Winter 2025
We Are What We Eat
“All of us already have a common connection to food, at least for most of us who have the privilege of having family dinners or gatherings. These foundational experiences are a great way to connect simply through the fact that most of us already grew up connecting through food. Food was the main point of why we gathered together.”
Richard Văn Lê
Growing up in a Vietnamese household, my childhood consisted of many special moments in the kitchen and around the dining room table. My grandmother was an amazing cook and always knew what ingredients could be missing with just a taste off her finger. She knew how to cook everything– Thịt kho, Bánh xèo, Bún riêu, Bánh hỏi, Bánh bao, Chả giò (to name just a few). Each week, my entire family would flock to our house to eat as a whole and always left with more for their next visit. These cook-ins were integral to the bond of our family; the adults would chit-chat and catch up while the kids enjoyed each other’s company. I grew up watching my mother help my grandmother prep ingredients, and as we all got older, my mother would take charge and I would be the one to help. Whether it was sharing a meal or helping in the process, the best connection often occurred during these moments and between. Seeing how food was so incredibly vital to strengthening bonds, I wanted to further investigate this relationship outside of the home. Because I grew up amidst many cultures that shared the same relationship with food, I already had an existing curiosity about food being a vessel for cultural exchange and understanding, as well as a great marker of identity and a reminder of home. For more insight, I decided to head towards the Alberta Arts District to speak with Richard Văn Lê, who co-owns the Vietnamese-American fusion brunch restaurant, Mémoire Cà Phê, and ask about his perspective of food being a channel for human connection and exchange.
As it turns out, Richard was my “rec leader” (‘rec’, as in ‘recreational’) leader for the San Jose City Parks and Recreation Department when I was a young student at Summerdale Elementary in San Jose, California. He was a part of a handful of adults hired to supervise children of working class families after school. I had reached out to Mémoire not knowing he was who he was. Prior to this interview, the last he had seen me I was still learning my time tables, and quite frankly, was a bit of a brat. But, who isn’t in 3rd grade?
Sarah: How would you describe your role at Mémoire?
Richard: My name is Richard Văn Lê. I’m the chef and co-owner of Mémoire. I made the savory food program here.
Sarah: Both of us come from San Jose, known to hold one of the largest Vietnamese populations out of Vietnam. Do you notice any differences in the community here versus the one we grew up in San Jose, whether it’s the food we eat or the different tastes?
Richard: The main difference is the accessibility for Vietnamese food. Obviously it is much higher in San Jose, whereas in Portland it’s still growing. I’m very privileged in the sense that I get to be a part of this new wave of Vietnamese businesses.
The benefit of growing up in San Jose is that we were exposed to so much Vietnamese culture, almost so much so that it was hard to find our own identity. Because we were so immersed in all of it, it was hard to be even sure where you could fit into all of that. When I moved to Portland, I was able to find a better sense of my identity because I was able to see that there wasn’t a huge community of Vietnamese people here. That gave me the ability to see how fortunate I was growing up to have a large Viet community and how important it was to my upbringing. Having that as a base layer was really profound, even in finding my own brand and figuring what that model was going to be and what Mémoire would be. Those building blocks helped build my overall identity.
Sarah: Your menu has a variety of many different ingredients that people familiar with Vietnamese cuisine may recognize. What do you hope people would take away from their dining experience here?
Richard: The goal with the menu here is to really just highlight those familiar ingredients. It’s not necessarily that we make Vietnamese food, it’s more that we make Vietnamese-American food where we can tie in together the diaspora of being American and having these Vietnamese flavors come through regardless of what vessel it’s put in.
For example, we do breakfast burritos, breakfast sandwiches and all that stuff, but all the flavors are still inherently Vietnamese. We want that essence to shine through our dishes.
Sarah: Are there any family recipes that inspire the items on your menu?
Richard: Definitely. The fish sauce bacon we make here is actually a rip off of Thịt Kho.
Sarah: Oh okay! Nice.
Richard: Yeah, I grew up making that, and I was taught by my family. My family’s own recipe is tied into the fish sauce bacon here. I also do a shrimp omelet that’s my mom’s recipe. She used to make that when I was growing up. Tomato, eggs, shrimp. I ate that a lot…
For the most part, we try to keep things real close to home. Mémoire as a business is built around paying homage to our lost parents. All three of the owners here have lost a parent. We keep ties to a familial connection.
Sarah: I’m so sorry, my condolences. Do you have any personal memories of food bringing people together in your life and do those memories influence your approach to Mémoire?
Richard: Yeah, I think here we make it a point to make it feel like you’re eating at someone’s house, as opposed to a restaurant. You want it to feel lively and fun. The music is a big part of that, and we try to make it feel like a house party. That’s the energy we want to bring! It’s a fun way to have the feeling of being in someone’s home but also pushing forward really fun food.
Sarah: Last Thanksgiving, I saw that you provided cooked meals to those in need, no questions asked. What inspired you to use food as a tool for building connections between communities?
