Senator Chris McDaniel

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Senator Chris McDaniel The personal FB page of Senator Chris McDaniel (R-MS).
Taft, Goldwater & Reagan conservative. Art. Reading. I love my mom.

Put Mississippi values first, not join the DC club. Will defend the 2nd Amendment and civil liberties. Decrease taxes and make government small.

I am a former federal law clerk, an attorney, conservative commentator, and was lead counsel for the State of Mississippi in seeking to declare Obamacare unconstitutional. The political philosophy to which I adhere represents traditional conservative thought – a fusion of Judeo-Christian principles, free enterprise, limited government, fiscal responsibility, free-market policies, reduced tax rates, morality in government, strong national defense, federalism, and constitutional checks and balances. Steeped in the heritage of Western civilization, it represents a consensus of reason operating within tradition, and it recognizes its origin as the 1787 Constitutional Convention. It fights for our capacity for self-government and will never abandon the ideas of the American Revolution, refusing to confess that a little intellectual elite in a far-distant capital can plan our lives for us better than we can plan them ourselves. The American Constitution has set down for all men to see the essentially Christian and American principle that there are certain rights held by every man which no government and no majority, however powerful, can deny. I am also a partner in a law firm and licensed to practice law in Texas and Mississippi, litigating cases throughout the United States. I'm a longsuffering Chicago Cubs fan. When I'm not watching the Cubs break my heart, I return to my old love, the Boston Red Sox (American league, remember?). I also enjoy basketball (Celtics) and Hockey (Bruins) (Blackhawks). And please don't hold this against me, but I think Roger Staubach is the greatest QB ever (go Cowboys!). I still want Tom Landry back as coach. For my hobbies, I love music (all of it). My favorite snack is Peanut M&M's. I've also never turned down a chocolate chip cookie. I read everything (even if I disagree), and I'm open to changing my mind if the argument is sound. My family. And I miss my dad. Every day.

10/15/2026

Please join me in praying for the children at Silver Rail Elementary School in Bend, Oregon. Pray for the teachers trying to protect them, the parents waiting desperately for word, and the officers and first responders rushing to help.

We don’t yet know the full story, but somewhere tonight, mothers and fathers just want to hold their babies.

Lord, protect those children. Bring them safely home.

10/15/2026

Susan Dell stood next to her husband to talk about helping American children, and people on the internet decided to talk about her face. You could spend a long afternoon trying to explain what’s gone wrong with us and never get much closer than that.

Michael and Susan Dell pledged $6.25 billion to help fund investment accounts for 25 million children. Whatever anybody thinks of the administration associated with the program, that’s an extraordinary commitment. Somewhere down the road, a child who knows nothing of the Dells may have a little something to build on because of it. You’d think that might hold our attention for a minute.

But somebody had found a photograph, and there was a woman’s appearance to discuss. Out came the comparisons and the speculation about cosmetic procedures, offered by strangers who’d apparently learned medicine during the same lunch break in which they’d forgotten their manners. Before long, the money and the children had wandered out of the conversation altogether.

I don’t know Susan Dell. I don’t know what procedures she’s had, if any, and I can’t imagine why she owes me an explanation. A woman ought to be able to stand before a camera and speak about something she believes in without having to submit her face for everybody’s approval. That shouldn’t be a difficult proposition for grown people to grasp.

In the towns so many of us came from, there were people who could cut you to pieces before the coffee got cold. Some had fine reputations and occupied the same respectable pew every Sunday. I wouldn’t pretend we’ve invented meanness, or that the old days were innocent of it. But there was usually somebody within earshot who’d tell you when you’d gone too far. And if your mother wasn’t there, you could still hear her. You knew the look she’d give you across the supper table, and you knew better than to explain that everybody else was laughing.

Now the laughter itself travels farther than the correction ever could. A stranger posts a photograph, somebody supplies an insult, and people come drifting over to see whether they can think of something worse. By midafternoon, a woman they’ve never met has become their entertainment. They can carry it on from the office, the grocery line, and the comfortable chair where they’ll later sit and wonder why children don’t have any respect anymore.

Sooner or later, somebody will defend the whole business as honesty. We’ve all known that fellow, the one who says something ugly and then waits to be admired for saying it. He’s generally less interested in the truth than in getting away with whatever crossed his mind. There’s precious little courage in ridiculing a woman from behind a keyboard when you’ve already made certain the crowd’s on your side.

