(with apologies to Dickens, who never had to cover sine die)
By Abdul-Hakim Shabazz
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”
Charles Dickens wrote that in 1859. He did not, to my knowledge, sit through a late-afternoon conference committee while lawmakers refreshed social media between amendments. But he would have understood the mood.
Because if you listened to the loudest voices this session, Indiana was either on the brink of renaissance or racing toward ruin — sometimes before the same hearing adjourned.
Welcome to the 2026 Indiana General Assembly.
If you’re Republican leadership, you’re calling this the best of times and heading home early to prove it. No public caucus meltdowns. No national embarrassment tours. No midnight hostage bills. They wrapped up by 6:30 p.m. Friday like a firm closing its books before audit season. The supermajority acted like one. The trains ran on time.
In an age of legislative reality television, Indiana chose to be C-SPAN.
But don’t confuse calm with consensus.
Beneath the orderly floor speeches was contained turbulence, and nowhere was it clearer than redistricting.
For months, mid-cycle congressional map changes consumed the conversation. Hearings were packed. Legal bills climbed. Senators reported doxxing. Swatting incidents were discussed. Potential primary challengers hovered like summer humidity.
And when the Senate finally faced it, the proposal failed. Not because Democrats stopped it. Because Republicans did. Several GOP senators joined Democrats and voted it down. Senate President Pro Tem Rod Bray — who understands arithmetic better than outrage — had already made it clear the votes weren’t there. That wasn’t weakness. That was someone counting instead of posturing.
Redistricting didn’t collapse under constitutional brilliance. It folded under internal math and political instinct. A bloc of Republicans decided that detonating a mid-cycle map fight — amid threats, primary pressure, and public backlash — wasn’t worth the risk. And angry constituents didn’t hurt either.
The divide wasn’t ideological. It was strategic. One camp wanted to use every tool available. Redraw. Reinforce. Flex because you can. The other camp looked at a map already tilted in their favor and asked a simple question: Why? Why energize opponents when you already hold the majority? Why turn a comfortable lead into a street fight? Why give critics the headline they’re begging for?
Hovering over that debate was the unmistakable energy of Lieutenant Governor Micah Beckwith — bold, confrontational, and never accused of incrementalism. But not every Republican legislator wakes up eager to headline a political cage match when they’re already winning on points. The turbulence was contained. But it was real.
Meanwhile, in the visible Statehouse — the one with prepared remarks — business moved forward.
Senate Bill 27 authorized a professional football stadium in Northwest Indiana. Economic development, supporters said. Corporate subsidy, critics replied. The usual choreography. But the stadium bill didn’t travel alone. It also carried language advancing the Mid-States Corridor, a transportation priority closely aligned with Governor Mike Braun’s infrastructure vision.
Two regions. Two priorities. One legislative vehicle. That wasn’t sloppy drafting. That was choreography.
The Mid-States Corridor has long been a centerpiece of Braun’s infrastructure agenda. Pairing it with a high-profile regional project ensured momentum and regional buy-in. Call it coalition-building. Call it bundling. Call it legislative rideshare.
Either way, it moved.
Township government consolidation advanced — long a dream for fiscal conservatives who see duplication as inefficiency. To reformers, it’s modernization. To township officials, it’s existential.
SNAP oversight and Medicaid fraud enforcement legislation reinforced the majority’s law-and-order theme — accountability not just on crime, but in public benefits.
Then there was the device debate. Phones. iPods. Emergency access. What began as a classroom distraction discussion evolved into a cultural referendum on parenting, safety, and whether students can survive without a glowing rectangle for 45 minutes.
And in the background, Diego Morales continued to generate enough candidate declaration controversy to keep election lawyers busy and political observers caffeinated.
So yes, the majority governed. It passed its priorities. It avoided implosion. It managed internal disagreements without lighting them on fire in public view.
Was it the best of times?
If you value discipline, leverage, and risk management, absolutely.
Was it the worst of times?
Only if you were expecting revolution.
After decades under that dome, here’s what I’ve learned: most sessions aren’t about sweeping change. They’re about controlled movement.
This one was a lesson in knowing when to swing and when to step back. When to bundle. When to back down. When to count votes instead of retweets.
Dickens warned about noisiest authorities insisting every era be judged in superlatives — Heaven or the other place.
This wasn’t Heaven. It wasn’t Hell. It was Indiana politics doing what it does best: advancing power carefully, containing turbulence, and surviving intact. Whether that feels like light or just well-managed smoke? That’s for voters to decide.
And they’re far harder to bundle.
Abdul-Hakim Shabazz is the editor and publisher of Indy Politics. He is also an attorney, licensed in Indiana and Illinois.
