I like setting myself little challenges for the Project to keep up my momentum and to avoid the sense that it's become an endless march from one random publication to the next. Thus, I alternate between thematic groupings and simply working my way through what's left in a folder or on a shelf. Doing an "every day" push for Pride Month helps kick-start me out of a period of distraction where other projects take priority. At this point, I have enough written up to continue posting every day into mid-July. And given what I know of my work habits, I'll probably do just that , though I'll probably slow down a little once I get caught up.
As you might notice from some of the briefer summaries I'm posting currently, in going for a somewhat content-neutral completeness goal, I'm now finding myself encountering a fair number of articles that are preliminary versions of material I've covered in book form, or articles that are more "popular" presentations of material where I've already covered the scholarly version. The Project, of course, has multiple functions. Foremost is the incentive for me to read and digest the information. Secondly is the purpose of presenting a summary for a non-academic audience. But one additional purpose is to give readers a chance to figure out whether they want to track down the original publications to do a deeper dive on their own. And for that purpose, summarizing an article as "this ended up being chapter 3 in book X" or "this material is covered in much greater detail in article Y" or "this is badly outdated and you might want to read Z instead" might help someone else map out their own research more efficiently.
Besides which, with over a thousand titles in my database, I can't always remember what I've already read and blogged! So including everything with any potential relevance that I've looked at means I don't find myself duplicating work on items that I concluded--at some point--weren't all that interesting. One step in working on each entry is reviewing the notes and references to find new publications to add to the database. I regularly find myself thinking, "Oh yeah, that's going to be interesting! Oh...wait...not only is it already on the list, but I've already read it!"
Cleves, Rachel Hope. “Six Ways of Looking at a Trans Man? The Life of Frank Shimer (1826-1901).” Journal of the History of Sexuality, vol. 27, no. 1, 2018, pp. 32–62.
This article uses the lens of one particular well-documented life in the 19th century to track the shifting images and understandings of female masculinity during that era, and perhaps incidentally to comment on the general environment of shifting understandings of gender and sexuality that continue up to the present. One of the points being made is that for modern people to try to pin down one specific label or category for a historic person undermines the variable ways in which that person themself may have reported their own understanding.
Frances “Frank” Ann Wood Shimer grew up in New York, became an educator including founding and leading a college, and eventually retired to Florida and helped start the citrus industry there. Throughout this life, Frank (her preferred version of her name) used a variety of information sources to develop, shape, and revise her understanding of her identity. [Note: The author of the article uses female pronouns because, despite expressing various aspects of masculinity, Shimer identified her accomplishments as those of a woman who was proud to serve as an example of what women could achieve.) Cleves has identified five successive frameworks: “didactic literature, romantic friendship, phrenology, pioneer chronicles, and sexology.” The title of the article is a deliberate homage to Henry Louis Gates Jr.’s book Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Black Man, which itself plays off the Wallace Stevens poem “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.”
The first stage draws on literature aimed at children to instruct them in the dangers of cross-gender behavior and presentation. This was a genre that developed in the early 19th century in support of changing views of gender roles and the tacit recognition that those roles were not “natural” but must be trained into children. This literature established the parameters that girls should be modest, quiet, and non-athletic, whereas boys were expected to be loud, boisterous, athletic, and competitive. Shimer’s school essays reflect these models, depicting a domestic life as desirable, but at the same time rebelling against expectations by insisting on using the name Frank, rather than Frances, which was treated as a “youthful mistake.”
The articles discusses several typical stories of the type used for gender indoctrination and speculates that Shimer would likely have been familiar with them and that they might have shaped her later recollections of her childhood, such as a disinterest in playing with dolls, a love of outdoor activities, and a tendency to disruptive behavior in school. Like the “boyish girls” in the morality tales, Shimer occasionally cross-dressed as a child to engage in work that earned her enough to pay for her own advanced schooling. Unlike the girls in books, she never “learned her lesson” and retreated to feminine behavior.
At normal school, training to become a teacher, Shimer became part of the culture of romantic same-gender friendships common to single-sex schools. Although the particular institution she attended was co-educational, socializing was mostly gender-segregated. Close relationships with fellow female students are recorded in her “friendship album” (a type of scrapbook and public journal popular at the time). These include exchanges of poetry with Cindarella Gregory, using the conventional romantic language of such friendships, often drawn from popular poetry copied from magazines. Shimer was hardly alone in using a male-coded nickname when engaging in romantic friendships, though perhaps more unusual in using it as a regular thing, rather than only in the context of particular relationships. Male nicknames between intimate friends were a part of the culture of romantic friendship. Cleves speculates that her more general use of a male-coded name may have served as a signal of her deeper romantic interest in women. [Note: As in her book Charity and Sylvia, Cleves is given to phrasing speculations in a way that can become tricky to distinguish from evidence-based conclusions. “The [name]…may have signaled…suggests that…”]
After graduation separated them, the relationship with Cindarella Gregory was sufficiently intense that Shimer strategized to get both of them teaching in the same location, while worrying that she might be hampering Gregory’s career in the process. But the opportunity came when Shimer was asked to help found a seminary on the frontier in Illinois and was able to bring Gregory in as one of the teachers. They shared a household and bed for the next two decades, even after Shimer married—though evidently the marriage was to stave off rumors about a possible male romance, not about her arrangement with Gregory. The two Shimers never cohabited (he immediately left for medical school) and there is no indication that it was anything but a marriage of convenience. However when Gregory married, it caused a break between the two women. Later, Shimer found a new female partner in Adelia C. Joy and that relationship lasted until her death. Photographic portraits of Shimer with each of her partners follow the artistic conventions for married couples, with Shimer filling the pose normally taken by a husband.
