Andrew Reginald Hairston

Thank you, Justin, for that gracious introduction – and for inviting me to the University of Houston Law Center to deliver remarks this evening to the American Constitution Society – and the broader community.  I first must acknowledge that today is the fifth anniversary of the passing of my maternal grandmother, Mary Lee Dunbar Jackson. My family has inspired my work across the decades, and they continue to do so.

Last month, I celebrated my seventh anniversary as an attorney. As I imagine is the case for all of you, I marvel at the passage of time. A decade ago, I was preparing for my first set of exams at LSU. Unlike me, y’all will absolutely CALI your classes. As I commemorated this anniversary in Jackson, Mississippi – for a work trip – I drew particular gratitude from certain reinforcing elements of this journey. ACS fits that bill quite perfectly. 

When I was in law school, as the president of the Black Law Students Association at LSU, my chapter collaborated with ACS to discuss an incident of police brutality that occurred in Lafayette in 2015. This impactful event remained with me, for reasons that I couldn’t quite articulate at the time. As it turned out, addressing and remedying police abuses – especially those that occur in schools – would come to be a central & defining drive of my professional life. 

In 2019, about a year and a half into my tenure as a staff attorney at Advancement Project, I traveled to Charlottesville to present at the ACS Student Convention that year. On a panel, I discussed the ways in which movement lawyering informed my approach to the racial justice causes I supported in that role. 

A couple weeks after that conference, I went to Philadelphia to support an incredible youth base-building organization called the Philadelphia Student Union. They were fighting against a proposal that would’ve placed more metal detectors in schools across the district. Motivated by my time at the ACS Student Convention, I took the Amtrak from D.C. to Philadelphia to strategize with youth organizers before the board meeting. I ultimately drafted a letter that detailed the harms of metal detectors, both empirically and anecdotally, and stood prepared to testify if they needed me to. Due to my ongoing political education, I understood more that such a proposal creates hardened and militarized school environments that fuel the school-to-prison pipeline. 

I didn’t testify during that board meeting, but, once again, I witnessed in the early stages of my legal career, through my partnership with directly impacted people, how certain threads were being weaved throughout my life. I moved to Austin a few months later to join Texas Appleseed, and I began my involvement with the ACS Austin Lawyer Chapter toward the end of 2019. 

We all know what came next. March 2020 barreled toward me – and each of us – and transformed the world. I worked remotely from my parents’ home in Oklahoma for virtually the rest of 2020, preparing for the 87th legislative session in Texas as I did so. For folks who may not know – to match an odd political environment, the Texas Legislature only meets during odd years. 

I took many opportunities in the first year of the pandemic to reflect on all that had occurred up to that point. I thought of my stints at the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law and Advancement Project, with a particular emphasis on the parent and youth organizers I encountered along the way. 

As I testified at the Texas Legislature for the first time in April 2021, I kept them in mind, particularly as I highlighted how the pandemic was impacting student engagement, discipline, and the overall climate on school campuses across the state. As folks may imagine, the wins can be slim at the Legislature, but we did get a bill passed during that regular session – SB 179 – that explicitly stated that school counselors should spend the vast majority of their time on non-administrative duties. Such a framework largely illustrates the approach to dismantling the school-to-prison pipeline in our present conditions. Policymakers should devote as many discretionary funds as possible to mental health professionals – such as social workers, counselors, and psychologists, who can use their expertise in child development to create better conditions in schools – and significantly decrease the likelihood of violence on campus in the process. 

I engaged a bit during the special legislative sessions that took place later on in 2021. In July of that year, before the Senate State Affairs Committee, I made the case that critical race theory bans, and the censorship they bring, stand poised to exacerbate the school-to-prison pipeline. From my vantage point, Black and Brown students, LGBTQ young people, and kids with disabilities – those students most likely to be funneled in the pipeline – would be the ones to have their speech targeted for discipline. The critical race theory ban went into effect, but the effort to stop it reinforced the idea that broad coalitions will be the mechanisms that build community power and shift the tide.

During the regular session in 2023, which ran from January to May, I fought alongside advocates assiduously to oppose school hardening measures proposed in the aftermath of Uvalde. As that tragedy entered public consciousness, so did the reality that hundreds of police officers on the scene did nothing to stop that act of mass violence. I made that point as many times as I could before the House Select Committee on Youth Health & Safety, the Senate Education Committee, and the House Public Education Committee. Despite our best efforts, HB 3 went into effect after the regular session – requiring an armed school security officer on every campus across the state. 

With all of this in mind, here we are in November 2023. The legislative landscape looks bleak, with the Governor having just called another special session to push forward his unpopular school privatization schemes. For me, I often hold the contradictions of any given moment in time with the best balance I can; I am grateful to be a Black civil rights lawyer in Texas, doing this work in 2023; however, I realize that these fights, in many ways,  mirror those that were taking place in 1973, 1923, and 1873. I pose the question to myself, as I imagine y’all do, where does one draw hope? 

