“We have arrived to the heart of Portland.” I hear my father saying, "We have arrived to the heart of Portland." The sign was there, "Portland Oregon" it read, so imposing with its magnificent reindeer in the middle, the sign of the city. It's so different, I remember the nine year old me thinking; I never seen a reindeer in real life, are these animals a regular sight here? I want to pet one up close.

- from “Portland Oregon It Read” by Manny Cid

This week we redirect your attention back to the deep portfolio of writing produced by OSP students enrolled in a course taught by Portland State University’s Director of the Center for Black Studies, Professor Walidah Imarisha, and Professor Lisa Bates from PSU’s Toulon School of Urban Studies and Planning. We published sixteen writers at one time — so we ask you to continue to read these pieces and the photos.

This location is one of supreme importance and high value, it’s a place that has given me much. But has taken far more in return. This intersection on Kerby and Skidmore is where I learned to have heart and that being a man and standing on my own two feet really counted for something, especially here.

- from “Give and Take” by Wallace Simpson

The geopoems and narratives written by these students are postcards to home. They are love letters. Do you recognize these places? What is your relationship to these neighborhoods?

Consider the perspective of the writers and imagine being 60 miles away from your home, but unable to visit for 20 years. The photos act as time capsules for the writers. They can be ghostly images — what they remember, what happened on the streets, what was lost, learned, taken away… Photographs by students in PSU’s Project Rebound, a program that supports students returning to the community from incarceration, accompany the work by the following writers:

MEDERO MOON
MANNY CID
STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON
EARL DOUGLAS WILKINS
DWAYNE MCCLINTON
DEANGELO LEROY TURNER
WALLACE SIMPSON
JEFFREY SANDERS
ELIJAH M CRAIG
KEVIN FORD
XAVIER BOLDEN
RONDRAE JEFFERSON
TAMIR COLLIER
THERON HALL
ROBERT RICHARDSON
DARIUS BROWN

We were thrilled to be included in this meaningful work. To members of our growing community, this is an invitation to respond. Your notes of encouragement and appreciation will be passed along to our writers. | TDS

On The Stairs
Alone
Alone
Alone
Consumed in my own thoughts
Contemplating on all that I've lost
Things I want to gain
— Dwayne McClinton

Last Friday we published work written by students enrolled in Portland State University’s Black Studies program. Monday, we attended a special reading at PSU that included family members of the incarcerated students, the program leaders, and even Kenny Hamilton, one of our PonyXpress contributors who now works for Project Rebound at PSU. Kenny and his colleagues read poems from the collection, Memory & Place in Black Portland.

Regular PonyXpress readers will recognize Stressla Lynn Johnson. As a PonyXpress editor, he draws us with detail, the sights, the sound, and the conditions of life inside the walls and how they resonate in his being. He once described a challenge he gave himself — look for kindness during an ordinary day in prison. Stressla found it and took note. In this narrative about fishing on Swan Island, Stressla’s sharp eye brings us a picture of his step-dad: “Clarence, affectionately called ‘Pops' by me and my brothers living at home, was a stout Black man with a wide smile that exposed a gold crowned tooth, he always smelled of Old Spice Cologne; clean shaven, with a square box haircut, he spoke with a slight Alabama inflection, with a laugh that put you at ease.” There is the softness that comes with looking back over thirty years ago to a time when he attended those beautiful celebrations in parks. This sense is sharpens knowing that gentrification and loss of family members have indelibly changed home.

There is no more penny candy spread out for the kids
to pick from ... I imagine a lot of things
are gone from the corner stores, especially the
people that loved the Black Community.”

We have had the great fortune of working with Theron Hall on a few projects. His collection  is filled with wonderful turns of phrase provides a multifaceted illustration of his heart. There is the determination of his grandmother climbing the thirteen stairs of her house, with a bad hip and feet tired from a day of nursing. We feel that love — and painful loss that changes everything for a boy who knows love and then, loses its security. There is strength and agility building at the Matt Dishman/Knott Street Boxing and then there’s staring into the doors of the Donald E Long building, with its punitive promise: “I don’t remember if I cried that day. I remember seeing the shadow of the school to prison pipeline. I don’t ever remember thinking, as I walked out the front doors of Donald E Long, that I would end up in prison for murder and sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.”

Like Theron, Darius Brown writes of Dishman, with its the chlorinated sting of its pool and the gathering of Black and Brown people under the its roof: “Single mothers trying to provide structure for their children in a safe place where their children can go, be comfortable and not be judged, like grandma’s house. A place where there is people who look like them but also introduces them to other minority culture.“ In his geo-poems, Darius moves his language in a tumble play with quick maneuvers: “Sneakers squeaking back and forth having a conversation / Sound means one of two things / It some hooping or some fighting going on.”

Current Uhuru Sasa Culture Club president Dwayne McClinton writes of his stairs. As I looked at the photo, it clicked. I know those stairs and the city view it rewards the climber. He writes of the solitude he has found in that spot. Until reading his piece, I have always thought of the concrete flight as transit. But now, I see how it was a hidden garden, a front stoop that revealed another vision:

I loved going to this spot because it was on the outskirts of the hood where I wouldn't see many police cars, gang bangers, dope fiends or hear & lot of noise. Looking at this photo I immediately felt connected back to The Stairs. I remembered some of the things I thought about, found solutions for and even cried about at this place. It was my place, my sanctuary, a place that gave me comfort.

Dwayne moves us from this spot to his larger, public arena of Woodlawn Park. He writes of the violence that he knew and how it continues today. From here, he imagines what this community needs to rise to its full height: ”Seeing our people mingling, shaking hands, giving hugs, and showing communalism will strengthen our culture. The only way for us to have a great positive impact on reducing gun violence in our community is through unity, education, job/ business opportunities, resources, and a lot of credible messengers from local gangs stamping the streets interacting with our youth.”

Grandparents. Community Centers. Parks and Playgrounds. Corner stores filled with real food (and penny candy, too). Here is the evidence — as if anyone really needed it — that people require these institutions to thrive. Consider the idea of huddling for cultural warmth. This project, the different culture clubs at OSP remind us how important it is to honor that space. | TDS

INTRODUCTION:

I’m having a black moment!
I’m having a Black moment!
Who are you to tell me that
I’m too black to be set free!
I’ve been kissed by God from
The creation of all mankind!
You must be crazy to think
That I’m not going to speak
My mind!
I’m having a black moment!
I’m having a black moment!
White man please! Keep your
Words to yourself! If my
people find out you spoke out
There race! You’re going to be put in another place

RE: BLACK PLACE POEM! (BEE COMPANY PHOTO)

Introduction:
My Bee company! Is home to
Me! The stores and its food
It has history! From life to
Death, to community! This
Black space is home of my
Favorite community! The
People! The History! It’s
So much to see! Please
Don’t waste time? Come
Quick and see! All that
Love is here for you
And me!

PHOTO OF 9TH AND ALBERTA STREET

Introduction:
Alright there is a photo of  the scene of 9th Alberta Street. This showed me all 31 years of absolute departure from Portland neighborhood. Before this store shown in this photo it was a store there called Jake’s. At that store many young brother and sister’s would coume into that corner store to buy small house products. From toilet paper at the time as 99 cents? But now it’s more like $3. Because of the rise in prices I heard. Now what all of the rise in prices I heard now what all the young brotha’s would show up to get also was jojos and chicken! This small but tasty food cost is about $2. But this is what you get? Seasoned potatoes fried in butter? With batter fried drum sticks of chicken on the side. When looking at the tray, you see at least 10 jojos and 5 drumsticks of chicken. Man looking at the picture it takes me back to the all black at the time neighborhood. That now is all white. Displaced blacks that used to have homes over there, are now way out on 142nd to 206th ave to Gresham, Oregon, “man” that was totally shocking to me.

DORIS CAFE ON RUSSELL AND WILLIAMS

The reason I chose this photo was I used to go to this cafe to get the best BBQ in Portland. When I used to pull up to this place in the all Black neighborhood and brown brotha’s and sista’s to hear the latest conversation about what is going on? From the new shoes to the interesting teen that came out. But the main thing was the food? When your first walk in you smell hot bbq with a hint of honey smelling the air. As the draft of the door pulls the pressure from the cool breeze of the inside going outside the door. As you walk in you hear the chatter of different cultures of people writing or sitting inside the cafe to eat that good que? Soft music is playing in the background of slow jam to new and latest hip hop of Mary J Blidge, once you waited for a server to get this food? But once you get it? You take a small piece of what we all call the burnt ends! On that sauced based all meat rib piece totally covered in goodness, that sits on top of all white wonder bread.

Man the life of that small but unbelievable good cafe BBQ outside got tracks, cars of different colors, with low riders parked. Sisters with their long black hair with brothas with fades and braids everywhere that was a real moment of black history in Portland Northeast side.

PHOTOS BY KAY JOHNSON

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

Damn what I would do to eat my grandmother’s home cookin’
Hear the dogs ‘outside barkin’ or my pops
Telling me to keep hope alive n’ I still have time
Home is where my heart secretly yearns to be
In this moment home is right in front of me

— from “Home” by Medero Moon

We are thrilled to publish a portfolio of writing by OSP students enrolled in a course taught by Portland State University’s Director of the Center for Black Studies, Professor Walidah Imarisha, and Professor Lisa Bates from PSU’s Toulon School of Urban Studies and Planning. This from the course description: “… students were encouraged to bring their own personal experiences forward in the class to illuminate connections to the past. One of the ways students engaged was through creative participatory activities of photovoice (writing narratives based on photos) and geopoems (writing poems about specific places), enabling them to literally and figuratively place their words on the map of Black Portland.”

This collection describes the home territory of Black Portland: corner stores and the community center, hoops in the park, Lloyd Center, and of the 8 bus … Robert Richardson asks: “Who thought a pulse with so much purpose,/ Could come in the form of a bus?” Together the narratives and poetry form memories tinged with the homesick itch for youth. We taste the Sour Patch candies and smell the popcorn at Dishman. Darius Brown writes: “Sneakers squeaking back and forth having a conversation / Sound means one of two things / It some hooping or some fighting going on.”

Portland photographs taken by students in PSU’s Project Rebound, a program that supports students returning to the community from incarceration, accompany the work by these writers:

MEDERO MOON
MANNY CID
STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON
EARL DOUGLAS WILKINS
DWAYNE MCCLINTON
DEANGELO LEROY TURNER
WALLACE SIMPSON
JEFFREY SANDERS
ELIJAH M CRAIG
KEVIN FORD
XAVIER BOLDEN
RONDRAE JEFFERSON
TAMIR COLLIER
THERON HALL
ROBERT RICHARDSON
DARIUS BROWN

Portlanders, you are invited to a reading and reception to celebrate this work (see the flyer above for details.) Please download this chapbook we designed for family and friends attending the event. | TDS

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MATT DISHMAN

A safe place in a world of chaos
That's like a Solar Eclipse they only come around so often
Walk through the double doors
The strong smell of chlorine overwhelms your nostrils
Like the smell of smoke on Granddaddy’s Buick.
Black + Brown boys maneuvering like a fish at sea
Tell whoever told you Black folks can’t swim “Stop lying!”
A ball dribbles in the distance
Sounds like those 12’s kicking from around the corner
Follow the sound like a K9 tracks a scent
Sneakers squeaking back and forth having a conversation
Sound means one of two things
It some hooping or some fighting going on
Laughter becomes audible
The smell of sweat and musk penetrates my sinuses
Like the smell of new chitlings roaming through Granny’s house on NYE

GEO POEM
COUNTY JAIL

A place where generations follow each other a Ivy League school
Sons + fathers finally living as a family under the same roof
Getting his GED while in DOC  his daddy sent his son off to school
Getting counted 1-2-3 everyday like some cattle they
Looked at as if they go moo
Cell bars 32° can you feel the chill?
All American in high school
Come to jail got diagnosed now he on pills
Told when you can shower when you can enjoy a meal
Come to prison cause of addiction but treated as if
He had killed
Hardening the souls of emotionless men with hearts of steel
Coping with isolation, abandonment, and the lack of a
Loving feel

COLUMBIA PARK

There are people scattered throughout the park. A big family in matching shirts that read “Family Reunion.” The family looks like a  sports team sporting the same logo. Kids running and screaming full of joy and laughter playing hide and seek and tag. There are strangers nearby and their parents aren’t overly stressed cause inside the park the good outweighs the bad. The young boy walking his dog or the homeless brotha pushing his cart is greeted with an invitation, “come and get you a plate” from Mommas, Aunties and Grandmas. You can feel it in the air: love, unity, power. It’s thick like the smoke coming off the coals as they turn from black to gray. I recall playing on the seesaw with my cousins, each of us attempting to jump off fast so whoever was left on would go crashing down to the ground like a human size rock. Whoever was responsible would laugh so hard they would start to cry. Or Snoogie spinning on the merry- go-round, drool flying out our mouth like a dog with his head in the wind. We get off, fall and throw up all the hamburgers, hot dogs, and grape soda we just enjoyed. I haven’t been on a merry-go-round since. Coolers being monitored by the adults, we wonder what’s inside, that curiosity is short lived cause the sight of a football interests us more. Up walks one of our uncles, he is feeling good but smells bad, dancing, Grandma has her R&B soul playing through the speakers, R. Kelly! "Happy people" will forever be in my head. This is the last memory I have of my family being whole.

