By Jodi Jones
A few weeks ago, I cast the first vote I have come to regret. The story of that vote is a portent of risk and opportunity hidden in the humble microcosm that is local government. I wrote this story for those who feel American democracy is eroding, for those who yearn for greater bipartisanship, and for those who want connection in their communities.
In local government, committees are where the sausage is made. The Public Safety committee here in Washington County, Tennessee, usually meets around dinner time. On this particular October night, a feeling of weary resolve filled the room along with volunteer firemen from rural outposts, emergency management leadership, deputies, and constables. We hammered out agreements on mutual aid, considered the purchase of life-saving equipment, and resolved to auction off well used Ford F150s. The Sheriff asked for permission to destroy 50 firearms that could not be resold, which gave much heartburn to one of my fellow commissioners, a rural farmer. “Don’t worry, my friend,” I said to him, winking, “they will make more.”
In a room full of fellas, I hope these quips are endearing. I’m the only female in the larger 15-member body and the only elected Democrat in the seven-county region of Northeast Tennessee. I am finishing my second term, and I have been well armored for a tough political and decision-making environment. But underneath that armor I’m still a sensitive person who registers love and pain. I might make quips, but I seek connection. Getting to know people from all over my county, especially in the rural surroundings of my town (“outside my bubble”), is a big part of what is satisfying about the job.
After our first round of business was completed, the sheriff asked commissioners to approve an agreement between the county jail and ICE known as “287(g).” The sheriff explained: This agreement does not include deputies picking up undocumented individuals “off the streets.” Put simply, he said, this memorandum of understanding (MOU) doesn’t change anything except an administrative aspect of the transfer of undocumented individuals to ICE — individuals in the jail who have been charged with a crime, received due process, and already have an ICE detainer.
I really like our sheriff. Of course, as with most folks I encounter in our county, our politics couldn’t be further apart. I once made the naive mistake of asking him about red-flag laws and the conversation turned in a way I couldn’t salvage. Still, he has truly “leveled up” our county jail. He has championed mental-health and substance-abuse services for inmates, which previously did not exist. He has worked to establish deflection and specialty court programs that get folks the care they need without jail time.
The ICE agreement passed through committee and was heard again by the full board of commissioners at the end of the month. Those weeks between committee and board flew by, as they often do. The commission packet — an inch-thick slab — is published and ready on Wednesday afternoon for the meeting the following Monday, but with a full-time job, a teenager at home and everything else, I don’t often get to read it until I get to my Sunday morning cup of coffee. The agenda had a number of items of concern for me, including a janky bid process and a contentious zoning request. I spent a bunch of time on those two items, making phone calls and learning what I could.
I reviewed the ICE agreement again: What exactly could I object to here? If these folks have a detainer, then ICE is already coming for them, right? Does it really matter if our jail administers that? What arguments could I reasonably raise against this? I was drawing a blank. This MOU had garnered no news stories, and no phone call or email objections from citizens.
And so I voted yes, and the measure passed unanimously.
The story of the agreement aired on local TV channels with headlines that made me grit my teeth, like, “Washington County Commissioners Agree to Partnership with ICE.” My mother texted me the stories, “Did you vote on this?” I carefully avoid the toxic landscape of social media comments, but it appeared that some in my community had jumped to conclusions about the reach of this agreement. I am leery of anyone who is shouting from their corner, but I value my relationship with my constituents, and I have worked hard to earn their trust. What did they think of my decision? I felt a new kind of unease: a harbinger of regret.
When I won my first election in 2018, surrounded by a sea of pink pussy hats, I felt certain I would be a lightning rod for partisan politics. In fact, I was told it would be so, and I came to the commission wholly prepared to be “the Democrat” in all things. But the work of local government disarmed me. I made friends. I spent time in far-flung corners of our county, learning about worlds vastly different from my own. Before long, I found commission work to be not only a respite from the divisive narrative of our times but a kind of panacea to it.
Regardless of the national headlines, our board comes together in our county’s historic courthouse with small talk and handshakes. We say a prayer that almost always contains gratitude for living here in our mountain town. We pledge allegiance to the flag, sigh deeply, and then sit down to make decisions about purchasing new buses, auctioning land for affordable housing, or funding a new roof at the health department. When we finish our meetings, we walk out into the cool evening air and chat about our families, car troubles, and vacation plans.
Seeing ICE on our county commission agenda here in rural Southern Appalachia was startling; it was the first instance I can recall in which a national policy that triggers polarized responses had made its way to the local level. I responded by deploying the pragmatic process I have always used in local decision-making. I concerned myself only with what decision would be right for my constituents, putting party politics aside.
I have a Facebook page where I try to keep constituents informed. Here and there, I write a few paragraphs to help folks understand a complex decision. I found I was leery to post about this decision. I feared it could turn my gentle, non-partisan social media brand into a hellscape. But I decided it was the right thing to do. I explained my decision as forthrightly as I could and asked the community to email me with any new information or differing opinions.
