Eleanor Roosevelt is one of my favoritest people in history. Aside from her intense feminist streak and ability to persevere, she was a badass. You may already know that she was strikingly independent for a woman, especially during a time when a woman wearing pants would be considered a scandal. You all must be aware that she was participated in drafting the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, was the first lady to hold press conferences, and that she wrote a syndicated column called “My Day,” being the first First Lady to not only to pen a column about life in the White House, but also be the first First Lady to earn an income while married to the president.
What many people do not know about Mrs. Roosevelt is that she also wrote a smaller, lesser known advice column under her pen name, “Dear Ellie.” I was able to locate a few of her correspondences and thought I’d share them with you.
I have a friend who is a colored man and I am white. We have known each other since we were children and he has been good company. As we’ve gotten older, my father says that we can no longer be friends because our skin color will force us to choose sides, but I rather stay on his side than my father’s. What do you believe, Ellie, can two men of different colors be friends?
Dear Potentially Friendless,
This is a difficult situation as there is what we know to be true in our hearts, but then there is the reality of our current world. I say be brave and tell your father that you will not lose the richness of a special friendship because of fear from the ignorant. I, myself, have made the choice to sit in the colored section of public meetings when specifically instructed not to do so and there was that time I flew with a black pilot against everyone’s wishes. I have no regrets of doing either, so I say choose a side and let it be the right side.
I have met a man at work for whom I am mad about. He has a good build and a fine head of hair. I even believe that if we were to begin courting, we would be married quickly, assuming his mother would approve and my father would give his permission for my hand, which he would because this potential suitor is of the best breed. However, he has yet to notice me. Do you have any advice on how I should dress or wear my hair so that I can capture his affection?
My dear, I’m not sure if I’m one to give you advice about makeup or hairstyles. Have you seen a photo of me? I would recommend that you focus more on your desperate delusionary personality rather than your appearance. I mean, really, you’re already walking down the aisle before you know this man. He could be the type of man that might end up with polio or have an affair with your secretary. I implore you to spend more time concentrating on making your life richer through education or field hockey, a particularly smart game that I am very partial to. Maybe then, you’ll meet someone who shares your passion and therefore will be more attracted to you. And who knows, my dear, it may not even be a man!
My husband has me tied in knots. He has been working late late hours. Usually, he is home around 5 o’clock, but lately his appointments have been running as late as 10 pm. Sometimes, he comes home with alcohol on his breath and a faint musty smell on his mustache. My woman’s intuition says that he’s having an affair with his secretary. I have no proof, but have noticed that her hemline has been above the ankle as of late. Please help.
Dear Home Alone,
Do you know what another word for secretary is? SLUT. Tell me is it that backstabbing witch vixen whore face Lucy Mercer? I swear to god, if it is her, you can tell her that if I ever see her again, I will surely punch her in the cunt. If I were you, Home Alone, I would assemble the most prestigious female journalist and hold a press conference about how Lucy Mercer’s vagina leaks putrid orangey brown liquids that steams up and leaves the male penis burnt to a crisp rendering them as useless as my good for nothing husband. If she thinks I spent all this time building him into the political revolutionary he is so that she can quickly flash an ankle and be off with him, let it be clear, Lucy Mercer, I. WILL. MURDER. YOU. AND THEN EVACUATE MY BOWELS ALL OVER YOUR CORPSE.
Is my cat gay?
Don’t be silly, of course he is.
I am sorry to hear of your recent troubles with your husband, but because of this, I think that you might be the one person that might understand me. It is my belief that you are much like my wife – frigid. I fear that I may run into the arms of another if I cannot get her to warm up and let me touch her anus.
Dear Anus Toucher,
Did you just call me frigid? Do you know who I am? I AM GODDAMN ELEANOR MOTHERFUCKING ROOSEVELT. Frigid? Are you kidding me? I have more drive and focus about life than any turn of the century woman figure you’ve ever met! Who decided to be the first First Lady to apply for pilot’s license? ME, MOTHERFUCKER! Why? Because I’m goddamn Eleanor Roosevelt. My “President” husband has 31 honorary degrees, but guess who has 35, yes 35 honorary degrees? Yeah, that’s right, me, Eleanor motherfuckin’ Roosevelt.
I have nothing but love and passion and a fire that burns within in me like the heat of a million suns and you dare to call me frigid? When my husband begged me to not visit coal miners in their tunnels while they were working because he was afraid for his wittle ol’ wife, who said, ““I’ll be damned if a mosquito buggerer is going to tell me what to do!” For crying out loud, I helped draft the human rights declaration for the whole world; I have my own column and weekly radio show; I wear pants when I want to wear pants. I even have a side chick that don’t play scared when FDR pops over to the back side of the house. She just tongues me right in front of his face and WHO DOESN’T GIVE A FUCK? ME! GODDAMN ELEANOR ROOSEVELT. Shit, I don’t even roll with the secret service because I carry my own gat and you dare to come at me with that frigid mess? I don’t think so, asshole.