My partner and I moved to Austin from New York in the summer of 2020, when the US was in the throes of what felt like the highest-stakes election of our lifetime. As a freelance reporter for the Guardian, I wrote about voting rights and how Texas's byzantine laws disproportionately disenfranchised Black, Latino and young voters, even as I - a Latina in my mid-20s - was registering to vote.
As experts walked me through Texas's complex web of voting restrictions for articles, I simultaneously took note of exactly what I needed to do to participate in the upcoming election. I had to be registered roughly a month before election day. Texas had no real online registration, so I would need to send my application through the US Postal Service. Well before the early October deadline, I carefully filled out and posted my voter application. Then, I waited.
For weeks, my name never popped up on Texas's searchable database of registered voters, but when I grew worried and contacted my local election office, they assured me I was good to go. I was surprised when, well after the registration deadline for the general election had passed, I received an intimidating notice signed by my county's voter registrar saying my application had been marked incomplete because of some nebulous problem with my social security number. Distraught, I called different election authorities in Austin until someone finally told me to disregard the letter, which they said had been sent by mistake.
I felt anxious. Part of me already expected more issues even before I went to the polls and a worker flagged my registration. She told me I could vote provisionally, but I wanted to be certain my vote would count, so my partner and I drove around town until we secured a printed document that irrefutably proved I was registered. Finally, after months of wading through antiquated voter registration requirements, weeks of stressful troubleshooting, and hours running around Austin, I cast my ballot.
My privilege - a car, a flexible work schedule, knowledge of Texas voting laws - made it so that I could wedge my way into the democratic process. But I wondered how many other people had faced similar obstacles without the luxury to keep fighting. I also wondered why my white male partner's experience voting in Texas for the first time had been so seamless and mine so fraught. I do not doubt that the chronic inefficiencies of the state's electoral system may be reason enough to explain those discrepancies. But after months poring over the state's history of racialized voter suppression, I could not dismiss a sneaking suspicion that on our application forms, the harsh, Anglo-European consonants of his surname may have attracted less scrutiny than the Spanish rolling "Rs" and soft double "Ls" in mine.
The state has successfully bullied millions of other eligible voters into silence
Nearly two years later, I will probably never get the satisfaction of definitive answers. What I do know is that there is no other state in the country where it's harder to cast a ballot than in Texas, and that even in 2020 - when Texans visited the polls in record numbers - we still ranked seventh lowest for voter turnout nationwide. Anyone who assumes that this lack of participation reflects a larger ambivalence among Texans commits a grave injustice; I have personally witnessed legions of us standing in hours-long lines to vote on local propositions, or marching 27 miles across central Texas in the summer heat to protest voter suppression. But because having a say here requires these herculean sacrifices of time and energy, the state has successfully bullied millions of other eligible voters into silence through lost absentee ballot applications, rejected signatures, poorly informed poll workers and any number of other hurdles inherent to the system's design.
The end result is a toxic reality where Texas politics are so far afield of the political will of most Texans that it's hard to consider the state a democracy. A comfortable majority of registered voters in Texas oppose banning all abortions, yet that is effectively what state politicians have done in the aftermath of the supreme court's decision to overturn Roe v Wade. Polling shows overwhelming support from both Texas Democrats and Republicans for common sense gun safety measures such as universal background checks and red flag laws (a whopping 59% of Texans even want a nationwide ban on semi-automatic weapons), yet counterintuitively, state lawmakers have continually passed legislation making it easier to have a gun on hand, without training or a permit.
If anything, Texas politics are trending further to the far right - and farther away from us, the people. Last month, the Republican party of Texas boggled the nation with its platform, where members called for a change to the 14th amendment that would end birthright citizenship for the children of immigrants, likened being gay to "an abnormal lifestyle choice" and opposed "all efforts to validate transgender identity". Also on the platform, Republicans rejected the 2020 presidential election results as illegitimate, embraced a slew of voting restrictions, and advocated for repealing the 1965 Voting Rights Act, legislation that protects voters of color.
In fact, Texas has long been infamous for disenfranchising its own people, so much so that for decades it was one of only nine states in their entirety - most of them former members of the Confederacy - required by the federal government to receive administrative or judicial preclearance before implementing any voting changes. Texas's membership in this less than illustrious club of voter suppression states is thanks to the pioneering actions of former representative Barbara Jordan, Houston's native daughter and the first Black congresswoman to represent the deep south, who in the 1970s advocated for expanding the 1965 Voting Rights Act to protect Latino and Black voters from not only racist but also linguistic discrimination.
With Jordan's institution of preclearance came an era of forced détente for Texas's war against its people. But even with the attorney general and DC's district court acting as watchdogs, the state's Republican majority continued to advocate for racial gerrymandering and provisions tainted by discrimination. Then, in 2013, the supreme court's decision in Shelby county v Holder effectively struck down preclearance across the country, allowing newly emboldened Texas politicians to declare open season on their disfavored constituents through legislation such as voter identification laws that honor handgun licenses but not student IDs.
Even after Texas's population ballooned by more than 8 million residents in the last two decades, and even though 91% of that growth was attributable to people of color, the state's ruling party has done everything in its control to shore up white electoral power. Last year, Texas lawmakers agreed upon political maps that discriminate against Latino and Black voters to dilute their influence, rig elections for Republican incumbents and redraw districts that were becoming competitive so that Trump enthusiasts now have the upper hand. These gerrymandered maps so clearly disadvantage Texas's majority-minority population that the US Department of Justice has sued, claiming Texas lawmakers have "refused to recognize the state's growing minority electorate".
Meanwhile, Texas's Republican leadership has also capitalized on the "big lie", a conspiracy theory of mass voter fraud during the 2020 presidential election, to enact even more voting restrictions based on specious talking points around "election integrity". Amid this latest assault on voting rights, belligerently advanced during both regular and special sessions of the Texas legislature last year, I walked the halls of my state capitol wondering how much harder it could get to cast a ballot here. Young Texans drove across the state and pulled all-nighters so they could join public testimony decrying the unconscionable damage further barriers to the polls would do. But Texas's representatives refused to listen and instead deployed shifty procedural moves and behind-closed-door dealings to bypass public scrutiny.
Even after democratic lawmakers made the bold decision to break quorum and derail last year's voting legislation, Republicans eventually bulldozed over them to pass a new flurry of restrictions around voting hours, drive-thru voting and mail-in voting - innovations famously used by left-leaning Texas counties to more safely promote participation in the last presidential election, amid a global pandemic. With those new restrictions in effect during this year's primaries, an Associated Press analysis revealed that more than one in eight mail-in ballots across 187 Texas counties were categorically rejected, a bleak referendum on Texas's state of democracy.
Every two to four years, national publications and pundits have made a tradition out of speculating whether this will finally be the election when Texas turns blue, or at least purple. Their perennial questions will undoubtedly re-emerge this general election, with Beto O'Rourke at the top of the Democratic ticket and with so many fundamental rights at stake.
But what these buzzy analyses so often miss is the lack of agency Texans feel in regard to our own political future. We desperately want a voice in what happens to us, so much so that we willingly sacrifice sleep to testify, wear down our soles marching, and drive around town scrambling for paperwork to finally prove our equal citizenship. But as we nervously approach the front of the line at the polls, we feel a different, more visceral question tugging at our hearts and minds:
Will our state even let us vote?