by Wendy Davis
Of course, swimming against the tide, fighting against the status quo anywhere—let alone in the Texas senate—doesn’t go unpunished. As a consequence of my 2011 filibuster, I was removed from the Senate Committee on Education when committee assignments were handed out by the lieutenant governor in 2013, after having served on it in 2009 and in 2011. Instead, I was put on the Economic Development Committee. After learning of my new assignment, I couldn’t help hearing the Br’er Rabbit refrain, “Oh, please don’t throw me into the briar patch!” Economic development was a forte and a passion of mine. But it was clear, and everyone understood, that my removal and reassignment was a punishment to me for having filibustered the education cuts.
That didn’t stop me from being involved in a facet of our government that I felt was critical to all Texans. I continued to attend the education committee’s meetings—in fact, I think I had better attendance than most of the actual committee members. I may have missed one or two. I sat at the dais as if I were a member; made my own nameplate, which I placed in front of me at my seat, asked questions of the witnesses as if I were a member, and weighed in on policy conversation as if I were a member—which the chair was gracious enough to allow. I refused to be forcibly divorced from the conversation. While I no longer had a committee vote, I could continue to be a voice for the people I represented, committee removal be damned.
But before I even had the chance to filibuster that bill, first I had to fight a redistricting bill that would have assured my demise. Like every legislature, we redistrict every ten years, after the results of the United States Census come out. We receive our new population numbers and redraw our lines to rebalance the population so that the districts we represent are similar in size. As is the case in other states, Texas is losing population in its rural areas and dramatically gaining population in its urban ones. Accordingly, district lines have to be redrawn so that each senator represents an approximately equal number of people. Our senate districts now contain an average of 830,000 people, having grown by about 100,000 people per district in the prior ten-year period, which means that a shifting of lines has to occur. There’s a process that goes along with that, but in this particular instance it seemed to be quite focused on drawing my district—only mine—in such a way as to guarantee that I couldn’t be elected again. But much more important, if the redistricting map were to pass as drawn, members of the minority community that I represented, who had coalesced with like-minded Anglo voters in electing me, would forever lose their voice in electing a member of the Texas senate. And that was precisely the point. The reason the Voting Rights Act was passed in 1965 was as a means of protection against pernicious efforts like these to silence minority voters at the ballot box and therefore in elected representative bodies. Despite my protest and after months of wrangling, all the other senators wound up with a district that would protect them, including all of my Democratic colleagues.
All except me. And the people I so proudly represented.
In the minds of many of my Republican colleagues, I had done the unforgivable—won as a Democrat in a district they had drawn during the last redistricting to favor a Republican. Perhaps worse, once elected, it was clear that I was not going to be of the “go along to get along” sort. Unbelievably, I was not shown the new map until about ten o’clock the night before it was going to be voted out of committee, and when I saw it projected onto a screen on the wall, it took me only seconds to understand exactly what they’d done.
“You’ve torn it apart,” I said to the chair and his staff. Then I got up and walked out the door. There was nothing else to say. It was pointless to waste my efforts on trying to convince them.
Indeed, my only avenue, after the successful passage of the bill, was to challenge it in court. In order to make a successful claim, I had to show either that there was intentional discrimination—specifically an intent to discriminate against the minority members of my district or a discriminatory impact as a result of the redrawing. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see from the new map what had happened: they had gerrymandered my district and no one else’s.
To my great dismay, and unbelievably, the Justice Department, weighing in as a party of interest in the case, opined against my position because they said we hadn’t shown a historical influence of the minority community in the outcome of elections in the district. As noted previously, in all other elections that had taken place at both the state and federal levels, the precincts that made up my district had voted overwhelmingly for Republican candidates. Only in my 2008 state senate race had the minority and like-minded Anglo residents come together and elected a Democrat as their candidate of choice. On the day my attorney called to tell me that the Justice Department had weighed in by arguing that the district was not a district deserving of the protections of Section 5 of the Voting Rights Act, I was preparing to give a speech to a group of constituents. Sitting in my car in the parking lot, I was crushed. We’ve lost, I thought. There’s no way we can hold the district now. There’s no way we can protect its people.
On the phone, even my lawyer, Gerry Hebert, said, “I have to tell you, the chances are extremely low that we will prevail.” But Gerry was a masterful litigator and such a fierce believer in the power of the Voting Rights Act to correct racial injustices that his voice literally cracked with emotion as he pleaded our case during our first hearing. And though our chances of succeeding were, in his words, probably in the 10 percent range, through his dedication and the collective hard work of Matt and J. D. Angle and Lisa Turner, along with the crucial support and assistance of LULAC (League of United Latin American Citizens), we won. Justice was on our side and I had a team of people who believed to their core that people’s rights were being violated, and they fought with everything they had for justice to be served.
