Forgetting to Be Afraid: A Memoir

by Wendy Davis

  Throughout the race there was a consistent drumbeat of doubt from Austin insiders:

  There’s no way she can do this! This is ridiculous! She’ll never raise the money!

  The pundits, however, weren’t taking me seriously enough to say much of anything.

  Brimer had been endorsed by every mayor in the district. He’d been endorsed by the police and firefighter associations. He’d been endorsed by the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. He had the ability to raise money easily through political insiders, the lobby group, in Austin. Raising the amount I needed was much, much harder. I started out with less than a hundred thousand dollars in my campaign account. For more than a year, I traveled the state, introducing myself to would-be donors, trying to convince them that I was a wise investment—that I could win. It was tough going, with every insider in the state predicting that I’d lose. I worked fourteen-hour days from the moment I announced in August 2007 until the election in November 2008. I never stopped. I was either on the phone asking for donations, or meeting with people to do the same, or hosting fund-raisers and giving speeches and knocking on doors in the district. My team was lean and mean. And they were smart as hell. By election day I’d raised around $1.8 million—only half of what Brimer had raised, but it was enough to enable me to do what I needed to do.

  For my election night watch party, I had reserved the JFK suite at the Hilton Hotel in downtown Fort Worth, formerly the Hotel Texas, where President John F. Kennedy spent his very last night before being assassinated. My team and I, along with only very close friends and family, gathered there to watch the returns come in. In early voting, I had come in five points ahead, but as the election day boxes were reporting, we watched nervously as my lead began to slip. When all the boxes were in, I had won with 49.9 percent of the vote. A Libertarian candidate had claimed two points. It was quite late, close to 11:00 p.m., before we felt comfortable declaring victory and joining the Tarrant County Democratic watch party that was taking place in the ballroom of the hotel downstairs.

  It was an amazing moment in the lives of my family and of my team who, through determination and a well-executed strategy, had pulled it off. Though most folks had written me off in that race, my team and I proved them wrong. Against all of their predictions, we had managed a win that some political commentators referred to as one of the biggest upsets in Texas political history. I had beaten an entrenched incumbent whom many thought was invincible. And I had done it in a district drawn to favor a Republican. After delivering celebratory remarks to a packed room of incredibly excited supporters and then doing a few press interviews, we returned to the JFK suite, where we celebrated our victory until the wee hours of the morning.

  Giving meaning to the phrase “no rest for the weary,” J.D. called me the next morning at around 7:30. I’d only been asleep a couple of hours. “Put your suit back on,” he said. “We’re heading to Austin to be a part of a press conference being held at the party headquarters.” Still on an adrenaline high, I was up for it. And off we went. Within a few hours, I was in a press conference celebrating a number of successes that the Dems had had the prior evening. Things were looking up for us. We had gained enough seats in the state house to put us at an almost even split with the Republican majority—76 Republicans, 74 Democrats. And in the senate, gaining my seat meant a new momentum for our minority block and our ability to exercise a more balanced influence.

  After leaving the press conference, J.D. and I drove over to the capitol, where, after conferring with a Department of Public Safety officer, we were granted access to park on the capitol drive (reserved for members and their staff only). Walking into the eastern door, the wing that contains the senate chamber, was such a magical moment. The Texas capitol is, I believe, the most beautiful capitol building in the country, built with Sunset Red granite donated to the state by the owners of Granite Mountain near Marble Falls, Texas, which gives it its distinctive pink hue. The dome is painted to match. Its terrazzo tile floors are intricately laid works of art, depicting a number of Texas symbols and traditions, and the huge wooden doors on the east, west, south, and north sides of the building are held in place by intricate metal hinges, each weighing seven pounds and inscribed with the words TEXAS CAPITOL. My first stop, of course, was a visit to the senate chambers. While I had been to the capitol on numerous occasions to lobby for our city’s interests as a council member, I had never been in either of the two chambers where the legislators do their work.

