by Pat Cunnane
After a bit of laughter and a lot of if-you-only-knew looks, he finished: “But I don’t mean that to intimidate you.”
Too late, man.
“I mean it to inspire you.”
With that, the room erupted into applause, and the president was gone. As the ovation died down—and inspired as I was to get on with the week ahead—I tried to take back the room. I cleared my throat: “So . . . On Wednesday—” But Denis piped up immediately, mercifully: “Let’s call it there. Thanks, Pat.”
Back at my desk, I was still buzzing from a pep talk I had no business getting—and now wondering how many people were affected by my current course of action, I clicked halfheartedly through an article delineating “37 Times You Just Couldn’t Even Anymore.”
I watched as Pete Souza slipped past my desk and into the press secretary’s office. He didn’t seem himself. After a few minutes, Josh called me in, and Pete—uncharacteristically shaken—informed me that Rick McKay, a beloved member of the White House photography team, had passed away the previous night. I was to take the first crack at a statement from the president on his passing. Then Cody and the president would take their own pass on it.
I wrote my fair share of these kinds of statements at the White House. Typically, they honored deceased public servants: members of Congress, governors, and the like. Other times, we highlighted the life of a civil rights icon from a bygone era or a notable entertainer or athlete who passed in an untimely manner. My favorite death statement (that sounds horrible) I’d done was for Arnold Palmer:
With his homemade swing and homespun charm, Arnold Palmer had swagger before we had a name for it. From a humble start working at the local club in his beloved Latrobe, Pennsylvania, to superstardom as the face of golf around the globe, Arnold was the American Dream come to life.
Along the way he racked up win after win—but it wasn’t his success that made him King. Arnold’s freewheeling, fearless approach to the game inspired a generation of golfers and, for the first time on TV, enthralled an audience across the world. Sure, we liked that he won seven majors, but we loved that he went for it when he probably should have laid up.
That spirit extended beyond the links where he gave freely of himself and poured everything he had into everything he did: from building hospitals to personally responding to countless letters from his fans. And he did it all with a grin that hinted maybe he had one more shot up his sleeve.
Today Michelle and I stand with Arnie’s Army in saluting the King.
I liked the challenge of death statements. It’s not always easy to succinctly eulogize someone in the voice of the most powerful man in the world. These statements needed to be broad enough for lay people to appreciate, but more importantly, they needed to be threaded with specifics—inside jokes, even—so that the tribute meant something to those closest to the deceased.
I remember when I’d gotten word about the death of the woman whom I passed by each morning in Lafayette Park: an elderly lady who for decades had been protesting for peace. I tried to convince folks to do a POTUS statement for her. Her name was Concepcion Picciotto. I had jotted down some notes, stray phrases in what would ultimately remain an unpresidential statement: “Concepcion was my neighbor. There is no more worthy way to spend a life than to fight for peace.”
I was voted down, but one of my bosses came up to me a few days later and said they had been mistaken; it would have been a nice thing to do, to lift her up from her humble position in the park across the way.
There was, of course, no question about the statement for Pete’s friend. He was a part of the Obama family. That’s why everything felt so different—finding material for the first draft of an appropriate tribute. Usually, I mined Google and Wikipedia for facts and memories worth recounting; now I was sourcing material from grieving friends. I didn’t know Rick well, but my coworkers did; they put plugs in for a favorite pet, a beloved pastime, or a small quirk. I sent in my draft, confident that Cody and the president would improve it, and yet still unsure whether the statement would do him justice. Like a snapshot grabbed at just the right moment, it just needed to capture him, I thought.
• • •
“Larry David?” Antoinette’s disdain was evident as she reacted to my email.
“Yeah, Larry David,” I replied, miffed.
“I don’t think so. I want this to be taken seriously.” A close colleague and friend, Antoinette used a standing desk in our cramped office.II I’d never given the standing much mind, but in this moment—as she cut down my suggestion—her adjustable Varidesk really pissed me off.
“How does that make sense?” she added.
