Trying to pin down the legacy of one politician belies a certain kind of ignorance. Anyone who’s been involved in politics knows that no one player calls the shots. The sheer complexity of political machinations makes it nearly impossible to figure out who to blame — or who to praise.
But we do it anyway. It’s convenient.
When things go wrong, it gives us a target for our wrath. When that pothole wrecks our suspension. When our view gets blocked. When the local police chief shoots his wife and then kills himself in front of their kids.
When things go right, the local figurehead is honor bound to praise everyone involved, eclipsing his own involvement for humility’s sake — or because the press is there and someone might be hurt if his name doesn’t get mentioned. No politician likes to take credit for his achievements unless it’s election season. And at that point, no one is really listening.
Over time, politicians are dehumanized in a way that no one else can imagine. They become synonymous with the decisions they make and the impacts those decisions have on the lives of their constituents. The person is eclipsed by the station he holds and the issues he wrestles with on our behalf.
Sure, some of them screw up. And yes, some of them are evil bastards. Some politicians seem downright inhuman.
But Bill Baarsma isn’t one of those.
You can hear it in his voice. It’s quiet and not the least bit nervous. As he describes his conversion from staunch Republican to old-fashioned populist Democrat; as he revisits days as a White House intern; as he recalls his tenure as student advisor to the University of Puget Sound’s Black Student Union and participation in antiwar protest marches; and decades later, as he laments the presence of a private prison for immigrants on the Tacoma Tideflats one thing becomes clear — many of us never knew the real Bill Baarsma.
I’m sticking my neck out here when I say he’s kind of a badass.
Wild Bill, meet Tacoma. Tacoma, meet Wild Bill.
Harry Truman was the Devil
Baarsma was born into a family of staunch conservatives. His mother was active in Republican politics, and his father carried on a family legacy of conservative political outlook.
“Harry Truman was the devil,” says Baarsma. “In 1960, you’ll find my name on the Citizens for Nixon list. My mother was so upset when he lost.”
Baarsma fell in line with his family’s values for a time, he says, but began to change thanks to onetime State Supreme Court Chief Justice Frank Hale. Baarsma was the best friend of one of Hale’s sons and would receive quizzes and lectures on Socratic method during car trips with the judge. Critical thinking skills began to erode Baarsma’s faith in his parents’ politics. By the time he was enrolled at the University of Puget Sound, Baarsma was teetering on the edge of the ideological fence.
“I went through a transformation in my thinking,” he says.
Another blow was struck when John F. Kennedy paid a visit to the UPS campus in 1963. Baarsma was editor of the student newspaper at the time and was impressed by Kennedy’s from-the-hip speech about the importance of a liberal arts education and his fearless plunge into the crowd, where he balked at Secret Service agents’ wishes and shook hands for nearly an hour.
“Some would say he was reckless,” says Baarsma.
It must have rubbed off a bit. Baarsma says he became a certified liberal Democrat by the time he graduated from UPS.
In 1964, Baarsma was awarded the Scottish Rite Foundation fellowship for graduate studies — a full ride doctoral fellowship that landed him at George Washington University in Washington, D.C. It was there he worked with legendary U.S. Sen. Henry “Scoop” Jackson; heard stories about Kennedy’s womanizing from a roommate who interned at the White House; discovered while working as a bartender at high-profile fund-raisers which senators liked to pound full glasses of vodka; and earned his master’s degree.
He returned to UPS at the beckoning of then director of Business and Economics Department Booth Gardner, who asked Baarsma to take a position within his department. Baarsma took the job that would lead him into a 33-year teaching career.
We just read the script
It was shortly after taking the teaching position that Baarsma was encouraged to become student advisor to the Black Student Union. Keep in mind that this request came during a tumultuous time for race relations on college campuses and across the country. At UPS, many black students had adopted the demeanor of the increasingly popular and politically potent Black Panther Party.
Imagine for a moment a young Baarsma sitting before a group of stone-faced black students in berets, sunglasses and black leather jackets, telling them he was to be their new student advisor.
“They were obviously very dubious about the bearded Caucasian college professor sitting before them,” he says. “I promised that by the end of the school year we would have someone they would be more comfortable working with.”
But Baarsma took the challenge — and the role — as seriously as he did everything else. Thanks to connections through his first wife, who was close friends with the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., Baarsma helped bring high-profile guests to campus, including leader of the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party Fannie Lou Hamer and Southern Christian Leadership Conference magnate Hosea Williams. During his tenure as BSU advisor, he got a taste of the political fire that surrounded racial politics during the Civil Rights movement. He went to bat for BSU members when a favorite professor was denied tenure. He arranged scripted meetings when suspicions arose that BSU meetings were being monitored by the FBI and oversaw real meetings, held in secret at alternative locations.
“This was a time when there was a lot of concern about the Black Power movement. We never had real meetings where we were supposed to,” he says. “We just read a script and had a real meeting somewhere else. We were absolutely convinced that our meeting room was bugged.”
The FBI was there with video cameras
Shortly thereafter, the antiwar movement reached its peak as members of the Ohio National Guard fired 67 rounds into a crowd of student protesters at Kent State University, killing four and wounding nine others. UPS was among hundreds of universities that shut down as some four million students went on strike to protest the shootings. Baarsma was among those who attended what he describes as a huge meeting outside Jones Hall. Baarsma — accompanied by notables such as then UPS Chaplain Jeff Smith, a.k.a. the Frugal Gourmet — marched with the UPS football team’s linemen, who carried coffins in memory of the students who had been killed.
“The entire downtown was shut down,” says Baarsma. “We’re talking thousands of people marching through the streets. The FBI was there with video cameras.”
Parting shots
There comes a time in every article that the writer runs out of room and has to employ cheap tricks to wrap things up. What you’ve read is just a taste of what we’ve missed. So you’re not left with the sense that Baarsma has abandoned his populist roots, I leave you with his thoughts on the Northwest Detention Center, arguably the most important populist issue facing Tacoma today.
For those who don’t know, the Northwest Detention Center is a private prison for immigrants on the Tacoma Tideflats that has been called out for perpetrating a laundry list of human rights abuses by organizations such as Seattle-based One America. The decision to allow the facility to be built on the tideflats happened before Baarsma’s time on City Council, he says.
“If I had been mayor at the time, I would have used as much political capital as I could to kill that project,” he says. “I would have tried to stop it — and could have. I just couldn’t stomach it.”
Baarsma was, however, in office when the city granted building permits for the facility. At the time, he was advised by City Manager Eric Anderson and city attorneys that opposing the permits would only lead to lawsuits. Baarsma wishes he had been afforded the power of a strong mayor, wherein the elected mayor has plenty of administrative authority. Tacoma functions with a weak-mayor structure, wherein much of the decision making power rests with City Council and the city manager’s office.
“If I was a strong mayor, it would have been different,” he says.
Damn if I don’t believe him.