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I stand and put on my general face.
“There’s something else we need to discuss,” I say, waiting for the laughter to settle down. “This announcement is taking place at your house. Your Pacific Heights mansion in San Francisco, to be more precise.”
“It’s our home,” Owen says, his voice stiffening. “I thought we agreed that would personalize it rather than at a city hall or something.”
“I think the party at your place is great,” I say. “And Millicent’s known to be an incredible hostess, so treating it like a party is perfect. We just need to be cognizant of the optics. Republicans will paint you as elitist, and speaking frankly, there’s a lot about your background that screams wealth and the dirtiest buzzword of all right now—privilege.”
“We can’t change who we are,” Millicent says, a little defensively.
“I’m not asking you to change who you are,” I reassure her, keeping my voice calm. “I’m asking you to manage how they see you. We don’t want struggling working-class voters to feel like they could never relate to you. Seeing all your rich friends gathered around the sprawling ballroom in your mansion does not exactly communicate ‘I feel your pain.’”
“Okay,” Millicent says with a small frown. “What do you suggest?”
“I think we need to make sure you don’t look like the one percenters you actually are if we want the middle class pulling the lever for you next year, Senator Cade. Most Americans don’t even really tune into politics until we start gearing up for elections. Do you want their first impression of you to be the elitism your opponent will surely accuse you of?”
My words land with a thump into the subsequent quiet. I give it a beat and am about to elaborate, but Maxim speaks before I can. “She’s right, O.”
I look up to find his stare fixed on me, but he quickly shifts it to his brother. “Not many people grew up the way we did or live the way we do. We want them to know we may have a lot, but we want to use what we have to help.”
“Exactly,” I add. “I’m not suggesting you hide who you are or fake poverty. That would be disingenuous, and your authenticity is one of the most appealing things about you.”
“Then what?” Owen asks.
“Your political positions and your personality, everything about you polls really well with millennials,” I say. “You feel like a breath of fresh air to them.”
“Well that’s good to know.” Owen laughs. “Did you hear that, Mill? This old guy polls well with millennials.”
A few of the team chuckle, but they’re also typing on their iPads and laptops, jotting notes, grabbing data. They’ve started tracking down leads before I’ve had to ask for them.
“Let’s invite them,” Kimba says, excitement sparking in her dark brown eyes. “Students, community organizers, Instagram influencers, leaders from marginalized groups—all of them.”
“Yes!” I agree. Kimba and I basically share a brain so I see where this could go. “Bus caravans.”
“By car, by train,” she picks up. “We send out invitations now to campus leaders, folks who volunteered for campaigns, all key figures in those crucial demographics. We don’t leave them with their faces pressed to the window.”
“Right,” I say. “We open the doors. Yes, I have a big house, but it’s your house, too. At least for tonight.”
Everyone laughs again, and the brief tension that had infiltrated the room flees completely. I pace, my brain like a beehive, every idea causing another and chasing that one until I’m buzzing with thoughts, and I can’t get the words out fast enough.
“Not just a party to celebrate a New Year’s Eve,” I say, my voice climbing, “but a new era!”
“A new era’s eve party,” Kimba laughs, high-fiving me. “Ooooh! We’re cooking with hot grease now, honey.”
We continue spit-balling ideas and assigning actionable items. It’s another hour before we break, but I feel much better about this soiree we’re throwing.
“Big plans for Thanksgiving, Lennix?” Millicent asks, gathering some of the dinner debris while the team packs up to go.
“Lennix doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” Maxim says from the other end of the table, his words quiet. He looks up from his iPad to meet my eyes. “Unless that’s changed?”
He and I stare at one another so long I feel other people noticing.
“No, I don’t celebrate,” I say.
Thanksgiving is one of those distinctly American traditions that has problematic origins for American Indians.
“I don’t begrudge other people celebrating,” I tell them, shrugging. “Even some from my tribe celebrate. It’s fine. I just don’t.” I smile to lighten the mood and my words. “But I do go home. My dad and I order pizza and watch parades and boring football games.”