Read Online Circled Heart by Karen J. Hasley - Free Book Online Page B

answered in generalities, careful not to betray the privacy of anyone at the Anchorage, the first rule of social services and one that had been vehemently repeated through my college years. Jennie was interested, listening intently and asking intelligent questions, but that did not sit well with her mother.
    “Come along, Jennie. That’s more information than you really need at your age. You have nothing in common with those women. They have one kind of life and future and you have quite another.” Jennie made a face at me but stood obediently.
    “Johanna’s going to a suffrage rally tonight,” she said artlessly. “I don’t know why she gets to have all the fun.” Aunt Kitty gave a disapproving little tsk in reply and Jennie flashed me a quick, mischievous grin.
    She’ll blossom some day, I thought, and have a mind and a will of her own once she gets out of her mother’s shadow. I couldn’t have been fonder of Jennie if she’d been my sister and thought that her quick mind, her spirit, and her classical beauty set her apart from other girls her age. Then I remembered Flora and Kipsy and Ruthie, all Jennie’s age or younger but far removed from my cousin’s life of privilege, and wondered how different their lives would have been had they experienced Jennie’s advantages. I had realized years ago as I left the graves of my family behind and traveled to San Francisco that life was not fair or equal, but knowing did not keep me from wishing it were so.
    That evening I asked Levi to take me downtown to the Tribune office and to return in an hour when I expected the presentation to be done; I am not always shy about using the privileges available to me. Hilda Cartwright waited for me at the doorway of the meeting room where Mrs. Trout was to speak and together the two of us made our way to the front row of chairs where two seats had been reserved for us. The room filled up quickly—mostly with men, I noticed—and I wondered whether Hilda had been right to believe this would be an unsympathetic and hostile crowd. If that were so, the knowledge did not appear to make a difference to the speaker.
    Grace Wilbur Trout was an imposing woman, a stately and elegant brunette nearing fifty but with the animation and energy of a woman half her age. She took the podium comfortably after the brief introduction and spoke with intelligence and passion about the necessity for women to have the vote for the improvement of society and the good of the nation.
    “That youths can vote on issues that affect their mothers while their mothers cannot vote at all is preposterous. How can we say that is good for society? If a nation implies that grown women are not informed or intelligent enough to make decisions at the ballot box, will that not cause young men to feel a natural scorn and disrespect for their mothers? Does not the inability of mothers and sisters to have their voices heard in elections create family disunity, and is that not the very effect suffrage opponents fear?”
    “Wasn’t any complaints heard before women like you stirred things up,” one man grumbled audibly from the back of the room.
    Mrs. Trout continued until another negative comment was made: “Seems to me the family was doing just fine before all this hubbub started. Women shouldn’t be interfering in men’s business.”
    And still Mrs. Trout continued with her speech undeterred, calm and competent, intelligent and unflappable. I admired her perseverance and was outraged on her behalf at the rude comments that filtered through the crowd, nothing boisterous or overt so that I could tell the person to sit down and be quiet but always words spoken in a low voice that generated subdued laughter from those in the speaker’s vicinity. I considered it a planned conspiracy to discredit Mrs. Trout and her message and would have preferred something more confrontational so I could respond in kind. As it was, all Hilda and I could do was sit quietly and