A Slap in the Face (Please Keep Reading, Please Vote)

"I am Franklin D. Roosevelt, the 32nd President of the United States of America. I apologize for disturbing everyone during this prime hour of the evening..."

In the fireplace.

The logs crackled sharply again and again.

And that sound, together with Roosevelt's speech, traveled through the airwaves to farms along the Mississippi River, bars in Ohio, capitalists' studies, and every person waiting for light in the darkness...

Feilan stood to one side of the hall, quietly watching the figure seated before the microphone.

The scene gradually overlapped with the photograph he had seen countless times in history books.

It was March 1933, Roosevelt's first fireside chat.

But now, he had personally helped bring about this historic moment. He had to admit, it was quite an achievement.

"Over the past few days, I have seen some newspapers reporting on what I said at my inauguration. Some of those reports were accurate, and I am grateful to those honest reporters."

"But some reports... completely distorted what I meant."

Inside a farmhouse by the Mississippi River, the old farmer's hand paused slightly around his pipe.

He remembered the newspaper he had read before, its front page declaring: Roosevelt does not want to save the banks; he only wants to assign blame.

He had believed it then.

But now, the man being accused was personally telling him that perhaps it was not true?

"Some say I do not wish to rescue the banks. Some say I only want to determine who is responsible and do not want to solve the problem. Some say I want to become the emperor of America..."

"But now, I swear before God and tell you that none of it is true—not a single word!"

Roosevelt's voice continued.

"Did we wrong him?"

"Did the newspapers lie to us?"

"Those damned bastards!"

In a coal miners' bar in Ohio, many miners lowered their heads and covered their faces with their rough palms.

They remembered shouting, "Roosevelt, get out of office!" in the streets not long ago. They remembered spitting on newspapers bearing the President's photograph.

"But now, I must make an announcement—one that may temporarily worry you even more."

Roosevelt took a deep breath. "Beginning today, the federal government will officially declare a nationwide bank holiday, lasting no more than one week."

Panic instantly swept through countless households across the nation.

The old farmer by the Mississippi River sprang to his feet, nearly dropping his pipe.

The miners in the Ohio bar abruptly changed their attitudes, and some even began cursing aloud.

"I know what you are thinking: 'The banks are closed, so what happens to my money?'"

"But I ask you to hear my explanation before making your judgment."

"Now, I will tell you the truth—about the banks, about your deposits, and about what is happening in this country."

"Simply put, banks lend out your money and invest it in various places. Most of the time, this is a good thing. Your money helps build factories, open shops, and hire workers. But when investments go wrong, banks fall into difficulty."

"Now, some banks have run into trouble. That is why you cannot withdraw your money."

"But I want to tell you that what the government is doing is not closing the banks forever. We will close them first, then inspect every bank. Healthy banks will reopen within a few days. The government will help troubled banks recover. Banks beyond saving will be taken over and liquidated. But depositors' money will not disappear."

Roosevelt explained patiently.

He did not use the terms only Wall Street experts would use, nor words that required a college degree to understand.

Everyone understood.

Their anxious, restless feelings eased considerably.

The old farmer by the Mississippi River slowly sat back down.

He stared at the radio, at that tiny box making sounds, as though he could see the man speaking through it.

"Father, do you think he's telling the truth?"

His son asked quietly beside him.

"I don't know. But I've never seen Presidents like Coolidge and Hoover show such sincerity in the newspapers."

An answer given personally by the President of a country would always be more convincing than those lofty Presidents like Coolidge and Hoover.

In the Ohio bar, silence lasted for more than ten seconds.

Then someone spoke.

"One week. He said one week. What if we still can't withdraw it after a week?"

"The country is already in such bad shape. Do we really care about waiting one more week?"

"This is the President's personal promise. I think it carries more weight than what the newspapers report."

No one dared make guarantees, but the panic that had just surged up was already being suppressed.

Roosevelt's voice did not stop.

He continued speaking, discussing unemployment, the Great Depression, and the plans the government was drawing up.

He deliberately slowed his pace, far slower than those rapid-fire commercial broadcasters.

At roughly ninety-five words per minute, even the most ordinary workers, farmers, and housewives could follow every word.

Time passed second by second.

Thirteen minutes.

The length had been carefully calculated—enough to explain every crisis facing the nation, but not enough to weary the listeners.

When the thirteenth minute arrived, Roosevelt's tone became lighter. "All right, I've said so much already. My God, how I wish that those of you listening to me could answer a word or two."

"So I would not seem quite so much like I'm 'talking to myself.'"

In the Ohio bar, everyone froze for a second.

Then laughter erupted.

It was not polite laughter, nor was it forced. It was genuine laughter from people who had truly been amused.

Of course, it was not just because of that joke, but because of what the joke conveyed:

"The President is just like us ordinary people—he has a sense of humor too!"

Inside the farmhouse by the Mississippi River.

The old farmer grinned, revealing several yellowed teeth.

His son covered his mouth and laughed as well.

In a cramped apartment in Brooklyn, New York, a Jewish immigrant couple exchanged a glance, then began laughing at the same time.

Their child woke up from the noise and asked groggily, "What's happening?"

His mother picked him up and pointed at the radio. "The President is joking with us."

At the Washington Press Club, the veteran reporters fell silent.

They heard laughter—not from the radio, but from outside the windows, from nearby apartment buildings, from the tavern across the street, from every direction.

Those laughs were like slaps landing across their faces.

But they knew that the people being slapped hardest were the media tycoons led by Hearst.

The ones who had still been portraying Roosevelt in the newspapers that morning as utterly wicked.