GDELTIdaho
Goldstein: -0.6Tone: 0.2
POCATELLO — Before Dr. Thomas L. Purce became Pocatello's mayor 50 years ago in 1976, a cabinet director or a university president, he was just a kid from the Gate City's historic Triangle District.
It was a tight-knit pocket of the city bounded by railroad tracks, a community that quietly shaped one of Idaho's most consequential careers.
"We were a small but large, powerful community," Purce said.
The Triangle District wasn't just a neighborhood. It was, by design, a boundary. Restricted housing policies kept Black, Asian, Greek, Italian and Hispanic residents confined to that part of the city.
"We all grew up together," Purce said. "We were kind of a mini melting pot."
Purce's roots run deep in Idaho. His grandfather, Tracey Thompson, was a well-known rodeo star. His father, John Purce, came from Virginia after World War II as one of many Black soldiers stationed in Pocatello, met his mother and stayed, going to work for the railroad. Every summer, John put the Purce children on a passenger train back East to spend time on their grandmother's farm in Virginia with the wider family. Come fall, they returned to Pocatello and school.
His parents, John and Idaho Purce, were pillars in Pocatello's civic life, known figures in housing advocacy and public health. They made clear that their children were expected to go to college and give back to the community.
One sister became an attorney. Another rose to vice president of communications at a community college. A brother ran a major division of Social Security in California. Les would go furthest into public life, though he is quick to redirect the credit.
"People would say, 'Are you John Purce's boy? Well, if you're John's boy, I'm gonna vote for you,'" he recalled with a laugh.
The family name was well known in Pocatello, but Purce quickly built a public reputation of his own.
Purce attended Bonneville Elementary, later went to Franklin Junior High and Pocatello High before enrolling at Idaho State University, where he earned a bachelor's degree in psychology in 1969, a master's degree in student personnel in 1970 and a doctorate in counselor education in 1975. He served as student body vice president along the way, an early sign that governance came naturally.
In 1973, at 25 years old, Purce was elected to the Pocatello City Council, becoming the first Black elected official in Idaho. Three years later in 1976, the year of the nation's bicentennial, he became Pocatello's first Black mayor. He was 29.
"I was really interested in some key issues that were around at that point," he said. "Housing and then there were the environmental issues that existed around the factories and the plants and how you could improve the air quality."
Purce served as mayor through 1977, when Gov. John Evans appointed him director of Idaho's Department of Administration. He later became director of the Department of Health and Welfare, running the largest agency in the state at age 32 during one of its most turbulent periods.
The Reagan administration's deep cuts to federal funding forced him into impossible territory, choosing between social workers helping abused children and food assistance for families living in extreme poverty. As director, those cuts meant he personally had to sign termination letters to roughly 250 state social workers whose positions were eliminated as a result.
"It was so hard, sleepless nights and all of that stuff," he said. "But in the end, years later and in other positions, it teaches you something about being wise with your judgment."
"I would be in the oddest places and people would say, 'You fired me once,'" he recalled.
Many of those same people told him the layoff had become a turning point, pushing them back to school, into new careers and toward lives they might never have found. He was moved by those stories, though he never lost sight of those for whom it was simply devastating.
"The work of public service is really that," he said. "It's tied directly to people and their lives and how they survive and their ability to be able to survive and have a good, healthy life for them and their kids."
After more than a decade in Idaho state government, Purce moved into the corporate sector before returning to higher education, eventually serving as president of Evergreen State College in Washington from 2000 to 2015.
His wife, Jane, also holds an Idaho State University doctoral degree and served as vice provost for academic policy and evaluation at Washington State University.
They retired the same year, 2015, and have three daughters: Deborah, Sarah and Miriam, the latter of whom is a Special Olympics swimming champion.
Retirement, it turned out, was not in his nature. Washington's governor tapped Purce to co-chair a task force on the declining Southern Resident orca population.
The two-year effort produced millions in state appropriations for habitat restoration, road runoff cleanup and salmon recovery.
Three years ago, he joined the Northwest Power and Conservation Council, representing Washington as a fish and wildlife advocate, helping balance the Bonneville dams' energy output against the health of Pacific Northwest salmon runs.
In May 2026, a proposal for an AI data center to take over the Hoku site was brought to the Pocatello area. The proposal sparked controversy throughout the community.
