The Progressive Era | The Crisis | 3
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Imagine it's November 1906 in Washington, D.C. You're a civil rights advocate visiting the War Department offices. A secretary ushers you into a high-ceilinged room where you find the hulking form of Secretary of War William Howard Taft. He sits behind a cluttered desk, sorting through a mountain of correspondence. He scans a letter and then tosses it on a pile before looking up at you. Ah, please have a seat.

You settle into the chair across from his desk and smooth out the wrinkles in your skirt. Mr. Secretary, thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. I've come on behalf of the 25th Infantry, the black soldiers dishonorably discharged in Texas.

"'Sir, there's no evidence that these soldiers did anything wrong. It's all down to rumor and prejudice.' "'Well, what would you have me do about it? President Roosevelt has already made his decision. He's sailing to Puerto Rico as we speak, and as far as I know, he's put the matter behind him.' "'Well, sir, I'm asking that you suspend the order until a proper investigation can be made.' Taft leans back in his chair and studies you. "'Suspend the order.'

You want me to suspend an order issued by the President of the United States while he is out of the country? I understand the difficulty in it, but it is an injustice. Those men have served this country, only to be cast aside without so much as a trial.

Taft sighs and begins rifling through the papers on his desk. "'Well, this whole affair certainly has been controversial. I've spent the morning reading through dozens of letters and telegrams about this very matter, and I was disturbed to see many like this one here, from the Republican Club in Cincinnati, my hometown. They condemn President Roosevelt for his despotic usurpation of power.' "'Well, then you agree the decision is wrong. I mean, if your own party is raising objections—'

Taft raises a hand, silencing you. "'Listen, I'll do what I can. I'll try to counsel the President to delay the order. I will not make any promises, but I can't speak to him.' "'Well, that's all I ask.' "'Thank you, Mr. Secretary. You try not to let your surprise and relief show on your face. You know that you are asking a great deal from Taft. But for the sake of the unfairly dismissed soldiers, you just hope the President is as willing to see reason in the face of prejudice.'

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From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. American History Tellers

In the fall of 1906, civil rights activist Mary Church Terrell met with Secretary of War William Howard Taft over a shooting incident involving black soldiers stationed in Texas. President Theodore Roosevelt had discharged three all-black units without a trial after white residents accused the soldiers of firing shots into private homes and businesses. But there was little evidence to prove these claims, and the president's decision outraged black activists.

Roosevelt's stance reflected a fundamental tension of the Progressive Era. By 1906, many progressive reforms had gained widespread acceptance. Americans had embraced legislation to protect workers and curb the abuses of big business. But as racial violence escalated across the nation, Roosevelt's reform agenda stopped short of efforts to protect civil rights.

So at the same time that he and other progressives sought to curb corruption and expand democracy, their approach to race was deeply influenced by the political realities of the time. Despite the progressives' commitment to reform, many not only tolerated but actively reinforced discrimination that affected millions of Americans. This is Episode 3, The Crisis. In August 1906, racial tensions erupted in violence in the segregated town of Brownsville, Texas.

On August 13th, a group of unidentified gunmen shot up the town, killing a white bartender and leaving a police officer wounded. White residents had long resented the presence of black soldiers stationed at nearby Fort Brown and accused them of perpetrating the attack. The soldiers denied any wrongdoing, and their white officers affirmed that they had been in their barracks at the time of the shooting. Even the mayor of Brownsville found no evidence implicating these black soldiers.

But the townspeople insisted that the black soldiers were culpable, and in the end, President Theodore Roosevelt sided with them. Without any evidence proving their guilt, Roosevelt dishonorably discharged all three companies of black soldiers. 167 men lost their hard-won careers, salaries, and pensions, and their dishonorable discharges barred them from re-enlisting in the army or gaining positions in the civil service.

