Chuck Darwin<p>After two years of far-right rule in a Michigan county, one chance to change it </p><p><a href="https://c.im/tags/Rachel" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>Rachel</span></a> <a href="https://c.im/tags/Atwood" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>Atwood</span></a> corralled voters outside her polling place. </p><p>She was part of the slate of hard-line Republicans trying to keep control of the board. </p><p>Her group, <br><a href="https://c.im/tags/Ottawa" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>Ottawa</span></a> <a href="https://c.im/tags/Impact" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>Impact</span></a>, dominated the county GOP.<br>
“Do you need a Republican voter guide?” she asked as people passed by.</p><p>Atwood, 43, got involved in county politics because she believed that <br>mask requirements were hurting her autistic son <br>at a critical moment in his development. </p><p>The mandates were over, <br>but Atwood thought that the threats to her children’s well-being <br>from the government and pro-LGBTQ+ liberals <br>remained as real as ever.</p><p>
“What makes me a little different in this race is that my experience is much more geared toward the current <a href="https://c.im/tags/culture" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>culture</span></a> <a href="https://c.im/tags/war" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>war</span></a>,” <br>she told a local television station.<br>
<br>She was running in the Republican primary against <a href="https://c.im/tags/John" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>John</span></a> <a href="https://c.im/tags/Teeples" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>Teeples</span></a>, <br>a retired attorney, who described himself as a “<a href="https://c.im/tags/fiscal" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>fiscal</span></a> <a href="https://c.im/tags/conservative" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>conservative</span></a>” <br>intent on restoring <br>“<a href="https://c.im/tags/kindness" class="mention hashtag" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#<span>kindness</span></a>” to the county’s politics.<br>
The night before the primary, Atwood and the other Ottawa Impact candidates <br>each occupied one of the four geographic corners of the county <br>and prayed for the protection of their community. </p><p>Her skin was deeply tanned, the product of knocking on more than 2,000 doors <br>— an experience that she described as transformative.</p><p>
“God has been sending people to me through door-knocking <br>to say things to me that are supernatural, <br>that are God-briefed,” <br>Atwood said in a recent Facebook live video from the campaign trail. </p><p>She prayed with dozens of people who had autistic children <br>or close relatives with the condition, <br>she said, </p><p>and promised them she would fight for more county services for their loved ones.</p><p>On their first day in office, the Ottawa Impact commissioners had fired the county’s administrator, <br>canned its lawyer of 40 years, <br>closed its diversity office <br>and dumped its motto “Where you Belong” in favor of <br>“Where Freedom Rings.”</p><p>More change <br>— which Ottawa Impact opponents called chaos <br>— followed. </p><p>The new commissioners forced the county’s longtime sex educator, <br>who had developed successful programs to lower teen pregnancy and curb the spread of sexually transmitted infections, <br>into an administrative job. </p><p>When their efforts to remove the county’s public health director were blocked by the courts, <br>they cut the health department’s budget, <br>eliminating a program that helped feed 22,000 low-income residents each year.</p><p>
They turned down millions of dollars in federal and state grants <br>because they came with conditions that the commissioners said <br>were unconstitutional or immoral, </p><p>and they became embroiled in a spate of lawsuits alleging discrimination.<br>
Joe Moss, <br>who co-founded Ottawa Impact and chairs the county board, <br>didn’t respond to a request for comment. </p><p>In an interview with a local television station, he described the new board members as regular people <br>— teachers, entrepreneurs, nurses, social workers <br>— who were acting as “guardrails” <br>to defend the county’s children from <br>“dangerous and harmful” forces.<br>
Atwood disagreed with those who insisted that Ottawa Impact had hurt the community<br> by introducing anger and division into the otherwise mundane world of county government.</p><p>“I’m happy people have become so engaged,” she said.<br>
Outside her polling place a couple of supporters approached her <br>and asked for a selfie. </p><p>Atwood smiled and posed alongside them. </p><p>“We’re praying for you,” they told her.</p><p>That evening, candidates and their backers gathered at election night parties <br>where they compulsively checked the county’s website for early returns.<br>
Barry waited for the results with Rep. Bill Huizenga (R), <br>the local congressman and his half brother, <br>who had rented an event space at an upscale waterfront restaurant. </p><p>The siblings stood together near the restaurant’s deck as the sun set over Lake Michigan, <br>smartphones in hand.<br>
Just after 9:30 p.m. the county clerk sent a text alert that early results were in, <br>prompting nearly 4,000 people to ping the county’s website <br>within 30 seconds. </p><p>The flood of traffic crashed the site.<br>
“We are aware of the website issues,” the county clerk posted on his social media pages. </p><p>“A lot of folks interested in our results!”<br>
The primary’s unusually high stakes made for unusual alliances. </p><p>An older man in a red <br>“Make America Great Again” hat <br>sat with friends at an election night pizza party <br>for Mark Northrup, a small-town mayor <br>challenging Moss in the Republican primary. </p><p>A few feet away, Jacqui Poehlman, <br>one of Northrup’s volunteers, <br>hunched over a computer with a <br>“Bans off our bodies” sticker on it.</p><p><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/2024/08/11/michigan-county-far-right-commission-election/" rel="nofollow noopener noreferrer" translate="no" target="_blank"><span class="invisible">https://www.</span><span class="ellipsis">washingtonpost.com/politics/20</span><span class="invisible">24/08/11/michigan-county-far-right-commission-election/</span></a></p>