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Chapter 1: Don’t Let the Bullies Get You Down CHAPTER 1 DON’T LET THE BULLIES GET YOU DOWN
In 1981, when I was ten years old, the TV show Three’s Company was a huge hit. It was a silly comedy about two women and a man sharing an apartment, a situation that back then was seen as a little bit shocking. Everybody in my fifth-grade class watched it, tuning in every Tuesday night to see what kind of trouble Jack, Janet, and Chrissy were getting into.
In November of that year, the show introduced a new character named Greedy Gretchen. Played by actress Teresa Ganzel, Greedy Gretchen was a blond bombshell who wore a spaghetti-strap dress to show off her ample bosom. Unfortunately for me, I had started developing earlier than other girls in my class, so even in the fifth grade, I was already getting kind of busty. Not surprisingly, some of the boys started calling me Greedy Gretchen. Did I hate it? You bet I did. The only thing worse than having boobs suddenly sprout on your fifth-grade body is having hormonal boys point it out every three minutes. At age ten, I really didn’t want to stand out. But what could I do about it?
I hated that nickname, but I didn’t know how to respond. When I was a kid, people used to say, “Just ignore it.” Or worse: “If a boy teases you, it means he likes you.” No one ever suggested that I stand up for myself, and so I didn’t. The boys kept calling me Greedy Gretchen until middle school, when most of the other girls finally started developing too.
If I could go back and talk to my ten-year-old self, I’d tell her to share with a trusted adult what was going on. Ask for help. Advocate for herself. And I’ll be honest: I still struggle with doing this sometimes. Because even as adults, women get unwanted commentary on how we look (more on this later). People sometimes judge us more on what we’re wearing, rather than our intellect, our humor, our empathy. When that happens, it’s okay to tell them that what they’re doing isn’t right. And if you see that a friend is going through it, it’s okay to step up and support them, too. Add your voice to encourage people to focus on what matters.
Greedy Gretchen was just the first of many nicknames. A few years later, I went to a summer church camp in West Virginia. Our family wasn’t super religious, but my parents divorced when I was six, and my mom and stepfather used to take us to Cascade Christian Church on the weekends we were with her. For whatever reason, the youth group took an annual trip all the way to West Virginia, so that’s where I was the summer after I got my braces off.
I used to love these trips, because we’d all pile into a bus and just cut up and laugh all the way through the eight-hour ride. Dad used to joke that we packed enough food for two weeks just for the bus trip. Some of my best friends were in this church group, and it was exciting to take a trip together, away from our parents, to run wild at this camp five hundred miles from home.
One afternoon, we were playing a game that involved running all over the place, and another girl went to tag me. But instead of just tagging, she pushed the hell out of me (so much for church camp), and I went flying face-first into the cement. The impact knocked out both of my front teeth, scraped up my hands, and opened a huge gash on my knee. We were out in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, and with blood gushing out of my knee, the counselors had to improvise, using maxi pads to clean it up. When I finally got to the hospital, it took thirty stitches to close the cut, and the doctors sent me home toothless and in a wheelchair.
I looked awful, but I wasn’t worried about what my friends might think. I mostly dreaded seeing my dad. He’d just paid thousands of dollars for braces to fix the gap between my front teeth—and now they were gone. All that money, wasted! I was so worried he would be mad that I was actually glad to have been hurt so badly, because he might feel sorry for me instead.
When I got back to Michigan with my busted face and torn-up knee, my dad could only shake his head. Gravity Gretchen, he called me, and the nickname stuck. I had always been a klutzy child, banging into things and falling, and even though that girl had pushed me, this episode served to cement my reputation. But unlike when the boys nicknamed me Greedy Gretchen, I didn’t mind Gravity Gretchen. It was funny because it was true. And because my dad laughed when he called me that, it helped me learn how not to take myself too seriously.
People gave me other nicknames over the years: Stretchin’ Gretchen, Fetchin’ Gretchen, and much later, Big Gretch. But there was one nickname in particular that managed to propel me into the newspapers—though, in fairness, the coverage came about not so much because of the nickname itself, but because of who gave it to me.