I was incredulous. “The exact reason I wrote: ‘For lifting up the little things and bringing the country together around a show about nothing.’ ”
She was baffled: “For the Presidential Medal of Freedom?”
At this point, Desiree turned to me. “Red zone!”
Each year, the president awards the medal—the nation’s highest civilian honor—to individuals who, according to the White House, “have made especially meritorious contributions to the security or national interests of the United States, to world peace, or to cultural or other significant public or private endeavors.” Simple enough.
White House staff members were given the opportunity to weigh in on the list of selections. We could offer up individuals we deemed worthy of the honor to then be whittled down and eventually selected by the president. To me, the “cultural . . . endeavors” and especially the “other” language is broad and open to interpretation, as evidenced by former honorees Lucille Ball and Stevie Wonder. That’s why I put forward the Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm star. But others took a different route.
“You mean to tell me that Larry David deserves the Medal of Freedom more than Malala Yousafzai (a young Pakistani woman who stood up to the Taliban and earned a Nobel Peace Prize)?” somebody asked.
“Or Rosa Parks?” somebody else added.
My desk mate picked up her red pen as I readied my response.
“Can’t he deserve it as much?” I joked.
Tally mark.
“And so close to Black History Month!” Desiree chimed in as she took pen to Post-it.
Double tally mark.
“Dude, we’re way clear of Black History Month,” I protested jokingly, consulting the calendar.
Another tally mark—this made five in one morning. That long, assertive strike across the previous four meant that Larry’s hopes for a medal were slipping away. So were my hopes of reconnecting with Larry, whom I hadn’t seen since he’d nearly run me over on Martha’s Vineyard two summers before.
Truth is, I had recently written a pilot for a political comedy about America’s first First Man, inventively titled First Man. The script had gotten a bit of attention in Hollywood, but no offers. So it’s possible my Larry nomination was clouded by personal admiration of what he’s achieved. Still, I genuinely felt it appropriate to honor America’s favorite misanthrope—and a brilliant storyteller.
On the afternoon of the thirteenth, a couple of film producers—Tim White and Matt George—dropped by the White House for what we called a “rogue tour”: a quick, nonsanctioned look around the West Wing. They were producing Rob Reiner’s film LBJ; we had met months earlier as they scouted the White House. Tim, who would quickly go on to major success in Hollywood with Steven Spielberg’s The Post, was working with me on First Man, and even more interested in politics than I was.
We offered official West Wing tours in the evenings after seven thirty, but they were a whole thing to organize and—of course—meant staying well after seven thirty. So the better option for folks who had offices or desks in the West Wing was to simply bring in guests to visit “where we work” and then in a just-so-happen kind of way to pass by the Oval Office, the Cabinet Room, the Roosevelt Room, and the Briefing Room.
That was my plan for the producers, but things were off to a rocky start when “ROTUS” (
receptionist of the United States) called me into the West Wing lobby and reminded me that I needed to wait with them because Matt, who is originally from Australia, had a pink badge. The Secret Service provides color-coordinated badges to guests, press, and staff. Those born outside of the United States are given pink badges and require an escort at all times when moving around the campus. Matt wondered why he was adorned with a pink badge, and because I think the whole foreign national thing is rude, I told him it was because he was wearing jeans.
There is a similar hierarchy of badges among White House staff. You wear either a blue or a green badge. (Interns get light-blue and press wear red.) I was given a blue badge when I made the move from media monitor to the West Wing. Green grants you access to the EEOB, while blue means you can go wherever you want, West Wing included. It’s a silly split, and many people much more important than I was sat across the street wearing green.
On this afternoon, the president was running behind and had not yet left the Oval Office for an event on the State Floor of the mansion, so we waited in the main West Wing lobby, which is the formal entrance and exit point for White House visitors whose appointments are not meant to be kept a secret. As soon as the president left his desk, with the help of one of the president’s body men, I was going to sneak both producers into the Oval for a quick peek around. But before we could, the door to the Roosevelt Room opened and out walked the vice president and former secretary of state James Baker.
