New Mexico State Senator Dede Feldman's Blog

Couy Griffin on Trial: A Tale of Two Realities

I wrote this article for Source New Mexico after pouring over court transcripts from this bizarre trial of Otero County Commissioner Couy Griffin in Santa Fe in August 

Sept. 2, 2022

Otero County Commissioner Couy Griffin’s trial for betraying his oath of office to defend the Constitution got underway in Santa Fe in mid-August with Griffin, the founder of Cowboys for Trump, denying he knew he was doing anything illegal in the storming of the Capitol on Jan. 6.

Griffin was convicted in June by a D.C. court of trespassing during the uprising, but he told the Santa Fe judge he thought the barricades were just meant to keep people off the grass. In spite of police warnings, Griffin said he never saw a sign that he couldn’t be where he was.

Griffin came to the attention of the nation with his remark that “The only good Democrat is a dead Democrat.” Then-President Trump tweeted the remark, and Griffin’s social media followers swelled.

I reviewed the transcripts from Griffin’s two-day trial, which is based on a section in the 14^th Amendment that disqualifies anyone from office who has taken an oath of office to uphold the constitution and then violated it by fomenting insurrection. The clause originated in post-Civil War history.

If found guilty, Griffin would not be allowed to serve out his term on the Otero County Commission, which ends in December, or run for another office. Griffin is thinking about running for Catron County sheriff.

The recent bench trial was a disturbing tale of two realities. One was presented by a team of lawyers who showed video clips of Jan. 6, 2021, used testimony from a number of witnesses, and played Griffin’s on-the-record statements before and after the event. Witnesses included an injured D.C. police officer, a photojournalist, and two experts on political violence and insurrection.

The other recounting was Griffin’s, presented by the preacher-turned-politician himself. It contained no evidence, no witnesses, but only the pleas of Griffin, who portrayed himself as a peaceful, innocent protestor with heart. He often did not remember saying the things that were on the record in his own deposition, maintained that the videos shown had been doctored by the mainstream media, and accused witnesses of being tainted by a liberal bias.

He asserted that the real villains were antifa provocateurs. He even said that the judiciary had been weaponized against him.

Even though I do some communications work for Common Cause New Mexico, an organization that filed a brief in the case supporting Griffin’s removal from office, I felt some sympathy for him as I watched the hearing. He was all alone there in the courtroom, representing himself in a folksy, down-to-earth manner. A lone ranger.

But then the contradictions began to pile up.

Griffin: “I would never encourage or promote anyone breaking the law and acting in a way to disrupt the government.”

Footage: Griffin pumping his fist and encouraging the mob as it yelled “Heave ho, heave ho,” while it broke down a door leading to the chambers.

Griffin in court: “I had no violent intent on Jan. 6.”

Footage with quotes from the bus tour organized by Women for America First to drum up support for Jan. 6:

• ”It feels to me like we’re a nation at war.”
• ”If you don’t win it at the ballot box, win it in the streets.”
• ”It’s a war we cannot lose. Every card is on the table.”
• ”We will hunt down the RHINOS.”
• ”If he (Pence) doesn’t (send the results back to the states) he’s going to have to find a real dark hole to climb into.”

Griffin in court: “I’m trying to save America, not destroy America…All we wanted was to have our voices heard.”

Footage: Griffin at the event: “I love the smell of napalm in the morning.”

Griffin’s social media account shared the day after the event as he encouraged his followers to return for the inauguration: “Blood will run from the Capitol.”

It’s hard to deal with family members and friends who are in denial about their behavior and its effects on other people. It’s particularly difficult when the person apologizes, as Griffin did during his court appearance.

“I’m not necessarily proud of some of the things I’ve said,” he told the court.  “They were driven by emotion. Sometimes, in the world of politics, you get driven by emotion.”

Griffin admitted to foolishness, to being too blunt, to being frustrated.

His remarks were almost believable until I realized that his behavior had not changed since his two court appearances. He continues to use his office as county commissioner to try and discredit election results nationwide and decertify our own state election — even when ordered by the NM Supreme Court not to do so. He continues to be heavily armed.

I am all for questioning authority and insisting on transparency, two shields he used in court. Unfortunately, it became obvious that his agenda so closely follows the boilerplate Trump conspiracy theories and Fox News media memes that it sapped my sympathy for him.

The last straw, though, was his effort to undercut the testimony of the D.C. police officer who had been wedged between the mob and a glass door, and his insistence that the officer who died the day after the insurrection only died of “natural causes,” not the vicious mob attack.

