Tag Archives: Women’s History Month

Jane Grant and Caroline Singer

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Jane Grant, co-founder of The New Yorker, writer, and newspaperwoman, worked and/or crossed paths with many intelligent, ambitious career women. Like her, most of them were well known in their lifetimes but have since fallen into historical obscurity. As I tell the story of Jane’s involvement with The New Yorker, I weave in bits of those women’s lives, too—to remind the world of their accomplishments and to show how they may have inspired Jane.

Caroline Singer was one. By 1909, when she was still in her early 20s, she worked as a newspaper reporter in San Francisco, the city she grew up in, and had her own byline. Caroline married newspaper man William (“Doc”—he would, for a short time, practice dentistry) Mundell in 1911; two years later he changed careers again and opened a private detective agency.

In 1918, while the United States was involved in what would come to be called the First World War, the couple temporarily lived in Washington, D.C. Mundell was recruited for “secret service work” for one of President Wilson’s cabinet members. Caroline served as a member of the education committee of the War Camp Community Service under Raymond Fosdick, chair of the Committee on Training Camp Activities.

The American Red Cross then hired Caroline to go to France as part of its news service and to assist with publicity. She arrived during the last weeks of the war in 1918. She quickly found the Stars and Stripes office in Paris, where she made an immediate impression on its all-male staff. Caroline was not only a smart, seasoned journalist, she also commanded attention, standing at six feet tall, with inquisitive hazel eyes and cropped brown hair, all of which later earned her the nickname “the Goddess.”

Jane Grant, who also frequented The Stars and Stripes office, made fast friends with Caroline. The two women spent time together when free from their other obligations—Jane performing with the YMCA and Caroline gathering information for a book she would co-write about the history of the Red Cross during the war. Jane later remembered how “Caroline and I were called the Stars and Stripes camp followers by this mad crowd.” The women surely understood the double entendre.

Cyrus Leroy (known as Roy) Baldridge, the artist-illustrator for the newspaper whose own height surpassed six feet, was particularly captivated by Caroline Singer. A romance ensued. But when her Red Cross work wrapped up in 1919, Caroline returned to San Francisco and, presumably at least for a while, Mundell. The marriage did not last; Caroline and Baldridge wed in November 1921 and settled in Harmon, an area of Croton-on-Hudson, New York, about an hour north of New York City.

They built a blue stone cottage on a hill overlooking the Hudson River. A reporter noted a few years later that the locals, “more or less accustomed by now to the queer ways of bohemians, still watch them, wide eyed,” and “can’t tell Caroline from Roy at a distance, for they both wear flannel sport shirts, riding breeches, and her hair is cropped as close as his.”

[Caroline Singer, c. 1920s]

Every Sunday for about three years, visitors from New York City—mostly editors, publishers, writers, painters—made the trek north to spend the day soaking in the natural beauty of the place and having fun. It is likely that Jane Grant and Harold Ross were among them.

In the summer of 1924, Caroline Singer and Roy Baldridge rented out the cottage and headed off to Asia for six months. The result was a book, Turn to the East (1926), written by Caroline and illustrated by Baldridge. They continued this professional partnership as they traveled widely during the rest of the 1920s and into the 1930s, producing White Africans and Black (1929) and Half the World is Isfahan (1936). The books earned positive reviews, both for Caroline’s narrative style and Baldridge’s artistic talent.

International travel became more dangerous by the end of the 1930s, and the couple adjusted their careers accordingly. Caroline wrote children’s books (she also volunteered for children’s organizations in New York), which Baldridge illustrated. They both became involved with liberal political causes. Caroline may have attended meetings of the feminist group, Heterodoxy, and she joined the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom and the League of Women Voters.

