THURSDAY, 11/19
Chernobyl
Is it even fair to compare Chernobyl to Longview? I can't help it. One of the reasons it's difficult to move back to Longview is the thought that the air here is poison: everyone seems to be dying of cancer. Yet, these women proclaim that "home and community rival radioactivity," and this is a similar dilemma that I find myself in, weighing the pros with the cons of this place. We have two families, both Eric's and my own, gathered together in these sister towns, these mill towns, and how could any other place compare to the place where babies are born to multiply the families we are both tied to, in the deepest places of our being?
In this film, the speaker says that the women of Chernobyl outlived their counterparts, who moved away for relocation, by an average of 10 years. Longevity, she emphasizes, is the result. However, the women themselves say that five happy years at home is better than ten elsewhere, in a high rise. My childhood reflects the opposite sentiment. I preferred, for most of my life, the thought of five happy years in the high rises over ten... here. I'm not so sure anymore. I don't think you can control these decisions as much as you'd like to. The decision to live in a place, any place, is complex and always a risk.
CONSEQUENCES?
For the girl on Mango Street, it seems like the consequences were that others would be angry with her. At the end of her narrative, she proclaims "what they don't know" in response to their negative reactions. Perhaps they thought that she was a snob: a person who thought she was better than the place she came from, who was willing to walk away and forget her roots. I've seen this conflict take place here. I've been the one who thinks I'm better than this place and the one offended by that attitude.
So, consequence number one: an attitude of wanting out is offensive to the ones who love this place and call it home.
My attitude has changed, though, and now I would say that I'm hopeful for what this place could be. The consequence? I'm involved in ways I've never been involved before. When I show up to "things," though, I have to wonder: where is my generation? With an attitude of apathy, this place will never be a place worth loving. As one of my students said, we have to make it a place worth loving. It's more like the actions of love precede the attitude of love, and I'm not quite sure of what it takes to inspire this in others.
Consequence number two: if I cannot muster up an attitude of optimism toward my place, I'll never know what it could have been.
But here's the other thing... place is so often defined by trivial criteria. People, memory, community. These are the things that should impact our attitudes most, and yet, the appeal of the city looms over us like a big lie. I cannot let these fantasies of the city pull me away from the true love I have for my home. The city is something we tend to lust for, but our hometowns draw something else out of us entirely. This is especially true here, in the Pacific Northwest: where the beauty of the landscape stands unparalleled to so many other parts of the country, and we have near immediate access to the wonders of nature as well as the excitement of two major cities.
Consequence, if you can call it that, number three: if I fail to see the fantasy of the "real" city for what it is, I may miss out on what is available to me here.
Is it even fair to compare Chernobyl to Longview? I can't help it. One of the reasons it's difficult to move back to Longview is the thought that the air here is poison: everyone seems to be dying of cancer. Yet, these women proclaim that "home and community rival radioactivity," and this is a similar dilemma that I find myself in, weighing the pros with the cons of this place. We have two families, both Eric's and my own, gathered together in these sister towns, these mill towns, and how could any other place compare to the place where babies are born to multiply the families we are both tied to, in the deepest places of our being?
In this film, the speaker says that the women of Chernobyl outlived their counterparts, who moved away for relocation, by an average of 10 years. Longevity, she emphasizes, is the result. However, the women themselves say that five happy years at home is better than ten elsewhere, in a high rise. My childhood reflects the opposite sentiment. I preferred, for most of my life, the thought of five happy years in the high rises over ten... here. I'm not so sure anymore. I don't think you can control these decisions as much as you'd like to. The decision to live in a place, any place, is complex and always a risk.
CONSEQUENCES?
For the girl on Mango Street, it seems like the consequences were that others would be angry with her. At the end of her narrative, she proclaims "what they don't know" in response to their negative reactions. Perhaps they thought that she was a snob: a person who thought she was better than the place she came from, who was willing to walk away and forget her roots. I've seen this conflict take place here. I've been the one who thinks I'm better than this place and the one offended by that attitude.
So, consequence number one: an attitude of wanting out is offensive to the ones who love this place and call it home.
My attitude has changed, though, and now I would say that I'm hopeful for what this place could be. The consequence? I'm involved in ways I've never been involved before. When I show up to "things," though, I have to wonder: where is my generation? With an attitude of apathy, this place will never be a place worth loving. As one of my students said, we have to make it a place worth loving. It's more like the actions of love precede the attitude of love, and I'm not quite sure of what it takes to inspire this in others.
Consequence number two: if I cannot muster up an attitude of optimism toward my place, I'll never know what it could have been.
But here's the other thing... place is so often defined by trivial criteria. People, memory, community. These are the things that should impact our attitudes most, and yet, the appeal of the city looms over us like a big lie. I cannot let these fantasies of the city pull me away from the true love I have for my home. The city is something we tend to lust for, but our hometowns draw something else out of us entirely. This is especially true here, in the Pacific Northwest: where the beauty of the landscape stands unparalleled to so many other parts of the country, and we have near immediate access to the wonders of nature as well as the excitement of two major cities.
Consequence, if you can call it that, number three: if I fail to see the fantasy of the "real" city for what it is, I may miss out on what is available to me here.
tuesday, 11/17
My attitude. My place. Has it changed? Labels/stereotypes, too.
