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22 Gerda Lerner’s Legacies Answering the Call Leisa Meyer T he brief articles that follow are authored by some of Gerda Lerner’s former graduate students and each offers a particular perspective on Lerner’s life and work. In doing so, each author, to varying degrees, considers the unspoken question of Gerda Lerner’s legacy—as an historian, a mentor, an activist, and a proselytizer of and for women’s history—as a ield of inquiry, as a lifelong endeavor, as a ierce commitment to social justice. In all the essays the question of difference repeatedly rises to the fore in the form of hierarchies and their creation both in relation to our scholarship and to the daily struggles between and with “teacher” and “students” that marked our time with Gerda. All the essays also speak in one way or another of her as “dificult” but often teaching valuable lessons for surviving life within and outside of the academy. They are invested with memories and relections on the challenges of working with Gerda and the lessons learned from her (often only realized years later) about the academy, the profession, and the importance of women’s history as a method and a calling. Gerda Lerner was ferocious as an advocate and as a critic, which were coequal in her approach to education and activism. I entered the Women’s History Program at Wisconsin in 1984, with a Women’s Studies degree and as an “out and proud” dyke. I recall my irst meeting with Gerda, anxiously standing in a line outside her ofice door with the ive other women from my cohort, waiting to meet with her and discuss our goals and semester plans. I realized immediately that I was underdressed for that initial encounter and that shorts and a tank top from the “All American Boy” shop in West Hollywood and a large labrys hanging around my neck might not offer the best irst impression—but it was the irst impression I wanted to convey. From that early meeting forward, my relationship with Gerda was… challenging—she told me I was illiterate in my native tongue and I worked to be a better writer; she took me by the ear after my comprehensive examination orals and told me that I understood American history but knew nothing of women’s history and I recommitted myself to being a better women’s historian; then when I came to her with my desire to study sexuality, speciically to do a dissertation involving lesbian history she told me I couldn’t and I spent the remainder of my years in graduate school proving her wrong. How do you make sense of a scholar and a teacher who disapproved of and actively worked against lesbian history as part of a women’s his© 2014 Journal of Women’s History, Vol. 26 No. 1, 22–30. 2014 Meyer, Isenberg, Brown, and Fitzgerald 23 tory program during the early to mid-1980s, but who would also later in her career acknowledge what she learned from these struggles and articulate a theory of difference in her subsequent work that encouraged and incorporated sexuality as a foundational site for understanding and offering possibilities for historicizing difference? Who would tell me (and other students) that we couldn’t study lesbian history because we would never get jobs and it would not relect well on the program but who would later proudly introduce me to one of my heroes Liz Kennedy as “one of my students” who “works on lesbian history”? I’m not sure how you make sense of these contradictions, but I do know that my early understandings of class came from Gerda’s 1969 short essay “The Lady and the Mill Girl,” and that my subsequent attempts to breakdown and unpack the simple canonical binaries that then framed explorations of race, class, and gender began with reading her early work on the Grimke sisters and were deeply inluenced by her two volume women’s history manifesto, The Creation of Patriarchy (1986) and The Creation of Feminist Consciousness (1993). I also recall her explicit support for graduate students and non-tenure-eligible (NTE) faculty when the then Women’s Studies Program (WMST) disenfranchised all non-tenured faculty en route to becoming a department. During the tense conversations surrounding this move tenured WMST faculty declared that disenfranchisement of the non-tenured was what this process required, with one asking whether we thought having a vote in the program really mattered “all that much” as we would still have some inluence on decisions. Gerda in contrast stood up in support of the non-tenured (including graduate students) and called our attention to the costs of legitimacy such an action highlighted—a very unpopular position to take as a full professor and member of the WMST faculty but one she embraced nonetheless. In the end, Gerda was brilliant and complicated—there were moments when she was a ferocious advocate and rigorous educator who pushed us to be more than we thought possible and others when she fell far short of our collective expectations and in doing so pushed us away from working with her and some of us out of the program entirely. What I will remember most from my time with Gerda was her ierce commitment to social action and creating change, to linking always the “academic” and the “intellectual” to the practice and to the application, and to linking everything we did to the never-completed task of learning and passing on new knowledge. Whether unsettling or gratifying (and often a combination of the two) my life and career will forever be marked by that time and I will continue on the quest she put to all of us: to live, breathe, pass on, and make women’s history and in doing so alter not just the canon but the very parameters of what is possible in our world. 