For me, it comes from collective community power. That takes the form of the support of a progressive legal network like ACS, as well as the resources and space to do this work in the present moment. Just last week, I collaborated with two central Texas organizations to host a convening in Austin focused on long-term planning for our work to achieve police-free schools. After all we have collectively endured, I don’t take that responsibility lightly. For George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Tony McDade, and so many Black folks who we have lost brutally and prematurely at the hands of the state, it is a privilege to do this work with an imaginative vision. That collective community power that I am supporting, fueled by working class people across the state, nation, and world, will carry this work many generations into the future. 

Many fights await us, but I’m encouraged by the next generation of civil rights lawyers & progressive attorneys I behold. Recognizing that I don’t want to make my work about me, I appreciate more recognition for my vision for a much better world. Last month, I appeared on KUT’s new podcast, the Mind of Texas, to discuss mental health in Texas public schools. There, and here, I appreciate that I can explicitly name that I do this work on behalf of Black children – one of the most misunderstood demographics living in twenty-first century America. I pronounce that I do this work for them, because, if we lift the tide for them, we lift the tide for everyone. 

I am so grateful for the past and present components of my journey. Through the support of a network like ACS, I find myself in a rich tradition, seeking human dignity and prosperity for all. This is an incalculably important gift, and I thank y’all for conferring it.

Betrayed Biking Draft – August 2022

I fell in love with Austin, Texas slowly, methodically.

We connected in 2016, in a period of transition for us both. My law school graduation loomed; the city was then embroiled in a debate about ride-sharing services and implications on accessibility. It showed me just how politically engaged it was from the start. I stayed near RM 2222 and I-35 for that weekend. I found it charming & fun, though I didn’t necessarily think about it past potential future vacations.

I returned just over a year later to celebrate a law school buddy’s birthday. Lake Travis called and demonstrated the versatile nature of the city. Even then, it wasn’t quite clear just how permanent of a fixture this unique capital would be in my life.

Fast forward to 2019 — a friend & mentor informed me of an interesting job opening in the city. I decided to apply, and — by April of that year– it was confirmed that I’d be relocating to ATX.

***

I don’t know when it exactly clicked that this was my place. It could have been with my feet submerged in the pool at Kitty Cohen’s, chatting it up with an Oregonian couple on a cross-country road trip.

Perhaps it was as I walked through Pease Park, taking in the lush greenery of a quiet day in September.

It may certainly have been the first visit to Mt. Bonnell, celebrating a neighbor’s birthday and witnessing the breathtaking sunset from its elevated perspective.

Kayaking on Lady Bird Lake shirtless, after years of being in my head about my fatness, seems like an opportune moment where a nice affinity for the city was recognized.

***

I fell in the deep love I referenced as I took on many new journeys in life.

I became an uncle, began to speak openly about my bisexuality, and ran for elected office for the first time in ATX.

I dated from Casa Colombia to Cinepolis. I hosted friends from Maryland and Minnesota, joyously taking them to see Nether Hour at Latchkey.

I meandered countless times through the Boggy Creek Trail, sitting with the full pain and joy of life as I did so.

I joined Ebenezer III Baptist Church two weeks after I moved. I met Dr. Angela Y. Davis at an Austin Justice Coalition event on E. 4th Street. I celebrated the arrival of a baby for dear friends near Cedar Park. I took the MetroRail for fun on a random Saturday in May. I seemingly identified five cities in one as I got to know the lay of the land better.

At some point, I visited BookPeople every other week. I sent more than several finds to my niece in Oklahoma from the Post Office on E. 6th Street. I visited various campuses of the Austin Public Library to conduct business, wander through the stacks, and discover even more writers. I found effortless connections at crawfish boils, thirtieth birthday parties, and backyard jam sessions.

I faced a racist investigation from the Texas Board of Law Examiners, and I prevailed. I grew more committed to my racial justice advocacy as a civil rights lawyer. I understood intrinsically that — despite the tough political landscape of this state — I was called to it for a reason.

I stayed up all night. I slept well. I leaned into my impetuous exhortations of love. I kept my cards close to my chest. I floated in pools. I accumulated 30,000 steps on a UT game day. I wrote. I dreamed. I sharpened my politics. I laughed hard in bars, at dinner parties, and on rooftops. I planned a life here in ATX.

I don’t know just where this path will lead. Maybe I’ll remain in ATX for another decade — or stay here for 50 years? It’s wonderful to have some strong notes of stability presently mixed with unknown variables.

Wherever the path leads, this city has already left an unexpected, indelible mark on my life. That — in and of it itself — makes it beyond worthy of a grand love that is growing by the day.

For James Robinson, 1987-2022. For millions of Black people across history.

I learned of James’ death on an elevated portion of I-35 near downtown Austin. Up to that point, being suspended from the ground matched the mood of the evening. A new band named Minivan Dad summoned folks to an incredible backyard set. It was a lovely spring day in central Texas.

I called Desireé, then Brenda. Understandably, answering machines greeted me. I offered condolences and then let the stream of consciousness flow. I’m here for you, call me if you need anything, is he really gone?

