Portland's Cycle of Violence

Before this past week, we Portlanders had not seen the sun for approximately 45873489547 days.  However, as of late our days have been filled with flashes of sunshine coupled with torrential rain/hail storms.  This "spring" weather indicates that summer is right around the corner...or at least we can (probably) expect it by around the Fourth of July.


As we slowly approach the Portland summer, I've watched smiles return to people's faces as they've emerged from homes & bars - their bluish, puffy skin glaring in the light; their eyes squished up like those of moles coming up to the surface after months underground.  Portlanders have started laughing again and stopped threatening to kill themselves.  In some ways, it's quite sweet.  In another, more real way, it is just pathetic.  And that is because Portland has all of us caught up in a nasty, abusive relationship, with a horrific weather pattern that closely resembles what domestic violence workers know as The Cycle of Violence.

Portland's Annual Weather Pattern

The Tension-Building Phase


This phase lasts from October through New Years.  Thankfully, as the temperatures plummet, the days get shorter, and the rain begins pouring down, we are at least somewhat protected by lovely, colorful foliage, the haunting festivities of Halloween, preparing for and consuming Thanksgiving feasts, and winter holiday celebrations and travels.   We're so distracted by pretty colors and the string of holidays that, even when it gets so cold that we see the occasional little snow flurries, we just smile and think, "Aw, Portland's so cute.  It thinks it's snowing."


[Portland is pretty hilarious when it comes to snow.  Half an inch and all the schools close.  Three inches and people abandon their cars on the highways; then the police leave friendly notes saying, "Please move your car within 48 hours or we'll have to tow it, and we really don't want to have to do that because we're Oregonian and towing cars is way too confrontational."]

These are "snow day" conditions

After the turn of the new year, we are all shaken from our holiday daze and notice that:


     1. It gets dark at noon
     2. We can't remember what sun is
     3. All color has been drained from our natural environment
     4. Going outside and looking up at the sky could cause drowning


Then we look at the calendar and think, "Um.  It's January.  The sun won't come out again until..."  And then the panic sets in.

eep.

The Serious Battering Incident

This phase lasts from January 2nd until approximately July 4th.  The sky is a steady slate gray.  Newcomers to Portland realize that people who told us, "It doesn't really rain in Portland; it's just misty," were no-good, goddamn fucking liars who should go straight to Hell.  We learn to differentiate between weather reports of "mostly cloudy," "misty," "sprinkling," "showers," "rain," and "downpour/flooding."  Yes, much like the Eskimos have their many words for "snow," we learn many different ways to essentially say, "You should probably just stay inside and drink."

Pretty.

We develop coping skills like:

• Drink a lot of beer
• Don't watch the weather report
• If you accidentally see the weather report online, do NOT click the "extended forecast" option
• Drink more beer
• Eat tater tots
• Sleep 14 hours per day
• Go to Trivia Night...and drink beer
• Stand outside wearing a hoodie, without the hood up, smoking a cigarette, and try to appear like this is normal behavior
• Write angsty poetry and read it at open mic nights
• Go to bikram yoga class 100 days in a row
• Keep riding bikes everywhere even though passing cars send tidal waves over you
• Knit obsessively
• Start a blog
• Find people who say, "Well, this is why Oregon is so green!" and punch them in the face
• Spontaneously purchase an instrument & begin taking lessons
• Don't look out the window
• Develop a prescription drug habit
• Watch 10 thousand movies

Despite the clever utilization of these and other coping mechanisms, by the end of March, many of the people of Portland feel like this:

all is lost :(

It is not uncommon to overhear conversations about important, life-altering decisions such as relocating to Hawai'i or killing oneself.  Portlanders start sharing their feelings of despair, hopelessness, listlessness, exhaustion, and depression, and wondering why their vitamin D supplements have stopped working.  In April, things that normally lift the spirits are like cruel jokes.  For example, the days get longer, which means that the slate gray sky and pouring rain now remain visible well into the evening.  Yay.  The tulips and cherry blossoms begin to bloom, but their colors somehow look ugly in the dim, sunless atmosphere.


April, May and June are teasing, multiple personality months.  We find ourselves shocked by the occasional presence of shadows ("Help!  Someone's following me!") and blinded by light coming in through the windows.  The weather toys with us by suddenly becoming sunny and warm ("I should put on a t-shirt and walk to happy hour!") and then spontaneously erupting into a violent hailstorm ("AAHH!  My skin!").  Sunglasses and windshield wipers are frequently on at the same time. 

I can sum up Portland's battering phase with two words:  liquid sunshine.  Whoever thought up that evil expression should be destroyed.  Sunshine is not made of liquid.  Sunshine is made of light and warmth and should not be toyed with by suggesting that it could EVER possibly be made of liquid.  It's like calling tears of sadness "liquid smiles" or "liquid laughter."  Whenever I hear someone say liquid sunshine, I just want to burst into liquid smiles.

The Honeymoon Phase

Wait - there's a mountain over there??

Ah, the Portland summer and fall.  This phase lasts from July to October.  The roses bloom, the plethora of parks become beautiful, rolling green fields instead of foul mud pits, and everyone goes outside.  Block parties, farmers' markets and outdoor concerts abound.  Movies are shown in the parks at night.  Restaurants and bars finally get to utilize their expansive outdoor patios, and all of them are full of happy Portlanders.  There are rose festivals, beer festivals, culinary festivals, art festivals, wine festivals, dahlia festivals, and festival festivals.  We remember that we are surrounded by beautiful mountains, because we can finally see them again.  We hike to summits with actual views instead of hiking up into cloud banks.


