Kele Johnson
English 101
Professor Corbally
22 February 2006
What's Faire is Faire--My Obsession
Obsession is often defined as being an idea or a feeling that completely occupies the mind--a fascination, a fixation, a passion, a THING. I am all of those, and worse. I am obsessed by Renaissance Faires. When I write that I am obsessed by Renaissance Faires, I don't mean that I simply find them to be an enjoyable way to pass time, or that room temperature ale, an afternoon at the rat races (with real rats), and men with big swords are an impossible combination to pass up. I mean that I have a serious compulsion!
I have been obsessed since my very first foray into this previously unexplored territory known as the Renaissance Faire. When I walked through the gates of the faire, a fantasy realm beckoned to me, drew me into itself, and in turn, the faire became a part of me. For seven glorious weekends each spring, in a heavily forested oak grove outside of the small town of Waxahachie, Texas, the English Renaissance came to life in splendid fashion, and I wanted to be a part of it.
I watched enviously as Henry the Eighth, accompanied by the ill-fated Anne Boleyn, led the opening parade of royalty, merchants, peasants, and entertainers through the oak filled glade, and the permanent Renaissance village that was, and continues to be, Scarborough Faire. I longed to join the participants, to be one of them, to immerse myself into a life that wasn't my own, but one that I most definitely wanted to live. These select few, these actors, lived in a world which I could only observe from the fringes, but observe I did. The familiarity with which they treated each other, honed by years of performing and traveling together, struck a chord deep inside me. I wanted what they had. I wanted to do what they did.
Over the years, I cultivated friendships with the performers with the same zeal with which I pursued the "oh so important garb wardrobe." I collected friends as I collected my costuming, carefully, and fastidiously. Soon, many of the performers knew me by name. They would call to me joyfully at the beginning of each season, quizzing me on the events of my life since last we had met. Eventually, they began to invite me to their after-hours parties, and, occasionally, I would be asked to fill in at one of the vendor merchant booths for a few hours over the weekend. I was ecstatic. I threw myself into the role of shopkeeper with great enthusiasm bubbling up in my soul. I had gone from the outsider to the accepted. Only one thing could have made it better.
My dreams of performing would not be realized. Auditions were rare, and the roles generally went to seasoned faire folk. Still, I never gave up hope. As the years went by, my penchant to dress as a tavern wench for no apparent reason, and my obsession with the Faire, began to wear on those around me. My best friend Linda was sure that I was losing my mind.
"Kele?" she would say. "Is there any particular reason you're wandering about the house dressed as a pirate? Halloween was four months ago." 
"Would you believe that I'm preparing for Faire?" I would respond. 
"You are ill," she would state, "and I am the only person you know who won't have you committed for this sickness."
Understandably, she would try thereafter to avoid my attempts to get her to Faire every weekend from April to Memorial Day (as if she had anything to do that could be more important than Faire!) The lack of companionship did not deter me. I would go alone, and for a time, transported into my fairy tale, I would get my fix. And so it continued, for nearly twenty years.
In the spring of 2003, barely a week and half before the opening of Scarborough Faire, I moved from Texas to California, to be with my fiancé. As the faire season opened, a sense of melancholy moved over me, and I felt as if I had left a vital piece of my heart in an oak grove in Waxhachie, Texas. I mourned my absence from Scarborough, indeed more so I would venture than any of those I had befriended there. I scoured the Internet, looking for a faire, any faire, which I could attend in order to soothe my bereft soul.
My fiancé, who is definitely NOT faire obsessive, took pity on me, and assisted me in my quest. Together we attended several area faires. Each time we would pull into the parking lot, I would feel that familiar sense of anticipation welling up inside. Perhaps my expectations were too high. Scarborough Faire is known throughout the Faire circuit as one of the biggest and one of the best of its genre. And so, predictably, I would leave disappointed. None of the festivals we attended had IT, that magical feeling, the je ne sais quoi, that had captured my heart, and made my soul slave to the Renaissance Faire so many years before.
