Chasing Hillary
Page 39
I got an email from another (male) editor saying, “Don’t use this quote, it’s going in Pat’s story . . .”
To all the little girls who are watching this, never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your dreams.
“Funny,” I wrote back.
Hillary ended the speech with scripture, Galatians 6:9: “Let us not grow weary, let us not lose heart, for there are more seasons to come and there is more work to do.”
Afterward, the Travelers did what we’d done for so many months—we rushed to the rope line where Hillary greeted the crowd. But this time there was no eruption of selfies. No shouts of “Madam President” and Hillary’s thumbs-up replies, “Doesn’t that sound good?” and “Let’s make it happen!” No “Fight Song” blasting from the speakers. It was silent and grim, like rushing the casket at a wake. Almost everyone was red faced and teary. Hillary extended her arms and leaned in for hugs in a sleepy, habitual motion.
I saw Brown Loafers in his usual position, behind the rope line, close to Hillary. But instead of doing battle with me or trying to protect Hillary (“Watch out for Dan Merica, center right . . .”), he was crying. Not just crying, but sobbing, bellowing until his face was drenched, his whole body convulsed. That was when it hit me. What had it all been for?
For three years, I’d been fighting with The Guys. I’d let my hero of a husband down. I’d put off having a baby. I’d thrown punches in the Steel Cage Match and gained at least twelve pounds. I’d even become an unwitting agent of Russian intelligence.
In the end, we all lost. I was done.
I looked at Brown Loafers that morning and any anger I had dissipated. I had only empathy and respect. I regret that it took Hillary losing for me to see The Guys this way.
I sleepwalked back to the newsroom. The drizzle had turned into a steady rain. I’d been so out of it that I didn’t see that the walk light had changed. The screech of an oncoming taxi pulled me back. I did go ahead and stop at Starbucks. As the new president-elect would say, what the hell did I have to lose?
In her 1993 “Politics of Meaning” speech in Austin, Saint Hillary, whose father lay dying in a Little Rock hospital, quoted the late Republican strategist Lee Atwater after he’d been diagnosed with brain cancer. “You can acquire all you want and still feel empty,” Hillary said. “What power wouldn’t I trade for a little more time with my family? What price wouldn’t I pay for an evening with friends?”
I had that quote in my head as I lingered in the Times building’s glass-enclosed lobby. I didn’t know what my life would be like or who I’d be without Hillary. Hell, I didn’t know what my days would be like without being ushered between several swing-state cities (You are in Tampa . . . ), a flight attendant handing me slunch at 3:15 p.m., and checking into a Hampton Inn. I didn’t know what would happen to all the Nasty Women, especially the older women I’d met all over the country, who now doubted they’d ever see a FWP.
I hadn’t been in the newsroom in weeks. I dug around in my backpack, looking through a multicolored tangle of credentials for my Times security badge.
“Sorry,” I told the guard. “I must have left my badge upstairs. I’ve been on the road, on the campaign trail, for a while.”
“No problem,” he said. “Welcome back.” And, thirteen years after security led me out of the Times building after that political reporter had stood me up for coffee to talk about my career, the guard smiled and pushed the glass gate of the red-lacquered turnstiles open.
“Thank you,” I said and walked inside.
The commotion in the newsroom all around me seemed to be happening in slow motion. Everyone was huddled around the life-size Taylor Swift cutout, looking as shell-shocked as the Brooklyn staff had been, contemplating what we’d done wrong, how we’d missed it.
“God, I didn’t go to a single Hillary or Trump rally, and yet, I wrote with such authority,” a colleague said.
I sat down at my cubicle to write the “How She Lost” story. Then I finally cried.
I never imagined I’d be a political reporter at the Times. That I’d be paid to travel the country—forty-eight states when it was all over—to cover a presidential candidate. That I’d write front-page stories. That I’d be important enough to be called a cunt on Twitter daily or to sometimes get the coveted aisle seat. And the truth was I couldn’t have done it without Hillary.
Not because writing about her raised my profile. (Though, I do realize the Carly Fiorina beat wouldn’t have led to a lot of A1 stories and a book deal.) But because no one else could fascinate and inspire and infuriate me all at the same time the way Hillary could.