The comments on my post were respectful. But, over the next 10 days, I received several well written letters from community members who expressed appreciation and respect for my work but politely disagreed with my decision, citing legal and cost implications evidenced by other counties that had implemented 287(g). They also cited concerns about the agreement’s impact on the perceptions of the migrant farming community, many of whom might be afraid to work or seek healthcare. They cited concerns in principle with any agreement with ICE, an organization that they viewed as acting in ways that are unconstitutional or inhumane.
These constituents made great points, and I spent a week feeling incredibly disappointed in myself. I talked it through with over a dozen confidantes who assured me I did my best and reminded me that a “no” vote would not have changed the outcome (which would have almost certainly proceeded 14–1). I called defense attorneys and a General Sessions judge and the sheriff. Almost everyone assured me the agreement will likely make no difference in the outcome for undocumented individuals in our county.
None of those calls helped me shake a profound feeling of regret. It hung over me for days.
A terrifying thought I had in those days was that I had fallen into what Hannah Arendt called “the banality of evil,” a term that describes how what we think of as singular atrocities are enabled by a number of menial, bureaucratic decisions. In her 1963 book by the same name, Arendt describes the way in which a totalitarian regime erodes the rule of law, accountability, and checks and balances — in part by breaking “evil” actions down into small administrative tasks that allow the actors in the system to contribute by “checking a box” — or, in this case, passing a resolution that simply changes a minor detail in the execution of a harmful policy. I felt like a perpetrator of the violence I associate with ICE.
Good leaders succeed by taking direction from their core values. It sounds easy, but every decision is surrounded by a lot of “noise” (competing desires for power, recognition, etc.) that makes it hard to home in on that navigational pull from within. For me, relationships are a central value in my role as a commissioner, and after a few days of distraction with selfish and unhelpful questions like “am I bad at this job?” I was able to center myself. I replied to the letter-writers, thanking them for their concerns for our county and asking them to join me for tea.
The group of us met at the end of a workday. We admitted to feeling a bit nervous and all “up in our feels.” I thanked them again, set intention around my desire to listen, and hoped we might conclude with meaningful action. We talked for over an hour. I sat with my disappointment in myself. We all sat with the pain of stories we heard about undocumented migrants being jailed and ultimately deported for minor infractions like driving without a driver’s license. We sat with the heaviness and helplessness of feeling like our democracy is in demise.
But we also looked at past-year data the sheriff provided showing the numbers of undocumented individuals who enter the jail (about 12 per month) and their outcomes. It provided interesting baseline, “pre-agreement” data that, with a few additional details, would gauge the impact of the agreement. We talked about the value in making that data public, and problem-solved a way for anyone dissatisfied with the ICE agreement to have voices to be heard. In follow-up calls, the sheriff expressed a willingness to visit with these constituents and a desire to increase transparency, including publishing the data online.
A recent Atlantic piece titled “No Politics is Local” cites evidence of divisive issues working their way into local elections, such as candidates in the New York mayoral contest being asked which country they would visit first. As my county turns toward a local election season, I am bracing for litmus tests of party alignment, and I wonder how my vote on the ICE agreement will play out. The regret resurfaces.
But that regret has diffused. It’s true, I could have voted “no,” reminded everyone “I am a Democrat,” and made a few strongly worded points against ICE. Instead, I have found some power in a liminal space where I still have options for improving the lives of undocumented immigrants in our community. Just last week, an old friend emailed asking if she could join our meeting with the sheriff, stating “we probably can’t change the policies around deportation, but I wonder if we can work with the sheriff on a humane approach, for example by providing support and comfort to families, such as Spanish interpreters, additional legal assistance, or even financial resources when a breadwinner is deported and leaves children behind. Politics can be local if communities get involved. Local government might be the last bastion of opportunity for a community’s sustained relationships, humble and honest connection, and upholding core values.
County commissioners, mayors, school boards, and city council members are essential, but often overlooked, caretakers for democracy. Their close connection to the people, and their vows to work for the people and not for a president, positions them powerfully in our current political landscape. At a time when many feel abandoned by political representatives, local elected officials are (or should be) accessible and engaged with constituents. They are (or should be) willing to be held accountable by constituents. They are (or should be) willing to sit down over tea and problem solve.
Do you know your county commissioner, city council representative, or school board chair? Invite them to your Rotary Club, your bible study, or your neighborhood meeting. Give them a call and ask them to tea. That is the start of the work, and we have much to do.
Jodi Jones is a wife, a mother, a professor, and a two-term Washington County Commissioner who lives in Northeast Tennessee. She is in love with the wild and natural places there — both out in the mountains and within the human heart.
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