The intense stress on my hands from cranking that last tie down on my dad’s Toyota truck reflected a bitter craving inside me.
Ominous charcoal clouds overhead threatened rain on that mid December day in 1998. With a truck bed full of boxes, furniture and a rickety elliptical machine, I didn’t care if they got wet on the trip back up Interstate 5. My heart held a burning desire to escape from that town — leaving my Lane Tower apartment and the still smouldering ashes of my recent past there, behind me.
I was leaving Eugene, Oregon forever.
Only hours before, I had been sitting in a classroom taking my last final exam for my degree. There would be no celebration for my successful completion of my University of Oregon Journalism B.A. There’d be no triumphant return for my year-end graduation ceremony the following June.
There was no feeling of accomplishment.
No feeling of growth or pride, only loss and stomach knotting pain.
I wanted out, never to return.
If I had visited Eugene, Oregon prior to that blazing summer day two years earlier in 1996, I couldn’t remember it. That day, as the searing summer heat rippled off the bare blacktop, my girlfriend and I drove through a town that was much larger than we expected — and far more deserted. Clearly, Eugene was powered by the University of Oregon and during summer break it cleared out. Wide Franklin Blvd and the town itself, was deserted. My girlfriend was transferring from a community college and would start her studies at the UO in a few months, in September of 1996.
To be fair, Eugene never had a shot at winning the competition for “My Favorite College Town.’ That honor had already been claimed by Bellingham, Washington — where I spent my formative college years. To me, Eugene was a less picturesque, more self-absorbed and grumpier copy of Bellingham.
Most of the better apartments in Eugene were already taken, but we eventually found her accomodations in a rundown, mildew-scented, shag carpet equipped quad on E 15th Street, several blocks from campus.
After getting her moved in, I returned to the Portland area to work at a call center where I was hired to work the graveyard shift and take Mandarin Chinese calls that rarely came. Instead, my work nights were spent downing Mountain Dew and taking calls from drunk, angry and amorous people trying to use prepaid phone cards. Eventually, I moved to a swing shift, where the callers were less often drunk, delirious or flirty.
For the next several months, I put thousands of miles on my 1993 Toyota Corolla commuting to work in Portland from my childhood home in La Center for a swing shift at the call center. Then, on my weekends, which began at 10:30pm on a Sunday night, I’d go straight from work down to Eugene — arriving well after midnight to spend my weekend with my girlfriend. On winter nights, the cold, mid-Willamette valley fog would enshroud the entire freeway. Wednesday mornings, which was the end of my weekend, I’d make the drive back up to Portland for the beginning of my week.
After some months of consideration, I decided to quit my job to enroll in the UO myself, returning to school for another subject I wanted to pursue at WWU but wasn’t able to; Journalism. The fact my girlfriend was there was a critical factor for me too. In June of 1997, I moved down to Eugene and prepared for college the following fall.
Paying for college this second time around wasn’t easy. Getting loans was difficult due to a mix of factors; my limited income, my co-signer dad’s complex tax returns and the fact I was going for a post-baccalaureate non-graduate degree.
My parents were supportive, but not enthusiastic, about my return to college. They made it clear they were not paying for this degree like they had my previous B.A. Considering the lengths they went to to pay for my first degree, as well as the high expense of out of state tuition, I couldn’t blame them.
This time, it was up to me..although my father would eventually loan me a couple thousand dollars, which, as documented, would be forgiven if I’d get a job related to my degree. A drop in the bucket that was I very appreciative of.
After some advisement, I had decided there would be no advantage to getting a masters in Journalism over a regular B.A..and it would take less time (and therefore money) to earn.
Renting another quad in the same dilapidated complex my girlfriend lived in, I tried to get settled. Eventually, months later, we’d move to a more suitable and nicer apartment on Olive Street in the only high rise apartment building that part of town; Lane Tower.
Luckily, I was able to land a job at the local Circuit City electronics store located next to Gateway Mall in nearby Springfield, Oregon. I had worked at the Bellingham location for a year or two previously. At Circuit City, I worked as many hours as I could to provide an income on top of what loans I could get and what credit card debt I could stomach. My parents and I tried, and failed, to get me ‘in-state’ tuition which would have made it a lot easier.
So, I worked hard and spent time with my girlfriend adjusting to Eugene. When fall arrived, I registered for classes and re-entered university life.
The University of Oregon was massive compared to Western — not just in the sheer number of students, but the multitude of buildings and the expansive campus. Getting lost among the endless buildings was a real possibility and navigating the masses was complicated and intimidating.
For me, it was an odd position to be in. I was just shy of 25 years old, but I was joining classes brimming with students who were 18–20 years old. Shoehorned between the young students and those few returning students in their 30s and 40s, it left me with a bit of culture shock. Feeling awkward wasn’t something I was used to, but I didn’t quite fit in with either group.
