Hey, all! I’m back to kick off 2021 with another edition of Bygone Badassery, gushing about eight BIPOC women who have been forgotten, erased, or their stories retold. Several things to acknowledge before we dive right in:
~BIPOC is not necessarily an all-encompassing term. Identity is the most individual thing we have, and each non-white person likely prefers a different term or identification. I respect that. I’m sorry if you don’t feel included or seen in the abbreviation I’ve chosen to use in this introduction. Know that I see you, I love you, I’m listening, and I’m always willing to change something if you talk with me about it.
~These are only eight women. There are hundreds more extraordinary non-white women of history: I have many more to share the stories of. I just couldn’t do more than eight in this portion, or you would be very overwhelmed by the awesome. ;)
~History has been kept by and is often told through the white male gaze. That means that some of these facts are a little messy: there’s little we can do to cross-reference or corroborate sources. There are several different ideas for what may have happened in each of these women’s lifetimes; I’ve tried to include as many (reliable and diverse) viewpoints as I can, but, sometimes, the information is just not available to us. Especially with Luisa Moreno and Queen Nzinga, I had to dig a bit. I highly recommend clicking the sources I’m providing or looking into these women yourself: it’s up to you to decide what happened.
Now. On with the show! Enjoy!
8) Marsha P. Johnson (August 24, 1945 – July 6, 1992) – An Selfless STAR in Her Own Right: Marsha P. Johnson was born Malcolm Michaels Jr. on August 24, 1945, to a Catholic family in New Jersey. From what I can gather, she grew up in a loving, accepting home, especially for the time: she began wearing dresses at the age of five, but only stopped after the kids at school began to make fun of her. In fact, for the rest of her life, Marsha remained close to her family and a devout Catholic, returning home at every holiday she could; to me, that doesn’t sound like a cruel family. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean that Marsha had a great childhood. At the age of 13, she was sexually assaulted by a boy in her class, leading to trauma that would follow her throughout her life. A few years later, after graduating high school, Marsha moved to NYC with “$15 and a bag of clothes” (her words!). She began alternating between her dead name of Malcolm and her chosen name of “Black Marsha,” eventually settling on Marsha P. Johnson, the P. standing for “Pay It No Mind.” She became a prostitute to support herself: throughout her career, she would be arrested hundreds of times, and even shot in the 1970s. It’s important to note here, I think, that the criminalization and persecution of the LGBT+ community remained in full-swing: cross-dressing was the equivalent of sexual deviancy; there was a ban on serving queer folk alcohol; and same-sex dancing was strictly prohibited in public. Due to this, it’s safe to say that Marsha couldn’t find work outside of sex work (and, hey, if someone finds his, her, or themselves in sex work and enjoys it, who am I to judge?). That said, Marsha was proud of her identity, and quickly shot to the forefront of the Gay Rights Movement. At 23, she was one of the resistors at Stonewall; shortly after, in 1970, she founded STAR (Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries) with fellow activist and self-identified drag queen Sylvia Rivera. STAR was a safe haven for transgender individuals, providing them with a home and food; they operated for several years in New York City, Chicago, Los Angeles, and throughout England. Marsha and Sylvia wanted nothing more than to take care of kids like them. That care brought Marsha fame: she was featured in Warhol’s screenprints, for instance, and toured with a drag group called Hot Peaches. In 1980, she rode in the lead car of the Gay Pride Parade; that same year, she nursed a friend’s partner as he slowly died from AIDS. She forever cared more for other people than she did for herself, an angel in every way. Beneath it all, she hid her own struggles: from 1970 onwards, Marsha was in and out of psychiatric institutions, battling mental demons. In 1992, she revealed that she’d been HIV+ for over two years. Several days after this reveal, on July 6, 1992, she was found dead, drowned in a river at the age of 47. Her death was extremely sketchy. Like, extremely sketchy. Transphobic police originally ruled her death a suicide, but, after persistent lobbying and presentation of evidence by friends, they re-categorized Marsha’s death as drowning from undetermined causes, followed by, in 2012, the reopening of the case. Marsha P. Johnson was known as