Olympia Time

History, politics, people of Oly WA

Confusion wins

This is a second blog post reflecting on some of the meta-lessons that came out of local elections in Thurston County this year.

The New York Times recently ran a story about how The Stranger sets the tone in Seattle politics. This is not breaking news for anyone who has watched Seattle politics for the last two decades.

The secret is simple: The Stranger shows up. It is consistently present, consistently relevant, and consistently part of the political conversation.

On a recent episode of The Olympia Standard, campaign consultant Rob Richards talked about the failure of the Workers’ Bill of Rights and how the yes campaign faced an uphill battle from the start. The opposition narrative was already circulating almost a year before the campaign really got rolling. And he’s right. The first public attention the idea got wasn’t from the campaign; it was from a flare-up of misinformation about a possible minimum wage increase more than a year earlier.

The campaign eventually launched with a petition drive last spring, but real messaging didn’t start until August. And in a town with fewer than half a dozen full-time local reporters, what earned media campaign can you realistically run? There simply aren’t enough people covering local government closely or consistently to help counter a false narrative once it takes hold.

We saw this same dynamic in the Regional Fire Authority vote a few years ago. The JOLT, in particular, published a lot of stories leading up to the election that, while not necessarily inaccurate, clearly shaped the public conversation. The RFA election became a turnout election. The precincts that voted “no” were the ones where people just didn’t vote at all. Many voters were confused, caught between the campaigns’ messaging and the churn of coverage and commentary on social media. Faced with confusion, they defaulted to the “safe” choice: not voting or voting no.

I’ve heard some fair criticism that JOLT’s model (reporters overseas watching meetings remotely and writing from the recordings) made it difficult to provide the broader context of why the RFA mattered. That coverage tended to highlight debate and points of disagreement, because that was what stood out in public meetings. Without interviews, on-the-ground sourcing, or deeper reporting, the coverage didn’t really capture the larger picture of why the RFA might be beneficial. That isn’t a slam on the reporters; they were doing the best they could with limited resources and time.

Could the cities or RFA supporters have engaged more with JOLT? Absolutely. But it’s also fair to say that the resulting coverage skewed toward highlighting the questions and the drama, not the underlying case for the proposal. That imbalance, born from limited capacity, not ill intent, helped create confusion.

And that’s the common thread between Proposition 1 and the RFA: a negative discussion, powered by limited local reporting and social media algorithms that amplify emotional scepticism, grew in the absence of steady, contextual information. Confusion became the common voter experience, and in low-turnout elections, confusion is fatal.

What we need is clarity.

I generally appreciate news coverage. I’m not someone who gets angry every time a reporter writes something that makes a campaign uncomfortable. But we have to be honest about something: in a community with shrinking traditional media, campaigns still spend money on mailers and consultants and ads. But aren’t investing in the thing that makes campaigns possible in the first place: local media.

There’s been a lot of talk about how much the Prop 1 campaign spent on signature collection and basic campaign work. But how can complex, structural policy changes succeed when there isn’t a consistent media presence helping the public understand them? A community cannot hold informed elections without informed voters, and voters don’t have the time or energy to attend every meeting, read through every governing document, or fact-check every post on Facebook. That’s what journalism is for.

Which brings us back to The Stranger. It is only one outlet in a city that still has a relatively healthy Seattle Times. KUOW spends a significant amount of airtime on Seattle politics. Smaller niche outlets like PubliCola and The Urbanist also contribute to the political conversation. But for capturing the mood and narrative arc of Seattle politics, The Stranger is uniquely powerful, not because it is perfectly neutral, but because it is present, consistent, and willing to frame debates with a point of view.

In Thurston County, with so few journalists, coverage is often reactive. Journalism focuses on the easiest available material: summaries of meetings, recaps of official statements, and the occasional story on a high-profile incident. There isn’t enough capacity for the proactive, explanatory reporting necessary to unpack something like a Workers Bill of Rights. And when a reporter tries to be fair in that environment, “balance” can easily look like “There’s a real debate here,” even when one side is working with a year-long head start fueled by fear, confusion, and online misinformation.

Without sustained reporting, balance becomes ambiguity. And ambiguity becomes a “No” vote.

The absence of robust journalism means our community lacks the civic infrastructure necessary for democratic decision-making. The cost of a policy failing, of housing going unaddressed, fire services going unfunded, worker protections never advancing, is far higher than the cost of supporting journalism that helps voters understand what’s at stake in the first place.

If campaigns can’t count on local media to provide that clarity, then some of that investment needs to shift. Local media is not optional. It is foundational civic infrastructure. Until we treat it that way, we will keep re-running the same story: big ideas, complex policies, passionate campaigns, and a confused electorate that never gets the chance to truly understand the choice.

It matters how we talk to each other, but it matter more where we talk to each other

Recently, I came across three interesting, overlapping stories about how government communicates with us. Each highlights tensions between joy, seriousness, and the incentives built into social media.

1. During the 2025 legislative session, the House Democratic Caucus (HDC) developed content described as having a “man on the street” perspective. The Legislative Ethics Board recently ruled against it.

Examples include:

  • March 17, 2025: A post featuring Rep. Zahn asked, “What music pumps you up?”
  • January 24, 2025: A post directed to Rep. Leavitt asked, “What is your go-to coffee order or snack during session?”
  • January 24, 2025: The caucus asked several legislators, “Describe your district in three words.”

These posts, along with others highlighting personal journeys, were criticized in a complaint suggesting these “puff pieces” were more appropriate for campaign materials than official social media posts. The Board concluded that the posts violated state rules on the use of public resources for campaign purposes because they lacked a legislative nexus.

Here we see a small example of harmless, joyful content being shut down simply because it was in the wrong bucket.

2. Meanwhile, the Center Square took a highly critical, detail-heavy approach toward similar content developed by the state Attorney General’s office. At first glance, the video was actually fun. Yet the criticism focused on the AG “wasting time” on a light-hearted video while other office issues demanded attention. It’s almost like the NFL cracking down on harmless end-zone celebrations: nobody is hurt, it’s just joy.

The broader lesson is that on official government channels, we’re expected to be serious and not have fun. This expectation exists despite the consistently creative, people-focused work the Department of Transportation produces every week.