When Roosevelt first became president, many Black Americans hoped that they had a friend in the White House. Early on in his term, he had made a handful of symbolic gestures to the Black community, inviting the leading Black activist Booker T. Washington to dinner and fighting hard to confirm several Black appointees to positions in the federal government. So when Roosevelt's decision on Brownsville was made public in early November 1906, many Black Americans felt betrayed.

Black churches issued resolutions condemning the president and letters criticizing the decision flooded the White House and the War Department. One black preacher declared, Once enshrined in our love as our Moses, Roosevelt is now enshrouded in our scorn as our Judas. Black educator Mary Church Terrell met with Roosevelt's Secretary of War William Howard Taft to try to persuade him to suspend the decision until at least a trial could be held.

Taft was a former federal judge who was inclined to proceed more cautiously than his hard-charging boss. And even some white Republicans from Taft's home state of Ohio condemned the president's decision, too. So Taft sent a telegram to Roosevelt while he was traveling in Central America, urging him to let the case play out in the courts.

But Roosevelt stood his ground, replying, I care nothing whatever for the yelling of either the politicians or the sentimentalists. The offense was most heinous, and the punishment I inflicted was imposed after due deliberation. Roosevelt refused to consider that he had made a mistake or acted hastily. And he was further outraged when Ohio Senator Joseph Foraker called for a congressional investigation into the matter. Roosevelt insisted that as president, it was his duty to strip the uniform for murderers, assassins, and cowards.

And furious to be second-guessed, when Roosevelt saw Foraker at a dinner at the Gridiron Club in Washington, he confronted him, shaking his fist and shouting, Some of those men were bloody butchers. They ought to be hung. It is not the business of Congress. If they pass a resolution to reinstate these men, I will veto it. If they pass it over my veto, I will pay no attention to it. I welcome impeachment.

The president's intransigence on this issue only deepened resentment in the black community. One black Washington newspaper vowed to oppose his renomination for president, declaring that he was intoxicated with "peevishness and vindictiveness."

The activist and intellectual W.E.B. Du Bois also urged Black voters to abandon the Republican Party, writing, What have we to thank Roosevelt for? For asking a Black man to dine with him? For appointing a few Black men to federal positions? For saying publicly that the door of opportunity ought to be held open for colored men? Mr. Roosevelt, by his word and deed since, has slammed this door most emphatically in the Black man's face.

Du Bois' comments reflected Roosevelt's contradictory views on race. On the one hand, he believed in the possibility of black advancement and admired the achievements of individual black Americans like Booker T. Washington. After their dinner together, he said, The only wise and honorable and Christian thing to do is to treat each black man and each white man strictly on his merits as a man.

But while Roosevelt celebrated the accomplishments of black individuals, he had a lower regard for black Americans as a whole. This view was informed by his long-held beliefs in racial hierarchies and white superiority. He expressed his fear that declining birth rates among native-born white Americans would lead to race suicide unless Anglo-Saxon women bore more children. And in a 1906 letter to a friend, he wrote, As to the Negroes, as a race and in the mass, they are altogether inferior to the whites.

In the end, Roosevelt's ambivalence towards race shaped his response to Brownsville and revealed the limits of his crusade for justice and moral reform. During his presidency, he took no major action to protect Black civil rights. But Brownsville was not the only community where racial tensions were causing a crisis for Roosevelt's administration.

In San Francisco, rampant anti-Japanese sentiment exploded into a diplomatic crisis in the fall of 1906. On October 11th of that year, the San Francisco School Board voted to segregate Japanese students, restricting them to a separate, so-called Oriental school. The school board justified this order as a measure to save white children from being affected by association with pupils of the Mongolian race.

At this time, only six months had passed since a deadly earthquake left much of San Francisco in ruins, and overcrowding in makeshift classrooms provided a convenient pretext for the school board's decision. But the root of the policy ran deeper. Local labor unions had long pressured officials to curb Japanese immigration, arguing that Japanese workers undercut them by working longer hours for less pay. The

The San Francisco Chronicle also stoked hostility with a relentless anti-Japanese campaign. And the devastation wrought by the earthquake only heightened tensions. White residents boycotted Japanese businesses while Japanese residents faced threats and violence. And by the fall of 1906, the school board yielded public demands to segregate Japanese students.