kind, loving, and joyous, a woman who would take care of you in a heartbeat but could also kick your ass. She had so much more to give, and it’s heartbreaking that we lost her so soon. I hope that, someday, we figure out what happened to her, and can honor her more fully. Until then, her legacy survives in the Marsha P. Johnson Institute, a place dedicated to the protection and aid of black transgender individuals. Thank you for all you did, Marsha, and all you continue to do. I’m so sorry for what happened. (See More: The Marsha P. Johnson Institute; GLSEN; New Jersey Office of LGBTQ+ Affairs; The New York Times; The Death and Life of Marsha P. Johnson [film]; Pay It No Mind - The Life and Times of Marsha P. Johnson [film])
7) Anna May Wong (January 3, 1905 – February 3, 1961) – The First Chinese-American Movie Star: Anna May Wong was born Wong Liu Tsong on January 3, 1905, a third-generation American and the second of eight children to a family residing in Los Angeles’s Chinatown district. She was given her English name—Anna May—by her family shortly before primary school. Though the Wong family lived in a diverse neighborhood, it did nothing to prevent other children from mocking and bullying Anna and her siblings for their race. This racist bullying was a constant source of woe and insecurity for her until the children were moved to the Chinese Mission School a few years later. When the movies came to LA from NYC in the 1910s, young Anna was enraptured: she would often skip school to visit the sets, or would use her lunch money at the nickelodeon instead of the cafeteria. She was hanging around so often, in fact, that film crews dubbed her “C.C.C.”, or “Curious Chinese Child.” By the age of nine, Anna was determined to become a movie star; by 11, she had combined her Chinese and English names to craft her stage name, Anna May Wong. Shortly after, in 1919, Anna received her first bit part as an extra in The Red Lantern (stories differ as to how this happened: she was an excellent networker and got introduced to the head dude? She was part of a diversity quota? She ran across an advertisement?), and she was hooked. In 1921, she dropped out of high school to pursue acting full-time. At first, she was fairly successful: she received a supporting role in Bits of Life, and was the lead in The Toll of the Sea (a re-telling of Madame Butterfly). The second made her a star, the New York Times proclaiming her the next big thing. Unfortunately, both roles were stereotyped, vilified, and eroticized versions of Chinese women, a struggle Anna would have for the rest of her life. She dealt with intense racial discrimination in the film industry, supported by the American legal system. Anti-miscegenation laws prohibited interracial relationships onscreen, meaning that Anna could never be a romantic lead, as it would be opposite a white man. As Anna herself said, “If they got an American actress to slant her eyes and eyebrows and wear a stiff black wig and dress in Chinese culture, it would be alright. But me? I am really Chinese. So I must always die in the movies, so that the white girl with the yellow hair may get the man.” She continued to perform—films like The Baghdad (almost shut down for Anna being “too erotic”), The Alaskan, and Peter Pan—and, in 1924, even established her own film company, quickly shut down due to the bad business practices of her partner. Finally, in 1928, fed up with dealing with American racism, Anna moved to Europe. She was a resounding success, making films in English, French, and German, and appearing onstage in operettas and plays. She was finally, it seemed, succeeding in the way she desired. Unfortunately, in 1930, she was drawn back to the USA with the promise of leading film roles that never materialized, though she did have a stint on Broadway. In November of that year, her mother was killed by a car in front of their house; four years later, her entire family left for China while Anna remained in America. She appeared in a handful of films after 1930—the most successful of which being Shanghai Express with Marlene Dietrich—but she largely disappeared from the public eye. On February 3, 1961, at the age of 56, Anna May Wong died of a heart attack. Though her legacy was buried for quite some time, her persistence in the face of horrific racism, her artistic dedication, and her whipsmart mind make her a hero for the ages. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to go hunt down her European performances. (See More: Backwards and in Heels by Alicia Malone; Harpers Bazaar; National Women's History Museum; IMDb page, if you want to watch her work; Netflix's Hollywood)
