Rose's Journal

May 15, 1940

Today, a deep anger awoke, a call to break away from merely represent a décor at my spouse’s arm. Sun seeped through our plush drapes, yet shadows clung to my desk where words took form under my pen. On roads, banners of Thomas Dewey were hung, the face of a man who advocates for change. My peers mocked, for them a woman’s realm stuck to home, to afternoon teas, not to places where futures are shaped.

My husband laughed off my “modern thoughts” as cute. My heart hardened at such contempt. Today, my body acted on a push and took part on Dewey’s cause. Even at the team of pamphlets, my soul sought solace among them.

June 3, 1940

The space where we congregated for our purpose breathed a storm of zeal. Today, as we looked over maps and tally sheets, a warmth not from the sun’s rays sprang forth. Dewey’s platform offered a world where females stood equal. Alone, read "A Room of One’s Own," a text by Woolf. Each leaf a beacon, each term a spark.

At tea, my comrades, adorned yet hollow, chatted about gowns and galas. My thoughts on reform, on the votes we were laughed at, cast off as grand gestures for a woman. Unaware of the blaze that smoldered beneath my calm facade.

July 20, 1940

Torment shrouded today’s dawn. Last afternoon, as mermen from tea faded, my man, through a stern look, ordered me to cease my too out-of-place, too scandalous electoral endeavors. The role of a spouse, he stated, needed tact, not the loudness of acts. Thus, my room concealed my dreams, locked them away as though they were mere threads.

Yet as these penned hopes fell apart, a new strength rooted, calm yet forceful. My hands alone may not place a vote, nor shape the decrees that rule us, but they can forge the thoughts of tomorrow. My words, soft yet powerful, can turn the polls. Thus, returned to my desk, to my pen, to the gentle use of phrases as my weapon.

August 12, 1940

A monstrous fury thrashes today, a storm brewed from years of doors shut on my hopes, my dreams, my very essence. The freedom to choose, a luxury only for the ones that have the correct anatomy, seem to possess. The men speak of war, of economy—oh, how they speak words of freedom and democracy, yet at home, they shackle us upon laughs.

At my desk, enclosed by walls surrounded by art, my own form of a cage, ponder. How many of these men, one wonders, deserve the harsh fate they thrust upon us? Thoughts so dark cloud my judgment. A need to end them, even murder and torture. The seven stages of hell from Dante, no less.

September 30, 1940

Autumn ushers’ colder days, and the leaves echo my slow descent to the center of the earth. My husband, once more, boasts of the role at the ballots, he does not note to the storm that unravels me. The local women, most draped and pearl, murmur assent to each word spoken by the lords. A ghastly puppet show.

Each day that passes, my words grow fewer, my thoughts darker. Know by heart, but leaf through Woolf’s work once more, each sentence a match of my resolve. Must act, not upon the torturous thoughts that haunt me, but towards a change, however small.

As the ballots draw near, a plan forms. Though barred from the ballets, perhaps my words, through letters, through mascaraed, can make a change. Perhaps through the shadows, we, the unseen, the unheard, can sculpt a tomorrow we are no longer pushed to confront. My resolve strengthens, raw blood must be replaced by the pen and the hushed murmurs that carry more power than the roar of any gun.

October 18, 1940

Today, the world seems draped in gloom, yet beneath, a rage burns. My husband, clad and grey, states the pureness of our home, a castle where hushed tones and gentle nods craft the perfect facade. "Your place, my dear," he chortles, "the grand room, by the hearth, not by the clamor of the ballot room."

Yet, as he departs, smug and self-assured, the lock on my thoughts breaks. Massachusetts, Boston’s red and clamor, stands as both myself and my stage. Here, where revolts once sprang, myself shackled by golden necklaces and velvet gags. The very walls of our estate, are grand and echo my cell.

But today, words scrawl out, desperate yet powerful, to women across the county. "To the unseen," my letters start, "to the unheard. Your thoughts matter, even when they quash your screams through laughs. Stand, for our day thy come." Each envelope sealed, a small revolt brews, not through guns or torches, but by the pen and the secret ballot.

November 5, 1940

Ballot day. The sun barely crests the autumn clouds, and already, the streets hum a murmur palpable as the cold. Men, adorned by hats and coats, walk the way to cast the future protected by secret. My heart, heavy (even though a blend of hope and sorrow, watches the street)—the gateway to a world not meant for me.

Today, Thomas Dewey contests FDR, a battle of thoughts and the future of the country, a land of…freedom, yet so often clamps down on those not born to power. My hand clutches the paper, the day’s news blur before eyes that have seen too much.

My husband returns, flushed, he belongs to a democracy so proud yet so profoundly flawed. "A grand day for the US!" he exults, unaware of the soulless woman he nurtures at home. My journal, beneath layers of blankets and lace, holds my true vote, and for today my journal has to be enough.

December 1, 1940

A month has passed, and the cold settles deep to the bones of Boston. The papers herald Roosevelt: a mandate renewed through the rumble of a world at war. My endeavors, though covert, felt for a moment as they could have forged a path through the frost of status-quo. Not today.

Yet, through the hall, the grand parlors, and the drab boardrooms, my husband and cohorts speak of war and peace as though they were masters of fate, gods of a modern Olympus. "Women need to be protected," they declare, a toast to confront all women.

January 20, 1941

The new year ushers not just a change of calendar but also a renewal of resolve. The post-war world looms, a specter over the present struggles, maybe a new chance, not just for the country, but for myself.

My husband, ever the center of the world, speaks grandeur, yet on each toast, the crumble of old appears. The aftermath of war changes all unknowns—lands, people, even hearts. Beneath the stars, meet other women, and see the battle of the heart, unspoken yet palpable.

We are many, we are angry, and we are here. Though bound by the laws of men, we nurture a future that someday acknowledges us, not as shadows but as shapers. And so, by the glow of a lone lamp, as snow mantles the harshness of a January afternoon, pen my thoughts, my dreams, my revolts. Because of my words, freedom becomes me.

Rose