Shimer’s interest in science and medicine led her into a third framework, which Cleves identifies as phrenology, but is a bit broader than that. [Note: Technically, phrenology concerns itself with the shape of the skull, but the theories here involve various physical variations and their supposed relationship to personality and intellect. The field also overlaps somewhat with eugenics and can go to bad places.] Shimer had invited a famous phrenologist to present lectures at her school and was particularly interested supposed gender differences expressed via phrenology. Shimer’s own analysis concluded she “had a larger and more powerful brain than the majority of men.” Shimer notes her reaction to the claim that she was “cut out for a man” as being “Not so very flattering either I don’t think.” Phrenology offered the possibility that gender-coded traits could instead by interpreted as physiology-linked traits, such that women could make positive claims to male-coded traits such as intelligence, leadership, and assertiveness without becoming men.
Cleves once again moves into speculation, saying that phrenology “may also have provided Shimer with a context for understanding another quality connected to her masculinity: her desire for intimacies with women.” Some theories based in phrenology relating to same-sex attraction are discussed. Then we get another sequence of “likely..may have…could be read…may have read.” While I admire the lengths Cleves goes to in providing historic and cultural background for her subjects, I get very frustrated when the connections she makes between the two are all framed in speculative language.
The next context for Shimer’s understanding of female masculinity comes through heroic traditions of female pioneers whose lives and actions contrasted greatly with the new models of femininity that emphasized passivity and domesticity. Pioneer women were celebrated for physical prowess and courage. [Note: Somewhat unfortunately, these narratives also existed with a tradition of erasing Native Americans from the historic present, and valorizing the white settlers as being a new foundation of history.] Shimer, in her memoirs, leveraged this tradition both by emphasizing her own “frontier” role in establishing the Illinois academy, but also harking back to a namesake and relative who was part of a prominent “kidnapped by natives” story and became a powerful presence within the Miami Nation. Despite the problematic aspects, the “frontier heroine” tradition provided a context for praising women for male-coded attributes and for positing that all women had the potential to be strong and self-reliant, thus redefining womanhood. Shimer’s work in establishing what would later be renamed the Frances Shimer Academy was constantly praised in gendered terms, noting that she “did the work of two men” and that it had been established with “no man’s aid.”
By the time Shimer retired to Florida (retired from teaching, but not from continued enterprise!), sexology was becoming better known in popular reception. The work of people like Krafft-Ebing reanalyzed the culture of romantic friendship and the lesbian encounters of students and teachers at single-sex academies as being pathological. Educated and economically independent “new women” were another target for psychoanalysis. Shimer pushed back against this framing in magazine essays, praising educated women and arguing that their critics were over-reacting and “hysterical” (using the term advisedly, in contradiction of its usual gendered implications). Although she rejected negative framings of female masculinity, Cleves suggests that in writing her memoirs, Shimer used the format and tropes of “invert” case studies to describe her own life and experiences as reflecting an innate masculinity. (Though her memoir is very vague on the subject of her romantic relationships.)
The concluding section of the articles discusses the value of viewing Shimer’s life history through the lens of trans studies, regardless of whether one considers her to fall within the category of transgender.
There is this delightful literary review podcast which is simultaneously zany and intellectual, Wizards vs Lesbians, on which I made a guest appearance this week. We discuss Kate Heartfield's medieval fantasy The Chatelaine.
(Note: I'd been listening to the podcast for over a year when they decided to tackle Daughter of Mystery. When I saw that in the lineup I had a moment of "Oh crap, I should be a good girl and just delete the episode and not listen to it, because it's Not For Me." Well, I'm weak, so it's a good thing they liked the book, because their tastes only align with mine about half the time. But I pretty much agreed with everything they said, so I escaped any tragic consequences for my transgression. If you want to listen to that episode, it's here. If, unlike me, you disagree with their opinions on the book, please please please just keep it to yourself, because I don't want to be That Author.)
In the group of articles I've been reading lately, there are two interesting meta-topics: scholars talking about the process of research and their relationship to their subjects, and philosophical questions about the nature of "romantic friendship." I have some thoughts on the latter, which I'll put in the comments that display with the entry itself.
VanHaitsma, Pamela. 2019. “Stories of Straightening Up: Reading Femmes in the Archives of Romantic Friendship” in QED: A Journal in GLBTQ Worldmaking, Vol. 6, No. 3:1-24
Debates over the relationship of "romantic friendship" and "lesbianism" tend to feel rather personal for me. As someone who identifies equally strongly as a lesbian and as asexual, the scholars who get hung up over the question of "did they engage in something we would classify as sexual activity?" feel like I'm being erased from history. At the same time, I solidly support the position that not all women who participated in romantic friendships, if trasported to the present time and given the current cultural background, would identify as lesbian. But I resist the notion that the key factor is sex. And that rather doubles down on the "we can't ever know" position that gets sneered at a lot by my contemporaries.
My personal take is that we should separate out the concepts of "romantic friendship" (and "Boston marriage" and all the other related concepts) from the concept of "lesbian even if they didn't use that word or an equivalent." For me, they are overlapping but independent historical concepts. A romantic friendship is certainly a context in which erotic relations could easily have occurred without leaving a documentary trace. The lack of a documentary trace is not proof that the women involved were heterosexual, any more than the lack of documentary evidence for opposite-sex erotic relations for those same women is proof of homosexuality. But whether or not they engaged in sex is, for me, a separate question from whehter they lived lives that I identify with as being lesbian. (I won't fall back on Bennett's "lesbian-like" label, because Bennett's category by definition would include all romantic friendships.) At the same time, I acknowledge the importance of sexual activity as part of what constructs the fuzzy, complicated, contested category that is the thing we study when engage in "lesbian history." So in a way, I'm simultaneously saying, "Yes, sex matters, but sex doesn't matter."
