sisterhood

NEW YORK — Robin Morgan, a wholesome child star of the 1940s and ‘50s who grew up to become an all-American radical as a poet, essayist, editor and second-wave feminist, has died. She was 85.

Morgan, who was still working on new books and poems, died Saturday in New York after suffering a series of health problems in recent weeks, said her son, Blake Morgan. Her death came just days after that of her close friend and fellow activist Gloria Steinem.

During the 1960s and ’70s, Morgan embodied and inspired historic changes in how women lived and thought. As she was happy to point out, the onetime “Ideal American Girl” and adored “Little Robin Morgan” was a rule breaker and justice seeker with a notable list of achievements, along with a prison record and an FBI file.

Morgan was at the center of the some of the defining moments of what came to be called second-wave feminism, expanding upon the achievements of the suffragists a half-century earlier. In 1968, she was among the organizers of the first protest against the Miss America pageant, joining fellow activists in tossing their bras (soon mythologized as burning) into a “Freedom Trash Can.” The 1970 essay anthology she edited, “Sisterhood is Powerful,” is considered one of the essential texts of the modern women’s movement.

Yet she considered herself primarily a poet and artist, and that work fed into her activism, her son said.

“She was someone who was able to take very big ideas and distill them succinctly, like a poet, into a few words,” said Blake Morgan, pointing to such quotes of hers as “hate generalizes, love specifies.”

Morgan was credited for coining ‘herstory’

Her legacy was one of deeds, words and images. Morgan is widely credited with coining the term “herstory,” the feminist reworking of “history,” and popularizing the clenched fist/female symbol icon of the liberation movement. Her poem “Monster,” with such lines as “I want a women’s revolution like a lover/I lust for it,” was quoted at feminist rallies and beyond. Her poem “Arraignment” helped capture the movement’s embrace of the late Sylvia Plath and condemnation of her husband, poet Ted Hughes, whom Morgan and others blamed for Plath’s suicide in 1963. Morgan’s rhyming couplet “I accuse/Ted Hughes” inspired the title for Sonic Youth’s song “J’Accuse Ted Hughes.”

Labeled an “anarchist housewife” in one government report, Morgan confronted the establishment, left and right. In 1970, she and fellow protesters were arrested and jailed after occupying the offices of the counterculture Grove Press, whose owner, Barney Rosset, was fighting employees’ efforts to unionize. In the widely reprinted 1970 essay “Goodbye to All That,” she called out activists and libertines from Abbie Hoffman and Hugh Hefner to Dave Dellinger and the music group the Fugs.

“Goodbye to the male-dominated peace movement, where sweet old Uncle Dave can say with impunity to a woman on the staff of Liberation magazine, The trouble with you is you’re an aggressive woman,” she wrote.

“Goodbye to the idea that Hugh Hefner is groovy ’cause he lets Conspirators come to parties at the Playboy Mansion — goodbye to Hefner’s dream of a ripe old age. Goodbye to Tuli and the Fugs and all the boys in the front room — who always knew they hated the women they loved. Goodbye to the notion that good ol’ Abbie is any different from any other up-and-coming movie star who ditches the first wife and kids, good enough for the old days but awkward once you’re Making It.”

She led an unconventional personal life

In her personal life, Morgan had male and female lovers and was married for more than 20 years to the gay poet Kenneth Pitchford, with whom she had her son, a musician, producer and record company founder. She once described her marriage as a “two member commune” and was so resistant to labels that she remembered being “straight-baited” by feminists who thought she should be a lesbian and chastised by conservatives who assumed she was a lesbian.

In her 2001 memoir “Saturday’s Child,” she expressed joy and amazement at how her life turned out and how she was able to retain “a threadbare, somewhat surreal sense of humor.”

“Put that in your apple pie and smoke it,” she wrote.

She wrote more than 20 books, including a memoir

Besides “Saturday’s Child,” she completed more than 20 books, including “The Word of a Woman: Feminists Dispatches,” and the poetry collections “Monster” and “Dark Matter.” She followed “Sisterhood is Powerful” with “Sisterhood is Global” (in 1984), and “Sisterhood is Forever” (2002), featuring such contributors as Steinem, Simone de Beauvoir and Eve Ensler. For several years, she was editor in chief of Ms. Magazine, which Steinem co-founded.

Steinem would call her an ideal “utility player,” gifted in almost every way a protest movement might require. As an organizer, she helped found such 1960s feminist groups as New York Radical Women and Women’s International Terrorist Conspiracy from Hell (W.I.T.C.H.). She was part of the Youth International Party, the left-wing Yippies led by Hoffman and Jerry Rubin among others, but soon became disgusted with how the group treated women and left.

In 1984, she was a founder of an early feminist think tank, the Sisterhood Is Global Institute. In 2005, she, Steinem and Jane Fonda launched the Women’s Media Center, which has a mission to support “the visibility, viability and decision-making power of women and girls in media.”

More recently, she hosted a syndicated radio show and remained active despite being diagnosed 16 years ago with Parkinson’s disease, which inspired several poems and a TEDWomen talk in 2015.

