After the State dinner, Michelle Obama invited me to cook at the Easter Egg hunt. I saw her every year and every year, she grew. You could see she was a person who got more comfortable in her setting. She grew, and I loved seeing her grow. By my third visit to the White House, it was clear, it’s her house now. It’s her house. “What are you doing? You’re in my house.” I just kept cheering for her: “Good for you. Take it. It’s yours. Good.”
Cooking with her on Good Morning America, she has a sense of joy around her. You get happy when you see her. She always whispers something to me about what her next food plan is, “We’re doing this.” That whisper is something, as Black people, we understand. You don’t strut when you’ve got real power, real power whispers.
When we look at her legacy, we will see how she opened up this whole idea about the democratization of food. In Harlem, we now have six farmers’ markets. We wouldn’t have six farmers’ markets if there hadn’t been a top-level-driven and a local-level-driven conversation with her at its heart.
When she does a video parody of Lil Jon called “Turnip for What,” it shows that she understands her time, the speed and power of the internet. She’s not afraid of uploading her message on Vine or Twitter. A lot of politicians have been afraid of social media, but she says, “This medium is not just going to go against us. I can also use this medium to push messages out.” Through Instagram and her many channels of communicating, she puts it out there. Then people can respond to her version of her story.
That is completely new for a Black person in the spotlight and for a Black woman, especially. For so long we were told what to do, how to look, how to feel and even how to be. Her control of social media is so powerful. Rather than merely responding and reacting, she shapes the conversation. She says, “No, this is how it is.”
I think she embodies the ability to shape the conversation around her better than any person that I know. She took a minute to assess the lay of the land. Then she said, “You know what? Enough. This is how I’m going to shape it, how I’m going to look, how I’m going to raise my family. How I’m going to communicate with you. This is how I’m going to show who I am and what I can be and where I’m going. Boom, boom, boom. I’m setting the flag down here.”
STATE DINNER
In Honor of
HIS EXCELLENCY DR. MANMOHAN SINGH PRIME MINISTER OF THE REPUBLIC OF INDIA
and
MRS. GURSHARAN KAUR
Dinner Menu
Potato and Eggplant Salad
White House Arugula With Onion Seed Vinaigrette
2008 Sauvignon Blanc, Modus Operandi, Napa Valley, California
Red Lentil Soup with Fresh Cheese
2006 Riesling, Brooks “Ara,” Willamette Valley, Oregon
Roasted Potato Dumplings With Tomato Chutney Chick Peas and Okra
or
Green Curry Prawns Caramelized Salsify
With Smoked Collard Greens and Coconut Aged Basmati
2007 Granache, Beckmen Vineyards, Santa Ynez, California
Pumpkin Pie Tart Pear Tatin Whipped Cream and Caramel Sauce
Sparkling Chardonnay, Thibaut-Janisson Brut, Monticello, Virginia
Petits Fours and Coffee Cashew Brittle Pecan Pralines
Passion Fruit and Vanilla Gelees
Chocolate-Dipped Fruit
Michelle Obama: Representational Justice
SARAH LEWIS
During the Civil War, the abolitionist and great nineteenth-century thinker Frederick Douglass made a surprising speech about the importance of pictures for justice. It was the dawn of the photographic age. In the speech, which he rewrote multiple times, Douglass argued that combat might end complete sectional disunion, but America’s progress and racial reconciliation would require pictures because of the images they conjure in one’s imagination. Douglass was making a case for the epiphanic power of an image to shift our vision of the world. He was making a case for the power of an image to arrest us, to penetrate us, to stop us in our tracks.
Resolute as Douglass was, he ended his speech with an admission—he thought it might take generations to understand the power of images to shift our vision for this country. Centuries later, we would have an example of the impact of pictures that he had in mind.
“I wake up every day in a house built by slaves,” Michelle Obama told the crowd at the City College of New York in 2016. She continued to emphasize the point: “I watch my daughters—two beautiful, Black young women—head off to school, waving goodbye to their father, the president of the United States, the son of a man from Kenya who came here to America.” The power of the sentence was completed by her image—an African American woman, descendant of those brought here in bondage, serving as the First Lady of the United States. She didn’t have to state that about her own history. By then, we all already knew.
Over time the image of Michelle Obama had become a colossus, a towering figure into which fell the opportunity, challenge, and contradiction of Blackness, power, and beauty. The intense visual study went beyond the scrutiny historically received by First Ladies. Our collective gaze became an assessment that exposed the very core of our nation’s stereotypes and racial views.
