmth of sun on your skin and the exhilaration of crisp wind through your hair. It’s standing up for others, and knowing when to let them go. This final magazine is looking at where we’ve been and pointing to what’s next.

And this is journalism. We see the stories and we set them free.

We hold the pain of others in our hands, and we turn it into gold.

Reflecting on the end of the year, I feel we as a staff have fought through telling tough stories, and each time we created something stunning. And I cannot express how honored I am to have been in this position.

Signing off,

JORDYN BROWN EDITOR IN CHIEF 6 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

Ethos is printed on 70 percent post-consumer recycled paper Ethos thanks Campus Progress for helping support this student-run publication. Campus Progress, the youth division of the Center for American Progress, is a national progressive organization working to empower young people to make their voices heard.

Published with support from Generation Progress.

Ethos is a multicultural student publication based at the University of Oregon in Eugene, Oregon. Ethos receives support from the ASUO. All content is legal property of Ethos, except when noted. Permission is required to copy, reprint, or use any content in Ethos. All views and opinions expressed are strictly those of the respective author or interviewee. Ethos is a publication of the Emerald Media Group.

EDITOR IN CHIEF Jordyn Brown

editorial MANAGING EDITOR Hannah Steinkopf-Frank ASSOCIATE EDITORS Morgan Krakow Patrick Dunham Erin Coates Katherine Smith COPY CHIEF Aliya Hall WRITERS Derek Maiolo Sarah Hovet Mara Welty Iago Bojczuk Claire Rischiotto Samantha Smargiassi Sydney Padgett s ON THE COVER (See: Catch the Wind pp. 20)

photography

art CREATIVE DIRECTOR Brittney Reinholtz DESIGNERS Emily Harris Emily Foster Katie Leimbach Lindsay Wong ILLUSTRATORS Dorothy Hoeft Erick Wonderly

contact

editor@ethosmagonline.com

special thanks ASUO

PHOTO EDITOR Sierra Pedro PHOTOGRAPHERS

KJ Hellis Phillip Quinn Natalie Hardwicke Johnny Hammond Will Nielsen Kendra Siebert Hetta Hansen Sarah Northrop Meghan Jacinto Ty Boespflug

Congratulations to the Ethos staff, both past and present, for its award-winning work. For its previous issues, Ethos received multiple awards from the Associated Collegiate Press and Columbia Scholastic Press Association, including a 2013 ACP Pacemaker Award for a Feature Magazine, its first Digital Magazine Silver Crown and two Society of Professional Journalists Mark of Excellence Awards. Generation Progress named Ethos Best Overall Publication in 2012-2013.

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 7

A Historic Gem

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Photo The Heceta Head lighthouse sits atop a cliff along the Oregon Coast just a few miles north of Florence, Oregon. The lighthouse has been active since its construction in 1894 and houses a beam brighter than any other on the Oregon Coast, capable of shining up to 21 nautical miles.

on the

Oregon Coast

WORDS ERIN COATES PHOTOS JOHNNY HAMMOND Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 9

Photo Heceta Head lighthouse overlooks the Pacific Ocean and served as a traditional way for ships to navigate the rough waves and high wind of the Oregon coast. The light beacon, capable of reaching 21 nautical miles, is classified as the strongest light on all of the Oregon coast.

D

riving out of the coastal town of Florence towards Yachats, the red roof of 56-foot-tall Heceta Head Lighthouse can be seen all the way from from Highway 101. Although people recognize the structure overlooking the cliff, very few know the rich history of the lighthouse and the land surrounding it. Heceta Head owes its name to explorer Don Bruno de Heceta who sailed the West Coast as a secret voyage for the Queen of Spain in 1775. The lighthouse itself was constructed in 1894 after the United States government allocated funds to build a lighthouse every 40 miles along the coast.

Three lighthouse keepers were needed to keep the light shining constantly all 21 miles out to sea, so two separate houses were built for the families. The first was shared by the two assistant lighthouse keeper’s families, and the other was for the head lighthouse keeper’s family. Once electricity was brought to the hillside in 1934, only two lighthouse keepers were needed. Inside the lighthouse, a cable with a 200-pound weight dangled from the gears that turned the light. The lighthouse keeper on the night shift was in charge of cranking the weight to the top of the tower where it would slowly fall for four hours before it needed to be cranked up again.

Volunteers from the U.S. Forest Service give daily tours of the lighthouse and tell stories about the people who lived there. “One night the cable broke loose from the weight, and as the lighthouse keeper on duty and his wife worked to make the repair, their 7-year-old daughter was able to get up to the

10 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

top and manually rotate the lens enough to keep the ships safe,” Deb, one of the volunteers, says.

The extra house for the assistants was put up for auction and sold for $10 in the 1930s. However, because the building was on government land, people could not live in it, so the lumber was hauled away, leaving an open field next to the house. The Coast Guard used this lawn during World War Two as a space for barracks and temporary houses while they kept an eye out for Japanese ships. In 1975 it became an annex of Lane Community College, until 1995 when the U.S. Forest Service wanted to use it for more historic tours.

“Lane Community College probably saved the house from being torn down for 20 years. The Forest Service didn’t know what to do with it. It wasn’t kept at the historic standards, but it was preserved,” says Michelle Korgan, the owner of the Heceta Head Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast.

The Heceta Head Lighthouse and Keeper’s House were both placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1973, and turning the Keeper’s House into a bed and breakfast gave the United States Forest Service an opportunity to fund the restoration.

Korgan’s parents, Mike and Carol, were one of 500 people who applied to help with this project. “A Portland news station got wind this was happening and put it on the 5 o’clock news,” Korgan says, “My parents were sitting on the couch and looked at each other and said, ‘We have to do this.’They got in the car the next day and put their resumé under the door. They were right before the cut off. Ironically,

they had never been in a bed and breakfast.”

According to their daughter, Mike and Carol’s hospitality skills came from owning a restaurant where they both are executive chefs and their experience with the architectural restoration of the “painted ladies,” colorful Victorian style houses in Portland.

Originally, only three of the six rooms were rented out and the couple lived in the other half. There was not an online reservation system until their daughter, Michelle, bought the place from her parents in 2003. “Michelle would tell me how the phone would be on one level and the computer was up in the attic, and she would have to run back and forth while her mom was taking all these reservations on a paper ledger,” says Misty Anderson, the manager of the Heceta Head Lighthouse Bed and Breakfast.

The light keeper’s house has been a B&B for 21 years, and Korgan hopes to start a master development plan to restore the wings on the side of the house in the next five to seven years. This would make the house handicap accessible and also expand the kitchen for their catering opportunities.

Although the B&B is known for its history and seven-course breakfast, the ghost, Rue, is also a big draw. There are even binders in every room for people who stay the night to write down their stories.

The ghost got her name from a group of students who were staying at the keeper’s house when it was an annex of Lane Community College used a Ouija board and asked who she was. The letters ‘R,’ ‘U,’ ‘E’ were spelled out, but since the lives of the women and children who lived at the keeper’s house were not documented, it is hard to say exactly who Rue might be. “We think it’s a light keeper’s wife, and when she lived here, one of her children drowned,” Anderson says. The housekeepers have reported that they will make the beds in each room and turn around to see an indent in the sheets, as if Rue was sitting and looking out the window.

One of the things Korgan finds most rewarding about owning the bed and breakfast is hearing the stories of guests who have memories in the house from their childhood, and the staff archives the stories in order to preserve the memories of the lightstation. “There’s a woman who recently came, and she lived there when she was a little girl,” Korgan says. “She talked about having a pet deer that would follow them and was best friends with her dog. It’s so nice to have the house available to her.”

The future of the lighthouse is bright and constant, according to park ranger Ben Ervin. “With a building of this age in this location, continual preservation is critical, and it is what’s going to keep Heceta Head Lighthouse around for another 123 years.”

“

IT WASN’T KEPT AT THE HISTORIC STANDARDS, BUT IT WAS PRESERVED.

”

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 11

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Desert Rain and the

Living Building Challenge WORDS CLAIRE RISCHIOTTO PHOTOS HETTA HANSEN

I

n the arid city of Bend, Oregon, where it rains up to 9 inches a year, is an aptly named house called Desert Rain. The owners of this home, Tom Elliott and Barbara Scott, sought to do something that had never been done: build a sustainable home that would be the first residence in the world to win the prestigious Living Building Challenge (LBC).

Sitting on top of a small hill in downtown Bend, Desert Rain looks like a modern cabin with its arching angular rooftops and smooth, warm colors of brown wood that complement its desert surroundings. As the designer of the home puts it, this more than just a sustainable home.

“Every material here has a story,” says Al Tozer, the architect.

