Inside Out

The State of the Union.

A few times a week, I work at a pet store—a welcome, if sometimes onerous, break from thinking and writing about politics.

It was slow last night, and one of my co-workers speculated that the only thing going on, comparable to a big national event, was the State of the Union. In awkward laughter and recognition, we quickly dismissed the idea that anyone would be running home to catch it.

I thought to myself how many of these speeches I’ve sat through. The first year after I left Washington D.C., I was living in Los Angeles. On Tuesday nights, I’d take my spaniel to a dog training class. The class was held off a dirt road north of the city, and I’d spend an amount of time getting there and back on the freeways that only made sense if you lived in LA. I caught the speech that night, given by Joe Biden, on the radio as I shoved Chipotle in my face while cruising down the 210 freeway with my perfect little dog in the backseat.

In D.C., the State of the Union is akin to the Super Bowl. The buildings around the Capitol shut down early in the day for a massive security sweep. In the evenings, my fellow staffers and I would walk down North Capitol Street—the home of the Capitol Hill bar scene—to pick up pizzas for the office.

Big events—the inauguration, protests, press conferences—were a communications staffer’s time to shine. On few other occasions was our role so clearly pronounced. I’d feel a sense of pride knowing that I belonged somewhere—that I had a job to do and, ostensibly, the country was watching.

In a moment of tourist-like glee, the junior staffers would crowd around the office windows to watch the President’s motorcade storm by, our view obstructed by the grandiose marble columns that held up the House office buildings. I’d take a video and post it to my Instagram story.

My role as a press secretary to a member of the House on those nights was twofold. During the day, I’d coordinate media interviews for my boss and her guest. Every member brought a “guest” to the speech—someone chosen to represent the interests of ordinary people: a health care worker, an activist, an immigrant mom. I’d shepherd them to “media row,” which is exactly what it sounds like—a long line of TV cameras and crews set up in the Capitol building. They’d do one hit after another, and I’d shadow them with my two phones and a binder full of carefully crafted talking points in tow.

Once the boss and guest were safely off to the speech, I’d sit at my desk, where a version of the statement we’d be sending out later that night stared back at me. The script was 75% written; we’d just need a few details from the speech to make it complete. Democratic leadership had sent out “messaging guidance” that read something like this: “Donald Trump and his Republican cronies are working to steal the health care of hardworking Americans. Democrats are For The People.” I’d fire it off as a tweet.

About ten minutes before the President took to the podium, another email from Democratic leadership would pop up on my screen. It was an advance copy of the entire speech, sent out by someone high up who had access. This filled me with exhilaration—a hyperinflated sense of self-importance.

When the speech was over and the statements had been sent out, I’d join an exodus of suited staffers on the curb waiting for Ubers. The driver who picked me up would sometimes mention that he begrudgingly caught the speech and didn’t see much value in it. I’d politely listen, high on my own experience of the event.

Last night at the store, I was in one of the back aisles, reorganizing the shelves before we closed. A man turned the corner. I recognized him immediately—I had helped him a few weeks prior pick out supplies for the puppy he was getting ready to bring home. It was the same breed as mine. I noticed his face was beaming with pride. In his arms was a perfect, chunky springer spaniel puppy he’d brought in to show me. “I picked him up four days ago,” he said. A recounting of each day that comes to those tasked with caretaking for something so precious and so little. I fawned over the dog and asked how things were going at home. I told him stories of when mine was that little.

The store I work at sits in a corporate park off the highway, with its maze of parking lots and brightly lit superstores. I walked past the other businesses as employees completed their closing checklists—dry mop, check the freezers, close the register. When I got home, I didn’t even check the speech, I was too tired.