by Helen Frost
Something smells bad. Mama would call the children
“little ragamuffins.”) A woman comes out of a brick
building, surrounded by four small children; they wave
and smile at us—at Ruby, really, but I’m included, too.
This, Ruby tells me, is the settlement house
where I live and teach kindergarten.
I’ve heard about settlement houses: people,
mostly women, live in a neighborhood where
there is work to be done—cleaning up the streets,
taking care of children, building playgrounds,
helping new immigrants get settled in America.
We stop here long enough for you to fresh up,
then, if you like, I take you over to
the White House. (For half a second, I could be
one of ten thousand tourists, and she my
gracious guide.) I thought you will
be interested, she goes on, in meeting
your Aunt Vera’s friends—the women
on the picket line. A sharp yes-and-no
shoots through me. Yes, I want to meet
these women—I want to find out for myself
if they are dangerous, misguided, unpatriotic.
And, no, I’m not prepared to stand with Ruby
and the others in the White House picket line,
where I could be arrested. I’m here to take
Aunt Vera home, not to join her and her friends—
however brave they are—in prison.
Could I?
Muriel
As Ruby and I walk to the White House,
I ask her how she met Aunt Vera. I meet her
in Chicago, she tells me, just after I come
from Denmark. I have never been in so large a city.
I sleep the first night in Union Station,
alone and very frighten. A rough-looking man
come up to me next morning. “You need
a place to stay?” he ask. “Come with me.”
I know not enough English to understand
what he is suggesting. I try to ignore him,
but he follow me—I am close to cry when Vera
walk right up, just like she know me:
“Oh, there you are,” she say, in English—
but I can hear Danish in her accent!
“I’m sorry to be late,” she say. “Your father
was delay and he can’t meet you. Come along
home now.” That man disappear like a mouse into a
hole in the wall! I never see Vera before in my life,
but she introduce herself, speaking Danish,
and then she bring me to Hull House—
you know it? A settlement house in Chicago.
They helping me so much, I want to help
other people, and when I hear they need teacher
in Washington, I come, and now I’m here ten month.
Vera always stay with me when she come to Washington.
She find my name in English because people
can’t pronounce my Danish name, Ragnhild.
I smile at that—it is hard to pronounce.
I don’t think I could do what Ruby has done.
I think about waking up at home: the smell of biscuits
and fried eggs, the rooster’s boisterous “good morning,”
the whisper of Crabapple Creek against the stones. I’ve lived
in the same place since I was born, I tell Ruby,
and soon I’m telling her all about my life,
as if it is as interesting as her own. She asks me
questions about Frank and Ollie, Mr. Sander;
I tell her I despise this war, but I hardly ever
dare to say so. I wish women could vote,
I venture, and Ruby answers, Wishing
won’t happen it. We’ve walked
two and a half miles. Look—the White House.
It’s even bigger, more imposing than it appears
on picture postcards. It makes the women
standing with their banners at the gate
look awfully small, but when Ruby
introduces me to them, each one in turn
smiles and miraculously becomes a giant.
Picket Line
Muriel
A light snow is falling as I meet
the women on the picket line—
Lucinda Schultz wears her hair like Emma’s;
Mrs. Ellis reminds me of my fourth-grade teacher;
Mary McGill tilts her head to one side, like
the Normans’ photograph of Great-aunt Sarah.
Some of these women are Mama’s age, some are closer
to mine; some wear expensive fur coats, others threadbare cloth.
Ruby steps into the line to hold a banner with Lucinda:
DENMARK ON THE VERGE OF WAR GAVE WOMEN THE VOTE.
WHY NOT GIVE IT TO AMERICAN WOMEN NOW?
I don’t join the line; I stand aside to watch.
When four young men approach the picketers,
a crowd gathers, watching and cheering—clearly they
expect something to happen. A little girl stands on tiptoe
peering through the crowd, and her mother pulls
her back, glancing at the women in the picket line
as if they, and not the four young men, are dangerous.
A short man pushes a tall man toward Ruby,
taunting, You’re a good-lookin’ gal—
you need a man? Here’s one for you.
Ruby holds her banner high, ignoring them,
even when the tall man stumbles and falls
in front of her. The short man doesn’t help him up;
he laughs and says, Elmer here, he falls for every
pretty girl he sees, then looks around, expecting us to laugh
at this pathetic joke. When no one, including Elmer,
does, he grabs a banner and runs off with it.
Five bucks is five bucks, he hollers back,
as Elmer scrambles to his feet and follows him.
