Before legislating, political newcomers should try something else: listening

The 2026 Wyoming Legislature Covenes

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In 1907, my grandfather Harry S. Harnsberger, a baby-faced blond with translucent skin, stepped off the train in Lander. It was only the second train to arrive at this remote outpost — the end of the line. For Harry, having finally convinced his parents to release him to the West, it was the culmination of long-harbored visions of becoming a “riding, roping, hootin’-tootin’ carefree cowboy.” To him, it was paradise.

The cowboy thing didn’t work out. Nor did his job as a camp cook in the Tar Spring patch near present-day Fort Washakie. As the reality of making a living sunk in, snuffing high-spirited dreams of young men everywhere, Harry rerouted to law school. He was, after all, a man of letters and considerate thought. Not all are born for the saddle. Following law school, he spent the rest of his life as a public servant, first as Fremont County attorney, then attorney general before an appointment to the Wyoming Supreme Court. He served Wyoming well. 

Harry came to this state not to change it, but to be absorbed by it. Oh that the political newcomers to the state, most of whom align with the Freedom Caucus, would strip their cloth of arrogance and acquaint themselves with this state before trying to run it. 

As the legislative session ends and campaign season begins, the hard-right faction of the Republican Party continues its crusade to change the complexion of this state, stripping us of our identity one wacko at a time. At the recent Fremont County Republican Party Caucus (my cousin Scott Harnsberger is the chair), the censures were flying. The many irretrievably confounding moments included the pro forma “you’re not Republican enough” censure naming, among others, Reps. Lloyd Larsen, Ember Oakley and Sen. Cale Case, conservative public servants whose bones of their ancestors are buried in Fremont County. 

The censures are a staple in the Freedom Caucus diet, as is punishing veteran lawmakers for their length of service, as if earned knowledge was something to be purged. Indeed, the influx of candidates — some of whom are so new to the state their residency is better measured in months, not years — call themselves “political refugees,” a curious sales pitch for a band that opposes foreigners entering our borders uninvited.

Rather than attacking seasoned lawmakers as the Establishment, consider this: The Larsens, Oakleys, Cases, et al are not the enemy. They are the guardians. If folks moved here because of our cowboy culture why are they so busy rejecting the very ethos that drew them here? Giving the keys to our kingdom to unskilled, silver-tongued, ham-handed outsiders runs far deeper than shoddy legislation. We risk losing our soul.

I’ve longed for a chance to share with these newcomers what our heritage means to us, this legacy they’ve clumsily inherited. An opportunity presented itself last month at the First Lady’s legislative spouse’s luncheon. The luncheon is a long-standing tradition, a strange consequence of marriage where present and former (like myself) spouses are given a chance to meet and share the unspoken burdens of a political spouse.  There’s currency to those relationships. It’s what makes for better humans and for better law.

An uncomfortable thrum pulsed through the room as we sat across the table from some spouses of resistors and disruptors, who were at that very moment busy ruining our state with terrible top-heavy legislation and bad law, the worst of which were vetoed by Gov. Mark Gordon. Yet there we were, breaking bread together at the same table. It was important. 

Upon introductions, a gentle messaging campaign took flight. The Formers (myself included) spoke of our families, the sacrifices we made to get our spouses into public office, the financial burden of leaving our day job for six weeks to serve. We spoke with gratitude for the honor and respect we held for the office and the responsibility that comes with it. I looked around the tables to the newer faces and thought: I hope they are listening.  At the end of the lunch, we took pictures, exchanged numbers and promised to see each again. Perhaps we laid the first stone on the path to parity.  

Our state could benefit from some new thinking and fresh perspectives. Yet, I encourage wannabe lawmakers chomping at the bit to tarry the day, to simmer in our ecosystem, to study the complexities of our economy, the gnatty problems of rural health care, to introduce themselves to their civic leaders. One must first find the pulse of a community before improving upon it. 

Grandpa Harry played the long game as he made his way. He listened, learned and lived with his community before daring to speak on its behalf. 

There’s no way around it. You gotta live it before you can legislate it.