Personal Statement (4 page)

“Governor Watson, if I may,” an intense meteorologist named Eliza Mason interjects. “Even though their effects on human populations can be devastating, tropical cyclones—or hurricanes, as they’re more commonly known—can not only relieve the drought conditions we’ve been plagued with this past summer, but they also carry heat energy away from the tropics, making them an important part of the global atmospheric circulation mechanism, maintaining equilibrium in the Earth’s troposphere. As a result, storms like are actually a good thing.”

The dozen or so “weather experts” begin to talk at once, debating the relevance of Eliza’s statement, fighting for stage time and the governor’s attention. I have no idea what any of them are saying. Considering where I was 24 hours ago, I still can’t believe I’m even in this room—the governor’s office in the State Capitol in downtown Hartford. My head is spinning faster than the hurricane bearing down on the Constitution State. I’m too overwhelmed to focus on the meat of their arguments: barometric this, climatological that. So I sit quietly in the corner, trying not to draw too much attention to myself.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Governor Watson finally says, quieting the chaos, “I appreciate your advice and wisdom, but what can we do right this second to help people? That’s what I need to know.”

The team quickly launches into explanations of wind speed and forecast projections, showing off PowerPoint presentations on their iPads about past hurricanes, disaster relief, and emergency planning. I can’t follow it all—and I can’t believe the speed at which everyone here talks, thinks, and moves.

FEMA has already communicated that they’ll “be at the governor’s disposal should the need arise.” On the ride back from Wampanoag (in a limo!), I even witnessed a phone call between Governor Watson and President Obama. The White House wanted to reassure the governor that the safety of our state was a top priority, and that the governor should feel free to call on the White House at anytime. At least that’s what I gleaned from the bits I could make out, distracted as I was by Teddy sitting across from me, pointing at Governor Watson, mouthing the words “the Democratic Chris Christie” and making the ‘rock and roll’ gesture throughout the entire three-minute conversation. I’m not sure why the governor puts up with Teddy-the-overgrown-child, but I think it has something to do with them being best friends since college and the governor preferring to surround himself with people he trusts rather than the smartest or most qualified candidates. I think the governor is aware of this Achilles’ heel, and my being here may be a step toward rectifying that.

At least that’s what goes through my mind when I’m feeling confident and worthy and like I truly belong here. But that confidence wavers every five minutes.

“And that’s why,” Eliza says, pointing at a satellite photo of New England, “storms like this one are so rare in this part of the country.”

“Okay. But shouldn’t we just… drive out there,” the governor suggests, “and see what’s what?”

No one seems to like this idea. Especially Teddy.

“Bad idea, Chucky.”

“Why?”

“Because.” And for a second it seems like that will be the beginning and end of Teddy’s argument. But then he adds, “I mean… did ‘W’ go to New Orleans
before
the hurricane? Hell no! You do not put elected officials in the path of a storm. ‘Wait and See’ is the government’s stance. FEMA has promised to be at the ready should it come to that, but we don’t take any
actual
measures now. We simply go on TV, warn everyone in the area—
strongly
, like Christie did—advise them to evacuate and take precautions, wait till it’s passed, and
then
we visit the devastated area, looking like war heroes walking over a smoking battlefield.”

The minions nod and concur, but Governor Watson seems unsatisfied with Teddy’s answer. I look around the room to see who will speak next when I suddenly notice all eyes (including the governor’s) are on me.

“Alexis,” he says, seemingly intent on being the only one to call me that. “You’ve got the freshest eyes here. What do you suggest?”

“Um… I think you can do both?” I say, sort of like a question.

Governor Watson seems intrigued. The minions seem pissed.

“Go on,” the governor says.

“Well,” I begin, not completely sure where I’m going with this. “You have to go downstairs and do the press conference, obviously. Answer the looming questions, reassure people at home that their governor is on top of things, ask them to take precautions, as they said. But tomorrow? You could head out to the battlefield. See first hand how the storm prep is going. Cawdor’s only an hour drive from here, it could be a day trip. Or even an overnight, and you could evacuate Saturday morning. That way… you do the safe thing
and
the brave thing. And maybe get some free TV time doing it. People like to see elected officials getting dirty with the regular folk. Especially
young
people.”

The room is quiet for a moment. The governor seems impressed. He looks over his shoulder, gives Teddy a satisfied nod, and then smacks his hand on the table. “Let’s do it!”

Teddy immediately barks orders and everyone scatters, looking busy and important. Someone thrusts a newly pressed suit, shirt and tie into the governor’s arms and he disappears into a hidden bathroom I had no idea existed. Within thirty seconds, the room is empty and I’m sitting alone. Did the governor of Connecticut just take my advice? Am I officially a policy advisor? What the hell is going on?

I can hear some of the other staffers down the hall chattering away on their phones, and I wonder if
I
should be calling someone. Or emailing or texting or doing
something
. Am I supposed to be a self-starter, or do I wait for instructions? Just as I’m eyeing the liquor tray on the bookshelf, Teddy and the (newly changed) governor sweep back into the room, followed by a swarm of new assistants and handlers I haven’t seen until now.

“Okay, now, be cool down there, Chucky,” Teddy says like a boxing coach before a prizefight. “Be the governor-in-chief. And when the shit hits the fan in…” He checks his Tag Heuer. “Thirty-seven hours—we’ll be there to clean things up. Nothing unites people like a natural disaster.”

