The Real ‘Threat to Democracy’

Given how often we hear someone called a “threat to democracy” today, we are tempted to think that democracy—like, say, the polar bear—is an endangered species. Not so. In Jackson County, at least, there is not too little democracy; there is too much.

Case in point: Recently Jackson County Legislator “Abarca IV” alerted residents of his district to the deadline for appealing property tax hikes. “Failure to respond by April 30, 2025, will automatically result in the appeal being marked as Advancement (Option 3), meaning no hearing will be held.” 

Unfortunately, Abarca IV posted the news release on April 29—just one day before the deadline. Welcome to Jackson County, where Tammany Hall meets the Marx brothers—all the corruption and craziness, but without the humor.

The news release acknowledged as much. “Legislator Abarca emphasized the confusion many residents are experiencing, stating: ‘Our residents are trapped in the chaos of the unknown, with shifting deadlines, unclear processes, and high stakes for their homes and livelihoods.’”

“Property owners may contact the Office of Legislator Abarca IV for assistance,” the release concluded. Three times it spoke of “Abarca IV” without any mention of his first name, the assumption being that we all should know it. I, for one, had no clue. 

Abarca IV lives in Northeast Kansas City and represents the 1st District. I excused myself for not knowing his name, given that I live in the Brookside section of Kansas City about 10 miles away. Like most residents of the county, I had no idea of what district I lived in, let alone who represented me. 

So I checked. As I discovered, District 1 sprawls westward from Northeast Kansas City, circumvents Downtown, and clings to the state line for another eight or so skinny miles south. I’m guessing this Byzantine bit of gerrymandering has something to do with race, but whatever the rationale, Abarca IV is, in fact, my legislator.

Jackson County, I learned, has nine legislators, six are in district, and three are “at-large.” Bizarrely, once again, at-large does not mean at-large in the traditional sense. Instead, the county has been sliced into three superdistricts, each cut of which bears the designation “at-large.” I suspect this vivisection has something to do with race as well.

Here is what troubles me. I am a politically active citizen who has been living in the county and reporting on local politics for nearly a half-century, and I had no idea who my two county legislators were. If I didn’t know, does anyone? There is something fundamentally wrong here.

If local residents do know their county legislator, it is likely because they petitioned them after getting whacked by the arbitrary and often outrageous tax hikes that prompted Abarca IV’s emergency news release. How arbitrary? Well, while some of my neighbors were staring at increases in the 50 to 100 percent range, mine actually went down. Shhhh! Understandably, I sat this protest out.

Compounding the problem, of course, is the slow death of The Kansas City Star. When I moved here, I read the paper every day. Both editions. Most everyone did. The subscription rate was in the 90 percent range, and The Star was a fair arbiter of local politics. Now, it’s on life support and, so, alas, is local democracy. 

It’s not that we have too little dem-ocracy, we have too much democracy for our contracting media to cover. In addition to two of my Jackson County legislators, I have two City Council representatives, a state rep, two school board members, and a state senator. Before writing this, I could not have named any of them. A few years ago, I read that a Missouri State rep had been busted for drugs and wondered whose rep he was. Turned out he was mine.

Most counties in Missouri are governed by a three-member administrative “court” with independently elected officials heading administrative departments. This was the system that Boss Tom Pendergast exploited to elevate Harry Truman to power.

In 1970, the voters of Jackson County adopted a Constitutional Home Rule Charter for the County, establishing a County Executive position and the County Legislature. On paper, given the Pendergast legacy, it seemed an improvement. It wasn’t. The overlap of city, county, school board, and state officials in one 616-square-mile plot has turned local politics into an unentertaining form of demolition derby.

In 1997, residents of Wyandotte County addressed a comparable problem on their side of the state line. They voted to consolidate the municipal government of Kansas City, Kan., and the county government of Wyandotte into a single unified government.

Has it been a success? Well, the branding was clearly not. Giving the new entity the most unwieldy name of any political jurisdiction in America—“The Unified Government of Wyandotte County and Kansas City”—has made “merch” sales a little tricky. 

On more substantive issues, here is what Google AI has to say: “Some see it as a success, with positive economic outcomes and simplified governance; others point to issues like financial instability and declining public trust.” Thanks for the clarification, AI!

Given the four-county, 15-school board sprawl of the real Kansas City, unification on the Missouri side is not feasible. What is feasible is electing more county legislators like, well, Abarca IV. Yes, that guy, and he has a perfectly good first name too, Manuel—“Manny” among friends.

Although a Democrat, on April 21, Manny joined two other county legislators in sending a letter to Republican Attorney General Andrew Bailey calling for an investigation into Jackson County Executive Frank White, also a Democrat.

The real threat to democracy, it turns out, is Frank White. His ability to weather scandal after scandal in this one-party county makes people question democracy’s value. For now, the only way to contain the threat is for other Democrats to do what Abarca IV did—call their own man out.