Redecorating The Oval Office - A Woman's Place Is In The Home And Kamala's In The White House

'I must do something about those ghastly drapes', Kamala said to herself as she left the Oval Office after a meeting with the President.  'Both he and they will soon be history', not a very kind remark but an accurate one.  The old man, conveniently shoved under the bus to give her leeway and running room to the Presidency, would soon be gone; and as soon as she was Chief Executive, she would indeed redecorate the White House.  

 

She had already canvassed the Oval Office, the West and East Wings, the halls and corridors between them, the ball room, the Executive Dining Room, all down to the smallest, most out-of-the-way alcove tucked away behind the main allée with all those unnecessary martial flags, the allée down which she would soon be walking to Hail to the Chief, taking her place at the podium and addressing the nation...the nation! Imagine that, she smiled, me, a black woman....

Here she stopped herself.  It was one thing to go black before her public, another thing to signify, identify, be black, something she had never considered in her whole life until she had been bitten by the political bug and in the right place at the right time. No, she thought, I am as white as the driven snow, or at least in my heart and soul since I can't get rid of this damned tint that makes me look like a Navajo. 

In any case as she looked around the Oval Office, she knew exactly how she would redecorate it with a little help from Frannie Leggett, the gay boy on her staff who was so good with antiques and Persian carpets.  This has to go, she thought, staring at the horrendous gift from some Turkish dignitary.  God! Turkish people had such seriously bad taste, all those nasty ceramics and kitschy vases more suited to a pasha's harem so overwrought and garish were they. 

Where did the Turks get such abysmal taste? From the Iranians she suspected. She remembered being dragged as a child to the house of Mrs. Amanpour, the old Persian friend of her mother's who lived in Little Teheran - shag carpets, thick embroidered drapes, clumsy little knickknacks on all the shelves, a nightmare especially for a sensitive little girl. 

Then there were the old chestnuts - photos and paintings of King, Abernathy, Rosa Parks, and Louis Armstrong, all of which belonged in the African American Museum on the Mall, or better in the storage room.  She would get rid of this morose crowd on her first day.  Her presidency was going to have none of that old school, overhyped old dead men trotted out whenever Joe wanted some cover for his Delaware whiteness; but not so for her, a modern, upbeat racially stupendous woman. 

'Madame Vice President', her senior aide said, looking at his watch and looking harried.  Kamala kept dreaming of her white house, all done in pastels and Italian sconces with 'ghetto trim', some retro, iconic Fifties tchotchkes from South Central, cool and very impressive.  She no longer responded to 'Vice President' so close was she to victory and the prize; but she had to say something to this niggling man, follow the governance schedule which still held although it was campaign time.  

In fact these daily war room briefings were just impossibly boring, unnecessary leftovers uneaten by Old Joe.  She would get rid of them and replace them with something else, of what exactly she was unsure,  but certainly not venues for these windy generals which by the way could use a re-do as well, all those pretentious portraits of Napoleon, Sherman, and Clausewitz.  At least put Nat Turner up there. 

She had a look at the day's schedule handed to her by her aide, shook her head, and said, 'Cancel all of them.  I've bigger fish to fry', which meant a campaign speech to the steelworkers of Pittsburgh, a distasteful job but one she had to do given the importance of Pennsylvania as a swing state. 

She had done this once before, stood up before a crowd of hard hat-wearing, sweaty, beer-bellies who only knew union rules, union goons, and union dues.  So much for her brand of sophisticated progressivism, nuanced, and broadly American. They wanted red meat and she would have to give it to them.  Yuk, and yuk again. 

But off she went and speak she did, smelling the stink of bratwurst wafting up from the grills smoking on the concourse waiting for her and the big men of Local 352. 'Oh, Gawd', she whispered to a campaign aide. 'If I have to eat another one of those disgusting things, I will lose it, really and truly, lose it'. 

It was not hard to campaign. Tiring, yes, all those whistle stops and rallies did tire one out, but not tiring in any real sense.  Every word had been scripted for her, every line large and bold on the teleprompter, ever pause, smile, wave inserted in the text; so she had to do no thinking whatsoever, just get up there and look womanly - or rather Presidentially womanly, whatever that was, but suggested by the woman who did her make up.  

Walz did all the heavy lifting.  She sent him into Indian country on occasion, their testing of hostile ground to see if there was any give, but he got booed and jeered until he walked off stage. 'It's no use, Kamala', he said. 'Assholes will always be assholes, pardon my French'. 

'The South Lawn could use some lawn furniture', she thought while Walz was rattling on about environments and potential.  Not the tacky Italian kind, pink flamingoes and cute deer, but something more appropriate - something Egyptian or Nubian perhaps, reminiscent of earlier, relevant times, or even something by Dale Chihuly, the glass-blower who could do something fanciful with a red, white, and blue motif. 

 

'Let's not put the cart before the horse, dear', her husband said to her before turning in. 'We're not there yet', but she had long ago given up on any advice from Doug, a typical man who knew nothing about women's hard-fought road to visibility and prominence.  He was happy enough with locker rooms and towel snapping, and although she had reminded him of this on numerous occasions, he still felt it his place to put in his two cents. 

So she carried on, a well-programmed performer on the campaign stage, a notional Vice President for a few more months, but a decorator-in-chief in her mind.  All the rest - policy briefings, white papers, Cabinet meetings, and signatures - could wait, put on the back burner at least until she got things in proper order - office first, bedroom second, and Executive Lounge third. 

'Dougie', she said to her husband one morning as she looked out the French doors to the Rose Garden, 'soon this will be all ours'.