Playing Shop – A Way In

Friends, my quest for well-documented and well-rounded roles for women in military living history goes on, but this past weekend I feel as though I had a victory.

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Photo Credit: C. Fellows

Opening Weekend saw my museum’s staff running a living history event the theme of which was the construction of a redoubt*. This was an activity which we could document to the year we are representing (1777), and nearly to the day of our opening weekend (early May) as well.

To round out the event, we also set up a market to sell foodstuffs and other goods to the soldiers. This market seems to have been something of an institution at this site. Its presence and location are noted in orderly books the previous fall, and again in February. The “traders and hucksters” consisted of local inhabitants, and members of the military community such as licensed sutlers. The probability of women running or helping to run said stalls was high, and so the market stall became my project.

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Ms. F and I, assisted by Mr. Z., haul our wares in the cart. Photo Credit: S. Pekar

My co-conspirator in the execution of this program was Ms. F. (long-admired from afar by myself for her bad-assery in going it step for step with the men on many a re-created soldiers’ march). She arrived on Friday, and much to my satisfaction, we proved a capable and relatively self-sufficient team in the design, assembly, maintenance, and running of a productive and profitable market.Though we required extra hands to raise and stake out our shelter – a detail of men was kindly sent our way by Lieutenant S. to fulfill this function – the design and execution of the stall set up was in our own hands. This produced a deeply satisfying sense of ownership with the whole project.

 

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Ms. F and Miss S. steady the cart and give direction as Mr. F (no relation) and Herr H. attach and additional guy line to the structure.

 

It had been decided that the soldiers at work digging the redoubt would be “paid” in continental currency (2 1/3 dollars per man), and that money would be valid at the market. The site would foot the bill for some provisions, and soldiers would be able to “buy” said provisions to supplement their rations of meat and flour.

 

Though documentation exists for the costs of various goods sold in the military camp that year, exchange rates and values proved exceptionally hard to pin down, as they were given in several currencies, and fluctuated with supply and demand. With the realization that the relative value of continental dollars, Spanish silver, and half a dozen other currencies was beyond the scope of my research time, I did what any good business woman would: I decided to let the market drive my prices: rates would rise and fall based on the market’s supply and the soldiers’ demands.

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Mr. S helps to muddle the chocolate pot

What did we sell? Early May in the north country means little new produce, though we did rustle up some green onions and asparagus. Otherwise, vegetables were last year’s cellar crops: cabbage and carrots (these proved more popular than the spring greens anyway). Other goods were chosen because they allowed us to discuss some of the more interesting points our research had uncovered: the exceptionally high price of cheese was mentioned more than once by soldiers writing home from this post, and so we had to have some for sale. Likewise, drinking-chocolate was a frequently discussed food stuff, and so we set up a brazier in order to cook pots of wine-chocolate (brewed with a portion of Madeira, and a genius invention if their ever was one), to be sold by the glass.

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Ms. F. (wo)mans the market stall.

Operating the market felt a bit like being children playing shop: the soldiers gave us their fake money, and we made-believe it had real value.  But, just as in the best games of make-believe, we achieved a level of realism: we truly made a miniature economy. Just as the market in 1777 was supplying a self-contained and captive market at this isolated military encampment on the shores of Lake Champlain, we too had a captive market of busy soldiers. By selling foodstuffs which the reenactors could plan to buy ahead of time, there was a necessary level of interaction between us (the sellers; women) and the soldiers (our customers; men). This same level of interaction occurred when soldiers received orders to assist us in setting up the stall, and even when we bribed Private Bevan into splitting firewood for us in exchange for a cup of chocolate. Our artificial marketplace made for genuine interaction between two sets of gendered** activities. In my experience in living history, this is very very rare. Almost never do the “women’s” interpretive projects feel like anything besides a side show. Never before have I felt as though I, a woman portraying a women in a military setting, have had so much value, or been so integral to the running of a camp.

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Photo Credit: B. Hill

I believe that the level of interaction between reenactors and the market was largely due to the way in which research and information was shared with event participants. At some of our other recent events, research about “womens'” or “camp follower” interpretation has been shared selectively, with those who would be participating in the activities. For this event, I wanted to make sure that knowledge of the market stall would be more broadly distributed, so that not only the sellers, but also the buyers would understand the context of the display, making interactions more meaningful. To this end, the market stall research was shared with all of the participants. Likewise, we drummed up interest by posting updates on our plan for the market directly to the Facebook event page, in the same way information about the redoubt itself was being shared.

