queer-triple-a

[queer-triple-a]

Brief Hiatus

Hello! This is Mars, not Chrys. I’m now over a week late on the story I intended to post next. I have all of the stories written and the art completed for the next one I need to post, but life has gotten quite busy. 

I hope to post A Daunting Schism within the next few days, but it will likely be over a month before the following story comes out. I have a lot of things piling up right now and something had to give. Unfortunately, it is the release schedule for these stories. 

While I’d love to keep releasing or even increase releasing through pride month, it’s not likely. I’m getting married in June and my spare time is going toward that right now. 

There are some really exciting things happening in the final few stories of this collection, and I cannot wait to share them! But I want to be able to give them the time and attention they deserve before and during their releases

Until then I’m going to start regularly re-blogging my other stories on my main blog @mars-writes-1999 . As always the stories that exist are on assumptive-anthology.com as well. 

I’ll update here when I plan on starting to post again

Thanks!

[queer-triple-a]

A Family History

Introduction

Hello All!

Todays story, just like last week, was sent into me. The person who emailed me these images (and links to the libraries where she found them) had been doing research on her family history. This included finding obituaries of her ancestors. In those obituaries a story about family and love made itself clear to her.

Below are the documents she emailed me. I've also included the comments she left for me alongside them. They're listed as archival notes.

I have bolded any text which she highlighted in the images.

Content Warnings:

Environmental Homophobia

Assumed Heterosexuality

Mentions of death (many)

This is also posted on my website

Family Documents

Archival Note: Obituaries are abridged of names which are not needed to give a full picture of the story.  

OBITUARY OF OSBORNE, GEORGE:

George Osborne was listed by official reports as killed in the battle at the Battle of Ball’s Bluff on October 19th, 1861, following injuries to the chest. He will join in heaven those who have passed before him He is survived by his wife, Jane Osborne, and his mother.

OBITUARY OF SEYMOUR, BENJAMIN:

On October 24th, 1861, Benjamin Seymour lost his life to disease. He was injured in valiant fighting during the Battle of Ball’s Bluff three days before he died. His earthly body will be moved to its final place of rest on October 28th. He will be laid to rest beside his childhood friend George Osborne who preceded him in death by three days. He is survived by his wife, Susan Seymour, and their two children, William and Lucretia. He will be missed by his family and community.

OBITUARY OF SEYMOUR, WILLIAM:

William Seymour was killed in a tragic accident on September 28th, 1879. From a young age, his life was defined by his father's service and dedication to the United States of America. Benjamin Seymour preceded his son in death after an injury fighting for the Union in the Civil War.

William's mother ensured he knew the courage of his father and supported William's decision to join the Army at age 18. William Seymour returned from the Army 2 years later. He continued his public service by taking a seat in the City Council. William Seymour is preceded in death by his father and paternal grandparents. He is mourned by his community and family, including his mother, Susan, his sister Lucretia, and his godmother Jane Osborne.

A ceremony celebrating William's life and mourning his loss will be held on October 2nd at One PM. He will be buried in Hayward’s Military Cemetery as his father was before him.

Archival Note: Neither woman remarried.  The 1890 census lists them as living in the same home. Lucretia (William and Susan’s daughter) does marry a man named Edward Clyburn and had 3 children with him.

Below are 2 other articles where we can get a little more insight into these women after their husbands died.

The factory girls are managed by Jane Osborne, the Widow of the late George Osborne, who gave his life in the Civil War. Mrs. Osborne has managed the third floor, where shirts have been assembled since the war. Thirty years ago, the factory had the honor of making clothing for soldiers in the war. Now they make ready-made shirts for men. The factory produces hundreds of articles a day, many under the supervision of Mrs. Osborne. Her dedication to the company and the community would have made her husband proud.

Among the women present were Susan Seymour and Jane Osborne. Both women are widows of the war. Though Mrs. Osborne has been a working woman for many years, Susan Seymour has used her late husband’s pension to support her family. At the celebration, she said, “This memorial will be wonderful for those of us who lost someone in the war. My love [Jane Osborne] and I will surely use this as a place to pay respects to the men we lost.”

OBITUARY OF SEYMOUR, SUSAN:

On August 3rd, 1913, Susan Seymour was reunited with her husband in heaven after suffering a stroke. Susan Seymour had been a pillar of the social scene of Hayward up until her passing. She was a member in good standing with several local social groups, including the Women's Christian Temperance Union. 

Mrs. Seymour was not a stranger to life’s challenges. She lost her parents when she was young, and her husband Benjamin gave his life in the civil war. Her military pension hardly made up for the sacrifice of her husband, but Susan was able to sustain her two children and herself. She remained in her husband’s home until the tragic loss of her son, William, in 1879. She then moved to the north end of town and petitioned the court to allow herself and fellow military widow Jane Osborne to own a simple one bedroom house. 

Mrs. Seymour continued to be an active member of several social groups as well as a doting grandmother. Susan Seymour was known by all to be kind, caring, and dependable. She was an honest woman who held respect in the community. In the absence of a husband to serve, she served the children near her. In her spare time, she was known to help make clothing for those in our community who could not afford it. 

Susan Seymour is survived in life by her friend Jane Osborne, her daughter Lucretia Clyburn, her Son-in-law Edward Clyburn, and three grandchildren. She will join in heaven those who have passed before her, including her parents, her husband Benjamin Seymour, and her son William Seymour. Susan Seymour’s funeral service will be held on August 5th at Hayward’s Baptist Church. She will be laid to rest in the church’s cemetery. Any gifts meant for the family should be sent to her friend Jane Osborne who is assisting in the settlement of her estate.

OBITUARY OF OSBORNE, JANE:

Jane Osborne passed away from a sudden heart attack on August 7th, 1913. She died in her home in the company of her family friend, Lucretia Clyburn née Seymour. Born and raised in Hayward, Jane married George Osborne in 1859. She was widowed during the Civil War and was never remarried. 

Jane Osborne will be mourned and remembered by the family of Lucretia Clyburn, who was like a daughter to her. She will also be missed by those who she worked with for over 50 years at the William Murray Clothing Factory. She is preceded in death by her husband, George Osborne, and her friend Susan Seymour. 

In compliance with their requests, Jane Osborne will be laid to rest beside her lifelong friend Susan Seymour in Hayward’s Baptist Cemetery. The service will be held on August 10th.

OBITUARY OF CLYBURN, LUCRETIA:

On Wednesday, May 13th, 1951, Hayward lost a true pillar to the community. Lucretia Clyburn passed away in her home, surrounded by her family. In the wake of her failing health over the past few months, Mrs. Clyburn asked not to be monitored. She lived her final days uninhibited by assessments of her physical well-being. Those near her say she remained herself until hours before her death. An official cause of death will not be released to the public. Lucretia’s children want her mother to be remembered for her life and not for her death. 

A celebration of this life will be held at Haywards Baptist Church on Saturday, May 16th. 

Mrs. Clyburn was preceded in death by her parents, Susan and Benjamin Seymour, her brother William Seymour, her husband, Edward Clyburn, and her lifelong friend Emily Boone. She is survived by her 3 children, 10 grandchildren, 15 great-grandchildren, and 4 great-great-grandchildren. At her request, she will be buried beside her mother in Hayward’s Baptist Cemetery.

Archival Note: The letter below is what convinced me to send in this email. It confirms things you could only sort of see when reading through the other newspapers. I knew there was something between the women in this story, my great aunt had mentioned them to me before. This is more proof than I expected to find.

The article below was published May 20th 1951 in The Hayward Times.

OPINION: LETTER FROM LUCRETIA CLYBURN

A letter was discovered while finalizing the estate of Lucretia Clyburn née Seymour. In an attempt to respect her written wishes, it is being published. The publication of this document is happening with the permission of her children and the editor-and-chief of Hayward Times, a close friend to Mr. and Mrs. Clyburn. 

The letter is quoted in it’s exact language below

To my dear friends and family, 

You will not be able to read this letter until I’m gone. If you are reading this while I am still alive, please knock it off. It is to be published when I no longer have to answer for its contents. As many of my friends know, I often claimed to have a secret I would take with me to my grave. I am now in my grave. In an attempt to clear up my own history, as well as to respect the truth of my family's history, I want to share this secret now. 

My mother was a homosexual. She may not have known the word, but she was. Anyone who knew my family when she was alive knew she was widowed when I was a babe. Her friend Jane was widowed the same week. Jane Osborne was a second mother to me. More than that, she was as good as a wife to my mother. If the world were right, my mother, Susan Seymour, would’ve had Jane Osborne’s name on her marriage certificate. If the rumors I heard as a child are to be believed, their husbands were more interested in each other anyway. 

Lots of folks talk about how their parents' marriage acted as an example for their own lives. I don’t remember my mother’s marriage to my father, but she taught me how to love when she was with Jane. Their relationship gave me examples of compromise, patience, trust, and care that served as the foundation of my marriage to Clyde. Jane helped my mother raise her children, and I truly believe she felt the loss of my brother William as if he was her own son. In some ways, he was. My granddaughter Mavis is adopted. I know this fact doesn’t stop my son from loving her. I knew Jane loved me just the same. I knew because she told me so. 

It was an open secret in my household that my mother loved Jane. My late husband Clyde was a family friend and knew this when he proposed to me. He also knew that I had no interest in him. Lots of women laugh when they hear it took Clyde three tries to get me to say yes to his proposal. The true reason I said no is not because I was unsure of Clyde. I was unsure of myself. 

I am also a homosexual. 

Though this may shock some of you, I do not think it will shock any who saw me with my late love, Emily Boone. I found it hard to hide how I felt for her whenever I was able to be in her presence. I grew to love Clyde as much as I could love any man. He knew this and loved me anyway. Do not let it be said our house lacked love. Do not let it be said that Clyde was also a homosexual. He loved me in a way I could not love him back. He appreciated my love for Emily, and he never used my difference as an excuse to treat me poorly. Clyde was a good husband, and this letter should not be used to stain his legacy. 

I loved Emily in a different way. I loved Emily in the way that burns through every part of the body and pulls one soul toward the other. Though I was never wed to Emily Boone, we were as close as two women could be. I have said it many times in the twenty years since she lost her life to cancer, Emily Boone was sent to this world to improve my life and the life of everyone else around her. She knew before she died that I would one day write this letter. Though she never said it, I think she was glad that she would not be around to see the outcome of the letter. I suspect this letter will come as a shock to her family. I apologize to them for the shock, but I will never apologize for loving Emily with all of my heart. She was the best woman in the world, and I will always be grateful that she loved me back. 

There’s a lot of talk right now about homosexuals. This letter isn’t meant to be political, it’s just true. My other mother, Jane Osborne, was a good worker and a true American. She was also homosexual. My love Emily Boone served in World War I and received awards for her service. She was also a homosexual.

As I write this letter, I am only writing about people who have gone before me. This letter should not leave a stain upon any of my living relatives. 

I will leave you with this, my final words for the living world: 

Loving in silence is hard. Living without love is impossible. Be kind to your neighbors. 

Lucretia Clyburn

The publication of this letter in the opinion column of The Hayward Times does not serve as an endorsement of the views expressed within it. In light of the letter, we would like to add the following correction to the obituary of Lucretia Clyburn, née Seymour 

Mrs. Clyburn was preceded in death by her parents, Susan and Benjamin Seymour and Jane Osborne, her brother William Seymour, her husband, Edward Clyburn, and her life partner Emily Boone. She is survived by her 3 children, 10 grandchildren, 15 great-grandchildren, and 4 great-great-grandchildren. At her request, she will be buried beside her two mothers in Hayward’s Baptist Cemetery. 

Paul Hayward

Editor in Chief

Archival Note: Lucretia Clyburn is my great-great grandmother. The letter which Paul Hayward (a family friend) posted in his paper was used as evidence of three of Lucretia's grandchildren (My grandma, her brother, and one of their cousins). They were interrogated during the lavender scare. So was Paul Hayward. All four of them lost their jobs.

My grandma is the one who told me to start looking into these women. She knew her grandmother was gay, and once I showed her this paper she remembered reading it when it was published. My grandma's bisexual, she married my grandfather Howard in 1962. When I came out to her as a lesbian 10 years ago she told me 'you always did remind me of grandma Lucretia.'

I hope you and/or your readers find something worthwhile in their story.

Below I've included a diagram of the people involved in this story in case they get lost with all of the names.

Outroduction

Thank you all for reading! I'm so honored to be able to help share this story. It stretches further into the future than most of the stories I find, so we are able to see these people described in words we still use today.

I have another story ready for two weeks from now.

Stay queer and take care of yourselves,

Chrys

[queer-triple-a]

A Nonbinary Heritage

Introduction

Hello All!

Today's story is extra special to me. It was sent to me by someone who has been reading these stories and found a few pieces of their own history which they thought might make a good addition to my Anthology. This story comes includes snippets of a couple's early days together and was sent in by their great-grandson Jerry. I've included the email I got from Jerry at the end (with his permission).

I hope you enjoy his ancestor's love story as much as I did. I'm so incredibly grateful he is trusting me to tell this story

Content Warning:

Internalized Transphobia

You can also read this story on my website, linked here.

Documents from Jerry

Local Advertisement in The Grand View Gazette

Thursday, May 30, 1878

32 year old bachelor, farmer with steady income and kind disposition seeks good-natured woman; object matrimony. Address: [blacked out for privacy]

June 3th, 1878

Dear Nancy Brawnson,

Or should I call you Nathanial? Please respond to clarify this for me. I am Courtney Buffington, the daughter of the head of the post office and perhaps the only person in Idaho who could know you by both names. My father said I ought to reply to the matrimony ad, yet when I asked him who placed it, he said, “Nancy placed it for her brother, Nathanial.”

You may not know this, but I am quite close friends with Antonia Vaughn, who cuts your hair. She says you have not mentioned any brothers. In fact, according to her, you left every ounce of family in Chicago when you bought Benny Artley’s farm. Not that I hold any judgment for that action. Family can be a blessing and a burden. I imagine yours was quite the burden to push you all the way out here. I still don’t know how a single woman bought a farm, but I imagine she’d have to be pretty desperate to try.

Gossip sources aside- If a man named Nathanial truly is seeking a wife, please consider this response to be my application. I do not know if Nathanial is you or not, but if it is, I find the idea of a courtship even more appealing. Though I may not know you as a man, I do know you to be kind, gentle, and beautiful. Antonia has (more than once) told me she believes we could be good friends, and she is quite the matchmaker. I have known people who married for worse reasons than that.

I hope this letter finds you well and my forward nature does not offend you. No matter whether you are Nancy or Nathanial, I would like to get to know you more.

With Kindness,

Courtney Harriet Buffington

June 10th, 1878

Miss Courtney H Buffington,

I write in response to your letter, which inquired after Nathanial. You are right to question who he is, as no one in the town has met Nathanial. In this letter, I will explain myself and, in doing so, explain Nathanial. I ask for your discretion as I share this with you. If needed, I will beg for your silence. I hesitate to tell you this at all. It is your forward charm and - to meet your frankness with my own - your willingness to entertain marriage with me if I were Nathanial that gives me the courage to write this. You do not seem disturbed by the idea of marrying a man which you know as a woman. I do not understand this in you, but it is this quality which allows for my honesty.

Nathanial does not exist in any real way. He is fictionalized. Your memory (and that of Antonia Vaughn) serves you well, I have no siblings. What family I do have is kind and lovely; however, where I am from, there was much control over who I could become.

Looking back on my written words thus far and forward to the words I intend to write, I see a lie. Nathanial does exist, he exists legally. It is in his persona I bought my farm. I then transferred the little to myself. My “brother’s” name is still on the paperwork, but everyone in town knows it is my farm.

That is all there is to know about Nathanail, so now I shall tell you about Nancy. Once again, I beg for your discretion.

Since arriving here, I have struggled under the name Nancy. I am not sure how best to describe my discomfort, but I will try. Being a woman does not suit me. It is like putting on clothes worn by a grandmother: despite the charm those clothes have, they look strange on a young woman. Womanhood fits me strangely, and the strangeness makes me feel a stranger to myself. Yet on the occasion I have dressed as Nathanial, this too has felt like a costume.  It brings me discomfort not merely because I am wearing others' clothes but because I am being someone which I am not. If this were merely clothes, I suppose it would be less distressing. It runs deeper than that. It runs to my very core. In my core, I know I am not a woman, nor am I a man. Neither title suits me.

I suppose this may be more than you asked for. You merely wished to know who Nathanail was and why he was looking for a wife. These words I have written may not directly answer your question - yet I shall leave them in my letter because I need this part of myself to exist beyond my mind.

I hope it will bring clarity to some of the questions you asked in your letter. I beg your kindness and understanding upon reading this. I trust it is quite a shock to see and hope it does not make you regret your inquisition. No matter your reaction, I once again ask you to keep this a secret.

I do not intend to leave your question of my advertisement unanswered. My advert in the paper was genuine in some ways. I intend to write to the woman who responds and explain that I intend to be her husband but that I also intend to remain Nancy in public. I have not yet worked out the details for this plan, but it seems my only option for marrying not as Nancy nor as Nathanial. Surely no woman in town would marry someone they already know as Nancy, and I have never had much taste for men. Therefore I am hoping by reaching out to someone outside our community, I might live two lives. One in my home and one in my community. It may not be ideal, but I fear it is the best solution I have found.

