I was so grateful. David was the best.
Just over a week later, he called me back into his office: “Two things. First, your agent called to tell me that you’re not really going to leave the show for the White House and that I shouldn’t take it seriously. That’s incorrect, right?”
“Right.”
“I thought so. Second, here’s the deal: We’re going to accelerate your departure from the show. In the next episode, Kutner is going to kill himself.”
“Woah, what?” This was a gut-check moment. It was all fun and games until you realize that your character and the salary that comes with playing him are going to die.
“We’ve actually been looking for a catalyst for Dr. House to be institutionalized. There needs to be a problem he can’t solve and we’re exploring some mental health stuff anyway, so it works. BUT… You can’t start your job at the White House until after that episode airs in April. It’ll tip people off that something in the script has changed if you start before then, and if anything leaks, it destroys that plotline. So, you can’t move to DC just yet.”
I took a deep breath and thought about it for just a split second. Not being able to publicly acknowledge that I was leaving the show meant that I couldn’t formally accept the White House’s offer until April 6—the date my last episode would air. Could I take their word that the government job would still be there? It felt a bit like when a gambler puts it all on black. Deep down, I knew what I wanted. As David and I sat there face-to-face, two gentlemen definitely not drinking scotch, I looked him in the eye and confidently said, “Thank you.”
* * *
I had a quick phone interview from Los Angeles before flying to Washington, DC, for a more formal sit-down with senior advisor Valerie Jarrett （“VJ” for short）， and her deputy Michael Strautmanis on April 13. To prepare, I had asked our House screenwriter Eli Attie for advice. When he was one of Al Gore’s speechwriters, Eli had an office in the White House, so he gave me some helpful background like, “Ask for the title Special Assistant to the President, it’s the most junior of the senior-level positions; it means you’ll have a higher salary and more direct decision-making authority.”
I asked for the senior title and the salary—and failed at securing either. Still, what I was offered was pretty great. I would be an associate director of the White House Office of Public Engagement. As Chris mentioned, that meant I’d also be the President’s Liaison to Young Americans, the Arts Community, and Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders. I was all in. As the interview wrapped up, I needed to settle any jitters I had about the reasons for my employment once and for all. “Valerie,” I began, “can you assure me I’m not being hired just because I’m a recognizable actor?”
VJ looked me in the eye and said, “I can assure you”—she smiled politely—“that you’re being hired in spite of it.”
I was deeply proud of the hard work we put in with Team Obama: all the late campaign nights, learning the craft of politics from scratch—I was relieved to know for sure that my private-sector career wasn’t the reason for my public-sector hire. My path to government wasn’t part of a grand strategy; if anything, it came out of a lack thereof. I knew that taking a leave of absence from Hollywood would be a risk, and it might be hard to get hired again if I stayed out of the acting game for a couple of years. It didn’t matter; taking a sabbatical to go work for the Obama White House felt right.
Sometimes it takes dedicated work, uploading a résumé onto a website, naively waiting by the phone for a call that never comes, and getting hazed by Michelle Obama in the realities of job hunting to push you along. Whatever the path, now that I was one of the ones we were waiting for, it was time to get to work. But first, I had to tell my parents.
I called them as soon as it was official, knowing how excited they’d be to learn that after moving to America and toiling so hard, their son had been hired to work for the first Black president of the United States.
On the other end of the line was my father, laughing maniacally.
“Dad, are you there?” I said, confident that he misheard something.
“Yeah,” he said, trying to catch his breath between giggles.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“I just can’t believe”—he was interrupted by his own full, deep laughter—“that after ten years of working so hard, you finally have a stable acting career, and you’re calling to tell me that you’re going to throw it all away to work in the government—” He burst out laughing again. “What do you want me to say? We told you not to become an actor and you did it anyway. Whatever our advice is, you’ll do what you know is the right thing for yourself.”
1?Ghee can be traced back to India circa 2000 BCE. You should not put it in your coffee.
2?Not my phrase, it’s the people who live in DC who call it that!
3?I’m not a complete idiot. I did send an email to the head of the transition to let him know I had applied on the website. But I never followed up with him （or anyone else）， so no one thought I was serious about it. Okay, I guess that fundamentally changes nothing and I’m still an idiot.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN A LETTER TO A THIRTY-ONE-YEAR-OLD ME
In our tenth-grade English class, we wrote two letters: one to our former selves, to teach us to embrace change and growth, and another to our future selves, to teach us how to set goals. Recently, as I thought back to my time in the White House, I realized how many of the things I learned there would have been good to know before going in. What if I could write a letter to my thirty-one-year-old self and give him some advice before his first day at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue? What words of wisdom could I impart so that he would be prepared to serve the country with honor and distinction?
* * *
Dear Baby Kal,
Can I just say that you look great? I feel like people didn’t tell me that enough. So, I’ll tell me now: You look great. No need to thank me; I’m you. But either way, I’m welcome.
I know you feel a fascinating combo of excitement and pressure, and you don’t want to screw this whole thing up. You haven’t worked in politics before and, already, a lot of people are paying attention to your decision to take this sabbatical from acting in weird ways.
You know all those super-original headlines like, “From White Castle to the White House!” and “From Dr. House to the White House!” that every publication thinks are unique? Yeah, you won’t stop seeing them anytime soon, so view it with amusement and shake it off like you will those adorable protestors who’ll excitedly show up at some of your Obama reelect events in a few years—it’s all a sign that you made it, son! Congratulations!
（Above: Such clever slogans!）
Remember, the only person you need to prove anything to is the guy who hired you, and he’s the president of the United States. So, tune out all the distractions, ignore the bullshit, and do the hard work you came here to do. With some practical tips from me, your future self, you’re going to do great.
Settling In
The West Wing is super small （you’ll see）。 As far back as 1799, most staffers have had offices in adjacent buildings within the White House grounds. Yours is in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, or EEOB for short. Giant, ornate, and seven levels tall, the EEOB spans a full block and originally housed the Navy, War, and State Departments. The vice president has a ceremonial office on the second floor, the National Security Council is above that, and—huge perk—there’s a bowling alley in the basement that you can reserve on occasion.