Wednesdays for Women #6: Nellie Bly/ Elizabeth Jane Cochrane Seaman

I know if I publish the post at 11:50 PM, it would more aptly be called Thursdays for Women, but I will do better in future! This week I’ve been grappling with the decision of whether to take up Krav Maga. It would be pretty cool to be able to defend myself, but I’m balancing the “cool factor” with the staggering fact that learning how to do so would basically be $320 for two months. Eep! Maybe I’ll stick with the $55/month  yoga…

But on the topic of women kicking some serious butt, let’s talk about Nellie Bly. Her life is almost as legendary as it is fantastic. Before she became a famous social reformer, she casually bested Jules Verne’s literary challenge of travelling around the world in 80 days. At the tender age of 24, she did it almost all alone and in 72 days. But this was feat only came later in her career, after she virtually invented the trade of “investigative journalism,” as we know it today.

Later, slowpokes.

Our girl Nellie, or Elizabeth Jane Cochrane, as she was known then, was born to a mill worker turned entrepreneur. When her family moved to Pittsburgh, Nellie was aghast at a local newspaper’s column “What Women Are Good For” and wrote a head-turning letter to the editor, signing it “Little Orphan Girl.” The editor was so impressed, he ran an ad looking for this orphan, and when he found Nellie, he gave her the chance to write an article. After seeing her resulting work, he offered her a job, and she joined the newspaper and adopted the name Nellie Bly. Discontent with fashion (unlike this blogger) and gardening articles, Nellie tried to write about women factory workers, and when suppressed on that end, became a foreign correspondent in Mexico, until she was forced to leave after denouncing the local dictator as a “tyrannical czar.”

Thrown out of Mexico, she sought asylum… literally. She left her old newspaper and sought refuge with Pulitzer’s New York World, but her “refuge” was to take a funny shape, going undercover as a mad woman. She feigned insanity in a boarding house and to a number of doctors, convincing the staff at Bellevue that she should be committed (and getting a bit of media attention in the course of the matter). Once inside Blackwell’s Asylum she was surprised to discover the sordid conditions: dirty water, people roped together, rats crawling freely about the area. After 10 days, she was released at The World’s behest, and published Ten Days in a Madhouse, her account of her time inside. She concluded that the frigid water thrown on them coupled with the poor food was enough to make anyone go insane. Huge reform both for asylum entry and conditions were undertaken by a grand jury which supported her findings. An additional $850,000 was committed to the budget of the Department of Public Charities and Corrections following her findings.

It was after the asylum venture that she travelled around the world (meeting Jules Verne along the way), and she held the world record for a month or two (not bad considering she was given two days notice of the trip). In later years, she married a millionaire (and in a most ironic turn, took the name Seaman… hold the jokes), and became president of the Iron Clad Manufacturing Co., adding to its patents dual inventions of a milk can and a stacking garbage can. When the company went bankrupt (due to employee embezzlement), she returned to journalism and reported on the Eastern Front during WWI and the rising women’s suffrage movement.

She died of pneumonia at 57, two years after women got the vote.

Wednesdays For Women: Nautical Edition- The Sea Queen of Connacht

Since women were historically considered unlucky on a ship, our contributions in maritime archives are too sparse for comfort. Still, regardless of sexist rules, women have made their presence on ships (whether known or unknown). However, few have been so openly lauded as Grace O’Malley, or Gráinne Ní Mháille.

Grace O’Malley was the daughter of an Gaelic chieftain –which might make her a princess, according to Disney– who also happened to be a shipping and trade magnate around the early to mid-1500s. However, “shipping” in the 1500s, looked distinctively less like Fedex, and more like the playground of Jack Sparrow. People who wanted to fish anywhere off the clan’s castle-laden coast had to pay a surcharge.  After her father’s death, she took over the family business and became the leader of the Ó Máille clan, whose lands spread over what is now County Mayo.

According to lore, Grace always wanted to sail on her father’s ships, but he wouldn’t let her. One popular retelling has her father refusing because “her hair would get caught in the ropes.” In response, Grace cut off her hair, earning her the nickname Gráinne Mhaol, or bald Grace. From what I’ve read about her, not much is known, except that she pretty much did what she wanted. She was powerful and passionate, and she knew how to command men and influence people. The most famous historical event associated with her is probably her audience with Queen Elizabeth.

