Audacious Women

SPEAKER KEY

AQ: Allison Quantz, host

MAMH: Morgan Avery McCoy Harris

Transcript lightly edited for clarity.

MAMH [as Martha Ann Fields]

You see, I’m a history maker because the children that came out of me made history.

MAMH [as Anne Spencer]

Artists, cultivate whatever garden of influence God has placed you in. Plant the seeds, water frequently, kiss the roses, and watch them grow.

MAMH [as Barbara Johns]

Activists. And I slammed my shoe on the podium and I said, “Are you tired of being in these tar-paper shacks?”

AQ

And every single one: audacious.

AQ

From Virginia Humanities, this is With Good Reason. I’m Allison Quantz, and today on the show: history’s audacious women.

My guest is award-winning actress, playwright, and filmmaker Morgan Avery McCoy Harris. Morgan is the 2025 Virginia Humanities Rosel Schewel Fellow, and with the support of that fellowship, she produced a multimedia production and digital archive called Bricks Without Straw: Virginia’s Finest. The project tells the story of 10 women in Virginia’s history and includes her one-woman show of monologues from their perspectives.

Morgan, I want to start with one of the women from your show and hear what it’s like when you embody their voices. Can you start us out with the first woman from the performance?

MAMH [as Martha Ann Fields]

There comes a time when you know it’s time. I was born December 18, 1813. I lived in Hanover County, Virginia. Although born human, I was considered property on paper—enslaved.

The family that claimed to own me did not want to see me for me, me as a human being. But thanks be to God that there was a God in heaven that saw me. And that God made me a promise that one day, me and all my babies would be free.

I had 11 children. Ten I raised; one died as a baby. Mary. And that was a pain. But it’s nothing like the pain of loving a child, of raising a child, dreaming about what the child would be, and then they’d be sold from you.

My two boys were sold to plantations in Virginia. But when my daughter Louisa was sent to Georgia, and I didn’t know who had her, or where she was, or what was happening to her, it was a different type of heartache.

And people asked me, “Mother, how you survived seeing your children sold from you? How you survived seeing your children beat down? How you survived?”

I survived because I had a promise that this moment was not going to be my end, that there was something for me and my children on the other side.

That’s why, when my son George told me that the Yankees had come, I said, “Thanks be to God, because He promised me that we would be free.” I said, “Come on, children.”

We grabbed up what little we could, and I walked past Miss Catherine. Tears were streaming down her face. Tears weren’t streaming because she loved me. They were streaming because what she knew was leaving. Her wealth was walking away. Her life was ending, and my life was beginning. Come on, children.

And we got to the edge of the river. The Yankees were on the other side of the river, and we were still in rebel land. But the bridge that would take us from where we were to where they were—the bridge had been burned down. My babies looked at me and said, “Mama, where we gonna go? What we gonna do?”

And I said, “Come on, children.”

We went back four miles into rebel land, went to my brother in the middle of the night, and I said, “You still got your boat?”

He said, “Yeah, Martha Ann. What you doing?”

I said, “Me and the children going to freedom land.”

He took my babies one by one across the river, because the boat could only hold two people. First, he wanted me to come. I said, “No, I don’t want to be free ’til all my people free.”

Once I finally got over, my children breathed a sigh of relief. The Yankees fed us and took us to Hampton. And in Hampton, there was a stench of blood and war from all of the wounded soldiers.

I started washing the clothes for the soldiers and getting paid money so I could have some things for me and my children. One soldier said to me, “How many children you got, Auntie?” That’s what he said.

And I started crying, because I was thankful that me and the children I had with me were free. But my baby Louisa—I told him, I said, “I had 10 children living, and one baby’s in Georgia. I don’t know where she is in Georgia, but she’s in Georgia, and before I die, I want to see her.”

And you know, just a few weeks later, out of all the people in the world that were brought back, my baby Louisa was brought to me. And I cried and I wept, and I was thankful because God had promised me.

And I ain’t gonna lie to you and tell you that things have been easy, but things are better now that we’re free. And I’m telling you that I believed there was something better for me and my children.

My son became one of the first students at Hampton Institute. My other son, George, became the first Black law student at Cornell. My granddaughter became one of the first Black female lawyers in Virginia.

You see, I’m a history maker because the children that came out of me made history.

That’s Martha Ann Fields. Come on, children.

AQ

Wow. Wow. I can see you on Zoom, and it’s like you just transformed. Incredible.

Martha Ann Fields: “I’m a history maker.” I love that. Tell me more about who she was and how we know about her.

MAMH

Well, she had a promise way before the war even began, and she kept instilling in her children to learn as much as they could where they were, to pay attention.