MATT DISHMAN

Single mothers trying to provide structure for their children in a safe place where their children can go, be comfortable and not be judged, similar to grandma’s house. A place where there is people who look like them but also introduces them to other minority culture. The first soccer game I watched on TV was at Matt Dishman Community Center alongside my Hispanic friend I met while at summer camp at the center. That’s one of many examples of youth exploring other cultures within the center as if community center worked as an atlas teleporting you from region to region. Black people can’t swim was a stereotype that I continuously heard growing up, but when you walked inside the pool at Matt Dishman you’d see an abundance of Black and Brown bodies. Moving around like fish in the water. Being supervised by people who came from our same neighborhoods, who come if we make it out of the pool alive and well; real lifeguards.

Chlorine invading your nostrils similar to what wood does during a campfire. Sneakers squeaking from the excitement of boys and girls whose legs are moving faster than the rest of their bodies. The police, two neighborhood patrolmen placing bets amongst each other which Black or Brown youth will be the first to have those silver bracelets placed on their wrist courtesy of the City of Portland. The family support, I call Families Supporting Families coming to the realization it takes a village to raise a child. Creating that village using the techniques of our ancestors copying their blueprint like we copy Big Momma’s Sweet Potato Pie recipe. Also known as Knott Street Boxing, Matt Dishman Community Center, changing over time just like the people occupying the space. It was instrumental in the growth of generations before mine, has been instrumental in mine, and continues to be instrumental to generations after mine.

NARRATIVE 1

11540 NE Inverness Drive, an address that becomes all too familiar once etched in the mind of generations of Black and Brown Portlanders. We’ll have fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters looking out from the inside reminiscing on the happy times and all the cherished memories that they once shared with their families and friends. Their skin being pressed against the thick shatter-proof glass to get a feel of the Fourth of July warmth, or the cooler December winter chill. Or we’ll have these feathers and mothers, brothers and sisters straining their eyes to see inside as if they were reading a book in the dark, begging God to give them a glimpse of their loved one so that they can rest peacefully that evening knowing he or she is on the inside safe and sound. This will be the start to many people's marathons; some will reach the finish line sooner than others, some may never be fortunate enough to reach the finish line at all. But this will remain the starting point to countless journeys throughout the culture. Talent lives within these walls: artists, musicians, mentors just to name a few; yet we have prized people stored away like their precious possessions collecting dust being kept hidden and out of view. Treated as if their they’re cards were being counted throughout the day to ensure none got away. Welcome to the fight, the fight for your life. | DB

PHOTOS BY JILL FISHER

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

GEOPOEM FINAL FROM GRANDMA’S HOUSE NARRATIVE

Legs swinging off the side of grandma's porch
Small figure with a huge hope

"Boy come back inside. He ain't coming" yells grandma.
Ï'll just wait a few more minutes. He'll be here" responds small figure.

Car drive down 17th ave
Small figure's heart starts racing in excitement
Car passes by… it ain't him

Legs march to grandma's door… door opens.
Grandma hugs small figure.
"He ain't coming. I hate him, granny" says small figure.
"I know… But I want you to know that granny loves
You and will always be here"...

Granny died.
Small figure is alone again
Legs swinging off the side of a prison bunk.

DONALD E LONG HAIKU

Teenagers taught hate
Systems teaching hopelessness
Hope and hate don't mix

DONALD E LONG

Looking at the doors in the photo makes me shiver. There’s something cold about this building. I don’t remember much, but I remember not remembering why I was walking out of them. I remember waking up in this building dozens of times. I don’t remember falling asleep in it. I remember trying to make sense of the charges the district attorney charged me with … assault, disorderly conduct, resisting arrest … I don’t remember committing them. I remember the disappointed look on my mother’s face, as I faced her. I don’t remember a single word she said. I remember the shame I felt. I don’t remember my mother showing shame after all the times she disappointed me. I remember the tree branches hovering over the opaque lights waving and dismissing me goodbye in a gesture that said “you’ll be black little black boy. You stand no chance in white america” ... I don’t remember the drive back home.

I remember waking up in my room. I don’t remember going to sleep. I remember the building being wet. I remember thinking “Donald E Long is crying.” I don’t remember if I cried that day. I remember seeing the shadow of the school to prison pipeline. I don’t ever remember thinking, as I walked out the front doors of Donald E Long, that I would end up in prison for murder and sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.

I’m starting to remember why I forgot in the first place … these doors are cold-blooded future killers.

KNOTT STREET BOXING

I see what was possible. Fighting in a boxing ring instead of courtrooms or prison courtyards. I have always been a fighter but I haven’t always fought for the best reasons. Although violence takes place in the boxing ring, to me, the ring is not a symbol of violence. The ring is an emblem of love, hope, healing, and pride. It is a space of vulnerability. It is a place for opportunity.

Matt Dishman (AKA Knott Street Boxing) was a symbol of hope for me. I remember walking in the gym and smelling a mixture of blood, sweat, and disinfectant. I remember feeling excited as I wrapped my hands to the music of slapping gloves on bags. I remember moving slowly to the speed bag, intent on losing myself in the peace and safety of the space. I didn’t feel at peace or safe outside of Matt Dishman. When I left, gangs, drugs, and violence awaited me. Pain and harm is always lurking.

The ring is a vehicle of resistance to the status quo of conforming to statistics that suggest that black youth will end up in prison for murder to be murdered by age 18. It is a platform to know love and healing. To find self love in the exploration of one's talents. To heal by expressing one’s feelings in healthy ways.

I hope kids see this photo and connect with the message: that my story is their story and their story is my story and our story is the story of greatness, resilience, and the refusal to stay down and out whenever the odds knock us down in the rigged ring of life in America. 

I wasn’t the first black kid who walked into Knott Street boxing wanting to learn how to fight for the right reasons. And I wasn’t the last. The space fosters generational hope just as much as the generational trauma that was passed down to the little boy who walked through its doors looking for a safe place to find peace and opportunity.

For 21 years, I have found myself buried in a concrete ring for fighting with no valuable benefits. I missed the opportunity to use my skills in a way that would have improved the quality of my life rather than devaluing it.

Matt Dishman is a place of connection. I believe our stories can end in a ring that doesn't wring out our humanity.

GRANDMA’S HOUSE NARRATIVE

I remember grampy's big blue truck parking in front of grandma's house, grandma getting out, gaining her composure and grabbing the wooden rail before marching the seven concrete stairs to take her first rest. Grandma had a bad hip. It took her 20 minutes to climb 13 Stairs. Her march up the stairs was at the completion of 10 hours on her feet at the nursing home she has worked at for as far as I can remember. When you mix a bad hip and hurting feet, you get a grumpy old woman. Grandma's journey up the stairs was the highlight of my day. Grandma would yell at us kids on the porch to get the door as she would make her way up the last six stairs. Some days she would cuss us out but no day did we feel unloved or unsafe when she made it to the porch and hugged us.

The house in the photo is the house grandma died in. It is the house I remember laughing and crying in. It is the house every member in my family called home. Looking at the photo I feel sadness and pride. I am sad because I will make no more memories in this house due to gentrification. After grandma died, Grampy could no longer live in the house. He sold it.

The photo is a testament to why it is so important to resist allowing nefarious policies to uproot families and communities. Gentrification is a tool of physical, emotional, mental and spiritual violence. Gentrification fails to foster a sense of safety. It's an idea birthed from hate. Where there is hate there is harm. My family has not healed to this day. But I feel pride because whenever I look at my photo of grandma’s house, no matter the hate I face in white America, her house was always full of black love. | TH

PHOTOS BY KAY JOHNSON

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

FINAL GEOPOEM: LLOYD CENTER

Like a vibrant leaf
Trapped in an uncontrollable windstorm
I drifted aimlessly
Through parking lots I try my best
To dodge the many shoppers
Who are in a hurry to buy nothing
Mall doors burst open with the smell
Of combinations of overly priced colognes
Eager to be purchased
Poverty always pulled me towards
The free samples of the delectable
Soft pretzels with the thick
Gold dipping nacho cheese
I remember being just a young leaf
Floating toward Newberry’s Thrift Store
Right behind the mall with my grandmother
Before the dollar tree was even at thought
And alcoholism poisoned my community
Taking my Granny
Many times I was in need of a wind push
Fresh new Jordans finally released
Youth eager to be the first
To spend their last, sometimes
I would get stuck in that crowd
Lines at Footlocker seemed more
Important than being in class
My mother fresh out of prison
Only job available was mall janitor
Somehow those food court visits
Was better than Columbia River Visitation
Now looking at this half empty mall
On the verge of demolition
I wonder will my cherished memories be lost
Like a fragile leaf in the wind.

GEOPOEM: MLK & KILLINGSWORTH (FINAL)

Intersections with imperfections
Shared many lessons, somehow
As a child I adored it
Ashy ankles and swap meat fabrics
I was anxious to explore it
Racism was real, I tried to ignore it
Black people never considered equal
If we consume with purchase
We were accepted
If we spoke about ownership
We were neglected
The system was infected
And was poisoned by history
Why be so pissed at me, was
My own little mystery
Asian restaurants feed cat fish nuggets
While Geneva’s and Mid K sold
Hair weaves to Blacks with small budgets
Rugged and damaged we managed
Police took advantage in prison we landed
Ruff edges with no opportunity to
Be sanded
Still I continue to dream of Black owned bBocks
Not Blacks selling rocks
And Black owned stocks, with black owned homes
Black mothers gardening, in Black owned
Crops
But when I look at these Blocks
Or when I turn back my memory clock
I wonder will this ever stop

GEOPOEM: WONDERBREAD FACTORY

Poverty is not a novelty, seems
More like a casualty of war
Yet broken promises, and not feeling equal
Can be forgotten by
Just stepping into a store
Nostrils engulfed with sweet scents
Of fresh baked bread
Hostess snacks bought with food stamps
Bring unforgettable memories to my head
Black owned business erased
Black man indigents embraced
Cashier never shared my skin tone
No one worried how long I been gone
Police picked on me cause of my skin tone
Celebrated it like touchdowns
In inzones
Cold corners in need of warm hearts
Stolen culture, I duck the vultures
Looking for a fresh start,
Many empty years later, wanting
To relive my memories
I searched for a picture of Wonder Bread, somehow
I got a vision of an apartment complex
Instead, luckily my history
Is richer than my scenery
Whether it’s a Black face or Black place
We are constantly trying to be replaced
But we can gain so much love
If were instead
Finally fairly embraced
I wonder how that would taste

WONDERBREAD/APARTMENT COMPLEX
FINAL NARRATIVE #1

The Wonder Bread factory held so many joyful moments for a young Black male with no hope and not a pot to piss in.

Although at the time my family did the best they could through the harsh reality of poverty somehow traveling through this neighborhood the smell of the fresh baked bread was magical in a sense, and made one forget about all the negative things in the world. What also surprised me was how I could bring food stamps to purchase some of the delicious sweet treats offered. I believe the meaningful thing about this photo memory is that it’s gone. And now replaced with And now replaced with an apartment complex. Yet the memories are fresh and alive. It makes me think about the store and many other places in poverty that were for the community yet somehow always got pushed out, demolished, closed, or forgotten for things that can bring increased capital to White America.

I think these photos and conversations can get others to think about the future in terms of that choice to rebuild on something so worthy of staying not being the best somehow, instead keeping businesses that are for the community, and invest into them because they hold so much value. I also believe a lot of the problems today can be erased or fixed if we are comfortable enough to go to our history and take the things that did work and apply them into today’s society such as community unity, investing into our community instead of trying to capitalize off of them.

