The World as It Is

by Ben Rhodes

  Obama was more sanguine about the forces at play in the world not because he was late in recognizing them, but because he’d seen them earlier. As an African American, he had an ingrained skepticism about powerful structural forces that I lacked when I went to work for him. After years of Mitch McConnell’s obstructionism, Fox News’s vilification, and growing tribalism at home and abroad, he had priced in the shortcomings of the world as it is, picking the issues and moments when he could press for the world that ought to be. This illuminated for me his almost monkish, and at times frustrating, discipline in trying to avoid overreach in a roiling world while focusing on a set of clearly defined priorities. Core interests and allies defended. Old accounts like Cuba closed. New agreements forged. Stupid shit avoided. Our values advanced by how we lived them. Change that is incremental, but real.

  A few days after we got back to Washington, I went up to the Oval Office to go over a proposed outline of his upcoming speech at the United Nations. He went on at length, speaking with more passion than he had in a while, woken from his August funk. I heard Marine One landing on the South Lawn in the distance. I asked where he was going. He said he was going to an event in Baltimore to celebrate the bicentennial of the writing of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

  “I’ve always been more of an ‘America the Beautiful’ guy,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, “but only if it’s the Ray Charles version.”

  That triggered a memory of 9/11. I told him about how my Queens neighborhood was filled with the funerals of cops and firefighters for days, widows sitting in lawn chairs surrounded by men in uniform; how I went to a small railroad bar near my apartment a few days later, and a burly guy stood next to me at the urinal before looking at me, his eyes welling up, and saying, “I can’t even fucking piss.” I told Obama, “I went home and sat on my bed and listened to Ray Charles singing ‘America the Beautiful,’ and it was the first time after 9/11 that I cried.”

  “You know,” he said, “that should be the national anthem.”

  I laughed. “They should play it before every game.”

  “Seriously, think about it,” he said, as if I had a say in the matter. “It’s beautiful in a uniquely American way. It’s all there. Black and white. Religious and secular. Glory and pain.” With that, he started to sing the first notes, “O beautiful, for heroes proved,” swaying—like Ray—from side to side. With that, he made the walk out onto the South Lawn toward Marine One, leaving me alone in the Oval Office. I stood there, in the middle of the carpet ringed with the quote from Martin Luther King about the arc of the moral universe, Ray Charles’s voice pulsing in my head: There was no way that I was going to leave this job.

  CHAPTER 24

  NEW BEGINNINGS

  Ricardo and I arrived in Rome around noon, time enough for us to get to the Vatican early and walk around the block a few times to process what we were about to do. Over the previous few weeks, Obama gave us clearance to authorize an exchange of the remaining three Cubans imprisoned in the United States for our intelligence asset and Alan Gross. We and the Cubans had agreed to announce the beginning of a process to normalize relations, including the establishment of diplomatic relations. The Cubans had agreed to release fifty-three political prisoners and expand access to the Internet. We had agreed to take steps to ease restrictions on travel and commerce with Cuba, within the confines of the embargo, which we could not lift without Congress.

  The Vatican does not do business on email, so all they knew was that we were coming with the Cubans to have a meeting. That afternoon, surrounded by pilgrims, tourists, and Romans, we tried to find the entrance where we were supposed to meet a man named Monsignor Murphy—an aide to Cardinal Pietro Parolin, the Vatican secretary of state.

  Murphy found us at one of the gates. He was plainly dressed and spoke with a slight English accent—he was an English Murphy, he told us, not Irish, though many people made that mistake. As he walked us through the Vatican complex, he paused inside a stone courtyard and gestured toward a simple door. “That,” he said, “used to be the pope’s front door.” He had since moved to different living quarters.

  When we got to the meeting room, Alejandro surprised Murphy by greeting me with a characteristic bear hug. He asked about a story in Politico that said I was leaving the administration. I replied that he shouldn’t make too much of it. “But it named three who are leaving,” he insisted, “and you are one of the three!”

