BISHOP
SUSAN MORRISON
In the history of the worldwide United Methodist Church, there had been only three women elected to the episcopacy. One woman had been elected in 1980, the other two in 1984. All three elections came after years of strategizing by women, including myself, trying to get a woman to be even considered as a possible bishop.
At the 1988 quadrennial Jurisdictional Conference, where new bishops are elected to replace retirees, the Northeastern Jurisdiction in the United States was to elect one bishop. Never had a woman been elected in that jurisdiction. That year, many male candidates and one woman were in the running. Brochures and campaign buttons were being distributed, and candidates were interviewed as the hopefuls seeking election vied for the combined lay and clergy delegate votes.
I was not planning to attend that regional gathering. Just two months earlier at a worldwide denominational conference, I had been elected to the Judicial Council, the denomination’s “Supreme Court.” I was the first clergywoman ever to hold that position. However, a phone call motivated me to attend since I was the lone regional member on the Judicial Council. So, at the last minute, I packed some casual clothes in a bag and off I went.
The voting began. To win the election, a candidate needed more than 60 percent of the delegates’ votes. Each delegate could vote for one of the listed candidates, but there was a possibility of write-in votes. After the first two ballots, it was clear the clergywoman candidate we had managed to get on the ballot was receiving little support. On the third ballot report, I heard a familiar name: Susan Morrison, one vote. My name! Amused, I wondered which friend had written it. On the next ballot, I received two votes. On the next ballot, there were seventeen votes!
And then the drama began.
Question from the Chair: Now that Susan Morrison has received more than ten votes, will a biographical sheet be distributed?
Answer: Not at this time.
On this third day of the Jurisdictional Conference, I was an unexpected, unprepared candidate for the episcopacy. Frankly, I was stunned. As the morning session drew to a close, four women converged on me, accompanied me to the snack bar, and began to strategize what to do. First things first, they said. The vitae sheet, the requested biographical information, needed to be prepared.
Together we thought of what should be included. Education? Church service? One of the women wrote the information down in her calligraphic script on a plain sheet of paper. Another took the final product off to be copied and distributed.
Who were those women who led me through the “what to do next” when the numbness, the precursor of the emotional shock that would come, was beginning to set in? There was Lynne, who had been “the woman candidate” in our jurisdiction in 1984. There was Diedra, who was “the woman candidate” in the Northeastern Jurisdiction this very year. And there were Molly and Linda, two women who had been working on Diedra’s campaign. All were committed to helping a woman be elected; two of them had aspirations themselves and had anticipated what it would mean to be chosen. They had long considered the historic consecration process, had understood the enormous responsibility of administering the hundreds of churches, clergy, and conferences that is part of the position, and knew that this election was for life. Life! Each now sat with me, helping me respond.
By evening, the voting was over. I had won—a woman had been elected. The barrier of exclusion was broken. Not anticipating this in any way, I had not packed properly. The consecration service was immediately before me. My beach sandals would just have to do, but I really needed to borrow a robe and stole. Off I went to once again call on others for help. From those moments on, my life and my call to ministry were changed forever.
Out of the flashes of memory of those most unusual hours, the image of the five of us around the table in the college snack bar comes to me. A model of sisterhood … a symbol of female community … of dreams tempered with reality … unselfish goals … gifts shared … bonds of respect. Truly it is a vision of what I continue to hope the larger faith community can be.
PROFESSOR AND RETIRED ARMY LIEUTENANT COLONEL
Photo credit: Ronald W. Davis II
WILLIABEL JONES DAVIS
It was the 1969–1970 academic year. I was twenty-one and a senior at Virginia State College, a historically black college in Petersburg, Virginia. I was an English major with a minor in business. I wanted to be a high school teacher (or so I thought). With stacks of books to read and research papers due in every class, I didn’t have much spare time.
When I did find a little time, I looked and applied for teaching positions (in Virginia and New Jersey). I found that the salaries for English teachers were not very promising; so when the army lieutenant recruiter visited our campus, I went to hear what she had to say. Only about nine or ten of us coeds showed up to see this female army recruiter.
She was impressive: medium height, slender stature, impeccably dressed, in what I would later learn was a class-B uniform. She was well-groomed; every blond hair was in place. Her makeup was perfectly applied, just a bit understated, yet highlighting her blue eyes. Her shoes had been spit-shined. She talked about joining the Women’s Army Corps in particular and the army as a career in general.
The first thing that attracted me to this whole new career idea was that we would be officers, receiving a direct commission and taking the oath of office as a second lieutenant. Second, clothes would be tailored to fit perfectly. Third, and most important, the starting “base salary” was much higher than a first-year teacher’s salary. In addition, there would be a housing allowance and a subsistence allowance added to the base salary. This made the monthly income considerably higher than an English teacher’s salary. Plus, men and women with the same rank and time in grade received the same pay. The military obligation of active duty was only two years. After that, I could use GI Bill money to earn a master’s degree and teach college students rather than high school. The decision was a no-brainer (or so I thought).
