Editorial: If It’s Not Hate, Then What Is It?

By Jon Fetherston

“You know they hate you, right?”

That sentence stopped me the first time I heard it.

It felt too harsh. Too personal. I don’t like the word hate. I don’t hate anyone, and I don’t use that word casually.

But after everything I’ve seen in Maine, I keep coming back to the same uncomfortable question:

If it isn’t hate, then what is it?

What else do you call it when the people entrusted with running the government watch waste, fraud and abuse pile up while ordinary Mainers are left paying the bill?

What do you call it when families struggle to pay their energy bills, hospitals face enormous financial pressure, roads and bridges continue to deteriorate, and parents wonder whether their children are receiving the education they deserve?

If the people running this state truly cared about the consequences, wouldn’t we see more urgency?

Wouldn’t somebody be angry?

Wouldn’t somebody be held accountable?

Wouldn’t somebody pick up the damn phone?

I’ve been to Gov. Janet Mills’ office roughly 10 times. I’ve asked questions. I’ve sought answers. I’ve followed up.

I’m still waiting for a return call.

And then there is Lewiston.

What kind of governor doesn’t have time for a survivor of the Lewiston mass shooting?

Seriously.

What kind of person… governor, senator, mayor, Republican, Democrat, I don’t care…can’t find a minute for someone whose life was permanently changed by one of the most horrific crimes in Maine history?

What kind of person does that?

One who hates you?

My God, how hard is it?

Give the person a hug.

Look them in the eye.

Hand them your business card.

Say, “I’m sorry. I’m here. Call my office if you need something.”

That’s it.

It doesn’t require legislation. It doesn’t require an appropriation. It doesn’t require a task force, a commission, a consultant or another government study.

It requires being a human being.

And please don’t tell me you’re too busy because you’re in a meeting.

If the person sitting in that meeting has a problem with the governor of Maine taking one minute to comfort a survivor of the Lewiston mass shooting, then screw them.

They can wait.

Some things are more important than schedules.

Some things are more important than politics.

Some things are more important than whatever is written on the agenda in front of you.

Sometimes leadership is simply recognizing the human being standing in front of you and treating that person as though he or she matters.

I’ve gone to the Maine Department of Health and Human Services, countless times, because of what I’ve witnessed involving people with special needs — vulnerable Mainers living in conditions no human being should have to endure.

I’ve encountered people living in their own feces, inadequately clothed or uncovered, surrounded by cockroaches and bedbugs.

I wish I could say I was exaggerating.

I’m not.

These aren’t numbers on a spreadsheet to me.

They have faces.

I’ve seen them.

I’ve stood there. I’ve looked at them. I’ve carried those images with me.

And once you’ve seen that kind of suffering, it becomes difficult to listen patiently while government officials talk about compassion.

Compassion isn’t a press release.

It isn’t a slogan.

It isn’t something you claim during a hearing or put in a campaign mailer.

Compassion is what you do when nobody is watching.

It is how you treat the person who cannot hire a lobbyist, write a campaign check or make enough political noise to get somebody’s attention.

So what kind of person has the power to change those conditions and allows them to continue?

What kind of government looks at the most vulnerable people in the state and decides that tomorrow is soon enough?

What do you call that?

Indifference?

Arrogance?

Negligence?

Or hate?

Then there is public safety.

Mainers have watched immigration and crime become inseparable parts of an increasingly bitter political debate. But behind that debate are real victims and real families.

When someone who is in this country illegally commits a serious crime, especially against a vulnerable person, the political arguments disappear for the victim and the victim’s family.

There is no talking point in an emergency room.

There is no partisan slogan at a funeral.

There is only the damage left behind.

Their suffering is real.

Government’s first obligation should be to protect the people it serves. When government repeatedly fails at that fundamental responsibility, and then lectures citizens who dare to question those failures, people are entitled to ask whom their government is actually working for.

The same question applies to harm reduction.

We were told that harm-reduction programs would make communities safer. We were told that distributing supplies and meeting people where they are would reduce disease, prevent overdoses and connect people with treatment.

But what happens when the policy becomes an excuse not to demand better results?

What happens when the public spaces Mainers once used without fear become places where parents worry about discarded needles?

You can’t take your kids to the park or the library without wondering whether they might get stuck by a needle.

You can’t let them play or explore without looking down first.

And if you say that out loud, if you question whether the policy is working, suddenly you’re the bad guy.

You’re told you lack compassion.

You’re told you don’t understand addiction.

You’re told that asking for accountability is cruel.

But the people defending these programs know the results aren’t good enough. They know harm reduction, by itself, is not solving the problem. They know that handing out supplies without creating a clear path to recovery does not make neighborhoods safe. They know that taxpayers are paying for programs while families and communities continue to deal with the consequences.

