The answer, usually, is “A lot.” EPA scientists have been placed under a gag order. New deportation rules are designed to tear families apart. The rule of law is already fraying, and the Republican Congress is too busy targeting consumer protections to care.
It’s terrifying. But it’s not surprising. What is surprising is the number of people who love their country despite its flaws, and refuse to give it up without a fight. Friends who never before cared about politics are pouring out of the woodwork, asking what they can do. I don’t have an easy fix for them. But their question, in and of itself, is an answer. It’s the best of America: defiant, proud, optimistic in spite of everything. It reminds me of nothing so much as the 2008 campaign.
It goes without saying that Stacey Lihn is part of it. She tells me that Election Night was devastating. The morning after, she had trouble getting out of bed. But she never doubted she would return to the fight. She had no choice. On January 15, she stood outside her senator’s office in Arizona and demanded that he protect her daughter’s care. The day after the inauguration, she was one of three million people who joined Women’s Marches across the country—the biggest single protest America had ever seen.
“It’s kind of like our journey with Zoe,” she tells me. “You get dealt a rough hand, and you have to rally and you have to come back.”
Sitting at Stacey’s kitchen table, I have so many questions. Does she think we’ll win? What does she do when she gets discouraged? Has she, too, been unable to sleep? But our interview is cut short by a hyperactive six-year-old. Zoe has recently acquired a scooter. She’s desperate to go outside and play. And that’s the way it should be. Thanks to a man who lived in the White House—and to all the people who put him there—Zoe is as bouncy and impatient as any other kid.
That doesn’t mean everything will be okay. Pulling out of the Lihns’ driveway, I turn on my phone, play my new favorite game, and discover that America has become much worse in the hours since I last checked. President Trump is hoping to make good on his campaign promise to ban Muslims, starting with seven nations from Africa and the Middle East. The executive order he’s just signed is a stunning blend of ineptitude and malice. Translators who served with U.S. troops in Iraq are being held like criminals at the airport. Green-card holders are being illegally detained. Babies can’t get food. The elderly can’t get medicine. The stories are heartbreaking.
But they’re not finished. Within hours, thousands of fellow citizens spontaneously descend upon America’s airports. Volunteer lawyers fan out to represent detainees. The ACLU takes the president to court and wins. Despite everything, I end the night smiling as I watch a video on my phone.
The footage is from JFK airport, the same airport I flew into the night Barack Obama’s speech changed my life. This time, though, the terminal is packed. The energy is as intense as anything on the campaign. As the camera pans toward a security door, a middle-aged woman in a head scarf shuffles out of detention. Relatives run to embrace her. She looks almost dizzy with relief. As she slowly exits the airport, the crowd breaks into raucous cheers:
“U-S-A! U-S-A!”
To my surprise, quietly in my hotel room, I join in.
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, STACEY LIHN GOES TO THE PHOENIX airport to protest, and I go there for my flight home. The plane takes off. I look out over the shrinking sea of cars and houses. Then, like clockwork, Sarah Palin chimes in.
“So . . .” she asks.
But for the first time in eight days, her question is pushed aside by a million more important ones. Will Zoe Lihn be able to keep her health care? Will she grow up in a land of freedom and opportunity? Will she achieve her dreams, which at the moment include earning a black belt and becoming a school principal so she can order fire drills whenever she feels like it?
I don’t know. No one does. But I do know this. While Donald Trump may be our president, he does not define our country. I don’t think he ever will. Zoe Lihn is six years old, and for now, this is still Barack Obama’s America.
Anything is possible.
ACKS
All speechwriters know that it’s important to keep acknowledgments short. They also know that, if you can’t keep the acks short, you must under no circumstances accidentally leave anyone out. I’m about to break the first rule, and most likely the second as well. So with apologies in advance, thank you to the following people, without whom I could not have written this book.
My agent, Dan Greenberg, for understanding what I was trying to do before I did.
My editor, Denise Oswald, for asking me questions I had no answers to and sticking with me until I found some.
Ashley Garland, James Faccinto, Meghan Deans, Miriam Parker, Sonya Cheuse, Emma Janaskie, and the rest of Ecco, for making sure this book is worth reading and that you’re reading it.
Catherine Burns, and the entire Moth family, for their friendship, encouragement, and storytelling genius.
Mike Farah, Brad Jenkins, and the team at Funny Or Die, for believing in, and making lots of, quality stuff.
Amanda Hymson and Jason Richman at UTA, for being strategic and supportive in equal measure.
Vinca LaFleur, Jeff Nussbaum, Paul Orzulak, and Jeff Shesol, for deciding I could write speeches when there was not much evidence to support that notion.
Valerie Jarrett, Cody Keenan, Jon Favreau, and Mike Strautmanis, for giving me the chances (and sometimes second chances) of a lifetime.
Everyone who wrote POTUS jokes—for no pay, and usually for no credit—while I was at the White House: Judd Apatow, David Axelrod, Beth Armogida, Kevin Bleyer, Jon Lovett, Andrew Law, Nina Pedrad, Pete Schultz, Nell Scovell, Rachel Sklar, Will Stephen, Katie Rich, Tommy Vietor, and the West Wing Writers crew. With so much extraordinary material, each monologue could have easily been five times as long.
My colleagues on the POTUS and FLOTUS speechwriting teams: Dave Cavell, Laura Dean, Sarah Hurwitz, Susannah Jacob, Steve Krupin, Tyler Lechtenberg, Kyle O’Connor, Sarada Peri, Aneesh Raman, Carlin Reichel, Megan Rooney, and Terry Szuplat. I’ll always be grateful for your talent, your friendship, and for the fact that you only occasionally made fun of how messy my office was.
The people (and the following is a partial list) who gave up their time to make this book just a little bit better—to read a chapter, offer encouragement, or share an invaluable piece of advice: Mike Birbiglia, Joanna Coles, Billy Eichner, Ashley Fox, Peter Godwin, Ben Orlin, Tig Notaro, B. J. Novak, Eric Ortner, Kevin Roe, David Sedaris, Erik Smith, Kimball Stroud, and Alexandra Veitch.
And finally: To my Ohio volunteers, White House coworkers, and campaign colleagues, for inspiring me. To the friends I ignored while writing this book, for forgiving me now that I’m done with it. To my family, for being generous and kind. To my parents, for believing in me and always leading by example. And most of all, to Jacqui, for everything.