by Love, Reggie
I chose those words to remind me of my focus and the value of friendship. Trust is everything to me. Loyalty is a close second. I knew I would never have to look far to find my center.
* * *
Three hours later, Marvin and I were back at work. He’d apparently shared with the senator what I’d done at Under the Needle.
“I heard you got a tattoo last night,” Obama said.
I said, “Yes, yes, I did.”
He shook his head very parentally. “Your mom isn’t going to be happy with me. This happened on my watch.”
I shrugged, not sure what to say.
A few days later, at a small holiday gathering in Des Moines, Mrs. Obama said to me in a motherly tone, “Barack told me you got tattoos.”
I told her, yes, I had, and that I was really happy with them.
“Well, I’m happy they are in places you can’t easily see,” she replied, then added, “Just promise me you won’t get any more.”
I kept that promise until after the 2008 election. Marvin had just turned thirty-nine, and for his birthday during a presidential visit to Seattle, I came up with the great idea of the two of us going back to D.Z.’s shop.
This time we both got tattooed with 365, the number of electoral votes Obama had won. (In April of 2014, we did the same thing again, inking 332.)
I marked myself with my history. And with the history of this country. Like my word and my bond, these, too, would be with me forever.
15
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ANGER MANAGEMENT
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For much of my young adult life, I struggled with the fear that I was a cliché, seen by my peers as the black guy who acted white. Racism exists not only between races, but within races. And I wrestled with both sorts, wanting nothing so much as to be appreciated for who I was, not who either demographic expected me to be.
Everyone, no matter what age or class, craves acceptance. And people are typically drawn to things and to people that are similar and familiar to themselves. This dynamic makes it hard for us to stretch or reach for things that don’t gracefully fit into our typical cultural box.
In high school, I was one of the only black kids on my AAU team who didn’t go to public high school. So the guys I played ball with always gave me grief. I also often felt like an outsider among the other students at my private school. Not only because I was of a different race, but because what was familiar to me at that point in my life was so different from their experiences.
In truth, I didn’t belong anywhere. I was a party of one. Or at least that’s how I felt when I was a young black man stumbling toward adulthood in the Deep South. At Providence Day I was surrounded predominantly by affluent Caucasian kids. Closer to home, my friends played for their public school teams, which were comprised overwhelmingly, if not entirely, of African-Americans. The difference was stark and obvious, and it seemed like the only people comfortable talking about it were my friends, who used the fact to needle me whenever we played.
* * *
It was three days after the Black & Brown Forum and the Heartland Forum when we attended the NPR debate in Des Moines. And it was there, on December 1, 2007, that I managed to ruffle the feathers of not only a caucus-goer, but also several members of my own crew, including the candidate.
The debate was held in the Historical Building of Iowa, inside of which was an exhibit explaining the history and the process of the Iowa Caucus. I took the tour, and as I walked through the whole thing, I noticed that there weren’t any black people depicted in the entire exhibit. There was possibly one mixed-race, handicapped, Republican veteran. But that was it as far as a depiction of the black caucus-goer went.
I wasn’t trying to make trouble with the curator, but I couldn’t keep myself from commenting on the obvious racial inequity. When I asked where the black folks were, the curator stiffened. She argued that there were plenty of African-Americans in the exhibit. Which there were not. Unless you included brown people—two Asians and one Native American.
Again, I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. But the reality was, if you are going to go through the trouble of staging a display of one of the most critical parts of our American democracy, you might want to include all Americans, no?
Marvin pulled me aside and said, basically, “Zip it.” I was, in his mind, making trouble.
“Trouble finds me,” I answered, half-joking and somewhat incredulous that nobody seemed to be bothered by the glaring omission of a significant part of the population, which happened to include the candidate. “Marvin, you’re crazy if you think it’s wrong for me to mention the fact that there are no black people in an exhibit that’s supposed to showcase the process of selecting the President of the United States.”
“And you are crazy,” he shot back, “if you can’t see how your attitude is damaging.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Enough, Reggie.”
It was a good old-fashioned standoff. Later, I asked other staff members what they thought, and everyone sided with Marvin. Even the candidate, who explained, “Coming off as an angry black man turns caucus-goers away from Barack Obama.”
I went quiet, but I was thinking, You think this is angry? You haven’t seen me angry.
But I knew they were right.
I later watched the senator learn firsthand how little leeway there is when it comes to sharp, blunt truths. At an April 2008 fundraiser in San Francisco the candidate made an honest but not well-received remark about how when working class voters are beset by economic hardship in their towns, “they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy toward people who aren’t like them.”
True as it was, there was immediate backlash, with the opposition leading the charge that Obama’s comments were evidence of his “elitism.” The comment was picked up by all the national media and even trickled down into many critical local media markets in swing states.
