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Call the Midwife has been a Sunday night staple since its first broadcast in 2012. Based on the memoirs of former nurse and midwife Jennifer Worth (née Lee, as per the TV series); the show begins in 1957 and follows her experiences working in London’s East End. Through the lens of community midwifery and district nursing, the programme offers a dramatised portrayal of post-war Britain and the early years of the National Health Service. Promotional poster for Call the Midwife. Progressing year by year, Call the Midwife educates audiences about history and traces wider social and cultural changes taking place across Britain during the late 1950s, through the 1960s and the early 1970s. It operates as emotionally engaging comfort television. What begins in the aftermath of war times gradually develops into a portrait of a society undergoing significant transformations in healthcare, women’s rights, family life and social attitudes. One of the most significant educational aspects of Call the Midwife is the way it introduces audiences to histories of women’s healthcare that are often absent from mainstream education. Through emotionally engaging storytelling and storylines surrounding childbirth, contraception, miscarriage, infertility, abortion, and reproductive health care, the series exposes viewers to both the medical realities and social stigmas – such as trauma, poverty, disability, and social inequality. Educational Value of Call the Midwife Call the Midwife introduces audiences to the social and medical realities of East End London after the war. Spanning from 1957 to 1971, the series charts a period of significant change within British society, particularly in relation to healthcare, women’s rights, and the development of the National Health Service. Through long-form storytelling, viewers witness the gradual transformation of maternity care, changing attitudes towards contraception and abortion, and the increasing medicalisation of childbirth across the 1960s. Screenshot from Series 3, Episode 7, where Dr Turner and Shelagh are being interviewed by the adoption agency, and the first time Dr Turner’s experiences of wartime trauma are explored throughout Call the Midwife, including references to his treatment for “war neurosis”. Alongside these wider developments, the programme also explores major historical events and social issues that are often absent from mainstream education. Storylines surrounding thalidomide, infectious disease outbreaks, disability, poverty, and the lasting psychological impact of the Second World War expose audiences to the complexities of everyday life during the period. Dr Turner’s own experiences as a veteran of the Royal Army Medical Corps during the Second World War remain largely a mystery to the viewer, with glimpses of his history revealed gradually throughout the series. His wartime service begins to emerge more explicitly during Series 3, as he and Shelagh go through the process of adopting Angela, while later storylines reveal more about the psychological impact of these experiences and his subsequent psychiatric treatment. His experiences provide insight into symptoms that would now likely be recognised as post-traumatic stress disorder, highlighting how trauma and mental health were understood in the decades following the war. Further aspects of Dr Turner’s earlier life may become clearer in the forthcoming prequel series, Sisters in Arms, which is set to feature a younger version of the character. A wounded Canadian soldier is examined before being evacuated to a field surgical unit, Italy, January 1944 / Un soldat canadien blessé est examiné avant d’être transporté vers une unité chirurgicale de campagne, Italie, janvier 1944 One of the most significant educational contributions of Call the Midwife is its portrayal of women’s health, on top of topics that have historically been underrepresented or simplified within formal education. While these issues are often discussed clinically or politically in public discourse, Call the Midwife instead presents them through personal stories and lived experiences, humanising the emotional realities surrounding women’s healthcare during this particular time period. Part of the programme’s educational value may also lie in its intergenerational appeal. As someone who began watching Call the Midwife with my grandmother during its original Sunday evening broadcasts, the series became more than simply entertainment. Episodes often prompted conversations about everyday life during the period, including healthcare, schooling, gender expectations, and social attitudes. The programme therefore creates opportunities for shared cultural reflection, allowing younger audiences to learn about the era whilst older viewers revisit or contextualise their own experiences. Even outside of new broadcasts, constant repeats on channels such as Drama reinforce the programme’s role as a familiar and recurring cultural presence across generations. Importantly, the educational value of these narratives lies not only in the historical information they communicate, but also in the emotional engagement they create. Rather than presenting women’s health as abstract medical history, the series encourages audiences to empathise with the women experiencing these challenges. Through long-form storytelling and recurring characters, viewers witness the personal, social, and emotional impact of healthcare inequalities in ways that feel immediate and deeply human. Alongside its historical focus, Call the Midwife also shapes contemporary understandings of healthcare and