It’s Wednesday in early January, the first full week of the new Congress, and Sarah McBride has no desk. The start of a new term is a time for hiring and parceling out furniture and computers, but that’s clearly not the issue. Her receptionist has a fully assembled workplace, as do the staff members she’s hired, including a first-day intern waiting to be given something to do.
It turns out the omission is intentional. McBride says she’s simply not a sit-behind-an-imposing-desk type. Delaware’s sole House member opts instead for a sofa and a few chairs arranged around a slender coffee table, so the vibe is more kitchen-table confab than high-powered CEO. “I just figured, it’s a small space,” she says, “so all of it should be conducive to group conversation.”
She’s also relentlessly high-spirited and always willing to snort while laughing at a joke. And the cumulative effect of both her sunny disposition and her office-furnishing feng shui is unmistakable: McBride isn’t going to change much to accommodate anyone as she launches into her historic House career at age 34. As the first transgender member of Congress, elected in a landslide, she’s something of a national curiosity at the moment, scrutinized and poked at by reporters—a “Washington Post” reporter and photographer are on hand today—and tested by a right-wing provocateur over bathroom access.
McBride was defended by Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, interviewed in “The New Yorker,” and profiled at length by the Associated Press—all before taking the oath of office. Scores of House members serve multiple terms without even getting a whiff of that kind of attention.
It’s a lot, by any measure. But as the spotlight gets hotter, McBride seems determined to stick to one core strategy: Remain essentially who she is.
Desks might be optional for McBride, but one thing isn’t: coffee. She begins her day with an 8 a.m. call, and it’s nearly 9:30 before she can slip away for the beverage she likens to oxygen. She drinks as many as five cups of coffee for fuel until her first meal of the day, typically around dinnertime. She and Michaela Kurinsky-Malos, her deputy chief of staff and communications director, head to the Longworth building cafeteria, where McBride turbocharges the beverage with three packages of Splenda and a healthy splash of dairy. “I like a little coffee with my cream and sugar,” she jokes.
With the caffeine starting to deliver its magic, she heads to the congressional film studio to shoot a brief video for an upcoming Delaware State Chamber of Commerce annual dinner. Still newbies to the building, she and Kurinsky-Malos must consult a map hanging in the mazelike complex to locate the studio, which is fashioned after an evening-news set, complete with camera and teleprompter.
Sitting in a news-anchor chair, McBride smiles widely and begins, “Good evening, Delaware state chamber!”—but flubs the line before she can finish it. “Shit, sorry,” she says, grinning. McBride nails the second take, but the studio engineer reports that the message clocks in at 2:35.
“It was supposed to be 60 seconds,” Kurinsky-Malos says.
“Can we go back and edit?” McBride asks. She opens a laptop, pares away some words, and starts over. This time, she delivers on the second take in a more reasonable 1:45. “Fourth time’s the charm,” she quips.
On the way back to her office, McBride is intercepted by an aide, who pulls her into a policy briefing. Then, on her second coffee run, Rep. George Latimer of New York approaches, starting a conversation by murmuring, “The great state of Delaware,” over her shoulder. Members of the House Democratic Caucus—and most Republican House members she’s met—have made a point of welcoming her. On the coffee table in her office is a handwritten note from a California representative. It accompanies a T-shirt bearing the words “Bad Bitches for Democracy.” Later in the day, a bottle of chardonnay arrives.
Before McBride can leave the Longworth cafeteria, an aide from another office stops her to say hello; he’s also a Delaware native, and they both graduated from high school in 2009. It quickly morphs into one of those who-you-knew-back-when conversations: “I’m really good friends with his brother Reed,” she says.
“McBride is aware that she’s a target—she’s endured death threats along every step of her political journey—and has a good idea of what’s ahead.
“I know Reed!” says her new friend.
And so it goes, through two afternoon meetings that focus on reining in credit rescue organizations, which claim to help people deal with credit problems but seem to mainly exist to collect fees. McBride is crafting a bill—her first piece of legislation—and expects to have bipartisan backing.
Busy politicians can be eager to push people out to get on to the next thing, but not once does McBride show the whetted edge of her impatience. Both meetings begin and end with an exploration of mutual Delaware connections. During the last one, after sharing stories about the best ice cream in Lewes and where to stay in Rehoboth, McBride seems elated. “One of the things that I’m realizing about Congress that I’m loving is like, when I was in the state legislature, everyone was in Delaware, and so we weren’t coming in talking about our Delaware stories,” she says. “But now that I’m in Congress, everyone comes and tells me their Delaware stories.
“Maybe eventually down the road, once the bill passes, we’ll celebrate over an Orange Crush,” she adds.
Not all days will pass as pleasantly over the next two years, of course. There will be longer hours, steeper legislative tasks, and right-wing assaults on multiple flanks. McBride is aware that she’s a target—she’s endured death threats along every step of her political journey—and has a good idea of what’s ahead. Less than a week earlier, Politico reported that trans rights would be the “marquee fight for House Republicans” during the 119th Congress. This sets up McBride’s first term to look something like a Chekhov play: It’s impossible to tell the story of her triumphs without the story of the setbacks that will happen parallel to them.
“Beyond my election, there are so many points of light for trans people right now,” she says, slowing her cadence. “But I think—like so many points in American history—it is the dual story of pain and progress.
“This moment is particularly dangerous for a lot of vulnerable people in this country. And I think there will be some battles that are won, and there will be a lot of battles that are lost. I mean, not to sound flippant, but elections have consequences, and there is only so much that can be done, short of winning elections, to stop this.”
McBride is fully aware of her historical place, just as much as she knows she can’t be the load-bearing wall for the entire trans community, which is partly why she took a hard pass on pushing back on the transgender bathroom ban proposed before her arrival. “Fighting harder on every single battle is not going to change the outcome, unfortunately,” she says. “Fighting smarter can. And fundamentally, the only way to really stop these attacks is to win elections—and win hearts and minds.”
“When you’re trying to convince people to change their minds…you do it by demonstrating your vulnerability and your humanity while extending a degree of grace…
The latter feat is accomplished by focusing on the core economic and health care issues that defined her time in the Delaware Senate, she says—and by engaging and trying to understand opponents rather than retreating into dogmatic defense postures. “When you’re trying to convince people to change their minds, anger cements positions,” she points out. “You do it by demonstrating your vulnerability and your humanity while extending a degree of grace to allow them to grow.”
This means engaging, rather than rejecting, people with political differences. “Don’t defriend that Republican friend of yours, right?” she says. “Have them see your social media and then post…what Democrats in Congress are doing. Post the story about that DACA recipient who’s fearful for their future. Post that story about the trans kid who’s just trying to get through the school day, so that that Republican friend sees those things. Because that might be the only way they’re exposed to it.”
Those battles will come soon enough. For now, McBride is focused on delivering her first floor speech and introducing her first bill, likely in the week or two to come—in addition to getting her office fully up and running, and remaining vigilant to constituent needs. And though it’s now 5 p.m., and her staff is heading home, there are three more events to attend, and she’ll have to eat something at some point, before finally calling it a day after 13 or 14 hours of work.
There will be plenty of these types of days too—with no respite back in her home state. “There are a lot of events, a lot of meetings to have there,” she says. “In fact, in some ways, district days might even be busier.”
The good news is that she’s young—she’s only just getting started, in fact—and there will be plenty of coffee. “That’s right,” McBride says, smiling. “So, obviously I’m fine, right?”
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