Frederick Douglass, by David Blight.  Reading this book, I was reminded of the fact that biographies are not my cup of tea. Not really all that interested in anecdote after anecdote from boyhood. And Douglass’ childhood was brutal.  He was born a slave on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.  His father was unknown (probably one of the masters); the mother died when he was six. It was a minor miracle that he was taught to read in an age when rhetoric flourished.  From the 1840s till he died, apparently visitors to the US from abroad went to see Douglass speak if they could. Like visiting New York City or Yosemite Valley.  

Confession: I didn’t finish the book but I appreciated much:  Frederick Douglass spent much of his life in Rochester, NY, where I grew up.  Though I didn’t get far enough to read about his long friendship with Susan B. Anthony (I assume it was in the book), I did read about his relationship with Elizabeth Cody Stanton as his attendance at the Women’s Convention in Seneca Falls.  Of the 100 delegates, he was the only Black and one of 30ish men.