Kara Pound, “Gentle Ken – County Commissioner Ken Bryan redefines what it means to be black in Republican in white – and red – St. Johns County,” Folio Weekly (Jacksonville, FL), July 21, 2009
Ken Bryan stands 6 feet tall with a slender, muscular
physique — the result of years of running
marathons, cycling and lifting weights. He keeps
his head shaved bald, his black eyebrows and moustache
bushy, and sports a half-carat diamond in his left
ear. He’s 60, but looks years younger. And in the allwhite,
often paunchy world of county-level legislators,
he looks nothing like anybody else.
In fact, Bryan doesn’t consider himself a politician.
He thinks like a civil servant — the result of spending
most of his life working government jobs in Washington,
D.C. He shows up to an interview 10 minutes late
(“I caught the bridge,” he explains) riding his red-andblack
Harley Davidson Electra Glide. He seems happy
enough to meet, despite being asked to talk about one
of his least-favorite topics: politics.
Elected a year ago this August and sworn in last
November, Bryan is serving his first term as a St. Johns
County Commissioner. His district covers the coast from
just north of Crescent Beach to Mickler’s Landing in
Ponte Vedra. It’s a paying gig — about $62,000 a year for
about 50 to 60 hours a week. His presence is commanding
without being confrontational, and his political posture
is squarely in the post-racial mold. Though just the
second black commissioner in county history since
Reconstruction, Bryan’s race barely caused a blip on the
local political scene. He was elected countywide in a
place where African Americans make up just 6.4 percent
of the population. His biggest election obstacle, in
fact, was that he was sometimes confused with his
unpopular white predecessor, Jim Bryant. And although
the county’s only other African-American commissioner,
Moses Floyd, had a disastrous tenure in
the ’90s, peppered by scandal and the
racial faux pas of colleagues, Bryan has all
but left the issue of race behind. He’s also
managed to rinse off the political residue
of the last election, when he ran in tandem
with one of the most controversial and
hotheaded politicians in county history,
Ben Rich. Though Rich’s outspoken style
earned him plenty of political enemies on
and off the commission, Bryan hasn’t suffered
for the association, even though the
two campaigned for one another, door to
door. (Rich lost his bid for re-election.)
Bryan has also managed to move beyond
local party politics — or at least stretch
their definitions. After a failed campaign as
a Democrat, Bryan switched parties and
won as a Republican. But where many
party-jumpers strive to make their move
appear politically credible, Bryan is merely
pragmatic. “As far as being elected, I would
have to be a Republican,” he says. Having
been a lifelong Democrat, he says, “I wasn’t
very well-received [by the party] … but the
reality is, I wasn’t the first to do this.”
Ken Bryan was born Joseph Kenneth
Bryan on his grandparents’ sharecropping
farm in Robersonville,
N.C., in 1948. The fifth generation of
Joseph Bryans, he spent most of his childhood
in Ridge, Md. — a tiny Chesapeake
Bay town two hours south of Washington,
D.C., not far from the Naval Air Station
Patuxent River, where his dad worked.
Bryan joined the Air Force at 18, in the
middle of the bloody Vietnam War, but says
he’s always considered himself lucky when it
came to the conflict. While friends were
killed in the front lines or died later from
Agent Orange exposure, Bryan didn’t see
any action. He was stationed in Okinawa in
the South Pacific, as a B-52 mechanic, helping
planes to fly combat missions.
“I was hearing of some of my buddies
coming back pretty messed up or not
coming back alive. It was heart-wrenching,”
Bryan says. “Even now, it still bothers
me to think about some of the things
that these guys went through. But I was
fortunate. I went, but I wasn’t directly in
the action.”
Upon returning to the States, Bryan was
so disgusted with how the veterans were
treated that he wanted nothing to do with
the government. But while at St. Mary’s
College of Maryland, just a few miles from
his childhood home, he was desperate for a
job. He ended up finding work through
the Veteran’s Readjustment Program as a
janitor at the Naval Air Station. For the
next 30 years, Bryan remained in government,
working his way up to assistant
director in the Department of Justice’s Payroll
and Accounting Office and, later,
Deputy Director of the Executive Office of
the President under Bill Clinton.
