MY AFTERNOON AT NORTH

I forgot how horrendous Friday rush hour traffic can be in Portland. I also forgot how nice drivers were, giving way to pedestrians and actually letting me merge. Once I got into northwest Portland, I walk up and down Raleigh for 5 minutes before my self doubt begins to erupt. Google Maps said I had arrived, but all I saw was a bar, a dog grooming shop, and a factory-type warehouse thing titled “Lane Miles Standish Printing Co.” I decide the factory was probably my best bet, so I walk the length of it until I find a two large glass doors beside a bicycle rack and a black bear holding a sign: NORTH.

Photo by Bittermann Photography

I walk up a slight ramp and see an island/bar style kitchen, right in the middle of this open concept floorplan. I’m not sure where to turn.

This man walks towards me in black-framed glasses carrying a medium-sized, white curly dog in his arms.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for,” knowing I was totally going to butcher this, “Ay-shod? Ash-ad?”

“Ashod, yes, I’ll go find him now.”

I look around and see a collection of casually dressed young people chatting around the kitchen with drinks, as if it was just another bar in Portland.

Walking towards me is a tall, dark-haired and cleanly bearded Ashod Simonian, in a long coat and knit sweater, wielding a glass of wine.

“I think we’ve tapped the wine, but we have beer, coffee and tea.”

Photo by Bittermann Photography

Not trying to sound over eager and running on two hours of sleep, I played it safe. “Black coffee please.”

He tells me the reason for the kitchen as this central piece at the agency is because of its symbol in homes as a meeting place for conversation. We tour the agency.

There are no walls or cubicles at NORTH, and the architecture is an eclectic mix of old industrial and modernity, complete with wood siding. Skylab Architecture also designed iconic Portland locations such as the Dour Fir Lounge and the Departure Restaurant + Lounge. The flooring is half cemented and half a blend of greens, which I’m told are meant to be topographical. Large windows and high ceilings make the area breathe a sense of openness and light, with an elegant conference room overlooking the space from a half-second floor. The building used to be a newspaper printing company, and was featured in an episode of Portlandia.

My favorite area as we walk is the library. Tall black bookcases house what feels like hundreds of books and artifacts, old and new. In an industry where work is mostly done digitally, Ashod tells me that they try to incorporate as much hands-on, physical creative aspects as possible. Many of the washed-out, natural backgrounds and images NORTH uses are inspired from these books, which range from encyclopedias to fables. A kid maybe nine years-old is tucked between two shelves, most likely waiting for a parent but easily keeping himself amused.

Photo by Bittermann Photography

Another interesting aspect is the recording studio, as many of the employees are also musicians and make a lot of the music for ads right there in the agency. Ashod himself played in the band Preston School of Industry, led by Pavement frontman Scott Kannberg. His other experiences include working in the commercial industry in Los Angeles, and publishing his photography book, Real Fun: Polaroids from the Independent Music Landscape.  

We eventually circle back to the long table at the beginning and take a seat on the stools. We are surrounded by coffee table books and posters from various print campaigns, from Cliff Bars to healthcare. Every one of them has a significant Oregonian identity.

Then, for over an hour, we talk about advertising.

Ashod Simonian, via the NORTH people page

What went into this campaign? Or this one? How do you find a personality for a brand? What defines good copy from great copy? How do you get from point A to point B?

A great case example Ashod references was their work with Yakima roof racks. He was at first skeptical about the project; is there really anything less sexy than roof racks? But, with the right creative force, you can put an interesting spin on any brand.

Yakima wanted to distinguish itself from other roof rack companies who made fairly lackluster advertising, relying the marketing of their products on their attributes, rather than their meaning.

NORTH took roof racks and distilled the fact that if you have roof racks, more belongings can be stored on your roof rather than inside your car, which means you can take more friends on your trips.

Using this phrase “Take More Friends,” NORTH selected a variety of amateur videographers in the area and attached free roof racks to their cars. Then, they paid for the videographers and their friends or families to get out of town for their weekend and explore.

The result was a series of videos that combined roof racks with the Oregonian sense for adventure, showing homemade clips that made the ad feel genuine and poignant What are roof racks without the audacious souls who use them?

Ashod also gave me some sound advice on how aspiring copywriters should prepare and market themselves for the ad industry, notes which I plan to put together in a handbook for students like myself.

Not all of us take the same route to be the creative leaders of our industry, but one thing is apparent. For truly creative individuals, the work doesn’t stop when you get home. We are constantly creating new things. Ashod’s current side project? A perfume company, Imaginary Authors.

