February Issue 2017 by Grant Magazine

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February 2017

A Missing Piece

The death of a parent can be jarring. But not talking about it can be worse for the child who is left behind. Pg. 8 By Isabel Lickey

In this issue... 15

game on

Defending 30 mph shots and epilepsy isn’t the average Grant student’s routine, but it has become normal for sophomore Amelia Haindl.

By Ella Weeks

standing up and speaking out

As a kid, senior Khiarica Rasheed rarely talked. Today she’s found her voice, and is using it to make change.

By Ella DeMerritt

trumpeting his passion

Changing into character

afterthoughts

Junior Michail Thompson knows his way around a trumpet. He ventured into new territory by starting a music mentorship program.

They call it cosplay – dressing up in costume as an act of expression. For two Grant students, it’s also a way of life.

Randy Cox, a Grant Magazine mentor who passed away last month, helped the author grow as a photographer and as a person.

By Momoko Baker

By Blu Midyett and Kana Heitzman

becoming their own

From navigating gender identity at a young age to traveling the country at age 16, Grant teacher Mykhiel Deych has been around the block.

By Sophie Hauth

the alumni profile

Attending Grant in the 1980s, Karen Batts was widely known and well-liked. But this January, she died on the streets in Portland.

By Callie Quinn-Ward

Grant Magazine grantmagazine.com

February 2017

On the cover: finding solid ground Junior Chloe Artita-Guerrero lost her mother five years ago. She’s had to learn to cope with the pain. Turn to page 8 for the story. By Isabel Lickey • Cover by Sarah Hamilton A Missing Piece

Among Grant students, the death of a parent is relatively prevalent, but the conversation around it remains taboo. Pg. 8

By Isabel Lickey

By Finn Hawley-Blue

Grant Magazine

very It’s much

‘

process of

learning to

love ‘ yourself.

Also inside... Quick Mag

In My Opinion: Please, feel.

5 Editorial: A Change in Strategy

Time With... Kristin Barsotti

– Grant teacher Mykhiel Deych on their journey to self-acceptance. Pg. 26

Pen & ink: If You Treated An �ffice Job �ike �t Was High School

23 February 2017

Quick Mag

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

Portland, Oregon vs. Portland, Maine By Jessica Griepenburg

vs.

The Mini Profile: Honoka Okubo

After coming to America, her thoughts on education have changed By Sydney Jones

When Honoka Okubo, a Japanese intern, walked through the Grant halls for the first time she was taken aback: students with dyed hair, casual clothes and diversity. The sea of black hair and identical outfits she was used to in Japan were nowhere to be seen. “It’s like the America on television,” she thought. With hopes of becoming a teacher, Okubo came to Grant last April to help out in Japanese classes. Since her arrival, her eyes have been opened to a new world of education. Born and raised in Miyazaki, Japan, Okubo grew up helping her younger sister with school work, so teaching came naturally. During her junior year of college, Okubo joined an internship program that took her into the unfamiliar school structure of Portland. But she embraced the change. “It’s very free in

America. You can take classes that you want to take, and you can kind of decide your times.” The relatively laidback attitude of American public schools was a pleasant change for Okubo. “In education in America, they value individuality,” says Okubo. “But in Japan, it’s good to be the same as everyone else so that you don’t draw attention to yourself ... In America, everyone is different, and that’s okay. I like that.” As Okubo prepares to move back to Japan next month, she says she’s walking away with a new outlook on education. “I realized that raising your hand and correcting teachers isn’t bad. You don’t do that in Japan,” says Okubo. “My perspectives here have really broadened. I’m really glad I came. If I was just in Japan, I wouldn’t have learned all these different things.”

The Portland Public School district’s complicated process for determining snow days.

By the flip of a coin

Named

After an island in England

Beverly Cleary

Famous Faces

Stephen King

632,309

Population

66,881

Naked Bike Ride

City Events

Old Port Festival

I’m Blu, and I’m afraid of small holes. But I’m not the only one. People fear birds, elevators, stickers and more. Grant is full of phobias, but why

Talk Back

Do you believe in any conspiracy theories? By Toli Tate Engraver Arnold, senior “I believe that Katy Perry is actually JonBenet Ramsey. She was a pageant girl who got murdered – but actually she didn’t! She grew up to be Katy Perry. I believe a lot of celebrity conspiracy theories because celebrities are really mysterious.” Karl Acker, Student Equity Outreach Coordinator “When (Hurricane) Katrina happened … there’s a conspiracy theory that the government blew up the levees to wipe out the city to get rid of poverty in the inner city … It isn’t proven, but I’m a freethinker, and I’m from New Orleans … I can see some of that being true.” Lily O’Brien, senior “There’s one called the Mandela Effect … the theory is that something happens where the parallel universe makes people remember something differently in the past than how it actually is right now.”

Methods of staying warm in the winter and their effectiveness.

To hear a podcast on phobias by Editor-in-Chief Blu Midyett, go to grantmagazine.com/phobias

By the Numbers: Valentine’s Edition

By Momoko Baker

The percentage of Americans who buy Valentine’s gifts for their pets

58,000,000

Number of pounds of chocolate bought during the week of the 14th, equivalent to the weight of 4,833 elephants

180,000,000 Number of Valentine’s Day

cards exchanged every year

146.84

Average amount of money consumers spent for Valentine’s Day in 2016

A Brief Review: P.E. Uniforms By Toli Tate

The blue athletic shorts are long enough to look equally unflattering on any body type, while the gray cotton T-shirts are thick enough to substitute for a puffy winter coat on a cold day. Yet they create a sauna when it’s over 60° F. Luckily, they are dark enough to conceal most sweat stains.

Grant Magazine

By Julian Wyatt

In My Opinion

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Editors-IN-CHIEF Sarah Hamilton Sophie Hauth Finn Hawley-Blue Molly Metz Blu Midyett Kali Rennaker

DEsign Editor Julian Wyatt

Online editor Charlotte Klein

Video editor

Mackie Mallison

editorial page editor Dylan Palmer

Adviser

David Austin

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.

Please, feel.

As boys and men, isn’t it about time that we embrace our emotions and challenge gender norms?

“How old is your daughter?” The man jokingly asked my mom as she sat by the pool. I was standing in the shallow end, my blond hair hanging down past my ears. I looked around, embarrassed, realizing he was talking about Finn Hawley-Blue me. I was only 8 years old and was already being told what it meant to be a boy. It didn’t end there. I remember how “boys don’t cry” was a common sentiment growing up. I was ridiculed by my male peers for wearing nail polish when I was in elementary school. I was scared to cry or show any emotion because of the stigma. So, I changed the way I presented myself. I cut my hair short, started playing video games and memorized players on sports teams – all in an effort to conform to what society told me it meant to be a man. Reflecting on these memories has made the dangers of gender constructs even more apparent to me. Why did I feel ashamed for being presumed as feminine? Male-identifying people like me are taught that the basis of masculinity is defined by rigid rules – suppression of emotions, dominance and aggression, to name a few. The psychological term for this is hypermasculinity. Men are shamed for showing feelings or having “feminine” characteristics. We oftentimes aren’t taught proper coping mechanisms for dealing with emotions, and on top of that, aggression is normalized. This can have devastating effects. In the United States, according to the National Coalition of Domestic Violence, 1 in 5 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetimes compared to 1 in 71 men. And about 90 percent of mass shootings are committed by men. Many boys at Grant feel the effects of hypermasculinity. “My family, they have this high standard of me playing sports, like a normal boy,” says Grant junior Jaylen Butler, who is gay. “I just tell them, at the end of the day I’m not changing.” The concept of hypermasculinity has existed for centuries, embodied in white, heterosexual, cisgender and middle to upper class men. Historically, that standard of masculinity has subjugated black men to emasculation and violence, and forced queer and transgender men to hide in fear of being targeted as well. And often in gay communities, attractiveness is associated with masculinity, determined by a man’s ability to “pass” as straight by suppressing any “feminine” characteristics.

In media and culture, boys and men are consumed by a hegemonic viewpoint of masculinity. Just as women are compared to unrealistic beauty standards, I’ve seen plenty of commercials and advertisements that depict muscular, athletic men who desire money, cars and success while lusting after women. As a result, children pick up on gender roles at a young age. Grant senior Aubrey Pledger says these notions can be dangerous. “Those lessons that we’re taught as kids definitely translate into relationships,” she says. “I think that hypermasculinity is the product of really fragile egos because there is so much pressure being put on men. And so when their ego is hurt, then they can lash out in really bad ways.” This pressure can have harmful effects on men, most prominently anger and aggression, and can lead to undiagnosed depression, domestic abuse and social isolation. Derrais Carter, assistant professor of Black Studies at Portland State University, says the constructs of masculinity “focus too heavily on aggression, power, and violence and encourage the oppression of others. When this becomes the culturally accepted standard for how men are socialized, then it discourages many other expressions of masculinity.” Carter also acknowledges that standards differ based on race and economic class. We have been told for too long that the suppression of emotion is normal, that femininity means weakness, that domestic abuse is the woman’s fault, that aggression and dominance are just male traits and that “boys will be boys.” We have to change this narrative. As men we have an obligation to ourselves and others to break down these barriers. Embrace our emotions. Cry. Step out of the boxes put in place for us and allow ourselves to access the many parts of who we are, which will help not just men, but everyone around us. One afternoon last fall, I was sitting in my backyard with my family and some friends. The adults and I talked while the kids, including my 4-year-old brother and 7-year-old sister played in the yard. The boys pretended to shoot each other with guns, while the girls jumped rope. “Boys will be boys,” one of the parents said. I felt disheartened knowing things haven’t changed much since I was a kid. I want to live in a world where my little brother feels comfortable expressing himself in any way he chooses. I don’t feel the need to conform, and I choose not to live by society’s rules of who I should be. Do you? ◆ February 2017

Editorial

Hitting Close to Home

Homelessness in Portland can be eradicated, but we all need to step up.

hen nearly a foot of snow hit Portland in early January, Mayor Ted Wheeler called a state of emergency for the city. The freezing temperatures became a life or death situation for those living on the street. As a result, the Portland Building in downtown opened as a warming shelter, and several dozen people experiencing homelessness packed into the second floor of the building at night. One woman who entered the shelter a few days before had struggled with homelessness for years. She had been sleeping in shelters across Portland or crashing on a friend’s couch when she had the opportunity. Another man had a nice home last fall before he was diagnosed with a serious illness, consequently lost his job and was evicted a couple months ago. Everyone in the shelter that night had one thing in common: They were there because they couldn’t afford permanent housing in Portland, and few solutions were in sight. Homelessness is a serious issue that has plagued Portland for decades. According to a report by local governments and the coordinating board of A Home for Everyone, in 2015 alone there were an estimated 15,800 people experiencing homelessness in Portland and Gresham. The issue is possible to fix, but it’s going to take effort from all of us. While there are many problems contributing to homelessness in Portland, it ultimately boils down to the reality that there isn’t enough affordable housing. As the cost of rent skyrockets, and people from California and other states flood to our city, Portland residents are left unable to afford their homes, forcing them out onto the streets. Citizens who struggle with addiction, mental health and other disabilities often find themselves struggling to maintain a job and pay the rent. On top of that, homelessness can spur addiction, mental health issues and physical disabilities, creating a vicious cycle. Perhaps the scariest facet of homelessness is that it can happen to anyone. Karen Batts,