And yet the criticism is directed at the person pointing out the needle in the park.

That is backwards.

The person who wants children to use a public library safely is not the problem.

The person who wants parks to be free of hazardous waste is not the problem.

The person who wants people struggling with addiction to receive real treatment, accountability and a chance at recovery is not the problem.

The problem is a system that appears more concerned with defending its policies than admitting when those policies are failing.

And while ordinary Mainers are told to accept more costs, more disorder and more risk, some newcomers are given what feels like a free pass, free services, free housing, free benefits and free support, while the people who have lived here, worked here and paid taxes here are expected to cover the bill.

That is not compassion.

That is not fairness.

And it is not unreasonable for taxpayers to ask why their own families are expected to sacrifice while government expands benefits for others without explaining the cost or the limits.

The same question applies to our children.

What kind of political leadership presides over systems that fail children and then, election after election, asks voters for another chance to fix them?

Think about the absurdity of that proposition:

Give us more power so we can fix what happened while we had the power.

At some point, voters are allowed to ask why.

And this summer provided another extraordinary example.

Vice President JD Vance came to Maine. Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services Administrator Dr. Mehmet Oz came to Maine. House Speaker Mike Johnson came to Maine. U.S. Energy Secretary Chris Wright came to Maine.

These are some of the most powerful officials in the federal government.

Whatever Gov. Mills thinks of President Donald Trump or his administration, those officials represent a federal government whose decisions can have enormous consequences for Maine.

You don’t have to like them.

You don’t have to agree with them.

You don’t even have to enjoy sitting across the table from them.

But shouldn’t Maine’s governor be willing to talk to anyone who might be able to help Maine?

Isn’t that the job?

Governing isn’t supposed to be about your feelings. It isn’t supposed to be about party. And it certainly isn’t supposed to be about whether you personally like the person sitting across from you.

It is supposed to be about the people you represent.

Us.

Yet too often, Augusta operates as though the people inside the State House are doing Mainers a favor simply by acknowledging them.

That attitude sends a message:

We don’t have to answer you.

We don’t have to explain ourselves.

We know better than you.

And there isn’t much you can do about it.

That is what one-party rule can produce when political power goes unchecked for too long.

Not necessarily corruption.

Not necessarily malice.

Something more ordinary, and, in its own way, just as dangerous:

Arrogance.

The belief that accountability is optional.

The belief that criticism can be dismissed instead of answered.

The belief that government belongs to the people operating it instead of the people paying for it.

Maybe that is the better word.

Maybe they don’t hate you.

Maybe they simply don’t respect you.

Maybe they have become so comfortable with power that they no longer fear disappointing you.

Maybe they believe they can raise your costs, tolerate failing systems, ignore your phone calls, preside over bureaucratic disasters and then appear during campaign season to ask for your vote.

And maybe they believe you’ll give it to them.

I hope they’re wrong.

Because whether the problem is hatred, indifference, arrogance or simple contempt, the result for the person being ignored looks remarkably similar.

You’re still ignored.

The shooting survivor is still waiting to be acknowledged.

The special-needs adult is still living in filth.

The family is still struggling with the electric bill.

The hospital is still struggling.

The parent is still worried about the school.

The child is still at risk of finding a needle in a public park or library.

The person battling addiction is still waiting for meaningful treatment.

The victim is still a victim.

And the taxpayer is still expected to pick up the check.

Government officials don’t have to love us.

Frankly, I don’t care whether they do.

But they damn well ought to respect us.

They ought to answer our questions.

They ought to protect the vulnerable.

They ought to safeguard our money.

They ought to provide basic services competently.

They ought to admit when a policy is failing instead of attacking the people who point it out.

And when someone who survived the unimaginable is standing in front of them, they ought to have enough humanity to stop what they’re doing, shake that person’s hand, give them a hug and listen.

They also ought to remember that every office they occupy, every government vehicle they ride in, every staff member answering their phones and every dollar they spend exists because we entrusted it to them.

Not the other way around.

So, no, I don’t like using the word hate.

It’s ugly.

It’s divisive.

And it’s an accusation that shouldn’t be made lightly.

But after watching all of this, I keep returning to the question.

If you continually fail the people you’re supposed to serve…

If you won’t answer them…

If you won’t listen to them…

If you can’t spare a minute for someone who survived one of the darkest days in Maine history…

If you tolerate suffering that you have the power to address…

If you defend programs that leave public spaces unsafe…

If you dismiss taxpayers who ask why they are paying for services they cannot afford while others receive benefits without the same expectations…

If you act as though their money belongs to you and their questions are an inconvenience…

If you believe you’re entitled to their vote simply because you’ve always had it…

Then tell me:

If it’s not hate, what is it?