A stripper is never really just a stripper: This was the profound lesson I learned when reviewing the buffet setup at Sinrock Strip Club. Before taking a bite from my first loaded plate of food I noticed a group of dancers heading toward the stage. It quickly dawned on me that these sexy, enticing ladies were obliged to dance only because they were merely performing their duty of pleasing their patrons. I was embarrassed. They shouldn’t waste their energy on me; after all, I was there only to critique their buffet spread. I felt undeserved. At the very least, I owed my attention to these dancers. Who knew seductive gyrations and room-temperature shrimp would make for such a pleasant combination? I then locked eyes with Jade, a beautiful dancer who inexplicably stole my attention.
I was compelled to ask her how she manages wearing a thong. I noted my obvious and what I believed to be common fear of getting poop on it. Jade shared my fear, but remarked that it can be easily curtailed with a nice wax. Duh! She even suggested a simple experiment to prove her solution: “Take a cup of pudding. Dump it on a nice, smooth counter top, and wipe it off. Then dump it on some grass. What do you got?” I told her it was genius! She encouraged me to familiarize myself with my own asshole. Her tone and sincerity transformed what could have been perceived as a mild inappropriate suggestion into a powerful and supportive insight. Indeed, her maxim is eerily similar to the more PG “you have to love yourself before you can love others.” But as a more vulgar, physical version (“know thy asshole!”) the point is even more properly driven home. This is where we thus end up: You are your whole body, and not just what culture might deem as its “best” parts (thinking of big boobs, a fat ass, or Brad Pitt’s frosted tips here). Healthy physical intimacy with a significant other, partner(s), or even paying customers requires self-respect all the way down to the asshole which, depending on the person, is just a few feet below the brain, and just a few short inches from the genitals. Jade’s point wasn’t “one must wax their asshole to have self-respect” but rather that our bodies are more often than not – okay, how about all the time – critiqued rather than admired, appreciated, or even just respected. The reason we (everyone is guilty of this) project negativity is because we are rarely reminded of the importance to reflect positivity to ourselves. It is through appreciating one’s whole own body – including its various orifices and crevices – that we can access a way to appreciate someone else’s. We can find pleasure beyond sex in the comforts of human communion. Highlighting one’s own imperfection fosters a sense of intimacy that no amount of money paid toward a stripper can reproduce.
Jade honed what our culture might deem as “faults” as a constructive source of pride. I looked up to her not only in the literal sense via my upward gaze but emotionally and spiritually. She knows how to appropriately value herself. She has a hot ass and nice tits that are not just for the visual pleasure and sensual use of men. They are features of her body that are truly only hers. She is choosing to share one expression of herself for us to appreciate and respect. She is not on stage because she exemplifies some archaic, idealized Grecian form of sensual, symmetrical beauty but because she has chosen to celebrate her specific body in this specific way. It wasn’t her exposed legs, ass, or nearly fully exposed breasts that allowed me to see or understand her; rather it was the notable scar on her petite tummy that was an access point straight to her heart. What else is a scar other than a divine hieroglyph awaiting translation? Most individuals in her position (literally nearly wholly unclothed, and well-light from all directions in a dark room) would feel ashamed or embarrassed at the slightest physical imperfection. But Jade just owned it. The scar is equally part of her body as much as her ass. Her scar is more valuable, in fact, because it is a permanent remnant of a life changing, or, to be more accurate, life-saving procedure. She would not be dancing here for me in this moment if it were not for her appendectomy! All hail the scar for its kind reminder of both our unnerving fragility and our will to accept what we lose in our strong desire for life.
