FLUX 2004

FLUX

University of Oregon School of Journalism & Communication •

Spring 2004 • Issue Twelve • $3.00

To Have &To Hold Liberation in Motion Choosing Fatherhood The Memory Thief

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IN MY DAY

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WE HAD TO WALK TEN MILES

truggle, faith, history, love, recovery, music. These are some of threads woven throughout this issue of FLUX. of the voices captured within include that of afamous otojournalist who depicts some of life's hardships through her lens, a young man who faces his future with optimism after losing his sight at age sixteen and a couple married almost sixty years grappling with the recent loss of their driving abilities.

On a lighthearted note, you will encounter treasure hunts in the woods, candid family conversations regarding sex and a colorful group of people with a passion for an underappreciated, if peculiar, musical instrument.

In the photo-essay, you will see poignant images of marriage in avariety of its forms.

TO THE NEAREST BOOTH

LII

IN TWO FEET OF SNOW

This year, we offer you stories of overcoming or accepting challenges through personal strength or through the power of relationships. And we offer you stories of the types of self-expression and adventure that sustain us.

Welcome to the 2004 issue of FLUX magazine.

ON DmT ROADS IN WOODEN SHOES AND WIGS.

Melinda Young

,

O I LEss THAN ATIDRD OF 18 TO 24-YEAR-oW AMERICANS CAST TIlEIR VOTES IN THE MOST RECENT PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION. MAKE YOUR OWN MARK ON mSTORY.

FIND OUT HOW AT WWW.BUSPROJECT.ORG

bus project

UNIVERSITY OF OREGON SChool of Journ.llam .nd Communlutlon

FLUX magazine is planned, written, edited, designed and produced by students in the University of Oregon School of Journalism and Communication. inFLUX, the online version of FLUX, is available at http://influx.uoregon.edu/2004.

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Cover Page Edward Murphy and Kelly Colby were married in las Vegas at A UttIe White Wedding Chapel on March 25, 2004. They live in New York City with their eighteen-month-old son.

Treasure Trackers

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STORY_jeff frawley

Nature and technology converge in geocaching to create a new breed of adventure seekers.

Liberation in Motion

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STORY_melinda young

People around the world retrace history by practicing the Afro-Brazilian art of capoeira.

The Memory Thief

Choosing Fatherhood

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STORY alexandra arch

STO RY_ta bitha thompson

A young writer battles a brain fog that is threatening to steal her past.

Walking away from aconventional life, atwenty-six-year-old man attempts to embrace ahigher calling in the Catholic Church.

Eroding Foundation

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STORY_ jes burns

Tenants in adilapidated New Orleans apartment observe one woman's detachment from reality.

The Sincere Love of Grandma Eva

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STORY_david jagernauth

Giving up retired life to raise her daughter's five children, awoman fights to keep her family together.

Blind Camaraderie

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STORY_deb allen

While adjusting to a life-altering trauma, a teenager befriends a tutor who experienced a similar trauma more than forty years earlier.

Mary Ellen Mark:

Photographing the Unfamous

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STORY_catherine ryan

Afamous photographer documents the lives of people on the fringes of society.

To Have &To Hold

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PHOTOGRAPHY_ joel fischer

Photographer Joel Fischer shares images and testimonials that reveal what marriage means to avariety of couples.

Shifting Gears

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STORY_katie lewis

A couple relies on the bond they have formed throughout nearly sixty years of marriage to cope with the loss of their driving privileges.

Family Planning

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STORY_diana whiteaker

Relatives offer advice when the Pill is no longer an option.

Uke Invasion

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STORY_amanda wells

The revival of the ukulele inspires musicians ranging from classical artists to punk rockers.

TRACKERS

Satellite Coordinates lead Geocachers to Unlikely Rewards.

STORY_jeff frawley PHOTOGRAPHY_alex dewey

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huck Vanlue checks his handheld Global Positioning System (GPSl unit and slowly plods through the thick blackberry vines and stinging nettles that blanket the area. According to the unit's electronic distance gauge, he is within twenty feet of his destination. It is time to get serious.

The coordinates 43 0 N, 123 0 W mark his location: a small patch of woods bordering a rest area outside Cottage Grove, Oregon. Just beyond the

wooded area, travelers inspect maps against the hoods of their cars and road-weary children scatter across the green lawn, tossing balls and Frisbees. A middle-aged man and woman walk an inquisitive black dog that sniffs at the tall grasses bordering the small patch of forest.

hide small containers filled with knick-knack fortunes, and then post the geographical coordinates of the caches on Internet forums. Anyone can hide - and find - acache, provided they sign the logbook in the container and hide it back in the same spot.

Cars zoom past on the nearby interstate as Vanlue crouches to overturn mossy logs and flat rocks.

The dog walkers pause and eye Vanlue. He notices and rises, casually scratching his shaved head as if lost on a hike in the forest. "The trick is not to let people see you doing this," he says in a low voice. "They start to wonder what's over here, and they come and ruin everything."

As soon as a new cache is posted, fervent cachers hit the trail in search of treasure. The first to log afind earns bragging rights; competitors banter in online forums over who "got firsties."

Geocaching became possible in May of 2000 when the Clinton administration lifted a governmentimposed GPS signal degradation.

"It's acrazy underworld .... I'm constantly finding new places to go."

Vanlue, known online as "Seal Rock George," hardly looks the covert type - dressed in a spotless white t-shirt and tan cargo shorts. With an easy smile and friendly demeanor, he resembles Garth Brooks more than James Bond.

As the dog walkers lose interest and walk away, Vanlue carefully prods a stack of logs and bark. The pile is too ordered, too perfect. He digs through the wood and removes a plastic Folgers coffee container wrapped in camouflage duct tape. "There it is," he says, shaking the container.

"There's the treasure." Grinning, he unscrews the lid and exposes the contents within: one miniature Barbie doll, a crumpled Pampers diaper, a pair of dice and atiny notebook sealed in a sandwich bag.

Vanlue has just unearthed the latest of his some 400 geocaches. In this high-tech version of hide-and-seek, aptly dubbed geocaching, participants

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Until that time, in order to protect military communication, the government scrambled satellite signals for commercial GPS units - rendering the units accurate to only one hundred yards. When the signal degradation was lifted, commercial units became accurate to within twenty feet.

Two days after the signals were unscrambled, Seattle resident Dave Ulmer hid a container of goodies outside of Portland, Oregon for his friends to find using their GPS units.

Following the expedition, Ulmer's friend started an online newsgroup that launched the spread of geocaching. Four years later, nearly 100,000 cache sites have emerged in all fifty states and in more than 200 countries.

Geocachers can now find treasures in nearly all types of terrain, including urban caches hidden in city parks and around buildings. More adventurous

cachers leave containers on cliff sides, on the tops of mountains, in the ocean and at the bottoms of lakes. Conventional cachers must demonstrate creativity and cunning to evade outsiders and challenge the experienced. Vanlue says local terror "Evil Jim" is notorious for gluing fake moss and twigs to cache containers.

The expansion of the phenomenon has also created some confusion.

In 2003, a farmer in Ellensburg, Washington called the U.S. Army bomb squad when he unearthed a suspicious tubular container in a roadway tunnel. After three hours of investigation, the squad exposed the contents: birthday-themed toys and knick-knacks. Due to concerns about national security and litter, the National Park Service has forbidden geocaching in its parks. In areas where it is still allowed, geocachers are advised to label their containers.

As the hobby spreads, the types of caches have become more creative.

On a business trip to Ireland, Vanlue hid a "travel bug" (trinkets marked with serial numbers and tracked onlinel that later turned up in Maine. One Web site documents the migration of hundreds of plastic monkeys as they travel the globe from cache to cache. Hide-and-seek book clubs allow readers to swap literature through caches.

For cacher Jay Fox, the pursuit is an excuse to have fun outside with his family. Fox, along with his wife, son and two daughters, comprise the "Family 0' Foxes" team that has found nearly 500 caches since 2002.

"Before my first time, I couldn't imagine why anyone would walk around the woods looking for a box of junk," says Jim's wife, Amy. "But after our friends took us out, our family was hooked."

After afew wrong turns in their search for the "Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard Place" cache, the family zeros in on the treasure. The Fox's youngest daughter, four-year-old Madeline, seems the least interested in the search as the family scours a fern-covered hillside. She moseys and picks flowers, but soon uncovers aTupperware box wrapped in a black garbage bag, jammed between two

Every weekend, his obsession leads him to new, unvisited locations. "It's a crazy underworld," he says. "I've lived in Eugene for fifteen years and I'm constantly finding new places to go. Within aten-mile radius, there are about 250 caches."

Vanlue's latest hunt for the "Turtle Pond" cache begins near a sewage treatment plant. On the hunt, he runs into a retired couple - known online as "GlenMart." Though they communicate frequently online, he has met the couple only afew times on the trails.

But as "Mart," a short woman in a sweatshirt and a neonpink baseball cap, hops out of her car, the bond formed online becomes immediately apparent. She laughs and promises to be the first to find the latest cache that Vanlue has hidden. Meanwhile, the three combine forces and agree to explore "Turtle Pond" together.

Edging past the sewage

> Chuck Vanlue pulls the "All Locked Up" cache tanks and into the forest, from under atree. the trio compares their most recent

moss-covered rocks. As she removes a particularly enchanting necklace from the cache and replaces it with a bouncy ball, her exhilaration reveals a greater purpose to the game than the modest exchange: youthful curiosity and adventure.

Vanlue bubbles with his own childlike enthusiasm as he drives his shiny, black SUV adorned with a large geocaching sticker on the back window. "It's not about prizes," Vanlue explains. "I hide the stuff I find cleaning out my house and garage."

He constantly points out specific landmarks - road signs, fallen trees, boulders - along the way that mark caches he has already found.

expeditions. GPS units are drawn and maps are consulted as the chatter settles on the current cache. Just beyond the rancid sewage tanks, wooded trails lead to a pristine park area and a small pond. Vanlue leads the way down the trail, pointing in excitement, as if the treasure hunt at hand is his very first. •

Extreme Caches The following caches illustrate just how brave of heart some geocachers are. Obviously these caches are geared toward people with a lot of experience.

IIChelan SCUBA Cache ll

Chelan, Washington. Cache is in the back seat of a 1956 Ford, sunk 115 feet deep at the bottom of Lake Chelan.

The online listing warns cachers that it is a "deep, cold dive (41°F in May) and may cause nitrogen narcosis. "

IITube Torcher

ll

Hendersonville, North Carolina. This multi-stage cache provides clues that lead to two tall corn silos.

Cachers must then crawl through narrow insect- and rodent-infested concrete tubes and climb a ladder ascending the interior of a pitch-black tower to reach the cache.

IITMA-1

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Outside Monterey, California. Cachers follow multiple clues that lead to the final cache, hidden at the top ofa 1DO-foot concrete shaft. Scaling the shaft requires climbing gear.

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ne Eugene, Oregon "capoeirista," a twenty-five year old with wild dark curly hair and soulful eyes, Davey Jackson, learned about capoeira from an uncle who told him about this rare martial art with African roots. To Jackson, capoeira "has an energy all its own. It encompasses so much - rhythm, play, ritual movement, folklore, dancing and fighting. And it's a really important part of the African diaspora." That history and

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Capoeiristas today embrace the mysterious beginnings of the art form as part of its charm. Says Jackson: "Part of the beauty of capoeira is learn ing to accept that, just like there's mystery in life, there's mystery in capoeira."

No matter how it originated, capoeira lived on for centuries until slave liberation.

Many capoeira historians believe that when slavery ended in Brazil in 1888, some free slaves joined street gangs.

It encompasses so much - Capoeira

apoeira "has an energy all its own. rhythm, play, ritual movement, folklore, dancing and fighting." ~ev~~~~t energy are attracting people of all backgrounds to this art form.

The slaves in Brazil were South American natives and Africans.

The Africans were taken from countries like Angola, Mozambique and Namibia. Some people believe that capoeira was brought to Brazil as an African martial art.

Others believe that capoeira began among rebell ious slaves who escaped sugar plantations into the wild rainforests. There, capoeira became a form of selfdefense against white men and sometimes against one another.

Its movements were possibly influenced by animals they saw in Brazilian forests and remembered from the African wild - monkeys, zebras, spiders. When slave owners forbade the practice as it seeped into the plantations, the slaves disguised it as a dance. Still others believe it began as a selfexpressive form of dance within the plantations. They believe the movements came from an amalgam of motions reminiscent of African and indigenous tribal dances. Eventually for self-defense purposes, the dance morphed into martial art.

