Goodbye, Ethos
Letter From The Editor Our Mission
I am grateful to have been an editorin-chief for such an astounding staff. I could not have been prouder of the content we have published. And I can say with full confidence: good work. When I started at Ethos around this time last year, I had a lot of big ideas. Now I am here again, different and changed, and I am thankful for all I have learned this year.
In this issue of Ethos, we have stories about food insecurity, family, and petitioners. We have stories about the daily life of an artist and the work of community theaters to keep each other afloat. We have stories about a woman’s right to rage and an essay on the Madonna-whore complex. All of these stories are a snapshot to the culture which makes up the University of Oregon.
We have a culture of protest at the university, which is just another way of saying we have community. We take care of us, and I am honored that we are able to tell each other’s stories.
Cover: Austin Sandersfeld
To all of us people who live in defiance of another’s comfort, of an administration, I want to say, “You survived.” And I am so glad for the opportunity to share a few of your stories in this magazine.
Thank you to everyone who participated in the creation of this issue. Thank you to everyone who answered our questions, posed for photographs. All of this effort (and more) has culminated into the final issue of Ethos
Good work. Live well. Survive.
Editor-In-Chief Stella Fetherston
Ethos is a nationally recognized, award-winning independent student publication. Our mission is to elevate the voices of marginalized people who are underrepresented in the media landscape and to write in-depth, human-focused stories about the issues affecting them. We also strive to support our diverse student staff and to help them find future success.
Ethos is part of Emerald Media Group, a non-profit organization that’s fully independent of the University of Oregon. Students maintain complete editorial control over Ethos and work tirelessly to produce the magazine.
Email editor@ethosmagonline.com with comments, questions and story ideas. You can find our past issues at issuu.com/ethosmag and more stories, including multimedia content, at ethosmagonline.com.
the power of a signature
Often-ignored student petitioners advocate for change and involvement within the student body
Words Ana Haapala
Photos Andrew Saylor, Henry Schutt | Design Ryan Ehrhart
In the thin, cold air that accompanies winter term, students walk past empty street corners and intersections, undisturbed. They barely notice the absence of a small, persistent faction of students — the petitioners. As the spring arrives, so does the rebirth of on-campus canvassing and tabling — fellow students, standing on the thawing pavement, collecting signatures for initiatives. Though it is an opportune time for these advocates and organizers, they often get the impression that the general student body is reluctant to stop when approached.
“You learn to hear ‘no’ and be ignored a lot. You really learn how to be rejected,” said sophomore Carter Polzel. Izzy Shepler, a junior, agreed with Polzel’s sentiment, saying that “it’s like exposure therapy” as they become accustomed to being dismissed. Polzel and Shepler are part of Oregon Student Public Interest Research Group (OSPIRG) at the University of Oregon. Between them, they have years of experience with both petitioning around campus and being avoided by most students passing by. But Shepler and Polzel, like many other petitioners, don’t let rejection or vague disinterest dissuade them from continuing to strive for change.
Petitions, whether at the school-wide or state-wide level, are presented to an individual in power to highlight the importance of an issue for their constituents, students or voters. The more signatures a petition has, the more pressure is placed on bringing action to the initiative. In the state of Oregon, if a petition receives only a thousand signatures, it has the opportunity to be placed on the ballot for all voters to see. According to Change.org, one of the most popular online petition sites, there are 42 live petitions in Eugene at press time. And this only includes online initiatives, not physical petitions that many organizations, such as OSPIRG, utilize. Some of these online petitions already have over a thousand signatures.
Alex Aghdaei gathers signatures in support of The Student Basic Needs and Workforce Stabilization Act on behalf of Partners for a Hunger-Free Oregon on March 7, 2025.
Although petitions are just one aspect of advocacy and social justice, they are unique in their wide scope.
In many petitioners’ opinion, it’s easier to get students to write down their name and email on a piece of paper than to carve time out of their day to participate in a protest. Sophomore Sasha First, from UO’s branch of Young Democratic Socialists of America, called signature-based documents like petitions “the easiest way to show that something has popular support.” Petitions harness the untapped influence of a student body who may not otherwise participate in activism. According to Polzel, “It’s really important to reach a large number of people that have a voice but aren’t using it.”
Alex Aghdaei, a senior involved in Save Oregon Students and Partners for a Hunger-Free Oregon, is also familiar with students’ disregard towards him when he’s out collecting signatures. But, like his fellow petitioners, he tries to have fun with it too. “I have a masochistic joy that I get out of doing it,” Aghdaei said, “I just think it’s fun, and I try to make it fun and do funny things.” “Funny things” include dressing up as George Washington to encourage students to register to vote and enlisting the help of a dog to promote his organization’s petition.
First echoed this view. “I think it’s pretty fun to be the one out there,” she said, “you know, like talking to people and getting their opinion, getting their signature, learning a bit about them.” Even though, as First and others suggested, petitioning can be challenging, it is incredibly important.
“If I’m a legislator, I want to know that the people in my district actually really care about this issue,” Aghdaei said. The same is true for university administrators. Another sophomore involved in OSPIRG, Kali Kleven, explained that petitions have the ability to say to universities, “These are all your students and they’re telling you what they want — you should listen to them.”