Because I have a background in cognitive category theory, this isn't a problem for me. It's the same thing as saying, "Yes, flight is a key characteristic of the category 'bird' but there are many birds that do not fly and they are still birds." Maybe some romantic friends are penguins. Maybe some are fledglings. Maybe some had a broken wing that healed badly. And maybe some are bats. My metaphor is getting away from me. I just wish that the debates over this topic spent less effort on the subtext that I'm not a real lesbian. The present paper--though it's inspired by thoughts around lesbian invisibility--doesn't entirely escape that message.
# # #
The central topic of this article is “femme invisibility” when researching queer women’s lives in archival material. The difficulty in identifying and researching historic persons who “read straight” due to conforming to gender expectations is paralleled by the author’s experiences as a femme (i.e., straight-passing) queer woman who repeatedly found herself calculating the risks of coming out to archival personnel who could potentially gate-keep access to material based on attitudes toward the type of research being done.
The specific project the author was pursuing involved archival materials related to two white women from 19th century Virginia (Irene Leache and Anna Wood) who shared lives and careers and described their relationship as an “opulent friendship.”
The larger part of the article concerns the author’s interactions with archives: the ways that indexing practices and selective creation of metadata shape the types of research that are enabled, the types of assumptions (warranted or not) that both sides may make about the other’s motives and prejudices, and the pressures on queer researchers to self-censor the nature of their projects when applying for funding, proposing projects, and strategizing for career success. Even when there is no animosity involved, the pressure to avoid anachronistic identity labels in the indexing process works to erase evidence of queer lives.
Just as the coming-out process can involve reading subtle signs of potential reception, the author was concerned about approaching archival material when the existing expert on the subject had described the two woman as “celibate lovers” and rejected the possibility that they had anything but “the purist alliance”—framings that the author read as indicating hostility to a potential lesbian framing of their relationship. At the same time, the author notes that stereotypes of archivists as hostile gatekeepers are just as dangerous to good relations with historians of all types.
Skipping past the author’s biographical musings, this process of reflexively “straightening” one’s presentation can be a confounding factor in researching the lives of romantic friends. Early historians of romantic friendship tended to emphasize that the romantic aspects were conventional, sentimental, and devoid of any erotic aspect. Whereas more recent scholarship has complicated the subject by identifying a wide range of relationships with more variable reception from their contemporaries. As a gross oversimplification, historians see what they’ve been trained to see in the data, just as contemporary people have been led to believe that “you can always tell” a lesbian by her gender performance.
Returning to the evidence for Leache and Wood’s sexuality, the author notes that—contrary to some assertions that 19th century women would be ignorant of lesbian possibility and therefore would not recognize it in themselves—these women discuss an artistic depiction of Sappho, identifying a “blending of the intellectual and the passionate,” discuss woman-woman love in Greek myth (as well as man-man love), and compare their own relationship to that of Ponsonby and Butler.
While none of this is proof of any specific reading of their sexuality, it offers a context in which they could have had models for a more erotic understanding of romantic friendship, even if they never recorded specific evidence for posterity. The author discusses the potential for 19th century women who did have erotic relationships to use the commonly accepted understanding of romantic friendships as non-sexual as cover for relationships that didn’t fit the non-sexual model. Such a strategy need not have been purely pragmatic, but could partake of its own pleasure in having a secret that the world didn’t share.
In the end, other that some tantalizing details of Leache and Wood’s lives, this article is more about the process of research than about history itself, but it speaks to shifting fashions in historic interpretation and the dangers of taking surface presentations for granted.
As noted previously, the number of the entries is going to get a bit weird for a bit. But since I don't expect that much of anyone besides me pays attention to the numbering, this is no big deal. The most relevant part is that I've identified which article I want to slot into #500, so now I have to keep track of that as I fill in what comes before.
Martin, Sylvia. 1994. “'These Walls of Flesh': The Problem of the Body in the Romantic Friendship/Lesbianism Debate” in Historical Reflections / Réflexions Historiques, Vol. 20, No. 2, Lesbian Histories: 243-266
Martin uses the writings of early 20th c Australian poet Mary Fullerton, and in particular numerous poems related to her long-term relationship with Mabel Singleton, to explore the debate among historians around the question of romantic friendship and lesbian sexuality. [Note: Fullerton was born in 1868 and much of the discussion concerns solidly 19th century topics, so I consider the article in-scope for the Project.]
Much of the article reviews and discusses the evolving scholarship around the intersection of female friendship and lesbian history, which she refers to as the “romantic friendship versus lesbianism debate.” This debate has played out in works such as:
Much of the tension has derived from the competing programs of valorizing women’s social (but non-sexual) bonds in the face of patriarchal framings that view relationships between women of any type as being inherently less relevant than the relationships to men, and the work of historians of lesbian history who view the active “unsexualization” of romantic friendships as queer erasure deriving from a discomfort with the idea that sex might sully the “purity” of those friendships. Even concepts such as Adrienne Rich’s “lesbian continuum” can be seen as downplaying an essential difference between sexual and non-sexual relationships in a way that undermines the meaningfulness of the category “lesbian.”
