Meghan McCain: Dirty Sexy Politics

Blond Amazon was my nickname for the other staffer who was walking down the corridor that morning, a super-tall and aggressively blond woman, as you might suspect, who exuded a one-of-the-guys toughness on a daily basis during the campaign. I have a very good relationship with her now—I adore her, essentially, and she has become more supportive of me—but during the campaign, probably due to the stressed-out environment that made me feel threatened and negative all the time, I loathed her passionately, dreaded seeing her, and sometimes referred to my clashes with her as “Another Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman.”

Making matters worse, Secret Service agents would sometimes confuse me with Blond Amazon at rallies, which I found more annoying than I can say—particularly since she is a foot taller than I am. What kind of recruitment and training is going on, anyway, when a Secret Service agent can’t distinguish two blond women who are a foot apart in height?

And there she was, the invincible Amazon, striding down the corridor with Mr. Burns.

I was crouching on the floor. My clothes and unmentionables were strewn about, and I had my hands on several dresses—still worrying about what to wear that day.

“Do you know who it is ?” I blurted out.

Blurting might be the wrong word. It might have been somewhat louder. I could have been screaming.

Advance guys were swarming around the halls by then, picking up the suitcases and dealing with bag call. I started to gather up my clothes and stuff them back into my suitcase.

Blond Amazon and Mr. Burns kept walking, like I was a phantom or an escapee from a nearby mental ward, which, at that point, I probably looked like.

“ Do you know ?” I insisted, a bit louder.

I don’t remember the exact answer, if there was one. My actual memory is that they just walked on, neither of them truly acknowledging me, like I was roadkill that you drive by without braking for a better look.

Mr. Burns signaled to me, finally, that he knew who the running mate was. He nodded, or winked. He might have made a hand gesture. More than anything, he communicated that he was enjoying the fact that he knew and I didn’t.

Overcome with fury, I yelled out, “Screw you both!!” then grabbed a black knit dress and flew inside my hotel room. With the door safely closed, I lost it—to the point of wailing. My own bad behavior made me feel worse, as it always did. There was no escaping the reality of my incredibly rude and inappropriate screaming in the hallway, as witnessed by more people than I care to think about, particularly two people whom I disliked with unimaginable intensity. Screw you both!

All I wanted in life was to be important enough, and trusted enough, to know who my father’s running mate was.

Was that too much to ask?

Had I been so untrustworthy, so spoiled and difficult?

The fact that my nemesis, Mr. Burns, the Bus Roster Nazi, was more inside and trusted, and more important… well, that really was the last kicker.

Suddenly on the TV screen, there was an alert about a private plane from Alaska that had flown into Ohio that morning and for the first time ever, I saw Sarah Palin’s face. It flashed across the screen, along with the news that she was the likely choice of running mate. You remember the picture, the one of her in the red jacket with the big smile? The pundits on television were pronouncing her name wrong—saying “Pah-len” instead of “Pay-lin.”

At that very moment, my mom appeared in my hotel room.

“Is that it? Is she Dad’s choice ?” I yelled.

My mom nodded. “Yes,” she said, then told me to get ready as soon as possible. “I love you. It’s going to be fine. I’ll explain everything later.”

I wanted to ask more questions, but a closer study of my mother’s face told me that she was as frustrated as I was. Grabbing my purse and giant bag with my UGG boots and pajamas—my hotel room uniform—as well as the knit dress that I had decided to change into later, and all my toiletries and makeup, I headed to the parking lot with Shannon and Heather.

The bus roster for the day said it all: Mr. Burns had assigned me, Shannon, and Heather to the third bus, the one with the smallest bathroom and a smell so foul you kept wanting to open the windows, except there weren’t any.

There was no fight left in me. We just got on, joined by random staffers I had barely met and my mother’s hair and makeup people. I spoke to no one, just squeezed into the awful bathroom with my massive tote bag and, while the bus was rocking and weaving to our next destination, an Ohio high school where my father would present his running mate to the world, I tried to change dresses and get my hair into a tighter ponytail.

When a zipper became stuck on my bra, I kicked open the bathroom door, stood in the back of the bus in my bra, and called out to my friends. Modesty was an extravagance at that point, but I did try to turn away, allowing everybody on the bus to see the back of my bra. More than anything, I wanted to stop crying. I did deep breathing exercises, and focused on the next few hours to come—the TV cameras, the crowded auditorium, the faces to meet and greet, the commotion and excitement.

This nomination was meant to stir things up, rejuvenate support, throw the world a curveball, and sweep us to victory. The running mate announcement was the biggest turning point of any presidential campaign. I kept saying to myself, “Pull your shit together. Pull your shit together. You’re about to meet Sarah Palin— does it rhyme with Allen? —and her family. This is an important moment in your life.”

By the time I got off the bus, I was able to put on the fake smile that I was so good at, and follow my mom and all the staffers and advisers, our entire campaign entourage, as it paraded through the back door of a high school gym, and into its locker room, where a makeshift greenroom had been set up, with folding chairs and tables.

Blond Amazon motioned me to follow her. Behind a blue curtain were Sarah and Todd Palin, as well as Bristol, Willow, Piper, and Trig. My father came over and introduced us. I remember how cheerily I said, “Hi, I’m Meghan, such an honor to meet you! We’re about to go on a great adventure together!”

“What an honor and privilege it is to be here,” Sarah said—or words to that effect. She thanked my father, but soon enough the greetings were over and an uncomfortable silence fell over us, reminding me of a seventh-grade dance with everybody standing awkwardly around. It was as if, after the rehearsed niceties, it was too hard to move into anything real—or make more of an effort.

Outside, beyond the blue curtain, past the stage and audience, journalists were assembled on risers, along with dozens of cameras and microphones, waiting to record a few minutes of the introductions, which would, in turn, be cut down to a few seconds, a few snapshots and sound bites. What was the point of trying to say something real, anyway? And what was the hurry?

As I stood alongside the Palins, my first impressions of Sarah were that she was the most beautiful politician I had ever seen, that she seemed surprisingly calm, and that she had a ton of kids. She seemed all American, too, and I remember noticing how formally she addressed my father, calling him “sir.” She was wearing a black suit with three-quarter sleeves and a cool pair of red patent leather peep-toe shoes. They were hip, even trendy. And I remember liking that. More than anything, I was excited by the fact that she was a woman, and with each passing minute the reality of this, and what it meant, not just for me, but for the country and the world, was sinking in. It wasn’t only that she was a woman. She was such a beautiful one at that.