Forgetting to Be Afraid: A Memoir

by Wendy Davis

  “Bread and butter, Dad. Bread and butter.”

  Until we are together again . . .

  EPILOGUE

  A Ritual to Read to Each Other

  If you don’t know the kind of person I am

  and I don’t know the kind of person you are

  a pattern that others made may prevail in the world

  and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

  For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,

  a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break

  sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood

  storming out to play through the broken dyke.

  And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,

  but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,

  I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty

  to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

  And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,

  a remote important region in all who talk:

  though we could fool each other, we should consider—

  lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

  For it is important that awake people be awake,

  or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep,

  the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—

  should be clear; the darkness around us is deep.

  —WILLIAM STAFFORD

  IN LATE AUGUST of the year that Jeff and I said our good-byes to Tate, he and I joined our dear friends Mike and Annette for a round of golf. They had always been important to us, but had become even more so as they helped us to work through our grief. It was a clear, crisp day. With winter approaching, the trees were losing their leaves and there were enormous piles of them along the sides of the fairways where the grounds crew or the wind had blown them. I walked along with Mike, searching through them for my wayward tee shot. After a time, moving the leaves to and fro with the head of my 7-iron, I located my ball, bent down to clear a path of leaves from which to hit it, and stood over it, eyeing my shot to the green. As I gripped my club, lining up my shot, something magical happened. There, where I stood, the wind picked up and swirled the leaves around me. I was standing in the middle of their tornado-like vortex as they encircled me, in perfect cylindrical form. As they did, I looked up and around and through them at the sky above, transfixed. And I felt her. I was sure of it. Tate. Moving through me, saying her good-byes to me. Letting me go.

  In the weeks and months since my father died, I have wondered whether I would experience something similar. Would he, too, make his way through me, release me on his journey to the great beyond? I have waited, especially in the quiet of the middle of the night when I awaken, thinking of him, listening for him. Will he move through me, release me as Tate did? Perhaps he knows I still need him here with me as I travel this next chapter in my personal journey. Perhaps he’s watching over me, waiting until he knows I am ready for him to let me go.

  Not yet, Dad. Not quite yet.

  Like the leaves swirling around me on the golf course that brisk fall day, there have been many people whose lives have intertwined with mine and who have left a lasting imprimatur on the person I became. All of those that I have written about, whether they are still here or are now gone, played an integral role in assuring that I would not get lost in the dark as I traveled on my journey. My story is a story of each of them and the role they played in shaping the kind of person that I am. Because of their light, I avoided a darkness that kept me from missing my star. Instead, through them, because of them, and the values each instilled in me, I found my voice. I found my fight.

  And somewhere, along the way, I forgot to be afraid.

  My dad, his dad, and Pepé—three generations of barbers.

  My paternal grandparents, Doris and Gerard Russell.

  My maternal grandparents, Lela and Nealy Stovall.

  My parents, young and in love.

  My parents and Grandma Russell, Ensenada, Mexico, 1971.

  Me when we lived in Muleshoe, before my parents reunited.

  At my grandparents’ in Muleshoe.

  In Muleshoe—just before my mother drove us to reunite with our dad.

  After a trip across the border to Juárez.

  My mom, in El Paso.

  Chris (seven), Joey (six), Jennifer, and me in El Paso. I was five.

  Our family in El Paso, reunited after Jennifer was born.

  With my Grandmother Russell. I was probably around seven.

  My first-grade class, with Mrs. Gary. I’m in the second row from the back in the blue shirt, second from the right.

  Third grade.

  My parents in our Chula Vista backyard.

  With Jennifer in Chula Vista.

  Buddy Boy and Buddy Girl, ages eight and seven.

  Buddy Boy and Buddy Girl, cleaning fish in New York.

  At home with Joey in New York after our confirmation. Notice the Music Man photo on the wall, with my dad as Professor Harold Hill, Chris as Winthrop Paroo.

  The long driveway in Pearl River that we had to shovel when it snowed. This was taken when I went back to visit in 1985.

  My Granddad Stovall and me (and my pet squirrel, Barney). I was ten.

  O Holy Night solo, fifth grade.

  Ten or eleven years old, outside my house in Richland Hills.

  At Six Flags with my Grandma Russell, my Great-aunt Bea, Jennifer, and Joey. Note that I’m wearing the hip-hugger jeans with the Peanuts appliqués!

  Another amusement park visit . . .

  High-school graduation, 1981.

  Amber at ten months, in our trailer.

  With Amber, 1983.

  With Jeff on one of our first dates—I had to watch him for clues on which utensils to use.

  Our wedding reception, held at our Mistletoe Drive home.

  Precious Dru, 1988.