“That woman from Michigan.” That’s me! President Donald J. Trump bestowed this very special name on me in the spring of 2020—though what he actually said, speaking to Vice President Mike Pence at a White House press conference, was “Don’t call the woman in Michigan.” It was his latest salvo in a battle that had been brewing between us for weeks, ever since Covid-19 began shutting down the country and growing numbers of Michiganders were dying.
In the early days of the pandemic, the White House didn’t take it seriously enough. As hospitals overflowed and makeshift morgues filled up, governors scrambled to get basic medical supplies such as masks, surgical gloves, and ventilators. Detroit was hit particularly hard, along with New York City, Chicago, and New Orleans. We hoped and expected that the federal government would help, but instead, the president pitted the states against each other in a cruel Hunger Games–style scramble for equipment.
After I pointed out the lack of a federal strategy to combat Covid during a March 16 interview on MSNBC, Trump took to Twitter—now called X—the next morning to chastise me. “Failing Michigan Governor must work harder and be much more proactive. We are pushing her to get the job done. I stand with Michigan!” he tweeted at 9:27 a.m. Well, good morning! So I tweeted right back: “Now that I’ve got your attention, Mr. President—attack tweets won’t solve this crisis. But swift and clear guidance, tests, personal protective equipment, and resources would.”
I didn’t love that the president of the United States was calling me out, but that was a very minor concern compared to what really mattered. Getting help for people was my job. That’s what was important. If I’d lost the plot, or begun to think that this was all about me, I might have gotten distracted. But leadership isn’t about protecting your own ego, it’s about keeping your eye on the ball. So I stayed focused on trying to get the supplies we needed to keep people alive in Michigan.
At that time, in late March of 2020, the whole world had turned upside down. I had planned to have an eighteenth birthday party for my daughter Sherry, but instead, her school—and every other school in Michigan—was shut down during her senior year. As a parent, I was heartbroken for my kids. As a governor, my focus had to be protecting the people of Michigan. When the districts shut down our schools, we had no idea how long that might last. No one had lived through anything like this before. (To find out how my daughters Sherry and Sydney felt about this, and many other events described in this book, check out the Q&A with them in the back.)
On Thursday, March 26, I requested that the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) declare a federal disaster in Michigan, which would release funds for our state. At least seven other states had already received this designation, and I wanted to make sure Michiganders got the federal dollars we needed. Trump didn’t like it. His ego was bruised, because he takes things personally. He makes everything about himself, rather than about helping others.
He called in to the conservative commentator Sean Hannity’s show that evening, and amid a rambling forty-minute interview, he said, “And your governor of Michigan, I mean, she’s not stepping up. I don’t know if she knows what’s going on. But all she does is sit there and blame the federal government. She doesn’t get it done.” He took a moment to complain about Washington governor Jay Inslee, then came back to me, saying, “We’ve had a big problem with the young, a woman governor from, you know who I’m talking about, from Michigan.” Did he not know my name? Or was he just acting like he was too far above me to speak it?
I decided to help him out. “Hi, my name is Gretchen Whitmer, and that governor is me,” I tweeted, shortly after the Hannity interview aired. “I’ve asked repeatedly and respectfully for help. We need it. No more political attacks, just PPEs, ventilators, N95 masks, test kits. You said you stand with Michigan—prove it.” I had been governor for only a little over a year, and getting into a fight with the president wasn’t something I was keen to do. I did it because I was scared. Michiganders were dying, and I had to do whatever it took to get the federal government’s attention and help. The great South African leader Nelson Mandela once wrote that courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. I had to face down my fear in order to keep Michiganders safe.
The next day, March 27, was the day Trump talked about me at the White House news briefing. Once again complaining about how governors were too demanding and not “appreciative” enough, he relayed advice that he’d supposedly given to Vice President Pence. “I say, ‘Mike, don’t call the governor of Washington. You’re wasting your time with him. Don’t call the woman in Michigan.’... You know what I say? If they don’t treat you right, I don’t call.”
And then it was off to the races for That Woman from Michigan. People jumped at the chance to tweet about it, talk about it, even make T-shirts and bumper stickers with it. My team sent out emails quoting the nickname, instantly turning it from a liability into an advantage. One woman even got an image of my face and the words “That woman” tattooed on her leg. And when another sent me a blue T-shirt with the phrase stenciled in giant white letters, I wore it during a video interview on The Daily Show with Trevor Noah.
