Earlier this week, Representative Strom Peterson introduced House Bill 1938, which proposes a comprehensive process to redesign our state flag.

This bill closely aligns with the ideas I outlined a few months ago. Both proposals aim to replace our current flag, a design often criticized for its complexity, lack of relevance, and uninspired “seal-on-a-solid-color” format, with something more representative of who we are as a state today.

While the bill and my idea share a common purpose, they differ in execution. The legislative bill favors oversight by the Washington Arts Commission, while my proposal places leadership with the Secretary of State, which currently serves as the custodian of all our state symbols. In balance, it’s probably better for the arts community to lead the charge.

The Relative Privation Fallacy: Why Symbols Matter

As of this writing, I am only one of two people signed up to testify in favor of the bill. The balance is largely on the con (by almost 20).

I expect the strongest argument against this bill is that we have bigger problems and that revisiting our flag wastes the Legislature’s time. This is a classic example of the Relative Privation Fallacy, also known as the “Not as Bad as” fallacy or “Appeal to Worse Problems.”

This happens when someone argues that a problem shouldn’t be addressed because there are bigger or more serious problems elsewhere. It dismisses legitimate concerns by comparing them to other issues, rather than addressing them on their own merits.

For example:

• “You need to eat the food on your plate; there are starving children in other countries.”
• “How can you complain about the Seahawks’ running game when there’s visible homelessness?”

While prioritization is important, this argument falsely suggests that working on one issue means ignoring all others. In reality, multiple issues can (and should) be addressed simultaneously. It also rejects the idea that we can have nice things.

We all know that symbols matter. Without much prompting, we can all think of negative controversies about symbols.

If symbols didn’t matter, we wouldn’t worry about racists in Ohio waving Nazi flags on overpasses? No one would fly a Trump flag from their truck while honking annoyingly through downtown Olympia (This happens more often than you’d think) if symbols didn’t matter.

We can also think of positive relationships with flags:

When we went to the moon, we planted a flag.

Our national anthem is a song about a flag.

Establishing a broad-based, open, and public process to create a new flag that represents the entire state does not mean we’re ignoring all the other issues facing us.

Our Flag: Historically Uninspired and Not Our Own

Right now, Washington’s flag is uninspired. It was not the result of a broad public process but rather something we arrived at late, 34 years after statehood.

While state flags existed before the 1890s, it wasn’t until the Chicago World’s Fair that the state flag craze really took off. By the time Washington chose its flag in 1923, only four other states didn’t have one.

But arriving at things late is part of our history. We’re also in the habit of letting national symbols and decisions dominate us. A 1913 effort to establish a state flag commission was nixed because we didn’t want to overshadow the national flag.

Even the current design of the flag, adopted in 1915 and made official in 1923, reflects the fact that we didn’t even really choose our own name.

When the bill to create the new territory reached Congress in 1853, they overruled our local preference. Kentucky Representative Richard H. Stanton proposed an amendment to change the name from “Columbia” to Washington, in honor of George Washington. Stanton argued that naming the territory after a national hero would better reflect the nation’s (not the territory’s) ideals and unity. No one, it seems, suggested to Stanton that if he liked Washington so much, he should volunteer to change Kentucky’s name. Despite the lack of input from the people who actually lived in the region, Congress approved the amendment, and the territory was officially named Washington.

The imposition of “Washington” highlights a recurring theme in the region’s history: the tension between local autonomy and federal authority. While the name honors a national figure, its origins reflect a moment when the voices of the people living in the region were overlooked.

I’m not saying we need to go as far as changing the state’s name (that would be crazy! looks around), but we don’t need to underline it with a state flag.

You could almost say we’re fiercely ambivalent about the name and symbolism of our state. Because they were largely chosen by outsiders, we don’t focus on how our symbols could actually be important to us.

There’s a deep, hidden-in-plain-sight reason for this ambivalence. While Oregon and California became states before the Civil War, Washington maintained a “failure to launch” status for decades.

Washington spent more time as a territory than any other state in the lower 48. This extended period of territorial governance profoundly affected our development and identity. Unlike other territories that quickly transitioned to statehood, Washington’s path was slower and more complicated, shaped by geographic isolation, economic challenges, and political neglect.

Probably our best historian, Robert Ficken, argued that this prolonged territorial status fostered a sense of ambivalence among Washingtonians. Cut off from the rest of the country by the Rocky Mountains and lacking significant infrastructure, the territory was historically dominated by outside economic forces, generally from Chicago or California.

