Sixty-one years ago today, President Lyndon Johnson signed Medicare and Medicaid into law as an amendment to the Social Security Act.

Two years ago, President Trump promised that he would “never let anyone touch your Medicare.”

Yesterday, this Administration announced dramatic cuts to Medicare, spiking prescription drug costs for up to 25 million seniors.

That’s some lousy anniversary present!

Not to mention a horrific betrayal.

The road to get these public health insurance laws on the books was a long and rocky one, but it is one of America’s crowning achievements.

On July 30, 1965, President Lyndon Johnson traveled to the Truman Library in Independence, Missouri, to sign Medicare into law.

The location was very deliberate. It drew attention to the 20 years it had taken Congress to enact government health insurance for senior citizens after Harry Truman had proposed it.

As it had been for decades, it was a tough fight down to the wire. A look back is instructive, not only to show how long it can take to move a legislative dream to reality but also to illustrate how a president with a grasp of history and knowledge of how government works is crucial to making success possible.

In 1935, when President Franklin Roosevelt first tried and failed to get health insurance included as part of Social Security, Republicans, conservative Democrats, and the American Medical Association (AMA) were winning their fight to sink President Roosevelt’s proposal for health insurance. Congress was intimidated, and in August 1935, FDR gave up, signing the Social Security Act without health coverage.

Eight years later, in the midst of World War II, he once again called for social insurance “that will extend from the cradle to the grave.” And again, his proposal went nowhere.

On FDR’s death, Harry Truman became president. In his 1948 Message to Congress on the State of the Union, he said:

“Healthy citizens constitute our greatest national resource. In time of peace, as in time of war, our ultimate strength stems from the vigor of our people. ”

“This great nation cannot afford to allow its citizens to suffer needlessly from the lack of proper medical care. Our ultimate aim must be a comprehensive insurance system to protect all our people equally against insecurity and ill health.”

Congress still refused to budge.

Running for election in his own right that year, and trailing behind in the polls, Truman won an upset victory after demanding that healthcare insurance and civil rights be included in the Democratic Party platform.

That same year, Congressman Lyndon Johnson of Texas, whose home district was Democratic and liberal in a state turning increasingly Republican and conservative, was running for election to the US Senate.

He opposed Truman’s health care plan as socialistic and was elected. Socialized medicine or anything that even looked or smelled like socialized medicine gave members of Congress a chill.

I Like Ike. I Don’t Like Socialized Medicine

During Dwight Eisenhower’s presidency, Congress enacted the Kerr-Mills bill for cases of “medical indigency” to cover elderly individuals who needed help with their medical bills but who failed to qualify for welfare in their states. But reformers regarded Kerr-Mills as inadequate, given the rising number of elderly and the rising cost of hospital care.

It went nowhere.

Medicare Stalls Again

In 1961 President John F. Kennedy made Medicare a legislative priority and chose Clinton Anderson of New Mexico to manage his bill.

Though public opinion polls suggested strong support for the bill, Anderson faced powerful opponents, including the House Ways and Means chairman, the American Medical Association, and Senate Finance Committee chairman Harry Byrd of Virginia. The bill’s opponents prevailed, narrowly defeating the bill in 1962.

Again

It was reintroduced in 1963, and following Kennedy’s assassination, Anderson worked painstakingly to build solid, bipartisan Senate support.

Lyndon Johnson’s big win in the 1964 presidential contest increased support for these programs. Johnson coaxed, cajoled, badgered, buttonholed, and maneuvered Congress into enacting Medicare for the aging and Medicaid to help low-income people.

Finally, 62 years ago, on the morning of July 30, 1965. President Johnson loaded up two planeloads of dignitaries and headed toward Independence, Missouri, the hometown of former President Harry Truman.

He intended to sign the bill at the side of the man whose original proposal LBJ had dismissed as socialism. Now he revered Truman as “the real daddy of Medicare.”

At the bill-signing ceremony, President Johnson enrolled President Truman as the first Medicare beneficiary and presented him with the first Medicare card. This is President Truman’s application for the optional Part B medical care coverage, which President Johnson signed as a witness.

