FDR's Body Politics: The Rhetoric of Disability

3. Quo Vadis?

3 Quo Vadis? Although they knew that Franklin Roosevelt might always be a cripple, Fred Delano, Louis Howe, and Eleanor Roosevelt made sure that it was not the only thing he would be, much to Sara Roosevelt’s initial consternation . Franklin’s political factotum, Howe, more than anyone else, would see to it that “the boss,” as he liked to call him, would remain an active presence in Democratic politics at both the state and national level. Infantile paralysis was merely a minor setback, a stumbling block, so to speak, on the same career trajectory that Franklin so admired in his famous cousin, Theodore. Already, in the early 1920s, FDR and Howe planned a run for the New York governorship, and then, perhaps in 1936, a run for the White House. But before Franklin could do anything of a public and political fashion, he needed to relearn his own body—what it could and could not do now that the acute stage of the disease had passed. That Franklin set his sights immediately on walking, or on giving the appearance of being back on his feet, is attested to in Eleanor’s letter of November 13, 1921, to Dr. Keen. Home just two weeks, her husband was, Eleanor reported, “up in his wheel chair twice daily for several hours and I think his general health is gradually improving.”1 It would only be a matter of days, she believed, before Franklin would have enough strength to use his crutches with the aid of leg braces. Walking, of course, could do nothing for Franklin’s political abilities; it could do everything for his electoral abilities . And so beginning in the autumn of 1921, Franklin embarked on what would be a five-year odyssey to learn to give the appearance of walking. That odyssey, as we will document, was at times a very public one, for if Franklin could not convince the average voter of his fitness and vitality, then he was through as a politician. He would script his spots most carefully , such that the media’s and thus the nation’s attention was focused squarely on his active, able, and controlled body. A public misstep in any of his premeditated performances could literally mean the end of any electoral prospects. At this point in his recovery, though, Franklin was nearly three years away from his first important public and political performance of his body. Thus his recovery began textually, typically with Roosevelt dictating and Howe or Margueritte “Missy” Le Hand writing. Many of these early letters bear the direct imprint of Uncle Fred’s “good attitude and character” advice of September 4. Perhaps Franklin’s epistolary optimism represented his attempts to reclaim his own body, or perhaps it was a form of mental therapy. Beyond the obvious psychological benefits of this letter-writing campaign, however, is a pronounced rhetorical motive: to convince all who would listen that Franklin was on the way to complete and total recovery. The instances of Franklin’s outward optimism at this early stage are many. In a letter of June 19, 1922, to Dr. Keen, Franklin reported that he had just returned from a two-week stay in Boston, where Dr. Lovett had examined him and where he had also been outfitted with new leg braces: “My health has become remarkably good and I can now negotiate steps. I am glad to say that Dr. Lovett finds all the muscles working and all of them growing more powerful daily.” Even more remarkable was Franklin’s pronouncement that “in every other way I am entirely normal and, in fact, in better health than I have been for years.”2 To the casual reader/voter, Franklin would seem to be the picture of health and vitality, hardly the cripple that he now was. Less than a year after his illness, Franklin had incorporated a very deft rhetorical touch in talking about his body, one that bordered on prevarication. For example, Franklin could negotiate steps by sitting and hoisting his body with his arms, one step at a time. He would never “walk” up a flight of stairs—not even with the aid of crutches. Franklin’s muscles, particularly in his back and arms, were growing more powerful. His leg muscles, though, would never improve. And, with the extended exercises he was now taking, Franklin was no doubt healthier “in every other way.” At this point in his convalescence, it is clear that the smallest improvements, the slightest...