- Flux Stories

FLU
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Departments
7 Editor’s Note
14
Death of the West
71 The Courage
To Run
A daughter supports
her mother’s decision
to finish the Eugene
Marathon.
Female ranchers fight
to maintain a fading
industry.
30
Psychic Sleuthing
An intuitive detective is
on the case.
52
59
Those who have undergone
the controversial therapy
speak out.
Female veterans struggle to
live with Post-Traumatic
Stress Disorder.
The Cost of
Conversion
Taming the
Shadows
22
A Living Legacy
For one homesteading
family, preserving the
land of its heritage
comes with challenges.
34 44
When
Communities
Collide
Rising enrollment
pushes students into
campus neighborhoods,
causing clashes with
community members.
Bodies in Motion
A cancer survivor finds
strength and confidence
in the art of movement.
64
Healing Hooves
Large farm animals
are this veterinarian’s
patients of choice.
Editor-in-Chief
oF Editorial Content
Maya Lazaro
Editor-in-Chief
of Digital Publishing
Max Brown
Managing Editors
Elliott Kennedy
Branden Andersen
Web Editor
Sydney Bouchat
Managing Editor
of Multimedia
Iris Bull
Art Director
Felecia Rollins
Photo Editor
Myray Reames
Interactive Designers
Jill Harvey
Chelsea Kopacz
Julia Letarte
Teija Stearns
Tommy Treadway
FLU
Copy ChiEf
Lily Nelson
Associate Editors
Maygan Beckers
Saige Kolpack
Jordan Tichenor
Web Writers
Rache’ll Brown
Emily Fraysse
Sarah Keartes
Casey Klekas
Marissa Tomko
Feature Writers
Maygan Beckers
Caitlin Feldman
Cari Johnson
Sam Katzman
Elliott Kennedy
Max Londberg
Lauren Messman
Multimedia Producers
James French
Garrett Guinn
Ella Gummer
Julia Reihs
Alan Sylvestre
Webmaster
Jordan Sisk
Photographers
Kathryn Boyd-Batstone
Tess Freeman
Alisha Jucevic
Mason Trinca
Publisher
Megan Bauer
Production Manager
Michaelle Douglass
Business Manager
Robert Gillin
Designers
Morgan Alfrejd
Michaelle Douglass
Aaron Klein
Chelsea Kopacz
Lily Nelson
Scott Proctor
Public Relations Executive
Samantha Hanlin
editorial Advisor
Lisa Heyamoto
Special Thanks to
Eder Campuzano
Austin Powe
Dan Morriso
Illustrator
Charlotte Cheng
Intern
Rachel Baker
6
fluxSTORIES.COM
Flux is produced annually by the students of the
University of Oregon’s School of Journalism and
Communication.
© 2013
Photo Advisor
Sung Park
Design Advisor
Steven Asbury
from the editor
Photo by Kathryn Boyd-Batstone
he first issue of Flux was created out of a small equipment room in Allen Hall using only three shared computers. Staff worked in shifts, hunched over keyboards
until the early hours of the morning, pruning stories,
tweaking spreads, and double-checking page numbers.
Although the workload was demanding, they knew
they were creating something special, something bold
and promising. They were right.
That first issue won fifteen awards from national
journalism associations, including four first-place
titles from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.
Flux’s first issue set a precedent for quality nonfiction
craftsmanship that would guide the publication for
the next two decades.
This year marks Flux’s twenty-year anniversary
since Professors Tom Wheeler and Bill Ryan founded
the publication in 1993, and that legacy of journalistic excellence lives on. Over the years, we’ve won more
than 270 awards for our features, photography, design, and multimedia work. In each of the subsequent
twenty issues, we’ve strived to provide compelling coverage of the people, places, issues, and controversies
that form the heart of life in the Pacific Northwest.
These twenty years have been a time of tremendous growth as new technology and industry innovation have pushed Flux to enhance the way we tell
our stories. In 2003 we added video, multimedia, and
web columns to the mix with the launch of our first
website. More recently, we’ve begun publishing iPad
editions that enable organic, tactile interaction with
our content. We no longer need to work in shifts; we
now have laptops and a dedicated computer lab at our
disposal. Regardless of the medium, we’ve remained
committed to bringing you the best journalistic work
this region has to offer.
Our twenty-first issue is no different. Beyond this
page you’ll encounter stories that tie past to present
and present to future. Turn to page 14, and you’ll
learn the struggles female ranchers face to keep a fading industry afloat in an environment that has historically been skewed male. On page 44, a woman who
lost her leg to cancer discovers self-assurance in her
body’s ability to dance. Flip to page 22 and you’ll find
a portrait of a homesteading family grappling with
the challenges of maintaining the land of its ancestors
amidst a family feud and a cultural shift. And finally,
on page 34, we describe the clash between student
renters, property managers and community members
as the neighborhoods around campus become crowded
with collegians. As Flux reflects on its rich twentyyear history, we’re also looking ahead to what’s next
for our publication. Our stories have examined the
juncture between present moment and immutable
past, and ultimately, the role both play in shaping the
future.
As we invite you into this issue, please join us in
celebrating twenty years of regional storytelling done
right. We look forward to serving you for twenty more.
Maya Lazaro
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Northwest rite of
Passage
You get your
Vitamin D
There must be something in the water; with its lack of sunshine, stunning natural areas,
and coffee culture, the Pacific Northwest breeds an eccentric kind of character. Visitors may
notice our more common quirks, but what seems odd to others is just another cloudy day in
the upper left corner of the United States. Spend enough time here and you’ll know you’ve
become one of us when . . .
from a
Bottle
-Rache’ll Brown
You wear socks
with your
Birkenstocks
You think
FLANNEL
3X
You have
is a
YOU LIVE IN A
CITY WHERE
THERE ARE
MORE
BICYCLES
THAN CARS
as many resuasable
bags as you do purses
coffee
You think
in
was invented
Washington
You know the
four seasons:
1. almost winter
umbrellas
2. winter
4. road
construction
fluxSTORIES.COM
tourists
You can tell
3. WET
8
lifestyle
by their
You have actually
ridden your
mountain bike
You buy lunch
from a
on a
You were taught that the
Civil War
FOOD
CART
MOUNTAIN
1894
You wear
shorts when it’s
60
beganinin
Began
,
not 1861
º
OUTSIDE
YOU WEAR A
SWEATSHIRT
TO THE BEACH
You have a
compost
pile
in your
BACKYARD
Your boss
lets you leave
You know how
to drive a car, but you
don’t know how to
pump gas
work early when the
sun
is out
You’ve been to all
The Simpsons
LANDMARKS
9
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BigFoot
Fetish
How Sasquatch became a Pacific Northwest legend
Also known as Bigfoot, Sasquatch has buried its way into our hearts
since it appeared on the scene in the 1920s. The beast boasts hundreds of
fan clubs and has even been the focus of university studies.
Is Sasquatch man? Ape? Real? A hoax? Whatever Sasquatch is, other
mythical creatures vying for the behemoth’s top spot in Pacific Northwest
lore have some big shoes to fill.
- Sarah Keartes
SASQUATCH SQUARES OFF
Sasquatch isn’t the only pillar of Pacific Northwest culture; the hirsute
hulk also shares a name with Washington’s biggest music festival.
Here the giants go head-to-head (and foot-to-foot):
Sasquatch
in the woods
Sasquatch
at the Gorge
Contibution to
MONKEY MANIA
Might in fact be one
The Arctic Monkeys
BIRTH YEAR
1929 (possibly earlier)
2002
SPECTATOR SPENDING
See it for free,
if you can find one . . .
$300-$1,000
CATEGORY
ILLUSTRATIONS CHARLOTTE CHENG
FOOTPRINT
What do University
of Oregon students
think about Bigfoot?
10
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A few inches larger than
Certified “carbon neutral”
a Subway footlong
TOP BANANA
Largest human relative
in the Pacific Northwest
Largest music festival in
the Pacific Northwest
TROUBLE WITH THE
LAW
In 2013, a
Washington resident
with a size 16 shoe
was arrested for
burglary
A 2012 drug bust led to
the arrest of seven
festival-goers that year
“Sasquatch has twenty
unknown species of insects
living in his happy beard!”
– Lauren Sickler, Junior
“Sasquatch is the cause
of a lot of wasted time
and money.”
– Eddie Pascal, Senior
“Sasquaylogeny”:
A Big-Footed Family
The decades-long debate over Bigfoot’s existence continues, but regardless of
weather the man-ape is fact or fiction, first-nation and Native American roots have
anchored Sasquatch to the region’s cultural identity.
Our furry friend got its name from J. W. Burns, who spent many years as a teacher on
the Chehalis Indian Reserve, sixty miles east of Vancouver, British Columbia. The word
was an adaptation on the native Halkomelem word “Sásq’ets,” meaning “wild man.”
Though the name “Sasquatch” is relatively recent, mythology featuring wild man-like
creatures isn’t new; the first written mention of a wildman can be found in The Epic of
Gilgamesh, one of the earliest surviving works of literature (2150-2000 BC).
Gone saSquatchin’
Every year, hundreds of people take to the woods to search for Sasquatch, a venture known
as “Sasquatchin’.” Want to join them? Just as the legend of the Sasquatch has evolved over
time, so has the process of tracking the hairy hominid. Below is suggested gear for the 21st
century Sasquatch hunter, courtesy of the the North East Sasquatch Research Association.
Night-Vision Camera
Stay on the trail in the wee hours with
night-vision technology. Just don’t
wake the big guy up.
Flashlight
A survival basic for any serious
Sasquatcher. No more mistaking
bears for Bigfoot.
Audio Recorder
External microphones make great
tools to capture clear audio evidence
and help you distinguish your own
rustling from that of a 12-foot monster.
Walkie Talkie
Communicating with your team is an
essential part of Sasquatchin’ protocol.
Long-range radios work best. Ten-four?
“Sasquatch lives in
Humbolt County in the
Redwood trees–it’s a
known fact!”
– Kaylee David, Junior
Yeti (Himalayas) Known as the “abominable snowman,”
the twelve-foot tall beast is often portrayed as having
white fur.
Yeren (China) The seven-foot tall Yeren is described
as having red fur with occasional white patches. It is
believed to be a peaceful creature that will walk away if
encountered.
Rain Gear
Just because Sasquatch doesn’t wear
a raincoat doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.
Come prepared or get drenched.
Map and Compass
Find your way back to your car before
Sasquatch does.
Batatut (Vietnam) Allegedly seen by Vietnamese troops
between 1969 and 1970, the Batatut (“Wildman”) stands
between five and six feet tall and is hairy everywhere
except the knees, elbows, and face.
Bacon or other attractant
As we know from the cast of Animal
Planet’s Finding Bigfoot, no man
(or man-ape) can resist the lure of
America’s favorite breakfast food.
Sketch Pad
Keep a waterproof sketch pad as a
back-up recording device in case your
technology fails.
“Sasquatch [is] working as
a doorman at a Portland
Goodwill.”
– Andrew White, Freshman
Yowie (Australia) Two species of Yowie are believed to
exist in Australia: the large Yowie at six to ten feet tall, and
the small Yowie at four to five feet tall.
