scheduled to lead the invocation ahead of Barack’s speech. Barack had to make a
difficult call, phoning the pastor and asking whether he’d be willing to step back
from the spotlight, giving us a private backstage blessing instead. Reverend
Wright’s feelings were hurt, Barack said, but he also seemed to understand the
stakes, leading us to believe that he’d be supportive without dwelling on his
disappointment.
That morning, it hit me that we’d reached the no-turning-back moment.
We were literally now putting our family in front of the American people. The
day was meant to be a massive kickoff party for the campaign, one for which
everyone had spent weeks preparing. And like every paranoid host, I couldn’t
shake the fear that when the time finally came, no one would show up. Unlike
Barack, I could be a doubter. I still held on to the worries I’d had since
childhood. What if we’re not good enough? Maybe everything we’d been told
was an exaggeration. Maybe Barack was less popular than his people believed.
Maybe it just wasn’t yet his time. I tried to shove all doubts aside as we arrived
through a side entrance to a staging area inside the old capitol, still unable to see
what was going on out front. So that I could get a briefing from the staff, I
handed Sasha and Malia off to my mother and Kaye Wilson—“Mama Kaye”—a
former mentor of Barack’s who had in recent years stepped into the role of
second grandmother to our girls.
The crowd was looking good, I was told. People had started gathering
before dawn. The plan was for Barack to walk out first, and then the girls and I
would join him a few moments later on the platform, climbing a few stairs before
turning to wave at the crowd. I’d made it clear already that we would not stay
onstage for his twenty-minute address. It was too much to ask two little kids to sit
still and pretend to be interested. If they looked at all bored, if either one sneezed
or started fidgeting, it would do nothing for Barack’s cause. The same went for
me. I knew the stereotype I was meant to inhabit, the immaculately groomed
doll-wife with the painted-on smile, gazing bright-eyed at her husband, as if
hanging on every word. This was not me and never would be. I could be
supportive, but I couldn’t be a robot.
Following the briefing and a moment of prayer with Reverend Wright,
Barack walked out to greet the audience, his appearance met with a roar I could
hear from inside the capitol. I went back to find Sasha and Malia, beginning to
feel truly nervous. “Are you girls ready?” I said.
“Mommy, I’m hot,” Sasha said, tearing off her pink hat.