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16-Aug-2016 21:11

“Maybe we have a special guest who will read to us.” She got up from the rocking chair and walked over to a set of French doors. ” the kids shouted as Obama threw open the doors to welcome an enormous red rooster, dressed in a U. Obama, who graduated from Princeton, earned a law degree from Harvard, and became, first, a corporate lawyer and, more recently, the vice-president for community and external affairs at the University of Chicago Hospitals, spent all but the first year of her childhood in a four-room bungalow on Chicago’s South Side. Her winningly chipmunk-cheeked smile is doled out sparingly, a privilege to be earned, rather than an icebreaker or an entreaty.Obama seems like an iconoclast precisely because she’s normal (the norm for a candidate’s wife having been defined, in the past, as nonworking, white, and pious about the democratic process).Obama is also cool in the other sense of the word; her tastes, references, and vocabulary—“freaky,” “24/7,” “got my back,” “American Idol,” Judge Mathis—if not exactly edgy, are recognizable, which, for a political spouse, makes them seem radical. I just assumed, you know, there’s no way anybody’s gonna hear about that.One January afternoon at the University of South Carolina’s Children’s Center, in Columbia, Michelle Obama scrunched her five-eleven frame into a small white wooden rocking chair. She is unquestionably accomplished, but she is not a repressed intellectual, in the mode of Teresa Heinz Kerry.The state’s Democratic primary, which her husband, Barack, needed badly to win, was in forty-eight hours. More than anything, she seems to enjoy talking about her husband and her daughters (Malia, nine, and Sasha, six). She is often called “regal”—whether in —but her bearing is less royal than military: brisk, often stone-faced (even when making jokes), mordant.

Meanwhile, Michelle and Barack have been living it up during their final year in office, most recently partying with Beyoncé.

Of the Iowa State Fair’s corn dogs and candied apples, obligingly gushed over by hopeful First Ladies every four years: “Stuff on a stick.” Here’s Obama, talking to me in her motorcade halfway between Sheboygan, Wisconsin, and Green Bay about Obama Girl, the young woman who professed her crush on Obama’s husband all over the Internet: “That was a little weird, because, you know . And one day Sasha comes home and she’s, like, ‘Daddy has a girlfriend.

Obama picked up a picture book, flared her nostrils, and began sniffing noisily, in the manner of a bear foraging in the woods for dinner. She can give the impression, in the midst of the campaign’s endless roundtables and kaffeeklatsches, that she’d rather be talking them.

“The bear will tromp through the forest on his big hungry feet and”—sniff, sniff, sniff—“find that strawberry, no matter where it’s hidden.” a pig? Having traversed vast landscapes of race and class, often as a solo traveller, she evinces the discipline and, occasionally, the detachment of an Army brat. Her mother and her older brother both say that she has never once phoned them in tears. When Stevie Wonder, whom she was escorting to the stage at a rally in February, tripped on a riser, sending her tumbling down next to him in front of thousands of people, she exhibited no embarrassment or alarm, turning what could have been a blooper-reel nightmare into a non-event.

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She flung her arms around Cocky to give him a hug, a gesture somewhat thwarted by his plush potbelly. Let’s read one book together with Cocky.” Obama selected another book and held it up to Cocky’s beak. When people—they’re almost always shorter—ask her to pose for pictures, instead of bending her knees she leans at the waist, like the Tin Man.

Obama works out like “a gladiator,” a friend has said.