3. By contrast, other officials use the cloak of “unofficial” channels to abandon even the pretense of harmless fun. State Representative Joel McEntire’s Facebook activity illustrates this clearly. While he previously claimed an unauthorized party ran a Twitter account in his name, he now openly manages his personal Facebook page.

Occasionally, he posts serious political content, but more often he engages in highly partisan and aggressive behavior, echoing the divisive rhetoric seen at the federal level. This includes ad hominem attacks, inflammatory comments (like suggesting a political opponent “needs to burn”), and calls for a boycott of a community activist’s business. One target, local activist and business owner Kyle Wheeler, recalled McEntire calling him a “pansy boy” and “delicate flower boy” in 2024—even while acknowledging Wheeler’s community work.

McEntire’s self-proclaimed “unofficial” page status, along with his title of “Chief of Mischief,” has allowed ethics complaints to be dismissed, since the Legislative Ethics Board lacks jurisdiction over personal accounts. Yet his behavior has drawn public criticism, including from a self-identified Republican who called it “childish insults” and an “embarrassment.”

How do we let ourselves be free?

These are small examples in Washington State, but they illustrate a broader trend: social media algorithms giving us different social incentives, and our institutions are not equipped to respond. The decline of local journalism, combined with attention-maximizing algorithms, means our online environments amplify the worst content.

As much as I respect the Project on Civic Health’s efforts to encourage civility, it’s not enough to ask people to control their own behavior. Smoking cessation is one thing; addressing the industry that created the addiction is something else entirely. Social media is designed to maximize attention, often at the expense of civility and community. People like McEntire are using these platforms exactly as intended: stoking outrage, drawing attention, and triggering the emotional rewards built into the system.

Real-world communities thrive on politeness, modesty, and small gestures of mutual care. Online platforms operate in almost the opposite way: they reward conflict, outrage, and self-promotion, which amplifies hate and division. This environment contributes to rising loneliness, anxiety, and mental distress, especially among young people.

Social media can be addictive, much like tobacco, and increased use correlates with worse mental health. Platforms are designed to keep users engaged, making regulation and conscious limits essential to prevent long-term harm.

I’ve been critical of school districts that adopt phone-free policies under the guise of student mental health when the real goal is classroom control. If schools were serious about the impacts of social media, they would ensure their own communications teams weren’t actively posting on spaces that are demonstrably harmful. They have not.

And there’s a reason for this: that is where the people are. We are trapped in a system where some people are finger-wagged for being “not serious” on official channels, while others are incentivized to be the worst versions of themselves on unofficial channels because it works. Meanwhile, serious communicators are stuck posting on platforms that reward outrage.

Kelly Stonelake captures this trap very well here.

The network effects are real. We can’t leave until enough of our actual friends, people we love, leave first. I’ve experienced this myself. I put Meta platforms on pause earlier this year, but returned because of the deaths of two men in my life and the need to connect with people during my mourning period. I could not fulfill my duties as a friend without the platform and the network. And now, I’m even raising money for Movember there because I couldn’t find another way to do it.

A step forward

One thing government could do is explore self-hosted, ActivityPub-powered social media. This idea had some momentum but seems to have stalled. Technically, it’s straightforward, and a handful of governments have experimented with it.

The first step in countering harmful network effects is to build a new network. Putting official government communication on a platform that no corporation can ever own is a vital first step toward reclaiming civility, community, and public trust.

Because yes, it really does matter how we talk to each other.

All Politics Is Local, All Politics Is Complicated

It’s the Saturday after Election Day, and I’ve been thinking about why people don’t vote in local elections. The answer, I think, is baked right into how local politics works, and how we talk about it.

Earlier this week, KUOW aired a “Sound Politics” episode that tried to untangle one piece of that puzzle: why school board elections in Washington are so confusing. It was a fascinating conversation about how state law allows school districts to run elections differently, but it got tangled up in language, using “city” and “school district” as if they were the same thing.

In Seattle, for example, school board candidates must live in specific “director districts,” but every registered voter citywide gets to vote for all of them in the general election. This unusual system exists only because Seattle’s population tops 400,000, a threshold that triggers a special rule in state law. Smaller districts like Highline and Tacoma operate differently.

It’s a great civics lesson, but also a perfect example of how confusing our systems can be. One of my broader theories about elections is simple: if people don’t understand the choices in front of them, they often just don’t vote. When confusion is built into the very structure of our elections, turnout doesn’t just sag, it sinks.

What bothered me about the KUOW piece wasn’t the reporting, but the terminology. Mixing up “school district” and “city” only deepens the public’s misunderstanding. I’ve seen this confusion play out locally in Olympia, where the city, the school district, and the port district all share the same name but have completely different boundaries. In Seattle, it’s even more complicated: the school district’s governance depends on the city’s population, even though the two are technically separate entities.

This is a microcosm of a much larger problem: state law makes local government more complicated than it needs to be. And that complexity collides with how we communicate about elections, especially in odd-numbered years when only local offices are on the ballot.

Another Sound Politics episode this week encouraged listeners to send it to “procrastinating voters.” It was a nice idea. Except that, unless you lived in the 26th Legislative District, Seattle, or King County, only one segment of the show actually applied to you. Even within those areas, it covered just a fraction of what was on people’s ballots.

That’s not a dig at the reporters, though they might have oversold it a bit (“Send this to someone who hasn’t voted in Western Washington, or, you know, anywhere in Washington…”). The truth is, no local NPR station (even in Seattle) could possibly cover the hundreds of races happening across dozens of cities, school districts, and special districts.

Think of it this way: Bellevue, Kent, Renton, Federal Way, Kirkland, Redmond, and Auburn together have about the same population as Seattle. If election coverage were proportional, those cities together would get the same attention as Seattle. But they don’t. There are simply too many races, so coverage outside Seattle gets rounded down to zero. The result: even more focus on Seattle, even less on everyone else.

And as local print newspapers and radio newsrooms continue their slow decline, the information gap just keeps widening.

The biggest reason people don’t vote locally isn’t apathy (which would be an internal flaw) it’s confusion (caused externally). Don’t blame voters for not turning in ballots, blame the system we’ve created. The system is hard to understand, and the information needed to make sense of it is vanishing.

