Not Afraid of Life (13 page)

When Senator McCain got off the plane, he hugged Mrs. McCain, Meghan, his daughter Bridget, and his son Jack before turning his attention to us. He graciously greeted my mom and my dad, and then he turned to Levi and me. I stood to my mom’s right, and Levi was to my right. Senator McCain greeted us warmly and shook Levi’s hand. Then he said, “Let me see your hands again.” Levi showed him his hands, and Senator McCain said, “Those are workingman’s hands.”

Senator McCain,
I thought,
you’ve got that one wrong.
(That’s okay. I thought Levi’s outdoorsy exterior and love of hunting, fishing, and chewing would translate into actually keeping a job too.) Nevertheless, being there with him by my side was a remarkable experience. It was our first trip together, and we had so much fun doing simple stuff like ordering room service with our cousins. His presence, though obviously imperfect, was better than being alone and wondering which of my friends he might be cheating on me with back home. Standing there on the tarmac, with possibly the next president of the United States, somehow legitimized us as a couple and painted a picture I’d hoped would become a reality. And so I stood there on the windy tarmac and was thankful.

Though it was immortalized by all of the photographers, it was over very quickly. On the way off the tarmac, my mom held Levi’s arm and said, “Levi, doesn’t Bristol look beautiful?”

He looked at me from head to toe, and simply said, “Yeah.”

I know it doesn’t sound like much—it wasn’t—but it was the first time he’d told me I looked pretty.

Then we rushed to get back to the hotel so Mom could put the finishing touches on her speech. A great deal was riding on it, after all.

On Friday when we stood behind her on the platform in Dayton, we had no idea the creative lies the media would brew up over the weekend. The slur that she wasn’t Trig’s real mom was just the tip of the Alaskan iceberg. Left-wing bloggers and even “reputable” news agencies started shaping a story about her and my family that couldn’t have been further from the truth. She was called a religious radical who wanted to mandate creationism and abstinence-only education be taught in public schools, and they lied that she slashed funds for a program benefiting pregnant teens, banned library books, was a Pat Buchanan–supporting Nazi sympathizer, had an affair, arrested Alaskan women who’d been raped and had abortions, and—for good measure—encouraged Alaska to secede from the rest of America.

Also, remember Uncle Mike? Suddenly, stories about that stupid Taser incident started bubbling up again. Not as an example of how our family tried to help Aunt Molly. Instead, the news organizations were wrongly accusing my parents of trying to get him fired from his job as a state trooper. It was an “abuse of power” story, one of the worst kinds when you’re running for office. The press even gave it a
-gate
suffix, which no politician ever wants. They called it “Troopergate,” though in Alaska we called it “Tasergate.”

Because none of these accusations were actually torn down by the McCain campaign, people began thinking that she wasn’t qualified to be vice president, that she was McCain’s “Hail Mary pass,” and that she would wilt under the heat of the national spotlight. By the time the GOP convention started, Mom’s media image had been so twisted that we looked forward to her actually being able to speak for herself, which she was used to doing and excelled at.

As Mom prepared for the speech, we were new, unknown, from an exotic locale. And wow, what a speech . . . Even though it was natural for us to be getting media attention, it seemed to be hard for Meghan. This tension finally came to a head.

On the evening of September 3, we were preparing for Mom’s speech. Every time we went out into the convention center, we were to look camera-ready. The McCain campaign believed that packaging was one of the most important aspects of our big debut at the convention, and all of us dutifully went along. Two makeup experts and hairdressers were available to us on the floor of our hotel, and they were in charge of spiffing us up. On the night of Mom’s speech, I was sitting in the chair getting my hair done with Willow, when a wet-headed Meghan McCain stormed into the room. She was late and needed someone to help her.

She looked at all of us sitting there getting our makeovers, GOP style. (Hey, that sounds like a good idea for a reality television show! What about it, TLC, now that Mom’s Alaska show is over?) But as Meghan looked at us, you could tell she was supremely irritated.

“I need to be worked in,” she barked.

One of the stylists took a bobby pin out of her mouth and apologized. “I’m sorry, they are all waiting.” She motioned to Willow and me, and then to Piper. There were only two hairdressers and a lot of hair.

