by Pat Cunnane
VACATION TRAVEL
Despite what the opposition party—Democrat or Republican—cries out, and in spite of the barrage of negative stories from the other side about taxpayer waste, every president needs a vacation, every president deserves a vacation, and every president takes a vacation. And notwithstanding what Fox News would have you believe, President Obama took significantly fewer vacation days than his predecessor or, it appears, his successor. Still, he took two primary vacations each year: one to Hawaii during the holidays and the other in August to Martha’s Vineyard. After the 2012 election, I tagged along on both; the press needed to hang around, even on Obama’s break—because the presidency never truly takes a day off.
Vacation travel was the exact opposite of foreign travel. Whereas foreign travel was high-stakes and filled with staffers and reporters who were ready to work around the clock, vacation travel was filled with reporters and staffers looking to do as little as possible. Me, foremost among them.
My first such trip—to Hawaii for the holidays after his 2012 reelection—was a stark reminder that on most presidential working vacations, the emphasis is on working. As the stress of the campaign evaporated, and we began to look to a fresh start approaching a new year, Washington managed to manufacture a new crisis just in time for the holidays. Turns out we were careening toward the “fiscal cliff,” which was a frightening DC term that basically meant a bunch of laws were set to come into effect—the right mix of increased taxes and decreased spending; a sequestration of sorts—that put the country in a panic and placed a newly resurgent economy in peril. Turns out the debt-ceiling impasse that I couldn’t understand while at the EEOB a year and a half earlier—the one that had tethered me to my computer for fifteen-hour days in the summer of 2011—had helped push us toward the cliff. Its 2011 “solution” was set to smack 2013 in the face, jeopardizing the holiday plans of a whole lot of Washingtonians.
I had been secretly emailing with Marie’s boyfriend, Andrew, a former Joe Biden staffer, because he was planning to surprise Marie in Hawaii. Just one problem, I had to tell him: we might not be going. Stephanie had already purchased her tickets to join me in Hawaii as well. But as the departure date approached, it looked more and more likely that Andrew and Stephanie (who were strangers at this point) would be enjoying the holiday in Honolulu without Marie or me. Stephanie eventually canceled her flights, while Andrew rolled the dice. And it paid off.
With only an hour or so notice, Marie and I jumped in a White House vehicle and raced to Joint Base Andrews. I called my nana as I bounded up the steps to the plane next to Bo. Turns out I wouldn’t be home for the holidays this year. Or so I thought.
Obama World decamped each Christmas to the Moana Surfrider Hotel on a particularly touristy stretch of Waikiki Beach complete with striking views of the piercing-blue Pacific. Of course, as a wrangler on duty, you were typically up and out with the press pool before dawn and back at the hotel long after the sun had gone down. But days off more than made up for the long days stuck in a van with the pooled press. From snorkeling with Schultz to hanging off duty with reporters in Hawaiian shirts at an actual pool, the whole thing seemed a bit like a TV special. You know how when a sitcom becomes tiresome, they set it in a fresh location for an episode? I felt like I was living one of those episodes.
But our special seemed to be getting canceled. The fiscal cliff was getting nearer, and we were no closer to a solution. Washington, frigid and deadlocked, was calling. So it was important to make the most of our potentially limited time in Honolulu. That meant hitting a local bar with the off-duty Secret Service. Going out with the Secret Service was like hanging with the cool kids, so I wanted to make a good impression.
I failed. A couple of the guys came up to me at the bar and offered to buy me a drink. Of course, I couldn’t say no, but I didn’t know what to order. I sheepishly asked for a mai tai, which I regretted immediately, especially since Marie ordered a “bourbon-rocks” in that impressively quick way some people do; no pause between “bourbon” and “rocks.” The bartender, a stout middle-aged woman, asked to see my ID. Right in front of my new agent buddies. With an embarrassed huff, I handed it over. She eyed my Pennsylvania license with suspicion before retreating into the backroom, telling the other bartender to “hold that mai tai.”
