And with so many coming, there is definitely a show for you. Willamette Week's Volunteer Guide Continue to work to make a positive change in Portland in . Oregon's Legal Cannabis Market Is Generating Huge Revenues—But None of. Portland, OR Event Calendar.
According to Glass, more than 1, zero-toyear-olds live in the district. More than 25 languages are spoken, and high school students living in the district attend five different schools: Glass moved to Portland 14 years ago, but her first real experience in Rosewood came through Americorps in , when Glass worked with two police sergeants who were attempting asset-based community development.
During those early conversations, the sense of despair some people had was really hard for Glass to hear. She oversees seven full-time and four part-time staff members. Glass is measured, unhurried, thoughtful. Her long-term vision for Rosewood Initiative includes land ownership, early-childhood services, and increased hopefulness among Rosewood-dwellers.
For others, a relationship status. Kovacs focuses on buoying chronically under-represented voices in housing conversations — renters, young people, people of color, recent immigrants, and adults living with disabilities.
With the meter of someone who has presented to more than 60 groups in the last two years and trained over individuals to provide public testimony about housing, Kovacs swiftly but thoroughly summarizes the issues: Cities across the United States are adding jobs faster than they are adding housing. Rental prices are rising, and families are unable to find housing they can afford —pricing them out of entire regions of the country.
This is why she took this job. Along with coordinating the schedules and needs of 43 coalition members, Kovacs launched and manages the PFE website, facilitates the city-wide conversations on Twitter, sends testimony alerts over social and email, and plans events.
Thanks to a grant from Pround Ground, Kovacs a single-earner, 31 year-old nonprofit employee recently purchased her own Portland home: Kovacs operates with urgency — her speech quick, eyes laser-focused, Tweets answered late and night and early in the morning, work bleeding into personal life. Decisions made today about zoning, she says, resonate generations deep. There are few other people I have ever met who have taken what is a life-changing diagnosis and used it to focus his life work.
Then a college senior in Ohio, he was balancing his final semester toward his theater degree and a time-consuming on-campus job as production stage manager for Violet , The Musical. On hearing the life-altering news, TerMeer decided to hand off the stage manager role to his assistant, wished the cast good luck and stepped away.
Much like the production stage manager he once was, TerMeer, 34, leads a staff of 75 and represents his organization to the greater Portland metro community. Fears of discrimination and judgment are leading reasons our LGBTQ population receives a lack of culturally-affirming treatment from primary care providers. TerMeer is polished but warm, fashion-forward but professional. His noticeably calm energy suggests he would be as effective counseling someone recently diagnosed as HIV-positive as he is in the boardroom.
In , CAP served more than 2, clients. They use every tool they have to fight for the dignity of their participants and demand competence from the institutions that are meant to serve them. Hoos works at the veteran service branch of Transition Projects on East Burnside Street, where their desk is a hub for paperwork, calls to landlords and meetings with clients.
Hoos meets at least four veterans a day and aims to find housing for five clients each month, often succeeding. When those challenges arise, Hoos actively advocates for the veterans in their fold. When Hoos left for college in Cincinnati, they helped found a new relief shelter for their new urban community. This exposed Hoos to an entirely new world unlike the conservative one of rural Indiana and began their career in social work.
The tangible objects, says Hoos, give participants something besides bleak circumstances to focus on. Hoos also incorporates deep breathing and meditation, even when vets seem initially reluctant. Housing is a key ingredient in their success, and Hoos, with a fierce energy for justice and a commitment to human rights, is one of their most capable, caring advocates.
Hoos places 60 veterans into housing each year, while managing a rolling caseload of 40 clients at any one time. The walls of that box? And, of course, a glass ceiling.
Five years later, from her modest, somewhat cramped shared nonprofit office in downtown Portland, the year-old founder and CEO of ChickTech pulls out a different type of box: She props it open and points to the contents:. Never heard of a LilyPad Arduino? All girls enrolled in ChickTech workshops receive this box and learn to code. Levenhagen-Seeley started ChickTech in Portland in to increase the number of women and girls pursuing technology-based careers and retain them by building a support network.
