By 5 p.m., I and other national surrogates were dialing into radio interviews in Virginia and North Carolina to counter voter suppression tactics in those states. By 7 p.m., we knew that the Hillsborough County, Florida, supervisor of elections hadn’t delivered enough ballots to polling locations at the University of South Florida, which was experiencing massive voter turnout. At 9 p.m., I was deployed with a team of youth vote staff and volunteers to remind students to stay in line, that ballots were coming. When we got there, we saw long queues of young people who had already been waiting three hours. They were passing the time by singing and dancing, determined to stay put until those additional ballots arrived so they could cast their vote in this historic election.
An hour later, I was settled into the Florida election night watch party in a hotel ballroom in Tampa, beer in hand. We had definitely done everything we could do. As results from the last states trickled in on the televisions—blue for the ones Obama and Biden won, red for John McCain and Sarah Palin—I received an email from my friend Konrad Ng. As Obama’s brother-in-law, Konrad would hold campaign surrogate events with his wife, Obama’s sister Maya. We had gotten to know each other over the course of the long campaign, and often traded stories from our time on the road. The email from Konrad simply read:
Date: Tuesday, November 4, 2008, 10:41 PM
I just talked to BO… I think we have won this election.
I stood in quiet reflection, drinking my beer and feeling all the feels, waiting for the networks to announce it. Twenty minutes later, the flashing TV screens in the hotel ballroom confirmed what Konrad had told me—Obama was the president-elect. The room erupted in tears and hugs and sighs of relief. I felt a quiet sense of pride, a feeling of endless possibility. America had elected its first Black president. I felt hopeful that it might mean I’d fit in more than I had before, that to some small degree the days of people of color being othered might be behind us. As fellow staffers and I refilled our drinks, ready for Obama’s victory speech and a hard night of partying ahead, a mass email written by the new president-elect quickly went out to every supporter nationwide:
Kalpen –
I’m about to head to Grant Park to talk to everyone gathered there, but I wanted to write to you first.
We just made history.
And I don’t want you to forget how we did it.
You made history every single day during this campaign—every day you knocked on doors, made a donation, or talked to your family, friends, and neighbors about why you believe it’s time for change.
I want to thank all of you who gave your time, talent, and passion to this campaign.
We have a lot of work to do to get our country back on track, and I’ll be in touch soon about what comes next.
But I want to be very clear about one thing…
All of this happened because of you.
Thank you,
Barack
* * *
The days that followed were kind of wonky. My campaign friends were in withdrawal mode. They started sleeping properly, eating better, reconnecting with people whose calls they missed, and thinking about what they wanted to do next. Staffers—myself included—received an email from the presidential transition team with a link to a website called change.gov, a portal for people to submit applications for jobs with the incoming administration.
Now that our boss was the president-elect, the stakes had gotten much higher overnight. Staring at the change.gov email, I thought, Is this really possible? Could I actually take my public service interests a step further than what I’d imagined and work for the next president of the United States? The idea seemed so big, so untouchable, that I held it close to my chest.
The concept of taking a short sabbatical from acting to work in public service had been in the back of my mind since sometime after Iowa, when I realized how much I had in common with the campaign friends I was spending so much time with. It was then that I had started to ponder the mechanics of how it might work, reasoning that I could finally finish that International Security graduate certificate I was sporadically working toward at Stanford. Once that was complete, maybe I’d take a year off to work for a nonprofit or think tank. With that often-repeated saying, “We’re the ones we’ve been waiting for” ringing through my head, I’d intended to look into it. At some point.
Staring at this change.gov email, I reflected even further. I had been making campaign promises in more than half the country for well over a year. It didn’t seem right to go straight back to acting, expecting that it should be left to someone else to implement those promises. I sort of felt like an actor doing a commercial endorsement. Does Tom Selleck really use the reverse mortgages he pimps out? I doubt it! But did Wilford Brimley actually have diabeetus? I mean, yeah, probably?
The thing I wanted to know was: How could I be a Wilford Brimley? And by that I don’t just mean, how does a man grow such an aggressive, symmetrical mustache? I also mean, what makes someone qualified to work at the White House in the first place?
There were some personal reasons that made me curious about a life in Washington, DC, too. I was finally enjoying Los Angeles in a way that comes with a television actor’s job stability: I had a nicer place to live, was seeing friends regularly, and could afford to take trips home without needing to bid on a flight using Priceline.com. I felt more immersed in a smart, vibrant creative community now that I was acting on House every day instead of fighting for auditions. For all this, I was grateful. But something still felt like it was missing. It sometimes felt stifling to be surrounded by people who do what I do for a living and weren’t from especially diverse backgrounds—ethnic and racial to be sure, but I’m also talking about diversity in thought, profession, and life experience.
Well into my late twenties, I found LA to be a challenging city to date in too. I didn’t like talking about work all the time （Who’s your agent? Did you audition for that project too?）。 The newest exercise fads didn’t interest me （shoes that look like feet, goat yoga）， nor did the latest dietary obsessions （So, like, there’s this new thing called ghee, and like, if you put some in your coffee it’ll change your life1）。 In contrast, the guys I dated in places like Chicago or New York seemed more balanced; conversations about books, family, and music were much more my speed.
While filming Superman Returns, I became close with screenwriters Mike Dougherty and Dan Harris, as well as Dan’s boyfriend, Stephen, who happened to be from Washington, DC, a city that （like LA） is often maligned for being a one-industry town too （so much so that it’s often referred to as “Hollywood for ugly people”2）。 During visits to hang out with Stephen and his handsome buddies in Washington, I found a sort of kinship in being around other multitaskers who liked to talk about policy articles and public service.
Add to that the fact that I could be working with the campaign friends I had made during my year on the road for Obama, and a little fire in my brain said, You might appreciate a personal change of pace, a new career, and a social life in DC for a couple of years. So, it was with a strong and genuine desire to serve my country, and the smaller hope that a temporary move to a new city might be good for my sanity, that I got it into my head to apply for a job at the White House.