A child star in the ‘40s

In a different era, Morgan might have been just another forgotten child star. Born in 1941 in Lake Worth, Fla., and raised in New York, she never saw her father while growing up and was told — falsely — by her mother that he was dead. Her mother also shaved a year off her age, claiming she was born in 1942, to make her early public career seem even more impressive.

The blond, talented Robin was modeling by age 3, hosted her own “Little Robin Morgan” radio show at age 5 and around the same time was featured on the radio (later television) game show, “Juvenile Jury.” From 1949-57, she appeared on the hit TV domestic comedy series “Mama” and made appearances on “Robert Montgomery Presents,” “Kraft Television Theatre” and other shows.

She would meet some of the era’s biggest stars, from Abbott and Costello to Sal Mineo, and was popular enough to inspire such commercial tie-ins as Robin Morgan dolls. Magazines described her as “unspoiled” and “courteous” and “the ideal girl-next-door,” immune from “violent outbursts of antagonism against established society.”

But off camera, and sometimes on, she was so apart from her image that her first “serious” childhood poem began: “Go, rage, winter the world with despair.” During one broadcast of “Juvenile Jury,” the question was whether a boy deserved to be spanked. Morgan was supposed to joke that he should wear padding under his pants, but instead declared that all physical punishment was wrong.

As she recalled in “Saturday’s Child,” producer Dan Ehrenreich squeezed her shoulder so hard that Morgan could feel his fingernails. He turned her microphone away and eventually placed his hand over her mouth.

“I realized that I loved and respected that child who fought back in what was the first political act I recall ever daring to make,” Morgan wrote.

Her political activity began in her late teens

Once in her late teens, she began taking classes at Columbia University, attended poetry workshops and became politically active. She marched for civil rights and against the Vietnam War and met protesters, artists and such poets as W.H. Auden and Anthony Hecht, who she said gave her a man’s-eye view of the creative process: “But, my dear, women should be poems, not write them.”

In 1962, she met Pitchford at a Manhattan party. Once the other guests (“boozy bikers” and “stoned, hallucinating Joffrey dancers”) had left and the host urged others to go with them, Pitchford lighted candles, put Dvorak’s “New World” symphony on the record player and became her “first.” They later walked for hours and ended up on a downtown park bench.

“You have such an air of possibility about you, Robin,” he told her. “It makes me believe anything can happen.”

Italie writes for the Associated Press. AP writer Jennifer Peltz contributed to this report.

For more than three decades, Liz Phair and Sleater-Kinney existed in parallel without ever quite meeting. They admired one another from afar, brushed shoulders only in passing, and, in some ways, represented opposing ways of challenging the limits placed on women in indie rock. Phair, who found novel and peerlessly smart ways to write about heterosexual skirmishes, used her ambitions to edge closer to the mainstream; Sleater-Kinney, one of the great duos of American rock, have succeeded in becoming the last band standing from the underground scene in which they emerged.

Both acts are about to share the stage for the first time, co-headlining a tour they’ve cheekily and earnestly named the Flannel and the Fury, with stops across the country, from El Cajon, Calif., to Ocean City, Md., and a night at Los Angeles’ Greek Theatre on Tuesday.

Yet, despite having spent more than 30 years orbiting the same world, they have had surprisingly little time together. This interview is one of a few substantial conversations they’ve ever had. It is, at first, slightly stilted. Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker (Sleater-Kinney) are in sync as always; Phair is clearly excited, but seemingly unsure of where to place herself in the dynamic. Now all in their 50s, the women have been asking similar questions of the same culture, and are only now getting the chance to compare answers.

“Sorry, I know you’re like, ‘Why aren’t you better friends?’ For me, that’s the point. I’m trying to be better friends,” says Brownstein. “Yeah, talk to us again when tour’s over,” Tucker adds.

Brownstein is sitting in a parking lot in Los Angeles, wearing a cardigan and glasses, people walking past her window, unaware of who’s inside. Tucker calls from her home, a blurred background behind her, wearing a white blouse and lipstick. Phair is at home too, makeup on and hair straightened, various musical instruments on the wall behind her. It’s a few weeks before their co-headlining tour, and Tucker has already loaded up all the equipment. She’s packed her suitcase too, full of socks she’ll throw away by the end of tour, and a wardrobe almost entirely of black.

“This is news to me,” says Brownstein. “I was thinking more of a chocolate brown. I will be all brown town.”

Phair is going for wine-like jewel tones. “A Cab Sav,” to be specific.

Phair, who’s had an on-and-off relationship with touring, is noticeably more nervous than Brownstein and Tucker. “It takes me two or three shows to get into it. At first I’m like, why are you all staring at me?”

Phair had been sitting on the idea of a co-headlining tour with Sleater-Kinney for a few years. She sheepishly says that she didn’t reach out herself, but got her manager to do it while she was working on the second half of her memoir. She’s been keen to share a bill with Sleater-Kinney ever since she heard their 1996 album “Call the Doctor.”

