#centerthemargins

[centerthemargins]

By Lidi Soto 

Much of the county is aware of the intensity of wild land fires that are burning in the West Coast. As the smoke settles into the valleys and our sunsets become more radiant we’ve seem to “come together” in a collective shock at its incessant expansion as a national, regional, (etc) community. With this, there is a wave of support at the efforts of all the people combating wild land fires, and collective grief and heroization in response to fatalities that occur on the job.

 I want to take a moment to reflect on the romantic portrayals of wild land firefighters and to offer a more nuanced picture about what it’s like to fight fires, and about the people fighting fires, as summer jobs and as careers, on various government crews, and on private contract crews. This is only to help myself tease out the dynamics, the social and power structures that manifest on the fireline. I’ve been reflecting on this a lot lately, and this seems like an opportune time to write a few thoughts down.

 Several weeks ago, and article published by Business Insider stated that nearly half of the people fighting fires in California were inmates. Being at the Stouts Fire in Southern Oregon, where inmates were our caterers and our janitors, this made me think of the demographics here in Oregon, and the demographics of wildland firefighters in the country. From my experience, I would say that at least a quarter to half of the firefighters in any large incident are immigrants (the two populations not being mutually exclusive). A large percentage of seasonal wildland firefighters are inmates and/or low-wage seasonal workers. I spent a few years on a contract crew. Most of the folks on my crew were Spanish-speaking immigrants. These breakdown in numbers (Business Insider’s more statistical breakdown, and my “ethnographic” observations) are really striking.

 There’s something curious happening there. When thinking about who is a firefighter, the national imaginary doesn’t really see this large percentage of people. Those Spanish speaking immigrants, (mostly from Mexico and central America), are also seasonal agricultural workers planting and harvesting much of the crops on the west coast when there are no fires, and in off season, they are tree planters, work thinning logging units, and they work as Christmas tree harvesters. Firefighting is, for them, a job that pays better than any of these other jobs in a short amount of time. 

 And this is very similar for season workers for state and federal crews. I’ve worked with, and currently am, a college student paying off debt. I’ve worked with people that fell into the job, stuck with it, and had no other applicable skills after so many years doing only fire. I’ve also worked with people that chose this as a career path and got forestry degrees and they love it. The spectrum is vast. And everyone has a different reason for fighting fires. And some reasons overlap, and some aren’t very clear.

 Take for example, the three people that died in an entrapment after a vehicular crash this past Wednesday. Their short biographies published by the Seattle Times “Firefighters killed near Twisp: ‘three big hero’s protecting small towns’” suggest various reasons for fighting fire. 

Zbyszewski, 20, was a junior physics major who was “very involved in the Theatre Department.” Zajac, 26, received a degree in biology and a master of science degree from the University of South Dakota in 2014. Wheeler, 31, was a 10-year seasonal firefighter, a career firefighter. It seems like the younger of the three might have had multiple career aspirations, and different things that moved them. It appears that for the third, this was a dream job.

Everyone has a different reason for fighting fire. However, one reason that I’ve ever come across in my years fighting fire, is the desire to be a hero. Which is why a line published in this article really irked me. They published a quote by an acquaintance to one of the deceased: 

 "If he had to die, I’m sure he would have wanted it to happen while fighting a fire to save others.”

 This is wild and unnerving speculation that no one has a right to make but the people on the lines. Ever since I’ve been with my employer, I’ve been a part of trainings and dialogue about safety as a central component to firefighting culture. After every fatality, I’ll hear it reiterated again by my colleagues and supervisors, that “it wasn’t worth it; nothing was worth their lives” And we’ll agree that nobody’s home, or property, or any land is worth our lives. Nothing.

Contrary to structural firefighters, we rarely interact with the public while firefighting and rely on law enforcement to follow through with evacuations so that we are able to work to halt the spread of wild land fire as soon as reasonably possible, and do so in a smart, tactical and safe way. We work mostly with land, water, and surface resources. 

Everyone has a different reason for fighting fire, but it is never a selfless act. To inmates is perhaps provides purpose, a chance to interact with the outside world, and a meager (exploitative) wage. To migrant firefighters, it provides the opportunity to save up for when winter work is sparse and particularly undesirable. To me, it’s provided and opportunity for economic comfort, and for personal growth. No one is doing this to “be a hero.” We’re doing our job. Anybody that does this to “be a hero” should not be doing this at all.

The collective grief in response to fatality is healthy and justified. My coworkers and I also feel grief, not because they died hero’s “doing what they loved”, but because we have a suspicion that their deaths could have been prevented, because they almost always can. Grieving is justified. Glorifying the job is not. If I were to ask my colleagues whether they would chose to die while firefighting because it’s “what they love doing” they would all say “No” promptly, or give me blank stares because that is a stupid question. There are so many other things that my coworkers love besides fighting fire. They love their husbands and their wives, and their kids, and fishing, and beer, and sex, and skiing, and snowboarding, and surfing, and hunting, and running, and cooking, and baking bread, and cycling, and playing their guitars, and traveling, and playing soccer, and the Mariners, and refereeing high school wrestling matches, and coffee.