I tried to laugh it off with the Secret Service until she returned waving my license. “This is expired,” she said. “I can’t serve you. I should cut this up!” And so, I was denied a mai tai in front of the Secret Service. One of the burlier agents came up to me after the bartender reluctantly returned my license, and, under his breath, offered to “find another way to get you your mai tai.” I was mortified. I wanted to get as far away from there as I could. Fortunately, I was in luck.
Word came down that the president was needed in Washington, so we were quickly back on Air Force One headed for winter. A midvacation break. For the president, it was an opportunity to avert financial catastrophe. On my end, it allowed me to spend New Year’s Eve with Stephanie. I made the mistake of complaining about having to endure the long flight back. “On Air Force One,” Stephanie said drily. “That comment reminds me of Paris,” she said. “Remember?”
I did. Shortly after my Semester at Sea, my dad’s bicycle company, Fuji Bikes, sponsored a team in the Tour de France, so my family, Stephanie, and I went to Paris to watch the final stage. At the conclusion of the race, my dad hosted a party for the team and riders. Stephanie and I had walked all over Paris that day, and I was tired by the time the party started, so I took a seat as the dancing began. A thin young man about my age approached me at the table and sat beside me. “Why are you seated?” he asked.
“Ugh, I’m exhausted. My legs are on fire,” I said.
“Oh, I didn’t see you out there—what team were you on?” Turns out, I was complaining about my sore legs to a man who had completed one of the most grueling physical tasks known to man, the Tour de France, just hours earlier.
It was that lack of awareness that I displayed at dinner with Stephanie. It could be easy to lose context, existing in the bubble. But sometimes my problem was just the opposite. I could focus too much on the context; get inside my own head to the point of inaction. Nowhere was this clearer than on my second vacation trip.
• • •
The basketball was flying right for his face.
As my team hurried the ball up court, I trailed behind. “Lollygagging,” my eighth-grade coach would have called it. In truth, I was merely conserving energy, so I could best help my team. And the president was on my team—so my team was really more his team.
Semantics aside, that basketball was still whizzing right for his unsuspecting dome. And because I was conserving all that energy chugging slowly up court, I was in the best position to see it. You could also make the case that I was in the best position to stop it.
I leapt into thought: What do I call him here? “What do you call the president?” It’s a question I was asked often during my time at the White House, but the truth is, I’m no good with names, and titles are worse.
Now, depending on your lot in life, there are a number of acceptable ways to address the commander in chief. “Sir,” for instance, or “Mr. President.” “Boss” works too. Bolder folks have also used “Barack,” “POTUS,” or “Forty-four.” His children even called him Dad.
Again, I’m not the best with names. I don’t remember them. I don’t feel comfortable using them. I avoid them at all costs. I construct sentences—even entire stories—so as not to back myself into the corner of calling my in-laws, known to the rest of the world as Jim and Debbie, anything more than “you,” “he,” or “she.”
So I’m definitely not about to call the president “Forty-four.” Or “Dad.”
But I need to get his attention fast. After all, the Secret Service isn’t exactly springing into action. Most of the agents are stationed outside the small gym, patrolling the deserted grade school parking lot. But considering we wer
e on Martha’s Vineyard, where it seemed the residents’ wealth was matched only by their liberal leanings, the biggest threat to the president was undoubtedly on court with us.
Recognizing Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s fierce urgency of now, I quickly narrow my choices. Even though he had called me Pat when he’d chosen me recess-style for his team, I knew “Barack” wouldn’t work. That whittled it down to “Sir,” “Mr. President,” “POTUS,” or “P.,” which was catching on around the White House as the new in term. Similar POTUS-like acronyms are used for the other principals as well: the First Lady is FLOTUS; the vice president is VPOTUS; and, most unfortunately, the Second Lady is—
Thwack! I’m too late. As the ball strikes Barack Obama’s face, I cry out, conflating “Sir!” and “POTUS!” into what most closely approximates the awkward acronym for “Second Lady of the United States.”