But this local decision promptly ignited an international incident. In late October, the Japanese ambassador to the U.S. lodged an official complaint with the State Department. Roosevelt feared the repercussions of insulting Japan, a rising world military power. So determined to take action, he sent his Labor and Commerce Secretary Victor Metcalf to California to intervene.

Imagine it's a cold November morning in 1906 in San Francisco, California. You're the Secretary of Labor and Commerce, and you've traveled here from Washington, D.C., to persuade the local school board to rescind their Japanese segregation order. Ahead of a meeting with the full board, you've tracked down school board president Lawrence Walsh at a muddy construction site where a team of carpenters builds the timber frame of a new public high school. You walk over, trying to keep your shoes clean.

Mr. Walsh? Hello, Victor Metcalf, Secretary of Commerce and Labor. Secretary Metcalf, I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow's board meeting. Well, I thought we might speak privately first. I've just spent the morning over at Crocker School. Then you've seen what we're dealing with. Three separate classes crammed into one room. Children sitting on windowsills because we don't have enough desks. I tell you, this new school can't be completed fast enough.

Yes, it's hard to see. Even six months later, devastation is still evident everywhere. Yeah, we've lost 18 school buildings completely, another 37 in major repairs. Meanwhile, everyone expects education to continue as normal. Which is why, Mr. Walsh, I find the timing of your board's decision so perplexing. The Oriental School Order? Yes. President Roosevelt sent me personally to resolve this situation. The Japanese government has filed a formal diplomatic protest. What?

Well, with all due respect to the president, he doesn't understand our situation here. The Japanese students, they require specialized instruction, different teaching methods. I've heard the Japanese students speak perfect English and consistently rank near the top of their classes. Well, this isn't just about education, Secretary Metcalf. There's tremendous pressure from the community, the labor unions, the newspapers. Ah, the Chronicles campaign against Japanese immigrants. Yes, I've read it. Shameful fear-mongering. You just don't understand what's happening.

Our working men, they can't compete. The Japanese accept lower wages. They work longer hours. No, no, no, I understand completely. But segregating 93 schoolchildren will not solve your labor concerns. It will, however, possibly destroy years of diplomatic relations with Japan.

You're exaggerating. This is a local school matter. Oh, no. The Japanese public and their government considers this an outrage. But that's absurd. Over a school board decision? Mr. Walsh, Japan defeated Russia on the field of battle just last year. They're an emerging world power, extremely sensitive to national honor and equal treatment. President Roosevelt is concerned they may use your segregation order as justification for some military escalation. So what exactly does the president want?

He wants you to rescind the order. No, I'd be crucified. If the parents don't string me up, the unions will. And you'd rather face Japanese ships in San Francisco Bay? That's not even a real possibility. Oh, it's certainly something President Roosevelt is concerned about, quite seriously concerned. I've come from Washington on his orders to show you that sometimes local decisions have global consequences.

You turn on your heels and leave Walsh hoping that you can make greater progress with the entire school board when you meet tomorrow. They need to understand that events in one city can ripple across oceans, and you shudder to think of what would happen if this crisis spirals out of control.

After San Francisco officials rebuffed President Roosevelt's envoy, Roosevelt took matters into his own hands, using his annual address to Congress in December 1906 to placate Japan. He called the actions of the school board a wicked absurdity, asked Congress to grant citizenship to those Japanese immigrants who wanted it, and vowed to protect the rights of all Japanese residents in the United States, calling Japan one of the greatest of civilized nations.

But Roosevelt's defense of Japanese immigrants sparked outrage in California. The California legislator retaliated with a bill to ban Japanese immigrants from owning farmland. The San Francisco Chronicle called Roosevelt unpatriotic, and the Sacramento Union declared, "...not even the big stick is big enough to compel the people of California to do a thing which they have a fixed determination not to do."

