DOLEN PERKINS-VALDEZ
On the morning of the New York City parade, I wake up early and open the dining room windows. The breeze billows the sheers. I did not sleep well, but the cool air refreshes me. I have been following the planning of the parade closely in the Chicago papers, and I know they are expecting a crowd. Not being in New York feels like adding insult to injury, but I refuse to let it get the better of me.
On Saturdays, my family typically enjoys a late breakfast, and the whole house smells of bacon. I hope the scent will awaken my daughters and remind them of their morning duties. We take all our meals in this dining room, and though our sons are older now, with their own schedules, I still manage to gather the family for weekly Sunday dinners. Our table is set with a lace tablecloth every day of the week. On the wall above the sideboard hang portraits of me and my husband in oval wooden frames.
“If you do not eat much, you will not have the strength to work today,” I tell Ferdinand as he takes his seat at the table. He has been working late all week, and exhaustion sits beneath his eyes in dark rings. His new case involves a Negro man who was fired from his job after white union workers claimed the position. Last night, Ferdinand admitted he may not be able to win against the powerful union.
I am worried about my husband. His hair and mustache have turned entirely gray in just the past two years. He has spent the better part of the year working on behalf of colored laborers while I worked on city council and mayoral races. Both of us are tired, but there is no time to rest. After the elections, the racist film Birth of a Nation was released in Chicago theaters. Then I became involved in defending a prisoner, Joe Campbell, who had been accused of murdering the prison warden’s wife and, in late August, I learned of the lynching of a Jewish factory superintendent, Leo Frank, in Marietta, Georgia. No, there was no time to rest at all for either of us.
“I see the way you look at me,” he says suddenly, jarring me out of my thoughts.
“You do?”
“I will get through this. But what about you, Ida? Have you come up with a plan to keep the Negro Fellowship League afloat?”
“Not yet,” I say. I have been out of work for months, and our funds are running low. My decision to fund the league out of my salary as a probation officer was supposed to be a temporary solution, but I had been too busy working to find an alternate source. First, men needed housing and jobs. Then there were political meetings to be held. Voters to organize. A women’s suffrage club to run.
Ferdinand and I are a comfort to each other when the sun goes down, but each of us must march out alone in the morning. The newly elected alderman, Oscar De Priest, promised me a judgeship for Ferdinand if he were elected. I worked day and night to canvass black voters and get De Priest elected as Chicago’s first black city councilman. In the end, black women in the city cast over twenty-five hundred votes for De Priest. My Alpha Suffrage Club played a significant role in his election, and everyone knows it. Becoming a judge is Ferdinand’s dream, so I merely tried to accomplish two things at once by offering my candidate support while also enabling another worthy colored man to rise in the ranks. Wasn’t that the purpose of enfranchisement for women? To open the doors of powerful political opportunities for colored people in the city? I am still hoping the alderman will deliver on his promise, but there have been troubling signs. I have not mentioned them to Ferdinand.
I am disappointed by the way colored women are being treated by the politicians we helped elect. After the debacle at the Washington march two years ago, I decided to focus on local politics, help the women in my own city. Now even that city has forsaken us. At our meeting today, I must help lift the morale among the clubwomen.
I kiss Ferdinand on the forehead. His hand shakes and he spills a little coffee on the table. The brown liquid spreads on the lace, to the vinyl beneath.
“I’m sorry, darling.”
“It’s fine,” I say, though I waste no time blotting the stain with a napkin. My husband has been married to me long enough to know that my household has to maintain a certain rhythm of efficiency. I just wish my entire life were as simple as running a household. I kiss him on top of his thinning hair before I leave, glancing at the clock as I put on my wrap. The women at the parade in New York are probably preparing to walk to their meeting points. They are having the last of their breakfast, chatting excitedly among themselves. They are hopeful, optimistic, newly recharged with their mission. Parade or no parade, I need to do the same for myself.
