The Damnation of Women

I remember four women of my boyhood: my mother, cousin Inez, Emma, and Ide Fuller. They represented the problem of the widow, the wife, the maiden, and the outcast. They were, in color, brown and light-brown, yellow with brown freckles, and white. They existed not for themselves, but for men; they were named after the men to whom they were related and not after the fashion of their own souls.

I remember four women from my boyhood: my mother, cousin Inez, Emma, and Ide Fuller. They represented the problems of the widow, the wife, the maiden, and the outcast. Their skin colors were brown and light-brown, yellow with brown freckles, and white. They lived not for themselves, but for men. They were named for the men they were related to, not for the nature of their own souls.

They were not beings, they were relations and these relations were enfilmed with mystery and secrecy. We did not know the truth or believe it when we heard it. Motherhood! What was it? We did not know or greatly care. My mother and I were good chums. I liked her. After she was dead I loved her with a fierce sense of personal loss.

They were not people to us. They were relationships, and those relationships were shrouded in mystery and secrecy. We did not know the truth or believe it when we heard it. Motherhood! What was it? We did not know or care much. My mother and I were good friends. I liked her. After she died, I loved her with a fierce sense of personal loss.

Inez was a pretty, brown cousin who married. What was marriage? We did not know, neither did she, poor thing! It came to mean for her a litter of children, poverty, a drunken, cruel companion, sickness, and death. Why?

Inez was a pretty, brown cousin who got married. What was marriage? We did not know, and neither did she, poor thing! For her, marriage came to mean a litter of children, poverty, a drunken, cruel companion, sickness, and death. Why?

There was no sweeter sight than Emma,—slim, straight, and dainty, darkly flushed with the passion of youth; but her life was a wild, awful struggle to crush her natural, fierce joy of love. She crushed it and became a cold, calculating mockery.

There was no sweeter sight than Emma. She was slim, upright, and delicate, her dark face flushed with youthful passion. But her life was a wild, terrible struggle to crush her natural, fierce joy in love. She crushed that joy and became a cold, calculating mockery.

Last there was that awful outcast of the town, the white woman, Ide Fuller. What she was, we did not know. She stood to us as embodied filth and wrong,—but whose filth, whose wrong?

Last, there was the town’s terrible outcast, the white woman Ide Fuller. We did not know what she was. To us, she embodied filth and wrongdoing. But whose filth, whose wrongdoing?

Grown up I see the problem of these women transfused; I hear all about me the unanswered call of youthful love, none the less glorious because of its clean, honest, physical passion. Why unanswered? Because the youth are too poor to marry or if they marry, too poor to have children. They turn aside, then, in three directions: to marry for support, to what men call shame, or to that which is more evil than nothing. It is an unendurable paradox; it must be changed or the bases of culture will totter and fall.

Now that I am grown, I see the problem these women face in a new light. All around me, I hear the unanswered call of youthful love. Its clean, honest physical passion makes it no less glorious. Why does the call go unanswered? Because young people are too poor to marry. Or, if they marry, they are too poor to have children. So they turn to three alternatives: marrying for support, turning to what men call shame, or turning to something worse than nothing. This paradox is unbearable. It must change, or the foundations of culture will totter and fall.

The world wants healthy babies and intelligent workers. Today we refuse to allow the combination and force thousands of intelligent workers to go childless at a horrible expenditure of moral force, or we damn them if they break our idiotic conventions. Only at the sacrifice of intelligence and the chance to do their best work can the majority of modern women bear children. This is the damnation of women.

The world wants healthy babies and intelligent workers. Today, we refuse to allow both. We force thousands of intelligent workers to remain childless, at a terrible cost to their moral strength. Or we condemn them if they break our idiotic conventions. Most modern women can bear children only by sacrificing their intelligence and their chance to do their best work. This is the damnation of women.

All womanhood is hampered today because the world on which it is emerging is a world that tries to worship both virgins and mothers and in the end despises motherhood and despoils virgins.

All women are held back today because they are emerging into a world that tries to worship both virgins and mothers. Yet in the end, this world despises motherhood and violates virgins.

The future woman must have a life work and economic independence. She must have knowledge. She must have the right of motherhood at her own discretion. The present mincing horror at free womanhood must pass if we are ever to be rid of the bestiality of free manhood; not by guarding the weak in weakness do we gain strength, but by making weakness free and strong.

The woman of the future must have a life's work and economic independence. She must have knowledge. She must have the right to decide for herself whether to become a mother. Today's prudish horror at women's freedom must end if we are ever to end the brutality of men's freedom. We do not gain strength by keeping the weak protected and weak. We gain strength by making the weak free and strong.

The world must choose the free woman or the white wraith of the prostitute. Today it wavers between the prostitute and the nun. Civilization must show two things: the glory and beauty of creating life and the need and duty of power and intelligence. This and this only will make the perfect marriage of love and work.

The world must choose between a free woman and the white ghost of a prostitute. Today, it hesitates between the prostitute and the nun. Civilization must show two things: the glory and beauty of creating life, and the need and duty to have power and intelligence. Only these things will create the perfect marriage of love and work.

All this of woman,—but what of black women?

All this about women, but what about black women?

The world that wills to worship womankind studiously forgets its darker sisters. They seem in a sense to typify that veiled Melancholy:

The world that wants to worship women deliberately forgets their darker sisters. In a sense, these women seem to embody that veiled Melancholy:

Yet the world must heed these daughters of sorrow, from the primal black All-Mother of men down through the ghostly throng of mighty womanhood, who walked in the mysterious dawn of Asia and Africa; from Neith, the primal mother of all, whose feet rest on hell, and whose almighty hands uphold the heavens; all religion, from beauty to beast, lies on her eager breasts; her body bears the stars, while her shoulders are necklaced by the dragon; from black Neith down to

Yet the world must listen to these daughters of sorrow. They range from the primal black All-Mother of men to the ghostly throng of mighty women who walked in the mysterious dawn of Asia and Africa. They range from Neith, the primal mother of all, whose feet rest on hell and whose all-powerful hands hold up the heavens. All religion, from beauty to beast, lies on her eager breasts. Her body bears the stars, and a dragon is wrapped around her shoulders like a necklace. From black Neith down to

through dusky Cleopatras, dark Candaces, and darker, fiercer Zinghas, to our own day and our own land,—in gentle Phillis; Harriet, the crude Moses; the sybil, Sojourner Truth; and the martyr, Louise De Mortie.

through dusky Cleopatras, dark Candaces, and darker, fiercer Zinghas, to our own day and land, with gentle Phillis, Harriet, the rough Moses, Sojourner Truth, the prophetess, and Louise De Mortie, the martyr.