His successful rise was occasionally
bittersweet. When working in the Justice
Department, he says, he helped improve
the on-time payment of employees and
contractors from 60 percent of the time to
98 percent. But a restructuring forced
massive layoffs in his own department.
Rather than simply fire employees, Bryan
helped set up a training program to teach
them how to interview successfully,
freshen their résumés and get reassigned to
other offices. Ultimately, Bryan’s boss
ended up getting credit for the idea (and
an award), but Bryan wasn’t bothered.
“I wasn’t looking for accolades. I wasn’t
looking for credit. I just wanted to do the
right thing, and I wanted to make sure
that my folks were taken care of.”
Bryan talks easily about his professional
past, but his reflections are tempered by a
real sense of personal mortality. His father,
Joseph A. Bryan, died May 21 at age 81,
and the interview at Hot Shot Bakery in
downtown St. Augustine comes just days
after his father’s funeral. “He never went
beyond the ninth grade, but he had so
much wisdom, and he was so smart and
intelligent and invested his money so well
... he basically had an education equivalent
to a Ph.D.,” says Bryan.
According to his son, “Capt. Joe,” as
many knew him, was a man of strong will
who could sense that he didn’t have much
time left. In the months before his death,
he urged his son to help them get resettled
nearby. “I want to get your mom down to
Florida, get her comfortable and then my
job is done,” Capt. Joe told him. So
Bryan, along with his good friend Ben
Rich, drove an RV up to Maryland to pick
up his parents. They got back to Florida
on a Sunday and by the following Thursday,
Capt. Joe had died.
“My dad passed away peacefully with
my wife, my mother, my brother and I
standing there holding his hand,” says
Bryan sadly. “We watched him literally
take his last breath. Even up until his last
breath, he was determined to fulfill the
goal that he had set.”
Bryan’s ability to bridge the gap
between communities may owe
something to growing up in the
strange, individualistic world of Southern
Maryland. Its heavily accented, often isolated
population lives on a wedge of soil
dangling from the mainland and surrounded
by water, seemingly unaffiliated
with any of the urban areas to the west, like
Richmond or Washington, D.C. Fishing
and agriculture are staples of the economy,
and the people are self-reliant, as those
industries demand. The area also has a
reputation for tolerance. St. Mary’s City,
founded in 1634 by English settlers, was
unlike other settlements in that it had a
peaceful relationship with the nearby Yaocomico
Indians. According to local lore, the
city was also the first place in America
where a woman requested the right to vote
and where a man of African descent was
permitted to cast a vote in the assembly.
Whether it’s a lesson absorbed from his
home town or a reflection of years in civil
service, Bryan has established himself as a
cool-headed realist. Over the past few
months, Bryan has successfully organized a
series of joint public workshops between
the St. Augustine City Commission and
the St. Johns County Board of County
Commissioners. Surprisingly, they are the
first such gatherings in recent history. On
June 3, all 10 commissioners, along with a
few dozen citizens, gathered in the Alcazar
Room at City Hall for the third of these
workshops. It’s a casual two-hour meeting
that includes discussions of West Augustine
infrastructure, the city’s upcoming
450th anniversary, improvements to the
city’s entrance corridor and historic property
tax exemptions.
Dressed in a blazer and black polo
shirt, Bryan opens by saying, “This is certainly
a historic moment to have the city
and county working together, and I want
to thank everyone.” But as he settles into
his seat next to City Commissioner Errol
Jones, the only other elected black in either
county or city, Bryan is at once grateful
and rueful. He believes the need to address
infrastructure in West Augustine, a pre-
dominantly black and often neglected area
west of downtown, is years, if not decades,
overdue. Although the land is under
county jurisdiction, the city is in charge of
providing utilities to the area. City officials
have been reluctant to install them, however,
citing both cost and a belief that residents,
who already have essentially free
utilities now, will be unlikely to connect to
city services.
Bryan makes the matter the first topic
on the agenda. “I had done a lot of legwork
prior to calling the first meeting,”
Bryan later says. “By the time we got to
having a meeting with the city, I felt as
though we already had enough momentum
and enough support, so that anyone that
was opposed to what we were doing would
not be able to stop it.”
