AUGUST 31, 2018, KEIZERTIMES, PAGE A5
Opinion
One too many
Learning that Keizer was the site
of a hate crime earlier this year will
likely come as a surprise to some,
others were probably waiting for it
to happen, still others might offer
to pay court costs for the
assailant.
None
of
those
responses is acceptable.
In February, a His-
panic man was punched
in the face by a neighbor
while standing outside
his apartment and wait-
ing for his son so they
could go to work. The victim’s of-
fense? His assailant believed he was
in the United States illegally.
We do not know the legal status
of the victim, but it doesn’t matter.
One act of this kind is one too
many, and every resident should be
confronting the harmful stereotypes
and prejudices that result in physical
violence at every opportunity.
Hate for others is not something
we are born with, but neither is love.
Both must be carefully taught. The
lessons – both helpful and harmful
– are fused into our being through
daily interactions with others. But
when we choose to self-segregate
for reasons of race, creed, sexual
identity, or national origin, we cut
ourselves off from the essential
thing that helps us grow.
The hate crime that took
place in Keizer is an example of
how ignorance, propaganda, and
segregation can forge hatred that
erupts in moments of violence.
In all likelihood, the accused man
is not a member of a hate group
but someone worn down by time
and toil into thinking he is losing
something that, in fact, never
belonged solely to him.
Stemming the tide of such hate
will not occur overnight and it’s
going to take all of us to do it.
Working to be less biased and less
prejudicial in our thoughts is where
it starts. Applying those practices to
our interactions with others in the
community is the next step. But,
some of the most signifi cant changes
must occur at the institutional
level through changing laws and
workplace policies. It is here where
the City of Keizer needs to step up.
A request for the city
to adopt an inclusivity
resolution – a statement
declaring the city a safe
and welcoming space
for everyone regardless
or race, creed, national
origin, gender identity,
and sexual identity
– has languished at
the city council for more than a
year. Opponents to the notion
wasted little time in voicing their
concerns about providing cover
for undocumented residents, but
there can be no exceptions. There
will never be a better time for
the council to act on this request
and waiting only prolongs the
environment where hate festers.
Unfortunately, that is not the
only stumbling block for Keizer. In
1993, residents of the city voted to
revise the city charter to marginalize
those whose sexual identity doesn’t
conform to traditional Christian
values. Doing so was wrong in
1993 and the longer the language
remains part of the city’s founding
documents, the worse it makes the
city look. It will require another
vote of residents to change it, but
the cost is minimal in relation
to the quiet harm being done to
LGBTQ+ residents.
The people of this country have
proven time and again that we can
remake ourselves into something
better. But it’s on all of us to
educate ignorance out of ourselves
and our children, reach out to those
who live on the edges of society
and disrupt hateful ideologies when
opportunities arise.
To live in any community as an
accepted part of it is a privilege, but
it comes with the responsibility to
stand up for the most vulnerable.
– Editorial Board
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opinion
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CHANGES: Resurgance
in hate nothing new
(Continued from Page A1)
In the early 2000s, as Oregon started to claim its repu-
tation as a progressive place, the internet became a ubiq-
uitous part of American life, the fi rst African American
president was elected into offi ce, and the public conversa-
tion shifted. Public tolerance for white nationalist groups
in the mainstream may have lessened, but they didn’t go
away – they moved online.
“As Oregon became more diverse and progressive, the
radical right fi nds a home on the internet. It becomes
more decentralized,” Blazak said.
Going online did not mean hate groups became be-
nign; it simply shifted their means of infl uence. People
susceptible to racist ideologies, white nationalist ideolo-
gies, hateful ideologies of any kind, no longer had to join
the Ku Klux Klan; they could stumble upon YouTube
videos of leaders of hate groups espousing hateful rheto-
ric. The move to online communities meant hate groups
no longer considered mainstream had a broader reach,
but it also changed the equation. Of late, most acts of
hate aren’t committed by people who claim membership
to these groups.
“The classic example of this is the Charleston church
shooting” in 2015, Blazak said. “Dylann Roof was not
a member of a hate group or going to meetings, but he
read a lot about it online, got all jacked up on the feeling
he was losing his country and his women and went into a
church and killed nine people. Those people had nothing
to do with what he was mad about.”
Hateful rhetoric, Blazak added, is: “always centered
around losing the country of white, cis-gendered, abled-
bodied, straight men.” The hatred comes from a sense of
loss of their place in whatever hierarchy they perceive
themselves as being at the top of.
“They believe if they don’t take it back then they are
lost,” Blazak said. “In a sense they are right. Our country
is getting browner, there are more women working than
men. All these changes are happening, but it’s about how
you respond to it.”
The response of those who felt ostracized by the
changing demographics of America were, in some ways,
relegated to the fringes of society during the Obama
years. During those years, the messaging was recoded –
birtherism, for example – then the campaign and elec-
tion of Donald Trump opened a door for hate groups to
reemerge.