The father and his worship is Asia; Europe is the precocious, self-centered, forward-striving child; but the land of the mother is and was Africa. In subtle and mysterious way, despite her curious history, her slavery, polygamy, and toil, the spell of the African mother pervades her land. Isis, the mother, is still titular goddess, in thought if not in name, of the dark continent. Nor does this all seem to be solely a survival of the historic matriarchate through which all nations pass,—it appears to be more than this,—as if the great black race in passing up the steps of human culture gave the world, not only the Iron Age, the cultivation of the soil, and the domestication of animals, but also, in peculiar emphasis, the mother-idea.

Asia is the father and the worship of the father. Europe is the precocious, self-centered child, always pushing forward. But Africa is and was the land of the mother. In subtle and mysterious ways, the spell of the African mother fills her land. It does so despite Africa’s curious history, her slavery, polygamy, and toil. Isis, the mother, is still the official goddess of the dark continent, in thought if not in name. Nor does this seem to be merely a survival of the historic matriarchate through which all nations pass. It seems to be more than that. It is as if the great black race, as it climbed the steps of human culture, gave the world more than the Iron Age, the cultivation of the soil, and the domestication of animals. It also gave the world a special emphasis on the mother-idea.

"No mother can love more tenderly and none is more tenderly loved than the Negro mother," writes Schneider. Robin tells of the slave who bought his mother's freedom instead of his own. Mungo Park writes: "Everywhere in Africa, I have noticed that no greater affront can be offered a Negro than insulting his mother. 'Strike me,' cries a Mandingo to his enemy, 'but revile not my mother!'" And the Krus and Fantis say the same. The peoples on the Zambezi and the great lakes cry in sudden fear or joy: "O, my mother!" And the Herero swears (endless oath) "By my mother's tears!" "As the mist in the swamps," cries the Angola Negro, "so lives the love of father and mother."

"No mother loves more tenderly, and no mother is more tenderly loved, than the Negro mother," writes Schneider. Robin tells of a slave who bought his mother's freedom instead of his own. Mungo Park writes: "Everywhere in Africa, I have noticed that insulting a Negro's mother is the greatest offense one can offer him. 'Strike me,' a Mandingo cries to his enemy, 'but do not insult my mother!'" The Krus and Fantis say the same. In sudden fear or joy, the peoples of the Zambezi and the great lakes cry: "Oh, my mother!" The Herero swears an oath that never ends: "By my mother's tears!" "Like the mist in the swamps," cries the Angola Negro, "so lives the love of father and mother."

A student of the present Gold Coast life describes the work of the village headman, and adds: "It is a difficult task that he is set to, but in this matter he has all-powerful helpers in the female members of the family, who will be either the aunts or the sisters or the cousins or the nieces of the headman, and as their interests are identical with his in every particular, the good women spontaneously train up their children to implicit obedience to the headman, whose rule in the family thus becomes a simple and an easy matter. 'The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.' What a power for good in the native state system would the mothers of the Gold Coast and Ashanti become by judicious training upon native lines!"

A student of life on the Gold Coast today describes the village headman’s work and adds: "His task is difficult, but the women in his family are all-powerful helpers. They are his aunts, sisters, cousins, or nieces. Because their interests are identical to his in every way, the good women naturally train their children to obey him unquestioningly. His rule over the family thus becomes simple and easy. 'The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.' With wise training along native lines, what a power for good the mothers of the Gold Coast and Ashanti would become in the native state system!"

Schweinfurth declares of one tribe: "A bond between mother and child which lasts for life is the measure of affection shown among the Dyoor" and Ratzel adds:

Schweinfurth says of one tribe: "Among the Dyoor, the affection between mother and child lasts a lifetime." Ratzel adds:

"Agreeable to the natural relation the mother stands first among the chief influences affecting the children. From the Zulus to the Waganda, we find the mother the most influential counsellor at the court of ferocious sovereigns, like Chaka or Mtesa; sometimes sisters take her place. Thus even with chiefs who possess wives by hundreds the bonds of blood are the strongest and that the woman, though often heavily burdened, is in herself held in no small esteem among the Negroes is clear from the numerous Negro queens, from the medicine women, from the participation in public meetings permitted to women by many Negro peoples."

"In keeping with her natural relationship to her children, the mother is their most important influence. From the Zulus to the Waganda, we find mothers serving as the most influential advisers at the courts of fierce rulers like Chaka or Mtesa. Sometimes sisters take their place. Thus, even for chiefs who have hundreds of wives, blood ties are strongest. Women, though often heavily burdened, are themselves held in considerable esteem among the Negroes. This is clear from the many Negro queens and medicine women, and from the participation in public meetings that many Negro peoples permit women."

As I remember through memories of others, backward among my own family, it is the mother I ever recall,—the little, far-off mother of my grandmothers, who sobbed her life away in song, longing for her lost palm-trees and scented waters; the tall and bronzen grandmother, with beaked nose and shrewish eyes, who loved and scolded her black and laughing husband as he smoked lazily in his high oak chair; above all, my own mother, with all her soft brownness,—the brown velvet of her skin, the sorrowful black-brown of her eyes, and the tiny brown-capped waves of her midnight hair as it lay new parted on her forehead. All the way back in these dim distances it is mothers and mothers of mothers who seem to count, while fathers are shadowy memories.

When I look back at my family through the memories of others, it is the mothers I always recall. There is the little, distant mother of my grandmothers, who sobbed her life away in song, longing for her lost palm trees and scented waters. There is the tall, bronze grandmother, with her beaked nose and sharp eyes. She loved and scolded her black, laughing husband as he smoked lazily in his high oak chair. Above all, I remember my own mother and all her soft brownness. Her skin was brown velvet, her eyes a sorrowful black-brown. Her midnight hair lay freshly parted on her forehead in tiny waves tipped with brown. All the way back into those dim distances, it is mothers and mothers of mothers who seem to count. The fathers are shadowy memories.