Caroline also continued to write articles, mostly for magazines, including Opportunity: A Journal of Negro Life, published by the National Urban League. A reporter for the Black weekly newspaper the New York Age described her in 1941 as “one of America’s better known white writers.” The article highlighted a piece Caroline had recently written for Opportunity, in which she asked white women to “make real democracy work here in America.” Caroline labeled “Anti-Negroism the most deeply-rooted and the most wide-spread of our Anti-Democratic and Anti-Social prejudices.” She believed they were a “national vice.” Caroline called on white women to admit Black women into their clubs and organizations, especially—and crucially now that it was wartime—those involving civilian defense.

Caroline Singer and Roy Baldridge left New York in 1952 and settled in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Baldridge joined the faculty of the Hill and Canyon School of the Arts. Caroline apparently stopped writing, perhaps due to ill health. She died in 1963.

“Mrs. Baldridge, Noted Writer, Dies After Illness” announced the obituary that ran in the local paper. It identified, with little elaboration, that Caroline was an “author and artist of renown in her own right,” and acknowledged that “her name before her marriage was Caroline Singer.” Such a cursory nod to such a remarkable career for an American white woman in the first half of the twentieth century.

After Caroline’s death, Baldridge donated to the University of Chicago, his alma mater, some of his drawings and copies of the books they published. His papers are also there, a modest accumulation amounting to four boxes, probably bequeathed after his death in 1977. Traces of his wife can be found in the collection’s Series III, labeled Caroline Singer, containing pieces of her published and unpublished work, portraits, and photographs from 1920 to 1943. They comprise three file folders.

The Chicago art critic, poet, and world traveler Blanche Coates Matthias, a friend of the couple, saved many of the letters she received from Caroline Singer. Those are located in the Blanche Matthias Papers (17 boxes, 2 file folders of Caroline’s letters that have been digitized and make fascinating reading) at the Yale University Archives.

That is what remains of Caroline Singer: her books and articles, plus some modest archival holdings.

In 1927, the journalist and critic Alexander Woollcott, who had been one of Jane Grant’s first friends at the New York Times, wrote about Caroline Singer and Roy Baldridge for a newspaper piece. Woollcott was particularly fascinated by Baldridge’s “penchant” for traveling, and pointed out that “Caroline Singer is far from his silent partner in vagrancy. She goes along and helps.” According to Woollcott, how did this wife help her husband? When Baldridge decided, while out on one of their adventures, to make a sketch, Caroline “pitches in” to arrange the subject. “Or they come out of Japan with a book in mind, and, as in the case of their beautiful Turn to the East, she will write its text.”

How is writing the text of a book—actually writing a book—considered helping? The title page lists Caroline’s name first, as it was on the couple’s subsequent books. Caroline was not “far from” being Baldridge’s silent partner; she was not silent at all. She was an equal partner and deserved, in all situations, to be recognized as such. Yet despite her accomplishments, because Caroline was married, many people like Woollcott assumed she was the helpmate of her husband.

Jane Grant faced the same assumption about her role with The New Yorker. This is one of the ways in which women disappear from or are obscured in the historical record. Uncovering and restoring these women’s lives is essential to documenting and understanding a complete history of any given society. (And “complete,” these days, is especially important.) This is why Women’s History Month remains crucial.

Welcome to Women’s History Month 2025

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Every year, the National Women’s History Alliance selects a theme for Women’s History Month. 2025’s is particularly relevant.

Its goals and objectives in choosing this theme are listed as:

  • Honor: Recognize the achievements and contributions of women educators, mentors, and leaders.
  • Inspire: Motivate all generations to pursue education and leadership roles.
  • Educate: Raise awareness about the unheralded legacies of women from every walk of life, highlighting their unique contributions and diverse backgrounds, including socioeconomic status, ethnicity, race, culture, abilities, and personal experiences.
  • Unite: Bring together communities to explore, share, and celebrate women’s history and achievements.
  • Envision: Create a blueprint for the future that honors our foremothers and builds bridges for the next generation of women.

This would be challenging during the best of times, and politically, these are not the best of times. I was surprised—but very relieved—to find that an official government website still exists for Women’s History Month and that it contains good, solid information about a diversity of women.

