Becoming Madam Secretary

by Stephanie Dray

I did not believe, of course, that poor people lived in misery and squalor because they did not know how to keep a neat, tidy, and attractive home; I believed they could not afford to keep a neat and tidy home and did not have time to do so when working seventy-four hours a week without respite.

“A technicality. You used his own momentum against him.” “I suppose I did, like the jujitsu that Theodore Roosevelt practices.”

And when I think back on my life, I can’t help but see a sly winking pattern to it. A web of strange coincidences, lucky decisions, and chance meetings with people whose destiny it was to shape the modern world.

I still had nightmares after that about Mary Hogan and her bloody stump. I’d continue to have them the rest of my life. But those nightmares came much less frequently after telling Paul Wilson. As if the act of finally having shared the pain had halved it.

“You don’t get anythin’ by being independent. Look what happened to Theodore Roosevelt and his Bull Moosers.”

I stared down at my hands, still a little grief-stricken because TR had died at the start of the year. The old Bull Moose had died in his sleep, and those of us who admired him repeated the quip that if Theodore Roosevelt had been awake when death came, there’d have been a fight. Now, all hopes of a progressive point of view in the Republican party were gone. So why hold out?

Al Smith had never steered me wrong. He’d taken a giant risk in appointing me. Working with him, and for him, had been the most rewarding fun of my life. So, at the end of the day, if he needed me to be a Democrat, then I’d be a Democrat. That’s the kind of loyalty Al Smith inspired in people. You wanted to go along with him even if you thought he might be wrong.

The Republicans had clobbered the Democrats in the elections and swept into office with coattails. Which meant Governor Al Smith was swept out of office, and I was suddenly out of a job.

On the campaign trail, he’d been pilloried by one of his own relatives who said, Franklin Delano Roosevelt is nine-tenths mush, and one-tenth Eleanor.

Albany, New York Spring 1929

My dear girl, There will be less death, misery, and poverty because you will be at the helm in this state. ~Mrs. Florence Kelley

Fortunately, we agreed on policy. I had a program in mind to get rid of child labor in the state for good—a fight I’d been waging ever since Mary Hogan had her hand chopped off working a honey dipper.

Whereas the Smiths had treated the Executive Mansion as if it were the property of the state of New York, the Roosevelts had moved in with their knickknacks, books piled on end tables, and photographs decorating the walls.

FDR laughed at my cheek. “I’m giving you the go-ahead for your social security program. Unemployment, old-age pensions, help for widows and children and the disabled—health insurance too. Put it all in and see how far you can take it.”

Eyes twinkling with triumph, FDR handed me one of his special martinis. “Frances, when I sign this bill into law, I want you standing behind me smelling of lavender or lemon verbena or whatever you use in your bath.” Everyone laughed, and I took it in good humor. “I’ll be there, Mr. President. Freshly bathed and wearing my tricorn hat.” Because Social Security might not be as bold as some of the things they tried in Europe, but here in America it was nothing short of revolutionary.

Then our aging hands—which had achieved something together both historic and magnificent—clasped in intimate but pure communion.

This tearful personal plea was meant to be the coup de grace. For there is no feeling on earth like being understood, seen, and valued by someone who has a great and terrible job to do, and who must do it, even if it kills him. And I began to wonder if I could ever leave Franklin Roosevelt if he wouldn’t let me go.

“But in the United States, we have always had Social Security.” To which I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from saying, Oh, bless your heart…

Social Security—which was expanded again and again to cover more Americans of every race and creed—is now so much a part of American psychology that I truly believe no politician, political party, or political group can possibly destroy it and maintain a democratic system.

As it turns out, to get old is to get very busy with funerals of friends and loved ones. Alas, I have outlived most of mine… My grandmother. My parents. Florence Kelley. Mary Rumsey. Al Smith. Franklin Roosevelt. Sinclair Lewis. My husband too. All of them with the angels now. Just this past November, I saw Eleanor lowered into the grave next to Franklin, reunited with him for eternity under a slab of white marble that says not a word about who they were or what they did.

Americans hadn’t the faintest idea the kinds of sacrifices Frances Perkins made for the country while her husband, and eventually her daughter, both succumbed to severe mental illness.