But, many student petitioners acknowledge that these documents can only go so far. Written requests and communication are typically combined with other action — a signature alone is not enough to spark transformation. “The truth is,” said Aghdaei, “signing the petition doesn’t do anything, but it builds power.”
It builds power by stressing the urgency of an issue to administrators, but it also builds power by inspiring others to get further involved. In First’s opinion, petitions are a great opportunity for “a teaching moment and maybe to get someone into your
containing female rage
Words Lily Reese | Photos Natalie Mathis | Illustration Stephanie Yang | Design Kayla Chang
The fetishization and silencing of angry women
It is romanticized as something dark and alluring, yet written off as mere hysteria, a hormonal impulse or a psychological flaw. It becomes a spectacle to be observed, even admired but rarely respected or taken seriously.
Art student Ava Murakami shares her experience in University of Oregon’s Art and Design program
Words Ana Haapala
Photos Andrew Saylor
Illustrations Jake Borja
Design Abigail Raike
It was a Sunday night and Ava Murakami, a sophomore in the University of Oregon’s Art and Design program, was still in the studio. As she pressed color after color onto the canvas, she watched the sun arc over the high windows in the painting classroom and descend behind the trees. It’s dark now, but she still has an hour or so to go before she feels like she can return home. The painting is much taller than her and depicts a jazz club in the midst of a lively performance. As the evening gets colder, she brushes warm rusts, maroons and vermilions into saxophones, shirt collars and ponytails. Though she doesn’t strive for realism, her distinct and precise style pulls viewers into the brief, hovering moment captured in the painting.
The jazz club scene has dominated Murakami’s headspace for weeks now. As gorgeous as it is, it’s also incredibly draining. She’s a bit more than halfway done and is already exhausted by it.
“I’m at the point right now in my painting where I’m looking at it and I’m like, ‘I don’t wanna look at this anymore.’ It just kinda pains me to see,” she said with a laugh. For her, this kind of creative burn-out happens almost every time she works on a piece.
Both the physical scale and depth of content that is expected from her in a minimal time frame leads to countless hours spent in the painting studio. When asked just how much time she spent there each week, she laughed again. The best estimate she could give was that she spends anywhere from one to four hours in the studio each day. She tries to average around two hours a day during the week. Oftentimes, it’s even more on the weekends. And this is on top of the six hours of class a week that is held in the very same studio. That’s about 24 studio hours a week on the low end.
It’s safe to use the hyperbole that Murakami is always in the studio. It can be lonely, especially when the rest of her roommates are doing their homework wrapped up in blankets on the comfy couch in the living room. In her opinion, it’s easy to feel you’re missing out when you have so much alone time.
Murakami, as well as her classmates, often call family or friends while they work on their projects. Sometimes they coordinate their after-class studio hours so they can support and spend time with each other. Even so, the majority of Murakami’s time painting in the studio is spent by herself — just one student in a room with dozens of empty easels and chairs.
“Last term during finals week I damn near slept in the studio,” Murakami said, “I was there ‘til sometimes like twelve in the morning.”
Her life as an art student is so much more than just painting — so much more than oils and canvas. It frustrates Murakami when people try to minimize the amount of work she puts into her art classes. To her, “there’s no way you could just boil it down to say, ‘just painting.’ There’s
artist research, studies, art history, art analysis, presentations [and] formalist practices.”
goal,” Murakami points out, “It’s the way my brain works at this point.”
Last term during finals week I damn near slept in the studio,
Ava Murakami Artist
There’s also intense pressure around building good skills; everything she learns and everything she does goes directly into the formation of her career. She doesn’t doodle in her classes, she practices the craft and the mindset that will shape the rest of her future. This is not something that comes easily to most people. “I don’t mean this in a rude way, but I don’t think a STEM major could come into my painting class and understand the
Sometimes all this hard work is rewarded with corresponding grades and support from her teachers. But this is not a guarantee. Every art teacher has a different style of grading and, often, it is at least partially subjective. Murakami’s current painting teacher is a harsh grader and not always complimentary of his students' work. She describes her teacher’s grading metric in this way: “There’s no rubric. There’s no ‘thing’ that I can do that’s right — it’s just kinda like the general concept of the painting as a whole that’s either good or not good at all. And if it’s not good at all, we’re really made aware of that.”
Her first project in this class received a poor grade, and now she is even more anxious about how the jazz club piece will turn out. Though she acknowledges that every teacher evaluates projects in certain ways to
help art students grow, it is still discouraging to earn a bad grade on something she invested so much time and effort into, and that is heavily marked with her creative fingerprint.
Still, Murakami is grateful every day to be an art major. She feels that UO’s curriculum is especially rigorous and in-depth, paving her way for an accomplished career wherever she finds herself.
The strong Art and Design community is also important to her. Murakami noted that “there’s a really huge sense of community within the whole UO Design department because we all know each other, and because it’s smaller, and because we’re all working towards something we know is challenging.”
She hangs out with her classmates outside of class — finishing assignments, baking cookies and going out on the weekends — and is continually inspired by her hardworking professors. She has unique struggles, but she acknowledges that she also has the unique privilege of expressing herself fluidly and fully each time she’s in the studio doing her homework.
