Donovan Scribes & Portland Mercury Present BlackOut by Noisy Creek

INTRODUCTION

A five-year retrospective on Portland’s racial justice movement.

BY DONOVAN SCRIBES (FKA DONOVAN M. SMITH)

GHOST TOWN: FRONTING THE REVOLUTION

Refusing to be erased in the movement of a generation.

BY DEVIN BOSS

DREAMS IN A VASE WITH NO WATER

Bound by hope, with dreams in sight, they fight for justice, and seek the light.

BY LAKAYANA DRURY

DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?

Returning to a system that was never built for us to win.

BY CHRISTOPHER LAMBERT

BEING A GOOD VILLAGER IS AN ACT OF RESISTANCE

The case for giving birth in a chaotic world.

BY JENNI MOORE

THE LESSON

After months of showing up, did the suburbs actually learn anything?

BY BRUCE POINSETTE

FROM MIKE BROWN TO GEORGE FLOYD Q&A

Don’t Shoot Portland’s Teressa Raiford & Glenn Waco on Activism and Art

DONOVAN SCRIBES FT. TERESSA RAIFORD AND GLENN WACO

ACCOUNTABILITY IS A PRACTICE

The director of the Reimagine Oregon on the struggle to demand a better world.

BY JUSTICE RAJEE

WHO WILL STAY STANDING?

When the time comes, who will keep their promises?

BY NKENGE HARMON JOHNSON

GEORGE FLOYD: SOME REFLECTIONS, SOME HOPE

What Portland gained and lost in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. BY SHARON GARY-SMITH

INVESTMENT FOR THE PEOPLE Q&A

How the 1803 Fund became a catalyst for investment in Portland’s Black community.

BY RUKAIYAH ADAMS & JUMA SEI

FOR I SEE NO OTHER WAY

Why abolishing the police is the only choice. BY MAC SMIFF

SYMBOLS MATTER

Five years after the global protests following George Floyd’s murder, what do the demonstrations mean for the future?

BY DONOVAN SCRIBES (FKA DONOVAN M. SMITH)

CONTENTS CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to the donors and boosters who made this very

issue of BlackOut possible!

A Five-Year Retrospective on Portland’s Racial Justice Movement

BY DONOVAN SCRIBES (FKA DONOVAN M. SMITH)

Flags got waved.

Prayers got prayed.

Streets got took.

Police sprayed mace.

Speeches got spoke.

Whites got “woke.”

Revolution was the rage.

Quieted with a vote.

Bread got crumbed…

Souls back numb…

Hello new world!

Same as we’d begun!

20.20

— Donovan Scribes, untitled, May 25, 2022

Life under capitalism doesn’t offer us much time. We wake up, go to work, expend our coins on the basic needs, and if lucky, we might have enough left to stack a little bit. For the average 9-5’er, time is a box that leaves us with just enough tick-tocks on the clock to gasp for air, before going to bed and doing it all over again. Survival keeps us distracted. When life is reduced to putting one foot in front of the other above all, it’s hard to think about running the marathon. We run, we sleep, we wake, and we try to remember to… breathe.

Capitalism stopped for a moment in 2020. Well, not quite. Not at all actually, let’s be real. But the NBA shut down, and that was the first real sign to me that coronavirus might be something more than over-hyped clickbait. That was back in March 2020.

Then, the world stopped. And for a moment, life became a little more about life, and a little less about the

next dollar. A little. Time was all we had. Idle, idle, time.

For days. For weeks.

For months.

Then May 25, 2020 became frozen in time after 9 minutes and 26 seconds.

Remember?

This issue is to make sure we do. I created this issue because I wanted to remember. I want you to remember as well.

Never before in world history has a global pandemic collided with a global uprising. And never before have I, fleeting as it was, felt that the depth of Black joy and pain was beginning to reach the fever pitch the collective finally needed to beat down that 400-year mirage that told us that this — our pain — is just the way it is.

When the doors flung back open to “normal,” we did not have a collective moment to recall what had been made of our world. We were not invited to grieve those lost; present our new skills and revelations. And certainly, not to chart

A mural painted on the exterior of Portland’s Apple store as a memorial dedicated to George Floyd and others killed by police violence. forth with that “new normal” had all promised, for “remote to one of the maining jewels

forth with that “new normal” we had all been promised, save for “remote work”—and yes, shoutout to remote work, one of the few remaining jewels of COVID.

So here we are, five years later. And I’ve gotta say, I’m frustrated. Just take a look at the times. We’ve gone from:

So are, five years later. gotta take a look at We’ve gone from:

Biden Trump

Biden v. Trump to

Trump v. Biden

Kendrick v. Drake

Kamala v. Trump

Trump v. Biden to Kendrick v. Drake to Kamala v. Trump to

ately been spun into the Boogeyman responsible for the mass homelessness, crime, and the hollowing out of downtowns. “Defund the police” was no longer a policy demand, but a frothy-mouthed fantasy of ill-informed activists to America’s robo-cop responses to poverty and race. Note: Taking money from the for-profit criminal legal system, to help buoy under-funded communities has been a demand since the plantation… but I digress.

the world once the footage leaked. And so, “BlackOut: A Five-Year Retrospective on Portland’s Racial Justice Movement” was born.

Floyd, a Texas native murdered in Minneapolis, Minnesota, became the unwitting poster-child for the tightrope between life and death Black people straddle daily.

And when the world turned up to say his name, my hometown, Portland, Oregon, carved it in the sky for more than 100 days in the streets. One hundred-plus days.

The order of these essays is deeply intentional. My hope is that you will make the time to read these like you’re listening to an album you’ve been waiting for; track by track. This is a journey I’ve mapped out for you to march along; a bridge from then to now. That said, you can pick up any of these essays at any time and get something from them, I promise. Whatever you do, read ‘em all.

America being Great Again.

America being Great

I approached the Portland Mercury with the idea for a Black takeover of the paper late last year, after many months, years really, of rumination on how the narrative had been seemingly trampled and discarded since 2020. The largest demonstrations for Black liberation in world history had immedi -

I approached the Portland with idea Black of the paper last after many years really, ru mination how the had been seemingly and discarded since 2020. The largest demonstrations for Black libera tion world history had

Not only did the Mercury say “yes,” they said “hell yes!” The Merc has long been a favorite outlet of mine for their dedication to the craft of journalism, with a healthy dose of side-eye to the “powers that be” whomever they may be. So not only did they become a natural partner on paper, they hopped in feet-first alongside me to make sure that this was the deserved exclamation point to the grim five-year anniversary of George Floyd’s death, and the subsequent protests that swallowed

This issue is to remember. This issue is to remember the ones who were in the streets every day. And the ones who never were. The frontliners, and behind the sceners. The OGs, and the young ones.

I have put together a dozen essays and interviews with Black people in this city to reflect on one of the most monumental moments in human history. These essays tackle a range of angles from the protests themselves, to mentorship, economic empowerment, police, and of course… White people.

This issue is not about hope. Though there’s hope in it. This issue is not about self-proclaimed “allies,” though there’s plenty in here for you to reconsider too—including that word. This issue is about five Black fingers clenched in the air, no matter the season. This issue is about flesh, bone, and soul.

This issue is about time—that clock on the wall.

Ticking.

Tocking.

This issue is about a time that will never happen again.

And it begs of us the question— what did it all really... *gasps*. n

A mural painted on the exterior Portland’s Apple store a memorial dedicated George Floyd and others police

GILLIAN FLACCUS/ASSOCIATED PRESS

GHOST TOWN: FRONTING THE REVOLUTION

Refusing to be erased in the movement of a generation.

BY DEVIN BOSS

Igrew up inside a world within a world. A constellation of structures and landmarks that formed the outer ring of a web of connected networks that, like a bed of mycelium, connected mothers to aunties, aunties to neighbors, and neighbors to other neighbors (all of whom were deputized ass-whoopers).

My neighborhood teemed with

the kind of vivacious youthful activity one might expect from a Sandlot and Everybody Hates Chris crossover. The summer streets swelled under the weight of our curiosity and mischief; its warm wind carrying the smell of sweet pine, sweaty clothes, and Sportin’ Waves. Our homes were active volcanoes, volatile, at any moment suddenly exploding with the re -

sounding booms of a prepubescent stampede launching a full scale assault on the industrial-sized Gushers and Costco Redvines tub, only to vanish just as quickly in anticipation of the ubiquitous “Quit runnin’ in an’ outta my goddamn house!” My backyard was a sanctuary for ballers, musicians, and pseudo grill masters. Its steeple was a contorted, right-justified

hoop whose cement anchor still couldn’t withstand the unremitting force of the neighborhood athletes’ left-side flight, from where there was infinitely more runway. This was my world: the bloody noses from fights at Whitaker, Ms. Pac-Man and grease-steeped bags of krinkle cut fries from Mr. Burger, and the curbs where flesh and blood were deposited in failed

A memorial to the Black lives that have been lost.

NATHAN HOWARD/GETTY

attempts to emulate the older kids. But by 2020 that world had all but eroded entirely. It wasn’t a singular cataclysmic event. It was like shrinking in height by a few centimeters every so often; an imperceptible loss not consciously registered until you suddenly can’t reach something that was always accessible. I looked up and had become a ghost in my own neighborhood, a relic in a place that I could scarcely recognize. The structures and landmarks that shaped us were stripped away plot by plot. The sanctuary that pulsed with adolescent vivacity was reduced to a lifeless staging area for garbage and recyclables. And yet it was here in this hollowed-out place that, while putting up some shots with a homie, I received a call from a close mutual friend asking if we were protesting that night. The question was less an invitation than an inevitability. Though I had never protested before, the answer to me was obvious. However, as I stepped out of my yard, I had no idea that I was not only leaving home, but also crossing a threshold into one of the most pivotal turning points in my life.

I’ve never felt more detached from my own memories than I do from those of the protest era of 2020. It’s as if they belong to someone else, a life I briefly inhabited but can no longer fully access. I feel more tethered to the recollections of my 8-year-old self than to the days and nights spent in the streets, the chants that once filled my lungs, the urgency that once governed my every move. It was for me, an epoch that permeated in this disorienting synthesis of adrenaline, emotions, paranoia, malnutrition, and sleep deprivation; a fever-dream surging ever forward with no clarity, no moment to process, no space to breathe, and whose components (even now as I write this) elude me, resisting clarity. It was a time that consumed me entirely, and yet, in its aftermath, it remains just beyond my reach.

Think, think....

The first night was a cold plunge. We emerged from our COVID bubbles into a massive pulsing wave of human energy, my senses bathed in its frenzy. I remember my group formed a human chain that grew in size as more of our people collided with it, and one collision in particular was with Darren Golden. Darren’s older brother Anthony was one of those hoopers everyone knew

“THE AIR SWELLED WITH URGENCY, THICK WITH THE SMOKE OF OUR DISCONTENT.”

about when I was a kid, and could invariably be found at whatever basketball camp was operating at the time, getting crazy buckets. We grew up about six or seven blocks from each other, and once Tony and I became high school classmates,

their family pretty quickly became my extended family.

As our chain snaked through the endless crowd, we found ourselves in a moment that felt frozen in time: a standoff between the police and thousands of protesters, bisected by a chain link fence, and at the head were a number of young Black women confronting the authorities, their voices carrying across the divide. It was a moment of impasse and when the stalemate held, we withdrew back into the march, carried by a relentless tide of fervid souls, the streets pulsing beneath us, the air swelling with urgency, thick with the smoke of our discontent. The evening reached its crescendo on the steps of Revolution Hall. Darren, myself, and a handful of others found ourselves before a crowd teetering between exhaustion and unrelenting resolve. Their faces, illuminated by streetlights and cell phone screens, reflected the weight of the moment.

I remember many of those earlier nights concluded in my basement, the walls trembling with the frenetic energy of raw passion and unfettered ambition. Many of

my earliest co-conspirators were from my lost and forgotten world: childhood friends, basketball teammates, creative peers, people I got into trouble with, grew with, dreamed with. We often spoke with fire about the way things were, the way they should be, the way they might never be. Many of those passionate exchanges occurred in that very basement; and yet, no matter how high our words soared, they always fell back to that basement floor, settling like dust, while the world outside remained as deaf and indifferent as ever. Then suddenly we had the world’s undivided attention.