And yes, Susan Dell is wealthy. I expect she’s spared a great many worries that keep other people awake at night. That doesn’t mean she can’t be hurt, or that the rest of us have been excused from behaving ourselves. I’ve never understood the notion that a person’s humanity dwindles as her bank account grows. A larger house doesn’t make humiliation feel like a compliment.

She shouldn’t have to give away a dollar to deserve that consideration. The woman working the checkout counter deserves it, too, along with the grandmother waiting for her prescription and the tired mother who’d rather you didn’t take her picture today. Most of us have somebody we love who’s grown uneasy in front of a camera. We know how tender that feeling can be when it belongs to someone in our own family. Surely we can carry a little of that understanding out into the world.

The politics of the occasion don’t change any of this. If you object to Trump Accounts, make your case. Look at how the program’s arranged, where the money goes, and what it’s likely to accomplish. There’s plenty there for serious people to discuss. But if a woman standing beside a president you dislike leaves you hunting through photographs for an unflattering angle, you’ve wandered a considerable distance from a political argument.

I’ve grown tired of the peculiar pleasure people take in finding somebody to diminish. There’s an easy companionship in it, a way for strangers to feel acquainted without having to offer much of themselves. They agree that somebody else is ridiculous, and for a little while they belong to something. Then the crowd moves along, looking for another face, another embarrassment, another person whose bad afternoon might brighten their own.

Our children are watching all of it. Every sordid second. They hear us speak about kindness, then see what amuses us when we think we’re among friends.

Somewhere a young girl is learning how quickly adults will turn on a woman who steps into public view. She may remember that lesson long after she’s forgotten the woman’s name. I’d like her to remember, too, that a few people had the good sense to say it was ugly and ought to stop.

Susan Dell came to speak about children and their futures. She deserved to be heard on that subject, and the children deserved a little more of our attention than they got. Instead, we had another long afternoon of people saying things their mothers would’ve been ashamed to hear.

Her face wasn’t the thing that needed examining. Our manners were.

10/14/2026

At one point, I thought the trouble with American politics was that we were electing the wrong people. After two decades in politics, I’ve come to believe the trouble runs deeper. Too many people get elected and discover they like the life. They like being recognized when they walk into a restaurant. They like the invitations, the attention, the little accommodations that begin to seem, after a while, like things they’ve earned.

The political establishment of this country? Those folks who cherish titles above principle? Mentally weak boys and girls with big egos, that’s all they are.

And yet, there’s always somebody with a ticket for them. A ballgame. A good seat. A room where the drinks are poured and nobody has to reach for his wallet. The lobbyist remembers a birthday. The donor knows a fellow who can arrange something. None of it has to look particularly sinister. Much of it looks like friendship, which is part of what makes it so easy to get comfortable.

And somewhere along the way, the promises made in a hot parking lot back home become less pressing than the people waiting at the next fundraiser.

I think about the Americans who pay for all this. The man sitting in his truck a few minutes before daylight, finishing his coffee before another day’s work. The woman at the kitchen table with the insurance bill laid beside her. The young couple who’ve done what they were told to do and still can’t quite see how they’ll afford a house. They aren’t asking for front-row seats. They’d like to buy groceries without worrying about what’s left in the checking account.

They hear their leaders talking about the country, but they have a hard time recognizing their own lives in the conversation.

There are real differences between the parties. I’ve spent too much of my life fighting over those differences to pretend otherwise. Among people who believe what they say, the disagreements go all the way down to the nature of freedom and the proper limits of government. Those arguments matter. Our children will live with their consequences.

But the political class has considerably more in common than its members care to admit. Whatever their differences, they’ve learned to live comfortably within the same arrangements. They know the same corridors, understand the same favors, and appreciate the same privileges. The status quo that’s wearing out so many American families has been exceedingly kind to them. It brings money, access, invitations, and opportunities that somehow remain available long after the public service has ended.

You can understand why they’re so reluctant to disturb it.

Back home, regular folks are fighting themselves into a frenzy. A man gets home tired, opens his phone, and spends what’s left of his evening trading insults with somebody whose bills look a good deal like his own. Old friends quit speaking. Families learn which subjects to avoid at supper. People who’ve never met come to despise one another with an intimacy that would’ve been hard to imagine before we started carrying all this bitterness around in our pockets.

Meanwhile, the people they’re defending have gone to dinner together.

