On Election Day 2008, Ian and I rose early to get to the polls well before school started. Like many voters that morning, we took our children, Jake and Maris, then ages eleven and five, because we wanted them to experience the excitement of the moment and learn the importance of voting.
As we drove to our polling station in our neighborhood recreational center in the Palisades area of Northwest D.C., I could not help reflecting on the hard work and tough decisions that brought me and all of America to the point where we had the opportunity to cast our presidential ballots for Barack Obama.
Standing in the long and exuberant line at the polls on that crisp November morning, I was struck by how distant the past summer’s foreign trip seemed as did all the hard work that preceded Election Day. None of it would matter unless Obama won. Although the polls were encouraging, I had learned from hard experience, most recently on the Kerry campaign, that polls are often wrong. In this case, I worried such surveys might be more wrong than usual, because no one could accurately assess how voters would truly feel about an African American candidate, once safely ensconced in the privacy of their own polling booths. It was white-knuckle time.
Ian, my Canadian-born husband, was not yet an American citizen, so he could not vote. That meant I had a crowd of three spectators looking intently over my shoulder as I marked my ballot, making sure I didn’t mess up. After we dropped the kids at school, Ian flew up to New York to help manage ABC News’s election night coverage, and I headed alone to Loudoun County, Virginia, to knock on doors and encourage likely Obama voters to get out to the polls. It was the most important work that could be done that day, but also a healthy return for me to grassroots politics, which I had done little of since the early days of the campaign.
After I knocked on the last door that time would allow, I drove hurriedly back to Washington. Satisfied. Proud. Hopeful. Resolute in the knowledge that, win or lose, I had given everything to a mission I believed in deeply, now like every American I could only wait for the ballots to be counted and the results revealed.
Multiple apprehensions loomed.
Having lived in Oxford for several months as a Stanford student, I understood that attending the university as an enrolled graduate student and a foreigner, outside the physical and psychic comfort of an all-American bubble, was sure to be a totally different experience—and not necessarily a good one. I was uncertain what would await me.
Leaving Ian to move across the Atlantic for at least two years was a far more consequential choice than studying abroad for a few months. We were hopeful about our future, but not ready to subordinate career and educational opportunities to our relationship, despite recognizing the considerable risk that, over time, one of us might be tempted away.
Another concern before first meeting the thirty-two American and eleven Canadian Rhodes Scholars on October 6, 1986, in New York City, was that I would dislike them—that as the “chosen ones” they would act as such: arrogant, pretentious, competitive, self-impressed, and determined to get what they wanted at others’ expense.
The send-off luncheon hosted by the North American leadership of the Rhodes Trust only reinforced my fears. We gathered at the Harvard Club in New York the afternoon before we were to depart via British Airways for London-Heathrow. The setting was intensely formal. Men were required to wear business attire, and one of my new Rhodes colleagues, an unassuming young man from the Midwest, arrived without a coat or tie. Rather than offer him spare clothes, the doorman prevented him from joining our departure event.
Similarly, the parade of luncheon speakers assured us we were the cream of the elite. We should go forth and conquer, they said, acting as arrogantly as we wished—because we can and are worthy of it. It was breathtaking to witness, in the belly of the Harvard beast, how the most privileged actually perceive themselves—reminding me how glad I was to have selected Stanford.
Thankfully, my fellow Rhodes classmates far exceeded my expectations. Most were bright, humble, friendly, and self-effacing. Relieved, I wrote in an early letter to Johnny, “the asshole quotient” was blessedly low. Many of my colleagues came from modest backgrounds and over half were scientists, which suggested to me that they were unlikely to be ruthless, politically ambitious backstabbers. Over a third of my class were women, and four of the thirty-two Americans were African American, the highest total to date. As time affirmed, this was a good group among whom I made lasting friends.
Our flight over to Oxford was a boozy but abbreviated voyage, a far cry from the long passage of prior years when scholars sailed on the Queen Elizabeth 2. The bus from Heathrow to Oxford dumped us randomly on the curb in small groups. We were expected to find our own way to our respective colleges scattered throughout the city. This was indicative of the whole Oxford experience—sink or swim. No briefing, no orientation, no coddling. You were expected either to know what to do or to figure it out. Fortunately, I recalled my way to New College, one of the more than thirty residential colleges that comprise Oxford University, and could guide a few colleagues to their destinations as well.