When I arrive at the State Street building where the Alpha Suffrage Club holds our weekly meeting, I am early, but there are at least a dozen women milling about. The meeting is held in the reading room of our Negro Fellowship League building. It is a long, rectangular room with a line of bookshelves along one wall. Typically, the tables are surrounded by chairs, but now the tables are adjacent to one another and covered in a long white tablecloth. Two women arrange plates of food. At the end of the row, a third club member sets up a beverage station. As the president of the Alpha Suffrage Club, I am not expected to help with the refreshments. I go to the lectern and consult the program for the meeting.
My assistant, Bettiola, has written everything out. The young woman is a poet and journalist, and at twenty-four years old—twenty-nine years my junior—she reminds me of myself when I was her age: opinionated and fiercely committed to the cause. She has no interest in marriage, though her beauty is well known. She carries herself with a steady sense of purpose. What I also like about her is that she is one of those rare young people who listens.
“How are you feeling today?” she asks me.
“I am feeling much better,” I say. I had been a little sick with a cold, but thankfully, the weakness has passed. I am too busy to tolerate illness.
“Why are there only three people speaking tonight?” I ask. “That will hardly fill the entire first hour.”
“Mary will perform a recitation that is quite long. Each of the other two women will speak for twenty minutes. I have left time for discussion.”
More women enter the room. They remove their stoles and hang them on a rack. The din of conversation grows.
“You penmanship is difficult to read. Did you hear back from Mr. De Priest?” I ask her.
“I did not. I have sent him three letters now requesting a meeting.”
“Maybe you should appear at his office in person.”
“Yes, Mrs. Barnett. I will do that.”
I know I am difficult. My daughters say this about me. Yet this world countenances very little patience for inept colored women. We must be excellent in all areas, or we shall be trampled. This is especially true when we are trying to be taken seriously by men. Even so, I must be honest. I am especially churlish today because I am not in New York marching with the other women. The current financial affairs of the Negro Fellowship League also weigh on me. I am unsure how to take a step forward when the walls are closing in on all sides.
Bettiola glances down at the paper, as if she wants to take it and correct her errors. I soften. She only wants to please me, and I appreciate all that she has been doing to help with the club. The young lady has proven herself indispensable.
“Thank you, Bettiola.”
“You’re welcome.” She looks at me for a moment.
“Is there something else?” I ask.
The women begin to take their seats. The chairs are lined up in rows, and they scratch against the wood floors as everyone settles. Most weeks, we welcome over a hundred women to our meetings. We use the first hour for club business and the second hour for socializing and eating.
“There is a march planned in New York City today. Did you hear?” she asks.
I have not spoken to Bettiola about it because I did not want to alarm her. But of course she knows. She reads the papers as regularly as I do. I have planned to mention it in my speech today, but I had hoped to keep our business limited to Chicago’s own woes. I want to convince the women that this parade is too distant to be related to our troubles. Folly, I know.
“There are always parades of one kind or another,” I say.
“This one is big. They are expecting thousands of people. Perhaps it will even be larger than the one in Washington—” She stops.
I purse my lips. Even now, two years later, the pain of that humiliation lives with me. Bettiola knows this. Yet she also understands that if I am to lead this meeting, I need to be aware that the topic of this New York parade might arise. And she does not want me to be embarrassed or caught unawares. I am grateful for the warning, though it is not something I don’t already know.
I look out over the women who are chatting among themselves as they await the appointed meeting hour. I observe Mary, who must have knocked on over one hundred doors on behalf of Oscar De Priest’s campaign to be the first black city alderman. I see Vera, who led a band of twenty women into churches all over the city to ask for votes in the mayoral election. Now those elected politicians have barely offered us a crumb of the spoils. It is outrageous.