The participants, who are 57 percent nonwhite, enter the program through nominations by their high school teachers. One hundred girls will participate this year in Portland, and 2, will participate nationwide. The energy at the start of these high school workshops is nervous but excited.
Levenhagen-Seeley is straightforward and frank, sugar-coating nothing about the realities of technology careers for women, while glancing occasionally at email notifications on her Apple watch. A Wisconsin native who grew up on a dairy farm, she became a teen mom at 17 and obtained a computer engineering degree at So, with real conviction, she decided to help reduce the chances other girls and women would be discouraged from entering the tech workforce.
ChickTech now includes a nationwide network of participants, instructors and volunteers, and a national conference called ACT-W Advancing the Careers of Technical Women.
Every year, Levenhagen-Seeley exposes or more girls in 24 cities to tech opportunities, instilling confidence and skills so they can enter tech careers and contribute to a supportive community of female leaders. This prize is generously sponsored by Beneficial State Bank. He is an exemplary leader and has unbelievable clarity regarding their responsibility to provide a safe environment for young addicts to get clean and sober. Vezina is executive director of the 4th Dimension Recovery Center.
His organization helps young people overcome drug and alcohol addiction through social communities and peer mentoring services. When the space is not a dance hall, step group meetings fill the calendar. I worked with the most diverse people on the planet and had to unpack a lot of stuff. I never thought I was privileged. I thought I had it so bad. I learned a lot. Since then, Vezina has taken 4D from just a concept to a sustainable, functioning nonprofit with two and a half paid staffers and seven certified peer mentors.
As with most small, new nonprofits, the executive director has broad responsibilities. Besides serving as the public face of the organization, development director, bookkeeper and web master, he is also the driver of the legendary 4D passenger van. Bumping louder seems a theme for Vezina, whose bright blue eyes and fast-paced speech pulse with energy, despite his lean-back-in-the-chair body language.
His expansion plans for 4D include programming focused on black youth. He also serves on the board of directors for Oregon Recovers, which will lobby for funding and recovery justice at the state level. For now, Vezina is a beacon for those he serves, a positive reminder that long-term sobriety is possible. Vezina oversees the operation of 4D Recover Center, helping young people each month get and stay in recovery by providing a safe space, peer mentors and sober programming.
She is a uniquely talented educator, able to engage teens from all walks of life. She connects authentically and in a way that inspires trust and willingness. The room in which Janice Martellucci teaches mindfulness studies at Lincoln High School feels more like a yoga studio than a classroom. Students take off their backpacks and shoes before entering.
They leave their cellphones in a basket at the front of the softly lit room. Some wear jeans, and others, sweatpants. But they all sit on the sage green yoga mats that encircle the space.
Martellucci, 27, is a teacher for the Portland nonprofit Peace in Schools. Founded in , the organization created the first for-credit mindfulness classes to be taught in public high schools in the United States. The program aims to be district-wide in Portland Public Schools within the next few years.
Martellucci discovered mindfulness six years ago, during what she says was a particularly difficult time for her. A friend recommended she try mindfulness meditation, so Martellucci started attending classes, going on retreats, and beginning an at-home practice.
In no time, she was hooked. Now, Martellucci is teaching those skills in Portland. Her students learn different kinds of mindfulness meditation and are invited to explore their emotions and attitudes in a safe space. Janice Martellucci teaches free mindfulness classes to more than 1, teenagers in Portland through the nonprofit Peace in Schools. Mindfulness has been shown to increase emotional and mental well-being, even alleviating depression and mood disorders. She has already made such a huge impact in the programs that she has worked for and the youth she has connected with, but she will continue to do that same mission-driven work over the course of her career.
On any given day, the homeless to year-olds she works with could be watching Netflix under her desk, nodding off from heroin while propped up against her wall, getting help finding services or asking for outfit advice. Outside In, located in downtown Portland, has been providing social services and health care for homeless youth and other marginalized people since Pettet works as a peer mentor supervisor, drug and alcohol specialist and administrative coordinator.
