B

Epilogue

arack and I walked out of the White House for the last time on January 20,
2017, accompanying Donald and Melania Trump to the inauguration ceremony.
That day, I was feeling everything all at once—tired, proud, distraught, eager.
Mostly, though, I was trying just to hold myself together, knowing we had
television cameras following our every move. Barack and I were determined to
make the transition with grace and dignity, to finish our eight years with both
our ideals and our composure intact. We were down now to the final hour.

That morning, Barack had made a last visit to the Oval Office, leaving a
handwritten note for his successor. We’d also gathered on the State Floor to say
good-bye to the White House’s permanent staff—the butlers, ushers, chefs,
housekeepers, florists, and others who’d looked after us with friendship and
professionalism and would now extend those same courtesies to the family due to
move in later that day. These farewells were particularly rough for Sasha and
Malia, since many of these were people they’d seen nearly every day for half their
lives. I’d hugged everyone and tried not to cry when they presented us with a
parting gift of two United States flags—the one that had flown on the first day of
Barack’s presidency and the one that had flown on his last day in office, symbolic
bookends to our family’s experience.

Sitting on the inaugural stage in front of the U.S. Capitol for the third time,
I worked to contain my emotions. The vibrant diversity of the two previous
inaugurations was gone, replaced by what felt like a dispiriting uniformity, the
kind of overwhelmingly white and male tableau I’d encountered so many times
in my life—especially in the more privileged spaces, the various corridors of
power I’d somehow found my way into since leaving my childhood home. What
I knew from working in professional environments—from recruiting new lawyers
for Sidley & Austin to hiring staff at the White House—is that sameness breeds