March 10, 2004
Dear Dad,
I had a vivid dream last night, a dream so vivid I woke in tears. Although I am not yet as spiritual as you, I have taken this dream as a sign. You have worked your entire life to give Barbara and me everything we have ever wanted or needed. You have given us love, support, and I know you have included us in every decision you have ever made.
You and Mom have taught us the meaning of unconditional love. I watched as Mom selflessly, gently gave herself to Pa as he suffered. And I watched you give a year of your life to Gampy; I watched your shared pain on election night. At age twenty-two, I finally have learned what that selfless pain must have felt like.
I hate hearing lies about you. I hate when people criticize you. I hate that everybody can’t see the person I love and respect, the person that I hope I someday will be like.
It is because of all these reasons that I have decided that if you want me to I would love to work full-time for you in the fall. Please think about it, talk to Mom about it, and get back to me. For now I have stopped applying for jobs in New York. I know I may be a little rough around the edges, but with the proper training I could get people to see the Dad I love.
This may seem like a rushed, impulsive decision, but I have been thinking about it constantly. I want to try to give you something for the twenty-two years you have given me.
In my dream I didn’t help you. And I watched somebody win who isn’t supposed to. And I cried. I cried for you, for our country, and for my guilt. I don’t want my dream to become reality, so if I can help in any way please let me. We can talk more about it during Easter.
I love you and am so proud of you.
Love,
Jenna
Code Name: Twinkle
JENNA
I was at one point in my life a Secret Service detail ditcher. In 1989, as a first grader at Preston Hollow Elementary School in Dallas, I snuck away from my Secret Service agents (and my mom and my sister, who was already buckled into her seat inside our powder-blue minivan) idling in the after-school pickup lane. When April Smith said, “My mom is picking me up at the swings. Want to wait with me?” I hesitated for only a fraction of a second before running straight to the playground. I was eager for April’s attention. She was the first grader who boys chased and girls scooted close enough to touch on the reading rug.
April and I soared into the sky, and I dipped my head back, pretending that I had a long, gleaming ponytail like hers. I was admiring how we pumped our legs back under us in perfect unison when I spotted my mom. I knew right away that she was angry. My mother, who almost never runs, was running, pushing back her hair with her hands. The only word she said was, “Jenna,” but her stern tone was enough to make my stomach drop.
My mind went into overdrive preparing my alibi, the story that would save me. I barely noticed the other person running up behind her, a man in a suit with sunglasses on. My grandfather had just been elected president. As immediate family, we had Secret Service protection, and the agents had also been out searching for me.
I leaped down from the swing and didn’t even wait for her to speak before blurting out, “Mom, I was kidnapped. There was a man in a van with a lollipop, and I got in.” It was the clichéd kidnapping story elementary schoolers watched on safety-awareness announcements, and I scrolled back through my “memory” to recount every lurid detail: the sinister man, the promise of candy, and a beat-up van.
I’m not sure if it was the years of listening to other wild tales slip effortlessly out of my mouth, a mother’s intuition, or if perhaps my performance wasn’t as powerful as I thought, but my mom was suspicious. The problem was that the man now standing beside her wasn’t. He looked very serious and intent as he asked me to repeat the story, so I respun the tale of my attempted kidnapping.
“What color was the van?” he asked, pulling out a notepad and pen from his coat.
“Gray,” I lied.
“What did the man look like?”
I started to describe a bald man with a beard, and the agent began to wonder aloud if a sketch artist needed to be called. Suddenly, my mom interrupted, suggesting rather firmly that we continue this discussion at home. In our kitchen, it didn’t take long for her to extract a full confession. That was not the end of it. She insisted I apologize immediately to the men outside, who were still agonizing over what had happened. I walked out of the house and down our gravel driveway, alone, head bent, even more nervous than I had been at the swings. I tapped tentatively on the tinted window of their black Chevy Suburban. The agent in charge rolled down his window, and I apologized for worrying them by creating the story of my kidnapping.
