A PERSONAL POINT OF PRIVILEGE: Elected Officials Don’t Swear Loyalty to Their Party

What if my job isn’t to agree with you?

What if it’s not even to convince you that I’m right?

What if it’s (to borrow an increasingly unpopular idea) just to represent you?

All of you. Whether you vote. Whether you scream. Whether you send me angry emails accusing me of selling out to the Left, the Right, Big Ag, Big Drag, or the ghost of George Soros.

Because if we’re still pretending this is a representative democracy (and I think we are), then it might be worth remembering: elected officials don’t swear loyalty to their party. Their job isn’t to defend a tribe, it’s to serve the public. All of it. Not just the voters who cheer, but the ones who roll their eyes, send blistering emails, or think government itself is the problem.

I know. Wild.

 

People Are Mad. Good.

This past week, the volume knob broke.

MAGA world is mad at Trump for not releasing the Epstein files. Oregon farmers are mad about regulations that make it harder to sell rhubarb by the roadside. Progressives are mad about immigration and due process. Fiscal conservatives are mad about gas taxes. ODOT employees are mad because their jobs might be eliminated if there’s no transportation package. And everyone, everywhere, seems to be mad at me, for talking to people they don’t like.

Some want to recall me. Some want to primary me. Some want to excommunicate me from whatever political church they think I belong to.

Here’s the thing: I’m glad people are mad. Anger means people still care. What worries me more is the idea that we’ve stopped believing we can be mad together. Without turning it into tribal warfare.

This Is Not a Faith Tradition

Somewhere along the line, political parties started to act like denominations. You’re either elect or you’re apostate. You speak the right slogans or you’re cast into outer darkness (or at least the comment section).

But government is not a church. And I’m not your pastor.

Representation isn’t about enforcing doctrine. It’s about listening to people who often disagree with each other, who live in the same state anyway, and trying to keep the place from falling apart.

You don’t have to be a moderate to believe this. You just have to be an adult.

I Stopped at a Protest. Not Because I’m Brave, Because I Work Here.

Last week I was in Tillamook, driving to get the oil changed in one of the kids’ cars. On the way, I passed a protest. Hand-painted signs. Upset (maybe some were angry) people. The kind of gathering that makes campaign consultants whisper “Don’t engage.”

So naturally, I stopped.

I didn’t stop because I thought I could win anyone over. I didn’t stop because I had a great speech locked and loaded. I stopped because, brace yourself, I thought listening might be the responsible thing to do.

Some people were surprised. Some didn’t know who I was. Some did, and weren’t thrilled. One man wouldn’t shake my hand. One woman cried (tears of joy). Another asked me about reproductive rights. Most said something along the lines of: “Thank you for being here. It means a lot.”

Nothing magical happened. I didn’t convert the crowd. We didn’t form a bipartisan drum circle. But for a few minutes, people were seen. And being seen, in a democracy, still matters.

Backyard MAGA and the Quiet Power of Civility

Then, later that same week, I went to a Farm Bureau meeting. A backyard, some lawn chairs, a handful of MAGA hats, and a whole lot of concern about Oregon’s treatment of farmers.

And let’s be clear, these folks aren’t pundits or keyboard warriors. They’re dairy farmers, seed growers, small family ranchers. The kind of people who are up at 3 a.m. in the pitch dark. They work when it’s muddy, frozen, flooded, or on fire. Hauling feed, pulling calves, or dealing with yet another broken pump in the freezing rain. No assistants. No corporate safety net. Just them, their land, and the constant pressure to make it work.

The work is relentless, dirty, and essential, and they do it not for attention. They do it because somebody has to feed the rest of us.

They’re not asking for applause. They’re asking for a little room to breathe. One season without a new rule dropped on their heads. One year where keeping the family farm isn’t treated like a zoning violation.

Now, one of those farmers—one of the guys sitting in that backyard—had previously emailed me to say I was a failure as a father. Why? Because my son is gay. Because my kids are Democrats.

Tough crowd? Maybe.

But here’s the thing: they still let me sit down. They still asked questions. They still listened.

And at the end, that same guy who had emailed me, shook my hand and said, “Thanks for being here.”

He didn’t change his mind. He didn’t suddenly become a fan.
But he saw that I showed up anyway. Hopefully, he saw that I think he matters.
Is that unity? No. But it’s a start.

The Hardest Thing to Represent Is Disagreement

You see, we like to pretend that empathy means agreement. It doesn’t.

I can think your opinion is dead wrong and still think your frustration is valid. I can believe you’re making a bad argument and still believe you deserve to be heard. Representation is not about mirroring your views, it’s about honoring your place in the system.

That’s the gig. And yes, it’s a hard one.

Why This Is Risky (And Why That’s the Point)

People ask why more politicians don’t do this? Why don’t they walk into protests, sit in backyards, face the heat? Here’s the unromantic answer: it’s politically stupid.

It doesn’t win you easy points. It opens you to criticism from all sides. It makes you look weak to the strong and strong to the weak and dishonest to both.

But that’s why it matters.

The incentives in politics are broken. Right now, you’re rewarded for sounding certain, not for being curious. For dominating the opposition, not learning from it. For posturing, not governing.

And still… someone has to govern.

So Let Me Ask That Question Again

What if my job isn’t to agree with you?

What if it’s not to defend your tribe or parrot your outrage or win the next news cycle?

What if it’s just—dangerously, boringly, stubbornly—to represent you?

That means the farmers who think I’m too liberal. The protestors who assume I’m too conservative. The folks who cheer when I speak, and the ones who cross their arms and wait for me to mess up.

The ones who send thank-you notes, and the ones who send scripture verses followed by a threat.

I don’t have to agree with you to believe you matter. And you don’t have to like me for me to do my job.

That’s not a loophole in the system. It’s the system.

I’ll Be in Astoria. Bring Questions, Not Tomatoes.

If you want to see what this looks like in real time, I’ll be holding a town hall at the Port of Astoria on Wednesday, July 31 at 6:30 PM.

You don’t have to agree with me. You don’t even have to like me. Just show up. I’ll be there, ready to listen. Whether you come with a compliment, a question, or a list of grievances that would make the Federalist Papers look like a bumper sticker, you are invited.

This is your state. And I work for you. All of you.

Even the ones who think I’m doing it all wrong.