“By then, I’d started to pull back from indie rock,” says Phair. “I had gotten married, and I didn’t know I was pregnant at the time, but I was starting to drift out of this scene, and then they put out this kick-ass record, and I just remember thinking, I kind of want to be back in the game. It inspired me. It stuck with me.”

Phair felt she was atomized from the female coalitions of the ’90s, and that this co-bill might be a way to rectify that. “I’d love to be able to go back and sew it together again,” she says. “Here’s a band I was a fan of that meant something to me and now I can play with them.”

For Sleater-Kinney, Phair has long been more than a neighboring act. Tucker and Brownstein describe her as one of their “biggest inspirations.” Both have the same Phair favorite song: “Divorce Song.” “It’s a perfect song,” says Tucker. “I think I’ve put it on every mixtape I’ve ever made,” Brownstein adds.

By the time Phair released her debut album, “Exile in Guyville,” in 1993, she was the one of the two acts edging toward the mainstream. Within a year, she was on the cover of Rolling Stone.

“I still have a copy of the magazine,” says Brownstein. “We were all so excited. Like, an actual artist made the cover.”

Nirvana had made this small corporate alliance permissible a couple of years earlier, finding a loophole as Cobain wore a T-shirt that read “Corporate Magazines Still Suck” on their Rolling Stone cover. It was a time when an antiauthoritarian stance was the only artistically credible one. Before we started calling one another “performative,” Tucker, Brownstein and Phair came from a time when “poser” was the worst insult and sin. They came from a scene of ideological puritanism.

“You know when people die their life flashes before their eyes, sometimes, it’s like that when I do a deep dive, and I’m like, God, there were a lot of rules. There was a lot of fear. And I don’t think anyone who wasn’t there would be able to picture it,” says Brownstein. “It took us a long time to get over it.”

“OK, can I ask the question? Can I get right in here? Because I want to know,” Phair chimes. “Do you think that’s because there weren’t enough women? You think women would have brought the inclusivity to inclusivity?”

“Unfortunately, no,” replies Tucker.

“We had these all-female festivals in Olympia, and we had our own publicist, and they were like, how dare we?” says Brownstein. “You know, it was just gatekeeping, that now seems sort of repugnant. But it was also a way to establish yourself in opposition to what felt like the only way to be.”

It’s part of why Sleater-Kinney declined an invite to play Lilith Fair, the mainstream precedent for so-called female solidarity in music. One of history’s most famous traveling all-female festivals, Lilith Fair was considered by many in the Riot Grrrl movement to be an early symbol of the commodification of “girl power,” female solidarity aligned with corporate ideals.

Sleater Kinney

(Robin Laananen)

“It seems like they haven’t really given credit to women in an independent milieu who have organized a lot of female-only shows for years,” Brownstein told the Dallas Observer in 1998.

“I think at the time we thought we were too cool to play Lilith,” Tucker reflects.

“I’ll just leave your answer,” says Brownstein.

Then she changes her mind four seconds later.

“I saw the Lilith Fair documentary last year and got FOMO, I kind of regretted not playing” she says. “But at the same time we had a handicap from a small indie punk community that was kind of didactic, there was a real rigidity to what you were and weren’t allowed to do. Even us signing with Matador in the U.K. was considered too big.”

Selling out, they all conclude, is no longer a concern for anyone. Phair’s son, who is Gen Z, often says the phrase “it’s time to get the bag.”

“You know, every artist has the right to get their bag,” says Phair. “I always felt that way and I was especially vilified for it.”

That vilification reached its apex when she released her mainstream-aspiring self-titled album in 2003, an album Sleater-Kinney said they hated in an interview with Rolling Stone that year, and which Pitchfork gave a rare 0.0 score in one of its most notorious reviews.

“I’d be on tour doing 10 interviews a day back-to-back, and I almost had to give these interviewers therapy, because they were so sad about my turn from indie rock,” says Phair.

Phair is adamant she made her mark on “every one of those songs, except maybe ‘Favorite,’” she says, referencing the chintzy, awkwardly phrased track where she sings about her underwear. Maybe it’s a metaphor, but more likely, it is just a song about her underwear. Safe to say it won’t be on the show’s setlist: “I will never play it live.”

The old argument about selling out now sits inside a very different touring economy. Sleater-Kinney and Phair’s co-headlining tour happens to follow a flood of co-headlining tours this year, from indie acts like Waxahatchee and MJ Lenderman to big marquee names like Usher and Chris Brown. With higher ticket prices and more competition — not only with other touring bands but with the allures of home comforts — audiences need a bigger draw. Artists want an opportunity to play to big audiences, as well as a better chance of “getting the bag.”

All three artists insist they won’t necessarily bring home the bag, nor is that why they’re doing this.

“All our budget’s gone on to the lighting designer,” jokes Brownstein.

“When I do these interviews with you guys, I get kind of excited and nervous because I feel challenged in the best way,” says Phair. “I think co-headlining bills, it does let you go into bigger venues than you could by yourself. But it also, for me, gives me creative food, like nutrition. It makes me grow.”