The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(107)

Dorothy looked on as one of the older girls suggested Trotskyism. One of the little boys waved his hand in the air and asked if he could be a king. One of the older boys, a lad named Theo, was about to speak when Dorothy stood up first. “We should try a matriarchy,” she said. “Some primitive societies operated that way, and even the ancient Celts had rulers along matrilineal lines. We could be like the Padaung in Burma, where women have social privilege and authority…”

Before she could finish Dorothy was nearly drowned out by groans and snide comments from many of the boys. Some of the male teachers looked away, waiting, hoping the suggestion would go away so they wouldn’t have to take a side.

Dorothy glanced at Mrs. Bidwell, who offered an approving nod.

“What about that?” the headmaster said. “Did you see how all of you—especially the boys—had a visceral reaction to the idea of a government led by women? Because of that I think we owe it to ourselves to seriously consider that option.”

Ultimately, the school as a collective group selected three ideologies to choose from. Dorothy looked on as the headmaster called for a vote by a simple show of hands. Teachers would tally the votes. But since there were more girls than boys, more women than men, Dorothy had already been able to predict the outcome.

“Matriarchy, it is,” the headmaster said as he stood up. “Outstanding. Those of the majority party—or those newly willing supplicants—you may gather elsewhere to select your leaders and your rules by which the rest of us will live for a week.” The class waited as the girls and young women left the room along with nearly half of the boys.

Dorothy, holding the door, was the last to leave. When she stepped into the hallway, Mrs. Bidwell was waiting. “Well, now that was a deft move,” she said. “I didn’t see it coming. Now I’m not a religious person, but I daresay that was a revelation.”

“I did it for you,” Dorothy said.

Mrs. Bidwell was about to speak when they were interrupted by a man who stepped up to shake Dorothy’s hand.

“That was quite a thing in there,” he said. “I’m with the Leiston Observer. I’m on campus for an article about the school, and these meetings are rather peculiar but also quite noteworthy. That was a bold idea you had in there, miss. If you would permit me, I’d like to take a photograph of you for the paper.” He held up a small box, dark blue, with a silver crank on one side and a leather handle on the top. “I never go anywhere without my trusty Ensign. Why don’t we go outside while there’s still daylight?”

Dorothy looked at Mrs. Bidwell, who winked and followed the man out to the front of the main school building. As he set up his camera and sprinkled flash powder in the trough of a metal lamp, Dorothy saw her teacher standing behind him, her hands on her hips. She looked amused, positively delighted.

“Okay, there we are,” the photographer said as he looked down into the camera and held up the flash lamp. “Smile please and then hold.”

She tried not to laugh as Mrs. Bidwell made faces. Then Dorothy relaxed, brushed the hair from her eyes, and smiled as she stared at her teacher in the setting sun.

The flash powder sparked, then exploded like a firework, a burst of white light leaving colored stars in its wake. Dorothy smelled the burning potassium nitrate and magnesium and heard Mrs. Bidwell’s voice echo in her ears, “Well done.”

When Dorothy’s eyes readjusted to the daylight, she was in her room, standing over her bed. Her roommates were gone, and on her pillow sat a copy of the Observer. Beneath the newspaper, Dorothy found a sealed envelope that smelled like violets. She looked over her shoulder, then opened it and read the note inside:

Dearest—

I apologize for not telling you this in person, but I absolutely dread goodbyes. Which of course is my excuse for why I’ve packed a suitcase and left for Hamstead, without leaving a letter for my dear husband, wherever he is.

I’m meeting with a wonderful poet, Eva Gore-Booth, who has asked if I’d like to become a writer and editor for Urania, a secret journal that has, in many ways, taken up the mantle of The Freewoman, which ceased publication some years ago.

I initially declined her offer, but—you’ve inspired me.

The opportunity doesn’t pay well and I’ll be forced to write under a pseudonym, but I will be allowed to be myself on the page and therein is a certain freedom, one without price. I’ll take that freedom and feel rich for the rest of my days.

I will think of you, my dear, fondly and with great admiration. Life has its way and I know it will circle me back to you. I just don’t know when. Until then, know that as a teacher, I’ve never learned so much from a student.

Truly,

Alyce

PS. Don’t change. Instead change the world.



Dorothy sat down on the bed and held the note to her heart. She opened the newspaper, turning to a half-page article that featured a large illustration of the school and a small printed photograph of Dorothy, smiling as though she knew a secret.

She carefully folded the page and tucked it in her pocket. Then she hid the note beneath one of the drawers in her desk. She heard pleasant music playing somewhere far away, an orchestra. She walked to the door, stepped outside, and was surrounded by finely dressed people, most of them Chinese, paired off, circling a dance floor as the bandleader sang, “Each time I see a crowd of people, just like a fool I stop and stare, it’s really not the proper thing to do, but maybe you’ll be there.”