To Obama

by Jeanne Marie Laskas

  Michaela

  Darin M. Reffitt

  Wilmington, DE

  President Barack Obama

  c/o Fiona Reeves

  Office of Presidential Correspondence

  Room 412

  Eisenhower Executive Office Building

  1650 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW

  Washington, DC 20502

  November 9, 2016

  Mr. President:

  I wrote you on this same day eight years ago, which seems to have passed far too quickly and yet feels like a lifetime ago. I wrote the day after the 2008 elections, and was honored to learn recently that my letter was selected as one of the ten that you are given each day to read.

  With everything that has happened in the intervening years, I do not expect that you would remember my letter or my specific situation. But on that day I congratulated you on your victory, and explained how—while my heart had soared with pride at you being elected as our 44th President—I awoke that next morning to news of passed ballot measures that had stripped or codified the removal of rights for my LGBT brothers and sisters in California, Florida, Arizona, and Arkansas. I then shared with you the story of my partner’s car accident, and how the lack of same sex marriage had impacted us so dramatically as we dealt with everything from insurance companies to cell phone companies to hospitals. I poured my heart out about the frustrations I had faced at repeatedly hearing that I had no rights as his partner, hoping that my story could help you understand why the issue was so tremendously important.

  And now, knowing that you actually read my letter within the first month of your presidency, I hope that it in some small way helped to ignite within you the understanding that led to your change of heart on marriage equality, and that my story had something to do with your decision to not defend the Defense of Marriage Act. I cling to that hope today, because the only thing keeping me from brink of despair at the outcome of last night’s election is the hope that one person can indeed make a difference.

  Because I will be fighting on and I do plan to make a difference.

  But this letter isn’t about me. It’s about you. I am writing today to thank you. To thank you for so many things that you’ve done over the past eight years, and for the integrity, dignity, and class that you brought to the office of the President. To thank you because you validated every bit of faith that I had in you in 2008, and made me proud that I had been an advocate and volunteer during your campaign.

  It hasn’t been an easy eight years for those of us who supported you. First, we had to defend you to the people who were sure that you were going to take their guns, turn us into a socialist state, and destroy our economy. Instead, you shored up our economy, pulled us out of the worst financial disaster since the great depression, and fought for people who were less fortunate. Under your leadership, we were able to insure millions of less fortunate people who lacked access to healthcare, we saw the Dow soar to record levels, and we experienced the longest period of job growth on record.

  But then, we also had to defend you to our own, to people who voted for you but then didn’t think you did enough; people who either don’t understand that a President isn’t all powerful or who saw you trying to work across the aisle and viewed compromising and negotiation as weakness, instead of an integral part of how things were designed to work by our founding fathers. We had to explain that incremental change is better than no change; that sometimes you don’t get perfect, but you accept better and go from there.

  We had to watch in horror as Republicans in Congress blocked every initiative, brought us to the brink of defaulting on our debt, and refused to address the growing epidemic of gun violence in our nation. We cried with you as you spoke following shooting after shooting, even as those who opposed you failed to accept that you were expressing genuine sorrow, to our shock and dismay.

  They vilified you at every turn, but we loved you through it all, knowing that you would keep fighting for what was right, and just, and fair for even the least fortunate of our citizens.

  And through it all, you brought honor and dignity to the White House.

  I have many friends in other countries, people who could attest first-hand to me how much you and your team—Secretary Clinton especially—had done to rebuild the reputation of our great nation overseas. I recall a trip we took to Italy in 2003 where our group of Americans was shunned because of the situation in Iraq, so much so that I began telling people we were Canadian to avoid being overcharged and snubbed. But you repaired all of that, and you brought us back to being a nation respected the world over.

  And somehow you always stayed positive. You never sank to the level of some people who feel they need to respond to every personal attacks and perceived slight. And that’s perhaps the most amazing thing of all.

  I cannot remotely fathom what it must be like to see yourself and your family attacked in the vicious ways I’ve witnessed yours being assaulted online and in social media. I’m sure as a loving father you did your best to shield your daughters from being exposed to the hateful rhetoric lobbed against your family. But I know that at some point they inevitably became aware of it, and I can only imagine the heart wrenching pain it must have caused you to see them hurting as you explained that there are people who simply hate; how they would need to fight against that discrimination for the rest of their lives; and how even becoming the most powerful man in the world can’t overcome it or matter to some people—people who will never accept that a man isn’t inferior because of the color of his skin.

  It wasn’t until your wife—a paragon of grace and class as our First Lady—shared the mantra “When they go low, we go high,” during the Democratic Convention, that I realized how you kept your beautiful daughters smiling throughout it all: you led by example. It’s my fervent hope that they will someday follow in your footsteps and take a role in our great democracy. But whatever they do, I’m sure that they will succeed, inspired by the passion and determination of their father.

  But it’s not just them that you’ve inspired.

  I’m sure that today you fear for your legacy; that, over the next four years, you will see so much of what you accomplished in the last eight years destroyed. I share your fear.

