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The Indiana General Assembly is fresh off of one of the most traumatic legislative sessions boasting one of the worst biennial budgets I’ve seen in my 20 years, first as a staffer, and now as a lobbyist for a handful of nonprofits at the Statehouse.
For low-income advocates, our time isn’t spent at fancy dinners or suites at a Pacers game. Rather, lobbying in the Indiana Legislature is an exercise in patience—whether it’s spending late nights studying the Indiana Code, chance meetings with legislators in the hallways, or hours of virtual meetings to nail down the elusive perfect bill.
The water is not warm—the hours are long, and it’s every person for themselves in the lobby, especially when you’re with a nonprofit grassroots organization or a small, boutique firm as opposed to a large brick-and-mortar public affairs firm with a long list of colleagues and interns to help a sister out.
The environs are not always accommodating (the Statehouse got its first baby changing table in 2020, thanks to then-Indiana Department of Administration Commissioner Lesley Crane, who installed one in the second-floor women’s room), and there’s only one entrance to the Statehouse that’s ADA-accessible—and that’s if you can find an ADA-accessible parking spot within rolling distance of the Statehouse.
Do not mistake these facts for complaints—it’s simply how the Statehouse works, which is unfortunately smoother for those of us who aren’t wheelchaired or attempting to testify in committee while baby-wearing a tiny Hoosier. When Hoosiers suddenly find themselves on the menu at the Legislature and they’re forced to advocate to maintain their “new normal” as a differently-abled Hoosier, it’s an immediate reflection of their personal victimization by our built environment. Like our policy, it’s just not built for anyone who’s poor, disabled, medically complex, or older.
The elected officials, the unappreciated staff, the lobbyists—everyone, in my experience—at the Statehouse are all welcoming and friendly, but the outcomes are not. Lobbying for low-income Hoosiers and medically vulnerable communities is perhaps one of the loneliest gigs in the Indiana Statehouse. There are a mere dozen of us in the lobby working against well-monied efforts that have bottom lines in mind instead of Hoosiers.
But the thing about 200 West Washington is, if you stick around long enough, you might be fortunate enough to earn mentors, lifelong friends or even godparents to your kids, as I have. And you’re also lucky enough to have a temporary “office” that “beats anything you can see from your desk” as longtime (now retired) lawyer/lobbyist Libby Cierzniak writes at
HistoricIndianapolis.com.
The Statehouse’s sturm and drang is probably the worst thing for anyone who’s been advised by their doctor to avoid stress. It also has the habit of being a pretty toxic workplace, but that’s a topic for another column. Those Statehouse hallways are home—and the Hoosier state’s original Welcome Center—and we’ve got to make them available to every Hoosier, young or old, with all levels of ability.
And while we’re at it, let’s work on budgets that adequately fund the wait lists for Medicaid and for the Child Care and Development Fund, so we aren’t balancing biennial budgets on the backs of our poor, disabled and families with young Hoosiers. Indiana certainly deserves better.•
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Haake is a government affairs and public relations strategist at Onward & Upward Strategies.
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