Background: The Abigail Adams statue is a part of the Boston Women’s Memorial in Boston’s Back Bay. It has three inscriptions:

On the left:

“If we were to count our

years by the revolutions

we have witnessed

we might number them

with the antediluvians

so rapid have been

the changes: that the mind

tho fleet in it progress,

has been outstripped by them

and we are left like statues

gazing at what we can neither

fathom or comprehend.”

On the right:

“And, by the way, in the

New Code of laws

which I suppose

it will be necessary

for you to make

I desire you would

remember the ladies

and be more generous

and favorable to them

than your ancestors.

Do not put such unlimited

power into the hands

of the husbands.

Remember, all men would

be tyrants if they could.

If particular care and

attention is not paid to the

ladies, we are determined

to foment a rebellion,

and will not hold ourselves

bound by any laws in which

we have no voice

or representation.”

And on the back:

“Abigail Adams

1744 – 1818

Born in Weymouth Massachusetts. She was

the wife of the second President of the

United States and the mother of the sixth.

Her letters establish her as a perceptive

social and political commentator and

a strong voice for women’s advancement.”

Writing Assignment:

            When Abigail Adams née Smith have birth to her first son, she lay panting in bed, holding the red, screaming jewel, awash in virtue. She asked first for her husband and he stooped into the room. A little and somewhat reticent man, he had achieved fame only two years prior for demanding that their local government reject England’s tyrannical Stamp Act. She looked into his deep-set eyes. She would make him great. She handed him the American prince she had borne him. She would make both of them great. And that would make her great.

She called next for her young daughter, nicknamed ‘Nabby’ but named after Abigail; unlike her mother who jabbed her way into history, Nabby was already bound for insignificance. The only interesting thing she would do was in 50 years, when she would get breast cancer and a subsequent mastectomy and then die. But when her mother sat in her bloodstained marriage bed holding her squealing sibling, Nabby was only two. The little girl tottered into the room. She was already like her mother, long in face and somber looking. Like her mother, she would be attractive but never beautiful.

Nabby looked at her mother, her upper body poised and serene sitting atop the carnage at her pelvis. Nabby looked tearful. Abigail looked firmly at her until Nabby’s eyes dried: ever the pragmatist, Abigail needed this moment to teach a lesson to her daughter. She needed Nabby to see her mother after the bloody battle of birth. Abigail needed her to understand that she would never be equal to a man, but she would never be his inferior. As a lady, she would simply be other. And she would do what Abigail did: she would build her husband up, build her children up, build her home up. It is for a woman to create a man’s world – that is how a woman achieves virtue and honor. Abigail knew it was a hard and thankless truth; the life of a lady required a strong spine that could withstand both a life of dutiful creation and a life wearing a whale-bone corset that constricted the torso to 25 inches. She looked at soft Nabby; she wasn’t sure if her daughter could do it.

When Nabby was finally taken out of the room, Abigail handed her son John – named for his mother’s grandfather John, not his father John– to a servant, Hannah. Like everything in her home, she knew every detail about Hannah. She had read to Hannah often so that Abigail could progress her own rudimentary literary skills. She knew Hannah had strong hands, so her baby was safe. Hannah was a woman but not a lady. She would not be remembered.

Finally alone, Abigail lay back against her pillow. She let her face show her pain, the punching, throbbing aches as her hips knit themselves together again. She would face this again. She would deliver 10 more sons and 10 more daughters. She rolled onto her side and pulled out a sheet of paper. She began to write, which was still an alien act for her hand. She had not learned until her late teens and still struggled with certain letters, like B and A. She had to re-try certain words a few times as she wrote to the ages about the birth of her son.

Process Notes:

            I thought this was a really interesting assignment. I think the biggest challenge for me was that I found myself getting too drawn into the character of Abigail Adams that I was creating. I had to remind myself that the key was to balance giving this character a voice while also demonstrating the lack of voice that history gives her. I often had to refer back to Keene’s “Gloss” to take inspiration with how he did this; I think something that really helped me was taking inspiration from how Keene judges character’s, especially women character’s, appearances in the way that they would have been mercilessly judged at the time (and, arguably, still today). Overall, I think this was an assignment that really stretched me as a writer in the best way.