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way she and my dad looked together—physically, I thought they complemented each other very well. There was also discussion about Sarah being a “maverick,” something I thought we’d have in common.
    But when I looked over at Bristol, who was holding her baby brother, Trig, I remember thinking two things: That poor girl looks shell-shocked and why does she have a giant blanket covering her stomach?
    A new phase was dawning in our lives, and in the life of our campaign. I felt that too. The relationship between a presidential candidate and the running mate is extremely personal and intimate. In essence these two people and their two families become one family and one entity. Our Pirate Ship had spent fourteen months in a bubble. Now we’d have to expand to include them, and our lives would forever be intertwined in some way.
    Best of all, there were so many Palin daughters! I’m a girl’s girl, and have always felt like everybody’s sister or everybody’s girl next door. And suddenly, there were lots of new young women and little girls for me to make friends with, play with, laugh with. I could take them under my wing, look after them, the way I love looking after my little sister, Bridget. I could show them the ropes. Political rallies and stages and conventions had defined my childhood. (Even in utero: My mother was pregnant with me at the Republican convention in 1984.) Mostly I was excited to share with the Palin girls that wild, we’re-in-this-together feeling of a big campaign.
    Just minutes later, we were onstage—all of us, both families, showing the world what we looked like. It was impossible to guess how the world would react.
    YOU KNOW HOW BEYONCÉ HAS HER ALTER PERSONA , Sasha Fierce? Well, I have one too. After the election, a blogger referred to me as Meggie Mac. And that is what I now call her. For me, she’s the person who comes out on any stage, and talks in interviews. She is lively and polite, energetic and cheerful, and always tries to be great company. When I’m overwhelmed, Meggie Mac is there for me in clutch moments. It’s hard to explain, but comforting to know I can tap into her. I can turn her on, become Meggie Mac, most of the time. And on that day, I thanked God that I could.
    I don’t have illusions about what my real job was on the campaign. I can talk about the blog and my moderate Republican fanbase until I’m blue in the face, but basically, all my job ever was, or would be—even if I became a First Daughter—was to stand up straight (chin up, core tight, it all helps with camera angles), keep a smile on my face, look admiringly at my father, and clap at the appropriate times.
    Being a political prop isn’t easy and it can mess with your mind. There are cameras on you, all the time. The entire traveling press corps stands right in front of you, staring and gawking and judging. You can’t scratch your face or rub your nose. You can’t yawn in boredom, or sit down when your feet start swelling.
    The hardest part for me is seeing how reporters react. They show everything on their faces—much more than they know. Sometimes they don’t bother trying to hide it, as though they stopped seeing you and your family as human beings, or even sentient creatures. After following us around for days, weeks, months, years . . . maybe they stop caring. The funny thing is that they don’t seem to understand that they can become our entertainment as much as we become theirs.
    From the stage, I could see everything that went on— hellooo, you are sitting directly in front of me. The press corps was often assembled on risers or on seats, and quite visible, but they acted as if we never saw them. They would gab on their cell phones and text in front of me. When they were bored, they would do yoga stretches, forward bends, or pick the goo out of their eyes. When they were actually listening, they would shake their heads and roll their eyes at something my father was saying. Unlike the