I have been so busy with my efforts to make the best use of our limited enfranchisement in Chicago that I have put aside the efforts of national white women’s organizations such as the National American Woman Suffrage Association. We still must attain a constitutional amendment so that women in every state will have the vote. I understand the urgency. Yet I still remember how our white suffragist sisters barred us from attending their conventions in 1901 and 1903. I remember how they refused to condemn racism while simultaneously expecting us to put gender before race when, in fact, both are hurdles for us. How can we work together in such circumstances?
The clubwomen quiet and look up at me. Bettiola takes a seat in the front row next to an empty chair where I will sit once the speakers are introduced.
Shall I talk to them about what happened in 1913? Shall I mention this New York City parade? Or shall I ignore those efforts the same way they tried to ignore us in Washington, D.C.?
“Ladies. Welcome to the Alpha Suffrage Club meeting. Today is October twenty-third, nineteen fifteen, and I am Ida Wells-Barnett.”
Two years earlier, on March 2, 1913, I arrived in Washington a day before the parade. The March wind cast a chill in the air, and the sky was overcast with the threat of rain. I had arranged to stay at the home of my friend Mary Church Terrell, while the rest of the Illinois delegation stayed in a hotel. Two months prior to the trip, I had founded the Alpha Suffrage Club, whose mission was to educate colored women in Chicago on their civic responsibility and help elect public officials who would advance our cause. But I was the only colored woman traveling with the Illinois delegation. My suffrage club was still recruiting members, and I could not convince any of my colored friends to make the journey with me. I did travel with two friends, however. Among the Illinois delegates were two white women who helped cofound my club: Belle Squire and Virginia Brooks.
The city was filled with people. The march organizer, a young Quaker woman by the name of Alice Paul, had shrewdly planned the march for the day before Woodrow Wilson’s inauguration. In addition to the suffragists, thousands of men had arrived for the inauguration. The swell of visitors to the city was impressive; it was a relief to get out of the crowds and make my way to my friend Mary’s house.
When she opened the door, she swiftly took my bag out of my hand.
“Ida Bell, if you don’t get in here so I can hug you!”
Mary was from Memphis, not far from my hometown of Holly Springs, Mississippi. In fact, her father, the late Robert Church, was born in Holly Springs. We were nearly the same age. I had always felt a sisterly affection for her, and as soon as I walked into her house and saw the logs burning in the fireplace, I was glad not to be allowed to stay in the same hotel as the white delegates. Mary was stunning in looks and intellect. We had worked together on numerous occasions, and though we did not agree on everything I knew she felt as strongly as I did about race work. I looked forward to an evening of lively discussion with her, and I said as much.
“Oh, it won’t be just the two of us tonight. I have invited some very special guests,” she said.
“Who?”
“You shall see.”
Later that evening, a group of students from Howard University arrived, and Mary served them several different kinds of cake. The women were members of a newly founded sorority that called itself Delta Sigma Theta. The twenty-two young women were planning to use the march as their first service event, and they were abuzz with excitement. As the senior women there—both Mary and I were in our fifties—we looked upon them as daughters. They were so well dressed and respectful that I was proud to think they would represent our cause in the parade the next day. Their talk was filled with ambition, how they planned to use the platform of their sorority to work within the suffrage cause. Their enthusiasm energized me.
After they left, Mary showed me that she had obtained a copy of the march’s official program. I carefully read through the twenty pages, looking at the pictures and examining the biographies of the women. Then I turned to her. We were both sitting next to the fireplace in her parlor. The embers were waning, and the window shutters were drawn. The house was eerily quiet after having been filled with the chatter of young women all evening. Though I had enjoyed the activity, I relished being alone with my friend, finally.
“They say the theme of the march is the ‘Ideals and Virtues of American Womanhood,’” she whispered.
“American womanhood? And yet they do not include a single reference to or picture of a colored woman in the entire program,” I replied.
“And they use the word ideals.”
“As if we are not the ideal.”
“As if we are not women.”
We expressed our anger to each other, but our emotions did not prevent us from retiring to rest up for the next day. Mary and I were used to channeling our frustrations. There was work to be done, and we had to rise early. She was planning to accompany the sorority, and I had to meet the Illinois delegates for a drill practice.