care work. Although set between the late 1950s and early 1970s, many of the issues explored within the programme continue to resonate with modern audiences, particularly in relation to public healthcare, pressures on medical services, and the emotional realities of caring professions. In the years following the COVID-19 pandemic, public conversations surrounding the NHS and healthcare workers have become increasingly prominent, and Call the Midwife offers audiences a way of reflecting on these themes through a historical lens. At the same time, the programme also exposes audiences to the limitations and pressures facing the early NHS. Staff shortages, inadequate housing, poverty, overcrowding, and unequal access to healthcare are recurring themes throughout the series. While these storylines are historically situated, they often feel strikingly contemporary, encouraging viewers to reflect on ongoing debates surrounding healthcare provision and social inequality within Britain today. Through this, Call the Midwife demonstrates how historical drama can shape not only understandings of the past, but also conversations about the present. One of the programme’s strengths is the way it humanises healthcare workers rather than presenting medicine as purely institutional. Midwives, nurses, and doctors are portrayed not simply as medical professionals, but as members of a wider community who build long-term relationships with the people they support. The series repeatedly emphasises emotional labour, compassion, exhaustion, and the personal sacrifices involved in care work, highlighting healthcare as something deeply human rather than solely clinical or procedural. However, part of the programme’s educational power may lie precisely in the fact that audiences do not approach it as education. Comfort TV Educational Aspects Through these narratives, Call the Midwife encourages audiences to reflect not only on historical attitudes towards disability and illness, but also on the wider social structures that shape inclusion and exclusion. By embedding these issues within emotionally familiar and trusted storytelling, the programme demonstrates how comfort television can create meaningful engagement with subjects that are often overlooked or misunderstood within wider media culture. This sense of comfort may also make the programme particularly effective as a form of informal learning. Because audiences are emotionally invested in the characters and narratives, difficult social issues become more accessible and engaging. Storylines surrounding domestic abuse, poverty, racism, disability, miscarriage, abortion, addiction, and mental health are introduced not through detached historical explanation, but through personal stories and long-term character development. As a result, viewers are encouraged to emotionally connect with experiences and perspectives that may otherwise feel distant from their own lives. In this sense, Call the Midwife can be understood as operating through a form of hidden curriculum. While the series is not designed as an educational programme in the traditional sense, it still communicates values, attitudes, and social understandings through its storytelling. Audiences are not only learning about historical events or medical developments, but are also exposed to ideas surrounding empathy, community responsibility, healthcare inequality, and attitudes towards marginalised groups. These lessons emerge gradually through repeated viewing and emotional engagement rather than direct instruction. The programme’s status as comfort television may therefore strengthen, rather than weaken, its educational value. The familiarity of the series creates a space in which audiences are more willing to engage with complex or emotionally difficult subjects. Viewers may initially return to the programme for reassurance or nostalgia, yet in doing so they are also repeatedly engaging with wider discussions surrounding healthcare, gender, class, trauma, and social change. This demonstrates how television drama can simultaneously entertain and educate, challenging assumptions that comfort viewing is culturally or intellectually passive. As someone living with chronic pain, Call the Midwife has become one of the programmes I return to repeatedly, particularly during periods where my body is “not cooperating.” Like many forms of comfort television, its familiarity provides reassurance during difficult moments. Yet what makes the series particularly interesting is that this comfort exists alongside emotionally complex and socially significant storytelling. Even during rewatches, the programme continues to prompt reflection on healthcare, inequality, trauma, disability, and social attitudes, demonstrating how comfort viewing can still encourage active engagement with difficult subjects. The series is widely associated with comfort television: programmes that viewers return to for familiarity, emotional reassurance, and a sense of routine. Its Sunday evening scheduling, recurring characters, warm visual style, and strong emphasis on community and compassion all contribute to its identity as a comforting and emotionally safe form of viewing. Part of the emotional impact of Call the Midwife also lies in its representation of disability, chronic illness, and accessibility. Across its fifteen series, the programme has repeatedly explored how disabled individuals were often marginalised within post-war British society, particularly in relation to healthcare, education, and social attitudes. Rather than presenting disability solely through tragedy or pity, the series frequently centres