She was aware of the transformation from the beginning. “When my husband first started campaigning for President, folks had all sorts of questions of me,” she said. “Was I too loud, or too angry, or too emasculating? Or was I too soft, too much of a mom, not enough of a career woman? Then there was the first time I was on a magazine cover—it was a cartoon drawing of me with a huge afro and machine gun. Now, yeah, it was satire, but if I’m really being honest, it knocked me back a bit. It made me wonder, just how are people seeing me.”1
I first saw Michelle Obama as if she was watching herself be true to a self-made pact of utter authenticity—convicted, self-possessed, forthright. “My view on this stuff is I’m trying to be myself, trying to be as authentic as I can be. I can’t pretend to be somebody else,” she said in 2007.2 She stated it again a year later with the words “trying to be” as if a near refrain. “I am trying to be as authentically me as I can be,” she mentioned in 2008.3
To some, the phrase might have been confusing. Michelle Obama seemed to be someone for whom there is no try, there is only do and do not. Accomplishment is her image. Indeed, there she was—casually curled on the couch, making lists, about to move into the White House—in front of Annie Leibovitz’s lens for Vogue. Yet the phrase let slip her knowledge about the examinations she was enduring—from the public, from the press—that were not so much about her, but about why we had never seen someone like her before as a potential First Lady of the United States of America.
Authenticity is not an achievement. Yet authenticity does take effort if you are upending centuries of history with your mere presence. It takes work to let people stare, wonder, probe and prod to determine the veracity of your life. It does involve some “try.” It takes effort to convince the world that you are authentic when simply being you shatters the mold. Images that create the dominant cultural narratives about African American life rarely show a life like Michelle Obama’s. It created an oxymoron: authenticity became a declarative act.
International curiosity turned the image of Michelle Obama into a public figurative emblem, an iconic image in the frieze of American landmark images of race and representation. “My life isn’t new, but it’s new to a lot of people who haven’t seen this up close and personal,” she would reflect years later, as if explaining the figurative tour America took of her body, her life, and her lineage.4
As a professor of History of Art and Architecture and African and African American Studies at Harvard, I spend my time thinking about the nexus of vision, race, and representation. Yet the repeated image of Michelle Obama in the public eye turned looking into our collective work.
I understood this when I received a call from a journalist writing a major piece on Black professionals on a mid-winter afternoon in 2008. He wanted to know about my life. He
started asking about my other friends and colleagues who were Black and driven. I paused and asked, “What is the focus of this story?” The democratic race involving then candidate Barack Obama had put a spotlight on pioneering Black professionals. As the interview went on, I realized that the story seemed to be less about Black professionals and more about why people are suddenly aware of and interested in our achievements. He was asking me for a figurative tour. The journalist never ran the piece. He admitted during our call, with humility and self-reflection that I deeply admired, that he was interviewing subjects, but he really could have been interviewing himself.
If Black professionals of pedigree had become news, Michelle Obama as the potential First Lady of the United States was exploding the mold. “I will walk anyone through my life,” she would say.5 And she did, donating her body to the nation’s gaze for constant assessment for us all.
As Robin Givhan put it, “The rise of First Lady Michelle Obama as an icon—of fashion, black womanhood, working motherhood and middle-class success—has propelled her onto a pedestal that would surely give the average person vertigo. She is Jackie Kennedy, Sojourner Truth, Hillary Clinton and a Horatio Alger character all rolled into one.”6 Deborah Willis amplified the comment when she observed that Michelle Obama “has engaged the imagination of a new generation of writers and artists as they chronicle the commanding role the First lady now plays in American visual culture.”7
It took my mind back centuries.
I read that Michelle Obama’s friend said, “she’s a private person in a public role, a black woman in a costume drama previously only played by whites” and I imagined how she had reversed the racially symbolic production—the Masque of Blackness commissioned by King James at the birth of the so-called New World.8 In this masque in 1604, Queen Anne and her ladies had completely covered themselves in black paint to perform as princesses from the River Niger come to Britain to be cleansed of their Blackness. It scandalized the court. Centuries later, the image of Michelle Obama had indeed reversed the costume drama. She had fully upended the masque of Blackness on American soil.
I wondered how many knew that Black beauty once contained the incendiary power of a detonation. In the nineteenth century, just after emancipation, Winslow Homer, then America’s best-known painter, was nearly forced out of his hotel at gunpoint and called a racial epithet for deigning to show Blackness as beautiful with paint. At the time, Homer was in Virginia painting works of African Americans including The Cotton Pickers (1876), a portrait of two African American enslaved women rendered with a rare grace and dignity. Homer agreed to hold an informal exhibit of his recently completed portraits in the lobby of his hotel, where one high-society lady asked, “Why don’t you paint our lovely girls instead of those dreadful creatures?” Homer insisted on the beauty of his Black subjects. He replied, “Because those are the purtiest.” The following day, one man came to the hotel with a shotgun looking for the “damn ________ painter.” In a letter to his brother Homer said that he “looked him in the eyes, as mother used to tell us to look at a wild cow.” Homer’s defiance worked. “Halfway to the porch [he] hesitated, then turned and rode away.”9
Homer continued to paint African Americans for the duration of his time in Virginia, adding to a record of rare images filled with such humanity and dignity in a sea of racist caricature that Alain Locke, as late as 1940, remarked that “Homer is chiefly responsible for the modern revival of interest in the Negro subject.”10
At the unveiling of Artis Lane’s bust of Sojourner Truth, I watched as Michelle Obama spoke and wondered how many knew that she was scraping off layers of encrusted bias and history by daring to be herself in public, that she had to contend with the weight of the history of race and representation that mandated that effort.
The struggle to affirm the dignity and humanity of all cannot be waged without pictures. Race turns looking into work.
