Tough Love

by Susan Rice

  We pull up to the packed hangar in time to hustle inside, make our way up to the front, and position ourselves close to the podium alongside the rest of the senior staff. Conversations are muted and abbreviated as we wait together for former President Obama and the first lady to arrive and speak to us assembled one last time.

  When that moment comes and the president begins, “Michelle and I, we’ve really been milking this goodbye thing, so it behooves me to be very brief,” someone calls out, “No, no!”

  “Yes, yes!” he says, and continues from there.

  As if to comfort the bereaved, he reminds us all that our jobs are not over. Democracy, he tells us, is “not the buildings; it’s not the monuments; it’s you being willing to work to make things better, and being willing to listen to each other and argue with each other and come together and knock on doors and make phone calls and treat people with respect. And that doesn’t end. This is just a—just a little old pit stop. This … is not a period. This is a comma in the continuing story of building America.”

  He tells us all how proud he is of us, that he can’t wait to see what we do next and, he concludes, “And I promise you, I’ll be right here with you.

  “All right?

  “God Bless you. Thank you, everybody.

  “Yes, we did. Yes, we can.

  “God Bless America.”

  Then, too soon, it’s time for them to leave. Former president and Mrs. Obama each give me and Ian farewell embraces and deliver many others. It is a fitting send-off for a president who had done so much good, with such humility, and who made his whole team proud every day he served.

  Rain falls as the Obamas walk outside along the red carpet, up the stairs to the plane door, then turn and wave one last time. Many of us stay behind to share memories, comfort one another, and promise to stay in touch. The Secret Service has kindly agreed to take their former protectees home, including me and White House Chief of Staff Denis McDonough and his family, rather than leave us curbside at Andrews. The four of us cram back into my agents’ SUV, plus my (now former) chief of staff Suzy George, and we head to my house.

  Outside our home, Ian and I thank my four Secret Service agents from the bottom of our hearts. The bond of gratitude and trust you form with men and women who would give their lives to protect you is hard to convey.

  After we take a few final pictures, I ask them, “Where do you go from here?”

  “Well, ma’am,” one says with a hint of trepidation, “we are going to pick up Kellyanne,” the incoming White House counselor to President Donald J. Trump.

  Stoically, I reply, “Good luck and thank you again,” and turn to walk into the house with Ian and my team.

  As soon as the door slams shut, overwhelmed by a flood of mixed emotions, I burst into tears.

  NOVEMBER 2012

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER

  “Honey, can you tell the doctor what’s happening?”

  “First, it was voices. And now it’s like people, real people, but I can tell they aren’t real… they are coming out of the walls. And they move toward me and talk.”

  “Are they scary? Do they threaten you?”

  “No, not really scary, but it’s creepy. They come at bad times like in class at school, or when I was at Frannie’s house for a sleepover. And I don’t know when to expect them, and it really bothers me.”

  “Do you recognize them?”

  “No, it’s mostly a man. I don’t know him, but he is very real.”

  This was the recurring conversation my daughter, Maris, my husband, Ian, and I were having with various doctors at Children’s Hospital in Washington, D.C. It was November 2012, and our beautiful, happy, seemingly healthy eight-year-old was suddenly having frequent and unpredictable hallucinations. She was bothered, and we were terrified.

  Over a span of three weeks, a phalanx of neurologists, psychiatrists, ophthalmologists, and radiologists pummeled Maris with MRIs, needles, exams, and repetitive questions. The doctors said the most likely cause was a brain tumor. Other possibilities included schizophrenia, a visual disorder, abuse, or psychological stress. I was flying back and forth from New York, where I was serving as the United States ambassador to the United Nations, to attend these various appointments and to comfort Maris.

  Eventually, the tests ruled out the worst possible explanations. No tumor, no mental disorder, no physical trauma or abnormality. Still, no explanation. The episodes continued for almost a year, albeit with diminishing frequency after January 2013. Over time, her doctors concluded that Maris was experiencing a stress reaction to watching her mother being assailed for my role in characterizing the Benghazi attack.

  While serving as U.N. ambassador, I had appeared on five Sunday shows in mid-September 2012, just days after four Americans, including Ambassador Christopher Stevens, had been killed in a terrorist attack on the U.S. compounds in Benghazi, Libya. Speaking from talking points prepared by the Intelligence Community, I provided their initial assessment of what had happened. Rapidly thereafter, I became the target of right-wing commentators and Republican members of Congress who falsely accused me of incompetence and, worse, of lying to the American people about the circumstances surrounding the tragedy.

  Still a young child, Maris had internalized the distress that had infused our household. In hindsight, Ian and I realized we had failed to turn off the television quickly enough and to keep it off at home, before it was too late. Maris was hurt and angry. She couldn’t understand what was happening or why. But she was damn sure of two things: she loved her mother intensely, and she despised Senator Lindsey Graham. She wanted nothing more than to call his office and tell him so.

  We didn’t let her make the call, but we were sorely tempted.

  Washington’s politics of personal destruction don’t come free of cost. They damage and destroy the lives of innocents who neither signed up for the public spotlight nor can comprehend vicious character assassinations of the ones they love.