I left that meeting feeling exhilarated! I had made a decision. It would be a military career for the foreseeable future, or at least the next two years. After that, who knew? I was on cloud nine. I could hardly wait to tell my roommate, who was also a very close friend. (We would later be in each other’s bridal parties.)
When I told her, she said, “Are you kidding? Do you know what kind of women are in the military?” She paused. “Dykes and hookers.”
I was stunned into silence. When I found my voice, I replied, “Actually, I don’t know what kind of women are in the military, since I’ve never been in. Anyway, the one I just finished talking to didn’t seem to fit either category.”
We did not speak of it again. But her words stuck with me.
I was still committed to joining, but then I faced another setback. The next emotional roadblock (a full-frontal attack) was even more disturbing. It came from one of my two older sisters, both of whom I adored. I really valued their opinions. So when my sister said similarly harsh things about women in the military that echoed my roommate’s opinion, I was truly crushed.
* * *
I HAD HEARD HER SPEAK OF OUR UNCLES AND MALE COUSINS IN UNIFORM WITH SUCH PRIDE, YET SHE COULDN'T IMAGINE THAT A WOMAN—HER SISTER, EVEN—COULD GARNER THE SAME RECOGNITION.
* * *
I asked her, “Do you even know any female officers?” I knew she didn’t, and she said as much. But she was worried about my “reputation,” worried that I would be talked about by people who, in my opinion, didn’t know what they were talking about. But she was so sure they did.
I was devastated. I had heard her speak of our uncles and male cousins in uniform with such pride, yet she couldn’t imagine that a woman—her sister, even—could garner the same recognition. I knew any further conversation with her would be futile.
I headed for the one person whose point of view mattered most to me: my father, Wilbur Jones. My mother had always deferred important decisions in her girls’ live
s to him. She trusted his judgment completely. Her mantra was “If it’s okay with your father, it’s okay with me.”
My father had always been my role model. He worked hard—we could count on him. He was a man of his word and a good listener. He was honest with everyone and loyal to family and friends. He was kindhearted and charitable. He had a great sense of humor. He played the guitar for fun and to entertain the family. And he had always supported his children’s endeavors. Besides, unlike my roommate and sister, he had actually been in the military. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, he had served in the navy for a couple of years during World War II.
So I told him what I was planning. I said, “Daddy, I want to talk to you. After college, I want to go into the army.”
He simply said, “Yeah?”
I took that as a signal to continue. “After I graduate, and the FBI thoroughly investigates me, I will get a direct commission as a second lieutenant. My obligation will be two years of active duty. What do you think?”
In his persistent manner, my father questioned me like a seasoned prosecutor questioning a guilty but clever defendant on the witness stand, turning the matter every which way but loose. When he was satisfied that I knew what I was doing, he said, “Well, if you think that is really what you want to do, and you think you can handle it, it’s okay with me.”
That was all I needed to hear. I joined what turned out to be a microcosm of America. The women in the military were no different from the civilian women they grew up with. They were living proof of one of the answers I had given my father: “Daddy, I believe you take the morals you’re raised with wherever you go.”
Years later, when he introduced me to a friend he had not seen in many years, he said, “This is my daughter, Williabel. She is the youngest of the three, all girls. She is a college professor.”
His voice changed ever so slightly with a bit more pride. “She is also a retired army lieutenant colonel.”
THE 1950s
• MILLIONS OF WOMEN LOSE THEIR JOBS BECAUSE OF THE SHRINKING OF THE DEFENSE INDUSTRY AND THE RETURN OF MALE VETERANS AT THE END OF WORLD WAR II.
• WOMEN MAKE UP 30 PERCENT OF ENROLLED COLLEGE STUDENTS, A DROP FROM 47 PERCENT IN 1920, SHOWING CHANGING EXPECTATIONS OF WOMEN AS HOUSEWIVES AND MOTHERS.
• ROSA PARKS BECOMES KNOWN AS “THE MOTHER OF THE CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT” AFTER SHE REFUSES TO SURRENDER HER SEAT ON A MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA, BUS.
• THE DAUGHTERS OF BILITIS, THE FIRST LESBIAN-RIGHTS ORGANIZATION IN THE UNITED STATES, IS FOUNDED IN 1957.
• DECOY: POLICE WOMAN AIRS IN 1957, BECOMING THE FIRST TELEVISION SHOW TO FEATURE A FEMALE POLICE OFFICER.
• AFTER THE BOSTON MARATHON BARS HER FROM ENTERING, ARLENE PIEPER ASCENDS AND DESCENDS PIKES PEAK IN THE PIKES PEAK MARATHON IN 1959, BECOMING THE FIRST WOMAN TO OFFICIALLY FINISH A MARATHON IN THE UNITED STATES.
INNOVATOR, ENTREPRENEUR, AUTHOR, AND FOUNDER OF TRISH MCEVOY BEAUTY
Photo credit: Olivia Graham
TRISH MCEVOY
One of my first toys was a tube of lipstick.