After a while it became hard to listen to the continued falsehoods and misinformation, even though we must in order to find a clue to healing the disconnect from reality that so many of our fellow citizens have fallen into.

 

Even as fires rage, fireworks ban a tough nut to crack

 

From an Op Ed I wrote for Source NM April 28, 2022... written as wildfires rage in New Mexico, destroying landscapes and eating up about 2000 acres along with homes, livestock, and wildlife. Much of this is taken from Burn Marks from the Fireworks Industry, a chapter in my 2014 book Inside the New Mexico Senate: Boots, Suits and Citizens. dedefeldman.com/books

It seems like common sense. With wildfires eating up over 160,000 acres in Northern New Mexico and costing tens of millions of dollars for fire suppression, why not ban the sale of fireworks during the peak fire season of the year — Fourth of July?

It’s a question that Gov. Michelle Lujan Grisham tried to grapple with a few days ago during a news conference on the state’s emergency response to the Calf Canyon-Hermits Peak, Cooks Peak, Cerro Pelado and other fires. The governor would like to ban fireworks in a time of extreme drought and danger, but she cannot according to a 1996 state law that vests that power in municipalities alone. 

And even that law, written with the support of the small-but-powerful fireworks industry, ties the hands of cities by requiring hearings 20 days in advance of any declaration, which renders immediate response to local fires impossible. Moreover, cities can only ban the sale or use of some fireworks (missile and stick-type rockets, helicopters, aerial spinners and ground-audible devices) and can only restrict the use of everything else that sets off showers of sparks to areas that are paved, barren or have an accessible source of water. For firefighters, who have been arguing for years for an outright state ban, that makes enforcement almost impossible.

In the absence of the power to issue a statewide ban, the governor issued an executive order declaring that severe drought and fire conditions exist and urging the municipalities to voluntarily ban fireworks, as have federal agencies and state forests. Faced with the same problem in 2011, Gov. Susana Martinez begged private businesses to take fireworks off the shelves — and some, including Walmart, did. 

That year — 2011 — was the year of the huge Las Conchas fire in the Jemez, and the next year I teamed up with the Republican governor to get the Legislature to give her power to issue a temporary fireworks ban during extreme drought. Every fire department in the state wanted to testify in favor of Senate Bill 5. The Municipal League and the Association of Counties were on board. The state forester was there. Petitions with 7,000 signatures from all over the state poured in, and the mayors of small towns feverishly lobbied their legislators.

In spite of the popular support — and some compromises made along the way — the bill went down in flames, tabled in the Senate Corporations Committee, chaired by Sen. Phil Griego. Lobbyists from the fireworks industry, who portrayed their clients as mom-and-pop enterprises defending mom and apple pie, were successful in holding off what I considered a clear public health and safety issue. 

“We’re talking about a free country and independence,” Eddie Arnet from Amy’s Fireworks in Las Cruces told the committee. “These fireworks are used for the Fourth of July. We’re talking about sparklers in grandmother’s birthday cake.” 

The fireworks industry was composed of three companies, located in Roswell, Las Cruces and Farmington, along with seasonal retail outlets that sell fireworks along the roadside in the weeks before the Fourth of July. In 2012, lobbyists for the three companies were some of the most well-known, powerful and generous at the Roundhouse. And when it came to legislators, their largess was targeted to the Corporations Committee, which they often supplied with dinners shipped in from the fancy Restaurant Martín (complete with white linen napkins and the good china).  

In the years since, there have been several attempts to give cities more leeway on which fireworks they can ban, although the 20-day advance notice has always been maintained. In 2013, Rep. Emily Kane, a firefighter herself, introduced a bill. Sen. Griego tried in 2015, and Rep. Matthew McQueen tried in 2017. All the bills failed.

Opponents said that fireworks don’t usually cause fires, and that even if they were banned, they could be bought on Native American reservations or nearby states. 

Yet, while the causes of major forest fires only occasionally include fireworks, even one fire sparked in such a way can have a major impact. In 2003, a major Bosque fire caused by teenagers playing with fireworks near Old Town torched 300 prime acres of the Bosque running through my Senate district. It cost $1.7 million for fire suppression, nearly burnt down the Bosque School and scarred the suddenly evacuated residents of Thomas Village and Dietz Farms. It spurred me to introduce my first fireworks bill in 2004, which also went down to defeat.  