The Texting Election

This year, I’ve had more friends than ever ask why they’re being bombarded with campaign texts. The short answer: vote, and they’ll stop. If your name is not on a list of people who voted, the campaigns are going to keep on bugging you.

Anecdotally, it seems that local campaign texting is way up. It makes sense. Texting is personal and intrusive, but it’s also cheap. In a low-turnout year, every vote is precious, and traditional media reach is limited. When you’re voting for everyone from park commissioners to city council members, odds are you haven’t heard much about any of them through your normal news sources. So campaigns reach past the media and straight into your phone. It’s not elegant, but it’s effective.

What “All Politics Is Local” Really Means

All of a sudden, there is a popular saying now that “all politics is national.” It reflects how the presidency and federal politics loom over everything. That’s true, to a degree. Since the television era, local election turnout has steadily declined compared to national races.

But when Rep. Tip O’Neill said “all politics is local,” he wasn’t talking about turnout rates. He meant that good politics starts with understanding your community, and connecting those local needs to national decisions.

Rep. Marie Gluesenkamp Perez captured that spirit recently when she said she “just refused to let this race be nationalized. It’s not about the message. It’s about my loyalty to my community.” 

And if you zoom out and look at this week’s results from New Jersey, Virginia, and New York City, you can see that dynamic playing out. Each place faces the same national currents, but each community came up with its own answer.

Simplify the System, Raise the Turnout

If we want better turnout in Washington, we should start by making local government simpler. I don’t have a perfect fix, but I know that when voters look at their ballots and think, *“What the hell am I even voting for?”* those ballots are more likely to end up in the kitchen recycling bin.

All politics is local. But if we keep making “local” this complicated, we shouldn’t be surprised when fewer people show up to participate.

Why Is Eastside Street Like This? A Small History of Olympia’s Streets

Ever wonder why some streets in Olympia seem to stop for no reason, why vacant lots sit untouched, or why a neighborhood feels like it’s divided by invisible walls? These quirks aren’t random, they’re history frozen in asphalt and parcel lines. Take Eastside Street: a road that almost, but never quite, connects southeast and northeast Olympia. Its story is a window into the city’s past, when rapid development, economic booms, and hurried platting shaped the streets we navigate today.

Inspired by Daniel Garcia’s essay, What Do You Think Olympia Should Look Like?, I’ve been thinking a lot about the questions he raises:

Why did that restaurant close? What is that smell? Why hasn’t anything been built on that vacant lot? Why isn’t downtown more bikeable? Why do so many places close by 8 p.m.? Why was the Artesian Well abandoned?

These are questions that local media might usually tackle. But as we’ve seen, between The Olympian and the JOLT, so many of these questions go unanswered. For me, there are tons of them.

I also want to note Daniel’s massive assistance in taking on hosting duties for the city council races this year on the Olympia Standard podcast.

Why isn’t Eastside the main street on… the Eastside?

One of my longest-standing questions has been: Why doesn’t Eastside Street connect the neighborhoods north of the 4th and State corridor with those to the north?

Eastside effectively ends at State Avenue (even though it technically continues north for another block). Puget Street picks up the role of main drive through the northeast neighborhood, a block east of where Eastside stops. So if you want to go from southeast Olympia to northeast Olympia (or vice versa) you have to dogleg down either 4th or State to get from one quarter of the city to another.

It seems like Eastside could have continued north at some point. But it doesn’t. So why not? The answer lies in the plats that make up Eastside along the corridor.

Eastside Street first appears as part of Swan’s Addition to Olympia in 1871, a significant part of the city that lay east of the Swantown Slough, which partially cut off this side of town from downtown Olympia.

As Washington transitioned from territory to full-fledged statehood in 1889–1890, there was a massive surge in development, anticipating population growth and economic benefits of statehood. This boom lasted until the economic crash of 1893. We can trace this history in the explosion of plats filed with the Auditor’s Office between 1889 and 1891.

This is where the heart of the stunted Eastside Street lies. In early 1889, still months before statehood, the Van Epps and Wiman plat cut off the corridor that Eastside Street in Swan’s plat would have used to connect neighborhoods. Quince Street was recognized in this plat, but Eastside was not.

Months later, the Terrace plat recognized Eastside again — but only partially. An oddly oversized parcel on the south side of this plat (now the site of an apartment complex) disrupted continuity.

Then, just a few weeks later, the College Heights plat north of Terrace included an Eastside Street, but slightly off-center from Terrace’s. , So, even if Eastside had connected through Van Epps and Terrace, it would include the strangely inconvenient dogleg. I suspect this was a result of the rapid pace of development in the year following statehood: planners simply didn’t coordinate across plats.

It is also worth noting that, Swan’s Addition in 1871 also didn’t connect directly to Van Epps; it ended at the current Legion Way. It wasn’t until the McLenndan (1905) and Pattison (1901) plats were laid out that Eastside finally met Van Epps.

This detail of an 1890 map of Olympia during the post statehood boom gives you the proper context of the Eastside route and the land it. Lying right in the middle is Van Epps.

Addressing the possible punch through?

But what if nothing had ever been built where Eastside terminated at Van Epps? Why didn’t later planners just punch a road through to Terrace?

Looking at the current parcel map, it seems like there’s an opportunity to “punch through” Eastside. The current house at 1032 Olympia Ave NE, was built in 1940, might give the impression that we had decades to finish the street. But that home replaced an earlier one, meaning the corridor was never fully clear. The most convincing evidence is from Brian Hovis’ presentation of the Sanborn maps at OlympiaHistory.org. There you see a residential house on the 1908 map.

Lessons from Eastside Street

So what do we take from the story of Eastside, in a “why is Olympia the way it is” point of view?

People weren’t paying attention in the pivotal year of 1890. While Eastside shows up in some plats, it doesn’t appear in all, making continuous construction impossible.

Rapid development and platting ignored overall city planning, in this case. What might seem like an odd street today is the product of historical accidents, economic cycles, and fragmented decision-making. Many of the plats you see before the invention of car-centered, cul-de-sac development took into consideration the square block alignment of the city, to ensure an orderly development of the city. But this time it didn’t.