This was an important step, because instead of isolating those specific persons who would be participating in the execution of the program, we normalized the presence of the market (and the women running it) by putting this research on an equal footing with the research and information going out about the military activities at the site. This normalization of non-military activities, and women’s roles made this event more satisfying for me, and I think more cohesive and well rounded for all.

 

 

*Redoubt: a fortification with walls; sort of a mini-fort. In this case six-foot high wall of earth and sticks, on the perimeter of a 40’x40′ square.

** Running a market stall is far from a gendered activity in the 18th century, but for the purposes of this living history event, it became the “women’s project”, as the men were largely occupied in redoubt construction. I should add that another piece of marvelous “women’s” interpretation was happening simultaneously in the garden, where Miss Margie and Miss V. were industriously doing laundry. They too encountered positive interaction when sweaty, dirty soldiers dropped off shirts (and in one case, overalls) for a wash, once again paying in their Continental Dollars.

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Well Behaved Women Seldom Make History

…But they should.

“Well Behaved Women Seldom Make History”

-Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, 1976

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Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

Young feminist historian that I am, I have always enjoyed this quote. It is only improved by the fact that its originator is Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, the fantastic Harvard historian and material culturalist, and author of A Midwife’s Tale, The Age of Homespun, as well as other books.

For years, I saw this line as an endorsement of bad behavior – it suggested that breaking the rules was laudable; the only way to do great deeds, and leave one’s mark on the world. It was permission to misbehave.

Last week, however, I realized that interpretation was deeply one-sided. A colleague and I were preparing a presentation we were giving a few days later at the New York State Council on Social Studies. The topic was “Army Women* in the American Revolution,” and our plan was to share research I had done into the roles these soldier’s wives often played within armies of the era (working as laundresses, nurses, etc), and the ways their lives were recorded. After that my coworker would share curriculum material she had created to help bring some of this information into the classroom. Our impetus was an abiding frustration that “Women’s Revolutionary War History” often revolves around a small handful of women who participated in the war effort in traditionally male roles, such as Deborah Sampson, who hid her gender in order to enlist, and Mary Ludwig Hays, who manned a cannon at the battle of Monmouth.

Both these women effectively made history by misbehaving.

The women we were planning on presenting on however, were the hundreds of women who followed their husbands on campaign, and sweated, laundered, nursed, and marched behind the baggage carts with children on their backs. They had played approved roles within the armies they followed. For that, they have been largely left out of the historical record. The minimal mentions of them we do have often still revolve around rule-breaking: in orderly books of the era, army women are told off, ordered around, and threatened with being thrown out of camp for selling alcohol, for demanding higher wages, for walking anywhere but at the back of the line when the army was on the move, etc…

While driving home from work after spending the day assembling a slideshow for our presentation, Ulrich’s quote popped into my head, and I saw that truly I had missed the point: it is not for me to change my actions – to misbehave – in order to find my role in the historical record (though surely this does have merit). Rather, my efforts should be directed at the historical record itself, so that well behaved women might at last be represented by our history books.

 

To be or not to be historically hairy

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Mom: “I noticed you stopped shaving your legs, and I was wondering-“

Me: “-If that was because of laziness, or history, or feminism?”

Mom: “Yeah.”

Me: “All three, I guess”

I had this conversation with my mother last fall, a time of year when a New Englander whose primary social scene is folk dancing hippies can easily avoid ridicule for having hairy legs. As both warm weather and tourist season approach, however, I’m thinking more about the state of my calves.

The museum will be opening in May, at which time the staff – myself included – will transition from research to recreation. For 40 hours a week we’ll transform ourselves into a stinky and hard-working eighteenth-century army. That’ll make me a raggedy camp follower, or soldier’s wife, a role in which I may well lack a decent pair of shoes. No shoes means no stockings, no stockings means bare legs. You’ll have figured out my dilemma by now: it is a struggle between modern conventions of beauty and historical accuracy. Usually spring is a time for renewed attention to one’s legs, prior to sundress season. However, 250 years ago a woman too poor to own shoes surely does not expend her few resources on depilation. A true recreation of her appearance would involve leg hair. And not stubble, but the real grown-out stuff. Luckily, my legs haven’t seen a razor in half a year. If I want that “authentic look”, I’ve got it.