After signing the bill, Lyndon Johnson turned to Harry Truman and signed him up as Medicare’s first beneficiary. It was high drama, touched with history, politics, sentimentality, showmanship, and compromise.

Another witch hunt in Congress.

Watching a dedicated public servant like Dr Anthony Fauci being raked over the coals by ignorant, repugnant Republicans is repulsive.
And a disgrace.

A rabid Rand Paul is in a frenzy in his attacks.

Emboldened by anti-vaxxers who view science and facts as evil. Covering their eyes in fear, they choose not to see, they choose not to hear, they speak no evil, which to them is science.

Dr Fauci, who helped lead the US response during the COVID-19 epidemic in the dark, delusional days of  Donald Trump’s first term, invoked the Fifth Amendment amid plans to testify before the Senate committee and will refrain from answering.

Anthony Fauci is a hero in my house, whose tableau watches over me every time I wash my hands.

I’d like to wash my hands of all these science deniers and revenge-filled Republicans.

In 1926, while flaming youth roared and thousands mourned the death of Rudolph Valentino, my grandparents, Sadie and Arthur Joseph, were overjoyed at the birth of their second daughter, Betty Francine, my mother.

Always a joyous Bastille Day Birthday, this jazz age baby would have turned 100 today.

This sepia-toned photograph and the baby it documents are now a century old. Mounted on thick cream colored board, and embossed in gold on the back is the name of the photography studio: B. Bloch 543 Fulton Street, Brooklyn.

Today, holding this well-preserved one-hundred-year-old picture in my hands, a whole story unfolds in my mind of the day this photo of my future mother, Betty, was taken.

Unlike today’s iphones when we can effortlessly capture every nuance of a baby’s life, a formal baby portrait was a special occasion. And it required patience.

Mr B. Bloch knew when to release the shutter.

A Baby is Born

In July of 1926, while mother and newborn baby were rooming together at Mt Sinai Hospital in New York for the standard 14-day maternity stay, her husband, my grandfather Arthur, got down to practical business.

Making an appointment for Betty’s official baby portrait.

An amateur shutterbug, Arthur wanted the best for Betty, and B. Bloch was the man.  This popular, well-established studio in the heart of downtown Brooklyn had been well respected since the late 19th century and was often booked months in advance. Arthur made the appointment for late autumn.

The studio located on bustling Fulton street Brooklyn, not far from A&S Department Store is already alive by 10 o’clock that November morning when the Josephs arrived in a taxi from their home in Crown Heights. The electric trolley cars were clanging their bells, the autos honking,  the elevated train rumbling overhead, its steel wheels producing a familiar metallic roar.

After walking up a flight of polished wood stairs, they stop at the frosted glass doors with the Bloch name in elegant gold script.

In the well-appointed waiting room, decorated with Persian rugs and dark oak wainscoting, the family settles into the soft upholstered chairs with carved walnut arms.

Adjacent to them stands a large mahogany cabinet displaying dozens of mounted portraits and silver trophies from photographic exhibitions.  Sadie scans the cream-colored walls filled with dozens of framed pictures, all beautifully lit, of young women graduating from Erasmus Hall High School,  soldiers from the Great War, college graduates, and a bride holding lilies.

It could be Betty’s future laid out in photos.

Mr B Bloch

Mr. B Bloch, a distinguished gentleman wearing round spectacles, his gray hair carefully brilliantined, comes out to greet them, ushering the family into the studio.

The portrait studio is astonishingly bright. A skylight spans much of the ceiling, and the daylight is soft and slanting. Electric Mazda incandescent studio lamps stand at the ready.

It is hard to tell who was more captivated by the sights, baby Betty or her father Arthur.

My grandfather’s eyes light up, immediately drawn to the camera that dominates the room. An enormous 8x 10 Eastman view camera of polished mahogany mounted on a heavy Century Studio Stand. Brass controls gleam in the light, and the enormous bellows extend nearly two feet.

