Barack was the last to speak that night, delivering a rousing defense of his central message—that our country had arrived at a defining moment, a chance to step beyond not just the fear and failures of the Bush administration but the polarized way politics had been waged long before, including, of course, during the Clinton administration. “I don’t want to spend the next year or the next four years refighting the same fights that we had in the 1990s,” he said. “I don’t want to pit Red America against Blue America, I want to be the president of the United States of America.”
The auditorium thundered. I watched from the floor with huge pride.
“America, our moment is now,” Barack said. “Our moment is now.”
His performance that night gave the campaign exactly what it needed, catapulting him forward in the race. He took the lead in about half the Iowa polls and was only gaining steam as the caucuses approached.
In the days after Christmas, with just a week or so left in the Iowa campaign, it seemed as if half of the South Side had migrated to the deep freeze of Des Moines. My mother and Mama Kaye showed up. My brother and Kelly came, bringing their kids. Sam Kass was there. Valerie, who’d joined the campaign earlier in the fall as one of Barack’s advisers, was there, along with Susan and my posse of girlfriends and their husbands and children. I was touched when colleagues from the hospital showed up, friends of ours from Sidley & Austin, law professors who’d taught with Barack. And, in step with the use-every-moment ethic of the campaign, they all signed on to help make the final push, reporting to a local field office, knocking on doors in zero-degree weather, talking up Barack, and reminding people to caucus. The campaign was further reinforced by hundreds of others who’d traveled to Iowa from around the country for the final week, staying in the spare bedrooms of local supporters, heading out each day into even the smallest towns and down the most tucked away of gravel roads.
I myself was barely present in Des Moines, doing five or six events a day that kept me moving back and forth across the state, traveling in a rented van with Melissa and Katie, driven by a rotating crew of volunteers. Barack was out doing the same, his voice beginning to grow hoarse.
Regardless of how many miles we had to cover, I made sure to be back at the Residence Inn in West Des Moines, our home-base hotel, each night in time for Malia and Sasha’s eight o’clock bedtime. They, of course, barely seemed to notice I wasn’t around, having been surrounded by cousins and friends and babysitters all day long, playing games in the hotel room and going on excursions around town. One night, I opened the door, hoping to flop on the bed for a few moments of silence, only to find our room strewn with kitchen utensils. There were rolling pins on the bedspread, dirty cutting boards on the small table, kitchen shears on the floor. The lamp shades and the television screen were covered with a light dusting of…was that flour?
“Sam taught us to make pasta!” Malia announced. “We got a little carried away.”
I laughed. I’d been worried about how the girls would handle their first Christmas break away from their great-grandmother in Hawaii. But blessedly, a bag of flour in Des Moines appeared to be a fine substitute for a beach towel in Waikiki.
Several days later, a Thursday, the caucuses arrived. Barack and I dropped into a downtown Des Moines food court over lunch and later made visits to various caucus sites to greet as many voters as we could. Late that evening, we joined a group of friends and family at dinner, thanking them for their support during what had been a nutty eleven months since the announcement in Springfield. I left the meal early to return to my hotel room in time to prepare, win or lose, for Barack’s speech later that night. Within moments, Katie and Melissa burst in with fresh news from the campaign’s war room: “We won!”
We were wild with joy, shouting so loudly that the Secret Service rapped on our door to make sure something wasn’t wrong.
On one of the coldest nights of the year, a record number of Iowans had fanned out to their local caucuses, almost double the turnout from four years earlier. Barack had won among whites, blacks, and young people. More than half of the attendees had never participated in a caucus before, and that group likely helped secure Barack’s victory. The cable news anchors had finally made their way to Iowa and were now singing the praises of this political wunderkind who’d comfortably bested the Clinton machine as well as a former vice presidential nominee.
That night at Barack’s victory speech, as the four of us—Barack, me, Malia, Sasha—stood onstage at Hy-Vee Hall, I felt great, even a little chastened. Maybe, I thought to myself, everything Barack had been talking about for all those years really was possible. All those drives to Springfield, all his frustrations about not making a big enough impact, all his idealism, his unusual and earnest belief that people were capable of moving past the things that divided them, that in the end politics could work—maybe he’d been right all along.
We’d accomplished something historic, something monumental—not just Barack, not just me, but Melissa and Katie, and Plouffe, Axelrod, and Valerie, and every young staffer, every volunteer, every teacher and farmer and retiree and high schooler who stood up that night for something new.
It was after midnight when Barack and I went to the airport to leave Iowa, knowing we wouldn’t be back for months. The girls and I were headed home to Chicago, returning to work and school. Barack was flying to New Hampshire, where the primary was less than a week away.
