The opening jingle from Tom Goes to the Mayor was running through my head as I filed into a standing-room-only Wyncote NW Forum at Town Hall last month for the final of three public roundtables hosted by Mayor Katie Wilson’s Arts, Culture, and Creative Economy Transition Team. The mayor wasn’t there, but her rock-star lineup was: Northwest Folklife artistic director Ben Hunter as co-lead along with Randy Engstrom (who himself served as director of the Seattle Office of Arts & Culture from 2012 to 2021), Elisheba Wokoma (co-executive director of Wa Na Wari), Michael Greer (president and CEO of ArtsFund), Jesse Hagopian (educator, author, musician), Edwin Lindo (cofounder of Estelita’s Library), and Amy Nguyen, executive director of Watershed Community Development and Wilson’s newly appointed director of the Office of Arts & Culture.

Attendees comprised a cross-section of the community, from members of the Arts Commission and nonprofit execs to working artists. While the crowd mingled, Hunter plucked guitar on the dais, but the chill vibes didn’t prevent a jump scare caused by piles of sticky notes stacked on high-top tables around the room—a sure sign of impending break-out groups. Experience has shown that sticky notes rarely move past ideation purgatory. Spoiler: All conversations lead to affordability.

Yet, something in the Wilson-charged air felt different. In assembling this transition team, the mayor made the arts a co-equal policy area alongside housing and transportation. What could this mean for us?

As the presentation and subsequent Q&A unfolded across the next two hours, the team discussed their findings—priorities that had emerged after two months and hundreds of conversations with community members. Some items landed like a broken record skipping, like the need to position the creative industry as an economic driver. Others felt vaguely Kafkaesque, like the creation of a brand-new cross-departmental Creative Economy & Cultural Infrastructure Office. Some ideas sent a frisson of excitement through the room. Here are some of the big ones:

1. Untapped tax opportunities that don’t place the burden on homeowners and residents, including a cruise ship tax (it would function similarly to the current hotel-motel tax and could hypothetically fund free public programming across town), a secondary market ticket tax, and a men’s professional sports tax. In Seattle, men’s pro sports have historically enjoyed an exemption that allows stadium tax to be retained for stadium upgrades only, instead of funneling into the Seattle Arts Account (as does the tax revenue from other Seattle teams—funds that are subsequently administered by the Office of Arts & Culture).

2. A municipal bank. This one’s a potential money saver. Seattle currently banks with Wells Fargo and uses our money to pay this private company. (A feasibility study commissioned by the city in 2018 indicated $150,000 to $200,000 spent in annual banking fees.) Those public funds could be reinvested in community needs, including the arts. The bank itself could offer low-interest loans to artists.

This ambitious, many-hurdled goal isn’t new—Seattle has explored the idea since 2014, and in 2016 former city councilmember Kshama Sawant introduced legislation to end the city’s contract with Wells Fargo when the company was taking heat for funding the Dakota Access Pipeline. The council voted to break up with Wells Fargo, but we soon ran back because no other bank could manage our $3 billion annual cash flow.

Logistical hurdles include amendments to both the city charter and state Constitution, compliance with a slew of federal banking regulations, obtaining a significant amount (hundreds of millions) in start-up capital, and meeting state collateral protection rules. There’s only one municipal bank in the US—the Bank of North Dakota, founded in 1919. It’s been successful; it was the only US bank to remain profitable during the 2008 financial crisis.

3. The creation of interdepartmental teams or subcabinets to cultivate a civic identity around art—messaging that speaks to tourists, residents, and artists that we are, in fact, an art city, damn it. Unsurprisingly, this topic ruffled the crowd at Town Hall and elicited ping-ponging points of view from audience members: We should look to cities like New York or New Orleans for the blueprint—why reinvent the wheel? Conversely: Our culture and assets are unique; imitating other cities is futile and foolhardy and we must look inward.

A few days after the meeting, I met a fellow attendee (an artist) for coffee. “For as big a political revolution this city went through with this election, I wish there was more visionary thinking,” they said. Frustration is fair: Supposing the city is able to accomplish any of this, are taxes, banks, and defining our nebulous civic relationship with art going to help artists pay rent? And isn’t framing art as an economic driver just a euphemism for gentrification?

“Artists creating value that ultimately prices them out: It’s so clear that this is a failed way to think about how art fits into a city,” the artist continued. “It just ends up being a little Potemkin village. Much of what the city funds is more about creating an appearance of art activity than truly supporting artists. You have to ask, who does this benefit?”

It’s hard to know what to do with this buzz in the air: The ideas are inspiring but embryonic, at times incredibly vague. And we’ve been burned before. But something Engstrom touched on in a conversation a few days after the Town Hall meeting sums up why the excitement seems justified. “Wilson doesn’t have a lot of lived experience with the arts community,” he said. “Maybe it’s a good thing she’s not already deeply embroiled in the arts; she’s going to bring some fresh perspective to moving things along.”

Maybe that’s ultimately the most exciting part of this moment: We don’t know what Wilson has in store for us. That also makes it all the more important to maintain these conversations and the accountability they foster. I implore the transition team and the Office of Arts to keep some form of these roundtables going—sticky notes and all. 

The Stranger's morning news roundup. by Nathalie Graham

Uno Reverse: Oop, Mayor Katie Wilson has changed her mind on who will lead Seattle City Light (SCL) after blowback from the Seattle City Council and unions. Earlier this year, Wilson chose to replace Bruce Harrell-appointed SCL CEO Dawn Lindell with Dennis McLerran. Critics pointed out McLerran had no utility experience and apparently this is a must for running a utility. Wilson has decided to install McLerran in the deputy general manager role instead, and will appoint current chief operating officer and SCL veteran Rob Santoff as leader. So, Wilson is willing to listen, or... unwilling to bloody her knuckles in a political fight.

Digging in Those Couch Cushions: Sound Transit found a way to make the West Seattle light rail extension more affordable! Last fall, budget estimates hovered at the simply too high $6.2 to $6.5 billion range. (We might as well write off West Seattle for good and keep our$6.5 billion, right? Well, no.) Sound Transit’s plan to cut costs (switch the construction method, optimize a station differently, eliminating crossover and tail tracks) should file the budget down to a respectable $4.9 to $5.3 billion, reports The Urbanist. Isn’t affordability beautiful?

ICE Arrests Spike in Tri-Cities: Data from report from the University of Washington Center for Human Rights shows a dramatic increase in Immigrations and Customs Enforcement arrests in the heart of Washington's agricultural production areas. All Washington counties saw an increase in ICE arrests last year, but the Tri-Cities counties were outliers. ICE made 126 arrests combined across Franklin and Benton Counties—66 in Franklin and 60 in Benton. Those numbers doubled Franklin County's 2022 ICE arrest numbers. Benton is another story. According to the Tri-City Herald, "Benton County’s arrests ramped up from three arrests in 2022, five in 2023 and four in 2024 to 60 arrests in 2025."

Throw 'Em a Sports Betting Bone: Lawmakers could green light a bit of legal college sports betting in Washington state. Currently in Washington, sports gambling is only allowed on tribal casino grounds and had previously prohibited any bets on collegiate sports sponsored by Washington institutions. Now, you can bet on your student athletes! Yay?  A bill awaiting Gov. Bob Ferguson's signature would unshackle gamblers and allow them to bet on the Washington Huskies, the Gonzaga Bulldogs, or, if they’re idiots, the Washington State Cougars. Stick to cheese.

Goodnight, Legislative Session: The short 60-day session is done. Lawmakers can finally leave Olympia to hibernate at home. On the last day, legislators approved a balanced $80.2 billion supplemental operating budget. Sure, it took raiding the rainy day fund and making big cuts to child care and early learning to get it there, but it's balanced, okay? And it should  get us to next year's session, which will see lawmakers trying to plug an $878 million budget hole. That's a problem for future them. All that remains is Gov. Bob Ferguson and his bill-signing pen.

The Weather: Cool, wet weather will continue. There's even a flirty little snowflake icon in today's weather report. That could mean spotty lowland snow Friday morning. Wait. I just looked out the window. It's actually snowing!

We're lucking into a flake or two here, but the mountains. Oh, the mountains. They're seeing the snow they've been thirsting for all season. One to three feet of snow could fall through Saturday evening. Get thee to an Ikon Pass.

It Is a Confusing Time to be the Weather: The United States is dealing with all types of extreme weather all at once. The Southwest is broiling in a heat dome. Hawaii is drowning in downpours. The Great Lakes region is going to be buried in snow and freezing after a different storm brings an Arctic chill to the Midwest and the East. Plus, there's weather whiplash. It was 86 degrees in DC earlier this week, but it snowed yesterday. Former National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration chief scientist Ryan Maue told the Associated Press that "extreme weather" is happening in all 50 states. As a reminder: This is not how it used to be.

Possible Act of Terrorism: A gunman opened fire on a classroom at Virginia’s Old Dominion University on Thursday. He was a former Army National Guard member who was jailed for eight years after attempting to aid the Islamic State, the Associated Press reports. One person was killed and two were injured before two ROTC  students subdued the shooter and, as FBI Dominique Evans said, “rendered him no longer alive." She added: "I don’t know how else to say it.” In my experience, the word "killed" always works.

Synagogue Attack: An armed man rammed his vehicle into Temple Israel synagogue in West Bloomfield Township outside of Detroit, Michigan. He drove through a hallway. Security shot and killed him. Authorities have identified the attacker as a naturalized citizen from Lebanon.

Want to Feel Bad? There's a young Florida gubernatorial candidate energizing young voters. Sounds good except the politics of James Fishback, 31, are rancid. He mixes "extreme conservatism and economic progressivism." He is racist, anti-Semitic, and embraces the politics of Nick Fuentes, a Nazi. And the youth love Fishback (Fuentes, too). This New York Times story about the Fishback craze paints a bleak picture for the future of the Republican party after Trump.

Worrisome: While denouncing CNN's coverage on the war in Iran, Secretary of War Pete Hegseth said that the "sooner" Paramount Skydance Corporation CEO David Ellison takes over the network "the better." Last month, Ellison and Paramount reached a deal to acquire CNN's parent company, Warner Bros. Discovery. Ellison insisted CNN would maintain its editorial independence, but Hegseth seems to think it's on its way to being state media. He had some helpful pointers for us all. Before this Secretary of War gig, he was Mr. TV, you know.

Hegseth: "Some in the press can't stop. Allow me to make suggestions. People look at the TV and they see banners, 'Mideast War Intensifies.' What should it read instead? How about, 'Iran increasingly desperate.' More fake news from CNN. The sooner David Ellison takes over that network, the better"

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— Aaron Rupar (@atrupar.com) March 13, 2026 at 5:15 AM

Four Dead in Refueling Crash: On Thursday, the four crew members aboard a US military refueling aircraft died when the tanker crashed in western Iraq. The circumstances of the crash are under investigation, though "neither hostile nor friendly fire were involved in downing the aircraft," the BBC reports.

Keep an Eye on Your Ass: Colorectal cancer is hot right now. It's the cancer that's killing the most people under 50. So, if you're pooping blood, go to the fucking doctor. But, seriously, pay attention to symptoms like "pencil thin" bowel movements, frequent pooping, and blood. Since this isn't the age group that gets regular colonoscopies, doctors aren’t catching these things. So, the young people keep waiting to get their bleeding hole checked out and, as they wait, the cancer progresses. It's not hemorrhoids, babe, it's ass cancer. 

A Song for Your Friday: Enjoy winter’s last gasp. Spring is next week. Technically.

Seattle-based photographer Nate Gowdy went to Minneapolis to document the Department of Homeland Security’s Operation Metro Surge. From January 17 to January 26, and February 13 to February 18, he photographed the civilian efforts to protect their communities from the Trump administration’s immigration enforcement. This is what he saw. by Nate Gowdy

Seattle-based photographer Nate Gowdy went to Minneapolis to document the Department of Homeland Security’s Operation Metro Surge. From January 17 to January 26, and February 13 to February 18, he photographed the civilian efforts to protect their communities from the Trump administration’s immigration enforcement. This is what he saw.

January 17, 2026 — Invasion

I landed at the Minneapolis–St. Paul  airport at 3 p.m., and stepped through the sliding glass doors into the extreme chill of a Midwest winter. It was the first day of a cold snap, with a few inches of snow on the ground and highs around 13 degrees. I exhaled. My breath fogged my glasses.

Eleven days earlier, the Department of Homeland Security had launched what they called the largest-ever immigration enforcement operation, centered on the Twin Cities. They deployed roughly 3,000 personnel, more than the metro area’s 10 largest local police departments combined. State officials and the mayors of Minneapolis and Saint Paul sued. They described Operation Metro Surge as an “invasion. ”

Ten days before I arrived, an Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent shot and killed Renée Nicole Good, a 37-year-old Minneapolis mother of three, in the driver’s seat of her car. She was driving away from the agent when he shot her three times. Authorities called it self-defense.

Good’s death prompted outrage and protests. In the days that followed, businesses throughout the Twin Cities locked their doors, not to close, but out of fear. Parents kept children home. Residents circulated agent sightings and license plate numbers on suspicious vehicles in encrypted Signal group chats.

When I arrived in Minneapolis, I expected to find overarmed agents, tear gas clouds, traumatized civilians, and I did. I also found people walking their dogs, running errands, meeting for dinner.

Daily life continued, but it was unmistakably altered. Community events were canceled. It came through in every conversation with residents: weekend plans became risk assessments about the federal agents operating in residential neighborhoods without visible name tags or badge numbers. Tension lived in lowered voices and furtive glances toward any vehicle with tinted windows.

For eight days, I worked from a rented Toyota RAV4 with Texas plates with a group of other photojournalists. We taped a PRESS sign inside the windows as a disclaimer to the volunteers standing on almost every street corner in the subzero cold. We tracked federal movements through Signal channels, mixing confirmed sightings with rumors in a steady stream of pings. We stayed in contact with five other cars of photojournalists, all trying to document every abduction—failed or successful—that we could.

As we moved through the city, residents told us about their community-led rapid-response trainings. Volunteers distributed whistles and explained how to document raids safely. From this peaceful resistance, we learned to drive slowly through residential blocks, roll down our windows, and identify ourselves.

“We’re press. We’re watching ICE, too.”

Five years earlier, on January 6, 2021, I photographed the pro-Trump mob as thousands laid siege to the United States Capitol. Claims that “Might Makes Right” exploded into acrid fear. I have an audio recording of that day, when I was deep in the crowd at the Capitol steps, that can still bring back that fear. Wild and chaotic.

In Minnesota, the fear worked differently. It folded itself into school pick-ups, grocery runs, work commutes. People recalculated familiar routes before starting engines. Ordinary traffic drew scrutiny. Conversations sought a lower volume. Or went completely underground. The anxiety was procedural.

Veteran conflict photographers deployed to Minneapolis recognized the pattern: when heavily armed forces operate in civilian space, residents adjust.

As we drove, we kept our windows cracked to hear observers’ whistles carry through the thin, frigid air. From blocks away, over and over again in the weak winter light, concerned citizens on street corners signaled the presence of federal agents, putting the whole community on alert.

The first agents we found were idling in a white minivan near a Catholic church after a Spanish-language mass. Two men sat inside wearing tactical vests and face coverings, ball caps pulled low. No visible name tags. No badge numbers. A Minnesota Vikings towel and a Black Ice air freshener hung from the rearview mirror.

One agent rolled down his window and pointed at the polarizing filter I was holding to my lens.

“What’s that do?”

“It helps me photograph you through your tinted windows.”

He nodded. I snapped a few frames. The window went back up.

Around the corner, volunteers ushered church-goers in the opposite direction. Within minutes, the lot was empty.

January 21, 2026 — Border Patrol commander-at-large Greg Bovino

Earlier that afternoon, we’d seen  word on Signal: “Border Patrol commander-at-large Greg Bovino is moving through the Twin Cities in a five-vehicle convoy.” For hours, observers and press fell in behind.