As a returning academic, I already had my college experience; lived in dorms, learned and grew, dated, screwed up, made lifelong friends — experiences these students were just beginning to have.
Walking around brick-clad Allen Hall, the home of the journalism department, I kept finding myself lost in crowds of eager, fresh undergrads. No instructors were notable to me; some memorable, but not for any attention paid to me. Unlike WWU, no instructor I encountered seemed to care about my personal success or failure — or took a particular interest in my work. Whether that was my fault, or theirs, it was the reality. Many professors I encountered weren’t that approachable; many had this air of ‘celebrity’ status, moving from room to room trailed by a cloud of undergrads while talking about their latest published work.
Situated at the heart of the maze that was Allen Hall, there was a central study room with a massive wooden table that filled most of the room. No natural light, as the room was smack dab in the center of the floor. Sitting there making space by pushing art books and journalism mags out the way, I’d occasionally be joined by fellow J-School students as we studied. It was never easy for me to concentrate there, so occasionally I’d head to the EMU or the library. Unlike the library at Western, I could never study well at the UO library either. Maybe the truth was that I wasn’t giving the UO a fair shake, I’ll never know.
The conclusion I’ve come to to explain some of the differences in my college experiences was that I had more responsibilities and concerns at UO that distracted my mind — primarily supporting myself.
Subconsciously, I worried about my finances. I was too proud to ask my parents for more relief. Also, at Western, I had quickly established friendships — which helped my study skills. Here in Eugene, my girlfriend was my only real local friend — and she was having her own university experience which involved different classes from me.
Some time later, money became less of a worry than the future of my then 4 year relationship with her.
Casual friendships were made with classmates and co-workers, but between work and study I had little time to grow them.
Whether it was the blonde lady about my age who’d sit next to me in my public relations ethics class — she had married young and was returning to finish her degree. We had pleasant chats that never extended beyond the classroom. Or a Korean-American guy I’d meet for a beer occasionally. Males were a rare sight in the public relations program at the University of Oregon. That was no issue for me — yes I get the snickering — but remember for much of my time at the University of Oregon I wasn’t single and therefore not interested. Growing up in a family of strong women, I was used to being around women.
Weekends, summers and weeknights were spent standing either behind the front cashier stations or moving refrigerators around in the back of the sweltering warehouse of Circuit City.
At Circuit City, I could do most jobs — at one point even acting as the fill-in janitor. Other times, I’d help deliver purchases. More than once I’d go out on deliveries with this 50 year old co-worker tortured with tinnitus, which he’d constantly complain about. We’d muscle massive Sony TV sets into manufactured homes in Cottage Grove or other places. Many, many hours were put in working there. Most of my coworker friends were locals, some flunked out of the UO — others just needed a job. I had enemies too — like my jackass ginger-mulleted boss, who thankfully didn’t last long before he quit.
One evening at Circuit City, two Chinese foreign students from the UO came in to return a boom box. Standing at the counter, I stood there to help them. In Chinese, one said to the other — referring to me, “Ta de yanjing hao piaolong,” which in English means “His eyes are very pretty.”
Taking a moment before I unleashed my Chinese on them, I opened my mouth and in fairly fluent Mandarin Chinese, replied “Xie xie, Ni de yanjing ye hao piaoliang” (Thank you. Your eyes are also very pretty.) They giggled with embarrassment and I proceeded to return their boom box.
Other evenings a local TV weatherman would come in alone and spend time perusing the budget CDs and occasionally engage me in conversation. Many interesting people would come in to Circuit City.
Like years past, my girlfriend and I broke free to watch movies and hang out when the occasion presented itself. More than once I had to temporarily move out of our apartment while her family came from Taiwan to visit. It wouldn’t be proper for them to know we lived together. Thankfully, the older lady who was the manager at Lane Tower, her name was Becky, would let me move into an empty apartment on a temporary basis. One afternoon, my girlfriend and went to the Lane County courthouse and picked up marriage papers..but they sat collecting dust on my dresser, until I threw them in the recycling months later.
Much of my time outside of work and my own studies involved helping her with her own school work. English wasn’t her first language and she struggled sometimes with her assignments. At times I crossed the line of ‘helping’ her with papers and into ‘writing them for her’ territory. Occasionally, I felt like I was working towards two college degrees at once.
My predictable, stable relationship provided me an anchor that countered the awkwardness of my academic experience.
As stresses came together to squeeze me, that anchor steadied me as I faced down two challenges to my continued study.
