Hey, Peasant! Are You a Peasant?
I was nearing the end of my first summer as a costumed interpreter at Historic Fort Snelling when a boy called out to me, "Hey, peasant! Are you a peasant?" Speechless, I couldn't formulate a response before he ran to rejoin his group.
In my 1827 persona, am I a peasant? am I a peasant today? And why was I so shocked and upset because a kid asked me a question probably intended to be obnoxious but that, in fact, may have been asked in earnest?
In my 1827 persona, I am a humble laundress. Dressed in my shapeless and very simple period costume, I look like a brown lump (hence my nickname "Mrs. Brown.") I probably am the immigrant wife of a Selkirker--a refugee from Lord Selkirk's failed colony near present-day Winnipeg. I work as household "help" (even in 1827, the term "servant" was considered demeaning) for a U.S. Army officer. Without my wages contributing to our income, my family could go hungry, homeless, or worse.
Mrs. Brown cannot be seen leaving or entering Colonel Snelling's house via the front door, nor may I directly address the Snellings or any officer. (Notable exception--on my first day, my petticoat started falling off and the "Colonel" himself rescued me with a large safety pin.) When "modern-day" visitors are present, I have to play my role as a member of a distinctly lower class.
Normally, I find my temporary forays into a historical class system to be enlightening, and they challenge me to be more reflective. But, on that one day, I was appalled and embarrassed to be at the bottom of society in 1827 Fort Snelling...
...until a co-worker gently reminded me that, as a white married domestic, I definitely would NOT be at the lowest rung of society.
In 1827, the occupants of that level would be African-American slaves, illegally transported to frontier Minnesota by officers flouting the federal law they were here to enforce. In 1827, there are as many slaves at the Fort as there is hired "help."
I have written and re-written this blog post for over six weeks now, struggling to find a relevant point about how it feels to be labeled as a peasant or lower-class. Last week a round of errand-running helped me find an end to my story.
Salvation Army bell-ringers were posted at their red kettles outside three different stores. Since it's my holiday tradition never to pass a kettle without making a donation, I found myself digging through my purse for errant dollar bills.
Then it hit me. This year, especially, there are people who've lost jobs and/or homes and are finding themselves asking for help--maybe for the first times in their lives. They're not lower-class, they're just down on their luck. And I've been in their shoes, myself. But I always had a support system in place to catch me, if needed.
It's a helpful reminder that class labels can be jarring and hurtful, that I must never forget those who are less fortunate than I am, and that, sometimes, a gift as little as a dollar--or a large safety pin--can make a tiny bit of difference. Not too bad for a peasant, I guess.
