T

19

here is no handbook for incoming First Ladies of the United States. It’s not
technically a job, nor is it an official government title. It comes with no salary and
no spelled-out set of obligations. It’s a strange kind of sidecar to the presidency, a
seat that by the time I came to it had already been occupied by more than forty-
three different women, each of whom had done it in her own way.

I knew only a little about previous First Ladies and how they’d approached
the position. I knew that Jackie Kennedy had dedicated herself to redecorating
the White House. I recalled that Rosalynn Carter had sat in on cabinet meetings,
Nancy Reagan had gotten into some trouble accepting free designer dresses, and
Hillary Clinton had been derided for taking on a policy role in her husband’s
administration. Once, a couple of years earlier at a luncheon for U.S. Senate
spouses, I’d watched—half in shock, half in awe—as Laura Bush posed, serene
and smiling, for ceremonial photos with about a hundred different people, never
once losing her composure or needing a break. First Ladies showed up in the
news, having tea with the spouses of foreign dignitaries; they sent out official
greetings on holidays and wore pretty gowns to state dinners. I knew that they
normally picked a cause or two to champion as well.

I understood already that I’d be measured by a different yardstick. As the
only African American First Lady to set foot in the White House, I was “other”
almost by default. If there was a presumed grace assigned to my white
predecessors, I knew it wasn’t likely to be the same for me. I’d learned through
the campaign stumbles that I had to be better, faster, smarter, and stronger than
ever. My grace would need to be earned. I worried that many Americans
wouldn’t see themselves reflected in me, or that they wouldn’t relate to my