WHEN PIGS FLY

I went back to the mother country this summer, England/Wales. It was this amazing experience of nostalgia and good times and I could go on for hours and show you my 1,800 photos but, I'll spare you. I'll just share one moment.

I climbed up to the attic with my grandad in their house in Thompson, a tiny town in Norfolk, England. We were on a quest for vintage beer mats- you know, the little mats at bars for your drink? Long story short, my boyfriend had mentioned he collected beer mats, which led my ecstatic grandparents to admit that they'd been collecting them decades before we were born from all over the world.

On this quest, we came across a mixed box of clothes, art materials, random things. Turns out, it was my mum's box from college/her childhood, long before we moved to the United States. Curious, I dug through the box and found this mobile sort-of-thing, a pink, smiling pig with wings and a few ribbons. When you held it up by the string it looked like the wings flapped.

I called my mum to tell her and immediately, she tells me to bring it back. Once home, it hangs proudly on the ceiling of our living room, smiling away.

My mum says, "It's to remind me that all things are possible."

And I love that. 

THE LONG WALK HOME

One thing I hate to admit: I only feel safe walking at night in the company of others, typically a male.

I hate this. I hate that no matter what time it is, the first thought that crosses my mind is "man, I wish my boyfriend was here to walk me home right now," rather than "I wish we lived in a society where women didn't have to worry about that kind of thing."

Because really, it doesn't matter what time of night, where you are, or what you're wearing. The creeping sense of vulnerability is ever present. And sometimes a little company isn't even enough. 

Many times I've walked home with a friend by my side with people catcalling after us, then cursing and becoming aggressive after we don't acknowledge them.

My friend came home tonight after her and her male roommate were almost attacked outside a convenience store. This was by a well-lit street just a block from campus, at 9 pm, on a Sunday night. She and her roommate were wearing gym clothes, and yet the strangers felt a need to comment on my friend's ass, among other things. Her roommate stuck up for her, and was threatened because of it. The two had to flee.

Later, she tells me, she felt horrible; she feels it is her fault that the strangers threatened them. Why is it that simply being a woman, regardless of wardrobe, feels like a catalyst to a crime?

She did nothing wrong. Yes, maybe we should all carry mace and learn martial arts and constantly have 911 on speed dial on our phones. But is walking around in fear really any way to live? 

We need growing men to learn that it is never, ever okay to catcall women, no matter how "flattering" comments may seem, and especially to never incite violence. It's not just distasteful; it's criminal harassment.  

I would love to know that someday my daughter(s) or granddaughter(s) will live in a world where they never to be afraid to walk by themselves. In Minneapolis, a brave woman named Lindsey made it her mission to create cards to hand out to catcallers. Not all of us can follow suit like that, but we can make a difference by never being a bystander. Enough people are talking about this issue, but there needs to be more impact on the streets. People need to know it is not okay, not in this universe. By yourself, it can be difficult to hold your ground. But when you see it happening from afar, or perpetrated from a friend, don't just let it happen. Raise your voice. 

THE SCOTTISH INDEPENDENCE REFERENDUM, AS TOLD BY AN AMERICAN TOURIST

This summer, I had the privilege of traveling the United Kingdom before, during, and after the Scottish Referendum, where Scotland would decide its fate with the United Kingdom; would they stay, or would they go? A few circumstances made this event especially fascinating, especially coming from a different country:

1.  It was the first election open to Scottish voters that included citizens aged 16 and 17, because effectively, they were voting on the future of their country. You also had to be a Scottish citizen to vote.
2. The "Yes" campaign, supporting Scottish independence, and the "No" campaign, supporting Scotland's continuity with the UK, had very different approaches to seeking voters, including over millions in donations by celebrities and common people alike. It was additionally one of the most highly social media synced campaigns in British history, if not world history. 
3. Regardless of the outcome, this would open doors for Scotland in terms of regional politics and freedom- which, in turn, would likely be followed by Wales and possibly Northern Ireland. 

You couldn't escape it; every night it was on the news, talk shows, comedy shows. Even Sky News had a sense of humor with their megamix of politicians on the topic, featuring Prime Minister David Cameron and leading MP for the movement, Alex Salmond.

And likewise, everywhere we traveled, we asked and found that people had varying opinions. An English couple we talked to from Cheltenham on a train said it would be a huge mistake, citing the debts of the Scottish Bank, the EU's reluctance to accept Scotland without reapplication, and the economic impact overall. On the other hand, friends we talked to in Wales said overwhelmingly, why not? It would pave the way for change, which was exciting for the youth in a country so deeply rooted in tradition. Given the history of oppression and forced assimilation from the English on its neighboring countries, this movement gave the opportunity to voice freedom on behalf of Scotland and its culture. 