Grant Magazine

a Grant High School alum who graduated in 1982, died from hypothermia in January, just months after being evicted from her apartment. And experts say homelessness affects current students, including those at Grant. “Grant High School is a big school, and I’m confident that there are many students at Grant who have been touched by homelessness either personally or in their families,” says Marc Jolin, director of Portland and Multnomah County’s Joint Office of Homeless Services. “It’s an issue that reaches many people in our

communities.” It won’t be long before Grant students find themselves looking for a place to live, and with the average price of rent increasing to more than $1,500 a month in Portland, many will not be able to afford living here. We must empathize with the victims of Portland’s housing crisis, and then all of us must confront the issue head on. The first step in combatting homelessness is recognizing that it is a systemic issue. We need to acknowledge that homelessness is a solvable problem and get rid of the stigma that blames people experiencing homelessness for their condition. It’s time to start doing research, informing ourselves

and having conversations with friends, family and peers about this issue. Unfortunately, the new presidential administration has ushered in many unqualified policy makers. That includes Ben Carson, a retired neurosurgeon with no experience in politics, who is now running the federal Department of Housing and Urban Development. A key value of conservatism that Carson supports is private ownership and minimizing government assistance to citizens. Contributions from the federal government to help solve the issue of homelessness are likely in jeopardy. That’s why we must take action in our own community. In Portland, there are a plethora of organizations that work to fight homelessness by providing affordable health care, shelters and affordable housing for people experiencing homelessness, including veterans. But even with the help of these organizations, there are still hundreds of people sleeping on the streets of the city each night. If we feel any sense of connection to this community, then it is our duty to go out and get involved. We can volunteer for local organizations or donate money, clothing – including socks, underwear, and coats – blankets and hygiene products. We can demand that the government confront homelessness in Portland by writing letters, calling our legislators and planning demonstrations. We can vote for politicians who aim to dismantle homelessness and support policies that also work to combat the issue. We can educate our peers on the prevalence of homelessness and how to take action. We can also do something as simple as acknowledging people experiencing homelessness by saying hello and starting up a conversation. Gestures like these seem small, but they go a long way for a population that is so often ignored and pushed to the sidelines. The death of Karen Batts hit close to home in the Grant community. Let’s act now before something like this happens again. ◆ Read a profile about Grant alum Karen Batts on page 30.

Time with...Kristin Barsotti

Tatted

With 16 tattoos and counting, the Grant graduate and staff member looks back on her tattoo obsession.

“Pay attention to what you’re putting on your body.”

Interview and photo by Molly Metz

Age: 40 High school: Grant, Class of 1995 Children: Nataylee, 20; Braelynn, 17; Rhyann, 12; Etta, 8; and Ellis, 7 Favorite TV shows: “Scandal” and “Law and Order” Number of tattoos: 16 What is your job? My role at Grant is half-time bookkeeper … so I’m available to kids and parents and staff for bookkeeping needs, and I help run the student store with kids. It’s not just me tackling lunch in here by myself. What’s your favorite part? I think my favorite part about it is just interacting with the students. And because I’m not a teacher ... it’s interesting to see them in their element. I’ve learned several kids, what they like and what they don’t like. They are regularly in here, so it’s nice to build a relationship. You have quite a few tattoos. How did you get them? Well, when I turned 18, it was like the thing to do. So my very first one was with one of my friends in high school, and we just went to some place that probably should not be in business … and we got matching tattoos, and we both got a sun on the back of our shoulder, and that kind of started my obsession. What else got you obsessed? I think it’s really addicting in the sense of you kind of go through this temporary pain to put something on your body that’s going to last forever and ever. It’s kind of like when you have kids, you don’t ever remember any of the pain, they’re just this great kid. I forget about the actual pain of it and what the outcome of it is going to be. So once it turns out really nice, it’s like, “Oh, I could do this again, it’s not that bad.” Do you plan on getting more soon? I just got another one on my thigh just a week ago … so that’s really new. It’s a compass with some arrows on it and some stars, and it’s pretty much just like where your path is with your life. Then I will probably wait for a little while because they are expensive.

Do all of your tattoos have meaning? Most of the things that I get and put on my body are for significant reasons, mostly my kids or something that I’ve been through. Most of my tattoos are in sets of five. I have five kids. So five butterflies, five elephants, five roses. Are there any tattoos that you regret getting? A couple, but I’ve covered them up. My very first one just didn’t take well over time, and it was just not great. And another one I was young and not very savvy about tattoos. I got a Japanese letter put on my ankle and ... it meant something else than I thought It did. Have any of your kids gotten tattoos? My oldest has a couple. She’s definitely not as into it as me, and my 17 year old is not quite old enough, but she’s definitely itching to get her first one when she turns 18. What sort of things do you do with your kids? They do soccer for sports. I keep trying to push more indoor sports with them, but they are definitely more outdoor-based. It’s a lot of practice, homework and just kind of being a mom and doing what they need. Would you consider yourself a soccer mom? I’m still fighting being a soccer mom. I’ve been to obviously numerous games, and I have to because I just have to, but it’s not my favorite. ◆

February 2017

Finding Solid Ground

Losing a parent is a tragedy, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not uncommon for students. When it does happen, a key to coping is to talk about it. Story by Isabel Lickey â&#x20AC;˘ Photos by Finn Hawley-Blue

Grant Magazine

Chloe Artita-Guerrero steps onto the starting block at the Matt Dishman pool in Northeast Portland. She takes a deep breath and rolls her shoulders back before freezing. “Take your marks,” the starter says. And with those three words, an image of the Grant High School junior’s mother quickly comes into her mind. The whistle blows and Artita-Guerrero, 17, dives in, vanishing underwater. Her thoughts of her mom linger as she propels through the water, legs kicking and arms straining with swift strokes. She started swimming for Grant a year ago. In a way, it allows her to connect with her late mother who was an avid swimmer. “I think about her when I first jump in, and when I finish, how it would feel to have her see me finish,” she says. “If she was here, she would be the loudest one in the stands.” Cynthia Artita died of liver cancer when Chloe was in seventh grade. Since then, Chloe has struggled to navigate adolescence without a mother. At first, the young girl stayed with family members in her hometown of Mililani, Hawaii after ger mother’s death. Her older sister at the time was a student at Oregon State University. She was left feeling alone and isolated. Her mom “was the only person I’ve ever had around constantly taking care of me,” Chloe ArtitaGuerrero says now. “Because my mom wasn’t there, and my sister was up in Oregon, I felt like I had nobody.” That kind of sentiment is common for people, especially teens, who have lost a parent. “They say ... ‘I don’t want to be treated different, but no one understands what I’m going through,’” says Donna Schuurman, the senior director of advocacy and training at the Dougy Center for Grieving Children in Portland. “I think that’s one of the biggest things I hear from teens, that sense of being alone, not being understood, feeling different, you know, and it becomes isolating.” For students who have lost a parent, dealing with grief happens in a variety of ways. Some selfmedicate to alleviate the pain. Others find themselves growing up faster and straying from the ways they were taught. “Every individual is so unique. There’s no right or wrong way to (grieve),” says Kate Allen, a social worker in the Grant counseling office. “We see these five stages of grief or … people are kind of ready to move on or have a quick fix. But everyone is so unique in their journey.” The overwhelming grief reaches all corners of a student’s life. Grades often slip, attendance at school gets spotty and social situations can be affected. Talking about loss with peers and others is increasingly difficult as most people tend to avoid the topic of death entirely. But for Artita-Guerrero, discussing her loss is the best form of support, she says. “I think people try to avoid talking about grief just because they don’t want to feel bad about it,” she says. “People should accept the fact that it happens and just talk about it when you need to.”

Chloe Artita-Guerrero was born Nov. 12, 1999, in Mililani, Hawaii. Her father struggled with alcoholism and wasn’t a part of his daughter’s life, so her mother raised her. Her sister, Briana, is nine years older and went off to college at Oregon State University when Artita-Guerrero was still young. Chloe remembers how tight-knit she and her mother were early on. “She was full of life,” she recalls. “Most of the time when I think about her, she’s laughing.” Together they made frequent visits to the local aquarium or the zoo. Her mother taught her how to swim when she was 5 on the beaches of Hawaii. As she grew older, her mom would take Mondays off from her job with the U.S. Postal Service so Chloe could miss school. They’d spend the day shopping and watching movies. Most of her mother’s extended family lived in Hawaii as well, and they often spent weekends together. Sometimes, her mom would throw family parties at their house. “She’d just have this infectious laugh where as soon as she started laughing, everyone started laughing, and she always seemed to be the life of the party,” Briana recalls. Things were going well for the family until the spring of 2012. Their mom slipped in the bathtub and broke both of her legs. But the X-ray also revealed something much more damaging. Doctors found that she had liver cancer and the disease had spread throughout her body. Chloe was at the beach with friends when she found out her mom had gone to the hospital. When she arrived, her mom was heavily sedated. She remembers the moment the doctors told her about the cancer. “When you hear the term cancer, I mean, it breaks your heart really fast,” she says now. Other Grant students say the news of a terminal illness sends shockwaves through families. Senior Sarah Barr was 6 when her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Barr says she was too young to understand what was happening. A few years later, Barr learned more about the illness and was scared about what would happen to her mother. Doctors told the family the news wasn’t good. “There was a time limit,” Barr recalls. “So I never knew what was next.” In December 2013, Barr’s mother passed away. Sophomore Tanis Nielsen lost her mom to cancer in 2014. Nielsen had been homeschooled by her mother, so they spent nearly every day together. She remembers her mother was diagnosed a year earlier. She didn’t know much beyond what family members told her. “It was like a holding pattern for that time,” she says. “I was just like filling time until something happened.” When her mom passed away, Nielsen stopped feeling much

“I felt like I had nobody.” - Chloe Artita-Guerrero

February 2017

of anything. She tried to be rational about it, but even knowing beforehand couldn’t prepare her. “I just continued on ... I was just sort of numb,” she says. For most teens, the death of a parent brings a halt to things immediately. The effects are wide-reaching, says Schuurman. One of the biggest issues Schuurman sees people go through while grieving is social isolation. “It becomes isolating ... It’s too hard to be around people who don’t understand,” she says. “It can lead to depression, anxiety, hopelessness ... It can be quite destructive.” In the time before Artita-Guerrero’s mom died, she remembers being told by her mom that things would work out. Her “stupid hospital” stay would end soon, her mother told her. “She promised she was gonna come home,” Chloe remembers. “I trusted that that was what she was gonna do.” Two days later, Artita-Guerrero had a conversation with her mother. She vividly remembers the last words she said to her mom: “I love you.” She still visited, but her mother, who always watched over her, was sedated and unable to speak. She died a few weeks later on March 14, 2012. “I just started crying,” she recalls. “I wasn’t really thinking about anything but, ‘I hope they’re joking.’” It took a week for her to come out of a state of shock. Time slowed to a crawl. “When you’re thinking about your parent passing away and that’s all you’re thinking about, time passes by really slow,” she says. She spent that week with an aunt and was still unable to fathom what had happened. It felt like everything around her was collapsing. Allen says students who have lost someone close to them are vulnerable. They have “a feeling of despair and feeling of really

10 Grant Magazine

Artita-Guerrero wears her mother’s necklace, given to her after her mother’s death. When Artita-Guerrero puts it on, she feels like a part of her mom is with her.

hitting rock bottom, that ‘this is the worst pain I can endure.’” hen Artita-Guerrero’s thoughts turned to the coming months, she was faced with the question of: Now what? “I wasn’t ready to deal with life without my mom,” she says. As she moved around to stay with different family members, she sensed how difficult it was for many of them to have an orphaned child in their care. “I think it was because I remind my family members so much of my mom that they find it hard to look at me,” Artita-Guerrero says now. She struggled with depression and felt a sense of guilt over her mother’s death. “I definitely felt like I could have done so much more for her,” she says, looking back. “And a lot of people told me it wasn’t my fault, but in my own way it was.” Schuurman says a number of teens blame themselves. “It’s not unusual to feel guilt, to feel regret, to feel anger,” she says. “I think there are a lot of ‘if only’s.’ ‘If only I’d known, then I would have done something differently.’” The after-effect made it nearly impossible for Artita-Guerrero to focus on other things. Her performance in school plummeted as she stopped doing most of her work. She also turned to drugs and alcohol to lessen the pain. “I don’t really know how it happened. It just sort of slowly evolved into a coping method,” she says. “It was more, ‘I wanna have fun, but I can’t have fun if I can’t forget,’ so I used that to have fun and forget.” It’s easy for drugs or alcohol to become a crutch when feeling pain, Allen has noticed, because the result is so immediate.

