Ethos Magazine Fall 2015

FALL 2015 /

VOL.8, ISSUE 1

/ FREE

contents ETHOS MAGAZINE /

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Editor’s Note

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Movie Review

After the Crash

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Book Reviews

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A Pup’s Perspective

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A Slice of the Pie

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A Child of Hitler’s War

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Barn Light

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A False Start and a Second Chance

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Caffeine Connoisseur

A Journey of Self Discovery

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Ethos World

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Class Outside the Continental 48

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Auschwitz, Explored

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From California to Cape Town

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The Way of the Wiesn

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Squirrel Harbor: A Turf War

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Dwell in Douglass Firs

s PHOTO – A South African sunset captured by photographer Lorin Anderburg.

Ethos is a multicultural student publication based at the University of Oregon in Eugene, Oregon. Ethos receives support from the ASUO. All content is legal property of Ethos, except when noted. Permission is required to copy, reprint, or use any content in Ethos. All views and opinions expressed are strictly those of the respective author or interviewee.

EDITOR’S NOTE

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ith luck, snow will soon begin to cap our mountains here in forested Oregon.

Green leaves have already given way to gold, and the mercury in our thermostats will head south for the season – which means there’s no better time to curl up in that fireside wingback chair, or just the twin bed in your residence hall room, with a fresh copy of Ethos Magazine.

In this Fall issue, things get personal. Writer Russell Wilson pens an essay on his journey from working as a successful football coach to practically losing it all and finding his way to the West Coast.

Me and Earl and the Dying Girl director Alfonso Gomez-Rejon opens up to Ethos’ Brett Kane about seeing much of himself in his movie’s main character, Greg, who, as Kane put it, “spent his whole life trying to get by without having to confront any of life’s troubles.”

Longtime readers will recall our Journeys section, wherein we highlighted the experience of one reporter outside the United States each issue. Now, it is a pleasure to introduce that segment’s natural evolution: Ethos World. Enjoy dispatches on adventures outside the Continental United States, including writer and photographer Lorin Anderberg’s adventure far from home in Cape Town, South Africa. See the bustling “Observatory” neighborhood and South Africa’s famous Table Mountain through her eyes, then jet off to the wilds of Alaska with photographer Kyra Bailey.

Be sure to allow the sights and sounds of autumn in Oregon to drift through your window – but let Ethos Magazine take you all over the world.

EDITOR IN CHIEF Jonathan Bach

editorial MANAGING EDITORS Sydney Zuelke Rachel LaChapelle ASSOCIATE EDITORS Negina Pirzad, Jordyn Brown, Lindsay McWilliams COPY EDITOR Haley Stupasky WRITERS Patrick Dunham, Forrest Welk, Melissa Epifano, Russell Wilson, Aliya Hall, Jordyn Brown, Erin Coates, Jen Jackson, Hannah Bonnie

photography PHOTO EDITOR Kyra Bailey PHOTOGRAPHERS

Ethos is printed on 70 percent post-consumer recycled paper

PR DIRECTOR Lydia Salvey PR REPS Ashley Carter, Lina Allen, Tyler Horst, Blake Jones, Sierra Gamelgaard SOCIAL MEDIA COORDINATOR Tessa Jackson

web WEB EDITOR Negina Pirzad

contact

ethosmag@gmail.com

special thanks ASUO

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Brittney Reinholtz

Published with support from Generation Progress.

DESIGNERS Gina Mills, Hannah Lewman, Meghan McEldowney, Allie Witham

s ON THE COVER Photographer Lorin Anderberg captures this moment in Cape Town, South Africa.

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public relations

art

Ethos thanks Campus Progress for helping support this student-run publication.

Campus Progress, the youth division of the Center for American Progress, is a national progressive organization working to empower young people to make their voices heard.

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Lorin Anderberg, Haley Stupasky, Kyra Baileyz

Kaylee Domzalski, Ben McBee, Hannah Giardina, Hayla Beck, Delaney Engle, Elinor Odell, Patrick Bryant, Angelina Hess, Mackenzie Moran, Karly Dewess

JONATHAN BACH EDITOR IN CHIEF

ETHOS

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ILLUSTRATORS Krista Young, Madeleine Gould, Miro Merrill

Congratulations to the Ethos staff, both past and present, for its award-winning work. For its previous issues, Ethos received multiple awards from the Associated Collegiate Press and Columbia Scholastic Press Association, including a 2013 ACP Pacemaker Award for a Feature Magazine, its first Digital Magazine Silver Crown and two Society of Professional Journalists Mark of Excellence Awards. Generation Progress named Ethos Best Overall Publication in 2012-2013.

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All God’s Children

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by RENE DENFELD

WORDS JORDYN BROWN ILLUSTRATION KRISTA YOUNG

hink back to yourself at 14. Where were you? What did you do for fun? What did you think about? Did any of these answers include living under bridges, playing with weapons, or committing brutal murders?

They might if you were part of a street family, like those in Rene Denfeld’s nonfiction book All God’s Children. Denfeld’s work digs deep and investigates the culture of street families in Portland, Ore. since they blew up in the early ’90s, explaining that “street families” are formed of people typically aged 14 to 29 who come together to live as “brothers and sisters.” There is usually one “mother” and “father” who are the alphas of the family. While Denfeld focuses closely on one street family, her book examines street family culture around the country, and recently, its increasing prominence among American cities.

Denfeld narrows her focus on the street family that eventually came to be run by a man named James Daniel Nelson, known also as “Highlander,” and later “Thantos” (most in street families adopt a nickname). Nelson’s involvement in and instigation of a string of brutal murders beginning a month after his arrival in Portland led Denfeld to investigate the lives of those in street families to begin with.

All God’s Children is strikingly honest. In the beginning, Denfeld notes that she wrestled with how to present the violence and brutality these families took out on each other, eventually making the decision that the only way to present the truth is to present it as it is, including the gruesome and uncomfortable details.

(Details like numerous stab wounds, how the family stripped a street girl naked and beat her bloody, and other various ways they “taxed” their victims.)

This book also speaks to the dissociation the members of this family had with their role in society. Through interviews with family members, Denfeld counters one popular belief that street kids are here because of unfortunate life circumstances. On the contrary, many leave well-off, sometimes wealthy lifestyles to live in the streets. A world of fighting in the dark, sleeping in dirt, and hearing whispers, fearing that you are the next to be “taxed.”

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Denfeld reflects that once the streets were cleaned up for the homeless, it opened a door for dysfunctional teenagers and street families to thrive instead:

“For runaway youth such as James Nelson, the cleanedup streets offered a new playground. They could invent the society they wanted, free from the interference of adults…they could define themselves. Isolated from other influences, they would create a fantasy world all their own.”

And so they did. Over the years, street family culture grew in size and impact through violence. Boundaries did not exist, even after they knew the risk of being caught by the police. Street families like Nelson’s continued to grow and do brutal work at large, just because it was what they felt they needed to do. Brutal work like murdering those who came into their family and crossed them in even the slightest. Brutal work like beating someone to be nearly unrecognizable, for the pure satisfaction of moving up in street credibility.

In a voice that speaks like your favorite fiction author, Denfeld takes you down the dark alleys, beneath the Portland city bridges where these families thrive. She takes you to a place where young, naïve teenagers slept quietly with new plots of revenge, rumors, and family ranks in their dreams, weapon in hand. Where one day you are the abuser and the abused the next. In ten years and 284 pages, Denfeld throws us head-first into the first-hand accounts of those who spent their days beneath the bridges, waking up to blood on their shirts and unrelenting devotion to this way of life in their hearts.

Little Man

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WORDS ALIYA HALL ILLUSTRATION KRISTA YOUNG

was undesirable. Between puberty and marriage, there probably isn’t a characterization that cuts deeper. It goes into the marrow, finalizes the transaction.”

So writes Alex Tizon in the third chapter of his book, Big Little Man: In Search of My Asian Self. The book serves primarily as a memoir for Tizon, who recounts his story of growing up a Filipino immigrant in America; however, the book touches on more than just Tizon’s life. He uses it to investigate society’s take on Asian men and women, while discussing the shame he felt in connection to being Asian.

Tizon is a Pulitzer Prize-winner who has worked as both a Seattle Times and Los Angeles Times correspondent. Big Little Man won the 2015 Frances Fuller Victor Award for General Nonfiction.

by ALEX TIZON

The first portion of the book follows Tizon as REVIEW a young man coming into his own in the “Land of Giants”— his name for America. He describes his adolescent years as “trying on various uniforms of manhood.” He attempts to change his physical appearance to seem more mestizo, and therefore less Asian. Beyond struggling with issues of manhood, though, Tizon faced racial ignorance. He refers multiple times to people who ask, “What was he supposed to be?” or those who say, “It’s all the same thing,” when it comes to those of Asian descent.

Although Big Little Man is categorized as a memoir, it’s more of a societal investigation. The book criticizes Asian stereotypes perpetuated by society, and the effect they have, in this case, on Asian men. These issues are heavily addressed in chapter eight, wherein Tizon reflects upon the cliche that is the Asian penis and how, as he writes, its “color is its size.”

He brings in personal anecdotes from his relationships through college, writing on how shame and stereotypes played a role in his sex life. Tizon isn’t shy when it comes to sharing his personal life. He lays it out for everyone to see, with specific details of conversations and sexual encounters. However, Tizon finds a way to bring up these discussions about sex without taking away from the overall story arc; he takes on the debate without being too vulgar or immature.

These issues of manhood extend wider than just within his life, and Tizon also investigates the role that stereotypes have in American media. He evaluates multiple shows with prominent Asian characters and compares the view of traditional manhood

by Western standards to the personalities of the Asian men in the shows. Although he admits to the strides that are being made, Tizon has been used to disappointment.

“I smile inwardly at the small advances, and I swear under my breath at the embarrassments,” he writes.

The book’s organization tends to address such issues on a broader scale before zooming in on his own personal experience.

This formula adds more depth to the story, making Big Little Man more than a memoir. This is also seen with the undeniable taste of journalism in the book, although it may not be considered traditional journalism. Tizon spends the last portion of his book telling young Asian men’s stories through interviews. He used these conversations to balance out his opinion when it came to interracial couples in the Philippines, where the men’s ages in a given relationship doubled that of the women’s, or when Asian women discussed reverse racism with being overtly sexualized.

While the book throws light mainly on his story, Tizon never really takes off his journalism cap.

But Tizon’s piece does take steps away from the main story line to address other problems facing the Asian race. And the jump between personal testament to historical accounts is abrupt.

Although the history adds an important backdrop to the story, its placement after the most intimate chapter in the book makes for a cumbersome read.

Big Little Man is a book that needed to be written, and has received many comments from readers saying that Tizon has told their story. The book is an accurate account of the stereotypes attached to Asian men, but does not leave the reader burdened after setting it down.

