Lysistrata on the Lake (and elsewhere)

Let me be clear: Fort Ti was amazing. It was everything I’d hoped for. Far away, made of stone, populated with people I like, with an event cleared of all the crap that makes me crazy.

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The issues that enrage me are both societal and hobby-specific.

While boys were boys and women were women this past weekend, I found myself tired out by biologically deterministic behaviour. For the love of Christ, you can listen to a woman, not talk over her or interrupt her even if:

a) she is not your boss or mother
and/or
b) you do not want or expect to sleep with her.

Gentlemen: we are human beings as smart as- if not smarter– than you. If we are smarter, society has taught us to manage that for you, so you won’t feel <ahem> small. I know that what men fear most is humiliation (the bravest ones will admit it) and what women fear most is violence (it’s true).

But a woman’s interest in history, or even military history, should be as joyous to you as your male friend’s interest.

So why the shouty?
Why the taking over of the conversation?
Why the relegation of women to a separate bench?
Why am I pointing this out?

Well… because even some of the best progressive reenactors have trouble getting past uber-traditional gender roles.

I get it, really, I do. I am accustomed to being a woman in a (hyper manly) man’s world.

I studied sculpture in college in the Dark Ages and I know from male-dominated fields. I ran a foundry in grad school, and a bunch of mostly-male work study students. I’m an owner’s rep for construction projects, and work with a lot of different contractors and construction workers.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like it or tolerate it, as any of my history, art, or construction associates will tell you. My younger counterparts have even less tolerance than I do, so I advise you to listen up, think about gender roles, gun shows, assault/predation and interpretation or consider Lysistrata the future you have earned.

It’s really simple.

You like living history?
We like living history.

Francis Wheatley, 1747-1801, British, Soldier with Country Women Selling Ribbons, near a Military Camp, 1788, Oil on canvas, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection
Francis Wheatley, 1747-1801, British, Soldier with Country Women Selling Ribbons, near a Military Camp, 1788, Oil on canvas, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

Let’s play together better to more accurately represent the past without replicating crappy gender relations. If you start listening and stop interrupting, we’ll stop laughing at you.

Fort Moonrise Kingdom

Fort Ti was described to me as “Disney World for Re-enactors,” but my vote is for Living History’s Moonrise Kingdom.

Idyllic, ain't it?
Idyllic, ain’t it?

I almost didn’t go when my Saturday night roomshare cancelled on Monday and then I developed an ear ache on Wednesday, but on Thursday, Low Spark , Mlle Modiste and I arranged a carpool, so on Friday morning, a Carload of Rhode Islanders (a thing to behold and to be wary of) set off for points north.

Our initial plan was to to sleep in the soldiers’ huts, but they proved extremely crowded and smokey, so when Mlle Modiste and I were offered a bunk in the barracks, we took it… unfortunately, only one of the blankets I’d brought for us did not make it back up to the fort or into the car heading home.

Mlle Modiste at the huts
Mlle Modiste at the huts

Before supper, we stuffed bed ticks, started a fire, startled a bat (I was not the source of the shriek that brought officers, women, and soldiers running), and stuffed straw in the hole we thought it flew into (thank goodness I’m tall, I guess).

Smoke didn't just get in your eyes...
Smoke didn’t just get in your eyes…

The tavern moved up to the would-be armory at the barracks, though I’m certain multiple political deals and presidential candidacies could have been plotted and bought down at the smoke-filled huts. Instead, it was reenactor politics as usual: parallel experiences for men and women (not ladies, thank you, and if I hear you use “distaff” about me, expect to find one has become part of your anatomy). Just because I’m used to it doesn’t mean I don’t notice it, understand it, and still dislike it.

We’d expected to attend to “sick” soldiers in the hospital, but Saturday was such a lovely day that we spent most of it outdoors, starting and tending a fire to boil laundry and make dinner for the women’s mess. This pleased me mightily, even as I may have distracted troops despite my advanced age as I crouched at the fire being a human bellows. You try getting low in stays and see how you do: immodesty, thy name is fashion.

While I kept the fire going, much credit should go to Rory, a bad-ass woman in men’s clothing who split wood a-plenty for us.  Rory made me want badly to make myself a suit and wield an axe. I find myself wanting to do the same work as the men (I have always been this way), and I was intrigued by the debate that was reported to me: should a woman do men’s work in women’s clothes, or in men’s clothes? In the end, they chose men’s clothes, and Rory wore them well. Reader: I was jealous. I was also covetous of an axe, having realized all the cutting and hewing tools are no longer domiciled with me.

Aunt Kitty's coming' for you. boys.
Aunt Kitty’s comin’ for you, boys.

Saturday really revolved around three things for me: food, free agency, and feminism:

  • I ate some interesting things, including a smoked chocolate cake (left overnight in a hut, I can describe its flavor best as sucking diesel exhaust through a chocolate cupcake).
  • Now that I’m a free agent attending events sans unit, I have much more fun.
  • I am determined and dedicated to effecting well-researched roles for women in living history events of all kinds.

Sometimes a Great Notion

Finished! Cozy, too.
Finished! Cozy, too.

(Think Lead Belly, not Ken Kesey.)

No, I did not take a notion to jump in the river, but I did take a notion to sew slightly more than the quilted waistcoat.

I couldn't resist.
I couldn’t resist.