6) Annie Turnbo Malone (August 9, 1869 – May 10, 1957) – The Innovator Overshadowed by Her Student: Annie Turnbo Malone was born on August 9, 1869 in Metropolis, Illinois, the tenth of eleven children who would be orphaned shortly after the eleventh’s birth. Annie was raised in her elder sister’s home, where she attended and subsequently dropped out of high school: she discovered that she wasn’t of the academic mindset. However, she was extremely skilled in chemistry, and she applied that talent to a problem close to her heart. See, in the late 19th century, there didn’t exist hair products for black women. Anything that was on the shelf would damage, frizz, or tamper with their natural hair, an issue of confidence for anyone. Annie saw that market, saw her community struggling, and she took action. At the turn of the 20th century, she developed a line of hair products that wouldn’t damage black women’s hair. At first, she went door-to-door to sell her product, moving to St. Louis in 1902 and making quite a neighborhood stir. It wasn’t until 1904, however, that she really struck gold. Annie presented her product at the World’s Fair that year, and was able to go national by 1910. To accomplish such a feat, Annie gave back to her beloved community: she traveled through racially segregated areas, training black women to be cosmetologists and businesswomen, encouraging necessary skills and hiring them on the spot. She was a millionaire by the end of WWI. In the midst of this, in 1914, she married Aaron E. Malone, a vice principal who would turn out to be far more trouble than he was worth (in my humble opinion). Annie was almost too kind for her own good, a philanthropist through and through. She donated nearly all her money to charitable causes and the support of black Americans. Among her acts of good: she donated to Howard University and the Tuskegee Institute, and was thought to have supported at least two students in every HBCU in America at the time; she kept the St. Louis Colored Orphans’ Home (now known as Annie Malone Children and Family) on its feet; she rewarded her dedicated employees with monetary gain, educational opportunities, and better and more secure homes. In 1918, she founded Poro College, a cosmetology school and training center that allowed black women countless business opportunities. It also served as the community center, boasting classrooms, barber shops, laboratories, an auditorium, dining facilities, a theater, a gymnasium, a chapel, and a roof garden (whew!). In short, Annie was incredible. Unfortunately, her personal life did not reward that good karma. While Annie had been engaging in philanthropy, she had left her business in the hands of her husband and advisors, all brutally inexperienced. This led to a slew of problems from 1927 onward, beginning with a messy divorce in which her husband took half the business (what did I say?) and ending with the stock market crash. Though Annie stayed in business and operated Poro until the end of her life, she lost most of her wealth. Upon her death at age 88 on May 10, 1957, her estate only came in at $100,000. And the reason we don’t hear about this remarkable woman? Well, perhaps you’ve heard of her talented student: Madam C.J. Walker. It’s time to bring Miss Turnbo Malone out of the shadows. She did so much good for her community, for America in general, and for black Americans across the country. She deserves a legacy. Let’s give her one. (See More: The State Historical Society of Missouri; The University of Illinois; Living St. Louis -it's not letting me direct link the video, sorry!; National Museum of African American History and Culture; Vox; A Friend to All Mankind by John H. Whitfield)
5) Sarah Winnemucca (c. 1844 - October 16, 1891) – An Educator Torn Between Two Cultures: Sarah Winnemucca was born Tocmectone (meaning “Shell Flower”) sometime in 1844, to Northern Paiute chief Winnemucca. She came of age in a contentious time in Paiute history, growing up between two opposing viewpoints. Her grandfather, Chief Truckee, welcomed the white people, even assisting Gen. Fremont in the Bear War; her father, on the other hand, warned his people against allying with the white folk. As we all know, the latter would by-and-large prove to be right. Sarah would spend her entire life trying to straddle this racial divide. At age 13, likely due to her grandfather, Sarah and her sister Elma were sent to become members of Major Ormsby’s household at Mormon Station (now Genoa, NV); I could not tell you in this was a consensual move or not. Either way, at age 14, Sarah could speak five languages: three Native American dialects, English, and Spanish. Two years later, at her grandfather’s request, Sarah and Elma went to a convent school in San Jose, CA. They were only there for a few weeks before they were forced to leave due to “complaints…by wealthy parents about Indians being in school with their