Although Our Ideals Didn't Align

My Grandmother's legacy and the fragility of progress

This essay traces the life and political legacy of the writer's grandmother, Neva Courrier Taylor—a feminist organizer, abortion rights advocate, and quiet radical in a conservative West Virginia town—and reflects on what her generation’s work reveals about the present moment. Through memory, archival research, and contemporary political context, it examines how gains once thought secure—from reproductive autonomy to gender equality—have proven vulnerable to reversal, and what it means to inherit a struggle that remains unresolved.

---

I'm 23 and surrounded by faces I both recognize and don't. My grandfather is next to me, on his second or third martini, and I have utterly forgotten which drink I am on. Next to my Uncle Rick, who is acting as the Master of Ceremonies, stands a slide show of my grandmother, my Nana. A name she took because the word Grandma was too limiting, too old a word to describe herself. My grandfather and I are waiting to give speeches. He as her life partner, and I as her only granddaughter. 

A group of elderly women, who called themselves the Busy Bees Homemakers club, huddled around a microphone, mumbling about their memories of my grandmother as a young adult and as a mother. I have never met these women. They talk about how kind my Nana was. This image of her didn't feel authentic. Neva was kind in a slightly judgmental way that forced you to be a better version of yourself, but not in the shallow, motherly archetype they insinuated. The speaker, I am unsure who nominated her for the job, ended the speech with "Neva was a good friend and club member, though our paths changed, and our ideals didn't align, in the end, we want to remember her as she was back then." My grandfather rolled his eyes and grunted at that. I can't remember what he mumbled exactly, but it was something like "a load of horseshit." People clapped politely, and the throng of ladies moved off the center stage.  

The next speaker, an African American woman named Jeanne, took the microphone. She glanced at the women leaving the stage. And said, "I may not have known Neva from her earlier years, but I can tell you she was a spitfire. She was passionate and one of my dearest friends. She fought for what she believed in, and I will miss her very much."  

Jeanne started talking about the marches that she and my Nana had marched in. She talked about my Nana's educational accomplishments and her career. As she spoke, my tears started to fall. I cried all day, but listening to Jeanne, someone who had loved my Nana, who had seen her for her and still chose her, made me weak. When she ended the speech, she came over to us and hugged my grandfather, then hugged me. She then told me how much I had meant to my Nana and hoped that I could somehow continue her legacy. So here I am, 34 years old, almost twelve years after her death, finally telling her story. 

How to describe Neva Courrier Taylor? Over the years, she wore many hats: the doctor's daughter, the girlfriend of the high school football star, the wife of the prosecutor, the mother, the wife of a circuit court judge, a founding member of the Busy Bees Homemakers club, an end-of-life caretaker, and a grandmother. Looking at her life through a patriarchal lens, all of these are her best accomplishments: marrying rich, not being too loud or too hot-headed, having the nuclear family, and being grateful. Something that misogynistic men with bad takes and good microphones idealize as the perfect woman. 

These qualities, are not the only hats she wore; she was also a high school graduate, college graduate, registered nurse, provider, one of the first students to graduate with a masters in psychology from Frostburg University, professor, agnostic atheist, abortion rights activist, equal rights activist, a proud NOW member, LGBTQIA ally, and lifelong supporter and donor to progressive candidates and policy. She was a "blue-haired" liberal disguised in lovely dresses and perms. 

In the 1970s, Neva and Jeanne opened Keyser's National Organization of Women (NOW) chapter to meet with like-minded women to better the lives of women in their community. From what I have been told, it was not a very popular chapter, and it's possible it was only Jeanne and her in the beginning, but they both thought it was the right thing to do. Because even though her community did not approve, she still fought for the women in it. When researching NOW in West Virginia, I am saddened to see that their chapter no longer exists. 

During their NOW tenure, Neva and Jeanne became active in politics, joining the ERA March on Washington to ratify equal rights for women under the law.

This is what is pictured above. Neva is pictured next to Jeanne; they're both covered in protest pens and smiling. Neva's coat hanger protest pin is right in the forefront, in the middle of her forehead. As a medical professional, abortion was one of the topics she fought for the hardest. She believed that women should have the same autonomy over their bodies as men. She was so outspoken about this topic that it sometimes caused a rift between her and her community.

