The art of raising your hand

About 10 years ago, I moved to Sellwood. Sellwood is a quaint neighborhood in Southeast Portland that feels more like a beach town in rural Oregon than a part of Oregon’s biggest city. Lined with antique shops, good sushi, a brewery or two, and an old movie theater, my walkable and kid & dog friendly neighborhood is one of my favorite areas of town. It’s the perfect balance for me: a woman who loves the small town feel but won't live outside the city.

When I moved to Sellwood, one of the first things I did was venture out to an open mic held at a coffee shop called Twin Paradox. Every Monday night, they hosted singer-songwriters, poets, guitar players and whoever else would show up around an out-of-tune old piano, one mic, and a couple of shitty speakers.

At that point in my musical journey, I was filled with self doubt. I remember I was purposefully writing songs that I felt would be catchy but not express anything real or vulnerable about my life. The truth was, I couldn’t face anything real or vulnerable about my life at that point, so I couldn't have my songs tell others things I wouldn't tell myself.

When I walked into this little coffee shop to sing my songs, I was pretty nervous. Within moments, I was welcomed in, embraced, applauded, encouraged. Vere McCarty was hosting that night. Vere is a magical guy. He’s an academic, a hippy, a Spanish speaking explorer, a camper, a dog-lover, an author, a poet, and a musician. In many good ways, he reminded me of my dad. We’d talk after the music was over, laughing, telling stories. He encouraged me to write more, to come back.

That first night I walked into Twin Paradox, I didn’t know it, but I was pretty broken. While all around me thought I was doing great in life, inside my heart was a collapsed set of unassembled dinosaur bones, rattling around in my rib cage. Feeling welcomed so unassumingly by the people there was wonderfully warm and healing. Eventually, I made friends, some would play and share, others would sip cappuccinos and lattes and listen and enjoy. Others would sketch. When things got really tough during that time, music and community got me through.

I started to take more musical risks, writing songs that told more of my story. I’d share, and with each expression of vulnerability, people would applaud and tell me how much they loved it, how they wanted more. So, little by little, I gave myself the space to write my story through music. And through that, I finally was able to fully see my story, see the truth about my life.

Sadly, in 2011, the open mic and the coffee shop along with it, shut down. I knew I needed music and musical people in my life and I realized that the only way to ensure that I had community in the tumultuous world of gentrification and this volatile economy was to create one. It made me think that no one sacred space will last forever, but the drive to build community and the spaces that host it can be passed on.

So, I started my own open mic at Corkscrew Wine Bar in January of 2012. We spent the first five months with just a few people showing up, where we’d all end up playing 8 songs each, and finishing early enough to hit happy hour at the pub next door. Those months were magical, inspiring, I started writing like I’d never wrote before. We had built this beautiful base of community, of friendship, of camaraderie. And it wasn’t something that Chris and I built alone, we just found the match of inspiration and lit it, but each person that came in and invested were the candles that exploded the flame. We raised our hand and showed up, and then others showed up too. That's how community is created.

Within two years, our list was filling up nightly, one song per performer, Chris and I playing Tetris with the sign-up sheet to fit everyone in our 3 hour time frame. We ran this open mic for nearly 5 years. It was such a beautiful time of growth, inspiration and friendship for us.

After 5 years, the community and our time at Corkscrew had inspired and grown us so much, that it was time for us to spread our wings and take the next leap, the next adventure. We started focusing on the music we were creating, trying to take it to another level. So, with all the love and gratitude in the world, we ended Mondays at Corkscrew, hoping that someone else would take the baton of creating sacred spaces and building community. I'm happy to say that there are now many of the people from that group who have stepped forward with their baton of creation and made spaces for people to gather.

The thing is, these spaces where artists, musicians, beer-makers, book-readers or whatever the thing is, these sacred spaces required two parties. They require someone to raise their hand and say, "Yes, I will start this, I will show up first," but it also requires people to show up, to let themselves be open, to be ready to connect. I’m not sure which one is more challenging, but they’re both vital.

As the city around us changes, our places close (how many venues just in the last 12 months have closed down?), the landscape shifts, and time moves forward, it’s easy to say that “Old Portland” is dead - that we’re surrounded by things out of our control taking away the things we love the most. But we’re not, because we have the choice to create new spaces when there is a need. Whether its in your backyard, your living room, or in your favorite pub. It just takes you raising your hand and showing up.

How can we create these spaces with what we have, with what’s right in front of us? Are we scared of the time commitment? What if that time that we give up becomes one of the most revolutionary and evolutionary times of our lives? Wouldn’t it be worth it?

Like all of us, I want to see Portland bustling with life, with art, with music. I want to see music on every restaurant patio, I want to hear it wafting across my neighborhood on summer nights when backyards become make-shift concert halls, I want to keep Portland art real and strange and exploratory, I want to keep this creativity incubator alive. Could you be the next beginner of a space that could change not only you but the people who walk through the door?

Nobody will keep Portland art alive for us, we have to do it ourselves. We need to pour so much of our heart and energy into this that the artistic community is addictive and effusive, so that the audience wants to be a part of it. No one will hand us our dream - we have to create the dream. As with everything else in life, we have to invest in the community we want to see grow.

Although I'm thinking of Portland right now, you in your community, wherever that may be, have the match of creativity and community in your pocket, waiting to be lit. Light the match, see who shows up, see what happens. There's magic in store for all of us. Now, who's hosting the next house show in their backyard? I'll bring the beer.

As always, rooting for you!

XOXO -

Jen Deale

Boss Lady, Camp Crush // SBP Smoothies // Bailey and Cooper