Almost ten years ago, I joined my cousin, her daughter, and her daughter-in-law, who had flown in from both coasts, at a taping of an Oprah show. It was my cousin’s birthday gift from her husband, who somehow managed to parlay some magical connections into four tickets. I’d like to think I was there because I’m a favorite cousin, but I’m pretty sure the fact I live in Chicago had something to do with it.
At the time, I could take Oprah or leave her, leaning a little bit toward the latter. Nevertheless, I was thrilled to be included in the weekend adventure, which promised to include lots of wining and dining and girl bonding.
If anything, my tendency toward the negative was enhanced the moment we arrived at HARPO studios, where security was so tight it made the TSA look amateurish. Like everyone else, though, we waited like cattle, first in one holding area and then in another, while imposing (and quite handsome, I might add) security guards watched over us like hawks and admonished us constantly about cell phone use. We all obeyed — we were too intimidated not to. Well, except for my cousin, but that’s another story for another time.
Unlike all the other audience members, the four us wore black, which meant we would not be given front row seats. Or get called upon for a question. We sat in a side section, invisible as sand on the left flank of a giant peacock. I was relieved; I would not feel compelled to look enthusiastic for the cameras. I could even fall asleep if I felt like it.
I don’t even remember what the show was about. What I do remember was I had heard that at the show taped right before ours, everyone had walked out with a brand new Kindle. We got a a little bag of beauty products. I’m guessing the show matches the swag.
What I remember most, though, is how my feelings about Oprah changed. She was relatively heavy at the time, stuffed into a stylish canary yellow suit and gorgeous but sadistic pumps. During breaks, she removed her shoes, and looked desperate to remove the suit as well. No matter what, though — whether the cameras were rolling or not — Oprah worked her butt off. She was masterful with her guests, and she was masterful with her audience. It was as if we were in her living room, and as much as she clearly yearned to put her hair in a ponytail and scrub the layers of makeup off her face and slip into sweats, she chatted with us, joked with us, connected with us, treated us as guests should be treated. And, when a segment seemed less than perfect, she squeezed back into the shoes and did it again, without complaint. I understood, then, why Oprah had become an empire. She had earned it.
I have no idea whether Oprah should or could or even wants to be President. As far as I’m concerned, the bar is so low now just about anybody I know would be a better pick than the one we’re stuck with. But I am hoping that we, as a country, have at least hung on to enough dignity to never again turn a presidential campaign into a celebrity casting call.
After the taping, the four of us were invited for a brief audience with Oprah — part of my cousin’s amazing birthday surprise. Oprah came to greet us, noticeably and understandably exhausted, still in her television duds but her makeup slightly melted. We took a picture, four invisible grains of sand flanking a brilliant and rare bird. I’m sure we could do worse, but we deserve more than stagecraft.
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