I love this blurry photo of us for a few reasons. First, I’m in it with you and I think it’s important that I get in the shot too, sometimes. Second, just look at your sweet smile. We were camping here, and girl, do you love camping. You love exploring and running and playing and sleeping and swimming and building and s’mores.
This past year has been a doozy. You definitely followed the trend of three-year-olds being difficult and stubborn. You showed your opinion quite clearly, to say the least. You only wanted me to help you and cuddle you and read to you and carry you – dad just wouldn’t do. You wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t exactly what you wanted. You wanted what you wanted and you wanted it when you wanted it. And it was hard. Three was hard.
Luckily, the last couple months of three, things started to change. You started to ask for daddy before me. You became more flexible and less frustrating. Thank you so much for that. Really, Harriet, thank you for that.
Right now you are so much fun. You are funny and creative. You fiercely love the people in your life. You have strong connections with people and are incredibly loyal. You have changed from being stubborn to being strong (it’s an important difference to note). I love to hear your opinions and your ideas. You are so brave and are always willing to try new things, usually with a bit of gentle encouragement. Last year you were scared to get your face wet, this year you’re swimming without your floaties and going down the big slide at the pool. Last year you wouldn’t try your balance bike, this year you’re almost ready for pedals.
Four years ago, you were born on a Blue Moon. Today, we will witness a full solar eclipse. The planets have aligned. I’ve always loved the moon, and since you were born four years ago, I’ve loved it even more with the connection between your birth and the moon. Today we will stand in the moon’s shadow. I think there is something to this, my girl. You are my little moon girl and you were born to do great, big things.
Next year we will be getting ready for kindergarten. But for today, and for this year, I want you to stay my little child, my baby. No need to rush things, my Hattie Girl. No need to stop sleeping in my arms. No need to stop asking for my help. Ne need to run too far or climb too high.
You are my girl and I love you to the moon and back a million times.
I am a woman and I just voted. I voted for a woman to become the President of the United States. One hundred years ago, that would have been laughable. Not only would a woman never be on a ballot, but women couldn’t even cast ballots. There is something so important about all this. It is imperative that we look at this and acknowledge the enormity of the situation.
I’ve always known the history of Oswald West and women’s suffrage in Oregon. I’ve always known that he was able to grant the vote to women during his term as governor. I’ve always known about Abigail Scott Duniway, and known that she was a suffragette. But I haven’t always known the full story of women’s suffrage in Oregon, and I wonder how much you, my curious reader, know. I did some research and I want to share it with you.
When Oregon’s constitution was written in 1857, it included this statement, “every white, male citizen of the United States of the age of twenty-one and upwards, who shall have resided in the State during the six months immediately preceding such election…. shall be entitled to vote at all elections authorized by law.” One man, David Logan, moved to omit the word ‘male’ before ‘citizen,’ but his request wasn’t even discussed. When the 14th and 15th amendments were passed in the federal constitution, the Oregon constitution was amended to include all males as electors, but not women.
Women still didn’t count, despite efforts by equal suffrage supporters to claim voting rights for women, along with the newly emancipated black men.
In 1872, four Oregonian women took a stand and went to the polls to vote. They gave their votes to the judge, who put them under the ballot box – not in it. Their votes weren’t counted, but their act of voting was an important one, nonetheless.
The next year, 1873, Abigail Scott Duniway , one of those four brave women, founded the Oregon State Equalization Society, and my great-grandfather, Oswald West was born.
Portrait of Abigail Scott Duniway, painted by Sydney Bell, on display at Gerlinger Hall (originally proposed as Duniway Hall) on the University of Oregon Campus
Abigail Scott Duniway wrote and published a newspaper, New Northwest, which was a widely circulated pro-suffrage publication. She also led the way for suffrage supporters in Oregon and followed the “still hunt” strategy for gaining support for suffrage. Instead of throwing parades and huge protests, Duniway and her supporters tried to influence the men in power in a more personal, quiet way. They would write letters, hand out pamphlets, and wait until the end of the campaign to make public displays for their cause.
As the family story goes, ten years later, in 1883, young Oswald West was able to hear Abigail Scott Duniway speak on women’s suffrage near his home in Salem. He remembered her looking right at him and asking, “Don’t you feel like your mother is as good, if not better, than the ordinary saloon bums in Salem?” Os, being a staunch prohibitionist from an early age, whole-heartedly answered that – yes, he did feel that way. From that moment on, his political opinions were ignited and he worked to help women win the battle for the vote.
