In addition to writing the book as a paean to the ladies who, rather than letting all obstacles smash them, smashed all obstacles, was the fact that historically men seem to have garnered the monopoly on transcending suffering. One needs only to think of the Bible and the men engaged in epic struggles: Jonas adrift in the whale’s belly, Job as the archetypal whipping boy, Christ on his cross. From the modern era are the images of the jailed freedom fighters: Mandela in South African, Gandhi in India, King in America. Their female counterparts have somehow been obscured, although their sufferings were no greater, their courage no less.
The Grimm brothers did not help matters when they portrayed princesses as damsels in distress—unable to save themselves, they depended on the auspices of the prince: to find the glass slipper, to awaken with a kiss, to climb the golden tower of hair. As a little girl, my favorite record was Thumbelina, the enchanting fairy no bigger than a thumb, who, trapped on a lily pad and fearful of the advances of an unwelcome toad, plaintively cried out, “Oh hear, my plea/And rescue me…” Walt Disney, in his early films, perpetuated this stereotype—Snow White sang in her little girl voice, “Someday my prince will come.” His studio later gave feminism some teeth when it made their royal maidens the possessors of backbone. One of these rough and tough ladies was Megara (Meg,) who nailed it when she proclaimed, “I’m a damsel. I’m in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day!” At the end she overcomes her fear of heights and saves strong-man Hercules. Pixar piggybacked on this with Brave—a film which lives up to its name. Merida, the red-haired archer, is the first animated princess in a major American film who did not fall in love, who refused to get married, and does not depend on a handsome mate to save the day. And, in 2013, we had Frozen’s Elsa, freed by the love of her sister. Unfortunately, Anna accomplished this feat in the stereotypical heroine attire—in revealing dress which showcased a body of anatomically unrealistic proportion and high heels. One icy step forward—one icy step back.
This paradigm shift can partially be attributed to the shoulders’ of the historic women on which we stand: Susan B. Anthony casting a ballot when it was illegal for women to vote, Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch, Helen Reddy’s lyric “I Am Woman.” It is females of this intrepid ilk which made for modern heroines who are far from the mythological maidens chained to a rock, helplessly and hopelessly waiting to be devoured by the Minotaur. Thanks to a growing multitude of kick-ass heroines, the damaging damsel in distress paradigm is receding into the Disney distance, a conceit antiquated and unenlightened. These days, our daughters experience gals such as the non-animated archer Katniss Everdeen and other fearless femmes who are holding down the fictional fort and making Princess Poor Me a phenomena of the past. These non-shrinking violets fortunately do so without loss of pheromones. Their anthem is poet Maya Angelou’s own,
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
In my inbox I receive emails from friends concerning female empowerment, of the solidarity of sisters. Still I Rise is an extension of these cyber-hugs. By sharing these stories of courage, it is my hope it will give faith to those who falter, for there is truth to the might of the pen. Nelson Mandela, while a prisoner of apartheid on Robben Island, kept in his cell an inspirational poem from 1875, “Invicitus.” It was a kind of Victorian My Way, about one’s head being bloody but unbowed, of remaining captain of one’s soul. The verse from which I took the title of this volume was inspired by the intrepid Maya Angelou, whose life was a patchwork quilt of challenges. She had been the victim of a childhood rape whose trauma left her without a voice for several years, failed marriages, and racism. Yet, through the elixir of words, she broke free from the solitude of silence and became the poet laureate at President Clinton’s inauguration. Through her travails, she discovered why the caged bird sings—it sings because though imprisoned, it never loses the vision of a life free from bars. In an ode to her indomitable spirit, she wrote an anthem of fortitude:
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
In the following chapters are the stories of intrepid women who, when the going got tough, kept going, which enabled them to cross the finish line. Their lives prove that the possessors of estrogen are not just “the fairer sex” because of outer beauty but inner strength. They refused to let go of Emily Dickinson’s hope is the thing with feathers and subsequently blazed trails. By reading of their power of persistence, their determination that dreams do not just have to remain in the realm of sleep, we can glean succor. Rather than view their sisters as competitors, they became the shoulders on which others can stand. Strong individuals are usually the possessors of uneasy pasts. However, heroines are defined not by their wounds, but by their triumphs. It is my hope that my readers will draw strength from reading of these great ladies’ struggles, and like dust, shall rise.
CHAPTER 1: THE WORST OF TIMES (1761)
Charles Dickens’ epic novel, A Tale of Two Cities, is a love story set against the fiery backdrop of France and England during the Reign of Terror. A nonfictional heroine whose life was likewise enacted in Paris and London during the same epoch is equally riveting, though it has been regulated to an obscure chapter of this tumultuous time.
There are many exclusive clubs which dot the glitterati capitals of the world which provide open sesame solely to the possessors of blood of blue or pants with deep pockets. And yet there is one such rarefied enclave where entry is even more exclusive: billions of dollars cannot buy entry. Membership is by invitation only; Mother Teresa is one of the few who have declined. British royalty and rock royalty, as well as American presidents, have long entered. In our more liberal milieu, admittance is less conventional. Orange is the New Black actress Laverne Cox became its first transgender inductee. In answer to where is this place, the answer is its establishments are found throughout the world; in answer to who began this novel emporium is a woman whose life was as fantastical as her glittering guests.
Anne Made Grosholz had to deal with the twin challenges of becoming a new mother and a widow when Joseph, her German husband, died from gruesome wounds incurred in the Seven Year War two months before his daughter Marie was born. To add to the dire situation, her spouse’s salary had been her sole source of income. To provide for herself and her infant, she obtained a position as a housekeeper to Dr. Philippe Curtius in her hometown of Strasbourg. The physician became so fond of Anne—he claimed to be a big fan of her casseroles—he brought mother and daughter along when he left France to return to his native Switzerland. There developed a lifelong bond between Marie and Curtius, who she called Uncle, and he served as surrogate father.
Like many medics of the time, Curtius made anatomical waxes, but his were exceptionally skillful, especially when it came to replicating the textures and hues of human skin. Hence, Marie was raised in a household where it was not unusual to see random body parts. Word of his talent spread, and Louis XV’s cousin, the Prince de Conti, offered patronage. Finding the royal opportunity too great a position to pass up, Dr. Curtius, Anne, and six-year-old Marie left for Paris.
From her earliest years, Marie was enraptured with the art of wax works and became an eager protégée. The minion ultimately supplanted the master, and at age seventeen, she was creating her own models. While other teenaged girls were courting eligible boys, Marie was busy immortalizing contemporary luminaries, such as Jean-Jacques