On the one side, we have positions such as Faderman and Smith-Rosenberg who argue that romantic friendships must have been inherently non-sexual because women were socialized to consider themselves non-sexual beings, and besides which romantic friendships couldn’t have been social acceptable (as they were) if there were anything sexual about them, plus nobody was a lesbian until the sexologists invented the concept. On the other side, we have positions such as Stanley 1992 and Moore 1992 who document the policing of 18-19th century female friendships that were felt to stray into “dangerous” sexual territory, indicating that people of the time certainly acknowledged the possibility that female friendship could have a sexual component. Both poles have contributed to failures of the historical imagination: either ignoring sexual potential or over-emphasizing it.
At this point, Martin returns to her Australian poet and women with similar lives, discussing how their lives have been treated by biographers through one or the other framing, either overlooking potential support for a lesbian interpretation (or viewing incontrovertible evidence as a “problem” to be explained), or assuming sexual relations against a background of ambiguity. Martin asks the question “Why is the lesbian such a problem to theorizing friendship?” She attempts to answer that question in terms of the gendering of mind-body duality and how the “woman as body” is pushed toward an interpretation focused on motherhood and nurturing, as well as a phallocentric definition of sex that denies lesbians the ability to participate in it. Thus there is no space within these frameworks for an embodied sexuality between women that is not an imitation of some other dynamic.
Even within the field of lesbian history, there is a conflict between envisioning a “utopian” image of an era when f/f relationships could be free of the suspicion of sexuality, and a desire to define lesbianism as defined by sexual desire.
[Note: The article spends a lot of time on theorizing, which I have condensed greatly.]
Returning once more to Mary Fullerton’s life, the article looks at hear own words and finds various potential interpretations. Fullerton was a feminist and socialist activist, was proud of her unmarried state, and asserted that she lacked the “sex instinct,” while engaging in a close friendship with a woman with whom she co-habited for almost four decades. Such a self-description in such a context would seem to support interpretation of her life as a classic non-sexual romantic friendship (if somewhat behind the historic curve, as the relationship started in 1909). However further examination of her love poems complicates the question. Her expressions of passion are spiritual but also bodily. Physical interaction is the means for spiritual unity. Further, we find that her definition of “sex instinct” was tied up in procreation. For her the “sex instinct” was the animal urge that drove reproduction—a drive that was not as strong in more “evolved” individuals. [Note: We shall overlook potentially problematic interpretations of this position for the moment.] This leaves room for seeing her poetry as representing an erotic same-sex desire that she viewed as entirely separate from the “sex instinct” she denied having.
This finishes up Cleves' book on Charity and Sylvia. As I noted in a previous blog, the entry numbers are going to be a bit jumbled for a while, both because I'd accidentally skipped a run of numbers and because I've already assigned a number to a book that's taking some time to write up, for logistical reasons. In the mean time, I have a bunch of short articles ready to go, which will take me through the end of Pride Month, after which I won't hold myself to the "post every day" schedule. It's been a fun challenge, but I have other projects that need to move forward as well!
One "fun" project has been an in-depth statistical study of what people have nominated over the years for the Best Related Work Hugo in all of its several forms. The results show some interesting dynamic interactions between categories as people try to find places to nominate works that don't quite fit, or as types of works shift from category to category as they are reorganized and expanded. Having done some initial work on the history of the category--as well as pulling the basic nomination data--I'm now slogging through the process of looking up each nominee and coding it for format (initially, always "book", but more recently rather variable), genre (e.g., biography, reference, criticism, humor), and specific topic. I've been pointed to some previous surveys of the category that tended to focus on the winners (or at most the finalists), but I think I'll be adding something new to the field.
Cleves, Rachel Hope. 2014. Charity & Sylvia: A Same-Sex Marriage in Early America. Oxford University Press, Oxford. ISBN 978-0-19-933542-8
Chapter 19 & Afterword
Chapter 19: Sylvia Drake | W 1851
Sylvia Drake was 66 when Charity died and had not left her side for over 40 years. Family and neighbors commented on what a shock it would be for her to be on her own, with loneliness a common theme in their condolence letters. Some came close to recognizing that Sylvia was the equivalent of a widow, using that word, but she was denied the social recognition and status that widowhood normally conferred.
Sylvia lived for another 16 years, wearing mourning black. Initially, she remained in their shared home and continued their business, but after half a decade, she found herself unable to continue working at the same intensity and reduced her sewing to family only.
Eight years after Charity’s death, Sylvia moved in with her widowed brother, who needed medical care. At the age of 83, in 1868, Sylvia died. The family buried her with Charity and replaced the original headstone with one that commemorated both women.
As with so many aspects of their life, Charity and Sylvia’s wills reflected a marriage-like status, while also reflecting a more egalitarian life than m/f marriage offered. Charity left all her share in their joint property to Sylvia, and Sylvia in turn distributed her legacy equally between both their families, but with a feminist twist: largely leaving it to female relatives who were either unmarried or were poorly supported by their husbands.
The rest of the chapter uses the Drake family finances to illustrate the gendered dynamics of property law and practices at the time.
Afterword
This chapter reviews the nature of the evidence for C&S’s lives and the means by which it was preserved and kept in public awareness. Even into the mid 20h century, local tradition preserved memories of the two as a positive example of female devotion. Eventually, the tacit veil of ambiguity began to be removed and local historians began celebrating them as lesbian foremothers , after struggling against the “we can’t really know” crowd. [Note: Which included Lillian Faderman, who included them under confident assertions that early 19th century women could not possibly have imagined participating in anything more than chaste kisses.]
When constructing fictional narratives of the past, we often run into absolute statements along the lines of "women couldn't...," "women didn't...," "women always..." But when we look at the detailed truths of history, we usually find a lot of "women couldn't unless they..." and "women didn't typically..." and "women always...except when..." Once we get past the falsity of absolute statements, we need to get past a blythe assumption of exceptionalness, fighting our way to a nuanced particularity of the circumstances in which some women could, did, and didn't--with an understanding of the costs and tradeoffs and consequences.