Upon this African mother-idea, the westward slave trade and American slavery struck like doom. In the cruel exigencies of the traffic in men and in the sudden, unprepared emancipation the great pendulum of social equilibrium swung from a time, in 1800,—when America had but eight or less black women to every ten black men,—all too swiftly to a day, in 1870,—when there were nearly eleven women to ten men in our Negro population. This was but the outward numerical fact of social dislocation; within lay polygamy, polyandry, concubinage, and moral degradation. They fought against all this desperately, did these black slaves in the West Indies, especially among the half-free artisans; they set up their ancient household gods, and when Toussaint and Cristophe founded their kingdom in Haiti, it was based on old African tribal ties and beneath it was the mother-idea.

The westward slave trade and American slavery struck this African mother-idea like doom. The slave trade imposed cruel demands, and emancipation came suddenly, without preparation. Amid these upheavals, the balance of society swung all too swiftly from one extreme to another. In 1800, America had no more than eight black women for every ten black men. By 1870, there were nearly eleven women for every ten men in our Negro population. These numbers were only the outward sign of social upheaval. Beneath them lay polygamy, polyandry, concubinage, and moral degradation. The black slaves in the West Indies fought desperately against all of this, especially the half-free artisans. They established their ancient household gods. When Toussaint and Cristophe founded their kingdom in Haiti, it was based on old African tribal ties. Beneath those ties lay the mother-idea.

The crushing weight of slavery fell on black women. Under it there was no legal marriage, no legal family, no legal control over children. To be sure, custom and religion replaced here and there what the law denied, yet one has but to read advertisements like the following to see the hell beneath the system:

The crushing weight of slavery fell on black women. Under slavery, there was no legal marriage, no legal family, and no legal control over children. In some places, custom and religion provided what the law denied. Yet you only have to read advertisements like the following to see the hell beneath the system:

The Presbyterian synod of Kentucky said to the churches under its care in 1835: "Brothers and sisters, parents and children, husbands and wives, are torn asunder and permitted to see each other no more. These acts are daily occurring in the midst of us. The shrieks and agony often witnessed on such occasions proclaim, with a trumpet tongue, the iniquity of our system. There is not a neighborhood where these heartrending scenes are not displayed. There is not a village or road that does not behold the sad procession of manacled outcasts whose mournful countenances tell that they are exiled by force from all that their hearts hold dear."

In 1835, the Presbyterian synod of Kentucky told the churches under its care: "Brothers and sisters, parents and children, husbands and wives are torn apart and never allowed to see each other again. These acts happen every day among us. The screams and agony often witnessed on these occasions proclaim the wickedness of our system as loudly as a trumpet. There is not a neighborhood where these heartbreaking scenes do not happen. Every village and road witnesses the sad procession of outcasts in chains. Their sorrowful faces show that they have been forced away from everyone and everything they hold dear."

A sister of a president of the United States declared: "We Southern ladies are complimented with the names of wives, but we are only the mistresses of seraglios."

A sister of a United States president said: "We Southern ladies are honored with the title of wives, but we are only women in charge of harems."

Out of this, what sort of black women could be born into the world of today? There are those who hasten to answer this query in scathing terms and who say lightly and repeatedly that out of black slavery came nothing decent in womanhood; that adultery and uncleanness were their heritage and are their continued portion.

Out of this, what kind of black women could be born into the world today? Some rush to answer harshly. They casually and repeatedly say that black slavery produced no decent women. They say that adultery and uncleanness were these women’s inheritance and remain their lot.

Fortunately so exaggerated a charge is humanly impossible of truth. The half-million women of Negro descent who lived at the beginning of the 19th century had become the mothers of two and one-fourth million daughters at the time of the Civil War and five million grand-daughters in 1910. Can all these women be vile and the hunted race continue to grow in wealth and character? Impossible. Yet to save from the past the shreds and vestiges of self-respect has been a terrible task. I most sincerely doubt if any other race of women could have brought its fineness up through so devilish a fire.

Fortunately, a charge so exaggerated cannot possibly be true. Half a million women of Negro descent lived at the beginning of the 19th century. By the Civil War, they had become the mothers of two and one-quarter million daughters. By 1910, they had five million granddaughters. Can all these women be vile while the hunted race continues to grow in wealth and character? Impossible. Yet it has been a terrible struggle to save even the scraps of self-respect left from the past. I sincerely doubt that any other race of women could have preserved its nobility through so devilish a fire.

Alexander Crummell once said of his sister in the blood: "In her girlhood all the delicate tenderness of her sex has been rudely outraged. In the field, in the rude cabin, in the press-room, in the factory she was thrown into the companionship of coarse and ignorant men. No chance was given her for delicate reserve or tender modesty. From her childhood she was the doomed victim of the grossest passion. All the virtues of her sex were utterly ignored. If the instinct of chastity asserted itself, then she had to fight like a tiger for the ownership and possession of her own person and ofttimes had to suffer pain and lacerations for her virtuous self-assertion. When she reached maturity, all the tender instincts of her womanhood were ruthlessly violated. At the age of marriage,—always prematurely anticipated under slavery—she was mated as the stock of the plantation were mated, not to be the companion of a loved and chosen husband, but to be the breeder of human cattle for the field or the auction block."

Alexander Crummell once said of his sister by blood: "In her girlhood, all the delicate tenderness of her sex was brutally violated. In the fields, the rough cabins, the press rooms, and the factories, she was thrown together with coarse and ignorant men. She was given no chance for delicate reserve or tender modesty. From childhood, she was destined to be a victim of the crudest lust. All the virtues of her sex were utterly ignored. If her instinct for chastity asserted itself, she had to fight like a tiger for control of her own body. Often she had to suffer pain and wounds for this virtuous assertion of her rights. When she reached maturity, all the tender instincts of her womanhood were ruthlessly violated. Under slavery, she was always forced into marriage prematurely. At that age, she was mated as plantation livestock were mated. She was not to be the companion of a husband she loved and chose. She was to breed human cattle for the fields or the auction block."

