December Issue 2017

Grant Magazine grantmagazine.com

December 2017

CULTURAL CROSSROADS Five bicultural students find ways to connect with their cultural heritage within Portland, one of the least diverse major cities in America. Pg. 6

By Sophia Holland

In this Issue...

6

BETWEEN TWO CULTURES

By Sophia Holland

As American-born children of immigrant parents, a life between cultures characterizes the mindsets and community life of these five Grant students. Cover photo illustration by Momoko Baker

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SPEAKING HER TRUTH

PAINTING WITH A PURPOSE

Emma Cooper finds self empowerment through advocacy work, educating her peers about mental health awareness.

Through her artwork, sophomore Mito Smith brings attention to subjects that rarely receive the appreciation she feels they deserve.

By Ruby Haack

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Grant Magazine

By Claire Chasse

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FASHION FEATURE

AFTERTHOUGHTS

These students, like many at Grant, use unique clothings styles as a form of self-expression.

A year of avoidance lead to the author’s regret and a longing for a real relationship with a family member.

By Mako Barmon and Momoko Baker

By Narain Dubey

28

A POETIC ESCAPE

By Lucy Hays

Writing poetry helps Phoebe Kearney process a strained relationship with her family.

December 2017

3

Quick Mag

A condensed version of Grant Magazine that has almost nothing to do with just about anything else.

The Mini Profile: Millie Rice

By Leah Venegas-Baer Photo by Mako Barmon

Five-year-old Millie Rice sits in the crowd of the Oregon Ballet Theatre (OBT) production, “The Nutcracker,” eyes glued to the synchronized dancing of the ballerinas in their pointe shoes and long white tutus.

The music and presentation of the ballerinas catches Rice’s eye. Even at such a young age, Rice knew she wanted to be up on the stage with the other dancers.

Rice, now a freshman at Grant, has recently entered her third year of training with OBT. She uses dance as a way to maintain her mental and physical well-being. “It is kind of like meditation,” she says. “It ... gives you three hours where you don’t have to think about anything (else).”

As a child, Rice’s interest in dance was sparked by the children’s show, “Angelina Ballerina,” and

Talk Back

With flu season ahead of us, what is your go-to remedy?

Interviews by Haley Koski Illustrations by Ella Weeks

Evelyn Kent, freshman

“I use something that my grandma used to make for me, called ‘switchel.’ You add apple cider vinegar, honey and lemon to warm water and mix it up. It helps your immune system and throat, and can help you get over a cold.”

Kyle Cain, senior

“When I’m sick I enjoy hot and spicy foods. It helps me feel better, it helps with a sore throat, and it clears your sinuses.”

at age 3 Rice began dancing at the Hollywood Dance Studio.

Her time at the studio ended when she was 11-years-old and accepted into OBT. “It kinda keeps me on track ... because I know that I don’t have any leeway with my schedule, so I think it kind of makes me a better student,” says Rice of dancing. “It makes me more disciplined because of the respect that you need in a studio.”

Despite an extremely demanding schedule, which involves training 12 hours a week, Rice’s passion for ballet continues to grow.

“I think it’s kind of a fear of stopping,” says Rice. “I don’t know what would happen if I stopped. It keeps me sane and it keeps me in shape too. I know that if I work hard on this, I won’t fail.”

Grant High School

Football

Compare & Contrast

Quidditch

Shoulder Pads & Jerseys

Uniform

Robes

Mr. Heath

Coach

Madam Rolanda Hooch

Concussions

Injury

Bludgers to the Head

Grant vs. Lincoln

Rivalry

Gryffindor vs. Slytherin

Hogwarts

A Brief Review: Goodwill

By Haley Koski

Kelly Schooler, sophomore

“My mom always grabs a single coin and green Asian oil from our kitchen cabinets to treat any of my sicknesses. She rubs the oil where I’m in pain, then scratches the area with the coin. Whether I was nauseous or had abdominal pain, I could always rely on the green oil and coin.”

Poll: Comfort Food Responses collected from 135 Grant students

pie chart

Grilled Cheese & Tomato Soup 15.7%

“Oh. Um...well... You know what? I think I left something in the car...”

Mac n Cheese 39.6%

Other 24.6%

4

Holiday Senior Stress At family gatherings...

Mashed Potatoes 9.7%

Fried Chicken 10.4%

Goodwill provides a bounty of cheap clothing and endless fun. Find anything from a single Croc to today’s top trends. At just 0.3 miles away from the Marshall Campus, you can head over for some retail therapy after a long day in the classroom.

Grant Magazine

“So, honey... What are your plans for after high school?”

“Did I say something?”

In My Opinion

CONTACT US

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Editors-in-Chief Jessica Griepenburg Mackie Mallison Ari Tandan

Story Editors

Narain Dubey Georgia Greenblum

Design Editor Ella Weeks

Photo Editor Momoko Baker

Assistant Photo Editor Mako Barmon

Editorial Policy We encourage the community to participate in our publication. Grant Magazine accepts guest editorials, letters to the editors and corrections.

Please include your name and contact information with any submissions.

Risky Anonymity

Anonymous apps are popular among high school students, often used to give compliments and hint at crushes. But what happens when apps like Sarahah are used as a platform for cyberbullying instead?

My curiosity had gotten the best of serve as frictionless instruments for me. Linking my Sarahah account to a cyberbullying and other pathologies post on my Snapchat, I gave in to the associated with social media,” says trend that I had made fun of just days Richard Hanley, a professor at the School earlier. I posted it on my public story — of Communications at Quinnipiac captioning the photo “SORRY” — so University. “The ephemeral nature of all my friends on Snapchat could see the these apps amplifies the perspective link. I contemplated deleting the post, that the damaging message won’t be until anonymous compliments began to permanent. The facts show otherwise appear on my notification screen. … At an age when information is Momoko Baker “Sarahah,” which roughly translates generally received as authentic, these to “honesty” in Arabic, is an anonymous app initially posts can also damage the reputation of victims for created for users to send feedback to their coworkers, a long time.” but has recently become popular among teenagers.

Although Sarahah had a base of over 60 million Students post their URL on other social media apps, users worldwide as of August, I’ve noticed that the like Snapchat, to receive messages. Unsurprisingly, constant screenshots of comments have become Sarahah has exploded in popularity at Grant. scarce when looking through my friends’ Snapchat When a message is posted on this platform, there stories. It lost the attention of the majority of Grant is no way of tracing it back to the original sender. But students almost as fast as it caught it. Though Sarahah that’s what makes the app exciting — it’s a guessing is dying out, there is no doubt that another anonymous game. app will soon take its place.

At first, I didn’t see the point of it. It seemed like Since apps like these rise and fall in popularity a waste of time to send my URL out and receive within months, little has been written about them. superficial comments for fun. I was annoyed at all my As a result, many users remain unaware of the risks friends for posting the link so frequently. that come with using an anonymous app. Most teens But after first posting my own link, I easily create an account out of curiosity or as a confidence became addicted to using the app. The constant flow booster, but are unprepared for the negative comments of messages momentarily boosted my confidence. they receive.

Fortunately, Sarahah was generally a positive Last year, Grant leadership promoted a boycott of experience for me; any questionable remarks I the After School app when reports of cyberbullying received were outweighed by compliments. were made. Though this was a temporary fix to a Though I could see the potential for it, I didn’t much larger issue, the same issues have arisen with realize until later that the anonymous app created a Sarahah. The issue of cyberbullying is prominent in platform for cyberbullying. any anonymous app, and because each app that fades Angel Thomas, a junior at Grant, began using out is quickly replaced with another, not much can be Sarahah thinking it would improve her self-confidence. done to stop it.

“A lot of people were getting it and I thought it would “The nature of the app ecosystem is that apps be a fun thing to have.” come and go with the breeze, but there will always be And it was — at first. anonymous apps that emerge,” says Hanley.

Recently, almost all of the messages on her That’s why it’s important for students to better Sarahah page have been accusations regarding understand anonymous apps. Think about what you’re her ex-boyfriend. “They don’t even know half the writing before you hit “send.” Try to use Sarahah with story,” says Thomas. “It’s easier to say things like its original intention in mind: “Leave a constructive that anonymously then to actually say it to someone. message.” Cyberbullying is not an easily resolved They knew that they were irrelevant to me and the issue, especially when it’s coming from an anonymous situation, so they used an anonymous website where source. But it’s easy to refrain from posting negative they knew I’d see it and where they could actually comments. The only way this issue will be solved is if have an opinion.” we as students don’t take part in it. It’s not something Because apps like Sarahah are anonymous, they the administration can control — it’s up to you. allow users to post things that they would never say in person.

Momoko Baker is a reporter and Photo Editor “Apps that don’t require validated identification for Grant Magazine.

December 2017

5

SEEKING SHARED CULTURE

Raised with a strong cultural identity because of immigrant parents, five second-generation American students find ways to connect with their cultures within Portland — a city where cultural communities are rarely visible.

Story by Sophia Holland Photos by Momoko Baker

On the anniversary of the Nobel Prize being awarded to the Dalai Lama, Kunsel Lathsang was at a party being thrown by the Northwest Tibetan Cultural Association.

The party began with the singing of the Tibetan national anthem and the American national anthem. The gathering livens as people speak with one another, share food and dance.