Tizon looks to the future and shows the strides of improvement that society has made, and succeeds in opening eyes up to the stereotypes surrounding race.

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REVIEW

slice

of the pie PHOTOS EVAN NORTON / WORDS AMBER COLE

Can you list how many places there are in Eugene to eat pizza? Google can. It lists 20 local pizzerias, excluding campus. With all these options, deciding where to chowdown on a pie can be a challenge.

Narrowing down the more popular places, I went on an all-out pizza binge to determine which campuscentric pizza locations have the best pizza.

LA PERLA

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he first pizzeria on my crawl is La Perla. Located on 13th Avenue and Pearl Street, this pizza hub is a slice of Italy. Of the pizzerias I went to, this one is something of a black sheep. A delicious black sheep. Immediately as you walk in, you can see the kitchen along the back wall, complete with a wood-fire pizza oven. Glass panels allow you to see into the kitchen as well as watch the chefs toss your pizza before your eyes.

I order the Antica: a pie topped with their cheese, salami, mushroom, and roasted red peppers. This pizza is a work of art. All the toppings are laid out in a perfect arrangement that means every topping is in every bite. In a word: fresh.

The mozzarella is fresh, the tomato sauce is merely crushed tomatoes that have been lightly seasoned. The mushrooms provide a heartiness to the pizza. Cooked salami tends to up the saltiness of the cured meat, but with the sugars from the peppers and tomato sauce, the flavor of the salami does not overpower the combined taste. The crust, tossed thin, has a crunch to it on the outside, but the interior is soft and fluffy. Holding the pizza turns your hand black because of the ash from sitting in the oven, and the char on the bottom of the crust just makes this pie taste that much better.

Surprisingly, even with rich ingredients like salami and mushrooms, this pizza is light and doesn’t sit in your stomach like a rock.

I’m pretty certain that if I were to fly to Italy and order the same pizza in NaETHOS

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SIZZLE PIE

ples, I would suffer from déjà vu. My only hang up with this pie is the crust. Since it is rolled thin, the weight of the toppings make it so a fork and knife are necessary.

This pie is also a bit on the costly side.

La Perla is delicious, but if your budget

doesn’t include dropping close to $15 on one pie, perhaps leave this pizzeria for when the folks come to town or you want to treat your significant other to a nice dinner.

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estled in the heart of Kesey square, Sizzle Pie is a pizzeria with a rock ‘n’ roll attitude. They sell pies by the slice, or by the pie, but be warned, these slices are massive. One slice alone is enough to fill you up. I order a slice of the pepperoni pizza.

It may not be as fancy as the pie I enjoyed at La Perla, but the basics are what separate the great pizza joints from the mediocre joints that you go to only if you’re desperate.

When I receive my piping hot slice of pie, I immediately notice the small pools of grease settling on top of the pepperoni and cascading onto the cheese. Some people are put off by this sight, but my eyes determine that it is just enough grease to add flavor to this pie.

My first bite further confirms that Sizzle Pie is a hangover paradise. The crust is thin, but sturdy, almost like a cracker. The cheese has a pull to it that makes eating it much more fun.

I tend to enjoy pepperoni that has a bit of a spice to it, but this pepperoni was so flavorful, I didn’t mind. With each bite, I pick up a zesty herby flavor that I determine to be the sauce.

While La Perla has a pizza that is light, this pizza sticks to your ribs, but not in a way that makes it heavy.

Though I don’t have a problem with the grease, I notice this pizza makes me thirsty. I guzzle down water like I’ve just swallowed a handful of salt. Conflicted with my thirst and wanting more, I decide that pizza this good is worth drinking a gallon of water over. This pizza tastes like true Americana done right.

It’s one of those pizzas that makes you want another slice if only there was room in your stomach.

TRACK TOWN

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rack Town Pizza has been across the street from Matthew Knight Arena since before the stadium was built. It’s a small hub filled with memorabilia of the excellence Oregon exhibits in track and field. Their menu itself has pizza titles dedicated to track events like the hammer throw and the decathlon.

I munch on the Hawaiian Plus. Ever been conflicted between Hawaiian and Pepperoni? The Hawaiian Plus solves that problem by mashing the two together. And what a delicious marriage it is. Salty and sweet are probably one of my favorite flavor combinations and this pie has it. The sweetness from the pineapple cuts through the salty spiciness from the pepperoni that allows you to taste all the toppings. Canadian bacon for me has always been kind of a blah topping, so I’m not much impressed by it. While the other pizzerias have tomato sauce that is light and complements the other ingredients, the sauce on Track Town’s is thick and holds a good kick.

Fortunately, they layer the sauce on thinly as to not overpower the taste. The crust doesn’t wow me with this pizza. It is delicious, but forgettable.

Eating at Track Town always reminds me of my childhood when my mom would take my siblings and me out for pizza on the last day of school. The atmosphere of this pizzeria is all about spending time with friends and enjoying a great pie.

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PEGASUS

egasus Pizza has three locations across Eugene. I go to their campus location. This location is always buzzing with students and families alike. I’ve had pepperoni pizza here many a-time before, so for the final place on my crawl, I want to try something new. I go with the Hawaii Five-O pizza. Teriyaki Chicken, bacon, pineapple, and cilantro. A delicious combination of toppings. What can possibly go wrong with this choice?

As it turns out, quite a bit.

Above all, this pizza has too much teriyaki sauce. Each bite I take is a mouthful of teriyaki that is super delicious for the first five bites, and then becomes overpowering. The cilantro and pineapple help cut up that teriyaki flavor, but sometimes I get a mouthful of cilantro and feel like I am eating soap (a common problem when you get too generous with the herbs).

The pizza is hearty and very filling. After eating this pizza, I feel like I won’t be hungry for at least two days.

One thing that surprises me with this pizza is how the fresh tomato sauce complements the teriyaki sauce. The two flavors blend well when it seems they would be in constant battle with each other. Pegasus also has my favorite crust of the four pizzerias. It is yeasty and fluffy, with a slight crunch from the oven.

I’m not saying Pegasus is bad. As I said before, I’ve had their pizza plenty of times before. The Hawaii Five-O pizza was a risk and with strong flavors like teriyaki and cilantro, it just didn’t work for me. I would still go back again for a simpler pie.

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CAFFEINE Connoisseur

REVIEW

R WORDS CASSADIE JERDIN PHOTOS KYRA BAILEY

a Eugene Treasure

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on’t mind the deer head when you walk into the Barn Light Cafe & Bar in Eugene.

Whether you’ve come to play a few matches of cards, or to hunch over laptops and textbooks, your activities could at any moment be punctuated by the indie sounds of Local Natives or classic Fleetwood Mac. Food and drinks are served all day long, either at the main bar or at four-top tables.

The Barn Light at 924 Willamette Street is a Eugene treasure that comfortably accommodates groups who enjoy a lively environment and a strong drink.

Practically every inch of wall space at the Barn Light is

covered with décor. The back wall hosts vintage and collegiate banners alike that serve as backdrops to plush couches and velvet armchairs. The wooden wall opposing the Barn Light’s wellstocked bar displays a stoic deer head surrounded by handsaws and an American flag.

“Fly With Your Own Wings” is the message proclaimed in bold letters around the deer’s head posted to the wall above a game board.

The Barn Light offers specialty cocktails that take a step away from the traditional drink, with flavors that work together to deliver a truly new experience; for example, the Midnight Sun is a creative take on a long island ice tea and is made with the sharp tasting liquor Akvavit. The Akvavit has a distinct taste similar to black licorice and is enhanced by a splash of tea flavoring and a squeeze of fresh lemon.

The bright and fruity Mary Pickford, however, comes in a delicate glass and is the perfect pink drink for a lady’s evening happy hour. Along with the various cocktails, the Barn Light offers everything a college student or local needs to get loose, from Jell-O shots to local craft or domestic beers.

The Barn Light’s décor, vibe, and drink menu will make you feel young. The quirky decorations and creative drinks make the Barn Light one of Eugene’s most unique destinations for an upbeat night of karaoke, or the perfect place to just settle in and catch up with friends.

HOURS:

s PHOTO - The Barn Light Bar & Cafe offers a variety of food, drinks, and entertainment.

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MONDAY-WEDNESDAY 7 A.M. – MIDNIGHT THURSDAY 7 A.M. – 1 A.M. FRIDAY 7 A.M. – 2 A.M. SATURDAY 9 A.M. – 2 A.M. SUNDAY 9 A.M. – 10 P.M.

PROFILE

WORDS AMBER COLE ILLUSTRATION ALLIE WITHAM

ich, creamy milk neatly cascades from its pitcher into a cup. As pearly dairy mixes with dark French roast, Anthony Christensen gives his wrist a series of twitches until the image of a leaf nestles neatly on top. He sets the drink on the counter in front of him, calling for the customer to claim his masterpiece. Christensen tosses his espresso tamper in the air as he moves on to the next drink, his confidence and contentment evident from the smile on his face and the twinkle in his eyes.

Dive into Christensen’s mind and discover an encyclopedia of coffee knowledge that has taken the past decade to put together.

After countless hours of research and a few tests along the way, he has learned volumes, all in the name of honing his craft as an artisan barista. He is eager to share his knowledge with all who will listen — his calm, collected demeanor while behind the bar encourages people to ask about his craft. In return, he presents them with a cup of coffee that is not only beautiful to look at, but arouses all the senses. Merely taking an espresso shot with Christensen is an experience of its own.

“Life is too short for bad coffee,” he says. It’s a motto he lives by. As master and commander of Common Grounds Café at the University of Oregon, Christensen focuses on making each drink the best it can be — despite having to use what he considers to be sub-par coffee beans. However, working at Common Grounds comes with a bittersweet note: Christensen knows that he’s reaching the end of this caffeinated chapter in his life.

“This is going to be my last coffee job,” he says. “I’ve loved every part of it.” Come fall, he will start taking classes to renew his previously expired certification as paramedic while continuing his training in scuba diving. He has his eyes set on being a scuba paramedic. But for now, he is sticking to his coffee roots, steaming lattes and pouring cold brew at 16 Tons for the summer with his former boss from the University of Oregon and friend, Benjamin Wilkinson. Once fall term starts up, he will return to Common Grounds.

Christensen got his first whiff of the different variety of coffee while working the Starbucks beat in California. Though, he did not embark on the path of becoming a true artisan until he moved to Sacramento. He moved there believing it would be temporary. His father needed help transitioning after a divorce.

But then something inconceivable happened: he broke his leg.

The broken leg put Christensen in a catch-22 where he needed work, but was unable to find it. “I got stuck,” he says. He was able to find a company that was having a job fair for an area he had some experience in. He applied, conveniently leaving out his injury.

Cassie Wanner and her manager, Tim, sat at a job fair that Wanner helped set up. She was working as a lead shift manager at a downtown Sacramento location of the caffeine mecca, Peet’s Coffee. The two were looking for entry-level baristas who had some experience.

