There Is Still Beauty In The World
First In Leadership Series
“Hotel Business Magazine has published my blurb about Portland’s Nines Hotel. This is the first of my articles on leadership in commerce in the COVID era”
America Is Failing
George Floyd, an African-American man, died in Powderhorn, a neighborhood south of downtown Minneapolis, Minnesota. While Floyd was handcuffed and lying face down on a city street during an arrest, Derek Chauvin, a white Minneapolis police officer, kept his knee on the right side of Floyd's neck for 8 minutes and 46 seconds; 2 minutes and 53 seconds of which occurred after Floyd became unresponsive, according to the criminal complaint filed against Chauvin
On March 13, 2020, Breonna Taylor, a 26-year-old African American woman, was fatally shot by Louisville Metro Police Department (LMPD) officers. Sergeant Jonathan Mattingly, Detective Brett Hankison, and Detective Myles Cosgrove entered her apartment in plainclothes in Louisville, Kentucky, while serving a "no-knock warrant".
On February 23, 2020,Ahmaud Marquez Arbery, an unarmed 25-year-old African-American man, was fatally shot near Brunswick in Glynn County, Georgia, while jogging on Holmes Road just before entering its intersection with Satilla Drive in the Satilla Shores neighborhood
Over 100,000 dead in a runaway pandemic
40 Million Unemployed
Demonstrations against racial injustice in American streets becoming co-opted by white supremacists resulting in looting and extreme widespread violence.
Biden's response fell flat.
On the Newshour with Judy Woodruff, Biden missed the mark last evening on the issue. He was invited not once but twice by Judy Woodruff, even coached, on how to come up with a 'plan' to address this nefarious issue of white supremacy in government and on the police forces nationwide and he struggled.
"Listen, we gotta stay on it Judy", yada yada, yada-- What does that mean Mr. Biden? A man who happens to be running for President of the United States? I think we agree what Eddie Glaude stated, is that until we install systemic change not waiting until those who are invested in a white America find themselves on the same level of ideology as we are, but beginning to put systems in place now, where those nationalist ideas have no quarter to breathe. What Biden needed to say is we need to hold police accountable, change the way police see black people, fight for fair access to education, housing etc, etc..until the ENTIRE playing field is indeed level. Real systemic change will evade us otherwise. The difference listening to Biden and Eddie Glaude (The chair of the Department of African American Studies at Princeton University and the author of 'Begin Again') was eye-opening. Yes, Eddie is an expert on the issue and a professor, however, Biden is running for president of this nation. Biden didn't sound restrained so as to frame his knowledge, he looked as though he lacked as much knowledge as the current administration's cabinet and that doesn't bode well for us. It's an absolute front running issue, he's gotta be educated on it.
It will take not just a president, but a iron cast VP, and one hell of a cabinet to take this nation on now. This nation is burning, this nation is dying, this nation is twisted up in its illnesses and dysfunction of old. One might ask if things are getting worse. Perhaps things are just getting filmed. Trump has made Americans feel now that there are those who cannot be stopped. Where many of us believe there must be some kind of evil assisting that administration, we are not a nation of Neros as Rome burns.
Americans will surprise you. That same fighting spirit was on United Airlines Flight 93 on September 11 when American citizens fought to the death to breach the cockpit and save that hijacked airliner, the lives onboard and on ground target. We need that spirit on November 3rd.
'Equal' Parts Disappointment
I took this image at artist Grace Weston's studio. We were chatting over tea about all things art, leadership and women's empowerment. She was considering bringing back to life an artist group she successfully founded and operated. This group was a think tank whose objective was to guide ideas for projects and endeavors from the lighted drawing board into realization. Like everyone, we had no idea that a few months later, a despot who seized control of the White House would become so much worse and we would be grappling with a worldwide pandemic. But here we are.