In the spring of 2004, we made plans to attend yet another Renaissance Festival. Cautiously optimistic, we entered the gates of Koronaberg, a permanent 16th century Renaissance village, situated on the Santa Ana River in Corona. As we made our way into the village flanked by the Archers of Ravenwood to the right and a working blacksmith forge to the left, I could feel myself drifting into a Renaissance inspired euphoria. We paused to take in the sights, the sounds, and the smell of giant turkey legs wafting on the breeze. I was in heaven.
We made our way through the rows of shops, a veritable buffet of 16th century clothing, armament and weaponry, and crafts of all types. Shopkeepers called out to us: "Gutentag!"
"Good Day, Milord, Milady." 
"How fairest thou this fine day?" 
"Welcome!"
And welcome we were. Unlike the faires and festivals we had attended the year before where the guild members, entertainers, and the shopkeepers as well, seemed to gravitate into a clique of sorts, indifferent to we non-faire folk, here in Corona we found a village full of happy town folk, warmly welcoming us into their midst. Rather than participants who gave the impression of being completely absorbed in their own conversations with other faire folk, seemingly oblivious to those of us who had paid good money to interact with them, we found an actual working village whose inhabitants drew us into their enchanting world, inviting us to play along and to become one of them.
To my restless soul, hungry for that balm that only the Renaissance Faire could give, this was nirvana. Contentedly I wandered from shop to shop, pausing to watch a guild of German soldiers practicing for the battlefield, the ringing of their swords heard easily over the cacophony of village sounds swirling around us. I didn't know how this day could get any better, but to my surprise, it did.
Around the corner from the German encampment, we wandered into a delightful store, full of wooden boxes with exquisitely painted tops. But it was the woman behind the boxes who captured my attention. She had a smile that lit up the interior of her little shop, and even though I was sure we had never met, there was something about her that was quite familiar to me. I felt that I had to talk to her, and so I did. In talking to her, I found out that she had felt it too, an instant recognition that I had felt the moment our eyes met. Several hours later, we were the best of friends. By the next weekend, I was helping her in her booth, and immersing myself once more into the culture I loved so much.
Through Terri and her husband Dan, I was drawn into the social life of the Faire. I became at first familiar, and then friends, with many of the participants. My newest friends had names and occupations that made me smile--Gary Siler and Steven Clarc, the Renaissance Bards and songbirds of the faire; Papa, Mama, and Fingers; the Italian leatherworkers; Bree the Braider; Long John, stilt walker and juggler extraordinaire; The Baron of Koronaberg, ruling the village with a benevolent smile, and a gallon sized tankard of ale, firmly attached to his left hand; the Scottish encampment, the French guild, the Archers of Ravenwood, the German encampment, all with their now familiar faces and names. 
And so began the second stage of my Renaissance life. I was no longer on the fringe, but completely accepted into the Koronaberg family. Between the 2004 and 2005 season at Corona, I found that I had a knack for jewelry making, and I arrived at the Palm Springs and the San Diego Faires merchandise at the ready. Terri decided that we should become partners, and so, with a goodly stock of jewelry and boxes, we jumped headfirst into the 2005 season.
Until this point in my story, I have left out a very important aspect of faire, which I feel I must elaborate upon. This vital facet of faire life is an obsession unto itself, one which I and the majority of my fellow actors have a deeply rooted fixation with, and that is the all important Garb.
We are quite concerned with what others think of our appearance, constantly on the lookout for new pieces and accoutrements which we believe will greatly enhance our costumes. We spend hours preening in front of the mirror, revising and revamping our garb, like a high school freshman on her first day of class. How we look comes first, whether we are authentically in the midst of the Renaissance years, like the various Guilds for example, or blurring the lines between the 16th and 17th centuries. We are deeply aware of whether or not our cleavage is adequately displayed, or whether or not the skirt we are wearing makes us look as if we have accessorized with a bum roll, when that is indeed not the case.