The candidate quickly apologized and explained the context of the comment, and after that, he continued to craft and hone his messaging because often the message you want to communicate isn’t the message that is received. I remember looking at juxtaposed New York Times and Wall Street Journal front page stories that came to opposite conclusions. Essentially one story said, “Obama too tough on . . . X,” and the other said, “Mr. Obama weak on . . . X.” The candidate often found himself in a double bind, damned if he spoke, damned if he didn’t. I felt like this standard was not applied to other candidates or members of Congress, where tantrums, red-faced rages, and even crying were viewed as evidence of passion, commitment, and strength.
In some ways Iowa, and the whole progression that followed into the White House, was a kind of time warp, with Obama needing to take every high road ever built, to be the Jackie Robinson of politics—calm, cool, and in control no matter what was flung his way.
He got flack from both sides. There were, of course, your garden-variety racists throughout the campaign season who would wave their middle fingers and hateful signs as the motorcade rolled through their neighborhoods. I particularly remember signs with letters painted in red reading, “Obama is a Muslim.” Crazy stuff. There was passive stereotyping, too. For example, the people who always assumed I was the security guy. He’s tall. He’s black. He must be security, and he’s probably a basketball player.
When they would address me with that assumption, I always responded with some variation of “No, you want the old, white, Clint Eastwood–looking dude over there.”
Then there were constituents in the African-American community who seemed to feel that in the same way issues were targeted toward women and LGBT populations, similar considerations and nods should come to them from a black candidate. There was an inordinate amount of pressure to be the first African-American president. The senator was carrying the hopes and dreams of generations in a way no other candidate had. But Obama took care to explain that he couldn’t just b
e “a president for black people.” That wasn’t just bad politics, it was a bad strategy, if he intended to make civic change. If you improve national education and health care, foster a sustainable economy, and help create jobs, it will lift everybody up. These fundamental building blocks help all people live the American dream.
At the end of the day, the candidate had a job to do. He couldn’t engage in a verbal back-and-forth with every angry critic who said something absurd to the press about him. As a candidate, if he ever let it get personal, it only affected the wider campaign. And once he became president, an emotional display just hindered his ability to get future business done. So he sucked it up.
Not that Obama didn’t allow himself to vent a little steam, often at the White House Correspondents’ Dinners, where he used humor to shine a light on the silliness of agitators like Ted Nugent, Sheldon Adelson, or Donald Trump and his birther movement.
One of my favorite moments was when he said in his usual deadpan voice during the 2011 dinner, “Tonight, for the first time, I am releasing my official birth video.” And then we screened the opening scene from The Lion King.
He followed it up with another great zinger. “I just want to make clear to the FOX News table that that was a joke. That was not my real birth video. That was a children’s cartoon. Call Disney if you don’t believe me. They have the original long-form version.”
But the dinner only came once a year. The rest of the time, Obama often made a conscious decision not to let anger define him, no matter how justified it might have been. Like when South Carolina representative Joe Wilson screamed, “You lie!” in the middle of a State of the Union Address. Obama’s factual statement that proposed health care legislation wouldn’t provide free health coverage for illegal immigrants had inspired Wilson’s gross breach of decorum.
The President calmly looked at a flushed, sweaty Wilson and responded, “That’s not true.” Every day, in all ways, he was forced to live above the fray. His behavior then and always was invariably presidential, carrying in public the dignity of his office just as presidents before him had done. Except, of course, it couldn’t be left at that. Because of race. And our country’s complicated relationship with it. He was never just a senator, or just a candidate, or just America’s forty-fourth president.
* * *
The model-minority mandate was not exactly exotic in my world. My mom and dad had always stressed to me that when you allow yourself to get visibly angry, all you’re doing is giving your opponent the upper hand. “Rise above it,” they’d tell me.
This was easier said than done, especially during my junior year of high school.
I’d been at odds with my high school basketball coach. We had one kid on our team who was a great shooter. But that was the extent of his talent. Still, he played. And he was often praised and rarely criticized.
It felt to me that I wasn’t coached the same and my coach was the hardest on me. It felt race-based, because it felt like I was constantly being singled out even though I would often lead the team in scoring and rebounding and defend the opposing team’s best player. After three seasons of playing for my high school, I decided I wanted to transfer to another school, where there would be more students who looked like me.
But it was too late. My parents had already paid the tuition for the coming year. And they wouldn’t hear about a transfer anyway. I had been admitted to the best academic high school. And I was going to graduate from there.
Furious, I lodged a protest. Every single day, I wore the same exact black hoodie. I grew my hair out. I would attend the prep school. But I was not going to be turned preppy.
By the winter, I looked like a hobo. My hair was unkempt and ratty. My hoodie was tattered and smelled like a bus station. My dad would look me over every day and say nonchalantly, but clearly, “Son, you look like shit.”
I knew he was right. But I didn’t care. The protest was my way of controlling something. I was on an island at my high school, and I’d been mocked by my friends and teammates, who said that my school only played against a bunch of suburban rich kids, by which they just meant white. Even at sixteen, I was very well versed in how knotty and convoluted race could be. And I knew that if I acted on the outside how I felt on the inside, I would be consumed by anger and rage.