disabled characters within wider community narratives, encouraging audiences to engage with their experiences as part of everyday life. Limb differences associated with thalidomide exposure during pregnancy. Historical medical photograph. Source: Wikimedia Commons https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:NCP14053.jpg One of the programme’s most significant long-form disability storylines involves Susan Mullucks, who is born with limb differences linked to her mother Rhoda’s use of thalidomide during pregnancy. Through the experiences of Susan and her family, the series explores the devastating impact of the thalidomide scandal on children and parents during the early 1960s. The storyline also expands beyond Susan’s individual experience, depicting Rhoda encountering other families and children affected by thalidomide and showing the emergence of a wider community of families navigating disability, medical care and social attitudes. Because audiences follow the storyline across multiple episodes and series, the narrative transforms what could have been a distant historical event into a deeply personal and emotional exploration of disability, healthcare, and parental fear. Through this, viewers are not simply informed about thalidomide as a historical scandal but encouraged to understand its long-term emotional and social consequences for families living through it. Reggie Jackson (Daniel Laurie) in Call the Midwife. Image: PBS / BBC / Neal Street Productions. https://www.pbs.org/call-the-midwife/cast-characters/reggie-jackson The programme has also continued to explore disability representation in later series. The character of Reggie Jackson, who has Down syndrome and is portrayed by actor Daniel Laurie, who also has Down syndrome, provides an important example of authentic representation within mainstream television. Across the series, Reggie is developed as a rounded character with his own interests, relationships and routines, including his love of gardening. He is not treated as a background symbol of inspiration or pity, nor defined solely by his disability, but as a fully developed member of the community with friendships, emotions, humour, and independence. More recently, the character of Andrew Trottwood, portrayed by Teddy Berriman, explored the educational barriers faced by disabled children during the period after contracting measles and becoming a wheelchair user. Storylines surrounding the removal of his transport provision highlighted how inaccessible systems could prevent disabled children from participating in education, an issue that continues to resonate within contemporary discussions surrounding accessibility and educational support. Call the Midwife demonstrates how television drama can function as both entertainment and informal education. Through its long-form storytelling, historical setting, and emotionally engaging narratives, the programme introduces audiences to histories of healthcare, women’s rights, disability, poverty, and social inequality that are often overlooked within mainstream education. Rather than presenting these issues through detached historical facts, the series humanises them through personal experiences and recurring characters, encouraging viewers to develop emotional understanding alongside historical knowledge. At the same time, the programme’s identity as comfort television strengthens its educational impact. The familiarity, warmth, and emotional reassurance associated with Call the Midwife create a space in which audiences may be more willing to engage with complex or difficult social issues. In this sense, the series operates through a form of hidden curriculum, subtly shaping attitudes surrounding empathy, healthcare, community, disability, and social responsibility through repeated viewing and emotional connection. As a viewer with chronic pain, Call the Midwife is particularly significant because it demonstrates that comfort viewing is not necessarily passive or escapist. Even as a programme returned to for reassurance and familiarity, it continues to encourage reflection on healthcare inequalities, accessibility, trauma, and social change. Ultimately, Call the Midwife highlights the wider cultural power of television drama: not only to entertain audiences, but also to shape understanding, encourage empathy, and preserve important social histories through emotionally resonant storytelling.

In 1869, Sophia Jex Blake arrived in historic Edinburgh on a heartfelt mission. She wanted to study medicine at Edinburgh University and achieve a degree, allowing her to work as a medical doctor. At this time, there was not one British University willing to train women as doctors. There were eight big British universities: four in Scotland and four in England and although women were beginning to be allowed onto arts courses, Medical Faculties were closed to them. In the United States and European university cities such as Paris, Zurich and Bologna, women were being welcomed into medical faculties in good numbers. Britain was lagging behind shamefully. Sophia, a bold and determined character, from a wealthy London family, was always an excellent networker and general charmer. She seemed to understand public relations and strategy in a thoroughly modern way. In Edinburgh, she worked the salons of Edinburgh Society and drew courage from a number of progressive men willing to back her in her campaign. (There were many women backing her too, but they were not in positions of power to enable her to progress). While some high-profile medical men were liberal and progressive, of the enlightened sort, plenty were