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Barefoot history…

Honestly, this is the longest I’ve gone without shaving my legs since I hit puberty, a time when hair removal was seen by girls my age as a sort of rite of passage. Thinking about this recently, I remembered an occasion from several years ago: when I was in 6th grade, a classmate of mine proudly showed off the razor she’d gotten for her birthday. It was sleek and ergonomic – it was more curvaceous than we were. For her, shaving her legs was a step on the road to adulthood. Paradoxically, hair once shaved appeared to grow back darker and thicker. While body hair indicated adulthood, so did the privilege to remove it. This act however only augmented its return. I wonder now how I could have missed the irony that, at the age of twelve, my classmate felt that she became more of a grown-up by removing a biological indication of encroaching adulthood.

As a tween I too succumbed to the cultural ideal of smooth legs, something which I have kept up – more or less – since then, mostly  because shaving my legs seemed simpler than explaining to people why I didn’t. At some point in the last decade however, I realized the irony of my middle-school classmate’s excitement over her first razor. Since then I’ve been pondering the significance of shaving my legs. Until recently the side of the scale which weighed cultural norms around women’s legs has outweighed the side containing my own disinterest in hair removal. In the next six weeks I have to decide if historical accuracy will tip the scales in the other direction.

Truly, history, feminism, and laziness will all play a part in my choice. However I fear that no matter what I choose, I’ll be called out on it. Either a tourist will noticed (and comment on!) my smooth ankles below dirty petticoats at work, or my hairy legs will be viewed askance by strangers on weekend swimming outings. If I’m really lucky, I’m wrong about this, and no one will comment either way.

 

On Guard 3/19/1775: A Photo Essay

Exactly a month before the Battle of Lexington and Concord, 23 soldiers from the British army’s 26th Regiment of Foot – many of them old or “worn out” – and their families are stationed at a dilapidated fort 130 miles south of Montreal. Less than two months from now the fort and its valuable artillery pieces will be captured by colonials preparing to drive British forces out of Boston. For now however, the fort’s occupants are unaware of political unrest. Its crumbling walls contain stone barracks, some of which have been turned into apartment-like spaces, housing soldiers along with their wives and children. Much like at Fort Crown Point before it burned to the ground two years ago, the local inhabitants occasionally stop by to sell produce, or peddle their skills. 

Captain Delaplace, commander of the guard, no doubt employs one of his soldiers, or one of their wives to prepare meals for him and his family, to clean, and to launder. Other soldier’s wives perform the latter duties for the enlisted men, and cooking is done by one member of each mess of six or so individuals, women included. The captain owns livestock, and they too are cared for by soldiers or soldiers wives. In the spring, the old French gardens will be planted. In the mean time, the guard eats pease and pork.  

The day-to-day existence at the fort includes less military rigor than one would expect of a command that was larger, or younger, or closer to civilization. Because of their maturity, many of these men have families – wives and children, some possibly grown to adulthood and living nearby. Though a sentry is posted at the fort’s entrance, an attack is far from expected and it is easy for civilians to gain admittance. The married men share bunks with their families not, as regulations stipulate, with their fellow soldiers. The fort’s well water is not healthful, and some of the soldiers are sick. Though the fort is held by the British army, this is the least-warlike it has ever been since its construction began in 1755. 

This was the scenario we re-created this past weekend. The setting opened up an opportunity for us to focus on many elements of day-to-day life that tend to get lost in the shuffle at battle reenactment. Delighted by this, we ran with the idea. Every space we had was occupied with a different task, as we cleaned, cooked, mended, made new, and repaired. Men and women worked side-by-side accomplishing the jobs that needed to be done. Their tasks were different, but of equal importance. Our interpretation did not favor one over the other, but simply followed the routine of a busy day.

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Spaces were cluttered with the accumulated objects of a long posting: tea pots, candle sticks, ceramics; simple luxuries too inconvenient to be carried by a marching army, but which one might expect have “at home”.

