BITING THE HAND THAT VOTES FOR YOU

By Suzanne Bellsnyder, Texas Rural Reporter
This past weekend, the Texas Republican Party held a meeting that told rural Texans everything we need to know about
who’s really running things. The socalled “grassroots” censure campaign against Republican lawmakers wasn’t a homegrown
uprising of county conservatives—it was a coordinated insider operation cooked up in Austin. And once again, it’s the rural legislators who paid the price.
Ten House Republicans were considered, including Speaker Dustin Burrows of Lubbock, but only five were formally censured: Stan Lambert of Abilene, Angelia Orr of Itasca, Jared Patterson of Frisco, Gary VanDeaver of New Boston, and Dade Phelan
of Beaumont. Most of the five represent rural or semirural districts. Urban and suburban members—those from Collin County, Dallas, and surrounding areas—who cast similar or even more consequential policy votes, got a pass.
So what exactly does a censure mean? Under the party’s Rule 44, it’s more than a slap on the wrist. It allows the GOP to pull neutrality and financial support from a targeted lawmaker, spend party funds to publicize the censure in their district, urge them not to run again, and—under its harshest “death penalty” clause—bar them from the Republican ballot for up to
two years. The pattern is easy to see if you follow the trail. The county resolutions that kicked off this wave of
censures were written under the guidelines of a state party framework created in Austin. Over the summer, party leadership convened a “Legislative Review Task Force,” identified which lawmakers were “eligible” for censure, and circulated model resolutions for counties to copy and file. By the time the September “Censure Report” came out, the list was already set. Counties were just checking boxes. So while the party markets this as a “grassroots” movement, it’s really a top-down effort to punish independence—especially among legislators who still listen to their hometown voters instead of the special interests ringing the Capitol dome.
Take Representative Ken King of Canadian. The state party listed him in its September report with 17 reasons for censure, painting him as one of the worst offenders. But here’s the catch: not one of the 19 counties King represents chose to bring forward a local censure resolution. That’s right—his own people didn’t file a single complaint. The attacks on King didn’t come from the Panhandle; they came from Austin. King’s “crime” was representing his district and standing up for public schools, local control, and common sense. The party leadership couldn’t control him, so they targeted him. That’s the thread running through all of this. Rural lawmakers tend to be more independent, less dependent on the donor class, and far more in tune
with their local school boards, county judges, and communities. When they push back on top-down agendas that threaten local control, they draw fire from party insiders who want discipline, not debate. Even the inconsistencies in who got censured
prove the point. Stan Lambert and Gary VanDeaver—both respected in their communities—were punished primarily for procedural votes tied to House rules. Yet urban members who supported those same votes escaped censure altogether. Two of the five censured lawmakers aren’t even running for reelection, so there will be no real penalty. It’s like running up the
score in a high-school football game—it wasn’t about accountability; it was about revenge. There real motive behind the censure campaigns became clear when Don Hopper, husband of the party’s general counsel, said in a YouTube chat during
Saturday’s meeting that the Rule 44 “death penalty” was written specifically “to remove Phelan.” Imagine that—months of so-called grassroots outrage, all to settle a personal score. Even President Trump reportedly weighed in behind closed doors, warning Texas Republicans that if they used the death-penalty option to ban lawmakers from the GOP primary ballot, the national party could pull its funding. It’s worth noting that three of the five censured lawmakers were Trump-endorsed, making
the whole exercise look even more absurd. What’s happening here isn’t about conservative values—it’s about control. The censure process has become a tool for party leadership and well-connected political groups to influence local primaries and keep rural legislators in line. They’re using the language of grassroots activism to mask a power grab. Rural Texans should take that personally. When the state party tries to dictate how our representatives vote or who they support for House Speaker, that’s an attack on local self-government. Folks in places like Abilene, Canadian, and New Boston know their
legislators personally. They don’t need a committee in Austin telling them who’s “Republican enough.” The answer isn’t for rural Texans to give up—it’s to get involved. Show up at your county GOP meetings. Run for precinct chair. Make sure the people sitting in those local GOP seats actually reflect the values of your community, not the ambitions of Austin insiders. If the Republican Party in Texas is going to mean anything to rural voters, it ought to stand for independence, accountability, and honesty—not political vendettas. Because when party leadership in Austin starts deciding who’s loyal enough to wear the Republican label, they aren’t just silencing legislators like Stan Lambert or Gary VanDeaver—they’re silencing the rural Texans who sent them there. And that’s a bridge too far.