Civic apologies and understanding you have a problem

Move your feet

When you’re playing defense in soccer and find yourself reaching to poke the ball away from an attacker, it’s a good sign you’re standing in the wrong spot. It’s time to move your feet.

A few years back, I was reminded of the three parts of a good apology because of the falling down the stairs act Lakefair was performing.

It basically goes like this:

Acknowledge and express your feelings: State what you did and how you feel about it. Go beyond a simple “I’m sorry” to show that you’re truly sorry, horrified, or disappointed in yourself.

Validate the harm you caused: Name the damage and explain how you understand it affected the other person. This shows you were listening and gives them a chance to correct your understanding. Don’t police their reaction.

Offer a plan for change: Explain how you’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again with real, concrete steps. Instead of saying, “It won’t happen again,” say what you’ll do differently next time.

The Capital Lakefair organization was stuck at Step 1 of a true apology because their public defenses focused on rules and blame-shifting, not on acknowledging the public’s pain or anger.

For this situation to turn around, the leadership needed first to listen, not just to those who were “yelling,” but to the broader perspectives around them. They needed to realize this was about what they did, not how they were being talked about. To quote Aaron Sorkin in The Newsroom, they had a PR problem because they had a real problem.

As predicted by the “Markets are Conversations” principle, public outrage demands a two-way dialogue. If everyone is yelling, the organization is in the wrong place in that conversation and needs to move its stance (and its actions) to move forward.

I was reminded again of these principles when I read “The Ritual of Civic Apology.”

It’s a great read. In short, Beth Lew-Williams explores the recent trend of Western U.S. cities offering belated formal apologies for the historical expulsion and mistreatment of their Chinese residents. She questions the sincerity, effectiveness, and intended audience of these gestures. After visiting Tacoma and a couple of California cities, she concludes that these civic apologies don’t reach full reconciliation. Whatever wound was left hasn’t been healed by performative apologies. Most barely make it past Step 1 (acknowledging the wrongdoing) without fully naming the harm or committing to real repair.

And what are reparations, if not repair work?

That’s why I’m glad the City of Olympia is studying reparations. I sat down with Mayor Dontae Payne recently to talk about the work Olympia is exploring. One of the things we discussed was the basis of Washington’s Covenant Homeownership Program.

Washington State, like many places, used racially restrictive covenants to exclude nonwhite residents from certain neighborhoods well into the 1960s. Even after they were ruled unenforceable in the late 1940s, new covenants were still being filed in Thurston County right up until open housing laws were passed following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. According to the University of Washington, covenants in Thurston County featured harsher-than-normal language, seemingly to make a point.

The Washington Covenant Homeownership Program was created to help repair the damage caused by decades of racist housing policies like restrictive covenants. It helps first-time homebuyers from communities historically shut out of homeownership by offering zero-interest loans for down payments and closing costs. To qualify, buyers must have moderate incomes and be descendants of people who lived in Washington before 1968 and were harmed by those racist housing rules.

Unsurprisingly, a lawsuit was filed to overturn the program by a conservative organization arguing that it’s discriminatory because it limits eligibility by race, calling it “using racism to fix racism.”

And this is where the ritual of civic apology meets the real world of government finance, legal interpretation, and political will. The harm caused by restrictive covenants (and by zoning choices, biased policing, and other forms of institutional racism) continues to ripple outward. Acknowledging the harm is only the first step. We still struggle to unpack and address the deep, systemic causes.

We always have to be ready to move our feet. Because even as Lew-Williams rightly wonders who these civic apologies are really for, it’s clear to me who should be doing the Sisyphean work of building complete ones. It’s us, those of us here now, who benefited from decades of racist systems.

A framework for approaching racial reparations here should begin with the commitment to give people what they are due and to repair harm done to the broader human community. Justice, rightly understood, is not about assigning guilt to individuals but about restoring balance where it has been lost. The frame for us should be, when one part of the community suffers, the whole is diminished. Addressing historical wrongs, then, is not an act of division but of maintenance.

Sound policy must be grounded in reason and clear-eyed understanding. This is why the work Lew-Williams describes is important, but incomplete. Repairing deep, generational harm isn’t about emotional performance or political convenience. It needs patient study, honesty about causes, and deliberate, thoughtful action. The goal is to act rightly moving forward. To understand we’re in the wrong spot and move our feet.

Smith Troy, Trump and Telling the Truth

We’ve all heard President Donald Trump call the press “the enemy of the people.” Over the course of his terms, he repeatedly attacked news organizations as “fake,” “corrupt,” and even suggested some were engaged in illegal activity.

Beyond insults, he openly questioned the constitutional protections that shield journalists, including the landmark New York Times v. Sullivan precedent, and proposed “opening up our libel laws” so politicians could sue and “win lots of money.”

His rhetoric and actions exemplify a long-standing tension in American democracy: the fragile balance between government power and press freedom. Yet this struggle is far from new, and it is not new here at home. Nearly a century ago, in Thurston County, local politics intersected with criminal libel laws in a way that foreshadows today’s conflicts.

The story begins in November 1938, when Thurston County Prosecuting Attorney Smith Troy filed criminal charges against three men: Ray Gruhlke, Lester Main, and George Johnson. He accused the defendants of distributing handbills that allegedly defamed Troy and his brother Harold, who was an assistant county prosecutor. The charges contended that the statements were malicious and intended to expose the Troys to “hatred, contempt, ridicule, and obloquy,” depriving them of public confidence, consistent with the criminal libel statutes of the time.

Almost immediately, questions arose about the integrity and motives of the public officials involved. The circumstances of the arrests suggested potential overreach, and critics argued that the case may have been politically motivated to protect the interests of Smith Troy while undermining his opponents. Affidavits from law enforcement contained conflicting accounts of the arrests, raising doubts about the accuracy and impartiality of the official record. The court initially denied motions to appoint independent attorneys to investigate the charges, further highlighting the potential for bias. The case only began to take a more credible direction once a Special Deputy Prosecuting Attorney, Harry Ellsworth Foster, was appointed to replace Smith Troy, whose personal involvement as the alleged victim created an obvious conflict of interest.

