When I was a kid, we had drills.

Fire drills. Earthquake drills. Soviet-bombing drills.

That was pretty much it. I’m nearly fifty now. The active shooter and lockdown stuff came later, when my daughter was in school.

Back then, there were only two moves:

1. Get the fuck out of the building in an orderly fashion.
2. Or, if that wasn’t an option, duck and cover under your desk until someone told you to get the fuck out of the building in an orderly fashion.

Not a lot of nuance there. But I learned it so well it became instinct, survival by rote. And honestly? Those instincts aren’t doing me a damn bit of good living in the hellscape currently being broadcast as “Portland, Oregon.”

All these years I thought I was living in a city I loved, with tiny parks, weird murals, transcendent food, nature just down the street, wildly talented people pouring their souls into art, code, coffee, and community. A sanctuary city in both policy and spirit.

But lately everything feels… off.

Until about a week ago, when friends around the world started messaging me, “Hey, are you okay? Is all of that really happening?” I still believed I was fine. We were fine. Portland wasn’t burning. It was just living, imperfectly, like it always has.

We’re a city of 653,000 people inside the lines, 2.6 million across the metro area. That’s more than half of Oregon, and most of us treat this city like home, a place we love and want to protect.

We’re not perfect. God knows Portland has fucked up a time or two. But at its best, this place is built on care, on showing up, on trying again.

And yet… the headlines sound like scripts now. Like someone else’s narrative being handed out for us to play. The president talks about letting the troops loose on Portland, and suddenly new faces show up at protests, people who aren’t here for peace or justice.

They’re aggressive. They’re baiting. They’re trying to tip the scales toward chaos.

And the Portlanders? The real ones? They’re out there in inflatable dinosaur costumes, dancing. They’re sitting on the sidewalk in pajamas, eating pastries and sipping coffee. Just being there. Bearing witness. Reminding everyone that fascism, hate, and violence don’t belong here.

That’s the Portland I know.

Still weird. Still awake. Still here.

Just trying, as always, to make it out of the building safely and in an orderly fashion.

If you’re one of the people who’s asked if I’m safe, if this city is really as bad as they say, if Portland has turned into a war zone…

We were safe.

We were okay.

But stories have power, and the ones being told about us are starting to invite the very danger they claim to describe.