Let the People In

by Jan Reid

  • Prevent Destruction of Wetlands

  • Prosecute Illegal Dumping

  • Investigate Toxic Discharges

  It was strange to see that document again in that context. Those were words I once wrote for the next governor.

  Along with her friend Jane Hickie, Ann found work she seemed to like better with Public Strategies, the expanding firm of Jack Martin. Jane opened the office in Seattle, while Ann worked in the one in New York. Ann had a great apartment a short walk from Lincoln Center. Liz Smith and Lily Tomlin were two of her closest pals. This is not to say that Bud Shrake ever faded from her life. His diabetes had slowed down his walking, even if not his writing books. He could be seen hobbling after her on Manhattan’s streets, unable to quite keep up. She was so exhilarated by the wonder of living in that city; when people hollered her name and taxi drivers honked, she was usually looking up. One time while doing that in 2002, she walked right off into a sidewalk construction pit, and she hurt herself. Her diagnosis of no broken bones told her she was doing something right about her early stage of osteoporosis. So she came out with another book, in 2004, this one about confronting that health problem with diet and exercise. I’m Not Slowing Down was written with a clinical obstetrician and gynecologist at Columbia Medical School, Richard U. Levine.

  Because she could afford it, and so loved it, she traveled to as much of the world as she could reach. One time she came back through Austin and regaled us about a cruise to Antarctica. Her firstborn child, Cecile, was still her boon travel companion. “Whether it was the gardening phase, or getting in the peace movement, or seeing the world later in life,” Cecile told me with a laugh, “she was never the stay-at-home-and-bake-cookies kind of mom. She was very clear about that. She never fit into that traditional mode. But she and I saw the world together. Of course, that was the best for her, that she could have a trip sharing it with her children. We went everywhere—once to Siberia. That was one of my favorite trips, where we got off the plane and we’re going to go with these women leaders. We wind up in this place called Tong Duurai. It had been like a four-hour trip from St. Petersburg, and in the middle of nowhere we get off the plane, and someone says, ‘Is this your first time in Siberia?’” Cecile guffawed. “It’s like someone’s going to make the return trip?”

  Days after Ann lost the 1994 race—and she never considered making another one—her literary agent at ICM told her she would be hearing from the woman who directed the agency’s speaker’s bureau. Apart from the public relations work she did for Public Strategies, and hamming it up whenever she was asked as one of the favorite guests of Larry King, her profession was traveling the country to make speeches. She talked about women’s rights, the right to choose, and engagement in politics. A couple of times, in the unexpected ways that lives reconnect, she was driven around Colorado by Shawn Morris, who had been Dorothy’s assistant at the governor’s office and one of the most dedicated volunteers in the 1994 campaign. As they drove toward the prairie town of Pueblo, Shawn mentioned that she had some inclination to run for office, except she was so busy being a mom. As Morris recalled, “She said, ‘Oh, Shawn, you’ve got to run for county commissioner. You must. It’s a place where you can really make a difference in people’s lives.’

  “When we got to Pueblo, she was speaking on behalf of the National Democratic Party in the 2004 election at the Colorado State Convention. She had to get ready in the Grand Hall at the State Fairground—in the women’s restroom. Because she always wore black slacks and shirts, this was a matter of changing jackets and touching up her always-perfect makeup and hair. She did have some parts of the big do that needed some tending to, so I helped with the back. I thought hair picks had been outlawed since the 1970s, but she had one to match most of her outfits.

  “The place was completely asleep before she walked up to the stage ramp. Fan after fan gathered to get a snapshot with her. She was quite comfortable with her fame and her boundaries. Her speech was the usual hilarious and fiery fare, and they were suddenly inspired. To think a Texan would bring such inspiration to this very local crowd. As she got off the stage, I pointed out one of the guys running for the Senate [Ken Salazar, who was a future senator and then Barack Obama’s Stetson-wearing secretary of the interior]. She said, ‘What’s with the hat?’ She met him, and we watched a little bit of his speech. When we got back to the car I said, ‘I think they need some coffee in here.’ To which she replied, ‘They need more than that, they need crack!’”