The other eight players go comatose. Is he mad? Have we done serious damage? Did somebody just say “SLOTUS”? Is the game over? I desperately hope not. It was my day off. And my shooting was on point.
Plus, it was a whole thing for me to get there.
As in Hawaii, I worked one day on and one day off. Desiree was currently on duty, so the emphasis that day was on off. IV
Earlier that day, I met the president’s bubble of protective cars and personnel in the afternoon at his first stop of the day. We call these unscheduled visits OTRs, which, depending on who you ask, means “on the run” or “off the record.” Come to think of it, OTR could just as easily stand for “on the record,” and that could really cause some trouble in this business.
Regardless, I went and advanced the OTR at a local restaurant on the water in Oak Bluffs. The president knew the owner and thought a dreary-day drop-by might be fun, generating a bit of positive press on a rainy day. Of course, in the world of right-wing blogs and Fox News, it would more likely degenerate into headlines such as “Obama Dines Out as Americans Starve for Leadership” or “In Case You Forgot, Obama Still on Vacation.”
Walking toward the restaurant, I noticed two broad-shouldered men sitting silently on a bench scoping their surroundings: mostly boats and khaki-clad kids. The two dudes were draped in dull Hawaiian shirts and cargo pants. On closer inspection, they also wore earpieces, Kevlar undergarments, and packed standard-issue Sig Sauer pistols. Secret Service chic, their outfits and outlook said, “Yeah, I’m prepared to give my life for the president, but I’m also on vacation.”
While looking out for a decent perch for the protective press pool to get a shot of the president entering and exiting the restaurant, I neglected to look out for oncoming traffic and was nearly hit by a slow-moving RAV4-ish blue junker driven by a gangly goofball who, on closer inspection, turned out to be Larry David.
My personal hero’s beady eyes bored a hole through the windshield of his mom-mobile. It was the first time I’d seen him in person. I was very much in his way, and he let me know it. It was the ideal Larry moment; the perfect first impression: mix-up, minutiae, magnificent. I could almost hear the Curb Your Enthusiasm theme music, my ringtone, play us off.
The interaction propelled me the rest of the day—and it loosened me up on the basketball court, where I had drained three three-pointers in as many offensive possessions. I’m a decent-at-best basketball player, but things were going better than expected. That is, before the headshot heard around the gymnasium. One of the other players, a Chicago doctor, had even awarded me a “permanent green light” to shoot. But I took it more as a look-both-ways-and-if-the-President-isn’t-open-then-feel-free-to-launch-it kind of yellow light.
I assumed that my chances of continuing my rare hot streak in the gym, my chance to keep playing with the chief executive, were shot, but POTUS shook off the hit and kept things going. We lost all three games we played that day, blowing significant leads in each. That was the last time I was asked to play basketball with the president.
I should mention that he wears pants when he plays basketball. And he tucks in his shirt. Other than that, he’s quite a solid player, better than me. But whenever he trails the team up court, rather than “lollygagging,” he’s “leading from behind.”
DISASTER TRAVEL
In every presidency, there are a handful of poignant moments. These are often born of what we called “disaster travel”: quick-turn presidential trips meant to respond to natural or man-made disasters. These proved some of the most meaningful, wrenching, and yet oddly uplifting trips President Obama made. Before every trip, foreign and domestic, we received an email from the trip coordinator with details for the day. Normally, the note advised us to wear business attire. Sometimes, more ominously, it would call for “disaster casual.”
I did two natural-disaster trips that called for boots rather than suits, to New Orleans in the wake of a hurricane, and to New Jersey following 2012’s Superstorm Sandy. Accommodating a presidential visit necessarily funnels resources from emergency responders and cleanup crews, something the White House takes into account when determining if and at what point to tour damage and meet with survivors. It’s a tricky balancing act: refrain from going, and you look like you’re ignoring the problem; go, and risk being seen as taking advantage of wreckage and heartbreak for a photo op.
