Yet the people running the country didn’t see it that way. With George W. Bush in the White House, millionaires and billionaires were showered with tax cuts. Meanwhile, schools went underfunded. Roads and bridges deteriorated. Household incomes languished. Deficits ballooned.
And America went to war. President Bush invaded Iraq to destroy weapons of mass destruction, a campaign which hit a snag when it turned out those weapons didn’t exist. But by then it was too late. We had broken a country and owned the resulting mess. Colin Powell called this “the Pottery Barn rule,” which, admittedly, was cute. Still, it’s hard to imagine a visit to Pottery Barn that costs trillions of dollars and thousands of American lives.
Our leaders, in other words, had made bad choices. They would therefore be replaced with better ones. That’s how AP Government told me the system worked. In the real world, however, the invasion of Iraq became an excuse for a dark and antidemocratic turn. Those who questioned the war, the torture of prisoners—or even just the tax cuts—found themselves accused of something barely short of treason. No longer was a distinction made between supporting the president’s policies and America’s troops. As an electoral strategy, this was dangerous and cynical. Also, it worked.
So no, I didn’t grow up with a high opinion of politicians. But I did grow up in the kind of environment where people constantly told me I could change the world. In 2004, eager to prove them right, I volunteered for John Kerry’s presidential campaign.
In theory, we stood on the right side of history. For equality! For opportunity! For the little guy! In practice, however, being branded un-American left Democrats meek and skittish, like the Munchkins before Dorothy arrives. I had no doubt Kerry would make a better president than Bush, yet he never seemed confident when stating his case. It was as though he spent an entire campaign arguing that the most talented Beatle was Ringo. When he lost, I was devastated. More than that, however, I was embarrassed. I had allowed myself to believe my meager actions could alter a country’s course. How foolish that seemed now. How naive.
I was done with politics. And I was through believing in clichés. “Changing the world” was for hypocrites, the kind of people who were outraged by a nonorganic tomato but never asked questions about their weed. “Taking our country back” was for budding white-collar criminals who wore suits and ties to class.
And me? Once I realized I couldn’t change the world, I doubled down on making fun of it. My greatest passion in college was my improv comedy group. My second-greatest passion was a humor magazine. When I arrived at The Onion and discovered that my happiest coworkers were goofy, awkward nihilists, I wasn’t disenchanted. I was thrilled. I longed to be charmingly bitter. I dreamed of one day melting down in meetings before storming out of rooms. I was determined to write the best gosh-darned jokes about the weather the paper had ever seen!
Cloudy with a chance of meatballs. Cloudy with a chance of meatballs. Cloudy with a chance of meatballs.
It can be hard, at times, to distinguish between the absence of talent and the presence of destiny. When I began my dream job, I imagined buying a wholesale tub of maxipads and following in my boss’s footsteps, or, if his skates were deployed, his tracks. But when August rolled around, my fellow intern Mariana had landed about six jokes in the paper. I had landed about none.
You know, I thought, maybe this job isn’t so meaningful after all.
For the first time in my life, I was seeking a higher purpose, but after my experience with the Kerry campaign, politics never crossed my mind. Instead, I applied to join the CIA. With my major in history and leadership experience directing my comedy troupe, I figured I was the perfect person to bring Osama bin Laden to justice.
I don’t remember where I was when the CIA called, although since it was my senior year of college, I was probably either recovering from a hangover or acquiring one. I also don’t remember my interviewer’s name. I do, however, recall that it was something all-American, like Chip or Jimmy. I also remember that he sounded surprisingly sunny, as though he were selling time-shares or cutlery door-to-door.
“Alrighty now,” said Buddy, or maybe even Tex. “Just to kick things off, have you used any prohibited substances in the past year?”
If I had lied to the CIA, perhaps I might have passed a test. Instead of writing a book about the White House, I’d be poisoning a drug kingpin with a dart gun concealed inside a slightly larger dart gun, or making love to a breathy supermodel in the interest of national security. I’ll never know. I confessed to smoking pot two months before.
The sunniness vanished from my interviewer’s voice. “Normally we like people who break the rules,” Skipper told me, “but we can’t consider anyone who’s used illegal substances in the past twelve months.” Just like that, my career as a terrorist hunter was over.
I thought my yearning for higher purpose would vanish with my CIA dreams, the way a Styrofoam container follows last night’s Chinese food into the trash. To my surprise, it stuck around. In the weeks that followed, I pictured myself in all sorts of identities: hipster, world traveler, banker, white guy who plays blues guitar. But these personas were like jeans a half size too small. Trying them on gave me an uncomfortable gut feeling and put my flaws on full display. My search for replacement selves began in November. By New Year’s Eve I was mired in the kind of existential funk that leads people to find Jesus, or the Paleo diet, or Ayn Rand.
Instead, on January 3, I found a candidate.
I was on an airplane when I discovered him, preparing for our initial descent into JFK. This was during the early days of live in-flight television, and I was halfway between the Home Shopping Network and one of the lesser ESPNs when I stumbled across coverage of a campaign rally in Iowa. Apparently, a caucus had just finished. Speeches were about to begin. With nothing better to occupy my time, I confirmed that my seat belt was fully fastened. I made sure my tray table was locked. Then, with the arena shrunk to fit my tiny seatback screen, I watched a two-inch-tall guy declare victory.
It’s not like I hadn’t heard about Barack Obama. I had heard his keynote speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention. His presidential campaign had energized my more earnest friends. But I was far too mature to take them seriously. They supported someone with the middle name Hussein to be president of the United States. While they were at it, why not cast a ballot for the Tooth Fairy? Why not nominate Whoopi Goldberg for pope?