I stepped out of my Uber, compartmentalizing the bad news as I did so. The night still called, even as my heart seemingly paused.

***

It’s tough enough to process an unexpected passing, and then an ongoing pandemic joins the equation. As of this piece’s publication, the seven-figure marker of COVID-19 casualties in the U.S. quickly approaches. One million people.

I find myself, likely as others do, drifting between some state of normalcy and disbelief. I pull into the parking lot of my neighborhood HEB; I dig into my pockets and realize my mask is at home. It’s April 2022, a far cry from March 2020. I think of the practices that have shifted in 25 months. Sanitizing wipes are no longer used to scrub down every surface of one’s home after a trip outside. I’m both a survivor of COVID-19 and have a booster shot in my arm. Yet, the initial apprehension of early 2020 still governs it all.

Do I go in the store or return home? Why did I forget the damn mask in the first place? I sit still for a minute.

***

I’ve written about death publicly pretty much only once before. Almost seven years to the day, this essay idea jumps from my mind onto the laptop screen. With the unbelievable devastation of the pandemic, it calls me back with both a gentle tug and a forceful mandate.

I remember Donald, I remember Aunt Sara, I remember Cassius, I remember Meonne, I remember Uncle Greg, I remember Tiauna, I remember my grandparents. Now, I remember James. These Black folks — who I knew & conversed with & loved — were no longer with us physically. The years pass, but sometimes that reality slips from me.

***

Where am I?

I drive east on I-20 through heavy rain, with Grandma Jackson in the passenger seat. I sit on her porch, tracing my fingers over her handwriting & awaiting her memorial service. I speak with Donald for nearly an hour near the elevators in the East Towers. I weep in the pews of the Rankin Chapel, watching his stately parents on the stage. I inch closer to Aunt Sara, her umbrella providing protection from the Mississippi sun at an Alcorn football game. I stare at her picture while in Louisiana for Thanksgiving nearly a decade after her passing.

I throw my fists up with James at the base of Table Mountain in Cape Town. I open Instagram to find a post from his fraternity, memorializing him.

2011 somehow seems like it was yesterday, yet it was eleven years ago.

***

My experiences with grief, especially from 2012 onward, prove how non-linear it is. Over two years into the pandemic, deep grief is now an indelible, collective understanding. I cry frequently these days – on the couch, on solo road trips, on a seat in the airport. Depending on the day, the mask collects the tears. I embrace the catharsis of it as I did when I was a young child. I shed the shame I felt about it as a teenager and a twenty-something.

What is the cause of this weeping and its steady flow? Perhaps it’s the substance of work? The realization that this country’s deep commitments to white supremacy & capitalism eviscerated Roe as hundreds of millions of people suffer? There’s a recognition that supporting racial justice initiatives is my life’s work, and I may never achieve a balance between that work and rest. That reality is both empowering and sad.

Maybe it’s the individual deaths in my life over the past decade? News of passings conveyed over phone calls & social media posts can bring back vivid memories. Some days, I could close my eyes and picture the brilliant smiles of these wonderful Black people in front of me. Other days, the times I shared with these folks & the grief blur together as I push them to the back of my mind.

The older I get, the more I seemingly comprehend the nature of grief. It ebbs & flows. It exists across time. It reaches inflection points during a pandemic. It is necessary to experience the fullness of the human condition. It may confer a wide smile one day, and then bring forth a heavy sob the next. It demonstrates the transcendent power of love.

It forces one to remember. For that, despite the pain, I am grateful.

Thank you all so much for the outpouring of love and support as I shared the details of my arduous ordeal to become a Texas attorney.

On January 10, 2022, I submitted a formal complaint to the executive director of the Texas Board of Law Examiners. My grievance primarily focused on the staff attorney assigned to my case and his bold argument that I violated the Louisiana Rules of Professional Conduct — and his maintenance of that assertion well after he knew the Louisiana Attorney Disciplinary Board had no issue with my conduct. At the end of this correspondence, I urged the executive director to assess the race of bar applicants as a factor that should weigh heavily into the decision-making process of what cases proceed to the hearing stage.

I expected little from this administrative process, ostensibly because the executive director approves the cases that proceed to the three-judge panel. However, in the response that the executive director sent on January 24, 2022, she indicated that the full board would consider my recommendation about race assessments in hearing determinations at its next public board meeting. The date for this meeting is March 25, 2022.

I plan to attend to further tell my story on the public record, discuss the history of racial discrimination in bar admissions, and push the Texas Board of Law Examiners to be transparent as it tackles anti-Black racism within its operations.

For any Black attorneys or Black bar applicants who faced the invasive mistreatment of a character & fitness investigation — whether in Texas or another jurisdiction — I’d love to hear from you. Recognizing that this is a big ask, I would ideally love to convene a group of Black attorneys and Black bar applicants to join me at this public meeting.

Shoot me a line at andrew[at]andrewrhairston[dot]com

Solidarity forever in the quest for racial justice,

Andrew