When her two sons (from her first marriage) and half-brother were captured by the English governor of Connacht, Sir Richard Bingham, Grace appealed to Queen Elizabeth directly for their release. For context, the English had been steadily encroaching on what had been self-governed Irish chieftains. Bingham, and by extension Elizabeth’s authority flew directly in the face of everything Grace O’Malley’s family stood for. With this in mind, Grace refused to bow to Elizabeth before negotiations and allegedly had a knife under her dress (for her protection) when she went to meet Elizabeth! Speaking to each other in Latin, they were able to charter a release on the agreement that Grace stop supporting Irish rebellions and Bingham would be removed. It’s unclear how long each of these agreements were abided by (Bingham came back), but it must have been a sight to see these two women, both powerful and rich in their own right, chatting across a tea table.

Otherwise, she was a general sea prowess, laying siege to the coasts from Scotland downwards, and adding to the wealth that she had by her father’s business, mother’s lands, and a thing or two from husband/ lovers along the way.  As to my favorite legend about her, taken from wikipedia, the story goes as follows:

“During a trip from Dublin, O’Malley attempted to pay a courtesy visit to Howth Castle, home of Lord Howth. However, she was informed that the family was at dinner and the castle gates were closed against her. In retaliation, she abducted the Earl’s grandson and heir, Christopher St Lawrence, 10th Baron Howth. He was eventually released when a promise was given to keep the gates open to unexpected visitors and to set an extra place at every meal. Lord Howth gave her a ring as pledge on the agreement. The ring remains in the possession of a descendant of O’Malley and, at Howth Castle today, this agreement is still honoured by the Gaisford St. Lawrence family, descendants of the Baron.”

She could definitely sail, but more than that, she controlled a good deal of the coastline, levying more “taxes/ fees” on those who used the coast, at risk of murder… Either way, she has been represented as the embodiment of Ireland and called the Sea Queen of Connacht.

Shoutout to these South Korean women, known literally as haenyeo, or “sea women.”

For more on actual women pirates, see Anne Bonny and Mary Read. Keep in mind, we know of them because they were the only two women convicted of piracy, so in actuality they may not have been the best pirates…

For newspaper articles on disguised 19th century British women sailors, these will not fail to amuse!

I do not own the rights to the banner image, which is the bronze statue of Grace O’Malley found at Westport House. Grace O’Malley was reportedly the 14th great-grandmother of the generation of sisters currently running the Westport House Estate.

Wednesdays for Women #3: Amelia Bloomer

With the throes of NYFW engulfing us almost like carbon monoxide (you can hardly breathe, but my isn’t it a drowsy sort of pleasant?), I thought it only fair for this Wednesday’s woman to be at least vaguely associated with America and fashion. And although the namesake article of clothing doesn’t fit into the 1970s aesthetic that seems to be de rigueur for anyone with legs this week (save, of course, Jeremy Scott and his baby dolls), it still may be worth our attention.

Amelia Bloomer, who lent her name to the mid-Nineteenth-century-next-best-thing-to-trousers, is the feminist Episcopal Saint (but really) who began the newspaper, The Lily, after attending the famous Seneca Falls Convention of 1848. Originally a temperance journal (slow down thar, pardner), it grew into a biweekly liberation document, heralding moralism and mostly, women’s suffrage. Though relatively short-lived, given her position as editor and publisher of the periodical, she was the first woman to own, operate and edit a news vehicle for women (the prototype to Anna Wintour? ). Though distribution of this document waned, her ideas only became more radical (for the time- and for Iowa), and she recommended that women dress “suited to her wants and necessities. It should conduce at once to her health, comfort, and usefulness; and, while it should not fail also to conduce to her personal adornment, it should make that end of secondary importance.” A tall order, no (that really just makes me yearn for Yves)?

But her views weren’t conceptualized until 1851 when Libby Miller donned her more utilitarian suit, borrowed from womenswear in the East. These flouncy pants which tied at the ankles could be worn with a vest or dress and were undoubtedly far more rational than the Victorian styles they regularly had to contend with. Both Bloomer and Elizabeth Cady Stanton became avid supporters of the new garment, however, Bloomer’s pre-existing circulation gave her a wider reach in projecting her excitement. She became a devout supporter of the pants (adopting them as her every day garb), and eventually one of her stories was picked up by the New York Tribune, bringing it to popular culture and calling it’s women adherents “bloomers.” However, the harassment these women suffered in response to the new trend was too much (gamergate, anyone?), causing Amelia to recant under the auspices of “crinoline” by 1859.

It would take almost another hundred years (and another enterprising Amelia) before women would begin to regularly wear pants.