It is in this role and his experience dealing with energy and conservation issues that Purce's voice could carry particular value.
"Government has to be able to get a comprehensive understanding of the impact of data centers," he said. "What are the safeguards to ensure that our water's protected and that these adequate environmental resources are being recognized and met as one of the costs that they have an obligation for?"
Purce warned that the pace of development could carry serious long-term consequences for communities and future generations if the implications aren't fully understood and managed.
"There's been absolutely no public disclosure regarding impacts," he said. "There are private disclosure deals, nondisclosure deals with communities and all of these items we have to acknowledge and have conversations with."
Purce sees a path forward, but only if government, developers and communities are willing to do the slower work of building it together.
He pointed to demand-management agreements, in which data centers help fund or maintain their own backup power, as one tool that could ease pressure on regional grids without slowing the broader rollout of the technology.
"There's got to be policy work and engineering design work done to put those things in place," he said. "And we're playing catch-up. That's the challenge."
His prescription is the same one he has applied across five decades: gather the right people, ask hard questions, build critical mass and write policy that holds.
When asked what single thread connects all of his public service and career paths, his answer was immediate.
"Just people," he said. "Friendships and colleagues and family and having fun. You have to find joy in the kind of work you're doing."
On Aug. 16, Purce will return to Pocatello for his mother's 100th birthday celebration at Purce Park, the community green space named for his parents, just blocks from the Triangle District where it all began. The man who made history in 1976, the year America turned 200, will be home as the country turns 250.
Purce Park, located adjacent to the Pocatello Senior Activity Center, was renamed in the family's honor after a $40,000 grant from Wells Fargo and a $10,000 contribution from the Ifft Foundation transformed the formerly neglected Bonneville Community Park into a renovated green space with new playground equipment, benches, tables and bocce ball courts. NeighborWorks Pocatello and the Bonneville Neighborhood Association were instrumental in bringing the project to fruition.
Fifty years after becoming Pocatello's first Black mayor, Les Purce is still at work.
Open article →GDELTWashington
Goldstein: -1.5Tone: 0.2
POCATELLO — Before Dr. Thomas L. Purce became Pocatello's mayor 50 years ago in 1976, a cabinet director or a university president, he was just a kid from the Gate City's historic Triangle District.
It was a tight-knit pocket of the city bounded by railroad tracks, a community that quietly shaped one of Idaho's most consequential careers.
"We were a small but large, powerful community," Purce said.
The Triangle District wasn't just a neighborhood. It was, by design, a boundary. Restricted housing policies kept Black, Asian, Greek, Italian and Hispanic residents confined to that part of the city.
"We all grew up together," Purce said. "We were kind of a mini melting pot."
Purce's roots run deep in Idaho. His grandfather, Tracey Thompson, was a well-known rodeo star. His father, John Purce, came from Virginia after World War II as one of many Black soldiers stationed in Pocatello, met his mother and stayed, going to work for the railroad. Every summer, John put the Purce children on a passenger train back East to spend time on their grandmother's farm in Virginia with the wider family. Come fall, they returned to Pocatello and school.
His parents, John and Idaho Purce, were pillars in Pocatello's civic life, known figures in housing advocacy and public health. They made clear that their children were expected to go to college and give back to the community.
One sister became an attorney. Another rose to vice president of communications at a community college. A brother ran a major division of Social Security in California. Les would go furthest into public life, though he is quick to redirect the credit.
"People would say, 'Are you John Purce's boy? Well, if you're John's boy, I'm gonna vote for you,'" he recalled with a laugh.
The family name was well known in Pocatello, but Purce quickly built a public reputation of his own.
Purce attended Bonneville Elementary, later went to Franklin Junior High and Pocatello High before enrolling at Idaho State University, where he earned a bachelor's degree in psychology in 1969, a master's degree in student personnel in 1970 and a doctorate in counselor education in 1975. He served as student body vice president along the way, an early sign that governance came naturally.
In 1973, at 25 years old, Purce was elected to the Pocatello City Council, becoming the first Black elected official in Idaho. Three years later in 1976, the year of the nation's bicentennial, he became Pocatello's first Black mayor. He was 29.
