Dispatches from the war zone

24 hours in Portland, Oregon or the lies we tell

I spent 24 hours in Portland this weekend, and came back beat up. Here’s my story, mostly in pictures. Stay with me, and we’ll get to the bruises.

I stayed at my friend Matt’s house — don’t worry, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. We stopped at the neighborhood bar where Matt was greeted by name when we walked in the door. The baseball game was on, and everyone cheered when the Mariners got a grand slam. I didn’t take a picture, because I was distracted by all of the joy. But that wasn’t even the reason I was there — Matt lent me his bus pass, and I took the easiest trip of all time down to the Moda Center, where I was meeting another friend for a Lord Huron concert.

But first, this guy played a cowbell.

Then, Lord Huron put on a very Twin Peaks inspired show and brought tears to my eyes playing their song, Take Me Back to the Night We Met. Their production value was intricate, their songs were heartfelt, and their lead singer danced to his own music.

The next morning, Matt and I went to check out the protests around town. We got a parking space very close by, and wandered through the waterfront. I thought these daisies would have been a good way to find your friends in a crowd.

It also helps the festivities when you dress up like a frog, which really rallies in the crowd.

Right about this time, I stumbled over a curb, and fell flat on my face on the concrete. It was a hard fall. I was stunned. When I started to get up, I was brushing dirt and leaves off myself as faces in costumes were all around me asking if I was ok. Their faces are all blurred in my mind. They told me to take care of myself. They double checked to be sure I was ok. The organizers came over the sound system in between speakers and reminded everyone to take care of each other (not because of me!) and note where security is stationed. I shook off the fall as best I could so we could get meat on a stick.

I told myself I was fine.

Who keeps us safe?

We do!

As we wandered toward the car, I saw a neighborhood goal tree. The pieces of paper in the trees say things like:

travel more

learn a language

perfect my blackberry pie

My bruises hurt, and if I had pride about things like falls, that would have hurt too. I thought about stopping at the witch house for a potion.

It’s nice, Matt said, to know we’re not alone.

The idea that we’re the only ones, that we’re not seeing what we know we’re seeing: that’s one of the many, many, lies.

I took this picture for my girlfriend, who counts the number of dogs she sees, everywhere we go.

There was even whimsey at the leather purse store!

I licked my bruised wounds with my friend Jessica at a pizza place where people had to wait in line to get in, because Portlanders take their food seriously.

7 million of our friends came out this weekend to tell true stories. They were all ages, from all kinds of backgrounds. We spoke up and told our truth; that our cities do not need military intervention. That people shouldn’t be pulled off the street by masked men with too many guns and too few explanations. If you need reassurance, look at the pictures in the news of hundreds of thousands in big cities, and huge turnouts in red states and small towns.

We are not alone. We are not crazy. We might be a little bruised.

xoxo

Emma

P.S.: The Mariners put up a good fight. For those of you who watched it, I keep thinking about that guy that swung at a pitch in the dirt. Had he not swung, they might have still been in it. It was a brutal moment, and they remain the only team that has never been to the World Series. It’s brutal. But it’s our story.