There’s a quote in the monologue—I actually did an excerpt of it because it’s rather long—but there’s a quote where she says, “I couldn’t protect them, but I could direct them.”

And so the reality I wanted to share in her story is the pain of being a mother who can’t actually protect your child in the traditional sense, because you can’t even protect yourself.

Her children did make history, and they made history because of their mother’s tenacity and her push. I think I learned of her from my dear friend Ajena Rogers, who was actually her great-great-granddaughter.

Ironically, I was working on a documentary project, and I was going to be telling the story of James Apostle Fields, her son. And that’s how I found out. Ajena was my friend prior to knowing there was a connection with the Fields family, so it was one of those very divine, serendipitous moments.

She told me about a book that was authored by George Fields, Martha Ann Fields’s youngest son. Most of what I say in the monologue was actually quoted by him—what his mother said, “Come on, children,” God gave her the promise, passing Miss Catherine. All of that is just my interpretation of how she said it, but it’s actually what she said.

AQ

I was going to ask about that, because throughout the show, you’re stepping into the voices of these women. That’s a big responsibility.

MAMH

It is. It is. And I really want to always honor them in preserving their history.

I actually had a challenge for a moment, because it can be easier to perform. You might want to present something a certain way, but this show is not just a performance. It is an archive. It’s a living archive where you’re stepping into the worlds of these women, and I want people to know who they were based on what we have available to us.

When I was working on telling Elizabeth Van Lew’s story and Mary Jane Richards’s story, I had in my mind how I wanted to present Mary Jane Richards and have her tell the audience about Elizabeth Van Lew. And it was really beautiful. It was such a beautiful monologue.

However, during my further research, I came across one of her last correspondences to Elizabeth Van Lew. It was so different—her tone and her personality, everything was so different from how I wanted to present her.

And so, in order to honor Mary Jane Richards correctly and adequately, I had to destroy what I had crafted before and create something that was more aligned with who I could see she was from her pen.

AQ

Yeah. Wow. I can imagine the heartbreak of that. And also, I mean, it’s a lovely challenge.

MAMH

Yeah.

AQ

I want to back up a little bit and have you tell us more broadly about Bricks Without Straw, the show that all of these women are featured in.

MAMH

Absolutely. So the title is Bricks Without Straw: Virginia’s Finest. “Bricks without straw” is a biblical reference from the Book of Exodus, when the Israelites were enslaved and they were forced to build. But in order to make their work even harder, they said, “You’re going to have to build the bricks, but this time we’re not giving you the straw to do so.”

And so often, women are given limited resources, but the expectation is for them to show up and create and be and do anyway. And they were able to. In spite of the oppression and in spite of the times they were in, they were able to continue to build something that was beyond themselves.

And so Virginia’s Finest is specifically telling these Virginia women’s stories. They truly are among the finest when you look at the work that they’ve done, the lives that they lived, and the legacies that they left behind.

AQ

The performance is a series of monologues from these women’s perspectives. I know we won’t have time to talk about all of them today, but I would love to honor them with just their names, if you would be willing to list the women who are featured.

MAMH

Absolutely. First is Martha Ann Fields, then Elizabeth Keckley. Then we tell the story of Elizabeth Van Lew and Mary Jane Richards in the same monologue. Then it is Maggie Lena Walker, then Anne Spencer, then Undine Smith Moore, then Barbara Johns, then Delegate Dr. Mary T. Christian, and then Rosel Schewel.

AQ

Were there some who were harder for you to inhabit as a performer, and others who felt like a natural fit for you?

MAMH

Yes. Yes, definitely. That’s a great question.

Anne Spencer was hard for me because her life was just so vast. I had the privilege of reading her autobiography, and then I met her granddaughter and I went to her home. And so it was just hard, because I wanted to tell her whole story. I think she’s just so amazing, and I didn’t know how to tell it. It was very overwhelming for me, but we got there.

Also, Miss Schewel was a challenge. I, too, really respected her, and I also had a lot of information about Miss Schewel because I’ve interviewed her children. To have so many people speak of you with such reverence—I mean, when I spoke with them, I would be weeping, right?

And so, again, I had all this information. She did so much in her life. I was trying to figure out what portion of her story to tell and from what perspective. Because, obviously, I am a Black woman, so how do I tell this Jewish woman’s story in an honorable way?

AQ

Will you share for us another excerpt from one of the monologues?

MAMH

Sure. I sure will. Let’s see which one. This is Anne Spencer.

MAMH [as Anne Spencer]

May you find love like I found with Edward—someone who will write you a 21-page love letter and plant flowers with you in the moonlight.

May you find friends like my Jim, James Weldon Johnson, who will expose your creativity, bring you into the sun.