“Sometimes, those feelings or thoughts are so overwhelming for kids that they just need something to numb the pain that is so strong,” she says. Though some students find self-medication helps with grieving, others turn to different outlets. Nielsen wasn’t enrolled in school until the following year, so she started teaching herself math and literature from textbooks at home. She read from the vast collection of books in her house for hours every day. She also found her view of the world – a lens of atheism and science – comforting. Believing that everything, including sadness, passes, and that there is no afterlife, helped her come to terms with her mother’s death. “She’s dead, and I’m sad about that, but there’s nothing I can do to change it,” she says. “I just remind myself of that.” Like Nielsen, Artita-Guerrero had to come to terms with her mom’s death, something made easier by her move to Oregon. When Artita-Guerrero was 14, her sister suggested she move to Portland to live with her and her now-fiancé, Ian De Kalb. When Ian’s parents, Cathy Woo-De Kalb and Mike De Kalb, heard Artita-Guerrero was planning to move, they suggested she live with them instead. They had already raised children and were committed to helping. Moving to Portland was a fresh start for Artita-Guerrero. “Staying in Hawaii ... with like all of the sad stuff that’s happened around me wasn’t good for me,” she says now. The first few nights, Woo-De Kalb noticed that Artita-Guerrero was very quiet but never felt sad or scared living so far away from her home. “It just seemed like an easy fit, and it was. It seems like she’s always been here,” says Woo-De Kalb. Just months after she got to Portland, Artita-Guerrero started calling De Kalb and Woo-De Kalb mom and dad. It gave her a sense of belonging. She feels stable now but still thinks of her mom everyday. Swimming is one of the ways Artita-Guerrero stays connected with her mom. Every time she gets in the pool, it’s a constant reminder that her mom is still looking out for her.

“I always think about her at some point in the day,” she says. “Sometimes it’s randomly in the middle of the day, and most of the time it’s at night because I have a picture of us hanging up on the wall.” The three pictures hang above her light switch. In one, ArtitaGuerrero, her sister and her mom grin at the camera, arms wrapped around each other. In another, Arita-Guerrero smiles proudly over a birthday cake, and in the third, her mom holds Artita-Guerrero the day she was born. For Nielsen, thoughts of her mom come every day, also usually late at night. Sometimes certain things trigger a memory. Recently, she was at a Speech and Debate Club tournament and was reading a short story in prose about a woman whose parents had died. During the parents’ decline, they had started to refuse food. “ I just completely broke down crying because that was something that happened to me,” Nielsen recalls. Schuurman says new stages in life bring up the feeling of a person not being there. “There are all these things in your life that that person won’t be there for – graduation, marriage ... having children, you know, successes.” Grief, she says, is “never over. It’s always there.” rtita-Guerrero feels that way about her loss. When she steps out of the pool at each meet, she wishes her mom was there to see her. “She just pops into my head once they say ‘take your marks,’” says Artita-Guerrero. “I kind of just wish she was in the stands. I kind of like to think that she’s still watching.” Grief is an ongoing process, and loss isn’t something students “move on” from. “I hear a lot of kids talk about, ‘There will always be a piece of my heart missing. It just won’t be there. And I can live with a piece of my heart missing, but it’s still missing,’” says Schuurman. Artita-Guerrero still thinks the topic of death shouldn’t be as taboo as it is. Her friends were one of her best resources when she was struggling, but even then, she felt like no one knew how to react to her grief. “For people that couldn’t relate, it was kind of more hard for them to talk about it, and they didn’t really know how to give you advice,” she says. Artita-Guerrero wants to be able to talk about death without people trying to change the subject or becoming awkward and hesitant about the conversation. In the meantime, she plans to maintain her own traditions to keep her mother’s spirit alive. On her mother’s birthday each year, ArtitaGuerrero writes her a letter. She goes outside, reads it to the night sky and then throws it away. To her, it’s like a catch-up phone call. “Now that I’ve kinda lived my life without my mom for a while, I can look into the future and see it,” she says. “But I wish my mom was here to see it, too.” ◆

To see the effects that losing a parent can have on students, visit grantmagazine.com/grief. February 2017

Band Together While Michail Thompson pursues a career in the music world, he gives back to the community through a mentorship program. Story and photos by Momoko Baker

ichail Thompson stands on a brightly lit stage at Mississippi Studios in North Portland. Radio Host Luke Burbank is seated on a stool to his right. Thompson’s silver trumpet shines in the spotlight as he picks up the instrument at the comedy show. Without hesitation, the then-Grant sophomore plays a few measures of the “Transformers” theme song. The room fills with the sounds of a smooth melody as Thompson’s fingers dance across the valves. When he finishes, the packed audience beyond the stage erupts in applause. “How much of that can you teach me in the next 90 seconds?”

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Burbank asks. Laughter ensues. For the next few minutes, Thompson jokingly attempts to teach the novice a song he had only learned the night before. Although part of a comedic segment, Thompson’s appearance on Live Wire Radio last year reinforced his love for music. “There is a correlation to the different ways music can affect people,” he says today. “I thought that was important and really cool to be in a different situation.” Now a junior, Thompson has been an avid trumpet player since age 7. As a second grader, he jumped at the opportunity to take lessons and immediately fell in love.

Thompson’s first mentee, Tovi Green, is a 6th grade beginning band student at Beaumont Middle School. The two meet weekly to improve skills – free of charge.

“Everybody has their own way of expressing themselves, and I feel like this is mine,” he says. “I just liked the complexity of it, and yet, it’s so simple.” Through joining numerous competitive bands in his adolescence, Thompson began to pave a path to a career as a professional. His dedication and raw talent separated him from the crowd. “Seeing him run sectionals – either Wind Ensemble or Jazz Ensemble – kind of shows just where his musical brain is at,” says Grant’s Band Director, Brian McFadden. For Thompson, musical communities like those at Grant have been the backbone to his success, and now he wants to share that experience. Earlier this year, Thompson established a mentorship program with fellow musicians at Grant for Beaumont Middle School band students. “If I can help them in any way towards their goal ... that’s what I want to do,” he says. Born April 15, 2000, Thompson lived his first three years in Portland with his parents, Jim Thompson and Katarina Svetlova, who are both professional ballet dancers. Thompson’s grandparents are opera singers, so he was exposed to performing arts from an early age. The family moved to Düsseldorf, Germany after Svetlova accepted a job offer there. Thompson attended school for four years in the new country. His parents had spoken to him in German since birth, so he was already almost fluent in the language. Fitting in wasn’t difficult. In Germany, he began piano lessons required by his school – his first emergence into the music world. Adapting to the slow-paced German lifestyle and being an only child prompted Thompson to learn how to entertain himself. “I feel that ... having that internal drive affected me later on in music because I didn’t need anyone else telling me what to do,” he says. After his younger brother, Torsten, was born in 2007, the family moved back to the United States. Thompson, at his parents’ urging, took a year of ballet lessons at the Oregon Ballet Theater. Despite Thompson attending more than 75 of his parents’ shows and performing in his own, his heart was in music. “He didn’t really take to dance. We thought with two dancers, you know, we’d have a dancer in tow,” his mother says. Instead, Thompson was attracted to the pit orchestra below

the stage. “It was just so clear and brilliant, while having such powerful control,” he recalls. He immediately knew that he wanted to imitate that sound. When he got to choose a prop for his part in a party scene of “The Nutcracker,” Thompson instinctively chose the trumpet. Though the cheap, plastic, mini-trumpet was nothing like a real one, it established an interest in the young Thompson. Svetlova remembers thinking, “What? Trumpet? It’s like the noisy thing in the orchestra pit? Why do you want to play the trumpet?” But Thompson was persistent, and his family looked into lessons for him. For the Christmas of 2007, Thompson was gifted a cornet, which is virtually identical to a trumpet, from his parents. “That’s what I worked on,” he says. “From that moment, I knew that that’s what I wanted to do.” He struggled with the instrument initially but refused to give up. “It was just a piece of metal that sounded really bad at first,” he says. “But I kept doing it just because it was that way to express myself, and I was having fun.” Thompson made the switch to trumpet in fourth grade, around the time his sister, Alexandra, was born, and began to improve rapidly. A year later, he earned a spot in the Portland Youth Wind Ensemble, a branch of the Portland Youth Philharmonic. Joining the prestigious youth orchestra as an elementary school student is a rarity. The philharmonic had a mentor program and Tree Palmedo, a former Lincoln High School student, helped guide Thompson through his first years in the orchestra. Palmedo, who is now finishing his master’s degree at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston, Mass., remembers Thompson’s unique musical ability. “Of the people I was able to teach back when I was in high school, he was definitely one of the most gifted and dedicated musicians,” says Palmedo. Thompson looked up to his mentor. “He gave me an image that I could look forward to – this is what I could become if I work hard and follow this dream,” he says. As a student at Beaumont Middle School, Thompson joined the competitive Ambassadors Band and created his own combo group with his friends. He remained the principal trumpet player all three years of middle school. Beaumont was where Thompson realized that trumpet was his calling. “I had already figured out what I wanted to do, what I was interested in. Everybody else was still looking,” he says. He surrounded himself with friends who shared his passions and spent his time practicing with them. Cynthia Plank, the Beaumont band director, worked with Thompson for six years before he entered high school. “Michail has a steady determination that is balanced by a sensitive ear and an open-minded approach to instruction,” she says of his talent. “Many other students have one of these qualities, but it is amazing to see them all in one player.” But despite his success, Thompson found it hard to be a band student in middle school. “I just had to walk through the school with a music stand, and I felt like I was being judged just for being a musician,” he says. “There’s like the classic band nerd, you get put in a category when you’re in band.” Regardless, Thompson persisted. He recalls dedicating extra hours each day at home to practicing the trumpet. At school and in the youth philharmonic, Thompson was often February 2017