The next day I spent what money was left in my account on a small red wagon, Harbinger PA speaker, and microphone. We hit the streets again.

I don’t think I’ve ever reflexively given myself to an idea or cause so absolutely as I did to that movement. In the beginning I was working a full time 12-hour night shift lead position at Nike. This was often my next destination after a long day of organizing and leading massive and emotionally taxing

Author Devin Boss speaking to the crowd on the Hawthorne Bridge in the summer of 2020.

EMERY BARNES

protests. I wasn’t eating or sleeping much during that time, and remember a trip to Seattle for Christmas at my brother’s house when one of my family members remarked on how prominently my ribs were showing as I changed shirts. At 6’2 I had gone from 180 lbs at the onset of COVID to around 140 lbs after just a couple months. I was emaciated, exhausted, and mentally taxed; and at the same time profoundly resolute, determined, and proud.

The success of Portland’s 2020 protests can be attributed to a confluence of forces—a collision of political turbulence, a crippling global pandemic that had rendered life unrecognizable, and a moral reckoning that sent waves of electricity through the dormant limbs of this city’s white population, galvanizing their bodies into action. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if the collective conscience of the city had risen, unified in its rejection of the system that had long determined whose breath was precious and whose life was expendable.

lines fewer, and as ferociously as the initial swell of support, came the backlash.

It was during this time that forces outside the movement turned their attention to Darren. To discredit and dismantle. A man who had once been a rallying point became a target, a symbol not of justice but of controversy. The

to disappear. One by one, they slipped away, their presence erased by exhaustion, disillusionment, or the quiet but crushing reality that movements too can betray their own. I looked up and realized I had again been reduced to a ghost in what had once been a shared fight. A relic in a movement that I no longer recognized.

books. The movement belonged to those who had felt, in their bones, the weight of history pressing down upon them. It belongs to those who, though unsanctioned by pedigree, carry within them the unshakable knowledge of what it means to be Black in a world that would rather we be silent, still, or gone altogether. So, I stood, uncertain but unwavering, knowing that the truest qualification for the movement was not found in degrees or affiliations, but in the simple, unyielding fact of being.

But a movement born from borrowed urgency can’t endure. Without an internalized understanding of the struggle, without a commitment that extends beyond the moment of spectacle, energy dissipates and engagement wanes. The extrinsic forces that had catalyzed their participation (the unprecedented stillness of a world at a standstill, the shock of televised brutality) would, in time, subside. And as life resumed its rhythm, so did the hierarchy of concern, leaving behind those for whom the fight was never optional, never a passing moment, but an inescapable reality.

Once the ephemeral phase of white participation subsided and “compassion fatigue” set in, the marches grew thinner, the head -

movement, which had been built to challenge our corrupt systems of power, began to turn inward. Its righteous indignation redirected upon itself. The same voices that had once shouted in unison now

“BUT A MOVEMENT BORN FROM BORROWED URGENCY CAN’T ENDURE.”

spoke in suspicion, and accusation.

As time pressed forward, I watched as the people I had stepped into this movement with (the ones who embodied its very essence, who carried its weight, not as theory but as lived experience) began

I never sought to be a leader in the protests. I often questioned whether I even belonged in the movement, whether I had any right to speak on the matters that weighed upon the shoulders of my people. After all, I was hardly the paragon of Black civic engagement.

I wasn’t a scholar of political science, the architect of policy, or the eager disciple of some nonprofit mission. I didn’t carry credentials stamped with the approval of the academy, nor did I walk in lockstep with those who had made activism their profession.

But perhaps that was in itself the Great Deception. That one must be ordained by institutions to speak of the suffering they had endured since birth.

I knew, deep within me, that the fight for dignity is not confined to the learned, or reserved for those who have studied its mechanics in

I think there’s a part of me that feels a quiet relief in not remembering much of that time; it was a season of loss, heartbreak, violence, lies, and unimaginable overwhelm. But it was also a time of transformation, passion, collectivity, hope, and pride. A time when I stood before my own convictions, to see them tested and laid bare, shoulder to shoulder, with people from a world that now largely exists only in our photo albums, in the fading corners of our memories. I was reminded of the profound weight and sacred worth of community—the kind that looks out for you, steadies you when you falter, that feeds you when you’ve forgotten that you’re starving, that sees and loves the all of you. There are so many people from that time whom I hold a deep and abiding love for, whose courage, resilience, and boundless devotion to Blackness live as a form of protest in and of itself. I see it everywhere now— woven into the arts, in city council meetings, in the development of the built environment. In every act of defiance. I see a quiet yet undeniable revolution. n

Devin Boss, former ED of Rose City Justice, is a NE Portland native, filmmaker, and owner of North East Productions.

MATHIEU LEWIS ROLLAND

DREAMS IN A VASE WITH NO WATER

Bound

by hope, with dreams in sight, they fight for justice, and seek the light.

Bound by hope, with dreams in sight, they fight for justice, and seek the light.

there’s an occasion that calls for a bouquet, this is where I come. It sits in the center of a quaint strip mall in front of a parking lot of BMWs and Teslas and a steady flow of affluent white folk going about their days. When I ask Flower Boy about why his mother called me earlier today, he paints a mural in the air of needing his father and mourning friends who died. Flower Boy is thin like a crescent moon. Misunderstood by most. Only the closest of kin can relate to his story.

BY LAKAYANA DRURY

IIwatched a Black boy pick a bouquet of flowers for his mother at the upscale white folks supermarket in the cradle of Ramadan.

watched a Black boy pick a bouquet of flowers for his mother at the upscale white folks supermarket in the cradle of Ramadan.

ally inquiring about how he landed on the topics.

We’re pushing up West Burnside in my Honda with an odometer number that would make for a cozy bank account. Flower Boy is riding passenger in his usual matching sweats and hoodie set. Today it’s white on white. His homie, who I just met, is in the back seat holding up his phone for us, blaring a rap song he recorded.

“These aren’t real lyrics. It’s just for entertainment, it’s what people like to hear,” he offers with his best assurance and a bashful smile. Eyes still innocent behind glazed self-medication.

Backseat Homie is 17 and says he isn’t currently in school. I don’t know what bus he took to get here today. I don’t know who his people

are. But I know he’s got dreams, and I can see in his posture and demeanor that they’re sitting in a vase with no water.

Black boys never get to tell their stories.

Zupan’s Market has some of the best flowers in the city. When

As I listen to him, an idea comes to mind. I tell him to get Backseat Homie. We were going on a mission to pick something fruitful.

In the song, he’s boasting about catching a case, taking the charges, and not snitching. About the lack of restraint he will show his opps if they ever cross paths. Flower Boy nods a cool endorsement.

Flower Boy is the son of a mother who is acutely aware of his Blackness. Her back is bent with the weight of capitalism. Her life is a punch clock to put food on the table and clothes on his back, but there is no currency to afford the way white supremacy looks on her most prized possession. She wears her hijab and her fear with equal piety. Last year, she called to tell me about the scratches and bruises on his back from when the police snatched him up from the passenger seat of a crashed car.

“You want to die today?”

The flowers are lined up against the wall just outside the automatic sliding doors. I tell Flower Boy to decide on a bouquet that speaks to him.

I’ve heard this cadence before, a recycled flow native to the tongues of the youths, from SoundCloud rappers to students in my old classroom. I listen without judgment, letting Backseat Homie tell his story on his own terms. I overstand, nonchalantly checking out the window for pedestrians on our way to pick out an apology.

When the song finishes, I give Backseat Homie props like he was Kendrick Lamar coming off the stage at the Super Bowl. I pick his brain about the content of his verses, casu-

“I never picked out flowers before.”

Before I came to Portland, I had never looked twice at a flower. I shared with him what I had learned; the way to look at the petals, preference in color, and how some of the flowers were still buds that would eventually bloom when placed in water. I always make sure my arrangements have a couple of those. Flower Boy finally settles on an arrangement.

“I hear too many sirens.”

Before we hit the register, I take my fledging botanists

ARANTZA PEÑA POPO

COMMUNITY

CARE IS A VIBE.

We are a Black Femme led org that serves our local Black + Brown Community with food access, housing support, and community wellness initiatives. We currently feed 400 families a week across the Portland Metro area.

on a jaunt through the upscale white folks supermarket. We walk through rows of vibrantly colored organic produce. I introduce them to kombucha and they gawk at the price of fresh squeezed orange juice. We stroll past the seafood counter and peep the fresh fish options before rounding the counter to the meat case where I point out different cuts of steak. We stop through the cheese and cured meats section, and then past the bakery to pick out a card to go with the flowers.

The fact that Zupan’s is a different world for Black youths is the same reason why there are no longer any department stores in Lloyd Center Mall. This is a city where the highest-paid employee in 2024 was a police officer, and in 2025, the school district is set to cut 90 teaching positions. In Flower Boy’s ZIP code, it’s easier to get a pistol or a felony, than it is to get a diploma or an internship. Which is why I don’t gotta ask Backseat Homie how he got expelled from school.

Stop putting youth in handcuffs.

After 9 minutes and 29 seconds, white folk poured out of every corner of the Rose City. They laid down on bridges in solidarity of dismay at the public execution. They shouted down unmoved strangers and family members alike, online, and in person, smashed business windows, some white, some Black, tagged walls with graffiti, and waded through clouds of tear gas, all in the self-proclaimed name of us.

Black youth were never asked what they needed. I watched them set themselves on fire and billow dark clouds of hope that smelled like burnt liberation. The schools named after slave masters and colonizers opened back up and swallowed the oxygen. The lives of Black boys, of Black youth, did not change.

Black boys grow from concrete

We don’t have the luxury of fertile soil and careful pruning

We sprout between cracks and crevices against all odds

Resilient wonders pulled from our roots like weeds

Imagine what we would bloom into if we were allowed to taste water

Imagine if we planted a forest of Black teachers

Imagine if we built schools in the spirit of raised garden beds and watered Black children like seedlings

Imagine if we tilled neighborhoods like community gardens and let folks pluck the sustenance and resources they need ripe off the vine

Unless justice is redefined, Backseat Homie and Flower Boy are headed down paths synonymous with jail cells and caskets. Because of the circumstances they were born into. That they didn’t choose. They are headed down a path before they even have the agency to pick their own lanes. Yet another statistic of a system that is working as designed, methodically disposing of Black bodies through a variety of exits. The only handout they will be given is blame for fait accompli.

A beat-up Honda peels out of the upscale white folks supermarket on a quiet Wednesday afternoon. Inside, two Black boys are for the moment, free. Flower Boy rides home, nose to pistil. Smelling new dreams. Let Black boys pick their own flowers.

Let Black boys pick their own flowers.

Let Black boys pick their own flowers. n

Lakayana Yotoma Drury is an entrepreneur, educator, community advocate, writer, poet, and filmmaker. He is the founder and executive director of Word is Bond, a nonprofit leadership incubator for young Black men based out of Portland, Oregon, which he formed in 2017. He currently serves as Vice Chair of the Oregon Commission on Black Affairs.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?

Returning to a system that was never built for us to win.

BY CHRISTOPHER LAMBERT

Editor’s note: Chris wrote most of this piece while he was in an Oregon prison during summer 2020.

HHow do I explain what it means to be Black in America to someone who isn’t? When you say you feel me, I believe you—but do you really understand me? Because there’s a difference. Most of the time, I feel like people only pay attention when the cameras are rolling, when another Black life is taken by police, when the streets are on fire with protest. But what about when the smoke clears? What about the everyday struggle of being Black in a country that was never built for us to thrive?

ow do I explain what it means to be Black in America to someone who isn’t? When you say you feel me, I believe you—but do you really understand me? Because there’s a difference. Most of the time, I feel like people only pay attention when the cameras are rolling, when another Black life is taken by police, when the streets are on fire with protest. But what about when the smoke clears? What about the everyday struggle of being Black in a country that was never built for us to thrive?

I grew up in both North/ Northeast Portland in the ‘80s and ‘90s. The city was different then, but the cycle was the same. Gang violence, drugs, broken homes, underfunded schools, over-policed neighborhoods—a system that saw us as numbers, not names. I didn’t understand it back then, I just lived it. It took prison to force me to see the full picture.

