by Pieter J. Friedrich
06/08/07
The humidity had topped the charts that day. As I waited outside, my dress shirt was glued to my thin torso and I finally understood why people jokingly referred to ties as "nooses." It was so hot and clammy outside I almost wished my tie were attached to a gallows - death seemed a more pleasant prospect than another two seconds in the swamps of Washington, D.C.
It was June 29, 2001. I was near the end of a week-long political activism summer camp at Patrick Henry College (PHC) in Virginia. Michael Farris was president of the college at the time. He was well known in homeschooling circles, and many of the teens at the summer camp were homeschooled. This presented us with an opportunity - when someone decided President Bush should meet a group of homeschoolers, the White House contacted PHC.
So that morning eighty homeschooled high-schoolers were bused forty minutes from PHC to Washington, D.C.
We'd been told to expect miserable weather, but our anticipation did nothing to lessen the shock of smashing into an invisible, sultry wall the moment we exited our air-conditioned buses. Our faces flushing above our dresses and ill-fitting suits, we hurried along Pennsylvania Avenue to stand outside the iron fence encircling the White House so a photographer could document the event while we wilted for twenty minutes.
Finally, we were herded back down Pennsylvania Avenue and into the courtyard of the Old Executive Office Building. It was tall and grim, its Gothic facade mirrored in the overcast sky. Again, we waited, but we were finally overcoming the depression of the heat as the reality of what we were doing became clearer. Slowly, we began filing up the stairs of the building, passing through security like molasses.
A security guard demanded photo identification from the kid in front of me.
"They told me I didn't need it unless I was over 18!" The kid protested. His consternation was obvious - what if he was refused entry and not allowed to see the president?
The guard relented, clearing the kid for entry despite his lack of identification. I flashed my own ID and hurried through.
The corridors were dim, hints of white and gold filigree spinning through the walls. We waited for the hundredth time that day as the rest of our group was cleared through security. Then we were moving again, leaving the Old Executive Office Building through a side door held open by an Air Force officer with an overflowing ribbon rack. Crossing the immaculate White House lawns, we began snapping pictures like madmen. I swung my camera to focus on a statuesque Marine doorman on the east wing of the White House.
Our guide, so far ahead of me I didn't even know who he was, led us on a shortcut through the White House. On the other side, we hurried along a cool, tree-lined path and onto a cordoned off sidewalk that cut across the south lawn. The Secret Service joined us, decked in crisp, dark suits and sunglasses.
"Stay off the lawn!" They shouted every time a toe or two strayed off the sidewalk.
Other groups of people began to arrive as we settled in. There were some White House employees who wanted a chance to see the new president, but there were also a great many College Republicans who had been offered a chance to visit the White House.
We waited.
A White House intern told me President Bush was currently meeting with members of the black community in commemoration of "Black Music Month." I chatted with a College Republican from Wyoming, and we swapped stories about working for the Bush campaign in our respective states.
Two hours passed. I was covered in so much sweat that I looked to be wearing spandex more than a dress shirt.
A half-dozen uniformed Secret Service agents arrived. They wore combat boots, their belts were heavy with pistols and ammunition, and the butts of assault rifles protruded from the bags they carried. As the agents spread out, men began to mark a landing zone for Marine One. Our throats were dry with thirst, our heads pounded from the heat, and we were almost jumping with expectation.
The thump of Marine One's rotors filled the stagnant air. "Hold on to your hats," screamed the Secret Service agents as Marine One came into view, approaching from the south. It was hard to stand against the backwash of the rotors as the helicopter landed, but the breeze was heavenly.
As the rotors swung to a standstill, there was a stir at one end of our group. Straining, standing on tip-toes, a few seconds passed before I saw Laura Bush. She was beaming, moving down the line. As she passed me I reached out and briefly shook her hand, thanking her for her time.
President Bush followed. He wasn't particularly tall. His handshake was firm and dry. Looking him in the eyes, I said, "Thank you, sir." He smiled and moved on down the line. As he shook the last hand, he walked up to Marine One and turned to wave at us. Then he took his wife's hand and disappeared into the helicopter. A Marine swung the door shut, and moments later the helicopter lifted into the sky and flew away.
My heart was pounding. It was very strange knowing I had just shaken the hand of the leader of the most powerful country in the world, and I wasn't entirely sure what to think about the incident. In fact, it seemed almost dream-like, that quality bolstered by the oppressive weather. Our group stood around for a few minutes, watching until the helicopter was completely out of sight. Then we hurried back the way we had come.
