Roosevelt Curtis - Upstairs at the Roosevelts: growing up with Franklin and Eleanor

The question most frequently asked of me is, What was life like in the White House? A response saying that it was wonderful, fantastic, unforgettable and yet a disaster only provokes a host of other questions. Until I wrote my book Too Close to the Sun: Growing Up in the Shadow of My Grandparents, Franklin and Eleanor, I hadnt thought too closely about this extraordinary experience of mine. But then I had to buckle down and think it through. I did, and a lot of illusions went out the window.

Twelve years is a long time in the life of a child.

In 1933 I was a toddler, three years old, when we went to live in the White House. By 1945, when my grandfather, President Roosevelt, died, I was just fifteen. The White House had proved a steady series of events, punctuated by an equally steady stream of visitors. During those twelve years, circulating within that hothouse of bustling politics, I met a lot of people. By the age of fifteen, I had met everybody from Winston Churchill to Mary Martin!

I listened and absorbed, especially when I was old enough, at age nine, to be included with the adults at mealtimes. It was my educationfar more important than any formal one I have had. By fifteen I was quite sophisticated politically. I could converse easily with the many guests at the dining table. But usually I was seen and not heard, as was considered courteous and proper for my age. Knowing your place was a dictum drummed into me from early childhood.

When doing the research for my bookwhich included a lot of dredging through my exciting and often difficult memoriesI realized the extent to which I had been shaped by my years in the White House and by being President and Mrs. Roosevelts eldest grandson, and it is a shaping that has continued throughout my life. It is in fact a distortion compared to a more normal upbringing. It is difficult to explain except in broad terms.

Power is very attractive. Everyone is to some degree drawn to it, but when you live within the walls of a place like the White House, it matters hugely, especially if you are a youngster. And, as I have noted, when everyone singles you out as an exception because of being the president and first ladys grandson, it is or becomes your identity, a part of who you are. When I first went to a public school and was introduced to my second-grade classmates, my teacher announced, This is Buzzie. He has been living with his grandparents, the president and Mrs. Roosevelt, in the White House. The relationship with my future classmates was thus marked.

Buzzie (either with a y or an ie) was my nickname. Eleanor, my older sister, was known as Sistie. In 1933, in the midst of the Great Depression, the press picked up on these two little darlings living in the White House and had a grand time with us. Sistie-and-Buzzie became one word. We were featured in newspapers, magazines, and newsreels all over the country. Complicating that exposure for me was my grandmother and mothers dictum that we do not like having our picture taken; we do not like publicity! My sister echoed them and a barb could be thrust at me, Buzzie likes having his picture taken! I ducked my head and tried to adjust to this contradictory party line. But of course I enjoyed the fuss; and most young boys might feel the same. Nonetheless, it brought conflict for me.

I liked the attention given me by the White House butlers and maids, as well as the Secret Service men guarding my grandfather. I was a kind of mascot. I enjoyed being included in pictures with my grandfather or grandmother. I loved being a part of their entourage. Living in the White House as we did, many opportunities daily presented themselves for being recognized. Even when Sis and I traveled on the train to New York, on our way from Washington to Hyde Park, we would be pointed at, Theres Sistie-and-Buzzie! As if we were a single entity. My sister would duck her head; Id look up and smile, enjoying the recognition. Our nurse then would hurry us on to the waiting Secret Service car.

But all this, and especially the conflict presented by my mother and grandmother, was not the best way for a child to grow up and mature. Indeed, life in the White House gave me a very complicated sense of identity, one that took years to work out of. Watch your step! was my byword.

My memories of those early days in the White House are filled with many activities, mainly with me as an observer. I liked parades, especially of soldiers and sailors. The marines had the best uniforms, I would pronounce, but quickly shut up when I saw that my keen interest was not conforming to the expected modesty at which my sister excelled. Still, my enthusiasm could not always be contained. I liked living in the White House, even though, as my mother frequently declared, Its not good for Buzzie!