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mode of attack with players often hiding razors inside their clothing.

Brazilian authorities banned capoeira sometime around 1890, but that did not stop people from secretly fighting using capoeira in the ghettos.

By the 1930s, when the non-violent sport-like version of capoeira became legal again, many Euro-Brazilians took it up.

Only within recent years, though, has the Brazilian public stopped associating capoeira with slavery and gang life. Even ten years ago, mestre

(instructorl Pedro Cruz, who hails from the Bahia region of Brazil, feared what his girlfriend's parents would think upon learning that he practiced capoeira. But Cruz did not let public hesitance about the art form stop him. "I was born in love with capoeira," he says. Today capoeira schools proliferate throughout Brazil, making the sport second only to soccer in popularity.

opponent's movements and respond quickly to every situation. As such, mestre Cruz claims "capoeira teaches people notto be afraid to faiL" His students tell him how this notion of fearlessness transfers into their own lives - from people becoming more aware of their own surroundings to acting more assertively in uncomfortable situations to being less afraid to take on life's challenges.

Capoeira came to the United States by way of New York City in the 1970s. Its striking resemblance to breakdancing causes some to surmise that it sparked the beginning of that movement. Yet long after breakdancing reached its mainstream prime, capoeira continues to be embraced by people throughout the country and the world. Its global popularity spurred the 2004 International Olympic Committee to consider introducing it as a performance sport. In the United States, it has spread into metropolitan areas and small towns alike.

Certainly in its twentieth century U.S. form, capoeira no longer acts as a means of resisting oppression. But mestres still want players to remember the game's original intentions. Cruz infuses history lessons into his classes and encourages players to study more about a game he calls an instrument of liberation. And he teaches his students Portuguese song lyrics about oppression, strength and hope.

Four times aweek, the art form comes alive at the practices of Eugene's capoeira group, Grupo Ra~a ("rafa," which literally means "race," also denotes determination and perseverance). Twentynine-year-old Cruz, with an enthusiasm evident in his wide eyes and smile, shouts commands in English and Portuguese.

Tight clothing accentuates lithe and strong bodies of the mostly twentysomething men and women.

AfroBrazilian musical rhythms

provide a high energy soundtrack to their workout. They help one another with intense stretches, work in reflective pairs doing slow-motion aus (cartwheelsl across the floor. Learning complicated new move sequences proves awelcome challenge for some, afrustration for others.

They learn both defensive and offensive sequences. The goal of the game is to get one's opponent into a position in which he cannot defend himself, then to mimic throwing a blow at him. To Gabe Dour, an athletic college student who helped form Grupo Ra~a three years ago, "It's about trying to help camaradas [comrades] find their weaknesses.

There is no winner or loser."

Another local capoeirista, Pieter Van Den Berge, says that for some the game is away to control the opponent through movement. For

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him, the game tests his own strength.

Inside the rada (rhythm circle). he strives to reach II that place where art of the

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Jackson, who sought out the art form in part because of its roots, claims the spirit of liberation does, indeed, live on in capoeira today. "When I play really well, there's a connection,"

beauty of capoeira is learning to accept that, just like there's mystery in life, there's mystery in capoeira."

spontaneous and creative."

Dour and Van Den Berge play for the physical challenge and because of a fascination with capoeira's history. The more Dour plays, the deeper connection he says he feels to its roots. "The roots of capoeira are struggle," he says. "A capoeirista trains and studies capoeira to overcome oppression and limitations."

Capoeiristas must anticipate their

he says. "It is like the continuation of atradition - where the energy is right and I feel free." •

> Above photo Afro-Brazilian rhythms played on traditional capoeira instruments help drive Pedro Cruz as he moves inside the roda.

> Two members of Grupo Ra~a engage in a match.

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CHOOSING

FATHERHOOD It

was awarm, dry afternoon in the desert village of Chimbote, Peru.

Four hundred parishioners waited in the dusty pews of the Nuestra Senora del Perpetuo Socorro church as David Jaspers walked to the altar and stood next to the white coffin. It contained the body of an eight-yearold boy who had been run over by a truck as he tried to sneak a stalk of sugarcane from its bed.

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It was November 2000, and David, then twenty-three, was a U.S. missionary. The church's resident priest was away at the time, so David assumed the responsibility of leading the mass. He was nervous standing before the crowd, and although he was fluent in Spanish, David prayed for the words to conduct the service.

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After performing the funeral rites, David held the hand of the boy's mother while the congregation approached the coffin to pray. She squeezed his hand for support.

Later, David watched from the church's double doors as the funeral procession disappeared down the dirt road. He still felt the lingering warmth of the grieving mother's hand. It was then that he understood why a priest was called afather.

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David thought he would be a husband and father someday, like most men he knew, but he also felt

a pull in another direction - one at odds with conventional fatherhood.

David felt a calling to the priesthood.

However, becoming a Roman Catholic priest would require him to make enormous personal sacrifices, including choosing the priesthood over fatherhood and marrying the church instead of his college sweetheart.

Now twenty-six, David is one of the dwindling number of U.S. men pondering a commitment to the priesthood. Today graduate seminary programs have 59 percent fewer members than forty years ago, according to a Georgetown University database. Similarly, the number of priests has decreased by 26 percent.

Peter Steinfels' A People Adrift cites complex reasons for this decline. It highlights contributing factors such as changing societal values, the advent of mass media, the modern notions of sex and gender, the pedophilia scandals and the gradual transfer of power from clergy to laity (from priests to laymen).

David's chin reverently points upward and his hazel eyes train on the cross hanging above the pulpit as he sings with a polished baritone...Salve regina mater misericordiae vita dulcedo et spes nostra salvae:' (Hail Holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope) carries throughout the chapel.

David's broad shoulders rise as his lungs fill to deliver the next verse of the traditional Catholic song. His build still reflects that of his football days in high school and later in college. David is tall and lean with brown hair cut close to his head and an easy smile. The fourth of five children, David grew up in a religious family and received twelve years of Catholic schooling in Eugene, Oregon.

According to his mother, Kate Jaspers, he always had a spiritual calling. "David was very conscious of when people were sad or were hurting," she says. "He would find away to be a help to them." David explored the Catholic faith by reading the Sible and asking questions at school and church.

In middle school, David had his moments of rebellion, like most kids

echoed this sentiment based upon David's outgoing personality and his willingness to talk about his faith. "I would walk by him and ask, 'Have you signed up yet for the priesthood?'" says his high school retreat leader Peggy Hayward. "Sometimes he'd roll his eyes. Sut I never felt like the possibility was far from him."

Although his high school spiritual leaders encouraged him to think about the seminary, David wanted to continue playing football at a Christian school. He chose to attend Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, Washington, and started in the fall of 1995.

Throughout David's second year at PLU, he and several friends began meeting regularly to discuss their different faiths. At one such

"[Choosing the priesthood] is not like choosing a career, but it is listening to the depth of your heart and the Holy Spirit in you, asking, 'What do you have in mind for me?''' his age. He listened to the latest rap music, stole candy from the local convenience store and looked at adult magazines. During a retreat at a vacation Sible school, the leader asked the group of teenagers to consider whether they had integrated their faith into every aspect of their lives: their actions, books and music.

David resolved to align his faith with the way he lived his life - a decision that created the foundation of his spiritual journey.

At his Catholic high school, his peers voted David "most likely to become a priest." Numerous people

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gathering, the fellowship group discussed the letters of St. Paul in the Sible. One passage in Corinthians particularly resonated with David. It read, "I wish that all were, as myself am, but each has his own special gift from God, one of a kind, one of another." David, the only Catholic in the group, interpreted the passage to mean that God gives the gift of priesthood to a few special people - those who could be celibate.

David privately wondered if he had the gift. He had at times felt the inclination, or the calling, toward the vocation. Joining the priesthood

would be the ultimate act of devotion to the Catholic faith, but David was also overwhelmed by the sacrifices the priesthood required.

He remembered the phrase: "In my weakness is God's strength." Perhaps with God's strength he could be a priest. Although the idea lodged firmly in the back of his mind, the years to come would test him.

The rigors of college continued and David studied, played football and occasionally dated. Eager to break the monotony of his Spanish and education studies at PLU, David decided to go abroad to apply his skills. In 1997, he spent a semester in Granada, Spain, immersing himself in the country's rich Catholic history.

While in Europe, David toured Rome with a group of students from Spain. One morning, they attended a speech that Pope John Paul II gave to approximately 3,000 university students. He spent the afternoon sightseeing in the city.

Afterward, the tired students boarded a bus to the small town of Frascati located on the outskirts of the city.

David sat next to Don Rafael, an older Spanish priest leading the small group. They began exchanging small talk in Spanish, and the priest eventually asked David if he was considering entering the seminary.

"Yes, I am considering the seminary," David said. Then he voiced a burning concern. "Sut I like the idea of waking up next to someone every morning."

"Yo tambien:' the Father replied, the thick Spanish words rolling off his tongue. (So do I.) "Sut I chose this life and it's really good. I wouldn't do it otherwise."

David began crying. He had voiced something he had not yet talked about to anyone, and for the first

time, David heard a priest admit that he wrestled with the same thoughts and that it was normal to have these feelings and still pursue the priesthood.

smile. They struck up a conversation after learning that they had both studied abroad in Spain. The two eventually began to cultivate a close friendship.

At the priest's suggestion, David moved to another seat and prayed. '" became truly open to the priesthood as a possibility," he said. "It was as much as I was able to give to God at that point." Perhaps you do not have to be talented for God to use you, he thought. You just have to be willing.

Jenny began attending church services with David. She had gone to a Catholic high school, but Jenny had not seriously pursued the faith. David, observing her deepening spiritual interest, encouraged her, asking, "Why aren't you a Catholic?"

When he returned to PLU, David met Jenny, ayoung woman with auburn hair, freckles and avibrant

As Jenny's devotion to the Catholic Church intensified, so did her relationship with David. Although he shared his mixed feelings about the future with her, professing his draw

to the priesthood, the relationship became romantic. Eventually, they began to fall in love.

In April of 1999, after several months of dating, David and Jenny attended mass during Holy Week, the week before Easter, at St. James Cathedral in Seattle. People poured in for the extravagant service, crowding the pews. The trumpets blasted and the organ resounded throughout the Romanesque cathedral, signaling the beginning of the service. In a sea of white robes, one hundred Seattle archdiocese priests walked down the long aisle toward the pulpit. David had never seen so many priests at one time, and he thought that the

> David rests on the ledge outside of the Mount Angel chapel where he attends services and prayer sessions several times a day. > Opposite Page Father Ddo Recker serves as one of David's many mentors at Mount Angel.

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Leaving the confessional, he knew that he needed to make some changes in his life. "I was not free from it like I was before - the trappings of the desire to be touched," David says, equating his need for intimacy to that of a child's temptation to touch a hot burner.

Knowing his faith was his first priority, David knew it was impossible to commit to Jenny. "The hardest part was knowing that the relationship would change," he says, but it was the only choice for David.

That summer they said goodbye.

David moved to Ohio to attend religious conferences by night. finding a job washing dishes during the daytime. Jenny studied abroad again in Spain the next fall.

"Sometimes I think that I could have married Jenny," he says. "But I knew it wasn't where I'm supposed to be." While still uncertain, David began testing out the idea of lifelong celibacy.

> David puts on the traditional white collar, the Roman collar, of a priest to attend seminary classes. > Opposite page Music is an important part of David's faith. He plays the guitar, piano and other instruments.

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group was a powerful convergence of life and vitality.

The service affected Jenny too. After the procession passed their pew, she leaned over and whispered to David, "Don't give up on this priest idea."

David smiled, but her statement struck achord inside. As the service continued, the guilt of his relationship's physical intimacy escalated. "God calls us to sexual purity," he says. He asked himself

if he was acting purely. "I was continuing to learn about appropriate boundaries and I know sometimes I was crossing boundaries."

Refusing communion, a symbolic gesture of unity in the church, David instead elected to go to confession after the mass. He had to talk about his guilt with someone right then.

As a Catholic, David knew his actions were not conforming to his faith, a lesson he had learned long ago.

DaVid remained single as he finished college and graduated in 2000. That summer, he began meeting with Father Tim Mockaitis, avocation director in Portland, who suggested that David wait ayear to start seminary school. Following this advice, he departed for Peru to work as a missionary, returning home several months later to find a job substitute teaching at his former high school in Eugene.

Enjoying the teaching experience, David inquired if afull-time Spanish teaching position was available. He was disappointed when he learned that the school had just filled a position. "I sometimes wanted to be something else because, in a sense, it was an easier path for me to follow," he says, citing his interest in teaching or becoming a high school principal.

