Chapter 2
The Path to the Podium
"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." ¡ªProverbs 27:17
Growing up, my dad always used the term "worldview." He said that everyone had one whether they knew it or not. I didn't quite understand that concept fully until I went out on my own. As I went to Washington, DC, to New York City, and then eventually to Oxford University, where I spent my junior year of college, the term crystalized. I was a Christian. I was a conservative. This was my worldview. It was at the central core of my being, firmly sewn within me. It is the prism through which I see the world. As I left my home, I encountered contrasting worldviews. It would be up to me how to handle these moments. My first "tutorial" at Oxford University was just such an encounter.
Unlike in American universities, where lectures were the main source of learning, at Oxford University, one-on-one time with professors¡ªknown there as "tutors"¡ªserved as the focus. Each week, you were expected to write either one or two ten-page papers. But rather than your professor scribbling down a grade and a few notes, you were instead instructed to read your work out loud in a "tutorial" setting with, at most, one other student. Your tutor, a highly credentialed and well-studied academic, would stop you along the way, challenge your ideas, and ask you to explain your perspective or provide your sourcing. If you thought my press briefings were intense, think again! The tutorial far eclipsed the press briefing in terms of difficulty. Preparing for these tense encounters certainly shaped the way I prepared before I went to the podium.
My first tutorial was brutal, and I still remember it vividly. That day, I ascended the circuitous brown staircase with an appropriate level of angst, unaware of the challenge that waited at the perch of the tower I was climbing. Known as the "City of Dreaming Spires" for its soaring, castle-like structures, Oxford, England, was a magical little town, rich in history but rigorous in academics. As a student at Georgetown University School of Foreign Service, I had intentionally sought out a year at Oxford University for a reason: I wanted to fine-tune a very specific skill¡ªthe art of debating. As a staunch conservative and Christian, I did not look to change my views, but I certainly wanted them countered. I wanted to learn to defend my deeply held convictions intelligently, and that could only happen if I was challenged. And challenged I was.
As I traversed the old staircase of the twelfth-century library that fall day, I finally arrived at my first tutorial, expecting a challenging setting but blissfully unaware of the back and forth about to come. I sat across the desk from my tutor, alongside one other student, and soon began to read my paper out loud. As I read my first international relations paper, I was uncertain whether my voice was truly shaking or if it was all in my head. Several times throughout my oration, my tutor stopped me and scrupulously challenged my thoughts. It was a rigorous exchange, and I left that tutorial in tears, calling my mom to describe the thought-provoking conversation. I was determined to come back stronger.
It became clear over the course of our sessions that my tutor had a very different outlook than my own. As a former representative of the Palestinian Liberation Organization, she challenged many of my ideas, not just that day but in our sessions that followed. Ultimately, she made me better. I look back on our tutorials fondly because she taught me to listen to alternative perspectives. To this day, I still hold the same worldview¡ªa Christian, a conservative, a staunch supporter of Israel¡ªbut I am better for having listened and understood. My Oxford tutorials taught me to challenge my ideas, to thoroughly source my work, and¡ªimportantly¡ªto anticipate counterarguments, a skill that comes in quite handy in preparing for a White House press briefing.
My worldview was shaped by two loving parents who selflessly invested themselves in each of their children, creating a faith-based and family-centered environment for their three kids. I was born in Jacksonville, Florida; however, my parents moved to Plant City, Florida, a twenty-thousand-person town along Interstate 4, shortly after I was born. Plant City, affectionately known as the "Winter Strawberry Capital of the World," is a small town in central Florida with warm, salt-of-the-earth people. Every year in late February or early March, the town congregates to celebrate its cherished agricultural product at the Florida Strawberry Festival. Strawberry shortcake, of course, is plentiful, as is country music. From Garth Brooks and Toby Keith to Big & Rich and Rascal Flatts, country's hottest celebrities descended¡ªfor a moment in time¡ªupon my home in Plant City, Florida.
In my early years, I attended Walden Lake Elementary School, the local public school where my mom was a teacher. Like many young children, my memories of the time are sparse, but a few stand out. I recall chanting for Bob Dole on the playground in 1996 as an eight-year-old girl. Ahead of the November election, my elementary school held a mock election. Much to my chagrin, Bill Clinton won our school's vote tally, beating Dole in a landslide. When I found out my brother, Michael, voted for Clinton because he liked the sound of his name, I refused to speak to my younger brother for days. In the aftermath of the election, I took it upon myself to run down the hill behind my house and onto the golf course, where I glued signs to the water cooler articulating my disapproval of the Clinton White House.