Events like this one have given Lathsang a way to experience the culture of her Tibetan parents while in Portland.

Due to an increase in immigration and multiculturalism within the United States, a change in national identity is occurring.

But spaces for cultural celebration still lack, and bicultural identities are not always evident.

As of 2015, 26 percent of minors in the United States live with at least one immigrant parent, twice as many as in 1990. Immigrants and their families are making up a larger percentage of America’s population.

According to the Pew Research Center, immigrants and the descendents of immigrants are predicted to represent 88 percent of America’s population growth

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by 2065.

While the scale of this change results in a shift in American national identity, individuals living between two cultures have always existed. For secondgeneration immigrants, maintaining one cultural identity while living in a nation dominated by another culture is nothing new.

In what The Atlantic calls “America’s whitest city,” it can be especially difficult to find communities of people who share similar cultural backgrounds within Portland.

Despite adversity, these communities have formed; people with shared culture have found spaces to gather together.

As they navigate the dynamics of Grant and of Portland as a whole, secondgeneration immigrant students carry a unique perspective because of the culture that has shaped their identities. At Grant, this part of students’ identities is often unintentionally hidden. Because it is so ingrained in who they are, it is something that shows through naturally or not at all.

The complexity of culture is a large part of their lives. Cultural communities outside of school allow for a connection

unseen by peers. While not visible in all spaces, culture is entrenched in the identities of these students.

At a time of transition into adulthood, these students are finding ways to connect with their parents’ cultures outside of their households.

This connection has been innate within their home lives. The households they have been raised in provide them with a perspective that is naturally influenced by the culture of their parents.

Though these communities are not always visible, individuals within these cultures find ways to come together and connect. As they grow older, individual determination to experience their culture has drawn students out of their homes and into communities within Portland.

Kunsel Lathsang, Salvatore Estrada, Momoe Hunt, Sophia Paniagua and Samson Berhane are all American-born children of immigrant parents.

Despite an ever-present pressure to conform to American societal expectations, these five students have decided to celebrate their culture and find ways to connect with it in a city where cultural diversity is not always recognized.

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n a Saturday evening in November, Momoe Hunt prepares for her shift at Ichidai, a Japanese restaurant in Southeast Portland. Arriving at work, she greets her boss, switching from English to Japanese when speaking with her Japanese co-workers. The job has given Hunt validation of her identity. Similar to Hunt’s household, the dynamic in the restaurant is built on Japanese culture.

Momoe Hunt was raised by her mother, Yukiko Hunt, an immigrant from Okayama, Japan. Her father is a white American, but because Hunt was raised by her mother, she confesses that, “It’s weird to then look in a mirror and realize I’m not full Asian. That’s one of the things that’s really confusing in my life that I always struggle with.”

Hunt grew up witnessing the discrimination that her mother faces as an immigrant in America. She sees it in the treatment and assumptions made about Yukiko Hunt by strangers. “People will talk to her like she is stupid, like she doesn’t understand,” says Hunt.

While at a restaurant with Hunt’s brother, Yukiko Hunt was told by strangers to stop speaking Japanese, saying, “This is America. We speak English here.”

Hunt’s mother is not an American citizen; she is here with a Green Card, a document allowing an immigrant to permanently live and work in the United States. “She has a life built here, so there’s no way she couldn’t get it,” says Hunt. But

the regular card renewals mean that Yukiko Hunt must prove that she is American.

Despite this pressure to conform to American society, Yukiko Hunt continues to raise her children with Japanese values.

“I think, in a way, I’m more conservative because of the way my culture is,” says Hunt.

Because she was raised in a Japanese household, maintaining a connection to Japanese culture in America is easy for Hunt. “The culture itself is just ingrained in my lifestyle. I was just born and raised with it,” she says. “It’s … almost subconscious at this point.”

But Hunt consciously strives to surround herself with Japanese culture outside of her home. Though she has traveled to Japan several times through the Japanese Magnet Program and with her mother to see family, Hunt traveled to Japan with a different purpose during her sophomore year: to spend a semester attending a school in Okayama.

During the trip, Hunt felt recognized by those around her in a way she had never felt before in America. “I think that’s how we build trust (in America), by … giving parts of ourselves to other people. But there it was very different,” says Hunt. “I didn’t have to explain my life story for them to understand who I was. It didn’t matter where I came from.”

School in Japan gave Hunt freedom from many of the isolating aspects of her life in

America. She did not worry about money, as she does in America, nor about trying to fit in or about her physical appearance.

Hunt says she felt more “childlike” than she had in years.

Initially, Hunt felt that students did not have much independence in Japan. But the longer Hunt stayed, the more her ideas about independence changed. While Hunt describes the American mindset as, “I’m independent because I’m free,” she feels the Japanese idea of independence revolves around an emphasis on responsibility and hard work. “For me that’s more important,” she says.

Hunt felt her mindset was validated in Japan, but being raised by a Japanese mother in America gave Hunt beliefs and values she feels are not fully understood by American society. “If we have problems, we try to keep it just in our family members.

(I) just try really hard to not be vocal … to other people,” says Hunt. “I try to do that the most I can, be really thankful, very very grateful for … all the opportunities I had, all the privileges I’ve been gifted with.”

Outside of her home, Hunt says, “I go out of my way to maintain (the connection to Japanese culture), you know. I try my best to try to speak in Japanese, to take part in the little celebrations that I can take part in.”

Hunt plans to one day move to Japan; it’s clear she feels most herself there. “I always looked at Japanese people like, these are my people, this is the community I want to be in,” she says.

Though she currently has dualcitizenship, Hunt will pick Japanese citizenship when the time comes, as Japan does not allow dual-citizenship for adults.“I know that I have a future there,” she says.

“It’s destiny, almost.”

MOMOE HUNT When Hunt is with her mother, she speaks Japanese, which has allowed her to become fluent. “Because I’m with my mom all the time, I’m listening to (Japanese) all the time, I can grasp words easier, and I remember them” she says.

December 2017

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S

ophia Paniagua adjusts her trumpet, getting ready to play. It is a Sunday in the fall, about a year since she began playing the instrument. With her church, Paniagua has learned to play Latin music, something not offered to her by the Grant band.

Paniagua’s family is from Espinas, a farm area in Usulutan — a department of El Salvador on the Pacific Coast. Through her church and music, Paniagua is able to immerse herself in her family’s culture within Portland.

Paniagua’s parents moved to Portland when they were in their twenties, due to civil war in El Salvador. “There wasn’t much hope for a good future,” says Paniagua. “Even now, most people are super poor. And my mom, she just wanted a better future.”

Paniagua’s father, Ramon Paniagua, moved to Portland in 1991, followed by Paniagua’s mother, Joanna Paniagua, in 1993, where they were introduced by

Joanna Paniagua’s uncle.

Having grown up in an upper-middle class household in Portland, Sophia Paniagua notices the differences between her life and the lives of her relatives in El Salvador. “When I go (to El Salvador), I’m like, ‘Wow, I have so many things compared to over here,’” says Paniagua.

“To have the ability to go back, and be able to provide for people there who are less fortunate with new clothes, or new shoes and stuff, it just feels … really good.”

Rather than simply being a way for her to learn about her family’s roots, traveling to El Salvador is a way for Paniagua to understand more about the world through viewing other ways of life. “I’ve learned more about what it’s like to grow up in more difficult situations, and to have the courage to persevere,” says Paniagua.

While talking with her aunt during summer of 2017, Paniagua heard the story of a Salvadoran teenage farmer who

SOPHIA PANIAGUA

bled to death because he was not able to treat a cut in his leg. “I complain about little things, and it just really makes you aware of how blessed you are to have so many resources available to you,” says Paniagua.

Because Paniagua does not travel to El Salvador frequently, she has found ways to integrate herself into the Salvadoran community within Portland.

The church that Paniagua has been a part of for the past seven years is largely attended by Salvadoran people, as well as people from countries around El Salvador, such as Honduras. Though her ideas about religion have evolved over time, Paniagua’s gratitude for the community has not diminished.

Paniagua’s parents have raised her Protestant, though Catholicism is more traditional in El Salvador. In addition to being a place where Paniagua can learn more about her parents’ home country, the Church has made it possible to learn about other perspectives.

“Portland itself has a lot of different people,” says Paniagua. “But it’s much different to be able to sit down with people who have grown up in (El Salvador and Honduras), and have good conversations.”

Paniagua wishes more people shared her sentiments about the importance of having conversations about different ways of thinking. “There’s a fear of being politically incorrect,” says Paniagua of the attitude among students at Grant. Because of this fear, Paniagua feels that people are intimidated to talk with her about her heritage.

Traveling to her parents’ home in El Salvador has shown Paniagua that although she grew up with Salvadoran influence in her house, she grew up as an American. When she goes to El Salvador, Paniagua is able to see another way of life, and therefore see her own experiences more objectively.

Paniagua hopes that others will learn about the world like she has, but worries that “fear doesn’t allow for there to be indepth conversations about race and the issues surrounding different cultures.”

Paniagua with portraits of her paternal grandparents, Sebastián and Sofía. When Paniagua visits El Salvador, she stays at her grandparents house.

