Stephenie Todd Wheeler: Opportunity Knocks: Opening the Door to Engagement

On a late summer afternoon in 1992, an enthusiastic rap-a-tap-tap sounded on my front door. I opened it and there stood a grinning, youthful 40-something man eager to make my acquaintance. Few would have guessed this charming, newly retired Air Force captain would, in 15 years, be found guilty of corruption and sent to prison. Starting with that door-to-door campaigning exchange, the lessons I would learn from former Alaska Representative Pete Kott were less about power’s corrupting influence and more about the influence of people who make an effort to engage in Anchorage politics.

At the time Kott-the-Candidate dropped by, just two months had passed since I delivered my last salute. My Air Force uniforms were now packed in a trunk with other sentimental treasures highlighting 30 years of life experience. Although I enjoyed the discipline of military life, I looked forward to a new chapter characterized by far less regulation and restriction on all aspects of living.

For example, during the eight years I served on active duty at Elmendorf Air Force Base, I steered clear of all things political, other than to vote. As a military Public Affairs Specialist, I was acutely aware that those of us in uniform stood in defense of all our countrymen, no matter their political persuasion. And thus, public displays of politics—like public displays of affection—were frowned upon. When he was a military officer, Kott abided by these same rules of conduct. I believe he and I were equally raring to re-engage with our relatively fresh re-entry into civilian life, and that first encounter was an opportunity knocking for both of us.

“Hello, Ma’am! I’m Pete Kott, and I’m running for election to the State House,” he said that summer afternoon, the grin still firmly in place. He said he aimed to represent House District 17, which then encompassed parts of East Anchorage, including Glencaren Mobile Home Park. Mine was among hundreds of closely spaced mobile homes that lined the narrow and rutted gravel roadways connecting this sizable neighborhood near the base of the foothills.

“I’d like to hear what you have to say about . . .” he began. Before he finished the sentence, I stepped through my front door and out onto our east-facing deck, which afforded an unobstructed view of the Chugach range. The 12-by-20-foot platform was the finest feature of our rust-brown double-wide. I didn’t bother to offer our lone plastic lawn chair, left orphaned by the clumsy rough-and-tumble of my son, five, and two stepsons, four and five, who collectively broke the other one.

“Let’s talk education,” I said, thinking of my preschool brood comprised of the three boys and a three-year-old daughter. What followed was a pointed interrogation that lasted at least a half hour. I felt liberated, as I spoke with long-winded conviction about things I thought deserved debate. I remembered how much I cared. The topic of education was followed by emergency response, elder care, and exiting military life―and those were just the E’s. To his credit, candidate Kott’s interest never visibly waned as I rambled through the alphabet of issues. I’d like to think we were both caught up in the moment. This would-be politician knew he had a live one, as I willingly indulged his invitation to express my views. Even so, by the time I reached the P’s―potholes, public transportation, and property taxes―poor Pete Kott must have been ready to move on. Yet our doorstep dialogue was worthy of recall, and remember it we did when we encountered each other again and again, thanks to his successful bid for election and my post-military career.

Within a month of honorably separating from the Air Force (June 1992), I was hired by Executive Director Karen Cowart as the communications coordinator for the Alaska Visitors Association (AVA, the precursor to today’s Alaska Travel Industry Association). While I had the technical expertise after years spent writing for military audiences, under Karen I honed the heart-and-art of passionate and action-provoking messaging. When she left AVA in 1997, I followed Karen to her next gig at the helm of the Alaska Support Industry Alliance, a statewide oil-and-gas contractors’ trade organization. During the decade I worked for Karen, I watched this networking savant motivate often-stoic business people to engage, engage, engage. As a freshman lawmaker and recipient of that constituent engagement, Kott likely learned from Karen as well.

Acting in a staff support role, I frequently accompanied Karen and tourism or petroleum industry executives who traveled to the state capital to lobby. Seven-times-elected Representative Kott was among those wined and dined by business leaders seeking an ear sympathetic to the cause of commerce.

