What do women want?

In West Virginia, the glass ceiling shatters but shards remain

Jean Battlo

Jean Battlo

I was born here, and I like to stay with my roots.

— Jean Battlo, 75, of Kimball

  • She quotes Aristotle, Sartre and Thoreau
  • She's a poet, playwright, historian and retired teacher
  • She's the youngest of eight; the only one to complete college – and graduate school
  • Never married, and no children
  • She's a fan of Obama and calls herself a left-winger, but is "so pro-life" that she won't use pesticides
  • She's not impressed by today's youth and wonders about the world they may or may not build

Sue Julian

Sue Julian

It's not that people lack the spirit of empowerment. It's that the obstacles they face are enormous.

— Sue Julian, 62, of Charleston

  • A former nun from Boston, she first came to southern West Virginia to volunteer in a shelter for battered women
  • Spent 30 years with the West Virginia Coalition Against Domestic Violence
  • On the board of WV FREE, a reproductive health, rights and justice organization
  • Teaches yoga and meditation to prisoners
  • Been married for five years to her wife, Ellen Allen
  • Says she'd like to be excited about a female U.S. senator but sees a lack of boldness

Vivian Anderson

Vivian Anderson

I'd like to see some things that will impress our children, and there's not a lot of that around here.

— Vivian Anderson, 70, of Kimball

  • A retired teacher, Anderson still works as a substitute
  • Has lived in Kimball for 40 years
  • She'll vote, because that's how she can have a voice, but she's not impressed by what she sees: "Politics is politics"

Rachel Ervin

Rachel Ervin

We have a lot of friends who homeschool for religious reasons and because of how the schools are.

— Rachel Ervin, 26, of Charleston

  • Ervin and her husband, Michael, have two children -- 1-year-old son Gideon and daughter Eliya, 3
  • Says she isn't too steeped in politics these days
  • Worries more about matters like Ebola getting out of hand
  • A licensed teacher, she also thinks a lot about her kids and what sort of education they'll get

Linda McKinney

Linda McKinney

These people are my family. … Look at their hands and you can tell the type of lives they've lived. I see courage and strength.

— Linda McKinney, 59, Welch

  • Director of Five Loaves and Two Fishes Food Bank in Kimball
  • Organization serves up to 120,000 pounds of food, hygiene products, staples and dry goods a month
  • 1,825 people were served in September
  • When it comes to voting, she says, most of the poor she serves aren't registered and can't read

Vesta Larkin

Vesta Larkin

My mother always taught me to never rely on a man to support you.

— Vesta Larkin, 70, of Welch

  • Like many in McDowell County, Larkin's life was shaped, at least in part, by a death in a coal mine: Her grandfather died in one
  • A retired teacher and graduate of West Virginia University, Larkin says she likes both women running for Senate
  • Her three children live out of state

Henrietta Malenick Pitts

Henrietta Malenick Pitts

McDowell County needs help big-time; 90% of the people are on welfare, and children are starving.

— Henrietta Malenick Pitts, 74, of Welch

  • Remembers when her hometown in McDowell County flourished with theaters, stores and traffic: "We called it Little New York!"
  • She returned, after decades away, to care for her older sisters
  • Her church once had hundreds of members; now there are seven or eight; she wishes more would show up and enjoy the Lord's blessings
  • Among the blessings she counts: her divorce

Tara Martinez

Tara Martinez

I don't want to be their voice. I want to teach them to use their voices.

— Tara Martinez, 37, of Charleston, on women she serves

  • Executive director of the West Virginia Women's Commission
  • Single mother of a 3-year-old girl
  • Through advocacy, education, research and coalition building, she works to empower women
  • To be accessible to everyone, she keeps her politics to herself

West Virginia is about to send a woman to the U.S. Senate for the first time. But will she be able to help those women back home beset by poverty, drugs, teen pregnancies and low pay?

By , CNN

The first time Tara Martinez looked at a report on the status of women and girls in her state, she wept. Often she still cries when she talks about the picture it paints. It's all just so overwhelming – and, at times, dark as coal.