I was 18 when I picked up that gun. I remember the weight of it, the false sense of power it gave me. I wasn’t firing bullets, I was firing exclamation points. Because I was done talking. I wanted respect. I knew fear could get it. And at that moment, I didn’t realize how much I had already lost. That decision cost me 20 years. It was during my incarceration that

I was encouraged to take college courses through the Inside-Out program with University Of Oregon that played a huge role in my overall rehabilitation and put me in a position to be considered for early release. During the pandemic, wildfires across the state forced a number of prisons to evacuate, shoving hundreds more inmates into our already over-crowded

institution at Oregon State Penitentiary. Seeing the obvious health risk, Governor Kate Brown began commuting sentences to let folks out; including mine.

Now, I sit with the “what ifs.” What if I had mentors who looked like me? What if my school had the resources to see my potential instead of just disciplining me? What if the system had invested in me in-

stead of locking me away? But we don’t get do-overs. What we can do is change the future.

2020 was a reckoning. George Floyd’s murder set the world on fire, but that fire was burning long before that knee was on his neck. The protests, the anger, the calls for justice… none of that came out of nowhere. It came from generations of oppression, from communities screaming into the void, demanding to be heard. Five years later, we have to ask: Did you hear us? Do you remember? Or was it just another news cycle?

People say we have choices. But what happens when every choice is shaped by poverty, by policy, by a system that was never built for us to win? The choices we make are the symptoms of a much bigger disease: colonialism, redlining, mass incarceration, police brutality. The weight of history pressing down on our backs.

Still, I believe in hope. I believe change starts with a shift in consciousness: how we think, how we see each other, how we break the cycle. Without that, nothing changes. My name is Chris, but my folks call me “Naughty.” And I know you feel me—but do you understand me? Five years after George Floyd, do you still see us? Or did you just move on? n

Christopher Lambert is a speaker, mentor, and justice reform advocate with the Oregon Justice Network and Regional Service Director of Rose City J.A.M.

Photo of author taken while in prison.

PHOTO TREATMENT BY ANTHONY KEO

Unpopular opinion: Historically speaking, there has never been a better time to have Black children. War, genocide, disease, and governmental corruption has disproportionately affected communities of color in various parts of the world since forever. Indeed, when has the world ever not been chaotic, exceedingly scary, and uncertain?

As a pregnant person, mom of a toddler, and someone who has been in weekly therapy for over a year, but is also chronically online,

BEING A GOOD VILLAGER IS AN ACT OF RESISTANCE

RESISTANCE

The case for giving birth in a chaotic world.

BY JENNI MOORE

I am prone to stumbling upon many discussions at the cross section of parenting, child development, politics, and mental health on social media. Jaded, concerned, emotionally exhausted, and well-meaning progressives take to social media and cheekily ask things like “how are y’all willfully getting pregnant at a time like this?” as one user on Threads puts it. Many commenters echo that idea, responding that it would be selfi sh—or even borderline insane—to have a child right now due to the current state of the world. Other responses are loaded

with judgement and shame directed towards anyone who chooses to have children in the year 2025. (I don’t think I need to point out the irony of progressives shaming those who exercise their right to choose, and specifically when the choice is to build a family.) I can’t help but wonder if statements and rhetorical questions like these are steeped in privilege—that is, the privilege of not having been around during much tougher times, with much less access to things like medicine, information, integral resources, and modern day freedoms—be-

cause there has arguably never been an ideal time to create, gestate, and raise Black and brown children. And for all we know, there may never be one. Black people deserve to experience the joy of parenting, and why not now?

Climate change is definitely something to consider, especially in terms of how many children one decides to have. Other concerns include the rise of unchecked AI, narcissism, and the decline of things like public education, ancestral wisdom, mental health, as well as a widespread decrease in connection

and curiosity, just to name a few. But are we so hopeless and utterly defeated that the goal should now be that we resolve to simply cease to exist? If children are the future, and many are giving up on having them even when they want them, are we, in a sense, throwing in the towel on humanity’s future? Of course, there’s no right answer between having or not having kids—it’s a highly personal choice—but we should all be invested in humanity’s future.

and curiosity, to a few. But are we hopeless defeated that the goal should be simply cease exist? If are the and many are having them even when they them, are we, in a sense, throwing in the towel on humanity’s future? course, there’s no right answer between having or having a highly personal we should all be in humanity’s future.

THE MENTAL & PHYSICAL TOLL

THE MENTAL TOLL

Depending on who you talk to, it can be considered a signifi cant health risk for, well, anyone, but especially for Black mothers to carry pregnancies in America. Expectant Black mothers and people have higher rates of gestational hypertension, pre-eclampsia, maternal morbidity, and are more at risk of experiencing bias and mistreatment in the medical system. That’s likely due to various cultural factors that put more stress on Black bodies, the added barriers Black people face to receive quality care, access nutritious foods, mental health resources, as well as a general lack of support for all mothers in our individualistic culture. (Don’t even get me started on late-stage capitalism, the housing crisis, wage inequality, and how America’s lack of universal paid parental leave negatively impacts families—that’s an essay for another day.) Just the idea of embarking on the journey of conceiving, carrying, and birthing a Black child can raise one’s anxiety. Then there’s the additional mental load that surrounds child-rearing for Black moms in a world where it’s become routine to see Black people unjustly killed on camera, posted onto social media for all to see and be desensitized by. Once Black children reach a certain age, parents must prepare them for a world that often doesn’t afford them the privilege

Depending to, it be considered a signifi cant health risk for, well, anyone, especially for Black mothers pregnancies Expectant mothers and have higher rates gestational pre-eclampsia, maternal ity, and are more at risk encing mistreatment in the medical That’s likely due to various that put more on Black bodies, the barriers Black people face to quality care, nutritious foods, sources, as well a general lack support all mothers in individualistic culture. (Don’t get me late-stage capitalism, the crisis, inequality, and America’s lack paid parental negatively pacts families—that’s an another day.) idea of barking the of conceiving, carrying, birthing a Black child can raise anxiety. there’s additional load that surrounds child-rearing for Black in a world where it’s routine see Black people killed on camera, posted social for all see be desensitized by. Black reach a certain age, parents must pare them for a that often doesn’t afford the privilege

of being seen and treated as children. For Black mothers, the fear and anxiety of what could happen to your child doesn’t just go away once the child turns 18—for many of us, those worries might actually grow larger once the child becomes a legal adult and is no longer under our roof. It’s so incredibly poignant that in 2020, George Floyd, then a 46-year-old man, used his last words to call out for his mother, who had already passed away a couple years earlier. His cries embodied a universal experience: At some point we were all children and we all had a mother. There is perhaps nothing more natural than wanting your mom to come to your aid when you’re hurting, and the instinct for moms to come running when their child is in trouble, pain, or otherwise needs consoling. Unfortunately, we cannot be with our children for every moment of their lives. Part of parenting, at some point, is learning when to let go, and Black moms must send our children out into the world, knowing that if they get pulled over for a traffic violation in the wrong neighborhood, or by a prejudiced cop who’s having a bad day, their lives might not be valued, and they might not make it home. And yet, despite all of these risks, fears and barriers that Black Americans have navigated for generations, Black babies continue to be born.

BEING A GOOD VILLAGER

Regardless of racial identity, the choice to have children can feel scary in general. I got pregnant with my second kid during the last stretch of the 2024 election cycle, and had hoped that I’d be bringing my son into an American that had just elected its first woman of color as President. It has been emotionally and mentally challenging to keep up with any bit of news since Trump was elected for his second term—and seeing the barrage of

horrific unconstitutional attacks being made to erase people of color, women, immigrants, people with disabilities, elderly, queer, and trans people or basically anyone who isn’t a rich cis-gendered, male—has ween incredibly worrisome, adding a cherry on top to my pre existing anxieties and fears of the unknown. I think it’s only natural to question: What kind of a world am I bringing my kids up in?

Luckily, I’m privileged to have a healthy and robust village around me—which comprises my mother,

“NOW IS THE TIME FOR SOCIETY TO EMBRACE A MORE EXPANSIVE VIEW OF PARENTING.”

extended family, and a gaggle of close friends—that has been integral to my mental health and my overall family’s well being. I don’t know that I would feel as confident having a second child if I didn’t have a community that I trust. Having a “village,” or a supportive interpersonal community, is like having a safety net for when shit hits the fan—or when the societal structure that’s supposed to protect the most vulnerable starts to crumble.

The saying “it takes a village,” is a proverb widely attributed to African cultures that’s rooted in the fact that moms (and parents in general) are not equipped to do it all, and that the more natural, healthy and balanced approach is to have a built-in community. It is a longstanding belief that one’s community should and can create a safe and healthy environment in which children can grow. The village commonly shows up in the form of close kin—aunties, uncles, sisters, brothers, cousins, grandparents—as well as close friends

and other more experienced parents who, while not the primary caregiver or sole one responsible for the child’s survival and development, share in the duties of caring for children in their most formative years.

This village mentality might just be the key to surviving the downfall of American society as we know it, as we rebuild and reconnect our communities from within. Perhaps now is the time for society to embrace a more expansive view of parenting, in which the children around us—whether we are related to them or not—are seen as our collective responsibility. It’s the little things we can do to be a good villager or community member to others. If you know of a postpartum mom in your family/community/neighborhood/yoga class/friend group, do something small to support her. Instead of asking “what do you need?,” just do a thing. When multiple community members do what they can, all of these little things accumulate and make a big difference for families, giving parents a little more room to breathe and prevent burnout and overwhelm.

The truth is that we have to create the village—it doesn’t just show up. The first step is being a good villager for others: Do what you can to be a reliable, helpful person when a friend or neighbor could use support, and do it within your means. In American society, it is often seen as taboo, rude, or even intrusive to break down the doors of postpartum moms who are in the trenches with their newborn babies (plus any other children they might be caring for). And because of America’s pervasive brainwashing that argues for self-reliance at all costs, moms often feel guilty asking for, or even accepting unpaid support. In our culture, those who have a little bit of financial access are often forced to buy back the village if they want one—i.e. outsourcing duties and hiring help in the form of a housekeeper, chef, nanny, live-in nanny, dog walker, etc.

Thanks to my super solid support system—which includes my mother, fellow mom friends, childless friends, a doula, and more—I can attest how much their collective efforts have enriched my children’s experience of the world, my mothering experience, and my family as a whole. My husband and I are not always great at asking for help, but it has been so unbelievably comforting to have pushy loved ones who are eager to come to our home, be positive, non-parent adult influences to my kids, offer to babysit, drop off supplies, walk the dogs while I’m in labor at the hospital, or do a simple chore during the postpartum period. I feel so grateful for all of it, and it inspires me to return the favor when the people around me begin building or growing their families, or are otherwise going through it. This is how we begin to build a village: not just showing up for our major milestones and celebratory moments, but by being the kind of supportive friends/neighbors/sisters/brothers/fellow community members we’d like to have in our lives in times of great transition, strife, and need by doing what we can, when we can with small actions that are actually helpful.

THE CASE FOR MATRIARCHY

Being a good villager for other families means prioritizing the health, development, and safety of all children in our community—especially those from more vulnerable populations. Instead of sinking to cynicism, judgement and shame, folks who are childless by choice can and should offer big and small acts of support and kindness that make our communities more resilient. These are acts of resistance against white supremacy and the patriarchy that benefit society at large, simply because everyone has a mother, and

supporting moms means we support everybody.

In many countries and cultures, intergenerational households are common and seen as perfectly normal , and many families otherwise have built-in support with child rearing from the surrounding community. In many matriarchal societal structures—like among the Minangkabau in Indonesia and the Mosuo, an ethnic group living in China’s Yunnan and Sichuan Provinces—there’s a reverence for motherhood that goes beyond the biological event of pregnancy and birth. Citizens of matriarchal societies generally feel a responsibility toward other children around them.

Can you imagine if our culture didn’t teach self-reliance at all costs? If we treated all children like they were our own children? Perhaps if more moms had a supportive community around them, weren’t so isolated after birth— and expected to do and be everything a child needs on their own while also being expected to bring home the bacon—they wouldn’t feel like having a baby was some unfeasible, selfish, irresponsible task at which they are doomed to fail, burnout, or in the controversy-inducing words of Chappelle Roan, become “miserable.”

Throughout history, Black Americans’ resilience and hope for what the future can look like has demonstrated that yes, we protest, boycott, organize, and speak up about unjust systems, and that no matter how unfair, scary, or uncertain the world is, we continue pursuing our joy, living our lives, and building within our own communities—whether that includes parenting our own biological children or not. n

Jenni Moore is an arts and culture writer, essayist and mom based in Portland. She is known for covering local music, comedy, food, cannabis, wellness, and cultural trends.

