Ann Richards
Hillary
Ann Richards had already lived a full life by the time she came anywhere near the world of professional politics. She grew up in Waco, Texas, during the Great Depression, raised by a tough-as-nails mother and a father who encouraged her to dream big. (“I have always had the feeling I could do anything, and my dad told me I could,” she would say. “I was in college before I found out he might be wrong.”) She stuck close to home, going to Baylor University to become a teacher, which she would later say was the hardest job she’d ever had. She later married her high school sweetheart—the two of them would stay up nights debating politics—and raised four children. Ann poured her energy, intelligence, and wicked sense of humor into going all-out for every holiday—baking recipes straight from the glossy pages of women’s magazines—and throwing herself into every political cause that came through town.
Like a lot of women, she started out behind the scenes: stuffing envelopes, making phone calls, and doing the hard, unglamorous work it takes to win over voters block by block and door by door. “In those days,” she liked to say, “men made the decisions and women made the coffee.” Her big break came when she got the chance to manage the campaign of Sarah Weddington for the state House of Representatives. At twenty-six years old, Sarah had argued Roe v. Wade before the Supreme Court, legalizing abortion in America. Sarah won her election; Ann found her calling.
A few years later, local Democrats approached Ann’s husband, urging him to run for county commissioner. He turned them down and asked instead, “What about Ann?” She ran, won, and showed that not only could she do the job—she could do it better than anyone predicted. When she decided to run for state treasurer, it was the same story: People didn’t give her much of a chance, but she believed she could do it, and she never wavered. Her election sent ripples across the country. Suddenly, this funny, smart, tough woman had won a statewide position in Texas. People started to think: If it could happen there, it could happen anywhere.
Ann used to tell people she got into politics because she didn’t want her tombstone to read “She kept a clean house.” Instead, she went into government and cleaned house. She burst onto the national consciousness in 1988 with her extraordinary keynote speech at the Democratic National Convention. I was there on the floor and can attest that she had the entire convention—and the millions of people watching on television—in the palm of her beautifully manicured hand as she laid out a hopeful vision for Texas and America. Near the end of the speech, with her voice full of tenderness, she talked about her “nearly perfect” granddaughter. When she described sitting on the floor and rolling a ball back and forth with Lily, it didn’t matter who you were or where you were from; you were part of Ann Richards’s family. Decades later, and now a grandmother myself, that image is even more meaningful.
By the time she walked off the stage that night, people were calling for Ann to run for Congress or even the presidency. She launched a long-shot campaign for governor, tapping into a network of women, young people, and people of color across the state who had been shut out of the political process for too long. Her opponent was Clayton Williams, a good old boy businessman who joked about rape, who jabbed his finger in Ann’s face to try to intimidate her, and who refused to release his taxes. More than once during the 2016 election I wished I could call her up to commiserate! On Election Day in 1990, she became the first woman elected in her own right as governor of Texas.
Ann ran for governor, she said, “to open up the doors of government and let the people in.” And that’s just what she did. She appointed more women, Latinos, African Americans, and LGBTQ people than all of the state’s previous governors combined. I watched her governorship with great admiration because of her determination that everyone—no matter who you were or where you were from, no matter the color of your skin or your accent—could feel part of what she called “the new Texas.” She sent that message far and wide.
Ann faced every challenge head-on. She acknowledged something many of us, particularly in public life, are afraid to: that she was a human being, too. After her divorce, she knew her personal life would become the subject of public speculation. So she had a witty comeback for every insult and invasion of privacy. She talked openly about her struggle with alcoholism, and her hard-fought recovery. Because of her example, more people got sober, took charge of their lives, and even ran for office themselves. She made a difference not only in the lives of those who knew her, but countless others.
“The public does not… ask their public officials to be perfect. They just ask them to be smart, truthful, honest, and show a modicum of good sense.”
—ANN RICHARDS
In 1994, Ann lost her reelection campaign. In all the time I spent with her in the years after, I never heard any what-ifs, no could-haves or should-haves. It was all about the future, about her next adventure. “I have very strong feelings about how you lead your life,” she once said. “You always look ahead, you never look back.” Whenever I had a loss or setback in my own life, I knew just what she’d say to me: “Precious, get over it, and get on with it.”
Politics can be brutal. The partisan bickering, the gridlock, the mean-spirited attacks—they can take a toll. Ann laughed off the bad and embraced the good; she made public service a whole lot of fun. She was always there when you most needed her, a loyal friend in good times and hard times.
Ann was also a friend who could not resist giving you advice, whether you wanted it or not. In 1994, I went to South Texas for a rally to support her reelection. I gave a speech standing on the tarmac at an airport while the wind blew my papers all over the place. Afterward, Ann took me aside and said: “Hillary, this is called a speech box, and it keeps your papers from flying around. You need one of these. In fact, I am going to send you one, because I cannot bear to see how pathetic you look out there with those papers flying everywhere.” Sure enough, within a few days she had mailed me my very own speech box. Every time I use one—which is quite often—I think of where my first one came from, and of all the wisdom Ann shared with me over the years: “Never wear patterns on television”; “If you can’t remember somebody’s name, just call them ‘Honey’ ”; “If you’re going to be a woman in the public eye, you’ll save yourself a lot of trouble if you pick a hairstyle and stick with it.” I could have saved myself a lot of heartache if I’d followed that advice!