The moments she shares with her work and her peers shine through the challenges. And these moments are what it’s all about for Murakami; it’s what inspires her art. “It’s the casual moments that I’m interested in,” she says, “I don’t want to be painting people that are posed.”
The jazz club scene is just one of many casual moments that Murakami has turned into important explorations of human life, worthy of massive canvases and carefully placed oil paints. They are the heartbeat of her practice.
All the stress and anxiety is worth it to bring that to life: to allow a total stranger to feel the simple joy that is people living life. Murakami’s moments hang all around her apartment. A woman smokes a cigarette out of a fire escape in the kitchen, a figure is perched above a rolling sea in the living room, and a group of friends climb a cave in the hallway.
This is really the only thing I can see myself doing.
Ava Murakami Artist
Her work as an art student is difficult in a way that other students will never experience. But she wouldn’t have it any other way. “It’s a form of play and fun and self-care as well as something I can see myself doing for a job,” she says. This winter Murakami applied for her Bachelor of Fine Arts. It will be hard work, but she’s ready. Soon there will be no more space on her apartment walls. They will be full of moments.
30 Years of a Cuban Man’s Quiet Revolution
Words Sophie Lara | Photos Lara Family Illustration Austin Sandersfeld | Design Ryan Ehrhart
The tapping of children’s feet and the weeping of a grieving woman echoed against the gray, looming walls of La Cabaña prison as nine-year-old Ruben Lara ran around the courtyard. Patches of moss clung to the stones — the only sign of life in a place defined by death. Paying no mind to the trembling hands of his mother comforting his sobbing aunt, Ruben and his cousins continued to play.
Engrossed in his game, Ruben didn’t notice the open courtyard turn into a dark, secluded hallway as he turned a corner. On the far wall, unseen to him, remnants of old gunpowder and dried blood left a silent mark of what had happened there. He stopped to catch his breath, laughing softly at his clever escape until a hushed voice from the shadows cut through his amusement.
“Do not laugh. There is no joy here; this is where people go to die.”
Now, at the age of 74, Ruben can still remember the soulless eyes staring down at him.
Ruben Lara fled the Cuban regime over 40 years ago, but his past never
(Left) From left to right, top to bottom: A young Ruben sits in his family car; Ruben and his younger sister Mayra pose for a picture; Ruben poses as a child in his cowboy hat; Ruben holds his childhood goat, Katrina.
left him. The death of a childhood, the horrors of forced military service, and the desperation to escape still shape his every decision to this day.
Miami’s Cuban culture thrives in Spanglish street signs and festivals bursting with music and island pride. But beneath this vivaciousness lingers something else — something Ruben knows all too well: fear.
When Fidel Castro seized power in 1959, he promised prosperity. Many Cubans, desperate for change, embraced his vision. “Not everybody that joined Castro was bad,” Ruben said, “It was a change that the Cubans wanted because they knew they could be better.”
However, that promise was never fulfilled as Castro deviated from his original ideology.
“Castro and his collaborators took the Revolution in a direction that was not the initial project. That direction upset a lot of people that didn’t like that,” University of Oregon history professor Carlos Aguirre said. “About 600,000 left... in the matter of five to six years.”
This reign of broken promises has left a lasting scar on the Cuban community. In the United States, many have shaped their political choices around one goal: ensuring Cuba’s fate is never repeated. For decades, this fear aligned them with the Republican Party’s staunch anticommunist stance.
But as the Trump administration vows to take away choices, some Cubans are reminded of their time in a one-party, one-way world.
For Ruben, political allegiance was never about party loyalty; it was about protecting his family from the ghosts of his past. But as his daughters grew older, he saw something in their eyes — his own fear reflected back at him. He realized that fear alone couldn’t guide his choices — only his love for them could.
Born in Havana, Cuba on Jan. 1, 1951, Ruben has seen every side of the story. Fulgencio Batista was the “president” of Cuba during Ruben’s childhood, though, according to Aguirre, he was considered “a violation of the constitutional democratic process.” Batista mainly focused on Cuba’s economic success but let social injustice languish throughout the country. Despite this, Ruben recalls having a happy childhood.
“We weren’t rich, but we had a good life,” Ruben recalled, his voice tinged with nostalgia. His childhood was filled with laughter — family gettogethers that lasted until dawn, road trips through Viñales Valley and Cueva de Bellamar, and afternoons spent teaching tricks to his beloved goat, Katrina.
Like most kids, Ruben had a mischievous side. “Oh, he was so mad when he heard I was coming along,” his sister, Mayra Lara, said. “He threatened to pack all his things and leave the house. I think he actually pulled out his suitcase.”
However, this rebellious streak soon ended after Mayra was born. “Ruben was such a caring brother. He would rush home before all his friends would come over so he could tell our mother and I to get ready. He wanted his friends to think he had a pretty family,” Mayra said.
This optimistic perspective was a trait he had developed at a young age. “He was so calm, cool and collected, even as a child,” Mayra said. “My mom would tell him off, and after she was done, he would go and make sure to give her a kiss because that’s who he was. He never wanted to hold that anger.”
