You & Me

We work because of our Oregon roots. We stood several feet away from each other in high school- years before we met-  at that cross country race where I saw you dancing to a boombox and just shook my head.

We work because of our wings. We've seen Europe and Africa and Mexico and the West Coast together. We've traveled next to each other by plane, train, automobile, ferry, mountain bike, skis and our own two feet.

We work because you always walk to the driver's seat when we go anywhere together because you know I'd rather be the passenger.

We work because I edit your school papers and your Spanish grammar and you teach me about adventure sports and how the human body moves.

We work because you've adapted to my blanket thief ways and now simply curl up next to me to stay under the blanket.

We work because of our faith: we accepted Christ as our Savior and seek to honor Him with our lives.

We work because we have an unspoken understanding that clothing and dish piles are acceptable on weekdays (and sometimes on the weekends, too).

We work because you make me crepes with lemon and powdered sugar on Saturday morning without asking because you know it's my favorite.

We work because we share a love of Citizen Cope, trail running, craft beer and dogs. And a day filled with all those things is nearly perfection.

We work because we never end a phone call with each other without screeching first (except when I'm mad, which only gets a "bye") and most of our texts end with "xoxo."

We work because of the promises we made on August 6, 2011.

We work because of our love.

Hawthorne

My first transaction on Hawthorne Street was a faded, olive Abercrombie & Fitch long-sleeve shirt.

I stood there, a lanky 13-year old in Buffalo Exchange (a used clothing store), unzipping my corduroy blue wallet to pull out $14 of precious babysitting money before handing it to a pale, petite brunette inscribed with tribal tattoos. 

Back then, I did not realize the irony of purchasing a shirt made by a cooperate machine like Abercrombie & Fitch on a "hippie" street. I just knew I wanted to fit in, and that a shirt was my ticket. 

It was in high school -- when my trips to Buffalo Exchange became more frequent -- that I began to understand the cultural nuances of inner Southeast Portland. As a high schooler without a car, the 15-minute walk down to Hawthorne from my house offered countless independent Sunday afternoons. 

I would stuff my backpack full of old clothes to sell before making my way through tree-lined neighborhood streets, past Western Seminary and down the hill to Hawthorne. 

The street is a stretch of shops and restaurants nestled between old residential neighborhoods with cracked sidewalks and narrow streets. No matter where you are on Hawthorne, you will smell a blend of patchouli, coffee and body odor. And somehow, the smell is endearing instead of repulsive. 

Its restaurants ranges from waffles to Vietnamese noodles, with the words "vegan" and "organic" in almost every window. The shops are just as varied, selling vintage clothing, tchotchkes, essential oils and "glass art."

But its the people that characterize the street most: Old men with frizzy ponytails and tie-dye shirts. Middle-aged women with salt-and-pepper hair in raincoats and Birkenstocks. Twenty-something men in skinny jeans, vintage band t-shirts and combat boots. And 30-year-old women in 1950s vintage dresses and streaked bouffant hair.

On Hawthorne, "conformity" is a dirty word. The street's regular inhabitants do not want to look like everyone else just as they do not want to consume like everyone else.

The more time I spent on Hawthorne, the easier it became for me to understand why. Shopping in thrift stores and boutiques requires much more creativity than mall shopping, since it becomes a treasure hunt. And walking past street performers and homeless people seemed oddly more bearable than walking past harassing mall kiosks. 

While I have not lived in Portland for over six years, I still look forward to the 15-minute walk down to Hawthorne whenever I visit. Nowadays Hawthorne is passe, or so I'm told. It has been replaced by another hip street, Alberta in Northeast Portland.

But I don't have to conform.