To build his case, Bryan spent three
months talking to West Augustine community
leaders and residents about the
possible impacts of living on well water
and septic systems simultaneously. He also
spent hours spent gathering information
on local health studies conducted in 2002
and 2007 that showed the health risks to
residents of communities that are not
connected to public water and sewer.
“I have been told by many in the community
of West Augustine that I have
actually had more success and the community
has seen more progress on the infrastructure
needs [than in the past] 10
years,” Bryan says.
There are still no water and sewer lines
in West Augustine, of course. But the city
has agreed to make the issue a priority.
Bryan’s offered the help of county engineers,
and is trying to secure funds from
both the federal government and the local
health department to finance the project.
“I have responded that it is a matter of
deflating the egos and animosity between
the city and county, and doing what is
right for the people,” he says. “I think
many times politicians forget who they
actually work for.”
Bryan met Ben Rich in 2005 when
he approached the county commissioner
for the “inside scoop” on
running for local office. Rich, who had
earned a reputation as something of a
political hothead, was blunt.
“I did everything I could to talk him
out of it,” Rich recalls.
Rich says he told Bryan that he was setting
himself up for disappointment. Not
only was he a Democrat in a flaming-red
county, but “Ken is black, and this is not
an area where a black person really wants
to run for anything.” Rich adds, with his
usual sense of drama, “This is one of the
last bastions of the Ku Klux Klan.”
But Bryan wasn’t dissuaded. He realized
he needed to make some changes if he
wanted to win, so he switched parties. And
he chose to run side-by-side with Rich, who
was seeking re-election. For his part, Rich
waved signs asking voters to “send help” —
a reference to his well-publicized efforts to
transform county government by ousting or
outnumbering those already in office — and
making clear that Bryan was the candidate
he favored. The two found themselves
labeled as a package deal. Rich says they
were compared to Buckwheat and Alfalfa —
black and white characters respectively, from
“The Little Rascals” — and were called
“clones.” Bryan even sent a letter to all local
media, trying to dispel rumors that the pair
marched in political lockstep.
In the end, however, their political fortunes
were very different. Bryan won, Rich
lost. The two remain friends, attending drag
races in Gainesville together and having family
dinners about once a month. But when it
comes to politics, Rich says, they keep out of
each other’s affairs. “Our relationship doesn’t
revolve around his county issues. I don’t follow
his County Commission issues. I don’t
advise him on County Commission issues. I
know the county’s in good hands.”
It’s pretty clear that Bryan could not
have won as a Democrat. His 2006 bid was
an attempt to do so, and he got just 37 percent
of the vote. But his political transformation
is more pragmatic than passionate.
Although he says “I don’t regret running as
a Republican,” he does take issue with how
the Republican Party has conducted itself.
“Some of the things that the local
Republican Club and executive committees
have done lately have really caused me
to be disheartened,” he says. Noting that
the party holds closed meetings and makes
little effort to recruit minorities, he says
the result is a party limited by demographics.
“Socially and traditionally, African
Americans and minorities have typically
been Democrats, so how can you fulfill
that objective [of diversity] when you’re
going to exclude them from even attending
the meetings?” he asks. “Local issues are
nonpartisan and that’s why I’m not really
active any more in the Republican Party or
any of the things that they’re doing. I have
too many issues to deal with locally that I
don’t have time for those kinds of games
that they’re playing.”
Dressed in khaki shorts, a Harley
Davidson polo and sneakers,
Bryan stands in the garage of his
custom-built home in Pelican Reef, a small
gated community on Anastasia Island.
Before him are a half-dozen cars and a
hydraulic lift, evidence of his secret sideline
as a gearhead. A red ’90 Mazda RX7
convertible that he purchased on eBay
once sported a “voteforkenbryan.com” sign
along the side and back during the campaign.