  Our son, Jake, then thirteen years old, managed to distance himself from the uproar that swept through our lives like wildfire. Or, at least at the time, he seemed better able to compartmentalize his feelings—something I know a little bit about too.

  In addition to Maris, I worried a great deal about my seventy-eight-year-old mother, Lois. Brilliant, accomplished, and elegant, my mother was stuck at her Embassy Row town house in Washington, D.C., recovering from her third surgery in her battle with cancer, rather than enjoying the first of fall foliage in her home state of Maine, as she normally would in September.

  My mother warned me: I should never have gone on the Sunday shows.

  Until she passed, on appropriate occasions, Mom would remind me, with a gentle smile, of her advice unheeded.

  In those early days, it was hard to grasp the depth and force of the reaction to my appearances. It was harder still to imagine that it would endure, not only through the entirety of the 2012 presidential campaign, but long thereafter. I became a household name and the poster child for bilious Obama-haters on Fox and in right-wing social media. For months, it was relentless. And though it ebbed, it has never ended.

  I have always viewed myself as a professional, a patriot, a dedicated public servant. I do not much mind if some people don’t like me. And some don’t. Never before, however, had I been accused of being stupid or, worse, dishonest. None of which mattered when, on September 16, 2012, I became and remain, as one commentator on MSNBC said, “the right-wing’s favorite chew toy.” Or at least one of them.

  Ever since my name became synonymous with Benghazi, I have wanted to tell my story. Almost overnight, I went from being a respected if relatively low-profile cabinet official to a nationally notorious villain or heroine, depending on one’s political perspective and what cable news channel you watch.

  I am neither. The portrayals of me on both sides are superficial and uninformed by who I am and where I come from, by what motivates and truly defines me.

  I could not tell my own st
ory—until I left government. When I was a senior official who spoke publicly, I was speaking on behalf of the United States of America and our president. For the five years after Benghazi until I returned to private life, I was compelled to allow myself to be defined by others—something I never had to do before or otherwise would have tolerated. It’s hard to convey how frustrating that feels, especially when the public portrayal is false or demeaning. Now I am free to not only tell my own story but also what I have learned over the course of my life in service.

  Recently, the renowned professional tennis coach Nick Bollettieri watched me hit a few strokes on the court and said: “I can tell what you are. You are fiercely competitive and a sore loser.” My younger brother, Johnny, and I laughed uproariously. Ten minutes into our first encounter, Bollettieri had nailed me. My hope is that I have grown more gracious in both winning and losing over time, but neither I nor Johnny was prepared to argue this point with Nick. He was more right than wrong.

  For over four decades, I have been sprinting. Running as far and as fast as I can—through whatever pain—to try to exceed expectations, in school, at university, in my work, and as a daughter, wife, and mother. I’ve had little time to absorb and reflect on what I have discovered about myself, my family, my hometown of Washington, D.C., or the extraordinary professional experiences I’ve had. From my first job on the White House National Security Council staff, starting in the Clinton administration at age twenty-eight to becoming the youngest ever regional assistant secretary of state, from representing our country at the United Nations to wrestling as national security advisor with the toughest threats we face, I have been privileged to participate in making many of the most complex and consequential decisions the U.S. has confronted over the last twenty-five years.

  I haven’t had time to breathe. Until now. In retracing my steps and reclaiming my voice, it was necessary to revisit the foundations of who I am—to study my family history and build on the knowledge imparted to me in disconnected snippets over decades. To recall the myriad blessings I have been given, and to renew my vows to fulfill the responsibility that comes with such blessings. To relearn the fundamental lessons my parents taught me about race, resilience, equality, excellence, education, and overcoming adversity.

  I am a direct person. You will find that what you see is what you get. I’m not pulling my punches, even when they land on me or the ones I love most. That’s part of the tough love way I was raised. I also can’t tell you absolutely everything. There are too many important issues on which I have worked over the years to recount them all. By necessity, I have been selective, since this is a personal story, not a comprehensive diplomatic history, yet one that I hope will elucidate how American foreign policy is customarily made. There are some matters—personal, professional, classified—I will keep to myself and take to my grave. Tell-all books, which sell copies at the expense of others, are tacky and not my style. But I am giving you all I can, the best I can, straight-up, with whatever wisdom I can add for good measure.

  In the earlier chapters ahead, I’ve opened each with reflections on my time leading up to and including the Obama years. This nonlinear approach links my more recent past with my childhood and young adulthood, when I learned many lessons that would help shape me as a leader. From then, as I delve into my time in the Clinton and Obama administrations, I have opted for openings that typically go to the heart of the chapter to come.

  Reflecting on our current complex and disconcerting times, I recognize that many Americans are questioning our leadership role in the world. Many also doubt the relevance of the American dream to huge segments of our society who have been left behind and locked out of the kinds of privileges that I’ve been fortunate to enjoy. My mother used to look back on her amazing life and say, “Not bad for a poor colored girl from Portland, Maine.” We need more Lois Dickson Rices who can overcome the odds and win in tomorrow’s United States.