LLOYD CENTER
FINAL NARRATIVE #2

Lloyd Center holds so many memories from my youth. Good, bad, memories that can never be replaced. I remember at the frail age of ten me and my brother were placed into foster care when my mother was sent to prison.

The Lloyd Center became our safe place, our stomping ground, our backyard, our new form of exploration. The type of feelings I Feel when I look at this location is “freedom” to roam. “Acceptance” due to the comfortability I felt when I was in this society. Although I knew they were only interested in me for a purchase.

Sadly at times, I remember doing exactly the opposite. Stealing to survive. Things like clothes to keep warm and keep up, high price latest fashion, candy and food snacks to numb the hunger of my belly. Foster care was not a place me and my brother went to sleep full at night.

I remember priceless memories of my late grandmother. Billie Jean taking us through the mall and behind the mall to Newberry’s thrift store where ten dollars could fill up a whole bag full of food me and my brother could eat off for weeks. Once my mother was released from prison ironically her first job was inside the mall as a food court janitor. I remember making excuses to go to the mall to spend time with her. I remember behind each store. There were hallways we traveled that reminded me of a confusing maze as a child. This location is important to me cause through my incarceration I notice that a lot of my peers share hidden jewel memories from this location, and I often hear about it being closed down, remodeled, demolished, empty, and on the verge of something new. Doing so I sometimes feel my memories would be lost if that happened. What I would like to understand is that certain places have so much value and purpose beyond destruction. And I could go deeper, that statement can relate to our own self as well.

Someone else’s garbage has value to someone or something that we shouldn’t be so quick to throw something away or destroy something even when we think it’s useless and we must remember that thinking applies to how we feel about ourselves as well.

MLK & KILLINGSWORTH

The intersection from me felt like the backbone of the Portland Black Community, although all business and homes populated in these areas were not Black owned. This is where we migrated.

I think it's important for all folks to see this, the individuals who went home as well who created this economy to think of, and the people who didn't want blacks in their community.

For a long time, we made things/places and sounds nobody wanted to go all of the sudden to be popular. From the soul of music blasting out of the vehicles through the intersection. The flamboyant and bright outfits that was always complemented with Air Jordan’s shoes.

Maybe it was the delicious chicken sold in the many franchises littered on the blocks like Popeye’s or KFC or the Asian Owned Restaurant who had the delectable tasting catfish nuggets. All for the consumer.

I want them to see the possibilities of the things we could accomplish and create if we were the owner and not just the consumers.

When I look at this photo, I see fun times traveling with mothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins as a child. But I want to now imagine how it would feel if those places were Black owned and held the community together instead of using our culture for benefit. As a child and adult the most meaningful aspect of this photo is how every location was accepting of Black coming to their location yet uncomfortable with giving us the same opportunity to own.

Then you have the media who paint the negative picture yet fail to introduce all the closed doors and barriers that have been set up for us since slavery.

I want this photo to tell us that change is possible and it’s gotta start with every color getting equal chance. Society already copies and follows everything we do already. Just imagine what could be created if we weren't all equal and not considered lesser than. It also can match the feelings of other people caring, not with just these words but these actions as well.

I’m tired of people of other races saying they are for us yet vote and agree on the same laws that keep us at the bottom and stuck in intersections of MLK & Killingsworth, poverty. | EC

PHOTOS BY LISA GUIRSCH

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

PORTLAND OREGON IT READ

"Portland Oregon" it read
Are we almost there?
Si Mijo, We're almost there.
My hands tremble
Is it the chill in the air?
No — It's cause I'm scared
Scared of these streets
Scared of the distance
Scared of the Unknown
I want to go back home.

Raindrops sliding to the side
Freshness is the air
Sadness lingers in the sky
But, Is it really sadness?
No — I think ...
It's just a different town.
Another country.

Where are we dad?
This bridge we're crossing
Is the heart of La cuidad
See that reindeer on the sign?
What does it remind you of?
It reminds me of Navidad.

Cars come and go
Buildings transform,
They get bigger
The seed of curiosity starts to grow
The rain stops
Sunshine begins to glow
The air carries a different scent
A scent that I do not know
Warm ...
A glimpse of hope
Yet still ...
I miss my old home.

FINAL NARRATIVE #1

"We have arrived to the heart of Portland." I hear my father saying, "We have arrived to the heart of Portland." The sign was there, "Portland Oregon" it read, so imposing with its magnificent reindeer in the middle, the sign of the city. It's so different, I remember the nine year old me thinking; I never seen a reindeer in real life, are these animals a regular sight here? I want to pet one up close.

I remember the rain, it's always raining, and the sky is gray, no longer blue. The air is a lot colder than that at home. The scent smells of trees, it's fresh, even when we are in the heart of the city. I hear my dad saying that Oregon is our new home now and that when I grow up and graduate from college I would be able to afford living in Portland.

A sudden thought of sadness invades my mind and my body reacts to it as well, I get cold, my hands tremble, my heartbeat quickens, I feel homesick. I just got here and I'm already missing my old life in Mexico, then I remind myself that I cannot go back there no more, that this place is my new home now. We continue down on Burnside Street, we have not yet crossed the entire city when the weather abruptly changes, the rain stops and the sun emerges from the massive grayness of the sky. I'm fascinated by this strange phenomenon. Then again, I hear my father's voice telling me this is normal, "it's Oregon" he says, "one moment could be raining, snowing, another moment could be sunny then go back to rain" all in the same day.

TONIGHT …

This poem was inspired by the class exercise we did. It may not be a geopoem but just felt the need to share.

Tonight, we all have a second chance
Tonight, the bullet does not exist
Tonight, the Police forget about guns
Tonight, we bury nothing
tonight, we turn to our hearts
Tonight, we ask God for forgiveness
Tonight, brothers in the streets shake hands
Tonight, we shed no tears
tonight, we have no fears
Tonight, our sacrifices and struggles have meaning
Tonight, we find a new beginning
Tonight, we finally have healing.

THOSE ONCE NEGLECTED

All the urban development in Oregon
Cannot erase poverty
Cannot erase racism and discrimination
Cannot provide liberty
To those from their neighborly nation
Immigrants no longer have security

It all started in 2009
Basic civil rights have been denied
No more license to illegals
How is my father supposed to provide?

Certain things
never change,
they stay the same

Once again.
We gather everything in plastic bags
Time to say our good byes

Life goes on
We need to learn to move on
I hear my father's voice
Vancouver is our new home

The air here smells lighter It makes me feel inspired
This new city is different
Strangely, it makes me feel connected
Here, the Public offices provide services
To those once neglected

FINAL NARRATIVE #2
LOCATION: I-5 BRIDGE

This was my daily commute, after a long day at work I'm finally on my way home. Like many others who live between two states, crossing this bridge to go to work or to go Shopping was a customary thing. We know the best times for crossing the bridge and avoid getting trapped by traffic every time it got raised. when entering this bridge I could sense the difference of vibe lingering in the air.

The two cities are so closed, eternally intertwined. and yet, indisputably separated by an unforgiving divider, the Columbia River. Portland is always so busy, always moving and full of many different people, cars, buildings, and bridges. In contrast, Vancouver is more serene, calmer, different. Here you pump your own gas, you drive faster on highways, yet you see less cars, and yes, you pay sales taxes on everything. But overall, the quiet. Vancouver feels more a resting place, it feels like home.

Reading the Mill Plain sign on the bridge revitalizes my senses. Suddenly energy revives through my mind and body, strength returns to my limbs. I'm no longer fired in spite of having just worked several hours. Possibilities emerge in my mind. What will I do today? I consider going to winter Park with my girl, no, I just remember that I need to go to Clark's library and finish my homework before they close. So in the end. I end up taking the Fourth Plain exit.

LOCATION: PARK ROSE HIGH SCHOOL SOCCER FIELD
HAPPY SUNDAYS — NARRATIVE #3

Mornings full of laughter, joy and all sorts of happy memories come to mind when I see this picture. I chose this particular location because it brings me back to some of the happiest childhood memories I have. My father used to Play soccer in a league on the weekend. Every Sunday morning my brothers and I would ready our soccer cleats, I would get my skateboard too and get on my dad's truck. He would pick up my cousins and make our way to the school's soccer fields, while my dad and older brother were playing, we would play on the grass, on the side of the field and as soon as the adults were done playing, we, Kids ran into the field to Kick some ball while we waited go get some food.

Seeing this photograph. Makes me feel nostalgic and at the same time grateful for being able to have good memories of happiness engraved in mine and my brother's minds. Looking at the picture also reminds me of how much everything has changed, I almost didn't recognize the place at first instance, but then after a few moments I was finally able to remember those Sunday mornings.

Ultimately, this photo shows a personal history for my family, myself and many others who have been in this neighborhood and that have played soccer in this same field. It is a great place to create good memories and a sense of community, (place and memory.) | MC

PHOTOS BY LANELLE ROWE

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

LOCATION: SELF ENHANCEMENT INC

Smell of the hot coffee in the car
Sade playing on my first day of school
Cold wet day
Comforted by the warmth of a mother’s hug
Children chanting —
“S-E-I What time is it?!
It’s time to get loud, it’s time to represent!”
Hearing the scraping sounds of backpacks hanging from a child’s back
As they rush in the doors as if there was free money inside
Through the doors, behind the dark tint
Lies the future of the community!
Lies the future of the world!

LOCATION: JEFFERSON HIGH SCHOOL

Sauntering towards the gym
Tasting the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and Sour Patch candy
From KC’s Market
Doors open hearing faint noises of basketballs
Dribbling over the sounds of teens laughing
Smelling the weed from the car driving by
Music playing loud as stadium speakers
In the latest retros
As if Jordan was there to sign them
Feeling the ashy hands of the homies
As we greet each other
Like we were kings of comedy
Girls staring
Nose turned up
Smacking on bubblegum
Like it’s their last meal on earth
I can only smile
I feel right at home
Home of the demos!

ROSE FROM CONCRETE
LOCATION: PENINSULA PARK

This place was a place for gathering. As a child I recall festive birthday parties, smoky bbqs in the sun and loving wedding photos taken on these, now tarnished, brick stairs. Also met girls here thinking I was grown. I would walk my dog past, pulling him from climbing the brick stairs because he’d pee on them leaving them smelling like sour milk.

People may see this area and might not know its purpose but that’s the beauty of the black culture, black spaces are fluid and  multi purposeful. Just behind the camera there is the most bright red beautiful rose garden during the summers. This area makes me think of blossoming love from the amount of times I’ve seen people connect here and families that still exist due to this space. Trees around it that have been rooted long before my time, with the sweet faint smells of roses. No matter how many roses you pick to give to someone they’ll always regrow as if they were freshly planted. Just as the black folks that lived in this area, everlasting. We gather, we love, we play and we grow no matter what. And they wonder how a rose can grow so beautiful through the concrete reality of black culture.

HOME OF THE DEMOS
LOCATION: JEFFERSON HIGH SCHOOL

My home comes from the Demos! This school has run through my bloodline for generations. The men played basketball here just through those blue doors. The blue doors that represent the love and comfort within a black space that help grow a generation. Everything still looking the same, except the new cameras and a sign prohibiting firearms. So I wonder is there still love here? Could the sign be the representation of a bigger problem in the Albina community? Just as the street cracks, displacement from this community causes a divide amongst black spaces.

It is the gym that has open bigger doors in life. A small gym with stands on both sides of the court. Players jumping out the gym with spectacular dunks making it to the NBA. Coaches directing and calling plays through the loud sounds of spectators in the stands. But nowadays, the coaches direct in stadiums.

Without the black culture, this school would be average. The way we chant…”DEMOS! ... You know!”, the way we express art through music and design. Most people couldn’t tell you what a democrat is in relation to the design on the gym building but represent it like a diehard football fan. Home of the Demos, also known as, Home of the Culture.

YEAR ROUND
LOCATION: SELF ENHANCEMENT INC

This place brings back memories of me as a child attending middle school here, after school programs and even summer programs. I feel good looking at this photo remembering all of the good times and bad times. The time I met my brother here who also attended, the moment my mother informed me she was moving away, my first fist fights, and friends that have passed away that I've grown with here. This building, inside and out, was a safe place for black people in Portland. Majority of those attending or working here were black and can relate to black issues. In this space, families and those in the Community knew S.E.I. was a place for children of color to have fun and be themselves. Something very meaningful in this photo is the person in their car in the pick-up/ drop off area in front because this was the visual of my first day being dropped off here. Looking at this photo, who’s to tell the time of day, noticing the light on the side of the building? It could be very early or later in the day speaking to the openness of the facility to the Community. Any day, every day this black Space was year round. | TC

PHOTOS BY JILL FISHER

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

NARRATIVE: THE PARK.

