There were about thirty people, including advocates, friends, and other supporters, in the narrow private room. I didn’t yet know Chuck very well. Did he understand that the extemporaneous speaking gig he was offering Theo might turn out very badly? I stood about three feet away, in case the talk went awry. My nerves were not calmed by seeing Theo play with Chuck’s thinning hair. But I have to say: The boy did his mother proud. In his little jeans, sitting squarely atop Chuck’s strong shoulders, he delivered a charming three-minute exposition on the importance of parents buying batteries before Christmas in case Santa brought gifts that required them. My tiny orator! I was beaming with pride.
Navigating the Senate with young kids has required more resourcefulness. When I was first appointed, I was asked to preside. That means sitting in the Senate chamber for a few hours while senators give speeches to a mostly empty room. It’s an honor, in theory, but when no one is speaking, it becomes an unglamorous chore. The time slot I was given could not have been worse: 5:00 P.M. to 7:00 P.M. I tried to explain to the young male Senate staffer who issued my orders that these hours were impossible: I had an infant whom I needed to nurse during that time, and if I didn’t feed him, I’d be extremely uncomfortable. (Any more detail than that would have fallen into the category of too much information.) The staffer didn’t care. The Senate is an old institution, based on tradition and seniority, and as its most junior member, I was instructed to do as I was told, period. I tried to argue my side again, but the staffer wouldn’t budge. So I took the issue on myself, making a list of junior senators and calling each to see if anybody would be willing to switch slots.
My Senate desk had once been Hillary Clinton’s and before that Daniel Patrick Moynihan’s. I’m pretty sure no one had ever made infant-scheduling calls from it. After a few no’s, I reached Senator Mark Udall and I explained my predicament. He said, “Of course I’ll take your slot!” We’d known each other briefly in the House, and I knew Mark sincerely cared about family and women’s rights. He became my hero of presiding orders and my future partner in fighting for equality when we were working to repeal Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.
My most recent hurdle has been figuring out what to do when a vote is called between 5:30 and 6:30 P.M. and I have the kids. (These days, Henry and Theo have to be picked up from school by 6:00 P.M., which means I need to leave work by 5:45 as most of our sitters are junior staff members from various House and Senate offices who work until 6:00 and can’t start until 6:30.) Unlike in the House, children are not allowed on the Senate floor. For a while, during votes, I left the boys in Senator Harry Reid’s office, a grand space accented with beautiful tiles, rugs, and fireplaces. I’d hand them my iPhone, say, “Don’t move!,” race twenty feet to the Senate floor, flag the attention of the clerk recording the votes, and race back. How much trouble could a four- and nine-year-old get into in thirty seconds? I didn’t want to find out.
So I pressed for a better solution, proposing various rooms and spaces off the floor. The Senate has a cloakroom similar to the House’s, except with no food. On the opposite side of the chamber, there is a formal room that is rarely used except by the teenage Senate pages, who like to study there. Both these rooms are enclosed and have couches where the kids could sit. But I was told we couldn’t use them. Some of the senators raised concerns: What if the children were disruptive? What if other senators saw the precedent and began asking to bring in their grandkids? These worries struck me as theoretical, at best, given how few senators have young children and how rarely grandchildren visit during voting. (Read: never.) But we finally stumbled on a solution that was unexpected, simple, and, as it happened, a perfect metaphor for my life. The staff decided that I would be allowed to stand with my boys at the far Senate door and lean in my head to vote. Now I can hold my children’s hands and do my job—what every working mother wants.
Chapter 6
Ambition Is Not a Dirty Word
It frustrates me how many people automatically assume the worst about ambitious women. You must be cold. You must be calculating. You must be arrogant and man-hating. This is a significant issue for women in politics. Too few people believe that you can be ambitious, feminine, and a decent person at the same time.
I was very disappointed when Hillary lost the presidential nomination in 2008. I believed in her so much that I was in denial for much of the campaign. I never lost hope, even when the electoral math didn’t add up. I greatly admired President Obama’s campaign, and from that first speech we all saw at the 2004 Democratic convention, I knew he could transcend the typical political rhetoric. But my commitment to Hillary was personal. Her words and experiences resonated with me. I was particularly affected by her descriptions of her mother’s courage—how, at age eight, her mother was sent across the country with her sister to live with her father’s parents. Six years after that, Hillary’s mother left that unhappy home to work as a maid and build an independent life. I believed with all my heart that if the country really got to know Hillary, she would be our next president. But the push-back against her was harsh. Political hacks moaned about Hillary’s age; toy Hillary nutcrackers appeared in airport gift shops.
The Hillary I knew was a brilliant, well-prepared, and strong leader, as well as a wonderful mother, daughter, and wife. Her depth was evident the day before the New Hampshire primary. In a cafe in Portsmouth, a sixty-four-year-old woman asked Hillary how she managed to keep going on the campaign trail. Hillary’s answer was raw; her voice broke and she nearly cried. At last the world could see Hillary for who she was—a complex, emotional, even vulnerable person, not a cartoon ball-buster in a pantsuit, who wanted to rule the free world. Hillary’s humanity added to the depth of her ability to serve. It seemed that some voters had a hard time seeing or believing that.