Down in such mire has the black motherhood of this race struggled,—starving its own wailing offspring to nurse to the world their swaggering masters; welding for its children chains which affronted even the moral sense of an unmoral world. Many a man and woman in the South have lived in wedlock as holy as Adam and Eve and brought forth their brown and golden children, but because the darker woman was helpless, her chivalrous and whiter mate could cast her off at his pleasure and publicly sneer at the body he had privately blasphemed.

In such filth, the black mothers of this race have struggled. They starved their own crying babies to nurse their swaggering masters into the world. They forged chains for their children that offended even the moral sense of an immoral world. Many a man and woman in the South have lived in a marriage as holy as Adam and Eve’s. They brought their brown and golden children into the world. But because the darker woman was helpless, her chivalrous and whiter partner could cast her off whenever he pleased. He could publicly sneer at the body he had privately violated.

I shall forgive the white South much in its final judgment day: I shall forgive its slavery, for slavery is a world-old habit; I shall forgive its fighting for a well-lost cause, and for remembering that struggle with tender tears; I shall forgive its so-called "pride of race," the passion of its hot blood, and even its dear, old, laughable strutting and posing; but one thing I shall never forgive, neither in this world nor the world to come: its wanton and continued and persistent insulting of the black womanhood which it sought and seeks to prostitute to its lust. I cannot forget that it is such Southern gentlemen into whose hands smug Northern hypocrites of today are seeking to place our women's eternal destiny,—men who insist upon withholding from my mother and wife and daughter those signs and appellations of courtesy and respect which elsewhere he withholds only from bawds and courtesans.

On its final judgment day, I will forgive the white South much. I will forgive its slavery, because slavery is an ancient habit throughout the world. I will forgive it for fighting for a cause that deserved to lose. I will also forgive it for remembering that struggle with tender tears. I will forgive its so-called "pride of race," the passion of its hot blood, and even its dear, old, ridiculous strutting and posing. But there is one thing I will never forgive, either in this world or the next. That is its wanton, continuing, and persistent insults to black womanhood, whom it has sought and still seeks to prostitute to its lust. I cannot forget that today's smug Northern hypocrites are trying to place our women's eternal destiny in the hands of such Southern gentlemen. These men insist on denying my mother, wife, and daughter the gestures and titles of courtesy and respect. Elsewhere, they deny these only to brothel keepers and courtesans.

The result of this history of insult and degradation has been both fearful and glorious. It has birthed the haunting prostitute, the brawler, and the beast of burden; but it has also given the world an efficient womanhood, whose strength lies in its freedom and whose chastity was won in the teeth of temptation and not in prison and swaddling clothes.

The results of this history of insult and degradation have been both terrifying and glorious. It has produced the haunting prostitute, the brawler, and the beast of burden. But it has also given the world capable women whose strength lies in their freedom. Their chastity was won in the face of temptation, not through confinement and swaddling clothes.

To no modern race does its women mean so much as to the Negro nor come so near to the fulfilment of its meaning. As one of our women writes: "Only the black woman can say 'when and where I enter, in the quiet, undisputed dignity of my womanhood, without violence and without suing or special patronage, then and there the whole Negro race enters with me.'"

For no modern race do women mean as much as they do for the Negro. And no other race’s women come so close to fulfilling that meaning. As one of our women writes: "Only the black woman can say, 'When and where I enter with the quiet, unquestioned dignity of my womanhood, without violence, pleading, or special favors, the whole Negro race enters with me.'"

They came first, in earlier days, like foam flashing on dark, silent waters,—bits of stern, dark womanhood here and there tossed almost carelessly aloft to the world's notice. First and naturally they assumed the panoply of the ancient African mother of men, strong and black, whose very nature beat back the wilderness of oppression and contempt. Such a one was that cousin of my grandmother, whom western Massachusetts remembers as "Mum Bett." Scarred for life by a blow received in defense of a sister, she ran away to Great Barrington and was the first slave, or one of the first, to be declared free under the Bill of Rights of 1780. The son of the judge who freed her, writes:

In earlier days, they first appeared like foam flashing on dark, silent waters. Here and there, stern, dark women were brought to the world's attention, almost carelessly. At first, and naturally, they took on the armor of the ancient African mother of men. She was strong and black, and her very nature pushed back the wilderness of oppression and contempt. One such woman was my grandmother's cousin, whom western Massachusetts remembers as "Mum Bett." She was scarred for life by a blow she received while defending a sister. She ran away to Great Barrington. There she became the first slave, or one of the first, to be declared free under the Bill of Rights of 1780. The son of the judge who freed her writes:

It was such strong women that laid the foundations of the great Negro church of today, with its five million members and ninety millions of dollars in property. One of the early mothers of the church, Mary Still, writes thus quaintly, in the forties:

Strong women like these laid the foundations of today’s great Negro church. It has five million members and ninety million dollars in property. Mary Still, one of the church’s early mothers, wrote in this quaint way in the 1840s:

From such spiritual ancestry came two striking figures of war-time,—Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth.

From this spiritual heritage came two remarkable wartime figures: Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth.

For eight or ten years previous to the breaking out of the Civil War, Harriet Tubman was a constant attendant at anti-slavery conventions, lectures, and other meetings; she was a black woman of medium size, smiling countenance, with her upper front teeth gone, attired in coarse but neat clothes, and carrying always an old-fashioned reticule at her side. Usually as soon as she sat down she would drop off in sound sleep.

For eight or ten years before the Civil War began, Harriet Tubman regularly attended anti-slavery conventions, lectures, and other meetings. She was a black woman of medium size, with a smiling face and her upper front teeth missing. She wore coarse but neat clothes and always carried an old-fashioned handbag at her side. Usually, as soon as she sat down, she would fall sound asleep.

She was born a slave in Maryland, in 1820, bore the marks of the lash on her flesh; and had been made partially deaf, and perhaps to some degree mentally unbalanced by a blow on the head in childhood. Yet she was one of the most important agents of the Underground Railroad and a leader of fugitive slaves. She ran away in 1849 and went to Boston in 1854, where she was welcomed into the homes of the leading abolitionists and where every one listened with tense interest to her strange stories. She was absolutely illiterate, with no knowledge of geography, and yet year after year she penetrated the slave states and personally led North over three hundred fugitives without losing a single one. A standing reward of $10,000 was offered for her, but as she said: "The whites cannot catch us, for I was born with the charm, and the Lord has given me the power." She was one of John Brown's closest advisers and only severe sickness prevented her presence at Harper's Ferry.