Ficken highlights that the push for statehood only gained serious momentum after the completion of the trans-Cascadian railroad in the 1880s. The railroad connected Washington to itself and the rest of the nation. Before this, the region’s internal isolation made it difficult to grow on our own without outside investment or assert our political voice.

If so many decisions were made outside of Washington State for us, why would we care?

State name? I’m sure there are bigger fish to fry.

Dumb state flag? Why do we need one? If we need one, who cares what it looks like? It makes sense that we’ve internalized not wanting anything nice of our own.

A Flag for the Future

So, the strongest argument for keeping the current flag is that it exists (we don’t need to expend any effort), that it’s old (seemingly historic), and that it accurately features the person our state is named after (Get it, Washington?). But even our state’s name was not our own choice. The flag serves as a reminder of that, but it doesn’t tell us anything about who we are today.

HB 1938 is not just a rejection of our current flag; it is an opportunity.

It gives us the chance to engage the public in a meaningful way and to choose a symbol that truly represents Washingtonians. Our state deserves a flag that is not just something we inherited, but something we can be inspired by.

Let’s seize this moment to create a flag that reflects the beauty, diversity, and spirit of Washington. After all, symbols matter, and so do we.

This week, there was a discussion about a couple of bills (HB 1710 and HB 1750) that would put more teeth into laws around voting and elections in how they address structural inequities against non-white voters. I’m not going to get into the details of the bills, but there was a phrase that kept on popping up throughout the discussion on the bill that I take great exception to.

“Our region does not struggle with a racist past, not the same way the deep South does.”

I take great great exception to this phrase and too many people who should obviously know better are repeating it.

What follows is a brief survey of our history around race in the Pacific Northwest. This is not an inclusive essay by any means. For example, I’ve skipped over any history regarding tribes, which should be anyone’s first stop on our troubling tour of racism in the Pacific Northwest. I also skipped over the 1920s anti-immigration laws that originated in the Pacific Northwest and our own experience with the Klan.

But, what I have tried to do here is show how we don’t need to be a slave state for the politics and the economy of the 1850s deep South to pervade our region. 

Our region has a troubling history of systemic racism rooted in the idea that the region’s economy should primarily serve white people. This foundational belief, born during the run-up to the Civil War, has shaped the Pacific Northwest’s development and continues to influence its social and economic structures. From early exclusion laws to modern-day housing policies, the region’s history reveals a persistent effort to maintain a largely white society, even as it claims to move “beyond race.”

This blog post explores the direct through-line of our historical and contemporary manifestations of racism, focusing on how economic exclusion has been central to the region’s identity.

The Founding of a White Utopia: Exclusion Laws and Economic Competition

The Pacific Northwest’s racial history begins with its founding during the mid-19th century, a time when the nation was deeply divided over slavery. While Oregon and Washington were never slave states, they were far from being bastions of racial equality. 

Early settlers, many of whom were white Appalachians fleeing the economic dominance of the slave-holding South, brought with them a vision of a free labor white utopia. This vision was codified in Oregon’s Black exclusion laws, which prohibited African Americans from living in the territory. As historian Alan Johnson notes in “Founding the Far West,” these laws were not motivated by a belief in racial equality but by a desire to protect white laborers from economic competition.

A territorial judge in Oregon encapsulated this sentiment in a ruling on a fugitive slave case, stating that slavery was incompatible with the “nature of the Oregon community.” He argued that allowing slavery would deter the influx of “free white labor,” which he described as a “fertilizing flood” essential to the region’s prosperity. In other words, the exclusion of Black people was not about moral opposition to slavery but about preserving economic opportunities for white settlers.

This early framing of the Pacific Northwest as a region for white economic advancement set the stage for a pattern of racial exclusion that would persist for generations. The region’s founding principle, that its economy should serve white people, became a cornerstone of its identity.

The Chinese Exclusion Era: Labor, Unions, Racial Scapegoating and Progressive Politics

The economic underpinnings of racism in the Pacific Northwest became even more apparent with the arrival of Chinese immigrants in the mid-19th century. Chinese laborers played a crucial role in building the region’s infrastructure, including railroads and mines, but they were met with intense hostility from white workers who viewed them as economic threats. As early as during the Civil War in 1864, the Washington Territorial Legislature enacted a discriminatory “Chinese Police Tax,” explicitly designed to discourage Chinese immigration and protect white laborers.

The anti-Chinese sentiment reached its peak in the 1880s, culminating in violent expulsions of Chinese communities from cities like Tacoma and Seattle. The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, the first federal law to bar an ethnic group from immigration, further institutionalized this discrimination. White labor unions, including the Knights of Labor, played a significant role in these exclusionary efforts, framing Chinese workers as a threat to white economic stability.