Roosevelt also angered Southern Democrats on Capitol Hill, who feared the possibility of racial integration on a national scale.

Recognizing both the intense resistance in California and the volatile mood in Tokyo, Roosevelt shifted his focus to negotiating a solution, which came to be known as the Gentleman's Agreement. In February 1907, he summoned San Francisco school board officials and California legislators to the White House. He persuaded the California officials to repeal the school segregation order and halt any anti-Japanese legislation. In exchange, though, he promised to limit Japanese immigration.

After the San Francisco officials backed down on segregation, the Japanese government agreed to curb immigration by denying passports to Japanese laborers who wished to work in the U.S.

In the end, this gentleman's agreement averted a crisis, eased tensions between powerful nations, and reduced Japanese immigration to the United States. But Roosevelt had not resolved the deep racial divisions that underpinned anti-Japanese hostility, the discrimination toward immigrants elsewhere, or the prejudice faced by millions of black Americans.

And when these tensions boiled over into violence in Springfield, Illinois, the black community would seize the mantle of reform, refusing to stand on the sidelines of the progressive era. Behind the closed doors of government offices and military compounds, there are hidden stories and buried secrets from the darkest corners of history. From covert experiments pushing the boundaries of science to operations so secretive they were barely whispered about.

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On August 14, 1908, race riots erupted in Springfield, Illinois, the hometown of Abraham Lincoln.

That night, a crowd of 5,000 white citizens gathered outside the local county jail where two black men, George Richardson and Joe James, were being held. Richardson was a construction worker accused of raping a young white woman, and James was a drifter accused of killing a white man. The mob outside the jail made it clear that their intent was to take matters into their own hands, so fearing for the black men's safety, the county sheriff made plans to quietly get them out of town.

But when the mob learned that the prisoners had been moved, they turned violent, burning down a restaurant owned by the white man whose automobile had been used to transport the prisoners out of town. Next, the rioters swept through black neighborhoods, destroying dozens of black-owned businesses and turning their wrath on any black person they could find, including one unlucky black barber, who they beat unconscious and hanged from a tree.

The next day, the Illinois governor called out the state militia. But they arrived too late to stop the next lynching. Rioters attacked an elderly black cobbler named William Donegan, who had himself known Abraham Lincoln and volunteered for the Underground Railroad. But in the minds of his white neighbors, he was a criminal for his 30-year marriage to a white woman. The mob dragged him out of his home, cut his throat, and hanged him.

By the time the state militia restored order, there had been 80 injuries, two lynchings, six fatal shootings, and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of property damage. Two weeks later, the white woman who had accused George Richardson of rape recanted her claims, admitting that she fabricated the story to cover up an affair with a white man. But despite a lack of evidence, the other prisoner, Joe James, accused of killing a white man, was sentenced to death and executed.

In the aftermath of the violence, authorities promised justice, but only a handful of rioters were convicted for their crimes, and instead, the city government dismissed its black civil servants in hopes of avoiding further tensions. And the violence in Springfield was not an isolated event. Since the 1890s, southern states had enacted Jim Crow laws to legalize discrimination and strip black men of the vote, and the 1896 Supreme Court decision Plessy v. Ferguson made segregation the law of the land.

And since then, racial terror had only intensified. In 1908 alone, 89 black Americans were lynched. While most of the lynchings occurred in the South, the Springfield riots showed that racial violence was not solely a Southern problem, but a national crisis.

One white progressive journalist named William English Walling visited Springfield only days after the riots. Interviewing white citizens of the town, he was stunned by their lack of remorse, and he feared the violence signaled a deeper apathy among white Americans in general. In an article, he wrote, If these outrages had happened 30 years ago, what would not have happened in the North? Is there any doubt that the whole country would have been aflame? He then ended with a call to action on behalf of black Americans, asking,

Who realizes the seriousness of the situation and what large and powerful body of citizens is ready to come to their aid?

