I mean that sincerely. For some people in Obamaworld, POTUS included, the White House was the climax of a life story. But for many more it wasn’t. Like thousands of my fellow staffers, working for the president was my first real job out of college. Our names don’t belong in the history books. No professors will devote their lives to examining choices we made. Still, there are questions that need answers. Was going into government the right way to spend our twenties? What should the next generation do differently? Where do we go from here?
Whenever I ask myself these questions, I remember my college commencement speaker, former British prime minister Tony Blair. I don’t recall a word he said, but I do recall thinking his speech should have been titled, “Amusing Things That Happened to Me, Former British Prime Minister Tony Blair.” He riffled through anecdotes, made fun of the French, and told us to follow our hearts. Not exactly profound.
Yet without meaning to, I took his advice. I didn’t enter government out of high-minded principle. I did it because, for a brief period coinciding with my graduation, there was no more exciting place to be. My heart blazed a trail to the bureaucracy. I followed obediently behind.
Which is how, entirely by accident, I chose wisely. My two terms in Obamaworld didn’t convince me everyone should go into politics. But they did convince me everyone should go into public service. This is not a matter of job description. Instead, it’s a matter of moral orientation, about regularly and honestly asking, “Am I doing enough good?” If you devote yourself only to yourself—if your heart strives above all else for fame, or money, or power, or even happiness—I’m not saying you’re a bad person. But you are making a bad choice.
Choose service instead. Not because The World Needs You. It probably doesn’t. The world will be fine, and if it won’t be fine, you alone can’t fix it. Choose service because there is nothing more insufferable than a talented, driven person who is also completely self-obsessed. Those people are awful. They spend their lives trying to fill a hole and digging it deeper instead. Anyone can be successful. Only service can make you realize how insignificant—and yet how meaningful—your time on earth really is.
No less important, if you’re a young person, public service will teach you stuff you didn’t learn in school.
Eight years in Obamaworld taught me perseverance. As a twenty-one-year-old, I assumed people on the right side of history were accompanied by a serene, ever-present glow. I figured doing good meant feeling good. Otherwise, why bother?
Today when I think about the right side of history, I remember a colleague’s going-away party. At the end of the evening, one of his mentors gave a toast.
“For an entire year, Jacob took data from memos and turned it into PowerPoints. Then he took those exact same PowerPoints, and turned them back into memos.” After a pause for knowing laughter, the toast continued.
“And because he did that, 140 million American workers got a payroll tax cut.”
I have no doubt both halves of this anecdote are true. Yes, change comes from marchers, and visionaries, and freedom fighters. But I know now that change also comes from office workers in stuffy buildings with ugly wall-to-wall carpet. Change comes from people who set a worthy goal, put themselves in position to achieve it, and keep working long after the warm and fuzzy feelings disappear. Barack Obama’s election was a triumph of hope. But his presidency was a triumph of persistence.
Eight years in Obamaworld taught me focus. Each news cycle—already shrunk to twenty-four hours when POTUS took office—lasted mere seconds by the time he left. He faced constant pressure to approach every issue with the frantic, hair-on-fire urgency of a tweet. More than once, I found myself frustrated by the president’s patience. To me it seemed more like delay. But nine times out of ten, Obama was right. The secret to solving big problems, I learned, is knowing which little problems to ignore.
The list of Things Obamaworld Taught Me could go on for several pages. I learned that decisions are only as good as the decision-making process. That generosity is a habit and not a trait. That all human beings, even presidents, look goofy chewing gum.
But here, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is the single most valuable lesson I learned in public service: There are no grown-ups, at least not in the way I imagined as a kid. Once you reach a certain age, the world has no more parents. But it contains a truly shocking number of children. These children come in all ages, in all sizes, from every walk of life and every corner of the political map.
And this is the reason I’m most grateful for my time in Obamaworld. For eight formative years, often against my will, I was forced to act like an adult. Children strive for pleasure; adults for fulfillment. Children demand adoration; adults earn respect. Children find worth in what they acquire; adults find worth in the responsibilities they bear. And more than anything else, what separates adults and children is the way in which they love.
I didn’t always understand this. One night in 2011, during the first month Jacqui and I were dating, I had a few too many Island Juleps and began to ramble.
“The problem,” I announced, “is that there’s not enough love in our politics.”
In hindsight, I had no clue what I was talking about. If you’re a certain type of young person in Washington, this is simply what you say to someone you hope will sleep with you. I consider myself lucky it worked. But if pressed, I suppose I would have admitted that by love I meant something more like infatuation. It was the way I felt the very first time I saw that freshman senator from Illinois. He’s flawless! He gets me! Only he can make the world as perfect as he is!
What I know now is that this kind of love, while wonderful, is for kids. Real love—for a president, for a person, for a country—is more textured than that. Real love is about fighting for something long after its flaws are laid bare. It’s about caring so deeply, you have no choice but to place another’s well-being above your own. Love is not a feeling. It transcends feelings. Love is what allows us to be disillusioned and to somehow still believe.
And love has a way of brightening even the darkest moments. Just four days after Trump was elected president, I got down on one knee and asked Jacqui to continue believing in me, no matter how disillusioned she became. I think I put it more romantically than that. It was kind of a blur. Regardless, I consider myself lucky she said yes.
IT’S A STRANGE THING TO SAY, BUT I SUSPECT OUR NEW CHIEF executive has no idea how I felt when Jacqui agreed to marry me. Along with his other flaws—or really, at the root of them—Donald Trump is a seventy-year-old kid.
By the time I visit Zoe Lihn in Phoenix, eight days after the inauguration, it’s becoming clear that installing a toddler in the White House has consequences. Week one of the Trump presidency has featured countless rounds of a game I call “How much worse is America since I last checked my phone?”