George Bush - Decision Points

I turned to Laura and said, “I have a suggestion. I might run for governor.” She looked at me like I was crazy. “Are you joking?” she asked. I told her I was serious. “But we have such a great life,” she said. “You’re right,” I replied. We were very comfortable in Dallas. I loved my job with the Rangers. Our girls were thriving. Yet I had the political bug again, and we both knew it.

When I brought up the governor’s race, I always heard the same thing: “Ann Richards sure is popular.” I asked some of Dad’s former political strategists for advice. They politely suggested that I wait a few years. When I made up my mind that I was running, Mother’s response was to the point: “George,” she said, “you can’t win.”

The good news was that the Republican field was wide open. Nobody wanted to challenge Richards, so I could immediately turn my attention to the general election. I took a methodical approach, laying out a specific, optimistic vision for the state. I focused on four policy issues: education, juvenile justice, welfare reform, and tort reform.

We assembled a skilled and able campaign team.**** I made two particularly important hires. First was Joe Allbaugh, an imposing six-foot-four man with a flattop and the bearing of a drill sergeant, who had served as chief of staff to Oklahoma Governor Henry Bellmon. I brought Joe in to run the campaign, and he did a superb job of managing the organization.

We also hired a new communications director, Karen Hughes. I had first met Karen at the state party convention in 1990. “I will be briefing you on your duties,” she said crisply. She then delivered my marching orders. There was no doubt this woman was in charge. When she told me her father was a two-star general, it made perfect sense.

With Karen Hughes, my indispensable counselor from Texas. Wite House/Paul Morse

I stayed in touch with Karen after the convention. She had a warm, outgoing personality and a great laugh. As a former TV correspondent, she knew the media and how to turn a phrase. It was a good sign when she came to hear my announcement speech in the fall of 1993. She was easy to spot because her son Robert was sitting on her shoulders. Karen was my kind of person—one who put family first. The day she signed on with the campaign was one of the best of my political career.

As my campaign started to generate excitement, the national news media got interested. Reporters knew my hothead reputation, and there was a running discussion about when I would finally explode. Ann Richards did her best to set me off. She called me “some jerk” and “shrub,” but I refused to spark. Most people failed to understand that there was a big difference between Dad’s campaigns and mine. As the son of the candidate, I would get emotional and defend George Bush at all costs. As the candidate myself, I understood that I had to be measured and disciplined. Voters don’t want a leader who flails in anger and coarsens the tone of the debate. The best rebuttal to the barbs was to win the election.

In mid-October, Ann Richards and I met for our one televised debate. I had studied the briefing books and practiced during mock debates. A week before the big night, I imposed an advice blackout. I had witnessed some of Dad’s debate preps. I knew the candidate could easily get overwhelmed with last-minute suggestions. My favorite old chestnut was “Just be yourself.” No kidding. I ordered that all debate advice be filtered through Karen. If she thought it was essential, she would pass it on. Otherwise, I was keeping my mind clear and focused.

On debate night, Karen and I were in the elevator when Ann Richards entered. I shook her hand and said, “Good luck, Governor.” In her toughest growl, she said, “This is going to be rough on you, boy.”

It was the classic head game. But its effect was opposite to what she intended. If the governor was trying to scare me, I figured she must feel insecure. I gave her a big smile, and the debate went fine. I had seen enough politics to know you can’t really win a debate. You can only lose by saying something stupid or looking tired or nervous. In this case, I was neither tired nor nervous. I made my case confidently and avoided any major gaffes.

As usual, the final weeks brought some surprises. Ross Perot weighed in on the race, endorsing Ann Richards. It didn’t bother me. I’ve always thought that endorsements in politics are overrated. They rarely help, and sometimes they hurt. I told a reporter, “She can have Ross Perot. I’ll take Nolan Ryan and Barbara Bush.” I didn’t add that Mother still didn’t think I could win.

When the results came in on election night, I was elated. We had pulled off what the Dallas Morning News called “once unthinkable.” The New York Times deemed it “a stunning upset.” Dad called me at the Austin Marriott, where my supporters had congregated. “Congratulations, George, on a great win,” he said, “but it looks like Jeb is going to lose.”

I felt bad for my brother, who had worked so hard and deserved to win. But nothing could dim the thrill I felt as I went to the Marriott ballroom to deliver my victory speech.

Inauguration Day was January 17, 1995. As I was getting ready in the hotel room before the ceremony, Mother handed me an envelope. It contained a pair of cufflinks and a letter from Dad: Dear George,These cufflinks are my most treasured possession. They were given to me by Mum and Dad on June 9, that day in 1943 when I got my Navy wings at Corpus Christi. I want you to have them now; for, in a sense, though you won your Air Force wings flying those jets, you are again “getting your wings” as you take the oath of office as our Governor.

He wrote about how proud he was, and how I could always count on his and Mother’s love. He concluded: You have given us more than we ever could have deserved. You have sacrificed for us. You have given us your unwavering loyalty and devotion. Now it is our turn.

Mother helping me put on the cufflinks from Dad. Dallas Morning News/David Woo

Dad is not the kind of guy who would say something like that in person. The handwritten note was his style, and his words meant a lot. That morning I felt a powerful connection to the family tradition of service that I was now continuing in my own way.

As governor, I didn’t need time to plan my agenda. I had spent the last year telling everyone exactly what I wanted to accomplish. I have always believed that a campaign platform is not just something you use to get elected. It is a blueprint for what you do in office.

I had another reason to move fast. In Texas, the legislature meets only 140 days of every two years. My goal was to get all four of my policy initiatives through both houses in the first session.

To make that happen, I needed good relations with the legislature. That started with the lieutenant governor, who serves as president of the state senate, seats committees, and decides on the flow of bills. The lieutenant governor is elected separately from the governor, meaning it is possible for the two top officials to be from opposite parties—as Lieutenant Governor Bob Bullock and I were.