One slight incident alone disturbed the calm. I had gone to Berlin to
secure delegates and there in a public theater had seen a film which had
traversed the length and breadth of Germany as propaganda for abortion
under safe conditions. The scene opened with feet endlessly passing on
the streets; you saw a kerchief drop, a masculine hand reach down to
pick it up, the boy and girl at lunch, she looking up at him wide-eyed.
Soon she was obliged to go to a _femme savante_ in a filthy narrow old
alley; you watched her ascend the rickety stairs, an ancient crone
peeling potatoes, shoving wood in the stove with dirty hands, the agony
in the girl’s face. It was a succession of pictures such as this,
straight out of life itself.
I had borrowed the film and rented a theater in Geneva. To my great
surprise and no little amusement when the Caesarian section appeared on
the screen several men and women in the audience began to faint, among
them our own workers, even Edith How-Martyn. One, a young scientist, had
to be led out and given a drink to brace him up. Cars and taxis were
commandeered to cart the squeamish back to their hotels.
This Conference must remain a milestone because there all propaganda,
all moral and ethical aspects of the subject were forgotten. The whole
problem was lifted out of the troubled atmosphere of theory, where
previously it had been battered by the winds of doctrine and the brutal
gusts of prejudice, into the current of serene, impersonal, scientific
abstraction. It was too early to tell what practical results might
ensue, but at least we soon received the assurance that certain doctors
would welcome efficient contraceptives.
Individual physicians in New York had since 1923 taken serious thought
of the need for contraception. Mrs. Amos Pinchot had organized certain
outstanding members of the Academy of Medicine into the Committee on
Maternal Health. They had been fortunate enough to secure the well-known
retired gynecologist, Dr. Dickinson, as secretary. He had trained many
of the younger men and was able to bring into the movement doctors who
would have paid slight attention to anyone less admired and honored.
With the aid of various foundations, the Committee on Maternal Health
had been doing a fine piece of work in publishing the findings of
scientists in brochures and pamphlets.
The Academy, after the Zurich Conference, formally declared that “the
public is entitled to expect counsel and information by the medical
profession on the important and intimate matter of contraceptive
advice.”
We had been attaining small victories, and little by little and bit by
bit the Protestant churches had begun to regard us favorably. In
September, 1925, the House of Bishops of the Protestant Episcopal
Church, meeting at Portland, Oregon, had gone on record against birth
control. Later some of the wives of these same bishops had come to me in
New York and asked my help in educating their husbands. A group of three
had taken it upon themselves to see that every bishop was thoroughly
enlightened. The consequence of the campaign was that at a subsequent
meeting in 1934 they reversed their original stand.
Even the Jews had on occasion been in opposition. Rabbi Mischkind of
Tremont Temple had been rebuked by his Board of Trustees for having
invited me to speak one Sunday morning. Rather than surrender he had
resigned and found another synagogue in which I could appear.
Now the Central Conference of American Rabbis urged the recognition of
birth control. The hundred and seventieth conference of the Methodist
Church sanctioned it and the American Unitarian Association did the
same. A special commission appointed by the Presbyterian General
Assembly to study the problems of divorce and remarriage admitted the
desirability of restricting births under medical advice. And in March,
1931, the Committee on Marriage and the Home of the Federal Council of
the Churches of Christ in America approved it.
Due in large measure to Lord Dawson’s eloquence, the Bishops at Lambeth
gave us one of our greatest triumphs by voting 193 to 67 in favor of
birth control. Bernard Shaw believed the Church of England was making a
“belated attempt to see whether it could catch up with the Twentieth
Century.”
Ever since the outburst of religious intolerance at Town Hall, it had
been apparent that in the United States the Catholic hierarchy and
officialdom were going to be the principal enemies of birth control.
From city to city you could feel this. At Albany we could not have a
hall because the police commissioner was a Catholic. In Cincinnati the
Knights of Columbus almost succeeded in barring us from the hotel. At
Syracuse the mayor had to veto the ordinance of the Catholic Council
before we could hold a conference there. When I was to give a lecture in
Milwaukee the Catholic Women’s League came to protest the meeting to
Socialist Mayor Hoane. He had told them, however, “If I prevent Mrs.
