First Inspirations

DOROTHY RODHAM (GRANDMA DOROTHY)

VIRGINIA KELLEY (GRANDMA GINGER)

Hillary and Chelsea

Hillary

As a young girl growing up outside Chicago in the 1950s, I personally did not know any woman who worked outside the home, except for my public school teachers and our town’s librarians. My mother, like the mothers of all my friends, was a full-time stay-at-home mom. She and the other mothers I knew lived lives like the ones I saw portrayed in the television shows of that era, tending children and the house while trying to keep life on an even keel. My mother may never have vacuumed in a dress and pearls like I saw on The Donna Reed Show, but to a child’s eye, there were more similarities than differences between her and Donna Reed. When I went to a friend’s house, the mother was usually there. I might be offered a peanut butter and jelly sandwich by my friend’s mom, just like at home or like I saw June Cleaver doing on Leave It to Beaver. The images I saw on TV comfortably and predictably reinforced the roles and behaviors I saw around me.

CHELSEA

I still remember telling you, Mom, when I was probably seven, that my best friend Elizabeth’s mom was my second favorite mom—after you—followed by Donna Reed. When I was at Grandma and Pop-pop’s, we watched lots of Nick at Nite. Donna reminded me so much of Grandma Dorothy and how she took care of me. (As I got older and saw more of my friends’ moms making different, loving choices for their families, Donna Reed fell far down the leaderboard—in the best possible sense—while Grandma Dorothy stayed at the top of her own category!)

HILLARY

I remember that, too! Clearly, Donna’s appeal was intergenerational.

I loved my mother and respected the other moms I knew who took good care of their kids and treated me like a member of their own families. I watched and learned from them. As a young girl, I knew that my mother loved her family and home but felt limited by the narrow choices in her life. It can be easy to forget now how few choices there were for women in her generation—even for white, middle-class women who had far more options open to them than most black women did. With my mother’s encouragement, I wanted more choices in my life than she’d had and was always looking for inspiration to believe that was possible. She nourished my interest in school and books, and took me to our local library every week, where she helped me pick out books and discussed the characters with me.

Early on, I looked to women in fairy tales and myths, on television, in books, and in the pages of Life magazine. The women I discovered there did things and had adventures unlike anything I saw around me, planting seeds in my imagination and widening my view of what women could do. I was also an avid reader of the cartoon strip about Brenda Starr, the flaming-red-haired, beautifully dressed reporter, and her far-flung global adventures. She was the only character in the comics I identified with and was inspired by as a young girl. Fictional though she was, Brenda became one of my first professional role models.

All through school, I had dedicated, challenging teachers who inspired me, but my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Elizabeth King, stood out. She drilled us in grammar, encouraged us to think and write creatively, urged us to try new things, and pushed us to excel. She often paraphrased a verse from the Gospel of Matthew: “Don’t put your lamp under a bushel basket, but use it to light up the world.” She assigned me and four of my classmates to write and produce a play about five girls taking a trip to Europe, a place none of us had ever visited. We dove into the project and were so proud when we presented it on the stage in our elementary school auditorium, complete with our energetic Parisian cancan dance performance.

Also at the behest of Mrs. King, I wrote my autobiography. In more than twenty-nine pages filled with my scrawly handwriting, I described my parents, brothers, pets, house, hobbies, school, sports, and plans for the future. Because of my parents’ encouragement and expectations from teachers like Mrs. King, I knew a few things: I wanted to go to college and then have a job and family. My mother didn’t have the chance to attend college when she was young, and my dad went to Penn State to play football, which wouldn’t apply to me. So I’d have to figure it out along the way. To do that, I would need guidance from as many courageous women as I could find.

Almost instinctively, I found myself leafing through books, eagerly looking for girl characters I could root for. I was delighted when I found Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women with the March sisters and their mother, Marmee—captivating, complex characters. Free-spirited Jo was my favorite. I couldn’t help but identify with the tension she felt between a fierce love and loyalty for her family, and an equally fierce desire to throw herself into the world. “I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle,” she vowed, “something heroic, or wonderful, that won’t be forgotten after I’m dead. I don’t know what, but I’m on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all, someday.”