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In the parade ground, soldier’s wives washed soiled linens. This task, a necessity for any army, is one we’re getting good at. Miss V. braved the chilly march weather  and spent all day at the hard work of scrubbing.

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Without any grass to lay linens out on, shirts and shifts were hung up inside the soldier’s barracks, were the mess of the noon-day meal is clearly evident, something which would likely be unacceptable in a proper Garrison.

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On this bright March day, cleaning seemed like an obvious activity. Kitty spent the morning sweeping and mopping the upstairs officer’s barracks. Three experimental mops were made for this purpose, based on the limited documentation available for such things. All were put to work, and were successful to varying degrees.

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Beds too needed to be aired out and re-made.

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“Domestic” spaces were completed with busy peg boards holding the clothing of all the fort’s inhabitants. Gowns and stays dressed the pegs, along with waistcoats and cocked hats.

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Outside in the parade ground again, soldiers did maintenance on the fort’s equipment, including re-painting a horse cart.

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In the evening the company gathered together, enjoying the warmth and light of the barracks building’s small fireplace. One of the three grenadiers in the guard brought out a fiddle.

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Even the sergeant relaxed, trading his hat and neck stock for a scotch bonnet (the 26th is, after all, a Scottish regiment) and printed cotton roller.

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At the end of the day, we were tired from a job well done. Not only were the floors clean and the the cart newly-painted, we’d found a way to delve even deeper into the history of which we are the custodians, telling a fuller, richer, grittier story than ever.

Crafting Women’s Military History

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2012 – My first season at the Fort.

Its International Woman’s Day today, and I thought this would be an appropriate moment to talk about what it means to be a woman working at a military history museum (or at least my museum). When I first started working at the Fort (several summers ago, as a seasonal interpreter) I was the only girl. This turned out (perhaps to no one’s surprise) to be a little challenging. I was literally out numbered and outgunned; at this 18th century military site, I was the only person on staff who didn’t regularly pick up a musket. While the boys shared research on military drill and musket cleaning,  I researched on my own, trying to find the information I needed to justify my role at a woman in an early modern military setting.

 

This June, just over three years after I took my first job at the Fort, I returned as a member of the full-time staff. Before accepting the position, I vowed to myself that this time I would make the time for research so that the female staff (four of us now – huzzah to that!) would have a place in the site’s interpretive narrative. Even with this firm resolve, the challenge remained. At our first major summer event – a reenactment of a major French and Indian war battle – I could not find a single scrap of evidence for women present with the armies on either side. I spent the event talking to tourists and trying to circumlocute around the fact that we couldn’t document any women being present during the events we were recreating. It was disenfranchising, and not much fun. I came out of that weekend feeling that there had to be a better way to talk about women’s roles.

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Preparing for a well-researched event: get your research together, build your impressions, and have a photo shoot. Everybody loves a photo shoot.

We had two months before our next major event, and we (myself, my female co-workers, our curator, and even some of my male co-workers) set about doing the sort of research we would need to develop strong and accurate women’s living history portrayals. With this event we had the advantage of knowing that at least one of the participating armies – part of General John Burgoyne’s 1777 supply chain between Canada and Saratoga – was supported by soldiers’ wives and tailed by loyalist refugees. We compiled information out of memoirs and orderly books, scenting out traces of the women who lived and worked as part of the British army in America. I compiled that information into a set of clothing standards, detailing who the women present for the event would have been, and what they would have worn (something which we had always posted for various groups of soldiers, but which had never previously been assembled for female reenactors). And we also used our research to develop several different roles for female interpreters. The impressions included camp laundresses, officers’ servants, and “petty  sutleresses” who roved the encampments selling fresh produce, soap, and other goods valued in a military setting. It all came together beautifully; it was a smashing success.

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I came away from the weekend glowing with satisfaction over a job well done. I’ll happily take the credit for instigating this push towards a more full representation of women’s history, but the success of the venture derived from teamwork: My boss and co-workers were wonderfully supportive, and helped to create room for female-gender-specific interpretation. Our curator send dozens of pertinent documents and articles my way, and my fellow female interprets brainstormed endlessly to find creative and engaging ways to interpret the history we were uncovering. Six months and a handful of events later, interpreting women’s roles at the fort now feels like a no-brainer, rather than a struggle.

