I grew up in New England, where the strive for culture is replaced with Wall Street-bound robots. I call Oregon my home now, and some journeys last week reminded me why.
Warned of the omnipresent dangers on Interstate 5 and scolded by the disdain in my aunt’s voice, I took my chances and rode the EmX down to Glenwood. With my pack strapped tight and teeth shining bright, I raised my right thumb while walking backwards
towards the freeway entrance.
Time-wasting is not an option under such circumstances.
My trip to Portland was supposed to be fueled by impulsive decisions and unforeseen obstacles. First there was the impulsive decision to hitchhike. Then there were the tweakers who stood in my way.
Their car sat idly nearby for twenty minutes. As the eclectic nature of Oregon’s populace sized me up with every passing vehicle, the “heshers” remained. Between their drug-wrinkled, scratch-ridden faces and the Confederate flag sticker on the bumper of their beat-up sedan, my heart started to pound. They probably put a price tag on each piece of clothing (along with every internal organ) before asking with the gnaw of a jaw, “What does your sign mean?”
I stared them straight in the face. They must have considered me blind, deaf and dumb to think I could give in. I guess such riffraff comes with the hitchin’ territory. Suddenly, I heard a shout from up the road. An industrial labor truck had pulled over.
“You headed to Portland?”
“Heck yes I am!” I shouted in relief. As I ran toward the truck, the tweakers’ car slowly pulled away.
Phew. Public transit and rideshare from here on out.
I boarded the car with Anthony, a steel worker sent down from Portland to work on Matthew Knight Arena. We hit it off immediately, ranting and raving about the ridiculousness of a multi-million dollar basketball arena being built in Oregon’s decrepit economic climate. We made our way to conversations about his adventures in the steel industry. All of my notions of industry workers were demolished with his tales of the steel work in Hawaii — where spam, eggs and surfing filled up lunch breaks.
When I asked him why he moved to Oregon, he responded, “In Hawaii, I was the minority. In Portland, individuality rules. It is pretty easy to be myself without getting lip for it.”
Oregon certainly is one of a kind. In no other state will you get hassled by a tweaker and rescued by a big-wave-ridin’ steel worker on your way to hip and funky P-town.
Speaking of which.
I was dropped off somewhere on the outskirts of Capitol Highway. Within an hour, prankster cohort John Storie swept me up. We hit up the Hopworks Urban Brewery in Southeast, where the beer flows only with the finest of organic hops. I listened in on the conversations around me made up mostly of outdoor stories, music escapades and the ideal spots to buy fake nerd clothing.
Gotta love Portland.
Between the belt of liberalism that begins with Ashland, rolls through Eugene and finishes with the pie-in-the-sky utopia of Stumptown, I really love what Oregon occupational standards entail. For unlike the East Coast, where a trip to your local bar would give you hours of domestic water-lagers and complaints about dead-end work, “labor” in Oregon holds different connotations. In the Northwest, many of us work jobs so that we can pursue our real passions. We hit the grindstone in hopes that maybe one day we can bury its grave.
Movers and shakers: that’s what we are in Oregon.
Lately the bigger picture has tightened inhibitions, and perhaps awakened the masses only to shut them up again. Despite tearing up Portland in style, my return to hungry-for-work Eugene brought me back to the reality that Oregon is not perfect. Liberalism does not always breed tolerance and universal thinking. We do have our flaws.
Nonetheless, Saturday night’s Blair Street magic showed me what happens when we work together.
The Whiteaker Block Party was a prime example of Oregon individuality. Ninkasi Brewing Company, along with the eclectic, passionate people of the Whiteaker neighborhood, threw a celebration of art, music, food and collaboration with a sustainable attitude. The Ninkasi Brewing Company itself recently completed a new tasting room made out of recycled materials. Then after giving away their product for free “on the reg” (an excellent marketing strategy), they sponsored a celebration of the real “work” we do.
The work that might not always pay the bills, but is the true work we pride ourselves on.
Spray-painted anarchist art, independent publications, bike-powered speakers next to homemade ice cream vendors — it was so uniquely Eugene.
“Made in Oregon” at its finest.
I am about to head to Argentina for three months. As I load a backpack and donate my useless crap, I am already excited to return to the Northwest. It is here in the hotbed of innovation where creativity wakes us up in the morning. It is here where free parties are thrown by local businesses.
Oregon is the “maven” of individuality: the golden child of environmentalism, open-mindedness and adherence to natural living. We pick up the college kid on the freeway entrance if it might yield a good conversation. We have guerilla jam sessions on the side of the street. We vote on policies that help those oppressed by exploitation. We brew organic beer with a lower-profit margin to sustain an unparalleled quality.
We are optimists and go-getters: a thriving breed creating today’s solutions to tomorrow’s problems. And until the dark thumb of fate slams us to the ground, we will keep on truckin’.
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