Sanger from speaking because you protest, I shall also have to prevent
you from speaking when others object to Catholic doctrine. Free speech
must prevail in Milwaukee.”
Tactics aiming to bring about a reconciliation between the Anglicans and
Rome had been rendered futile by the endorsement of the Bishops. I
suspected the demand for a clear statement from the Vatican on the
question originated in the United States where Catholic women were
showing a gradual yet persistent spirit of independence. In spite of
Church canons they were using contraceptives, and the Church, in its
wisdom, was obliged to change the law to keep its parishioners from
breaking it. In December came the answer in the form of a Papal
Encyclical. The world moved but the Pope sat still. He declared that he
was “looking with paternal eye—as from a watch-tower.” But what was he
looking at?
The Pope said over and over again that sexual intercourse, unless
definitely designed to produce children, was against nature and a sin;
he roundly condemned any contraceptive and he affirmed that in the
matter of limiting families continence alone was permissible. Yet in the
selfsame document he nullified his previous insistence that procreation
was the sole justification of marital relations by countenancing them at
times when pregnancy could not result. These times he made indefinite;
they might refer to sterility, post-menopause, or the so-called “safe
period” during the menstrual cycle; in fine, he was saying first, that
you might not have intercourse unless you expected to have a child, and,
in the same breath, that you might have intercourse when you could not
possibly have a child. This Jesuitical inconsistency allowed a loophole
for the issuance of the Latz Foundation booklet entitled _The Rhythm of
Sterility and Fertility in Women_, published with “ecclesiastical
approval” and recommended by Catholic societies.
It had become part of my routine to answer every challenge to the cause,
just as I tried to answer every question at a meeting. Here again was
the hoary “nature” argument which should have been in its grave long
since. The contention that it was sin to interrupt nature in her
processes was simple nonsense. The Pope frustrated her by shaving or
having his hair cut. Whenever we caught a fish or shot a wolf or
slaughtered a lamb, whenever we pulled a weed or pruned a fruit tree, we
too frustrated nature. Disease germs were perfectly natural little
fellows which had to be frustrated before we could get well. As for the
alleged “safe period” which _Rhythm_ now set forth, what could be more
unnatural than to restrict intercourse to the very time when nature had
least intended it?
But, taking one consideration with another, it seemed to me then that
the birth control idea was rolling merrily along. I could sympathize
with an indignant old radical who left a birth control congress
sniffing, “This thing has got too darned safe for me.”
_Chapter Thirty-four_
SENATORS, BE NOT AFFRIGHTED
“Should the Federal Laws Be Changed?” was the subject of my debate with
Chief Justice Richard B. Russell of Georgia, who had had eighteen
children by two wives. I always welcomed a debate, although after the
first few years it had been almost impossible to find anyone to defend
the other side, and therefore I was pleased to be called to Atlanta, in
May, 1931, for this one.
The old judge, white-haired and with white eyebrows and mustache, his
figure still erect, fixed me with a glance, sometimes satiric and
sometimes flaming with the rage of an Old Testament prophet. He talked
of the sacredness of motherhood, the home, and the State of Georgia. “We
don’t need birth control in Georgia. We’ve had to give up two
Congressmen now because we don’t have enough people. If New York wants
to wipe out her population, she can. We need ours.... I can take care of
all the children God sent me. I believe God sent them to me because they
have souls. Poodle dogs and jackasses don’t have souls. I have obeyed
the command of God to ‘increase and multiply.’”
His children and their wives and their relatives occupying several rows
of seats down front applauded vigorously.
On the train coming back I bought a paper and noted with surprise that I
had been awarded the American Women’s Association medal for
accomplishments on behalf of women, and was supposed to be receiving it
that night in New York. I sent a telegram of thanks to Anne Morgan
saying that I had just learned about it and there was no way of my
attending.
