I only recently learned about Alice Augusta Ball, and her story has left me inspired, angry, and reflective. It’s the story of a brilliant young woman—a chemist—whose groundbreaking work in the treatment of leprosy changed lives, yet whose name was nearly erased from history. It’s also the story of resilience in the face of systemic injustice, a reminder of how often the contributions of Black people and women have been hidden, stolen, or ignored.
Alice Ball was the first Black woman to earn a master’s degree from the University of Hawaiʻi, and at just 23, she developed the first effective treatment for Hansen’s disease—leprosy. Using oil from the seeds of the chaulmoogra tree, she created an injectible transformative treatment using chaulmoogra oil, offering relief to those suffering from leprosy. Though it was not a cure, her innovation allowed patients to improve significantly and, in some cases, return from exile to rejoin society.
Chaulmoogra oil had long been a folk remedy for leprosy in India and China, but its use came with significant drawbacks—it was foul-tasting, difficult to absorb, and often caused skin damage when injected. Patients were reluctant to endure the treatment’s severe side effects, leaving the disease with no viable remedy. Ball, however, rose to the challenge posed by Dr. Harry Hollmann, the acting assistant surgeon at Hawaii’s Leprosy Investigation Station.
Using the limited technology of her time, Ball identified the active components of chaulmoogra oil and converted them into water-soluble ethyl esters. This form could be safely injected without the debilitating side effects of the raw oil. The Ball Method was a breakthrough that turned chaulmoogra oil from a crude folk remedy into a pioneering medical treatment.
Her discovery was life-changing for those suffering from the disease. Before this treatment, “lepers” in Hawaiʻi were sent to Kalaupapa, a remote settlement on the cliffs of Molokaʻi, accessible only by boat, mule, or foot. Patients were often hunted down by bounty hunters and ripped from their families, forced to live out the rest of their lives in isolation. Her work brought hope for everyone impacted. And yet, her story doesn’t end with accolades but with invisibility. Ball died tragically young at 24, and for decades, her work was credited to a male colleague.
Arthur Dean, then president of the College of Hawaii (now the University of Hawaii), appropriated her research, rebranding it the “Dean Method” and claiming it as his own. For decades, Ball’s name was omitted from the history of the treatment that liberated so many from the confines of leprosy colonies. It wasn’t until 1922, six years after her death, that Dr. Hollmann publicly acknowledged Ball’s contributions in a scientific paper, giving credit where it was due. However, even his efforts could not immediately undo the erasure of her legacy.
It took more than half a century for Ball’s contributions to be properly recognized. In the 1970s, researchers Kathryn Takara and Stanley Ali uncovered the truth about her pivotal role in developing the treatment. Today, her legacy is celebrated with the dedication of Alice Ball Day in Hawaii, as well as scholarships, plaques, and memorials in her honor. Her method may have been eclipsed by the advent of antibiotics in the 1940s, but her impact on the treatment of leprosy and the lives she touched endures.
Reading about Ball’s life, I can’t help but see a broader pattern—a throughline, if you will—of how history has treated Black people and women, especially Black women. Too often, our contributions are ignored, stolen, or celebrated only posthumously, if at all. Ball’s legacy is one of many examples. Look at Katherine Johnson, Dorothy Vaughan, and Mary Jackson—“hidden figures” of NASA whose brilliance helped put men on the moon but whose stories went untold for decades. Or Henrietta Lacks, whose cells revolutionized medicine but whose family was kept in the dark.
This isn’t just about giving credit where it’s due; it’s about understanding how much richer our history becomes when everyone’s story is told. Ball’s life reminds us of the dual forces of resilience and erasure that have shaped Black history. She achieved greatness in an era when the deck was stacked against her—against her as a woman, against her as a Black scientist, and against her as someone who dared to step into spaces not designed for her.
Today, on the grounds on the University of Hawaiʻi, a chaulmoogra tree stands tall in her honor, a living reminder of her impact. It’s beautiful, but it’s also bittersweet. A tree feels like such a small gesture for someone who gave so much to the world, but at least now we know her name. And knowing her name is powerful. It’s a call to keep uncovering the hidden figures of history and to ensure that future generations grow up hearing their stories—not as forgotten footnotes but as the giants they are.
Alice Ball’s story inspires me to look deeper into the contributions of Black people in science, art, politics, and beyond. Who else have we missed? And how much longer will we let their legacies remain hidden? It’s time to dig them up, plant them in the sunlight, and let them bloom.
Read more about Alice Ball here.
