An Ode to Betsy Ross
I took the picture above today when I visited the Betsy Ross house in Philadelphia. I wrote on social media that the sign stating “Be Brave” looked more like something you’d expect to see on your way into a haunted house. I was joking, of course, especially because I had assumed this would be a light excursion after having spent two days in the city archives. In the end, it was a profound and inspiring visit.
It’s only my second time in Philadelphia, though the city had loomed large in my historian mind for a long time. It was so embedded in my soul that the day I got to set foot in Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence and U. S. Constitution were debated before signing, I started to cry. I’ll be the first that I’m quick to cry in deeply emotional moments, and sometimes that can involve something as simple as Samwise Gamgee declaring, “I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you!” to Frodo on Mount Doom. But even that iconic film moment is connected to real things and real human courage. That said, I have to tell you I cried again today.
As I said, I expected Betsy Ross house to be a light visit. Which is weird, I know. I have spent much of my career uncovering the weight behind women’s stories in the past and here I was waltzing into the Ross house to admire teapots and furniture. And then I rounded a corner to enter Betsy Ross’s workshop and encountered a woman calmly sewing at a worktable. She said, “Welcome, friend, I am glad you have come to see my wares.” I had to turn to read a sign on the wall so I could collect myself. I breathed, wiped away a small tear, and turned to return her greeting. I didn’t even know that much about the woman before today, and of course it was a re-enactor. But I was moved.
She invited me to ask any questions, and the first thing I did was mess up royally. I asked why she was known by her first husband’s name instead of her later married names. The actress was taken aback and said, “Well, you know it is 1777 and my John is still with me. I know no other name.” I felt awful. Simply awful.
I rallied and found myself slipping into an approximation of 18th c. speech. “My apologies,” I ventured, “I assume too much because I know well the fate of many women in wartime.” She relaxed and agreed it was a frightening time to be alive and that a widow without children would be vulnerable indeed.
We did speak of teapots and sewing and other womanly things. I looked around the shop and saw drapes and upholstery—that was her specialty, you see, and she only rarely did flags, and no clothing. She told me times were hard. Folks don’t order drapes in uncertain and sometimes violent time. She took whatever work she could, and she had met George Washington socially once or twice. Military contracts were the only work she had sometimes. In addition to flags, she had branched out to all kinds of crafts, including musket cartridges. Betsy did support “the movement” but could never openly admit to it.
I said I had noted in her private quarters the almost-finished flag. I said, “You must have to work on that away from prying eyes.” She agreed. There is no telling who is a Loyalist. Philadelphia was deeply divided and there were some who would turn her in, even see her executed, whether or not there was proof of treason.
“Be Brave”, said the sign outside the house. Betsy Ross was brave, brave in a way we can all emulate. She is rightfully praised for her service to our country in its infancy. But I think we all forget how courageous the woman was and the real danger she faced. She models the bravery of each of us could replicate, quietly, in private, and, in her case, with a simple needle and thread. Every act of rebellion can contribute to something wonderful.
And all of this happened to me in a moment, but in the midst of a city I love more every time I visit. People are gruff like the New Englanders I grew up with but joyfully kind as well. Everywhere there are signs of love and persistence and hope. I made my way around the city today—to the city archives, to the museum and some shopping, to the welcome reception at the French history conference I’m attending, to the little hole in the wall restaurant where I got a couple of pizza slices—and everywhere I felt at home.
Every place has its problems, naturally. But I had a number of incidents today that I don’t think I’ve experienced anywhere else. Here’s just one example—as I walked in the gentle rain towards the archives, I stepped aside to avoid a big puddle and then resumed course just as a teen in a hoodie on a bike roared past me at high speed and splashed me a bit. I yelled “Jeez!” He rode ahead and then slowed, turned around, and came back to apologize and ask if I was OK. I said, “All good. I was just surprised.” He laughed and told me to have a nice day.
Y’all. I think Philadelphia is leading the way, as always. Like Betsy Ross did, a stitch at a time.