In 2008, Elliott and Scott embarked on a journey to find a design firm that could make their dream home a reality. After listening to several proposals, they selectedTozer’s design firm Tozer Design, which was founded on a principle of sustainable design. Well into a year of designing a sustainable home, Elliott and Scott listened to a TedTalk by Jason McLennan, a University of Oregon graduate and one of the founders of the Living Building Challenge. Tom says he and his wife were inspired by the metaphor McLennan uses to explain LBC’s approach to building: “Imagine a flower, it puts its roots down and it lives off the water. It lives off of the energy and strikes petals from photosynthesis. It doesn’t pollute. Our buildings should be like a flower.”

They adopted this as their philosophy, according to M.L. Vidas, the product sustainability consultant for Desert Rain and its other two dwellings. Initially, Elliott says he would have been satisfied with just buying a home in Bend and installing solar panels. But his wife wanted to do more. He says, “She pushed for us to do something more extreme.”

Designing their home and accompanying dwellings, Desert Sol and Desert Look-out, on the property meant creating a structure that would essentially be alive. The home would generate energy through solar panels and Photo Tozer’s architecture stands out in Bend. His signature style is modern, clean design juxtaposed against the rough, sage-tinted terrain of the Oregon high desert.

gather water for the sinks, showers, and toilets. Not only would the home be able to collect and produce energy, it collected and produced more than what the owner's use.

But building this home meant spending $3.48 million.

One of the biggest hurdles for the team of designers, architects, and professionals on-site was that this feat of building a home that met LBC requirements had never been done before. Not to mention that, as Tozer says, 99% of the buildings built today still are not LBC certified. This made it especially difficult for Tozer’s team to hire companies that not only sold sustainable products that met LBC standards, but also finding businesses that would disclose what their products were made of and where and how it was made.

Unlike most $3 million dollar plus homes, the intent behind Desert Rain was not to just create a lavish abode.

Much of the cost was due to resourcing materials that weren’t on what LBC calls the “red list.” Ultimately, as Tozer explains, Elliott and Scott wanted a living space that would help preserve the environment and inspire other home owners looking to build sustainable homes.

Fulfilling the LBC requirements, Tozer explains, meant paying extra for sustainable versus common housing materials. Common everyday products from paint to, adhesives to glue could not be used because of the harmful chemical effects that emit into the air. Even using PVC for piping was not allowed because of the toxic chemicals released during manufacturing, so instead builders had to use glass-fiber, which is significantly more expensive and less commonly used, to the point where many of the architects on the team had never installed the material before.

Though the cost was high, and the time to design and build the home demanded three extra years compared to building a “normal” home, for Tozer, being a part of the team to build this was “not hoping for any financial payoff,” he says, “but more hoping their investment would be an opportunity to create a new paradigm of how to build, provoke conversation and inspire good ideas.”

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 13

Photo Tozer is currently building another residential home in Bend, Oregon.

Although this house isn’t distinctly ecofriendly and certainly not Living Building Challenge standard, Tozer considers himself an environmentally sustainable architect.

Photo The front entrance to the property matches the overall aesthetic of the home.

14 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

Photo The Desert Rain House is connected to the city energy lines, but only pulls from it at night. During the day, the house runs on solar powered energy absorbed through these four panels. The house puts more energy back into the city lines than it takes away.

Photo The Desert Rain House is located at the top of a small hill in the Old Mill District neighborhood in Bend, Oregon.

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 15

The French Soul of Oregon’s Soil

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WORDS AND PHOTOS SARAH NORTHROP

J

ust off Highway 99W is a narrow, winding road traversing through Dayton, Oregon, a rich growing area nestled within the Dundee Hills. As the road leads upward, hundreds of acres of orchards and vineyards become visible across the hillsides. Around almost every turn is another winery tapping into the potential that the Willamette Valley has to offer. The cool climate, mild summers, and fertile soils combine to make the region the pinnacle of Oregon viticulture.

As the road nears an end, it becomes a dirt pathway to the family-owned Domaine Drouhin Oregon (DDO) winery. The surrounding vineyard makes up most of the winery’s 225-acre estate. The vines have just begun to reach bud break, beginning the growth cycle as they come out of their dormant winter state. The winery itself is four stories built into the hillside, with an outside deck for tasting that overlooks the Willamette Valley. Inside, the walls are adorned with family photos, news articles, and awards that Domaine Drouhin has accrued over the years. Domaine Drouhin Oregon will be celebrating their 30th anniversary this summer, but their story reaches back more than a century ago, when the Drouhin family had established themselves as successful winemakers in the Burgundy region of France.

The first Drouhin winery, named Maison Joseph Drouhin, was established in Beaune, France in 1880. In 1961, winemaker Robert Drouhin visited Oregon and discovered its great potential for winemaking. In 1987, Robert purchased land in the Dundee Hills that would become the site for Domaine Drouhin Oregon. “What the Drouhin family saw is a flower that has bloomed beautifully in the last 30 years,” says the winery’s Managing Director, David Millman. Robert’s daughter Véronique became the winery’s fourth generation winemaker.

Domaine Drouhin Oregon, known for its pinot noir, produced its first vintage in 1988.

The Drouhins’ arrival in Oregon was “a huge leap of faith,” according to Millman, but what the land had to offer was worth it. The winemaking family was attracted to the Pacific Northwest for its climate, but also its people that come with a certain Oregon character. “Who drinks wine?” Millman asks.

“There were some crazy people in California doing it, and some really crazy people doing it in Oregon.” In 1986, Véronique Drouhin came to Oregon to work harvest for the first time. “I was welcomed by the Lett (The Eyrie Vineyards), Adelsheim (Adelsheim Vineyard), and Casteel families (Bethel Heights Vineyard),” she says, “It was clear how special these people are, and this played a big part in our decision to start DDO.”

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 17

What separates Oregon from well-known winemaking regions like California’s Napa Valley is the central philosophy for making high-end wine: terroir — the place. In Burgundy, it was the Cistercian monks who first realized that grapes in close proximity to each other could produce vastly different wines of different qualities. “Different places on the hill had different energy, different longevity, different flavor,” Millman says, “they really started to hone in on the specificity of place: The idea that certain grapes do really well in certain places and other ones don’t.”

Terroir is all about how the lands and soils impact the character of the wine. Millman explains that to achieve each wine’s unique character, winemakers prefer growing conditions that match where the grape has been successful historically.

Burgundy and Oregon are both located on the 45th parallel and the two have incredibly similar weather and heat patterns. Pinot noir, a red wine grape originating from Burgundy, is difficult to grow, but has done exceptionally well in the Willamette Valley.

“The delicate, ephemeral nature of pinot noir is the kind of style that the Drouhins love, which this cool climate is really great for,” says Millman.

Over the last 50 years, Oregon winemaking has evolved into a flourishing industry. Rich with opportunity, it has an attractive appeal. “You find it very often in the wine business that there are people not studying the sciences like the chemistry in winemaking, but serendipitously end up there,” explains Arron Bell, Domaine Drouhin’s assistant winemaker. Bell is a graduate of the University of Oregon and studied philosophy, but later was inspired to find a place for himself in the wine industry. “A lot of opportunities started to open up,” he says. “Fast-forward, this will have been my 16th vintage at the winery.” Bell notes that had he received his education anywhere else, he likely wouldn’t have followed the same path. “It all really goes back to the U of O honestly. The terroir of the place ― that’s what led me here in a very weird way, but every journey is weird, right?”

18 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

“

DIFFERENT PLACES ON THE HILL HAD DIFFERENT ENERGY, DIFFERENT LONGEVITY, DIFFERENT FLAVOR.

”

Photo Wine is poured from a decanter at Domaine Drouhin Oregon for tasters from the Institute of Masters of Wine, a globally recognized wine community. Decanting aerates the wine, drawing out its aroma and flavor.

Photo Wines from seven of the Willamette Valley’s wineries, including Beaux Frères, ROCO Winery, Erath Winery, Broadley Vineyards, Domaine Drouhin Oregon, The Eyrie Vineyards and Antica Terra, are in line to be tasted by members of the Institute of the Masters of Wine.

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 19

Catch the

WIND WORDS PATRICK DUNHAM PHOTOS PHILLIP QUINN

Photo Oregon sailing member Marelie Vorster eyes the open waters before her ride, preparing for her last practice of the season.

20 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

I

t’s late afternoon and Fern Ridge Reservoir is glistening in some of the first sunlight of the season. Quiet from the city’s buzz of spring, a rainbow arcs its chrome bridge across the distant hills. Out on the water, Marelie Vorster shoves the tiller to starboard and slides under the boom, narrowly avoiding the bar’s concussive force. The main sail catches a gust of wind, and the vessel heels as she and crewmate, Willem van Rees, deftly lean more than half their bodies over the water.

Trusting every ounce of their weight on the mainsheet, the dinghy slices through the water while counterbalanced at a nearly 45 degree angle. This is the University of Oregon Sailing Club, and they are preparing for their last regatta of the year.

