Because people often ask, I’ll say it here directly: I have no intention of
running for office, ever. I’ve never been a fan of politics, and my experience over
the last ten years has done little to change that. I continue to be put off by the
nastiness—the tribal segregation of red and blue, this idea that we’re supposed to
choose one side and stick to it, unable to listen and compromise, or sometimes
even to be civil. I do believe that at its best, politics can be a means for positive
change, but this arena is just not for me.
That isn’t to say I don’t care deeply about the future of our country. Since
Barack left office, I’ve read news stories that turn my stomach. I’ve lain awake at
night, fuming over what’s come to pass. It’s been distressing to see how the
behavior and the political agenda of the current president have caused many
Americans to doubt themselves and to doubt and fear one another. It’s been hard
to watch as carefully built, compassionate policies have been rolled back, as we’ve
alienated some of our closest allies and left vulnerable members of our society
exposed and dehumanized. I sometimes wonder where the bottom might be.
What I won’t allow myself to do, though, is to become cynical. In my most
worried moments, I take a breath and remind myself of the dignity and decency
I’ve seen in people throughout my life, the many obstacles that have already been
overcome. I hope others will do the same. We all play a role in this democracy.
We need to remember the power of every vote. I continue, too, to keep myself
connected to a force that’s larger and more potent than any one election, or
leader, or news story—and that’s optimism. For me, this is a form of faith, an
antidote to fear. Optimism reigned in my family’s little apartment on Euclid
Avenue. I saw it in my father, in the way he moved around as if nothing were
wrong with his body, as if the disease that would someday take his life just didn’t
exist. I saw it in my mother’s stubborn belief in our neighborhood, her decision
to stay rooted even as fear led many of her neighbors to pack up and move. It’s
the thing that first drew me to Barack when he turned up in my office at Sidley,
wearing a hopeful grin. Later, it helped me overcome my doubts and
vulnerabilities enough to trust that if I allowed my family to live an extremely
public life, we’d manage to stay safe and also happy.
And it helps me now. As First Lady, I saw optimism in surprising places. It
was there in the wounded warrior at Walter Reed who pushed back against pity
by posting a note on his door, reminding everyone that he was both tough and
hopeful. It lived in Cleopatra Cowley-Pendleton, who channeled some part of
her grief over losing her daughter into fighting for better gun laws. It was there in
the social worker at Harper High School who made a point of shouting out her