are just as good that this kid will struggle and fall through the cracks. Maybe you don’t care much, since it’s not your kid, but of course you should care, because that kid is a fellow American. And if nothing else, you should care because we need every kid to succeed in order to continue growing our economy.
Alternatively, you can think of it this way: that kid in the failing school (the one who ends up dropping out) is a problem for all of us—including you. That kid is more likely to need public assistance, sell drugs to your kids, rob a store in your neighborhood, or end up in jail—all of which affects you in one way or another.
So, take your pick. Either care about kids in failing schools out of compassion or out of self-interest, but either way, you better start caring about them.
For me, this is an urgent issue that really boils down to a few simple questions:
Does America promise equal opportunity in education? Yes.
Does America provide equal opportunity in education? No.
Will I ever give up this fight? Never.
CHAPTER 5
FIRST-TIME CANDIDATE
If you ever get the urge to run for public office, take a deep breath and a few aspirin, and hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning. If that doesn’t work, see a doctor. If after that you still want to run, then go ahead and do it—but read this first.
I began thinking about running to be the next governor of Louisiana in 2002. I initially kept my thoughts to myself, only confiding in Supriya. That was safe because she was already used to my outlandish ideas, starting with the notion that she should go out with me. She was out of my league and hesitant to date me. But I wore her down—it only took ten years.
I first asked her out when I was in the tenth grade. She was the prettiest girl I had ever met. I liked her from afar for months, until my friends finally tired of hearing about her. They said if you like her so much—tell her, not us. I finally worked up the courage to call and ask her to the movies. She was the first girl I asked out and she turned me down flat, ostensibly because her family was moving in a few days to New Orleans (which, by the way, is only about an hour down the road). I was zero for one.
The next time I talked to her was ten years later, in 1996. I had travelled the globe by then, but I never got her out of my mind. I had recently been appointed secretary of the Department of Health and Hospitals for the state of Louisiana, and I was expected to attend a fancy Mardi Gras ball in Baton Rouge. Three days before the ball, my date backed out. She had to study for a med school exam (or so she said). Scrambling for a new date, I asked around and got Supriya’s phone number. I left a strange message on her answering machine: “Hi, this is Bobby Jindal. If you’re not married please call me back.”
The message was so odd that she actually returned the call. We had a great thirty-minute talk, as I told her about my new job and asked if she would bail me out and go with me to the ball. She was a good sport about it and agreed.
I asked her to meet me at my parents’ house, since I had not even found a place to live yet after moving from Washington, D.C. When my dad met her, that was it—he’d found the one for me, and he didn’t seem too concerned about my feelings on the matter. The ball was a lot of fun, and of course she was great company. Other than the drunk lady at our table who could not pronounce Supriya’s name—she finally settled for “Sabrina”—it was a wonderful night.
When I asked her for a second date, she invited me to come to New Orleans and go out to dinner with her and some of her girlfriends at Nola, one of Emeril Lagasse’s famous restaurants. But I got sick that day. I was out giving a speech that afternoon, and I knew I wasn’t going to make dinner. I couldn’t reach Supriya—not many people had cell phones back then—so I left a message with Nola’s maitre d’. Thus, I not only stood up
Alternatively, you can think of it this way: that kid in the failing school (the one who ends up dropping out) is a problem for all of us—including you. That kid is more likely to need public assistance, sell drugs to your kids, rob a store in your neighborhood, or end up in jail—all of which affects you in one way or another.
So, take your pick. Either care about kids in failing schools out of compassion or out of self-interest, but either way, you better start caring about them.
For me, this is an urgent issue that really boils down to a few simple questions:
Does America promise equal opportunity in education? Yes.
Does America provide equal opportunity in education? No.
Will I ever give up this fight? Never.
CHAPTER 5
FIRST-TIME CANDIDATE
If you ever get the urge to run for public office, take a deep breath and a few aspirin, and hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning. If that doesn’t work, see a doctor. If after that you still want to run, then go ahead and do it—but read this first.
I began thinking about running to be the next governor of Louisiana in 2002. I initially kept my thoughts to myself, only confiding in Supriya. That was safe because she was already used to my outlandish ideas, starting with the notion that she should go out with me. She was out of my league and hesitant to date me. But I wore her down—it only took ten years.
I first asked her out when I was in the tenth grade. She was the prettiest girl I had ever met. I liked her from afar for months, until my friends finally tired of hearing about her. They said if you like her so much—tell her, not us. I finally worked up the courage to call and ask her to the movies. She was the first girl I asked out and she turned me down flat, ostensibly because her family was moving in a few days to New Orleans (which, by the way, is only about an hour down the road). I was zero for one.
The next time I talked to her was ten years later, in 1996. I had travelled the globe by then, but I never got her out of my mind. I had recently been appointed secretary of the Department of Health and Hospitals for the state of Louisiana, and I was expected to attend a fancy Mardi Gras ball in Baton Rouge. Three days before the ball, my date backed out. She had to study for a med school exam (or so she said). Scrambling for a new date, I asked around and got Supriya’s phone number. I left a strange message on her answering machine: “Hi, this is Bobby Jindal. If you’re not married please call me back.”
The message was so odd that she actually returned the call. We had a great thirty-minute talk, as I told her about my new job and asked if she would bail me out and go with me to the ball. She was a good sport about it and agreed.
I asked her to meet me at my parents’ house, since I had not even found a place to live yet after moving from Washington, D.C. When my dad met her, that was it—he’d found the one for me, and he didn’t seem too concerned about my feelings on the matter. The ball was a lot of fun, and of course she was great company. Other than the drunk lady at our table who could not pronounce Supriya’s name—she finally settled for “Sabrina”—it was a wonderful night.
When I asked her for a second date, she invited me to come to New Orleans and go out to dinner with her and some of her girlfriends at Nola, one of Emeril Lagasse’s famous restaurants. But I got sick that day. I was out giving a speech that afternoon, and I knew I wasn’t going to make dinner. I couldn’t reach Supriya—not many people had cell phones back then—so I left a message with Nola’s maitre d’. Thus, I not only stood up
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