* * *
I had heard of other campaign friends applying for jobs on change.gov, but people were pretty tight-lipped about any process beyond that. There was an unspoken culture within the Obama campaign that went something like, “Keep your head down. Do good work. Don’t seek attention.” It’s why you didn’t see the same leaks, showboating, and backbiting in the press as you did from other camps. I didn’t want people to perceive me as someone who was leveraging what modest artistic fame he had to get a serious job in the administration by making endless rounds of phone calls—if they were going to hire me, I wanted it to be on merit. So, I too stayed tight-lipped, only briefly mentioning my desire to my manager, Dan Spilo, and a few trusted friends. I decided that the right thing to do was what I assumed most of the thousands of people who worked on the campaign were doing: I followed the directions on how to apply for a job on change.gov. I filled out a form, attached my résumé, and hit Upload. Nobody called.
* * *
Two months went by. It bummed me out to know I wasn’t qualified for a job in the incoming administration, but I still felt so lucky for the creative career I was passionate about. I was so happy to be back at work filming House full-time. Focusing on my acting career again without the juggle of campaign travel was fulfilling. I had missed being on set with Olivia and Peter, pulling long hours. My campaign friends were busy in their own right—some jumping onto the transition team or helping wind things down at headquarters in Chicago. We’d text each other cheesy things like “Yes we did!” with memorable photos from our big rallies and small grassroots events. Peter once grabbed my phone and, upon seeing a photo of a HOPE AND CHANGE campaign poster a friend had texted, pushed out his bottom lip and teased, “I’m Kal Penn and I wish I was running around the country spreading HULLLLLL and change.”
* * *
On a break on set one day in early January, I saw a missed call from the DC area code. Holy shit, I thought, someone from the transition team is finally calling about my change.gov résumé submission!
They were not. Instead, I had a voice mail from the Presidential Inaugural Committee, asking if I would speak at Obama’s inaugural concert on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. It would be a patriotic celebration, a way of showcasing how historic his election had been. Performers included those from all walks of American life. Musicians like Bon Jovi, Usher, Beyoncé, and Bruce Springsteen would headline, and between each act, there’d be interstitials where actors would read quotes from previous presidents. On the lineup were Queen Latifah, Tom Hanks, Ashley Judd, and somehow… me. It was surreal.
The concert was a free, public event, and every performer was allowed to bring a few guests for preshow food and drinks in the festive, gigantic greenroom tent backstage. I flew out from LA and met my family in Washington. Spilo came too. My mom was wide-eyed and eager to see me onstage. My dad and Pulin were thrilled about the music lineup.
I actually began to worry about just how stoked my father was, to be honest. I didn’t want his excitement to get the best of him, so before we left our hotel, I pulled him aside and said, “Dad listen, there are going to be a lot of famous people backstage, okay? If there’s someone you’d like to meet, pull me aside and tell me so I can figure out if it’s appropriate to bother them… If it is, then I’ll introduce you. Don’t go up to people in the greenroom and gawk.”
This really offended my father. “You think I don’t know this?” he asked indignantly. “I get so annoyed when other people do these things to you! I would never do that to somebody else.”
I immediately felt bad. My dad was right—I knew he understood.
We checked in with security and made our way to a tastefully sofaed seating area inside the tent. I set my backpack down on a white wooden end table, and when I turned around, my father was missing.
I quickly scanned the room to locate him and was horrified by what I saw. Dad had somehow made it halfway across the cavernous tent and was standing six inches away from Tiger Woods, enthusiastically taking pictures with his boxy, early-generation digital camera. Flash and everything.
By the time I got to him, Tiger had noticed Dad creeping and was angling his face away from the camera. But Dad continued to aim for the best shot. Jjjjt!—his flash went off again. Jjjjt! Another flash.
I grabbed the camera and dragged him back. “What the hell, Dad? You JUST said you wouldn’t do this!!”
“Do what?” he said, genuinely unaware—deep in his heart—of any wrongdoing.
“You said you’d be respectful of people. I told you there would be celebrities here, and you shouldn’t bother them. You agreed with me!”
My dad looked me in the eye as if I was the biggest idiot in the world and exclaimed, “Yes, but this is Tiger Woods.”
Apparently our verbal contract didn’t apply to Tiger. He was in a category all his own. I sat my dad down on the sofa and went over the entire concert lineup. Was there anyone else on this list who would fall under the same category as Tiger Woods?
“Ashley Judd?”
“No.”
“Shakira?”
“No.”
“Garth Brooks?”
“Who is that?”
“Queen Latifah?”
“No, we already met her. Her mom lives next door to Falgu Auntie.” （This is true. I have an auntie who lives next door to Queen Latifah’s mom in New Jersey.）
“Tom Hanks?”
“Tom Hanks is here? I want to meet Tom Hanks!”
Luckily, Tom Hanks is the nicest guy you’ll ever talk to. I asked him if he’d mind saying hello to my folks, and he was so gracious. My dad got his photo, and things calmed down. With Tiger and Tom out of the way, my parents were able to focus on why we were there: the inaugural concert, which was about to start. They took their seats with my brother and Dan in the audience, and I reported to the performers’ hold room—the space where you wait before being sent out onstage.
The hold room for this event was in the civil rights museum that makes up the basement of the Lincoln Memorial. Even with the heavily armed Secret Service assault team stationed in the back, it felt serene, as if you could feel the presence of our nation’s complicated history in this one little room. Plaques of quotes from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. adorned the walls. Footage of African Americans being beaten and hosed for standing up for their rights played on the TV screens that make up the permanent exhibits. Nonviolent civil disobedience. I immediately thought of the trip to Gandhi’s Sabarmati ashram with Bapaji, and the dinner table stories Grandma and Grandpa told me. As I stood with the other performers—all of us different colors and creeds—waiting for our cues to take the stage and celebrate the inauguration of America’s first Black president, I reflected.
Marveling at how much change had happened in our country, and how much further we had to go, I thought about people I met on the campaign who didn’t have health care, who had lost their jobs, were kicked out of the military for their sexual orientation or had faced discrimination for their gender identity. I felt hopeful about our incoming president’s leadership, which would take us a bit further down the long path of progress. Moved by the fact that Dad came to America with just twelve dollars and a dream, I wondered, What must my parents be thinking, sitting out there on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial?