Ethos Magazine Winter 2021

Volume 12 Issue 2 | Winter 2021

Photo by Jozie Donaghey

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AFTER THE SMOKE

Blue River residents rebuild from the Holiday Farm Fire

COVID DORMS

UO students question the value of living in the residence halls Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 1

Contents.

38 Dystopian Dorms

06 More Wildfires, More Fighters A University of Oregon student joins thousands of others in the fight against the West Coast's frequent fires as a wildland firefighter.

10 Drugs to Diplomas A man defies the odds of the opioid crisis to become a good father and student.

16 Sex As You Like It A Eugene store, and its sexpositive owner, is making sex education more available and inclusive for everybody.

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24 Moving Back In Towns on the Mckenzie River corridor were decimated by the Holiday Farm fire. Now, they start to heal.

30 Anybody Can Skate Most skaters are white and male.

A local women's skate group is insisting this shouldn't be the case.

University of Oregon freshmen wanted a normal year at the dorms. What they got instead were social distancing rules and for some, forced quarantine and the coronavirus.

42 Classical Connection Musicians, like the Delgani String Quartet in Eugene, moved online during the pandemic to stay connected with their listeners.

45 Springfield Mariachi High school mariachi programs around the state are helping Mexican American students learn about their culture.

Our Mission: Ethos is a nationally recognized, award-winning independent student publication. Our mission is to elevate the voices of marginalized people who are underrepresented in the media landscape, and to write in-depth, human-focused stories about the issues affecting them. We also strive to support our diverse student staff and help them find future success.

Ethos produces a quarterly free print magazine full of well-reported and powerful feature stories, innovative photography, creative illustrations and eyecatching design. On our website, we also produce compelling written and multimedia stories.

Ethos is part of Emerald Media Group, a non-profit organization that’s fully independent of the University of Oregon. Students maintain complete editorial control over Ethos, and work tirelessly to produce the magazine.

Since our inception as Korean Ducks Magazine in 2005, we’ve worked hard to share a multicultural spirit with our readership. We embrace diversity in our stories, in our student staff and in our readers. We want every part of the magazine to reflect the diversity of our world.

Letter from the editor This fall, for me, started off feeling pretty hopeless. In September, the pandemic was getting worse in Oregon. And for over ten days, we could barely see the sky in Eugene as ash and smoke from the Holiday Farm Fire filled the air. It felt like the apocalypse with no chance of sunrise.

The fall was also hard on new University of Oregon students. As Chelsea Pitarresi writes in this issue, thousands of students moved into UO dorms hoping for something close to a normal college experience. Instead, what they faced were strict social distancing measures, and for some, the coronavirus and forced quarantine.

But while the pandemic is still taking lives and livelihoods in Oregon, the coronavirus vaccine is giving us hope for an end to all of this suffering — and for students at UO, hope for a more normal college experience in the near future.

And since the rain put out the fires that raged along the McKenzie River and elsewhere, towns that were burnt to rubble are starting to heal. With the help of nonprofits and a lot of resilience, Clayton Franke writes that people are starting to rebuild Blue River, one of the towns most affected by the Holiday Farm Fire.

Through all of this, one thing that has helped me hold on to hope is music.

We were robbed of live performances during the pandemic. But musicians, like the members of Eugene’s Delgani Quartet, adapted to continue giving us music through live streams and virtual concerts, Shannon Golden writes.

Cheers to a more hopeful new year,

Jade Yamazaki Stewart

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 3

Editorial Editor in Chief Jade Yamazaki Stewart Managing Editor Nick Rosenberger Associate Editors Sam Nguyen Caleb Barber Writers Lauren Brown Clayton Franke Shannon Golden Nolan Good Shane Hoffmann Ella Hutcherson Anna Mattson Julia Page Chelsea Pitarresi Emily Topping Lily Wheeler Fact-checking Editor Madeline Ryan Fact Checkers Lauren Brown Shannon Golden Ella Hutcherson Sam Schwartz Kaleigh Henderson

Photography Photo Editor Jozie Donaghey Photojournalists Grace Hefley Summer Surgent Eric Woodall Isabel Lemus Kristensen Natalie Myking Elle Wayt Julia Page

Creative Art Director Emma Nolan Designers Danielle Lewis Sasha Heye Chloe Friedenberg Makena Hervey

Multimedia Creative

Multimedia Director Jassy McKinley Art Director Emma MultimediaNolan Assistant Natalie Schechtel Designers Danielle Lewis Sasha Producers Heye Multimedia Chloe Alec Friedenberg Kamburov Makena Hervey Kevin Wang

Social Media Social Media Director Jourdan Cerillo Copywriting Lead Samantha Elliott Production Assistant Jaila Cha-Sim

Business President and Publisher Bill Kunerth VP of Operations Kathy Carbone Director of Sales & Marketing Shelly Rondestvedt Creative Director Sam Rudkin

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Newsroom in your pocket Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 5

Written by Shane Hoffmann Photos Provided by Erik Lichtenberger

THROUGH THE SMOKE

As wildfires become more frequent, student firefighters join the cause to protect the West Coast.

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Smoke billows from the P-515 wildfire near the Warm Springs Reservation close to Madras, Ore. Wildfires in Oregon burned over 1 million acres of forest in 2020, causing over 40,000 people to evacuate their homes.

T

he sky was a deep orange. Clouds of smoke billowed from the treeline, and white ash began to descend on Erik Lichtenberger and his crew.

The wildland firefighters’ much-needed lunch break came to an abrupt halt. Yelling swept across the camp.

Lichtenberger hastily rose from his seat, looking to his left.

What started as a small lightning fire evolved into a wall of flame as gusts of 20-plus mile per hour winds blew through the valley. The flames ripped through tree after tree as the fire screamed toward the crew, who sprinted in the direction of their trucks before driving away. They had narrowly escaped disaster.

It was the first day of Lichtenberger’s second shift as a firefighter. He was hooked.

“That was the selling point for me,” he says. “That's when I was like, ‘I'm in, I love this.’ It sounds weird. You don't want to see the forest burn. But when the forest is burning in front of you man, it's a different feeling.”

Now in his junior year at University of Oregon, Lichtenberger put his education on hold for the fall to pursue wildland firefighting. It’s an exciting detour which breaks up the repetitive nature of a school year during the COVID-19 pandemic. The gig is both dangerous and physically demanding, but it’s that feeling of adrenaline that kept Lichtenberger coming back for more.

His experience isn’t an isolated one. Hundreds of students and other individuals have begun wildland firefighting as the climate slowly deteriorates and wildfires become increasingly frequent.

The West Coast is burning Fires in the western United States are more prevalent than ever. They’re more destructive too.

According to NASA Climate, 61 percent of fires over the past six decades have happened in the last 20 years. The number of “megafires,” fires that burn more than 100,000 acres, have increased in the past 40 years. There are no documented megafires before the year 1970. A primary factor in the spike has been rising global temperature. NASA reports that 17 of the 18 warmest years on record have occurred since the year 2001.

“Fires are becoming a year-long thing,” Lichtenberger says. “They don't end anymore, which is really concerning.

If that doesn't tell you something, it should. Southern California's on fire pretty much all year.”

As wildfire seasons become longer and more devastating with each year, wildland firefighting on the West Coast is crucial. There’s been significant growth over the past eight years in privately contracted fire crews in the Pacific Northwest.

According to Jim Gersbach, a public affairs specialist with the Oregon Department of Forestry, there were 60 companies and 234 20-person crews in the Pacific Northwest for the 2020 season. There were only 51 companies with 173 crews at the beginning of the 2013 season. A large chunk of the increase stems from the state of Oregon where 214 of the 234 crews reside and the Department of Forestry manages 16 million acres of forests.

Preparation It’s been a weird few months for Lichtenberger. If you’d asked him midway through the summer, he planned to return and take classes along with the rest of his peers. But he took a different route.

It wasn’t premeditated, but rather a spur-of-the-moment job offering that caught his eye back in July. Early on, the process was easy: sign up, online orientation, a couple of weeks of training videos and informational courses.

“They teach you about your tools, your bag, different types of fire, how fire starts, how it acts, just the nature of it,” he says.

Then came the field tests. The private contracting company that Lichtenberger applied for put him and his fellow recruits through intense physical training including long hikes in near-100-degree heat with 45-pound bags on their backs.

“They wanted to weed out the people who really weren't ready to do it,” Lichtenberger says.

Once past the training phase, the waiting game began.

During the fire season, which typically runs from July or August until mid-fall, wildland firefighters like Lichtenberger are on call 24/7. They’re required to have their phone on them at all times and to always be within one hour of their assigned compound — a station holding the crew’s gear and vehicles.

While some recruits wait weeks before receiving their first call, such as Abe Thornburg, a UO student and member of Lichtenberger’s crew who waited six weeks, Lichtenberger’s first call came roughly a week after he completed his training. “This is an emergency dispatch,” the prerecorded message says. “Be at the compound in one hour.”

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A blue sky is engulfed in orange smoke from the August Complex fires in northern California in October. Under normal wind conditions, a wildfire can move between 6 to 14 mph and can burn at over 1,400 degrees Fahrenheit.

After arriving at the compound, crew members don their gear: fire-resistant Nomex pants and shirts, 8-inch leather boots with Vibram soles to guard against the heat and 20-to-35-pound packs filled with food, water, camping supplies and a foil-wrap fire shelter to use in the event of an emergency.

