Chapter 28
In addition to that, he has wisdom, strength, empathy, and vision.
He has delivered on so many of his promises as president precisely because he’s learned a lot in those eighty-one years.
His age, with his experience and expertise, is an incredible asset, and he proves it every day.
Look at all he’s accomplished: He rescued our country from the depths of a pandemic.
He vaccinated an entire nation. He delivered one of the strongest economic recoveries in modern history.
He created fourteen million jobs. Gas prices are down.
Inflation is down. Energy costs are down.
He got bipartisan legislation passed—even in the midst of this hyper-partisan environment.
I wasn’t unaware of what Americans were feeling. Prices were still too high. Joe knew that. But the alternative would be far worse. Throughout our time in Washington, I’d seen how out of touch many politicians were.
Early in Joe’s career, a member of the Washington elite came and sat in our living room, full of the kids’ toys and our newspapers and whatever else, and he looked horrified by the casualness.
He said to me, in all seriousness, “Wow, I never saw paperbacks on a bookshelf.” That was the kind of snobbery of those days.
I told Joe what he said and we both laughed about it.
Nevertheless, we moved the paperbacks out of that room so we wouldn’t offend any of Joe’s other colleagues’ sensibilities.
Also that month, Vogue editor in chief Anna Wintour brilliantly organized the historic, three-thousand-person “Three Presidents” event at Radio City Music Hall.
Anna’s idea was for Joe to rise from the floor on a platform with Barack Obama and Bill Clinton.
However, some feared that the rising platform would be courting the nickname “Broadway Joe.” My feeling: Anna was always right about that sort of thing; regardless, it was her event, so she shouldn’t be second-guessed.
Her vision prevailed. It was moving watching the presidents rise into view together, all three of them looking happy and relaxed, such a contrast to the rallies of Joe’s lone, angry opponent.
The entertainment that night was amazing.
Lizzo was incredible, and Stephen Colbert did a great job leading a conversation in which Bill and Barack talked about how much good Joe had done.
The campaign this time was headquartered in Wilmington, not Philadelphia as before.
This was a real source of pride among Wilmingtonians, and Joe and I were so grateful for the warm welcome they gave our staff.
Young, bright minds and energy arrived from all across the country to work on the campaign.
Julie Chávez Rodriguez, Quentin Fulks, Rob Flaherty, and Jen O’Malley Dillon built an incredible team.
Growing up, I was a huge Barbra Streisand fan.
I even went to one of her farewell concerts.
Cut to the present day: There I was, on the phone with her, asking her to join an event for Joe that summer.
When I first called, she was asleep. When I called later from the beach in Rehoboth, she apologized for missing the call.
“Honey, I stay up until two or three in the morning and then sleep in,” she said.
Had Barbra Streisand—Babs herself—just called me “honey”? I’d met the queen of England, most of the leaders of the free world, and countless movie stars. But that was the starriest thing that had ever happened to me.
“No, no, don’t apologize!” I said. “I’m sorry I called in the morning. I do the opposite. I’m an early riser.” I told her I hoped she would come to LA to show her support for Joe at the fundraiser.
“I can’t write a speech,” she said.
I was sympathetic. Public speaking can be scary no matter how often you’re onstage.
My staff went through a phase of sending me speech revisions up until the last second, to the point where sometimes I was given only minutes to rehearse before jumping onstage.
Exasperated one day by the expectation that I perform well under those circumstances, I made a sign in Sharpie and posted it on the wall: i am not a robot.
“I’ll have it done for you,” I told Barbra.
“Well, how long?” she asked.
“Five to seven minutes?”
“No, too long.”
“How about three?”
“Okay—I’m so upset about what’s happening in the world right now,” she said. “All I want to do is drive around in my truck with my husband.”
Can you imagine pulling up next to Barbra in her truck at a stoplight?
“I’ll be wearing a big dress and flat shoes,” she said.
“Perfect,” I said.
When I was in eighth grade, I became obsessed with her album My Name Is Barbra. How many times did my friend Susan’s sister play that album? Over and over again. Now here we were—she, eighty-two; me, seventy-three—talking about flats versus heels. How strange life is sometimes.