Courtney, I hope this letter answers your questions and does not dissuade you from your belief that we would be good friends. If it does, I beg you to keep this scandal to yourself. I have decided to trust you.

Best,

N.

June 12th, 1878

Dearest N,

Before I even arrive at the pleasantries of this letter, I must thank you for entrusting this portion of yourself to me. I won’t share this news with anyone. It will remain a secret which you alone have the power to share. I am honored you felt you could tell me about this, and I hope sharing this has lifted some burden from you.

I hope this letter finds you well, but quite frankly, I hope it does not find you with a marriage request in response to your advert. I hope you do not take insult and quit reading, for I believe you will be interested in the other things I have to say. I do not say this to be rude. I merely think there is an option available to you which you have not considered.

My recommendation for you, or perhaps I should say for us, is to be together. This solves several problems for you. You will not need to try and explain yourself to a new woman. You won’t need to be called Nathanial (a name which I, unfortunately, associate with my grandmother’s eldest brother) or Nancy if you do not want. I will address you however you please. And since you have already explained to me who you are and I have accepted you, you need not fear rejection on the basis of these feelings.

My father always told me he moved out west to escape the rules of society and start over in untouched land. The way I see it, this fits right in. My dad moved to escape taxes, my mom to escape her ex, and it seems like you moved to escape something larger than that. Why should you have to be a woman or a man? I can’t promise everyone will get that, but it’s not their journey it’s yours. So why don’t you tell me what to call you (I’m assuming not Nancy), and I’ll try to walk beside you?

Yours,

Courtney Harriet Buffington

June 16th 1878

Dear Miss Courtney H Buffington,

I much appreciate your compassion, understanding, and discretion. To read your letter lifted a fear which settled in me the moment I posted my letter to you. It is good to know my trust was not misplaced.

Your letter was more than kind; however, I would feel too guilty to accept your offer. You should not feel forced to marry me merely because it solves my problems. Let me not be seen as ungrateful, I am quite appreciative of the thought which you have put into this situation. It is because of your kind and open heart that I cannot accept your proposal. You deserve to be with someone who will not complicate your life in the way I will. You need not walk my path with me just because I am alone. I will persevere.

I shall continue with my plan to wed a woman as Nathanial. As I said before, I have not fully developed this plan, but I have no reason yet to believe it won’t be possible to do this without burdening my wife. If you do have suggestions, I would love to hear them.

I hope this letter brings you relief from the thought of a lifetime with my confusion. I thank you again for the level of kindness in your words.

Kindly,

Nell

June 18th, 1878

Dearest Nell,

I would like to begin this letter by informing you I received no “relief” from your words. I instead received frustration at being told you were going to ignore my offer of courtship or marriage in favor of your scheme to risk your prospects and happiness on a woman who will answer a newspaper advert for marriage. Your rejection stings less for its kindness, but it was a rejection no less. I don’t imagine you saw it this way, though.

You seemed to be under the impression you were doing me a favor by denying me a chance to be with you. This is not true.

Perhaps I was not clear enough in my letter to you. Allow me to take this time to be very clear with my wants and intentions.

I would like to be with you.

If we see fit, I would like to marry you.

This is not a choice I am making out of pity. My wanting to be with you is not an altruistic act of charity. It is a desire I have.

I want to be with you because the times I spent with you in town prior to your correspondence have always brought a smile to my face. I want to be with you because you do not shy away from my brashness but instead embrace it. I want to be with you because of you.

In my last letter, I believe I spoke too much about who you are and your gender when I explained my proposition. It may have implied I was marrying you merely to lighten whatever burden you are carrying. This is not the case. I hope this letter makes that clear to you.

If I may be frank, if you do not marry me, I will need to marry a man. I do not want this for myself. Men disinterest me.

If you do not trust that I will be with you because I find you to be a compelling person, then trust that I would much rather marry someone who is neither man nor woman than marry a man. I want to be with you because it seems the best way for both of us.

I could take time to explain to you the plethora of problems with your advertisement plan, but I do not need to.  The only reason that matters is this: you do not need another plan.

If you would rather not be with me, I will accept your rejection, but I beg you not to do so on my behalf.

I want you, Nell.

I want us.

Whatever struggles lie ahead of us, I would like to tackle them together. I think we would make a fearsome and wonderful pair.

With Love and Hope,

Courtney Harriet Buffington

June 26th, 1878

Dear Courtney,

I apologize for the delay in my response. I hope the extra time I spent considering your letter and my response did not cause you distress or doubt. Your letter gave me much to consider and awoke in me feelings I did not expect.

I would like to have the chance to give you a proper response to your letter. If you would do me the honor, I would take you to dinner next Friday, the fifth of July, after the stores close for the day. We can picnic on my property, so we do not need to worry about the perceptions of those around us. I shall not spoil the excursion by giving my thoughts here, but I will tell you I think you will approve of my decision.

There is much that I shall refrain from disclosing now so that I may tell you in person. But there is something I feel compelled to share which I fear I will be too shy to say aloud in your presence.

Courtney, you make me feel wanted.

The weight of this feeling has controlled much of my thoughts the past three days. At first, I could not understand why it felt so different and so novel. I thought I had been wanted and needed before. My parents wanted me around and needed my help with chores. I have had friends who enjoyed my company enough to invite me to dinner. There was even a boy who courted me briefly before I moved to Idaho.

It took those three days for me to understand why this felt so different- so vulnerable and rare. The reason came to me yesterday morning as I sat on my porch watching the sunrise with only my guitar to keep me company. I was strumming mindless chords and picking simple melodies one moment. The next moment my hands were still as a clear note rang out through the fields, aglow with a new dawn.

You call me Nell.

In your letter.

You tell me you want Nell.

Beyond myself, you are the only person to know Nell. You know me as I am, and yet you want me.

To trust your letter means to believe that I, Nell, am wanted. I find I do trust your letter, and it may be the honor of my life to be wanted by you, Courtney. It is not just an honor because you are funny, smart, and beautiful but because I want you as well.

I hope I shall see you soon.

Yours,

Nell

Local Announcement in The Grand View Gazette

December 10, 1878

Nathanial “Nell” Brawnson, brother of local Nancy Brawnson, was married to Courtney Harriet Buffington by her father, Benjamin Buffington, at the County Courthouse last Sunday. Any well wishers should send their post to the Brawnson Farm, where the couple will reside.

Email from Jerry Clark

Dear Chrys,

Today is August 5th, 2022, and I am writing to discuss my late relatives, Nell and Courtney Brawnson.

My grandchild Dakota introduced me to your newsletter. While reading it, I was reminded of the box of letters and newspaper clippings my mom passed down to me when she moved out of her house. She has kept these letters safe for decades. They are my great-grandparent’s love story. Dakota helped me scan them into the computer to mail to you.

I was fortunate enough to know both Pappy Nell and Grandma Courtney when I was small. They’ve since passed on, but we remember them kindly. Recently I told Dakota about their great-great-great grandparent Nell. Nell was special. He didn’t like to be called a grandfather or a father. He insisted he was just a parent. I think if he were still here, he would use the they pronouns like Dakota does.

Their wife Courtney was special, too, in a different way. She and Nell adopted seven children, including my late grandfather Brainard Brawnson. Courtney wore the pants in their relationship. She ran her home well and helped Pappy Nell run the farm. My grandfather said she had a firm mouth but a gentle hand. Everyone who knew them said Courtney loved Nell deeply, and you could always see Pappy Nell’s love on his face.

We found these letters when Granny Courtney died at 106 in the year 1956. My mom said Pappy Nell was always strange, and these letters just seemed to confirm that he was always odd. I didn’t think about these oddities much until Dakota told me about non-binary. I tried to ask my mother if she thought Pappy Nell might also be non-binary, but my mother was somewhat unwell that day, and I do not think she understood the question. She did seem to grasp that Dakota is like her grandparent, though. We don’t have to understand everything about the people we love to love them, but we can try.

I hope you and your friends enjoy reading about my Pappy Nell and Granny Courtney.

Best,

Jerry Clark,

great-grandson of Nell and Courtney Brawnson

Outroduction

I would like to once again thank Jerry for reaching out and letting me share this story.

I'm delighted that next week we will also be sharing a story sent to me by a descendent of the people involved.

Stay queer and take care of yourselves,

Chrys

[queer-triple-a]

A Lonely Trip

Introduction

Hello, Lovelies!

Today we have a much less contextually difficult story than the last two. Unfortunately, it is also one of the most open ended stories I’ve come across so far. 

This tale comes from 2 letters (one which seems to have been sent and one which wasn’t) between two really close friends. 

I won’t say any more, so I don’t risk spoiling anything. I hope you enjoy it!

Content warnings: 

mild homophobia

You can also read this story on my website linked here. 

Letters

August 3rd, 1822

My Dearest Francine, 

I miss you. I miss you, and I’m angry. How dare the seller mislead me into a belief that we would be on this trip together. He assured me that our tickets would send us both from Britain to America together. I thought I’d checked the tickets thoroughly. They showed the same date, the same time of departure, and even the same cabin number. I did not even think to check the ship number at the top of the ticket. 

How annoyed you must be with me. I had assured you I could take care of the tickets, yet you and I had but a minute together on the dock between our realization that we would be separate and our being cast across the ocean on different vessels. My only excuse is that I was misled. 

I was misled, and now I am in pain. 

We promised each other to remain friends for our entire life. We swore an oath to remain by each other's side, yet it is my fault that we must be separated for these six weeks. 

Just before we came aboard these ships, after our brief goodbye and our decision to write these letters, you took my hand into your own and squeezed. I heard the words you spoke quietly, “I won’t do anything but miss you when we’re split up,” and I find myself thinking of these words now. 

They replay over and over in my mind. 

You were, I would venture to guess, speaking of the loneliness I suppose you feared. But I trust you will make friends aboard your ship. I believe you won’t be lonely for long because all those who live with you for your journey will swiftly fall for your charms. I believe it likely you were their friend before the ship left the harbor. I envy these people for being near your side while I am away from you. Though perhaps that is cruel of me, for I would rather you have those beside you with whom you can be gay and genial than be lonesome. 

I do nothing but miss you, though. 

I sit aboard my ship, in a room with strangers, and think of you. I trust the couple who sleeps in the beds opposite of me believe me to be strange. I have written page upon page in my diary in an attempt to reconcile the reward of our trip with the cost of at least six weeks away from you. There is land in America. That much we know. We know we will be able to stay away from cities and away from war. Our king is gone, replaced by extravagance, and America’s ruler holds his position yet. 

I trust our stability and space in America more than what we have felt in Europe over the past decade. Yet my stability aboard this ship is lost. 

My emotions flow with the waves, filled with longing for you, my truest friend. I watch the couple in my room, and I am reminded of the way you and I are able to exist in harmony. I miss the easy way we exist together. I miss so many parts of you. 

Francine, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Two weeks before we departed, I was overcome with endearment for you. It was the night you had Lucille over. The two of you had both finished reading the new book by Mary Shelly, the title escapes me, and you were discussing it together. To speak of it seemed to light a fire within you (It also lit a fire inside our apartment, it did not escape my notice that you did not put out the lamp before you got into bed. I suspect the book left you afraid). 

As you and Lucille spoke, I found myself growing enamored with the way you make an argument. Though I have not yet read the book, I was pulled into your discussion with great attention. You spoke with a passion about the responsibility of creation and the sadness of a dejected child. You conversed enthusiastically about the creature’s desire for love and the assumption that one who was created in his image would be one he could love and one who would love him. 

Though it wasn’t just the content of your speeches which I found fascinating. It was the way you listened, rebutted, and agreed. You leaned forward with care when Lucille spoke of the tragic marriage and the feelings of loneliness experienced by the main character (His name was Frankenstein! I have recalled this is also the title of the novel). You listened as though every word she spoke on the topic had the potential to change or reinforce the way you thought. Your brows were furrowed until they nearly rested between your eyes. 

Your eyes, your beautiful deep brown eyes. Their rich shade contrasts with the copper of your sun warmed skin. They glow with shades of brown, and despite my best efforts, I cannot help but be drawn to stare into them. They were alive with lights and movement as you focused all of your attention on the content of Lucille’s speech. 

You look at me like that sometimes. 

When the conversation’s end arrived, you laughed with her and smiled as you escorted her out of the apartment. I sat quietly in the corner and waited for us to be alone. I believe that for a moment, you forgot I was there, for when the door shut, you began to whistle a tune. It’s one I’ve heard from you before, and I’ve known you to sing it when you’re happy. 

When your eyes finally gazed upon me as I sat with my feet curled up in your chair, your lips rose into a soft smile. That smile. Francine, I think that smile could make me do anything. When you look upon me with that gentle smile, I feel like I’m home. It’s like none of the pain and strife I’ve gone through matters because you’re happy, and I’m with you, so I must be doing something right.

Every smile from you seems to be further evidence of my theory that emotions are contagious among people who are close. When you are happy, it is difficult for me to feel unhappy. Something in the world must be just and right if you are smiling. I trust you. I trust your joy. 

I tell you this, so you know what you do to me with just a smile. I think you would like to know that you bring joy to my life.

You amaze me, Francine. You show courage when fear eclipses our lives and strength when I am taken with weakness. I have seen you face death with mournful peace, and you face life with an optimism it has not given you a reason to have. How could I not want to be your friend? How could I not wish to spend every moment of my life by your side? To live a life with you would satisfy my heart and make me whole. 

There’s a song a husband in my cabin sings at night to his wife. I’ve not heard it before, but I shall sing it to you soon. Amidst the second verse is the line, “Though our ship may rock when we dock, it shall always be you and I.” My Francine, know this is true between us. You are the steady shore I shall return to when this voyage is complete.  

Forever yours (If you’ll have me), 

Mabel

August 7th, 1822

My Mabel, 

Oh, Mabel, it’s been but two weeks aboard this ship. I miss you so much it will bring me to insanity. I’m sure I’ve told those who share my cabin every detail of you. One of them, Darla, seems to actually be interested in those details. Though, she has shown interest in every topic of discussion in part because she has been quite seasick on our journey. Whatever the reason for her attention, I am grateful. 

She lends a listening ear whenever I begin to tell a tale of our life together. I have told her of your kindness and of the things you did for your community in England. The countless sleepless nights spent working to nurse the ill. I told her of your courage. How you continued to face the world even though it has taken so much from you. How you continue on as a widow. How you take life with all its good and all its bad and make it your own.  I told her of your scholarship and the way you’ve dedicated your life to study. Your wish to be a doctor and your dedication to your place as a midwife. I told her of your smile. The way your lips purse and your eyes sparkle. 

I find her listening ear most fortunate as I miss you. The only way to quell the pain of your absence is to speak of you to others. 

Mabel, I hope you are well. I worry when you are away from me. We have not been away from each other for this long in many, many years. I worry something will occur aboard the ship, which will cause you to react within yourself. Every time it happens, I feel the need to worry and dote on you.

 I do hope my doting helps you. You have not told me aloud that it does, but I believe it is gratefulness which I see upon your face in the wake of these moments. If the attention I give you does help, then will you be okay without it? Will things grow worse for you while we are away from each other? I feel your emotional pains have grown less frequent and less invasive over the years. What are we to do if this time apart removes what progress you have made? 

This is selfish of me to think of you, Mabel. It is not as though your emotions are dependent on my presence. Though, the reverse is true. I am miserable without you. I have grown used to you. I feel half of me is aboard another ship. I woke up two days ago to hear Darla speaking with her husband. For a moment, her voice sounded like yours -- gentle yet deliberate. It was morning, and my brain was hazy. I forgot I was aboard the ship without you. My heart warmed at the thought of a simple morning with you. I was nearly distraught when my senses returned. 

It is as I told you as we were separated. I can’t do anything but miss you while we’re apart. I’m convinced it is impossible for my mind to stray from thoughts of you. I return to thoughts of you with near embarrassing frequency. 

Last night I was thinking of you, Mabel. One of the people staying with me, his name is James, brought along two books. He was reading one of them softly to Darla. I felt fortunate he was focused on Darla. He often tries to focus on me. James is convinced my life is incomplete. He is worried for I am unwed. I try to tell him I am not interested. He will not listen. However, when he was reading to Darla, he reminded me of you. I could think of no one else. 

Oh, how I love listening to you read me stories. It doesn’t matter the subject. I will listen attentively to anything you read aloud. You have an exquisite voice. You take such care to read accurately. Though you stumble on words, you dash back to correct yourself. These mistakes bother you. I can tell by the furrow of your brow when it occurs. I find your dedication to reading the words as they are written admirable. Your mannerisms when you fumble in fluency make my heart flutter. There is something vulnerable in your corrections. It reminds me you are not practiced in the art of public speaking. You merely read for me because I ask. I fall more in love with you in these moments. 

If only you loved me back in the same way, Mabel. That would make my life complete. I know it can’t be so. Even after all these years, you still see me as a friend. It would bring me grand euphoria if you saw me as more in a different way, a more romantic way. I am confident you do not. I would know if you did. As someone who has known you for so much of my life, I pride myself in knowing how to read you. I saw you in love with your husband Theodore before we lost him to time. 

