Off the Sidelines

by Kirsten Gillibrand

  That first year, as I found my way in Congress, I realized I needed to brush up on my listening skills at home, too. Our move to Washington was hard—on me and my marriage. I had a new job; Jonathan didn’t; and we were trying to find our legs with a toddler in a new city. We started having the same argument over and over. I’d say, “What’s wrong?”

  Jonathan would say, “I have no job and I hate D.C.”

  I appreciated Jonathan’s viewpoint. We lived in a soulless suburb. It wasn’t the right place for us, and we needed a change. I could see that, but it took me at least a year to figure out that racing 100 miles an hour to do my job well was leaving no time for us. We tried to make a night out together each week a priority, to really talk and listen to each other. (We still do this every Saturday.) But when you’re new to a city, even finding a sitter can seem insurmountable, and the best intentions fall through. It’s humbling how hard it can be to do at home the things that we know we must do at work: Be patient and courteous; listen; value opposing views. Eventually we moved from Arlington, Virginia, to Capitol Hill, and Jonathan found a job he liked. I also started telling people that we wanted to make new friends in D.C., and that led to dinner parties that included Brits, which Jonathan greatly enjoyed. Perhaps best of all, we sank into our daily life. I made a point of traveling solo more, and we reduced our family’s trips to Hudson from every weekend to once a month. Theo started playing T-ball and soccer on the Hill, and I made of point of keeping Jonathan top of mind.

  Marriage is difficult, especially in a busy life. When you’re a parent, your children need you to survive, but when you’re married, your spouse seems able to fend for himself. So that relationship gets back-burnered. Then weeks pass, then months, and you’re having fewer ups in your marriage and far too many downs. I know that I need Jonathan and that he needs me, but when we don’t express those needs, both of us become resentful, and our relationship suffers. I try to follow the rule: Love as you’d like to be loved. When I need some TLC, I offer some to Jonathan. Most of the time, that’s reflected back.

  Still, that first summer I was in Congress, I was stressed and preoccupied, and one day Jonathan blurted out, “Your job is the reason we don’t have more kids!”

  Jonathan realized this was unfair, but it was a legitimate issue. Like every other couple building a family alongside two careers, we had many factors to consider relative to the timing of a second child. Age and travel topped my list, but the truth is I wanted another baby, too. I had just been feeling buried in our day-to-day life and not communicating well. “We can have more kids!” I told Jonathan. I tracked my cycles (sparing my reserved, English-born husband the details) and planned a vacation at Elk Lake in the Adirondacks at just the right time. After a few days of long hikes and TV-free evenings, I came home pregnant with Henry.

  At work, my own voice emerged, as well. At the beginning of the term, Speaker Pelosi put five additional women on the House Armed Services Committee. Given that she’d already put several there, this created a seismic gender shift. Early on, we had some hearings about military readiness. Typically, military-readiness hearings revolve around how many aircraft or ships we need to build or how our nation’s capabilities compare to other countries’ around the world. Gabby Giffords and I both thought about readiness in different terms: Were the men and women in the military as physically and mentally ready as possible to do their jobs?

  An army doctor who screened soldiers before redeployment had told Gabby that he believed 70 percent of service members he was seeing needed immediate counseling, and most weren’t getting it. They needed more mental-health treatment for PTSD or just more time at home. Gabby used this doctor’s observations to challenge Secretary of Defense Bob Gates on how well the military was caring for its personnel. Whenever she raised an issue like that, I’d think, “Thank God someone is saying this.” When it was my turn, I’d cite the high rates of divorce, domestic violence, and suicide in the United States military. Tag-teaming like that, we built a narrative that the generals began to hear: A ready military requires a ready personnel. We must do more for our troops’ physical and mental health.

  I know raising one’s voice can be intimidating. So I want to share a few ideas about what I’ve found to be important over the years.

  One: Don’t wait to tell your story. Sometimes in life it’s better to let your emotions settle. But when you want to tell a story that moves people, urgency works in your favor. Raw is okay. Let your feelings show.