  Another one of the youngsters, Mark Strama, was the recently graduated Ivy Leaguer who in 1990 coined the strange metaphor of Clayton Williams as a fraudulent honking goose. “Fourteen years later,” he said, “I decided to run for the Texas House of Representatives, and I knew she was the first phone call that I had to make. Even though she held no office, she was the most powerful Democrat in Texas. At thirty-six years of age, I was still terrified of her! I told her I wanted to run and she said, ‘Mark, why are you running?’ So I go into this long, drawn-out explanation that was basically a stump speech, a lengthy soliloquy. She said in the most compassionate voice that I’ve ever heard her use—it was just so dear. ‘Awww, sweetie. That may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. The only reason you should run is because you can win.’

  “I sent her my campaign plan, and she called me back out of nowhere and she said, ‘You can ask one favor, and that’s it. I don’t want you to put my name on everything.’ You could tell that others had done that and she was probably burned by it. So I told her, ‘I’d like for you to help me put on a fund-raiser in New York.’ She was in New York half the time then. I was thinking she could put together something and a few Texans might show. Next thing I know, I’m in this sweet loft in Tribeca! Ann gave a really nice speech, and if it was insincere, nobody knew it. She was the master at fund-raising, and of course there were more checks written as people left than when they came in. You know her big line—‘If your shoes cost more than what it cost to get in here, you need to give more!’ There were people like Lisa Ling and a bunch of MTV folks. I couldn’t believe it.”

  Ann’s mantra about winning being everything came from a politician whose won-loss record, counting local contests and primaries, was a modest 7 and 1. Of course, she got started pretty late. Her son Clark told me, “You know, years and years went by, and Mom was still quite stung by that loss to Bush. It would come up and she’d say, ‘Oh, a woman trying to win in Texas, that’s impossible—damn place run by all these men.’ I thought she carried that hurt around with her for an awfully long time.’”

  After she was out of the game in Texas, I never heard her speeches, except what she might be saying on CNN. The best parting one I know about came in June 1994, when she probably knew she was losing her reelection race. She spoke to the Southern Conference on Women’s History.

  Women in Texas don’t mind their place on earth being thought of as the habitat of the good ol’ boy. You all know what I’m talking about.

  These are the guys whose preferred method of transportation is a pickup with a bad clutch, a gun rack that’s not for show, and a bumper sticker that reads “I Don’t Brake for Liberals.”

  The women in this audience know these guys well. When they are still in the dating stage, they show respect for women by hanging an air freshener on the rear-view mirror. We’ve all seen the deep blue of a starlit night and the orange glow of the campfire, and around it another group of good ol’ boys, doing what real he-men do—drinking beer and staring at nothing in particular.

  Now, you look at that image and the historical concepts that go with it, and you might begin to think that Texas is not the kind of place where change is readily accepted. But here I am as governor—so you know something is going on.

  In an incredibly short time, we have moved from watching the parade to joining the end of the procession, and now we move, with our brothers, to the head of the procession. We ask only that our perspective as women be valued. Not because it’s better�
�but because it’s different—and it’s been missing.

  Dorothy works in the Texas House of Representatives now, the chief of staff for Elliott Naishtat, who grew up in Queens, New York, came to Texas as a volunteer with the Great Society organization VISTA, went to law school, and rode Ann’s 1990 coattails to victory in a liberal, central Austin district—a fine man and a good legislator. One day in March 2006, Dorothy answered the telephone there, and a familiar voice said, “Darthy, I’ve got a young woman here who doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life.” Ann never killed time getting started on a conversation. She said she had served with the young woman’s father on “the car wash board” and wondered whether Dorothy might help her find an internship at the Capitol. Recalling how her own involvement in government began, Dorothy said she would gladly try. The young woman eventually came to work in Elliott’s office.

  Dorothy then asked her mentor, “How are you doing, Ann?”

  There was a pause, then she said, “Not so good.” It was one of the few times Dorothy ever heard her voice sound small. Ann said that the day before, she had been diagnosed with esophageal cancer. Her beloved father had died that way in 1994. Ann sounded frightened. Who wouldn’t be?