Richard: Before Mémoire, we had a food cart called Matta and we were already giving out meals during COVID and holiday seasons. We figured that if we were going to get back to the feeling of community, a good way would be to give back in times of need to those who need company around the holidays, especially for those who are in scarce situations. It’s a great way for us to re-engage with our community. We’re not here to always make money.
As a business of course, making money is part of the game, but at the end of it all, we’re blessed that we’re even able to do this. So, a nice way to show our gratitude is to make food and serve it in hopes of making someone’s day.
I’m a transplant so I know what it feels like to not have anybody around during the holidays, so it’s a cool way to get everyone together, even for a short moment in time. So we try to keep that same tradition here Mémoire.
Sarah: That’s beautiful! I want to know, how has the local community embraced Mémoire? How have you connected with them aside from providing free meals?
Richard: I would say that because all three of us owners already have their individual businesses, we already built a large community around us to begin with. When we announced this project, even as a pop-up, we immediately got a huge response because people were just excited we were doing stuff together. The other owners—Kim and Lisa—they’re like my sisters. So we just spent a lot of time together to begin with and in a way that has translated into how people experience us as a business. Mémoire feels more like hanging out with all three of us.
Sarah: Do you think fusion cuisine plays a unique role in fostering understanding between different cultures?
Richard: I think there’s definitely a cool way to use fusion as a vessel in helping provide a new, yet not new, way of interpreting food. I think the food we do here is tied to aspects that are very inherently Vietnamese but there’s also certain aspects where you could have a very simple thing like a breakfast sandwich.
For instance, we have fish sauce in almost everything aside from the mushrooms we serve. It gives people the ability to try something that’s maybe a little unfamiliar in a vessel that is approachable and can open up to a bigger dialogue later.
Sarah: Have you noticed any moments where customers learned something new about Vietnamese culture through your food?
Richard: The biggest thing we heard the most excitement about is accompanying chili oil or Thai chili hot sauce to our food. Normally here, people are thrown back by the Thai chilis. They get a little thrown back, like “ooo, too spicy”, but the idea we try to bring across is that we find balance between all of these flavors. We try to market them to create a more open understanding. They learn that you can put these things on anything and it’ll make it taste better. That’s kind of what we’re trying to get across there.
Sarah: What do you think makes food uniquely powerful in bringing people together?
Richard: All of us already have a common connection to food, at least for most of us who have the privilege of having family dinners or gatherings. These foundational experiences are a great way to connect simply through the fact that most of us already grew up connecting through food. Food was the main point of why we gathered together.
If someone in my family was bringing in a big pot of Phở or Bún bò Huế, my whole family would come over and cycle through eating that big pot. In the same way we had that growing up, we have the same mentality here. We make a bunch of food and draw people together in a common space.
Sarah: Is there anything that you haven’t tried yet that you’re hoping to do in the future?
Richard: Yeah, I think Mémoire is still at its infant stage, so we’re still figuring out long staying items. For the most part, our items currently on our menu have been well received. I think the next step is to figure out how to scale it outside, because the space we’re in is really small. We’re eventually going to have to get a bigger space, and then maybe we’ll venture out with making stuff like Baos and the things most Viet kids grew up eating.
Sarah: Are there any local Vietnamese grocery stores that you shop at?
Richard: Hong Phat.
Sarah: Have you been to the new large one?
Richard: I haven’t yet. I’m so used to going to the small one. It’s my favorite. It just feels so much like home when I go there. It feels like San Jose when I go. Whenever I’m there it feels like I’m transported back to the hometown and I feel at ease. I know where everything is and how to get around, and they know me there too now, so it’s super cool to be able to immerse myself there.
Sarah: Wow, well thank you so much for your time. I think that’s all the questions I have for you. Thank you so much.
Richard: Thank you. Nice to see you again.
Richard Văn Lê is the chef and co-owner of Mémoire Cà Phê, a vietnamese-american brunch experience. He hails from the city of San Jose, CA, where he was immersed in a vast and eclectic Vietnamese community. Being exposed to that world allowed him to explore both sides of his identity. This space to explore allowed him to find the niche and introspective parts of Vietnamese and American food, creating bridges between the two and bringing projects such as mémoire to life. The food revolves around childhood memories, and some parts of it are homages to family and their impact on his life.
Sarah Luu is an interdisciplinary artist, writer and barista. She gravitates towards photography, ceramics, zines and print-making. As a first generation Asian American, her work has touched on themes of her mixed Vietnamese-Chinese identity, intergenerational trauma and tradition. She explores themes outside those topics by pulling inspiration from her lived experience growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area surrounded by a vibrant arts and music culture. She holds a BA in Studio Art, Preparation for Teaching from San Jose State University and is currently studying for an MFA in the Art and Social Practice program at Portland State University. She describes herself as “interdisciplinary in life”, having backgrounds in not only art but also dance, theater, music, community service, baking and coffee. Her favorite food at the moment is Bánh Canh and she can roller skate backwards.
