The stories we tell are powerful. And they matter.

Walk with me through any Civil War museum of this country, and you'll find army uniforms, photographs of soldiers, cannons, personal effects, artillery, percussion rifles, Colt revolvers, and war medals. Here and there, tucked into corners, you may find pieces showing the experience of women. You would never guess from looking at such museums that the vast majority of the people whose lives were impacted by the Civil War were not white, powerful males, but their perspectives are no less a part of what this country went through.

If you take the time to dig deeper in a Civil War museum, behind nearly every item you will find a woman's story waiting to speak. You realize the straw hat a man wore to his death was handcrafted by his sister; the "housewife" pouch one man carried was sewn by the hands of his sweetheart, made from the fabric of her dress; women designed and created battle flags, crafted gold epaulets for uniforms, picked cotton to clothe the nation. When soldiers fell on battlefields, they were often cared for by female hands; their locks of hair and personal items were sent by females to relatives; the same items were cherished by females for decades, and finally donated by females in their loved one's memories.

If you look beyond the tales you've heard most often, you'll realize that women fought in the war disguised, authored journals that recorded the central events, counseled Lincoln on strategy, organized, fundraised, and financed the war, then created Memorial Associations to commemorate the very history that typically devalued their own contributions, held ceremonies to keep the memories alive, cooked food, coordinated events, and cleaned them all up. They erected monuments, persuaded legislatures to declare holidays, financed churches, comforted veterans when they returned home broken, and listened to them talk for decades about their service. If they'd had the right to do so, they would have deemed themselves business consultants, philanthropists, medical personnel, event coordinators, and psychologists, and they would have been properly compensated.

During the Victorian era, when photography exposures were painfully long, it was a common practice to take photographs of children by placing them on the lap of their mother, while she was completely draped in veils. These "Hidden Woman" photos seem a bit strange to modern viewers--the shadowy figure of a person, or a pair of disembodied hands lurking like shadows behind the child. Metaphorically, these photos are an apt representation of history's presentation of women: an obscured figure whose purpose was to support others and remain unseen. Modern historians are beginning to remove that veil, allowing her to step forward, and begin to speak of her own experience in her own words, turning his-story into their-story, presenting a truer, fuller, richer version of what really happened in this country.