John, have I ever told you about Christmas the year I decided to run for office?
Let’s turn back the clock to 2017. We’d just elected Roy Cooper the year before, but with a Republican supermajority in the legislature, the North Carolina I lived in seemed to resemble the North Carolina I grew up in less and less every day. Eventually, it got to the point where I knew I couldn't sit on the sidelines anymore, so I got in touch with the NC Democratic Party and let them know I wanted to help break the supermajority.
But running for office isn’t as easy as just saying you’re going to do it. Especially that year, it was a major uphill fight—our party was still reeling from Donald Trump’s upset victory in 2016, and no one was really sure how to deal with our new political reality. In many ways, we still aren’t. That election probably gave every Democrat over the age of eighteen permanent trust issues.
I’m also not exactly a candidate out of central casting. I’m not wealthy. I don’t come from a political family. I have a PhD in economics, not a law degree. Hell, when I told my family I was planning to run, I don’t think they thought I was very serious. Even my mom’s first reaction was, “Nobody knows who the hell you are.”
Honestly, John, I thought about not even filing.
And then Christmas came that year—but amid the presents and the cookies and the lights, my mind was far away from the festivities. Was I going to take this leap and run for office? Did I stand a chance at making a difference? How could I expect people to believe in me when it seemed like even my own family wasn’t sure about this whole thing?
But as I sat there with everyone on Christmas morning, in my parents’ house in Statesville, gathered around the tree, my middle sister, Lauren, passed me her gift. Turned out it was a large old map of NC (if you’ve ever been on a Zoom with me from my apartment, it's the map that's in the background). I love a good wall map, so that was exciting enough, but as I unrolled the map, something else fell out of the package.
A car magnet. A car magnet with my name and a logo on it. And then my family told me told me to go outside—because out in the driveway, the same magnet was already on everyone’s cars: “Wesley Harris for all of us”.