Beyond the Cascade: To My Best Friend
“If you move somewhere new and don’t feel that sense of loss or unease, I’m not sure you’re fully engaging with the experience. It’s through those feelings that you grow, adapt, and ultimately transform.”
William Matheny
William and I first crossed paths a few years ago, just as the world stood on the brink of an event that would redefine our lives: the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020. From that fortuitous meeting, our lives became intertwined, woven together by a friendship that has navigated profound challenges and joys. Over the past five years, our bond has served as a lens through which we explore questions of human connection, cultural exchange, and resilience.
We share a background in graphic design, as well as the experience of not being from Portland. William is originally from Laurel, Mississippi, and I am from San José, Costa Rica. He was the first friend I made in the United States. This shared context has shaped our friendship, offering us insights into what it means to create a sense of belonging in a place far from home. Our conversations often touch on universal themes, from the expectations and realities of moving to a new city to the unexpected lessons of cross-cultural friendships.
In this interview, we reflect on our shared experiences and examine how friendship evolves across cultural and geographic boundaries, the concept of chosen family, and the role of art in fostering understanding. This is not just a conversation about us, but a broader exploration of the human condition—our struggles, hopes, and connections. This discussion is an invitation to consider how personal relationships can illuminate universal truths and inspire us toward a future where differences are not a weakness, but a strength.
Manfred Parrales: Moving often feels like being suspended between two worlds. How do you navigate the tension between the person you were before moving to Portland, Oregon, and the person you’ve become after sixteen years here? What’s your starting point?
William Matheny: I’m William Matheny, 39 years old, originally from Laurel, Mississippi—though I haven’t lived there for the past 16 years. My journey to Portland started in an unexpected way. I was studying design at the University of Southern Mississippi, but after just one semester, I realized I couldn’t stay in Mississippi any longer. It just hit me one day—I needed to leave.
I picked three schools to apply to and decided that whichever one accepted me first would be where I’d go. As it turned out, the first acceptance letter came from a school in Portland, Oregon. Six months later, I packed my things, moved here, and started school. I graduated, decided to stay, and, well, the rest is history.
Manfred: How do you define the person you were before leaving Mississippi and the person you’ve become after sixteen years?
William: When I moved to Portland, I was 22. Now I’m 39. That’s 16, almost 17 years of growth, and I can confidently say I’m a completely different person than I was back then.
What stands out most about that time is the culture shock I experienced upon arriving in Portland. Coming from such a staunchly Republican and conservative environment, the contrast was stark. Growing up gay in Mississippi was an experience I didn’t realize was so unique—or even unusual—until I moved here. It wasn’t until I left that I began to understand just how different my upbringing was from the values and culture of this part of the world. Portland, in many ways, felt like a completely different planet.
There was a significant tension within me as I adjusted. It took years of unlearning and challenging the old ideas I had about how the world worked, or how my life was “supposed” to be. Letting go of those ingrained notions was difficult, but it was also transformative. It reshaped how I see myself and how I navigate the world.Moving to Portland allowed me to grow into the person I truly am. I could never have done that staying in Mississippi. Living here gave me the space to discover more of myself—my identity, my values, and my sense of belonging—in ways I never imagined possible back home. For that, I’m deeply grateful.
Manfred: When you leave a place you call home to build a new life—pursuing a dream, a career, love, or a job—there’s often a sense of loss. Did you feel that sense of loss when you moved from Mississippi to Portland?
William: When I left Mississippi and moved to Portland, the first six months were incredibly difficult. I struggled so much with the adjustment. In fact, six months after arriving, I called my mom and told her to buy me a ticket home. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I missed my friends and the familiarity of everything I had left behind. It felt overwhelming.
But my mom, being the wise person she is, told me, “You said you wanted to do this. Stick to it. I’m not buying you a ticket back home. Give it a year and see what happens.” That tough love was one of the best things she ever did for me. What felt like the hardest, scariest thing I’d ever done—leaving behind everything and everyone I knew to move to a completely unfamiliar place—ended up being a pivotal moment in my life. It was my first major life shift, and in many ways, it prepared me for others that followed.
I think that sense of loss, that discomfort, is a necessary part of growth. If you move somewhere new and don’t feel that sense of loss or unease, I’m not sure you’re fully engaging with the experience. It’s through those feelings that you grow, adapt, and ultimately transform. It’s not easy, but it’s essential.
William 2 years old (1987). Photo courtesy by William Matheny. / William, dos años (1987). Fotografía cortesía de William Matheny.
Manfred: How do you think moving challenges the concept of home? Can we ever truly belong to a single place?
William: That’s a tough one—can we ever truly belong to a single place? Honestly, I’m not sure. Even now, after all these years in Portland, I sometimes feel restless, like it doesn’t always feel like “home.” Moving has really challenged my understanding of what home even means. I’ve come to see it less as an external place and more as something internal—about who you are and who you’re with, rather than where you are.
That said, I do believe there are places we’re drawn to, places that call to us in a way that feels significant. Those places can be “home,” but I don’t think we’re limited to just one. I completely agree that we can have more than one home, and we can find home in people as much as in places.