  Two: Believe others will care. Yes, there’s good reason to be cynical about an awful lot of people in Washington and in the rest of the world. But more people are listening than you might expect. My office, just like the office of every other senator and congressperson, logs every call we receive. We want to know our constituents’ concerns. It’s also important to remember that you don’t have to win over everybody. Let the cynics live in their small closed world. You just need to find that one right person who listens, cares, and can help.

  Three: Persistence works. Call again. Email again. Stand in the back of the conference for three hours to get that two minutes of face time with the person who you think can make a difference. Those moms and their daughters with type 1 diabetes asked for a meeting for nine months. People notice and admire tenacity. Your effort will pay off in the end.

  Four: Use the platform you’ve got. Maybe you’d like to make your point in the Opinion Pages of The New York Times, but if that’s not happening, get the word out however you can. Who knows who will read the letter to the editor you write to your local paper, or even who will read your tweets? If you don’t try, you can’t succeed. This is really a case of the perfect being the enemy of the good. It’s worth the time and effort, even if the venue seems silly or embarrassing. Speaking up is the essential first step.

  I say this having been on both sides the equation: the person listening and the person speaking up. I am not scared to talk to anyone—Jon Stewart, Barbara Walters—but I’m starstruck and full of nerves when talking to the president. (I’m also sure I’d be tongue-tied talking to Tina Fey. I have a huge girl crush on her.) Over the years, I’ve had a few chances to speak to Presidents Bush, Clinton, and Obama. Each time, it’s just been for a minute or two, and I always try to use those minutes to say something important. I haven’t always succeeded. When I met George W. Bush, I had nothing productive to say, so I stuttered and just thanked him for his service. When I met President Clinton for the first time, at a fundraiser for him, I mostly blushed and offered my gratitude for his leadership and advocacy. But I became much more focused when I was running for office. Anytime I got a minute with Bill Clinton, I was strategic and asked him for help. “A ten-minute stop-by at the event would be ideal!” Cheeky, I know, but essential.

  As a sitting senator, I’ve learned to use every second I get with the president wisely. If I have his ear, I have an obligation to my constituents to advocate for them. Now every time I know I’m going to see President Obama, I have a mission. Emotionally, I’m sometimes conflicted about this, because I’m sure that me advocating is the last thing he wants to hear. But as much as I would like it if President Obama always enjoyed my company, that’s not a luxury I have. My job is to be a public servant. Those moments with him are extremely valuable.

  Before I see the president—which doesn’t just happen by coincidence, as it does with normal people—I think through exactly what I’m going to say. I even make contingency plans: “Here’s my Plan A pitch if I get thirty seconds; here’s my Plan B if I get a minute; here’s my Plan C if I get two minutes.” I always know my ask, and I always raise my hand when the president comes to our caucus meetings. There are plenty of times I’d rather blend into the crowd and not add a mountain of stress to my life, but I know how much speaking up matters. People trust me with their stories. It’s my job to be their conduit.

  That doesn’t mean I haven’t had some awkward moments. In 2010, the White House Christmas party happened to be right befo
re the vote on the 9/11 healthcare bill, an issue that pulled on my heart and sense of justice as fiercely as anything had in my life. I’d promised the first responders and their families that I’d fight for them with everything I had. So there I was, in a blue strapless gown, standing in an endless line to wish President Obama a merry Christmas. Jonathan wasn’t there; he doesn’t like work parties (though he does love the congressional spouses events, and all the congressional spouses love him back). So my date was my chief of staff, Jess.

  We decided we would use the holiday face time to lobby.

  For the hour Jess and I stood in line, I kept second-guessing myself, asking whether Jess thought it was rude or obnoxious to spend my thirty seconds with the president at the Christmas party to urge him to throw his weight behind ensuring that our 9/11 first responders got their due.

  “Do you really think it’s okay to bring up my bill?”

  “Yes, Kirsten, you should bring up the bill,” Jess said patiently, at first.

