security accommodations that would now be needed for Malia and Sasha, which
meant we wouldn’t be too big a drain on the school’s resources. Above all, I
liked the feel of the place. The Quaker philosophy was all about community,
built around the idea that no one individual should be prized over another, which
seemed to me like a healthy counterbalance to the big fuss that now surrounded
their father.
On the first day of school, Barack and I ate an early breakfast in our hotel
suite with Malia and Sasha before helping them into their winter coats. Barack
couldn’t help but to offer bits of advice about surviving a first day at a new school
(keep smiling, be kind, listen to your teachers), adding finally, as the two girls
donned their purple backpacks, “And definitely don’t pick your noses!”
My mother joined us in the hallway, and we took an elevator downstairs.
Outside the hotel, the Secret Service had erected a security tent, meant to
keep us out of sight of the photographers and television crews who’d posted
themselves by the entrance, hungry for images of our family in transition. Having
arrived only the night before from Chicago, Barack was hoping to ride all the
way to school with the girls, but he knew it would create too much of a scene.
His motorcade was too big. He’d become too heavy. I could read the pain of this
in his face as Sasha and Malia hugged him good-bye.
My mom and I then accompanied the girls in what would become their
new form of school bus—a black SUV with smoked windows made of
bulletproof glass. I tried that morning to model confidence, smiling and joking
with the kids. Inside, however, I felt a thrumming nervousness, that sense of
inching perpetually farther out on a limb. We arrived first at the upper school
campus, where Malia and I hustled past a gauntlet of news cameras and into the
building, the two of us flanked by Secret Service agents. After I delivered Malia
to her new teacher, the motorcade took us to Bethesda, where I repeated the
routine with little Sasha, releasing her into a sweet classroom with low tables and
wide windows—what I prayed would be a safe and happy place.
I returned to the motorcade and rode back to the Hay-Adams, ensconced in
my bubble. I had a busy day ahead, every minute of it scheduled with meetings,
but my mind would stay locked on our daughters. What kind of day were they
having? What were they eating? Were they being gawked at or made to feel at
home? I’d later see a media photo of Sasha taken during the morning trip to
school, one that brought me to tears. I believe it was snapped as I was dropping
off Malia, while Sasha waited in the car with my mom. She had her round little