(Someone is paying these men to torment
the picketers? Five dollars for a stolen
banner? Where are the police?)
The crowd grows larger, noisier. I’m relieved
when the police arrive, assuming they’ll arrest
the most belligerent of these men—those two,
who have obviously been drinking, or that one,
shaking his fist in Lucinda Schultz’s face.
Yes, two officers approach Lucinda, take her
by both arms, and escort her away from the drunken man.
(She does not appear to appreciate their protection.)
You’re under arrest, they say (what? to her?)
as the man who has been threatening her
laughs and walks away. Ruby is left alone,
trying to hold the banner by herself—
I pause only for a second before
stepping in and picking up the other side
as Lucinda grips the police wagon’s iron bars
and Ruby asks the officer, What is she charge with?
He replies, The same as usual: obstructing traffic.
But we’re not obstructing anything—
we’re standing well back on the sidewalk,
and the traffic is obstructed only by the
crowd. Why don’t the police control
the crowd? A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE HOME.
A man holds up a wide, flat board with that slogan
scrawled across it in large letters, and something
I can’t quite read in small writing below it. A plank
for your platform, he taunts. He waves the board
at Ruby and me—we pretend not to notice.
The crowd surges forward, meaner now.
I squint to read the small words on the plank:
BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT IN THE KICHE
N
(he can’t spell “kitchen”). I think: Papa
and Mr. Norman—with Frank and Ollie’s help—
built the barn in twenty days, nailing down
each plank so carefully. (How will Ollie
use a hammer now?) These men are neither
building anything nor fighting overseas.
Much as I despise the war, I despise
them even more. I face the man and
speak. My voice is clear and strong:
You are a lazy coward.
Ruby stares at me, the look
on her face my only warning—
the man raises the plank
above his head
(he’s tall, I’m short);
the board cracks
on my head …
my knees buckle …
loud buzzing …
black … spinning stars …
distant voices …
Sash Abandoned in the Snow
Muriel
I open my eyes and look around.
The man who hit me has disappeared—
into the paddy wagon, I assume
(the police are locking it).
Ruby and Mrs. Ellis help me to my feet.
Are you needing an ambulance? asks Ruby.
No, I answer, I’ll be okay in a minute.
The crowd is dispersing, but …
all these banners on the ground, and …
Where are the picketers? I ask.
Ruby points to the paddy wagon
driving off. Not the brutal man inside,
but eleven peaceful women. Why? I ask.
“Obstructing traffic,” Ruby mimics.
Mrs. Ellis gathers up the banners.
She’ll need help carrying them back to
headquarters. A lump is rising on my forehead
as I kneel to pick up a gold-and-purple sash—
torn, abandoned in the snow. I fold it
carefully and put it in my pocket.
Grace Brings a Message
Emma
Grace brings a message on the day
we thought Muriel would be coming home.
Muriel got hurt. She was in a suffering picket line.
Aunt Vera isn’t out yet. They won’t be home until next week.
She must mean “suffrage.” My first thought, unfortunately, is not:
What happened to Muriel? Oh, I’m so sorry! How badly is she hurt?
But rather: Another long week of doing half of her work, plus my own.
Grace looks tired. She’s doing as much as she can; I don’t want to moan
to her about this—she’s a child. I go back to the ironing. Father’s shirt
is missing its top button—where is it? Then Grace says, I’m hot,
Emma. Will you walk partway with me—as far as the creek?
It’s been too long since I, or any of us, have made time
for Grace. Wait a minute—her face … How come
it’s so red? Yes, I’ll walk you home, I say.
We’re Winning
Muriel
The goose egg on my head has gone down.
Ruby and I wait with Mrs. Ellis at the prison gate—
I’m telling them about Aunt Vera: When she
comes to visit, she always brings a book for me, a toy
for Grace. She brings Ollie chocolates,
and something practical for Papa—a handsaw
or a box of nails. For Mama, she finds a new hat
or dress—the latest fashion from Chicago.
Mama always says, “Oh, I could never
wear something so flamboyant, Vera—you
keep it; it looks better on you.” But in the end,
Mama usually keeps her gift;
occasionally she even wears it.
I’m smiling at these memories, picturing
Aunt Vera getting off the train last Christmas
in her blue wool coat and matching hat,
sweeping me into a big hug …
Here she is. What does Mrs. Ellis mean?
I see the prison gate swing open—
but here who is? The woman
who walks toward us on the arm
of a prison matron is so thin her coat
is hanging off her shoulders.