misogynistic, patriarchal and Calvinistic in their ways, much preferring women in the home, or as it was known, the domestic sphere. The early days of the female suffrage saw rallies and campaigns brewing, but women involved were accused of being ‘unnatural’ ‘prostitutes’ and ‘men in skirts’. At first Edinburgh said yes to Sophia. Hurrah! But this quickly turned to a no: Boo! A vote in another governing body of the university had gone against Sophia, much to her disappointment. It was thought that the efforts for accommodating one woman would be unfeasible. For example, for reasons of decency, it was apparently essential to teach women separately and alter the course for their delicate ways. To this, Sophia said: ‘I will find more women to make this worthwhile!” And she did. By advertising in the Scotsman newspaper for more women to join her on the course at Edinburgh. The editor of the Scotsman, Alexander Russel became a great champion of the Edinburgh Seven. So much so that he married one of them – Helen Evans! Six women replied to Sophia’s advert, and Edinburgh agreed to have them on special terms from the autumn of 1869. Sir James Young Simpson, Charles Darwin, Robert Louis Stevenson and Queen Victoria’s daughters supported the women. But there were seriously aggrieved opposers too – Sir Robert Christison and Sir Joseph Lister. Christison was a respected toxicologist, pathologist and physician to the Queen. He had given compelling evidence at the trial of graverobbers, Burke and Hare. His views on women in medicine were extreme. He didn’t mind female nurses and midwives. But he thought women’s brains were too small to be medics. (It’s since been discovered that Einstein had a small brain, and it is the pathways of the brain that matter more than overall size). Christison also thought women were too fragile to cope with the gory and upsetting side of medicine. Which is ironic because women had been delivering babies and tending to battlefield wounds since time began. Two of the most potentially gruesome aspects to medical care – obstetrics and war injuries – were already proven areas of expertise for women. So, what was the real problem? Why were the misogynists so vehemently opposed? To understand this, and how the campaign against the women grew violent, unyielding and embittered, we have to follow the stages of dissent. It was never going to be easy, trialing women on the esteemed medical course for the first time, but the extent of the battle to oust them could never have been anticipated. The first few months on the course went quite smoothly for Sophia and her female colleagues. The women worked diligently, and some sympathetic professors taught them independently of the main course, while they also helped each other to learn at their shared Georgian townhouse in Buccleuch Place, Edinburgh. The first big exams loomed in April 1870, and something controversial happened at this point. Edith Pechey, one of the Edinburgh Seven, achieved the top mark in the Chemistry exam. (Isobel came top in Anatomy and the women were generally in the top 4 out of around 200 students). The person who gained the top mark in Chemistry was routinely awarded the Hope Scholarship, laid down by Professor Hope forty years before. But Professor Crum Brown, advised by Professor Robert Christison decided that the award should go to the second top student – a man. So, Edith was denied the prize. At this moment, Sophia and the others began to understand what a momentous task lay ahead. Would they ever be allowed to graduate and become doctors? After the Hope Scandal, things went downhill. The women were jeered and laughed at, blocked out of lectures and exams, and death threats were sent to their home. At times, the Edinburgh Seven required a bodyguard to get around the city and some kindly Irish students protected them. This dissent reached a peak in November 1870, when the women arrived at the daunting Surgeon’s Hall building in the Old Town of Edinburgh, to take an Anatomy exam. In the dusk of a late Autumn afternoon, they saw that a large gathering had formed, with the purpose of blocking them from entering the exam hall. The subtext was that if they did not gather certificates from exams successfully taken, then they could be denied the right to graduate. This was now the aim of the opposers – to keep them women as hobbyists instead of rival professionals. The riot was an ugly scene – drunken singing, pelting of the women, name calling and violence. All carried out by middle class, educated students, possibly backed by senior professors and aided by ‘street rowdies’. One journalist of the time noted that: ‘In an age when chivalry towards women is the social norm, these men should be ashamed of themselves.’ Were the women daunted? Did they flee the violent scene? No. They linked arms and stood firm. After an hour of noisy demonstrating, a janitor eventually let them into the exam hall, where they calmly took the paper and passed. You might think the University opposers would feel shame at this point and accept them women were here to stay? The opposite happened. The men who wanted to the women to leave doubled their efforts and dug in. They were looking for a way to oust the women for good and in January of 1871, Professor Christison thought he’d found a way. It was at a meeting of the board of the Infirmary that Sophia spoke up during a debate. She said that the way the Seven had been treated was appalling, especially in the riot. She went on the say that the riot had been started by Professor Christison’s assistant, Edward Cunningham Craig, and that he was drunk and used foul