Unhinged: An Insider's Account of the Trump White House

by Omarosa Manigault Newman

We lived in Westlake Terrace, a four-hundred-unit barracks-style apartment complex in Youngstown, Ohio. Built in the 1940s, Westlake was one of the first public housing projects in the nation, situated near the Mahoning River, a highway, and a US Steel Ohio Works mill. At its peak, Youngstown was a bustling steel manufacturer, and when the steel industry collapsed, the city was devastated. As work became scarce, gangs and violence flooded the community. One of my earliest memories is of an afternoon when my sister Gladys and I were playing on the playground swings, when, all of a sudden, we heard gunshots. A man came tearing through the playground and ran between two of the projects’ buildings. A policeman was chasing him, firing rounds every few seconds.

  My mother dashed for us from the back door of our unit. “Get down, get down!” she screamed.

  Mother grabbed both of us and ran back through the door, making us crouch down on the floor between the refrigerator and the stove until the commotion subsided. If we hadn’t made it to the door in time, we might have been trampled or killed. Scenes like this became common in Westlake, and my family was determined to get out.

  One evening, my siblings and I were sleeping at my grandma’s house at 10501/2 Wilson Avenue when an electrical fire swept through. There were four adults (my grandmother Betty, my aunts Mary and Evelyn, and my uncle Carl) and nine kids (Gladys; Lester, my older half brother; and Jack Jr.; and my cousins Belinda, James, Gerald, Lydia, and Tanressa).

  I remembered being awakened by the dogs barking loudly and the adults yelling, “Fire!” and being taken by my grandma to the flat roof of the porch. My aunt Evelyn picked me up and threw me off the second-story back porch. My uncle Carl caught me with no problem, put me down into the snow, and told me to run in the direction that the others were headed. But my feet were cold and wet. The snow seemed so deep. Probably driven by comfort and curiosity, I tried to run back toward the burning building. My uncle grabbed me and pulled me away. (That’s so indicative of my life. I’m always running toward the fire, unafraid of anything.)

  My three-year-old cousin, Tanressa, was sleeping on the far side of the house, and, try as he might, my uncle couldn’t reach her. The firefighters arrived and carried her out of the house. They performed mouth-to-mouth on her but were unable to resuscitate her. She hadn’t been burned at all, but the smoke overcame her and she died. Tanressa’s mother, Brenda, was not at the house at the time of her death; in fact, she was at the hospital giving birth that morning to a healthy baby girl named Mildred. My mother had to go with her sisters to the hospital to deliver the news that Tanressa had been lost in the fire.

  At that tender age, I learned this bittersweet complexity of life, that joy and pain are two sides of the same coin.

  Picking up the pieces after the fire and the devastating loss of Tanressa, our family grew closer and stronger. We spent most weekends together and did not miss a chance to celebrate life’s milestones, like birthdays and graduations. My mother and father smothered us with attention and love to help us through our grief. As a truck driver, my father was on the road a lot, but when he was home, we would go to Mill Creek Park or fishing at Lake Erie. He loved to take us driving around town to visit friends and family in his prized Cadillac.

  Several years later, my father got into an argument with a friend over property that the man had stolen from my dad. The argument escalated into a fight, and my father was badly beaten and left for dead. He was found and taken to a hospital, where he lingered for two weeks before he died from his injuries. The perpetrator was caught and charged with murder.

  I remember going to the wake, walking up to the casket, and looking at my father’s body, with my sister and a cousin at my side.

  My cousin said, “He’s sleeping.”

  I said, “No, he’s not going to wake up. Mommy said he’s going to heaven now.”

  At seven, I understood the finality of death, that I’d never see my father again.

  My mom went to work at a plastics factory, and we didn’t get to see her much anymore. She worked from three to eleven o’clock at night, would take a short break, and then work a second shift until seven in the morning. She’d come home to help us get dressed and off to school, and then she’d sleep until her next shift started in the afternoon. My oldest brother, Lester, was responsible for feeding us dinner, helping us with homework, and getting us ready for bed. Most often we’d go to Grandma’s new house on the north side, or to the homes of other members of our huge family. I had six aunts and three uncles, two sets of grandparents and sixty-two first cousins.

