The Name Gets You in the Door: Karson Kamenetz on Inheriting Baltimore County
Karson Kamenetz is 25 years old, in law school, and about to become the youngest person ever to sit on the Baltimore County Council. He won the Democratic primary in the county’s new District 4 — the most diverse district in county history, by his account — and takes office in December. His last name is the most famous in Baltimore County politics. His father, Kevin Kamenetz, built one of the strongest county organizations Maryland has ever seen and died in May 2018, days before the Democratic primary for governor.
“Being my father’s son may get me in the door,” Karson told me, “but it’s still up to me to break the ice.”
The people who weren’t with Kevin are with Karson
Here’s the thing about the Kamenetz inheritance that makes it interesting: it’s not just Kevin’s people. Don Mohler — who held Kevin’s machine together and has been, in Karson’s words, “a constant in my life since I was a child” — is with him. But so are people who were never Kevin’s people at all: Len Foxwell and Clem Kaikis, Peter Franchot’s people, think the world of him.
Karson doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know why the distinction matters. “Name recognition is a double-edged sword,” he said. “Folks that maybe didn’t get along with him very well may hold that negative perception to me.”
His father, by every account including his son’s, had a temper and a hard-edged view of the world — my team or your team. Karson, asked directly, smiled: “I don’t have a temper, no temper.”
That’s not a small thing in Baltimore County. The old wars are over, and the son of the county’s most combative executive is building a coalition out of both armies. “Friends change, enemies change, the issues remain the same,” Karson said. “Politics doesn’t always have to be permanent warfare.”
Trained in Annapolis, not just at the dinner table
The easy story is that Karson learned politics listening to his father on the cell phone. But he’s also done the work: staff for the chair of the Baltimore County House delegation in Annapolis, where he learned budgeting, education policy, and “that you get things done by knowing who to call.” Elected to the State Central Committee as part of the first group under 25 — an old-guard-versus-new-guard education all its own. And law school at Maryland Carey, where to his own surprise he’s thriving: “I hated school my whole life until law school.” His favorite course is torts — he’s a self-described personal injury nerd, plaintiff-side, with strong views on contributory negligence — followed by land use, which he obviously can’t practice in Baltimore County while he’s on the council.
That Annapolis training matters, because what’s coming at the council is a wave of unfunded mandates — delegates who never met an idea they didn’t like, a finite revenue pie, no appetite for tax hikes — and somebody has to do the math. Karson gets that.
Seven of nine
The council Karson joins in December will have seven brand-new members out of nine, by his count. He’ll be the youngest in the room, and he knows what he doesn’t know. What he wants to be is the one who asks the tough questions: “not always doing what is the most popular... making tough decisions that are justifiable.” He wants to be judged, he said, “by what we actually accomplish” — starting with the Reisterstown and Liberty Road corridors.
At the doors in D4, he heard the same things in Stevenson as in Milford Mill: safe neighborhoods, good schools, speeding and reckless driving on neighborhood streets. What surprised him was the resignation: “so many people have simply accepted that problems aren’t going to get fixed, and then naturally distrust their government.” His line for the office he’s building: “Government shouldn’t require people to be full-time advocates to get something done.”
The executive
On Julian Jones, the incoming county executive — Karson’s known him since childhood: the council and the executive have different jobs. “We as a council have a responsibility to provide oversight and ask questions... it’s also not a rubber stamp, because ultimately my responsibility is to my constituents, not to the county executive.” Support the good ideas; flag the rest. “Julian can count on me to point that out.”
The game plan
So I asked the toughest question — the one everybody in Baltimore County is already asking: what’s the game plan? Two terms on the council, a term as county executive, then governor? Or skip a step?
“Anybody who tells you at 25 years old that they have their entire life mapped out is just not telling the truth,” he said. “I have always been ambitious. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But I vehemently believe ambition has to be tied to something bigger than the next office.” Right now, he said, he’s focused on being the kind of councilman who proves government is looking out for people: “You don’t earn the right to talk about the next job until you do the one you currently have.”
“That was a good non-answer for you,” he added, grinning. He knew exactly what he’d done.
The compact
I’ll close with how the interview closed. I told Karson what I tell every elected official I cover: we’re going to disagree periodically. What I like about Julian Jones is that I can call him with a concern, he takes the call or gets back to me, he tells me why he did it — “and at that point most of the time I never have to write the Julian-is-an-idiot story.” I’m hoping for that kind of relationship with Karson too.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Anything for you. Anytime. Seriously.”
We’ll see. He’s 25, he’s the name, he’s the network — both networks, which nobody else in Baltimore County can say. The ice is his to break.