The Book of Gutsy Women

by Hillary Rodham Clinton

  From an early age, Helen was determined to go to college and was admitted to Radcliffe College of Harvard University. Anne went with her to every class, spelling out lectures as quickly as she could into Helen’s palm, transcribing pages of text into Braille. In 1904, at the age of twenty-four, Helen graduated cum laude, becoming the first deafblind person to earn a bachelor of arts degree. (It seems not to have occurred to Radcliffe to give Anne a degree along with Helen, though she, too, had put in hours of work.) Helen wrote, gave speeches, and published her autobiography, The Story of My Life, all while still in college.

  CHELSEA

  In books and movies, Helen is often shown as a larger-than-life hero, almost impossibly determined in the face of suffering and obstacles—and she was. But Helen also had flaws, fears, and moments of longing, like anyone. “If I could see,” she once said, “I would marry first of all.” In response to the question of whether she ever wished she were not deafblind, she acknowledged that “perhaps there is just a touch of yearning at times. But it is vague, like a breeze among flowers. The wind passes, and the flowers are content.” She also asserted: “Blindness has no limiting effect upon mental vision. My intellectual horizon is infinitely wide. The universe it encircles is immeasurable.”

  Helen’s story is usually told as that of one remarkable young woman who overcomes adversity through sheer force of will. It’s also a story of the potential in every child—potential that too often goes unrealized because of circumstances out of the child’s control. If Helen hadn’t learned to read, communicate, and express her thoughts, if she had been committed to an institution, as many people with disabilities were in that time, we would have missed out on her brilliant mind and remarkable spirit. I thought of Helen when I played a small part as a young lawyer working for the Children’s Defense Fund, helping convince Congress to pass legislation mandating that children of all abilities were entitled to a public education.

  Helen’s most thrilling adventures began where The Miracle Worker left off. After college, she set out to learn more about the conditions and lives of people with disabilities in America—a subject about which little was known—and quickly identified a connection between disability, exploitation, and poverty. At the time, the vast majority of people with disabilities were cut off from job opportunities or education, sidelined and marginalized in society. “For a time I was depressed,” she said, “but little by little my confidence came back and I realized that the wonder is not that conditions are so bad, but that humanity has advanced so far in spite of them. And now I am in the fight to change things.”

  Contrary to some of the legends that surround her, Helen was not simply an inspiring individual focused on people with disabilities; she was an activist determined to build a more just, peaceful, and equitable world for everyone. She cofounded the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), in part to protect the rights of workers who were striking for better conditions and fair pay. Along with the other ACLU founders, she was a target of FBI surveillance. She was a socialist and a pacifist, a suffragist and a birth control advocate. (“The inferiority of women is man-made,” she argued.) She spoke out against lynching and white supremacy and was a vocal supporter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP).

  “Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”

  —HELEN KELLER

  Helen traveled the world, speaking out against fascism in Europe. In 1938, she wrote to the editor of the New York Times, urging the paper not to downplay or ignore Nazi atrocities. In 1948, she went to Japan as America’s first goodwill ambassador after the war; there, she helped bring attention to the country’s blind and disabled population. At age seventy-five, she embarked on her most grueling trek yet: a forty-thousand-mile, five-month tour across Asia to bring encouragement and hope to people with vision loss and other disabilities.

  Helen was famous from the age of eight until her death in 1968, and like most people in the public eye—particularly women—she was subject to criticism. She was accused of plagiarism, of being a mouthpiece for the views of the people around her, as though a young deafblind woman couldn’t possibly hold and express her own opinions. When she spoke about her own life and struggles, she was celebrated. But when she spoke about politics and social issues, she was dismissed and belittled as being out of her depth. “So long as I confine my activities to social service and the blind, they compliment me extravagantly… but when it comes to discussion of a burning social or political issue, especially if I happen to be, as I so often am, on the unpopular side, the tone changes completely,” she observed.

  To some people, shocking though it may seem, she remains a controversial figure even today. I thought again about Helen’s commitment to giving every child the chance to go to school when I heard in 2018 that the Texas State Board of Education had recommended eliminating lessons about both Helen and me from American history classes in an effort to “streamline” the curriculum. I felt sorry that students in Texas would not be taught about Helen’s extraordinary life and the impact she has had on so many others. When the board reversed its decision and reinstated us both, I was doubly happy. Her story deserves to be told again and again—the story not simply of an extraordinary little girl but of a woman who spent her life questioning why things were the way they were, and standing up for people who had no power.

  “I like frank debate, and I do not object to harsh criticism so long as I am treated like a human being with a mind of her own.”