No matter what the event —  a holiday, a picnic, or just gathering for the sake of gathering it was always deep-rooted in the spirit of love and festivity. It did not seem to matter if you would gathered on a holiday: Memorial Day; the Fourth of July; or sometime just a family member's birthday, the spirit of the gathering always seemed to stay the same, with these unspoken connections with the people in the park.

Peninsula Park nestled in the heart of North Portland, with its lush green lawns served the Albina neighborhood as a gathering place. Maple —or maybe they were Oak, and Pine trees, majestically distributed throughout the park, standing like giant sentries watching over us all. Some days you would smell fresh cut grass or the subtle aroma of the Rose Garden. The Rose Garden circled a large water fountain — that somedays served as your spur-of-the-moment swimming pool.

A huge wooden gable hung over the picnic area's asphalt surface-providing shelter and protection in case of rain; strategically placed electrical outlets and waterspouts sprang from the asphalt; industrial green painted picnic tables-that would soon be covered with multicolor table cloths, the benches attached to both sides of the tables appeared as if they were floating on air.

Peninsula Park's MVP (Most Visible Prize): its Gazebo. The brick and wooden octagon shaped structure stood, almost dead-center in the park; the four multi-shades of red brick risers, circle the Gazebo as if they were compass points. Rising from the field of lush green grass, the Gazebo overlooked the Rose Garden and Fountain. The slanted angles of the roof, topped by ornate corbels of a circular-spire-ring appeared to be wearing a jeweled crown. The Gazebo would often times serve as music central for the festivities. Four-foot tower speakers, turntable, Pioneer amplifiers, reel-to-reel tape player-for extended play; orange-creates of albums that would keep the atmosphere vibrating in harmony with the soulful laughter.

Often times multi-families gathered together around the Gazebo and under the picnic shelter. Families not necessarily related by blood-always interrelated in the Essence of Black Loved. The smell of charcoal starter fluid mixed in with the aromatic scent of the pine trees, as the orange flames dance across the BBQ-grills.

You would see the elders being acknowledged and loved on, as they chill out in one of the multi- colored aluminum framed beach chairs. Positioned in a way that seemed to tell a story without a word being spoken. You would hear all sorts of stories and tales: stories about fishing trips-how big the one- was-that-got-away; stories about back home in the Deep South; stories about Guilds Lake, Vanport, Albina and the likes; stories about the best ever heavyweight fights.

Children running around, playing on the slides and swings, or wading in the pool, all under the watchful eyes of every adult in the park. And the pre-adult, you know the ones, those young ladies that had the unscripted duty to pay close attention to what the women were doing. Because this is one of their classrooms for when they would be the caretaker of these gatherings.

NARRATIVE: THE CORNER STORE.

I have fond memories of going to Maxie's store (Now Going Street Market), as a child. Clara Mae, my mother, imposed physical travel restrictions on me based on my age, not fictional or imaginary boundaries, they were real and served a purpose. As a young child we lived in the 400 block of N. Blandena, between Haight and Commercial, however, my designated range of travel stopped at North Albina, North Killingsworth, North Vancouver, and N. Skidmore. If you are not from Portland these street names have no meaning this was the center of the African-American neighborhood, the Albina District. While these boundaries served multiple purposes, the main one was safety, mom'ma did not want me crossing a busy street unescorted. The risk of being struck by a car was real. So, between 5-9-years-old, I had already been escorted to this side of North Vancouver.

Maxie's was within walking distance from my Auntie's house, she lived on the corner of North Vancouver & Going. Maxie's took up the opposite corner on Williams & Going- a two-story wooden square building, with double doors that welcomed you into a kid friendly space. Geneva's Barber Shop occupied the North end of the building. There was a side door that led up to an apartment on top of the store.

I don't remember ever going to Maxie's by myself. As kids we seemed to travel in packs — four or five of us excited to go spend our change. It did no good to have a list or spend a lot of time thinking about what to buy. We knew, the minute we crossed that old wooden threshold of them double-doors, Mrs. Maxie would have us all in her loving and caring sights. And would certainly be ready to help you decide what you wanted. Now, this was not like being forced to spend my money on candy that I didn't want, it was more of a lesson on being prepared when you came into the store. One thing I look back on now with appreciation, is the fact that all of the candy was situated in a way that was convenient for kids. The candy was arranged in a panoramic view, that allowed my eyes to be full, as I scanned the multiple ways to spend my $0.47 -Now or Later, Charms, Jolly Ranchers, Tootsie-Rolls, Bazooka Bubble-Gum; Pixie-Sticks- and a host of others sweet-thangs. The sweetest thing about this adventure is picking out what I wanted.

Exiting the store, leaving the smell of fresh-baked bread and the sugary aroma of mixed produce, you could always count on some kind words from both Mr. & Mrs. Maxie and the inquiry about how's your mother and family were doing. Maxie's Market, was the corner store that was an integral part of the community's heartbeat.

NARRATIVE: THE SPOT — FISHING WITH LOVE

Swan Island, located in North Portland's industrial area, is part of the Willamette slough. An integral part of Oregon's contribution to the ship building for America's war machine in the 1930s-40s. Which also increased the African American population in the Portland Albina District. Our fishing spot was also home to a decommissioned navy submarine, that reeked with the smell of diesel fuel and other industrial chemicals. An old dirty-stained floating buoy snaked around the submarine to contain the diesel and oil that oozes from it. The sun illuminated oily shimmering rainbows floating on the surface of water.

Swan Island holds some special memories-as a fishing spot. It was also a spot that my step-dad, Clarence, would take "the boys' ' on an impromptu fishing trek. Clarence, affectionate called "Pops'' by me and my brothers living at home, was a stout Black man with a wide smile that exposed a gold crowned tooth, he always smelled of Óld Spice Cologne; clean shaven, with a square box haircut, he spoke with a slight Alabama inflection, with a laugh that put you at ease. It was on these fishing excursions that Pops would impart his words of wisdom and life experiences.

Those adventures to Swan Island have two distinct memories and characteristics. Being a fishing hole, it was within walking distance from my house in North Portland. It was also a place that as kids we found a sense of independence and freedom. Being allowed to walk to this place, without any adults, was quite liberating. It also demonstrated that our parent trusted that we would look out for each other when we were away from their eye-sight.

Going to Swan Island with my step-dad was a different vibe altogether. These trips were more about having conversations that were full of life lessons and resiliency. I remember that each of these fishing adventures would start off with a trip to Maxie's or Leonard's store(s), to buy crackers, sardines, baloney or some other lunch meat, and soda-pops. I don't remember catching a lot of fish at Swan Island for the time spent there. However, I do remember being around my friends and step-dad.

It was more about building these family and community connection and memories. Memories that I am now able to call upon to bring joy into the grieving process. It was not always about catching fish.

BEING IN / AT THAT PARK ...

The smell of the fresh cut grass, dancing with the B-B-Q
Smoke.
The roar on a cloud of laughter after one of Uncle Billy's wild
Jokes.
Hearing the different conversations about life's joys &
pains.
Everybody relieved that our gathering wasn't spoiled by
rain.
Seeing the genuine smiles formed across the faces of old
friends.
As they greet each other with that ol' familiar inquiry: How have you
been?
Old friends and family that haven't gathered since last
year.
Getting caught up on life's changes over a nice cold
beer.
The parks of my youth: Peninsula, Unthank, Irvington, Alberta and
Pier.
Looming large in my heart-soul memories of places I hold Near and
Dear

PENNY CANDY … GONE STREET MARKET. (III)

Crossing the wooden threshold, you are greeted with
the warm welcoming smiles on Mr. & Mrs. Maxie
accented by the aromas of fresh bread, mixed in with
the smells of fruits and vegetables ...

Your eyes drawn to the panoramic view of penny —
candy arranged with kids in mind... kids that seemed
to always arrive in groups... Even now the memories
of the assortments of sweets makes the mouth water.

I hear the store is not the same ...
An old white lady stands behind the counter and don't even know the smiling kids' names ... That she has been suspiciously watching. ever since their little feet crossed
the wooden threshold ...

The black security bars imply the distrust of the strangers —
gentrification-occupying the neighborhood, strangers without a care for kindness
— just a made-up empty smile. A smile that read - why are you in my store...?

There is no more penny candy spread out for the kids
to pick from ... I imagine a lot of things
are gone from the corner stores, especially the
people that loved the Black Community.

THE WHITE BOARD’S VOICED THIS …

I was standing still,
My imagination inspired

By the smell of barbeque chicken and Voodoo doughnuts ...
a social gathering in the Black Community

I watched the elders getting loved on ...
mothers crying tears of joy because of the way
Everybody took care of one another,

Even with the history of generational trauma, poverty
lack of economic stimulation, and suppression of hope ...
The Park ... The Gazebo ... The Sheltered Picnic Area,
provides a living-breathing-hopeful configuration for this community.

I was standing still, watching, listening —
appreciating the multiethnicity, as the spirit and soul of the ancestors danced, among the laughter and aroma of Aunt Ida's Collard greens.
The gazebo-unyielding situated like an urban asgard.

I was still standing waiting for the developmental maturation for healing by means of A Love Supreme.
A manifest destiny and empowerment will spring from these community gatherings...Capturing the rhythmic ancestral
spirit-oscillating vibrations on the Cosmic melodic waves of now ... | SLJ

PHOTOS BY LANELLE ROWE

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

BRIDGE UNDER WATER
GEOPOEM 3

Soar through the sky, this edifice full of frames
Suspended in a stasis, cursed with servitude
It’s face, a trampled fate, a tragic preclude
Peer into the murky mirror and imbibe mendacity
Know not the vision of your sol of souls
The clutch of society will cripple your tale
To make itself whole
Parcels, receipts, and barcodes
The barrage is ceaseless, concede and conform
Who is the arbiter of the social norm
Imagine yourself a savior in a myriad of forms
The power of thought, we are all the chosen one
Learn to learn and listen to reconnect
That child within cries out to direct
Onward towards purpose, we must harken this spark
From up on high
The essence of the world doesn’t belong in the dark
Ventilate thine reservoir and refuse to cry
Usher in creativity through the obstacles of life
Pry open the eyes to the blessings of strife
The sweetness of night, miracles raining down on slums
But none shall be free until the ways of old are done
This domain will humble if you only look close
Fall into the tide, allow your potential to float
Let it rise to new heights, cease all language of blight

Seize the freefall, this enchanting vantage point
Splendiferous rapture, beloved forever flight
Break open your voices for your future is ready to anoint
Do not wish to be seen or saw, pray to have sight
Yearn for your birthright

DECLENSION ASCENSION

Human nature does evermore publish itself. We tend to fall into this illusion of thinking that we are above the natural sequence simply because we are the dominant species of this planet. Our dominion feeds us this beguiling and surreptitious fallacy, as we crawl through such fast paced lives, addicted to the neverending stimulation that our technology impresses upon us. The vastness of this abyss, so full of whispering options, options whose cacophonies disorient and lead the innocent soul astray. A vastness that desensitizes, as we move further and further away from the shores of finite miracles that surround us in each passing moment. Assuage the heart of our world that cries out earnestly, desperate for reconnection, begging us to close this rift that we ourselves have erected with hands that abuse and hoard her resources. Our cities engulf and scar her ceaselessly.

Is this crystalized paradox a gradual self destruction or is this a testament to our creativity and ingenuity? Which side of the plane shall we glide; the side that sinks into the darkest of depths, or the side that rises beyond the horizon and into the heavens. For when one reality manifests, its antithesis is forced into existence. Alas, we are blessed with the authority to choose and so I beseech you, consider this common poison in the core of Portland. This is a place of frequent jubilee, peer into the tapestry of unyielding brick that is humble and stubborn. Remnants of the Mother linger in a state of depression, clinging to sorrow, refusing to vanish. Giant that pale in comparison to humanity's true capabilities, surrounding them with their foreboding bodies. They are the resistance to die. See the separation, witness how we manufacture pain. Surely, the things we build are emblematic of our capacity to harness the elements, our creations are symbols, evidence of a creator, the mere definition of magic. Yet in many ways we need humbling. Simply observing the ways of the natural world should be enough to humble any and every one of us. The humility, the harmony and the willingness to coexist. The rise and fall of the tides, the graceful transitions of the seasons. Though we are unworthy, the sun and the stars return again and again to guide us, taking turns bowing to the sea, only to rise and fall again. How much greater is this sequence than the glory of our creations? Creations that will only crumble and fade. Again, human nature seems to evermore publish itself, and yet we are lost in a sea of accomplishment in a pit of grandiosity. The sea and the sky themselves are nothing special, only pieces. We, ourselves, are only pieces. This is my perspective, let it be steeped in staccato.