The convoy ran red lights and looped roundabouts, blasting “Ice Ice Baby” and the ice-cream-truck jingle as agents pointed professional cameras out windows, filming the terror they were inflicting on the people filming them.

When they stopped at a Speedway gas station, Bovino let the press document him grandstanding on a snowbank as a right-wing influencer asked softball questions. His breath hung in the cold, rank and visible. A fistful of Slim Jims bulged in his pocket. When the convoy accelerated back into traffic, we lost them on the highway.

We’d been trailing the convoy for most of the day, so we stopped in a Somali cafe to regroup. A tea kettle shrieked in the kitchen and we stood on alert. None of us will hear whistles the same way again.

At the cafe, videos started popping up from the convoy. In one, now infamous,  Bovino shouted three warnings, then lobbed a canister of green smoke into the crowd of residents and children, during what locals described as an attempted abduction. People scattered. Parents shouted for their children.

January 23, 2026 — “Please, stop making things worse.”

On our sixth day, tens of thousands of Minnesotans joined a general strike opposing the federal surge. It was the first general strike in the US in 80 years, and the crowd marched in wind chills nearing 40 below. I went to change my camera battery, and found the latch frozen shut. Within 20 minutes, even packed into the dense crowd on the street, it was too cold to think. But Minnesotans rallied against the administration for hours.

The following morning, Minneapolis resident and VA intensive-care nurse Alex Jeffrey Pretti was trying to help another observer when federal agents shot and killed him. By the time I reached the neighborhood-wide crime scene, ICE had withdrawn. Minneapolis police in riot gear were left behind to hold the perimeter. They could have helped de-escalate, but they didn’t.

A woman beside me pleaded, “Please, stop making things worse.”

Officers responded by launching gas canisters into the crowd of grieving neighbors around me. My eyes burned. I nearly threw up. Residents pressed water bottles into each other’s hands to flush the caustic chemicals from their eyes.

Through the day, people gathered around a growing memorial between strips of yellow tape. Some grabbed candles from emergency kits and lit them. At the impromptu evening vigil, tears froze on my glasses. Icicles stiffened my mustache.

February 13, 2026 — “I’ll believe it when my neighbors feel safe.”

Within 48 hours of Pretti’s death, Bovino was removed from the operation. I was back in Seattle by then, following the reset from afar.

I got back to Minneapolis the day after “border czar” Tom Homan announced a “significant drawdown.” Personnel numbers would decline. Enforcement would continue.

I met a woman on the sidewalk and asked about her thoughts on the drawdown. “I’ll believe it when our neighbors who’ve been in hiding for weeks feel safe enough to walk down the street,” she told me.

Outside the Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building, what began as a mass demonstration had settled into a sustained presence. Legal observers rotated shifts in neon vests. Mutual-aid volunteers stocked folding tables. Observers tracked agent arrival and departure times. Whistles hung from lanyards, ready.

A bearded farmer in camouflage winter gear introduced himself as Uncle Billy. He had driven from Arkansas. A longtime registered Republican, he told me: “This isn’t the party I signed up for. This isn’t small-government conservatism.”

Vehicle after vehicle rolled through. Some cars, suspected to be ICE, had no visible plates. Another had a new plate bolted awkwardly on top of the old one. A woman beside me yelled and blasted her airhorn as the car passed.

Then a two-tier car carrier pulled around hauling six fresh SUVs and trucks with tinted windows.

The mass of live-streamers was gone. The national television crews were gone. The agents were not. Twelve citizens kept watch on the building.

Detainees were released one or two at a time, perhaps a dozen over an hour. Mostly Hispanic men, and one French speaker. Each time someone walked out, legal observers in high-visibility vests stepped forward.

“¿Tiene hambre?”

“Sí.”

A volunteer handed him a tamale. A second draped a blanket over his shoulders.

Another man, just released, wore a paint-speckled Carhartt jacket. I learned he’d been pulled from a job interview. When a woman spotted her partner, she rushed forward and wrapped him in an embrace. The volunteers guided them toward folding tables and comfort. Toward rest.

I met Julie Prokes around 8 p.m., at the end of a 10-hour shift. He ran a warming tent and table with hot chocolate, instant noodles, snacks, and phone chargers. Whatever people dropped off. He said it was his 23rd straight day outside Whipple.

“You can’t control what happens inside. We can control how people are received when they get out.”

February 14, 2026 — “Customers are staying home.”

Karmel Mall, the country’s largest Somali shopping center, was full of bright fabric shops and halal markets. Tax preparers and travel agencies shared space with glass cases of gold jewelry and racks of flowing satin abayas in electric blues and emerald greens. The food court smelled of cardamom and fried sambusas filled with ground meats and leeks.

Vendor after vendor said business was way down. Some said as much as 90 percent. One woman said she hadn’t made a sale in two months because “the people are staying home.”

A few storefronts down is 65-year-old Osman Abo. He came to Minnesota from Somalia three decades ago and has sat behind his counter for 20 years. Now, business has slowed to a crawl.

On a typical Saturday, the mall would be full of families shopping and teenagers killing time. Now there are long stretches of days without a sale.

Unprompted, Abo reached into his wallet and pulled out a laminated Trump donor card. Then a Republican Party membership card. He said he had been donating since 2019. He held them up for me to photograph.

“I’m Republican,” he said. “I help Republicans. I vote Republican.”

Then he drew a line between policing and what he was seeing now.

“Police is okay. Criminal go to jail. I’m not criminal. I’m citizen,” he said.

He said he would remain a Republican. Still, he shook his head at the idea of MAGA.

“Last two months, not good,” he said. “How I can pay the rent? My house rent, my store rent. How?”

That evening, Lee’s Café, owned by a man named Liban Sheikh hosted a community gathering for volunteers. He passed trays of sambusas around the crowded room. Folding chairs scraped as people crammed into the small space. His employees refilled tea glasses, declining payment from anyone who tried to leave cash behind.

I asked him how business had fared during the surge.

“A lot of mess,” he said. “Our president makes a lot of mess.” He looked around the room. “I love my neighbors and they are heroes.”

I asked how he was holding up.

“Yeah, I’m still hanging,” he said. “I have a lot of friends. The community supports me. We will be all right.”

February 17, 2026 — “Too afraid to go to the grocery store.”

On my second-to-last day in Minnesota, two women who asked to be called Betsy and Maria invited me to join them at church—not for a Sunday service, but to document their congregation’s version of protecting those less fortunate than themselves.

They’d converted the basement into a soup kitchen of sorts, assembling meal kits for the most vulnerable members of their community. People were “too afraid to go to the grocery store,” they told me.

Maria took me to her house before she and her daughter left to get dinner. She led me into the dining room, which she called “The Little Pantry”—shelves packed wall to wall with canned goods, rice, cereal, and diapers, no table to eat on any longer. Maria, a Latina mother, worked with the local high school’s food shelf and local schools to ensure donations reached families afraid to leave their homes.

Her daughter, a fourth grader, moved easily through the room—bringing in and sorting items, counting cans. In her class of 24 students, eight had been absent for most of the month. A third of the room empty. The fourth grader said the pattern held across grades. Some kids had begun to return, but three or four desks still sat vacant.

She spoke about the families they were helping with the matter-of-fact seriousness of someone far older. This was a civic education: helping her mother respond to fear with action, learning that community is something you practice.

February 19, 2026  — “Turn around and point your weapons that way.”

When I left Minnesota, I did what I always do after a major assignment. I listened.

I have audio recordings from January 6 and from Minneapolis. I didn’t set out to make sound recordings that would explain the difference between them. I was documenting what was in front of me. But listening back, the contrast is unmistakable.

The Capitol audio sounds like a declaration. Layered voices. Imperatives. “Push!” “Hold the line!” Metal clanging. Wind gusting. The surge and swell of bodies pressing forward. The energy moves in one direction, toward breach. Even the fear in the recording faces outward.

The Minneapolis audio sounds like interruption. A woman’s voice, close and human: “You represent us in this equation. Turn around and point your weapons that way. We are your community.” Another woman repeats, “What are you doing? What are you doing?”  The crowd begins chanting “Alex Pretti. Alex Pretti.”

And suddenly, my own voice: “Fuck you!” The officers in riot gear had just lobbed a bevy of tear-gas canisters at us. Everything goes quiet, except for coughing and someone in the distance calling out: “Water? Water? Who needs water?”

The January 6 recording captures a crowd trying to overwhelm a system. The other captures a system overwhelming a crowd.

At the Capitol, the sound builds toward force. In Minneapolis, force descends into the people.

This piece was produced with contributions from Lisa van Dam-Bates and R. Langford.

Councilmember Alexis Mercedes Rinck introduced the bill last month, as a protective measure after the feds posted a “presolicitation” for a detention facility in the Seattle area. The first draft of the bill pressed pause on permits for any new jails or detention centers in Seattle, but last week, Rinck had to introduce a new version, removing the word jail, “in order to get it over the finish line,” she told The Stranger. by Hannah Murphy Winter

After weeks of delay, City Council unanimously passed a one year moratorium on new detention centers this week, one of half a dozen anti-ICE bills that have been working through the legislative body this year.

Councilmember Alexis Mercedes Rinck introduced the bill last month, as a protective measure after the feds posted a “presolicitation” for a detention facility in the Seattle area. The first draft of the bill pressed pause on permits for any new jails or detention centers in Seattle, but last week, Rinck had to introduce a new version, removing the word jail, “in order to get it over the finish line,” she told The Stranger.

On Tuesday from the dais, Councilmember Maritza Rivera told the chamber that she had been the barrier to that finish line. She instigated the new version as a result of her “due diligence,” but was non-specific about what the issues had been in the bill, but both she and Councilmember Bob Kettle spoke at length about how important Rivera’s legal diligence had been in getting this bill passed. Kettle said, repeatedly, that the council needed to do things “the right way.” (With… jail?)

According to a spokesperson for Rinck’s office, at least, their legal review showed that jails are in a legal gray area. Removing the word “jail” could actually “slightly increase the legal risk,” not diminish it, they told The Stranger, “but would not be the determining factor in a potential lawsuit.” Rivera’s office did not respond to The Stranger’s request for comment before publication. 

In the public comment period before the vote, SeaTac City Councilmember James Lovell spoke in favor, reminded the body that SeaTac had passed similar legislation weeks earlier, and encouraged them to unanimously do the same. “[Democracy] lives or dies in the institutions we allow to operate,” he said. 

The bill did pass unanimously, and there was a general vibe that everyone really wanted credit for doing their part to fight ICE. 

Council President Joy Hollingsworth “set the stage” before Rinck introduced the bill, emphasizing that it was one part of the council’s greater effort to fight federal incursion. Kettle framed it as one bill in a “package of bills,” and Councilmember Debora Juarez said that it was a “national extension” of the city’s laws. “We’re really trying hard,” she said to the public commenters in the room. “I hope every now and then, you can say thank you.” 

Thanks? They’re right that Rinck’s bill is part of a greater movement on the council to build up some protections against federal harm, though. Rivera already reworked the city’s municipal code to affirm that Seattle Police should not cooperate with ICE, and Councilmember Dionne Foster passed a resolution protecting city-collected information from getting into the hands of the feds, and emphasizing that city officials should not collect immigration information if it’s not necessary to provide services to citizens. 

And several are still moving through committee. Kettle introduced a bill that would effectively codify the mayor’s executive order barring immigration agents from staging their work on city-owned land. Rinck introduced a bill that mirrors the (very imperfect) protections on our CCTV program on our automatic license plate readers, forcing a 60-shutdown if the federal government subpoenas that information. 

They’re all democratic tools against an authoritarian government, but they will make Seattle slightly less pleasant to bully.  

Editor's Note: This story has been updated since its original publication to include a new statement from Councilmember Alexis Mercedes Rinck's office.

Three months into the job, King County Executive Girmay Zahilay has already made some significant moves. by Micah Yip

The executive’s floor at the Chinook building downtown had mostly emptied for what was likely County Executive Girmay Zahilay’s last appointment of the day. 

Standing by a window in his corner office, he pointed to the American Hotel Hostel, a small beige building not far from King Street Station. “I lived there as a kid when it was a homeless shelter,” Zahilay said. 

Zahilay’s family immigrated from Sudan to Seattle when he was a young child, and the then-shelter in the International District was one of the first places they landed. Now, the former King County Councilmember is leading the largest county—2.4 million people—in Washington state, and the 12th largest county in the entire country.

Three months into the job, Zahilay has already made some significant moves. He’s issued an executive order strengthening protections against ICE, and signed on to lawsuits against the federal government on issues from immigration enforcement to cuts from the Housing and Urban Development Continuum of Care program. He's been criticized for the return-to-office mandate for county employees, and reorganizing the executive branch so dramatically that offices like the Executive Climate Office and the Office of Equity and Racial and Social Justice no longer exist.

He issued a proclamation of emergency for major floods in the county less than two weeks after he was sworn in. And, most recently, to celebrate 100 days in office—and also to accomplish a smaller priority of “financial oversight”—Zahilay created an internal auditor position. Flashy.

In an interview with The Stranger, Zahilay talked about those experiences and what he says he’s trying to accomplish as King County’s new executive.

This Q&A has been edited for length and clarity.

You just had a second daughter. What’s more exciting: the Seahawks’ win or the birth of your second daughter?

[Laughs] Birth of my daughter for sure—don’t let my wife kill me! But when we had the second daughter*, Zoe, that same week I started the job as King County Executive and we had historic floods, so I had to declare a state of emergency. We’re in the hospital and my wife has our baby and I have to say, “I’m so sorry honey, I have to rush to a press conference related to the floods.” So my wife for the rest of my life is going to tell the story of how before I even held my baby, I had to rush to an emergency press conference.

*By second daughter, Zahilay means both his second daughter and the second daughter of King County, the title he uses for his children.

These are not actual titles, but it’s really funny that he does this.

Speaking of the floods, walk me through what it was like taking office and then immediately having to deal with that natural disaster.

It was simultaneously scary and inspiring. Scary, because you’re seeing these videos of properties being washed away, levees breaking, people losing their businesses. Thank goodness more lives weren’t lost. 

At the same time, the collaboration that I saw across levels of government and the private sector was really inspiring. I was daily on the phone with all of our King County department directors, with the governor, with our south King County mayors and our east King County mayors. That level of collaboration was really inspiring to see because it made me feel like we can get through anything. It really accelerated my knowledge of all the different departments and all the different elected officials around the region that I have to work with. It was a real trial by fire.

You issued an evacuation notice after a levee broke on the lower Green River. It could’ve been life-threatening, but thankfully the breach was little more than a trickle. Did you feel a little silly when you saw the size of the breach?

[Laughs] There were some parts that were not that big but the effects in many parts were huge. Even if a levee wasn’t big, the floods were massive, and I saw entire neighborhoods drowning. That was not good.

During our endorsement process, we criticized you for backing down from your campaign promise to shut down the youth jail. In 2019, you described it as “[putting] children in cages” in an op-ed for The Stranger. You’ve said you wanted to improve it. What does improving it mean to you?

My position when I was running for the King County Council in 2019 was, let’s close the jail and open other secure facilities that are smaller and more therapeutic. Once I got into office, I saw that the building itself is not really the issue, it’s what happens within it. So I’m committed to the same things that I said in 2019, just within the same location.

I don’t think there’s a need to shut down a building when we can use it and make it more therapeutic, integrated with community services, make sure there are more activities, that there is more training and collaboration with the trades and the unions to make sure young people have jobs.

I just came back from visiting the youth jail today. I was with the young people talking to them and I was getting their ideas on what could be better, and they’re telling me that they do want jobs, they do want more activities there. 

By the way, we did invest in a studio and now they’re making rap songs that they played for me when I was there.

[In a follow up, we asked how a central facility jail would still provide the “close-to-home” benefits Zahilay has advocated for. A spokesperson for Zahilay said the community-based therapeutic programs and job training would support rehabilitation and reentry, but they didn’t address how the facility’s location would affect proximity to the youth detainees’ families The spokesperson also said the county will evaluate metrics like recidivism rates to understand whether these therapeutic programs are effective. But they did not say whether they know if they’re effective or not.]