“Anthony walks in the door in his plaid shirt and I’m like ‘Oh man, Tim, not another bro!’” Wanner says. “Honestly, I could not have been more wrong.” She and her boss started having a conversation with Christensen. They were just three people, geeking over coffee. They gave Christensen the job.

His first day at Peet’s was “overwhelming.” While Wanner trained him on running the store, he learned all 30 types of coffees and teas that Peet’s offered and was soon promoted to coffee and tea specialist. He took classes where he learned about the process of coffee from plant to cup. He also demonstrated new brewing methods and products for customers to enjoy.

As he continued to hone his craft at Peet’s, Christensen attracted a small fan base. Customers would come in and specifically request he make their coffee. But he didn’t consider himself a true barista until he participated twice in the company-

“ ”

LIFE IS TOO SHORT FOR BAD COFFEE wide barista competitions. The first year he advanced to the district level. He didn’t duplicate that achievement the second year he competed, but he received a high compliment from one of the judges.

“One of the store managers tried one of my espresso shots and said it was the best espresso shot she’d had in the district,” Christensen says. “It was about that time that I realized that I’m pretty good at this.”

After a few years at Peet’s, it was time for him to move on and add another volume to his encyclopedia. He applied for a job at the best coffee shop in Sacramento: Temple Coffee. To work at Temple, he had to complete a written test showing his coffee knowledge as well as a demonstration on bar. “I failed the first time,” he says. “But he [Temple’s owner] lets you have a ETHOS FALL 2015

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REVIEW

second chance, and I passed the second time.” When he moved to Temple, some of his fans moved with him.

His time at Temple ran its course and Christensen and Wanner — now his girlfriend — migrated up to Eugene. Christensen was setting down roots and establishing a sense of home, something he wanted during all the years he spent moving around for his work. Eugene was a natural fit since Christensen was not only familiar with the town, but had family here as well.

Both Christensen and Wanner were hired to work in Dining Services at the University of Oregon. At the time they were hired, there was an initiative to change the way students drink coffee in the dorms. Quality over quantity was the game with the dynamic duo. They trained student workers to develop the same passion for good coffee as well as a useful skill. Christensen also likes to make sure his students stay well caffeinated, asking around to see which of his workers want to take a shot of espresso with him.

Hamilton dining Student Shift Leader Justin Bercherer noted the difference between Christensen and the previous manager.

“Anthony is really reliable,” he says. “When I come into work, I don’t have to worry about running the place.”

Christensen is passing the torch on to the next generation of baristas. When fall term starts up, he, Wanner, and a couple other dining services baristas will be pioneering a coffee summit where both students and managerial staff can develop the same passion for coffee that Christensen has. “I have a lot to teach about not just the process, but the knowledge [of coffee],” he says. “If it’s something that I’m passionate about, it makes it easier to teach at that point.”

Despite being leaders in a school-wide coffee revolution, Wanner likes to occasionally slip into Common Grounds to see Christensen teach a student. “The Padawan has definitely become the Master,” she says.

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AMERICAN Ultra

WORDS BRETT KANE ILLUSTRATION KRISTA YOUNG

Director: Nima Nourizadeh Starring: Jesse Eisenberg, Kristen Stewart Review: 5.5/10

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ith a decent cast and a promising premise, American Ultra was poised to be a surprise hit. It had a concept that could have lent itself easily to comedy while simultaneously allow for some exciting action. Unfortunately, the film only showcases a small portion of its true potential.

Ultra is directed by Nima Nourizadeh and stars Jesse Eisenberg and Kristen Stewart as two stoners living mundane lives in West Virginia. Eisenberg spends his days working at a convenience store while Stewart spends her nights as a hotel receptionist. One night, when Eisenberg catches a pair of masked men breaking into his car, he discovers that he is able to kill them with remarkable speed and skill. As it turns out, there just might be more in store for him than smoking pot.

There were several ideas presented in the film that translated from script to screen quite well. Eisenberg’s mysterious phobia of traveling made an intriguing plot point that paid off once its true cause was revealed. A certain twist dealing with Stewart’s character is presented around the halfway mark that added a surprising amount of drama to the story and her relationship with Eisenberg that I wasn’t expecting. The film is more than just the stoner action-comedy that the trailers are leading you to believe; it’s the film’s romantic storyline that takes the center stage, and it’s by far its strongest element.

The biggest problem with this film, however, is that it tries to accomplish too much in too little time. It wants to be a stoner comedy, a drama, a romance, and an action movie all at once, but doesn’t have a sure sense of balance. It’s like a juggler who doesn’t know how to juggle.

Some aspects of the film shine while others fall flat. The romance is what works above everything else. Amongst a plethora of flashy set-pieces, stoner jokes, and action movie tropes is a love

story that is fleshed out and effective in immersing the viewers into the struggles of the two leading characters.

Eisenberg and Stewart’s dynamic creates some genuine drama and romantic chemistry that was both believable and engaging, and this is primarily due to the actors themselves. Einsenberg and Stewart are both excellent here. Sure, Eisenberg isn’t exactly stepping out of his comfort zone, continuing to play the socially-awkward nerd once again, but he knows the part so well by now that he always seems to find the right roles that call for that kind of performance. Stewart continues to prove that audiences shouldn’t blame her for certain past career mistakes, as she is equally great here. The chemistry between the two, as well as their performances, is what made the film watchable throughout.

And the rest of the cast? Utterly forgettable.

Topher Grace as the newly-appointed leader of the CIA mission tasked to take down Eisenberg is borderline hammy, which clashes with the action and romantic aspects in the film. If the film had a better sense of focus, perhaps his character would have worked a lot better, but whenever he was given screen time, I found myself impatiently waiting for Eisenberg and Stewart’s return. Connie Britton was passable in her role, and Bill Pullman was downright useless. He was only featured in the film for a solid five minutes, and the plot would have largely gone unaffected had he been cut out.

In the end, the two leads are the only two who give memorable performances, which is unfortunate, as the film has so many different storylines going on simultaneously. Although it only runs just past 90 minutes, it feels much longer because there are so many different subplots that need to wrap up before the credits.

While Ultra isn’t a failure, it certainly isn’t that hit summer comedy it set out to be. The film ultimately falters due to a lack of solid direction and focus. There isn’t an action scene that stands out, and only a handful of jokes land.

Eisenberg and Stewart are excellent here, but there isn’t much else to lift this stoner comedy hybrid sky high.

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PROFILE

AFTER THE CRASH

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WORDS ALIYA HALL PHOTO COURTNEY THEIM

t happened on a February morning. Ashley Clark was driving on 18th Avenue to Lane Communzity College for a math test when Joseph Umphrey, driving under the influence of meth in a stolen vehicle, ran a red and hurtled into her car.

“The next thing I remembered was waking up in the middle of everything and wondering what happened. I was worried because I felt myself like waking up. I was worried that I had fallen asleep at the wheel and that this was all my fault,” Clark says.

Clark, 19, is a small, bubbly young woman with bright red glasses and a huge smile. Despite almost dying, she is still in good spirits. Her voice is loud and jubilant, and she has no boundaries as she recounts her story — although, there are holes in her memory.

“Apparently, I never actually lost consciousness; I just don’t remember any of it, which is almost scarier,” she says.

What she does remember is telling witnesses to call her parents and boyfriend, Jake, and asking about the other people involved in the accident. When she was told she was the only one who was injured, she remembered thinking, “Thank God.” Clark says she also remembers speaking with paramedics; looking back now, she is embarrassed by all the “bad jokes” that she made. When they cut her out of the car because the door was pinned on her leg, the pressure that was removed caused the pain in her leg to reach her and she told them to put the car door back on her.

“There was a comment also when they were checking me for injuries and said they had to cut my dress off. I started crying and said, ‘I just bought this dress!’ I was cheeky even when I was halfway conscious,” she laughs. “These impressions I make on people.”

For her mother, Brandy Clark, the experience was no laughing matter. She was leaving her house when a telephone call got her attention. She “felt in her gut” that she needed to answer it. From then on, everything was a whirl.

“No matter what, when someone says ‘everything is okay, but…,’ it doesn’t matter how nice you say it, or that everything’s okay, you just know something’s wrong. Instantly I felt a wave of heat and anxiety. There was a lump in my throat, my heart was ETHOS

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beating, like ‘Oh my god, what? Which person?’” She says.

Brandy then spent her time on the phone informing her own mother and husband. From what she had heard, it seemed only to be a slight fender-bender, but when she was told that Clark was being cut out of the car, Brandy realized it was far more serious.

When she arrived at the hospital, she didn’t know if Clark was there already or not and described the experience as being a “build up of emotions.”

“I just sat out there shaking and crying, waiting to hear. The whole way in we were hearing things. The whole trip in we were wondering what was going on,” Brandy says.

When Clark awoke in the hospital, her thoughts were clouded and jumbled; she wondered where she was but was not thinking clearly until she noticed something fall onto her dress. “I put my hand to my face and pulled it away, and it was covered in blood, just like you see in the movies, and I was like ‘Oh my god. I’m bleeding.’ That was the first actual clear thought I had. The next clear thought I had was ‘I hope this washes out!’ Because I can’t take anything seriously, even when I almost die apparently,” she says.

Clark spent a week in the hospital; four of those days were in the ICU. Her injuries were as follows: a brain bleed, a cracked vertebra in her neck, a punctured lung, a couple fractured ribs, a fractured sternum, a broken collar bone, a pelvis that had been fractured in several places, and a clean break in her left femur.

Along with the immediate injuries, during treatment she struggled with staying conscious, and her breathing was off. She would fall asleep and stop breathing for long periods of time.

“It was scary, but I was asleep for most of it, so there wasn’t a mega-lot of pain most of the time,” Clark says.

Fortunately, Clark says that there aren’t any expected long-term pain or injuries. The only thing that could be done, if she chooses to, is to remove the titanium rod now in her leg. She doesn’t think she will, because she already hates the scars she has and doesn’t want to open it up again. Everything is expected to heal, and for that, Clark considers herself lucky.

PHOTO - The road to recovery has been a long and arduous process for Ashley Clark.

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At this point, months after the accident, Clark still has to use crutches to get around.

“It was this huge dignity issue, but having no independence was the worst part of it. Beyond all the pain and the physical recovery, it was the emotional recovery that took the longest,” she explains.

Even though Clark has made huge strides in healing, she was told not to expect a full recovery for at least eight months.

Beyond the physical damage that the accident caused, Clark’s academic and work life has been put on hold until she heals. She had to drop three of her four classes from her last term and take one as an incomplete — which she hopes to finish this summer.

She’s still on track to transfer to the University of Oregon in the fall, but she is under a time crunch to finish the last four classes required over the summer. Even when she transfers, her doctor has to clear her before she takes any classes, to make sure that she will be capable of walking across the campus to each class.