  We all attended the same church, New Grace Missionary Baptist Church, where we made up half of the congregation. New Grace was like a second home for me, a safe, happy place, with a wonderful pastor, Reverend Albert Ross Sr.

  As you can imagine, after my father’s death, our single-minimum-wage-income family of five struggled to make ends meet, and we relied on public assistance like food stamps and Section Eight, a program where the government subsidizes rent in public housing.

  Nowadays when you receive government assistance for food, you are given an electronics benefits transfer (EBT) card. But when I was growing up, food stamps were actual colored stamps in multiple denominations. I remember circling the store and trying to wait until the other shoppers cleared out of the grocery store so they wouldn’t see me putting the stamps on the counter to pay. The looks were withering, and the stigma was real. To my knowledge, the United States is the only country in the world that has created a separate currency for its poor. To me, it seems to be a form of intentionally shaming those in need. After my father died, we wouldn’t have had enough to eat without that aid. That was the new reality of my mom as a widow and having to raise four kids the best way she knew how. She did what she had to do to make the most out of the difficult situation we found ourselves in back then.

  Ohio was, and still is, a political battleground state, and many politicians made their way through the state every four years. In 1984, Reverend Jesse Jackson made several trips to Ohio, and I remember our pastor, Reverend Ross, taking a small group of us to listen to Reverend Jackson speak. I was only ten years old, but the presidential candidate and preacher made a huge impression on me. I remember his powerful words: “I am somebody, I may be poor, but I am somebody! I may be on welfare, but I am somebody! I must be, because I am God’s child! I must be respected and protected! I am beautiful and black and I am somebody!”

  I hung on his every word. I felt like he was speaking directly to me and speaking specifically to my situation. It was a pivotal moment in my life and I believed every word he said!

  Afterward, I stood in the rope line with everybody else and got to shake his hand. He was the first famous person I’d ever met. It was like meeting a big movie star or a famous athlete. Reverend Jackson’s first presidential campaign as one of the first black men to run for president was historic. My pastor pledged that he and the entire congregation would do everything they could to help him win. We made signs at the church and passed them out in the neighborhood. I remember asking Reverend Ross if he thought Reverend Jackson could really become the first black president. Reverend Ross looked me squarely in the eye and said, “With God, all things are possible!” To say the experience made an impression on me would be a huge understatement.I Up to that point my life hadn’t been full of hope and dreams. But when I heard Reverend Jackson speak, a little light came on.

  Around this same time, I became interested in politics and public speaking, especially after hearing an inspiring speech given by Ohio State Representative Les Brown in the early eighties. I also became fixated on newscasters. There was a newscaster on the local news named Ode Aduma, who was my absolute favorite. He was dynamic on camera and had a melodic voice and an African name like mine. I admired the authority the newscasters had, and the way they spoke and sat tall with dignity. I started modeling my own posture and speech after them. Watching women like Barbara Walters and Connie Chung was formative for me. When Oprah Winfrey’s show debuted o
n national TV in 1986 when I was twelve, I was in absolute awe. I never imagined that years later I would be interviewed by Barbara Walters on the Emmys red carpet or sit on the famous yellow couch with Oprah and Donald Trump for an interview about being the breakout star of The Apprentice.

  As I grew up, I sought any opportunity to stand out and make a name for myself. My junior high and high school years were defined by competition and performance. I played volleyball for coach Paul Oakes. I was on the debate team and chess team with Jocelyn Dabney and on the track team with Henrietta Williams. And also in the marching band with six of my cousins.