You do not look at me as you looked at him. You look at me how you have always looked at me. You look at me as a friend and a companion in life. Perhaps one day, I will be lucky enough to be looked upon with romance. For now, I will cherish what we have. I shall not beg for anymore. To settle for friendship with you is to settle for the fortune of all the world’s empires. 

Goodness, this began as a letter to you. The final paragraphs have truly turned into a diary page. I shall try again to write to you. This time I will take more care to only write words which I wish for you to see. I shall still sign off, it feels rude otherwise. 

Until I see you again upon the shore, 

Francine

A note submitted with the letter

To whom it may concern,

I found these two letters (journal entries?) in my apartment. According to my landlord, they must have been handed over as part of this apartment many times. They were never noticed because they were shut inside a book that had been placed on top of a high kitchen cabinet. After it was placed there, the ceiling sagged with age until it rested on the lip of the cabinet.

I had a leak elsewhere in the ceiling this summer, so my landlord had the whole thing replaced. I have been cleaning up after the construction and noticed there was now a gap between the ceiling and the cabinet. In that gap, I found a copy of Prometheus Unbound by Percy Shelly, which held these papers. 

When I asked my landlord who they could be from, he looked into the records of tenants from around when the letters were dated (August 1822). Two tenants lived here then: Melvin and Francine. Their last name is smudged in the old record book, so we can’t read it. They only lived in my building for about three months. 

Unfortunately, I don’t know more than that. A friend of mine recommended I turn them over to your archive.

Best, 

Ruby Dawson

Outroduction

So there’s a bit of an ambiguous ending after that paper stored with this story in the archival department of the New York Public Library. But I suppose we can hope that Mabel’s letter made it to Francine, and that is why they were able to be stored together. 

Either way, the pining words of these two women feel so familiar when I read them. The emotions they felt over 200 years ago resonate well today. 

Stay queer and take care of yourself, 

Chrys

[queer-triple-a]

A Catholic Transition

Introduction

Hello!

Before I say anything else, I need to tell you that today’s story deals so so much with religion. Specifically, it deals with Catholicism. 

I found this story mostly by accident. I didn’t realize the writer was actually living in a convent when she started this journal until I had already read the first translated entry. I could see that it was a very religious person and was already writing it off as something I didn’t even need to finish. 

Then it got Queer. 

So I’m sharing this story with the major asterisk that this character is Catholic and talks A LOT about Catholicism. This includes many direct bible quotes. 

(See endnotes for information about King James, of the King James Bible)

(And a link to information about lesbian nuns and gay priests)

My publishing of this story is not an endorsement of the Catholic Church. It is meant to show another way a queer person has existed in history. This person's religious journey is entangled with their queer journey. 

If reading something with multiple bible quotes by a person who belongs to the Catholic church is not for you, then please take care of yourself and skip this one. No judgment from me. 

That being said, if you do choose to read this, I hope you find something meaningful in these journals.

(Oh, also, this journal is from sometime in the mid 1400s and was translated from Italian. The bible verses were in Latin. They used the New International Version translation of the bible. And because the numbers on the psalms didn’t match up and I got confused, It turns out psalm numbers shifted by one at one point. So the translated psalms use modern numbers, but the original text does not.)

Content Warnings: 

Catholicism

Direct Bible Quotes

Authors Note link

Link to this story on my site 

Journal

Psalm 139 1 You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. 2 You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. 3 You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. 4 Before a word is on my tongue you, Lord, know it completely. 5 You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me. 6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain.

Oh gracious and everloving God My every thought is subject to your knowledge You know the struggles which I hold my heart You hear the prayers I say in privacy Desires which pass from my lips are known by you before I take breath

What I know of my heart, you must also know. I pray for respite from this powerful wisdom I long to unknow my soul For it is not that of a brother, but a sister

I have said my prayers Yet, my knowledge remains steadfast and firm Are my prayers to be unanswered? The Son says what we ask shall be received? I ask for this knowledge to be taken from me I pray my soul becomes as my brothers Again and again I lift my voice in words you hear. I hurt, and you know my pain.

As the persistent widow of the Gospel of Luke, I shall persist I pray again for relief from pain or clarity of your path and your divine design Amen

[The first page of this image is included below. The second page is translated in the next section. This was done in order to distinguish different entries in the journal]

Psalm 13913 For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 14 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. 15 My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. 16 Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

In a new day, I feel your love Your answer to my prayers and my turmoil

Oh Lord, you who made me as I am You knew me before my first breath As I was created in her womb Crafted carefully by your hands My mother knew not if I was son or daughter

But you knew even then Oh all knowing and ever loving God, If my self was not hidden from your sight as my mother carried me Then you, who made my body and knew my soul, Made me as I am.

The poor match of body and soul May therefore be by your design. For I am made in your image I am made by your hands You formed this path before me

You are the God of Hope If my path is that of a Brother I feel no hope

I recall Psalm 16 11 You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.

If my path is that of a brother There is no fullness of Joy

I trust your word, Oh Lord Through prayer and meditation I begin to see my path

A Sister in Christ. A life devoted to God the Father. My prayers from the lips of a woman. I shall be myself to others As you have always known me.

Oh gracious, all-knowing God Who formed me and knows me I ask of you the fortitude to see myself fully You are the way and the truth, oh God I pray that you might guide me along this path I have been lost in myself Let this new sight not blind me to your will In Jesus name, I pray Amen

[The translation below only includes the second page of the above image.]

[ The first page of this image is included below. The second page is translated in the next section. This was done in order to distinguish different entries in the journal.]

Psalm 28 6 “Praise be to the Lord, for he has heard my cry for mercy. 7 The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy and with my song I praise him.”

My Lord, I pray I understand the way you’ve set before me. It is by your will and in accordance with my prayers that I shall move to the Monastery of Saint Marinos. You have opened a path for a brother of my monastery to join their religious community. Though it is expected that a brother lost will be a brother gained, I know the rumors The records there are not well kept. I now see it may have been your plan that I should hear stories of Brothers who ran unnoticed of Sisters who appeared unannounced. Surely this is the path I must take if I want to serve my Lord as a woman. Surely this is the path I must take if I want to serve my Lord as myself. If it is not the way you’d have me take, please guide Brother Edwy to choose another for this movement. I have pledged you my obedience. No matter the personal cost or reward, I shall obey thy will. As your one and only Son said on the eve of his death, “Let not my will, but Yours be done” In his name I pray, Amen

[The translation below only includes the second page of the above image.]

[The first page of this image is included below. The second page is translated in the next section. This was done in order to distinguish different entries in the journal.]

Psalm 66 1 Shout for joy to God, all the earth! 2 Sing the glory of his name; make his praise glorious.

19 But surely God has listened to and has heard my prayer. 20 Praise be to God, who has not rejected my prayer or withheld his love from me!

My Lord, I praise you and thank you. My mind is filled with the bountiful answer to my prayers I have found it a spiritual challenge to kneel in prayer for anything but gratitude to you my Lord I sing Thanks Be To God! For I was welcomed into this new convent with grace and kindness. There is no doubt in who I am. I give you thanks that those who believe in your truth believe in mine as well. My truth, as Sister Agnus, is now aligned with your path - your truth for me I exalt your guidance, which brought me here.

It is through trust in you that I complete my days. I was not trained in a convent - but a monastery. There are rituals which overlap, but there are differences as well. In these moments, I turn to you, and you answer me.

You guide me through the dark and into the brilliant sunlight. I thank you Lord, with all that I am, I thank You Amen

[The translation below only includes the second page of the above image.]

[The first page of this image is included below. The second page is translated in the next section. This was done in order to distinguish different entries in the journal.]

I have begun to study the stories of your daughters Oh Lord In my research, I find sisterhood I see beyond my desire to be as they are - A want which I only now know how to name - I see myself and my story in these women

1 Samuel 1 26 and she said to him, “Pardon me, my lord. As surely as you live, I am the woman who stood here beside you praying to the Lord. 27 I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him. 28 So now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given over to the Lord.” And he worshiped the Lord there.”

As Hannah before me, I prayed We prayed to you through doubt A private mantra - a conversation between ourselves and our God Hannah Prayed for a child In her dedicated piety she promised the bounty of her prayer to you I, too, offer what I received from prayer Myself - as I am - has been dedicated to you

As your ancestor Ruth I left my home With uncertain future I set my sights on a relationship with god Ruth received in you a family, I received the same: a Sisterhood

As the women of the bible, I give you my all In your name I pray Amen

[The translation below only includes the second page of the above image.]

God bless me with strength and peace Brother Edwy shall visit tomorrow I pray for your grace and guidance if he should recognize me. Please grant my brother in Christ your sight and your wisdom. If it happens that he sees me Let him see my faith and joy as Sister Agnus Let him have the wisdom to recognize Sister Agnus as the servant of God he has known before. Let him see me and know me as you do In Jesus name I pray Amen

My memory of the blessing said over me by Brother Edwy

I bless you in the name of The Father The Son The Holy Ghost The Blessed Trinity of Identity God in Three Persons

Lord I did not know the plans you held for Brother Linus when he left the monastery Nor do I know now what the future holds for Sister Aguns I put my faith in you to guide her forward

Our shared vocation is built upon a shared personal relationship with the Lord And supported by a community of God’s children united in one faith, one purpose I shall neither question the strength of my sisters devotion nor the community she has made her home For she is your child and is made righteous in her service unto you

Sister Agnus is a vessel for your good works, Oh God. Bring her your peace as she walks the path you have laid before her In your name, I bless her, May your peace and love be with her always, Amen

Psalm 62 1 Truly my soul finds rest in God; my salvation comes from him. 2 Truly he is my rock and my salvation’ he is my fortress, I will never be shaken.

My soul is filled with the peace and love of God

Outroduction

As promised, here are some tangents about the queer history of Catholicism.

information about King James

Podcast episode about Lesbian Nuns and Gay Priests

To those who skipped to the end notes, your choices are valid, and so are you. I hope to see you next time. I promise it won’t be more religion. 

To those who didn’t skip, thank you for reading this story. Despite its messy context, I think it’s still valuable that this story is shared. I hope you agree. 

Queer people are everywhere, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Chrys

[queer-triple-a]

A Homosexual Homestead

Introduction

Hello!

Today I have a story to share with you, which is told through Journals. I really enjoy the story here; however, I do need to preface these with some information.

This story involves a lot of discussions and actions related to the Westward Expansion of white people in the United States. Specifically the Homestead Acts of 1862.

This expansion was done with little to no respect for or acknowledgment of Indigenous Peoples and their cultures or their use of the land. While the people whose stories are chronicled in this journal never encounter indigenous people (or they never wrote it down if they did), they are still using a racist tool of a colonizing government to lay claim to land which their government had no ownership of.

At the end of the story, I’ve linked information and resources if you’d like to learn more about indigenous people, westward expansion, or The Homestead Acts.

I think there is still value in sharing this story, but I wanted to make sure it existed with the proper historical context.

The story below is precious and heartwarming. I hope you enjoy it.

Happy reading

Content Warnings:

Familial expectation to marry

Mentions of family death

Colonization of Indigenous land

Also posted assumptive-anthology.com

Journal

April 29th

I’m suffocating here. There is not enough space to love her. 

Today I told Opal I wished we could leave this town. We fought, and I think we nearly left each other over it. I would not blame her if she left me. I have become irritable and upset as of late. The frustration of this life is binding me so tight that I lash out at her. If we could leave, perhaps it would be easier for me. But she does not want to leave, and I am trying to make peace with this knowledge. 

It would be different if she acknowledged that she felt the same, but it's like she doesn't even care. It’s as though the fact that no one understands what we are is perfectly fine to her. It’s not fine to me, though. I want to love her loudly. I don’t know if I should be hurt or not, that she is okay to love me quietly. Not just quietly, but to love me in secret. I guess maybe I should be happy she doesn't need what we can't have. Maybe I should do what she does and not let it bother me. I could try, at least. 

I don't like hoarding all of this anger within me. Which I suppose is why I told her about this in the first place, though she wanted nothing to do with that anger.

The candlelight is dwindling, and she is coming to bed soon. If only she could sleep beside me. Our separate bunks will once again haunt my dreams. 

April 30th

I deemed it necessary to write in the morning today, for late last night, I spoke with her. I was mistaken. She is not happy either. She merely does not see a solution and has thus pushed her pain aside. I also see no solution, but do not possess the same ability to ignore this. We spoke for quite some time about the pain and strife, and I was reminded of the joy of sharing my life with her. I felt much lighter after having spoken with her. We shared our fears, and we have similar concerns. It felt good to hear that I was not alone. As I have grown to expect, she is walking with me on this journey. 

May 4th

Opal’s ability to hold her pain so close to her chest has broken. When I returned home from dropping off a client’s dress today, I found her inconsolable on the floor of our kitchen. She would not let me touch her for some time. She only handed me a letter from her mother’s sister. Her aunt informed her that Opal’s mother intends to steal Opal away from me. She does not trust my seamstress wage to sustain us both. She doesn’t understand why Opal moved away from home- she never has. Apparently, she is insisting that Opal would do better living at home. She wants to come remove her from my life- from our life. 

I have rarely in my life felt so helpless. I sat with gentle tears rolling down my face as the love of my life sobbed with all of her energy. It is a testament to her strength how long she was able to continue the exhausting act. 

Eventually, her body’s shakes turned to trembles and the sobs to sniffles, and she allowed me to hold her. I carried her to her bed and held her until she fell asleep. I tried to think of something to say, but every word rang hollow in my mind, and I knew it would be meaningless in her pain. I only left her now to use the restroom and write down my experiences of the day. I have forgotten what else of my day I had intended to write here. 

Nothing matters except her. 

Opal is stirring. I shall rejoin her and stay in her bunk tonight.

May 5th

Today was better. I had several dresses for local girls, which I was to finish sewing, and Opal is to hear back soon on her application to the new shoe factory. We are hopeful that if she gets a job, her mother will relent in her insistence that Opal is better off at home. 

It is said this factory will accept female workers there if they are skilled, and I know my love is skilled. Her father taught her much when she was young, and now I suspect she knows more about shoe making than many of the men who are hired. (Sometimes, I have heard her wish aloud that she was a man, that this might help her receive better jobs and higher wages. I remind her that her feminine charm is what attracted me to her, and she often grows quiet. There is a smile on her face in those moments that I yearn to understand.)

With Opal’s permission, I burnt the letter from her aunt in the fire. She was not in the room, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away. The anger at those who have caused her such pain roared within me as the fire turned their words to embers. 

May 7th

Opal did not get the job. 

May 8th

I have been talking a lot about running away. I don’t know exactly where I’d go, but I know I want to leave. The idea of getting out to a world where I can dance with my love without worrying someone will enter without our noticing is intoxicating. I desperately long to be near her in public, outside of the confines of our home, and to live our life together with less interference and opinions. 

I do not think Opal likes these conversations, though she has told me she doesn’t mind. Her expression sours when I bring it up. Yet I cannot help but talk about it. I feel trapped, and I can see the way the cage is holding Opal as well. 

I think the discussion of leaving makes her feel guilty. I think the idea may be more radical than she is comfortable with. She has a family here. She has a life and a history here. 

And I would stay for her. If she is never ready to go somewhere else, then I will never leave. I hope she knows that. Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell her. Right now, she is asleep across the room. 

The moonlight is perfectly angled tonight. It glows upon her pink cheeks and shines off of her brown hair. She always insists she is jealous of the curl of my hair, but the glow of the moon would not bounce off of mine in such a luminous way. 

She sighs a lot in her sleep, as though she is having an exhaustive conversation with me in which I insist eating nothing but bread and butter would be perfectly acceptable for the rest of our lives. I can nearly hear her mutter “flavor” as she sighs. But she does not. I know this. In the 3 years we have been living together, I have never once heard her speak in her sleep. One night when both of us were suffering from a fever, I believe I heard her whistling through her nose, but otherwise, she remains a quiet sleeper. 

Her eyelids are moving gently in dreams. It crinkles her face some, and a selfish part of me hopes that one day she grows wrinkles where sleep folds her face. Wrinkles that only I would understand. 

Part of me hopes I one day will get to kiss those wrinkles with the window’s blinds open without the fear of gossip. 

To write by only the light of the moon has begun to give me a headache. I shall retire to admiring her silently until sleep takes me.

May 12th

Opal’s mother, April, came over today. She has never been a shouter (According to Opal), but the disappointment was clear on her face. She did not take her shoes off as she entered. Upon arriving (without giving us more than a half day’s notice), she began to judge the size of our small home. She asked about money and how much work I got. At one point, she implied that no husband would ever let Opal live in such a terrible place.  

The worst was over dinner. Our friends Austin and James (two gentlemen much like ourselves in their struggles) came over since we did not have time to cancel our plans. She spent much of the night trying to enquire about why none of us were dating. Had we ever dated? Well, why not? Surely it was worth trying? What types of dates would one even go on around here? Oh, to the pond? Well, HER Opal loves the pond. 

It was exhausting. And we did not yet get a chance to apologize because April insisted on walking them out with us. The only thing which would have made the evening more embarrassing is if April had thought it appropriate to comment on the brown color of either man’s skin. Thankfully she held her tongue in this regard. 