My father was right, there was only one choice. Turning that anger inside was only damaging myself. (Not to mention my dating life.)
After the end of basketball season, I cut my hair. I threw out that grubby hoodie. I did me the best way I knew how. I stood tall.
* * *
Being a part of the Obama team revealed so much to me about race in America. I honestly believe that most people are good human beings. We share the same ambitions and desires to have opportunity, to raise a family, to retire with dignity. We are a big country, and we are diverse, but we aren’t often pushed out of our comfort zones. If you live in a neighborhood with no black people, it’s easy to believe a stereotype is real. It can take a while to form one’s own independent opinion. But it can happen. I’ve seen it myself, repeatedly, when I’ve traveled to tiny towns and conservative enclaves and observed as Obama won over the hearts and minds of citizens who before would have been afraid to open their doors to a black man.
I believe the world is improving. Globally, things are getting better, more transparent. There is better advocacy for races, genders, and sexual orientations now. More frankness across demographics. I can’t help but be optimistic. I have it so much better than my parents did, and they so much better than my grandparents. The path is nothing but up. It is hard for me to complain.
Of course there are still inequalities. No one being honest with him- or herself can survey the country, or for that matter the world, and not admit that. But the way I look at inequality is that I should spend my time taking advantage of the opportunities I do have, rather than griping about the opportunities I don’t. Life will never be evenly balanced. You hope and pray for parity. When you can, you work toward it, you even fight for it. But more than anything, you just want a chance. When one is given to you, you recognize it and make the most of it, and if you’re honest you’ll admit that you have just incurred a small debt. That, hopefully, is paid off down the line to someone coming up behind you. Mentor. Volunteer. Put yourself out for a cause greater than yourself. Make a difference.
The President often told me that the best way anyone can make a difference is by making his or her voice heard. At minimum, vote. Better yet, participate in the process. Educate yourself and, when it makes sense to do so, educate others. He showed me you can’t allow yourself to be discouraged by the political process or by the prevailing attitudes of the country, explaining, “The things that discourage you are the very reasons you should become involved and participate in the political process.”
During the campaign, we’d be at events long past time because the candidate wanted to respond to every question. He believed in hearing all the voices in the room, not just his own. He welcomed differences of opinion. He saw the value in listening to every side. It was a different sort of leadership than I’d been exposed to before. Obama understood that challenge and confrontation could lead to, if not resolution, then understanding. He felt that any conversation was better than silence. Engagement, not stomping off the court in anger, he showed me, was how the ball got carried forward. And even though America has its problems, Americans have an incredible capacity to grow. Individuals evolve, and with them society. Change is the rule, not the exception.
I know how easy it can be to get caught up in the here and now. But every moment—whether it is a bad free throw, a failed exam, or just an idiotic mistake—is just that: a snapshot. Not the whole game of your life, or of our culture. I understand caring about the score right now, about who won a given championship, or election. But seasons are long and so are careers, relationships, and lifetimes. Don’t be afraid to pass the ball.
16
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SUNLIGHT IS THE STRONGEST DISINFECTANT
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As Barack Obama’s confidence in me developed and eased into a professional reliance, so did my investment, not only in the job, but also in the larger dream of the candidate’s election to the presidency. Hearing the senator speak, seeing how his brain worked, watching his commitment to improving the lives of Americans deepen day after day—all of that fortified my loyalty. He would tell me, “If I’m in Washington and I can’t do the right thing for the American people, then I don’t want to be there. I’d rather vote the way I believe, even if it costs me the ability to get reelected.”
This conviction is why he spoke out against the Iraq War well before it was popular to do so. And why he was against the Patriot Act. And why he responded so swiftly and effectively to the BP Deepwater Horizon oil spill. Obama wasn’t responsible for the lax regulations that allowed that environmental calamity to happen. But, as he explained to me, “I don’t have the luxury of saying this isn’t my problem. Ultimately, everything sits on my plate. And I can’t pass it to someone else.”
He showed me that no matter how insurmountable a catastrophe appears to be, you never throw your hands up and say, “I’m not handling this one.” It was a tenacity I had seen in the sports world, when my team was down twenty points or in the midst of a humiliating season, and we had no choice but to rally and trudge on. But until working for Obama, I’d rarely seen that depth of persistence and drive in the wider world, and I had never seen what a force for change it can be when matched by an ability to see a problem through to a solution.
This doggedness was even more impressive because I saw how few people seemed to notice it outside of the campaign or the White House. I recall having dinner with a friend’s mother one night after Obama took office, and she was complaining that the President hadn’t done anything for education. This statement blew me away. As I’d learned to do from my boss, I calmly began to temper her ill-informed belief with facts. I ticked off the policies I knew of firsthand, told her of the President’s confabs with the teachers’ unions, reminded her of the educator pay raises, the implementation of Race to the Top, and a whole host of other improvements the President had initiated. I agreed that none were perfect solutions, but they were solutions, and more to the point, they were steps that would steer our country in the direction of solving problems that had divided citizens culturally and economically, and limited their access to education and opportunity.