BLIND SPOTS: A CITIZEN'S MEMOIR

By Jay Thomas Taber

This personal account of the experience of an ordinary person-thrust into the public arena by circumstances beyond his control-exposes political conflict at the community level as the basis of self-government. What the author learned as he grew into the role of public citizen is vital to the restoration of our republic.

Set in 1990s Puget Sound between Seattle and the Canadian border, Blind Spots is the story of how industrial-backed terrorism-using racial and religious divisions-undermined elections and stifled societal debate. How a handful of people responded to this travesty and reclaimed the public realm, illustrates the effectiveness of the public health model in containing the disease of aggression. As they came to understand the New Right strategy of fear, hate and revenge, they also realized the power of moral sanction.

As more Americans awake to the disaster that currently befalls our republic, they will need reassurance and guidance in setting things right. Blind Spots will give them the courage to exercise their duties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 21, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469734880

Jay Thomas Taber

Jay Taber served as director of a public-interest coalition in the mid 1990s. In 2000, he received the Defender of Democracy Award for organizing opposition to Anti-Indian violence and racism in Washington State. Jay and his partner Marianne live near San Francisco where he writes short stories.

Book preview

 1 

The entire route of the four alternatives proposed for the Whatcom Connector traversed the most extensively used non-public recreation area in the county—Lookout Mountain—which also constitutes half of the Lake Whatcom watershed, the only municipal reservoir in Whatcom County, and the only public water supply capable of providing reliable tap water should the Nooksack River be closed to further withdrawals to save the threatened salmon runs, a remedy already hinted at by the National Marine Fisheries Service.

The Nooksack Tribe, in an effort to reclaim spawning habitat above the City of Bellingham water diversion dam on the Nooksack River’s middle fork, had begun to press for its removal. The diversion from the Nooksack River into Lake Whatcom was apparently all that was keeping the reservoir flushed of car oil, lawn pesticides, toxic waste and untreated sewage. Diluted is perhaps a better term than flushed, since the mixing currents in the lake are somewhat erratic, but flushed more accurately conveys the usage of the three basins that make up the lake as a giant toilet. The Nooksack and Lummi Indians were not about to let the salmon be extirpated to bail out the fools and felons in local government.

Total maximum daily loads of pollutants from agriculture, logging and municipal waste treatment plants in the Nooksack riverside communities of Everson, Lynden, and Ferndale, already exceeded federal limits. The irreversible contamination of Lake Whatcom would turn Bellingham—former home of the largest salmon cannery in the world and former base of the Pacific American Fisheries fleet, as well as refuge of immigrant Cornish coal miners, Yugoslavian fishermen, and Norwegian loggers—into a ghost town.

Business boosters and the Bellingham Herald continued to reinforce the bulwark of denial that harbored the descendants ofthese European settlers yearning for another economic boom, easy money from real estate windfalls, and the continuation oftheir desecrating way oflife. Their behavior showed they were oblivious to the consequences that had come home to roost in community after community in the western United States.

It was within this broader context that Mrs. Wells and I began to think about the current dilemma of Sudden Valley’s traffic woes. A handful of County planners supported our assessment of this disaster in progress. People like Terry

Galvin, Vicki Matheson, and Carl Batchelor went out of their way to show us information and documents that confirmed our fears. Some ofthese led me to the vaults at city hall where records of lawsuits between Bellingham, Water District #10, and Whatcom County detailed the public health hazards and agency liabilities. Bellingham Public Works maintained entire file cabinets containing official correspondence on the topic. I spent hours there copying files.

Rather than continuing to implement the shortsighted plans ofthe late nine-teen-sixties, we were of a mind that the county needed to reverse these policies before they created a public health crisis beyond their control. But suggesting a one hundred-eighty degree turn in land use policy was beyond the scope of our role at the meeting in Geneva; for that we merely needed to let the county government know that not everyone was thrilled with their idea, in particular those whose homes might be bulldozed in the process.

Concerned that my neighbors might get lost looking for the Geneva school, I painted four by four foot plywood signs to place at key intersections along the route. The evening of the meeting, Marianne and I left early, putting up the signs on our way. As the time approached, we went inside and waited for our neighbors and Sherilyn to arrive.

