SOURCE: "The Speech That Established Roosevelt's Reputation," in The Quarterly Journal of Speech, Vol. XXXI, No. 3, October, 1945, pp. 274-82.

Chicago was the scene of the most dramatically staged speech of Franklin D. Roosevelt's career—his acceptance of the nomination for the presidency, in the Chicago Stadium, on Saturday, July 2, 1932.

This speech marked the real turning point in his political reputation. It ended the "Frank is good natured but lacks brains and leadership" period and ushered in the "Franklin Delano Roosevelt—Fighting Liberal" era. From that moment (rather than from the time of the nomination itself, or of his election, or of his inauguration) the public feeling about Roosevelt began to crystallize into the pattern it has largely maintained ever since. For the first time he began to emerge into the public consciousness as a bold experimenter, aggressive fighter, breaker of traditions.

Some liked and some feared these characteristics. His foes had but a short wait before they could point out that his experimenting led him in an apparently zig-zag course of broken promises and inconsistencies; whereas his friends were assured that the general progression was all in one direction. But after the acceptance speech, friend and foe began to unite on the basic picture of Roosevelt which this incident etched on their minds.

The tremendous interest in Roosevelt's acceptance speech was due partly to circumstance.

The Democrats had a much better show to put on the air than that staged by the G.O.P. two weeks earlier. This did not demand much of the Democrats, for the Republican convention had been spun of dull stuff.

The renomination of Herbert Hoover was a foregone conclusion, albeit a reluctant one for the seasoned politicians of the Old Guard, who knew how to read the writing on the wall. A feeble effort was made to chuck Charley Curtis off the ticket, but was dropped when Hoover made it known that he would not permit the sacrifice of his running mate. With this much settled even before the convention met, the platform was the only business to be debated.

It was the platform which caused the most general dismay. Partly by misjudgment of the public temper, and partly because of a vigorous campaign staged by both wets and drys, the G.O.P. platform makers let themselves be maneuvered into picking prohibition as the chief issue of the presidential campaign. This in as catastrophic a year as 1932!

Two newspaper men noted for their dispassionate and balanced analyses registered their amazement as they arrived at Chicago and found what the party leaders had in mind. Mark Sullivan, sampling the sentiment of the Chicago crowds and delegates, wrote: "One would suppose that depression does not exist. . . . " Walter Lippmann found it "astonishing that in the midst of such great economic distress there should be no rumbling here of social discontent. . . . It may be that conservative Republicans are too deaf to hear the discontent and that the progressive Republicans are too bewildered to express it." Throughout the country fifteen million unemployed and all of the additional millions who depended on them echoed this surprise at the Republican preoccupation with the issue of drink.

Then, as a fitting anticlimax to this anticlimatic situation, the platform finally adopted a compromise proposal so involved and ambiguous that, as one observer sardonically declared, the "wet" portion was cheered by the drys, and the "dry" section was cheered by the wets. With this done, the G.O.P. quickly nominated its candidates, and went home.

From the audience point of view, the chief virtue of the convention had been its brevity. The Democratic reaction was epitomized in a wry comment by Jouett Shouse: "We'll put on a show that will make the Republican shindig look like child's play."

The situation confronting the Democrats was much different from that of the G.O.P. and much more inherently interesting. The prohibition issue had indeed been raised, but had been practically settled in a pre-convention exchange. Al Smith staked his main fight for the nomination upon his straightforward demand for repeal of the eighteenth amendment. This demand the Roosevelt forces took over and made their own, thus eliminating any possibility of fireworks by guaranteeing its inclusion in the platform.

Roosevelt himself had made clear his own selection of issues in his "Forgotten Man" speech, delivered on April 7. The phrase had done precisely what it was intended to do: it struck sharply into the public mind. It had drawn from Al Smith his first direct attack upon his old friend and political coworker, and had identified Roosevelt unmistakably in the public mind with the unemployment and depression issue.