As elementary schoolers, Barbara and I never questioned the fact that men in suits and sunglasses followed us around. We just accepted it as part of our lives. A decade later, the Secret Service would return.
At dinner parties, over cocktails, when people ask my husband, Henry, and me how we met, we often blush, avoid their eyes, and say, Oh, at a bar in DC. We conveniently leave out that we really met in the temporary offices of my dad’s presidential reelection campaign. I’m not sure why, except that Henry can still be embarrassed by the bravado others think he must have had to ask me out, and we don’t want our gentle love to be defined by something as cold as politics. The truth is we did meet amid the sterile DC office space and rented furniture of my dad’s campaign. Because what could be sexier and more conducive to lasting love than a sea of cubicles and young Republicans?
I met Henry on Barbara’s and my first day at campaign headquarters. He walked into our office with a friend to be introduced, and then they left to have lunch with Henry’s girlfriend.
As they walked away, I looked at Barbara and said, “Of course the one cute guy on the campaign has a girlfriend.”
Luckily for me, Henry and his girlfriend broke up soon thereafter. It would make for a better, more dramatic story if I were their undoing, but I wasn’t. In fact, I had pretty much written Henry Hager off, until a month later when Barbara and I invited some friends to the White House to watch a football game. One of the guys worked for Henry, and he wanted to know if he could bring him along. I asked how old Henry was, and he answered, “Four or five years older than us.” (The correct answer is three and a half, but no one is counting. Well, besides Henry, who specifically requested that I clarify this.)
And I said, “Oh no, no. I don’t want somebody that old.”
But Henry came anyway, and I had to admit that he was cute, for someone over twenty-five. He clearly didn’t hold my youth against me, because he asked me out on a proper date for the following weekend. I said yes, and then he paused and said casually, “Where should I pick you up?” And I replied at the White House because that’s where I lived. He took a breath, swallowed, and his voice cracked when he said, “How exactly do I do that? Do I just drive into the gate?” (It’s one thing to walk through the pedestrian gate as Henry did that afternoon; it’s quite another to drive onto the White House grounds on a solo expedition.) Laughing, I rolled my eyes and said, “Yes, I will give them your information and you just drive in.” The evening was already starting to look like that old Hollywood cliché of boy arrives to pick up girl, drives through a few security gates, parks on the South Lawn road, and walks into the residence. What could go wrong?
That day, my parents were out of town, crisscrossing the country in the final weeks of the campaign. It was pouring rain, but Henry was impressively prompt in spite of the weather. I had prepared for our date using proven sources and methods: I followed the advice of the dating bible The Rules to always keep a man waiting. Stalling properly, Barbara and I took our time, choosing the perfect outfit, while Henry waited on an uncomfortable settee in the hallway.
I didn’t know my parents’ schedule, but Henry did. He worked on logistics, and he was getting constant presidential movement updates on his BlackBerry. From the alerts flashing, he saw that my dad was running early, which meant that he would b
e returning to the White House soon. Preparations were already under way on the South Lawn for the president’s arrival. As Henry was escorted into the White House, the officer told him that my parents had landed at Andrews Air Force Base and would be arriving soon on Marine One, the presidential helicopter. Henry had parked his car almost exactly where Marine One would land.
In Henry’s mind, not only would the helicopter land on his car, or his car would be towed beforehand, but he would also have to meet my dad. He was just a young guy on the campaign. Now he’d have to shake my father’s hand and say, “Sir, Mr. President, I’m Henry Hager, and I’m here to take Jenna on a date.” He definitely wasn’t prepared for that. A casual dinner was about to turn into meet the parents.
When I finally walked out to the hallway, his face flushed. He said, “We have to get out of here, now! Your dad is about to land on my car.” I told him it was totally fine. I took my time saying good-bye to Barbara. We headed downstairs and walked through the Diplomatic Reception Room and out the back entrance onto the South Lawn.