CULTURAL PRECISION

What is it about the appearance of a thing that coerces us to associate its core with its exterior? Is it possible to glean all there is to know of ourselves through first impression and presentation? If so then this would explain why we go to such lengths to maintain our self image, why these places that aid us in this process hold such value. Then again, the sub-stratums of aesthetics are complex and powerful; they can be wielded causing enamorment and authority. There exists a deep seated need to project, to establish ourselves within reality by way of expression, even if that means creating our own reality. Is expression the only worthy validation?

The placemakers of the world; are they the sole curators of such splendor? We seek out these inculcating chambers that coax the core self to the fore, allowing it to shine as bright as any Star. Without Self. awareness reality is dimensionless. This desire to express is not our own, it is evolutionary and phenomenal by nature. It allows us to detect and experience the peaks of novelty that nourishes our Souls, reveals itself in our way of life; as in culture. We yearn most for Self. love and so we search for our reflections by day, we Conjure them up by night. Style and taste are Signposts that call to us. The child who grows to identify. "This is me," they say. “Will the world approve of me or will I suffer my greatest fear, alienation?" "Am I even real? How do I know that I matter? Please, just let me matter.”

Self presentation can be evidence of our internal status. As we grow and maneuver through the stages of development, this sense of self intensifies, our need to feel real is amplified. Who decides what is feasible, who is the arbiter of conception? The drama of creation is incomplete without infinite expression, meaning expression is fundamental. For a time we care not for the observations of strangers then we learn to depend on external sources for our bliss. These places that aid us on this abstract journey towards self actualization are vital. Culture is light perceiving light as consciousnesses coalesce to produce extraordinary things. Our capacity to perceive is enhanced by the caprice of experience. marvel at the detail, at the prowess of a hand.

BRIDGE UNDER WATER

What ever happened to those childhood eyes that could peer into the realm of possibility with ease? Those eyes, impervious to doubt, never to be encumbered by the veil of pretense and ego. Is it fate that implores us to embrace what we must become? Products of a world that shocks and seduces the conscience with sociological pressures until we are left with no choice but to conform. How does one withstand such an unrelenting barrage of judgment of labeling without becoming lost? Must we submit to indoctrination as the only means to a content end or is there more to this life than contentment?

I beckon you, assume the posture of Portland’s St John Bridge. Selfless in the sense that it carries many burdens as they tax day after day. Noble, as it performs the mandate that was given to it by ancient architects. Its strength lies within its foundation, pulsing through its being as it embodies the nature of a pillar. But those who use it care not for the turmoil within its heart for it years for expression that only exists outside the bounds of its archaic form, limited by itself. It protested the setting sun and its back burned by day, the burns intensified by ungrateful traction. Its only friend is an obscure reflection provided by a river, murky and full of distortion from local life. The river taunts the bridge with uncertainty even when its waters are calm, and yet it was the very existence of the river that gave rise to its creation. The St. John’s Bridge, a thing of sorrow and humility. | RJ

PHOTOS BY LANELLE ROWE

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

NARRATIVE #1
THE STAIRS

I wanted to take a photo of the place I call "The Stairs" because it was a place I used to go to in my childhood when I needed some time to myself to think.

I loved going to this spot because it was on the outskirts of the hood where I wouldn't see many police cars, gang bangers, dope fiends or hear & lot of noise.

Looking at this photo I immediately felt connected back to The Stairs. I remembered some of the things I thought about, found solutions for and even cried about at this place. It was my place, my sanctuary, a place that gave me comfort.

When I was at The Stairs, I always sat at the top of The Stairs because it allowed me to get a glimpse of the top of downtown Portland, and the surrounding hillside that displayed tall red and white antennas with the red lights blinking at the top. The magnificent flowers, roses and blooming shrubs caressed my nostrils with an array of scents that soothed my soul - providing more comfort and relaxation.

The Stairs is a space that's open to the public. It is a place that I like to go to, but anybody is welcomed there. For me, this place keep me connected to the community because there's a lot of good and bad memories there, but it allowed me to process my thoughts and build there as well. This is what I think of the most when I look at this photo.

One day, I hope my family members and friends will visit this place when I pass away. This is a place in my heart where a lot of memories will forever stay. At The stairs

GEOPOEM #1
THE STAIRS

This is the place where I find peace
Here, intricate thoughts are born free
Ways to solve my problems never cease
Whether it's in the summer breeze
The scent of sweet flowers
Roses and Bark dust
Or the crisp clean air in the winter
Wet vegetation smelling fresh
Feeling the caress of the street lights
At night, giving a relaxing glow
I love coming here though
To think things through
Compartmentalizing as I stay focused on what's important
Because Portland City streets can consume your soul
Literally
I want to grow old
But during the 90s
Gang banging was taking its toll
That's why I loved sitting here
On The Stairs
Alone
Alone
Alone
Consumed in my own thoughts
Contemplating on all that I've lost
Things I want to gain
I was tired of losing my friends
Seeing them lying in pools of blood
So many shootings, death and funerals
I often wondered
Is this day the day I take my last breath?
Or does God have a special plan for me?
The Stairs is a place where I can reset
Pick apart my struggles
Develop plans and solutions
A place where I discovered
That I'm not useless
I'm a force to be reckoned with
Where I'm at today in my life
Proves it
The time I spent at The Stairs weren't in vain
I still use the concepts I used there to map out my life
Helping others along the way in my journey
I am thankful for my experiences and blessings
God's special plan coming to fruition
My desire to learn, share and teach others to DREAM BIIG
Will keep me working towards progressing
Elevating my mind and many others
It all began at this sacred place
A black placement place for me
I call
The Stairs.

NARRATIVE #2
GENTRIFICATION

The reason why I chose this photo is because it was the home I grew up in in Portland, Oregon, in the 80's and 90's. During this time the city of Portland were redlining blacks and beginning the gentrification process to push blacks out of North and Northeast Portland.

I have so many good and bad memories in this house. After seeing this house for the first time after 27-years for our PSU Photovoice Project, a lot of emotions ran through me. I remembered having to cut the small patch of grass in the front of the house with one of those old push lawn mowers with two wheels that had circular blades, trimming hedges, sitting on the concrete square in front of the house as cars passed while me and my little cousins used to say:  "When I get older I want to get this car or that car” the connection the house had with my family and friends. Our house was a safe place for friends to come play pool, video games and socialize in our basement.

This house was the meeting place to celebrate birthdays and holidays for our family too. Our family had so much fun in this house. Another thing I thought about was the window upstairs. It was an unfinished room that no one really used except me. I loved looking out the window staring at downtown Portland at night.

This house was being rented by my aunt from a black homeowner. He was selling the house to some white people so we had to bounce, the rent kept going up so my aunt couldn't keep up with the rent increases because she was on Section 8. Thinking back on it, gentrification was in full swing.

I want people to know that gentrification is real and blacks are always being pushed around and controlled when urban renewal is in motion. However, during my studies, I learned that Portland isn't the only city that has used urban renewal tactics to displace black Communities in the United States. There are a lot of black communities coast to coast have experienced urban renewal, such as Little Rock, AK, New Orleans, Tulsa, OK, etc, just to name a few.

It is important for blacks to understand the ramifications of gentrification and how the Portland Development Commission, now Prosper Portland, launched numerous urban renewal projects to remove black Portlander's from thriving in our community. The City of Portland did not only take a lot of properties and businesses from us, they also stripped us of our history and wealth.

Even though my aunt wasn't buying the house, we were still pushed out due to the hiking of rent so we couldn't afford to live in the area. So, when you look at this house, I want you to know that it was just another casualty to urban renewal/gentrification.

GEOPOEM #2
GENTRIFICATION

The house I grew up in on 16th and Prescott
In Portland, Oregon
Are full of good and bad memories
But they are cherished
I remembered the smell of pine
When I approached the front door
I thought about the laughter I heard often
Inside our home
Then I instantly thought about gentrification
The process to push the blacks out of our neighborhood
their urban renewal plan
White racists pressing
The Portland Development Commission
Now Prosper Portland, destroying black communities
Stealing homes, businesses, land, history and wealth
Imagine what our lives would look like
If we weren't uprooted
Provided with equal opportunities
Our race would shine so bright
Like the North Star
Securing
economic empowerment
Instead, we were economically forced out
Redlining was practiced against us
We know what the real problem is
Face it!
These muthafuckas is racist
Continuously displacing
To control us, and the landscape in Portland
Our home was a casualty in the WAR
Prosper Portland
The City of Portland
Bow your head in shame
As I survey other states in this country
I see the same thing
When black communities are prosperous
Vibing
Vibing
Vibing
Showing unity and strong community
We are victims of racism.
Urban renewal
Gentrification
Displacement
See white investors purchasing black homes
It's the same ole thing
Gentrification

NARRATIVE #3
NEW COMMUNITY

I was born and raised in Northeast Portland and ended up joining Woodlawn Park Blood Gang in 1992, Woodlawn Park has a lot of blood on its hand, unfortunately I played a role in tearing down our black community by participating in gang banging with people who share the same skin complexion as me (black).

During the 90's I saw a lot of my friends get shot & killed. I went to so many funerals as an active gang banger and it hurt to see your friend’s mother crying because her son was murdered — shot down in the streets from gang banging.

Even today, 30 years later, blacks are still being gunned down in the streets representing Woodlawn Park Blood Gang. This vicious cycle of violence being perpetuated by our own black community needs to STOP.

In my new vision of Woodlawn Park, I see a way to turn things around so our youth and community as a whole can benefit. In this vision, I see Woodlawn Park full of tents, concession stands and tables promoting an array of education and resources, such as: business, personal finance, credit building, housing, real estate, investing strategies, banking, music, gang prevention, mothers against gun violence, etc.

In my vision, we'd host three events & year in Woodlawn Park every four months. We can build a better community amongst our race by providing resources that can lead to unity, economic empowerment, and decrease in black on black violence.

Seeing our people mingling, shaking hands, giving hugs and showing communalism will strengthen our culture. The only way for us to have a great positive impact on reducing gun violence in our community is through unity, education, job/ business opportunities, resources and a lot of credible messengers from local gangs stamping the streets interacting with our youth.

Woodlawn Park doesn't have to remain a name that has caused so much pain to many families in our community, we can turn the negative stigma around and make it a hub that hosts positive events.

Having these sort of events can bring back that close knit unity we had back in the day in the Albina district where we had a strong community of black people with homes, business and respect amongst one another. Woodlawn Park could be the beginning to recreating that connection of new community. | DM

PHOTOS BY RACHEL GUIRSCH

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

NIGHTMARES AND DREAMS NARRATIVE

My home, black, love, hope and prosperity through the struggle. Joy, happiness, sorrow and sadness, yet still a sense of belonging, the smell of douglas firs blowing in the wind, the Sight of sunshine glowing down multiplying the contrast of the natural landscape. Before the vicissitude effects of gentrification ensued this street was the ghetto wakanda for real! Surreal in nature, all the exotic vessels flying up and down the street. There wasn't an unlimited amount of vibranium, but due to the explosion of the crack cocaine era of the 1980's, 240 and unquantifiable amounts of the disastrous substance around. That false sense of economic opportunity created the nightmare & the dream in One notion. This black community was very private, and outsiders were not welcome. Law enforcement was always a clear n’ present threat, and police patrolling was everyday. Now that I'm in my adulthood, the damage that was done is now understood. The external overview looked like a dream. This tight knit community wasn't really what it seemed. Gentrification superseded crack by far, displacing blacks far and wide. Ironically the neighborhood looked more livable pre gentrification, from what this photo entails, overall I see a healing process taking place on this street. When I return to the one home my family has left, we will revitalize and start back reconstructing 24th prosperity through black struggle is testament the dream can be revived once the blueprint is revised.

NIGHTMARES AND DREAMS NARRATIVE
GEO POEM

Nightmares and dreams I protest are the opposites nightmares and dreams
I regress, they are synonymous

Nightmares, are bittersweet on 24th Street
nightmares, we're steady living while we snore sleep.

Nightmares I see, even when I open my eyes.
Why are we dying to live, if we're just living to die.