The lack of employment opportunities. The dispiriting earnings gap between men and women. The rate of teen pregnancies. The percentage of women who are on disability. The shortage of those who complete college. The dearth of those who have benefits. The list goes on.

"Where do I start?" she remembers feeling. "In a state where people feel so hopeless, it takes your breath away."

About this series

Women candidates, women voters and women's issues could decide which party controls the U.S. Senate next year. CNN travels to three battleground states — New Hampshire, West Virginia and Colorado — to explore the age-old question: What do women want?

As the executive director of the West Virginia Women's Commission, Martinez is in the business of empowering women – lifting them up through advocacy, education and research. She keeps her personal politics private because she wants all women to feel safe talking to her.

"I don't want to be their voice," she says. "I want to teach them to use their voices."

By some measures, the dismal data suggests that the Mountain State is among the worst places in the country to be a woman. It also ranks near the bottom for female representation in elected office. West Virginia has never sent a woman to the U.S. Senate, but this year that will change. Both Senate candidates are women – Democratic Secretary of State Natalie Tennant and Republican U.S. Rep. Shelley Moore Capito.

The question is, will sending a woman to the Senate change things? Do these candidates represent the concerns of women in West Virginia?

Getting women here to use their voices isn't easy, Martinez says, and sometimes she feels like she's banging her head against a wall. She struggles to get them to speak up, and when they finally do and see that change doesn't happen immediately, they often retreat. Assuming they're not heard, they wonder, what's the point?

"We're fighters," Martinez reminds them. "It took a long time to get here, and it'll take a long time to get out."

This 37-year-old single mother of a young girl is, by her own admission, an unlikely person to lead this statewide agency.

She moved to West Virginia, to a small town an hour outside Charleston, as a child. Her family was one of two Mexican-American households in the area. There was only one other minority face in her school: an African-American boy from Kenya. Both she and her mother were physically abused.

"By statistics, I should have had a baby by age 16, been addicted to drugs and in jail once or twice," Martinez says, her eyes welling. Instead, she earned three degrees -- but only after starting her higher education in her late 20s. Her 3-year-old daughter was only 10 days old when Mom started on her MBA.

Martinez was born in Oklahoma, but West Virginia raised her.

We need more economic development. We need some industry so our children can get better jobs.

— Reba Honaker, 72, of Welch

  • Married mother of two taught, then owned a flower shop before becoming mayor
  • Her children left the state for work opportunities
  • She's inspired by efforts toward revitalization, including a broad-based initiative called Reconnecting McDowell

"These mountains get in your blood," she says.

It was here that she fell in love with state capital politics, got involved with a YMCA leadership program that engages teens with the legislative process and became "a nerd who stays up all night watching election returns."

She loves her job and could not be more passionate about the cause. But after six years, a salary cap may force her to leave. If she stays in her current position, she'll never make more than $45,000 a year.

It's poignant, really. She wants to elevate women, open up opportunities – but lack of opportunities in West Virginia is exactly what might send her away.

Hours after we talk, she packs for an out-of-state interview.

To see where women have it worst in the state that's arguably the worst for women, Martinez points me south to the heart of coal country.

The winding drive to southern West Virginia is autumn postcard pretty. The rolling Appalachian Mountains are a rich tapestry of green, orange, red and gold. Mixed in are small towns with prominent steeples.

But also present are reminders of industry, snapshots of a confluence of cultures. Tangles of smoke and bright lights rise from a DuPont chemical plant along the Kanawha River. Mounds of coal stand tall on company land and in train cars rumbling by. On the radio, candidates are touted for being pro-gun, pro-life and pro-coal. One exit off the freeway promotes the Appalachian Bible College and the Southern X-Posure Gentlemen's Club.

I'm heading to McDowell County, the worst-off county in West Virginia and among the poorest in the nation, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. It was this area President Lyndon B. Johnson considered when, 50 years ago, he proclaimed his "war on poverty."

That battle continues today. More than 36% of McDowell County residents are living below the poverty line, compared to about 16% nationally and 18% statewide, according to the latest American Community Survey, conducted by the U.S. Census Bureau.

