I fought back a wave of disappointment at how empty the room was. Out of more than thirty committee members, only seven had bothered to show up so far. They were gathered around a large mahogany table in the center of the room. William Loughridge of Iowa was leaning on his hand, his keen good-natured eyes alive with expectation because he was fully committed to the women’s movement. He winked at me when our eyes met. Mr. John Bingham sat opposite him, his dour expression showing he was not pleased to be hearing my petition. Mr. Burton Cook of Illinois and Mr. Charles Eldridge of Wisconsin were the only other representatives in their places, heads bent together in confidential conversation. The others milled through the crowd, shaking hands and laughing heartily at jokes only they could hear.
I took my place at one end of the table, Tennie at my side. I removed my hat and peered around, seeking a friendly face in the crowd. Directly behind me were the suffragists, the nearest being Mrs. Hooker with her soft curls held down by a hat with curling blue feathers. Snuggled in next to her was Mrs. Anthony, clad in her traditional black, spectacles already in place on her nose. Behind them were the trio of Paulina Wright Davis, an ancient suffragist with a cloud of snowy curls; the Reverend Olympia Brown, pastor of a Universalist church in Bridgeport, Connecticut; and Mrs. Josephine S. Griffing, an abolitionist and women’s rights advocate. Leaning against the bookshelves at the back wall of the room were the press, the only two familiar faces being those of the handsome Theodore Tilton and Tennie’s boyfriend, Johnny.
The Capitol clock struck the one o’clock hour, reverberating down my spine. It was time. I blew out a deep breath. All I had to do was read from the paper.
Representative John Bingham, House Judiciary Committee Chairman, opened the proceedings. “Mrs. Woodhull, I have read the petition you bring before us. As the one who sponsored the Fourteenth Amendment, I am here to tell you, madame, you are not a citizen.”
Rage flooded me, and I clamped my hands into fists at my side, reminding myself this man commanded my respect even if his words indicated otherwise. Still, I couldn’t remain silent. “Then what am I?”
“You are a woman. You may now speak.”
“I knew that before I came to Washington,” I said under my breath, standing.
Almost immediately, the blood drained from my face and my head began to swim. I grasped the edge of the table for support, and Tennie took my left elbow. Dragging in a few deep breaths, I reminded myself I had been onstage in front of people before. This was no different. Didn’t Demosthenes say I would one day speak in public? This was my moment.
I took one more deep breath and read from the paper grasped in my shaking hands. “To the Honorable Senate and House of Representatives of the United States—” My voice, so strong and determined in my mind, came out as a quiet whisper. I had to take long pauses between words to catch my breath, which was coming shallow and rapid. “In Congress assembled, respectfully showeth.”
I paused, reciting a brief prayer to my guiding spirits to help me through this ordeal. As if in answer, a warm ray of light pierced my soul, bringing with it a determination and strength I could only have heretofore dreamed. My cheeks flushed, and I read again, this time in a voice that matched the one in my mind, growing in authority with every word. “That she was born in the state of Ohio, and is above the age of twenty-one years; that she has resided in the state of New York during the past three years; that she is still a resident thereof, and that she is a citizen of the United States, as declared by the Fourteenth Article of Amendments to the Constitution of the United States.
“That since the adoption of the Fifteenth Article of Amendments to the Constitution, neither the state of New York nor any other state, nor any territory, has passed any law to abridge the right of any citizen of the United States to vote, as established by said article, neither on account of sex or otherwise.
“That, nevertheless, the right to vote is denied to women citizens of the United States by the operation of Election Laws in the several states and territories, which laws were enacted prior to the adoption of the said Fifteenth Article, and which are inconsistent with the Constitution as amended, and, therefore, are void and of no effect; but which being still enforced by the said states and territories, render the Constitution inoperative as regards the right of women citizens to vote.
“And whereas, Article Six, Section Two, declares ‘That this Constitution, and the laws of the United States which shall be made in pursuance thereof, and all treaties made or which shall be made under the authority of the United States, shall be the supreme law of the land; and all judges in every state shall be bound thereby, anything in the Constitution and Laws of any state to the contrary notwithstanding.’
“And whereas, no distinction between citizens is made in the Constitution of the United States on account of sex, but the Fourteenth Article of Amendments to it provides that ‘no state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges and immunities of citizens of the United States,’ ‘nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.’
“And whereas, the continuance of the enforcement of said local election laws, denying and abridging the Right of Citizens to Vote on account of sex, is a grievance to your memorialist and to various other persons, citizens of the United States, being women—
“Therefore your memorialist would most respectfully petition your Honorable Bodies to make such laws as in the wisdom of Congress shall be necessary and proper for carrying into execution the right vested by the Constitution in the citizens of the United States to vote, without regard to sex.
“And your memorialist will ever pray. Victoria C. Woodhull.”
When I finished speaking, I smiled at the committee and bowed graciously before sitting down abruptly, dizzy and limp as an unstarched cloth. Several people patted me on the back and whispered their congratulations, but I barely noticed.