One wine-and-dine venue during the legislative session was the annual AVA-hosted reception invariably held at the dimly lit Baranof Hotel in Juneau. In spring 1993 I experienced my first reception, where I manned the welcome table covered with rows of alphabetically-organized nametags. I looked up as Kott walked into the meeting room, smartly dressed in a suit and tie. He pointed to me in acknowledgement. “I remember YOU!” he said with a wink and broad likable grin. “You meant business!”

“I still do,” I shot back with a smile as I handed over his nametag. The banter was short-lived, as Karen whisked him away to the hosted bar and introduced him to AVA Board members. For the remainder of the evening, like a fly on the wall, I observed how the seeds of public policy were planted―one conversation, one drink, one handshake at a time.

Juneau was hardly the only scene of influence. Outside of the legislative session, AVA and the Alliance organized social and business functions at Anchorage’s elegant and over-the-top downtown establishments, including the Hilton, Hotel Captain Cook, and 4th Avenue Theatre. Legislators were always on the invite list, and the savvy ones usually showed up for these opportunities to engage. Whether seated for dinner, mingling at a themed gala, or attending a conference forum, Kott never failed to take a few minutes to connect with me, his constituent. Each time, we laughed at the memory of our initial doorstep exchange, shared at a time when we each had untarnished confidence that we could influence change, whether as a constituent or candidate. We weren’t wrong. But political reality isn’t as predictable as we imagined back in 1992.

While Kott did climb the legislative ladder as his connections and power grew, not all influences turned out to be beneficial. At end of the 1990s, I witnessed the toll Juneau took when I attended an evening function to honor him. The event occurred at one of Kott’s favorite haunts, the How-How on Muldoon Road. The restaurant’s cheerful, ornate oriental decor and lively crowd only accentuated the decidedly un-cheery demeanor of the man with bleary eyes and gray-tinged pallor. He seemed to have aged two decades over the course of one. There was no wink. No acknowledging smile. Just a weary expression and curt greeting. I left early, saddened by the transformation of a man worn down.

Today, I remain on the periphery of Anchorage politics. Not an insider, not an outsider. From this vantage point and my experience, I understand that politics is people, and to have any influence at all, one must engage. With relatively few people in a vast land, Alaska is still fairly rural, and residents still have remarkable access to their legislators. It concerns me that the majority of young (and not-so-young) people I meet have zero interest in their elected representatives, much less voting for them. Too many citizens are uninformed, misinformed, and, therefore, often detached and jaded.

I understand the cynicism. Taken too far, political engagement and influence can turn rotten, even illegal. Pete Kott’s fall from grace and similar stories tend to reinforce the pessimistic attitudes. Certainly, I could focus on the unfortunate end to Kott's political career. Instead, I recall the public servant he clearly yearned to be at the time of our first encounter 22 years ago. I remember how good it felt to really engage and how effective it was, and has been, to do so.

The pivotal lesson I gleaned from Pete Kott is not the obvious “power can corrupt” but, rather, a sense that participation in the process matters. Voting, questioning, doorstep dialogue―they matter in Alaskan politics. So I stay informed. I cast my ballot always. I write my legislators on matters that matter to me. I engage. Pete Kott taught me the value in that, beginning with the opportunity that knocked in 1992.



Fresh out of Air Force basic training and journalism school, Stephenie Wheeler arrived in Anchorage in May 1985, reporting for her first assignment at Elmendorf Air Force Base. She remained active duty for eight years, all at Elmendorf's Public Affairs Office. She later started a small home business specializing in public relations for non-profit and small businesses. Formed in 1994, Alaska Message Maker supplemented her income from full-time communications positions held at the Alaska Visitors Association (1992-1997), and Alaska Support Industry Alliance (1997-2001). Stephenie joined the Alaska Railroad as its Public Involvement Officer in 2001 and was promoted to Communications Officer in 2009. She has an associate’s degree in public relations and a bachelor's degree in business. Wheeler has a son, a daughter, and two grandchildren. Although raised in Idaho, Wheeler considers Alaska her home.