She works with more than youth a year, helping them access services and find stability. With her neon pink hair, knuckle tattoos, sarcastic sense of humor and open-minded approach, Pettet, 32, stands out from a lot of care providers whose more formal methods can be alienating. Jamie, who is gender non-binary, found the welcoming nature of Outside In a positive change of pace after constantly being judged by adults. She was home-schooled in a small town in Indiana and never felt as if she could fit in, even with other home-schooled kids.
Then, after moving to Portland at 17, she had trouble getting satisfaction from her jobs, including stints at bakeries and porn shops.
She could identify with their struggles with isolation, poverty, trauma and mental illness. Outside In provides services to more than 11, homeless and otherwise marginalized people every year. This prize is generously sponsored by Willamette Week.
North by Northeast is the only medical clinic in Oregon focused on African-American health, serving African-American adults every year. Many of the clients have in the past felt underserved by traditional health care providers. Tate, 30, knew from a young age that she wanted to work in the health care sector.
Tate transitioned to the nonprofit sector, working at the Native American Rehabilitation Association of the Northwest for five years. In the process, she came to realize how much she loves being able to serve her community through nonprofit work. She came across North by Northeast by chance. One day in , when she had taken her two sons to get haircuts at Champions Barbershop on Northeast Martin Luther King Boulevard, doctors from North by Northeast were there, offering free blood pressure checks.
Tate was inspired by their mission and hands-on approach. This prize is generously sponsored by Davis Wright Tremaine. The vendors Merkel coordinates buy copies of Street Roots for a quarter apiece, and then sell them for a dollar. They get to keep the profits they earn, which helps put them on the path to self-sufficiency. They are on their feet eight to 10 hours a day, seven days a week.
Merkel joined Street Roots as an AmeriCorps volunteer five years ago and never left. Cole manages people experiencing homelessness and poverty, and coordinates 90 community vending partners to sell 9, newspapers every week.
This prize is generously sponsored by Morel Ink. She attends conferences and webinars, seeks out mentorship, and creates long-term connections in the Portland educational landscape. Neither of her parents attended college, and she grew up in a small Illinois town without a lot of money. Though a high-achieving student, she never considered looking for a college that challenged her or matched her interests.
Applying to college is hard enough. First-generation and low-income college students face additional challenges, both when applying and attending. At College Possible, Block, 27, trains and supervises seven AmeriCorps volunteers who are currently coaching high school students in the Portland area.
While Block values her college experience, she would have liked to have had the kind of support College Possib le provides. It also helps participants navigate the costs of attending college, keeping debt manageable. College Possible gets results. College Possible is guiding 1, low-income students in the Portland area through the college application process and supporting them throughout their higher education.
As a program coordinator for the organization, Casey Block leads the team currently coaching low-income students at six Portland-area high schools. This prize is generously sponsored by Grady Britton. Her remarkable emotional intelligence allows her to intervene in crises with the right degree of warmth and firmness to get girls back on track.
But she was hired, and after being trained to mentor elementary school girls, Aguilar realized she was indeed meant to serve as a role model for young Latinas. Now, one community college degree, three promotions and six years later, Aguilar serves as the Chicas Youth Development program coordinator. Adelante Mujeres served Latina students during the school year.
All 19 of the seniors from last year are currently enrolled in college. Of the elementary and middle school girls, exit surveys show improved self-image, deeper confidence and better grades than Latina counterparts not in the program. Aguilar, 28, has had her hands in nearly all of this.
In six years with the program, she has led nearly a dozen after-school groups. She stuck with one of these groups from third through ninth grade. Aguilar repeats one particular session with nearly every group she has mentored: The low-income girls Adelante Mujeres serves have working parents, several of them with field labor jobs, according to Aguilar.
When they leave school, these girls return home to assist with cooking and cleaning; only then can they attempt their homework. They begin to appreciate the hard work. Aguilar is no stranger to the topic of hard work. In addition to mentoring, she takes high schoolers and their parents on college visits, for which she coordinates the transportation and on-campus experience. Often times they are afraid to let their daughters go to college.