On the morning of the parade, we dressed in the early light. I donned a long black dress and draped a white silk Illinois banner around my neck. On my head I placed a hat trimmed in stars that peaked into a point at the top like a crown. When she saw me, Mary smiled and said, “If only our parents were here to see us.” At the corner of Rhode Island Avenue and Seventh Street we parted ways with a kiss on the cheek. The streets were too crowded for us to take a carriage.
I was surprised to see that the streets were already filled with people at this early hour. Groups of men carried large floats. Street vendors hawked hats. Policemen barked at gatherings blocking the walk paths. The sharp scent of roasted nuts wafted in the air. Marchers wrapped their shoulders in American flags. A mounted brigade trotted by.
Our delegation had been given a time in the morning when we could use the second-floor drill hall in the suffrage parade headquarters. We all arrived fully attired in our dresses and hats. There were sixty-two of us, so it was quite a large group. Two would march at the head—Laura Welles and Grace Wilbur Trout, the president of the Illinois Equal Suffrage Association. The rest of us lined up in neat rows of four.
Laura shouted orders: “Attention! Forward march!” And we matched step. When she shouted, “Turn!” we practiced an orderly turn. We could hardly contain our excitement, but she hushed us when our chatter drowned out her voice, because we did not have long in the hall. We were to report to our assigned location by two that afternoon, and another state delegation was scheduled to use the hall right after us.
The parade would begin at the Peace Monument. We would march to the Treasury Building, then on to the White House before ending at Continental Hall. Our delegation was large enough to house different contingents—from the Chicago Political Equality League to the Cook County Suffrage Alliance. Virginia, Belle, and I would carry the Alpha Suffrage Club banner.
Just as Laura began to shout another order, Grace rushed in. She had been missing for some time, and the look on her face was panicked. She asked Laura if she could have a private word with her. The rest of us grew silent, waiting to hear what had caused such consternation. Finally, Grace turned to us, and the words she spoke struck dread in my heart.
“We have an issue that has arisen regarding Mrs. Barnett’s participation in the parade.”
A murmur arose among the women. I did not look right or left. I just looked straight at Grace. I had a feeling I knew what was coming.
“Many of the eastern and southern women here greatly resent the fact that there are to be colored women in the delegations.”
My eyes burned. Do not cry, Ida, I told myself. You are more dignified than this.
“Some have even gone so far as to say they will not march if Negro women are allowed to take part.”
It was as if every eye was on me. This was what it felt like to be the only Negro woman in the room. I did not understand why she was talking about Negro women as a group, as if the attention was not entirely focused on me at that moment. I tilted my hat down over my eyes so that they could not see my face. I had preached to my daughters so often to stay strong in these situations. I was a leader in my community. A journalist and teacher. Yet here I was about to lose my composure in front of a room filled with women. I wished for my friend Mary and wondered if she and the sorority were also being banned from the parade.
“Who has said this?” someone demanded. I did not recognize the voice. My ears felt as if they had been stuffed with cotton. I could hear people speaking, but I could not make out the words. Finally, I heard Grace speak up again.
“Mrs. Stone of the National American Woman Suffrage Association and the woman in charge of the entire parade have advised us to keep our delegation entirely white. So far as Illinois is concerned, we should like to have Mrs. Barnett march in the delegation, but if the national association has decided it is unwise to include the colored women, I think we should abide by its decision.”
They were still doing it, talking about me as if I were not standing right there. Grace looked around at the women, as if to solicit their opinions. I watched her from beneath my hat. She would not look in my direction.
“You are right. It will prejudice southern people against suffrage if we take the colored women into our ranks. We must not allow it,” said one of the women.
