by Wendy Davis
From the outside looking in, we probably could not have appeared more different. But despite the gap in our ages and accomplishments, we did share common ground: we’d both had to get where we were on our own. Jeff didn’t have a whole lot growing up either, and while his family certainly didn’t have the kind of fracture running through it that mine did, his trajectory from a fairly ordinary military family to Princeton and beyond was, I thought, remarkable. Though he wasn’t a first-generation college student and though both of his older brothers had also attended and ultimately graduated from college, Jeff, like me, was the kind of person who set his sights high and was competitive in a healthy, productive way that pushed him to maximize his opportunities. He was smart and driven, and when we started dating, I believe he saw those similar qualities in me and understood how hard I was trying to improve my life. Had I not been on my own journey of self-improvement, I have no doubt that Jeff wouldn’t have given me a second glance. But he understood something about me, he “saw” me, in a way that most people wouldn’t have noticed. He took the time to get to know who I was, deep inside, who I was becoming. Like me, he was also divorced and had a child from his first marriage—a son, Erik, who was a few years older than Amber and who lived with his mother in Louisiana.
Our first social outing occurred at a Christmas party in 1984. The host, also a board member at Stage West, had invited us both, deciding it would be the perfect setting for us to get to know each other. I was nervous but excited about the opportunity to get to talk to him. And talk we did. We sat down facing each other and didn’t stop talking for hours. Not long after, our courtship began.
Dating someone like Jeff was a whole new experience for me—a very positive one—and I got caught up in it quickly: in his intelligence, in his professional achievements, and in his level of social sophistication, so far beyond my own. Our first date was at Sardine’s restaurant in Fort Worth, something of an institution at the time that is sadly no longer in business. But it was the place to go back then. There was always a great band, usually jazz, playing extremely loudly, so it wasn’t a place that lent itself to much in the way of conversation. It was dimly lit, had a menu with items I’d never heard of before, and I thought it was the most romantic setting I’d ever been in. I spent the evening brushing imaginary bread crumbs off the red-and-white checkered tablecloth on the table as Jeff inquired about my journey and my dreams. I don’t think I’ve ever been as nervous on a date before or since. And from that point forward, I was completely smitten.
Following that date, Jeff took me to restaurants where they had multiple pieces of silverware on either side of and above the place settings and menus that mystified me—I recall watching his every move and mimicking each one. I had no idea which fork to use when. I would wait for him to pick up his utensils so I’d know which ones to use and take my cues from him on what to order. On one occasion, not long after we started dating, we drove past a store in downtown Fort Worth that had a beautiful lace dress in the window, which I’d remarked on. On our next date, Jeff showed up with a big box when he picked me up—inside was the dress from the store window. No one had ever shown me such tenderness before.
In fact, it was his kindness and generosity that struck me most about Jeff. He was kind not only to me but to Amber, who could be quite a handful at two years old. Jeff’s most admirable quality remains his desire to lift people up. It’s what he does. Some people take in and give shelter to animals in need. Jeff likes to rescue people. And I certainly fit the archetypal mold of a person he could rescue. I was Galatea to his Pygmalion, or, in more modern-day literature, I was Eliza Doolittle to his Henry Higgins. A perfect example of that came not long after we started dating. My phone had been turned off because I was unable to pay the bill. I had resigned myself to doing without it until I could afford the balance and the new deposit it would take to have it turned on, but, to my surprise, one evening the phone rang. It was Jeff. Cool and casual. Not mentioning a word of what he’d done. But I understood. He’d paid to have it turned back on, and I was simultaneously grateful and humiliated.
What I appreciated most about Jeff was that he could see beyond the shy, uneducated girl I looked like to most of the outside world. He saw my drive, and he admired it. It was what attracted him to me.
And so it was with us in those early years. Jeff was my greatest cheerleader, and he took pride in watching me do well. With his support I thrived. But I also had a nagging sense that I was somehow lesser than him. Where Jeff was sophisticated about politics, about law, about travel and dining, I was always intimidated. Our footing felt uneven, and for a long time I suffered an insecurity that was hard for me to overcome. When he was with peers, talking politics particularly, I felt unable to join the conversation. But that insecurity, ultimately coupled with my innate drive, became a motivator for me. I was determined that I would prove to myself, and to others, that I could hold my own. And with Jeff patiently at my side, I did.
—
Before I met Jeff, I had already reset and redefined my goal to become a lawyer rather than the assistant to one. But now, watching the example of Jeff in his circle of friends, I also set my sights on attending a top-tier law school. I had lost ground to cover and something to prove to myself. I was determined not to be defined by the paths that had previously taken me off course, but instead to correct them.
With all that in mind, I began taking general-studies courses at TCC rather than paralegal ones, so that I could position myself for the next step—a four-year university. Dreams didn’t get much bigger than that from where I stood.
