Rise and Fall of the Weird

Following below, you will find an opinion piece I wrote about Portland’s history and its effects on the city, good and not so good. Originally, I wrote it for Facebook (though a local paper that shall not be named bounced it). I think it’s a thoughtful piece that, among other things, modestly suggests ripping out skyscapers at the south end of town to build houses.

Some of it’s serious, some of it’s vaguely tongue-in-cheek, and, for balance, some it’s bonkers. Enjoy (or something along those lines).

Note: If you’re a Portlander and live in a cool old house (at least 100 years old) that you think might photograph well, please tell me about it.


I’m a playwright and photographer based in Portland, having lived here since 1989. Of late I’ve been working on a photo project called “Survivors” where I photograph Portland houses that have remained standing for over a hundred years, especially those built in the 1880s (and a few rare homes from the 1870s).

Unsurprisingly, the project has taught me a great deal about Portland’s history—both good and the bad. One thing that sticks with me is that when Lovejoy and Pettygrove flipped the famous coin to decide Portland’s name, no Tacoma, Seattle, or Spokane existed. Astoria had been established, but it faced geographic limitations to its growth. Basically, no cities stood between San Francisco and Vancouver, BC, and the question remained open whether the new town even belonged to the U.S. or England. New arrivals built the place anyway.

Things have changed a smidge since then, but this has always been a fractious city, rife with political shenanigans and corruption (and a certain amount of fun) and laced with hope. Cyclically, it has risen and faded.

It has not always treated its citizens well, often squandering its assets. It’s hard to imagine what the city would be today if Harbor Drive, a six-lane freeway, had not taken out some 79 fantastic waterfront buildings and homes in obeisance to the almighty automobile. There’s no Harbor Drive today, and Portland is (to my knowledge) the only American city to have ripped out a freeway and replaced it with a park.

Then there’s the Multnomah Hotel. A truly awe-inspiring building that had long been a centerpiece of Portland’s political and cultural life, it met its demise to be replaced by a parking garage. Eventually, that illustrious facility met its own end to become Pioneer Square, destined to become Portland’s beloved “living room.” What a lot that block has seen.

In the 1960s, wise old men decided that Portland south of the city center had become unsightly; so they used Federal funds to “revitalize” the area, tearing down 83.5 acres, demolishing an entire neighborhood built by Jewish and Italian immigrants, rife with historic homes, mom-and-pop groceries, restaurants, and shops, replacing these with a sea of boxy office buildings. The result has been a human desert where families once thrived. Personally, I’m in favor of ripping out the Bauhaus monstrosities and building houses. We need houses.

On the east side, another vibrant neighborhood of old homes, shops, and scores of jazz clubs was demolished for I-5, the Memorial Coliseum, and, later, the convention center and the Legacy Emanuel Hospital complex. This time, the displaced population was largely Black. Obviously, there’s a pattern here.

In many ways, the city’s saving grace has been its population of cranks: stubborn preservationists, activists, artists, Bohemians, hippies, punks, and other glorious riffraff who embodied an unappreciated facet of the revered pioneers. That is, a lot of the folks who trekked through the forests or risked insanely dangerous sea voyages to get here were plain weirdos who wanted to get away from stultifying normalcy so they could live as they wished.

It’s notable that William Johnson, the first white person to build a log cabin in what became Portland was a British sailor with a Native American wife and a passel of kids who moved on when other settlers showed up. Guess it was all downhill from there.

That’s been the pattern. Eccentrics and regular folks who just want to live their lives build a rich, unique place, and then other people—sometimes well meaning, other times greedy and ruthless—tear it down. We’re forever cursed by our individuality.

Right now, we’re living through a destructive period, where a huge influx of people seeking the Promised Land have brought with them the problems they sought to escape. Their money (and the ever-present greedy and ruthless) pushed away the people that they sought to become. The rootless who came here to find a bit of grace underestimated how difficult that task would be, and now they have nowhere to go. And those with the greatest dedication to their fellows, standing up against discrimination, drew the ire of some truly evil people, turning the city into a war zone.

So things aren’t so great right now, and those in pain turn to a past that, honestly, had its terrible aspects alongside fleeting moments of transcendence. I have a certain faith, however, that the stubborn, irascible weirdos will rise again, creating something unique and beautiful before they become drowned out by sensible voices, and the cycle begins all over.

Maybe the task for those of us who have survived Portland’s “good times” is not to become stuck mourning the past but, rather, to support the weirdos to come and to stand against those who will try to exploit them. We may be doomed, beautiful losers, but we have our moments, and we should recognize that we’re the folks who give the city its character and grit and its ability to build anew.

At least for a little while.

Wind: 40 Years After the Fall of Saigon

Fall of Vietnam HelicopterThe empty streets. Stunned faces. The last helicopter swings over the trees. And Saigon, for a moment, stops. A city that never stills. The Americans have gone, taking but a few Vietnamese with them. Left behind, men and women who had worked with and lived among and fought with and fought against and loved and hated the Americans. That ends, leaving a space between waves…running over sand. Drawing patterns that last but an instant.

