shaking. Anytime old friends came to visit us at the White House, they were
amused by the intensity with which both Barack and I quizzed them about their
jobs, their kids, their hobbies, anything. The two of us were always less interested
in talking about the intricacies of our new existence and more interested in
sponging up bits of gossip and everyday news from home. Both of us, it seemed,
craved glimpses of regular life.
That evening in New York, we ate, drank, and conversed in the candlelight,
reveling in the feeling, however illusory, that we’d stolen away. The White
House is a remarkably beautiful and comfortable place, a kind of fortress disguised
as a home, and from the point of view of the Secret Service agents tasked with
protecting us, it would probably be ideal if we never left its grounds. Even inside
it, the agents seemed happiest if we took the elevator instead of the stairs, to
minimize the risk of a stumble. If Barack or I had a meeting in Blair House,
located just across an already closed-off part of Pennsylvania Avenue, they’d
sometimes request that we take the motorcade instead of walking in the fresh air.
We respected the watchfulness, but it could feel like a form of confinement. I
struggled sometimes, trying to balance my needs with what was convenient for
others. If anyone in our family wanted to step outside onto the Truman Balcony
—the lovely arcing terrace that overlooked the South Lawn, and the only
semiprivate outdoor space we had at the White House—we needed to first alert
the Secret Service so that they could shut down the section of E Street that was
in view of the balcony, clearing out the flocks of tourists who gathered outside
the gates there at all hours of the day and night. There were many times when I
thought I’d go out to sit on the balcony, but then reconsidered, realizing the
hassle I would cause, the vacations I’d be interrupting, all because I thought it
would be nice to have a cup of tea outdoors.
With our movements so controlled, the number of steps Barack and I took
in a day had plummeted. As a result, both of us had grown fiercely dependent on
the small gym on the top floor of the residence. Barack ran on the treadmill about
an hour every day, trying to beat back his physical restlessness. I was working out
every morning as well, often with Cornell, who’d been our trainer in Chicago
and now lived part-time in Washington on our behalf, coming over at least a few
times a week to push us with plyometrics and weights.
Setting aside the business of the country, Barack and I never lacked for
things to discuss. We talked that night over dinner about Malia’s flute lessons;
Sasha’s ongoing devotion to her perilously frayed Blankie, which she kept draped
over her head as she slept at night. When I told a funny story about how a