Oregon daily emerald., June 20, 1973, Page 5, Image 5

Commentary
A little green to go along with the gold
By Scott Spittal
He stands in golden glory above the
gray building, perched precariously
above the Capitol Dome.
Some would say he symbolizes the
great pioneer spirit that made Oregon
great—and others intimate that the
brilliant reflection of rain clouds off his
golden surface shines on only those with
a little green to go along with the gold.
He points off into the distance, his
eyes fixed on far-off Portland. Rain or
shine, cold or hot, he stands there as a
guardian and reminder of the
responsibilities embodied in the
legislature that meets under his
calloused, trail hardened toes. The
responsibilities of guiding, protecting
and responding to the needs of the
people of Oregon.
The responsibilities of government.
The Pioneer symbolizes the supposed
spirit of Oregon—a trailblazer, a tamer
of new frontiers. He stands tall, alone,
his arm pointing into the far sunset—
and occasionally, it seems he may be in
a whimsical mood, and that arm bends
back slowly, secretively, to his nose ...
With the passage of time, that
pioneering spirit has undergone a
metamorphosis—to the point where the
spirit of breaking in the new has
become breaking up the new—and
stopping reform desperately needed,
stopping reform that might take a little
of the tarnish from the golden glitter of
the golden pioneer.
Changes do come to the legislature,
and occasionally the forces of green are
stopped dead in their tracks—one
example being the 1971 bottle bill.
But the changes that do come through
Oregon’s legislature, while courageous
at times, exemplary at others, have a
common denominator—it helps those
who are visible—it helps those who
need help the least.
The legislature can be amazingly
receptive to legislation to help the
downtrodden if these who are doing the
trod ding don’t lose their footing—an
example is the package of bills in
troduced and passed in the legislature
this session to improve access for the
handicapped.
The legislature itself is like a plant—
it feeds and nourishes the roots from
which it came, the middle class whites
of Oregon. But occasionally, there
comes before these august bodies a
measure from a different soil, with a
different leaf and no common roots . . .
If i legislature could ever be
distinguished between the patrician
and the plebian, the Oregon House of
Representatives would hold the
distinction of being closer to the plebian
ideal than the less populated,
seemingly more distinguished Senate.
The floor is crowded with desks,
papers, the litter of legislative
defecation. The debates seem a trifle
more rowdy, the representives a bit
more salt of the earth. Even the House
pages fit the image—they wear a trite
uniform resembling tablecovers at an
Italian restaurant, checked red and
white.
And in the far back comer of the
chamber, near the door, is candyland—
a small table with those frosted glass
jars like the little comer candy store
used to have. The jars are filled with
chocolates and mints and thousands of
little goodies.
While acrimonious debate on dif
ferent measures rises on the floor,
with the corner of your eye you can
usually catch some distinguished
representative hitting up a candy jar
and scoring his fix.
Such was the case a few months ago
after the House had just finished
passing a bill that would provide non
profit housers of farm workers with a
tax break.
The bill had been hailed as a
progressive measure on the floor, as a
method by which plight of poor migrant
laborers could be somewhat alleviated.
The tax incentive in the bill was
designed to stimulate better housing—
from all six non-profit housing co
operatives in the state.
The bill didn’t shake the footing of
any trodder—nobody loses any money
except the state (and that is a trivial
amount) and the representatives could
pat each other on the back for their
humanitarian gesture as they raided
the candy counter.
Then came another bill—and the
golden pioneer’s arm started moving
ever so slowly, towards his nose...
The bill would have extended
minimum wage coverage to farm
workers regardless of the volume
picked. The old, the aged, the poor that
toiled for such paltry piece-rate money
in the fields, would, in this day of
enlightened progress, be covered under
legislation that most other workers
have had for decades.
The bill would have raised the
standard of living of the farmworkers,
giving them just a little more of that
long green from which aD life, of
necessity, flows.
The legislators, those guardians of
the people, those caretakers of the
pioneering spirit, complained that
bookkeeping costs would be financially
ruinous to the farmers, that the old and
aged and handicapped would not be
hired because they would not pick up to
the cost of their wages, that there was
no feasible way of mitigating volume
picked with the minimum wage that
there was . . . that there was . . . that
there was . . .
And the lonely voices in support of the
bill complained. Each argument
against the bill received a counter, and
one legislator cited the essence.
She said there was a simple reason
the farmers didn’t want the bill. It
would cost them money.
The bill came to a vote—and the
green factories of Oregon (Mice more
showed their colors as the arm of the
golden pioneer reached its destination.
The bill failed . . .
With a little stretching of the
imagination, it might be a scene from
the Roman Forum Reincarnated in the
somber wooden hues of the WPA capitol
building.
The couches (desks) are widely
spaced, the distinguished senators
composed, cool, in the orderly task of
determining the course of a state.
Each has his own aide, his own
servant feverishly fishing out the
mandates of the legislature from the
stacked piles of manuscript.
And with a crook ot eacn linger, ana a
wave of a slip of paper, the pages glide
slowly through the aisle, picking up and
delivering precious messages of
legislative intent.
The men are older in this house, the
prestigious title of “senator” seemingly
giving them a dignity and wisdom
beyond the plebian title of
“representative.”
And when they stand, clutching the
silver sceptre of a microphone when
they address the august body, the tones
and content of the speech seem more
regal, more (pardon the phrase)
senatorial.
And yet, in the deep plasterboard of a
committee hearing room, a scene (with
another stretching of the imagination)
was enacted curiously reminiscent of
perhaps the most famous incident in the
history of the Forum . . .
A bill had been passed by the House
that would allow the appointment of two
students to the state board of higher
education. The key phrase in the bill
mandated the governor to appoint these
students—thus effectively guaran
teeing student participation in the
process of governing the institutions of
learning they attend.
A Senate Committee discussed the
bill in generally approving tones and
voted to send it on to the floor . . . but
then one senator said that there were
some proposed amendments to the
bill—so before final action why not talk
about them?
The committee not only talked—they
acted. They voted to remove the
stricture that made the appointment of
the students mandatory, thus ef
fectively emasculating the bill.
An aide to the governor testified,
saying that the governor intended to
appoint students whether mandated to
or not. But the question of one com
mittee member hung in the air as the
bill was stabbed in the back.
Will the next governor also appoint
students?
With the guts of the bill ripped out,
the matter stood, and one could almost
hear a plaintive cry . . . Et tu,
Brutus? . . .
Since that action the bill was returned
to committee and subsequently the
stricken clause was returned to the bill,
thus giving the measure teeth. And yet
the lesson remains.
The 1973 session of the legislature will
end soon. The liquor bills and tax plans
and farm legislation and revenue
allocations will be enforced, the un
finished business will be put off until
1975.
But the golden pioneer will continue
to bask in the rays of the warm Oregon
rain, he will continue to lift his far-off
gaze to the horizon of the frontier.
And again there will come legislation
to aid the downtrodden. There will be
cases again where the legislature has
an opportunity to fight the massed
forces of green, to help that different
plant grow, to help those without
become a member of those with.
And there will again come a time
when the golden pioneer will smile
mischievously, and glancing furtively
at the state below him, slowly,
secretively, bend his arm back towards
his nose . . .
Scott Spittal is an Emerald reporter
who spent time covering the legislature
spring term.
Letters
An open letter
An Open Letter to Keith Parrish:
(Keith is keeper of the faith, twice un
successful candidate for ASUO President,
and an all around nice guy.)
I hope you feel better for getting all that
off your chest, Keith.
John Andrews
Junior
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