And so, in the fall of 1986, after two years of part-time classes at TCC, I was accepted into the honors program at Texas Christian University, which I’d chosen for its high-caliber academics and proximity, paying my tuition through a combination of need-based and academic-based scholarships. After my acceptance at TCU, Jeff helped me get a job as a legal assistant at a nearby real-estate firm. A new chapter was opening for me. I had a decent-paying job that I would go to after morning classes, I continued to wait tables at my father’s theater, and I rented a student-housing-quality duplex near the campus for Amber and me to live in. And though I was not the typical TCU coed—I wore dresses and heels to school so that I could go straight to work after my morning of classes ended—I felt solid there, too. I felt that I belonged. It was a renewed dream to once again find myself walking through the campus of a four-year university on my way to who I hoped to become.
As I’ve said, I had transferred to TCU with the intention of preparing to go to law school. For that reason I purposely chose to major in English with a writing emphasis. Literature was my passion, and learning to write well, I felt, would help me ultimately in law school. I chose my minor in philosophy specifically to equip me to do well on the Law School Admission Test (LSAT). Through its philosophy department, TCU offered classes in symbolic logic and critical reasoning, a crucial part of the standardized LSAT. I became completely focused on my new goal: excelling in college and on the LSAT in order to gain entry into a top-notch law school. Unlike my first experience at UTA, when my dream of going to medical school ended before it even really began, this was going to be different: I was not going to give up on myself this time.
But with a renewed focus and commitment came a whole new level of fear. The more pressure I put on myself to excel, the higher the stakes became and the more anxious I felt about not doing well. Doing less than perfectly was not an option, and I became hyperfocused on performing to this new bar I had set for myself—no more last-minute preparation for exams and winging it with the assumption that I would ace them. I had made straight A’s at TCC, and I was determined that I would do the same at TCU.
Aside from Amber and my job, keeping my grade-point average up became an all-consuming goal. After a time, I realized that as devoted as I was to order in my mother’s home and later in my own home, my dedication to academic excellence was another w
ay for me to find a sense of order, to feel in control of my life. There was a peace that came from that. A sense that I could make everything all right.
—
Jeff asked me to marry him about two years after we started dating. We’d gone to Cozumel, and on the way there I’d hinted at the question of our making a marital commitment to each other. “What makes you think that’s ever going to happen?” he’d teased, and I’d started crying. That evening, after we checked in to the hotel and with my feelings still bruised from our conversation on the plane and a terrible migraine, Jeff took me for a late-night stroll along the beach. Then he got down on one knee and placed a beautiful ring on my finger. It was a princess-cut diamond in a modern setting that was far too big for my finger. For the rest of our trip, I had to wrap the band with toilet paper so it would stay on. We were in love and each of us was filled with happiness about what the future would hold for us as a married couple.
In May of 1987, we got married. Because we both loved Fort Worth and all its history, we were wed in a historic chapel set in a graveyard. Yes, in a graveyard. Jeff rather enjoyed doing something quirky like that.
His son, Erik, who was almost ten, stood as Jeff’s best man. Amber, at almost five, was my maid of honor. It was a small and graceful ceremony, with our closest friends and family in attendance. Afterward we hosted a reception at our home on Mistletoe Drive, in one of Fort Worth’s oldest and loveliest neighborhoods, the second home that Jeff had purchased on Mistletoe Drive, having sold the first to make more room for our expanding family.
I was twenty-four when we got married. And for the first time since the age of fourteen, I no longer needed to work while going to school. I could focus solely on that, which I did. Jeff, Amber, and I moved into a home, a ranch home that had a swimming pool in the backyard. Even though the mortgage was a stretch for us and we had little disposable income because of it, compared to the financially precarious way I’d lived since my parents’ divorce, the stability and security of my new life was a blissful relief.
One of the most poignant things Jeff ever said to me came during that time just a few weeks prior to our wedding.
“I almost hate to do it.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Marry you,” he’d said. “Because I don’t ever want to take away from you the fact that you did this on your own.”
He was referring to my schooling. It struck me as such a beautiful thing for him to say, to show that he recognized my mettle, to acknowledge to me that while we were partners going forward, he knew that I had forged my own path. That he put voice to that meant the world to me.
I have no doubt in my mind that whether I’d married Jeff or not, I would still have gone to law school. My head was down. I was working hard to put myself on that path. Through my efforts and grades, I had made it possible to affordably attend TCU through a combination of financial aid grants and an academic scholarship. The fact that I was already on my own trajectory and that I’d already come as far as I had on my own before we’d married was something Jeff himself was extremely sensitive to. And I loved him all the more for it.
—
I settled back into attending TCU that fall to continue my undergraduate work, my first time to attend school without also suffering the stresses of a workaday job. It was a wonderful period in all our lives.
I was able to spend quality time with Amber in a way that I hadn’t been able to before. She now had a routine that gave her a security she’d never known. She had parents who were reliably home with her, meals at a fairly routine hour. Bath and bedtime stories. This was the kind of stability I’d wanted so much to give to her but had not been able to because of the work and school schedule I’d been keeping throughout her early life. No longer was she shuttled from sitter to sitter. She had her first real home, plus an extended family with whom we spent a great deal of time.
