Margaret Sanger: an autobiography.Sanger, Margaret
History
Margaret Sanger: an autobiography.
Sanger, Margaret
Birth control -- United States -- Biography; Sanger, Margaret, 1879-1966
I tried to explain the only two methods I had ever heard of among the
middle classes, both of which were invariably brushed aside as
unacceptable. They were of no certain avail to the wife because they
placed the burden of responsibility solely upon the husband—a burden
which he seldom assumed. What she was seeking was self-protection she
could herself use, and there was none.
Below this stratum of society was one in truly desperate circumstances.
The men were sullen and unskilled, picking up odd jobs now and then, but
more often unemployed, lounging in and out of the house at all hours of
the day and night. The women seemed to slink on their way to market and
were without neighborliness.
These submerged, untouched classes were beyond the scope of organized
charity or religion. No labor union, no church, not even the Salvation
Army reached them. They were apprehensive of everyone and rejected help
of any kind, ordering all intruders to keep out; both birth and death
they considered their own business. Social agents, who were just
beginning to appear, were profoundly mistrusted because they pried into
homes and lives, asking questions about wages, how many were in the
family, had any of them ever been in jail. Often two or three had been
there or were now under suspicion of prostitution, shoplifting, purse
snatching, petty thievery, and, in consequence, passed furtively by the
big blue uniforms on the corner.
The utmost depression came over me as I approached this surreptitious
region. Below Fourteenth Street I seemed to be breathing a different
air, to be in another world and country where the people had habits and
customs alien to anything I had ever heard about.
There were then approximately ten thousand apartments in New York into
which no sun ray penetrated directly; such windows as they had opened
only on a narrow court from which rose fetid odors. It was seldom
cleaned, though garbage and refuse often went down into it. All these
dwellings were pervaded by the foul breath of poverty, that moldy,
indefinable, indescribable smell which cannot be fumigated out,
sickening to me but apparently unnoticed by those who lived there. When
I set to work with antiseptics, their pungent sting, at least
temporarily, obscured the stench.
I remember one confinement case to which I was called by the doctor of
an insurance company. I climbed up the five flights and entered the
airless rooms, but the baby had come with too great speed. A boy of ten
had been the only assistant. Five flights was a long way; he had wrapped
the placenta in a piece of newspaper and dropped it out the window into
the court.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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