It was nice to be handed a medal instead of a warrant; at the postponed
dinner, organized by John A. Kingsbury, a director of the Milbank Fund,
I sat there listening to the beautiful tributes and asked myself, “Is it
really true? Am I awake? Or is it a dream?” I never thought of the medal
as being given to me as a person, but to the cause, the women I
represented, and, representing them, went through the act of accepting
it.
As I was trying to express this, a little woman who used to appear
frequently on all sorts of occasions came up through the well-groomed
audience, climbed to the platform, offered me a bouquet of flowers from
the Brownsville mothers. “You are our Abraham Lincoln,” she said,
unconscious of the smiles, amused yet sympathetic, of the audience. She
left a kiss upon my brow and hurriedly went back to her place. To me she
embodied the spirit of Mrs. Sachs, who had died so long ago—all I was
still working for, though through channels which had broadened
immeasurably since then.
In the beginning of the birth control movement the main purpose had been
the mitigation of women’s suffering, Comstock law or no Comstock law.
Its very genesis had been the conscious, deliberate, and public
violation of this statute. Later, to change it became imperative, so
that the millions who depended upon dispensaries and hospitals could be
instructed by capable hands.
In 1918 Mary Ware Dennett had dissolved the old National Birth Control
League into the Voluntary Parenthood League, which had for its aim the
repeal of the Federal law. This seemed fine on the surface but repeal
would permit anyone to give and send contraceptive devices as well as
information to anyone through the mails regardless of standards or
quality. Mrs. Dennett still looked upon the movement as a free-speech
and free-press issue, just as I had done before going to the
Netherlands. Now I considered no one had sufficient knowledge of the
possible consequences of some contraceptives to permit them to be
manufactured or distributed without guidance or direction. They might
kill the birth control movement as well as some of the women who used
them. No sponsor could be found until in 1923 Senator Cummins had
introduced her repeal, or so-called open bill, in which the lack of
safeguards was severely criticized. Therefore she had had it
reintroduced in 1924 with a clause added that all literature containing
contraceptive information must be certified by five physicians as “not
injurious to life or health.” This bill, practically impossible of
application, died in committee.
Since we believed information should be disseminated only by doctors we
had kept very quiet and out of it during those years. But we had our own
ideas of what sort of legislation we preferred. When Mrs. Dennett
retired and her organization ceased its work Mrs. Day, Anne Kennedy, and
I, in January, 1926, went down to Washington on a scouting expedition to
take a survey of the mental attitude of Congressmen and discover whether
their reaction was more favorable towards a repeal bill or our proposal
of an “amended doctors’ bill.” We set up headquarters and began
interviewing senators until we had satisfied ourselves that personal
sentiment was more in favor of our policy.
We thought it advisable also to sound out the Catholic stand. Getting
together was the trend of the times. Eugenists, the Voluntary Parenthood
League, the American Birth Control League, all were trying to meet each
other. People of tolerant opinions had always felt the Catholic Church
was too clever to oppose a movement that inevitably it would some day
have to sanction, and the tumult and interference was simply the result
of local ignorance and bigotry; if we could reach the scholarly heads
themselves, if we could all “sit at a table and talk things over,” we
would find their ideals of humanitarianism were much like our own.
Consequently, Anne had an interview with members of the Catholic Welfare
Conference, including Monsignor John Ryan, John M. Cooper, Ph.D., Father
Burke, and other prelates. We thought we would agree on the doctors’
bill—that they surely wanted the public safeguarded from the misuse of
contraceptives. But they unequivocally set forth their objections; not
even a physician’s indisputable right to save lives swayed them. They
declared it was their office to see that no “social or moral”
legislation passed Congress that did not conform to the tenets of
Catholic doctrine; they would attempt to prevent any such bill from
becoming a law. Anne wrote out a report of the interview, including this
shocking statement, and showed it to them so they might have an
opportunity to correct it if they so desired. They left it essentially
as written.