THE LESSON

After months of showing up, did the suburbs actually learn anything?

BY BRUCE POINSETTE

Doing antiracism work in Lake Oswego over the years and reflecting on the 2020 protests, the obvious question that comes to mind is, “Did white people actually learn anything?” The obvious answer is no. Yet, plot twist, does that really matter?

When we talk about 2020, the first thing people evoke is the numbers. Thousands of people in the streets. 100 straight days of demonstrations in downtown Portland.

We talk about the results of applying that pressure. Institutions issued Black Lives Matter statements (some even contracted with actual Black people to write them). They created DEI policies, conducted more training and in some cases, created new jobs dedicated to DEI. In school districts like Portland Public Schools and Gresham, student activism and community support led to the removal of cops from schools.

In Lake Oswego, known throughout the state by the nickname “Lake No Negro,” the bar for change was much lower. Recognition of cultural heritage months. Creation of DEI task forces and advisory boards. The creation of a DEI manager job that functions more like seven.

Of course, many of those changes were temporary. The loud cruelty of the Trump administration obscures the reality that the dismantling of DEI and rollback of civil rights isn’t so much us going backwards, as it is the Confederacy building on its momentum, which

saw new life after the election of Barack Obama in 2008.

When I try to figure out where my confusion with so many white people who “showed up” in LO in 2020 comes from, it always goes back to being in the same room and experiencing different realities.

Ask many people about their evidence of the immense progress LO has made in recent years on racism and they’ll cite the mere existence of my organization, Respond to Racism, in Lake Oswego. Founded in 2017 by my mother Willie Poinsette and Liberty Gonzales, we host public antiracism education events, sponsor programming that uplifts local communities of color and collaborate on antiracist actions with organizations and individuals throughout the city and county. Pre-pandemic, we boasted regular attendance of 40-100 people at our monthly community meetings. The work has touched enough people that a mural of mom now hangs on the side of Lake Oswego City Hall.

However, I’ve always struggled with the contradiction inherent in doing this work in LO. We attract a largely white and/or retired audience who sees everything through alabaster-tinted glasses. We ask them how they’re showing up for racial justice. They say they attend RtR meetings. We ask them how they’re showing up for communities of color. They say they attend RtR meetings. We ask them for the proof of progress in LO as a community. They say RtR exists. In those early days, I made my

ing back from a summer pause and unlike the first, where she pushed through the struggles, she couldn’t this time. On the way up to help her, I couldn’t help but think of the meme of a white person high-fiving a Black woman and congratulating her on her strength as she drowns.

A Lake

A Racism co-founder,

Fueled by frustration, but also hope for one last shot at creating the culture change 2020 provided a taste of, I took the job. To begin 2024, we made changes: infusing youth and former students of color into all aspects of leadership, committing to move towards abolition, and refusing to rubber stamp City and School District initiatives in the name of “partnership.” Attendance numbers went down but the integrity of the infrastructure got stronger.

name as the guy who “would say the thing.” During one breakout group, I remember voicing my fear that the group would sit there and watch if my mom died on stage, pat themselves on the back for “showing up,” and create a fundraiser in her name.

Needless to say, I’m not surprised when white community members talk about 2020 like festival season, while so many Black organizers reflect on the times with frustration, resentment, and no shortage of stories of trauma.

name the guy who “would say the thing.” one breakout I remember my fear group would sit watch my mom on stage, selves on the back for “showing up,” and a fundraiser in her name. to I’m not surprised when talk like festival season, while so Black organizers flect with resentment, and no ries of trauma.

insist LO actually doesn’t have a racism problem.

What does it mean when you ask people what brought them to RtR and their answers are shame around the “Lake No Negro” nickname, a deep investment in

(LOSD) cutting the DEI Director position. Two years later, the department had no staff and was repackaged as “Belonging.”

In 2025, the City still has a DEI Manager and LOSD now has a Belonging Coordinator. However, police stops for communities of color have gone up every year since 2020. Reading and math proficiency for Black elementary students is disproportionately down. Graduation rates for underserved students are down 10 percent.

Then my father got sick in March, had a heart attack on the operating table in April and died in May. It was touching and somewhat fitting that our most successful event of 2024 was the Bruce R. Poinsette Awards Gala, a December fundraiser and awards ceremony in dad’s name that was designed by our Youth Empowerment Coalition students.

Yes, white people showed up. They also brought all the nonprofit tropes with them. It seems nitpicky, but it’s hard to divorce the words from the actions or more accurately, inaction. It’s the person who can’t stop talking about their lavish vacations and speaking in dog whistles, yet tells you they want to contribute something other than money, and also, they’re only available Saturday afternoons. It’s the person who listens to a panel of students demanding the removal of student resource officers, then asks, “Okay, but what about if they just had more Black police officers?” It’s the people who’ve been coming to RtR activities for years and still

Yes, people showed They brought the tropes with seems nitpicky, but it’s to words from the actions or more accurately, inaction. It’s the can’t stop talking about ish vacations and speaking in dog whistles, yet you want contribute something other than money, also, they’re able Saturday afternoons. the person listens to a panel students the of student “Okay, what about if they had Black police officers?” It’s people who’ve been to RtR activities for and

“I’M NOT SURPRISED WHEN WHITE COMMUNITY MEMBERS TALK ABOUT 2020 LIKE FESTIVAL SEASON.”

proving “this is not who we are,” and they don’t know where else to meet people of color? A foot in the door is a foot in the door, I suppose, but in 2020, at the exact same time as the protests, these same people didn’t bat an eye when RtR called attention to the Lake Oswego School District

There’s obvious fear about whether the Trump administration’s crackdown will come for LO’s DEI work, but prior to the 2024 election, the feedback I would get the most about the DEI and formerly DEI departments was, “I’m not sure what they do.”

What about RtR? I’m submitting this essay two days before an emergency meeting to discuss a funding crisis. My days as Executive Director are likely numbered. It’s a job I refused to consider for years until a RtR meeting in late 2023 when mom, who had a mini stroke in 2021, was struggling with the intro as the room sat and watched. It was the second meet -

Fast forward to spring 2025. That triumphant evening feels a lot like the night dad opened his eyes for the first time since the botched heart procedure, five days before he passed.

Funding to sustain positions that drive antiracism work and the very work itself is under attack. The LO community is in denial about gains from 2020 that are, at best, hanging by a thread, while wondering if that 2020 energy is coming back.

If I’m still asking white people what they learned, did I really learn anything? n

Bruce Poinsette is a writer, editor and educator. He serves as the Executive Director of Respond to Racism in Lake Oswego, a grassroots antiracism organization in his hometown.

Oswego mural commemorating Respond to Racism co-founder, Willie Poinsette.

MERCURY STAFF

Q&A: FROM MIKE BROWN TO GEORGE FLOYD

Don’t Shoot Portland’s Teressa Raiford & Glenn Waco on Activism and Art

BY DONOVAN SCRIBES (FKA DONOVAN M. SMITH)

When you think of resistance in Oregon, Teressa Raiford’s name stands out. As the founder of Don’t Shoot Portland, she has led one of the most active Black Lives Matter movements in the state since the 2014 police-killing of Mike Brown, using art and education to mobilize community action. Her mentee, rapper and activist Glenn Waco, entered the movement around the same time, blending sharp lyricism with street-level organizing. I brought them together at Don’t Shoot Portland’s The BLACK gallery in the Pearl District to reflect on the timeline from Ferguson to George Floyd, and how their work continues to evolve. This interview has been edited for length and clarity

Scribes: Most people in Northeast Portland know about the “possum incident.” You were a kid when that happened. What do you remember in that moment, and how did that change for you? How did your views change as you became an adult?

Raiford: On March 13, 1981, seven police officers, or seven cars of po-

lice, rolled up to my grandmother’s restaurant—the Burger Barn on Martin Luther King—and discarded some carcasses of possums they had shot.

My grandpa was really good friends with the police commissioner at the time, Charles Jordan… because Jordan was the Black police commissioner; the first and last Black police commissioner we’ve had in Portland.

So he calls Jordan, and the com-

missioner put the cops on leave and started this whole investigation, and the entire Portland Police Bureau went on strike. They literally stopped working, and protested against the community because they didn’t want accountability. What I learned in my research is that the groups who were organizing against the violence that was happening with the police, started fighting each other because of all their different biases, and because

you know, at the time, we didn’t know about COINTELPRO. But you had all these different things triggering these eruptions of people organizing and really building a front against violence and racism, and that just kind of stayed with me.

Can you say more about how [your nephew] helped lead you into activism?

Raiford: I was raised here, and

Donovan Scribes (left) discusses Don’t Shoot Portland’s decade-plus of organizing with Teressa Raiford (middle), and Glenn Waco (right).

CHRISTIAN PARROCO

was raising my children here, but, I believe it was 2007, my cousin Deonte got killed right after my grandmother died, and I got out of here with my kids. I was like, “I’m not going to let them think this is normal,” because… up until that time, so many friends, relatives, and people I knew were dying, and there weren’t any investigations. It was being ignored as “Black on Black crime” or gangs, and [all these reactionary programs] just popped up as soon as funding came with it. When I first came home, I’d been working for a CPA in Texas for 15 years, so I saw [the funding mechanisms] as racketeering. I was like, “Oh, wait a minute, y’all making money off dead children.” Like, what’s going on here?

was raising I believe my cousin Deonte got killed after my grandmother died, I got out here my kids. I not going to let them think normal,” because… up until that time, so friends, relatives, and people I were dying, there weren’t any It being ignored as on Black crime” or gangs, and [all reactionary programs] popped up as soon with I first home, working for a for 15 years, so I [the anisms] as racketeering. I was “Oh, wait a y’all making money off Like, what’s going on here?

tests didn’t make sense, but if we were protesting in a way to deliberately break these systems of inequity, then that was worth the time and effort. But I knew we had to educate people on what was going on, and I think—like what me and Glenn are doing now, discussing our thoughts about things—that was one of the first things we started doing as a community.

Glenn, around that same time, you had just released your first album NorthBound, and I know Teressa was part of how you ended up in the streets.

manity, or to the loss, or to the community, that takes it further—that connects to somebody, and then they start responding.

Don’t Shoot has been rooted in art. Why do you think art is so important to movement building?

Raiford: Because I figured if I’m hanging out with a kid and they’re talking about their ideas, I could show ‘em how their goals could become a reality. Like you could be 15 years old, and be a millionaire selling bow ties. I can give you hope. Here’s some canvas, some paint, some studio time. We have an art gallery. We got a Black cultural library, we do archives. We’re doing

would they use tear gas, or any kind of force against us? So then I started calling health administrators, and I was like, “Hey, can you give me a report? I need to be able to show up in a way that creates a barrier against this violence.” So instead of being down there with the bullhorn and all that other stuff, the banner we used was science.

I was happy to be able to work on that alongside Arya Mormon, ZaDora Williams, and Dr. Anita Randolph. Mayor Ted Wheeler took a minute, but eventually, after the wildfires, he banned the use of tear gas, and y’all ended up winning your lawsuit, right?

That’s when I realized there was a problem. After my nephew’s death [in 2010], I was like, “It’s not just the kids being mad at each other. It’s not just this inherent violence that exists in places where there’s poverty.” It is a systemic mechanism for funding. We’re not spending money on education, housing, and you know, jobs. We’re spending money on funerals, police.

I realized a problem. After my nephew’s death [in 2010], I the kids being at each It’s not this inherent that exists in places there’s erty.” It mechanism for funding. We’re not spending ey housing, and you know, We’re money on funerals,

Waco: Yeah, I was just seeing, like everybody, what was going on with police brutality and Mike Brown. It was the day when [Officer Daren Wilson] got acquitted, and I quit my job. I knew that Teressa was having something downtown, and I went searching for her, and lo-and-behold, ran into Mac Smiff, and off we went. On that day, Teressa handed me a bullhorn, and I just stuck by her side ever since.

WE’RE NOT

2014—that’s when Mike Brown gets killed in Ferguson, and when Don’t Shoot Portland also forms.

2014—that’s when Mike gets killed in and when Don’t Shoot Portland also forms.