At the event, I was, of course, thrilled to see her. She gave me a big hug and did a terrific job with her three-minute speech.
Joe seemed tired—overly tired. He was pushing too hard, traveling too much. Inside a couple of weeks, he’d done two round trips to Europe—for D-Day in France, back to Delaware, then to the G7 in Italy—and gone out to Los Angeles, then Delaware again, before heading to Camp David for debate prep.
I’d been on the road for a few weeks—at the launch of Seniors for Biden; doing talks in Wisconsin, Minnesota, California, and Arizona; then meeting with Women for Biden.
In addition to campaigning for Joe, I was teaching and had my First Lady tasks—sampling salmon entrées for a forthcoming NATO dinner, ordering the Christmas decorations, hosting Pride at the White House.
While Joe was preparing for the debate, I hit the trail again to keep the momentum going.
Carole King was scheduled to perform at a fundraiser held in a private home in Philadelphia’s Chestnut Hill neighborhood on June 24.
On that evening, she said she hadn’t been feeling well, and so while she’d be happy to perform, she wasn’t sure she’d be up to doing more than one song.
I said that would be plenty; it would just be amazing to have her there.
Dozens of people were crowded into the house, standing on steps all the way up the staircase to listen to her sing.
“I love coming to Philadelphia for events because you’re the only ones who understand my accent,” I said.
I told a brief account of the story of our life, and I said Joe was “the strong, steady one, always unflappable, always unflinching through highs and lows of our country and this world—a pandemic, an assault on the Capitol, war. He is that same steady leader. The faithful warrior battling for the soul of this nation.” I contrasted that with Joe’s opponent and the terrible things he’d said about veterans—calling John McCain “a loser” and “not a war hero” because he had been captured.
Finally, I said, “I know what’s on your mind, so let’s talk about age and this election. This election’s not about age. Joe and the other guy are about the same age. This election is about character, wisdom, and ability.”
I then introduced Carole, who did one song and then just kept going, singing “Up on the Roof,” “You’ve Got a Friend,” and “Where You Lead.” Looking around the room, it felt like we were all having a moment together—of joy, hope, and determination that we would not let chaos return to power.
The first presidential debate was set for June 27 in Atlanta, Georgia, to be hosted by CNN.
Joe was at debate camp from June 20 to June 27.
Essentially, that’s where the candidate is prepped daily by advisors and speechwriters.
Mock debates are held to prepare for various attacks or opportunities that might arise.
Sometimes the debate-prep team will even build a version of the set where the debate will be held and adjust everything to match it, from the lighting to the temperature, so when the candidate gets out onstage, surprises are kept to a minimum.
Joe and I talked every night. He seemed off to me.
But, always the optimist, Joe said he felt that things were going well.
On the day of the debate, I finished a campaign stop at Virginia Beach and headed to Atlanta.
Hotels on the trail are disorienting, because you get off the plane, the Secret Service puts you into a car, and you’re whisked to the location.
You’re never led through the elegant, marble-floored lobby.
For safety, you pull into an underground parking garage and are shuttled along a service-entrance path that inevitably wends right by garbage cans reeking of rotting room service leftovers mixed with discarded mini shampoos—an odor so sour and pungent that it almost knocks you down.
Typically, you’re ushered through an industrial kitchen, its floors alternately sticky and slippery.
Often, by the time you get through the underground maze to your room, you have no idea what hotel you’re at, what floor you’re on, what city you’re in.
After such a journey, I arrived at the hotel suite where Joe was staying.
When I got to the suite, I saw the usual buffet laid out on the counter—always ridiculous amounts of food—and the TV turned to a news channel.
I saw his aides Annie Tomasini and Jacob Spreyer, and I asked them where Joe was.
Jacob said he was taking a nap, and he pointed to one of the bedrooms. I walked in and Joe looked bleary. He had just woken up.
“Joe,” I said, “you’ve got to get ready. Makeup’s coming in.”
“I don’t feel well,” he said. His voice sounded raspy.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
He said, “I don’t know. I just don’t feel well.”
Joe had often been sick or exhausted going into a major event, but he was instantly cured when he walked out on a stage. I’ve heard actors refer to this as “Dr. Footlights.” I’ve seen it again and again with Joe and public events.