New College was unwelcoming. When a small group of us arrived exhausted and disoriented, we were met by the college porters who handed us our keys and merely waved in the direction of our dorm. “Over there, mates,” was all the assistance we received. Wandering lost along the vague trajectory indicated, we eventually came upon the hideous Sacher Building, the residence for first-year graduate students. Most of our peers in other colleges were assigned to stately wood-paneled rooms in lovely old college entryways, while at New College we were consigned to a “modern,” 1960s-era three-story concrete block, the antithesis of a traditional Oxford building.
Despite its familiarity, the contrast between Oxford and Stanford was jarring. Oxford was cold, damp, and dark—not just physically but also psychically and emotionally. The beautiful gothic spires, pristinely manicured gardens, and glorious ancient churches stood in contrast to the dirty, trash-infested streets, coal-laced soot that lightly blanketed outdoor surfaces, and the drunken dregs that emerged from local pubs promptly at eleven at night.
Until I made real friends, created comfort in my surroundings, and found my bearings academically, I felt fragile, even at times depressed. Much to my surprise, I discovered that among New College’s some five hundred students, I was the only black person. There were a few dozen sprinkled elsewhere around the university, but at one of the biggest colleges, I was alone.
This realization should not have hit me so hard. Yet it left me feeling lost and bereft, searching for other faces of color. Eventually, I did find a small but committed cadre of black Oxonians, drawn from my American cohort of about a dozen to fifteen, plus several from the Caribbean and Africa, though no British blacks. Among this larger group, there were enough of us to gather informally for meals and games, dubbing ourselves the BBT (black brain trust).
In time, I adjusted to Oxford’s gothic gloom: the biting, wet cold; the ancient buildings without central heating; and the stodgy, carbohydrate-laden, cooked-to-death food. The physical discomforts were minor inconveniences, which were counterbalanced by the considerable charms of the place—the historic libraries and Harry Potter–style dining rooms. The accessibility of the compact city, around which we biked everywhere even in the driving rain. The pubs; high tea with clotted cream and scones; sherry-, wine-, and port-laden dinners on “high table”; floating down Oxford’s scenic rivers in small flatboats called punts; eating at Oxford’s signature Jamaican, Indian, and Chinese restaurants (then the only consistently reliable cuisines); and frequent visits to London for the theater and better food.
Quickly, I made wonderful and soon-to-be-close friends, especially among the American and Canadian cohort of Rhodes and Marshall Scholars, and also with colleagues from Africa, the Caribbean, Australia, and New Zealand. Generally, however, British students had little time for us foreigners. Our collection of expatriates was close-knit, even though we were spread among various academic programs and colleges. Among my closest friends were three men—my housemates, Elliott and Joe, who cared for me like brothers, and Lance Bultena. Having traveled to Spain together, Lance and I bonded—over politics, philosophy, and a shared appreciation for poetry. A committed Republican from rural South Dakota, Lance is one of the smartest people I have ever met. We would stay up to all hours fiercely debating political philosophy and sharing stories of our disparate backgrounds. Everything in Oxford moved slowly by American standards and even more so by today’s, but that snail’s pace facilitated intimate conversations, leisurely walks, unhurried meals, and deep friendships.
The Oxford academic year consists of three terms from late September through June. My course of study was a two-year M.Phil (master’s) degree in international relations, requiring core courses in political theory, history, and economics. To earn the degree, one had to pass a qualifying exam after spring break the first year, submit a thesis, and pass final exams at the end of the second year. In the meantime, our cohort of roughly fifteen master’s students from all corners of the world attended weekly seminars, occasional lectures, and met one-on-one with our college tutors.
In both the seminars and tutorials, I was required to write and defend lengthy papers. The tutorial sessions were challenging, and I endured some pretty brutal criticism of my writing and analytical skills, something that temporarily shook my confidence, as I’d never felt academically inadequate in the U.S. It took me months to crack the code and write papers in the unique style that the Oxford faculty rewarded. I also struggled to be productive when I had so much free time. Though initially unimpressed by me, my New College tutor, Dr. Martin Ceadel, was patient and experienced with retraining Americans. He eventually managed to sort me out.
Despite Dr. Ceadal’s best efforts, I almost flunked out of Oxford. In order to remain in the master’s program, I had to pass the spring qualifying exam. Unlike at American universities where there is some compassion and flexibility, Oxford’s rules cannot be bent or broken. If the exam is on date X at time Y, you must be there. No excuses. Not for being sick, dead, or otherwise indisposed. You miss it, you fail.