Ultimately, though, I think the most important kind of home is the one we create within ourselves. That’s the only thing that’s ever truly ours. It’s not tied to geography or circumstance—it’s something we carry with us, no matter where we go.
Manfred: You’ve had your own experiences building community, friendships, and relationships across different cultures. In our friendship, William, do you think friendships like ours—built across cultural and geographic divides—help foster deeper understanding of each other? What moments of tension or misunderstanding have led to a deeper insight about ourselves and each other?
William: I think the biggest thing I’ve learned from our friendship and from my relationships with other people from different cultures is the realization of the privilege I’ve had growing up, and still have, simply by being from the United States.
Seeing people I love deeply struggle just to find work, just to stay in this country, just trying to survive here—it’s made me realize the extent of that privilege. The ability to travel freely, to have access to opportunities… I was really ignorant about that before meeting so many people who are struggling in ways that I couldn’t even imagine.
I think what’s been really eye-opening for me is understanding how, no matter how hard people try, they don’t always have the same access or permission to be here. And even for those who do manage to stay, they still don’t have the same access to resources that people from the U.S. do. That’s been a tough pill to swallow. But I also think that learning about these things and having conversations with people about them has really deepened my relationships. It’s made me more aware, more compassionate. And honestly, it’s changed me for the better.
Manfred: Do you have a specific memory related to that, something that comes to mind or to your heart, when you think about all the people you’ve met throughout your life, here in Portland and perhaps back home?
William: I think the memory that stands out most to me is from meeting a few people here in Portland who came with certain citizenships or visas, or who were here for school, and it never even crossed my mind that they might not be able to stay.
But then, to learn that there’s this hard deadline, and that there’s absolutely nothing anyone can do to help them stay here, was a huge shock. It was a real eye-opener for me. To find out that there are only a few legal ways to stay in the country, and that many of those options are just not accessible to most people who are here—it really made me realize how much I didn’t know about the immigration process. It was kind of mind-blowing.
Manfred: Part of these experiences require a lot of listening to others. How does the act of listening, especially across differences—like with people from other places and cultures—become a radical form of connection and understanding for you?
William: I think more than anything, in any type of relationship—whether it’s a friendship, family, or romantic relationship—listening is absolutely paramount. It’s essential to having a genuine relationship with anyone.
I’ve learned over time to listen to people naturally, but I’ve also encountered many individuals who speak over others or simply don’t listen. The feeling of not being heard is really intense, and I personally experienced that at a young age—not being heard or seen. Because of that, I think I learned early on how important it is to listen to people.
Will’s 3rd birthday party (1988). Photo courtesy of William Matheny. / Fiesta de cumpleaños de Will, 3 años (1988). Fotografía cortesía de William Matheny.
Manfred: Loneliness is something everyone experiences at different stages of life, often as a deeply personal pain despite being a universal experience. Do you believe that moments of shared vulnerability in friendships can help combat loneliness? What are your thoughts on the relationship between loneliness and friendship?
William: Yeah, absolutely. I think friendship is a balm for the soul—100%. I definitely believe it helps combat loneliness, though I don’t think it solves everything. Loneliness, in some ways, feels like a necessary part of being human. I think those moments of solitude can uncover things about ourselves that we might not discover otherwise.
But when it comes to friendship, it ties back to listening and being heard. When someone truly hears us, when they see us for who we are, that feels like medicine for the soul. Friendship combats loneliness by allowing us to share ourselves with others and to feel connected in a way that’s deeply affirming. And when we reciprocate that, it becomes a shared experience that has the power to heal.
Manfred: Has there been a moment in your life when you experienced a deep sense of loneliness?
William: I’ve actually experienced loneliness quite a lot in my life. It’s something that changes as we grow older. As we age, loneliness takes on different forms. There are expectations we have when we’re younger—about what life should look like—that we eventually have to grieve when things don’t unfold the way we envisioned. That kind of realization can bring its own unique loneliness.
I’m not afraid of loneliness anymore, though I certainly wouldn’t want to be lonely forever. There’s a difference between the kind of loneliness we can grow from and deeper loneliness that leads to depression—that’s a different, much harder experience. But where I am now, I see loneliness as something I can move through, something that can coexist with joy and connection. And of course, friendship is an incredible balm for the soul in those moments.
Manfred: You’re a graphic designer and artist, and art has been an important part of your life. How has your artistic journey evolved over the past fifteen or sixteen years, and how do you see art as a tool for building bridges across cultures, friendships, and relationships?
William: Visual design has been a skill that came naturally to me—it’s something I’ve honed over the years and used as a creative outlet. But when I think about my artistic journey, I realize that my creativity has always been bigger than just one medium. I’ve dabbled in many forms of expression, whether it’s photography, music (which was my first love), or visual design. Each of these outlets has served a different purpose in helping me connect with others and process the world around me.
