those people were empowered to participate. His run for president would be an
even bigger test of that idea. Would his message work on a larger scale? Would
enough people come out to help? Barack knew he was an unusual candidate. He
wanted to run an unusual campaign.
The plan became for Barack to make his announcement from the steps of
the Old State Capitol, a historic landmark that would of course be more visually
appealing than any convention center or arena. But it also put him outdoors, in
the middle of Illinois, in the middle of February, when temperatures were often
below freezing. The decision struck me as well-intentioned but generally
impractical, and it did little to build my confidence in the campaign team that
now more or less ran our lives. I was unhappy about it, imagining the girls and
me trying to smile through blowing snow or frigid winds, Barack trying to appear
invigorated instead of chilled. I thought about all the people who would decide
to stay home that day rather than stand out in the cold for hours. I was a
midwesterner: I knew the weather could ruin everything. I knew also that Barack
couldn’t afford an early flop.
About a month earlier, Hillary Clinton had declared her own candidacy,
brimming with confidence. John Edwards, Kerry’s former running mate from
North Carolina, had launched his campaign a month prior to that, speaking in
front of a New Orleans home that had been ravaged by Hurricane Katrina. In all,
a total of nine Democrats would throw their hats into the ring. The field would
be crowded and the competition fierce.
Barack’s team was gambling with an outdoor announcement, but it wasn’t
my place to second-guess. I insisted that the advance team at least equip Barack’s
podium with a heater to keep him from appearing too uncomfortable on the
national news. Otherwise, I held my tongue. I had little control anymore. Rallies
were being planned, strategies mapped, volunteers mustered. The campaign was
under way, and there was no parachuting out of it.
In what was probably a subconscious act of self-preservation, my focus
shifted toward something I could control, which was finding acceptable headwear
for Malia and Sasha for the announcement. I’d found new winter coats for them,
but I’d forgotten all about hats until it was nearly too late.
As the announcement day neared, I began making harried after-work trips
to the department stores at Water Tower Place, rifling through the dwindling
midseason supply of winter wear, hunting the clearance racks in vain. It wasn’t
long before I became less concerned with making sure Malia and Sasha looked