Wendigo (Canada) This lanky, fifteen-foot-tall ape-like
creature has glowing eyes, long, yellowed canine teeth,
and an extended tongue. The Wendigo is said to transform
into human form and has a penchant for human flesh.
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HAPPY TRAILS
Flux isn’t the only one with a birthday. This year the Pacific Crest Trail
is celebrating the twentieth anniversary of its completion in 1993. The
2,650-mile trail runs from Mexico to Canada along the mountain ranges
of California, Oregon, and Washington. If that doesn’t impress you, the
trail covers over fifty-seven mountain passes, drops into nineteen major
canyons, and overlooks more than one thousand lakes.
Each year, the mammoth trail attracts between 500 and 800 hikers
who seek to soldier its incredible length. Those who succeed will have
walked for an entire four to six months of their lives.
– Casey Klekas
Top Five Scenic Stops
{ }
William L. Sullivan is an avid outdoorsman and Pacific Crest Trail (PCT)
fan who has published ten Oregon hiking guides and written a feature
column called “Oregon Trails” for the Eugene Register-Guard and the
Salem Statesman-Journal. Below are Sullivan’s top five scenic hotspots
along the Pacific Crest Trail’s Oregon portion.
Oregon’s highest mountain stands 11,249 feet
above sea level and is one of the trail’s last triumphs
before hikers cross the border into Washington.
At 10, 497 feet tall, Mt. Jefferson is the second-highest
mountain in Oregon. And the PCT offers a pretty
spectacular view of it. Sullivan says to expect a “ShangriLa valley of lakes and meadows right underneath the
mountain, just towering over it.”
The Sisters comprise three volcanic peaks, each
one over 10,000 feet high. The PCT runs on the
west side of the Sisters, offering jaw-dropping
views. The Sisters are the third, fourth, and fifth
tallest mountains in Oregon.
You’ll have to trek a mile off the trail, but you won’t
want to miss the second-largest natural lake in
Oregon, after Crater Lake, with waters just as pure.
Says Sullivan, “You can see 120 feet down through
the water.”
Sitting atop a collapsed volcano, Crater Lake is the
deepest lake in the United States and one of the top
ten deepest in the world. In addition to its depth, the
lake has some of the clearest and purest water found in
nature. For an extra treat, take the ferry to Wizard Island,
a small volcano nestled inside the crater.
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ILLUSTRATIONS CHARLOTTE CHENG
BEER wine
BATTLE OF THE BUZZ
vs.
says Sarah Chiovaro of Ken Wright Cellars in
Carlton, Oregon.
With breweries and wineries being such a
staple in Oregon, it leads one to ask: Which
beverage would win in a bar fight? Here’s how
Oregon’s beer and wine industries stack up.
So a can of beer and a bottle of wine walk into
a bar . . .
From its craft breweries to its rolling vineyards,
Oregon is known for its ability to deliver a buzz.
“For Oregonians, beer and wine are so much
more than a way to kick back at the end of the day.
They are part of what defines us in the Northwest,”
– Marissa Tomko
2,794,551
419 wineries
849 vineyards
Barrels of beer Oregonians
drank in 2011
Operating in Oregon
as of 2010
13,158
52
People employed by Oregon’s
wine industry
Operating breweries in
Portland, more than any other
city in the world
61
Cities in Oregon
with brewing
facilities
$2.44
Amount Oregon’s
beer industry has
generated in billions
11
Percent of beer sold
in Oregon brewed in
one of the state’s
136 local breweries
1,930,763
Cases of wine sold in
Oregon in 2010
31,200
Tons of wine produced
in Oregon in 2010
12,406
Vineyard acres that Pinot Noir
occupies across Oregon’s total
20,500 wine acres
WINNER: BEER 17.4% more gallons sold in Oregon
13
(In March 2013)
fluxStories.com
death
of the
west
Female ranchers face
a double struggle to keep
a male-dominated
AND declining industry afloaT
Words by Max Londberg & Photos by Mason Trinca
Gerda Hyde looks out onto her land
from her living room at Yamsi Ranch.
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F
ifty miles from Crater Lake,
and thirty miles from the nearest gas station, exists a plot of
Oregon history, unassumingly
settled in the Klamath Basin.
Address numbers aren’t needed
out here. Miles, not feet, separate one property from the next.
It would be impossible to miss
the entrance to Yamsi Ranch, the sign on
its arch announcing what lies just past the
structure’s wooden arms. Beyond the entrance, several ponderosa pines tower over
the rock-and-earth path, symbols of the
ranch’s longevity and grit.
The path forks once, then twice, creating a labyrinth molded from dirt and walled
by trees. After emerging from the wood,
Yamsi’s size suddenly registers as thousands
of acres come into
view. The stretching
plain is a backdrop
for two model ranch
homes—one sprawling, the other stoic,
and both fashioned
from ranchers’ hands.
Cattle dot the view.
Horses stare smartly,
as if they can tell a visitor from a rancher.
The same family
has worked this land
in Chiloquin, Oregon,
for more than one
hundred years. Dayton Williams started
the ranch in 1911,
but it took nearly fifty
years for the proper
alpha to claim the
reins. And she hasn’t
let go since.
Years of hard work
have slowed Gerda
Hyde’s pace, but Yamsi’s longtime matriarch still has purpose
to her step. Her wrists bow downward, bent
after a life of physical labor. Her dangling
earrings display a hint of femininity in a
gruff environment.
“She’s always been my idol,” Joe Jayne
says of his grandmother. “I’ve always wanted to be like her.”
North of Yamsi, in the high-desert terrain
of Sisters, Oregon, is another woman, born
a generation after Hyde. Vickie Herring developed a love for horses at a young age. Her
father taught her to pursue everything, and
the gender barriers most cowgirls faced at
the time did not bar her from her passion.
Herring’s love for horses would develop
from a hobby into a livelihood, and eventually to a commitment to protect them. She
has been a livestock manager for more than
twenty years.
For much of their lives, Hyde and Herring were minorities in a field dominated by
men. But while both have fought tirelessly
for their place on the ranch, they are facing
an even bigger battle in the coming years—
the survival of the industry itself.
As the economics of ranching have
changed to favor large-scale industrial operations, small ranches have struggled—
and often failed—to
compete. The emotional and financial
burdens often prove
too much for familyowned
operations
like those of Hyde
and Herring. As a result, family-owned
ranches are “largely
gone as an economic
entity,” according to
a 2008 study by the
Pew Commission on
Industrial Farm Animal Production.
For ranchers, sustaining their way of
life is hard enough.
But there is no guarantee that their land
will pass to their children when they’re
gone. Many believe
that Oregon’s Estate
Transfer Tax, previously known as the
Inheritance Tax, puts
their land and lifestyle in jeopardy. Ranchers who inherit estates worth more than $1 million are taxed
heavily. The tax starts at 10 percent and can
run as high as 16 percent, often totaling
more than a year’s income.
“Oregon has a tremendously high inheritance tax, so when my husband and I are
gone, we’ll have to pay about $600,000 in
Oregon taxes,” says Hyde. “It breaks up a lot
“You get old
really fast,
But you feel
like you did
something at
the end of
the day.”
16
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of ranches. They don’t seem to realize the
importance of keeping ranches in the family.”
Last November, Oregonians voted
against a ballot measure that would have repealed the tax.
Yet Hyde refuses to entertain the idea
that Yamsi may not be in her family once
she’s gone. She has managed to steer Yamsi
clear of bankruptcy for sixty-three years, a
success made more remarkable because of
the challenges she faced as a woman.
She was born in 1930 and raised in
Woodside, California. After marrying her
husband, Dayton Hyde, she moved to Yamsi
Ranch and was under the harsh rule of her
husband’s uncle. At the time, Uncle Buck
didn’t allow women to help with riding duties.
“Uncle Buck was a tyrant,” Hyde says. “We
s Vickie Herring stands in the horse stables at
R&B ranch in Sisters, Oregon. Herring manages
forty horses at the ranch.
did whatever he told us to do.”
But she didn’t buckle under the pressure.
Today, her resilience marks her face, the
lines etched from decades of meeting the
unforgiving elements with a penetrating
gaze. That resilience shone on a particularly
cold morning in the 1950s—a morning so
cold that the men didn’t show up for the
day’s labor. Hyde seized the opportunity to
ride, and Uncle Buck finally let her.
“From there on out I always helped with
the animals,” she says with no-nonsense
candor.
Nearly a generation later, Herring faced
a very different experience. Her father had
s Herring comforts a young horse moments before showing it to an interested buyer. Horses have become
a harder commodity to sell since the financial crisis of 2008, and are often bought by those with means.
17
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always allowed her to ride horses, and she
didn’t know anything about the Women’s
Liberation Movement until she drove a
cattle truck through California. Women on
the street hailed her with shouts and saluted
her with raised arms for doing a job typically
handled by men in the area.
“At first I thought they were cussing us
out,” she says. “I didn’t realize it was a liberation thing because I was fortunate not to
grow up with that.”
But she always knew that the life of a
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rancher would require long, strenuous
hours, resting only when the sun set, and
sometimes not even then. Like Hyde, Herring chose it anyway.
“You get old really fast,” she says. “But
you feel like you did something at the end
of the day.”
Herring currently manages livestock on
R&B Ranch in Sisters, Oregon.
Most of the animals she manages are
horses, and she can describe each of their
unique personalities as if they are more
family than livestock. In her youth she often entered bareback riding competitions,
and she talks as fast as she rides. Her words
are marked with a concern for the animals
she loves, having once rescued 265 horses
bound for slaughter due to a feed shortage
in Canada.
“There are worse things than death for
animals,” Herring says. “Deplorable conditions are worse.”
She says that advancements such as fourwheelers have replaced the need for horses
on many ranches, which can lead to the neglect that she decries.
Her own ranch initially housed more than
one hundred horses. Today there are just
forty.
“When the economy went down, the
horse market went ‘poof,’” she says. “I’m not
sure if it will ever come back.”
Herring has been managing livestock
since the early ‘90s. At the time, she kept
her horses in a stable owned by David Herman, who began buying ranches around
Oregon in hopes of continuing a successful
career in real estate. He had no experience
with ranching, so he turned to Herring to
drive his cattle. Her skills quickly earned her
a vital role.
Herman sold R&B Ranch to its current
owners, Rick and Barbara Morrill, in 2006.
Family and friends ride the forty horses
now, and Herring says the ranch no longer
yields profit. It is funded by the owner’s income from a crane business in Salem.
Hyde and her husband bought Yamsi
s John Hyde, Gerda Hyde’s eldest son, guides
several hundred head of cattle to a new grazing
field on an early Sunday morning. He uses a sheep
dog to keep the cows moving as a unit.
Ranch in 1959. For the last fifty years, one
thousand head of cattle have roamed Yamsi’s five thousand acres during the summers,
but even that sizeable herd wasn’t enough to
sustain it during the late ‘80s.
In the summer of 1987, Hyde made a
decision that saved her ranch. She opened
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s Joe Jayne, Hyde’s grandson, begins each day feeding the cattle using several dozen bales of hay. During the winter
and early spring months, the grazing fields dry up, and hay is often used as a replacement food for the cattle.