children.” Shortly after their arrival back home, life on the reservations began with the formation of Pyramid Lake Reservation in 1859. Sarah and her family were forced to give up their land and move to an inhospitable environment. The Paiute were given only enough supplies for a year, with government officials pocketing the remainder of the 22-year stash of coin. The majority of the Paiute tribe died of starvation. Nearly twenty years later, after being moved to a reservation in Oregon, 27-year-old Sarah began working as a translator for the Bureau of Indian Affairs at Oregon’s Fort McDermitt. This gave her an interesting position: to keep her job, she had to translate effectively; to protect and advocate for her people, she had to fight the power above her. In 1878, she worked as messenger, scout, and interpreter for Gen. O.O. Howard during the Bannock War. It was during this time that her people were forced on a death march to Yakima Reservation in Washington. Sarah was devastated: she had told the Paiute they would be fine if they obeyed orders. There was only one good thing to come of this genocidal event: it acted as catalyst for grieving, angry, intelligent Sarah. Her role as interpreter made her an invaluable agent for her tribe. She fought with reservation agents, wrote countless letters to political and military leaders, and was a part of the coalition of Paiute leadership that met with Sec. of the Interior Charles Schurz in 1880. She even got a letter from Schurz allowing a Paiute move back to Oregon, but the reservation agent refused to honor it. When this failed, Sarah began lecturing around the San Francisco area, carefully curating an “Indian Princess” routine to provide white people comfort, though her words about the atrocities committed against the Paiute and other tribes were true. Many were enthralled by her and horrified by her stories. Her very popularity led her former boss to call her “a drunk, a gambler, and a whore” in an effort to discredit her (blech). In 1883, Sarah was invited to speak in New England by two Transcendentalist educators—Elizabeth Palmer Peabody and Mary Peabody Mann—speaking over 300 times throughout the region before her death. That same year, her most famous book, Life Among the Paiutes, was published, writing scathingly about the American treatment of her people. (My favorite quote: “Since the war of 1860 there have been one hundred and three (103) of my people murdered, and our reservation taken from us; and yet we, who are called blood-seeking savages, are keeping our promises to the government. Oh, my dear good Christian people, how long are you going to stand by and see us suffer at your hands?”) In the mid-1880s, Sarah finally retired from public life, saying she was tired of giving all she had and nothing being done. She dedicated her energy, instead, to educating Paiute children, building a school to teach them English and marketable skills; the school was shut down by the (godawful) Dawes Act in 1887. She moved to Montana to be with her sister, where she died, a hero and a legend, on October 16, 1891, age 47. Look up her writings, friends. She’s incredible. And we should honor her by working to mend what was horrifically broken. (See More: Smithsonian Magazine; Nevada Women's History Project; Encyclopedia Britannica; Life Among the Paiutes by Sarah Winnemucca; The Newspaper Warrior: Sarah Winnemucca Hopkins's Campaign for American Indian Rights, 1864-1891, edited by Cari M. Carpenter and Carolyn Sorisio)
4) Luisa Moreno (August 30, 1907 – November 4, 1992) – An Advocate in the Face of Terror: Luisa Moreno was born Blanca Rosa López Rodríguez in Guatemala City on August 30, 1907, the daughter of a prominent Guatemalan family. As a child, she was sent to boarding school in Oakland, CA, returning to her home country as a teenager. She was unable to continue her education, though, due to laws barring women from entering schools of higher learning. She may or may not have started a movement to fight this law: I can only find one source—Encyclopedia Britannica—for this, but that’s badass if she did. She was also an avid writer from birth, publishing a book of poetry, El Vendedor de Cocuyos, in 1927. Luisa served as a correspondent for a Guatemalan newspaper in Mexico City for a time, moving to New York City in 1928 (or 1929, dependent upon what source you’re looking at). Once there, she supported her husband and infant daughter by working in a garment factory in Spanish Harlem. She was exposed to Puerto Rican socialists within the factory, and took part in labor strikes, being beaten bloody multiple times. With this fire lit within her and her newfound knowledge of unionization, she joined the Communist Party in 1930, subsequently changing her name to distance herself from her disapproving