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snag a glass of champagne off a passing tray, nodding my thanks to the waiter who’s carrying it. I always feel such a strange double consciousness at parties like this one, which is supposed to be populated by bleeding-heart liberals . . . who somehow don’t mind that everyone attending the party is white, while everyone working it isn’t. Not that this stops me from coming myself. I’m no better than the rest of them, really.
She pauses just slightly, and I pause too. “I know I was hard on you,” she says. “But I . . . I know what it’s like, being a woman in politics. I don’t want to see you make stupid mistakes. You have a lot of potential. You should live up to it.” I’m thirty-five, not twenty-two, I want to tell her. I am too old to be patronized like this and too young to have bought into Lean In. I don’t just have potential; I have success.