  —HELEN KELLER

  Margaret Chase Smith

  Hillary

  When I was a little girl, my family subscribed to Life magazine, which came to our house every week on Friday. When I came home from school, I’d eagerly grab it and lie down on the floor in our living room to read it before I had to set the table for dinner. It was in those pages that I first encountered Senator Margaret Chase Smith, who was the first example I ever remember seeing of a woman elected official. Following her career—from the campaigns that led to her becoming the first woman to serve in both houses of Congress to her history-making candidacy for president of the United States in 1964—shaped my understanding of politics and public service. She embodied the thrill of breaking barriers—and the challenges that come with being “the first.”

  Born and raised in Maine, Margaret discovered a passion for politics when her husband, Clyde Harold Smith, was elected to Congress. She campaigned for him and, after he was elected, joined him in Washington. During his first term, he became gravely ill, and Margaret stepped in to fill as many of his obligations as she could. She traveled back and forth between Washington and Maine, appearing at events on behalf of her husband. With Margaret’s help, Clyde was reelected in 1938. His health, however, declined quickly. In the spring of 1940, he put out a statement urging his friends and supporters to stand behind Margaret if he could not run in the upcoming election. “I know of no one who has the full knowledge of my ideas and plans or is as well qualified as she is, to carry on these ideas and my unfinished work for my district.” He died the next day.

  Margaret easily won the special election to serve out her husband’s unexpired term. At the time, most of the few women who served in office had been elected or appointed to fill a seat vacated by a husband or father. It was so common it even had a name: “the widow’s mandate.” Though she had never planned on it, Margaret was now the state’s first woman member of Congress. (“Mrs. Smith Goes to Washington,” read one headline.)

  Taking office was one thing, but, as Margaret soon found out, staying there was another. The primary election for the next term was under way within a week of her taking office. She faced off against four male opponents, one of whom argued that, against a backdrop of the war in Europe and questions of America’s role at home, there was just too much at stake to elect a woman to Congress. A local newspaper columnist agreed, sniping that the primary was at risk of hinging on a “question of sex” rather than “ability.” But Margaret had alread
y proved herself to the people of Maine, and she won.

  Throughout her life, Margaret dismissed the idea that she was a feminist. She was a moderate, not a radical, and resented the idea that she or any woman should be treated differently because of their gender. “I never asked for any special privileges,” she said later of her time in Congress. “And I can assure you I never got any.” Still, she was a quiet and steadfast champion of policies advancing women’s rights, equality, and dignity; I think she was a feminist even without claiming the label. Margaret voted again and again for the Equal Rights Amendment, even cosponsoring it in 1945. (What would she say about the fact that we still haven’t passed it more than seven decades later?) Despite the critics who doubted that a woman could play a role in foreign policy, Margaret eventually served on the House Naval Affairs Committee. At the time, women who were part of the armed services were considered “volunteers” and didn’t receive any benefits. Her signature piece of legislation was the Women’s Armed Forces Integration Act, which led to the extension of benefits to all uniformed women in the military.

  After eight years in the House, Margaret launched her campaign for the United States Senate. The Maine Republican Party was less than thrilled by her many votes across party lines, and they opposed her candidacy. Her opponents denigrated her in the press, suggesting that “the Senate was no place for a woman.” She ran proudly on her experience in Congress, using the slogan “Don’t trade a record for a promise.” Right before the election, she was the victim of a smear campaign accusing her of being a Communist because she had supported the New Deal, the United Nations, the Truman Doctrine, and the Marshall Plan. With the help of a dedicated cadre of women volunteers who were the backbone of her shoestring campaign, Margaret Chase Smith won her election in a landslide.

  When she entered the Senate, Margaret was clear-eyed about the reality of her humble position: She was a junior member and the only woman alongside ninety-five men. That didn’t stop her from standing up for what she knew was right—even if it meant standing alone. When Wisconsin senator Joseph McCarthy used his position to launch a broad investigation of government employees and other Americans to root out Communists, whom he saw in every corner, Margaret was one of the first to sound the alarm over what she saw as dangerous demagoguery. His persecutorial tactics destroyed reputations and lives. Yet it became painfully clear that no other senator was going to speak out against him.

  On the morning of June 1, 1950, she ran into Senator McCarthy on the “little Senate subway train” that would take her to the floor. She would remember their exchange for the rest of her life. Catching sight of her determined expression, McCarthy commented: “Margaret, you look very serious. Are you going to make a speech?” “Yes,” she answered. “And you will not like it!”

