West Wingers: Stories from the Dream Chasers, Change Makers, and Hope Creators Inside the Obama White House - Softcover

Gautam Raghavan served as Barack Obama's liaison to the LGBT community as well as the Asian American and Pacific Islander community from 2011-2014. Prior to this, he worked for the Department of Defense, the 2008 Obama Campaign, and the Democratic National Committee. Raghavan was born in India, raised in Seattle, and graduated from Stanford. He currently lives in Washington, D.C. with his husband Andy and their new daughter, Maya.

Contributors to West Wingers: Gautam Raghavan, Michael Strautmanis, Leah Katz-Hernandez, Brad Jenkins, Heather Foster, Cecilia Muñoz, Hope Hall, Michael J. Robertson, Raina Thiele, Lynn Rosenthal, Bill Yosses, Darienne Page, Deesha Dyer, Ned Price, Julie Chavez Rodriguez, Rumana Ahmed, Stephanie Valencia, and Aneesh Raman.

Evolution

Gautam Raghavan

I never thought that one of my career highlights would involve weeping uncontrollably on the second floor of the West Wing, but we don't always get to pick how these moments play out.

It was a moment decades in the making, a turning point not just in the arc of our nation's history, but in my own journey as a married gay man who found himself working for the President of the United States.
I came out in the summer of 2003. Twice.

As is true for many gay folks deciding whether to come out and when, I arrived at a point where loneliness overcame all my hesitations and reservations. By the end of my junior year at Stanford University, I knew that I had only two options: alone and miserable in the closet, or fulfilled and happy outside of it.

I chose happiness. I was going to spend the summer interning in Washington, DC, and as a newly out and proud gay man, the possibilities were endless and exciting: Would I go to a gay bar? March in a Pride parade? Maybe even meet someone?

But when I got to Washington, all my hope and optimism was tempered by powerful forces seeking to limit possibility and opportunity in my life.

As it happens, I came out in the middle of a raging national debate over gay marriage. We were in the early days of the 2004 presidential campaign, and George Bush and Karl Rove were determined to use LGBTQ rights—my rights—to divide the country and mobilize their base. At the time, the LGBTQ community had few political allies. Of the entire field of Democratic candidates, only former Vermont governor Howard Dean had adopted anything close to a pro-equality position, largely consisting of his support for civil unions.

This timing made my decision to come out feel as political as it was personal. It not only meant becoming part of a community that was under siege, but also owning an identity that I would need to fight for. In that climate, coming out as gay but staying in the political closet just wasn't an option.

I returned to Stanford for my senior year determined to get involved. I volunteered on Howard Dean's presidential campaign and started reading the political blogs. A few months later, hundreds of gay and lesbian couples flocked to San Francisco's city hall to get married by newly elected mayor Gavin Newsom and other city officials eager to thumb their noses at the Bush administration. As I looked at photographs and watched videos of these brave men and women, some having waited decades for such a moment, I felt inspired—and resolved—to become a part of my community's fight for equality.
After graduation, I went back home to the Seattle suburbs for the summer to work for a congressional candidate running in the 2004 election. One warm July evening, I was knocking on doors for the campaign when, through a window, on somebody's television screen, I saw Barack Obama for the first time.

Even from my limited vantage point from the sidewalk outside, something about his poise or expression immediately grabbed my attention. Later that night, I watched his speech at the Democratic National Convention in Boston in full. I didn't know that night that his words would inspire an entire generation of activists, organizers, and public servants. For me, a newly out gay man just beginning to develop his political consciousness, there was nothing more moving than his description of the "improbable love" of his parents, and the line, "We coach little league in the blue states and, yes, we've got some gay friends in the red states."

I was hooked. I told my parents—but only half seriously—that one day I would work for Barack Obama. I didn't dare dream for a moment I'd ever have that opportunity. I did, however, hope that I would have the chance to work for someone like him—someone who sees America and loves America the way I do.

