Joan of Arc, Martyr
It’s your soul, no one else’s
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Tag Archives: women
Staring at Fear
Madam Fannie Porter stares at fear. (From The Last Bordello)
I reminded my fingers to turn the knob slowly, quietly. I crept through the kitchen’s side door and held my breath.
A voice in the parlor. Not one of my girls. I tiptoed into my bedroom and made my way to the far wall. Wiped my sweaty, shaky hands on my dress. Removed the painting.
Only Reba and I knew about the coin-sized peephole Constructed long ago for keeping an eye on questionable customers. Exactly my eye level, as intended.
The voices would be clearer now. I inched the cork from the hole. Fighting for breath, I peered through the hole and into the parlor.
Stuck in a “Shining Closet”
From The Last Bordello: In Madam Fannie’s voice, she and her “girls,”and Meta – who was misled to the bordello – must wait out a storm in the crawl space under the stairs.
I shifted my knees, trying to get comfortable. “Girls, if this is the worst that’s ever happened to you, I’d say you’ve lived a fine and easy life.” I knew better, of course.
“Etta’s leaving is much worse,” Sadie said, her hands shaking.
“Horsefeathers.” Lillie tucked her head between her knees and mumbled, “Worse is saying good-bye to your betrothed.”
“Carver will be back,” Sadie retorted. “Etta won’t.”
True. I couldn’t see Etta returning, which made it worse for Sadie. She and Etta had been as close as silk on a corncob.
I made note to speak privately to Sadie and the others. Under no circumstances were any of my fallen angels allowed to mention the names of the Wild Bunch or Etta’s connection with the gang.
Meta had Faded into the wall, her owl stare flickering in the lantern’s light. No doubt, she didn’t expect to spend her first night in San Antonio stuck in a bordello’s crawl space.
We will not go back!
This blog post is dedicated to strong women and the men who love us.
In history, although suppressed by politics, there have always been strong women. In the 1800’s women couldn’t fathom the idea of breaking, or even reaching a glass ceiling. I know. We’re closer today, but…
Seventy years after the American Revolution, a different kind of tea party took place. A woman named Elizabeth Cady Stanton was one of the invitees. Here, at this tea in 1848, Ms. Stanton spilled out her discontent on the status of women in America.
They planned a convention.
Stanton’s “Declaration of Sentiments” is drafted.
- Married women were legally dead in the eyes of the law
- Women were not allowed to vote
- Women had to submit to laws when they had no voice in their formation
- Married women had no property rights
- Husbands had legal power over and responsibility for their wives to the extent that they could imprison or beat them with impunity (see entire list in this full article)
Let’s not forget. African American women had it much worse.
(Today, we have fast-forward buttons- FF>. But in this case, I’ll use FFS> as in fast forward slow. It took us a LONG time to get where we are!)
FFS> to 1920. Seventy-two years later, we get the right to vote.
FFS> to 1936, a Supreme Court decision declassified birth control information as obscene.
FFS> The Women’s Rights Movement began in the 1960’s
FFS> In 1972, the Equal Rights Amendment, which had languished in Congress for almost fifty years, was finally passed.
It’s almost 2017. We have accomplished much but why have we fast-forwarded so slow?
This is what I do know. In this new political climate, WE WILL NOT REWIND AND GO BACKWARDS.
Raw Journal Kernels – 6
Random journal entry? Yes, except for the top right corner that came from a dream. I was about to step into the water of the National Mall in D.C. to follow others.
I looked down at the water contemplating stepping in, when two Marines, one on each side, escorted me through the water. As I got to the “end,” I realized who was at the front, the person I had been following. Rosa parks turned to us, threw her arms up and said, “Point your breasts up to the heavens and dance!”
Loved this dream!
Raw Journal Kernels – 5
Ooh! This was a special find! (See other Journal Kernels here) This was a dream that inspired The Last Bordello. See the short excerpt below.
Most nights, I see Papa in my dreams. In a slower-than-life pulse, in a not-so-common four-count measure, he smiles as he grabs the knob of our screen door and opens it to enter. His movement repeats. He smiles and opens the door. Smiles and opens the door. Each time, he never enters. He never falls.
But Papa did fall; collapsed before crossing our threshold into the house his neighbors helped him to build. Four years ago now, all of the notes of Papa’s life faded away with his last breath. A stillness so loud that my ears still burned.
If only Papa hadn’t died.
A Gift to Frame
A friend of mine gave a copy of my latest book, The Last Bordello, to her mother, Del. She doesn’t email, nor does she know how to write a review on Amazon. So, she sent me a “real” letter! What a special gift!
The Shape Of Meta’s Being
“I’m going to bet on MY ‘underdog-ness’ and give this a shot. Some might sigh a bit when they see a fellow blogger try to promote their work. But try we must.” CD-W
In a previous post titled, The Shape of our Being, I mentioned how our experiences shape our humanness, including the Carolyn Being (a work in progress). My “shape” shows up in my novels. In this excerpt from The Last Bordello, Sadie, a prostitute in a 1901 bordello, escorts the virtuous Meta (who accepted Madam Fannie’s offer to be the bordello’s pianist) on a tour of the city.
And truly, thanks for hanging with me!
“Meta, I know this is your first time to a big city. I want to be fair. There is something I want you to understand.” She paused, gathering my attention. “People in town know I’m a painted lady, a prostitute. Or, as some like to say, a lowly whore.”
“But—”
Sadie held up a hand. “Being seen with me is almost as bad as being a prostitute yourself. People will judge you. Your reputation could be tainted by merely being seen in my presence. I truly don’t want any harm or ill will to come to you. I don’t want you embarrassed by my company.”
Perhaps this was Aunt Amelia’s concern, what she wanted to tell me. If the public thought less of me for playing the piano at a bordello, I didn’t care. Weren’t even prostitutes and their customers entitled to the magic of music?
Unlashing Sadie’s grasp, I stepped a foot to the side. “Sadie, I appreciate your honesty. Now,” I said, my grin widening, “shall we walk back arm in arm like schoolgirls?”
Sadie’s white teeth glistened in the February sun. “Yes,” she said, interlocking an elbow with mine. “Onward to the next stop.”
Excerpt from an Amazon review:
Elizabeth Cady Stanton, women’s right activist
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 