Your music was already speaking to the struggle—not just in North Portland, but what’s going on for Black folks. So how did your view on music as a tool for activism change when you started protesting?

SPENDING MONEY ON EDUCATION, HOUSING, AND JOBS. WE’RE SPENDING MONEY ON FUNERALS, POLICE.

Raiford: We had already been organizing, but people were like, “Y’all need to do something.” I didn’t want to protest. I was like, “That’s not going to do anything.” But then I was like, “Well, shoot, you know, somebody has to say there’s a problem.” And when I realized that not only could we organize people to show up, or get those people to go to City Hall, we can get them to go to the state capitol. We could go to Multnomah County. They would go to their school board. When we realized we could help people learn how to assert their experience… that’s when I felt that functioning as an activist made sense. Just the pro-

Raiford: We been organizing, but people were like, “Y’all need to do something.” I didn’t want to protest. I was like, not ing to do anything.” But then I was like, “Well, shoot, you know, body to there’s a And when I realized that could we organize people to show up, or get those people to to City Hall, we can get them to go to the state capitol. We could go to Multnomah County. They would go to their school board. When we ized we people to their when that functioning activist sense. pro -

Waco: It’s a form of communication… whether you rapping, whether you’ve got a bullhorn in your hand… it’s a message. My favorite rappers are storytellers, like Tupac, Lupe Fiasco, Nas…. It’s all people that actually talk about something. And I felt like, “Okay, we could talk about it all day, but you could actually get the experience by being right there.”

Raiford: Those statements, those feelings, go further than my protest chant. I can say, “Hands up, don’t shoot!” all day. But when he drops a verse that’s connecting to the hu-

things to document our expressions in art, so that we can have a place to land with our trauma and not have to take it with us everywhere we go—because we are no longer tolerating that.

How did you organize when you first learned about George Floyd’s death?

Raiford: I’m getting calls. My inbox is wild. My friend Danielle, who was like my daughter, is pregnant, and these officers are tear gassing us. And I was like, “Wait a minute, we have a pandemic.” Why would they be using tear gas if we’re not supposed to exacerbate COVID? Why

Raiford: Our injunction was approved. We had an injunction against the city [for tear gas], and what was he going to do—violate the injunction like the Trump administration did? So he kind of took credit for it in a way, because CBS News, The Atlantic , Washington Post , all these people are talking about [our] tear gas report. And then he went out one night and got tear gassed, and from that point on, everybody was like, “Portland’s mayor stopped the tear gas,” and I was like, “That’s wild.” Like, “ He’s out here, and he’s so bold and strong, and he’s taking care of us.” Like, the erasure is real. n

Watch the full interview and stream a special live performance of Glenn Waco’s 2020 single “Willie Lynchings” online at youtube.com/ @portlandmercury897

Teressa Raiford is the founder of Don’t Shoot Portland. A human rights activist, artist, consultant and philanthropist, she also owns The BLACK Gallery.

Glenn Waco, is a community organizer, human rights advocate, and hip-hop artist. Glenn began his path in 2014 in activism with Don’t Shoot Portland.

ACCOUNTABILITY IS A PRACTICE

The director of Reimagine Oregon on the struggle to demand a better world.

BY JUSTICE RAJEE

Accountability is practice. Either you do accountability, or you don’t.

Reimagine Oregon grew from the creative vision of Black-led organizations, Black individual activists, and protest organizers in 2020 to demand a different response. In that moment of public distress, they had the conviction to call elected officials, community, and activists together to create collaborative space to get things done. Reimagine Oregon provided a path for elected officials to be accountable in real-time. Our organization is a policy change and accountability project. The project organized demands sourced from existing and new Black led policy research, organized them, and called on elected officials to choose policy demands they would commit to work to enact as soon as possible. Reimagine Oregon tracked and encouraged progress on those demands through monthly meetings over a multi-year process.

In the summer of 2020, people turned to the streets to demonstrate their pain, frustration, and anger. Locally and nationally elected officials’ response to the loss of human life and dignity taken on the ground in Minneapolis, Minnesota, stolen in Breonna Taylor’s home in Louisville, Kentucky, and the failing living conditions exposed by the

COVID-19 pandemic did not match the pain experienced in our communities. The non-binding resolutions, performative photo-ops, and words with no enforceable action began the acknowledge-and-apology cycle that may soothe the conscience of those with the power to act, but also serves to silence our community’s distress. This is done while failing to risk their position,

of my work. I became the Director of the Reimagine Oregon Project in August of 2021. As I studied the work that was done before my arrival, I understood that I needed to be the steward for this innovative approach to accountability.

The project’s approach was rooted in the work and wisdom of our community. Demands were organized to prioritize policies that would invest in

privilege, or resources to build a society that no longer produces pain as a cost of doing business.

I have centered serving the best interest of the Black community in my more than 20 years in Oregon. As a case manager, organizer, mentor, or just a face in a crowd, the wellbeing of Black folks has been at the root

for law enforcement, and demilitarization of local law enforcement are few key divestitures to improve accountability and focus on safety, not warfare.

Participating community groups, organizations, and activists demonstrated we could hold collective space without suppressing divergent visions, while also developing broad policy demands, and navigating hostile public waters together. From the founding roots of the United States of America, the presence, demands, and innovation of African Americans have pushed our country to live up to its creed and be the home for liberty, justice, and the pursuit of happiness that our Constitution serves to secure.

Reimagine Oregon is an expression of that tradition of opposition and demand for a just society.

Elected officials work for us. Every level of government must be effective for our society to flourish. We elect these folks to do the work of the people. The current effort at the federal level to dismantle effective government programs in service to the narrow interests of a few, highlight how important it is for our elected officials to lean into equity and effectiveness.

our collective wellbeing and disinvest from policies that bring harm to our community. The Oregon CARES Act, increased pay for frontline housing workers, and per diem for State advisory board service are a few investments that supported relief, stability, and civic engagement. Establishing a duty to report, duty to intervene

Reimagine drew elected engagement from the Governor’s office, Metro Councilors, County Commissioners, city councilors, school boards, and nods from our federal representatives. The elected officials that committed to the process and took leadership on policy demands experienced an active, responsive, and focused multi-jurisdictional policy process centered on getting things done. They were empowered to be present and honest whether the policy prognosis was good or bad. Accountability in practice.

The community was empowered by the energy and tone of the project. We held a broad policy ledger in the public space and resisted the pressure to fold to get a few wins. Over 15 community based organiza-

EBIN LEE

tions and groups provided policy demands. Almost 4,000 people joined our newsletter, with site traffic from around the world. Demands covered a full spectrum of issues from education, health, housing, public safety, civic engagement, and economic development. The project’s approach showed that we can make space for partnership, empower our young leaders, involve communities beyond the Portland-metro area, and allow the willing to show up where you can.

tions provided policy demands. 4,000 people joined our newsletter, site traffic from Demands covered full spectrum of from education, health, housing, public safety, civic engagement, and economic development. approach showed that we can space for partnership, young leaders, communities beyond the Portland-metro area, and allow the show up where you can.

the work. Unfortunately, some thought this project was about ideology, partisan allegiance, and individual self-interest. They did not get it and worked hard not to get it.

Oppression does not come up with new ideas. It just finds new ways to keep the old ideas going.

WHO WILL STAY STANDING?

This is not the place for accounting the wins, but let it be known work was done.

is the place for accounting wins, let be known done.

The Black community in Oregon has the capacity, empathy, and the will to make the world more just. I have witnessed and served to protect our ability to collaborate, challenge, and generate profound policy concepts that invest in the betterment of us all.

The work was not without its woes. Reimagine Oregon is a time delineated project for a reason. We wanted to move while the waves were with us, as we knew the tide would inevitably roll back against us. We experienced the

work was not without its woes. Reimagine Oregon a time delineated project a reason. We wanted move the waves were with us, as we knew the tide would back against us. experienced the

“OPPRESSION

“OPPRESSION DOESN’T COME UP WITH NEW IDEAS—IT

FINDS NEW WAYS TO KEEP OLD IDEAS GOING.”

DOESN’T UP WITH IDEAS—IT NEW KEEP GOING.”

My resounding lesson from my experience as the Director of Reimagine Oregon is that we need more. We need more collaboration to demonstrate accountability via co-creation and inclusive implementation policy. We need more challenging conversations, to model accountability in rigorous research, discussions and telling the truth even when it hurts. We need more collective action. We must trust each other enough as a community to struggle together to demand a better world.

When the time comes, who will keep their promises?

BY NKENGE HARMON JOHNSON

national shift back to the status quo. We endured politicians and some community rejecting the invitation to engage, understand, and collaborate. We had elected officials that attended multiple meetings, while never taking leadership on any policy items. County commissions that voted to stop talking to us while lacking the courage to invite us to the meeting to engage in public debate on the issues. Rather than inquire, they chose to undermine, ignore, or use their position to misrepresent

national shift back to status quo. We politicians and some community rejecting the invitation to engage, understand, and collaborate. had elected officials multiple meetings, while never taking leadership any policy items. County voted to stop talking to the courage to invite the meeting to public debate the issues. Rather they chose to undermine, ignore, or use their to misrepresent

And finally, we need more accountability from our elected officials. We need you to show up when we call. We need your inquiry when a policy demand scares you, we see enough of your fear. We need you to ask yourself “Why am I sitting this out?” when your colleagues are meeting with community leaders or engaging in issues you do not understand. We need you to govern like you know who you work for.

Accountability is a practice. Make it your practice. n

Justice Rajee is the Director of Reimagine Oregon, a director of Beaverton School Board, an organizer, activist, father, friend, and partner, animated by love of and energized by service to Black people.

Right out of the gate, the national media framed the 2020 Portland protests as they always do. They called it lawless. They called it grim. They made it sound that at any moment all hell was going to break loose. They made it sound like protesters were going to destroy every piece of property in the city. They made it sound like we were wild

eyed and without morals. Like beasts in the street.

Lawless.

Lawless is one man kneeling on another neck until he dies. Lawless is kicking down a door and shooting a woman in her home. I can think of a million little lawless acts a day.

And grim? You know what’s grim, is when a police officer kills a man with his knee on his neck and every

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single second of that is streamed to the world.

That’s grim.

The headlines set up the narrative that demanding civil rights is scary. Soon after, every random white person with a social media account was going to #BLM our way to an equal society. It was the “Great Awokening,” as I saw somebody put it.

Back then for Black folks, everywhere was an apology opportunity. In line at the grocery store? Some woman wants to apologize for the systemic racism you face every day.

Grabbing a latte? The barista just wants to let you know they took a comparative race and gender course, and they are so, so, so sorry things are the way they are.

“Thank you. Can I also get a bagel?”

With the apologies and pilot programs and little seedlings of investment comes a demand for public recognition. With every act of performative solidarity, there is a demand that the #ally be recognized. There are announcements supporting “major DEI initiatives.” There are promises of reform and renewal.

And soon after the apologies and the promises and the #BLM investments, there is always the pullout and backlash.

After some initial new investments, we have seen a significant divestment from the Black community in Portland.

And to be honest, I’m sick of being the fuss bucket. I struggled writing this piece because there are so many people I want to call out. So much hypocrisy and performance art masquerading as social change, and I just sick to death of thinking about it. Living in it. Living through it.

I’m sick of watching people abandon their promises. It makes me want justice.

Should I call out the financial institutions that promised to stand by our sides? The department stores? The politicians and titans of industry?

Where’d everyone go?

Who’s to blame them for bailing?

After all, in their media and their houses, the people who protest for civil rights are “lawless.” After all, our communities have been neglected and passed over.

Am I fussing enough?

Why do the Black communities get punished the most? Lower business ownership, higher incarceration rates, or average household income, bad health outcomes? Can I go on?

Or am I fussing too much?

If I ask the question why the hard work of “E Pluribus Unum” is never given a chance to go over budget, will I get an honest answer? How many more Immanueal Clarks, George Floyds, and Sandra Blands will there be before we’re finally comfortable enough to talk about it all?

And how you going to stand up — let alone stay up — if you can’t even talk about it?

So, things are left incomplete. The promised police and prosecutorial reforms. Accountability. Economic equity, educational funding… hell, a DEI class to remind those who need the reminder that they’re

I was in Selma recently to commemorate the 60th anniversary of Bloody Sunday, and I couldn’t help but notice just how few white people came to march. The U.S. writ large has no memory of Bloody Sunday. Every day where such is quarantined as “Black History,” and not marked as a day of national remembrance, the United States will be unjust and unequal.

