North Carolina’s Kingmaker: Jim Hunt’s Grip on Power Remembered

Paul Riverbank, 12/19/2025Discover how Jim Hunt transformed North Carolina through visionary education reform and bipartisan leadership.

Hunt’s presence in North Carolina politics was as steady as the red clay underfoot. He steered the state for sixteen years, an unmatched feat. He first settled into the governor’s chair in 1977, returned in the ‘80s, stepped away, then claimed it again in the ‘90s. His voice—steady, sometimes stubborn, always sure—recast what it meant to hold office here.

Curiously, when folks cite Hunt’s legacy, classrooms crowd to the front of the discussion. Sometimes it was a handshake in a drafty elementary hallway, or that 10 p.m. phone call to a fence-sitting lawmaker, where he’d urge, cajole, insist: North Carolina’s kids deserved better. Full-day kindergarten didn’t simply appear; it was hammered out over years, Hunt crisscrossing the state and patching up alliances, not just along party lines but across professional and personal divides. Not long ago, in 2017, he told a reporter, “I’m proud of what we’ve done, but far from satisfied.” That was Hunt: never quite finished with improving schools, or anything else.

He didn’t just set big goals; he stuck around long enough to see their foundations laid. In the ‘70s, bringing kindergarten to every public school was an uphill fight—one that eventually saw him pulling together both cautious Republicans and embattled Democrats to sign on. In the early ‘90s, Smart Start was born, planting seeds for early childhood programs around the country. Hunt bet on teachers, too. Not only did pay leap above the national median, but with the National Board for Professional Teaching Standards, he pressed for a way to measure—not just praise—success.

Even after he left office, Hunt didn’t disappear into post-political comfort. At Chapel Hill, the Hunt Institute for Education Leadership and Policy became a lifeline for legislators and educators—one more legacy in a career full of them. Staffers, even some who’d moved on, recall old messages on their cell phones: long after others had tired of education debates, Hunt was still nudging, prodding, asking, “What have you done for kids today?”

His daughter Rachel, now second-in-command for the entire state, called him her “beloved daddy and hero.” She said he’d shown by example that public service was meant to expand opportunity—or at least try.

Hunt’s technique? Almost legendary. Gary Pearce, who spent years as both aide and biographer, used to say Jim had a knack for convincing a sleep-deprived, overworked staffer that some midnight policy tweak just might change the world.

His charisma wasn’t confined to his own party, either. Former Governor Pat McCrory, a Republican, liked to call Hunt “the greatest salesperson ever.” And Hunt didn’t shy from mentoring across the aisle; McCrory credits him for support in both mayoral and gubernatorial days. “Despite political differences, he was a mentor and friend,” McCrory said. “He’ll be missed, no question.”

Senator Thom Tillis, for his part, called Hunt “one of the most consequential public servants” the state’s seen. He was thinking both of brighter classrooms and business parks—proof, maybe, that Hunt’s pragmatic edges were as sharp as his idealism.

The arc of Jim Hunt’s whole public life can’t be boxed into easy narratives. He was farm-raised; packed up for Nepal in his twenties with the Ford Foundation; somehow, by 1972, found himself lieutenant governor. The 1984 senate campaign—his dark detour—ended in stinging defeat to Jesse Helms. He would come back, though, just as hardheaded and twice as determined.

In a region where “progressive” and “business” aren’t often paired politely, Hunt wore both labels with ease. He pressed for economic growth and safer neighborhoods almost as fiercely as he chased higher teacher pay. Ask Roy Barnes, a former Georgia governor who still marvels: “If anyone remade education in the Southeast, it was him, starting right here.”

Thursday’s tributes came in a rush. Rival politicians and everyday teachers alike remembered Hunt as the rare leader who’d call just to say, “Are we moving the needle?” Sydney Batch of the state Senate’s Democratic caucus probably put it best: “Governor Hunt set the standard for what compassionate, selfless leadership can do.”

Later governors will, of course, try to leave their own mark. But Hunt’s footsteps—muddy, quick, occasionally stubborn—are there for all to see. For him, education was both tool and moral obligation. Public service wasn’t a career; it was, as he himself once put it, simply “the right thing to do.” Years from now, some politician in Raleigh will draw inspiration from that legacy—grappling, perhaps, with the same hope that Jim Hunt carried until his last day.