Over the next several months, the Special Prosecutor’s investigation revealed that the alleged libel stemmed largely from confusion over incomplete court records. The handbills pointed to cases that the Troys were apparently prosecuting improperly, but the cases referenced in the pamphlets had been transferred, and the inconsistencies were clerical rather than malicious.

The defendants admitted their errors, tendered apologies, and Troy accepted them. By May 27, 1939, the court dismissed the case, noting that the controversy had prompted reforms to ensure future records were clearer and less prone to misinterpretation.

The Thurston County case cannot be fully understood without situating it within the broader legal context. Smith Troy would not have been able to pursue charges without statutes defining libel broadly as any malicious publication exposing living or deceased persons to hatred or contempt, or injuring any person in business or occupation. A person could be prosecuted even if the statements were true, unless published with “good motives” and “for justifiable ends.”

By the 1930s, criminal libel prosecutions had become rare, yet the statutes remained on the books through 2009, offering public officials like Troy a tool—however rarely used, to protect reputations through criminal law.

The law’s overreach and constitutional vulnerabilities became clear in 2008, when the Washington Court of Appeals struck down the criminal libel statute as facially unconstitutional. The court held that it violated the First Amendment because it punished false statements without requiring proof of actual malice and, paradoxically, could punish true statements lacking “good motives.” The legislature formally repealed the law in 2009. Modern statutes surrounding protection orders have partially revived criminalized libel in limited circumstances, primarily to address harassment and repeated false statements made with malice.

The Smith Troy case illustrates how criminal libel statutes historically empowered officials to suppress criticism, a temptation not lost on modern politicians. Trump’s attacks on the press echo the same impulse: using legal threats, regulatory power, and public shaming to undermine journalists and chill reporting. Unlike Thurston County in 1938, Trump operates on a national stage, with the ability to influence federal agencies, control access to government events, and challenge the judiciary’s interpretation of defamation law.

Yet the comparison also highlights both the fragility and resilience of press freedom. In Thurston County, the appointment of an unbiased Special Prosecutor and the eventual dismissal showed that legal checks, due process, and transparency can constrain abuses of power. Today, protections like New York Times v. Sullivan perform a similar role, ensuring that even powerful political actors cannot easily weaponize libel law against the press. Without these safeguards, the line between legitimate critique and suppression of dissent blurs, leaving citizens less informed and democracy weaker.

The trajectory from Smith Troy to Trump underscores that the press is both a target and a guardian in any democracy. Laws may criminalize speech, but misuse or selective enforcement erodes trust in both institutions and government itself. Meanwhile, as local news declines and national outlets consolidate, the onus falls more heavily on government to act transparently. A free press alone cannot ensure accountability; officials must make accurate information accessible, clear, and timely, or risk leaving the public in the dark.

History reminds us that power will always test the boundaries of scrutiny. The Thurston County libel case offers a microcosmic lesson: fair process, independent oversight, and transparent government are essential to maintaining the balance between authority and the public’s right to know. Today, as political leaders attack media and propose changes to defamation law, the stakes have moved from local to national. The core principle remains unchanged: the press must remain free to speak, investigate, and hold power accountable, and government must meet its own obligation to be transparent in a media environment that can no longer do it alone.

Hush Season 1 Review: the story-telling of our particular racist past and present

Hush Season 2 Premieres on October 8. It will focus on the mysterious death of a 19-year-old in rural western Oregon, in a community very much like the ones you’ll find all along our thin coastal region if you drive out of town for more than half an hour.

According to its co-creator, the amazing Leah Sottile, the new season will use the murder case as a way to explore the decline of local journalism, citizen investigations, and law enforcement. These are nearly universal issues that affect our communities and governments as we struggle to address the most pressing problems we face today.

I have high hopes for this season, largely because I’ve never been disappointed by the work Sottile has been involved in.

But today, I want to focus on Season 1 of the podcast, which centered on the wrongful conviction of Jesse Lee Johnson for the 1998 murder of Harriet Thompson in Salem, Oregon. Hush Season 1 is very much worth the listen. Would recommend.

Salem is a city very much like Olympia. Both are state capitals. While Salem is larger population-wise, Thurston and Marion counties are roughly the same size. You could imagine Salem as a version of Olympia that never spawned Lacey and more aggressively sprawled into the rural suburbs.

Throughout the first season of Hush, you can’t help but hear echoes of the Northwest’s racial past humming beneath it all. The story isn’t just about one man’s decades-long fight against a bad conviction, it’s about how the Northwest’s “white utopia” project still shows up today.

A White Utopia, By Design

Oregon’s founding dream was simple and brutal: keep the state white. The exclusion laws written into the constitution in 1859 made that official. And while the words were eventually removed, the impact never really went away. By 2000, Salem was only 1 percent Black. In fact, the percentage of Black residents had dropped between 1990 and 2000. Johnson himself noted how much he stood out as a Black man in town. That’s not an accident of demographics, it’s the result of generations of deliberate policy.

The podcast frames Johnson’s case as part of the “old plot”: Oregon has a history of turning Black men into villains, whether it was Joe Drake in 1902 or Robert Folks in 1944. Johnson’s trial was just the modern version of the same story. The details change, but the system doesn’t.

Policing to Protect Whiteness

What really sticks out is how quickly police locked onto Johnson—not because the evidence pointed to him (it didn’t), but because in a nearly all-white city, he was the “easy” suspect. One detective even admitted he couldn’t investigate white men the same way, because there were too many of them in the system. Black men? Just a thousand or so.

And when witnesses came forward saying they saw a white man fleeing the murder scene, police shrugged it off. One witness was told flat-out: “A Black person had been murdered, and a Black person was going to pay.” Add in accusations of witness coercion, bribes, and detectives with documented histories of racist remarks, and it becomes clear: bias isn’t just background noise—it’s the whole song.

The Death Penalty as Modern Lynching

Even after all this, Oregon still tried to execute Johnson. Hush doesn’t pull any punches: the death penalty here looks like an evolved form of racial violence. Lynching became the death chamber: different tools, same purpose.

When Johnson’s conviction was overturned in 2023, prosecutors didn’t say he was innocent. Just “not guilty.” That’s a legal technicality, not an apology. Johnson is currently suing the State of Oregon, so he may get a measure of justice under state law. Meanwhile, DNA evidence pointing to other suspects was ignored for years. The state clung to its mistake as if admitting the truth would unravel too much.