To this day, people are still selling That Woman from Michigan stickers, mugs, shirts, candles (scented with “lime, rose, geranium, & musk”), pillows, trucker hats, and even nail polish (handmade, toxin- and cruelty-free, in Traverse City). So, it was not only good for me; you could argue that it’s been good for Michigan’s Etsy community. And it only happened because I refused to let the president define me. I took his insult, flipped it, and made it my own.
That’s the secret to dealing with bullies: You take their weapon and make it your shield. You can’t let their words get to you or take them to heart. Knowing that you are worthy of respect, from others but also from yourself, is an important step in developing a strong sense of self.
Every time Trump gave me a nickname, I made it my own. On March 27, 2020, he tweeted, “I love Michigan, one of the reasons we are doing such a GREAT job for them during this horrible Pandemic. Yet your Governor, Gretchen ‘Half’ Whitmer is way in over her head, she doesn’t have a clue. Likes blaming everyone for her own ineptitude!” Oooh, “half-Whit.” Good one! Good enough to put on the cover of our family cookbook, where it makes me laugh every time I see it. (Liz and I now call our kids half-Whits too, since they’re half Whitmer.) And hey—at least the president finally learned my name.
Our family cookbook
Sometimes bullies need a taste of their own medicine. In late 2011, when I was in the Michigan State Senate, the Republican majority passed a supposedly anti-bullying bill. They named it Matt’s Safe School Law, after a fourteen-year-old student named Matt Epling who took his life after upperclassmen hazed and assaulted him. Matt, who had lived in my district, was an honor roll student and a sweet kid whose fellow eighth graders voted him “Best Smile” and “Best Personality.” His suicide was shocking and tragic, and it would have been entirely appropriate to honor his memory by naming a true anti-bullying bill after him.
But at the last minute, the Catholic Church, among others, pressured the bill’s authors into adding language exempting people who bully for a “sincerely held religious belief or moral conviction.” Seriously? This made a complete mockery of what the bill was supposed to do, giving anyone a free pass to bully if they claimed to be religious. Matt’s dad, Kevin Epling, said it “tarnished the memory” of his son. In a floor speech, I tore into the stupidity of it, saying, “Not only does this not protect kids who are bullied, it further endangers them by legitimizing excuses for tormenting a student. After the way you’ve gutted it, it wouldn’t have done a damn thing to save Matt! This is worse than doing nothing! It’s a Republican license to bully.”
That phrase gave my team an idea. We printed up a big cartoon of Senate majority leader Randy Richardville, showing him holding a driver’s license with the words “License to Bully.”
Now, I didn’t have any personal beef with Randy, and in fact we were good friends. He and I served together for many years in the House and the Senate. The world is small in some ways, and it’s smart to build relationships—even with people who have different beliefs than you do, because you’ll probably cross paths again somewhere down the road. Getting to know one another takes energy and effort, but it helps you find common ground. And whatever differences we might have politically, in the end we’re all people.
So, Randy and I have known and liked each other for years. But creating that cartoon seemed like the best way to draw attention to the sheer callousness of the bill they were trying to push through. It distilled the argument, making it very easy for the public to see the impact of bullying. And while Randy wasn’t thrilled about seeing his caricature up in front of the Senate, he respected the creativity. Because here’s the thing: it worked. The Republicans changed tack, adopting the House version of the bill, which condemned bullying full stop—no exemptions.
Politics can feel like a blood sport these days. Luckily for me, we Whitmers have thick skin and short memories. We each learned early on that by turning insults into humor and laughing at ourselves, we can take away their sting. That’s why, on my high school powder puff football jersey, I chose the name Greedy. It’s why Liz wears a necklace that says “Elizabitch.” And it’s why Richard wears a big old belt buckle with the name DICK on it. You can’t make fun of us, because we’re going to beat you to it. It’s the best way to disarm bullies, by turning their weapon into your shield. You can trust me on this, or I’m not That Woman from Michigan.