The nomination battle promised to be good. The Roosevelt forces had a clear majority of votes, but not enough to win the nomination under the traditional two-thirds rule. For a time Roosevelt's advisers toyed with the idea of ditching this requirement (as they could by obtaining a simple majority vote for a change of rules) and riding to victory upon their assured delegate strength. The chance that this would breed resentment and lead to a party split, however, caused this plan to be abandoned on the eve of the convention.

Meanwhile, Smith and Garner, the two other leading candidates, worked desperately to increase their strength. The "Stop Roosevelt" movement looked anxiously for a compromise candidate. Walter Lippmann thought he had one, and, on the day before the convention met, he tried to stampede the delegates with a whole-souled eulogy of Newton D. Baker.

James Farley and Louis Howe worked night and day, buttonholing delegates and pleading for additional support. When the frail Howe became too tired to stand the pace, he stretched on the floor of his hotel room, surrounded by fans and ice water, while Jim Farley lay down beside him to discuss the strategy of their campaign.

At Albany Roosevelt sat by his radio, listening to every word that came from the convention, conferring often via the telephone with his managers, and making it known that if a deadlock threatened he would fly to Chicago to try to break it with his presence.

When the call to order came at 1:00 P.M. on June 28, no one knew what would happen to the nomination. Farley tried to postpone the platform debate until after the nominee was selected—and failed. He thereupon announced that the nomination of Roosevelt was assured on the first ballot.

But the "Stop Roosevelt" forces knew better. They also knew that Roosevelt, despite his delegate strength, was in a dangerous spot. If after the first ballot he began to lose votes, even a few, his cause would probably be lost. Then there would be a chance for one of the other leaders, or, if necessary, a "dark horse" could be rounded up.

What actually happened is history now, but it was packed with suspense at the time, and thus helped to build up the radio audience for the acceptance speech. The first ballot did not nominate Roosevelt. Neither did the second, nor the third—although, instead of losing votes, his total very slowly crept up. It was still far from the two-thirds requirement.

After the second vote Farley and Howe fought for an adjournment that would give them time to try anew for more support before the balloting could proceed. They lost this fight, and the roll call for the third vote proceeded wearily.

Then, at 9:15 A.M., the delegates demanded a halt till evening. Farley, worn as he was, sought out Sam Rayburn and proposed that the vice-presidency be given to Garner in exchange for the Texas and California votes. "I'll see what can be done," was Rayburn's response, and Farley went back to his room to sleep.

At 9:30 that evening the fourth ballot was just commencing when William Gibbs McAdoo, leader of the California delegation, asked for the platform to explain his vote. "California," he declared, "came here to nominate a candidate. When any man comes into this convention with popular will behind him to the extent of almost 700 votes . . . [At this point the galleries and the delegates sensed what was coming and drowned out McAdoo's voice with a roaring bedlam of boos and cheers. Then his words emerged again.] California casts 44 votes for Franklin D. Roosevelt."

Thus was the nomination settled. But it was not—as is customary—made unanimous. The 190 votes pledged to Al Smith remained adamant and the final total read: Franklin D. Roosevelt, 945; Alfred E. Smith, 190. Nonetheless the candidate was named as Permanent Chairman Thomas J. Walsh rolled off in his best political baritone the name of the winner—"Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the next President of the United States."

Thereupon Al Smith, the erstwhile "Happy Warrior," went up to his hotel room, packed his bags, and went home. Many thought he was on his way to split the party and allow the Republicans to slip back into office. Few realized how completely he was simply walking out of the national political scene.

Meanwhile, back in Albany, Roosevelt was making up his mind to fly to the convention to accept the nomination at once. His decision was not wholly surprising. As early as June 12, when Farley and Howe arrived at Chicago, it "became known" that Roosevelt might fly to the convention if a deadlock developed, and might come on anyway, for a conference with the leaders, after the convention adjourned. Both possibilities were promptly denied.