So I moved to Washington, DC, to get in the fight. What I didn't count on was falling in love.
In February 2005, just six months later, I met Andy. We were both graduate students: young, eager, mostly idealistic. We met almost by accident on Friendster, one of the many social network predecessors to Facebook that was (for a hot moment) all the rage. After exchanging messages for over a week, we finally met for a drink—and it was clear there was something there.

On our second date, Andy's dad came along. He was in town to see Andy in a play and invited me to join them for dinner. I didn't want to pass up the opportunity to see him again, so despite the apparent awkwardness of meeting one of his parents so soon, I went for it. Over enchiladas and beer, Andy's dad asked about my childhood, my parents, and my career. The conversation flowed freely and easily. The most remarkable part of the night was how unremarkable it all seemed.

Looking back, I don't think either of us thought for a moment we'd end up marrying each other. I don't think either of us even thought at the time that marriage would ever be an option. I still remember the first words out of my mom's mouth when I came out to her just a year earlier: "You still want to have kids, right?" I didn't know how to answer that question. A future in which a gay couple could get married, raise a family, and live happily ever after seemed out of reach—not just for me, but for countless gay and lesbian people across the country.

Of course, this wasn't for lack of trying. As early as the 1970s, in the wake of the Supreme Court's decision striking down interracial marriage bans in Loving v. Virginia, same-sex couples began fighting for the right to marry. Many of these plaintiffs were laughed out of court, but most were ignored altogether. Some, like Tony Sullivan and Richard Adams, got the worst of it. When they petitioned for a spousal visa following a private marriage celebration in 1975, the U.S. Department of Justice informed them on official letterhead: "You have failed to establish that a bona fide marital relationship can exist between two faggots."

Marriage equality, or "gay marriage" in the shorthand of media punditry, seemed a lost cause throughout the 1990s. It wasn't until 2004 that Massachusetts became the first marriage equality state in the nation, joined a few years later by Connecticut in 2008 thanks to the leadership of civil rights lawyers like Mary Bonauto eager to build momentum in the courts.

In this context, it's no wonder that unlike so many of our straight peers who had been in long-term relationships, Andy and I never talked seriously about getting married. What was the point of making an impossible plan?

Nonetheless, by the time the 2008 presidential campaign rolled around, our relationship had progressed—and despite the odds stacked against us, the possibility of marriage had started to take root in my mind. Still, it felt like a silly proposition: sure, we could trek up to Andy's home state of Connecticut and have a wedding ceremony there, but what was the point if our marriage license was worthless at home in the District of Columbia?

That June, just weeks after moving in with Andy, I was deployed from the Democratic National Committee, where I had been working as a political fundraiser, to Chicago to work out of Obama campaign headquarters. The next few months were a whirlwind of campaign events marked by long hours and a handful of quick weekend trips to see one another. But we both felt it was worth it, and on election night, we each celebrated Barack Obama's victory—me just steps away from the President-elect in Grant Park, and he with a raucous crowd outside the White House. When Barack Obama took the stage to declare victory, it felt like the political status quo had been momentarily upended. It felt as though anything might be possible in America.

But then the news came in that Proposition 8 had passed, prohibiting same-sex marriage in California. Our joyful celebration morphed into complete shock. On one hand, America had done the unimaginable by electing its first black president; on the other, California had done the unthinkable by passing an anti-gay initiative in one of the most progressive states. In Grant Park that night, LGBTQ campaign staff shared knowing looks that conveyed conflicting feelings: victorious yet demoralized.

In that moment, we all wondered: Will Barack Obama help us fight back?

And I found myself asking: Will I ever be able to marry the person I love?


By the following year, I had joined many of my campaign colleagues in the Obama administration, landing—of all the improbable places—at the Pentagon. Given the President's pledge to end "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," I hoped being at the Department of Defense would allow me the opportunity to be a part of history. Despite campaign promises, however, the early days of the administration provided little reason for optimism among LGBTQ advocates. A few gross missteps by the Justice Department in legal briefs concerning the so-called Defense of Marriage Act, or DOMA, provoked many LGBTQ movement leaders to privately—and increasingly publicly—question whether the Obama administration would get the job done.