The Real Cost

Johnson spent 25 years locked up, most of them on death row. That’s not just time lost—that’s a state deciding the terms of your life, day after day. Oregon has been taking Black lives like this for a long time: sometimes by rope, sometimes by gurney, sometimes just by grinding someone down slowly.

Hush and the Myth of the Northwest

When I first wrote about the claim that the Northwest doesn’t harbor the same racial past or animus as the Dixie South, it struck me how perfectly the name of this podcast captured it: Hush. We don’t talk about this. Whether it’s because of the region’s cultural politeness or something much darker, we get away with acts of racism by staying quiet.

One thing I keep coming back to is the idea that we’ve somehow “moved beyond race.” You hear it in the colorblind rhetoric that took hold about 30 years ago, just before Johnson was convicted, the insistence that if we stop talking about race, the problems will disappear. The trouble is, that story works best for the people it was designed to protect.

The Pacific Northwest wasn’t built on neutrality, it was built on exclusion. Its economy was structured to serve white settlers, and that design still shows up in who holds wealth and power today. When we talk about “moving beyond race,” what we’re really talking about is maintaining the same system, just without having to say the quiet part out loud.

The Northwest likes to describe itself as tolerant, progressive, even enlightened. But that “colorblind” framing is its own kind of blindness. It hides how whiteness has been normalized and protected from the very beginning. If we’re serious about addressing racial inequality, we have to stop pretending we’re beyond it, and start asking who benefits from keeping that myth alive.

Not Hush: Storytelling and Reporting

In her preview of Hush Season 2, Sottile writes painfully about the decline of investigative journalism in the region, citing the demise of Cascade PBS’ long-form and investigative teams. We’ve certainly seen the value of this reporting in Olympia this week.

There’s a lot to say about the decline of newsrooms across the country. It’s a foundational issue for our democracy, and serious people need to start thinking about it soon. Yes, the conviction of Jesse Johnson and much of our regional history happened when reporters were more plentiful. But the question isn’t whether reporters were doing a good job back then. The question is: how do we confront injustice now, in a fractured and undersized media environment?

Why the Myth of Tumwater and Interstate 5 Matters

David Scherer Water is a treasure; there is no question about that.

But I take exception to his recent piece on Interstate 5 and our community, specifically how he frames the highway’s impact on Tumwater. David leans on the familiar “Interstate 5 destroyed Tumwater’s downtown” narrative.

David and I both explore the highway’s impact on Tumwater and Olympia, but our conclusions diverge sharply. Where David frames I-5 as a transformative and destructive force, I argue that Tumwater’s decline predates the interstate, shaped by earlier infrastructure decisions and geographic shifts.

David portrays I-5 as the villain: a “highway that destroyed Tumwater” and created Lacey, altering traffic patterns and dooming downtown Olympia. He emphasizes the dramatic, almost cinematic effect of concrete and asphalt cutting through established communities.

In contrast, my analysis situates I-5 as one of many forces affecting Tumwater. The town’s commercial decline had already begun with the construction of Capitol Way in 1938, which bypassed the original downtown area and redirected commercial activity to new locations. By the time I-5 arrived, the downtown core was largely abandoned, not obliterated by the highway. In my view, I-5 is less a destroyer than a marker of trends already in motion.

These distinctions matter. Before diving deeper, it’s worth noting that David and I already plan to take a walk together to discuss our differing approaches. We’ll record the conversation, which will appear in a future episode of The Olympia Standard podcast.

So why does this myth endure? Why does it matter to understand what really happened?

1. Understanding the impact of car culture on Thurston County

Interstate 5 was hugely significant. Aside from the 1950s Lemon case, which forced the state to relocate offices back to Olympia, I-5 was probably the most consequential development in our community since colonization. Lacey likely wouldn’t exist as a city, and Tumwater may not have grown as large without it. More broadly, the question of how car culture shaped our cities remains unresolved. A nuanced understanding of I-5’s impact is crucial for comprehending the complete story of regional development.

2. Robert Moses vs. Jane Jacobs

Urban planning scholars often frame debates through the Jacobs-versus-Moses lens. David casts the highway as a transformative, almost destructive force, emphasizing the top-down power of planners and officials to remake (or bury) downtowns, much like Robert Moses reshaped New York at the expense of neighborhoods.

Even though no Robert Moses operated in Thurston County, our debate mirrors this classic frame. David emphasizes centralized, dramatic change; I emphasize organic, context-driven shifts. The contrast highlights the tension between imposing grand designs and respecting the lived realities of communities.

3. Misunderstanding Tumwater in 1950

Tumwater did double in population between 1940 and 1950, but context is key. The town had fewer than 1,000 residents in 1940, roughly comparable to Rainier in 1990. By 1950, it had over 2,000 residents, more than doubling in size. This wasn’t due to increased density; Tumwater grew by sprawl, much like Rainier today. During the 1940s, the town was engaged in annexation disputes with Olympia over the Carlyon neighborhood and was building its first subdivisions south of Trosper Road.

4. Imagining what could have been

Tumwater today is spread across multiple nodes, with disconnected districts, much of its footprint suburban and car-centered. Unlike Olympia, Elma, or Shelton, it lacks a traditional “town” feel. Yet the idea that Tumwater once had a central, walkable downtown lingers in our imaginations.

We think of Issaquah and its salmon hatchery integrated into the civic landscape. Or we think of Steilacoom’s hillside rooftop dining, or Shelton’s cozy, somewhat forward-moving downtown. These towns were all bypassed by highways, but most had significant downtown cores before the interstates arrived. Lacey, by contrast, may have had a small commercial strip before I-5, but no one ever called that “downtown Lacey.”

The myth that I-5 single-handedly destroyed Tumwater obscures these deeper structural and historical realities. Understanding the nuances doesn’t diminish the highway’s significance; it helps us appreciate how communities evolve and the choices that shape them.

What happened to school vaccination rates in Olympia since COVID?