As soon as gear is in order and each member is present, 20-person crews head out for what tend to be 14-day shifts in the wilderness.

Misconceptions There’s nothing glamorous about wildland firefighting. It’s not normal firefighting; it’s often hard to safely put an end to the fire, Lichtenberger says.

“When a fire stands up and starts moving at like 25, 30-plus miles an hour, nothing we can do,” Lichtenberger says. “You can stop a house from burning. You can stop it from burning the houses next to it. You cannot stop a forest fire.”

Interior firefighters work to put fires out. Wildland firefighters work to contain and limit the fires in any way possible.

Fire requires three things to burn: heat, oxygen and fuel.

Crews like Lichtenberger’s can't control heat or oxygen, but they can control the fuel. In this case, the fuel is the plants, shrubs and soil that the fires tear through.

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Lichtenberger worked on a handcrew, spending time behind the line of fire using axes and shovels to dig two-foot-wide trenches. The trenches remove topsoil down to the mineral level, leaving no flammable material for the fire to consume.

Aside from digging trenches, handcrews spend most of their days holding the line — spacing out along a containment line to make sure the fire doesn’t jump the area they’re patrolling.

Crew members comb through burned areas and look for pockets of still-burning embers in a routine called “mopping up.”

“You’re camping out in a tent for two weeks, maybe getting a shower,” Thornburg says. “Really long days like 5 a.m. to sometimes 9 or 10 p.m., and that’s a short shift to some people.”

It’s not what many envision.

“Everyone thinks that we’re like these heroes because the forest fire agencies and things like that,” says Courtney Kaltenbach, co-director of the UO Climate Justice League who fought fires over the summer. “We’re modeled after the military, so they have a lot of the same imagery like ‘the lost soldier’ or ‘the hero in the forest,’ and we use helicopters and things like that. But the reality is that we can’t really actually fight fires.”

Wildland firefighters are heroes in the eyes of some, but things get dicey when the fires reach, and sometimes destroy, homes or towns — even when there’s nothing the firefighters can do. When homes are damaged and people’s livelihoods

take a hit, the firefighters go from heroes to a group of workers who, in the eyes of those affected, failed to do their jobs.

In the aftermath of the windstorm that nearly wiped out his crew on his second run, Lichtenberger caught a glimpse of the pain and suffering a fire can cause on a community. After hastily escaping their campsite, the crews headed toward Medford, Oregon, where a solemn site awaited them.

“We were lined up getting a briefing from our crew boss at the end of the day,” Lichtenberger says. “And you just look up and you just see all these windows cracked and people staring at you. People walking around just like lost. We had this one lady who was walking her dog for the entire night, just in shock, just freaking out.”

He says he and his crewmates felt helpless. They could feel the pain. Even though they had done all they could, they felt guilty.

A bird’s eye view A passion for the environment was the primary factor leading Kaltenbach to wildland firefighting. After working to defend forests on paper, she took it upon herself to make a difference on the ground.

“Forest defense is community defense as well as climate defense,” Kaltenbach says.

She fought the Pine Gulch fire in Colorado in early August — the biggest ever recorded in the state. After her experience, she says she’s more concentrated than ever on climate safety.

Others, like Lichtenberger and Thornburg, joined on a whim, and while they had previous interest in environmentalism, gained immense perspective during their time on the job.

“I've definitely been someone who's been environmentally conscious for a long while, but being out there and kind of seeing and learning about the past 20 years, 30 years, 40 years of fire to today and the season we just had, it's pretty undeniable that we're losing,” Lichtenberger says.

“It’s reminding me of how real climate change is and how we’re not doing a lot,” Thornburg says.

As the West Coast’s ecosystem begins to crumble, wildland firefighters are more in need now than ever.

Lichtenberger and his peers could have easily slid back into the routine of online education. Instead, they spent their summers battling a climate inevitability in a line of work which looks poised to become more prominent in coming years.

Erik Lichtenberger (second from left) and other fire crew members pose during a break from fighting the P-515 fire that raged through eastern Oregon in August and through September.

“Fire really changes you,” Lichtenberger says. “I'd say the first few, you really learn a lot about yourself. You leave for two weeks and you come home and sometimes it feels like the world hasn’t really done anything.”

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 9

RIDING THE ROAD TO RECOVERY Written by Anna Mattson Photos by Grace Hefley

A man overcomes an opioid addiction to become a hardworking University of Oregon student.

L

ife is incredibly busy for 30-year-old Kory Coleman.

Between taking a full student course load at the University of Oregon, working for landscape and grounds management on campus and parenting a four-monthold baby, he barely has time to breathe. Coleman hopes to graduate UO with a Bachelor of Science in General Social Sciences by the end of winter term.

“It's difficult because I work really, really hard to get those grades,” he says. “I definitely put a lot of energy into getting my 3.9 GPA at Oregon.”

Although things are productive now, life hadn’t always looked so good for Coleman. Pursuing academics seemed like a distant dream to him less than a decade ago. He’s now six years clean from an opioid addiction.

Though Coleman’s journey has been challenging, he says that surviving past traumatic experiences and overcoming his relationship with opioids have only made him a stronger person.

Opioid addiction is prevalent in Lane County. According to Serenity Lane, a local alcohol and drug sobriety clinic, 20 percent of Oregon’s population uses illicit drugs. And the Oregon Health Authority reports that an average of five Oregonians die weekly from opioid overdoses.

Oregon recently passed Measure 110, which decriminalizes the personal possession of small amounts of illicit drugs such as heroin, cocaine and methamphetamine. It also allocates funds from legal cannabis taxes to addiction treatment programs and health assessments.

According to the measure proposal, criminalizing addiction from illicit drugs prevents people in recovery "from getting housing, going to school, getting loans, getting professional

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licenses, getting jobs, and keeping jobs." Supporters of the measure say its passing will help people who have a history with illicit drugs like Coleman to restart, take out loans or go to college without a criminal record burden. Oregon is the first state in the nation to decriminalize possession of these drugs.

People pass moral judgments on those who abuse substances, according to PsyD Daryl Holloway, a Psychologist Resident with the Collegiate Recovery Center of UO. “There’s a stigma that continues to exist really prominently in the world of substance use and recovery,” Holloway says.

“People from the outside looking in may be placing some moral assumptions on these individuals based on their use.” Coleman is a person who has a life outside of his experience with drug use and feels that his past doesn’t define him.

The Collegiate Recovery Center is a resource for students looking to manage recovery alongside their academic pursuits.

The program fosters support and community for students on the road to recovery. “Every single one of us has a story,” Holloway says. “That story, although it looks different for every single individual, has commonalities.” Coleman is one of the students who use this resource.

Coleman spent his childhood in the town of Leaburg, Oregon. He describes the area as a “little country town where everybody knows everybody.” Coleman recalls how great the summers were growing up there — lots of bike rides with neighborhood kids and sunny days. But Leaburg is also where Coleman experienced a lot of childhood adversity.

The first event that impacted Coleman was when his grandfather suddenly passed away. He was eight years old at the time, out on an elk bowhunting scouting trip with his dad.

“Grandpa Chuck, my dad's father, was a big role model for me,”

Kory Coleman feeds his two-month-old son, Flinn Coleman, who he hopes to raise in an honest and patient environment.

“I want my child to be able to tell me the truth,” he says. “When I told my family the truth, that's when I was able to get clean.”

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 11

Coleman says. “It had such an effect on me. I was outside the funeral home puking. I was just super out of sorts. I didn't feel safe.” One of the things that scared Coleman most was seeing his dad so vulnerable. All he craved was a sense of stability.

Healing after his grandfather’s passing brought a lot of positivity, Coleman says. He and his sister Ashlee Coleman, who fought often, started to form a significant bond while their father, Brad Coleman, worked.

"BUT THE PAIN WOULD ALWAYS JUST CONSTANTLY BE THERE, THIS UNDERCURRENT OF JUST SHEER TERROR, REALLY.” - KORY COLEMAN

But less than three years later, in 2001, his nine-year-old sister was killed in a car accident. Coleman was devastated.

A man in a Subaru Outback hit his sister and also clipped Coleman’s friend while they were crossing the street, he says.

“I had that hope of an 11-year-old that was like, ‘Oh, this is like going to be a Disney movie. She's going to bounce back.’ And that wasn't the case.” He was at home doing schoolwork during the time of the accident.

Coleman describes the feeling of hearing the news as a deep and heavy emotional pain. The fact that his sister wasn’t coming back was challenging for Coleman to grapple with. He still remembers arriving at the accident. “I ran up to the scene and there was a little body with a blanket laying over it across the highway,” Coleman says. “I couldn’t stop thinking ‘This is a fucking nightmare.’”

It wasn’t long until tragedy struck again for Coleman and his family. His father had been experiencing horrible headaches, which nearly blinded him with pain, according to Coleman.

Eventually they went to the emergency room. Doctors found a tumor in his head and discovered that Coleman’s father had brain cancer. “I just remember walking into the emergency room crying,” Coleman says. “And I just looked at one of the cupboards and thought ‘Fuck, what’s next?’”

Doctors estimated that his father only had six months left to live. His dad, although forever changed from the effects of brain cancer, is still living today. Coleman now spends meaningful time with his dad — they go out to eat often and hunt together.