At the front ofthe stuffy, mono-colored, windowless room was an overweight man in a dark suit setting up a flip chart and easels holding statistical graphics. Seated in the front rowwere a group ofimmaculately coiffed middle-aged men in suits amicably chatting amongst themselves. Across the room from us was a woman I recognized as County Executive Shirley Van Zanten, a stern, no-nonsense former school librarian from Lynden, and a leather-faced bespectacled man with a plastic-lined shirt pocket that sported several colored pens. He was carrying a handle-less brown vinyl briefcase and wearing black cowboy boots under brown polyester trousers held up by a large rodeo-style belt buckle. I couldn’t help noticing his persistent blinking, as though he had a nervous twitch from drinking too much instant coffee, or perhaps from years of brow-beating by his wife, his superiors, or Dutch Reform preachers.

Just before seven, about twenty of my neighbors filed in in shorts, sandals and summer shirts and sat in the middle of the room expecting an explanation for why they’d been left out ofthe picture.

The guy up front said, "Welcome, I’m the Whatcom Connector project manager from Reid-Middleton Consultants. Whatcom County hired us to propose alternative highway routes, to run public informational meetings, and to produce a report for the County Council. These maps behind me show the proposed alternatives. The big red stick-on dots are the places where we’ve held public meetings.

There were several dots in Sudden Valley, the highway’s destination, and that night’s in Geneva, one mile east of town. To me and my neighbors’ astonishment, there were no dots in Bellingham; the unfairness ofthe process could not have been more glaring. The man in charge then pronounced, This is the final meeting. All the comments we’ve received so far have been supportive, with some minor concerns that will be addressed during the design phase. The front row was all smiles.

Seizing this golden opportunity, with Marianne attempting to control my rage by gently placing her hand on my arm, I stood and intrepidly interrupted the consultant. "Why aren’t there any red dots in Whatcom Falls, the only place where homes’ll be bulldozed for the highway?" The presenter flushed beet red from the neck up; the County Engineer, Ed Henken, hugged his vinyl briefcase and slowly backed up toward the rear ofthe room. Sizing me up, the stone-faced County Executive cast a prying glance my way, aware that I spelled trouble.

The consultant quickly back-pedaled, explaining, Exact routing hasn’t been determined yet. We might be able to avoid condemning homes by turning one of your neighborhood streets into a major arterial. Evidently, in his desperate attempt to quell this uprising, he forgot that Raymond and Roland streets are quiet dead-ends; majorarterial was only slightly less inflammatory than highway. This was all it took for my neighbors, especially the men, to jump in. When asked, Which street do you have in mind? the consultant said, I don’t know, to which Don Radder replied in a loud, clearly irritated voice, "Well, we’d really like to know!"

I think it was Bryan McDonald who said, Ifyou’re being paid by the County to inform us, how come we never heard ofthis? Jim Nelson chimed in, I guess you’ve got your non-supportive comments now! Most of my neighbors got up and walked out.

The consultant was so upset he abbreviated the evening’s presentation considerably. I was still calming down a halfhour later, and must have drank a gallon of water from the low-hung children’s drinking fountain in the hall. Outside, my neighbors were feeling their oats. They’d made their feelings about the shabby treatment crystal clear. Marianne and I joyfully loaded up the signs by flashlight on our way home.

At the first hearing on the Connector in front ofthe County Council, Chairman Dan Warner, attempting to soothe our fears, announced that the study undertaken by Reid-Middleton was only preliminary. No decisions had been made one way or the other. When he finished his opening remarks, he allowed us each the three customary minutes to speak our minds. It was more than I needed. I simply pointed out, The one hundred thousand dollar contract between What-com County and Reid-Middleton specifically states they will facilitate public participation. I assume this was intended to meet the public participation requirements recently enacted by the State Legislature in the Growth Management Act. By holding no meetings in Whatcom Falls, it’s clear to me that Reid-Middleton has breached this contract, and any subsequent action by the Council is vulnerable to legal challenge as a violation of the procedural rules under GMA.

Warner said, We don’t respond to threats. We get sued all the time.

From my seat, I replied, We’re not threatening you. We’re just informing you that if you proceed in violation of the law, you leave us no choice. My neighbors, crowded in the sweltering hall and doorway ofthe overflowing Council chambers murmured, That’s right.

The next morning, the phone rang right after breakfast. Mr. Taber?