“AFTER

APOLOGIES AND PROMISES, THERE IS ALWAYS THE PULLOUT AND BACKLASH.”

not the only people—and type of people—in the office. Each idea and program and attempt at progress is killed the moment it makes the power structure too uncomfortable or unprofitable.

Meanwhile, the same conditions exist. And with them, the same results. I hate to say it and wish it weren’t true, but there will be another Immanueal Clark. Another George Floyd. Another Breonna Taylor.

Who will turn up when the time comes for mass demonstrations? Will it be #fashionable now that we live in a world sick of hashtags? Will allies show up? I don’t know.

I also think of how much protest has changed. Certainly, from the 1960s, but even compared to the George Floyd uprisings just a few years before. The Portland Police have acquired “robotic dogs” from Boston Dynamic. Will they deploy them during a peaceful demonstration? Which weapons will authorities use to disperse peaceful crowds? Would the Trump administration deploy the same sonic assault that occurred this past March in Belgrade on peaceful protestors? Will the federal government deploy Tesla Robots to greet protesters? Can Tesla robots drink soda? If not, what will they do when Kylie Jenner shows up with Pepsis?

Then there’s the facial recognition, the harassment, the kettling, the deportations, the private prisons…. There are all the painful tools an oppressive government can deploy to make protestors pay. So who will turn up? Will allies have the courage and capacity to stand against white supremacy?

At what point does protesting become so unprofitable and detrimental for the person who attends that no one shows up? Who will brave this new world we find ourselves in to turn up? Will there be allies?

Will anyone hear their higher angels over the bellicose anger that stirs our society today? n

Nkenge Harmon Johnson is the President and CEO of the Urban League of Portland. A lifelong Oregonian, she previously worked in the Obama administration as a trade official and as a Congressional staffer.

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GEORGE FLOYD: SOME REFLECTIONS, SOME HOPE

What Portland gained and lost in the wake of George Floyd’s murder.

BY SHARON GARY-SMITH

An admirable journalist recently asked me a provocative question: what did I remember and imagine would be different after the murder of George Floyd? It took a moment to determine how I could answer it. 2020 was such a crazy year: the scourge of an out-of-control deadly viral disease spreading like wildfire, harming and dragging so many in its wake, upending life as we knew it. 2020 was that year. The murder of another Black person, this time a Black man whose crime—besides his race—was allegedly using a counterfeit bill in a corner store. Amid our many pandemic fears, we turned our attention to a heinous crime played out in broad daylight, on a street corner in Minneapolis on May 25th.

n admirable cently asked me provocative question: what remember and would be the murder of George took a determine I could it. 2020 was a crazy year: the out-of-control deadly viral disease spreading like wildfire, and dragging so many upending life we knew it. was year. The murder of Black person, this a man whose crime—be sides his a counterfeit in corner Amid pandemic fears, we turned attention a crime out broad daylight, on in Minneapolis on May 25th.

to be judge, jury, and executioner to end another man’s life because he felt he had that right—in America.

Kneeling over George Floyd, a Black man now lying on a street corner, immobilized by the officer and his colleagues, Derek Chauvin placed his knee on George’s throat and pressed hard enough for more than nine minutes to crush the breath from his body. The recording of this vicious action showed a cocky, unapologetic cop staring into the camera’s lens in an act of depraved indifference; defiant and unrepentant while George struggled, whimpered

ine. She gave me and the rest of the world an authentic, up close, live video of a diabolical act of murder in real time. No matter how often the murder of my people plays out, it’s always the first time for me. I was on hyper-alert, and everyone

“I BELIEVE MANY OF US CAN AND WILL CONTINUE TO RESIST.”

history of police encounters with Black residents that turn dangerous and often deadly, and are excused and explained away by police leadership, City officials, and the press.

No, this wasn’t the first time that a Black person was gunned down, killed for specious reasons by those wearing blue, those allowed to legally carry clubs and other weapons of mass destruction.

A white police officer again chose

A officer again chose

“I can’t breathe,” and cried out to his mother with his last breaths. No, none of us moved on that day. Not the young Black woman who was startled into action and pulled out her cellphone to record all that was happening and, as a result, became an unassuming hero -

white was suspected and in danger if they crossed me.

I believe that response and willingness to act out stems from knowing that my touted city of Portland, and by extension Oregon, has its own sordid and troublesome

The list of Black men, women, and children from Eleanor Bumpers, 66, to Ruth Whitfield, 86, to Sandra Bland, 28, to Breonna Taylor, 26, to Rayshard Brooks, 21, to Quwan Charles, 15, and so many more who have fallen to bullets fired by predominantly white law enforcement is very long, often hidden from plain sight and never-ending.

George Floyd’s killing made it a different murder, so visible and

MATHIEU LEWIS ROLLAND

visceral that it sparked a new sustained movement for justice: The early 2000s version of the 1960s. I couldn’t sit idle while there was real work to be done.

Black Lives Matter mobilized hundreds of thousands in the streets with clear and strategic demands for police accountability, reframing law enforcement to ensure equal justice in our communities, more resident participation in local policing, the deployment of financial resources to the neediest communities, to realize real, concrete long-lasting fixes.

There was also a strong sense of hope in the air as thousands took to the streets every day and night. There was excitement and intention among those of us who have been at this “thing called justice” for a long time. I believed that, surely, the sheer volume of our voices, the strength of our positions, the partnerships created in the streets, and the strategies being unveiled would lead to different conversations and real outcomes.

In 2020, our Portland NAACP branch, with a bright, courageous history in the Civil Rights movement, was rocked by the alleged and known scandalous behavior of a president who was intimidating, disrespectful to women and young people, overriding others trying to speak at branch meetings, and choosing a singular decision-maker style. A long investigation into this leader yielded a jaw-dropping exposé by this newspaper and pushed our branch into the center of attention in Portland and beyond.

forward with proclamations of solidarity with Black communities, though many of us believed those “statements” of alignment with the principles of justice were probably written by BIPOC staff or borrowed from others and posted on websites. No evidence they could or would make a difference.

In contrast to many empty gestures by our electeds, People for Portland emerged as a well-financed $1.5 million dark money campaign supported by business leaders. It stated its commitment to more police (although crime rates aren’t determined by offi -

hand-tied from any real actions or decision-making. The City and Mayor continually skirted responsibility for their failure to hold the PPB accountable for demonstrating progress in developing training and new protocols to eliminate excessive use of force, especially against those deemed to be suffering mental health issues. Nothing much has changed.

So, here I sit a few months before the fifth-year anniversary of the killing of George Floyd by a depraved, indifferent American police officer. I sit with the realization that little has changed, that more

nities for side-by-side intergenerational and multigenerational living environments.

Yes, there is an uprising in creativity and culture with storytelling and filmmaking, capturing our regular and extraordinary lives, offering future dreams to our youth.

cer numbers), and more shelters (although “shelter enforcement” is the term used privately with its secret donors). This focus on stronger law and order, demonizing those who were poor, lower income, unhoused, people of color; those who didn’t fit their version of Portland people, and a nostalgia for “the good ole days” gained traction. Nothing much changed.

stays the same.

Though a number of us became new visible leaders reclaiming our branch, when George Floyd was murdered, we quickly paused our activities to bear witness and participate in the George Floyd protests of “sustained, street activism,” in our little City of Roses. I watched as politicians sprang

Yes, before 2020, Mayor Wheeler brought to town a supposedly new era police chief, a Black woman, a first, but who proved to be a more traditional tough-on-crime accomplice.

Yes, there was the appointment of a police-community review board that held meetings, but was

Yet, there are glimpses from within my community that reclamation and restoration is possible—in response to housing scarcity, economic uncertainty, and loss of confidence in our government, a community-based development organization is preparing to open its first affordable housing apartment in the heart of what is Portland’s historic Albina neighborhood, with plans over the next decade to provide over 1000 new apartments and homes for Black Portlanders who want to return to their “hood.” Yes, there are Blackled investments in public schools, community gathering spaces, safe, engaged neighborhoods, opportu -

Yes, the Portland City Council has been reshaped from four commissioners and a mayor to 12 City Council members, a Mayor, and City Administrator, to deliver more inclusive representation for all Portlanders, including those long-ignored and neglected. However, it’s too new to tell. These moments remind me of the enduring faith, hope, and resilience all around me, grounded in Black love and community. These were the values that I found embedded in the Black Lives Matter movement, and our willingness to not let the old guard power brokers and influencers dictate what can and will be our lives in this city, in our communities. Despite the current slide from democracy by the newly elected president of the United States, a professed wannabe dictator and king, I believe many of us can and will continue to resist, to stand up, speak out, be in solidarity, act as co-conspirators in the fight for real racial and social justice.

George Floyd’s fifth-year death anniversary presents another opportunity to march forward, to reflect, recapture, and remember that we are fighting for real long-lasting justice, especially for those who look like me. It is our right and legacy. George Floyd, Rest in Peace. n

Sharon Gary-Smith is the former president of the Portland NAACP, a long-time racial and social justice freedom fighter and women rights activist. She is an unapologetic and proud Albina District-Portland daughter, sister, mother, and community leader.

MARIAH DANCE / MOMENTS BY MARIAH PHOTOGRAPHY

INVESTMENT FOR THE PEOPLE

How the 1803 Fund became a catalyst for investment in Portland’s Black community.

BY RUKAIYAH ADAMS AND JUMA SEI

The 1803 Fund—an investment fund created by and for Black Portlanders, that seeks rooted, prosperous life for Black folks in the city—has three program areas that guide its investment practice, both into community partnerships and real assets:

Place - Investments that create and preserve homes, structures, and infrastructure.

Culture - Investments that enrich Portland vibrant Black culture.

Education - Investments into the wellbeing of Black youth and the communities that surround them.

Rukaiyah Adams wrote the first business concept for 1803 Fund in 2020, born from a desire to do something transformative for Black folks in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. Juma Sei joined 1803 in 2024, moving home to Portland to run the fund’s communications practice.

The following exchange between Adams and Sei reflects on how the 1803 Fund came to be, and how Portland is the core of its vision for national impact.

mywordisbond.org mywordisbond.org

“Boy, get your ass home, like right now.” Where were you that Spring?

Rukaiyah: I was in Los Angeles on a business trip. I went out to dinner and, when I got back to my hotel, there was a note at my door. It basically said, “The state of California has been closed down. You must leave.” I stuffed as much as I could into a suitcase, ran to LAX, and was one of the last people on a flight to Portland that night.

Empowering young Black men ages 14-20

We unapologetically serve young Black men, including African American and African immigrant youth.

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my mom gave me a call and was like,

Juma: I viscerally remember where I was in early 2020 when I heard the US had entered a state of emergency. I was in DC for spring break, then Trump came on the TV–that’s when my mom gave me a call and was like,

I remember the logistical nightmare and the fear of getting sick when I got on the plane. I also remember buying groceries when I got home. By the time I got to Fred Meyer, it was cleaned out. So I went grocery shopping at CVS and bought what I could. I also remember watching the capital mar-

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kets going crazy. At the time, I was Chief Investment Officer at Meyer Memorial Trust.

Juma : It seems like this was a moment of both personal and professional rupture?

Rukaiyah: Yeah, it was striking to see how public health literally shut down global markets. I probably realized how serious it was when New York had those refrigerated trucks holding bodies. That was like, “Oh, no, this is a bad situation.”

Juma: That summer was a transformational moment—not just in Portland history, but national history: the murder of Mr. Floyd; before that, Breonna Taylor; before that, Ahmaud Arbery.

Rukaiyah : Yeah, I was often on the street, and my husband volunteered to feed protesters. I was very sensitive to the discussion about property at that time. I was thinking deeply about “what is property” and “who has authority to express outrage at the destruction of it?” My other thought at that time was, “how do we even talk to each other?”

A lot of our downtown business owners didn’t understand why people were not more sympathetic to the destruction of physical property downtown. What they couldn’t hear from protesters was, “Why aren’t you more upset with the destruction of humans who were once considered property?”

Juma : I’ve heard you talk about the Rodney King moment and what that meant for you growing up. I wonder if you see any throughline between what you felt then and what you were feeling in 2020?