I don’t believe every argument is a performance. Some of the stakes are terribly real. But don’t kid yourselves. Most of it is just acting on a grand stage. So there’s something wrong when ordinary Americans carry the anger home while the men who stirred it up remain perfectly comfortable in one another’s company. The voter loses a friend. The politician gains another contribution.

And a great many of those politicians seem far more alarmed by a threat to their arrangements than by the hardships those arrangements impose on everybody else.

I’ve watched how easily principle gives way when somebody’s comfort is at stake. A man who’ll thunder against the establishment before a friendly crowd can become remarkably understanding when an important donor calls. He knows every reason a promise couldn’t be kept. He can explain the timing, the votes, the complications. By the time he finishes, you almost feel unreasonable for remembering what he said.

Meanwhile, the fundraiser goes on as scheduled.

What wears on me is the ease of it all. The country can grow poorer, angrier, less free, and the people entrusted with its care can still have a wonderful evening. There’ll be another reception next week. Somebody will introduce them with a generous account of their service. They’ll stand for a photograph, straighten a jacket, and smile.

Back home, somebody’s deciding which bill can wait until Friday.

We’ve allowed so much of our public life to become entertainment that we scarcely know what seriousness looks like anymore. We follow the insult, the photograph, the performance. A politician learns that he can keep our attention without ever giving a straight account of what he’s done with our trust. He can spend years in office, leave us with less liberty than we had when he arrived, and still expect applause because he knew when to wave the flag.

I don’t begrudge a man a ballgame. I do begrudge his forgetting the people who sent him there. I begrudge the easy fellowship of men who can argue on television all afternoon and spend the evening enjoying a life increasingly beyond the reach of the Americans watching them.

There ought to be something about public office that keeps a man a little uneasy. The knowledge that somebody trusted him. That somebody who couldn’t get a call returned, couldn’t buy a table at the dinner, couldn’t do a damned thing for his career, was depending on him to keep his word.

I wonder how often that person crosses their minds when the lights come up, and they settle into those wonderful seats.

10/13/2026

Barack Obama has officially endorsed Scott Colom in Mississippi’s U.S. Senate race. On behalf of the GOP, we’d like to thank him for almost single-handedly securing a huge Republican victory on November 3.

We couldn’t have done it without you, Mr. President.

10/13/2026

Columbus Day came and went, and I found myself thinking about the schoolroom maps we used to study. There was an ocean between the world Columbus knew and the place his ships would carry him. A child could follow the voyage with a finger, safe at a desk, without much understanding of what it must’ve meant to keep sailing when home had disappeared behind you.

We understood courage, though. Or we were beginning to. The story gave us something to admire, and esteem was still considered a useful thing to cultivate in the young.

I hope it will be again.

Columbus sought a westward passage to Asia. His voyages helped set in motion the permanent encounter between Europe and the Americas, with consequences that reached far beyond anything he could’ve imagined. Whatever judgment we make of the man, the magnitude of that achievement remains. It deserves a place in our memory and a day on our calendar.

Yet we’ve developed an unusual reluctance to honor anything we’ve inherited. There’s always somebody standing nearby with a list of charges, prepared to explain why an old name must come down, and another familiar observance must be surrendered. After a while, the argument begins to sound less like an examination of history than a demand that we cease to love it.

I don’t intend to oblige. Never will.

Before we go any further, we ought to put aside the fable of a peaceful hemisphere into which Europeans introduced suffering. The Americas had warfare, conquest, and enslavement before Columbus arrived. Some societies practiced human sacrifice. Here in the country of the great Mississippian mound builders, archaeological accounts describe burials accompanied by sacrificed slaves or servants. Cruelty didn’t have to cross the Atlantic to find a home.

The peoples who lived here had their own histories, their own achievements, and their own human failings. They deserve to be understood as people who made decisions and formed their world. Turning them into innocent figures in a paradise beyond history may serve a modern political argument, but it does little justice to the complexity of their lives.

Columbus’s conduct belongs in the record, too, including his participation in enslavement. We can acknowledge that without assigning him responsibility for every misery that followed his voyage, or pretending that oppression was a European invention. An honest account ought to be able to distinguish what a man did from what later generations did after him.

But honest distinctions require patience, and patience is scarce among people determined to prosecute an entire civilization. They’ve reached their verdict before the hearing begins. Columbus is useful to them because his name stands near the beginning of the story they want Americans to disown.