  Thanks to my amazing mentor Ms. Dabney, who was also our school’s librarian, I started competing in beauty pageants. My first title I won was the Miss Buckeye Elk pageant. Later that same year I was crowned Miss Youngstown and missed my high school graduation to attend the Miss Ohio pageant, a preliminary for the Miss America pageant. It was a very exciting time. I started to feel more confident about myself and my ability to make something out of my life.

  The news of my becoming Miss Youngstown was covered by the local TV news and dailies. I was famous in my hometown that day. Making my family and my community proud made me feel really good. I’d grown up with a lot of labels—poor, welfare kid, a projects kid. That night, I was referred to by a new label: beauty queen. Receiving accolades and scholarships for college gave me hope and helped to erase some of the negative labels I’d carried.

  Finally, I was somebody.

  While life for me was generally looking up, things for my brother Jack Jr. were going in the opposite direction. Jack had started hanging out with gangs and getting into trouble. One night during my senior year in high school, someone shot at our house. A bullet came through the front window, through the back of the couch, and hit the fireplace. Thank God no one was hurt. I had to get out of Youngstown.

  The late eighties was a deadly time to be in Youngstown. Street violence took the lives of many of my classmates. The threat wasn’t just close to home for us. It was impacting my family directly. My brother had been in and out of the juvenile detention system for years, including a stint at the Cuyahoga Hills Juvenile Correctional Facility outside Cleveland. Two weekends a month, we’d drive an hour each way to visit him there. I loved my brother and worried about him. Our family had suffered enough violence already. My father had been taken by it. I was determined not to let that happen to me.

  Sports saved me. Volleyball brought me a full scholarship to Central State University (CSU), a historically black college in Wilberforce, Ohio.

  My paternal grandparents drove me the 230 miles to Wilberforce from Youngstown. My grandmother hugged me goodbye warmly, handed me a little note, and then they left. Standing among my suitcases, I realized that I had never been alone before. I opened Grandmother’s note and read it out loud. “We love you, Onee, we believe in you. Don’t forget to read your Bible and make us proud!” Tears ran down my cheeks as I watched their car pull away. I was determined to do exactly that, to make my family very proud.

  After a rocky few days, I befriended my teammates, also housed in my dorm, and we became a tight unit. I also bonded with our team’s coach, Rosie Turner. She taught me that nothing matters more than winning. Her coaching style was the reason I chose Central State over other schools that offered packages. I had to overcome too many losses in my life already. I would never get tired of winning.

  Wanting to attend a historically black college was instilled in me by watching two of my favorite shows of all time, The Cosby Show and A Different World. Like the fictional Hillman College (based on Stillman College) from the shows, CSU was an empowering environment that celebrated African American culture and excellence. There was so much cultural pride and opportunity for leadership and advancement there. Finally armed with the tools I needed to be successful inside the classroom, I had a whole new concept of what my life could be.

  I’d lost my father very young, but I bonded with three mentors at college I called my CSU dads. Donald K. Anthony was the head of alumni affairs and connected me to people and opportunities that would help advance my education and career in Cincinnati, where he lived. Dr. Emil Dansker was my journalism professor and helped me develop my strong writing skills. Dr. John “Turk” Logan was the head of the campus radio station and the TV station. Dr. Logan helped me develop my own on-air personality and understand “show business.” Dr. Logan chose me to host an early-morning-time-slot show on WCSU 88.9 that I titled Jazz Awakening, where I honed my newscaster voice.

  Dr. Dansker ran a program he called the National Conventions Project to give student journalists the chance to cover political conventions and presidential inaugurations. I applied for the program and was thrilled to be selected to cover the Summer Olympics in Atlanta in the office of press operations for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Later that summer, I covered the Republican National Convention in San Diego and then the Democratic National Convention in Chicago for the Dayton Daily News. I did double duty working for the Associated Press as a film runner, literally grabbing footage shot on the floor and running it to the editing room. I also got to work the inauguration of President Bill Clinton in January 1997.

  Working at these high-profile events, I was even more committed to pursuing a career in media. After I graduated from Central State University with a bachelor’s degree in broadcast journalism, I continued my education at Howard University, the prestigious historically black college in the nation’s capital, to get a master’s in mass communication with a focus on telecommunication and policy.

