over, our girls would enjoy a baseball game in Havana, walk along the Great Wall
of China, and visit the Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio one evening in
magical, misty darkness. But it could also be a pain in the neck, especially when
we were trying to tend to things unrelated to the presidency. Earlier in Malia’s
junior year, the two of us had gone to spend a day visiting colleges in New York
City, for instance, setting up tours at New York University and Columbia. It had
worked fine for a while. We’d moved through NYU’s campus at a brisk pace,
our efficiency aided by the fact that it was still early and many students were not
yet up for the day. We’d checked out classrooms, poked our heads into a dorm
room, and chatted with a dean before heading uptown to grab an early lunch and
move on to the next tour.
The problem is that there’s no hiding a First Lady–sized motorcade,
especially on the island of Manhattan in the middle of a weekday. By the time we
finished eating, about a hundred people had gathered on the sidewalk outside the
restaurant, the commotion only breeding more commotion. We stepped out to
find dozens of cell phones hoisted in our direction as we were engulfed by a
chorus of cheers. It was beneficent, this attention—“Come to Columbia, Malia!”
people were shouting—but it was not especially useful for a girl who was trying
quietly to imagine her own future.
I knew immediately what I needed to do, and that was to bench myself—to
let Malia go see the next campus without me, sending Kristin Jones, my personal
assistant, as her escort instead. Without me there, Malia’s odds of being
recognized went down. She could move faster and with a lot fewer agents.
Without me, she could maybe, possibly, look like just another kid walking the
quad. I at least owed her a shot at that.
Kristin, in her late twenties and a California native, was like a big sister to
both my girls anyway. She’d come to my office as a young intern, and along with
Kristen Jarvis, who until recently had been my trip director, was instrumental in
our family’s life, filling some of these strange gaps caused by the intensity of our
schedules and the hindering nature of our fame. “The Kristins,” as we called
them, stood in for us often. They served as liaisons between our family and
Sidwell, setting up meetings and interacting with teachers, coaches, and other
parents when Barack and I weren’t able. With the girls, they were protective,
loving, and far hipper than I’d ever be in the eyes of my kids. Malia and Sasha
trusted them implicitly, seeking their counsel on everything from wardrobe and
social media to the increasing proximity of boys.