I grew up in this town wanting only to get "out", but not too far. For a brief moment, I imagined what it would be like to pack up and head east toward Madison, Wisconsin--a place I had visited as a young girl--but Portland was always the city for my heart. I suppose I’ve learned in the past year, that you don’t need to live in the city you love. Portland defines and draws me in, but living near it, I’ve learned to love another town I never knew I could: my hometown.
Is it strange, by the way, that Portland has my heart and it is also the city I was born in?
I moved to the Longview/Kelso area with my family when I was only two years old, so I don’t know much else beyond this area. When I was in my late twenties, I finally moved away. I say finally because this seemed like a rite of passage. That’s what you would call it, right? I moved only 30 minutes south to Vancouver: a bridge away from Portland, and a thirty to forty minute drive from family and work and everything I’ve ever known. Over time, something strange started to develop in my heart as I found myself drawn back home.
In high school, people used to say that the native people cursed this land after it was taken from them; the curse was that we would never leave, and this, of course, was perceived as something negative.
I love the Pacific Northwest, but my hometown is a source of shame, at times. It’s a mill town. A hick town. A small town. There’s nothing to do, and the restaurants only serve meat (maybe that concerns you, maybe it doesn’t, but it makes things tough for a girl like me).
My ideas have definitely changed about this place. I see small glimmers of hope in people who appreciate the beauty of the landscape, and people who recognize that “small town” means power for the people who are willing to take a step of faith and attempt to change our immediate world. Action is more felt, more capable, more likely to result in change when the people you are acting with are true neighbors with shared values. For these reasons, I’m starting to love this place: to see it as it can be, and as it is becoming, instead of how it’s been perceived by myself and others in the past.
When we moved home, I was so fascinated by the mixed reviews about our decision. For some, it was a polite courtesy smile and “best wishes” comment, though I could read the thoughts behind the gestures: for how long will you remain there? They think we’re “stuck.” For others, there was a genuine excitement for us. This little town on the map is home, and my landlord told me that she’s never had one of those; she never will. Her entire family has lived dispersed for all of her life. There’s no place to go where everyone comes together.
House on Mango Street (attitude comparison)
I relate to her feelings of wanting out, but I have to admit that I have never related to her feelings of poverty. Well, in smaller senses I suppose I have, but that’s not too relevant here. While the girl on Mango Street feels shame as she points to her home and emphasizes the “there” when identifying it in a small crowd of people, I know that I’ve reacted similarly when asked by outsiders to name my home city, or where I’m from; it’s much easier to say I live in a small town near Portland. It feels less embarrassing for some reason, and easier to understand. I’m, in many ways, a less dramatic girl on Mango Street, if that makes any sense.
I relate to her most, though, when she proclaims at the end of her narrative that she goes away to come back. Here I am, after two years living “away,” back in my hometown. It’s incredible what living away will do for one’s perspective. I feel as if I can finally have an attitude that matters... an attitude that might lend itself to contribution. I’m a better family member, friend, neighbor, and citizen when my attitude toward place is not one of escapism. Is Esperanza arrogant to imply that she can save the people she knows from the place she desires to leave? Am I arrogant to believe that my attitude toward place, as it impacts my involvement in that place, matters to anyone other than me? Am I arrogant to believe that I can make a difference?
You Can Take the Girl Out of Iowa (attitude comparison)
“Culture, I realized, isn’t just the taste you cultivate for yourself. It’s the world you marinate in, all of the subtle influences that shape you” (83).
In the midst of some co-worker conflict, one of my supervisors told me not to listen to them--the others who were giving me trouble as I attempted to improve my work and the processes around me. She said, “They’ve never worked outside of Longview and have a limited perspective.” I laughed, but then fear and awkwardness set in; I’ve never lived outside of Longview. Perhaps I’m “good for now,” but in the future, I’m likely to get a 20 year pin for having worked at this college so long, maybe even a thirty year pin, and then, won’t I be the one with the limited perspective? This story is the story that comes to mind when I read Anne Friedman’s essay about Iowa. I don’t despise my hometown, but I fear what I will become if I stay here too long. How long is too long?
Esperanza was “stuck,” and so was I when I was younger. Anne, as a young adult, has the choice to leave, and this changes everything. I can see how this concept influences my own narrative; the ability to leave also implies the ability to choose. Today, I live in Longview because I want to. I wonder if our feelings about home when we are younger (and those memories I have about high school) are profoundly shaped by that helplessness that stems from being under someone else’s roof. This reminds me of Esperanza, too, when she talks about having “a house all [her] own”: “Not a man’s house. Not a daddy’s” (Cisneros 108). What if ownership is everything, or key? I think ownership shapes attitude.
Unambitious Loser With Happy, Fulfilling Live Still Lives in Hometown (what's the implied message?)
"A real city"? Is Longview "a real city"?
The City, a poem (what's the implied message?)
“Wherever I turn, wherever I look, I see the black ruins of my life, here, where I’ve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally” (Cavafy).
It seems so easy to look at Longview this way. I've spent so many days driving in on Tenant Way and Industrial with a bad attitude, looking around at the billboards, car lots, warehouses, and trailer park homes. I've held disdain for our welcome sign, even!