Tag Archives: life

Where Were You When the Mall Shut Down?

1 Sep

Aug 27, 2026

For thirty-two years, I lived behind Lloyd Center, a mall that at one point was cited as the largest shopping mall in the world. For many people in the larger Portland area, Lloyd Center was considered iconic for its ice rink as well as its size. Living as close as I did, I visited the mall thousands of times, and no, that’s not an exaggeration. During heat waves or cold snaps, the mall would be an air-conditioned or warm haven for walking when the weather was uncooperative. I spent countless hours at Barnes & Noble reading and people watching. I’d talk to the clerks at GameStop and Electronics Boutique about the latest upcoming games. And although I’d only skated on the ice rink once or twice, I’d watch from the balconies as amateur and professional skaters practiced their techniques or as the younger set learned how to skate for the very first time.

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On August 8, 2026, Lloyd Center closed for the last time. Long before then, the mall had become its own version of a ghost town. The vast majority of shops had been abandoned, the major retailers having fled years before. The hardest part for me was watching Barnes & Noble shut down in early May. The bookstore had originally opened on 12th and Broadway in 2002, eventually moving inside the mall to become one of Lloyd Center’s major tenants. Losing Barnes & Noble meant essentially that the mall was beyond recovery, and indeed that was the case. Once a mall loses all of its anchor stores, it’s very hard to bring customers back in.

And indeed, many stores had already shut down. Well before Lloyd Center’s closure, I’d watched as Macy’s, Sears, Nordstrom, as well as smaller stores like Marshall’s and Ross all left the mall. The pandemic certainly hadn’t helped, and of course the rise of online shopping and the continuing spread of AI meant that many people didn’t need to go to a mall nearly as often. By the time Barnes & Noble was slated to close, the mall’s demise seemed all but certain.

Then the last day came. On Saturday, August 8, the crowds surged into the mall. To say there was a mismatch between the huge throngs versus the small number of stores that remained open was a colossal understatement. Thousands of people passed through Lloyd Center to pay their respects, to skate on the ice rink one last time, and to take pictures of what would soon be demolished. I came for about an hour on Saturday, grateful to see the crowds, but one of my first thoughts was: Where were you? If you truly loved Lloyd Center, why weren’t you here supporting the remaining stores that struggled to find customers? Why did it take Lloyd Center closing for you to visit one last time? And why is it that the one time the mall was truly full for the first time in many years was when we had to say goodbye to it?

I’m fully aware that there were numerous attempts to save the mall and its iconic ice rink. I know community members, merchants, and ice skaters went to Portland’s city council in order to find ways to preserve Lloyd Center, and I thank each and every one of you who did so. At the same time, if you need to preserve something, you need to be there to support it continuously, not just wait until the writing is on the wall that something is about to change.

And here’s the thing: For those of us who live right by the mall or have worked there for many years, losing Lloyd Center isn’t simply suffering the loss of an iconic institution. It’s an inevitable and tangible reality. Many of us never wanted to see Lloyd Center closed, let alone demolished, for the simple reason that when that happens, we have a ringside seat to its destruction. I have no doubt that the plans for the renovation of the Lloyd Center neighborhood will eventually lead to something wonderful, but in the meantime, no one looks forward to the bombardment of noise and construction that will commence and continue for the next few years. It’s hard enough for those people who lost their jobs at Lloyd Center or had to relocate elsewhere to find work. It’s even harder when you’re watching the neighborhood lose a part of its soul.

I will remember Lloyd Center for the joy it brought me and countless others who wandered through its corridors and visited its stores. I’ll remember the Christmas lights and decorations as well as the many shoppers who filled the mall during the holidays, even if Lloyd Center slowed down at other times of the year. And I’ll remember moving into the neighborhood in 1994 and realizing I’d found a great place to live as the mall and surrounding neighborhood offered so many opportunities to shop, mingle, and be entertained. My main hope is that whatever is built in place of Lloyd Center will retain at least some of the spirit of the mall, whether it be a new ice rink or a memorial of some kind to commemorate what we’ve lost. Above all, it would be nice to have a place to gather and congregate freely. Even if hanging at the mall is no longer a cultural touchstone like it once was, the importance of having a neighborhood social hub cannot be overstated. May the next iteration of Lloyd Center, or whatever replaces it, turn out to be something we can all be proud of.

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Reliability vs. Fame

19 Mar

I’ve been a performer my entire life, and I’ll acknowledge that one of the things I really wanted when I was younger was to be famous. I couldn’t really articulate those reasons no matter how hard I tried; it was simply a case of the grass is greener on the other side.

On the other hand, having been born with Moebius syndrome, I knew that finding work as a performer would be quite challenging given that my bilateral facial paralysis might be off-putting to producers or casting directors. I suppose in a way this helped to ground me, for at least I knew my limitations and was wise enough to realize that being famous wasn’t a guarantee, no matter how hard I worked in the field I loved. I certainly knew that finding employment in show business as a person with a disability would be a daunting task in and of itself, and for a while I simply didn’t look for work at all.

Thankfully, I learned a couple of valuable lessons in high school. First, if I tried seeking popularity, I wouldn’t get very far. However, if I focused on nurturing those interests that I loved, I would receive recognition for them simply because I wanted to succeed in those areas rather than worry about people’s opinions of me. Another lesson that I took away from high school is that the popular kids aren’t always the happiest. Maintaining one’s standing in the social hierarchy of high school isn’t easy, particularly taking into account peer pressure and the desire to fit in. Now think about fame as being the ultimate expression of belonging to the “in” clique, with many more perks but twice as many hangups. Your privacy disappears, people’s judgments can directly impact your popularity, and you won’t always know who your friends are.

