The Outing of Frank Woodhull: Gender Transgression among Would-be Migrants
to the U.S.
On October 4, 1908,
a Canadian-born individual was returning to the United States after a visit to
France. He was processed at the immigration center on Ellis Island, identifying
himself to the authorities as Frank Woodhull. Medical inspectors, perhaps suspecting
some sort of illness, pulled Woodhull aside for a more thorough examination. In
the course of this inspection, they found that Woodhull’s biological sex was
female. The resulting interrogations and forced disrobing established his story—born
Mary Johnson, he reported having taken on a male name and gender presentation for
economic reasons; he claimed that “hundreds of women in Canada are wearing men’s
clothes in order to earn an honest living, simply because they are obliged to
do so.” At a time when immigrants could be turned away for the slightest transgression,
it seems remarkable that Woodhull was admitted after only two days of detention.
My paper will argue that
the decision of immigration authorities was the result of two main factors—first,
Woodhull’s racial and cultural profile, which rendered his gender transgression
less threatening, and secondly, his own articulate self-defense, which mobilized
conventional notions of gender and morality to justify his own “disguise.” As a
counterpoint, I will examine practices of interrogation and forced disrobing on
Angel Island, where immigrants from Asia were subjected to a completely
different standard of social acceptability and gender presentation. Another analogous
case is that of “Alejandra Veles,” a half-Spanish, half-English would-be
migrant who, after being found to be biologically female, was forced to leave
the country.
In the United
States, often called a nation of immigrants, the set of criteria used to judge potential
migrants is a matter of utmost importance. By regulating the admission of immigrants
according to dominant ideologies of race, culture, gender, sexuality, and “moral
behaviors,” American migration authorities shaped and continue to shape their
nation in fundamental ways. My argument will seek to examine the intersection
of these ideologies of race and gender—particularly how they apply to the
double standards at play on Ellis Island and Angel Island, or in the comparable
cases of Woodhull and Veles. While my research will explore these double
standards in a historical context, the forms of systematic exclusion that
plagued immigration processing centers in the early 1900s may find an echo in
the immigration policies of today.
The outing of people
like Woodhull and Veles almost invariably caused a scandal, so there are newspaper
articles dealing with both cases. Though sensationalized, these papers quote
the suspect individuals, giving historians some access to their voices. There
are hundreds of photographs, oral interviews, and personal accounts from
migrants who were processed at Ellis and Angel Islands. I would also hope to
find the transcript of Woodhull’s case. Based on what I have read, it seems a
clerk must have recorded it, but I am not yet sure if it is accessible. There
is very little literature that deals specifically with Frank Woodhull, aside
from Erica Rand’s theoretical treatment of the case in The Ellis Island Snow
Globe. Susan Stryker’s Transgender History and Marjorie Garber’s Vested
Interests are helpful secondary sources for contextualizing Woodhull’s
story within broader narratives of passing.
As I continue to develop
this topic, I will have to clarify how the Woodhull case connects to Veles and especially
to gender at Angel Island. I have only done preliminary research on the latter
topic, so at this point it is difficult to say how fruitful the comparison will
be. That question can only be solved by diving into my research, so at this
point I will keep my options open and hope for the best.
Gay New York
In Gay New York, George
Chauncey makes a compelling argument for the existence of a thriving prewar “gay
world.” Last week we discussed ways in which historians can make bold claims. Chauncey’s
thesis is an excellent example of one of the strategies that was mentioned—challenging
a dominant narrative: “Before Stonewall (let alone before WWII), it is often
said, gay people lived in a closet that kept them isolated, invisible, and vulnerable
to anti-gay ideology” (6). Chauncey organizes his objections to that narrative by
addressing the myths of isolation, invisibility, and internalization (5).
In some cases Chauncey addresses
these myths by bringing primary sources to light—quotes and first-person accounts
from gay men, for instance, that show previously ignored aspects of gay
culture, or articles from African-American newspapers reporting on drag balls.
The reason these sources have been so little studied, Chauncey argues, is a combination
of “censorship of inquiry into gay culture” and not knowing “where to look or
what to look for” (9-10). Much of his argument rests on these overlooked voices.
Yet almost as important is how Chauncey proposes we rethink what we already
know. For instance, he points out that resistance takes many forms. To say there
was little reaction to anti-gay policing “is to ignore the strength of the
forces arrayed against them, to misinterpret silence as acquiescence, and to
construe resistance in the narrowest of terms—as the organization of formal
political groups” (5).
Perhaps the most important
takeaway from Chauncey’s work relates to his work with sources. The failure of
historians to uncover this kind of data, he claims, was because they “first
turned to the more easily accessible records of the elite before grappling with
the more elusive evidence of the ordinary” (10). Examining minority newspapers,
popular culture, tabloids and working culture enabled Chauncey to find stories
that went untold in more formal spheres. His methodology is a reminder to
broaden the scope of one’s search and look beyond more conventional sources.
Reading the Runaways
Reading the Runaways
In “Reading the Runaways,” David
Waldstreicher presents an intricate reading of print culture, the fluidity of
identity, and advertisements for runaway slaves. Waldstreicher compares the
deception of some blacks in slavery and servitude to the tricks and
transgressions of confidence men (244). Through this lens, he explores the
strategies through which runaways used language, clothing, skills or trade, and
smooth talking to manipulate their image. This act, Waldstreicher argues, was
comparable not only in tactics but in the outrage it incurred: “In the
mid-Atlantic of the eighteenth century, where the main markers of identity for
men were, not white and black, but rather free versus unfree and genteel versus
common, to pretend to be free was as outrageous a pretense...as Tom Bell's
traveling up the coast pretending to be a gentleman” (264).
Runaway advertisements listed
the tools at the disposal of blacks who wished to disguise themselves and
outwit their pursuers. The same traits that were desirable in a slave—linguistic
ability, for instance, or skill in a trade—also posed capital risk (261). For
owners, a boon became a threat in the event of an escape. Waldstreicher
reprises this theme of double-sidedness in his discussion of print culture. While
print might be “one of the means of enforcing the slave system” (268), literate
slaves or escapees could use the written word to their advantage. As
Waldstreicher writes, “Like other possessions, it could be stolen and
appropriated; it could be simultaneously oppressive for most and liberating for
some” (271). This tension between systems of oppression and the use of those systems
by the oppressed is a principle element of Waldstreicher’s analysis.
While Chauncey seeks out
unplumbed sources to dispel myths about gay history, Waldstreicher takes
well-known source material—runaway advertisements—and complicates it by
introducing new theoretical frames. For instances, he calls runaway
advertisements “the first slave narratives—the first published stories about
slaves and their seizure of freedom” (247). These narratives, he proposes,
reveal far more than individual stories—they exemplify “the profitable
contradictions of the mid-Atlantic labor system” (247). By drawing out these contradictions,
Waldstreicher’s piece may remind us that even oft-read primary sources can be
approached with fresh perspectives, using other historical comparisons (e.g., confidence
men) to draw out new threads.
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