Art, for me, is inherently communal. For instance, being part of the LGBTQ+ choir was an amazing way to build community. We were creating something together, expressing emotions, and telling stories that resonated on a deeply human level. Photography is another example—when I collaborate with someone on a project, it’s more than just taking pictures; it’s about creating something meaningful together, forming bonds through shared experiences.
What I love most about art is its ability to take something abstract—an emotion, a thought, or an experience—and make it tangible, something others can see, hear, or feel. It’s a way of saying, “This is what I’m feeling, and I want to share it with you.” That’s where art becomes a universal language.
The most powerful thing about art is its ability to transcend cultural and geographic boundaries. Whether it’s a piece of music, a photograph, or a design, art taps into universal emotions. A song, for example, can evoke the same feelings in someone in the U.S. as it does in someone in a completely different part of the world. It’s a shared experience that reminds us of our common humanity.
Right now, I’m rediscovering some of my creative outlets like photography and music, and it’s been a wonderful way to connect with people. Art provides a shared space for dialogue and understanding. I absolutely believe that art is a powerful tool for bringing people together, for building community, and for fostering understanding across differences.
William Matheny’s Senior Thesis Exhibition (Part 5 of a 12 piece silk screen installation): PNCA (2011). Photo courtesy of William Matheny. / Exposición de la tesis de licenciatura de William Matheny (Parte 5 de una instalación de 12 piezas de serigrafía): PNCA (2011).Fotografía cortesía de William Matheny.
Manfred: What’s a good or bad memory of friendship that comes to mind for you?
William: One great memory that stands out to me is when we went to see Sarah McLachlan in Bend, Oregon. That was such a good time! We were surrounded by a lot of white folks, but we were just living it up and having a blast together. It was freezing cold, and we ended up drinking a lot of liquor just to stay warm—it was hilarious and so much fun.
Another favorite memory is when you first moved here, and we used to hang out at my place every Thursday evening. We’d listen to the same playlist every time, starting with Regina Spektor, throwing in some Ani DiFranco, Tori Amos and even sneaking in a little Taylor Swift. It became this beautiful tradition that I’ll always treasure.
And you know what else I love? Taking trips with friends from other places. Seeing the area through their eyes makes it feel new again, like when we explored different parts of Oregon together. Those moments, those adventures—those are the ones I’ll always remember fondly.
Manfred: What do you think our friendship says about the broader human experience?
William: I think our friendship is a perfect encapsulation of everything we’ve been talking about. It shows that as human beings, we’re deeply capable of connection—regardless of where we come from.
Honestly, I don’t subscribe to all the divisive narratives happening right now, especially in the U.S., where there’s so much emphasis on labeling people by their origin. Where we come from is something we can’t control, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the character of a person. I don’t understand how anyone could look at another person and reduce them to just that one aspect of their identity.
Our friendship is proof that coming from different places isn’t something that divides us—it’s actually something that connects us. It’s a beautiful thing that broadens our minds and forces us to grow.To me, it’s a testament to how life is made better by diversity. Our friendship reminds me how wonderful life can be when we embrace all those differences as strengths rather than barriers.
Manfred: What’s something you’ll remember about all these years of friendship?
William: I think what I’d hold onto the most is personal—it’s about you and the unique bond we share. It feels like we’ve truly seen each other in ways that go beyond words, and I’ll always treasure that.
Honestly, being your friend has felt like we’ve known each other forever, like we’re family in some cosmic way. You feel like a brother to me, like we’ve been connected in some other lifetime or through some unexplainable force. I can’t imagine my life without having known you, and that’s such a powerful thing to carry forward.
Every friendship plants a seed of hope in us. Hope that we’ll be seen, loved, and understood—not just once, but over and over again. Our friendship has been a gift in that way. It’s not just the joy of being loved and understood but also the reassurance that those moments of connection can’t be taken away.
The way we’ve experienced and understood each other is entirely unique. No one else will see me the way you have, and no one else will see you the way I do. That’s what makes it so special.
We often talk about the concept of chosen family in the LGBTQ+ community, and after all these years, I know that’s what we are. It’s incredible that someone from Costa Rica and someone from Mississippi could form such a deep connection, but here we are. At this point in our lives, you are my chosen family, and I want to carry that with me until my last day on this earth.
Thank you, Manfred, for being that person in my life.
William’s self portrait (2025). Photo courtesy of William Matheny. / Autorretrato de William (2025). Fotografía cortesía de William Matheny.
William Matheny (He/him) is a visual designer and artist living in Portland, Oregon by way of South Mississippi. He has a BFA in Communication Design from the Pacific Northwest College of Art and 11+ years of print and visual design experience. When he isn’t working as a visual design lead as part of Nike’s greater Innovation Team, he enjoys hiking throughout the Pacific Northwest, taking photos with his Fujifilm X-T50, or studying music.
Manfred Parrales (He/his) is a multidisciplinary Latin artist whose practice bridges design, art history, social practice art, video, and community building. With a strong foundation in art history and visual communication, he integrates diverse media and collaborative methodologies into his work, positioning art as a vehicle for collective dialogue rather than individual expression.