Aguilar aims to show parents and girls what helpful services the school can provide. That is what I want them to know. Her next goal includes finishing a second degree in human development. She galvanizes the community, turning passive supporters into activists working on our behalf. From a downtown corner office flooded with natural light, Burrell fights battles involving art in our schools.
Burrell and her team serve more than 60 schools in seven metro-area districts with limited arts education resources by training teachers to weave arts into core curricula. We help [teachers] meet the objectives that stress them out. Burrell, a year-old Portland native, carries herself with a grace indicative of years of modern dance training.
Burrell organizes more than volunteers, who in completed 10, hours of advocacy and fundraising. She meets policy makers to show the measurable success Right Brain programs have on students, teachers and test scores. They need to see, or feel, or move the information physically, in order to understand concepts.
In mid-September, she got married and threw a DIY wedding block party in her street to celebrate. He is particularly skilled at reaching a difficult-to-reach population. Pinned to the top left corner is a collage of clippings from Seventeen magazine. The collage was a gift from a client. De Paul serves youth struggling from addiction to drugs and alcohol by working with them in treatment programs ranging from outpatient care to residential or detoxification services. Graduation from the program requires positive social behavior, effective and honest communication, and progress based on the level of care.
But when a client fails to meet these benchmarks and must leave De Paul, Gadbois is often involved in that conversation. Fermenting orange juice in the dorm, lying about possessing a weapon, or failure to pass urine analyses is likely to result in discharge from the program. Gadbois, 30, has worked in the nonprofit community for 11 years. He acutely understands the path to recovery. His past includes a list of foster care nightmares, sporadic stints in treatment programs and lack of belief in his own strengths.
He fell into addiction at age 14 and was forced by his adoptive family in and out of group homes, leaving him unable to imagine a life of interpersonal connection. Prior to his current duties, Gadbois spent more time in sessions with clients. Friday mornings at The staff assigns clients as mentors to incoming clients, debates visitation-day approval strategies, and suggests ideas to get kids to respect the recreation-time rules. And this is just 10 minutes out of one day.
Orange means off-site, yellow is a client meeting. Staff meetings are pink, and supervisions are aqua. I take that very seriously. Of nearly kids Gadbois has individually counseled at De Paul, at least 70 percent have successfully graduated from the program. If a diner has a meltdown or a volunteer fails to show up as scheduled, April rolls with the punches. I think with a ladle you can get two salads done. Daily, Woods preps nearly hot meals for delivery to homebound seniors, then cooks another lunches for dining room visitors.
These vegetables will be done in about 15 minutes. She directs volunteers who wash dishes and plate food, working with both regulars and first-time helpers, depending on the day. Some days, only one volunteer can make it.
How does the kitchen operate on those days? Moving to Meals on Wheels allowed her love for cooking to flourish, while filling her desire for more regular hours. When she leaves her kitchen, Woods just keeps cooking.
She and her partner have five children between the ages of three and Then, dining room prep begins. Country music usually streams from the radio. Some of her regular volunteers also speak Mandarin. As service is about to begin, a short, round-faced man with wispy white hair walks up to the counter pointing to the back of the kitchen, then his wrist.
He shakes his head no, and gestures like he has a mug in his hand. She effortlessly slides a heavy a tub of rice into the warmer and laughs. And she probably will. Wednesday is food box day. Clients show up as early as 7 am to receive pantry items delivered to the center by the Oregon Food Bank. Most of the patrons stay for lunch.
On box days, Woods typically serves more than Wednesday afternoons she also leads a teen cooking class through the community center. She is a passionate advocate for unheard voices and unheard stories. I t was the tattoo of an ink pen that got her the job, A. She supervises interns and volunteers, manages in-house events, and meets with instructors. Most afternoons are spent elsewhere, often conducting writing workshops at the Columbia River Correctional Institution.