Secretary of state had not been Hillary’s original goal, but I thought the president showed strength by appointing her. She’d be outstanding at the position, and President Obama’s willingness to give Hillary power inside his administration was healing for the Democratic Party. Still, the appointment was a shock to me.
I was two years into my first term in Congress and had just wrapped up a grueling reelection campaign and a 24-point win against my opponent. Jonathan and I, needing to get away, decided to take his parents and our kids to Disney World. There I spent a few days lining up for rides like Space Mountain and evenings walking through Epcot Center, eating couscous and shish kabobs. Then, one night, as Jonathan and I were buying ice cream for Theo and my in-laws, my email in-box started to flood. Within seconds I understood why: Hillary had been nominated to be secretary of state, and various news sources had started listing my name as a possible replacement for her. I was dead last on every list, but my name was there nonetheless.
Questions started swirling in my head. I was still so new to my public-service career: I’d only been in Congress for two years. I’d just turned forty-two, which was young for a female politician, though not that young for a male. Joe Biden famously won his Senate seat at age twenty-nine and had to wait until his thirtieth birthday to be sworn in to meet the constitutional age requirement for the office. Was it too presumptuous to even think I was qualified to be a senator?
On the flip side, I believed in my training, drive, and common sense. Like many women of my generation, I’d grown up being told, “You can do anything you want to do if you put your mind to it.” I was inclined to believe this, judging from my mother’s and grandmother’s examples. “A woman has got to be able to say, and not feel guilty, ‘Who am I, and what do I want out of life?’ ” Betty Friedan wrote in The Feminine Mystique in 1963. “She mustn’t feel selfish and neurotic if she wants goals of her own, outside of husband and children.” My generation inherited these assurances. I played varsity sports, made partner at a law firm, ran for and won a seat in Congress. Having goals and the ambition to achieve them is part of who I am. To me, aiming high isn’t egotistical or arrogant; it’s vital.
But politics is
often about more than leadership. It’s also about paying your dues, and I certainly hadn’t paid enough to be a United States senator yet. Carrying Henry around Disney World, I thought of my friend Nita Lowey, a dedicated and well-respected congresswoman from just north of New York City. Nita and her husband, Steve, had been assigned by the House leadership to mentor Jonathan and me when we first came to Washington. More important, she’d served for over two decades and political lore had it that she’d deferred running for Senate eight years prior when Hillary declared her intentions. As far as I was concerned, if Nita wanted to be senator, it was her turn. So before I let my brain focus in on Hillary’s now-empty Senate seat and whether I might want to fill it, I called Nita. While the boys splashed in the pool at the Beach Club hotel, I said, “Obviously Hillary was just named secretary of state, and before I even considered submitting my name, I wanted to speak to you.”
“Oh, Kirsten, you’re so kind to call. But I’m thinking I’ll be able to do more if I just stay where I am,” Nita said. During the eight years Hillary served in the Senate, Nita had gained a lot of seniority on the House Appropriations Committee. She was now the chairwoman of the Foreign Operations Subcommittee. She planned to stay put.
So I started having conversations with people I trusted, asking if they thought I should consider forwarding my name for Hillary’s seat and, if I did, what advocating for the job would look like. I thought it was reasonable to submit my name, but I needed a reality check.
The process involved winning over just one person: Governor David Paterson. The New York Constitution charged the governor with appointing someone to fill the vacant seat for twenty-one months, until the next statewide election was held. I talked with my chief of staff, Jess Fassler, and then another three or four important friends and political advisors who knew the governor and New York politics well. But the more I talked to trusted confidants, the less crazy the possibility appeared. Why would I not seek the Senate seat? Sure, representing twenty million people as diverse as the citizens of New York State was daunting. But I’d entered public service to do something meaningful. Jonathan, always the most important voice, recognized that making a difference was the only metric that mattered.
Or at least Jonathan realized that having an impact was all that mattered once we started talking about the Senate seat in earnest. On our vacation, I downplayed the possibility. My mind tends to race far ahead; Jonathan prefers a more measured pace. So in Florida, I just told Jonathan that the Senate seat was looking like a vague possibility, as at the very least he deserved to know why I was spending so much time on the phone.
Back home, we began to discuss the job for real. Jonathan asked one question: “Can you help more people if you’re in the Senate?”
I said, “Yes.” I told him I’d be representing millions more people. Senators also have far more influence, regardless of seniority. I’d have to serve in the House for twenty more years to have as much opportunity to shape the debate as I’d have in the Senate on my first day.
That was the end of it, as far as Jonathan was concerned. He switched to wondering why I was doubting submitting my name at all. We were in this to help people. I could help more people in the Senate.
So I gathered up my courage and called Governor Paterson on his cellphone. When he didn’t answer, I said to his voice mail, “I’m so honored to be considered for this; I would love to have the opportunity …”
Then I hung up, relieved. There. Done. That is, done until the next day, when I got a callback from his assistant, saying my message was inadequate. I had to state explicitly that I wanted to be considered, not just that I was honored to be considered. I called back and clarified: I wanted the job, and I hoped I would get it.
