Roosevelt’s great cymbal crash of a sentence facing down fear, his repeated drumbeats promising bold, decisive action, the strength and power of his address as a whole—these instantly brought the confidence that had eluded his predecessor. His voice, gestures, and bearing as well as his words instilled new hope. “Over the vast throngs there hung a cloud of worry, because of the economic and business outlook,” the New York Times reported. “The new President’s recurrent smile of confidence, his uplifted chin and the challenge of his voice did much to help the national sense of humor to assert itself.” As the movie actress Lillian Gish said, the president seemed “to have been dipped in phosphorus.”49
His confident spirit was contagious. Having languished under a sense of leaderless drift, politicians and much of the public were suddenly infused with vigor and purpose, akin to that of a nation at war. To address the financial crisis, FDR immediately declared a national bank “holiday” lasting a week and called Congress into special session, beginning Thursday, March 9.
So began the celebrated “Hundred Days,” the most frenzied and productive in congressional history. The Hundred Days has sometimes been described as a one-man show, in which Roosevelt easily bent a pliant Congress to his will and vision. In fact, Roosevelt unleashed a pent-up demand for action from members of both parties, who reflected numerous interests and ideologies. As a whole, the break with the past was breathtaking. By the end of the session Roosevelt and Congress had decisively ended the banking panic, and they had created unprecedented institutions to manage vast sectors of the economy, including banking, agriculture, industrial production, and labor relations. With the Tennessee Valley Authority, they launched a massive government experiment in hydroelectric power, flood control, and regional development. They instituted the largest public-works program in American history and decisively committed the federal government to relief for the unemployed. They provided means to rescue homes and farms from foreclosure, insured small bank deposits, and established federal regulation of securities. Far from expressing a unitary political philosophy, Roosevelt pragmatically accommodated a host of contentious conceptions of the role of government, including fiscal conservatism and large-scale government spending, centralized government planning, public-private partnerships, localism, and states’ rights.50
To be sure, many problems remained. Spending on public works and job creation, which in 1933 appeared startlingly bold, proved in retrospect to be insufficient. In fact, full recovery came only with the truly massive government spending required by the Second World War. Moreover, the deeply entrenched inequities based on racial discrimination went untouched. Only gradually and incompletely would African Americans’ plight become a part of the New Deal. Yet in spring 1933, after many had despaired of the ability of the capitalist system and democracy itself to triumph over the economic catastrophe, Roosevelt had fulfilled his inaugural pledge. In the midst of the frenzied Hundred Days, California’s Progressive Republican senator Hiram Johnson wrote, “We have exchanged for a frown in the White House a smile. Where there were hesitation and vacillation, weighing always the personal political consequences, feebleness, timidity, and duplicity, there are now courage and boldness and real action.” Financial investors agreed. After trading resumed on the New York Curb Exchange on March 15, the stock ticker concluded the day with the joyful message “Goodnight . . . Happy days are here again.”51
As Roosevelt won congressional support to launch his New Deal, he also made masterful use of the press and radio to appeal to the public at large. In previous press conferences, Hoover had insisted on written questions submitted in advance, as had Harding and Coolidge before him, and the antagonism between Hoover and the Washington press corps deteriorated to such an extent that he finally stopped giving press conferences altogether. Immediately upon taking office, a smiling and laughing Roosevelt invited accredited Washington correspondents (all of whom were white males) to the White House and announced a new policy of open press conferences twice a week in which all pertinent questions might be asked without advance notice. He poured on all of his considerable charm: shaking hands with each correspondent, calling them by their first names, holding his cigarette holder at a jaunty angle, smiling broadly, impressing them with his exact information and broad command of issues, lavishing confidences and “background information,” delighting in the give-and-take of the exchange. The contrast with Hoover could not have been more complete. At the end of the session reporters broke out in spontaneous applause. “The press barely restrained its whoopees,” one hard-bitten reporter wrote. “Here was news—action—drama! Here was a new attitude to the press! . . . The reportorial affection and admiration for the President is unprecedented.” Although this euphoria inevitably cooled in time, Roosevelt made the White House, rather than Congress, the liveliest press beat in Washington. In the process he carried his message to a broad public and countered the stiff editorial resistance his programs faced from Republican newspaper publishers.52
Roosevelt’s superb command of radio was still more novel. Radio had only recently become a truly mass medium, and ownership and use of radios continued to swell over the decade, much as television did in the 1950s.53 As with television later, the very novelty of radio gave it special power. People listened with great attention and absorption, characteristically in groups with family or friends, and they responded actively, discussing the programs they heard and frequently writing letters to radio personalities, whether these were politicians, announcers, entertainers, or even fictional radio characters. Of all new forms of entertainment, radio most intimately brought people in their private settings into contact with public and commercial appeals. In the depths of the Depression, when the workings of the federal government seemed especially distant, impersonal, and opaque, radio provided an instrument to restore a sense of vital political community with millions of ordinary Americans.54