Childhood trauma and substance abuse have a high correlation rate, according to the U.S. National Library of Medicine. Over 70 percent of people who use substances as a means of coping have experienced childhood trauma. One of the reasons adults often have substance use disorders after experiencing trauma in their youth is to self-medicate and dampen the side effects of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Although children who experience trauma have a higher rate of psychiatric disorders, such as depression and anxiety, The NLM also found that adults who’ve faced childhood trauma are incredibly resilient.

It wasn’t until late in high school that Coleman started using drugs and alcohol. He met friends that encouraged drinking after school and on the weekends or smoking weed after cross country practice. For a long time, Coleman says, he’d been invested in school and sports. But after a while he found himself shifting his priorities to fit a different lifestyle. “I went from drinking apple juice to taking bong rips,” he says.

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Under it all, Coleman says he was using substances to escape the pain from everything he’d been through. “But the pain would always just constantly be there,” Coleman says. “This undercurrent of just sheer terror, really.”

Coleman says his father, Brad Coleman (left), has been his biggest inspiration going through recovery and staying clean. “My dad going through cancer treatment inspired me to keep trying when I felt like giving up,” he says. “I’m finally willing to not quit.”

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 13

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Coleman and his partner, Alexis Shofstall, hold their son, Flinn Coleman, outside their home in Springfield, Ore. Between working for the University of Oregon’s landscaping team, going to school full-time to become a social studies teacher, taking care of his dad and becoming a father, Coleman doesn’t get much downtime. “Going to school with a baby is hard. It takes commitment,” he says. “I’ve learned how not to give up.”

Despite his outlook on college in high school, Coleman ended up attending Lane Community College. “I had a bunch of homies that went to Oregon, and I remember knowing that there was a part of me that still gave a shit about school, but it was a very small part of me,” Coleman says. His addiction dramatically escalated from there.

Coleman’s GPA for his first term at LCC was 0.0. He stopped going to class, and he used the majority of his financial aid to buy weed, which he would either sell or smoke.

He started dabbling with harder drugs like oxycodone, an opioid, soon after a breakup. Coleman says that he started hanging out with questionable people and making poor choices that he usually would never make. “I felt like a completely different person,” he says. “I stole like 800 bucks from my dad — the dude that I held in such high esteem. I stole that from him.”

He used the money in less than a day. Coleman remembers moments of feeling like he was getting away with something, like nobody could tell what he was up to. When his family caught on to his drug use, they put him through rehab. However, Coleman says that being forced to seek help didn’t work for him.

Eventually, Coleman reached a breaking point of helplessness. He says that he felt sheer desperation, and he needed some support. “I just remember feeling like, holy shit,” he says. “I'm either going to die, or I'm going to go to prison. And I hope I go to prison.”

When his mom invited him to join the family on Christmas of 2013, he came out and asked for help. Coleman was high on heroin when he arrived at the gathering. He was afraid he wouldn’t make it to another Christmas. “There were a good amount of people there,” he says. “I was like, ‘Yo, I'm a heroin addict. And I'm probably gonna die. And I need help.’” Coleman decided to take another chance on rehab, and that’s when things started to take a turn for the better.

This time, Coleman was determined to work on himself instead of avoiding it all, which made his second attempt at getting clean more successful. Entering Narcotics Anonymous, a program focused on community and guidance to reach a full recovery, early in the recovery process was a tool that he says helped a lot.

Recovering from an opioid addiction, particularly heroin, can be a long and arduous process. In the United States, 85 percent of people relapse during treatment, according to an American Addiction Centers report. It is not uncommon for former drug

users to fall into some regression. Coleman relapsed twice in his life: once when his family encouraged rehab and again on his own quest to sobriety.

Persistent treatment encourages individuals to stop using heroin and to remain sober, according to American Addiction Centers. A combination of medically-supported detox, behavioral and motivational therapy, family therapy and basic nutrition and exercise programs are critical in avoiding further relapse.

Although he had been doing better on his second journey through recovery, he relapsed again. After a day at work, he went and got high in Eugene. He says he felt giddy once he made the decision, like a child going to Disneyland. However, Coleman says he felt incredibly guilty afterwards, and he broke down crying from all of the regret. Coleman was determined to stay clean after that experience.

“I just felt so guilty because I actually tried that time,” he says. It's now been more than six years since Coleman has touched opioids. “A lot of it just took me like slowing it down, taking it day to day.”

After deciding to give school another shot, Coleman took a course at Central Oregon Community College that he’d previously failed three times at LCC. This time, however, he got an A. In 2019 he was accepted into UO and is now working toward his General Social Science degree to become a teacher.

Even though he received several awards and scholarships, Coleman says he criticizes himself a lot for being an unconventional student.

“I wish I could pat myself on the back more,” he says. “A lot of really negative language can still come into my head about where I need to be and what checkpoint in life I need to be at based on my age.”

Despite the difficulties, Coleman says that he’s always finding ways to improve his outlook and to be the best version of himself. On a recent run at Mount Pisgah, Coleman decided to honor his sister Ashlee by staying committed to sobriety, his partner and his new baby.

One of the benefits Coleman recognizes about his past is that he’s gained a lot of unexpected tenacity from it all. “I just don't give up easy on shit. And part of the reason I think I have high grades is that I don't make excuses,” Coleman says. “I just do this stuff. And if I don't know how to do it, I will know how to do it.”

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Del Thorton, an employee at As You Like It, picked 'No Straight Lines' as their favorite book in the store because it’s a collection of every comic and cartoon that has been published starring LGBTQ people. “I enjoy this book the most because of different art forms and styles,” Thorton says. “There is color, black and white and all of the 16 it | shows ETHOS tons | Winter 2021 personalities are so different."

Everybody and Every Body A local sex toy shop is breaking the stigma surrounding sex and pleasure through books, conversations and vibrators.

Written by Ella Hutcherson Photos by Elle Wayt

O

ne afternoon, a mother and her tearful 18-year-old daughter walked into the adult shop As You Like It. Burgundy walls, richly decorated carpets and mahogany furnishings greeted their eyes, and a banner of multi-colored hearts hung above their heads. Kim Marks, the owner and founder of the shop, quickly approached the pair. Marks could see something was wrong and offered her assistance.

Surrounded by shelves of thigh-high stockings and pink and purple dildos, the mother told Marks about their predicament. Her daughter’s high school teacher was refusing to teach the 18-year-old sex education. The teacher had said that she didn’t believe in lesbians and that they couldn’t get sexually transmitted infections.

While Marks was surprised by such an oversight in a public school, she knew exactly how to help. She told the daughter that lesbians could, in fact, contract STIs and sent the pair on their way with two books: “Girl Sex 101” and “S.E.X.: The All-You-Need-To-Know Sexuality Guide to Get You Through Your Teens and Twenties.” Debunking myths about sex is just one of many skills in Marks’ arsenal, and she is well-equipped to help folks who feel unsafe seeking assistance in other spaces.

After five years as a staple of the Eugene community, Marks’ adult shop As You Like It is bettering the sexual wellness industry by prioritizing education and cultivating a safe space for important conversations about sex.

Growing up, Marks says she was the person who bought her friends their first vibrators, and was a confidant for her loved ones when they needed relationship advice. It never felt strange for her to have those conversations. She says she loves talking about sex and sexuality and recognizes the importance of cultivating safe environments to discuss a subject that is so often considered taboo.

“It comes with a lot of pain and discomfort for folks,” Marks says. “If you’re not supposed to talk about it, how are you supposed to talk about what you want, or what is or isn’t okay?”

Stores like As You Like It can be important resources in a world where comprehensive sex education is not always inclusive or mandatory. As of December 2020, only 30 states in the U.S. mandated any kind of sex education curriculum. Where it is taught, 37 states require teaching abstinence, and 26 of those states require that abstinence be emphasized over safer sex practices. Additionally, only 19 percent of U.S. secondary schools provide curricula that is LGBTQ-inclusive. According to the Guttmacher Institute, only 6 percent of LGBTQ students reported positive representations of LGBTQ topics in their classes.

Ilana Slavit, a sex educator who identifies as non-binary and uses they and she pronouns, adds that sex education often excludes people who don’t identify with traditional gender roles.

“When sex education isn’t just abstinence-based, and it is more supposedly inclusive, it still talks about sex in a very gendered way,” Slavit says. “So that can be really jarring for folks. It can even cause some trauma for people who have recently transitioned, or recently come out or are even closeted.

Because it might cause them to question their own identities and think ‘oh, maybe there’s something wrong with me.’”

Slavit discovered As You Like It while attending the University of Oregon and recalls the shop making them feel more comfortable with exploring their sexuality. They view the shop as a valuable resource for educating people, especially young people, whose high school sex education programs may have left something to be desired. Sex toys are enticing, Slavit says, and can serve as tools that center positivity, pleasure and consent in people’s sex lives. And by layering in educational resources like books and workshops, they say the shop is making knowledge about sex accessible and prioritizing safety and wellness in their mission.

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While Marks has always taken an interest in sexual health, she hasn’t always worked in the industry. Prior to founding As You Like It, she spent almost two decades in the nonprofit sector working for environmental and social justice movements.

When Marks moved to Portland, Oregon, in her late twenties, she says she often frequented the Portland sex shop It's My Pleasure. On several occasions, her gay or trans-masculine friends asked her to take them to It's My Pleasure so they didn’t seem “creepy.” Even in a feminist shop, they did not feel completely at home.