However, David believed that adivine providence had prevented him from teaching - God was calling him to something else.

David moved to Portland to live on his own for the first time and took a job teaching abstinence education to teenagers. He also met regularly with Father Tim. As the months passed, the deadline once again loomed to apply to seminary school. In the meantime, the Boston media broke the news of the pedophilia scandals in the Catholic Church. Nationwide, people began stepping forward to accuse Catholic priests of molestation.

David, although distressed, was not deterred from his consideration of the priesthood. The scandals "built walls and broke bridges" among Catholics, David says. "The Church needed good guys."

During aJanuary retreat in 2002, Father Tim handed David a seminary application. He immediately began filling it out, believing he had satisfied his curiosity about the "normal life" and was ready to place himself in the hands of God. That spring he wrote a ten-page autobiographical essay and underwent a series of psychological tests and interviews as a part of the application process. Upon his acceptance, David began his seminary studies at Mount Angel Abbey and Seminary in Mount Angel, Oregon in the fall of that year.

When his young cousins learned of his decision to enter the seminary, they were troubled - David had been teaching them how to salsa and country western dance. "Will he still be able to dance with us?" they asked his parents. "Yes," David's parents assured them. "He will still be able to dance with you."

Proud of their son's decision, David's parents remain open-minded

about the priesthood. "I don't have reservations," says his mother. "It's a hard Iife for anybody, but if he chooses it, I want him to be very sure.

It will be a blessed thing if he decides to do it."

Father Odo Recker, the Mount Angel vocation director and a close mentor to David, believes that the decision to enter seminary and to become a priest is an inherently introspective one. "[Choosing the priesthood) is not like choosing a career," he says, "but it is listening to the depth of your heart and the Holy Spirit in you, asking, 'What do you have in mind for me?'"

His decision to enter seminary, David maintains, is not an attempt to paint a halo around his head. "The priests at Mount Angel echo the sentiment that if you have any other expectations other than to serve, you are going

as a priest. He has a long road to travel, academically, emotionally and spiritually.

"In a sense, I am getting married to God," he says. "The bigger question is how to grow in fidelity." But David believes this fidelity, through the vow of celibacy, will provide opportunities that no married man will have - the chance to focus on serving God and perhaps to guide a parish someday - but it is not without sacrifice.

"It is really a question of will he be afather of many or just of his own," his mother says. If David pursues the priesthood, his older brother will carry on the Jaspers family name alone.

As David sits on a classroom desk, a cross hanging on the wall just above his left shoulder and a world map over his right, he admits that the future is uncertain. God has led

"In a sense, I am getting married to God. The bigger question is how to grow in fidelity."

to be disappointed," he says. "They say that you don't deserve anything special for being a priest."

Today David has finished his second year of seminary studies. "I will be a priest in 2009, God willing," David says. He adds "God willing" to his statements as a sign of humility and deference to God. He will need to complete afour-year theology graduate school program and a oneyear internship in order to be ordained

him to the seminary, he believes, but he is not yet sure if the priesthood is in his future. "Until I'm ordained, I don't know exactly what God's will is," David says. "Maybe it is to teach me to be a better father for a family someday. But, I feel like I am supposed to be here." •

[flux] 017_

Author Jes Burns lived in the New Orleans apartment described in this story for nearly two years. Thin walls and loud voices made her a nightly witness to the lives of the other residents.

STORY_ jes burns ILLUSTRATIONS_tanyia johnson

n New Orleans, the hottest month is September, despite rumors circulating about July and August. Puddles stagnate on the mud and concrete driveway between two mansion-sized houses. The neighborhood is America old, just over one hundred years, reclaimed from one large plantation in the late 1800s, and is now one of the richest in the city. Through a dense swarm of small mosquitoes, Jean* steps out of her apartment and yells in quick cadence to a plane flying overhead, "God dammit. leave me alone!"

Jean is probably in her late sixties, but the thick humid New Orleans air has kept her face from aging.

It is smooth and supple, child-like, with alert and darting eyes. An old, modest blouse and calf-length pink skirt hang limply from her rotund and slightly stooped body. Her slippers

'AII names, except Emily's, have been changed.

are lined with brown plastic grocery bags from the Winn-Dixie by the river.

She mumbles and paces frantically outside her apartment door. Jean offers afew more "God dammits!" for the neighbors' sake, and goes back into her small basement apartment.

A two-inch roach scampers under her feet, avoiding trash, fallen paint chips and the termite-rotten step. The door slams. It shuts snugly in place because of the swollen wood frame, but will keep neither real nor imagined enemies from entering.

Though Jean's neighbors do not know if she has ever been diagnosed, most of them feel she is suffering from mental illness. She may be one of fifty-four million people in the United States who share this affliction. Nearly two-thirds of all states have cut funding for mental health services in the past three

years. The President's New Freedom Commission on Mental Health released an interim report in 2002 stating that the nation's "public mental health system is in shambles:' yet a depressed economy, increased spending on national security, state budget shortfalls, and persistent tax cuts have left mental health spending a low priority.

Jean lives in an apartment in a house not suitable for human habitation. The house was probably beautiful when the current landlady, Edna Duke, seventy-seven, purchased it more than forty years ago - immense and airy, with twelve-foot ceilings and elegant light fixtures. More than 6,000 square feet of living space spread over three towering floors fronted by a porch and typical New Orleans balcony. By the 1970s, Edna had divided the house into

[fluxI019_

four apartments and its age was beginning to show. Today, the house, now divided into seven apartments, is beyond repair and literally beginning to fall into the earth. Edna is not doing anything about it.

Evidence of a healthy rat and roach infestation can be heard in the walls or seen on the screen-covered burglar doors after dusk.

Every room slopes downward from the center of the house. The roof leaks so profusely that the sheetrock

ceilings often cave in. The wooden floors of the porch collapse if the weight of a step is not distributed over more than one board. That same porch, and the balcony directly above it, are solely supported by a column that has rotted at the foundation until only an inch diameter of solid wood remains. The house boasts neither heat nor air conditioning. Evidence of a healthy rat and roach infestation can be heard in the walls or seen

on the screen-covered burglar doors after dusk.

Jean lives in a ground level apartment on the north side of the house. The rooms are smaller on this level. The apartment is hot and smells like urine. Stacks upon stacks of yellowed newspapers pile to the eight-foot ceilings; only a small path remains, running to her bedroom and the shower she is forced to share with an unrelated man, half her age, living in the apartment behind hers.

She lives a meager existence on state and federal funds. Because of this, she has worked out an arrangement with Edna to do smaII chores around the house for a couple of dollars aday. Edna does not pay minimum wage.

In the front room is the outline of a low, padded chair where Jean often spends late summer days snoring in the heat. This is the only time she feels safe enough to sleep. But this time is often interrupted by the demands of Edna. Edna does not knock on Jean's door, but instead yells through it in a loud, hostile and grating voice, "Jean, are you going to sweep the front sidewalk?"

Jean answers in an angry, muffled voice. "I'm asleep."

"So are you going to get up and sweep the sidewalk?"

"I'm asleep right now."

Edna gets louder and more irate, and begins bellowing in exasperation, "I just want an answer!"

"I'm asleep."

"Is that what I asked you?" spoken at the same ludicrous volume, but now as if Jean were an impertinent child. "I can't get a damn answer out of you. Are you coming to sweep or aren't you?"

"No!" Jean finally opens the door, and the conversation continues to escalate until they both begin to scream at each other like cartoon parodies of themselves. They actually say, "BLAHBLAH-BLAH-BLAH-BLAH-BLAH! " Nights are the worst for Jean.

The city is full of sounds - sirens, trains, cars, unknown enemies wandering down her alley. She rarely sleeps through the night and can be heard by neighbors at all hours ranting sporadic strings of "God dammits!" and "Get outs!" Often she will burst through her door into the night. screaming and yelling to whoever will listen.

"Who left this door open? God dammit! Who left this door open?

Well, I know who left this door open ... It's just one of many tricks that Edna Duke likes to play on me. God dammit! I tell you, she should either be in an asylum or in prison!"

In one of the most dangerous cities in America, Jean has no lock on her door. She claims she has asked Edna to fix it, but Edna will not fix anything by herself. She has her tenants front the money for repairs and then reimburses them once the work is done. Jean regularly borrows a couple of dollars from the neighbors at the end of each month, because she cannot make it through on her small stipend; it is inconceivable

that she would be able to pay for a locksmith.

Many of She screams in agony often, waking Jean's most those in the apartments around her, basic needs are not keeping her neighbors wondering being met if calling an ambulance will do - including any good. her need to feel secure - and she can do nothing about it. The neighbors call ACORN (the Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now), the nation's largest community organization for low and moderate-

[flux! 021_

income families. They say that Jean's only recourse to change her living conditions would be to get a lawyer and take Edna to court. That costs money, and once again Jean is left without options. Everyone in the house lives at a level of squalor that would be illegal in most cities in the United States, but because of the apparent deterioration of Jean's physical and mental health and level of poverty, she is helpless in the fight for her rights.

As of 2000, the Supplemental Security Income benefits used by many elderly and mentally ill people do not cover the fair market rent for a one-bedroom apartment in fourteen

People like Jean are given two choices for housing: Either they must live in substandard and wretched slums, or they must live on the streets. states and sixty-nine cities across the country. Consequently, people like Jean are given two choices for housing: Either they must live in substandard and wretched slums, or they must live on the streets. One third of the homeless people in the United States have a serious mental illness.

ean's condition visibly deteriorates over the course of the year. She begins to believe that Edna is spraying her in the night with achemical that burns her abdomen.

She screams in agony often, waking

_022 [flux]

those in the apartments around her, keeping her neighbors wondering if calling an ambulance will do any good. Her bathroom-sharing neighbor, Bill, begs her to go see a doctor, but Jean becomes extremely agitated and denies she needs help. When this fails he asks her if she has any relatives.

of other people by that name, she continues, "Emily, Emily, Emily... Emily died from a stroke, but I hope you won't die of a stroke. I will probably die of a stroke because stress causes strokes. The blood clots in the head.

I'll probably have a stroke with all that's happening around here."

Emily is not even home.

"Relatives?" she asks, appalled at the question. "Do I have relatives? I have relatives who work for the federal government. I have relatives who are college professors!"

Pedigree is important to Jean. She claims she attended the prestigious New Orleans school for girls, the Academy of the Sacred Heart, and claims to have once owned quite an art collection (that was stolenl. She thinks herself of higher education and breeding than Edna and often mumbles about the injustice of someone so high on the social scale being treated so horribly.

She wears her family history as a badge of sanity - a relative of a college professor could not possibly be mentally ill.

Despite Jean's claims of a large and prosperous family, none of the members appear to look after her or even visit. Jean is alone. She steps below a second story window and yells up to ayoung woman, Emily, who lives in the apartment above.

Her tone is conversational and sing-song.

"And new girl. I was thinking about the Emilys I know. You know my grandfather's name was Emilien.

That's the masculine form of Emily.

Did you know that?" Listing a string

By now, Jean has stopped washing her hair altogether. It has gone from a light feathery brown to a matted and clumped gray; occasionally an eight-inch spire will stick perfectly straight out from the side of her head.

She begins to ask people to smell her neck for chemicals. Emily, Bill and numerous patrons of a local Mexican restaurant have been implored to do this but few feel sympathy enough to do so.

Bill's attempts to help Jean prompt her to become more suspicious; she now includes him on the list of people that are spraying her in the night. She begins to accuse him of running a cocaine lab in his apartment because of the loud music and strange smells emanating from the small hovel. In truth, the smells probably emanate from Bill's herbal tinctures, which he makes for a living.

Finally, taking acue from the top local news story of the year, Jean convinces herself that Bill is the Baton Rouge serial killer. She asks Bill, "Have you ever been to a psychologist?"

Her tone is rather nonchalant, but traces of accusation and suspicion creep to the surface. It is as if Jean is trying to trick her neighbor into

admitting that he is mentally ill.

Eventually, Jean confronts Bill with her suspicions. Her words are clear, but frantic. "Why don't you just get it over with and stick a knife in me?

That would be better than slowly killing me with the spraying and beating!"

One evening, after the local news, Jean slowly hobbles up the slippery steps to Emily's second level apartment, ignoring Edna, who sits on her porch watching a blaringly loud television. Jean desperately needs to use a phone, and Emily has one of only two in the entire house.