“While it was online [the movement] mutates and
then comes back onto the streets with the election of
Donald Trump. The haircuts, the shirts, and the words are
different, but it’s essentially the same,” Blazak said.
Blazak references the Proud Boys, who hosted an alt-
right rally in Portland in early August. The Southern
Poverty Law Center (SPLC) describes the New York-
based Proud Boys as an alt-right hate group that denies
its connection to the movement, while simultaneously
espousing misogynistic, Islamophobic, and white nation-
alist rhetoric.
“The Proud Boys are a perfect example of this genera-
tion’s hate movement. It always starts out as misogynistic
and white male solutions to problems,” Blazak said. Their
approach, he said, “[is] classic scapegoat victim-blaming.
They pick an enemy to rally against. The Proud Boys are
very similar to the skinheads of the 1980s with better
fashion sense.”
According to the SPLC, Oregon is home to 18 hate
groups or chapters of hate groups. Even more locally, this
includes a branch of the National Socialist Movement,
one of the largest neo-Nazi groups in the US, in Salem
and Oregonians for Immigration Reform, an anti-immi-
grant hate group in McMinnville.
For those who do not align with hate groups or their
ideologies, facing these circumstances can be daunt-
ing. But there are initiatives focused on combating hate.
The Oregon Coalition Against Hate Crimes (CAHC),
of which Blazak serves as chair, was founded in 1997 in
response to the Oklahoma City bombing of 1995, when
Timothy McVeigh killed 168 people and injured hun-
dreds more with a homemade explosive while trying to
incite a race war.
Blazak and the CAHC also show up to rallies and pro-
tests, to support victims of hate activity and to outreach
to members of hate groups in the hopes of breaking them
INCLUSIVE,
continued from Page A1
they would look into forming a
committee and have more work
sessions to discuss it.”
Swaney realizes that an inclusiv-
ity resolution would not put an end
to acts rising out of bias and hatred,
but such statements are also more
than words.
Randy Blazak has been studying
hate groups and ways to counteract
their messages for the past three de-
cades and said inclusivity resolutions
are one way to do it.
“Institutional changes are im-
portant in moving the ball forward
toward equity, but they are also im-
portant to the people served by that
institution. We know that someone
can be marginalized by a neighbor
calling them names, but we can
also be marginalized by the institu-
tions that are supposed to serve us,
whether it’s a government, bank, or
the airline that you fl y,” Blazak said.
“If you are a person that is a target
of that marginalization, any move-
ment toward equity can be incred-
ibly helpful and it means those peo-
ple can work at their full potential.
There was a study that came out last
year that found when people can be
their true selves, they will work four
times as hard and be more involved
in the institutions. These [inclusiv-
ity] statements ultimately help all of
us in that way.”
Earlier this year, a Hispanic Keiz-
er resident was assaulted by another
man who lived in his neighbor-
hood. While the crime appeared to
rise out of racial bias, the case is still
working its way through the justice
system. If the victim lived in Salem
– which has far-reaching inclusivity
language in its adopted statues and
out of the groups’ ideologies.
After all, Blazak said, members of hate groups “are not
monsters.”
“For the most part, they are average people who don’t
know how to make sense of a world that changed so
quickly. As much as we hear about Antifa, I don’t know
any former Nazis who are going to change after being hit
with a rock,” he said. “That’s not how it works.”
In Keizer, there’s no organization dedicated to work-
ing with either the victims of hate activity or with perpe-
trators of hate activity. However, in Salem, a city commis-
sion is dedicated to victim outreach: the Salem Human
Rights Commission. The group was a response to the
Civil Rights movement in 1967 and the city’s stance on
inclusivity was codifi ed fi ve years later in city ordinances.
The commission is comprised of volunteer communi-
ty members appointed by the Salem mayor who work
alongside city staff and a liaison from the police depart-
ment. Commission members train to work with victims
of hate activity.
The commission is comprised of several task forces,
including an LGBTQ+ task force tasked with collecting
information about and understanding hate crimes and
bias incidents committed against the LGBTQ+ com-
munity and implementing trainings for law enforcement
who come into contact with LGBTQ+ victims and sus-
pects of crimes in their work.
The task force that has been around the longest is the
core response team.
“The core response team serves the people of Salem
directly,” Danielle Meyer, chair of the commission, said.
“It is there to support victims of hate and bias crimes. …
If someone chooses, they can have members of the core
response team go and talk with them. We’ll have a one-
on-one interview and we listen to what their needs are.”
Because the commission deals with both hate crimes
and bias incidents, there’s not always a criminal charge to
be made against the perpetrator of the discriminatory be-
havior, and sometimes the victim doesn’t follow through
out of fear of being re-victimized. However, there are of-
ten civil means of dealing with the kinds of bias incidents
that are reported, and the commission helps people fi gure
out what resources they can draw on to resolve the issue.
