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us had formally become members, following the lead of many of our young,
professional African American friends in town. The church’s pastor, the
Reverend Jeremiah Wright, was known as a sensational preacher with a passion
for social justice and was now officiating at our wedding. He welcomed our
friends and family and then held up our wedding bands for all to see. He spoke
eloquently of what it meant to form a union and have it witnessed by a caring
community, these people who collectively knew every dimension of Barack and
every dimension of me.

I felt it then—the power of what we were doing, the significance of the
ritual—as we stood there with our future still unwritten, with every unknown
still utterly unknown, just gripping each other’s hands as we said our vows.

Whatever was out there, we’d step into it together. I’d poured myself into
planning this day, the elegance of the entire affair had somehow mattered to me,
but I understood now that what really mattered, what I’d remember forever, was
the grip. It settled me like nothing else ever had. I had faith in this union, faith in
this man. To declare it was the easiest thing in the world. Looking at Barack’s
face, I knew for sure that he felt the same. Neither one of us cried that day.
Nobody’s voice quavered. If anything, we were a little giddy. From here, we’d
gather up all several hundred of our witnesses and roll on over to the reception.
We’d eat and drink and dance until we’d exhausted ourselves with our joy.

ur honeymoon was meant to be restful, a low-key road trip in Northern
California, involving wine, sleep, mud baths, and good food. The day after the
wedding, we flew to San Francisco, spent several days in Napa, and then drove
down Highway 1 to Big Sur to read books, stare at the blue bowl of ocean, and
clear our minds. It was glorious, despite the fact that Barack’s head cold managed
to return in full force, and also despite the mud baths, which we deemed to be
unsoothing and kind of icky.

After a busy year, we were more than ready to kick back. Barack had
originally planned to spend the months leading up to our wedding finishing his
book and working at his new law firm, but he’d ended up putting most of it on
an abrupt hold. Sometime early in 1992, he’d been approached by the leaders of a
national nonpartisan organization called Project VOTE!, which spearheaded
efforts to register new voters in states where minority turnout was traditionally
low. They asked if Barack would run the process in Illinois, opening a field office