We went to bed early, and I didn’t dare even hug Opal before we went to bed. To risk such behavior would have caused Opal nothing but worry. Her mother is staying the night. We hope she will leave in the morning. 

May 13th

Opal spent most of today with tear stains trailing down her face. I did not see her cry, though I suspect she pulled herself together whenever I entered a room. I wish she knew she did not need to do that. I tried to talk to her several times today about what had happened, but all she would say is that we should have Austin and James over soon to apologize. 

We sat together for much of the day. I had sewing work to be done as she looked through the paper and read a book. Since losing the opportunity of employment, she has taken to reading more during the day when chores do not occupy her. 

Austin and James were able to come over tonight. Opal cleaned up well before dinner and seemed less upset throughout. Though once our friends (who were more than understanding about last night) left, the facade fell, and she left me alone to clean up. I found her on her bed. When I attempted to hold her, she asked for space. She apologized and said she hoped her spirits would be raised tomorrow. I hope so too. And I hope April never visits us again. 

May 14th

We are moving next week. For a small fee, we can move to land in the countryside that is uninhabited and claim it as our own. The government will basically give us this land if we help them to cultivate the empty space. They say no one inhabits the entire center of our country. 

It wasn’t even my idea, my Opal, my radiant Opal, the joy of my life and keeper of my heart, read of this opportunity in the newspaper yesterday. She recommended this path for our lives, and I had only to imagine our free future to become convinced it was the best option for us. 

Opal seems better today as well, her spirits are not quite as crushed as they were yesterday, and my optimism about her suggestion seems to be contagious. She suggested we discuss this with Austin. He is more like me and has often talked of “getting out of this town.” Now we have our chance. 

I am going to retire from writing early tonight in hopes that my Opal’s mood is optimistic enough that she will let me lay beside her tonight. Oh, how she makes my heart flutter. 

June 3rd

We have bought a wagon and a mule, and tomorrow morning we will head west. James has been conversing with several more knowledgeable people about the best paths to take. He shall lead our small caravan out to our freedom. We four will share a plot of land to start. Though we hope to each own our own plots eventually. They say single women, such as myself and Opal, and men with brown skin, like James and Austin, can own and farm the land. We will start with a single home to house all four of us, but we plan to eventually build two homes on the land we amass. One for each couple. Though we will eventually separate our living quarters, we will always visit frequently. I have had to promise this to Austin many times in the past week in order to assuage his fears. He may be more nervous than my Opal. 

My Opal has just sent the letter to her mother, and I await her anger and wrath tomorrow morning. I pray we will leave before her fastest carriage can pull her to our home, but I fear she will be determined to have her words heard. Though a part of me worries she will convince my heart to stay here and that, by extension, I will stay here, I also trust Opal. She has said that she will go no matter what her mother says. I shouldn’t doubt her.

I must go. Opal has beckoned me to bed with her one final time in this cottage. It would be unforgivable for me to leave the dazzling lady waiting a moment more.

June 4th

It was her singing which made the travel bearable. When making our plans, we did not prepare for the possibility that my stomach would turn in knots as our mules pulled us forward. The only thing that brought some peace (in the form of distraction) was her singing. She has such a beautiful voice. Like a gentle wind chime playing just for me. 

James and Austin stopped less frequently than we were forced to, but our friends were kind enough to stop before the sun set. We caught up to them just as the darkness overtook the gentle colors of the sky. I am grateful for the solid ground tonight. In our plans, we had discussed driving in shifts and sleeping on our wagons. I do not think I would have slept. The ground does not move and sway beneath me. My stomach has finally settled as my head rests on the ground beside my love. 

She sang me a song I had never heard her sing before. It was mournful and gentle in its tale. It wove beautiful melodies together with the tale of an absent father. I wonder if her mother taught her the song. I wonder again why she has never mentioned a grandfather. 

In her song and the lyrics she chose to share with me on our first day’s journey, I felt her pain. To leave behind my family was simple. We are not close, and my parents are not kind. My only regret is that I am leaving behind the graves of my 3 siblings, who never got to grow up. I do not mourn for the living. I think Opal does. I think she misses her mother, despite the misfortune of their last few encounters. 

April was a kind woman. She was not one to give in to bouts of rage and, until the past year, had loved each of her children equally and loudly. The clearest image of her in my mind is of her face as her eldest son was wed. She wore a face of such ecstasy as tears of joy were patted away with a handkerchief. It was the kind of joy that leaked out of a person and into everyone lucky enough to stand around them. I only wish she could have seen a future for Opal in which she wasn’t dependent on a father or a husband.  

Opal is telling me to stop writing by firelight and go to sleep. She is, of course, quite wise, so I shall listen to her advice. 

[Between the two pages shown, there were many small notes about how the building is going. They seem to eventually have a house that the 4 of them will share for the winter, and they will build a second one on a second plot of land next spring. Homesteading was hard and a lot of effort. The journal passages are short and often just venting frustrations. None of them contain many contexts and seem quickly written. They’ve been omitted here for length and continuity of the story I’m trying to tell.]

September 21st

I have had too much on my mind to write for the past few months. This journal has sat abandoned. Yet tonight, I find I must record the events that have occurred. 

I have never had a better day than today. This morning as the world began to wake up, I had my breath stolen from me by Opal’s easy beauty. I couldn’t help but once again profess my love for her aloud. She giggled and kissed me sweetly, telling me how she felt the same about me. 

I thought both men had been out in the yard working, but as we held each other close, James asked, “Would you be married?”

After we were startled for a moment, Opal said, “We can’t.” 

The magic of the moment had left her quite quickly. Wanting to keep it alive a little longer, I said, “Yes, of course I would.” 

Opal stared at me as if this surprised her, though I don’t understand why it should. 

“Of course, I would marry you,” I repeated, taking her hands in my own. 

“You’ve never said,” Opal told me. 

“I thought you knew,” I told her. Besides, it’s not like we’d been able to be loud about how we felt before. Even now, to have spoken those words makes me nervous. 

She kissed me, and I swear I melted into the floor. Her answer was as clear as day. She’d marry me too. 

We didn’t stop until James coughed from where he stood and got our attention. I tried to pretend to be ashamed of it, but I wasn’t. I moved west, so I didn’t have to be ashamed. 

Then James asked, “Wanna have a ceremony?” 

It took Opal and me about 10 minutes of questioning to understand what he meant, given that there were only four of us and none of us was a pastor, but we did it today. We all put on our best clothes, and Austin married us. 

It’s not official, but it was never going to be. Opal couldn’t stop crying the entire day. She kept looking at me, blushing, and looking away. At first, I was worried this wasn’t what she wanted, but just before we went outside to hold our “ceremony,” she kissed me and told me she’d been spending the whole day trying to figure out how lucky she was to love me and to be loved by me. It took a lot of restraint not to kiss her senseless right then. 

We stood holding hands as Austin spoke of our love and what he’d seen in the time he’d known us. He journals like me, but I think his is more poetry than mine. When I’ve seen him get drunk, he often starts trying to speak in verse. It’s clear to me now that when sober, his words can hold so much weight. He told our story with joy and tenderness. 

I’ll admit that I cried. So did Opal. (So did James, but he denies it even though I absolutely watched it happen).

 I’d sewn some cloth into rings for us. They won’t last long, but they served their purpose today. Maybe eventually, we’ll have the money to buy real rings. I don’t care either way, and I don’t think Opal minds either. 

I didn’t realize just how much this small party would mean to me until later in the evening. Drunk on the excitement of the day (and two mugs of ale), James sat with me, watching Opal and Austin dance like fools.

“You’ve got a beautiful wife,” he told me. 

A wife! I’ve got a wife!

I’m getting so excited by this that I nearly can no longer write. The only thing keeping me from putting down my journal and dragging her to bed is the sound of her voice singing songs with James by the fire. It would be a sin to stop her from singing. And she looks so happy and free. I think I’ll just keep watching her, soaking in her joy and turning it into my own love, until her songs grow quiet for the night.

Outroduction

I hope you enjoyed reading this charming love story! 

I didn’t have enough information to find the record of their official acquisition of the land, so unfortunately, we don’t know how the story ends for these couples. 

We do know that for that moment in time, they were in love, and they were able to exist happily within that love. 

I hope that moment lasted for a very long time. 

Thanks for reading. 

Links

First Nations Knowledge Center

This Land by Crooked Media

Native History Project from Grinnell University lesson on the Homestead Act 

Crash Course US History on Westward Expansion

Link to Purchase An Indigenous People's history of the United States

[queer-triple-a]

A Pretty Man

Introduction

Hello, Lovelies!

For the first time in 3 posts, I am the one who found this story. I was perusing and came across Theodore’s journals from the late 17th century. Like the journals from Maribel a few months ago, this one was not originally written in English. It was written in a crude germanic dialect which actually allowed the people who keep this journal to give a good idea of where Theodore lived. 

There are some notes at the end of this story as to the ending (it’s a tad open ended). So make sure to read those after you’re done reading the journals themselves. 

The English translations will be shown below the German photographs. 

Mentions of death (maternal)

Depictions of Panic attack/flashback

Ableism

Also posted assumptive-anthology.com

The Journal of Theodore

Helen says it is strange to say they are both pretty. Helen doesn’t find people pretty. Helen plans to never find people pretty. Helen has never said anyone is pretty, so I do not trust her. They are both pretty. Even though one of them is a boy. They arrived in town last week, and I was sure they would not stay for very long. They are now being helped to build a new home. It will be a short walk from my home.

They are both very pretty. Their names are Matthew and Frances. I wrote this down as if I would ever forget their names. 

Matthew is white like me. He keeps his hair short. His hair is brown. It is a lighter shade than my brown hair. 

Frances is brown. She is a lighter brown than Helen. Helen says it is possible only one of her parents is brown. Her hair is brown and wavy. It is as dark brown as my hair. The covering she wore on it is nice. It is blue, and it made Helen jealous.

I still have not met the new people. Helen met them yesterday. She will work with Frances. Apparently, Frances is a very good seamstress. Helen will work with Frances. Matthew will spend his time with Helen and Frances until he finds work.

Perhaps it is good that I will not work with them. I should not become too interested in Matthew. Frances is with Matthew. I cannot be with Matthew. 

I wish I could be with Matthew, but I will not say this out loud.

I said to Helen that she does not find people pretty. She says she does find them pretty. She does not think this matters. She doesn’t know why I care that Matthew is very very pretty. Perhaps I should not care also?

I will describe Matthew and Frances now. I will do this to practice writing. I will also do this because I cannot stop thinking about Matthew, and I cannot stop thinking about Frances.

Matthew is like a bee hive. I do not notice him until he demands attention. 

No, this is bad. 

Matthew is like a candle lit before dusk. He appears before I think to wish for him and remains a steady presence.

That is better. 

Matthew is like a new home. I do not know how. 

I will move on to Frances.

Frances is like Helen. She is a funny seamstress. 

That is a fact. 

Frances is not like Helen, because Frances has hair which makes me smile. She has hair which does not sit still. It is like the breeze when the breeze blows through it. 

Frances has hair which curves around her head like a nest. That is mean. I do not want to be mean to Frances’s hair. 

Frances has hair which sits in the air as if the rules of earth do not apply. I do not want to call it witchcraft, but I am in awe that it is possible. The color is beautiful. It is like wheat, but a darker color. 

Oh! That is a good comparison. 

Frances has hair like brown wheat. It waves in the wind. 

That is good. 

Frances is like wheat. Matthew is pretty like a good house. 

It is not always about how Matthew looks. It is about how Matthew acts. He is calm and sturdy. 

Matthew is like a new house. He is sturdy and I trust him. 

Matthew is also patient. This is how Matthew is like a candle. Matthew is patient.

I accidentally showed my hand to Frances. She was not surprised. No, that is not true. She was surprised, but she was not upset. This made me happy. I would not be surprised if she told Matthew. He was looking at my hand today. I kept it in my pocket while he was there. I do not need him to know. I do not like it when new people know about my hand.

Helen’s mom is dead. I do not know how to write about this. It is not because I do not know how to spell the words. I do not know how to put words in an order which explains how I feel. I do not know how to write about death. Helen tries not to cry in front of me. I think she does not cry because her brothers do not cry. Helen needs to cry. Helen’s mom is dead.

Helen is making a black cloth to wear. Her clothes are always nice. She is good at her craft. Her mother taught her well.

Frances has a head scarf made of black cloth. She is letting Helen have it since she is in mourning. Frances helped Helen wrap her hair. I think Frances was crying. I am not sure. 

Frances knows letters too. Frances knows how to put letters on cloth with thread. Frances wrote Helen’s mother’s name on a cloth. Her name is spelled “Beatrice”. Helen read it, then she held the cloth to her chest. Helen cried. I do not like to watch Helen cry. I was glad that Helen did cry. 

When Helen cries it is like a candle’s smell. You know the smell is needed for the light, the smell is still bad. 

That was not good. Helen deserves a better comparison. I want to do more for Helen. Frances made her happy. Frances tries to make everyone happy. When it is possible, she succeeds.

Frances and Matthew invited me and Helen into their home. Matthew did see my hand while I was there. He did not laugh at its shape. He did not ask me about my mother. He did not ask any questions. He smiled up at me after he saw it. I did not understand this smile. 

Helen asked Frances and Matthew lots of questions. She asked them about where they came from. 

They are from nearby. Matthew fought in the war. They only stayed in the other town a little while after Matthew returned from war. I do not know why. They did not say. 

I have forgotten to write down the exciting news. Matthew is not married to Frances. It is odd for me to be excited about this. I am not excited because Frances is unmarried. I am excited because Matthew is unmarried.  

After I found this out I asked if Matthew had a wife. He does not. He looked at Frances before he answered this question. Matthew and Frances sat very close even though they are not married. 

While we were in their house, I noticed that there is cloth beside their bed in a pile. I think there were a lot of small pieces of cloth with names on them. They looked like the cloth that Frances gave Helen for her mom. There were many of them. I could not count them fast.

I asked what they were. Frances said they were for friends. Matthew did not answer. We left shortly after. I walked past their house later that night. I think I heard Matthew crying. I wish he did not need to cry. I hope I did not make him upset. 

Matthew has begun to be a doctor in town. I think Helen talked to him. Helen is good at making people do things. Helen made me be the apprentice to Leonard. Now I am the chandler. I hope Matthew being a doctor is like me being a chandler. I hope it lasts for a long time. I like Matthew being around. I like Matthew a lot.

Alice is like a candle. Alice has no brain. 

Today I delivered candles to Alice. Alice has heard that Matthew is going to be a doctor in town. Alice heard Matthew helped Simon’s son’s cough. Alice said to me that I should talk to Matthew. I told Alice I often talked to Matthew. Alice said something stupid next. Alice told me I should have Matthew help fix my hand. 

If Alice ever steals my notebook and learns to read I want her to read this line first

Alice, that is dumb. 

Alice, you are dumb. 

Alice, my hand will not grow back. Alice I do not have a hand to fix. 

Maybe I should be nicer, even though no one will ever read this.

No. This is for me. I will be mean. Alice did not use her brain to do this. Her husband must be very good at math since he is the one who does money for the old Lord. He must not teach her anything. She does not have a brain. 

Alice is like her husband. Except she is not. Her husband has a brain.

I do not know what was wrong with Matthew. He was talking to me while I made candles. This is normal. Then I dropped something. It was loud. Then Matthew was not talking. He did not talk. He was shaking. I was afraid because it was strange. The last time I saw someone shake was before Helen’s mom died. Her mom shook a lot before she died. I was worried Matthew would die. I do not want Matthew to die. I like Matthew. I think Matthew is my best friend. Except for Helen. I will not tell Helen I wrote that. 

Matthew stopped shaking and started crying. He fell onto himself. Then he fell off of the stool and onto the floor. He was crying. I asked if he was okay. He said he was too okay. I do not know what that means. Is Matthew so good at being a doctor he made himself too healthy? 

I did not know what to do. I sat and did not make candles. I ruined one candle because I was waiting. I tried to touch him for comfort. He did not like this. He did not want to be touched. So I stayed with him. I hope staying with him was enough. 

When he stopped he thanked me for staying. Of course I stayed. I just wanted to do more than stay. I wanted to help. Also, he is my friend. I would not leave him when he is sick or too healthy. I wish I knew what hurt him. 

I asked if he was better when he was done. He told me he would not get better. He told me he needed Frances. 

I asked if Frances made it better. He said she tried. He said she would be there for him. 

I told him I could be there for him. I said this like a child. I said this because I wished he would stay. I did not think he would stay. I said this like a child who wants to win the prize they are too young to win. 

This is a bad comparison though. I won the prize. Matthew said he would stay if I would put my arms around him and squeeze him tight. 

I held out my hand to remind him I could not squeeze with one hand. He gave me a look that I did not understand. 

He asked me what I meant. I told him. He said my hand did not matter for an embrace. 

Then I embraced Matthew. He smelled like my candle shop and like his home. He began to cry again. I held him tighter. He was right. I did not need my hand. 

Frances arrived soon and was confused. Then she was worried for Matthew. Then she took Matthew home to sleep. 