  “I’m not leaving anytime soon,” I said. “People like to gossip.”

  We had a lengthy conversation about kids and the name Ann and I had chosen for our unborn daughter, Ella, which didn’t translate easily into Spanish. It clicked when Juana, the Cuban interpreter, said excitedly, “Oh, like Ella Fitzgerald!”

  We sat there making small talk, waiting to be summoned. The Cubans went in first, leaving Ricardo and me waiting. We chatted with Parolin’s deputy, a kind, soft-spoken man named Monsignor Camilleri, who explained that he’d lived in Cuba for some years and was now working on improving the conditions for Christians in the Middle East. After about forty-five minutes, it was our turn. Parolin was a Vatican diplomat with extensive experience in Latin America, and his face showed a degree of shock. “Normalizing relations?” He kept asking us to clarify. The purpose of these separate meetings, I realized, was to enable him to independently verify our respective commitments.

  He also seemed surprised at the role I played. At first, he addressed Ricardo—who looks a little older than I do—by my name. To clarify why we were the representatives there, Ricardo explained the role of the National Security Council in our system. I chimed in that we could be more discreet than the State Department. This seemed to trigger a question that was gnawing at him. “Does John Kerry know about this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. Earlier that summer, Susan Rice had given Kerry an overview of what we were doing. I assured him that Kerry was supportive.

  After about thirty minutes, we moved back into the larger room so that the American, Cuban, and Vatican representatives could be seated around an enormous wooden table in large red-backed chairs that felt as if they were made for some kind of Vatican council from the seventeenth century. Parolin sat at the head, with Alejandro and me flanking him, and read a statement that had clearly been prepared before he knew the full purpose of our meeting, alternating between Spanish and English. He welcomed us to Vatican City, saying it was just a small state in the community of nations, but one that held spiritual power. He thanked us for expressing confidence in the moral authority of Pope Francis, emphasized the Church’s neutrality in affairs between states and its commitment to seek peace among peoples. Then he seemed to go off the text in front of him. He looked at each of us intently. “Seeing you here generates hope, especially in the heart of the pope, and he asked me to convey his greetings.”

  I spoke first. To address any lingering concerns from Parolin, I said that we were there because our presidents had authorized this dialogue and that these commitments reflected their decisions. Then I read the first, short document aloud—stating our mutual commitment to begin normalizing relations. I felt no nerves, just the satisfaction of having nothing left to do other than read what was printed in front of me. When it was Alejandro’s turn, I let my eyes wander over his shoulder as he read the same words in Spanish. Behind him was a giant mural of the crucified Christ surrounded by attending angels. On another wall hung an imposing portrait of Benedict XVI, the conservative former pope who was living in self-imposed retirement. The image of the living Benedict seemed a reminder that there were more reactionary forces nearby—in Cuba, the United States, and around the world—forces that were still in the picture.

  We read several more documents in turn, memorializing our commitments and noting where we still differed. As we finished, we all agreed formally—in the presence of Parolin—to honor them. Alejandro then made a long speech. He said that
this was a first step toward normalizing relations, and that as neighbors the United States and Cuba should pursue dialogue. He noted irreconcilable differences between our systems of government but said that they shouldn’t stand in the way of cooperation that benefits our people. “Ben’s daughter, Ella, and my children should be the immediate beneficiaries,” he said, “along with other children in Cuba and the United States.”

  “We have a difficult history,” I replied. “We felt the full weight of that history in our talks. Our work together doesn’t erase that history or our differences, but we recognize that we’re neighbors and we’re also family, given how many Cubans live in the United States. We’re here today because our leaders have chosen to look forward.” Despite our differences, I said, “we can agree on a basic commitment to human dignity—something that is central to the pope’s message and the mission of the Church.”

