Around each work space were different decorations—college flags hanging from the ceiling, state posters hung up with clips, American flags, and more Obama 2012 posters than you could count. Deflated balloons were tied to someone’s chair, leftover from a birthday celebration. Whiteboards and chalkboards were still filled with notes and schedules, signs made out of construction paper were taped on the wall, inside jokes and memories, I assumed: REMEMBER IOWA, WE’RE NOT BINDERS, and DON’T FORGET TO BREATHE.
The office was full of people, but no one was sitting at their desks. There was nothing more to be done. Exercise balls that had been used as chairs rolled around as everyone milled about, hugging each other, sometimes laughing or crying with relief, sometimes doing both at once. All around me, I heard people saying over and over again: Congratulations, we did it, and good-bye.
There was a young staffer who’d died during the campaign—unexpectedly and suddenly—and in the corner was a makeshift shrine to him. It had notes from his friends and co-workers, a bottle of his favorite liquor, and a big sign that said, DO IT FOR ALEX. I was tired that morning (we hadn’t slept much the night before), and although I’d never met him, I cried openly as I read the Post-its that people had put up there after he was gone, little random thoughts and notes addressed to him: “I miss you”; “I wish you were here to make binder jokes”; “You would have loved the event today.” Most of them were written by his co-workers, but there was also one from the President and another from the First Lady.
I don’t know how long I stood there crying, but I do remember Matt coming over and taking my elbow. “Come on,” he said quietly, leading me away, probably not wanting the whole office to see his wife weeping.
When the President came, everyone cheered, and I cried some more, but so did everyone else. He talked about how everyone in that room inspired him, how he had so much hope for the world seeing all of these young people who cared so much, how they all made him proud.
Next to me, Matt’s eyes filled with tears, and I realized that in the entire time I’d known him, the only two times I’d seen him cry were during the 2008 and 2012 elections.
—
I think about that day often—it was historic and amazing and I couldn’t believe I got to witness it, sure. But it was also the one time I got it, the only time I came close to understanding why Matt did this, why he’d joined the campaign in 2008, why he regretted not doing it again, why he was willing to give up his vacation days to contribute to it this time. Standing there, I could feel it—the energy, the draw, the desire to be part of this great big thing, this movement that was more than any one person, this feeling that you could start to change the world.
Washington, DC
2013
Washington is a very easy city for you to forget where you came from and why you got there in the first place.
—HARRY TRUMAN
Chapter 11
When I tried on my dress for the Inaugural Ball, all Matt could say was “It’s really shiny.” It was the kind of statement people try to pass off as a compliment: “That’s bold.” “Your shirt is unusual.” “I’ve never seen a skirt look like that.”
“It looks like something Vanna White wore on Wheel of Fortune,” I said.
“It’s not that bad.” But a little smile flickered on his lips and I knew he secretly agreed with me.
“Actually,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror, “I’m pretty sure she wore this exact dress. What am I going to do? It looked so much better online.”
“Why don’t you just wear one of the other ones?” Matt said. I’d rented three different dresses from Rent the Runway, one for each of the balls we were going to—the Black Tie and Boots ball on Saturday (as guests of Jimmy and Ash, of course), the official Inaugural Ball on Monday, and the Staff Ball on Tuesday.
“I can’t do that!” I said. “We’re going to see all the same people at them.” Even Ash, who was almost nine months pregnant, had three different maternity gowns to wear. No one was messing around.
Matt just shrugged his shoulders, knowing that anything he suggested wasn’t going to calm me down as I stood bedazzled in front of him. After a flurry of text exchanges with Ash, I decided my best bet was to head to Friendship Heights, where there were a million stores and had to be at least one suitable dress. But when I got there, every department store looked like it had been ransacked, like a looting had taken place. Who was I kidding? It was the Saturday before the inauguration and every female in DC was desperate for a gown. I tried on one dress that was a size double zero and got stuck as I attempted to pull it over my head, sweating in the dressing room for almost twenty minutes while I swore silently and prayed it wouldn’t rip. There were a few other women there too, circling the store like hyenas, examining the leftover dresses, searching for anything salvageable. Somehow, among the scraps, I found one long black dress that wasn’t horrible. I knew I’d never wear it again, but I bought it immediately. It would have to do.