Am I... am I a sheer product of environment my propensity for genocidal tendencies, I deeply inspire in

adminirin’, the sound of the steel click on the fire pen
expirin', rounds spit until sirens

am I a tyrant ? … or just the gatekeeper of this urban asgard
if I truly knew the answer to this question, why bother to ask yall

is it all... societally constructed by design.
its long been gentrified, yet we still die for this street sign
Senseless "Vie", can be transformed into a sense of pride
When stars align and black love, what once was, can be revived

but not without dreams... in reverence to ?
dreams…endeavors of what can be,

The Dreams of a new wakanda
the dreams where poverty, racism, and ignorance upsconds US

the dreams of kings and queens prospering in their true essence no police presence, oppression, disguised under the lies of protection

The dreams that exist in the abyss without no weapons
my suggestion, I insist in deep reflection

nightmares and dreams coincide but collide to form as one
confliction from inside has improvised and left me numb

Now as I speak, the Dream perseveres,
Dreams of a better future, I am seeing clear

NARRATIVE #2
PAST PROSPERITY

In the 90's. MLK & Fremont was the epitome of black resistance, black business, and black community. A place to come and see unity. A place where black place making, made the very place thrive. MLK & Fremont was lined with black businesses on both sides of the street before gentrification of course. Was gentrification even a word then? If so, black folks were oblivious to the notion. Sitting right in the middle of this strip was the MLK shoe store. What other way would you solidify a thriving black community? With black fashion! The MLK shoe store. Peering in from the outside window, you would see all the latest footwear lining the walls with urban artwork displayed on the background walls. This was a popular post of the past that symbolizes success of that time and my uncle was one of many proud owners of these endeavors, paying homage to our ancestors that paid the ultimate price so that we can prosper. I can still feel the essence of the times from the smell of burritos from quickies mart right next door, to the sounds of 90's golden era Hip-Hop booming from the passing car systems. All you saw were black folks. If someone was to time travel from now and inform us then, of what was to come. No one would have ever seen, nor believed this...the historical footprint still remains. The few black businesses that still reside in this circumference are testaments to the
resiliency and perseverance that black Portlanders have. This history should be preserved to tell the history of Portland in totality.

PAST PROSPERITY

Past …
What is the past?

Is the past simply just a conceptualization
Of time that has passed?

Sort of like aerial vessel flying by …
Leaving behind a kem trail as evidence of its existence

Or is the past like the root, deeply embedded in the soil
Giving life to the tree, to be…prosperity

Should the past symbolize posterity?
Since the past is behind us

Or should it symbolize prosperity?
For the past to remind us …

Of the severities of conditions that seemed to find us
But clearly didn’t define us

The past could be e
Equated to, the passing of the baton

Assuming that the past
And the pass, are even synonymous

NARRATIVE #3
THE HEART OF THE HOOD

The heart of the hood. Quick Trip. Small, tight knit black community. Quick Trip is thee equivalent to the demilitarized zone (DMZ) a small cease fire zone between North and South Korea. The tainted orange color of this fairly modern building represented something omnipresent in all urban neighborhoods. A unique safe space in the middle of this black community where, despite the contrary, is a place where little and often no harm is afflicted amongst peers. This is a place where black folks innately come to connect. Where everyone acknowledges one another even if it was non-verbal, while others negotiated and displayed communalism to the highest degree. I still recall times when you would see folks that lived in north, and southeast Portland meeting at the quick trip. These simple, but yet monumental stops frequently consisted of orange juice, backwoods, and newports...the smell of newports and urban herbal essence them backwoods were filled with combined with sight of black independent artist standing in front of the storefront selling and promoting their music. I would give a head nod in acknowledgement as I walked by, a symbolism of mutual respect that is universally known in most, if not all African American communities across this country, while the street entrepreneurs comb the block with their car trunks open, serving as portable swap meets providing DVD's, clothes, electronics, and appliances. Defining the true essence of a quick trip for real! The overbearing aroma of Popeye's chicken in the air was quintessential to the thriving pulsation of this heart. The pulsation of the heart of the hood .... | KF

PHOTOS BY KAY JOHNSON

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

HOME

Home is the scent of my grandma’s cookin’ something from
scratch
Or the loud smell of Bleach from her scrubbing her floors
on her hands n’ knees
Home is Candy N Brick barkin’ everytime someone passes by
Candy is a red nose Pit n’ Brick is Just Brick
Loud bark but candy had a vicious bite
Home is my pops waking me up for school asking me
is it sharp or colobo
He already knows what I say so he lays my favorite
outfit for the day
A fresh button up, with some 501 jeans but it’s my fake
Snake skin cowboy boots that sets off everything
Home is mandatory family meetings on the weekend
You wanna show yo azz and best believe
You were getting 3 of the best, Mr Bizness wasn’t no
Joke you have screaming n’ crying like you’re
Losin’ a piece of your soul
Damn what I would do to eat my grandmother’s home
Cookin’ hear the dogs ‘outside barkin’ or my pops
Telling me to keep alive n’ I still have time
Home is where my heart secretly yearns to be
in the moment home is right in front of me

KING
NARRATIVE

I am proud to say that I’m tru King School Baby! I attended every grade from kindergarten up to the 5th grade. My first grade teacher name was Mrs. Dorcey, she was a sweet ol’ lady who loved all her students equally regardless of the color of their skin. Belonging to her class gave you a sense of honor and pride. It was a privilege to say you were in Mrs. Dorcey's class.

3rd grade is when my teachers started noticing I was struggling academically. As a child I always felt inadequate intellectually. I believe that’s why I was acting out my feelings of anger, fear, and shame. I had many fights on the playground associated because of this.

At King school you definitely had to prove you belong. A predominantly all  Black school wasn’t nobody getting any pass.

Me and my friends who would hang out after school and wait until everybody would leave the building. Then we would climb all the way to the roof-top. Even though we were all young and had no business being up there we all had the foresight to see how beautiful and peaceful it was up there, I felt free.

Walking to and from school was always an adventure. Skipping class to go to Jack’s Store for some fried chicken n’ jojo’s. King School is one of Portland’s well known Black schools. Many generations of Black families have attended there. Majority of these families no longer live in the King district. No matter what, King still remains.

KING SCHOOL & MRS. DORCEY
POEM #2

I'm talking about KING Elementary
Off of Grand and Going St.
Mrs. Dorcey was my 1st grade teacher
My 1st Black teacher
She was more than just a teacher
She was our GOD mother, sent from HEAVEN

She helped raise us, took us to church on Sundays
She open her home and fed us when hungry
Poured her love into us when thirsty.

Mrs. Dorcey loved her kids, she didn't see color
All she seen was sweet youthful faces, kissed by
Summer

Dr. King taught us to have a DREAM

I wish we were taught about the Black Panther Party
And their survival plans
Or how the Portland chapter started
A Free Breakfast for Kids program

I will forever love Dr. King and Mrs. Dorcey

PHAT CHARLES STORE
NARRATIVE #2

Going to St Market was my neighborhood corner store. A Black man by the name of pHat Charles owned the store. He was a massive dark skinned brotha’. Bruh was a huge dude! He had to weigh every bit of 400 plus! Whenever he pulled up to the store and got out of his car the entire left side would lean. He also had a very deep voice. I can still hear him telling me and my friends to stop hanging out on the side of the store.

When I was young n’ I would make at least one trip to the store a day. Sometimes my father would send me with a note to buy him his cigarettes, other times it was to let Mr. Charles knew that the family needed a few food items and that he would make sure to pay for them at the beginning of the week. Phat Charles was koo’ like that, where he understood sometimes you didn’t always have the money to purchase the basic.

There was another time when I stole Mr. Sailor Boy’s truck from on the side of the store and when Phat Charles found out what happened and heard there were kids hanging out there. He already knew who did it, and was like “that was Rob’s son he stays down the street”. To put some respect on Mr. Phat Charles Name, he was so much more than just a Black owner of a astore, he was a pillar as well as a gate-keeper to the community. He was a provider when our families didn’t have money to give. Through that little corner store on Going St. connected our community in a way greater than our understanding.

HOME
NARRATIVE #3

The brick house on the corner next to where the stop sign and the red Benz is parked, was the house I grew up in. Me and my family stayed there from the early 90s to 2013. If you were to count six to seven cars down the same side of the street is where my grandma Annie stayed on Mallory and Mason St.

This was the neighborhood that helped raise and shape my identity. We were a village and everyone looked out for one another on this block. Growing up as a child I never knew who my bio father was because he simply wasn’t around. My mother is Native American and she moved from her tribe in Northern Calif — Hoop A to Portland in the Early 80’s. It was around this time she met my step father who took me and my mother in and treated me like I was his own. He was a Black man and an amazing father. May he rest in peace. Him and my mother moved in with my grandmother until they were able to get their lives back on track.

It was during this time we moved up the street to Mallory and Going, into the brick house on the corner. In the early 90s this neighborhood was predominantly Black. The Holloway family lived directly next door to us. Mrs. Davis lived next to them. Mrs. Douglas stayed next to her and Mrs. Louis and Mario lived across the street. Even though the neighborhood was known to be violent, and had a lot of gang activities out of respect for my father, the older gang members would never try to recruit me. I always felt safe in my neighborhood like I had this unspoken connection to it, like this is where I belong. Moving forward to 2024, none of those families I name live on this block anymore. A lot of these families have been displaced or simply pushed out. No more kids laughing and playing outside. Just cold stares like you don’t belong here, root shock! No matter how much the culture has shifted on this block here it will forever remain HOME!

KING SCHOOL

Dr. King
Had a dream
He also preach to love our enemies
Why wasn't any love shown to Kendra James
When the police took her life over nothing
Just another shattered dream …

Wish i was taught survival plans
In how my class is really lumpen
Or what about the free breakfast for kids
Program at Highland?

My 1st grade teacher Mrs. Dorcey
Embodied both Dr King N the Black Panther
Party spirit.

She poured her love 'n to all of our hearts
She even planted seeds of knowledge into our
Young minds N watch them grow

She taught us how we were the future
N that it's better to spread love
Over hate N how we all
Would have to stick together if we wanted
To see better days. | MM

PHOTOS BY LISA GUIRSCH

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

THE 8
If NE Portland is the heart …
The 8's route is like an artery,
That continuously pumps warm, thick blood
Through its prettiest and most precious parts.
The people being the richly cross contaminated blood
Of many types,
Yet still so unbelievably pure.
Like sweet nectar dripping down
The big beautiful trees that endlessly grow within.
Monday through Saturday, it beats every 5-10.
On Sundays?! It's more like 15 plus.
Crazy. Who thought a pulse with so much purpose,
Could come in the form of a bus?
From haircuts on 16th n' Kill
To long cold nights hustlin in Holiday Park
Foster homes on Ainsworth and Dekum
Those lonely nights used to feel so dark.
But the digital lights moving across top
Of the 8's windshield illuminated my nights,
Sitting in the back of the bus
Warm air blowing feels so right.
Society and security, for me was
THE 8.

3037

3037,
My childhood home
Once a dark ashy grey my mother hated
Now golden yellow and beige w/ dark blue trim
The same cracks in the steps I ran up as a kid
Weeds I once pulled, stubbornly grown back as if
They never left
Jealous to know they're still there and I'm not
Countless memories of joy and pain, love
And belonging
Returning to this place would mean liberation
Me and my siblings holding hands
While we smile, reminisce and remember
3037
Four #s I could never forget
Hoping they set me free by
3037

The 8

The 8 …
To me is like a vein that pumps blood through the heart of NE Portland. Growing up as a kid anywhere the 8 went between Lloyd Center and Woodlawn Park was my world, from there we would walk just about everywhere. The closest bus stop only two blocks from my childhood home, going to explore the world always started with the 8. Looking beyond this bus stop into Holliday Park, I’m reminded of all the good and bad things that once happened there. How much it has changed since I was first introduced. The ROAD CLOSED signs symbolizing that symbolizing what I once knew, simply no longer exists. But I bet the same trees still stand tall and the 8 continues to pump the same blood that gave me so much life as a kid into everything its route touches, most importantly the people who ride it. I remember Fridays, riding one way to get a fresh cut on 16th and Kill, only to get back on going the opposite in hopes that Lloyd Center and Holliday were still poppin and something and had something to offer my young restless soul. Life was so simple then, yet I never failed at finding ways to complicate it.

The 8 ...
Whenever I saw the headlights and digital display come into view after a long, cold, rainy night I always felt a strong sense of relief knowing home, safety and security were soon to come.