“You did wonderfully.” Tennie gave my hand a gentle squeeze.
“Thank you, Mrs. Woodhull,” Representative Bingham said. “The committee will take time to consider what you have said and render a decision.” Though his words were neutral, his expression remained steadfastly unimpressed.
Behind me, a man rose to make the next speech, and we stood to leave. I shuffled along, disappointed in my failure to move Representative Bingham. Hopefully the others had a more positive reaction.
As we passed the bank of reporters, I got my answer.
One senator was telling a man from the Evening Star, “Though Congressman Eldridge thought it appropriate to giggle as though the whole thing was a good joke, I believe Mrs. Woodhull appeared in as good a style as any congressman could have done.”
Closer to the door, Miss Anthony had cornered Johnny and was positively beaming. “You see, good can come out of Washington. The national capital shall yet be the glory of her sex and the rest of man and womankind.”
Out in the hall, I was scarcely able to take a breath before Mrs. Stanton embraced me. “You made us so proud.” She beamed.
“Indeed,” Miss Anthony agreed. “You must read your memorial at our suffrage convention. Our delegates would be most interested to hear your argument.”
By the time the convention was over three days later, I was not only initiated into the fold, I was welcomed into its upper echelons. I spent most of the time listening to the movement’s greatest thinkers and strongest advocates call for equality in justice, as well as having those same women, especially Miss Anthony, flatter me within an inch of my life.
On the final night, I was named to the National Committee of Women. That meant remaining in Washington through the spring and working to garner support for the right to vote. Finally, the chance to make a difference on a large scale was within my grasp.
When the group asked for my financial support, I gave generously, elated to be able to do what I had felt called to at my first convention. Ten thousand dollars was not excessive, at least not to me, but it did raise a few ey
ebrows. While some whispered behind my back that I simply wanted to show up everyone yet again, I was quick to tell those who cared to listen of my long desire to make a difference in the movement.
There was no time for petty jealousy. We had to use every moment, every advantage we had, to show Congress women were behind us on the issue. If we were successful, we might be able to force a declaratory act even if the decision of the House Judiciary Committee came in against us. Mr. Butler was directing the printing presses of Capitol Hill until they smoked and threatened to overheat, cranking out thousands of electrotype copies of my memorial, as well as five thousand petition letters asking for women’s signatures for the right to vote.
I was already preparing the next issue of the Weekly. The next four issues would be dedicated to the women’s movement, spreading the word about suffrage as far and wide as possible and encouraging women to write to their representatives by the end of the month, when a decision was expected.
A young man in a crisp blue military uniform greeted me when I emerged from the dining room of the hotel the following morning. “Mrs. Woodhull, President Grant requests the honor of your presence.”
I staggered back a step, hand to my heart. “What? Me? You must be mistaken.”
“No, ma’am. Please come with me.”
A short walk down Fourteenth Street and a warren of Executive Mansion corridors later, I was standing before the massive oak doors to the president’s office.
My escort knocked, announced me, and stepped back. At the president’s command—a simple “enter”—the doors where flung open and I was admitted. Before I even crossed the threshold, a cloud of sweet, cloying fumes from a black cigar greeted me, momentarily robbing me of breath.
I coughed once and blinked rapidly, straining to see through the haze. The walls were painted in turquoise, gray, and green, the pale carpet stained by tobacco juice and ash. A meeting desk and chairs took up a good portion of the room, and two chairs sat ready to receive guests before the fireplace. The presidential seal watched over us like a guardian angel perched in the center of the ceiling.
President Grant was sitting slouched over his desk, his back to three large south-facing windows, the smoldering cigar between the fingers of his right hand and a document of some sort in his left. He snubbed out the cigar and stood to greet me. “Mrs. Woodhull, it is an honor. You have done the women of your country a great service these last many days.”
His firm grip enfolded my hand with power and warmth.
“The honor is all mine, Mr. President.”
He pointed at his presidential seat. “You may well occupy this chair one day. You certainly have the courage and the drive. Although I must say, I wish you’d wait until I wasn’t running.” He chuckled. “Please, sit.”
I took a seat facing him, entranced by his bright blue eyes.
“Not only am I pleased that a woman finally broke the invisible boundary before Congress, I’m thrilled it was a fellow Ohioan.” He grinned at me.
I nodded, smiling delightedly—though I could hardly believe our meeting was taking place. People would talk about this moment for days to come, the first meeting of the current president and future presidentess.
My time was limited, so I wasted no time in turning the conversation to suffrage. “I’m happy to hear I have your support, Mr. President. If you don’t mind my asking, what is your personal opinion on the topic of women’s suffrage?”
“It is a just cause and deserves to succeed,” the president admitted. “Do you know what I think would fix everything? I would give each married woman two votes, one to please her husband and one for herself. Then wives would be represented at the polls without there being any divided families on the subject of politics.”