I had come back to the U.S. over spring break to be a bridesmaid in the wedding of my close high school friend, Laura Richards. Following the Saturday night wedding, my exam was set for Monday afternoon. I had booked myself on one of the few daytime flights from the East Coast to London, so I could arrive Sunday evening, get a good night’s sleep, and be ready for the exam on Monday. After the reception, I came home Saturday night around 11 to finish packing and get ready to leave.
When gathering my valuables, I couldn’t find my passport. Ian and I turned my mom’s house upside-down looking for it. No luck. At 1 a.m., we drove across town and tore up my dad’s house. No passport. Anywhere. I could not for the life of me imagine where the hell it could be. I only knew that we had to find it, or I would not make it back to Oxford in time. A passport could be obtained at the passport office Monday morning, but that would be too late for the exam. I panicked. This could be the end of my Oxford experience.
Just as freaked out, my mother kicked into high gear. At 3 a.m., she started going through her considerable Rolodex, calling various members of Congress to request their intervention to somehow get me a passport.
“Mom, please, stop. This is embarrassing and undignified. You can’t keep waking up people all over Washington,” I pleaded.
Undeterred, Mom then lit upon Mort Abramowitz, the assistant secretary of state for intelligence and research. Without any better idea, and seeing at least some hope of success, given that he was an actual family friend and worked at the right department, I relented and let her wake up the Abramowitzes. Mort was puzzled by the urgency but didn’t argue.
He called the State Department Operations Center and miraculously managed to get the D.C. passport office to open for me on Sunday morning. The next day, Mort told my mom that he had an overnight house guest whom we had also awakened. Knowing Oxford well, their guest corroborated that making this exam was indeed critical.
A grumpy but obliging civil servant, Mr. Michael Persons, met me at the passport office. He directed me to where I could get a photo taken and issued me a passport on the spot, demanding only, “Let me know how that do-or-die exam goes.” I am indebted to Mr. Persons but even more so to Mort and his wife, Sheppie, for saving my (academic) life.
I flew to London Sunday night, suffering a poor night’s sleep in a cramped coach seat, but made it back in time for the exam. Wearing my short black exam gown, I eventually found my desk among the scores arrayed in the large wood-paneled exam hall. Relieved just to be present, if not in top form, I did not ace the exam but scored well enough to continue toward my degree. Though I have always been a little uncomfortable with my mother’s readiness to importune the most powerful names in Washington, this time my mother’s chutzpah saved me. I could not help but admire her long tentacles and willingness to use them on my behalf. It was an object lesson in networking.
I completed my M.Phil. degree with no further drama. My first two years at Oxford were my favorites, giving me the chance to try rowing crew, join an African American–led gospel choir, and play on the Oxford women’s varsity basketball team. My game had improved considerably since high school—with more ball control and greater ability to see the whole court to set up plays. As the sole point guard, I started consistently and played throughout most games. Three of my teammates had been American college players, so we were pretty good, especially compared to the all-British teams.
I was pressed into performing in a major dramatic production of For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/ When the Rainbow Is Enuf by Ntozake Shange, produced by my good friend Terri Sewell. Terri convinced me I should play “The Lady in Blue.” A bad-ass role with a lot of lines, it allowed me to tap in to my dramatic side. The cast and crew became some of my best friends in Oxford. Terri has since taken her organizing talents to Congress where she represents the 7th District, known as the Black Belt, in Alabama. Bonnie St. John, a para-Olympian skier, parlayed her extraordinary resilience into a career as a motivational speaker and author, while Lisa Cook, an esteemed professor of economics, became another daughter to my parents and a devoted auntie to my children.
Back in the day, however, it was arguably Robyn Hadley who impressed me most with her total unabashedness. My favorite example was our dueling interest in a particularly attractive American guy. Robyn made it simple. In her North Carolina drawl, she laid down her terms: “I’m giving you FIVE weeks. If you ain’t on it, I’m ON it!” Appreciative of her grace, I suspected she probably knew she had me outmatched in guts. Sure enough, I was too reticent to hit on this man promptly and directly, and the weeks evaporated. Literally, five weeks to the day, Robyn was “on it,” and they dated for several months.