24 Journal of Women’s History Spring Life with Gerda Nancy Isenberg erda was Gerda, totally irreproducible. I met her in 1981, the irst year of the Women’s History graduate program at the University of Wisconsin. As her research assistant for two years, I became the resident expert on larger-than-life Gerda Lerner among my fellow students. I saw her close up; I saw her at home in her Mom jeans! I studied her as an anthropologist would visit a strange land. Although many of my fellow students found Gerda “dificult,” sometimes impossible (or as one friend admitted, too much like her domineering father), I never felt that way. I saw Gerda as a challenge, and despite all her mishegas, she knew how to teach the things one needed to survive the equally strange world of academia. Her best lessons emerged when she told you her “secrets” to thinking historically. She loved to share her research strategies, taking time to show you her iling system. It was a tactile engagement—folders brought out and inspected. She was deeply proud of her method. I remember the advice she gave me on my irst archival trip. “Make sure you spend the end of the day just doing some stream-of-consciousness writing,” she said in her commanding voice. She insisted that I put my thoughts on paper, recording each day’s impressions. Her point was simple: research means writing, not just taking notes. The two are not separate stages. And she was right. I tell my archive-directed students the same thing. She had a method for dealing with historiography, too. You had to sort and rank the ten most important books in your ield. Ten was a nice round number. The purpose of this exercise was to size up the ield, to critically approach the way the profession rewarded some books while ignoring equally important books. She had no patience for the trait many young scholars share: citing a book by relex, genulecting before a scholar’s work without revealing intellectual depth. Gerda Lerner had her crazy moments. She had students write an assignment about themselves that she would then psychoanalyze. On the couch with Gerda—rarely a pretty sight. I decided to subvert the process, writing about a dream that I never actually had. She loved it, enjoyed interpreting it, and I had a pleasure of knowing that she had learned nothing about me. Gerda’s interest here always seemed out of character. She was not a deeply introspective person and wasn’t particularly good at reading people. G 2014 Meyer, Isenberg, Brown, and Fitzgerald 25 But she did understand the profession—the good, the bad, and the ugly of academia. The reason she insisted on giving students the “tools” of research owed much to her political philosophy. She often said academia’s mystique should be withdrawn, layers of mystiication lifted that otherwise kept the profession in the hands of a privileged few. In many ways, Gerda was a revolutionary version of the women’s education advocate Mary Lyon;1 she wanted her armed missionaries to storm the barricade and dramatically change the profession. Gerda was never gentle with her students: no mommying, no handholding. Graduate school was boot camp. I appreciated her realpolitik approach to the profession—others did not. But there was indeed a method to her madness. As she made her students acutely aware of the underbelly of academia, she removed our naïve faith in meritocracy and prepared us for what lay ahead. Gerda was a ierce critic, sometimes quite brutal. She liked a ight, and she actually had more respect for the students who found a way to defend their argument. In every sense, she was a genuine disciple of the American historian and women’s rights activist Mary Beard, with a clear preference for the kind of women’s history that celebrated women building institutions. Yet she never told her students what to research or write. Gerda never built a Lerner school to it her students into some identiiable mold. Gerda admitted to me that she did not like to write harsh book reviews, even if she felt an author was wrongheaded. She felt it was incumbent upon women’s historians to defend one another, rather than to air their dirty laundry in print. As the historian Stanley Katz reminded me at the Organization of American Historians in New Orleans this past January, Gerda had no trouble voicing political opinions. He remembered her literally jumping out of her seat to express anger at the historian Rosalind Rosenberg for the role she took in the Sears gender discrimination case. She wanted their ight out in the open for all to see. There were things Gerda could not fully comprehend. Her ideas about sex were extremely conventional, sometimes eccentric. She had trouble wrapping her head around bisexuality or celibacy. She once told me that the best mate was a younger man, because this kind of reproductive pairing would produce healthier children. Her ideas reminded me of what I have come across in my recent research—Claudius Quillet’s seventeenth-century poem, Callipaedia: or, The Art of Getting Beautiful Children. Gerda liked to say things that were provocative, just to see how you would respond, whether you might actively disagree with her. No one could ever say that Gerda was dull. My favorite memory of Gerda involves how she set up the practicum for the Women’s History program. Students had to take women’s history 26 Journal of Women’s History Spring to the people and apply women’s experience to real world problems. I prepared a slide show and lecture on women’s history and iniltrated Richard Sewell’s large survey class. He dared not say no, for he, like the other male history professors, talked among themselves and knew not to mess with “one of Gerda’s girls.” We had her protection. Her program was going to change not only us, but the entire History Department. She urged