  Almost by definition, I am an optimist, or I couldn’t stay sane while doing the intense and sometimes terrifying work of national security. I am a big believer in our country, which has given so much to me, my family, and to so many others with far less than what my grandparents had, who were both immigrants and descendants of slaves.

  Yet, I am not naive. I know that it’s works that matter—not words, not hope, not even the most powerful dreams. We each have agency and responsibility. We can’t be passive bystanders, victims, or vigilantes. We must each commit to unify and to heal. We must fear none, especially our fellow Americans.

  I still believe that the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice, but nobody is going to do the hard bending, if not you and me. It’s our choice, and I have always believed we must choose each other.

  My sincere hope in telling my story is that others may find in it inspiration and empowerment, perhaps a source of strength and fearlessness. If nothing else, I aim to share what I have learned along the way: the importance of always doing your best; picking yourself up and dusting yourself off; and driving down the court to the bucket—all while maintaining grace under fire.

  Finally, I hope that you will see the value of my father’s core doctrine. Emmett J. Rice, who overcame Jim Crow, the segregated armed forces, and pervasive employment discrimination to rise to the top of his field, hammered something essential into me and my brother: “Don’t take crap off of anyone.”

  PART ONE Foundations

  1 Service in My Soul

  My first contact with Barack Obama came in a phone call from him in the summer of 2004.

  At the time, I was serving as a senior foreign policy advisor for the Kerry/Edwards presidential campaign, while on leave from my job as a senior fellow at the Brookings Institution. My primary responsibilities involved helping craft policy positions, supporting Senator Kerry in debate preparation, and managing our small foreign policy team. I also served as a television surrogate on foreign policy matters and liaised with our senior outside advisors.

  Earlier that summer, Tony Lake asked me if I would be willing to speak to Obama, a state senator who was then running for the U.S. Senate from Illinois. Lake had been President Bill Clinton’s first national security advisor and my first boss in government. Both a mentor and a close friend, Tony has a puckish smile, piercing blue-gray eyes, and a quick, dry wit. He may seem self-effacing, in part because he shuns the public spotlight, but he is tough and those people who think they can roll him will be sorely surprised.

  Tony explained that he had been asked by his old friend Abner Mikva, a former White House counsel and member of Congress, to talk to Mikva’s young former colleague on the faculty at the University of Chicago Law School. Behind the scenes, Tony had recently begun advising Obama on foreign policy issues and encouraged him to talk to me about Darfur, Iraq, and other salient issues. This would enable Obama to stay connected to the foreign policy side of the Kerry campaign—so that, as a candidate for Senate, he could make deliberate determinations as to whether he wished to align himself with, or depart from, the party nominee’s positions. Glad to assist, I talked to Obama a couple times that summer by phone.

  Like most Americans, my first real exposure to him came on the Tuesday night of the 2004 Democratic National Convention in Boston. Stuck at the Kerry/Edwards makeshift office in an unimpressive downtown hotel, my colleagues and I were on deadline, working through the campaign’s response to the just released 9/11 Commission Report, and unable to make it to the convention center for the keynote address. Frustrated by having to miss the action at the arena—which we enjoyed every other night of the convention—we hustled downstairs and pitched ourselves in front of a television in the cramped and loud hotel bar.

  When Barack Obama took the stage, we listened intently.

  His speech was tremendously powerful and compelling, but for me it was much more. It drew me beneath the television set, where I looked up. As I watched, tears silently streamed down my face. I was amazed. For the first time, I saw an African American politic
al leader of my generation who was passionate, intelligent, principled, and credible. He was neither an icon of the civil rights era nor a “race-man” (as my father used to call those who viewed the world primarily through the prism of race). He was a new American leader—for all. Like my children, he was both black and white, a role model for my son, Jake. Young and visionary, he spoke movingly of one America—“Not a liberal America and a conservative America, there’s the United States of America.” For the first time in my life, I had found a political leader to whom I could completely relate and who excited me.

  In September, John Kerry spoke at the annual gala dinner of the Congressional Black Caucus Foundation—a must do for any Democratic presidential nominee. Kerry was well-received, but the star of the evening was the magnetic Barack Obama, who was on track to be the next senator from Illinois.

  By chance, I was talking with the Reverend Jesse Jackson and other Illinois heavyweights as Obama dutifully made his rounds at the front tables. He stopped by the Illinois crowd to pay his respects and, as I turned from Jackson and stood up to see what the commotion was about, I found myself face-to-face with the senator-to-be. I introduced myself. He said he knew who I was and thanked me again for talking foreign policy with him on the phone back in the summer. I wished him good luck, and he moved on.

  Following the election, in early 2005, Obama was sworn in as the junior senator from Illinois and tapped to serve on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Tony Lake and his dynamic, effervescent wife, Julie, hosted a dinner at their home in Washington to introduce the freshman senator to a small group of Obama generation national security experts, including me and my good friend Gayle Smith, with whom I had worked closely during the Clinton years. At the dinner table, Obama and I sat next to each other and found that our instincts on many issues were closely aligned. He was wicked smart, confident, and well-versed on foreign policy, but also funny and personable. Thereafter, he called me occasionally and invited me to meet with him and his team to discuss policy matters or planned travel.