Then, on June 23, an enterprising reporter sent out the forecast (unauthorized) that "no one need be surprised if the Governor swoops down on the embattled hosts of Democracy here next week in an airplane." On June 29, before the balloting began, it was discovered that by Roosevelt's request the American Airways had sent a trimotored Ford fourteen passenger plane, capable of cruising at 130 miles an hour, to the Albany Airport. Still, the news that the Governor would start out the next morning after the nomination swept around the country with a thrill of speculative interest.

"It isn't true, then, that he's an invalid?" "How has he had time to prepare a speech?" "What will he say?" "How will he look?" "Will he compromise with the Smith forces?" "Will he hedge on repeal of prohibition?" "Will he merely smile, and mouth platitudes, and say practically nothing at all?"

The tradition, of course, was for the nominees of both parties to slide back into a decent obscurity for several weeks after the conventions. They were supposed to retreat to secluded vacation spots, recover from the fury of the primaries battle, formulate their programs in conferences with their party leaders, make whatever deals might be demanded in the interest of party harmony, and lay out their strategy for the election campaign of the late summer and fall. Usually the nominees needed this rest, and so did the country. To provide it, the convenient fiction had been invented of "notifying" the nominees of their selection some weeks after they already knew it, whenever it should be deemed expedient to commence the campaign.

While the country wondered and murmured, its interest simmering to a boil, Roosevelt disposed of this tradition with casual aplomb.

From the moment his decision to fly to the convention was announced, every detail of the trip became front page news. It was recalled that this was the first time Roosevelt had been in an airplane since his wartime days as Assistant Secretary of the Navy, when he had used a plane regularly on inspection trips around the country.

Feature writers searching for means of depicting the adventurous quality of the flight compared the daring of the nominee to that of his fifth cousin. While Theodore Roosevelt was president he had wanted to submerge in a submarine, to call attention to the practicality of the new underseas craft. This his body guards had refused to let him do. Now another Roosevelt was launching into another stratum, the air.

It was pointed out that the day was cloudy, with squalls of rain along the route. Newsmen noted that the plane would have to buck head winds for the entire trip. Bulletins were flashed from along the way: "The Roosevelt plane is flying low, skirting cloud banks along Lake Erie"; "The candidate is flying over Toledo, with scattered showers reported." At Buffalo, and again at Cleveland, the plane was forced to stop to refuel.

At both stops reporters crowded in for interviews with the entire personnel of thirteen: Governor Roosevelt, his wife—who was generally referred to as Eleanor—his son Elliott, his secretaries Guernsey T. Cross, Marguerite Le Hand and Grace Tully, his friends Judge and Mrs. Samuel I. Rosenman, his body guards Earl Miller and Gus Gennerich, and the three members of the crew.

The country was informed that the departure of the plane from Albany was delayed for half an hour, until 8:30; that the candidate worked on his acceptance speech between Albany and Buffalo; that thereafter he read telegrams and newspapers, looked at the scenery, and chatted easily with the other occupants of the plane. The roar of the airplane's motors en route was recorded in a national broadcast. The time when the wheels of the plane grounded at the Chicago Municipal Airport was clocked at 4:27 P.M.,F just nine hours after the flight started.

The brief greeting which Roosevelt gave to the crowd of 5,000 at the Airport was broadcast to the convention hall and around the country. Reporters noted that the Roosevelt glasses were jolted off by the press of the crowd (and not broken); that an hour was consumed in driving the fifteen miles to the Stadium, through street crowds estimated at 20,000; that at Grant Park the nominee was constrained by an insistent crowd to stop for a few words—though all he told them was that he would be making his speech in a few minutes at the convention. Finally, at 5:50 the party pushed its way into the hall, through another crowd, to appear before a body of weary delegates who had been marking time for the past two hours.

While the convention proceedings had purposely been drawn out during the day, workmen had pounded away building an inclined runway up to the platform. Others had brought in a huge banner with the words, OUR NEXT PRESIDENT—FRANKLIN ROOSEVELT, and hung it from the first gallery behind the rostrum.

