by Love, Reggie
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75 PERCENT OF LIFE IS JUST SHOWING UP
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When I was young, I thought I wanted to be a radiologist. I did an internship in high school at Carolinas Medical Center, with Dr. Denise Cassani. I sat in a dark room with Dr. Cassani all day, taking notes while reviewing mammograms, X-rays, and CT scans. I enjoyed the specificity of the job. And the idea of being able to help people. Radiology was also a bit like looking at the map of a patient’s future, and that appealed to me. Seeing the array of images produced felt like a scientific tea leaf–reading exercise, granting me (and much more importantly the doctors) a glimpse into what direction patients were headed in life.
It was a question I’d long held about my own prospects, especially after the realization that I couldn’t count on a lifelong professional sports career. But I wasn’t sure what the best alternative path was for me. Then I met the junior United States senator from the state of Illinois and threw myself down the unfamiliar road less traveled.
Anyone who works out consistently understands muscle memory. When you train long enough, your body internalizes the responses it knows you want it to have; your body and mind are no longer thinking, but just simply reacting seamlessly and effortlessly.
Obama possessed keen muscle memory, his most dominant muscle being his brain. On the campaign especially, there were countless times when his physical body was completely fatigued and as drained as that of a prizefighter who had gone the distance. And yet he would still be able to speak eloquently about complex issues and answer questions about any topic thrown at him. He’d recall names and numbers. He’d have each fact straight and every study memorized. Everyone knows the man is brilliant. But few people have seen up close just exactly how well he is able to perform under demanding circumstances. He’d trained. So he could show up.
I remember when we lost the Nevada caucus in January 2008. Shortly after that was the MLK holiday, and Obama was scheduled to give an early morning speech at Ebenezer Baptist Church, where MLK’s family members were appearing. We were staying at the Atlanta Hyatt Regency. The candidate had gotten a copy of the speech the night before. But it wasn’t what he wanted. “Too much Old Testament, not enough New Testament,” he said.
So he started writing. I typed the edits into the computer. Emailed the draft back and forth to the speechwriters. He was up until almost four o’clock doing oration triage.
At daybreak, I went to wake the candidate for the 8 A.M. service. The campaign rule was, don’t enter his room without his permission, a sign of respect for him and the process, but also a formal boundary that no one ever broke. The rule of thumb was to knock and let the senator answer the door. But the Hyatt had given him a massive suite, and I fretted that maybe he couldn’t hear me knocking and ringing the doorbell or, even worse, that he was still asleep. I pounded on the door. I waited. I knocked again. Several minutes passed. It was at the point where we were going to be late for church. I asked the agent posted at the door of his room to let me in.
I fumbled blind into the entryway. The room was pitch-black.
“Sir, sir,” I said. “It’s seven. We need to go.”
I groped around, unable to see anything. Then from the darkness I heard him let loose a string of expletives.
He didn’t sound angry so much as tired, dead tired. How could any normal person not be? It is one thing to pull an all-nighter to write a paper, but it’s another thing when the writer has to read the paper in public less than five hours after writing it on less than four hours’ sleep.
“Sir, are you okay?”
“I am just exhausted,” he sighed.
The candidate had been dealing with four primaries in a month. He’d only been home one day since Christmas.
I yelled the least welcome news into the darkness: “Sir, you need to be dressed in half an hour.”
The senator found his suit, threw it on, and prepared himself in ten quick minutes. The muscle memory kicked in. By the time we reached the church, he was animated and enthusiastic, his brain well and truly primed. At the pulpit, with Coretta Scott King and the rest of the King family front and center in the audience, he delivered one of the most rousing speeches before or since. He said, in part:
What Dr. King understood is that if just one person chose to walk instead of ride the bus, those walls of oppression would not be moved. But maybe if a few more walked, the foundation might start to shake. If a few more women were willing to do what Rosa Parks had done, maybe the cracks would start to show. If teenagers took freedom rides from North to South, maybe a few bricks would come loose. Maybe if white folks marched because they had come to understand that their freedom too was at stake in the impending battle, the wall would begin to sway. And if enough Americans were awakened to the injustice; if they joined together, North and South, rich and poor, Christian and Jew, then perhaps that wall would come tumbling down, and justice would flow like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream.
Unity is the great need of the hour—the great need of this hour. Not because it sounds pleasant or because it makes us feel good, but because it’s the only way we can overcome the essential deficit that exists in this country. I’m not talking about a budget deficit. I’m not talking about a trade deficit. I’m not talking about a deficit of good ideas or new plans. I’m talking about a moral deficit. I’m talking about an empathy deficit. I’m talking about an inability to recognize ourselves in one another; to understand that we are our brother’s keeper; we are our sister’s keeper; that, in the words of Dr. King, we are all tied together in a single garment of destiny.
