I have a confession to make. I was once a reenactor. A pirate reenactor to be exact.
I’m better now, thank you. I have managed to overcome the problem through a lot of hard work and the unwavering support of my good friends and members of my family.
Reenactor rehab wasn’t easy. For a time, I desperately wanted to make a deal for a tent again. I never liked them, mind you. But they were necessary if you wanted to reenact. So was the box. I never liked the box either, but it was the only way I could be a reenactor.
If you’ve never been sucked into the reenacting vortex, then you don’t know about the box. Reenactors do. Most, in fact, nearly all, are very happy to be in it. It makes them feel safe. When they gather together, they all brag about how small their box is and how they managed to get it that small.
You see, it’s a great source of pride to have a small box. The more exact your representation, the better reenactor you are. Other reenactors marvel at you. They want to touch you. They want to see your “kit” first hand. And they want to be your friend.
Me, I never could fit in the box. Mine was never small. Even when I tried really hard, I couldn’t fit all this stuff I have going on in my head in a box, even a fairly large one. I usually I ended up cheating. And I felt ashamed.
It started out innocently enough. To my first reenactment I brought an air mattress. It was in the back of the tent, disguised under a bunch of pseudo-period blankets. The public never knew it. The deception was complete. I had fooled everyone.
But before long, I was starting to get strung out on other modern conveniences. First I scored a flashlight. After hours I used it instead of the period lantern to find my way to the commode, which wasn’t period either unless pirates had port-a-potties aboard ship (they actually just dangled it over the side, by the way).
Fresh from a score, I drifted further still. I smuggled in some marshmallows. They didn’t have those in pirate times. I knew that. I also had Snicker’s Miniatures. I got caught with them once, but I quickly launched into my justification, giving a highly authoritative discourse about their history and how they dated back to 1710 when a Dutch chocolatier was captured by a French pirate who had just ransacked an English ship filled with peanuts. I confess now. It was a complete lie. I just liked Snickers Miniatures.
I just couldn’t stay in the box, no matter how hard I tried. There was no wiggle room in it. No creativity. And worse, the people around me only wanted the box to become tighter and tighter around me. They would look at my clothes and count the threads. They would tell me that my brazier (for cooking) was all wrong because it didn’t appear until June of 1725 and the Golden Age of Piracy ended in May. They would look askance at my tricorn because buccaneers didn’t wear them. And they certainly didn’t wear the bucket boots I had on.
I told you I had a large box. Eventually it held all sorts of things, including a very non-period cocktail shaker, a jar of Skippy’s Extra Crunchy peanut butter (which I’m sure real pirates would have loved) and it’s close companion, Wonder Bread, and an ever present jug of Spiced Rum, which must certainly have come from the buccaneer era because it bore Captain Morgan’s name and likeness.
My piece de resistance came on my last outing as a reenactor, shortly before I sought rehab for the final time in December 2009. It is perhaps the best item ever designed for a guy that just can’t fit in a reenactor box: A Coleman propane-fired Coffee Maker. It looks just like a regular Mr. Coffee Maker, complete with the glass carafe.
It was funny, but none of the reenactors seemed to mind me being out of the box on that occasion. While they waited interminably for their period coffee pot to boil on the period fire that they had to get up at o’dark thirty to make, pot after pot of fresh brewed gourmet coffee came pouring out of that wonder of Coleman ingenuity. And I heard nary a complaint.
Funny how that works. They gripe about a coat that isn’t the right period but camp in Revolutionary War/Civil War tents. Why? Because pirates didn’t have tents. What pirate worth their salt would bring a damned tent on board a ship? Did he think he would happen upon a KOA or state park during his travels?
And then there’s the Tent Majals? These are huge mother-tuckers that no pirate in his right mind would have, complete with chandeliers and real beds. And that’s more period correct than my bucket boots and tricorn?
It’s all crap. I really tried to buy into it because I like getting laid, but in the end, it’s crap. I leave living history to the professionals at Colonial Williamsburg and Jamestown. Anywhere else and reenactment comes across with all the realism of Independence Square at Disney. Normal people playing dress up, trying to pretend to be something they can never be. And they wonder why living history isn’t interesting to people?
Me, I’ll stick with being a living hysterical pirate impression. It’s far more fun. I have to live in the real world enough. Why would I ever want to take a weekend or a week of vacation so that I can slave all day over a fire, weave my own underwear and pretend I’m engaged in a “historic” battle when all the guns have to be pointed up in the air so they “won’t hurt somebody”?
Far better to admit it’s all hokum and go with la vida loca as a pirate living on the edge of reality, dancing lightly between stereotypes, street performance and the ghosts of the past. I’m good with that. I should have never been dumb enough to stray from it.
For those entering the reenactment world, I have a nice box you can fit into. It wasn’t for me. But I’m sure someone will appreciate it. Just who, I don’t know!
Out on the Treasure Coast, putting the final touches to my latest “period song”, Brandy You’re a Fine Girl,
– Robb