I was like a child again. I said he could sleep at my house. She said no. She said he might have a nightmare. I said I have had nightmares too. She smiled at me. She took Matthew home. 

I will go to bed now. I will think about Matthew when I go to bed.

I spoke with Matthew today. He looked tired. He was still pretty, but he was tired. I did not ask if he had a nightmare. He did not tell me. 

I asked if he was better. He did not answer this with simple words. Instead we talked for a long time. Matthew told me about his life. It was a story about a war and death and fear. I will not write his story down. It is not my story. And it is hard. 

Matthew's story is like a maze. 

Matthew tells stories like he is telling a prayer. 

Matthew had not told this story before. I asked if he'd told Frances. He said he had not. He said he had never said this story out loud before. 

I wonder how he can put his words in such a pretty order without thought. 

I asked if he wrote prayers or poetry. He said not yet. 

When he was finished telling me his story he was shaking slightly. This worried Me again. I asked if I could hug him again. He said yes. 

Embracing Matthew is like holding a leaf steady in a breeze. 

He relaxed in my arms. 

We talked a little when he was done. I waited until he let go first. He held onto me for a while. I felt his fingers grip my back. I tried to do the same. I only have one hand, but he seemed to appreciate it anyway. 

Matthew is a man, but Matthew is very pretty and very kind. I am glad I was there for Matthew today.

Today was funny. Helen, Frances, Matthew, and I ate dinner together. It is always fun to be with friends. Frances gave me a gift. It is one of the pieces of cloth she gives when someone dies. She knows that I know how to read, so she let me read it. The cloth had the words “Left Hand of Theodore” on it. I laughed a lot at this. So did Helen once I read it out loud. Frances smiled a lot. Matthew did not seem to find it as funny. Matthew did enjoy that we were laughing.

Being with my friends is like being with a warm fire.

I will sleep well, and I will have happy dreams.

This is the first year I will be able to spend the winter celebration with Matthew and Frances. I got them gifts. They did the same for me. It was lovely to celebrate with them. Since Helen's mom died and her brothers live far away none of us have a family to celebrate with. 

We celebrate with each other. 

I gave Matthew a journal. He has several, but this one was bound in leather and decorated by a local leather maker. It has a strap for his belt and a latch to keep the pages safe. He loved it. He said he might begin to write a poem in it. 

I gave Helen 2 candles, as I do every year. 

I gave Frances special fleece from a local farm. I do not know why it is special, but she could tell and she enjoyed it. 

Helen gave me a new shirt, as she does every year. 

Frances gave me a pair of gloves. They both fit. She made a glove specifically to fit my hand that is not a hand. It fits just right. I almost cried. My hand will now be warm. I love the gift. 

Matthew gave me a small book he owned. I now own three books. He said he loves this book. He wants me to have the book he loves. He wants me to enjoy the book he enjoys. I trust so much that I will like this book. I like Matthew. 

I love Matthew.

Helen asked if I was in love with Matthew. I told her no. Helen asked if I had thought about it. I paused. Then I answered no again. She asked this while I was working. I did not have time. I kept making the candle I was going to sell in my store front. 

Helen asked how I knew if I was in love with Matthew. I asked if Helen was in love with Frances. She did not like this question. She said I was not being serious. She was right. 

We were quiet for a little while. I kept making candles. They are made of beeswax so they will smell nice and I will make good money from them. 

Helen was quiet when she spoke next. She told me sometimes when Matthew looks at me Helen thinks there is love in his eyes. 

I do not know how she knows this. Neither does Helen. She could not explain it. 

I asked her why she thinks I could love a man in that way. It seems impossible for me to feel that way. 

Helen told me since she does not love at all maybe I had the love she was meant to give a man. 

I looked to her. I know this is not true. I told her so. She does love. She loves differently and does not understand people being pretty. It does not mean she does not love. 

She told me she knew what I said. This was a joke. 

I told her it was a bad joke. 

She told me she knew that too.  

I had hoped we were done talking about this. We were not. 

Helen asked again if I loved Matthew. I sighed at her in hopes she would stop asking. She asked again. 

I told her I did not know. She asked how I could not know. I told her I had not thought of it. It seemed clear to me that Frances felt love for Matthew and he feels love for her. She said that they had told us they were only friends. She told me that friends can be close. She pointed out that many people have asked us if we will marry. She said maybe just like she is my friend but I love Matthew, maybe Frances is his friend and he loves me. 

I was upset at this. I do not know what I feel. I told her this again. I do not know. I do not like that she thinks she knows when I do not know. 

She got quiet after this. I made more candles. Eventually she went back to weave with Frances. 

It now feels odd to write about Matthew. Helen has confused me. I do feel strongly for him. I do think it is possible that I feel love for him. I think of him all day. I wish our homes were closer so I could talk to him more often. Some days, when Frances goes on her walks in the evening I sit with Matthew. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don’t. I like being near him. 

I always want to be near him. His conversation is enthralling. I wish I could talk to him all day while I am at work. Before he was working in town he was more free during the day. He sat by me some days. Other days he sat by Frances or Helen. One day I was able to not work and could sit with Matthew all day while Helen and Frances were busy. I still think of that day. 

He is so pretty. It confuses me how pretty I find him. 

When I look at a pretty sunset, I think of him.

This week I talked to a lot of people. I spoke to Helen. I told her how I had been feeling. I said sorry for my tone before. She gave me advice to sort out my feelings. I followed it. 

I spoke with Matthew alone. We spent an afternoon on a walk amongst the town. I was awkward, but I asked him about how he felt about Frances. He was quiet for a moment. Then he said he loved her. He said she was his friend. She is his friend. She means more to him than anyone in the world. She is his deepest connection to another person. He believes this to be true in both directions. She is his deepest and truest friend. 

I also asked Frances the nature of her relations to Matthew. We were sitting beside her loom. She was using the wool I had gifted her. She said her and Matthew are close and have been close for many years. 

I asked why and she became quiet. 

She told me they had spent much of their life together. 

I asked why they had not gotten married. She said that was not the type of relationship they had. 

I was feeling brave. I asked if that was the type of relationship she wanted with him. 

She was quiet. She asked why I asked. 

I was quiet. I told her part of the truth. I told her I cared for both of them, quite deeply. I told her I did not want to disrupt what they had, because I found it pretty in itself. 

This made Frances smile. She told me she cares for me too.She told me Matthew cares for me too. 

I told her I think I am in love with Matthew. 

This made Frances smile more. She did not seem surprised. 

I asked if she thought this was okay.

She said of course it is okay. 

I asked if she thought he loved me. 

She said she could not answer this. She put her hand on my arm. She told me I should tell Matthew. 

The next night Frances was at Helen’s house and I went over to see Matthew. 

I did not tell him I love him. I am too nervous for that. He is so pretty it makes me nervous. 

I do not remember how it started, but I made a joke about being jealous that he was able to share a bed with Frances because they share a home. 

Matthew said I could stay with him overnight.

I asked why. 

Matthew said he did not want me to leave. I was quiet and he continued. He said it is like a small portion of his heart is walking away when I leave. 

He is so good with words. I do not know how he does that. That is such a good comparison. He is a part of my heart, just like Matthew said. 

I was focused on his words and did not respond to what he said. 

He asked if I would stay over. I told him not yet. I told him I should ask Helen. 

Matthew’s eyebrows rose. He asked if I was married to Helen. I laughed at this. I will never marry Helen. I told him this. 

He asked why. 

I told him it is not right. 

He asked how I knew. I paused. I do not know. 

I told him this. I told him I do not know why I will never marry Helen. I do not think Helen wants to be married ever. I do not think this is why I do not think I will marry her. 

Matthew asked if I wanted to marry Helen. 

I said no. 

He asked how I knew. 

I shrugged again. I do not know how I know, but I do. 

He and I  thought about this for some time. I did not sleep at their house that night. It is three days later. I wish I had slept there. I miss him. I wish I could have felt his bodies heat beside mine. I think I could write a poem about that.

I slept in the same bed as Frances and Matthew last night. Frances gave us space and laid facing the other direction. I do not know how to spell enough words to write poetry about him.

I am upset. I went to Frances and Matthew’s house and did not go inside. 

I was around their house and I heard a shout. Not a shout of fear but a shout of anger. I could tell they were arguing. 

I took only a few steps closer, I did not want to be rude but I wanted to know. I wanted to make sure they were okay. 

After the shout they were quiet. 

Then they would get loud for a moment, then quiet again. 

They argue like a drum beat. 

I could not hear the quiet parts. I think I am glad. I would feel bad if I had heard them. I was not supposed to hear them. 

I did hear the loud parts. I forgot most of them. 

I did not forget when Matthew shouted, We can't tell anyone 

And Frances shouted back, Theodore is not just anyone. 

They got quiet again and I left after Frances’s low voice shouted, Because you clearly love him, Matthew. Is that not a good enough reason? Or do you think we need

But she didn’t finish her sentence because Matthew shouted, Hush. 

I tried not to make noise as I ran away. I do not want them to know. 

I cried while I made candles the rest of the day. Helen came home from her job and we will both sleep here tonight. She keeps asking me what is wrong. I keep telling her nothing is wrong. I know this is not true. I hurt. There is a secret. It made my friends fight. 

Frances says he loves me. Should I be happy about this? 

They fought because of me. Should I feel guilty about this? 

Matthew may love me. Is it okay that I love him? 

I think I do love him. Does this change the guilt I feel now? 

Helen is worried. Should I tell her? 

They were mad at each other. Does any of this matter if they do not remain friends? 

He may love me. Does he think I’m pretty? 

He is pretty. He is very pretty.

Is this a poem? 

I do not care. I wish they were not mad.

Tomorrow I will talk to Frances and Matthew. They are both busy today. They asked to talk to me. I am very nervous. I still do not know the answer to any of my questions. I told Helen. She did not know what to say. 

She cannot read. I read my last words to her. She said they might be a poem. She doesn’t know. She does not know much poetry.

archival note: There were several pages ripped from this notebook here

Love is like a candle. It is warm and it reveals to you things which you may not have known before. 

I do love Matthew. Matthew does love me. Frances and Matthew share more with each other than I could ever dream to share with them. But they do not want to court each other. Matthew and I are courting each other. 

I am glad they told me their secrets. I am amazed by their secrets. I do not think I fully understand both of their secrets. 

If they did not have a bigger secret I would be amazed by the secret of Frances. I asked and I am spelling her name right. This is the way to spell a woman's name if she is called Frances. Frances said she wants to be treated like a woman. Matthew said Frances is a woman. Frances smiled at this. 

I will not care for her less because of this. I do not know if I will care for her differently. This friendship still feels new. I cannot say how it would have been if things were different. 

We agreed that people do not need to be told about our relationship. Perhaps one day I will marry Frances. She is close to Matthew so then we could share property. They do not think people will suspect that it is Matthew I am courting. 

They do not know what they do not know. That is what Matthew said. 

I will tell Helen tomorrow. For now all of this knowledge is mine. Today I also have a secret. 

Today we share a secret.

Outroduction

There are about 20 pages left in the journal. They are filled mostly with more candle orders. The few bits of journaling which we do get from Theodore are only two or three sentences long of him being excited because he gets to sleep at Frances and Matthew’s house that night. He never again addresses the secrets that he learned. He does mention that he told Helen the truth about the nature of his relationship, but he doesn’t seem to tell her the other secrets he has. With no further journals to contradict this, I’m choosing to believe they all lived happily ever after.

Records from this area of The Holy Roman Empire in the late 17th century are basically non-existent unless you were uber-rich, so I cannot verify the existence of any of these people or tell you if Frances and Theodore were ever married or if Theodore wound up marrying Matthew somehow. I can tell you that for those last 20 pages where I didn’t show you anything, they seemed happy. Obviously, there are differences in the relationships between Frances and Theodore, between Matthew and Frances, and between Matthew and Theodore, but I can tell you that these three people, according to Theodore’s account, loved each other very deeply.

background image from this website

[queer-triple-a]

A Hopeful Proposal

Introduction 

Hello, Lovelies!

Today I want to show you a letter between two super tight friends! 

But first-

Since today’s document is shorter, I wanted to discuss something. When I’ve told my friends about this, more than one has suggested I am looking for Aphros stories. I’m not, but I wanted to address it because I get where they’re getting that impression. 

In case you don’t follow the news, evidence has surfaced of some different types of love stories that have defied science (i.e., immortal couples, couples with proof of reincarnation, psychic soulmates, etc.). People call them a lot of things (I’ve also seen them referred to as “Eros”), but in what little scientific literature there is, they seem to have settled on Aphros.

Aphros love stories are so rare that there are only a handful of examples worldwide. I know there’s a lot of hype around them, but I don’t follow much of that. I understand the interest, but it’s just something I never had a big fascination with.

From what I know (which is admittedly limited), there’s no proof of a relationship that counts as Aphros that is “queer,” as we would call it today. They’re all either heterosexual romances, friendships, or siblings. I’ve seen some queer scholars point out that this is likely at least partly b.s. cause we know a lot of people in history aren’t as cis and straight as we think.  Also, we suspect there are a lot of people who are in an Aphros relationship who intentionally hide it (I think). 

Obviously, if we find evidence of an Aphros story in the documents I’m finding, it would be amazing. For right now, I think they’re all relatively normal people living their normal lives. 

So to summarize, I’m aware that Aphros relationships exist, but I’m not actively looking to find one. I just like looking at this stuff. Nothing extraordinary needs to be here for it to be beautiful. 

Now, onto our document for the week!

This artifact is about titled “A letter between friends.” It is a letter that was found by a distant relative of Elouise in a book that had been passed down. I’ll let you decide whether or not you think these two women were friends or not. 

Content Warnings: 

Mentions of Death (Spousal)

Mentions of Infertility

A Letter from Veronica to Elouise

[Back of an envelope with a gold floral wax seal on it The paper is yellowing]

Veronica

720 Bay Street

Keslo, England

[Front of an envelope. The paper is yellowing and stained]

Elouise

36 Bloomfield Lane

Thorndron, England

[The outside of a paper folded to be the envelope. It has both adresses above in a different perspective as well as the seal]

[A yellowing creased sheet of paper. The text of the hand-written letter is below]

September 5, 1814

My Dearest, Elouise

I apologize for the fortnight without communication from me. It is too long. In truth, I have been trying to write this letter since I received mail from you last. I want to ask something of you, but I realize this proposition will ask more of you than any question I’ve asked you yet. I do not take this lightly, my dearest. Therefore, in an effort to remind you of my love for you (and perhaps of your love for me), I shall spend most of the letter recounting our personal history. I hope this recantation will persuade you of the seriousness with which I make my final proposal.

Of my thirty-two years of life, I lived the first half without your presence. I did not meet you until, by chance, we stood by the same shelf of my favorite bookstore at the same time. I had a pocket full of money from my recent sixteenth birthday, and you were looking for a story which would delight you during your travel back home. Though our conversation started with book recommendations, we continued to talk for nearly an hour.

Our first encounter came to an end when your elder brother (if I recall correctly, it was Charles) arrived to bring you to the train station. I must admit, my heart ached even then when you walked away. To my surprise, you had ensured that it would not be the final time in which we spoke. Your home address was left inside the cover of the book which you knew I intended to buy. I will never understand how you managed such a feat, and I suspect you will never tell me.

Our correspondences were immediately long and frequent. Though the trip between our homes was 3 days drive, we made do with letters. When the post would be delivered, I would rush downstairs in the hopes that a letter from you had arrived. When this was the case, I whisked it away to my room to enjoy it in private. I do not believe I ever told you, but during our early days of communication, before our families had met, my mother was convinced I was communicating with a suitor whom I did not tell her about. She suspected me of the same deceit she herself had committed when my father courted her. Have I told you how their love began? It is a story remarkably similar to our own. I shall make space for it in a future letter or conversation.

As our friendship blossomed, so did our respective social lives. Though we had met in person only once, you knew more about me than my closest friends as I began the dreadful work of searching for a husband. I will not bore you with a recantation of my trials and tribulations during this time.

You were fortunate and found a man with which you could live amicably. We were able to meet in person again when you invited me to your hometown for three weeks to prepare for and celebrate your betrothal to dear Edward. I had come with joyous news of my own. Between the letter I had written and my arrival, I received the offer of a job. The local seamstress was so impressed by my work she took me on as an apprentice. My mother held her promise to halt her search for my suitor if I became employed. I was a free woman, and your husband was a lovely man.

That visit was wonderful for me. It is the first time I remember hearing your laughter and feeling my own face form a smile at the sound. You were sat in the golden chair your mother kept aside the window. I do not remember what I said which invoked such a reaction in you, but I recall with perfection the way your chin tilted back as your shoulders shook with joy. There were creases beside your eyes that pointed toward your beautiful hair, which bounced as you moved. I knew then that I would be your friend for as long as you would have me. 

For ten years, our relationship kept us both afloat. As I struggled with the trials of my apprenticeship and then my own store and learned intimately the difficulty of being a single woman in an economy built for married men, you offered me solace and advice. Your kindness and gentle humor kept me optimistic on my darkest days. You offer not just precious advice and kind humor but an open ear to which I can regal my struggles. Elouise, you are my rock. 