Yes, I used diversity, as in the first word in DEI, which the current administration is trying to wipe out. Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. A quick look at Wikipedia reveals a fair, common-sense definition:

Organizational frameworks that seek to promote the fair treatment and full participation of all people, particularly groups who have historically been underrepresented or subject to discrimination based on identity or disability.

Nothing to be afraid of here, nothing evil.

Women historically have been underrepresented and subjected to discrimination. Movements to end those practices have existed and continue to exist while those practices continue. Sometimes these movements have been successful.

That Women’s History Month exists at all represents one of those successes. You can read about its history here.

Unfortunately, women today are confronted with the reality that hard-won rights can be taken away. Vigilance is required more than ever. Complacency is the enemy. Do what you can. Follow current events. Vote. Read. Read women’s history.

Not sure where to begin? Historian Pamela D. Toler writes a marvelous blog called History in the Margins. During the month of March she is featuring (as she has done for the last six years) interviews with very smart people who focus on women’s history. She started a bit early this year, with a late February post about Amy Reading and her biography of editor Katharine White. There will be great stuff all month.

Since I’ve declared 2025 the year of Jane Grant, I will be posting about some of the women (both well-known and decidedly less so) she crossed paths with in her lifetime.

Until then, Happy Women’s History Month.

A 2912 Tale of Photographs, Memories, and Momories, Part II: Irene senior and Irene junior

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I’ve been trying to write this second part of the 2912 Tale since last November. Every time I get to a certain section of it, my brain refuses to move forward. I keep thinking, nope, this is too much. Even though I’ve been writing and publishing for close to thirty years, for this part of the Tale, words fail me. Repeatedly.

Anyway, a quick reminder of the preceding post: Back in October, as I sorted through family pictures with my sister Kathi, I was hit with both memories and momories—my term for the stories our mom (aka Irene junior) told. I know that what I’ve been calling momories are really a form of oral history, the process of verbally passing along information and stories to the next generation. But for me, calling them momories makes their provenance clear and keeps our mom centered in my memories.

As Kathi and I went through those snapshots, we ran across a few of our mom that I didn’t remember seeing before. They had our mom’s careful all-capitals printing on the backs, where she jotted a few identifiers. These jarred a couple of more momories that made me further ponder the relationship between Irene junior and her paternal grandmother, Irene senior.

The first photo is of Irene junior at about a year old, with her father George, Irene senior’s firstborn son, who is holding her hands to help her walk. They are in the yard of the tiny summer home (always called the cottage) owned by Irene senior and her husband Edward (who died before we were born) near a small lake in northern Illinois.*

The second, which I found as startling as the one of Irene senior sitting on a donkey in Capri, shows our mom, probably no more than twenty years old, wearing a strapless swimsuit, smiling at the camera. This picture was probably taken in that same yard at the cottage. Despite the smile, Irene junior did not like warm weather and direct sunshine.

I have a momory about an incident that took place at the cottage probably sometime between the 1940s and early 1950s. Irene junior would have been old enough to be in the room when it happened—the only bedroom in the house, where a small group of female relatives, including her mother and grandmother, changed into their bathing suits before heading down to the lake—but I don’t remember her saying how old.

A younger married woman first raised Irene senior’s hackles by not modestly turning away from the others as she removed her clothing. Flashing portions of her naked body, this woman complained about her husband, said she wasn’t happy in her marriage, and wanted to leave him and get a divorce. Irene scolded the woman—I don’t remember if our mom said it was a niece, perhaps, or a younger cousin—telling her to stop talking foolishly, to behave herself, and go on home with her husband. Our mom related that the young woman felt properly chastised and indeed continued in her marriage, never again mentioning leaving her husband. Nana, our mom said in a tone ladened with finality, didn’t approve of divorce, so there was no divorce in our family.