All of a sudden, Meghan’s face registered a wide array of emotions. In a five-second time period I saw her face go from resentment to anger to bitterness back to resentment and then—finally—to rage. However, in a display of temporary restraint, she pressed her need more urgently.

“I just need a blowout and some makeup,” she said once again. “I’m running late.”

“I’m sorry,” the stylist replied, saying her words carefully as she sensed the pressure rising in the room. “It’s just that they’ll be getting more airtime than you will.”

In the chaos of a campaign trail, you rarely find silence. But there, in the hair and makeup room, we found it. For about five seconds, everyone sat slack jawed, waiting for Meghan’s response as she pondered the fact that we would be on camera more than she would. We were not disappointed.

“If anyone had told me that I had to do my own hair and makeup,” she screamed, “I would’ve done my own f—king hair and makeup!”

You could tell as she yelled there was something quite complex going on inside her. Or at least I liked to think so. After all, nerves were frayed and the stakes were high. Surely she wasn’t so self-obsessed that she believed everyone else should scoot over so she could take priority?

Willow didn’t know if she should giggle or gasp at Meghan’s reaction. Britta, who was Track’s longtime girlfriend (now his fiancée), had come in to borrow some hair spray and witnessed the whole thing. After Meghan stomped out of the room, Britta pulled Piper over to the side and said, “That is not the way we’re supposed to talk or the way we should treat people. We need to be nice.”

Piper nodded, wide-eyed and a little bit confused.

The rest of us laughed. Not because Meghan’s behavior was actually humorous. Rather, we laughed in the way you sometimes do when you avoid a near accident on the interstate. In a way, that moment showed us what politics might do to someone after marinating in it for way too long. (Mrs. McCain was pregnant with Meghan at the 1984 GOP convention.) Or maybe we laughed because we grew up around politics, but in no way was it a defining aspect of our lives. We had faith, friends, and one another . . . hopefully that would allow us to avoid a fate of being obsessed with a political spotlight.

Of course, it was just September. We were just getting started.

W
hen it came time for Mom’s big speech, we sat in a certain area reserved for the speaker’s family. It was located right in front of a bank of cameras. Also, as I looked down, I saw every single famous news reporter that I’d ever seen on television right there. You might think that it would’ve been intimidating. However, if any of the thousands of cameras filming our every move would’ve zoomed out, you would’ve seen all my aunts and uncles, all my mom’s aunt and uncles, all our cousins, and my grandparents. They were surrounding us, everyone was having the time of their lives, and it felt like nothing could go wrong when we were enveloped in such love!

Trig sat next to Britta, Willow sat next to Mrs. McCain, Dad sat next to Piper, and I sat between Levi and my grandparents. Around us were dignitaries like Rudy Giuliani and Senator McCain’s mother. It was spectacular to be right there, to have a front-row seat to history.

Finally, after so much anticipation, a woman’s voice introduced the “Governor of Alaska.” When she came out onstage, the crowd erupted. It took over three minutes for her to begin, as she had to wait for the noise level to subside. People were chanting her name, they were holding signs that read Palin Power, and—after a while—Dad looked at us and just started laughing about how amazing this reception was. After a long and divisive battle for Republicans to finally settle on a candidate, I think everyone was just so pleased to have a fresh face onstage. Finally, she spoke into the noise, which made people sit down and start listening. But with her first sentence, the entire hall erupted again.

“Mr. Chairman, delegates, and fellow citizens,” she began. “I will be honored to be considered for the nomination for vice president of the United States. . . .”

After the noise quieted down, her speech started out by describing the many qualities of Senator McCain: his military service, his integrity, and his inspirational statement that “he would rather lose an election than see his country lose a war.”

Then it was her moment to tell people who she was . . . really. She talked about Track (about to be deployed to Iraq as an infantryman in the United States Army) and my cousin (already in the Persian Gulf in the navy) and how she’d be proud to have Senator McCain leading them as commander in chief.

She talked about the rest of us kids, by saying, “In our family, it’s two boys and three girls in between—my strong and kind-hearted daughters Bristol, Willow, and Piper.”