I am proud to work at a site where my colleagues are willing to take on the challenge of researching a minimally-documented and marginalized group, such as women in early modern military contexts. I am proud of the women’s history we have  found ways t to highlight. I am proud to be a women, and to share the history of my nation, my culture, and my gender.

A scene something diverting, though of a tragic nature

This past Saturday the 13th, we held a living history event at my Fort. It was something of a last minute affair, but it came together splendidly, with help from  – among others – Lieutenant Ebenezer Elmer, of the 3rd New Jersey Regiment. Lt. Elmer, writing in 1777, left us with a description of the events of February 13th that year (“This day the whole of the forces composing the garrisons of Ticonderoga and Mt. Independence were paraded on the ice, our proper alarm posts pointed out, &c…”) as well as many other days that winter. This past weekend, we used his narrative to inform the stories we told visitors, as well as the activities we undertook. Combining action and conversation, we creating compelling interpretation about life at Ticonderoga in the winter of 1777.

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Soldiers practice artillery drill in the cold

Some of what or friend Ebenezer wrote was easy to incorporate into our storytelling: on the 20th of February the “Regiment paraded, but the inclemency of the weather prevented our going on the ice for exercises, and after some short time were dismissed.” As Saturday was definitively the coldest day yet this year, this entry felt almost as if Lt. Elmer was feeding us material.

Just two days later, though, his entry wasn’t so easy to relate to. In fact, it is only his otherwise steady accounting (and his tone of ironic incredulity) that suggests the story aught to be believed:

Saturday, February 22d, 1777… A scene something diverting, though of a tragic nature, was exhibited some time ago on this ground; the men died so fast for some time that the living grew quite wearied in digging graves for the dead in this rocky, frozen ground: when it happened one day that two of our men being dead, graves were dug for them, but whilst they were busied in preparing the corpses and bringing them to the place, the Pennsylvanians took two of their dead men and carried them to the graves our men had dug, having none prepared for their own, and were just finishing their last kind offices to them, in covering them over in our mother earth, when our men arrived with theirs, and finding the Pennsylvanians making use of their repository a wrangle between the two parties ensued; and finally, our men proving the strongest dug up the others and buried their dead in their own vaults, so the others were obliged to cover their dead in gutters with logs and stones, thinking it too hard to labor so much for those whom they might never expect any return as to cover them with frozen earth.

Elmer’s morbid sense of humor here has to be appreciated. This is a scene of men literally fighting over holes in the ground – holes with dead bodies in them. It doesn’t get much better, or rather much worse, than that. Though I am a believer in the value of historical recreation, I can hardly hope (and do not wish) to ever recreate such a scene. To me the beauty of living history lies in recreating the normal and the every-day more than the extraordinary. However, I gained an unreasonable pleasure from recounting this gory tale to tourists (don’t worry, they loved it). And in reality, retelling this farcical episode was a way to share in the every-day experience of 1777. In the telling, I shared in the macabre enjoyment Elmer experienced writing the story down to begin with.

So next week or next winter, when the weather again drops below zero, and this story of Pennsylvanians too cold and miserable to dig a grave for their companions pops into your mind, look this post back up and share the story with your friends. Your retelling is its own small reenactment of Ebenezer Elmer’s experience. Use it to look back and understand both the hardships and the senses of humor of those who came before us.

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116 Hours

It is February, and my museum is closed for the winter. We’ve been closed since early November, and we won’t open back up properly till May, but lest folks forget us, we like to open up for a day or two during the cold, dark part of the year on some pretext or other. Because of this, we’ve scheduled a Winter Family Fun Day this Saturday, replete with historical snowshoeing, tobogganing, and ice skating. My co-workers of the smithing persuasion have even made a pair or two of reproduction ice skates. We’d never done an event like this before, and we were pretty excited. The advertising was done. It was on people’s schedules.

And then our beautiful, seasonal snow and ice disappeared in an unseasonable warm patch last week.  Winter Family Fun Day was no more.

What with all that advertising though, we were not at all keen to cancel the day. And so this Monday, when the forecast indicated that the weather really would not be cooperating, we sat down and drew up a new plan. To that end, this Saturday you can visit our fort in the late winter of 1777. You will find an American garrison preparing for its coming campaign, and you will find a museum staff of half a dozen, plus a handful of hearty volunteers, preparing for their season to come.