She was born a slave in Maryland in 1820 and bore the marks of the lash on her body. A blow to the head in childhood had left her partially deaf and perhaps mentally unbalanced to some degree. Yet she was one of the most important agents of the Underground Railroad and a leader of fugitive slaves. She ran away in 1849 and went to Boston in 1854. There, she was welcomed into the homes of the leading abolitionists. Everyone listened with intense interest to her strange stories. She could not read or write at all and knew nothing of geography. Yet year after year she entered the slave states and personally led more than three hundred fugitives North without losing a single one. A standing reward of $10,000 was offered for her capture. But as she said: "The whites cannot catch us, for I was born with the charm, and the Lord has given me the power." She was one of John Brown's closest advisers. Only severe illness kept her from being at Harper's Ferry.

When the war cloud broke, she hastened to the front, flitting down along her own mysterious paths, haunting the armies in the field, and serving as guide and nurse and spy. She followed Sherman in his great march to the sea and was with Grant at Petersburg, and always in the camps the Union officers silently saluted her.

When war broke out, she hurried to the front, traveling along her own mysterious paths. She moved among the armies in the field, serving as a guide, nurse, and spy. She followed Sherman on his great march to the sea and was with Grant at Petersburg. Wherever she went in the camps, Union officers silently saluted her.

The other woman belonged to a different type,—a tall, gaunt, black, unsmiling sybil, weighted with the woe of the world. She ran away from slavery and giving up her own name took the name of Sojourner Truth. She says: "I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, 'Mammy, what makes you groan so?' And she would say, 'I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don't know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!'"

The other woman was a different type. She was a tall, gaunt, black, unsmiling prophetess, weighed down by the sorrow of the world. She ran away from slavery, gave up her own name, and took the name Sojourner Truth. She says: "I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit outside in the evenings. She would look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, 'Mammy, what makes you groan so?' And she would say, 'I am groaning to think of my poor children. They do not know where I am and I don't know where they are. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!'"

Her determination was founded on unwavering faith in ultimate good. Wendell Phillips says that he was once in Faneuil Hall, when Frederick Douglass was one of the chief speakers. Douglass had been describing the wrongs of the Negro race and as he proceeded he grew more and more excited and finally ended by saying that they had no hope of justice from the whites, no possible hope except in their own right arms. It must come to blood! They must fight for themselves. Sojourner Truth was sitting, tall and dark, on the very front seat facing the platform, and in the hush of feeling when Douglass sat down she spoke out in her deep, peculiar voice, heard all over the hall:

Her determination rested on an unwavering faith that good would ultimately prevail. Wendell Phillips recalled being at Faneuil Hall when Frederick Douglass was one of the main speakers. Douglass described the wrongs suffered by the Negro race. As he spoke, he grew more and more excited. Finally, he said that Negro people had no hope of justice from whites. Their only possible hope lay in their own strength. It must come to blood! They must fight for themselves. Sojourner Truth sat tall and dark in the front row, facing the platform. When Douglass sat down, a hush fell over the hall. Then she spoke in her deep, distinctive voice, which could be heard throughout the hall:

"Frederick, is God dead?"

"Frederick, is God dead?"

Such strong, primitive types of Negro womanhood in America seem to some to exhaust its capabilities. They know less of a not more worthy, but a finer type of black woman wherein trembles all of that delicate sense of beauty and striving for self-realization, which is as characteristic of the Negro soul as is its quaint strength and sweet laughter. George Washington wrote in grave and gentle courtesy to a Negro woman, in 1776, that he would "be happy to see" at his headquarters at any time, a person "to whom nature has been so liberal and beneficial in her dispensations." This child, Phillis Wheatley, sang her trite and halting strain to a world that wondered and could not produce her like. Measured today her muse was slight and yet, feeling her striving spirit, we call to her still in her own words:

To some, these strong, primitive types represent all that Negro womanhood in America can be. They know less about a finer type of black woman, though she is no more worthy. In her, a delicate sense of beauty and a striving for self-realization are alive. These qualities are as characteristic of the Negro soul as its quaint strength and sweet laughter. In 1776, George Washington wrote to a Negro woman with serious and gentle courtesy. He said he would "be happy to see" her at his headquarters at any time. He described her as a person "to whom nature has been so liberal and beneficial in her dispensations." This child, Phillis Wheatley, sang her commonplace and halting verses to a world that marveled. Yet that world could not produce anyone like her. By today's standards, her poetic gift was modest. Yet we feel her striving spirit, and we still call to her in her own words:

Perhaps even higher than strength and art loom human sympathy and sacrifice as characteristic of Negro womanhood. Long years ago, before the Declaration of Independence, Kate Ferguson was born in New York. Freed, widowed, and bereaved of her children before she was twenty, she took the children of the streets of New York, white and black, to her empty arms, taught them, found them homes, and with Dr. Mason of Murray Street Church established the first modern Sunday School in Manhattan.

Perhaps human sympathy and sacrifice are even more characteristic of Negro womanhood than strength and art. Long ago, before the Declaration of Independence, Kate Ferguson was born in New York. Before she was twenty, she had been freed, widowed, and had lost her children. She opened her empty arms to New York’s street children, white and black. She taught them and found them homes. With Dr. Mason of Murray Street Church, she established the first modern Sunday School in Manhattan.

Sixty years later came Mary Shadd up out of Delaware. She was tall and slim, of that ravishing dream-born beauty,—that twilight of the races which we call mulatto. Well-educated, vivacious, with determination shining from her sharp eyes, she threw herself singlehanded into the great Canadian pilgrimage when thousands of hunted black men hurried northward and crept beneath the protection of the lion's paw. She became teacher, editor, and lecturer; tramping afoot through winter snows, pushing without blot or blemish through crowd and turmoil to conventions and meetings, and finally becoming recruiting agent for the United States government in gathering Negro soldiers in the West.

Sixty years later, Mary Shadd came out of Delaware. She was tall and slim, with a ravishing, dreamlike beauty, the twilight of the races that we call mulatto. Well educated and lively, she had determination shining from her sharp eyes. She threw herself singlehandedly into the great Canadian pilgrimage. Thousands of hunted black men were hurrying north and finding shelter under the protection of the lion’s paw. She became a teacher, editor, and lecturer. She walked through winter snows and made her way, without stain on her character, through crowds and turmoil to conventions and meetings. Finally, she became a recruiting agent for the United States government, gathering Negro soldiers in the West.

