didn’t take him too seriously; Bullock was always trying to provoke. But his comment inspired an interesting thought. Ten years earlier, I had been celebrating my fortieth birthday drunk at The Broadmoor. Now I was being toasted on the lawn of the Texas Governor’s Mansion as the next president. This had been quite a decade.
Meanwhile, there was an actual presidential campaign going on. The Republican Party had nominated Senator Bob Dole , a World War II hero who had built a distinguished legislative record. I admired Senator Dole. I thought he would make a good president, and I campaigned hard for him in Texas. But I worried that our party had not recognized the generational politics lesson of 1992: Once voters had elected a president from the Baby Boomer generation, they were not likely to reach back. Sure enough, Senator Dole carried Texas, but President Clinton won reelection.
I went into 1998 feeling confident about my record. I had delivered on each of the four priorities I had laid out in my first gubernatorial campaign. We had also passed the largest tax cut in the history of Texas and made it easier for children in foster care to be adopted by loving families. Many of these laws were sponsored and supported by Democrats. I was honored when Bob Bullock , who had supported Democratic candidates for almost a half century, publicly endorsed my reelection. I was also a little surprised. Bullock was the godfather of one of my opponent’s children.
I was determined not to take anything for granted, and I campaigned hard. On election night, I received more than 68 percent of the vote, including 49 percent of Hispanics, 27 percent of African Americans, and 70 percent of independents. I was the first Texas governor elected to consecutive four-year terms.
I also had my eye on another race that night. Jeb became governor of Florida by a convincing margin. I went to his inauguration in January1999, making us the first pair of brothers to serve at the same time as governors since Nelson and Win Rockefeller more than a quarter century earlier. It was a wonderful moment for our family. It was also a time to think about the future. And I had a big question on my mind.
Running for president was a decision that evolved over time. Many urged me to run—some for the sake of the country, others because they hoped to ride the race to glory. I often heard the same comment: “You can win this race. You can be president.” I was flattered by the confidence. But my decision would not turn on whether others thought I could win. After all, everyone told me I could never beat Ann Richards. The key question was whether I felt the call to run.
As I pondered the decision, there was a dilemma. Because of the size and complexity of a presidential campaign, you have to start planning early, even if you are not sure whether you want to run. I authorized Karl to start preparing paperwork and recruiting a network of people who would raise money and tend to the grassroots political operation. Once the process started, it created a sense of inevitability. In October 1998, I told
Washington Post
columnist David Broder that I felt like “a cork in a raging river.” When I won reelection the next month, the rapids grew even stronger.
I was determined not to get swept away. If I was going to get into the race, I wanted it to be for the right reasons. I can’t pinpoint exactly when I made up my mind, but there were moments of clarity along the way. One came during my second inauguration as governor. The morning of the ceremony, we attended a service at First United Methodist Church in downtown Austin. Laura and I had invited Reverend Mark Craig , our friend and pastor from Dallas, to deliver the sermon.
I tried hard to focus on the inauguration, but I couldn’t. As we walked into the church, I told Mother I had been struggling with the decision of whether or not to run for president.
“George,” she said, “get over it. Make up your mind,
Meanwhile, there was an actual presidential campaign going on. The Republican Party had nominated Senator Bob Dole , a World War II hero who had built a distinguished legislative record. I admired Senator Dole. I thought he would make a good president, and I campaigned hard for him in Texas. But I worried that our party had not recognized the generational politics lesson of 1992: Once voters had elected a president from the Baby Boomer generation, they were not likely to reach back. Sure enough, Senator Dole carried Texas, but President Clinton won reelection.
I went into 1998 feeling confident about my record. I had delivered on each of the four priorities I had laid out in my first gubernatorial campaign. We had also passed the largest tax cut in the history of Texas and made it easier for children in foster care to be adopted by loving families. Many of these laws were sponsored and supported by Democrats. I was honored when Bob Bullock , who had supported Democratic candidates for almost a half century, publicly endorsed my reelection. I was also a little surprised. Bullock was the godfather of one of my opponent’s children.
I was determined not to take anything for granted, and I campaigned hard. On election night, I received more than 68 percent of the vote, including 49 percent of Hispanics, 27 percent of African Americans, and 70 percent of independents. I was the first Texas governor elected to consecutive four-year terms.
I also had my eye on another race that night. Jeb became governor of Florida by a convincing margin. I went to his inauguration in January1999, making us the first pair of brothers to serve at the same time as governors since Nelson and Win Rockefeller more than a quarter century earlier. It was a wonderful moment for our family. It was also a time to think about the future. And I had a big question on my mind.
Running for president was a decision that evolved over time. Many urged me to run—some for the sake of the country, others because they hoped to ride the race to glory. I often heard the same comment: “You can win this race. You can be president.” I was flattered by the confidence. But my decision would not turn on whether others thought I could win. After all, everyone told me I could never beat Ann Richards. The key question was whether I felt the call to run.
As I pondered the decision, there was a dilemma. Because of the size and complexity of a presidential campaign, you have to start planning early, even if you are not sure whether you want to run. I authorized Karl to start preparing paperwork and recruiting a network of people who would raise money and tend to the grassroots political operation. Once the process started, it created a sense of inevitability. In October 1998, I told
Washington Post
columnist David Broder that I felt like “a cork in a raging river.” When I won reelection the next month, the rapids grew even stronger.
I was determined not to get swept away. If I was going to get into the race, I wanted it to be for the right reasons. I can’t pinpoint exactly when I made up my mind, but there were moments of clarity along the way. One came during my second inauguration as governor. The morning of the ceremony, we attended a service at First United Methodist Church in downtown Austin. Laura and I had invited Reverend Mark Craig , our friend and pastor from Dallas, to deliver the sermon.
I tried hard to focus on the inauguration, but I couldn’t. As we walked into the church, I told Mother I had been struggling with the decision of whether or not to run for president.
“George,” she said, “get over it. Make up your mind,
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