Six months after the election, I still dream about Hillary. At my checkup last week, Dr. Broderick warned me that my dreams will get more vivid now that I’m pregnant. I didn’t tell her that the night before, Hillary and I had been riding in a press van to a Trump rally, crammed into the back seat on either side of Justin Trudeau.
I keep going back to what Hillary said when she found out she was pregnant with Chelsea. They’d tried for several years and were on their way to California to see a specialist when she heard. Hillary, then the first lady of Arkansas, was adjusting to infidelity and the boom-and-bust cycles of life with Bill Clinton. She went to a girlfriend’s house to share the good news. The two women sat on a patio in Little Rock’s leafy Hillcrest district. They sipped iced tea. “Oh, I’m just so happy,” Hillary said. “For the first time in my life, I don’t have to do anything. My body will do everything for me.”
That is the Hillary I want our child to understand, not the historical figure who lost to Donald Trump in a very strange and ugly election in the year 2016. But the Hillary who spent her life doing. The Hillary who tried to hold it all together—her marriage, her daughter, her career, her gender, her country. The Hillary who taught me about grit. Who showed me how to revolt against the dunces, all in confederacy against me. To believe I could infiltrate the elite media. To remember that you can acquire all you want and still feel empty, devote yourself so entirely to something and still fall short. To accept that I could finally stop striving.
Hillary taught me all of that. So what if she hated me?
The author and Hillary Clinton, Iowa, 2007
Photograph courtesy of the author.
Acknowledgments
“Put it in the book!” That’s what Carolyn Ryan would say anytime I told her something juicy that wasn’t quite right for the paper. There would be no book without her—or the Times. She even came up with the title.
Dean Baquet always had my back on the Hillary beat and was also an early, enthusiastic supporter of this book. Matt Purdy and Alison Mitchell’s love of journalism always made me psyched to be a part of even (or especially?) the most stressful stories. The late Janet Elder knew when I needed a pep talk or a shoulder to lean (or cry) on. We miss her. When Jill Abramson hired me, she told me to think of the Times as the “ultimate buffet” for a writer—and that is exactly what it has been to me. I will always be grateful to Jill for putting me on the Hillary beat and for her friendship.
Only a handful of people knew about this book when I first wrote the proposal in 2014. I am blessed that they turned out to be the right people.
David McCormick was as much an editor as an agent, helping me shape the idea and offering me invaluable advice and encouragement throughout every step. Jonathan Jao transcended the role of book editor. For years, every time I doubted that anyone would want to read my story, I’d remember his giddy enthusiasm and vision for what this book could be. I leaned on his intellect, wry wit, and endless patience for even the smallest of word choices. Jonathan Burnham and Doug Jones at HarperCollins were an author’s dream, keenly interested in my idea from the start and remaining devoted throughout the 2016 election and beyond. I’d hardly spit out my vision for a memoir when Tina Andreadis was scheming up ways to promote the hell out of it. In addition to being a publicist,
Tina has been a trusted friend, therapist, and savvy reader (#InTinaWeTrust). Amanda Pelletier, Sofia Groopman, and Emily Taylor at HarperCollins should really be running the world one day—or at least the publishing industry. I’m thankful to have Kassie Evashevski in my corner. Hiring Benjamin Phelan, a tireless fact-checking machine, was the best money I ever spent. (Thanks to Katy Tur for connecting us.)
I am immensely grateful to Hugo Lindgren, a magazine-editing virtuoso who published my “Planet Hillary” story and, three years later, helped me with this book. Dwight Garner and Louise Story both gave an early draft a close, careful read and provided essential feedback. Martin Wilson, a true friend and novelist, inspired me to keep my own ass in the chair. A big thank-you to Julie Bosman, Tracy Sefl, Rich Turner, Julie Bloom, Stephanie Clifford, Jeffrey Gettleman, Jon Kelly, and Risa Heller, who offered me their time and wisdom on everything from the prose and the PR to the jacket design.