I also adored Nancy Drew, the intrepid sixteen-year-old high school graduate who solved mysteries. Nancy inspired my friends and me to no end. We pretended to be her as we played around our neighborhood, looking for made-up criminals we wanted to catch. We weren’t old enough to drive a “roadster,” and our parents wouldn’t have let us travel around chasing bad guys, but we loved imagining. We knew we weren’t detectives, but we wanted to be more like Nancy Drew: smart, brave, and independent. And, of course, I admired the way Nancy would sometimes do her detective work in sensible pants. (“There’s only one thing left to do,” she said before climbing up into the rafters of a building in pursuit of a fleeing cat in The Clue of the Tapping Heels. “I’m glad I wore pants.”) Many women who grew up in the 1950s, from Supreme Court Justices Sandra Day O’Connor and Sonia Sotomayor to Laura Bush and Gayle King, have said that this imaginary character was an important influence on them.

CHELSEA

Nancy Drew was the first literary hero you, Grandma Dorothy, and I shared. She was indomitable—a word I learned because of her! Grandma had saved some of your original books, so I got to read the same books you read when you were my age. The stories were later shortened, and Nancy changed to be more “ladylike” and deferential to the men in her life. I adored the original Nancy, and it felt magical to hold the books I knew had so inspired you.

After I’d read the first ten or so original books, I asked my grandmother if we could one day take a trip to River Heights, Nancy Drew’s hometown. She gently told me it wasn’t a real place, and no, she said, there was no Nancy Drew museum to visit, either. But she reassured me that what was real and important about Nancy was her curiosity, unapologetic smarts, and doggedness. She never gave up on a case even when her life was in danger. I knew that Nancy was completely improbable—what sixteen-year-old had the financial freedom and wherewithal to travel the world solving mysteries? How did she always manage to escape danger? It was absurd, yet still inspiring.

In addition to Nancy Drew, I was thrilled when I came across a book about Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom and war, and Artemis, the goddess of the hunt and wild animals. They had special powers and presided over activities and places I had always associated with men being in charge. I took their examples to heart.

There were lots of kids in my neighborhood, and when we weren’t in school, we were outside playing in all kinds of weather. We were always dividing ourselves into teams and making up elaborate games like one we called “chase and run,” an elaborate version of hide-and-seek that included capturing prisoners. Because I had read the Greek myths that featured strong female figures, I felt comfortable taking leadership roles, planning our strategy and speaking up when I disagreed with the boys. I even asked my mom if I could get a bow and arrow like the hunter Artemis. She wisely refused, despite my best argument that the Roman name for Artemis, Diana, was like my middle name, Diane.

Chelsea

I was captivated by Ancient Egypt for the same reason: the stories of Nefertiti, Cleopatra, and Hatshepsut were all examples of strong, brave, and fearless women leaders. In fourth grade, I wrote my then longest report ever on Hatshepsut, one of the first female pharaohs, and the woman who would sit longest on Egypt’s throne. A couple of years earlier, in 1987, my mom and I had gone to the Ramses II exhibit in Memphis, Tennessee, and while I wanted to know more about the real-life pharaoh Yul Brynner portrayed in the movie The Ten Commandments, I spent most of the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Little Rock chatting incessantly about women in Ancient Egypt. As pharaoh, Hatshepsut commissioned construction on a scale that Egypt had never before seen—building temples, obelisks, and more, some of which still stand today. She also expanded trade routes and supported agricultural experimentation. She sent a powerful message to Egyptian women when she insisted on ruling as her young son’s equal—a statement that resonated with me thousands of years later.

