Dear Gov. Bill Lee,
Back in the day, there was this podcast, The Black Tapes. It was kind of like The X-Files, but if Scully were the lead protagonist (i.e., Dr. Richard Strand, paranormal debunker) and Mulder were the audience’s stand-in (Alex Reagan, spunky reporter investigating the unknown). The show had everything — shadowy cults, people with their faces on upside-down, ghosts, repressed sexual tension, family secrets, cliffhangers, controversial music chords, you name it. In the end — and spoiler alert for a 10-year-old podcast — the skeptic, Dr. Strand, learns that the shadowy cult believes he is the chosen one who has the power to fix all their problems. This leads him to a lot of stress (I’m sure you can relate), because he has the two-fold task of having to accept that the paranormal is real and then having to accept that he is the king of the bullshit mountain he’s spent his life trying to tear down. Great stuff.
But the end. Holy cow. It was, to put it mildly, controversial. In the end (and spoiler warning again to everyone who is not Gov. Lee), as Strand is having this massive crisis and trying to accept his special role in life, Alex shows up and says, “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go to Paris instead.” I think it was Paris. It’s been a while. But the point is that this is the end of the story. Strand’s dear friend says to him, in effect, “Even if all this is true, even if you are the most special boy, chosen by fate to do this thing, you don’t have to do it. You can still choose to just skip town with the girl who’s been making moon eyes at you for two seasons.” I was outraged when I heard it for the first time. And then I realized it was genius.
We, as a society, are really in love with the idea that there are special, chosen people who are destined to do these great things and transform the world. Every story is a wizard boy who finds out only he can defeat Voldemort or a school kid who finds out he’s secretly the son of a god who has to save the world. And I think we like these stories both because: 1. We like to believe that, if we’re supposed to be doing hard things, we’ll be called to it, and otherwise we’re off the hook, and 2. It means some chosen person will save us. And some of us like those stories because we think we have been chosen by powers beyond our understanding to do hard things, which means we never have to look inside ourselves and decide if we actually want to be doing these things, if we’re actually good at them.
Gov. Lee, I’m not trying to be a dick, but two people who were your friends were shot to death this week, and you vanished. This would be terrible enough if you were just a regular person, but you are the governor. The whole state is in shock and grief, and you are nowhere to be found. I thought then-Gov. Phil Bredesen’s green vest of comfort that he put on when he went out to survey flood damage back in 2010 was corny as hell. Was he just going to put all suffering Tennesseans in those many pockets or what? But it also was actually comforting, because it signaled that he knew his job at that time was different than it was normally, and it made him easy to spot when he was out being the public face of the state trying to reassure everyday Tennesseans that the state wanted to help fix their problems.
Why weren’t you at the Covenant School as soon as the scene was safe to bear witness for the state you represent? Why weren’t you there, in person, to thank the first responders, to comfort the colleagues of your friends, to show the Covenant community that the state is with them? Why did you hide from protesters instead of letting them express their fear and anguish with you? Why weren’t you at any of the vigils? Certainly your own desire to avoid your constituents who are unhappy cannot be more important than showing that you care about the victims and their families and the impact this tragedy is having on our community.
Here's what I’ve noticed over the course of your governorship. You don’t like being governor. Your response to this state needing you, repeatedly, has been to vanish. Sometimes, like when you just sat there and let the president of Hillsdale College talk shit about teachers, you are still physically there, but you clearly have left the room consciously. You don’t seem to like basic duties of the job — like talking to the media or appearing in public. And in this case, your team has tried to compensate by having you do a prerecorded little sermon that you put out as a statement, but this is actually a time when healing for the state would go easier if you were willing to be present in person and demonstrate that this has also broken you.
So I just want to write you to say this: You don’t have to be the governor if you don’t like it. There’s no shame in wanting something, working hard for it, and then getting it and discovering that — though it looked cool from the outside — now that you’re in it, it sucks and you don’t want it. Or maybe you do like being governor, but the job needs someone who can do things — like, oh, denouncing Nazis — that you can’t do. Also, there’s no shame in realizing that you’re not well-suited for something and finding something else to do.
You seem like the kind of person who mostly goes along to get along and who isn’t big into introspection. I don’t mean this as an insult. But, like, if you ever wonder why you dressed up like a girl or put on a Confederate uniform, it’s because everyone else was doing it. I suspect this is why you pull out Bible quotes whenever you want to seem wise and authoritative — because people you know are wise and authoritative do that. And this makes sense. If you don’t know what to do in a situation, looking to see what people you admire do in these situations and copying that is not a bad strategy, if the people you admire aren’t doofuses.
But much like when you ended up in a skirt or in a Confederate uniform, this strategy may have again steered you wrong. Are you the governor because you want to be the governor, or because people you admire are constantly affirming your choice to be governor? What, exactly, do you, yourself, want?
Being a governor is tough, but it’s not a punishment. If you don’t like it, rather than just checking out of it in your head, check out with your whole self. Go home. Be with your wife. Maybe take on a bigger role at your church, if preaching and Bible study are where your heart lies. Hell, Ben Shapiro gave a job to a dude whose whole gimmick is crying, fighting with Canada and being put in a coma. You’re more compelling than that. Maybe you could go work for the Daily Wire. Â
But if you don’t like being governor, if you’re not up for the job, please stop putting yourself and your state through it.
Signed,
Betsy Phillips