With seven active members and about a dozen on the roster, it is not a large club team by any means. Emily Tourtelot joined the club her junior year with no experience, and this year, she is the captain. She is aware the club weighs on the small side, explaining that sailing is a niche sport and that many students don’t even know it’s competitive. “I also think that often, people are fearful that having no experience could be a barrier to joining the team,” Tourtelot says, “but we welcome students of all experience levels.”

They recruit during the freshman Week of Welcome, often exhibiting one of their five Flying Juniors (the standard club sailboat) to help draw attention — and to great effect. Every year, they get a spike in members as the season starts in fall, only to have most taper off as winter approaches. The club is mostly inactive during winter, but when spring rolls around the team heads to regattas (races) up and down the west coast, from Vancouver to San Diego, as per their inclusion in the Northwest Intercollegiate Sailing Association. The spirit of comradery is a large part of the sport. Tourtelot says,“During regattas we stay at fellow sailors’ houses, and you get pretty close with everyone very quickly in those kinds of situations.”

The crew regularly practices with Oregon State University’s club and is connected to other teams beyond the spirit of competition. In their final practice before the season-closing regatta (held on Oregon’s side of the Gorge), Tourtelot sets up drills alongside Oregon State’s captain Andrew Wilkinson, and any of the spirit of rivalry between Beavers and Ducks is shattered by their dual love of being on the water.

“This regatta gives these sailors an opportunity to get back in small boats, as well as reconnect with old friends and sailors from the district,” Tourtelot says. “We have a couple secret traditions that only take place during the last regatta and allow for a chance to really get closure and reflect back on our time sailing together and being a family.”

Club members Marelie Vorster, Willem van Rees, and Samwell Reul may not share a native tongue (Afrikaans, Dutch, and German) or a major, but nonetheless they are united. Their candid nature is of no surprise.“During the spring we can be away for up to 10 weekends, if you include Nationals,” says Tourtelot.

“We have four normal regattas, three qualifiers, and then three national events if we end up qualifying for them.”

Yet the sport isn’t all gliding and feeling the wind whipping the sail; on mellower days, boats are slow to maneuver, especially because there are no motor affixtures or paddles on board. One can forget how much of the sport is rigging and lugging the

“

NOTHING MAKES YOU FEEL REFRESHED LIKE SPENDING A FEW HOURS IN SOME WIND AND WAVES.

”

boats. Every crew member must have working knowledge of a lion’s share of knots, the basic dynamics of how the mainsail (manned along with the tiller by the skipper) functions with the jib, how to best heel the boat with the wind. There is a trick to minimize air resistance, which involves contorting your body to become as close to a fixture of the boat as possible.

During the practice’s drill of navigating through course markers, the four boats sharply pivot within a tight rectangle of buoys with each dinghy a nexus of constantly shifting angles.

Every time a collision looked inevitable, the tiller will shift just enough for the boats to weave in and out of the fray. As the motorboat jets through the course, the thrill of the each boat changing rank and pivoting around the course makes it easy to forget about the discomfort of wet socks and sitting hunched over.

Practices don’t stop after the season’s end, however, they are less structured around drills and more focused on the whimsical, yet practical, aspects of sailing. “At one of our practices last week, we all just did some fun free sailing in the 80-degree weather, which consisted of capsizing and swimming,” says Marelie Vorster. “One of the boats is a bit on the old side, and when it was capsized, it filled with water, and there was no way to drain it!”

In addition to the drills, she enjoys the warm spring practices post-season that are “full of capsizing and pirating other people’s boats.” Vorster is most familiar with sailing 420s (dinghies that are similar to the club’s Flying Juniors), although she is also interested in other types of watercraft. “Keelboat sailing is always a blast especially when we can use spinnakers [ballooned sails]. I would love to sail a Moth one day!”

Whether it’s the surprise of getting your boat pirated by friends, or twisting through a regatta, sailing is a special feeling to those on the team.

“Nothing makes you feel refreshed like spending a few hours in some wind and waves. Especially when the wind is really blowing and your adrenaline is up and you’re hiking out all the way for a solid 10-minute upwind beat,” Tourtelot says.

Everyone has their release, and for the Sailing Club that moment comes in pivoting over the water with the sun and wind roaring in their eyes — in becoming an element of the boat and forgetting, for a moment, the humdrum routine of what lies beyond the water.

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 21

Photo Kelly Gehlen, who claims she has always been an extreme sports fanatic, has been skateboarding since she was only six years old.

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RIDING

INVINCIBLE The freedom of skating like a girl.

WORDS JORDYN BROWN PHOTOS KJ HELLIS

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 23

A

s the sun comes out on any given day, you can find people swarming any of Eugene’s seven skate parks, coasting in and out of the giant bowls, shooting off ramps, or just cruising down a hill.

But if you take a good look at who is there, you’re likely to notice one big thing: there are a lot of men.

Eugene is representative of the bigger issue of only a sprinkling of women in a testosterone-dominated sport.

According to the Public Skatepark Development Guide supported by the Tony Hawk Foundation, only 16.6% of all core skaters are female. However, female skaters refuse to let the norm shadow their desire to plant their feet on their boards and feel the wind against their face. In fact, they hardly take the time to notice, as they’re too focused on becoming one with the four wheels and slender wooden deck carrying them through the curves of the streets.

The overwhelming sensation that comes from kicking off from the ground and gliding across smooth pavement is “freeing.” As though while they’re bombing down a hill, they’re untouchable by any other issues or fears, besides whether they will have to bail off their boards at the end.

To Kelly Gehlen, a better word to describe the feeling is “invincible.”

Gehlen’s first glimpse of skating was when a new park went up in her neighborhood. After watching her older brother skate, she made her dad buy her a skateboard. Her first takeoff was sitting on the board, riding the curves of the bowls with no control. She was 6 years old.

“I had no fears at all,” she says. “I’ve always just been fearless like that – I used to go cliff-diving and stuff.”

Coming from the coast of San Francisco, Gehlen found herself missing the everyday rush of waking up and riding the surf. So when she moved to Eugene for college, she had to skate twice as much to fill the void. She took her fearlessness to the streets and sought out to conquer some tough rides.

“There’s this one curve. It’s such a sharp turn and the odds of you making this turn on your board are very slim,” she says.

“So I put on ASAP Ferg, and I was skating around with my

24 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

roommates. And I hop on the board, and I crouch down, and I made the turn! And it felt so cool! But 20 seconds after that, I flipped off my board and landed on my back.”

This is the free feeling that comes with skating: the freedom to fall off; the freedom to try something new; the freedom to do it with friends or by yourself.

“I don’t need anybody to skate. You can do it alone,” says Samantha Sandoval, who started skateboarding last summer.

“So I just built up the courage to go because everyone’s doing their own thing.” Sandoval says she first picked up the board because she needed a new hobby, and it has since evolved into an activity she loves. “It’s something so simple that can bring so much joy.”

This joy for Sandoval has also come from her encounters with other skaters. Although she is typically one of only a few women at the skate parks, she has always been greeted with encouragement to keep skating by everyone there. “When I’ve been out at the skate park, people have been like, ‘Oh whoa, there's a girl here. Rock on, shred!’ And been happy that I’ve been there,” Sandoval says.

She understands, though, from interactions with other female skaters in person and on skating blogs, that her experience is rare. Under the popular skateboarding subreddit, shreddit, there are often posts asking why there aren’t as many women skaters. While there are some positive responses, these threads are more often met with comments like, “I think it's their center of gravity. Since boobs and ass change your center of gravity maybe it makes some aspects [of skating] more difficult,” and “I don't think most skaters think that girls suck, it's just like in any sport they can't compete on the same level as men.” It is due to comments like these that many times, female skaters feel as though their skating is invalidated.

“I definitely sometimes feel like people look at me kinda funny like, ‘Oh just a chick skater, she can’t really skate,’” says Gehlen. “But, I can.”

In the end, though, Gehlen says it’s really not about the other people around her, or what others think. “[It’s about] getting to be me, in every single way possible,” she says. “I get to put on my music. I wear what I want. I go where I want. I do what I want. It’s 100% all up to me, and I don’t have to worry about what other people are doing or what I have to do later… it’s all 100% me.”

“

“WHEN I’VE BEEN OUT AT THE SKATE PARK, PEOPLE HAVE BEEN LIKE, ‘OH WHOA, THERE’S A GIRL HERE. ROCK ON, SHRED!’”

”

Photo Gehlen skates often in Eugene to curb her adrenaline she misses from when she surfed back home in California. She used to surf every day, but now she skates twice as much to feel that wind in her hair.

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 25

THE

FLUTEMAKER WORDS AND PHOTO KENDRA SIEBERT

welcome back to ETHOS WORLD 26 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

R

“

THERE ARE STORIES IN EVERY INSTRUMENT.

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fter a full day of leading workshops at César E Chavéz Elementary School, Samuel Becerra returns to his apartment to continue making art.

