October 11, 1918, Ohio
10 years old
“Clara, you need to pay better attention! Don’t you want your dress to look nice and neat?”
We’re sitting in the living room, and Mother is trying to teach me how to sew. We’ve been there for thirty minutes already, and I have yet to finish ten stitches. I squint at the fabric, trying to see where my next painfully tiny stitch should go.
“They’re uneven, look, you need to make them smaller and straighter.”
For what feels like the hundredth time, I unravel my small bit of progress. I know this is important to her, but I’ll never sew anything as effortlessly as she does. She always tells me it’s from all the practice she had when she was young. Mechanical sewing machines have not been around forever, so she wants me to appreciate what the new technology has done for us. After all, the machines helped bring women into the workforce. I know I should be grateful. Grateful or not, I somehow manage to knot my thread with the opposite end of the fabric and pull it tight.
“This is useless,”I complain. “I don’t want a new dress anyways!”
Mother doesn't respond. She hates it when I complain about doing the tasks traditionally done by wives. She also hates when I asked her about women's rights, because she hates politics. It’s not that she believes men are superior, she just doesn't want to cause conflict, and she doesn't want me to either. Lots of states out west have given women full suffrage, but here in Ohio, women can only vote in the presidential election. I think women are equal to men, but I don’t tell my mother. I don’t want to worry her. She has enough to worry about.
Ever since my father and my older brother George went to fight in the war, she’s been even quieter than usual. I know she’s scared for them– I’m scared too– but I don’t want to hide and pray and hope they come home safe. I want to fight. More specifically, I want to be a pilot. I don’t want to make a dress, I want to make a difference. I can’t talk to my parents though. When I was little, I told Father how I dreamed of flying a military plane for America, but he just laughed and shook his head. Later, I heard him talking to Mother in the hallway.
“Why is she saying this? It’s not normal, it's bizarre, it’s inappropriate and unorthodox. You must teach her to be a proper young girl! I don’t want to hear her say anything like that again!”
At only 5 years old, I did not know what those words meant. I know now. I know I can’t be a military pilot. I will learn to sew, get married, and have children. I will worry about my brother and father, and pray for them, and hope they come home safe. I will be grateful. I will be obedient. I will be orthodox. I will be a good girl, and my family will be proud.
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