With tin cups of coffee in hand, we read aloud our Seven Reasons, having previously learned that many women could not read. This lady sank her ample frame heavily into her rocker and eyed us curiously, laughing quite openly when we finished reading about women’s lack of rights. “Rights to the law? I am the law here,” she said, sitting a baby on her lap. This action pulled the others to her as if attached by one long string. “Here there’s no vote and I do not allow fighting for rights or anything else. Land and property? We’re thankful we have a roof over our heads and I can’t work outside to keep it any more than my husband can work inside to maintain it. And pray tell, what would my husband do with custody of nine children? He treats the kitchen as his hallway to get out back. They would all surely starve without me.”
We were inexperienced and at a loss for words, Aimee and I sympathetic with these natural roles of husbands and wives. “But one thing you said hit home,” she continued. “And that is, the right to my body. I have had a baby a year since I was married at barely fifteen. My husband is Catholic and large families are expected. Would you believe I’m only twenty-five?” She did indeed look forty-five. We watched as she flipped the baby onto his back and won any contest for changing diapers. Her oldest daughter was sent off to the outhouse with the soiled one. She wiped her hand on her apron. “Where do I put my X on this petition?”
“I’ll spell out your name first,” I said. “What is it?”
“Mrs. Henry Watkins.”
“What is your first name?”
“My first name?” She seemed confused. “I can’t recall. Even my husband calls me Mother.” After rummaging through her bedroom a minute or so, she could find no paperwork or documents with her name. “Oh, I’m so frazzled today, but it’ll come to me eventually,” she said, wiping a toddler’s nose with the ever ready hanky. We were running out of precious time and had no recourse but to end the visit with her placing an X by “Mrs. Henry ‘Mother’ Watkins”.
No, Robert didn’t discover me petitioning door-to-door. Marching down Main Street in the 4th of July parade is a different story entirely. Everyone goes to the parade, well, everyone except Robert who didn’t appreciate crowds, thus I thought it would be safe. Town businesses and shops were closed for the holiday, including Robert’s shoe store, which meant Robert would be home. But that meant I needed an escape route. Aimee and I hatched a plan. We told our husbands that we were asked to bring food downtown to the park, and prepare picnic lunches for the needy. I received the necessary grunt of permission from behind his newspaper.
Two-miles at a clipped steady pace released some of the tension of the morning, and the small clouds of fog gave everything a positive dreamlike appearance. I became ready and willing by the time Aimee and I reached City Hall Park, the group already gathering under a cluster of gnarled oak trees. Cady and Lizzie had brought supplies of large white cardboard and black paint and we immediately went to work writing out our slogans. Cady knew that keeping us busy was vital. The parade was a big moment and regardless what Cady preached, we were only simple women. Repercussions were inevitable.
Our signs declared boldly:
Equality for Women!
Rights for All!/Change the Law!
Give us a voice!/Give us the vote!
Come hear 7 reasons to fight for Women’s Rights!
At the bottom all the signs read: ‘Women’s Rights Convention, July18th, 1910, City Hall Park’.
City Hall Park was a last-minute change in location. Cady announced at our last meeting that the Franklin High School auditorium was no longer available. Mr. Whiting, the principal, apologized with a vague explanation that the auditorium had already been booked, before his commitment to the convention. Cady believed there was more behind the cancellation than he was telling. There were rumblings among the school staff that the school should not be associated with a controversial political agenda. Parents opposed to the convention believed that its influence would seep into the children’s education and would not present the proper ethics of a learning institution. Cady heard through the educated grapevine that there were supposed threats of children being pulled out of the school, if the Women’s Right’s Convention was held there. She did not wish to create a dilemma for her colleagues, or be at fault for hampering the children’s education. Thus, to prevent further conflict, Cady moved the location of the convention to the park grounds outside City Hall.