With hands stained light blue from the acrylic paint used at the school, he opens the door of his second story apartment and walks inside. From the outside, the pale white complex blends in with the other units lining River Road. The vibrant interior tells another story. Clay sculptures fill the living room shelves. Carved animal masks hang from the ceiling.

Drawers brimming with art supplies border the walls, infringing on kitchen counter space and highlighting that art bleeds into all aspects of Becerra’s life.

Becerra’s creative journey began in Mexico City, where he spent the first 18 years of his life learning about Mexican folklore and Aztec history. Before immigrating from Mexico City with his parents and four siblings in 1990, Becerra became a skilled musician and received training in wind and string music.

But his creative expression stalled once he left his tightknit community for the distant Eugene, where he initially struggled to maintain his Mexican identity. “I kind of lost my culture for a couple years,” he says.

After attempting to acclimate to a new way of life, Becerra felt impassioned to stay connected with his roots. He found the arts to be the medium that helped him both bridge the cultural gap and maintain his cultural identity. The more time he spent in Oregon, the more enthusiasm Becerra found for his embracing his Mexican heritage, and for sharing the tradition of his ancestors with people in the United States.

He first started sharing these traditions nearly 10 years ago, when he immersed himself in an investigation of Andean music. Much of the music he chose to explore started in ancient Aztec civilization more than 800 years ago. Becerra says the Aztecs built instruments that were meant to “imitate the sound of nature.” He had difficulty finding ancient flutes to play and ultimately realized, “the only way you can get these flutes is you have to make them.” So he did.

After spending 18 months researching the flute-making process and receiving formal training from a professional flute player in Los Angeles, Becerra officially began creating his own flutes using the same techniques and tools as the Aztecs did in the year 1200. “There are stories in every instrument,” says Becerra, holding one of the first flutes he ever made.

He painstakingly created dozens of these flutes, and

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decided to bring the stories of the Mexican people to a younger generation in the Pacific Northwest. He began leading flutemaking workshops in elementary schools and has found education to be another way to connect with his Hispanic roots.

Becerra helped students create 8000 bird flutes last year alone and personally shaped each individual mouthpiece to play the sound of nature.

Along with instrument building, Becerra has found educational workshops to be a positive way to bridge the gap between his Hispanic and American cultures. Becerra is one of two Latinos who teaches about Latino culture full-time in Lane County, and feels a sense of responsibility in helping others connect with his intersectional cultures.

Once in America, he also began exploring catrina sculptures.

Becerra grew up with the catrina tradition in Mexico City, as people placed the catrina ceramic skeletal women on altars to commemorate Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead).

But he only truly connected with the tradition after moving away from his community. According to Becerra, the catrina tradition began as propagandist response to the social classes that influenced society. What attracted him to these was that, “When people die, we all end in the same social class — there is no social class. Everybody belongs in the same social status.”

Becerra models his catrinas after figures and clothing from different regions of Mexico and sells them at a yearly catrina exposition in Seattle, WA. “I’m very fortunate that I do art for a living,” Becerra says.

“All my activities are around the arts, somehow.”

Becerra travels around Oregon, Washington and California as a means of selling his art, leading workshops, and performing.

At this year’s Cinco de Mayo Festival on the Portland waterfront, Becerra performed with one of his bands, Los Cumbiamberos and later led kid’s craft workshops near authentic Mexican artists’ booths.

Becerra has not returned to Mexico for 21 years. Although he is physically rooted in the states, his life is still greatly defined by his Mexican culture. In the future, he hopes to visit his family home with his two teenage daughters, who have grown up hearing stories secondhand. Sometimes when he shows them an image of his childhood home, Becerra wistfully observes, “This is part of our life, where we grew up… It’s a different life. It doesn’t matter how many years you’ve been here. You’re always thinking about where you came from.”

Photo In the days leading up to Portland’s Cinco de Mayo festival, Samuel Becerra created more than 150 playable bird whistles for children to paint yellow and blue.

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Seeking Art in Suffering A small-town painter in Canada imbues her work with images of the displacement of refugees she sees in her own backyard.

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WORDS AND PHOTOS DEREK MAIOLO

merson, Manitoba — a town comprised of less than 700 people and as flat as a board with swaths of tundra, is more of a place people pass through than stop and take notice of. The Pembina-Emerson Border Agency, located just a mile from city hall, is the second busiest crossing point between the U.S. and Canada border west of the Great Lakes and only a one hour drive to Winnipeg, the capital and largest city in the province.

Emerson’s downtown consists of a mini-mart, a body shop, a dilapidated motel — favorited by truckers — and several vacant shops left rusting and frosted over with snow that sticks until May most years. Propped against a boarded-up, long-ignored brick building is a small square shop with the words “Art Studio” pasted above the wooden doorway. Just on the other side of its large sash windows, tropical plants heave fan-like leaves toward the glass, and pom-poms of bright flowers light like fireworks in contrast to the snow outside.

Just beyond the small jungle, under the amber light of the studio, sits Sharon Cory, a local painter with a frizz of grey hair and hard, piercing blue eyes. They are poised tightly on a canvas that’s been muddled with acrylics of various colors and haywires of fine, dark lines. There’s no distinct image, only implications of bodies and hints at faces. She scans over it, pupils widening as her eyes match the top left corner of the canvas. “This is our world here full of color and culture and everything exciting happening, but just across the other side of that wall, a man is carrying his child to safety,” she says. “Underneath this dappled light of the trees, the blue represents the spirits of the people who are dead.”

Hers is an abstract approach, in which she treats her work as a process of subconscious influence, evoking emotion and notions through color, lines, and tone. “You cover the whole canvas with paint,” she explains. “You’re not trying to make sense of it.

And then I look for something. If it’s bothering me, I’m going to look for it in here.”

She says she often draws inspiration from media coverage of refugee conflicts in Syria or Europe that she sees on Facebook or on television. Her work is a visual, subconscious response to Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 29

the emotions evoked by deeply vivid depictions of the destroyed homes in Aleppo or sunken migrant ships in the Mediterranean.

“It’s a great way to paint because I’m not pushing my feelings into anybody’s face,” she says. “I’m letting them absorb what I’m feeling.”

Cory is Lebanese. Her grandparents came to the U.S. as refugees immediately after WWII. “Lebanese are everywhere,” she says. Her ancestors were Phoenicians, artisans who built their lives on sailing the world for commercial trade. She says it is this heritage that imbues in her a sense of duty to help those who are far from their native homes. When Syrian refugees first entered Canada in 2015, she taught English to some of the families brought to Winnipeg. After speaking with them about their lost homes and loved ones, Cory processed their stories in her studio like a Modernist poet, melding the imagery of a family’s suffering with her own pain at hearing such tragedies. “I try and imagine what they've been through and the turmoil that their lives have become,” she says of the people depicted in the pieces.

The paintings are now part of a series entitled “Raise the Tents of Shelter” that explores themes of loss, fear, and a yearning for home in the wake of violence. Cory especially laments the suffering of displaced youth, titling many of the paintings after quotes from migrant children who have been interviewed by aid workers and journalists during their voyages to safety. Most quotes, such as “I want to be safe” and “I want to go home,” depict the bluntness of the children’s yearning for a better life.

Recently, Cory has focused the series on a migrant crisis unfurling in her own backyard.

Since fall of 2016, Emerson has become an increasingly popular destination for international asylum-seekers fleeing the U.S. for a chance at a better life in Canada. A loophole in the Safe Third Country Agreement signed by the U.S. and Canada in 2002 allows the refugees who have attempted to claim asylum in the States — most of them from Ghana, Libya, Somalia, and Ethiopia — to reapply for asylum in Canada once they’ve crossed the border. But there’s a catch: They have to do so illegally.

A steady stream of migrants have trickled illegally from the U.S. into Canada for years.

The two countries first signed the Safe Third Country Agreement mostly as a way to assuage the number of these double-claimants. But the recent outpouring into Canadian border towns like Emerson poses heightened challenges to organizations within the country who are trying to accommodate the unprecedented number of migrants.

Rita Chahal is the executive director of the Manitoba Interfaith Immigration Council (MIIC), a nonprofit in Winnipeg that has been the most active in finding housing for asylumseekers and guiding them through the asylum

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process. She says the MIIC usually sees around 50 to 60 migrants per year. “Toward the end of 2015, beginning of 2016, we started to see a trend changing and most of them were coming through Emerson,” she says. This year, in a period of just three months from January 1 to March 21, 259 claimants have already crossed through her doors.

The spike in illegal crossings coincides with the election of President Trump, whose travel bans, visa restrictions, proposed Mexican border wall, and controversial remarks toward ethnic groups have caused those already fleeing conflicts in their home countries to flee the U.S. out of legal necessity or fear for the future. Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau responded to Trump’s first travel ban with the tweet: “To those fleeing persecution, terror & war, Canadians will welcome you, regardless of your faith. Diversity is our strength #WelcomeToCanada.”