My friend Virginia, who helped cofound the Alpha Suffrage Club, came to my side and took my arm. “But it is entirely undemocratic,” she said. “We have come all the way here to march for equal rights. It would be autocratic to exclude her. I think that we should allow Mrs. Barnett to walk in our delegation. If the women of other states lack moral courage, we should show them that we are not afraid of public opinion. We should stand by our principles. If we do not, the parade will be a farce.”
I could not hold back the tear that escaped my lash. I quickly wiped it away and pushed my hat up as I turned to look at them. Virginia’s words had strengthened me. I had something to say. I straightened the banner around my neck. My throat hurt with the shame of it, though I knew I had nothing to be ashamed about. I had not done anything wrong. Still, it was hard to get the words out. Finally, my voice came to me.
“The southern women are always trying to evade the question by giving some excuse or other every time it is brought up. If you, women of Illinois, do not take a stand now in this great democratic parade, then colored women are lost. Do not do this. I urge you,” I said.
Grace spoke slowly. “Mrs. Barnett is right, ladies. It is time for Illinois to recognize the colored woman as a political equal. You shall march with the delegation, Mrs. Barnett.”
The women began to whisper. I did not know what to do. There were no chairs in the room, but I really needed to sit down. I tried to breathe. Virginia put an arm around my shoulder. “Do not worry,” she whispered to me.
Grace and Laura huddled with a group of women. I watched and waited. When Grace turned around to speak, she sounded embarrassed as she conveyed the will of the group’s leaders. “It will be undemocratic if we do not let Mrs. Barnett march with us. On the other hand, it is imprudent to go against the law of the national association. We are only a small part in the great line of marchers, and we must not cause any confusion by disobeying orders. But Mrs. Trout and I will go to the march leaders and make the case once more. They are just downstairs. Give us a few moments, please.”
The two women exited. Belle and Virginia led me to a window that was open just enough to let in a slice of cold air. I leaned my face down toward the windowsill. Someone brought me a glass of water, and it cooled my throat.
Grace reappeared, and this time she addressed me directly. “I am afraid that we shall not be able to have you march with us, Mrs. Barnett. Personally, I should like nothing more than to have you represent Illinois. But I feel that we are responsible to the national association and cannot do as we choose.”
“It is outrageous,” exclaimed Virginia. The women began to whisper.
“Quiet, please.” Grace looked at me. “The march leaders have offered an alternative. They have suggested that you march with the colored delegation. At least you will be able to participate, Mrs. Barnett. You can still carry your banner at the back of the parade.”
“At the back of the parade?” The water and air had returned me to my former self. I straightened my back and faced her. Grace was a fair woman, and it seemed cruel of me to oppose her in front of the group. Yet I was long past the point of sparing white women’s feelings when it came to my oppression, no matter how good-hearted they were. “I shall not march at all unless I can march under the Illinois banner. When I was asked to come here, I was invited to march with the other women of our state and I intend to do so or not take part in the parade at all.”
“Oh, come now, Mrs. Barnett,” said Laura. “If I were a colored woman, I should be willing to march with the other women of my race.”
“There is a difference, Mrs. Welles, which you probably do not see. Either I go with you or not at all. I am not taking this stand because I personally wish for recognition. I am doing it for the future benefit of my whole race.”
My entire body trembled. I tucked my hands into the folds of my dress so no one would see them shaking.
“If you walk in the colored delegation, I will walk with you,” declared Virginia.
“I shall join Mrs. Barnett and Mrs. Brooks,” said Belle. “I think it would be a disgrace for Illinois women to let Mrs. Barnett march alone when the parade is intended to show women’s demand for the great principles of democracy.”
I looked over at my friends gratefully. None of the other women in the room offered to join us, and that made Belle and Virginia’s actions even more touching. If these two women marched with me at the back of the parade, I would accept this defeat. I would manage it. I just worried about those young sorority sisters from Howard University who would show up at the parade today and discover that gender equality did not apply to women of a darker hue.