The large white gazebo centered in the park was used as a stage for public outcry every Friday and Saturday night, from various male citizens who wanted to be heard when injustice rained on them. People out for an evening stroll would gather around the gazebo to listen, some to learn of current issues, some to be entertained, some shaking their fists, some shaking their heads, some wandering off with disinterest. Orators protested the fall of corn prices, property taxes, job loss from the local textile mill, or a gripe about a neighbor’s wildstock. Anyone was allowed to speak, as long as he waited his turn with respect to the speaker before him. When he finished, he handed the megaphone over to the next, and exited the platform. Only one speaker at a time was permitted on the stage. A mounted sheriff’s deputy was usually close by in case the complaint erupted into a fist-fight. Freedom of speech also permitted those “not quite right in the head” to ramble about their own views, whether that be sightings in the sky, or the government being seized by some foreign entity.
Never had the ladies witnessed nor heard of a woman walking into the gazebo to speak. It was normally considered loud male buffoonery. Cady realized that the Ladies’ credibility would have been much stronger if supported by the school’s institution. But they were left with little choice. On the bright side, Mr. Whiting pledged his continued support by promising to speak at the convention. He was an excellent orator and we drew encouragement from his pledge.
Cady paced around us women bent diligently over our signs, offering suggestions and encouragement. She finally tapped her hands together rapidly.
“May I have your attention, please! Ladies! Stand up and hold your signs in front of you…let me read them now…excellent! Now shoulders back, stand tall…yes! Now I want to see you smile! Beautiful! Remember as you walk two-by-two, stand proud of who you are and what you represent!”
Our signs were visibly shaking from trembling hands. Cady clasped her hands together at her chest and continued pacing in front of us. “Do not worry about the crowds! Do not hang your heads! I believe our march will receive the attention we need. To be heard! To bring in more audience to our convention! Remember why we march! As we gain support, we gain strength!” Cady pounded her hand with her fist. “Our government can no longer ignore us!”
I suddenly felt I was going into battle. Panic seized me. I became thankful my shaking knees were hidden within full skirts. The thought of knees reminded me of eight year old Jonathan’s knobby knees in the early morn, and I felt remorse for snapping at him to go back to bed. I’d left Bess behind to wash all the pots and pans, standing on a small cricket bench at the washing pan. Please God, I prayed silently, tell me I am doing the right thing. Not only for my sake, but also for my children’s sake.
The thought of my secure home with its familiar tasks sounded mighty comforting at the moment.
Then the marching drum began its beating rhythm to sound the beginning of the parade.
“Ladies, formation please!” Cady called out loudly. She picked up her own sign.
Our Ladies Legion had grown to ten women now thanks to our petitioning. All were in uniforms of white blouses and black skirts. Two by two we formed a line and marched into our assigned place behind the school band.
Behind us rolled a wagon pulled by a team of four horses. The wagon’s sides were covered in chicken wire with many carnations of red, white, and dyed blue, strategically placed in the holes of the wire to depict the United States flag. Four people were standing in the wagon, dressed to look like George and Martha Washington, and Abraham and Mary Lincoln, each one waving thei
r own small flag. They stopped waving when they saw us. Their shouting complaints about following “non-patriotic petticoats” were finally drowned out by the band’s horns. I was relieved to see the smiling clowns on unicycles stay at our sides, and the town sheriff and his ten deputies who led the parade on horseback, each carrying a large American flag. The mayor and his wife drew up next in a buggy colorfully decorated in flowers and streamers, their horse draped in an American flag. We were surrounded by red, white, and blue, and admittedly our black and white looked, at the very least, non-participatory. At the most, like radical fanatics.
The parade moved slowly away from City Hall while the band played All Over This Land, surging us forward in marching step. It was such a rare treat to hear live music!
The procession snaked right onto First Street where spectators were beginning to form.