This struck a chord with Marks, and she decided it was time to find new ways to create change. She says she dedicated herself to creating a space where everyone could go to have their sexual needs met, and no one would feel out-of-place or unwelcome. That’s how the shop was born.

The name “As You Like It” combines Marks’ mission for the shop with the title of the well-known Shakespearean comedy. “I can be a little literal,” Marks says and laughs. “Sex should be as you like it, but I’m also a huge Shakespeare buff.”

When it comes to educating the public, Marks always tries to get books into the hands of adults who can give them to the young people in their life — whether that is in the home, the doctor’s office or the classroom. As You Like It is brimming with books about sex and relationships, and according to Marks, some customers have called it “their favorite bookstore.”

Additionally, the shop hosts around four workshops a month, currently over Zoom, covering sex topics like erectile dysfunction, menopause and how to write erotica. As You Like It employees are extensively trained, both online and in-store, and are all certified sexual health resources, qualifying them to offer advice and assistance to their customers.

Jackie Velez, the outreach coordinator for As You Like It, was part of sex-positive groups in college. As You Like It is her first sex shop retail experience, and she says she loves it. Velez says she grew up in a conservative town in Michigan where differences were often frowned upon. As You Like It is important, she says, because it creates a space for people to have their differences celebrated rather than ignored.

“Whenever people get excited about something they get in the store, that makes me really happy,” Velez says. “It makes me feel like I’m doing something good for this community that I love.”

Looking toward the future, Marks says she hopes to move into a larger location. She wants her customers to be able to sit down, potentially around a coffee table with hot beverages available, and pore over books before they decide to purchase them. Cultivating a sense of community is important to Marks, and she feels she can do that better in a bigger space. But for now, she is content to work with what she’s got and make her store a refuge for, as she says, “everybody and every body.”

“We need to create spaces where we don’t stay in our little bubbles and avoid people because they’re slightly different from us,” Marks says. “We need to acknowledge that we are a complex species, and it needs to be okay to be in the same spaces. And we need to know that the people holding those spaces are going to make it a safer experience.”

18 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

"AS YOU LIKE IT IS IMPORTANT BECAUSE IT CREATES A SPACE FOR PEOPLE TO HAVE THEIR DIFFERENCES CELEBRATED." - JACKIE VELEZ

After looking around for her favorite sex toy, Jackie Velez, an employee, explains why the pink vibrator she chose takes the prize. “I like this one because it has tons of settings, and is pink so it is also very pleasing to the eye,� Velez says.

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 19

20 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

Camden Owens (left), a University of Oregon student, shops at As You Like It, a local sex shop in Eugene. Exploring the store, Owens peruses the various toys and lube, supporting the small business in Eugene.

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 21

As You Like It has a variety of products from environmentally conscious and body safe toys, to books on sexual health and accessories for gender expression. “I think education is incredibly important about sexual health for all different ages, so I was excited when I found out how many resources we had here,� says Velez.

22 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

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24 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

Eric Journey returns to his property for the last time to find anything he could salvage from his home. Journey lived here for seven years and put a lot of love into his home. “The yard looked like something out of a magazine,” he says. “I had a koi pond over there, a fountain in the corner up there.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think a fire was coming through.”

RISING FROM THE ASHES Residents of Blue River rely on the strength of the community after the Holiday Farm fire.

Written by Clayton Franke Photos by Natalie Myking

A

ntony Abel peers through the shattered windows of what was once his glass studio, Abelglass Studio.

A few months ago, it was full of the beautiful glass ornaments, beads and pendants Abel sold to make a living. What remains today bears no resemblance to its former glory. The ground is covered with black and gray soot. Deformed objects clutter the ground, their identities and character incinerated. A scent of char lingers inside.

Abel walks to the south side of his shop, carefully stepping around old nails and debris on the ground. His old Volkswagen Jetta rests there. The tires are completely melted away, and the body is now a frightening shade of burnt orange. On the trunk, the first three letters of “Jetta” are barely distinguishable.

Across the street at the general store, the plastic from the old sign droops below its frame, melted to a point of no return.

Abel remembers how the general store was a gathering place for residents.

This haunting scene is the result of the Holiday Farm Fire.

Blue River, the once inviting community that surrounded Abel’s shop, is now a wasteland.

The blaze ripped through Blue River shortly after it started on Sept. 7 and proceeded to burn over 173,000 acres of western Oregon over the next seven weeks. Many residents of the McKenzie River corridor were left with nothing. But Blue River residents aren’t giving up on their town. They are relying on the strength and resilience of their community — as well as a little outside help — to rebuild what they had.

On the evening of Sept. 7, the power in Blue River went out at about 8:30 p.m. People in the area received a Level 1 fire warning, which told residents to be ready to evacuate.

At 11:45 p.m., the warning jumped to Level 3, which meant,

“leave immediately.” Abel grabbed a few essentials, got in his Volkswagen van and called his dog, Lucky, to load up.

“I looked outside, and you could see the fire. You could see the embers coming down, so I knew I didn’t have any time,” Abel says. “The sheriff was out here saying to leave, so I drove out and could see the fire on the whole hillside.”

This hillside is only a few hundred yards to the south of Abel’s house. Fortunately, Abel escaped to Highway 126 before trees fell and blocked the road. Others who lived farther from the highway were forced to drive over logs in the road to reach safety.

“The power went out, so people were sleeping,” Abel says.

“We’re used to the power going out here, so we went to bed.

Some people had to be woken up by the sheriffs.”

Just up the road, Erik Journey, resident of the Lazy Days Mobile Home and RV Park in Blue River, had a similar apocalyptic experience. He describes it as the scariest moment of his life. The fire shot ahead of him and seemed to be moving faster than he could drive.

“Suddenly, there was a glow straight across the river,” Journey says. “It looked like a meteor shower with burning embers flying over.”

Amidst the chaos, Abel and the other residents fled to Eugene, where most still live at a Holiday Inn through the American Red Cross Shelter. They lived there while the fire burned. Once the fire was contained, Abel returned to assess the damage.

“Your life is changed in a matter of hours,” Abel says. “You come back and realize you don’t have a home, a business or the day-to-day things I use and need. That’s when the community was so amazing. They set up the relief centers, so we could have those things.”

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 25

Many vehicles were left behind and burned in the fire, since most households only had the time to grab one vehicle while evacuating. Abel had to leave behind his Volkswagen Jetta, his daily car, and his Ford Mustang.

Most of the residents are still at the Holiday Inn with nowhere else to turn. However, the Rotary Club of Bend, Mt. Bachelor is working to get more RVs to donate to Blue River residents so they can return home. But, they are also engaged in an effort to replace tools lost in the fire so people can get back to work.

Rotary District Governor Cindi O’Neil leads the effort.

Recently, she directed a similar program for survivors of the Echo Mountain fire in Lincoln County. There, 51 people received $650 for buying tools necessary for their various trades and for the essential items needed to get back to normal life. The Rotary is currently executing something similar for the residents of Blue River if possible.

Seeds of hope are growing thanks to the members of the Rotary Club of Bend, Mt Bachelor. On Nov. 17, the club sold Abel an RV — for only a dollar. Two Rotarians delivered the RV, which is now parked outside what remains of his glass shop where he plans to live while he helps with the cleanup and rebuilding effort.

The fire rendered Abel’s glass shop useless, but the shop was the only building left standing on main street. Abel is one of the first people to return to Blue River, where he protected the shop from looters. He’s also running a tool library, funded

by Timber Unity, as more people return to the town. Right now, Abel has several chainsaws for tree cleanup, a power washer for ash and debris plus saws and drills. As the tool library grows, they will be free to use for the community.

“It’s a strong community,” Abel says. “You can’t just run to town, so we always helped each other. Now, that’s even more needed.”

In such a small community, everyone relies on their neighbors. Across the street from Abel’s glass shop is Melanie Stanley’s general store, where people used to gather on the long bench outside. Her house is directly behind the store. Both buildings burned down.

Stanley earned the title of “unofficial mayor” after living in the town for 28 years. She leads the Fourth of July celebrations, trick or treat events and the lighting of the Blue River bridge around Christmastime. When someone needs something, she’s there to help.

“The McKenzie is where I got most of my roots,” Stanley says. “I don’t know if I fit anywhere else. It’s where I graduated high school, where I’ve met all of my friends and where I have most of my family.”

Stanley is living in the Holiday Inn with most of the other Blue River residents but plans to return within the next month.

Her bond to the McKenzie River drives her goal to rebuild the 26 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

The 5110 District Rotary club donates a trailer to Antony Abel (left), through a member who wishes to remain anonymous. Abel lost his home in the fire along with his glass shop business, Abelglass Studio. The Rotary Club hopes to coordinate ways to get temporary housing for those affected by the fires while they rebuild their lives. “These guys drove this out here, delivered it, went the extra mile to make sure things were working, brought me a fridge because the fridge didn’t work, extra lights,” Abel says. “He thought of little things, wasn’t just trying to dump an RV off on me.”

town. Returning to live in a scorched town isn’t an easy decision.

For many Blue River residents, the costs of returning didn’t make financial sense. But Stanley’s loyalty to Blue River overshadowed her own financial risks.

“Two days afterward, when people said ‘What are you doing next?’ we said, ‘We’re rebuilding the store and I’ll rebuild the house, and I’ll be home soon,” Stanley says.