Infographic by the Daily Scot

As I watched several of my friends change their profile pictures to feature a blue "Yes" stamp as the election approached, it reminded me of the vibrance and excitement connected to Obama's 2008 campaign with youth culture, in particular with its association to social media. Politics aside, the campaign was well-designed, modern, and (for lack of a better word) "hip," and so it created a unique audience for itself and encouraged younger voters across the country to vote. Getting more people to vote is always a challenge, which I can easily say while going to a university where only about 15-20% of our 20,000+ student body votes in our school elections. On the other hand, the opposition party "Better Together" had a more conservative appeal, with a logo that resembled maybe something you'd see for a credit card company or health care provider. 

Arguments for Scotland remaining 

What made the Scottish Referendum particularly interesting was that this wasn't about electing a person into power. The only fathomable comparison I could draw for the United States would be if the entire south voted to become separate (which could be beneficial in its own way? I digress!) What surprised me the most was that this movement had become a leading topic in politics. Often from the US we look to Great Britain and see a country that seems old-fashioned and locked in tradition with its monarchy and all that. But can you imagine such a movement ever coming into discussion in our elections? And can you imagine a single issue in which there is an almost 70% voter turnout? According to George Mason University's "United States Elections Project", we haven't had that great of a turnout in our presidential elections in over a hundred years. In our general elections, we usually fall beneath 60% voter turnout. 

In the end, 55.3% of Scottish voters chose no, and 44.7% of voters chose yes. You can argue all day about the implausibility of Scotland breaking free, but you can't ignore how close those elections became. In ten years, if there's another election, what will be the result? Will this set precedent for Wales? If it's a success, will other nations follow suit?

From an outside perspective, it was a fascinating event to observe. Even coming from the United States, I've never seen people so passionate about voting. Additionally, I've never been so interested another country's elections. It's not often you get to go on vacation and witness history. 

HEATHER VS. THE ANTS

July marked a period of our apartment ownership I call the Great Ant Siege of 2014. If I made a list of things I blatantly hate, ants would sit high in the top five, somewhere between fake British accents and the sound of nails on polyester-based fabrics.

It started in our bathroom, in the corner by the sink, right where the linoleum peels up to reveal the unattractive underfloor. Just a few ants dawdled at first; enough to annoy, to rouse curiosity, but not to raise alarm. These were the scouts and they were testing the waters of my tolerance. Each time I’d sit on the toilet, I’d squish a few more with my big toe much to Jordan’s disgust, but they obviously had to die. I’d grown up around the occasional plagues of ants. I’d wake up in my bed at night, finding them crawling along my neck. Climbing a tree one sunny afternoon, a few red ones bit my legs and elbow--my elbow. They patrolled the kitchen regularly, waiting for one sweet wrapper to fall, a Dorito crumb, or even an onion peel, just as my mum had warned. I used to have this dream where I’d be sitting in a wooden chair or on the ground outside, surrounded by dry brush and dirt under a hot sun. Then, I’d see them marching up my arms, coating my limbs in black, pulsing masses, until my entire body was engulfed up to my face so I could just see them eating my flesh. Morbid, right? This was imaginative, but it might as well have happened in a past life, and it wore such a scar on my memory. Ants and I have a vendetta that goes back as long as I can remember.

Now, they were testing my patience more than ever. With more frequent invasions, I went into full defense mode, laying down ant poison and wiping the bastards up with bleached cloth whenever I felt vengeful enough. This was my home; a cheap, studio apartment, yes, but it was 200 square feet of my property, damn it. The last straw hit around 10 pm on a weeknight, after a long day of work followed by a pile of dishes to be cleaned. I picked up a blue sponge, the brand new one I’d replaced only just that morning, and quickly flung it down after turning it over. In my safe kitchen sink space, on my nice, clean sponge, dozens of ants clung and crept inside the holes. In such a state of shock and disgust, I could have vomited, but I was too furious. The ants caught on first. This breed was the sneakiest and speediest, and once I’d discovered their newest acquisition, they scampered out in a million different directions, trying desperately to hide behind soap bottles and crawl back into the walls. But I was ready. In two steps I had the bleach in hand, and five different aerosols ready to go, spewing colorful language at the top of my lungs in the most terrifying display of heroism. I sprayed bleach, air refreshener, soap, hair spray, nail polish remover, anything I knew was toxic to ants since my broke ass couldn’t afford legitimate bug spray. I might as well have fumigated the apartment. I would not stop until each damn insect was exterminated and died knowing that they had gone too far.