One might reduce Jade to eye candy. In fact, her business preys on people who do. Dancers-as-predators is a beautiful thought: “There is a price to pay for your gaze, and it is measured in American dollars.” There is an exchange, that is, a nonverbal dialogue conversation which is primarily an assertion of power on behalf of the dancer. Jade’s bravado reaffirms how stripping is the subversive iteration of machismo-capitalism par excellence. When one strips, who is in power? The corporate ladder that consumes the life of the straight, white businessman is dominated by the more luring, simple verticality of the exotic stripper pole. In a city like Portland, the strip club is a bastion of positive sexual expression. Women feel in control, and thus empowered to dance, celebrate, and stimulate. Strip clubs are examples of consumerism at either its most debased or its most perfect expression. What is it that men are consuming? The dancers are not offering themselves as sacrificial self-wafers. Unclothed and bare they are not powerless or vulnerable. This is merely a façade. What patrons consume are the fantasies of a successful sexual conquest. The woman’s body is a territory to be conquered, and it is slowly revealed through strong rhythmic motions. The dancers have full ownership of their bodies and are instilled by a philosophy of self-respect.
Not too long ago I came across a flyer at one of my favorite coffee shops that was offering fitness classes. It was called Pilates with Patricia, or something like that. At first I thought it would be a great opportunity to lose some weight and become more classically attractive. The pressure comes from so many angles in our culture – from movies, television shows, advertisement, and even our own friends and family, to lose weight and become more attractive. We are rarely incentivized to improve our actual health; it is only our physical appearance that matters. Fitness classes are for people bereft of purpose. “Monitor your data forever and hope to live forever.” It was so endearing and wonderful to see dancers who, like Jade said, “owning their bodies” and dancing as a form of celebrating their bodies. Scars and curves included.
A few days after seeing that flyer for the pilates class I happened to run into the class instructor. She was kind, but her kindness and pleasant disposition was merely a red herring to her patronizing message, that is, join the cult or else you will never have a great sex life or feel valued. We need a non-sexual definition of beauty, or even of health. It always has to be stylized and sold as a purchasable product through gym memberships or crazy diets. Instead, introspection and self-love must be taught. “If you love yourself you must change your habits” is a debilitating and destructive mentality. Jade’s message was incredible and refreshing because she was suggesting that I place my body in dialogue with itself, or my mind in dialogue with my body the way it is. She even suggested that I should really stare at myself in the mirror. When we were talking about assholes, Jade made a wonderful point that I should really take a look and familiarize myself with it. No part of ourselves should be disregarded. I think the main point from Jade was really to contemplate, that is, to literally turn one’s head into a temple, a fortress of thought and look into a mirror. The self is both an abstract concept and a material embodiment. We need to better understand, feel, and respect our bodily selves.
Spending time with one’s own body is a refreshing thought for someone like me who is constantly reconfiguring myself to the image someone has of me. Guilt and shame are thrown out at places like strip clubs, oddly enough. One part of the experience feels like you are idolizing certain body types, and this is true of many strip clubs. But another part is respecting a dancer’s courage and self-respect to be comfortable sharing their bodies through such beautiful dancing routines and aerial acrobatics. In Portland we are fortunate enough to be surrounded by strip clubs operated by women and who pride themselves on the talents of their dancers. Sex is this safe, playful zone of vulnerability and self-assertion. Patrons can feel they are in power with the quantity of money they want to spend, but again as Jade indicated, it is the dancers who have the sense of self-empowerment.
I could not get the image of a thong out of my mind after speaking with Jade. Why would one ever wear a thong? It seems so uncomfortable! Riding right up your ass crack, and exposing that most holiest of crevices for all to see. It requires a great amount of bodily curation to even properly wear a thong. Jade’s note about waxing certainly holds true. I think there must be some sado-masochistic urge behind its use. Later in the day I was compelled to talk about my asshole, or assholes in general with my friends and some coworkers. It was a productive conversation that provided an entry point to discussing physical intimacy, self-respect, and confidence. Everyone should become familiar with their own asshole, and the thong forces one to do so. I feel as though everyone should be obliged to have to wear a thong at some point in their life, or how about once a year, so that everyone would be forced to recognize their own bodies, especially its most repressed spots. The asshole is not one to hide and shame. It should be well maintained and respected! The thong should be regarded as a medium for fostering self-respect, and not a skimpy way to get the attention of sexually charged men.
