Unhinged: An Insider's Account of the Trump White House

by Omarosa Manigault Newman

  I was responsible for organizing White House Black History Month events, and I had been planning to kick off the program the first day of February, day twelve of the Trump presidency, with a listening session with POTUS and black leaders. I’d submitted my list of invitees for approval to Reince, and he’d slashed it in half. He also removed the names of several black Republicans who had given him problems during his time at the RNC when all of his African American staffers left in what was called “the GOP black exodus.” Once we finalized and vetted the list, we buttoned down the event and had everything in place. I prepared the materials for the president’s briefing book and submitted it the night before.

  Anxious, I went to the Oval Office early for my briefing with the president. I wanted to go over his opening and closing remarks. Keith Schiller, with whom I had a friendship for many years, promised me an extra ten minutes. In presidential time, that’s an eternity. In our briefings, Trump’s attention was scattered. He was distracted, irritable, and short. Normally when DJT got into one of these moods, you knew to give him time and space. But in this case I could not. I was going over his speech, but he couldn’t retain any of the bullet points. I went over them again and again, and what he should say to the press after the event. But he couldn’t remember the key points and stumbled over large words, which we scratched out and replaced with simpler terms.

  The change in him since his prime was dramatic. Back on season one of The Apprentice, there had been a mix-up on one of the episodes where a contestant lost money on a task, and they were discussing figures. Donald Trump repeated a lengthy numbers sequence with no notes in front of him, calculated them in his head in moments, and came to his conclusion that the math-addled contestant should be fired. That was how sharp he used to be. Now? The blade had been dulled.

  For this particular speech, I begged him not to say, “What do we have to lose?” or to refer to the participants as “you people” as he had during the campaign’s ministers’ meeting. “You people is pejorative,” I explained to him. He looked puzzled. I said, “It’s bad. Just don’t say it. Ever.” When he practiced the opener, he spoke only in fragments, not complete sentences. When I tried to correct him, he became frustrated and more irritable.

  I left the Oval praying to God that Donald Trump didn’t go off script or say something crazy or draw attention away from the fact that it was the first day of Black History Month. He knew I was concerned, and he said, “I got it. Don’t worry. The blacks love me!”

  As I feared, despite my spoon-feeding him short sentences and key points ad nauseam, he went off script and ad-libbed his opening speech, spending time vamping about the election; hating on the “opposition party,” a.k.a, the media; giving a shout-out to coal miners in West Virginia; and saying outright ignorant things like, “Frederick Douglass is an example of someone who has done an amazing job and is being recognized more and more, I notice.”

  It was terrible. He didn’t know who Frederick Douglass was, and the press mocked him relentlessly for it. This was the first of many incidents where I’d spent days (weeks and months) working on a project or event to benefit the African American community, moved logistical mountains, only to watch Trump destroy all my hard work with a comment or a slur. I called it being “tackled by your own teammate.” I was trying to run the ball, and he would tackle me with his ignorance. The community would ponder, What exactly is Omarosa doing in there if Trump keeps going off the rails? She must not be doing her job. If only they knew the struggle I faced keeping Trump from sounding full racist on any given day.

  Day thirteen, fireworks exploded in the White House when the news of an upcoming Time magazine with Steve Bannon on the cover broke. The cover line read, “The Great Manipulator.” Donald lost his mind over this cover. He raged at Bannon at high volume in a room full of people, yelling, “He thinks he’s a manipulator? Thinks he’s so f**king smart? He thinks he can manipulate me? An idiot! An asshole!” Many expletives were hurled that day. His fury was from the cover alone, since he didn’t read the article. I’d been on the receiving end of a Trump rage before, when there was that problem shooting The Ultimate Merger at Trump Las Vegas. When his temper flares, he does not—cannot—hold back, and it’s terrifying to watch. If he’d spoken that way to a diplomat or head of state, it would have been disastrous.