On a table of Grace's art pieces, I positioned two of them together and took an image. At the time, I'd had no idea why I chose those two symbols, at the time I didn't understand it's significance as clearly as I do now. Fast forward a few months and I am here, suddenly back at my lighted drawing board, starting from square one. Millions of Americans with their lives upended, unemployed, furloughed, stymied. A curious mega force called COVID-19 is now the author of my surreal story.
Furlough jobs could be anything, a bakery, an assisted living facility, a landscaping crew, an office temp worker. It's the attempt to position myself back in my career that I find eye-opening. Public Works, building, engineering, architecture, and municipal bureaus, like water and utility management are still considered a man's world. There are more occasions where a man is chosen over a woman.
Recently the political landscape has further complicated our plight as women in these roles. There is a subtlety in unequal treatment. Say you are a woman who answers an employment call for a construction project manager. construction project managers serve in very straight forward roles. Yes, extremely critical and require a high degree of credentials and experience, but when interviewing time rolls around, I can tell you the number of times increasing that I've had to sit through an interview taking on a decided 'differing' trajectory from the straight forward job description. Suddenly, the questioning and job description leads into 'babysitting' territory. The pay offered always lower. I'll NEVER forget the time while standing on a job site as a public works inspector that one of the older generation silver-haired crewmen, asked me how I got to where I was. “This world of inspectors don't like women much” he says shaking his head. That isn't necessarily all true, but I was stunned nonetheless. That unfortunate bias still exists.
Bottom line is, it blows to have to grapple with a global pandemic, financial crisis, and the added strain of needing to prove on so much more of an extravagant level that women can not only meet, but exceed expectations. I have seen extraordinary leadership this past two years, more than in all of my years past. An engineering company owned by a woman. A public works inspection civil municipal department headed by a woman. A woman architect leading an architecture department at a university. A water scientist, yep a woman. So, we know that it works. I just wonder when we will happen upon a day when that inalienable truth is not so vastly affected all over again, by political influence. We are facing a global pandemic. We need the strength, excellence, and fortitude of women more than ever.
I can't Imagine
Here is a little bit of trivia you may not know about me. At one point (about 2 or so years ago) I thought about a career change. So I joined the State of Oregon as a means to transfer through to CPS/DHS before we knew how bad Child Protective Services was in Oregon.
I worked at The Oregon Unemployment office. Yep the very same one that adjudicates and processes your unemployment claims every week. We worked in an uber secure badge-in building. While we were there, a super flu raged it's way through the staff, affecting and infecting everyone. It was merciless. That was the most violent flu I'd had since the 2007 flu that we thought might be H1N1 (I worked in addiction and homeless prevention back then)
I simply cannot fathom what it is like for them right now. Millions of claims. There is no way their current staff can handle it, so I'm sure they are on this super intense training curve. This is not something you can just 'train' for lightly. This is beyond complex. This requires knowledge of handling vital records, you have to know insane amounts of Oregon statutes and BOLI law. You are subjected to the worst kind of emotional trauma out there. There is nothing worse than hearing a father of four begin to cry on the phone after hearing that he ran through all of his benefits for the year, while flailing though pages and pages and resources to give to him to try to keep their family afloat. There is nothing worse than seeing some savy mo-fo defraud the system, you know damn well he's working under the table in construction but continues to claim for max benefits. You think about that poor father of four. The only thing that kept me sane was a sassy, quiet, intellect named Heather. She became my best friend there and is still my tribe now. We survived by quietly trolling the waves of ridiculousness that surrounded us each day and imagining that the truly poor families that left us heartbroken would one day become the titans of their fields. She nicknamed me 'trouble'.
As COVID-19 begins to break down and carve out a new reality for us, I hear the dire news segments and I read the articles about the massive unemployment that has befallen our nation. I hear hundreds of worried petitions from friends online about their fear, their inability to get through to the OED offices. I attempt to wrap my head around the other side of it. I cannot even begin to imagine what it must be like for the OED now. I try to envision and make sense of the chaos I know that ensuing there now. I wonder about the recovery time it will take to stabilize this bureau as well. I’ve been thinking quite a lot about recovery time. I just can’t imagine.
