It was far back during the late winter of 1898 that I appeared on the historical map, so to speak. The 15th specifically, according to the newspapers. I was far too busy around then to glance at a calendar, and enjoying myself far too much to bother. My name was Theodore Roosevelt, one that few people had any business knowing, much less remembering, certainly not the type of name to affect America on the whole, let alone the world at large. I was a successful politician, yes, but my position held no power. I had not the president, nor a part of congress, the house, cabinet, or even the Vice President, and Lord knows he had the power of a gerbil until his running-mate stopped breathing. I was not even the secretary of the navy, but merely the assistant to him. I was quite low on the political ladder by all accounts, but every rung higher could scarcely hold a pigeon aloft, perhaps for the best. Congress was a skeleton crew of oafs, my superior’s office was collecting dust more oft than not, and old McKinley himself hardly did a thing I didn’t start. Nevertheless, every day I came to work the same as anyone else. Most of my days were spent reading reports, mostly personnel and stock reports for weaponry and ships. It drove me mad seeing the ever-lengthening list of how much metal and manpower was sitting bored on the docks. It annoyed me in a way difficult to describe, all that power sitting on a shore, just waiting to die or be outdated. But what could I do? Even if the higher ups had no more political muscle than I, that fool Monroe’s doctrine kept our armies tied to shore by a ball-and-chain, attached by the most brutal jailor of them all, the public. All that changed, however, as the Maine lit up the dawn as it descended to the bottom if its Cuban harbor. Every sign pointed to the Spanish. Well, perhaps not all, but certainly enough to make a good excuse for a war. As I had always said, “I should welcome any war, for I think our country sorely needs one.”, and so I took the chance I had. It was not the United States of America that declared war upon Spain, kick-starting America’s imperial age, it was Theodore Roosevelt. I single-handedly ordered our navy to prepare for war on the Spanish colonies and dared anyone to stop me. They didn’t of course. No man can argue with a Bull Moose, much less top one. Overnight Theodore Roosevelt had become “That D***ed Cowboy” that brought us war, but I was not finished yet. It pained me like a death in the family to think of our men out fighting the good fight, while I sat behind a desk, counting names. After all, what did I have to lose? There was my first daughter, sure, but she could take care of herself, and my beloved was naught but a painful memory then. So, I did what my heart bade me, and left for the battlefield. I gathered up everyone who would follow and formed the Rough Riders, the single greatest cavalry battalion in American history. How could it be anything but the best if no one else was mad enough to make another? I was never shy to admit I had a bully time as president, but, to be frank, every moment of it seemed like a chore next to my time with the Riders. Reading my words, I must sound like a bloodthirsty savage, but the thrill of battle was something I relished. In the warzone, there are no inept higher ups with the sole power of your fate, no appearances that must be kept, no fragile economy that threatened to leave you begging in the street on a whim. There were only brothers, bullets, and b******s that needed a good thrashing. Not everyone was as thrilled, of course. Most folk will tell you of our war-changing Charge of San Juan Hill, but few will recall that I reached halfway down the field before I looked back and saw nothing but grass between me and my earlier position. Not that it mattered; a swift kick in the rear got our men moving right quick! People can wear me to be a great president until they grow blue in the face, but honestly, being a great general was more than plenty for me. Nary a man in the world dared forget my name for years after that, even today Roosevelt is a name that commands respect, at least for some. Far too many soft-handed cowards curse my name for committing the high crime of starting a war, and worse still; legions of young fools don a shirt depicting my face opposite a quote I didn’t even originate, proclaiming Teddy to be the coolest president ever, despite not having a lick of evidence as to why. D*** that name, d*** their ignorance, and d*** everyone who claims to know me despite forgetting what the name Theodore Roosevelt truly means! America could sorely do to remember a thing or two about what I stood for. That’s not to say everyone understood back then either. My own party put me in the Vice president’s chair simply to keep me under control, a position that didn’t stick fortunately. Regardless, Bully would be a term that describes what I am quite well. Not in the sense used today, describing one who picks on the weak to feel better about themselves. No, while similar in the simplest of descriptions, what I mean is a form of the word that is entirely different, and one I am quite fond of. To be a bully is not to be stronger than others, but to be strong for its own sake. The point of fighting is not to destroy the weak to prove your strength, but instead and better yourself and those you care about. I went to war with Spain for two reasons alone. They had resources America needed, and they were a threat to us. Whether they deserved it or whether the war would have been easy was never part of the equation. Some humanitarians today call me a villain for taking advantage of the colonies we captured. On some level, that is true, but ultimately we had problems that were necessary to deal with, and they had the solution. If one must step on a few toes to save yourself, then I say do it without a second thought. If my legacy is to be misunderstood, then so be it, but I for one am a bully, and proud of it!