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Group selfie from closing day, back in November. This is what a great team looks like.

That’s right folks, we are going to throw a living history event, and we’re going to do it in four days flat. Of course we picked winter, 1777, because we’re heading into an interpretive season in which we are depicting 1777 anyway, so this will be a dry run of that story. In a lot of ways, the work the staff has been doing since November (carpentry, gunsmithing, tailoring, researching military tactics, trying not to get stuck in the snow) resembles the work which occupied the fort’s garrison that winter, and so opening the fort to the public should be as easy as changing from jeans to petticoat or breeches and hiding the electric lights.

The whole team (all six of us) are voracious researchers, and so despite the fact that we weren’t planning on covering this material with the public till May, we’re pretty much set to talk at length to everyone who shows up. Our interpretive spaces need the floors swept (and in a few instances, modern tool or storage containers moved), but that’s about it.

I’m definitely bragging here, but we’re a kick-ass team of talented historians and material culture nerds. If there was ever a group to take a living history event from zero to sixty in 116 hours, it’s us.

Come visit Saturday from 10-4 and watch us pull this off with style.

Massacre the History?

The problem with bringing history to life is that – as an individual – doing it well sometimes means not doing it.

A month from today I’ll be in Boston to participate in the reenactment of the Boston Massacre. The Massacre, which occurred in the evening of March 5th, 1770, was an incident between British soldiers stationed in Boston, and a crowd of townspeople and sailors. Initiated by an insult to the soldier standing sentry, and his retaliatory blow, mobs of apprentice lads and sailors rapidly gathered. After some serious heckling, and with no direct order to do so, the soldiers fired into the crowd. A dozen men and boys were shot, several of them mortally.

boston_massacre_high-resFrom a living history standpoint, this is a phenomenal historical event to recreate. It is historically significant, dramatic, and extremely focused. The soldiers and the mob combined add up to less than 60 people, meaning that gathering the correct number of people to act it out is very doable. From the records of the soldiers’ trial, we know the names and occupations of many of the participants. The information from the trial is also supported by an engraving done of the event by Paul Revere. The events take place quickly, in a city square which still exists, in the dark of evening, which helps to mellow the surrounding modernity. On top of this it has cachet, and will therefore draw a crowd.

This sort of well-executed and well-researched reenactment is entirely up my alley. As a living historian, I want to be there. I want to contribute. I want my talented friends to come, and I want there to be meaningful roles for us to play. And this is where I find myself disappointed. Because of course, the “exciting” [i.e. shoot’m up] part of the Boston massacre took place in city streets, in the dark, between soldiers, and sailors, and apprentice boys. Though women were in the streets before the threat of imminent violence became obvious, the mob itself was not a place for women [or hardly a place for them – two were in fact in the front of the crowd]. And so [with those exceptions, making up about 5% of the total crowd] it is not a place for women.

I want to help recreate the events faithfully, but to do that, I should really leave once violence breaks out, just as the women of Boston no doubt did when they noticed armed mobs in their city streets. I should skip the denouement, go home, and reflect on the significance of men brawling over taxes. I should skip the part of the event that actually makes it into the history books.

I come up against this problem a lot, and it bothers me. A lot. There is a part of me that thinks, “to hell with it. Would it hurt to re-write things a little to depict a slightly fairer past?” and there is another part, of equal size, that thinks the idea of falsifying history for some theoretical, ideological “good” is morally reprehensible. I do not know the solution, I just know that sitting at home, wondering “how the boys are getting along at the event” feels like crap, and so does standing around at the event explaining how “as a woman, I probably would not have actually been here”.

I crave a solution where I have a sense of ownership over the parts of my history that my culture values. However, since those parts tend to be dominated by male figures, I fear I may need to get used to disappointment…

 

 

“Isn’t That Uncomfortable?”

When I tell people that I dress like it’s 1777 for work, it usually only takes them a minute or two to find their way to the question, “does that mean you wear a corset?”

The answer is yes. I mean, no, I wear stays. But really yes: I wear a structured undergarment designed to shape me into a fashionable silhouette. But I do that regardless, after all, what else is a bra?