Arthur silently notices the simple backdrops now considered sophisticated. Unlike earlier baby portraits, there are no elaborate props like painted gardens, lace curtains, painted castles, or sentimental accessories. Everything is understated, with simple textured backdrops.

The photographer wanted the viewer’s attention on the subject herself.  Nothing should compete with the baby.

Baby Betty Is Ready For Her Close Up

Betty was dressed simply, no bonnet, no lace, or oversized ribbons, and was seated on a wicker chair, intended for babies and toddlers. Plopped down, she sits on an enormous cushion overstuffed so the baby would sink ever so slightly, preventing her from sliding forward.

The photographer waits until she is settled naturally, rather than in a forced pose.

Very few babies smiled in photographs before the 1930s because exposures still required some stillness. Instead, Betty is looking calm and curious, almost evaluating the photographer. There is a dignity in that expression, and she is treated almost like an adult sitter.

The photographer recognized it. Instead of making her laugh, he photographed her exactly as she was.

It was all about waiting. Nothing happens quickly.  Photography in 1926 is an act of observation rather than capture.

A Moment Captured For a Century

My future mother Betty 1926

Bloch watches her for several minutes before even uncovering the camera. The room is warm from the steam radiator that hisses softly as steam cycles through the pipes.

Then Mr Bloch disappears beneath the black cloth, studies the upside-down image while you hear only his voice from inside.

He slides a film holder onto the back of the camera. Removes the dark slide. There is a pause everyone is silent for perhaps 3 seconds.

Betty’s eyes drift toward the camera lens. For one brief moment, she looks directly into the camera. Not smiling, simply curious.  Observant. It is an expression impossible to manufacture and an expression I would recognize in my life with her. Bloch gently squeezes the rubber bulb attached to the shutter release.

A nearly inaudible click.

One eighth of a second and a lifetime preserved. To be held in her daughter’s hand a century later. Shared on the internet in one hundred years.

Bloch smiles with the satisfaction of experience.  “I believe,” he says, sliding the film holder from the camera, “your daughter just made a very fine portrait.”

Afterwards, there is no instant result, no preview. The negative disappears into the darkroom. Nothing can be seen yet. My grandparents trust the photographer’s confidence.

Before they leave, Mr. Bloch shows them samples of embossed presentation folders and mounted prints. They order several prints for grandparents and aunts. The order is carefully handwritten into the ledger. The finished photograph will be ready in about 10 days.

A Moment in Time

The picture captures a child born into the optimism of 1926. The portrait is more than a family keepsake; it stands at the threshold of an era.

Smack dab in the middle of the roaring twenties, eight years had passed since the end of the Great War, and Americans were ready for fun. Our president, Silent Cal was keeping mum as the economy skyrocketed. Consuming goods as never before, folks were running down to Florida in get-rich-quick schemes, while Miss Texas Guineas, the boop-boop-de-doop speakeasy girl, beckoned us “to live it up.”

Now, looking back a century later, we know the history that lies ahead. That Betty does not. That quiet, direct gaze embodies the innocence of a moment before the upheavals that would shape the rest of the twentieth century.

In retrospect, knowing the upheavals that would follow, the Great Depression, another World War, and the Cold War, the moment becomes poignant.

Inside the studio, time has briefly stood still.

A few seconds of light were fixed onto a sheet of film, preserving not only the likeness of my future mother, Betty, but also a family’s confidence in the future, their faith in the American promise.

I cherish this picture as I cherish my mother. Today and always.

© Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream, 2026. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

What happens when the country you pledged allegiance to is no longer the country you recognize?

A worn third-grade civics book becomes the lens through which I examine America’s broken promises. Beginning with the patriotic lessons of my 1963 classroom, I Am An American traces how a generation raised to believe in democracy, compassion, and the common good came to witness those ideals unravel under Donald Trump.

Part memoir, part cultural history, and part elegy, the visual essay asks what patriotism means when loving your country also means mourning what it has become.

I am pleased to share this visual essay with you.

“Communism is a mortal threat to American liberty,” a protective president warned a nervous nation during a July 4th  speech.

The Communists are coming, people. They are living among us. This is no time to duck and cover. Get out from under your desks and fight this evil force.