At that time, the University of Oregon Journalism program had 2 ‘gatekeepers’ — One was a English language proficiency test, where if you got less than 75% you’d fail and you’d effectively “Wash Out” of the program. If I recall you could only take it twice and if you failed both times you’d have to pick another major. The second was a class known as “Info Hell,” but more officially titled “Information Gathering.” Advisors would tell you to schedule a lighter class load that quarter, since this class was a serious time and energy sink. The entire course curriculum centered around picking a topic and writing a 100 page properly sourced report.
Swallowing nervously, I realized I had no choice — it wasn’t like I could switch to another major. The sole reason I went back to school was to earn a Journalism degree. The pressure was on.
Thankfully, I precariously passed the incredibly hard English test with a 79%. With a huge amount of effort, stress and trips to the Knight Library, I was able to pass Information Gathering while shouldering a nearly full load of credits that term — scoring 96% on my 94 page report. My finances prevented me from taking a light load of credits for a quarter. At the end of the term I was seriously wishing I had the money to take a vacation.
Then, just before the end of the 1997–1998 school year — over halfway through my studies in Eugene, my girlfriend and I broke up.
While it was mostly a mutual breakup, I was left lonely, depressed and in great emotional pain. Without any “real friends” in Eugene to spend time with, I wasted hours assuaging myself by making anonymous friends on the internet. ICQ, a chat program, became my social outlet. While friends in Eugene were scarce, I managed to make many over the internet. For someone as optimistic, social and extraverted as I always had been in my life — I found myself fighting three dragons I’d never encountered before; loneliness, depression, anger.
Eventually, aching for real-life human interaction beyond the classroom, I got in contact with a former coworker from my call center job in Portland who was also studying for her degree in Eugene.
Her name was Jenna. She was closer to me in age and had an intriguing white streak in her black hair, which framed a pair of striking gray eyes.
Whip-smart, she had a cutting, clever and dark sense of humor that I secretly admired. She kindly tolerated my friendly attention. Nothing more than a friend who, while very different from me in personality, enjoyed many of the same activities I did — and didn’t mind that that I’d tag along with her. Her kindness, while it might not have seemed like much to her — meant a great deal to lonely me at that time.
Her ideas for things to do were nearly always great. We’d go out to the movies — like ‘Titanic’ and ‘There’s Something About Mary,’ or out to eat at diners and drinking at dollar beer nights in various venues. An enduring friendship unfortunately never materialized — it was clear we were both very different people, a fact I accepted. Simply, I was just thankful for the chemistry and companionship we did have when we had it. Most of the positive memories I had from the post-breakup part of my time in Eugene came from spending time hanging out with her. After I left town though in December 1998, we lost touch with each other.
Then, there was this other guy who lived a several floors above me in Lane Tower.
Like many others who have made brief appearances in my life, I can’t recall his name. He was a tall, sturdy man, older than me by a handful of years. I’d guess he was 30. His hair was mess of dark curls which contrasted sharply against his pale skin. His demeanor bumbling and gawky. Not bumbling in an endearing way, more in a ‘fish out of water’ way.
He had recently returned from many years teaching English in Japan and when he approached me in the laundry room, I was a bit taken aback with how forward he was. Introducing myself, we struck up a conversation. He had no car and would ask to join me when I’d drive to the grocery store. Being lonely and friendly, I obliged him.
The one time I accepted an invitation to visit his apartment, I found a small, creepy and unkempt abode. Books, magazines, food wrappers were scattered around and his curtains were closed. It was clear he needed a friend — moreso than me. He never got angry around me, but I was never sure how stable he was if he would be — like his patience was perched upon a razor’s edge.
Talking with him about my break-up, he made sure to tell me he knew many Japanese college girls in Eugene who “could make me feel better.” A creepy insinuation to me. It wasn’t the first time he’d make the sleazy suggestion. But after this second one I avoided him altogether.
Distancing myself from him, I continued my routine of working nights and weekends at Circuit City, studying when I could and staying up until 2:30AM chatting online. Eventually, the UO threatened to cut off my ‘free for students’ internet access for excessive use.
Spotting a flyer for a Halloween party on campus, I decided to attend solo to try to make friends. Really, I had no choice — my friend Jenna was visiting her family for the weekend up in Portland and I needed to make an honest effort to make more friends.
In the evening rain and with my windshield wipers fighting to keep my view clear, I got lost driving around the other side of campus looking for it. The situation was a metaphor of my life in Eugene at that point; in the dark, cold and lost.
Finally, I saw an open door tucked into the side of a building with a sign announcing the Halloween party. Squeezing into a tight parking spot out front, I walked through the door and into a dorm’s activity room. Filled with strangers, I was the oldest person there and without a costume I stayed about 5 minutes before leaving in a rancid cloud of awkward.
Soon after, things happened that gave me optimism.