The Scripture tells us that we are judged not just by word, but by the deed. And if we are to truly bring about the unity that is so crucial in this time, we must find it within ourselves to act on what we know; to understand that living up to this country’s ideals and its possibilities will require great effort and resources; sacrifice and stamina.
That morning at Ebenezer, the candidate was calling on all of us to not passively wait for change, but to become instigators. He told us that “each of us carries with us the task for changing our hearts and minds.” Like Dr. King, he knew it would take vigor and persistence and the force of the many to make change. To keep America great, we all needed to show up.
I saved the paper with his handwritten notes. Later I returned it to him because I knew the speech would be a part of his history, and I thought the paper would remind him how deep you have to dig inside of yourself in order to pull off that winning play we all dream of. Touched, he said if we were lucky it would find a home in the future Presidential Library. The speech is a piece of history now. A piece I held in my hands and had a small part in making happen.
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KNOW WHEN TO LEAVE THE PARTY
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In the summer of 2010, I started volunteering as a mentor at Capital Partners for Education, CPFE, an organization that guides low-income D.C.-area kids toward better circumstances via partnerships with schools, tuition assistance, and skills development. The program is a huge success. Almost 100 percent of the mentees end up attending college.
I played basketball with Khari Brown, the executive director of CPFE, and he told me there was a shortage of male mentors, specifically African-American. Then he asked how I’d feel about becoming one.
I thought about the offer for a minute, then decided, why not? I had benefited from mentors throughout my life, and giving back made simple sense. I learned quickly, though, that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I went through the training, which was thorough. We had to know how to handle any situation that might arise. If the kid you’re mentoring does X, you do Y. I soon realized it was serious business. I also gained greater respect for the mentors I had encountered who had done their jobs so well.
I met my mentee, Cal, when he was fourteen years old. His father had been incarcerated. His mother
lived down the block from him, but was largely absent. Cal was being raised by his grandmother, Shirley. The first thing we did together was go to lunch at Hops, a chain restaurant. When I was Cal’s age, going to a place like Hops—he ordered what he always orders, fried chicken—felt like winning the food lottery. I also chose it because it was close to his grandmother’s Arlington, Virginia, home and the rec center where Cal spent most of his time. While we ate, I told him who I was and what I did for a living. I shared my basketball history, and I could tell he was pleased to hear my record, particularly me playing at Duke. He was assessing me as much as I was assessing him, and I’m pretty sure I could see his relief once he figured out that we could relate. I’d played college sports. He dreamed of playing college sports. I asked him if he had a girlfriend, and his grin and laugh insinuated that he considered himself to be quite the ladies’ man. Just like that, we’d found common ground.
Since that lunch, we see each other every couple weeks. We hang out, eat, shoot hoops. Mostly we do schoolwork together. When we’re apart, we email and text. I give him my advice, which he doesn’t ask for. Cal wants to play college ball. And he just might. But I try to stress the value of education above all.
“The reason I’ve had access to opportunities is because of my education,” I explain to him as often as I can. “Don’t be afraid to ask questions. No one has all the answers.”
I tell him the things that I heard as a young man that stuck with me. Eat your vegetables. Condoms are cheaper than diapers. Stand up straight. Make eye contact. Speak clearly. Don’t lie. They’re all clichés until you actually try to live by them. I think Cal believes he has things under control. He doesn’t. I was the same way. Teenage boys are conditioned to not show any vulnerability. To fake it till they make it. Seeing the big picture and letting it inform responsibility isn’t their strong suit. Learning that can require some blunt advice delivered repeatedly, something my dad excelled at and I benefited from, albeit sometimes belatedly. I, too, was lost and confused when I was Cal’s age. I can see that now. I can also now see that some of my parents’ least welcome advice—like pushing me into Providence Day—was the best advice.
I know Cal isn’t exactly embracing all the pearls of wisdom I try to impart. But maybe, in time, the words I say to him will sink in, and he will have the strength of them in his back pocket when I’m not around anymore to remind him of what ends up being important in life. Any pearl of advice is only as good as what you eventually do with it.
During high school, Cal transferred from a more rigorous academic program to a less prestigious school so he could get more playing time on the basketball team. It broke my heart a bit, but I understood. He derives his self-worth from what he can do on the court. I can certainly relate. But I hope to show him he is more than a baller. Just as someone showed me.
When I first met Obama, I’d barely journeyed outside of North Carolina. Since we began working together, I’ve seen sixty-five countries. I’ve visited every state. I’ve traveled 1.8 million miles, give or take. My mom jokes that I’ve “lived five lifetimes” already. I thought Duke was going to be the best education I could have, and it was indeed fortifying, but it can’t compare to traveling the world as personal aide to President Obama.
I was twenty-three years old when I moved to D.C. to join the Obama team, and thirty years old when I left. I grew up in his company. Became a man. And, just as is the case with every young person who comes of age, once I realized I’d matured, I slowly started to figure out that it was time to move on.
When I committed to follow the President into the West Wing, I promised two years. I ended up staying three. Even then, the choice to exit was fraught for me. I had so much respect for the President and what he was doing, and continues to do, for our country.