After the war the sacrifice of Negro women for freedom and uplift is one of the finest chapters in their history. Let one life typify all: Louise De Mortie, a free-born Virginia girl, had lived most of her life in Boston. Her high forehead, swelling lips, and dark eyes marked her for a woman of feeling and intellect. She began a successful career as a public reader. Then came the War and the Call. She went to the orphaned colored children of New Orleans,—out of freedom into insult and oppression and into the teeth of the yellow fever. She toiled and dreamed. In 1887 she had raised money and built an orphan home and that same year, in the thirty-fourth year of her young life, she died, saying simply: "I belong to God."

After the war, the sacrifices Negro women made for freedom and uplift became one of the finest chapters in their history. Let one life stand for all. Louise De Mortie was born free in Virginia but had lived most of her life in Boston. Her high forehead, full lips, and dark eyes marked her as a woman of feeling and intellect. She began a successful career as a public reader. Then came the War and the Call. She went to help the orphaned colored children of New Orleans. She left freedom behind and faced insult, oppression, and the threat of yellow fever. She worked hard and dreamed. By 1887, she had raised money and built an orphan home. That same year, in the thirty-fourth year of her young life, she died, saying simply: "I belong to God."

As I look about me today in this veiled world of mine, despite the noisier and more spectacular advance of my brothers, I instinctively feel and know that it is the five million women of my race who really count. Black women (and women whose grandmothers were black) are today furnishing our teachers; they are the main pillars of those social settlements which we call churches; and they have with small doubt raised three-fourths of our church property. If we have today, as seems likely, over a billion dollars of accumulated goods, who shall say how much of it has been wrung from the hearts of servant girls and washerwomen and women toilers in the fields? As makers of two million homes these women are today seeking in marvelous ways to show forth our strength and beauty and our conception of the truth.

As I look around me today in this veiled world of mine, I instinctively feel and know that the five million women of my race are the ones who really count. This is true despite the louder and more spectacular advances of my brothers. Black women (and women whose grandmothers were black) provide our teachers today. They are the main pillars of the social settlements we call churches. They have almost certainly raised three-fourths of the money for our church property. We likely have over a billion dollars in accumulated goods today. If so, who can say how much of it has been wrung from the hearts of servant girls, washerwomen, and women working in the fields? As makers of two million homes, these women are finding marvelous ways to show our strength, our beauty, and our understanding of the truth.

In the United States in 1910 there were 4,931,882 women of Negro descent; over twelve hundred thousand of these were children, another million were girls and young women under twenty, and two and a half-million were adults. As a mass these women were unlettered,—a fourth of those from fifteen to twenty-five years of age were unable to write. These women are passing through, not only a moral, but an economic revolution. Their grandmothers married at twelve and fifteen, but twenty-seven per cent of these women today who have passed fifteen are still single.

In the United States in 1910, there were 4,931,882 women of Negro descent. More than 1,200,000 were children. Another million were girls and young women under twenty, and two and a half million were adults. As a group, these women had little education. A fourth of those between fifteen and twenty-five could not write. These women are going through both a moral and an economic revolution. Their grandmothers married at twelve and fifteen. But today, 27 percent of these women who are over fifteen are still single.

Yet these black women toil and toil hard. There were in 1910 two and a half million Negro homes in the United States. Out of these homes walked daily to work two million women and girls over ten years of age,—over half of the colored female population as against a fifth in the case of white women. These, then, are a group of workers, fighting for their daily bread like men; independent and approaching economic freedom! They furnished a million farm laborers, 80,000 farmers, 22,000 teachers, 600,000 servants and washerwomen, and 50,000 in trades and merchandizing.

Yet these black women work, and work hard. In 1910, there were two and a half million Negro homes in the United States. Every day, two million women and girls over ten left these homes to go to work. They made up over half of the colored female population, compared with a fifth of white women. These workers, then, are fighting for their daily bread like men. They are independent and approaching economic freedom! They included a million farm laborers, 80,000 farmers, 22,000 teachers, 600,000 servants and laundry workers, and 50,000 in trades and merchandising.

The family group, however, which is the ideal of the culture with which these folk have been born, is not based on the idea of an economically independent working mother. Rather its ideal harks back to the sheltered harem with the mother emerging at first as nurse and homemaker, while the man remains the sole breadwinner. What is the inevitable result of the clash of such ideals and such facts in the colored group? Broken families.

However, the family ideal in the culture these people were born into is not based on an economically independent working mother. Instead, that ideal goes back to the sheltered harem. The mother first becomes a nurse and homemaker, while the man remains the sole breadwinner. What inevitably happens when such ideals clash with such facts in the colored group? Broken families.

Among native white women one in ten is separated from her husband by death, divorce, or desertion. Among Negroes the ratio is one in seven. Is the cause racial? No, it is economic, because there is the same high ratio among the white foreign-born. The breaking up of the present family is the result of modern working and sex conditions and it hits the laborers with terrible force. The Negroes are put in a peculiarly difficult position, because the wage of the male breadwinner is below the standard, while the openings for colored women in certain lines of domestic work, and now in industries, are many. Thus while toil holds the father and brother in country and town at low wages, the sisters and mothers are called to the city. As a result the Negro women outnumber the men nine or ten to eight in many cities, making what Charlotte Gilman bluntly calls "cheap women."

Among native-born white women, one in ten is separated from her husband by death, divorce, or desertion. Among Negroes, the ratio is one in seven. Is the cause racial? No, it is economic, because the ratio is just as high among foreign-born white women. The modern family is breaking up because of modern working and sexual conditions. This hits laborers with terrible force. Negroes are in a particularly difficult position. Male breadwinners earn less than a standard wage, while colored women have many opportunities in certain kinds of domestic work and now in industry. So fathers and brothers work for low wages in the country and in towns, while sisters and mothers are drawn to the city. As a result, Negro women outnumber men by nine or ten to eight in many cities. This creates what Charlotte Gilman bluntly calls "cheap women."

