W

seated through most of it, appearing obstinate and angry, their arms folded and
their frowns deliberate, looking like children who hadn’t gotten their way. They
would fight everything Barack did, I realized, whether it was good for the
country or not. It was as if they’d forgotten that it was a Republican president
who’d governed us into this mess in the first place. More than anything, it
seemed they just wanted Barack to fail. I confess that in that moment, with that
particular view, I did wonder whether there was any path forward.

hen I was a girl, I had vague ideas about how my life could be better. I’d
go over to play at the Gore sisters’ house and envy their space—the fact that their
family had a whole house to themselves. I thought that it would mean something
if my family could afford a nicer car. I couldn’t help but notice who among my
friends had more bracelets or Barbies than I did, or who got to buy their clothes
at the mall instead of having a mom who sewed everything on the cheap using
Butterick patterns at home. As a kid, you learn to measure long before you
understand the size or value of anything. Eventually, if you’re lucky, you learn
that you’ve been measuring all wrong.

We lived in the White House now. Very slowly, it was starting to feel
familiar—not because I’d ever grow accustomed to the vastness of the space or
the opulence of the lifestyle, but because this was where my family slept, ate,
laughed, and lived. In the girls’ rooms we’d put on display the growing
collections of trinkets that Barack made a habit of bringing home from his various
travels—snow globes for Sasha, key chains for Malia. We began to make subtle
changes to the residence, adding modern lighting to go with the traditional
chandeliers and scented candles that made the place feel more like home. I would
never take our good fortune or comfort for granted, though what I began to
appreciate more was the humanity of the place.

Even my mother, who’d fretted about the museum-like formality of the
White House, soon learned that there was more there to be measured. The place
was full of people not all that different from us. A number of the butlers had
worked for many years in the White House, tending to every family that came
through. Their quiet dignity reminded me of my great-uncle Terry, who’d lived
downstairs when I was growing up on Euclid Avenue, mowing our lawn dressed
in wingtips and suspenders. I tried to make sure that our interactions with staff
were respectful and affirming. I wanted to make sure they never felt invisible. If