In the end, a fellow white progressive reformer named Mary White Ovington answered this call. Together, Walling and Ovington planned an interracial conference to take place in New York City in February 1909, on the 100th anniversary of President Abraham Lincoln's birth. The meeting would bring together white progressives and black activists, many of whom had grown frustrated with the agenda of Booker T. Washington, America's leading black educator and activist.

For more than two decades, Washington had been the most influential black man in America. He urged black Americans to work hard and achieve economic success to win the respect of white society. But for many black activists, the violence in Springfield showed the failure of Washington's approach. White rioters had made no distinction between wealthy black residents and poor ones. Their only concern was the color of their skin.

One of the most vocal critics of Washington was the Black scholar W.E.B. Du Bois. In 1895, Du Bois became the first Black man to receive a doctorate from Harvard University. Eight years later, in 1903, he published his seminal work, The Souls of Black Folk, in which he criticized Booker T. Washington for accommodating white prejudice. He argued that individual achievement was not enough to dismantle systemic racism, and that economic gains were meaningless without full civil rights and political power.

He called for ceaseless agitation and insistent demand for equality. It was in this spirit that in February 1909, on the centennial of Abraham Lincoln's birth, Du Bois and 60 Reformers of both races, including Jane Addams, Ida B. Wells, and Mary Church Terrell, issued an open letter titled The Call.

Invoking Lincoln's famous words that a house divided against itself cannot stand, the letter ended with an appeal to all believers in democracy to join in a national conference for the discussion of present evils, the voicing of protests, and the renewal of the struggle for civil and political liberty.

The activists soon drew up plans for an organization dedicated to fighting racial prejudice, what became the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, or the NAACP. It marked the beginning of the modern civil rights movement.

The following year, the NAACP launched a magazine called The Crisis to publicize lynchings and other acts of violence against Black Americans. W.E.B. Du Bois served as editor. They then formed a legal committee to press lawsuits against city and state governments for violating Black Americans' constitutional rights. The NAACP also fought poll taxes, literacy tests, and grandfather clauses adopted in southern states to block Black men from accessing the ballot.

More than any organization, it revived the issues of racial equality during an era when white Americans had come to accept segregation. But while black disenfranchisement in the South was the most egregious example of America's shrinking electorate, others also faced challenges accessing the polls. In the North, progressives passed new voter registration laws to protect elections from corruption and fraud. But some of these reforms would become tools of exclusion.

Imagine it's November 3rd, 1908, Election Day on the Lower East Side in New York City. You're standing in a long line that snakes through a cramped store serving as your neighborhood polling place. You rushed here from your shift at the garment factory to make sure you got your ballot in before the polls closed.

And at last, you step up to a table positioned at the front of the line. A poll worker with a cigar stub clamped between his teeth looks up at you. Registration papers? I'm sorry, what? Your registration papers. Come on. Haven't got all day. I don't have any papers. I'm just here to vote. Don't you read the news? You're supposed to register in advance. There's a new law. Registration office has been open every Saturday for months now. But

But Saturday is the Sabbath. I'm Jewish. I don't go anywhere on Saturdays. I stay at home with my family. Well, do you leave the house on Sundays? Because the office was open on Sunday, the 4th of October, to accommodate the Saturday workers. You could have gone then.

The man exhales smoke through his nose and sets down his cigar stub in a chipped ashtray. A bored look on his face. You stare at him in disbelief. The 4th of Oct- That was Yom Kippur! A day of fasting and prayer! Well, it looks like you're out of luck. Next! Please, I've been standing in line for over an hour. Can I register now? I just want to vote. No registration. No voting.

You stoop over the table. You lean down into the poll worker's face, gripping the wooden table. There must be another way. Well, there ain't. Next time, come prepared. Now you're holding up the line. Next! He waves a hand to beckon the man behind you forward. Reluctantly, you step aside, your heart hammering in your chest. You can't believe this. When you came to this country, you were told you would finally have a voice. But this feels nothing like the democracy you were promised.