Jean comes to Emily's door quite often, usually asking for money or to complain about Edna. Emily, while generous when the visits first began, has had enough. Being awakened nearly every night by Jean's bellows, and being privy, through thin, uninsulated walls, to her loud and lengthy arguments with Edna and others has become too much to deal with. She does not know how to help Jean and avoids answering her door when she can. But this time Jean sees her, and Emily has no choice but to answer. Emily reluctantly agrees to let her use the phone, not knowing what else to do.

that Bill is surely committing. Jean tells the person on the line that the police should send awitness to New Orleans (over an hour's drive away) to positively identify him. She urgently implores them to come, but keeps her voice as low and whispery as possible. Either she is trying not to alarm Emily, or, more likely, she is worried that Emily will think she is crazy for even thinking such athing.

Jean answers afew questions for the hotline operator and then, because she doesn't know how to, she calls for Emily to hang up the cordless phone. She says a polite and calm "thank you" and descends the steps into the dark and lonely night.

Jean has done the only thing she thinks she can do to make herself safe. Perhaps tonight, her demons will haunt someone else.•

From the next room, Emily hears Jean secretively say, "I'm calling about that thing I called about before, the reason you have this line."

Jean has called the Baton Rouge serial killer hotline; the number is given nightly on the local news.

She tells them that she knows the identity of the serial killer. Jean feels it is her civic duty to protect the city, and herself, against the atrocities

[flux] 023_

uring one of those oppressive summer nights a sudden noise roused Grandma Eva from her sleep. Her granddaughter, little Natasha, was alone in the living room crying.

A few months earlier Natasha and her two older brothers, Gene and Jimmy, were taken from their mother, Lisa, separated from one another and placed with foster families all over the state of Oregon. Then Eva came and took custody of all three. This was their first night together as afamily.

"They say, 'But grandma you old.' ... Yes, I'm old. With old values, old beliefs. Someday, maybe, they will appreciate me."

Barely awake, Eva slipped into her bathrobe and followed the sound of weeping into the living room. There she found Natasha, still atoddler and unsteady on her feet, standing behind the curtains, pressing against the glass, staring out the window like a prisoner.

"Well, I just held her and cried," Eva says. "Because I knew she'd been doing the same thing inside those strangers' houses: looking out the window, looking for afamiliar face.

Looking for momma."

To Natasha, Eva was just another stranger, but Eva knew something that little Natasha couldn't possibly have known: momma was not going to appear in that window. Grandma was momma now.

Today Eva, now sixty-two, is still caring for her daughter Lisa's children

_026 [flux]

in the same northeast Portland home.

In the United States, six million children, or approximately one in twelve, live in a home where the primary caregiver is a grandparent or other relative, according to the 2000 Census. More than two million of these children are cared for by a grandparent alone, without the presence of a parent in the household. The number of these families increased by 53 percent during the last decade.

Children are removed from their birth parents' care for any number of reasons - a parent's mental or physical illness, death, spousal or child abuse, incarceration or poverty - but according to a study by the Brookdale Foundation, the most common reason is parental substance abuse.

Grandma Eva can attest to that.

Lisa, who is now forty, is currently incarcerated and could not be contacted for this article. She has struggled with drug addiction for most of her adult life, rendering her incapable of caring for her own children. When the children were first taken from Lisa in the summer of 1988.

Gene was four years old, and he could already change Jimmy's diapers.

Somebody had to.

At the time, Eva was living in Los Angeles with her new husband of nine months. One of the reasons Eva moved to California was to distance herself from her daughter. She felt she was enabling Lisa's destructive behavior and that, perhaps, if she

were hundreds of miles away Lisa would be forced to straighten out her life.

After a decade as a nurse and almost two decades as a manager of a Tupperware facility, Eva had been looking forward to retirement. When she learned that her grandchildren were in foster care, however, she took the next flight back to Portland.

Her life of leisure would have to be put on hold.

Not so long before, Lisa was the one running from Eva. The death of Lisa's father when she was fifteen years old greatly affected her, Eva says. "She couldn't handle it." Lisa eventually ran away from home. After the police found her, she ran away again. Eva says Lisa fell in with the wrong crowd.

It was not long before she got in trouble with the law. Eva says that during one of the court hearings Lisa excused herself, went to the bathroom and jumped out a secondstory window. When the police

caught her they sent her to a boarding school where she faked a serious illness and jumped out of a moving car on the way to the hospital. She disappeared again for several months.

Eva watched all of this with an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

Her first two daughters grew up to be responsible adults, but she did not know how to parent Lisa. As a mother, Eva was aII out of tricks.

When Eva told her husband she was moving back to Portland permanently to adopt her grandchildren, he was not happy. He refused to sign the adoption papers. He did not want to be a father again. He did not want to share Eva. It was difficult but Eva did what she felt she had to do: she filed for divorce and adopted them by herself.

Perhaps Grandma Eva's willingness to turn her life upside-down for her grandchildren relates to her past.

She was raised by her grandmother in Linden, Texas until she was fifteen years old. She did not know her parents until she moved to Portland as ateenager.

When Eva was young, she remembers being embarrassed by her grandmother. In church she would sing louder than everyone else in the congregation. "Now I find myself singing loud just like her:' Eva says of her grandmother. '" am who I am today because of her."

Unlike her grandmother, however, Eva was caring for more than one child. She was also recently divorced, without ajob and with very little savings. Eva needed help, so she approached the children's other grandmother, the father's mother. "I said, 'It took two to get these kids.'

But she said, 'I'm just sorry, that's your problem.' She had a big house, but the kids never saw it. Never had so much as a drink of water there."

> Eva holds a portrait of her daughter Usa from years past.

[flux] 027_

Much to Eva's surprise she could not even get her own family and friends to babysit for her. She had to take the kids everywhere she went. "When they'd see me they'd say, 'Here comes Eva with all them babies.' But none of them was there. I've had to do it alone. " She sent the kids to Head Start, and once they started school she drove them across town so that they could attend all-day kindergarten. Just as she was starting to get a handle on her new life, she received a phone call- Lisa was pregnant again.

Born in 1989, one year after Natasha, and taken from Lisa when she was four days old, Shawntay was quickly placed in medical foster care in southeast Portland. It would take Eva three years and a court battle to get custody of her. The foster mother did not want to give her up. > Faith plays a central role in Eva's life. An active member of her Baptist church, Eva leads the choir and attends a Bible study group. > Opposite page During a rare break, Eva makes a basket to impress her grandchildren.

"She loved Shawntay," Eva says.

"We went to court. She starts saying things, trying to discredit me. She really was lying but she wanted that baby so bad. She was going to do whatever she could to get her."

After a long trial the court awarded custody to Eva. "Why would I leave one of these siblings out there when I have all the rest of them right here? I wanted all of them."

Lisa's struggle with substance abuse would land her in and out of drug treatment centers and jail. The last time Lisa was released from prison she was not out aweek before she attacked a pregnant woman. Lisa broke the stranger's nose and threw her down aflight of stairs. Lisa was locked up for two more years. She is still serving time for that conviction and is scheduled to be released in April 2005.

_028 [flux]

Many years ago, Eva told her daughter that she would never visit her in jail and that she would not let the children visit her there either. If she wanted to be a part of the family she would have to stay out of trouble.

Years went by and they barely spoke.

Lisa was in jail when she gave birth for the fifth time. In August 1989 she was driven from the jailhouse to the Oregon Health and Science University where she gave birth to a baby girl.

She was immediately driven back to jail. Lisa never got to see or hold her daughter.

Two days later Eva received a call.

The doctor said, "We have this little baby. What are we going to do?"

Eva did not hesitate. "I'll be there."

Most of the babies were in a large room with their mothers. In a separate room there was one little baby all by herself. Six pounds and two ounces and no name. The doctors handed her to Eva. She walked out the door. Eva could not find her car she was crying so much.

"You should see that baby now," Eva says. "She is a blessed child."

Eva named her Mariea. When Mariea was nine years old she handed Eva a piece of paper that said "To Grandma."

It was a poem: "The Real Me." Sometimes I go on the porch and just cry Sometimes I have dreams about my mom If she would just act right I cry every night about my mother When I was little I always cried.

Eva puts on a black gown and an African-patterned shawl. It is Sunday - time for church. Eva has attended the same church for more than

forty years. She is the choir director and leads a women's Bible study group twice a month. She is known throughout the congregation for her motto: "Nobody does you like Jesus."

Eva looks young for her age. "The kids keep me young, that's what they say." But she says it like she does not believe it.

"I've raised two generations of children," she says. "Nonstop. And I'm tired. I'm tired."

Gene has graduated from high school and moved out on his own. Jimmy is eighteen and will graduate soon. He and the other children are still living with Eva in the same Portland house, but they are nowhere to be seen this Sunday morning. Eva says they hate her church. They say it is dead. After they were grown Eva demanded that

they go, but she is tired of fighting that fight.

Now that the kids are teenagers there seem to be more fights than ever before. With more than four decades between them, Eva and her grandchildren rarely see eye to eye.

For instance, the girls want to wear short skirts, high heels and huge earrings, but Eva will not allow it. "They say, 'But grandma, you old.' 'Yeah, I'm old, but you ain't wearing it. You ain't going to leave here looking like some hoochie momma.' I got that word from them: hoochie momma. 'Grandma, you old.'

Yes, I'm old. With old values, old beliefs. Someday, maybe, they will appreciate me."

Just as she was starting to get ahandle on her new life, she received aphone call -lisa was pregnant again.

[flux] 029_

Eva remembers when her daughter Lisa dressed like a hoochie momma as ateenager. She remembers.

She sees the temptations all around them. The adult world is slowly creeping in and Eva is worried.

"1f I haven't done anything but raise them in ahouse together as brothers and sisters, I've done that."

"I don't want them to go through the same thing," she says. "I don't want to see it happen again, what happened to their mother. If one of them has to go to jailor ... " She pauses. The possibilities are too painful. "It would just kill me. I just don't know how I would handle it."

It was September 11, 2003. Eva was leading her Saturday women's Bible study group at church. The lesson in her study guide was titled "The Sincere Love of a Christian Woman."

There was aBiblical passage at the top: ... I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me . ..

Eva began reading the study guide out loud to the dozen women seated around her. "The mother who gives her love to her disobedient,

disrespectful and selfish child is giving unselfish love. She will go to the crack house to pull her child out.

She will go to the jailhouse to visit her child."

Eva stopped reading. She could not speak. She took out a pen and underlined the passage. Then Eva admitted to the group that she had a daughter in prison whom she had not seen in more than a year. In fact, in all the years that Lisa had been in and out of prison, Eva had never once visited her daughter in jail. "I make a commitment to go see my child," Eva said, and the women cheered.

When Eva entered the jail and saw her daughter for the first time in prison clothing, she broke down in

tears. The two cried in each other's arms. Eva says she cannot remember seeing Lisa so happy. Lisa told her that all the other women had visitors while she was left alone in her cell.

On her second visit, Eva brought her three granddaughters to see their mother. Not all the children could visit at once; the correctional facility allowed only four guests to enter at a time. Eva and the kids try to go to the jail at least once a month - all the children except Gene. He refuses to go.

Since Eva's first visit, Lisa has been calling every day and sending what

_030 [flux]

Eva calls love letters. "Lisa says, 'I apologize for what I put you through ever since my daddy died. I put you through some things. I'm sorry. But, when I get out ......

"When I get out. I've heard that for years," Eva says.

Despite the disappointments of the past, Eva still believes that Lisa will win her battle with substance abuse.

"I live and hope that each time is going to be the right time ... that she is going to get it together. I believe. I have to. That is my child."

Meanwhile, Eva is still grandma and momma to her daughter's children.

"If I haven't done anything but raise them in a house together as brothers and sisters, I've done that," Eva says.

"I've kept them together as afamily.

They've lived in one house. If I didn't have them, they would be all over the place. They wouldn't even know each other."

> A family portrait (Clockwise: Eva, Shawntay, Mariea, Jimmy, Gene and Natashal > Opposite page Eva picks up her youngest granddaughter, Mariea, after school.

She stops and thinks for a moment, and then she says, as if she were talking to herself, "I'd do it allover again in a heartbeat. Yeah, I would." •

[flux] 031_

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To > M8rri8d on August 10, 2002 During their honeymoon cruise, Denise Gaudette and Emem Ibanga were inspired by older couples to take up ballroom dancing. This photo was taken at the Eugene Veteran's Memorial Building ballroom.