Oregon has the distinction of having put this matter to the voters more than any other state. Oregon male voters voted on suffrage in 1884, 1900, 1908, 1910, and finally passed the amendment on November 5th, 1912 with 52% of the votes – 67,625 votes in favor, and 57,104 votes against.
Os West Campaigning for Governor. I love seeing women in the crowd.
On November 30th, 1912, when Oswald West was Oregon’s governor, he asked Abigail Scott Duniway to write and sign the Women’s Suffrage Proclamation. (photo of this can be see here) She drafted the proclamation and Os West, along with Ben W. Olcott, as Secretary of State, signed it.
This is a history I’ve always known. I have always been proud of this family history. I’ve always been proud to carry on the legacy of the great men who were there when Abigail Scott Duniway made her lifelong dream a reality. I’m so proud of this history that I gave my daughters middle names that honor and remember West and Olcott for the foresight and respect they showed to Oregon’s women.
Today, we get to cast a ballot that Abigail Scott Duniway, along with Os West and Ben Olcott, would be so incredibly happy to know exists. We get to vote for a woman to hold the highest office in our nation. Not only that, but we get to vote for a woman who deserves that office more than anyone before her.
One hundred and four year ago, tomorrow, Oregon’s men decided that women were worthy of the incredible right to vote. Next Tuesday, we all get to decide who will be our next president and it very well could be a woman.
It was a fight to achieve equal suffrage. It has been a fight to give women the rights that men have taken for granted for centuries. It has been a fight to get women in any office. It has been a fight to get Hillary to November (a long, hard fight that just proves her strength and resilience). It will be a fight to get her elected. When she’s elected the fight won’t stop. It is clear that we still live in a nation wrapped up in sexism. Hillary has crashed through the glass ceiling, but there are still shards of sexism laying everywhere.
As a child, I remember looking at the poster of all our presidents that was in my first grade classroom. It didn’t even occur to me that it was strange that all the presidents were white men. It was just the reality that I knew. I so much love that that isn’t the reality that my daughters were born into. They were both born while we’ve had a black president, and, hopefully, the next one will be a woman. The world is changing.
Also, I came across this lovely coincidence: There was a suffragette who was very active during the 1912 campaign who was named Harriet, but called Hattie, just like my Harriet. She was a brave African American woman “in a state that had codified black exclusion laws in its constitution. Redmond’s work for voting rights helped lay the groundwork for the Black Civil Rights movement of the mid-twentieth century.” I can’t think of a better woman with whom Harriet should share a name. Read more about Harriet Redmond here.
There is nothing worse than seeing your child’s blood on the outside of their body. If there is one truth about blood, it’s that it belongs on the inside. But, sometimes thing happen that destroy that truth.
This weekend, while camping, it was a rock that destroyed that truth. A small rock in the middle of a path, directly in front of another rock that stuck out of the ground just far enough to trip my oldest daughter.
All the kids were running laps on a path that was alongside our campsite. They ran and ran and ran. Then one of them fell and they all stopped. I don’t remember getting to Alma, but I do remember the blood. It was already pouring down her sobbing face. I scooped her up, said, “JESSE.” and don’t remember getting down to our picnic table.
I do remember exactly what went through my head:
Don’t overreact.
Where is a hospital?
Head wounds bleed a lot. It’s not necessarily a big deal.
Don’t overreact.
Head wounds bleed a lot. It’s not necessarily a big deal.
Head wounds bleed a lot. It’s not necessarily a big deal.
Head wounds bleed a lot. It’s not necessarily a big deal.
Head wounds bleed a lot. It’s not necessarily a big deal.
Don’t overreact.
Everyone rushed to help. Devon got the ice. Heather got the band-aids and wipes. Jesse, somehow, miraculously had a pocket full of paper towels. Antonio and Drew got the lollipop. Harriet got Sarah Bear.
Thankfully the bleeding stopped pretty quickly, and we were able to see that it was more of a puncture wound than a cut. It clearly didn’t need stitches, though, in my opinion, it looked crazy how deep the wound went.
I also remember exactly the things that Alma said as I held her in my arms, bleeding:
We never should have come camping!
I don’t want a lollipop!
My sister is the best sister in the whole world.
I want to go see where I fell.
The rest of the evening was spent sitting in laps and getting extra cuddles. I watched Alma carefully for signs of concussion, even though I had no idea what the signs of concussion were. I only cried once, and not where Alma could see me.
We stayed two more nights and Alma bounced right back. The bump has gone down and the cut is healing nicely. The only wound that remains is the piece of my heart that broke along with the skin on Alma’s forehead. But that’s the thing about parenting, and that certainly won’t be the last bit of my heart that will feel my daughters’ pain.