At the listing of our names, the crowd applauded and the cameras showed us sitting there in a row. The cameramen couldn’t seem to find Willow, who was by Mrs. McCain. (They never were really able to tell us apart!) Piper wasn’t sure whether she should stand, but finally committed to standing up and waving at everyone. As always, her cuteness melted the hearts of the conventiongoers. I smiled, slightly horrified at being stared at by millions of people all at once, and grabbed Levi’s hand. Again, I was thankful he was with me.

It was slightly weird to have all the eyes of the convention on us, but soon enough Mom was talking about her “perfectly beautiful baby boy named Trig.” She said that if she was elected vice president, families of special-needs children would have a friend—and an advocate—in the White House. The entire audience stood on its feet and cheered raucously. Trig, the subject of the crowd’s adoration, remained in sweet oblivious sleep through it all!

Then she talked about the love of her life—the man she’d met in high school. Dad, she said, “is a lifelong commercial fisherman, a production operator in the oil fields of Alaska’s North Slope, a proud member of the United Steel Workers’ Union, and . . . a world champion snowmachine racer.”

When the JumboTron screens showed Dad, the entire convention center—in fact, the entire world!—got to see this “man’s man” cradling Trig in his arms. I remember thinking Dad’s amazing qualities—both his toughness and his tenderness—were well showcased in that moment. But Mom wasn’t content to let her description of him rest there. “We met in high school, and two decades and five children later . . . he’s still my guy.”

Everyone laughed and cheered at this, and Dad—who had handed Trig off to Piper—stood up and waved enthusiastically to the crowd. They seemed to love him and couldn’t get enough of this “normal” family that was already withstanding all the criticism and seemed to be having a lot of fun anyway!

But there was still more family to honor and brag about.

“Among the many things I owe my parents is the simple lesson I’ve learned, that this is America and every woman can walk through every door of opportunity.”

I think, at this point, I could imagine liberals at home watching the television screens and becoming furious. A woman? A Republican? Talking about opportunities? She’s stealing our lines! “She” is not supposed to be happening! But the conservative crowd—which knows the Republican Party is pro-women and pro-equality—stood on their feet and cheered as she acknowledged my grandparents. “I’m so proud to be the daughter of Chuck and Sally Heath.”

Her speech was about forty-five minutes, and everyone agreed . . . it was a barn burner. About halfway through it, the cameras cut to Piper as she tried to make Trig’s hair lie down on his sleepy little head. Of course, the cameras were on us constantly, so we never knew what was being broadcast to the whole world. She definitely didn’t realize that one of the cameras had cut to her and was broadcasting live as she cradled her new brother and rubbed his head. His hair wasn’t cooperating, even after she tried to fix it, so she did what any of us would do in the privacy of our own home. She licked her hand from the middle of her palm to her fingers, and then rubbed her slobbery hand through his sweet hair. In the battle between Piper and Trig’s hair, Piper won.

It was a very short moment of unscripted “real” behavior, and America loved it. Perhaps voters were a little sick of the political bitterness it took to get us to the two conventions or perhaps they were sick of the overly contrived staging of the two events. Whatever the reason, the video of Piper’s “hair lick” became an Internet sensation.

It may be hard to remember what it was like back on that night in September. Since she entered the nation’s consciousness Mom’s been so mocked, idolized, and mimicked that it might be hard to remember the moment when you had no idea she was capable of sentences like:

“I guess a small-town mayor is sort of like a ‘community organizer,’ except that you have actual responsibilities.”

Or

“. . . though both Senator Obama and Senator Biden have been going on lately about how they are always, quote, ‘fighting for you,’ let us face the matter squarely. There is only one man in this election who has ever really fought for you.”

Or the ad-libbed line she blurted out when her teleprompter stopped working and she spotted a group of delegates in hockey jerseys:

“Do you know the only difference between a pit bull and a hockey mom? Lipstick.”

The way a convention works is that everything builds to the crescendo of the presidential candidate taking the stage on the last day. Many people wondered how Senator McCain’s speech could top my mom’s speech, but by that time I no longer was worried. Now that my pregnancy was revealed, my mom had blown the roof off the convention center, and people seemed to genuinely love our family . . . I was having a blast! And I knew the senator would rise to the occasion, as he always did.