Until June 25, that is. At 9:59 A.M. that Thursday, the Affordable Care Act was a Schr?dinger’s cat, simultaneously alive and dead. Then, just one minute later, the court unveiled its decision. By a 6–3 vote, the Holy Warriors were defeated. Barack Obama’s signature achievement would not be overturned in court.
Long before the ruling, Cody had drafted multiple sets of remarks, one for each possible judgment. That morning, standing in the Rose Garden, POTUS delivered the most triumphant of the bunch.
“Five years in, this is no longer about a law. This is not about the Affordable Care Act as legislation, or Obamacare as a political football. This is health care in America.”
Obviously, this was optimistic. Obamacare’s days as a political football weren’t exactly over. But the president’s broader point was undeniable. For a population nearly twice the size of Virginia, the Affordable Care Act was not an ideological minefield or political prize. It was insurance. Congress could still weaken the law. Maybe they could even one day repeal it. But the fundamental principles behind Obamacare—that everyone deserves access to health care, and that the government can help secure it—were now woven into American life.
For the rest of the day, it was as though the entire White House had taken political ecstasy. Glowing coworkers smiled at each other for no reason. Meetings began and ended with hugs and high fives. Even the chocolate freedom tasted sweeter. It seemed nothing could top that moment.
Until, just one day later, something did.
Two somethings, actually. At 10 A.M. on Friday, June 26, I heard a wave of squealing outside my office. When I opened the door I found interns flooding the corridors, like the children in Matilda when Miss Trunchbull gets her due. The Supreme Court had just handed down another ruling. Same-sex marriage was legal nationwide.
I could barely believe it. The college students bouncing giddily in the hallways were not quite old enough to remember 2004, when opposing “the homosexual agenda” helped vault George W. Bush to a second term. But I was. A freshman in college, I was home for Thanksgiving that year when my childhood friend Chris came out to me. I will always remember what I thought next.
That’s too bad. He’ll never be able to get married.
This, remember, was in Manhattan. Even for a blue state like New York, legalizing marriage equality seemed not just unlikely but preposterous. You might as well have told me we’d all be riding dragons or growing prehensile tails. Now, just a decade later, Chris could get married in any state he pleased.
This time it was Sarada Peri, a fellow EEOB speechwriter, who had written multiple versions of a Rose Garden address. She, too, got to shred all but the most inspiring speech.
“Progress on this journey often comes in small increments,” said the president. “Two steps forward, one step back, propelled by the persistent effort of dedicated citizens. And then sometimes there are days like this, when that slow, steady effort is rewarded with justice that arrives like a thunderbolt.”
In 239 years of presidential history, it was hard to find a moment like the one we were living through: a young century’s most progressive law, and its most dramatic step toward equality, each ratified in a single twenty-four-hour span. Yet even now, President Obama had no time to celebrate the thunderbolts of justice. In just a few hours, he would be on his way to Charleston. He had a eulogy to give.
THE PREVIOUS WEEK, AS CODY BEGAN WORKING ON THE REMARKS for Charleston, I heard through the grapevine that POTUS wasn’t excited about speaking. He had already addressed the nation eight times after mass shootings. Over and over, he said something would have to change. Then nothing changed. Why would this time be different?
By the day of the speech, however, the president had his answer. When Dylann Roof appeared in court, victims’ family members, who had every reason to hate him, offered words of forgiveness instead. Rather than defend the Confederate flag flying over the South Carolina capitol, the state’s Republican governor, Nikki Haley, called for it to be taken down. A killer had hoped to summon the worst of America through his actions. Instead, the best of America rose up in response. In his eulogy, President Obama found a word to explain what had happened.
Grace.
“As a nation, out of this terrible tragedy, God has visited grace upon us,” the president said. “For he has allowed us to see where we’ve been blind.” He spoke eloquently of these new insights. The pain caused by the Confederate flag. The horror of gun violence. The pernicious, lasting scars of racism.
Even more important than his words, however, was the way he said them. New speechwriters, writing their first remarks for an African American audience, would often be told, “Take ’em to church.” For these speeches, POTUS borrowed his cadence from the civil rights movement and generations of black preachers. Our job was to find language to match. But until Charleston, these were smaller, targeted events, not national addresses. When the whole world was watching, POTUS was a kind of crossover artist, as much professor as pastor, as much Kennedy as King.
Not anymore. “The church is and always has been the center of African American life,” he said, “a place to call our own.”
Not their own. Our own. So often, after a tragedy or injustice, it fell to President Obama to explain what black America was going through, to be a kind of anger translator in reverse. But this time, instead of describing the anguish of his fellow Americans, he joined them in their grief. With every word the president spoke, you could see his heartbreak building. Then, without warning, he paused, looked down, and shook his head.
Watching on the livestream, I was confused. I had studied President Obama for years. I thought I knew every gesture. But this I hadn’t seen before. Was he about to cry? To walk away? For another moment, there was only silence. An arena of mourners held its breath.
Then, softly, the most powerful person on earth began to sing.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,
One of the pastors onstage laughed, delighted. “Sing it, Mr. President!”
That saved a wretch like me.
Behind him, a second pastor nodded and clapped. Before long, the entire arena was singing. Some cried uncontrollably. Some smiled broadly. Most did both. As POTUS came to the speech’s crescendo, a church organist began improvising a riff behind him. When the president reached his final line, he made sure to emphasize the fourth-to-last word.
“May God continue to shed his grace on the United States of America.”
With his right hand, he gave the podium a satisfied little thump.