family. Five years later, she quit her job (and the Communist Party) to become a full-time labor advocate, hired as an organizer for the American Federation of Labor (AFL). Luisa was assigned to Florida, a state no one wanted to deal with: the KKK had been terrorizing workers there for years, making unionization a near-impossible prospect for tobacco workers. Our girl was not swayed. She negotiated contracts for and steeled the spines of over 13,000 black and Latinx tobacco workers. And this was only the beginning. Luisa quickly pivoted to the Unified Cannery, Agricultural, Packing, and Allied Workers of America (UCAPAWA), an affiliation of John Lewis’s Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO), becoming the first woman and first person of Latin descent to be elected to the council, eventually becoming VP. She traveled Southwestern America—notably SoCal—fighting for labor rights and unionizing the workers. In 1939, she founded El Congreso de Pueblos que Hablan Español, America’s first national civil rights assembly. It would serve as an all-important voice for Mexican-American workers across the nation; many historians argue this was Luisa’s most significant impact. However, this slew of success does not mean it was easy. As Luisa herself said it, “You could not organize workers in the face of violence and terror.” In 1942, after the Sleepy Lagoon incident and rising cases of violence against Mexican-Americans, Luisa founded the Citizens' Committee for the Defense of Mexican-American Youth, providing legal help and support for those of Latin descent. She remained active through WWII, defiant and proud and sharp, until 1947. She disappeared from most public life as the Red Scare took hold of the nation. Luisa received threatening letters every day, leading to, in 1950, Congress planning for her immediate deportation. Instead of subjecting herself to that humiliation, Luisa, her second husband, and her daughter moved back to Mexico, then to Guatemala. She died there on November 4, 1992, at the age of 87. Luisa Moreno was a fearless, selfless leader, exiled by a country who owes her endless gratitude. Let’s thank her now, perhaps by remembering her favorite saying: “If you do something, do it once and do it right.” And you sure as hell did, Miss Moreno. (See More: The Brooklyn Museum; The National Museum of American History; Smithsonian Magazine; Bese; Encyclopedia Britannica)
3) Queen Nzinga of Ndongo and Matamba (c. 1581 – December 17, 1663) – Ruthless Leader, Merciless Protector: Queen Nzinga of Ndongo was born somewhere between 1581 and 1583, the eldest daughter of the ruler of the Ndongo kingdom. Important to note right off the bat: Ndongo had been in a somewhat complicated relationship with Portugal ever since the Europeans had arrived in 1483. So, when the Portuguese established a fort at Luanda in 1617, it was, as we would say, on. 1617 also happened to be the year that Nzinga’s father passed away. Royal norms decreed that only a male could take the throne, so Nzinga’s brother, Mbande, did so…after murdering both their older brother and Nzinga’s infant son. I’d say we can safely assume Nzinga did not like her brother. Regardless of feelings, in 1621, Nzinga was sent in Mbande’s stead to be a diplomat-of-sorts to the Portuguese governor. She went, and succeeded with utmost flourish. The first meeting, seeking to be seen as equal and noting only one chair in the room (for the governor), Nzinga prompted a servant to get down on their hands and knees and act as chair; her dominance was immediately established. In an effort to make concessions, the future queen converted to Christianity and was baptized as Dona Anna de Souza in honor of her new godmother, the governor’s wife; she convinced a hesitant Mbande to command their people to do the same. Nzinga was triumphant. Three short years later, Mbande is dead (either by suicide or poisoning – it’s been lost to history), and Nzinga takes over. Initially, the new queen allies with Portugal, largely to protect her people from the slave trade and gain military might against other European and African powers. Unfortunately, in 1626, Portugal broke with the alliance and bagan to support a faction with a more malleable male heir, forcing Nzinga and her people south to the kingdom of Matamba. Nzinga was furious, rightfully so, and she was one you didn’t want to mess with. She renounced Christianity, proclaimed her life’s mission to be to thwart the Portuguese, and a lot happens all at once: she establishes a sanctuary for slaves escaping Portuguese plantations; she allies herself with the Imbangala, a band of mercenaries, to orchestrate guerrilla attacks on the Portuguese (fun fact: this style is how Angola won its independence in 1975; not-so-fun-fact: the Imbangala are the first