Elephants, Donkeys, and Designated Drivers: A Superminority Walks Into a Vineyard…

Mar 24, 2025

Being a Republican in Oregon is like being the designated driver at a wine tasting—noble, maybe, but not exactly part of the party.

My party’s been in the minority for nearly 15 years—lately, a superminority. That’s like being perpetually on the bench while the opposing team occasionally taps you to shoot free throws for “bipartisan optics.” Trust me, it’s every bit as strange as it sounds. Still, I keep showing up—if only because I believe good policy should outlast fleeting social-media feuds and cross the finish line ahead of our entrenched partisan squabbles.

This session, that belief is constantly being tested. On some days, I find myself reviewing the intricacies of a Medicaid expansion, a topic that triggers reflexive alarm among many in my party. Why on earth would a Republican even consider extending healthcare coverage to more Oregonians? Well, because I’ve met families—farmworkers, single parents, small-business owners—who’ve been one medical bill away from financial catastrophe.

On other days, it’s a contentious immigration reform measure, precisely the kind of hot-button topic that guarantees an avalanche of angry emails. But in rural Oregon, where labor shortages can cripple local industries, immigration policy isn’t just a political football—it’s an economic lifeline.

So here I am, a Republican in a deep-blue legislature where the Democrats, by virtue of a supermajority, can pass a bill before I’ve even finished my morning scan of headlines on Google News. They could, in theory, govern without ever glancing in my, or any other Republican’s, direction. And yet, they do. Every so often, they glance our way—usually in search of something they can label “bipartisan.” So, cue the questions: Why would I (or any of us) cooperate if they don’t strictly need my or our vote? Doesn’t that just hand them an easy PR victory? And why would I or we risk potentially alienating our own party’s base?

The short answer is that you don’t get to choose your reality in politics. You either engage, or you throw rhetorical tomatoes from the cheap seats. Since I didn’t run for office to watch Oregon’s legislative future unfold without my input, I personally choose to engage. That doesn’t mean I rubber-stamp every Democratic proposal. It means I’m there at the negotiating table, pushing for amendments that reflect my district’s needs and my own principles—even if some folks on social media feel like labeling me a sellout (aka a RINO).

Between Grandstanding and Governing

In today’s politics, there’s a constant temptation to trade actual policy work for the allure of social media stardom. The simple act of posting a fiery statement can garner more likes, clicks, and follows than months of quiet negotiations that result in a revised bill. But what, exactly, does that accomplish?

When I say I’m here to govern, I’m not just pulling a rhetorical trick. Constituents send me emails about hospital closures, about roads that never get deiced in the winter, and about small businesses that can’t navigate burdensome regulations. Understandably, they’re not writing to ask me how many Twitter followers I’ve gained this week. They care whether I’ve fixed the potholes, funded their schools, or made it easier for them to see a doctor. If I spend my time auditioning for cable-news soundbites instead of addressing those concerns, I’ve missed the point.

Does governing in the minority sometimes feel like an uphill slog? Absolutely. I can’t single-handedly derail a measure the Democrats want to pass. I can’t single-handedly enact a new policy, either. But I can shape legislation. I can say: “If you’re going to expand Medicaid, let’s also ensure that rural hospitals aren’t left holding the bag. Let’s fund clinics that keep communities healthier, so we’re not just expanding a system without shoring up its weakest points.”

When I speak up, it’s not because I believe the majority will scrap their entire plan for my sake. I just believe that at least a few lines in that plan might be improved if I make a thoughtful argument.

Life in the Superminority

Let’s talk numbers. With a supermajority, the Democrats need zero Republican votes to pass a bill, from trivial measures to sweeping reforms. They can schedule a floor vote and, an hour later, celebrate their victory. Under those circumstances, you might ask, “Why would they bother reaching out for Republican support?” The cynical answer is that they want the optics of a bipartisan banner draped over whatever they pass. In a press release, “broad bipartisan support” sounds so much better than “our caucus muscled this through on party lines.”

Meanwhile, my colleagues and I face an unenviable choice. We can refuse to engage, fueling our base’s sense of righteous indignation but forfeiting any chance to make the legislation better—or we can sit down with the majority and try to influence the end product, risking the ire of those who believe compromise is a sign of weakness. Although it might bring short-term headaches, I usually pick the second option. Sure, it opens me up to criticism from voters who’d prefer I slam the brakes on every Democratic proposal. But from where I stand, trying to steer legislation toward a better outcome is the real work of a legislator.

Yes, this approach can lead to the dreaded label “Republican in Name Only.” But I’ve never been too fond of letting internet trolls define my authenticity. My votes reflect a balancing act between my conservative principles and my responsibility to the people I serve. That’s not a betrayal of conservatism; it’s the job description.

Why Policy Matters More Than Points

We live in an era that rewards spectacle, and nowhere is that more obvious than in politics. Conflict sells. Walkouts, shouting matches, and viral rants get airtime. Meanwhile, the humdrum, detail-oriented process of drafting workable legislation is treated as background noise. But if you ask the single mom who’s worried about affording her child’s asthma treatments, she’s not scanning social media for the wittiest takedown of the opposition. She’s asking whether her kid can see a doctor without the family going bankrupt.