That small but tight-knit circle of African American women formed the closest thing I ever had to a sorority, which I otherwise shunned. For the first time, I became fully at ease with who I am as a black woman. Finding that core group of African American friends (men and women) at Oxford was gratifying and more than a little ironic, since England was also the place where I faced some of my most overt encounters with racism.
Racial animus in Britain then was bald, without the refinement and comparative subtlety of America’s version at the time. In this respect, living in England in the 1980s felt like the U.S. at least a generation prior. At New College where I lived and was a “member,” I was afforded full dining and library privileges, a tutor, and a single room cleaned daily by a “scout.” The “porters” manned the college gates and ensured that only members of the university and known guests were allowed to enter. Porters also handled mail, packages, and the pigeon post. In my early months, I had difficulty being deemed a rightful member of College. It was hard to discern the precise reason for this disparate treatment, because being black, female, or American alone could each test the reserve of the more snobbish Brits in Oxford. Representing all three rendered me a rare version of lower caste. The porters initially balked at handing me my mail, pretending that I did not (and could not) belong “to College.” The bursar (treasurer) was slow to allow me to charge items to my bill, known as “battles,” like any other member of College.
It was only after belatedly realizing I had to speak their English language—to harness the British class hierarchy to my benefit—that they stopped ignoring me and started treating me with respect. When next refused my mail, I finally spoke up in a clear, firm voice: “I am Susan Rice, a graduate member of this College. You will acknowledge my membership and ensure I get all my mail and other support from now on.” I did not add a “please” or “thank you,” because the implicit message I had to convey, however uncomfortable and unaccustomed, was “you are here to serve me.” It worked, and thereafter I never had difficulties at New College.
The outside world was another story. While most English people I encountered were pleasant, or at least civil, there were some notable exceptions, like the Oxford city bus driver who slapped my hand sharply and chastised me loudly for taking my coins out of what was apparently the wrong side of the till: “You wait until I move the coins to the other side,” he snapped. I was so surprised that I failed to react with appropriate indignation; yet I was sure he would not have struck a “typical” Oxford student.
Off the basketball court and outside the library, I stayed involved in the anti-apartheid movement. At Oxford, I had the great fortune of joining forces with black and white students from South Africa who had firsthand knowledge of the fight we were waging. Back home, over the summer, I brought my activism to my “other mother” Peggy Cooper Cafritz’s dinner table in the Hamptons. Peggy’s stimulating gatherings often included artists, actors, and other celebrities.
One night, Johnny and I joined her when she hosted the musician Paul Simon, who had recently released his album Graceland, which was partially recorded in South Africa. The album drew heavily on the musical talents of Ladysmith Black Mambazo and other black township artists who were relatively unknown in the U.S. Graceland was spectacular, and no one did more to expose Western audiences to South African musicians than Paul Simon.
At one point there was a lull in the conversation, and I dared to raise the issue of his decision to violate the cultural boycott, when many artists, performers, and companies of conscience were avoiding apartheid South Africa. With a hint of indignation, I asked, “Why did you have to record inside South Africa and bring tax revenue and legitimacy to the Boers?” Obviously sick of this critique, he responded civilly but impatiently, stressing the prominence he brought to South African artists.
I persisted, “Why couldn’t you have flown the same South African artists abroad to record the whole album outside the country?” My willingness to provoke a debate and readiness to stand up for what I believe in, without regard for the consequences, made for an uncomfortable patch in the dinner, though nothing irreparable. Not persuaded by his argument, I still love that album.
From Oxford, I traveled widely throughout the U.K. and to Spain, Portugal, and Greece. In June 1987, a small group of Oxford friends and I also visited Moscow and Leningrad. The Soviet Union was still classically communist, and student trips were highly regulated, circumscribed experiences. We saw the Kremlin, Lenin’s tomb, Red Square, Saint Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow, and enjoyed the Hermitage and the midnight sun in Leningrad. On the streets, we bought old-style Stalinist posters and comrade clothing. It was a fascinating glimpse of the ruthless Soviet system before it collapsed.
Later that same summer, Ian and I backpacked through China for a month, which had barely begun opening to the West, the only tangible evidence being an inaugural Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant off Tiananmen Square. There were few cars. Bikes and Mao suits were omnipresent. Little kids peed on the streets, squatting effortlessly in their bottom-less pants, and adults blew their snot onto the sidewalks as they speed-walked.