I try to give them tools for how to do that. The nonprofit sector is broad in its scope and not everyone is doing work that saves lives. Instead, she spends large parts of the workday standing in her doorway. As the syringe exchange program coordinator at Outside In, she encounters more than clients daily, and sees them one-on-one whenever they need her. I have no criteria. Wheelock has a lot to talk about. The syringe exchange program, which promotes health among people who inject drugs, exists in part to offer HIV testing and a safe, clean spot for needle exchange, but also provides Naloxone trainings on demand.
Now, clients at Outside In can become trained to administer Naloxen by Wheelock and her staff. And I want people to have a chance. According to Wheelock, there is an overdose-related death every 19 minutes. But since the Naloxone law was passed last year, and Outside In began training Portlanders in its use, heroin deaths have dropped by nearly 29 percent. I find that brilliant and beautiful. She remembers her first training for a nonprofit job in New York. And I love that.
Haven coordinates the exchange of more than , needles annually and has conducted Naloxone trainings in the past 18 months. More than of those clients have reported an overdose reversal. He is the best ambassador for these kids and they really need someone to be that for them.
A s an eighth-grader, Jared Hoffman began playing soccer with Latino teenagers in his hometown on the Oregon coast. The familial way they got together for pickup games on weekends and their high level of play made Hoffman love the sport even more. So he quit all other sports for soccer. His skills improved and his parents began driving him to Salem to play in clubs. Two or three kids from less cushioned backgrounds might earn a scholarship to join a team, according to Hoffman, but most others were left out.
Hoffman makes one thing clear: We want to project that. The energy and vibrant culture he finds in neighborhoods where AC Portland runs programs motivate Hoffman.
His prize was generously sponsored by Adidas. But Tyrone does more than just that: He helps clients break down barriers that stand in their way of housing. He advocates, cajoles, follows up, networks, and works his butt off so that people can change their lives and move out from under bridges and off the streets. Rucker, 32, steps through the door. Immediately, a woman in a black jacket and headscarf meets him midstride. Having been in similar circumstances, he understands the urgency homeless individuals often feel.
TransActive, located in Southeast Portland, seeks to improve the lives of transgender and gender noncomforming youth and their families through counseling, community outreach and legal advocacy. In addition to emotional support, Kit Crosland, 26, hopes to provide trans youth with something tangible.
Men who no longer need their binders, a device used to flatten breasts, donate them to TransActive. Crosland then ships those binders to youth who are in need throughout the U.
To date, the program has sent more than chest binders and has a waiting list of more than 1, We call them the "band of brothers," Crosland says. Gladys Ruiz, 33, grew up in New York City public housing in the s.
In , Ruiz moved to Portland where she now serves as the Audubon Society of Portland's eastside conservation education coordinator. But for the first 21 years of her life she was afraid of birds. When she was 19, she worked as a coastal steward for a nature conservancy, helping count endangered bird species. Two years later, she joined AmeriCorps, where she began work with an ornithologist.
It features reports on local news , politics , sports , business , and culture. Willamette Week is the only weekly newspaper to have had one of its reporters, Nigel Jaquiss , win a Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Reporting.
Willamette Week was founded in by Ronald A. Buel, who served as its first publisher. Meeker and Mark Zusman ,  who took the positions of publisher and editor , respectively. Meeker had been one of the paper's first reporters, starting in , and Zusman had joined the paper as a business writer in WW had a paid circulation at that time, with about 12, subscribers.
In June , Richard Meeker stepped down as Willamette Week ' s publisher, after more than 31 years in the position.
Prior to his death in , cartoonist John Callahan 's long-running comic "Callahan" appeared weekly in the paper, for almost 30 years. A number of notable journalists, writers and artists have worked at Willamette Week over the past several decades, including:. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. This section needs expansion. You can help by adding to it. The lawsuit, which would have placed Goldschmidt's sexual abuse in the public record, was never filed. The money came with one large string attached: Payment of the annuity was "contingent on confidentiality agreement," according to court records.
That agreement binds Susan, her family and all of the others involved in the settlement. After the settlement, Susan moved to Nevada, where she got married and, she says, worked occasionally as a waitress, at the restaurant Spago.
Goldschmidt, meanwhile, carved out a career as this state's most influential power broker, taking on clients as varied as Bechtel, PacifiCorp and Weyerhaeuser.