  And yet the first thing she had done on the second morning of this terrifying turn in her life was to make a call on behalf of a young woman she didn’t know.

  Ann quickly decided on a course of treatment at M. D. Anderson, the renowned cancer hospital in Houston. As word of her illness raced around the country that spring, the flood of correspondence began to arrive. New York senator Hillary Clinton sent a nice note in her rather stiff prose style: “Dear Ann: With news of your diagnosis, what first came to mind was sadness, but what immediately followed was the strength and courage with which you have confronted every other challenge that life has put before you. My thoughts and prayers are with you and positive thoughts for a complete and uneventful recovery. With blessings, dear friend, I remain, Sincerely yours, Hillary. (I hope to see you while in Texas next week.)”

  From the much more self-assured writer and first-term Illinois senator Barack Obama: “Dear Ann—I want you to know that I’m thinking of you, praying for you, and expect that a tough gal like you won’t let this stuff get you down. Love ya—Barack.”

  Ann replied: “Dear Barack Obama, What a treat to have your good wishes. I feel ready for this cancer challenge. Thanks for thinking of me and giving me your prayers. Fondly, Ann.”

  Handwritten from the president: “Laura and I have read about your battle with cancer. We wish you all the best and pray for your strength and comfort. Knowing your strength and courage, all will be well. George Bush.”

  A note from Katie Couric at CBS: “Wanting to talk soon about everything: You, career, Asshole sexists, adorable Feminists like you.”

  Ann’s longtime assistant Barbara Chapman came down to Houston to help with all that. Early on, Ann wrote some letters that were quite personal. To her late mother’s sister, who had entertained her during girlhood summers in the little town of Hico: “Dear Aunt Oleta, The Doctor at M.D. Anderson Hospital actually used the word ‘cure’ in my case. The treatment is long, but I can deal with it. Thank heaven for Ellen. She has been a godsend and has everyone organized to take care of me. I will be doing chemo once a week for two months and then radiation following that. I’m not sure whether surgery will be called for or not. Please know that I love you and am so happy to have your prayers. Love to your kids, Ann.”

  To former secretary of state Madeleine Albright, an update that went out to many of the correspondents, but with a handwritten note at the bottom: “Hi Toots—this cancer is no worse than a right wing opponent. I am doing fine. Minimal pain—dealing with chemo well. Loved hearing from you. A.”

  Anita Perry, the First Lady of Texas, wrote with consideration and a delicate touch: “Dear Governor Richards, I was saddened to hear about your latest challenge. Please know that I would never interfere with your privacy, but am always ‘on call’ for whatever you need. Please do not hesitate. I am thinking of you and sending you my best. Anita.”

  The same day brought a somewhat odd note from the governor, Rick Perry, who with great ambition and growing ideological fervor had succeeded George W. Bush. He was clearly trying to cheer her up, but did he think she gave much of a hoot right then that he had enlisted his old Aggie roommate and buddy, John Sharp, as a bipartisan adviser on taxes? “Gov—Anita and I have you in our prayers as you deal with this thing. . . . Sharp and I talked about you today (in a very good way, I might add!). Some think the second coming is just around the corner with the hurricanes, fires & me and Sharp getting back together! We love you and look forward to a total Recovery . . . Rick.”

  It was so hard for people to know what to say, and harder still for Ann. As her strength waned, most of her replies were form letters drafted by Barbara and approved by Ann. A stock one read in part: “Patience has never been my strong suit, but I am learning. Treatment started last week and I am taking one day at a time. The M. D. Anderson Hospital is fabulous. It is a whole lot like ‘Star Wars’ with more interesting machines than Buck Rogers ever imagined.”

  But then a letter came from Dave Richards.

  Dear Ann—I should have written sooner—didn’t quite know how to express my concern—I’ve stayed abreast of developments through the kids—am delighted to know that you have withstood the chemo treatments in good shape—they can be quite debilitating—you are often in my thoughts—as always you seem to be handling this unexpected blow with courage and determination—continue to be strong—and let me know if there is anything I could do to be of aid—Dave.