Across the room, Jordan looked my way in horror, this spitting cobra/evil deity/dragonlady of a girlfriend, swearing genocide upon these tiny, black creatures. I couldn’t understand how he wasn’t as livid. It didn’t occur to me for a second how insane I must have looked, but I still emitted a few fragments that weren’t full of curse words to justify my radical behavior.

“Ants. There were ants. In the kitchen.”

“Yeah,” said Jordan, although his face said a number of things, most importantly: Are you fucking crazy?

I could tell he also wanted to say something along the lines of “they’re just ants.” But I’m glad he didn’t. It was a courtesy he granted me, even though days earlier, I’d belittled his FIFA video game, his virtual livelihood, by saying “it’s just a game.” Worse than that, it was a game of a game. He'd shot me a look of deep hurt and bewilderment, a mix of “How could you?” and “You are dead to me.” It was as if I’d just seen a World War II film and said, “Big deal, it’s just the Holocaust.”

This was serious business. These weren’t just ants.

This was personal.

BELIEVING IN THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

My family is British and everyone always expects us to be hardcore football fans--sorry, "soccer." Truth is, I've never seen a whole game until I starting dating a someone with a nice haircut and so much Timbers gear that people legitimately thought he must be on the team's reserves. I wasn't forced into the love of the sport; I go to school at University of Oregon, and I'm surrounded by rabid Duck fans screaming into the night and seas of red and black during Blazers games in Portland. The fast pace of basketball was a little more amusing, but I honestly just didn't get the craze behind sports. In American football, only roughly 10-15 minutes of action actually occurs in the game, and the rest is either commercials or talking. WHAT? How do people keep watching? The only part I liked about watching the Super Bowl was the food and beer, and I know I'm not the only one. Okay, as an ad major I loved critiquing the ads too, but that's a different conversation for a different time. But bottom line: I will never understand the love behind those sports, but soccer, I totally see it, and I only wish the USA was more passionate about the World Cup. According to the Associated Press, "the World Cup generated more interactions on Facebook than the Sochi Olympics, Super Bowl, and Academy awards combined," in its opening week.

Yes, Brazil is pretty messed up right now. And, some football players are paid ridiculous salaries and lead superstar lives. But as far as the US goes, our MLS players live rather modestly compared to NBA and NFL stars, or football players in any other country; so why do we ignore the sport so much? Why do we deem it as unAmerican (browse Ann Coulter's recent rant) and not worthy of our love and passion? It sometimes seems people are so keen on criticizing the sport that they lose sight of how simple and beautiful it is. Anyone could play it; all you need it a ball. You could use anything to make goal posts, and the purpose is so simple. No special equipment, no difficult rules. While certain sports tend to be unique to their countries, football is an international connecting force of its own; you don't need to share a language to pick up and play with others.

The official game is non-stop action, with every goal holding so much weight. American football and basketball allows us to feel pride for our cities, maybe even our state; soccer/football allows us to feel pride for our country. During the World Cup, it becomes the ultimate patriotism; so why are our fans so few and far between?  Mexico national team jerseys are selling at a more popular rate than American jerseys in our own country.

I've never been an ultra-patriot. When I moved here, I thought it was weird that people read the pledge of allegiance at the start of the day. I found it impossible to memorize all these national songs. I could never sit still during a game of American football. But real football? That's something else. It's a chance for every country to unify under this crazy passion, no matter what background they're from, and that makes it a pretty beautiful game.

If you watch any sport this year, make it FIFA.

I'm rooting USA. 

BEING BROKE: A LOVE STORY

Summer's kicked in, school loan money has ran out, and I'm riding on $15 until my next paycheck, four weeks from now. 

It didn't actually occur to me how utterly broke I was until my friend asked me if I'd be interested in joining her to go to Cancun. That's what people do in summer-- get out of Oregon. I thought for a split second that would be fun, until I realized my card was getting declined at 711 to buy a $3.99 salad. Looking back, it probably wasn't that great of a salad anyway. 

I had to sit down. Breathe deeply. Peer at my bank statement online anxiously from behind a pillow, and that's when I realized I'd have to make some changes.

Phase one: Work. More. 

I was already at the maximum hours at my current desk job, so I looked into other resources. I'd redesigned my friend's resume before and she'd loved it, so I decided to outsource that skill online. All of a sudden, I'd started my own sort of mini business, redesigning boring resumes to look bold and beautiful as my friends were applying for new jobs, ranging from business gigs to chefs. Speaking of, need anything designed? Hit a girl up.