The rain had just let up and the smell of the night was fresh. Henry was practically sprinting beside me. Half of him wanted to be a good southern gentleman and walk me to his car, and the other half was telling him to pull out his keys and run. The entire backyard was immersed in final preparations for Marine One to land. The rope lines were set, the ambulance and fire truck in place, security at full attention.
We hopped into the car and pulled out just in time to hear the whir of the helicopter blades above. So began my first adventure with the love of my life.
After such a dramatic beginning, you would think that our second date would have been easier. Not so. Henry wanted to showcase his domestic skills, so he offered to cook me homemade pizza at his apartment. (We have since arrived at a more nuanced understanding of the difference between “homemade” and “frozen.”)
Once again, he picked me up at the White House, and this time he was more practiced and less nervous. As we drove away, his eyes widened. The fuel gauge was hovering perilously close to empty. He started scanning the road for a gas station, until he finally spotted one at the top of a hill. Then, right when he started up the incline, the tank ran dry, the engine sputtered to a stop, and Henry’s car began to roll backward very slowly. He pressed down hard on the brake, but it kept rolling, right into the Secret Service car following behind.
I, of course, behaved like the perfect date and said the very reassuring words, “I am sure it’s okay. It’s okay, I think,” in between muffled laughter.
Fortunately, I don’t think Henry even noticed, so complete was his humiliation. He pulled out his insurance and registration. His face looking a bit gray, he got out of the car to speak to the Secret Service agents; that was his first introduction to the men and women who followed me wherever I went. There was no real damage to the Secret Service’s massive, fortified Suburban. Henry’s Ford Bronco had taken the brunt of it. And he still needed gas.
Henry and I kept dating, and at a certain point he did meet my dad, officially. I guess all boyfriends want to impress the girl’s father, but because of who my dad was, the whole process instantly became much more intimidating. Henry, like most guys, just wanted my dad to like him.
The next summer, I traveled to Africa with my mom to support women’s health and HIV/AIDS prevention programs, while my dad stayed behind in Washington. Right before we left I said to him, “Why don’t you call Henry? He mountain bikes; you mountain bike. Call him and ask him to join you.” My dad grumpily replied, “I don’t want to call Henry.” My mom elbowed him, and he said, “Fine, I’ll call Henry.” True to his word, he called and invited Henry to go biking with him.
While Henry had a bike, it was an old Schwinn ten-speed, the same bike he’d had in college, the same bike he’d probably had since he was fifteen. But the bike was only one part of the problem.
I didn’t mention this to Henry, but mountain biking with my dad was miserable. It wasn’t at all relaxing or therapeutic. You couldn’t lose yourself in nature to the rhythm of the pedals, because you weren’t by yourself. You were surrounded by a fleet of muscular Secret Service agents on bikes. Additionally, a convoy of large, tinted-window black Suburbans followed you, blowing out all kinds of noxious fumes. If you lagged behind, as I did on my inaugural and only ride, the Suburbans would pass you. You ended up in what my dad called “the carbon monoxide zone.”
A biking expedition with my dad wasn’t going to be a pure bonding experience between two men, alone in the woods, getting to know each other; it was going to be two men and a stream of SUVs and about twenty other fit athletes on bikes.
That afternoon, the “Tour del Presidente” had chosen a hilly course. As a pack, they had all sailed down a big hill. Just as they finished a steep upward climb and were about to start the next downhill, Henry’s bike chain broke. Of course, my dad didn’t stop—he kept riding. When he sped on, the Secret Service riders sped on as well, and so did three or four black Suburbans. Henry quickly fixed his chain and started pedaling as fast as he could to catch up.