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Berhane with his masenqo, an instrument he had wanted since childhood, gifted to him by his parents on his recent trip to Ethiopia.

J

une in Ethiopia is hot, especially in the crowded streets of its capital, Addis Ababa, where Samson Berhane and his parents first stayed during a trip in the summer after his sophomore year. It was his first time in the country, but he recalls immediately feeling at home.

Berhane’s first trip to Ethiopia lasted nearly three months. Although the first part of his trip was spent in the capital, Berhane spent the majority of his time in his parents’ hometown, Wukro. There, people would speak to him in Tigrinya, and would welcome him into their homes as family.

“Everybody knows (my parents) there, so when we went there … they had tea ready, they had beds set up,” says Berhane.

The youngest of six siblings, Samson Berhane is the only member of his family born in America. During a 1993 famine and Ethiopian civil war, Berhane’s parents moved to America with his five siblings.

For two weeks, Berhane’s mother and three of her children traveled through the forest from Ethiopia to Sudan. Two of Berhane’s brothers stayed with their grandmother in Ethiopia but eventually travelled to Sudan by bus. After spending two years in Sudan, Berhane’s family came to the United States.

While his wife and children were fleeing to Sudan, Berhane’s father, Berhane Michael, was forced to fight in the Coup D’etat movement. He was targeted, and faced death by the government for being a teacher. Michael was given two options: fight with the Coup, or be killed by the government. After a year of fighting, Michael escaped to Sudan where he reunited with the rest of his family.

The adjustment from Ethiopia to the United States was difficult for Berhane’s family. Portland is majority white — a very different environment from Ethiopia. “My parents told me that, when they first came, it was terrible,” says Berhane.

Born and raised in the United States, Berhane recognizes that his childhood was much different than that of his siblings. “A lot of things were handed to me,” he says.

When Berhane was born, his family was financially stable. This was not the case for

SAMSON BERHANE his siblings. “They didn’t have that much money at the time, they were living in an apartment, stuff like that,” he says of his family’s life in the United States before his birth. “Money wasn’t fruitful.”

Now, after living in Portland for 24 years, Berhane’s parents continue to stay involved in community activities — parties and events that bring together Ethiopian people living in Portland. Berhane sees two main reasons for these gatherings. “One is for celebration, and two is for talking about plans to help (Ethiopia) out in smaller ways,” he says. “They want you to not forget your culture.”

Celebrations in the community are large. “People come from across the United States,” says Berhane. “It probably hits close to 1000, 1500 people. Usually, they’re on either the New Years, or it will be a religious holiday, like St. Michael.”

Through these events, Berhane has been able to feel a strong sense of Ethiopian community within Portland. “I would say 80 percent of (maintaining a connection)

is natural. And the other 20 percent is community,” he says. “Just meeting new people, seeing different views on stuff … you can see different aspects of Ethiopian life.”

Ethiopian culture values community, which Berhane sees in the way his parents welcome guests into his house. “It’s more family-oriented,” he says. His mother greets Berhane’s friends with hugs, and will go out of her way to make them feel comfortable in her home. Berhane sees this trait as not only a reflection of his parents’ kindness, but the values of Ethiopian culture as a whole.

Maintaining a connection to Ethiopian culture is important to Berhane. In his home, this comes easily. “(My parents) always speak (Tigrinya) in the house,” he says. “Whenever my mom goes to church, she wears traditional clothing. I feel like it makes me more humble, and makes me have a broader perspective. I like to bring people in more, I’m more welcoming.”

December 2017

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SALVATORE ESTRADA

Salvatore Estrada with his younger brother, Buddy.

“At the end of the day family’s the only thing you have and to have that closeness (is) better for yourself,” he says.

A

rt covers the sunshine yellow walls of Salvatore Estrada’s house. Brought back from his mother’s home in Tanzania, animal skins and paintings hang alongside photographs of family members, and his father’s icon of Our Lady of Guadalupe. On a Friday afternoon in the fall, Estrada and his younger brother, Buddy George Estrada IV, sit in the living room, listening to music together.

Estrada and his two brothers were raised by his mother, Betsheba Estrada, and his father, George Louis Estrada III. Despite being halfway across the globe, the impact of Betsheba Estrada’s Tanzanian childhood has been passed down to her children through language, food and community. “Just being with my mom, and hearing … stories of when she was a kid, stories about just her life, her grandparents,” says Estrada of things he feels have given him an understanding of her childhood.

Betsheba Estrada spent most of her childhood in Tanzania, surrounded by family and tradition. Before high school, she moved to America with her parents. Estrada’s grandfather was

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the ambassador of Tanzania, so Betsheba Estrada and her family lived in Washington D.C. when they first moved.

Though she was young when she immigrated to the United States, Betsheba Estrada knew she wanted to share her childhood traditions with her children.

From the time they were born, Betsheba Estrada made sure her sons kept a connection to their roots. She spoke to them in Swahili and planned visits with immediate family, who live in the United States. Estrada has been to Tanzania twice and sees his mom’s immediate family every summer.

For Estrada, seeing his mom’s relatives gives him a connection to his Tanzanian family that he has felt he needed. “If I didn’t see (my family) every summer I would have a lot of questions … but since I see them all the time, talk to them on the phone every now and then, I don’t feel separated at all,” he says.

When visiting Tanzania and attending family events with his mother, Estrada noticed how positive the people were. “We’re way more connected to family. On my mom’s side, they love family gatherings … Everyone was there, everyone was happy,” Estrada recalls of these events.

In Portland, a church run by Tanzanian nuns and priests allows Estrada’s mother to show Estrada his Tanzanian culture.

Tanzanian people from Portland and Washington come to this church, all part of the small community that his mother is involved in. During the summer, Estrada helps clean the house the nuns live in.

But outside of the Church, it is difficult for Estrada and his mother to find spaces to immerse themselves in Tanzanian culture. Betsheba Estrada recognizes that it’s very uncommon to see other Tanzanians in Portland and that almost all of the Tanzanians she knows in Portland are from the Church.

When she does hear someone speaking Swahili in public, she always strikes up a conversation with them. “To find a black person that speaks Swahili is so rare,” says Betsheba Estrada.

“It’s a really great feeling because you can identify with someone … it’s like a family even though they’re strangers.”

The lack of Tanzanians in Portland is one of the reasons why Betsheba Estrada puts such an emphasis on maintaining Tanzanian culture through the Church, family and food.

Walking into Estrada’s house, the scent of his mother’s cooking is almost always present. On both sides of his family, food is used to gather people together.

“I feel like (my mom) being from Africa, I’m open to all kinds of different types of culture, from eating food and of just living life,” says Estrada.

Estrada and his older brother, Paul Estrada, hope to continue the tradition. “We want to learn some of the recipes my mom knows, so we can just keep it going,” says Estrada.

Although the Tanzanian population in Portland is small, Estrada doesn’t let that get to him. “I take pride in being Tanzanian,” says Estrada. “It feels good. I like knowing where I came from and I like seeing the different ways (my family) used to live.”

F

illed with art and gifts sent over from Tibet through India, Kunsel Lathsang’s father’s shop has provided a space for recognition of Tibet in Portland. Walking through the shop, color and Tibetan design stand out, creating a place that displays Tibetan culture and tradition. “He probably had a sense of responsibility to show the Tibetan culture and heritage in Portland so people know about it,” says Lathsang of her father.

Lathsang’s father, Jampa Lathsang, moved to the United States in 1992 at the age of 24, after being chosen out of a raffle in India’s Tibetan community. A thousand Tibetan people were chosen, then sent around the world as part of the United States Immigration Act of 1990 — which allowed Tibetans in India and Nepal to move to the United States with guaranteed housing and employment. Along with 10 other people, Lathsang’s father was sent to Portland to live with a host family.

In 1994, Jampa Lathsang moved to Portland permanently with Lathsang’s mother, Tseten Lathsang.

Lathsang believes there are between 500 and 700 people active in the Tibetan community in Portland, as evidenced by the amount of people who show up at community events put on by the Northwest Tibetan Cultural Association (NWTCA), including celebrations of Tibetan New Years, the Dalai Lama’s birthday and Tibetan Uprising Day. Growing up, Lathsang was surrounded by this faction of Portland’s population because of her parents’ involvement with the NWTCA. The NWTCA acts as a central hub for events in the Tibetan community. Functioning as it’s own entity, the Association is run by a board and president. As members of the Association, Lathsang’s parents belong to a group that helps plan events that revolve around community and provide a space for people to celebrate their culture in the company of those they can relate to.

Mostly parties, these events provide a space for celebration of Tibetan food, song and dance within Portland. For Lathsang, the community of young Tibetan Americans present within the NWTCA has given her a group of friends with whom she can relate, based on their shared heritage.

Through the NWTCA, Sunday school gave Lathsang another way to connect with her Tibetan heritage. “I did Tibetan class there, and you do Tibetan dance and singing,” says Lathsang. “When I danced, you would practice every Sunday, and when there was an event, the kids would usually dance and entertain people,” she recalls. Though she stopped attending last year, she feels she hasn’t lost the connection, as many of the NWTCA’s events feature performances put on by the school.

Lathsang’s immersion in the Tibetan community from a young age allowed her to feel comfortable in her culture. “There’s a lot of immigrants here, so I don’t really feel excluded,” says Lathsang.