Before the fires, Stanley would frequently borrow tools from Abel when she needed them for the store. When the need for a “tool librarian” came along, Stanley knew Abel was the perfect man for the job. She also nominated Abel to the Rotary Club as the recipient of the first RV. The Rotary Club hopes to give away more RVs soon, and it’s much needed. According to Stanley, some residents have received support from the Federal Emergency Management Agency while others are still trying to apply for assistance. Those who haven’t received money are struggling to prove residency after their possessions and documentation were burned in the fire. According to FEMA, over $28 million was approved for fire relief in Oregon.

For some, returning to Blue River isn’t the best option.

According to Stanley, the older residents in their 60s and 70s

were mostly insured, but rebuilding would take too much time and effort. They will either sell this land or give it to younger family members. Stanley says the scorched land will sell for less than it would have before the fires, giving younger buyers and first-time property owners an opportunity to start a life in Blue River. People who previously rented Blue River property now have a better chance to buy something to build on.

Stanley hopes this potential influx of youth will revitalize the town not just to its previous standing but will also improve on what they had before. Previously, several commercial properties in the middle of town were vacant. Her main goal is to rebuild the community on main street while filling previously vacant spaces with attractive businesses for tourists.

Abel is already starting a new glass shop in a trailer next door to his new one so he can continue to make money while he runs the tool library. As for his new RV, he is happy to be home and have some sense of normalcy. Before they left, the Rotarians fixed up the RV by installing a new refrigerator and new lights.

Abel recognized the compassion of the people engaged in the relief effort.

“That’s been the best part of this: the humanity that people have brought to it,” Abel says. “You just saw people helping each other. It really touched me to see this.”

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 27

28 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

Abel and his dog, Lucky, were able to evacuate safely from the fire. “We got a Level 1 warning and started kind of just getting a day pack ready. Before I knew it, it was Level 3,” Abel says. “I loaded up the dog, I had my Volkswagen van, and I had the day pack and I looked out there and could see the fire.”

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 29

S

S

W

ER

ER

O W R E R QUI L PO

ER

R E R L I U P Q S QUIRREL P OW

April Edelen skateboards in the parking garage beneath Matthew Knight Arena, a perfect spot for skating during the rainy winter months. “I’ve been kicked out of a few different spots at UO but, for the most part, people are cool about it,” she says. Photo by Summer Surgent

30 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

Written by Emily Topping Photos by Eric Woodall and Summer Surgent

A women’s skate group in Eugene is breaking barriers in the sport to make skating more inclusive.

C

hristelle Auzas rolls up to WJ Skatepark in a green knit beanie and a loose black button-down. She greets two of her friends and fellow skaters, April Edelen and Emily Heinrichson, before turning her attention to the bowl.

“Jesus, it’s cold, huh?” she says, rubbing her gloved hands together before nonchalantly dropping in. She dips into the 15-foot drop, knees bent, and soars up the other side, catching herself on the metal lip and swinging back down. It’s hard to imagine that such a confident skater had ever been nervous to start.

As a kid, there were some mornings when Christelle Auzas would sit in the car outside the park, too afraid to open the door.

She was only 12 years old at the time, and had picked up the sport after finding an old, beat-up board of her older brother’s in the garage. After a few days of landing on her butt every time she tried to balance on the wheels, she started to get the hang of it and became hooked on cruising around her Arizona neighborhood.

There was something different about the park, though.

Auzas’ dad and brother would drive her there early in the morning as the sun rose, casting dusty shadows on the asphalt. But even as she tried to beat the crowds, there were some days when the noise from the parking lot — a chorus of men shouting expletives and wheels grinding on metal — was enough to intimidate her into staying in the backseat for just a few more minutes.

“It’s like I could smell the masculinity,” she says, laughing. Auzas, now 21 and a senior at the University of Oregon, has become an accomplished skater in the last nine years. But she still remembers that feeling of a scared young girl, afraid to start something new.

Auzas has since made it her mission to encourage girls to pick up skating. Skate culture is notorious for being overwhelmingly male, like many sports, and less than friendly to beginners. That’s why Auzas started the group “Squirrels of WJ” (Washington Jefferson Skatepark), a crew of like-minded girls and women who offer tips, open skatenights and if nothing else, “a friend to skate with,” Auzas says. She hopes the group can be a part of what she sees as a wider, national movement to make skateboarding more inclusive to people of all genders, races and backgrounds.

For Auzas, the joy of skateboarding should be something “everyone gets to experience.”

As a young teen, Auzas used skating as a way to get out of the house. She had recently moved to Portland after her parents’ divorce and didn’t get along with the other kids at school — it was through the self-described “weirdos” she ran into at skateparks and around the streets of Portland that she developed a community where she felt at home.

There only seemed to be one glaring difference between herself and the group of kids she hung out with: most of the time, she was the only girl.

A study by the Public Skatepark Development Guide reported that 77 percent of skaters in the U.S. are male.

When focusing on skaters who ride at least once a week, the percentage of men increases to 83 percent.

It would be erasing history to forget that women have skated since the sport came into existence. The legendary 1970s skate team “Z-boys,” whose story was popularized in the 2005 feature film “Lords of Dogtown” included one woman, Peggy Oki. And in the 90s, girls could look up to underground heroes like Cara-Beth Burnside and Elissa Steamer. Still, female skaters have typically received much less media attention and fewer sponsorship deals than their male counterparts.

Even some industry legends hold reservations about women joining the sport. Nyjah Huston, the highest-paid skateboarder in the world, sponsored by an extensive list of brands from Nike to Diamond Co., was quoted by Thrasher in 2013 as saying, “I personally believe that skateboarding is not for girls at all. Not one bit.” In a later apology he wrote online, Huston seemed to double down on the idea that women couldn’t handle the danger, saying, “What I meant was that skateboarding is a gnarly sport, in general, and as someone who knows the wrath of the concrete all too well, I don’t like the thought of girls (like my little sister) getting hurt.”

Auzus sees the close-mindedness of some male skaters as ironic. She finds it surprising that a group of athletes who find opportunity in every guard rail, parking curb and twist in the pavement create barriers inside their own sport.

By the time she reached the University of Oregon, Auzas was determined to find a way to encourage more girls to pick up a board. While she’d been pleasantly surprised at how friendly the locals were in Eugene, there was a stark lack of gender diversity in the skate community. Her idea was to create an informal, girls-only group, in which they could exchange phone numbers and let each other know when they’d be at the park. Then, at least, beginners would feel less alone. Now, she just needed a name.

“A lot of skaters were misfits when they were younger, or didn’t fit in,” she says.

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 31

As she pondered the idea while skating to class one day, she caught a glimpse of a squirrel scampering across the path.

The name hit her: skater, girl… squirrel. It was perfect.

of the “Squirrels” group at WJ Skatepark and quickly made friends. Like Auzas, she had initially been nervous to pick up the sport.

Now, on a typical week, the “Squirrels” group meets once or twice at WJ Skatepark to practice and hang out. They host open “Ladies Nights” some Thursdays, where new members are welcome to come meet other girls and practice riding. Auzas also gives private lessons to skateboarders at all levels, either at the park or in the comfort of their own driveways.

“As a girl, there’s definitely the possibility for people to give you shit if you’re ‘bad,’” she says. “I remember being so determined to land a kickflip, because that’s the first thing people shout at you to do if they think you’re new.”

At the skatepark, as Auzas practices dropping in, she narrowly maneuvers between groups of people huddling under the covered areas. Edelen and Heinrichson, fellow Squirrels, cheer from the edge of the bowl. Heinrichson decides she wants to try to kickflip off a feature. She waits for her spot in the line up and skates up onto a flat ledge, kicking her feet off as she lands.

The board comes out from under her and she smacks onto the concrete, her head bouncing off the ground.

“Ouch, you got it,” Edelen says, holding her phone out and recording a clip for the “Squirrels of WJ” Instagram. Heinrichson dusts herself off and tries again — sure enough, this time she lands.

That’s part of the beauty of skateboarding, Edelen says: the persistence and repetition.

“You fall, you hurt yourself, it sucks, but you keep trying,” she says.

As she talks, Edelen pulls down her cow-print face mask and takes a chug from a Danimals yogurt. She pulls her mask back up, brushing a strand of pastel pink hair from her face and stuffs her phone in her pocket, eager to get on her board herself.

Edelen tried her hand at skating in high school, but only started going to the park and taking the sport seriously in 2018, after moving to Eugene for school. She met the other members

With the help of her roommates, Christelle Auzas built her very own skate ramp in her backyard last spring. “I remember going to the skatepark with my dad really early in the mornings before he worked,” Auzas says. “I’ve just always really loved it." Photo

by Eric Woodall

32 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

She emphasizes, however, that beginners might catch flack from other skaters regardless of gender. The key is to focus on the sport and why you enjoy it in the first place.

“You can’t focus on other people watching you, or you’ll hate it,” she says. “Most people are there to do their own thing.”

But she has experienced a few sexist run-ins while skating. Edelen says she wore a skirt at the park one time, and an older local condescendingly told her, “You know we can see your ass, right?” She told him to “fuck off.”

“You have to stand up for yourself, and just focus on what you’re there to do,” Edelen says.

She believes that skating has caused her to come in to her own as a more confident person, and more specifically, a queer woman. While Edelen jokes that “wanna go skate?” is a great Tinder pick-up line for girls, she does believe that becoming more involved in skate culture has helped her become more self-assured, both in terms of her personality and sexuality.