20
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her doors to people interested in fishing
the eight miles of river that snake through
Yamsi. People come to the ranch for the tranquility and to enjoy the close proximity to
the land, something that Hyde experiences
every day.
“I don’t think there’s much romance in it,”
she says, “but people love to get out of the
city. That made the difference of making a
living and not.”
Every summer, Hyde hosts hundreds of
guests, each paying $300 a night to stay in
her home. But even with the supplementary
income, Yamsi can only support three families at a time.
Jeffrey Ostler, a professor at the University of Oregon specializing in the history of
the American West, understands the hardships of the contemporary rancher, but he
believes the industry must fend for itself.
“The cowboy has been mythologized in
s John Hyde checks his horse’s bridle before setting off to move his cattle to a new grazing field.
“95 percent of the time you’re broke,”
Jayne says. “You work your butt off, and
your reward is that
land.”
icated to good environmental practices. If
you don’t take care of your land, you’re going
to lose it,” Hyde says.
“We look at our place as
a whole: the bugs and
the land and the birds
and the trees. You get
rid of one thing, pretty
soon the chain breaks.”
‘‘95 percent
s Jerri Hyde, Gerda Hyde’s daughter-in-law,
gathers the necessary tools in the stables to care for
one of her horses. Every day, Jerri feeds and takes
care of the animals on Yamsi Ranch.
the west more than other occupations,” Ostler says. “I don’t know if that mythologizing
tendency means that particular economic
lifestyle should be granted any more protection than any other. Why should we subsidize a non-viable economy?”
The USDA offers a Beginning Rancher
loan, and last year gave $1.1 billion to firsttime farmers and ranchers. Hyde’s grandson, Joe Jayne, applied for the loan this year,
and he used it to buy one hundred cows. He
has worked on Yamsi all of his adult life, and
although owning livestock for the first time
is an important milestone for him, he knows
it won’t necessarily spur sudden wealth.
But for large-scale
industrial ranches, the
reward is monetary,
seemingly at the cost
of the local community
and the environment.
According to the Pew
study, family-owned
ranches and farms buy
mostly local supplies
and services, supporting rural businesses.
Industrial
facilities,
however, typically buy
cheaper feed from distant bulk suppliers.
The study also stated
that industrial facilities produce more manure than the land can
absorb. The resulting
surface and groundwater contamination becomes the responsibility of the community.
Pesticides and fertilizers present a similar
social burden.
of the time
you’re broke.
you work your
butt
off,
and your reward
is that land.’’
“I think a lot of the small ranches are ded-
Family ranchers go
against the grain to be
stewards of the land
like the generations before them. But barring
drastic systemic changes, they will continue
to struggle. Hyde has
combined hard work
and timely decisions to
keep Yamsi in her family. She is confident that
it will remain that way
after she’s gone, something she contemplates
as the oldest member
of her family.
“I think about that
when I wake up some mornings,” she says
softly. “I know I’m next.”
She can only hope family-owned ranches
don’t follow her. n
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Living
Legacy
A homesteading family
reflects on the land
of its heritage
words Lauren Messman Photos Kathryn Boyd-Batstone
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s A herd of goats runs through the grass toward homesteader
Sherry Millican. Behind her lies the house where she grew up,
which is now inhabited by her son and his wife.
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E
very time Sherry Millican
drives her ‘94 Jeep Cherokee down Oregon Route 126, she passes a town marker
crafted of oversized, chestnut-colored logs
on the right-hand side of the road. The
large white letters on the sign read “Walterville.”
The town is named after Walter Millican, one of her ancestors who helped
settle the McKenzie River Valley in the
early 1900s. As the rolling green farmland
whips by, she passes a street sign for Millican Road—a nod to her great grandfather,
Robert Millican. About a mile further, she
approaches a wooden arch at the entrance
to a gravel road. A rustic metal nameplate
that reads “Triangle 5 Ranch” sits overhead as she drives onto the dirt road and
up to the 640-acre ranch that five generations of her family have called “home.”
Millican is a homesteader—someone
who makes both her home and her living on the same plot of land. For her, it’s
more than her preferred lifestyle—it’s the
family business. She and her husband,
Todd Richey, own and operate a ranch on
her ancestor’s homestead. It’s a tough job
that requires demanding labor from sunup
to sundown as they struggle to keep the
ranch afloat and meet modern standards.
But the way she sees it, if the next generation can continue to drive under the Triangle 5 Ranch sign, it will all be worth it.
“The future of the ranch—it can be anything we want to build it to,” Richey says.
“We’ve got the ground to do anything.
Time is our biggest problem.”
Though they are in their sixties, the couple continues to wake up every morning
and care for their animals, just as generations of Millicans have done before them.
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In 1865, Robert Millican joined the
wave of pioneers settling the west in response to the Homestead Act of 1862.
After boarding a ship in New York, sailing
around the Isthmus of Panama to Portland, and walking from Albany to Eugene,
Oregon, Robert received a John Latta
Donation Land Claim and settled in Lane
County.
Four name changes and 148 years later,
Triangle 5 Ranch is still run by the Millican family.
Today, the ranch boasts three original
hand-built barns that stand as a testament to Robert’s meticulous craftsmanship. The massive charcoal-gray barn that
towers over the acreage is one of the oldest in Lane County. Additionally, the same
white, two-story house where Millican was
raised has sat at the top of the dirt road for
over a century. She and Richey follow in
her ancestor’s footsteps by preserving the
original buildings, raising goats and horses
and growing their own hay. They even use
Robert’s remaining agricultural tools. “As you do your work you can think
about how many hands have held this,
how many hours of work and tedium and
love have gone into making something
that is great,” Millican says as she gazes
out the wide kitchen window at the land
that bound her family together for more
than a century. “When I look out on the
field, I can see my great grandfather tilling
the land. They were heartier people than I.”
She always knew keeping the ranch in
the family would be a challenge. But she
never imagined it would start so soon. Two
years ago, the death of Millican’s mother,
Neva Millican, sparked a family dispute regarding her will. Neva left a quarter of the
ranch to each of her four daughters, three
of whom had no interest in living or working on the family’s land.
“Sherry’s mom probably thought the
sisters would play well and try to sell [their
portion of the ranch] to Sherry,” Richey
says. “Well, that wasn’t the way it went at
all.”
Millican’s three sisters didn’t see ranching as a practical means of making a living.
Kathy Millican, her oldest sister, pursued
her dream of having her own ranch and
has since retired on a smaller acreage. Her
other two sisters, Karen Coreson and Sandra Welker, chose a different lifestyle altogether.
“As I matured, the ability to earn a living
on any farm decreased. The single-family
farm became obsolete as a means to make
a living,” says Welker, a retired dental hygienist. “So I gravitated towards where
I could make a living and that was away
from the land.”
Though she acknowledges that Millican
has a better understanding of the ranching
lifestyle, Welker and her sisters had other
plans for the land. Not seeing the ranch as
a practical or profitable venture, they decided to place their portions of the ranch
up for general sale.
Lawyers were hired, negotiations were
made, and bitter feelings transpired. Millican’s sisters wanted to sell the land to
a cattle rancher for around $2.4 million,
which would be split between the four of
them. It was an offer that Millican and
Richey couldn’t afford to counter. Devastated by the potential loss of the family
homestead and all the sentimental value
that it carried, the couple was determined
to fight in order to save the land.
s In the past, Millican
worked a forty-hour-aweek job in town. When
Millican and her husband
Todd Richey started a
trail-riding business,
Millican was able to live
and work on the ranch just
like her ancestors.
Millican still treasures
her great-grandfather’s
diaries that date back to
the 1860s. Robert
Millican, who bought the
land in 1865 under the
Homestead Act, recorded
the weather and behavior
of his animals daily.
25
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s Millican inspects a new mother goat as its kid looks on. The mother’s udders are infected, preventing the kid from obtaining enough milk. With Millican’s vast
knowledge of animals passed down through the generations, she knows to bring in a second mothering goat as a supplement for nourishment.
“I said to the girls, ‘I cannot sit here and
see everything that has been our heritage
bulldozed into a heap and burned,’” Millican says.
Still, the three sisters decided to hear
the couple’s business plan. Scrambling to
counter the offer, Millican and Richey proposed to log $2.6 million worth of trees
for a profit that would be distributed three
ways. The sisters weighed the couple’s proposal and ultimately decided to take their
offer.
“It was sort of like, we traded the trees
for the land,” says Welker. “[Sherry] has
the knowledge and she is the best one to
serve the ranch, and it’s a means of keeping the ranch in one piece. I’m very happy
that way and I’m sure [Sherry] is too.” It was a victory for Millican and Richey,
but the impediments didn’t stop there.
The ranching industry has undergone significant changes, and they’ve had to evolve
26
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the ranch to meet the changing economic
environment.
According to land usage data from the
Environmental Protection Agency, small
family farms represent the majority of
farms in America, but economies of scale
increasingly favor growth in large industrial farm operations. Data from the National Agricultural Statistics Service in
“It’s hard work,
but I can’t see
myself living in
a cul-de-sac.”
Sherry Millican
2002 indicates that every week, 330 farmers leave their land.
Hoping to avoid joining that statistic,
Millican and Richey mapped out a way to
continue to make a living off their land.
When they married eighteen years ago,
Millican tended the ranch, took care of her
elderly mother, and worked a forty-houra-week job. But once they launched a trailriding business on the ranch, Millican was
able to quit her job.
“We were taking people horseback riding every weekend. Every weekend in the
summer [it] was either friends, friends of
friends, or family,” says Richey. “Nowadays
we probably see a thousand people a year.”
In addition to trail rides, the couple is
in the process of building an arena for roping cattle and horseback riding lessons.
Millican estimates the overall cost of the
arena could reach up to $90,000 and take
five years to complete, but that the profit
would outweigh the costs. Other modern
ventures include logging trees and renting
out a portion of the land to various agricultural companies, which would provide
enough financial support to help sustain
their traditional ranching lifestyle.
“The ranch is a living, breathing entity,”
says Richey. “It’s no different than a sibling, or your son or daughter, and you have
to take care of it. It just doesn’t take care
of itself.”
Every day the couple feeds and cares
for their fifty goats, sixteen horses, and a
single llama named Fuzzy. Millican, who
knows every animal by name, takes special
care of the elderly animals, examines goats
for possible pregnancies, and disbuds baby
goats by removing their horns.
“The ranch is a
living, breathing
entity.”
Todd Richey
“[The animals] don’t care if you’re sick,
they don’t care if you’re hurt, they don’t
care if it’s Sunday, they don’t care if it’s
Christmas,” Millican says. “You either love
it or you hate it. It’s hard work but I can’t
see myself living in a cul-de-sac.”
But while Millican and Richey’s passion
continues to fuel the ranch, its future remains uncertain. The fate of the land, the
traditions, and the Millican homesteading
lifestyle rests in the hands of their only
son, Curran Manzer.
Manzer lives on the homestead with
his wife, Michelle. After moving back to
his ancestor’s land to help care for his
grandmother, he decided to start his own
taxidermy business and operate out of his
grandfather’s old shop.
Like his mother, Manzer successfully integrates the old with the new. He believes
that keeping the land in the family is vital,
but his commitment to ranching itself is a
bit more complicated.