I applied for another position as a marketing intern for a start-up coming to Eugene, Crunch Button. Now, along with another student, we'll be signing businesses and recruiting workers. Still though, these were jobs that were going to take a while to kick in and start paying out, so I worked on how else I could survive on an utterly empty budget.

Phase two: Say goodbye to spendy social life.

No more bars, eating at restaurants, movies. Ration my laundry and wash clothes in the sink. Get comfortable with the groceries I have, because it will be awhile to replace them. I just ran out of fruit, so I'll be sure to take those vitamins I forgot about. Make sure to consume the perishables first- there's nothing more heartbreaking than throwing out (or getting food poisoning from) expired food when you're broke.

Learn to be comfortable with the phrase, "that sounds fun, but I'm kind of broke right now. Let's do something else." That's all. 

Not "Well, I can barely afford lunch that isn't PB&J or electricity so I often spend evenings on total darkness while you're wondering which sandals to buy from Nordstrom so let's see, hmm, I probably can't go to the bar later."

Embrace it. This is an opportunity. 

Phase three: Find amazing free things to do. Do them. 

When you can no longer go about your regular fun activities, it seems as though you're trapped in your apartment, like you don't even deserve to go outside. With no money, there is no more to do in the whole world. This is untrue, I've discovered, but it does take some creativity to find fun, free things to do. Here are a few:

Mmm. My bread did not look like this.

• Digging out those baking mixes/recipes you always intended to make. When you're running out of food, it's interesting to go through your cupboards and find new exciting things. Today, I found a baking mix for cinnamon raisin bread which I miraculously had all the ingredients for.  The yeast was expired, but it actually turned out pretty awesome. 
• Find a friend with Netflix/Xfinity. Line up those movies/TV shows you've been meaning to watch. Cuddle up next to a date or binge watch on your own- either will be satisfying. Write a review for it afterward. I'm currently watching the Walking Dead, Wilfred, and the Office on Netflix all at the same time; it depends on my mood. I just watched the film Enough Said on Xfinity and it was delightful. 
• Call/visit your parents. They know what it was like to be in college. They may even take pity on you and spot you some extra cash. At least a phone call will give you some comfort and the knowledge that worse case scenario, you can always come home (time/distance permitting). There's nothing like home-cooked food... delicious, FREE home-cooked food.
• Get outside. Guess what's free? Fresh air. Trees. Walking. Soak it up! The city can be discouraging to wander in to, as you may just pass places you would love to visit if you had the money, but nature is all yours, baby. Organize a hike with some friends or simply walk in the park, a nearby forest, or in a new neighborhood. Check out a river and dip your feet in, or soak up the sun by the shore. Oregon is beautiful. Nature/people watch.
• Have a friend visit from out of town. Especially an old friend. Have them stay with you, watch movies and eat together, have a blast. You won't be lonely, and by the time they leave, you'll be happy to have your own space again.
• Work out. Ugh, I know, right? I hate working out just as much as the next person but just a little work out today can help you feel a million times more productive and generally awesome. Don't worry, you don't have to run. Grab your yoga mat and do some push-ups/crunches in front of the TV, or dance like crazy to your favorite songs for an hour. 
• Check out the free entertainment. Most places, including Eugene, is packed with it! This includes free days at the museum, free concerts/shows (usually in small, friendly venues), or wine tasting/brewery touring, often with free samples at the end! Or visit an animal shelter and just soak of the glory of adorable cats and dogs. Refrain from stealing them. 
• Find a hobby. Learn or re-learn an instrument you've had sitting around your house/apartment. Draw, even though you know you can't. Start writing again like you said you would. Read those books you got as last minute gifts. Try to do some damn origami or improve your photography skills/lack there of. If you're like me, even with multiple jobs, you've got time. 

This is when you're beyond budgeting and need hope. You have literally nothing in your bank account, and the world seems a dim, meaningless place without money. But this isn't true. It's summer, after all. 

HOW TO DRESS FOR YOUR BODY TYPE

First of all: don't.

As a long time lover of What Not to Wear, fashion is something that has always intrigued me but never something I'd say I completely understood. I see the before and after; oh my god, look at her newfound confidence (crying ensues). And, as someone who has been challenged with accepting and embracing my body over the years, I've become increasingly comfortable with the fact that I will never be lower than a certain weight range. I was recently in a conversation with several of my beautiful coworkers discussing how we all somehow fell on the upper half, or teetering on the BMI scale between "average weight" and "overweight." I was amazed; these gorgeous women whose bodies I'd admired and wished mine to morph into, were actually struggling with the same body esteem issues as me, and frankly, most women our age. 

