Thirteen years ago, a young mayor of San Antonio gave the keynote speech at the 2012 Democratic National Convention in North Carolina. At that point, the largely unknown Julián Castro became an instantaneous political phenom and a seemingly inevitable rising party star.
The press and politicos dubbed him the “Hispanic Obama,” a rather reductive moniker drawing the connection between the high-profile speaking slot that helped spark their ascents. Castro was soon after appointed Obama’s Housing and Urban Development secretary, which was supposed to serve as a stepping stone to the top of the ballot in Texas, where he could ride the state’s demographic destiny to victory and, eventually, run for president.
Alas, that was not the case. He decided not to challenge Ted Cruz for U.S. Senate in 2018, leaving the path wide-open for Beto O’Rourke, and waited to run straight for the presidency in 2020, a failed bid that likely narrowed his political future rather than expand it. His twin brother, longtime Congressman Joaquin Castro, declined to challenge Cruz in that pivotal year too.
Julián Castro’s case is symbolic of a broader trend in Texas politics in which Democrats’ leading Hispanic political talent has opted against running for higher office (or has otherwise failed to make it through the primary). This has come even as Latinos have become a plurality of the state population, at roughly 40 percent, en route to a likely majority.
Democratic Congressmen Joaquin Castro and Beto O’Rourke in Dallas in April 2017 (Gus Bova)
There are myriad reasons for this. For one, the anti-Trump electoral resistance of 2018 shifted emphasis to (largely white) swing voters in the purpling suburbs—not base turnout among Latino voters. Another reason is that some of the state’s most qualified Hispanic candidates have preferred to remain in their current cozy posts in the Texas Legislature or U.S. House rather than risk embarrassment in a statewide loss.
The national party, which has significant influence in primary races for federal office in Texas, has prioritized a cookie-cutter playbook backing performatively moderate candidates like military veteran M.J. Hegar and former NFL linebacker-turned-Dallas Congressman Colin Allred, who can raise truck-hauls of money from donors nationwide and proceed to waste it all on ineffective TV ads full of tropes about football and motorcycles.
Take, for instance, the Democratic primary for U.S. Senate in 2024 between Allred and San Antonio state Senator Roland Gutierrez, who was channeling fury over the Uvalde school shooting in his district to run statewide as a progressive fighter. Allred, who was the chosen pick of Democratic Senate Leader Chuck Schumer, outraised Gutierrez by gargantuan ratios.
The national party even reportedly worked behind the scenes to pressure the influential Congressional Hispanic Caucus’ super PAC, which is meant to back Latino candidates running in competitive primaries, to withhold its endorsement (and potential millions in support) from Gutierrez.
A brief mini-scandal was even made of Gutierrez’s once-uncontroversial case on the campaign trail that the Dems’ best shot at winning statewide in Texas would come through running strong Hispanic candidates. He pointed to electoral results from 2022 showing that attorney general candidate Rochelle Garza, a little-known civil rights advocate from the Rio Grande Valley, outperformed then-gubernatorial candidate O’Rourke by 3 percentage points, as did he in his own downballot race.
In reality, Texas Democrats haven’t actually tested the case of whether a strong Latino candidate can mobilize the state’s largest demographic to win a statewide race—notwithstanding the party’s 2002 “Dream Team” slate of diverse candidates headlined by Laredo millionaire banker Tony Sanchez, whose main asset other than his identity was an ability to self-fund, rather than any particular political prowess.
Just a few Hispanic candidates have even run at or near the top of the state ballot since—including then-Dallas County Sheriff Lupe Valdez for governor in 2018 and Garza for AG in 2022—but these were underqualified candidates who ran in the absence of more-prominent federal or state elected officials. (Valdez’s main primary competition in 2018 was the son of a former governor, and the 77-year-old later went on to lose a bid to retake her old sheriff seat; Garza bested a former Galveston mayor in her 2022 primary and, to her credit, now leads the venerable Texas Civil Rights Project.) Meanwhile, the Castros of course stayed out, as did a few sometimes-mentioned possible candidates in the Legislature like Rafael Anchía and Gina Hinojosa.
Allred trounced Gutierrez in last year’s primary, but he was in turn trounced by Cruz (who is Cuban-American, among other things) in the general election in November. That same election was headlined by now-President Donald Trump, who made historic inroads with Latino voters in the South Texas borderlands and beyond.
Those electoral changes fueled narratives about a Trump-powered racial realignment among the Latino electorate from blue to red. It’s unclear whether those voting changes were more of an ephemeral wonder than a true tectonic shift, but if it’s the latter, then Democrats’ chances of flipping Texas blue are, well, dead.
Perhaps the best way to fight those trend lines, win back those voters, and prove that Democrats are the party of the working-class majorities in Texas—and the party fighting against Trump’s mass-deportation agenda targeting immigrant communities—is also the most obvious way: Run a strong Latino candidate, who already holds office at an appropriate governmental level, and mobilize all the backing that the state and national party apparatuses can muster for them. Cut loose the perennial losers and the failsons of fading political and ranching dynasties; they’ll be just fine. (And, of course, it wouldn’t hurt to actually run on working-class issues or seriously oppose the political corruption that’s rampant in this state.)
As of early August, only one serious Democrat, Allred, has declared his candidacy for next year’s marquee U.S. Senate race—continuing the trend of failed candidates seeking second shots in Texas. Other names include prominent gringos, O’Rourke (who seemingly remains born to be in it) and Austin state Representative-turned-social media phenom James Talarico. Joaquin Castro has hinted interest but, as ever, is keeping his cards tight.
If a serious Hispanic candidate does get in, they’ll still have to win the primary against (at minimum) Allred, who retains a big national donor base and apparent backing from major players. Primary voters and a sufficient mass of party leaders will have to choose to change course.
Before the Sanchez Dream Team failed at the outset of the 21st century, there were precious few Latino Texans nominated or elected to statewide office in the century prior. San Antonio state Representative Dan Morales’ 1990 election as attorney general still stands as the only statewide ballot-box victory for a Hispanic Democrat in Texas history.
Perhaps, it’s time for an idea whose time clearly came long ago.
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