This era highlights a recurring theme in the Pacific Northwest’s history: the use of racial exclusion to protect white economic interests. Even as progressive labor movements emerged, they often coexisted with deep-seated racial prejudices, creating a paradoxical legacy of economic justice for some and systemic discrimination for others.

The infection spread into the 1890s when the country was shaken by an economic depression and Progressive politicians took control in the region. Sylvester Pennoyer, governor of Oregon from 1887 to 1895, built his political career on anti-Chinese sentiment, positioning himself as a leader of exclusionary policies in the Pacific Northwest. He campaigned on the claim that Chinese immigrants undercut white laborers, a common grievance among white workers at the time, and openly supported the Chinese Exclusion Act. His rhetoric and policies reflected a broader trend in the region, where progressive labor movements advocating for economic justice often coexisted with deep-seated racial prejudices, particularly against Chinese communities. This paradox, championing workers’ rights while simultaneously restricting them along racial lines, was a defining contradiction of Pacific Northwest progressivism.

John R. Rogers, Washington’s governor from 1897 to 1901, similarly embodied this contradiction. Though best known for his contributions to public education through the “Barefoot Schoolboy” law, Rogers also espoused anti-Semitic views, blaming economic instability on Jewish financiers in his 1892 book The Irrepressible Conflict or the American System of Money. Like Pennoyer, Rogers demonstrates how many early progressives in the region fused economic reform with exclusionary and discriminatory beliefs. Their legacies reflect both the advances and the moral failings of a movement that sought justice for some while denying it to others.

Segregation and Housing: From Restrictive Covenants to Down-zoning

The legacy of racial exclusion extended into the 20th century through housing policies designed to maintain segregated communities. Racial restrictive covenants, which prohibited property sales to non-white buyers, were widely used in cities like Seattle, Tacoma, and Spokane. These covenants, reinforced by federal redlining policies, ensured that Black, Asian, and Indigenous residents were confined to marginalized neighborhoods.

In 1964, a proposed open housing law in Seattle failed after significant resistance from local real estate interests and white homeowners. The law aimed to prevent discrimination in housing, particularly against Black residents. However, opposition was intense, with many fearing a loss of property values and an increase in racial integration. Despite strong advocacy from civil rights groups, the law was defeated in a referendum.

By 1968, a shift occurred in the political and social landscape, driven by heightened awareness of racial inequality and the Civil Rights Movement. The assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. earlier that year amplified the urgency for reforms. This led to the successful passage of a stronger open housing ordinance in Seattle. The new law prohibited housing discrimination based on race, religion, color, or national origin, marking a significant victory for civil rights activists. The 1968 law was part of a broader national movement toward racial justice, culminating in the federal Fair Housing Act later that year. The flip in Seattle’s stance between 1964 and 1968 reflected broader societal changes and the increased pressure for civil rights legislation.

Even after the Fair Housing Act of 1968 outlawed housing discrimination, Pacific Northwest cities found new ways to enforce racial exclusion. Down-zoning, reducing the density of housing in certain neighborhoods, became a tool for maintaining racial homogeneity. In Seattle, for example, neighborhoods like Queen Anne Hill were down-zoned in the 1970s, effectively limiting the construction of affordable housing and preserving the area’s white majority. Similar patterns emerged in Olympia and other cities, where down-zoning was used to prevent racial integration.

The impact of these policies is still felt today. Seattle’s historically Black Central District, once home to over 90% of the city’s Black population, has seen its Black residents displaced by rising housing costs and gentrification. The region’s history of housing discrimination underscores how economic exclusion has been central to maintaining a largely white society.

The Myth of Moving “Beyond Race”: Initiative 200 and Colorblindness, Bussing and the White Utopia Redux

In the late 20th century, the Pacific Northwest’s racial dynamics took on a new form with the rise of colorblind rhetoric. Initiative 200 (I-200), passed in Washington State in 1998, banned affirmative action in state employment, contracting, and higher education. Supporters of I-200 argued that the region should move “beyond race,” claiming that race-conscious policies were divisive and unnecessary in a supposedly post-racial society.

This rhetoric ignored the ongoing structural inequalities faced by people of color, framing racial disparities as a thing of the past. By eliminating affirmative action, I-200 effectively erased efforts to address systemic racism, reinforcing the region’s historical commitment to serving white economic interests.

The desire to move “beyond race” reflects a broader trend in the Pacific Northwest: the belief that the region’s racial problems have been solved. Yet, as the history of housing discrimination, labor exclusion, and educational inequality demonstrates, the region’s racial dynamics are far from resolved.