  Howard University is a special place. It is one of the largest producers of black professionals in the country, graduating more African American PhDs, MBAs, lawyers, doctors, and dentists than any traditional university. The school has an incredible legacy, so just being accepted was an honor.

  Perhaps the best thing about Howard for me was its location—Washington, DC. Working at the 1996 conventions and 1997 inauguration exposed me to the world of politics and political journalism, and I appreciated the role journalists played in keeping politicians honest.

  I learned in a heartbeat that politics was all about connections. During my graduate studies at Howard University, I took a job at a luxury apartment building called the Lansburgh. There, I met a lot of powerful people including Janet Reno, Mary Landrieu, and, most important, Doris Crenshaw, a lobbyist who’d hired me to do part-time clerical work and knew everyone in DC. After I got my master’s in May 1998, she made introductions that helped me land a job in then Vice President Al Gore’s White House office. As a scheduling and advance coordinator, I assisted in processing all the correspondence and requests that came in, and coordinating the logistics in advance of his travel.

  In Gore’s office—a progressive, liberal, allegedly diverse administration—I was one of just a few African Americans.

  It was a turbulent time to work in the White House. Then President Bill Clinton had been under investigation by special prosecutor Kenneth Starr over the Monica Lewinsky scandal for some time. When the allegations first started to come out, no one in the administration thought they would amount to much. But every day brought a new revelation. Recorded conversations between Lewinsky and her colleague at the Pentagon Linda Tripp. The blue dress. Photos. Denials. Depositions before Senate committees. I watched as his people denied, distracted, and deflected the allegations. And then, when that didn’t work, they attacked and vilified his investigators. I didn’t know it at the time, but I would see the same tactics twenty years later from a different man sitting in the Oval office.

  Gore and his people were focused on his upcoming presidential race. The big question was, should he put some distance between himself and Clinton, or should he stay loyal to the president? I’d heard about a position opening up in Bill Clinton’s office for the final year of his second term, and I took it, even though my family wanted me to leave because of all of the investigations and the toxic environment in the administration at that time. As s
oon as I arrived there, I was labeled a “Gore person” because I continued to support him by volunteering for his campaign at night.

  I was thrilled when Gore selected Donna Brazile as his campaign manager. Donna was smart, powerful, self-possessed, self-aware. I loved working with her. And, above all, she was an unapologetically strong black woman. Many black political people tried to refine themselves by losing their accents and culture signifiers. But Donna wore her Louisiana roots like a badge of honor.

  I continued to do logistics work for the advance office and had an opportunity to do advance work for Hillary Clinton as well. Before the impeachment, I was absolutely captivated by Mrs. Clinton. She was remarkable. A strong woman with her own voice, she had a clear vision for our country and the direction she wanted to take it. She was the first First Lady since Eleanor Roosevelt to have a hand with setting domestic policy.

  My feelings about her changed somewhat, however, after her husband’s imbroglio came to light.

  The president was not the first political husband to be caught in a similar drama. It had played out countless times before, and has since. The husband confesses to making a mistake; the good wife stands next to him and forgives him. The man seldomly experiences the consequences of his behavior.

  For once, I thought the scene would have a different ending. Surely Hillary Clinton would not stand to be humiliated in public. She was too strong and too brilliant, an independent woman, a lawyer. So many women inside the White House and around the globe hoped that Mrs. Clinton would not tolerate her husband’s chronic cheating. Women were coming out of the woodwork to accuse Bill Clinton of a full spectrum of sexual abuses. Not only did Mrs. Clinton stand by him, but she attacked the women, calling it a bimbo explosion. I remember feeling extremely disappointed. It seemed like she really wanted to help people, but she was incapable of helping herself. When I shared my feeling with Doris, she said, “Omarosa, politicians are just human. You have to separate their good works from their personal flaws.”