put in a teaching role. “Because he was so successful at such an not cool I guess,” says Palmedo. “Having someone that’s closer to early age, I think it was easy for others to be a little envious. But your age but is really invested in what they’re doing and passionate his kind nature and obvious talent made it hard for anyone to see about it has sort of a … window into what a person in high school him as anything other than an inspiration,” remembers Plank. or middle school could be interested in, in music.” And as a freshman at Grant, Thompson was asked to become a The mentorship program is free, and Thompson wants to be mentor himself. He immediately agreed. able to provide a unique opportunity for disadvantaged young “It’s a great feeling that you can walk away at the end of a lesson musicians. saying, ‘I made a difference,’” he says. “The best experience is “I think it opens up a lot of doors for students who couldn’t when you tell them to practice something, and they come back, afford them ... there’s a lot of people in this particular neighborhood and it’s been practiced, because that means that they value your that have the benefit of having money to pay for lessons,” says opinion and respect you as a musician.” McFadden, who has been helping Thompson get the program Carolyn Talarr, the community programs director at the youth running. philharmonic, emphasizes the benefits for both students involved On a recent Wednesday afternoon, Thompson and Beaumont with the program. “It’s a win-win because as mentees, young sixth grader Tovi Green sit side by side in the small space above musicians get to test the water of serious engagement with the Grant band room. After thumbing through the mentee’s music instrumental music without committing to a major recurring book, Thompson stops on a page and sets the book on the music expense,” she says. “And as mentors, more accomplished stand. The two play a duet arrangement of the “Imperial March” musicians get their teaching experience in a supportive, low-stress from Star Wars, and the metallic sound of the instruments fills the atmosphere.” cramped room. While Thompson continues to play in the Portland Youth Green is Thompson’s first pupil under the new program. The Philharmonic as lead trumpet, Grant band has assumed a significant middle schooler found out about the program through an email role in his life. “Music, more than a lot of things, is a community sent out by Plank to Beaumont families. Green, who just started ... people talk a lot about ‘band family,’ and I feel like that’s a great playing the trumpet in fall of 2016, is eager to learn more. thing at Grant,” he says. Thompson remains patient. When something needs to be His freshman year, Thompson became the principal chair in improved, he offers words of encouragement and shows Green the Wind Ensemble and played first chair parts in Jazz Ensemble, correct method. And he doesn’t just focus on the notes. He checks which he joined halfway through the year. This year, he was Green’s posture and breathing, letting him know it can affect the elected band council president. way things sound. “There’s a work ethic and dedication in him that isn’t necessarily Green says that getting help makes a difference in his playing. found in every single high schooler. He has a focus level that you The mentor program was something he was looking forward to. “I would see in a college music major,” says McFadden. “That’s kind was excited,” he says. “And yeah, a little nervous, too.” of a rare thing to find in a student who is 16 years old.” Thompson sees this as coming full circle. “Knowing that (having Thompson takes advantage of breaks in his demanding schedule a mentor) affected me in such an important way, if I can give that to fit in additional practice. He dedicates a few lunches a week to other kids, that’s what life is about – sharing information to the to practicing his instrument in the band room. “I feel like you next generation,” he says. ◆ should be dedicated to your dream 100 percent. That’s the only way you’re going to get there,” says Thompson. Thompson’s dedication expands past self-improvement. He sees it as his responsibility to strengthen the band program’s future generations. To make his mark, Thompson decided to establish a mentorship program between band students at Grant and Beaumont. His goal is to give students a role model to look up to. “I just wanted to help people be more inspired,” he says. Thompson approached McFadden with the idea and formed a group of 18 mentors to kick-start the program. As volunteers, Grant students help expose middle schoolers unable to afford professional lessons to a higher level of music. It also gets young musicians eager to become members of the Grant band community. “You sort of see a lot of your teachers Thompson has gigs at various venues with his jazz combo group, AJAM, including as authority figures, or inaccessible, or performances at the famous Jimmy Mak’s jazz club.

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Amelia Haindl passes to a teammate during an unofficial practice for Grant’s spring lacrosse team.

The Fight for Control What determination has done for one Grant lacrosse player in her fight against epilepsy. Story by Ella Weeks • Photos by Toli Tate A team of sophomore girls clad in brightly colored T-shirts and shorts dart across the Lakeridge High School field. It’s late November and below 40 degrees. Rain falls swiftly onto the turf, dripping down the players’ lacrosse sticks. Amelia Haindl stands between two goalposts. Her jersey, padded shorts, tights, shin guards and cleats are all black – only her helmet is bright white, marked with “GHS.” She is the only Grant player on the Lacrosse Northwest Rippers 2019 team, and as goalie, she stands out as the leader and director of play. Before each drill at the weekly Wednesday night practice, she hits her stick against the posts of her cage, preparing for an onslaught of shots before lunging to deflect each one. To Haindl, 15, danger is part of the game. “Whatever it takes to block it, even if you get hurt,” she says. Little known to most players on her team, Haindl battles more than shots hurled at her as a goalie. Diagnosed at age 6, Haindl has epilepsy, a neurological disorder characterized by abnormal electrical activity in the brain. The condition causes seizures that can happen at any time. The unpredictability of epilepsy, in addition to the side effects and developmental problems that seizure medications can cause, can prevent some epileptics from playing sports. For Haindl, the medications take a toll. They have altered her personality, affected her ability to read and sometimes made her sick.

“It was hard,” she says. “Sometimes I felt like I would never get past it, like it would stay like that forever.” But from third through fifth grade, a time when her seizures stopped, Haindl was able to find her passion: lacrosse. And in her freshman year, she made Grant’s varsity team and the competitive Rippers program. After Haindl’s seizures picked back up and her health reached its lowest point, she came close to quitting lacrosse. She thought: “I don’t want to be like this for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be this person who has seizures every week … Why can’t it just go away?” But the difficulty of living with epilepsy hasn’t stopped her. She fights against seizures and side effects in the same way she fights back against 30 mph shots. That’s the Haindl her parents, teammates, coaches and friends know: determined and unshaken. “I think Amelia is tough in just how she accepts it and moves along,” says Amelia Haindl’s mother, Betsy Haindl. Haindl was born on May 30, 2001 in Guangzhou, China. Less than a year later, she and her younger sister were adopted by Betsy and Nick Haindl of Northeast Portland. Betsy Haindl remembers her daughter as intense, active and inquisitive when she was young. She was the type to put anything into her mouth, even glass, and to go down the Alpine slides on Mt. Hood over and over, even with skinned arms and legs. It didn’t take long for Haindl’s parents and friends to deem her tough. “One of the things I remember about her is that she rarely February 2017

would fall,” says Betsy Haindl. “She would run, and she would stumble, and she would be down practically horizontal and be able to pull herself up.” It was in first grade at Laurelhurst School when her world flipped upside down. Haindl’s parents had noticed their daughter shudder in her sleep a handful of times and figured she was having “night terrors.” Then she shuddered in the middle of the day during a violin lesson, which turned into a frequent occurrence. When it happened repeatedly over a half hour, her parents took her to the emergency room. Haindl was hooked up to monitors, and doctors did a CAT scan of her brain, along with a host of other procedures. In a span of two weeks, she spent eight nights at the hospital because the doctors couldn’t stop her seizures. “I was totally scared because I didn’t know anything about epilepsy,” says Betsy Haindl. She remembers watching her daughter get sicker in front of her, constantly convulsing and having bad reactions to medicines. “We had two weeks of just chaos,” her mom recalls. For Haindl, the chaos was a blur. “It wasn’t really something I understood,” she says. Epilepsy is treated with a standard set of medications, and the results of each medication vary from person to person. The dose of a given medicine is increased in an attempt to stop seizures until side effects of the medicine become unbearable. If they do, the medicine is weaned off slowly until the next one can be added. “You get a medication that helps with the seizures, and you’re all excited, but then you have these horrible side effects that you’re just trying to battle through … We went through a lot to finally get to a good place,” Betsy Haindl recalls. Haindl left the hospital with two longterm medications and a sense of what she would be coping with for the rest of her life. For the next year or so, she had seizures regularly. Luckily for Haindl, her epilepsy - Emily is mild compared to other types of the disorder. “My body tenses up, and it’s kind of like I’m getting a chill,” she says. “It’s not like I’m totally out of it. I know what’s going on around me.” Betsy Haindl knows it could’ve been worse for her daughter. “They’re brief, they’re a minor interruption. She is very lucky in that respect,” she says. In second grade, Haindl was prescribed a medication called Topamax that affected the language center of her brain, making reading difficult and lowering her energy level. The family worried that she would fall behind in school. The abnormality of Haindl’s drowsiness indicated that something was wrong, so doctors switched Haindl to a drug called Lamictal a year later. uddenly, life returned to normal. Her seizures stopped and so did the side effects from Topamax. “It brought her back to where she was before it all started,” says Betsy Haindl. Haindl kept her epilepsy a secret beyond close friends, fearing that her classmates wouldn’t understand. “If there’s students that makes fun of it … it’s gonna make me feel uncomfortable,” she says. “It’s gonna make me feel like they don’t know what kind of stuff people who have epilepsy go through.” With her newfound energy and absence of seizures, Haindl

looked at sports in a brighter light and felt comfortable playing them. She picked up basketball and played on a co-ed team for two years and she played soccer through middle school. Sports provided her with a release. “It takes my mind off of the stress. It just calms me down,” she says. In fifth grade, a friend’s dad approached Haindl about joining an Eastside Portland Lacrosse team that he was coaching. Haindl, not knowing much about the sport, figured she would join for the sake of supporting her friend. It was early in the season during a game against a Lake Oswego team when Haindl was first positioned as goalie. She remembers having difficulty braving each shot. “I had a rough game the first half, but I liked it,” she says. “So I volunteered to play the second half. And I just kept volunteering and volunteering to play. So they finally had a permanent goalie.” By the end of the game, Haindl knew she had found her place. “I don’t know why I like it,” she admits. “A lot of people are like, ‘I can’t play goalie, I’d be too afraid to get in the goal’... I love it.” Throughout middle school, Haindl continued to play goalie. “All the sudden, this light turned on,” recalls Betsy Haindl. “It became the only thing she could talk about, think about.” Haindl went to every lacrosse clinic, or singular training, she could, regardless of how far away it was or how few people she would know there. Her friends could tell she was set on the sport. Longtime friend Emily Reeve, also a Grant sophomore, says: “I’ve been to her games, and she’s always into it … She’s focused. I call out her name, and she just doesn’t hear me.” Like many players, Haindl has battled injuries. While warming up for one eighthgrade game, she was hit in the hand by a shot, which left her thumb badly sprained. “She played the entire game crying,” remembers Betsy Haindl. “So every time she stopped a ball, she would cry. And I’m watching her play, and like, I couldn’t…” Reeve Her voice trails off, thinking of the pain her daughter must have been in. But to Haindl, it was just part of the game. “I was just telling myself, ‘You can do this.’ … It made me keep going.” Then she took a summer trip to Costa Rica with members of her eighth grade Spanish class. That’s when her medication stopped working. The five-plus years of having her seizures under control ended. The first one hit at night when she was in the home of her host family, sitting next to Reeve. They were watching a YouTube video when Reeve realized something was wrong. “She wouldn’t respond, and also, she would be kind of frozen and shaking just a little bit,” Reeve recalls. Again, doctors had to change her medication, and her seizures were reduced to once every month or two. The same year, she was invited to play in three tournaments for the Rippers, the club team that travels to several states for tournaments throughout the Juneto-January season. In February 2016, she began playing lacrosse as goalie for Grant’s girl’s varsity team, and her toughness continued to shine through. Five minutes into one particular game, she sprained her ankle. Her parents assumed she would be out for the rest of

“I’ve been to her games, and she’s always into it … She’s focused. I call out her name, and she just doesn’t hear me.”