We began our low-budget journey in Hong Kong, flew to Beijing, and then made our way through much of the country by train, bus, plane, and boat. Arriving late at night at Beijing’s airport without a hotel reservation, we were saved by puzzled Chinese eager to practice snippets of English and tell us where we could sleep. In Beijing, we visited the Forbidden City, the Summer Palace, Temple of Heaven, Tiananmen Square, Mao’s mausoleum, and the Great Wall. Staying in cheap guesthouses and hostels, we traveled to Xi’an, Shanghai, Guilin, and Guangzhou.
With only a few words of poor Chinese to deploy, Ian and I patiently managed with gestures, our fascination with the country far outweighing our frustration. We came across numerous Chinese whose English was passable and were eager to engage an unusual short brown person coupled with a giant, skinny white guy. In this way, we encountered the Beijing Work Unit women’s basketball team, who invited us to shoot hoops, discuss education, and take photographs. We found rural residents eager to show us around their villages. Naively, I wrote to my dad in a postcard, “Everything seems so open. It’s very easy to forget you are in a communist country—no omnipresent military or police. People are open and helpful.”
After four weeks, Ian had to leave, and I spent my final week visiting my close friend from National Cathedral School, Andrea Worden, who was teaching English in Changsha, Hunan province. Accustomed to few U.S. visitors, Andrea was delighted to welcome me to her small apartment, to play basketball with her students, and show me “normal” Chinese life off the beaten tourist path.
Our China trip was eye-opening, exposing us to rural and urban poverty of the sort we had not before seen, to China’s profound history and culture, and to its seemingly long distance from achieving its evident potential. Ian and I proved that our relationship could endure the stress and intensity of a challenging trip and that, after years apart, we still enjoyed being together. Traveling rough in a deeply unfamiliar place with no language facility and little money was invaluable for building my confidence that I could go almost anywhere, adapt, and even thrive in very foreign lands.
Back at Oxford for my second year, Ian came to study for his master’s degree in international relations at the London School of Economics, getting to know my Oxford friends. My return visits enabled us to explore London together. My Oxford years marked a significant chapter in my intellectual and social development. Had Ian and I not been able to share considerable portions of that experience, I wonder if our relationship would have endured.
At the end of my second year, I faced a major decision: should I return to the U.S. and attend law school, as planned; or stay at Oxford and convert my master’s thesis into a doctoral dissertation on the role of the Commonwealth in the transition of Rhodesia to Zimbabwe? I was interested in doing more primary research, interviewing as many of the living protagonists as possible, and learning about how majority rule can emerge through peaceful means after a long, armed struggle, mindful of Zimbabwe’s potential lessons for South Africa. I had taken the LSAT and still envisioned becoming an advocate for racial, social, or economic justice in the U.S. International relations was meant to broaden me, not become my destination.
“How many black lawyers do you know?”
“Tons,” I replied, as I looked over my plate at Eleanor Holmes Norton. I was fortunate to be having lunch with Eleanor, who was then professor of Law at Georgetown University and since has been D.C.’s delegate in the U.S. House of Representatives.
She pressed on: “And how many black PhDs in international relations do you know?” I couldn’t come up with any on the spot.
She continued to march me methodically through her logic. “How much do you enjoy your research?” Swiftly, I replied, “I love the topic and would welcome the chance to go to Zimbabwe to pursue field research.”
“And, how old would you be when you are done with your dissertation?”
“Twenty-five,” I said, expecting to be able to complete it within two more years.
“Well,” Eleanor concluded, “if you love it, you should do it. Black PhDs in your field are rare. Black lawyers are a dime a dozen. If you finish your doctorate and still want to go to law school, you will only be twenty-five and have plenty of time to do so. I’d recommend you stay and get your degree.”
Sold. I would get my doctorate in international relations. It seemed a minor deviation on my path at the time. But it turned out to be consequential.
At Oxford, I encountered plenty of ambitious Americans, several of whom wanted political careers. Though admiring their chutzpah, with time for self-examination I realized that I was not among them. Despite caring deeply about policy, I didn’t have the patience or obsequiousness to run for office and was not keen on compromising my principles. Already disgusted by the growing role of money in politics and not good at asking others for help, I could not see constantly fundraising for myself rather than for a good cause.