I wanted to examine school vaccination rates from just before the pandemic through the most recent data available. I chose September 2019 as the starting point, representing the cohort that began the school year ending with the onset of the pandemic. It is also convenient, since it was the first year of the current vaccine exemption landscape (where there is no personal exemption for MMR). The endpoint is roughly a year ago, corresponding to the 2024–25 kindergarten cohort (the most recent data available).

To keep the comparison consistent, I focused solely on kindergarten rates. Including overall or seventh-grade data would have made the trends harder to interpret.

Here is the source data, available from the state Department of Health.

Here is the data I used for my analysis.

Between 2019 and 2024, there were some notable shifts in compliance across both private and public schools. Private schools, on average, saw a substantial 20% drop in “Out of Compliance” rates, while public schools experienced a more modest 2.3% decrease. This indicates that, overall, fewer parents were not getting vaccination paperwork turned in.

At the same time, private schools experienced an increase in exemptions. The percentage of students listed as “Exempt” rose by 6.8%, including a 2.5% increase in religious exemptions. This change was driven entirely by the Olympia Community School. Their overall exemption rate went up 33%.

Interestingly, Olympia Community is the only non-religious private school in this group. By contrast, St. Michael’s and Evergreen Christian School both saw significant decreases in overall exemptions and religious exemptions since 2019. Evergreen Christian, however, remains second only to Olympia Community in total exemptions. Outside of these, only Boston Harbor and LP Brown reported increases in religious exemptions.

Public schools, meanwhile, showed an overall decline in exemptions. Total “Exempt” status dropped by 4.7%, accompanied by a 2.3% decrease in religious exemptions and a 1.2% decrease in medical exemptions. Lincoln and ORLA, which had the highest exemption rates in 2019, both experienced significant reductions, moving down several ranks over this period.

Looking more closely at exemption types, a few schools saw small increases in medical exemptions, McKenny and McClane, for example, while (again) religious exemptions rose slightly at LP Brown and Boston Harbor.

Overall, these trends suggest that while most schools have become more compliant, a few individual schools, particularly Olympia Community, have driven increases in exemptions, highlighting the ongoing variation across the district.

Several factors may help explain these shifts. The COVID-19 pandemic dramatically changed the conversation around vaccines. Being vaccinated became a social norm in Olympia. Increased awareness of infectious diseases, widespread messaging about vaccine safety, and the public prominence of vaccination as a socially responsible behavior likely contributed to higher compliance. Parents’ personal experiences during the pandemic, seeing the consequences of illness, navigating hybrid schooling, and engaging with public health campaigns, may have reshaped attitudes toward standard childhood immunizations as well.

These changes may also be influencing parental school choices. Religious schools, which historically allowed higher exemption rates, appear to have tightened compliance, reflecting both internal policy decisions and the broader cultural emphasis on vaccination. Meanwhile, parents who remain hesitant about vaccines may be opting for non-religious private schools, like Olympia Community, that more closely reflect their preferences. In this way, the post-pandemic landscape may be producing a subtle form of “sorting,” where schools increasingly reflect the vaccine beliefs of the families who choose them.

Overall, while most schools have become more compliant, the variation across individual schools suggests that parental preferences, school policies, and broader social trends are interacting in complex ways, shaping both vaccination rates and the composition of student populations.

Centralias Cannot Hold

A couple of notes before we get to the actual blog post:

  1. One of the first times I realized history wasn’t fixed came when I was a reporter at the Montesano Vidette. I was in my early 20s, still taking weekend classes at Evergreen. The Vidette was caught between eras—part hands-on production, part digital. We’d print our computer-written stories in column width, then cut and paste them onto pages before sending them off to the printer in Shelton. Just a few feet from our front door sat a century of bound newspaper editions. Every week, a handful of historians, history buffs, and family genealogists came by with spiral-bound notebooks and pencils to take notes from those oversized volumes.

One afternoon, an older woman arrived with an overstuffed backpack. She’d taken the bus up from Lewis County, connecting through Olympia. I was killing time before heading to the Elma City Council meeting when I noticed she had several volumes open, covering 1918 through 1923. She was searching for traces of a relative involved in the Centralia Massacre, back when Wobblies clashed with the American Legion.

What stuck with me most, though, was seeing her again later that night in Elma. Before the council meeting began, she approached the city clerk to ask if she could examine city records. She was catching the last bus out of Grays Harbor but had seen the city hall lights on and decided to stop. The clerk said no, and the police chief—who always attended council meetings, handed her a coupon for a hotel room and the bus out in the morning.

Here was someone, retired, without the money to drive, so convinced the official story of American Legionnaires bravely fending off Wobbly attackers was wrong that she hiked and bused her way to dig through the record. The Centralia Massacre is still debated today. If you don’t know the ins and outs, you can still follow along here. You don’t need to be a historian. But the story is fascinating. And, much like the legend of Marcus Whitman, the “official” tale is a heroic cover over a much deeper, messier truth about our region.

  1. For obvious reasons, I’ve also been thinking about the opening stanza of Yeats’ The Second Coming:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

There are endless reflections to draw from this poem, most circling back to the idea that history doesn’t repeat, but it does rhyme. Yeats had just witnessed the devastation of the Great War and the collapse of centuries of British rule in Ireland. An old order (unjust though it was) was giving way to violent disorder. His imagery: paths spinning away from the center, blood in the water, a beast slouching toward Bethlehem, captures both dread and inevitability. History was turning, but not toward salvation.

Centralias

There are a lot of Centralias in the United States. Twelve, as best I can tell. Fargo, North Dakota, used to be a Centralia, but changed its name. If you trace five of these Centralias (Missouri, Oklahoma, Washington, Illinois, and Pennsylvania), you can run a bloody finger across American history since the Civil War.

1864: Centralia, Missouri

Not at the forefront of the campaigns in Virginia or the Mississippi Delta, Centralia, Missouri, was caught in the deeper, revenge-fueled violence that marked the darker history of the Civil War. On September 27, 1864, Confederate guerrillas led by William “Bloody Bill” Anderson (joined by a young Jesse James) launched the Centralia Massacre. They boarded a train, separated 24 Union soldiers on leave, and executed them. It did not stop there. The guerrillas looted the town, torched the train, and set fire to the depot.