Despite Trudeau’s warm welcome, Cory says that the spike in illegal crossings, especially into Emerson, has angered many of her neighbors, who fear that taking in migrants will rob Canadians of jobs and bring crime to communities. She says images she has seen on social media and derogatory remarks of townsfolk who she considers her friends have influenced some of her more recent work. “I’m processing the influx of dark skin because I

know that’s affecting a lot of people here,” she says. “It’s the first thing they see.”

One image that she has been unable to get out of her mind is a journalist’s photo she saw showing a group of Somali migrants who had gotten lost crossing during a sub-zero blizzard in the middle of the night. “They had to take shelter in a shed and people found them there,” she says. “There’s this wonderful shot of them standing with this light going through them and this almost triangular railroad.” She turns her bright eyes to a row of paint bins. “That will come out somewhere.”

She describes Emerson before the rise of illegal crossings as a “very dull, unexciting little town.” She says that in a place where everyone knows and has to tolerate everyone else, conversations tend to stay on superficial topics: “How’s the weather? How’s

your garden? How are the fields?” She’s hopeful that the recent events inspire meaningful change in the community, rather than a rift between homes. “It’s exciting to have different things happening,” she says. “It makes people think. It makes people talk.”

Despite the xenophobia of some of her neighbors, Cory says the dullness of the town gives her peace to focus on her work.

“There’s a safety here,” she says. “I can come back here at 3 a.m. and feel safe about working here. That’s very hard to find in the city.”

She says painting has become the only way for her to process the horrors in Syria, North Africa, and her own backyard.

“It’s the only way I can make this beautiful,” she says.

“It’s all I have.”

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THIS IS OUR WORLD HERE FULL OF COLOR AND CULTURE AND EVERYTHING EXCITING HAPPENING, BUT JUST ACROSS THE OTHER SIDE OF THAT WALL, A MAN IS CARRYING HIS CHILD TO SAFETY.

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With Love,

Anita

A Woman’s Story of Prevailing Hope from Fiji to Eugene WORDS KATHERINE SMITH ILLUSTRATION DOROTHY HOEFT

Twenty-two roses: One for every year they were apart.

Anita’s heart was beating so fast; she thought it was going to explode. There he was, Deo Karan, waiting to reunite. He had been living just two hours away in Eugene, Oregon all of these years. “It was like we were 16 years old again,” says Anita. “We were so overwhelmed with emotions; all we could do was cry together.”

Anita is from Fiji and of Indian heritage. When her parents told her she was forbidden from seeing Deo, she accepted their decision. Instead, she had an arranged marriage — a common tradition in her culture — in 1984. While she found the boy that she wanted to marry, her family had found another boy for her: the boy she was expected to marry.

After hesitating and pondering where to start her trip down memory lane, she tucks a piece of long black hair behind an ear. It’s one of her many free-spirited locks, fighting the expectations of her loose braid. Naturally and elegantly, the braid is wrapped from one side of her head to the other, over her shoulder and down to her navel. Her personality, her smile, and her elaborately braided hair all share a common characteristic: beautiful defiance. Her tiny body explodes with melodic rhythm on the rare occasion she takes a break from chatting and socializing. She sings everything from Whitney Houston’s hits to Ganesh Arti’s powerful Indian mantras. She giggles and grins when she speaks of her true love.

There are so many phases of life that don’t seem to make sense, Anita explains. Actions, people, and feelings don’t always work out ideally. That’s why you prioritize genuine kindness.

“If you are kind, then kind things happen to you in return,” she says.

Her kindness is reflected every night, Monday through Thursday, while working as a custodian at the University of 32 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

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WHETHER IT’S EXHAUSTION FROM STUDYING FOR A MIDTERM OR NURSING A BROKEN HEART, AS LONG AS YOU FOCUS ON BEING THE BEST VERSION OF YOURSELF, EVERYTHING ELSE WILL FALL INTO PLACE.

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Oregon. Her goal: to provide love and comfort for students dealing with the stresses of school and feelings of homesickness.

“These are all of my kids,” says Anita. “I really connect with all these students. They need lots of hugs and talks.” Her impact on students is motivating and inspiring according to various students who regularly study in her building: Lewis Integrative Science Building.

“People who work in the backgrounds of our academic experiences — people like Anita — bridge the gap between school and community,” says junior and biology major Nelson Perez Catalan. “Anita usually channels her internal-mother and says things ranging from: ‘have you eaten dinner yet?’ to ‘make sure that you sleep today!’”

Anita believes she was born with a gift from God: the ability to help students navigate the natural twists and turns of life as a young adult, while also connecting with them on the dynamic feelings of cultural displacement.

Her love for the students is shown every time she interrupts her current conversation to say hello to a student or faculty member passing by. “If I’m going to ignore these kids while I work and not say hello, then somebody might do the same to my kids,” says Anita. “It goes both ways. I always think about them all the time. They call me ‘mama.’” She knows them all by first name.

Timid is not a word in Anita’s vocabulary. She gracefully interrupts a student sitting alone to ask where they’re from or how they’re handling the stresses of college. She’s not scared to share personal stories and ask about students’ traditions from their home cultures in return. She believes she’s doing her part in the world by taking the few minutes each night — while on the job — to bond with these students. So many aspects of your life change during this period of life, as a young adult. It is important to remind these students that someone is thinking about them and there for them whenever they need, Anita explains.

Dealing with cultural displacement while also grappling with common hurdles of life is nothing new to Anita. When she lived in Fiji, she practiced a different culture; the culture of her lineage was originally displaced when the British brought slaves over from India to Fiji. And again, when her parents demanded her relocation across the world, from Fiji to Oregon. Not only does Anita understand cultural hurdles of the world, but she

truly understands heartbreaks of the world. Especially when it comes to her first love.

Anita was born and raised in Fiji. Deo grew up in the same community, two blocks away from her. There were no phones, no texting, and no calling. They shared their love through written word: love letters.

When her parents said she couldn't be with Deo, she had no choice. That’s the Indian culture, Anita explains. Similarly, when her parents asked her to move to Oregon from Fiji, she did just that. “We do as our parents say out of love and respect for them.”

However, Anita lives a life of optimism. “I truly believe there is always a good reason for everything,” she says. “I always thought, if he is mine, he will come back to me. Let him go.”

Not only does she treat life this way, she strives to teach students similar lessons. Everything will work out for the better, as long as you're optimistic, patient, and kind.

In 2008, she was living with her family and working at the Doubletree Hotel in Portland as a housekeeping supervisor, when her sister called her from Fiji. “Guess whose phone number I have!” Anita’s sister screamed over the phone.

Three days later, Anita found herself lying to her family, sneaking out, and driving to see her first love, whom she hadn’t seen in 22 years. After all of this time, they were living a mere 100 miles away from each other. He had moved to Oregon, from Fiji, in ’87 and was newly divorced. It was meant to be.

The following year was filled with transitions. Anita explained her choice to her children and divorced her first husband; her parents were supportive this time. She finally had the traditional wedding ceremony she had once wished about, with the man she always dreamed of.

Looking back, Anita has zero regrets, especially when it comes to applying for work at the University of Oregon. “This is something that I wanted,” she says. “I wanted to be around kids.

I understand the feeling of being away from your family.” Anita says life is filled with personal battles every day. How you handle these battles reflects your true character. Whether it’s exhaustion from studying for a midterm or nursing a broken heart, as long as you focus on being the best version of yourself, everything else will fall into place.

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 33

Part 3: Free Speech Series

Photo Psychology professor Shoshana Kerewsky uses content warnings to make her students aware of upsetting information. Her class, Children In War, often deals with bloody and violent imagery.

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A Case for

CONTENT WARNINGS Over the past three issues, Ethos has looked at how the First Amendment functions at the University of Oregon. The national conversation has run wild with pundits and splashy headlines, so the magazine explored how these issues are playing out in Eugene.

In fall, we dove into perspectives on international censorship, understanding how globalization made the First Amendment a fluid right, and crossing borders as far as China and Ethiopia. In winter, we looked at conservative voices and a national watchlist of professors.

This final gaze into expressive freedoms takes an intimate view of classrooms to understand the ultimate buzz phrase: trigger warnings.

WORDS MORGAN KRAKOW PHOTO TY BOESPFLUG

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n a sunny afternoon in May, psychology professor Shoshana Kerewsky begins class with 20 Honors College students sitting around her. It looks like any small class — a little cramped, too many chairs for the table, backpacks shoved underneath feet. But this doesn’t always feel like any small class. It has distressing content. It’s indicated in the title: “Children In War.” Scenes of rape, blood, and violence are commonplace.

Breaking from the stories of Sierra Leone, Vietnam, and Germany, Kerewsky is taking class time to discuss how this type of content can affect individuals differently. She’s talking about both those sitting around the room and the subjects they are learning about.