Iowa had changed us all. Iowa had given me, in particular, real faith. Our mandate now was to share it with the rest of the country. In the coming days, our Iowa field organizers would fan out to other states—to Nevada and South Carolina, to New Mexico, Minnesota, and California—to continue spreading the message that had now been proven, that change was really possible.
This is my family, sometime around 1965, dressed up for a celebration. Note my brother Craig’s protective expression and careful hold on my wrist.
We grew up living in the apartment above my great-aunt Robbie Shields, pictured here holding me. During the years she gave me piano lessons, we had many stubborn standoffs, but she always brought out the best in me.
My father, Fraser Robinson, worked for more than twenty years for the city of Chicago, tending boilers at a water filtration plant on the lakeshore. Even as his multiple sclerosis made it increasingly difficult for him to walk, he never missed a day of work.
My dad’s Buick Electra 225—the Deuce and a Quarter, we called it—was his pride and joy and the source of many happy memories. Each summer we drove to Dukes Happy Holiday Resort in Michigan for vacation, which is where this picture was taken.
When I began kindergarten in 1969, my neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago was made up of a racially diverse mix of middle-class families. But as many better-off families moved to the suburbs—a phenomenon commonly known as “white flight”—the demographics changed fast. By fifth grade, the diversity was gone. ABOVE: My kindergarten class; I’m third row, second from right. BELOW: My fifth-grade class; I’m third row, center.
Here I am at Princeton.
I was nervous about heading off to college but found many close friends there, including Suzanne Alele, who taught me a lot about living joyfully.
For a while, Barack and I lived in the second-floor apartment on Euclid Avenue where I’d been raised. We were both young lawyers then. I was just beginning to question my professional path, wondering how to do meaningful work and stay true to my values.
Our wedding on October 3, 1992, was one of the happiest days of my life. Standing in for my father, who had passed away a year and a half earlier, Craig walked me down the aisle.
I knew early on in our relationship that Barack would be a great father. He’s always loved and devoted himself to children. When Malia arrived in 1998, the two of us were smitten. Our lives had changed forever.
Sasha
was born about three years after Malia, completing our family with her chubby cheeks and indomitable spirit. Our Christmastime trips to Barack’s home state of Hawaii became an important tradition for us, a time to catch up with his side of the family and enjoy some warm weather.
Malia and Sasha’s bond has always been tight. And their cuteness still melts my heart.
I spent three years as executive director for the Chicago chapter of Public Allies, an organization devoted to helping young people build careers in public service. Here I’m pictured (on right) with a group of young community leaders at an event with Chicago mayor Richard M. Daley.
I later transitioned to working at the University of Chicago Medical Center, where I strove to improve community relations and established a service that helped thousands of South Side residents find affordable health care.
As a full-time working mom with a spouse who was often away from home, I became well acquainted with the juggle many women know—trying to balance the needs of my family with the demands of my job.
I first met Valerie Jarrett (left) in 1991, when she was deputy chief of staff at the Chicago mayor’s office. She quickly became a trusted friend and adviser to both me and Barack. Here we are during his U.S. Senate campaign in 2004.
From time to time our kids came out to visit Barack on the campaign trail. Here’s Malia, watching through the campaign bus window in 2004 as her dad gives yet another speech.
Barack announced his candidacy for president in Springfield, Illinois, on a freezing-cold day in February 2007. I’d bought Sasha a too-big pink hat for the occasion and kept worrying it was going to slip off her head, but miraculously she managed to keep it on.
Here we are on the campaign trail, accompanied as always by a dozen or more members of the press.
I liked campaigning, energized by the connections I made with voters across America. And yet the pace could be grueling. I stole moments of rest when I could.
In the months leading up to the general election, I was given access to a campaign plane, which boosted my overall efficiency and made traveling a lot more fun. Pictured here with me (from left) is my tight-knit team: Kristen Jarvis, Katie McCormick Lelyveld, Chawn Ritz (our flight attendant that day), and Melissa Winter.
Joe Biden was a great running mate for Barack for many reasons, including that our two families instantly hit it off. Jill and I began talking early on about how we wanted to be of service to military families. Here we are in 2008, taking a break from campaigning in Pennsylvania.
After a difficult spring and summer on the campaign trail, I spoke at the 2008 Democratic National Convention in Denver, which allowed me to share my story for the first time before a massive prime-time audience. Afterward, Sasha and Malia joined me onstage to say hello to Barack via video.
On November 4, 2008—election night—my mom, Marian Robinson, sat next to Barack, the two of them quietly watching as the results came in.
Malia was ten years old and Sasha just seven in January 2009 when their dad was sworn in as president. Sasha was so small, she had to stand on a special platform in order to be visible during the ceremony.
