My Jimmy Carter Story

While taking my masters in international relations in San Diego, CA back in 1995, I was selected for an eight-week internship at The Carter Center in Atlanta, Georgia. Though unpaid, the internship was one of the most competitive in the nation. Graduate students from various universities, including those from the likes of Harvard, Columbia and Yale, applied each year for the privilege of working at The Carter Center. I couldn’t afford to fly and stay in Atlanta for 8 unpaid weeks, but my school was just so proud and happy to learn that I got in, that they funded the whole gig.

The internship was coveted for a number of reasons.

First, the Carter Center Internship had a reputation for giving interns truly substantive projects to work on. For example, as a human rights intern, I was asked to write a policy recommendation on whether President Carter, who was scheduled to travel to China, should raise the issue of freedom for a high profile Chinese political prisoner when he met with the leadership of China. I recommended that he NOT even bring the issue up, arguing based on my research, that the said prisoner would likely be freed and allowed to quietly leave for the U.S. in a few months. President Carter therefore would be better served to use his political capital on something else, and months later, I was proven right.

Now, to be clear, I didn’t hand my paper directly to the President, and I have no way of knowing if he even saw it. I gave it to my supervisor who may have used it to prep for her conversation with the President, or just as likely, buried it under a pile of paperwork on her desk and ignored it entirely. But the internship wasn’t grunt work (although there was a little of that too), and I learned a lot about China-U.S. relations, international human rights, and policymaking.

Then of course, there were the bragging rights for having worked for arguably the best and most beloved ex-President of the United States.

And finally, there was one big perk. At the end of each term, all interns - some 30 of us in our cohort - would get to go on a three-hour road trip to Plains, Georgia, to the home of President and Mrs. Carter for lunch and a photo op with the Man himself.

Before going, I bought a copy of his book, “Keeping Faith”, for him to sign. I wore a barong tagalog, and when we arrived, we were led into a room where President Carter welcomed us all. And wouldn’t you know it, one of the first things he said was that he would not be able to sign anything we brought. His agent, he shared, had warned that his signature was now too valuable to be given away just like that. But, as a thank you, we would all get a photograph with him. That, he would sign, and the Center would be sure to send us our copy before the end of our internship.

So we lined up, and had our photos taken with President Carter. It was a standard pose – us shaking hands with smiling faces turned toward the camera. The photographer took three quick shots – they would just pick the best one, they said – and that was that. An interaction that lasted all of fifteen seconds, if that.

We were then escorted to the dining room where generous portions of home cooked spaghetti and garden salad awaited us. President and Mrs. Carter were also there enjoying the same meal, while two Secret Service agents hovered silently several feet behind them.

At one point, I saw President Carter stand up and walk to the bathroom. I seized my moment. I stood up, followed him and stopped outside the door, pretending to wait for my turn, hoping no one would notice I had his book in my hand.

President Carter stepped out.

“Uhm, President Carter?”

“Yes?”

“How strict are you about your policy of no longer signing books?”

An eyebrow arched, and he gave me an awkward smile. I didn’t know if he was annoyed, or if he was trying not to laugh.

“I’ve been known to break it every now and then. Why?”

“Well, I happen to have your book, and it would really be an honor…”

He smiled – a reassuring smile this time – as he took my book. I gave him my pen. After a moment, he handed my book back, now signed. We shook hands.

I turned to go back to my table, and only then saw that a line of fellow interns had formed behind me, all with books in their hands.

I walked quickly, grinning as widely as I’ve ever had. But I fixed my eyes straight ahead to my table. I didn’t look around because I didn’t want to see his Secret Service agents, who I now like to imagine were giving me dagger looks, pissed at themselves for having failed to protect the President from this brave and shameless Indio.

Carpe diem, indeed.

Rest in peace, President Carter. Serving with and through The Carter Center as one of your interns is an honor I will always treasure.