INTRODUCTION & PHOTOGRAPHY_joel fischer

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_032 [flux]

In some cases, the messages were hastily scribbled only a few short hours after saying "I do." In other cases, couples had the luxury of afew days to respond. One couple had just exchanged their vows when the picture was taken, and others have celebrated decades together. Despite these differences, one constant exists among them all: a belief in the process of marriage itself.

They proclaim to the world that they will make the journey together ... for better or for worse.

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Getting hitched. Tying the knot. Taking the plunge. So many ways to describe something I used to think was a simple concept - marriage, a legal union announcing one's commitment of love to another person. Last September, I proposed to my now fiancee, and the meaning of marriage has grown more personal ever since.

Amid the long hours of sweating about how I would pop the question and listening to the constant buzz about marriage in the media, I was inspired to capture images of couples who have entered into matrimony. In doing so, I have discovered how different and unique the journey is for each couple. My intent is to show this variety through my photographs and to let each couple share their own thoughts about marriage through handwritten messages.

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[flux] 033_

> MarriBd on March 26, 2004 Kevin and Tracy Schuster of Chicago exchanged vows in a helicopter overlooking the Las Vegas strip at sunset.

They pose in front of A Uttle White Wedding Chapel, the business that arranged the ceremony, two hours after they were married.

> MarriBd on April 3, 1954 Micky and Dick Hedges recently celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary.

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[flux] 035_

> Married on July 13, 1963 Jane and Ken Friesen were married in this church, First Evangelical Church of Eugene. more than forty years ago. Ken has been the pastor of this church for the last six years.

> Married on March 4, 2004 Karrie Walters and Charity Warren were one of the first couples to be married the day after Multnomah County began issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples. Their marriage is still not officially recognized by the state of Oregon.

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> Married on August 24, 2002 Lori and Rick Allen are expecting a baby girl on June 12. In this photo, taken in the bedroom of their home in Eugene, Orego~, she is eight months pregnant.

> Marriad on October 19, 1996 Lisa Richards is currently living in Aloha, Oregon where the photo was taken. Her husband David has been incarcerated atthe Snake River Correctional Institution near Ontario, Oregon since March of 2003, where he is serving a sevenyear sentence.

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series of delicately framed photos, all taken by John, could be pages from a textbook about U.S. geography.

OJ inches down the short hallway and points to the images captured throughout the years: the quiet piers off the coast of Bangor, Maine; a series of bright red barns nestled at the base of the Grand Tetons; the brown, dusty expanses of Death Valley. As she retires to her chair, OJ's vivid blue eyes meander from photo to photo and she reminisces about the cross-country drives that filled their early retirement years. Then her voice drops suddenly.

GEAGS After almost sixty years of marriage, acouple struggles with the loss of their driving privileges.

STORY_katie lewis PHOTOGRAPHY_kristi kepniss

"We had to give that up several years ago," she explains. A year ago OJ and John began steering motorized scooters across the property of their assisted-living community, carefully navigating the short distance to the main dining room a few hundred yards away.

D

J Rawlings clutched her gym bag and peered out of the front window of her tiny one-bedroom home at an assisted-living community in Eugene, Oregon. Rain danced against the window panes on the predictably damp February morning as she waited patiently by the door. Her husband, John, lagged behind, gathering his towel and bathing suit for their weekly swimming class. A few moments later, John breathlessly called his wife into the bedroom. She found him hunched over on the edge of the bed.

For OJ, the labored intonations of his jumbled words were all too familiar.

She reached for the phone. John was having a stroke.

> John relies on his cane as he learns to walk again.

_1I48!f1uxl

Although he survived the stroke, the blood clot that stole John's consciousness that morning also robbed him of the ability to drive.

Oregon, like most states, inactivates drivers' licenses for residents who experience a significant loss of consciousness. To regain his license, John, eighty-four, would have to pass a series of examinations administered by the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMVI: a standard vision test, a written test of driving rules and a road evaluation. The Rawlings family knows the process well. Three years ago OJ, now eighty-one, lost her driver's license to the same culprit as her

OJ's razor-sharp perception and dancing eyes belie her physical limitations. Thin plastic tubes protrude from her nostrils and trail down her chest to the oxygen tank hidden behind the olive green leather chair that swallows her slender frame.

She smoothes a strand of her short, wispy gray hair and explains that she began relying on supplemental oxygen fifteen months ago due to congestive heart failure.

When OJ lost consciousness in the hospital that day, she also lost her driver's license.

husband: an unexpected stroke that resulted in a loss of consciousness and several weeks of intense physical rehabilitation.

Until recently, OJ and John were among the thirty-three million drivers over age sixty-five on roadways in the United States. As the baby boomers mature over the next few decades, the proportion of senior drivers is projected to increase dramatically.

By 2020, more than fifty million

Americans will be over age sixtyfive, and 90 percent will be licensed to drive, according to the American Automobile Association. This shift in national demographics, dubbed the graying of America, spurs a new set of mobility concerns as seniors begin to outlive their abilities to drive.

Like OJ and John, many currently licensed drivers in this age group could suffer from a sudden loss of driving abilities, and the price tag is

hefty. It is currently estimated that more than 80 percent of the daily trips taken by those over age sixtyfive are made by car, according to the Transportation Research Board. The individual catalysts for this change in mobility vary. The loss of driving privileges often comes as a result of afamily decision, a traffic incident or a sudden and devastating medical condition, like a stroke. Regardless of the cause, drivers and their families face the same question:

how do we handle this abrupt loss of driving ability?

FEBRUARY 11, 2004

I

nside OJ and John's tidy residence, brilliant sna'pshots of their active past line the walls of every room, offering bursts'of color on an . othervvise bleak winter morning, one week after John's stroke. The

Her current health problems began with her stroke on a similarly gray winter afternoon exactly three years ago. When OJ lost consciousness in the hospital that day, she also lost her driver's license. A week later, OJ entered a rehabilitation program and OJ and John sold their second car.

In the weeks following her return

[flux] 041_

home, OJ wrestled with the sudden changes in her life, particularly the unsettling feeling of helplessness that accompanied the loss of her driving privileges. Experts point out that mobility and perceived self-sufficiency are essential to quality of life. In a largely surburbanized society like the United States, cars have become the primary means of satisfying this need for mobility.

When OJ began showing signs of recovery, OJ and John's oldest daughter, Joan, optimistically gave her a packet of re-licensing information from the OMV. Though OJ never pursued the option, it is unlikely she would have passed the series of re-licensing tests. By that time, she had begun to experience vision loss in her right eye. An estimated 90 percent of the sensory input needed to drive is visual, and ultimately it was OJ's visual impairment that resolved the permanent loss of her driving privileges. "It was aterribly hard thing for me to accept," she confesses as her delicate gold earrings tremble, lightly grazing her jaw-line.

"One thing that has kept us alive all these years is trying to figure out a way to go together."

But OJ and John handled the loss of her ability to drive with atechnique they have relied on for decades: teamwork. For nearly sixty years, OJ and John have been each other's support system. "The one thing that has kept us alive all these years is trying to figure out a way to go together," OJ explains. Each time one falters, the other instinctively hops in the driver's seat.

In 1972, John, aformer pilot, sustained major leg injuries when the small plane he was flying crashed in rural Idaho. While he underwent a string of surgeries and endured

_042 [flux]

several months of intense physical rehabilitation, OJ assumed the driving responsibilities. Nearly three decades later, when OJ had her stroke, John returned the favor and became the permanent designated driver for the pair.

After OJ's stroke, the couple's strong partnership continued to deepen through their team approach to driving. Though confined to the passenger seat, OJ provided a reliable sense of hearing when John gradually lost the ability to hear in his left ear last year. John's partial hearing loss is one of several sensory impairments that often accompany the aging process. Beyond marked declines in sight and hearing, aging individuals often experience decreases in attention, perception and decision-making abilities and demonstrate slowed reaction times.

Despite minor impairments, OJ and John were able to retain mobility for several years by combining efforts, a luxury many seniors do not have. With John at the wheel, they were able to make weekly trips to the grocery store and attend swimming classes at a local pool three times a week - a routine they have maintained for more than a decade.

Although they never had a major accident, the minor sensory and cognitive impairments they demonstrated significantly increased their risk for traffic incidents. Joan and her three siblings perceived this risk in the months prior to John's stroke. As the only child living in Eugene, Joan faced the issue on a daily basis.

While she expressed some concern about her father's ability to continue driving, she ultimately elected not to press the issue. "I felt like I had made enough pushes in taking away independence: she explains. 'Like raising kids, I learned that with parents you have to pick your battles.

> In September 2004, DJ and John will celebrate their sixtieth wedding anniversary.

Mom and Dad moved to the assisted living community last year with our strong encouragement. In the end, we chose not to battle Dad over his driving."

This battle, left uncontested for many months, was decisively settled

by John's unexpected stroke. In its wake, the family is facing an entirely new set of issues. Now their participation in daily activities like shopping or social engagements presents major challenges. In addition to logistical concerns, the Rawlings family must also tackle the psychological distress and decreased levels of self-esteem and

dignity that often accompany the loss of driving privileges.

"When Mom stopped driving, the decision wasn't tied up with the issue of independence, because Dad could still drive them both," Joan explains.

"That's what makes this step so hard.

It's extremely painful to watch your parents grow older and gradually lose their independence."

FEBRUARY 21, 2004

I

nthe days following her husband's stroke, OJ sits in her strangely quiet home, her other half missing, and grapples with the implications. Later

this spring, OJ and John had planned to travel to Wilsonville, Oregon to visit high school friends and to spend several days in Bandon, Oregon one of John's favorite spots to photograph. Both trips have now been cancelled. OJ's eyes briefly travel back to the photos on the living room wall, and she lingers in the past for a quick moment, before returning to her current situation, "Now my biggest problem is how to get to the hospital to visit John."

After John's stroke, Joan took several days off work"to help ferry her mother to the hospital. When Joan returned to work, OJ reluctantly sought the

assistance of friends. "I finally got up the nerve to call afriend and tell her what I needed ... but it was so hard. She was delightful and happy to help." She pauses briefly and shudders. "But asking for help is the hardest thing that I do."

As OJ struggled to accept her dependence on family and friends, John began to grasp the severity of their dilemma from his room in the rehab unit. Slowly, he began voicing his concerns to his family, desperately searching for a way to retain independent mobility.

His initial response was directed toward the well-oiled partnership

[nux] 043_

FEBRUARY 28, 2004

C

lang. The doorbell rings loudly.

The phone shrills. In the span of a second, OJ and John's small residence comes to life. OJ briefly glances at her husband before reaching over her oxygen tank for the phone. "Hello, this is the Rawlings."

Clang. The doorbell rings again. John cranes his neck towards the door.

Clang. He slowly reaches for the handle of his walker and unsteadily rises.

"Dad! What are you doing?" Joan rushes in from the back of the house. "We just went over this."

She continues in a thinly patient tone. "You can't get up on your own, remember? Someone else needs to be in the room to help you."

John blinks, his eyes lost behind thick glasses. "Okay," he finally concedes, easing his small frame back into the brown cushioned chair in quiet resignation. It is John's second visit home since his stroke; he has not yet been permanently released from the hospital's rehabilitation center.

Despite his daughter's persistent reminders, he continues to resist the recent changes in his level of independence. Learning that he cannot stand up on his own is only the first lesson.

> Accomplishing everyday tasks can be difficult for someone without the ability to drive.

To help out, OJ's hairdresser comes to her home to give her a trim.

on which they have relied for almost sixty years. "I have our solution," John excitedly said to his wife. "You take driver's training. You can be relicensed."

"It's extremely painful to watch your parents grow older and gradually lose their independence."

After some thought, OJ said, "I don't think I would be able to pass the tests because of my vision." Both Joan

and her sister delicately reinforced to their parents that the chances OJ would be able to drive again are minimal.

The next day John suggested a new solution to his family. "When do you think that I could get re-licensed?

Maybe a few months down the road?" he expectantly asked Joan and her husband.

"You know Dad, it's not when," Joan softly began. "It's if ... "

"It will kill John when he realizes that he can't drive ... that we can't drive: OJ later admits in a somber tone. For decades, John has guided his family with a steely determination. "He always listens to me, but he wants to make the decisions," she explains.

Amid the unusual silence that now envelops her home, OJ slowly began to accept her new role as the decision-maker with a firm sense of resolve. "Now I have to step up to the plate." Determined to solve their transportation needs by the time

John is projected to return home, she promptly began navigating local transportation options.