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Haindl sits in her Northeast Portland home on a Tuesday in November – a time when she suffered from migraines and blurry vision due to epilepsy medication.

the season – sprained ankles usually take six weeks to heal. But Haindl let just a few days pass before putting down her crutches to play again. The same month, she decided to try out as goalie for the Rippers. She made the 2019 girls team and played in her first official team tournament in Denver soon after. Players from opposing teams approached Haindl after games to tell her she was one of the best goalies they had ever seen. It was eye-opening for her, and her confidence grew. Ripper teammates Ellie King and Kiara O’Keefe, both sophomores at Clackamas High School, know Haindl’s skill. “This is the first year I’ve known her,” says King, “She’s a really strong player – a confident player.” O’Keefe agrees, calling her ambitious and not afraid to lead the team. “I feel like if I got hit the way she got hit, I would never play again,” she adds. Entering her sophomore year, things were looking up for Haindl. Although she knew how unpredictable the future would be with epilepsy, her attitude remained indifferent. “I don’t really think about it much, I just think about living,” she says. She continued to play with her team, occasionally missing school for tournaments. Seizures were infrequent, and side effects were manageable. But that all changed in November 2016 – a time that she and her family describe as the hardest in many years. It was then that she almost lost her ability to tough things out. Haindl missed several practices due to migraines and vision so blurry that she was afraid she would hit someone with the ball – both side effects from medication. “It upset me because I wasn’t able to get practice in, and I really wanted to go,” she says.

She sometimes told her coaches she could play when really she wasn’t able to. Her health concerns became too serious to be certain about a future in lacrosse, and it seemed she might have to stop doing the sport she held so dear. But Haindl pushed through to the end of the season, and things started looking up. In December, her medication dosage was ramped up to the proper level, leaving her seizure- and side-effectfree. Coach Amy Mayhugh, who is Haindl’s coach for The Rippers and is aware of Haindl’s condition, says: “She does a great job of working through it. When she does have health side effects going on in her life … a lot of times she won’t say, like, ‘Hey I’m having a problem today, I probably shouldn’t be running around.’” Instead, the coach says that Haindl has the ability and drive “to play through it and not let it get to her and the mental determination and resiliency that comes with that.” ow, Haindl knows she’ll continue with lacrosse for as long as she can. “I feel better that I know I’m in a good place, and I’m not having as many bad things happening to me. It means I can continue on,” she says. Her parents are just as gratified. “It’s been fun to watch her take this passion and to do it and enjoy it and really get a lot out of it. It’s fun to see the hard work pay off,” her mother says. “And with the epilepsy … she’s never complained about it; she’s never whined about it. It’s a part of who she is, and it’s a pain … She rolls with it. She may not even realize she does it.” For Haindl, every lacrosse game now has a purpose. “If I’m doing something active, it takes my mind off of everything,” she says. “It makes me feel good.” ◆

February 2017

Alter Egos Super heroes, anime warriors and movie characters have become a way of life for a set of young people. Story by Blu Midyett and Kana Heitzman Photos by Kana Heitzman

ira Cruz-Uribe Brown, a Grant High School sophomore, sits quietly on the 7 a.m. bus that’s taking her to her friend’s house nearby. She walks four blocks from where the bus stops and heads into a faded white house. It’s a Sunday morning, and she’s arrived extra early to start the long process of covering her entire body in white paint. In a matter of hours, she has left all remnants of herself behind. Now, she’s the Joker, complete with slicked-back green hair, a handmade black jacket and the word “damaged” written in black cursive on her forehead. Cruz-Uribe Brown’s friend, sophomore Annalisa Caso, wears a pink and blue wig and matching eye shadow to pose as her alter ego, Harley Quinn, the Joker’s villainous companion. After the two finish the final touches on their costumes, they head out into the cold January air to start filming. For these students, dressing up in costume isn’t just a childhood game or a Halloween tradition. It’s cosplay, short for costume play. The concept is straightforward: dress up as your favorite fictional character, most commonly a hero or a villain from Marvel, DC Comics or a popular anime show. But for those who commit themselves to it, cosplay holds a much deeper meaning. By studying the characters’ personalities and mimicking their physical features, you don’t just step into the role of the character. You become them. In recent years, the costume craze has been infectious across the United States with conventions – mass gatherings of cosplayers, including celebrity panels and competitions – in every major city. Cosplay now has national tournaments, its own TV show on the Syfy network and hundreds of thousands of participants nationwide. “Why we are seeing it grow so much is because ‘Avengers’ can gross $2 billion now. The most popular shows on television can star The Flash and Supergirl. That’s the world we are now in,” says Mikey Neilson, the director of Rose City Comic Con. “I think since ...‘nerd culture’ has now transitioned into pop culture, that has facilitated this gigantic growth of cosplay.” But more than just donning a costume, cosplay lets people change their personalities for the day and live in someone else’s shoes. Caso and Cruz-Uribe Brown say they have gained selfconfidence and stepped out of their once-introverted shells because of it. Together, they do photo shoots, make cosplay videos and even walk the streets of their neighborhood in costume to express themselves. It has become a part of their identity. “It’s gotten to the point where it’s my life now, and the feeling of wearing it is the best feeling,” Cruz-Uribe Brown says of her costumes. “When it’s all done and you are doing your poses ... it feels great … It’s something I will never get bored of.” Growing up, Cruz-Uribe Brown felt like an outsider. Her parents divorced when she was 3 and both started new families. Her stepfather, a U.S. Navy veteran, was often stationed across the country, and she had to move around with him. She was forced to juggle life between two houses. Throughout elementary and middle school, she didn’t participate in clubs or sports and had no community of her own. She came straight home from school everyday. Cruz-Uribe Brown stands at the top of a public staircase with a black-painted air soft gun in hand as she stares into a camera for the first shot of her cosplay music video.

February 2017

“When you say someone’s name, they have that one thing that they are known by. But I never had that. I was very bored,” she says. But in seventh grade, after her best friend showed her pictures of a cosplay convention that she had attended, Cruz-Uribe Brown was infatuated. She began spending her days after school scouring the internet for tutorials on cosplay costumes and researching cosplay celebrities. She developed her own cosplay personality – Princess Bubblegum, a character on the popular cartoon show “Adventure Time.” When she put on the green body suit and gold crown for the first time, she remembers how happy she felt.

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“(Cosplay) was just finally something I could do and make my own. It was completing,” she says. “It felt good to find something that was mine.” Wearing and obsessing over costumes brought a new light into Cruz-Uribe Brown’s life. But it wasn’t until she went to a convention in the summer of 2014 that she discovered the best part about doing cosplay. “At conventions … the more extroverted side comes out, and I am willing to socialize and talk to people that I have never met,” she says. “The atmosphere gives me a safe feeling… It’s almost like another world.” When Cruz-Uribe Brown steps on to the convention floor, she

Left: For a separate photoshoot in late January, Caso dressed in her handmade female Loki costume, a god from Norse mythology. Switching the gender of a character is a common practice in the world of cosplay.

Below: Caso starts her morning off with an extensive makeup routine that can take hours to complete, depending on the outfit.

isn’t herself anymore. It is the perfect escape from reality, and the confidence she gains is irreplaceable, she says. “I am comfortable in cosplay ... I know that whatever happens, it will be alright,” she says. “I go at everything with a different mindset. More relaxed, more comfortable, less worrying that I’m going to mess up.” Caso had a similar experience. As an introverted child during elementary and middle school, she would sit in the back of class hoping no one would notice her. Before she found cosplay, she dreaded being called on by the teacher. But at home, hopping into a Barbie or princess costume was her way of expressing herself.

“I suppose in a way, it’s like wearing a (mask). You are hiding who you are,” she says. “It’s just a different side of you … in a way there is no repercussions when you are in costume with how you are.” In fifth grade, she planned her Halloween costume four months in advance. At the time, she was an avid “Harry Potter” reader, and Bellatrix Lestrange stood out to her as the only notable female villain in the series. She went around the house, collecting bits and pieces from old costumes, searching through closets and using hair paint to get the perfect look. Later that year, she found a cosplay video while scanning through YouTube and realized she was missing out. She didn’t February 2017

make a cosplay of her own until more than a year later when a friend came over to her house. Wanting to join in, Caso threw together a costume of a Japanese vocaloid named Gumi Megpoid. The character has red, white and black designs on her face, so Caso used acrylic paint to mimic the look. The designs stuck to her face, and she had to spend hours washing them off, the paint sticking to her skin for days. But even with the bumpy start, she never slowed down after creating her first cosplay costume. She used her sewing skills, papier-mâché and a hot glue gun to create elaborate designs of colorful masks or golden horns. In her closet today, she has around 50 of her own handmade costumes. Getting into character, Caso puts a pink lollipop in her mouth – a signature aspect of Harley Quinns persona.

Cruz-Uribe Brown and Caso lay on colored sheets for the final shot of their music video. “We just like to put it out and show it to the world,” says Cruz-Uribe Brown.

When the two met early last year in an art class at Grant, they knew they had to make something of their shared passion. On top of going to conventions together, they wanted to document their numerous costumes through photo and video. They are currently working on a music video for the song “Partners in Crime” by Set It Off, in which Caso plays Harley Quinn and Cruz-Uribe Brown plays the Joker. Caso has also written scripts for 11 ‘CVs,’ or cosplay videos, that range from a full rendition of “Percy Jackson and the Olympians” to an “Avengers” themed scene. The ultimate goal? Reaching cosplay celebrity status on their YouTube channel so national conventions will fly them out to speak on panels. While they know their hopes are high, they don’t plan to stop sharing their lifestyle with the world. “Why would you make this detailed beautiful piece of art and not be like, ‘I want to show it to someone?’” says Cruz-Uribe Brown. But whether or not they make it to cosplay stardom, the two are set on doing what they love. “It’s become a part of me. Since I feel more comfortable in cosplay, I am less scared to do more things in it,” says Cruz-Uribe Brown. “Going out in public dressed like this, you are comfortable in it, so why worry about it? I am happy in this. When I go out there, why should I not be happy?” ◆ Visit grantmagazine.com/cosplay to see Cruz-Uribe Brown and Caso in action.

Pen & Ink

If You Treated An Office Job Like It Was High School Story by Sarah Hamilton • Illustrations by Julian Wyatt

Do you give extra credit?

Pssst did we have any homework? Conference Room

Can I go to the bathroom?

Hey Jenny, I was wondering if you had that report...

Sorry I’m late. Here’s a note from my mom.

What did you get for #4?

12 3

9 6

When does the final bell ring around here?

