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An Obama moment: A Canadian in Washington meets the president

Submitted by Tracey Madigan

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About/Bio: Tracey Madigan is a journalist from Montreal. She relocated to Washington D.C. in 2006 with her family when her husband was transferred there.

My take: It's a bright May morning, and dozens of people are fumbling with their cell phones, squeezing out the latest news to their friends: FLOTUS is here. First. Lady. Of. The. United. States.

Another Saturday in my quiet corner of Washington DC, about five kilometres from the White House, at a neighbourhood park that could be in any suburb in America. But on this Saturday, at this park, there is a hushed buzz of excitement. Michelle Obama comes to this park virtually every Saturday to watch her daughters play soccer.

For weeks now, friends have been sharing their anecdotes: one got to pet first dog Bo, another chatted with Michelle about the woes of dog-raising, one mom described how little Sasha Obama plucked caterpillars from the trees with her kids...

And they were pretty Canadian about the whole thing. And by that, I mean they were discreet about meeting the First Family. No shouting, no shoving to get a glimpse, no requesting autographs at our humble little park.

Why hasn't word spread? How come people from other parts of D.C. - or even the country - are not swarming to come take a peek at members of the First Family at play?

This Canadian wants a piece of the action, and the information wafting through the neighbourhood is the game is at 10 am this Saturday, the second-to-last game of the season. I want to be a part of it. So my family and I saunter over.

The park looks like it does any other day: except for the man and woman wielding metal detectors. They quickly scan us and our bags. Look around and there's a disproportionate number of clean-cut men in polo shirts looking serious. Look again: they're everywhere.

Michelle Obama is sitting on one of the benches, watching Malia, looking like just another soccer mom. Oh, the crowd knows she's there, but they are respectful and discreet. Subdued delight.

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But then, the muted excitement is truly put to the test.

I see the swagger, but it doesn't register at first. He is walking "alone" - no clump of body guards glued to his sides. It's the president, with at least 10 metres in front of him and behind him on the paved path to the soccer field.
I whisper to my friend, "The president is here." She gasps and looks over to see him kiss his wife and sit down to cheer.

Now, the buzz is palpable.

Barack Obama is sitting 10 metres from us as he and other soccer parents cheer and make small talk between plays, exchanging opinions on who is playing well, and how tough the other team is.

The only reason the scene feels surreal is because we are all so restrained. Isn't this the land of the paparazzi, TMZ and National Enquirer? Isn't there an amendment to the Constitution saying that once you become a public figure in the U.S., that you give up any right to privacy, and that you should expect cameras in helicopters flying overhead trying to catch a glimpse of you at your most vulnerable?

During half-time, a few players from another team approach President Obama to shake his hand. A mother escorts her three young girls, "This little three-year-old of mine can't pronounce your name, and so she calls you 'Iraq Obama'!"

The President laughs a hearty laugh.

I look around and soak up this moment. People here are happy to have their new President among them. He is present, and tangible. He's theirs.

Just then, my 10-year-old slinks up to me. "I'm so excited!"

"I know, isn't this cool?"

She replies: "I just shook the President's hand."

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I am dumbfounded. She had the presence of mind to jump on an opportunity that wouldn't come around again for a while.

"What?! What did you say to him?" I admit, I am thinking about the missed photo opportunity.

"I just said, 'Hi, my name is Claire', and then he just said, 'It's nice to meet you, Claire!'"

I ask my seven-year-old and five-year-old whether they want to do the same. We walk over and each shake his hand. President Obama chats with us, in a warm, friendly - even funny - tone.

A blond-haired kindergartener in her summer dress feels comfortable enough to offer him a juice box on this hot day. He politely declines, turning to me - to me! - saying, "What about you? Did you bring me a juice box?" Another bout of laughter.

We don't mention we're Canadian. We don't need to. On this day, anyway, we're feeling just like our American friends.

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