You recently announced an executive order to strengthen protections for immigrants and refugees. The executive order would prohibit “immigration authorities from staging or conducting civil immigration enforcement activities in non-public areas of county-owned buildings and properties.” What does this mean?

King County owns lots of buildings and lots of property. Some of those buildings and properties you could probably define as public spaces, like a King County park. Even though King County owns it, it is still considered a public space and we are not allowed to keep anyone off of a public space. That includes ICE, unfortunately.

But private spaces that King County does own that are not public, if [ICE doesn’t] have a judicially signed warrant, they’re not allowed to enter those, and we wanted to make that very clear. So this is just an example of us trying to take every tool in our toolkit to protect our communities from what I call a rogue agency. The actions that we’re seeing are not what you’d expect from a federal government that is simply enforcing immigration laws.

How can the county enforce this? 

We’ll continue suing. We have supported Minnesota in their lawsuits against the federal government because we saw a surge in operations in Minnesota that are clearly overreach. I’ve also called on our sheriff’s office to give us clear guidance within 30 days on what is the role of local law enforcement with respect to ICE and what is their plan to hold ICE accountable. I’m looking for things like making sure that you’re recording them with your body cameras, making sure that we have a way of verifying agents who are not showing their credentials. 

How will King County sheriff’s deputies carry out that enforcement? How are they going to, say, verify the ICE agents? 

Those are the exact type of questions that I’m looking for clarity on with my executive order. We are in such an unprecedented time with respect to the conduct of this federal administration that the law is not as clear as it needs to be. And I don’t want to, as Girmay, somebody who does not have any kind of law enforcement background, start opining on the issue. I want to ask the law enforcement agencies, what is the law, what are your responsibilities, how would you enforce these actions? And I want to take a look at that as soon as it becomes available. 

How do you feel about the loss of Claudia Balducci on key Sound Transit board positions? She was a major driver in the progress thus far. What do you think that means for light rail in the county? 

I’m very grateful for Councilmember Balducci’s service on those committees. I had nothing to do with setting up who goes on what—that’s the chair of Sound Transit. I voted alongside all the rest of my board members [to remove Balducci] and I’m very confident in the ability of the committees as structured to deliver on the vision that Sound Transit has ahead of it. 

The Seattle Times reported that several offices under the executive were cut: the Executive Climate Office; the Office of Equity and Racial and Social Justice; the Office of Economic Opportunity and Creative Economy; and the Office of Performance, Strategy, and Budget. Why were they cut? 

I think this is only a conversation because it’s King County and we’re not used to a turnover of administration. The city of Seattle has a new mayor every four years so people are used to a turnover in [the mayor’s] office. With King County, we’ve had the same elected executive for 16 years, so people are not used to change. 

I was elected to advance the priorities that I talked about on the campaign trail, not to just perpetuate the status quo. My goal was to not cut any critical services that our communities rely on, but reform and restructure the executive office to better reflect the priorities that I ran on.

When it comes to the functions of those offices, that’s still continuing. So the quote-unquote climate office is not structured the same way, but it has been moved to the Department of Natural Resources and Parks. 

[A spokesperson for Zahilay says strategy, budget and performance positions remain the same but not in their own sub-office. Many of the staff and functions of the Office of Equity and Racial and Social Justice remain in the executive’s office, the spokesperson says, like the language access program and civil rights enforcement. Arts and economy positions are integrated into the executive’s office.]

You recently mandated county employees return to office at least three days a week. Some union members aren’t happy about this. They’ve said many employees accepted jobs under the assumption that they’d be able to work remotely, and that having to be in office will impact working families with children. What would you say to those union members? 

I would ask them where that assumption came from because I didn’t say anything new. The return to office three days a week was a mandate that came from Executive [Dow] Constantine in 2024. It’s 2026 now. For a year and a half, both myself and the next closest candidate for King County Executive were saying we support the three day return to office policy. People have had two years to prepare for something that was announced and something that I said consistently on the campaign trail. 

My job is to implement the will of the voters. When I went around talking to community members, they consistently told me that they believe in either five days a week in office or they believe in a balance of remote and in-office. They want the customer service, the fast decision making, the relationship building that comes from in-office work. So my three-day return policy—which again, is just an implementation of what was announced—is trying to meet that balance. 

Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?

Those four B’s are going to be the things that guide my top priorities: we’re going to work hard to break that cycle [of homelessness, addiction and trauma], we’re going to work hard to build for affordability, we’re going to work hard to put more boots on the ground, and we’re going to work really hard to make this the best government possible. And in the next few months, you will see us rolling out several policy proposals and changes that advance those priorities. Stay tuned—we’re just getting started.

It’s time to put your “fun” budget to work with the latest round of show announcements. K-pop idols i-dle pay us a visit along their massive world tour. Seattle hometown heroes The Head And The Heart celebrate their 15th anniversary at Remlinger Farms this summer. Plus, single-day tickets and weekend passes for Bumbershoot are on sale now! Read on for details on those and other newly announced events, plus some news you can use.

MUSIC

Alabama Shakes with Billy Allen + The Pollies
Dune Peninsula Park (Fri July 24)

Arlo Parks – Desire Tour
Showbox SoDo (Mon Sept 21)

Bahamas: Industrial Sport & Sound Tour
The Crocodile (Tues Nov 3)

See Tethered: An Artist Talk with Aimee Lee March 14 at BIMA’s Frank Buxton Auditorium. by Bess Lovejoy

When Aimee Lee’s face pops up on my Zoom screen for our interview, her head is framed by something I can’t quite comprehend. It appears to be a tapestry of bricks. The bricks—persimmon-colored, cream, gray-blue—look somehow soft and light, as if molded from putty still wet and waiting to be touched.

It’s paper. When it comes to Lee’s work, it’s always paper. But this paper is a far cry from the crisp stack of 8.5" x 11" that sits next to my printer. It’s paper that troubles the neat boundaries around that material, or at least the ones in my head. This is paper as fabric, paper as ceramic, paper as survival, paper as memory, paper as art.

Specifically, this paper is hanji—Korean paper, made from a millennia-old, achingly laborious process that involves, in part, stripping the inner bark from the paper mulberry tree and mixing it with a mucilage often made from hibiscus roots. The reason anyone in the US knows how to do this is because of Aimee Lee; she wrote the book (literally). She opened up the first hanji studio in North America (in Cleveland, where she now lives). Her work will be on display in the Sherry Grover Gallery at the Bainbridge Island Museum of Art March 6 through June 14, where it appears in the form of artists’ books, clothing, baskets, and also ducks.

BIMA’s collection of artist books is unique. Most artist books (more on what that form entails in a moment) are kept in academic institutions or special collections. But the collection of 4,000-plus artist books at BIMA, initially amassed by the museum’s founder, Cynthia Sears, is one of the largest in a museum, and a free museum at that. The gallery hosts three exhibitions a year of items drawn from their collection, as well as loaned objects—all usually small but vivid, often heartbreakingly personal and political.

BIMA’s website explains that artist books “exist at the intersection of art, craft, and storytelling.” Erin Zona, the new curator of BIMA’s artist books collection, says: “The artist is using the language of the book, historically or abstractly, as the art form, as their material.” She adds that there’s often a narrative, time-based element: “I use the same parts of my brain when I’m looking at an artist book from page 1, 2, 3, 4 that I do when I’m in a cinematic experience.” Unlike, say, a painting, where the viewer’s eye might dart all around the work, in an artist book, the creator can control the journey and let the story unfurl according to their will.

But the form is always challenging itself: An artist’s book might involve a long indigo scroll, a crown of thorns, a fortune cookie, a butterfly, a specimen cabinet, a piñata. The artists who make them often combine multiple disciplines, such as paper-making, sculpture, photography, fiber, drawing, or block printing. Aimee Lee says that during her undergrad at Oberlin, for example, for her final project she “sewed together a doll and then saved all my hair and tried to attach it and made like little organs that were separate from it. And that was my final book.”

But eventually, Lee fell in love with paper. “What I love about paper is it really can mimic many different things,” she tells me. “Like you can make a sculpture out of just paper. And it looks exactly like a rock, you know? It can be this chameleon, and for me … it just feels very much like my experience of growing up and feeling like unseen or invisible or underestimated.”

Few would dare underestimate Lee now. But she came to her life’s work almost by accident. On a field trip to the campus museum at Oberlin, her class was shown a 17th-century Chinese scroll spattered with gold. The museum’s curator of Asian art said the scroll was probably painted on Korean paper, which Chinese artists of the time often preferred. That was the moment Lee’s life changed.

“I just suddenly was like, what am I doing studying Chinese art? I don’t know anything about Korean art. And I’m American; up until then, I had a very typical second-gen experience being born in New York and really rejecting Koreanness,” she says.

That fleeting reference to Korean paper sent her to a language program in Korea and, eventually, to graduate study in book arts and papermaking. But she quickly noticed that most mentions of Asian paper focused on Japanese styles, which had become dominant through colonization. Information about Korean hanji was harder to access, so she applied for a Fulbright and went to Korea to learn it herself.

Getting that Fulbright turned out to be the easy part. The technique she wanted to learn was traditionally performed by men, and Lee was repeatedly turned away. “It’s not even just you’re a woman,” she recalls being told. “But you don’t look very strong.”

Once a teacher finally agreed to take her on, the apprenticeship expanded into learning a whole constellation of crafts: paper basketry (jiseung), texturing and fusing techniques (joomchi), natural dyes, and calligraphy. Lee learned how Koreans had once used hanji to make armor, quivers, ammunition pouches, even chamber pots and teapots. She’s made some of those herself—yes, hanji can be watertight, thanks to heavy coats of rice paste and lacquer.

Part of the reason hanji was put to so many uses is that it’s extraordinarily durable. (Think “survives for 1,000 years” durable.) Lee cites the long fibers of the paper mulberry tree, and the papermaking technique that layers the fibers at different angles to reinforce the material’s strength. That means hanji can bend, not break, when exposed to stress.

Lee sees another metaphor in that resilience. “The things you can do to hanji reflect the Korean history in terms of the horrible things that have happened to people, just insane amounts of war and colonization … and that just makes them stronger.”

Something of that strength is reflected in the title of the BIMA show, Tethered. It comes from an On Being podcast with the former poet laureate Ada Limón, in which Limón talked about writing as a way to anchor yourself to the world. Lee, and former curator of the Cynthia Sears Artists’ Books Collection Catherine Alice Michaelis, liked the concept but preferred the word “tether” to the heavier “anchor.”

“If I am handling this [material], it connects me to all the people who did this all the way back, you know, for thousands of years. It connects you to a human lineage,” Lee says.

Zona also sees this kind of tethering in Lee’s meticulously crafted books and sculptures, dyed sky blue with indigo or juicy orange with the flower coreopsis.

“We always think that we’re living kind of in the future or in some sort of space that’s not the same as somebody who lived a thousand years ago,” Zona says. “But through [Lee’s] work, there’s this connection to time and processes and the human experience.”

That kind of connection, that tether, can feel especially good right now, and it’s part of why Zona and BIMA are committed to expanding access to the collection (parts of which can be viewed and touched in twice-a-month tours) and deepening its holdings. In the coming months, there will be a new publicly accessible database of the collection, a new video series on YouTube, and upcoming exhibitions on textile-based artworks and artist books created by Black artists.

“I’ll speak for myself, [but] every single time I look at my phone or the newspaper or whatever, it’s just something else is happening. Like what acts of violence is our government conducting today?” Zona says. “Sometimes I try to kind of ground myself and root myself in terms of, you know, the sun is still shining in the exact same way that it did 1,000 years ago on a body that was just like mine. And so, there’s some sort of nurture that comes through in that, where it’s just, it kind of alleviates the pressure of the moment. And it’s just kind of this outlet to nurture ourselves and be present in our bodies, present in the planet, and, you know, related to the history of the world in a way that feels less stressful.”

See Tethered: An Artist Talk with Aimee Lee March 14 at BIMA’s Frank Buxton Auditorium

This is Cohan’s world. He specializes in old flutes and antiquated music. by Nathalie Graham

Jeff Cohan brings three flutes with him to the Victrola Coffee Roasters on Capitol Hill. All of them are wood and modeled off flutes from the 1550s to the 1700s. Two are placed lovingly in worn satchels. Cohan slides one—a Renaissance flute—out of a PVC pipe. Often the TSA inspects this PVC pipe because they suspect he is hiding contraband in there. He isn’t. It’s just the flute.

Cohan, whose hair is white and wild, pours his to-go cup of green tea into a delicate Japanese cup he has stashed on his person. “I bring this everywhere,” he says. A baroque bassoonist gave it to him. Sensing a good anecdote, I reach for my phone to start recording. Tell me about this cup.

He mentions the bassoonist again. “There’s great demand for baroque bassoon,” Cohan says. “I would say it’s the civilized bassoon.” We never make it back to the cup. Instead he launches into a lesson about the difference between baroque and modern instruments.

This is Cohan’s world. He specializes in old flutes and antiquated music. Each year, he organizes a series of monthly concerts at the Faith Lutheran Church at which he performs period instrument chamber music with a rotating cast of musicians. They unearth a world long-forgotten by most of society.

Baroque instruments are simpler than modern ones, but harder to play. In the flute’s case, the baroque version is a wood tube with six holes and one key. By comparison, the modern flute is metal and has 16 holes and a system of keys that makes chromatic play easier. To achieve the same range, baroque flutists do intricate cross-fingerings. Cohan says it gives him a “much more intimate relationship with the instrument.” The sound is softer and warmer and “more colorful” than the modern flute, which has a certain “stridentness” to it, Cohan explains, emphasizing the word by driving his arm forward, cutting it through the air.

That instrument evolution came about when the world got louder. In the mid-18th century, steam engines, machines, and people living in cities created cacophonies like never before. This Industrial Revolution bore a newfangled concept: a middle class with disposable income to spend on things like live music. This created big concerts. The instruments needed to be able to compete. Before then, music was mostly for aristocrats. The concerts were small, intimate. That’s what Cohan is attempting to bring to audiences now—except the shows are donation-only. Perhaps our disconnected, distracted, high-tech society is ready to come full circle. Maybe we are in need of the baroque flute.

Cohan, 75, has played the flute his entire life. He first saw it in action in second grade when a flutist performed at his Illinois school. With a dad in the Navy, Cohan moved to Texas in fourth grade. There, in order to supply the football teams with bands, the schools administered a test to students to find musicians. Anyone who passed went to the gymnasium to choose their instrument. With every instrument laid out before him, Cohan chose the flute.

His dad was with him. “My dad said, ‘What, and march with all the girls?’ That almost scared me away,” Cohan remembers. But Cohan stuck with it. The flute became his whole world. “I remember going down the street on my bike,” he says. “I was hearing tunes in my head and playing them on my handlebars.” He twiddles his fingers on imaginary handlebars.

Cohan’s parents separated. He moved back to Illinois and took up lessons with a German flutist. Years later, he learned his teacher was the same flutist who had performed at that second grade assembly all those years ago. When he went to college at the University of Washington, Cohan originally studied marine biology. That didn’t last long. Soon, he sought music. A scholarship he earned to learn the South Indian flute and the Japanese shakuhachi changed his life. “I was able to study these really simple flutes of other nationalities, and I discovered how expressive they were,” Cohan says.

In the 1970s, a grant took him to Paris, where he lived on the Seine in an apartment full of other artists. An American harpsichordist showed Cohan his first baroque flute. Cohan was hooked. Since then, he’s performed around the world and won several awards. He’s also played in hospitals. Like the one run by nuns in Bern, Switzerland. They asked him to perform in the hallways; at lunch, he’d play for the nuns. Playing for the ill and in-need is moving. “That’s a big central issue behind music,” he says, “caring for one another.”