I already had a warm and positive relationship with the governor, as we had taken the time to get to know each other when it didn’t matter. This is an essential part of my worldview: Be kind to others and build relationships most when no one is watching, because that is when you are your most honest and genuine self. Years earlier, in the summer of 2003, a friend had suggested that I meet David—who was then a state senator—just to talk and get to know each other, no ask on either end. We spoke one afternoon by phone when Jonathan and I were vacationing at the beach. After chatting for an hour, we made a date to meet later that summer in New York City. I was pregnant with Theo, and the day we planned to get together, a transformer broke down in the Midwest, causing a major blackout across the Northeast. New York City was in chaos. My office building was evacuated, and I assumed all plans were off, so I walked down the fifteen flights, my round belly preceding me, and made my way to my apartment on the Upper East Side. Paterson, worried because he knew I was pregnant, went to my office anyway, in case I needed a ride home. That kindness stuck with me. I figured I might have a shot.
While it’s true that most females born after 1960 have been told from childhood, “The sky’s the limit” and “You can be anything you want to be,” a surprising number of women still hesitate when applying those mantras to their own careers. They need to be talked into believing in themselves and assured that others won’t think less of them for setting high goals. For instance, when I first ran for Congress, I hired a terrific woman named Rain Henderson as my policy director. Typical lawyer that I was, I thought the first thing I needed was someone to do research and help me form considered views on issues like education reform and the Iraq War. Granted, in Campaigning 101, they tell you that the first person you have to hire is your finance director, and that chances are you’ll never have enough money to hire a policy director at all. But I was running my own campaign at this stage, so I didn’t care.
Before the election, Rain got a call from one of President Clinton’s policy advisors, telling her that the Clinton Foundation was hiring staff for its childhood-obesity initiative. She was really excited about this and asked me for a meeting and some advice. We sat down in the lobby of a big D.C. hotel where I’d just attended a reception, and I asked Rain what the job would entail and for whom she would be working.
Rain said, “Oh, I’m not sure yet. I’m applying for the number-two job, and the number-one job is available, too, so I don’t know who my boss would be.”
I nearly exploded out of my seat. “What?! Why aren’t you applying for the number-one job?”
Rain said, “I don’t know if I’m qualified.”
Mentoring moments crop up when you least expect them, and you have to seize the opportunity to be the right person to say the right thing at the right time. “Rain!” I said. “Are you kidding me? They’re going to hire somebody who’s not as smart as you, not as capable as you, probably a guy, and you’re going to be kicking yourself every day because you’ll know you could be doing a better job! You need to apply for the top spot.”
Rain looked stunned. “You really think I should?”
“Of course you should! If you don’t get the number-one job, which I know you will, then you can apply for the second job.”
I made Rain promise that she’d apply for the top job, and she got it. She excelled beyond all expectations and today is running a new initiative called Clinton Health Matters, which develops programs around the country to reduce preventable disease.
I’ve learned a few things about ambition over the years, particularly in the months around my Senate appointment.
One: Do not fall for the lie that ambition is counter to femininity. What creature is stronger and more motivated than a mother protecting her children? Use that feminine strength. It’s a huge asset.
Two: Trust yourself. If you don’t, nobody will believe in you. Confidence is infectious and builds momentum. Share your faith in yourself. You’ll be surprised how quickly others will come to have faith in you, too.
Three: Draw your own map. Yes, take advice and learn from others, but also embrace the fact that no two people have the exact same background, experience, talents, or goals. Create your own plan and stick to it. Uniqueness is a sign that you know
yourself and your situation.
Shying away from ambition isn’t just about a lack of self-confidence. In 2005, a group of professors at Georgetown University published a study that analyzed people’s feelings about ambition and gender in politicians, surveying responses to candidates looking at just two contrasting pairs of traits: male or female, ambitious or not ambitious. And the results were stark. Respondents said they were less likely to vote for power-seeking women compared to power-seeking men and even non-power-seeking women. They perceived ambitious women as only out for themselves. They even reported ambitious women provoking feelings of disgust.
Few women are immune to this. Even the most powerful women in the world, consciously or not, tend to downplay their achievements and strengths. Oprah Winfrey once asked former secretary of state Condoleezza Rice, “You graduated from high school when you were fifteen. At what point did you know you were a very smart girl?”
Rice answered, “Never.”
Oprah Winfrey herself, champion of self-empowerment and the wealthiest self-made woman in America, didn’t do much better in owning her role in her astronomical financial success. “I don’t think of myself as a businesswoman,” she told Fortune magazine. Even Drew Gilpin Faust, the first female president of Harvard University, told The New York Times, when asked how she got her job: “Things sort of happened.”
Psychiatrist and Weill Cornell Medical College professor Anna Fels, author of Necessary Dreams: Ambition in Women’s Changing Lives, interviewed dozens of successful women for her book and found that none would admit to being ambitious—none. Everybody hated the term, believing it implied egotism, manipulation of others, and self-aggrandizement. Fels found two regular refrains: “It’s not about me, it’s the work,” and “I hate to promote myself.” Men don’t trip over themselves in this way, nor does anybody question their sanity or sexuality for pursuing what they want.
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