Master of His Fate by James Tobin (books to read for teens .TXT) 📕

few words he was acknowledging their curiosity about his condition, pushing away any thought of pity, and taking a crack at the Republican scuttlebutt about him.

In the high school gym in Binghamton that night, he declared: “This was supposed to have been my first speech of the active campaign. That was the intention on the part of everybody until I left Jersey City this morning, and the whole thing was knocked into a cocked hat, first at [Port Jervis] and then at [Middletown], and then at Callicoon, and then at Hancock, and then Neponsit, and then at Susquehanna.”

By now the crowd was laughing along with him.

“So this is the seventh speech of the campaign.”

He had spoken at every one of those small-town whistle-stops. As the train rolled up to a station, it was easy enough to lock his braces, stand up, and walk on Irvin McDuffie’s strong arm to the platform at the back of the rear car. There a little crowd would be gathered, notified by the morning paper and word of mouth that the nominee for governor was paying them a visit. In the 1920s, that was big news in a small town. They saw a tall, grinning, broad-shouldered, good-looking man emerge onto the platform and move to the railing to wave and then begin to speak. He was brimming with cheer and enthusiasm, able to stand and even to walk. People who saw him in person tossed out any image they had of Franklin Roosevelt as a pathetic man.

Westward to Owego … Elmira … Corning …

“As all of you know, I am an upstate man, but I believe that the day has passed when there should be war and disputes of any kind between the great metropolitan district and us farmers of upstate.”

He shifted from train to automobile, with a few cars for reporters and the other Democratic candidates trailing behind. Traveling by car was better; he could make more stops. He could bypass the awkward business of shifting from train to car for the short drive to a town square or a school to give a speech. Instead, the car could go straight to the spot where he was to meet people and speak, then take off again. One day he made fourteen speeches.

To give a brief, informal talk in a town square or a public park, he would often just lock his braces and stand in the back of the car, speaking to a crowd without even getting out. Then he would sit back down to shake hands and exchange a few words with each man and woman who came up to say hello.

Hornell … Wellsville … Olean …

“You know, some of my Republican friends around New York are talking about the kind of sympathy the people of the state ought to have for this unfortunate invalid who is running for governor! [Applause] I don’t think that any of us need worry about that, and I am mighty glad that the convention in Rochester was good enough and kind enough to draft me for the job!”

A man who couldn’t walk on his own might be expected to stay away from crowds. In fact, Roosevelt loved the travel and talk that made up a political campaign. “He enjoyed the freedom and getting out among the people,” said Frances Perkins. “He used to … describe individuals in the crowd—a woman with a baby, an old fellow, small boys scampering in the throng. He associated them sometimes with the town … in which he had seen them. His personal relationship with crowds was on a warm, simple level of a friendly, neighborly exchange of affection.”

Campaigning meant private meetings with local mayors, council members, judges, sheriffs. He knew that these people, like the crowds of curious voters, weren’t sure what to expect. To put them at ease, he developed subtle ways of pulling their attention away from his legs. FDR’s face had always been unusually animated, but now he made the most of that trait. His features were constantly in motion. His eyebrows arched high in surprise or scrunched low in serious attention. One moment he might spread his grin to his ears, then thrust out his lower lip in an actor’s puzzled pout. Anyone introduced to him met “a big friendly smile,” one observer said, “and the glint of intense interest in his sparkling eyes.” There were “little laughs, and goads, and urgings, such as ‘Really? Tell me more!’ … ‘Well, what do you know?’ … ‘Same thing’s happened to me dozens of times!’ … ‘Oh, that’s fascinating!’” Perkins said “the heads of little county and local committees pulled up a seat and whispered their deepest hopes to him.” In earlier years he might have turned away from these small fry. But in the campaign of 1928, “he sat and nodded and smiled and said, ‘That’s fine,’ when they reported some small progress.”

Person by person, he was changing minds, erasing the stigma. A man inclined to write him off as weak, like Samuel Rosenman, came away with an impression of vigor. A woman who first saw him through tears of pathos, like Grace Tully, came away inspired. Among those who saw him every day—his aides and the reporters following the campaign—he was so casual about his legs that after a while they simply forgot he was disabled, as he had seemed to forget it himself.

Jamestown … Dunkirk … Buffalo …

“We have had six outdoor meetings today. I hope you will forgive me if my voice is a little frayed tonight. That is the only part of me, except a couple of weak knees—physically, not morally!”

On October 22, five days out from New York, the campaign came to Rochester, the scene of his nomination. Here he would discuss his disability with more than a passing laugh line.

There was discussion about just how to do this. It was delicate. If he referred to his condition every day, there would be hell to pay. He’d be seen as playing for votes on the basis of pity. He might seem to be preoccupied with his