As for work, Clark’s employers at Sherwood Pines have catered to Clark’s needs and want her to come back whenever she is physically up for it. Clark says they have been “super supportive” the whole time.

“I’m really excited to go back, but nervous because I don’t know how much help I’m going to be anymore,” she says.

With all the uncertainty about Clark’s future that rose from the accident, Clark has become certain in one thing: herself.

“I’ve learned about my attitude. Besides the expected trauma, I’ve been positive about this whole thing. I focused entirely on recovery, not on ‘Oh why did this happen to me? This sucks.’ I had my moments, but overall, I’ve stayed optimistic,” she says.

By watching how her daughter has handled the accident, Brandy has learned a lot about herself as well. She said the mother bear part of her wants to rip Umphrey apart, but the Christian in her wants to show compassion and realize how his parents must feel.

“It’s made me question my values and learn from her. She’s amazing. The positive spirit and determination. It’s going to slow her down, but it’s not going to stop her,” Brandy says.

The positive spirit that Brandy speaks of also relates to how Clark feels about Umphrey. Clark isn’t angry at Umphrey, she just wants to move on with her life and have him see justice.

“I just don’t want to see this happen to anyone ever again. I’d rather just put this whole thing behind me. I want to be done with this and move on with my life,” she says.

As of May 20th, Clark is able to do just that. After being handed a subpoena while being in the intensive care unit, part of Clark’s life has been dedicated to addressing court proceedings. On the 20th, Umphrey admitted guilt.

It was the first time that Clark got to meet the man who put her life on hold; it wasn’t what she had expected.

“You know how ‘bad guys’ are supposed to look, all dirty and disheveled and wrinkly and mean or whatever, but he was young.

Like everyone’s telling me, ‘Oh no, he’s 32, he’s plenty old enough to know better’ and like I get that, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s this wide-eyed, barely-out-of-his-twenties guy sitting in front of me,” she says.

The Register Guard reported Umphrey was a discharged United States veteran, who began to have mental and drug problems a few years ago after his return from Afghanistan. He’s been sentenced to seven and a half years in prison.

The court proceedings took an emotional toll on Clark, especially when she was given the letter of apology from Umphrey. It eased the animosity she felt toward him. Though she didn’t know ETHOS

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if she wanted to say anything to him, when she was handed the letter she knew she had to say something.

“I’ve had family who have had to deal with PTSD and drug abuse, and it’s a terrible life that I don’t want for you, and I really hope you’re able to get the help you need so that you can have a better life when you come out,” she recalled saying as part of her speech.

Now that Umphrey has been sentenced, Clark can start to move on with her life and put the accident behind her. She looks forward to driving again.

“This wasn’t my fault, so it’s not like I need to look out more for pedestrians. That wasn’t what happened. But at the same time I feel it’ll be harder for me knowing what can happen at any point,” she says.

Lately, Clark is feeling more normal and less like she is in recovery. “(It’s) like how it gets when it’s near the end of summer vacation. It’s time to go back to school and get my life back together instead of sitting on the couch doing nothing,” she says.

s PHOTO - Clark still must use crutches to get around after the accident.

A Pup’s Perspective A

fter a long day with my owner, Heidi von Ravensberg, I was finally let off my harness to roam the backyard. The grass underfoot felt wonderful after a hard day of guiding her around Eugene. A squirrel caught my eye in a willow tree. A confession: I chased it.

But before long, Heidi beckoned me back.

“Morrissey!” she pleaded.

Although I could have easily hopped the backyard’s short fence, I had no intention of leaving her. Obeying Heidi’s command, I aborted my pursuit and returned to her side, doubtless to her relief.

Trust has been our biggest obstacle since I was assigned to her as a guide dog two years ago. But every day, we get a little closer, balancing friendship and partnership 24/7.

Heidi has battled blindness since birth. Her sight has degenerated to a point such that she can only see a fraction of light. So, when she puts on my harness, I know it is time to go to work.

I have been training to guide the blind since I was a pup. It is a hard job, but incredibly rewarding. Every day is a new adventure with Heidi. Wherever she goes, I go. I know her better than every dog I have ever met.

On paper, my work may seem simple: walk in a straight line to guide her along the sidewalk. But that is just the beginning. I’m constantly on the lookout for people, obstacles, and oncoming cars before we cross the street. Daily routes allow me to memorize where we need to go, even though Heidi’s schedule varies. I’m always wary of new routes, stopping for her when we approach new doors or staircases. She gives me the forward command when she realizes there’s a new change in elevation. This balanced communication is our way of looking out for each other.

Yes, I’ve heard the jokes that dogs have short attention spans, that we’re easily distracted. Honestly, that’s sometimes true when I’m on the job. (I already mentioned my encounters with the everelusive squirrel.) Apart from that, my social range is constantly expanding, much to the dismay of Heidi, whom I sneakily and occasionally pull along towards fellow dogs.

But compared to other dogs, something just feels different. It’s a hard phenomenon to explain. When I look at other dogs, they are noticeably more carefree than what I’m used to. I know my priority is my job, and despite my occasional fits of silliness, I err on the side of caution.

At the same time, I don’t feel limited, enslaved, overworked, entrapped, or any oppressive adjective you can think of. I feel free. My harness is the conduit that binds us, rather than an annoyance that I put on every day. I’ve learned what it means to care, because Heidi’s life is literally in my paws, if you’ll excuse my childish alteration of a human phrase.

Speaking of human phrases, my description as “man’s best

PROFILE

WORDS FORREST WELK PHOTO GORDON FRIEDMAN

friend” certainly applies to Heidi and me. Yes, we’re partners who have to seriously look out for each other daily. But she keeps me off my harness as much as possible, letting me roam free in the house and play with the other two dogs.

Every day, I wake up to watch Heidi research on her computer. As I wait by her side, something inside of me craves adventure with my companion. After a while, I nudge my nose on her hand it’s my way of telling her I want to go for a walk.

I don’t fear the potential danger that awaits both of us outdoors. It’s an opportunity to show her that I care. One might think that she relies on me, but the truth is, I rely on her just as much. The fulfillment of being able to lead her on my harness is unmatched by any relationship with a human that I could possibly hope for.

I guess it’s worth letting that squirrel get away, so I can run back to my friend.

s PHOTO - Heidi von Ravensberg, 50, and her guide dog, Morrissey.

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PROFILE

A Child of

Hitler’s War WORDS ALIYA HALL PHOTO GORDON FRIEDMAN

One man’s story of growing up innocent in Nazi Germany.

W

hat are we Germans supposed to do?” Helmut Plant says. “We read these books, and it’s terrible what we did to those poor, naked people. What I don’t understand, I guess, is the lack of human compassion. The Jews didn’t do anything to us. They fought in World War I, and all they wanted was to be accepted fully as Germans.”

Plant, 83, is a short, frail man, but it’s his blue eyes that betray his inner youth and liveliness. Always well put together, dressed in a patterned button-down shirt paired with either a cardigan or blazer. His voice is quiet and thickly accented; it’s almost too heavy to hear him. But, it’s with strength and care that his stories carry back to 1942 and the sounds of an impending air raid.

“You sit there, and you don’t think about it being the enemy dropping bombs. You just don’t think at all, you’re paralyzed, you sit there. If it hits you, you’re dead. But if not, you wake from that mental and psychological stiffness or frozen state,” Plant explains, “I was scared. I hid behind my dad’s chair where he was reading the paper; he didn’t move a muscle.”

The air raids became more frequent; sirens would wake him and his family. (Today, the siren tone is no longer used in Germany for fear of bringing back traumatic memories.) But the morning after the bombings, Plant remembers just going out with some of his friends looking for bomb splinters.

“We heard that the planes dropped fire and the bombs were so hot they burned under water. We couldn’t believe that, but we found the splinters, big ones and small ones,” Plant says. “That was the war for us.”

Reconciling his past as a child in Nazi Germany has been a lifelong pursuit for Plant. (Gordon Friedman/Ethos) Plant was born in Munich, 1932. As the son of a house

cleaner and a World War I veteran, Plant says his family had no involvement or interest with the Nazi regime.

Many were like them, just going on with their daily lives.

It was impossible, however, to ignore the propaganda. Signs of “Die Jüden sind unsere Unfall” (The Jews are our misfortune), “Wheels Must Turn for the Victory,” and warnings for citizens to not speak aloud about the war for fear of spies were pasted all over the city and train cars. To this day, Plant can still recite these banners he saw.

“When I was little I’d spell it out, but it didn’t sink in,” he says.

Plant remembers encountering a Jew wearing a Judenstern, the required yellow armband that was a byproduct of Hitler’s anti-Semitic regime, and innocently asking for it. It was one of the first times he began to understand the pervasive and personal nature of Hitler’s doctrine. “But, we knew he couldn’t take it off; it was sewn on.”

More than signs and armbands, Hitler’s true dream was that Third Reich would last a thousand years and eradicate the Jews.

And, he created a system to train the next generations so there would always be soldiers in place. From ages ten to 14 every German child was drafted into the Deutsche Jugend, the German Youth.

The 14-18 age group were placed in Hitler Jugend or Hitler Youth.

After 18, they were drafted into the army with most of their training already complete. Plant remembers the Deutsche Jugend well.

“It was a lot like boy scouts, our uniforms were practically the same. We marched around and raised money for the war effort.”

In 1943, nearly all of Munich was evacuated, Plant and the rest of the city’s students traveled to nearby mountain villages because of the air raids. He and the rest of the children stayed in a hotel with two professors. What stuck with Plant was how the evacuation itself was managed.

“It was amazing how organized that was,” he

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HOW COULD THEY NOT HAVE KNOWN ABOUT THAT?

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says. “Munich was a big town, and we all moved.”

He stayed there until 1944 when he moved to another village with his parents. The Germans were already withdrawing, the Allies not far behind. The retreating army soon passed by Plant’s village. “They told us that the Americans, or Amis, as we called them, would be coming. ‘They won’t do anything to you, just stay put, and wave a white flag.

Don’t worry about the Americans, they’ll be fine to you.’”

When the Americans did show up, Plant says there was an immediate difference between the two armies. The Americans had working vehicles, which excited Plant. “The sound of the engine was filled with gasoline, which the Germans didn’t have any more of,” he says.

Beyond the mechanization, the Americans themselves looked different to the young Plant; he noticed their nicely pressed uniforms and their fat cheeks proved they had access to food. Most importantly, they were also kind to the boys.

“There was a GI who waved to us boys and asked if we wanted a ride, and he drove us up and down the main street in the village.

It was the greatest thing you could do. We didn’t know any English, but we knew the word ‘cowboy.’ When we said it to him he pretended to swing a lasso. We had the best impression of them,” Plant laughs. “Then, eventually, that was the end of the war.”

Plant continued schooling until the 1950s, then served as an interpreter for the Americans. After realizing how nice the people were, he decided he wanted to move to America — which he did in 1952 and was drafted into the American Army for two years. After he was discharged,a he went back to studying. Once he got his degrees, he became a German professor at the University of Oregon.