  The senate chamber is magnificent, with its soaring ceiling from which hung magnificent lanterns, each bearing on the points of our state star the letters “T-E-X-A-S.” When the legislature is not in session, the public is allowed in and can wander the outer area of the senate floor, looking at paintings of historical figures, including that of the great Barbara Jordan, as well as two large paintings—Dawn at the Alamo and Battle of San Jacinto—depicting epic Texas battles. At the time, their foreboding symbolism about battles I would fight on the senate floor was lost on me.

  A tour guide is typically seated there to answer questions that visitors might have. When I told him who I was, he greeted me enthusiastically, unlatched the green velvet rope that cordons off the area reserved for members of the senate, and waved me on through with the words “Welcome to the Texas senate.” Welcome, indeed. I was awestruck. This would be my new home. I placed my hand on one of the thirty-one wooden desks there on the floor, wondering which would be mine. J.D. and I were in heaven. For him, it was a homecoming of sorts, having worked for a former Democratic senator from Fort Worth, Hugh Parmer. And it was his idea that we should go introduce ourselves to the secretary of the senate, Patsy Spaw, whose office is located off the back hall behind the chambers.

  When I went in and put my hand out to shake Patsy’s, her face lit up. Little did I realize at that moment how much I would come to respect and admire her. A lawyer herself, Patsy is the senate’s rudder, steering us gently but with an assured calm. She knows the senate rules like the back of her hand, and when the senate is in session, she has a command of the room that is hard to describe. To the members, she shows the utmost respect and is very protective of each of us, rising above the partisan rancor that sometimes exists and holding us each in a place of esteem. As we do her.

  On this day meeting her, though, I knew none of that yet. For that matter, I wasn’t even sure what the secretary of the senate actually did! But as we said our polite hellos, I knew I liked her right away. She offered to show me the senate lounge, and then her eyes brightened as a realization came over her: the ladies’ room in the senate lounge held only four lockers. There had never been the need for more! Because of my election and that of a newly elected Republican member, Joan Huffman, from Houston, new lockers would have to be built. We were making history—numbers five and six for the first time ever! I’m a part of Texas history, I thought with incredible pride.

  In the following weeks, I began assembling my senate team. Going from a city council office with only one council aide to the state senate with a budget to build out a capitol and district staff was a big leap. I would need a chief of staff, a district director, at least one constituent services manager, several policy analysts, a legislative director, a communications person, and perhaps most important of all, a gatekeeper. The gatekeeper came to me via a senator who has become one of my closest friends, Senator Rodney Ellis from Houston. Unbelievably smart, filled with frenetic energy, and a true champion for people, he called me after my election and, before I had even met him, offered to send one of his staffers over to help me. I was still nervous when talking to fellow senators, not quite feeling like one of them yet. And I was a little taken aback by his offer. Was he trying to unload a less than stellar staffer on me? I wondered. But I took him up on his offer and hired Jean Dendy as our office manager and gatekeeper. A seasoned veteran in the Texas senate, Jean was a heavyset African-American woman who could strike fear where and when it was needed and could o
ffer joy and love in equal measure. She turned out to be a godsend, literally showing me and the rest of my freshman staff how things were done. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without her that first session.

  When I told her on our first day working together that I wanted to meet with anyone and everyone who requested a meeting with me, she just looked at me, amused. “My door,” I declared to her, “is an open one. I’ll meet with anyone who requests that I do so.” She just chuckled at me and shook her head. “Okay,” she said, “if that’s what you want.” Of course, it didn’t take me long to understand why she had laughed at that idea. It’s an impossible task, I would soon learn, to do that and still get all your work done. So I relied instead on her gentle guidance about when and with whom I should meet. She knew how to sort the chaff from the wheat, as the saying goes, when it comes to the lobby. And she knew to show her greatest respect to people from my own district back home; they were our priority. We adored Jean, but sadly had the benefit of her magnificent light through only one session, losing her to a heart attack during the interim between the eighty-first and eighty-second sessions. At her funeral service, she was eulogized by the three senators for whom she had worked, each of us proud to share our stories of the extraordinary woman she was.

