The entire bus burst into applause.
“Okay, who wrote that one for James?” Cameron asked, looking around. “I’m giving that person a raise.”
Dad raised his hand. “I did,” he said.
“Without help?” Cameron asked.
“Not entirely. Sparrow got me started. But when it comes to faith, I have to figure out what I believe before anybody else starts figuring it out for me.”
“I’m impressed, James,” Cameron said. “I thought you wanted your speeches handed to you polished and perfect, like you used to in the old days, but that may not be giving you the scope to get your creative juices flowing”
Mom was the only one who looked concerned. “James, you’re sure you’re not saying that stuff just for the campaign?” she asked when Dad sat back down. She kept her voice soft so that only Sameera and her father could hear the question.
“No, darling,” Dad whispered back, pulling Sameera closer, too. “You can’t consider a terrifying responsibility like the presidency without grappling with your faith. I’ve been thinking hard about it for weeks—and praying, too. Every word I said is true.”
“James, I’m so glad,” Mom whispered, and Sameera saw tears sparkling in her eyes. Which is weird, because Mom hardly ever cries.
Sameera was barely keeping herself from dancing bhangra on the bus. Her talk with Dad had helped! He’d listened to her message from Poppa and had done some thinking of his own. See? Even a person without all the answers can be spiritually useful, she told herself. The next time Mom and I have a late-night faith quest, I’ll make sure Dad’s invited.
chapter 36
The convoy finally reachedWilliamsburg, where they planned to stay the night in a hotel. Sameera had smiled so often during the pit stops that her cheek muscles ached. She got online as soon as she was alone and sent an e-mail to info@ SARSA. GWOkay, SARSA, the blog’s a go for me. I’m attaching a copy of a rant I wrote about slave trafficking for you to review. I’m starting this blog, though, whether or not you guys decide to link to it, and here are my ground rules: I’ll post a paragraph once a week to get the conversation started. Then I’ll respond to the first two legitimate comments that come in. After that, it becomes a free-for-all forum where everybody can speak their mind.
She took a deep breath before writing the next part:The code name I’m going to use on the blog is “Sparrow,” and I can’t mention “Sameera,” “Sammy,” or “SammySez.com”—those were the campaign team’s stipulations. So here’s the link to my blog: www.sparrowblog.com. I bought the domain name myself, and I’m staying in charge of it. I don’t want my real blog hosted on anybody’s Web site but my own. Sparrow’s been my nickname for years, if you’re curious. Oh, and by the way, I miss you guys. Haven’t had a good cappuccino in days.
Sangi had written back by the time Sameera checked her messages again.
Go for it. We’re behind you all the way. Nadia said your post about slave trafficking made her bawl. We’ll be sending the link out as soon as you’ve posted your first entry. Can’t wait. As for the nickname, most South Asians have one. Mine is “BABY,” can you believe it? I’m sending you our cell phone numbers; we promise to keep yours a secret if you ever call us. We’d decided not to ask you for yours because we didn’t want to invade your privacy, but I can see that we were playing it too safe.
Sameera smiled; she was probably going to have to widen her myplace inner circle to include five more members, but she’d wait until after the election. Her circle of twenty-nine would already be overwhelmed, what with reading and commenting and voting on her posts—getting to know five new people might be too much to handle.
After Williamsburg, the next stop was Durham, North Carolina, where Sameera wrote and posted her first entry on the new sparrowblog site she’d set up. When it came to design, she stuck with simple, easy-to-read fonts and only used two colors. The one graphic on the page was a big coxswain’s megaphone with the words SPARROW SPEAKING! LISTEN UP! emanating from the wide end. Her circle of twenty-nine had voted on the following post to jump-start the site:Cyber-greetings, America. I’ll be posting my thoughts on this site once a week. Ground rules: The first two legitimate questions get answers from me, and then everybody’s free to jump into the discussion. I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth when it comes to this blog, and I’m expecting the same from you.
Here’s my first question. How long does it take people to drop that ethnic adjective we put before the word “American”?
White kids get to do it after they lose their parents’ accents, and they don’t introduce themselves as Polish American or German American anymore. But Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Blacks, Hispanics, American Indians, South Asians—we stay Asian American or African American or Native American or Pakistani American (I’m not even sure if I should use hyphens or not) for several generations, until (or if) our descendants intermarry with white people and stop looking “ethnic.” So, an African American person can have a granddaughter who is described as just plain American—if she’s light-skinned enough and her blood’s been mixed enough times with white people? I don’t get it.
Readers, what do you think? Remember: keep your comments short, clean, and to the point. Peace be with you. Sparrow.
She’d known that the most difficult thing about relaunching her blog was going to be the public unveiling of her nickname. Widen the circle, she admonished herself, and clicked on PUBLISH.