 There are so many things going through my mind this last week. I’m not sure I did any of these points justice. To conclude: THANK YOU. THANK YOU SO MUCH for your thoughts and prayers and your messages and texts. This is a job for us, and while we love it, it’s not who we are. And this isn’t how we want to go down. We all want to come home... 

"Don't be a hero."

[centerthemargins]

An Open Letter from the UO MCC

***Content Warning: Sexual Assault Mention***

To the University of Oregon Multicultural Center Community-At-Large:

The UO Multicultural Center (UO MCC) Staff, along with campus partners, is saddened, angered and concerned about a recent sexual assault case that has occurred within our community.

The UO Multicultural Center has reported this case to the administration upon the survivor’s request and as a result, the offender was banned from campus and campus activities. In addition, the offender was removed from their leadership position within their respective student union.

The UO MCC is a student-centered organization that aims to promote social change and aspires to contribute to the safety of underrepresented students on campus. While upholding our mission statement, we write this letter to inform everyone that we are in solidarity with survivors of sexual assault and we do not condone these violent and oppressive acts. We believe in actively listening to survivors as well as providing support, in whatever forms that might be.

At this point, we hope to work to review current institutional procedures in place, to become better informed and to determine if there can be more safe, effective and efficient procedure to address the issue of sexual assault in our community.

This situation is a reminder that our community is not immune to rape culture. We must remember to hold each other accountable when these cases occur and to be there for those who are in need of support.

In love and solidarity, The UO Multicultural Center Staff

[centerthemargins]

Uprise

By Quang Truong 

Spending our days chasing the dream, down the seams we go, and what we follow is never really up there. So where are we and what are we(?) I do not know. Perhaps we are merely cash flows for those who stand on the corporate floor.

We are the base of their building, built on native blood, but like my blood being burn, I will never forget the hurt done on others like those done on my mother. What is freedom? What is the truth? I wear the mask to mask my own fool.

Smile on the outside, laugh at your jokes, quiet as your model minority, but do you see the pain in me? Living in agony day by day. You say I have freedom and rights, but what about the plight and the sight of all my struggling brothers and sisters still fighting?

A transwomen silenced and killed, black men are shot and fill the prisons that my soul is imprisoned in. Tell me you fight for me, tell me you lay down for me, you know nothing about me. Take my agency, take my body, take as you need, but I will not heed.

Vietnamese immigrant, working class parents, cis-gender male working on his ownself. I write to revise this rotting body and (re)member this story’s mine.

[centerthemargins]

Invalidated

I come to you as a human being and as a friend, and yes I've got baggage. I don't always have the sources to confirm my anxiety that I feel when I'm in front of a cashier, or the provoked sense of anger I feel when I'm confronted by the police, or the frustration I feel when I'm questioned for having browner skin than most of the people in the room, as if that somehow and fundamentally makes me a different person. I don't always have the source material or the references of some removed professor who wrote a book about my kind as if that somehow is the only way my story becomes legitimized. All I have is my knowledge of these actual events that happened and my feelings and the emotional weight that's on my shoulders, that I have to carry with me everywhere I go and can never quite fully, get rid of. I sometimes feel burdened by the weight and seek help when I'm feeling heavy and weighed down. Can I share some of my baggage with you so that I can continue to go about my day feeling a little bit lighter? Or are you going to tell me that my baggage doesn't weigh that much, despite how heavy this feels?

[centerthemargins]

Strength of community and ever-changing identities

By Anonymous 

It is only recently that I’ve been listening to my body. I’ve internalized so much ableism since birth. For so long I thought I was broken. It was only recently that I actually began doubting my doubts. For a few moments, I could imagine a reality where the faults of the system were centered and held accountable, rather than any of my perceived faults. This has been a mostly private thing. I am beginning to open up about what I need, what my body needs. Sometimes that doesn’t end very well. This piece is simply a reflection of my identities and of a recent bad encounter I had.

It seems every year I peel back a little more of me. My queerness went on a similar journey as well. Since I was a child I was told of the inherent wrongness of non-heterosexual/normative people, while at the same time denying they existed at all. It was a very confusing childhood, struggling with feelings I was told I shouldn’t have, that shouldn’t exist. Again, my acceptance of my queerness was recent as well, though not as recent as the aforementioned revelation. I’m at a point where I can comfortably tell my community I place myself somewhere under the umbrella of queer. I am comfortable attending spaces meant for queer people, and that is a great joy. I can be more of my whole self, even if only in these spaces.