As a child, I lived with my grandmother who owned a perfumery in Berlin. Filled with beautiful bottles, colors, and scents, it was my Disneyland. I spent my days with grown-up women and watched how much fun they had with makeup, how happy it made them feel. It was an endless beauty party that I never wanted to leave.
I feel so blessed to have known what I wanted from a young age.
My first building block was at a company started by a woman but led by men. The men called the shots, but the women got the job done. My dream was to start a cosmetics company and lead it with women.
How did I do it? Part luck, part grit, and a whole lot of passionate planning. I was blessed again at the beginning of my career to meet the love of my life, a renowned New York City dermatologist, Dr. Ronald Sherman. He was my biggest fan and supported every idea I ever had. I know how lucky I was.
The first big idea came when I was working as a makeup artist and realized that easy makeup-application tools didn’t exist. So I made my own, cutting art-store paintbrushes into shapes that made it easy to get great results. I took the prototypes to a manufacturer and, one step at a time, had them crafted by the best of the best. After a joyful, painstaking process of getting everything right, I incorporated Trish McEvoy Beauty, placed a stamp-size ad in Vogue, and watched the orders flood in. The success of this experience gave me confidence in my vision: Maybe I am seeing something no one else has seen. Never doubt your ability to Be a First.
* * *
HOW DID I DO IT? PART LUCK, PART GRIT, AND A WHOLE LOT OF PASSIONATE PLANNING.
* * *
My husband’s and my next idea was to join forces! We opened the first medi-spa to offer dermatology and makeup services under one roof. Then retailers began asking to sell my makeup. After turning down many offers, I assembled my dream team and entered my first store, Henri Bendel, on Fifth Avenue in New York City. The first year, we beat our sales goal by five times over! This success taught me the value of waiting to strike until the iron is really hot. Of trusting my gut and always being willing to walk away. Of the all-importance of a great team. Because you can’t do anything alone.
Apart from my husband, a handful of wonderful men on my corporate team, and brilliant artists on my sales force, most of my key players over the years have been women. Women who live and breathe the thrill of makeup, from the fun of playing with color to the emotional power of conquering a flaw and turning self-criticism into confidence. Women who know that if you love what you do, you never really work a day in your life. Who support one another. Who are passionate about the power of beauty, push themselves to be the best, and care about passing the torch to others—teaching women the daily high of being their own beauty experts.
I had a dream to live a life of makeup and sisterhood. I stuck to my dream, and to this day, I have never stopped working to keep it alive. Makeup gave me not only a career but also a husband, my best friends, and my chosen family—my team.
If you have a dream, don’t waste a second before chasing it. You are the one and only architect of your life, and the sooner you start planning and building, the sooner you will enjoy a life you love.
DIVISION DIRECTOR, CLINICAL BEHAVIORAL NEUROSCIENCE, UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA
MARGARET SEMRUD-CLIKEMAN
When I was sixteen years old, my band director placed the high school and junior high school concert bands in my hands. He was traveling to a conference, and rather than cancel class, he chose me to conduct after a few quick lessons. I was so excited about this opportunity. Upon the arrival of a faculty supervisor, I led the bands in playing a piece we had rehearsed. An overwhelming feeling came over me as the students responded to my direction. The music swelled and ebbed as I asked the different sections to play louder and then softer. It swirled around me, and I felt it become a part of me. It was an amazing, powerful feeling, unlike any I had ever felt. In that moment, I decided I would grow up to be a conductor of an orchestra—preferably high school or college—or dare I hope, a professional orchestra.
I went to college with a great deal of enthusiasm to pursue a music degree. Right away, I was told I would make a fine teacher of music at an elementary school. That is a fine profession but not the one I wanted. I continued to dream that one day I would conduct an orchestra that would make beautiful music.
After two years of foundational courses, I was ready to take my first course in professional conducting. It was a rigorous class that entailed conducting a choir made up of fellow students—very demanding as well as anxiety-producing. It was difficult to learn the musical score while simultaneously knowing when to have the sopranos sing louder and the tenors more quietly. Not only did I have to master the basic music, I had to think about how to interpret the music. Plus, it was choral music—I was more accustomed to instrumental music. On top of all that, the professor was very intimidating. It was hard
to sleep the night before that class. Each time I approached the podium to conduct, my heart was in my throat.
Despite all this, I enjoyed the class and looked forward to it. I was very motivated to learn as much as I could. It helped that most of the other students felt the same way I did.
After my third turn at conducting, the professor asked me what I wanted to do after graduation. I told him I wanted to conduct a high school or college band or orchestra. He offered a patronizing smile, told me I had talent … and that I would make an excellent music teacher at an elementary school! I just smiled at him—I was very intimidated—and left the classroom. All night I struggled with my feelings and thought about what he had said, and what others in the music department had echoed. But at that point I had not found my voice to say authoritatively that I aspired for something else.
I had no one to talk to about my dreams, no one who would really understand what I was trying to achieve. My parents had not attended college; I was the first in my family to do so. Still, I called my mother, and she listened carefully to what I was saying and told me to go talk to the professor again. We practiced what I would say, and I finally got up the courage to make an appointment.
Because I Was a Girl Page 2