Several Times editors, including David Halbfinger, Ian Trontz, and Gerry Mullany, masterfully edited many of the stories referenced in the book. Bruce Headlam first hired me to be a media reporter at the Times and has been a friend (and editor) to me ever since. Bill Brink is like my office dad. Ellen Pollock is a longtime role model. Mark Leibovich helped me navigate balancing book and newspaper writing, even as he made it look easy. I have too many brilliant, witty, warm Times colleagues to thank everyone, but Jeremy Peters, Michael Barbaro, Maggie Haberman, Patrick Healy, Maureen Dowd, Michael Schmidt, Peter Baker, Jonathan Martin, Jason Horowitz, Dagny Salas, Michael Gold, Jessica Dimson, Juanita Powell-Brunson, Nicholas Corasaniti, Brooks Barnes, Sue Craig, Kitty Bennett, Steve Eder, and Trip Gabriel come to mind. Tom Kaplan and Matt Flegenheimer made every day of the campaign (even those grueling “Death March” months) more fun.
Thank you to the rest of Hillary’s traveling press on both of her presidential campaigns. We were assigned to the same candidate’s bus by chance, but many of you—too many to name—became dear friends and my de facto traveling family.
I also want to express heartfelt appreciation to my sources (mostly, but not all, women) who had the moxie to defy Hillary’s press handlers and talk to me anyway. I can’t name them (for obvious reasons) but I can say that without their trust, insights into Hillary, and patience with my endless phone calls and follow-ups, I wouldn’t have been able to do my job or write this book.
The best for last . . .
This book is devoted to my family, who has always given me unconditional support and was ready to place their preorders before I wrote a word.
Sandra and Fred Kline, Lis and Fred Chozick, and Gary and Jessie Jacobs haven’t missed a single important event in my life. From the start, Lisa and Jeff Blau have been excited about this book and eager to help in any way they could. My Irish family: Fionnuala, John, David, Bryan, and Aisling Ennis—having you in my life has been a gift. Barry Dale Johnson, whose friendship hasn’t wavered since we first bonded over Mötley Crüe in the sixth grade, might as well be family. Grandma Rose may have taken me to Vegas, but I wouldn’t be who I am without the love and influence of my mother’s late parents, Ada and Milford Jacobs (aka Gummy and Guppy). My sister, Stefani Shanberg, is a hilarious, bad-ass, best friend whom I look up to and credit with toughening me up. (Thanks to my most terrific brother-in-law, Dave Shanberg, too.) I joke with my parents, Ronni and Jason Chozick, that maybe if I had a more tortured childhood, they would’ve been more prominent characters. But as it turns out, they were the absolute best, most loving, supportive parents any kid could possibly hope to have. They’ve been eager to read and gush over this book (indeed, any book I wrote) ever since my debut at the Young Author’s Conference in the first grade. But they would’ve been proud of Stef and me no matter what direction our lives took. That’s the kind of parents they are. I can’t begin to thank them enough.
If you’ve gotten this far, you already know what kind of husband Bobby is, so I won’t get into the details here except to say that not a word of this book would exist without him. He is everything.
Finally, to our son, Cormac, whose tiny kicks sustained me as I wrote and who graciously entered this world just before deadline. You are the love of our lives.
About the Author
Amy Chozick is a writer-at-large for the New York Times. Originally from San Antonio, Texas, she lives in New York with her husband and son.
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Copyright
chasing hillary. Copyright © 2018 by Amy Chozick. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Photograph courtesy of the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition APRIL 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-241361-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-241359-8
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* This was true. They just didn’t end up voting for Hillary.
* At least, Hillary thought they were her people until she took their money and lost to Trump. I’ll never forget sitting in the Upper East Side home of one of Hillary’s most loyal Friends and Family shortly after the November election. “Look around,” this Friend said. I turned my head to scan the panoramic views of Manhattan, the winding marble staircase, the original Monet on the walls, the untouched crystal plate of macaroons on the table. “I’m not a loser. Hillary is a L-O-S-E-R,” the Friend said, making an L with one hand and holding it against the forehead.
* It was not lost on the more senior reporters that Ruby Cramer, whose father, Richard Ben Cramer, had revolutionized access journalism and been so close with sources that Biden spoke at his memorial service in 2013, was rolling an orange (sorry, a clementine) up the aisles trying to get something—anything—out of Hillary.