  Assembling the rest of my team had to happen quickly. I brought over a trusted friend, Hector Nieto, who had been doing communications work for the state party, to manage things for the first session until I could get my sea legs. And I brought along some of my most loyal, hardworking young staffers from the campaign to help in the policy and administrative arenas as well: Sonya Grogg, Graham Stadler, and Bernie Scheffler. The rest I built by going through résumés. Other than Jean, we were all new to the senate, so we knew we had our work cut out for us. I have to say, looking back, that we managed really well for a freshman team and I am proud of the things we were able to accomplish.

  I was sworn in to the Texas senate on January 13, 2009. It was a joyful day. One of my dear friends, Chris Turner (who would ultimately become the manager of my gubernatorial race), had been newly elected to the state house (also unseating a Republican incumbent) in a seat that was contained almost entirely in my senate district, and we, along with our house colleague from Fort Worth, State Representative Marc Veasey (now a congressman), brought in busloads of folks from back home who had manned the phones, knocked on doors, and made our victories possible. All day, as I sat in my new senate office in the below-ground extension of the capitol, I was greeted and congratulated by a steady stream of people who were sharing in the heady exuberance of all that we had accomplished together. But before all the meeting and greeting was to take place, I took my oath.

  How to describe that moment? I felt like I was living in a dream. There I was, about to be ensconced in one of the most powerful legislative bodies in the country. I would be one of only thirty-one, each of whom represents districts larger than congressional ones, and in a state legislative body where the legislature, rather than the governor, holds the real seat of power. I was joined on the floor that day by my girls and by my mom, dad, stepmom, and my then boyfriend, Hugh, and his precious daughter, Brailey. On swearing-in day, the normal rule that only members are allowed “inside the rail” where our desks are placed is lifted and our families are seated right beside us on folding chairs. So there I was, surrounded by the people I loved most in the world, celebrating an incredibly important moment in our family’s history. My dad was literally about to bust, he was so proud. And, perhaps more than any of us that day, he was relishing in the pomp and ceremony of it all. You could not have wiped the smile off his face if you tried. When I rose from my desk to join the other senators in raising our hand to swear our oath of office, I looked back at all of them there. Only my dad and mom could appreciate with full measure the journey our family had been on to see this day. How fortunate I was to have them both there with me to share that moment.

  I joined fifteen other senators to be sworn in that day. (Texas senators run on staggered terms.) Only Joan Huffman and I were new. I wore a yellow rose on my lapel that someone had given me when I arrived on the floor. And I raised my hand and promised out loud to my state that I would be loyal to it, that I would vow to uphold our constitution. And, to myself, I repeated the silent promise I had made on that day that I was sworn in to the Fort Worth City Council—that I would never hesitate to take a hard vote if I knew it was the right vote for the people who had entrusted me with the privilege of serving them.

  I was struck by the deference I was shown as I would walk the halls of the capitol. Literally every person there would greet me as “Senator.” I considered myself Wendy, not “Senator.” And I pushed back on it for a while, insisting that people call me by name. But I soon gave up on that, because no one would. Over the years, though I love for people to call me Wendy, and in fact still prefer it, I have come to own the honor of what it means to hold the title of senator and what a privilege it is to have earned the vote of the folks I represent back home.

  In the weeks that followed, I worked with legislative council and my policy staff to author or sponsor eighty-two bills, twenty-five of which were passed into law—an ambitious number for a freshman senator, especially a Democrat facing a Republican majority. The bills I filed centered primarily on consumer issues. I had come with an agenda on behalf of the people I represented and I was determined to bring fairness and opportunity back to those from whom I felt it had been taken. As I worked to learn and understand the rules by which law was made, I began to perceive which senators I could trust and which I couldn’t. I observed members from both sides of the aisle whom I came to admire tremendously and who became the people I would go to in order to get things done.