  Proud big sister Amber, right after Dru was born.

  On one of our traditional summer trips to Breckenridge, Colorado.

  One summer at our home in Fort Worth, probably 1993. FROM LEFT: Erik, Big Drew, Amber, me, Jeff, and Little Dru. Our complete family always included Big Drew.

  Texas Christian University graduation day, 1990, in my Mistletoe home.

  My acceptance letter to Harvard.

  Amber in our Lexington, Massachusetts, apartment.

  My dorm room at Harvard, third year.

  My best friends at Harvard Law School—most of whom were from my “O” group. Taken right before we graduated in spring 1993.

  My dearest friend, Patti. Graduation party, 1993.

  Law school graduation, with my dad. 1993.

  With Amber, age eleven, at my graduation from Harvard.

  Meg, Judge Buchmeyer, and me at our swearing-in ceremony in 1994. Judge B. swore us in to the Texas Bar.

  My first city council race, 1996.

  Campaigning old-fashioned style for city council.

  Amber and Dru with Moots (our Labrador) and Charlie (our Yorkie-poo) at my post-divorce home.

  Swearing-in at the eighty-first session of the Texas senate, 2009.

  Wearing a TCU helmet at the eighty-first session. The helmet was to protect me from the traditional “hazing” I had to go through as a first-time senator laying out a piece of legislation.

  With Amber and Dru at the start of the eighty-second session, January 2011.

  Filibuster of proposed cuts to public-education budget. Eighty-second session, 2011.

  In 2011, with J. D. Angle, Joel Burns, and Lisa Lowry.

  With my family at my second swearing-in, January 2013 (eighty-third legislative session). I had to survive a redistricting battle and a tough 2012 reelection to get back there, so it was particularly gratifyi
ng. FROM LEFT TO RIGHT: Amber, my mom, Suzi (my stepmom), me, my dad, and Will Wynn.

  Talking with Senator Ellis. Eighty-third session, 2013.

  Waiting on a point-of-order ruling during the June 25, 2013, filibuster.

  Finally sitting down after my historic nearly thirteen-hour filibuster, surrounded by the Texas Senate Democratic Caucus.

  Post-filibuster, arguing about the fate of SB 5 at the Lieutenant Governor/President of the Senate’s desk.

  With Republican Senator Dan Patrick after I quietly worked the senate floor and killed his bill that I felt would have harmed municipalities.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am eternally grateful to the thousands of women and men who have shared their deeply personal stories with me before, during, and after the filibuster because they believed that the telling of their experiences could make a difference. Through them, I found the courage to tell my own.

  My deepest appreciation goes to Laura Zigman, who taught me to believe in the strength of my own writing, and who thoughtfully coaxed, guided, and shaped the telling of my story. I am thankful for the many hours she spent with me in an effort to understand the heart of how I became who I am, and for her efforts to put my story into words. Most important, I am grateful for the care with which she listened to my story, helping me to move through yet another stage of my grief in losing Tate and my dad. This book would not have been possible without her talents and her compassion.

  I am tremendously thankful to Paul Fedorko, my agent at N. S. Bienstock, who gave me the encouragement I needed to believe I was capable of putting my story into book form. Though I received many calls about writing a book after the filibuster last year, Paul was the one agent willing to show up at my door and ask how he could be of help. Through the writing process, Paul has been my biggest cheerleader and supporter, and through his encouragement, stepped into a small part of the void my father would have filled had he still been alive. My thanks also to Paul’s assistant, Sammy Bina, for making sure we were always in touch.

  I am also grateful to David Rosenthal and Aileen Boyle, as well as the rest of the team at Blue Rider Press, including assistant editor Phoebe Pickering; our chief copy editor, Linda Rosenberg; senior copy editor Marie Finamore; copy editor Maureen Sugden; managing editor Meredith Dros; and art director Jason Booher. When David and I agreed to do this project together, he assured me that he would handle my story with great care and deference. He has proven true to his word in that regard and I am pleased to have trusted my instincts when deciding that David’s team was the right one to partner with in order to turn the idea of telling my story into the reality of a book.

  Tremendous thanks also go to Lisa Turner, Sonya Grogg, J. D. Angle, and Taylor McCarty, Graham Stadler, and Russell Langley, who helped to provide research assistance and moral support in the telling of my story. Each has long been an important part of my team, and, once again, they’ve proven that in all ways, they always have my back.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Wendy Davis is the Democratic candidate for governor in Texas. She represents Fort Worth and surrounding cities in the Texas senate and previously served on the Fort Worth City Council. In June 2013 she held a historic filibuster to block legislation that would create harsh abortion restrictions on Texas women.

  An index for this book can be found at Penguin.com/ForgettingtoBeAfraidIndex.