I believe some of those engaged in this campaign want Western civilization weakened at its foundations. They understand that a people’s attachment to its past can sustain its confidence in the present. Make that attachment shameful, and much of the work of destruction has already been done.

You don’t have to burn every book or pull down every building. You can teach the children who’ll inherit them that there’s nothing inside worth keeping.

Here in the South, we ought to know better. We’ve lived long enough with memory to know its burdens and its consolations. An old homeplace may hold recollections that trouble us, but it can also hold the evidence of someone’s labor, the shelter somebody provided, the place where a family endured its lean years. We don’t have to invent a faultless grandfather to be grateful that he planted the trees whose shade we enjoy.

I think about our civilization in much the same way. We’ve received a vast inheritance, much of it so familiar that we scarcely notice it until somebody threatens to take it away. The freedom to worship. The expectation that power should answer to law. The books that enlarged our knowledge. The habits of inquiry that taught us to question what we’d been told. These things grew through centuries of struggle, and their survival still requires our care.

There’s work to do within that inheritance. There always has been. But I distrust the man who approaches everything his ancestors left him with a sneer, then assures us he’s uniquely qualified to build a better world. I’d like to know what he’s prepared to preserve, and whether gratitude has any place in his plans.

For my part, I want our children to have something more substantial than a catalog of accusations. Let them learn the difficult history. Give them the facts, including the ones that unsettle us. Then give them room to recognize courage, achievement, and greatness when they find them.

Columbus still offers such a lesson. The uncertainty of his undertaking, his persistence in pursuing it, and the consequences of his voyage remain worthy of attention. We ought to be able to honor that achievement without submitting our affection for the past to an ideological licensing board.

The holiday will return next October. I hope there’ll be teachers willing to unfold a map and children willing to imagine those ships upon the water. I hope somebody will tell the story with honesty, but also with enough feeling to let them understand why it’s been remembered for so long.

And when the day comes, I’ll celebrate it. I’ve no intention of helping those who’d leave our children, strangers to their own inheritance.

10/12/2026

Somewhere tonight, a man will sit at his kitchen table after the rest of the house has gone quiet. He’ll have a few envelopes in front of him, a phone with a cracked screen, and a pencil he keeps having to sharpen. His truck needs tires. The power bill’s higher than he expected. There’s something his child needs for school, and he’s already put it off once.

He’ll look over the numbers again, though they haven’t changed since supper. Then he’ll turn off the light and go to bed. He has to be at work early.

I think about that man more than I used to.

Around here in Mississippi, we’ve always known people like him. They’re the ones whose names you give somebody when a job needs doing. They’ll come help you move a refrigerator on a Saturday morning, though their own Saturday was spoken for. At church, they’ll quietly take care of something that everybody else assumed somebody had already taken care of. They don’t have much patience for speeches about responsibility. They’ve got too much of it waiting on them.

For years, they believed there was a reasonable bargain between themselves and the country they lived in. Work would be hard, and some years would be harder than others. Nobody promised them a fortune. But if they learned a trade, kept their word, and stayed at it, they ought to be able to raise a family without lying awake every night wondering how they’d manage.

That wasn’t an extravagant expectation. It was the sort of thing a father could tell his son without feeling he’d misled him.

Now I wonder how many fathers still feel sure enough to say it.

A quick glimpse on social media gives you some acquaintance with the distance between how a life looks and how it’s actually being lived. A person can have a respectable address, a steady job, and a shirt neatly pressed for an appointment, and still be frightened of what next month might bring. Pride will keep a man looking prosperous long after prosperity has left the premises.

Often, what wears people down is the feeling that they’re carrying their end of things while the people making decisions aren’t carrying theirs. Somebody wastes money, and the explanation comes wrapped in language so elaborate you can barely find the waste. Somebody breaks a promise, and you’re told you don’t appreciate the complications. There always seems to be a patient explanation for failure in high places.

At the kitchen table, the bill still has a due date.

I’ve been around politics long enough to know how readily a working family becomes a useful phrase. Put it in a speech, say it with the proper expression, and move along to the reception. The people being discussed are usually still at work. They won’t be at the reception, and nobody’s depending on them for a campaign check large enough to purchase an attentive hearing.

But when an election comes around, suddenly everybody remembers where they live.

They’re asked to vote, to give, to volunteer, and to understand why this year’s promises will have to wait until next year. They’re warned about the consequences of losing, which may be serious indeed. Still, after a while, a person starts wondering whether winning will ever relieve him of anything.