Corporeal anxiety can be lessened through an embrace of the thong. Thongs are a “cool media” in that they demand a great deal of attention on behalf of the viewer. Patrons or partners are forced to participate more because they are required to perceive the gap in the content itself. They are envisioning in their mind what they can’t see rather than passively consuming with what they directly perceive. A thong is like a stain or blot. It marks the absence of a present whole (pun intended). Why can’t we just see her whole ass? Thongs invite excitement and curiosity, and desire for what one cannot directly have. Meanwhile, the user of a thong is a power player who risks physical pain (waxing hurts!) to enjoy displaying nearly all of her (or why not his?) skin. One can argue it is even more daring to sport a thong than go wholly nude on stage.
As your buffet-dabbling writer became more acquainted with these beautiful specimens of Sinrock, the looming ambiance of objectified sexuality under the male gaze shrank into something more manageable. That’s right… I quickly settled in, and felt comfortable not only with the sexy thong-sporting dancers before me—but also with myself, eating orange chicken and discussing anal self-esteem. As I looked around me I realized: the strippers, the cocktail waitresses, event the meter maid who left me a hefty parking ticket outside the venue… they all have assholes. Women of all shapes and sizes, of all professions and pass-times, have hang-ups and fears that are standing in their way. It’s a matter of self-inflicted suppression, and it creates a shameful void in one’s spirit. So I say, it’s time we all grab a mirror and snuggle up to our orifices. Take that thong, and wrap it into a bow; place that bow on a brand new car with a fresh wax job; and give yourself the gift of self-love. The more courage we have to love and get to know our own bodies, the more power we have in the world. Don’t let your insecurities beat you into hiding--- mark these as assets and share them with the world. Like Jade said, ladies: you have the tits and ass, so you have the power. So I say, readers, ask your sisters that thing you’re always too embarrassed to ask, and share your shameful stories and thoughts with anyone who will listen. Get your asshole to a mirror, and then feel your own power take hold. You’ve got it, and you can own it too.
(Season 1, Episode 6)
There are some moments in life that for some indiscernible reason reinvigorate you with so much self-confidence that you feel you have something valuable to share with everyone in the world. I recently experienced one such moment, and it was at a fat girl pool party. An invite was sent to the Weekly Thorn’s email, which many would have ignored as a flippant celebration of irresponsible eating behaviors. A party for unhealthy obese women? Who would indulge in such a gluttonous and unsightly affair? The normativity of these questions is in fact the symptom of a disconcerting social affliction. Those who empower sex positivity, which Portland as a city claims is a central association to its cultural identity, need to understand that such an accepting philosophy begins with the respect of bodies. In addition to your partner’s body, this includes those bodies that are younger, older, wider, thinner, heavier, more wrinkly, and less wrinkly. Most importantly, sex positivity begins with respecting one’s own body. This fat babe pool party was precisely that; it was a celebration of bodies and of taking charge of one’s own sexuality.
Entering the pool party was not unlike how Alice must have felt upon falling into Wonderland. This was a miniature land of wonder; a private paradise of loud colors, exaggerated features, and subverted rules. From the pool toys to the mixed drinks to the chicken wings, everything is in abundance. There was no imposed hierarchy of what constitutes beauty and what behavior constitutes worthy of “correction.” There were no social norms imposing arbitrary rules to constrain self-expression. The theme was therefore freedom. More! Not less. The party was visually energetic with bright colors reflecting the playful, boisterous tone. There was a bar, obviously a large swimming pool, dance-driven music, and tender company.