It didn’t take long to get a response; the SARSA networks had already sent out e-mails about the Republican candidate’s daughter’s REAL blog launch with the link on their Listservs. The first question that came flying back was a predictable one: Tell us about your adoption.
Easy one, Sameera thought, fingers flying in response as she sat in a North Carolina hotel room and thought of that day long ago on the other side of the planet. She’d heard the story so often she knew it by heart.
I don’t remember anything about the orphanage I lived in until I was three. It’s closed down since then, anyway. I’ve seen video footage of younger versions of my parents visiting a scrawny toddler who had been deposited there since birth (me). Mom and Dad and I watch it every year on my “Homecoming Day,” and celebrate by going out to a fancy dinner.
But it isn’t just my homecoming day we’re celebrating. It’s my parents’ love story, too. “You arranged our marriage, Sparrow,” they always say. It’s true, in a way. They were both stationed in Islamabad, Pakistan, where Mom was serving as a consultant to some NGO for six months, and Dad was a political officer at the U.S. Embassy. Neither of them had much time to date. They did make time, though, to take a tour of an orphanage—on the same afternoon. We all met for the first time that day. Coincidence? Maybe. Mom’s sure it was divine intervention.
After that, they both made time to visit me, running into each other at the orphanage and going out for a bite to eat afterward. Slowly, the desire to adopt me was growing in each of them, taking them both by surprise, I think, since they were single. The bad news was that it was almost impossible for foreigners to adopt from Pakistan, and single people over thirty-five absolutely had no chance at all. Mom and Dad started talking about getting married, jokingly at first, and then pragmatically, and then, as Dad puts it, the “sparks started flying.”
Three months after we met, the pastor of the international church in Islamabad presided over their wedding. In the meantime, the orphanage was shutting down. Only three children remained under their care, then two, and then one—me.
Who knows why nobody wanted to adopt me? Because we were meant for each other, Mom always says, but still, a person wonders. The director of the orphanage submitted proof that no relative had ever claimed me, that nobody inside the country wanted to adopt me, and that they were about to shut their doors forever. Finally, the government of Pakistan made a special exception—James and Elizabeth Righton could take me back to America and adopt me there. Which they did. And we lived h
appily ever after. I hope.
She almost deleted the more personal part, about wondering why she hadn’t been wanted, but then she decided to leave it in. It was true, wasn’t it? Most kids who were adopted wondered why their birth parents had decided to give them up for adoption. Some found out, some didn’t, but most of them wondered.
Question two came in:How do we know this is really you and not a fake? You have that other blog, too.
A harder question this time, but it had a much shorter answer:Stick around and keep reading. You’ll have to decide for yourself.
chapter 37
Westfield stopped making Sameera write essays once she’d visited Sparrowblog. “We’ll work on analytical writing in the fall,” she said. “For now, keep writing from the heart, Sparrow ; you’ve got a great voice.” After that, an extremely supportive, articulate visitor named “poli_tutor” commented on Sameera’s posts regularly, and it didn’t take Sameera long to figure out that Westfield was leaping into the circle of conversation.
Everybody on the bus was starting to go a little stir crazy. The banter among members of the campaign staff reminded Sameera of how the members of SARSA teased one another. Or the way her crew guys harassed their teammates (minus the swear words in five different languages). Even the reporters seemed more silly and relaxed on the road, and the Rightons were starting to recognize faces on the media bus and getting to know their names.
Dad’s campaign in the South was a big success. “We like Righton’s record of integrity and the statement we’ve heard him make about his personal faith,” religious leaders declared. “We believe he’s the man for the job.” His skill at working a crowd paid off, and people who met him were not only charmed but also even more convinced of his integrity.
When the team discussed the best way to approach each upcoming event or debate, Sameera tuned in. It was interesting to think about finessing campaign strategies in each region; she’d known there was diversity from state to state in America, but she’d had no idea how different they really were.
Mom spoke up when the conversation turned to fund-raising, and everybody always listened. Elizabeth Campbell had a reputation for being able to convince the most miserly people on the planet to hand their money over to a good cause. For Dad’s campaign, she recommended that they shift their focus away from big donors to recruit five- and ten-dollar bills from everyday folks. “Those add up,” Mom said. “And when people give their hard-earned money to something, they want to help it succeed. You’ll get their votes.”
“Put a button on our site that links to an on-line money transfer system like Pay Friend,” Sameera added.
“Great idea,” said Cameron, and Sameera noticed Wilder glowering three rows behind him.
The fast-moving conversation shifted again, this time toward the problem of attracting the younger generation to Righton’s side. “They’re saying that younger voters are going to show up in droves this fall,” another staffer said. “And we’ll lose them all to Banforth if we don’t make some changes.That son of hers has put most of the twenty-somethings in her pocket.”
Sameera took stock of all the thirty-and-above faces in the bus. “How about recruiting a few younger people to join the campaign team?” she suggested. “And adding a bit more international flavor? My generation’s a lot more into cultural melding than yours.”