That’s what keeps me grounded: the constant reminder that politics isn’t just performance art. Yes, there’s a performance element to it—we hold press conferences, make speeches, and try to persuade. But if that overshadowed the entire purpose of being here, then we’d all be better off as pundits rather than policymakers. At the end of the day, if Oregonians can’t access the healthcare they need, if our farmers can’t harvest crops due to labor shortages, or if businesses can’t find skilled workers, no amount of rhetorical grandstanding can fix that.

And here’s something both parties ought to remember: lasting policy seldom comes from one side ramming a measure through while the other side glowers in the corner. Sure, you can pass laws that way—especially with a supermajority. But policies crafted without at least some cross-aisle input often lack the durability needed to withstand future changes in leadership. The real art of governance involves building coalitions, forging compromises, and ensuring that legislation has broad enough support to endure. If a law collapses the moment the political winds shift, it wasn’t particularly sturdy in the first place.

Principle vs. Dogma: Which Hill Is Worth Dying On?

The line between standing on principle and descending into dogmatism can get blurry. Sometimes, I’ll break with my party because a proposal aligns with one of my core values—like safeguarding individual liberty or promoting economic opportunity—even if it doesn’t check off all the usual conservative boxes. Other times, I’ll hold the line against a measure that promises short-term gains but undermines what I believe are foundational freedoms. In either case, principle guides me.

Dogma, on the other hand, is a refusal to reconsider. It’s when we treat political identity like a frozen, immovable object, impervious to new data or fresh perspectives. If we lock ourselves into that mindset, we become incapable of tackling problems that don’t fit neatly into the templates of traditional partisanship. Oregon’s challenges—rural healthcare, housing shortages, wildfire management—don’t come with easy, purely “red” or “blue” solutions. They require a willingness to adapt, an openness to nuance, and an admission that no single party has all the answers.

Sometimes, that means supporting an immigration bill that provides a legal path for workers, because at the end of the day, local farms depend on a stable workforce. Sometimes, it means endorsing a measured approach to drug decriminalization, because people suffering from addiction need treatment options, not just jail time. No, that won’t make me a hero in certain conservative chatrooms—but my job description reads “public servant,” not “internet provocateur.”

On Taking Fire from Your Own Side

Of course, every vote I take is recorded, filed, and eventually weaponized in the next election cycle. By daring to collaborate with Democrats, I open myself to criticism from primary challengers eager to claim that I’ve abandoned conservative values. Conversely, Democrats sometimes point to my occasional resistance as proof that “Republicans refuse to cooperate.” It’s a tightrope walk with no safety net, but that comes with the territory.

What makes it worthwhile is the knowledge that real people benefit when legislators focus on outcomes instead of optics. If I can help shape a Medicaid proposal so it addresses the unique needs of rural Oregon—ensuring that we aren’t just expanding coverage but also strengthening the infrastructure that delivers healthcare—I’ll take the political heat. If I can refine an immigration bill so that small businesses in my district can hire the labor they need without undermining the law, I’ll accept the angry op-eds calling me a traitor.

At some point, you have to decide whether your office is a soapbox or a service desk. If it’s just a soapbox, great, you’ll rack up clicks and outraged comments. But if it’s a service desk, you’ll actually help people. You’ll craft policy. You’ll negotiate. You’ll compromise. And sometimes, you’ll upset the loudest voices in your party because you didn’t fight a hopeless battle to the bitter end.

The North Star That Won’t Burn Out

I’ve watched the political winds shift, the majorities expand and contract, and the headlines come and go. Through it all, my guiding principle remains the same: if a policy moves us closer to helping the people who elected me, I’ll work on it. If it tramples on fundamental freedoms or wastes taxpayer money, I’ll oppose it. The key is to keep that balance—to be true to your values without sealing yourself off from the possibility that a compromise could produce better results.

Does that stance make me a moderate, a maverick, a RINO? I suppose everyone has a label for it. But as someone who represents real Oregonians—folks who want a government that’s efficient, fair, and not overly intrusive—I think they’d rather see me engage than sit on the sidelines. Yes, part of my job is to fight for conservative ideals. But another part is to ensure that when the dust settles, the laws we pass actually help people instead of just fueling endless partisan theatrics.

Someday, when the tables turn and Republicans enjoy a supermajority, I’d hope we remember the value of genuine debate and collaboration. Power can be intoxicating, but it’s also fleeting. In the meantime, I’ll continue walking the tightrope. I’ll keep showing up, negotiating, and insisting on meaningful input. I’ll keep my eyes on the north star of governance, even if some folks think I should just point a finger of blame and call it a day.

Because in the end, governance isn’t about winning or losing; it’s about delivering tangible results for the people who count on us. And if that means occasionally working with the other side—even when they don’t strictly need me—so be it. My measure of success is whether Oregon’s families, businesses, and communities see real benefits, not whether my press releases score high on partisan purity tests.