December 9th, 2008 by Ascelyn
I first heard about the SCA as a junior or senior in high school. That would be roughly around 2003, five years ago. Because of that, this will be long and drawn-out, but mostly because I’ve been to enough events to make it long and not enough to fully compress them like those who have been around for decades.
But hey, you expect rambling from me, right?
Back to high school. I was nothing if not college-obsessed–I had already begun researching universities nationwide while in middle school, and by high school I was practicing filling out college and financial aid applications, writing essays, and generally conforming my life to what I thought admissions counselors would want to see. By the time my classmates were beginning to wonder what to do after graduation, I was running out of things to look up on the topic. I decided to peruse a list of extracurrculur organizations at my school of choice, and the SCA was one of those listed.
By the time I actually got into the school and arrived on campus, I was so busy with classes and NROTC that I barely ate or slept. There was Shadowrun, Venture Crew (for which I was the secretary), Adventure Club, astronomy club, and countless free lectures. That was all on top of working two jobs, one of which was over three hours away, and volunteering. By the time I was made to drop out of ROTC due to health reasons, I was trying to figure out how to afford school without a full scholarship, then later how to transfer somewhere less expensive. I was engaged and planning a wedding.
Somehow, I never managed to make it to an SCA meeting. Then again, they didn’t advertise their presence at the big “these are our clubs!” sessions early in the fall, and they never painted the fence or wrote on the sidewalks like everyone else did. Maybe I would have tracked them down if they’d made it a little bit easier. Even so, I spent countless hours researching everything I could find about the organization online. I looked up the closest local group to my home town, about an hour and a half away, and was excited to see that someone was trying to get a smaller group started right in Cumberland. I emailed the contact person twice and never heard back. Finally, I gave up.
A semester later, I was back “home” and trying to convince myself that it was a good thing. I missed my fellow geeks and the feeling of fitting in. Frostburg was a far cry from Carnegie Mellon. After the wedding and the inter-family drama that followed, I started looking up the SCA once again. I needed an escape. This time, I emailed the chatelaine for the entire barony, and I heard back just a day later. She forwarded my missive on to the baron, and between them I got the information and help I needed. Eventually, days before Thanksgiving 2005, I drove down to a newcomer’s night at Borders in Hagerstown. The wonderful people who met me there, including the chatelaine and her husband, welcomed me with open arms. They even shared my passion for Shadowrun and sci-fi/fantasy books. I don’t think I shut up during the entire ride home.
My first event was the Moose Olympics, a small event in Hagerstown on a freezing spring day in 2006. I borrowed a tunic dress from the Gold Key box: bright red, with elbow-length hanging sleeves, and rather too large for me. Without an undertunic or belt, it looked remarkably like a nightgown and didn’t do much for warmth. Someone found me a cloak to borrow, which helped immensely. The only thing I had of my own was the pair of soft black leather jazz shoes, of which I was terribly proud. I wasn’t so proud of the fact that I’d forgotten to consider what to wear under the shoes, so they looked ridiculous over my bulky white socks.
Random fact: I first semi-met Eadric (and saw Sam) at the moose event. I thought it was odd that the glaze didn’t cover the entire mug on most of his pieces. I also thought he was far more expensive than I’d ever be able to afford to spend on a hobby. On the other hand, he was polite and answered all my questions, and it was very interesting to see feast gear that was actually period. On the other other hand, he seemed very smart, which made him somewhat frightening, and I tried to avoid actually looking toward his booth the rest of the day. While the guy with cheap knives and “crunchy and taste good with ketchup” bumper stickers seemed out of place at a supposedly medieval event, he was far less intimidating.
Since the event was held by the local group, most of the people I’d met thus far were busy. I was placed in the care of two other people approximately my age. They informed me shortly thereafter that they had met while in a mental facility and had just recently been released, but they let me borrow their extra feast gear for lunch. We were joined by another fellow, apparently also new. That afternoon, he physically pulled me across the field toward the heavy combat area, groped me, and informed me that he’d make me his “wench.” For once, I was at a loss for words, though I came up with countless things I should have said later on. Though I’d already paid for feast, I made excuses to leave shortly thereafter.
Between then and the next event I attended–Highland River Melees in June 2006–I went to most of the monthly newcomer’s and sewing nights. Though I’d done some preliminary “research” on the garb I wanted to make (more on that and why I use quotation marks later), I was told it would be too warm for a summer event and was subsequently steared toward a fluffy chemise, elasticized drawstring skirt, and unboned bodice outfit. I paired it with my existing shoes, modern white tights, an undyed donated ring belt, a locket of my grandmother’s, and a truly hideous dagger that my father gave me for my birthday. People tend to mistake me for being much younger than I am, and I hoped that would help me escape any trouble about not covering my head. It wasn’t laziness–I honestly didn’t have a clue what to do about it.