The intimacy of those performances is what he’s striving to recreate in his Seattle series. For his January show, Cohan played “A Little Concert for Louis XIV.” Around 30 years ago, Cohan found a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale de France. In it was all of the music Louis XIV instructed his court to play during his reign. Part of the collection Cohan found included songs “to put the king to sleep, basically,” he says. The collection varies, though. “They’re sometimes very sort of upright and martial music that attracts your attention, and other times they’re very touching and beautiful,” Cohan says.

One of the challenges with baroque music is the guesswork. The notes exist on the page, but there’s no instructions about accentuation; it’s unclear exactly how it was meant to be played. Cohan and his performance partners—a group of often-international players—try to suss this out.

Cohan’s February show featured Olena Zhukova, who is the first result when you type “Ukraine” and “harpsichordist” into Google, Cohan says, and Montreal’s Susie Napper (“I think she’s the goddess of the viola da gamba”) alongside Mélisande Corriveau on treble viol playing French and Italian 17th-century music. On March 19, he’ll play folk songs from the Renaissance and Baroque periods accompanied by lute and guitar. Those songs are the equivalent of the “popular music we have today,” Cohan says, “like the Beatles.”

The challenge of understanding and relaying an artifact like baroque music creates a one-of-a-kind live performance in a world where the answers are often digital and always at our fingertips. “We want to try to find the kernel of truth on the emotional level,” Cohan says, “and make it resonant.”

See Jeffrey Cohan perform with Oleg Timofeyev as part of the Folk Song from Three Centuries III concert on Thursday, March 19, at Faith Lutheran Church.

The Stranger's morning news roundup. by Micah Yip

Millionaires’ Tax $$$: After that 24-hour debate in the House this week, the Washington Senate gave the millionaires’ tax its final stamp of approval and sent it to Gov. Bob Ferguson for signature. He’s expected to sign. The 9.9 percent tax on income of more than $1 million per year would raise about $3-4 billion annually to fund schools and other state services. 

Trading Health for Healthcare: A third of Americans are skipping meals, stretching drug prescriptions, delaying education, putting off surgery and postponing vacations to pay their medical bills, according to two Gallup polls. All of these trade-offs can lead to a decline in physical and mental health.

Wind: High winds hit Western Washington last night. Seattle saw 45 mph gusts, which picked up to 60 mph in lowlands. Speeds peaked at Alpental Summit (124 mph) and Snoqualmie Pass (134 mph). One person died east of Monroe when a tree fell onto their vehicle. About 120,000 people lost power, and as of this morning, 30,000 still don’t have it. 

Talk About Waste, Fraud and Abuse: Remember when former Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem spent $220 million of our money on her weird cowgirl ad campaign encouraging immigrants to self-deport? So that budget surpassed several Best Picture nominees: Marty Supreme ($140-175 million), One Battle After Another ($200 million), and Frankenstein (about $120 million). Not F1, though. That movie spent $350 million (Brad Pitt is more in demand than Noem).

‘Try Being an Influencer For a Day’: Earlier this year, the state House declined to give press passes to conservative influencers Brandi Kruse, Jonathan Choe and radio host Ari Hoffman, saying they were activists and not real journalists. The trio asked the court for a temporary restraining order to force the House to give them passes, but on Tuesday, they lost their case.

No Medicaid for Trans Care in WV: The 4th Circuit Court of Appeals upheld West Virginia’s ban on Medicaid coverage for gender-affirming surgeries, overturning a district judge’s decision that the ban violated anti-discrimination protections. The 4th Circuit ruled that the law relates to procedures, not individuals, and therefore does not discriminate against transgender people. Riiiiiight.

MTG’s Replacement: The race to replace former Georgia Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene has advanced to an April 7 runoff between Republican Clay Fuller and Democrat Shawn Harris. Fuller is a district attorney and a pro-mass deportation, tough-on-crime, constitutional conservative. Harris, a former Marine and cattle producer, wants a farm bill, a stop to Medicaid cuts, and a “tough but compassionate immigration policy.” 

Domestic Workers Bill of Rights: Gov. Ferguson signed the Domestic Workers Bill of Rights on Monday, giving nannies, housekeepers, gardeners and other domestic workers new rights and protections.  Employers will have to pay a minimum wage and overtime, give advance notice of termination, and draft written agreements that state terms of employment. Workers will be able to file labor claims to the Department of Labor and Industries.

Sexual Abuse at Skykomish Schools: The Skykomish School District closed all its schools this week after a gym teacher was accused of abusing a student for nearly two years, mostly on school property. The teacher, Daniel Bubar, 62, was charged Wednesday with second- and third-degree rape of a child, communication with a child for immoral purposes. 

AI Takeover: In a terrible job market, white-collar workers are turning to AI-training, essentially helping to eliminate more jobs. Lawyers, writers, HR managers, scientists— data companies are siphoning their intelligence. A company called Mercors says about 30,000 professionals work on its platform each week. Scale AI claims to have more than 700,000. Surge AI says platinum recording artists and Supreme Court litigators work for them. It’s not scary at all.

On That Happy Note: I’m a little late to the new Hilary Duff album party. She released luck…or something a couple weeks ago.

My prayers were answered: we got another Mini-Challenge this week. by Mike Kohfeld

My prayers were answered: we got another Mini-Challenge this week. In the spirit of Paris is Burning, RuPaul threw open the library doors and gave the queens a chance to read each other for filth. Drag Race always incorporates the reading Mini-Challenge somewhere halfway through a season—y’know, once the queens have spent enough time cooped up together that they have plenty of dirt to dish. Funnygirls Jane, Myki, Darlene, and Nini got loads of laughs, while Kenya’s reads were hit-and-miss. Discord and Juicy brought Jane’s prophecy to life: the Florida girls can’t read. But Orlando-based Myki was the exception.

The reading challenge wasn’t the only bit of fun this week. By Episode Ten, the queens have been sequestered together for over two months in the Drag Race pressure cooker. The combination of exhaustion, adrenaline, and camaraderie manifested through some seriously entertaining antics.

Jane, forgetting Ciara’s name, gaslit a bemused Juicy into thinking there had been a queen named Crystal on the cast and that Juicy had sent her home in a lip-sync, which brought the rest of the cast to stitches. Later, the queens modeled wigs pulled from Darlene’s “mullet bag.” In Kenya’s words, “the emergency wig is something you can hit two times, and then you’re ready.” This is what makes Drag Race magical.

A Suitcase Full of Trash

We were teased with queens returning, but instead, we got… suitcases!? That’s right, it was a design challenge gimmick in which the seven remaining queens had to create party-worthy looks from the “leftovers” of the eliminated queens, a nice reprise of the first challenge’s “Reclaim, Renew, Rejoice” theme.

As the winner of the reading challenge, Myki Meeks got first pick, choosing her sister Briar’s suitcase. The navy blue fabrics inspired Myki to create a chic sequined snowsuit for an Après-ski Party. Darlene, who got Athena’s suitcase, created a breathtaking zebra-print minidress (complete with orange mullet) to the tune of VMAs After-Party. And Nini effortlessly channeled DD Fuego in an orange catsuit and boldly patterned caftan-bolero combo for a Fashion Week Garden Party.

Kenya, who got second pick, wisely chose design diva Vita’s suitcase. She was the belle of the ball with a bell-sleeved, bell-bottomed Disco Party ensemble, proving her sewing skills at last. Guest judge and legendary supermodel Iman called Kenya “the life of the party.”

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A post shared by Kenya Pleaser (@kenyapleaser)

Jane got Ciara’s suitcase, figuring that a design-minded queen would have a suitcase full of potential—but was devastated to find that Ciara left only fabric scraps. This was the point where the queens realized that their eliminated sisters may not have had their best interests in mind. Since each queen would have been prompted to pack a suitcase of materials to create a look from scratch, a strategic queen like Ciara would have realized that there would be a bait-and-switch—hence the suitcase “full of trash,” according to Jane.

Jane pushed her way through the stress and self-doubt, crafting an ingenious Grammys After-Party gown composed of complementary sequined fabric panels. RuPaul called it “a patchwork coat of many colors,” applauding Jane’s perseverance with limited materials. “What do you have to say to Ciara?” Ru asked Jane. “I will find her,” Jane promised.

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A post shared by Jane Don’t (@heyjanedont)

It All Came Down to Shoes… and Safety Pins

Juicy got an offscreen warning from mama Athena not to choose Athena’s suitcase, so she chose her auntie Mia’s. Applying RuPaul’s critiques on creating a more curvaceous silhouette, she crafted a big-bootied Kylie jumpsuit with a harem pant and sleeves for a Miami Beach party. Iman called it “Miami meets Dubai,” and the only element the judges could nitpick on was Juicy’s choice of shoes.

Of the seven remaining queens, Discord had the last pick, ending up with Mandy Mango’s suitcase. She left Mandy’s bright yellow fabrics behind in favor of black and silver mesh held together with 800 safety pins. Iman called it “Sid Vicious meets Zandra Rhodes,” and paid Discord the highest of compliments by inviting her to pursue fashion design after Drag Race.

But the other queens called foul when RuPaul asked the dreaded question, “who should go home, and why?”

Everyone (except Discord) named Discord as deserving to go home next, with half the cast citing her mediocre track record, and the other half calling her out for cheating the challenge rules. For the challenge, the queens had been tasked with only using materials from their eliminated sister’s suitcase, but Discord’s 800 safety pins—not Mandy’s—prompted the scandal of the week, “SafetyPinGate.” I couldn’t help but chuckle at how Season 18’s “chronically safe” queen looked like she was about to be undone by safety pins. But the other queens’ hyperfocus on that particular detail was a testament to the strength of Discord’s look.

The Last Two Standing

By the time the critiques were over, it was maddeningly unclear who was in danger of going home. RuPaul herself even called the judging a “love-fest.”

Nini, Myki, and Darlene were declared safe. Despite Juicy’s shoe faux pas and Discord’s safety pins, they were also granted safety. This left Kenya and Jane, who had gotten rave reviews, leaving mouths agape across the stage.

Surprise (not): it was a non-elimination episode. Kenya and Jane were declared the top two of the week, with a very relieved Kenya calling out the gag, “Ru is so fucking messy, bitch.”

The top two queens lip-synced to Patti LaBelle’s “Feels Like Another One,” and it was a truly epic matchup. Both queens brought high energy and precise lip-syncs, but to my eye (and Ru’s), Jane’s lip-sync was a snatch bit tighter, especially on Patti’s characteristic ad libs and vocal runs. She was awarded her well-deserved third win of the season, launching her leagues ahead of her competition.

Next week, the legendary Alyssa Edwards (or, as RuPaul tells it, “Alicia Edwards”) returns to the Drag Race stage, where our Season 18 queens are tasked with roasting her—it’s an episode you won’t want to miss!

Do you need to get something off your chest? by Anonymous

I understand the desire to be close with our friends, lovers, and families while enjoying a walk with them. What I don't understand is how it came to be that, while running on a popular path the other day, I made physical contact with someone because two separate groups of side-by-side walkers couldn't be parted from their companions for the actual second it would have taken for me to run past. 

I was running behind one group, and the oncoming group saw me, as I am visible. They were looking ahead, so I made eye contact with the man closest to me. I said to the group ahead of me, "on your left," like a human being who lives in a society with shared spaces. They did not separate or scoot over. In their defense, maybe I didn't give enough warning, maybe they didn't hear me, maybe they didn't understand me. Fair. But the oncoming twosome had zero excuse not to choose any evasive maneuver. When I ran around the other group (on their left), and the oncoming group made their choice to firmly hold their ground, I ended up shoulder-checking the man I had made eye contact with.

Apart from being surprised, I was pissed. This dude saw me coming, he saw the couple I was clearly going to have to run around, and there was time to react. Making a conscious choice to be rude is just rude. Do better.

And to all other side-by-side walkers: May you make better choices or be shoulder checked by people whose impact might make you rethink your co-walking formations. 

Do you need to get something off your chest? Submit an I, Anonymous and we'll illustrate it! Send your unsigned rant, love letter, confession, or accusation to ianonymous@thestranger.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and the guilty.

If you’ve been to Pacific Northwest Ballet any time in the last 20 years, you’ve likely seen Lucien Postlewaite. He’s now in his 18th year as a principal dancer with the company—among the longest tenure for a male principal dancer—and he’s still seemingly everywhere: dancing Cinderella on opening night in a generous partnership with fellow principal Leta Biasucci, emblazoning promotional billboards throughout the city, taking a memorable turn as a heartbroken teenager in Romeo et Juliette, and dancing with the spiky energy required of contemporary fare like Ulysses Dove’s Red Angels. by Megan Burbank

Photography by Billie Winter

If you’ve been to Pacific Northwest Ballet any time in the last 20 years, you’ve likely seen Lucien Postlewaite. He’s now in his 18th year with the company, and his 13th as a principle dancer—among the longest tenure for a male principal dancer—and he’s still seemingly everywhere: dancing Cinderella on opening night in a generous partnership with fellow principal Leta Biasucci, emblazoning promotional billboards throughout the city, taking a memorable turn as a heartbroken teenager in Romeo et Juliette, and dancing with the spiky energy required of contemporary fare like Ulysses Dove’s Red Angels.

Not every ballet dancer can manage this kind of range—or maintain it for as many years as he has—but whether partnering with ballerinas as a go-to story ballet prince or embracing the animalistic verve of Crystal Pite’s Emergence, Postlewaite makes it look easy. His expression is always legible from the cheap seats, his smile magnetic, and when he retires at the end of the company’s current season, he’ll leave a prince-sized hole in his wake.

He’s ready, though, he says, sitting in PNB’s library, flanked by his little red-and-white King Charles Spaniel, Dudley. Postlewaite is originally from California, and attended New York City Ballet’s feeder program the School of American Ballet. Peter Boal, artistic director at PNB, met Postlewaite on the first day of a summer course there, when the dancer was a 13-year-old student. “One of us knew what tremendous potential this young dancer possessed,” said Boal in a statement announcing Postlewaite’s retirement. During a summer course at PNB, Postlewaite’s talent also caught the eye of then–artistic directors Francia Russell and Kent Stowell, who offered him an apprenticeship. But Postlewaite was holding out for City Ballet, so he turned Russell and Stowell down.

When the New York company came through with the offer of an apprenticeship, he was elated. He was 17, and went out drinking to celebrate. But when he got back to the dorms, he got caught. “I lost my apprenticeship and was sent home: the poster child for the school’s new drugs and alcohol program,” he told the Seattle Post-Intelligencer in 2008. The ballet world rarely gives young dancers second chances for being normal teenagers.

“I got so depressed I lost my confidence and will to dance. I was out for five months. I didn’t have a job or any place to go,” he told the PI. But Postlewaite reconnected with Russell and Stowell. They didn’t have a spot for him at the time, but suggested that he join the school for another year. He joined the company as an apprentice in 2003.

He’s the last dancer still in the company to have been hired by Stowell and Russell—and has had the one of the longest careers among the company’s male principal dancers. 

Postlewaite had an unusually quick trajectory up the company’s ranks, with promotions to corps de ballet in 2004, soloist in 2007, and principal in 2008. While his repertoire at NYCB would likely have been limited by that company’s pure focus on the artistic legacy of George Balanchine, dancing with PNB, punctuated by a formative, years-long stint with Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo, allowed Postlewaite greater creative freedom and a broader range of roles. He’s danced plenty of Balanchine ballets—the title role in Prodigal Son was a pivotal one for a young Postlewaite—but he’s also had the chance to work closely with choreographers like Czech contemporary dance-maker Jiří Kylián (“He changed the way I thought about performance”) and Jean-Christophe Maillot, who created roles for Postlewaite while he danced in Monaco.

While many ballet dancers are queer, their professional world doesn’t always reflect the spectrum of gender and sexuality of its performers. And more so than other dance forms, ballet is bound by strict gender roles. As a young dancer, says Postlewaite, “I had people say, ‘Make sure you don’t dance too gay,’ or ‘You’re too effeminate.’”