His work reflects a commitment to social practice art, video, education, and research, exploring themes and projects that address nostalgia, transition, loneliness, memory, and identity. His professional trajectory has led him across Latin America and the United States, where he has gained extensive experience in museum curation, community institutions,education, tech companies, video production and video art.
He holds a BFA in Art History from University of Costa Rica, studies in Graphic Design from University of Costa Rica and a MFA in Contemporary Art Practice: Art and Social Practice from Portland State University.
The Path Taken
“After every program, I hear feedback that makes me think, “I’m so glad we did this.” That kind of reaction is the greatest motivation for me.”
Dr. Masami Nishishiba
The Japanese Local Government Management Training Program (JaLoGoMa), organized by the Center for Public Service at Portland State University (PSU), is a special program designed to help develop capacities for community development in Japan. It has been held every summer since 2004 and is open to those from Japan who are interested in building community, regardless of their English proficiency or professional background.
Since its inception, Dr. Masami Nishishiba has served as the program director, and the program has impacted numerous local government officials and community development professionals. These include civil servants, politicians, nonprofit workers, professors, and engaged citizens. Various stakeholders in community development come together to share experiences, engage in discussions, and learn from one another.
The program now has over 600 graduates across Japan. Although they are based in different regions, they remain connected through the alumni network, striving to make a positive impact in their respective fields with a shared vision of a better world. Despite facing numerous challenges over the years, the program has continued to grow and evolve, sustained by the dedication and tireless efforts of its volunteers and staff.
In the summer of 2024, I had the opportunity to assist with JaLoGoMa for the first time. The experience was profoundly impactful, as I found many elements resonated with social practice. At the beginning of the program, Dr. Nishishiba introduced the concept of “seeing things through our own internal sunglasses.” She explained that we all carry assumptions shaped by our past experiences and learning—preconceived notions that influence how we perceive the world. She likened this to seeing the world through “sunglasses” and encouraged participants to recognize the lenses they were wearing, let go of assumptions, and approach things with a fresh, open mind.
I believe that art breaks down deeply ingrained assumptions and biases, offering new perspectives, broadening our worldview, and fostering personal growth. As an artist engaged in both practice and research, I have often been struck by Dr. Nishishiba’s flexibility and insight—sometimes even deeply moved. Through my conversations with her, I became aware of my own “sunglasses,” such as the assumption that “those who study public administration aren’t as creative as those in the arts.” These moments have revealed vulnerabilities, anger, pain, and hopes within myself that I had never recognized before, often bringing me to tears as I shed those assumptions.
In this interview, I had the opportunity to learn about Dr. Nishishiba’s journey. To accommodate her post-surgery speech impairment, we used Google Docs as an online collaborative platform. The interview was originally conducted in Japanese and has been translated into English.
Midori Yamanaka: I understand you studied linguistics in Japan and worked as an interpreter for prominent figures like President Jimmy Carter and Bill Gates. Later, you moved to the U.S. and pursued studies at PSU. Could you share how your journey eventually led to research?
Dr. Masami Nishishiba (Masami-sensei): When I first moved to the U.S. because of my husband’s work, I intended to continue my career as an interpreter. However, I didn’t have a work visa and was unable to work at all. For a while, I commuted between Japan and the U.S. to continue my Japan-based interpreter work, but that arrangement had its limits.
At that time, an acquaintance introduced me to PSU’s graduate school. Thinking that it might be beneficial for my interpreting career, I enrolled in the Master’s program in Communication Studies. As I progressed, I found the research aspect incredibly engaging, which eventually led me to pursue a doctoral program in Public Administration and Policy at PSU.
Midori: So, becoming a researcher wasn’t your original plan when you started grad school?
Masami-sensei: That’s right. During my Master’s program, I worked on a thesis that involved data analysis using Multidimensional Scaling (MDS). That became a turning point. To learn more about the analytic process, I teamed up with three other colleagues to launch a research project. We aimed for conference presentations and worked together, exchanging ideas, debating, and navigating challenges. That experience was inspiring and made me realize how fascinating research can be, and I wanted to dive deeper into it. Ultimately, this experience solidified my decision to pursue a doctoral degree. Interestingly, among the four of us who worked on the research project together, all three Japanese members went on to pursue doctoral programs at different institutions.
Midori: That’s incredible! It’s truly rewarding for a university when students become so deeply engaged in their learning journey.
Masami-sensei: Indeed. My research journey eventually reconnected me to my interpreting background in unexpected ways. Through JaLoGoMa, I’ve had the opportunity to interpret, develop and teach an interpretation class at PSU, and take part in a grant project focused on interpreter education. These experiences have allowed me to continue working as an interpreter in a new capacity.
Midori: Wow! It sounds like everything came together as you followed your interests and curiosity.
By the way, you currently hold multiple roles: you’re a professor in the Department of Public Administration, Director of the Hatfield School of Government, Interim Director of the Nonprofit Institute, Program Director of the Public Affairs and Policy Doctoral Program, and you also direct special programs such as JaLoGoMa. How did you learn to take on and manage such diverse responsibilities? You seem to balance specialization with a wide range of leadership roles. How do you approach that?