Historical fiction usually centers around people who are atypical in some fashion--perhaps even extraordinary. And historical romance has conventions that often stretch the bounds of plausibility. (Young, handsome, unmarried dukes with no venereal discase anyone?) So when we're designing our historical sapphists, how obligated are we to make our characters more plausible than the standards straight characters are held to? That's a question that haunts me both as an author and as a reader, and in the end it's a question that each author grapples with on their own.
What are the historic structures that can be bent with little consequence for reader reception? Which are the ones that will start to throw readers out of the story? How many readers? To what degree? Where is the line between historical fiction and historic fantasy--not the historic fantasy of overt elements like magic and dragons, but the historic fantasy that has become unmoored from the details of ordinary existence that should have context and consequence?
Which readers will notice that unmooring, and how much will they care? Will they care if an early 19th century widow acts oblivious to the expectations for her state? Will they care if a woman engages in a profession that would have been hedged about with restrictions and handicaps because of her sex...but encounters none of those? Will they care if a woman carries a noble title that there was no legal way for her to hold in the stated time and place? Will they care if a character has an anachronistic worldview regarding sexuality? And which of these are essential to the story the author wants to tell as opposed to being dismissed as simply not being important enough to reflect?
Actual people in history often surprise us--as when Charity and Sylvia are able to become accepted and cherished by their community as a recognized couple. But it is the details of their path to that acceptance that make their story plausible. Charity's early missteps that showed her which hazards she needed to avoid. Sylvia's diplomatic negotiations to maintain family ties. The particularities of small-town New England life that allowed for possibilities of a specific shape and nature, but would not have allowed for others. (For example, it's unlikely that they would have received the same acceptance if Charity wore male clothing and took up a specifically male-coded profession. Either of those in isolation, perhaps, but probably not in the context of being part of a recognized female couple. For that, they would probably have needed to relocate to a community where she could pass entirely--as some such couples did.)
For myself as a reader, there are some historical infelicities that will move a book from "historical fiction" to "historic fantasy" in a way that the author may not have intended. And if my brain was set for the expectation of history, it may be the difference between whether I enjoy the reading experience. (There have been books where I could only enjoy the story by flipping that switch in my brain.) As an author, I enjoy the challenge of writing stories that both follow history and provide a desired HEA, within the constraints of the times. It's the same way that I enjoy the challenge of writing strict meter poetry--the point isn't simply slavishly following a particular scheme of rhyme and meter, but of doing that and creating a work of beauty and emotional catharsis. And, as always, the goal of the Lesbian Historic Motif Project isn't to say "you must write this specific type of story with this specific level of historic accuracy" but to provide tools to know that whatever choices you make are informed ones.
Cleves, Rachel Hope. 2014. Charity & Sylvia: A Same-Sex Marriage in Early America. Oxford University Press, Oxford. ISBN 978-0-19-933542-8
Chapter 17 & 18
Chapter 17: Diligent in Business 1835
The chapter opens with a detailed dramatized episode from a typical workday for C&S, cited to a diary entry, but not indicated as direct quotes and clearly elaborated from the author’s imagination. This is the sort of concern I’ve noted previously about the fictionalizing of details.
The emphasis of the chapter is on the exhausting balance between having a constant stream of sewing workload and the material comfort and stability it provided. In general, unmarried women lived lives of poverty or dependence or both. There were many examples around C&S of what happened to women who either had no skills or were too old or infirm to earn their own room and board. C&S recorded endless long working hours and the ill health it generated, including repetitive stress injuries and eyestrain.
While they never became rich, even by local standards, their standard of living and personal property were equivalent to the household of a more traditional married couple, even through multiple general financial crises of the early 19th century. In general, they avoided debt, and many of their customers paid in kind, helping to buffer the consequences of financial panics, even as some relatives were badly affected.
The stability of their business also meant they were able to employ a succession of young women as assistants and apprentices. They provided not only wages, but training that the women could then take with them to support themselves or even to set up their own shops with additional employees. Sewing itself was only part of the job—the more skilled aspect was patterning and the tailoring of male clothing.
Their particular path to economic independence would fade somewhat in mid-century with the invention of the sewing machine and commercial printed patterns.
Chapter 18: The Cure of Her I Love 1839
In 1839, Charity suffered what was likely a heart attack. This came after a lifetime of various acute and chronic ailments that were endemic in the 19th century. Both women experienced chronic headaches, including migraine symptoms, as well as the usual round of infectious diseases. Treatments of the time were largely bleeding and quack medicines, including regular treatments to “purge the system” (i.e., induce vomiting and diarrhea). One medical principle was that a medicine could be considered effective if it produced a violent effect, even if that effect was debilitating. There were also treatments using traditional herbal remedies that likely had a better cost-benefit ratio.
In general, this chapter discusses ailments mentioned in C&S’s correspondence and diaries, with the treatments either used or recommended, as well as discussing the general state of medical practice at the time.
The 1839 attack, though frightening, was survived. Charity lived another 12 years after that to the age of 74. During that period, she would lose siblings and friends, one by one. Another heart attack took her life in 1851.
One of the things I love about the level of detail in this biography is how it shows the day-to-day interactions among family and community. Yes, C&S were accepted and cherished by their community, but that doesn't mean everything was constant sunshine and roses. They had family squabbles. People may have accepted them as a couple but that doesn't mean there were never any qualms about the propriety of women living without a man in charge of the household. C&S had a comfortable and secure life at the cost of an unrelenting work schedule, but was it that different from the unrelenting schedule either would have had as a farmwife? When discussing their religious lives, I keep getting the feeling that Cleves sees them as considering their relationship in some way "sinful" but I would have like a better comparison with what other people in their circle considered "sinful" in their own lives. This was a religious community strongly focused on the sins of everyday life and everyone's need for religious redemption, so I question whether they were unique in this.