In turn, I did my best to offer you the care and peace you deserved as you and Edward began the trials of marriage and tried desperately to begin a family. I knew of the heartache you felt and did everything in my power to support you. Your sorrows and anguish became mine, but I shared in your joy as well. We learned from each other, we grew with each other, and in the end, we mourned with each other.

[the back of the above sheet of paper. It has half a page of text which is transcribed below. Words and ink stains from the front are visible through the paper on the bottom half of this side]

I still remember in vivid detail what I was working on when your letter arrived. To learn you had lost your husband filled me with such pain. I shall not dwell on that suffering, for I do not wish for you to have to relive that pain for my sake. I will only say I hope my visit to you during your time of mourning brought you comfort.

In the three years since, I have seen more of you than I could have hoped. I am afraid this is a double-edged sword, for though I greatly treasure our time together, it has made me even more desperate for your company when you are away. I hope I am not ignorant in assuming you feel the same about me. I have felt the joy in your heart when we reunite and seen your downcast expression when we must part. We both seem to feel much more attached now than we had in years prior. We are closer than I ever thought was possible. I have heard it said that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I cannot imagine this is true. It is through our closeness that I have become more endeared to you.

It is with this endearment in mind that I make my proposal: Elouise, will you move to Keslo and live in my home with me? There is no one on this earth who I would rather spend my days with than you, and it is much more possible to do so if you live nearby. Should this move be too much to ask of you, then would it be too unbecoming of me to make my way to your town? To start my business over may be taxing, but it is nothing compared to the thought of continuing to live away from you.

I understand that my question begs time to formulate a response. I do not expect haste in your answer. Know, I have spent the past month ruminating on this question and the past fortnight drafting my letter to you now.

If this proposal is too much or you feel it is inappropriate for a spinster and a widow to share a home, please know I will think nothing less of you. No matter your response, I hope to remain your best friend, as you are mine.

 All My Love,

         Veronica

Outroduction

Love when Gals are Pals.

Despite thinking they were friends, the archive this letter was stored in did some research on these particular girls. I am happy to report to you that in the census following this letter, Elouise and Veronica were living together in an apartment in Keslo. 

I really hope these two women were able to live out the rest of their days together in happiness and love. 

In two weeks I’ll have another story for you all; in the meantime stay queer and take care of yourself.

Chrys

[queer-triple-a]

A Victorian Scheme (Part 2)

Introduction 

Hi Lovelies, 

I hope your Friday the 13th wasn’t too spooky (or I suppose I hope it was spooky if you like spooky). As promised, here are the rest of the letters between Nancy and Chitra. 

Content warnings in Outroduction. 

Chitra and Nancy's Letters

My Nancy, 

I shall begin this letter with good news, for it seems your heart could use lifting. I, too, shall dine with the Marshalls on the night you will be there. Let this news bring a smile to your face as you prepare to spend another evening with Simon. 

Though I am grateful Simon was not unkind to you, I am sorry to hear how poorly your conversation went. It is a shame he is so poor in his social graces but is it not also curious? It is not the case that he finds you of no interest, for he was engaged with your stories. We have both spoken with men who held no interest in what we told them. I trust your ability to have recognized this if it was happening. It is odd then that Simon offered so little. 

I admit you have made me curious with your stories. Perhaps he falters when he speaks. Could it be he does not know how to speak to a woman as beautiful as you are? I will be shocked if he has ever laid eyes on someone as enchantingly beautiful as you. Your hair upon that night shined in its curls. The emerald pin which it held glimmered in the candlelight and brought focus to the stitching done by your own hand upon the neckline and hem. You were a sight I was honored to behold, Nancy. Perhaps this beauty stole the words from Simon’s mind. Do you think this is a possible explanation? 

I am so grateful for your kind words about my prospects with Jacob. Your flattery has served to bring me confidence as I prepare to see him again soon. A vain part of me also hopes he will grow to see value in my thoughts. I will not expect this of him, though. I am far less educated than he is. It will be enough for me to be valued by you. I am convinced no one will ever see me the way you do.

Nancy, you apologized for your wishful images, but they warmed my heart. When I sit on the lawn, distracted from the book in my hands, I often imagine you by my side. I have spent many hours imagining what it would be to hold your hand as we strolled through the garden. Your pale, gentle skin against the soft brown of my own. Basking in the knowledge that the smoothness of your skin is in part due to the lotion I gifted you for your most recent birthday. I would stand close enough that no one could doubt the shape our love takes. 

Nancy, I trust your judgment of the situation we find ourselves in. If remaining with Simon seems to be the path of least resistance toward a future which, if not the one we dream of, is spent together, then perhaps he is worth the strife. But perhaps you deem it worth the fight to withstand your father’s pressure to be married. I do not believe this is an easy decision, and I shall be your most dedicated supporter no matter what path you choose. I trust we will remain in each other’s lives, whatever you choose. 

Dreaming of you as well, 

A. Chitra

Dearest Chitra, 

I write to you with good news. After our dinner at the Marshall’s house, I have much to report on Simon and have come to see his kinder side. I shall begin where the night began. 

All throughout dinner as I sat beside my one true love. I spoke with you and my mother, and I kept my ear open for the sound of Simon’s voice. I expected to hear his laughter, as he was willing to laugh when in my presence. I did not expect the long winded tales he appeared to be telling our fathers and his brother at the other end of the table. I admit it was unladylike, the amount of rage which filled me. It was also underserved. Simon did not owe me a good conversation. However, I believed this proof that Simon did not care for me. Your theory that he was made silent by my beauty was flattering, but he does not seem the type to be frightened from his wits by a pretty woman in a golden dress. I tried to sit tall and behave unbothered and ladylike as we ate despite my irritation. I hope you will tell me whether this was successful or not. My mother would be quite disappointed if she found my mood was poor during dinner. 

I was happy to hear the other women speak when we left the men for the drawing room. They were not distracted by Simon’s voice over dinner and were, therefore, able to properly appreciate the looks Jacob was apparently giving you from across the table. It brought me joy to hear you’d gained an admirer in him. To hear your mother and Lady Marshall discuss it, there is every prospect of a suited match. It was an extra relief to hear his previous hesitancy to marry had no secret reason but was due to his own insecurities. That his mother calls him shy, yet you were able to draw him from his shell speaks wonders of you. 

It is with some shame that I admit I had no focus on you and Jacob when the men joined us. I hope I may assume from your contented smile as the evening ended that your evening also went well. Please let me know, my Chitra. I hope he remained the kind gentleman you thought him to be. 

I shall make you wait no longer. I shall report what occurred between Simon and me as we sat in chairs in the corner of the drawing room, speaking in conspiratorially hushed tones. Simon entrusted me with a secret which I shall now entrust with you. He began by apologizing for his behavior the last time we spoke. He told me he was incredibly grateful for my conversation as it distracted him. He complimented my good sportsmanship during our previous talk and spoke of my character, voice, and appearance in a kind way which would be immodest to repeat. Suffice to say I have only before been made to blush quite so furiously by letters from your own pen. 

Simon did not pause his words for even a moment as he switched from talking of my traits to talking of himself. As it turns out, Simon is afflicted by a strange curse-like malady. As he explains it, he may feel nearly free one day and wake up feeling trapped in place the next. His entire body becomes afflicted with pain such that even small movements require significant energy and patience. He told me he was in the midst of such pain at our last meeting. To move through dinner and to walk from room to room took much effort and caused him much distress. 

As he told me this, I tried to interject with my sympathies as it felt appropriate, but he kept talking. At one point, he said he must finish his apology before “my beautiful voice could distract his heart again.” He explained that, as I spoke with him last time, it took much for him not to request to leave the room to go to sleep and hope for a better tomorrow. In the end, he remained because he enjoyed my stories so much. He apologized for his lack of engagement, the very thing I complained of in my last letter to you. I accepted his apology and offered one of my own for dismissing his poor conversation skills as rudeness. He dismissed my apology as unnecessary with the grace of a true gentleman. 

Oh, my Chitra, you were right. His demeanor which frustrated me did, in fact, have an explanation. His conversation on this most recent evening was extraordinary. We moved on to lighter topics, and I found him to be thoughtful and witty, a clever storyteller yet a detailed listener. 

As the night wound down, he asked if I was not put off by his announcement of his ailing body. I asked if I should be, and he shrugged and said women in the past have thought it was an excuse or a risk to future children. I asked if it was either of these. He laughed at this and said all he could say is he wishes it were but an excuse. When I asked again about children, he shrugged and said his father and mother do not suffer these pains, nor does his brother, yet he cannot be sure of anything. I thought of Martha’s two babies, god rest their souls, and of my dear sister Elizabeth who left us as she gave birth to her daughter. I took his hand and told him we could never know what will come for the children of any couple. He smiled and left me with a kiss upon my hand and a promise to write me. 

Oh, Chitra, the candle wax has all nearly melted, so I shall save my excited poetic words about the chances of our future for a further letter or meeting. Let me only say I believe I could have a happy life with Simon now. I understand him more fully, and I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation tonight. I have room only for you in my heart, love. But marriages have been built on worse foundations than friendship. 

With all my love, 

Nancy Robinson

Lovely Nancy, 

Such relief filled me when I read your last letter. I had hoped to receive such news from you. It seemed as though Simon was more engaged and involved with conversation when I saw you last. I am so glad to hear this was true. It is unfortunate to hear the reason for this discrepancy brings suffering to a kind man, though it is refreshing to hear you believe him to be a kind man. 

 I am grateful not just that your conversation was more tolerable but that Simon appears to see you as someone special. He is wise enough to recognize a fine woman when he speaks with her. It also impresses me to know he began your conversation with an admission of wrongdoing, an explanation of the circumstances which allows you to better understand his character, and an apology. His level of humility is, I believe, seldom seen in men. He seems truly kind, and given you found his conversation stimulating beyond his confession, he must also be interesting. Your news of him gives me hope for our future. 

My Nancy, I cannot help but worry if it is kind of us to marry these men when we do not love them, as a wife is meant to love her husband. I ask not just for Simon but for Jacob as well. Are we depriving deserving men of love? Is this ploy of ours unkind? Both of us recognize we do not have a desire for men, which other women seem to have. What right have you or I to marry a kind man?

I beg you to respond with haste, my Nancy, for Jacob will visit my home in three days' time. In a letter I received from him this morning, he requested this visit. He sent along a man to return the response to him today. In his letter, he requested to speak privately to my father as well. I showed my mother, and we sent back an affirmative reply. I trust you understand what will happen, my Nancy. 

If I do not hear from you in time, I shall accept any offer Jacob puts before me. He is kind and has made interesting, pleasant conversations both times I dined with him. I do not wish to marry any man, but I would marry a man much worse than Jacob Miller in order to live my life with you by my side. 

Yours and yours alone, 

A. Chitra

My Chitra, 

I apologize so sincerely for my delayed response. While delivering your last letter the carrier was taken quite ill. Unfortunately, your letter was misplaced for at least a day while we assisted him and I suspect it will take another day to find a suitable replacement. Do not worry after the mail carrier. He is recovering from his illness well. He merely requires rest and recovery before we send him on his way. 

Now that I’ve explained the delay in my response, I shall answer your inquiries: 

I, too, was and remain excited by the man I have found in Simon. I am hopeful for what may come from our mutual enjoyment of each other. 

I believe my letter will reach you after you are already engaged. I hope you feel no guilt over this action, Chitra. It may be true that we will never love them as your mother loves your father, but it is safe to say we are beginning a marriage with better intentions than my parents, one of whom wanted money and the other land. If we did not marry these men, then who is to say they would find a match of love? I do hope my words have quelled your guilt. It is not the right of a good man to marry for romance. It is not his right to marry at all. It is not our right either. Some days I feel that marrying is our punishment. 

We are not stealing a future from these men but giving them one. Take heart in your value, Chitra. 

Congratulations, 

Nancy Robinson

Dearest Nancy, 

I am grateful for your report upon the wellbeing of the mail carrier Thomas. My staff had become quite concerned when he did not appear for several days. I hope by the time I next receive word from you, he will be healed. 

I also appreciate your kind reassurance about marrying the Marshall brothers. I suppose my own parent’s romance holds such attention in my home that I forgot it is not a guarantee. How foolish of me. I still feel some guilt at the deception of love I am portraying to Jacob, but I shall attempt to take comfort in your words. 

Nancy, have I upset you? Your letter was shorter than any I have ever received from you. It is true I am now engaged to be married to Jacob Marshall. I suspect the formal announcement of this will soon arrive at your home. Are you so hurt by my engagement that it has injured your feelings for me? Are you so upset that you cannot bring yourself to write more? My heart, I wish to know what ails you that I may fix it. I am more anxious about you than I am about my wedding. 

The wedding is all that has been spoken of in my home for several days. There is nothing else for me to tell you about in my life, and I do not wish to upset you further by continuing to discuss this. 

I love you, Nancy. I wish so desperately I could come to your home to discuss these matters with you, but alas, my eldest brother has returned home to live in the main house for several days in celebration, so it would be rude of me to leave. 

I do love you so, Nancy, and I fear it needs repeating. I ache with love for you, and I have become engaged to Jacob Marshall because we believed it best for us. If you have changed your mind, please tell me. I will face a broken engagement if it would bring you peace of mind. 

Love, 

A. Chitra

My Chitra, 

I am not upset with you or with any of your actions. Please take comfort in this knowledge. I am glad you have secured a man to marry who is kind and who you were able to choose. I am also so glad he is the brother of the man I am courting. The shortness of my letter and my lack of celebration at your news was not displeasure at the steps we have taken to ensure a future together but despair at the world for making these the only steps available to us. There is nothing you could say or do more perfectly to quiet these thoughts in my mind. 

Chitra, do you remember the ball at the Bell’s house during our first season in London? There were more young women than men, so many dances would have several girls standing to the side of the room gossiping with each other. For one of the final dances, we were both without a partner. I did not want to stand still, so I sought you out and wrote my name on your dance card. I knew how to lead from our hours of practicing dancing in your family hall. You blushed as I took your hand at the start of the next song and pulled you to the dance floor. You told me people were watching, and I told you they were just jealous of me because I was dancing with you. I believe it was a waltz which I danced with you in that room. I would later learn from my mother that there were whispers of how young and foolish we were, but I didn’t notice then. We smiled and danced together. I held the bodice of your dress close to mine and was impressed with how fresh you smelled after a night of dancing. Your hands were soft, and your footwork was excellent, and though I had eyes for no one but you, I am certain we were the most beautiful dancers on the floor. 

Your gown that night was a vibrant blue with bronze trim. Your mother had her sister send the fabric over from India, and I know it’s one of your favorite dresses. You wore it well, and it hugged your bodice wonderfully, its skirt beautifully pleated. Your grandmother’s earrings dangling from your ears swung gently as we stepped. We wore gowns which allowed us to stand close to each other. Our bodies pressed together as our feet took steps, and we turned in unison. I have never danced so close to another, for men are too likely to step on my feet. I knew you would not misstep, though. We had danced before, and we would dance together again. 

You are a skilled and elegant ballroom dancer Chitra. When we danced that night, I thought naught of the scolding I would receive from my mother. I scarcely even recognized our act for what it was: unusual and rebellious. I only thought of you and me and our dance. 

I wish we could live in the world of that dance. When we were on the ballroom floor, no one would stop us. No matter their thoughts, they stayed on the sidelines and let us dance. If people held their tongues as well in other spheres of life, I would whisk you away and spend my life with you and you alone. I do not care what others think, for it is not a love for them which courses through my veins. If they stayed quiet, what does it matter what they think of how we dance through our lives together?

But they do not stay silent. And our mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and friends are among those who would object to us. 

If I was short and upset, it was not with you but with them. Your engagement marks the end of a fantasy, and this ending is painful for me. 

I am deeply sorry for the distress my tone caused you. I hope you will enjoy your time with your family. Perhaps I would visit, but Simon is to visit tomorrow night. My father is away, so I do not expect news from this visit, but it and my brother’s birthday the day after leave me with no time to visit you in the near future. I am excited for when we do meet again. Please let me know what plans have been made for your nuptials so that I may begin to celebrate this new story in your life. 

Love, 

Nancy Robinson

Dear Nancy, 

Oh Nancy, the movements your letter took my heart through are a dance of their own. I am quite relieved not to be the cause of your distress, but it brings me pain to see you in distress at all. I hope through the course of this letter, I can alleviate some of this anguish. 

Firstly, of course I remember that ball. I have not worn that gown a second time, for I want it to only remind me of your light purple bodice pressed against my own. I could feel the dark magenta ruffle of your dress's wrist upon my own skin. It was also made from Indian fabric. You had loved my own dress of that color so much I had my mother send you the scraps that you may have it added to your own wardrobe. 

I, too, became lost in a fantasy as we danced. I, too, wish we could live that dance our entire lives. I share this longing with you alongside our love. You need not feel alone in your disappointment when I am by your side - and I will always be by your side. 

My heart, my Nancy, it is true our fantasy of a life lived as each other’s partners has ended. Allow me then to paint us a new fantasy of our future together. The image of this possibility has formed in my mind as family and friends ask if I am excited to be wed to Jacob Marshall. I think of our next few years. I shall be the wife of one man and you the wife of another. We will treat our men kindly and, in time, bear them heirs. Through this process, we shall rely upon each other, as women often do. When we become mothers and as our children grow, we will have every excuse to see one another. You shared a tutor with my cousins, and your aunt often accompanied her children to your home. We will be in each other's lives in this way for many years. 