Considering this a fundamental issue of liberty and life not affecting
birth control alone, I took the presumptuous document to H. L. Mencken,
supposedly the outstanding libertarian in America. He had the power to
evoke a response from thinking minds, even though they were rock-bound
in patriotic dogmas; he had knocked down a great many gods, chiefly
along political and religious lines.
Trusting that Mencken would make an effective protest in the _American
Mercury_, I talked to him, explained the situation, predicting that if
we let this go unnoticed we should all have to endure the future
consequences. He admitted the Catholic action was brazen, but mentioned
the fact that he had too many friends of that faith in Baltimore for him
to attack their church. I gained the impression he was out to slash and
hit where the cause was obviously popular, but had no intention of
leading a forlorn hope or playing the role of a pioneer for freedom. He
never fulfilled the expectations I once had of him; he was not a tree
bearing fruit but a spoon stirring around, very much of a “Yes, but-er.”
He said, “Oh, yes, that is grand, but, on the other hand, there is this
to be said for the other side.”
In our campaign of educating the public in the necessity for changing
the Federal statute I began having regional conferences in the East,
South, Middle West, West, and linking them all into an organization to
support the bill. One of these was at Los Angeles. At first most of the
Westerners wanted an open bill such as Mrs. Dennett’s, and I stood
rather alone on the doctors’ amendment, which was only approved on the
last night of the Conference by a very narrow margin.
As the people filed out I saw at the end of the room a thin, almost
emaciated woman with gray hair, somewhat shabby, but not unusually so.
She held out a bony hand to clasp mine, saying practically nothing, just
a word or two, and her name, Kaufman, came to me. I remembered it
because Viola Kaufman had been one of the small subscribers to birth
control in the past, and I was familiar with most of these names. I
thought nothing further of it at the time.
Wanting all the endorsement I could get for the doctors’ bill, and
particularly that of the American Medical Association, I made a special
trip to Chicago to see Dr. Morris Fishbein, who was a power in that
organization. I asked for advice or help, and offered to draw up a bill
in any way which would suit them. Dr. Fishbein appeared sympathetic and
turned me over to Dr. William C. Woodward, the legislative director; we
had a pleasant conversation and that was all. Though he made no comment
as to its merits or demerits, I put the bill on record in their office.
Tried and true friends, whose abilities and loyalties had been tested
and proved, rallied around the National Committee on Federal Legislation
for Birth Control, which established its headquarters in Washington in
1931. Frances Ackermann assisted my husband as Treasurer. For Vice
President we had Mrs. Walter Timme who had left the League of Women
Voters, a fine speaker, a clear-thinking crusader, a devoted ally of
long standing. Tall, large-framed, broad-shouldered, she could harangue
audiences in the strong, convincing, and forceful fashion of the early,
suffrage, soapbox days—nothing delicate or fragile. When she had an
idea, it was an idea, and she stated it as an idea. More than once our
bank account would have faded to a mere wraith had it not been for Ida
Timme’s money-raising talents.
Mrs. Alexander C. Dick was Secretary. She had the old-fashioned head of
a daguerreotype, but was thoroughly modern in her verve and gay
personality and her quick agility of mind. Since 1916, when I had first
known her, she had been really interested in the research end of birth
control, and definitely had agreed with the then new war cry that it
should be under medical supervision. It was mainly due to her and her
late husband, Charles Brush of Cleveland, that Ohio had had from the
beginning one of the best organized and conducted state leagues.
Kate Hepburn was Chairman. In her long public career she had learned
great efficiency and was so careful of minutiae that she never let our
witnesses run over their time. Just as we were swinging along briskly
she invariably tugged at a coat and passed over a little slip—“time up
in one minute.”
Best of all our lobbyists was Mrs. Hazel Moore, our Legislative
Secretary, who had left the Red Cross in the South to support us.
Nothing could withstand her indefatigable enthusiasm, and it took a
stout Senator to harden his heart against her feminine ruses and winning
manners.