Nonetheless, I took a few months’ break from Oxford to work on the 1988 Democratic presidential campaign. Having completed my master’s degree, I contacted Madeleine Albright, who had been kind to me since childhood. In the intervening years, she had obtained her PhD, worked for Senator Edmund Muskie, and served in the Carter White House on the NSC staff. Now a senior foreign policy advisor to presidential candidate and Massachusetts governor Michael Dukakis, Albright helped me get a job as a foreign policy aide on the campaign’s Issues Staff, covering Africa, Latin America, Ireland, parts of Asia, and aspects of international trade. My role was to liaise with outside experts, write policy papers and press guidance, fill out questionnaires from interest groups, and draft briefing memos for the candidate.
It was on the Michael Dukakis–Lloyd Bentsen campaign that I first worked with friends who would remain colleagues for the next twenty-five years: Gene Sperling, who later became national economic advisor; Sylvia Mathews (now Burwell), a close Oxford friend who rose to director of the Office of Management and Budget and secretary of health and human services; Michael Barr, another Oxford buddy who served as an assistant secretary of Treasury; and Nancy Soderberg, who went on to be staff director of the Clinton National Security Council and later alternate representative at the U.S. Mission to the U.N.
Together, we suffered through a depressing campaign marked by the racist Willie Horton ads run by Vice President George H. W. Bush and by a Democratic nominee who made memorable mistakes like riding as a short man in a tank with an oversized combat helmet. As November approached, it became clear we were going to lose badly. The campaign manager cleared out the headquarters, sending almost all of us away to get out the vote. I stumped in Prince George’s County, Maryland, near home, enduring my first, but not last, soul-crushing losing campaign. While laid up in bed with a vicious flu for almost three weeks after our defeat, I cemented my view that electoral politics were not my thing. I would do policy.
After the campaign, I returned to Oxford and completed my PhD within two years, in December 1990. I delved into rich archival collections in Oxford and London and spent over a month doing field research in Zimbabwe, interviewing protagonists from both the government and opposition. I loved Zimbabwe, a spectacularly beautiful country with its red Flamboyant and lavender Jacaranda trees, impossibly balancing rocks, and a near perfect climate. In 1989, Zimbabwe was still comparatively prosperous and well-run, as its venal president Robert Mugabe had not yet become a complete autocrat who ruined the economy through extreme corruption and by seizing land from white farmers.
I was fortunate to have a fantastic thesis advisor, a renowned Oxford historian of Africa named Anthony Kirk-Greene. He was expert especially on Nigeria but had served as a British election official in Zimbabwe during the period I was studying. He guided me deftly through the dissertation process, which was leavened by his friendship, good wine, and convivial dinners at home with his lovely wife, Helen.
The advice Eleanor Holmes Norton gave me was excellent. Completing my dissertation is still the closest thing to giving birth I have experienced. Carrying the baby is often harder than the delivery, but the sense of joy and accomplishment when it comes is enormous. To add to the gratification, my thesis, “The Commonwealth Initiative in Zimbabwe, 1979–1980: Implications for International Peacekeeping,” won the 1991 Chatham House–British International Studies Association Award for the most distinguished doctoral dissertation in international relations in the U.K. Once finished with my PhD, I was ready to be done with academia, including law school. I often wonder where I would have ended up had I continued on my original path. Sometimes I still think I missed my calling as a litigator.
My research trip to Zimbabwe, my first to Sub-Saharan Africa, whetted my appetite for more. After defending my dissertation, Ian and I set off in January 1991 on a month-long trip to Senegal, Niger, Ghana, and Côte d’Ivoire. As in China, we backpacked on a limited budget, but the infrastructure and accommodations in West Africa were far more rudimentary. The exception was Niger, where we stayed with my cousin, Valerie Dickson-Horton, who was the mission director for the U.S. Agency for International Development.
Niger—the arid land of the mysterious indigo-dyed, turbaned Tuareg traders—was fascinating. In Senegal, we traveled from Dakar and Goree Island to the Casamance in the south and to the Parc des Oiseaux on the northern border with Mauritania, where we were when the Gulf War began. Travel, which was mainly by bush taxi, was rough, and the poverty in Saint-Louis, the major city of the north, still stands out as among the worst I’ve seen. Raw sewage poured through trash-clogged streets, and most houses were made only of rickety sticks and mud.