I backed into the discussion instead. I’d been attending business school while I was working as his White House PA, taking classes on the weekends and studying late at night and early in the mornings. I’d bitten off more than I could chew and my grades reflected that. Knowing how much Obama valued education, I brought up my dilemma with him.
“I wanted to get your thoughts,” I asked one afternoon.
“Sure thing, Reg.”
“School is kind of kicking my ass,” I said. “I’m not doing well, I’m potentially going to get kicked out because of my performance. I don’t know what you think, but I wanted to know whether or not you believed it made more sense for me to spend more time focusing on school.”
It was, I acknowledge, a bit of a passive-aggressive approach. But I was conflicted. And I didn’t ever want to let the team down, especially him.
“Well, you made it this far, you might as well finish it out and see it through,” the President answered. I exhaled a sigh of relief.
This was a progression in his philosophy. When I’d initially asked him a few months earlier about graduate school, he was ambivalent. I needed him to sign off on my missing work every other Friday and Saturday for classes, and he wasn’t crazy about that plan. He thought it would be unfair to the other staffers who didn’t get those days off. He also sensed that being both a personal aide and a grad student would be more than I could handle.
“I need to go to grad school because I don’t want people to say ten years from now that the only reason I am where I am is because I worked for Barack Obama,” I blurted.
“You’re never going to get away from that,” the President said.
“Yeah, I know, but I need to have other credentials for people to take me seriously.”
Obama felt he had given me the best advice he could. While no one valued education more than the President, no one was more committed to taking full responsibility for the opportunity his office presented to improve the lives of the greatest number of Americans as possible. But the very fact that I was being stubborn about this is what made our relationship so unique. Leaving that job is hard for anyone who has ever had it. But I trusted my instincts. Two habits, incidentally, I had learned from the best.
Once he knew there would be no swaying me, the President became a huge supporter of my new goal. He let me leave a month early.
Playing sports hones your powers of observation. You become adept at seeing the big picture and visualizing where you fit into it. For years, I’d figured out where I fit on the team and maximized my position within that framework. But my personal season was ending. I wanted school to help prepare me for my next step. It was my time to leave.
The day I packed up my desk, I recalled something else Bush’s former PA Jared had told me when I started. He said, “This journey is like no other. But know that it all comes to an end.”
I was lucky. My job ended. But my relationships did not. Saying goodbye turned out to not be goodbye at all. Obama and I still see each other. Sometimes we play cards, shoot hoops, or swing clubs. Sometimes we still correspond about the same things we used to talk about in person. Nothing serious or work-related. We talk basketball. We talk life. We talk like friends.
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CREATE YOUR OWN SHOT
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I still play basketball every morning I can. Old habits die hard. Sometimes I play with the President, but most of the time I play with my friends. I mentor kids now, and I recently went to my sixteen-year-old mentee’s AAU basketball game in Paterson, New Jersey. There I was, sitting on a hard seat in a high school gym, eating hot dogs and cheering him on. It was the happiest I’d been in a long time.
I guess when it comes right down to it, I’m a simple guy. I know how it feels to live small and large, and in truth, the things that give me satisfaction don’t change. Sweet tea. People who smile and say, “Good morning.” The stirring swell of a church choir. The Bojangles’ dark-meat box. A pickup game at dusk in the park. Playing spades with the family. Beer pong night with buddies. My mother saying she’s proud of me. My father shooting hoops with me.
Some of my
best memories are of driving around small towns in the South with my dad. Before there was an Air Force One. Or celebrities. Or heads of state. Or Secret Service. When there was just me playing in a ratty gym, eating at Golden Corral.
A day doesn’t go by in which I don’t think about how lucky I am to be called a Love. Life can be cruel. There are tons of people who have worked harder than me and have a fraction of what I have to show for it. That’s not because they aren’t smart or talented. It’s just the hand we’re dealt.
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Dreams come and go. What feels like the end is often just the beginning. If you are in a valley, you have to know you aren’t going to stay down forever. And when you are riding high, that won’t last either. Everything levels out in the end, and if you keep that in mind, you can manage your feelings through the best and worst of times.
I learned that first from my father, who gave me my start and my spine. The best dad a kid could ask for, he was present and proud—of me, of our family, of the position we carved out in our community. He, with my mother, equipped me with the tools for success and made sure I knew how to use them. Of all the men I have ever met, he is the man I most hope I can become.
Coach K conditioned me and taught me how to be on a team and accountable to the team, as he has done for countless other young men under his tutelage. He steered me away from my ego and my indignation, from my self-destructive asshattery and toward a bigger picture that wasn’t all about me. He prepared me for the real world in ways I didn’t come to understand until many years later. The work I did on his teams ended up being less about three-pointers and rebounds and more about discovering my character, integrity, and how good it could feel to sacrifice. In short, he turned me into an adult.