“If you give us a chance, women can perform. After all, Ginger Rogers did everything that Fred Astaire did. She just did it backwards and in high heels.”
—ANN RICHARDS
When I was considering whether or not to run for the Senate, I called Ann. She spoke plainly and from the heart, as she so often did. “Do you want to run?” she asked. “It has to be from deep inside you, not from what anybody else says. Do you want to do it? Do you want the job? Do you want the responsibility? Make it because you want it.”
When Ann died of cancer in 2006, it was hard to say goodbye. She still had so much good left to do. But the message she sent to so many other women still reverberates today: Set your own course, dream your own dreams, and go where you want to go, even if nobody has gone there before. That message lives on every day at the Ann Richards School for Young Women Leaders, an all-girls public school she started in Austin.
Ann paved the way for a new generation of public servants in Texas and across the country—including members of her own family. Her oldest daughter, Cecile Richards, embodies what it means to stand up and speak out. As the president of Planned Parenthood, she defended the organization against false and malicious attacks and helped build a powerful movement for reproductive rights. I’ll never forget watching her testify before Congress in 2015 after Planned Parenthood was the victim of a video smear campaign—a lot of “fake news.” For five hours, male members of Congress talked down to her and talked over her, criticizing her for everything from her salary to her attitude. Even though the experience smacked of sexism, she kept h
er cool the whole time; I thought of her a few weeks later when I spent my own eleven hours in front of some of the same people. After twelve years of extraordinary leadership at the helm of Planned Parenthood, Cecile has now turned her focus to starting a new organization, Supermajority, dedicated to building women’s power and civic participation. I know Ann would have loved that.
My friendship with Ann came full circle in 2015 when I launched my campaign for president. One of our very first hires was none other than the granddaughter she had talked about all those years ago, now a political powerhouse in her own right. I would come to learn that Lily Adams is every bit as funny, tough, and talented as her grandmother, with the same extraordinary gift for communicating a message that packs a punch.
Now more than ever, we could use Ann’s moral compass, her guts, and her boundless empathy. But if she were here, I know just what she’d tell us: Open up every door that is blocked, remember where you came from, and don’t ever forget that others want to come along with you. She would tell you that not only can you break that barrier or reach that glass ceiling—you have to. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. You just had to get up, get going, and believe in yourself.
Geraldine Ferraro
Hillary
On July 19, 1984, Geraldine Ferraro stepped up to the microphone at the Democratic National Convention and made history. She couldn’t get a word out for eight minutes—the crowd wouldn’t stop cheering. I was one of thousands of women on the floor of the Moscone Center in San Francisco that night. I beamed and clapped until my hands ached. Later I would explain to four-year-old Chelsea that Geraldine Ferraro was a congresswoman, she was a mom, and she had just been nominated to become vice president of the United States.
To the millions of women who saw their futures open up that night, Geraldine Ferraro was a pioneer. To the press who covered her 1984 campaign, she was a fresh face, an upstart, a surprise. To at least one old-school politician, she was “young lady”—even though she was a three-term congresswoman. But to herself, she was always “a housewife from Queens.” It was a title that captured so many things she loved: her family, her community, New York City. And to her friends—of which she seemed to have thousands—she was simply, wonderfully, Gerry. When she made her electrifying debut in San Francisco, she told women everywhere, “If we can do this, we can do anything.”
She traveled thousands of miles on the campaign trail, speaking to huge crowds full of parents with daughters on their shoulders. When she came through Little Rock, I brought Chelsea to meet her. The photo I have of the four of us—Gerry, Bill, Chelsea, and me—is something we cherish. To the women of my generation, Gerry meant so much for us and our futures—but even more for our daughters and theirs.
Gerry became famous for one thing—one great thing. But her campaign for vice president was only four months of a life that encompassed so much more. Gerry was a teacher; a prosecutor; an advocate for women, children, and the elderly; a Harvard fellow; a wife, mother, aunt, and grandmother. And to all her many friends, she was our best friend. She was down-to-earth, personal, and ferociously loyal to the people she loved. When Gerry had your back, you knew you were covered. Maybe it’s because she grew up with a mother who always had her back—a mother who would say about their family name: “Ferro means iron. You can bend it, but you can’t break it. Go on.”
“Some leaders are born women.”
—GERALDINE FERRARO
Gerry and I were often linked together in articles about women in politics. She is seen, correctly, as someone who paved the way for my career and the careers of so many women in Washington and statehouses across the country. At the end of my 2008 presidential campaign, I spoke about eighteen million cracks in the glass ceiling; she’d put one of the biggest chips in it twenty-four years earlier.