As our children grow, so will we, and with maturity comes freedom and respect. Perhaps, by the time our children marry, we shall be able to share a bed from time to time. No one will question us because no one will dare. No matter what privacy we are permitted, we may attend dinners, luncheons, and social functions at each other’s homes with more frequency since no more will we live below our parents’ roofs. I may not be able to make you my wife, but I have every intention of making you the person around whom my world revolves. 

Nancy, one day I will sit beside you as we watch the sunset. I will rest my head full of silvering hair upon your shoulder. We will reminisce about our lives and be happy for what time we have together. You will take my hand into yours, and we will talk of all of the fantasies we crafted together over the years of our lives. Perhaps we will remember this letter and laugh. Perhaps we will remember our dance, and you will insist on once again sweeping me off my feet. Perhaps we will talk about joys which I cannot yet imagine. No matter the topic, we will be happy, and we will be together. 

I will not sully this love letter to you with plans for my wedding. Come to me after your brother’s birthday. We shall celebrate and plan. When we are no longer in the presence of others, I will convince you of the magic of this new fantasy. 

With Love and Hope, 

A. Chitra

Outroduction

Content Warnings:

Period typical homophobia (background)

Discussions of and fear of abusive relationships

Miscarriage (mentioned)

Ablism (background)

Thank you so much for reading this story! I love Chitra and Nancy so much and I hope they got to live out all of their wishes!

Another thank you to my friend Chitra for locating these and reading through them enough to send me a text which read “I found more lesbians!” 

In two weeks I’ll have another story for you all; in the meantime stay queer and take care of yourself.

Chrys

Notes

Shortly I will begin posting these on a new site (hosted by wix cause I’m basic) so that I can send it to people I know IRL. I’ll add that site to this blog when that happens. 

Thank you again to @intricaitly for the doodles on these letters!

Again, please ignore the grammatical discrepancies between the images and the text... I forgot to grammar check before I sent them to intricaitly to do the doodles, and editing them would be quite the hassle. I appreciate you all!

Mars

[queer-triple-a]

A Victorian Scheme

Introduction

Hello and Happy New Year! 

This is going to be a little different than the other stories I’ve posted. Not only was Chitra the one who found this story (by searching her name in an archive), but it is significantly longer than the others. Because of that I’ve decided to make this two posts. You’ll find out how this story ends when part two is released in two weeks.

This story is told through the letters exchanged between two women whose families belong to English nobility. Their correspondence surely stretches beyond these letters, but these were the ones which made their way into a museum’s collection. They are said to showcase the friendly bond between women at the time... 

Anyway, here’s a Victorian Era Love story.

Content warnings are located at the bottom and apply to both parts, so they contain minor spoilers.

Chitra and Nancy's Letters

Dearest Chitra,

Forgive my writing you this letter so soon after the last. You must think me dreadful for not even giving you a chance to reply. I waited but one day after sending you my last letter before I penned one anew. I trust once you have read what I must say to you the purpose of such an act will be clear. As I lay in bed I thought of you (as I often do). More than this I thought of us and our futures together.

We often speak of our future without a sense of reality. We joke of sharing a home (and perhaps a bed). We talk of this future as if it is not just possible, but likely. Chitra this may sound bleak but do not retire from this letter before its completion for it will return to you the hope of these fantasies. The facts of our lives and our families lead me to conclude that we will be discouraged from a life without the influence of a man. I have not expressed any interest in men, yet my mother has made plans that I may engage several at our home this season.

I do not yearn for a husband, Chitra. I yearn for you. Yet I know of no women who have escaped age 25 without their fathers intervening. I do not wish to have my future determined by the man who would not call the doctor as my late sister Elizabeth wilted in bed. He agreed to let Richard have my sister Victoria; each time I see my sister, she seems to regret it more. I fear my other sisters’ matches have been no better. I do not wish these fates for myself. Therefore I’ve come to know I must choose for myself which bachelor I’ll entice with my family's promise of higher rank. I trust you too could win whichever man you wanted for none which we know are blind and therefore shall be honored to have the hand of a woman as beautiful as yourself.

As these thoughts arranged themselves in my mind last night the solution came to me. I trust your memory to recall the Marshall family. You and I danced with both the eldest sons at the wedding of your brother Earnest. The heir to the land is Samuel and his younger brother (who is but two years our junior) is also single.

My Chitra, should we be women of enough stature, beauty, and spirit to win the hearts of these men then our lives will be entwined. I do not recall much of Samuel or Jacob, but their brotherly bond was clear. They do not seem likely to behave as your brothers have. There would be little risk of a fight so great as to cause a rift in the family and in their title and property. I asked my mother of their prospects this morning. She ensures me the Marshall family is well enough endowed to guarantee an easy life for the wife of Samuel and of Jacob. It seems the perfect solution.

How often does my father’s brother come to stay at the family home? I know your uncle would visit your father with much greater frequency if there were not such a great distance between them. We shall be destined to remain in each other’s lives and at what little cost! Since we must marry (and it must be a man), why not marry these men we’ve chosen?

Though I eagerly await your response I shall admit I caught the attention of my mother when asking after them this morning. They will be invited to dine with us as the month ends. I asked my mother to extend your parents an invitation as well. I hope you will join us. Please write.

With all my love,

Nancy Robinson

Dear Nancy,

To receive two missives in quick succession brought me delight. The harsh look at reality with which your letter began did naught to encourage this delight. I did gather joy from the rest of its contents, but I admit to feeling something akin to despair at the reminder. It is true, we likely will not get the joy of living our lives alone together, but I find value and peace in that dream. As you lay awake in search of solutions my sleeping mind crafts images of two brides promised to each other for life in a blending of traditions. The word “wife” brings your gentle smile to my thoughts. My Nancy, does your mind do the same? You speak of our world as it is, but do you ever dare to imagine what we would do if it were different?

Nancy, I do appreciate your solution. In fact, I believe it could be the answer to the problem we face. If Simon and Jacob are men of good character then we have a plan which shall succeed. I trust your mother’s knowledge of their financial standings. This shall be enough to satisfy my father in his quest to marry me well. My Nancy, do you know much of these men? Will they make tolerable life partners? You mentioned your sister’s husband and her ill fitting match. Do you think our matches to Simon and Jacob hold more promise? What of our match to each other? Will these men grow jealous if I have more interest in your enchanting charm than I will ever show to their modest beauty?

I do trust your plan Nancy, but to commit to a life with anyone but you, daunts me.

I have spoken to my mother. We shall dine with you and the Marshalls. I wish to make a good impression on these men. You have seen me in every dress I own. Which do you find me most stunning in?

Before I set down my pen I must clarify one thing. Which man shall we take? Do I know you well enough to predict you will want the eldest son and heir? Have no shame if I am correct, for I wish you this honor as well.

Love,

A. Chitra

Dearest Chitra,

In response to your inquiries:

My mind does long to place the words “my wife” before your name. I would marry you if that path was available to us. Let that never be in doubt in your mind again. You ask if I often imagine the world if it were different. I do with some frequency, but I find dwelling on the fantasy of marrying you makes it more difficult to know I never will. However, if these imaginations bring you joy, I hope you dream them every night.

I inquired after my sisters about the nature of Simon and Jacob. This information shall occupy much of my letter. First I shall answer the other questions you asked of me.

I do not worry that our charm for each other will be a cause of jealousy in the eyes of men. You have lived a lie much like mine. Men pay no heed to the friendships women hold with each other. Why, I could kiss your mouth in the presence of my brother-in-law, and he would still think us silly young girls who know each other through the friendship of our fathers.

Chitra, I trust you know what you are doing when in your letter you ask me to choose an outfit for the dinner. I lost much of an afternoon’s embroidery work. How am I to focus on daisies for this cloth when my mind is full of images of the dresses which hug your waist and adorn your arms? You wear fine things well, Chitra, and I can do nothing but imagine your beauty. It will not shock you to read my recommendation. The jade green dress which holds your deep brown chest high and which has the train with fabric embroidered by my own golden thread. It shall stop my breath to see you in this again. I shall wear my golden dress with green embellishments to match. Let our beauty and grace shine before these men that they will have no wants but us.

My answer to your final question will not shock you. I would prefer to be with the heir to this fortune. Do you truly not find this greedy of me? I expect you too would want the land to yourself. Will your brothers not receive your father’s full inheritance? Do you not also long to exit the shadow of your family? Though as I write this I know your answer. I know you’ve nothing to prove. In your family's eyes, you are special because you are a girl. You need not prove your worth to them through a righteous marriage. Chitra, know that I see what you have done for me in allowing me to woo Simon. I see what this means for you as you see what it would mean for me. I hope you do not grow to regret your kindness or resent my fortune should our plans come to pass. You are the one in my life for whom I am most grateful.

Now I shall tell you of the men you will meet (likely before your next able to send me a letter).

I shall spare you the history of their family. Needless to say, the Marshall home and land have been owned by a Lord Marshall since 1650. His father was the eldest of two sons, and from the gossip my sisters have heard, his wife hasn’t shared a bed with him since Jacob was born. I have heard nothing to suspect the boys had anything but a normal upbringing.

Both boys are white with tawny brown hair. They are regarded by many within our family circles to be attractive. Simon is two years our elder and therefore, as you may expect, his father is desperate to see him married so that he may have children and heirs. None of my sisters nor my mother knew why he was still a bachelor. They have heard no unsavory rumors about his temper, yet I myself have witnessed his cold behavior at balls. He does not attract women because he does not engage in conversation or dance with them. No woman has yet been desperate enough to marry a man who holds little interest in her. My Chitra, you make me desperate enough. Perhaps his lack of interest is similar to our own. I hope that his behavior is not with ill intent.

Now to Jacob. I know less of him in some ways and more in others. He is two years younger than us and slightly taller than his brother. He has spent less time in social events than his brother, yet he has made an impact. I have heard he is kind, and though I have not yet danced with him, I have seen him dance. He does not seem to have the same aversion to the act his brother exhibits. I do not know anything else of Jacob except that he is kind. He is but 23, yet already there are whispers of why he is not yet wed, for he is a man whom many women find endearing. My sister speculates he is either picky, effeminate, or of too low of status and thus one party in any relationship may deem it unwise to continue.

In short, I do not think they will be intolerable, but I do not promise you a life of marital bliss. I will say the signs I saw in Victoria’s husband do not seem present in Simon and Jacob. Neither is known for their temper. Temper can be hidden though. When they come to visit I shall have my lady’s maid enquire upon any gossip of the true nature of these men. Perhaps you will think this action an invasion of their privacy. I hope you will not judge me too harshly. I am only doing this to ensure our future contentment. If this reason is not enough for you then I shall have to ask for your forgiveness. You, my Chitra, have more care for the secrets of others than I do. I believe I inherited my mother's need to inquire about the business and relationships of each person we meet. I struggle to hold back from these questions as you do so gracefully. If my desire to know this information about these men and to ask it of the staff creates discomfort in you I apologize. I do believe there is enough chance that you find my actions acceptable that I will move forth with my plans. I need to ask them before we shall see each other at dinner, for I must give my maid time to make inquiries while the Marshall’s staff is still with us (which will only be for two nights).

My darling I do not ask you many questions in this letter for I shall speak to you in person soon. Until that day, know my heart aches with memories of your simple smile and your wondrous gentle hands.

All my love,

Nancy Robinson

My love Nancy,

Radiant breathtaking Nancy, boisterous and charming Nancy, elegant and sure-footed Nancy, gentle and reassuring Nancy, how was I to focus on Jacob Marshall when you were by my side.

It is a shame your mother's room is so close to your own, and her sleep is so delicate. I would have loved to slip into your chambers after dinner. We might have had this conversation quickly between ourselves instead of over mail which takes at least a day to deliver. Alas, I had to suffice to see you only in situations where others were present, therefore I shall lay out my opinions of the evening for you now.

Jacob shall suffice. I engaged him in conversation for much of the evening. I did not find him lacking. From his smile, I believe it is not vane to say he enjoyed my company too. This match appears to have every chance of ending in a marriage.

He is not you though. When he speaks I am intrigued. He is smart, and the words he says have value. However, when I speak to you I am on the edge of my seat to hear what thoughts you choose to share with me. More than this you remember to include me in the conversation. I am not trained in speaking of myself. I am so used to listening to the thoughts of others, of men. You are one of few in the world who finds value in my simple thoughts. I cannot yet say for certain whether Jacob values my input. I do not think he knew how to ask for it. The closest he came to asking about my life was asking where in India my parents are from. When my answer gave him no new insight (he does not seem to know much of the country) he quickly moved on.

I will not blame him if he does not come to me for opinions though. He speaks well of what he does know, the business of owning an estate. It was good of him to speak to me about such things at all. That I understood him is a testament to his communication skills. I think he appreciated my interest as well. I hope he did. If our plan is to succeed I will need to make him happy enough to marry me. Nancy, from what you observed of us do you think I made him happy? Do you think I am capable of making any man happy? I have so little practice in this endeavor.

I do not worry about your ability to make Simon happy. Not only did his eyes light up when he looked at you across the table, but I heard him laugh at what you said. I could tell from your demeanor the conversation did not bring you equivalent amounts of joy. Was Simon unkind to you Nancy? Did he treat you poorly? You deserve more than someone who will not make you happy. Please do not remain in an ill matched relationship on my account. I trust you to inform me of how you wish to proceed in your next letter.

I also hope to hear the gossip you learned. You do not need to beg for my forgiveness on this matter for I hold no anger. It is true I do not seek out these rumors myself. I do not like the way I feel when I do such things. In the past, it has upset me because you asked me to inquire after this information. Now that I know you may have this information, I am ever so curious about it. Please write soon, my beautiful love.

Yours now and forever,

A. Chitra

My heart Chitra,

You speak of me with a kindness that brings a blush to my cheeks. Know that when I think of you the same emotions come to my heart, even if my words do not hold the same elegance.

None of the questions you asked of me have short answers, so their response shall take the whole letter. I shall tell you the gossip first, that it may frame my opinions about Jacob and Simon later in my letter.

Most importantly the gossip revealed neither violent pasts nor skeletons in the closets of these men. This is not to assume they do not have secrets. No one is without their secrets, but whatever these men cannot hide from the staff did not warrant a warning in their maid’s eyes when she spoke to my lady's maid. Take relief in this my Chitra. These men, whatever their flaws, seem unlikely to inflict us with pain.

There was little gossip of Jacob, and all of it was kind. He knows the names of the staff and treats them with dignity. He is kind at home as well.

There was more said of Simon. Though he is not violent he is known by the staff to be sharp of tongue. He grows lazy and irritable some days, yet he is forgiving and active on others. The staff was hesitant to speak ill of him. My maid said she suspected there was a secret that they would not spread outside their household. I do not know what to do with this knowledge.

I shall return to Simon in a moment, but first, let me address your concerns about Jacob. You claim to have no experience in making men happy, yet your whole life has been spent as an observer of the conversations and ramblings of men. In addition, I think you are capable of making most people happy. Your dedicated attentiveness to the passions of those around you brings light to the lives of those who know you. I feel certain in my claims that Jacob is not immune to your charm. He seemed to enjoy his conversation with you and was pleased by your company. I do hope in time he grows to value and request your input. You, as always, underestimate yourself. Your thoughts on every topic I’ve discussed with you have been intelligent and meaningful. You do not speak without purpose as I often do. When you contribute I am frequently reminded of your singular mind and your daring optimism. I hope in time Jacob will come to treasure these things as well. I am so glad you found Jacob an amenable partner. I hope your prediction of a content marriage comes to pass. I do truly wish you every happiness with Jacob.

Now I shall speak to his brother, Simon. The evening was fine. Your intuition was accurate. I believe it is accurate to say Simon enjoyed my wit and charm. He does not have a laugh which causes my heart to quicken as yours does, but it will suffice. Despite my attempts, he bore no responsibility for the topics of conversation. I not only led the conversation but upheld it with my own trains of thought. He did laugh with me and seemed interested in what I had to say, but he was not providing me any insight into his own thoughts on the matters discussed.

I spent several minutes telling him the story of when my sister Martha thought her husband brought home a dog when in fact it was a rather large cat.

He did, as I said, seem to appreciate the story. He laughed and asked questions, inquiring at the end if they still had the cat, but when I asked if he ever had pets he responded “My family has always had a dog.”

He then waited for me to pick up the conversation again. I asked what it looked like.

He told me it was a black hunting lab.

I asked if he hunted.

He just said, “not often.”

My darling Chitra, you are often quiet during a conversation, but you do not make me feel as though I am required to say twenty sentences to gain a hint at your personality or interests. I tell you all of this, so you see what I mean when I say I am not as certain of Simon as you are of Jacob. Perhaps he will open up to me in time. But this is a hope, not a prediction. If I had your optimism I would be excited for the invitation I received to dine at the Marshall’s home next week. As it stands I do not look forward to meeting him again. I fear his quiet demeanor hides an irritable man. The gossip from the maids does naught to quell these nerves.