Cleves, Rachel Hope. 2014. Charity & Sylvia: A Same-Sex Marriage in Early America. Oxford University Press, Oxford. ISBN 978-0-19-933542-8
Chapter 15 & 16
Chapter 15: Dear Aunts 1823
C&S became “aunts” with no distinction between them to the many Drake children who lived in the same community. (Sylvia’s siblings all had large families.) Similarly, in visits to Massachusetts, Sylvia was “aunt” to the children of Charity’s siblings. This next generation had never known a time when C&S were not a couple. Theh two families were further entwined by naming practices, with the names “Charity” and “Bryant” being given to Drake children (alongside several “Sylvia”s). The two women had a special connection to their name sakes (though they had close relations with all the children), making presents of clothing and, in one case, paying for college fees and books. This college-bound nephew was functionally adopted by them, with the assent of his father who felt unable to provide for him financially.
Arrangements were in train to send one niece to Mount Holyoke shortly after it opened, but for unknown reasons the plan fell through. That niece (one of the Sylvias) may have had a special connection with the pair. She never married, and after Charity’s death she became a companion to her Aunt Sylvia.
In general, this chapter details the lifelong connections between C&S and the younger generations, with many specifics of the material support they provided. Their prosperous and stable tailoring business both enabled this support and provided a model of alternatives to the difficult life of a farmer.
Not all relations were entirely positive. Evidently Charity was generous with unrequested advice and wasn’t shy about pointing out when she felt the family was slighting them. And Charity’s relations with her father and stepmother were sour well beyond their deaths due to a very awkward inheritance.
C&S’s poetry was another legacy that connected them to family, not only in the gifts of poems they provided, but in helping inspire others to take up literary aspirations.
The chapter also discusses the many female apprentices the couple took in and trained, who became a part of their family and in some cases referred to them as “mothers.” Many children in the larger community called the two “aunt” without any family connection, and several girls with no direct family tie were named after them.
Chapter 16: Stand Fast in One Spirit 1828
C&S founded and contributed to a charitable organization, the Weybridge Female Benevolent Society, with many Drake women also signing on to the charter. The organization also had a religious character. This chapter includes a long discussion of religious movements of the early 19th century. It also discusses their religious associations and the positive relations they had with the ministers of their local church. Correspondence with the ministers shows them being treated as a couple, “in one spirit, with one mind.” These relations recognized their serious spirituality, as well as the material support they gave to the church, and their social leadership in the community.
Through all this, the two often express private thoughts about spiritual failure and the state of their souls. [Note: But as I’ve commented earlier, this should be compared to the general tenor of religious thought in their context. I feel like the author implies too strongly that they felt a uniquely heavy burden of sin from their relationship.]
No extra commentary today. I've been bopping all over the place getting my bike tuned up and meeting up with friends in Sacramento and I'm exhausted.
Cleves, Rachel Hope. 2014. Charity & Sylvia: A Same-Sex Marriage in Early America. Oxford University Press, Oxford. ISBN 978-0-19-933542-8
Chapter 13 & 14
Chapter 13: Wild Affections 1811
C&S were not immune from the sense that their relationship was, to some degree, sinful—even beyond the general Protestant attitude that everyone was sinful. There are references to hoping that repentance and Christ’s forgiveness would see them through. Their local Congregational church required a confession and being “born again” to be admitted to taking communion, and this was something they both sought in connection with their “wild affections”—a term they used, taken from a phrase that referred to extramarital sex. To some extent, the struggles they recorded around feeling sinful provide some of the strongest arguments for the sexual nature of their relationship (and that they classified what they were engaging in as “sex”). [Note: At the same time, this struggle should not be interpreted as indicating that they felt uniquely sinful for their relationship. All people were sinful, after all. One could find writings from a similar era by people in heterosexual marriages who felt that some aspect of their sex lives was “sinful.”]
It appears that C&S spent their entire relationship suspended in a balance of considering their sexual relations to be sinful, repenting their transgressions, and continuing to enjoy the erotic aspect of their union. Such are the contradictions of life. [Note: The latter part of this chapter engages in a close textual analysis to find coded euphemisms in their writing that would indicate specific sexual techniques they might have engaged in.]
Chapter 14: Miss Bryant Was the Man 1820
In the 1820 census records, Charity is listed as the “head of household” with “another woman” (Sylvia) also living at the residence. This was repeated for the 1830 census. In 1840, there was the addition of an employee residing there. Only the head of household was recorded by name until 1850 when the census began including the names of dependents.
The chapter goes on to explore the extent to which C&S inhabited gendered roles within their relationship. Although certain aspects assigned Charity the “husband” role and Sylvia the “wife,” this was not a case of a “female husband.” Charity always dressed in conventionally feminine ways. But being older, taking the lead in business, and a certain boldness in social interactions led to the community labeling her “the man” of the couple. And the language Charity used in addressing and referring to Sylvia matched language typically used by a man for his wife.
Local tax and land records listed Charity’s name first in the household, but also included Sylvia’s name (where a wife’s name would not have been listed). Yet their property was recognized as belonging to them in common.
(There follows a discussion of the structure of economic transactions in the early 19th century, including a constant economy of gift exchanges of food, carefully recorded.)
