Tonight on the news I heard that today, June 4th, marks the 100th anniversary of Congress passing the 19th Amendment.
The reporter said something about someone doing something to honor the suffragettes who raised their voices and fought for the right for women to vote. I don’t know if it was here in Tennessee somewhere or elsewhere.
I know. Vague.
I was doing dishes at the time. I had the news on more for noise than anything. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention until I heard the word “Suffragette.” But then it was too late and the story was over.
However, whenever I hear that word I always think of my grandma.
Have you ever found out something about a family member that surprised you? Maybe even shocked you a little? But just a little. A mild shock.
I imagine we’ve all had those moments. Maybe you assumed Uncle Frank liked peanut butter, but one day you found out that he can’t stand the stuff but everyone else in the family loves it.
Or maybe conservative Aunt Erma confessed to dating a Hippie in her youth. Maybe she even admitted she smoked a joint or something.
Stuff like that.
I’ll never forget the day my grandma told me she wasn’t a suffragette. I don’t know how the topic even came up. I want to say I was in high school taking American History and studying the Constitution, but that might not be true.
Gram would’ve been 16 in 1919. Once, she told me that her and her sister had bought sweaters with the money they made from the jobs at a factory they worked at.
“Oh how Ma Mere was fit to be tied with us,” she said, giggling mischievously at the memory.
“Why?”
“Back then, sweaters were considered almost scandalous,” Gram explained.
“A sweater? What’s so bad about that?” I asked.
I lived in Colorado at that time. Sweaters were something I took for granted. I couldn’t imagine making it through a winter without one. I couldn’t wrap my mind around a sweater having anything controversial in common with, say, something like a bikini.
“They were more form fitting than what we normally wore and were considered indecent by some, including Ma Mere. But La La and I loved them. Had to have one. So we saved up and bought ourselves one.”
(La La was Gram’s nickname for her beloved sister, Laura.)
I loved learning this about Gram. I also knew she had eloped when she met my granddad. She had been such a free spirit in her youth. A little bit rebellious. A little bit naughty.
Between that and because my mom was such a feminist, I assumed Gram was too.
Fast forward back to the time the topic of the Suffrage Movement came up.
“Did you march or anything, Gram?”
She was always such an affable lady. Happy. Sweet. But when something disgusted her, oh the faces she’d make. That question had provoked one of her scrunched up faces like the words coming out of my mouth had smelled foul.
“No! I didn’t care about any of that. Leave the voting to the men. They can have the headaches of making decisions.”
What? What do you mean leave the thinking to the men? My whole life my mom had hounded into me the importance of thinking for myself. Why would Gram be okay with having her rights suppressed or put into anyone else’s hands?
I never got the chance to ask her.
For one, my mom had been nearby when the conversation had happened. My grandma’s answer had sent my mom into a tizzy. The topic was rapidly switched.
Second, there wasn’t ever really a time to revisit the subject.
Sadly.
A bubble was burst that day. For the first time in my life I realized my grandma had a flaw. She wasn’t exactly who I thought she was.
I still loved her. Fiercely. The romantic in me was just disappointed to learn she hadn’t donned a sash and marched in a parade or attended rallies.
But I’m glad other people’s grandmas –and grandpas– felt differently and worked to see that all people have a chance to vote, regardless of gender.
What about you? Do you know if one of your foremothers was a Suffragette?