There were so many amazing conversations I had with other partygoers that I wouldn’t even know where to start. Perhaps I will start with the general vibe: Every woman I spoke with was incredible motivated, encouraging, and aspirational. One characteristic I found in all of my conversations was a strong sense of optimism. For women like us stigmatized for our size, the future nearly always casts a shadow on the present. Such crazy questions we are forced to consider are: What health issues will I develop in the future based upon my current or past eating habits? How will my current lifestyle or figure harm my future? Unlike at certain other places in life, I was not being told how my future is being compromised because of my size; rather, all of our lives, whether it’s our career or love life, is wondrously expansive and full of mystery. Everyone was thrilled to hear from others how their current beautiful selves will thrust them into a bright future.
Any party that foregrounds body positivity and open sexuality should have amazing food, right? Nobody would need to look any further for proof of the connection between food and sex than in language. Unfortunately, the linguistic connection is horrendous in that it works to objectify both women and animals. The fact that women are called “babes”, in reference to a baby pig, reflects how the oppression of animals and women occur along similar pathways. To be referred to as a piece of meat is to be treated like an inert object when one is in fact a living, feeling being. Language fuses the inferior status of women and animals in a patriarchal culture because manhood was constructed in our culture, in part, by access to meat eating and control of other bodies. This topic came up in a small conversation I had with Rachel, another woman at the party who mentioned that she was getting a tattoo of Miss Piggy. Miss Piggy is a perfect example of a character that is caught in the nexus of femininity, animalhood, and sex.
As a kid I saw Miss Piggy as someone physically similar to me, if only for her size. I perceived her as a horny fat monster. Rachel rightfully noted that Miss Piggy actually subverts cultural reductions of women because she is career driven and does not shy away from asserting herself as a beautiful catch. Miss Piggy perpetually presents herself as romantic “bait” to Kermit. Here again note the common expression “bait” to denote sexual advances. Language is used as a distancing device from the literal fact that we properly conceive of romance as a control of bodies, reinforcing the traditional narrative of patriarchal culture; One of active hunter preying on passive animal to be controlled (and slaughtered). Rachel acknowledged those associations but was right to conclude that Miss Piggy, despite being an animal and woman, is a strong character with many positive attributes. Most notably, she is large and confident, and thus surpasses those characters who are produced solely for the male gaze. Rachel was quick to conclude “she does things on her own terms. And she’s a fucking black belt in karate.”
Another fascinating woman I met at the party designs her own plus size clothing line. It was a joy to meet someone who better understands fashion along with the experience of being physically larger. No more corporate produced patterns that are meant to “hide” our size. The dresses and skirts I saw accentuated and complimented the figure of the wearer. Another woman I met shared how she was able to find this community of strong women through social media. Tumblr allowed her to find other people who experience the same unwarranted and forced shame, but also people who transcended stigmas. Everybody here loved their bodies and their sense of self.
Everything about this party reaffirmed a sense of exhilaration of our own wellbeing. Happiness with the way things are rather than what they could or should be was a freeing mode rarely experienced. We countered the gravitas of social pressures through the lavitas of laughter, dance, and conversation. You are beautiful because you are proud of the way you look. You are a physical being in the world capable of laughter, dancing, crying, and sharing meals. What is a better confirmation of beauty?
The last but most profound moment came near the end of the party when most people had already left. It was a subtle yet serene image: A young woman floating on a light pink inner-tube in the middle of an empty pool. You could feel her mentally floating along, at peace with herself and with her surroundings. She was self-satisfied and radiated a calm inner stability. The latent jailbird within her waiting to escape was now flying free. Carefree and confident, I then let loose and succumbed to the Dionysian revelry by stripping down to my bathing suit. The clothes, I realized, was only meant to safeguard my body from the cruel gaze of anonymous others. Many of these women were now my friends, each with their own histories and mysteries. All of the women who spoke with me shared past and even current insecurities, but it was all in the service of encouraging, pun intended, wider forms of solidarity.
Women Are Having A Moment Convention
(Season 2, Episode 6)
Justine Kylie is revered by tens of thousands of women around the world for her tenacity, aspiring energy, entrepreneurial wisdom, and multi-million dollar brand. Her steps-to-successful business guide has been on numerous best sellers list, and appears to largely work for many of the women who follow in her footsteps. She is an empowering female business idol that is otherwise overcrowded with aggressive men who provide only negative and heavily gendered associations with what comes with “success,” “business,” and “profit.” Her platform seemed quite self-effacing and approachable until I attended her WAHAM conference here in Portland.
