In
far northern California, independence is a state of mind
YREKA, Calif. (AP) — Along the
far northern edge of California, far from the bright lights of Hollywood and
the foggy charms of San Francisco, exists a place many have never heard of —
the State of Jefferson.
But for those in the know, the name — a slogan from a
quixotic past — says a lot about the state of mind in this wild, beautiful and
sparsely populated country.
Jefferson, a would-have-been
49th state made up of a handful of neighboring counties in northern California
and southern Oregon, lasted only a few days in 1941 before it was squashed by
the cold reality of Pearl Harbor.
More than six decades later, the yearning for a state —
or at least an identity — of their own still lingers in residents who suspect
their concerns are overlooked and undervalued by decision makers in more
populated parts of California.
“We’ve always fostered an independent streak up here,”
says Pete LaFortune, executive director of Yreka’s
Chamber of Commerce.
The State of Jefferson began as part publicity stunt,
part political gesture, and even today the movement is made up of
tourist-friendly whimsy intertwined with more serious themes of discontent.
Step into the Palace Barber Shop — “Expert cuts ... fades
... flat tops.” — on Miner Street, the main drag of
Yreka’s frozen-in-time downtown, and you enter another world. On the wall hangs
an animal skull decorated with the XX brand adopted by the Jeffersonians
of 1941 to signify their disgust with being “double-crossed” by authorities.
It’s said people have been getting their hair, mustaches
and beards trimmed on this spot since the days when Yreka was a Gold Rush boom
town.
A mirror runs along one side of the deep, narrow room,
reflecting the shop’s antique fixtures, a collection of funky hair products and
the maroon-smocked images of barbers John Lisle and Richard Pease.
“Here, try this,” teases Lisle, holding out a very old
and tightly capped concoction of crude oil and coal tar that appears guaranteed
to fix your hair problems, or at least fire up your Model T.
Siskiyou County, home to Yreka, has about 46,000
residents spread over 6,400 or so square miles. Although registered Republicans
only have a modest edge over registered Democrats, residents are often at odds
with more liberal chunks of the state.
In the 2004 election, the Siskiyou County vote was
roughly 61-38 in favor of keeping Republican President Bush, compared with the
54-44 statewide total that favored putting Democrat John Kerry in office.
“A lot of the laws and different things that affect us
are voted on by people who’ve never been here and don’t know anything about
us,” says Lisle.
“When we vote on something, it doesn’t make much
difference at all because one precinct down there outnumbers the whole county
here,” Pease agrees. “You vote, but you feel like your vote is going down the
tube.”
Roy Hardy, in for a trim, has a single, succinct reason
for supporting a move to the State of Jefferson.
“Wouldn’t have to put up with all those dumb people from
down south,” he announces to general laughter. Only he doesn’t say “people.”
The ‘41 secessionists were inspired by anger over the
region’s substandard roads that became unusable in winter. “Our Roads Are Not
Passable, Hardly Jackassable,” went the rallying cry.
These days, it’s not hard to get to Yreka. Interstate 5,
which runs the length of California, is a long, smooth swoop through fir-studded
hills and past the monolithic grandeur of Mount Shasta, a popular recreation
spot.
But there is plenty of resentment simmering over
long-standing government curbs on logging and fishing and a proposal to rip out
a series of hydroelectric dams on the Klamath River, which runs through the
heart of the State of Jefferson, to help struggling salmon runs.
Bill Overman, chairman of
Siskiyou County’s board of supervisors, is among those who are concerned that
removing the dams will hurt the property values for people living along the
reservoirs.
Like leaders of earlier times, he chafes at the feeling
that outside forces are calling the shots.
“We would like to be able to take care of our resources
and be able to manage them properly and we can do that if we’re just allowed
to,” says Overman.
The idea of forming a separate state out of the
mountainous region along the Oregon-California border, has come up a few times,
says Jay Mullen, professor of history at Southern Oregon University.
“It’s really a very, very old historical tradition in
America that people sort of removed from the center of power resent the center
of power,” says Mullen.
A passion for secession has arisen in various other spots
across the nation from time to time as well as within California, where talk
sometimes surfaces of splitting the state into two, north and south, or even
three.
The 1941 movement got going when Gilbert Gable, mayor of
Port Orford, Ore., announced that a number of Oregon
counties should join with California neighbors to form a new state.
His idea was to draw attention to the region’s rotten
roads. It caught fire, especially in Siskiyou County, and Yreka became the
nascent state’s temporary capital.
Jefferson “seceded” in late 1941 and got national
attention; San Francisco Chronicle reporter Stanton Delaplane’s
articles about the rebellious move won him the Pulitzer Prize in 1942.
But with the Dec. 7, 1941, attack on Pearl Harbor, the
movement was shelved.
Today, the brief chapter is memorialized on a Web site,
jeffersonstate.com and a barn south of Yreka painted with the name “State of
Jefferson,” and in the name of Jefferson Public Radio, based in Ashland, Ore.
License plate holders reading “resident of the State of Jefferson,” are a
popular item.
Still, the Chamber of Commerce’s LaFortune
doesn’t expect to see citizens marching on Sacramento any time soon.
“It’s more
mythical than anything else,” he says. “The State of Jefferson is that state of
independence. It’s that state of being able to take care of yourself — the Jeffersonian
ideals that the government is not the answer. People are the answer.”