Our case was tried before a panel of judges in D.C. Two federal district-court judges and one federal appellate-court judge. Two of the judges were Republican appointees, not exactly adding favorably to our slim odds of winning. But in August of 2012, this panel of three judges unanimously reached a decision, finding intentional discrimination in the drawing of my district. It was remarkable. Reminiscing about what I had learned in my Warren Court class at HLS, I couldn’t help but wonder about the biographical background of these three judges. Against all odds, they had ruled in our favor. Against all odds . . .
Of course, the case was immediately appealed. And my foe throughout all this? The Texas attorney general—my opponent in the 2014 race for governor. With the finding of “intentional discrimination” in the lower court, the state ultimately agreed to leave the original boundaries of the district intact, knowing it would face an uphill battle on appeal, and in the first called special session of 2013 (the same special session in which the anti-reproductive-rights bill was filed), the legislature adopted a final redistricting plan for the Texas senate reflecting that agreement. The voices of the people I so proudly represented would still be heard.
While the court was still contemplating its decision, but before my map was settled with finality when the legislature reconvened, I still had an important challenge ahead. I had to win reelection to my district in November of 2012. I knew that once again I would be in a battle for survival. The district, even though we’d managed to protect it, was still one that had originally been drawn to favor a Republican candidate. Easy Street was nowhere in sight.
Fighting to be elected to the senate, fighting to protect the seat, and fighting for reelection to the senate, together with the stresses of pushing back against a tide of controversial conservative legislation, has been a constant challenge. Thankfully, I haven’t had to face it on my own—I’ve always had my Democratic Caucus colleagues alongside me—but I think the addition of my twelfth block vote emboldened and empowered the other Democratic members, too, creating a sea change in the way we were able to do business.
There is a part of me that believes that Greg Abb
ott, my gubernatorial opponent, agreed to the settlement of my redistricting case in the hopes that it would remove any incentive for me to run statewide by keeping me content in the senate. He already had his sights set on running to be the next governor, and it was widely understood that Governor Perry was unlikely to run again. The “heir apparent” wanted the clearest path possible to the governor’s office. And he knew, I am sure, that I was one of a handful of people who could legitimately stand in his way.
At the beginning of the eighty-third legislative session, as is the tradition, the attorney general and other statewide elected officials joined the senators on the floor as we were sworn in to our offices again. After a long redistricting fight and a tough reelection battle, I was there among the thirty-one senators who raised our hands and swore an oath to protect the values of the Texas constitution. When I approached Greg Abbott to shake his hand, he looked me in the eye with a smile and said, “I don’t think we want another redistricting battle now, do we?” He was calling a truce. You’ve gotten what you fought for, now be happy with that.
But I don’t placate easily. Soon he and I would be locked in battle again—this time for the hearts and minds of the people of Texas.
EIGHTEEN
In whatever arena of life one may meet the challenge of courage, whatever may be the sacrifices he faces if he follows his conscience—the loss of his friends, his fortune, his contentment, even the esteem of his fellow men—each man must decide for himself the course he will follow.
—JOHN F. KENNEDY, Profiles in Courage
BOTH TIMES I RAN for my seat in the Texas state senate, there were the naysayers, but one in particular, Ross Ramsey of the Texas Tribune, distilled all the naysaying into one piece six months before my 2012 reelection campaign:
The Fort Worth Democrat tops this year’s list of imperiled candidates. She is running on Republican turf . . .
Davis beat Republican incumbent Kim Brimer four years ago, leaving political observers to wonder how she did it. Did she win the race, or did Brimer lose it? How important was the turnout in that year’s presidential election?
He even created a color-coded reelection “hot list” ranking districts by the threat to each incumbent, and had me in the red zone (“Trouble walking in the door” as opposed to orange’s “Trouble on the front porch” and yellow’s “Trouble on the sidewalk”) right up until the election. Clearly, I was being counted out of the race. Yet again.
There was no question that the 2012 election would be tough. But I’d been fighting long odds for much of my life, and certainly in politics. Each time I’ve fought and won, I feel a little bit like those bottom-weighted clown punching bags that, no matter how many times you hit them, just keep coming back up for more. I have never been alone in my battles. My team was once again by my side, just as they had been through every political fight before.
