James Talarico had a problem, and he didn’t need me to tell him what it was. The unassuming state lawmaker had beaten U.S. Rep. Jasmine Crockett in a Democratic Senate primary that their supporters had turned nasty, even as the candidates mostly stayed above the fray.

Now here he was months later, a white man needing to endear himself to Black voters still raw over what happened on the way to Crockett’s loss. Worse, they had grown even more disenchanted by what they considered a lack of outreach from his team since he’d won. And they didn’t see his campaign spending any money to try to make it right.

Crockett gave him a lukewarm endorsement but wouldn’t give him the time of day, much less campaign with him.

The Texas Politics Project at the University of Texas had Talarico as the general election choice of 67% of the state’s 3 million Black voters. In a long-red state with 19 million registered voters, that was nowhere close to the kind of overwhelming support from that demographic it would take for him to defeat state Attorney General Ken Paxton, the GOP nominee.

As we walked in the middle — not at the front — of hundreds of people taking part in Opal’s Walk for Freedom, the symbolic 2.5-mile Juneteenth march that Dr. Opal Lee had turned into a Fort Worth institution, there could be no doubt about it: James Talarico had a problem. And he could not have seemed less bothered by it, despite the rain.

Texas Senate candidate James Talarico meets voters and participates in the Opal’s Walk for Freedom event in Ft. Worth, TX on June 19, 2026. “It’s nice to show up to things and not have to be the center of attention,” he told me.

“To just be there as a supporter, as a cheerleader. Because I feel like that’s kind of the spirit we have to get back to in our politics.”

You get used to answers like that the more time you spend around or listening to Talarico. It’s a tone that often feels out of place in today’s aggressive politics. It’s the tenor of a man who has been a seminarian and a teacher.

One could argue that demeanor is one of the reasons that Talarico has the best chance in decades to do something no Democrat has done since 1988 — win a Senate seat in Texas.

By October, that same Texas Politics Project poll had him at 79% among Black voters. Overall, polling averages compiled by MS NOW partner FiftyPlusOne show him with a 3.5-point lead over Paxton with days to go — even better numbers, as Talarico modestly noted, than Beto O’Rourke ever managed in his ballyhooed but unsuccessful 2018 challenge to Sen. Ted Cruz. Yet still a sign of a contest close enough that Black voters could swing it.

The story of how Talarico took his problem and met it head-on is a story of old-school pounding the pavement, modern campaigning via influencers, and yes, money. But it’s also a story of the power of that rarest of political traits: humility. It could turn out to be the story of the 2026 midterms. A rough spring Representative Jasmine Crockett speaks during a Texas primary election night event in Dallas, TX, on March 3, 2026. Dylan Hollingsworth / Bloomberg via Getty Images In June what was clear was that the Black voter problem that Talarico had was not entirely of his own making.

The ugliness of the primary, most of it online, eventually bled into the real world, something rare in campaigns. Black Texans were largely behind Crockett, a two-term member who had quickly become a national figure. And the people who had gone all in for her, especially the Black women who make up the backbone of Democratic turnout in Dallas and Houston, were left feeling like it was 2024 all over again (particularly after Crockett got a last-minute endorsement from former Vice President Kamala Harris).

The day before I walked with Talarico, I sat down in a Dallas art gallery with two of the most influential political content creators in Texas, Camille McCallum and Olive Okoro, both Black women who backed Crockett in the primary. Between the two of them and the roughly 40 other online creators who had been in Crockett’s orbit, they could reach millions of followers. Both told me they would hold their noses and vote for Talarico. Their concern was that millions of Black Texans wouldn’t be doing the same.

Olive Okoro (left) and Camille MacCallum speaking to MS NOW on June 18, 2026.

“Jasmine Crockett spoke to Black Texans,” Okoro said. “She didn’t change how she spoke. And it put a lot of people there like, ‘I can see myself being like her. I can see somebody who looks like me on the political floor, who’s talking the way I am.’”McCallum’s frustration was more specific. She had been on the bus Crockett organized to take people from Dallas to Austin to testify against the new congressional maps Republicans drew up at President Donald Trump’s behest. She’d seen the fight up close.

And then she’d watched supporters of Talarico throw racist and sexist attacks online.

“There were friends of mine that were harmed in the whole stan culture with the Talarico campaign people, and that wasn’t James Talarico himself hurling insults,” she said. “But you know, even Beyoncé sometimes tells the Beyhive to calm down.”

Crockett endorsed Talarico the morning after the primary, and for Okoro and McCallum, the message they were receiving was to join the team they spent months trying to defeat. It immediately had McCallum feeling taken for granted, even knowing she was going to vote for Talarico.