The transformative effect of radio began at the precise moment that Roosevelt became president. His was the first inauguration to be widely broadcast, and 450,000 letters and telegrams deluged the White House during his first week in office, compared with the average of 800 a day in the Hoover administration.55 Some correspondents identified their professions: clergyman, attorney, businessman, banker, teacher, salesman, judge. Others placed themselves among the broad multitude of the American people, “undistinguished and unknown but a part of the vast herd known as The Majority,” as one writer put it. They included people of all ages, all levels of education, and all areas of the country. These messages eloquently testified to the tumultuous response to Roosevelt’s address from Democrats and Republicans alike. A man in Montgomery, Alabama, declared, “Your brilliant inaugural address, with the vigor and personality that radiated from it, has, in this part of the country, taken the people literally by storm. Everywhere there is a very definite and out-spoken feeling that at last, after wallowing in the trough without a rudder for four years, we have someone who is going to do things.” A “small town one-vote Democrat” man from Clinton, Connecticut, wrote, “Thank God for this message of courage, confidence and decision; thank God . . . for the fresh hope you have inspired.” He added, “The entire nation rejoices that the White House is again OUR White House, occupied by and presided over by friendly folks, who by their smiles, are encouraging all of us to smile again.”56
Other writers echoed this stress on the contagious nature of FDR’s smile and confidence. A Terre Haute, Indiana, man reported, “I feel certain that your inaugural address was happily received by eighty five per cent of our people. The thought of a ‘new deal’ has again renewed their hopes; the handshake, the smile and hospitality seems to radiate from most every one.” A Cleveland man wrote, “To-day sitting among a gathering of the all but ‘forgotten men’ during your inaugural address, I seen those worried looks replaced by smiles and confidence, eyes fill up with tears of gratitude, shoulders lifted and chest out.”57
As moist-eyed men smiled, some women openly
confessed their joyous tears. A woman from Des Moines, Iowa, wrote, “As I listened to your acceptance speech today over the radio—I said to myself ‘this is the very happiest day of my life’ and I found tears on my face—tears of peaceful happiness despite the dreadful predicament the country is now in. Your words carried the honest, truthful conviction of your sincerity to my troubled, worried heart and comforted me.” Writing in pencil on a small piece of paper, a self-described “Southern colored girl” working as a servant in New York City said that previously, “I never notice who or cared who was President,” but that listening to Roosevelt’s inaugural address on the radio, she was moved at first nearly to tears and then to cheerfulness. “Don’t forget us colored people as you serve,” she added.58
Responding to FDR’s militant resolve to fight the Great Depression with all of the powers at his command, a number of correspondents compared Roosevelt to Lincoln. A man in Flushing, New York, who called himself one of the “common people,” expressed confidence that “you will lead us all into a brighter day, and I hope be able to free the American people from slavery to that Master—Fear. A freedom far richer than Lincoln bestowed on the colored race.” A woman in Dayton, Ohio, added, “I am still keyed up with emotion from hearing your voice over the radio at the inaugural. Thank heaven you gave us no pollyannaism. We have had enough of that. You talked as if the country were at war and it was the war spirit that answered you. It was as plain and appealing and exalted as Lincoln at Gettysburg. To my amazement several Republican friends have said the same thing. I did not vote for you but I believe in you heart and soul. That you know what you are talking about and will not lie to us.”59
Again and again, listeners returned to the importance of Roosevelt’s voice in instilling new hope. “Your voice and your voice alone, is the one force that will carry conviction, restore confidence and, I firmly believe, banish this all-pervading fear,” a Rochester, New York, businessman wrote. An Arizona man expressed special appreciation for “these words spoken by you, with that clear and distinct voice, so clear so grand and with deep an[d] sincear [sic] meaning, to those millions of souls in our great country, who have lost all Faith Hope and Confidence in all former Leaders, and institutions of truth.”60
Unlike Hoover, Roosevelt keenly appreciated the potential of radio to carry his voice and message directly into the homes of ordinary citizens and to enlist their support. He had used radio extensively as governor of New York, and over the course of his twelve years as president, he gave thirty-one radio “chats,” as well as more formal addresses, as if “to a few people around his fireside.” Such “fireside chats” may not strike modern ears as especially informal, but at the time they provided a sharp contrast with customary high-flown, extravagant political oratory.61
The first of these, and one of the most momentous, came eight days after his inauguration in the midst of the national banking crisis, shortly after the passage of the Emergency Banking Act, and on the eve of the first reopening of banks across the country. All of Roosevelt’s efforts would be undone if panic broke out again and runs on the banks resumed. Repeatedly addressing his audience in his characteristic manner as “my friends” and using the most common words and idioms, he spoke slowly, simply, and directly.62 “My friends,” he began, “I want to talk for a few minutes with the people of the United States about banking. . . . I want to tell you what has been done in the last few days, and why it was done, and what the next steps are going to be.” He proceeded to explain how banks depended on confidence and credit and how no bank, however sound, could withstand sudden, anxious demands for withdrawals by all depositors. He carefully described the reason for the bank “holiday,” the reforms and restructuring that Congress had provided, and the stages by which banks would reopen. All the while, he spoke to his listeners as “you,” not impersonally but intimately. Anticipating their questions and worries as if in conversation, he gave cogent answers in calm reassuring tones. He thanked them for their understanding, cooperation, and support. Concluding with a mild rhetorical flourish, he still maintained the tone and tenor of his message: “Confidence and courage are the essentials of success in carrying out our plan. . . . Let us unite in banishing fear.”63 The address lasted less than fourteen minutes.