Still, parts of her legacy go unnoticed, such as her work on human rights. When Bill named her to lead the American delegation to the UN Commission on Human Rights, Gerry pushed to ensure that women’s rights were viewed as human rights, as they should be. We were both in Beijing in 1995 for the Fourth World Conference on Women, where she raised hot-button issues, including violence against women in wartime. I couldn’t help but think how fitting it was that she was born on Women’s Equality Day—the anniversary of the passage of the Nineteenth Amendment, which enfranchised women across America (though in practice it only reliably applied to white women).
Something else was clear in Beijing: Gerry had a gift for making a global issue personal. When the conference took up the question of how to define a family, there were some who argued there was only one kind of family: a mother, a father, and their children. Gerry got out of her seat, pulled out a family photo from her pocketbook, and walked from table to table, waving a picture of herself, her widowed mother, and her brother. “Are you telling me that we were not a family?” she said. Gerry knew how to make a point.
When she was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, the doctors told her she could expect to live no more than three to five years. She lived for another twelve. And she handled the challenge of battling cancer like she did everything else. She could have said, “I’ve done quite a bit in my life. I’ve helped many people, I’ve served my country. I’m going to take it easy now.” No one would have begrudged her that. Instead, she became a fierce advocate for people living with cancer. She was interviewed on the Today show at her doctor’s office. She also went down to Washington and testified before the Senate.
I remember that day well. She was eloquent, courageous, funny, and so personal. She said, “I’m a lucky woman. I have great doctors, an early diagnosis, and… a family that is always there to boost me up.” But what bothered her, she said, was that the treatment available to her wasn’t available to every person in this country with cancer—and it should be. In 2001, the Hematological Cancer Research Investment and Education Act was passed. That was pure Gerry: turning her illness into another chance to help others, and showing that iron spirit—the “ferro” in Ferraro.
“If we can do this, we can do anything,” Gerry said all those years ago. When the day comes when a woman is elected president or vice president of the United States—and that day will come—we will know that she helped make it possible. And we will say, “Gerry, we did this—we can do anything—thanks to you.”
Barbara Jordan
Hillary
In early 1974, I was living in Cambridge, Massachusetts, working for Marian Wright Edelman at the Children’s Defense Fund, and Bill was teaching at the University of Arkansas School of Law. I was visiting him in Fayetteville when he received a phone call from John Doar. Doar was an old-fashioned Republican lawyer who had worked for Bobby Kennedy in the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department; he had been tasked with leading the impeachment inquiry staff of the House Judiciary Committee, investigating President Richard Nixon. He was calling that day to ask if Bill wanted to join him.
Bill declined—he was exploring getting into politics and wanted to stay in Arkansas—but asked who else Doar planned to call. He said Bill’s name was at the top of his list, along with three other Yale classmates, including Hillary Rodham. Bill said he thought the others on the list might be available; Doar said he would call me next. I accepted the offer to move to Washington and join the staff as one of the junior lawyers. Doar was devoted to the Constitution and the rule of law, and he demanded the same from all of us who worked for him. He was also adamant that the serious work entrusted to us had to be pursued based solely on the facts—not conjecture, conspiracy theories, or partisanship. I felt privileged to work for him and the other experienced lead lawyers he attracted.
It was a profound moment in American history, and there was no more effective, eloquent inquisitor than Barbara Jordan, a congresswoman from Texas who served on the Judiciary Committee. As a twenty-six-year-old fresh out of law school, I was riveted by her and more than a little intimidated. I got to talk with her, which was thrilling. I got to hand her papers, which w
as equally exciting. But mostly, I got to watch and listen to this unstoppable woman.
Born in Houston in 1936, Barbara was a lawyer, educator, Democratic politician, and civil rights leader. She was also a collector of “firsts”: the first black person elected to the Texas Senate since Reconstruction; the first southern black woman elected to the United States House, in 1972; and the first black person and woman to deliver a keynote address at a Democratic National Convention, in 1976. She defended and continued the civil rights legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and her friend and mentor President Lyndon Johnson. In particular, she was a staunch advocate for the Voting Rights Act, which had helped make it possible for her to be elected. In the face of fierce opposition, Barbara led the fight to extend the special protections of the Voting Rights Act to Hispanic Americans, Native Americans, and Asian Americans. I had first heard about her when she was running in 1972, while I was in Texas registering voters for the DNC and George McGovern’s presidential campaign.
Because she was on the Judiciary Committee, I read up on her and the other members, like the new young member Elizabeth Holtzman from New York. I was asked to appear before them with John Doar and Joe Woods, the lawyer I was working under to research the meaning of “high crimes and misdemeanors” in the Constitution’s reference to impeachment and the procedural rules to be followed. (I know, you can’t make up my life! Years later, I reread the memo I had helped write and still agreed with its analysis.)
Even though Barbara had recently arrived in Congress, she stood out, not only because she was a black woman. From the moment I saw her sitting at the table during the hearing I attended, she seemed larger than life. The word “presence” to describe someone can be overused, but she sure had it.
The Book of Gutsy Women Page 32