What shall we say to this new economic equality in a great laboring class? Some people within and without the race deplore it. "Back to the homes with the women," they cry, "and higher wage for the men." But how impossible this is has been shown by war conditions. Cessation of foreign migration has raised Negro men's wages, to be sure—but it has not only raised Negro women's wages, it has opened to them a score of new avenues of earning a living. Indeed, here, in microcosm and with differences emphasizing sex equality, is the industrial history of labor in the 19th and 20th centuries. We cannot abolish the new economic freedom of women. We cannot imprison women again in a home or require them all on pain of death to be nurses and housekeepers.

What should we say about this new economic equality within a large working class? Some people both within and outside the race deplore it. "Send women back to the home," they cry, "and give men higher wages." But wartime conditions have shown how impossible this is. The halt in foreign migration has indeed raised Negro men's wages. But it has also raised Negro women's wages and opened up twenty new ways for them to earn a living. In fact, this is the industrial history of labor in the 19th and 20th centuries on a small scale. The difference here is that it emphasizes equality between the sexes. We cannot abolish women's new economic freedom. We cannot confine women to the home again or force them all, on pain of death, to be nurses and housekeepers.

What is today the message of these black women to America and to the world? The uplift of women is, next to the problem of the color line and the peace movement, our greatest modern cause. When, now, two of these movements—woman and color—combine in one, the combination has deep meaning.

What message do these black women have for America and the world today? Advancing women is one of our greatest modern causes. Only the problem of the color line and the peace movement are greater. When the movements for women and for color come together, their union has deep meaning.

In other years women's way was clear: to be beautiful, to be petted, to bear children. Such has been their theoretic destiny and if perchance they have been ugly, hurt, and barren, that has been forgotten with studied silence. In partial compensation for this narrowed destiny the white world has lavished its politeness on its womankind,—its chivalry and bows, its uncoverings and courtesies—all the accumulated homage disused for courts and kings and craving exercise. The revolt of white women against this preordained destiny has in these latter days reached splendid proportions, but it is the revolt of an aristocracy of brains and ability,—the middle class and rank and file still plod on in the appointed path, paid by the homage, the almost mocking homage, of men.

In earlier years, women’s path was clear: to be beautiful, to be pampered, and to bear children. That was what they were supposed to do. If they happened to be ugly, hurt, or unable to bear children, that was passed over in deliberate silence. To partly make up for this narrow destiny, the white world showered its women with politeness. It offered them chivalry, bows, the removal of hats, and other courtesies. These were all forms of respect no longer used for royal courts and kings, but still eager to find expression. In recent years, white women’s revolt against this predetermined destiny has reached impressive heights. But it is the revolt of an elite of intelligence and ability. The middle class and ordinary women still follow the prescribed path, rewarded by men’s respect, which is almost mocking.

From black women of America, however, (and from some others, too, but chiefly from black women and their daughters' daughters) this gauze has been withheld and without semblance of such apology they have been frankly trodden under the feet of men. They are and have been objected to, apparently for reasons peculiarly exasperating to reasoning human beings. When in this world a man comes forward with a thought, a deed, a vision, we ask not, how does he look,—but what is his message? It is of but passing interest whether or not the messenger is beautiful or ugly,—the message is the thing. This, which is axiomatic among men, has been in past ages but partially true if the messenger was a woman. The world still wants to ask that a woman primarily be pretty and if she is not, the mob pouts and asks querulously, "What else are women for?" Beauty "is its own excuse for being," but there are other excuses, as most men know, and when the white world objects to black women because it does not consider them beautiful, the black world of right asks two questions: "What is beauty?" and, "Suppose you think them ugly, what then? If ugliness and unconventionality and eccentricity of face and deed do not hinder men from doing the world's work and reaping the world's reward, why should it hinder women?"

Black women of America, however, have been denied this veil. Some others have been denied it too, but chiefly black women and their daughters' daughters. Without even the appearance of such an apology, they have been openly trampled under the feet of men. They face and have faced objections for reasons that seem especially maddening to reasoning human beings. When a man comes forward with a thought, a deed, or a vision, we do not ask how he looks. We ask, what is his message? Whether the messenger is beautiful or ugly is of only passing interest. The message is what matters. This is taken for granted among men, but in past ages it was only partly true when the messenger was a woman. The world still wants a woman to be pretty above all else. If she is not, the crowd pouts and complains, "What else are women for?" Beauty "is its own excuse for being," but there are other excuses, as most men know. The white world objects to black women because it does not think them beautiful. In response, the black world rightly asks two questions: "What is beauty?" and, "Suppose you think them ugly, what then? If ugliness and unconventional or eccentric faces and actions do not prevent men from doing the world's work and earning the world's reward, why should they prevent women?"

Other things being equal, all of us, black and white, would prefer to be beautiful in face and form and suitably clothed; but most of us are not so, and one of the mightiest revolts of the century is against the devilish decree that no woman is a woman who is not by present standards a beautiful woman. This decree the black women of America have in large measure escaped from the first. Not being expected to be merely ornamental, they have girded themselves for work, instead of adorning their bodies only for play. Their sturdier minds have concluded that if a woman be clean, healthy, and educated, she is as pleasing as God wills and far more useful than most of her sisters. If in addition to this she is pink and white and straight-haired, and some of her fellow-men prefer this, well and good; but if she is black or brown and crowned in curled mists (and this to us is the most beautiful thing on earth), this is surely the flimsiest excuse for spiritual incarceration or banishment.

All else being equal, all of us, black and white, would prefer to have beautiful faces and bodies and appropriate clothes. But most of us do not. One of the century’s greatest revolts is against a devilish decree. It says that no woman is truly a woman unless she is beautiful by today’s standards. From the beginning, black women in America have largely escaped this decree. They were not expected to be merely decorative, so they prepared themselves for work instead of dressing only for play. Their stronger minds have concluded that a clean, healthy, educated woman is as pleasing as God wills. She is also far more useful than most of her sisters. If she is also pink and white and has straight hair, and some men prefer this, well and good. But if she is black or brown and crowned with mistlike curls, that is surely the flimsiest excuse for spiritual imprisonment or banishment. To us, those curls are the most beautiful thing on earth.