However, she remembers being met with ignorance when she was younger and spoke of her parent’s home country. Even now, Lathsang says, “Most things that happen, like the Dalai Lama coming to Portland, most people don’t know about it because Tibet is not publicized a lot.”

The lack of knowledge about Tibet that characterized the Portland

KUNSEL LATHSANG

of Lathsang’s early childhood led her parents to send her and her brothers to a Tibetan boarding school in India. Though the involvement with the NWTCA provided the family with a link to their roots within Portland, Lathsang’s parents felt it wasn’t enough.

Lathsang spent her entire third grade year attending the Tibetan Children Village School in Dharamsala, India. Because Lathsang had grown up surrounded by members of the NWTCA, the Tibetan school felt familiar. “The community was the same, but the environment was different,” Lathsang recalls about the school.

She met people who had very different backgrounds from her own, but with whom she could relate, because of their shared connection to Tibet. “It was like a really big family,” she says. “If I didn’t know Tibetan at all, and wasn’t immersed in the culture before I was there, it would (have been) difficult.”

After returning to Portland, Lathsang was thrown back into American life, starkly contrasted to how she lived in India. “There, everyday I would learn Tibetan, and be surrounded by Tibetans,” says Lathsang. “Here, I go to regular school everyday.”

This contrast is exemplified at Grant. “I sometimes feel different from people at school,” she says. “I’m not close with people at school like I am with my Tibetan friends, because I’ve known them since I was little.”

But the community she finds with NWTCA in Portland allows Lathsang to feel closer to her culture and the life she had lived in India. “Without it, I feel like I would lose who I was because I wouldn’t be able to connect with the Tibetan community,” she says.

Lathsang wears a Chuba – a traditional Tibetan dress – in front of her family’s alter, where her mother prays.

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Hear Her Voice

Emma Cooper’s experiences with mental illness have driven her to become a strong advocate for others.

Story by Ruby Haack | Illustration by Marin Jurgens | Photos by Elliot Johnson

O

n a spring afternoon, then 14-yearold Emma Cooper breathes frantically as she sits on her front steps and waits for the ambulance to arrive.

Draped in a blanket and comforted by her trusted neighbors, Cooper replays the image of herself swallowing allergy medication and pain relievers.

Cooper felt as if she was merely a burden, as if her own struggles with mental health were putting stress on her family. She feared that others were aware of the mask she used to cover her depression and anxiety.

Cooper has survived living with mental illness since she was in middle school and has met with numerous social workers and counselors — many of whom were not understanding of her experiences and challenges.

However, Cooper found an outlet in creating safe spaces for others, working with multiple social justice-based organizations to generate positive societal change within her community.

She now finds empowerment through her activism. Her experiences with depression and anxiety drive her to become a mentor for others who may be experiencing mental illness as well.

By advocating for others and embracing feminism, Cooper has found her voice. “(Empowerment) helped me with confidence because if I was advocating for feminism then I was advocating for myself,” says Cooper.

Cooper was born June 27, 2001, to Kristin and Phillip Cooper.

Cooper has always enjoyed helping others. At a young age, she participated in Spark Camp – which provided opportunities for children to volunteer in their community – and camps led by the Oregon Humane Society.

One summer day in 2012, when Spark Camp opened their doors to serve food to the homeless, Cooper sat next to a man who was indulging in a fresh meal.

As the casual small talk progressed, Cooper ended up learning his life story. “It was eye-opening because he was talking

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about how much help (Spark Camp) had given him,” says Cooper. “I think that was big to see how (the volunteer work) was actually affecting people’s lives.”

While she continued volunteering for multiple nonprofits in middle school, depression caused by trauma began to consume her life. Cooper decided to spend more time with friends, rather than acknowledging her anxiety and depression.

After years of suppressing her emotions, she couldn’t ignore them anymore.

“It was less morbid but more hopeless,” says Cooper. “It wasn’t that I wanted to die, I just didn’t want to deal

“(Empowerment) helped me with confidence because if I was advocating for feminism then I was adovcating for myself.”

– Emma Cooper

with (mental illness) and I didn’t know any other way to stop it.”

On March 1, 2016, Cooper attempted suicide.

She woke up in a hospital bed at 1 a.m., confused and weak, attached to monitors and machines. “I was really, really tired and sick, and I was just wondering what happened,” she says.

The second week of her hospital stay, Cooper was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), anxiety and severe depression. “(OCD) is the worst to control because I feel like there’s so much about how to control depression: you can take

all these meds,” says Cooper. “But (with OCD) if something feels off, I cannot stop thinking about it.”

Cooper’s OCD was provoked by anxiety, meaning that her perceptions of miscellaneous details amplified when she felt stressed. Small things, like an article of clothing that felt out of place, often prevented Cooper from focusing on her school work until she felt comfortable.

Because Cooper struggled to express her feelings of anxiety and depression, the hospital decided to set Cooper up with professional help for her to open up.

Each therapist Cooper met with had their own assumptions of her well-being without understanding her struggles. “It’s so much harder to understand (mental illness) if you haven’t experienced it,” says Cooper.

The hospital appointed her a new therapist and psychiatrist. When the psychiatrist grew frustrated with Cooper for not opening up, she sent Cooper to the Emergency Room twice, claiming that she was “unsafe.”

The second time, Cooper refused to move from her seat; her psychiatrist called an ambulance. In a matter of minutes, paramedics and police officers were ready to take Cooper away for another Emergency Room visit.

Once at the hospital, Cooper refused to go back and speak with either her new therapist or psychiatrist. This was only the beginning of the long and winding road of social workers.

She began to work with various therapists, programs and organizations, searching for someone with whom she felt comfortable confiding in.

On July 6, 2016, after finding her previous services unhelpful, it was decided that Cooper would go to a residential treatment center.

Every resident within the center, 9 to 15-years-old, was battling substance abuse or mental illness in different ways, or was in foster care. All staff members were therapists who could offer support and teach coping skills.

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Emma Cooper gives a presentation on the definition and effects of rape culture as a peer mentor at Raphael House.

But Cooper soon noticed the fights that broke out at least once a day in the center.

It was an environment where she couldn’t have an unmonitored conversation. “I just felt really isolated,” she says. “It was the lowest but also most meaningful time of my life.”

On August 26, three days before her sophomore year began, Cooper left the residential treatment center and returned home. “I learned that everything is really what you make of it, and there’s something to get out of everything, and I think that helped me make sense of my struggles,” says Cooper.

Coming back to high school, Cooper

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continued her involvement within her community.

Though she always knew she loved helping others, it wasn’t until a school wide debate about rape culture that Cooper decided it was necessary for her to advocate for women’s rights.

In May 2017, Grant history teacher David Lickey wrote a letter denying the existence of rape culture that caught national attention. Before the letter hit the news, Cooper had a copy.

Tension building up in her body, Cooper read the letter. Shocked and angry, she remembered all of the derogatory names she had been called

and the controlling relationships she had endured in her past.

Cooper burst into her English class, where Courtney Palmer — her English teacher at the time — was awaiting her arrival. Cooper handed Palmer the letter after having texted her about it, and Palmer read it to the class.

“Some issue comes up that’s emotionally or physically traumatizing to students or to faculty and we’re just not gonna talk about it … I don’t want that to be the environment that I teach in,” says Palmer. “I don’t want (rape culture) to be something we don’t talk about.”

Palmer began a class discussion about everyone’s initial reactions to the letter, making sure to include her personal response as well. “I think modeling discomfort is very important,” says Palmer.

Initially, Cooper was opposed to listening to those who defended the letter.

However, as time progressed, she realized that listening to others and forming thought-out responses led to more productive conversation.

“Once I realized that people don’t know (rape culture) is a problem, I felt more of a need to talk about it and to help educate people about it so there won’t be issues like this in the future,” says Cooper.

Resources, such as support from Volunteers of America – a large-scale nonprofit orgnaization – were provided to help students and faculty cope with the trauma from the letter. The advocates from Volunteers of America are not mandatory reporters, and therefore served as a safe space for students to share their stories without the stress of censoring themselves.

“Struggling with mental health is unique for everyone, but it’s also very prevalent and it affects a lot of people,” says Cooper. “I think rape culture would impact my mental health, and my mental health would impact my side of rape culture, like my confidence and what I thought I deserved.”

After Jessica Murray, Grant’s Activities Director, introduced Cooper to the teen advocates, Volunteers of America became

Cooper’s primary source of support while dealing with her mental illnesses.

Cooper later connected with Raphael House, an agency dedicated to helping survivors of domestic violence. Both Volunteers of America and Raphael House worked closely together, which led Cooper to find volunteer work at Raphael House as a peer educator.

Cooper began to organize activities involving educating her peers about rape culture.

At Grant’s 2017 Homecoming Carnival, Cooper and Jessica Rodriguez, a teen advocate from Volunteers of America, stood behind a fold out table and gave candy to those who could correctly answer questions about the culture of consent. It’s events like these that fuel Cooper’s dedication towards educationbased activism.

Cooper now works with a variety of education-based organizations, such as Raphael House, Grant’s leadership program and Beyond Differences — an organization that works to end social isolation in middle schools.