In colorful, vibrant Ghana, we visited Accra, the slave castles on the Gold Coast, as well as the Ashanti heartland in Kumasi. Then the crown jewel of the former French West African empire, Côte d’Ivoire’s economic capital, Abidjan, boasted fresh baguettes, the fancy Hotel Ivoire with its indoor ice-skating rink, and wealthy Frenchmen. Throughout our travels, we bought art that still adorns our house—batiks, metal and wooden sculpture, kente clothe, and Tuareg silver. The trip was the most interesting and taxing we have taken and reaffirmed that Ian and I could still manage together in challenging and unfamiliar circumstances.
West Africa marked a fitting conclusion to my Oxford years, a period of accelerated growth and maturation. I left feeling my independence was fully established, confidence strengthened, relationship with Ian solidified, and my circle of friends diversified and deepened, even as my ambitions remained unchecked. Oxford was a tremendous launching pad for whatever might come next.
Though still hoping that one day I might make public policy, with President George H. W. Bush in power, there seemed no proximate route for me into the executive branch (nor would I have wished to serve in his Republican administration). After Oxford, I decided to take yet another detour that would broaden my experience and develop different skills.
McKinsey & Company, a leading management consulting firm, had recruited me. Back then, McKinsey hired most of its associates out of the top business schools but reserved a few slots for Rhodes Scholars and others from nontraditional backgrounds they deemed strategic thinkers they could train in the necessary analytical tools.
Despite my atrophied quantitative skills, in early 1991 I joined McKinsey in Toronto, a comparatively small, collegial office that had a track record of molding non-MBAs, including roughly ten of my contemporaries from Oxford, into highly successful consultants. Better yet, Ian was in Toronto, having completed his one-year master’s at the London School of Economics and landed a plum job as a producer at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s flagship nightly television news magazine, The Journal. My two years at McKinsey were both challenging and interesting, even if it wasn’t high policymaking. Still, helping Canadian companies adjust to a changing global economy was important work. It was also great training for policy development, when down the road I would again need to digest vast quantities of information, formulate options for decision makers, execute implementation strategies, and make concise, compelling presentations to senior officials, not least the president of the United States.
More than eight years into my relationship with Ian, over half of which we had spent apart, the timing could not have been better for us finally to decide whether we would stay together. Through a process that combined personal maturation with something akin to comparative analysis, I had gotten many doubts out of my system. Yet, even with the right man, I feared my ability to sustain a relationship forever.
One fall Sunday in 1991, Ian and I were lazing in bed late into the morning. We started to argue about something insignificant. Our fights were not infrequent, but rarely consequential or lasting. This morning was no different.
To defuse the moment and declare an end to our dispute, Ian reached into a bedside drawer and pulled out a small box. Opening it, he revealed a diamond ring and then blindsided me by asking, “Will you marry me?” Melting into tears, after a few moments, I managed a muffled but determined “yes.”
My parents were thrilled that Ian and I had decided to marry. To my occasional annoyance, my mother always viewed Ian as near perfect. If something were wrong between us, in her view, it was undoubtedly my fault (which was often true but not always so). Dad had finally acknowledged that Ian was good enough even for his little girl.
Ian’s parents were equally supportive. I was no longer so young—his mom’s original complaint—and had amply demonstrated my abilities and potential. Seeing that Ian and I were well-suited, race was not an issue for them, not least because Ian’s older brother had already married a black woman. Clearly, however, they would have wished that I were Canadian rather than American. Foreseeing the likelihood that Ian and I would make our lives in the U.S., they preferred that their son stay in Canada. Beyond wanting her son to remain in closer proximity, Ian’s mother sensed that my career might take precedence over Ian’s in the U.S., limiting his assent and all but ensuring we might never return to Canada. His parents also had more mundane concerns. Ian’s father, Newton Cameron, had made his fortune in the British Columbia plywood industry and sold his company at the right time to Canadian Pacific, a leading national conglomerate. The Camerons regretted that Ian’s share of the family’s wealth would be diminished under U.S. tax laws.
Ian and I planned to marry on Memorial Day weekend 1992, in Washington, D.C., at the Little Sanctuary, an intimate, charming stand-alone chapel on the grounds of St. Albans School. Our luncheon reception would be held at my godmother Peggy Cooper Cafritz’s lovely house, replete with a rare collection of the best African American art, and large enough to support an indoor wedding, if weather necessitated, but perfect for an outdoor party on her expansive porch and lawn.