The very attempt to do this in the case of Negro Americans has strangely over-reached itself. By so much as the defective eyesight of the white world rejects black women as beauties, by so much the more it needs them as human beings,—an enviable alternative, as many a white woman knows. Consequently, for black women alone, as a group, "handsome is that handsome does" and they are asked to be no more beautiful than God made them, but they are asked to be efficient, to be strong, fertile, muscled, and able to work. If they marry, they must as independent workers be able to help support their children, for their men are paid on a scale which makes sole support of the family often impossible.

The very attempt to do this to Negro Americans has strangely backfired. The white world’s flawed vision rejects black women as beauties. But the more it does so, the more it needs them as human beings. Many a white woman knows this is an enviable alternative. Consequently, black women alone, as a group, live by the rule that "handsome is that handsome does." They are not asked to be more beautiful than God made them. But they are asked to be efficient, strong, fertile, muscular, and able to work. If they marry, they must be able to work independently and help support their children. That is because their men are paid so little that they often cannot support a family on their own.

On the whole, colored working women are paid as well as white working women for similar work, save in some higher grades, while colored men get from one-fourth to three-fourths less than white men. The result is curious and three-fold: the economic independence of black women is increased, the breaking up of Negro families must be more frequent, and the number of illegitimate children is decreased more slowly among them than other evidences of culture are increased, just as was once true in Scotland and Bavaria.

On the whole, colored working women are paid as well as white working women for similar work. The exception is some higher-level jobs. Colored men, however, earn from one-fourth to three-fourths less than white men. The result is curious and threefold. Black women gain economic independence, and Negro families must break up more often. Also, the number of illegitimate children among them decreases more slowly than other signs of cultural advancement increase. The same was once true in Scotland and Bavaria.

What does this mean? It forecasts a mighty dilemma which the whole world of civilization, despite its will, must one time frankly face: the unhusbanded mother or the childless wife. God send us a world with woman's freedom and married motherhood inextricably wed, but until He sends it, I see more of future promise in the betrayed girl-mothers of the black belt than in the childless wives of the white North, and I have more respect for the colored servant who yields to her frank longing for motherhood than for her white sister who offers up children for clothes. Out of a sex freedom that today makes us shudder will come in time a day when we will no longer pay men for work they do not do, for the sake of their harem; we will pay women what they earn and insist on their working and earning it; we will allow those persons to vote who know enough to vote, whether they be black or female, white or male; and we will ward race suicide, not by further burdening the over-burdened, but by honoring motherhood, even when the sneaking father shirks his duty.

What does this mean? It points to a great dilemma that the whole civilized world must someday face honestly, whether it wants to or not: the unmarried mother or the childless wife. God grant us a world where women’s freedom and motherhood within marriage are inseparably joined. But until he does, I see more promise for the future in the betrayed young mothers of the black belt than in the childless wives of the white North. I have more respect for the colored servant who follows her honest longing for motherhood than for her white sister who gives up children for clothes. The sexual freedom that makes us shudder today will one day bring change. We will no longer pay men for work they do not do, for the sake of their harem. We will pay women what they earn and insist that they work to earn it. We will let people vote if they know enough to vote, whether they are black or female, white or male. And we will prevent race suicide, not by adding to the burdens of the overburdened, but by honoring motherhood, even when the cowardly father shirks his duty.

"Wait till the lady passes," said a Nashville white boy.

"Wait until the lady passes," said a white boy in Nashville.

"She's no lady; she's a nigger," answered another.

"She's no lady. She's a nigger," another person replied.

So some few women are born free, and some amid insult and scarlet letters achieve freedom; but our women in black had freedom thrust contemptuously upon them. With that freedom they are buying an untrammeled independence and dear as is the price they pay for it, it will in the end be worth every taunt and groan. Today the dreams of the mothers are coming true. We have still our poverty and degradation, our lewdness and our cruel toil; but we have, too, a vast group of women of Negro blood who for strength of character, cleanness of soul, and unselfish devotion of purpose, is today easily the peer of any group of women in the civilized world. And more than that, in the great rank and file of our five million women we have the up-working of new revolutionary ideals, which must in time have vast influence on the thought and action of this land.

So a few women are born free, and some achieve freedom amid insults and scarlet letters. But freedom was thrust upon our women in black with contempt. With that freedom, they are buying unrestricted independence. Though the price is high, in the end it will be worth every taunt and groan. Today the dreams of the mothers are coming true. We still face poverty and degradation, sexual immorality and cruel toil. But we also have a vast group of women of Negro blood. In strength of character, purity of soul, and selfless devotion to their purpose, they easily equal any group of women in the civilized world today. More than that, new revolutionary ideals are rising among the great majority of our five million women. In time, these ideals must have a vast influence on thought and action in this land.

For this, their promise, and for their hard past, I honor the women of my race. Their beauty,—their dark and mysterious beauty of midnight eyes, crumpled hair, and soft, full-featured faces—is perhaps more to me than to you, because I was born to its warm and subtle spell; but their worth is yours as well as mine. No other women on earth could have emerged from the hell of force and temptation which once engulfed and still surrounds black women in America with half the modesty and womanliness that they retain. I have always felt like bowing myself before them in all abasement, searching to bring some tribute to these long-suffering victims, these burdened sisters of mine, whom the world, the wise, white world, loves to affront and ridicule and wantonly to insult. I have known the women of many lands and nations,—I have known and seen and lived beside them, but none have I known more sweetly feminine, more unswervingly loyal, more desperately earnest, and more instinctively pure in body and in soul than the daughters of my black mothers. This, then,—a little thing—to their memory and inspiration.

For this promise, and for their hard past, I honor the women of my race. Their beauty may mean more to me than it does to you. It is a dark and mysterious beauty, with midnight eyes, crumpled hair, and soft, full-featured faces. I was born under its warm and subtle spell. But their worth belongs to you as well as to me. No other women on earth could have come through that hell of force and temptation with half the modesty and womanliness black women retain. That hell once engulfed black women in America, and it still surrounds them. I have always felt like bowing humbly before them, searching for some tribute to offer them. They are these long-suffering victims, these burdened sisters of mine. The world, the wise, white world, loves to affront and ridicule them and insult them for no reason. I have known, seen, and lived beside women of many lands and nations. But I have known none more sweetly feminine, more unwaveringly loyal, more desperately earnest, or more instinctively pure in body and soul than the daughters of my black mothers. So I offer this little thing to their memory and inspiration.