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Floor Speech

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Mr. SCHIFF. Mr. President, almost 6 years ago, I stood here on the Senate floor--I was not yet a Member of this body--and spoke as a House Member leading President Trump's first impeachment. ``We are not enemies,'' I said, quoting Lincoln, ``but friends. We must not be enemies.''

``If Lincoln could speak those words during the Civil War,'' I observed, ``surely we could say them and mean them now.''

In the 6 years since that impeachment, our country has only become further divided. It has become even more challenging for Americans to speak with each other, with our neighbors, even with members of our own families who have been alienated from one another.

How we begin to heal our present wounds and bring about a sense of common purpose that has been lost is difficult to say, as the causes of our division are many. But I suspect, if there was a common denominator to what must be done, it begins with a renewed effort to better understand each other, who we are, where we come from, what drives us.

In that spirit, let me tell you a little bit about who I am that may differ from the version that many Americans see on FOX or in the President's social media feed and what I have done to introduce myself to my 40 million new constituents because I intend to be a Senator for all Californians in the red areas and the blue and everywhere else in between.

That is one reason I sought to join the Senate Agriculture Committee--the first time in more than 30 years that our Nation's largest agriculture-producing State has had a seat at that table.

I have traveled the State on planes, trains, automobiles, even boats, visiting nearly half of California's 58 counties, including some of the most conservative parts of our State. I have toured almond orchards, cilantro fields, health clinics, food banks, and affordable housing developments. I even took part in an ill- advised game of dice at a bar in Los Banos while drinking a bitter Dutch liqueur, which I will not be repeating.

Wherever I go, I ask Californians the same question: How can I help?

It is certainly true, depending on where I am in the Golden State, that sometimes I have to break through caricatures of me on rightwing media. That can be a challenge, but it is one I very much enjoy. There is nothing more fun in politics than upsetting people's expectations.

I knew, for example, I was making progress when a farmer in conservative Butte County told me after an hour-long meeting:

I don't know why the President calls you ``watermelon head.'' You have a perfectly normal size head.

And that comes from a farmer who knows a thing or two about melons.

Traveling across California has only underscored that it is the honor of a lifetime to serve the State I so deeply love in the Senate.

I am especially humbled to serve alongside my friend and colleague Alex Padilla and to follow in the footsteps of trailblazing giants who have gone before us--Dianne Feinstein, Barbara Boxer, and our own Madam Vice President, Kamala Harris, in whose Hart office I now sit.

I am grateful beyond measure to my staff--the smartest, hardest working, best looking bunch of public servants in America--whose dedication to the people of California inspires me every day.

Of course, I am deeply grateful to my family--my strong, loving, daring, and caring wife Eve--yes, we are Adam and Eve; my children Lexi and Eli, of whom I am immensely proud; my late parents Ed and Sherrill, who taught me everything important; and my brothers Daniel and David.

Like so many Americans, I owe who I am to my family. My family owes who we have become to the opportunities this country has afforded us.

My parents Ed and Sherrill were the grandchildren of immigrants of Eastern Europe, from Lithuania and Poland; and as my parents used to say with pride: From the ``shtetl'' to the Congress in three generations--only in America.

My father Ed left high school early to join the military at the end of World War II. He tried to enlist in the Marine Corps but failed the physical--flat feet and bad eyes. Two weeks later, he went to enlist in the Army, thinking there might be a different physical standard or at least a different examining physician. As it turned out, it was the same standard and the same damn physician.

``Wait, weren't you here 2 weeks ago?'' the doctor asked.

My father said, ``Yes.''

``You really want to get in that bad?''

My father said, ``Yes.''

Just like that, Ed Schiff was in the U.S. Army.

After he left the service, my father went to college on the GI Bill. He later dropped out--one of the few decisions in life he came to regret--and went into the ``schmatta'' business--that is Yiddish for ``clothing'' or ``rags''--and sold ``schmatta'' up and down New England.

Eventually, he got promoted and moved our family from Framingham, MA, to Scottsdale, AZ, and finally to Alamo, CA. We went from working class to middle class, my father eventually getting out of the clothing business and buying a lumber yard.

I grew up, like so many other kids in that era, with Little League and Cub Scouts and lemonade stands; my mother ringing a cow bell to let us know when it was dinner time; the sonorous, authoritative voice of Walter Cronkite on TV; and summers spent working in restaurants or hauling sacks of concrete and roofing materials.

We lived the booms and busts of the 1970s and 1980s. At times, my father would tell us that the business was growing so fast, it was scary. Other times, he would tell us that we all needed to tighten our belts to make it through the next few years.

But because this is America, because my family settled in the Golden State in the 1970s, I was able to attend some of the finest K-through- 12 public schools in the country. That has made everything possible. I was able to become a prosecutor with the U.S. Attorney's Office in L.A. and take on everything from drug trafficking, to corruption, to Russian spies. That included prosecuting Richard Miller, the first FBI agent ever indicted for espionage, and my first introduction into the insidious influence of the Russian Government.