Masami-sensei: I’d say that when it comes to management, my background in public administration helped me figure out how I approach things. Whether it’s leading a project or managing a team, I often find myself drawing on the theoretical frameworks and concepts from public administration. Conversely, being involved in actual administrative work also helps me see the gaps in theory, which can be quite enlightening. I make a conscious effort to integrate my teaching, research, and administrative work into a cohesive whole—that’s how I approach scholarship as an academic.
And, whenever I’m given an opportunity, even if it feels daunting, I try not to shy away from it but take on the challenge. Whether it’s an opportunity or a problem, I take time to think carefully, approach it step by step, and make sure to respond thoroughly. And above all, I try not to give up easily. Having perseverance and not giving up are principles I’ve always held onto.
Midori: Speaking of which, I remember the JaLoGoMa team members once saying, “We’re a group that just refuses to give up.” That must be your influence, Masami-sensei! Where does your “never give up” spirit come from?
Masami-sensei: I think it’s mainly my personality. As a child, my parents always told me, “If you start something, see it through to the end.” I’ve always disliked leaving things unfinished and prefer to keep going until I’m satisfied. That’s probably why, even with projects and programs, it feels natural to me to find ways to keep them going, ensuring that the energy and effort already invested don’t go to waste.
Midori: Was it the same with JaLoGoMa?
Masami-sensei: Yes. Throughout my career, I have fought to preserve three programs that faced the threat of discontinuation: the Executive MPA, the Nonprofit Institute’s Program Evaluation Certificate, and JaLoGoMa.
The most recent case was the Executive MPA, an accelerated public administration master’s program designed for experienced professionals. The Dean proposed placing it on moratorium due to university-wide budget cuts, despite its financial and academic value. Recognizing its uniqueness and the faculty’s long-standing efforts to develop it, I strongly opposed the decision. During my tenure as Department Chair, the program played a crucial role in student enrollment, and its suspension could have jeopardized a major donation from one of its founding faculty members, Dr. Doug Morgan. I advocated for its continuation by presenting a detailed case to the Dean and coordinating appeals from alumni and Dr. Morgan. As a result, the decision was temporarily withdrawn, with its future contingent on upcoming enrollment numbers.
The NPI Program Evaluation Certificate faced a different challenge. Initially grant-funded, it struggled after transitioning to a tuition-based model. When I stepped in as Interim Director of NPI, I had to find a way to sustain it. Careful financial management and participant recruitment helped in the short term, but the real turning point came in 2020, when we moved the program online. This shift significantly reduced costs and broadened access to participants across the U.S. and internationally. Additionally, new funding from the Oregon Health Authority allowed nonprofit organizations to receive subsidies, boosting enrollment in 2021. While I wasn’t involved in the program’s creation, I recognized its value and worked to ensure its survival. It has since become a cornerstone of NPI and a vital resource for the community.
And then there’s JaLoGoMa. When the Tokyo Foundation announced in 2016 that they would be terminating the “Tokyo Foundation Weekend School,” the precursor to JaLoGoMa, I was extremely frustrated.
Since the Tokyo Foundation was the primary “funder and organizer” while PSU was essentially a “subcontractor” for program implementation, it was not surprising that the foundation would unilaterally decide not to continue the contract and simply communicate their decision to us. After all, it was within their rights to end the contract without consulting us. However, when I received the notification, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of frustration. The thought of losing the expertise and know-how that had been cultivated over the past 12 years was particularly painful.
The first step I took was to confirm with the Tokyo Foundation that PSU would have their blessing to continue running the program independently. Once I secured their approval, I brought the JaLoGoMa team at PSU together and shared my idea to keep offering JaLoGoMa independently from the Tokyo Foundation. I acknowledged that while we might no longer have the financial backing to maintain the “Cadillac-level” program we had under the foundation, we could potentially pivot to a more efficient and sustainable “Toyota-like” program, leveraging participant fees and preserving the core expertise and methodology we had cultivated. I asked, “What do you think? Should we try this?” Deep down, I had already resolved, “We have to make this work, no matter what.”
Thankfully, the team—though I don’t recall exactly who was present at the time (likely Yachi, Dan, Randy, Chips, Yuko, and Naoko)—responded with an enthusiastic, “Let’s do it!” This marked the shift toward JaLoGoMa as it exists today: a program open not only to municipal employees but also to anyone with an interest in community development. Despite the ups and downs we’ve faced along the way, the program has managed to endure.
Looking back on the journey of keeping these programs alive, I’ve come to recognize that the three key factors played a crucial role in my decision to “not give up.” First, an unwavering belief in the significance and value of the programs themselves gave me a conviction that I should somehow figure out how to continue the programs. Second, the support of a dedicated team. In the case of JaLoGoMa, it was the collective determination of the team members who rallied behind the idea that “this program is worth continuing” that made it possible to persist. The other two programs I’ve mentioned also benefited immensely from the solidarity of those working alongside me.