As he was racing downhill, Henry realized that the only way he was going to rejoin my dad was to pass two vehicles full of counterassault agents. He had just a four-foot-wide gap through which to navigate. At the exact moment he was passing one of the Suburbans at top speed, a Secret Service agent opened the passenger-side door. For those of you who have never encountered Secret Service vehicles, I should explain that this wasn’t an ordinary Chevy Suburban door; these doors are blastproof and weigh hundreds of pounds. You can rip your shoulder trying to push one open. The end of the door caught the end of Henry’s handlebars. It was a direct hit. The handlebars turned sideways, stopping the bike, while Henry flew forward, still in biking position, and landed on all fours like a frog.
Miraculously, the only damage was a scratch on his leg and a bruise to his ego—the entire biking crew had witnessed the whole thing. Henry finished the ride, certain it was part of a bigger plan to get him out of the picture. I remember calling my dad from Africa and asking, “How was biking with Henry?” And he said, “Well, he’s a nice kid. The biking was fun. It was all good until he was doored.”
The President’s Toast
Jenna and Henry’s Wedding
May 10, 2008
Before I call on Jenna, I would like to offer a toast.
There’s one caveat: I’m an emotional wreck. So welcome. First, I’d like to toast the family. We are so blessed to have a great family.
The Hagers and the Bushes. Second to our friends. I’ve learned in life you can’t make it without your friends. So to all our friends, thanks for coming.
Every parent’s desire is to raise a soul who is a contributing, decent, compassionate person.
So part of my toast goes to the Hagers for raising such a decent, compassionate man. And thanks for teaching him how to fish. And ride bikes. It’s about time.
So I was in Saudi Arabia and I was telling the King how fired up I was for my daughter’s wedding. And the King of Saudi Arabia says, “What’s her name.” And I said, “Jenna.”
Whereupon a member of the King’s court said, “That’s interesting. ‘Jenna’ in Saudi colloquialism means ‘bounties after the rain on the desert.’”
I can’t think of a more fitting description.
After the rains there is freshness, an energy. There is unparalleled beauty. And the greatest sight is (or there is great excitement) when the birds sing.
I love you, darling.
Staying on Script
BARBARA
The thing most people don’t immediately see about the presidency is how scripted every public moment is. Who stands or sits where, how long the Marine band plays, the precise moment when the president stands and walks to the podium; everything is scheduled and choreographed. Ballets seem freeform by comparison. Even private meetings are governed by protocol, but the public moments can feel like a full-on soundstage production. That same attention to
every detail also governs travel, inside and outside the United States. Everything has to be perfect because so many people are watching.
Whenever I traveled overseas with my parents, it was written in my schedule book what type of outfit I would need to plan for each event as well as the instruction that I would walk up the stairs of Air Force One behind my father, and that at the top he would pause and turn around and wave. On landing, there was an entire greeting protocol: My father and mother would walk down first; Jenna, if she was also traveling with us, and I would follow behind. Waiting on the tarmac would be the American ambassador and often the head of state of that particular nation, along with an entire delegation of other dignitaries, arranged in descending order of importance, plus a press pen filming and photographing away.
I had to be “on” from the moment I passed through the doorway, even though I had spent the entire transcontinental flight sitting around in my sweatpants, ankles swelling. Before the plane began its final descent, I would transform (or try to transform) into a well-dressed daughter, blowing out my now-droopy hair over the cabin sink. The feeling of performing never quite went away. After hours of travel and time-zone jumping, being “on” didn’t come so naturally. I would always worry if I was doing the right thing, keeping one eye on my parents for cues. So I did know not to curtsy when I met the Queen of England (American citizens do not need to), but not that I should never lightly touch Prince Philip when we were being organized for a group photograph. Oops. I took the photographers’ directions to “get closer” a little too far and learned the hard way. The Queen, in her long, beaded formal dress and perfectly placed crown, was even more gracious than you’d expect—a TV-character Queen. I was somewhat tongue-tied, asking only about her visit to the United States, her family, and her dogs, unsure what one should ask a queen. Afterward, I kicked myself. I’m sure thousands of people have felt the same way after shaking hands with my dad in a long receiving line.
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