But look closely in McDowell County, and there are signs of a different time. Large homes harken back to when this coal-rich area boomed. When the population was about five times what it is now. Today many of these houses stand in varying states of disrepair, windows broken or boarded up.

A cold drizzle falls outside Hemphill United Methodist Church near Welch, the county seat, as volunteers get ready for the second annual Spooky Hollow Hay Ride – a fundraiser for the fire department. A county commissioner, dressed in a bloodied mask, will drive the tractor pulling bales of hay and squealing residents.

Welch's mayor, Reba Honaker, races around the church basement, brewing coffee and doling out hellos. Nearby, church ladies in the kitchen serve up hot dogs and reminisce about the past. They talk about a time when they called Welch "Little New York." It boasted of large stores, three theaters, bustling traffic, and – as one woman puts it – "the biggest bus station you ever saw." There was so much money flowing through this area the church was built without a mortgage. It once had upwards of 400 members, one woman tells me. Now it has 7 or 8.

They worry about the drugs that have taken hold, the people living on welfare and spending their money where they shouldn't. The starving children left behind.

I hear stories about families falling apart, grandparents raising grandchildren because parents aren't around. A food bank director tells me nearly half the county's children are living without a biological parent.

Where are the parents, I ask. On drugs, incarcerated or deceased, I'm told.

One woman describes a young mother desperate to get clean for her children. Unable to afford rehab, she had her mother lock her in a cellar for three weeks.

McDowell County leads the nation in overdose deaths from prescription pain medications. It ranks last in the state, and has for most of the past decade, in education. Nearly three-quarters of students live in homes where no one is gainfully employed. All of this according to a broad-based initiative called Reconnecting McDowell, which has been fighting for three years to give kids a chance.

The mayor finally slows down and sits to talk, while a man dressed as Darth Vader – heavy breathing and all – lurks in the background.

Honaker, 72, and her friend Vesta Larkin, 70, want me to see more than bleak statistics. They want to honor a place they love and its rich history. They descend from immigrants who came here to work and dreamed big.

Larkin's life, like many here, was shaped by a death in the coal mines. Her grandfather was killed in one, forcing her mother to drop out of school in eighth grade to work in the company store.

"My mother always taught me to never rely on a man to support you," she says.

These two friends are proud of their hometown. There are jobs to be had for women in teaching, health care and government agencies, they say. Though the positions aren't as abundant as people had hoped, jobs at the new prison nearby pay well and offer benefits.

Through education, Honaker says, she hopes families will learn to yearn for more than a government-issued paycheck. To want better for themselves.

Larkin and Honaker went to college and sent their children to college, too. Both became teachers, and Larkin has since retired. Honaker went on to own a flower shop before becoming mayor. They boast of efforts to revitalize the area, including a development that will house much-needed new teachers.

But even as the two friends speak, they acknowledge the truth: Their own children ended up leaving, as so many in this area – and the state – often do.

Young women in Charleston talk about brain-drain, the exodus of peers to promised lands elsewhere.

As coal opportunities shrink, this state – and certainly this county – needs a diversified economy so young people will stay.

Honaker and Larkin would be happy with either candidate for the U.S. Senate seat. They just want whoever wins to help their city and county. They'd rather not say who they're voting for, but the area tends to lean Democratic -- a tradition that dates back to the union organizing days under President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

We're crying out for help and no one listens.

— Mary Margaret, 45, of Raysal

  • Married mother of two; children are 14 and 9
  • If not for a local food bank, she says she's not sure her family would make it
  • Says she won't vote – that politicians don't care about people like her
  • More concerned about finding a home

Larkin, who proudly wears a sweatshirt for her alma mater, West Virginia University, points to something in particular that she likes about the Democratic candidate, Tennant.

"She was the first woman to be the Mountaineer mascot for the WVU football team and put up with a lot of criticism," she says. "To do that took a lot of spunk."

Outside I climb onto a hay bale. Around me community members, who've each paid $5 to help pay for a new fire truck, bundle up to face the rain. Huddled together and laughing, they are pulled into the night.