Officially POTUS and FLOTUS, Barack and I hit ten inaugural balls that night, dancing onstage at each one. I was wiped out after the day’s festivities, but this gorgeous gown designed by Jason Wu gave me fresh energy, and my husband—my best friend, my partner in all things—has a way of making every moment we have together feel intimate.
Laura Bush kindly hosted me and the girls for an early visit to the White House. Her own daughters, Jenna and Barbara, were there to show Sasha and Malia the more fun parts of the place, including how to use this sloping hallway as a slide.
This image of Sasha’s little face peering through ballistic-proof glass as she headed to her first day of school stays with me to this day. At the time, I couldn’t help but worry about what this experience would do to our kids.
It took some adjustment to get used to the constant presence of U.S. Secret Service agents in our lives, but over time many of them became dear friends.
Wilson Jerman (shown here) first came to work at the White House in 1957. Like many of the butlers and residence staff, he served with dignity under several different presidents.
The White House garden was designed to be a symbol of nutrition and healthy living, a springboard from which I could launch a larger initiative like Let’s Move! But I also loved it because it’s where I could get my hands dirty with kids as we rooted around in the soil.
I wanted the White House to be a place where everyone would feel at home and kids could be themselves. I hoped that they’d see their stories reflected in ours, and maybe have a chance to jump double Dutch with the First Lady.
Barack and I developed a special fondness for Queen Elizabeth, who reminded Barack of his no-nonsense grandmother. Over the course of many visits she showed me that humanity is more important than protocol or formality.
Meeting Nelson Mandela gave me the perspective I needed a couple of years into our White House journey—that real change happens slowly, not just over months and years but over decades and lifetimes.
A hug, for me, is a way to melt away pretenses and simply connect. Here I’m at Oxford University with the girls from London’s Elizabeth Garrett Anderson School.
I’ll never forget the spirit of optimism and resilience that lived in the service members and military families I met during visits to Walter Reed Medical Center.
Hadiya Pendleton’s mother, Cleopatra Cowley-Pendleton, did everything right but still couldn’t protect her child from the awful randomness of gun violence. Meeting her before Hadiya’s funeral in Chicago, I was overwhelmed by how unfair it was.
I tried as often as possible to be home to greet the girls when they came back from school. It was one benefit of living above the office.
Barack always maintained a healthy separation between work and family time, making it upstairs for dinner nearly every night and managing to be fully present with us at home. In 2009, the girls and I broke down the barrier and surprised him in the Oval Office on his birthday.
We made good on our promise to Malia and Sasha that if Barack became president, we’d get a dog. In fact, we eventually got two. Bo (pictured here) and Sunny brought a sense of lightness to everything.
Each spring I hoped to use my commencement speeches to inspire graduates and help them see the power of their own stories. Here I am preparing to speak at Virginia Tech in 2012. In the background, Tina Tchen, my tireless chief of staff for five years, can be seen as she often was: multitasking on her phone.
The dogs were free to roam throughout much of the White House. They especially loved hanging out in the garden and also in the kitchen. Here they are in the pantry with butler Jorge Davila, probably hoping to get slipped some food.
We’re deeply grateful to all of the staff who kept our lives running smoothly for eight years. We came to know about their kids and grandkids and also celebrated milestones with them, as we did here with assistant usher Reggie Dixon on his birthday in 2012.
Being the First Family came with unusual privileges and some unusual challenges. Barack and I sought to maintain a sense of normalcy for our girls. ABOVE LEFT: Malia, Barack, and I cheer on Sasha’s basketball team, the Vipers. ABOVE RIGHT: The girls relax on Bright Star, the call sign for the First Lady’s plane.
We made sure our girls had the opportunity to do standard teenage things, like learning to drive a car, even if it meant having driving lessons with the Secret Service.
The Fourth of July always gives us a lot to celebrate, since it’s also Malia’s birthday.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s the power of using your voice. I tried my best to speak the tru
th and shed light on the stories of people whoare often brushed aside.
In 2015, my family joined Congressman John Lewis and other icons of the civil rights movement in commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama. I was reminded that day of how far our country has come—and how far we still have to go.
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When I was in first grade, a boy in my class punched me in the face one day, his fist coming like a comet, full force and out of nowhere. We’d been lining up to go to lunch, all of us discussing whatever felt urgent just then to six- and seven-year-olds—who was the fastest runner or why crayon colors had such weird names—when blam, I got whacked. I don’t know why. I’ve forgotten the boy’s name, but I remember staring at him dumbfounded and in pain, my lower lip already swelling, my eyes hot with tears. Too shocked to be angry, I ran home to my mom.
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