  Around this time, on Thursdays, I went to Capitol Hill for meetings at 11:00 a.m. and then a special invitation-only Bible study at noon, a very private nonpartisan prayer gathering, led by the Senate chaplain, Rear Admiral Barry Black. Other participants were Senators Kirsten Gillibrand, Cory Booker, John Thune, Tim Caper, former senator Blanche Lincoln, and Tim Scott. Those weekly sessions were key to keeping me spiritually grounded and helped me stay steady in the unrelenting storm.

  On day seventeen, I convinced Reince to allow me to work with the Department of State to take a delegation to Haiti for the inauguration of Jovenel Moïse. When I told DJT that I would be gone for a couple of days, he asked me, “Why did you choose that shitty country as your first foreign trip? You should have waited until the confirmations were done and gone to Scotland and played golf at [his course] Turnberry.”

  I admonished him for putting down Haiti and explained all that the country had been through recently. I also reminded him of all the promises he had made to the Haitian community during the campaign and that we had to deliver on our commitment to help build up Haiti. He didn’t remember, drew a blank. I reminded him that he had talked about Haiti constantly during the campaign, especially in Miami, where Trump met with the Haitian American community members three or four times.

  On day eighteen, Jeff Sessions (whom Trump called Benjamin Button behind his back) was confirmed as attorney general, despite the Democrats’ attempt to stop it, led by the Congressional Black Caucus and, most vocally, Senator Al Franken. The irony of his confirmation during Black History Month was not lost on me. My policy with Sessions was to be polite but keep a distance. That’s what you do as an African American professional in this country. If every black person quit his or her job because someone in the workplace was racist, not many of us would be employed. Despite their racist reputations, I was cordial with Steve Bannon, formerly of the anti-immigration alt-right Breitbart News, and Stephen Miller, a Sessions protégé, the writer of high school and college essays that railed against minorities. Unlike those “alleged” racists, Sessions had a long, well-documented track record of offensive policies: voting twice against including sexual orientation in the definition of a “hate crime”; saying that the NAACP and ACLU were “un-American” and “communist inspired”; pushing for an English-only government; and allegedly using the N-word repeatedly, to mention a few.

  On day twenty, I flew to New York on Air Force Two with Vice President Mike Pence and his wife, Karen, to attend the Henry O. Flipper dinner in honor of the first African American to graduate from the United States Military Academy at West Point.

  After this time with VP Pence, I became troubled about him. The first thing I noticed was that people on his staff kept slipping up and calling him president—accidentally sometimes. Jokingly, in private, I heard people say things like, “When we’re in charge . . . ,” or “Once you become president. . . .” I asked him explicitly if he had any ambitions for the highest office after Donald completed his two terms. Pence said, “Two terms? You think two terms? That’s good, I like the way you think, Omarosa. I’m here to serve the president. I’m only loyal to the president.” His walking in lockstep with the president, eerily beaming glances, and mindless compliance would, in good time, be a source of late-night comedy and political memes. Several months later, conservative columnist George Will would call Pence a “sycophant poodle.” I suspected that Pence was just biding his time, looking the part of the perfect VP, until Trump resigned, was impeached, or served his term.

  On day thirty-one, February 21, I arranged for the president to visit the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture on Co
nstitution Avenue. This was the first presidential trip that I planned, start to finish. It involved a backbreaking amount of logistics. Sixty-two people—including the president, Reince Priebus, Ivanka Trump, Keith Schiller, physician to the president Ronny Jackson, Sean Spicer, Stephen Miller, Ben Carson and his entire family, activist and former state representative Alveda King, support staff, honored guests, fifteen reporters—into a motorcade of eleven vehicles to leave the South Portico of the White House promptly at 8:20 a.m. to drive five minutes to the museum. To make that drive, Secret Service had to organize the shutting down of every street between the two locations.

  I briefed Donald the day before the event. I briefed him before we left the White House. I briefed him when we arrived at the museum. Even as we were walking and touring, I gave him little lines to say. For his short remarks, I requested for the White House Communications Agency (WHCA) to supply a teleprompter, which they couldn’t because of time constraints. Donald read his remarks from a piece of paper, which didn’t play so well, but at least it was better than the Frederick Douglass gaffe.