  Like all freshman senators, I was hazed (gently, thank goodness) when laying out my first bill on the senate floor. Knowing it was coming, I brought a deep purple TCU football helmet with me and playfully donned it as soon as my colleagues started in on me. Thereafter, I kept it handy in my office as a reminder to stay tough when things got truly rough.

  And so it began.

  —

  As I said earlier, the senate district that I came to represent was drawn to favor a Republican candidate. In every other race, with the exception of both of my elections, the precincts within it had collectively voted Republican—even President Barack Obama lost the precincts that make up my district in 2008 and again in 2012—so winning that district was an extraordinary victory for all of us. But from the moment I came into the Texas senate, there were some Republican members who weren’t happy with me. I’d just knocked off their buddy in a race that no one believed I could possibly win. Being a Democrat in the Texas senate meant that I was definitely in the minority, a fact that would soon become deeply frustrating to me. It was my first experience of functioning in a partisan environment, and I was learning a disappointing reality: instead of voting on what they believed to be right, I observed the sometimes members were setting personal beliefs aside to vote instead on party lines.

  I came into the senate as the twelfth Democratic vote, which was very important, because our senate functions under a two-thirds-majority rule. Until I was elected, of those thirty-one senators, twenty were Republicans and eleven were Democrats. The eleven Democrats had constituted just enough in number to create a minority block, enough to stop a bill from coming to the floor if they all banded together. In order to bring a bill to the floor for debate, twenty-one votes are needed. With only eleven Democrats, all of them had to hold together in order to keep legislation that they were opposed to from coming to the senate floor, and that hadn’t always been happening. Sometimes, the Republicans would succeed in picking a Democrat off.

  With my election, Republicans were now going to have to pick off two Democrats in order to get a bill to the floor—meaning it would be much harder for them to move controversial items forward. That’s why I was instantly viewed as a problem by some of the Re
publicans. We Democrats viewed their controversial issues—among them, redistricting efforts that would further disenfranchise minority voters and a sonogram bill that would require women seeking an abortion to undergo an invasive transvaginal sonogram twenty-four hours prior to their procedure—as unfair and discriminatory. And we were prepared to fight them with everything we had.

  Each state senator is put on four committees, and I immediately asked to be put on committees dealing with issues I was most passionate about—Public Education and Transportation—both of which I was given. I was also put on the International Relations and Trade Committee, which dealt with community relations along the Mexican border, and on the Veteran Affairs and Military Installations Committee (VAMI). With Public Education, I had numerous meetings with education experts to learn how school finance works in Texas, which is extremely complex, and to figure out where we’d been, policy-wise, and where we were headed. I worked hard to push my ideas and perspectives in that committee, despite having a chair who was fairly restrictive of what she would let pass through her committee. She was strongly in favor of increasing accountability measures, while I was coming to learn that we actually needed to ease back on that gas pedal because high-stakes testing in Texas had become so stressful and counterproductive that administrators, teachers, and parents were crying out for relief. The chair did allow some of my bills to be heard and voted out, but nothing of significance was accomplished through them that session. Instead, I learned I would need to become a voice in shaping others.

  I got thrown into things much more quickly than I’d expected to in that first session. The Republicans were attempting to pass a voter-ID bill, and while none of us took issue with people proving that they are who they say they are when they vote, the bill was designed in such a restrictive way that we truly felt it was discriminatory. And we knew it would have a discriminatory impact. Many voters, particularly low-income voters, who were predominantly minority, wouldn’t be able to satisfy the photo requirements, because of the need for underlying documents—birth certificates and such. And they’d have to spend money to obtain them, making the voter IDs feel very much like the modern-day version of a poll tax. The Republicans knew this, which is why they were trying to pass it—it was another egregious attempt to suppress the minority vote.