Upon arriving to the conference I could not help but think I had just entered a Scandinavian meet-and-greet. Every woman was clearly of a specific class considering the cost of a pass to the event. And it showed. I could not help but directly perceive the gap between the democratic, female-empowering ideals that Justine was preaching, and the privileged, consumerist package that was presented at the conference. It all clicked quite quickly. “Justine” is merely a brand, and it is one that sells the positive, feel-good vibes associated with now hip and mainstream progressive wave of feminism.
Much of what I sensed was a collision between two competing ideas of feminism and progress: Rugged for-profit individualism versus gender solidarity. Justine is less celebrating a “Moment” than capitalizing on a fashionable trend. In other words, she is exploiting a moment rather than celebrating it. However, I do not believe she does not wholly dismiss a genuinely feminist stand. Hers just happens to be a very narrow prism or expression of it. It feels very exclusionary and dissonant with the social justice components of feminism. Structural change is the goal, and not selling better self-care products directed to women. Women are already saturated with beauty products in the marketplace. Yes, the idea is that you are applying these products or experiencing these expensive “self-care” moments to improve your sense of self-integrity and find inner peace. Feminist philosophy, however, runs counter to the solisipstic stance found in this brand of “raise women up.”
Commodifying feminism is a challenging tightrope to navigate properly. It is not impossible, but it involves a non-profit platform. Instilling action to include the experiences and voices of others is central to its goal. Making money on the way is fine, but it should not be the absolute aim. Women making more money will not destroy the patriarchy, and it will not improve the lives of women. It will only improve the lives of individual women. We live in a society whose sophisticated engines of culture rapidly commodify the expression of those outside the mainstream, draining it of its dissonance and challenge in the process. One cannot reduce feminism to a commercial lubricant. The market and the direct desires of consumers will not challenge the status quo.
Individual beauty products divert workingwomen from their class interests or heightened experiences of the good life in such a way as to encourage collective action and unionization. It does not encourage a feminist consciousness among working class women. These conferences are unaccompanied by substantive changes in allocation of power, work, and resources by gender, that culture served to foreclose women’s options. Feminine health and lifestyle purchases circumscribe their challenge to social convention by adapting them to narrative, generic, and regulatory conventions. Women are already riddled with guilt about what they are putting in their bodies. Why were we being presented with only more options to feel as though we look better in a new alternative way with a feel-good flash makeover? Chubrub, anybody?
The women here were not idiot consumers, however. The sincerely believe in Justine’s words of uplift, care, and self-respect. This is a completely wonderful and real message that clearly affected everyone in the audience, including myself. When Justine walked on stage there was a feeling of collective effervescence. We were all in a moment, jumping and singing for joy as confetti rained on our faces. We had audibly broken through the glass ceiling. But the doors around us were locked shut.
In attempting to bring women together, she produced a feel-good echo chamber that was not reachable to anyone outside of the 600 highly privileged white (and very fit) women in the space. It was beautiful people telling themselves they are more than beautiful, and can become successful entrepreneurs. This is not a harmful message, but it is far short of a constructive, or dare I say, revolutionary expression of feminism. Women should be inspiring to have more than just a moment.
Separate but . . . Charming? A Day in the Life of Your Friendly Neighborhood Racists
(Season 3, Episode 4)
There are so many reasons why I consider myself a proud Oregonian. I am always eager to defend my love for this state, from its breathtaking coastal beaches and the Columbia Gorge’s sublime vistas to its hipster paradise metropolises. And to think: How are all of these impressive landmarks within just hours of each other? What could possibly hold Oregon back from being dubbed the greatest place on Earth? Oh that’s right! It’s strong, indefensible history of racism.