us to make a positive mark within academia and without. She wanted us to be heard from. She wasn’t a “Tiger Mom,” or “mamma grizzly,” to use Sarah Palin’s stupid cliché—although she was, perhaps, bearlike in how she fended off enemies. She gave you a few scratches, to be sure. Gerda believed women could change the world, and that idea proved to be contagious. Remembering Gerda Kathy Brown I attended graduate school and became a historian because of Gerda Lerner. I saw Gerda for the irst time at the 1981 Berkshire Conference at Vassar College, when she presented a portion of her book Creation of Patriarchy I (1986). I was overcome by admiration for this strong, smart, woman and her seemingly unlappable poise in the face of questions about her research on the ancient history of slavery. Not having any idea about how one went about getting admitted to graduate school, I made a list of every place with which I had seen Gerda’s name afiliated. So I applied to Columbia, the New School, Sarah Lawrence, and the University of Wisconsin—places that did not even have PhD programs in some instances. My rationale, my hope, was that one of these applications would reach a department where Gerda was actually on the faculty. My application essay declared Gerda’s work to have been formative for my budding historical sensibilities. Once I matriculated at Wisconsin, Gerda became my advisor. Our relationship had its ups and downs, but it persisted. I learned that she could be literal and formal, as in the time she invited several students over to join her in her new hot tub. She insisted that we leave the alcoholic drinks to the side before going into the tub—apparently, when she had read the safety instructions, they included warnings about the danger of consuming alcoholic beverages in the tub (although they apparently said nothing about drinking immediately before entering the tub). 2014 Meyer, Isenberg, Brown, and Fitzgerald 27 I also discovered that once Gerda realized I was as stubborn as she, she was willing to give me the space I needed to follow my own intellectual path. She initially doubted by abilities to take the program’s Women’s History Week slide show on the road to public audiences. I told her in no uncertain terms that, having been a high school teacher for two years, I felt well qualiied to perform this task. This was the irst time I pushed back against her (although not the last), and it earned me her respect. Building on that foundation, I wrote my Master’s Thesis under her direction, took my preliminary examinations, and began my dissertation. She was not thrilled that I wanted Charles Cohen, himself a student of Winthrop Jordan and a diligent and detail-oriented scholar, to join my dissertation committee as a co-supervisor, but she ultimately agreed. Gerda’s great intellectual strength was less in the details of my project, which was not really her main ield of expertise, but in her insistence that I write clearly and continue to keep the big picture in view. I believe that she was proud to have one of her students write about a formative era in the history of North American slavery, a topic clearly inspired by and connected to her own work in Creation of Patriarchy. My relationship with Gerda had its share of conlicts and stormy moments, but it also had moments of companionship. As I look back, I can see how often she tried to offer support when she thought I needed it. When I suffered through years of infertility treatment, she reminded me that bearing a child was only one of many forms of creativity. When I experienced a serious bout of depression, she was reassuring and comforting that I would emerge on the other side. Gerda butted heads with her students and supported her students. She could be a devastating critic but she also took great joy in our accomplishments. She modeled several important qualities that I struggle to hold on to in my own life: to believe, stubbornly, in the value of your own work; and to work, stubbornly, to ind the appropriate form and venue to make it matter in the world. This semester, my students discovered the amazing chronicle of the Grimke Sisters. I myself am in the early stages of a project on abolition, human rights, and the cultural history of “the human,” in which I regularly encounter Gerda’s legacy as a scholar. Somewhere out there, Gerda knows that her life made a huge difference; we appreciate her innumerable efforts to make the world more humane, equitable, and just. 28 Journal of Women’s History Spring Surviving with Gerda Maureen Fitzgerald T he morning I heard that Gerda Lerner had died I stared at the email, unbelieving. My incomprehension came not from naiveté about aging, illness, and death. At ifty-three, I am the eldest woman on one side of my family, nearly the eldest woman on the other, and this has been the case for a long time. My family and I, however, are mere mortals. Gerda was in another class entirely; she survived—over and over and over and over again. Cancers, lung disease, a hospital stay in Austria where her organs had begun failing, were each a part of her old age, and in each case she came back. When I heard later that she died within a day of having been placed in what could only be called a “nursing home,” with no chance to resume a creative, productive life, it made a bit more sense, but only a bit more. I met Gerda Lerner in 1983, as a new graduate student who entered Wisconsin’s History department as a Europeanist, but knowing as well that I wanted to study women’s history. So I signed up immediately for one of Gerda’s courses. That class and Gerda’s insistence that I attend functions of the Women’s History Program changed everything about my future. The women Gerda attracted to the