That made me want to do a whole lot of reflecting on how we perceive our bodies, and one thing I cannot fathom is putting your body type into a set category. If I see "pear-shaped" one more time, particularly with an example being Shakira or Kim Kardashian (like, seriously?), I might barf. The truth is, our bodies are all unique and shaped in different ways. And honestly, no one knows your body better than you, so how should they know how to dress it? Yet "dressing for your body type" has 100,000+ hits on Google, closely followed by "how to dress your plus-size body," which raises other issues. What does it even mean to be plus size? When I look at a lot of plus size models, (for example, H&M's praised and criticized plus-size campaign), they really just look like average size people. Does this mean that anyone above 120 lbs is automatically plus size? I'm not sure if anyone recalls Sarah from America's Next Top Model season 9, who was ultimately eliminated because apparently she was too thin to participate as a plus-size model, yet too heavy to compete against the size 0 models. So what is our fixation on not portraying accurate depictions of women across the country? 

Photoshopping is only one issue, but even no-retouching campaigns such as Aerie Real only focus on models of a small demographic--women that have never had to worry about encountering the dreaded "overweight" category. 

There are many fashion blogs out there that attempt to break down this fashion model which only caters to the flat-stomached. But often the label of "plus-size" lingers around, often synonymous  with "curvy." What if I identify as curvy, but not necessarily plus size? I am not the same size as a model; does that mean I am plus-size?

We have great strides to make in the fashion industry with body image. And although What Not to Wear  has its controversies with assuming they know what's best for women (sorry Clinton and Stacy), it always hits home with one thing: all women in all shapes and forms are beautiful. How do you dress for your body type? However you want. If I want to wear high-waisted shorts with my wide hips, I'll do that. Maybe this swimsuit might show a stretch mark, or this shirt was meant for someone with a lower bra cup size. Who cares? Wear the clothes you think look good and suit your personality. No one knows you or your body as well as you.

Life is too short to be deemed simply "pear-shaped." 

BEING A GEAR FOR CHANGE

Social change doesn't happen instantly. It takes a driving force of passionate people that are always involved. It takes learning, teaching, and small victories to make a difference in society. In light of recent events at my university, I wanted to take a stand with others against our school administration's passive attitude in handling sexual assault. 

I took time to participate in a rally, but I knew that was only part of the process. That was the first step; getting the attention of the university and those passing by. 

View fullsize

Photo by Daily Emerald

I knew this was a subject I felt strongly about. I wanted to guarantee safety to every student on campus, and for blame and stigma to be removed from the image of survivors. A lot of things had to change, but among the first to me was educating our student body about sexual assault and how to talk about it, in order to avoid misconceptions and biases. Working with the women's publication I ran, Her Campus Oregon, and alongside the National Association of Black Journalists, we decided to put on an event that related to our positions. We planned a writer's workshop/forum on how to discuss sexual assault in journalism, and contacted S.W.A.T (the Sexual Wellness Awareness Team) to speak at our event. We also contacted a Women's and Gender Studies teacher, Elizabeth Miller, and Media Studies teacher, Bryce Peake, to speak at our event. The following day we also planned a free all-inclusive self-defense class. 

It's my first time since coming to college that I feel like I'm a part of something big and with a great power to change. Before I graduate, I want to continue to do great things with this cause.

Social change doesn't happen instantly. But with enough determination and passion, it's amazing what just students can do. 

A POST FOR SULLIVAN BALLOU

Today I wanted to share this amazing letter we read a few weeks ago in Creative Writing. I saved it on my desktop because it's that good. It's by an eloquent soldier named Sullivan Ballou and was written before his death during the Civil War to his wife at home, Sarah. It breaks my heart and yet it strikes such a chord in me with its dire patriotism and passion. Why don't people write like this anymore?

July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington

My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .

PASSION LIKE AN AMATEUR

I'm currently digging into Cognitive Surplus by Clay Shirky and I'm fixated on this chapter about intrinsic rewards, free choice, and the idea of passion being a drive to achieve great things, regardless of professional stance or monetary value. While hobbies and pursuit of personal interests used to be a solitary practice, or among close friends/family with difficulty reaching out to a larger community, social media has enabled us with this incredible forum to connect with people from all over the world on our favorite quirky pastimes. Whether it's photography, fan fiction, woodworking, or anything, our ability and desire to share with individuals has been opened further through these new tools, and we share with others for entirely intrinsic purposes. This is an insanely cool concept. People are more connected than ever, and we receive some kind of currency from these social interactions. When we cook a great meal, not only do we enjoy it at home but we talk about it online, maybe take a photo to share on our social profiles. Some even share the recipe on a blog, or compare with others who have made similar dishes. Maybe if it was a terrible meal, they share it on tumblr with a witty caption. Humor, bonding, conversation with others--never before have we had so much potential at our fingertips. 

