Staring at this change.gov email, I reflected even further. I had been making campaign promises in more than half the country for well over a year. It didn’t seem right to go straight back to acting, expecting that it should be left to someone else to implement those promises. I sort of felt like an actor doing a commercial endorsement. Does Tom Selleck really use the reverse mortgages he pimps out? I doubt it! But did Wilford Brimley actually have diabeetus? I mean, yeah, probably?
The thing I wanted to know was: How could I be a Wilford Brimley? And by that I don’t just mean, how does a man grow such an aggressive, symmetrical mustache? I also mean, what makes someone qualified to work at the White House in the first place?
There were some personal reasons that made me curious about a life in Washington, DC, too. I was finally enjoying Los Angeles in a way that comes with a television actor’s job stability: I had a nicer place to live, was seeing friends regularly, and could afford to take trips home without needing to bid on a flight using Priceline.com. I felt more immersed in a smart, vibrant creative community now that I was acting on House every day instead of fighting for auditions. For all this, I was grateful. But something still felt like it was missing. It sometimes felt stifling to be surrounded by people who do what I do for a living and weren’t from especially diverse backgrounds—ethnic and racial to be sure, but I’m also talking about diversity in thought, profession, and life experience.
Well into my late twenties, I found LA to be a challenging city to date in too. I didn’t like talking about work all the time (Who’s your agent? Did you audition for that project too?). The newest exercise fads didn’t interest me (shoes that look like feet, goat yoga), nor did the latest dietary obsessions (So, like, there’s this new thing called ghee, and like, if you put some in your coffee it’ll change your life1). In contrast, the guys I dated in places like Chicago or New York seemed more balanced; conversations about books, family, and music were much more my speed.
While filming Superman Returns, I became close with screenwriters Mike Dougherty and Dan Harris, as well as Dan’s boyfriend, Stephen, who happened to be from Washington, DC, a city that (like LA) is often maligned for being a one-industry town too (so much so that it’s often referred to as “Hollywood for ugly people”2). During visits to hang out with Stephen and his handsome buddies in Washington, I found a sort of kinship in being around other multitaskers who liked to talk about policy articles and public service.
Add to that the fact that I could be working with the campaign friends I had made during my year on the road for Obama, and a little fire in my brain said, You might appreciate a personal change of pace, a new career, and a social life in DC for a couple of years. So, it was with a strong and genuine desire to serve my country, and the smaller hope that a temporary move to a new city might be good for my sanity, that I got it into my head to apply for a job at the White House.
* * *
I had heard of other campaign friends applying for jobs on change.gov, but people were pretty tight-lipped about any process beyond that. There was an unspoken culture within the Obama campaign that went something like, “Keep your head down. Do good work. Don’t seek attention.” It’s why you didn’t see the same leaks, showboating, and backbiting in the press as you did from other camps. I didn’t want people to perceive me as someone who was leveraging what modest artistic fame he had to get a serious job in the administration by making endless rounds of phone calls—if they were going to hire me, I wanted it to be on merit. So, I too stayed tight-lipped, only briefly mentioning my desire to my manager, Dan Spilo, and a few trusted friends. I decided that the right thing to do was what I assumed most of the thousands of people who worked on the campaign were doing: I followed the directions on how to apply for a job on change.gov. I filled out a form, attached my résumé, and hit Upload. Nobody called.
* * *
Two months went by. It bummed me out to know I wasn’t qualified for a job in the incoming administration, but I still felt so lucky for the creative career I was passionate about. I was so happy to be back at work filming House full-time. Focusing on my acting career again without the juggle of campaign travel was fulfilling. I had missed being on set with Olivia and Peter, pulling long hours. My campaign friends were busy in their own right—some jumping onto the transition team or helping wind things down at headquarters in Chicago. We’d text each other cheesy things like “Yes we did!” with memorable photos from our big rallies and small grassroots events. Peter once grabbed my phone and, upon seeing a photo of a HOPE AND CHANGE campaign poster a friend had texted, pushed out his bottom lip and teased, “I’m Kal Penn and I wish I was running around the country spreading HULLLLLL and change.”
* * *
On a break on set one day in early January, I saw a missed call from the DC area code. Holy shit, I thought, someone from the transition team is finally calling about my change.gov résumé submission!
They were not. Instead, I had a voice mail from the Presidential Inaugural Committee, asking if I would speak at Obama’s inaugural concert on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. It would be a patriotic celebration, a way of showcasing how historic his election had been. Performers included those from all walks of American life. Musicians like Bon Jovi, Usher, Beyoncé, and Bruce Springsteen would headline, and between each act, there’d be interstitials where actors would read quotes from previous presidents. On the lineup were Queen Latifah, Tom Hanks, Ashley Judd, and somehow… me. It was surreal.
The concert was a free, public event, and every performer was allowed to bring a few guests for preshow food and drinks in the festive, gigantic greenroom tent backstage. I flew out from LA and met my family in Washington. Spilo came too. My mom was wide-eyed and eager to see me onstage. My dad and Pulin were thrilled about the music lineup.
I actually began to worry about just how stoked my father was, to be honest. I didn’t want his excitement to get the best of him, so before we left our hotel, I pulled him aside and said, “Dad listen, there are going to be a lot of famous people backstage, okay? If there’s someone you’d like to meet, pull me aside and tell me so I can figure out if it’s appropriate to bother them… If it is, then I’ll introduce you. Don’t go up to people in the greenroom and gawk.”
This really offended my father. “You think I don’t know this?” he asked indignantly. “I get so annoyed when other people do these things to you! I would never do that to somebody else.”
I immediately felt bad. My dad was right—I knew he understood.
We checked in with security and made our way to a tastefully sofaed seating area inside the tent. I set my backpack down on a white wooden end table, and when I turned around, my father was missing.