During the 19th century, urban political machines engaged in rampant voter fraud to manipulate elections. They stuffed ballot boxes, casting votes under fake names. They transported supporters to different precincts to cast multiple ballots. And they used threats and bribes, coercing voters with the promise of liquor or free meals in exchange for their votes.

So by the early 20th century, progressives had set their sights on curbing these abuses and passing voting reforms, including the introduction of secret ballots, which required voters to cast their votes in private to prevent party workers from buying votes. They also pushed states to adopt personal registration laws, requiring voters to register to vote in advance of elections, often after meeting residency requirements and waiting periods.

These laws were designed to combat fraud by reducing the number of voters who showed no interest in voting until Election Day when party operatives approached them with cash in hand. But the laws also disenfranchised many poor citizens and immigrants who struggled with the complex regulations or lacked the time to register.

More than anything, middle-class progressives wanted to create a responsible and virtuous electorate, free of vulnerability to manipulation. So they not only tolerated laws that reduced minority turnout, they also passed laws to deliberately disenfranchise certain groups they believed could not be trusted with the vote. In New York City in 1908, voter registration was held on the Jewish Sabbath and during Yom Kippur to keep Jews, many of whom were socialists, away from the polls.

And by 1913, nine states outside the South had introduced literacy qualifications, requiring voters to be able to read English. Progressives also reversed some state laws that allowed immigrants to vote without first becoming citizens, while at the same time, new laws made it harder to obtain U.S. citizenship, as applicants were subjected to interrogation by judges and required to pass an English-language civics test.

These reforms ultimately disenfranchised hundreds of thousands of voters. Following record highs at the end of the 19th century, voter turnout declined dramatically, falling from nearly 80% in the election of 1896 to just 49% in 1920.

But even as some progressive reformers sought to reduce the power of poor, minority voters, others aimed to broaden access to the ballot. After decades of slow progress and widespread resistance, a new generation was ready to take control of the long, hard-fought struggle for women's suffrage. Hey, Wowzer fams! It's Guy Raz and Mindy here. And Mindy, can you believe we have our very own Wow in the World STEM toys? And look! They even have our fizzes on!

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Today is the worst day of Abby's life.

The 17-year-old cradles her newborn son in her arms. They all saw how much I loved him. They didn't have to take him from me. Between 1945 and the early 1970s, families shipped their pregnant teenage daughters to maternity homes and forced them to secretly place their babies for adoption.

In hidden corners across America, it's still happening. My parents had me locked up in the godparent home against my will. They worked with them to manipulate me and to steal my son away from me. The godparent home is the brainchild of controversial preacher Jerry Falwell.

the father of the modern evangelical right and the founder of Liberty University, where powerful men, emboldened by their faith, determine who gets to be a parent and who must give their child away. Follow Liberty Lost on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. By 1908, Florence Kelly had become America's leading advocate for working women and children.

When she was just 12, her father, a U.S. congressman, took her to visit steel and glass factories. She was shocked to see children younger than herself toiling away, and she resolved to dedicate her life to child labor reform. In 1891, she moved to Chicago and became a settlement worker at Hull House, fighting to improve the lives of poor immigrants alongside Jane Addams. One activist called Kelly the toughest customer in the reform riot, the finest rough-and-tumble fighter for the good life of others that Hull House ever knew.

In 1893, she was appointed as Illinois' first chief factory inspector, tasked with monitoring sweatshops and factories to make sure they complied with labor laws. In this role, she successfully persuaded the state legislature to limit children to working no more than eight hours per day. But her victory was fleeting, and the law was soon repealed. So determined to work toward more lasting change, Kelly began studying for a law degree at Northwestern University.

In 1899, she became the executive secretary of the National Consumer League, where she encouraged middle-class Americans to use their power as consumers to fight for progressive reforms by purchasing goods from companies that treated their employees well and boycotting companies that exploited workers or ignored factory safety laws.