  At that point, we were both out of speeches, but it seemed that neither of us wanted the meeting to end. Sitting there, as Parolin waited to see if there was anything else from either side, it felt so rare to inhabit a moment of purely good news. In front of me, the faces of angels on the giant mural held serene smiles.

  “I enjoy this moment,” Parolin said, breaking the silence with a smile. “I thank God to be here able to do this….What you are doing is going to give people hope.” Alejandro led us all in a standing ovation. Parolin went around the table shaking hands with each of us. He pulled me close and said, almost conspiratorially, that when we made the announcement publicly, there should be champagne.

  When we were led back outside by Murphy, it felt as if we had been inside for days. Ricardo and I walked out on our own, through the crowds, then out the gates and anonymously into the eternal city of Rome, somewhat drunk with wonderment at what had just taken place. We held this secret, a happy thing. This was no longer just some project we were pursuing, flying to Canada, haggling with the Cubans, working to get people’s attention and approval back home. This was now something that was going to happen, that was going to exist in the world, and the emotions of the Vatican officials seemed to foreshadow the impact that could be unleashed by the announcement itself. We knew something that was going to send out ripples around the world.

  We went in search of the perfect, simple Italian meal. We walked for blocks and blocks, looking at restaurants and dismissing them as not quite perfect enough. Finally, we found a place near the river, with a table in the back, where we had buffalo mozzarella, prosciutto, artichokes drenched in olive oil, pasta with ragout, and a bottle of Chianti. For once, Ricardo didn’t have his spiral notebook out. “For someone like me,” he said, “this is as good as it gets.” Sitting there, I felt a thousand years removed from the anxieties that awaited me back in Washington. We had done something big and right for its own reasons. I had never felt so at home so far away from where I lived.

  * * *

  —

  A FEW WEEKS LATER, the Democrats were beaten in the midterm elections, losing thirteen House seats and eight Senate seats. Unlike in 2010, when the losses cast a depressive weight on the White House, the feeling was different this time. Obama made a comment a few days after the election that would end up becoming our mantra for the next two years: “My presidency is entering the fourth quarter; interesting stuff happens in the fourth quarter.” Yes, it was a cheesy sports metaphor, but Denis—who has something of the Midwestern high school football coach in him—embraced it. He had stickers made with Obama’s mantra on them and started handing them out. This elicited some eye rolling, but also a sense that perhaps we were going to spend the last two years of the presidency doing big things, unencumbered by the caution and exhaustion that had crept in at points over the last few years.

  Almost immediately, this shift became a reality. Obama expanded protections for undocumented immigrants who had come to the United States as children, and their families. He flew to Beijing and announced a bilateral agreement to combat climate change. He had spent many months quietly coaxing the Chinese to make this announcement, aided by John Podesta and our climate negotiator, Todd Stern, appealing to the ambitions of the new Chinese president, Xi Jinping. On the plane leaving Beijing, Obama—who had spent six years methodically investing in clean energy, changing fuel efficiency standards and enhancing environmental protections without congressional support—took note of China’s ability to make a snap decision that could transform their economy. “They can send a signal and remake their energy sector,” he said. “We can’t even build an airport.”

  He seemed looser and less burdened by the opposition he faced at home. At our next stop after China—an East Asian summit in Myanmar—Susan and I climbed into the Beast after another long day. Obama took out his iPad. “I’ve got a song stuck in my head,” he said, and started playing it at top volume—something I’d never seen him do in hundreds of these limo rides. “Thrift Shop,” by Macklemore. He and Susan started dancing in their seats, bobbing and weaving from side to side—“I’m gonna pop some tags, only got twenty dollars in my pocket”—as I sat there uncomfortably, the stiff white guy listening to the white rapper, a smile frozen on my face, wondering what the two Secret Service agents sitting in the front of the limo were thinking. This, I thought, is a guy who is out of fucks.

