Inside the Dystopia of a Senate Votarama
Amendment chaos, collapse of principled opposition, and a quiet, overnight betrayal in the Capitol.
WASHINGTON — The first motion came Monday morning, just after 9 a.m ET. Senate clerks began reading the bill—940 pages, front to back—at the request of Democratic Leader Chuck Schumer. It took fifteen hours. By the end, most reporters had stopped trying to follow every line. We were already in for a long ride, and everyone knew it.
This was the Vote-a-Rama for the “Big and Beautiful” Act—Republicans’ sprawling reconciliation bill packed with tax cuts, deep social service rollbacks, and hundreds of amendments. The name was a marketing ploy. The substance was harder to explain.
On the surface, the bill looked too extreme to pass—especially in an election year. In its early form, it gutted Medicaid, privatized parts of immigration court oversight, redirected education funding into law enforcement grants, and used enforcement-first language even the Trump administration once walked back. If passed intact, it would wreck entire programs.
But the Senate Parliamentarian stepped in, as she often does. Playing referee, she stripped down some of the bill’s most legally dubious components. Even so, what remained was brutal.
And Republicans were determined to pass it by July 4.
The motion to proceed was the first real test.
Ron Johnson, usually a reliable vote, hesitated. Rand Paul flat-out refused. Thom Tillis and Susan Collins soon followed. That made four Republicans wavering. With Democrats unified in opposition, just one more Republican defection would kill the bill before it even hit the floor.
Lisa Murkowski became the swing.
Leadership surrounded her. Thune, Barrasso, Graham. They offered carveouts for Alaska—temporary exemptions, funding guarantees, vague promises that could be walked back later. She looked uneasy. Then she voted yes.
The motion passed: 51–49.
What followed was a blur.
Between Monday morning and Tuesday noon, 27 hours passed. More than a thousand amendments were submitted. Just 43 made it to a vote. Six were done by voice—no record, no accountability. Reporters drifted from hallway to hallway, Senate floor to Thune’s office, tired and unsure where to be.
At one point, I counted 40 of us, shuffling like ghosts past the Ohio Clock, some half-asleep, some wired with caffeine and dread. Staffers emerged, whispered, vanished. Senators floated in and out. Paul paced, looking resolved. Tillis cracked jokes. Grassley changed into a green baseball cap and windbreaker just before a key vote, prompting Barrasso to chase him back to the floor.
The Capitol felt surreal. Vast and hollow. The art on the walls looked like it hadn’t been noticed in decades. The rotunda was hot, thick with humidity, dimly lit. At night, cleaners moved slowly, humming to themselves. It felt less like history in motion than a strange dream about power.
Senators were tired. They started opening up.
Chris Coons, normally tense, leaned into jokes. John Hoeven was gracious, almost fatherly. Andy Kim answered my question about congressional authority like we were colleagues in a seminar. Even hardened partisans softened around the edges.
Rand Paul became my accidental hero—voting against almost everything, holding firm, ignoring leadership. He and Tillis looked free. No one tried to whip them anymore.
But Murkowski stayed boxed in. Her carveout had been struck down by the Parliamentarian, and she seemed to know what that meant. Still, Republican leaders kept pressing—begging, bargaining, trying to find just enough language to win her back for the final vote.
Everyone knew what was happening. Everyone stayed polite.
When the vote came, Murkowski barely whispered “aye.”
That was it. The bill passed.
Reporters in the gallery bolted. You could hear phones lighting up as staffers rushed out press releases and talking points. In a matter of minutes, the entire story shifted. The opposition had held. Until it didn’t.
On the Senate floor, Murkowski sat quietly. Collins next to her. Neither spoke much. A few Senators nodded at them. No one blamed her—not out loud.
Outside the chamber, Thune looked pleased. He gave a short, confident statement. “We delivered,” he said.
Murkowski was flanked by media. She didn’t get far. Eyes red, voice low. I turned off my recorder when she passed. She looked at me.
“Good luck, Senator,” I said.
She paused. “Thank you,” she said softly, stepping into the subway that runs below the Senate. The doors closed.
I didn’t know how to feel. Still don’t.
Maybe she caved. Maybe she protected her state. Maybe both. I’ll never know what kind of pressure she was under, or what it cost to say yes.
But I do know what comes next.
Within days, should the House approve the bill and Trump signs it into law, immigrant communities will feel the effects—new enforcement funds, reduced legal aid, longer detention windows. Poor families will lose benefits. Students will find programs cut. Refugee support centers will start closing. States will scramble to keep up. Many won’t.
That night, I walked the halls one last time.
Gallego passed me—walking fast, getting his steps in. He didn’t stop.
“Republicans need to understand,” he said as I tried to catch up, “if they’re going to break rules, they should not be surprised when we do the same when it’s our turn.”
Then he disappeared down a marble corridor, shoes tapping like a metronome.
That was the Vote-a-Rama.
It ended not with a bang, but a whisper. And a vote no one will forget. Especially Migrant Insider readers who’ve been getting the latest since the day one of the rancid new normal. Please subscribe to support our work.
Wow I feel like I just read a novel. You’re a wonderful writer. I just wish it wasn’t a true story.
Great article great visuals thx