Tea of Tranquility
“As everything hangs in the balance, we look for comfort”
Today marks the end of week four. Four weeks of the highest intensity, four weeks of everything hanging as high up in the air as possible. Hanging in tenuous balance. Four weeks of learning what it is truly like to be powerless. For the last three and a half years my life had taken on a strange position. It was a position of firsts. I experienced a series of events that I was not in a position to control. It was the first time in my own life that I experienced this type of helplessness, this powerlessness. I wonder, really wonder if it was training ground for dealing with this Pandemic.
Last evening, among all else that I am made to witness here, that we are made to endure, I witnessed a violent accident of a young kid speeding down Pac Hwy with another driver (racing), he lost control of his vehicle and hit the power pole serving our neighborhood. We lost power for the evening. I drove home from the epicenter of the accident to a darkened house. I lit a candle, gave up the ghost and went to bed. This morning, I realize that four weeks of intensity has it’s bearings on a human. Yes, I run during the day to brush off excess anxiety, I take my vitamins, I get sleep, but these old time remedies are proving to be a small gesture in the crested wave of the most powerful intensity I’ve ever felt in my life. I dig out my old Tea of Tranquility recipe. I am hoping against hope that this day truly marks the beginning of making all things new. Begin Again
إبدأ مجددا
The Mask
My best friend Rio Wrenn, a high fashion couture designer and owner R.A.W Textiles, taught me how to make the filter mask. Fitting around all of the lower face and leaving an entry at the bottom for an N95 Respirator or filter, it seems to be a really good option in design and durability. All of us mask makers are trying to find ways to reduce face marks or behind the ear discomfort for the medical professional who wears them for hours. Yesterday at Main Street Sewing where I took my sewing machine for maintenance a fellow mask maker was saying that she’s come up with a head band fascinator that the masks clips to instead of looping behind the ear. It’s been interesting to see the different designs and ideas out there.
cotour
New Reality
This is it, this is our new reality now isn’t it?
My reality is currently balancing interviewing, furlough work search, assisting elderly, working on a manuscript, navigating a pandemic landscape, sewing masks for loved ones, middle east social analyst studies, Aramaic and Arabic language studies.
There is a deep pull that I have been feeling lately that won’t leave my blood. A year ago, if you told me this is what I’d be doing, I’d look at you and tell you to lower your microdose. It’s such a strange thing to feel something so heavy and strong at a time of such great uncertainty. I’m seeing this in so many of my creative friends. I am looking forward to the post-pandemic. I’m looking forward, not to the financial and economic hellscape, but to the birth of a people who’ve allowed this time to sculpt them into something profound. I’m looking forward to the fruits of a people brave enough to peel away the layers of the old way of living, thinking, socializing and impacting this earth, letting go of outdated idealisms, breaking forth some self-contained bubbles and refusing to become a by-product of a universe that form the pliable and break the rigid. Yes, I am looking forward to the Great Post Pandemic
Person of The Year Indeed #beautifulfaces
My Childhood Friend & Personal Hero At The Moment Jennifer Dent Arsenault (Jenny Dent)
A Memory In the Touchless New Age
Scanning Facebook recently to see how my lovely friends were faring in the new Touch less Pandemic Landscape, I see the usual:
Arguments for taking the family to the beach in quarantine, arguments for not leaving the house in any circumstance.
Questions on what is acceptable for venturing out to get a little sun on their faces while still following the new social distancing rules.
Argumentatively figuring out what social distancing means.
Pictures and stories of friends quarantine experiences, some that reminded me of a story I’d heard about the Great New York Blackout November 9, 1965, conversely, some that looked like stay-cations.
As I scrolled and read, I found that one central theme governs this new day: our society has become touch less. A necessary measure now it seems to flatten the curve of exposure to an aggressive, invasive new virus currently ravaging our planet.
Necessary as it may be, it has its own side effects.