3037

3037, four numbers I could never forget. A yellow and beige, two story home with dark blue trim. The same exact colors my mother and uncle painted over 20 years ago. Before that, it was a dark ashy gray that was peeling all over, kind of like my stepfathers and uncle, a man named Bolden Rush, who came here all the way from a small town in Mississippi. He worked extremely hard and eventually earned enough to purchase the beautiful home in the heart of NE Portland, a home that sheltered and provided so much security to me and my family, driving the best and most memorable moments of my life. Looking up at the steps, I see the exact same cracks and weeds growing beside them that I once pulled as a kid. I’m relieved to see the current owners haven’t changed or fixed a thing at the same time, upset to think they don’t appreciate and value the one place I’d do anything to get back. A place me and my family share countless memories of joy, pain, heartache, and belonging. Returning to this place would mean I have been liberated and set free from a prison sentence of LIFE WITHOUT, I’m sure hoping that day will come…when me and my siblings can stand in the photographer's place, holding hands, with smiles on our face as we reminisce and remember. But for now, this photo will do. 3037, four numbers I could never forget.

A PLACE UNCHANGED
IRVINGTON ELEMENTARY

An amazing, unforgettable place tucked in the heart of the Irvington neighborhood, a historically beautiful location where kids, culture, and comfort feeds a community that is truly like no other l've ever known. I look at this photo as I sit in a prison cell and am transported to a magical, vividly descriptive description wild and I am painfully naive to the cold and cruel ways of the world ... Yet, as I see the cafeteria lights shining bright, the thought of freshly baked cinnamon rolls warm my soul. This dirty mismatched brick and uneven concrete stab are just as I remember, but at the same time, this beautiful place feels so far away and unfamiliar. 20 years ago I attended this school, at a point in my life when I felt a strong connection to my neighborhood and just about everything in it. Ironically, I used to feel so lost and alone, but really, I had it all.
Irvington Elementary ...

To me symbolizes true strength and sustainability. A place unchanged. | RR

PHOTOS BY RACHEL GUIRSCH

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

FINAL DRAFT

This corner store,
A constant reminder that every penny counted transactions and economics than this intersection.

this corner helped me find myself
With all the potential in the World,
But Stuck in the Streets like a man hole.
these Streets are gutter,
and I am its offspring
Slave to its teachings.

Constantly
overlooked, overwhelmed, overshadowed, and ostracized in a community that by right is mine.
this the trenches,
uninviting and unwelcoming
But this was all I had,
and for what it's worth the only thing that Stayed
consistent.
Round here
It's cold Blooded and cold hearted
But we was taught not to stress it ...

What do you see inside this image ?
I see some losses and some lessons.

A DOLLAR AND A DREAM

A dollar and a dream
on this block they came far few and Between
Affluence and opportunity round here.
Was quite rare
We try to outrun our nightmares in our nike airs
The pull of gravity on our reality was quite clear,
You either ignite your flight, or do life here
I’m from Where Being Stuck trapped Broken and hopeless is our life fear.
Our dreams constantly elude us
While society try and dilute.
Only role models I seen
Was pimps, dopeboys, and the shooters
father absentee
So street scholars became my tutors,
cone is the hoop dreams, visions of Becoming
Record producers.
Look at me now
Stuck in the trenches chasing riches
making money slanging cream,
now I’m Back Where it all started with
a dollar and a dream.

GIVE AND TAKE

This location is one of supreme importance and high value, it’s  a place that has given me much. But has taken far more in return. This intersection on Kerby and Skidmore is where I learned to have heart and that being a man and standing on my own two feet really counted for something, especially here.

This is where I first encountered love outside of my home, perhaps one of the strongest forms of love that a young Black male will encounter, “homie love.” This love is in my opinion one of the strongest because it manifests not out of obligation but out of principles. Most other forms of love are manifested out of reasons that, for one reason or another, evolve or revolve over time, but principles last a lifetime because often times we find ourselves living by them. The love of my closest friends spawned right here on this block, my best friend lived in the second house from the corner on the left and another friend in the duplex just out of sight on the corner. Relationships were built here, some flourished while others fizzled out which only serves as a constant reminder, on this block only the strong survive.

However, despite all that was given, cultivated, and developed here, what stuck the most were the losses because they seemed to be endless and of epic proportions, and to be accompanied by a hurt that seemingly lasts a lifetime.

How many empty sacrifices do you make with the understanding there will be no return on these investments? I wish I knew, the answer to that question forever eludes me, continually subjecting me to the most compromising of positions between  a rock and shard place or loyalty and betrayal. The way in which I love and loathe this place is like an abusive relationship, you love it with every fiber of your being for the potential of what it could become, only to realize it will never be more than what it is, leaving you with a decision to make. Do you continue to give until there’s nothing left to take? Or I take what you’ve got before there’s nothing left to give?

A DOLLAR AND A DREAM

Some of my earliest memories take place and unfold at this location. When I think about myself and how I came into my own, this location, the blue house across the street from the baseball field at Jefferson High School, comes to mind. For me it is the stomping ground that cultivated some of my first interests.

I discovered and fell in love with music here, my great grandmother had the huge heavy solid wood floor model record player that sat in the family dining area just off the living room. I remember being so inspired by the sounds of hip hop that I would put records on there and try to scratch like a DJ until somebody would grow tired and shut my concert down. Usually my cousin and myself would then be sent outside, so we would go across the street to the baseball field at the school. To this day, I can still hear my grandma’s voice as we were about to cross the street: "You better look both ways" so we would do just that stop, look, and listen for traffic before proceeding. Along the fence line on Alberta there was a mound of dirt next to a tree which we affectionately called the “rapping hill.” We would spend hours there free styling and learning how to rhyme about different topics and subject matters.

Another one of my first interests or first loves was also encountered here. Basketball was a big influence in my life, I had two older cousins that played varsity and junior varsity for Jefferson and my whole family would go. Those games and those experiences had a tremendous impact on me. Going to these games for me felt like going to a professional sporting event and the love they received was the equivalent, the outpouring of support and adoration looked the same and that resonated with me enormously. Even when I wasn’t allowed to attend the games I would watch from home on TV. I saw them as much as I saw the Blazer games, and I wanted that for myself.

I saw sports and music as a way to become important, a somebody. I seen the kind of support one received for being talented, when as a kid I was able to see no one pays attention to a nobody, that fueled my drive and motivated me to put in countless hours and work super hard to make the most out of the least. This was my sacrifice to my pursuit, of a dollar and dream.

LOSSES AND LESSONS

A large part of my existence unfolded at this intersection, and this corner store played a vital role. In my younger years, I ran countless errands to this store for my great grandmother for eggs, milk, butter and even for cigarettes. With a note sometimes because she had a credit line with the time owners (Helen and Mike).

As a kid I never received handouts and was taught to work for the things I wanted. When I wanted candy from the store my great grandmother would say in her strong voice “Boy put them bottles and cans in that little red wagon and carry them to that store and get what you want.” I remember lugging that wagon by the cold rusted handle three blocks each way to accommodate my sweet tooth.

I learned to count money, and that every penny counted here. I learned the importance of transactions and economics at this intersection, the exchange of goods and services. In my later years the store became more of a survival tool so to speak, I literally survived on the hot food counter when I left home and gravitated to the streets. I eventually sold drugs and found gangs here as well. To bring things full circle, this corner helped find myself and become my man. Some lessons came much harder, but in the end I found balance in all of my experiences and I'm thankful to say that there were no losses, only lessons. | WS

PHOTOS BY KAY JOHNSON

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

WATTLES GIRLS & BOYS CLUB
Where to learn to become wives and husbands

The place that builds

            Future Doctors

The place that builds

            Future Firefighters

The place that builds

            Future Leaders

The place that builds

            Future Wives

The place that builds

            Future Husband

WATTLES GIRLS & BOYS CLUB
Where Youth stay Youth in a safe place

A safety place

A place where art is found

            To find Hope when it is lost

Lost of a place called home

            The home is enjoyment

The youth turns into healthy adults

            The joy of a black place

Black places are where black folks are.

            Wattles is home of future leaders

Black or White but still leaders

WATTLES GIRLS & BOYS CLUB

When I look at this photo I see the future or the potential of the future. THis photo reminds me of what girls and boys could become with the help of Wattles. Look at the smoothness of the yellow, and gray together. It does not look cold but welcoming. The cars in the parking lot are full of hope that they have potential for the youth to dream about. One day these potential healthy girls and boys will become healthy wives, to their husbands.

U-HAUL

My life of working ...
I could smell the pine tree
The water hits my head.
I still arrived before everyone.

I arrived before everyone
My job still looked the same
I thought I heard my grandpa
I could hear his voice
I still arrived before everyone

My life of working
My babies got their own room
Working to please my grandpa
I could hear his voice

I feel the rain hitting my head
I smell the pine tree just
Behind U-haul

I arrived before everyone
My life working
To understand that
I can hold a job
Working to become my grandpa!

Working comes easy
the scene of the pine taste like tree
The water hits me that turn into tears of my grandpa
I arrived and feel spite

everyone arrived for work
getting to work feel the same
grandpa is always with me
can grandpa hear my thoughts
everyone still arrived after me

Working comes easy
I wish I had my own room
grandpa worked hard to show me

can grandpa hear my thoughts
the rain hits my head and am dry
pine trees smell like morning
when I arrived at work

everyone arrived for work
I am trying to please my grandpa
can my grandpas see me?
I worked hard to show my grandpa Grandpa is inside of me

THE SERVICE OF PEOPLE
FIREHOUSE PHOTO
FINAL NARRATIVE #3

It was 1992 and every year at U-haul everyone receives a bonus check.

1992 I went across the street to purchase a Christmas tree for my family's house. Once I got to the tree lot, I overheard a conversation between this young lady and the Christmas tree attendant. This young lady had three young kids. This conversation wasn't going the way this young lady planned it out. At that moment I did not realize that she lived on Reed Way in between 88th, and 92nd right down the street from Fire station No. 11 at Reed Way, and 92nd. The fire stations that U-haul has build a relationship with over the

years. Just before I got involved in this conversation the young lady was asking the Christmas tree lot attendant if she could help around the Christmas lot so she could get her children a tree. The attendant was being rude and not willing to help this young lady with three young children to get them a tree. The look on these three young faces pulled at my heartstrings. I asked after a few moments of seeing these faces that reminded me as a child growing up. So asked were the best trees they had to offer? I pulled out my roll of money, maybe around $1000.00 as part of my bonus check. He told me that they had some beautiful trees in the back, and would I like to see them? With my smart mouth I said yea! The oldest of the three young children was looking with so much disappointment in her face that I decided to ask her would you help me pick out a tree?

The Christmas tree attendant shows us some trees that this little girl's face lit up from the beauty of the trees he showed us. I asked the little girl is that the tree you would want? The attendant said it's $110.00 without the stand. I looked at the mother with the three children and said would you like this tree? She said that she could not afford this tree, and she did not have any money to repay me. I told her that I work  across the street at U-Haul as the manager. I told her my name, and then turned to the Christmas tree attendant and said you do not deserve any of my money and you need to be kind to people.

I looked at this young lady and the children and said we could go to another christmas tree lot and I'll purchase you guys any tree your heart desires. She agreed I met her and her children on 82nd and Holgate at a Christmas tree lot that was only a couple blocks away from their home. I could still see their innocent smiles, and joy in their eyes. I also remember how it made me feel. I wish I could have my son, and daughter present when I made the decision to help this family. I also gave her a $200.00 gift voucher for Fred Meyers that's on 82nd and Foster Road so she could give her children a somewhat nice Christmas. That was not the last encounter that I had with this family of four. Over the holiday season that year the oldest of three made me a Christmas card and am sure that it's still in storage that my daughter's mother has held for me over the years.

As I am writing this something comes to mind. Where did I learn to be kind? When I think of my childhood everything was not always bad. One of the moments from my childhood that I remember is when my family and I were on vacation to South Dakota. Our family stops to get gas someplace. It was a family at the gas station in a Yellow Volkswagen van with white trimming. This family, if I am correct, had four or five members in the family. It was a mother and three or four kids. She was trying to get gas money to make it to Seattle, Washington. I was only around 6 or 7 years old on the way to Mount Rushmore for vacation. My parents decided to give this family half of our sandwiches, and some money to make it to Seattle, Washington. Still to this day I do not know what type of trouble this family was in but I remembered the look of joy in the family faces just like I remember the same type of joy from the Christmas tree lot about 19 years later from that family.

