When I was a kid, my aunt had a round, white washing machine with a wringer on top. Little did I know I was watching Black history unfold before my eyes as my aunt cranked the clothes through the wringer. That system of wringer rollers was patented by Ellen F. Eglin.

Depending on your source, Ellen F. Eglin was born either in Maryland in February 1836 or in Washington, D.C., in 1849. She lived in Washington D.C. with her parents, brother Charles, and two other siblings. There she worked as a housekeeper. Sources believe it was due to this stoop work that necessity, the mother of invention, tapped Ellen on the shoulder. In 1888, she devised a clothes wringer made of two wooden rollers with a crank used to squeeze excess water from laundry. Unfortunately, she never received just compensation for her invention.

Because of race prejudice, Ellen sold her invention for $18 (about $598 in today’s dollars). $18 wasn’t an inconsiderable sum when at the time a loaf of bread cost five cents, a pound of meat was ten, and a gallon of milk was twenty. But giving away the rights to her patent for such a paltry sum was a disgrace. The American Wringer company made huge profits from the sales of its product based on that patent. Her wringer is still in use today to wring out mops.

We wouldn’t even know about Ellen and her invention if not for feminist Charlotte Smith, who interviewed Ellen for Smith’s The Woman Inventor in 1890. Asked why she sold her patent, Ellen’s answer was heartbreakingly simple. “You know I am Black, and if it was known that a negro woman patented the invention, white ladies would not buy the wringer. I was afraid to be known because of my color in having it introduced to the market; that is the only reason.” She hoped to create another invention and exhibit it at an upcoming Women’s International Industrial Inventors Congress, but her plans never came to pass.

Those of you who may be watching Sir Julian Fellowes’ The Gilded Age will have heard this truth echoed in the situation of the character Peggy Scott. Wanting to be a writer, Peggy is told by the publisher interested in her work that if they don’t hide the fact that she’s black they’ll lose white subscribers in the South.

The year Charlotte Smith interviewed her, Ellen was working as a charwoman for the Department of the Interior. Records show she was still living in Washington D.C. in 1916, and that is the year assigned to her death.

I like to think that by sharing these blogposts I’m following in the footsteps of women like Charlotte Smith and Hallie Q. Brown (featured in my Oct. 2023 and Feb. 2024 D.D. blogposts) lifting up the lives and achievements of women so they won’t be forgotten.

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Her Heavenly Phantom
by Michal Scott

Forced into a marriage of convenience neither wants, a mild-mannered banker with an intriguing secret discovers his reluctant bride has a secret, too.

Excerpt:

Unwed and pregnant, Emily Hampton needed a husband. Newly freed and hungry for a foothold among the ranks of the Black elite in 1880s Brooklyn, William Broadman had the answer.

His son Harold.

The warmth shared between the two men stood in stark contrast to the cold chaste kiss Harold and his bride shared. Their coolness continued as they walked up the aisle. Guests, oblivious to their shared contempt, showered them with hugs and handshakes. Harold shivered even more as his father and father-in-law back-patted themselves and toasted the couple’s future happiness at the wedding reception. No doubt the arctic chill between the couple would extend to their first lay as man and wife, too.

If they had to that is. Emily Hampton hated this arrangement as much as he did. Therein lay his salvation. If she wanted as little to do with him as he wanted to do with her, his life didn’t have to change at all. Milquetoast straightlaced banker by day. Virile promiscuous masked singer by night.

The lady of the balcony numbered among his many admirers. Her missives of gratitude roiled with cock-stirring heat.

Your singing ravishes my body.

My core weeps for you.

Oh, for a coupling I know would thrust me into a heaven far beyond my grasp.

The last message had reached him after an exhausting browbeating from his father. He’d come to the theater in need of an escape that even singing couldn’t provide. She’d accepted the invite to join him backstage conveyed by way of his manager. In the dark windowless privacy of his dressing room, they’d thrust their way to a heaven beyond both their grasps.

He looked forward to what she’d write to him tonight. He’d need it as he lay alone on his wedding night.

Buylinks:
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KOBO: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/secret-identities-8