The verbiage has been removed, but
the car is still in commission, complete
with the Corvette engine he installed. In
’06, Bryan drove a red ‘78 Volkswagen
Beetle around town with “What’s Buggin’
You?” written down the side. Today, he
and his wife, Lauren, both drive black
Corvettes (his is an ’07 hardtop, hers a ’98
convertible), and he’s kept his dad’s red
diesel Ford F250. But his real pride and
joy is the burgundy ’34 Chevrolet Sedan
that can be seen cruising in St. Augustine
and Hastings Christmas parades. (Bryan
reupholstered the interior.) He makes it a
point to drive all of his vehicles, including
the Harley Davidson he rides to Bike
Week and Biketoberfest every year.
Philip McDaniel, former president of the
St. Johns Cultural Council and current
board member, notes that Bryan’s interests
go well beyond the garage. Aside from being
an amateur artist (he works with oil paint,
charcoal and watercolors), Bryan is a champion
of the arts — lending his status to
assist nonprofits and cultural events. But
McDaniel sees a relationship between his
love of cars and his political skills: “The way
he’s committed to taking something old that
is maybe a little bit broken down, and repair
it and make it brand new because of his
attention and focus to detail.”
Bryan confesses his varied interests are
born of a need to keep busy. He’s wired for
activity, almost to a fault, according to his
wife. “He constantly hears from me, ‘You
can’t do everything and be everywhere,’”
Lauren says. “But it’s kind of hard to break
him of that.”
For Bryan, this constant need for
motion was the driving force behind running
marathons — something he hasn’t
done in about five years due to persistent
knee problems. (Today, he says, he can’t
run more than three miles without significant
pain.) He even needs help to fall
asleep — half a Unisom each night. “If I
don’t, I would only get three hours of
sleep,” he says. “My mind is constantly
moving.” With the medicine, Bryan says,
he manages about six hours of rest before
he’s up and going the next day.
Inside his eclectic, art-filled house,
Bryan introduces his wife, Lauren
Spicer-Bryan, and two 19-pound
Maine Coon cats, Bella and Max. The cats
don’t seem fazed by an intruder, but
Spicer-Bryan seems a bit unsettled to have
a journalist in her house. The two have
been married for about a year-and-a-half,
but have known each other 22 years. They
met while working for the Department of
the Navy in Maryland. With three kids
and two divorces between them, to say
nothing of their different skin color, both
were unsure if they would ever marry. But,
Bryan explains, “Once I retired and
moved down here, she said, ‘You’re not
leaving me up here.’ So she came down.”
Today, Spicer-Bryan works as an administrative
assistant at the National Guard
headquarters on Marine Street in St.
Augustine. At 46, Spicer-Bryan is 14 years
younger than Bryan, but age doesn’t seem
to be an issue for the couple. Nor does race.
“There are people out there that obviously
don’t like it,” she says, but doesn’t think this
area is notably less progressive than anywhere
else. “I think that would probably
happen anywhere and it’s no big deal.”
Bryan agrees. “I’m very good at picking up
on people’s attitudes, and I’ve picked up on
it, but nobody’s been bold enough to come
right out and say anything or to do anything
directly — let’s put it that way.”
Of course, such issues don’t disappear
in public life; the lens of elected office
only concentrates scrutiny. Bryan doesn’t
seem bothered living in the public eye, but
neither is he enamored of politics. Asked if
he will seek re-election, Bryan is noncommittal.
“I’ll consider it, but I’m not promising,”
he says matter-of-factly. “I did not
get in here to start another career.”
He will not consider running for
higher office, however. There are simply
too many other things Bryan wants to do
with his life. He takes a somewhat
detached approach to personal longevity,
explaining that based on genetics and the
life expectancy of an African-American
man in good health, he estimates that he
has about 18 to 20 “good” years left. He
wants to spend those years enjoying himself.
And while politics may be part of his
skill set, it will never be his passion.
In that respect, he’s not that different
from Colin Powell, whom he greatly
admires. “He spent four years and then he
got out,” he says, which he attributes to
the fact that “he’s an honest guy with a
good heart and a no-nonsense attitude.”
This, Bryan says, is how he would like to
be seen — as a person, not a political player.
“If I wanted power,” he adds, “I would
have stayed in D.C.”
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