Kelly also used her role at the National Consumer League to lobby for legislation protecting women, including many poor immigrant women who found themselves working jobs with longer hours and lower pay than men. And as a result of Kelly and other progressives' efforts, by 1903, 20 states had passed laws limiting working hours for women.

But these new laws met resistance. In 1905, an Oregon laundry owner named Kurt Muller violated one of these laws by requiring a female employee to work over 10 hours in a single day, and the employee reported him. The resulting case made it all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court.

When Florence Kelly learned of this, she urged progressive lawyer Louis Brandeis to take it on. He agreed, and with Kelly's help, Brandeis wrote a unique legal brief. Rather than focus on legal precedent, he included more than 100 pages of social science research arguing that women were physically, mentally, and emotionally unfit to work more than 10 hours at a time.

Using this unique approach, Kelly and Brandeis won the case. Mueller v. Oregon was a landmark Supreme Court ruling establishing that states have the right to regulate working hours for women. But not all working women supported protective legislation. Some feared it would only invite new forms of discrimination.

Imagine it's July 1908 in Boston. You've just started a new job at a print shop. Rays of evening light slant through the shop windows as you wipe ink off your hands, preparing to close up after a long day setting tight. But as you fiddle with the latch on the glass door, you lock eyes with a woman standing outside. She gives you a little wave. Excuse me, miss, a moment of your time?

You reluctantly open the door and take in the woman standing before you. She wears a fine linen shirt and tailored skirt that probably costs more than you make in a month. Her hat is pinned at a jaunty angle, and she carries a leather satchel under her arm. Yeah, can I help you? My name's Ann. I'm a volunteer with the National Consumer League, and I'm gathering signatures for a petition to the state legislature to limit women's working hours. Would you be willing to sign? Oh, no, I'm not interested. Well, perhaps I could explain.

You hold up a hand to interrupt her. "'No, I already know all about it. You're trying to limit women to working nine hours a day, right?' "'Yes, that's right. And surely you know how dangerous long hours can be. Fatigue leads to injuries, you know. Many women are forced to work under terrible conditions. This law would ensure safer, healthier workplaces.' "'I don't know. You know, I fought for this job. You know how many printers wouldn't hire me because I'm a woman? How many men told me I didn't belong here?'

Anne's expression softens, and she nods sympathetically. "'Yes, I understand. No, you don't understand. It was hard enough to get hired as a printer. If I can't work as many hours as the men, no one will hire me. And then what? I'd have to go back to sewing piecework at home, live under the thumb of my father. But this is for your protection. Think of all the women toiling away in those factories. No, I gotta think about me. I've worked too hard to get where I am to lose my ability to compete.'

You think they won't use this law to say we're weaker? That we're worthless? Someone like you just wouldn't understand. Anne clutches her satchel tighter, searching for a response. She comes up short. Well, thank you for your time and good evening. You close the door on her and take off your apron, feeling the weight of a day on your feet bear down on you. But you wouldn't trade a full day's work for anything. You earned your place at the printing press and you intend to keep it.

While progressive activists celebrated laws reducing working hours for women, many female workers and traditionally male jobs opposed protective legislation. They feared it justified lower wages and limited their ability to compete with men.

So despite their good intentions, many progressives were elitist in their outlook, believing they knew what was best for marginalized communities while failing to understand the actual needs and desires of the people they sought to protect. Progressives pushed for laws to prohibit the sale of alcohol, which they blamed for family tension and violence, but in so doing, they ignored the important economic and social roles that saloons played in immigrant communities.

Progressives also targeted prostitution and what they called white slavery, the coerced prostitution of young white women in cities. In 1910, the white slavery hysteria would lead Congress to pass the Mann Act, criminalizing the interstate transport of women for so-called immoral purposes. But it would also be used to criminalize many forms of consensual sexual activity, including interracial relationships.