I was able to win elective office--not on my first try, not even on my second. The third time is the charm. And for three decades now, I have had the privilege to serve the people of California in the State senate, in the U.S. House, and now in this august Chamber.

So many of us who grew up in the postwar era share a common experience. We entered a dynamic, growing economy, one that had its ups and downs, winners and losers, but still an economy that allowed millions to climb into and stay in the middle class. We benefited from vibrant democratic institutions that, despite their many flaws and blind spots, upheld the rule of law and steadily improved the quality of people's lives.

In so many ways, California embodies that limitless future: Exciting. Entrepreneurial. Home to Silicon Valley and aerospace and Hollywood, to Disneyland and redwoods reaching the skies, the shores to the mountains. I can still remember the wonder in my friend's eyes when I announced that we were moving to the Golden State.

Yet that California, that America that made my story and so many others' possible, is today under grave threat. What was once a sturdy ladder into middle class now feels more like splintered wood.

My parents bought our first home for $18,000--what my father earned in a single year as a clothing salesman. These days, in most of California, that wouldn't cover 6 months of rent. The notion of buying a place for a year's salary is a fantasy for all but a tiny handful of the most wealthy Americans.

When my brother Dan entered UC Berkley in 1976, tuition cost practically nothing--a couple hundred bucks in registration fees, another couple hundred for books, maybe a thousand for room and board. That was the cost to attend what even I--a graduate of Cal's rival from across the bay--must grudgingly admit is one of the best universities in the world. Today, attending that same institution will cost you upwards of $50,000 a year.

I hear from Californians every day who are struggling, one health problem or car problem away from failure; the exhaustion; the desperation; the pride they take in their work and the despair that it never seems to be enough.

The man in San Diego who wrote me, telling me he will have to spend thousands of dollars more a year just to keep his health coverage or may have to drop it completely.

The young woman in the North State who did everything right--got a good education and has a mountain of debt to show for it--and who told me in tears how she is deathly afraid of getting sick because she can't afford it, how she has nothing set aside for retirement and nothing to set aside.

The farmworkers in the Central Valley who are afraid to go to work and attend church lest ICE detain them, citizens and noncitizens alike.

Is it any wonder that so many Americans believe that the system no longer works for them and that hard work is no longer a guarantee of a good life?

That sense for the first time in our history and for millions of Americans that their parents' lives were better, that their children's future is in doubt, is a powerful and destabilizing force because when our economy stops working, our democracy stops working. We have seen this movie before, over and over again.

In college, I traveled behind the Iron Curtain. As a young Department of Justice lawyer assigned to work in Czechoslovakia, I saw up close how an autocrat could exploit profound economic dislocation and inequality to divide and dominate. As a Member of Congress, I witnessed civil society activists fighting oppressive regimes around the world which impoverished their own people even as they enriched themselves.

When the political system that is supposed to address economic challenges proves itself incapable or indifferent, too many people become susceptible to the siren song of any demagogue who insists that they alone can fix it.

So we come to this perilous moment when so many of our expectations have been proven incorrect--we who watched walls coming down, new democracies being born, more people able to practice their faith, associate with whom they would, and able to speak their piece. We came to believe that freedom would be forever on the march, that it was inevitable, inexorable, irrevocable. We were wrong.

There is nothing inexorable about democracy. The moral arc of the universe is long, and it bends toward justice, but not on its own, not without effort, not without sacrifice, and not at the present moment.

If we are to preserve this great, this improbable experiment in self- governance, our press must remain free from coercion; our universities must be free to teach, our law firms to take on unpopular clients, our Justice Department to do impartial justice, our companies to hire the best talent, our legislators to vote their conscience without fear of violence or reprisal.

The health of our democracy and the strength of our economy are deeply entwined. We cannot have a strong economy without a strong democracy, and we cannot have a strong democracy if we cannot answer in the affirmative the most basic, the most vital, the most central question facing American families, and that question is this: If you are working hard in America, can you still earn a good living for yourself and your family?

To answer that question ``yes'' means putting a relentless focus on the basic needs of our constituents--food, housing, healthcare, a good job, and the dignity that comes with work. It means acknowledging our own failures of leadership and governance and calling out corruption where we see it. It means placing a renewed focus on getting stuff done.

As it so often has, I believe that California is again showing the way in the resurgence of San Francisco under a mayor who has prioritized results over ideology; in Los Angeles, where communities are coming together to rebuild from the ashes; in San Jose's data- driven governance; in Sacramento and Oakland and San Diego taking real action on homelessness, transit, and housing; in the Central Valley, the Imperial Valley, and the North State in growing the food that nourishes us and pressing on despite the hardship of not enough water and too many tariffs. Each of us, I am sure, can point to places in our States and our cities that are addressing real challenges with the seriousness, creativity, and urgency that they deserve.

So here in Washington, let us take our cue from the communities we are privileged to represent.

Let's act anew to jump-start the next housing boom in America, just as we did for returning GIs after World War II, as legislation I have just introduced would do, so that every family can afford a roof over their heads.