I don’t believe most of these people want to be relieved of their duties. They love their children. They take pride in their work. They’d be embarrassed to leave a neighbor stranded when they could help. Much of what burdens them is also what gives their lives meaning.

They’d just like to feel that their effort is respected by somebody with the power to make their lives a little less difficult.

There’s a danger in mistaking their patience for an inexhaustible supply. A man may tolerate a great deal because he has children to think about and no time to quarrel. He may keep going because going is what he knows how to do. That doesn’t mean he believes every explanation he’s been given. It doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed.

And when he stops believing, we ought to be careful about scolding him for it.

Tonight, he’ll set his alarm. In the morning, he’ll get up before daylight and make coffee, trying not to wake the house. He’ll go to work because people he loves are counting on him.

Before he leaves, he may glance at those envelopes still lying on the table.

He’s done what was asked of him. He’d like to know when that will be enough.

10/09/2026

I don’t quite know what to think about the Department of War’s plan to livestream an ex*****on. Even when a man’s earned the severest punishment, there’s something sobering about the government taking his life. I’m unsure about putting it on a screen for a country that’s learned to turn almost everything into entertainment.

Perhaps even worse, while I agree that his ex*****on sends an important message, are we unintentionally providing a terrorist with the fame he seeks, a public martyrdom for radical Islam to embrace?

It’s complicated.

Nidal Hasan was convicted of murdering thirteen people at Fort Hood. The Pentagon says his December ex*****on by firing squad will be livestreamed. The families of his victims have carried the consequences of his crimes for years, and their suffering deserves consideration in any discussion of his punishment.

But watching some of the outrage, I can’t help wondering where these delicate sensibilities have been hiding.

We’ve got people who glorify po*******hy, applaud vile lyrics, and defend almost any degradation somebody can package and sell. They’ll explain away cruelty as artistic creation and ridicule anyone who thinks a culture ought to exercise a little restraint. Raise an objection, and you’re liable to be dismissed as a prude who can’t keep up with the times.

Then something like this comes along, and suddenly they’ve found their manners. They’re concerned about decency. They’re worried about what children might see. They’d like the rest of us to understand that a civilized society must have standards.

I’d welcome that concern if I believed they intended to apply it consistently.

There’s something peculiar about glorifying po*******hy and then becoming exquisitely sensitive to the degradation of human beings. The industry turns the most intimate parts of life into merchandise. Yet some of its defenders treat even a modest objection as an offense against freedom, as though freedom relieves us of the obligation to consider what we’re encouraging.

The same indulgence extends to lyrics that revel in sexual humiliation and violence. Somebody records it, somebody markets it, and somebody assures us we’re too unsophisticated to appreciate it. Apparently, a little rhythm and a profitable distribution deal can make almost anything respectable.

A song isn’t an ex*****on. Neither is a movie. But people who spend so much energy defending the public celebration of cruelty ought to expect questions when they suddenly present themselves as guardians of our national conscience.

And then there’s Charlie Kirk.

After his assassination, some people went online to joke about his death and celebrate it. Reuters reviewed posts and confirmed examples of that behavior. A real man had been murdered, and they found pleasure in it.

There wasn’t any fiction involved. No actor got up when the director called the scene finished. There was a wife who’d lost her husband and children who’d lost their father.

Whatever those people thought of Kirk’s politics, his family’s grief should’ve imposed some restraint. Instead, his death became an occasion for jokes, applause, and the satisfaction of seeing an ideological enemy removed.

If any of those same people are now horrified by the prospect of a publicly broadcast ex*****on, they owe us an explanation. Their concern for human dignity seems to have arrived rather late.

I’m not asking everyone who objects to the livestream to answer for somebody else’s conduct. There are people whose objections come from sincere convictions, and they deserve a fair hearing. I’m talking about those who’ve celebrated death, glorified degradation, or excused it all when the politics suited them.

They don’t get to erase that record by adopting a solemn expression.

I’m still considering the livestream itself. I can believe a murderer deserves punishment and question whether broadcasting his death serves a worthy purpose. I don’t have to settle that question before recognizing hypocrisy in some of the people demanding an answer.

If they want a serious conversation about decency, let’s have one. Let’s discuss the po*******hy they glorify, the vile lyrics they applaud, and the actual murder some were willing to celebrate. Let’s ask what standards they believe in and what those standards require when their own crowd’s doing the cheering.