Finally, the third factor was a personal one: the energy I derive from what I would describe as “a sense of indignation.” This feeling of frustration often fueled my determination. That “indignation” transformed into a competitive drive—a kind of defiant resolve to prove, “Just watch me, I’ll keep this going.” Whether it was my resistance to the Dean and Department Chair in the case of the Executive MPA, dissatisfaction with the previous director’s decision to step down without laying out any pathways for the the Nonprofit Institute’s Program Evaluation Certificate, or my frustration with the Tokyo Foundation in the case of JaLoGoMa, these emotions became powerful motivators.
Reflecting on all of this now, I realize that I’ve gained new insights into myself—things I wasn’t fully conscious of before.
Midori: I’m glad to hear that! From what I know of you, you’re always so calm, and it’s hard to imagine you ever being angry—but your determination is truly remarkable!
JaLoGoMa really is an extraordinary program. I heard from Yachi (Yachiyo Iisako, International Program Manager for the Center for Public Service at PSU and a long term staff member of JaLoGoMa) that, when it came to JaLoGoMa in 2024, the team considered the possibility of proceeding with the program without you if your health wasn’t well enough. However, as the program date approached, they saw you growing more and more energetic, which only strengthened their resolve. Even Yachi and Yuko (Yuko Solbach, also a long term staff member of JaLoGoMa) were saying, “We absolutely have to run JaLoGoMa.” It seems that JaLoGoMa holds a very special place in your heart. Could you share more about that? What was going on with you at that time?
Masami-sensei: Regarding my illness, I underwent my first surgery and radiation therapy in June 2011. Since then, I had a second surgery in 2014, chemotherapy and immunotherapy in 2020, and another round of chemotherapy starting in June of last year. Each treatment came with different progress and side effects, but every time, the goal of “returning to work” became my driving force for recovery.
JaLoGoMa, in particular, is the longest-running program I’ve been involved with, starting right after I completed my doctoral program. It has become what I would call my “life’s work.” Last year, after four years of online sessions, we finally had the chance to hold it in person again, and I was determined—absolutely determined—to make it happen. While there are several programs and projects I truly enjoy, JaLoGoMa stands out as my absolute favorite, holding a very special place in my heart.
Midori: Wow! That’s incredible! What makes it so enjoyable for you?
Masami-sensei: There are several elements that make the program enjoyable. First and foremost is the team. Working with colleagues I’ve been collaborating with for years, brainstorming ideas and discussing “this and that” freely as we build the program, is truly enjoyable.
Second, it’s the participants’ reactions. Each year brings different responses, but after every program, I hear feedback that makes me think, “I’m so glad we did this.” That kind of reaction is the greatest motivation for me.
And third, it’s the intellectual fulfillment I get from developing the program’s fundamental concepts. Last year, when I was still in the hospital, Yachi came to visit and said, “We need to start deciding on the JaLoGoMa program outline.” At that time, I was feeling quite unwell, but when Yachi showed me the program calendar and plan, I felt a surge of energy. We sat together at a table, discussing things like, “Let’s organize it this way, invite this speaker, and plan that,…” and I found myself invigorated. By the time the conversation ended, I genuinely thought, “That was so much fun.”
As part of my treatment, I work with a counselor, and she has told me that in my case, work brings me joy and serves as the driving force that gets me out of bed every day. That’s why it’s so important for me to keep enjoying my work. Among all my projects, JaLoGoMa stands out as “super fun” work—it’s truly special to me.
Midori: Super fun work! That’s wonderful! Listening to your story, I was reminded that even when working within organizations and systems, it’s ultimately up to us to shape our own lives. By holding on to what we believe in, acting without giving up easily, and finding joy in the process, we create something that later becomes a source of strength for ourselves.
Masami Nishishiba (she/her) is a Professor of Public Administration at Portland State University, holding leadership roles as Director of the Hatfield School of Government, Interim Director of the Nonprofit Institute, and Program Director of the Public Affairs and Policy Doctoral Program.
She earned a Bachelor’s degree in Linguistics From Osaka University and began her career in the International Affairs Department at the Kansai Economic Federation before transitioning to work as a Japanese-English conference interpreter. In 1991, she relocated to the United States, where she later earned a Master’s degree in Communication Studies (1998) and a Ph.D. in Public Administration and Policy (2003) from Portland State University. Her expertise includes civic engagement, multiculturalism, and intercultural communication. Diagnosed with tongue cancer in 2011, she underwent partial tongue removal surgery and continues to receive treatment while actively pursuing her work.
Midori Yamanaka (she/her) is an artist and educator based in Portland, Oregon. Her work traverses cultures, exploring commonalities, differences, and the spaces in between. She is devoted to discovering how art can open new perspectives, nurture understanding, and weave stronger social connections. She holds a BFA in Graphic Design from the Art Center College of Design and is currently pursuing an MFA in Art and Social Practice at Portland State University. Midori develops socially engaged projects that connect art and community.