I am luckily in spaces that allow me to discover more about myself, with people that allow me to express a few of those words I usually keep to myself. I need these spaces more than ever. Without them I feel so fragile. They are part of my strength; they might be all of my strength. It feels uncomfortable to be anywhere else, and I use ‘being’ here in more than just the literal sense. Anywhere else is where I am vulnerable. The doubts come back, the shame, the feelings I thought I finally had under control. My budding identities are always the most susceptible. Not even budding identities, but maybe identities in the process of major change/transformation? I feel that saying budding makes it follow a linear path from seedling to flower, when I don’t feel I can accurately represent my identities that way. I don’t know how comfortable I feel with people assuming where I am, or where I am heading. Too often, I feel my experiences are homogenized under my identities, maybe because I’m usually pretty vague about my experiences, but I’ll leave those thoughts for another time.

[centerthemargins]

Stop Calling Asian Women Cute

By Melissa Rhoads

When my roommate brushes off my offer to have my mother help us rearrange our heavy furniture by saying, “But isn’t she a cute, little Chinese woman?” I bristle.

It’s not so much that what she’s saying is factually incorrect—although, considering my mother has three inches on the average American woman, it is indeed a blunder on her part. But rather, it’s the racist ideology behind her assumption.

You see, my roommate is a garden variety white feminist. You know the type. She was probably called “fiery” and “outspoken” as praises growing up. She prides herself on being strong willed and independent-minded. She doesn’t hold back on giving her opinion. These aren’t bad qualities to have, per se. But sometimes, I wonder if she realizes that her ability to speak her mind freely and be seen as a commanding (yet still respectable) presence while doing so is a privilege she’s afforded as a white woman.

In contrast, I often think my roommate mistakes my quiet demeanor for weakness. She interprets my soft-spoken nature as part of my “Asian-ness,” an inherent timidity, fragility. She’s always taken aback when I raise my voice. She apologizes for using curse words in my presence though I’ve never expressed offense at such things before. She explains to our other friends that I have “a delicate constitution.”

It’s not unlike when she calls my mother “cute.” Because calling Asian women “cute” is connected to the colonialist mindset, a byproduct of white supremacy, which regards Asian people as subordinate, and therefore, ready to be conquered.  If Asian men are emasculated by this line of thinking, then Asian women are infantilized. Asian women are simply “cute.” A plaything of white men. A fashion accessory to white women. But always, always inferior. Cuteness is just another way for white people to render Asian women’s bodies as less threatening and less complex than their own.

And incapable of doing heavy lifting, apparently. 

[centerthemargins]

Our Kuleana: Keeping the Hula Tradition By: Demiliza Saramosing Published On: 12/7/14 Original Publication: http://tinyurl.com/UOSOJCNewsRoom

EUGENE, Ore. - Kumu Iwalani kneels to place a straw mat under her drum and her ipu, a gourd shaker, preparing for hula dance practice at Lane Community College’s Longhouse.  She belts out a chant in her Native Hawaiian language, her voice reverberating through the all-wood building structure as she gives thanks to the Kalapuya tribe for sharing the sacred space with the halau dance group. Her students trickle in one-by-one asking for permission to enter, in which Kumu Iwalani responds E komo mai: Welcome.

Kumu Iwalani, hula practitioner of Island Arts dance troupe, teaches the traditional Hawaiian dance to a group of women, ages 18-50+ every Thursday at 7 p.m.

“On the surface, Hula is a dance. Underneath that, it comes with it a cultural presence,” she says. “(Hula is the) heartbeat of the people, the chants, the language, the philosophy, the lifestyle, a way of life.”

She opened a hula school in Eugene to build a sense of community around Hawaiian tradition and culture.

“I wanted to get a lot of friends and ohana (family) together. I remember that feeling in Hawaii very vividly. I wanted to keep nurturing that feeling and have it present with me all the time and I find that when I dance Hula, when I share Hula,” she says.

Iwalani describes Hula as a form of storytelling that honors the Hawaiian gods, chiefs and elements of nature.

She also emphasizes the importance of the Hula dancers’ role in keeping the Hula tradition alive.

“The responsibility, the kuleana, of a hula dancer is their whole being,” she says. “It has to be reflected in their face, their eyes and their footwork. This is important because that’s what roots us and ties us to the tradition.”

She hopes that her students’ performance can bring to light the meanings of the dances as well as help them connect to the stories.

“We try to bring the story to the audience who may or may not understand the Native Hawaiian language,” she says.  

McKayla Reyes, an Island Arts Hula Student, says learning the Hula has been a worthwhile challenge.

“It’s not easy at all,” says McKayla, “Once you get the hang of how strict and how the movement is so precise, then you’ll have fun.”