  In Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton asks, “What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.” Shortly thereafter, Thomas Jefferson states, “I’ll give him this: his financial system is a work of genius. I couldn’t undo it if I tried. And I tried.”

  The coming administration may work to reverse the progress you made. But they cannot undo the secondary impact of those accomplishments, nor the memory of the country as it is today.

  Since I last wrote you, I’m pleased to share that my now-husband and I were joined in a civil union in August of 2012, which became a legal marriage in 2013 when Delaware became the 11th state to approve same-sex marriage. We now share full rights and privileges, at least for the time being. But 55% of Americans now support same-sex marriage, and will no longer buy into the hateful rhetoric that it will destroy society or hurt children. That’s part of your legacy too. The changes in attitudes and values that your policies instilled won’t just vanish overnight.

  And unlike Mr. Hamilton, you are still here, still able to plant more seeds.

  I have to believe in the basic goodness of Americans, that common sense will eventually prevail. I am sure that you and Secretary Clinton, and others like you, will find ways to bring some good out of what has happened. Whether it’s convincing the 33% of eligible Americans who aren’t registered to vote to do so, or getting more people engaged in the political process at local levels, or just enabling us to better understand the things that drove us to where we are, we know it’s not over.

  I had the great pleasure of hearing President Clinton speak at a conference in 2014. One of the things he
said that inspired me was this (roughly paraphrased): “I travel all over the world, and one thing is consistently true: in places where people are focused on what they have in common, instead of on what divides them, great things are happening; in places where people are focused on what separates them, instead of what brings them together, great things aren’t possible.” I was proud to meet him and shake his hand that day, and I hope one day to meet you and shake your hand similarly.

  In the meantime, I can only hope that the vast majority of Americans will soon realize how much our next President has driven us to focus on what divides us, and will recognize that we can’t survive as a nation and do great things as long as that’s the case.

  And until then, we will continue to fight for the ideals you put forth eight years ago. We can afford to do no less. And I promise that I’ll be here to support you and fight with you when the time comes to do so in the future.

  So thank you, again. I’ve learned so much from you over the past 8 years. You’ve inspired me to care more and to be a better American.

  I remain proud to call you my President.

  Sincerely,

  Darin M. Reffitt

  CHAPTER 17

  Vicki Shearer,

  November 9, 2016

  RENTON, WASHINGTON

  Submitted: 11/9/2016 12:11 PM EST

  Message:

  You said that the sun would shine tomorrow. Sir, I live in Seattle WA and the sun is not shining. In fact it’s raining. I am so upset with the election outcome, on all levels. But, the hardest of all is the division I feel in my own family now. My oldest son is gay. My younger son is married to a legal Mexican immigrant. Their newborn daughter was born just weeks ago. My husband, their father, voted for [T]rump. Yes, as he keeps telling me, his vote is his right. I do get it. But, in my heart, he voted against our family. He could have written in a name or left it blank like George W. Bush supposedly did. I have felt so safe and confident my family was being looked after and accepted by your Presidency. I don’t have those feelings now….

  * * *

  —

  Vicki has lived in this small ranch house for the past seventeen years and all her life in Renton, south of Seattle. The hanging pots are mostly petunias, and as you can see, she doesn’t care about a color scheme. It’s just: color! An explosion of color. Tim put in an automatic watering system last year, and that’s the reason they look this good. Gardening is her exercise. That plus her morning walk around the neighborhood, just seeing what’s going on.

  Before everyone gets here, Vicki, who is in her early sixties, soft and round with a dark pixie cut, would like to say a few words about Tim.

  “Tim is a gentleman. Of course he loves our kids and our family. He has a better way of turning things off. He’s more logical, and I’m more emotional.”

  She would like to let Tim speak for himself about why he voted the way he did. “He’s explained it to me a hundred times, and I still can’t hear it.”

  Vicki and Tim have been married for forty-one years. They met right when she got out of high school on a summer afternoon. She always tells people how impressed he was with her brand-new car. (“It was a Volkswagen Rabbit,” Tim will say. He was not impressed with that car.) They got to talking. They went to the Space Needle. They talked and talked. “You’re the first person to hear what I’m saying,” he said. “Who doesn’t like to hear that?” she said.

  Vicki has heard of couples divorcing in the aftermath of the 2016 election. Of families split apart. Sisters avoiding brothers, cousins disinvited, in-laws going silent or into hiding. Vicki doesn’t think that kind of thing could happen to her family, but she acknowledges it’s been a strain.

  “That night was sad and depressing and gray and dark and not happy.”

  She and Tim were home, tuned in to news. Remember this is the West Coast, so everything is three hours earlier. Both of them were pretty bitter at that point. They missed Bernie. That whole thing with Bernie disappearing the way he did—that had them both raging against the Democratic Party. Which is sad because they were lifers. For example, on Election Night 2008, Vicki had baked an Obama pie. (She is known for her theme pies. “Pies are happy food.”) It was strawberry-blueberry. She had tried to carve a likeness of Barack into the crust, but she kind of messed up the chin—“too wide!” Everyone joked that Michelle would have appreciated the big ears because they knew Michelle liked to tease Barack about those ears. Everyone in the family referred to the president as “Barack.”