We now began to be initiated into the A B C of Federal legislative
procedure. After your bill had been drawn up, you had to find a
Congressman to introduce it. Sometimes he believed in it a hundred
percent; sometimes he believed in the individual a hundred percent;
sometimes he sponsored it only to be accommodating and agreeable, in
which case it was called “by request,” a very weak way since you knew he
was not going to fight for it. When introduced, the bill was read in the
House or Senate and at once referred to a committee, those having to do
with changing a law to the Judiciary. Ours was difficult to manage at
first, because we were trying to alter several statutes simultaneously,
not merely Section 211 and everything pertaining to mails and common
carriers, but also laws relating to imports. We had a general principle
back of us, but we had to keep whacking off clauses so that it would not
be thrown into the wrong committee.
If you were fortunate enough to secure a Senate hearing for your bill
the chairman of your committee appointed a sub-committee of about three;
in the House, the entire committee might attend the hearing. A day was
set and you began preparing your ammunition; the opposition was allowed
an equal amount of time to the second. After the hearing a vote was
taken. If they were against it, they killed it then and there; if they
recommended it, it came up before the full committee and, if then
approved, went to the Senate or House for debate on the floor.
To the frantic, worried, harassed, driven Congressmen of 1931 the
announcement of a birth control bill was like a message from Mars, only
less interesting and more remote. The mind of each Senator resembled a
telephone switchboard with his wary secretary as the operator. All the
wires were tied up with foreign debts, unemployment relief, reparations,
moratoriums, sales taxes, prohibition, budgets and bonuses, war in
Manchuria, peace conferences, disarmament, and the tariff—issues of
vital concern to themselves for which they needed every vote; and their
principal endeavor was not to cause conflict or get themselves disliked.
What chance had we to plug in?
When the vigilant secretary found we were not direct constituents, we
were told the Senator was busy—in conference, in committee, meeting an
arriving delegation. Would we come back later, tomorrow, next week?
Always we came back promptly and on the dot. For months it was almost
impossible to see any of them. Often as many as forty calls were made,
and if we succeeded in getting two interviews, we considered that a good
day’s work. When finally we did reach them, few of the younger, still
fewer of the older, Senators knew what we were talking about. When we
were able to make this clear, young and old alike, just as in the state
legislatures, were full of fears—fear of prejudices, fear of cloakroom
joshings, mainly fear of Catholic opposition.
Though Senator Norris had approved the repeal bill, he believed that
ours had a better chance of passing because antagonism to the former was
even greater than in 1926. He himself had Muscle Shoals and the Lame
Duck Amendment on his hands and several more pet projects to boot, and
suggested we get somebody to introduce the bill who would not be up for
re-election. Our choice fell on Senator Frederick Huntington Gillett of
Massachusetts, for years Speaker of the House, and now about to retire.
He was a gentleman born, gray-haired, typically New England, without
children or any particular philosophy regarding birth control. Our
Southern helpers, notably Mrs. J. B. Vandeveer, were persistent and
determined. They would not be put off with polite, routine dismissals,
but asked point-blank, “Will you introduce this bill for us?” Senator
Gillett, recognizing their earnestness, agreed. But we heard no more of
it.
When I returned at the next session of the same Congress someone
remarked, “Aren’t you lucky to have had your bill introduced?”
“What?” I stared with wide-open eyes.
“Yes, Senator Gillett remembered it a few days before the session
closed.”
I called on him at once. “Where’s our bill gone?”
It had gone nowhere. “We’ll just send it around to the Judiciary
Committee,” said the Senator. “Norris is Chairman and he’s friendly.
He’ll pick out a good sub-committee for you.”
We gathered our witnesses together the night before the hearing, which
was to be February 13th, and asked, “What do you want to say? How long
do you want in which to say it?” We had eight people to testify in the
space of two hours; moments had to be carefully parceled out to each. We
were permitted to deduct ten from our allotment the first day to be used
the following one for a rebuttal.
William E. Borah of Idaho and Sam G. Bratton of New Mexico had been
assigned to us with Senator Gillett, but Borah did not appear. The
audience, mostly women, crowded the committee room, imposing with marble
pillars, glossy mahogany, gleaming windows.