Her strong aversion to relying on family and friends immediately prompted OJ to seek alternative solutions to their transportation needs, but like many seniors, she lacks experience with public transportation. Many experts advocate the use of taxis for seniors, citing that most services offer reduced fares, but for seniors in rural areas this option proves far too expensive. Even from OJ and John's home in the outskirts of Eugene, a round-trip fare to the hospital costs nearly thirty dollars.

Although Eugene boasts one of the nation's most extensive bus systems, OJ's bulky oxygen tank prevents her from using the regular bus services.

Nationwide, more than 25 percent of women over age seventy-eight have difficulty using standard public transportation systems, according to the Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development, based in France.

deeper. "I know that he won't try to drive when he first comes home," Joan says. "But it will certainly be an issue for him."

John will return home on Wednesday. Their car sits idly in the garage and the RideSource tickets are tucked in a neat packet on the kitchen counter. OJ is fully aware of the tumultuous emotional

cycle John will embark upon when he returns home to live a drastically different lifestyle. "We'll play that card when we get to it," she says with firm resolution. "Right now we're taking it one day attime."

First, John must learn to walk again.â&#x20AC;˘

RideSource, a division of the Eugene bus system geared towards seniors with special needs, provides inexpensive fares and curb-to-curb delivery; however, seniors must be pre-approved to use the service.

With Joan's help, OJ filled out the lengthy application for RideSource.

Within a week, OJ and John were approved to use the services, and OJ purchased a stack of RideSource tickets to prepare for John's return home. She recently arranged rides to their swimming class with a neighbor.

While RideSource appears to be a viable option for alleviating many of their transportation challenges, both OJ and Joan know that the issue is not fully resolved for John.

The need for independence runs

> OJ and John sit in their living room, surrounded by photos of their cross-country travels.

[fluxI045_

_044 [fluxl

...

s I drive along the Northwest Expressway, a train chugging down the parallel tracks catches up with me, then passes me. The fog makes it impossible to see where the train is going or where it came from. I bristle at the way such details soften into shadow, how everything just beyond is wrapped in a gauzy shroud. Others may view the fog as artistically dissolving patches of suburb into misty hamlets; they may see the train tunneling into a cloud as a vision from a romantic 1940s film. But the cinematic qualities are lost on me. It is eerie That moment of not to watch something so being able to tangible disappear, lost view even though remember, ironically, from it is still there. I ache for I cannot forget. the rain to return and wash the fog away, rinse colors to their brightest hues, sharply focus lines and edges, help me see clearly again.

There was a time when it seemed I could see the past clearly. I could confidently recall exactly what was said in a conversation, how it was said, the slant of the light across the face of the person talking to me, whether a car passed on the street behind them, and I could recount it with precision years later. My mother referred to me as "the steel trap."

She loves to tell people how, before I could actually read, I memorized The Three Little Pigs word-for-word. I knew when to turn each page; when I performed the "reading," my words exactly coincided with what was written in the book.

As I grew up, this ease at memorization helped me prepare for tests at school. I could essentially see the text pages in my head - the

_048 [fluxl

layout. the headings, the colors and where the sentence I needed for the answer was located on the page.

It wasn't exactly a photographic memory, but certainly my memory was picture prone.

But at some point over the last five years, I started having difficulty recalling. Details of experiences accumulated over my life have dissipated behind a kind of fog I can't sweep away. Now I often find it difficult to find words or even recall entire conversations friends claim we've shared. When my father forgets such a shared experience and has a "senior moment" he'll jokingly respond, "Did I have a good time?"

But I'm not a senior. I'm not yet thirty.

I remember clearly when I couldn't memorize for the first time. It was March 11, 1999. I am able to give that date because I have journals and calendars and because I am a notorious keeper of papers and files.

But the moment - that moment of confusion, that lack of clarity - is ingrained in me. That moment of not being able to remember, ironically, I cannot forget.

It was the night before my Age of Dinosaurs final at the university.

More difficult than it sounds, the class was a hard-core science course in which I had to memorize, among other minutiae, how many fenestrae (openings in the skull bones) identified each species, genus and family of dinosaurs. These were merely lists - the simplest form of memorization. And until that time I had excelled at memorizing.

So when I sat down to memorize the lists of dinosaur families and the identifying characteristics of their bones and found that I couldn't, I became frustrated. It was as though I was in shock, unable to cut

through the fog that was filtering the information from my imaginary view.

The picture board in my head was cloudy, but I just kept trying to brush it away. Do it again, I kept thinking.

Just read it over again, slowly. Now say it aloud. I must be tired. Read it again. Take in the parts. Let's start over. You've got that section ... or ... what was that other bit? Where was I?' More than a year before fighting the haze that kept me from my dinosaurs' fenestrae, I was dealing with another set of foes: fatigue and joint pain. I thought the fatigue I was experiencing was simply laziness, which made me feel ashamed. I would push myself to activity, and then use the activity to explain 'the aching joints. Dancing freestyle in the house - using long-out-of-practice ballet moves - must have caused the pain in my ankle (although I didn't remember injuring myself). Forcing myself to bound up the stairs by twos must have caused my knee to give out. Holding the weights too tightly during my workout, I reasoned, explained hands that would ache to move.

But I simply ignored the sporadic aches and pains I dealt with until 1997: The Thanksgiving of The Claw.

That Thanksgiving the joints in my right hand started feeling sticky, then my whole hand tightened into a claw-like clench. When I tried to open my palm, pain shot up my arm.

So I held my arm close to my chest like a broken wing, and it stayed that way throughout the day. The Claw was the main topic of conversation at Thanksgiving that year. My whole right arm - my useful arm - was useless. And my family and I found a great deal of amusement in my desperate determination to cut vegetables for the salad or spoon gravy with my inept left hand. During

the particularly stressful month to follow, The Claw occurred several times. Each time the stickiness and pain lasted for a period of three days.

But it wasn't just happening in my right hand; one episode involved my whole leg, and another the single first joint of my pinky. I finally went to see my doctor one time in mid-Claw and he ran several blood tests.

The doctor called back the next morning with the results. He had become a good friend over the years, treating me for a different illness every few months. He said, "You always keep me on my toes." The ease and frequency with which I would get sick, the fatigue, the joint pain and The Claw were all explained

in a single diagnosis. I wrote it down, spelling it wrong. Systemic Lupus Erythematosus. An autoimmune disorder. "We'd like you to see a rheumatologist. " Shock. Horror. Exhilaration. I wasn't a hypochondriac. I wasn't simply lazy.

My body was exhausted from fighting itself all the time. The aches had a cause - bruising from an inner war.

As one doctor explained, these were all symptoms of a "dyslexic immune system" which would attack healthy cells - in my joints, in my organs - mistaking them for the enemy and leaving the real viruses wit~ free reign over my system. I think of it as my immune system being fooled by a self-created bait and switch.

In lupus, the immune system is constantly working as though it is fighting illness. This causes fatigue.

But because the immune system is busy destroying healthy cells, the body is left with no line of defense Details of experiences from the illnesses accumulated over my life that a normal have been dissipating person's immune system would behind a kind of fog I can't easily ward off. sweep away.

In my body, its mistaken attack on joints caused the pain. But lupus can affect every part of the body, and symptoms vary from patient to patient. Manifestations often include (but are by no means limited to) bouts of fatigue, arthritic activity, rashes on

[fluxl049_

My husband swears I'm forgetting conversations that I had just a day or two before. I used to quote his words back to him during arguments: '''No, you said this.路 .. Now sometimes I think, we talked about that?

But this is more than losing mere conversation details. Memory matters. I am my mind. This is where I hold my life. I am a writer. My mind is how I make my living. how I share and quantify my life. And I want back what is missing. The doctors know the culprit. they know its M.D.. they know it's out there stealing history, stealing friends. stealing experiences.

But there is. as of yet. no plan to track down Lupus the Thief because, right now, all forces are trying to catch the same culprit for murder, for destroying kidneys. lungs, joints and skin. Death, of course, takes precedence over confusion.

the skin - often in conjunction with hypersensitivity to the sun - and vital organ damage (especially to the lungs and kidneys), which can be life threatening. But the randomness of the immune system's attack on the body In spite of being makes diagnosis under-recognized and often difficult. Surveys have misdiagnosed, "Iupus is more shown that it often at least four common than better-known takes years of symptoms disorders such as leukemia, before a lupus patient multiple sclerosis (MS), is properly diagnosed.

cystic fibrosis and muscular dystrophy combined."

There is no cure, only a roller coaster of symptom activity. flares and remissions. Stress triggers symptoms, but the cause is unknown.

Lupus mayor may not run in families.

The medical community believes lupus occurs as a combination of a genetic pre-disposition and an environmental trigger - although

_050 [flux]

the kind of genetic make-up and what triggers it are additional parts of the mystery.

According to Daniel J. Wallace, author of The Lupus Book. in spite of being under-recognized and often misdiagnosed, "lupus is more common than better-known disorders such as leukemia. multiple sclerosis (MSl. cystic fibrosis and muscular dystrophy combined. And those who develop lupus do so in the prime of life. Ninety percent of these sufferers are women in their childbearing years." Women like me. ore than a year after my diagnosis with lupus - after the strange elation felt when sharing traumatic news with loved ones, after the depression and fear that I'd been handed an early death sentence. after the acceptance of lupus's place in my

M

life, after the deep appreciation that I had a fairly mild case that responded to medication. and after a series of similar fog-filled events following the difficult Age of the Dinosaurs exam - I mentioned to my rheumatologist that I'd been forgetful. "We don't really understand how it works, but such mental fatigue, shall we say, is common with lupus patients. Some call it lupus brain fog." he explained.

Apparently the brain is just another organ under attack.

Perhaps my steel trap is still intact. but the lupus fog sneaks through the bars and conceals information just moments old and uncatalogued. unused information and even some of what-was-once-so-clear. My fear is that the memories of my life are being subsumed by the vapor and may never return. I'm struggling more and more to find the words I want. And it takes longer and longer to find them.

Driving past the foggy train tracks on the Northwest Expressway, I roll the window down and scream at the fog but it swallows the sound. I turn up the car radio to drown out the anger.

My frustration with the fog reminds me that it was clarity I was looking for in Oregon. I was hoping to find my history here, lost images of my past caught in the wild bushes and tall evergreen trees that remind me of Elk Creek Ranch. my family's summer vacation spot for three generations.

"I think there are places that are too close to your heart to write about properly." I said to a friend who urged me to record my memories of Elk Creek.

But the truth is. for all the love I hold for that place because of the time I shared with my family there. for all the sanctity that the mountainous retreat holds, I can barely remember any specific occurrences. Shadows.

Flashes. Pictures in our photo albums

bring some of the more recent times to the forefront of my consciousness.

I can recount the moments that have been retold so many times they are legend. but those are few. It is as if my most precious moments with family. the truest part of my self, have succumb to the haze.

I think about Elk Creek as I pull into my driveway and get out of the car. staring across the street into a fog-filled field lined with pines. I think about how I put off working on the memoirs I've wanted to write for so long until conditions were just right, until I had the time. until I found my home here in the Northwest that cradled my senses with just the right kind of wildness - geese in the air. rain on the tongue, scent of evergreen in the nose - to inspire me.

And now. in spite of these perfect conditions, or because I waited too long for them. "until" came too late. The rain and clouds and thickly trunked trees will inspire me. but I must look to pictures and journals and calendars to recreate what I know was wonderful, but cannot emotionally or intellectually revisit.

"Write about what you love," my husband says. "Write about that time when ..."

Listen, I tell myself as he talks.

Try to remember.

A moment passes and I look up.

"Did I have a good time?".

[fluxI051_

e STORY_deb allen PHOTOGRAPHY_labree shide & julie desousa

Spnng 1999 The morning sun shone through the windows and flooded the room with light. Anxious family members sat around the bed waiting for Geoffrey Dilger to wake up. He stirred.

Blinking, straining to open his eyes, Geoffrey made his first request.

"Could somebody turn on the light?"

"Geoffrey, the light is on," responded the nurse.

Geoff and his family had been visiting relatives in California. In the predawn hours of Mother's Day, Geoff got an excruciating headache that caused an intensifying pressure behind his eyes. His parents rushed him to the hospital. By the time they arrived, he was in tears, kicking uncontrollably and vomiting. An emergency MRI revealed a massive ruptured tumor on the sixteen year old's pituitary gland. The tumor and the gland were both removed immediately in an emergency surgery.

The hemorrhaging kinked his optic nerve and left him without sight.

Geoff was no stranger to trauma.

A car accident when he was five had crushed his skull. The injuries sustained also put him in a body cast for two months. Two large scars across his head serve as a reminder of what happened.

[flux] 053_

_052 [flux]

..