Plant considers himself to be a German-American, and has never had any bad experiences with being German in America. With all the time that has passed after the war and discussion of German guilt, Plant feels guiltless for the atrocities that occurred during the war, including on behalf of his parents.

“The second question Jewish people will ask me is what about your parents? They were not a part of that. I know that people will say ‘that’s what they all say,’ but it was a fact from my perspective,” he says.

He realizes, however, that it was because of his young age that he was spared from witnessing and participating in war cruelties. If he was just five years older, he would have had to, but as a civilian, there wasn’t much that he could do or even understand regarding the war. The only information that he received was controlled by the government.

“That was one of the things that was overlooked in terms of the Holocaust for instance; you look back with

all the knowledge and videos about the Holocaust and you think, ‘how could they not have known about that?’” he says.

It wasn’t until 1945 after the war when the footage the army took of the concentration camps was shown all over Munich; Plant had never even heard about it.

“Me, at the age of 16, I had to see them.

We were shocked,” he explains.

Plant says he feels that when the second World War and the Holocaust is discussed, the entirety of the German race is portrayed as Nazis, but not everyone was a member of the SS or the party. The youth were unwilling participants who were thrown into that world. At the same time, Plant still feels like he should try and do something to atone. He does so by caring for a 90-year-old Jewish woman named Alice, and he calls her his “wiedergutmachen” friend, which translates to his “making good again” friend.

Plant now spends time reading more about the Holocaust, trying to fit together his experiences growing up and the information recorded of that time period. He thinks that it’s good that the next generation of Germans are aware of their history.

“That was a very terrible episode, and they have to face up to it. As time progresses there’s no immediate guilty parties, other than those direct persons. It’s just a history lesson that Germans have to accept now,” Plant says.

That history lesson was hard for Plant and his generation to come to terms with. Plant remembers distinctly in 1946, Munich, when somebody wrote on a wall: ‘Dachau, Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen. I’m ashamed to be a German.’ The next day someone wrote below it ‘Goethe, Schiller, Beethoven. I’m proud to be a German’ as an answer.

“Of course, that wasn’t the issue,” he says, “on one hand we can be proud of the music, but then there’s the Holocaust part of our history. Both things are German.”

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A False Start and A SECOND CHANCE

FINDING MY WAY AFTER FAITH & FOOTBALL

O

WORDS RUSSELL WILSON

n this summer’s day in 2008, eighty pounds overweight and sweating through my eighteen-dollar dress shirt in a cheap institutional office chair, I know I’m a fraud, an imposter, a pretender, the disappointing real-life person behind the sparkling resume.

Across the desk from me, the rural Texas school district superintendent scans my application, clearly struggling to reconcile the nervous man before him with the one on paper. Magnified by his big square bifocals, his eyes dart back and forth languidly as they trace the lines on the page, his face expressionless apart from a permanent frown.

The silence is excruciating. A bead of sweat trickles down my back, and I again fidget with my zip-up tie, certain he senses my desperation.

He clears his throat like a country preacher, full of judgment, and studies the next page.

No high school football coach in Texas worth a damn is out looking for a job two weeks before the start of the season. I know it, he must know it. It’s the tacit statement in the room. But he is in a bind himself; he needed a coach yesterday, and here I am, God’s gift to six-man football, a 26-year-old prodigy with three years of head coaching experience and a 12-20 win/loss record.

Why am I here?

Two weeks ago, I was at the helm of a fledgling but successful football program I had built in my own image at an upper-middle class evangelical Christian school in exurban San Antonio. In two short years, I had brought it from literal non-existence to an undefeated district championship and a playoff run, not to mention Coach of the Year honors for myself. Beloved by students and parents alike, my job as coach and history teacher was already mine for as long as I wanted it.

Beneath my goateed smile and dapper demeanor, however, I was a manic-depressive basket case. An internal conflict that had been simmering for years now threatened to destroy everything I had worked for, including my very identity and all I had ever known to be true.

I was losing my faith. Rapidly. The why and how are too tedious to enumerate here, and this recollection isn’t intended as an argument against religion; suffice to say I discovered God was no longer for me–and that realization could not have come at a more inopportune time.

Men in positions of authority must have begun to grow suspi-

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cious when I stopped showing up for early morning staff Bible studies and questioned a conservative political candidate about the separation of Church and State at a chapel assembly. The heat and pressure of living a double life eventually got to me. I buckled and collapsed in a colossal implosion that ended with my sneaking onto campus after dark, hastily vacating my classroom, and slipping my resignation letter under the administrator’s door.

Poof. Gone in a cloud of dust. Nervous Breakdown Number One: complete.

Sitting in front of this prospective employer, I don’t need a job.

I need therapy.

But I have bills to pay and have no other marketable skills. Of course, I don’t want to be here in this podunk outpost of a school in Red River country. I’ve spent my entire life plotting to escape small town life with good grades and a college degree, but here I am, crawling back for one more year in the middle of nowhere, grasping for one more chance at vicarious athletic glory.

The superintendent drops the final ecru sheet of my resume to his desk, huffs, sighs, sits back in his creaky chair, and fixes his eyes on me. I sit up straight, anticipating the imminent question about my sudden, unexplained employment situation, and mentally queue up the equivocating response I’ve given in four other interviewers around the state in as many days.

“Why ain’t you in law school, son?” he asks.

I blink, caught off guard. “Huh?” He nods toward my papers on the desk and taps them. “I’ve never seen anyone write like this on a job application. Why ain’t you in law school somewhere?”

“I, well, um, I guess I haven’t considered it,” I muttered. “I majored in education. And the cost, you know. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

He gives me a dismissive wave of his hand and chuckles to himself.

“Look,” he says, “you don’t want this job, so I ain’t even going to offer it to you. I’ll find me a coach. Go and find something better to be doing.”

A little over a year later, I was living in my car in rest areas around New England.

What happened?

Rather than applying to law school or taking time to pick up the pieces of my psyche left shattered by the sudden break with a lifetime of fundamentalist dogma, I pressed on and took a job at a

s PHOTO CAMERON LIVERMORE - Life has been full of reality checks and new beginnings for Russell Wilson.

public school in the backwoods of east Texas. Bad idea. Nervous Breakdown Number Two arrived the week before Christmas and culminated in my rage-quitting during fifth-period geography, a moment in time that I would give anything to undo.

Rock bottom. I was mercifully allowed to resign, but I knew I was finished, and, out of a career and money, I had no Plan B. Going back home and living with my minister parents was not an option for obvious reasons.

So I moved in with my brother and his roommate in their grungy apartment out in San Angelo, a bustling patch of civilization in west Texas. I managed to get a student loan in order to take some history classes at the local state college between morning and afternoon shifts at the only job I could find: driving a school bus. It was all part of a diabolical plan to get as far away from Texas I could get on as little money as possible and no passport.

Maine was pretty far away. Why not?

But I couldn’t just take off unannounced and vanish, lest my family call in a missing person report. I needed an excuse. The idea of law school appealed to my ego, but little else, and I was not at all interested in pursuing a Master’s degree in education. I supposed I could complete a second bachelor’s in history and then do graduate school, so I applied to the University of Maine. My G.P.A. got me accepted with no trouble, but financial aid was a different story for me as an out-of-state student. Dead end.

Well, alright, maybe I could just find a job there and establish residency. I’d worked at a summer camp all through college, and Maine was full of those, right?

It worked. I got a gig as an archery instructor and counselor for a cabin of 12-year-old boys. I pointed my car northeast with $500 in my pocket and no plan to return.

“Go and find something better to be doing.”

After a forgettable wet, cold American summer, I found myself truly alone for the first time in my life, marooned in rural Maine minus a plan.

Though I thought otherwise at the time, it was exactly what I needed. I spent the next four months drifting around the backroads and towns of New England, while looking for a job and a sense of belonging. I worked for a time at a wilderness camp for juvenile delinquents deep in the Great North Woods of New Hampshire, took up residence in the Dartmouth College library and audited lectures unnoticed. I found part-time employment selling shoes at a sporting goods store. Meanwhile, the daily pressure of surviving on little to no money quickly distilled life down to the

essentials; I didn’t build a cabin the woods, but I did gain some self-reliance. I also learned how to ask for PERSONAL help, and that there are many more friendly people out there than we are made to believe.

And, perhaps most importantly, I gave myself room to breathe and time to think and decompress after the disappointment of my teaching career. How had I failed so terribly? I had chosen my major and career based on what I thought God had called and anointed me to do, which was to be his witness and righteous ambassador in the schools and save young souls and train up culture warriors for Christ. Now, no longer clad in the armor of faith, I saw myself as I really was: naive, narcissistic and ill-prepared for the real world.

That’s a bad combination. No wonder I took personal failure so hard.

But had I found something better to do?

By Thanksgiving, the adventurous sheen of bumming around New England had worn off. It was time to go. I caved and called my father, who wired me enough money to make the return trip to Texas with my tail between my legs.

And, stuck back home with no money or prospects but lots of time, I began to write out of pure boredom.

The story I wrote was raw, rough and entirely too personal, but I got just enough positive feedback online and from friends to convince me to keep going.

I had always been told I wrote well, but, growing up in a rough-and-tumble small town, writing was not something boys were encouraged to do, much less consider as a profession. My masculinity was already under enough scrutiny as a piano-playing, straight-A virgin who didn’t wear boots or drive a truck.

But I was no longer a kid, and no longer an impressionable, eager-to-please teenager. I was 28 years old with nothing left to lose and everything left to discover about myself and the world.

I soon moved to Oregon and five years, a broken leg, and a short stack of unpublished novels later, I at last zeroed in on journalism, finding my way to the University of Oregon, perhaps the last place I expected to end up seven years ago on that hot afternoon in west Texas.

If afforded the luxuries of hindsight and time travel, I would go back to that day and wait in the parking lot for my former self to walk out of that interview and challenge him to a fight – duke it out, then and there. A knock-down drag-out with no holds barred.

Before he could weasel out of it I would sock him a few good ones, wrestle him down, and then, once I had the stubborn bastard pinned, I would sit on his chest and slap him silly.

And then I would get up and leave without a word about what awaited him and let him figure it out on his own. Sounds harsh, sure, but I know better than anyone that it takes more than wellmeaning words and good advice to get my attention. No matter how much we (or our parents) try to protect ourselves from all possible failures, missteps and mistakes, we need them, it’s how we’re hardwired to learn.

There’s a word for it: experience.

Perhaps that was the whole point of my little quarter-life crisis. I needed to struggle and be led out into the wilderness to get experience and be confronted with the harsh truth that the world doesn’t revolve around me, myself and I. I needed a good asskicking, and reality was more than happy to oblige.

The important thing is that I got up and kept going.