  The reply to this was one Ann had to write. Her words sounded moved and mystified by the two of them, as ever.

  Dear David, I am about to embark on cutting edge rocket science at M. D. Anderson and I feel fortunate to be able to afford it and have it available to me. Cancer is no piece of cake and the treatment itself is challenging, but I refuse to lead a “sickness” life. . . . I should be coming out of this tunnel by the end of the year and look forward to a return of my energy and opportunities. My goal right now is to recover from the radiation enough to take the boys fishing in Alaska in July. Something to look forward to. Thanks for the letter. A.

  Bud spoke to Ann and e-mailed her almost daily, but he told Dorothy that despite Austin’s proximity to Houston, he never went down to see her. I suspect it wasn’t just that he feared to see her so ill; he didn’t want to make the ordeal that much worse for her. “One time we brought her home,” Clark Richards told me. “But she got so sick that she had to go right back to Houston in an ambulance.

  “The chemo and the radiation were brutal,” Clark said. “The doctors said that killed the tumor, but it also destroyed her esophagus. She was on a feeding tube, couldn’t eat. There was no way she could withstand the surgery, which was supposed to be next. She was just too weak.” Six months after the diagnosis, in the midst of her family, she died on September 13, 2006, twelve days past her seventy-third birthday.

  Her flag-draped coffin lay in state in the rotunda of the Capitol. Bill Clinton came that night and held Ellen Richards in his arms as she wept and thanked him for how much he had brought to their mother’s life. At the public ceremony in the Erwin Center the next day, September 18, 2006, Hillary Clinton was funny, telling how Ann would look at her, shake her head, and say she was just never going to figure out this problem of hair: “She said, ‘You know, really, you gotta make up your mind. You either just have to do something people forget about and pay no attention to, or you gotta make a statement.’” Senator Clinton observed that right after September 11, when so many Americans were inclined to put distance between themselves and New York, Ann chose to live in Manhattan.

  Ann was in New York on the day of the attacks. On the street, she found a young woman from another country wandering, not knowing where to go, or how or whom to ask. Ann took her under her wing and made sure she was not lost and out o
f her wits with fear in the best city in America.

  Lily Adams, the “nearly perfect grandchild” whom Ann introduced to the nation in the 1988 keynote in Atlanta, stood before Austin’s audience of thousands, a confident young woman now, sharing memories of the woman she called “Mammy.” Outside, I saw my tall friend John Hall, for whom I had written during her term as governor. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Maybe our time will come around again.”

  In the Texas State Cemetery, early that morning there had been a private farewell under a tent as a light morning fog cleared away. I found a chair next to Ann’s friend and onetime lawyer Shelton Smith. Seated next to Shelton was his friend Bob Kerrey, the former governor and U.S. senator from Nebraska. Since leaving politics, he had been the president of the New School, a university in New York City, and was a thoughtful and influential member of the 9/11 Commission. I shook his hand on Shelton’s introduction and uttered something I had never been able to say before: “I supported you for president.” With a modest smile, he nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  Also seated near us was Ann’s friend and frequent critic Molly Ivins. She had been battling recurring cancer for several years. She wore a scarf on her head and looked thin and frail; she would lose her last battle with the disease just four months after Ann. There were so many reasons that morning to have tears in your eyes, but she still wore that great big grin that said she was glad to see you.

  At a time when she might have thought, “Oh, the hell with it,” sometime back she had withstood the trauma and strain of giving up booze. She did it, she said, because she didn’t want to be remembered as a drunk. She had long wanted to run the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon, and she had just returned from that arduous trek in the wilderness. Dave and Sandy Richards, along with Brady Coleman, a jovial Austin lawyer turned actor and musician, had fulfilled a promise to take Molly on the trip. Her friend Ellen Sweets would write a book titled Stirring It Up with Molly Ivins: A Memoir with Recipes. Dave and Sandy recounted to her what a brave and determined adventure that had been.