  “I’ll ask him to call Senator Enzi—he’s still considering whether to support the bill.”

  “Good call,” Jess said.

  “Is it rude?” I asked, feeling insecure again. Lobbying here among the fancy Christmas trees was clearly off script.

  “I don’t know,” Jess said.

  “Let’s go for it.”

  “Yup.”

  Finally I got to the front of the line, to our commander in chief in his tuxedo and Michelle Obama, impeccably dressed as always, in a red ball gown. I didn’t even leave the president an inch to say, “Merry Christmas.” I just gulped down a chestful of air and started talking a mile a minute. “Mr. President, I’m working really hard on the 9/11 healthcare bill, and I really need your help, and if you could just call Senator Enzi—”

  The president broke into a bemused smile. “Kirsten … Kirsten … happy holidays.” His body language urged me to please slow down.

  A second later, Jess and I had our picture taken with the president and the first lady. Then my presidential face time was done. I still have that photo in my office. In it, Jess looks a little beleaguered, and the skin on my chest is bright red, which is what happens to me when I’m nervous. But I did my best, and I’d do the same thing over again.

  I even did it today. I spoke to the president for ten minutes on sexual assault in the military. He didn’t intend our phone call to run that long or to be so substantive, but I didn’t let him hang up with me just listening and saying, “Yes, sir.” Instead, as he was winding down, I told the president the story of a survivor of military sexual assault and urged him to meet her and her husband for only five minutes. I sensed that the president needed to go. (I’ve retained my finely tuned ear from all those childhood debates with my father.) I guessed I had fifteen seconds left, so I pressed to tell the president one more thing: The Department of Defense’s panel on the status of women in the military had just endorsed every aspect of my bill.

  It’s not enjoyable when your advocacy makes others feel ambushed or uncomfortable. But sometimes it’s necessary, especially when fighting for moral issues. Many felt uncomfortable with the idea of repealing Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Some still resist investing in food for America’s hungry—the whole topic makes them defensive and angry. Change is hard. People feel threatened; sometimes they lash out. Malala Yousafzai was shot in the head because she would not back down in fighting the Taliban and demanding education for girls. She came through that experience more powerful and clear-voiced than ever, saying, “I raise up my voice—not so that I can shout, but so that those without a voice can be heard.”

  You may never push something so far or so dramatically, but any one voice can spark change—never doubt it.

  Chapter 5

  Let’s Clean Up the Sticky Floor

  At the beginning of this year, I walked into Henry’s kindergarten classroom, and his good friend Nico’s mom, Julie, said, “You’re gonna love Henry’s smile project!” The kids had written notes saying what made them smile. Nico’s answer, Julie told me, was literal: “Laughing.” I found Henry’s card and opened it: “My Mom.” So sweet. This was one of those moments I relish as a parent, because I needed it so badly. Nine out of ten times, if you ask a mother how it’s going, the honest answer (if she gives it) is, “Um, barely holding it together.”

  I do a lot of thinking and talking about the needs of American families, and as most of you know, on good days, for the majority of us, family life is an absurdist sitcom. Mine typically starts between 6:00 and 6:30 A.M., when Henry runs into my room and jumps on the bed. Almost always, I still feel exhausted when I get up. I make my kids breakfast, let them watch cartoons while I pack their lunches, throw in a load of laundry or dishes, and check that their homework is done—and if it isn’t, I frantically supervise while trying to get dressed. Then, before I’ve even done what many women would consider a halfway-decent job with hair and makeup, I look over, see that it’s 8:00 A.M., and yell, “WE HAVE TO LEAVE!” Theo likes to be early to school. But at this point, inevitably, I realize that one or both children haven’t yet brushed their teeth or grabbed their coat, and when I ask them to hurry up please, Theo says, irked, “Mom, why are you always making us laaate?!” This sums up my life with a five-year-old, a ten-year-old, and a husband who works in New York City Monday through Friday while I’m solo with the kids in D.C. Few of my colleagues know what “balance” really looks like. They might see me with a child or two on any given evening, and they think it’s sweet. But if they saw or heard the before and after, my guess is that they’d be frightened or concerned.