  As the lead staffer on the event, I didn’t leave Donald’s side, and ticked off every instruction, movement, and introduction that had been painstakingly mapped and planned for weeks. Everything went off without a hitch, except for the Today show interview that I set up on site at the museum. It was Trump’s first one-on-one interview with a black reporter since becoming president. Although Craig Melvin had submitted topics in advance, Donald didn’t stick to the script, again.

  When President Trump and Craig Melvin ventured into uncharted territory, I started to make “wrap it up” signals. Donald had something up his sleeve, too. He started talking about recent attacks on Jewish centers. They’d been in the news and his hostile rhetoric had been blamed for the rise in anti-Semitic vandalism and crimes. I kept thinking, Why is he talking about anti-Semitism at the National Museum of African American History and Culture?

  I was relieved as we headed for the motorcade. Donald was impressed. He said, “Good job, kiddo. Good event.”

  Day forty, I’d teamed up the domestic policy team to invite seventy-five presidents of historically black colleges (HBCUs) to meet with the White House senior staff, Secretary Betsy DeVos and VP Mike Pence. I’d hoped that the president might do a drop by and had checked in to ask about his availability. Jared Kushner called back and said, “Bring the group over.” The invitation was a surprise, and I asked them if they’d like to go over to the West Wing. It was an offer, not a requirement. They all said yes, and our massive group made the five-minute walk, flanked by Secret Service. Once in the Roosevelt Room I asked again if they wanted to come. If not, they could stay in the Roosevelt Room and talk to some of the senior advisers. All of them accepted. They had a few minutes to shake hands with the president. Trump suggested a photo, and the president’s photographer had to climb up a ladder to get the whole group. Then the press pool entered and started taking pictures as well.

  Kellyanne wanted to snap pictures of the group, too, and decided to stand on the couch to get her shot. The press took a photo of Kellyanne kneeling on the couch after taking her picture. The next day the headline was about Kellyanne barefoot in the Oval and not about the historic meeting with HBCU presidents in the Oval Office. It was historic because in his eight years in office Obama had never invited all the presidents to the White House. But that point was lost because of Kellyanne. This time I’d been tackled by my own teammate at the one-yard line.

  This same day, Trump signed an EO that I’d pushed for since day one, the Presidential Executive Order on the White House Initiative to Promote Excellence and Innovation at Historically Black Colleges and Universities. The EO was important, as it would move the initiative for HBCUs from the Department of Education to the White House. Additionally, we could pursue funding for the colleges through the private sector. The Thurgood Marshall College Fund as well as the National Association for Equal Opportunity (NAFEO) and the United Negro College Fund (UNCF) endorsed the EO and called for an increase in the federal budget for HBCUs. I’d attended two HBCUs, Central State University and Howard University. I also attended Payne Theological Seminary before the death of my fiancé Michael Clarke Duncan. That executive order was my top policy priority within the first forty days of the administration. Donald supported me in my efforts. We got it done just in the nick of time, on the twenty-eighth of February. He had repeatedly said that funding for HBCUs was one of his priorities, and he was proving that.

  Also on that long day, Donald made his first major speech, the joint address to Congress. I worked with speech writer Stephen Miller behind the scenes to get diversity acknowledgments into it, starting with the first line: “Tonight, as we mark the conclusion of our celebration of Black History Month, we are reminded of our nation’s path towards civil rights and the work that still remains to be done.” Later on, he talked about the EO and about working to ensure government funding and grants for HBCUs: “We must enrich the mind and the souls of every American child. Education is the civil rights issue of our time. I am calling upon members of both parties to pass an education bill that funds school choice for disadvantaged youth, including millions of African American and Latino children.”

