Something inside me snapped. Yes, I was an entry-level speechwriter. Yes, everyone pays their dues. But this was absurd. How could they possibly think Hosni was funny? Were they too scared to have the president say the name of the world’s most wanted terrorist? Did they not realize that was the entire point? And besides, think of the phonetics. Say what you will about the man, but bin Laden has a ring to it. You’ve got the rhyming syllables on both sides, with a hard consonant in between them. Hosni is garbage. It starts out all flabby. It has no discernible end. Anyone could see that.
Even worse, when I complained to Favs, he told me the edit had come from the president himself. Well, tell him to change it! I thought. Aren’t you supposed to be the speechwriter? For the first time since walking through the gates, I was 100 percent sure the White House needed my opinion. I whipped out my BlackBerry. Thumbs flying, I furiously typed a manifesto. I called up the menu of options. I placed my finger on the SEND button.
Then, abruptly, I paused. It was as if a tiny bureaucratic angel was whispering in my ear.
Stay in your lane. Staaaaay in your laaaaane.
Slowly, I holstered my BlackBerry. I went home and put on my tux. Then, ticket in hand, I took the bus to the Washington Hilton.
That night, I gawked at enough famous people to last a lifetime. I watched Amy Poehler search for her table. I witnessed Bradley Cooper mingle before taking a seat. I stared at Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner as he chose between finger foods at the reception. And from the back of the room, I watched President Obama’s monologue, the best he had ever delivered. During the section on Trump, hundreds of Democrats and Republicans joined in bipartisan, mocking laughter. As the crowd applauded the president, the humiliated billionaire turned as red and angry as a blister.
Well, I remember thinking, that’s the end of this guy.
The only downside of the night was Hosni. My joke fell flat, just as I had feared. I couldn’t understand why no one else saw it coming. As the program ended, important people filed out of the ballroom to attend exclusive parties. I returned home to tell my friends about the time I used the urinal between Newt Gingrich and Jon Hamm. Still, for all the glamour, the night left me unsettled. I had been right about that punch line. I could have fixed it. Why didn’t anyone listen?
The next morning, in a minor act of protest, I did something unthinkable. I turned my BlackBerry from vibrate to silent. Then I went to a music festival in Maryland with two friends from college, Nick and Claire. I wore a T-shirt and flip-flops instead of a suit. I drank a beer during daylight hours, even though Valerie had a speech tomorrow and I might be called upon to edit at any moment. For the first time since Straut told me I was hired, I felt twenty-four again.
All too soon, our day of freedom ended. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about returning home. Glowering reluctantly in the back seat of the car, I switched my BlackBerry from silent to vibrate and it buzzed almost immediately. More talking points from Straut, I figured, or maybe a last-minute change to tomorrow’s speech.
It was neither. To my surprise, the sender was Ben Rhodes, the president’s chief foreign-policy writer. The subject line included the word FINAL and the acronym UBL. I was confused. POTUS wasn’t scheduled to deliver a speech that evening. Also, I had no idea what those three letters stood for. Unresolved Banking Liability? Unanimous Bipartisan Legislation? Puzzled, I opened the e-mail.
Remarks of President Barack Obama
On the Death of Usama bin Laden
The White House
May 1, 2011
I was suddenly very glad I hadn’t hit SEND the night before.
The news broke on Twitter a few minutes later. Nick, Claire, and I drove toward Washington, collectively freaking out. When we reached D.C. we tried watching CNN at a bar, but something felt off. Like moths responding to a stadium light, we each had the same instinct at once.
“Let’s go to the White House!”
By the time we got downtown, Pennsylvania Avenue was packed with young Americans. College students waved flags and raised their arms in triumph. Bros hoisted fellow bros on their shoulders. Out of nowhere, people began singing the national anthem. Then they switched to an old chant, one I always associated with the Yankees winning a game.
Nah-nah-nah-nah, nah-nah-nah-nah, hey hey-ey, goood-bye.
I had never been part of such a raucous celebration, not even on Election Night. But looking from face to face, I didn’t see joy or triumph. I saw relief. For people my age, 9/11 was the formative experience of our formative years. As kids, we were told America could do anything. Then a terrorist attacked our country and murdered thousands of our people, and we couldn’t catch him no matter how hard we tried. For a decade, that failure cast a shadow on the promise we were raised to believe. Now, the shadow had been lifted. America had done what America set out to do.
Hey hey-ey, good-bye.
My BlackBerry vibrated. It was Valerie, with major changes to tomorrow’s speech. She wanted to talk about the president’s courage. She wanted to speak to his judgment, to his character, to the way those qualities had been present when she met him two decades before.
I hadn’t ordered any raids. I hadn’t been in the Situation Room, or even near it. But early the next morning, long after the crowds had left Pennsylvania Avenue, I would return. I would walk through the gates of the White House and do something, however small, that needed doing. In all likelihood, I was still not the best my country had to offer—my former TA could vouch for that. But in that moment, the question of whether I belonged seemed less important than the fact that I was here. In some small way, America was counting on me. In some small way, I was part of the team.
Still, though. Hosni? They really should have gone with Saddam.
4
THE CORRIDORS OF POWER
ALEX (early twenties, staff assistant): Can you help me with this e-mail?
DAVID (early twenties, speechwriter): Sure, what do you need?
ALEX: We’re replying to a CEO. I don’t want him to think we’re blowing him off.
DAVID: Okay, but what are we doing?
ALEX: We’re blowing him off.
In my five years at the White House, this was the first and only time my life resembled the television show The West Wing. That was not for lack of interest. Like nearly every Democrat under the age of thirty-five, I was raised, in part, by Aaron Sorkin. During my freshman year of college, my friends and I watched West Wing DVDs on an endless loop, pausing only when our born-again roommate held pop-up Bible study in our suite.
MARK (deeply earnest): Have you ever wanted to learn more about Jesus?
DAVID (equally earnest): Have you ever seen the last episode of season two?