He prospered from lucrative retainers and friendships with powerful people, advising lumber barons Peter Stott and Aaron Jones, plus a host of other corporate leaders. The network Goldschmidt built while in office has added to his power. His former staffers run numerous organizations, including the Portland Development Commission, the gas utility NW Natural and the state itself--Goldschmidt rescued current Gov. Ted Kulongoski from Oregon's political graveyard in and has been his mentor ever since.
With Susan and Goldschmidt separated by 1, miles, their secret might have remained buried forever had Goldschmidt not boldly returned to the public stage. In November , he led a highly visible and successful campaign opposing the public purchase of Portland General Electric. Two weeks after the campaign concluded, Goldschmidt announced that he was heading a group that itself would buy PGE with backing from the Texas Pacific Group, a private investment firm.
In February , WW began reporting on Goldschmidt's consulting firm, Goldschmidt Imeson Carter, and the extraordinary degree of influence it exercised in the gray space between business and politics. During the reporting, WW kept encountering whispers about Goldschmidt's past.
Most involved affairs with adult women, but a few sources said there was also a young girl. Public-records searches identified court documents in Washington County and Seattle that described his sexual abuse of Susan in great detail, without actually naming Goldschmidt.
In late March, WW began to talk to people, eventually speaking with more than a dozen who told a remarkably consistent story about what happened from through She arrived at a meeting at a sports bar near her home with a Wall Street Journal under her arm--she says she's been a faithful reader of the paper since fifth grade--and a copy of a library book, Tomorrow's God, by Neale Donald Walsch, author of the bestselling Conversations with God.
Before the interview, Susan, a slight, deeply tanned woman with wavy, shoulder-length brown hair, spoke fondly about her Dalmatians, Zoe and Harley, and her love of horseback riding with her stepdaughter. She mentioned that she had recently finished a paralegal course and hoped to find work in that field. When the interview began, Susan produced a tape recorder and said she was concerned about being misquoted. When reporters showed her court documents and summarized interviews with people who said she had told them about Goldschmidt, the tone of the interview changed.
Susan's hands shook so badly she could barely light her Winston cigarette. Susan acknowledged having been abused in her teens and alluded to earlier molestation by a family member whom a cousin, in an interview with the Eugene Register-Guard last week, identified as her grandfather.
But Susan repeatedly denied that Goldschmidt was the man who began abusing her when she was Instead, she sang the former governor's praises and mentioned how she appreciated his giving her the novel Cry, the Beloved Country when she was a teenager. At the end of a minute interview, Susan said she would consider a request to provide documents that would prove that the man who abused her as a teenager was someone other than Goldschmidt.
By the end of April, WW had enough documentation to publish its story. It also learned that Tribune columnist Phil Stanford had interviewed Susan in February and confirmed a portion of the story. Meeker agreed in advance not to disclose the details of their conversation. Rose did not return WW's telephone calls. In retrospect, it appears that for more than six weeks Goldschmidt was not only aware of WW's investigation but resigned to exposure of his secret.
During the two-month investigation, this paper talked to Goldschmidt only once. In his message, Goldschmidt said, "I really have no agenda.
I'm in the news a lot, you guys are interested in a lot of things, and I just think it would be fun. The April 5 lunch was held at Carafe, a downtown restaurant that serves wine from Goldschmidt's vineyard in Dundee.
Goldschmidt's business partner, Tom Imeson, also attended. At the time, WW was not ready to confront Goldschmidt with its findings. And Goldschmidt never referred to Susan during the lunch. Instead, Goldschmidt talked about higher ed, the development along the South Waterfront and the job that Gov. Ted Kulongoski was doing. As they parted after lunch, Goldschmidt pulled Zusman aside, grabbed his hand and said, "Go get 'em. One of the many unanswered questions about Neil Goldschmidt's sexual abuse of a year-old girl is how he kept it a secret for 29 years.
Willamette Week's two-month investigation found that although many friends of the victim knew about the crime, few of Goldschmidt's aides, as mayor or as governor, did.