Listeners’ responses were immediate and overwhelming. To many, he seemed like a warm neighbor or relative, dropping into their homes to visit with them. A man from Iowa City, Iowa, wrote, “It was very cosy and friendly and cheery to have you with us last night. We invited some friends in ‘to meet the President,’ not forgetting to place an easy chair by the fireplace for the guest of honor, and when your voice came, so clear and vibrant and confident, we had but to close our eyes to see you sitting there with us, talking things over in friendly fashion.” In a similar vein, a woman reported the remark of a young girl who had listened to Roosevelt’s radio speech: “It seemed as if a Father were talking to me, and I felt like throwing my arms about his neck, he cheered me up so.”64
From Chicago a man wrote to say, “You are bringing back Confidence and driving out the fear that has been gripping the people for the past three years.” He related how he had lost his life savings in a bank failure and, married and past fifty years old, was now on sick leave with polio—a condition that he shared with the president. He concluded with a moving postscript: “Please pardon me for addressing you so familiar in some passages in this letter but your personality is such, and that kindly smiling face I see so much, on paper and that kindly voice I hear on the air, how can any human being keep from it. We all feel (us common people) that you are our friend, tho we may never meet face to face.”65
Roosevelt’s reassuring message dramatically quelled the banking panic. A judge from Syracuse, New York, listened to the chat with a group of Republican and Democratic friends: “When your radio talk began everyone seemed to become hypnotized, because there wasn’t a word spoken by anyone until you had finished and as if one voice were speaking all spoke in unison ‘We are saved.’ The frantic individuals of a few moments before declared that they would leave their money in the banks and that they were not afraid of the future.” Ruth Lieberman of Brooklyn listened to Roosevelt’s chat with her parents: “My father, who is a determined pessimist, was airing his views on the banking situation. He was sure that the banks would never open—that he would never regain his savings. Then you spoke. For fifteen minutes Dad was silent, his brow wrinkled in thought. Then, when you had concluded your talk, he grinned sheepishly and said, ‘Oh well, I wasn’t really afraid of losing my money anyhow.’ ”66
FDRs “persuasive, almost melodic voice” was praised again and again. A reporter remarked in 1936 that it “contained an ineffable quality” which “makes it the most effective voice, the greatest radio voice, in America today. That quality is a timber, something soul-searching which reaches into you and plucks at you.” “Like his picture,” Professor Jane Zimmerman of Columbia University’s Teachers College asserted, “his voice gives the impression of a genial smile.”67 A warm, relaxed tenor, the voice was lighter than the theatrical bass-baritones of many radio announcers. It was also one that he adapted to the new technology of the microphone, using it to develop a more intimate and informal style, analogous to the “crooning” of Bing Crosby, and a decisive break with earlier oratorical techniques, such as that of leather-lunged William Jennings Bryan, who prided himself on his ability to reach thirty thousand listeners in the open air without amplification.
Common listeners agreed. “Mr. President, you have an unusually fine radio voice,” a Sierra Madre, California, woman declared. It “radiates so much human sympathy and tenderness, and Oh, how the public does love that, on the radio especially.” From Milwaukee, Wisconsin, another woman wrote, “I am addressing you ‘Dear Mr. Roosevelt’ because you are so dear to the hearts of all of us, particularly to those who heard your address Sunday evening. There is that something in your voice conveying absolute sincerity and the positive assurance that we are to ris
e above all our difficulties in a very short time.” A San Francisco woman added, “There is no radio announcer anywhere who has a better voice than you and I think it would be a great idea if you could and would give a short and brief talk on the current issue of the day over the radio whenever possible. It inspires courage and confidence to hear the truth ‘straight from the shoulder.’ ”68
Nor did Roosevelt’s patrician accent, with its inclination to drop r’s after vowels—so that he declared “we have nothing to feah but feah itself”—seem pretentious. At a time when many radio and film personalities spoke in a British-American manner, his accent carried authority but not affectation.
A large vocabulary intimidated listeners far more than did a voice marked by class and region, and FDR’s clarity and simplicity won considerable praise. After the first fireside chat a man from Haskell, Oklahoma, wrote, “Although you have culture, aristocratic breeding and wealth you have one priceless gift, that of reaching out to the ‘common people’ with a deep sympathy and understanding, that goes into their hearts and you can talk their language and when you talked banking you talked banking so all could understand.” An “old janitor” in Chicago remarked, “I know everything he talks about, even my boy could understand, no foolish words but all good plain talk, and our president is already helping the people.” Will Rogers, himself a master of plain vernacular style, remarked approvingly, “He showed these radio announcers and our public speakers what to do with a vocabulary—leave it right in the dictionary where it belongs.” Detailed analysis of Roosevelt’s word choice shows he did just that: 70 percent of his words were among the five hundred most common in general reading material, and roughly 80 percent among the thousand most common.69
The Little Girl Who Fought the Great Depression: Shirley Temple and 1930s America Page 4