I scroll, taking in the information of others, reading about their politics, perceptions, and responses and mid sentence, an ‘FB memory’ pops up for me. You know, those little adages that FB offers every so often that can come off like a lovely little gift or a nasty curse depending upon the memory and where you now sit with that memory’s scenario. Today it appears, it was a gift. It was a memory of an experience I had with a fingerprinting shop over in Northeast. It had me thinking about our Touch less New Age, mostly it has me hoping that we can one day return to normal, if possible, even better off with that ever so slowly dying spectrum of human culture. There is healing in the human connection. I don’t imagine any pandemic can stop that.
It was March 22, 2018, and I was feeling pretty annoyed and taxed as I drove to the tiny shop way out on Division. They are among the few who take fingerprints for the State of Oregon and other fed background checks for less than $40 bucks. Felt like it took forever to get out there. Both the dog and I were tense when I got out and stalked in there. It was a Vietnamese gift shop stuffed to the brim with jewelry, tea sets, books and other novelties with a small corner in the home for their print business. I was stiff and my hands were cold. The young lady led me over to print board and took my right hand. Her hands were warm, she had a calming quality about her. Each finger on both hands printed on an official card, put in something that looked like an evidence bag. Card number and I.D. documented and the prints given back to me to take back to an organization who then ships it off to the State. I must've only been in there but a few moments and each moment standing in that little shop/house I felt more and more at ease. I took a deep breath and said, "I'm glad I came, it's nice in here." I noticed my hands were warm and bright pink. I walked out onto the patio and down the steps to the car and a first-generation family matron whom I never got to formally meet was playing a musical bell and burning incense in the back garden. She smiled at me as I got into my car and drove away a completely different person than who arrived. Apparently there is a little house on East Division that sells attitude changes.
Powell's Bookstore The Grand Matron Of My Life Story
I remember the day I aged out of Oregon Youth Authority and I found myself homeless. My case manager was in tears, angry that she was taken by surprise and I was in shock. She muttered 'fuck' under her breath, doing everything she could to keep her job while still managing to cram as much social service into this last day for me as she possibly could.
Two other staff members packed my stuff in black plastic bags and placed them by the door, while she spends time on the office phone feverishly trying to piece together some kind of plan. It was astounding how much she was able to put in place. She walks out of the office of the group home and finds me, stoic, frozen, afraid, standing by the front door with my black plastic bags.
She'd called the Social Security Administration, she'd called the housing bureau, she'd called the Youth Homeless Prevention organization at that time called Greenhouse. She called the powers that be at her organization, she'd called the powers that be at Oregon Youth Authority, she called everyone under the sun. Now, it was time to hit the streets.
At that time I'd held down a full-time job at The Mallory Hotel as a buser, hostess helper and dining room assistant. She called the luxury hotel to make sure they would work with me during my transition to hang on to me as much as possible. They said they would. That was a good thing, that was where I was fed.
We got into a state car and rolled over to the YWCA. She checked me in, for a short time I had a roof at a women's shelter. We rolled over the Alder House, the state's first SRO LIHTC rent-controlled building in Portland, we got an SRO room for me to rent. At that time housing practiced age discrimination so it took some serious finagling for her to convince them to rent to an individual one day into her 18th year of life. We rolled over to the Social Security Administration and got 'benefits' in place. I later found out they used my placement in Oregon Youth Authority as a base for disability benefits. Anyone's guess how they pulled that off. Now the sun starts to set and I feel a buzz on the inside of me. My exhausted caseworker takes a deep breath, looks over at me and says, "Okay kiddo, you can do this. You can do this, we got a plan. Work as much as you can at that hotel, BEHAVE yourself at that apartment complex, I mean it, don't fuck with them. I'll call the shelter in a few days." Boom! with that, I and my black plastic bags found our way into a small room with two cots. I roomed with a woman name Naezie, a young, beautiful, middle eastern woman escaping a violent husband. Naezie seemed relieved that I was her roommate. She said some of the faces she saw at the YWCA scared her. I sat on the cot and looked at her, the deep buzzing and spinning head continued. Suddenly I feel an uneasiness, a queasiness. The cots begin to screech at their base, a massive rumbling sound filled the room, we grab hold of the cots and stare at each other even more intently. "My God!" she says in her soft Sudanese accent, we've just had an earthquake.
