Democratic Gov. Abigail Spanberger has used her sole executive authority to restore voting rights to over 66,000 Virginians with felony convictions, a move that dwarfs her Republican predecessor's record and sets the stage for a fall referendum that could make such restorations automatic.
Spanberger's office announced the action in a press release, confirming that 66,085 individuals who completed felony sentences have had civil rights restored since she took office. Those rights include the ability to vote, serve on a jury, run for public office, and become a notary public. Virginia's constitution permanently strips all of those rights from anyone convicted of a felony, and only the sitting governor can give them back, a system Spanberger described as "a shameful relic of our Jim Crow past."
The governor framed the mass restoration as both a matter of principle and a rebuke of her predecessor, Republican Glenn Youngkin. In her statement, Spanberger did not hold back:
"I'm proud that, after contending with my predecessor's efforts to deny Virginians their fundamental rights, we have restored the rights of more than 66,000 Virginians who have served their time."
That line invites a question Spanberger did not answer: what safeguards, if any, accompanied the restorations? The press release does not describe any individualized review of the 66,085 cases. It does not say whether violent offenders were treated differently from nonviolent ones. It does not mention whether any applications were denied. The number is presented as a milestone, not as the product of a screening process.
The contrast with Youngkin's approach is stark. Virginia Public Media reported that Youngkin rolled back the automatic restoration process used by his three predecessors and instead reviewed each application on an individual basis. Under that system, he restored voting rights to fewer than 10,000 Virginians during his term.
That individualized approach drew a federal lawsuit. The Fair Elections Center filed suit arguing that giving officials "absolute authority to selectively enfranchise U.S. citizens with felony convictions" opened the door to decisions based on political affiliations rather than objective criteria. A spokeswoman for Youngkin called the process "constitutional and will be defended vigorously in court."
So Youngkin tried to apply case-by-case judgment and faced legal action for being too restrictive. Spanberger restored rights to more than six times as many people, apparently without case-by-case review, and faces no comparable legal challenge. The asymmetry tells you something about which direction the institutional pressure runs.
Previous Democratic governors pushed even larger numbers. Former Gov. Terry McAuliffe restored over 173,000 voting rights, and former Gov. Ralph Northam restored over 126,000, according to figures cited in the federal lawsuit against Youngkin. Spanberger's 66,085 is smaller than either of those totals but was achieved in a shorter window and without the automatic system her predecessors used, a system Youngkin dismantled.
Spanberger is not content to leave the question to future governors. Virginia voters will face a constitutional amendment referendum this fall that would automatically restore voting rights to felons upon their release from prison. Spanberger urged a yes vote.
"This fall, voters can cast their ballots for Virginia to no longer strip so many of our neighbors of their fundamental rights. I hope Virginians will join me in voting yes."
If the amendment passes, the governor's discretionary power over felon voting rights would effectively become moot. Rights would flow automatically upon release, no application, no review, no waiting period described in the available reporting. Virginia and Kentucky are the only two states that still permanently disenfranchise people with felony convictions absent executive action, the Washington Examiner reported.
The political math is not subtle. Virginia is a swing state where recent statewide races have been decided by thin margins. Adding tens of thousands of voters, a population that nationwide research consistently shows skews Democratic, is not a neutral act, whatever the stated rationale about redemption and Jim Crow. Spanberger's own language makes the connection explicit: she wants these 66,000 people voting this fall, and she wants the amendment to pass so that every future felon who walks out of a Virginia prison walks straight onto the voter rolls.
Democrats across the country have pursued similar strategies with varying degrees of transparency about the electoral implications. In Kentucky, the only other state with Virginia's level of permanent felon disenfranchisement, election integrity has faced its own challenges from officials who treat the rules as optional.
Spanberger said she heard "from many Virginians who have shared their personal stories of redemption with me." That language frames the restorations as acts of mercy toward reformed individuals. But mercy exercised 66,085 times without publicly stated criteria starts to look less like mercy and more like policy, policy enacted by executive fiat rather than legislation.
The governor's press release does not disclose what offenses the 66,085 individuals were convicted of, how long ago those convictions occurred, or whether any category of felony was excluded. It does not say whether any of the restored individuals are currently under supervision, on probation, or have subsequent arrests. The absence of that information does not prove the process was careless, but it does mean the public has no way to evaluate whether it was careful.
Accountability in government requires more than good intentions and round numbers. When Democratic governors face scrutiny over the use of executive power, the pattern that emerges is often the same: broad discretion exercised with minimal transparency, defended with moral language that discourages follow-up questions.
Virginia's constitution gives the governor this power. No one disputes that. But the constitution also gives the governor the power to review applications individually, which is exactly what Youngkin did, and exactly what Spanberger reversed. The question is not whether the governor can restore 66,000 felons' voting rights in one stroke. The question is whether doing so without public criteria, without disclosed case details, and months before a pivotal election serves the interests of justice or the interests of the party in power.
Spanberger described permanent disenfranchisement as a relic. But so is the idea that one elected official should have unchecked, unreviewable power to add tens of thousands of voters to the rolls by personal decree. If Virginia wants to change its felon voting laws, the constitutional amendment on the fall ballot is the legitimate path, decided by all Virginia voters, not by one governor with a pen.
The same officials who celebrate holding lawbreakers accountable in one context seem remarkably eager to erase the civic consequences of lawbreaking in another, as long as the math works in their favor.
When 66,000 felons get their voting rights back and zero details about the process reach the public, the word for that is not redemption. It is politics.