February 2017

Loud and Clear

Khiarica Rasheed used to keep to herself. Racial disparities have pushed her to speak out for those who don’t have a voice. By Ella DeMerritt

t’s lunchtime on a recent Wednesday, and the door to room 124 is ajar. Inside, members of Grant High School’s Black Student Union are hard at work planning the annual Black History Month assembly. They sit around a table, their conversation turning into a clamor. In the thick of it is senior Khiarica Rasheed, talking to her friends about a poem she’s thinking of performing for the assembly. Her voice carries through the room, confident and clear. The first thing most people notice about Rasheed, 17, is that she’s loud. Whether it’s leading “turn-up time” for school-wide pep assemblies or directing the girls varsity basketball team on the court, Rasheed’s energy is contagious. “She’s such a spark plug on the floor,” says Nina Radford, Rasheed’s close friend and teammate. As a young African-American woman, Rasheed uses her voice to bring issues of race out of the shadows. Her involvement in the Black Student Union and Grant’s Student Equity Team has helped Rasheed grow as a leader and feel more comfortable about bringing up sensitive issues. “BSU, of course, has to do a lot with race, so it has a lot to do with me,” she says, matterof-factly. “It helped me embrace the fact that I had an opinion, and I needed to use it.” Rasheed says it’s important to speak up about race “because we keep repeating cycles in our country. When we don’t talk about race, we end up in the same predicament we were in a hundred years ago.” While Rasheed has no problem with her voice being heard now, it wasn’t always this way. Rasheed was born on Aug. 12, 1999, in Norfolk, Va. When she was four months old, she and her parents, Tawana and Haneef Rasheed, moved to Portland to live closer to their relatives. When she was nearly 2, her mother gave birth to triplets Tariq, Monica and Veronica Rasheed. It wasn’t until a year later that Rasheed began speaking. Even as a baby, she was unusually quiet. Shortly after the triplets were born, Rasheed’s parents’ relationship became strained. In 2005, they separated. Rasheed, who was around 6 at the time, describes the time as hectic. “I never really knew what was going on,” she says. “When my mom and dad separated, it wasn’t like clear-cut, it was just random.” Rasheed went back and forth between their houses, but she spent the majority of her time with her mother. It wasn’t until fourth grade when Rasheed began playing basketball that she found stability. She was drawn to the roughness of the sport – she liked that people didn’t go easy on her because she was a girl. Rasheed stuck with basketball throughout elementary school. When she got to middle school at Self Enhancement Inc., she joined her first basketball team. It gave her a sense of community she’d never experienced before. Rasheed’s mother, who was one of the team’s coaches, says her

daughter was eager to improve. “She wanted to be a learner,” her mother recalls. “She’s very teachable, so she would learn it and study it and try to perfect it.” Basketball was the only community where Rasheed felt she could express herself. In the classroom, she lacked the confidence to raise her hand and talk. In seventh grade, Rasheed met Melissa Morgan, a language arts teacher now at Benson. “She had some … strength about her that you just felt when you were in her presence,” Morgan says. She encouraged Rasheed to write about personal topics like her parents’ separation. By eighth grade at SEI, Rasheed had already decided she wanted to play basketball in high school and decided to come to Grant. She made the varsity basketball team her freshman year. “I had a minor leadership role that I really didn’t take over because I was a freshman,” says Rasheed. “I didn’t really see my potential.” While Rasheed enjoyed basketball, something was off about Grant. She felt less comfortable at the majority white school than she did at SEI, a majority African-American school. “I came from a charter school, small, that was maybe 18 kids per class, and they were all black,” says Rasheed. “Coming to Grant was a whole start over.” At Grant, she also struggled with accepting herself. Unhappy with her appearance, she straightened her hair with relaxers, products that contain chemicals that relax natural curls. “It was just like a normal thing for a young black girl to do, to get (relaxers) and take away her curls,” says Rasheed. At the end of freshman year, Rasheed decided to stop. “If I wanted to change my views on my own hair and how I felt about it, then I was gonna have to make that change on my own,” she says. It was also around that time that Rasheed discovered slam poetry in her freshman English class. Her teacher, Stephanie D’Cruz, remembers that Rasheed had a gift for poetry, which she used to express her insecurities. “I think the coolest thing about Khiarica is that she has such a powerful presence, and that presence is both in her writing and her poetry and just in herself … it’s kind of an ineffable sense of presence and charisma and confidence,” says D’Cruz. Rasheed describes racism at Grant as “snake-like.” People do it behind your back, she says, but never to your face. Other times, it can come from the people closest to you. One encounter her sophomore year at a basketball tournament still lingers in her mind. Rasheed and her teammates from a statewide basketball team were sitting in their hotel rooms, listening to music. The N-word was said multiple times in one song, and one of the white girls on Rasheed’s team sang along. Rasheed immediately stopped the music and explained to the girl that she couldn’t say the word

“I have a voice that people want to hear and I feel like needs to be heard.”

-Khiarica Rasheed

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because of her race. From that moment forward, Rasheed continued to speak out, gaining the respect of her teammates. Rasheed decided she didn’t want to be a bystander anymore – she wanted to be part of the solution. In the beginning of her sophomore year, Rasheed joined Grant’s Black Student Union, a student-run group that meets weekly to discuss issues of race and take part in community outreach. Not completely comfortable in the new environment, Rasheed sat back and listened during most discussions. Then, in Rasheed’s junior year, Grant began Race Forward, a school event that brings race to the forefront of conversation. The race talks, which were organized by the administration, the staff equity team and Grant’s Student Equity Team, were school-wide discussions about race. Rasheed was involved because of her place in BSU, and she performed a poem for a video that was produced about the school. In the video, titled “A World Without Racism,” Rasheed performs an original poem about what race means to her. She says in the poem, “So someone else tell me now, where will you fit in? Will you choose to stand and say something or continue to passively disgrace others about their skin?” In her junior year, BSU adviser Karl Acker approached her about running for the vice president position. He saw that Rasheed was a strong speaker and thought she would be perfect for a leadership role in BSU. “Working with and being around Khiarica, I found her personality to be a strong one and her to be well-respected among her peers,” Acker says. “And her voice to be one that kind of carries some weight. She says things that are very, very meaningful, and she’s

direct to the point.” Though she was hesitant at first, Rasheed agreed to take on the role of vice president. “I feel like I have a voice that people want to hear and I feel like needs to be heard, and for me to make that transition (was) one of the best things I probably could have ever done,” says Rasheed. Last September, Rasheed heard the news that “A World Without Racism” was one of the finalists for the White House Student Film Festival. She and three other producers of the video raised more than $4,000 to make the trip and attended the awards ceremony in Washington, D.C. in late October. They met student filmmakers from all around the country, attended a party on the South Lawn of the White House and even took a picture with Barack Obama. The experience helped her feel more confident with her poetry. “When the feedback comes back, it’s like reassurance,” she says. “Like this is why you did it, like you wanted it to touch this many people even if you didn’t think it was (going to).” Today, it’s clear that Rasheed’s mentality has transformed from the timid, young girl she used to be. Last November, she received a full-ride scholarship to Northern Arizona University to play on their Division I women’s basketball team. She hopes to continue sparking conversations about race through Northern Arizona’s Black Student Union and by continuing to write and perform poetry. “We’re in this point in time where we’re gonna have to speak out ... and I think before I just was too nervous of what people would think of my comments,” says Rasheed. “But now it’s like, even if I have something to say, and it’s wrong, it’s better than just not saying it at all.” ◆

Rasheed, center, who has played basketball for Grant since her freshman year, received a full ride scholarship to Northern Arizona University. Photo by Ella DeMerritt

February 2017

Finding Their Truth Grant English teacher Mykhiel Deych’s road to self-discovery. Story by Sophie Hauth Photos by Momoko Baker

t’s 1995, and then-17-year-old Mykhiel Deych isn’t in school or with family. Instead, Deych is in Canada, hitchhiking through a remote, wooded area. Deych, sporting a shaved head and baggy clothes, has a knife attached to their belt and is accompanied by their dog, a golden retriever mix named Sontza. It’s a lifestyle that may sound dangerous or frightening to some, but Deych welcomes the simplicity and freedom that comes with it. No electricity. No rigid structures. Just nature and a sense of discovery and freedom. “I was a free spirit,” Deych recalls. “It was … figuring out a way to exist in society when I didn’t really believe in those values that everyone around me valued.” Deych, now 38 and an English and Writer’s Workshop teacher at Grant High School, has never been one to conform to the norm. In fact, much of Deych’s life has been spent striving for just the opposite. Part of that has to do with gender. Deych, who goes by M. Deych at Grant and uses they/them pronouns, has always viewed and experienced gender differently than the majority of mainstream society, long before transgender issues, were, as Deych puts it, “a

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thing.” While “transgender” might be the most widely known term that Deych uses to describe their gender identity, there’s also genderqueer, androgynous and “both/neither.” “My experience does feel like I’ve got multiplicity,” Deych says. “It’s a very multiplying feeling to be like, more than, or both, and neither and all of it at once. A lot of people think that gender is really binary. I don’t buy into that because I never fit into the binary in the way that people expected me to fit.” Trans issues are at the forefront of American culture now, more than ever before, sparking what The National Geographic called “a gender revolution.” Grant, for example, is taking part in the revolution – when the school undergoes a remodel project, it will have all gender-neutral bathrooms. But increased awareness hasn’t always translated to widespread acceptance. Confusion around gender identity is largely why Deych dropped out of high school to pursue an alternative path. And being a trans teacher presents challenges that can be difficult to navigate. Grant may be steadily evolving, but, like other schools in the district, it’s oftentimes lacking an understanding of the complexities of gender.

“I think we have more work to do,” says Grant Vice Principal KD Parman, who identifies as gender non-conforming. “There’s a difference between a non-discrimination policy and being in a place where it feels uncomfortable coming to work everyday.” For fear of losing their job, Deych had to be careful when it came to sharing parts of their identity in the school setting. But with a tenured contract coming up at the end of this year that stabilizes their employment status, Deych is beginning to feel more comfortable. “Certainly my first year, (the school) easily could have gotten rid of me,” says Deych. “I feel much safer to be able to just fully be myself.” Now, Deych is in their third year of teaching at Grant and uses their experiences growing up to inform their teaching. “I actually want to impact youth positively, because A: they’re the future, and B: I so seriously feel the struggle of that in life,” says Deych. Understanding Deych’s story and struggle requires stepping outside of the binary society that we have lived in for centuries and plunging into the unknown, or more aptly put: the misunderstood. Deych was born in December 1978 in Baku, Azerbaijan, to Valerie and Michael Deych, and was assigned female sex at birth. Deych has two brothers, Gera and Sasha, who are 9 and 17 years older respectively, and a sister, Vera, who is 13 years older. As a Jewish family, the Deychs suffered from discriminatory laws regulated by the Soviet Union. So, when Deych was 2, the family left and moved to Wisconsin before settling in Southfield, Mich. Growing up, the substantial age gap between Deych and their siblings coupled with Deych’s lack of connection to Azerbaijani culture created a disconnect between them and their family members. Deych, who was known by a different name back then, remembers feeling like a boy from the beginning of their life. At first, Deych explored their gender identity by trying on their dad’s clothes when their parents were gone or running around without a shirt. Deych kept their inner dilemma a secret. At home, the message was clear: anything LGBTQ+ related was not OK. Deych also always knew that they were attracted to girls, but they had to

suppress that, too, not just because of family culture’s views, but because of where they lived. “There weren’t even gay teachers out when I was growing up,” says Deych. “That wasn’t a norm. ” Vera Deych remembers not knowing about her sibling’s gender identity until much later in life. “They suppressed it very well,” she says. Later, when Deych was 10, they often pretended to be the cartoon character Mikey, a 13-year-old boy from the 1985 movie, “The Goonies.” “Because it was play, it was considered acceptable by people … and they never even thought twice about it,” Deych recalls. “But for me it was really, really, real.” Then puberty hit, which is a time that can be difficult for anyone. For Deych, who developed a body that didn’t feel like their own, it was “damaging.” “Becoming a girl in the eyes of society – and a misogynist society – all the attention was put on that,” says Deych. “It just didn’t feel like I got to own my life. It just didn’t really feel like I was the master of my world.” Deych did the “bare minimum” to “pass” as a girl. “I was never able to be a person that like wore makeup or like did the things that girls were supposed to do, really,” says Deych. In the beginning of high school, Deych maintained a 4.0 GPA. But during sophomore year, Deych remembers “imploding.” Everything – gender identity and sexuality, a cruel English teacher who targeted Deych and the general difficulties that come along with high school – compounded all at once. Most of all, says Deych, they didn’t feel like they belonged. “There was definitely some break where I stopped trusting that school was a safe place,” says Deych now. That was when Deych began skipping classes, and soon, they rarely attended school. Deych’s parents enrolled them at an alternative school for their junior year, but it only acted as a placeholder. Deych met a few other students at the school who weren’t happy there either. After only a month and a half at the school, Deych decided to leave with them. “I just convinced (my parents) that it would get horrible if they tried to force me,” says Deych now. So, at 16, Deych packed a backpack with just the essentials, hopped into a friend’s car with a few other teenagers and began a new life. The journey consisted of following Grateful Dead shows across the country. They became part of a nationwide subculture known as “Deadheads” that had formed in the 1970s. Deych, though, wasn’t a diehard fan of the Grateful Dead’s music. “It was just a gateway to being able to travel,” says Deych. By the time they reached California, Deych grew tired of following the band and decided to separate from the group. They began hitchhiking up the West Coast into Canada. “‘I wanna go as far away as possible’ was sort of the underlying feeling,” recalls Deych. Deych eventually made it to Haida Gwaii, a set of sparselypopulated islands off the coast of British Columbia. There, Deych picked mushrooms to make money and lived on the beach in a wigwam and later a converted school bus. Deych, who had sparse contact with family at this point, remembers spending some days writing poetry. After a few years of traveling, Deych settled in Olympia, Wash. and turned to social activism. That included volunteering at an organization that sent books to prisoners and advocating for welfare rights. February 2017

