What was the last straw? Was it when we made Christmas cookies for you? Was it the July 4 BBQ we invited you to? Was it the conversations I had with my mom on the porch, when she stopped worrying about cancer long enough to come see me? Was it when you found out our accents weren't from Oregon? You sit in your perfect Portland house your parents passed down to you and judge young people who work GOOD JOBS and pump millions into the local economy so they can afford a SLICE of the Northwestern dream. You smile in our faces and bitch behind our backs to our landlord (your childhood friend) so you can hold on to the power you've always had on this block. Now we are displaced, our home is being rented by someone much worse, and I for one can't wait until the rest come and rip this city from your hands.—Anonymous