program were instantly attractive to me. Activists, intellectuals, and bright lights all, the energy of that group screamed that this was the academic and political “home” I never knew I was missing but for which I had always longed. Once Gerda convinced me to formally enter the program as an Americanist, my learning curve was so high that I can remember literal epiphanies, a reorganization of thought and feeling so profound that they forever altered the way I moved through the world. Gerda inspired, created, and administered that group, and for this gift and others I will be forever grateful. Yet memories of Gerda Lerner’s tenacity in ighting the good ights must be joined with memories of her ighting more than a few bad ones. She was, to put it bluntly, a control freak of epic proportions. Not one of us in the Program made good on our collective and individual determination to avoid at least one bout of uncontrollable sobbing while in her ofice. We watched new recruits come in blithely touting their capacities to handle her and waited for their respective reduction to blubbering idiots, when we would swoop in to comfort and offer a few “we-told-you-sos.” Gerda had a poster on her ofice door of a Raggedy Ann doll halfway through an old washing ringer with a quote underneath: “The Truth Will Set You Free.” We of course identiied literally with the rag doll as we sat in the hallway wait- 2014 Meyer, Isenberg, Brown, and Fitzgerald 29 ing to hear her verdict on our work or her plan for our next semester. When someone brave enough to say so told Gerda that the poster was terrifying, Gerda could not understand why. For Gerda, her version of intellectual and political or very personal truth was her gift to the world. Her manner of delivery, and great certitude on every question imaginable, accounts both for her true greatness and for a self-styled brutality in social relations that often left her lonely and confused about why this was the case. Gerda Lerner thus planted the seeds of her undoing in the program itself. The gathering of these extraordinary women, and Linda Gordon’s and Jeanne Boydston’s entrance into the faculty, translated into Gerda losing control over her own creation. We collectively and successfully mutinied over Gerda’s decision to disinvite Blanche Cook, Liz Kennedy, and Madeline Davis for our irst-ever “lesbian” themed Women’s History Week. We collectively demanded not only that the curriculum include lesbian history, but that she cease treating lesbians in the program as a lavender menace that endangered its respectability. My personal break with Gerda occurred on a cold Wisconsin morning. I had signed up to TA for another professor weeks earlier and found a note from her in my box asking if I would TA for her course on Mesopotamia. I left a response in her box explaining why I could not. She called me at 7AM the next morning demanding that I back out of the irst course. When I refused, she told me she would “destroy [my] career.” I was conscious at the time that this was Gerda’s form of a compliment; she had others to choose from and was not threatening to destroy their careers, at least not that week. But at twenty-six, I decided I did not like waking up to this kind of compliment and she was never again on my committees. This was not unusual; very few of the women who came to Wisconsin to study with Gerda inished their PhDs with her as the major advisor. I spent a day with Gerda a decade later that crystalized my understanding of her since. While I was on sabbatical in Virginia, Gerda and George Mosse were scheduled to speak at the Holocaust Museum in D.C. followed by a private tour of the Museum for “Wisconsin Alumni.” I sat in the last row of the auditorium and, before the event started, Gerda appeared at the back door; she had seen my name on the list and was looking for me and was visibly upset. She complained that the program suggested she was a Holocaust “survivor” or “victim.” She wanted her mother, sister, and aunt in that category, not herself, as she had made it out of Austria in 1939 and thereafter to the States safely. She spoke to the group of her aunt’s decision to step onto a train headed for the camps because the children for whom she was caring in an orphanage were scheduled to go and were afraid and crying as they huddled in a car. Her Aunt died in that camp and her mother and sister died in others. That day was one of the most memorable of my lifetime. I walked with her through every exhibit; she literally held my arm 30 Journal of Women’s History Spring and dragged me with her, needing me as an audience (believe me; a crowd followed to hear). She pointed out the charts of who was deemed “a Jew” by the Nazis, showed me how those categories mirrored those of Black/ White in the South, and would narrate: “that is why I started with Black women,” and then it went on.... What I learned that day was that Gerda Lerner needed, every day, to prove that her life in the wake of the holocaust honored all who were lost, particularly the women in her family, that she was profoundly and inexorably driven to make her survival count for all the others who did not survive. That we were as students the products through which she measured her success in this project now shapes my understanding not only of her life but also of my own. I am in no way worthy to have had the opportunity to have been a part of her epic journey in life, but I am immensely grateful that I have. You did a hell of job surviving, Gerda, and you will yet survive us all. Note 1 Mary Mason Lyon, an American pioneer in women’s education, established Wheaton Female Seminary (now Wheaton College) in 1935, and Mount Holyoke Female Seminary (now Mount Holyoke College) in 1837.