After we left the drill hall, I wandered around the city attempting to calm myself. A line of trumpets backed by two drummers played “America the Beautiful.” A part of me wanted to go back to Mary’s house and sit quietly in front of the fireplace with a book for the rest of the afternoon, but I had not traveled all the way to Washington, D.C., to run away and hide.
It slowly dawned on me that despite my promise to the women, I could not march in the back of the parade. I just could not. There was something in my soul that rejected this proposition. It defeated the purpose of attending the march. If colored women did not stand up to this outrage, we would not be granted the right to vote if a constitutional amendment were ratified. Then everyone would have the vote but us.
As I thought over my decision, I tried to make my way to New Jersey Avenue, where the Illinois delegation had been instructed to wait. All the delegations had been given an appointed meeting location at which to line up an hour before the parade was set to begin. I tried to find Virginia and Belle, but the crowds were so thick I could barely make my way. Hundreds of men walked toward Pennsylvania Avenue. There may have been thousands, but I could not tell. Alice Paul was getting her wish. The parade would be a spectacle. But I wondered if she had underestimated the number of spectators.
Finally, I spied the delegation making their way down Pennsylvania Avenue. The march had begun. I saw Virginia and Belle walking slowly, holding a single banner between them. The crowds surged from all sides. Some of the men even spilled over into the parade’s route. The police did nothing to hold them back. At times the women stood at a complete standstill because the route was so blocked. I was only able to reach the delegation because no one was moving.
I slipped in beside Belle and Virginia, and they both turned to me in surprise. “We could not find you,” Virginia shouted. Some of the other delegation members frowned, but I did not care. We started to move again and I could see a float in the shape of Lady Liberty ahead. Yes, indeed. Our own liberty would come, that of white and colored women. There was nothing anyone could do to stop this momentum. And just as the nation would be forced to sit up and take notice of this great movement, the Illinois delegation would march with a colored woman in its ranks despite the misgivings of some. And that was that.
I had defied the parade organizers by marching with the Illinois delegation that day, but I never forgot the humiliation. Even if they picked me up on a magic carpet, I would not go to the New York City parade. I understand the purpose of the event, but black women suffragists have learned the hard way that we have to chart another course.
As thousands of white women line up to demand the right to vote in New York, I stand at a lectern in Chicago and look out upon nearly a hundred colored women. Their bright faces gaze up at me expectantly, and I realize I have been quiet too long, too lost in my memories.
“Thank you to Mrs. Fortson,” I say, and nod at Bettiola, “for putting together such a lovely program. I will not speak long because we have invited guests today. My dear friends. You may have read about the women’s suffrage march happening in New York City today. Once again, colored women have not been included in this important work. Our voices are excluded, pushed to the margins. Two years ago, we experienced this rejection firsthand during the march in our nation’s capital. Despite these wrongs, I ask you to maintain your faith in your civic responsibility. Work remains to be done. We must be a united sisterhood that works together in all ways possible to uplift the race. Your labor, your commitment, your intellect are sorely needed. The conscience of this country needs your voice. Do not give up, my dear sisters. We must fight on. Thank you.”
I leave the lectern and sit beside Bettiola as the women clap. I am angry that we were not included in the New York march, but my anger is tempered by envy. If only colored women could have those kinds of numbers and create such a spectacle. If only we could organize ourselves in such a way to demand our rights. But our resources are constrained by broader racial fights. And when we do succeed in those fights, we often do not share in the victories. I suppose I am just admitting to myself that I get tired sometimes. My constant reach for acknowledgment and recognition makes me weary. And today is one of those weary days.
On the other hand, I am unable to deny my pride. I remember the soaring feeling on that day in 1913 when I marched alongside thousands of women. Despite the outrage, I was inspired to see so many women march together in their beautiful dresses, carrying their banners. I wonder if the women in New York are accompanied by marching bands. I wonder if there are brigades. I wonder if they have a grand marshal in the front riding a white horse and wearing a white suit, blue robe, and gold tiara.