The Missouri front of the war was an irregular backwater, but it carried the legacy of Bleeding Kansas, and its violence was no less savage.

Later that same day, a Union force of 146 inexperienced mounted infantry was sent to intercept Anderson’s men. The clash became the Battle of Centralia. But if not for the earlier massacre, this too might have been called a massacre. The Union troops were severely outmatched and overrun. Anderson’s fighters killed 123 soldiers, nearly annihilating the detachment. By the end of the day, 147 Union casualties had marked Centralia as a site of wartime horror. Observers at the time called it an “inhuman slaughter” and one of the “chief barbarisms of the war.”

The massacre was not an isolated event but part of the escalating cycle of frontier violence that began with Bleeding Kansas in the 1850s. Confederate guerrillas sought revenge against federal forces who had occupied the Missouri-Kansas borderlands. Union responses were just as brutal: Brigadier General Clinton B. Fisk suggested “depopulation and devastation” in retribution, citing earlier expulsions of border residents under General Ewing’s orders. The violence was reciprocal, entrenched, and unrelenting.

1901: Centralia, Oklahoma

After the Civil War came emancipation, Reconstruction, and then its collapse. Jim Crow laws and sundown towns spread across the nation, systems of racial control maintained by violence, and sometimes resisted by violence.

That resistance flared in Centralia, Oklahoma, in October 1901.

White residents tried to drive Black families out of town one night. A group of white men attacked the home of a Black resident, Whitmitre, firing into the roof and forcing his family to flee into the dark.

In response, Black townspeople armed themselves. Shots rang out along the streets, and white residents barricaded themselves inside their homes. In the chaos, a white woman was shot. The Black residents’ message was clear: they would not be driven out. Federal authorities later arrived and suppressed the uprising, arresting one Black man for shooting the woman.

Centralia was not the only place where white people forcibly removed residents based on race. But it is one of the few where people of color stood up and fought back.

1919: Centralia, Washington

This is the one most people around here know.

On November 11, 1919, a parade to celebrate the end of World War I, a year before, erupted into bloodshed. The Centralia Massacre (sometimes called the Centralia Conspiracy, Riot, or Tragedy) pitted the American Legion against the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW, or “Wobblies”).

The massacre grew out of long-standing tensions between the Wobblies and a coalition of local business owners, the American Legion, and government officials. The IWW pushed for all workers to unite as a class, take control of production, and challenge the capitalist system. They often used “direct action” tactics like strikes and public speeches to make their point. Their anti-war stance during World War I only made matters worse. Many locals saw them as unpatriotic, even traitorous.

The 1919 killings were an escalation of years of attacks by the anti-IWW coalition. In 1914, IWW members looking for food were marched out of town. In 1917, they were evicted from their union hall. And in 1918, a group of businessmen raided the hall during a Red Cross parade, beating members and dumping them outside town.

When the shooting ended, six were dead: four Legionnaires, one Wobbly, and a deputy sheriff. The Wobbly, Wesley Everest, was captured, jailed, and later lynched by a vigilante mob. Some IWW members were convicted in the aftermath, but no one was charged in Everest’s killing or for the assault on the union hall.

1947: Centralia, Illinois

The bosses had been warned, but the mine blew up anyway.

On March 25, 1947, an explosion tore through Centralia Mine Number 5. Coal dust ignited, killing 111 miners.

The hazards were known long before. State and federal inspectors, union officials, and safety officers had warned of the coal dust buildup and unsafe blasting practices. Management ignored the warnings. At one point, they even admitted to unsafe practices. Still, nothing changed. The result was a catastrophe.

Whenever you hear about regulation, safety rules, and the economy, you should think back to Centralia, Illinois. This was a time when labor unions wielded more power than today, yet workplace safety rules were ignored enough that killing 111 men barely registered beyond becoming the fifth-worst workplace catastrophe since 1940.

1962: Centralia, Pennsylvania

Rather than destroying 100 miners in an instant, this Centralia has been erased slowly, in smoke and fire.

At least, because authorities could foresee the danger, they eventually stepped in, after allowing the even bigger wrong to happen.

Since 1962, an underground coal seam fire has burned beneath Centralia, Pennsylvania. Most believe it started when a landfill fire spread into abandoned mines. The consequences have been terrifying.

In 1979, a gas station owner discovered his underground fuel tanks had reached 172°F. In 1981, a 12-year-old boy fell into a 150-foot sinkhole in his backyard—saved only by clutching a tree root. Carbon monoxide seeped through the ground.

The fire led to a slow evacuation. In 1983, Congress gave $42 million for relocation. More than 500 buildings were demolished. In 1992, the state seized remaining properties through eminent domain. The town lost its ZIP code in 2002. By 2020, only five residents remained, having won the right to stay for life. Today, Centralia is little more than cracked roads, weeds, and warning signs of fire and poison gas.

Centralias

The center did not hold in Missouri, where border wars became slaughter in the Civil War. It did not hold in Oklahoma, where white supremacy cracked and Black resistance burned. It did not hold in Illinois, where profit outweighed miners’ lives. It did not hold in Pennsylvania, where the earth itself betrayed its settlers, burning from below.

And so it goes: America is a lone Douglas fir in a wind storm, fragile and furious. Stability is never given; it is enforced, at someone else’s expense, until it snaps.

Order, a center, is forced by guerrillas, mobs, bosses, and bureaucrats. All tools of power that maintain control until they go too far, and tragedy ensues.

The Centralias are not exceptions. You could grab more city names out of a bag and find a host of similar sundown town violence, industrial accidents, and labor wars. Centralias are warnings.

Things fall apart. The Centralias cannot hold. And the little anarchies are loosed.

But in the end, most of these Centralias still exist. Missouri is still on the map. Washington and Illinois are scarred by history, but still there. Even the Centralia that was wiped off the face of Pennsylvania was not erased by indifference but met, however imperfectly, with responsibility and relocation. Yeats’ Ireland, torn by violence, moved on, even now edging toward reunification. And Europe, as it leans towards continental war again, has also seen long stretches of peace and reunification. History is not only a blood-dimmed tide. It carries moments of rebuilding, of reconciliation, of quiet endurance. The fire does not burn forever, and the center, however fragile, can be rebuilt.

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