  * * *

  —

  BACK IN WASHINGTON, ON December 10 I went into Obama’s office to get his guidance for the remarks he’d give on his upcoming Cuba announcement. “Start at the Cold War,” he said, “and hook the duration of this conflict to the duration of my own life.” I went back to my office, where I was supposed to meet with a Yazidi member of the Iraqi parliament. Beyond the routine of meetings, speeches, and press briefings, it felt as if my job was shrinking to a collection of long shots and lost causes. I was taking a brief break in my office when Ann called to say she’d gone to the hospital with high blood pressure. “Don’t come right away,” she said. “I’ll call you if it’s time.”

  I hung up the phone and told Bernadette Meehan, who sat right outside my office, what she’d said. “Are you crazy? Get out of here.”

  I drove to the hospital and jogged up to the maternity ward, where I found Ann lying in bed and beginning to go into labor. I sat on a couch with a plastic cover as one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen came in to give Ann an epidural. We called him McDreamy. The nurse suggested we take a nap. For a couple of hours, I dozed, glanced at Ann—who was asleep—and texted updates to family and friends to make myself useful, people whom I’d barely been able to keep in touch with for years who were full of congratulations and pressed for updates in a way that felt, to me, like forgiveness. A little after one in the morning, things picked up as Ann and the nurse and doctor went through the pattern of labor while I sat there, feeling as though I was watching something that was at the same time transformative for us and totally routine in the workings of a hospital. After what felt like an eternity, Ella was suddenly there—all four limbs moving at once, full of life and motion in the nurse’s hands.

  In less than a minute, Ella was cleaned and swaddled and deposited in my arms. It was just before four in the morning as I looked down at her closed eyes and felt the warmth of her body pulsing through the blanket. The nurses’ shift changed and we were alone. Ann and I took turns holding her, fighting to stay awake, now a different type of unit, three people living in the world. After we were moved to a private room, the nurse came in around ten, and she and Ann were changing Ella’s first diaper when my phone rang. I answered and it was Obama’s voice on the phone, the first I’d heard from outside the hospital. “She looks like you,” he said. “Hopefully she’ll end up looking more like Ann.” I laughed. “Your life will never be the same.”

  Ann asked who it was, and when I said, “The president,” it seemed almost normal.

  * * *

  —

  THREE DAYS LATER, I had to go back into the office to meet the team working o
n the Cuba announcement. Because the circle was so small, I was the only person who could write the remarks, brief the press, and make sure the various pieces fit together. When I walked through the gate and into the West Wing, it felt like visiting a place from my distant past—a high school or college reunion—and not the place I’d been going every day for the last six years. That night, I sat at the table in my apartment and wrote the speech in a few hours. “Today, the United States of America is changing its relationship with the people of Cuba.” The words came easily; this was something I’d done, not just something I was writing about.

  The day before the announcement, I came in to join Obama’s phone call with Raúl Castro—the first such communication between U.S. and Cuban leaders since the Cuban Revolution. As we sat in the Oval Office waiting for the call to be connected, Obama looked at me, Susan, and Ricardo. “As Joe Biden would say, this is a big fucking deal,” he said.

  “Señor presidente!” Castro declared, coming on the line. I recognized Juana’s voice on the phone interpreting. After the greetings, Obama went through all the points we’d given him to make, which took nearly twenty minutes. When it was Castro’s turn to speak, he joked that Obama hadn’t come close to Fidel’s record for speaking uninterrupted.

  Castro started reviewing the commitments of both sides. Then he went on a long tangent about efforts to sabotage the Cuban government over the years. As I sat on the couch, my forehead began to sweat as I watched the hands on the antique grandfather clock mark time—ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes. I passed Obama a note saying that he could cut this off. He shook his head, covering the receiver with his hand. “It’s been a long time since they’ve talked to a U.S. president,” he told me. “He’s got a lot to say.” The call wrapped up with Castro inviting Obama to come to Cuba to go hunting—the thought of Obama hunting, anywhere, seemed far more improbable than a U.S. president visiting Cuba.