In the meantime, I had talked my husband, brother, and sister-in-law into accompanying me. The circumstances of the previous event played no small part in my desire to stick close to my fighter-trained husband and hulk of a brother. I sewed a tunic for the former, borrowed clothes for the latter, and put together a pretty decent attempt at Greek clothing for Val. We accessorized as best we could, with leather-sheathed machetes and hiking boots and sandals. All in all, compared the various people I’ve seen in the SCA since then, we were somewhere between mediocre and pretty great.
Now let me set the scene for you: We’re two spaces away from the small stage upon which the baronial thrones are set. On the other side is a cozy, tapestry-draped pavilion in which sits a harpist and several friends. And then there’s us in our modern, plastic-y dayshade with four camp chairs and a cooler. Before your mind leads you to think, “It doesn’t take that much effort or money to cover them!”…we did. I was very emphatic about that. After all, I’d done my research! Unfortunately, our “covers” were mostly Biederlack blankets, so it probably didn’t help much. The cooler was used as a table between the chairs and was set with breads, fruits, and cheeses in wooden and shiny silver bowls and trays. I had obtained plastic-bottomed aluminum tankards for three of us and a celtic-y ceramic mug for the other.
In other words, people desiring authenticity at events probably hated us, while others likely couldn’t tell we were rank newbies. I was even pulled aside by a photographer, and apparently my picture ended up in the Hagerstown paper a few days later. I pity the barony.
People were wonderful to us. A court baron who I generally recognize by the duck puppet he carries with him saved my neck when the photographer was questioning me. (”Who wears garb like this? Uh…I don’t know…me? They told me to make it and wear it, and I did!!”) I’ve since seen him at several other events, and at one point I stopped him and thanked him for his help those few years ago. The gentlemen who sat with us at feast were great examples of how I believe people in the SCA should treat newcomers. From the lady who taught the Viking wire weaving class to the lord who marshalled the thrown weapons, everyone was the very image of courtesy and chivalry. I was proud to introduce my family to such a wonderful group of people.
Nobody made rude comments about our dayshade, my poor attempt at collecting feast gear, or our garb. I had been ashamed to appear with the metal eyelets on my bodice showing; I had unraveled the black thread covering them the night before when I realized that I’d never get them all done in time. Nobody said a word. Thank you, everyone who had the grace to keep your mouths shut.
By my third event–Siege of Glengary, fall 2006–I had made my own attempt at pre-17th century garb. The emphasis should be on “attempt.” I was going to be Irish, so I obviously needed a leine. Leinte are yellow, so I used pale yellow cotton that looked kind of old and linen-y. I got a bit confused between whether they were supposed to have baggy sleeves or fingertip-length tight ones, so I went with the latter.
The key part was that it was yellow, which obviously made it a leine. And since it used both gores in the skirt and gussets under the arms, it was medieval. Right?
Over this went a loose green tunic pretty similar to the red one I’d warn at the moose event. This time, though, it fit. Like its predecessor, it had elbow-length “angel wing” sleeves, but they were nothing compared the sheer dangly monstrosities that were the sleeves on some of my later dresses. It was made of the cotton from the quilting section, so it was a bit too stiff to really hang properly while still being paper thin. Or maybe it just hung like paper. Either way, it had a square neckline designed to show off a bit of the rounded neckline of my (ahem) leine. With this went my (still undyed) ring belt, white tights, and black jazz shoes, and once again I crossed my fingers that no one would think me to old to have my head bare.
I felt like a princess. I probably looked like a toddler whose mother let her dress herself. The bodice/chemise/skirt outfit was certainly better sewn than my new garb. Regardless, I practically skipped my way along the road back to the car to pick up something I’d forgotten, and when one of a group of three fighters asked me to help them unfasten a bit of armor, I knew it was because my garb was so pretty. And having been around SCA members for a while by then and realizing the jerk at my first event as an anomaly, I wasn’t so nervous to walk around on my own. As I walked away, one of the other fighters teased the first for not asking his friends for help instead of flagging down a random female passersby.
Fastforward to Sapphire Joust, late May 2007. I had a third set of garb, this time a beautifully-sewn (not by me, of course) blue and white Norman tunic. I was set to start babysitting for a couple in the barony, one of whom was a merchant. I realized when I finally got to the site that it was the same pottery merchant I’d seen over a year before in Hagerstown. When I arrived at his booth, he and his lady wife kindly offered me a drink of water. When they asked if I had a drinking vessel and I showed them my clear plastic-bottom tankard, the merchant quickly switched it out for a mug from his own wares.