Seems fitting.
Over the hours Naezie and I walk the streets of Portland getting to know one another. We plan our next steps, I feel better knowing I've got someone, a base, a friend. She was 15 years older than I and I was comfortable in her presence. We grab a slice of pizza on Burnside and head to Powell's Bookstore.
"Hey, you ever been to this place Naezie? Careful, you'll get lost."
At the group home, you'd find a good deal of my 'sisters' hanging out at Paranoia Park (O'Bryant Square) a punk scene, Satyricon, and Greenhouse. I frequented those places too, but most of my experience was spent idling the hours away at Burnside's Powells Bookstore. Education was never a priority to the Youth Authority in those days. We educated ourselves. I permitted my meager budget to buy books and magazines. Mostly, Powells Bookstore taught me about my fellow man. In a clean, safe environment I learned about the outside world, and now I was right in it.
Fast forward to 2020, I'm 45 years old, and right as if it was taken directly from the pages of a manuscript I'm working on, we're knee-deep in a worldwide pandemic. I see this Grand Matron Powells Bookstore, closed to the public. She's quiet, still, lonely. I sit for a moment and think, I could swear I can feel the heartbeat of the city become weaker. Yes, it has become weaker. May this great Dame rise again and give birth to another generation of stronger, more educated and united public than ever before. May she rise like a Phoenix, immune and thriving. I give a moment of great thanks to Mother Powells. I imagine a better day.
The Impossibly Quiet Streets Of Portland Morning of New Years Day 2020
Unseen Hosts
DJ slept in the doorway of our multistory office building adjacent to Portland's pristine living room with it's grandstanding, sparkling Christmas tree. A soft pink morning light flooded the sky and the air between the buildings as pin points of the sun's rays began to shard over the building tops.The building's inhabitants badged in, nearly stepping over him. But I stopped. I stood for a moment watching him rouse up from his stiff and painful sleep.
He lay directly on the concrete with his jacket on and a small blue blanket that covered his shoulders and only down to his knees. I think about how hard it is for me to walk to my car on cold days or wait for a max train.. How the cold finds a way in. So succinctly. Like water through the crevices of a car that has careened into a lake or a river. That cold will find a way to your bones. Can you imagine sleeping in it?! I think it must be impossible, but then I remember, for just a flash moment as I gaze into the unusual pinkness of the atmosphere and the sharp cast of sun's rays beginning to seep into the streets, that there is such as thing as the unseen hosts. I wonder how much the presence of those hosts play a role in serving as keepers of the souls on the streets on nights like this.
He blinks, hands shaking, he lights a cigarette, even before his eyes have focused, even before he has fully found grounding in reality from whatever dark unconscious world he was just in. He lights a cigarette. His breath now animated rolls out into the morning cold. It moves like he cannot. He is somewhat transfixed by it.
I place my coffee, unsampled at his feet. He looks up at me unsurprised to see me, but somewhat paused to see me take a seat next to him. I let him catch his breath.
"What happened?" I asked. It occurs to me that such forward question, such a sharp and personal question may feel as one of those sun's shards had taken on ice form and jammed into his flesh. Usually we are not so forward with people are we? Because they are sleeping in our office building doorway?
I get stayed looks, not necessarily bad looks from my coworkers as they badge in walking past, now, both of us.
He looked over at me eyes now focused.
"Drugs" he said croaked.
He was not at all pensive in answering.
"Did you feel as though things began happening that you couldn't control?" I asked
"Yeah", he breathed, "That's what started it, and then drugs"
"What did you do before?" I asked
"Construction." he says, drawing another cigarette. This time his head bows a bit. I imagine his mind flashed back to a time he was on a job site.