Rukaiyah : So I was your age when Rodney King was murdered. I definitely see a throughline between then and 2020. But there’s a third crossroads for me too: the great financial crisis and Occupy movement. It felt like the people in those encampments were trying to communicate with people like me.

Juma: Were you on Wall Street at the time?

Rukaiyah : No, I was here in Portland. I was running the investment division at The Standard. At that time, I needed to map some of the ideas I’d heard from protesters to my investing practice. [For example], if people in the camps are saying “the rent is too damn high,” then I need to look at my portfolio and ask, “Do I care if I’m a part of the reason why the rent is so damn

“EVERYBODY LIKES A WOMAN WITH POTENTIAL—NOT MANY LIKE IT WHEN SHE USES HER POWER.”

high? Are my demands of 15% and 17% returns from multi-family housing causing a social problem that’s worse than the value of the return that I get from it?”

It took me the better part of a decade to become the kind of investor who could hear the social criticism of the Occupy movement and respond to that with capital. But it’s that call and response that helped me see my life’s work: to take the communication of these protests and translate that into our capitalist model. In the case of the 1803 Fund, it took time, maturity, networks, and success. I had power.

Juma: So when did you write the business plan for 1803?

Rukaiyah : I’ve been thinking about the need for this fund forever, but I finally had the time in 2020. I started writing in April, but I was stalled. Then George Floyd happened and it gave me fire.

Juma: When I started this role, you told me to look back at that

business plan to inform how I tell the story of this fund. You wrote, “The time has come to be bold, ambitious and optimistic.” Where do you find your boldness, ambition, and optimism?

Rukaiyah: That’s almost a message for this moment as well. Philanthropy and so much of society at that time retracted in fear–that didn’t feel right to me. I also felt optimistic about our democracy. I felt like it was worth fighting for.

The day of the die-in on the bridge, I also had this sense that your generation was the first that had actually ever lived [as full Americans]. Before that moment, we’d just been talking about being Americans–aspiring to be Americans. But we’ve known that we were hypocrites about it. We knew we were not actually living up to the ideals that we set out.

Fast forward to 2020, we’re in a multiracial democracy, having a conversation, not just about what America would become, but what America really is. To me, it was exciting.

Juma : Because these larger conversations were on the table more than ever before?

Rukaiyah : Because we had the power to put them on the table.

Juma: It’s hard for me to reconcile that kind of power with the fact that a police officer knelt on someone’s neck for over nine minutes, you know? I think there’s like some kind of Sisyphus quality to where we’re at.

Rukaiyah: Well, I’m optimistic, but I want to be sharp: I was optimistic because I thought that we were making progress into becoming the America that we envisioned when we declared independence. In the years since, I’ve been less

optimistic. We are experiencing a second post-Reconstruction right now. And we will be rebuilding for the next few generations.

But I want to go back to a question you had earlier about power. This is a big deal: it felt, to me, like I had been building influence and respect my whole life. I was hoarding and banking it, thinking that to amass influence and respect is power. It’s not. Using it is power.

In using it and trying to raise 1803, I’ve learned a lot: everybody likes a woman with potential—not that many people like it when she actually uses her power.

Juma : Something I’ve appreci -

ical journey, not away from something, but towards something. It’s not un-migration, but I think it’s realization, and that psychographic move to realizing Americanness was visualized on that bridge to us. It’s also visualized in the formation of 1803.

I think we are on a journey. It’s not a physical journey anymore–we’ve dead-ended into the ocean. Now, the journey for us is to understand what it means to be an American, and what power we have to define our economy and our democracy. That is a mental leap: from being an object in this system that can be vulnerable, on a street in Minneapolis, to being a subject in control of capital and the direction of the country.

That leap is the understanding that we don’t need to run anymore… and I think we’re making that jump as a people. And it’s exciting–it’s exciting that 500 years of social justice work has led to this moment, and we’re the ones who get to make the jump. It’s unfortunate that violence is what catalyzed it, but I don’t think we should just watch and feel shame about Mr. Floyd’s murder.

I think we have to be transformed. n

ated most about coming to 1803 is how you’ve challenged me to write from a powerful, optimistic, and abundant perspective–one that presumes we have enough. Why did that feel so important to bake into an organization like this?

ated about coming 1803 how challenged to write from powerful, and abundant perspective–one presumes we have Why did that feel so important to an organization like

Rukaiyah: The defining feature of our species is language. In order to make progress, we have to make the language of progress.

Much of Black social justice lexicon is petitioning–it’s pleading, responding. I wanted us to stop asking for regard for our humanity, and instead, step into the power that we have and assert ourselves in a language and tone that we define.

The defining feature of species is language. to make progress, we the language of of social justice lexicon petitioning–it’s responding. I us to asking for our ty, instead, step into that we have and in a language and tone that we

We often think power is bad and that aspiring to it is greedy and self-interested. But the reality is that in order for things to improve for all of us, some of us have to get it, and some of us have to use it. Getting comfortable using power for our collective benefit was my journey of 2020.

Juma : It’s beautiful to see how that idea has materialized as a fund that’s now directing money into community.

I’m going to ask a 30,000 foot question: When I moved home to start at 1803, I drove cross-country from Atlanta. It was spiritual to follow the Great Migration trail–and

with it–the history of Black folks that made it out to Oregon.

You’ve talked about how Black folks that migrated to Portland are the wild ones—who travelled as far as they could to seek opportunity. That was part of my personal motivation to come home. I’m interested in how you see yourself in that history of wild ones, and what you think will be possible for our fund in the future.

Rukaiyah: For a long time, Black folks have been on the move. We’ve been migrating geographically and physically, running away from something. In 2020 I think we were able to make this psycholog -

For more information about 1803 Fund and how to get involved with its work visit 1803fund.com.

Rukaiyah Adams is the CEO of the 1803 Fund—an organization that invests in and for Black Portland, seeking both social and financial return. The work is often described as investing for the people. She is a long time investor, thought leader, and a champion of the city of Portland.

Juma Sei grew up across the United States, Sierra Leone, and China. But Portland is home. He returned in the fall of 2024 to run communications for 1803 Fund, pulling from his experience reporting for NPR and member stations across the country.

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FOR I SEE NO OTHER WAY

Why abolishing the police is the only choice.

BY MAC SMIFF

I’m often asked why I came to identify as an abolitionist. Frankly, I don’t see any other option.

Since the great awakening of 2020, reimagining has become all the rage in progressive circles. Referencing John Brown and Susan B. Anthony, both anarchists and fairly liberal people have taken to reimagining themselves as abolitionists, focused on the liberation of all oppressed people.

As “Defund the Police” and “Black Lives Matter” patches made way for Ukrainian flags, Pride symbology, Israeli flags, and eventually watermelons, nonprofi ts began to flirt with the idea of calling tax-deductible charity work “mutual aid,” all while the police continued to kill more and more civilians each year under the Democratic president who was supposed to save us from Donald Trump’s vision of America. Despite being jailed by police and notably assaulted by the US military, I’ll never regret joining the fray in 2020. But I’ll never forget the disorganization, ignorance, and egos that allowed our cause of dismantling the Portland Police as we know them to be undermined, commodified, and ultimately silenced. Imagination is a core component of liberation; indeed, it is a necessary ingredient for any concept of self-determination. Imagination allows us to problem-solve simple and complex issues, to step off of the written page, and to create pathways that never existed before. But imagining doesn’t change our material reality. To boot, Oregonians have been “reimagining” public

safety for the last five years, and materially, very little has changed regarding policing in our state.

From 2021 through 2024, police in Oregon killed another 78 people, compared to 51 in the four years prior. Clearly, imagination has its limits, especially when we only imagine within the framework of what already exists.

In 2020—a year that saw an unprecedented 6,000+ documented uses of force by the Portland Police Bureau—citizens of Portland reimagined police oversight, drafting and passing the most restrictive police oversight bill in the nation with more than 70 percent of voting Portlanders in favor. This effort

came three years after City Council passed a resolution demanding that police wear body cameras. In 2022, a measure was passed to ensure background checks and training for firearm buyers in an effort to reduce civilian gun crime. As of 2025, the oversight board does not exist, the gun control measure remains held up in the courts, and a bodycam policy that ironically eschews transparency finally took effect in 2024. Apparently, democracy too has its limits, especially when those tasked with enforcing the laws are themselves above it.

The Portland Police Association (PPA), the longest active police union in the nation, has a long

history of outsized power. The first president of the PPA, Otto Meiners, was a member of the German-American Bund, a group created to promote Nazi values, and for 82 years they’ve kept their foot on the pedal, pestering Black people and defending racist and abusive police. As recently as 2021, thenPPA president Brian Hunzeker and two other officers were caught attempting to frame the first Black woman to sit on City Council, Jo Ann Hardesty. This stunt cost the union $680,000 in a 2023 court settlement, and Hunzeker was fired by Mayor Wheeler, only to be reinstated on a union challenge that the punishment was “dispro-

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portionate” and exceeded the precedent “standards of discipline in the Bureau.” None of this is listed on the City of Portland’s History of the Police Bureau webpage, probably because the union negotiated a contract that mandates that the City must not “embarrass” police officers caught breaking the law.

Living in a nation with a recent history of racial slavery and apartheid that maintains the most prisoners in the world, where 69 percent of the inmates are of the global majority, and there exists a constitutional amendment that allows prisoners to be used for slave labor, there seems to be clear imperative for reigning in police abuse, especially when the police are protected by an association born of Nazi and KKK influence. Personally, I struggle to see this as complicated.

This is where the how comes into question. Often framed in the false binary of reform versus abolition, changing how we achieve community safety is the big money question. So let’s talk money. When a department within a company is failing, we almost always resolve the issue by drastically cutting funds and eliminating the problematic employees, right? In more cases, we eliminate the department altogether. Think about it. When was the last time a company failed to meet any of its goals and everyone got a raise, new cars, a plane, and a 20 percent budget increase? The only applicable answer is the police. And no other company fails goals like the police do. Between murdering and assaulting their customers in the thousands, failing to solve the majority of their cases, failing to prevent crime, using their badges to enrich themselves, intimidating lawmakers,

portionate” the precedent “standards discipline in the Bureau.” of this is listed on the City Portland’s History the Police ably because the negotiated a that mandates City must not “embarrass” officers breaking the Living in a with a recent history of racial slavery heid maintains most oners the world, where 69 percent of the inmates are of the majority, a constitutional amendment that prisoners be slave there be clear for police cially are by an born of Nazi KKK influence. Personally, I gle to see this complicated. where the comes into question. Often framed false binary of reform versus abolition, changing how achieve community safety the big money So let’s talk money. When a ment within a company failing, we almost resolve by tically and eliminating atic employees, In more we the department er. Think about it. was the last time a pany failed its a raise, new plane, and 20 percent budget increase? only cable answer the And other company goals like the police do. Between murdering saulting their in thousands, failing solve of their cases, failing to crime, es to enrich themselves, intimidating

and defending racism, there’s not a legal industry that even comes close. Still, large swaths of society view the police’s unchecked power as necessary for the “greater good.”

Yet, as we reflect on the current times, where human rights such as abortion and free speech are under

“ABOLITION IS NEITHER A CALL FOR ANARCHY NOR VIOLENCE.”

attack nationwide, who is it that is tasked to arrest women crossing state lines to terminate their pregnancies? Who is tasked with arresting college students for expressing their political beliefs? Who is tasked to work with ICE to detain immigrants in schools and places of worship? In many states around

the country, who arrests citizens for feeding the homeless? The reality is that police are but a single option in an array of tools that can be used to increase public safety, and when we use a single tool to try and fix everything, we not only endanger the entire project, but we lose sight of the tools—such as education, shared wealth, and mental health access— that truly keep us safe.

I realize that when most people inquire about abolition, they’re usually having thoughts of violent revolution. People worry about destruction, chaos—anarchy. They worry about being able to get to work, their Tesla getting spray painted, or going to the supermarket to get imported avocados at any time of the year.

Abolition is neither a call for anarchy nor violence. Abolition is the goal of dismantling laws and systems that do not serve us—by any means necessary.

