You Don’t Speak Ill Of The Dead In Texas

Carpetbaggers don’t get to rewrite our culture. There are lines we don’t cross. That should’ve been one of them.

In Texas, the vast majority of elected Republicans are transplants. We joke about this sometimes, calling them “carpetbaggers,” but mostly it’s in good fun. They move here, often from blue states, throw on a cowboy hat, and run for office, frequently talking about “Texas values.” We roll our eyes, say things like, “My culture is not your costume,” and “We were here first.” But deep down, we get it. People are just people, and everyone’s trying to find their place.

The problem is, somewhere along the way, our Texas values started getting replaced. Not honored. Not preserved. Replaced. What we’re seeing now, especially in moments like what happened yesterday on the House floor, isn’t some authentic expression of Texas grit or honor. It’s performative cruelty dressed up in boots. And it has nothing to do with the respect, decency, or quiet pride that once defined what it meant to be Texan.

But, what are Texas values?

Ask around and you’ll hear words like independence, grit, and loyalty. You’ll hear about standing up for what’s right, even when it’s hard. About keeping your word, honoring your roots, and helping your neighbor when the storm hits.

It’s not just cowboy talk. It’s a deep cultural current that runs through this state, from the Panhandle to the Valley. Texans pride themselves on plain dealing and quiet dignity.

You treat people with respect. You show up when it counts. And even when you disagree, you don’t go out of your way to humiliate someone, or kick them when they’re down.

That’s why, here in Texas, there’s a strong cultural expectation that you don’t speak ill of the dead, at least not publicly, and certainly not right after someone has passed. It’s part of the broader Southern ethos around respect, hospitality, and public decorum, even when you fiercely oppose what someone stood for. There’s a line you don’t cross.

And when the person in question is a woman? An elder? Someone who devoted their life to public service, whether you liked her politics or not? That line should’ve been a canyon.

But yesterday, Texas Republicans bulldozed right through it. And there’s some part of me that can’t help but think that they did this because they are carpetbaggers, because they weren’t raised in Texas culture, because they genuinely don’t understand what it means to be a Texan.

What happened on the House floor was personal and profoundly disrespectful.

Instead of following the long-standing Texas tradition of honoring the dead with quiet dignity, a handful of Republican lawmakers used a memorial resolution for Cecile Richards as a stage for political performance. They didn’t just register a symbolic protest. They launched into hours of angry, accusatory speeches, full of inflammatory language, debunked conspiracy theories, and moral grandstanding, going so far as to call her “evil,” accuse her of murder, and suggest that even acknowledging her legacy was a betrayal of Texas voters.

They spoke with the kind of cold certainty that only comes from detachment, someone who had never sat at her table, never worked alongside her, and never knew the daughter of Ann Richards as a friend, a mentor, or a mother. They didn’t just disagree with her politics. They vilified her as a person, in front of the people who loved her, in a room where her name should have been spoken with reverence.

And here’s the thing: Cecile Richards was a Texan. She was born here. Raised here. She fought for what she believed was right, just like every other stubborn, principled, deeply Texan figure before her.

You don’t have to agree with every chapter of her life to acknowledge that it was a life lived in public service. To honor her isn’t to co-sign her beliefs. It’s to say, we are better than this. We are big enough to show respect, even when we disagree. That’s Texas.

What happened instead was a calculated spectacle. The kind of thing you expect on talk radio, not the House floor. And in doing so, those members didn’t just dishonor Cecile, they disgraced the House chamber and disrespected every grieving person in that gallery.

This wasn’t strength. It wasn’t principle. It was cruelty. Masked in scripture. Wrapped in procedural games. And cheered on by men who couldn’t be bothered to see the woman they were talking about as human.

The Republicans who led this non-Texan-like spectacle:

• Nate Schatzline, who came here from Alabama.

• Tony Tinderholt, who hails from Minnesota.

• Andy Hopper, who’s from Missouri.

• Steve Toth, who originated from New York.

And while Brian Harrison participated, he’s originally from Texas, but the only values he’s true to are the narcissistic ones he uses to elevate himself. Mike Olcott, Brent Money, and Mitch Little also hopped on the bandwagon.

This was a breach of basic Texas social etiquette.

Even in today’s polarized climate, there are still red lines, and for many Texans, that was one of them. But not everyone forgot who we are.

In the middle of the spectacle, between the shouted accusations, the grandstanding, the weaponized grief, Representative Ramon Romero Jr. (D-HD90) stepped up and reminded the chamber, and the rest of us watching, what Texas is supposed to be.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t insult anyone. He spoke plainly, like Texans are supposed to. About his dad, a farm worker who moved across the country to answer the call of labor. About Cesar Chavez, and the way some members tried to block a resolution honoring his legacy, too. About what it means to be a Texan, to disagree with someone, even fiercely, and still honor them if they meant something to the people in your district. Because that’s what tradition demands.

Romero reminded his colleagues that these calendars, the memorials, the congratulations, are some of the few things this House does that aren’t about politics. They’re about people. Mothers. Judges. Mentors. Public servants. Texans. He spoke about calling his mom every May 10th to wish her Happy Mother’s Day, and how just hearing the words could bring her to tears. He wasn’t just defending Cecile Richards. He was defending every single name on that list. Every legacy. Every community. Every family sitting in the gallery.

This wasn’t about abortion. It was about respect. Tradition. Courage. And the willingness to be a bigger person, even in a divided time. Romero didn’t just speak up for Cecile. He stood up for the House. For its integrity. For its soul.

And make no mistake, THAT is what Texas values look like.

In the end, Democrats were forced to remove Cecile Richards’ name from the memorial calendar altogether.

Not because she didn’t belong there, but because they feared what would happen if they left her on it. Because they knew, after what they had witnessed, that certain members of the Texas House would not respect the dead, or the grieving, or the families sitting quietly in the gallery.

Cecile’s family didn’t come to the Capitol that day. And after watching what unfolded on the floor, I’m thankful they didn’t. They were denied what so many others are given without question: the dignity of mourning, without spectacle. The ability to sit in the people’s House and hear their loved one’s name honored without cruelty, without slander, without being made a target one final time.

So instead, surrounded by fellow native Texans, Representative Donna Howard (D-HD48) stood at the front mic and gave the speech that Cecile Richards deserved.

It was solemn. It was gracious. And it was devastating.

Howard didn’t name names. She didn’t stoop to the level of those who had turned Cecile’s memorial into a culture war battlefield. Instead, she spoke plainly about family, loss, duty, and decency. She told us about the call that changed her life when her husband suffered a sudden cardiac arrest. She reminded the chamber that in her own time of grief, she had been lifted by her colleagues across the aisle. That even though they had sharp disagreements, they had shown her compassion. That’s what she expected when she filed the resolution to honor her former constituent.

Instead, she had to stand and do it herself.

But in doing so, she reminded us all what honor actually looks like. She reminded us that Cecile Richards was more than a headline or a protest sign. She was a daughter. A mother. A friend. A labor organizer. A voice for education, healthcare, and women’s rights. Someone who, like her mother before her, believed in public service as a calling.

Howard’s words didn’t erase the damage done, but they offered something else: a moment of truth. A moment that cut through the noise and exposed the cruelty for what it was.

Because in the end, that’s what Texas values are supposed to be. Not who can yell the loudest. Not who can moralize the hardest. But who shows up when it counts. Who tells the truth. Who stands up for their people when no one else will.

Donna Howard did that. For her friend. For her former constituent. For Texas.

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