Jeff’s parents lived in Fort Worth then. His father, Bev, a retired air force colonel, and his mother, Doris, a stay-at-home mom who brought a beautiful artistic flair to homemaking, were with us often. Bev—or “Daddy-Bev,” as his grandchildren called him—was a force to be reckoned with. About six-two and with a bark of a voice, he was an intimidating presence. He had a temper that would exhibit itself from time to time—more bark than bite. Amber was simultaneously afraid of him and drawn to him. Behind his gruffness he had a tender heart. And he and Doris—“Mama Doris,” as her grandchildren called her—treated Amber, always, as if she were their own flesh and blood.
Getting to know Doris Davis was one of the most precious privileges I have ever experienced. She was loving and kind to everyone, and she showed me a particular amount of her nurturing attention, teaching me some of her homemaking skills that hadn’t been a part of my household growing up. She taught me so much about cooking, gardening, and decor. Everything she did, she did with a special flair. And she graciously met my desire to learn with an enthusiasm to share her skills with me.
My mother was also able to spend more relaxed time with us during this period. She had remarried and was no longer working night and day. She, too, loved Doris and enjoyed being around her. And, like me, my mom learned a thing or two from Doris about the art of taking care of family and home.
Immediately, Jeff’s and my home on Mistletoe Drive became the center of both of our families. Thanksgiving and Christmas traditions were celebrated there, our extended families gathering in our ranch house—a perfect open setting for large groups. Built in the late forties, the house was set atop a hill with an expanse of glass across the back that looked out over a spacious back lawn, with a pool and a guesthouse down below. It was in need of a great deal of upkeep and repair, but we resolved to try to bring it up to our standards bit by bit. The yard, both front and back, was filled with enormous live and red oaks, pecans, and a few hackberries (weed trees, as we call them in Texas).
These were precious years. We brought two dogs into our family—shelties, Chrissy and Lily. Erik came for summers and for extended weekends. And it wasn’t long before Jeff raised the question about whether I would be open to having a baby. I remember it as if it were yesterday. If I would consider having a baby, he’d said, he would promise to do 50 percent of the caretaking—diapers, midnight feedings, the whole bit. “Mr. Fifty Percent,” I would teasingly call him when things got off balance in that regard. With little effort I was soon excited to find that I was expecting. And I had a perfect pregnancy with Dru. I felt wonderful, ate well, and was happier than I’d ever been in my life.
Dru took the LSAT with me. In a sense anyway. I was seven months pregnant with her when I sat for the test. As usual, in my type-A way, I’d studied hard in advance by doing the practice tests in those big, thick prep books; my goal going into it wasn’t just to score well but to score top-level-law-school well. And I did. The test was given in one of the big science lecture halls at TCU, a familiar setting to me, and except for the fact that I got incredibly hungry by the end of it—you weren’t allowed to take a break of any kind, even if you were seven months pregnant—it went well. At some point I realized that as scared as I was to take the test, the second I put my pencil to paper, fear had fallen away and all my years of hard work had taken over.
Weighing in at nine pounds, twelve and a half ounces, Dru Amelia Davis came into the world on September 27, 1988, in the way that every child should—adored by her parents, grandparents, and siblings and surrounded by love and care. Coincidentally, she shared her birthday with Jeff, and her initials, we realized as we settled on her middle name, would spell “DAD.” A perfect choice, we decided. As a nineteen-year-old mom, I had tried, unsuccessfully, to breast-feed Amber, giving it up after only a few weeks when I returned to my job full-time. But with Dru I was determined to make it work. Along with our Lamaze classes, Jeff and I also took classes on breast-feeding in preparation for her arrival. For nine precious months, I nursed her. It was such a privilege, suc
h a joyful experience for me. I was determined that for the first six months she would have nothing other than breast milk to sustain her, and I stuck with it, my mother and mother-in-law gently chiding me along the way. They could not wrap their heads around the idea that a baby shouldn’t be on cereal by three months. “Better to fill their tummies and keep them asleep through the night,” they would say.
Dru didn’t sleep through the night until she was ten months old. And though I longed for a full night’s sleep, I loved our quiet time together those many nights. Mr. Fifty Percent was very helpful. When she would awaken, Jeff was usually the one who would rise to retrieve her from her crib and bring her to me in our bed to nurse.
In January I returned to TCU, completing my degree in May of 1990. Earlier that year, while Dru was a toddler and Amber was settling into the elementary school near our home, I was in the process of applying to law schools. I applied to a few “reach” schools and a few “safety” schools as well. Graduating with a perfect 4.0 GPA and scoring well on the LSAT had positioned me to hope that one of my “reach” schools, one of my dreams, would come true. One of my top choices was the University of Texas, at the time a Top 10 law school, so when I was accepted there I was thrilled, and excitedly began making plans to attend. Jeff’s brother and his family lived in Austin, and I felt good knowing I would have family there. Jeff and I had even driven down to begin the process of looking for a place where the girls and I would live. The plan was that we would see Jeff most weekends.