Archive for July 16, 2007
The basements of Portland and a new and exciting wanderlust site
Some of my more observant and diligent readers may notice that Wanderlustwithrhonda.com looks quite a bit different. You are right! It is. We’ve changed blog hosting companies, and thus themes for the site, which means, dear friends, it looks different. Let me know if you’re having trouble adjusting.
It was bound to happen sometime, and apparently tonight was the night. Two hours of insightful, eloquent writing, which this new blog (which I am still adjusting to, apparently), claimed to be autosaving, were lost when I pressed the Publish key. So this is an abbreviated and less insightful version of that post, because it’s late and I’m getting tired. Deep apologies and much gnashing of teeth at myself for not writing in another program. And so, on we go.
We’re in Portland – tomorrow Elizabeth will head out to San Francisco on a plane and I will head out to San Francisco on my bike. It will take Elizabeth approximately one hour, gate to gate. It will take me approximately two weeks to travel the same distance. I imagine, though, that I will have more fun.
Yesterday Momoko, our gracious host and a childhood friend of Elizabeths, took us on a tour of Portland’s Underground, which is a web of interconnected basements under the businesses of Portland. They were used, historically, for all sorts of lascivious purposes – most notably as holding cells for men who’d been “Shanghaied” or kidnapped to become crew members on sailing ships bound for parts unknown. The practice was referred to as “Shanghai-ing” because Shanghai was the furthest port the ships would sail to. The Underground, in addition to being unbelieveably hot, was full of volunteers from “Project Ghost”, which is a group of people who are determined to prove, once and for all, whether or not there are ghosts in the Underground. It sort of seems to me like if there are ghosts, shouldn’t we not have to scientifically prove their existence?
The Cascade Historical Society, which led the tour, is restoring the Underground and replacing some of the historical artifacts that were lost when buildings were retrofitted for earthquakes. They’re also undertaking to catalogue, archive, and document all of the artifacts that they’ve found in the Underground. Now, some of these artifacts are definitely neat – there was a pile of logger’s boots left behind when the Shanghaiiers stripped them off their victims (so that if they escaped, their feet would be cut to ribbons by the shards of glass scattered in the dirt around their cells).
But there was also a considerable amount of stuff in various rooms of the Underground that looked, to my untrained and un-archeologically minded eye, like, well, trash. And I started thinking about history, and how we decide what’s history and what’s trash. The Underground is pretty much the basements of the businesses in the area, so over the years it seems understandable that a lot of junk accumulates down there. At what point does something stop being junk and start being an artifact? 10 years? 20 years? Where do you draw the line?
The historical society apparently doesn’t believe in drawing lines, because they’re raising money for something like a 10.000 square foot warehouse to store all the artifacts from the Underground.
This morning Elizabeth and I met with Judith Arcana, one of the women who was part of “the Service”, an underground network of women who provided abortions in Chicago before Roe v. Wade. When I worked at Planned Parenthood, we produced the play “Jane: Abortion and the Underground”, which is based on the story of Judith and the other women involved in the Service, so I was familiar with the basic story. But it was incredibly compelling to hear it from her – her initial contact with the Service because of a pregnancy scare, her political awakening, the intensity and urgency of the counseling and conversations with the women who called Jane, the incredulousness of the volunteers when they realized that one of their main abortion providers wasn’t actually a doctor, the experience of dealing with political dynamics and life and death issues all rolled into one.
I thought about what it would be like to have one period of my life become a story, a narrative with all the parts that don’t move the story along neatly excised. I was also interested to talk to Judith because of her involvement with both the radical side of the women’s movement and more mainstream organizations. I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to do with myself, how I can best use my skills and abilities to bring positive things to the world. From all of my travels, experiences, and conversations, I’ve become more aware of the ways in which the dominant cultural systems I live in – the medical system, the political system, and the educational system, are fundamentally designed to keep power in the hands of those who have it and prevent whole swaths of the population from having autonomy over their lives. In my working life, it seemed worthwhile to work within the system -for instance, running a campaign against a parental notification initiative and working to get people engaged in the political system – because NOT working within the system seemed like a recipe for disaster. I knew the system was imperfect, but it seemed like the alternative was worse – if we didn’t engage, we would lose automatically. But more and more it seems like devoting my time and energy to trying to engage people in a system that does not welcome or encourage their participation is a futile waste of precious resources, like trying to change the direction of a ship by blowing on the sails. But by choosing not to participate in the system, would I be giving the people who are in power license to perpetuate the injustices I’m trying to fight?
I asked Judith this, and her answer, like so many answers, was something I already knew and yet needed to hear – that you need both – the radical activists and the mainstream organizations, because they speak to different people and fulfill different roles. I realized that it matters less what’s going to make the biggest impact, and more what feels the most right to me.
I’m starting, now, on the summing up, the culmination of this trip across the country, and I hope to be sharing more of the things I’ve learned and the places I’ve gone to. Tomorrow morning I leave to head down the Oregon coast, which I hear is some of the most beautiful coastline in the world. I’ll keep you posted.
Nudity is not condoned by Olympic National Park
It’s funny how our Puritanical history manifests itself in the most ridiculous and unexpected ways. Elizabeth and I are on our way down the Olympic Peninsula, where the forests have been replaced with tree farms and the wind is always at our back. Yesterday we took a detour to go to Olympic hot springs, which are undeveloped pools of heavenly hot water tucked high above the Elwah River. Long ago, before the National Park Service became what it is, you used to be able to drive right up to the place in the river where the hot springs seep out. Now there’s a gate across the road, and a sign that explains in no uncertain terms that the National Park does NOT approve of people using hot springs without, well, somebody making money off them. (Nevermind that we’d already paid a park entrance fee). Not only that, but nudity is frequent at the hot springs, and Olympic National Park does not condone nudity. Can you imagine? Naked people in a hot springs? Outrageous.
We, being reasonable and prudent people, cheerfully ignored the dire warnings and splashed around in the hot springs utterly and completely naked. I am a wee bit worried about my dog bite, since the deepest wound is not necessarily the happiest looking wound you’ve ever seen, but I figure that the minerals in the hot springs probably counteracted the effects of the bacteria, right?
Tonight, if all goes according to plan, I’ll be back within view of the Pacific, the ocean that I grew up watching the sun sink into. I’m beginning to come home, and it feels strange and exciting and repellent all at the same time.
I owe you all an account of my visit and conversation at the Center for Sex Positive Culture in Seattle, so if I forget, remind me.