Lately I’ve been considering that momory alongside another one that should be prefaced by this piece of information. At some point early in our parents’ marriage (or maybe just after they’d become engaged—my memory of the momory is faulty here), Nana bought our dad Mike a pair of sturdy leather work boots. Even if this had been a birthday or Christmas present, it was a generous gift and not inexpensive.

I have wondered if the boots might have been Nana’s way of apologizing for a remark she made, not in Mike’s presence, but one all the members of the Berwyn bungalow household probably chuckled about as they gleefully relayed it to him. Our mom still laughed about it decades later whenever she brought it up; our dad did something like an eyeroll when she did.

The story went like this: While our mom waited for our dad to pick her up for one of their first dates, Irene senior watched as he got out of his car and headed up the concrete front steps of the bungalow. She noted his appearance—loose-fit khaki pants, a Hawaiian-style shirt, dark sunglasses, probably a cigarette in his hand—and announced, “A hoodlum’s come to pick up our Irene.”

(Mike, about 10 years before he met Irene junior, cultivating that “hoodlum” appearance.)

Nana must have changed her mind soon after having an actual conversation with our dad. The two of them ended up liking each other. The work boots she bought for him were a thoughtful gift. Mike learned land surveying in the army, a trade he continued in civilian life, and quality footwear made a huge difference to his on-the-job comfort.

(Mike, somewhere in Korea sometime in 1951, wearing boots similar to the ones Irene senior later gave him.)

Our dad kept those boots for the rest of his life, carefully cleaning and polishing the leather, getting the soles and heels replaced when they wore down.** They probably reminded him of Nana and of that early kindness. He cried when she died, our mom told us. We understood the weight of that sentence. We never saw our dad cry so Nana must have been really special to him.

I sometimes think about the momory of that event at the cottage—our mom’s pronouncement that Nana would not tolerate divorce—and the momory of Nana’s first glimpse of our dad that prompted the hoodlum comment which may have led her to buy the boots. Then I imagine the connections among all these, and the subsequent strong bond between our dad and Nana that prompted his tears at her death.

But to explain how I’ve imagined those connections, I’d have to delve into two family secrets of 2912. That’s what brings me to a dead stop every time I reach this point. I’ve tried to write about them, and I still can’t. While the cat has long been out of the bag about both secrets (at least within the family), they are entangled in many other issues that seem too daunting to unravel. So every time, I just stop writing.

Why bring this up now? Well, sorting through those photographs made me think about it. Plus I’m at the beginning-ish stage of a new book project, which involves a lot of research, some of which ends in frustration because of what’s missing. Or what I believe is missing.

Researching and writing biography requires tracking down a variety of sources, including pictures, letters, and memoirs. I rely on not only what other people decided to save in terms of physical artifacts, but also what they chose to write about, whether as notations on the backs of photos, information passed along in correspondence, and/or remembrances included in memoirs and/or autobiographies.  

Decisions and choices like these produce silences in the archives leaving researchers to constantly ask how materials have been selected and saved, but also, very specifically, what’s missing and why it might be missing.

I’ve imposed some silences in my family’s archives by saving some photos and pitching others and by sharing some specifically collected and very consciously edited memories and momories.

After Kathi and I finished looking through all those pictures back in October, I headed off for my first major research trip for a book about Jane Grant, co-founder of The New Yorker magazine and lifelong women’s rights advocate. And there, in the vast collection of her papers, I faced silences. More on that in the next post.***  

(Jane Grant, c. early 1940s, Jane Grant Photograph Collection, PH141, University of Oregon Libraries Special Collections.)

Some asides:

*Decades later, when our parents Irene and Mike took us to the cottage in the summer, the first thing my dad had to do when we arrived was clean up the outhouse, especially to get rid of the spider webs. None of us siblings would go in there if we saw spider webs. Even in the 1960s, the cottage lacked an indoor toilet. Our mom disliked being at the cottage, probably because, with four children, she had more work to do during what was supposed to be a vacation. But, because of the four of us, our parents could only afford cheap vacations. The cottage was free to use, within a couple of hours’ drive, and was right near a lake that kept us busy during the long summer daylight.

