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Waiting in the Wings: An Exclusive Interview with Chelsea Clinton
by Jonathan Van Meter | photographed by Mario Testino
With her father's magnetism and her mother's discipline, Chelsea Clinton is finally embracing her political birthright. In this exclusive interview, Jonathan Van Meter discovers a young woman ready to change the world.
Chelsea Clinton is representative of her generation in a surprising number of ways: She has a highly developed sense of irony; a late-bloomer aspect; a promiscuous career ambition; an unusually close relationship with her parents—and, above all, an obsession with elaborate coffee drinks. Indeed, I have been to coffee shops all over this great nation with Chelsea Clinton as I trailed her this spring and summer. Once, in Joplin, Missouri, we were hanging around a parking lot waiting for the camera crew she works with in her role as special correspondent for NBC, and her attention kept drifting across the street. “I am pretty intrigued by Joplin Avenue Coffee Company,” she said. A few moments later, her chief of staff, Bari Lurie, appeared to say the camera guys were an hour away. “I don’t know what we should do,” said Lurie. “When in doubt,” said Clinton, “coffee.”
I first meet Clinton in late March at her favorite coffee shop in New York City, a very grad-student kind of place called Birch in the Flatiron neighborhood, not far from the apartment on Madison Square Park that she shares with her husband, the hedge-fund manager Marc Mezvinsky. The night before, I attended a panel Clinton moderated uptown, “Running in Heels,” about the inherent challenges facing women in elected office. She came onstage in a sleeveless leopard-print dress with an UGG on one foot and an orthopedic boot on the other and began, without ever looking at her notes, to reveal an inside-out mastery of the subject.
Clinton’s public-speaking manner is one of studied mellowness, with a measured tone and cadence that is like neither her mother’s nor her father’s. (“She definitely has her own style,” says Nicole Fox, her best friend, who gave a toast at her wedding. “It’s a little bit wonky, a little bit flirtatious, a little bit Southern.”) When Clinton introduced Sandra Fluke, the law student whom Rush Limbaugh had just a month earlier called a “sl*t,” she startled everyone by saying, “She and I actually have something in common. We’ve both been attacked by Rush Limbaugh. . . . She was 30, I was thirteen. In 1993 he said . . . ‘You may know that the Clintons have a cat, Socks, in the White House. They also have a dog.’ And then he put a picture of me on the screen.” If she hadn’t had everyone’s undivided attention before, she certainly did then.
When Chelsea walks into Birch, which is packed, people immediately notice her. Without missing a beat, she says, “Can I deputize you to go upstairs and look for a table, and in return I will stand in line and get us coffee?” Sure, I say. “What would you like?” A latte. “Whole, skim, 2 percent, or soy?” she asks, and we both laugh. Whole, I say. “Yum,” she says. “Good call.” I am instantly charmed.
By the time she joins me upstairs, Lurie is with her, as well as Matt McKenna, Bill Clinton’s press secretary, who also handles Chelsea’s press. Chelsea is meeting me, after all, to decide whether or not to do something she has been protected from or studiously avoided her entire life: be interviewed. The first thing that comes up is the orthopedic boot. “It’s a stress fracture,” she says. “My third metatarsal. All the fancy medical Latin terms I know are from my injuries. I broke my calcaneus a couple of years ago.” She smiles, clearly delighting in knowing the term. “I love the right words,” she says. “I think economy and precision of language are important.”
Both of these injuries come from running—it turns out she’s a New Yorker to the bone, literally. “I think I have run on every street in Manhattan,” she says. “Running is my prophylactic stress relief for the day. Or the segue so that I can go home and be with my husband in a kind of clearheaded way.” She runs early in the morning, sometimes at night, always alone. “Running is the one part of my life in which I fundamentally feel like the observer instead of the observed.”
I did not remember these details until I looked them up: Chelsea Clinton arrived at Stanford in a motorcade with her parents, Secret Service, and 250 journalists. Her dorm room was outfitted with bulletproof windows, and her security detail lived in her building and dressed like students. She majored in history. When she arrived at Oxford, where she went to study international relations, it was shortly after September 11, 2001. She was immediately brutalized by the British press for saying, “Every day I encounter some sort of anti-American feeling. . . . I thought I would seek out non-Americans as friends. . . . Now I find that I want to be around Americans—people who I know are thinking about our country as much as I am.”
This begins to explain why Clinton was eager to make New York City her home, which she did the minute she graduated from Oxford, and why she feels so comfortable here. I ask her if she is surprised by how surprised people are by how so-called normal she is. “The word normal . . .” she says, and then ponders it. “I don’t know. I’ve always been aware of both how extraordinarily normal and how extraordinarily extraordinary my life has been. It’s always been important, first to my parents when I was younger, and now very much to me, to live in the world. I would never want to live in a cloister. It’s important to me to walk down the street and hear what people are talking about or go for a run on the West Side Highway. Marc and I go to a movie every Sunday. We ride the subway. It’s one of the great gifts of New York City. Why would I want to miss that?”
Once in New York, Clinton worked for the consulting firm McKinsey & Company for three years, then for another three on Wall Street, for a hedge fund—two career choices that, given her parents’ lifelong devotion to public service, seemed out of character, almost a rebellion. “I really wanted to work in the private sector,” she tells me. “I felt as if I had no inherited understanding of that from my parents. But I didn’t fundamentally care about denominating success through money. And I think it’s important to be in professions in which you care about the metric of success.”
After leaving Wall Street, Clinton returned to academia, first earning a master’s in public health from Columbia, then joining New York University as the assistant vice provost for the Global Network University, and currently pursuing a Ph.D. in international relations from Oxford. She now teaches graduate classes at Columbia. One day in April, I sit in on one of her lectures, in a class called “Cross National Health Policy.” “I promise today to break before 4:00,” she says to the couple dozen students, most of them women, “and I see by your smiles that you ratify that decision.” When she finally looks at her notes after nearly an hour, I exhale: She is human. But more than that, she is engrossing. Partly, this has to do with the fact that she is a Clinton talking about health care, and, like her parents, she has a gift for taking complicated subject matter and making it come alive. But it also has to do with her lecture style: standing stock-still, speaking very slowly, her big blue eyes moving back and forth almost metronomically. “She has no filler like most of us,” says Lurie. “She waits for the right word, and until it comes, she’s silent. It’s one of the reasons why some people find her a little distant.”