PART ONE: The Renaissance Festival

Shakopee, Minnesota, close to Canterbury Park, is where this massive shin dig takes place every year between the end of August and beginning of October. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the Renaissance Festival circuit, it’s pretty much a medieval circus that tours around the country like a modern wagon train. Not all cast members and participants are part of the traveling band, and most entertainers are volunteers that depend greatly on tips from their audience. It’s an extravagant hobby, a sort of sub-culture of people who really, really wish that they had been born in a different era. I’m all for the theatrics, I am, and I’m a little fruity myself, truth be told. But as much as the renaissance era is particularly intriguing to artsy freaks like myself, it is definitely an era that I am grateful to have not been born in. I speak solely on behalf of all women abroad who, when you educate yourself on the time period, are sure to agree that unless you were royalty, the renaissance era was not as fairy tale-ish as most would like to believe. This proved true when at the ticket booth a sign proclaiming methods of payment listed “lady” as one of the means to pay. Now, now, Reader. I get it. It’s supposed to be “in character”, and it’s supposed to be funny. I get it. I’m not that uptight to take it too seriously. But it was this sign and me telling myself, “Don’t be so uptight” that surfaces later in the story.

I was prepared for the costumes, and quite frankly looking forward to them. Unfortunately, I made the idiotic mistake of not remembering to charge my camera’s battery before I went. It’s moments like these when I have a particular hatred for my absent mindedness. I took two pictures, and the damn thing died on me. This, was a grave disappointment. This was the sort of event one would want to take pictures of and report back to an audience. The photo opportunities were endless as we (me and my friend and her husband: the same couple I went with to Apple River Hideaway) walked into a sea of costume clad weirdoes from all walks of life.

Now, some Renaissance Fairs are strictly set in particular time periods, such as the reign of Queen Elizabeth the First or Henry the Eighth (hello, Herman’s Hermits). Some fairs broaden the timeline between the Vikings and eighteenth century pirates. The Minnesota Renaissance Festival celebrates all time periods and everything in between. Fantasy is also included in this era, witches, wizards, elves, wood fairies and bizarro mythical creatures galore. My favorite, however, was the seemingly confused fat, fifty year old man wearing a fully decked out, genuine Captain America costume that shown bold and brightly of new colors (red, white and blue) freshly pulled out of the packaging box from whence they came. His plastic shield and blue socks made everything come together perfectly. However, I’m pretty sure Captain America was post-renaissance...like, post post. Like, way post. It was at this moment that I realized that the Renaissance Festival is not only for people who wished they had been born peasants, wenches and village idiots, but also for people who desperately need more than one, scary holiday a year to have an excuse to dress up. This was Halloween come early. This was, “I’m a full grown person that is not ashamed to dress up in a costume and eat giant turkey legs in public.” Kudos to you all, you costume clad weirdoes. I wish I was as nutty as you. As for Captain America, I’m afraid you have an identity crisis to deal with, but hey. Don’t we all.

Coming into the grounds, not only are you surrounded by fake, synthetic medieval costumes worn by a lot of overweight people, but there’s plenty of things to peruse. The Minnesota festival boasts of over one hundred artisan booths. Some of them are exquisitely impressive. If you’re one of those lucky people that has a fat wallet, bring your dough and spend it. There are some very talented artists that set up camp here to make a buck, and to, you know, put a roof over their head.

One of the first booths we wandered into was full of chain-mail merchandise. The necklaces and bracelets were interesting, and there were a few styles that I would definitely wear in public. There were some interesting head dresses, too, that were funky and fantasy worthy, but not practical for a person who doesn’t want to walk in public streets without being accused of wearing a costume. There were also more erotic pieces, like chain-mail bikini type tops and chain-mail panties. A group of particularly good looking guys were picking up the panties and making jokes about it, using somewhat dirty yet somewhat funny puns about it. One guy said, “Now that would be hard to penetrate…”. I sort of giggled at his stupid joke and tried to make eye-contact. Pathetic. My giggling behavior was a direct result of the guy who said it being unbelievably beautiful. Good grief, Girl. Hormones weaken us all. The joke is a little lame, let’s be frank.

The smell of fair food was soon filling our nostrils, telling us it was definitely time to splurge on a giant turkey leg. My friend’s husband wanted a beer, and I thought to myself, “That sounds perfect…”. I was picturing myself walking away with a giant wooden pint sized mug of frothy brew, and the image inspired me to join him on this quest.

Now. I need to preface this upcoming story with the description of my attire, and the attire of the women costumes around me. The women in costume were wearing leather-laced bodices that squished nearly all of their breasts out of the tops of them. Wench. They were going for the wench look. To each their own, I say. Me, on the other hand, was wearing a long-sleeved thermal with a T-shirt over it that says, “Reading is Sexy”. I was fully clothed. I was not going for wench. But wench, I was treated as.

I barely make it up to the counter of the beer booth when the little, pale blonde man (if you want to call him a man…) behind it says in a ridiculous, over-eager, “I think I’m so clever and funny!” voice, “Hey! I read lots of books! I read lots and lots of books! I looooove reading!” (All in reference to my “Reading is Sexy” shirt, remember…) The tongue lolling around out of his mouth gave him the distinct personification of a drooling wolf. I gave him a courtesy chuckle and nodded my head, followed by a tight lipped smile that was intended to say, “Don’t go any further with this, Idiot…” But further he went. And so did his tall, gangly side-kick, Bigger Idiot.