“Some of you have written about feeling traumatized by the content, whether you called it trauma, or being disturbed, or having bad dreams about being pursued by the Khmer Rouge,” Kerewsky says.

Before the term even begins, Kerewsky starts her classes with a warning, and tacks one onto her syllabus. For her, a content warning that preempts material that might trigger or make a someone feel uncomfortable eliminates shocking or traumatizing her students.

Nationally, pundits and university administrators are trying to find middle ground. Check any major newspaper’s opinion section, where terms like “snowflake” and “trigger warning” get volleyed across the political spectrum daily. The argument that students need safe spaces and a place to learn that is both inclusive and comfortable appears to run directly counter to the idea that such warnings and accepting areas coddle and shelter students and revoke professors of their First Amendment rights.

On the University of Oregon campus, the dialogue is less about free speech and flashy Breitbart articles. Rather, the conversation is about getting students to learn information, without further traumatizing them through readings, videos, or class discussions.

Trigger warnings often evoke the term snowflake — meaning that individuals melt easily and are overly sensitive. It’s a moniker that Kerewsky views as particularly harmful. She says that this is a way to mock someone for a personal vulnerability.

For Kerewsky, a little heads up is a no-brainer. These warnings are not a sign of weakness, nor an encroachment on academic freedom. Instead, she says, they’re an effective practice to help students learn.

“I want people to be comfortable enough in the classroom

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that they can take some risks, and that they can be uncomfortable, and that they can possibly be upset,” Kerewsky says, “and I’d like people to bring passion to it.”

For University of Oregon creative writing professor Jason Brown, trigger warnings are reflective of a change in both the makeup of the university classroom and the makeup of the humanities syllabus. The change in what’s taught — literature from a diverse set of authors and perspectives — means that students feel more represented in the classroom. But, it also means literature is more reflective of human history: ugly and sometimes difficult to process. Readings include firsthand accounts of war, slavery, and various forms of oppression.

“It’s in the DNA of what is supposed to happen in the humanities and the social sciences,” he says. “So, in other words, you should receive a giant trigger warning as you enter the campus.”

Brown is sympathetic to the fact that students from an increasingly wide set of backgrounds sit in his classroom. He prefaces all discussions and readings with a similar warning to Kerewsky.

They both realize that the university classroom is evolving.

According to a Department of Justice report, between 197o and 2012, the number of women with a college degree went from eight percent to 28 percent. Due to Title IX, there are now more people of color, women, and students with a wider variety of backgrounds and experiences who are seeking degrees. This change makes both Brown and Kerewsky aware of the need for a warning.

It’s not applicable for everyone sitting in the room, but this type of learning — the videos and audio of war — has impacted her students. Kerewsky says that she often warns her students of unsettling content because it expands opportunities.

“We have increasingly students with a diagnosed mental illness on campuses because now those students are welcomed.”

Kerewsky says. “Those are people who are coming into it with some particularly heightened vulnerabilities to those kind of content. I don’t know why we wouldn’t continue our welcome of those students by providing them with information and options.”

Oftentimes, the imagery and information has no context attached to it. Watching a video or seeing a slideshow of traumatic images and sounds is challenging. The experience is more limited compared to the way a real life event might play out on television or in person.

“My feeling is that the only thing that the trigger warning does is that it reduces the element of surprise,” Kerewsky says.

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Niharika Sachdeva is a junior majoring in public relations and political science and took Kerewsky’s course to fulfill an Honors College requirement. She wanted to take a class she wouldn’t normally find herself in. Sachdeva says students in the class have a variety of backgrounds and family histories. To her, the warnings make the material more accessible. Reading or watching something about an 8-year-old picking up a gun in Sierra Leone can be horrifying and disturbing, especially without context or an understanding of the information to come.

“It’s so important to provide that sort of warning, whether it be in regards to trauma in war, or whether that be in regards to something about rape,” Sachdeva says. “I think it’s important because you don’t know the effect that the shock value is going to have. It could really disturb someone so much that it triggers something.”

And these are just the type of situations Kerewsky tries to avoid in her teaching. She understands that power is unbalanced in a university classroom. She always gives her students the option to leave if they are feeling triggered by the material.

But those little uncertainties are always there. Students might wonder what a professor might think if they actually do take a break from the material. And from her perspective, she has to make sure a student is still learning what she is responsible for teaching them.

“But they don’t get a choice really, and so that concerns me,” Kerewsky says. “I don’t want to spring things on my students, and I don’t want to give them stuff that’s gratuitously distressing.”

And for Brown, that’s the nature of humanities classes. There will always be content that distresses someone.

“On some level, it’s sort of absurd,” he says. “Almost every course that I know of — whether it’s in the classics, in the renaissance literature, or contemporary literature, or American history — if it didn’t contain material that would require a trigger warning, it wouldn’t be doing its job.”

Brown makes a distinction when it comes to trigger warnings. He says that professors and students must understand that a warning about distressing material shouldn’t be politically motivated. And it shouldn’t constrain the actual content of the course. The space between requiring a trigger warning and disallowing certain material is small.

“We need to be careful not to create a different type of hegemony that’s restrictive,” he says. “We just have to keep things open, even to hearing things and seeing things that we don’t want to hear and see.”

A TENANT’S

RIGHTS

WORDS KATHERINE SMITH ILLUSTRATION DOROTHY HOEFT

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Every year, students at the University of Oregon face the overwhelming race for housing; the stressful winter and spring months when thousands of students fight to find reliable, affordable, and safe housing for the upcoming school year. Students are often expected to pay application fees, property-reservation fees, and initial deposits in a quick turnaround after touring properties they’re interested in. More than six months before the desired move-in date, students are sometimes rushed through the steps of signing a lease while also juggling school.

A Tenant Union (TU) is a program created on some college campuses to help students with issues of tenant-landlord exploitation. TUs help students find places to live, hold landlord complaint records, provide lease reviews, and facilitate tenantlandlord conflict resolution. Without a TU students can face various forms of manipulation,, but by implementing one at the University of Oregon, students could be empowered, protected, and educated.

University of Illinois’ TU is well-known and utilized. The TU’s employees and its database can also help students with house hunting around campus. The database provides access for students to set expected rent prices, compare standards of homes, and review prior issues with property management companies (PMCs).

The closest program the University of Oregon has to a TU is the Associated Students of the University of Oregon’s (ASUO) Legal Services. The office is located on the third floor of the Erb Memorial Union, where lawyers work to help students with tenant-landlord conflicts and other legal advice for students.

However, it only provides two of the services that student TUs are known to provide: lease reviews and conflict resolution. Sal Catalano, one of the program’s hired attorneys, says not nearly enough students currently use the legal advice office: “Maybe an average of 15 students every week,” he suggests. Considering there are about 23,000 students at the University of Oregon, this means only .07 percent of students use this program every term.

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STUDENTS REALLY STRUGGLE TO FIND RESOURCES THAT HELP COMBAT TENANT-LANDLORD EXPLOITATION.

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To get a sense of how students feel about this issue, a survey was conducted online for current and recently graduated University of Oregon students on their experiences and opinions of PMCs in Eugene. According to the survey, the housing market in Eugene is filled with questionable landlords, out-of-state property management companies, high rates of mold, and thousands of dollars lost every year on illegitimate fines and fees.

Respondents were asked questions ranging from:: “Are you pleased with your property management company?” to “Have you been charged for anything you believe to be illegitimate?” It also showed how some students really struggle to find resources that help combat tenant-landlord exploitation.

The majority of respondents have faced fines and fees that they believe to be illegitimate for two major reasons: either the problem was already present upon initial move-in date, or they believe either the landlord or previous tenants should be at fault.

Only 42 percent of students surveyed are pleased with their PMC or landlord. Even fewer students feel comfortable referring their property manager to a friend. While these numbers don't directly represent the entire student population, a total of 93 responses is telling, and shows at the very least that there is an issue to be addressed about housing in Eugene.

Michael Fisher, a junior, is still frustrated with Bell Realty and his experiences with living in what he believes to be an uninhabitable house last year. On a handful of occasions, one of their showers would spray human feces out of the drain. This happened on multiple occasions. After each occurrence Bell would send a contractor out to temporarily “fix” the problem, but repeatedly failed to address the cause of the issue or a provide long-term solution.

Plumbing wasn’t the only issue. Fisher and his roommates believe they faced numerous illegitimate charges once their lease ended. Hundreds of dollars vanished from their deposit due to filth, mold, and structural issues with the house. They were also slapped with charges for foundational problems with the exterior outskirts of the property. Fisher and his roommates were charged for broken cement near the sidewalk, which was already present when they initially moved in. “They think they can walk all over us because we’re in our 20s, and they know we’ve never rented before,” says Fisher.