language. This was taken as defamation of character and Sophia was served a writ and taken to court in June 1871. Public opinion after the riot and with regard to the court case was very much with Sophia and the other women. However, the all-male jury in the court of session decided Sophia had defamed the character of Cunningham Craig and she was the loser. That said, he was only awarded a penny, which was a way of saying what they really thought about his behaviour. From then on, Sophia Jex Blake was an international star – a celebrity activist - and she very cleverly turned her thoughts to a London Campaign to change the law through an Act of Parliament at Westminster. Edinburgh became more and more awkward and were determined that women would not get the degree level on the course, so the women began to leave Edinburgh to qualify in Bern and Dublin. Sophia formed a training hospital for women in London along with Elizabeth Garrett Anderson. In 1876, the law changed so that women doctors should be given equal rights as men, and in 1878, Sophia Jex Blake returned to Edinburgh as Scotland’s first woman doctor. She worked in Edinburgh until her retirement. The other members of the Edinburgh Seven also spent their life devoted to girls’ education, medical training for women and medical care for women. Sophia Jex Blake, we salute you. You can buy Janey's book The Edinburgh Seven: the first women to study medicine here

Easily one of the most overlooked artists of the 20th century, Sister Rosetta Tharpe paved the way for rock-n-roll artists long before rock-n-roll was a concept. Not only was she one of the first women to play the electric guitar, but she was one of the earliest rock stars who paved the way for the whole genre. She was using voice growl distortions and doing dramatic guitar performances when Elvis was just a toddler, yet for a long time she was overlooked in the conversations of rock-n-roll pioneers. Sister Rosetta Tharpe has openly been referenced as inspiration by so many icons, from Little Richard who openly raved about her performance changing his life to Beyoncé name dropping her in her song ‘Break my Soul - The Queen’s Mix’. So why is one of the founders of the genre, who inspired globally renowned artists not equally famous in the public’s memory? Let’s look at sister Rosetta Tharpe, the queer black trailblazer who pioneered the rock-n-roll revolution decades before any men came into the scene. (To best understand and connect with her sound, here’s a Spotify playlist: beginners guide to Sister Rosetta Tharpe!) "Photo of Sister Rosetta Tharpe taken by Terry Cryer for the Smithsonian's National Museum of African American History and Culture Born March 20th, 1915, Rosetta Tharpe (born Rosetta Nubin) was born in Cotton Plant, Arkansas. While both her parents were cotton pickers, her mother was both a preacher and a singer in the Church of God in Christ. At the time, black women preachers were practically unheard of, so we can thank this level of exposure to music and gospel to heavily influencing Tharpe so deeply. From a young age, she was extremely gifted at music, singing and playing guitar by age four. By six years old, she was already playing under the stage name Little Rosetta Nubin. She joined her mother in a traveling evangelical group across the American South, becoming well known among the southern gospel community where they travelled. After traveling, they settled in Chicago. This is where she developed her style of music, fusing blues, jazz and gospel music to create her distinct sound. Not only was she one of the few black woman guitarists, but her use of distortion on the guitar was ground-breaking and surprised audiences wherever she played. At 19, she married Thomas Tharpe, a preacher from the church she grew up in. While the marriage didn’t last, she adopted her husband’s surname as her stage name and ultimately created her name as we know it now, ‘Sister Rosetta Tharpe’. Her strong and distinctive voice and guitar playing paired with her electric guitar made for extremely unconventional gospel music, which both attracted certain crowds and isolated others. By 1938, she performed at the historic Cotton Club Revue, which had seen the likes of Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong. For most of the white audience members, her performance was the first time seeing a black woman perform, let alone perform her genre bending guitar routines. She released her first single ’Rock Me’ at 23, which fused gospel with rock’n’roll rhythms and tempos. Her first single made her a commercial success and she became one of the first commercially successful gospel singers. Not only was being a female guitarist in a male dominated industry, being a black woman in a predominately white industry was extremely difficult, and she had to fight nonstop to reach the level of fame that she achieved. Tharpe performed a couple of times with the Jordanaires in the early 1940s, where she had to deal with institutional segregation and racism while traveling from city to city. On tour, hotels would refuse her entrance, so Tharpe would have to sleep on buses. Restaurants didn’t allow her to eat inside so she would go to the back end of the restaurant to eat outside while performing to mixed audiences. Sister Rosetta Tharpe and Marie Knight singing 'Up Above My Head' together Institutionalized racism wasn’t the only hardship she endured. Her approach to gospel music was very unconventional at the time, combining religious and secular music styles to make her own sound. Her music was a fusion of gospel and rock n roll, and this translated into her guitar