**After Mike died, Charles, my husband, took the boots. They were still in relatively good shape, but after many decades they only fit one pair of feet so had finally outlived their usefulness.

***It’s Women’s History Month, so I hope to post one or two pieces about Jane Grant and what’s been happening with my research. This year, the National Women’s History Alliance has chosen the theme of “Women Who Advocate for Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion,” which is a good match for my Jane Grant project.

Women’s History Month Wednesday: Margaret Sams

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Margaret Coalson Sherk Sams was born in Oklahoma in 1916 and grew up in California. She aspired to be a wife and mother, but she wanted to experience something of life outside her family home first, so she enrolled at Riverside Junior College in 1933. There, Margaret renewed an old high school friendship with Bob Sherk, who was studying to be a mining engineer. They started dating and fell in love before Bob decided to seek his fortune in the Philippine Islands. He left California in January 1936 to start a job in northern Luzon; she followed several months later and they married. Their son David was born in 1938.

The Sherks were living in Suyoc, a gold-mining town in the Benguet region, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and then Luzon in the Philippines in December 1941. Earlier that year, concerned about deteriorating relations between the U.S. and Japan, Bob had wanted to send Margaret and David back to California. Margaret was reluctant to split up the family, so when officials in the U.S. High Commissioner’s Office in Manila assured her she was safe, she and David remained.

The Sherks evacuated Suyoc mere steps in front of the invading Japanese army and ended up in Manila. Bob did his patriotic duty and joined the U.S. military forces as they headed to the Bataan peninsula to defend the island. Margaret and David ended up interned with thousands of other Allied nationals on the campus of Santo Tomas University in January 1942. They had been told to pack enough food and clothing for three days. They remained prisoners until 1945.

Margaret struggled to provide for David in the camp. She knew few people there and didn’t have much money to pay to have goods brought in from the outside. The Japanese provided little food and restricted Red Cross operations. Several months later, Margaret met Jerry Sams, an electronic engineer with a wife back in the states. He was kind to her and helped secure food and other necessities for David. They quickly fell in love and began an affair. Margaret pushed for a physical relationship because she wanted Jerry to feel tied to her. And despite the perilous conditions of the internment camp, she knew that having Jerry’s baby would cement their relationship and guarantee their survival.

In the years following their dramatic rescue in 1945, when Margaret was safely in the United States, she wrote about her experiences. She wanted to explain what happened in the camp and why. It’s an astonishing story that reveals much about how women of the mid-twentieth century were expected to conduct themselves. Margaret got on with family life; she waited more than thirty-five years before seeking a publisher for her book.

Lynn Z. Bloom, then Professor of English and the Aetna Chair of Writing at the University of Connecticut, learned of Margaret’s story. In 1980, Bloom, a specialist in women’s writing, autobiography, and memoir, had published an edited version of the diary of another American woman, Natalie Crouter, who was interned with her family in the northern Luzon city of Baguio. Bloom turned her editing skills to Margaret’s memoir, which was published by the University of Wisconsin Press in 1989 as Forbidden Family: A Wartime Memoir of the Philippines, 1941-1945.

I came across both Natalie Crouter’s diary and Margaret Sams’s memoir in the 1990s when I was researching my first book. Masterpiece Theater’s dramatization of A Town Like Alice, about British women in Malaya during World War II, had sparked my interest in civilian women caught up in active conflict zones. That first book, published by the University Press of Kansas, was called Prisoners in Paradise: American Women in the Wartime South Pacific. I included the experiences of Margaret Sams, Natalie Crouter, and dozens of other American women—those interned and those who managed to evade the Japanese.