Thank you for the talk last week because sometimes I beat myself up or think that I am not worthy to be in the presence of others. That is what comes to mind when I think of Fire station No. 11 at Reed Way, and 92nd I did my best, and this is what I see, and narrative through my eyes. | JS

PHOTOS BY JILL FISHER

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

“SHAVER AND MISSISSIPPI”
March 12, 2024

The blast was bright
As stars at night.
And fast like lightning
A muzzle had flashed;
Yet,
The gun was small
As a child's toy —
I did not know,
I just a boy.

The shot rang out.
Loudly the man yelled:
“You shot me, man."
“You were cheating me”
Said the shooter
On Shaver and Mississippi.
Always on that corner
Danger was a possibility.
However,
How could I foresee
A trip for candy
Enveloped into a hug
Of love and protection;
But not my Mother's.
Just some Motherly love — 
A beautiful sight to see:
A child's grave undug …

VANCOUVER AND WYGANT: “FRESH BAKED BREAD” (#3 Geopeom)
March 12, 2024.

Is it possible that In this city
You've never met
Black people before?|
We're the kindest
Most generous people
You will find
Throughout all the lands.
So when you see us
There's no need to run
And lock your doors.
Just extend your hand
You've been misled
If you're frightened
And have scary thoughts
Racing through your head.
I only wanted to welcome you
To the neighborhood
And share
This fresh baked bread.

UNTHANK PARK: IT’S BLACK LAND
GEOPOEM

Our houses were
Black people's houses.

Our park was
Black people's park.

Left all alone,
Redlined us in.

We stuck together,
Raised our kids.

Now high bidder
Take our land.

On hands, knee?
No. No. No!

Make our stand:
It's Black land …

BURGER BARN

Burger Barn consisted of two buildings separated by a  parking lot. My experiences at Burger Barn reflects the duality of my life as a child and an adult. Moreover, it illuminates the dichotomy of the Black community. We present our social selves to the public, but present our true selves only to our Black community.

When I went to Burger Barn with my Mom, as a child, we went into the building south of the parking lot, where we ordered food. Whenever I looked toward the northern building my Mom would twist my head back around and pull me toward the southern/main building. However, when I became an adult I was welcomed into the northern building, where people gathered: played dominos, coon-can, poker, and shot dice. Also, drinks were sold there. I don’t drink; but, I liked to shoot dice; and, I had lots of fun shooting dice there.

One day I won thousands of dollars shooting dice there with Shadow (Mr. Powe, the owner), Cowboy, Ms. Martha Rae, Sailor Boy, and Mr. Clyde. After I had won about twelve thousand dollars playing “four-five-six”, Shadow said: “I’ll be right back.” He went to his house, behind Burger Barn, and came back with a briefcase filled with one hundred dollar bills (about one hundred thousand dollars). He was still ready to play. Also, he wanted me to know that I could not break him.

UNTHANK PARK (A)

When I was ten years old my family moved into a house on Albina, off Fremont. Officially that is Boise neighborhood; however, nobody who lives there calls it that. We call it Unthank Park neighborhood.

That’s where I’m from.

Before the advent of gang violence and urban renewal destroying the tranquility of our neighborhood, we all knew one another; we were close; we were like a tribe; moreover we took care of one another (babysat, fed, sheltered, and protected). For the youth Unthank Park was a safe place. We hung around the park year-round. In the summer we were shaded by tall, leafy trees, [above the purple, orange, and blue painted picnic tables and plain concrete benches]; sat inside the fountain sculptures and ran under the mist emitted beneath the colonnade. When it rained, we sheltered under the subterranean basketball court [with steps on 3 sides and a roof designed like Australia’s Sydney Opera House].

There were some generally understood rules to adhere to at Unthank Park:

1. First to arrive got dibs (on basketball court or dice table)

2. Respect your elders

3. Protect those younger than you

4. Best court goes to best players

5. Share/take turns

6. 10% cut goes to houseman [officiating Dice Game]

7. Visitors and Foreigners ask permission to enter

8. Be fair to visitors/foreigners [if they remain respectful]

The park was a safe place. But not on the day after Thanksgiving, 1976. RIta Pittman was the smartest, most promising 8th graders at Boise School. She was killed. In Unthank Park. A poorly designed swing set: 3 large blue, orange and purple painted concrete pillars and 2 badly maintained steel bars broke. Fell. Struck Rita on the head. And ended her promising future.

Rita died on the Failing Street side of the park. Across the street from where she lived: Commercial and Failing. Everyone was sad. We cried. We hugged. And we returned to the park the next day.

The site of the accident, and other potentially dangerous recreation equipment, was yellow taped off. Portland Parks and Recreations removed the swing set and other potentially dangerous recreation equipment they had built. And in a short time, the city made Unthank Park the safest it had ever been. The park is a Black space, stained with our blood, sweat, and tears.

UNTHANK PARK #2(B)

The Center for Self Enhancement and its staff parking lot now sit atop half the land which used to be Unthank Park. Today, like the neighborhood, the park has been gentrified. Black folk have been pruned from being the primary occupiers. The Black faces, and close knit community, who knew one another and interacted on a daily basis at Unthank Park now only exist as thoughts [of homemade ice cream and chili Fritos] I summon from memory, as I recall how wonderful things used to be for Black folks when Albina was predominately Black.

Now African American youth and staff of the Center for Self Enhancement commute to this location, probably to the chagrin of the [new] “Kens” and “Karens” because the space has been preserved as an island of hope and a place of cultural connection to Albina’s rich, resilient Black history. The Center for Self Enhancement is a cultural safehaven, resource, recreational and education facility for African American youth. Here Black folk continue to resist the pushes and shoves of government sponsored erasure as we placemake with Black love.

VANCOUVER AND WYGANT

I have fond memories of living in this two story house, next to the single story house where my Aunt Connes and Uncle Ike lived. Our family members moved between the two houses throughout the day.

My Aunt Conness was a sweet person who was always happy to see us, hug us, and give us juicy kisses on our faces [whether we wanted or not]. Sadly, while living there my Aunt Conness died from breast cancer in 1971 or 1972. Because I was so sad my Mom explained life and death to me. She said: “Baby, all people die.” I looked at her and asked “I’m gonna die?” She said: “We’re all gonna die one day. Me and you.” I really started crying then, saying “I don’t wanna die.” She looked at me for a while, then said: “Stop crying. That’s not gonna change anything. You have to just make the best of the time you have.”

Unlike now, we did not have fences. The fences look claustrophobic and gloomy. They’re blocking off their front yards and front doors, which signals to neighbors and strangers possibly seeking aid that “no one is welcome here.” That being “friendly” or seeking “neighborly compassion” is not a sentiment to expect at these houses. Such an image represents rejection not community [to me].

MISSISSIPPI AND SHAVER

I skipped down the blocks, ran across each street on my way to Lenard's Store to purchase the soft, sweet, chewy strawberry flavored "Now And Later" candies but, then, I heard some wise crackin’, dice clicking and finger snappin’ that became a spectacle of rolling dice on the sidewalk and yells for numbers: "the point" or "craps," depending on whether you bet on the "shooter" or the "fade". I was fascinated and transfixed by the excitement of the dice game's jousting players when a flash/a crackle of a gunshot erupted, and the "fader" yelled: "You shot me"; and, the "shooter" who did the shooting said: "You were cheating me." I had never seen anything like that; so, the 7 yr. old me stood there amazed, as I smelled an aroma like firecracker smoke, then, a Black lady my Mom's age appeared, hugged me protectively to her and said, “You don’t need to be around these old fools," as she whisked me around the corner, to safety and back on my original path to Lenards Store to buy myself a bag of "Now And Later" candies. I had been warned that it was very dangerous to be on that corner; however, I had never seen any danger before, and I never realized I was in danger on that day either. | EDW

PHOTOS BY RACHEL GUIRSCH

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.

NARRATIVE

As I hear the bell ringing, I prepare to hear all the other kids yelling trying to catch up with their friends. I the youngest of five in search of my brothers and sister. We all go to this same school, and we walk together down 15th everyday after to the library. I was scolded because I don't look always both ways before I run across the Street, or about how mad mom will be when she sees my jacked shoe strings, thank god when they made the metal tip laces. As we passed the blinking light where my bestfriend house is on the corner, I can hear his dog barking, as bad as I want to go play, only getting pulled by my ear keeps us going left. As we continue to make our way down the street, I always anticipate the bus passing by, just to look through the windows hoping to catch a familiar face. As we got older the routine did change, so eventually a family bus ride to school and an expedition after school turned into my own when each sibling went on to middle school. 

My brothers and sister turned into my own group of friends, and a journey that went well beyond the expected destination of the library. Ball games on the Side Street where my best friend had his own hoop, fresh free. Samples of pepperoni and jerky at the culturally different New Seasons. I would go to the Hollywood video store to look at games and movies. I later try to convince my mom to rent. Next door to that was a Papa Murphys so I never guessed where the smell of fresh pizza dough came from. The days I had to go to Grandma Harris's because moms got off work too late I'd pick up walnuts for the banana bread she was always so eager to make for me. When I was finally old enough, no more late pick ups from Grandmas, I can hang around that area, but I'd have to get on that same #8 and find my way home.

MATURATION 

Our love was in maturation
You were running away with me
And it wasn’t my imagination
Creating our own culture
Feeling assured
Being empowered
By your mother
Even then, she knew
We’d take care of one another
At times I felt
Slightly smothered
But it was cool because there was no other …

Person I’d want to spend time with,
Share my bloodline with
Live my whole life with
When it’s our time
Who I’d die with …

My best friend
At this pencil gate
Where I first held your hand,
Those times were captured
The moments can’t be recaptured
If I knew then,
The line was drawn in the sand
Everyday
By your side
Is where I would’ve been 

Hustle or make it to the league

HOOP TOWN

This is A Hoop town
Hustle here or hustle downtown
Handle the rock or push the other
Play this game or learn another

Holding down the court feels like …
You’re king
When I saw my brother dunk it looked like …
springs

In his shoes …
I remember the camps at these hoops 
They removed the notion that I can’t do this 
Move …

When I was there …
There was upkeep, 
The pro’s would come 
And give us new sneaks
Stoudemire, 
AC Green, 
And T.B. 
If you don’t work hard 
Won’t be no
P.T. 

HOOP TOWN

A place where we go to hone in on our craft, to water the seed of hope and dream. If you can’t hold your own on this court, then it might be a good chance you’d have another. 

Hoop dreams and get rich schemes are sometimes the only visions we have. The upkeep of this place kept countless dreams alive, it gave support to the youth and the parents. Basketball camps such as the ones Terrell Brandon held helped in achieving one’s goals. Brand new sneakers, backpacks, shorts, shirts, and even bikes were given to us, it didn’t matter if you were black, brown, or white. 

Fresh paint, leveled concrete, and white nets, four or five games going so you’ll be playing if you have next. Now I see cracks in the slabs, unkempt grass, sights of construction but finished half. When spaces like this, that mean so much in our communities, are neglected, can we say we’ve done the future a service? 

When you take a look at the youth today, do they take pride in this park, does it mean to them what has meant to so many of us? Again if hopes and dreams aren’t nourished what do we turn to? Nowadays I don’t hear stories of hoop games at the park, instead I hear of wanting to be pimps, hustlers, and rapid increase of young gangsters jumping off the porch. Locking them up is the weed killer, no amount of water will make the seeds bigger. Kill the hope, stunts the growth, but if we give back then maybe we have a chance to get back.

NARRATIVE #1
Who would’ve known then that this place would mean so much to me. Without this place, there would be no “us” which means no “Noah” the love child Beaumont helped produce. The pencil gate where I was once hand in hand with my soulmate. Initially I resisted but she insisted. I was always happy when the bell rang, it let me know that it was time to walk her and her cousin home. The time it took she gave her dad every excuse in the book. At first I thought it was funny, not knowing the lying she did was because she loved me. Back and forth we’d go across this gate, to class, then to lunch, to the dance, where we’d graduate, then out the doors to our first real date.

The pencils on the gate are gone, just as students that move on each and every year. But the significance, the memories for each of us, generations after generation are still there. In that place a shared space for me, for you, and the future. | XB

PHOTOS BY LISA GUIRSCH | PENCIL GATE PHOTO BY LASHAWN BARR

PORTLAND STATE UNIVERSITY BLACK STUDIES STUDENTS AT OREGON STATE PENITENTIARY EXPLORED PORTLAND’S HISTORY OF BLACK PLACEMAKING THROUGH ACADEMIC WORKS, PHOTOGRAPHY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION NARRATIVES, AND POETRY.