“I’ve always had to filter myself through the lens of a role,” says Postlewaite. “There isn’t really queer representation in ballet [roles], and so that part of me, that facet of me, which is a big part of me, doesn’t come on to stage.”

This rigidity is slowly, belatedly changing, as PNB and other dance companies—though not nearly enough of them—begin to evolve beyond some of the art form’s most damaging strictures. And some roles have allowed for greater integration of his queerness, recalls Postlewaite, including in Edwaard Liang’s The Veil Between Worlds, which explores themes of immigration, departure, and grief. “It’s not a story ballet, but the choreographer invited me to bring all of myself into the role,” Postlewaite says. After a performance at the Kennedy Center, Postlewaite came offstage with tears in his eyes. “That role feels like it integrates so fully who I am… I felt so seen and so full,” he says. And even some more traditional roles have afforded a greater feeling of alignment and freedom. Playing Romeo in Jean-Christophe Maillot’s Romeo et Juliette allowed Postlewaite to draw on his own experiences to bring the character’s emotional experience to life. “It allowed me to share such a multitude of the range, the range of human experience,” he says.

This is one of the joys of seeing a dancer get older: When life experience can inform expression, it becomes legible from the audience in a new way. It’s a culmination of decades of creative growth and exploration—something possible only with longevity few ballet dancers get to experience. Ballet careers are short. Margot Fonteyn famously retired at age 60, but she’s the exception that proves the rule. It’s rare to see dancers continue to perform into their forties, something Postlewaite is acutely aware of. Some of his fellow company members are half his age. On a coworker’s 22nd birthday, he remembers, “That same week, I was turning 42, and I was like, ‘Dude, I am double your age.’ And that was wild to see an embodiment of what 21 years looks like. And then think, I’ve had two of those.

“Something that I’m proud of in my work is that all of these moments, the highs and the lows, I consider them part of my artistry,” says Postlewaite of what it’s like to dance with the inevitable life experience, both good and bad, that comes with being a person in their forties. “It’s part of my palette, my artistic range.”

Postlewaite will take his final bow on June 7, and in the months between now and then, he’ll dance in Red Angels, Giselle (the most goth ballet of all time, and probably a better adaptation of Wuthering Heights than “Wuthering Heights”), and Jessica Lang’s Ghost Variations.

There’s an old saying that dancers die twice: once when they shuffle off this mortal coil, and once when they stop dancing. But Postlewaite no longer sees it that way. “I remember thinking that this was the pinnacle of my life, and how special, how wonderful, but that, from there, I would just sort of wither, and if that’s all, I would be happy and grateful,” he says of ballet. “And now I’m in a place where I’m like, but this is the launch pad.” He’s looking forward to what’s next, and glad for where he’s been. “I guess I would just like to share some gratitude,” he says. “Gratitude for the audience, for this life that has given me so much.”

Editor's Note: A previous version of this story incorrectly stated that Postlewaite was the longest-running male principle dancer with PNB. He is among the longest. We regret the error. 

For the last few years, I’ve carried around a primitive mobile device called the Light Phone II, otherwise known as a “dumbphone.”

It’s a tiny hunk of gray plastic approximately the size of a credit card, with a backlit e-ink screen and the ability to send texts and make phone calls. Its other features include an alarm clock, calculator, calendar, directions, directory of local businesses, music, notes, podcasts, a hotspot, and a timer. That’s it. It doesn’t have a camera or an internet browser or social media or an app store. It can’t receive images or videos or links—those are forwarded to email. It costs $299.

Seeing the reactions to my Light Phone has been interesting. It draws attention, starts conversations. Strangers are immediately fascinated by it and ask what it is, and I show them the menu screen and let them try the text keyboard. Most people say, “Oh, I would love to do that, but…” and name the one app they couldn’t live without. The most common culprit is “maps,” with “Spotify” coming in as a close second. (Kind of like saying, “I’d love to be vegetarian, but I could never give up bacon.”) There’s always a tone of longing in their voice, a distant, wistful look in their eyes as they briefly imagine their life without being tethered to a pocket-sized Skinner box for all their waking hours. Maybe finally finishing that novel draft, or learning to meditate, or reading Anna Karenina.

Some people ask me why I don’t just block my apps or grow a modicum of self-control. The answer to that is that I’ve tried, and every proposed solution is just too easy for my dopamine-starved ADHD brain to maneuver around—like a rat pressing a lever for food, I will just hit “15 more minutes” or figure out how to bypass any shortcuts automatically. I’ve tried app blockers like Freedom and the app OneSec that makes you take a deep breath before opening apps, even going so far as to trap my phone in a box with a timed lock. It never stuck. Others ask why I didn’t just buy an old flip phone—as much as I would love to go back to the orange LG enV I toted in high school, the antiquated 2G and 3G networks that allowed phones like it to work are no longer available in the US.

The dumbphone life is messy and imperfect and not for the faint of heart. The Light Phone’s small screen is often laggy and difficult to text on (possibly a feature, not a bug?). I can’t send photos and can only use a handful of emojis. The battery life is minimal. I still can’t figure out how to get group chats to work consistently and sometimes miss important messages as a result. The limitations often mean having to give embarrassing, convoluted explanations to other people that I’m not on a smartphone. I carry a digital camera if I want to take a photo. And I do still need to use my iPhone (by swapping my SIM card in or connecting to the Light Phone’s hotspot) to call Lyfts or go anywhere requiring a QR code or digital ticket, or even to use my building’s app-activated laundry machines. It adds friction to my life constantly. Occasionally, I wonder whether it might be more trouble than it’s worth.

There is also the worry that it might actually be more inconvenient for the other people in my life than it is for me. Even if you extricate yourself from social media and smartphones, you still live in a world being actively shaped by them, and the truth is that most people expect near-constant availability these days. I’ve risked losing friends over being more difficult to reach. I find this acts as a useful filter—the ride-or-dies have always found ways to keep up with me. I make more phone calls, send more snail mail, send messages from my computer like I’m a teen on AIM again.

There is sometimes a feeling of FOMO, but my online friends keep me caught up on what I’m “missing” (“Everyone is posting photos of themselves from 10 years ago”). I’m rarely far from someone else holding a smartphone, I’m still online on my computer far more than I would like, and I still check in on social media every once in a while. As a writer who is obligated to “build a platform” (ugh), this will probably remain an inevitability.

When I first switched to my Light Phone, I immediately felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I started getting bored more often, but was surprised to find it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. I noticed myself daydreaming and staring out the window at fluffy clouds, the way I did as a kid. I’d forgotten the way I used to get so bored I would challenge myself to count to 1,000 or reread the same book over and over.

I went on walks without checking notifications and noticed the dusky lilac-tinged skies and cats in windows and the people all around me staring vacantly into their phones. Live music became a transcendent, immersive, quasi-psychedelic experience. As corny as it is to say, it felt like going from black-and-white to seeing in color. I began reading more, writing more. I felt like I had suddenly added six hours to my day or turned into Bradley Cooper in Limitless.

Now, it seems that “analog” and “offline living” are the buzzwords of 2026. Our collective digital fatigue has reached a critical mass. When I do check them, my feeds proliferate images of pristine leather-bound journal “ecosystems” (a complex system of multiple notebooks, each with a dedicated purpose), “analog bags” stuffed with jigsaw puzzles and crosswords, and people taking up “analog” hobbies like knitting. It was no sooner than this trend started that it began to draw detractors, who accused it of encouraging overconsumption and performativity.

There is credence to these critiques, I think. Capitalism loves to cannibalize an anti-capitalist movement. While I hope that people will use what they already have and source their physical media from the library and thrift stores and eBay, I fear that this will become just another flash-in-the-pan personality to buy and that Urban Outfitters will soon sell MP3 players and DVDs. I myself am not immune—in a fit of nostalgia, I broke down and succumbed to a $100 hot pink Barbie-themed HMD flip phone, which comes with adhesive rhinestones and greets me with “Hi, Barbie!” when I turn it on.

Cynics are suspicious that the Light Phone is yet another product full of empty promises, tricking you into buying something else you don’t need. While I get that, I find it satisfactory for my purposes when there are currently so few alternatives. I also like that the Light company seeks to “future-proof” their phones to resist planned obsolescence, promising to “continue to support our products as long as we can” with updates, and improving the phone’s ability to be repaired over and over. Still, I understand $299 is an exorbitant price to swallow for what is essentially little more than a glorified calculator. The newer Light Phone III, which features a larger OLED display and a camera, will set you back $699.

Is it worth it? That all depends on your perspective. I think of Kurt Vonnegut’s famous anecdote, in which he praises the glorious inefficiency of going out to purchase a single envelope, after his wife asks him why he doesn’t just go online to buy 100 envelopes to keep on hand: “I pretend not to hear her. … I’m going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope. I meet a lot of people. And see some great looking babies. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And I’ll ask a woman what kind of dog that is. And, and I don’t know. The moral of the story is—we’re here on Earth to fart around. Of course, the computers will do us out of that. But what the computer people don’t realize, or they don’t care, is we’re dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And it’s like we’re not supposed to dance at all anymore.”

Vonnegut’s words came to mind last night as I walked through Capitol Hill in the waning golden-hour light without checking my phone. I saw a big family crowding the sidewalk to take a group photo and smiled at two scruffy terriers and smelled the scents of cooking dinners wafting from open windows. My dumbphone might not be a perfect solution, but it gives me these little slices of my life back. And I’m pretty sure that’s what it’s all about.

ANTiPODE is designed to make room for experimental forms, video, performance, and more. by Katie Lee Ellison

I walked down the steps on the northeast corner of First Avenue and South Main Street in Pioneer Square and expected to find the founders of ANTiPODE at the bar. Instead, a live saxophone blast from a kid who couldn’t have been more than 15 hit me from the small stage to the right. Past the front room, I found Amir Amini, cofounder of the gallery space and arts center, in a back stairwell helping to move a large piece of furniture wrapped in a blanket.

While he tended to this task, Saina Heshmati, also cofounder, and warm and welcoming, chatted with me about the art in the room she curated. We sat in a small office space made from makeshift walls, drank Colombian coffee (roasted by a couple from Colombia now living in Seattle), and Amini joined us, flustered but ready. A friend visiting the two from out of town—a teacher, German but living in San Diego—sat in the space with us, minding her business on her laptop, while the band, a group from Seattle Jazz Fellowship, played as we talked, reaching a crescendo as our conversation did.

In this handsome basement gallery and arts center, you can now take a book out from their new library (off the bookshelf Amini was helping Arne Pihl, the maker, move in). You can also see art unlike any in the city, hear experimental music, watch rare films or a dance performance, and take a workshop or write alongside other members on Saturday afternoons. Between the rolling gallery walls they built themselves, the exposed brick, and the polished wood bar, there is a balance of scrappy and polished, sincerity and playfulness, hyperlocal and global.

Saina Heshmati (artist, designer, and curator) and Amir Amini (research scientist, self-proclaimed wannabe writer, and general multi-hyphenate) are two self-described “jet-lagged immigrants from Tehran.” The gallery’s name refers to points on Earth that are opposite one another, or a point on Earth directly across from another through the planet’s core. The concept behind the gallery’s name is that Tehran is a cultural antipode to Seattle, and they’re engaged in the dynamic and beautiful contrast.

The ANTiPODE website states that the space exists “to use the immigrant experience to create an ‘art bridge’ between Seattle and other cities. We are interested in cities because, unlike countries, cities are tangible. We can hate them, love them, live in them, leave them—and as immigrants, they can live together inside us.”

Heshmati and Amini left Tehran two days apart after the Green Movement in 2009, a protest against election fraud in the Iranian government. Of this migration, which was of significant size, Amini said, “When you come with such a wave, you’re not being pulled by the destination, you are being pushed… you don’t know why you’re here. You [only] know why you left.” It took a while before either of them felt ready to have something to say in Seattle, but eventually they felt they had a lot to contribute.

“There are a lot of opposite aspects in the two cities,” Amini said. “Seattle is very supportive. I don’t think we could do this in Tehran or in New York. People are really open and thirsty [here].” And then there are the darker insights that come from holding them up to each other. “Seattle kind of avoids pain,” Amini said. “It’s kind of conservative in that way. Tehran is more about living for today, for pleasure and pain because there’s no tomorrow, or tomorrow is always worse. You’re getting there in the US, I think.”

We spoke about how thousands of protesters are currently being systematically murdered and maimed by the government in their first home, and how it felt for them to be here in Seattle.

“About an hour ago, a friend of mine [in Iran] connected to the internet after eight or nine or 12 days [of no connection]. Saina and I were coming to ANTiPODE to get the bookshelf. I couldn’t tell my friend, Hey, I have to leave. The phone was working. The quality of the internet wasn’t good enough to have a phone call, but it was good enough to text. So I sat and texted with him.”

Right now, the terror in Iran is an unavoidable part of their having two homes. “It’s leaving a home,” Amini said, “then coming here and trying to recreate it. The other home [continues to] fully exist while you also tend to life here. And it never ends. You come to define yourself as something in between... an agent, switching between each life, unseen.”

For this reason and many others, Heshmati and Amini present immigrant artists from a position of power. They’re not interested in objectifying anyone’s experience, but in making room for complex perspectives and stories to be told. This is about creative freedom and resisting an industrialized art market that feeds a polarized political system.

ANTiPODE also prioritizes young artists and artists early in their career. They’re committed to presenting 70 percent immigrant artists and 30 percent locals. The gallery is designed to make room for experimental forms, video, performance, and more.

This month, on March 5, check out their opening for Esra Güler, an artist from Istanbul who’s been showing work in Seattle for years. The pieces are paintings but feature charcoal and illustration. Heshmati described the show as “a little dark and quite brave.” The artist will also give a talk on March 28.

On March 15, they’ll feature an experimental performance to the music of traditional Persian instruments and sound artists. As for literary happenings, you’ll find me at the gallery on the second Saturday of every month to write and share work.

Come for the art, stay for the radical intellectual community with an absurdist sense of humor.

The Stranger's morning news roundup. by Megan Seling

Wild Weather on the Way: The National Weather Service issued a wind advisory starting today at 3 p.m. through 6 a.m. Thursday. Whether you plan on hunkering down at home or heading out to the Torrent game for Cayla Barnes bobblehead night, plan on lots of rain and “winds of 20 to 30 mph and gusts of 40 to 45 mph.”

Trump Lied: Trump has been claiming that the missile that struck near a girls’ school in Iran on February 28, killing more than 165 civilians, most of whom were under 12 years old, was fired by Iran. Iranian forces are “very inaccurate,” he said. But new video shows a US Tomahawk missile striking near the school. “The US is the only participant in the war that is known to have Tomahawk missiles,” according to the investigative group Bellingcat.

How’d This Happen? Last year, the Trump Administration dismantled and defunded a program focused on reducing civilian harm. ProPublica reports, “Dismantling the fledgling harm-reduction effort, defense analysts say, is among several ways the Trump administration has reorganized national security around two principles: more aggression, less accountability.” I hope all those little girls haunt Hegseth in his coke-fueled nightmares for the rest of his fucking life.

Meanwhile: After this war threw oil prices into a tailspin, the 32 countries that make up the International Energy Agency have agreed to release 400 million barrels of emergency reserve oil to try to help clean up Trump’s mess. 

Iran Pulls Out of the World Cup: According to Al Jazeera, Iran’s sports minister, Ahmad Donyamali, said, “Considering that this corrupt ⁠regime has ⁠assassinated our leader, under no circumstances ⁠can we ⁠participate in ⁠the World Cup.” Kind of a good point, tbh. Iran is scheduled to play the Pride game against Egypt in Seattle on June 26. Tickets to the game are currently going for $330–$7,495 a pop on StubHub.

These Men Are Not Serious Men: Apparently, Donald Trump won’t stop buying pairs of very specific dress shoes for all the men in his life. He just guesses what sizes to buy, but because he has also made it clear that he believes that "you can tell a lot about a man by his shoe size,” all the shoe recipients are afraid to tell Trump if their new shiny kicks don’t fit. So now there are tons of photos of Trump’s bigoted besties bumbling around the White House wearing shoes that are very clearly several sizes too big. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Totally normal human adult behavior! 