Edelen is a fan of women and queer-focused skate collectives like Skate Like a Girl and Unity, which aim to tackle homophobia in the skate world. The founders of Unity, a group dedicated to increasing LGBTQ representation in the sport, say that while things are changing, skateboarding has a ways to go.

Edelen films Emily Johnson attempting a shuvit off of a ledge at WJ Skatepark. The Squirrels of WJ Instagram account, which Edelen posts the group’s skateboarding content on, currently has just under 400 followers. As their page describes, the group seeks to provide a community where “folks of all ages, abilities, gender identities, and sexualities are welcome to come shred.”

Edelen and Heinrichson play a game of “SKATE” in a flat area of the skatepark. As Edelen describes it, “SKATE is like HORSE for basketball, except with flat-ground skateboarding tricks.” Photo by Summer Surgent

O U N G E H E , R

NDS. E LA

M I T E S I S H H T

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 33

S U

Amiya McInnis practices her boardslide as the daylight fades at WJ Skatepark. “There’s girls that will go to the skate park,” McInnis says. “They just need that little shove and maybe to see other people there like them.” Photo by Eric Woodall 34 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 35

SKATEBOARDING HAS A LONG

POLITICAL

AND TAKING STANCES AGAINST COPS

HISTORY OF BEING

“I think skaters like to think it doesn’t matter who you are as long as you are a skater,” Unity founders Jeffrey Cheung and Gabriel Ramirez said in an interview with Dazed Magazine. “But skating has been still mostly white cis straight dudes and the ‘tough guy’ mentality is prevalent.”

Members of the “Squirrels of WJ” believe it’s important for skaters to take part in activism. In June 2020, when the police murder of George Floyd sparked Black Lives Matter demonstrations across the country, the “Squirrels” group had a discussion about their role in the movement.

In an Instagram post from the SquirrelsOfWJ account, Edelen wrote, “Squrrelsofwj is a platform to uplift people that have been left out in the skate community.” She acknowledged that while women have been left out of skateboarding, so have Black people.

Edelen urged skaters who may avoid the topic of racism for being “too political” to remember that, “skateboarding has a long history of being political and taking stances against cops [...]

Black lives matter, squirrelsofWJ stands with you.”

For some members of the Squirrels, the topic of racism in the sport is a personal one. Amiya McInnis, a skater and junior at the University of Oregon, points out that while skateboarding is often thought of as an anti-authority and anti-police culture, that attitude is only safe for certain people to adopt.

“I noticed that I got stared at every time I went to the park,” McInnis says. “And I’m thinking, ‘is this because I’m the only Black girl here? Or am I just being paranoid?’”

She says she had to learn to ignore the looks from more experienced athletes and assume they had good intentions.

Maybe they were just interested in what she was doing, she told herself, or wanted to observe different skate styles. After all, she liked watching others learn too. Still, it could be hard to feel like she belonged without representation.

For McInnis, who snowboards often and splits her time between the majority-white cities of Portland and Welches, Oregon, the feeling was nothing new.

“When I’m snowboarding, sometimes not only am I the only girl in the group I’m riding with, but I might be the only Black person on the whole mountain,” McInnis says. “At least in Eugene, I feel like the skate community is slightly more diverse.”

Although the mountain sports and skate communities overlap in a lot of ways, one benefit of skating is the relative lack of financial barriers. If you can buy a board and find a place outside, you can learn to skate.

Photo by Eric Woodall 36 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

In practice, however, it’s not always so simple. Without a designated place to ride, like a park, skaters may find themselves in legal trouble for riding in transitional spaces, a term for areas that exist between the public and private realm like building stairwells and courtyards. Private security guards and police officers have a duty to protect property. That can mean kicking out “trespassers” with force.

Christelle Auzas skates at WJ Skatepark in downtown Eugene at dusk. “I used to think skateboarding was this grungy thing,” Auzas says. “But now I see it more like dancing.” Photo by Eric Woodall

“I’ve seen friends get shoved to the ground by cops and guards, which is insane,” Auzas says. “It shows where their priorities are.”

McInnis points out that interactions with the police could end very differently for Black skaters and white ones. “It’s definitely something I have to be aware of,” she says.

Although skateparks are designated as safe and legal places to ride, not every town has one. McInnis currently lives in Welches, an unincorporated community outside of Mt. Hood where she works during the winter. If she wants to practice skating at a park, she has to drive more than 40 minutes to Hood River or Estacada.

While there is one brand-new skate facility near McInnis, Windells Skate Park in Brightwood, Oregon, the park is not open to the public. Those hoping to ride the more than 50,000 square feet of concrete features must pay to take part in a Windells camp.

“For me, it’s so frustrating,” McInnis says. “Because they have these dope programs just for girls and this crazy facility, but I will never ride it. And neither will a lot of people.” She says the type of people who can afford to pay to go to a skate camp are affluent and often white.

For now, McInnis drives down to Eugene when she wants to ride at a park or see her friends.

When she shows up at WJ Skatepark, a chorus of excited shouts and greetings ring out from around the park. Auzas catches a glimpse of McInnis coming around the corner and hops off her board to envelop her in a hug, “I missed you so much dude!”

McInnis grins, allowing her five-foot-one frame to be swallowed up in Auzas’ flannel. Other people turn to see what the commotion is about and wave enthusiastically. Although she’s only been skating for a couple of years, it’s clear that McInnis is a welcome sight at the skatepark.

“Amiya is the best. She’s always encouraging other skaters,” Auzas says. “And she’s so creative.”

Recently, McInnis completed a large mural at Tactics skate shop in Eugene, titled “Today is a Beautiful Day to End Racism.” The painting, an eight-and-a-half-foot square, shows an imagined version of WJ Skatepark, with a large smiling sun and blossoming flowers lining the edge of the park. A group of skaters, androgynously dressed and with various skin tones, stand holding their boards.

“I wanted to paint something that reminded people of the joy in skating and also reminded them ‘hey, everyone should be able to do this,’” McInnis says.

Several members of the group say they have seen WJ Skatepark become a more inclusive place over the last few years.

When Auzas first began riding at the park, she says she was often the only girl. Now, thanks in part to the Squirrels of WJ group, it’s not uncommon to see larger groups of women.

Although disruptions due to COVID-19 have made expanding the group difficult, Auzas hopes to grow “Squirrels of WJ” to be a larger, more cohesive crew of skaters. The group continues to host Thursday “Ladies Nights,” in which women are encouraged to come meet the crew and improve their skills.

Auzas also continues teaching private lessons to new skaters, or those working to land a new trick. She says watching one of her clients, the 11-year-old little sister of one of her friends, gain confidence has been a highlight of the last few months.

Ultimately, Auzas believes it’s time to retire the stereotype of a skater as a “tough, white dude.” After all, she says, “I always found it funny that skating is supposed to be this rough, masculine sport. When you take away the board, it sort of looks like dancing.”

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 37

CLOSEQUA R T E R S Written by Chelsea Pitarresi Photos by Jozie Donaghey

University of Oregon students question their decision to risk living in the dorms.

D

ark gray and seven stories high, Barnhart Hall, University of Oregon’s designated quarantine dorm, towers over Patterson street. Sticky notes are pasted on many of its large, square windows. On a note on the window of Christian Binder’s room, the words “Fuck This” are spelled out for the passerbys below.

Binder was sent to Barnhart to quarantine for two weeks after learning his roommate tested positive for COVID-19. The rest of his room is bare and white, with snacks and school supplies cluttered on the two tables he has pushed together.

Binder says after two days, he felt like he had been in Barnhart for an entire week.

Binder, and around 3,000 other dorm residents, arrived at campus this fall with hopes for some semblance of a normal college life despite the growing pandemic. With all of the chaos around him, Binder thought the close community experience of the dorms was exactly what he needed.

On Nov. 5, though, as he sat in his bare room in Barnhart, he felt torn about his decision.

Binder is one of thousands of freshmen across the country moving into the dorms despite the pandemic, hoping for a safe and fulfilling introduction to college. The value of dorm life during the pandemic is complicated and unclear for many of them.

Seeing students get away with violating safety protocol can be disheartening for those feeling isolated as they do their best to stay safe.

Michael Griffel, UO’s Director of Housing, says he believes the dorms can offer a unique and engaging experience that at-home learning cannot. “During the pandemic, the residence halls are among the very few environments where students can make strong connections with a broad range of the students from across the country and globe, while following public health guidance,” Griffel says.

Back in March, the Oregon Health Authority sent out an announcement encouraging schools to “consider all alternatives before closing,” as they “recognize the instruction universities and schools provide is vital to student well-being” in addition to providing “many students their only access to healthcare and food.”

UO’s housing website says the school is doing everything it can do to ensure a safe experience. The site says, “We are committed to meeting, and in many cases exceeding, all of the standards and guidance from the Oregon Health Authority for our residence halls.” These standards are intended to be met through reduced density of residents, extra cleaning and not allowing more than two students to live in the same room.

Max Cronk, a student who lives across the hall from Binder, says UO has been “really proactive” about enforcing safety protocol. Cronk was written up for hanging out in another student’s room by a resident advisor, an older student who lives in the dorms with freshmen and makes sure they adhere to UO conduct. He says it was a learning experience that he needed.

Since June 1, 2020, 83 students living on campus have tested positive for COVID.