Among the network of LGBTQ appointees, we did our best to stay positive despite mounting pressure from our community. Perhaps it was genuine confidence in the President and his team, or perhaps it was self-preservation. It was easier to believe that he saw the big picture and had a plan to get us there. Whatever it was, we continued to reassure one another, read the tea leaves in the best possible light, and assume good intentions all around.

In the midst of all this uncertainty, the President held his first LGBTQ Pride Month reception at the White House, throwing open the doors of "the People's House" to hundreds of LGBTQ activists from around the country. A decade earlier, these men and women were greeted by White House police wearing gloves; in 2009, they were honored guests.

And in that way that only Barack Obama can, he weaved together the varied histories of civil rights and social justice in America, telling us:

I know that many in this room don't believe that progress has come fast enough, and I understand that. It's not for me to tell you to be patient, any more than it was for others to counsel patience to African Americans who were petitioning for equal rights a half century ago. But I say this: We have made progress and we will make more. And I want you to know that I expect and hope to be judged not by words, not by promises I've made, but by the promises that my administration keeps.

It felt like a nudge and a wink in our direction, but one that left our most pressing question unanswered: When?


By 2010, Andy and I could no longer wait for the law or public opinion to catch up. We were going to make "happily ever after" happen.

After more than five years together, and with shared custody of an affectionate and food-motivated rescued beagle named Penny, it was clear our futures involved each other. And since the District of Columbia had recently adopted marriage equality, joining six other states, we took comfort that the act of getting married would at least have some legal standing.

Nevertheless, tying the knot still felt like radical activism in that moment. Accordingly, our wedding was thick with symbolism. We had one friend read from a statement by Mildred Loving—of the landmark case Loving v. Virginia—in which she placed the freedom to marry in the context of our nation's ongoing march to a more perfect and equal union. Two more friends sang k.d. lang's "Simple," and its refrain—"Love will not elude us, love is simple"—rang across the rooftop overlooking the Capitol Building, packed with friends and family wearing white ribbons to represent their support for our marriage.

A few days before the big day, we sat down with a bottle of wine to write out the wedding program and draft our vows. While we could have thrown out the script and written something new, fresh, and fabulous, it felt important to stick to some tradition. So when it came time for our vows, we uttered the same words that countless couples had repeated before us: love, honor, cherish. I do.

In retrospect, ours was a fairly traditional path: boy meets boy, boy falls in love with boy, boy marries boy. Indeed, the next morning, between unwrapping gifts and packing up the car, my new father-in-law not-so-subtly asked: "So, when can we expect grandkids?"

In his eyes, and in the eyes of our friends and family, we were just like any newly married couple. But in the eyes of the federal government, and in forty-four states, we might as well have been complete strangers.
The very next month, President Obama held an interview with a group of progressive bloggers who pushed him on a range of issues. Most of his answers were unsurprising, but when asked about marriage, he ventured further than he had before, adding, "Attitudes evolve, including mine."

There it was: "evolve." Evolution: a word that suggests change, or growth, usually from a lower state to a higher state. Did the President just show his hand?

That December, Andy and I were invited to a White House holiday party. We're normally not ones to hold hands walking down the street, but that night I clutched his hand as we walked through a beautifully decorated East Wing and took an embarrassing number of photos and selfies. I wanted everyone to know: We're here, we're queer, please hurry up and legalize our marriage.

A few champagnes later, it was time to line up for a photo with the President and First Lady. From my campaign experience, I knew that we'd have just a few moments with them and each one had to count.

The military social aide greeted us and, without any hesitation, asked, "Partner or husband?" to ensure he announced us correctly. I proudly replied, "Husband," and that's just how we were introduced to Barack and Michelle Obama. We quickly shook hands with the President and First Lady and smiled awkwardly. The camera flashed. I somehow managed to stutter out, "Have a wonderful evening!" and the President replied wryly, "We'll try," knowing full well they had a few hundred more handshakes and hugs to get through.

And then Michelle Obama turned to my new, mostly legal husband. She gripped Andy's elbow, stared into his eyes and then mine, and said, "You two take care of each other."

We melted.

It felt like something was stirring. Words were changing, hearts were opening.