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PROFILE

WORDS BRETT KANE

ILLUSTRATION KRISTA YOUNG

A Journey of SELF DISCOVERY set with Scorsese. It was a dream come true in every essence of the term.

“He is one of the most generous people that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” says Rejon. “His films pulled me out of my hometown and inspired me to do so much.”

And Rejon only flourished from there.

After his time as a production assistant was finished, he began working as a second unit director for filmmakers such as Nora Ephron and Alejandro González Iñárritu. It was with this experience under his belt that he made his directorial debut on Glee with the episode “Laryngitis”. After becoming a mainstay director on the show, Rejon branched out into other genres, working extensively on American Horror Story. In 2014, Rejon directed his first feature length with The Town That Dreaded Sundown.

Me and Earl and the Dying Girl is a film that is quite different from Rejon’s previous

works, and four words that appear at the film’s conclusion indicate just that: “Dedicated to my father.”

Shortly before he received the script, Rejon’s father, Julio Cesar Gomez-Rejon, passed away. Rejon saw the film as a fitting way to pay homage to him, and in order to that, he would have to approach the film unlike anything he’s worked on before: he would have to make it for himself.

“I never think of who he audience [for my films] is going to be,” he says. “I think it’s scary trap to fall into, especially with [Me and Earl and the Dying Girl] because I was going to make it for myself.”

When Rejon read the film’s script, which was also written by Andrews, he connected it in ways that he never thought he could.

“The screenplay offered me an opportunity to process loss in a way that hadn’t yet done,” he says. “I wasn’t dealing with my feelings head-on. However, I saw a lot of myself

in Greg. He was dealing with a loss just like I was.

“At the same time, I was working on a lot of television, but I wasn’t making the kind of films that I wanted to make. Greg reflected a lot of that desire, too.”

Me and Earl and the Dying Girl is very much a film about discovery, whether it’s about yourself or others. It deals with the theme that you never stop learning about someone, even after death.

“I thought that I could learn about letting go by making this movie,” Rejon says. “I could express myself and tell a personal story, which is very different from the machine-like style of television directing.”

On top of dedicating the film to his late father, Rejon also decided that it would be the perfect way to pay homage to the movies that made him the person he is today. After all, the main characters are filmmakers, too.

By watching the film, the influence is clear,

right down to the Mean Streets poster hanging in Greg’s bedroom.

“I’m a cinephile. I love movies,” Rejon says. “On some level, we’re celebrating movies with this film.”

Me and Earl and the Dying Girl premiered at the Sundance Film Festival on January 25, 2015, and after that first screening, Rejon’s passion was reflected in the audiences’ and critics’ reception. The film went on to win the

U.S. Drama Grand Jury Prize, as well as the Audience Award at the festival.

“I wasn’t at all surprised by how much I connected with Jesse’s screenplay,” Rejon says. “This is a story that’s easy to connect to on so many levels. It helped me through one of the hardest times of my life, and I’m sure that people out there will find ways to interpret it that Jesse and I never even thought of — and that’s what’s great about movies.”

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very director remembers that moment in their lives when they first saw their favorite movie, the one that changed them forever. For Steven Spielberg, it was Lawrence of Arabia. For Francis Ford Coppola, it was Ashes and Diamonds. George Lucas considers Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai to be one of the primary reasons that Star Wars even exists.

For Alfonso Gomez-Rejon, director of Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, Martin Scorsese’s Mean Streets sparked his love of movies. The film centers around a man trying to make his way up the mobster hierarchy, and a then 11-year-old Rejon was surprised at how much it affected him.

“You’d think there would be no connection,” he says. “How could a film made by an Italian-American in New York influence a young Mexican child living in Laredo, Texas? But I saw my friends, my family, and myself in that film.”

When he spoke with Ethos, Rejon was preparing for the release of Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, his second feature-length film. Based on the book by Jesse Andrews, the film follows high school student Greg Gaines, who befriends his classmate Rachel after she is diagnosed with leukemia. In order to help her cope with her illness, Greg and his friend Earl decide to make a film for her.

Mean Streets began Rejon’s long journey to achieve his new goal: to become a filmmaker just like Scorsese. He studied all of Scorsese’s films, the films that Scorsese liked, and even applied to New York University, Scorsese’s Alma mater.

From there, he worked on student films to hone his directorial skills.

“I was an aggressive worker,” Rejon recalls.

Eventually, his work ethic earned him jobs as a production assistant on major films, including gigs on the sets of Scorsese himself. However, the job did not start out the way he had hoped.

“It was a long time before I actually got to stand in the same room as him,” Rejon says. “I was always sent away whenever Marty was coming in. There’s no worse torture than being this close to a hero and not getting to thank him.”

However, much like Charlie in Mean Streets working his way up in the mafia, Rejon continued to ascend the ranks of the film industry. He went from answering phones and running errands to working on

I SAW MY FRIENDS, MY FAMILY, AND MYSELF IN THAT FILM.

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introducing

ETHOS WORLD

Take a look inside to find articles and images curated from our reporters’ expeditions around the globe. Ethos World is just getting started. Enjoy the trip.

s PHOTO - University of Oregon graduate Taylor Richmond holds up a sketch of Sheridan Glacier, at Sheridan Glacier.

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Class Outside

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WORDS AND PHOTOS KYRA BAILEY

ur home base was a quaint cabin, the oldest building in town.

Office hours were replaced with a tap on the shoulder. Close collaboration took the place of lectures. Blustery winds and pouring rain characterized more than my University of Oregon campus commute.

The Science & Memory project – a University of Oregon program focused on using storytelling to explain climate change – took me from Oregon all the way to a small Alaskan town called Cordova.

Investment is the secret sauce to a project like Science & Memory. Some of us put on wetsuits to swim in the 40 degree Copper River Delta with cameras in underwater housing to capture an invasive species called Elodea. Others drove a canoe all the way from Oregon to Alaska, carried it down a hiking trail to the face of Sheridan Glacier, and paddled through ice channels to produce visual content – even with frozen feet.

We woke up at 5 a.m. to search for bears, salmon, and birds. We squeezed every last minute of light Alaska had to offer - some nights out in the field past midnight. We woke up at 6 a.m. to paint a watercolor that was ten feet long in order to create a human connection with Alaskan glaciers.

Different stories motivated my two trips to Alaska. Both were driven by filming and photographing Alaska’s ecosystem. I first went to focus on birds and migration. I went a second time to focus on glaciers. In these collective 17 days, I was consistently reminded of the indispensable value of this type of experiential learning.

While I knew that I would be in awe of what the scenery offered as I chased fish, birds, and magical, never-ending light, Alaska still found ways to surprise me. At one point, I found myself at the face of Child’s Glacier, watching and documenting a bride and groom saying their wedding vows.

During the wedding shoot, professor and award-winning photojournalist Torsten Kjellstrand ceased simply being my professor, but instead my collaborator - a photographer of profuse skill working to catch frames just as I was. Watching him challenged me to reimagine my work, my process, and my presence in photographic moments. It was a familiar refrain over the course of the trip: Torsten refusing to let us get away with producing work that fell short of our potential.

He knows how he wants to capture images and goes after them, making friends along the way. His passion for making beautiful pictures f lowed through his cameras and his eyes. As the day wore on, following Torsten’s lead, we started to feel more like locals at this glacial wedding.

Back in Eugene, I cherish class time. I sink into the moments when I get out of class, hit the couch, and immerse myself in the study of photos, editing stories, noting the work of my professors.

We had a couch in Cordova, too. It was on our front porch that overlooked the delta, bald eagles occasionally soaring through to pick up bits of fish from the scraps left by fishing guides working in the defunct cannery next to our cabin. We would stay up until 2 a.m., the soft Alaskan light still around us, to edit photos, post to our blog, and talk about Cordova.

Sure, couches look the same in Alaska, but they feel so much different - the reward of sinking into them so much greater.

s PHOTO - Porpoises played in the water alongside our boat as we headed back to the cabin after a day of fishing in the Copper River Delta.

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PHOTO - A flurry of Western Sandpiper Shorebirds fly at Hartney Bay, a common resting point for the birds as they migrate north.

PHOTO - Erin Cooper and Sean Meade celebrate just moments after their wedding ceremony at Child’s Glacier. Cooper has been a key contact for the Science & Memory project, acting as a liaison between us and the community of Cordova as a Forest Service employee and a biologist in town.

PHOTO - A multitude of mosquitos rest on Torsten Kjellstrand’s hand on our first night in Cordova. The mosquitos in Alaska never seem to cease.

PHOTO - Journalism professors Mark Blaine and Torsten Kjellstrand paddle journalism student Evan Norton towards the bank at Sheridan Glacier, just after taking drone footage of the ice channels in the glacier.

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PHOTO - A mother sea otter holds onto her pup in the delta. The pups’ fur coats are so dense that without the mother holding onto them, they would float away.

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T

here is a snack bar at Auschwitz. Yes, you heard me correctly: There is a snack bar… at Auschwitz.

Mothers pushed screaming toddlers in strollers, baiting them with candy from the aforementioned snack bar. Tour buses crammed into the parking and groups of school children complained about the length of the drive to the camp.

Upon arriving to the camp that still stands today about an hour outside of Krakow, Poland, I expected to be overcome with emotion at visiting a place that has hosted some of the most horrific things humanity has ever seen, but what I had really come upon felt like a typical tourist trap. Needless to say, I was disappointed. Despite these initial feelings of disgruntlement toward other visitors, though, my time at Auschwitz sparked a new level of revulsion for the atrocities committed by Nazi WORDS HALEY STUPASKY

ILLUSTRATION MIRO MERRILL

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officers there and brought me new appreciation for the workers that preserve this part of history and remember the victims of the Holocaust. Experiencing Auschwitz reawakened feelings I experienced when first learning about what happened during World War II. The realization that something so terrible occured in recent memory honestly scares me.

But before I could pay my respects, I had to make it through the line.

It seemed as though few people in line to enter the camp felt the gravity and historical significance of the site that lay before us. Here, people grumbled about how long the wait in line is, and I wanted to tell them to shut the hell up, because unlike the near 1.5 million people that perished here, they have the privilege to leave.

I wanted to say this isn’t like waiting in line for Magic Mountain but knew I wouldn’t get anywhere.

As I approached the security area, I noticed graffiti scrawled on the entrance building. John and Kat’s Eurotrip 2013.

Auschwitz crew 2011. Those are just some of the things I could understand among the varying languages senselessly scratched into the wall. My disappointment gave way to disgust, and soon it was my turn to walk through the metal detector.

On the other side of the security gates, Auschwitz was a different world. I wasn’t standing on some random gravel road in rural Poland. I was nowhere, and there is nowhere to go but through the paths lined with barbed wire and between brick buildings that all look the same.

I had hardly begun my journey inside and I was trapped in a vast complex of sterile surroundings, with only block numbers on the buildings to guide me. I was in a place I had only seen in textbooks and documentaries. Everything I knew of Auschwitz was black and white, and here I was seeing it in color. I passed under the threshold of the main gate and looked above, “Arbeit macht frei”: Work will set you free. It was there that my stomach began to ache.