Combating illegitimate charges is a long and hard battle for many students; a battle that they often lose or fail to combat on their own, due to their powerlessness. Sixty-eight percent of students believe they have been charged illegitimate fines and fees for reasons such as mold, structural issues, maintenance repairs, and other questionable damages. PMCs have the power to wait-out students’ complaints altogether. Whether it’s merely a complaint made by a student or their co-signer (usually a parent or guardian), or a dispute that has made it to small claims court, the PMCs hold the power, Catalano explains.

The prime time students need dispute resolution, especially with deposit and lease specificities, is summer through fall. During this time, students’ leases are ending, they’re receiving bills in the mail, and they’re looking to fight those charges that they

believe to be outlandish and unreasonable. Fisher experienced this frustrating timeline. By the time he was charged with these fines, the house was claimed, signed for, and covered under a deposit for the upcoming year.

A TU could guide students with submitting a timeline of any issue. This is something the legal advisors suggests students do. Although, with the use of a TU database accessible to any student looking for housing, students could protect themselves and potentially decrease the tension, frustrations, and costs of deposit disputes in the long run. As of now, there is no database like this at University of Oregon.

Catalano explains students essentially give up their rights when they sign these leases. Catalano believes in-depth reading and patience when signing leases need to be higher on students’ priority lists — right now students aren't doing their job by actually reading through their leases thoroughly. He suggests students bring potential leases in to the office for review before signing. However, numerous interviews with students and the survey reflect the lack of time students have to stall paying the reservation deposit once they express interest in the property.

With a TU, students could potentially avoid these deposit disputes by receiving help quicker. Considering that certain college TUs, like University of Illinois’, can be faster paced and utilized more, lease reviews could be an easier step in the house hunting process.

Bell Realty’s deposit issues aren't the only problems students dealing with. Survey respondents had an opportunity to elaborate and express their personal opinions about issues they weren’t initially asked about. Comments included: “Von Klein is the slimiest rental company in town. Of the hundreds of people I know who have rented through them only one didn't have issues with management.”

“2125 Franklin has no regards for students.”

“Never rent from VKPM [Von Klein Property Management]. They don't give a shit about their students; they only care about their money. That's why their apartments are all poorly constructed and not up to modern day code.”

Private landlords can be just as bad, if not worse, according to University of Oregon student services attorney Ilona Givens. She says private landlords don't always know their legal obligations. Holli Hanson, a senior, has experienced multiple difficulties with private landlord manipulation; she refers to her landlord by first name: Chris. “Oh don’t get me started,.” Hanson says. Hanson claims Chris tried to evict her and her roommates while they were out of town, told them the wrong due date for rent, and overcharged them during the summer months for garbage, water and electric.

Hanson believes a TU would be a great idea. “I think that the landlords of Eugene definitely exploit the students here.

Whether it’s with illegal practices or rent prices, the students don't do anything about it because they don't know their rights.”

In instances like Hanson's, renters’ lack of legal education is more common than not. With a TU, students could be informed of their rights and taught how to communicate with landlords to

“

EUGENE IS FILLED WITH QUESTIONABLE LANDLORDS, OUTOF-STATE PROPERTY MANAGEMENT COMPANIES, HIGH RATES OF MOLD, AND THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS LOST EVERY YEAR ON ILLEGITIMATE FINES AND FEES.

”

properly handle disputes.

By implementing a TU, students could share their experiences and opinions with their peers. A TU would be more organized because they’re largely based on official legal documents such as complaints, eviction notices, and formal timeline submissions, all of which are overviewed by tenant union employees before submission into the database. University of Oregon could benefit from implementation because the survey alone was enlightening for some students. T:hey were able to express their opinions of the state of tenant-landlord exploitation.

Advisors of the legal services office didn't initially believe most of this data and these stories to be true. While showers that leak human excremeexcrements aren’t the most common occurrence, similar stories of completely uninhabitable houses were brought to light. Questionable eviction warnings are also common with certain property management groups, especially Von Klein. The survey showed that Von Klein has a history of threatening eviction with office notices; however, Von Klein has admitted to multiple students that there are zero officially documented causes for these eviction notices. Bell Realty denied to comment and Von Klein was unavailable to comment on these issues.

Catalano and Givens were shocked after learning about these issues. Givens suggests that students be more willing to shop around for better housing or fairer leases. If that means students need to live out in Cottage Grove or Creswell, so be it. The city of Cottage Grove is 23 miles from campus, and Creswell is 12 miles away.

ASUO was striving to progress the school, the students,, and their rights when it fought to implement the legal advising office in 1971. After 46 years, it may be time to re-evaluate.

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 39

Angel:

a woman’s calling to work with death

T

WORDS ALIYA HALL PHOTO SIERRA PEDRO ILLUSTRATION DOROTHY HOEFT

he one thing that hospice caregiver Beth Stephensen’s job has taught her is optimism. A small, middle-aged woman with glasses, Stephensen sips her tea before saying with a laugh, “Every day you can wake up and open your eyes, put your feet on the floor and walk, it’s a good day. I have a tendency to be less of a self-pitying whiner.”

Stephensen has been working with terminally ill patients for 25 years and working in hospice care for the past 13 years. Her role as a caregiver ranges from controlling the pain and anxiety levels of the patient to emotionally supporting the families to training them in end-of-life care and post-mortem care. Although she found that many people believe hospice is a death sentence, she says the purpose is to control the patient’s pain. “We’re not there to hasten anything,” she says. “We’re just there to help.” While she admits that the work is not for everybody, she says she was drawn to work with end-of-life patients compared to?. “At work, we say you’re ‘called’ to it,” she says. Although all of her patients are dying, she finds comfort in caring for them.

Stephensen has cared for terminal patients of all ages, from children and teenagers to the middle-aged and elderly. Although she says no age is “easy” to care for, working with terminal children requires a “different box” to put

40 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

those emotions in. Her first patient was an infant, and it was too emotionally distressing for her to be in the room with the parents. “I had to leave to cry, but then you’re not helpful,” she says. “It’s not about me. Now, I tell myself that there’s nothing we can do to change the outcome. I’ll do everything I can to make them comfortable, make that part of the journey as easy as possible.” Stephensen contrasts working with children to working with elderly patients: While they’re not necessarily easier to work with, because they have lived a full life and have done everything they can do, it “makes sense in the bigger picture of your heart.”

In order to separate her work life from her personal life, Stephensen removes her patients from her work schedule at the end of the week and won’t reload them until Monday morning. Although it took time to keep cases out of her mind during her off-hours, she says she has gotten better at controlling that over the years.

“You still feel grief and sadness,” she says. “And when you don’t anymore, you need to stop doing hospice.”

On a typical day, Stephensen will see five of her 15 patients. The caregivers are divided by zip code, and Stephensen has the -05 area of South and East Eugene. She used to be nervous about home care because of the vulnerability of being in the patient’s space,

Photo After responding to emails, hospice caregiver Beth Stephensen sits in her living room with a cup of tea on a quiet Tuesday morning before heading to work.

but now, she can’t imagine going back to working in the hospital because she’s not stuck in an office and has the freedom of flexibility and variety in her day.

First and foremost, Stephensen says as a hospice caregiver, you have to be respectful. The caregivers go to wherever the patient’s home is, even if it’s a shack or homeless center: where some of her patients have lived.

“You see everything you can imagine and things you never imagined socio-economically,” she says. “Nothing prepared me for some conditions that people live in that aren’t on our radar. But you don’t focus on the surroundings or the home. You try and focus only on the human.

Don’t let anyone feel ashamed by their circumstances.”

When Stephensen is in those types of situations, she tries to be the calm presence in a chaotic room. “When you’re in their house, you’re neutral, you’re Switzerland,” she says. “You leave your personal beliefs, religion, [and] politics in the car.”

Despite her training, Stephensen says you learn the most in the field. When Stephensen first started working and a female patient died during her shift, she listened as the children had to tell their father with

hearing problems repeatedly that “mom’s gone.”

“Everyone was sobbing, and I had silent tears,” she says.

“And I thought, should I fill the silence? Is there something I should say? They kind of look to you for the next step and guidance. It took me a while to feel confident with that.”

Careful not to steal the spotlight from the family, Stephensen says a lot of times, she’ll cry in her car after she senses the cue it’s time to go. “I always feel whatever the family is [feeling],” she says.

“It sounds like it’s depressing, but it’s really not.”

Stephensen has found, however, that most of her experiences with patients have been wonderful. She has been called “Angel” on countless occasions and has received more compliments than at any other job. “I feel lucky,” she says. “You learn so much more from other people’s families and the patient and their lives. I’m fortunate to go and help them. It renews my sense of humanity.”

Although the caregivers aren’t allowed to accept purchased gifts, they can accept tokens from the patients’ lives.

Over the years, Stephensen has received both books and recipes as tokens. “I may just remember their first name, but,” she says, motioning towards her heart, “they’re in here.”