But childhood didn’t last forever, and in Cuba, neither did peace.
Batista fled the country in the early morning of Jan. 1st, 1959, allowing Castro’s forces to enter Havana to take control. “I had always been against Castro. I realized the first day that it was bad,” Ruben said.
“We tried to see everyone as much as we could, but most of us were kids. We couldn’t go where some of them were. They were plantados and plantadas — hard cases or difficult prisoners in English — so they were in the crueler [prisons]. You couldn’t see the actual cells or the whole prison, but you could tell it was bad just by looking at [the prisoners]. My cousin was 18 when he went in... he looked as though he had lived four lifetimes by the time he was out,” he said.
Though most of his life had changed, Ruben found small ways to rebel.
During the 1960s, The Beatles defined a generation — everywhere except Cuba. Castro had banned American media, calling it imperialist propaganda.
Simply humming to the joyous sounds of John Lennon could get you beaten or land you in prison. “If you had any long hair, you know, like the Abbey Road album, they would come up to you in the streets and just chop your hair,” Ruben said.
Still, Ruben and his friends would huddle around a low-quality metal disk to listen, enjoying having something away from the government. His favorite song? The Beatles’ “Do You Want to Know a Secret.”
Even though he had every reason to, Ruben didn’t let the Revolution take away his kindness.
“Even after everything, he was still my caring brother,” his sister said. As he grew, Ruben was known to raid pantries, searching for anything that could sustain his immense appetite. “He would go after everything in seconds, not a crumb left. He was like a vacuum,” Mayra said. “But he never tried to touch my food. I was picky, which wasn’t great since everything was already limited, and the only thing I really enjoyed was sweetened condensed milk. No matter how hungry he was or how long the can sat in our kitchen, he refused to eat it.”
But his greatest act of love was not what he refused to take — it was what he gave.
“I have to thank him for being here in this country,” Mayra said.
At 17, Ruben knew he couldn’t leave Cuba. Men aged 15 to 27 were militaryaged and forbidden from leaving. But he could make sure his family did.
“He didn’t want us to live through that, so he told our mom to take my brother and me away even though he couldn’t come with us,” Mayra said. Ruben knew he would rather face living in this country alone than subject his siblings to what he had suffered for most of his life.
Ruben wasn’t drafted right away. “I wasn’t called in the first draft of the area, so I was able to pick up a job and live near my aunt,” he said. But staying behind came with its own challenges — he was left alone, except for his brother’s dog.
“I wasn’t close with it; it was my brother’s dog. He barely listened to me. But we were all we really had left here, so I came to really rely on that
dog to get me through those times alone.”
As he waited, Ruben took work in the fields, but his affinity for numbers led to a promotion. “I was wondering why I hadn’t been called yet, but when I was promoted, I kind of focused on that. Apparently, they found me really useful because they had been hiding my calls to action for the longest time,” he said.
At 25, Ruben was finally drafted. He trained intensively, rising through the ranks to lead an artillery unit. Most of his service was routine: moving tanks, transporting equipment and following orders.
But everything changed when Cuba entered the Angolan conflict.
By the 1970s, Castro had sent thousands of Cuban soldiers to Angola, backing communist factions in their civil war. For Ruben, it meant fighting for a cause he didn’t believe in.
“I haven’t spoken about my time in the military for 30 years,” he admitted. “There are some things, details that you don’t forget, and that’s one of them.”
Before deployment, he was pulled out of his unit due to his family ties in the United States, which raised suspicion of possible treason. Ruben begged the intelligence officer to let him join his crew, not just to prove himself, but because he refused to let his unit go in without him.
“You know, you train with these people for so long... I just couldn’t not go with them,” Ruben said.
Within days of being deployed, his entire unit had died.
With Cuba doing poorly in the war, Ruben was offered the chance to prove his innocence and was sent with a special unit to Angola. The group trudged along the Angolan landscape for 75 days.
The canopy trees towered over,
making the land itself seem mournful. The land around them held remnants of past conflicts; spent shell casings riddled about and bodies so mangled, it was difficult to tell what side they were on.
“There was this constant fear you were being tracked as you moved, and sometimes you were, and you had to react. If you have fear in those moments, you died,” Ruben said.
In conflict, for soldiers, morality is just a concept, and death is almost a certainty. It is only afterward that morality is questioned. “I just couldn’t help but think that they were sons, fathers, people... and I just killed them,” Ruben said. The confrontations lasted no longer than a couple of minutes, but their impact still haunts Ruben to this day. “For the rest of my life, I must live with it.”
Experts estimate that over 500,000 casualties occurred during the Angolan conflict.
Ruben’s journey to the United States was anything but direct. During the
The Lara family and friends gather to celebrate Ruben’s birthday.
1980s, there was no visa pathway from Cuba to the U.S., so people found
over a decade, recounts his surprise at their shared military experience.
when his first daughter was born.
His current wife, Martica VenturaLara, remembers how well he hid his past.
“When I was first getting to know him, you wouldn’t have thought anything was wrong. He made it seem like he was cruising in life,” she said.