The issue of racial segregation in the Pacific Northwest extends beyond housing and into the realm of education. The 2007 Supreme Court case Parents Involved in Community Schools v. Seattle School District No. 1 highlighted the ongoing struggle for racial integration in schools. The case challenged Seattle’s use of race-based tiebreakers in student assignments, which aimed to maintain diversity and avoid racial isolation. The Court ruled that such practices were unconstitutional unless they were narrowly tailored to address a history of de jure segregation.

This decision reflected a broader national trend of retreating from race-conscious policies in education, even as racial disparities in schools persisted. In Seattle, the ruling effectively ended efforts to use race as a factor in school assignments, further entrenching patterns of segregation. The case underscores the tension between the region’s progressive ideals and its resistance to policies that address racial inequality.

Selling Seattle by James Lyons explores the nature of racism and white identity in the Pacific Northwest, set against the backdrop of Seattle’s cultural and historical development.

In the 1980s and 1990s, Seattle was often marketed as an urban area that “worked,” a city that avoided the strife and dysfunction seen in East Coast or California cities.

The book examines how Seattle, and the broader Pacific Northwest, has been shaped (despite marketing efforts to the contrary) by racial and ethnic tensions.

In terms of white identity, the book delves into how the Pacific Northwest has often been seen as a progressive region, but one where whiteness and white privilege have been maintained and even normalized in certain ways. It challenges the notion that the Pacific Northwest is a “colorblind” or racially neutral space, highlighting how the dominance of white identity has persisted in both subtle and overt forms throughout the region’s development.

Lyons acknowledges that, despite the region’s progressive image, the Pacific Northwest has a complex history of exclusion, segregation, and inequality, particularly toward Indigenous peoples and communities of color. He emphasizes that while Seattle may appear multicultural, the region’s structural and social systems often favor white residents, perpetuating the legacy of racism.

The book also highlights that the struggle for racial justice in Seattle and the broader Pacific Northwest involves both historical and contemporary issues, including ongoing battles around gentrification, immigration, and representation in local media and politics. Lyons argues that the region’s cultural identity—often associated with “liberal” values—can sometimes obscure these deeper racial challenges.

In the 1980s and 1990s, the Pacific Northwest became a destination for white Californians seeking a “functional urban environment.” This influx of white residents further reinforced the region’s racial homogeneity, as many of these newcomers were drawn to the area’s reputation as a progressive, largely white society. The promise of the original settlers—that the region would be a haven for white economic advancement, was largely fulfilled, creating a self-perpetuating cycle of racial exclusion.

This era also saw the rise of the “post-racial” narrative, which framed the Pacific Northwest as a region that had moved beyond race. This narrative ignored the ongoing structural inequalities faced by communities of color, reinforcing the idea that the region’s racial problems had been solved. The reality, however, was far more complex, as the region continued to grapple with issues of housing discrimination, educational inequality, and economic exclusion.

The Pacific Northwest’s history of racism is rooted in the idea that its economy should primarily serve white people. There is a straight line black exclusion laws and Chinese expulsion of the 19th century to the down-zoning policies of the 20th century, the region has consistently prioritized white economic interests at the expense of communities of color. This legacy continues to shape the region’s social and economic landscape, even as it claims to move “beyond race.”

We’ve already seen how this idea of “moving beyond race” was central to the debate around Initiative 200 in 1998 and into the decision to challenge school desegregation system.

The Pacific Northwest’s promise of a “white utopia” has come at a steep cost. It’s time to reckon with that cost and build a region that lives up to its progressive ideals. This requires not only recognizing the past but also taking concrete steps to address the structural inequalities that continue to shape the lives of people of color in the region. By doing so, we can begin to create a Pacific Northwest that truly serves everyone, regardless of race.

The Pacific Northwest’s history of racism is deeply intertwined with its economic priorities, from the exclusion laws of the 19th century to the down-zoning policies of the 20th century. This legacy continues to shape the region’s social and economic landscape, even as it claims to move “beyond race.”

This history continues to shape our communities today, and a deeper understanding of our past equips us to better address the challenges we face now. While the Pacific Northwest is not the post-slavery South, it has its own legacy of racism, one that is as significant and damaging as Jim Crow, yet distinct in its origins and manifestations. 

Comparing chattel slavery to exclusionary practices is not the right starting point. Instead, we must confront our own history directly, on its own terms, and grapple with the unique ways racism has been woven into the fabric of our region. Only by doing so can we begin to dismantle its enduring effects and move toward a more just and equitable future.