Skip to main content

A Texas Peace Activist

If I have had an existential crisis in this class due to readings or blog posts, it does not compare to what this prompt has done to my brain this week.


"A Lost Narrative"


If a narrative is REALLY lost, then no one living should know about it, right? If anyone knows of any kind of narrative, then it isn't lost. If it just isn't widely known, then it still isn't lost and the entire thing is just a mindfuck. Perhaps I'm thinking too hard about it, but who really knows anymore. Narrative is just....wild. Anyways, I began thinking of narratives that aren't as popular, or have been lost for a really long time. I asked around. I went on the History Channel (which was useless but entertaining). And then I got it.


In our Research Methods class we are putting together a digital archive of women letter writers. The woman I chose is called Cordye Hall and she was amazing. She made copies of every letter she ever sent out. She was a ring leader in the Mothers for Peace organization in Dallas. She protested until she could physically protest no more against nuclear war. She wrote letters to major companies such as General Motors to urge them to stop participating in these dangerous wars or she and her fellow mothers would stop doing business with them. Sometimes she got responses. Sometimes she didn't. She made sure to note that on her copies of her letters with a "no response." She fact-checked every single businessman, CEO, and even presidents in her letters, and even went as far as writing to Ronald Reagan and telling him that he was a disgrace to the nation. She never got a response from Reagan, but that did not stop her from sending at least 5 letters to him questioning his policies and basically asking wtf his problem was. In her boxes, I found correspondence between her and Lyndon B. Johnson. They did not like one another, as the tone in both parties letters would suggest. She questioned his policies, wondered why he was not giving clear answers in interviews, and even went as far as critiquing his presidential campaign promises. If she didn't like his answer, or felt he was being dishonest, she would write back and call him out on it.


As I read these letters from Cordye Hall, I laughed at her witty, no nonsense way of writing, and admired her tactics in getting politicians and CEO's to pay attention to the damage war caused people. She was brave. She was bold. She seemed so fearless. A woman like this should be talked about more. She should have a place in Texas history textbooks, and her activism should be more than just letters. When I googled her name, an autobiography about her came up on Amazon, but it does not have any reviews. I couldn't find anything on Goodreads. Her narrative essentially lives in the TWU archives, and her legacy should be more than boxes of letters and a not-so-popular autobiography. As I continue to read her letters, skim through her scrapbooks, and look upon photos of her family, I want to know more about this brave woman who seemed to not be scared of anyone or anything.


Hopefully when this project is done, more people will know about Cordye Hall and will admire her for the anti-nuclear war activism and her quick wit. Below is a photo of her at a protest in 1979 printed in the Denver Newspaper. I hope now her narrative won't be lost or forgotten, and maybe people along the way will stumble upon her autobiography and read it and rate it on Goodreads. Who knows. I just know that she story should never get lost.
Please buy her book

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"You don't look like your dad!" Tales of Legal Adoption

"You don't look like your dad. You must be the spitting image of your mother!" or "Your brothers look just like your dad! I bet you take after your momma." I heard these statements a lot growing up. And it's true. I don't look like my dad. And for a while, I didn't really look like my mom. I do now, but that isn't the point. You see, my dad adopted me when I was around six or seven years old. He had been a part of my life, for, well, all of it. When my mother and biological father (sometimes I refer to him as my sperm donor, because I think it's funny, but his name is Chris), got divorced, my dad, Kenny, married my mom resulting in a blended family of me, who was biologically my mom's, and my two brothers, who were biologically his. Suddenly I went from being the only child to being the middle child in a family dynamic that takes a lot of explaining to do. They say divorce and the things I supposedly went through in my early childhood...

I'm adopted and I have trust issues. Here's why:

I grew up knowing that I was adopted. I’m a fair-skinned freckled brunette who never grew past 4’10” so I fit in photographs just fine with my brunette mother and blonde father who adopted me at birth. When I was little, they told me stories about how God had sent me to their arms, how they had chosen me, how special I was because I was adopted. The story of Moses was especially prominent, as was Tarzan. I grew up in middle America where everybody still goes to church on Sundays and Wednesdays like clockwork and trusts Disney to raise their children during TV time. My mother was (and still is with my daughter now) a firm believer in keeping children innocent as long as possible. She adores small children and works with them exclusively at the church where she directs the children’s choir and runs the after-school program. My father always had a nonchalant attitude towards these things. He wouldn’t go out of his way to introduce us to things that might be a tad inappropriate, but he...

No Calling, No Problem

I have no calling in a world where we all wonder what we're meant to do, who we're supposed to be. My mom called me the other day to tell me one of my childhood friends would be moving to my hometown soon because her husband had accepted a job with the Baptist church next door to her Methodist church. I don’t know why she thinks I give a shit about small town gossip or any news that concerns the church seeing as how she’s very aware of how I feel about organized religion. Nevertheless, she has nothing else to tell me because her world is much smaller than mine. “He used to be an airplane pilot,” she says. “Then why is he going to be a youth minister? How will they survive? Where will the money come from?” I ask, appalled. I know from my instagram that his wife is a stay-at-home mom of three. “It doesn’t matter, they’ll figure it out,” she brushes it off. “He has a calling to work for the Lord.” A calling. A goddamn calling. Half of my life, I waited for some fucking ca...