May you also have friends like Langston Hughes, who will tell you when you’re overrated.

And when you want to ask a question and get somebody to give your organization money, may you always wear red.

May you have children and grandchildren that carry on your legacy.

May you cultivate whatever garden of influence God has placed you in. Plant the seeds, water frequently, kiss the roses, and watch them grow.

If there’s not a door of escape, you find a window.

If you need some inspiration as you go through the trials of life, come on by my garden and I’ll teach you how to be nasty nice.

That’s Anne Spencer—her closing.

AQ

Oh, I love that. And for those who maybe don’t know the name, tell us a little bit about Anne Spencer and who she was.

MAMH

Yeah. Anne Spencer was a poet in the New Negro Movement, during the Harlem Renaissance. She was born in Virginia and moved to West Virginia when she was about four years old. At 11 years old, she moved to Lynchburg for college—Virginia Baptist Seminary and College.

This was a new school. This was an opportunity for her to get educated and grow, and she wrote her first poem there in Lynchburg. It also, though, was the first place that she experienced racism, because she really didn’t experience it in Bramwell, West Virginia, at the time. The community was a small coal-mining town, and so they let the children be children.

And she had a way about her. She mesmerized people.

She met Edward Spencer, who was from Lynchburg, so they got married. She stayed in Lynchburg—or went back to Lynchburg after college—once they got married. He built her this home, and they had this garden and had three children.

But in the process, she was such a vocal person. They called her a social heretic because she wore pants, because she refused to adhere to Jim Crow’s demands. She would not ride the trolley; she would rather walk because she refused to sit in the back. And if she did ride the trolley, she sat in the front. Then the trolley driver would say a lot of unkind words to her, and she would say them back. She was that type of woman. She was this woman who just wasn’t scared to speak her mind.

She and a friend started the local chapter of the NAACP in Lynchburg. That led her to meeting James Weldon Johnson. He was the secretary of the national NAACP, and he found her poetry.

She wrote poems all the time. Since she was in college, she was writing, writing, and writing for herself because she called herself a private poet. But he saw her poems, and here he was this accomplished, published poet—well known, well respected. He shared her poetry with his publisher, and they agreed. And so she’s now in these anthologies with James Weldon Johnson and Langston Hughes and all the poets of that time. Her voice is heard through that poetry.

Also, she and her husband had a beautiful home. There was no outhouse needed because he had indoor plumbing in the home. And so, when Black people who were of celebrity status or noteworthy keynote speakers for the school would come, the school would ask if they could stay at Anne and Edward Spencer’s home.

George Washington Carver stayed at her home. Just a plethora of people stayed. W. E. B. Du Bois, of course, came often to her home. And so she had a lot of influence, and a lot of intellectuals who enjoyed having other intellectuals to speak to. It was this hub of conversation and engagement and activity around what they could do to create better opportunities for people of color.

AQ

Yeah. There’s the obvious connection between all of these women: they’re women, they’re Virginians. What binds them all together?

MAMH

There are four things. With all the women, you see a pursuit of freedom. There’s also a common theme of education as a pathway for success. Education is a pathway for freedom. Education is a pathway for opportunity. Creating access to education was huge for every last woman in Virginia’s Finest.

And then there’s this faith component. All of the women had a faith, and that faith is what fueled them in the work that they did and why they did what they did.

And lastly, legacy. None of these women focused internally, just about themselves or their children. It was about continuing the legacy past their existence so the lives of others could be changed.

And so I think they all were audacious. One thing that Barbara Johns did is not something that Martha Ann Fields could have done at the time, but what she did enabled Barbara Johns to do what she did. Does that make sense?

AQ

Yeah. You mentioned Barbara Johns, and several of my Virginia Humanities colleagues were able to see one of your live performances recently. I heard several of them say that Barbara Johns was a favorite. I would love to hear a little bit from her voice.

MAMH

Yes, yes.

MAMH [as Barbara Johns]

My uncle Vernon—Vernon Johns—everybody thought that he was a rebel. And I guess he rubbed off on me.

I’m the oldest, so I was helping my brother and sister get ready for school, and I left my lunch. I ran back to my grandma’s house as fast as I could, but when I got back to the bus stop, the bus was already gone.

And so I waited, and waited, and waited. And then it happened.

I saw the white school bus pass me by. It was new. It was clean. It didn’t break down, and it wasn’t overcrowded. And there was space for me, but no space for me.

And I—I got so angry, because our bus breaks down all the time. Our bus is overcrowded, and our schools are tar-paper shacks. It rains on us while we’re taking tests because it leaks. In the wintertime, we have to wrap ourselves in coats so we don’t get too cold.

