In fifth grade, I was given an assignment in which I had to write about one of the US presidents. I can’t say I was particularly excited about this since I preferred book reports. Book reports were good because I would pick one of the Harry Potter books that I had read a year ago and would refresh my memory by watching the movie. This president essay wouldn’t be as easy. I actually had to read about one of the presidents since I couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to watch a movie about one of them. None of them interested me, so I figured I would write about Abraham Lincoln. Our school’s closet-sized library was out of the Lincoln books, so I chose Franklin Roosevelt.
To me all the presidents were boring. Sure some were more important, like George Washington whose wife invented ice cream and saved an important thing from a fire in the White House. Or maybe that was Jefferson’s wife. Anyway, the more important ones were on the money and helped form the country. Then there was that fat guy who got stuck in the tub. Now that I think about it, Dolly Madison was the one who invented ice cream or was the first American to eat it. Seriously though, who cares?
I think that sentiment perfectly summed up my relationship with American history. I just didn’t care. Maybe it had something to do with the sugarcoated versions of events that have been fed to me throughout my educational career. The history textbooks I had did little else than spout facts in chronological order. There was no reason for it all, no explanation. Why did these events matter? How did they affect the everyday people who had to live during that time? Why was this relevant?
As I was flipping through the slim Franklin Roosevelt biography I picked out of the library, I wasn’t feeling compelled to write an essay about the man. Then I got to the juicy part. When FDR returned from fighting in World War I, Eleanor Roosevelt had found love letters in his luggage revealing his affair with Eleanor’s social secretary.
Before I continue, I would like to point out that the book I was using was meant for children ages 9-12. It couldn’t have been more than 100 pages long. I’m not an expert on FDR, but I expect that there was a lot more that could’ve filled those pages without detailing the state of his marriage. I don’t think this type of information is pertinent to a fourth through sixth grade level of research, but it was still the thing that interested me the most.
Being a child of TV and movies, I knew a juicy love story when I saw one. Eleanor and FDR had relationship problems just like the parents from “The Parent Trap” or Zach and Kelly from “Saved by the Bell.” Eleanor offered FDR a divorce, but they decided to stay together for the sake of the children. The book went into a surprising amount of detail about the Roosevelt marriage. The affair put a real strain on their relationship. FDR continued to cheat on Eleanor and their marriage was only a façade. She had moved into her own home and they used their marriage solely for political purposes.
At the age of 10, I was fascinated by how the marriage of the Roosevelts had fallen apart. The essay I had to write couldn’t have been longer than 2 pages. After a brief introduction of FDR, I used at least a page detailing FDR’s affairs and Eleanor’s reaction. To me, this was the most interesting thing I had read in the book. It’s what kept me from putting it down and watching TV. Suddenly, these historical figures became real people with real problems. I actually cared about these people and wanted to know what happened next. This small biography had fleshed out the Roosevelts for me more than any textbook had ever done.
As a fifth grader, it was probably not appropriate to focus my FDR biography on his sexual exploits and his open relationship with his wife, but I still felt as though I had learned something valuable. The people in the history books weren’t all boring. They were complex people that did more than run for president and make laws. Thanks to FDR’s wandering eye, I learned that history could come to life. I also learned that Eleanor Roosevelt must’ve been a sad, sad woman.
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