But that president was not Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1956.

It was Donald J. Trump, in 2026, echoing the anti communist zeal from mid 20th century.

I did not have communism on my bingo card for fear-stoking buzzwords in 2026.

Trump bashing Democrats as Godless communists is straight out of the Cold War fear factor playbook of my mid-century childhood.

It is a familiar Cold War doomsday scenario brought into the 21st century.

Red Menace

The fear of Communist infiltration, not only militarily but politically, was a common thread throughout my childhood. Americans were convinced hidden communists were lurking everywhere, secretly infiltrating our government, including our very own State Department.

Like those two scheming cartoon villains, Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale, those no-goodnik spies carrying out Fearless Leader’s secret evil plots, communists were sinister, sneaky plotters carrying out covert actions just waiting to overthrow a government…including our own.

Is This Tomorrow?

“Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society, 1947

One famous 1947 comic book entitled “Is This Tomorrow – America Under Communism” was an over-the-top tale typical of the time, alerting us to the dangers of a Russian Communist takeover. Over 48 colorful pages, it illustrated just how easy it would be for the Reds to take over the U.S.

It Can’t Happen Here:

The comic opens with a dire warning to the young reader:

IS THIS TOMORROW is published for one purpose – TO MAKE YOU THINK! To make you more alert to the menace of Communism. “Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society, 1947

“Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

Taking their orders directly from Moscow, the story revolves around a group of American Communists led by a man named “Jones” and his propaganda advisor “Brown,” a sinister Stevn Miller character who explains how they will manipulate the American media as a precursor to their Kremlin-approved takeover of the U.S.

“Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

“Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

“Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

They manipulate strike leaders and stoke racial, class, and religious hatred to help weaken America for the communists’ eventual takeover.

“Is This Tomorrow” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

“Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

“Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

“Is This Tomorrow” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

Race baiting and taking advantage of the things that divided this country worked to their advantage.

“Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

After the plot to assassinate the president and vice president is successful, the party operatives have successfully infiltrated the government, and Jones controls the Speaker of the House (who is now the new president ). Behind the scenes, Jones becomes the”Chief Advisor” and expands the Executive Powers.

“Is This Tomorrow,” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

“Is This Tomorrow” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

Destabilizing journalism as a check on the power of government is quickly implemented. Anyone critical is swiftly punished, and unfavorable newspapers are denied newsprint until they agree with the party line. The telephone system and radio network are now nationalized.

“Is This Tomorrow” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

“Is This Tomorrow” published by Catechetical Guild Educational Society 1947

INCREDIBLE?

“Did our story seem incredible? It is unbelievable—that such a small group could ever dream of enforcing its will upon the majority. But remember that a group for smaller than the number of Communists living and working in America today seized control of Russia in 1917.

No one can refuse to believe what he knows to be true. And we do know that every method shown in this presentation has been used by the Communists in their rise to power in other countries. Starvation, murder, slavery, force—those are the tools the Communists use to carry out the doctrine of Communism.

The Communists are preparing to seize control of America in any crisis. This crisis, real or contrived—will be there signal to move in… and make their bid for power.

This crisis might begin with a flood in Pennsylvania—a drought in the Middle West. Or it might begin with a general strike in some of our large industrial cities—New York—Detroit—Chicago—San Francisco.

It happened in Poland, Hungary, Yugoslavia, and country after country, the world over.

WHERE DO YOU COME IN?

You are the one with whom the Communist is struggling right now. His aim is to make you hate your fellow man and keep you blind to the important things in life. He wants to make you forget the importance of your right to vote as you please—to say what you please—to go where you please—to worship as you please. The Communist really wants you to forget all your rights to individual freedom and liberty.

But you cannot assume your individual rights without assuming individual responsibility.

If you want to keep on living, you must know who the Communists are—and their methods of working. You must recognize the Communist Party line in action and separate Communist propaganda from the factual news of the day.

You are on the defensive in this battle. You owe it to yourself to know all about the invader. He knows more about you than you suspect.

Laughable for its implausibility, it’s Trump and the Republicans have made it their campaign strategy to maintain control.

© Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream, 2026. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Sally Edelstein and Envisioning The American Dream with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Last week with our 250th birthday in mind, I walked through my town of Huntington, Long Island. Settled in 1653, over a century before the Declaration of Independence, it is steeped in American history.

Climbing the hill to the old Town Hall with its monumental porticoed front and prominent clock tower, I stood among the rows of flapping American flags, letting them wrap around me in the breeze.

I was surrounded by dozens of bronze and stone memorials and plaques honoring local veterans dating back to the Revolutionary War. I thought of these soldiers and sailors, and nurses who had served, and made the ultimate sacrifice in the Civil War, the Spanish American War, The Great War, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan.

I wondered what they would think of the country they left to us. We were the stewards of all they fought for.

There didn’t feel much to celebrate on July 4th.

Photo: Jon Martin

On a bookshelf in my cluttered office is a small, hardcover book I was given in third grade. The well-worn book nestled in between My Dick Jane and Sally primers is titled  I Am an American.

This book was brand new when I was assigned it on the first day of school in 1963. The pages were still crisp with firm, uncreased edges, and the spine was still stiff, opening it for the first time.

The book was new, but the ideas were as old as our country.

The mission of the book, as explained by the author Olive Burt was “to start children out from the very first with the knowledge that this country has something different and unique and worth fighting for, something to brag about.”

And once upon a time, and not that long ago, we did brag.

Today I long for that.

In our history books of the early 1960s, America was the shining beacon, the greatest nation, and the embodiment of democracy, freedom, generosity, and technological progress.

America’s great wealth and power required us to provide not merely a moral example but also moral leadership for the rest of the world.

We were racing boldly and confidently into the future.

That fall, my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Patton, a large battle axe of a woman who seemed ancient but was likely younger than I am now, handed out these new books.

Sitting at my antiquated wooden desk,I flipped through the book as  the teacher read out loud to us words that stayed with me long after that class:

“ The book,” she began in her booming Margaret Dumont voice, “explains our country’s creed.”

“Nearly 200 years ago,”  she read, “the great and wise men of our country met and wrote down the things Americans believe. They wanted the whole world to know what this new nation believed about the way people should be governed.”

“They called this the Declaration of Independence. These wise men had ideas that were different from the rest of the world.”

“We hold these truths to be self-evident… that all men are created equal”

“What did it all mean?”

“First of all it means that every person has the same rights as everyone else. No one is born with the right to rule others. No one can say, ‘I am the captain, whether you like it or not!’”

“After those wise men wrote that letter telling the world that they were going to start a new nation, they knew they needed a set of rules to live by.

They called it the Constitution.

When you read the Constitution, you see all the things that were written in to protect me and my right to live as I wish.

We elect our officials

“They do not govern us according to their whims. They simply see that the rules we have made are kept by us all.”

“Americans are proud of what they have built.”

“But nothing means more to them than the freedoms they have won and written into the Constitution”

After she finished reading, Mrs. Patton asked each of us to memorize a passage from the book about what being an American meant for each of us.  In a few weeks, we would each recite it to the class with our parents in attendance.

Painfully shy, I panicked at the thought of speaking in front of a group.

I read through the book and found just the right passage of what being an American meant to me.

For weeks, I practiced with my mother the passage I had chosen, often sitting at the Formica kitchen table while she peeled yellow onions or scraped russet potatoes.

I memorized these words perfectly, repeating them to myself as I brushed my teeth and combed my hair. I found a receptive and approving audience to my recitation with Barbie and Ken, and at the end of the day in my cozy bed before I fell asleep, I whispered them to a captive audience of one, my plush tiger Teddy.

These words, these pictures, these beliefs would be seared into me for the rest of my life.

I Am An American

On a chilly Friday afternoon in early December, dressed in a brand new red plaid woolen jumper, I nervously stood in front of the class. My blonde hair may have been Breck shining clean, but my cheeks burned as red as my jumper as I recited the passage I had chosen.