Deych also began attending Evergreen State College. By then, Deych was still largely suppressing their sexuality and gender identity because of a lack of role models. It was at Evergreen that Deych first met a man who was a professional mariner. They later got married and had a daughter, Zorya Madrone. Two years later, they had a son, Malachi Madrone, who goes by the nickname Hobbit. “I think there was something in my subconscious that thought that having a baby would make it all go away or something,” says Deych. “I was just like, “OK, I’m going to try doing this thing that everyone says I am. I’m gonna have kids, and that’s gonna make me a girl.” It didn’t quite work out that way. Deych remembers that after having their first child, questions about their gender identity resurfaced. Around the same time, awareness around transgender issues began emerging within Deych’s community. Other people they knew began changing their pronouns and coming out as trans. “I was like, ‘Oh my god, hallelujah. This isn’t something weird,” says Deych. “It was incorporating this sense of discovery and relief and acceptance.” From the time their kids were born, Deych also did their best to separate them from the traps of the gender binary system. Deych let Zorya and Hobbit Madrone wear their hair how they wanted, regardless of gender, and had conversations with them about the ways in which Deych experienced gender. “Noticing how people dealt with my kids and their gender, too, was also impactful,” Deych says now. “Not just gender about me personally, but also gender as a construct. When people would be like, ‘Boy or girl?’ I’d be like, ‘It’s a baby.’” Their husband’s job meant he could rarely stay home with the kids, so Deych was the primary caregiver. Money was tight and the family struggled to stay afloat. Things began falling apart in 2004. Deych and their husband bought a boat to fix up and eventually live on, but the family had nowhere to live in the meantime. They were left to set up camp in the woods, living in a tent along with a tarp-covered structure for cooking meals. By fall, when temperatures dropped and the rains came, the lifestyle was no cakewalk. Deych had had enough, and the couple separated. Deych and the children headed back to Olympia. Later, Deych received a bachelor’s degree at Evergreen. In 2008, Deych decided to go back to school at Columbia College in Chicago in order to pursue writing at a more serious -Mykhiel level. “Up until that point ... I felt like I didn’t have a lot of choices,” says Deych. “I wanted to pursue my dreams.” Deych was dating women and incorporating their sexuality into conversations with friends. Upon moving to Chicago, Deych decided to start going by the name Mykhiel, a version of their father’s name, and switch to they/them pronouns. “I don’t feel like language always has to verify your experience. It’s really nice when it can,” says Deych. “But then when I started thinking about ‘they’ pronouns, that felt really right.” Bethany Hays, a friend of Deych who first met them in Olympia, recalls noticing how Deych underwent a change. “I do really see

that they have been so much happier in their life, I think, and more content since they’ve made these changes that took a lot of courage,” says Hays. At Columbia College, Deych received a Master’s in Creative Writing while working at the school’s Queer Resource Center and teaching several freshmen classes. In 2010, Deych moved to Portland so their kids could be closer to their dad’s side of the family. In Portland, Deych had a difficult time finding stable work. They bounced around at a few positions, such as landscaping and working as an outdoor educator for Trackers, while applying to teaching positions in the Portland area. When nothing was sustainable, Deych decided to go back to school at Lewis & Clark College in 2013 and get a third degree, this time, for a teaching license. The program requires participants to student-teach during the second part of the year. Deych landed at Grant. They student taught in Therese Cooper’s “Words of Warfare” classes, along with Mary Rodeback’s freshmen English and Writer’s Workshop classes. Cooper played a part in making sure Deych was hired on as a full-time English and Writer’s Workshop teacher when their student-teaching stint ended. “They just seem to have this natural ability,” says Cooper. Landing the job at Grant marked the first time Deych would be financially stable on their own. The new job also was when Deych decided they were ready to go through with a form of gender affirmation surgery – the removal of breasts, known as top surgery. “I couldn’t take one more day,” says Deych. “I didn’t want to start at Grant not being my full self.” Top surgery is expensive, and Deych paid for it out of pocket. To raise money, Deych published and sold a collection of poetry and essays they had compiled over the years called “Both/Neither.” They set up a mini-restaurant in their backyard for family and friends and read from the book. The event helped Deych reach their goal, and getting the surgery was life-changing for Deych in the best way possible. “‘Why didn’t I do this earlier? Why didn’t I get more of my life like this?’” Deych remembers thinking. “I just felt more myself than I’d ever felt before.” Deych Zorya Madrone, now 16, also remembers noticing a change in her mom. “I think the surgery was really important,” she says. “I just feel like it was really important to them, and it just makes sense.” Once Deych became a teacher, they settled into the job and were asked to step in as the Queer Straight Alliance adviser after a year. Deych had a hurdles to overcome as a teacher with a genderneutral name. Deych remembers worrying about getting fired if a parent found out about their identity. “It’s always something to think about,” Deych says. “It’s definitely always kind of in the back of my mind, like how people will react to me. Will I get in

“I didn’t want to start at Grant not being my full self.”

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Deych lives with their sister, parents and two children. Deych still speaks Russian – their first language – at home with their family members.

trouble for being myself?” They developed a go-to phrase in response to students who asked about their name: “It just suits me better.” School Psychologist Rebecca Dorn, who identifies as queer and is a friend of Deych’s, agrees that navigating sexual or gender identity can be a challenge when working at a school. “It’s more of a stress of secrecy,” says Dorn. “I think when you are visibly who you are, there’s a constant stress of parents making a stink.” Regardless, students who know Deych well appreciate their presence in the school. Freshman Hailey Collett met Deych at a Gay Straight Alliance summit in middle school and is now in Deych’s English and Writer’s Workshop classes. “It’s one thing to have a lot of students who are trans, but it’s really cool to have a teacher who’s fluid with their gender,” says Collett, who identifies as transgender. “It really tells kids it’s OK.” Deych hopes Grant will do more to support trans students and those who identify as LGBTQ+ in the future. Deych is working on organizing a staff training set for late February during which the QSA will meet with staff to discuss LGBTQ+ issues. “We haven’t done a straight-up, focused, professional development time where all we’re doing is dealing with LGBTQ issues,” says Deych. Deych also says that a mutual understanding at the staff level is key. “There are definitely some holdouts in the staff,” says Deych. “You can’t learn something from somebody that’s like, ‘I don’t see

you. You’re not there.’ It’s like, forget it, now you’ve essentially made it so that that kid can’t learn.” Deych, who is now in a new relationship, hopes to revisit their roots by someday traveling to Azerbaijan. But Deych has to be careful for their safety if they were to make the trip. There is a lack of protections on the LGBTQ+ community in the country. “They do not like my kind over there,” says Deych, “which is sad for me. I really want to go, but it would be difficult.” On a recent lunch period at Grant, a large number of students pack into Deych’s classroom for the weekly QSA meeting, filling every seat. There’s a round of introductions during which everyone states their name and pronouns, including Deych, before launching into a discussion that centers on recent protests against Donald Trump. Deych helps facilitate and shares a few thoughts from time to time. As lunch comes to an end, Deych poses a question to the group: “So, how does all this affect QSA?” they ask. “Do you all feel like you want something different from QSA?” A student sitting atop a desk pipes up: “Honestly, I’m just glad to have this space where we can come together,” the student says. “Yeah, that’s not going away,” says Deych. Deych’s own journey is still evolving. But now, as they finish their third year of teaching, they’ve reached a point of selfacceptance and stability. “I don’t need other people to verify or validate my gender identity anymore,” says Deych. “It’s very much a process of learning to love yourself and deciding to tell everyone else to shut the F up.” ◆ February 2017

The Alumni Profile

A Life Derailed

Grant alumnus Karen Batts was a beloved member of the Grant community. Last month, she died homeless on the streets.

By Callie Quinn-Ward

t’s a Saturday night in 1981. Disco music blasts through the speakers at Mr. D’s under-21 nightclub in downtown Portland. Then-17-year-old Karen Batts grabs a soda at the bar and heads upstairs. A Grant High School junior at the time, she makes her way through the dance floor full of sweaty teenagers, flashing a smile to a group of friends from school. Feeling the music vibrating through the floor, Batts joins a group doing “the Hustle,” a popular line dance. She steps and turns to the beat, joyfully swinging her arms and singing along to a Bee Gees song. Batts and her older brother, Alan, visited the nightclub frequently as teens. “Karen was very outgoing,” he says. “She loved the social part of it. She would do a lot of talking and mingling.” Batts, who graduated from Grant in 1982, was well known throughout the community. Involved in cheerleading, an honor student and a member of the Rose Festival Court, Batts was liked and even envied by classmates. Most people assumed she had a bright future ahead of her. “She was just a fun, loving, always-smiling person,” says Michael Goulet, a former friend and Grant classmate. “Everybody loved Karen. Not one person could say a bad thing about her.” But her picture-perfect life soon slipped away. After high school, Batts struggled with addiction issues and mental illness, eventually being diagnosed with schizophrenia. She lived with the illness for decades. It was the only aspect of her life that stayed constant. When Batts stopped taking her medication, things fell apart. She was evicted from her apartment last fall and forced onto the streets with nothing but a suitcase. Less than four months later, Batts was found dead in a parking garage. The 52-year old succumbed to hypothermia during a spell of below-freezing temperatures in early January. News of her death made headlines, shocked former friends and prompted outrage from concerned citizens. Karen Lee Batts was born on Aug. 28, 1964, to parents Elizabeth and Jesse Batts in Heidelberg, Germany. Her father was in the U.S. Army and was stationed in the barracks, where Batts spent the firsts few years of her life. Elizabeth, Alan and Karen Batts moved to Northeast Portland when Karen was 6. With their father still stationed overseas, Alan Batts was careful to watch out for his sister. He recalls days spent with her holed up in their house playing board games or swimming at the Grant pool. “She was always happy and always smiling, always energetic, always playing and riding her bicycle,” says Elizabeth Batts. In high school, Batts balanced a busy schedule. She participated in a church youth group, was a member of the rally squad and even part of the Rose Festival Court her senior year. Classmates say Batts was “part of the popular crowd” and active in many social circles. “She was extremely outgoing. She was vivacious. She was bubbly,” says Wendy Phinney-Schuman, a high school friend. Despite her seemingly happy teenage years, Elizabeth Batts

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Photo Courtesy of the Batts Family As a high school student, Karen Batts jumped on opportunities to be involved in the Grant community. She was a member of Black Student Union, JV Rally Squad and the Rose Festival Court.

noticed signs of bulimia while Batts was in high school, but she didn’t connect it to a mental illness and didn’t think her daughter needed serious help. Graduating from Grant with honors in 1982, Batts headed to Fisk University in Tennessee with hopes of pursuing a career in dentistry. But in college, her eating disorder worsened. Elizabeth Batts sensed something was wrong. “I would try to call her, and she was never there where she was supposed to be,” her mother recalls. “Nobody knew where she was at, so that sort of rang a bell.” Struggling to make enough money to pay for her tuition, Batts returned home to Portland after a year at Fisk. She worked various jobs in retail and insurance while taking classes at Portland State University. She moved into her own apartment and was able to support herself. But when she began saying strange things over the intercom system at her work and then stopped showing up to her job, her mother suspected she was struggling with alcoholism. When problems worsened, Batts checked herself into a rehabilitation center, but she was unable to complete her treatment because it was too expensive.