Few abolitionists believe that fi ghting the armed forces of their

city, state, or nation is a winning strategy. This isn’t 1794 France, nor Cuba in 1959. Despite whatever aesthetics people get off on, nobody is wheeling a guillotine down to City Hall to collect heads. Personally, I believe that we should be building and patronizing systems that do serve us, so that we can starve those systems that don’t. It sounds simple (and it is!), but the world that we live in is intricately connected, and so many of us depend on broken systems because we lack the education and discipline to exercise our freedom from them. This is why diverse communities are so important. If I can farm, and you can sew, and she can teach, and he can cook, we can start to break away from the systems that keep us in danger. If we can start to divest from companies that abandon our values, then we can begin to support companies that do. If we can stop calling the cops on each other, and start modeling what it means to live in community, then we can start to defund the public services that we don’t want. I aim to follow in the footsteps of the long tradition of Black abolitionists that came before me. From Fredrick Douglas to Harriet Tubman, Paul Cuffe to Toussaint Louverture, the lessons of our ancestors light the way forward. And frankly, I don’t see another option. n

Mac Smiff is a father of four and a goat herder who’s better known for his journalism, community-building, and activism around Black culture and housing. He currently consults for Ease & Abundance LLC, operates the online blog We Out Here Magazine, curates The THESIS, and manages a JOHS-funded housing program for Ground Score Association.

DOUG BROWN

SYMBOLS MATTER

Five years after the global protests following George Floyd’s murder, what do the demonstrations mean for the future?

BY DONOVAN SCRIBES (FKA DONOVAN M. SMITH)

“First, I must confess that over the last few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Council-er or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate who is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice; who pre-

fers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says ‘I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I can’t agree with your methods of direct action;’ who paternalistically feels he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by the myth of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait

until a ‘more convenient season.’ Shallow understanding from people of goodwill is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.”

Martin Luther King, “Letter from A Birmingham Jail,” 1963

PHOTO

ANDREW WALLNER

II’m going to be honest: I’ve always been skeptical about the term “Black Lives Matter.” Not the intention behind it, but the phrasing. With all due respect to Alicia Garza and Patrisse Cullors, the Black women who gave birth to this term, it has always felt like a rallying cry of “Water is Wet!” or “The Stove is Hot!” or even “Make America Pay Reparations!”—oh wait. “Of course my fucking life matters,” I’ve always thought. No matter what outside forces try to convince the masses, melanin is magic, majestic, ordinary, and ornery. I don’t subscribe to the idea that Black lives are less valuable. We matter. I know it.

’m going to be honest: I’ve always been skeptical about the term “Black Lives Matter.” Not the intention behind it, but the phrasing. With all due respect to Alicia Garza and Patrisse Cullors, the Black women who gave birth to this term, it has always felt like a rallying cry of “Water is Wet!” or “The Stove is Hot!” or even “Make America Pay Reparations!”—oh wait. “Of course my fucking life matters,” I’ve always thought. No matter what outside forces try to convince the masses, melanin is magic, majestic, ordinary, and ornery. I don’t subscribe to the idea that Black lives are less valuable. We matter. I know it.

But for over a decade, this phrase has served as the go-to banner for a movement pushing for our lives to exist fully, without threats, barriers, and degradation. It’s with this knowledge I must acknowledge that every movement transforms, after all. From “I Am a Man” to “Black Lives Matter.” From “In God We Trust” to “Make America Great Again.”

On June 5, 2020, the city of Washington, DC, commissioned a mural stretching two city blocks with the simple phrase “BLACK LIVES MATTER” in bold yellow letters. This street painting, located just three minutes from the White House, emerged amid the national outrage sparked by George Floyd’s brutal murder by police less than two weeks earlier. The streets were on fire—some precincts literally were. The pandemic had just forced millions to witness the horror of a man being killed while his brothers in blue stood by. The dots were starting to connect for some: Maybe this wasn’t just a series of isolated incidents. Maybe this was part of a much larger problem.

or person in a very short amount of time. Coincidentally, so do American flags—but that’s another conversation. That line might offend my political connects.

But I digress.

Black Lives Matter Plaza became a form of protest, but also validation. And while “Black Lives Matter” isn’t my preferred rallying cry, I have to admit it felt good to

ery wasn’t just a moral issue—it was deeply economic, the backbone of this nation’s growth. Some learned that modern police departments in America evolved from “slave patrols,” whose primary task was capturing runaway enslaved people, who were considered above all, property. As the layers of history were peeled back, many of the symbols around us began to look

The mural, which became known as Black Lives Matter Plaza, was symbolic. And contrary to the sentiments of some, symbolic gestures do indeed matter. For example, a swastika tells me a lot about a place

see it carved out in the concrete. Key word: “felt”—past tense. At the time of writing this, the Trump administration and his allies in Congress began dismantling the mural. The process of destroying it is expected to take between six and eight weeks. They say the mural will be replaced with “more inclusive” works. Republicans are even working on renaming the area, “Liberty Plaza.”

Symbols matter.

2020 marked a time when some began reevaluating the symbols that color, and in many ways direct, our lives. Some learned that the Confederacy wasn’t the only entity responsible for enslaving people; presidents of the Union were too. Some learned that slav -

Jefferson was toppled in front of the once majority Black high school named after him. The 19th century co-owner and publisher of The Oregonian , Harvey Scott, felt the weight of gravity too; replaced by a bronze bust of York—the Black man who helped lead the Oregon Trail alongside Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, only to be returned to slavery at the end of the expedition. (York’s bust was later toppled, too.)

Grappling with this growing phenomenon of fallen statues, I wrote an article for Street Roots around this time titled “Racist Slurs Permeate Oregon Geography,” in which I detailed how an alarming number of rivers, streams, mountains, and more across my state were originally named after anti-Black slurs like Nigger Ben Mountain and Nigger Brown Canyon—some of which have been renamed since. The point was clear: in order to topple racism, we must do so at both the head and root, for it is in fact embedded throughout the soil of this stolen land.

“HUNDREDS OF STATUES WERE DETHRONED, NOT BY A VOTE, BUT BY WRATH.”

more like scars than stars. And so the monuments started to fall. Hundreds of statues were dethroned, not by a vote, but by wrath. In my hometown of Portland, Oregon, symbols came tumbling down faster than shit in the Willamette River on a rainy day in the 90’s. George Washington fell. Thomas

George Floyd, like Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and so many others, are symbols—a stand-in for any Black life. We understood that what happened to them could happen to any of us at any time in this country. Because it does all the time. Sudden death. Slow death. The system loves to kill, and then throw up a shrine to your murderers.

The Burnside Bridge in Portland is one of the many connecting points across the Willamette River, helping the city earn its nickname “Bridgetown.” For me though, the Burnside Bridge had always been little more than a channel from point A to point B. But on June 2, 2020, it became the center of the universe.

On that day, thousands of people gathered on the bridge. Estimates say more than 10,000 souls flooded the Burnside. I never watched the video of George Floyd’s final

The toppled statue of President Thomas Jefferson, outside of Jefferson High School in North Portland.

ALEX MILAN TRACY

moments. I’d seen enough clips of state violence to know the horror, and I didn’t feel the need to bear witness to his murder either. It was 17-year-old Darnella Frazier’s recording of George Floyd’s murder that gave the world a front row seat to his particularly cruel last moments. It was the existence of her video of his execution, paired with the hollowness of a pandemic that propelled so many millions around the globe to say his name; and thus ours. But for me, I did not need to see to know. I watched the livestream as 10,000 souls stood silently, face down with hands behind their backs for nine minutes—the exact length of time Derek Chauvin pressed his knee into George Floyd’s neck. And for a moment, watching this scene, I thought maybe, just maybe, a change might come.

That moment on the Burnside Bridge was powerful. A symbol of solidarity. A symbol of pain. A symbol of possibility. A symbol of 400 years of oppression. A symbol of awareness. A symbol that Black Lives more than matter; and therefore a symbol that a change must come now.

I was proud. Dare I say, I was starting to feel some hope.

The protests that followed George Floyd’s death were the largest in U.S. history. They weren’t confined to cities—they spread to suburbs, rural areas, and eventually to the world. From Portland to Poland, people joined the movement for Black lives, creating millions of new co-conspirators from all backgrounds. For a while, I wondered if the world was finally catching up to the way we’ve been catching hell. Could it be that America was beginning to “get it”?

But 100+ days later, the protests gave way to distraction. Infighting, fatigue, and the usual tactics used by three letter agencies to dismantle Black liberation movements began to crystallize their grip. My pessimism was reignited.

It’s not that the protests didn’t accomplish anything—they did. To suggest otherwise gives over-inflated credit to white mediocrity. We marched and learned. We shared stories and space. We cried, we gave. We pushed back. We reclaimed shit that’s been ours. That perfect storm, we rode it ‘til the wheels fell off.

“SYMBOLS SHOULD INSPIRE, BUT THEY SHOULDN’T AND CAN NEVER REPLACE ACTION.”

It’s 2025 now, and the storm has indeed passed. But the reality hasn’t. When would another moment like this come again? One where a viral pandemic sat the entire world down for months to show us our collective frailty? One where that same pandemic is paired with the death of a Black man in such a horrific way, that it compels millions to risk their health and very bodies in the midst of a global emergency, because finally we collectively understood that the emergency for Black people had been viral long before COVID-19.

It won’t. It won’t ever happen again. IT WON’T!

However, Black people will continue to die. In the five years since George Floyd, many more have, whether directly at the hands of the state or more covertly through systemic forces. Despite this, Black resistance persists. From Pan-Africans to the Panthers, the Urban League to the NAACP, seasoned activists to the next baton-carriers birthed out this leg of the Black Lives Matter movement; resistance

remains varied but persistent. I too, persist. I wake up every day and do what I do; I protest. I write. I organize. I make art. I connect. I strategize. I tell the stories of our greatness. I raise two little girls to be conscious of the world they’re coming up in, giving them a little bit more truth with every milestone, so they do in fact understand that water is wet, the stove is hot, and that America should pay reparations.

But I cannot yet tell them what world they will inherit.

One of the most striking quotes from Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is, “the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice.” I first heard these words, revived by Rev. Dr. Leroy Haynes Jr., while covering a rally against police violence across the street from Portland City Hall as a reporter more than a decade ago. They always stuck with me. The older I get now though—especially since 2020—I fear those words were just pretty prose.

The words King subsequently spoke towards the closing chapter of his life resonate more strongly these days: “I fear I may have integrated my people into a burning house.”

Quote that at your next MLK Day get-together.

As the common symbol of the Civil Rights movement and the de-facto figurehead for American progress, King’s words now feel more relevant than ever. Liberals love to blame Trump and the Republicans for the flames, but there are plenty on the other “side” who have forgotten the Burnside Bridge. There are many who have since seen the Burnside Bridge in 2020 and decided it would make for good art, a nice social media post, and “powerful” conversation, but continuous action was a step or two too far today. For many it seems George Floyd’s face is more like a Nirvana t-shirt today. The system is flawed, but not that bad. That’s the problem with symbols.

Symbols should inspire, but they shouldn’t and can never replace action.

The erasure of Black Lives Matter Plaza in D.C. doesn’t stop the work I do, but it is a reminder of the times we’re in. It’s a reminder of how quickly some have sprinted from 2020 into “moderation.”

It’s a reminder that the unapologetically progressive (and absurdly accomplished) Commissioner Jo Ann Hardesty was replaced by lawand-order conservative (and mostly absurd) Rene Gonzalez on Portland City Council; or like Oregon Democrats and Republicans teaming up to roll back Measure 110 and recriminalize addiction; or like Intisar Abioto raising a million dollars to reclaim the house of the Portland NAACP founder only to be undercut by a White Realtor and White buyers; and like the 2020 protests being reduced into “discourse” of “riots” that we must “clean up” after—America is back to its regularly scheduled programming. And the fire is burning.

Five years later, George Floyd is no longer just a man. He’s a symbol—a reminder of America’s blood on the roots, and the leaves. I know what I see when I see George Floyd. What about you?

Five years later, it feels like it did six years ago.

Five years later, we’ve returned to “normal.”

And now, perhaps, the fire is burning hotter than ever.

So, when I’m gray-haired (God willing), driving across the Burnside Bridge with Black Lives Matter fading in the rearview, I wonder: Will I be crossing into the ashes or a new beginning? Only time will tell.

Maybe all that “care” was just… symbolic. n

Donovan Scribes is an award-winning writer, producer, and owner of the communications consulting firm D Scribes LLC. The former VP of the Portland NAACP, he’s secured major policy and investment victories throughout his career.