After I finish up Charity and Sylvia, the numbering on the LHMP entries may get jumbled for a while. I realized that I'd skipped a run of numbers and need to go back and fill them in. (I also realized when doing some database housekeeping that I'd failed to assign a number to a work that I'd blogged in a non-standard fashion.) And the book that I've already assigned the next (catch-up) number to (Gay American History) may well take longer to process than the remainder of the current book, so if I want to carry through with blogging every day for Pride Month, I need to do 3 more quick items to stay on track.
Why is Gay American History taking so long to review when it's basically an anthology of excerpts from historic documents? Normally those just involve typing up a list of the relevant contents. Ah, but I've started on another side project: a database of key vocabulary in primary sources. So working on a publication that's rich in primary source material means spending a lot of time creating vocabulary records. At some point I also want to go back and pull vocabulary from the hundreds of publications I processed before I dreamed up this side project, but that's a task for future-me. The idea is to know how people talked (or at least wrote) about erotic activity between women, how they described women engaging in such activity, and to a lesser extent, how they described relevant aspects of gender transgression. (The original idea was just to focus on sexual vocabulary, but there's been a little scope-creep.)
I've written on parts of this topic before, as in the podcast episode "When Did We Become Lesbians?" and the discussion of historic usage of "lesbian" versus "Sapphic". But there's a lot more nuance than the usage of one or two specific words. Some of the language is overtly hostile, some is vaguely euphemistic, some is technical jargon, some is gutter slang. But all together it can provide a picture of how your historic characters might have described themselves and their activities, or how they might have heard others talking about them. And let me assure you, there was always some way to talk about women who loved women, even in contexts where that was not understood as a fixed category.
Cleves, Rachel Hope. 2014. Charity & Sylvia: A Same-Sex Marriage in Early America. Oxford University Press, Oxford. ISBN 978-0-19-933542-8
Chapter 11 & 12
Chapter 11: The Tie That Binds July 1807
In a later memoir, Charity described Sylvia’s agreement as becoming “my help-meet and…companion.” The language of this statement is the language of marriage, from “consent” to “help-meet.” (“Help-meet” was a gendered term, indicating a wife.) If they had been an opposite sex couple, a statement of this type could have constituted a legal common-law marriage contract at the time. Although their union had no legal status, it eventually acquired that social standing in their community. Neighbors described them “as if…married to each other.”
Initially, however, Charity was cautious about making the nature of their relationship clear, using the press of work as the reason for staying in Vermont when she had originally planned to return to Massachusetts, and omitting mention of Sylvia in her letters. Her poetry, however, celebrated the union. Gradually, Sylvia was introduced into her letters, and some made the correct conclusions.
That first year, Charity was anxious that something might happen to separate them, as had happened in previous relationships. To protect against this, when she finally made a visit back to relatives in Massachusetts, she brought Sylvia with her. There was a round of visits over the summer, starting with her most sympathetic sister, who immediately embraced Sylvia as Charity’s “constant companion” and supported her decision to return to Vermont after her travels.
The visits included a meeting with Lydia, which confirmed to the latter her fears that Charity had definitively moved on. After that, Lydia’s previously constant letters ceased for several months.
Another fraught visit was to Charity’s parents, who had begged for “one last visit” feeling their impending mortality. The reunion was far from joyous, but left relations open for future visits from the couple. A visit to the brother who had previously banished Charity was similarly cool but satisfactory in tacitly accepting Sylvia as a member of the family.
A second meeting with Lydia cemented the conversion from rejected lover to friend, with Lydia resuming correspondence and always sending her love to Sylvia.
The final errand of their travels before returning to Vermont was Charity asking her brother to buy a ring on her behalf on his next trip to Boston.
Chapter 12: Their Own Dwelling 1809
1809 started off with C&S (which I’m going to shorthand from here on out) moving into a house, built specifically for them, and combining living quarters and a tailor’s shop. Economic and social conditions made it difficult for women to own property, but they benefitted from a work-around where a neighbor woman had inherited land in trust for her sons (to protect the inheritance from her husband’s control) and she gave C&S a lifetime lease on a parcel of it where they could build. This arrangement also protected them from the gossip that having a male landlord might have provoked.
They were not entirely protected against a general social anxiety about unmarried women living alone or in couples. The book notes two Philadelphia women arrested in 1792 for “co-habiting”—a term more typically applied to an unmarried m/f couple sharing living quarters. Bed-sharing by relatives or friends of the same sex had long been considered unremarkable, especially under circumstances where rooms and furniture were at a premium. By the mid 19th century, however, advice manuals were beginning to suggest that bed-sharing might lead to “mutual masturbation”—a typical way that same-sex erotics were characterized. [Note: This is one of those places where it isn’t clear whether literature of this type would be in circulation in rural New England. Also we aren’t anywhere near the mid century yet. So I don’t know that it’s reasonable to suggest that this concern would be in people’s minds. No positive evidence for this concern in their case is offered.]
As comparatives, the text notes Hannah Catherall and Rebecca Jones, who cohabited in Philadelphia in the 1760-1780s (this appears to be a different couple than mentioned previously) who were referred to in the Quaker community as “yoke-fellows” (a term that could refer to spouses) with no indication of disapproval. The text also notes Ponsonby & Butler and Lister & Walker, but I have doubts that either of those couples are a useful comparison for attitudes or awareness in rural New England.
Another unexpected hazard was the admiration of other unmarried women, who not only saw in C&S a model for their own personal ambitions, but sometimes tried to insert themselves into the middle of the relationship, as with one Mary Harvey whose initial gushing admiration for their arrangement shifted to romantic advances on Charity alone, which resulted in Charity solidly rebuffing her.