More Totally Normal Behavior: It’s surprising they’re all willing to look so foolish in their big boy shoes, given how obsessed they are with appearances. Case in point: The Defence Department has banned press photographers after seeing some “unflattering” photos taken during the March 2 press briefing. The AP reports: “It is unclear whether one particular photo—or the sum total of the day’s shots—led to consternation among Hegseth’s staff.” 🎶 You’re so vain, you probably think this press briefing about dozens of dead Iranian children is about you / Don’t you / Don’t you. 🎶

Tax the Rich $$$: Last night, the state House approved the millionaires’ tax after more than 24 hours of debate. The final vote in the Senate could happen today. As News Editor Vivian mentioned in yesterday’s Slog AM, Gov. Bob Ferguson has signaled he’d sign the latest version if it crossed his desk. 

Florida Man Evades Taxes: The new Millionaires Tax bummed out billionaire and former Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz enough that he decided to move to Miami. Good riddance! 

Fund the Libraries: Yesterday, Mayor Katie Wilson announced her plans to fund the Seattle Public Library system. Her new levy proposal increases the 2019 voter-approved levy from $31.3 million to about $59 million, from 2027 through 2033. Our local libraries and their staff are struggling in so many ways. Capitol Hill Seattle Blog reported yesterday that within hours of Wilson’s announcement, a man was found unconscious and not breathing in the upstairs bathroom at the Capitol Hill Library. He was pronounced dead at the scene. Wilson’s proposal includes millions of dollars for social service referral programs and staffing upgrades, including human resource staffing.

They Paved Paradise and… Put in a pickleball facility. Maybe. At least, that’s what one developer wants to do with the old Joann Fabrics building in Ballard. I miss Joann so much.

Speaking of Passing Legislation: Yesterday, the Seattle City Council unanimously passed a one-year moratorium on new detention centers in Seattle. The bill, sponsored by Alexis Mercedes Rinck, comes after the federal government was sniffing around last year, looking for feedback on the possibility of a 1,500-bed facility. ICE OUT, THO. The King County council passed something similar last week, ultimately voting 7-2, with KC Councilmembers Reagan Dunn and Pete von Reichbauer voting no. Dunn called moratoriums “blunt tools.” You’re a blunt tool, Reagan Dunn. 

Baby Gorillas! Two Woodland Park Zoo gorillas are pregnant, and both babies are due in May. I hope they’re both geminis. We could team up and take over the city.

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In November 2024, cryptocurrency entrepreneur Justin Sun paid $6.24 million at Sotheby’s to purchase Maurizio Cattelan’s Comedian—the iconic banana duct-taped to a wall. Nine days later he ate said banana during a press conference in Hong Kong.

If that reads like an inside joke with no punchline, you aren’t wrong. Mischievous Cattelan must have been laughing that day as the bids rolled in, but who was laughing to the bank? Sotheby’s, definitely.

The financialization of art has been a steady, miserable tour de force since the 1980s, a time when Americans—downtrodden by relentless recession and endless war—traded protest signs for COEXIST bumper stickers and let the narcotic rush of yuppie prosperity wash over. Art was not immune to late capitalism in full bloom. As once-public auction houses were absorbed into luxury-goods portfolios and acquired by media moguls, the art market became the playground of the ultrawealthy. Speculative purchases of works by promising art stars reached fever pitch during the pandemic, with high-value paintings promptly stuffed into storage in hopes of flipping them later for profit. And NFTs… let us not speak of those.

But art isn’t like a house or a stock. The art market peaked on November 20, 2024, when the gavel struck the auction block and the last trace of art’s soul departed from the fleshy mesocarp of a 23-cent piece of fruit.

In 2025 it all started to collapse. Christie’s quietly shut down their Digital Art and NFTs department in September. Blue-chip and mid-tier galleries alike have been shuttering left and right. As the market in Asia cools, Art Basel, Frieze, and other art fair conglomerates have flocked to the Middle East in search of the last untapped collector. Everyone is in on the joke, of course: The highlight of Art Basel Miami Beach this past December was Beeple’s robotic dogs with the faces of Andy Warhol, Pablo Picasso, Mark Zuckerberg, and Elon Musk. They literally crapped reams of AI slop.

But satire loses its luster after a point. The banana has gone bad. In 2026, art is having an identity crisis; what does art after extractive capitalism look like?

One upside of Seattle being a second-tier art city—not because we’re lacking in art, but because our market power and visibility are less established than in other places—is that we aren’t hit as hard when a K-shaped economy starts to have its revenge on the market. That’s not to say artists outside New York and LA don’t feel the sting. They do. But operating on the decentralized fringe has its benefits. It also doesn’t hurt that our city has a deep-rooted sense of anti-authoritarianism that extends to doing art our own way. In that way, we’re kind of recession-proof.

I came up in Seattle’s art scene on the heels of the 2008 financial crisis. There were a lot of folks like me who had never been to art school and didn’t have MFAs—artists just raw-dogging the art world, making, showing, and seeing art wherever we could. Which was literally wherever, in part because there’s never been sufficient commercial galleries in town to match the amount of good art, but also because that DIY mentality really shines when
the economy slumps.

And that’s what I love about recession-era art. Circa 2009 and beyond, everything was fair game: a studio apartment on Capitol Hill transformed into one of the city’s hottest galleries for one night each month (or whenever—there were no rules!). Also an old sweater factory in Ballard, a decommissioned BMW dealership on Pike, a cubby under a stairwell in the Central District, the back of a U-Haul on the street, an I-5 underpass at dusk. All you had to do was make a press release and it could be a thing.

It’s something Sammy Skidmore and Zoë Hensley have figured out. The organizers behind ONCE REMOVED: Art in Vacant Spaces, Skidmore and Hensley are both gallerists with day jobs at commercial galleries. Skidmore (also a singer/songwriter and guitarist for Dining Dead) is the gallery manager at Traver Gallery, and Hensley (who has a background as a visual artist) works at Foster/White. “Galleries can be really intimidating, we all know that,” says Skidmore. “People think they have to act a certain way in a gallery. We’re interested in flipping expectations of what it means to enter
an art space.”

After brainstorming in the summer, they began cold-calling developers in search of decommissioned spaces where artists could play—specifically, artists whose work doesn’t neatly fit in a commercial gallery. Their first yes was a small bungalow in Greenwood. They received the keys five days before the reception on February 21; in that short time, five artists raced to transform each room. The result was a labyrinthine web of semi-interconnected installations threaded through the building, including video work by Allie Meyer projected onto a darkened bathroom window, Gaeun Kim’s delicate graphite rubbings made against a series of broken doors, and Nadia Ahmed’s beeswax-drenched reliquaries encasing found detritus like knobs, tiles, handles. Rachael Comer used cornstarch to harden a bedsheet around the shape of her own huddled body, creating a ghostly carved-out space in one of the bedrooms. Visitors peering under the covers watched as a string of Google searches (for porn, sourced from 100 friends and strangers) traced a poetic interrogation into the nature of collective eroticism, longing, and trauma. In the basement, Jenikka Cruz created the scene of a different kind of haunting: lifelike figures clustered in one corner of the subterranean dark while a droning soundscape filled the space.

“We want to act as a little eddy in the stream of gentrification for these houses that are going to be demolished,” Skidmore says, “give them one last burst
of life.”

ONCE REMOVED deftly straddles both the world of the white cube and the underground—they don’t list the event address on their website; you have to email or DM for details. They foresee the project continuing as a series, each location inspiring a unique response. “You just have to be able to take no for an answer,” says Hensley about the challenge of getting handed keys to a stranger’s place. “There’s always a way to do something. Don’t talk about it, just do it.”

Another moment in recent history when art came out from under the shadow of commodification unfolded in the late 1960s and 1970s, when Arte Povera and Fluxus took hold. These movements—rooted in commonplace materials, music, and poetry—were not only a pragmatic response to global recession, but a revolt against the centering of (primarily white male) Abstract Expressionist painters in New York as the de facto lifeblood of the art world.

Arte Povera (“poor art”) and Fluxus (which embraced humor and process over product) were both intrinsically political, purposefully pushing against the commodification of art. In the age of AI—where ideation at the most basic level is becoming filtered through corporatized pipelines of prescriptive thought—imagination itself is political.

In other words, it’s time to make the art world weird again. Mess and typos make us human. Flesh and blood experiences in abandoned houses are proof of life.

It’s also a time for imagining new models of patronage in the art world. For the past four years, artist Lars Bergquist has crowdsourced funds to raise money for Free Blanket February, a project to purchase wool blankets for the unhoused. Each day in February—the coldest month in Seattle—he stocks the blankets in repurposed newspaper boxes set up across downtown. An extension of his street-art practice, or just one human caring for another? Bergquist shows how easily it can be both.

Right now there are a lot of things stirring in the fresh recession air, even in terms of commercial spaces that are bucking against the norm. Last month, 27-year-old attorney Elizabeth Hawley took over the lease at 85 Yesler Way to breathe new life into the bones of Davidson Galleries, giving its artists a new next chapter as Gallery No. 85. Next month, designer Michelle Dirkse and photographer Jeremy Prim are opening Dirkse/Prim Gallery in Madrona, where they will be representing a roster of emerging and mid-career artists like Joey Bates, Mya Kerner, and Zak Helenske, whose epic, large-scale flora made of black walnut, ash, lilac, and brass will be debuting in April.

What is art in 2026? Detached from the imploded market, art is able to find its center elsewhere, a place where imagination, collaboration, and new ways of doing things are paramount. When everything is broken, including the rules, anything is possible. We are here now. 

On December 6, 1911, the Seattle Times announced: “The new Society Theatre, a photo playhouse, opens at Broadway and John next Friday night, with four reels of new films … music will be furnished by a three-piece orchestra.” (Next to an ad for 15-cent mechanical toy mice, and the “permanently useful gift” of an electric iron.)

Nearly 80 years later, on January 11, 1990, the paper reported: “The Broadway Theatre on Capitol Hill will close its doors for the last time tonight. The Pay’n Save store next door is scheduled to expand into the theater’s space at the corner of John and Broadway. The Broadway’s last picture show is We're No Angels.” (Other headlines included “Drug Foe Returns To War At Home” and “‘Glass’ May Be Drug of the ’90s.”)

The Pay’n Save became a Rite Aid, which kept the iconic neon theater marquee; in 2022 it said “come get flu shots here.” After the store shuttered in December of 2023, the abandoned sign drifted into the poetic: “come get shot here.”

It’s a sad site these days. A patchwork of greige paint on the graffiti-prone walls; “BROADWAY” is all that remains on the sign and the neon has all been stripped out. Something needs to go there. But what?

Last month, fast-food conglomerate and official caterers of late-stage capitalism, McDonald’s, filed to take over the space, half a block from a (for the record, cheaper) Dick’s. I’m not here to hate on fast food. I, too, feel nostalgia for when Broadway had a Jack in the Box and Taco Bell, but those were also the days when the Lamborghini was still on top of Club Lagoon. I’m also not here to hate on cheap food and reliable bathrooms. But should a McDonald’s also be a crisis clinic? And how big does a McDonald’s need to be? Surely not 5,000 square feet, especially when new McDonald’s are serving slate-gray, tech-prison realness.

“Preservation” is a loaded concept when we need max efficiency in this expensive-as-fuck city of ours. But must every choice we make include no rizz whatsoever? If we need a neighborhood sacrifice, why not tear down the US Bank across the street?

In How Buildings Learn: What Happens After They're Built, Stewart Brand wrote that preservationists are “passionately interested in the question, ‘What makes some buildings come to be loved?’ and they act on what they learn. The result is a coherent, still-evolving ethical and aesthetic body of ideas. One architect has observed ‘Preservation has become the best carrier of that moral force architecture needs if it is to have value beyond shelter. Preservation is capable of projecting a vision of new possibilities, of hope for our own future….’”

When you think about cities you love, aren’t they defined by old, interesting buildings? When we imagine the city we want to live in, what’s there to do? Are there options besides bars? Are there places to gather, take in art, shop, exist outside the home?

I’m not here for a policy debate. I’m simply not buying that a McDonald’s is the best possible use of one of the most transit-rich, historically recognizable corners in Capitol Hill. For fun, let’s imagine…

• It’s a movie theater. Obviously! With the Egyptian in a coma, and so many other theaters gone, we need this. 
• It’s a venue. A big, banging venue would be incredible for the neighborhood, and the city. 
• It’s a roller-skating rink.
• It’s a combination roller-skating rink and venue. (Southgate Roller Rink! Take over this building!)
• It’s an ice-skating rink. (Yes, I have caught Alysa Liu fever, and I hope I never recover.)
• It’s a bowling alley, or a thrift store, or a record store, or a giant bookstore. (Let’s stop letting Portland win?)
• It’s a year-round haunted house.
• It’s an indoor sculpture park.
• It’s a Trendy Wendy II.
• It’s a Daiso.
• It’s a magic-show emporium.
• It’s a Rainforest Cafe. Or one of the Factories (Cheesecake or Spaghetti, your choice).
• It’s a… drugstore! A good ol’ iffy city drugstore in a charming old theater space in a neighborhood that really needs more drugstores.

Okay, fine, imagine it’s a McDonald’s. But consider: In 1985, McDonald’s planned to demolish a dilapidated mansion called the Denton House, but residents of New Hyde Park, NY rallied to save it. The home earned historic status in 1988, leading to a compromise: McDonald’s had to restore the façade to its 1926 beauty; the renovated landmark reopened as a McDonald’s in 1991.

Got problems? Yes, you do! Email your question for the column to mailbox@savage.love! by Dan Savage Dear Readers: I’m off this week. To tide you over until I’m back, the tech-savvy, at-risk youth pulled some classic “PUD” questions from the archives. A PUD, of course, is someone who is “poly under duress.” Because while some of us start out poly and some of us achieve poly, others have poly thrust upon ’em. These are their stories. — Dan I’m a 25-year-old woman currently in a poly relationship with a married man roughly 20 years my senior. This has by far been the best relationship I’ve ever had. However, something has me a bit on edge. We went on a trip with friends to a brewery with a great restaurant. It was an amazing place, and I was sure his wife would enjoy it. He mentioned the place to her, and her response was NO, she didn’t want to go there because she didn’t want to have…

[ Read more ]

The Stranger's morning news roundup. by Vivian McCall

Morning: House lawmakers in Olympia debated the millionaires’ tax late into the night and into this morning. Republicans have filed dozens of amendments to derail the bill, but Dems say they have the votes. And Gov. Bob Ferguson has signaled he’d sign the latest version if it crossed his desk.

What, No Baby Sheriffs? A bill that would strengthen standards for Washington’s elected sheriffs and make it easier to boot those decertified by the Criminal Justice Training Commission is headed to Gov. Bob Ferguson’s desk. If he signs it, sheriffs would be required to have five years law enforcement experience and undergo background checks through the Washington State Patrol. The minimum age to serve as sheriff would be raised from 18 to 25, and tighten rules around volunteer-run “sheriff’s posses,” preventing them from enforcing the law. The Old West is dead.

ICYMI: A report from the King County Ombuds found that officers at the Department of Adult and Juvenile Detention “more likely than not” used excessive force when they punched and Tased a man while booking him to jail in November 2024, and then issued a flawed report on the incident. Department director Allen Nance initially defended the officers, but changed his tune after King County Councilmember Jorge Barón raised concerns. Nance has since released an 11-point plan to address use of force, writing in a letter that “we should have done a better job on multiple fronts related to the handling the matter that prompted your attention,” KUOW reports.

A Little to the Left: Activist, communications strategist, and former state legislature employee Hannah Sabio-Howell wants Majority Leader Sen. Jamie Pedersen’s 43rd district crown. She’s betting he’s vulnerable because as he’s gained more power, and played more of a leadership role, his constituency has only grown more progressive than the moderate Pedersen. Interesting stuff. I sat down with Sabio-Howell at Gemini Room in Capitol Hill to chat about her campaign, and took a phone call from Pedersen on a rainy drive home from Olympia, his favorite time to talk to reporters.