David Hoodiman, his neighbor of
For years, that fear dictated his choices. Ruben refused to leave Miami, terrified of separating from his family again. He refused even to consider voting for a Democrat, no matter how much he agreed with certain policies.
However, something shifted in 2004
He questioned the weight of the fear he was carrying for the first time. He picked up his old José Martí books, ones he hadn’t touched in decades, and remembered the philosophies that carried him through the Revolution.
“Happiness and love were needed to create opportunity,” he said. “Not living in fear to maintain it.”
The birth of his second daughter in 2010 pushed him even further toward change. Yet, he still couldn’t fully let go.
Not until November 2016.
The 2016 U.S. presidential election brought a new level of hostility to American politics: aggressive rhetoric, deepening divisions and an eerily familiar political climate. Ruben began to question his long-
But then, weeks after the U.S. election was held, Fidel Castro died on Nov. 25, 2016. Miami exploded into celebration. Crowds flooded the streets, singing, dancing, and banging
Ruben felt a mix of emotions: a sense of happiness and a resurgence of old feelings, things he had long thought he had buried. Memories surfaced: the Revolution, the fear, the loss, the silence and the sacrifices.
It all came crashing back.
With all these emotions resurfacing, any questioning Ruben had begun, evaporated as his fear returned. His unwillingness to change ignited a firestorm in the house — between him and his eldest daughter. “I remember it was nonstop between the two of them. For weeks after the election, you would just hear screaming in the garage or the living room,” Martica said.
But in 2020, with two grown daughters, Ruben realized he needed to be mindful of their futures and not just his past.
As the election season unfolded, he
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More Than Just the Spotlight:
The Partnerships Keeping Eugene’s Theater Alive
Eugene’s theater scene thrives on collaboration, with artists, students, and theaters sharing resources to keep the arts alive
Words Lily Reese | Photos Alyson Kallas | Illustrations Jake Borja | Design Sadie Wehunt
Eugene’s long-standing commitment to community has cultivated a uniquely collaborative arts scene. From University of Oregon professors collaborating with local community theaters to contemporary productions sharing sets and creative resources, the town’s rich artistic landscape is marked by interconnection. Eugene’s blend of academic influence and grassroots support creates an environment where artists and performers support each other, fueling the growth of a dynamic, ego-free arts community that values partnership over competition.
The Very Little Theater:
Since 1929, the Very Little Theater has been central to Eugene’s arts scene, fostering artistic collaboration and community-driven performances. As the oldest self-supporting community theater west of the Mississippi, it has remained a vital part of the community, running continuously for 95 seasons. In its early years, VLT and the University of Oregon’s theater program were the town’s only theater groups, setting the stage for a longstanding tradition of artistic partnership.
Karen Scheeland, a member of the VLT since 1969, recalled various programs the VLT has hosted over
Annaliese Johnson
the years to highlight its mission: “We are a community theater of the community and for the community,” Scheeland said. Such programs include renting out spaces to various theater groups and arts organizations. In the past, this has included productions like Thurston High School’s Dracula in the theater, the Formata Ballet Dance Collective and Minority Voices Theatre shows. For many years, VLT also awarded a scholarship to a UO graduate student, during which VLT members would come together every Monday night to build the sets. The students overseeing the set construction received valuable technical guidance and support from the VLT community.
Until 1950, VLT operated without a permanent home, relying on rented spaces and shared resources to bring productions to life. That year, a University of Oregon designer constructed the current theater on 2350 Hilyard St, marking a major milestone in VLT’s history. The company has thrived through community support, working together on props, sets and creative projects. Recognizing the importance of having a space to perform, VLT is committed to extending the same support to other companies, fostering a shared artistic community.
performs with Cara McIntyre
I’ve always felt that every theater could do the same show, and you could go to all of them and they’d be interpreted differently.
Karen Scheeland VLT Member
Though Eugene now has over nine performing arts companies, competition doesn’t define the relationship between the local playhouses. “I’ve always felt that every theater could do the same show, and you could go to all of them and they’d be interpreted differently,” Scheeland said, emphasizing the collaborative spirit that defines Eugene’s theater community rather than a sense of competition.
The Oregon Contemporary Theater:
Over the past three decades, Oregon Contemporary Theatre has cemented
in Pandora and the Sickle Moon for The Pocket Playhouse. The theatre performed the show Jan. 31 and Feb. 1, 2025.
(right)
(left)
itself as a crucial element in Eugene’s thriving theater scene. Founded in 1992 by former VLT members Randy Lord and Chris Leebrick, OCT reflects the city’s deep-rooted culture of connection.
Craig Willis, OCT’s Producing Artistic Director, has been a key figure in Eugene’s theater scene for years. Before joining OCT, he earned an MFA and a PhD in Dramatic Literature and Theory from UO. Committed to supporting emerging artists, he emphasizes, “We often rent [the space] out at very affordable rates for emerging arts groups.” Tucked away on Broadway, just a block down from The Jazz Station, the theater’s unassuming exterior gives little hint of the creative energy inside. The intimate black-box space seats approximately 300 people, offering a flexible stage that allows for dynamic storytelling and close audience engagement. This space has been vital for startup theater companies, giving new creative voices a place to rehearse and perform.