I got this unshakable great notion, you see, about some wool from the remnant table in Framingham. It was a lovely olive color, and paired up with some plain weave I already had, it reminded me strongly of World War II-era Army uniforms from the ETO, which I had been packing recently in Rhode Island’s alpine north. And yes, if I find a pinker tan for a petticoat, I will procure it.

Since I already have an olive wool petticoat that will also work for this notion, I started on the gown last week, cutting it out on Wednesday night so the table would be clear for Thanksgiving dinner.

The wool was a little slippery to pleat, and the twill slightly dazzling with its sheen. Let’s pretend it’s shalloon, shall we?

A week into the project (after a brief annoying detour attempting to correct my mitt pattern), I have only half the hem and the bottom of the robings to finish. Not too shabby, thanks to a holiday weekend and hours of The Pacific, Band of Brothers, and The Purple Plain. Homage to the color, I suppose.

I'm never not smirking, so thanks for not smacking me.
I’m never not smirking, so thanks for not smacking me.

It fits– which always seems like a miracle, even with a tested pattern– and better yet, it fits over that plush waistcoat.

The rustle of the silk and the swish of the wool are unlike anything I’ve ever worn. I think I shall feel quite fancy– let us hope I shall also feel quite warm.

Contextualize This*

Right on, Mr. Hiwell: The music of the Army being in general very bad is a post I could never write, because I lack the detailed knowledge, or the desire to acquire music-specific knowledge (just as Mr Hiwell could give two rats’ about stay-making details, or the subtleties of stew). But here’s the gist of his post, on which I wish to elaborate, and which has been touched on elsewhere: You’re Doing It Wrong.

Let’s take this:

I’m tired of going to events, knowing all the camp duties fifers and drummers played from sunrise to sunset and never playing a single one of them besides Drummer’s Call and Assembly.

One of my favorite hobby horses: lack of discipline and camps that look like that Infamous Catalog just puked on a field. Why on earth can we not see tents are set up properly, in rows, with appropriate numbers of kitchens instead of wobbly lines, marquee tents that disgorge giggling teenage girls in bodices, and enough iron to make the scrap man sing with joy? 

But even then, even if people are too lazy or stubborn to leave stuff at home, why can’t a camp run the way it would’ve? There’s ample documentation on which to draw. Quite aside from the voluminous papers of General Washington and General Greene, and the massive archives in Britain, every regiment had orderly books, of which many survive. They’re hilarious reading and full of things to do.

Most reenactments are boring. Well, so was army life. The 10th Massachusetts was constantly in trouble up on the Hudson late in war, and the Marshall book at the Society of the Cincinnati contains the proof.

Here’s something fun to do: inspection. Huts, cabins, tents: they all needed to be kept neat., and apparently weren’t.

Some part of the Camp and about the long Barracks in particular is relaxing into nastiness. Regimental QuarterMasters have been ordered to have them Clean and keep them so. An Officer of each Company has been ordered to visit the Barracks every day and to Confine & Report those who throw bones of meat Pot Liquor or filth of any kind near the Barracks. Yet all this has been done and no report has been made. it is hatefull to General Howe to Reitterate orders as it ought to be shamefull those who make it necessary.

Don’t like to clean, prefer cooking? Marching?

Regimnl Orders June 6th 1782

the Regiment will turn out to Morrow Morning at the Beating of the Revelee and to March By Six oClock they are to pack there clothing and kook there provisions this Evening when they have arivd on the Ground for Encamping the officer commanding on the Spot will order a partry if Forty men from the Regiment a Capt and two Sub’s to Command them to Return to the Encampment in order to asist in Bringin on the Baggage the Soldiers are to Carry there kittles in there hands and are to Leave there arms and pakes &c at the New Encampment any Soldier who is found Plundering another pack is to be tyd up and punished with out Trial..

Tyd up and punished without Trial. You know there’s a guy who’s up for that in every unit.

And lest you think that there’s nothing for women in these books, let me assure you, there is:

Regimental Orders, July 23rd 1782

At a Regimental Court Martial whereof Capt Francis is president, Briget Conner a Woman Belonging to the 10th Massachusetts Regiment was tried for purchesing a publick Shurt from a Soldier in Sd. Regiment found Guilty and Sentanced to Return the Shurt to the person from whom she purshest it and loos what She gav for the Shurt.

The Colo approves the opinion of the Court and orders it to take place Immediately

Regimental orders July 25th 1782

Bridget Conner a woman Belonging to the 10th Massachusetts Regiment is Directed to Leave Camp Between this and to Morrow Morning at Roal Call for her Insolence to the officers of sd Regiment on pane of Being Treated with Severity

This is easy, people. Authenticity, accuracy, and Stuff to Do increases exponentially if you use documentation to recreate a “normal” day in either army.  There’s Cuthbertson, for example.

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There’s Lochee, if you want to get in tents. And orderly book after orderly book. And if I, a mere woman, can find these things, there is no excuse for you men not to read, absorb, and use these sources well.

Inspections. Returns. Reports. There’s so much to do in a day, and running a camp or a barracks by the regulations would give everyone so much more to interpret, and begin to present real history instead of merely heritage. This is where the real splits are going to come, and sooner than you think. It won’t be about uniform details, or stitch and thread counts, but about actually engaging historical interpretation. If interpreters aren’t engaged, the public won’t be either.

 

*If you know me, you know what the next word is.