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Authors: Karen J. Hasley
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absolutely no mystery about me. I am exactly what you see, a woman plain and thin and stubborn. And thick-skinned.” Crea smiled at my words, an honest smile that hinted she might be able to approve of me after all, and said good night.
That incident occurred Thursday and through the next week I met individually with all the residents of the Anchorage to introduce myself. I met Elena, a young, pregnant Greek immigrant whose husband had died their first week in Chicago, and Betsy, fresh from the Illinois farmlands and pregnant, too, unable to go home because her family wouldn’t take her back. Yvesta, middle-aged with two blackened eyes from a brute of a husband, had her two children with her, both clinging to their mother’s skirts and quick to jump at any loud noise. Kipsy, an orphaned girl who had taken to the streets for a living, was new at the Anchorage, twelve years old at the most and smart enough to see there was no future in a life of prostitution. Henrietta, who came with her newborn because her husband decided he didn’t like married life and fatherhood after all; Ruthie, whose husband-to-be died in a fire leaving her pregnant and afraid to go home; and Mrs. McElhanie, sixty-five and nowhere else to turn, all lived there for the time being, too. And of course, there was young and pretty Flora, who hated the idea of being pregnant, hated the thought of a baby, and wanted her old dreams back. She longed to be an actress or a dancer on the stage with pretty clothes and face paint, surrounded by music and laughter and applause. Conception had come as a surprise to her.
“I didn’t know that’s how it happened,” she told me defiantly. “No one ever explained it. If they had, I wouldn’t be here now. I never wanted a family, and I don’t need a man if this is what comes from having one around.”
I looked at her gravely and suggested, “Let’s look at your options. Are you certain you don’t want to keep the child?”
“I don’t want to have the child,” she retorted, watching my face for any expression of outrage or disgust.
“I realize that—and I can appreciate it—but believe me, anything you attempt will endanger your own life more than the child’s. Better to go through with the pregnancy and let us find a good home for the baby.”
That was not the advice Flora wanted to hear, but recalling her misery after ingesting an entire bottle of Peckham’s Syrup, she didn’t argue, only glared at me with an expression of fury mixed with helplessness and fear before she flounced heavily out of the room.
At the end of my first full week, Hilda Cartwright stopped by my little office, hardly bigger than a closet, and asked if I recognized the name Grace Wilbur Trout.
“She’s the head of the Chicago Political Equality League and is leading the charge for women’s suffrage in the state of Illinois. Why?”
“I’ve known Grace for several years. The Tribune has invited her to speak at their offices tomorrow evening and she’s going to do it. I warned her the invitation was no doubt made because it was a slow news week and the reporters will be hoping for something sensational, and I fear she may be facing an unsympathetic crowd. Would you like to attend or have you no interest in women’s suffrage?” I remembered the London march I’d participated in, the outraged reaction from observers lining the streets, the feeling of unity with the women around me, the rhetoric, and the threats.
“I do have an interest and I’d very much like to come.”
Saturday morning Aunt Kitty and Jennie stopped at Hill Street for a quick visit on their way to find a new dress for Jennie. She would turn nineteen in June and it would no doubt be the occasion for a major party with a band and catered refreshments and all the other accoutrements that my Aunt Kitty loved. Jennie, wearing a suit that somehow managed to accent her beautiful figure instead of hide it, asked me about my first week of work. I
That incident occurred Thursday and through the next week I met individually with all the residents of the Anchorage to introduce myself. I met Elena, a young, pregnant Greek immigrant whose husband had died their first week in Chicago, and Betsy, fresh from the Illinois farmlands and pregnant, too, unable to go home because her family wouldn’t take her back. Yvesta, middle-aged with two blackened eyes from a brute of a husband, had her two children with her, both clinging to their mother’s skirts and quick to jump at any loud noise. Kipsy, an orphaned girl who had taken to the streets for a living, was new at the Anchorage, twelve years old at the most and smart enough to see there was no future in a life of prostitution. Henrietta, who came with her newborn because her husband decided he didn’t like married life and fatherhood after all; Ruthie, whose husband-to-be died in a fire leaving her pregnant and afraid to go home; and Mrs. McElhanie, sixty-five and nowhere else to turn, all lived there for the time being, too. And of course, there was young and pretty Flora, who hated the idea of being pregnant, hated the thought of a baby, and wanted her old dreams back. She longed to be an actress or a dancer on the stage with pretty clothes and face paint, surrounded by music and laughter and applause. Conception had come as a surprise to her.
“I didn’t know that’s how it happened,” she told me defiantly. “No one ever explained it. If they had, I wouldn’t be here now. I never wanted a family, and I don’t need a man if this is what comes from having one around.”
I looked at her gravely and suggested, “Let’s look at your options. Are you certain you don’t want to keep the child?”
“I don’t want to have the child,” she retorted, watching my face for any expression of outrage or disgust.
“I realize that—and I can appreciate it—but believe me, anything you attempt will endanger your own life more than the child’s. Better to go through with the pregnancy and let us find a good home for the baby.”
That was not the advice Flora wanted to hear, but recalling her misery after ingesting an entire bottle of Peckham’s Syrup, she didn’t argue, only glared at me with an expression of fury mixed with helplessness and fear before she flounced heavily out of the room.
At the end of my first full week, Hilda Cartwright stopped by my little office, hardly bigger than a closet, and asked if I recognized the name Grace Wilbur Trout.
“She’s the head of the Chicago Political Equality League and is leading the charge for women’s suffrage in the state of Illinois. Why?”
“I’ve known Grace for several years. The Tribune has invited her to speak at their offices tomorrow evening and she’s going to do it. I warned her the invitation was no doubt made because it was a slow news week and the reporters will be hoping for something sensational, and I fear she may be facing an unsympathetic crowd. Would you like to attend or have you no interest in women’s suffrage?” I remembered the London march I’d participated in, the outraged reaction from observers lining the streets, the feeling of unity with the women around me, the rhetoric, and the threats.
“I do have an interest and I’d very much like to come.”
Saturday morning Aunt Kitty and Jennie stopped at Hill Street for a quick visit on their way to find a new dress for Jennie. She would turn nineteen in June and it would no doubt be the occasion for a major party with a band and catered refreshments and all the other accoutrements that my Aunt Kitty loved. Jennie, wearing a suit that somehow managed to accent her beautiful figure instead of hide it, asked me about my first week of work. I
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