Charlie Bloomer
I barely got the words out of my mouth. “People in my hometown – you see – they grow up in Sandy, they have kids in Sandy and then they die in Sandy.” As the final night of the Asian-American Journalists’ summer camp in Washington DC slipped through my fingers, I shared my deepest confession with the group.
I live in Sandy, Oregon, a tiny town which has made national headlines for their far right extremism. My childhood has a hint of irony. The same time I came out as bisexual, straight family rallies were hosted by the proud boys. When I began to explore my gender identity, our mayor was featured on Jimmy Kimmel Live for transphobic campaign ads. As I began to organize street protests, I was sent paragraphs online saying I “didn’t know what I was talking about,” and have been full-blown screamed at two inches from my face.
The hardest part of living in a rural town was watching how depression and anxiety ran through my family and community, as a result of the lack of belonging. Like many rural queer youth struggling to navigate this confusing world, I was diagnosed with an extreme case of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
On that final night in DC, I opened my mouth carefully to confess I had a deep rooted fear of being trapped in my hometown. “Thank you for showing me a world beyond Sandy,” I said, tears chopping up my sentence. Scholastic media has always been a throughline of hope.
I joined The Pioneer Press my sophomore year of high school. Walking into the newsroom, I felt incredibly intimidated by the culture. I was a tree that had never been exposed to wind before, and was bound to topple over at any moment. But I stayed because I was riveted by the unjustness of Sandy, and the opinion section was a chance to write about everything from queer youth, houselessness to heterosexual consumption standards. It was a creative outlet that saved me.
Through interviews, I started to come out of my shell. Although I have a panic disorder, something about the structure of classes helped me overcome my fear. I met mystics, cowboys, community organizers and teachers who amazed me. I started to realize that my own judgement of my town was misplaced, and I began to appreciate Sandy for its beauty hidden in the nooks and crannies. I began to write non-stop with ferocity. Typing poems, essays, short stories and especially newspaper articles pulled me out of my funk.
When the opportunity arrived to freelance for The Oregonian, I hopped on it. I tested the waters by writing about fast fashion and environmentalism, and when I felt more comfortable, I pitched the story I had been trying to navigate for the past 16 years: my rural identity.
After a year of work, the story went to press.
I fell in love with narrative weaving, and got involved with Rural Organizing Project, an organization connecting 80+ human dignity groups. I will be writing profiles on vendors for the street magazine Street Roots in the summer, while also working as a communication intern for the civic engagement nonprofit Next Up.
I write for awareness. None of the mental health experiences in my life should be common. Yet, rural individuals are much more likely to experience depression, especially rural minorities who face marginalization. My life is a reflection of those statistics.
But this is what motivates me to continue to pursue journalism. Events fall through the cracks of journalism, especially as small press organizations begin to die out over the country, and in Oregon. Writing is how I took agency over the narratives about my town and life.
I aim to pursue investigative reporting, and continue my nonprofit work, to represent the people like me. I hope to build a beat in far-right extremism, and continue to research and report on the people who shaped my childhood experiences.
As I pulled my luggage out of my dorm room in DC a reporter, who was known to be curt, looked me in the eyes. “You’re going to make it out,” he said.
I had never cried such bittersweet tears.
As I face the precipice of leaving my hometown, I am thankful for the lessons it taught me. I know who I am now, and most importantly, where I came from. I am the small mountain town, the clinically anxious girl and, simultaneously, the changemaker who grew into herself. When I do my daily walks around the newspaper class, I know that I am a role model to the underclassman around me. I try to cultivate a supportive environment, and to give the most powerful gift you can give to someone in this industry: showing them that despite the challenges they’ll face — whether it be a geographic disparity or mental health episode — they absolutely have a right to write.