He enjoys living and hunting on the
ranch, but says he only feels connected
with the animals when he hunts them.
Although his vocation focuses on preservation, Manzer is unsure of how he
plans to maintain the ranch for future
generations, and has only vague plans for
Bob Reno, a local farrier and fellow rancher,
shaves down horseshoe nails while Millican
watches. For Millican, the distinct sound of
scraping metal on horse hooves takes her back to
her childhood on the ranch.
tThe family gathers in the kitchen for their
traditional Sunday night dinner. During the day,
Millican and Richey work on maintaining the
homestead while Curran Manzer, Millican’s
son, works at his taxidermy business. His wife
Michelle tends to her geese and ducks.
27
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a possible succession. His wife plans to
take care of the animals, but other details
are still up in the air.
“If we ask, Curran participates,” Millican says. While her son is capable of
helping with the ranch work, she says it
isn’t his primary interest.
“At this point in his life, it isn’t something he’s ready to step off and take up
the reins,” says Millican. “He’s got his
young business that he’s building.”
Yet even as the future of the ranch
remains uncertain, the family holds
onto its traditions. Following in Neva’s
footsteps, the two couples hold a family
dinner every Sunday evening. They share
good food and stories as a means to create new memories and preserve old ones.
In the years to come, the Millicans
will navigate the tempestuous waters of
diverse family interests, financial stability, and future preparations. In the
face of the many changes that come
their way, Millican and Richey focus on
preserving the land they love and doing
what the Millican ancestors did before
them: taking care of the animals, cultivating the land, and waking up to do it all
over again. n
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fluxSTORIES.COM
s Millican and Richey stop for a short break to chat about the farm. After eighteen years of marriage they
have learned how to live and work on the ranch as a team.
tThe Triangle 5 logo, based on the five generations of Millican homesteaders who have worked the land,
frames the entryway onto Millican’s property.
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comes in green
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fluxStories.com
PARANORMAL
CLUES
A Portland-based psychic detective taps into her
intuition to settle unsolved cases
WORDS CARI JOHNSON ILLUSTRATION CHARLOTTE CHENG
aurie McQuary did not use a crystal
ball while working on a recent murder
investigation in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She does not wear purple robes or
wave around a stick of intoxicating
incense when interviewing victims’
family members. Instead, she wears
a structured green jacket over a crisp
collared shirt in her neatly arranged
Lake Oswego office. She’s not a sorceress, but she’s also not an ordinary
person. McQuary is a woman of intuition.
McQuary is among nearly eighty
thousand psychics in the United
States and part of the $2 billion psychic industry. Using her gift to assist
in solving crimes, however, makes
her exceptionally unusual.
She began showing psychic abilities at age eighteen after a fall from
a horse left her in a coma for three
months. She worked as a nurse for
the first part of her life before transi-
tioning from giving private readings
to coworkers to starting a psychic
consultation business in 1984.
“I have a responsibility to listen to
the universe,” she says.
McQuary has amassed more than
two hundred cases in her twentynine years as a psychic detective.
Murder and missing person cases
dating as far back as the ‘80s and
‘90s are tightly packed into two large
filing cabinets. McQuary’s blue eyes
scan the thick manila folders as she
thumbs over police detective names
scribbled in illegible handwriting.
“You’d be surprised how many detectives really believe in this work,”
she says.
Bob Lee, a retired police detective from the Lake Oswego Police
Department, is among the believers.
Lee met McQuary during a murder
investigation in 1986. When the two
got together for lunch to review the
case, McQuary listed thirty details
that she had intuitively gathered
from the report, including information regarding the involvement
of the murderer’s brother with the
burial of the body.
“I probably spent a week [trying
to disprove] everything that she told
me,” recalls Lee.
Lee was surprised to find that
twenty-nine of the facts were correct. McQuary had also accurately
pinpointed the burial location of the
victim. Lee was so impressed with
McQuary that he married her the
following year.
Throughout his thirty-seven-year
career in law enforcement, Lee has
learned that detectives play on their
own hunches and logical reasoning.
However, he believes his wife has a
unique sense of intuition that becomes particularly valuable in a room
full of left-brained police detectives.
“I’m really good at picking out the
bad guy,” says Lee. “[McQuary] is just
going to look at the bad guy a little
differently.”
While the couple typically works
separately and never openly discusses any active cases, McQuary may, at
times, ask her husband about a bullet trajectory or an autopsy report.
Lee has also occasionally used Mc31
fluxStories.com
Quary for her fresh viewpoint on cases.
“I don’t feel that I have solved cases,
I believe I’ve contributed to them,” says
McQuary. “When I’m out there in the field
slogging around with the police or the
family and we find the body, I feel like I’ve
walked hand-in-hand with God.”
With each case, McQuary requires a
name, the victim’s photo, and a map of
the area where he or she was last seen.
She often visits the site to better understand the physical energy of the case, and
has traveled across the country for cases
in almost all fifty states. Her involvement
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with these cases has lead to appearances
on Portland’s KATU News, Court TV’s Psychic Detective, and Larry King Live, among
other television and news outlets.
Psychic Detective has featured a number
of the industry’s members, including psychic detective Noreen Renier. Based in Orlando, Florida, she typically assists with
cases that are ten to twenty years old.
“When police give me information on
missing people, I tune into the energy and
relive it,” says Renier. She often holds objects (say, the victim’s shirt) to gain extra
sensory perception on the situation.
Like McQuary, Renier does not claim to
solve investigations. Instead, she suggests
that she can provide new clues or a different angle. She charges a flat fee of $650
for a phone consultation, offering her
psychic abilities to assist with unsolved
homicide or missing persons cases, lost
animals, and private readings.
McQuary didn’t charge for her investigative assistance for twenty-one years,
until her TV appearance on Larry King
Live triggered hundreds of case requests.
While she has never charged law enforcement for her services, she requests a one-
Edward, an IIG committee member. “But
in thirty-five years, I have yet to see anyone who has exhibited psychic abilities.”
Edward infiltrated the psychic market
for research used in his recently published
book, Psychic Blues: Confessions of a Conflicted Medium. He suggests that psychic
detectives simply have a sharper sense of
intuition than the police based on their
highly developed understanding of human
nature and emotion.
“They have a better perspective on what
kind of clues to look for,” says Edward.
“There’s nothing supernatural about it.”
Yet, there remains a certain public fascination with the work psychic detectives
do. Popular culture has seen an influx of
“She doesn’t tell me what to do,” says
D’Quatro, who has been a client of McQuary’s since 2007. “She just tells me
what she feels.”
While McQuary’s abilities don’t turn
off at the end of the workweek, she prefers to maintain a low profile during her
time off. “I’m not ‘Suzie Psychic’ 24/7,” she
says. By avoiding crowds and prolonged
eye contact with others, McQuary can
usually limit overly personal connections
with strangers. Eye contact can induce especially intense connections, she explains.
Despite the desire to occasionally turn
off her abilities, McQuary regularly practices listening to her own energy. In fact,
her intuitive guidance led her to discover
“You’d be suprised how many
detectives really believe in this
-Laurie McQuary
work.”
McQuary sits in
her hypnosis room,
one of the rooms
where she meets
with clients.
Photo by Myray Reames
time $250 fee for private clients, who are
often families seeking more information
about their cases. If travel becomes necessary, the client is responsible for any additional expenses.
Though McQuary has built her career
around convincing nonbelievers, there are
many who are skeptical of her extraordinary occupation. The Independent Investigations Group (IIG), based in Hollywood,
California, gathers weekly to examine and
debunk paranormal claims through scientific processes.
“I’m not a complete skeptic,” says Mark
programs exploring the relationship between law enforcement and psychics, such
as TV series like Psychic Detectives, Medium, The Mentalist, and Psych. In response
to Hollywood’s curiosity toward the paranormal, the IIG called Psychic Detectives
one of the year’s worst examples of scientific thinking in its annual awards ceremony in 2007. The Mentalist and Psych,
however, were applauded for promoting
science in their scripts.
McQuary doesn’t mind a skeptic. In
addition to assisting with investigative
cases in her spare time, she has spent the
past thirty years building her business,
Management by Intuition. The cozy Native American-inspired office offers psychic consultations ranging from past-life
regressions to a technique that uses hypnosis to recover potential memories of
past lives. The consultations last between
thirty minutes and one hour.
For client Laura D’Quatro, a session
with McQuary is better than therapy. She
began paying visits to the office a couple of
times each year after she lost her mother
and most recently, her father.
she had breast cancer seven years ago.
After waking up one morning, McQuary
sensed something was wrong with her
breast despite having no symptoms. She
made a medical appointment that same
day where doctors concluded there was
no lump. When she demanded further
investigation through an MRI, they were
surprised to discover that her intuition
was correct. McQuary was diagnosed with
breast cancer.
“I found out later that I’d had it for
twenty-five years,” says McQuary, who
quickly underwent treatment (including
five surgeries). She now lives cancer-free.
Psychic abilities may be mentally exhausting at the end of each day, but McQuary has not yet exhausted her career.
This year marks a big move to Central Oregon with her retired husband, and she will
eventually close her Lake Oswego office.
McQuary’s clients, however, will continue
to communicate with her through phone
sessions.
“As long as I am coherent and accurate
I will be doing this work,” says McQuary.
“Retirement is not an option.” n
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WHEN
COMMUNITIES
Collide
More students are flooding
neighborhoods around campus,
leading
to
conflicts
with property managers over living conditions
and clashes with homeowners
seeking to preserve their communities
WORDS SAM KATZMAN PHOTOS ALISHA JUCEVIC
34
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Chelsea Schmitt, a senior
at the University of Oregon,
dreads going down to her
basement to do laundry
because she says it smells
strongly of mold.
35 fluxStories.com
I
t’s a typical spring day in Eugene,
Oregon—sixty degrees and partially
sunny, with rain clouds billowing in the
distance. Living in a region saturated
with rain for 144 days of the year, most
Eugene residents are not fazed by the
inevitable showers creeping toward the
city. Katie Morrison, however, shudders
at the thought of storms in the forecast.
“When it’s raining outside, it’s usually
raining in my closet,” says the University of Oregon senior, gesturing toward
the decaying walls meant to protect her
clothing.
For many student-renters like Morrison, a leaky roof is only one of many
maintenance concerns. But she says her
biggest worry is whether the problems
will ever get repaired.
Paper-thin walls, a toilet ingloriously
dubbed a “dinosaur,” malfunctioning
door knobs, and nonexistent water pressure are just some of the issues Morrison
says plague her rental property. When a
new problem arises—which she esti-
36
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mates to be almost daily—she says she
is quick to report her complaint to the
property management company that
oversees her home. The company says it
deals promptly with complaints. Morrison disagrees.
“They say they will come and fix it
when they can,” says Morrison. “But
they don’t take me seriously.”
Stories like Morrison’s are common
in the communities encircling the University of Oregon. In a time of mounting tuition costs and rising enrollment,
many cash-strapped students are flocking to the neighborhoods surrounding
campus in search of the cheapest and
most convenient places to live. But as
the demand for housing increases, stu-
dents are clashing with landlords and
property managers over what some say
are increasingly unsuitable rental conditions, while property managers say inconsistent reporting makes it tough to
deal with problems. Meanwhile, private
homeowners who suddenly find themselves surrounded by ‘For Rent’ signs are
struggling for a say in the future of their
neighborhoods.