Speaking.

This is Bob Woods, budget analyst for the County Council. Chairman Warner asked me to call you and Mrs. Wells to see ifyou’d be willing to meet with me to discuss what you think would be a satisfactory public participation process. I’m supposed to write a report.

Sure, why not. When do you want to meet?

Would this morning be all right?

Bob was a large jovial man who resembled Oliver Hardy right down to the mustache. He was formerly an IRS employee, and had been hired by the What-com County Council to assist them in reviewing budgets proposed by the County Executive, as well as other analytical tasks. We hit it offimmediately, and went to work on the report.

I said, "First, you gotta let people know what’s goin’ on. The newspaper isn’t enough. People should get notices in the mail. Run radio ads. Put up large plywood signs like, This Neighborhood To Be Bulldozed—Call Whatcom County Public Works."

Bob laughed and said, So what kind ofparticipation should we do? Informational? Educational? Active involvement?

All three! I replied. It should be up to individuals to choose, depending on their level of interest and time available. That way it’s meaningful to everyone who’s interested. You know—present information, pass out primers, conduct workshops.

Huh, he said, that could get expensive.

More expensive than lawsuits? I queried.

You got a point.

Not to mention the bad will.

Bob wrote a fine report. The Council clearly understood our position.

Subsequent Reid-Middleton presentations that summer to the public works committee and the full County Council fared no better. With each passing day, we became more informed on transportation funding, zoning, public process requirements under the State ofWashington’s Growth ManagementAct (GMA), and issues related to pollution ofLake Whatcom. By the time ofhis last visit to Whatcom County that fall, Reid-Middleton’s public meeting expert reluctantly surrendered; overwhelmed by all the evidence we’d produced, he could not recommend moving the project forward. In December 1991, the County Council accepted his opinion and deep-sixed the Connector, removing it entirely from their six-year Transportation Improvement Program.

 2 

Over the six months the Whatcom Connector fiasco played itselfout, local builders, realtors, and developers dramatically feigned the end of the American way of life. A way of life, in my opinion, that needed to end. More disconcerting than these fraudulent theatrics, I was struck by the decidedly biased position the Bell-ingham Herald had taken. Somewhat naively, I was surprised when the paper promoted the road as the solution to Lake Whatcom problems. I was particularly incensed by misleading headlines like Road Would Halve Lakeway Traffic. I had a lot to learn about censorship.

Part ofmy naivete stems from my confidence since childhood in being able to communicate well with strangers and bring people together; the other part stemmed from my comfort—indeed fascination—with the diversity of cultures that exist side by side in Whatcom County: Lynden’s Dutch Reform Christian fundamentalists; Ferndale’s redneck Indian-fighting pioneers; Blaine’s Canadian border commerce in adult movie houses; Bellingham’s Audubon/Mountaineer/ Huxley College Birkenstockers; and Deming loggers who put on an annual show of pole-climbing, log-rolling, and axe-throwing contests.

On Saturday nights, after scenic drives up the north fork to Glacier and Mount Shuksan, these five subcultures often converged on the Deming Tavern (near the Nooksack Casino) for eighteen ounce steaks, deep-fried shrimp baskets, and enormous baked potatoes covered with cheddar cheese, sour cream, bacon-bits, and chives. Despite our differences, it seemed to me that through regular contact—usually involving alcohol, bluegrass music, or marijuana—all but the Christian fanatics (who tolerated none ofthe above) considered themselves part of a rather bizarre but cohesive outpost isolated by the Chuckanut Range and the Canadian border. We made fun of each other now and then, but we were united in our opposition to Canadians and Californians who drove up land prices and property taxes and blighted our landscape with shoddy recreational developments like Sudden Valley, Peaceful Valley and Paradise Lakes.

As we entered the fall nineteen ninety-one electoral campaign season, the final recommendations from the Natural Heritage Task Force were nearly ready to present to the County Council. All that was left was one last public input meeting to be held in the small logging and tourism community ofMaple Falls, on the

Mount Baker Highway adjacent to the north fork ofthe Nooksack River. Maple Falls was going through rough times as a result ofthe timber wars in the nearby Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest. People there were understandably suspicious of government plans that might lock up additional natural resources on state forest lands. The only time I read about Maple Falls in the paper was when someone was busted for