There are some causes of wildfires, like lightening or wind, that cannot be controlled.  But, according to natural resources professionals, nearly 85% of wildfires are caused by humans who leave campfires unattended, throw out cigarette butts, and yes, use fireworks negligently. Controlling fireworks is one of the few tools available — and yet it is a tough nut to crack in the Legislature.

 

Legislators have been unwilling to give the governor more power in an emergency, and they are unwilling to strengthen the hand of local government as well.

In a time of continued drought, brought on by climate change, it’s time for the Legislature to step up and become a part of the solution, rather than perpetuating the problem — an outdated law that prevents the governor from banning fireworks statewide in longer and longer fire seasons.

What will that take? Confronting a special interest with deep connections to legislators, to start — something the Legislature has been unwilling to do. But why not try a carrot, rather than a stick? Gov. Lujan-Grisham suggested “making them whole” for not selling their deadly, delightful product. It’s a nice way of saying: pay them off. It’s been done before, with other powerful interests that lawmakers are afraid to confront. A sad commentary on legislative courage, perhaps, but a practical way to save lives, expense, rural livelihoods and homes.

 

‘Junior’ budget bills fill in the gaps

Here's my Op Ed on Junior Bills from today's Source NM

March 28, 2022.  When Gov. Michelle Lujan Grisham pocket vetoed the so called “junior bill” a couple of weeks ago, she opened what former Gov. Bruce King called a “Box of Pandoras.”  Legislators of both parties and all ideological stripes immediately called for an extraordinary session to override the veto of one of the few bills that had passed unanimously in an otherwise highly contentious session.

The $50-million spending package contained funding for community projects designated by legislators themselves — everything from meals on wheels, transportation for people with disabilities, equipment for police and sheriffs to land grant operating expenses and uranium-mine cleanup. 

Each senator got $600,000 to allocate to preferred projects; Representatives got $360,000. The junior bill is often confused with the capital outlay bill, but that’s for brick-and-mortar projects like roads or buildings. Legislators get to divvy up one-off allocations for those projects. Unlike capital outlay, junior bills can include recurring, operational funds for staff and ongoing programs.  

To some, including the governor, a junior bill looks like a Christmas tree, with each legislator getting an ornament or two. In her veto message, Lujan Grisham said the allocations were unvetted and opaque. The big, annual budget, after all, goes through extensive hearings. Even the capital annual bill is finally transparent, after years of advocacy, with legislators required to reveal their allocations. 

But junior bills are not all bad. Over my 16 years in the New Mexico Senate, I witnessed how the power and ability of rank-and-file lawmakers reduced drastically as they tried to get their policy ideas or projects into the main budget. Thanks largely to former Sen. John Arthur Smith (D-Deming), this power is now concentrated in the Legislative Finance Committee and the two standing appropriations committees of the House and Senate. If you are not a member of those committees, your priorities often go unaddressed despite the dire consequences facing communities without services like, say, a behavioral health clinic or someone to maintain a rural water system.

Often a junior bill is the only way for ordinary legislators to address these needs, which may have been passed over by the big committees in favor of solving a crisis du jour or funding a governor’s big initiative, like free college tuition or a hydrogen hub.

For years, with the help of the nonprofit, Farm to Table, I pushed for funding that would allow schools to use locally grown produce to feed children in the public schools. It seemed like a win-win, a way to help local farmers, keep the valley green and keep our kids healthy, counterbalancing the enormous amount of junk food consumed by the average teenager.  But it never got off the ground. Sure, there were a few hundred thousand appropriated here and there throughout the years, but not a statewide project that would change the paradigm. 

What to do? In 2007 I allocated funds from a junior bill to fund a small pilot program for North Valley schools to use fresh produce from New Mexico as part of snacks and lunches for kids. The program has been a great success and other legislators have started initiatives in their own districts, pushing the Public Education Department to begin a statewide program and enlarge it every year using funding in the main budget. 

With funding from the junior bill, the “farm-to-school” project took off, providing a model for how it might be scaled up statewide.  Thank you notes and letters from parents, students, organic growers and others poured in. It was the most popular thing I ever did for my district.

Several agricultural projects were included in this year’s vetoed junior bill. Other funding went to nonprofits that run after-school programs, shelter the survivors of domestic violence, or provide help for victims of crime. These programs are important parts of our communities — filling in the gaps that legislators can perceive and sometimes providing the social equity that the big programs see only as a byproduct.

Fortunately, the special legislative session just announced for April 5 will moderate the shock and awe that the veto of the junior bill caused among nonprofits, legislators and their constituents. A new junior bill will be part of a package negotiated with the governor, which will also include a rebate to help consumers hard pressed by rising gas prices.  