Several factors have contributed to
livability issues in student rental housing. At the heart of the issue is the heart
of Eugene: the University of Oregon.
Whether it’s the flashy uniforms, athletic triumphs, or innovative curriculum,
there’s no disputing the popularity of
the Oregon Ducks. As a result, enroll-
Private homeowners
like Carolyn Jacobs are
dissatisfied with landlords
and property managers who
they say buy homes to rent
in residential areas but don’t
properly maintain them.
ment at Oregon’s flagship university
has swelled over the past decade. Since
2002, total enrollment has jumped
22 percent to 24,591 students in the
2012-2013 school year.
The University of Oregon does not
offer guaranteed on-campus housing for first-year students. According
to Fall 2012 enrollment statistics,
20 percent of freshmen didn’t live
on campus, although some did so by
choice.
“We don’t use the word ‘guaranteed’, but we do have space,” says Michael Griffel, director of housing at the
University of Oregon. “We don’t know
what enrollment is going to do and
we are very concerned about making
“WHEN IT’S
RAINING OUTSIDE
IT’S USUALLY
RAINING IN MY
CLOSET.”
-Katie Morrison, UO senior
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University of Oregon senior Katie Morrison says
she has many problems with her off-campus
rental. Her biggest problem is a leak in her
closet. When it rains she says she has to move
her boots out of the back of the closet so they
are not damaged.
A RELUCTANCE TO REPORT
In 2011, the City of Eugene conducted a Rental
Housing Program survey to gauge the housing climate
in Eugene-area communities. Of those who responded,
42.3 percent were renters. Respondents cited possible
evictions, possible increases in rent, and conflicts with
landlords or property managers as the top reasons why
they would not want to report a housing problem.
Source: City of Eugene
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0%
Possible Eviction
Possible Increase in Rent
Conflict with Owner/Manager
Language Barrier
Would Rather Tolerate Problem
50%
100%
promises that, at some point, we won’t be
able to keep.”
The University of Oregon increased its
housing offerings by opening the Global
Scholars Hall in September 2012. Yet some
Ducks say the price tag restricts them from
living there. It costs between $11,737 and
$17,766 for room and board this academic
year. The cheapest rooms here are roughly
$2,000 more expensive than other comparable dorms on campus.
As a result, many students are migrating to the most affordable residences close
to campus, and demand for rental real
estate has risen alongside enrollment.
Apartment buildings are continually popping up in the most densely populated student communities says Laura Fine Moro,
a landlord-tenant attorney who works
with students, but the remaining homes
are growing scarce and many are in poorer
condition.
“It’s a shame that so many older homes
are being torn down and apartment complexes are going up,” says Moro. “But so
many older homes have deferred maintenance and are not a quality place for students to live.”
The City of Eugene has attempted to
ease livability problems through its Rental
Housing Program, which requires all rental
properties under the city’s jurisdiction to
adhere to basic standards in order to be
occupied by tenants. The housing code
addresses structural integrity, plumbing,
heating, and weatherproofing, as well as
criteria including smoke detection and security. When problems arise, the landlord
or property manager is given ten days to
repair the issue after being notified of the
complaint in writing. If a rental property
fails to comply with this code, occupants
are entitled to file a formal complaint with
the City of Eugene Code Compliance office,
initiating an inspection.
Says Eugene Code Compliance inspector Mark Tritt, “The most common complaints we receive are for issues regarding
mold, plumbing, and heating.”
But it is unclear whether the program
has succeeded in mitigating student rental
property complaints. According to a 2011
survey conducted by the City of Eugene, 6
percent of Eugene renters have filed com-
“We don’t ignore
complaints. We
obviously want to
take care of our
properties, because
it’s damaging to
have homes with
maintenance
issues.”
- sarah vail,
Jennings Group, Inc.
plaints against their homeowner or property manager in the last three years. However, 65 percent of these subjects reported
that their issue went unresolved. Tritt said
the city does not distinguish between student and non-student renters, and that he
is unsure whether those numbers repre-
AN UNRESOLVED PROBLEM
sent an increase.
Compounding the problem, says Moro,
is the fact that students are largely unaware of their rental rights or fear retaliation from property managers. Indeed, the
city survey found that top reasons renters failed to report problems were fear of
eviction or an increase in rent. The result?
Many renters often don’t report problems
at all.
Immediately after moving into her
South University rental, Chelsea Schmitt
says she and her three roommates discovered that their house was teeming with
mold. It crept into kitchen drawers, rendering many of them unusable. But the
biggest problem lies in the basement, she
says, where a combination of leaky plumbing and broken lighting has resulted in an
unwelcoming atmosphere.
“You can’t really see it because it’s so
dark, but you can smell [it.] It’s like instantly there is something not right,”
Schmitt says.
Though the prospect of doing laundry in
the basement fills her with dread, she and
her roommates have only reported a few of
their problems.
“We’re all graduating this year, so we’ve
been through it a lot and it’s just kind of
like, ‘Well, we’ll just deal with it. It’s only
five more weeks,’” she says.
Sarah Vail, a property manager with
Jennings Group, Inc., says that they have
received no complaints of mold from
Schmitt’s address.
But even those who reported their problems two years ago say they see mixed results. Senior Adam Paikowsky and his five
housemates suspected the wiring in their
century-old rental home was malfunctioning. After experiencing several electrical
Yes
A 2011 survey of the City of Eugene’s Rental Housing Program found
that just 6 percent of surveyed renters had contacted the city about a
maintenance issue after informing their property manager or landlord. Of
those, nearly two-thirds reported that their issue did not get resolved.
No
Source: City of Eugene
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THE CRIME CONNECTION
Neighborhoods with
more renters usually
experience more
crime. A 2011 report
backed by the City
of Eugene found
the West University
neighborhood, which
is 99 percent renteroccupied, accounted
for 15 percent of
the city’s total crime.
With the exception
of the Amazon
neighborhood, the
areas surrounding
campus also have
crime rates that
correspond to a high
percentage of renters.
Total
Occupancy
Renter-Occupied
#
%
Owner-Occupied
%
#
Total
Crimes
Personal
Crimes
Property
Crimes
Behavior
Crimes
Amazon
829
442
53
387
47
43
7
24
12
Fairmount
1268
566
45
702
55
253
24
178
51
South
University
1569
1250
80
319
20
345
15
159
171
West
University
2930
2907
99
23
1
2289
121
761
1401
Source: City of Eugene Police Department
surges each day, Paikowsky became concerned and notified Stewardship Properties
about the issue.
“Our breaker would trip so frequently that
if you were using the microwave while watching TV, the power to our house would just go
off,” he says.
The housemates say they took turns calling their property management company to
insist that a repairman address the problem.
Stewardship Properties sent someone over to
look at the breaker box.
“He was the same guy they would send
anytime we had a problem with our house. He
was basically a one-stop-shop kind of handyman,” Paikowsky says. “For about a week,
things would be fine, but then the breaker
switching would happen all over again.”
In the early morning of February 26, 2011,
a fire consumed their home, ignited by a
single flame that Paikowsky says originated
from an electrical outlet.
With nothing but the charred scraps of an
uninhabitable home remaining, the fire victims were left scrambling to find a new house.
Stewardship did not offer them alternate accommodations, they said, so the housemates
packed their undamaged belongings and
moved back into the overcrowded dorms for
the rest of their sophomore year.
The housemates considered legal action.
But because none of their complaints were
documented in writing, their plans were
quickly extinguished.
“Had we known better, we should have
kept proper documentation at the time,” says
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roommate Andrew Keller. “Part of the blame
falls on us, because we had a legitimate issue
and we let it go unresolved.”
Bill Syrios, owner of Stewardship, said that
the cause of the fire was electrical, and that
his company was regrettably unable to help
the tenants afterward.
“It was a difficult situation because they
had to be relocated,” he said. “I don’t blame
them for being frustrated, but we didn’t have
many options.”
Like many student tenants who have never
rented a home before coming to college, the
fire victims were not fully aware of their rental rights, says housing attorney Moro.
“A good basic tool is to write a letter giving a historical perspective that reminds
the landlord or manager that [you] notified
[the manager] on this date, and the number
of conversations you’ve had with as much
specificity as possible, then make the request
plainly for the repairs to be made,” she says.
The City of Eugene keeps a database of
complaints against property management
companies. Between the years of 2005 and
2013, it lists Bell Real Estate as having the
highest number of complaints, followed by
Stoneridge 1, Von Klein Property Management, Emerald Property Management, and
Stewardship Properties. However, that list
does not account for the size of each company.
Morrison, with the rainy closet, rents her
home from Von Klein Property Management,
which oversees about 1,100 units throughout Eugene. It is the second largest student
rental housing operation in Lane County,
and its highest concentration of properties
is located in the West University neighborhood—which is almost entirely inhabited
by students.
While Morrison says some of her complaints have been properly addressed, she
says the number of unresolved issues greatly
outnumber the pleasant experiences.
“I think they get overwhelmed with all
the repairs they have, but that’s not our
problem,” she says.
Von Klein Property Management, however, believes Morrison’s concerns are exaggerated. Though the company acknowledges that some complaints go unresolved,
owner Larry Von Klein says his company is
working hard to protect its reputation.
He says that students can be inconsistent communicators. They often file for
work orders but don’t ultimately give contractors permission to enter their homes
or fail to return phone calls to set up repairs.
He adds that many tenants have had
very positive things to say about renting
from the company.
“My wife has a box full of thank-you
notes written by students that were under our umbrella for four years,” Von Klein
says. “We take a lot of pride in this.”
Representatives from Jennings and
Stewardship also defended their companies, saying that allowing homes to fall
into disrepair is simply not good for business.
“We don’t ignore complaints,” said Vail,
from Jennings Group Inc. “We obviously
want to take care of our properties, because it’s damaging to have homes with
maintenance issues.”
Tension over off-campus student housing is not limited to the University of
Oregon. As enrollment surges in colleges
across the nation, many universities have
had to rethink their plans for growth.
Take Raleigh, North Carolina, the home
of North Carolina State University. The
campus is considered “landlocked”—
meaning expansion beyond current campus borders is not a viable option. A decade
Michael Griffel is the Housing
Director at the University of Oregon.
The residence hall behind him,
called the Global Scholars Hall
(GSH), is the newest on campus. A
two-person suite with a bathroom
costs $16, 710 per academic year
with a standard meal plan.
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Adam Paikowsky is a senior at the
University of Oregon. The house
he and his roommates were
renting burnt down two years
ago due to an electrical fire.
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ago, Raleigh residents observed an unprecedented number of students living in poor
rental property conditions near campus
and in neighborhoods that were once exclusively occupied by private homeowners.
North Carolina State University ultimately made room for elaborate student
apartment housing on its Centennial Campus, but the city of Raleigh is still struggling to find a more permanent solution.