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 41

MY LIFE,

W “Inside Out” Turned

WORDS SYDNEY PADGETT ILLUSTRATION ERICK WONDERLY

42 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

e reach our third security checkpoint, framed by emotionless guards and wrought iron cell doors. The woman examining my ID offers what feels like a pitying look, as if she is granting me permission to turn back now. My racing heart and sweaty palms also tell me to do so.

Indeed, we must have been quite a disruption to the daily routine: We were 12 students, dressed in baggy clothes, armed solely with a pencil and a flimsy notebook, entering Oregon State Correctional Institute (OSCI) for our first class of the term.

As we enter the classroom, it is evident that our peers inside are just as anxious. We awkwardly shake hands, skeptical of each other’s abilities to transcend societal walls.

As disjointed as we all felt in that moment, I had little idea that this would be the most powerful classroom of my entire career – the space where I would break down my own borders, uplifted by the honest voices of my counterparts and classmates. This would be the classroom where I would find my voice.

“

IT WAS AS IF HE WAS SEEING HIMSELF AS A HUMAN BEING FOR THE FIRST TIME IN 20 YEARS — A HUMAN BEING WITH AN IDENTITY, WITH A JOURNEY WORTH TELLING.

”

This non traditional classroom was the University of Oregon’s Inside Out Program. This prison exchange collaboration brings together collegiate and incarcerated students to transcend social barriers through engaged and informed dialogue. For my class, it challenged our traditional education, emphasizing the idea that education which occurs over social boundaries is transformative, allowing problems to be approached in new and different ways.

Our class, made up of 12 Clark Honors College Students, 12 OSCI students, two teacher assistants, and our professor, Anita Chari, explored the possibilities of expressing one’s political agency, specifically through the form of autobiography. Initially, the idea of autobiography in this setting terrified me. I was scared my own story was insignificant. My privileged life had never given me a reason to fight.

But then, the stories came. We read stories, we wrote stories, we embraced stories. As tentatively as we united our polar opposite worlds, we began to share our own stories.

My personal revelation arrived during one of our most emotional classes of the term. I was discussing La Frontera: The New Mestiza — an autobiography written by Gloria Anzaldúa that explores the physical and sociological impediments that define our society — with my closest friend in the class, Jeff.

Though he had lived more than half of his life behind bars, we defined ourselves in very similar ways. He was a 34 year-old Portlandian, competitive as hell and intoxicated by the smell of fresh Oregon air. It would be inappropriate to compare our pasts synonymously, but I had never met someone as passionate and as kindhearted as Jeff. His triumph reflected so much of what I had also overcome.

When Jeff began telling me about the physical border that had defined his entire life, the words came from a place that was dark and seemingly forgotten. He was so honest. I saw the darkness in his eyes as he described what 13 years of heroine had destroyed. His delicate glasses began to fog as he remembered and shared the deaths he had witnessed, the wretched pain of

seeing the life leave his girlfriend’s eyes. They were not words of regret, or even of tragedy, but of revelation. It was as if he was seeing himself as a human being for the first time in 20 years — a human being with an identity, with a journey worth telling.

When I got home that night, I cried to my perplexed boyfriend. And when I recognized his confusion, I was increasingly overwhelmed with my inability to process the information I just heard. I was scared to accept the fact that Jeff’s voice was among many that had been marginalized and stifled for years. I was scared of all the pain I had never known, the pain I had never shared.

It was at that moment that I realized that there is no such thing as an insignificant story. Every student in that class was initially scared to define his/her identity based on the past, for several different reasons. But in powerful autobiographical works of Malcolm X and Angela Davis, and through profound explorations of self, it felt like we may have reached that place in ourselves that we were so reluctant to embrace.

I was fortunate enough to speak at our closing ceremony.

Reading my poetry in front of such a broad audience was terrifying. My poem was about my life, my walls, and my journey.

But it was also about the people surrounding me, a recognition of the bravery of the classmates that gave me the confidence to share my unfiltered writing. I was stripped down to the barest truths of myself, sharing them with a room of classmates I had met just ten weeks before.

Undoubtedly, the men and women attentively listening in a circle around me were more than classmates. When I think of each of their faces, I see their stories too. I see their beautiful words, transcending the walls that contain them today. Perhaps the hardest part of this entire experience is knowing that we went on this journey together as one, but the walls I broke out of to define myself and find my voice, were only metaphoric for half of the class.

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 43

UPDATING

HISTORY Writing about the women who made me want to be a writer WORDS SARAH HOVET PHOTO ERICK WONDERLY

44 | ETHOS | Summer 2017

D

espite professors’ urges not to cite it as a scholarly source, college students consult Wikipedia every day. Scrolling through my browsing history, my recent Wikipedia searches include Hypatia, Laura Kipnis, and “Parks and Recreation.” Serendipitously, these searches hint at an important aspect of my identity: I am a staunch feminist. And if you think “Parks and Recreation” is a stretch, maybe do a quick Wikipedia search of Leslie Knope.

I am also an avid reader, writer, and arts and culture enthusiast, and am constantly watching women’s roles and representation in the arts. On April 29, I attended an Art + Feminism Wikipedia Edit-a-thon at the Pacific Northwest College of Art in Portland. The purpose of the event was to increase female editorial participation by gathering the general public to edit Wikipedia articles on arts, feminism, and related topics. According to the Art + Feminism website, the event aimed to “generate coverage of women and the arts on Wikipedia” and to “encourage female editorship.” The majority of Wikipedia’s editors tend to be male-identifying, and many articles on women in the arts remain underdeveloped, under-researched, or contain sexist language.

At the edit-a-thon, I was shocked by how little I knew about this webpage I use daily. I learned certain universities have Wikipedians in Residence, and that there is a Wikipedian of the Year.

One of these includes Emily Temple Wood, a medical school student renowned for her contributions to Wikipedia pages on women in science. I learned there are many kinds of Wikipedia edit-a-thons, including a Cannabis Edit-a-thon on 4/20.

I spent about three hours at the event drafting a Wikipedia page for Pacific Northwest writer and musician Sara Jaffe, who I knew of from a University of Oregon creative writing program.

She was on a list of suggested artists supplied by the organizers.

I remembered listening to her read from her book “Dryland,” a bildungsroman about a 15-year-old girl who begins swimming competitively, and realizes she is queer. That night, I went home and found her website online, and began clicking through her essays and poems.

I wanted to be a writer when I started reading “Harry Potter” as a child. I consumed fantasy series: “The Lord of the Rings,” “The Dark Is Rising,” “The Chronicles of Narnia,” and also enjoyed science fiction, from “Animorphs” to “Star Wars” to Michael Crichton. As I savored these paracosms, I kept a rigorous mental catalogue of how female characters were treated. I wanted to see myself reflected there, and too often I did not. I

did not enjoy much young adult fiction, but I will always love Holly Black’s “Ironside” books and Francesca Lia Block’s “Weetzie Bat” books because they were soaked in the power and multiplicity of girlhood. I liked messy women, angry women, grungy women. I discovered Gillian Flynn before “Gone Girl,” with her two prior novels centering on a journalist/self-cutter exploring a crime in her hometown and a kleptomaniac digging into her brother’s criminal past, respectively. Some might ask why I would want to read about those kind of women, but no one asks why people still read “Lolita” even though its male protagonist and narrator is a pedophile.

I returned to Jaffe’s website to generate citations when I was building the article in a Wikipedia account draft file known as the user’s “sandbox.” As I explored again, I read Jaffe’s review of punk rocker and poet Patti Smith’s memoir “M Train.” I also read a blurb about “Dryland” from Maggie Nelson, a genredefying memoirist, poet, and literary theorist, as well as one of my personal favorite writers. I could not peruse her website without stumbling upon the names of other female writers I admired, and as I highlighted their names in the article and pressed the button to link them to their respective Wikipedia pages, I thought of the value this particular out-branching citing can hold for female artists.

When reading poetry or criticism written by femmes, I enjoy it when they make their influences explicit. This functions much the same as linking and citing in a Wikipedia article. Maggie Nelson writes about Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Eileen Myles, Claudia Rankine, Anne Carson, and, as I mentioned, Sara Jaffe.

When I was reading “The Argonauts,” Maggie Nelson seemed cooler than a rock star to me. She had read all these women and knew their work so well. She was not trying to bury her influences; her books were like mixtapes of other writers’ work, but with her own lucid voice prevailing. I pictured Wikipedia’s citations like a branching family tree, a powerful tool to show that women have always been thinking and writing, even under the worst historical circumstances.

As I read about Wikipedian Emily Temple, who later resolved to write a new article about a woman scientist for every piece of online trolling she received, I hoped writing and editing for Wikipedia could be a project I continued for the rest of my life. Unlike in my other writing, authorship on Wikipedia is not something to add to a portfolio or take credit for — the point is to keep the material updating and in flux. Rather, the reward of this project would be to continue highlighting the connections between femme artists, who made me the writer I am today.

Summer 2017 | ETHOS | 45

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