An embarrassing veto override no longer seems likely. And hopefully, legislators will move to address a valid point made by the governor: transparency. The sponsor of each appropriation in the new junior bill should be identified. Communities, constituents, local officials and residents want to know where the money came from. 

Now that shouldn’t be a huge problem in an election year, should it? 

Straight from Source NM: Dede's article on the 2022 legislative session--The games people play

 The Games People Play

Calls of the Senate, filibusters and other delaying tactics

from Source New Mexico, Feb. 22, 2022

Last week’s frustrating end to this year’s legislative session left election reformers, voting rights advocates and others wondering: how could this happen? 

How could one senator filibuster for over two hours, killing arguably one of the most important bills of the session: the New Mexico Voting Rights Act? And how, days earlier, could Republicans — the minority in the Legislature today — issue a “call of the Senate,” blocking all discussion of the same issue?

How a call works

A call of the Senate or the House requires the presence of all unexcused members of either chamber. It can be issued by any member but requires the votes of six other members. 

The sergeant-at-arms,sometimes backed up by the State Police, is then charged by the presiding officer to round up the missing members — from their offices, nearby restaurants or homes. The doors are locked, and the remaining members are not permitted off the floor. The call is “complete” only after all are present. 

It’s easy to see how a handful of legislators in either chamber can stop debate indefinitely on any bill. The logjam is usually cleared by an agreement to remove the call — in return for something else. Or not.

At a time of deep partisan divide, either political party could theoretically put a call on every bill if they had the votes of a mere seven members. That has not yet happened, but the mechanism has been misused in the past, revealing not just run-of-the-mill political maneuverings but some seedy behavior as well.  

One call of the House that I remember in 2004 involved renegade Rep. Bengie Regensberg, the black-hatted cowboy from Wagon Mound who promoted cock-fighting and had a reputation for feisty confrontations. Regensberg was absent from a late-night call of the House, and Speaker Ben Luján sent the State Police to find him. 

Officers finally found him at his motel. The lawmaker proceeded to get into a fist fight with the State Police, according to reports.  He came back with a black eye.

Months later, he got a surprise challenge in his Democratic primary — newcomer Hector Balderas, who today is New Mexico’s attorney general. 

During the 1990s, Sen. Tom Benavides from the South Valley of Albuquerque was notorious for eluding capture during calls of the Senate. Benavides was best known for his black eye patch — a distinguishing feature you might think would make him easy to find when looking for errant senators. 

Not so. During one call, Benavides successfully hid under his desk. During another he donned a black wig and sunglasses and disguised himself as a woman. As police mounted a manhunt, “Mrs. Benavides” sat quietly (accounts vary as to whether she was on the dais or in the gallery) while senators fumed, only to erupt in laughter when Benavides shed his wig and sunglasses and they realized he had been there the whole time. 

Benavides was so slippery that in 1995 Lt. Gov. Walter Bradley had him followed by two burly State Police officers the last two days of the session. President Pro Tem Manny Aragon even presented him with a gag gift of handcuffs, to make sure that policemen could keep him locked to his Senate chair. 

He was defeated by Sen. Linda Lopez in 1996.

 

Republican filibusters also have a long history in the N.M. Legislature. Mostly reserved for the final days of unreasonably short sessions, they are effective for Republicans who believe that their main job is to thwart the majority and prevent new laws, government regulations or taxes. 

Republicans introduce far fewer bills and have less to lose in any delay, and so the filibuster is not just reserved for the final days but, as observers know, rolls on cumulatively during committee hearings, and even during announcements and miscellaneous — a nebulous time on the floor when in the Senate, the two-hour limit on debate does not apply. 

In 1997, my first year in the Senate, I was stunned by the last-day filibuster of Sen. Bill Davis, which brought down the capital outlay bill, as well as a private prison deal. Later I became more callous, if no less resentful, when in 2011 a $240 million capital outlay bill languished as Sen. Rod Adair and Sen. John Ryan engaged in what was called a “Laurel and Hardy” routine by then-Senate Majority Leader Michael Sanchez. 

At the turn of this millennia in the Senate, other fun and games included demands from either Davis (R-Albuquerque) or Sen. Ramsay Gorham (R-Albuquerque) that the entirety of a bill actually be read on “the third reading of legislation,” a parliamentary term for the time when debate begins on each bill.  The tactic was particularly effective when facing debate on, say, a 560-page bill. 

For years, defenders of these time-wasters have said these games are a way to prevent the majority from trampling on the rights of the minority. It’s true, but the damages can’t be denied. 