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A lot like @AudreyPorne, I’ve got complicated feelings about structural undergarments and society. So when, after ten seconds, they come back with “isn’t that uncomfortable?” I try to answer carefully. Truly, my stays are very comfortable. More than that, they are comforting. The stays I wear are modeled on a pair from the third quarter of the eighteenth century, but they were artfully fitted for me, and the finished product feels like a hug. When I say that, I mean that my stays exert a slight, familiar pressure on my torso, like having someone’s arms wrapped around you at the end of a long day. It is a comforting sensation. However, have you ever had someone come up behind you and give you a hug when you’re in the middle of something? It has a way of impeding your freedom of movement. Hugs are great, but they’re not always convenient. So too with stays.

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In my stays I am coddled, comforted, and to some extent constrained. Some of my actions are impeded. Our Girl History from 1775 is okay with this, because her actions are limited not just physically, but socially. She will never become a soldier, and so the fact that marching all day, drilling with muskets, dropping to one knee to fire, and charging with fixed bayonets would be physically uncomfortable for her is no problem at all. Her society and her wardrobe are united in discouraging this behavior.

Our Girl History from 2016 (which is to say me, at work), on the other hand, is frustrated by this. In her world, gender ought not influence actions, and she’s happy to make that point by doing the same work as men. Just for the principle of the thing, she plans to carry just as much firewood as her colleagues in breeches do, but when she goes up the stairs with her arms full, she runs up against the brick wall of historical reality and trips on her own damn petticoats.

So when I am asked if I am comfortable in my stays, I take the time to answer as fully and truthfully as I can. It is no physical torture to wear stays. And there are few better ways to understand the lives of people hundreds of years ago than by wearing their clothes. But for me, wearing stays is emotionally uncomfortable, because it reminds me that I am telling a story about a society that permits half their population to exist with limited agency, and that one of the tools that society uses to limit agency is fashion. It reminds me that my life is limited in a similar way, if to a lesser extent. It makes me want to burn my bras. But I won’t, because that idea makes me uncomfortable…

 

 

Men Like War. Women Like Dancing.

I got into a conversation with a friend yesterday in which we found ourselves bemoaning the disparity in the degree of historical accuracy to which male and female reenactors are held at military living history events. [Note: I have this conversation with someone at least every two weeks. Because it’s still a problem, and I have nothing better to do.]

We were discussing how frustrating it is when the fellas spend hours sitting around talking over the finer details of what several-hundred-dollar blanket they must all own, and then turn around and let Jane McDaisyFace come to an event in poorly-fitted clothes because she’s dating Herbert, and “isn’t it nice that she wanted to come, and we should make her feel welcome”.

This is of course true. Without a doubt we should make Jane feel welcome, but let’s make her feel welcome by paying her the respect of assuming she actually cares. I find myself frustrated when I see male recruits being lent coats to wear, and instructed in military drill for hours, while women sit around eating cheddar and supermarket bread because the only activity anyone could image for them was cooking, but no one bothered to explain the process of starting a good fire.

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Standing on the tourist side of the cordon at a battle reenactment many years ago, with nothing better to do than take photos.

Like I said, I rant about this approximately fortnightly.

Yesterday however I had a new thought: there are settings in which I have come across very similar situations, but with the genders reversed. At some civilian events, and several historical dances I find that the men’s material culture lags significantly behind that of the women. At events where the expectation is that everyone will dress up nice and look pretty, the gents often get a gold star just for showing up, usually in their shirtsleeves, since the only coat they own is a regimental.

Thinking about this I see a distressingly low bar set for women at military events, and one equally low for men in traditionally feminine settings. This is ridiculous: literally worthy of the ridicule I hope I am currently showering upon it. Guys, gals, we’re after a common goal here, lets help each other out. No more work or expense is involved in making sure appropriate clothing is available to male living historians interested in participating in domestic or ‘social’ events than is involved in helping female living historians have the appropriate material culture to participate fully in military reenactments.

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The investment in research time is well worth the returns. Pictured here: great, well documented women’s military portrayals.

This is an example of a society that assumes men like war, and women like dancing, and that therefore the other gender is a lost cause in each scenario. We are better than this! Let’s do ourselves the favor of assuming that women who show up to a military event actually care, and want to be there, and that men attend balls for reasons more extensive than placating their spouses. And let’s all hold everyone, regardless of gender, to the same standards of authenticity in any setting.