It is a truth universally acknowledged that politicians as a class are scoundrels. Yet as you narrow into the local and concrete, an electorate’s opinion of its own officialdom is usually not so dire.
Most residents hold their mayors, councilors, supervisors, aldermen, school board members, or other local elected officials with a mixture of respect, gratitude, and curiosity.
I served four years on the City Council in Charlottesville. Here, I consider common misapprehensions, or just questions, citizens may have of their elected leaders.
The first concerns transparency. Residents often complain that decision-making is not transparent. Yet, open meeting laws mitigate against political opacity. In most places, it is simply illegal for more than two board members to privately confer about official business.
Rules around the number of “readings” (typically two for something important) and requirements for public hearings also lessen the risk. Further, meetings, and their agendas, must be properly “noticed” – that is, posted in a standard, public way, with several days heads up.
There are allowances for closed meetings. In Virginia, these are permitted for sensitive legal, personnel or real estate matters. Yet, even these must be entered, and exited, by a formal vote. This seems the soul of reason.
The noble goal of utter transparency can be taken too far. Some people argue that absolutely no one-to-one conversations among officials should be allowed. Yet, this would make every official meeting an exhausting, quasi-Groundhog Day event. It would also make for poorer decisions. Elected officials are humans. Wrestling with a controversial question sometimes requires consulting a colleague.
Transparency bleeds into “input.” My city has a very engaged citizenry. Tons of smart people with strong views. This is a better “problem” than the opposite. Yet, what may seem utterly clear when out on your morning jog – e.g., the unhoused need a place to be as soon as possible – requires navigating a thicket of difficult choices. If it were straightforward to fix, odds are it would have been.
Balancing resident input with that of professional staff is also tricky. Take a (regional) jail renovation. It is possible to be so opposed to the carceral system (for social justice reasons) that basic obligations for humane facilities are overridden.
In this example, an open-ended design process created expectations amongst activists that simply couldn’t be met. Balancing professional expertise, state requirements, and regional obligations meant the “solution set” was narrow. When the jail board finally did its job and made a decision, the option selected made few people happy. Moreover, due to the delays, construction inflation meant less scope could be procured. For all that, some residents still believe the process was insufficiently transparent.
Your elected official is a member of a team. That includes not only the other “electeds,” but also (for most jurisdictions) the city manager or county executive.
I served with colleagues who acted in good faith, believed I did as well, and sincerely cared for all residents. Not every official is so lucky. Indeed, I was elected on a remit to stabilize a City Council many felt had lost its way.
That instability had several causes: A grievous external shock. The insistence by some that, historically, they had been unseen and unheard. The pandemic. An overdue reckoning that we had outgrown “small town” status and thus needed to plan / fund / act like the city we are.
People serve in these local roles for various reasons. My observation is that, by and large, they are well-intentioned. After all, the job is insufficiently glamorous to attract electoral prima donnas.
Yet, the desire to “transcend” the essence of the job is tempting. Motivations like a stepping stone to higher office, axe-grinding, score-settling, or vectoring in on a hot-button issue to advance a narrow interest – these are as common in local politics as they are at one’s job.
Our city had a vigorous debate over civility. Many argued it was a “coded” way to shut down voices that had historically been marginalized. Anger and disruptiveness were not only justified; they were necessary to change the status quo.
This argument has some merit. Yet, you can’t make decisions if you can’t hear. And if the goal is to reach Dr. King’s Beloved Community – rather than simply rearranging the deck chairs of power and hierarchy – there must be some fundamental, empathetic appreciation of “the other.” Both moral facts and practical constraints mean that finding a way to talk, to understand, to disagree is the prerequisite for social progress.
My colleagues and I sought to model this in regard to the public, city staff, and among ourselves. There was very little acrimony during my four years. I am proud of that. We also got a lot of big, progressive things done. More doing, less talking.
Finally, though trite it is nonetheless true – your elected leader is human. These positions are hard. They don’t pay much. It’s no fun to be jeered by an angry crowd. There are so many meetings that a seat cushion should be issued with the oath of office.
True, a politician stepped up, volunteered, put themselves out there. They should be held accountable. It is a public trust.
Yet, it does not follow that they are omniscient. Decision-fatigue is a thing. They may make mistakes (I know I did). They may even change their minds (I also did that.)
Your elected official may have personal factors weighing on them. I never came close to resigning, yet I can understand why someone might. I had a full-time day job. My adult kids needed my help. It was a lot. The role can also be fairly isolating.
I got into politics to help people – bottom line. Most other officials do so, as well. Consider reaching out, getting coffee, trying to understand. You might even consider serving yourself. Our democracy depends on “regular people” stepping up. Your community needs you.
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