Let's find ways to bring down costs on groceries, on electricity, and on childcare so that a living wage means something again in America.

Let's educate and prepare Americans to thrive in a world of AI and automation while continuing to advance America's technological edge.

Let's put forward a real vision for a fair and humane immigration system that attracts the world's hardest workers, brightest minds, and best hearts--and retains them rather than kicks them out.

Let's act not just to prevent the closure of rural hospitals and labor and delivery rooms but to expand access to affordable, quality healthcare for all.

In so doing, let us demonstrate to the American people that Congress need not be the opposite of progress; that redtape and bureaucracy need not be the reason that vital housing goes unbuilt and small businesses go under; that whether an American lives on the coasts or in the heartland--in places that voted for us or against us--we see and hear them and that their voices carry more weight than a lobbyist's checkbook.

I am a proud Democrat, but I am also willing to work with anyone to advance those efforts, including that guy at the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue, who doesn't care for me very much and whom I am not particularly fond of either, because life is too short and the problems are too great not to seize every opportunity to make progress.

Believe it or not, I was born bipartisan. On my dad's side, I am the son of Roosevelt Democrats. On my mom's side, I am the grandson of a Republican county chair who really did like Ike.

Long before I became one of the Democrats that Republicans love to hate, I chaired the Judiciary Committee in the California State Senate. As chairman, I encouraged members to sit not by party. We considered every bill referred to committee whether it was introduced by a Democrat or a Republican. We voted alphabetically, not by seniority. We tried, in other words, to put problem-solving above partisanship.

As a House Member, I quickly learned this wasn't the way in Washington. The first time I voted at odds with my party in committee, the ranking member positively levitated out of his seat before storming over and screaming at me in the middle of the hearing room.

I told constituents after that experience that the quickest way to power and influence on the Hill was to eat right, exercise, and outlive the bastards.

(Laughter.)

But it doesn't have to be that way.

When I joined this Chamber, I was gratified that a number of my Republican colleagues reached out to reassure me that they would help California receive the aid we need to recover from this year's devastating wildfires. In fact, the very first bill I introduced in the Senate was alongside Senator Sheehy, who knows a little bit about fighting fires, to provide tax credits so that folks can protect their homes against wildfires and other disasters. I have been proud to champion legislation alongside so many of my Republican colleagues.

So, yes, you may have first met me standing on this floor as an impeachment manager. And when this President transgresses the Constitution or puts forward nominees I consider beyond the pale, uses the military to kill survivors at sea, or tries to rip away Medicaid from our most vulnerable, you will find me right here, standing up to him and standing up for the values I cherish and the people I was elected to serve.

But to anyone serious about solving real problems, no matter what side of the aisle, you will find me a willing partner. After all, isn't that why we chose public service? Isn't that why we were sent here--to make life better for the people we represent?

My purpose was summed up for me decades before I entered public life--not by Jefferson or Lincoln, not by Shakespeare or Tocqueville, but by a 5-year-old boy. Earlier, I mentioned my gratitude for my brother David, and he is my brother not by blood but by choice.

David and I met through the Big Brothers program in Greater Los Angeles almost 40 years ago. It has been one of the great joys of my life to watch him grow up and be a part of his life--to go from splashing through the surf on Venice Beach together, to seeing him graduate from Yale and USC film school, to becoming a talented screenwriter and producer and a big brother himself.

What first struck me about David was his application to the program, which asked little brothers what three things they wished for. As you can imagine, most typically wished for the things kids crave: a bike, a skateboard, a room of their own. David asked for a big brother, a puppy, and ``a beautiful world.'' What 5-year-old dedicates one of their three precious wishes to something so selfless and intangible as a beautiful world? But that was who he was then, and it is who he is now.

And my wish is the same as his wish. It is the wish that drives my hopes for what can be achieved in this body and through the maddening, messy work of politics.

My colleagues, within weeks of my swearing-in, California was burning. Entire neighborhoods were wiped away in minutes, and families were sifting through ash where homes once stood. Yet, after every fire I have ever witnessed, one truth endures: When the smoke clears and the embers fade to nothing, people come back to rebuild their lives not because it is easy but because it is necessary and because they believe in their neighborhood, their community, and in one another.

Right now, our Nation is passing through a different kind of fire--an inferno of division, of fear, of dreading the rent check on the first of the month, and watching institutional guardrails topple one by one by one. But we are not powerless--not us here in this body, not those in America who have the most important title in a democracy, that of ``citizen.'' We are not condemned to live in the ashes. We can rebuild a country where every child has a fair shot and hard work leads to a good life; where people, no matter their background, are free from want and fear, free to succeed; where government is accountable and responsive to the people; and, yes, where right and truth and decency matter.

It is the country my parents believed in when they brought our family to California, and it is the America I still believe in with every fiber of my being. If we fight for it, if we refuse to give in to cynicism or fear, that beautiful country, that beautiful world, is still within reach. That is the future I am committed to seeing. That is the future I ask your help to bring about. And from the bottom of my heart, I thank the people of California for sending me here to take up that charge.

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