Hope sparkled in the smiles and glances we exchanged across that big table in the study room in Allen Hall. Soon phone digits were exchanged too. This girl, like all the others, was a few years younger than I but seemed mature for her age. Honestly, I just enjoyed talking with her — and appreciating her taking an interest in me. Her name was Caitlin and she looked a bit like Jennifer Aniston — pretty with dirty blonde hair and friendly smile. She invited me to coffee. We went to the Starbucks just off campus and with me following her, she began talking to a friend who also happened to be there. When it became clear she wasn’t going to introduce me to her friend, I plopped down on the couch to await her attention.
Caitlin and I would go on a few more dates, nothing at all serious to her maybe, but I began to get optimistic about finding love again. Dinner here, coffee there. For me, I wasn’t sure if I was ready for this yet, so I made no obvious gestures. My wounded soul still paralyzed me, but nonetheless hope endured.
Finally, on a dinner date to Red Robin (it was her choice; she loved their fries) near Valley River Mall, she broke the news that she had a long-distance boyfriend in Ireland. Stunned, I should have asked why it took her so long and several dates to break this news to me. A couple of years later, while walking down Hawthorne Blvd in Portland with a date, I’d pass Caitlin and a guy on the sidewalk. Uncomfortable glances were exchanged; but no greetings.
After that Red Robin revelation, I returned to my apartment and did what I did before — dove deeply into the depths of the internet in an attempt to distract my soul among the ghostly denizens lurking there.
Once again, the UO IT dept threatened to disable my internet access due to excessive use.
But now, as my final quarter was upon me in Eugene, I began working on a team project with fellow PR students for our keystone degree project. One was a nice and friendly girl named Virginia, “Call me V,” she said cheerfully introducing herself. The other was a quiet, introverted Korean American girl from Portland named Sarah. The final member of our team was this pleasant German exchange student named Vicky. The group of us would study and work on our project.
I’d visit Virginia at her apartment, where’d I’d often find her eastern European boyfriend drinking beer. The three of them never realized it, but they were the first classmates at the UO that made me feel welcome and accepted, regardless of my age.
Despite the positive, welcoming vibes I got from my teammates, in particular Vicky and Virginia — I was anxious to leave Eugene behind. A couple of months before graduation, I realized I didn’t want to work in a newsroom — I didn’t want to be a traditional journalist and while I enjoyed studying PR, I wasn’t sold on making it a career at that point. Self-financing my out of state tuition left me with some serious bills to pay, which restricted any intern options I’d find — most of which were essentially volunteer positions.
While exploring the possibility of working for a trade publication, I got word that a supervisory position had opened up at my previous employer in Portland. In debt and desperate to leave Eugene, I interviewed and got hired. Then, in December at the end of my last term I left Eugene — hoping to never return.
A few years later, the very same employer that I left Eugene for sent me back — to train a call center of employees that my company had subcontracted off of Coburg Road. Each day was packed and busy with me performing stand up classroom training, so if I wasn’t at the call center I was back at our hotel. Even if I had time, I had no desire to visit campus — or my past haunts. The simple thought of which made my stomach turn. To me, Eugene still retained the essence of my distant pain.
Things eased several years later, when I was dating Mary, my eventual wife. Mary is Virginia’s cousin — the same Virginia I worked on our keystone group project with at the UO. Virginia set us up on our first date.
Mary’s cousin and cousin’s husband lived in Eugene and we stayed there briefly during a road trip. While the memory of my pain had been fading, I focused on enjoying our company — and we never visited Eugene or campus. Being in Eugene still managed to make me feel uneasy.
Years later, in 2014, anxious to develop myself professionally and energized to study communications — a subject I’ve always been interested in, I began a University of Oregon masters degree program up at the Portland campus, in the building that hosts the iconic rooftop ‘Made in Oregon’ sign. For two years, I worked full time while attending night classes. Sometimes, I wouldn’t see my kids for almost 2 days at a time due to my work and school schedule. Graduate school was incredibly rewarding, despite it’s difficulty. The experience was positive for many reasons — made all the better by my wonderful, fun, supportive and incredibly smart classmates in our small 10 person cohort.
Then, in 2016..18 years after I packed up my truck and left Eugene, I came back — with Mary and our two kids in tow. This time, it was different.
Finding a town starkly unlike the one I first saw on that hot day in 1996, with a huge spaceship basketball arena and many other new buildings. Elements of campus looked the same to me, but it was clearly a changed place. Had I changed too?
With my wonderful cohort, my sense of pride and accomplishment outshone any historical heartbreak. It was a new age; a new time. A new me.
While my family watched, I took the stage to accept my diploma — a masters degree in strategic communication earned at the University of Oregon’s Portland campus. I had conquered my goal while surrounded by friendly souls.
For the first time ever I was truly happy — and proud — to be in Eugene, Oregon.