The temporary chairs set up for the delegates were in wild disarray, with little trace left of their once orderly arrangement in neat sections. The floor was littered with 60 tons of waste paper. Visitors in the galleries and delegates on the floor were alike worn out by their five days of frenzied session, were wilted by the heat, were sickened by irregular meals and frequent indulgence in mustard-spread hot dogs and insipid soft drinks.

The trains that were to take the delegates home were scheduled to have left, but were being held at the stations until the final adjournment. Into this scene of disorder and discomfort walked the candidate, at ten minutes to six, leaning on the arm of his eldest son, James.

The huge convention organ burst into the strains of "Anchors Aweigh," while the delegates roared. The demonstration, in the words of a spectator, "was like a cyclone swooping down from the crowded galleries and whistling through the sections of delegates who stood on their chairs shouting and waving."

Roosevelt had heard just such ovations on behalf of the nominees in the Democratic conventions of every quadrennium since 1912. In '20, '24, and '28 he had received enthusiastic ovations himself. But this time he was the nominee, and, as he fully expected, was on the way to becoming President of the United States.

His first thought was for the friends who had fought and won this battle of the nomination. In serious mien, with the famous smile gone, he gave thanks to John E. Mack, who had nominated him, and to the chairman, Senator Thomas J. Walsh. James Farley had met him at the plane, and Louis Howe at the Stadium door. While the organswung into "The Star Spangled Banner," Roosevelt and his wife remained in solemn mood, standing at attention.

Then the strains of "Happy Days Are Here Again" rang out, and Roosevelt turned toward the crowd to receive its greeting and to wave and smile his own. His handsome face aglow with impish pleasure in the excitement caused by his unprecedented flight, Roosevelt took the measure of the crowd before him and naturally, easily, assumed the frame of mind of a major figure in American history.

Another mother's son was headed for the White House; one of the one hundred and thirty million was in process of elevation to the role of First Citizen. Another Rubicon had been crossed. A new era in the life of Roosevelt (and, though few guessed it, in the life of America) was being born.

After thirteen minutes the ovation broke off, and Chairman Walsh presented the candidate to the convention. Then smoothly, effortlessly, the best modulated radio voice in public life slipped into the opening paragraph of the acceptance speech:

"I appreciate your willingness after these six arduous days to remain here, for I know well the sleepless hours which you, and I [loud laughter and cheers] have had. I regret that I am late, but I have no control over the winds of Heaven and could only be thankful for my Navy training." [Cheers and laughter.]

Already some of the impatient galleryites, their curiosity satisfied and their dinners waiting at home, slipped away. The candidate went on. "The appearance before a National Convention of its nominee for President, to be formally notified of his selection, is unprecedented and unusual, but these are unprecedented and unusual times. I have started out on the tasks that lie ahead by breaking the absurd tradition that the candidate should remain in professed ignorance of what has happened for weeks until he is formally notified of that event many weeks later.

"My friends, may this be the symbol of my intention to be honest and to avoid all hypocrisy or sham, to avoid all silly shutting of the eyes to the truth in this campaign. You have nominated me and I know it, and I am here to thank you for the honor." [Loud and prolonged cheers.]

There followed an acceptance of the platform "100 per cent," and a pledge that "I will leave no doubt or ambiguity on where I stand on any question of moment in this campaign." Thence he launched a plea for non-partisanship and support by independent voters which was to become a major feature of the campaign: "Note well that in this campaign I shall not use the words 'Republican Party,' but I shall use, day in and day out, the words 'Republican leadership.'"

A few paragraphs further on he was urging: "Here and now I invite those nominal Republicans who find that their conscience cannot be squared with the groping and the failure of their party leaders to join hands with us; and here and now in equal measure, I warn those nominal Democrats who squint at the future with their faces turned toward the past, and who feel no responsibility to the demands of the new time, that they are out of step with their Party."