At the national level, Senate filibusters have historically allowed the denial of voting rights, prolonging the Jim Crow era. It’s why there is now a national movement to end Senate filibusters, especially as applied to essential components of our democratic system — like voting rights.  

It’s time to revise the rules here in New Mexico, too. Elections and voting rights are not a game to be played by obstructionists donning black wigs or telling folksy tales.

Filibusters would be far less effective in longer sessions.

Calls of the Senate or House should take into account Zoom and other technologies to allow members to participate remotely, as COVID has already taught us. 

And maybe, a professional paid Legislature, with regular hours, and fewer reasons for citizen legislators to be absent from their main job — lawmaking — would cut down on the fun and games.  ###

Ten More Doors Excerpt in Jemez Springs Newspaper

Here's an excerpt from my memoir Ten More Doors: Politics and the Path to Change shared here in advance of a Book Talk I"m giving Saturday Feb. 5 at 2 via zoom for the Jemez Springs Library. Join at https://us06web.zoom.us/j/82911494023 Mtg Id= 829 1149 4023; Passcode=Dede. 

I'll explain then: 

From Chapter 9: At Street Level

I walked by the house on Matthew Avenue today. It just didn’t look the same. The run-down old garage is now attached to the house, and a uniform plaster has been applied to the crumbling white façade that had confronted me, a wannabe senator, in 1996. I was knocking on doors in the neighborhood in search of votes.

I knocked on the door and mentally (and okay, maybe even verbally) practiced my pitch before someone answered the doorbell. “Hi, I’m Dede Feldman. I’m running for office— for the state senate—and I wondered if you had any concerns about the state?”

No answer. I rang again. I knocked. I was preparing to leave and put my “literature” in the door when I heard a voice.

“Running for office? Any concerns?”

It was a strange voice, a spooky, hoarse voice. It was coming from somewhere, but I couldn’t figure out where.

“Hello?” I yelled. “Hello?” it yelled back.

This was truly weird. It seemed to be coming from the garage, off to the side.

Time to leave, I thought, but then it said, “Running for office? Any concerns?”

Oh no, no, no—I’m out of here, I thought, just as a weathered looking man with Depression-era eyes and a gentle face opened the door.

“Yes?” he asked, squinting into the sun, his dirty hair in his eyes. He looked like he had just woken up.

As I started in on my pitch, I heard it again. “Any concerns?” “I was just about to ask...”
“Any concerns?”

I recognized the voice now. It was the man at the door’s. But his lips weren’t moving.

Suddenly the homeowner’s sad expression broke into a broad grin.

“Oh, that’s Marvin,” he said. “He’s my pet raven. They talk, you know. I trained him to say a few words, but he knows more. Learns ‘em from people who come to the door unexpectedly.”

We laughed and he offered to introduce me to the raven.

He led me to the garage and opened the door. I looked around. All sorts of hunting equipment was strewn about, fishing tackle piled in the corner, and construction debris everywhere. In the middle there was a covered cage with something moving inside it.

It was Marvin, and as soon as the cover was removed, he cracked opened his thick bill and croaked, “Any concerns?”

The bird was massive, with scruffy feathers that looked eaten. Maybe he had just been in a fight. He was iridescent, his feathers almost blue, and he had dark, dark eyes and talons that gave me pause.

It was my first encounter with someone who kept a wild animal as a pet. The raven had fown away twice, come back once, and the second time the man at the door searched for the bird day and night. He finally found Marvin in a tree in the South Valley. The raven recognized his call.

I’d never thought of animals as being part of my constituency, except maybe in the abstract. But things were beginning to add up in my semi-rural, semi-urban district in Albuquerque’s North Valley.

Sure, I’d encountered dogs. Pee Wee, Esse, JoJo, Buster, and Cholo had greeted me at the door on almost every street I walked. I’d been bitten three times. I carried dog yummies and pepper spray. I learned how to put my foot against the screen door so a German shepherd couldn’t lunge out before I’d had time to deliver my pitch. And I’d spoken over the yaps, the growls, and the barks to owners who said things like, “Skipper would never bite you.”

But ravens? Peacocks? Horses? Donkeys?

 “I want you to think carefully about this,” a stern older woman in the same neighborhood responded when I asked her about her concerns. “See those horses across the street?”

Dutifully, I acknowledged the Appaloosas, the ponies, and yes, even the donkey across the street. They ran in a pack behind the fence at the end of Meadow View Drive. They smelled up the neighborhood.

