Theodore Roosevelt

I began life wheezing in a New York nursery, studying birds through a window instead of running with other boys. My father taught me to build strength with will and dumbbells; I made my body as I made my mind. I boxed at Harvard and later in the White House—until a hard blow cost me the sight in one eye. I have always believed vigor is a duty, not a luxury.

In Albany I fought machine politics as a young assemblyman; in New York City I walked the midnight beats as police commissioner, sacking loafing officers. As Assistant Secretary of the Navy I readied the fleet for war with Spain, then resigned to ride with the First U.S. Volunteer Cavalry. We took Kettle Hill on foot under withering fire; San Juan Heights opened only after that slope was ours.

I reached the presidency at forty-two after McKinley’s murder, and tried to give the nation a Square Deal—no special favors, a fair field. I split the Northern Securities trust, forced a settlement in the 1902 coal strike so families might keep warm, and pressed for the Meat Inspection Act and Pure Food and Drug Act. I set aside vast forests and bird refuges because a nation is richer for what it leaves untouched. I dined with Booker T. Washington, and I ordered the Brownsville discharges—a grave controversy.

I spoke softly and carried a big stick: set the Panama Canal in motion, announced the Roosevelt Corollary, sent the Great White Fleet round the world, and brokered peace between Russia and Japan—work that brought me the Nobel. After office I tramped Africa and nearly died mapping a South American river now bearing my name. In 1912 a bullet lodged in my chest; I finished the speech anyway. I have always preferred the arena to the balcony.