“I like the idea of hiring a few younger interns,” Cameron said thoughtfully.
“But what do you mean by ‘international flavor,’ Sparrow?” Dad asked. “We’re fairly multicultural on our team; I’ve made a point of that.”
“But everybody on this bus was born in America, right?”
They all nodded.
“What about newer Americans?” she asked. “People who speak English with accents, even? Dad, you’ll be able to show off your ability to connect with people from other countries.”
“Cameron’s on top of demonstrating your father’s strengths to the American people, Sammy,” Tara called from her seat beside Wilder, laughing. Sameera half-expected the windows of the bus to shatter in response to the irritating sound. There were some things she appreciated about Tara, but that pseudo-laugh still drove her crazy.
“How about hiring a couple of younger interns who are also immigrants?” Cameron asked.
“Bingo!” Dad said. “That’s a great idea.”
Sameera’s next blog post included the job description for the internship, and to everybody’s amazement, hundreds of applications poured in. Cameron carefully chose two interns to join them on the bus—Guillermo, from Colombia, and Fatima, who was originally from Iraq. They were both twenty-one, fresh out of college, and passionately patriotic about the country of their new citizenship—the United States of America. Guillermo, unfortunately, turned out to be a climber who followed Cameron around like an eager campaign-manager-in-training, but Fatima was a great addition to the team. When she and Sameera started sitting together on the bus, the time on the road passed even more quickly, thanks to the good conversations they had.
Sameera called Bobby as they were driving through South Carolina to let him know they were in his territory. It was a good excuse to hear his voice again. And again.
“Hey—we have tons of new members in SARSA nationwide, thanks to your blog, Sameera.”
“That’s wonderful. I keep checking my site stats, and I can’t believe how many people are visiting”
“It’s because you make visitors feel like they’re actually chatting with you. I couldn’t believe all the people who shared the stories of their adoptions, and how they felt about it. I stayed up late last night reading through the comments.”
“Me, too,” she said. “But we got our share of nasty comments, too. Some people hate Dad so much, it’s scary.”
“Do you want us to moderate the conversation? George said he could easily set up a membership program on the site. That way, only members could post, and every angry person and their brother can’t jump into the conversation to harass you.”
“No. Let’s keep it open. I can handle it. I only have to answer two questions a week, and there are enough supportive commenters to take on the trash talk.”
“You’ve got guts,” Bobby said. “But I knew that the moment you dragged me out on the bhangra floor. We’ll have to go dancing again when you come back to D. C. Still got your disguise?”
“It’s expanded. I own two burkas now, and a real head covering.
“You do? Where’d you get them?”
She told him about her visit to the store in D.C., and how meeting Uncle Muhammad’s family had led to her decision to write the blog, and he responded just as perfectly as she knew he would: “It’s good to pay back our debts, Sparrow. Hey—is it okay if I call you Sparrow?”
“It’s fine,” she said. Seems like there’s no way around it; Sparrow I remain when it comes to my nearest and dearest. And for now, that’s okay.
“NO WAY! WE JUST PASSED THE EXIT TO CREIGHTON!” she shouted. Fatima had been keeping an eye out for it, and she elbowed Sameera violently when the green sign flashed by.
“I know exactly where you are then. But my town’s an hour away from the exit.”
“I’ll wait for you to give me a tour.” There was something about this guy that made her heart escape from its normal location (safely hidden inside her chest cavity) and turn up on her sleeve.
“It’s a small town,” he said. “A tour takes about three and a half minutes.”
“Walking through Maryfield takes four. I love how everybody down here sounds like you. I’ll call you soon, Bobby.”
chapter 38
Campaigning was like coxing, Sameera decided. The more you did it, the more your confidence grew and the better you got. She was feeling more sure of herself when it came to style, too, discovering that streamlined skirts, feminine but simple blouses, and tailored jackets made her the most relaxed in front of a crowd. And when she felt comfortable, she stopped focusing so much on what she looked like a
nd was able to think about the questions people were asking. And about the people themselves.
She was slowly easing her natural shape out of the padded undergarments. Every girl on the planet didn’t need to wear tight clothes; Sameera’s genes were Pakistani, even if her jeans were American. And miraculously, her breasts were making a minor appearance. Better late than never, Sameera informed them when they were alone together in the shower.
Thanks to SARSA’s nationwide grassroots promotion and the help she got from her circle of twenty-nine to hone her posts, word had spread about Righton’s daughter’s real blog. Sparrowblog.com was starting to get thousands of hits—and comments galore, mostly from young people. It was easy to come up with a new topic every week, since nothing was taboo. Passionate debates raged over the issues that Sameera raised, and she jumped in whenever she could. The questions she was getting were challenging; sometimes she’d have to answer, “I don’t know what I think,” and the possibilities would keep her up late into the night.
First Daughter Page 19