> Ron's old high school yearbook serves as a reminder of the sport he hoped to play professionally.

hear his mother ask him, "Geoffrey, did you see the cat out front?"

and walked off the field and headed to the locker room.

"Mom, I can't see," he reminded her.

During his first year at Linfield College in McMinnville, doctors discovered the cause of Ron's deteriorating eyesight - hemorrhaging in both eyes. The condition developed from a couple of hardballs that knocked him unconscious in previous seasons.

Despite all of his struggles, Geoff's family and friends marveled at his positive demeanor. His mother believed his strength stemmed from the accident he lived through as a child. Always known for a quick wit, he used humor to show people he would be okay. His mom looked up blind jokes for him on the Internet; he had an arsenal prepared to put visiting friends at ease.

"Hey Charles, what did the blind person say after he picked up the cheese grater?" he asked his high school friend.

The hemorrhaging looked like a redorange curtain floating down over Ron's eyesight. The sporadic bleeding would come at varying degrees, keeping portions of his vision blurry until the blood dissipated.

"I don't know, Geoff. What?"

"That was the most violent story I've ever read."

Charles was amazed. If Geoff could see the positive in this situation, he thought. then why couldn't he?

Geoff's outward disposition, however, masked a growing uncertainty about his future. A career in graphic arts had been his dream.

Spring 1957 Yet this time, the trauma brought an immense new challenge.

His parents returned home to Springfield, Oregon, unsure of the needs of their blind son. Geoff slept constantly while recovering.

Without a sense of light and dark, his circadian rhythms were skewed.

He endured vivid dreams of living with sight, only to wake and face reality over and over. Finally he started telling himself within his dreams: You're blind. Remember?

_054 [flux]

With the help of mobility instructors, Geoff had to learn how to get around using a cane. Even the smallest details of daily life became significant. He woke up on the couch one afternoon and realized he did not know the time. There was no one around to ask. The previously independent teenager had to rely on his mother to pick out his clothing.

His mother, however, often found herself forgetting the reality of her son's situation. Once, Geoffrey walked in through the front door to

Ron Turner always wanted to make the pros in baseball. On that warm Oregon spring day, the freshman sports scholarship recipient wound up and delivered a pitch.

He heard the crack of the bat. He did not see the ball, but felt the gust of wind as it flew past his head.

Another pitch, another crack, another drive close to his head. Still he could not see the ba II. Ron Turner left the pitcher's mound, asking for a replacement. He turned

After learning of Ron's condition, his coach did not tell him he could not play. It had to be Ron's decision.

Walking away from the pitcher's mound that day, Ron did not look back. He knew the time had come.

Doctors advised Ron to be extremely careful. He began to sleep with his head elevated, and he avoided most physical activities.

Ayear later, while home for the summer in Eugene, he awoke one morning to find the murky veil completely blocking his vision. A sinking feeling overwhelmed the twenty-one year old, making him nauseated. At first he hoped the veil would go away if he kept still.

For two days, he could not bring himself to share the news with his family, instead lying in the sun and fumbling his way around the house.

Ron's family had become accustomed to this behavior on days when the hemorrhaging was bad. After those two days of enduring the darkness, he knew he had to tell his mom. Together they wept.

Fall 1999 After Geoffrey Dilger spent the summer adapting to his new world of darkness, he wanted to start his junior year. Authorities at Springfield Public Schools suggested

he "mainstream" back into regular classrooms.

to accommodate a blind student.

He tried to learn Braille, but found it archaic and cumbersome. One of his textbooks was delivered on a dolly in seven boxes.

Geoff's counselors encouraged him to go to the Oregon School for the Blind for an assessment that December. Most of the other students at the school, however, were born blind.

They could not relate to Geoff, nor could he relate to them.

Students were largely responsible for meeting their own needs.

The rhythmic beat of Geoff's new white cane echoed among the student shuffle.

He wore rectangular, tinted glasses. During his first days back, students were not sure what were rumors and what were truths regarding Geoff's condition. He welcomed the inquiries of curious classmates.

One well-meaning girl asked, "Do blind people do stuff?"

"No, absolutely not. I mean, stuff? Oh no," he replied lightheartedly. "After I went blind, I cut back on the stuff.

Now I'm up to things. I do things now."

Geoff relied on memory and touch to make his way to the Language Arts room. His heart remained just a few doors down in the Art room.

The process of mainstreaming jnto the regular classes proved frustrating. Teachers did not seem to have the time or training

> Ron, 17 years old, 1954; Geoff, 5 years old, 1988.

[flux] 055_

Twice he got lost on the small campus for several minutes before a staff member found him.

He was still adjusting to his blindness and not ready to attend a school that seemed to assume he had a high level of comfort with his condition.

His frustration culminated when his physical education instructor expected Geoff to get into a pool.

"I'm not even comfortable on land:' said Geoff, "and you expect me to get into the water?" The terrified student would not budge.

Geoffrey lasted a week at the School for the Blind and left it determined to stay away from programs for blind people.

not to feel sorry for himself any more.

He decided to pursue ateaching career, despite the initial hesitation of Linfield's Department of Education.

Early Spring 2001 Geoff's parents believed the public school did not have the proper resources for their son. Geoff could not quite keep up with schoolwork or meet credit requirements. After a year and a half as a blind student at a public school, he felt he was going nowhere. He did not want to return to the blind school either. He seemed lost between two worlds.

One day, while tapping his way down the school hallway, Geoff heard a boisterous and unfamiliar voice address him. "Oh, we've got a cane

Fa111958 Ron Turner relied on family and friends to help him adjust to the loss of his eyesight. Returning to Linfield for his junior year, he quickly learned to navigate his surroundings on the small campus without his cane. Other students were happy to help him get around town. The Oregon Commission for the Blind paid for his tuition and provided the funding to hire him a reader. He took his exams orally.

Though he avoided people who felt sorry for him, Ron masked his own feelings of self-pity. His blindness had forced him to abandon his dream of playing professional baseball.

He missed playing sports and doing outdoor activities like hunting and fishing.

That year, another blind student happened to live in the same dorm as Ron. He had to listen to the student repeatedly grumble that no one would help him. Hearing the negative attitude out loud, Ron faced his own inner battle. Ultimately he resolved

_056 [flux]

user here!" said the man, catching Geoff by surprise. He knew that sighted people never use the term "cane user."

"Yeah?" answered Geoff.

"I've had to use one of those. I hated it:' the man said, explaining that he was legally blind, although he had minimal sight.

Spring 1960 Two years after the hemorrhaging took his sight, Ron welcomed new hope. The University of Oregon Medical School had instituted a new photo coagulator - a machine that cauterizes bleeding capillaries. He became the second candidate for the new medical procedure. If the treatment proved successful, he could regain some of his vision.

After the surgery, the hemorrhaging stopped. Slowly the veil that completely darkened Ron's world partially cleared. Doctors removed scar tissue, creating an opening at the center of his right eye and an area of peripheral vision in the left.

He technically remained legally blind, yet his world opened up to him at about 20/100.

Ron finished the student teaching segment of his degree and would go on to teach for more than thirty years. He would read and grade papers wearing strong prescription glasses and using a magnifying glass. He even coached sports with the help of field glasses.

Spri,n~ ~OO 1

Geoff was intrigued. He hadn't met another blind person who hated his cane. "Yeah, I hate it too."

A long-standing request by Geoff's parents for a one-on-one tutor finally came through during his senior year.

The man who would be his tutor was a retired teacher and was legally blind.

As Geoff walked away, he felt sorry that the conversation had to end. He wanted to know more about that man.

Geoff felt somewhat concerned as he made his way to class. They are finally giving me atutor, he thought,

> Today Geoff

but he's blind? When he entered the room and heard the man's voice, he felt aflood of relief. He recognized the voice as that of the man he had met in the hallway afew days earlier.

occasionally uses a Braille typingmachine to write down phone numbers and make labels for household items. photo_ julie desousa

It was Ron Turner.

Ron attended class with Geoff, then went with him to a separate room to go over the assignments. In the tiny classroom office, the seasoned tutor and his new student finished their lesson early and had time to talk. They shared their life stories and talked of dreams discarded.

"Being an artist was my only plan:' Geoff soberly confided. "I didn't have a back-up plan."

"I know what you mean:' responded his tutor. Poignant memories, some forty years old, of his own dreams of baseball and his own experience with blindness rushed to the surface as Ron listened to Geoff. They truly grasped each other's pain.

During the next few months, the two worked together as if they had known each other for a long time. Geoff found somebody he could identify with. They always finished their daily sessions early and Geoff looked forward to their talks. He shared frustrations with Ron about not being able to drive, disliking Braille, disliking the cane. Ron had been there himself.

Geoff admired everything about his tutor - the way he spoke, the way he acted, his energy. Because of Ron, Geoff's reluctance to be among other blind people began to dissolve.

And for the upcoming summer he decided to enroll in a Summer Work Experience Program in Portland. The program teaches independent living skills to blind people - skills like cooking and doing laundry. In the

program, Geoff met and became friends with other blind people.

eQ 4 Geoffrey now lives in Portland with his girlfriend, who he met in that summer program. She also lost her sight at age sixteen. With help from various resources available to blind people, he is working to pass his General Equivalency Degree test.

"If I ever got my sight back, I know what I'd do," he says. "I think I'd draw for three days straight." With a career in graphic arts no longer feasible, though, he now hopes to attend college to possibly study music or psychology. "Ron made it seem to me like there's still opportunity," says Geoff of his friend and former tutor.

"I have a hard time saying it," Geoff confides, "but I think I'm becoming comfortab'le with being blind. There are things that will always bother me about not being able to see -little things, like being outside and hearing something buzzing around and not being able to see what's buzzing, or not being able to run for cover when a cloudburst happens."

Nevertheless, Geoffrey Dilger embraces a sense of purpose. He hopes that his own experience can inspire other people in his life to overcome adversity. To him, things could have been much worse. After all, he says, "at least I only went blind." â&#x20AC;˘

[fluxI057_

Photographing the Unfamous

Mark's images blur the boundaries between commercial, documentary and fine art photography. One of her most recognizable photographs, The Oamm Family in Their Car. was taken for LIFE magazine to illustrate astory about poverty. While the image was shot for commercial use, she captured hardship in the style of Depression era documentary photographers to depict the family. But Mark believes that agreat picture is a great picture, no matter what style of photography it reflects.

ark often uses commercial projects to work on personal interests. While on assignment for astory about violent youth, she explored her fascination with kids who struggle to.,.fit into an adult world. Mark focuses her lens on children's innocence - or lack of innocence, as the case may be - to create prowcative images. such as Amanda and Her Cousin Amy. When leaving the girl's house after afull day of shooting, Mark saw the young rebel smoking a cigarette in the wading pool as her mother watched. The girl defiantly blew smoke into the camera as Mark captured the moment

>Amsnd••nd Her Cousin ~ Veld.s., North C.roIine, 1990 photo_ mIry ellen mark

The atmosphere she creates allows her subjects to show raw emotions pain, defiance, excitement, apathy.

_B..,

E

rom circus performers in India to street kids in Seattle, Mary Ellen Mark photographs people on the fringes of society - the "unfamous,· as she calls them - to portray aspects of the world that many people never confront She ultimately aims to show the common threads of humanity by photographing people of varying backgrounds.

After earning abachelo(s degree in painting and art history and a

master's in photojournalism, Mark explored acareer in documentary photography by traveling through Turkey on a Fulbright scholarship in 1965. Now based in New York City, she has since published fourteen books of her photography, ranging from photos of Mother Teresa's charity work in Calcutta to portraits of twins, her most recent project. Mark has also worked with hundreds of famous icons and public figures including actor Johnny Depp,

poet Maya Angelou, politician AI Gore, comedian Chris Rock, feminist Gloria Steinem and the late singer Johnny Cash.

Though she works extensively with celebrities, Mark prefers photographing everyday individuals who struggle in everyday life. "These are the people whose lives I think are worth reporting about and who are more interesting ... than movie stars," she says.

Some of Mark's subjects engage in illegal activities such as prostitution and drug use.

Understandably, they may have an aversion to being photographed.

In order to gain their trust, Mark spends extra time getting to know them and shows agreat deal of empathy for their situation. For her project Falkland Road, abook of documentary photography about the lives of prostitutes in Bombay, Mark spent three months building relationships with the young women before bringing her camera into the scene. Subjects give part of their soul to the photographer,

>Portrsit ofMBIy EJI.n M.rk _ _ marce18 taboacla

Mark says. Because of this dynamic, she treats fNerY situation with compassion.