Batts’ charm began slipping away as her mental illness progressed. During much of her 30s and 40s, she had trouble holding down a job and constantly moved around. She cut off relationships with friends. Her family noticed odd behaviors emerging. One day, Batts believed the sprinkler system at her apartment building was recording her. And during a MAX light rail ride, she believed everyone was watching her. Phinney-Schuman recalls running into her at a Fred Meyer store. “I tried to catch up as much as possible, but she didn’t seem like herself. It was awful,” she says. “She had a piece of luggage with her, and I knew something was really wrong at that point.” In December 2003, she was found passed out in downtown Portland from alcohol poisoning and was taken to the emergency room of Legacy Good Samaritan Medical Center. She later was transferred to the inpatient psychiatric care unit. After a mental health court hearing, she was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a year-long stay. There, Batts was diagnosed with schizophrenia. “The hospitalization stabilized her,” says Alan Batts. “They really looked after her. She had nutritious meals. She got her medications. She was getting that therapy that she needed.” Life for Batts stayed stable when she moved from a halfway house into a new apartment complex owned by Northwest Housing Alternatives in 2007. Staff at her building described her as a “model tenant.” But several years later, Batts stopped taking her medication. She quickly lost weight and started drinking again. Alan Batts recalls her putting her fingers in her ears as she walked down the street, telling him she was hearing voices. Staff at her apartment building took note of Batts’ mental deterioration. “About a year ago, (her) behavior began to change,” says Martha McLennan, the executive director of Northwest Housing Alternatives. “After about six months of damage to the property, threats of danger to management and other residents and disruptions at the property at the point where she stopped paying rent, they began moving that forward as an eviction process.” The family called often, but Batts rarely answered. “We couldn’t get to her,” recalls Elizabeth Batts. Eventually her phone line was disconnected. They wrote letters to her and never received any replies. Alan Batts visited her building, but Batts refused to let him in. In desperation, he called the Multnomah County Mental Health Crisis Line and said that his sister needed to be hospitalized, only to hear that they were unable to help Batts without her permission. Last summer, Batts informed her brother she had received an eviction notice. The Batts family felt helpless. “I tried to get her into the hospital, but nobody would do that. I’m not a hospital, how can I provide the medications that she needs? I’m not a social worker, so how can I treat what ails her?” says Alan Batts. Batts’ social worker informed her family that she had left with just a suitcase to live on the streets in October 2016. With no way of contacting her now-homeless daughter, Elizabeth Batts became frustrated. “I was angry. Nobody was talking to us. Nobody told us anything. They just left us out in the cold,” she says. “They kicked her out. They just dismissed us all together.” Police records reveal Batts was found on Nov. 3 standing barefoot and bruised on the intersection of Broadway and Burnside downtown, drinking from hand sanitizer bottles. She was taken

to Legacy Good Samaritan and placed on mental health hold but later released. A month later on the night of Jan. 7, 2017, temperatures dipped into the low 20s. Batts was reported to be taking off her clothes – a common symptom of hypothermia – on the second floor of a parking garage. By the time police arrived, Batts had died from the cold. The next day, a medical examiner from Multnomah Class of: 1982 County informed the Batts Work history: Food service, family of her death. Alan retail, insurance Favorite destination: “She and Elizabeth Batts were in just loved the beach … she disbelief. liked to lay out in the sun “I’m sad about the way and get a suntan. She loved she died,” says Elizabeth to walk in the sunshine. Batts. “I can just picture her She wanted T-shirts at the all alone.” gift shops and she liked the A week later, friends and caramel corn at one place in family gathered at Ross Seaside.” – Elizabeth Batts, Hollywood Chapel for mother Batts’ funeral. Attendees Childhood memory: “We reminisced with stories went camping, and we had from her past, shared the best time. We found hugs and passed their scorpions and put them in our suitcases and took them condolences on to her home. I don’t know why we did family. A heavy silence fell that we were so young, but our over the crowd as Batts’ families freaked out.” – Wendy favorite song, “Sunshine on Phinney-Schuman, high My Shoulders,” played. school friend A fund has been set up in Batts’ name at the National Alliance on Mental Illness. Many from the Grant community have taken to donating as a way of memorializing her. “I want people to remember her outgoing personality. She just loved life so much. I want them to remember her as the creative, loving person she was,” says Elizabeth Batts. Alan Batts believes his sister’s death was preventable and hopes it will make Portland prioritize efforts to support mentally ill and homeless people. “Mental health usually takes a big hit when budgets are tight,” he says. “If you’re paranoid and suffer from schizophrenia, you’re going to isolate yourself to the utmost degree. There has to be a greater effort during these winter weather crises to try to find folks who are vulnerable. In our case, we were trying to get her to a hospital, and it fell on deaf ears. Nobody could help us.” Still, Alan Batts finds comfort in knowing his sister’s lifelong battle with mental illness is over. “She’s at peace now,” he says. “She doesn’t have to struggle anymore.” While Batts’ fight may be over, her family is left grasping at the reasons behind her undoing. “When I’m going to bed, I can’t get to sleep,” says Elizabeth Batts, “I’m trying to think, ‘Why did things happen the way they did, who’s to blame, who’s responsible?’ There’s a lot of unanswered questions.” ◆ February 2017

Afterthoughts

Making Memories

A mentor steps into a young photographer’s life and offers a lesson. By Finn Hawley-Blue

Randy Cox, Feb. 24, 1953 - Jan. 2, 2017

t’s a recent first period in Grant Magazine, and I’m helping out a younger staff member brainstorm ideas for a photo story. I run through the camera basics, providing tips while the new photographer nods at the instructions. As I hold the camera in my hand, my finger resting over the shutter release button, I say: “It’s important to take a lot of photos.” Instantly, I hear the voice of Randy Cox in my head, correcting me: “We don’t take photos,” he would always say. “We make them.” Randy Cox died in early January after a seven-year battle with Stage 4 kidney cancer. He was an expert photojournalist – the most talented photographer I knew – and best friend of Grant Magazine’s adviser, Dave Austin. He was also a mentor to us magazine staffers. But the commitment he showed to us and the people around him goes far deeper. I first met Randy in 2014, the summer before my sophomore year, during a photography workshop for the magazine. Our adviser often asked Randy to share his knowledge on photography with the magazine staff, and Randy would readily be there. I remember older staff members talking about their experiences working

32 Grant Magazine

with him, and I didn’t know what to expect. I knew he had cancer, and although I had known other people with the disease, I was nervous to meet him. What would I say? When Randy walked into Dave’s backyard where we were meeting, he was wearing a baseball cap over his thin, white hair. A narrow ponytail draped down his neck, tucked into the back of a Hawaiian shirt. He carried three cameras over his shoulders. When he started to talk, I instantly felt engaged and connected. The photography staff of 11 students were all focused on him. The way he spoke was thoughtful and inquisitive. He ran through the intricacies of the camera, breaking everything down in terms we could understand. Making photographs wasn’t just pointing a camera and pressing a button, he told us. Rather, it’s about patience, light, framing and – ultimately – purpose. He ended the workshop with a signature group photo, something he always did at the end of any kind of gathering. Following his instruction, we lined up while he pieced together a makeshift tripod – a chair and his wallet to prop the camera up. When everything was set, Randy yelled “Jump!” Then, in imperfect unison, we all

leapt into the air. He only made one photo, but I knew he had captured the moment perfectly. While I didn’t know it that day, Randy would go on to help me in ways others never did. Dave often encouraged me to reach out to Randy when I needed help with a photo shoot and to develop a relationship with him. I’m not sure why, but I was reluctant to call. Maybe it was fear of not doing something well enough to impress him. I knew he’d be willing to help, yet it was intimidating knowing how many years of experience he had in contrast to my few years of seriously practicing photography. But every time I called or met with him, my anxieties disappeared. He gave me the best advice out of anyone, and he wasn’t hesitant to critique my work, either. He taught me what it truly means to be a photographer: How to be a “fly on the wall.” How to be patient and wait for the perfect photo. From the tiny details of working with cameras to broader things like how to interact with people, he always had something to offer. He told me that to make a good photo, you have to put care into it. In the digital age, we can make ten photos in a single

(Above) A photo poster created by the author, showing the influence of his mentor, Randy Cox. (Below) With Cox and Grant Magazine adviser David Austin after photographing the St. Johns Parade.

second, but Randy instilled in me that photo-making was more powerful than just a click of a button. Early on, I never understood why he cared so much about me or why he insisted I accompany him on photo opportunities, like the time we went to the St. Johns Parade to practice making photos. But as I look back, I know it’s because he had an innate kindness in his heart, and he was born to teach. With every word he spoke or question he asked, Randy made me feel like the most important person in the world, and

I know anyone who even had the chance to speak with him once would say the same thing. Despite his battle with cancer, he was always eager to help me and the magazine. Even from his hospital bed as his health was deteriorating, Randy was critiquing our work, offering edits and advice. A week before Randy died, a group of magazine staffers went to his house to do yard work, a small gesture to offer our help during a difficult time for his family. He was at home and hospice workers were coming to set up to care for him in his final days. We raked the leaves, cleaned the patio, picked up sticks and smoothed out the dirt in the side yard. I brought with me a poster of some recent photographs of the Grant Magazine editors that I’d made for Randy. In one of the photos, all 10 of us were jumping in the air, like that first picture Randy made of me and that old group. I didn’t think that he’d see it. We were getting ready to leave when his wife, Joany Carlin, opened the front door. Randy had seen me through the window and asked for me to come inside, she

said. He sat in a chair in the living room, the soft yellow glow of an incandescent light illuminating the side of the thinning features of his face. I handed him the poster. When he looked at the images, I saw a spark in him that I wasn’t expecting. He pointed out why the photos worked. He told me the composition was well done. He even gave me a few pointers for the next set of photos I’d make. Physically, he didn’t look like the Randy Cox I met back in 2014, but I knew he was still the same. I thanked him for the lessons and skills he’d taught me, and in that moment, I knew more than ever the importance of living life selflessly and to the fullest, just as Randy did. He looked up at me, and I knew it would be the last time I’d see him. As I turned to leave, he said, “Wait, come back.” He held up the poster and said, “This is great. Thank you.” ◆

Finn Hawley-Blue is an Editor-in Chief for Grant Magazine and oversees photography for the publication. February 2017

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