Oregon’s racial history is so deeply rooted it goes back to 1844 when the provisional government of the territory passed a law banning African Americans. Oregon’s settlers were so racist they couldn’t even stand having blacks around to work for them for free as slaves; instead, they were outright banned when the state joined the union in 1859. With such a unique, toxic framing of society it is no wonder that it manifests its way into the state even today. Discriminatory housing policies in its cities, topographical features named after racist slurs (try not to cringe when looking at a survey map of Jackson County), and a culture of paramilitary groups hell-bent on keeping the government so small it could never help protect the social rights of nonwhite people. It is this last element that I had the luxury of delving into.
The Thorn and other local papers have often written on how Oregon’s racist past is still wholly expressed in the more sinister, invisible forms of gentrification á la property value and the consequences of redlining. However, not enough attention is paid to that broad portion of the state in which the racial politics are quite a bit more self-effacing. This last weekend I paid a visit to the Pickett Ranch in Central Oregon. Because they are starved for media attention now that Gus Pickett, their patriarch, is imprisoned, they agreed to an interview with a devil-worshipping sexual deviant communist that is yours truly! *Tee-hee* *kiss heart emoji*
I left the world of attractive barista hunks and pride parades, and entered into a culture that was a disturbing hybrid of the sexist (and racist) hierarchies of the 1950s nuclear family father figure, and of the heroic, masculine rugged individualism of the 1850s cowboy. The heavily contrasted political geography of Oregon has made it a tense cultural battleground, and I was an ambassador for peace entering a hostile enemy’s territory.
They say Portland is like Amsterdam but surrounded by Texas. The shift was not so subtle – amateur republican election signs, and makeshift religious propaganda offering salvation (and damnation!) lined the highway. The physical terrain en route to their ranch nearly destroyed the axle of my eco-friendly compact sedan. I initially perceived the rough, unkempt road as an intentional unwelcoming gesture to liberal city slickers: “If you’re not good enough for the road then you aren’t good enough for us!” Or, “If you think the road is rough, just wait until you meet us!”
I buckled under pressure, got very lost, and waved my white flag in front of another treacherous road that might as well have been a hazardous moat full of crocodiles. But wait! Here comes my rescuer! My own personal fantasy escort! Not a pumpkin carriage, but a camouflage ATV that was bigger than my car, and driven by none other than a noble tween boy. Perhaps this is the only way to travel in degenerate utopia?
Everyone was tense when I first arrived. The Picket brothers, both the hunkie Buddy and handsome Gus Jr. accused me of being an FBI agent, and mispronounced my name as “Hillary.” I met the prairie wives, and listened to their children sing a hymn about the devil in your soul, as one does. Clara, the matriarch (although she would never call herself that) shared her disdain for being judged for her appearance. Here is something we have in common! I can use this to my advantage to soften her up. I am not thin, and she looks like a raging conservative set on destroying the federal government. A good diet won’t help either of us solve our deeper issues.
With that bond formed, Clara kindly continued to show me around the Picket complex. There were rooms filled with technical tinkerers working on their rifles, prairie wives folding American propaganda pamphlets, and children packaging merchandise for devout followers of “Big Daddy.” It was basically a tyrannical, trailer park version of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. And just like Willy Wonka, Clara Picket is a tall, colorful, eccentric businesswoman.
Clara continued to lead me around the house and avoid questions about her husband’s standoff with the feds in Idaho. We sat at the kitchen table to look at photos of an estranged, apathetic Gus whose smug, spiritless “smile” made Clara chuckle at his sense of humor. Next stop the shooting range! This was the most surprising part of the trip as the Pickets pressured me into actually firing a Luger at a target in the shape of California. I usually find other ways to let off steam, like play with my dog Bonkers, eat food with my lovable housemate, or cry myself to sleep. But this was way more exhilarating! I didn’t pull that trigger. I squeezed it. I felt powerful, and I felt grateful not only for the Pickets in providing me with this opportunity, but also for their ability to sense that it was something I needed.