I did not expect how I would react physically to being in a place with such palpable negative energy. My heart sank into my stomach and my feet dragged along as my family and I went from barrack to barrack to view the various exhibitions of items and rooms that have been preserved to serve as a reminder of what happened there. I had only been in the camp for less than an hour, and I was physically and emotionally drained.

The showcases in the barracks displayed everyday objects, from shoes to glasses to suitcases the Nazis took from victims upon arrival. This is where visitors realize the enormous number of people who came through the camp. The barracks are small, and it is easy to forget just how many victims were packed into a single room.

After roaming the rooms, I started to feel numb to the idea of what transpired at Auschwitz. I walked past the photos of victims and the old uniforms of theirs that hung on the walls. My brain was oversaturated with images of innocent people starved to skin and bones. It didn’t feel real. I think my mind was just trying to find a way to cope, and I held it together — until I entered the room of human hair.

When victims were loaded off trains into the camp, their belongings were taken, their bodies stripped of their clothing, and they were completely shaved. This was intended to prevent lice in the close quarters of the camp, but the hair was also sold to a company in Bavaria for the manufacture of whatever one can

make with the follicles.

ETHOS After seeing all of the belongings stolen from WORLD the people forced to come there, I felt sicker. All the hair, all two tons of it, the same color due to being “sanitized” by the gas Zyklon-B, impacted me because that reduced the victims from people to nameless numbers on a spreadsheet. They were stripped of what made them human in so many ways; seeing their hair, an actual piece of them, shook me to the core.

What came next was something that I had been dreading all day–the gas chambers. Despite Nazi efforts to cover their tracks and collapse the chambers when the Soviets were advancing on the camp, one smoke stack still stands today.

In a single file line, my family and I entered the chamber and immediately I felt violently ill. The smell was rank and the moist air caught in my throat. The dull ache in my stomach escalated to a pinching pain and I thought I was going to lose my lunch.

It was a feeling I will never forget, and I anticipate that I won’t ever experience it again. I don’t want to. To stand in a place of such significance and complete suffering is indescribable.

It brought a lot of things into perspective for me that I won’t explain here, but I can say that the experience of being in Auschwitz changed my life and I could see it changing other visitors around me.

I am not Jewish. I am not Romani. I am not gay. I am not a part of any other group the Nazis persecuted, and I will never begin to understand the pain associated with seeing the suffering of their people, their ancestors, in such a raw way.

But I am human, and going to Auschwitz made me seriously contemplate the amount of hate and ignorance in this world. I mourn the loss of these souls that fell victim to blind hate.

I think the most terrifying thing about the place, though, is that the outside of the camp did not inspire fear in me. In Auschwitz the grass is green, birds chirp in the trees, the grounds are orderly and on the outside, the buildings look just as they would on other military bases. Auschwitz as a place is not inherently evil. Without electricity running through the fence and smoke billowing out of the gas chambers, it is nothing but the military base it was before WWII. But it is now forever plagued by the memory of monstrous destruction of humanity.

That’s what is truly horrifying about Auschwitz. It makes you comes to terms with that fact that the place is not evil, but people can be, and there is the capacity for it in all of us.

“Auschwitz, Explored” by Haley Stupasky, and other dispatches from Ethos writers can be found at ethosmagonline.com .

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ETHOS WORLD

from California to

Cape Town WORDS AND PHOTOS LORIN ANDERBERG

s PHOTO: View from the top of Lion’s Head, one of the most popular hikes in Cape Town, 2195ft above sea level. This is just one piece of Table Mountain National Park which is considered to be one of the new 7 wonders of the world.

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s PHOTO: Colorful fishing boats nestle into the scenic cove of the Hout Bay harbor.

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uddenly, I am surrounded by misty rain drizzling overhead, the smells and sounds of manual diesel engines hustling around one another, and the sight of long awaited reunions between loved ones. Yet my loved ones are across the Pacific. My 33-hour journey from San Francisco to Cape Town, South Africa, has finally come to a close.

It all feels like a long, strange dream. As I walk, I reflect on the journey – the people I met, my first traditional German beer in Frankfurt, and the palatable airplane meals – until I am brought back to reality by the sight of my name on the whiteboard of the taxi driver who is here to retrieve me. I ignore my inner thoughts and listen to the myriad languages bouncing off of the walls around me, feeling a strong sense of empowerment that this is real.

Before arriving, I did countless hours of research, planning, and bucket-listing. I slipped the fact that I had plans to study abroad in South Africa into conversation about 100 times over the last three months – but, the reality of my expedition didn’t set in until this moment. Truthfully, I don’t think it will actually set in until I’m back home in California in late December. It’s been four days now, and the fact that the next 3 months are going to be over before I know it haunts me. These first few days have been jam-packed with introductions, adventures, conversion rate calculations, and astonishment. Just like that, I’ve met over 50 people, eaten at eight restaurants, zip lined, hiked one of the new seven wonders of the world, visited a UNESCO World Heritage Site, wine-tasted, quickly toured most of the Western Cape Peninsula, and asked “Do you have Wifi?” more times than I’m proud of. It has been a whirlwind of excitement; but now I have some time to settle in and think.

My neighborhood, named “Observatory,” is a suburb filled with colorful streets hugged by uneven pavement, the ageing structures of European architecture, and the magnificent view of Table Mountain standing broad and proud in the background. I find it odd to feel extremely comfortable here. But maybe that’s because I have yet to succumb to jet lag. For now, I am enjoying the fact that I absolutely love this place.

It’s now day five and I have started at my internship with GetSmarter, an online education organization that aims to empower individuals and to change lives through accessible higher education. I will be assisting the content curation team with multimedia tasks and hope my passion for storytelling will thrive here, taking the form of an inspiration project. The adventurous atmosphere that thrives in Cape Town – along with the starkly contrasting culture and economy – have helped anchor me in trying to figure out how to make my experience here meaningful. I hope to find a way to emphasize the human connection by listening to

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stories of locals from different backgrounds with the intention of understanding South Africa, post-Apartheid.

Segregation has affected South Africa from as early as three years after it gained independence. Under the 1913 Land Act, native land was segregated into white-only farming zones - forcibly evacuating and banishing black Africans who had been cultivating there for generations, according to historical accounts. Segregation continued to rise and Apartheid became law in 1950 which influenced the classification of residents into 3 racial categories: “black” (African), “white,” or “colored” (Indian or Asian). The tragedy of these laws forcibly separated families, communities (3.5 million South Africans were forcibly removed from their homes) and the white-only mindset dominated the workforce and economy. In 1960, South Africa was in a state of violent disarray and protest. It wasn’t until 1990 that a commitment to end violence took place and the movement toward democracy began with the strong influence of the revolutionary, Nelson Mandela, and his encouragement to “Rise” above the past.

South Africa has vastly progressed since the end of Apartheid in 1994, a mere 21 years ago. The country’s ability to put centuries of racism behind it and advocate for change is widely known as a “social miracle”. Today, South Africa is known as the first African country to legalize same-sex marriage and continue to fight for other forms of equality.

Change is evident here, but there is still a strong presence of government corruption, violence, HIV/AIDS, and economic inequality (the townships that are just minutes away from the city and are a perfect example of the socioeconomic contrasts). Xenophobia has also been a popular international news headline and cause for concern, yet I have yet to experience discrimination. A colleague of mine even admitted that he witnessed more racism while traveling in the United States and United Kingdom than in the many years he has spent in South Africa.

In Cape Town thus far, I have been swept away by the high energy, vibrant nightlife and cultural diversity. As a foreigner, it is difficult to understand what it is like to have grown up here. Most international news only seems to tell two stories about Africa, the tragedy and the inspirational travel piece. The truth seems to be somewhere in the middle — embracing the past, accepting change, and finding a way to get by.

South Africa is a mysterious, beautiful, and cunning place by which I am left enchanted and curious. I still have much to learn and experience in order to attempt to understand this complex and magnificent country, 10,230 miles from home.

But for now, I’ll just focus on being here.

s PHOTO: This curious monkey, residing in Cape Town’s World of Birds, was fascinated with my camera and took hold of it many times while climbing around my head and arms.

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t PHOTO: Local fishermen gather around their spare fish carcasses to use as entertainment for tourists while they feed the hungry seals near by.

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PHOTO: This seasoned fisherman introduced us to his good friend of 8 years, a seal that lives near by and always returns to receive a bite to eat. Sometimes he feeds the seal from his own mouth to entertain tourists. s

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THE TRUTH SEEMS TO BE SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE — EMBRACING THE PAST, ACCEPTING CHANGE, AND FINDING A WAY TO GET BY.

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WORDS & PHOTOS HALEY STUPASKY

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fter a long bus ride across Bavaria to Munich and an even longer night on the floor of my friend’s one bedroom flat with five other people, I woke to the sound of German chatter in the kitchen and my friend Anna Lena towering over me, asking if I wanted some coffee.

Slowly I got up, shook out all my aches and smiled as I watched my male friends hike up their lederhosen and the ladies zip up their dirndls. With my limited proficiency in German, I could hardly understand their accelerated conversations, especially

given they have a very unique dialect some native German speakers can’t even understand.

But what happened next I understood with absolute clarity: Anna Lena scampered up to me, held up an extra dirndl and said, “Los geht’s” (Let’s go). It was time for Oktoberfest.

It was difficult not to marvel at the sheer size of the fairgrounds in Theresienwiese, known by locals as “Wiesn.” On each side of every path, towering beer halls advertised on huge crests the beer served inside.

Drinking anthems of varying nationalities

s PHOTO: Since its beginnings in 1387, the Spaten brewery has worked to perfect its beer recipes.

The Oktoberfestbier is always produced in the spring in preparation for Oktoberfest in the fall.

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poured out of the doors and into the Biergartens, where every waitress carried at least half a dozen beers as they dodged the rowdy groups at the tables. Between the halls were small stalls for Bratwurst and enticing tiny trinkets, while carnival rides of varying intensities loomed over, and I hoped the riders hadn’t had too much to drink yet.

Wiesn was playground for dare-devils and adventure seekers–and on that day, I was one of them.

Since its origin in 1810 as an event meant to celebrate King Ludwig I’s marriage to the princess Therese of Saxe-Hildburghausen, Oktoberfest has evolved into the largest festival in the world. It draws visitors from all over the globe to experience Bavarian culture and drink its local beers by the liter. Oktoberfest did not originally start as drinking event; in fact, local breweries did not start serving at the festival until 1887. But despite the other attractions that it offers, there is no doubt Oktoberfest in Munich has a reputation for being a beer drinkers heaven. Oktoberfest is a place where the kegs are always tapped and flowing. It is where everyone starts drinking at ten in the morning. Oktoberfest is where you have at least three liters of beer before noon.