Like my mom, I looked for inspiring women everywhere. When at the age of nine or ten I took a summer class on medieval Europe, Joan of Arc stood out against the backdrop of histories and legends dominated by men. She was committed to driving the English out of France and never wavered in the face of sexist skepticism (what young woman could lead an army?!), doubts about her sanity, and even death; she was burned at the stake by her English captors for “insubordination and heterodoxy.” As soon as I learned about Joan, I immediately knew what I would be for Halloween months later. My Grandma Dorothy made me a beautiful costume; I spent most of my time trick-or-treating explaining who I was.

About thirty years later, I learned of Joan’s mother, Isabelle Romée, from the play Mother of the Maid, which imagined the history of her life. In the play, Isabelle supported Joan and cared for her in her final days in prison. After Joan was burned at the stake, Isabelle spent more than two decades working to exonerate her daughter. She taught herself to read and to speak in public, journeying as far as Rome to plead her case to the Vatican; she was over seventy years old at the time. Finally, in Paris twenty-five years after Joan’s execution, a religious court overturned the earlier verdict. Talk about a mother-daughter pair of determined, gutsy women.

My love of history and fascination with the ancient world, particularly Ancient Egypt, has continued into adulthood. In 2008, I picked up a copy of Crocodile on the Sandbank at a secondhand bookstore and instantly fell in love with the writing of Barbara Mertz. Under her pen name, Elizabeth Peters, she created a delightful heroine in turn-of-the-century archaeologist Amelia Peabody. From the moment I started the book, I couldn’t put it down. I laughed so hard that friends and strangers—anyone nearby—kept asking me what was so funny. As soon as I finished it, I shared it with my grandmother and then my mom. Our book club of three was born. My grandmother and I later read and loved Barbara’s more scholarly books on Egyptology, and my mom and I both wrote Barbara fan letters before she passed away, thanking her for the joy she brought us.

Hillary

By the time I started Wellesley College in the fall of 1965, the women’s movement had started, popularly catalyzed by The Feminine Mystique, a book by Betty Friedan published in 1963. We didn’t often buy books in my family, we checked them out of the library, and that’s what my mother did. She brought home a copy of Friedan’s book to read and found so much of interest in it that she then bought a copy she could underline. And she talked to me about it. I’ve read many valid criticisms of The Feminine Mystique in the years since, but for women like my mother, it was revelatory, even revolutionary. She had felt guilty about feeling unfulfilled and regretful about being at home full-time until Friedan described her feelings as “the problem that has no name.” She, along with millions of other women of her time, didn’t know what ailed her until Betty Friedan named it. She didn’t agree with all of the arguments in the book and always insisted that being a mother, especially after her own unhappy childhood, was the best thing she’d ever done, but suddenly, she felt like a veil had been lifted from her eyes. When I met Betty Friedan many years later, I thanked her for writing a book that meant so much to my mother. “What about you?” she replied.

And, of course, what about me? Although The Feminine Mystique didn’t affect me in the same way it did my mother, I appreciated how impactful the book had been and agree with Gail Collins, the New York Times columnist who wrote the introduction to its fiftieth-anniversary edition. It deserved to be on the list of the most important books of the twentieth century. As Collins pointed out, it “also made one conservative magazine’s exclusive roundup of the ‘10 most harmful books of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.’ Which if not flattering is at least a testimony to the wallop it packed.” It motivated me to read widely in feminist literature, including Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792) and Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex (1949). My feminist reading continued well after college, from the writings of Gloria Steinem to Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale (1985) to Roxane Gay’s Hunger (2017) and the many others whose work inspired me to think harder about women’s roles and rights.

When I became a mom, I saw the search for role models through Chelsea’s eyes. She would page intently through her books, looking for the girl characters, and her face would light up when she found them. Like me, she was captivated by fictional heroines. But everywhere Chelsea looked, she saw real-life examples of women who were pursuing dreams that would have been unimaginable when I was a little girl. I loved watching her pepper our family friends and fascinating women she met with questions about what they did and why they loved it. In the span of a single generation, so much of what once seemed impossible had become not only possible but commonplace.