I had hoped to be more hidden. With some trepidation, I looked from the corner of my eyes to each side to see the smiling waving onlookers. There I noticed some faces form into frowns, some were pointing their fingers at our group, two heads were shaking. I blushed crimson when I heard a woman from the sideline call out “Shame on you!” Another yelled “Men-haters!” - the voice of an angry man with a clenched fist. It was best to focus on the straight narrow back of Cady, and the slight hunched back of Lizzie, leading the group. They held a six-foot long, three-foot high banner between them. Printed in large bold letters on white silk were the words:
Take the Shackles from Women!
We slowly gyrated onto Main Street, then Annan’s longest street. The sparse gathering of spectators had flowed into crowds. The band now played The Star-Spangled Banner. Flags waved everywhere. The noise was getting louder. The drums seemed to be beating from within my chest. The ground pulsated. I hadn’t prepared myself for all the many eyes, let alone eyes holding condemnation. But then I met Aimee’s eyes and hers were shining, and she appeared confident, smiling, returning waves, and I felt better. Three teenaged girls joined in beside Aimee, and began waving cheerfully to the crowds, their brightly colored ribbons and calf-length dresses adding rainbows to the little black and white group. One shouted “What is right for the goose, is right for the gander!” A few women on the sideline laughed and applauded and their confident exuberance flowed over me, as if brought over by a breeze. My fear dissolved to my feet. I picked these feet up higher and higher, as if to kick off fear’s burden.
The sounds were alternating between applause and booing. The response was amazing - far more outcries and applause than the Ladies ever supposed in the confines of our disciplined, peaceful parlor meetings. To be able to create such a stir made me feel so strong! I moved my sign up and down, up and down, chanting, “Fight for women’s rights! Fight for women’s rights!” to the rhythm of the band’s song, America the Beautiful. Aimee looked over at me, obviously surprised and delighted. She joined in the chant and raised her sign higher. The three teenage girls yelled the chant too. I could easily imagine Bess marching with me in a few years and this inspired me further. By this time, I could no longer feel the ground beneath my feet, so high was my energy.
There we were chanting as our parade snailed past the bakery, Robert’s shoe shop, the shops of the dressmaker and the tailor, the flower shop. What fun it was to represent something so large that could evoke emotions from opposite ends of the spectrum! I felt elevated, protected in our righteous cocoon of black and white. And then the cocoon slipped away, and for a brief and beautiful moment, I had the sense of a butterfly, weightless, free to fly. For a brief and beautiful moment, nothing else mattered.
It was at that moment that I looked over to the crowd on my right and saw Robert and my children. My mouth froze in mid-chant. They had a clear view, a perfect shot. It was too late to hide behind my sign. Bess had her hands to her mouth in surprise and then was jumping, pointing, leaning to Pearl and the boys, still in her calico housedress of early morning. All four children waved frantically, shouting, “There is Mama! Mama! Mama!”
Robert did not wave. He only stared at me hard and long. His eyes were large in surprise and then slowly became smaller until they were slits in his face. I had no choice but to continue to walk slowly by with a pasted smile and a nod as if I always marched in the 4th of July parade, flapping my hand to them like a damaged wing.
Continuing down the street, I wondered at my stupidity in thinking I could join a march such as this without Robert knowing about it. My shoes became heavy as if his sole repair had added lead. The band blared noise. I no longer worried about the crowd’s eyes, only Robert’s.
I tried to focus on Aimee’s eyes, eyes who were looking at me, her mouth saying, “Ruby, are you alright? You’ve grown so pale! I saw Robert, too!”
I shrugged my shoulders, more to brush off Robert’s angry stare on my backside, than to show indifference.
Seeming now never-ending, on down Main Street the parade continued. The sun that shone bright a moment ago, now felt hot and burned into my straw bonnet. My face felt flushed, my heart was racing; I surely thought I would faint but the greater fear of attracting more attention kept me upright.
I had not known before that so many emotions could happen moments apart: nervousness, elation, comfort from a woman’s timid wave, fear in remembering my husband’s stone face and it seemed now that all men in the crowd had that hard look.
