my dumb sunburned face grinning back at obama
"The White House would like you to participate in a grassroots greet with President Obama before his speech begins in Costa Mesa."
When you get an email like that, this is how you react, if you're me:
[insert furrowed-brow, slack-jawed, staring silence here, interrupted only when someone punches you in the shoulder to check that you're still alive]
(Yes, that happened.)
I’ve no idea how the group of ten was chosen; I was barely even able to comprehend that I was lucky enough to be in it. But you don't question these things.
"Oh my god, what are you going to SAY to him?" demanded the people I had time to tell in advance.
I don't know -- what do you say to the President of the United States, Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, Leader of the Free World, who you just spent the last 14 months of your life devoted to electing? Do you try to impress him with your wit and erudition, or do you just embrace your plebian unworthiness and call it a success if you don't drool on him?
I considered asking the native Hawaiian for insider tips on my pending visit to Oahu, or self-deprecating over my embarrassing snowboarding raccoon tan. ("I would have used SPF 500 if I'd known I’d be meeting the President!” Har har.)
But for all the time I spent in the brutal, intense labor of love that was electing Barack Obama, all I've ever really wanted from him is a hug.
Why? I'm not even sure. Kind of an instinctual thing I can’t put into words. He just seems like he'd a good hugger. And I'm big on hugs. So for me, a hug would be the perfect coda to this long journey that the President has no idea I've taken with him.
Just a hug. No big deal, right?
Mmm. No. Big deal, for me. People who know me realize how indescribably awesome it is for me to get within five feet of Obama. And people who know me very well realize how terribly shy I can be, especially in asking for something I want.
And, pacing anxiously with nine other people in a curtained, makeshift room just outside the OC Fairgrounds event hall, I'm not sure I'll have the courage to ask. I wrestle and weigh and marinate on this silly question that probably very few other people would struggle with, and after 15 minutes of working up some nerve -- and sweat in my suit in the warm California day -- the calculus equation comes out on the side of popping the question. This is my only chance, and the worst he can do is say no. He’s not going to call a drone strike on me for asking. Probably.
I mill about with my other “grassroots” selectees. We make small talk as we wade through the thick air of anticipation. We’re all hopped up like kindergarteners on Christmas Eve who can hear hooves on the roof.
Abruptly, the Beast rolls up, and some cosmic joker rudely hits “fast forward” on Time. Obama’s unmistakable, angular frame unfolds from the depths -- an island of calm, controlled confidence amid a sea of buzzing aides. He waves and calls out, "Hi, guys!" We offer a feeble, awed chorus of return greetings. He strides toward a fellow team member and friend, Alisa, who graciously steps forward to offer her hand and welcome him to Orange County.
Alisa still has her wits about her. That makes one of us.
He stops and chats for a few seconds with each person, asking each name, appearing to cherish the interaction. I’m in the middle of the line, and the whole experience is moving too fast for me to process properly. The closer he gets, the more my bones dissolve into wet noodles and my brain into cream of wheat.
And very suddenly, this lanky, mocha-skinned luminary is towering over me, holding me helpless in a force field of mesmerizing, laser-beam eye contact. I think I was making eye contact? He bears a gentle smile and an outstretched hand that mine disappears into.
"What's your name?" He asks like he truly cares.
Blank.
Oh my god. I wasn’t expecting him to ask me questions.
What is my name?
Oh my god, POTUS is giving me a pop quiz, and I'm FAILING.
I age 3 decades in panic.
Finally, I grasp it — and gracelessly announce it like it’s the first time I’ve ever successfully said it aloud. "Elyssa!"
Whew.
That was close. Obama, please don’t ask me any more questions.
His electric smile grows wider, and he gives a nod, still paralyzing me with his bizarrely comforting eye contact rays. "It's very nice to meet you, Elyssa."
I’m pretty sure he can tell I’m non-functional and feels slightly sorry for me. It’s also quite possible he thinks I rode here in a short bus, which would be an entirely fair conclusion on his part.
"It's so nice to meet you," I gasp. Which makes me realize I’m not breathing.
Okay. Breathe. Deep breath.
Gone is the talk of Hawaii or my dumb sunburned face.
Come on. Do it. Pull the trigger.
Despite being a grown-ass, take-charge, almost-30-year-old woman, I feel a pleading-little-girl look uncontrollably creep onto my face.
"President Obama... can I have a hug?"
He breaks out into a grin. "Of course."
And the long arms of the executive branch envelop me in a warm, worsted wool womb of Presidential power. "I appreciate you," he murmurs.
Ha. He appreciates me.
So.
I can't really describe what it's like to be hugged by the President, and I can only speak from my unique bias, but I'm obliged to try.
First, consider: This man has the world on his shoulders. The number of seemingly insurmountable crises he and his advisers must unsnarl is overwhelming. Yet he gives the sense that he is there with you; that he is not distracted at that moment with the global economy, or Afghanistan, or subprime mortgages, or single-payer healthcare, or any of the thousands of other troubles, seen and unseen by the unwashed masses, that must plague his days. A feeling of power and peace permeates his presence, like being embraced by a tiger whose last incarnation was Mahatma Gandhi.
He defines well what a "hug" should be from someone in his position: held but not awkward, warm but not sweaty, firm but not constricting, caring but not smarmy. My friend Erik, who has also hugged him, would agree: strength, love, and a tranquil energy flow around him, and through him, into you. You are overcome with the feeling that everything is and will be all right.
Strangely, there's also something about the hug that might almost make you think that it's just as much for him as it is for you.
I'm clearly overemotional as I write this so closely after the event, and I’m unquestionably biased, and no doubt the hundreds of thousands of hours that thousands of volunteers in my region and I dedicated to his campaign is skewing my perception, but Obama-up-close was a nearly spiritual experience for me that words simply fail to encapsulate.
Truly, we have a remarkable individual leading this country; human, with flaws as we all have, but remarkable nonetheless, and someone that I can say, with the confidence begat by experience, is one of the best huggers I've ever met.
They were five (or .5? or 15?) of the most incredible seconds of my life.
After I blubbered some kind of gratitude -- for his acknowledgement, for his hug, for his existence -- Obama continued on down the line, shaking hands, making friends. We took a group picture, and then he was whisked away to proclaim himself accountable for the condition and direction of our nation to 2,000 Californians, leaving me in a state of “shock and awe” unlike anything his predecessor could conceive.
The lesson here is this: should you ever be in a situation to ask this compelling, considered, and soulful man for a hug, just go for it. He won't say no.
And you won't regret it.