Chelsea

Growing up in Little Rock, I was surrounded by inspiring women: my mom and my grandmothers; my teachers at school, Sunday school, and ballet; my pediatrician, Dr. Betty Lowe; for a time, our mayor, Lottie Shackelford; the historical women I learned about; and the fictional girls and women I fell in love with when reading and watching their stories. I’ve also been blessed to have wonderful female friends throughout my life; my oldest friend, Elizabeth Fleming Weindruch, is the daughter of a woman my mom met in Lamaze class. I have known and loved her my whole life. My friends have provided support, community, shared love, and adventures. They, too, have been an important source of inspiration—as women, friends, leaders, professionals, mothers, and citizens.

In some ways, the cascade of inspiration started before I can remember: my grandmothers and mom talking to me about their lives, my mom reading me The Runaway Bunny—a clear lesson in the power of a mother’s love as well as the power of determination, from parent and little bunny alike. Or, arguably, the inspiration started somewhere between Kansas and the Emerald City.

I will always be grateful to my first-grade teacher, Dr. Sadie Mitchell, for the gift of helping me conquer my first chapter book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. It took our class a month, maybe longer, to get through L. Frank Baum’s classic about Dorothy’s magical adventures and realizing “there’s no place like home.” I was in awe of Dorothy’s refusal, at an age not much older than I was, to give up on herself or her friends.

HILLARY

The Wizard of Oz was also the first movie I ever saw in a theater, and I remember feeling the exact same way. I also remember being scared of the flying monkeys!

At the end of the year, our class, along with Mrs. Tabitha Phillips’s class across the hall, put on a Wizard of Oz play for our classmates and families. I was the Wicked Witch of the West and determined to have the most spectacular melting scene possible on our Forest Park Elementary stage. My mom was supportive but not enthusiastic when I declared I would temporarily dye my hair green and paint my face green for the role. Her lack of enthusiasm was warranted—it took about a week for my hair, washed daily, to turn back to its normal color.

Dr. Mitchell cheered me on every step of the way and told me my melting scene was perfect. While Dorothy was one of my first imaginary heroes, Dr. Mitchell was one of my first real-life heroes beyond my family. She spent time with every student. When we’d had a rough day, she would tell us the next morning, “That was yesterday. Today is a new day.” She never treated me differently because I was the daughter of the governor of Arkansas. She expected me to be a good student and a good person—it’s what she expected of everyone to the best of our abilities. Dr. Mitchell was unfailingly patient, kind, and fair in doling out praise and punishment alike. She set the standard for what an excellent teacher is.

HILLARY

Having wonderful teachers sparked a lifelong love of learning in each of us. And while our teachers introduced us to inspiring women and role models, we both wish we had learned more about the sung and unsung heroines of history. (That’s one reason why we’re writing this book!) Still, we know how lucky we were to have had, more than once, extraordinary teachers who made us sit up a little taller as it dawned on us that we, too, could change the world.

After Dorothy, there was Meg Murry, the indomitable star of Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. I remember talking nonstop to my parents about this book. Inspired by Meg, I practiced multiplication tables in my head to ward off any attempts at mind control. I would frequently ask myself: What would Meg do? If there had been a bracelet back then with that written on it, I’d never have taken it off. Alongside Meg, there was also Beverly Cleary’s Ramona Quimby. When my Grandma Ginger asked me what I wanted for my eighth birthday, inspired by Ramona’s efforts with her father, I said I wanted her to stop smoking. She said okay. Ginger never hid how hard it was for her to give up her couple-pack-a-day habit. Her candor and lack of self-pity impressed me as much as her success in quitting cigarettes. As inspired as I was by Meg and Ramona, Ginger inspired me even more.

Now, as a mother myself, I hope that my children understand why I was and am drawn to the girls and women who have long inspired me—some of whom are in these pages. I hope they will read a few of the books I loved so much as a kid. They certainly don’t have to have the same role models, but I hope they understand why I have carried these women in my heart for so long.