Although once shy around others, Mark learned that she must exude confidence to create powerful photographs. "It's important for you [the photographer) to feel comfortable," Mark says. "If you feel uncomfortable, your subjects are very much aware of it.• The atmosphere she cree18s allows her subjects to show raw emotions - pain, defiance, excitement. apathy.

At times Mark is tempted to help her subjects overcome the various obs1acIes they face. "Sometimes I try and intervene, but you have to realize, as a photographer, you can't expect that 'fOIl' intervening will actually do anything," she says. While Mark recognizes that interceding may not help, some of her photographs have inspired the general public to act After seeing her pictures of the Damm family, readers of LIFE magazine sent donations totaling more than

$9,000.

Seven years after she first photographed the Damm family living in their car outside of a North Hollywood homeless shelter, the mother, Unda. invited Mark to visit her family. She accepted the offer and returned to California to photograph their ongoing battles with horneIessness and drug abuse. Mark continues to keep in touch with Unda and claims she is "doing better:

While Mark strives to take photos that are honest instead of images that distort reality, she recognizes that her interpretation also plays a role in her work. She discards hundreds of shots before deciding on one for publication. Even the very act of choosing a subject reIecta a pbotographe(s interests and J118ft1811C88. "Whether you are ~ ajar or an apple oralUnlnfJeing, you're always subjective," she says.

Mark gravitates toward documenting the "untemous," but she has found it difficult to fund projects that focus on these peop/e. After more than thirty-five y&ers in 1he business, Mark has learned that magazinas often hesitate to publish stories about drug addiction and prostitution. s result she struggIea at till\8$ to finance her independent projd but still refuses to compramise her vision of photography. For Mark, documenting the ~ of society outw8igha the finlIii.': burdens of beinganlltist.

not a very commen:i8f chaic'~~:'. made," Mark seys, madeit.".

"'butr.

>Th. D.mm Family in 11IIi, Cst; Los Ange/.s, C.lifomi.,I9B7 photo_ mary ellen mark

my mother said, "You know, there are other things you can do." Besides have sex? My mind wondered what "other things" she could possibly be talking about. When I thought of the most ridiculous solution I could come up with, I sarcastically muttered, "Oh yeah, like play Scrabble." This conversation must have been relayed to the rest of my loved ones, because a week later, I got some board games in the mail from my future mother-inlaw, a close friend of my mother.

"What do gay couples use for birth control?" Everyone burst into laughter, and the puzzled look on my grandma's face remained. When the hysterical giggling subsided, my aunt and her friends offered some suggestions to my dilemma, including become a nun, cross your fingers, stand on your head or use a vibrator. While the last suggestion wasn't the worst idea, their sperm-free lifestyles kept them safe from pregnancy and having to consider birth control methods.

While our obsession with board games is real, my fiance and I don't usually replace sex with a heated round of checkers. Our supportive mothers had good intentions by finding different forms

I appreciated the box of Trojans from my sister. Condoms were at least practical, and by choosing the "For Her Pleasure" kind, I knew she was looking out for me. But in the two years of our monogamous

After I got sick, every estrogen-charged member of my family spoke straight from her vagina about sex, birth control and babies. of entertainment so my fiance and I wouldn't try to entertain each other under the sheets. The bottom line, however, is that the satisfaction of winning isn't a substitute for the pleasure of making love.

~

ami

When board games become birth control

M

y family of female amateur comedians surrounded my hospital bed and tried to make light of the situation. It's not funny when blood clots form in the brain, blocking the flow of circulation and causing excruciating headaches. It's not funny when the estrogen in birth control pills is the explanation for a trip to the intensive care unit. It's not funny when doctors inform you that you are among 2 percent of the population

_060 [flux]

Planning

with a blood clotting disorder, and it's definitely not fun knowing that you are sixteen times more likely to get a blood clot by combining genetically thick blood with oral contraceptives.

But I could see the humor in getting a box of condoms as a get well gift.

When the doctors informed me that I could never use estrogen-based birth control again, my swollen brain questioned what I would do as an

alternative. And in the backs of my family's fully functioning minds, they too were curious about my options.

Sex always seemed like a forbidden topic of discussion between the generations. When the phrase "sleeping with him" popped out of my mouth during one holiday gathering, my grandma jokingly pretended she was going to faint. But after I got sick, every estrogen-charged member

STORY_diana whiteaker PHOTOGRAPHY_ arwen ungar of my family spoke straight from her vagina about sex, birth control and babies. My sister and cousin were already mothers of unexpected children. Because of this, my female family members offered their expert advice on the topic of contraception before I too ended up in maternity pants.

Standing at the edge of the hospital bed and naturally thinking out loud,

My grandma is a rapidly shrinking, gray-haired woman with a wonderful sense of humor. "There will be plenty of years for sex," the retired kindergarten teacher sang. "No need to start so young." She only hinted at the idea of abstinence, but I imagined her looking up chastity belts on eBay as the solution to the problem.

Abstinence is a wonderful idea for people who have the discipline, but as a twenty year old with limited self-control, I knew there had to be another answer - an answer that wouldn't turn my wild river of sexual energy into a dull, dusty desert.

My curious and innocent grandma then posed a question to my lesbian aunt and her group of lesbian friends.

relationship, my fiance expressed how suffocated he felt when wearing the tight latex. I sympathized with his well-endowed woes; try bra shopping with 3600s. Even though he was always willing to wear a condom, I respected his opinion by searching for different methods. In the meantime, the get well gift would have to suffice as a baby barrier.

Other family members mentioned that they had used the diaphragm for years. I hadn't tried this method yet. so during my annual exam, the doctor determined my cervix size and showed me how to properly insert the rubber ring. However, there are certain rules to follow. For instance, I would have to use spermicidal jelly to seal the device around my cervix. This usually creates a messy situation. I would also have to leave it in for six hours after having sex, but not for more than tWenty-four. The 'Cloctor also mentioned the higher probability of bladder infections, which I already

had problems with in the past. With the strict rules and potential health risks considered, I decided to give the diaphragm a chance.

Just when I thought everyone had voiced an opinion, I received a package from my fiance's sister.

I crossed my fingers for Yahtzee or Battleship but was not at all disappointed with a 400-page book about the fertility awareness method.

I read more about how to keep track of my waking temperatures, cervical fluid and cervical position in order to determine my level of fertility. On days near or during ovulation, we would use some form of contraception like a condom or a diaphragm. The rest of the month, we didn't have to use any protection.

When I mentioned I was reading the book, several women told me about how well the method worked for them, and several other women told me how they used the method for birth control and instead wound up becoming mothers. According to Planned Parenthood, the method has high rates of effectiveness if used properly. But after hearing a variety of testimonials from friends, I stopped taking my temperature in the morning and used the extra time to contemplate what I would look like behind the wheels of a stroller.

In the past five months without the birth control pill, my body has lost a few pounds and broken out with acne as a direct result of discontinuing the use of artificial hormones. With all of my female family members' suggestions in mind, I've also created a medicine cabinet full of contraceptive choices. My fiance and I mostly use condoms and/or the diaphragm when we are feeling in the mood. But every once in a while, we set up the Scrabble board and play for acouple of hours instead.â&#x20AC;˘

The little instrument with a big personality gams popularity.

instruments: leopard print, bright red, traditional wood with palm tree stickers spattered on the front and tiny plastic hula dancers hanging from the tuning heads. After an adequate moment of admiration, it is time for another song.

INVASION

STORY_amanda wells PHOTOGRAPHY_sara poulter

On a cold, dreary January night in Eugene, Oregon, the interior of a local church feels like Waikiki. Or rather, sounds like Waikiki. Ehuli, ehuli makou. Ehuli, ehuli makou.

Kou maka, kou lima, me kou kino e.

Ke aloha. Thirty people sit in a circle strumming on ukuleles and singing with abandon. A gray-haired woman wearing a navy blue cardigan plays and sings quietly. A seven year old with stickers plastered on her face bounces enthusiastically on the couch while twanging the strings with her small fingers. Atwentysomething woman whoops for joy as she masters a more complicated chord change. Several experienced musicians strum along looking bored - the simple folk songs far below their talent level.

"Okay, wait, wait!" exclaims Brook Adams, co-founder of the Ukulaneys, Eugene's new ukulele club. "I want to pause for a second so we can all revel in the grooviness of these darn things." Dressed casually but wearing a top hat, he holds his pistachio-colored ukulele out in front of him and everyone else follows suit. They ooh and aah at the variety of colors, shapes and sizes of the > Brook Adams, co-founder of the Ukulaneys, playing the ukulele that he decorated using fingernail polish.

Ukulele clubs like the Ukulaneys are popping up in communities worldwide, particularly in the United States, Canada, Great Britain, Australia and Japan. In music stores and church basements around the United States, people young and old - from punk rockers to retireesstrum the diminutive instrument. People seem to gravitate toward the whimsical flavor of the serious instrument to have fun and socialize. The player directory on Flea Market Music's Web site currently lists more than 700 players in the United States, one hundred players abroad and fifty uke groups nationwide. The lists continue to grow everyday.

Uke fanatics gather annually at festivals to celebrate the petite instruments with big personalities.

This year, festivals will take place in locations like Santa Cruz, California; Portage La Prairie, Manitoba; Bushkill, Pennsylvania; and Indianapolis, Indiana. Flea Market Music, one of the leading online ukulele companies, sold more than 3,000 ukuleles last year. Flea Market Music has cumulatively sold more than 150,000 copies of its Jumpin' Jim series of ukulele books.

that closet uke players have always existed and the Internet is merely giving them a way to unite. Others believe that celebrity endorsements are influencing its popularity. The Beatles' George Harrison loved the ukulele. Pearl Jam's Eddie Vedder uses it to write his songs; "Soon Forget" from the band's album Binaural features an acoustic ukulele.

Even the late, great Jimi Hendrix first learned to play the ukulele before moving on to the guitar.

Adams has a theory of his own. "The ukulele is a cute little thing that you can just hold in your hand and play. It's a little bright thing in a time that's pretty turbulent." A common mantra in the uke community is: You cannot be grim and play the ukulele.

When times get tough, pull out the ukulele, and you cannot help but smile.

The ukulele has only four strings, compared to the standard guitar's six, but the plucking and strumming skills learned on the guitar can be easily

> Members ofthe Eugene group, the Ukulaneys, show off their ukes at their monthly practice.

transferred to the ukulele - or vice versa. The ukulele's small size and soft nylon strings make it a good starting point for kids who want to learn an instrument. Adults like it because it does not take much time or energy. A couple of chords easily translate into hundreds of songs.

Plus it is portable: backpackers can strap it to their rucksacks, street performers can easily set up on a busy street corner and travelers can fit it in the overhead compartment on an airplane.

The ukulele could be considered the "un-guitar." Serious and amateur players alike find the uke to be a breath of fresh air in a music

"I want to pause for a second so we can all revel in the grooviness of these darn things."

Why the tsunami of ukulele popularity? Some people believe

[fluxI063_

world saturated with guitar players. "If you want to get recognized, the uke is a nice alternative," says Jim Beloff, owner of Flea Market Music and uke guru. After thirty years of playing the guitar, Beloff remembers finding a ukulele at a Los Angeles flea market. "Within a week of

Punk rockers have been known to electrify the uke. picking up my first ukulele I had become consumed," he says. "I haven't played the guitar since." That was twelve years ago.

Many musicians do not see the ukulele's simplicity as a downgrade from the guitar. Instead it provides them with an alternative way to express themselves through music. Michael Simmons, coeditor of the magazine The Ukulele Occasional, says that musicians like the uke because it can be adapted to all different styles. "Some people play Hawaiian music. Some play early styles from the 1920s and 1930s. Some musicians create their own music. And some people like it for the kitsch value."

Some people even take up the

_064 [flux]

ukulele as a kind of "screw you, guitar establishment" statement.

Punk rockers have been known to electrify the uke. Filmmakers William Preston Robertson and Sean Anderson explored this trend in a documentary, Rock that Uke, narrated by Holly Hunter. "Many of those now taking up the instrument were weaned on punk music and have incorporated the ukulele not just into their raucous and irreverent original compositions, but into a counter-cultural. postpunk ethos," says the documentary's tagline. In other words, people are

plugging in their ukes to make a statement.

People who play the ukulele seem to have a good sense of humor about themselves, their music and about life. The uke, in and of itself, is a contradiction. It is a serious instrument with a playful attitude.

But it is even more than that: as the directors of Rock that Uke say, "It's more than a tiny musical instrument ... it's a state of mind.".