The same women she had aligned with among the homemakers had harsh words about her beliefs. They saw her insistence on bodily autonomy for girls and women as blasphemous, as taboo, and as a destruction of the home. She tried many times to express how abortion could help the people of her small town. Many women were overwrought with children and responsibilities, with very little money to support their families. Having another child at that time could doom them to a life of perpetual debt. When presented with this argument, she was faced with anger and bible verses to explain away their decision to bring in another child into poverty. Though persistent, she never made a woman feel guilty about keeping her fetus. When the fetus eventually became a baby, she was there for support, whether that be financially or with her time. She never allowed another woman to suffer if she had a chance to lighten her load.

Unfortunately, many of my Nana’s contemporaries have passed away. However, I did have an opportunity to speak to one member of the Busy Bee’s Homemaker’s. It was easy to tell that her thoughts on Neva were complicated. She kept repeating “Your grandmother did both; she was a feminist but also a caretaker and mom. Neva claimed she was an atheist, but she gave so much back to the community.” I kept thinking those qualities don’t cancel each other out. That a woman could want to be treated as an equal and be a mom, a person could also be an atheist or agnostic and be compassionate. This woman, who wished to remain anonymous, mirrors what her community thought of her. In awe but also viewed her with disdain. I think my mom, Reva, Neva's only daughter, said it best: "You know, Taylor, Neva did a lot for the community, but she was always difficult about it; she was opinionated, and outspoken, and for the time, not fitting in was seen as a problem to most.  I think they appreciated and hated her for it."

I would love to say that this attitude has changed in modern society; however, it is becoming increasingly clear that this attitude toward outspoken women persists.  The protest picture mentioned above was taken on July 9th, 1978, at the historic march to have states extend and ratify the Equal Rights amendment before its deadline. The goal was to guarantee legal equality for all American citizens regardless of sex. However, due to conservative backlash, the bill was not ratified nationally, leaving the decision to the states. This remains an ongoing issue; many states have not ratified it to this day.  My home state of Virginia recently ratified it in its state constitution in 2020. My Nana's home state of West Virginia has rescinded its support for ERA ratification, which is constitutionally debatable as to whether that is even allowed. And, unfortunately, with the rise of Conservatism in America, the fight continues.  

Though the march did not achieve its initial goal, it did give the women the opportunity to come together and make connections. During the march, Neva met and was immediately taken by Phyllis Lyon & Del Martin, a lesbian couple and co-authors for both the women's movement and lifetime activists for equal rights of the LGBTQIA community. Meeting these women would increase her empathy and knowledge about the community so much so that when my uncle came out in the 90's, it wasn't that she was not worried about him being gay, but for his safety. In the 90s were a time when gay men were openly beaten to death. She became very outspoken about the rights of LGBTQIA issues, not only because of her son but also for those who were constantly demonized and victimized by American society.  

Unlike others in her community, she recognized the LGBTQIA community were humans deserving of the same rights and freedoms as others in society.  So, when it came to fighting for the right for same sex marriage, she was entirely on board, donating heavily for the Obama campaign, and educating people in her community about the need for marriage equality. This was another "ideal" that did not align with her small West Virginia town.  

I am sitting here at my desk about fifty-ish years after the ERA march and the initial trial of Roe v. Wade, distraught with reality. We were the first generation of women who were born free from the confines of dependency on men and the traditional family unit, but in a matter of a decade, those rights and freedoms that they worked so hard for were stripped from us in a matter of months. 

It can feel overwhelming to exist in 2025. I am constantly confronted with the resurgence of conservative propaganda, circulating through both traditional media and social platforms. It is disorienting to watch TikTok—once a tool for political organizing—now elevate images of tradwives and stay-at-home girlfriends at the very moment women’s rights are being rolled back. It is difficult to live in a country where judicial rulings overturn Roe v. Wade, undoing decades of progress through decisions made in rooms that still exclude the people most affected by them.

It is harder still to witness how quickly the labor of women like my Nana—work built over generations—can be dismantled. And it is deeply unsettling to be governed by a president who publicly demeans women, who boasts about sexual violence, and who lashes out at journalists for asking questions about his proximity to power and abuse. At the same time, his administration authorizes masked agents to detain immigrants and people of color off the street, funneling them into facilities that resemble internment camps in all but name.

This is not the future Neva and Jeanne struggled toward. And at times, I find myself relieved that they are not here to see how fragile the ground beneath us has proven to be.

It is easy to look away, to tell ourselves that none of this is really happening. It is harder to speak or act when doing so carries real risk—when fear of reprisal feels close and personal. Still, women like my Nana offer a quieter kind of reminder: that courage is often sustained, not dramatic; practiced, not declared. What we inherit from past generations is not just their sacrifice, but their persistence—and a responsibility to carry it forward in ways that make space for those who come after us.