Have I mentioned that the vice president is a close talker? A very close talker. It was hard to tell whether he and the secretary were debating foreign policy or about to go in for a kiss. As the vice president headed for his office, Secretary Baker shouted about their recent meeting on foreign policy implications of the Trans-Pacific Partnership trade agreement: “Now, this is a big fucking deal!”
“Thank God my mother isn’t around to hear that!” the vice president shot back.
At this point, I realized two things: my guests were getting a pretty solid rogue tour, and I hadn’t checked my BlackBerry in about five minutes, which is about four minutes too many. After typing my password, usually Hoagie and a number, I saw a flurry of unread emails about an ongoing situation in Paris. Each email was made up of copy-and-pasted tweets from our media monitor to the entire communications department, as well as senior advisors and the chief of staff and his deputies. Something about a shooting. Maybe in multiple locations.
The producers’ eyes nearly popped out of their heads as Henry Kissinger, Madeleine Albright, and Colin Powell made their way out of the Roosevelt Room and passed us, but I was focused on my phone. More tweets flooded my in-box. I told Tim and Matt that whatever was going on in Paris was turning into something real. You get pretty good, reading thousands of headlines and tweets per day, at determining what’s about to be a major story—about what matters and what doesn’t.
We were only a few minutes in, but this seemed huge and horrific; it seemed like it was going to matter for a long time. And sure enough, as Secretary of Defense Ash Carter filtered out of the Roosevelt, the Situation Room sent a blast email about the attack on Paris. That’s the way it typically worked at the White House; unfolding tragedy revealed through a gush of tweets, punctuated by emails from the Situation Room. Often, they were false alarms. As we know, this was not.
Still, it wasn’t entirely clear yet what was happening in Paris. And as the president made his way to the State Floor, we hurried to the Oval, where Tim and Matt took in Barack Obama’s office. I hung in the Outer Oval Office. Pete was there. The statement on his friend had gone out a few hours earlier, and he thanked me for helping with it. He said he thought it would mean a great deal to the family.
Josh arrived to wait in the Outer as Tim and Matt finished exploring the Oval Office. Evidently, the attack in Paris had reached a level where it might be appropriate for the president to speak publicly on the issue. Josh needed to get word from President Obama that he agreed that was the right course before alerting the press to expect something.
For these types of quickly-pulled-together statements, which were usually in response to varying degrees of national or international tragedy, we used the Brady Press Briefing Room because it required minimal setup. The cameras are ready to go twenty-four hours per day. And the presidential seal takes only seconds to hang on the permanent podium. We allowed about a half hour for those members of the press who were off campus to rush in.
As Josh continued to wait for the president to return, we moved into the Cabinet Room, which is adjacent to the Outer Oval Office. Every member of the president’s cabinet, from the small business administrator to the secretary of state, has his or her own brown leather chair—each slightly shorter than the president’s seat—that bears his or her title on the back. Following a cabinet member’s tenure, he or she is offered the opportunity to purchase the chair.
As a fall afternoon turned to evening, we looked at the Colonnade and into the darkened Rose Garden through a series of four matching glass doors—windows onto the president’s path. I rattled off a few additional useless facts for Tim and Matt. I was never very good at giving tours; I didn’t appropriately memorize the facts and figures. But by 2015, I’d been around long enough to feel more comfortable leading folks, mostly friends and family, around the building. Felt like I belonged. But even as I mined my limited repertoire of White House information for my guests, my mind was elsewhere: worried about what news might pop into my BlackBerry next.
We heard a commotion and watched as Secret Service agents scurried on the other side of the doors, a telltale sign that “Renegade” was “on the move.”
It was getting dark this night of November 13, but before long, the president strode by slowly. As clear as day.
He was alone, or as alone as he ever is. He looked increasingly serious with each frame he occupied; it was like I was watching a movie reel. He was silhouetted as he crossed our final frame—an oddly cinematic moment in front of these two film producers, who had just wrapped a movie that included a set with a reconstructed version of the very area where we were standing.