But those photos were important; a way for the world to empathize. So our advance teams would hit the ground a few days before us and determine the best route for the president to walk, drive, or fly to get a sense of the destruction. It could feel staged as we prepared for the visit, but once on the ground, it was clear: the president needed to see the damage. The rest of the country needed to see it, too. Like the rest of the world needed to see the president and his family at the Door of No Return. Natural disasters often made for odd bedfellows. I remember watching in the cold as New Jersey’s Republican governor, Chris Christie, put his arm around President Obama—these two fierce rivals—putting politics aside to do the right thing for an American community.
Mother Nature’s wreckage could be hard to stomach, but there was nothing more gut wrenching than man-made disaster visits.
There is also no better opportunity for a president to step up to the plate and do his job. And there are few things more stirring than a commander in chief, regardless of politics, rising to the occasion and meeting the moment.
It is a calling. For President Clinton, it was the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995. For President George W. Bush, it was standing atop the rubble three days after 9/11, finding his voice in a bullhorn.
It’s hard to know how important these visuals and speeches are; how crucial it is for the commander in chief to unify the country—in sorrow, common decency, and resolve—until you come across a president who doesn’t know how to do it or, worst of all, chooses not to.
President Obama knew to do it and how to do it.
I’ll never forget the morning of December 14, 2012. It started off quiet. Bobby and I bantered about lunch. Matt probably called me Bashar. Reporters inquired about their Christmas photos with the president. But then news started to break about a shooting in Connecticut. Not much was known as the cable news channels began to break to helicopter footage and local news reports. Maybe a few casualties. Then Clark, an assistant press secretary who had been coordinating with the Department of Homeland Security, quickly entered Upper Press, looking for our bosses. He couldn’t say what he knew, but he seemed shaken, glancing quickly at the television by my desk. “It’s really bad,” he said.
Not long after Clark’s visit, the full extent of the horror at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown was exposed. Twenty-six dead. Twenty of them five- and six-year-olds. It was the single most somber day I experienced at the White House. The joy of the season—a West Wing decorated for Christmas; the verve of staffers energized after reelection—was sucked away as the president wiped tears from his eyes in the Briefing Room.
It was hardly the first mass shooting that President Obama needed to respond to publicly (in fact, it was his fourth), and it wasn’t eve
n the first I was around for. In 2011, Arizona representative Gabby Giffords and eighteen others were shot in the few weeks I was off between ending my internship and starting as a staffer; and on the 2012 campaign, I woke up at a hotel in Florida to news of a lone gunman opening fire in a crowded movie theater in Aurora, Colorado, killing twelve and injuring seventy. We would cancel the rally and head back to DC that day.
But everything about Sandy Hook was different.
We arrived in Newtown three days later. The days are short in Connecticut in December, and night had long since fallen by the time we made our way toward the event space for the interfaith prayer vigil. A high school theater, like so many I’d been in before. A quiet town. I waited as the president met backstage, for hours, with the families of those who’d been murdered. I kept looking to the front row, where I imagined the families of the fallen would be seated, until it hit me: the sheer number of those killed meant that everyone in the room was directly impacted. There was no front row. I had never been in a room like that, and I hope never to be again. The sense of loss was all-encompassing; the sadness incomprehensible. I mean that literally. I felt pangs of despair, but my brain couldn’t compute the gravity of that place and time. So I would experience a few moments of clarity about the horror that had happened, but my mind would then bounce back protectively into nothingness.
The grief draped over everyone in the hall like a funeral pall. Even members of the Secret Service were brought to tears.
That night, Barack Obama carefully balanced honoring the victims with a call to action; a refusal to let this happen again. By this point, the president had been deemed the “consoler in chief,” and he rightly thought that this would finally push Congress, with the overwhelming support of Americans, in the direction of commonsense gun legislation.
He was wrong. He called Congress’s failure to act to help curb these kinds of shootings the most frustrating part of his presidency.