As I’m trying to ignore Idiot’s panting, and trying to decide on what beer I want, he says, “Put your shoulders back, hunny! I can’t read your shirt!” Bigger Idiot laughs and adds something twice as juvenile to this eighth-grade joke. I give him another tight lipped look and shake my head and look down at my wallet. I say nothing. In my head, I’m thinking, “They’re just being stupid and in character in their stupid, fluffy, feathery Henry the Eighth I Am, I Am hats.” I ignore them. But my emotions are flooding my brain. I can’t think because they continue to jaunt and pant and jeer. I’m flipping through the dollar bills in my wallet. They say something else, something just as stupid as the comment before, in attempts to get me to show off my chest. My shoulders are pointedly forward, and I’m not making eye contact on purpose. Idiot then says, “Aww. Come on. You had to know where you were comin’ to today…” He could tell that I was pissed. Good boy, Idiot. Good boy. You just proved that you know that I’m not okay with your jokes. But when he said this? I thought to myself, “He’s right…Come on… don’t be so uptight…” I actually said that to myself. Looking back, I’ve never been more ashamed.

Idiot finally showed that he was done with the joking and said, “What can I get for ya…” I made my order, thinking, “They’re just stupid. They’re just teasing. Let it go.” But then Bigger Idiot said something to a guy behind me waiting in line about how he and Idiot are staring at my chest. Or, checking out my chest. Or, what was it? I can’t remember the exact words, I can only remember how I felt, and how it was at that moment hearing the customer behind me say something just as wolfish about it, laughing like a man with the need to compensate for something, that I was feeling indefinitely violated. It was easier to brush them off when I could say, “They’re just being crass in spirit of the stupid festival” but when they brought in a third party of a stranger, a customer behind me, I felt ganged up on. I was surrounded. My brain was completely fuzzed with the shock of it. They saw that I wasn’t laughing. They saw that I was agitated. And it continued anyway. This, girls of all ages, is called sexual harassment. If you ever feel like you’re standing naked in a group of men laughing at your sexual being-ness, then it is not okay. You have a right to stand up for yourself. You always have a right to stand up for yourself. Don’t ever do what I do every time this happens to me. Don’t tell yourself to blow it off or ignore them. Say something. Do something. I know... easier said than done. Trust me, I know. Me, the woman of words, the woman who stands boldly for women’s rights, is always caught speechless in these situations. And I hate it.

This is how it should’ve gone down…or how I would’ve liked it to have gone down…
Here are a few scenarios I could’ve walked away from, happy. I should’ve said this, I should’ve said that…
HERE:

Idiot: “Hey! I read lots of books! I read lots and lots of books! I looooove reading!”
Me: “Read what? Self help books like, ‘Help! I’m a Grown Up That Dresses Like a Village Idiot in Tights and Sells Beer for a Living’?”

OR

Idiot: “Put your shoulders back, hunny! I can’t read your shirt!”
Me: “You mean like this?” And haul back a fist, and then throw it into his face knocking off his stupid, fluffy, gold and white feathery Henry the Eighth I Am, I Am hat.

OR

Bigger Idiot: “Come on! We just wanna read your shirt!” HAR HAR HAR, they laugh like fools.
Me: “Can I borrow your tights, first? Oh wait. Only little girls where yellow tights…”

Oooo, that was a good one…

OR

Back to:
Idiot: “Put your shoulders back, hunny! I can’t read your shirt!”
Me: “WHOA! Wow! Oh my god... Did we just? No… It can’t be... Did we seriously just time travel back to the eighth grade? Where’re you hiding the DeLorean!” Queue pretending to look behind a billboard…

OR…

What I really should’ve done? All joking aside? I should’ve left the beer on the counter, put my four dollars back into my wallet, and said with the grace and strength of a woman who respects her body, “I’ll take my business elsewhere, now.” And walked away. That, is what I should’ve done. That would’ve had an empowering effect. I would’ve left them groveling for my business. I would’ve made them feel stupid in the smartest way I could’ve possibly managed. But did I think to do that at that moment? No. So simple… It’s almost impossible to process a solution quick enough when people are making you feel vulnerable and cornered. You have no idea how badly I wish I had taken back that power, how badly I wish I had been quick thinking and non self-doubting of my own feelings. I walked over to my friend who was ready to purchase a giant turkey leg, told her what happened, we made a few jokes about the immaturity of the “hold your shoulders back” joke, and found our way to the turkey counter. I began drinking my beer (in a plastic cup) with a sort of angry relish, trying to imagine it as a giant wooden, pint sized mug instead, standing amidst hobbits and wizards, Strider smoking a pipe over there by the fat lady in a leather laced up bodice, just to amuse and distract myself. It worked enough. The turkey leg worked better, though.

Have you ever had a giant, deep-fried medieval turkey leg? You should. If you haven’t, you really should put that on your list of things to do before you die. And here is where I tell you why…