style, but also her lyrics. Her first single “Rock Me” openly praised her love and sexuality, which left gospel audiences to feel scandalized by her music. In the chorus, she sings, “You hold me in the bosom/Till the storms of life is over/Rock me in the cradle of our love/Only feed me till I want no more”. The chorus can be both interpreted as a reference to a lover or to her religion. Even though it seems tame by our standards, the double entendre in the lyrics was quite scandalous for the gospel community, and new for the secular community, making the marriage between the two in her lyrics radical. Her most famous song “Strange Things Happening Everyday”, had references to historic moments of the 1940s, from the end of WW2 to Jackie Robinson becoming the first black MLB player. In this song, she seamlessly translated the experience of living in the 1940s into her music, which made her especially popular among black WW2 soldiers. This song became the first gospel song to reach the mainstream charts. Sister Rosetta Tharpe continued being true to herself through her music and personal expression, never changing her sounds or her persona to accommodate mainstream music at the time, or the expectations of her as a black gospel singer, which can and should be seen as revolutionary. Sister Rosetta Tharpe was openly bisexual within the music industry in the 1940s, when bisexuality was seen as a cardinal sin, especially within the gospel community. While her music always had a gospel core, many of her songs were an open praise to her sexuality. In 1946, Sister Rosetta Tharpe saw Marie Knight perform at a concert in New York, and two weeks later began performing together on tour. The duo would perform together until 1950 as the two became creative and romantic partners. Several biographical accounts described how they didn't hide their sexuality from people except their audience, and that their relationship was an open secret within the music industry. Unfortunately, their rumoured relationship was a big topic discussed among gospel circles with no confirmation due to attitudes towards the LGBTQ+ community at the time, but now we can look back and praise her for her unabashed queerness in and outside her music. Not many people highlight her bisexual identity as a part of her legacy, but it's central to her personal musical evolution and the larger evolution of the rock genre. With the decline of gospel music and the rise of predominantly white male rock genre, her popularity began to wane. Sister Rosetta Tharpe still performed to loyal niche audiences, specifically with British audiences, where she had a mini resurgence in her career after touring with black Blues icons around England until she tragically passed away at 53 years old in 1973 from a stroke and was buried in Philadelphia. Sister Rosetta Tharpe’s legacy is such an important one in the context of music history, but only in recent years has she been receiving her deserved accolades for effectively being the first gospel and rock star. Her guitar techniques alone inspired Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley’s guitar styles. Johnny Cash even cited her as one of his earliest heroes at his rock-n-roll induction speech. She inspired a whole host of legendary musical icons outside of rock-n-roll, with Aretha Franklin and Tina Turner citing her as a key vocal and performance influence. You’d expect someone as monumental to have a biopic, or books written about them. Even though she was one of the biggest gospel stars and had gospel and rock legends several rock legends praise her, her grave was unmarked for over thirty years. The most recognition she had received until the early 2000s was a 32 cent commemorative US postal service stamp (which is not the flex they thought it was) in 1998. In 2007, she was inducted into the Blues Hall of Fame, which started a gentle revival of her name and legacy. Over the years, news publications would from time to time do a short special on her, but it wasn’t until 2018 that she would be recognized for her early influence in rock-n-roll. Sister Rosetta Tharpe was finally inducted in the rock-n-roll Hall of Fame in May 2018, which was celebrated with several tribute performances performed by talented black artists, like Felicia Collins and Questlove. Sister Rosetta Tharpe even had a short appearance in the recent Elvis biopic, which may not be entirely the accolades she deserves, but is a start to the flowers and accolades that this queer black icon deserves. Further Reading: Diaz-Hurtado, Jessica. ‘Forebears: Sister Rosetta Tharpe, The Godmother of Rock “N” Roll’. NPR, 24 August 2017, sec. Music. https://www.npr.org/2017/08/24/544226085/forebears-sister-rosetta-tharpe-the-god mother-of-rock-n-roll. Accessed 07/07/2023 Hermes, Will. ‘Why Sister Rosetta Tharpe Belongs in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’. Rolling Stone (blog), 13 December 2017. https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-features/why-sister-rosetta-tharpe-belong s-in-the-rock-and-roll-hall-of-fame-123738/. Accessed 07/07/2023 https://www.facebook.com/erin.elyse9. ‘Queer, Black & Blue: Sister Rosetta Tharpe Is Muva of Them All’. AFROPUNK, 7 March 2019. https://afropunk.com/2019/03/rosetta-tharpe/. Accessed 07/07/2023 ✂️ Johnny Cash Cites Sister Rosetta Tharpe as His Earliest Hero. Accessed 23 July 2023. https://www.youtube.com/clip/Ugkxz6lLQRNCRioARVhyDTuplb3k9-0C6QZP. Sister Rosetta Tharpe. Rock Me. Lonesome Road, 1938. Wald, Gayle. Shout, Sister, Shout! The Untold Story of Rock-and-Roll Trailblazer Sister Rosetta Tharpe. Boston: Beacon Press, 2007. Accessed 07/07/2023