To implement this plea for support by all independent voters, Roosevelt offered a definition of his own political position as standing midway between the Old Guard reactionism and the Utopian radicals. "Wild radicalism has made few converts," he declared, "and the greatest tribute that I can pay to my countrymen is that in these days of crushing want there persists an orderly and hopeful spirit on the part of the millions of our people who have suffered so much. To fail to offer them a new chance is not only to betray their hopes but to misunderstand their patience."

By this time the gallery exits were crowded and even a few of the delegates were slipping out. Roosevelt had no magic great enough to hold these weary auditors longer in their seats. For them the great moment had passed when the nominee started his speech. Their function as greeters was over.

But the speech did not drop on inattentive ears. In every section of the nation families and groups of neighbors crowded intently around living-room radios and listened with a growing wonder and a growing faith. Here was veritably a new voice, a new personality, a new hope. Here at the very least was a fresh symbol of their own faith and desires; at the most, a fearless leader came in the nation 's hour of bitterest trial to lead a new fight for freedom and security.

In friendly, social tones—neighborly, yet with a patrician assurance of born leadership—the voice came into their own homes from the familiar radio grill they had dusted with their own hands; it spoke of "the simple economics, the kind of economics that you and I and the average man and woman talk."

"Translate that into human terms," the radio voice quietly urged. "See how the events of the past three years have come home to specific groups of people. . . . Picture to yourselves. . . . My friends, you and I as common-sense citizens know. . . . " Here was surely no ordinary politician speaking; here was homey talk the people could understand, yet talk with an elevation and a dignity that inspired trust and confidence. When the speaker used the phrase, "statesmanship and vision," it seemed to belong as a fitting characterization of what was being said.

Back in the hall the galleries continued to empty, and in the homes the listeners grew more silent and attentive. Roosevelt gripped the rostrum hard, and swung into a theme that was nearest to his heart; a unifying thread upon which the diverse aspects of his political philosophy all were strung; the interdependence of all the people.

"Never in history have the interests of all the people been so united in a single economic problem. . . . That is why we are going to make the voters understand this year that this Nation is not merely a Nation of independence, but it is, if we are to survive, bound to be a Nation of interdependence—town and city, North and South, East and West. That is our goal, and that goal will be understood by the people of this country no matter where they live."

"My program," the nominee continued, "is based upon this simple moral principle: the welfare and the soundness of a Nation depend first upon what the great mass of the people wish and need; and second, whether or not they are getting it.

"What do the people of America want more than anything else? To my mind, they want two things: work, with all the moral and spiritual values that go with it; and with work, a reasonable measure of security—security for themselves and for their wives and children. Work and security—these are more than words. They are more than facts. They are the spiritual values, the true goal toward which our efforts of reconstruction should lead. These are the values that this program is intended to gain; these are the values we have failed to achieve by the leadership we now have."

By now at least half the gallery seats were vacant, many delegates had left the floor, and the constant shuffling of chairs and feet added to the vast confusion of the convention hall. Roosevelt swung earnestly into his peroration, the last five paragraphs of his speech, into which he had put more effort than in all that went before. Here was the authentic voice of the democratic patrician, speaking with utmost earnestness to his people, to his friends. An appealing combination of idealism and common sense, it proved to have a projective power rare in the history of political campaign speaking. As these words sank home in the minds of millions of voters, the election results of 1932 began to assume definitive shape.

"One word more: Out of every crisis, every tribulation, every disaster, mankind rises with some share of greater knowledge, of higher decency, of purer purpose. Today we shall have come through a period of loose thinking, descending morals, an era of selfishness, among individual men and women and among Nations. Blame not Governments alone for this. Blame ourselves in equal share. Let us be frank in acknowledgement of the truth that many amongst us have made obeisance to Mammon, that the profits of speculation, the easy road without toil, have lured us from the old barricades. To return to higher standards we must abandon the false prophets and seek new leaders of our own choosing.