Shortly before the invitations were to be printed in February, I freaked out. My terror about commitment resurfaced with a vengeance. To get some perspective, I moved out of Ian’s town house and into a monthly rental apartment downtown near Lake Ontario. Then I started seeing a therapist to help me confront my fears with their obvious origins in my family’s collapse.
Ian let me go, without resistance or anger. Disappointed but stoical, even clinical in his assessment, he said, “You need to work through these issues. And, if you cannot, it’s best that you figure that out before we get married.” We postponed the wedding indefinitely, and I lived a life of monastic introspection. Soon after I left, Ian was sent by the CBC to South Africa to cover the referendum on ending apartheid. Throughout Ian’s four weeks there, we did not communicate—partly so I could see what life without him might be like. I found it tolerable, but empty.
On the morning that Ian was to fly home from Johannesburg to Toronto, I awakened as usual to CBC Radio news. The lead story jolted me: Barbara Frum was dead of cancer. The nationally beloved anchor of CBC TV’s national news magazine and Ian’s boss and friend, Barbara had been a huge champion of our engagement.
I rose crying and sobered. Barbara’s death delivered to me what one of my favorite writers, Virginia Woolf, called “a moment of being.” In that instant, on that morning, I suddenly knew with clarity what needed to happen.
But first, I had to contact Ian in South Africa about Barbara. I reached the authorities at the Johannesburg airport and had Ian paged to call me on one of those white courtesy telephones. When he phoned, I said, my voice breaking, “Honey, I wanted to catch you before you got on the plane. I’ve got very sad news: Barbara Frum has died. I didn’t want you to hear this and be shocked when you arrived. Also, I want you to know that I have been thinking a lot. I love you more than the universe, and I really do want to marry you. Will you take me back?”
He wept, buffeted by mixed emotions about Barbara and me, and said, “Yes.” When he arrived in Toronto, I met him at the airport, and I have never contemplated being without him since.
We rescheduled our wedding for September 12, 1992—a clear, warm but not hot day with no humidity. It felt like God was cheering our journey together. Sadly, my stepfather had recently died after a long struggle with cancer. I was with Alfred and my mom in the hospital when he passed. Among his last words to me, both in seriousness and jest, were: “Susan, you had better be good to Ian and appreciate how special your relationship is, or I will come back and haunt you.”
Not everyone was so sanguine about our marriage, and a few were bold enough to convey it. I had known Whalen McClellan, an older African American man and my father’s neighbor on Myrtle Street, from the time I was four. One afternoon over the summer, he approached me as I got out of the car outside our house. Without any preface or apology, but genuine concern, Mr. McClellan said to me, “Are you really going to marry that white man? What are you going to do when he wakes up one day and calls you ‘nigger’?” I was too shocked to respond. It seemed such a ridiculous question, but it shook me as a crass reminder of the racism and skepticism that Ian and I must be prepared to face as spouses and parents, even in liberal Washington, D.C. It also required me to acknowledge that prejudice against interracial marriage was as much or more a black thing as a white one. Sometimes I joke with Ian that I am still waiting for that fateful morning when “he wakes up and calls me ‘nigger.’ ” To my surprise, rarely have Ian and I faced raw racism directed at us as a couple—in D.C. or elsewhere.
Our wedding was perfect. One hundred twenty-five friends and family members. A relaxed, but traditional Episcopal ceremony with unorthodox touches. My father walked me down the aisle. My brother, Johnny, was my maid of honor, holding the bouquet with some trepidation and dutifully performing all the typical functions. My bridesmaids were my three close friends from high school: Andrea, Laura, and Trinka. Ian’s best man was a woman, a dear friend from high school, Barbara Arneil, while his two brothers and another high school friend served as groomsmen. We flew Canadian and American flags inside the church, gave praise for our love through “Resignation,” a favorite Nikki Giovanni poem, and danced to James Brown’s “I Feel Good” after we exited the church.
It was our ceremony, exactly as we wanted it.
Dad secured the wine and a New Orleans jazz band for the reception. Mom ensured the food, flowers, and decor were Lois-level impeccable. And Peggy kept my parents on their best behavior, making sure their lingering antagonisms in no way infused our special day.
Marrying Ian is the best decision I have ever made. I cannot imagine life without his unqualified love and rock-solid support, even when I least deserve it.
With Ian, I have never felt alone.