Governor Watson nods. I stare at him hard, hoping he’ll look at me, reassure me that what I said was okay and that he’s happy I’m here. But he doesn’t even glance my way. He takes several index cards with notes on them from an assistant and the whole gaggle walks out together, headed for the Nathan Hale statue in the lobby where an “impromptu” press conference is being staged. I have no idea if I’m supposed to stay up here or watch from downstairs. After a moment’s hesitation, I scamper behind them, pulling up the rear as we all make our way down the grand staircase.

“Now be prepared,” Teddy warns the governor. “In addition to the questions we went over already, there’s bound to be some hotshot-upstart-asshole down there, gonna question our motives as impure, claim we’re doing this all for political gain somehow.”

Teddy stops suddenly on the stairs, forcing the governor and all of us behind him to stop too in an almost comical train-car pile-up kind of way. Teddy stares down the governor and says, “You gotta be
ready
for that shit. Ready to pounce.”

And now I see why Teddy’s here. He’s the “motivator.” The hard-ass realist who keeps the governor focused on staying on message and connecting with the press… and the people. He may not have a firm grasp on policy or numbers, but he knows what people need to hear. I’d hire him, too.

“Come back aggressive,” Teddy asserts. “This can
not
look like a political ‘win’ for you. It
can
be. And in the end it
will
be. But it can’t
look
like that. So when they say: ‘Governor, some are suggesting you’re attempting to turn this into your own 9/11 or Hurricane Sandy and make a bid for the White House in 2016…’ Come
right
in. Don’t even let them ask the
question
. You hear ‘White House’ and ‘2016’ you come right back with…”

§

“I have no idea about that, nor am I the least bit concerned or interested,” says Governor Watson. “I’ve got a job to do here in Connecticut that’s much bigger than politics, and I couldn’t care less about any of that stuff. I’ve got 3.5 million people in this state, more than half of them in the path of this storm. It could mean hundreds of thousands without power. Devastation along the shore. Flooding, fires, loss of life, you name it. So if you think right now I give a damn about presidential politics, then you don’t know me. Next question, please.”

Not bad. I even believed him myself—and I was there when Teddy basically fed that response verbatim to the governor.

As the reporters thrust their hands up and shout Governor Watson’s name, Teddy steps in behind him at the podium and whispers in his ear. God, I wish I knew what he was saying. It’s always assumed that the guy is whispering something like “only two more questions” or “don’t forget to mention X, Y, and Z.” But having spent just a few hours in the presence of Teddy Hutchins, I think he said something more like,
“And that. Is how you throw down the gauntlet. Hillary better watch her little pant-suited ass in 2016.”

Whatever Teddy told him, the Governor just nods soberly and then says into the bank of microphones, “Okay, just a few more, then we need to wrap this up. Yeah—Susannah.”

“Governor Watson, have you been in contact with the White House to request Federal Disaster Relief funding?”

“Well, let me preface that by saying, blah blah blah blah blah…”

I zone out and scan the crowd. They all look so sad and lonely, these reporters called to a press conference at 10 p.m., two days before a hurricane. So detached and dispassionate, as if they lost their lust for being reporters long ago. Or maybe they lost it when they realized they’d be stuck covering Hartford for the rest of their lives, their dreams of New York or D.C. long since crushed.

Only one reporter in the room seems to have a spark in her eye. A young Asian woman near the back. She’s wearing a plain black slipover tennis knit kind of thing. A touch too sexy for the Hartford press corps, but maybe she was at an event or out with her boyfriend when she got the call. Regardless of what she’s wearing, there’s a hunger and enthusiasm in her eyes. She’s hanging on every word, clocking everything around her. She can’t be more than 22, 23. Definitely younger than I am. God I hope
I
haven’t lost that spark yet. I hope I never lose it.

And just like that, I realize that the governor needs to call on her. She’s here for a specific reason, not because some fifty-year-old editor forced a mundane assignment on her. She has an agenda. Whatever she asks could be the game-changer we need to take this hurricane to the next level and get the governor that much needed
national
coverage.

As inconspicuously as I can, I motion at Teddy to get his attention. He finally makes eye contact and shrugs,
What?
I point to my phone and send him a text.

I stare at him, pleading with my eyes. He shakes me off like a petulant pitcher ignoring his catcher’s signs. I point at my phone again. Teddy rolls his eyes but obliges and looks down at his BlackBerry.

Teddy glares at me, and then begrudgingly steps to the governor, whispering in his ear. The governor seems surprised and exchanges a few words with Teddy, who mouths my name and gestures toward me with his head. Governor Watson turns my way; I stand tall and try to look as confident and experienced as possible. With a look of vague suspicion he steps back to the mic and says, “Yes—uh, in the last row… No, no, with the, uh—in the black. Yes, you, miss.”

I take a deep breath and hold it. Here we go…

“Thank you, Governor,” the girl says, exuding professionalism and intelligence. “Emily Kim, rising senior at Fairwich Academy and head blogger at Cons-ti-TEEN-tion-dot-com with a two-part question. I’m hearing a lot of talk stressing the severity of the storm and the need for residents to take the appropriate precautions and evacuate in an orderly manner. But what are the state’s plans for
after
the storm? In that vein, whatever task force you have advising you, I’d suggest it is severely lacking in one key demographic, one we all know can make or break an election—witness the past two national cycles. Of course I’m talking about the
youth
vote. So my second question to you is: are you doing anything to get the young people of Connecticut involved and connected to this relief effort?”