A conscience should occasionally cost us something. It should make us object when our friends would prefer our silence. It should make us remember a grieving family when everyone around us is enjoying the joke.

Finding your manners when there’s a political advantage in it is easy. Keeping them when hatred tempts you to throw them away is the measure of whether you had any in the first place.

10/07/2026

There are days when politics makes me sick. Lots of them. The practiced outrage, the convenient convictions, the promises that somehow expire the moment the election is over. After a while, the disappointment settles into something heavier. You begin to wonder how much longer decent people can be expected to participate in a system that seems so determined to wear them down.

I’m especially tired of the establishment of my own party. Too often, Republican leadership appears more attentive to donors and corporate interests than to the people whose votes put it in office. It campaigns on courage and governs with an endless explanation of why courage will have to wait.

We’re told we need another election, another majority, another chance. Meanwhile, the government we were promised would shrink remains enormous, and the people who were supposed to challenge Washington grow increasingly comfortable there. Somewhere along the way, preserving their place in the system becomes more important than changing it.

Conservatives have every right to be angry about that. We don’t owe politicians our affection, and we certainly don’t owe them our silence. A Republican label doesn’t make an excuse more convincing or a broken promise less consequential.

And yet, here we are. Another election is coming, and we have a choice to make.

In Mississippi, Cindy Hyde-Smith faces Democrat Scott Colom. In Texas, Ken Paxton faces James Talarico. The candidates and circumstances differ, but voters in both states must consider what their decisions will mean beyond election night. A Senate seat carries power over legislation, nominations, and the direction of the country.

My frustration with the Republican establishment hasn’t made the Democratic alternative more acceptable. I remain convinced that the left’s preference for expanding federal power takes us farther from the constitutional government we need. I oppose socialism because I believe people should have greater control over their earnings, their property, and their futures. Moving more of those decisions to Washington won’t cure a political system already too insulated from the people.

Nor will I compromise on religious liberty or the duty to confront violent extremism. Radical Islam, understood as a political ideology that would impose its authority through coercion, is incompatible with a free society. Every party should be willing to say so plainly while protecting the freedom of peaceful Americans of every faith.

Those convictions don’t disappear because many Republican politicians disappoint me. If anything, their failures make the responsibility of choosing carefully more painful.

I understand the temptation to walk away. There’s a certain satisfaction in refusing to reward people who’ve taken your support for granted. But an election’s consequences reach beyond the politicians we want to punish. Our children will live with those consequences, too, and they deserve more consideration than the temporary relief of expressing our anger.

People call this choosing the lesser of two evils. I understand the expression, although I’m judging political choices, not claiming to know the souls of the people running. What matters is that imperfect alternatives can carry profoundly different risks and outcomes.

And to those who say a third party deserves our vote, I understand the frustration that brings you there. But a party has to do the work of becoming a viable alternative. It needs organization, credible candidates, sustained public support, and a realistic path to winning. That work takes years of effort between elections. It can’t be replaced by an appeal to conscience a few weeks before the votes are counted.

Until that foundation exists, we have to reckon honestly with what a protest vote may accomplish. In a close race, drawing votes away from the candidate closest to our principles can help elect the candidate farthest from them. We may intend to register our rebellion against the establishment and end up strengthening the very opposition we believe would do greater harm. Anyone asking for our votes ought to explain how those votes can produce a victory. The consequences of losing will remain long after the satisfaction of making a statement has passed.

For that reason, I believe we should hold the line and vote Republican in these Senate races. I reach that conclusion with my eyes open and with no intention of withdrawing my criticism of the party.

But holding the line must accomplish something. If every election merely buys the establishment another season of complacency, conservatives will eventually have nothing left to defend except a party’s possession of office. That’s an awfully small ambition for people who claim to believe in liberty.

The work of reform must continue immediately. Recruit better candidates. Challenge incumbents when they abandon their commitments. Follow their votes after the campaign signs come down. Demand that they explain whose interests their decisions serve. Build a party in which keeping a promise matters more than maintaining access to the people writing the checks.

We can make a necessary electoral choice and still insist on a better Republican Party. Indeed, we have to do both.

I’m tired of the games. I’m tired of watching conviction become negotiable once power is secured. But I still love this country more than I resent the politicians who’ve disappointed it.

So I’ll hold the line a while longer. And I’ll keep demanding something worthy of the people being asked to hold it.

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