I was three songs into a night of karaoke with the family when I got the news alert that State Representative Frank Chopp had passed away. It was startling. I paused to take it in and feel the loss. His impact has been immense. Frank had a powerful steadfastness in his commitment to creating change for his community. He found ways forward even when it seemed impossible to serve the most vulnerable. He was a constant presence—unrelenting, always vigilant—reminding us that when one suffers, we all suffer. He mentored us in the ways of justice and urged us to embrace “good trouble.” by Colleen Echohawk I was three songs into a night of karaoke with the family when I got the news alert that State Representative Frank Chopp had passed away. It was startling. I paused to take it in and feel the loss. His impact has been immense. Frank had a powerful steadfastness in his commitment to creating change for his community. He found ways forward even when it seemed impossible to serve the most vulnerable. He was a constant presence—unrelenting, always vigilant—reminding us that when one suffers, we all suffer. He mentored us in the ways of justice and urged us to embrace “good trouble.” The weight of Frank’s passing hit me even harder because his belief in justice and community had played such a pivotal role in my own journey. I first met him in 2014, early in my career as Executive Director of Chief Seattle Club. Our team had gone deep into the data and realized that our unhoused Native relatives—those in the system seeking housing—were experiencing dismal outcomes. We were trying to succeed in a system that didn’t understand the specific cultural needs of Native people experiencing homelessness. That system didn’t account for the trauma of forced removal from traditional homelands, the legacy of boarding schools, or the impacts of the Indian Urban Relocation era that brought thousands of Native people to Seattle. The other reality was, and still is, that there isn’t enough affordable housing in this city. So, we decided to reclaim our right to care for our relatives. We began exploring the idea of building our own affordable housing. At the time, we were a smaller nonprofit, and many in both the nonprofit and government sectors thought we were not up to the task. Someone advised us to talk to Frank Chopp—to share our ideas and get his thoughts. During our first conversation, I quickly walked him through the data and our vision for building housing that served our community. I nervously waited for his reaction. He didn’t give me a list of reasons why we couldn’t do it. He looked me in the eye and said, “It’s a good idea. Let me know how I can support you.” That was part of Frank’s magic—he believed in people. He believed in our passion, our commitment, our righteous anger, and our deep love for our relatives who were sleeping outside at the highest rates in the city. While others thought we were naive, underfunded, or unrealistic, Frank thought we were exactly the right people to build housing that would work for our community. He threw himself into supporting our first project—offering ideas, thinking through the funding, and leveraging his influence to make it happen. As we got to know each other, he would encourage me to run for office, build more housing, and be more involved in shaping the systems that were failing so many. When his name popped up on my phone, I knew it would be a quick hello and then straight to business: Have you heard about this property? Have you thought about how community colleges could leverage their land? Can you meet me at Tutta Bella on Friday? I want you to meet someone. His energy and enthusiasm for building affordable housing were unmatched—and contagious. Recently, I stepped into a new role as Interim Executive Director at the Seattle Indian Services Commission. One of my main tasks is preparing the Commission to build culturally attuned affordable housing for Native families. Just last month, I made a list of elected officials and housing advocates I wanted to reach out to—and Frank was on that list. I'm so sad that we won't have that conversation. I'm also worried about what his loss means for all of us. His belief in communities that have long been ignored—or worse, harmed—by housing systems was transformational. He believed we should not just have a say in housing policy—we should lead it.  I had hoped to talk to him about what’s next for affordable housing. I wanted to hear his thoughts on the growing critique—that despite our best efforts, we’re still not building enough housing. That regulation and policy bottlenecks are contributing to the crisis. I wanted to hear what Frank thought we could do better, and where we should go from here.  His passing leaves a void not just in the legislature, but in the hearts of all those who fought beside him for justice. Frank wasn’t just a policymaker; he was a guide, someone who made you believe that even in the face of insurmountable challenges, change was possible. His unwavering support of communities like mine—often pushed aside by mainstream systems—was his life’s work. And now, with his absence, we must carry that work forward. In my Upper Ahtna Athabascan family, we process grief together in a potlatch (gathering) that lasts three days. We eat together, share our best stories about the one we’ve lost, pray, hold formal services—and then, we dance and sing. Some songs are sad, but by the last night, we sang the happy ones, celebrating our loved ones with joy and gratitude. As I write this, it has been three days since Frank’s passing. To my beloved Seattle community, join me in singing the joyful, grieving songs for our friend, brother, leader, and elder. Frank gave us his all. Now, we give our all in return—through songs of love, gratitude, and action. We continue Frank’s song as we pursue justice, freedom, and a future where every person has housing, protection, and abundance. Colleen Echohawk is a former mayoral candidate and respected civic leader with more than twenty years of experience championing Seattle's Native populations.   ...read more read less