You know, it’s rare that I look back on my life and wish I had gone in another direction, but reading this year-old Times article about Jon Faverau, Barack Obama’s 27-year-old chief speechwriter, my mind pulled a Sliding Doors. For a minute I imagined what it might have been like had I stayed on the Hill, had I continued in politics. I was only nineteen when I started working as a legislative correspondent in the 107th congress - a baby, honestly - but only three years younger than my mom when she worked for Nixon (as a speechwriter) and not that much younger than Jon when he met Barack.
Actually, I went to one of Barack’s first fundraisers, in my neighbor’s backyard back home in Chicago. There must have been thirty other people there, and I shook his hand, and talked with him for a bit. I’m embarrassed to admit what we spoke about … (cringe) … it concerned a former fling of mine, whom we both knew. Of all things. Sigh.
And it’s occurred to me, from time to time, as I watched his meteoric political rise, that I could have tagged along. That I was there at the right time and the right place with the right background and the right degree … and I walked right on by.
I would be lying if I told you that today, reading that article and riding this bus, that realization didn’t kill me just a little bit.