Another vital accessory is the belt. The belt is basically an exterior overnight bag. On the belt hangs not only the necessary leather pouch (to hide the contraband cell phone) but also the mug or tankard, eating utensils, a fan, a flask full of your favorite beverage (alcohol if you are a pirate-we'll get to that later), and last but not least, assorted weaponry, and the bigger the better.
We women in the Renaissance Faires are quite sympathetic to our 16th century sisters. We endure the displacement of vital organs due to a well-fitting corset (that is how it's supposed to look, really.) We deal with the inconvenience of attempting the porta-loos while keeping our two skirts, long tailed chemise, and the various items dangling from our belts, out of harms way. 
Some think that our obsession with the Renaissance has to do with our desire to live in a simpler, yet bawdier time, and we might agree with that observation somewhat; however, we do not wish to be too inconvenienced by the lack of modern convenience, while indulging in our passion to bring to life, a different era.
But as with most obsessions, mine has ripened into a deeper appreciation, more of a fascination really, with the pirates of the Renaissance Faire.
For the first three weeks of the 2005 season of the Corona Faire, Terri and I observe the pirate guild across the way, Rogues Cove. We are suffering, we have decided, with a severe case of pirate envy. We have gone back in time in our minds to high school. The pirates are the cool kids, and we who stand on the outside observing are the total geeks. We want to play with the pirates, and Pirate Weekend at Koronaberg, on the fourth weekend of festival, finally gives us the opportunity to hang out with the objects of our worship. Pandora's Boxes (the name of our shop) declares war on Rogues Cove. We sneak into their camp before daylight, stacking every available chair and table upside down in the midst their dinner table. They sneak into our shop, one by one, on the pretense of making conversation, leaving little rubber insects and other nasties inside each box. We find the offensive little creatures hanging off of sets of earrings, and floating in our tankards. We take the bugs hostage, and in a spectacle that draws participants and guests alike, we force the bugs to walk the plank, shoving them all to a watery grave. Water then becomes the weapon of choice, and we attempt to soak Captain Riggs with buckets of cold water. We are at times successful, but more often than not, we are thwarted by his crew, who have us running for our booth soaking wet and shrieking for reinforcements.
The war is a huge success with the guests and is replayed throughout the entire weekend. That Saturday evening, we are invited to a potluck supper, and award ceremony at the Rogues encampment. We are overjoyed. We have been invited to sup with the most popular kids in school.
That night, after supper, Terri, her husband Dan, her son William, who is eighteen, and I, are awarded honorary Rogue pins, and we are invited to become members of Rogues Cove. We are quite thrilled as we accept what we consider to be their generous offer. In true pirate fashion, we are brought into the Rogues with a ceremony of alcohol consumption, which in itself is sacred to the pirates. According to the Rogues, the only mixer allowed with alcohol is more alcohol! Despite the potential for disaster, those of us of legal age survive the ritual, affectionately known as the "Broadside." We do not "turtle" (pirate speak for losing your lunch) during the Broadside. We are pirates. We are the cool kids. 
However, my new association has left me with yet another dilemma and a new obsession. I am constantly on the hunt for the perfect piratical outfit. I have only weeks before the beginning of Faire, and I have spent the months leading up to faire searching for the perfect clothing and accessories, as not only will I be representative of our booth, but of my pirate guild as well. There are rules to the dressing of a pirate wench. Shall I dress the part of a tart? Shall I dress to hide my sex? Will I dress the part of Lady turned Pirate? Captain Riggs decides for me. After two days of deliberation with the Baron, he has bestowed upon me my "faire name," the first I have ever been given. I am the Lady Tesyss, known as Tess to the pirates.
My obsession now takes on a new dimension--the obsession to perfect my character. The temptation to surf EBay in search of pirate garb when I should be researching city sign codes for work is almost overwhelming. Defining the Lady Tesyss occupies my mind. I am fixated, fascinated, and fanatical. I am a woman obsessed.