“She’s gained a lot of confidence and gained a lot of energy, and (has found) somewhere to direct what’s coming from her heart,” says Kristin Cooper, Cooper’s mother.

On a recent Friday, Cooper passes offices and multi-colored playrooms on her way to the Raphael House conference room. Volunteers line the table and attentively absorb the new information during the advocacy training, nodding their heads in agreement with the lesson.

Advocacy training occurs two to three times a year to teach confidential advocates how to help victims of domestic violence. After the training, Cooper conducts a conversation on the prevalence of rape culture, her white note pad filled edge to edge with scribbled notes and talking points.

As a peer educator, Cooper directs projects that aim to teach students about the culture of consent. She’s active within Grant’s Women’s Empowerment Club, where she strives to continue educating about rape culture.

“It’s been a really long journey, and I’m not all the way there yet, but knowing that standing up for myself is also standing up for my gender and standing up for women as something I believe in, was a really big part of (my journey),” says Cooper.

Cooper also demonstrates her passion for change in the Grant Leadership program.

“In Leadership, she’s really jumped in and she really dives into conversations,” says Murray. “She really asks a lot of questions … (She) has a lot of strong ideas and she definitely will share them.”

Cooper has grown from being reluctant about sharing her opinions, to confidently vocalizing clear plans of action for changes she aims to make within her community.

Cooper intends to continue her service work, her personal experiences with rape culture and mental illness constantly

driving her.

As she continues her journey, Cooper is working toward building her confidence and depending more on her approval of herself rather than approval from others.

“As a person who’s gone through (mental illness) I feel responsible to speak up about it, because if I had had a person to guide me or give me advice through it, I think (my experience) would have gone a lot more smoothly,” says Cooper. “If I can be that person in someone else’s life and help them through things, that’s something I’m going to do.”

Cooper’s peers are often drawn to her confident attitude. “(There was a) stage (at our preschool) where you could dance and music was playing and she was the only one on the stage just dancing and I was like, ‘I wanna be friends with her,’” recalls Grant junior and old friend, Sam Carey.

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FITTED STORY AND PHOTOS BY MAKO BARMON, MOMOKO BAKER AND ELLIOT JOHNSON

Fashion sense is not always deliberate during childhood. Throughout high school, many students find fashion as a platform to express themselves – for some, putting on a piece of clothing is a reflection of their identity. Grant Magazine talks to three students who incorporate their personalities into their style, from high fashion to a classic mom look.

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MIKA SCHOW SOPHOMORE, 15 “I like to keep the tops simple, but I always add something dressy, something to catch your eye, like jewelry – something sparkly to stand out.”

“When I pick my outfits I like to pair things, so it looks more put together. Like today, I paired this jean jacket with these jeans because they’re the same color, and it makes my checkered top stand out.”

“Fashion helps how you look on the outside ... And how you feel on the outside makes you feel more confident on the inside and feel better about who you are.”

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AIDAN LENZ JUNIOR, 17 “The influence of my fashion often comes from music, film and literature. It’s not just one defined fashion, but more experimental from all of my influences. In The Breakfast Club, there was the one person that was kind of the outlier and he was the one who liked punk music too, where he followed a certain type of fashion.”

“I’m in high school right now so I’m coming to age and it’s kind of a weird time, so I don’t really know what I want to do with my life or what type of person I am.

So finding those key people in music and film inspire me to find my own self.”

“My dad grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin which is a fairly conservative place, and he stood out because he followed the punk culture too, he had like a 3-foottall mohawk and piercings all over his face, and his whole life he’s been happy just because he’s been following his passion and not really caring what other people think … which is what I like to do in my life too.”

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HEIDI OSAKI SENIOR, 17

“(Fashion) gives you a really tangible way to express yourself, and it’s fun to showcase your personality through the clothes that you choose to wear. I think it’s fun that it’s something that’s really easy to change and manipulate and you have a lot of control over it. It’s cool that it’s the first impression people get of you.”

“I describe my personal style like mom-ish, and that kind of has to do with my tendency to be responsible. And I care a lot for other people and I guess (my fashion is) kind of reflected off of that.”

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JORDAN CARTER JUNIOR, 17 “If you’re dressed the way you perceive yourself, other people will kind of get that impression too, like this is who they are. I really got into (fashion) when I decided not to really care what people think about what I wear because there’s a lot of ridicule about what you do and how you wear things. So when I realized how like it doesn’t really matter what people think I started really wearing what I enjoy wearing and what makes me comfortable.”

“I like to organize myself but at the same time be flashy and be out there with stuff that I like. I describe it as … new age streetwear combined with high fashion. There’s a fashion at Grant I think. There’s all different types of styles because … there’s a money part to it. Everyone has different incomes and different places they come from so like it’s cool to see how people adapt to that Grant style. I find that super interesting.”

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A CANVAS FOR CHANGE

Mito Smith turns her concerns about the world into impactful artwork.

Story by Claire Chasse Photos by Momoko Baker

A

s her mom’s car pulls up in front of Open Signal, a media arts center in Northeast Portland, Mito Smith struggles to contain her excitement — the day that she has awaited for weeks is finally here. Smith and her friends move directly to the front of the line that snakes out of the building, sliding through the doorway and heading straight to the separate room where the gallery is being held.

Displayed on the walls and projected on screens is work from young, local artists.

Smith’s eyes are drawn to a cluster of familiar pieces tacked to one of the walls. She walks over to them, overcome with a feeling of pride at seeing the display of the drawings and paintings she’d worked so hard on.

As her friends split off to wander around the gallery, Smith notices several people taking photos of her artwork.

Some smile brightly, while others stare at the paintings intently, trying to decipher their meaning. As she sees the wonder in their eyes, Smith knows that her art has made an impact on the lives of strangers.

Smith has been an artist her December 2017

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whole life, filling up coloring books and later creating her own sketches. However, at a young age, Smith had found herself drawing what other people liked in order to fit in, instead of creating art that spoke to her. In middle school, Smith was harassed by both catcallers and her classmates.

After hearing the students at Grant speak with conviction about the inequalities in the world, Smith became very passionate about speaking up in her own way. For Smith, art is not only a method of self-expression but a language. It helps others understand her own struggles and those of many others. “I want to help the world around me, or somewhat be an activist using my art,” says Smith.

Discovering this has helped her grow from someone who was afraid to share her art with classmates to an artist whose work has been displayed in a gallery. Not only was seeing her art on display a source of great pride for Smith, but it made her realize that she wants to produce more work that can touch people’s lives. She’s ready to make an impact, to elicit empathy in others and speak up for what she believes through the medium that she knows best: quick sketches on scratch paper and detailed paintings that cover her walls.

Smith was born on December 4, 2001. When she was very young, Smith was dramatic and full of endless energy. She would often misbehave, sneaking bugs into her house or pouring soap onto the floor. As a child, Smith didn’t watch television or have electronics to play on, so she found other ways to entertain herself, turning to art as an outlet to release her energy in a positive way.

Smith drew on every surface that she could, scribbling on the walls with crayon and even drawing on her father’s car with chalk.

Smith’s family quickly noticed her love for art, and her mother, Nobue Smith, began to take her on monthly trips to the art museum.

Smith never got tired of looking at the art on the walls, but she preferred creating her own work. “The thing I looked forward to the most was being able to do some crafts down in the basement with my mom,” says Smith.

By the time she was 5, Smith had outgrown scribbling and coloring books and began to copy every picture she could get her hands on. Whether they were from magazines or the pamphlets she snagged from the stacks in the Portland Art Museum, she worked to make her shapes look as close to the photos as possible.

Smith kept drawing throughout elementary school. “(I drew) on classwork, whenever I got bored I would start doodling,” she says.

“She would bring pictures home that she drew in grade school and then follow up on those pictures when she got home, trying to improve on them,” Smith’s father, Dennis Smith, remembers.

With practice, Smith’s cartoon drawings shifted to have more life-like proportions over the course of elementary school.

Despite her talent for art, Smith kept it to herself in middle school. Smith already stuck out enough, being the only half-black, half-Japanese student she knew of at Mount Tabor Middle School.

“Kids would separate into their own little groups,” says Smith.

“I’d be too black for the Asian kids, and I’d be too Asian for the

“I TRY TO FOCUS ON THE VOICE THAT PEOPLE DON’T HAVE.” – MITO SMITH 22

Grant Magazine

black kids.”

In Physical Education, classmates asked her why she wasn’t good at basketball, confused that she didn’t fit into the stereotype of African-Americans playing the sport. “Kids touched my hair like I was not a person, not even asking, just grabbing it,” says Smith.

Smith wasn’t safe from harassment outside of school, either.

Whether it was being followed by strangers or shouted at from men in passing cars, Smith had experienced so much catcalling by 13 that she believed it was the norm.

The summer between sixth and seventh grade, two men approached her and asked for her phone number while she was babysitting her 6-year-old neighbor in a park. When she refused, they continued to follow her around the park for the next two hours. “No one really noticed,” says Smith. “I would just keep walking (and) ignore them.”

It wasn’t until she was catcalled in front of her friends that she learned it wasn’t okay. Before, Smith didn’t know just how serious it was. “That’s when I realized … that’s not something that should happen,” Smith says, “It’s really scary to think 13-year-old me was walking to a library and someone shouted out a car window, or 13-year-old me was at a park and got followed.”