documented existence of child soldiers, and their initiation was horrific); she adopts a style of military organization called kilombo, in which children renounce family ties and are raised in militias; and she foments rebellion within the former Ndongo kingdom. All-in-all, Queen Nzinga was powerful and unstoppable. In 1644, she created a brief alliance with the Dutch, causing a defeat of the Portuguese army in 1647. Even after the rest of the Europeans go running, Queen Nzinga of Ndongo and Matamba successfully protected and ruled over her people until her death on December 17, 1663, around the age of 82. She remains one of the fiercest woman warriors. Now, a few fun facts that I couldn’t figure out how to fit in: Queen Nzinga kept up to 60 husbands at a time and called them her “concubines,” as they were forced to wear women’s clothing; she trained her ladies-in-waiting as warriors and assassins to act as bodyguards; and she reconverted to Christianity about a year before her death (why? Who knows). What a woman, eh? (See More: Princesses Behaving Badly by Linda Rodriguez McRobbie; The Metropolitan Museum of Art; BlackPast; African Feminist Forum)
2) Alice Ball (July 24, 1892 – December 31, 1916) – The Forgotten Savior: Alice Augusta Ball was born in Seattle on July 24, 1892, daughter to a staunchly middle-class family. Her grandfather was a famous photographer, one of the first African-Americans to learn the art and science of daguerreotype, and encouraged young Alice’s scientific curiosity. Alice had a fairly normal childhood, growing up in Seattle; the family spent a year in Honolulu in an attempt to cure her grandfather’s arthritis, but moved back after he died. After graduating from high school, Alice attended the University of Washington from 1910 to 1914, earning two degrees: pharmaceutical chemistry in 1912 and pharmacy in 1914. While there, she published an article for the Journal of the American Chemical Society, entitled “Benzoylations in Ether Solution.” Publishing in this prominent of a scientific journal was unheard of for women at the time, but especially black women. Alice Ball was already off to an incredible start. After college graduation, she chose to pursue her Master’s in Chemistry at the University of Hawaii. Her thesis is a mouthful (as they all are): “The Chemical Constituents of Piper Methysticum; or The Chemical Constituents of the Active Principle of the Ava Root.” In 1915, upon graduation, Alice became the first African-American and the first woman professor in the chemistry department at Hawaii. This, remarkably, is not the most incredible thing about her. While pursuing these studies, Alice was approached by Dr. Hollmann, the Assistant Surgeon at Kalihi Hospital. This Hawaiian hospital had been, since the mid-nineteenth century, the place where leprosy patients were exiled, never to be seen by their families again (you think I exaggerate, but families would hold funerals before the patient left, knowing this meant symbolic death). Leprosy patients had been treated by the injection of chaulmoogra oil for centuries, and this was a huge problem: chaulmoogra oil was too sticky for topical solution, too painful for injection (yes, they kept doing it, anyway), and forced vomiting upon ingestion. Dr. Hollmann, and Alice soon after, were certain there was a better way. At 23 years old, Alice Ball discovered and perfected a method to make chaulmoogra injectable and absorbable, eliminating pain and effectively curing leprosy in the patient. Involving isolating ethyl ester compounds from the fatty acids of the chaulmoogra oil, this practice became known as “the Ball method.” A 1918 news article reported that “78 patients of Kalihi Hospital were released by board of health examiners after being treated by chaulmoogra injections,” numbers unheard of for the time. Sadly, Alice would not live to see this success. She became ill shortly after her discovery, and returned to Seattle for treatment. She died there on December 31, 1916, at the age of 24; today, we think it may have been chlorine poisoning, but 1916 America called it tuberculosis. After Alice’s death, her research was stolen and published by Arthur L. Dean, the president of the University of Hawaii and a chemist. He began to mass produce Alice’s treatment, selling it, instead, under “the Dean method.” (I can think of many words for this man. You can imagine.) This atrocity was amended in 1922 by Dr. Hollman’s article detailing Alice’s work and renaming it “the Ball method,” but the damage was done. Many have still forgotten her today, and we owe her everything. We can thank Alice Ball for the elimination of leprosy from the Western world. Her name deserves to be said. Say it now. And look up her work, especially if you’re a science fan. It’s fascinating. (See More: History of Scientific Women; NewScientist; "The Ball Method" [short film]; Oxford University Museum of Natural History; Not Your Father's History [podcast])
