was now FLOTUS—First Lady of the United States—to Barack’s POTUS. It was time to celebrate.
That night, Barack and I went to the Neighborhood Ball, the first inaugural ball ever to be broadly accessible and affordable to the general public and where Beyoncé—real-life Beyoncé—sang a stunning, full-throated rendition of the R&B classic “At Last,” which we’d chosen as our “first dance” song. From there, we moved on to a Home States Ball and after that to the Commander in Chief Ball, then onward to the Youth Ball, and six more beyond that. Our stay at each one was relatively brief and pretty much exactly the same: A band played “Hail to the Chief,” Barack made a few remarks, we tried to beam our appreciation to those who’d come, and as everyone stood and watched, we slow danced yet another time to “At Last.”
I held on to my husband each time, my eyes finding the calm in his. We were still the same seesawing, yin-and-yang duo we’d been for twenty years now and still connected by a visceral and grounding love. This was one thing I was always content to show.
As the hour got late, however, I could feel myself starting to sag.
The best part of the evening was supposed to be what came last—a private party being held for a couple hundred of our friends back at the White House. It was there that we’d finally be able to let down, have some champagne, and stop worrying about how we appeared. For sure, I’d be taking off my shoes.
It was close to 2:00 a.m. by the time we got ourselves there. Barack and I walked across the marble floors leading to the East Room to find the party in full swing, drinks flowing and elegantly dressed people swirling beneath the sparkling chandeliers. Wynton Marsalis and his band were playing jazz on a small stage at the back of the room. I saw friends from nearly every phase of my life—Princeton friends, Harvard friends, Chicago friends, Robinsons and Shieldses galore. These were the people I wanted to laugh with, to say, How in holy hell did we all get here?
But I was done. I’d hit a final fence line. I was also thinking ahead, knowing that the next morning—really just a matter of hours from now—we’d be going to the National Prayer Service and after that we’d stand and greet two hundred members of the public who were coming to visit the White House. Barack looked at me, reading my thoughts. “You don’t need to do this,” he said. “It’s okay.”
Partygoers were moving toward me now, eager to interact. Here came a donor. Here was the mayor of a big city. “Michelle! Michelle!” people were calling. I was so exhausted I thought I might cry.
As Barack stepped over the threshold and got promptly sucked into the room, I froze for a split second, then pivoted and fled. I had no energy left to verbalize some First Lady–like excuse or even wave to my friends. I just walked quickly away over the thick red carpet, ignoring the agents who trailed behind me, ignoring everything as I found the elevator to the residence and took myself there—down an unfamiliar hallway and into an unfamiliar room, out of my shoes and out of my gown and into our strange new bed.
20
People ask what it’s like to live in the White House. I sometimes say that it’s a bit like what I imagine living in a fancy hotel might be like, only the fancy hotel has no other guests in it—just you and your family. There are fresh flowers everywhere, with new ones brought in almost every day. The building itself feels old and a little intimidating. The walls are so thick and the planking on the floors so solid that sound in the residence seems to get absorbed quickly. The windows are grand and tall and also fitted with bomb-resistant glass, kept shut at all times for security reasons, which further adds to the stillness. The place is kept immaculately clean. There’s a staff made up of ushers, chefs, housekeepers, florists, and also electricians, painters, and plumbers, everyone coming and going politely and quietly, doing their best to keep a low profile, waiting until you’ve moved out of a room before slipping in to change the towels or put a fresh gardenia in the little vase at the side of your bed.