Living History, Unknown [books to read in your 20s female TXT] 📗

First Lady running for the Senate, I could also expect more than the usual New York press contingent scrutinizing my campaign. Just the prospect of my running prompted national and international media outlets to flood my White House press office with interview requests.

The treacherous waters of New York politics also caused me some concern. Knowledgeable New Yorkers frankly advised that I could never win because I wasn’t Irish, Italian, Catholic or Jewish, and an ethnic identity was imperative in such a diverse state. Another constituency that would pose an unusual challenge was Democratic women, particularly professional women my age who normally would be my natural base but were skeptical of my motives and my decision to stay married to Bill.

One day in the spring, I was running down the list of hurdles I would face when Patti Solis Doyle, my scheduler and an astute political adviser, interrupted my monologue and blurted out: “Hillary, I just don’t think you can win this race.” She was so sure that I shouldn’t―and wouldn’t―run that she and her husband, Jim, made tentative plans to move home to Chicago.

My White House staff had other reasons to worry about what it would mean if the First Lady suddenly turned into a candidate for the U.S. Senate. My staff was going full steam ahead with my domestic policy agenda. They wanted to be sure I would continue to support these efforts if I ran. I told them that, Senate race or not, I would continue advocating for all of our initiatives―from Save America’s Treasures to afterschool care.

The prospect of a campaign also raised the question of whether I could continue to serve as a representative of American interests abroad. Throughout Bill’s tenure, I had traveled the world on behalf of women’s rights, human rights, religious tolerance and democracy.

Thinking and acting globally might be exactly the opposite of what I would need to do if I were running a New York campaign. In the midst of my deliberations, I had to keep commitments for official visits to Egypt, Tunisia and Morocco and a trip to a Kosovar refugee camp along the Macedonian border. I had spoken out strongly in favor of Bill’s leadership of NATO in the bombing campaign to force Slobodan Milosevic’s troops out of Kosovo. I helped the Macedonians reopen textile factories to put people back to work in order to avoid economic instability that could have undermined NATO’s goal of returning the Kosovars to their homes.

As the spring progressed, I hashed over all of the campaign scenarios with advisers and friends, and each discussion turned into a spirited debate about my future. One thing we talked about is euphemistically referred to as “the spouse problem.” In my case, that was an understatement. It’s always difficult to figure out the appropriate role for the wife or husband of a political candidate. My dilemma was unique. Some worried that Bill was still so popular in New York and such a towering political figure in America that I would never be able to establish an independent political voice. Others thought the controversy attached to him would overwhelm my message. Logistical considerations relating to “my spouse” were tricky. If I were to announce my candidacy at a kickoff event, would the President of the United States sit quietly behind me on the stage, or would he speak too?

Over the course of the race, would he campaign on my behalf, as he would for other Democratic candidates across the country, or would that consign me to being his surrogate again? A fine line would have to be drawn between asserting myself as a candidate in my own right and taking advantage of the President’s support and advice.

One benefit of my decision-making process was that Bill and I were talking again about matters other than the future of our relationship. Over time, we both began to relax.

He was anxious to be helpful, and I welcomed his expertise. Bill patiently talked over each of my concerns and carefully evaluated the odds I faced. The tables were now turned, as he played for me the role I had always performed for him. Once he had given his advice, it was my decision to make. We both knew that if I ran, I would be on my own as I had never been before. With each conversation, I found myself swinging back and forth. One minute it seemed like a great idea to run. The next minute I thought it was crazy. So I kept pondering what to do, waiting for lightning to strike.

I needed a push. Finally I got one, but it didn’t come from a political adviser or Democratic leader. In March, I went to New York City to join tennis legend Billie Jean King at an event promoting an HBO special about women in sports. We gathered at the Lab School in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, joined by dozens of young women athletes who were assembled on a stage adorned with a giant banner that said “Dare to Compete,” the title of the HBO film. Sofia Totti, the captain of the girls’ basketball team, introduced me. As I went to shake her hand, she leaned toward me and whispered in my ear.

“Dare to compete, Mrs. Clinton,” she said. “Dare to compete.” Her comment caught me off guard, so much so that I left the event and began to think: Could I be afraid to do something I had urged countless other women to do? Why am I vacillating about taking on this race? Why aren’t I thinking more seriously about it? Maybe I should “dare to compete.”

The encouragement from Sofia Totti and so many others reminded me of a scene in one of my favorite movies, A League of Their Own. The star of a women’s professional baseball team, played by Geena Davis, wants to leave the team before its season ends to return home with her husband. When the team’s coach, played by Tom Hanks, challenges her decision, she