Gretchen Bennett, the Human Rights Commission’s
federal compliance manager, said even if the incident
doesn’t rise to the level of a crime, “it would still be
something the HRC would want to help with, because
it’s still experienced as bias by the victim so we would
want to offer support, try to problem-solve and offer so-
lutions that aren’t criminal in nature.”
Often, the commission fi nds itself in a place to reaf-
fi rm the city’s denunciation of discrimination, even if
there isn’t any action they can take to rectify the hateful
activity.
Meyer recalled an incident from last year, when a
member of the community was experiencing harass-
ment because of their national origin.
“The family didn’t want to bring any attention to
themselves, so they didn’t want to make a report. They
didn’t want to have a big thing happen,” Meyer said. “The
core response team drafted a letter that we sent to the
individual that had experienced it, saying this does not
represent the City of Salem, this is not right, and we’re so
sorry that you had to deal with this.”
The letter was signed by Meyer, the commission chair,
and the Salem mayor.
“The family reported back to us that that letter meant
so much to them,” Meyer continues, her voice catching.
“It makes me tear up a little, thinking about that, because
apparently they carried that letter around with them for
quite a while. I really like that story. All it was was kind
words, because that’s all we could do.”
The commission’s mission feels particularly urgent in
the current time and place, but Meyer points out it’s
important to recognize that current levels of hate in
America are not date-stamped with November 8, 2016.
“I think one of the things that we need to keep in
mind, when we’re looking at the discrimination, when
we’re looking at the hate: we’re not looking at some-
thing that has risen since the election. We’re not looking
at something that was quiet in the 1990s and got louder,
or something that used to be loud in the 1960s,” Meyer
said. “We’re looking at something that’s been a part of
humanity forever. … We have to always be present here
to combat that discrimination and hate, but it’s always
going to be there and it’s going to be in all aspects of
society in one form or another.”
ordinances and a volunteer Human
Rights Commission to assist vic-
tims – he might have had some reas-
surance that his assailant didn’t rep-
resent the community as a whole.
Danielle Meyer, who chairs the
Salem Human Rights Commission,
said even though it can only pro-
vide reassurances in many cases, the
words still matter.
“Sometimes all we can do is be
there to listen and say we’re sorry
that happened, but people really ap-
preciate hearing that. It means a lot
to them,” Meyer said.
As it stands, the only statements
regarding inclusivity and diversity in
Keizer’s city charter are ones mar-
ginalizing people with non-main-
stream sexual and gender identities.
City residents approved the changes
to the city charter – the founding
document of the city – with 55 per-
cent of the vote in 1993. (See chart
on Page A1 for the differences in
language.)
City Councilor Roland Herrera,
the sole Latino voice on the Keizer
city council, said some recent ef-
forts like Keizer Police Chief John
Teague visiting the city’s predomi-
nantly Latino church improve rela-
tions between Latino residents and
Keizer public safety offi cials, but
there is always room to grow within
that relationship and other spaces.
In recent years, he’s been em-
ployed as a mentor at Kennedy El-
ementary School and a parent re-
cently reported that, when she was
asking about school enrollment on
Facebook, someone commented
telling her to “go back to Mexico.”
“She was in shock. She had never
heard anything like that and didn’t
know how to respond. I tell people
about incidents like that and they
will say that it can’t happen in Keiz-
er, but it does, sometimes,” Herrera
said in an interview last week. “I
want people to be aware that it does
exist for some people.”
He added that it’s incumbent on
everyone to “get out of their com-
fort zones because that’s how you
grow.”
Herrera bristled at the idea of an
inclusivity resolution being tagged
as a maneuver to provide cover for
undocumented residents.
“We just want people to be
open-minded. If someone is wear-
ing clothing that’s a little bit differ-
ent, be open-minded and welcom-
ing. I don’t think an [inclusivity
resolution] answers everything, but
it would be helpful,” Herrera said.
Swaney said support among the
group that requested consideration
of the inclusivity resolution has not
diminished, but actions at the fed-
eral and state level (the ending of
DACA and the emergence of an
Oregon ballot measure to repeal a
statewide sanctuary state law) have
shifted priorities up the chain of
governance. She, for one, is not giv-
ing up the cause precisely because
she’s seen how lives and minds can
be changed by taking a stance on
inclusivity issues.
When Swaney taught at Claggett
Creek Middle School, she handled
an incident when members of the
school’s leadership team were found
drawing a swastika on a binder dur-
ing a school project.
“It was white privilege thing and
they didn’t understand. Some peo-
ple wanted them off the leadership
team and I advocated to teach them
about what the symbol was and
what it represents. In the end, they
were put on probation I think were
able to do some positive education.”
(Keizertimes intern Random Pen-
dragon contributed to reporting of this
story.)