“Why?”
“Because I want to call them and tell them that if the real first Black president of the United States didn’t have a problem hiring a real brown guy at the real White House, maybe a fake airline wouldn’t have an issue hiring real black and brown guys to work together in a movie!”
Dan shrugged it off with a polite laugh. “Welcome back to Hollywood, Kal.”
* * *
You’d think that with experiences ranging from instances of frustration to microaggressions to straight-up overt racism, I’d be well versed in the nuances of how bigotry and power work. Sadly, that hasn’t always been the case.
I was scrolling through Twitter one afternoon on the We Are Men set when I came across an op-ed from then–New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg. In the piece, Bloomberg (who I felt disarmed by upon reading that he was friendly with Obama) at first seemed reasonable to me in outlining the merits of what he described as an anti-crime initiative that allowed cops to target violent suspects, called Stop-and-Frisk. I would quickly learn that Stop-and-Frisk was actually an abhorrent racial profiling policy.
Brashly convinced by the case Bloomberg was making at the time, I retweeted the article along with misguided follow-up rants. I even grew arrogant and defensive when people tried to point out I was horribly, unquestionably wrong. I dug a deeper and deeper hole of idiocy until my phone rang off the hook. Advocates in Washington, DC, who I’d worked with were confused, and furious. “What are you tweeting?” one of them texted. “You’re advocating for racial profiling. You don’t seriously believe any of this stuff, unless something recently changed. We need to talk, immediately.”
That wake-up call came too late. I handled what should have been a series of apologies completely the wrong way because I still didn’t fundamentally understand what the Stop-and-Frisk policy that I had tweeted in support of actually was. By the time I did learn—thanks to the countless friends and followers who reached out and spoke to me slowly like a third-grader who needs to be taught the rules of tic-tac-toe—I had hurt a lot of people. In the process, I’d given voice to right-wing zealots who scoured the internet for unlikely allies. To this day, I remain deeply sorry.
The entire situation made me think, if someone like me—who has actively worked on progressive causes and passionately talks about his own experiences dealing with discrimination—can get so easily baited by a dangerous combination of internalized, anti-Black racism and gaslighting, what about those even less informed? How was it possible that I was so blind to these wrongs and so ignorant of the need to coalition-build and stand up for our Black brothers and sisters? Those of us who have experienced one form of racism can often be blind to the ways in which we perpetuate it.
I swore I’d use my platform to check my own privilege and help make things right. In a process that continues today, I began to dialogue with and support organizations that do necessary racial justice work (starting with groups like South Asian Americans Leading Together and early iterations of what is now the Black Lives Matter movement), helping out where I could. The whole thing was inexcusable. A hurtful experience for many people, and though the phrase makes me cringe, a teachable moment in the end.
* * *
After about six months back in Los Angeles, I got an unexpected email from my former White House coworker Buffy Wicks. Buffy had left OPE to become director of the reelection campaign’s grassroots strategy known as Operation Vote. “Got a minute for a call?” she asked. On the phone I learned that the Obama/Biden 2012 team was asking me to serve as one of thirty-five national cochairs for the reelection campaign (aka the reelect). The position would be part-time and pro bono. I said yes immediately.
The other cochairs were bona fide A-listers in their worlds. I had briefly met a few of them, like Senator Dick Durbin (“I’m a fan of your show House”), then attorney general of California Kamala Harris (“I’m here in Des Moines to knock on doors because we want to make sure everybody caucuses for Barack!”), and Massachusetts governor Deval Patrick (“Whoa Kal, Josh is really hot. Don’t fuck it up”2). I hadn’t met most of the others, like CEO of PSP Partners Penny Pritzker and retired navy admiral John Nathman—both clearly a big deal in their own worlds. Regardless of any previous interactions, the fact that I was in the company of such serious and accomplished humans gave me momentary impostor syndrome. It’s like having John, Paul, George, Ringo, and… Kirby. At least that was the sensation.
The truth is, as cochairs, we each brought a complementary skill set to the reelect, and I was deeply honored that Obama and Biden felt I belonged there too. After my previous campaign and government roles, it felt good to know that my expertise on policy and outreach strategy was valued as much as my private-sector arts experience. I was years past the point of Iowa State campaign director Paul Tewes being temporarily worried that a Google search of my name might reveal images of me humping, smoking, jizzing, and a few other –ings that could have made me a political liability.
I had already agreed to resume my 2008 role and help out as a surrogate on the reelection campaign, traveling the country and speaking at various events on behalf of the president in between my acting and producing gigs. Once I accepted the national cochairship, there were a few additional requests of my time. In early August, I was preparing to give opening remarks ahead of POTUS at a low-dollar fundraiser being held at the Bridgeport Art Center in downtown Chicago. The large, bright windows and high roof of the event space resembled an idyllic old barn. That’s where I caught up with Obama’s senior advisor David Plouffe and campaign chairman Jim Messina backstage. Plouffe is a young dad who has likable-nerd qualities—very smart, with a deeply inspiring work ethic and drive. Messina I’d describe as something of a “likable cutthroat”—always kind to me, no-nonsense, and straight to the point. In the middle of our conversation underneath the rustic wood-beamed ceiling, the two looked at each other and Jim decisively said, “Hey, will you speak at the DNC?”
I was fired up for our four-hundred-person summer fundraiser speech. Nationally televised remarks in front of millions of people just wasn’t on my radar. “The Democratic National Convention? That DNC?”
I immediately thought back to the 2008 convention, standing for hours in jeans and comfortable sneakers with the bright yellow vest and an earpiece, floor whipping my delegations into such good shape that it led to my White House job.