Driving east along U.S. 52, part of the Coal Heritage Trail, I spot half a dozen women outside Five Loaves and Two Fishes Food Bank. They arrived four hours before distribution and wait in the cold.

A woman who calls herself Mary Margaret says without the help she gets here, she's not sure what she, her husband and two kids would do.

"If it wasn't for these people," she says, "we'd be starving to death."

She represents the struggle that cripples so many in McDowell County. Women who've been unable to tap opportunities.

She grew up in this area, one of nine children, her father a coal miner. She went to school barefoot. She always assumed her life would look up. But she had to drop out of school to help her family survive, and what she saw when she tried to look up remained a mirage.

She stands before me toothless. At 34, all her teeth had to be pulled. The friend beside her, 41-year-old Arnetta Hicks, has none either. They can't afford dentures. Hicks says she and her disabled husband are living on $12,000 a year. They've been trying to register with a nearby agency for assistance, she says, but her husband can't read so he can't fill out the forms.

"To get on their list," Hicks says, "it takes an act of Congress."

The women say they'd like to work, but there's no work to be had.

Mary Margaret fares better than her friend, bringing in about $700 a month in Social Security, in addition to a similar amount her husband gets as an Army veteran. But there's a downside to making more. She says they make too much to qualify for food stamps, clothing vouchers and coal checks to provide heat.

On her mind these days isn't the upcoming election. She couldn't care less about politics nor the two women facing off for the Senate seat.

"My vote does not matter," she says. Politicians, she adds, don't care about people like her.

Forget the polls; she won't go. What she needs is a home. She technically has one, down in Raysal, but it's falling apart. Water pours through the roof when it rains. Walls and floors are threatening to fall. Her husband tied a rope around an electrical pole to keep it from crashing down, she says.

She's afraid if an official sees her home, where six people live, it'll be condemned.

"I don't want to lose my home or have my kids taken away from me," she says. "I don't have anywhere to go."

I think of some of the places and people I've passed along the way. Roofs covered in tarps or moss. Gaping holes in rotted walls. Rundown structures that seem inhabitable with signs that read "Private Property." The little girl who peeks out from a rusted old trailer with a Confederate flag for a door.

One elderly woman sitting near Mary Margaret pulls up a pant leg to show scratches on her calf. She spent five years trying to get assistance to fix her porch but no one paid attention, she says, until she fell through it.

"They hope you die before they have to do it," she says.

Mary Margaret stopped going to the doctor; she can't afford the visits. Nor can she pay for pills for her high blood pressure and high cholesterol. A $1,400 bill for a hysterectomy she had to have last May still haunts her.

Though she can't exactly explain why she feels this way, Mary Margaret lashes out: "Obama ruined everything."

I ask about her dreams for her 9-year-old daughter, who stands nearby. Mary Margaret looks over at her child and says she hopes she finishes school. She says her daughter wants to be a doctor.

The purple bag she and her daughter will stuff with baked goods and produce is brandished with the logo of an organization trying to create a healthier state.

It says: Change the Future WV.

Women in the Mountain State

Capito, left, and Tennant

The contenders

  • Rep. Shelley Moore Capito, Republican
  • Natalie Tennant, Democrat

(No incumbent; five-term Democratic Sen. Jay Rockefeller is retiring)

The Capito file

  • First Republican woman elected to Congress from West Virginia
  • The only woman in the state's delegation to Congress until 2011
  • Has represented the state's 2nd Congressional District since 2001
  • Father is former three-term Gov. Arch A. Moore Jr.; he ran for the U.S. Senate in 1978 and lost (He also served time for federal corruption charges in the 1990s but maintains his innocence)

Tennant key facts

  • First Democratic woman secretary of state in West Virginia (elected in 2008, 2012)
  • Placed third in a crowded 2011 Democratic gubernatorial primary
  • Previously worked as a reporter for two West Virginia TV stations
  • Owns a video and media company with her husband, Democratic state Sen. Erik Wells
  • First woman chosen as West Virginia University's Mountaineer mascot