"I just need an opportunity." He finishes.
I wonder about that.
"If I got you an appointment with a day crew construction labor temp service, would you be able to use Mission's showers get ready and show up at job site?"
"Yeah, yeah, I can do it!" He says. He straightens his back.
I gaze upon his unsteady hands and blood red eyes. The rest of him? The rest of him looks like a young, strapping, at-one-time handsome young man. He even wears the winter wind breaker from the former construction company he used to work for. His name is still embroidered on the front.
"Give me your number DJ"- when you get this number it's from me. Promise me you'll follow through okay?
"Yeah, yeah...thank you.."
I take another look at DJ and tell him, I've got to badge in for work. Right now, I'm praying to those hosts of the air that seem to stabilize the souls that lay on our streets at night, that they inhabit the very cells of this young man. Undo the horrendous damage and provide one more chance. There are a lot of bodies laying on these streets now, but I've seen miracles with my own eyes before, perhaps I'll see just one more. I truly wish I could see the unseen hosts. I even squint my eyes into the morning sun to see if one will take form just for a moment. No, not today.
I badge myself into work, understanding that there is very little between myself and DJ.
If there ever was a photo that summed up Nature’s attitude toward us at the moment:
तिहार Kukur Tihar
Tihar (Nepali: तिहार), is a five-day-long Hindu festival celebrated primarily in Nepal and some parts of India such as Darjeeling district, Kalimpong district, Sikkim, and Assam. It is the festival of lights, , the festival begins with Kaag Tihar in Trayodashi of Kartik Krishna Paksha and ends with Bhai Tika in Dwitiya of Kartik Sukla Paksha every year.
The festival is prayer and homage to elders and gods, but also to animals such as crows, dogs, and cows that have long lived in relationship with humans. Grace and I celebrate day two Kukur Tihar, prayer to dogs for appreciation in their companionship.
The shame of complacency
“Luis Alberto Urrea’s words are some of the most important I’ve heard since this administration was set into place. I can think of no greater way to put it.”
Nuclear Winter
Be very careful___of your measuring stick.
Do you measure the base, the height, the width, the length, the substance of the thing? Yourself? As folks approach you, and size you up as they do:
So, what do you do?
Who are you with?
What is your degree?
Where did you get that degree?
Who represents you?
Who are you friends with?
What's your portfolio?
Who's your agent?
As these measuring sticks break out and make their way to your being to measure you, or you, take your stick to another? Are you remembering that measurements rarely hold the balance?
I've seen grand structures, more ornate than the Duomo fall like dominoes at the slightest shake of the earth. I've seen block utility buildings survive like cornerstones of the earth through time, damage, floods, change and the human measuring stick.
The substance of the thing, the foundation of the thing shall hold the balance. If you have lost what looks like the height of your life, have you not in the cyclone of life begun to gain a stronger substance? A more unmovable foundation? So what then happens when the structure begins to rebuild itself?
For those knocked off their balance and sitting amid their rubble today, dust flying and dizzying disbelief, what looks like destruction insurmountable, is the removal of false structure. One that if you fully inhabited it, would crumble down upon your head in a fatal crush should Nature decide to test the bounds. Instead, what happens when this structure falls before your eyes? This time, we take concern for the substance of the thing. This time, we move to design a structure strong enough, worthy enough, safe enough to invite those we love in. A structure that can shelter others in the fallout. We aren't talking about storms here. We are talking about Nuclear Winter.
Angels In America, continued
Neighbors we see around town every now and then attending the street fair on Main Street. It struck me today when I saw them, the sight of their little boy clutching the American flag with determination. His grandmother instilling in her generations a sense of loyalty and respect for this nation. They work their asses off for this nation. They spend their hard earned money on the little shops on Main Street every year, helping to keep them open. I wish this nation's loyalty was returned to them. The daughter is doing an essay about this at school, I sent her this image