My reelection battle in 2012 proved to be a bitterly fought contest and an extremely expensive one—my opponent and I each spent close to $4 million in that race, one of the most, if not the most, expensive state senate races in Texas history. I had a great deal more in the way of resources in my second race. I had found in my first race that asking total strangers to donate to my campaign was difficult, but the stronger my sense of urgency about the causes we were fighting for, the easier it got to ask people to invest in that fight. Having funds meant I was able to talk to more than just forty thousand people this time, and with positive television ads I was able to share my story and my values and beliefs with voters, defining who I was and what I stood for in contrast to what my Republican opponent would say about me. He ran negative against me, raising a phony ethics charge about alleged conflicts between my role as a senator and my role as an attorney. Not only were these claims ruled “false” by a major-market television station in Dallas while the race was ongoing, these allegations were ultimately considered and dismissed by the Travis County DA when my opponent attempted, post-election, to convince them to take his allegations seriously. Even now, in my current race, those same false allegations are being circulated. I think what scares my foes more than anything is actually the opposite of what they claim: they know that the old-insiders network can’t sway me. That I’m true, above all else, to the people who elected me to serve them.
The 2012 reelection was a nail-biter, and I won without a lot of room to spare—with about 51 percent of the vote—but I survived despite the strong backlash in Texas against President Obama at the top of the ticket. He lost my district by even more of a percentage in 2012 (10 percentage points) than he did in 2008 (6 percentage points). Anglo male voters particularly had come out in droves and voted against him in my district, which typically means that they check the “R” box all the way down the ballot and vote a straight Republican ticket. Once again I was glad for the intense stress and pressure of the election to be over, and after a short break while I celebrated and rested, I was anxious to get back to work—and have the honor of moving into the former office of the esteemed civil rights leader and first African American elected to the modern Texas senate, Barbara Jordan. There was so much more I wanted to accomplish. The next session was coming soon—only seven weeks away.
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When I was first elected to the state senate, I wanted to connect with my constituents as though I were representing them at the local level. I tried to show them that I didn’t take that seat for granted: I didn’t just go meet with people and come to their meetings and hear what they wanted to talk about during election season. I aggressively represented my communities even after they’d given me the honor of their vote, and made sure that I was really helping and working directly with them, just as I had on the city council. Only, now I had about ten times the number of people that I was working for.
Being a Democrat in the Texas state senate has not been easy in the last couple of decades, and for me, ever since I’ve been there, I’ve navigated my way through an ever-present feeling of friction and tension. When I walk into the senate lounge, for example, the chilly manner of some of my Republican colleagues makes me well aware that they wish I were not a member of their elite body. I’ve learned to let that roll off my back. And I’ve found my way by forming relationships with people I respect on both sides of the aisle who are more interested in getting things done than they are in partisan politics. I am proud of the friendships I’ve formed with Republican members who don’t come to the table predisposed to ultraconservative ideals. They’re there for the same reason I am—to work hard for their constituents and to try to make our beloved state even stronger. We may have different ideas about how we get there, but we’re all trying to do good work for the people we represent.
That work has always kept me focused and committed. Helping to pass bills as a Democratic senator is something I’m really proud of, whether I’ve authored them and gained the consent of my fellow members or whether I’ve supported the excellent efforts of my colleagues, both Democrats and Republicans.
One of the most important pieces of legislation that I worked on during the last two sessions, and one I was proud to gain bipartisan support for, was Senate Bill 1636, the sexual-assault evidence bill. In 2011, during the eighty-second session, I’d gotten a bill passed requiring law-enforcement agencies all around the state to go through the backlog on their evidence shelves and tell us what needed to be tested, and when we came back in 2013, in the eighty-third session, we got the audit, which showed that there were at least 20,000 untested kits. Working with one of my Republican colleagues, Senator Robert Deuell from Dallas, we secured about $11 million to test that backlog. Sadly, Senator Deuell was defeated in his reelection primary by a Tea Party challenger. A good and true public servant now gone. But because of his help, the testing is ongoing, and law-enforcement officials say they’ve already gotten several hits and DNA matches as a result. Helping to bring sexual predators to justice and to bring closure to victims is incredibly gratifying.
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One of my strongest passions is my hatred of payday loans—short-term, super-high-interest predatory lending that gives borrowers a cash advance on their paychecks. Mostly used by people with no credit or bad credit who find themselves in a sudden financial crunch caused by a health crisis or a car repair emergency, these loans can devastate families who are already struggling. Some states with tighter regulations don’t even allow payday lending, but payday lenders are ubiquitous in Texas. Nearly 3,300 lending storefronts and a growing presence of online lenders made about three million payday and auto title loans in 2013 and collected about $4 billion from vulnerable Texas consumers. Regardless of the relative financial privileges I now possess, I will forevermore be that young woman who struggled to pay her bills. I will always fight for “her” because I understand how precious dollars are when you’re living paycheck to paycheck. And when I see abuses of consumers because the state has failed to properly police the industry, it sets me on fire.