“What am I going to do, get Ken Paxton elected? Definitely not,” she told me then. “But at the same time, why is no olive branch being extended?”

At this point, neither of them had heard from the Talarico campaign. Not a call, not a text, not a DM. “No,” Okoro said. “Which is so crazy!”

It wasn’t that they wanted to be courted for its own sake. It was that they read the silence as strategy. McCallum laid it out as plainly as anyone about the Democratic Party’s simmering Black voter issue: “From where I am sitting, it feels very much like ‘we have our Democrat core, and then we’re going to get these flip people, the people who may flip-flop in elections, Republicans who are not MAGA,’” she said. “And in that strategy, Black people get lost. As kind of a nonpriority, or kind of like a safe bet. Like, ‘Well, the Black folks that been voting since 1965, they’re still going to be voting in 2026.’”

For Talarico, she had one message: “Make me feel like a priority. Because I was going to show up for you anyway, but I’m trying to help you.”

I showed Talarico the message McCallum had for him at a Black-owned coffee shop in Fort Worth, after the walk and still a little damp. He watched the whole thing. First, he made the point that it’s a false choice between mobilizing disillusioned voters and peeling off Republicans, and that he had done both when he flipped a Trump district for the state House.

But he also conceded her premise: “I think Black Texans have felt that they’ve been taken advantage of by the Democratic Party.”Is it a feeling, or is it an actual fact?

“That feeling reflects a truth,” he said. “The Democratic Party, certainly nationally, has just assumed that Black people are a part of the Democratic base. You hear that all the time, right? And a base implies those are people who will never leave you. And that is such a harmful way to think about voters.

“And I will tell you, as someone who has been in tough elections, it is the fastest way to lose an election, is to take voters for granted. To assume Black folks are going to show up and vote for you because you have a D by your name. We have to stop doing that. We have to start treating Black voters as swing voters.”

So what was he doing to put his words into action, specifically, right then, in June? “We are building it by the day,” he said. Faith leaders, visits to historically Black colleges and universities, a volunteer army of 45,000 and growing.

On Crockett, he said they had exchanged messages in March and April, and that he’d left her a voicemail a few weeks earlier inviting her to deliver the keynote at the state convention. She told the Dallas Morning News around the same time that she hadn’t returned the call or listened to the message, and that she had “no idea” whether she would campaign for him.

I told him that I had been told over and over, by pollsters and by Black Texans, that it was hard to see a path for him without an active Crockett on the trail.

“I feel like what’s happening in Texas is so much bigger than any one politician, including me,” he said. “I honestly don’t think it depends on me or any politician. It’s really going to come down to the people of Texas.”

However, he acknowledged, “As the nominee, this is on me to bring the coalition back together.”A month later, an event in Houston would test exactly how much he meant it. Hot temps in Houston Voters wait to ask questions of Talarico at Kingdom Builders Center in Houston on July 19, 2026. Elizabeth Conley / Houston Chronicle via Getty Images On July 19, Talarico walked into the Kingdom Builders’ Center in Houston for a town hall that was, by design, a room full of Black voters who had hard questions.

Crockett’s home turf is Dallas but the primary wounds were just as raw in Houston, with its half-million Black residents. And a Houston state representative, Jolanda Jones, had been publicly saying he wouldn’t return her calls.

The questions came fast. Voting rights, Black farmers, diversity initiatives, Black campaign staffers, downballot Black candidates. About 45 minutes in, his staff tried to cut it off at one more question. That’s when Kandice Webber stood up.

“You cannot win without us,” she told Talarico, her voice raised. “So you stay here and you answer our questions, or you suffer the consequences!”

He stayed, for about 20 more minutes. Another woman, Juli McShay, asked him to rebuke the supporters who had harassed Crockett and other Black influencers online, and he did it right there in the room.

“Please keep Congresswoman Crockett’s name out of your mouth,” Talarico said, and demanded that his people treat his former opponent with respect. It was that Beyhive moment McCallum was looking for.

That night, Talarico pledged to spend $25 million on Black voter outreach, something his campaign called the largest such investment in modern Texas history. “I’m committing to you here that we will be putting resources where our mouth is,” he said. Spending money and showing up Talarico shakes hands with people on the sideline during the first half of the State Fair Classic at the State Fair of Texas on Sept. 26, 2026, in Dallas. Elías Valverde II / The Dallas Morning News via Getty Images By September the campaign was spending the money earnestly.

It hired three veteran Black Texas operatives to run the outreach program. It brought on Black-owned firms. It bought ads in legacy Black media like Dallas Weekly and The Houston Defender and joined podcasts that younger Black Texans actually listen to. And he received the endorsement of the powerful Congressional Black Caucus.