Goddamn It, Damien/Goddamn It, Davison: Thanks to the combined efforts of Damien, a busted Oregon Trail-ass software the City Attorney’s Office finally tried to move on from after 27 years, and Ann Davison, the former City Attorney, Erika Evans has 3,800 more DV, DUI, child abuse, elder abuse, and other terrible cases backlogged than she had intitally thought. “Knowing we have to not only focus on the stuff coming at us right now, but also tackle this ginormous, 5,100 case backlog is pretty devastating,” she tells Nathalie.

Weather: A chance of rain and snow this morning, then rain with titillating gusts up to 23 miles per hour. Tonight, rain is very likely; tomorrow and Thursday, rain is certain.

Schrödinger's War: About an hour after the Department of WAR tweeted “We have Only Just Begun to Fight” from the DOW Rapid Response account on X, President Trump told a CBS journalist that the war in Iran was “very complete, pretty much.” And later Monday, he told lawmakers at an event in Miami that the US still needed to achieve “ultimate victory.”

Pentagon today: the war is just getting started!

Their commander in chief, less than an hour later: "the war is very complete"

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— Catherine Rampell (@crampell.bsky.social) March 9, 2026 at 1:42 PM

Meanwhile, Tehran is vowing to launch powerful missiles, Iran’s parliament speaker says the country is “definitely not looking for a ceasefire,” and Trump says he’ll hit Iran “20 times harder” if oil flows stop in the Hormuz Strait. In response, Iranian security official Ali Larijani wrote: “The sacrificial nation of Iran doesn’t fear your empty threats. Even those bigger than you couldn’t eliminate Iran. Be careful not to get eliminated yourself.” Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth says today will be the most intense day of strikes yet.

Grounded: The Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) briefly grounded all JetBlue flights while the airline handled a system outage early this morning. The grounded stop was lifted about 40 minutes later. JetBlue did not provide any more information about what happened, simply saying it’s done and it’s back to business as usual.

Drives Speaks for Itself:

New: A Houston woman is suing Tesla in Harris County, alleging that her Cybertruck, while using Tesla's "Full Self-Driving mode" tried to drive the car off of a bridge. Here is the dashcam footage provided by her lawyers: www.chron.com/culture/arti...

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— gwen howerton (@kissphoria.bsky.social) March 9, 2026 at 12:06 PM

Inadvertent Crook Buster: Alexander Butterfield, the Richard Nixon aide summoned to fuck ol' Dick before the staff of the Senate Watergate committee, has died. He was 99. In 1973, Butterfield, the then head of the FAA who’d previously been deputy chief of staff, told the committee that he was loyal to President Nixon but didn’t want to lie. Yeah, he’d supervised the bugging of the White House and Old Executive Office Building with a voice-activated recording system. “I was hoping you fellows wouldn’t ask me about that,” he said. Three days later, he reiterated his testimony during televised hearings.

ICE Out: When Border Patrol Commander Gregory Bovino left Chicago last fall, he made like Douglas MacArthur and pledged to return with another surge in March. Well, it’s March, and his ass is gone, and so is Kristi Noem’s. There’s little to suggest a Midway Blitz 2.0, reports the Chicago Sun-Times.

Is nothing sacred? Creating unrealistic body standards for camels everywhere, about 20 of the sexiest beasts at the 2026 Camel Beauty Show Festival in Oman were disqualified after inspectors discovered that they’d plumped their humps with a botox-like substance.

On June 23, 2021, a historic heat dome settled over the Pacific Northwest like a vengeful oven, sending temperatures skyrocketing from Juneau, Alaska to Eureka, California. In the diverse, working-class neighborhoods of South King County and Tacoma, Yakima and Spokane, temperatures reached as high as 110 degrees.

Over the next few weeks, more than 120 people died due to exposure to extreme heat, making it the deadliest natural disaster our state has witnessed in generations. Compounding that tragedy was another one: the undeniable fact that this tragedy exposed the depth of environmental injustice here in Washington State.

More than half of the people who died during the heat dome lived in poorer neighborhoods—in neighborhoods without air-conditioned community centers, without well-funded emergency services, without enough trees offering enough shade. At least 80 of the deaths occurred within the densely populated urban neighborhoods of King, Pierce, and Spokane counties.

Organizations like Comunidad see these impacts firsthand. Families share stories of working up to 16 hours a day outside in dangerous heat, living in housing without adequate cooling, or struggling to access resources during extreme weather events. For many communities, environmental injustice is not a distant policy debate—it is a daily reality affecting their health, safety, and livelihoods.

In May of 2021, the State Legislature passed the Healthy Environment for All (HEAL) Act—landmark legislation aimed at reducing environmental and health disparities in Washington. The HEAL Act required state agencies to develop and implement community engagement plans, conduct environmental justice assessments, and improve Tribal consultation frameworks.

Over the past four years, funding from the HEAL Act has aided in the development of environmental health disparities (EHD) maps—including heat risk assessments—and provided agencies with the resources to meaningfully include Tribes and frontline communities in decision-making during emergencies such as extreme heat, flooding, and landslides.

HEAL’s community capacity grants have enabled community-led education on issues like water contamination and pollution and provided funding to Tribes and community organizations to increase capacity for climate and environmental justice initiatives.

It has helped make the work of environmental justice central to the mission of this state.

But now, all of that is at risk of disappearing.

In February, state legislators unveiled a budget proposal which would gut environmental justice and HEAL Act funding across multiple agencies—including the departments of Agriculture, Natural Resources, Commerce, and Ecology. The cuts include a 42 percent reduction to the Environmental Justice Council and a half-million dollar reduction at the Department of Health— eliminating critical investments to the Environmental Health Disparities Map and grants to local organizations working to provide services and information to their communities.

These cuts would make it impossible for those of us dedicated to the cause of environmental justice to do our work, and lead to worse health outcomes and wider health disparities in communities already disproportionately impacted by flooding, extreme heat, wildfires, pollution, food deserts, and other health and environmental challenges.

We understand that our state is facing a complicated budget situation, and difficult choices must be made. But Washington should not balance its budget on the backs of our most vulnerable communities.

In 2021, 28 state senators and 56 state representatives voted for the HEAL Act. Just weeks ago, 15 of those same senators and 16 of those same representatives voted for a budget that all but eliminates it.

We cannot only care about the needs of impacted communities when it fits in the budget. We cannot send the message that aiding vulnerable people is a luxury we can’t always afford. And we cannot abandon the essential work of environmental justice when climate change is raising temperatures, drying our landscapes, and causing ever more natural disasters that always impact the already impacted, hurt the already hurting, and disadvantage the already disadvantaged.

The state that passed the Climate Commitment Act must also be a leader in advancing climate justice. The state that passed the HEAL Act should commit to funding it.

Five years ago, an unprecedented heat wave exposed the cracks in our system. We have an obligation to continue the urgent work to fix what’s broken and uplift the people most at risk of slipping through those cracks.

That’s why we will continue to press the urgency of this moment with state legislators. We will continue to engage with Tribes, local organizations, and impacted communities across the state. And we will continue to carry the cause of environmental justice forward—regardless of the politics or popularity, the bullies or the budget constraints.

Because this work—and our communities—are too important.

Dave Upthegrove is the Washington State Commissioner of Public Lands. Alejandra Tres is the co-founder and co-Executive Director of Comunidad.

The city attorney’s office sees between 10,000 and 11,000 cases annually. “Knowing we have to not only focus on the stuff coming at us right now, but also tackle this ginormous, 5,100 case backlog is pretty devastating,” Evans says. Blame Damien, the office's old computer software. by Nathalie Graham

During Erika Evans’ first week on the job as the Seattle City Attorney, she told The Stranger that her predecessor, Ann Davison, left behind a backlog of around 1,300 cases. But upon closer examination, that number was wrong, Evans told The Stranger. The backlog is actually 5,100 cases. 

That’s surprising, mostly because Davison, who took office in 2022, inherited her own 5,000 case backlog after the slow, stuttering pandemic-era. When she wasn’t prosecuting drug crimes, Davison spent her time clearing those cases. Mostly by dumping them. According to PubliCola, declining to file charges on 3,790 cases. It was a polarizing decision that cost people their day in court and a chance at justice. But it should’ve cleared the backlog. Apparently not? 

Evans primarily blamed Damien, the office’s 27-year-old computer software from 1999. “It reminded me of the Oregon Trail video game,” Evans says. Green text, black screen, and no graphics. Got it. Last year, the office switched systems to JusticeNexus, a shiny new software.

 “It was not a smooth transition,” Evans says. “A lot of attorneys felt it was really rushed.”

Criminal Division Chief Jenna Robert called the data transfer “a feat.” And the systems still aren’t fully migrated. Their computer system has to communicate with the Seattle Police Department’s system and the court system, which both use different languages. “It has not been seamless,” Robert says. “Our infractions unit is not integrated yet.” They’re logging infractions on a spreadsheet.  

To a lesser extent, Davison’s office was also at fault. Shortly after Evans took office, her team discovered Davison’s office did not file Criminal Division quarterly reports in the third and fourth quarters of last year, which contain data from case filings and police referrals to the case backlog. Though there’s no penalty for it, the failure was a violation of city code, Evans says. Plus, Davison’s office apparently didn’t label about 1,000 of those with a category of crime, putting them in case limbo. Discovering all this actually led them to the primary culprit, Dusty Damien, and to understanding the scope of this mess: 5,100 languishing cases, 3,800 more than Evans thought. 

Of those, 1,700 are domestic violence (DV) cases. Others concern elder abuse, child abuse, stalking, assault with sexual motivation, and the most serious cases under the city attorney’s jurisdiction: DUIs and those cases of domestic violence. Both have a two year statute of limitations. Most are from 2024 and 2025, so time is ticking to address them. 

Time has run out on the oldest case, where someone who was required to blow into an interlock breathalyzer device before they drove, didn’t. A few animal control cases from 2023 cannot be tried either. “That is not doing justice on public safety,” Evans says. 

“The ones that we're having the most difficulty with are the DUI cases,” Criminal Division Chief Robert says. 

Current state law dictates that toxicology testing for DUIs must be done at the Washington State Patrol toxicology lab. But it has a 15,000 case backlog of its own. According to Alan Pyke, communications director for the city attorney’s office, Davison’s office didn’t consider DUI cases waiting for toxicology lab results as part of the backlog. Evans’ office does. Last month, she testified in Olympia in support of a bill that would allow private labs to take on some of those tests. It passed the Senate and the House and just needs Gov. Bob Ferguson’s signature 

The city attorney’s office sees between 10,000 and 11,000 cases annually. “Knowing we have to not only focus on the stuff coming at us right now, but also tackle this ginormous, 5,100 case backlog is pretty devastating,” Evans says.

Her plan is to prioritize the most serious crimes in the backlog first, but not ahead of new cases. 

“From a public safety standpoint,” Robert adds, “the cases that are of most concern are the cases that are happening right now.” 

Robert says they’re pushing low level "nuisance crimes” like theft, criminal trespass, and drug possession to diversion programs rather than jury trials, which should grease the chute clogged by Davison’s prosecute-first-ask-questions-later method.

More significantly, Evans will be reorganizing the Criminal Division. She’s switching it to a “vertical prosecution method,” similar to how the Department of Justice is organized (that’s where Evans worked before it became Trump’s Department of Injustice). Currently, the Criminal Division is organized horizontally, meaning multiple teams end up handling one case.

The vertical method gives one prosecutor ownership of a case throughout its duration. Evans believes it will be more efficient and improve accountability. Under Davison, the city attorney’s office had a 60 percent dismissal rate—meaning more than half of filed cases were terminated by a judge or voluntarily dropped before reaching a verdict—something Evans considers “unacceptable.” “It's not fair to the suspects when you're charging just to beef up numbers and then it's ultimately a crap case that you were going to dump at some point,” Evans says. 

The vertical method should help. She’ll roll it out across the division slowly, but will start with the domestic violence unit. 

Back in 2022, Davison presented a similar plan for a similar 5,000 case problem—at least on the surface. She told KOMO News she would prioritize the backlog based on severity and was first and foremost on improving public safety. She also said she was going to “improve the processes” of the Criminal Division, except she only did that by implementing a “Close-in-Time filing” policy to speed up case filings. And, ultimately, she threw a bunch of cases away. Evans says she won’t be doing that. 

“We're going to do our best to go through them,” Evans says. “We're not going to dump them.”

One really great thing to do every day of the week. by Audrey Vann MONDAY 3/9  

Richard Hell 

(BOOKS) In his 2005 novel Godlike, punk pioneer Richard Hell reimagines the tumultuous relationship between 19th-century French poets Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine in 1970s New York. Hell’s adaptation follows esteemed poet Paul Vaughn, a married 27-year-old New Yorker, and a newly transplanted teenage poet, R.T. Wode, as they embark on a messy affair full of acid trips, crashed parties, and unrequited love. The book is getting a snazzy rerelease from NYRB (the Criterion Collection of the book world), and Hell will be there in the flesh to discuss the book and maybe even sign a few (if we’re lucky). (Elliott Bay Book Company, 7 pm, free) AUDREY VANN

Indigo De Souza, Mothé

(MUSIC) Indigo De Souza’s music has always dealt with different kinds of death; her layered vocals revel in the ownership of personal missteps that echo as communal failings and social death. Last summer’s Precipice is no different in tone, from the consistently awesome skeletons-with-boobs album artwork to the edge-of-existence conceit. A main marker of evolution has been the embrace of electronic pop production over the crunchy Lucy Dacus–esque guitar ballads of albums past, which she has confirmed to be a purposeful choice, even excitedly. To this, I cannot give a more heartfelt endorsement, to the contrary of Pitchfork’s Robins-Somerville review. Even the album’s most Taylor Swift–ian of tracks are dark as fuck, and I can’t imagine a better, more worthy philosophical mind fuck to jam the pop algorithms. (Showbox, 8 pm, all ages) TODD HAMM

Cochemea, Jungle Fire

(MUSIC) The Daptone label's most out-there act, saxophonist/flautist/bass clarinetist Cochemea creates humid, psychedelic roots music that vibrates in its own lane. Before the Yaqui/Yoeme artist went solo, he played sax for Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings and worked with Quincy Jones, Amy Winehouse, Archie Shepp, and others. However, Cochemea's own recordings skew more toward Budos Band and Antibalas, of whose touring bands he was a member. On his 2010 debut LP, The Electric Sound of Johnny Arrow, Cochemea fused spiritual jazz, funk, and boogaloo into gripping sonic panoramas. His next three albums broadened the palette to include cumbia, Moroccan gnawa, blues, and his ancestral Indigenous music. Tangy percussive timbres—Asian Indian and Latin American drums figure heavily—combined with Cochemea's electrified sax and chants from his tribe result in songs that sound at once ancient and otherworldly. This show promises, if only briefly, a primal trip out of our national political nightmare. (Sunset Tavern, 8 pm, 21+) DAVE SEGAL

Mt Fog, Iroiro, DJ Martin Douglas

(MUSIC) If a Washington rainforest started a band, it would sound something like Mt Fog—Carolyn B.’s playful whispers are like a sprite luring you into a mossy forest. The percussion, like raindrops plopping into a mushroom. And the electronics, like a ray of light shimmering through the trees. The Seattle-based trio whimsically marries the vocal stylings of Kate Bush, Björk, and Siouxsie Sioux with sparse electronics, evocative of CAN and Mort Garson. They will celebrate the release of their new album, Every Stone Is Green, which they describe as a “Gothic tale (in the Brontë sisters' sense) about finding happiness, which is human-ness.” They will be joined by the psychedelic instrumental band Iroiro and music journalist/DJ Martin Douglas. Read more about the making of the new album in our interview with Mt Fog. (Tractor Tavern, 8 pm, 21+) AUDREY VANN