1) Noor Inayat Khan (January 1, 1914 – September 13, 1944) –A Woman “Wiling to Make Any Sacrifice for the Oppressed:” Noor Inayat Khan was born in Moscow on January 1, 1914, the daughter of an Indian Sufi preacher and an American mother (for the record, they were in Russia because her father’s band had been invited to play there); her family was descended from the 18th century ruler of Mysore, Tipu Sultan, who died in 1799 fighting British rule. Shortly after Noor’s birth, WWI broke out, and the Khan family moved to Britain for their own safety. In 1920, the family moved again, to Paris, this time because of political surveillance due to their pro-India views. Seven years later, Noor’s father died on a pilgrimage to his birth country. With her father gone and her mother in a deep depression, it was up to 13-year-old Noor to care for the family. She did so with much gusto and success. Noor was an impressive woman from the get-go, incredibly intelligent and enviably creative. Outside of caring for her mother and younger siblings, she was: a musician, attending the École Normale de Musique de Paris; a writer, producing countless short stories and poems and publishing an English translation of the Jataka fables in 1939; and a scholar, attending the Sorbonne to study child psychology. She was beloved and admired by all who knew her. In 1940, France fell to Nazi Germany, and Noor fled to Britain. Once there, called by her religious and ideological beliefs, she enlisted in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force as a wireless operator, a job she soon excelled at. She was so skilled at the job that, in late 1942, she was recruited by the Special Operations Executive (SOE) as a radio operator, though some male administration doubted her abilities. Noor took the job without hesitation, despite knowing how dangerous it was: the life expectancy of operators in the field was six weeks. In June 1943, Noor was flown to Paris under the code name “Madeleine” to be a radio operator for the resistance network. Within ten days of her landing, all other operators within her network had been arrested by the Nazis (talk about bad freaking timing); she refused to return in spite of her leaders advising it, saying instead that she would rebuild the network herself. For several months, she moved and changed identities constantly, dying her hair, speaking in dialect, whatever it took, all while hauling a gigantic radio device around to communicate with her colleagues. Noor’s work was imperative to the success of Allied forces and resistance movements. The information she provided allowed countless soldiers and civilians to escape, and brought incredible amounts of material safely behind enemy lines. Unfortunately, her altruism did not end well. In October 1943, a French colleague betrayed her, and Noor was captured by the Gestapo. She managed to escape twice, but was recaptured both times; during one of them, she unintentionally led the Gestapo to her book of codes, and they used it to lure in and kill new agents. Noor was imprisoned, starved, and tortured at Pforzheim before being sent to Dachau, where she, along with three other female SOE agents, were executed on September 13, 1944. She was 30 years old. She was and is a hero. Noor was posthumously awarded the George Cross, the Blue Plaque, and the Croix de Guerre. A memorial sits on the corner where she used to live in Britain, engraved with her supposed last word: “Liberté.” Noor Inayat Khan was a remarkable woman. Her cousin remembers her as “a refined and dainty young woman” whose fineness hid a “steely strength of will.” She was fearless, selfless, and taken far too soon. While she has been recognized with awards, her name should be a household one. Let’s make it so. (See More: BBC; Aljazeera; A Call to Spy [movie]; The University of London; Not Your Father's History [podcast])
And there you have it, friends! Eight badass BIPOC women throughout history, the majority of them taken from us far too soon (which says something, let me tell you, and I could absolutely analyze that here, but you’ve already read enough for the day). I encourage you to look them up, as there’s so, so much I couldn’t fit in here. Watch their documentaries or biopics, if you’re cinematically inclined. Read some of those books: they’re entertaining, I swear! Most of all, if I can leave you with anything: question the canon, question who wrote the history, and hunt down the stories of those left out. They’re especially important.
Thanks for reading, all! Love you much, and have a wonderful day!
Rhiannon
Cover image courtesy of Bloomsbury Pictures.