The band played Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do! as we passed the steel fencing of the textile mill. Two newer members of the Ladies Legion practically screamed their chant and shook their fists as we passed the mill’s entrance gate. These poor ladies worked there and had informed our group of their twelve-hour days in the intense heat of the machinery. The scale of stingy wages depended on the whims of the owner and the level of tolerance to his abuse.
Finally, finally, Main Street at last, ending at St. Mark’s Catholic Church. The parade slowly disbanded and streamed out onto the church’s expansive grounds as if nothing had gone wrong.
The blister rising on the bottom of my foot compounded my dread of the walk home. I would’ve kicked myself for being in this predicament if I could have lifted my legs. Obviously Robert hadn’t followed me but where were he and the children? I prayed fervently to the church window’s stained-glass Jesus that Robert hadn’t vented his anger onto the children. How could I forgive myself for that?
Aimee intuitively knew that my day had ended. We would not stay for the picnic lunch we brought. We went in search of Cady to tell her of our departure and found her amid a group of women and men. Thomas had his arm around Cady’s waist. He looked very cool and comfortable in his off-white linen suit. I could only dream of such support from Robert and at that moment I coveted Cady’s husband, as bad as that may sound.
We joined the group as a gentleman’s voice was asking, “Thomas, do you agree with your wife? Does she have your permission for such a display of outlandish women’s politics?” I recognized him as the proprietor of the Rose Cafe. He had puffy cheeks and a full beard that contrasted his tiny eyes. His mustache was waxed on the ends and curved upwards into handlebars. His rounded stomach pulled hard at the buttons of his vest. His fat fingers held onto his coat lapels. He was quite full of himself.
“Yes and no,” Thomas answered, appearing unraveled by the provoking. “I see both sides. I see myself as somewhat to blame, since I am of the same gender that directs these hardships that my wife and her group speak out against. Yet I understand some reasoning behind our laws. I believe many of the laws were designed to protect our women - they have enough on their plates as it is. Yet those men who wish for more power have abused these same laws. Our government might benefit from women’s higher moral standards. But men do not like to change, and therefore they resist. And no, she has not disobeyed me. Any married man knows that husbands and wives learn by discussion and argument. If I told her to be silent, truth between us would no longer exist. She has my unabashed respect for her beliefs. She has a sound mind and excellent control of her fac
ulties. I’ll not stand in her way.”
He raised his index finger. “However, I do not stand too far away because there are those, I understand, sir, that vehemently oppose the ladies’ sentiment toward women’s rights. Why this anger, I do not know.” He looked down at the ground and shook his head but the accusation was directed, nonetheless. He continued. “I am concerned for my wife’s well-being and admit that I asked her not to take such an active role. This was the same as asking these birds in the trees not to fly. Or like asking you not to question. You both have the right, am I right?”
The gentleman grew red-faced. The ladies were smiling and nodding. Cady looked at her husband gratefully and that’s when I noticed for the first time how tired and pale Cady looked. Dark, recessed circles had formed under her eyes and Thomas’s arm was holding her waist quite firmly, as if more for physical support than moral.
The gentleman cleared his throat and spoke loudly. “Sir, surely you are not upholding women’s rights to vote! Most are unversed in political or financial affairs. Many are not even educated.”
Thomas raised his head and confronted the gentleman as if accepting a challenge. “To say that a woman cannot vote because she is uneducated is a moot point. First of all, a voter does not make the rules but simply votes for those men who can, hoping that his own personal interests are regarded. Secondly, women are uneducated through no fault of their own but are oppressed by the very men who criticize them for what they are lacking.”
The gentleman shook his head at the applause of the ladies circling around him. “You make men sound as tyrants. I am a married man who provides well for my wife, my mother, and my daughters. Men are perfectly capable of representing women. They take their beloved’s best interests to heart. Regardless what legal position may be out there, women’s actual conditions are quite good. We are not barbaric, inflicting misery and suffering!”
Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction Page 11