Where it gets even more fascinating is the use of this connection as a gear for change and reform. No longer do you have to be a professional to publish something, to rally a community, to raise money for a cause, or to achieve great things. Amateurs are doing a lot these days, and most of them aren't being paid a dime to do it. They're reviewing films, making videos, promoting charities, and editing Wikipedia articles simply because they have a crazy passion for it. Passion is this driving force that has completely evolved from it's previous meaning. It's something we all have in our hearts, and no matter where we're from or what our background, we have the ability to express and share that passion through our new social tools. 

As I'm reading, I have this distinct memory of my SAT writing question from high school. It went something like: how does the rise of new technology better or worsen our communication with each other? 

There's obvious controversies: ah, the lack of face-to-face interaction, oh no, the English language will decline one "lol" at a time. It's now more evident that if this is your kind of thinking, there is a whole new world that you aren't taking advantage of. Never be afraid of change. 

THE FIRST LESSON OF WRITING POETRY

Two weeks ago, I hated poetry.

Well, hate is a strong word. I didn't get it. I couldn't do it, couldn't understand it, and the inner toddler in me would throw temper tantrums before flipping the table and calling it a night. There were things I liked. A reading of "Milos" by slampoet Anis Mojgani has earned a triumphant place in my Google bookmarks bar. I still remember about 2/5 of Daryl Hine's "Echo" which I had to memorize for Senior English in high school. A gift, I read Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives cover to cover and recommended it to every person I could think of that was probably literate. 

But I wouldn't actively go out to read and enjoy poetry, and I'm still not sure if I could.

However, I'm taking an Intro to Poetry Writing class this term and my feelings on it leave me stumped every week. Last year, I took Intro to Fiction Writing, crazy challenging and rewarding. I took a hot yoga class with my teacher and with every intent but little time, never really wrote after that term again.

My teacher this term is maybe 24 or 25,  petite with long waves of ebony. She wears cognac lace-up boots and thin, cotton cardigans and honestly, I can't believe for a second that she's from Alabama. She's quiet, but not; I like people with a passion, and her passion is Robert Frost, Jack Gilbert, and Shakespeare sonnets. 

The first lesson of writing poetry for someone who hates/doesn't understand poetry is to accept that you are uncomfortable, slightly unwilling, and have utterly no idea what you are doing. This is okay. This is good. Now, just start with the little things.

Last week we had to present our first poems and I wanted to skip the workshop and get out of there. For me, I just sort of let the poem I wrote spill out, not knowing what was right or fitting or if  you can even critique stuff like that, because isn't it all subjective anyway?

Details aside, one girl in my class said she read mine late the night before, 1 am, tired as anything. She told me it broke her heart and made her cry, but that she loved it. Being moved by writing is really cool. Moving people through your writing is even cooler.

I still don't know what I'm doing, and I'm trying right now to read our assigned poems carefully and critically. I don't think I'm ever going to be a poet, but I might be a writer someday. 

My boyfriend's favorite book is Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, and soon, it won't just be dusty and bookmarked, wedged below the TV on our shelf in between a How-to-C++ textbook and a VHS tape of Homeward Bound (great movie). 

Two weeks ago, I still hated poetry. Now, it's not too bad.

HAPPINESS IS A FAT CAT

This week, I embarked on an epic Sunriver trip with old friends as we said goodbye to one of my best friends from high school who leaves for Japan for six months today. I've got another friend who's still in France for the next few months, couch surfing and hanging out with Peruvian guitarists and whatnot (true story). I'm wondering why I'm not halfway across the world yet.

Jealous as I may be, this Spring Break has been great so far. I've been working, and not sleeping in as much as I would have liked,  but it feels like my first Spring Break as a big kid. Maybe it's because I can finally drink legally, but I'm also trying to tackle this balancing act-- scrounging up all the free time I have and spending it with people I love, and usually lots of television and good food. It's good to be home. There's only a couple of days before the new term, but I'm not too worried. Plus, where there are cute cats, I can never be sad. 