Iwalani wants people to understand that this form of Hawaiian dance is not just for entertainment.

“Even though it’s a beautiful art form, (knowing only that) keeps you locked onto the surface,” she says. “There is a vibrant culture along with this practice.”

Iwalani looks forward to working closely with her halau in fulfilling their goals.

“Our goal as practitioners is to keep it (Hula) alive. Respect, connection, family, tradition,” she says. “Those are our goals being a hula school in the community.”

[centerthemargins]

American Hapa

By Misa Smith

I must begin this by saying I am supposed to be in Hawai’i studying abroad, a place I picked on purpose for its strong mix of cultures and people.  Not going to Hawai’i was and still is a constant variable in my life, it is something I struggle with everyday not going, because in Hawai’i, I found my happy place.  I miss Hawai’i to my core, every day.  

It is not something I can express or rationalize because this is the first place out of my PNW bubble I had really experienced as an adult.  But what I can say is Hawai’i is home.  It is my home.  It is where I felt 100% comfortable in my skin, where the color of my skin was lost in a sea of others who looked like me.  Who had experiences like me.  Who understood what it was like to be second or third generation immigrants.  Who understood that being a collective isn’t necessarily one blood line — but a mix of many,  where community was a purpose and where Ohana is everywhere with those who want to be there with you.

Being mixed Japanese on the mainland is basically like being a fish out of water.  Few understand you and many question you.  

”You’re not Japanese, you’re white.”  ”You can’t say you’re asian because you’re mixed.”  ”You’re not asian, you don’t look like it.”  ”I guess I can see it, are you sure?”  ”You don’t even speak Japanese.” 

Yes I am Japanese-American.  Yes I am Asian-American. This is how I see myself.

I am mixed, I am a pool of ancestors from various parts of the world, and this creates a unique culture within itself.  Being mixed is important to me, it is important that I come from histories of many people, but I specifically identity as Japanese-American.  Why?  I get asked this a lot, even by my family.  And on a basic level I understand the confusion.  I grew up in Oregon, a mostly white state, in a poor-to-middle-to-upper class family and I grew up with a single parent for most of it.  My mom is not ethnic, she is mostly a mixture of European descent with a splash of Cherokee, but her experiences and culture are relatively Euro-American with a Christian foundation.  All of this is a basic description of my life on paper, so then why do I consider myself Japanese American?   This is why: I grew up in a community on my paternal side.

My aunts were my moms.  My grandmother was our matriarch.  My best friends were my cousins and my parents were all the adults in my family. As I write this, I cry because I can’t encompass the beauty that was and still is my family.  

The experiences I grew up with are what defines me.  

My family was outside the idea of a nucleus — I lived communally. During the summers we would wait to eat sticky rice and teriyaki chicken, we would beg to be taken to sushi and play dress up with kimonos and yukatas.  Our second eating utensil was chopsticks and sitting on our bottoms at a restaurant wasn’t strange.  Watching anime and reading manga was part of our literature and television.  Complaining about which rice cooker was the worst was an essential conversation at times.  Hearing conversations in Japanese was the norm and I yearned to be able to understand.  My grandmother and aunts always supported my identity in being Japanese and always questioned my understanding of it.  New Years for us was not a party to watch the ball drop, but a huge Japanese dinner to ring in the New Year and mostly bring us together as a family to kick another year together.  My family get togethers were not my parents and me, they were consistent of my four aunts, my grandmother, my two uncles, my eight cousins and two family dogs.  Sudoko was the chosen paper game and origami was our chosen art form.  

With all of this, we had many American traditions that thrived with our Japanese ones.   As I write this, I wonder if my family even knew they were supporting our heritage or if they were just doing what was normal to them. Being mixed is something so deep and strong, I do not have to identify as one or the other, because I am who I am and I am proud of my background.  

I was not always proud.

I was ashamed to like anime and ashamed to read manga.  I was made fun of in middle school for my name, which is unique in the US but not in Japan, and I constantly heard chatter from other kids making fun of “chink eyes” and all my peers that were asian. In middle school I was harassed for being asian, bullied is a better word, and when I went to do something about it I was told that “kids are just being kids and that I truly didn’t want to get them in trouble” and I firmly believe that was a cause and effect of white privilege in a small town.   I was shamed for my background and as I’ve grown the shame has not lessened, but changed forms.   It now resides in me being told what I am and what I am not. It is being told, “I’m not attracted to asians but you don’t look asian” and being told, “I have yellow fever.” It is being shamed by being told that minorities don’t have problems by my white friends and constantly hearing them reject ideas relating toward oppression.

All the questions I am asked, all the comments I am told — is oppression. I am one of the lucky ones because I am not afraid to stand up and fight for myself because I am proud to be Japanese-American and I am proud to be hapa.