The same phenomenon has occurred in
Eugene, leading to tension between private homeowners and their student neighbors. Communities such as the Fairmount
and South University neighborhoods,
which once contained very few students,
are now seeing more rentals, leading to
conflicts over the changing feel of the area.
“As soon as you start having a few rentals, the block looks different. The grass
isn’t cut, dandelions are all over, there are
bushes overgrown—maybe the paint is
peeling,” says South University neighborhood resident Carolyn Jacobs. “Then, all
of a sudden, no families want to buy the
house next door. Who wants to spend
$500,000 to live in a house when the property next door looks like crap?”
A 2011 report backed by the city found
that, in campus neighborhoods, “there
is a strong incentive to convert singlefamily, owner-occupied homes to rental
properties.” The Neighborhood Livability
Working Group, which was comprised of
city and university officials, homeowners, property managers, and students,
wrote that “the livability and stability of a
neighborhood can deteriorate as the proportions of rental property grows and is
followed by disinvestment or disinterest
by committed property owners. Once the
cycle starts, it can gain momentum and be
difficult to arrest as long-term residents
grow tired of the worsening conditions
and put their homes up for sale.”
The report found that crime rates are
higher in neighborhoods that are heavily scattered with students. The West
University neighborhood, for example, is
comprised of 99 percent rentals—most of
which have student tenants. It accounts
for 15 percent of all the crimes in Eugene,
handily leading the surrounding neighborhoods in personal, property, and behavioral offenses. Between 2006 and 2010,
arrests in the West and South University
neighborhoods for noise, disorderly con-
duct, and alcohol-related violations have
increased. In South University alone, there
were 2.5 times more of these types of arrests in 2010 than in 2006.
In response to these statistics, private
homeowners are fighting back any way
that they can. This year, the city enacted
the controversial “Social Host” Ordinance,
which fines violators up to $1,000 for
hosting disruptive house parties.
Still, some private homeowners living
near the University of Oregon are less concerned about rowdy collegians than they
are fed up with landlords and property
managers who they say snatch up lots for
rental purposes and then disappear.
“The problem is not about students or
tenants, it’s what happens when there are
landlords who aren’t there and don’t care,”
says Jacobs. “Once places start falling out
of shape, then the whole neighborhood
starts getting a negative reputation. I
think our neighborhood is doomed.”
But defining the responsible party is
oftentimes as nebulous as the rain clouds
that torment Katie Morrison. As a common business strategy, many landlords
purchase rental properties and hire property management companies to oversee
their investment. Frequently, says Moro,
the owners of these houses don’t want to
pay for the repair, so the property management companies get stuck in the middle.
“Ultimately, though, the property management company has the obligation to
make sure the place is fixed,” Moro says.
As the issue of off-campus student
housing reaches a head, there appears to
be no clear solution. Some stakeholders,
like Director of Housing Michael Griffel,
are advocating for the University of Oregon to expand its housing options in order
to attract students back to campus.
“Statistics show students that live on
campus have a better chance to succeed
academically,” says Griffel.
But for now, he says, his office is focusing on updating current on-campus housing and has no official plans to build.
Others, like Andrew Keller, simply hope
student renters become more informed of
their rights. “As a student renter you need
to be really proactive and find out as much
information on the property as possible
before signing the lease,” he says. “I think
a lot of property managers are able to get
away with things because their tenants
KNOW YOUR RIGHTS
The Eugene Rental Housing Code sets
standards for six housing-habitability areas:
1. STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY
2. PLUMBING
3. HEATING
4. WEATHERPROOFING
5. SECURITY
6. SMOKE DETECTORS
HAVE A PROBLEM?
Below are numbers you can call to file a
complaint or receive legal help. All departments are operated by the City of Eugene.
Rental Housing Code
541-682-8282
Building Code Enforcement
541-682-5495
Dangerous Buildings
541-682-5495
Nuisance Complaints
541-682-5819
Permit Information
541-682-5505
Land-Use Applications
541-682-5377
Lane County Legal Aid
541-342-6056
just don’t know their rights.”
Back at Katie Morrison’s house, the
spring sunlight is dimming. She hurriedly
removes her leather boots and other valuable items from her closet, just in time for
the rain clouds to arrive.
Though she will move out after graduating in June, she says the day her lease is
terminated couldn’t come sooner. This student renter says she is tired of living with
maintenance issues and trying to take care
of problems herself. On top of that, she
says her property manager is raising the
rent next year.
“Eugene is running out of housing and
they know we’re desperate,” Morrison
says. “But, they’re going to rent it easily
because kids need the location.” n
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d
o
B
Alito Alessi (top), the artistic director
and founder of DanceAbility, and
Karen Daly (bottom) rehearse their
dance number, “One Another.”
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46
fluxSTORIES.COM
s Daly transitioned from a wooden leg
to crutches and eventually to a wheelchair.
She has been swimming regularly for
thirty years.
Daly and Alessi (far left) share a
moment after rehearsal. Daly says dance
has allowed her to discover new facets
about herself, adding, “Movement has
been an absolutely incredibly important
part of my life.”
During a dance rehearsal, Daly and
Alessi practice “One Another,” which they
will perform in Asia as arts envoys for the
US State Department to spread awareness
of mixed abilities dance.
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At the twenty-fifth anniversary show for
the Joint Forces Dance Company, Daly
performs an improvisational piece. She says
she let go of her self-consciousness for the
first time during this performance.
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Daly recently took this doll out
of storage, which she made in
her late twenties. She says, “I
quilted the doll when I felt like I
was quilting myself together.”
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JasonIngram
Ingram
identifies
as anschool
“ex-gay
Jason
taught
at a Christian
in Alaska for
fifteen
years. When
sexual
orientation
came into quessurvivor”
after his
going
through
a conversion
tion,
he moved
to Dry in
Ridge,
Kentucky,
to go through the
therapy
program
rural
Kentucky.
conversion therapy program at Pure Life Ministries (PLM).
52 fluxSTORIES.COM
The
Cost of
Conversion
For some “ex-gay survivors” of conversion therapy,
acceptance comes at a high price
WORDS ELLIOTT KENNEDY PHOTOS TESS FREEMAN
T
he glow of the headlights provided barely enough visibility
in the early morning darkness.
For a moment, it shone through
windows and reflected against
the rearview mirror, radiating
yellow beams throughout the
moving car before disappearing once again. In the back
seat, Jason Ingram positioned a Bible above his head,
waiting for the next set of headlights to illuminate the
scripture.
Soon, the car would exit the freeway and Ingram would
be forced to surrender his book until tomorrow morning’s
drive to work. Ingram would then labor, lift, load, and haul
at a factory until sunset. This arduous work would speckle
his hands with masculine calluses, while the sweat would
wash away traces of what his counselors called femininity.
With each day of physical and emotional exertion, Ingram
believed he was moving closer to building a new, heterosexual identity through the practice of conversion therapy.
“It was part of the process,” Ingram recalls. “It was a way
for them to break you.”
Also known as reparative therapy, reorientation therapy, and change efforts, conversion therapy employs
various methods aimed at changing an individual’s sexual
orientation by eliminating homosexual feelings and supplanting them with heterosexual desires, thereby making
the individual an “ex-gay.”
According to the official publication of the American
Medical Association, American Medical News (AMN), some
participants of conversion therapy have been instructed
to strip naked in front of their counselors and fellow program participants to subject themselves to a simulated
“locker room bullying scene.” The AMN has also documented cases of conversion therapy counselors who direct
their clients to beat effigies of their parents because they
believe that attachment to a mother figure suppresses the
development of masculine features and personality traits.
In light of these reported practices, all major medical
associations have issued official statements denouncing
the efficacy and ethicality of conversion therapy. Yet people like Ingram continue to pay thousands of dollars in the
hope of becoming ex-gay, leading to questions about why
conversion therapy persists.
In California, the survival of this controversial practice
hinges on the courts. In 2012, state legislators proposed
a bill that would prohibit the use of conversion therapy
on minors. But proponents of the treatment fought back,
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“
Now I can see it as
incredibly abusive
as it really was.
–
Ingram has struggled with mental health issues and depression
since his time in the program. The American Psychological
Association states that because conversion therapy implies that
the inability to change one’s sexual orientation is a “personal
failure,” it can be detrimental to one’s mental health.
claiming the law would infringe on First Amendment rights. Currently, the ban is on hold as the California appeals court hears arguments.
Regina Griggs is the executive director of Parents and Friends of
Ex-Gays and Gays, an organization that promotes the belief that
sexuality is a choice. She opposes the ban. The group supports conversion therapy as an avenue through which to make choices about
sexual orientation.
“What the law is saying is, ‘We’re not only going to take away your
rights, but we’re going to own you and we’re going to tell you how to
live your life,” says Griggs. “No one has proven that conversion therapy is harmful, which is why it’s never been banned.”
Naomi Knoble disagrees that conversion therapy is not harmful.
According to Knoble, a licensed marriage and family therapist who
has worked closely with clients struggling with sexual identity, “There
is no scientific evidence indicating that reparative therapy benefits
people more than it harms them.” Knoble, a doctoral candidate in
counseling and psychology at the University of Oregon, considers
conversion therapy a fringe treatment. And, says Knoble, because the
practice is not taught at accredited institutions, there are few reliable
experts or bodies of research on the topic. “This is reason enough to
discredit it as a therapeutic treatment,” she says.
But Ingram, like many “ex-gay survivors,” was desperate to change.
“I was so sure that being gay was wrong, and if it was wrong then
54
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t
Peterson Toscano
obviously God would make some sort of way out,” says Ingram. “I was
determined to find that way out, no matter what.”
Ingram found his answer in 2005 at Pure Life Ministries (PLM), a
residential conversion therapy program in rural Dry Ridge, Kentucky.
After paying the $1,500 induction fee and weekly $150 living fee, Ingram joined a diverse group of straight, gay, and sexually questioning
men.
“What you’ll find in the ex-gay movement is that they don’t like
to admit that it is an ex-gay program,” says Ingram. “They use the
term ‘sexual addiction’ as an all-encompassing title and put anyone
in there.”
Still, Ingram unquestioningly followed the program rules: no facial
hair, no movies rated above PG, and no music other than Christian
gospel. Failure to attend counseling sessions and church sermons
were met with penalties.
“They called them ‘special assignments,’” recalls Ingram. “They
would use it as a form of punishment. If they thought I was late to
chapel, I would have to haul wood in the rain and mud, or do a construction project at one of the minister’s houses.”
Despite his growing trepidation about its methods, Ingram nonetheless remained at PLM until his graduation from the program.
“Graduating is a sort of irony,” recalls Ingram. “You have to write
down this testimony about how you’ve changed because of the pro-
t
gram. Then they send you out into the world and you find that you
haven’t changed at all. In fact, you’re a nervous wreck.”
Now living in Milwaukie, Oregon, he maintains a solitary life on
Social Security Disability checks for clinical depression.
“I felt like, what was my crime?” said Ingram of his homosexuality.
“All I wanted to do was love a man. What had I gotten myself into?”
Like Ingram, other “ex-gay survivors”—people who have experienced the practice and ultimately accepted their non-heterosexual
identities—are often left questioning their decision to choose conversion therapy.