As I stood before the class and recited the words, the flag hung behind me, next to a glossy black and white photograph of President John F. Kennedy. It had only been two weeks since our young president had been assassinated.

The first cracks in my midcentury American Dream had begun.

Yet I trusted that these important words I memorized about what it meant to be an American were immutable.

Nervously, I looked out at the classroom with its rows of perfectly aligned desks filled with familiar classmates and their less familiar parents seated on our small wooden chairs.

Like the other fathers, my own ex-GI Dad was AWOL, reporting for duty in a grey flannel suit in a faraway office.

But in a sea of beehives and bouffant hair, I saw my mother smiling at me.

Suddenly, my voice was strong because I knew I was speaking about something profound.

What I could not know,  what I did not know, was what the future held.

“I am an American

If you ask me what that means

I’ll answer

These things I must do:

I must speak the truth as I see the truth;

I must play by the rules that are fair.

I must not laugh at another’s ways,

Or take more than is my share.

I must do no thing that will cause me shame.

I must walk tall and brave and free,

And I must help others to have

The rights that mean so much to me.

“We the people, we will make sure that we remain free, and that our children and our children’s children are free forever

I am one of those ‘children’s children’ they were thinking about. I am glad they made the rules to last till I came along.

I am going to help keep them for those who come after me.”

There was a hush when I finished, and then all at once the parents clapped loudly. I looked at the smiling audience filled with the greatest generation, all beaming, none more so than my own mother.

For over 80 years, that was the America we knew.

Under Donald Trump, America, my America, has been betrayed.

Cruelty has replaced humanity as the Congress Trump has hijacked, pulled the plug on healthcare and food assistance to millions, both here and abroad.

It marked the end of social compassion and the rise of an era of authoritarian oligarchy.

Where is that America that I pledged allegiance to?

Beginning in kindergarten in 1961, I spent every morning for the next dozen years standing tall next to my school desk with my right hand over my heart, pledging allegiance to a country that promised liberty and justice for all.

We may not have realized our ideals fully, but we always moved to correct them.

My hand grew, as did the country. I watched it change, stumble at times, but grow.

It’s what I expected of America. That was American Exceptionalism to me – our ability to constantly move forward, help those in need, expand our knowledge, and right our wrongs.

We would always strive to do better.

That America is gone….

I Pledge Allegiance

I learned the Pledge of Allegiance in a suburban classroom filled with second-generation Americans.

They were predominantly of Italian, Eastern European, and Irish descent. All groups that had been discriminated against and unwanted at one time. As a third-generation American with grandparents born in this country, I was an anomaly.

I was proud of that history but never felt more of an American than my classmates, the grandchildren of immigrants who had traveled in crowded ships across the Atlantic, landing in Ellis Island. They left pogroms and crushing poverty with their meager belongings, clutching tightly onto the hope that America promised.

Today, our neighbors hide in fear as masked men roam the streets of our cities and towns like the Gestapo, scooping up immigrant mothers, fathers, and children. Someone’s sister, brother, husband, or wife. Our police state is now fully funded.

My America is gone….

Trump’s Golden Age is not golden for WE the People.

Even as I move forward chronologically, our country is moving backwards as a society.

The social welfare programs put in place as guardrails that I believed would protect me in my old age, are slowly being dismantled.

There will be nothing golden about my golden years.

I am crying for America.

Today I cry for our country, for my parents, my grandparents, and great-grandparents who came to this country filled with promise, all who loved this country, fought for this country, and believed in the possibility of America.

I cry at my father’s grave, inscribed with his favorite saying:  “It’s your America,” a phrase filled with boosterish post-war possibilities of the greatness of our nation, where anything is possible.

No, Daddy,  “it is  not  my America.”

The rights that mean so much to me.

And it brings me to tears.

I am An American.

And for the first time, I am ashamed.

As America celebrates its 250th  anniversary, its mourning in America.

I mourn for our country.

I cry for the millions who will lose the safety nets so primal to being an American. I cry that children and babies will go hungry.

In my America.

Where is that America that I pledged allegiance to?