“They had me read some research articles about COVID and write a response paper,” Cronk says. “It was a great way to reflect on the impact of my actions, and now I’ve been much more inclined to follow the rules.”

With a total enrollment of 22,760 students, UO has found 686 positive cases in students and faculty. In comparison, Oregon State University, with a total enrollment this year of 32,312 students, has found 272 positive cases in students and faculty. OSU’s dorms are also open.

Binder, on the other hand, says at the end of the day, there’s not much the school can actually do to enforce their safety regulations.

38 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

Christian Binder peers out of his seventh-story window in Barnhart Hall, the designated quarantine building for students who have either contracted or come into contact with the coronavirus. Binder says he was given one hour to pack his things once his roommate was alerted of his positive test result. “We’re only allowed out between 1 and 3 p.m.,” Binder says.

“I’m so ready to get out of here.”

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 39

Barnhart Hall has been reserved as the university’s isolation (for positive cases) and quarantine (for those exposed) center. Binder counted every minute of his two-week quarantine with very little interaction with others including staff. “We have to order our meals the day before, and then they drop them off at our door and leave,” Binder says. “We can’t even do laundry, and I’m running out of clean clothes.”

“They can tell students to wear masks and not visit with each other, but that’s not actually going to stop people,” Binder says.

Binder says he used body wash and hand sanitizer in place of soap; he didn’t want to go out and buy any for risk of spreading COVID-19.

Students living on campus are required to get tested every other week for COVID. They conduct the tests themselves, inserting a cotton swab up their noses. Medical professionals supervise to ensure the samples are collected correctly. Binder says the whole process took 20 to 25 minutes at the beginning of the term but now only takes five to 10 minutes.

Students living in other dorm rooms are also encouraged to keep to their own rooms as much as they can, though unlike quarantined and isolated students, they are allowed to move around freely. Resident advisors were told to write up residents for hanging out in each other’s rooms, not wearing masks or violating the occupancy limits in communal areas. After two or three warning write-ups, violators can be told to leave the dorms, as agreed to in the contract students were required to sign before moving in.

On-campus residents who test positive are sent to Barnhart to spend two weeks in total isolation. They are not allowed to leave their rooms at all. Students like Binder, who have come in contact with someone who tested positive, are also sent to Barnhart, but are allowed to leave their dorm for two hours every day. Food is ordered online and made in the dining hall on the first floor, which is then brought up to residents so they can remain in their rooms as much as possible.

Binder says the boredom of being stuck inside all day actually helped him get his school work done. “You get your schoolwork done and then you’re just like what do I do now,” Binder says. “There was nothing else to do. You just had to get used to it.”

After Binder’s roommate in his previous dorm, LivingLearning Center, received the call that he had tested positive for COVID-19, Binder had an hour to shove everything he needed for the next two weeks into two trash bags and rush to a van across campus. The driver dropped him off in front of Barnhart, gave him his room key and drove off.

“I didn’t even eat dinner that night, and I forgot a bunch of stuff since it was happening so fast,” Binder says. “There’s no soap or tissues here, but I didn’t even think to bring that.”

40 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

But according to Jadon Faulconer, a resident advisor at Living-Learning Center, rules like that can be hard to enforce when he’s also trying to distance himself.

“It can be really anxiety-inducing to have to be on guard all day, looking for things I have to document,” Faulconer says. “That anxiety also comes from living with a lot of people that don’t seem to be taking the virus as seriously as I do.”

This is Faulconer’s third year as a resident advisor. He says that this year involves more work than before. On top of his typical duties, like monitoring drinking and maintaining quiet hours, he must now look out for all the possible safety violations, which Faulconer says many freshmen are struggling to follow.

“I think it’s really hard for people to adjust their preconceived notions of what their first-year experience is going to be,” Faulconer says.

Rodrigo Olvera, a resident advisor in the dorm Justice Bean, says he’s also noticed freshmen struggling to follow dorm protocols, but that there has been some improvement since the beginning of the year.

According to UO’s website, which has been charting COVID cases among faculty and students since June 1, there was a surge in positive results during late September and early October, just a few weeks after students first moved in on September 20.

W I N T E R T E R M T E X T B O O K S O N L I N E O N LY

“There was definitely an adjustment period for everyone that moved into the dorms,” Olvera says. “It took a while, but now they understand the protocols and are respectful of what is asked of them.”

Binder says he and many other dorm residents feel extremely conflicted about their decision to live on campus.

He recognizes the danger but couldn’t help hoping that even a small look into “real” college life through the dorms would make it all worth it.

After losing big moments of his senior year in high school to the pandemic, Binder was craving actual change. To him, going virtual and cancelling graduation made a milestone in his life feel anticlimactic. He considered attending community college from his home in Virginia but decided that living in the dorms was something he wasn’t willing to give up.

Cronk says he also felt dorm life was a must for him, and stands by his decision to move in.

“Getting a fresh start and being in a new place was really something I needed to do for myself,” Cronk says. “It would be a totally different experience to be at home still.”

Determined to get the most out of his limited circumstances, Binder has made his own happiness in Eugene.

He goes skateboarding as much as he can, visits the river and takes aerial footage with his drone. He’s also become great friends with his roommate. They often play video games together in their room and keep in touch while quarantining and isolating.

“My roommate and I are a perfect match,” Binder says.

“We were both really excited to see each other after two weeks.”

While he’s very excited to have gotten some positive experiences from the dorms, they still don’t meet his original hopes.

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If he could do it all again, having seen what the year would really look like, Binder says he probably would have stayed out of school for the year. Now that he’s already made it through one term though, Binder feels inclined to stick around and see if things will improve over time.

Students had until Oct. 15 to withdraw from the dorms and receive full reimbursement. Living in the dorms costs anywhere from around $10,000 to $20,000 per school year, depending on the specific dorm and meal plan. After that, students who left the dorms had to pay $9 a day for each day remaining in the contract. Students planning to live on campus for winter term have until Jan. 2 to withdraw with zero penalties.

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Despite his concerns with safety and questioning how “worth it” the dorms are considering the cost, Binder plans on returning to the dorms after winter break.

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 41

HARMONY AT A DISTANCE Written by Shannon Golden Photos by Jozie Donaghey

The Delgani String Quartet is discovering safe ways to foster comfort and community through music during the pandemic.

K

imberlee Uwate, Jannie Wei, Wyatt True and Eric Alterman sat together with their instruments in hand on a platform at the altar of a church. It was late October, and soft beams of afternoon sun shined through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Delgani String Quartet began to play. Melodic sounds filled the church.

Two violins, a viola and a cello joined in song.

Masked concert-goers sat among mostly empty chairs.

Crepe paper streamers blocked off rows of seats to ensure social distancing. A camera was set up at the back so the concert could be livestreamed.

It was not unusual for the Church of Christ, Scientist in Eugene, Oregon, to be filled with music before the pandemic.

The members of the Delgani String Quartet were well acquainted with the space. Its high ceilings and wooded accents created good acoustics. There were plenty of seats for Delgani’s large community of patrons.

They have played many shows here in the past, but this time was different. This was Delgani’s first in-person concert since the beginning of the pandemic.

Uwate, the quartet’s violist, says she found it jarring to see the space so empty. “We couldn't gather as we normally do,” she says. “We couldn’t have the same energy of a concert that we usually have.” Still, Uwate says she felt grateful to be playing at all.

Despite the challenges caused by COVID-19, Eugene’s Delgani String Quartet is providing comfort and community in a time when it’s needed most. Through virtual concerts and socially distanced events, the quartet is bringing people together to share in music.

The coronavirus pandemic made it impossible to safely enjoy music in social settings like before. Many music venues, concert halls and festival grounds shut down indefinitely, so people went online for this connection. In the first half of 2020, revenues from music streaming platforms grew 12 percent to

42 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

$4.8 billion from $4.3 billion in the first half of 2019. Increases in subscriptions for services such as Apple Music, Spotify and other online music providers contributed to this spike.

Musicians also found creative ways to bring live music to people virtually. Symphony orchestras live streamed their performances. The New York Times, along with other publications, began posting monthly articles that provided information about classical concerts to look forward to in the near future. Musicians used social media platforms to livestream themselves playing. Artists sang from rooftops around the world.

Zachary Wallmark, a musicologist and University of Oregon professor, says music can help us feel connected to others, even when it’s virtual. Wallmark studies the relationship between music and social cognition. His most recent research project focused on the connection between music and emotion. He notes that there are overlaps between how our brains process music and interactions with others.

“Music can kind of serve as a virtual substitute or a virtual social contact or social encounter. Listening to music, even if you're alone, is bringing somebody to you,” Wallmark says. “It's bringing human emotional intentions and agency straight to you, even though you're not physically together in the same space.”

Historically, humans were only able to share music with each other in person through singing, musical instruments and dance. “We have hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary history that is positioning music as essentially a social human activity,” Wallmark says. Today, technology makes it easier to find this connection virtually.

“Part of the reason why I'm a classical musician is I like the fact that I don't have to be plugged into power in order to play my instrument,” Uwate says, chuckling. But in 2020, all musicians have had to become video producers, audio engineers and IT experts.

Uwate shows one of her students a viola hand position during a socially-distanced lesson in her garage, where she has been conducting private lessons since the pandemic started. “For me, teaching and performing are two sides of the same coin,” Uwate says. “The process of understanding and loving a piece takes time, but in both teaching and performing, it is a communal experience that nourishes everyone involved.