One individual who knew--and who provided a good deal of help to Goldschmidt--was a private investigator named Robert K. Three decades ago, Burtchaell was an original investor in WW and worked as the paper's marketing manager. According to court documents, Goldschmidt stopped having sex with Susan in Sometime afterwards, several sources say, Goldschmidt asked Burtchaell to help, in the words of one source, "handle" her. Another person close to Susan characterized Burtchaell as "an intermediary between [Susan] and Neil" who "helped her contain her anger at him and helped her with her escalating problems.
Those problems were evident in when Susan moved into a shared apartment off Northwest 23rd Avenue. The roommate, in an April interview with WW, said she had threatened to press charges if Susan didn't pay the bill.
Not long afterward, she told WW, she got a phone call from a man who said he would pay the debt. He said his name was Bob Burtchaell.
About the same time, Burtchaell repeatedly called a male friend of Susan's, who says Burtchaell was trying to help find an approach that would get Susan moving in the right direction. If Susan met Goldschmidt, Burtchaell was in the room. According to people close to Susan, Burtchaell remained the primary intermediary between her and Goldschmidt up until Susan obtained a financial settlement from Goldschmidt in Burtchaell's career is difficult to categorize.
After leaving WW, he counseled people experiencing alcohol problems and invested in real estate before becoming a private eye. During the late s, at the same time Burtchaell was entrusted with handling Susan, he was experiencing financial problems. The loan was due in 90 days, but Burtchaell failed to pay it back on time. Burtchaell also leased an adjacent moorage for 25 houseboats called Watery Lane from the Division of State Lands, which owns all the river bottoms in Oregon.
In February , according to correspondence WW obtained from the state archives, Burtchaell wrote to then-Gov. Goldschmidt about the moorage. Burtchaell outlined his problem: His lease on the moorage was set to expire in , and the state, having determined that there were too many houseboats on that part of the Willamette, had determined in that it would not renew Burtchaell's lease.
Goldschmidt was in a position to help. As governor, he was one of three members of the state land board, along with the secretary of state and the state treasurer. Burtchaell wanted a year lease extension. Members of the Sellwood Harbor Condominium Association, whose views included the houseboat moorage, strongly opposed his request. Many of them said they had bought their units in the belief that the houseboat moorage would disappear when Burtchaell's lease ended in State lands staff evaluated Burtchaell's request for a lease extension and found it without merit, according to their report.
Gail Achterman, a lawyer employed by the state to advise Goldschmidt on land issues, concurred with the staff opinion.
But Goldschmidt pushed hard on Burtchaell's behalf. Buried in the state archives is a handwritten note to Achterman, in which he takes issue with her advice. Please schedule a meeting with Bob Burtchaell. From this point on please act on my behalf in this case. Achterman reversed her initial opinion and prepped Goldschmidt for a meeting of the land board at which he would recommend a lease extension for Burtchaell.
In a July 27, , memo, Achterman advised Goldschmidt that there would be strong opposition at the land-board meeting, so he should just push for an extension of the lease but not discuss specifics. Goldschmidt's support for the lease extension was welcome news for Burtchaell, who was by then in default on his U.
In January , the land board agreed to reconsider the earlier ruling forbidding the extension of his lease. In , just a year before Susan threatened to sue Goldschmidt, Oregonian columnist Steve Duin interviewed the former governor. Duin asked whether Goldschmidt felt guilty about having walked away from his political career. Goldschmidt answered by recounting a conversation he'd recently had while "smoking cigars with a friend named Bob Burtchaell" in a Palm Springs hot tub.
Burtchaell, he said, had told him, "'All God has in mind for you is that you get up and do the best you can every day. And God will take care of the rest. Guilt hasn't bothered me since.
Last Sunday, The Oregonian published a piece by Burtchaell titled "No one benefits from learning Goldschmidt's secret" in its Opinion section. Burtchaell, who described himself as an entrepreneur and a friend of Goldschmidt, criticized Willamette Week for publishing the evidence of sex abuse on its website last week prior to Goldschmidt's public confession.
