Features

Before flying to Washington for my Yale class of ‘68 college reunion dinner at the White House, Lisa and I bought gifts for the Bushes. We picked up an “I love Berkeley” T-shirt for the President, complete with peace sign—he won’t get too many of those, we figured—and a book for Laura. 

In the taxi, after the thrill of telling the driver, “We’re going to the White House,” we were still wondering what to say to him, and also wondering if we were foolish to worry about it. Would he even show up? If he did, would he be there for more than 20 minutes (“Sorry, got to get on the phone to mah buddy Putin”), and would we get anywhere near him? 

Getting in to the White House was a bit like getting on a plane, but with tougher carry-on restrictions. Once inside, an aide relieved us of our gifts, which went into a large envelope, no doubt to be tested for anthrax, radioactivity or unwelcome ideology. (Will we get a thank you note?) Then we were “briefed” by a soldier in full-dress uniform: no photos in the reception line (ah—so we were going to get our 10 seconds with him, at least) and no stopping for autographs. 

Then through another door, around a corner, and ... there they were, just the two of them.  

Your first thought is that the cameras are unkind to George W. Bush: he’s much better looking in person, tanned and fit and utterly at ease. The smile and handshake are warm, he looks you in the eye, and he seems genuinely pleased to see you, even if you’re short, bearded and Berkeleyan. 

Lisa went first. 

“Oh my God,” she said. “This is so exciting: here you are!” 

“Aw,” the president told us, “it’s gonna be fun.” 

Then it was my turn.  

“When you get the T-shirt that says ‘I love Berkeley,’ that’s from us,” I said, shaking the hand. 

He laughed. Wow—I got a laugh out of him.  

“Berkeley, eh. You have any reunions in Berkeley?” 

I had no reply to that one, so it was on to Laura. We mumbled something about the novel we had brought her and we were done. 

And were we charmed? Oh yes. We didn’t cry, as another guest did, telling Dubya how proud she was of him and of our country, but we were thoroughly star-struck. 

After dinner, for a good two or three hours and without looking anything but delighted, Bush stood at the center of a pulsating throng, as people (including Lisa) elbowed their way through for another handshake, a photo, an autograph. When Lisa reached him, he took the camera from her, held it out at arm’s length and snapped a photo. “Do you think Ah cut our heads off?” he asked. (He didn’t.) 

People wanted physical contact with him, and Bush was glad to oblige: everyone got a presidential hug or a presidential arm around the shoulder. Everyone—corporate greyhounds with swept-back silver hair, frumpy or elegant wives, a rabbi with a yarmulke—had the goofy, ecstatic smile of a kid at Disneyland. (“Mommy, Mickey gave me a hug!”)  

The party was scheduled to end at 9, but Mickey seemed tireless: at 10:30, he was still going strong. Then he bounded upstairs, propelled by further applause, and vanished into the private quarters. I applauded, too—it was impossible not to—and I understood that what we said and what he said didn’t matter at all. What mattered was the handshake and the exchange of smiles and of something spoken—it could have been nonsense syllables (and nearly was).  

When the almost inconceivable power of the office is combined with affability, a kind of magic takes place. Call it charisma, call it transference, call it whatever you like. You may be nauseated by bombed civilians and cheap aircraft-carrier theatrics. You may wonder, in your cooler moments, about the missing weapons of mass destruction or grind your teeth over right-wing appointments to the federal bench. 

I defy you to resist the spell when you’re there in the White House and the magic is aimed right at you. I defy you, at that moment, not to feel and behave like a groupie. Presidential magic is a great leveler. The high and mighty I had wanted to avoid were just as eager for their hugs and photos as the humblest of us. I had feared that the reunion would leave me feeling smaller. Instead, I talked to two or three classmates I hadn’t seen for 35 years, found that we still liked each other a lot, and came away grateful and restored.  

Between the hoopla and my old friends, Lisa and I were too excited to sleep until well after midnight. While the flashbulbs were popping, she had turned to me and said, half jokingly, “Do you think we’ll have to vote for him now?” We had returned to our senses by breakfast the next morning, but we really did have fun at his party. There, at least, mah buddy George knew what he was talking about.