My mom answered that question when I saw her an hour and a half later: “I never imagined in a million years that my son would be up there doing that. Very few people, especially immigrants, get to share these moments. It was so special. It was the best moment of my life.”
* * *
After the concert, the Obamas asked all the performers and our families to gather backstage so they could say hello. My parents, brother, and manager stood with me in the rope line next to people like Tiger Woods and Tom Hanks （and Shakira “No,” and Garth Brooks, “Who?”）。 It actually felt like we fit in. We belonged here. In light of some of my darker experiences in middle school and Hollywood, this was not a feeling I was always used to. Yet here we were, included on a historic, patriotic day.
The president-elect worked his way down the rope line. He was laid-back and every bit his charming self. “We’re a long way from Des Moines,” I joked. He made it a point to thank my parents, chat with Pulin, and show appreciation to Dan “for letting me borrow Kal for so long during the campaign.”
The soon-to-be First Lady followed behind the president-elect by a few minutes. I hadn’t yet met Mrs. Obama. She had been dividing her time between the campaign trail and Chicago, where Malia and Sasha were. When she did travel for campaign events, she was the headliner, so they certainly didn’t need a surrogate like me. “I can’t believe you haven’t met Michelle!” staffers would say. “She’s the best. When you meet her, you’ll want her to run for president next.”
Finally face-to-face there backstage, she was as gracious, impressive, and kindhearted as I’d expected. She thanked my family and my manager, and before leaving, offhandedly said to me, “You’ve been with us pretty much from the start. I hope you’ll continue to stay involved and help us out.”
It was a nice thing to say: a friendly bit of benign encouragement that I imagined she said to lots of people she hoped would volunteer at a local community center and vote in midterm elections. As I opened my mouth to say thank you and let her know that I’d surely stay involved, Spilo piped up: “Well, you know Kal applied for a job, right?”
Here’s the thing about Dan Spilo. He’s been my friend and manager for more than twenty years now. He’s phenomenally smart, extraordinarily motivated, extremely loyal, and fights like hell for his clients. He’s also sometimes the real-life version of the characters on that HBO show Entourage in the most lovable way possible.
Mrs. Obama paused, took in what my Hollywood manager said, and replied, “What do you mean?”
“Yeah, he filled out an application for a job at the White House,” Dan continued, “and nobody even called him back.”
Jesus.
Mrs. Obama’s attention shifted to me. I tried to head this disaster off at the pass by politely nodding at Dan to stop talking so I could explain myself. “Yeahhhhh, I applied for a job,” I confessed. “I figured, if I can be helpful, it’s something that I’d love to consider.”
She seemed more confused than anything else. “What do you mean? Who did you apply with?” she asked.
“Oh, I didn’t want to be the guy who bothers people about jobs, so I just put my résumé where the email said to—on change.gov.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized—for the first time—how absurd it all sounded.
Like many other jobs in the world, it turns out that while everyone had to apply for an Obama-Biden White House political appointment via change.gov, the expectation was that we’d also rely heavily on our networks to let the right people know we’d applied. Top-notch senior leadership picked out the talented staffers they worked with on the campaign—field organizers from early primary states, policy wonks who had been on their teams well before the general election, experts they’d consulted with prior to Obama even announcing his run—and found the right White House jobs for the most qualified early supporters. Those who had been with the campaign the longest—before the Iowa caucus, or especially prior to Obama’s US Senate days—were top candidates for White House positions because they already knew the president-elect’s priorities, tenor, and approach. Early supporters would be assets to a new administration that wanted to hit the ground running with the same ethics and uniformity as the campaign.
I didn’t know any of this at the time. I applied on the website just like everybody else, but nobody knew I was interested because I hadn’t taken the extra step and told anyone. I thought I was playing by the rules. They have my résumé. If they think I’m qualified to work in the White House, they’ll call.3
In hearing that I—despite having been with the campaign since before the Iowa caucuses—had anonymously uploaded my résumé to the website, without bothering to follow up in any serious way, the soon-to-be First Lady seemed almost… offended. As someone of exceptional intelligence and honesty, Mrs. Obama has a low threshold for bullshit. Her expression changed. No longer bemused or pleasantly surprised, she gave me the look you’d give someone if they dropped a piece of pizza on the ground and then picked it up and ate it in front of you.
“You did what?” （She was obviously trying to confirm if I was as naive as I looked.）
“Uh, yeah, I, uh, I didn’t want to bother anybody, so I figured I’d apply on change.gov.” At this point, having confirmed that I was actually as naive as I looked, she called her husband over. “Barack! Come here.” The president-elect waved back, signaling that he’d already chatted with my family, leading Mrs. Obama to repeat with a bit more urgency, “Barack! Come here.”
As the president-elect made his way back to where we were standing, Mrs. Obama continued, “Kal, tell him what you just told me.”
“Oh, no, I um… it’s really not…”
Mrs. Obama insisted. “Tell him. Tell him what you did.”
“Well, sir, I was just, uh, telling her that I applied for a job at the White House. You know, if there’s anything I’d be useful doing…”
“You did? Who did you apply with?” Obama asked.
God, that question again.
At this point, Mrs. Obama gave Mr. Obama a disappointed look that said, Watch what this dummy is about to say.
I didn’t even want to utter the absurd words. “I uploaded my résumé to change.gov.”
Now it was Obama’s turn to react, with a curious, shocked, I-too-am-surprised-you’re-that-naive sort of look. Unlike his wife, he seemed very amused. “Man, you applied on change.gov and didn’t tell anyone? Why didn’t you just call me?”
I was understanding the reality of a situation like this: If your boss of more than a year—who you’re on good terms with—suddenly gets a big promotion and you want to keep working for him, he’d expect you to give him the courtesy of telling him that.
Obama motioned for his personal aide, Reggie Love. “You have Reggie’s info, right? You guys have each other’s numbers? Reggie’s going to give you a call this week and we’ll figure out if there’s a good fit somewhere,” he said. I was embarrassed, relieved, and excited. Either the president-elect was better at being polite than I knew, or Mrs. Obama’s reaction was indicative of their belief that as an early organizer and Arts Policy Committee member on the campaign, maybe I could actually be good at something in the White House.