This is a memo that was sent to Oregonian reporters Friday, May 6, the day after Neil Goldschmidt resigned from several posts upon learning that WW was about to publish evidence that, when mayor, he had sexually abused a year-old girl. That story, posted on WW's website Thursday afternoon, was covered by all the local TV and radio stations Thursday night.
On Friday, after The Oregonian published its story about Goldschmidt's "affair" as well as the "confession" he prepared for the paper, key managers and staffers met to recap the previous day's events. This memo, which was sent to WW by more than one source, summarizes that meeting. It is reprinted, unedited, in its entirety. It was written by Kay Balmer, a senior manager who oversees the paper's suburban bureaus. The people named in the memo include reporter Brent Walth, columnist Steve Duin, assistant crime editor Kathleen Glanville and Steve Engelberg, who manages investigative projects.
First, a big thanks to WEST for jumping in on the story about the material witness in the Madrid bombing. Much of the extraordinary detail came from West reporters who were out the door working on this the minute it broke. Today's meeting, as you might imagine, centered on a discussion of Goldschmidt.
I'll try to give you some of the highlights. This was something that Brent Walth had tried to nail down years earlier when he was at Willamette Week and couldn't get. We began pursuing the rumors last winter, but didn't get too far. For one thing, the woman at times would confirm what had happened and then at other times deny it. Brent was on a plane to Nevada yesterday to talk to the woman when the story broke. Willamette Week got a copy of the conservatorship somehow and told Goldschmidt they were going with a story.
Goldschmidt called us and wanted to tell us, in Sandy's word, because we are the only credible news outlet. We are dealing with a child molester. He made a very impassioned plea for doing the who knew what when story -- lots of people became rich riding Goldschmidt's coat tails -- and why they kept it secret. He suggested that readers might think we'd learned nothing from Packwood and that we are hands off people in power. Goldschmidt had been so important, so admired and had had such a profound effect on the city and the state.
And, now, to learn that he's a child molester. Someone -- I don't remember if it was Steve, Sandy or Peter -- said that this tip came in about the same time that two other similar tips concerning public officials came in. It was pursued, just not with the urgency that Steve now wishes we had put into it. Kathleen Blythe complained that researchers are too often kept in the dark about why they're looking at someone and the why could help them do their job and make them think about taking different reserach routes.
Steve responded that they'd been asked to keep this very quiet by the initial source, who felt very vulnerable, and that they didn't want everyone to know that Goldschmidt was coming to us because we didn't want other media to pounce on that. He, again in hindsight, said he wished that he'd let more people in on what was going on. This is not an all inclusive report -- I didn't think to take notes -- but it's the highlights, I think.
The one discrepancy between the story that Willamette Week published on its website last Thursday and the confession Neil Goldschmidt offered later that day has to do with the length of the sexual relationship between Goldschmidt and Susan. Court documents, both in Seattle and in Washington County, say the sexual abuse occurred from to Goldschmidt, however, says the "affair" lasted less than one year. WW checked with Jeff Foote, the lawyer who negotiated a settlement with Goldschmidt on Susan's behalf.
With his journalistic experience, McCormack knew what a huge story he had been handed. Still, he chose to do nothing. In May, WW published the story of former Gov. The revelation that for three years Goldschmidt had sex with the daughter of a neighbor and former employee, beginning when the victim was 14, shocked the state.
Nearly as stunning as Goldschmidt's crime was that he'd kept it quiet for three decades, even while a member of President Jimmy Carter's Cabinet, a senior executive at Nike, the governor of Oregon and, finally, the state's consummate power broker for the past 14 years. During the past seven months, WW has established that dozens of Oregonians--many of whom today work at the highest levels of business, government and the media--knew something about Goldschmidt's secret.
Some were friends, some were employees, some were even newspaper editors. To one degree or another, all of them had some knowledge of an almost unthinkable stain on the reputation of a man whose mayoral legacy includes MAX, Pioneer Courthouse Square, Tom McCall Waterfront Park and the death of the ill-advised Mount Hood Freeway.
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