With my newfound short-term boost of confidence I pressed onward with my questions regarding the Pickets’ controversial political positions. With all of the deflections and personal attacks, there came a point I realized there was nothing deeper here to uncover. They were just another expression of paramilitary groups who stockpile arms in the expectation that they would have to defend themselves against totalitarian overreach from a “New World Order.” This lineage goes back far beyond the Malhauer Wildlife Refuge, WACO, and Ruby Ridge.
In these standoffs they are reproducing the mythology of the West. The problem is that this misunderstanding of “freedom” and “liberty” – two words the Pickets and other paramilitary groups love to idolize – actually come at the cost of nonwhite people. Here is something to think about: The west Edenic utopia is where the American as the new Adam could imagine himself free from nature’s limits, society’s burdens, and history’s ambiguities. It is all about idolizing the self, and disarming anyone else. In the mythology of the West, cowboys don’t join unions or fight for social justice.
There is a reason why Martin Luther King Jr. heavily criticized the frontier ideal. It reinforced deep-seated pathologies, providing mythic justifications for militarism, masculine violence, and economic inequality. He recognized that “freedom” and the idea of “individual rights” could be deployed both as universal appeal – on behalf of people trampled down by tyranny – and as racist dog-whistle. It is impossible to extricate “individual rights” – to possess and to bear arms, and to call on the power of the state to protect those rights – from the bloody history that gave rise to those rights, from the entitlement settlers and slavers won from people of color as they moved across the land. They want all of the romantic associations with settler expansion and being a cowboy without acknowledging the terror and bloodshed that went along with it. Their main objective has gone from fighting Reds (Native Americans) to the Reds of Socialism.
The Pickets use the word liberty a ton, but let’s remember that it’s based in fear of government confiscating their property, and not controlling their bodies. The latter is something people of color experience by being disproportionally imprisoned through mass incarceration, and is something women have experienced by being denied the right to control their own reproductive destiny. It is an absurdly elitist and racist reduction of the term “liberty” in which liberty is merely one’s right to control property. For paramilitary groups, the greatest source of virtue is property rather than a healthy social community. The state’s responsibility, therefore, should only function to protect virtue, that is, property, rather than create virtue. It should maintain the status quo, they implicitly argue, rather than extend democratic values outward to those who have been oppressed.
Their fetish of individual freedom is certainly a symptom of their isolationism. We all need dialogue, even a bit of friction, with neighbors, friends, and community members to grow and transcend our small sense of self. We need to learn new ideas and find real reasons to confirm our own. As someone who is constantly charged of being unhealthy because of my weight, I can rebuttal that a more appropriate understanding of healthy living is by surrounding yourself with people who look different than you, talk different than you, and think different than you.
I don’t have to drive several hours in Oregon to learn about this from white supremacists. The Pickets are delusional in their attempt of producing a white utopia, but the blueprint to making one is actually in the bastion of America’s progressive liberalism. That’s right, Portland. Portland has its own problems being the whitest big city in America, with a population that is 72.2 percent white and only 6.3 percent African American. Considering its homogenous demographic and monoculture, is its recent shift to a liberal philosophy a form of white guilt, or a genuine act of solidarity in hopes of overturning centuries long exclusionist policies?
I left for this assignment in hopes of giving the Pickets pause for introspection. I learned that perhaps I need it, too. Portlanders who look like me are far from innocent. Fears about gun confiscation and grievances about federal land management practices are certainly superficial when compared to the injustices perpetuated against people because of the color of their skin, their anatomy, or their sexual preferences. Despite their absolute batshit crazy ideas, I still let myself enjoy the pie they gave me on my way out. I thought about Oregon, and how lucky I am to be from here. Let’s continue to raise an existential mirror to ourselves before we raise a glass of champagne (or IPA) to toast and self-congratulate any of Portland’s progress. A utopia of political inclusion requires fixing our gaze on the persistent damages of Oregon’s long-running white dystopia.