Because of Oktoberfest’s global reach, every year more visitors come to experience this slice of Bavaria. But with all these people flocking to Wiesn nearly every day of the three-week-long festival, it is difficult for the beer halls to accommodate every patron. I learned this the hard way, and unfortunately didn’t see the inside of a tent all day, which says something about the size of this festival, considering each hall is home to thousands of visitors. However, my group and I got lucky in the Biergartens.

Our first stop was the Schottenhamel Festhalle, where we jockeyed for the last available outside table with a group of Italians who hardly spoke German. Luckily the security guard fancied ladies in dirndls instead of the middle-aged men, some of whom had their lederhosen on backwards.

This is the politics of Oktoberfest at work: getting an outside table–even when you come early in the morning–is all about luck and the right amount of persuasion. Getting a table inside of a tent is a completely different story. That either takes a long standing reservation, which usually costs a ridiculous amount of money, or making a connection with the right person while in line for a pretzel. Despite

my inability to experience the ornate and traditional beer halls, my worries melted away with my first sip of Spatenbräu Oktoberfestbier.

During my time at the table I learned from my friends that each beer served at Oktoberfest must meet certain criteria as set forth by a set of rules called the Reinheitsgebot, known by some English speakers as the German Beer Purity Law. These rules dictate allowable ingredients in the beer, and were historically meant to prevent price competition and ensure affordable materials for brewing beer in Bavaria.

In addition to abiding by the Reinheitsgebot, the beers at Oktoberfest must be brewed within the city limits of Munich.

Upon learning this, I felt happy in knowing I was drinking in a distinctly German tradition.

After a liter of Spatenbräu, the group took its chances on finding another hall, so as to experience more of the fairgrounds.

We waited in front of the Löwenbräu tent for nearly an hour before being squeezed onto benches and getting up close and personal with an Australian group that had been at the hall for a couple hours. They were already four rounds in. Despite the slurred sentences, I was happy to finally hear some English. Every couple of min-

utes the Biergarten would ETHOS break out in a Bavarian drinkWORLD ing song and some groups would sing melodies from their home countries. After some coaching from my German friends, I was happy to join in on the festivities and soak in every bit of Oktoberfest.

After hours at the Löwenbräu, we went home for a brief nap before going back to the fairgrounds for dinner and more celebration. After a huge Bratwurst with spicy mustard and a cola to wash it down, I was corralled to the swings with my friends. As the ride lifted me higher and higher I finally understood the incredible size of the fest.

The lights blurred around me as we spun and I saw Wiesn as millions of visitors have before me and I felt so lucky to be able to cross this experience off of my bucket list. I can say it. I have been to Oktoberfest.

s PHOTO: Dressed in dirndls and lederhosen, Oktoberfest guests roam the fairgrounds taking in offers of beer, bratwurst and other German traditions.

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PHOTO: The eastern fox squirrel.

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THE FOX SQUIRREL HAS FLOURISHED IN THE WILLAMETTE VALLEY, OUTEATING AND OUT-BREEDING THE NATIVE GRAY SQUIRREL.

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Squirrel Harbor

Turf War

What most don’t know is the fuzzy, red squirrel we see most often is, in fact, an invasive species.

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ur necks crane as we stare into the branches of an oak beside Condon Hall on the University of Oregon campus. Our hands clutch notebooks and GPS units. Measuring tapes hang from our pockets. We scan the tree this afternoon, hastily looking for the flash of fur, the flick of a tail.

This day’s cohort is part of an anthropology class, Primates in Ecological Communities. Using squirrels as subjects, the course teaches data collection methods in the field. Squirrels — as everyone at the University of Oregon knows — are pervasive on the verdant campus.

Yet what most don’t know is the fuzzy, red squirrel we see most often is, in fact, an invasive species.

These are the eastern fox squirrels, which were introduced in the 1920s to Oregon as pets and “watchable wildlife,” according to the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. Eastern fox squirrels are among the largest tree-dwelling squirrels in North America and are native to the eastern United States and Canada.

The other variety you may see around Eugene is likely to be the western gray squirrel, otherwise known as the Oregon gray squirrel. The northwest native was listed as an ETHOS

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endangered species in Washington in 1993, and has since been categorized as vulnerable in Oregon. This native squirrel is being threatened by habitat loss, urbanization, forest fires, and disease. It is also in direct competition with the eastern fox squirrel, forced to duke it out for food and territory.

On our squirrel search, calls of “Crap, where did it go?” and “How high up is the damn thing?” can be heard from anthropology students across the quad, as well as “How am I supposed to know the squirrel’s gender?” Perhaps these are questions best left to the professionals, but something in our collected data stands out. The species category is unquestionably dominated by the eastern fox squirrel.

Since its introduction, the fox squirrel has flourished in the Willamette Valley, out-eating andout-breeding the native gray squirrel.

This squirrel Thunderdome has larger impacts on the ecosystem than the endangerment of a single species. “All native species have complex interactions with their environment, so removing a single species can cause unknown but possibly meaningful ecological effects” says Peg Boulay, a wildlife ecologist and co-director of the Environment Leadership Program at the University of Oregon. “In the case of Western gray squirrels, they disperse acorns and other seeds, so are important in the ecology

of Oregon white oak (tree) habitats. Western gray squirrels are also preyed upon by predators such as hawks, owls, and bobcats.”

Whether you see squirrels as cute and cuddly, or as squeaky, sneaky little thieves, they are an important cog in our environment. Boulay suggests students can make a difference to the survival of this and other species by learning about, caring and advocating for wildlife conservation. “The primary threat to (the) western gray squirrel in the Willamette Valley is habitat loss. So students can make a long-term difference by advocating for habitat preservation. Students can also explore volunteer work or careers in land use planning, sustainable urban development and conservation to help squirrels and other wildlife.”

While fox squirrels haven’t won the war yet, it is important to take care of the native gray squirrels and other vulnerable species. That can simply mean keeping your dog on a leash in the park and remember, “Do Not Feed The Squirrels.”

OPINION

Dwell in Douglass Firs WORDS LINDSAY MCWILLIAMS PHOTOS EMILY ALBERTSON

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ecall your first rendezvous with a treehouse. You were most likely a child, fascinated by a fort so high in the sky that nothing could touch you — not even your parents. Treehouses are fortresses of childhood mischief, secret passwords, and imaginary games. And if you ever dreamt that you could stay in that tree for days at a time, complete with a bed, a bathroom, electricity, and heat, then your dreams may have just come true.

Nestled in the forests of Cave Junction, Ore. lies a large, grassy plot of land surrounding a rustic home made of dark wood, next to a woodshed and a greenhouse, all surrounded by soaring Douglas fir trees. It seems to be your average, rural landscape. Until you look up.

Vertical Horizons Treehouse Paradise is a bed-and-breakfast that houses its guests in fully livable tree houses. Because of its location — west of Medford and Ashland on Highway 199 — it’s out-of-the-way for many. And yet, people from all over the world come to stay at this “treesort.” There are four individual treehouses available for rent, ranging in size and shape. Yet each includes one or more beds, a bathroom with sink, a toilet, heating and electricity, and a balcony for viewing the peaceful landscape.

But why is a house in a tree so intriguing?

“People are looking for something different these days,” owner Jodie Moskios says. “Who cares about the suite at the Hilton? You can have that any day, anywhere.”

“They stay with this 50-yearold criteria,” Jodie says. “These are house criteria not treehouse criteria.”

Creating Vertical Horizons has been trying and frustrating for the Moskios family at times, but it’s exactly what they wanted. As their kids grew older and moved out of their house, Jodie and Phil were looking for a way to make their living at home. In 2004, they built their first treehouse, The Cottage, with the intent of renting it out as a bed-and-breakfast.

After renting The Cottage out through another company for a couple of years, they continued to build and eventually started Vertical Horizons Treehouse Paradise. By 2008, Jodie and Phil had three tree houses and plenty of business.

For the summer season, a night in one of these treehouses costs $280, which also includes a plentiful breakfast in the owners’ home the next morning. While the price is on the higher side, you certainly won’t be disappointed by the experience. All of the tree houses are clean and well kept with amenities like miniature refrigerators, hot water pots (complete with tea and coffee), bathroom essentials, and an array of board games and books for use.

The service is excellent as well.

Owners Jodie and Phil Moskios are there to greet you when you arrive and check you into your tree house. The two are always around, usually working on some type of project, and are happy to answer questions and give recommendations for places to explore or stop for dinner.

Breakfast is served at 9 A.M. the next morning. The meal is prepared

by Phil, who used to work as a chef.

It’s served family-style at a large table and you get a chance to hang out with the other guests. The breakfast menu is seasonal and at this time of year it consists of stacks of fluffy pancakes with blueberry syrup and homemade whipped cream, scrambled eggs and bacon, a large display of fruits like mangos and strawberries, as well as sliced pears drizzled in a homemade caramel sauce.

The overall feeling is welcoming and intimate because the resort itself is small, personal, and guests have nearly unlimited access to all of it. The spacious, grassy backyard of the owners’ home is essentially everyone’s backyard. Across it you’ll find a volleyball net, a set-up for a game of horseshoes, and a fire pit

surrounded by tree stump OPINION seats and metal skewers for roasting marshmallows.

Jodie doesn’t quite remember what gave them the idea to build a tree house, but she’s thankful that it happened that way. All things considered, Jodie Moskios is content being able to spend her days in the place that her and her husband built from the ground up — or, in some cases, from the trunk up.

“I love it here,” she says. “There aren’t very many other places I would rather be.”

t PHOTO: One of the larger treehouses at Vertical Horizons treehouse resort in Cave Junction, OR. s PHOTO: One of the treehouses nestled in the forests of Oregon.

Moskios emphasizes that people, especially young adults, are looking to do something that nobody else has done before. But she also finds that there’s something more that brings guests to Vertical Horizons: people are simply drawn to trees.

“Everyone has a tree,” Moskios said. “I don’t care whether it’s a big tree, or a swing in a tree or you carved your name into a tree.”

Inside each treehouse is a cozy cabin feel with all-wood interiors and lofted beds with patchwork quilts covering them. The land itself is serene and comforting. The smell of wood is everywhere along with the buzz of insects and the chirping of birds. You might be greeted by the owners’ dog, Cosmo, or by the occasional call of a wild turkey The journey of creating a sustainable “treesort,” however, has not been without struggle. Each treehouse has its own unique problems, ones that you often don’t consider if you’ve never worked with a live structure. A tree house is one of the only residences that makes its foundation on a living organism. As extraordinary as that is, it also creates endless problems and costs.

Each tree has its own type of ants that can cause cause problems in the houses and, of course, no tree is completely weatherproof. That aside, Jodie says the hardest part about building treehouses for the public is following city regulations. She argues that many of the building codes, which were designed with homes on the ground in mind, aren’t always the best for a house in a tree.

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