by M. J. Rose
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 parad
e 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.