This is Portland's version of flowers, chocolates, promises and apologies.  It is the phase that keeps us here year after year, with the hope that next winter won't be so bad.  The sunshine and happiness brainwash us, and we hold fast to the belief that this is a wonderful place to live.


Some Oregonians will probably read this and think, "The weather here isn't so bad.  You're exaggerating.  Go back where you came from."  And to that I say:  where I came from, I could freeze to death, so fuck you.  Also, just give me a couple of months, and rest assured that I will be so well entrenched in the honeymoon phase that I will sing the praises of Portland for all those who care to hear.  I will even embrace people who use the phrase "liquid sunshine," and we will sing Kumbaya together as we gaze at a glorious sunset and rejoice in the magnificent Pacific Northwest.

Al Fought The LDS, And The LDS Won

When my sister was in college, she began dating a Mormon.  I'd barely heard of Mormons before this occurred, but it turned out there was quite a large population of them at my sister's school (and apparently over 12 million in the world - who knew?).  She was really, really into this guy, and then he went to Germany for his 18 month-long mission.  Before leaving, he taught her a lot about his religion, including the facts that:

a.  They couldn't have sex until they were married

and...

b. They couldn't get married unless she converted to Mormonism.

Like all of my immediate family members, up until that time my sister had essentially belonged to the IDK & IDC religion.  However, I guess if you're a member of that particular religion and fall in love with someone who says he won't commit to you until you're Mormon, it doesn't take too long before you start to think, "You know what?  I think I might be Mormon." 


Therefore, my sister began the process of converting to Mormonism.  And before I knew it, I had a house full of Mormon Elders, equipped with Books of Mormon (tag line:  Like the Bible, Only Weirder!) and a fervent passion for conversion.


Okay, let's back up a little bit so I can offer some contextual information.  When this change in my household occurred, I was a 16 year-old, mosh pit-dwelling, anti-breeding, foul-mouthed, atheist-identified American girl.  It had occurred to me within the past year or so that adults were completely full of shit and authority figures had their heads up their asses.  Oh, and these "Elders" - Mormon males who travel abroad and spend 18 months attempting to  perform doorstep conversions of as many poor, lost souls as possible - were about 3 years older than me.


Now we can return, more informed, to that previous statement:  "And before I knew it, I had a house full of Mormon Elders, equipped with Books of Mormon and a fervent passion for conversion."  Please try, if you can, to imagine my horror.  On a way-too-regular basis, there were white boys wearing ties and name tags sitting in my family room reading religious passages to my sister and peering at me with what I perceived as an undeniably pitying, condescending, "poor-girl's-going-to-Hell" look in their eyes.

We are here to save your disgusting souls.

However, I was a resourceful and clever young woman, and it didn't take me long to figure out how I could warp this situation to my benefit.  I soon discovered that these Mormons had to abide by several rules.  Some I had already learned, like no sex, no drugs (including alcohol and caffeine), no foul language, no R-rated movies, and no thinking (applicable to females only).  However, the Elders had even more rules to follow, including no listening to music with words and no coming within arm's-length of a person of the opposite sex.


Oh, how I adored those rules and forcing the Elders in my house to break them.  I liked nothing more than throwing myself into the Elders' arms when they came into the house and blasting Rage Against the Machine and Violent Femmes until I was instructed emphatically to turn it down.  I like to think that, by the time I finally turned down the music, the Elders had heard so many curse words that they were sincerely concerned that they might be going to Hell with the rest of us poor coffee-drinking sinners.


The best thing I learned about the Elders, though, is that they are supposed to give you any material possession you tell them you like.  I cannot even tell you how much shit I got off of those Elders through the clever use of, "Wow, I really like your...."  I know, stealing is bad.  Unless it's from Mormons.

What is absolutely perfect about this is that my real name is Kelly.

The Elders who most commonly invaded my home were named...well, for the sake of respecting their anonymity, I'll just call them Elder Shmerb and Elder Shmoob.  They looked much like this:

Shocking, right?

The very best thing about Elder Shmerb was that he was a rabidly competitive ping pong player.  Since the Mormons have rules opposing everything fun in the world, I'm sure there's some rule about not being competitive, but Elder Shmerb didn't seem to care.  When it came to ping pong, he was ferociously competitive and a total shit-talker (Mormons would probably say "poo-talker" or "heck-talker," because that's just how fucking lame they are).


So here's the thing about me and ping pong:  I am a robot when it comes to that game.  I'm not particularly skilled or fancy in my play; I'm more like a ball machine, returning every shot, which makes it quite difficult for most people to beat me.  And one day, after several hours of taunting and heck-talking from Elder Shmerb, I took him into the basement and beat his fucking ass at ping pong.  I have never, ever, in all my days seen a white boy turn that red.  It ruled.

But alas, despite all of my rebellion and heck-talking about the Mormon church, and even after my amazing ping pong victory, my sister converted anyway.  I still remember sitting at her baptism, feeling dizzy and trying not to barf.  A few months later, my dad's coworker came to dinner, and during the meal she asked if I was a Mormon, too.  There was a resounding silence around the table until my mother finally commented, "Um.  Kelly...Kelly is kind of the opposite of a Mormon."  That was a beautiful moment.


Anyway, let's happily skip forward several months to the part where my sister started dating someone else, had sex, drank coffee, and turned back to normal.  Whew!  So all's well that ends well, and now, when Elders come a'callin', I make sure to turn on Pantera full-blast, answer the door topless and throw myself into their arms.  I guess all clouds have a silver lining, for without the experience I gained from my time with Elders Shmerb & Shmoob, I never would've learned how best to torture door-to-door religion salesmen.