For myself, I prefer to be reliable rather than famous. Being reliable in this instance means being punctual, polite, and prepared to work. I often find this to be a better alternative to being popular simply because this is well within the framework of what I can relate to. I can’t always control what people think of me, but I can certainly control my reactions to their behavior. And if I’m working on activities that I enjoy or can contribute to other people’s projects in a meaningful manner, that far outstrips anything I might acquire if I were famous. I’d rather be that person who people always come to because they know they can count on me for having a strong work ethic than be the “it” guy. Frankly, most people who are in the spotlight can have their careers taken away at any time simply by being replaced by the next up-and-comer. It’s harder to be replaced when you’re the expert the other experts rely on.

I think Clint Eastwood said it best: “Chasing fame is like chasing ashes blown by the wind; it neither ignites a fire nor stays put.” When push comes to shove, fame is notoriously unreliable. It doesn’t necessarily guarantee steady work, and it can dry up very quickly. I’d rather focus on being a solid member of my community who can be counted on to show up in all the right ways where it counts the most.

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Breaking Barriers

17 Jun

The Portland Gay Men’s Chorus will be performing its ICONS concert this Saturday, June 21, at 7 p.m. at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. In our performance we will be showcasing several different storytellers depicting different aspects of our lives in the LGBTQ+ community. While my piece wasn’t chosen, I decided to share what I wrote here as an example of what you might see during our concert. In the section entitled “Breaking Barriers,” we were asked to tell the audience about a time we “broke through” in some way such as an achievement, transformational conversation, or just a monumental event relevant to our LGBTQ+ experience. My answer to that question is below.

Long before I’d learned the word “intersectionality,” I was very much aware that I lived in several distinct communities. Unfortunately, I also knew that I’d likely be facing various levels of prejudice simply by belonging to them.

I was born with an extremely rare neurological disorder known as Moebius syndrome which left my face bilaterally paralyzed. Because so few people knew what Moebius syndrome was, I was subjected to a great deal of bullying and misunderstandings from people who thought that I was mentally impaired. Even though I had a strong support system at home, I still suffered from crippling self-doubt and fear about how others perceived me.

When I came out of the closet at the age of fourteen in 1983, I was already aware that being out at that time was incredibly risky. Although I came out of the closet to my mothers and some close family friends, because of my prior experience of being bullied, I had no desire to face even more prejudice against me and didn’t tell many other people at first. As a result, my coming out process was a slow one, which ultimately culminated with me joining the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus in 1992 and becoming almost completely out of the closet in the process.

About two years after joining PGMC, while driving home with my stepmother, I turned to her and said, “You know, I’ve counted five ways that people could be potentially prejudiced against me. I’m gay, disabled, Jewish, short, and left-handed.” My stepmother thought about this, then turned to me and said, “Well, yes, that’s true that people might discriminate against you. But what would happen if you looked at all of these things as gifts?”

That thought floored me. I’d learned to accept the various pieces of myself over the years, but many times they’d felt like obstacles to be overcome. Not once had I ever felt that these components of my life were gifts. I don’t remember the rest of that conversation. I only knew that my self-perception had been upended by a very timely insight.

Today, many years after that conversation, I now understand what my stepmother meant, and it taught me an important lesson: Sometimes, for you to best see yourself, it takes an act of compassion from another person for you to best recognize your gifts.

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The Fragility of Spring

7 Apr

Every year I make an effort to go down to the Waterfront Park in Portland, Oregon to capture on film the blooming of the trees. Throughout much of my adult life, I’ve made it to the park without fail, but it’s only in the last few years that I decided to photograph the event. And every year, I wonder what would happen if the flowers didn’t bloom.

There’s a very old myth about how the seasons came to be. In Greek mythology, the fertility goddess Persephone was kidnapped by Hades in order that he might make her his bride. There are several variations on this myth, but for the sake of brevity, after eating a pomegranate, Persephone was required to remain in the underworld for a set period of time – usually three months, but sometimes more depending on the the number of seeds eaten and according to who is telling the story. Her return heralded the beginning of spring, at which time her mother Demeter rejoiced at her return. Persephone’s return to the underworld signaled the beginning of winter.

But what would happen if the flowers didn’t bloom?

Each year I watch the trees as the buds start to sprout. What would happen if they didn’t emerge, or the buds remained in stasis rather than fully growing into leaves? How would this affect our outlook if spring never came? It may sound a bit silly at times as many of us take spring for granted, but I often look at this season as my favorite, as well as the most ephemeral. The beauty of spring is offset by its fragility. The cherry blossoms bloom once a year and then vanish. The birdsong begins and continues throughout the summer as they find their mates before flying away in the autumn. And no spring is ever completely the same.

If Persephone chose to maintain her residence in the underworld for a longer period of time, I imagine the spring season would be very brief, and summer would begin sooner. I have no doubt the harvest season would be affected as well. And of course the length of spring changes in different climes anyway, including here in the United States. Our spring here in Oregon is quite different from what you might see in Minnesota. But if Persephone never returned, the flowers wouldn’t bloom, and many of these seasonal changes wouldn’t come to pass. We’d see a much more barren planet than we’d ever want without the advent of spring and the return of the crops we need for our very survival.

I celebrate spring for many reasons. The return of warm weather and the blossoming of the cherry trees are only a very small part of it. I celebrate the return of possibility and growth, even though I’m aware those things have never really left us. I celebrate spring for the renewal of romance or of finding of new love. But mostly, I celebrate it because the alternative is that we remain in stasis, forever immutable and depriving ourselves of new opportunities for changing who we are, even if those changes are necessary or inevitable.

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