According to Pure Life Ministries, its services will “make things
new as you are unchained from a life of sexual sin.” Restoration Path
(formerly known as Love In Action) says that “God is in the restoration business and He can truly restore the years the locusts of sexual
and relational sin may have taken from you.” The ex-gay ministry,
Portland Fellowship, asserts that conversion therapy will help individuals “proclaim their freedom from the captivity” of homosexuality.
But Peterson Toscano believes that the methods of restoration are,
in fact, destructive. “There are a lot of better ways to learn good lessons other than getting into a car wreck,” he says.
Toscano is a theatrical performance activist who has translated his
time at the residential conversion therapy program, Love In Action,
What is Conversion Therapy?
Between 1952 and 1973, the American Psychiatric Association
classified homosexuality as a mental disorder. American culture at
the time compelled many gay men and women to keep their sexual
identity hidden. With the stigma of homosexuality forcing secrecy,
conversion therapy organizations were also concealed from the
public. But when HIV/AIDS was discovered in high concentrations
in the gay communities of Los Angeles and New York in the 1980s,
the practice of conversion or reparative therapy burst onto the public
scene.
Two of the largest groups to emerge from this trend were Exodus
International and the National Association for Research and Therapy
of Homosexuality (NARTH), both of which remain active supporters
of conversion therapy today. In the late 1990s, ex-gay ministries—
organizations that purport to “cure” individuals of their homosexual
feelings using religious-based counseling—were established under
the purview of Exodus International. After 16-year-old Zack Stark
documented his experiences with reparative therapy on his MySpace
page in 2005, the methods employed in conversion therapy were
examined with intense media scrutiny, leading many medical
associations to condemn the practice and many more ex-gay
survivors to publicly share their experiences.
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“ I was determined to
find a way out,
no matter what.
–
Jason Ingram
Ingram performs a
hymn during a service
at the Metropolitan
Community Church of
The Gentle Shepard in
Vancouver, Washington.
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t
into stage productions such as Doing Time In the Homo No Mo Halfway House. He has spoken publicly of his encounter with conversion therapy to media outlets ranging from The Tyra Banks Show
to BBC News, but no longer feels comfortable sharing the details
of his experience.
“I think I’m going through what a lot of abuse survivors go
through, which is first denial, and then a realization about how
devastating it truly was,” says Toscano. “I needed to process, to understand why people were so shocked by my experience. And now I
can see it as incredibly abusive as it really was.”
Yet, the ideas fueling conversion therapy seem to run counter
to a growing acceptance of homosexuality in mainstream culture.
In the years following popular gay-friendly television shows and
movies such as Will and Grace, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, and
Milk, it appeared that homosexuality was abandoning the shadows of the closet in order to embrace the media spotlight. But despite Americans’ acceptance of fictionally flamboyant characters
into their living rooms, the country has remained at odds about
the acceptability of homosexuality in the real public sphere. For
example, the United States did not elect an openly gay person to
a governorship until 2012. In 2009, Boston University published
a study that found “school officials have often justified their discrimination against LGBT teachers by arguing that [they] do not
serve as proper role models for students.” And a 2012 Gallup Poll
shows that almost half of the country considers homosexuality to
be morally wrong.
Paul Cameron is among those who strongly disagree with homosexuality. As a former conversion therapist, Cameron says his work
was extremely important for saving society’s declining values. “I
believe that we need to change the gays because homosexuality is
a liability,” he says.
Cameron, founder of the Family Research Institute, was a psychologist until his expulsion from the American Psychological Association (APA) in 1983 for failure to comply with an ethics investigation. The details of the investigation were undisclosed in APA
documents.
With the Supreme Court mediating a national dispute over
Proposition 8 and the Defense of Marriage Act—laws addressing
issues surrounding same-sex marriage—Toscano believes that the
time has come to re-evaluate the origins of attitudes toward homosexuality. Says Toscano, “People think of you as far more valuable if
you are a heterosexual.”
“The lure of heterosexuality is still quite powerful,” Toscano
says. “There’s an idyllic dream that’s shoved down our throats since
we watched that first Disney movie about finding your perfect person—of the opposite sex, mind you—and having your happy end-
s Ingram hugs Vicki Girardin after church services at The Metropolitan Community Church of The Gentle Shepard in Vancouver, Washington, which embraces
members regardless of their sexual orientation.
ing. So ex-gay ministries use language like ‘broken’ to connect with
people struggling with their sexuality.”
But he believes that the value of heterosexuality is dwarfed in comparison to the financial and emotional costs of conversion.
Toscano sought support in multiple conversion therapy groups,
and paid more than $30,000 over the course of more than fifteen
years.
“Love In Action was considered the Cadillac of ex-gay ministries—
and cost about as much,” says Toscano of the most expensive of his
various conversion therapy treatments.
Ingram, too, paid thousands of dollars for his treatment at Pure
Life Ministries. But he feels that his health and happiness paid the
biggest price.
“I have regrets,” says Ingram. “And I have psychological damage.”
A 2008 study published in the Journal of Pediatrics found that
members of the LGBTQ community who were rejected by others because of their sexuality had higher rates of drug abuse, depression,
and suicide. The study also found that, of the individuals interviewed,
two-thirds had tried to kill themselves following familial rejection.
The American Psychological Association says that conversion therapy
is a detriment to these individuals because it “frames the inability to
change one’s sexual orientation as a personal and moral failure.”
Yet Ingram believes that the testimonies of ex-gay survivors show
the strength of individuals who face a future as uncertain as the stock
market, but have managed to move on despite a major crash.
“There will always be people who are anti-gay and there will always
be people who want to change folks,” says Ingram. “But I believe we
can all be healed.” n
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Tamingthe
Shadows
For female veterans who have experienceD
Sexual assault, Post-Traumatic Stress
Disorder turns everyday life into a nightmare
words Caitlin Feldman Photos Tess Freeman
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s Ree McSween has dealt with symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder throughout her life. Some days she has difficulty answering the phone or checking
her email. “There are days where I’m just not in the right head space to carry on a conversation,” McSween says.
Previous page: McSween says her experiences with sexual assault while serving in the United States Coast Guard resulted in her PTSD.
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‘‘
I wasn’t functioning well. I was
barely surviving, and I was feeling
like I was imploding upon myself.
‘‘
R
ee McSween stood
at the front window
of her cold, dark
house with a loaded
weapon in her hand.
Snow coated the
ground—rare for a
Eugene, Oregon winter. She was isolated,
save for a large snowball in her driveway. It
wasn’t there earlier, but suddenly there it
was, taunting her.
McSween didn’t see an oversized snowball. In her mind, she saw the unknown
person who put it there. A threat. A danger.
Standoffs were this snowball’s specialty.
It sat silently, patiently contemplating her
move. McSween’s weapon was loaded. The
gun was a .45 caliber Colt 1911.
She turned off the lights in her house.
The heat was off, too, but that was no matter; she could stand the cold if it meant
catching the assailant.
Ree McSween
For ninety minutes, McSween stood at
the window.
Waiting.
Nothing.
The perpetrator never arrived.
“It finally dawned on me how crazy it
was, waiting at the window with a loaded
.45 in my hand,” McSween says. “The fear
was real but the evidence didn’t show the
threat.”
McSween is one of 7.7 million American adults suffering from Post-Traumatic
Stress Disorder (PTSD), according to the
National Institute of Mental Health. Because women are the most common victims of domestic violence, rape, and abuse,
they are twice as likely as men to experience PTSD in their lifetimes, according to
the PTSD Alliance, an organization made
up of professional advocacy groups that
provide resources to those affected by the
disorder.
Along with depression, anxiety, and insomnia, fear is among the most common
symptoms of PTSD. Often occurring after
traumas such as sexual assault, combat, or
natural or industrial disasters, PTSD can
be life-shattering, altering the way victims
see the world and themselves.
McSween believes she’s been dealing
with undiagnosed PTSD for most of her
life. It began with her father, an alcoholic
who she says abused her physically and
sexually, then continued through a brutal
beating she suffered at the hands of two
siblings.
Yet it wasn’t until she says a senior officer attempted to rape her that McSween’s
symptoms came to the forefront. In the US
armed forces, the term for sexual abuse is
Military Sexual Trauma (MST), and this
event would transform her dormant PTSD
symptoms into an active monster.
Today, her symptoms are triggered
when someone stands behind her right
shoulder—the direction from which her
attacker approached.
“He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t
agreeing to the rape. That’s where his ego
was,” McSween says. “He bent me over a
bunk and was trying to rape me, and I was
able to fight him off by swinging my elbow
around and knocking him off.”
McSween never reported the assault.
According to the Department of Defense’s Annual Report on Sexual Assault in
the Military, an estimated 19,000 cases of
rape, sexual assault, or harassment occur
each year. Only 2,617 of those estimated
cases were reported in 2011.
Anonymous, mandatory culture surveys reveal these numbers. But not all participants trust the anonymity, says Jennifer Norris, an Air Force veteran and victim
advocate for the Military Rape Crisis Center in Maine. As a result, Norris believes
that 19,000 is a low estimate.
“I think it’s more common than what
people even know,” she says.
McSween didn’t report the assault because she’d been taught to remain silent
her whole life. Instead she buried the
event deep within herself—to tell the secret would mean certain death. It’s what
she said her family threatened when they
discovered she was a lesbian; it’s what she
believed would happen to her military career if she told her superiors of the attack.
So it remained hidden.
“I knew I didn’t have a chance,” Mc-
s In 1991, McSween was in a motor vehicle accident that crushed three discs in her back and dislocated her
shoulder. Today she uses physical therapy and adaptive recreation to ease her pain and to build back her strength.
Sween says. “Because in the military you
can’t just report that to your authorities, it
has to go through your chain of command.
And since he was a senior person in my
chain of command . . .” The hierarchy only
reinforced her decision to remain silent.
Although she says sexual abuse was
considered an ordinary occurrence in this
environment, McSween refused to accept
it as part of “military culture.” When she
became a senior officer, other servicewomen told her of their experiences with
MST. McSween passed the information
on to other officers, but says she was soon
instructed to stop. Nothing could be done,
she was told. It wasn’t her job to help—it
was her job to train.
According to McSween, that was when
her superiors began to actively search for
reasons to discharge her.
She said officers began harassing her
about her weight. She was sent to the
unit where “mess-ups” go, where she
was routinely tested for drugs and questioned about her sexuality. Eventually,
she checked herself into the psychiatric
ward—an infamous career killer.
“There were times I was starting to get
suicidal,” McSween says. “I was driving and
I’d think, it would just take a minute to
yank this wheel over and cross the line and
get in front of this truck coming at me.”
By now McSween’s PTSD was in full effect, but she had no idea. She didn’t understand how she could be a human when she
didn’t feel like one.
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of
Mental Disorders (DSM) states that in order for PTSD to be diagnosed, victims must
show signs of stressors, including intrusive recollections—commonly known as
flashbacks—as well as numbness, avoidance, and heightened emotional arousal.
“You can be numbed out,” says Megan
Wuest, a psychologist associate specializing in trauma therapy in Eugene, Oregon.
“Your world starts to get smaller because
of the event. You also have hyperarousal—
difficulty falling asleep, irritable outbursts,
being hyper vigilant.”