As the beginning of freshman year approached, Smith found herself unable to relate to her friends’ nerves about starting high school; she was just glad to finally leave middle school behind.

The hallways were full of new faces, and Smith quickly noticed that the loudest voices were standing up for what they believed in. She was struck by how her views aligned with those of the speakers at the assemblies and the members of the Black Student Union (BSU), and she began to attend as many BSU meetings as she could. “I kind of got a lot of … enlightenment from them,” says Smith. She also joined Grant track and cheer.

Smith remembers being especially moved by one of the dances that was performed at Grantasia. Their slow hip-hop routine addressed police brutality and the unjust violence directed towards the black community. “People are so brave, and the people that discover their passions at a younger age, it’s just so empowering to watch them pursue it,” Smith says.

Thinking about the Grant students who spoke out against prejudice and ignorance, Smith knew that she had to speak up in her own way. Turning to what she knew best, she picked up her paintbrush — this time with a purpose.

Smooth brushstrokes flowed out from her hand, forming a girl with an afro full of flowers, adding tears streaming down the girl’s cheeks. A single hand pulled some of them away, leaving a bleak fog in their place.

As Smith painted, she remembered the way that people would grab her curls without permission or tell her that her hair would look better straightened. “I see that happen to other people and myself, and I try to focus on the voice that people don’t have,” she says. “They want to say something, but they don’t know how to say it.”

To Smith, the painting represented how people try to rip the beauty out of others and take away their positive energy. She hoped that this piece would impact people who have had similar experiences.

Her brushstrokes formed women with afros, mothers cradling their children and oceans filled with plastic. Each piece communicated a powerful message through the colors and lines.

Smith’s desire to share her art heightened when she was able

Mito Smith adds detail to the woman that she is sketching on a piece of scrap paper. Her artwork is driven by a desire to make a difference in the world. to display her work in a gallery through an art class later in her freshman year. Two days a week, Smith would ride the bus to the Pearl District after school to learn how to make digital art in the Wacom building. When Smith learned that students in the class would be given an opportunity to showcase their art in a gallery, she readily accepted. She selected a few pieces that she had created at home, as well as pieces she had created in the class.

“I was super excited, even a week before, even while working on my pieces,” says Smith.

She painted a woman relaxing in water, fish swimming around her hair, and a digital piece of a woman with an afro and the venus symbol behind her. Smith chose these and several other works to hang in the gallery, all displaying their own meanings through images of nature and women of color.

All of her work in preparation for the showcase became worth it when Smith saw how it impacted the strangers in the gallery. “It was nice to have people looking at the purest thing I could give,” she says. Smith knew the emotions and concerns for the world that she had poured into these pieces had reached the people in the gallery, and she wanted her artwork to reach an even larger audience.

Now that Smith is more aware of the issues and injustices in the world, she’s eager to do what she can to support important causes.

Recently, Smith attended Portland Pride Parade and joined tens of thousands of protesters at the Women’s March, holding a sign on which she had drawn four women, the venus symbol, a rainbow

and a fist. “I owe it to all the other people in the past that have struggled and didn’t have a chance to speak up,” says Smith.

“Whenever I do have a chance (to speak up), I’ll take it.”

Whether it’s in a gallery or not, Smith wants her artwork to be seen. “I want it to speak to people, even if it isn’t super happy, if it’s super harsh-looking or super sad,” she says. “If it can make you sad, that’s one of my goals ... to be able to touch people.”

Empowered by the way that Grant students raised their voices, Smith finally finds herself able to stand up to catcallers. “Now, if someone catcalls, I’ll glare back,” says Smith.

Though Smith is certain that she wants to make a difference in the world through art, she knows how difficult it is to be a solo artist. “I love doing art, but if that becomes a chore, if that becomes painful to the point that I can’t support myself, then that’s just something that I don’t want,” she says.

On October 4, Smith suffered a concussion after she was dropped at cheer practice. Weeks later, she still struggled to read and concentrate, and her vision was out of focus. One night when she was having an especially difficult time working on her homework, Smith set it aside and began to sketch on a piece of scratch paper.

The lines left her pencil effortlessly, all of her built-up frustration flooding onto the page. A tangle of hands formed, all reaching for something but not quite succeeding. A brain-shaped flower crumbled in the corner of the paper. In that moment, Smith didn’t need words to express her feelings. Her art was enough.

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Center of Hope Interviews by Georgia Greenblum

Photos by Momoko Baker

The PTA Clothing Center has been around since 1964 and has had five different locations in the Portland metro area. Their mission is to provide Portland Public Schools students with confidence by having access to affordable clothing.

Sharon Meigh-Chang Director Volunteer since 1986 “The best part of volunteering at the PTA (Parent Teacher Association) Clothing Center is that you are making a real and tangible difference in a child’s life everyday, and giving back to our community. Having a kid say, ‘This is the first time with Nike shoes. I am going to fit in like everybody else,’ That is what brings you back. That is what keeps you wanting to help out at the Clothing Center because you know you are making a difference in kids’ lives. It is a sense of pride of what we do … especially kids, helping them feel good about themselves at school. It is a sense of giving back to community, it is a sense of helping other people so they can feel good about themselves.”

PTA Clothing Center Awards:

Local Unit Volunteer (given to eight volunteer supervisors) Oregon PTA Advocate for Children Award Spirit of Portland Award

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Gigi Lambert Volunteer since 1995 “You look good, you feel good, you do good work at school. They kind of are all intertwined. It’s different if you’re a welloff kid who chooses to dress that way — chooses to buy used, ripped up stuff. That’s different.

You still feel good about yourself because you have all these other things. Kids who all they’ve got is how they look at school — it really makes a difference.”

Nisha Supahan Volunteer since 2011 “I hope that parents and kids can feel welcome to get essential clothes they need and also encouraged to help the Center by donating back and volunteering time. I appreciate the resource so much for my own family that I want to do what I can, even if it’s a very small part, to help it continue. I hope that parents and kids can feel welcome to get essential clothes they need and also encouraged to help the Center by donating back and volunteering time.”

December 2017

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Time With...The Search & Rescue Team

Firework to Farewell Dozens of teenage volunteers from Multnomah County Sheriff’s Office Search and Rescue helped evacuate residents during the Eagle Creek fire in September. Several of these volunteers were Grant students. Hear stories from those intense few weeks.

Interviews by Allex Kelley and Axel Nielsen l Photo by Mako Barmon

Henry Morton Senior

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Fred Kerr Senior

Hannah Witscher Sophomore

What is Search and Rescue?

Witscher: Search and Rescue is what it sounds like. We mainly look for missing hikers, usually in the (Columbia River) Gorge.

We also help with evidence searches and rescues. So if somebody gets hurt while they’re hiking and needs a medical extraction, we help with that. Our team is technically the Multnomah County Sheriff Office’s Search and Rescue. Most of us are high school students; we have some adults, but anyone over 14 can join. All of our leadership — the officers, team leaders and our president — are all high school students, which is pretty cool … I feel like it definitely gives high schoolers an opportunity to live up to their responsibility and you get a chance to do something important … At this point, I could go lead a team in the field on an actual search.

out there live out there for a reason. They don’t like being bothered. We had to have a sheriff’s deputy with us because some of (the residents) are kind of combative. It was sad for me to be out there watching the area that I’ve spent so much time in burn down, but I was glad that we got to be a part of the effort to help people.

Why is Search and Rescue important to you?

Morton: To me, Search and Rescue has always been an opportunity to engage in my community while doing something that I care about. I’ve always been a very outdoorsy person; I love to hike, I spend most of my summer camping or backpacking. I guess I was just always sort of drawn to the beauty of (the outdoors).

Just standing at a viewpoint somewhere and looking over a river or valley never ceases to amaze me. I heard about (Search and Rescue) from Colin Klein … the president now of Search and Rescue. He told me about it, and I just thought it’d be a good way to give back to the outdoor community that I really love.

What was it like evacuating people?

Witscher: We had packets of information for people, telling them that they were under an evacuation. There’s three different levels (of wildfires). For our first (level), we were just going door-todoor (saying), “Hey, you might have to evacuate, there’s a wildfire near you. Here’s some information about how to keep your house safe, who you can ask if you need help getting out of your house.”

So we were doing that initially, but then all of a sudden, it jumped to levels two and three. Level two is like, “Maybe you should (evacuate),” but then level three is mandatory evacuation. “You need to leave right now.”

What has been your most intense moment from Search and Rescue?

Kerr: I’ve found one person so far, and that was my biggest moment for sure. It was a training weekend, so we were doing a really long hike and it was going to be 10-plus miles. It was raining really hard the entire day. And pretty early on … we got a real call … to search for an actual (missing) person. (Our team was) the closest to the presumed location of the subject … so we went straight to that location. By the time we got there, it was the evening and still raining. We just walked down the trail, and we saw (the missing woman) coming towards us; she was very glad to be found … It was my first time finding someone in my Search and Rescue career. We’d been doing all this training to search for people and find them and rescue them, and then finally it was actually the real thing.

How was this different from other Search and Rescue missions?

