November is chilly in New York, but I sit with the window open and look down upon the Lower East Side, the air nipping at my cheeks. When I lived here almost fifty years ago with Mama and L’Amie, it was an older, respectable neighborhood. Now it is shabby and overcrowded and poor. The heat wave last summer killed hundreds of people in this city, many in this area. I have no idea why Uncle Benjamin didn’t sell and move to a more appropriate home, but the poor old dear is gone now and beyond such things. I have put off this return to New York too long. Uncle Benjamin marks the last of my aunts and uncles to depart this earth, and his estate is large. I will return to California as a lady of substantial means.
The newspaper falls from my lap, rustling to the floor. Mr. McKinley has been elected President of our fair country, and the nation celebrates. All summer while New Yorkers perspired and succumbed to the heat, the presidential battle raged. The Democrat, Mr. William Jennings Bryan, gave a fierce effort but in the end was defeated. In Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah, women cast their vote. In this same election, Idaho men voted to allow the women of their state to vote. Although my heart thrills with that small victory, California’s measure did not pass.
Last summer, while New York sweltered, Susan B. Anthony spoke in Oakland at the Populist Convention that nominated Mr. Bryan’s ticket. My heart thrummed with her words as I boarded the train for New York in September. My presence in California would not have changed the outcome. I have no vote, after all. Still, I feel so far away and so despondent. As I do when I am feeling this way, I miss those that are no longer with me.
My husbands, of course, are long gone. With Henry, I would discuss the election, but it would always be Jacob that loved away the despair of the night. Mama has been gone some thirty-seven years, and my sister Coelia passed six years ago, leaving a bereft Lucian and five grown children scattered across Northern California. L’Amie and Simeon are both sixty-two now, and rarely leave their home in Los Gatos. Their two sons are at college.
At least my children will outlive me. Marion still keeps me company at my Union Street home, a forty-year-old spinster. Ellie and her family have moved to San Francisco. I am not needed there every day to assist now that Flo and Hal are practically grown. Henry and Nina still live on the ranch in Cholame. Their daughter, Eva, is seven, and so smart and independent. I never get to the ranch, and have to rely on Henry bringing his family to visit. I hear from Nina that her sister, Emily, studied English at Stanford for two years and wishes to be admitted into the California School of Mechanical Arts in San Francisco. It’s not entry that creates the obstruction but her father. I wish I could box the stubborn man’s ears.
So my family flourishes far away in body and spirit, and California has resoundingly defeated the vote for women. Santa Cruz County favored the measure, but the larger counties, like San Francisco, were strongly opposed. My dark mood cries that all is lost, my life has been for naught. But somewhere inside my heart beats strong. I have three healthy, happy children and three delightful grandchildren. The suffragist part of me shudders that I turn to such a feminine solace, but what am I if not a woman and a mother?
My sixty-ninth birthday passed in June, and I fear I shall never legally vote. Slavery has been abolished in my time, and the black man given the vote. All is progress, but progress is as slow as my bones on these cold New York mornings.
Maybe I should have been less forward for myself and encouraged my daughters to push themselves forward more. I was a role model, blazing the trail with torch held high. Maybe they would have preferred to be alongside. I made the mistake once of trying to explain to Ellie that my generation has striven for many advances so that her generation would have an easier life.
“You did none of this for me, Mama,” she spat in my face. “This you did for you. Don’t force me into wonderful new paths I never wanted. You work so women can have more choice, isn’t that right? Then let me have my choice!”
Stunned by her vehemence, I snapped, “How can you choose when you never explored the options open to you?”
I chose marriage once, agreed to it once more. I suppose I was a good wife. If I never had to work while raising children, I would have spent more time with them. But were they lacking in their experiences with me? I think not. We had our lesson time, and bedtime stories, and trips to the beach, and ice cream. It was different from the families of their friends, but it worked for us. And I showed them passion for something important to the world, not just to themselves. I would never trade that.
Yet if I go home today it will be to a spinster daughter, destined to be alone like I am. This is not the progress I envisioned as a younger woman.
Below me on the street, a little girl skips along. Her bright red coat is a beacon to the gray in my soul. From this height, she looks to be around six years old, an age full of wonder and joy. An older woman I assume to be her mother follows, watching closely. The little one twirls, and her red coat spins wide. My heart lifts.
Turning away from the window, I find a precious photograph brought with me from California. Taken on occasion of my birthday this past June, the glowing faces of my three grandchildren smile at me. Flo and Hal stand behind, little Eva in front. They are the future of my family and my country. I have much to give them, and discouragement is not among those gifts. I will teach them independence, perseverance, and love. I will help them through the worst times, and celebrate the best. Someday, Flo and Eva will cast their vote.
Suddenly I am eager to return to California.