  On Election Night 2016, Vicki had no interest in making a pie. She planned to watch Hillary Clinton win and get it over with; she was not a fan. She was disappointed in herself for getting caught up with every twist and turn of the campaign. What a waste of time. It was all so ugly. It took her out of the garden. Tim would be at work at the asphalt plant. A lot of those guys on the crew are Republicans, so maybe that contributed to it.

  But really, she has no idea how it happened. One day she looked up, and she was married to a Trump voter. An alien in her own home. How could something like that have happened?

  She had found out Tim was a Trump voter a few weeks before Election Day when—get this—he filled out an absentee ballot, and—seriously, get this—she was the one making the run to the post office that day. That’s what makes this whole thing doubly and triply hard. She had it in her hand. She stood in front of that mailbox hemming and hawing. She didn’t have to drop it in. Tim would never have known. She thought about secrets. She thought about the boys. The boat. Fishing and hiking and all the love. The happiest life she could have hoped for. She pulled open the mailbox and closed her eyes, and with a flick of a wrist, it was done.

  A vote against her family. A vote against her as a woman. Against Neil, a gay man. Against Nick and his wife, Dani, from Mexico. Against Isla too. Against the dog if they’d still had one. How does a family absorb something like that? How does a country? Factions forming, betrayal happening, suspicion and hate popping up.

  Forgetting the whole mess would need to happen. That was how Vicki thought about it on Election Night when she sat there watching the results with Tim. Hillary Clinton would win, and Trump would be out of the picture, and the forgetting could begin.

  But then of course blue states started going red, and Vicki couldn’t believe it, and she went to bed. Pulled the covers over her head. Tim came in later. She has no idea when.

  * * *

  —

  One thing about this house is there’s no TV in the living room. That’s always been the rule. A living room is for conversation and being together. It’s small, just off the kitchen, soft beige wall-to-wall carpet and couches coming together to form an L around an end table. Most of the decorations are Vicki’s crafts, framed embroidery, pots of dried flowers; Tim nailed up that narrow shelf so Vicki could display a row of adorable miniature houses, barns, and churches—a cheerful little town.

  Neil, the older son, is first to arrive. He’s thirty-eight, tall, with a full beard, a gray cap, the same smile as his mom’s. He knows what he wants to accomplish today in the living room. He wants to be forthright. Six months have passed since Election Day, and he wants his dad to know his vote still hurts. “That there was something he would choose that superseded me,” Neil says. “And I know that’s just ego talking. It doesn’t mean it’s right or wrong. It just means that it hurt.”

  Neil has always been good at explaining things. It’s why he loves his job working with customers at the insurance company. (Even policy language has nuance.) Explaining things is about more than imparting knowledge; it’s about having compassion for those who don’t yet understand. Neil learned that one the hard way, just after college, when he was struggling with how to come out to his parents. It was not a smooth transition. Out of nowhere a postcard arrived in the mail from a friend, the message referring to some guy Neil thought was cute. His mom happe
ned upon it. Wait, what? And should she discuss the matter with Tim? A lot of hush-hush, confusion, and shame.

  Neil grew distant, eventually moved away to Olympia. He was determined to live an honest life, whether his parents understood it or not. Soon he came to miss them. He wondered if that part would fade with time. Apparently not. After about six years, he couldn’t bear it anymore, and he made the decision to reunite with his parents. His gestures were grand at first—fancy dinners, evenings on the town—one more awkward than the next.

  Eventually, Neil decided to just come home, here, to the living room, once a week. Every Friday, no matter what, no matter how the conversation had gone the week before or how they left it. There would always be another Friday. It took the pressure off. They got to know one another again. That was maybe ten years ago. It seems ridiculous now to think there was ever a problem.

  * * *

  —

  Nick and Dani are next to arrive. Nick works with Tim at the asphalt plant. When Nick was little, he played with G.I. Joe. “He’s all boy!” his grandma would say. (Neil had a Raggedy Ann doll.) People still say Nick and Neil look like twins, right down to the matching dimples on their chins, except now Nick has a totally shaved head and no hat, so you can see it comes to a point.

  Nick and Dani got married last year. Dani does almost all of the talking, which Nick loves. She has added so much pizzazz to this family. For example, no one else in the family curses. (“She can light it up,” Tim says.) Dani was twelve when she and her family left Mexico. They had been selling CDs on the street to buy groceries. It took them fifteen years to become U.S. citizens. “They put us through hell.” She’s a husky woman with thick, dark hair swept to the side and an easy laugh, and she’s here on the couch holding Isla, the baby, who’s eight months old now. Isla has Nick’s complexion—fair, almost translucent skin. When Dani first laid eyes on her, she said she was glad Isla came out that way. Light. It would make her life easier. Vicki can hardly listen to talk like that.