It was what Douglass knew. It is why, I have to imagine, he spent such time focusing on the nexus of race, imagery, and citizenship and spoke about the force of pictures at length in 1854, the year of the release of the widely known antebellum racial treatise Types of Mankind, by Josiah Clark Nott and George Gliddon. The book presented a hierarchy of human races and polygenesis. A few years earlier, in 1850, leading naturalist Louis Agassiz had commissioned photographer J. T. Zealy to take daguerreotypes of bare-chested and bare-breasted African- and American-born slaves in South Carolina in an attempt to prove his polygenesis views. As Sean Ross Meehan writes, Douglass was arguing that pictures, the same medium that was being used to excise African Americans from the human family, could be subversively used “to read him back in.”11
“In the making of our Presidents, the political gallery begins the operation and the picture gallery ends it,” Douglass said. Centuries later, we see it with the image of First Lady Michelle Obama, a figure of representational justice, a corrective model, a demonstration of the force of repeated images to continue the journey toward full citizenship for all on American soil.
Douglass was ahead of his time.
The Freedom to Be Yourself
KAREN HILL ANTON
THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN
When I was growing up, a First Lady was just that. A lady. A woman who wore hats and smiled. Sometimes she waved a gloved hand. That’s my basic image of the women who were in your role before you. I can think of only one First Lady who left an impression on me. Jackie Kennedy stood out because of her glamour and style, her presence. Still, it would have never occurred to me to want to look like her, dress like her, be like her. You changed that. You changed a lot of things and I suspect that it will only be with time that we will fully be able to appreciate the legacy of your work and your husband’s presidency.
I left the United States for the first time when I was 19 years old and traveled for one year, mostly in Europe. I returned home in the early 1970s to find an America I no longer recognized. My family had moved from our apartment and community, a place where we knew everyone by name, to a housing project. My father had served as head of the Community League of 159th Street numerous times, actively participating in creating a neighborhood where the end-of-summer block party was the biggest event of our young lives, kids played outside until the streetlights came on, and keeping an eye on a neighbor’s child was like keeping an eye on your own. This new place was an alien landscape, devastated by drugs and violence. It was a place I wanted no part of, a place where I would not contemplate raising a family. When I got older and my partner and I did start a family, we moved to Vermont. There, we were able to find good jobs and a wonderful school for our daughter. We would probably still be there today if Billy hadn’t been offered the opportunity to study and live in Japan at a yoga training center where natural foods, meditation, and a simple healthy lifestyle were the center of the curriculum.
I have three daughters and a son. Our eldest daughter was born in Denmark, the other three children here in Japan. I’ve never used the term “expatriates” to describe my family and myself. My husband Billy and I, friends since we were teenagers, came to Japan in 1975. We just never left.
Forty years ago, we arrived in Japan, and moved into a farmhouse that we would call home for nearly a decade. Stepping out of the car at what seemed to be the top of the world, I knew I’d found the place in Japan I wanted to be. I’m not sure what it was, the old house or the view, which is not quite the word one wants for a panorama of bamboo groves, tea plantations, rice fields, mountains upon mountains, and endless sky. This unknown, strange place had been waiting for us to come to it.
“This is it, Billy,” I said.
“Yeah. This is it.”
It was called Futokoro Yama, which loosely translated means Breastpocket Mountain. In that old house we sat on zabuton, the thick floor cushions, because there were no chairs; heated the bath with wood, because that’s how we could make it hot. Our closest neighbors were the Ishikawa family. Almost all the families in that area shared the
same name. The eldest Ishikawa, a man of perhaps sixty who looked seventy, made his presence known our first morning by piling up a load of wood in our yard. We were grateful and did not mention the noise had woken us up before the sun.
All throughout Japan, forty years ago when we first arrived and to this day, rural families live like the Ishikawas with children, parents, grandparents, perhaps an aunt or uncle, all under one roof. Japanese do not view autonomy as we do, and privacy is not prized in the same way. Even with paper-thin walls, shared family life is viewed for its benefits. Michelle, I was happy to learn your mother, the esteemed Marian Robinson, would move into the White House with all of you; it was a very important moment for me because it made me realize that yours was a family that I could not only respect, but relate to. Multigenerational households are one of the things I’ve liked most about traditional Japanese family life. While raising our family in a small village here, ours was the only family that could go by that uncomfortable name “nuclear.” We were not fortunate enough to have grandparents to share in our children’s lives, but I surely saw the value in it, and clearly you do, too.
We must all decide when and how we will make a life. We are all, in our own way, climbing a mountain. I can only imagine that your husband’s presidency and your family becoming the First Family was also a climb. As I watched you from afar—6,296 miles away to be exact—I marveled at the patience and grace with which you undertook the task of becoming the First Lady. Everything about you seemed to say, “I am going to do this. But I am going to do this my way.” What I have seen is that you decided, as I did, that life is too short to dispel too much energy on other people’s ignorance and the limitations that they might prescribe. Instead, you forged your own path. As you have said, “Success is only meaningful and enjoyable if it feels like your own.”
The Meaning of Michelle Page 10