On a Thursday night in Wilson County, word spread quickly: Jim Hunt, a man whose imprint is visible nearly everywhere one looks in North Carolina, had died at 88. The house—his family, his books, faint echoes of calls with allies and rivals—felt quieter than it had in decades.Hunt’s presence in North Carolina politics was as steady as the red clay underfoot. He steered the state for sixteen years, an unmatched feat. He first settled into the governor’s chair in 1977, returned in the ‘80s, stepped away, then claimed it again in the ‘90s. His voice—steady, sometimes stubborn, always sure—recast what it meant to hold office here.Curiously, when folks cite Hunt’s legacy, classrooms crowd to the front of the discussion. Sometimes it was a handshake in a drafty elementary hallway, or that 10 p.m. phone call to a fence-sitting lawmaker, where he’d urge, cajole, insist: North Carolina’s kids deserved better. Full-day kindergarten didn’t simply appear; it was hammered out over years, Hunt crisscrossing the state and patching up alliances, not just along party lines but across professional and personal divides. Not long ago, in 2017, he told a reporter, “I’m proud of what we’ve done, but far from satisfied.” That was Hunt: never quite finished with improving schools, or anything else.He didn’t just set big goals; he stuck around long enough to see their foundations laid. In the ‘70s, bringing kindergarten to every public school was an uphill fight—one that eventually saw him pulling together both cautious Republicans and embattled Democrats to sign on. In the early ‘90s, Smart Start was born, planting seeds for early childhood programs around the country. Hunt bet on teachers, too. Not only did pay leap above the national median, but with the National Board for Professional Teaching Standards, he pressed for a way to measure—not just praise—success.Even after he left office, Hunt didn’t disappear into post-political comfort. At Chapel Hill, the Hunt Institute for Education Leadership and Policy became a lifeline for legislators and educators—one more legacy in a career full of them. Staffers, even some who’d moved on, recall old messages on their cell phones: long after others had tired of education debates, Hunt was still nudging, prodding, asking, “What have you done for kids today?”His daughter Rachel, now second-in-command for the entire state, called him her “beloved daddy and hero.” She said he’d shown by example that public service was meant to expand opportunity—or at least try.Hunt’s technique? Almost legendary. Gary Pearce, who spent years as both aide and biographer, used to say Jim had a knack for convincing a sleep-deprived, overworked staffer that some midnight policy tweak just might change the world.His charisma wasn’t confined to his own party, either. Former Governor Pat McCrory, a Republican, liked to call Hunt “the greatest salesperson ever.” And Hunt didn’t shy from mentoring across the aisle; McCrory credits him for support in both mayoral and gubernatorial days. “Despite political differences, he was a mentor and friend,” McCrory said. “He’ll be missed, no question.”Senator Thom Tillis, for his part, called Hunt “one of the most consequential public servants” the state’s seen. He was thinking both of brighter classrooms and business parks—proof, maybe, that Hunt’s pragmatic edges were as sharp as his idealism.The arc of Jim Hunt’s whole public life can’t be boxed into easy narratives. He was farm-raised; packed up for Nepal in his twenties with the Ford Foundation; somehow, by 1972, found himself lieutenant governor. The 1984 senate campaign—his dark detour—ended in stinging defeat to Jesse Helms. He would come back, though, just as hardheaded and twice as determined.In a region where “progressive” and “business” aren’t often paired politely, Hunt wore both labels with ease. He pressed for economic growth and safer neighborhoods almost as fiercely as he chased higher teacher pay. Ask Roy Barnes, a former Georgia governor who still marvels: “If anyone remade education in the Southeast, it was him, starting right here.”Thursday’s tributes came in a rush. Rival politicians and everyday teachers alike remembered Hunt as the rare leader who’d call just to say, “Are we moving the needle?” Sydney Batch of the state Senate’s Democratic caucus probably put it best: “Governor Hunt set the standard for what compassionate, selfless leadership can do.”Later governors will, of course, try to leave their own mark. But Hunt’s footsteps—muddy, quick, occasionally stubborn—are there for all to see. For him, education was both tool and moral obligation. Public service wasn’t a career; it was, as he himself once put it, simply “the right thing to do.” Years from now, some politician in Raleigh will draw inspiration from that legacy—grappling, perhaps, with the same hope that Jim Hunt carried until his last day.