Her hair is limp and oily, tied back
with a filthy scarf. Only when she leaves
the matron and comes to take my arm
do I recognize Aunt Vera, flashing
her familiar smile with the words:
We’re winning.
An Angel from Heaven
Muriel
Aunt Vera needs a few days to regain
her strength. Horrible, just horrible.
I’ll tell you more about it when I can.
While I’m here, I’m helping out in Ruby’s
kindergarten class. I love the children!
At six-thirty Wednesday morning, a mother
brings her child to the door. Could you look after
Joey until school starts this morning? she asks.
No, I’m sorry, Ruby answers. I need time for making
my classroom ready to all the children.
The mother walks away, pulling Joey along.
She looks so tired and discouraged, I can’t
imagine how anyone could refuse her.
If I let him come in, Ruby explains, they are all
arriving an hour early every day. But surely
it can’t do any harm if I help, just this once.
I run to catch up with them: I’ll watch him for you.
The mother looks like she might cry. Oh, thank you, miss—
you’re an angel from heaven. Joey tentatively
takes my hand. We walk back to the playground.
Ma has to go to work, he says. If she’s late,
they’ll give her job to someone else.
I don’t like to go with her—it’s cold
where she works! His shoelace is broken; the pieces
are in knots; the shoe is falling off his foot.
I have an extra shoelace in my suitcase—
I get it for him and help him loosen the knots
so we can take the old one out and put the new one in.
He watches me tie it, then tries it himself,
and keeps on trying until he can do it.
Such a simple thing—a shoelace—but by the time
he’s tied his shoe, he’s grinning, and all day
in Ruby’s class, he won’t leave my side.
When Ruby tells a story, he sits close beside me;
when the children go outdoors, he takes my hand
to keep me with him. And when his mother
comes to pick him up, he unties his shoe,
ties it, beams up at her. Miss Muriel
teached me how, he says.
Put Grace on My Back
Ollie
Stone by stone, Emma crosses carefully,
so she won’t stumble and fall in the water—carrying
Grace in her arms! Why? I run to them. Ollie, Grace fainted. I
need your help, she says. I am so happy to see you! I wade right in, up
to my knees in the cold water, lean down so Emma can put Grace on
my back, and then I reach back with my arm to hold her there. Emma,
walking close beside me (right through the water, not on the stones),
talks softly, stretches her arm across Grace’s back, holding her (and
by chance, holding me). What’s wrong with her? Maybe it’s that
flu that’s going around, I whisper. Emma shudders. Did you
read the article about it in this morning’s paper? I can’t
face the thought, she says. (Pa’s not home. Could I
go for the doctor?) Ma sees us and rushes out,
Oh, no, she cries. No! Not our Grace!
Nothing to Do with Nourishment
Muriel
to a group of women at the NWP headquarters.
They seat her in the most comfortable chair,
bring her tea and sweet biscuits. When she has
eaten what she can, everyone gathers around
to listen to her stories. I’m puzzled—I know she
refused the food the guards gave her—but was
there more to it than that? (Papa: It could get worse.)
I’ve thought hard, and I have not been able to invent
the details. First, they put me in the psychiatric ward,
Aunt Vera says. A psychologist interviewed me
and pronounced me sane—which was, remarkably,
the truth, even after I had spent a week in a
rat-infested prison cell, on a urine-soaked mattress,
in total isolation. Once they saw that I would not
give up my hunger strike, they started the force-feeding.
It has nothing to do with nourishment,
everything to do with power and control.
Four of us agreed we would not eat. No one
cared if we died of starvation; their only
concern was stopping all women from picketing.
To do that, they would have to break our will,
and in that, I am happy to report, they did not
succeed. (Am I the only one who doesn’t
know what “force-feeding” means? How is it possible
to force someone to open her mouth, and then to swallow,
if she refuses to do so?) Four people—two women and two
men—held my arms and legs, Aunt Vera continues,
so I could not move. A fifth tried to open my mouth;
when I clamped it shut, he pushed something
like a shoehorn between my teeth to pry it open.
He forced a tube down my throat into my stomach
and poured food through a funnel into the tube.
They called it “food” though it could have been
anything—raw eggs, I believe, probably mixed
with milk. I couldn’t taste it, and I couldn’t
keep it down. They did this to the four of us
three times a day. We could hear one another
vomiting, but were not allowed any conversation.
They released me, I’m convinced, not
out of compassion, or morality, but only
because they knew that if I died in prison,
they’d have a thousand picketers
from all around the country on their hands.
A quiet fury gathers in the room. Vera,
Mrs. Ellis says, women—and some men—