"I was really interested in some key issues that were around at that point," he said. "Housing and then there were the environmental issues that existed around the factories and the plants and how you could improve the air quality."
Purce served as mayor through 1977, when Gov. John Evans appointed him director of Idaho's Department of Administration. He later became director of the Department of Health and Welfare, running the largest agency in the state at age 32 during one of its most turbulent periods.
The Reagan administration's deep cuts to federal funding forced him into impossible territory, choosing between social workers helping abused children and food assistance for families living in extreme poverty. As director, those cuts meant he personally had to sign termination letters to roughly 250 state social workers whose positions were eliminated as a result.
"It was so hard, sleepless nights and all of that stuff," he said. "But in the end, years later and in other positions, it teaches you something about being wise with your judgment."
"I would be in the oddest places and people would say, 'You fired me once,'" he recalled.
Many of those same people told him the layoff had become a turning point, pushing them back to school, into new careers and toward lives they might never have found. He was moved by those stories, though he never lost sight of those for whom it was simply devastating.
"The work of public service is really that," he said. "It's tied directly to people and their lives and how they survive and their ability to be able to survive and have a good, healthy life for them and their kids."
After more than a decade in Idaho state government, Purce moved into the corporate sector before returning to higher education, eventually serving as president of Evergreen State College in Washington from 2000 to 2015.
His wife, Jane, also holds an Idaho State University doctoral degree and served as vice provost for academic policy and evaluation at Washington State University.
They retired the same year, 2015, and have three daughters: Deborah, Sarah and Miriam, the latter of whom is a Special Olympics swimming champion.
Retirement, it turned out, was not in his nature. Washington's governor tapped Purce to co-chair a task force on the declining Southern Resident orca population.
The two-year effort produced millions in state appropriations for habitat restoration, road runoff cleanup and salmon recovery.
Three years ago, he joined the Northwest Power and Conservation Council, representing Washington as a fish and wildlife advocate, helping balance the Bonneville dams' energy output against the health of Pacific Northwest salmon runs.
In May 2026, a proposal for an AI data center to take over the Hoku site was brought to the Pocatello area. The proposal sparked controversy throughout the community.
It is in this role and his experience dealing with energy and conservation issues that Purce's voice could carry particular value.
"Government has to be able to get a comprehensive understanding of the impact of data centers," he said. "What are the safeguards to ensure that our water's protected and that these adequate environmental resources are being recognized and met as one of the costs that they have an obligation for?"
Purce warned that the pace of development could carry serious long-term consequences for communities and future generations if the implications aren't fully understood and managed.
"There's been absolutely no public disclosure regarding impacts," he said. "There are private disclosure deals, nondisclosure deals with communities and all of these items we have to acknowledge and have conversations with."
Purce sees a path forward, but only if government, developers and communities are willing to do the slower work of building it together.
He pointed to demand-management agreements, in which data centers help fund or maintain their own backup power, as one tool that could ease pressure on regional grids without slowing the broader rollout of the technology.
"There's got to be policy work and engineering design work done to put those things in place," he said. "And we're playing catch-up. That's the challenge."
His prescription is the same one he has applied across five decades: gather the right people, ask hard questions, build critical mass and write policy that holds.
When asked what single thread connects all of his public service and career paths, his answer was immediate.
"Just people," he said. "Friendships and colleagues and family and having fun. You have to find joy in the kind of work you're doing."
On Aug. 16, Purce will return to Pocatello for his mother's 100th birthday celebration at Purce Park, the community green space named for his parents, just blocks from the Triangle District where it all began. The man who made history in 1976, the year America turned 200, will be home as the country turns 250.
Purce Park, located adjacent to the Pocatello Senior Activity Center, was renamed in the family's honor after a $40,000 grant from Wells Fargo and a $10,000 contribution from the Ifft Foundation transformed the formerly neglected Bonneville Community Park into a renovated green space with new playground equipment, benches, tables and bocce ball courts. NeighborWorks Pocatello and the Bonneville Neighborhood Association were instrumental in bringing the project to fruition.
Fifty years after becoming Pocatello's first Black mayor, Les Purce is still at work.
Open article →GDELTTexas
Goldstein: -1.6Tone: 1.9
161 years after Juneteenth, there is unfinished work of freedom
(RNS) — Not every proclamation is true. Some we must struggle and keep the faith to make true.