Morton: Normally, Search and Rescue is this thing where you get on a trail and you look for somebody, and this was a much more interactive experience. You have to talk to these people, and you have to figure out where they’re at. A lot of the time the people are pretty distressed; they think their houses could possibly burn down. When people’s family members are lost they’re distressed, but (this was) a different situation.

You recently worked during the Eagle Creek Fire. What was that like?

Morton: We were going door-to-door and gathering information about how many people were there, whether they had a place to evacuate to, if everyone in their family could evacuate … And eventually when the fire progressed to the west, we were telling them that it was time to evacuate … I had never really interacted with the people who live in that area of the Gorge … It’s an interesting place because the people who live

How were you feeling when you were asked to go out and help in the fire?

Kerr: I was a little bit apprehensive because I didn’t know what I was going to be doing, but I was also excited to be able to help …

(That) was nerve-racking because it was dangerous to be near the fire and going up to people’s homes in the dark made me a little bit nervous.

What emotions were you feeling while working in the fire?

Witscher: In the moment I was just tired … but then afterwards, I went home and was just upset and angry about the kid who had started the fire. I mean, I know that teenagers do dumb things … their brains aren’t fully developed, but it was still really frustrating to have a bunch of 15 and 16-year-olds out there helping fix (the kid’s) mistake.

How did this experience impact you?

Morton: As a team, we now don’t have a place to train. Where we trained was almost exclusively in the Gorge, and for the foreseeable future, all the trails are closed because they’re not safe to hike on, because of all the erosion that the fire has caused. I’m certainly more aware about fire safety now than I was before … and I’m definitely just more cognicant of the community out there in the Gorge that’s actively living there.

December 2017

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M

oonlight pours in through the windows of Grant sophomore Phoebe Kearney’s room. It’s a quiet night and she smells a hint of cigarette smoke, which intensifies within the next few minutes. She opens the foggy window and looks outside. Disappointed to catch her father smoking, Kearney slams the window shut and throws herself onto her bed.

Kearney grabs her fuschia notebook and a pink ballpoint pen. In the silence of the night, all that can be heard is furious scratching against the paper as Kearney records her emotions coming to her. She begins to write: “‘I promise I’ll quit smoking.’

Papa, papa, do you like this personality that grips?

You didn’t fancy makeup, so I put bold, red words upon my lips.”

For many, writing poetry is simply a hobby. But for Kearney, it is a coping mechanism. Her love for poetry stems from an early fascination with drawing and writing stories. But what originated as just a fun pastime soon turned into her passion.

“I was very quiet before I started writing poetry,” says Kearney. “It just gave me a voice.”

As she continued through school, Kearney discovered the emotional aspect of poetry and realized she could inject her feelings into her writing. “It gives me emotional clarity. It can be like a reflection, but it can also just sort of be a release of an emotion,” she says.

Kearney uses this to process her feelings of anger and disappointment surrounding issues with her father’s cigarette and alcohol addiction, and her distant relationship with her family as a whole.

Kearney was born January 10, 2002 to Sarah Shea and Jack Kearney. When Kearney was 3, her twin siblings, John and Daphne, were born.

Initially, she was excited to be a big sister, but the twins began taking up a lot of her parents’ attention. She felt they never had time for her, and when they did, she was reluctant to burden them. She knew her parents already had their hands full with her siblings. “I just took myself out of the picture to relieve stress, and tried to help with the kids as much as I could,” says Kearney.

From a young age, Kearney was intrigued by art, immersing herself in every possible medium. She sang constantly, joined theater classes and was especially interested in drawing. Shea

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recalls Kearney’s first day at Heartwood Preschool: “She was at the easel and we had to take her cheeks and turn her head and kiss her and say goodbye to her.”

As Kearney continued preschool, her teachers became aware of her love for art, and recommended she enroll at Buckman — an arts-integrated elementary school — the following year.

At Buckman, Kearney began creating picture books featuring detailed drawings.

By the time she reached the fifth grade, she had produced almost 40 books. She was initially drawn to the visual element, but soon realized she enjoyed the writing aspect as well. As she got older, she became interested in manipulating the words that accompanied her stories. She started pulling phrases and sentences from stories she already had, and put them together to create her first poems.

Kearney had already been introduced to poetry by her father. She was particularly intrigued by how he would use words that had double meanings. Her writing style turned into poetic phrases as she discovered the power of words and began playing with double meanings, similar to her father. “My dad, he writes poetry and I sort of got into it because he liked it so much,” says Kearney.

At the same time, Kearney began to notice that her father was acting differently.

He usually had a glossy look in his eyes, and would often ramble, then forget what he was saying. “I would think he was just extra funny and happy,” says Kearney.

“My mom would see me with him, and start yelling at him.”

Despite these issues with her family, Kearney has many fond memories from her early childhood. She enjoyed school, and was given an abundance of opportunities to express herself. In class, she spent her time drawing life size penguins, sketching bridges and performing in a ‘70s-inspired hula hoop dance to “I’m a Believer” by The Monkees.

When Kearney finished elementary school at Buckman, she decided to attend da Vinci Arts Middle School to continue her art education. Kearny and her parents thought a creative learning environment like da Vinci would be the best place to further develop her skills.

While attending da Vinci, Kearney began to explore poetry more seriously after one of her teachers introduced a slam poetry unit. She realized then that poetry could be angry, an emotion she had never

Sophomore Phoebe Kearney writes po touched on in her writing. “I’m not a very angry person,” she says. “Slam doesn’t always have to be angry, but I’d never written angry before and so it was a cool emotion to explore within writing.”

However, poetry didn’t become an emotional outlet for her until the death of a close friend’s father. “I hated seeing (my friend) sad, and I couldn’t do anything about it, so I started writing about it,” Kearney says.

She gave her friend the poem she wrote, and recalls her friend’s emotional reaction.

When she saw how her poetry had an impact on her friend, she discovered that it was a powerful way to work through her own emotions. “The poem I wrote her

Survival in Stanzas

oetry to cope with her father’s addiction struggles. Story by Lucy Hays Photos by Momoko Baker and Elliot Johnson made her smile, so that made me happy.

After I finished it, (I felt) not closure, but more together,” says Kearney.

Kearney began writing nearly every day for all of eighth grade. She felt that her emotional pieces were more powerful and substantial. This also helped Kearney to alleviate the continuing stress she was experiencing at home. “I spent more time on (my poetry) because I was emotionally invested,” says Kearney.

The seperation Kearney felt from her parents continued to grow in middle school. At home, her interactions with her family were limited to brief conversations, often at dinner. When her father drank heavily, he would be absent from family

life, becoming inaccessible and furthering the distance in their relationship. “My dad (would hide) in the basement for most of the day,” says Kearney.

She found her own ways to separate herself from her family. When she started middle school and her parents allowed her to take the bus around Portland, she began spending less and less time at home. She often chose to bus to friends’ houses and frequently slept over, even on weeknights.

When she was unable to escape to a friend’s house, Kearney found comfort in her room. Kearney’s room is completely separate from the rest of her house, taking up the entire third floor. She spent hours there, far from distractions, in order to find

sanctuary in her writing.

Kearney recalls one night in particular when she realized her father had a problem.

“I remember one Super Bowl, we had to walk home together from our friend’s house two miles away because he was too drunk to drive,” Kearney says. “I was like, ‘Wow, you’re not a functioning human right now.’”

During the worst of her father’s drinking, Kearney could go a week at a time without seeing him while he would be out with friends or passed out in the basement.

Her mother traveled frequently for work, and Kearney ended up taking care of her brother and sister. She would make meals for them, buy groceries and make sure they December 2017

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Phoebe Kearney can often be found writing on the bus – jotting down ideas as they come to her. went to bed and got to school on time.

Kearney was shocked that at such a young age she could be performing at a higher level than her own father.

“Sometimes, he’d be in charge of me, other times it’d be the other way around,” Kearney says.

Although her father’s drinking significantly disrupted Kearney’s home life, it was his cigarette addiction that pushed her over the edge. Kearney’s father told her multiple times that he would quit, but frequently broke the promise and continued his habit. Kearney felt betrayed.

She processed her anger and harnessed it into poetry, similar to the slam poems she had learned how to write earlier that year.

“It Started with Five Words,” a poem about her father’s problems with addiction,

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derived from these experiences. “She expresses herself through art,” says Kearney’s mother. “It seems like she has something inside of her that needs to get out.”

After writing, Kearney’s emotions became clearer to her. She funneled all of her pent-up anger into this poem. Although she was still angry, writing had allowed her to have control over this anger. “It just feels really good,” says Kearney. “There’s definitely an element of closure to it. (I) can sort of come to peace.”

She continued to work on “It Started with Five Words” as new feelings arose. “(Poetry) allows you to make something that kinda sucks, pretty … and she uses that a lot,” says Kearney’s close friend, Emily Fox, a sophomore at Cleveland

High School. Kearney used her poetry to not only cope with her feelings but also to understand how she was feeling, and why.

Kearney’s family life has since improved. Her father has quit smoking, and mostly drinks at social events only.

However, Kearney’s experience at Grant has been an adjustment. Opportunities to create art are no longer given to her; she has had to make them for herself. At first, she struggled trying to fit everything in and stopped writing as much. “Because I stopped writing for a while, I think I started to not know myself as well,” she says. “I sort of lost myself because I didn’t write.”