Scott Broker with Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore

(BOOKS) Scott Broker’s first novel, The Disappointment, starts where so many stories do: a man trying to sneak his mother’s ashes into his suitcase without his husband noticing. The book is described as a surrealist vacation through this couple’s desperate, disconnected trip to the Oregon Coast. And no one could be better to interview him than Seattle’s own Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore (who recently released Terry Dactyl, if you somehow haven’t gotten your hands on it yet). The conversation promises to be brilliant, funny, and very, very queer. (Elliott Bay Book Company, 7 pm, free) HANNAH MURPHY WINTER

Eric-Paul Riege: ‘ojo|-|ólǫ́’

(VISUAL ART) The soft sculptures of Eric-Paul Riege aren’t quiet objects—their presence inscribed in space is monolithic and monumental, and when brought to life through movement, they become instruments of sound. Riege, who is Diné, has built a practice of collaging and reworking elements drawn from Navajo weaving and jewelry-making traditions, ultimately constructing large-scale, hanging installations that sway, ripple, and jingle when touched. For this exhibit—his largest solo show to date—Riege researched collections of Navajo artifacts held by Brown University’s Haffenreffer Museum of Anthropology and the University of Washington’s Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture. What emerged is an immersive environment that envelops the viewer while quietly unsettling institutional narratives of Indigenous culture. (Henry Art Gallery) AMANDA MANITACH

Safe

(FILM) Todd Haynes’s Safe is a horror movie cloaked in pastel colors, plastic tarps, and unsettling silence. Julianne Moore, the master of tension and nuance, plays Los Angeles housewife Carol White, who comes down with a debilitating illness that doctors cannot diagnose. After becoming self-convinced that the illness is caused by extreme environmental allergies, White flees to a retreat in New Mexico led by a New Age guru. Perhaps the most fascinating element of this film is the numerous ways it can be interpreted: a critique of suffocating suburban life, an allegory for the queer experience, a metaphor for the AIDS crisis, or a commentary on self-help culture—the more time that passes since its release, the richer the text gets. Don’t miss the chance to see it on the big screen this month for its 30th anniversary. (NW Film Forum, 4 pm) AUDREY VANN

The Stranger's morning news roundup. by Hannah Murphy Winter

Good morning! It’s the first Monday of daylight savings, which means we all had a weird night’s sleep. And the weather’s no help. After a soggy weekend, the weather report promises a whole lot of the same. We’re getting rain all week, with a chance of wintery mix in the mornings. 

Let’s do the news. 

We’re Still at War: After US–Israeli strikes killed Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, the country has named one of his sons, Mojtaba Khamenei, the nation’s new leader. According to the New York Times, he’s relatively unknown, but has been a shadowy, influential figure in Iran’s government, coordinating military and intelligence operations at his father’s office. He was considered the Islamic Revolutionary Guards’ favorite candidate for the role, but no one asked Trump how he felt about it. Before the news was announced, Trump told ABC News that a new leader “is not going to last long” without his approval. He is two-for-two when it comes to violently unseating world leaders. 

Death Toll: The United Nations has estimated that more than 1,300 people have been killed in Iran since the war began. More than 300 people have been killed in Israeli strikes on Lebanon. In Israel, at least 12 people have been killed, and seven US military personnel have died.

Pressure at the Pump: Unsurprisingly, starting a war in the region that provides a third of the world’s oil caused gas prices to go through the roof. This weekend, for the first time in four years, the cost of a barrel of oil broke $100. Here in Washington, prices are up more than a quarter a gallon. According to Trump, though, we just have to trust his process. “Short term oil prices, which will drop rapidly when the destruction of the Iran nuclear threat is over, is a very small price to pay for U.S.A., and World, Safety and Peace,” Trump said on Truth Social. “ONLY FOOLS WOULD THINK DIFFERENTLY.” Call me a fool.

Speaking of Fools: Trump is still trying to steal an election. He knows the GOP could lose big in November, so he’s continuing his push to “nationalize” elections to fight his non-existent widespread voter fraud. According to the New York Times, he’s likely to target Michigan, Georgia, North Carolina, and Arizona—all swing states where Republicans are already actively pushing Trump’s conspiracy theory. 

Wonder Twins, Activate! What happens when you combine DOGE and AI? The National Endowment for the Humanities found out. According to court documents acquired by the New York Times, DOGE employees assessed their grants by asking ChatGPT: “Does the following relate at all to D.E.I.? Respond factually in less than 120 characters. Begin with ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’” The “yeses” included: building improvements at an Indigenous languages archive in Alaska, the digitization of Black newspapers, and a 40-volume series on the history of American music.  

Some Good News: Violent crime is down in King County. In 2025, homicides didn’t break into the triple digits for the first time since the pandemic. It’s the second year in a row that we’ve seen fewer homicides than the year before, and fewer overall shootings. Go team!

More Good News: We’ve also seen a dip in ICE arrests in the last month, nationwide. According to government sources who spoke to the New York Times, immigration agents have moved away from their violent, indiscriminate street sweeps, and focused on more targeted enforcement operations. They still arrested more than 1,000 people in February, and it’s still dramatically more than when Trump first took office, but it’s an undeniable shift. 

Women Marched: Yesterday was International Women’s Day, and the return of the Women’s March. By the Seattle Times’ estimate, about 300 people showed up at Cal Anderson Park to hear scheduled speakers (including Councilmember Alexis Mercedes Rinck and City Attorney Erika Evans) talk about ICE, the war in Iran, and Trump’s other misdeeds, see the now-traditional Handmaid outfits, and watch one person bop around in an inflatable Chicken costume. (Wanna make sure you know about other protests and demonstrations before they happen? Keep an eye on our Where to Scream column.)

Pity the Millionaires: State Dems have finally come up with a version of the Millionaires Tax that made Governor Ferguson happy, and as we head into the last week of the legislative session, it looks like he’ll actually sign the bill when it hits his desk. But what happens next? It’s all but guaranteed to be challenged in the courts, thanks to a 1930s ruling in our state Supreme Court, which decided that, according to our state constitution, income is property. (Property has to be taxed at a “uniform” rate, meaning that we could only have a “flat” income tax.) A lot of supporters think that precedent deserves another looksee. 

Fleet Flop: Washington is watery. And our state is finally recognizing that we should consider using those waterways to, ya know, move people. The state legislature is considering the Mosquito Fleet Act, a bill that would allow waterfront cities to create their own ferry systems, but after passing the State House with a resounding 84-11 vote, the new version in the Senate poked a bunch of seemingly unnecessary holes in the hull. According to the Urbanist, the new version requires that new passenger-ferry districts only use zero-emission boats made in Washington State, bans all state funding for passenger ferry districts starting in just two years, and requires that passenger ferry districts not overlap, which means cities wouldn’t be able to coordinate with each other on these ferry routes. Just give us the boats!

Looking for something to do tonight? Stranger contributor Meg van Huygen knows a spot. The No Call No Show popup is back tonight, with themed craft cocktails and snacks “concocted by a group of fine-dining creative weirdos.” Your hosts will be Kamonegi’s Chef Mutsuko Soma, Matt Pachmayr from Le Coin, and the mononymous Quan from the Sake Noire pop-up.

Sabio-Howell’s pitch is this: Sen. Pedersen is quick to concede to big business before the politicking has even begun, and a corporate-friendly incrementalist like him had no business representing a district of progressive renters like the 43rd. by Vivian McCall

A rain-soaked Hannah Sabio-Howell and I were at Gemini Room in Capitol Hill, ordering coffee and talking about breakfast sandwiches in Seattle. The few, the expensive, and the far away. The small, cheesy signifier that the neighborhood could be a better place if only our zoning laws allowed for more storefronts.

Recently communications director for Working Washington, a workers rights nonprofit that backed the $15 minimum wage and fought to keep gig worker minimum pay in Seattle, 29-year-old Sabio-Howell believes if we tried, we could have breakfast sandwiches on every block, and more substantive things like a statewide version of Social Housing, denser housing, and expanded paid parental leave as a first step toward universal childcare. But who is keeping us from this utopian future? None other than Majority Leader Sen. Jamie Pedersen (D-Seattle), sponsor of this year’s millionaires’ tax. For that, she wants his seat. 

Sabio-Howell’s pitch is this: Sen. Pedersen is quick to concede to big business before the politicking has even begun, and a corporate-friendly incrementalist like him had no business representing a district of progressive renters like the 43rd. He’s progressive for a leader in the party, sure. But she argues that she’s a far better representative for the people who live in the 43rd District and a reliable vote for the major economic and taxation issues that are facing the state. She’s betting that makes him vulnerable enough to lose, even as a leader of the party. (She has insight there—in addition to her time in the state Senate, Sabio-Howell was chair of the Urbanist’s elections committee).

“He’s going to try to brand himself as effective because he is a deal maker,” Sabio-Howell says. “I think that approach to leadership is actually more of a deal broker, not someone who is actually driving the outcome. I think it’s giving things away before we need to give them away. Our district is too visionary and vibrant.”

Sabio-Howell was born in St. Louis, Missouri and spent most of her childhood in Wheaton, a an conservative, affluent suburb on the rim of Chicago, famous for a protestant college that lifted a Civil War-era ban on dancing in 2003. 

Wheaton’s conservative vibes did not rub off on the daughter of two school teachers (and one Filipino immigrant, her mother), lifelong Democrats who preached that government existed to improve our lives.

She organized for immigration reform at Whitworth University, a Presbyterian university in Spokane. An internship at the State Legislature led to her first job out of college as the legislative aide with  a surprising political mentor, the centrist Rep. Larry Springer, who represents some of the wealthiest towns of East King County, and later a communications job for the Senate Democratic Caucus.

Every year, Rep. Springer and his wife, former Kirkland Mayor Penny Sweet, host a Christmas dinner with his current and former legislative aides. This year, other aides “grilled” Sabio-Howell on her run. “I came away, I told Penny, she’s done her homework.” Politically, Sabio-Howell is far left of Springer. But he taught her the same lesson he teaches all of his legislative assistants, he said. The stuff that lasts the test of time is “not solely crafted by one end of the spectrum.”

“I think what she learned from me is, speak to both sides and craft something that works, not something that feels good,” he said. “The other part is, of course, your enemy today is your ally tomorrow.”

Over coffee, it was clear she’d taken that lesson to heart. I’d heard Sabio-Howell’s platform from first-time progressive candidates before. Affordable housing and childcare, investments in working families, and taxes on the rich to pay for it all. The floundering usually begins when you ask “how.” She didn’t give me specific solutions either, but instead of trying to make them up on the spot, she pitched an alternative viewpoint: Good policy only comes through consensus, and we can't start our politicking with business-friendly concessions. We want to give both the working class and the puffer jacketed types with enough money to tax something to actually believe in.

“Standing 10 toes down on your values to be clear about what you are…and what would get you to a “yes” or get you to a “no,” these are essential to an approach that equals effective policy making,” she says. It helps that she’s convincing and “damn nice,” says Rep. Springer. (If you disagree on something, you’ll agree and “love her” by the time she’s done analyzing it for you, he says.) State senator turned Congresswoman Emily Randall (WA-6), who doesn’t endorse in King County races, says Pedersen has done a great job as majority leader, but also called Sabio-Howell her “forever communications and strategy partner,” who helped her hone her voice on difficult issues in a swing district. 

A better way is possible, she says. Her platform points to plentiful housing in Austin, Texas, and Jersey City, New Jersey, and New Mexico’s new universal childcare program. None of her examples are perfect comparisons to Washington, of course. Austin sprawls in a state with a lower cost of living and fewer land-use regulations; Jersey City recently saw a surge in construction, and rent is falling after years of hikes, but the city still doesn’t have the housing it needs; New Mexico, a state with an income tax, is struggling to fund universal childcare without taking from the state’s general fund. (She also wasn’t sure what state or local policies in Jersey City and Austin made housing more attainable). The point is that it’s possible, she says. We’re not breaking new ground with these ideas.

“Is it possible in our vibrant, visionary, record-breakingly progressive district to present a new type of Democratic leadership, and to say we are aware that politics as usual, status quo-governing pro-corporation Democrats are not delivering on the things that we have reaffirmed over and over again,” she says. “I want to basically say to people in our community, choose your fighter.” (Some already have—according to her political consultant, Stephen Paolini, Sabio-Howell has raised about $30,000 from about 100 friends, family, activists, and colleagues.)

Reached by phone on a rainy drive home from Olympia Friday night, Sen. Pedersen says he found the critique that he’s not progressive enough “somewhat surprising.”

In 2006, the summer he ran for House, Pedersen was “single-minded” on equality. A gay lawyer on the board of Lambda Legal, Pedersen had taken depositions for Andersen v. Sims (later Andersen v. King County), the organization’s challenge to the state ban on gay marriage. Lambda won the case in King County Superior Court, but lost in 5-4 State Supreme Court ruling.

Determined, Pedersen worked with Ed Murray, the once State Senator and since-disgraced Mayor of Seattle, on securing the 425 rights and obligations that depended on marital status in Washington. They co-sponsored three domestic partnership bills. The first gave domestic partners basic rights like hospital visitation and inheritance. The second added them to laws about probate and trust, community property and guardianship. The third swept the rest into an “everything but marriage” law that survived Referendum 71, the conservative attempt to repeal it. After Gov. Christine Gregoire requested a marriage bill in the twilight of her second term, Pedersen whipped support in the House. 

But it’s been 14 years since Gregoire signed marriage equality into law. The world, and the definition of progressive, has, well, progressed. Pedersen’s big social wins like gay rights, limited gun control, gun violence prevention, the decertification of bad cops and other police accountability measures, weren’t all safe when he backed them, but don’t seem so radical now.

Heading into his sixth election, Pedersen has the support of big corporations, the same corporations that the state needs to tax to have a functioning budget. A third of Pedersen’s $187,000 warchest comes from business, including BNSF, timber company Weyerhaeuser, Amazon, Kroger, (my enemies at) Regence Blue Shield, Eli Lilly, Microsoft, (piss bottlers) Anheuser Busch, AirBnB, Pfizer, burger merchants at McDonalds, and more. 

Do they own him? “No,” said House Speaker Rep. Laurie Jinkins, followed by a somewhat tense silence, because of course money in politics matters.

As for Pedersen being Mr. Incremental, “Olympia is generally an incremental place with transformative moments,” she says. “It is fairly pointless to pass transformative legislation only to have voters repeal it.” Twenty-six US states allow for initiatives and referendums, most West of Missouri. It’s a blessing and a curse, particularly with anti-tax wraiths like Brian Heywood and Tim Eyman around.

For years, Washington couldn’t pass a tax or even fix a tax loophole without a two-thirds supermajority in both houses because of one of Eyman’s initiatives. (To sum up Jinkins’ history of that time, it sucked—we were at the tailend of the recession, broke, and cutting programs left and right) But in 2013, the State Supreme Court smacked it down as unconstitutional. Why? Sen. Pedersen and Rep. Jinkins crafted a legal weapon, a bill to fix a tax loophole, specifically designed to go to court, she says.

“I could not have done that without Jamie’s help,” Jinkins says. “He’s the one who understood the process … Had we not done that, we would not have gotten Cap Gains,” a nine-year slog of its own. Or the millionaire’s tax, which is almost certain to go before the voters and to court.

“I’m not going to argue it’s bigger than marriage equality,” says Jinkins, who is gay and could if she wanted. “But it’s been our tax structure for 100 years. This bill is so important.”

And so not enough, Sabio-Howell says. As she wrote in a Stranger op-ed with Fatema Boxwala and Oliver Miska last month, big business is being given a big break. From the jump, Pedersen presented the bill with these carveouts, pissing off half the party in the process.

Again, she thinks we can do more. Pedersen says he spends time on things he thinks will be efficient. Therein lies the tension. Does the 43rd want to hold onto an incumbent who is a proven leader in the party, but whose politics have not kept pace with this constituency? Or are they willing to switch up party leadership for someone who’s more aligned with what progressives want now?