world with this new identity. This meant much more than being a woman; I was a celebrity, and had been made, without consultation, a symbol of all sorts of things, a figurehead for all kinds of ideas. Some of that was fun—when I needed to figure out how to dress, a Vogue editor helped me. Annie Leibovitz photographed me for Vogue’s September issue, in my own swimsuit. Some of it—the director of the CIA pressuring Harvard University to uninvite me from a visiting fellowship, Fox News seizing upon my very existence as a cheap way to rile up its viewers—was much less so.