The few times that Kearney has shared her work with others, she has received support and encouragement from the community. Her freshman English teacher, Dylan Leeman, was moved by how emotionally honest Kearney’s poetry is. “It’s so powerful and beautiful and it hurts,” he says. “It does what is the goal of so much art which is to evoke the feelings of the artist really powerfully. I really hope that she finds ways to share it with a broader audience. She has stuff that other people need to see.”

He urged her to join the school-wide slam poetry contest, but Kearney declined.

“I think poetry … while I would like to share it, is sort of for me. To resolve things within my own head,” she says.

Kearney is interested in pursuing a career involving poetry, although she is unsure of the practicality of it. She was intrigued by a booth at her freshman career fair featuring an organization that helps disadvantaged youth with writing. Kearney was able to see herself doing something similar to this; “That way I wouldn’t have to share my writing so much as share my process,” Kearney says.

Until then, Kearney will continue to write new pieces and edit her old ones.

“I’m always changing, so my poetry – it’s such a reflection of me, it’s gotta change with me,” says Kearney. “I think it definitely means that if I keep editing all of them, then all of them are still relevant. All of them are still part of me and alive and I think that’s really important.”

Back in her room, Kearney pulls out her pink ballpoint pen and her pink notebook and adds to “It Started with Five Words”: “Here’s to your palette changing soon.

To it being 12 steps from my door to yours.

To raising hopes, not daughters.”

Afterthoughts

The Space Between

After one and a half years of living with his cousin, the author reflects on his actions and gains a new perspective.

A

Story by Narain Dubey Illustration by Claire Chasse

fter returning from school, I entered my house and stopped for a moment, listening to the silence — it was empty. Not wasting a second, I rushed to the kitchen counter, settling onto a stool and throwing my feet over two other stools.

I closed my eyes for a while, taking advantage of having the house to myself.

Ten minutes later, however, the side door creaked open and my cousin stepped into the kitchen. Moving as fast as I could, I ducked behind the counter and silenced my phone, waiting until he went downstairs to finally stand back up.

Since June of 2012, my cousin Mikaal would make monthlong trips from his home in Oshkosh, Wis., to Portland for an annual football camp at Portland State University.

While here, he would stay in our basement.

With the exception of organized family activities, he kept to himself, only coming upstairs to grab a snack or leave for football through the side door.

Because of the large time commitment that the camp required, my interactions with him were limited; we were friendly in passing, yet he remained an unfamiliar figure in my home.

In a way, this awkwardness was amplified by the way our family treated Mikaal. Because having him in our home was new to us, there was a general sense of discomfort in the house.

During Sunday night family dinners, conversation was situated in a formal, interview-like style — questions were superficial and seemed to be asked only out of politeness. When we went on family outings, we sometimes forgot to include him, often leaving before he returned home from football.

Since Mikaal was nearing 19 and almost four years older than me, I was nervous to talk to him, thinking that he would see me

as a “little kid.” Because of this, I would hide from him when I knew he was home and would stay quiet during family outings.

Mikaal was closer to my older brother.

Since they were in the same grade and their interests aligned, conversations between them did not involve the awkwardness of an age gap. I was jealous of their friendship. While it was easy for my brother to spend time with Mikaal, I struggled to figure out how we would interact.

In addition to the age gap, I was aware that we came from drastically different life situations.

Mikaal lived with his single mother and six siblings in a small home in Oshkosh. Money was a perpetual concern, and other things, like college, were left out of the conversation. A few of Mikaal’s older brothers had attended community college for a short period of time, but

had dropped out with failing grades.

Despite this history, Mikaal was determined to attend college and become the first of his family to graduate.

After reviewing all of the options, Portland State University (PSU) seemed the most feasible. My mom was a former professor at the school and could help him with the admissions process, and he could stay at our home instead of paying for room and board. In addition, he had received an offer from the football coach for some financial assistance and a spot on the team.

As soon as the decision was made for Mikaal to move in, the changes happened swiftly. Our basement, which my friends and I had previously used as a hangout space, was filled with Mikaal’s boxes and clothes. My baby portraits that hung on the basement walls were wrapped up and moved into storage, replaced by Mikaal’s posters. It felt strange to have a familiar place in my November 2017

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home turn into one that was no longer mine.

I was so frustrated with the idea that my space was being taken over, that I made an effort to avoid Mikaal. When he was home, I would confine myself to my room, or spend time at friends’ houses until I knew he had left. If I needed something from downstairs, I would tip-toe to avoid making him aware of my presence. When all else failed, I would pretend to be on a phone call to walk past him without conversation.

And yet, Mikaal constantly made an effort to connect with me. He focused on our common interest in the NBA and would frequently invite me to the basement to watch Friday night games. I would usually escape to my room, mumbling that I had homework or a throbbing headache. Sometimes, though, my mom would insist that I accept the offer, acknowledging that Mikaal and I hadn’t connected enough during his time in Portland.

One game — the Portland Trail Blazers versus the Milwaukee Bucks — was spent almost entirely in silence. I struggled to decide what I would talk about, and it was clear that he felt the same. Near the end of the fourth quarter, however, Mikaal made a comment about one of the players. Before I knew it, we were talking an hour after the game had finished, discussing basketball statistics and players, comparing both teams from our respective states.

The conversation, however, quickly transitioned from the topic of basketball. With each minute that passed, we opened up more about our lives. I asked him about what it was like to leave Oshkosh and enter a new life so quickly; Mikaal said that while he missed his friends and life at home, he knew that he needed to pursue an education in order to support his family. I felt as if I had more empathy for his situation, even after only a few hours.

For a short while after that night, I thought that things had changed. I believed that because we had connected once, any remaining awkwardness could be ignored.

Yet when small things got on my nerves, I found myself back where I started, avoiding interaction and turning my head as he walked through the door. I once found my portable speaker in the basement, and posted sticky notes labeled “Narain’s” on all of my things.

I soon realized that throughout all of my immaturity, Mikaal was dealing with real problems. He struggled to balance the time commitment of school with football, and often spent eight hours straight doing homework, turning off his lights hours past midnight. Throughout all this, he was receiving several messages from his family at home letting him know that their financial situation was still the same. His mother was juggling multiple jobs and struggling to get food on the table.

Yet Mikaal kept going. He worked hard to maintain his grades, and pushed himself to run faster on the football field.

When he learned that his family back in Oshkosh needed his help, he went in search of night jobs, hoping to find a way to provide financial assistance. While countless commitments took up 11 hours of his day, he still managed to dedicate time to our family. If my father needed help to carry a chair upstairs, Mikaal volunteered. When family dinner was called, he made his way to the table as fast as he could, regardless of how high the stack of work on his desk was.

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On an icy day in December 2016, after mentioning to the family that I was interested in trying meat after nine years of vegetarianism, Mikaal offered to prepare some chicken. As usual, I sat in silence as he cooked, making no effort to converse with him as he tirelessly worked to clean the grill. The entire time, Mikaal managed to multitask; on the plastic table attached to the grill, he was scribbling down answers to his economics homework that was due the next day.

Instead of staying in the basement and asking for space to finish his work, Mikaal sacrificed his time to be with me. Instead of finishing his homework and possibly getting to bed earlier, Mikaal chose to put my needs in front of his own. That night, he went to bed at 3 a.m.

That time with Mikaal opened my eyes to the contempt with which I had treated him. It took him great amounts of courage to leave Wisconsin and experience such drastic changes in his life, and yet I — someone who was supposed to welcome him into my home — had made the changes harder.

I spent the next few weeks figuring out how I would apologize to Mikaal. Multiple times, I came close to knocking on his door and doing so, but I always found myself back in my room as usual, avoiding the confrontation.

When I finally thought I was ready to explain myself, it was too late.

In June of 2017, after a year at PSU, Mikaal left Portland.

He had learned from his girlfriend back in Oshkosh that he had become a father. Despite his commitment to school, the needs of his family — and now his son — were his first priority. In order to fully support them, he needed to be home.

On the day that he left, my family and I worked to pack up his clothes and belongings, and straighten out the itinerary.

Strangely, it felt very similar to the day he moved in; I was quiet, awkward and uncomfortable with the changes. This time, however, the feelings were accompanied by sadness and regret.

To this day, I still have not apologized to Mikaal. We haven’t re-connected since he left, and I don’t feel that an email or text message would be sufficient. However, having time to reflect has shown me that instead of just apologizing, I need to thank him as well.

Throughout Mikaal’s stay, I was adamant that his presence in Portland resulted in my sacrifice. In reality, it was Mikaal who was dealing with adversity and expressing bravery. It was Mikaal who, despite his situation, left his hometown to support his family and pursue an education.

He didn’t work so hard in school just for himself — he was working for his brothers and his mother back home. It didn’t matter to him that spending an hour with me would mean a later night; what was important to him, in fact, was that his family was happy.

If Mikaal chooses to return to Portland and continue his education at PSU, I know that I will act differently. I won’t take his presence for granted, and I will be proactive in trying to spend time with him. Until then, however, I’ll constantly wrestle with the same lingering question: Had I treated Mikaal with more respect, would we have had a real relationship?

Narain Dubey is a reporter and Story Editor for Grant Magazine.

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