Shortly after my friends left, it was obvious: the shootings in Paris were coordinated; it was a terrorist attack.
The president made his way past Upper Press, through Lower Press, and into the Briefing Room, where he announced: “This is an attack not just on Paris, it’s an attack not just on the people of France, but this is an attack on all of humanity and the universal values that we share.”
It was filmic language, but this wasn’t Michael Douglas; and we weren’t on the set of Tim’s and Matt’s movie.
This was the unreal meeting the very real.
But that’s the way of the White House. From silly to serious in an instant. From a presidential pep talk to the passing of a friend. From Larry David to Henry Kissinger. And a president who spent his morning celebrating a remarkable year with a small team and his evening mourning a tragedy with the world.
I guess that’s why Tony Snow said, “The White House, with all its pressures, intrigues, triumphs, betrayals, joys, and disappointments, is the most special place you ever will work.” Hell, it was the only place I had really ever worked, but walking out late that night—on my way home to eat Oreos and watch House Hunters—I knew he was right.
There I was, back where I started the day: on the sidewalk with the other folks. And as I looked up at that grand place—a little less mysterious to me now, but no less glorious—I glanced at my glowing phone. Pete had forwarded me a note that knocked me back. It was from his friend’s daughter, who wrote of the president’s statement on her father:
“It’s so perfect. That’s my dad.”
So while humbling isn’t the word I would use to describe walking into the White House, maybe that’s exactly what walking out of it is.
• • •
A year and a half later, I walked out of those gates one final time—humbled for a whole host of reasons. It was dark; a bit dreary. And very q
uiet. I was wearing my tan summer suit; my nod to the nonsense. But in the January darkness, my thoughts turned to the more meaningful, briefly beyond the here and now.
On his first day in office, a year and a half before I arrived, President Obama sent a note to his staff. He wrote: “However long we are keepers of the public trust we should never forget that we are here as public servants and public service is a privilege . . . Public service is, simply and absolutely, about advancing the interests of the American people.”
I told you I’m a worrier. Tend to wish or worry away the weekend. What’s next? I too often wonder most moments. On Memorial Day, I’ll lament, “Summer’s over!” I’ll fret a vacation’s close as soon as I land.
But that didn’t happen at the White House. I had this sense that it wasn’t going to end. That we were on some endless loop. That this was home; my coworkers, family. It’s partly why things hit me so hard when it ended the way it did, and it’s why I still feel like I’m on a long vacation—that any day, I’ll throw on my suit, trek down the streets of DC, past Lafayette Park, and into those imposing gates.
Leaving the last time, I was uneasy. I hadn’t wished away my time, but did I appreciate it? I didn’t know that as I trudged up the EEOB steps at twenty-two years old, my parents absurdly yet sweetly watching from beyond the fence, that I wouldn’t walk out until I was twenty-nine, that this place would help define me.
Dan Pfeiffer did two things before he left the White House. First, he came into Upper Press one night—only this was a different Dan. A nervous Dan. For a moment, our roles were reversed. He sidled up to a free desk next to Howli’s, anxious to tell me something: he and Howli were dating!
Stephanie and my family often remind me that I can be dense, but I had thought I had my pulse on this place better than this. I was shocked—in the best possible way—to learn about this budding presidential romance, brewing unbeknownst to me.
Suddenly his frequent visits to Upper Press to make small talk, even after he moved across the hall to senior advisor, made more sense. Theirs wasn’t the only relationship forged in the White House. I would attend Dan and Howli’s wedding, along with plenty of other staffers who met their husbands and wives through President Obama. Josh met his wife, Natalie, on the campaign—they had their first date the Saturday after Inauguration Day. Marie met her husband, Andrew, while working for Vice President Biden. Bobby met his wife, Ellen, through Obama, too. Cody had his speeches rigorously fact-checked by a woman named Kristen, who would become his wife. Clark and Caroline—Obama spokespeople who are now married—met in Lower Press. And Matt and Stephanie, a talented White House researcher who would go on to work at the State Department, found each other and got married as well.