It was the first time I really met Eadric, Sam, and almost-two-year-old Aaron, and the first time I semi-met Violante and Miguel as “those people in the cool tent next door, who have awesome garb and two cute daughters running around and really nice benches that I’m afraid to go over and sit on.” It was also the first time I very, very briefly didn’t-even-really-meet Charlotte and Jeff, who were “those people across the site who also had young kids and kept asking if I had friends who would want to babysit.”
All these people were Very, Very Scary. Yes, with capital letters. Especially when I found out that most of them were peers, and by the time of Coronation, even more so when I found out that certain members of their ranks were wearers of shiny hats.
I also learned that daytripping to an event in southern Virginia is a big mistake. You can’t do it in a day. It simply takes the last few hours of the night before, all of that day, and the first third or so of the next morning.
Then there was Pennsic (XXXVI, to be precise), at which there was extreme amounts of rain and mud. I’m actually kind of glad now that I didn’t have any nice garb besides my Norman tunic, because most of what I wore will be forever tainted by Pennsic mud. I bought a good bit that week, much of which I’m either keeping as loaner gear or thinking of selling now. I also got to babysit Aaron once more, met a very nice (but more frightening that even Miguel) queen while tripping over my skirts in an attempt to stand and get the kid into something more than a diaper, and was invited to join Eadric’s household. Major “stuff” acquisitions that I wouldn’t trade for anything: a bowl from Eadric, a wax tablet from Miguel, and beautiful iolite earrings and silk floss from Her Excellency.
My next event after recovering from Pennsic was Glengary once more. Three major things happened. First, I spent the day waterbearing and met Steve. Second, I was called into court and given my AoA by Queen Rowan and a baronial award of excellence by Their Excellencies, at which point I promptly lost my voice. Third, I was asked to serve high table, which I will do just about anything never to do again. Her Majesty gave me a token afterward and told me that, while my (blue Norman) garb was awesome and trying to dress accurately was great, it was much colder in medieval England. She kindly requested that I not drop from heat exhaustion. I still have her token hanging on my leather bag from a bit of fingerlooped cord I made that night after feast.
I’ve fallen in with the right group of people. Because of them, I’m starting to focus more and more on my actual persona when it comes both to physical goods and research. My garb has taken huge leaps forward; between having friends who know stuff, and not actually sewing most of it myself, I’m garbed much better than I ever would have been otherwise. I’m starting to learn where to look for information now instead of casting aimlessly about the internet like I once did, and instead of having newer and (hopefully) better garb for each event, I’m trying to make one or two really nice outfits. That means not settling for “okay” or “passable,” because I know now just how far above the crowd simply trying puts you in the SCA.
I want to get better, not just with my kit, but with my knowledge. I want to know the things Ascelyn would have known and be able to do the things she would have done. I want to flesh out my persona in fact as well as in story. That means ditching the Irish-fostered in England, possible-but-unlikely story I wrote years ago. The tale is very SCA. It’s not very fourteenth century.
What the SCA is to me, and what I hope La Belle will be, is what I’d originally thought it was as a whole. I’m incredibly glad that circumstances worked themselves out the way they did, because the more I see of Coke cans, loincloth-clad “Vikings,” and drunken parties around the fire, the less I think I would have stuck around. I’m glad the people involved are having fun, but I can go to frat parties at actual frat houses without having to bother with “attempts at pre-1600s garb” or gate fees. Not that a lot of people seem to bother anyway.
It worries me that people who were once my closest friends in the SCA are now the very ones that seem to violate every rule of our Society. Some don’t really bother with garb, others sneak into events to avoid paying, and still others smoke at smoke-free sites and bring their dogs to pet-free ones. The rules apply to everyone, from newbie to those who grew up in the SCA, from lowliest peasant to most majestic king. Honor requires we obey them, but does chivalry require we ignore those who refuse? Where do we draw the line? Whose place is it to do so?
The easiest way out, though far from the best, is to pretend I don’t see any of it. The easiest way to do that, though not the best, is to avoid those people and hang around others who are more likeminded in particular things. But the former are my friends as much as the latter, and it’s both rude and wrong to avoid them. I don’t know what to do.
I want to avoid the politics, but the longer I’m around and the more I hear from those who have been around even longer, the harder it is to do so. I fear that it’s inescapable with the whole western reaches thing. I’m in the SCA to learn and have fun, which for me tend to go hand in hand. For some reason, though, many people seem to get mighty unhappy when your idea of having fun involves authenticity.
To end this at the present: I love what my time in the SCA is becoming. It’s my main non-work obsession by far, as well as comprising the entirety of my social life (such as it is). I want to improve and to never stop growing. Sometimes, though, I want to go back to being the girl in the funny green dress who thinks she’s Irish.