Live streaming has been crucial in Delgani’s effort to stay connected with their patrons. They now offer live-streamed concerts and virtual lectures about composers and classical music history to all of their season subscribers. Patrons simply go to the Delgani website and enter their password to see the embedded videos.

When the weather was warm during the summer, they also played in parks. This concert at the church was their first live event inside since the start of the year.

Uwate found that this same determination to connect through music translated into her personal musical endeavors.

For many months the quartet couldn’t rehearse together. They didn’t have to be in the same room to create a lot of their online content. To practice for their concerts, they met outdoors or in big spaces with masks on. But Uwate found herself with ample time to practice alone. She played a few solo concerts for friends in front yards and driveways.

She has also been holding virtual private lessons for her viola students. This transition to online lessons came with challenges. Some students only have low-quality computer microphones, which makes it harder for Uwate to hear, but she tries to use visual cues to let them know what needs changing.

“You cover what you can cover,” Uwate says. “The goal is to have the students be making the progress they can be making.”

Katie Siegfried, one of Uwate’s students and a senior at South Eugene High School, says she’s still glad to learn virtually but struggles with missing the in-person connection of playing music. After months of virtual lessons, the pair met outside — socially distanced and with masks on — for in-person lessons.

Siegfried remembered what it felt like to see Uwate again.

“I almost cried when I got back into my car after my lesson,” Siegfried says. “It was the first time I had played with another human being in months. It was really wonderful.”

Siegfried’s emotional response highlights an important gap between in-person and virtual music experiences. Wallmark likens it to the problems educators are seeing with online learning. “This is vividly exposing the irreplaceability of actual human copresence,” he says. “It’s a bit like junk food.” We can get by with online music experiences, but it doesn’t quite replace the real thing.

Uwate says it’s better to try to fill the void of connection than not try at all. “Anything we do is so much more than nothing,” she says.

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 43

The concert at the church gave the quartet a chance to connect and comfort their patrons. They played familiar pieces by Haydn and Beethoven and Shostakovich in an effort to provide a sense of comfort in a time where much was uncertain.

There were only a handful of people in attendance at the concert. John Lundblade, a friend of Uwate's, found it emotional to hear live music in person again. “Just to hear those pieces actually played by somebody and not just listening to a recording is the lifeblood of it,” Lundblade says.

For all the masked patrons the quartet played for in the church, there were also people they didn’t see: those who watched behind computer screens and listened through speakers. After the concert, one of their patrons emailed them to say that she felt like the quartet had actually played in her living room, not just through a screen.

Days after the concert itself, Mary Pugsley and her husband listened to sections of the recorded livestream in the comfort of their Eugene home, replaying parts of the program they enjoyed. The pair met Uwate almost five years ago.

When the pandemic started, they made a list of things they could do that would be good for the brain and soul, Pugsley says.

They turned to Uwate’s classical music lectures and the live streamed concerts to learn and connect.

3,000 miles away, Siegfried watched the livestream. She was in Baltimore to visit colleges, but stayed up to watch on her computer from her hotel room. She recalls the moment being bittersweet. “I wouldn't trade the experience of sitting in a concert hall for anything,” Siegfried says. “But I would rather be watching someone play than not watching someone play at all.”

Each individual — although separate — shared this singular music experience.

Siegfried tries to visualize a live audience in front of her, per Uwate’s instruction, as she plays “Viola Concerto” by William Walton.

Siegfried has been rehearsing for this piece for over a year for her upcoming college auditions. “I’ve been playing viola since I was five years old,” she says. “So I guess I’ve been playing for almost 12 years.”

44 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

A MARIACHI FAMILY Written by Lily Wheeler Photos by Isabel Lemus Kristensen

Springfield High School’s mariachi program helps create a cultural bridge between generations.

J

ennifer Ramirez Diaz stood in the small lobby of the restaurant El Torito for her last performance at the end of a 10-hour day of gigs on Cinco De Mayo in 2015. With taped and glued fingers raw from plucking strings, her band Mariachi del Sol set up their music stands and began to fill the room with music. Their regular set list included all of the songs they had spent the year learning in class, their most notable being their rendition of “La Bamba,” which allowed band members to improvise solos mid-song. Ramping up their energy with every strum, the sound of their music quickly overpowered the conversations of patrons.

Now 21-years-old and graduated, this performance was one of the many times Ramirez Diaz spent the day with her chin resting against her violin during the four years she played in Springfield High School’s mariachi program.

With new opportunities for high school students to play mariachi popping up all over Oregon for the past decade, Ramirez Diaz is representative of a community of kids who were given the chance to learn about their culture through the Oregon public education system. With nearly 500,000 people of Hispanic origin in Oregon, these programs mark an important shift in the state’s approach to cultural representation in education. This has benefitted students like Ramirez Diaz, who says the program allowed her to learn about her culture through experience.

“Mariachi is one of the things that represents Mexico,” Ramirez Diaz says. “I feel like, coming from Hispanic parents, it’s one of the things that helped me learn about the culture.”

Ramirez Diaz says that her stepdad is from Guadalajara, Mexico, where mariachi is so popular that you can hear the music being played everywhere at all hours of the day. Because of this connection to the music, Ramirez Diaz grew up listening to popular mariachis. “It’s one of the things we have here, since we are here and not in Mexico,” she says. “So, we grow up listening.”

Ramirez Diaz was inspired to start playing mariachi music when she saw an earlier generation of Mariachi del Sol play around 2010 when they came to her school at the time, Maple Elementary. It was the first mariachi Ramirez Diaz had seen in person. Upon learning that the program would be open to anyone who attended Springfield High School, she joined the orchestra program at Maple. This led her to a community mariachi program in middle school and then to Mariachi del Sol. During her time in the program, Ramirez Diaz grew close with her bandmates. “When you’re with a whole group like that, where you all just enjoy the music, you want to do great things,” Ramirez Diaz says. “I feel like since we all share that love for music, it always made my heart beat super fast when we would play together and just made good music. It just made my heart happy.”

She says she loved seeing people come out of their shells and improve as musicians through the positive and fun environment that was created around mariachi. Because she had such a great experience, she convinced her younger brother, Chris Ramirez Diaz, to join the band when

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 45

he entered his freshman year while she was a sophomore.

They played together until she graduated in 2017. Though her brother played the flute, a non-traditional instrument for mariachi, he was welcomed into the program.

“Every single instrument, every person, matters,” Ramirez Diaz says. “It was such a diverse group. I loved watching people learn and grow while they were a part of it.”

According to the National Association for Music Education, mariachi has been around since the 1700s. It developed in the Mexican state of Jalisco and has since been seen as a cornerstone of Mexican culture. Mariachis play at holiday celebrations, birthdays, funerals, family parties and many other places. While they are traditionally male, this is no longer the case. Modern groups now include women and are inclusive of many Latinx cultures.

While this program has been a positive experience for Ramirez Diaz and her siblings, it has also allowed them to share what they’ve learned about mariachi with the community through gigs like the ones they play on Cinco de Mayo. This includes trips to Latinx holiday events, elementary schools and — most notably for Ramirez Diaz — retirement homes. “That was one of my favorites because, boy, you would look at their faces and they would dance, clap, sing along,” she says. “They just looked really happy and that brought happiness to me as well.”

Springfield High School began offering its mariachi program to a small group of students in 2008, following in the steps of Woodburn High School, which started its mariachi program in 2003. Before the creation of these programs, there were no ethnicity-related music programs in the Oregon public education system. After their inception, these programs have grown in popularity and are now available in many Oregon cities including Hillsboro, Bend, Redmond and Ashland. While sources differ on how Springfield High School’s mariachi band started, the program has also grown significantly and now includes two different class sessions: Beginning Mariachi and Advanced Mariachi. The advanced group is populated mostly by upperclassmen and plays gigs in the community to fundraise for bigger projects for the program, like their biennial trip to perform at Disneyland.

Now that Ramirez Diaz and her younger brother have graduated and moved on from the band, they have passed the baton to their younger sister Alejandra Hernandez Diaz, who is now learning guitar as part of the Advanced Mariachi class. Though it is currently over Zoom due to COVID-19, she is excited to get started. Alejandra says that the transition to Zoom was made easier thanks to their band director Jon Bridges. She says he makes an effort to show students how each chord is played then asks them how they are doing when they try it on their own.

Alejandra grew up watching her siblings play in the mariachi band, which convinced her to follow in their footsteps with their constant encouragement. "I’m grateful for the opportunity because not all of the schools have it,” Alejandra says. “I’m just happy that I could be part of it and learn something that’s not usually taught around here."

46 | ETHOS | Winter 2021

For Jennifer Ramirez Diaz, playing mariachi music allows her to connect with her Mexican heritage and culture. “Since we’ve been here my whole life, I never thought I would experience that or experience a little part of Mexico,” she says.

Ramirez Diaz says she’s proud of how fast her sister, Alejandra, has learned mariachi music. “I actually recorded my sister playing not too long ago because I was so ‘wowed’ to hear and see her learn,” she says.

Ramirez Diaz stands with her family (left to right) including her mother, Felipa; step-father, Cesar; younger brother, Felipe; and younger sister, Alejandra. Her brother Chris, who was also part of Mariachi del Sol when he was in high school, is not pictured.

Winter 2021 | ETHOS | 47

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