“If you believe in it so strongly, then why have you not moved to make it law?” The question was out before I had a chance to think it through. Had I just made an enemy of the most powerful man in the world? I squirmed in my seat, awaiting his reaction.
The president was silent, but his expression was not one of anger, rather of contemplation. Finally, he sighed. “I wish it was that simple. People believe the president is all-powerful, a being like unto God. But it’s not like that. I can veto or sign laws, but I can’t simply make a law because I desire to. I have to go through Congress and all of the other checks and balances that make this wonderful nation of ours a democracy rather than a monarchy.” He leaned forward.
I unconsciously did the same, drawn in by the intimacy of his tone.
“Think of it this way. As a citizen, you can violate the law. You may be punished for it, but you can do it. The President of the United States cannot violate the law. That’s what I would be doing if I acted alone.”
“But surely you can make your position clear.” I bit my lip to stop myself from challenging him further.
“I can, and I have. And I will. I promise you I will be more forthright about it. But there is only so much one man, no matter how powerful, can do… but I tell you one thing, Mrs. Woodhull, I will be the loudest person cheering when your petition is taken up by the House then passes into law. I’ll even invite your family to be present when I sign it. How does that sound?”
My eyes widened. “Do you believe it will go that far?”
“I do. You’ve masterfully explained to Congress why they are bound by their own Constitution to enforce this right. How can it not?”
I grinned.
“Oh, be sure to look for a letter from the First Lady. My wife was an early adopter of your cause—from the moment you stormed Wall Street, she was in your corner—and keeps telling me how much she wishes she could have been here to meet you today. Unfortunately, a letter will have to suffice.”
“I am honored. Please extend my gratitude to her.”
A knock sounded at the door. After receiving permission, a page stuck his head into the office. “Mr. President, a reminder you have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“Yes, George, thank you.” He stood and held out his hand again. “I’m sorry our visit must be so short, Mrs. Woodhull. But as they say, duty calls.” He kissed my hand and escorted me to the door.
“Thank you again, Mr. President. It has been a pleasure and an honor to meet you.”
“I would ask you to vote for me in the next election—because you’ll be able to, I’m sure—but something tells me another name will be on your ballot.”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“No matter. It’s an honor to be in such respectable company.”
I had to stop myself from dancing as the guards escorted me out and back to my hotel. The president backed female suffrage and believed my petition would force Congress to recognize that right. Not only that, the First Lady supported me as well. With the two most powerful people in the country behind me, it was a sure bet that the name Victoria Woodhull and the ratification of woman’s right to vote would be forever linked.
By the end of January, my nerves were tingling with excitement. The long nights, hoarse throats, and hours of cajoling and convincing that the other suffrage leaders and I had endured in our quest to drum up support for my memorial and women’s right to vote had paid off. Not only was the president in favor of my petition, we were able to present Congress with eighty thousand signatures of women from as far away as California who demanded the vote through a declaratory act.
But no victory, even one as assured as this, was without a speck of tarnish. The opposition had been hard at work as well, and one thousand women had signed a petition asking Congress not to give women the right to vote. Led by Isabella’s conservative older sister, Catharine Beecher, they believed women should be at home, cooking and taking care of their children, and that only men should engage in business, especially politics. As Catharine wrote, “The Holy Scripture indicates for women a sphere higher than and apart from that of public life because as women they find a full measure of duties, care, and responsibilities and are unwilling to bear additional burdens unsuited to
their physical organization.”
This troubling mindset could well be the excuse Congress would latch onto in order to dismiss my petition despite the strong support behind it. It weighed heavily on my mind as I stood on the steps of the Capitol Building on January 30, waiting to hear the committee’s decision. With me in the lightly falling snow were Susan and Isabella, along with Tennie and nearly three hundred other supporters I had come to know over the last three months. Above me on the landing, Representative John Bingham stood stone-faced, waiting for some unknown signal. Next to him was my friend and mentor, Benjamin Butler.
Representative Bingham spotted me in the crowd, and a slow smirk spread over his features. He looked me square in the eye as he raised his voice to be heard by everyone in the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present to you the findings of the House Judiciary Committee on the matter of the memorial of Victoria C. Woodhull, which seeks to give women the right to vote on the grounds that it is already granted by the United States Constitution under the rights given to citizens of this country. After careful study and consideration of the matter, it is our finding that a citizen of the United States means nothing more or less than a member of the nation. Therefore, while we affirm this point, we reject the notion that the Constitution entitles women to the right to vote. As this is not a matter of federal law, those who oppose our findings should take their complaints to their individual states, who have the authority to extend the rights to women if they so choose. Furthermore, we have passed a resolution absolving Congress of any commitment to further consider the subject of women’s suffrage. We consider this matter closed for the foreseeable future.”
I couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stare numbly at this man who’d pretended to take me seriously. Despite the eighty thousand women we had on our side, this had been a losing battle from the beginning. The man who had blatantly declared I was not a citizen never intended to let his committee prove him wrong.
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