What was that like? That stillness? The wreckage, the debris. People wandering. Stealing things they couldn’t possibly use, just to have something left. And the North Vietnamese, rumbled along the city perimeter. Not everyone was sorry to hear them. Others were beyond terrified.

April 29, 2975. Forty years ago today, and Saigon was no more. It would become Ho Chi Mihn City. The streets got new names—as did some people. Hotels and bars and restaurant took on new owners. But, in truth, Saigon never ends. You can no more snuff it out than you can Paris or Cairo. Only the Americans had gone.

In the weeks, months, years to come, America would turn away. Turn inward. Deep. It would take years before we turned back again. Oh, within a few years the films began—marvelous, harrowing films: The Deer Hunter, Apocalypse Now, Coming Home. Really though, they focused on the height of the American war, during the mid to late Sixties, and some of that was already a decade ago. But displacement, bewilderment, loss: for some time, those things would be too painful to revisit. Except for some determined to rewrite history. Sad news for them: history would not change, and new wars would not refute the old.

The helicopters. That soft whop-whop-whop. It still catches the ear. Such an indelible sound from the time. Coppola used it so evocatively in Apocalypse. So tied to the era. In a way, they wrote the final chapter, fading from the Vietnamese skies and arriving in swarms, commandeered by terrified South Vietnamese pilots, who crammed them full of their families and flew out over the ocean. Not even certain where the fleet sailed: they just flew west until the fuel ran out. Some found the ships (some certainly did not), landing where and how they could. The flight decks grew so crowded with aircraft that sailors had to shove choppers over the edge of the aircraft carriers. They would hang for second, rotors turning as through trying to catch air, before they fell, hit the water, and vanished.

I watched it. Not even knowing what I was looking at. Me and my dad—a World War II vet. He was a journalist, I was one in training. We couldn’t look away from the television, except to briefly glance at one another. I’m sure my face was stunned; my father’s was stone. My mom stayed away, working in the garden—her way of dealing with grief. I didn’t know enough to even feel the loss. To me, it was a fantastic news story. History, right in front of you. I felt something, but I didn’t know what. I think I’ve spent much of life trying to figure it out. Years later, as a writer, I dove into it—maybe too deep for my own good, at times. Some things, learned, cannot be revoked. Hell, I still don’t know anything. I read some books, talked to some vets (always a gift), and did some heavy imagining with some incredibly gifted artists, who gave me a lot more than I ever gave them. But, in context, with those who were there, it’s nothing. I haven’t even lived. Even if I had, Vietnam’s a moving target: it not only changes with each person—it changes as each person does.

Doesn’t everyone have a war story? Whether they’ve served or not. War enwraps us, becomes a touchstone: a clue as to where we are, who we are. Age divides us. Young men and women who served—or remembered—World War II looked at that war in a very different context than those who nervously watched their draft numbers—or those of their husbands, brothers, sons—during the Sixties. If you were below 30 (or thereabouts), you learned you couldn’t believe things. What you heard, saw, felt. You not only began to question the government—not a difficult stretch, after a certain point—but you began to doubt your parents, relatives, and their friends. All the people who, for so long, had been mentors, trusted advisors. Who had loved us. Now, you’re weren’t so certain they did. And the reverse was true.

Some who lived through World War II spoke movingly of the era’s camaraderie, even if they wouldn’t discuss the ghastly reasons for rearranging their lives. Those who lived through the crucible of Vietnam spoke of a different camaraderie: a dividing into tribes—for or against, served or ducked or protested, saw combat or a desk. And those were not static categories. The young man jacked for war by movies and fantasies could well come home to stand with protestors. Like that was easy.

When it was over—for America—the tribes never really came together again. There’s always been a split here between left and right, for reasons that fill thousands of books, and it might take another generation or more to as least partially repair that rupture, if indeed it can be bridged. Maybe World War II was the anomaly and division has been the actual nature of those supposedly united. For a country that worships liberty, we’ve spent a good part of our history throwing chains around one another.

Now, we’re farther away from the fall of Saigon than our fathers were from their war when the first Marines shipped off for Da Nang. Beards and ponytails have a lot of gray in them. Once overwhelming new singles, flashing with brilliant, fresh sounds and ideas—they’re oldies. Crazy books people fought over are standard fare in college. People look upon peace signs and doves as quaint artifacts, not as a button that once could get you worked beaten to hell. Wars get old too, the rough edges get sanded down, sanitized. Unless you’re in select company. Get in the right space with the right people, and the blood’s still fresh. It’ll never dry.

And in Saigon—forever Saigon—the girls in ao dais still ride their bicycles up the wide boulevards, and they smile behind their hands at old men who cock their heads and pause whenever they hear a helicopter.



kennedyThe 22nd, and it becomes inescapable: the Kennedy assassination, 50 years ago. A before and after, where-were-you event.

I was a very young boy. In fact, the assassination may be my earliest conscious memory. There’s a fine way to start off a life: televised murder and national grieving before you know what death is. And people wonder why my work has a dark sensibility.

Here’s how the political becomes personal.

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