When I went back to Texas on the last weekend of September, the state fair had just opened and Talarico walked onto the field at the State Fair Classic. It’s an annual football game between Prairie View A&M and Grambling State, in front of more than 50,000 people. Two HBCUs, two serious Southern marching bands and the Divine Nine Greek organizations in full regalia.

The candidate was announced as a special guest. A man in the stands gave him a bear hug and told him he had his vote. A woman leaned over the railing and asked him what he was going to do about Black schools that keep getting shut down. He told her he was a former teacher and he was working on district takeovers.

The reception was warm, including from McCallum, who had begun to volunteer for the campaign.

“Mr. James Talarico! You have been invited to the cookout,” she said into a tiny handheld mic as she stood in front of the “Talarico for Texas” bus. “What did you think?”

Camille MacCallum films a social video with Talarico at the State Fair of Texas on Sept. 26, 2026.

“The energy out here is great. The food is right. The music is right. So I’m honored to be here,” he answered.

On Sunday we went to church. Concord Church in Dallas is one of the biggest Black congregations in the state, and its pastor, Bryan Carter, has been in the pulpit there for 23 years. Every Sunday since the summer, Carter told me, they had been registering voters in the lobby. “Voting is a moral obligation,” he said. “Your vote is your voice.”

Pastor Bryan Carter of Concord Church in Dallas, on Sept. 27, 2026.

Carter is careful, the way Black pastors who have been doing this for a long time are careful. He didn’t tell his congregation who to vote for. But when he introduced Talarico, he called him “a man of conviction, a man of faith, a champion for justice,” as the room stood up and applauded.

Talarico, the grandson of a Baptist preacher, is comfortable in church. He’s able to connect the political and spiritual.

“When Jesus healed the sick, he didn’t ask for a deductible. So when I fight for universal healthcare, I’m doing it on biblical grounds,” he said from the pulpit. “And when the Hebrew prophets saw corruption in high places, they spoke truth to power. So when I take on the politicians who are serving themselves and not the people, I am doing it on biblical grounds.”

Carter said Talarico strikes a note that others who have come courting Black votes struggle with. “He’s been unique in that he has been able to blend both an agenda that supports justice, that cares for the poor, the marginalized and oppressed while at the same time leveraging that as motivation for public service,” the pastor said of the former seminarian. Talarico speaks at Concord Church in Dallas on Sept. 27, 2026.

I sat down with Talarico one more time in a side room at Concord. We had been talking about Black voters for months at that point. I wanted to know what he had learned.

He said he hadn’t understood, when the campaign began, the size of the funding gap between HBCUs and other schools. He said he learned on the trail that Harris County, anchored by Houston, is the deadliest place in America for a Black woman to give birth. He said he’d figured out that younger Black Texans aren’t in the pews on Sunday morning the way their parents are, which is why the campaign was at Sunday Funday brunches in Houston and tailgating on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard before the Classic.

“If we really want to reach those voters, showing up at a Black church is not going to suffice,” he said. “We’ve got to be out where they are.”The long game A volunteer helps to register voters at the Concord Church in Dallas on Sept. 27, 2026.

One of the things about courting Black voters in Texas these days, though, is that it’s not only about persuading them. It’s also about whether they will actually be able to vote.

At the end of August, Tarrant County, home to Fort Worth, moved to close 92 Election Day polling sites, from 316 in the last midterm to 224. The Legal Defense Fund, the American Civil Liberties Union and the Campaign Legal Center sent a letter warning that the cuts fell hardest on Black, Latino and Asian American neighborhoods.

“Voter suppression is powerful, I don’t want to sugarcoat it. Big money is powerful,” Talarico told me in that side room at the church. “But none of that can compare to people power. I’m putting my faith in people power every day of the week and twice on Sunday.”

The hill Talarico has to climb to win in Texas is huge. His campaign thinks it’s made a lot of headway on the Black voter issue with its investments, though it’s impossible to know whether all is forgiven until Tuesday.

It’s possible those investments won’t pay off this time around. I asked Talarico about the long game, the way the other side has been playing it for decades. He looked to the Civil Rights Movement.

It’s a balance of an inherent conflict between “urgency and patience. We can’t get discouraged after one election,” he said. “We can’t give up after one victory or one Supreme Court case. We have to maintain that urgency over decades. And I think Black Texans have obviously shown us how to do that, because it’s a necessity.”

James Talarico had a problem, but he saw it differently. Where Black voters saw a lack of his talking to them, he saw a need to listen. Where they saw a lack of investment, he saw a need to make sure he would have the money for it. Where almost the entire Democratic Party saw a desperate need for him to win, he saw beyond November. MS NOW producer Shawn Killebrew contributed.