McSween later realized that she displayed all of these symptoms. At the end
of her military career, she felt like she
was going crazy. She was depressed and
estranged from her family. She says the
Coast Guard encouraged her to quit and
she was eventually discharged.
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s Krista Schultz runs along a bark trail at Alton Baker Park in Eugene a week after completing her first marathon. Schultz is a four-year survivor of breast
cancer and would sit in the park before her treatments. She says she also has PTSD from her time serving in the military.
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‘‘
He said in front of everyone,
‘We just brought you out here so
we could rape you.’
‘‘
The reason? “Unsuitability.”
“I wasn’t functioning well. I was barely
surviving,” she says. “And I was feeling like
I was imploding upon myself. I didn’t have
any friends. That’s what isolation does to
you—you just don’t have anybody to talk
to.”
For the next fifteen years, PTSD took
control of her life.
Around the same time, Krista Shultz
was fresh out the army and fighting her
own battle with undiagnosed PTSD. As a
linguist during Desert Storm, she never
encountered harassment while enrolled in
her language program.
But when Shultz left her language program and was stationed overseas, the catcalls began. The problem, she says, is that
they were allowed.
She complained about the harassment once, but says she was told to
simply avoid that area of the base.
Shultz says her superiors told her she
was the problem, not the harassers.
Says victim advocate Jennifer Norris,
“We cannot minimize sexual harassment.
[Harassment] is insidious, subtle, longterm, and very degrading to a person’s
– Krista Schultz
psyche, self-esteem, and self worth if you
can’t get away from it.”
As time moved on, Shultz could not escape. Her job was to fight the enemy, but
she felt an entirely different enemy lived
on her own base. Eventually, she felt that
even going to the bathroom alone wasn’t
safe, nor was showering.
At one point, a sergeant requested that
Shultz join him and an all-male group of
soldiers in the desert to simulate living under hostile conditions.
“He said in front of everyone, ‘We just
brought you out here so we could rape
you,’” Shultz says. “He said it. He said it and
you know, there’s my PTSD right there,”
she says. Many of the male soldiers around
her laughed at the sergeant’s statement,
but Shultz took it seriously.
She made it clear that she would shoot
anyone who came near her.
“You’ll have to go to sleep sometime,”
she recalls her sergeant responding.
His joking tone was gone.
Not all of Shultz’s PTSD symptoms are
from sexual trauma, however. Some stem
from being the target of Scud Missile attacks. Wind chimes trigger her symptoms
because they remind her of the alarm that
signaled a gas attack. The smell of canvas
reminds her of being surrounded by untrustworthy men in the desert. She sleeps
best alone because she fears for her safety
if someone else is in the room. Loud noises
at night trigger her symptoms, as does being woken abruptly.
‘‘
I found out I wasn’t alone. I
wasn’t the only one. Even though our
experiences might be a little different,
they’re all so much the same.
‘‘
Shelley Corteville is also triggered by
loud noises. She startles easily and has
night terrors. She cannot stand it when
people are behind her, either.
Corteville served in the army from 1977
to 1981. She says she was raped five times
during this period.
Four years ago, she attended a Soldier’s
Heart retreat and shared her story for the
first time. It was also the first time she’d
felt safe since joining the military with parental consent at age seventeen. Like McSween and Shultz, Corteville knew something was wrong but could not pinpoint
her apprehension.
Speaking with other veterans has given
her allies in the battle against PTSD.
“I found out I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the
only one,” Corteville says. “Even though
our experiences might be a little different,
they’re all so much the same.”
Today, she still struggles to form intimate relationships. She never had the
chance to learn what a healthy sex life is
like, and although she wants to improve
her relationships, she doesn’t know where
to start. For Corteville, her scars overshadow the act of sex itself. Her PTSD affects
her trust not only of others, but of herself.
While none of these women believe their
PTSD will ever fully go into remission, they
still continue their attempts to heal.
For McSween, the healing process involved creating Cycling for Veterans, a
group that helps former military personnel and their families be active in safe social situations. In addition to forming the
cycling group, she also began telling her
story.
All three PTSD survivors have been open
to sharing their stories in order to help
others with similar experiences. Through
sharing what happened to them, they hope
to change the culture surrounding MST.
“Walking through these fears shows me
– Shelley Corteville
that the fears are just paper tigers. They
don’t have anything to do with reality,” McSween says. “My job is to talk about it. My
job is to get it out of me.”
It’s been six years since McSween held
a snowball at gunpoint and decided it was
time to get help. She no longer waits for paper tigers to appear, ready to attack her like
a flesh-and-blood beast.
But when they do, she defeats them one
by one. n
s Shelley Corteville has been married and divorced four times. She feels the military sexual trauma she
experienced has robbed her of the ability to maintain healthy relationships and a healthy sex life.
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Veterinarian Jeff Pelton
performs a dentistry
procedure on Tammy
Ladd’s horse, Slider.
Pelton sedates the horses
during this process so it is
less painful and so that
the animals stay calm and
still during the procedure.
A large animal veterinarian
provides care for four-legged friends
Healing
Hooves
Photos Alisha Jucevic
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J
66
always
animal clinic outside of Eugene. His exam room
enjoyed the company of four
and office are on the same property as his home,
legged animals. Growing up
but the majority of his appointments take place
in Los Angeles, Pelton had
at the client’s residence.
eff
Pelton
has
little interaction with large
Pelton works with horses, cows, goats, sheep,
animals, but after working
llamas, and alpacas in Lane County, offering
with them in veterinary
a variety of services including dentistry,
school at the University
digital radiology, health examinations, and
of California, Davis, he
twenty-four-hour emergency care. During
decided to specialize in their care. After working
each appointment, Pelton takes the time to
at a clinic in Sonoma County and two clinics
consider the animal’s emotional state so it feels
in Oregon, he decided to open his own large
comfortable in his hands.
fluxSTORIES.COM
Eve Burleson cringes at the sound of the file as Pelton does dentistry work on her
horse. Pelton regularly performs “floats” on horses, which is a general dental procedure.
s
s Shushy, Pelton’s dog, rides along with him on many
of his appointments. He regularly brings his other dogs,
Maxi and Veto, as well. Shushy usually gets out of the
car and explores the area during Pelton’s appointments.
Pelton listens to the sound of Tim Sharr’s horse, Cam. Sharr,
right, holds a rebreathing bag up to the horse’s mouth to check for
signs of Reactive Airway Disease, an asthma-like condition.
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s Pelton was called to an emergency at
Ruby & Amber’s Organic Oasis farm
to assist farm owner Kristine Woolhouse
(right) and her assistant Karen Martens
(center) with a birth. The cow’s water
broke in the night, causing a late delivery
and the calf ’s death.
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s
Pelton prepares his tools to clean
a wound above a horse’s foot.
Because many of his appointments
are onsite, he brings sanitation and
cleaning materials to disinfect his
tools before, throughout, and after his
appointments.
s Pelton and other local vets take turns working
at the Eugene Livestock Auction. They oversee
the cattle to check for illness and measure
gestation periods of pregnant cattle. Pelton can
predict when the calf is due by the size of the
embryo.
Cori Bell (right) thanks Pelton for caring for
her wounded alpaca. Her dog attacked the
alpaca the week before and Pelton sewed the
wound shut at the time of the incident. At
today’s appointment, he removed the dead skin
that had grown over the stitches.
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Pelton leaves the barn at
Eve Burleson’s residence.
He treated her horse as
well as two others that
were boarding at Burleson’s
facilities.
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The Courage to Run
By Maygan Beckers
M
y teal and silver Nike
Shox hit the uneven
pavement as I jogged
down 18th Avenue on
a brisk, spring morning. I had never been
more aware of my surroundings. Pressing
through thousands of chatty participants
and seemingly suspicious spectators, I take
a second look at people talking on their cell
phones or carrying backpacks.
On my way to the starting line of the
Eugene Marathon, the first national race
since the April 15, 2013 Boston bombings
that took three lives and injured hundreds,
I quickly searched for runner 4445, Shelly
Beckers.
My mother, who was competing in her
ninth and final marathon at 51, decided
to spare her knees and cut back on longdistance running. This was her last chance
to run 26.2 miles in Eugene, where her
daughter achieved a family dream—earning a college degree.
“You made it,” my mom said, as I met
her on the corner of 14th Avenue and Agate Street. With a tight hug, I wished her
good luck. Rather than running the entire
race, I would meet her at mile 23 to help
her cross the finish line. Finally letting go,
I watched her step toward the starting
line. Knowing the chances were small,
part of me still wondered if this would be
the last time I would see her unharmed.
I was twelve when I saw the Twin
Towers fall on my living room television.
However, the Boston tragedy was the first
act of global terrorism I had experienced
as an adult. I grasped that no matter
where I was I might never truly be safe.
My loved ones and I would always be
vulnerable to chance and to the calculated
decisions of others.
My mom, however, wasn’t letting fear
control her decisions.
At the commencing line, the assembled
runners bowed their heads for a moment
of silence to honor the victims of Boston. I
reflected on why I was running. The reason
was standing at the start sign, adjusting
her running bib, causing the wedding ring
my father gave her to glimmer.
Suddenly, I jumped at the delayed crack
of the starting gun and moved a half step
closer to my dad, who always gave me
reassurance. As my mom shrunk from view,
images of bloodied runners, terrified spectators, and collapsing debris replayed in my
mind. Would this be the next city to get hit?
Setting those thoughts aside, my dad
and I had breakfast before meeting my
mom at mile markers seven and fourteen.
I cheered her on and anticipated her
requests for deodorant and sunglasses,
while my dad fished around in the bag she
had prepared.
However, mile marker eighteen didn’t
go as planned.
My heart began to race as my dad and
I waited. After twenty minutes, she still
hadn’t passed.
My escalating panic turned into relief
as I saw her bright blue shirt. When I saw
she was okay, my body relaxed. She was
tired, but safe.
Without thinking, I stepped into the
course and began running alongside
her—five miles earlier than I’d planned
and trained for. Although my mom looked
at me with confusion, I wanted to run the
extra miles for her.
“It’s 80 percent mental, 20 percent
physical,” I said to her.
Though little inclines felt like giant
mountains to her, I encouraged her to stay
positive. She leaned heavily on my arm,
speed-walking a twelve-minute pace per
mile. My left side ached so badly I wanted
to stop. Hiding my pain from her, I gently
leaned to my left and stretched out an
unbearable kink.
Turning the corner on mile twenty, I
noticed something that revived me. A pair
of black pants had been placed on a tree
trunk in the shape of the ribbons runners
had received to support Boston victims.
Worry overflowed my aching body
as we entered Hayward Field for the
last stretch. Would we conquer this race
harmed or unscathed? I became alert as
my mom painfully giggled at being so
close to her goal. Crossing the finish line
at 5:56:16, we linked hands, lacing our
fingers together and setting our other
hands on our hearts.
Once my mom hit the finish line, she
grabbed me and held on with a squeeze.
Arms wrapped around her, I sensed
her emotion—causing tears to form in
my own hazel eyes. Knowing that we
conquered our fear together will have a
special place in my heart forever. n
Photo by Myray Reames
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celebrating twenty years