BLACK COFFEE & SUN DRESSES

Sun, at a toasty 65 degrees has finally hit Oregon, and I've immediately changed into an old sun dress and cardigan. For someone as pale as me, you've got to cherish these precious moments of Vitamin D.

I'm back home in the land of the burbs, and nothing relaxes me more than waking up slow and drinking coffee next to our big window in the kitchen. Here, people leave their doors unlocked, the sounds of softball games echo through the streets and it's hard to get used to again. 

Times like this make me want to read, so I'm picking up a book that my dad brought me back from a work conference- David and Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits, and the Art of Battling Giants by Malcolm Gladwell. Sounds intrepid. I'm excited.

I've got nothing to do today.

It feels weird. 

THESE DAYS

To conclude my hellish past week, I just made a 12-page brochure for my internship: in less than 14 hours. 

Now I look forward to:

My dad's cooking

A full night of sleep

Real breakfast

Showering regularly

Hugging cats

It's been a rough term to say the least. I've never been so sick (bronchitis, food poisoning, and imitation-strep, what up) and GPA-wise, this has been my worst term yet. I made it through, but I learned some serious dangers about overloading myself. And I know it's okay to step back.

Throughout the term, I've been participating in a psychology experiment where I go in for mood assessments. The goal I think is to see how the stress of school corresponds with depression and anxiety. I think I'm in the control group: super stressed and overworked, but not at risk for mental illness. At first I just volunteered because it was a paid gig and I can always use more money, but it's also provided me a lot of reflection and the ability to rant--I get PAID to complain. 

At the beginning of term, I was feeling a little worried. I told them about how I take out my stress on other people, either becoming a recluse or straight up needy, but how I felt optimistic; I have this insane complex where I love being challenged.

That was the assessment during week 2. 

Last week, I went in to the assessment as a different person.

The people at Oregon Research Institute are extremely friendly, and I have a feeling that I'm one of their more normal participants. Maybe not. 

I teeter back and forth in my plastic chair in the small, air-conditioned room as I try not to say "like" more than ten times in a minute. They ask me how I've been doing, how am I sleeping, do I enjoy the things I used to, how often do I relax, have I been eating more, whether I wish I was a different person, and how I want to change.

While at the first assessment I felt hopeful and prepared, almost excited for the term, my mood has changed drastically. Four classes, one internship, and three jobs where I don't spend near enough effort at either? They combine into this terrifying vampire that has left me drained and bitter and exhausted. The worst part is that I feel like I'm wasting time at all of them because I can't do my best anymore. 

I don't like this new me. I want to change. I want to make good work and not just acceptable work. There are never going to be enough hours in a day or people that care. I can barely breathe.

I made an executive decision (in my own life, go figure).

I'm going to cut back on classes and work. I'm making time to force myself to work out and live a healthier lifestyle. I'm going to give more attention to the opportunities that need it, and be more grateful for the people who support me no matter what.

I want an internship this summer so bad that it hurts; I want to devote all my effort into one awesome job and make absolutely incredible work. If I haven't already screwed myself over, my goal next term will be making myself into the best candidate I can be.

Wish me luck!

DREAMS ON THE LTD

I don't get a lot of time to relax during the week.

My time spent at home is divided between fitting in a quick meal, finding enough hours in a day for homework, or reeling from the stress of it all and immediately entering comatose nap mode. 

So one of my simple pleasures are my rides on the EMX. For those that don't know, the EMX is "the bus rapid transit (BRT) system designed to serve the Eugene and Springfield communities now and into the future!" according to the website.

Neat.

I only ride it about 4-6 times a week, mainly to and from one of my internships, and I never sit down. I lean my back against the bike area if no one's using it. Then I let go, literally and figuratively. I love shifting my weight between my feet so I don't fall between turns. I love the inhale and exhale of the bus as it takes the corners and the bell that rings when it approaches a stop. Most of all I like the people. Not talking to them specifically--heaven forbid small talk on public transport--but just wondering where they're coming from, who's waiting for them at home, why they bought the shoes on their feet. 

I ride the EMX during the mornings and rush hour, so there's a mix of emotion. There's a lot of sunken looks, heavy eyes, and sometimes straight up unreadable expressions, but I know that no matter how long this commute is, they might enjoy a little bit of this peace. Everyone has their own personal space and stares out the window or down at their phones, swaying to the movement of the bus. 

I only take it for like 2-3 stops max, but one day I plan on riding the whole stretch up and down 13th by myself: Eugene station to Springfield station. Sure, it might not be totally scenic, but there's something you get from that voyage that leaves you alone to your thoughts or the freedom to just space out and detach from it all. 

Try it.