I loved the Appaloosas, but I shied away from the ponies after one nipped at me.

“Don’t you dare forget about them when you go to Santa Fe,” she said. “That’s why we’re sending you there—to protect them.” I could tell from her blunt gray hair and her relentless eye contact that she meant business.

“Yeah,” I stumbled around, agreeing all up and down, going on about how we need to protect the environment, and the rural character of the area.

She listened politely. She had heard it all before, and it hadn’t made a difference.

I probably couldn’t make a difference either, except at the margins. But the two encounters convinced me to sign up for the Senate Conservation Committee, which focused on wildlife, natural resources, the forest, game, fish, and yes, animal protection. Politically, it was not the best perch for an urban newcomer to the senate. But I never regretted it. I got to vote on saving endangered species, protecting the bosque, and preventing water waste and contamination.

Most of the horses are gone now from the field at the end of my street, and spiffy new houses surround the stables backed up against the ditch. I am afraid to knock on the door of the raven man. He’s probably dead or old, like me.

But at least I know I did my part for my constituents on Matthew Avenue—all of them.

Ten More Doors Got a Great Book Review in the Albuquerque Journal

Walking Tall

BY DAVID STEINBERG

FOR THE JOURNAL

Persistence, stamina and patience helped Dede Feldman endure the rigors of public life.

For Feldman, those qualities infused her passion to walk door-to-door for days on end, campaigning (unsuccessfully) for Albuquerque City Council and then campaigning (successfully) as a Democrat for the New Mexico Senate.

Her recent behind-the-scenes memoir, written in a sharp, personable style, is “Ten More Doors: Politics and the Path to Change.”

The title points to a “what if.”

What if she had gotten 10 more votes? It would have been just enough to overcome the nine-vote loss in her 1995 council race.

Feldman didn’t give up.

She persisted and learned from the loss.

She redoubled her efforts going doorto- door for the District 13 North Valley seat in the New Mexico Senate. She won the seat in the 1996 general election and held it for 16 years.

In doing so she showed that a progressive, a woman and an Anglo from the East Coast could win a Democratic primary in a Senate district long-dominated by Hispanic politicians.

“My first instinct was right. If I simply got to know people in person, they would see that I was not a threat,” she wrote.

Her shoe-leather campaigning leaped beyond politics.

“I looked for voters, but I found community.

That probably was my most important lesson,” Feldman said in a phone interview.

She got to know the community’s fears, hopes, complaints, tastes and hot-button issues, and the community got to know her, her volunteers, and her plans for reform, Feldman wrote in the memoir.

Drawing close to the community “sharpened my compassion and empathy for the ordinary people who lived all around me, my neighbors for years,” she said. “But I never really knew them until I knocked on their door and found out what their life was really like. The knowledge and the courage that ordinary people had, that’s what really kept me going in the legislature.”

By campaigning, Feldman became aware of these hundreds of ordinary people. In her eyes, many became extraordinary and in some cases even heroic. In her first campaigns, she wrote, she heard stories of hardship, of success, of mental illness, of religious belief that formed the backdrop of policies she promoted as a lawmaker.

Feldman developed an understanding of her constituents.

She was chief sponsor of the 2001 New Mexico Kinship Guardianship Act. The law gave grandparents and other family members the right to raise children whose parents are unable to, according to Feldman’s reading of the law.

She also learned that passing legislation doesn’t always happen because a lawmaker wills it. Think of it “as a long game, especially when it comes to state and local policymaking. You start to think in maybe incremental successes,” Feldman said.

In one chapter, Feldman, her husband Mark and her students from a Pennsylvania Quaker school spent the summer of 1972 helping build a classroom in the central African country of Uganda.

Feldman writes of quizzing a class of Ugandan kids about the meaning of power as the country was on the verge of descending into terror under dictator Idi Amin.

Another chapter takes the reader back to 1955. The author, then a preteen, and her parents were on a family road trip in a new Plymouth station wagon from West Chester, Pennsylvania stopping at the Casa Grande Lodge near Old Town, a few blocks from where she would later move. What’s equally intriguing is that it’s the same year Feldman changed her name from what she considered stale — Mary Elizabeth — the first names of her grandmothers — to Dede.

Though no longer a candidate nor a public official, Feldman still goes door-to-door for other candidates. She encourages people to participate in public life “whether you’re inside as a legislator or outside as an advocate, an activist, a journalist or an ordinary citizen.”

Feldman serves as communications director for Common Cause New Mexico.

Its mission is to promote open, honest and accountable government.