I cry for this patriotic, flag-waving, red, white, and blue, idealistic  7-year-old girl.  who believed in the inherent goodness of America, as she lived out her parents’ post-war American suburban dream.

Now, on our 250th Independence Day, we are being stripped of our freedoms and rights.

This is not my father’s America.

This is not my America.

This is not Our America

And it brings me to tears.

As an American.

Copyright (©) 2026 Sally Edelstein All Rights Reserved

Coming Soon- The Video of “I Am An American”

Everything about Trump’s tacky, self-indulgent atrocity billed as a Birthday Celebration was vulgar.

The travesty was worse than we imagined. A violent, Vegas-style carousel of greased-up men duking it out Gladiator style on the White House lawn, desecrating sacred ground as the rich and powerful cheered on. An abomination that ended with a vile and racist comment.

All while the average American cannot afford healthcare, gas, and the cost of living.

Imagine a U.S. president using his birthday for the good of the people.

We don’t have to imagine.

Once upon a time, we had a leader whose birthday celebrations were worthy of an American president. Who used his birthday for a good cause.

For the American people.

Imagine that.

In fact, those celebrations once filled my imagination as a child, fueled by the stories told to me by my grandmother. While other little girls were enchanted by the story of Cinderella and her Ball, I loved hearing my Nana Sadie’s recollection of attending President Franklin Roosevelt’s Birthday Balls at the glamorous Waldorf Astoria Hotel.

For his entire presidency, FDR turned his birthdays into massive fundraisers. Known as Birthday Balls, these star-studded events were held nationwide to raise money for polio research and treatment at Warm Springs, Georgia. In his honor, they would be held every January 30th, his birthday, in cities and towns across the nation beginning in 1934.

capt

We once had a president who used his birthdays for a good cause. Souvenir Program Waldorf Astoria 1934. Illustration Howard Chandler Christy

That first year of the Birthday Balls, more than 6,000 dances were held around the country, celebrating President Roosevelt’s 52nd birthday.

The tagline for the events? “Dance So That Others May Walk.” And nowhere was the dancing more elegant than at New York’s glamorous Waldorf-Astoria Hotel on Park Avenue, where they danced into the midnight hours for a good cause- to end the scourge of polio.

The dazzling gala drew thousands of sophisticated attendees in white tie and evening gowns, including my grandparents, Sadie and Arthur Joseph.

Unlike Cinderella, no Fairy Godmother was waving a magic wand, bestowing tickets to the ball for this Brooklyn couple.

My grandfather, Arthur, had worked tirelessly on the Roosevelt 1932 Presidential campaign as a fundraiser and was active in the Kings County Democratic organization. By 1934, his dedicated service had earned him not only an invitation to the Inaugural Ball but a place among the thousands who attended the Birthday Ball.

As a child, I loved flipping through my grandmother’s old leather-bound photo album, the thick black paper pages gently crumbling, and the fading photos held in place by black paper corners. One lone snapshot of my grandparents, taken by my mother’s 12-year-old sister Judy, was the only documentation of the Birthday Ball, the description written in silver ink.

The memories lasted longer than any photo.

In the sepia-toned photo, this couple from Crown Heights dressed to the nines looked like the epitome of Café Society.

In a dress worthy of Cinderella, my grandmother would describe in detail her outfit for the ball, bringing to life the faded image in the photograph. Purchased at Bonwit Teller for the occasion, the dress was a midnight blue, bias-cut silk satin gown by Mainbocher, trimmed with silver beading.  Accented with a long strand of cultured pearls and diamond clip brooches, elbow-length white kidskin gloves, and a silver fox, she sure looked swellegant.

Standing next to her, my grandfather was equally dapper in his Hickey Freeman white tie, with the black wool tailcoat and white pique waistcoat, starched shirt and wing collar, mother-of-pearl studs, white gloves, and black silk top hat.

Taxi Ride

There was no pumpkin turned into a carriage to take them to the ball, but they had reserved a roomy, streamlined taxi for the night to take them across the East River from their Brooklyn home on Montgomery Street to midtown Manhattan.