Weekdays in my small town centered around the little league field. In the fall, my brother and his teammates would burst through a paper sign spanned across the goalpost, ready to take the field for the Plant City Dolphins. Clad in my teal and orange, I was proud to be a cheerleader shouting from the sidelines. In the spring, my brother played baseball, and I tried one bout at softball. One problem, though: instead of hitting the ball, the ball hit me. I stuck out the season, but after one year, I proudly transitioned from the mound to the concession stand, where I was pleased to be making five dollars an hour.
On weeknights, it was a good night if I got to ditch doing the dishes at the sink overlooking my family's dining room table and instead feast at Hungry Howie's or the Chinese buffet. Whether at home or at a restaurant, family dinners were a nightly occurrence, and they always began with prayer. "Dear Jesus, we thank YOU for this day. We thank you for this meal. We love you Lord. Protect this family." These values stayed with me all through my life, no matter where I was¡ªPlant City or Washington, DC, Tampa or New York City.
My upbringing in Plant City was wholesome and family-oriented, but it was not free of trial. I learned about loss early on when a sweet angel in our community, Megan Carpenter, got cancer at eleven years old. Between surgeries and chemotherapy, Megan always engaged with the community. After our Dolphin football games, we would attend "Dolphin Dances," where the town would dance to the Macarena. Megan would attend, battling a horrid disease far too young. When we would meet at a neighbor's home for four-wheeling and traditional Southern cooking¡ªwarm, buttered biscuits and collard greens¡ªMegan would be there too. She had a smile on her face, no matter the circumstance¡ªlosing her hair or feeling weak. After six years of battling cancer, Megan went to be with Jesus. "Don't be mad at God. He's watching after us," she told her family. Megan might have passed, but her faith lives on in this community and beyond.
At fifth grade, I left public school for a private Catholic school in Tampa called the Academy of the Holy Names. In addition to my Catholic schooling, every Sunday, my family attended our Southern Baptist church, and on Wednesdays, I went to youth group. The pews of my local church and the Biblical truths shared from its pulpit provided my spiritual grounding and kept me centered through high school, college, and my adult life.
While my church instilled in me a love for Christ, I also developed a political foundation from a very young age. This political foundation grew during my rides in my dad's truck, where we would listen to The Rush Limbaugh Show. Rush's passion, conviction, and unwavering confidence lit a fire within me¡ªa spark that would reverberate through my entire future professional life. When I carpooled with fellow classmates either to my all-girls Catholic high school or to cheerleading practice at my brother's school, my passengers knew that Rush Limbaugh would be the soundtrack in my little black car.
On Friday nights during high school, you could find me on the track with pom-poms cheering on the Jesuit Tigers football team, but on Saturdays, I dropped the pom-poms for a rolling backpack as I headed in to debate tournaments. Equipped with a Ronald Reagan book of quotes, I began every opening debate salvo with a word of wisdom from the Gipper. My love of politics ultimately manifested itself in state debate championships and a trip to nationals in Philadelphia, where I did not win, but I had found a passion.
While a senior in high school, I knew there was only one college for me: Georgetown University. Georgetown, known for its academic excellence, was set right in the heart of our nation's capital. It offered the perfect opportunity to grow intellectually while also having access to the halls of Congress and the White House¡ªboth branches of government I would eventually intern at as a student at Georgetown. In high school, I had interned for the Bush-Cheney 2004 presidential campaign and Tom Gallagher's gubernatorial campaign. These experiences set the stage for me to intern in the halls of Congress for Congressman Adam Putnam, where I regularly gave tours to constituents from my home state.
Following my congressional internship, I considered applying to intern in the Senate but ultimately set my sights on the White House. It was the final year of President George W. Bush's administration, and, for a college student, a White House internship offered an up-close experience in the world's most powerful building. At this point, I had completed several internships in Republican politics, which paved the way for me to receive an internship in the White House Office of Media Affairs. While most White House interns took a semester off to devote to the internship, I wanted to keep on track with my studies and opted to be a full-time intern and full-time student. Forgoing spring break and other typical college activities, my work began before the sun would rise, and my studies ended long after sunset. Departing for the White House early in the morning while it was still dark, I would call my mom and nervously walk to the big wrought iron gate at the front of Georgetown to wait for a taxi. Upon arrival at the White House, I would walk to the Secret Service checkpoint and tell my mom, "Hold on one second. I need to put you through security." Sending the phone through the security belt with my other belongings, I would gather my items and scurry off to my desk to start work.
During my time as a White House intern, opportunities abounded¡ªlike the time when I saw a White House press briefing live. I will never forget it. Dana Perino was the White House press secretary as I stood in the back of the room and watched her field the reporters' questions. I was completely mesmerized and enthralled by the moment. At that point, I would have never envisioned that just over a decade later, I would be the one taking questions from behind that very podium.