It inspired me to dig deeper into some issues, resulting in the publication of two more books, to create a kind of Philippines trilogy: Citizen of Empire: Ethel Thomas Herold, an American in the Philippines and Angels of the Underground: The American Women who Resisted the Japanese in the Philippines in World War II. Then I was finished with writing about the Philippines, but not about American women. I subsequently wrote two biographies of very different women. (There are plenty of blog posts here about those books.) Since the publication of my Dale Evans biography nearly a year ago, I have been slowly moving toward a new biography project. The subject is still mostly a secret. It’s taken a long time to figure out the focus of the book—what I think this one woman’s life has to say about larger issues in twentieth-century America. I have to figure out how to get all the necessary research done. I have to estimate how long it will take to write the book. All of that is to come. And I’ll take it one step at a time.

Women’s History Month Wednesday: Harriot Stanton Blatch

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In today’s language, Harriot Stanton Blatch was a suffragist nepo baby.

She was born in 1856 in Seneca Falls, New York, the sixth of Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s seven children. Throughout her childhood, reform occupied center stage in the household. Her mother was one of the organizers of the 1848 Women’s Rights Convention in Seneca Falls, which helped launch a movement that in some shape or form continues to this day. Harriot’s father, Henry, was an abolitionist, journalist, and politician.

Harriot received an undergraduate degree from Vassar College in 1878 and a master’s degree in 1894. In between, she joined the suffrage cause and helped her mother and her mother’s political partner, Susan B. Anthony, write their History of Woman Suffrage. Harriot also married a British businessman, William Henry Blatch, in 1882, and spent the next twenty years living in England with him and raising their two daughters, one of whom died young. By the 1890s, she’d become a proponent of “voluntary motherhood,” encouraging married women to choose when and how often to become pregnant, thus deciding when to have intercourse with their husbands.

(left to right: Nora Blatch, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Harriot Stanton Blatch)

The Blatch family moved to New York City in 1902, following the death of Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Harriot immersed herself in reform causes that highlighted the intersection of workers’ rights and women’s suffrage. After joining the Women’s Trade Union League, she founded, in 1907, what would come to be known as the Women’s Political Union. This brought some 20,000 New York City working women into the suffrage movement. Harriot further revitalized the movement by organizing public parades at a time when “proper” women didn’t flaunt themselves in such a way.

Harriot Stanton Blatch’s tactics and ideology overlapped with those of feminist Alice Paul; in 1915 she merged her Women’s Political Union with Paul’s Congressional Union, which became the National Woman’s Party. When the United States entered World War I, Harriot took on the directorship of the Woman’s Land Army, an organization that guaranteed farm labor would continue as American men joined the military.

After the war, she published two books: Mobilizing Woman-Power, a celebration of women’s contributions to the war effort and a brisk reminder of their duties as citizens, and A Woman’s Point of View: Some Roads to Peace, which focused on the affects of war on women and children and the role of women in shaping peace.

The Nineteenth Amendment passed in 1920, guaranteeing most American women the right to vote. Harriot became a proponent of the Equal Rights Amendment, viewing it as the next necessary step to securing women’s rights. In 1922, she published a co-edited collection of her mother’s papers, Elizabeth Cady Stanton as revealed in her letters, diary, and reminiscences. Shortly before Harriot’s death in 1940, she finished (with the help of feminist Alma Lutz) her own autobiography, Challenging Years: The Memoirs of Harriot Stanton Blatch.

Historian Ellen Carol DuBois brought Harriot Stanton Blatch’s career to life in the 1997 prize-winning biography, Harriot Stanton Blatch and the Winning of Woman Suffrage. DuBois, now retired as a professor of history and gender studies at the University of California, Los Angeles, is considered a pioneer in the field of women’s history. As a graduate student at Northwestern University, DuBois became involved with the Chicago Women’s Liberation Union, the radical wing of the 1960s women’s rights movement. Her 1978 book, Feminism and Suffrage: The Emergence of an Independent Women’s Movement in America, 1848-1869, was considered for many years as the best book on the suffrage movement, inspiring many other historians to explore its multiple facets.