Now in its 17th year, OCT’s Northwest 10 festival champions the 10-minute play, a format Willis calls “the haiku of American theater.” He likens it to Pacific Northwest weather: “If you don’t like what you’re experiencing right now, just wait 10 minutes. It will change.” Beyond showcasing new works, the festival creates opportunities for emerging artists, including students, to direct and act. OCT receives around 80 script submissions each year and offers mentorship for first-time directors, lowering barriers to participation. “It’s a fun festival that the community
enjoys,” said Willis, “and it provides a lower barrier to entry.”
The presence of the University of Oregon, Lane Community College and Oregon State University provides a steady stream of trained theater professionals, many of whom bring skills that go beyond typical community or college productions.
“These institutions actively train students, some of whom are extremely talented and can contribute to work above and beyond what they might have experienced in community theater or college theater,” Willis said.
Amy Dunn, OCT’s production manager and master carpenter, also lends her carpentry and scenic design expertise to the VLT, where she began her theater career after high school in 1998. She emphasized the strong ties between the two theaters and the necessity of collaboration. “We share a lot of physical resources — set pieces, costumes, props — because otherwise, we’d be paying way too much to source these things,” she said. Dunn also noted the frequent overlap of artists: “Pretty much everybody has been involved with both theaters at some point.”
Dunn acknowledged the financial challenges facing the theater community. “This field is expensive, and funding will only get harder with current affairs. We need to ensure we all survive by working together.” The cooperative spirit between VLT and OCT, along with local talent support, remains essential to sustaining Eugene’s thriving arts scene.
The University of Oregon’s Theater Arts:
The University of Oregon’s Theater Arts program fosters collaboration both within the department and across Eugene’s theater community. Students gain hands-on experience working closely with faculty on all aspects of production, reflecting the cooperative nature of Eugene’s theater scene, where creativity thrives
through shared resources rather than competition.
This spirit is especially evident in the student-run Pocket Playhouse, which allows students to produce independent shows, offering a platform to showcase their work while fostering a supportive, communitydriven environment. Similarly, faculty-led mainstage productions provide students opportunities to work alongside professors, deepening their learning and strengthening mentorship bonds.
This field is expensive, and funding will only get harder with current affairs. We need to ensure we all survive by working together.
Amy Dunn OCT Production Manager
However, the department has faced challenges, particularly the ongoing renovation of its historic home, Villard Hall. Closed in 2023, the renovation temporarily displaced the department, forcing it to adapt to lessthan-ideal spaces.
“The only problem with [the renovation] is it means two years of being homeless for the department,” said Harry Wonham, Divisional Associate Dean for Humanities. Despite this, students and faculty have remained committed to their work, adjusting to temporary venues like Agate Hall by tailoring productions to smaller, more flexible spaces. The department’s ties to the wider Eugene theater community have been instrumental in navigating these limitations. Local theaters, including the Very Little Theater and Oregon Contemporary Theatre, have provided resources such as set pieces, props, and costumes. “They let us borrow furniture pieces or props they’ve already used, which is huge,” said sophomore Logan Love. “We don’t have to buy a whole dresser because we can just borrow it, and they’ll even deliver it.”
Budget constraints have also required students to be resourceful. With production budgets typically ranging from $300 to $500, creative problemsolving has become essential. “It’s a lot of working with designers and figuring out what we can do with what we have,” Love explained.
Despite these challenges, student productions continue to engage audiences. “Even with Villard under construction, the shows they’ve picked have been super appropriate for the space,” said sophomore and theater major Bren O’Donnell. “Most of the shows sell out, and I feel like people who aren’t in [the] theater are engaged, which is exciting to see.”
Theater Arts at UO, like the broader Eugene arts scene, thrives on collective support. Faculty and students lean on each other and their
community, ensuring productions continue despite obstacles. When Villard Hall reopens, it will restore not just a space, but an artistic hub where collaboration between students, faculty and local theaters can flourish. The department’s resilience has reinforced the importance of shared resources and community, ensuring that its collaborative spirit remains central to Eugene’s theater landscape. Willis believes that exposure to the arts is key to cultivating an engaged audience. “The more opportunities people have to experience art, the more they seek it out,” he explained. Whether it’s an OCT production, a UO play, or a symphony performance, each experience sparks curiosity and fosters a cycle of artistic engagement. This ever-growing appreciation keeps Eugene’s theater community thriving, ensuring its stages remain vibrant, accessible, and full of life.
Trevor Tarantino (left) and Emma Shipley (right) perform in Pandora and the Sickle Moon for The Pocket Playhouse.
Food For Lane County states that roughly 13.2% of residents qualify for food assistance, which is greater than the national average by 2%. This number greatly increased in 2023, and the food insecure population continues to grow throughout Oregon, roughly 1 in 8 adults and 1 and 6 children struggle with hunger and getting food on the table.
SNAP, or the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, is known by many names across the country — EBT or food stamps, to name a few. This federal program has been aiding Americans since 1939 and was implemented during the Great Depression, formerly known as Food Stamp Program (FSP). Recent data published by USDA states that 13.5%, or 18 million, of U.S. households were food insecure in 2023.