Women (not) in charge

  • Never had a woman governor or U.S. senator
  • Has elected only two women to Congress, including Capito
  • Capito is the only woman in the five-member congressional delegation
  • Tennant is the second woman ever elected to a statewide executive office
  • None of the five largest cities with an elected mayor has a woman mayor

Ranking among states

  • No. 41 for female representation in all elected offices
  • No. 45 for percent of women in state legislatures -- 16.4%
  • No. 48 for women's full-time median salary -- $30,000
  • No. 49 in gender pay gap -- women make 66.7 cents for every $1 made by men for full-time work
  • No. 51 for percent of women in the labor force (including D.C.) -- 49.6%
  • No. 44 for percent of working women in managerial or professional jobs -- 36.5%
  • No. 42 for percent of women living above poverty -- 81.5%
  • No. 39 for percent of women without health insurance -- 20.7%
  • No. 49 for percent of women living in a county without an abortion provider -- 84%


Sources: Representation 2020, Institute for Women's Policy Research, National Women's Law Center, Center for American Women and Politics, candidate websites

In the office of Coal Camp Creations in Kimball, where figurines shaped from McDowell County coal are made, I find a woman who makes me believe anything is possible.

Before Jean Battlo, 75, ever saw an ocean, she dreamed of being a sailor. Later, it was a stand-up comic. But then she came across Edgar Allan Poe.

"That's when my choices ended," she remembers thinking. "This is what I am."

She's a poet, playwright, historian and veteran teacher of 30 years. She's an artistic director of a local arts organization and the imagination behind a future museum in an old coal company store. She quotes Aristotle, Sartre and Thoreau. She can't stand shoes and rarely wears them.

The youngest of eight, Battlo was the only member of her family to complete college. And graduate school. Yet she came back to Kimball in McDowell County, to the very town that raised her, because she likes feeling connected to her roots.

Like so many in the region, she descends from immigrants – in her case, Italian – who were brought here by agents to work in the mines. Her father, Fortunato Battaglia, was approached in New York. When he boarded a train for West Virginia, though, the name tag he was given read: "Tom Battlo." He came with his brother, who soon died in the mines.

Her father worked in them for 45 years. He died of black lung at 82 and defended the mines until the end. Whenever she, a self-described "left-winger," dared to be critical of the industry, he reminded her she was so smart only because coal paid for her schooling.

She scoffs at those who say President Obama is out to kill coal: "Why would any president want to destroy an industry?"

Battlo's father only went to school for a few days, her mother for a few years. But her mother loved education and went on to teach herself how to read and write.

"God knows what she would have done with opportunities," Battlo says.

Battlo has written history books and novels about McDowell County – and multiple plays, including one about the coal wars. Another, the one she's most proud of, is about the Holocaust.

Around her neck hangs a wooden cross, a visible tie to the Catholicism she holds dear. Her faith is what shapes her anti-abortion stance. She's says she's "so pro-life, I won't use pesticides."

Never married and not a mother herself, she looks at issues like teen pregnancy, which plagues her state and county, and blames the "moral decadence of Western civilization." She grew up in a home where she knew love was real.

Young people, she fears, just don't give a damn. She thinks about those "willing to eat off the table of society without bringing a dish," and she's dismayed.

"I don't see depth, integrity, honor, pride of product," she says.

Once upon a time, her town, her county, her state flourished. Where she lives went from being a "rural nothing" to being "a major economic force in the nation" – one that fueled the Industrial Revolution. If "coal was king," she says, "this was the throne."

Today, the image is less regal.

Battlo likens this place to Ancient Rome. Though she learned from Jean-Paul Sartre to know what she doesn't know – namely the economy – she believes "the past can be your future if you use some ingenuity."

Whether the women of West Virginia can help restore the state's fortunes, or benefit more from them, remains to be seen. But one thing's for certain: Come November 4, at least one significant barrier will be broken.

More in this series:
In Colorado, it's not your mom's women's lib
In New Hampshire, cut from the same cloth but torn by politics

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