Forward
WOMEN OF ILLINOIS, NATIVE AMERICAN
FRONTIER WOMEN, 18TH–21ST CENTURIES
From the fertile river valleys of pre-colonial Illinois to the bustling streets of modern Chicago, women have shaped the state’s history with resilience, ingenuity, and quiet revolution. This section of the journal traces their legacy across centuries and cultures—Native American matriarchs, frontier healers, Civil War nurses, and pioneering reformers—each navigating the constraints of their era while expanding the boundaries of possibility.
We begin with the Sauk and Mesquakie women of northern Illinois, whose agricultural expertise, seasonal leadership, and diplomatic authority defied the dismissive accounts of early Euro-American observers. Far from passive “drudges,” these women cultivated hundreds of acres, led sugar-making operations, and held sway in village councils and intertribal negotiations. Their stories remind us that power often resides in the rhythms of daily labor and the wisdom of adaptation.
The 19th century brought new trials and transformations. Mary Todd Lincoln, often caricatured as “mad,” emerges here in a more nuanced light. Recent scholarship and rediscovered letters suggest she suffered from bipolar disorder or possibly pernicious anemia—conditions misunderstood in her time but far from insanity. Her institutionalization in 1875, orchestrated by her son Robert, was as much a reflection of gendered power and Victorian discomfort with grief as it was a medical judgment. Mary’s intellect, ambition, and emotional volatility placed her outside the bounds of acceptable womanhood, but not beyond reason. She was disturbed, yes—but lucid, literate, and deeply aware of her own marginalization.
Mary Lincoln’s prognosis—especially the 1875 declaration of insanity—was shocking to many at the time, and it still stirs debate today. Her surviving son, Robert Todd Lincoln, petitioned the court to have her institutionalized. After just one day of testimony, a jury declared her insane and committed her to Bellevue Place Sanitarium.
But here’s the twist: Mary Lincoln was released just four months later, thanks to the efforts of close friends who believed she was not truly mentally ill. Modern historians and psychiatrists have revisited her case, suggesting she may have suffered from bipolar disorder, exacerbated by immense personal trauma, losing three sons, and witnessing her husband’s assassination.
Some of her behavior, like excessive spending and paranoia about people stealing her money, was seen as delusional at the time. But today, many argue that her actions were understandable given the grief and societal pressures she endured. One psychiatrist even said that with modern medication, she likely would have stabilized within a week. So yes, her prognosis was surprising—but perhaps more so in how it reflected the limited understanding of mental health in the 19th century.
In contrast, Eliza “Aunt Lizzie” Aiken turned personal tragedy into public service. After losing all four of her children to cholera and her husband to mental illness, she volunteered as a nurse with the 6th Illinois Cavalry during the Civil War. Her tireless care—sitting up 24 nights in a row, treating hundreds of soldiers, and refusing reassignment to safer posts—earned her the admiration of generals and the nickname “America’s Florence Nightingale.” She was the first woman in Illinois to be sworn into military service as a nurse, and later became a missionary in Chicago, making over 12,000 visits to the sick and poor.
Finally, we meet Marie Connolly Owens, a Chicagoan whose legacy was nearly erased. Widowed with five children, she became the first female police officer in the United States in 1891. Owens enforced child labor laws, tracked down absentee fathers, and personally supported struggling families. She wielded arrest powers with restraint, preferring diplomacy and compassion over force. Her work laid the foundation for modern social policing, yet her obituary made no mention of her groundbreaking career—a silence this journal seeks to rectify.
Together, these women form a mosaic of courage and contradiction. They were not saints or stereotypes, but complex agents of change. Their stories challenge us to rethink what leadership looks like and whose voices history chooses to amplify. In honoring them, we honor the unfinished work of equity, memory, and truth.
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| Bertha Honoré Palmer |
Carol Moseley Braun, a Chicagoan, was the first Black woman elected U.S. Senator in 1992.