Almost a century later, there is a threat to SNAP throughout legislation and under the new administration. According to the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, a budget resolution proposed in the House of Representatives, specifically the House Agriculture Committee, would effectively cut $230 billion from all programs in their jurisdiction, including SNAP.
Sarah Weber-Ogden, Executive Director of Partners for a Hunger Free Oregon, works with government representatives, presenting statistics about food insecurity state-wide in an effort to better inform Oregon elected officials when they make decisions on budget cuts. She argues that these cuts, although only claiming to target the “bloat” throughout SNAP, are so large they will inevitably impact benefits for users nationwide. Some representatives argue fraud is a part of these cuts, although finding it in food insecurity assistance will not be enough without affecting these necessary programs.
“There's nowhere to get that much money out of cutting this program, except if you're cutting benefits themselves. The math doesn't work out, so yeah, we are deeply concerned,” Weber-Ogden said.
According to Weber-Ogden, and Oregon State University’s Policy Analysis Lab on food insecurity in Oregon, between 2021 and 2023 food and insecurity in Oregon rose from 9.2% to 12% of the population, totalling 530,000 Oregonians who struggled to afford groceries or skipped meals during this two year period. This report also shows 750,000 Oregon households rely on SNAP to put food on the table — the largest jump since the Great Recession in 2007.
As the cost of living crisis continues to soar, Oregonians remain in need of SNAP assistance. Threats to food insecurity resources will have grave consequences for Oregon residents, regardless of whether or not a household is food insecure. On a local level, the program is highly utilized and in demand.
Carolyn Stein, Executive Director of Food for Lane County (FFLC), and her team are currently preparing for budget cuts — and have been for the past few years. Roughly 30% of Lane County residents qualify for food assistance, utilizing a food pantry, SNAP, or both. FFLC have already seen an increase in demand, increasing
Roughly 30% of Lane County residents qualify for food assistance
because of inflation, housing prices, an increase in the costs of goods and services, as well as general need. This has translated to a 13% increase in pantry visits within the last few years.
“Because things are so uncertain currently, we don't know what we should plan for,” said Stein. “Roughly 15% of our budget is federal funds. That's why we're really trying to look at what scenarios are possible, but also with the full understanding that we can be nimble and we can adapt as we have to.”
Food for Lane County works with local farms, Oregon Food Bank, and partners with local supermarkets in order to help supply Eugene-area residents with free, healthy food. They help eligible individuals sign up for SNAP and host events for locals to come together and eat good food.
The University of Oregon Basic Needs Program provides resources for students, including help applying for SNAP, aiding students with housing, as well as hosting the Student Food Pantry twice a week, from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. on Wednesdays and Thursdays at the Grace Lutheran Church on 17th Avenue. This food pantry is made possible because of FFLC as well as
These programs that are on the chopping block are obviously very important, especially for students, so it's been the center of a lot of our conversations about how we are going to navigate that when the time comes.
Riley Hoerner University of Oregon Student
the Episcopol Campus Ministry. Riley Hoerner, a University of Oregon senior and Business major, works in food insecurity volunteering and aids in organizing volunteers, helping students find resources for food insecurity, and assisting in setting up these pantries each week. Hoerner explained the pantry serves 400 students weekly.
“SNAP advocacy is 15% of my job,” Hoerner said. “We focus a lot on it, especially in our tabling events and in trying to ensure that students have a more consistent food supply than what we can offer at the pantry through FLC.”
Although these threats are serious and budgeting cuts are expected to start in April, both Food for Lane County and Partners for a Hunger Free Oregon are prepared and encourage the public to continue advocating against these funding changes.
“These programs that are on the chopping block are obviously very important, especially for students, so it's been the center of a lot of our conversations about how we are going to navigate that when the time comes,” said Hoerner.
“Donations are always appreciated, especially during this difficult time,” said Stein. “I love meeting all the people that have different reasons and different connections for how they engage with Food for Lane County. We have so much support from Eugene residents, those who just love to give back to this wonderful community.”
Even though Americans are being exposed to some seemingly divisive policy changes within the new administration, voting is the public’s power — those elected, as well as their
values, translate on the local level and further supports food insecurity programs. Budget cuts to SNAP will affect individuals nationwide, but there are things Oregonians can do to protect the community.
“People's voices do matter, and these voices are incredibly powerful right now. Call your representatives, write them emails — [representatives] are worried about losing their seats and you’re the one that gives it to them,” Weber-Ogden said.
Freud’s
theory of women persists in Trump’s America
Words Lily Reese | Photos Natalie Mathis | Illustration Austin Sandersfeld | Design Kayla Chang
Iremember a conversation with a close friend, where we debated the nuances of desire — what it means for a woman to want, to act — unapologetically. As she spoke, I found myself struck by a thought: Why does the mere expression of our desires feel like a disruption?
A 2017 study in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology found that men often feel threatened by women in power, especially when their own status is challenged. Their masculinity is tied to their sense of control, and when that’s in jeopardy, it leaves them uneasy. It’s a challenge they don’t know how to navigate. And that tension is reflected in how society views women in positions of authority. Women in power are often seen as less likable than their male counterparts. In fact, research from an Oxford study in 2022 shows that when women act assertively, they’re labeled as "bossy" or "aggressive," while men who exhibit the same behaviors are seen as “confident” and “competent.” It’s a double standard that goes beyond just personality — it’s about a system built to make sure power stays in the hands of men.
