The kids had already headed to another part of the house for their evening of fun.
My mom, Craig, and Maya were staying with us in the residence but had been
packed into cars and shuttled off already to the night’s festivities. A hairdresser
waited to style me; my gown hung on a rack. Barack had disappeared to take a
shower and put on his tux.
It had been an incredible, symbolic day for our family and I hoped for the
country, but it was also a kind of ultramarathon. I had only about five minutes
alone to soak in a warm bath and reboot myself for what came next. Afterward,
I’d have a few bites of steak and potatoes that Sam Kass had prepared. I’d have
my hair touched up and makeup redone, and then I’d slip into the ivory silk
chiffon gown I’d picked for the night ahead, specially made for me by a young
designer named Jason Wu. The dress had a single shoulder strap and delicate
organza flowers sewn across it, each one with a tiny crystal at its center, and a full
skirt that cascaded richly to the floor.
In my life so far, I’d worn very few gowns, but Jason Wu’s creation
performed a potent little miracle, making me feel soft and beautiful and open
again, just as I began to think I had nothing of myself left to show. The dress
resurrected the dreaminess of my family’s metamorphosis, the promise of this
entire experience, transforming me if not into a full-blown ballroom princess,
then at least into a woman capable of climbing onto another stage. I was now
FLOTUS—First Lady of the United States—to Barack’s POTUS. It was time to
celebrate.
That night, Barack and I went to the Neighborhood Ball, the first inaugural
ball ever to be broadly accessible and affordable to the general public and where
Beyoncé—real-life Beyoncé—sang a stunning, full-throated rendition of the
R&B classic “At Last,” which we’d chosen as our “first dance” song. From there,
we moved on to a Home States Ball and after that to the Commander in Chief
Ball, then onward to the Youth Ball, and six more beyond that. Our stay at each
one was relatively brief and pretty much exactly the same: A band played “Hail to
the Chief,” Barack made a few remarks, we tried to beam our appreciation to
those who’d come, and as everyone stood and watched, we slow danced yet
another time to “At Last.”
I held on to my husband each time, my eyes finding the calm in his. We
were still the same seesawing, yin-and-yang duo we’d been for twenty years now
and still connected by a visceral and grounding love. This was one thing I was
always content to show.