Lucky for them, because the very next week would see a city-wide taxi riot leading to violence and a strike. Depression weary cab drivers rioted, dragging out passengers, smashing windows, and ripping doors off the cabs.

Arriving at the famed hotel, they were greeted by the uniformed doorman beneath the Waldorf’s bronze and glass entrance. The doormen in their iconic military-inspired design of maroon coats paired with gold accents, braided detail, and peaked caps, set the standard for luxury hotels during this era.

Waldorf Astoria made the 1930s NYC skyline unique

The Art Deco hotel on Park Avenue had only opened in that location three years earlier, in 1931.

The luxurious hotel had originally opened on Fifth Avenue in 1897. When it relocated to its iconic Art Deco home on Park Avenue,  it was at the time the largest and tallest hotel in the world. The original Fifth Avenue location was demolished in 1929 to make way for the construction of the Empire State Building, which opened in 1931.

“New York Daily News,” Jan. 31, 1934 Coverage of the FDR Birthday Ball at the Waldorf Astoria

At the star-studded event, the president’s mother, Sara Delano Roosevelt, was the guest of honor, who attended on his behalf.  Other luminaries were entertainer Rudy Vallee and Mayor LaGuardia. The champagne and cocktails flowed and could be served legally with the repeal of Prohibition.

A highlight of the evening, my grandmother would gush, was the parading of a five-tiered presidential birthday cake onto the Waldorf Astoria ballroom floor. The confectionery masterpiece was surrounded by fifty-two NYC debutantes, gowned in shimmering white satin and ruffles of white chiffon, wearing birthday cake-shaped hats and carrying two-foot-long white candles “lit by the latest in portable battery gadgets.”

One girl for each year in the President’s life. These young girls were living symbols of a nation’s love and admiration for its president.

On the stage, the girls formed themselves into the shape of a birthday cake, holding the candles straight up over their heads and lighting them from concealed electric batteries.

Mrs. Roosevelt ceremoniously cut the birthday cake. The debutantes chanted a happy birthday song, toasts were made, and the candles were auctioned off.

For the main event, Broadway legend George M.Cohan  performed a new Roosevelt anthem entitled “The Happiest Birthday I’ve Ever Known” for the thousands of attendees:

“What a lucky day for the U.S.A. / What a man, how he leads the way / What a heart, what a mind, what a plan / What a blessing to the nation, what a man!” 

The message of goodwill to the President symbolized what was going on all over the country at the same time.

The first President’s Birthday Ball raised over one million dollars, nationwide, for the cause of infantile paralysis. ( Twenty One  million in today’s dollars )

Radio Address

At 11:30, Franklin Roosevelt made a live radio address with a personal message of thanks; a broadcast that would be heard in the auditoriums, ballrooms, halls, and camps hosting the celebrations.

A hush fell over the festivities, my grandmother recalled,  at the first sound of Roosevelt’s voice. To the thousands in attendance, their “Mr. President” may have been the absent guest of honor, but this New Deal President was there in spirit, and his radio address was applauded by a receptive and united audience.

Overwhelmed by the outpouring of affection and admiration, he thanked them all for their support and also shared encouragement for the cause so close to his heart.

“Let us well remember that every child and indeed every person who is restored to useful citizenship is an asset to the country and is enabled “to pull his own weight in the boat.” In the long run, by helping this work we are contributing not to charity but to the building up of a sound Nation. . . I am with you all in spirit and in the promotion of this great cause for which we all are crusading.”

He concluded by thanking his vast audience, “but lack the words to tell you how deeply I appreciate what you have done and I bid you good night on what is to me the happiest birthday I have ever known.”

Postscript

Franklin Delano Memorial in Washington DC with his beloved dog Fala. “What a blessing to the nation, what a man!” 

The clock struck midnight, but the magic of Franklin Roosevelt did not end, either for the Ball or for the good works that Roosevelt did for this country. FDR’s legacy has underpinned our modern American social safeguards and economic framework.

They are the foundation of everything that Trump is now taking a wrecking ball to.

The contrast could not be starker.

FDR was a man who assured us, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

Donald  Trump does nothing but weaponize fear.