Is this an election-disqualifying story? No. There is no Nazi tattoo or any claim of sexual assault or misconduct. It’s simply an interesting look into the family of Troy Jackson, the Maine Democratic Senate candidate who will face Sen. Susan Collins (R-ME) after Graham Platner dropped out amid a rape allegation. He also had a Nazi tattoo, a history of graphic social media posts, and other accusations of domestic abuse. 

If you look for a trainwreck, there should be a picture of Platner. Still, Jackson isn’t much better. He ran for governor in the state’s primaries and lost, which we’ll cover soon. He also has a temper problem, but this story focuses on his non-marriage to his wife, Lana Pelletier, with whom he has two children. They’re second cousins, which has sparked a bunch of Deliverance jokes. It’s not juicy, but the post from The Maine Wire does a good job of explaining the history of American politics and these relationships, where many politicians, including Founding Fathers, married their cousins. 

Later, it was done to preserve the wealth, property, and bloodline of the Patrician New England elites. The issue with Jackson is that while he may call Lana his wife. They’re not married, an arrangement that’s been an open secret in the Allagash enclave. Maine does not recognize common law marriage, so the now-mandatory financial disclosure forms for candidates might not shed full light on the subject. Still, the whole cousin angle—didn’t see that coming, and neither did 23andMe:

If the revelation feels awkward in 2026, American political history offers a robust, if slightly squirm-inducing, context. Cousin marriage — or at least cousin coupling — is practically a Founding-era tradition, practiced by figures far more exalted than a logger-lobbyist who now makes his home in Augusta.

John Adams, the second president, married Abigail Smith, his third cousin. Thomas Jefferson married Martha Wayles Skelton, also his third cousin. Martin Van Buren wed Hannah Hoes, his first cousin once removed. Franklin D. Roosevelt married Eleanor Roosevelt, his fifth cousin once removed — a degree of relatedness so remote that geneticists treat it as essentially unrelated, yet still close enough that the Roosevelt name stayed comfortably in the family.

[…]

In Allagash itself, the Jackson-Pelletier arrangement has been an open secret for decades. The couple’s two sons are grown. Pelletier works as a clinical care specialist with the Maine Department of Health and Human Services. Jackson has built a political brand on being the authentic working-class guy from the far north woods.

The fact that his domestic partner is also a blood relative of the second-cousin variety may strike outsiders as the punchline to a Deliverance joke. The comparisons between Appalachia and Allagash write themselves.

To locals who have watched the same surnames — Pelletier, McBreairty, Jackson and O’Leary — recycle through town records for generations, it is simply another data point in a place where the dating pool is shallower than the trout streams.

Jackson has never publicly addressed the cousin connection. His campaign materials continue to describe Pelletier as his “partner.” Older official bios occasionally slipped into “wife.”

[…]

Where the relationship between Jackson and Pelletier may have real political consequences comes down to the rules of the secretary of the U.S. Senate, who handles the financial disclosures that candidates and elected members of Congress are required to submit.

Typically, pols must submit detailed accounts of their income, assets and liabilities, as well as the finances of their spouses. But because Pelletier and Jackson never wed, and because Maine does not recognize any form of common-law marriage, it’s not clear whether Jackson’s financial disclosures will cover the second-cousin couple’s full financial situation.

If Pelletier, as merely the mother of Jackson’s adult children, is exempt from inclusion in the financial disclosures in a way that Collins’ husband is not, then the knitted family tree could engage in all kinds of clever accounting tricks to artificially impoverish Jackson as a way of maintaining his working-class image.

As of this week, Jackson hasn’t filed the disclosures or a request for an extension, and the circumstances of his nomination are so unusual that the secretary of the Senate has yet to say when Jackson will be required to make his finances transparent — or whether those disclosures will include assets placed under the name of his second cousin.

I sense a lawsuit brewing here. 

Frankly, Jackson’s eligibility is somewhat more urgent. Maine does not have a ‘sore loser’ law, which means someone who lost a primary can't be nominated or put on the ballot for another office in the same election cycle. This was brought up by Maine State Rep. James White before the Democrats’ convention on July 25:

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White’s argument also relies on the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1974 decision in Storer v. Brown, in which the Court described primary elections as “an integral part of the entire election process.”

According to White, supporters of Jackson’s candidacy must treat Maine’s June primary and November general election as separate elections in order for Jackson to qualify. He argues that interpretation conflicts with both the Supreme Court’s reasoning and the Legislature’s decision to prohibit candidates from seeking more than one office “at any election.”

The letter further argues that so-called “sore loser” laws exist to protect the integrity of elections by preventing candidates who lose one race from reaching the general election ballot through another avenue.

[…]

Whether White’s argument ultimately prevails remains an open legal question.

Unlike several states, Maine does not have an explicit “sore loser” statute that expressly bars a candidate defeated in a primary from later appearing on the general election ballot for another office. Instead, White argues that existing provisions of Title 21-A, when read together, effectively create that prohibition.

Also, Jackson had a temper during his time in the state legislature, to the point where he was cast out of the speaker’s office, and got so mad over a prescription drug pricing matter with a colleague in the state Senate that he chucked a water bottle to the ground. None of the matters should lead to these outbursts, but for now, Democrats have their man.