Society has drawn these narrow lines between the Madonna (the saintly good girl) and the Whore (seductive but not dateable), asking us to choose between purity and penalty. Yet when we step outside those roles,
when we claim our own autonomy, it feels as though we are challenging an unspoken order — one we never agreed to, but have always been subjected to.
Freud’s theory of the Madonna-whore complex says that “the inability to maintain sexual arousal within a committed and loving relationship,” is a phenomenon born from a man’s tendency to split women into two opposing archetypes: the pious Madonna or the debased whore. The theory felt distant at first, like something out of an old psychology textbook, the kind of idea we tell ourselves we’ve outgrown. But the longer I sat with it, the closer it edged toward something uncomfortably familiar.
Because here’s the truth: Because here’s the truth: for many men, a woman's desire becomes a mirror they’d rather not look into. It forces them to confront their passivity — their hesitation, their need to be the one pursued, admired and in control. In that confrontation, they falter. They shrink back — not out of malice, but out of an unease with the reflection staring back at them.When she takes the lead, when she owns her desire, he falters—caught between confusion and insecurity. 'I don’t know what to do when you’re in control,' he admits, as though her confidence somehow threatens his masculinity.
The Madonna-whore complex isn’t truly about women—it’s about men’s discomfort with the blurring of desire’s boundaries. It’s about the fear that when a woman asserts her choice, it disrupts the fragile balance of power and control they’ve always known.
The Madonna-whore complex is not a relic of the past; it is a living, breathing part of how women are seen today. But we can change that. We can rewrite the narrative. We can own our desires, our bodies and our voices without fear, without apology. And we can make space for others to do the same. Because when we do, we not only change how we are seen, but we also change how the world sees all of
us — not as either/or, but as complex, multifaceted beings deserving of autonomy and respect in every aspect of our lives.
Although I only mention heterosexual relationships here, it’s important to note that this conflict plays out in many forms — across sexual orientations, gender identities and relationship dynamics. The Madonnawhore complex is not exclusive to any one kind of relationship. It is a broader societal pattern that touches us all.
For men who internalize these dichotomous ideas, a woman’s active sexual desire can be jarring. It forces them to confront their discomfort with the breakdown of rigid, societyimposed boundaries, exposing the absence of truth in these constructs.
When a woman’s desire steps outside the boundaries of purity and virtue, her autonomy becomes threatening. It triggers guilt, confusion, and insecurity in him. He may no longer view her as virtuous, or he may feel unsettled by her ability to pursue her own desires — or even his.
Another contour of this is the increasingly politicized religious agenda of the current administration.
Policies surrounding women’s bodies and desires have become battlegrounds for moral debates, with women’s autonomy often painted as something to be policed and controlled. The Madonna-whore complex, then, transcends individual relationships, mirroring broader societal tensions surrounding gender, autonomy, and power. As women push against the boundaries once imposed on them, categories like 'pure' and 'virtuous' seem increasingly outdated, reflective of ideals that no longer hold sway in a changing world. This plays out in the political sphere, from challenges
to Roe v. Wade and potential threats to Obergefell v. Hodges, to legislation limiting access to contraception and the legal recognition of trans and nonbinary individuals. In each case, women's and marginalized genders' rights are being contested, revealing the deepening conflict between societal progress and regressive attempts to reclaim control over the narrative of autonomy.
Women are asked to bend and soften, to temper their desires into something more manageable, something less threatening. I thought about how
Freud’s theory might have evolved, how the dichotomy it describes might feel less like a relic and more like a faint but persistent hum beneath the surface of modern relationships. The names have changed, but the roles remain the same.
In the progress towards equality, women have made significant strides, yet the social pressures imposed by patriarchy continue to govern them. In the evolving landscape of gender equality, what we often see is not true parity but rather an expansion of duties — echoing the idea of the "second shift." As women have gained access to more professional opportunities and public recognition, they’ve simultaneously been expected to carry an even heavier load in the domestic and emotional spheres. This so-called “equality” has not dismantled the patriarchal structures but has instead adapted them, placing more responsibility on women while leaving the original power dynamics intact.
The story we’re telling isn’t really about women. It’s about men.
It’s about the fragility of masculinity that still relies on being the one who decides what happens next. The one who wants, the one who chooses. Your desire, as a woman, disrupts that. It’s not supposed to be yours to wield, and when you do, it leaves them unsteady, unsure of their footing. And that discomfort? It doesn’t stay in the intimate spaces of relationships. It weaves its way through everything. It’s the way society frames women’s roles in every sphere of life.
In the workplace, politics, art, and culture, the same undercurrent remains: women are celebrated for their strength until that strength disrupts the status quo. Praised for their ambition yet expected to temper it with humility. The Madonnawhore complex, it seems, was never just about sex — it’s a lens through which we police femininity itself. It’s a framework that insists women exist within carefully drawn boundaries,
