–A rejected section from my proposed opening remarks at the 2012 Democratic National Convention.
In all, I had the honor of serving in the Obama Administration for just over two years—a year longer than I initially planned. While the shorter-term victories had been meaningful, I hadn’t wanted to leave until we finished with some of the bigger items I had the privilege of working on: passage of the Affordable Care Act, repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, an attempt at the DREAM Act, doubling the Pell Grant. I felt a sense of grounded humility in knowing there were people whose lives would be better off because of small but consequential decisions our team was part of making. In all, working in government reinforced the reality that when citizens are more involved, good things can happen. When you work at a place like the White House, you realize early on that none of it is actually about you. You take an oath to protect and defend the Constitution, and have the honor of serving the public.
When it was finally time to leave Washington and transition back to my acting career, when I took that photo of Gandhi off my office wall1 and packed it with the American flag I kept on my desk, I felt more hopeful than ever about our collective ability to impact the democratic process. If more people got involved, paid attention, spoke up, and partnered on the issues they cared about, we could push the country so far forward.
I felt lucky too for things in my personal life. Josh had decided to join me for the move back to Los Angeles, and as we settled down on the West Coast, the transition was made even better by my two new jobs. First, a recurring role on season seven of one of my favorite sitcoms, How I Met Your Mother. Then, a holding deal with CBS Television that culminated with a role on the short-lived comedy We Are Men with Tony Shalhoub, Jerry O’Connell, and Chris Smith.
That there was positivity in the move back to LA is not to say there weren’t frustrations or missteps. One of my first film auditions after the White House was supposed to be for a movie in which Denzel Washington plays an airline pilot. For about a week, Spilo excitedly updated me on when I might be called to read for the project. “They’re interested in you!” he’d say. “They’re calling in a few days with more information.”
When nothing materialized a couple of weeks later, I called Dan and learned that one of the producers ultimately felt they couldn’t hire me because they already had a performer of color in the cast.
“They don’t want to waste your time by asking you to come in, since they already know they won’t cast you.”
Curious about my competition, I poked Dan for more info.
“Who else did they cast?”
“Well, Denzel,” he said.
“Wait, you’re saying that they told you I can’t be in the movie because they already have a person of color and that person of color is Denzel Washington?!”
“Something like that, yup.”
“But we aren’t even on the same level!”
“Oh, trust me, I know.”
I got hot-tempered.
“Give me the casting director’s phone number.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to call them and tell them that if the real first Black president of the United States didn’t have a problem hiring a real brown guy at the real White House, maybe a fake airline wouldn’t have an issue hiring real black and brown guys to work together in a movie!”
Dan shrugged it off with a polite laugh. “Welcome back to Hollywood, Kal.”
* * *
You’d think that with experiences ranging from instances of frustration to microaggressions to straight-up overt racism, I’d be well versed in the nuances of how bigotry and power work. Sadly, that hasn’t always been the case.
I was scrolling through Twitter one afternoon on the We Are Men set when I came across an op-ed from then–New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg. In the piece, Bloomberg （who I felt disarmed by upon reading that he was friendly with Obama） at first seemed reasonable to me in outlining the merits of what he described as an anti-crime initiative that allowed cops to target violent suspects, called Stop-and-Frisk. I would quickly learn that Stop-and-Frisk was actually an abhorrent racial profiling policy.
Brashly convinced by the case Bloomberg was making at the time, I retweeted the article along with misguided follow-up rants. I even grew arrogant and defensive when people tried to point out I was horribly, unquestionably wrong. I dug a deeper and deeper hole of idiocy until my phone rang off the hook. Advocates in Washington, DC, who I’d worked with were confused, and furious. “What are you tweeting?” one of them texted. “You’re advocating for racial profiling. You don’t seriously believe any of this stuff, unless something recently changed. We need to talk, immediately.”
That wake-up call came too late. I handled what should have been a series of apologies completely the wrong way because I still didn’t fundamentally understand what the Stop-and-Frisk policy that I had tweeted in support of actually was. By the time I did learn—thanks to the countless friends and followers who reached out and spoke to me slowly like a third-grader who needs to be taught the rules of tic-tac-toe—I had hurt a lot of people. In the process, I’d given voice to right-wing zealots who scoured the internet for unlikely allies. To this day, I remain deeply sorry.
The entire situation made me think, if someone like me—who has actively worked on progressive causes and passionately talks about his own experiences dealing with discrimination—can get so easily baited by a dangerous combination of internalized, anti-Black racism and gaslighting, what about those even less informed? How was it possible that I was so blind to these wrongs and so ignorant of the need to coalition-build and stand up for our Black brothers and sisters? Those of us who have experienced one form of racism can often be blind to the ways in which we perpetuate it.
I swore I’d use my platform to check my own privilege and help make things right. In a process that continues today, I began to dialogue with and support organizations that do necessary racial justice work （starting with groups like South Asian Americans Leading Together and early iterations of what is now the Black Lives Matter movement）， helping out where I could. The whole thing was inexcusable. A hurtful experience for many people, and though the phrase makes me cringe, a teachable moment in the end.
* * *
After about six months back in Los Angeles, I got an unexpected email from my former White House coworker Buffy Wicks. Buffy had left OPE to become director of the reelection campaign’s grassroots strategy known as Operation Vote. “Got a minute for a call?” she asked. On the phone I learned that the Obama/Biden 2012 team was asking me to serve as one of thirty-five national cochairs for the reelection campaign （aka the reelect）。 The position would be part-time and pro bono. I said yes immediately.
The other cochairs were bona fide A-listers in their worlds. I had briefly met a few of them, like Senator Dick Durbin （“I’m a fan of your show House”）， then attorney general of California Kamala Harris （“I’m here in Des Moines to knock on doors because we want to make sure everybody caucuses for Barack!”）， and Massachusetts governor Deval Patrick （“Whoa Kal, Josh is really hot. Don’t fuck it up”2）。 I hadn’t met most of the others, like CEO of PSP Partners Penny Pritzker and retired navy admiral John Nathman—both clearly a big deal in their own worlds. Regardless of any previous interactions, the fact that I was in the company of such serious and accomplished humans gave me momentary impostor syndrome. It’s like having John, Paul, George, Ringo, and… Kirby. At least that was the sensation.