It is not fair, and it’s definitely not equal.

And I was so angry that by the time I got to school, I went to find my favorite teacher, Miss Inez. I told her everything that I saw and everything that happened. And do you know what she said to me?

“Barbara, what are you gonna do about it?”

What am I gonna do? I’m a teenager. You’re the adult. What are you gonna do?

I felt so frustrated, so disappointed, so angry. But then I realized Miss Inez gave me a gift, because it made me think: “Barbara, what can you do?”

Because the teachers had tried, and they couldn’t do anything. Our parents had kept complaining to the school board, and they still wouldn’t do anything.

And so I decided I was going to take it to the one person who could do something. I prayed, and I said, “God, aren’t we your children too?”

And after I prayed, the next morning I had a plan. Before I prayed, I was just angry, and I didn’t have a plan. But after I prayed, I had a plan: that we would do a student strike.

We would all do a student strike. I would talk to the student leaders, and I would get them on my side and tell them my plan. Then we would come up with an opportunity for all of us to strike—that it was our time, as students, to take a stand.

And I found them. I talked to leaders at the school, and they agreed. We started strategizing and organizing. We said we would give it time, because the school board kept saying they were working on it. So we gave them a few months.

Then, in March, one of those school buses—our school buses, the hand-me-down school buses, the breaking-down school buses—one of those buses stalled on the train tracks, and five students died. And I knew it was time.

And so, in April, that was our set day. We had someone call the principal, pretending like one of the students was in trouble, and so he ran out of the school.

Then we sent notes to all of the classrooms. We forged the principal’s signature and had all the teachers bring the students to the auditorium. But when they came to the auditorium, there was no principal. There was me.

And I asked the teachers, respectfully, to leave. Now, it took a little, but they finally did. Everyone was getting kind of rowdy, so I stood in front of the podium and I slammed my shoe on the podium.

And I said, “Are you tired of being in these tar-paper shacks? Are you tired of being in these overcrowded buses? This is our school. This is our education. If you want change, you have to do something. Who’s with me?”

I walked out of school, and 450 students came out with me. And we started a strike.

AQ

Got me with that one.

MAMH

Yeah.

AQ

For people who don’t know the story of Barbara Johns, can you give us just a short little summary?

MAMH

Absolutely. Barbara Johns was a student activist. And I sound like this because I’m full.

You know, as a 16-year-old, she organized a student strike—a student-led strike. She saw something that was wrong, and she believed that she could do something about it, and she did.

And that’s what I love about this, because young people need to know that they have agency too. Sometimes you can feel like you’re just seen as a young person who doesn’t pay attention to what’s happening in history or what’s happening presently because, “I’m just a kid.” No. You have power too.

AQ

I love imagining high schools. I could imagine staging it. I can tell you’ve thought about a larger life and future for this project with the digital archive.

You spoke about how all of these women had a real commitment to cultivating their legacies. What’s the legacy that you hope to leave behind?

MAMH

Oh, man. This is personal. This is more of a personal thing.

When I spoke to Rosel Schewel’s children, to hear them speak of their mother the way that they did, I said, “Oh my gosh. I want my daughter to talk about me like that,” you know? To live that type of life. Because sometimes people can be great in public and not great in private.

AQ

Yes.

MAMH

And so I want to be great in every aspect of my life, for all the people in my life, all the hats and the roles that I wear. And I’m teaching her to do the same—teaching her that she can live out her dreams, that she can help other people, that she can be loving and caring, that she can honor God, that she can be kind, a great human being.

I want to show her what that looks like every day.

But also, this experience has been life-changing for me. I’m really grateful to Virginia Humanities and the Rosel Schewel Fellowship. I’m thankful because this experience has changed my life. These women have changed my life.

And I want to share their stories with as many people as I can, because you believe what you see. When you see—and you’re bombarded with—hate or evil or divisiveness, then you believe that that is the only thing that can be.

But when you see stories of women like these—of love, and hope, and passion, and commitment, and advocacy, and selflessness, and sacrifice, and humility—when you see these things, then you know there’s another option.

AQ

Morgan Avery McCoy Harris, thank you so much for sharing your story and these women’s stories with me on With Good Reason.

MAMH

Thank you, Allison. It has been a joy being with you, and I’m so thankful for the opportunity to be on With Good Reason.

AQ

You can find clips and information from the digital archive of Bricks Without Straw: Virginia’s Finest at MorganAveryMcCoy.com.

Morgan Avery McCoy Harris is an actress, playwright, and filmmaker. She’s the 2025 Virginia Humanities Rosel Schewel Fellow.

This is With Good Reason. We’ll be right back.