But even as the Prohibition and anti-prostitution crusades demonstrated the growing political power of progressive women, the vote for women remained out of reach. By 1908, 60 years had passed since Elizabeth Cady Stanton first issued her call for women's suffrage. Since then, suffrage activists had won a handful of victories in the West, but they were no closer to comprehensive change on the national level.

But between 1905 and 1910, wage-earning women injected new energy into the suffrage movement, with the founding of new organizations including the Equality League of New York and the creation of a suffrage arm of the Women's Trade Union League. Rather than rely on abstract ideas of equal rights, this new generation took a more pragmatic approach, arguing that women should use their innate morals and motherly instincts to cleanse society of corruption and excess,

Thus, the suffrage movement became part of the broader progressive goal of putting power back in the hands of people rather than political party bosses and lobbyists. Across the country, new reforms included direct primaries, ballot initiatives, and recalls aimed to give ordinary citizens a greater voice.

Many states had adopted these reforms in time for the 1908 election. During his final year in office, President Theodore Roosevelt struggled to persuade Congress to do his bidding. But he still enjoyed widespread popularity with the public, and he'd come to deeply regret the promise he made after his 1904 victory, declaring that he would not seek a third term. So he decided that if he could not be the president himself, he was at least determined to handpick a successor.

So to continue his legacy, Roosevelt chose his Secretary of War, the amiable 350-pound William Howard Taft. At the Republican National Convention in Chicago, Roosevelt used his control over the party machinery to push through Taft's nomination. Three weeks later, the Democrats nominated their own candidate, the already twice-beaten William Jennings Bryan.

On Election Day 1908, voters chose stability, handing Taft 321 electoral votes to Brines' 162. But in many ways, Taft was an unlikely successor to the dynamic Roosevelt. His highest aim was not the presidency, but a seat on the Supreme Court, and he was far less inclined to wield the power of the bully pulpit. But Roosevelt had complete faith in Taft, telling a friend...

He is as fine a fellow as ever sat in the president's chair, and I cannot express the measureless content that comes over me as I think that the work in which I have so much believed will be carried on by him.

Assured of Taft's loyalty and wanting to avoid accusations of trying to pull the strings, Roosevelt made plans to leave the country for a year and would soon embark on an African safari. But while he was away, Roosevelt would be surprised by Taft's desire to chart his own course. And with the future of progressive reform at a crossroads, Roosevelt would be compelled to return to the political arena and resume the fight. ♪

From Wondery, this is episode three of our five-part series, The Progressive Era, from American History Tellers. On the next episode, a controversy at the Department of the Interior ignites a bitter feud within the Republican Party, socialism gains momentum in politics, and a strike in the textile mills of Lawrence, Massachusetts sparks deadly violence. ♪

American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bach. Supervising sound designer, Matthew Filler. Music by Thrum. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton. Edited by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alita Rozanski. Managing producer, Desi Blaylock. Senior managing producer, Callum Plews. Senior producer, Andy Herman.

Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Marshall Louis, and Erin O'Flaherty for Wondery. If you like American history tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.

American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bach. Supervising sound designer, Matthew Filler. Music by Thrum. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton. Edited by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alita Rozanski. Managing producer, Desi Blaylock. Senior managing producer, Callum Plews. Senior producer, Andy Herman.

Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Marshall Louis, and Erin O'Flaherty for Wondery. In the wake of the Human Genome Project, a new era was dawning. One where medicine could be customized to your DNA and preventative care came to the forefront. And in this time came 23andMe. In 2007, this startup exploded onto the scene, promising to revolutionize health with a simple cheek swab.

Now, nearly two decades later, 23andMe is filing for bankruptcy and selling off its most valuable asset to the highest bidder, your genetic data. In the latest season of Business Wars, we put 23andMe under the microscope to discover how the most promising startup in the DNA revolution became a multi-billion dollar miss and what this means for the future of your data security.

Follow Business Wars on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge Business Wars, 23andMe's Fatal Flaw, early and ad-free right now on Wondery+.