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Governor Kate Brown

Good morning, I am so honored to be with you here this morning. And so honored to be back in Boulder. Thank you Chancellor DiStefano for that wonderful introduction. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on campus. And an even longer time since I lived in Ferrand Hall. I loved the University of Colorado. I am so grateful for the time I was able to spend on this campus. In this city. In this state.

Many of you came from all around the country—and even the world—to be educated in this amazing place. I grew up in a suburb of the Twin Cities. My dad was a physician and we led a comfortable, middle-class life. I never had to worry about the heat getting shut off during the subzero Minnesota winters. And I always knew that I would be going to college. My parents raised me and my siblings to believe that if we worked hard and played by the rules, we could get ahead. And that education was the key to a better life. Like many Midwestern kids, I looked to the western horizon for my future. Once I toured this campus, I was hooked. I couldn’t see past the Flatirons. It’s funny, because when I started at CU, I started in the Political Science department. I thought that would be a great background for a budding lawyer. I absolutely hated it. The classes were huge, and the lectures droned on. It was not a good fit for my skills. I knew I had to find something else. So I started looking around and I found out about the Environmental Conservation program. It was relatively new. The classes were small. And getting out of the lecture halls helped me put the things we were learning into focus. But, what really set the program apart were the hands-on learning opportunities. We got outside to take what we learned in the classroom and apply it to the real world. One summer, I spent six weeks in the mountains outside Gerlach, Nevada studying the behavior of feral horses. It turns out it was useful training for being in the Oregon Legislature...We ate only what we could carry. We slept under the Nevada stars. And of course, we spent a lot of time in silence. Watching. Waiting. When they appeared, the horses were extraordinary. Sometimes we saw them for fleeting moments. Other times we were able to observe them long enough that you could get a sense of their individual personalities. And with that, a sense of place A reverence for the world we live in. I loved every single minute of it. It became clear to me that our natural environment isn’t just something to cherish, it’s a part of who we are.

I went on from CU to Portland, Oregon to study environmental law at Lewis and Clark College. But after three years of study, I realized I’d taken another wrong turn and that this was not a good fit for me. So, I sought a career in public service with a singular mission: to give a voice to the voiceless. For example, it’s true that I carry with me every single day the privilege of white skin.  I do not know what it’s like to experience racism. I do know what it’s like to be terrified going to work every day. Afraid of losing my job if someone discovered that my partner at the time was a woman. And I know what it feels like to be treated differently and paid less than a man. Even though I knew I was doing a better job. And on the day I was sworn in as Oregon’s 38th Governor, I experienced what it’s like to be labeled. To have my entire first two decades of public service eclipsed by a single phrase: “the nation’s first openly bisexual governor.” That phrase appeared after my name in virtually every headline around the world.

I am sure there are some of you out there today who, over the course of your lives, have experienced stereotyping, discrimination, or fear that interferes with your ability to live openly and with dignity. This should not happen. Not here. Not anywhere. Each of us has the right to live with dignity. I went to law school because I believed a law degree would give me the tools to make change in the world. After law school, as an advocate for a women’s organization, I lobbied the Legislature on policies to improve the health and wellness of Oregon women. This included improving domestic violence laws, stepping up child support enforcement, and advocating for passage of family medical leave. My work as an advocate led to my appointment to a vacant seat in the House of Representatives, a position I would need to get elected to in order to keep. But then, my predecessor, the state representative who had stepped down, changed her mind. She decided to run against me, hoping to get her House seat back. Well, I was doomed – everyone said so. She was well-known; I was not. That made it all but impossible to raise money for my campaign. But I had two things going for me: guts and determination. If I couldn’t out-fundraise my opponent, I would outwork her. I became the human embodiment of what it means to run for office. I ran, sprinting from dawn until dark every single day – knocking on as many doors and talking to as many voters as I could.

And yes, in the end, I won – by seven votes. Seven. Votes. I share this story with you — because today your voices matter more than they ever have. In March of this year Conor Lamb won his seat in the House of Representatives by a mere 627 votes. In January, control of the Virginia state house was decided essentially by the flip of a coin. And last July, the U.S. Senate came within one vote of taking healthcare away from millions of Americans. Politics is not a spectator sport. We must all do our part. We have made a lot of progress since I was a student. However I would argue, we still have a long way to go.

When I was here in school, we were studying Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. We worried about the issue of the time, overpopulation. But underlying it—obviously—was the threat that humans are posing to our own planet. Today, it’s clear to us—at least most of us, anyway—that climate change poses an existential threat to our entire way of life. Future generations will judge us not on the fact of global climate change, but what we've done to tackle it. When I was a student here, we were still reeling from Watergate. The damage that Nixon’s dirty tricks and his southern strategy had done to our politics. In Mississippi, Ronald Reagan kicked off his campaign for president in 1980 talking about “states’ rights.” Back then the principle of states’ rights was a subtext for the politics of fear that had reordered our political landscape. It was driving a new wedge between us: pitting rural white voters against urban communities and communities of color. Unlike climate change, that crisis is visible today in a way that I think few of us expected decades ago. The subtext has become the literal text. It’s time for new voices to rise up. It’s time for fresh faces. And I am so proud that many of you here at CU are already making your voices heard.

Let me tell you about Gaby. Gaby started going to school as a third grader after her family relocated to the United States from Mexico. By the time she was in high school, c