  In her groundbreaking speech that day, she called out his hate and character assassination and the tactics he was using that became known as “McCarthyism.” “Mr. President, I would like to speak briefly and simply about a serious national condition,” she began. “It is a national feeling of fear and frustration that could result in national suicide and the end of everything that we Americans hold dear.” She eviscerated McCarthy and called out her colleagues for their lack of courage in standing up to him. “I don’t want to see the Republican Party ride to political victory on the Four Horsemen of Calumny—Fear, Ignorance, Bigotry, and Smear.” She and six other Republican senators signed a statement expressing their concerns known as her “Declaration of Conscience.” (McCarthy later mocked her and her cosigners as “Snow White and the Six Dwarfs.” He would have been a natural on Twitter.) She continued to oppose McCarthy at personal and political cost for four more years, until 1954, when the Senate finally censured him for his conduct and ended his career.

  “Mr. President, I speak as a Republican. I speak as a woman. I speak as a United States Senator. I speak as an American.”

  —SENATOR MARGARET CHASE SMITH

  With her seminal speech, Margaret captured the national spotlight. Reporters and prominent figures in Washington wondered whether she could run for vice president—or even president. Yet, as one reporter bemoaned, “It is considered doubtful that the country will see a woman head of state in the near or even distant future.” (Unfortunately, they didn’t know how right they were.)

  Speculation mounted as to whether Margaret might launch an unprecedented run—would she or wouldn’t she? In January 1964, her campaign manager drafted a speech to the Women’s National Press Club with two endings: one announcing that she was in, one declaring she was out.

  In her speech, she dryly detailed the reasons she had heard about why she should not run. “First, there are those who make the contention that no woman should ever dare to aspire to the White House—that this is a man’s world and that it should be kept that way—and that a woman on the national ticket of a political party would be more of a handicap than a strength,” she said that day. “Second, it is contended that the odds are too heavily against me for even the most remote chance of victory—and that I should not run in the face of what most observers see as certain and crushing defeat. Third, it is contended that as a woman I would not have the physical stamina and strength to run.” (Ah, memories!) She concluded with a twinkle in her eye: “So, because of these very impelling reasons against my running, I have decided that I shall.” That day, she became the first woman to seek a major party’s presidential nomination.

  “I have few illusions and no money, but I’m staying for the finish. When people keep telling you you can’t do a thing, you kind of like to try.”

  —SENATOR MARGARET CHASE SMITH

  From the beginning, Margaret ran a scrappy, upstart campaign. Reporters were not kind to her: They commented on her hair, her figure, and her age. “Since my candidacy was announced, almost every news story starts off ‘the sixty-six-year-old senator.’ I haven’t seen the age played up in the case of the male candidates,” she pointed out.

  At that year’s Republican National Convention, she became the first woman to have her name put in nomination for the presidency. That night, delegates in the convention center carried signs reading “Smith for President” and “The Lady from Maine.” Though Senator Barry Goldwater ultimately clinched the nomination, she sent a resounding message that resonated for many women, including me.

  CHELSEA

  One of my favorite fun facts about Margaret is that she wore a red rose in her lapel every day, gave them to her colleagues, and fought for years to have the rose declared the official flower of the United States. She faced staunch opposition from Senate Republican Leader Everett M. Dirksen, who argued that it should be the marigold. In 1987, long after her retirement, Margaret won this battle, and Congress designated the rose as the national flower.

  Margaret lived to be ninety-seven years old. I included her in the video called “History Made” that played at the Brooklyn Navy Yard on June 7, 2016, when I reached the 2,383-delegate mark to become the Democratic nominee for president. I wanted more Americans to know about her. She has been on my mind even more than usual recently. I think often of her public example of courage in this time when her party seems to have lost its way. I can’t help but think how much better off the Republican Party—and our country—would be if there were more like Margaret in public office today.

  Margaret Bourke-White

  Hillary

  As I did with so many inspiring women from my childhood, I first met Margaret Bourke-White, the fearless photojournalist, in the pages of Life. From the moment I saw her photos and read the startling description of her as the “first female war correspondent,” I was hooked. I wanted to learn more about the person behind the lens, who documented everything from Depression-era breadlines to the front lines during World War II.

  Margaret was born in the Bronx just after the turn of the twentieth century, raised by parents who encouraged her to be brave and independent. Whenever her mother, Minnie, found out that one of her children had discovered
a new interest, she would leave books on the subject around the house for them to find. Margaret’s father, Joseph, an engineer, was interested in the burgeoning field of photography and printing. Margaret remembered him as “the personification of the absent-minded inventor. I ate with him in restaurants where he left his meal untouched and drew sketches on the tablecloth. At home he sat silent in his big chair, his thoughts traveling, I suppose, through some intricate mesh of gears and camshafts. If someone spoke he did not hear.” As a little girl, Margaret followed him around while he took photographs, carrying an empty cigar box as her “camera” and helping him develop pictures in the family’s bathtub. He brought her to factories and foundries, where she was awestruck by the heavy machinery and flying sparks.