More than any presidential speech, the shutdown forced voters to notice which party was behaving like a bunch of children and which was not. Republicans’ approval ratings began to plummet. With increasing desperation, they turned to the Holy Warriors. Surely Ted Cruz could save the day!
But this was where politics-as-religion fell short. Blinded by devotion, the faithful hadn’t noticed that their prophet lacked a plan. The crusaders’ strategy was best summarized by one of Cruz’s close allies, an Indiana congressman named Marlin Stutzman.
“We’re not going to be disrespected,” Stutzman told the Washington Examiner. “We have to get something out of this. And I don’t know what that even is.”
As the shutdown dragged on, there was one final hope for the Republican Party. Surely Obama would cave. But not this time. In 2011, POTUS had paid dearly for negotiating with hostage takers. Two years later, he refused to repeat his mistake. His message was as clear as his opponents’ was muddled. Stop hurting the country. Release the hostages. Or face the voters’ wrath. On October 16, 2013, the shutdown battle ended in a rout. Republicans agreed to reopen the government. In exchange, Democrats agreed to let them.
The next morning I returned to the White House. Passing through the Secret Service checkpoint, I saw Denis McDonough, our new White House chief of staff, standing on West Executive Avenue. He was beaming as he shook everyone’s hand.
“Welcome back! Good to see you. Good to see you. Welcome back!”
And why not celebrate? For five years, we had fought an endless string of uphill battles. Now, at last we were victorious. The promised land was finally in sight.
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I ALMOST SET BARACK OBAMA’S HAIR on fire.
In fairness, it was technically a team effort, one that began when Hope Hall decided to film the weekly address outdoors. By positioning the camera on the first-floor balcony of the residence, she could capture the immaculate green sweep of the South Lawn. In the distance, across Constitution Avenue, the west face of the Washington Monument would glisten in the afternoon sun. What better way to show America that the government had reopened?
Once Hope laid out her vision, our A/V team began bringing it to life. In the White House, while civilians do the filming and writing, lights and sound equipment are handled by enlisted military personnel. I enjoyed spending time with the A/V guys, not least because our paths to 1600 Pennsylvania were often quite different. At age nineteen, for example, I was disciplined for falling short of a science requirement. Jared was disciplined for machine-gunning a dolphin during an offshore training exercise. Still, less than a decade later, his professionalism was a tribute to the reforming power of military service. Like all members of his team, Jared worked with an attention to detail I never could have matched.
For the weekly address the day after the shutdown, the person in charge of equipment was a skinny, muscly marine named Joe. Joe was a firm believer in contingency plans. Arriving at the taping, I found extra-long extension cords snaking into the residence. The spare camera battery was charging on its stand. A boom mic warded off ambient noise.
Joe even remembered to bring “diva lights,” the suitcase-size LED arrays you sometimes see in behind-the-scenes pictures of models on a shoot. One high-wattage panel was positioned on either side of the president’s chair. Then, to prevent any glare, Joe shielded each light with something called a diffusion cover, essentially a large Tupperware lid.
The taping was scheduled for early afternoon, so in theory the extra lighting was unnecessary. But we were lucky Joe played it safe. It soon became clear that even by White House standards POTUS was running way behind. I puttered around the residence for hours, killing time staring at portraits of Ben Franklin (pensive), and of Martin Van Buren’s daughter-in-law (unexpectedly hot).
Finally, as the sun was beginning to set, we got word: P was moving. In anticipation, the diva lights burst on. But instead of heading to the balcony, the president and Denis, the chief of staff, began pacing the perimeter of the South Lawn. One lap. Two laps. Then three. It was nearly dark by the time they finished. Stepping out onto the balcony, President Obama looked tired and perturbed.
Then he sat down, and his attitude immediately shifted. I was always impressed by how rapidly POTUS cycled between moods at these tapings. He could arrive from a deadly serious meeting on Afghanistan, perk up to record a Michael Jordan birthday greeting, and then let his face fall for a solemn tribute to our troops. For weekly addresses, POTUS adopted a tone that was both formal and slightly severe, as if he were narrating a video about the dangers of backyard trampolines.
“This week, because Democrats and responsible Republicans came together, the government was reopened.”
All of a sudden, I smelled something. Bug spray? Sunscreen? I glanced at Hope and Joe to see if they had noticed it, too. They hadn’t. Probably a false alarm.
“Specifically, there are three places where I believe that Democrats and Republicans can work together right away,” POTUS continued. He dropped both hands in an emphatic gesture, underscoring his point.
That’s when I saw it.
The plastic lid on one of the diva lights had begun to smolder. A tiny, molten hole was releasing a curl of toxic smoke just a few inches from the president’s left ear. I turned my head toward Joe. Just a few seconds earlier, his face had been reassuringly calm. Now, he looked constipated with fright.
But POTUS was on a roll, and he didn’t catch Joe’s expression. Nor, thanks to the breeze that evening, did he notice the sheet of burning poison by his head. “First, we should sit down and pursue a balanced approach to a responsible budget,” the president said. His demeanor was cool and collected, a sharp contrast to the red-hot, glowing chaos nearby. Fumes began to build. The plastic took on the urgent, quivering quality of newspaper in a fireplace moments after a match is lit.
So naturally, without hesitation, I jumped in and saved the day. I extinguished the flame, rescued the president, and earned myself the gratitude of Barack Obama, the nation, and the world.
At least, that’s what happened in my robust fantasy life. Here’s what I did in my real life. Nothing. I remained totally frozen. Completely silent. And since then, I’ve asked myself the same question at least a thousand times.
Why? Why didn’t I speak up? For that matter, why didn’t Hope? Why didn’t Joe?
The more I’ve thought about it, the more certain I am that our tongues weren’t tied by shock or fear. What held us back was the same bureaucratic angel that saved me at the Correspondents’ Dinner two years before. Staaaaay in your laaaaaane. I was in charge of writing the script. Joe was in charge of preparing the set. Hope was in charge of operating the camera. What we needed was someone in charge of making sure the president’s head was not incinerated. But no such person existed. No one had been assigned that due-out. And in Obamaworld, straying outside your lane was a mortal sin.