On June 19, 1865, U.S. Army Maj. Gen. Gordon Granger arrived in Galveston, Texas, and issued General Order No. 3, announcing that “all slaves are free.” He was conveying news of the Emancipation Proclamation, which President Abraham Lincoln had issued two years earlier on Jan. 1, 1863.
Granger’s declaration of freedom was aspirational. While the enslaved were legally emancipated, they remained bound by entrenched systems of white supremacy and enduring prejudices that denied their humanity and reduced them to property. In the years that followed, African Americans continued to live in the “afterlife” of slavery, as new and more insidious shackles emerged.
Vagrancy laws, convict-leasing schemes, debt bondage and the expanding architecture of Jim Crow segregation all served to reproduce many of the conditions of the old slave order under new legal and social guises.
Neither the Emancipation Proclamation nor General Order No. 3 was yet true. Both ushered in a new reality of “unfreedom.” Both expressed the enduring tension within the American freedom experiment itself: the gap between our proclaimed ideals and our lived realities.
This paradox lies at the heart of the American story. It is the story of a nation whose Declaration of Independence announced that “all men are created equal,” even as it restricted the promise of freedom to propertied white men, enslaved more than a fifth of its population, and pursued the genocide of Native peoples.
The story of freedom is unfinished in a nation that pledges “liberty and justice for all,” while it systematically advances policies, practices and ideologies that diminish human dignity.
We know these gaps and indignities too well, as women of color in this nation, and especially as ordained women of color in the Episcopal Church. Our tradition has often mirrored and blessed American systems of white supremacy, elitism and patriarchy. But our tradition also proclaims a commitment to Jesus and to God’s beloved community, where all human beings are sacred.
We are compelled by this faith to name the gap between what our nation promises and what our nation does, to recognize the same gaps and untruths in our own churches and to join in shared struggle to make freedom real.
Here is what we know: Freedom is not an achievement to be declared and celebrated once and for all. The work of freedom is perpetually unfinished because the forces that threaten it continually take new forms, as we see today in restrictions on voting rights, challenges to citizenship and the denial of due process to immigrants.
We know the work of freedom dies when we believe that we are powerless, that we are alone, that certain lives matter less than others, that my gain is your loss, that despair and defeat are inevitable, that not everyone deserves to be free.
But we also know this: No matter what political, social or even religious institutions may proclaim, we are all human beings created in the image of a God who is free. True freedom — God-given freedom — liberates us from illusions of superiority and entitlements of privilege. It calls us beyond the domination and exclusion of any people. Our freedoms are bound up in one another.
Faith does not permit us to be passive observers of history, remaining silent and on the sidelines while others proclaim and enact untruths in the name of God. Indeed, faith compels us to participate in God’s liberating work in the world. Faith calls us to lead the struggle for freedom. Faith propels us to refuse to be divided against one another.
Faith urges us to attend to our well-being, to nourish our capacity to risk together, and to shield our joy so we can stay in the struggle. Faith demands that we proclaim freedom in word and in deed.
As our nation marks 161 years since the proclamation of emancipation to enslaved peoples — and as the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence approaches — we can never forget that freedom remains unfinished business. We have soul work to do and truths to proclaim and make real.
The truth is, we must be honest about our history as a nation and church — we cannot heal what we have not named.
The truth is, all institutions — political, social and religious — must work for the freedom of all people.
The truth is, every form of oppression is a desecration of the image of God.
The truth is, we are endowed by our Creator with freedom, love and power that the world cannot take away.
The truth is, until all God’s children can live with dignity, justice and genuine freedom, the 1865 Juneteenth proclamation is not yet true.
This Juneteenth, we recommit with you to the work of making it true.
(The Rev. Kelly Brown-Douglas, the former dean and interim president of the Episcopal Divinity School, is a visiting professor of theology at Harvard Divinity School. The Rev. Canon Stephanie Spellers is an author and Episcopal priest. She was canon to former Presiding Bishop Michael Curry and will become priest-in-charge of St. Gregory of Nyssa in San Francisco this summer. The Very Rev. Winnie Varghese is dean of the Episcopal Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York. The opinions expressed in this commentary do not necessarily reflect those of Religion News Service.)
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