For a healthy young person, comparing health care plans involves choices no less absurd. Would you rather pay a little less if you get sick in your home state, or a lot more if you get sick anywhere else? Spend more nights in the hospital you don’t need to go to, or save money treating the cancer you don’t have? After an hour, Jacqui had made no progress whatsoever. Exhausted, we retreated to the kitchen to eat leftover ham and give her Republican father a chance to gloat.
Then we returned to battle. After thirty more minutes, Jacqui finished answering questions. But the moment “would you rather” was over, the glitches began. We attempted to compare insurance plans, only to discover that the least-expensive options—the bronze level—didn’t seem to exist. We reloaded the site over and over. They wouldn’t appear. There are only so many times you can refresh the same page before you begin to wonder if you’re in some cruel psych experiment. But with no better options, we forged ahead. Finally, after approximately ten million refreshes, our persistence was rewarded. The full list of health care plans appeared. Jacqui chose one. The site asked her to wait.
So we did. We waited and waited and waited and waited, watching a little glowing circle chase its tail in the middle of the screen. Finally, just as we were about to give up hope, something began loading. A new screen appeared.
It was the home page. Every bit of information was gone. We would have to start from scratch.
The fight that followed was quiet. We didn’t want to give Jacqui’s dad the satisfaction of knowing Obamacare was tearing us apart. But we made up for volume with intensity, alternating between personal and political in a whiplash-inducing weave.
“You told me the site was working . . .” whispered Jacqui.
“Well, you don’t give the tech surge enough credit.”
“They don’t deserve it!”
“You overreact about everything!”
“You’re not really supportive!”
“You always blame me instead of Congress!”
“Oh yeah? Well, Democrats don’t care about the middle class!”
Long-drawn-out silence.
“You. Take. That. Back.”
After a while we stopped arguing. What choice did we have but to log back in? Jacqui created her new account. She reanswered her questions. She repicked her plan. Once again, we waited for what felt like forever, holding our breath as the glowing circle spun. Finally, something began loading. A new screen appeared.
It was a confirmation page. Jacqui was insured.
I won’t say that everything became perfect in that moment. All I will say is that we jumped off that ancient twin bed and hugged each other more fiercely than we ever had before. We were crying, not with frustration this time, but with joy. True, Obamaworld had mishandled its most cherished legislative priority. True, Republicans in Congress were gleefully watching our approvals slide. But in that tiny room in New Jersey, those things didn’t matter.
Here’s what did matter. Barack Obama fought to make insurance affordable for everyone, well past the point where it made political sense. He made mistakes. He had blind spots. Sometimes, he even let us down. But he never gave up. He never walked away from Jacqui. And because he stood by her, the person I loved would now be able to see a doctor if she got sick.
As far as I was concerned, it was the most wonderful time of the year.
12
IN THE BARREL
And then came 2014, which just sucked. Top to bottom awful. The worst.
Consider the following encounter. Early that spring, while walking home from work, I noticed a short, plump woman approaching me in a kind of determined shuffle. I guessed she was in her late forties or early fifties. Her hair was gray and spiky, and she wore a sweater with both the color and texture of whole-grain bread.
“Excuse me,” she asked. “Did you work for the Presidential Inaugural Committee?”
It’s not uncommon for certain White House staffers to be recognized. One morning in 2009, when I was still at the Crisis Hut, my fellow intern Sonia floated into her cubicle on a cloud.
“I just saw Jon Favreau at the Whole Foods!” she exclaimed.
That was her entire story. She hadn’t spoken to the president’s chief speechwriter. She wasn’t carrying his child. She merely glimpsed him browsing overpriced lettuce. Apparently, that was enough to rock her world.
But for every staffer who becomes a local celebrity, at least a hundred remain obscure. For my shyer colleagues, anonymity was the best part of public service. For the rest of us it was a trade-off, no different than writing songs for Rihanna or designing Dwyane Wade’s line of shoes. At least, that’s what I had always told myself. Now, standing on the sidewalk and basking in the glow of a stranger’s attention, an itch was being scratched. I’ve been noticed! I have a fan! I smiled so broadly my lips hurt.
“That’s right!” I announced. “I spent six weeks on the Inaugural Committee.” My spiky-haired admirer nodded, thrilled to have her suspicions confirmed.
“And didn’t you also work for Tim Kaine?”
Now this was really stunning. Imagine meeting Joseph Gordon-Levitt and bringing up his Pop-Tarts commercial from 1991. Mentally, I upgraded the woman to superfan. Then I addressed her with the perfect blend of modesty and poise.
“I helped with Senator Kaine’s 2012 convention speech,” I confessed. “But it was very good to begin with. I barely had to make changes.” Wowed by my down-to-earth demeanor, she nodded even more eagerly than before.
“And now you work in the White House, right?”
At last! Here was the question I had been anticipating.
“I do indeed,” I said, dropping even the pretense of humility. “Actually, I started writing speeches for the president when I was just twenty-four years old.”
The woman’s eyes grew large. I basked preemptively in her praise. Then, without warning, she jabbed a finger in my face.
“I know you!” she cried. “You stole my inauguration tickets!”
“Wh . . . ?” I stammered. But before I could get a word out, she escalated the charge.
“You stole my tickets!” she shouted. “You’re a racist! You’re racist, you’re a criminal, you’re in the KKK!”
Ordinarily, I would have rushed to defend myself. But this woman was such an expert on my life story. For a moment, I actually wondered if she knew something I did not.
“I . . . I don’t think so?” I suggested. This did nothing to improve matters. When my accuser spoke again she was even louder, this time for the benefit of passersby.
“He’s racist! He’s criminal! He’s KKK!”
I briefly considered reasoning with her. A heart-to-heart chat, a little active listening, and surely we’d be back on the same page. Then the spiky-haired woman resumed yelling, and I revised my view and fled. Half walking, half running, I raced down the sidewalk in my dress shoes, my superfan shuffling behind me in pursuit.