"Never before in modern history have the essential differences between the two major American parties stood out in such striking contrast as they do today. Republican leaders not only have failed in material things, they have failed in national vision, because in disaster they have held out no hope, they have pointed out no path for the people below to climb back to places of security and of safety in our American life.

"Throughout the Nation, men and women, forgotten in the political philosophy of the Government of the last years, look to us here for guidance and for more equitable opportunity to share in the distribution of national wealth.

"On the farms, in the large metropolitan areas, in the smaller cities and in the villages, millions of our citizens cherish the hope that their old standards of living and of thought have not gone forever. Those millions cannot and shall not hope in vain.

"I pledge you, I pledge myself, to a new deal for the American people. Let us all here assembled constitute ourselves prophets of a new order of competence and of courage. This is more than a political campaign; it is a call to arms. Give me your help, not to win votes alone, but to win in this crusade to restore America to its own people."

All over the country the earnest, reassuring overtones of this confidently calm voice fell upon listening ears. In the nation's capital it was heard by the fifteen to twenty thousand world war veterans who had stormed into the city as the "Bonus Expeditionary Force" and set up their camp on the Anacostia flats—until they were later dispersed by presidential decree with tear gas, machine guns, bayonets and clubs. It was heard in President Hoover's own study by a tight-lipped, bitter critic, whose heart ached with dread lest this political infidel would overturn all for which he had fought.

It was heard in "Hooverville" shanty towns, in the drab and cheerless homes of the growing number of unemployed, in the simple living rooms of farmers, school teachers, white collar workers, and of those factory workmen who still had jobs. It was pondered in the more ornate homes of the well-to-do, who thoughtfully considered abandoning their old political allegiance in the hope that here, perhaps, was the answer to the country's economic ills.

The speech was heard by Milo Reno's Midwest Farmer's Holiday Association, organized to stop by violence the movement of food supplies until the price should be raised; it was heard by residents of rural county seats, where grim-mouthed farmers gathered to prevent by force the sale of mortgaged farms; it was heard by Howard Scott and his following of Technocrats, ready to make over America in the pattern of an engineer's dream; it was heard by Coughlinites, and disciples of Huey Long, by college intellectuals, and by the Mencken-denominated "booboisie," by sharecroppers and Wall Street brokers.

It was heard by ardent partisans who were "For Roosevelt before Chicago"; by Al Smith Democrats; by rock-ribbed Republicans; and by Norman Thomas Socialists. It was heard with skepticism, with scorn, and with scoffing; with enthusiastic acceptance; and with dubious reservation. But heard it was and, as events were to show, it won votes.

It is altogether possible that this speech, coming just at the crest of the wave of interest in the Democratic convention, just at the nadir of disillusionment with the Republican offering, may have been the most influential utterance of the entire campaign. There is some ground for believing that the only effective campaigning (except for the organizational work of "getting the vote to the polls") is that which is done very early.

Almost as soon as the nominees are selected, the independent voters begin making up their minds. Tentatively or decisively they align themselves with one candidate or the other. It is highly doubtful whether any amount of political oratory after that has much effect. Hooverites would listen to Roosevelt—but only to belittle and refute; New Dealers would tune in Hoover—but merely to jeer. Once the minds of the voters were made up, they simply became more and more set. The few who continued to waver could scarcely affect the final result.

If this theory is sound, Roosevelt's early bid for votes, made even before the convention adjourned, was a master stroke of policy. It set up a standard around which his warm supporters could rally; it gave newsmen and cartoonists a subject for their pens; it served as a focal point for public discussion and private thought.

The candidate could leave the hall, could with comparative quietness entrain for home, could withdraw for a few days of sailing along the New England coast; but never thenceforth could he be ejected from the public mind.

His dramatic flight to Chicago had ensured him of one thing; whether favorably or unfavorably, whether for obloquy or praise, he was in the public's eye and on the public's lips from that time on. The campaign came inevitably to center on F. D. R.