  America is full of people like me who know esoteric trivia like the fact that I can drive from my office to my kids’ school to the soccer field and back to the office in twenty-two minutes if I hit all the lights. People who believe in family dinner but feed their kids burgers or slices of pizza in the backseats of cars because it’s the only way to get one to a piano lesson and the other to his baseball game and still get both fed.

  I knew the juggle was coming, but I didn’t fully appreciate it until May 14, 2008, when I was sitting—and sitting and sitting, for twelve hours straight—in a House Armed Services Committee mark-up meeting, very pregnant with Henry. This was an annual event to authorize legislation, and I was uncomfortable and wishing the waves of pain and cramping would just go away. Still, I used my dinner break to drop by a Hillary fundraiser. I didn’t realize that I’d been in pre-labor all day until my water broke at 2:00 A.M.

  That morning, Theo came to the hospital. I was tired and sore from a C-section but so happy to have him there. At four and a half, in a blue-and-white rugby shirt and pink cheeks, he was just growing out of his toddler days and so proud to hold his new baby brother on his lap all by himself. I was deep in the private hormonal bliss of having created a beautiful four-person family when, several hours later, as I lay in bed in my flowered pajamas, a high-ranking general came to visit. (Henry was born in a military hospital, and the general was part of the administration.) I was more than a little shocked to have work and family lines blurred so thoroughly so soon. I thanked the general profusely for the excellent care and kept smiling and holding my breath until he left.

  Before long, I was home and pushing Henry’s stroller down to Lincoln Park, just a few blocks from our rented house on Constitution Avenue. My mother came to visit; my father and his wife, Gwenn, came to visit. Jonathan’s parents, Sydney and Angela, who live in London, stayed for three months. After 10:00 P.M. and 2:00 A.M. feedings, Henry would wake up hungry again around 5:00 A.M. I tried to have him fed and back to sleep in time to make Theo breakfast and get him ready for school. I kept my workload to a minimum (as my own boss, I could) but called in most days. When I was a child, during our family vacations, my mother would phone her secretary at 5:00 P.M. each evening to go through the mail and make sure nothing was amiss. That same approach kept me sane. If I kept a light touch on the office, I felt my life was under control.

  Three and a
half weeks after Henry’s birth, I began seeing votes and meetings that I didn’t want to miss, so I began adding them back: a meeting about the 9/11 first responders, a vote for the farm bill, a briefing on Afghanistan, a vote for unemployment insurance. At the time, it didn’t feel strange to be thinking about foreign policy, milk pricing, and Henry’s napping schedule all at once. Working moms perform this kind of mental jiujitsu all the time. I made a special trip to the House floor on June 23: I was eager to introduce my colleagues to my beautiful baby boy. Congresswoman Debbie Wasserman Schultz from Florida beelined right to me, along with Congresswoman Kathy Castor (also from Florida), Gabby Giffords, and many other women friends. The young male jocks of the freshman class welcomed me back warmly, too, though they weren’t as practiced at greeting a colleague with an infant in her arms. Most said, “Good job!” and seemed proud as brothers nonetheless. While we chatted and voted—Congress can be surprisingly social—Henry fell asleep. Then I checked to make sure he hadn’t exploded anywhere or spit up all over me and walked up the right aisle to the podium to address my peers. I’d asked Speaker Pelosi for one minute to speak, so I could thank my colleagues and the people of my district for their kind words and prayers. I also wanted to introduce Henry. The moment meant a tremendous amount to me personally, but I knew that it mattered symbolically. I was standing up before 434 of our nation’s legislators sending a very clear message: “See? This is what a young mother in Congress looks like. I have a baby, who I will be caring for, and I will also be doing my job.” What everybody says is true: The personal is political. I wanted my colleagues to take notice that I was going to represent my district and serve my country from the perspective of a new and working parent. I would view the world differently than most of my co-workers, and I felt very strongly that that difference was essential and good.