The house became a symbol for C&S’s relatives of the solidity of their commitments, and its upkeep (largely falling to Sylvia as the wife-analog) was a metric of their respectability. Despite some gendering of their roles, they always emphasized co-ownership of the house and of their resources.
It wasn’t long before they were financially able to expand the original 2-room structure to create a greater separation of public and private, and to allow for hosting the visits of relatives and friends. By 1821, they had the space and resources to hold a family Christmas dinner with perhaps a dozen guests. The tailor’s shop had expanded to include female apprentices, who were treated like daughters.
The surface acceptance did not entirely conceal underlying uneasiness and tensions. Sylvia’s mother came for an extended visit, but both were relieved when it concluded. Sylvia’s local brother, who had been the means for the couple to meet initially, rarely visited and Sylvia evidently called him out about it, then wrote remorsefully about her reaction.
On the other hand, when the couple were in the midst of expanding and renovating their house, community support was enthusiastic, and letters indicate they were on excellent terms with their landlady’s sons, who would eventually own the property.
[Note: Some of the relatives may have been influenced by the underlying expectations of homosociality. Two of Sylvia’s brothers noted that they stayed away because “there was no man to visit.” It could be possible to interpret this as feeling socially awkward about gender issues rather than sexuality issues.]
Eventually, the tensions eased and family loyalty proved stronger than disapproval.
I hope that some of the listeners to the podcast have been intrigued enough by the quick synopsis it gave of Charity and Sylvia's lives to follow up with the more extensive summary presented here in the blog--or even to track down a copy of the book for the full story. I don't often coordinate the blog and podcast quite this closely, but it's often the case that I'll do a run of articles on a theme in preparation for working up a podcast. The blog and podcast are intended to work in tandem, with the blog working on the academic side and the podcast working more on the general public side (even if it doesn't always feel like it). I know that about 200 people follow the podcast (or at least, we average around 200 downloads, though some of those may be bots). It's much harder to know how many people read the blog, without doing a lot of tedious digging through website stats. It's much easier to know how many people talk to me directly about how much they appreciate the blog: relatively few, but greatly appreciated!
Cleves, Rachel Hope. 2014. Charity & Sylvia: A Same-Sex Marriage in Early America. Oxford University Press, Oxford. ISBN 978-0-19-933542-8
Chapter 9 & 10
Chapter 9: Charity and Lydia 1806
Lydia Richards was another schoolteacher who prized the opportunity the work gave her for freedom and avoiding marriage. When she came into Charity’s orbit, she expressed a desire “to be your constant companion.” They had first met half a dozen years earlier and felt an immediate bond that was disrupted when gossip forced Charity back to her parents’ home. The two kept up a correspondence through the Mercy years, though Lydia more faithfully than Charity. She repeatedly longed for “mutual love” “clasped in each other’s arms.” When Charity once again moved to the town where Lydia lived, this wish was fulfilled by an initial two-week visit to Lydia’s family.
After that initial visit, Charity and Lydia spent as much time as possible in each other’s company and wrote copious letters to fill the absences, including complaints of what could not be set down on paper. They exchanged gifts typical of those given by courting couples. Friction between Charity and her brother’s in-laws was making her living situation untenable, and Lydia began floating the idea that Charity move in with her family. Charity did so for two months, but during a visit the two made to another friend in a nearby town, word came from Lydia’s parents that she was to return alone.
There are suggestions that Lydia’s parents had found some sort of evidence of the true nature of the couple’s relationship. Despite Lydia’s pleas, Charity determined to accept an invitation from friends in Vermont, promising to continue loving Lydia forever.
Lydia’s continued letters reflect increasing longing for Charity’s love and return, but half a year later, Charity was still in Vermont and the letters became increasingly pleading and lonely. By the time a year had elapsed, Lydia heard from a third party that Charity had set up housekeeping with a younger woman in Vermont.
Only after an eventual visit from Charity, with Sylvia in tow, did Lydia acknowledge the end of her hopes, in a letter filled with bitter literary allusions. But after that, they realigned their relationship as a friendship that lasted until death. Lydia never did marry.
Chapter 10: Charity and Sylvia February 1807
The couple who invited Charity to join them in Vermont were distantly related—not uncommon in the small-town culture of New England. The husband was related to Charity’s mother, and the wife was the sister of Sylvia Drake. The family connections—however distant—may have helped people justify the bond that sprung up between them. Sylvia was initially anxious about the introduction of another single woman into their circle—one who had had the educational opportunities she lacked. Despite their differences in background, a romantic relationship began quickly.
Charity began work as a tailor and Sylvia apprenticed to her to keep up with the work. Two poems, written during the period when they were first getting acquainted and attributable to Sylvia, celebrate Spring as a time of budding romance and love, though adding further seasonal imagery of the eventual coming of winter. Initially, Charity had planned to stay for three months, and the anticipated end of the visit may have prompted Sylvia’s concern for the turning of the seasons.
Charity was beset by a steady stream of Lydia’s letters and omitted all mention of her new friend in response. Charity extended her visit, then extended it again. In mid-summer, Sylvia moved on to stay with a different family member—a typical arrangement for an unmarried woman being maintained by her family. The two promised to write, but this promise was unnecessary. A month later, Sylvia returned and they would never again be parted in the succeeding 44 years.
This time, Charity made some practical plans. Never again would a relationship be at the mercy of a host family’s scrutiny and disapproval. The amount of sewing work shew as receiving was enough to establish an independent household. She rented a room, while retaining the community good will of being part of a familial network. Charity wrote Sylvia asking her to join her. The sewing work was the cover to make their arrangement acceptable to the community. Charity would “hire” Sylvia as her assistant, thus bypassing questions of why Sylvia was no longer living with family members.