  One thing that I found disturbing during the address to the joint session of Congress was how Mike Pence gazed worshipfully at the back of Trump’s head for an hour straight. Every one in the senior staff thought that Mike Pence was a Stepford Veep. It seemed obvious that he was too perfect to be genuine. His and Trump’s personalities and worldviews were diametrically opposed. And yet, Pence agreed with everything Trump said or did. In real life, no one beams worshipfully at you all the time like that. If someone looked at you that way, you’d be disturbed and think about a restraining order. But Trump was not normal and he liked Pence’s apparent worship of him so much that they established a weekly lunch together. Perhaps his attraction to Pence was another sign of his loneliness. No one else in his life gazed at him with such adoration, certainly not his wife anymore. (Maybe Ivanka?)

  Critics praised Donald for being “presidential” in his delivery of the speech, which was the objective. Some also noticed that he read off the teleprompters very . . . very . . . slowly. I knew from The Apprentice days that Donald is not a big reader. While working with him side by side on my own briefings, I’d come to understand that he read at an eighth- or ninth-grade level. That’s fine for some, but for the leader of the free world? We went from Barack Obama, a scholar, an academic, to Donald Trump, who was just this side of functionally literate.

  Donald is very street-smart and is talented at making quick adjustments. His adaptability has been a skill that benefited him as a businessman. But for the job he had now, he needed to be able to read, and he struggled. I’ll go on the record and say that Donald Trump has never read from beginning to end any of the major pieces of legislation, policies, or even some of these executive orders that he has signed. Senior advisors spoon-feed him five to ten bullet points about the legislation and forgo any discussion of the complexities. To this day, his team pushes through Trump’s EOs and bills, and Donald has only a surface-level understanding of the content he’s signing into law.

  When Donald once said he wanted to have an IQ-test competition with Rex Tillerson, I thought, Oh no, you don’t want to do that. I know people will point to his wealth and say, “Well, how can you say he can barely read, if he’s such a great businessman?” Donald has always relied on his charisma, his street smarts, and trusted advisers to tell him what was in the paperwork.

  Everyone at the highest levels of the White House knows that he struggles with large documents or complex briefings. They make excuses for his faults and justify their own complicity, as loyal cult followers do. They believe he is the messenger, not the writer (or reader) of the message. Trump’s charisma is all that matters. He has an ability to convince you that he’s right, and that everything is going to be fine. You choose to believe because the alternativ
e is terrifying, that he’s not equipped with the basic skills to make crucial decisions that will impact the lives of millions of Americans and billions of people around the world.

  Day forty-one, I was asked to fall on the sword this time and issue a statement that I’d been the one who insisted Kellyanne take the barefoot photo, and that the offensive image—considered disrespectful to the college presidents in the room—was actually somehow my fault. Not that it made any difference. The backlash was swift and severe. The students at HBCUs were furious that their presidents had allowed themselves to be used for a photo op by a racist. At Howard University, my alma mater, students spray-painted on a campus sidewalk, “Welcome to the Trump Plantation. Overseer: [President] Wayne A. I. Frederick.” Some of the attendees of what I’d hoped would be a bridge-building event immediately stopped talking to me and told the press they’d been forced into the Oval.

  On day forty-two, March 2, Jeff Sessions, the not-so-loyal follower, recused himself from the Department of Justice’s investigation into the administration’s involvement with Russia during the campaign. Trump was furious! That set off a vitriolic Benjamin Button rant for days.

  “How low has President Obama gone to tapp [sic] my phones during the very sacred election process. This is Nixon/Watergate. Bad (or sick) guy!” Trump tweet, March 4, 2017, 4:02 a.m.

  On day forty-three, paranoia had set in in the Oval Office. Every day, when I’d get the daily tweet alert, I’d think, Does he even realize he sent it? Because of his poor impulse control, he never paused to evaluate or consider the consequences on a global scale of sending a tweet. The Donald Trump of 2005 would have sought counsel and advice. He wrote in The Art of the Deal about the good of consulting experts before he made a decision. Back then, he could process complex information, differences of opinion, and weigh the consequences. The Donald Trump of 2017 just went with his gut, based on a predawn call or on something he saw on TV or read online.