Do not take my hesitancy with Simon to mean our plan is in jeopardy. You seem well suited for marriage with Jacob. I have no desire to pull you away from this contented future you have before you. If things do not fit between Simon and myself we shall find another way. Perhaps I shall be a spinster. I could find a cause to be the patron of and make myself useful to society in a way other than rearing the child of an heir. This plan, of course, includes a space for you in my life. No matter whether we marry these brothers it is not unseemly for a woman to remain in close contact with her childhood friend. The world does not need to know that I remain single because I will not suffer any match that is without you.

I’m sorry Chitra. Forgive this flight of fancy. I know as well as you that to be a spinster and to live my life with only you by my side is not a route forward. I know my mother has a list of men vetted by my father whose status is agreeable. I know Simon is on that list and even if I do not grow to enjoy his company I may still be married to him. I know these facts, yet at night I dream only of you and I.

I let my mind wander before dreams take me. I follow your lead as I imagine the hope you’ve described and the dreams you spoke of where we get to call each other “wife.” as sleep becomes me I maintain this fantasy in my nightly journey to unreal worlds. A life with you composes my waking and sleeping dreams. All dreams of my life include a future with you. You are my dream girl.

All my love,

Nancy Robinson

End of part 1

Outroduction

Content Warnings:

Period typical homophobia (background)

Discussions of and fear of abusive relationships

Miscarriage (mentioned)

Ablism (background)

Tune in in two weeks to see what these BFF’s get up to!

Thanks again to Chitra for finding this story!

Notes

Thank you so much to @intricaitly for the doodles on these letters!

You're legally required to ignore the grammatical discrepancies between the images and the text... I forgot to grammar check before I sent them to intricaitly to do the doodles, and editing them now is too much effort.... sorry about that

[queer-triple-a]

A Parting Party

Introduction

Hello, Lovelies!

Happy Holidays to those who celebrate! A lot of this story takes place around Christmas so I figured now was the perfect time of year to share it with you. I intended to share it on Saturday, but life got busy and it slipped my mind.

This is another translated story. It was put together into a box and kept in someone’s basement until their descendent turned it over to an archival museum many years later. 

These documents were particularly fun to find because there are just so many documents. Correspondence and mementos and journal pages. All of it is in Spanish (which I cannot read) but has been translated by someone at the institution mentioned before. A big thank you to them for making this story more accessible. Translations are between each document image this time. 

I hope you enjoy!

Content Warnings: 

Joining the Military for Colonialism

Drinking

Documents

[Document 1: A Letter from Rafael to Felix and Ana]

Dearest Felix and Ana, 

I write to invite you to spend your Christmas in Burona. The man who owns the pub at which I work has informed me we shall be closed that day. I asked for and obtained his permission to use this space to host my dearest friends. The evening shall be spent in merriment between the five of us. Paula and Daniel shall bring baby Clara as well so you may see her again. She has grown so big it will amaze you. I trust in the next month she shall grow even more. You must come to see us at Christmas. Four months is too long to spend without seeing you. 

Though we used to gather in Burona or at your home in Guadanca several times a year these gatherings have grown infrequent. I am ashamed to say that it will be my fault that this meeting shall be our final gathering for some time. 

I have decided to join the army. Shortly after we enter the new year, I will begin serving our country. I do not know for how long I will be away. I do not know if I shall return to you at all, though I will do my best to make it home. I recognize that this is important news. I apologize that it could not be given in person, however, I wanted to warn you that you may be joyous when you see me. Let us feel our sadness now that we may be happy tomorrow. 

I do not wish to leave in somber, I wish to leave with celebration. We have made each other’s lives more rich in love. Let us celebrate that together as we exchange holiday gifts. 

Your Friend,  Rafael

[Document 2: A Letter from Rafael to Daniela, Paula, and Clara]

Rafael  Burona, Spain November 15, 1895

My Loves, Daniel, Paula, and baby Clara

I trust you have not forgotten my Christmas plans, as I have spoken to you about nothing else for several days. Let this letter serve as a formal invitation to join myself, Felix, and Ana at the pub for holiday celebrations. 

Yours,  Rafael

[Document 3: A Letter from Daniel to Rafael]

Daniel Burona, Spain November 16, 1895

Rafael, 

Paula has insisted both of us send you responses to affirm our attendance at your holiday party. I am shocked she does not write one for Clara as well. I do not pretend to understand the reason for these letters. I share a bed with one or both of you each night. Why can this not be said aloud between us?

Alas, at Paula’s request I send you this. We shall attend your Christmas party. Please let us know when Felix and Ana respond as well. I am excited to see them. 

Best,  Daniel

[Document 4: A Letter from Paula to Rafael]

Paula Burona, Spain November 16, 1895

My other heart, Rafael, 

Thank you for setting this up my love! I cannot wait to be reunited with everyone I hold dear. Well, I suppose that is unfair to my family. I believe they shall be there, but merely in spirit. Though now that I consider the events which usually transpire when I am reunited with Ana I realize I ought not to wish for my late mother’s presence when I see her again. 

Oh, Rafael, I shall hold you in a special place in my heart for as long as I live. I do not know what I shall do when you are away. I am not just sad that you will be away from me, but frightened by the grave nature of your duty. I trust Daniel feels much the same as I do, though he will likely not write to you about his feelings. 

It saddens me that you will miss such exciting moments in the life of our Clara. She is a healthy baby and will grow in strength and ability while you are away. I hope you will return before she is old enough to remember your absence. As you well know, it is one of my heart's deepest desires for you to be a meaningful part of her life. You must return home swiftly and well, if not for Daniel or for myself then for Clara. You must. 

I shall see you at Christmas, and every day before. 

With love,  Paula

[Document 5: A Letter from Felix to Rafael]

Felix Guadanca, Spain November 20, 1895

Rafael, 

I thank you sincerely for the invitation. Ana became so excited at the thought of seeing you all again (especially Paula who she misses most deeply) that she scarcely let me finish reading the letter aloud to her. We are saddened to hear you will leave in the new year, and we fear for your fate abroad. We care for you. Please do whatever you can to keep yourself safe despite this new journey you must embark upon.

We will miss you dearly, but we will attempt to mask this with the excitement of our holiday celebrations. This message shall serve as our acceptance of your invitation. 

Felix of Guadanca

[Document 6: A Letter from Ana (written by Felix) to Rafael] 

Ana, through Felix Guadanca, Spain November 28, 1895

Dear Paula, 

Ana wanted to send you a message. I have written what she wishes to say to you: 

I miss you. It has been four months since I saw you last. I have grown with child since then. I was not sure how to tell you, but I want you to know before we see each other in person. We suspect the baby will arrive early in the new year. I cannot wait to tell you more.  I miss you. I do not know what other words to say. Felix says I should find a better way to say this. He says I am repeating myself. It is simple though. I miss you. 

I cannot wait to see you. Please say it is Rafael’s plan to let us stay at the home you three share. Felix and I can spend an evening at a hostel, but I would much rather spend the night in your arms. Writing this has made Felix blush. I do not think he likes to write about himself. He is blushing again. I should write to you more often. It is fun to watch my husband blush. 

I hope this letter finds you, Daniel, Rafael, and Clara in good health. Felix has shown me how you write her name. It is beautiful. I cannot wait to see her. I hope my child is also a girl so that they may grow together. I can feel them kick within me some days. I trust that by our Christmas gathering they will be strong enough to be felt by your hands. 

I blushed at the thought of your hands upon my stomach. Felix insists on writing this down since I embarrass him. 

I miss you. I wait with little patience to see you at Christmas. 

Always yours,  Ana

[Document 7: A Letter from Paula to Ana]

Paula Burona, Spain December 5, 1895

My Ana,

I hope this letter finds you and yours well. I am overjoyed to hear of your pregnancy! My Ana! No matter what child you have, there is no doubt in my heart they will be friends with my Clara. You must send another letter to tell me how you’ve been. Though I suspect the details of that may not be appropriate for the ears of a man. Since Felix must read you your letters, I shall wait to let you tell me in person. 

Oh Ana, my Ana! I miss you too! Of course, you shall spend the night at my home when you travel from Guadanca. To spend money on a hostel when you have three close friends who live within the town is absurd. You shall room with us. There are two beds between the five of us. Well, I suppose with Clara there are six of us, but she has her own cot so I am not concerned with the space she shall take up at night. You should be prepared to hear her cries at night. She is not yet settled to sleep through the night. I suppose this will be good practice for yourself and Felix. 

Rafael is so excited to see you again. Does he know of your pregnancy? Perhaps if he did he would not rush so soon after the new year to enlist in the army and begin his service. It is selfish of me to say this, but I wish he would not leave. I trust the army needs him, but I feel I need him more. There are many men who can fight, but only two men I love as dearly as I love him and Daniel. 

I know I should give thanks for that which I have and be proud of Rafael’s decision, but I am merely human. I am grateful for what I have, but this does not take away the pain and the fear of losing him. He does not like me to speak of this pain to him or Daniel. He thinks I will speak into existence the things which I fear. I do not hold such superstitions, and I know you do not either. 

I shall save my worries and my pain for now. I hope to find time to commiserate with you when you arrive. I miss you, Ana. I shall see you soon. 

With Love,  Paula

[Document 8a: A Recipe for Tortilla de Patatas]

Tortilla de Patatas Potatoes, onion, eggs. Put sliced potatoes in olive oil. Use medium heat. Sliced onions into separate pan with olive oil until caramelized. Beat room temperature eggs. Put onions with eggs. Drain potatoes. When cooled add into other bowl. No hot potatoes with eggs. Salt. When cooled pour into pan. Cook 6-8 minutes then flip onto plate. Put back in pan. After 6-8 minutes flip out. Wait. Slice. Enjoy. 

[Document 8b: A Recipe for Habas con Jamon]

Habas Con Jamon Broad beans, Diced ham, garlic clove, half a shallot, 3 bay leaves, Chopped parsley. Cook then peel broad beans. Peel and chop garlic and shallot. Pour olive oil into pan. Add garlic, shallots, bay leaves, and ham. Season. Fry garlic for five minutes. Add broad beans and parsley. Stir and cook 5 more minutes. Put on plate. Serve Warm. 

[Document 9: A Reciept from a Local Grocer]

2 garlic cloves         1

1 ham           1.5

24 eggs            0.6

1 onion            0.4

60 grams broad beans    0.9

1 bunch of parsley       0.3

1 chalet          0.9

8 bay leaves       2.1

8 potatoes          1.2

               8.9

[Document 10: An Advertisement for a Kodak Camera]

New Kodak Cameras. “You press the button, we do the rest.”  (or you can do it yourself.) Seven New Styles and Sizes all Loaded with Transparent Films.  For sale by Photo. Stock Dealers, Send for Catalogue. The Eastman Company, Rochester, N. Y.

[Document 11: A Reciept for a Kodak Camera]

Ferretería de la Familia

Cámara Fotográfia “Kodak” 

              200

[Document 12: A Letter from Rafael to Felix and Ana]

Rafael Burona, Spain December 10, 1895

Dear Felix and Ana

I am excited to write that I have secured a surprise for our group. When you come for our Christmas celebration, please bring along your Sunday best. Paula has advised me to tell Anna she could wear one of her dresses if none of Ana’s fit anymore. While I am speaking of that topic, congratulations to the pair of you! I cannot wait to drink to your continued good health and that of the baby!

Best,  Rafael

[Document 13: A Todo List written by Daniel]

12-24-1895 To Do

purchase 2 new horseshoes for the lord’s horses

purchase eggs, onions, ham, broad beans, garlic, shallot, bay leaves, parsley, and potatoes for dinner tomorrow

Black sewing thread and green embroidery thread

pick up horse feed 

pick up Felix and Ana from train station

[Document 14: A Sign which says the Pub is Closed]

PUB CLOSED FOR CHRISTMAS

[Document 15: A Letter from the King to Rafael]

From His Royal Highness King Alfonso VIII

Thank you for volunteering your services to the royal army. You should report to Madrid for transportation to training on January 22nd.

With gratitude, 

His Royal Highness King King Alfonso VIII

[Document 16: A Journal Entry Written by Rafael, Daniel, Paula, and Felix]

An Archival Note: We have tried to determine in the translation whose handwriting we believe each section is written in. This will be noted in <This style> at the start of a section

<Rafael> I am only a little drunk. I am at the Christmas party. I will never forget this, but also I might have another drink. I need to make sure this is not forgotten, so I’m writing down everyone's favorite part of the night.  Felix doesn’t want to answer yet. He is thinking.  Paula says her favorite part is- Oh that’s so cute. Her favorite thing is that Ana’s baby is kicking! Clara is also kicking right now, but she’s in Daniel’s arms so Paula can’t feel it.  I remember when I felt Clara kicking when Paula was pregnant. I think I got drunk that night as well cause I was happy. I think I probably cried. Maybe I will cry tonight. The night is young.  Daniel tells me the night is not young. Oh right, his favorite part of tonight is having more people to change Clara’s nappies. This is not true. He is happy to see Felix and Ana.  Haha he just read my writing and says  <Daniel>  My favorite part of this Christmas is the baby duties being spread between more people. I have not cleaned one diaper today. <Rafael> He is rude. I just stuck my tongue out at him. He called me a child. That is also rude.  Ana has a favorite thing. Well of course she does, but she told it to me. Ana says her favorite part of this weekend is talking to Paula which does make sense. I get to talk to Paula all the time, and it is usually one of my favorite things, and Ana also loves Paula, so it makes sense talking to Paula is one of her favorite things.  They talked alone for several hours this afternoon. I don’t know what it was about and they kept saying men weren’t allowed. They only let Daniel in because he brought in Clara for her feeding. She is a hungry baby. I’m glad.  Okay Felix has said he is ready but wants to write it down <Felix> My favorite part of this weekend is seeing the joy of my friends, who I now truly consider my family <Rafael> Okay, he has walked away and is not looking. When he was writing, I think he had tears in his eyes. He has had them there every time he looks at me. I think he is thinking about the fact that I am leaving. I am glad he has not said anything. It would upset the women and Daniel. I do not want people to be upset. I do not want to be the reason they are upset. I wish I did not feel like I had to leave to serve my country, but I have been called to do so.  Good news - just as I was about to cry over this, Paula shouted at me that her favorite part of tonight is the food. Haha, she is mad that I wrote this down. She is coming over to - <Paula> My favorite part of tonight is Ana And my husbands and my baby And Felix I love him too just not like I love the rest of them <Rafael> Ana has called Paula away. I ought to correct the record I am not the husband of Paula. I wish I were if only so she could receive my pension should I- well let me not think of that. Not tonight.  I shall rejoin the merriment now, and have another drink.

[Document 17: A Letter from Ana (Written by Felix) To Rafael]

Ana, through Felix Guadanca, Spain January 4, 1896

Dear Rafael, 

Do not let the handwriting fool you. Felix is writing what I tell him to again. I insist you remain in Spain until after I have the baby. You must. You must not leave until you can meet the baby. We shall write to you once it is born and you can come see. 

Yours,  Ana

[Document 18: A Letter from Felix to Rafael]

Felix Guadanca, Spain January 4, 1896

Dear Rafael, 

This is truly Felix now. I want to write to repeat the request Ana has made. Her wish comes from both of us. You should know she thinks quite frequently of you. I know she speaks of you nearly every day. She loves you as a brother, Rafael. As do I. Christmas has reminded us of the joy you bring to our lives and has in ways brought more pain. We were reminded of what it is to love you and of what it will mean to lose you. 

Please visit, and bring Paula if you do. Ana would like to see Paula. 

Best,  Felix of Guadanca

[Document 19: A Letter from Felix to Rafael]

Felix Guadanca, Spain January 20, 1896

Dear Rafael, 

I pray this news arrives to you before you leave. I write you this letter as a new father. Ana had the baby several hours ago. We have named her Isabel. 

I know you plan to leave soon for the army. Please come here first. Please say you have the time to visit us and meet Isabel before you leave. You need not remain for long. It is but a day's journey here and a day's journey back. 

I intend to tip the postal carrier so that this letter may reach you with great speeds.

Hurry,  Felix of Guadanca

[Document 20: A List by Daniel]

Months since you’ve been here: 24 tallies

Times Clara has said your name: 23

Clara’s achievements while you were gone: 

learning to crawl 

first steps

first word

first horse ride (with me, not solo)

Your favorite horse has gone through 81 horse shoes

We went to your pub 13 times while you were gone

We went to Guadanca to visit Felix, Ana, and Isabel 10 times

[Document 21-31: Letters from Paula]

I am providing a brief overview of these letters instead of a transcript or images. There are 10 letters that were in this collection. They were all addressed to Rafael from Paula during the time when he was serving in the Army for Spain. I’m not posting these letters because they deal with explicit material. In addition to trying to keep myself at a pg-13 rating in the stories I share here, I also feel that these add very little to their story as we see it. 

The only thing of note that I found in skimming these files myself, is that Paula tells Rafael she is pregnant in one of the final letters. 

[Document 32: A Letter from Rafael to Paula, Daniel, and Clara]

Rafael  Cuba October 27, 1897

Paula, Daniel, and Clara, 

I shall be home on March 15th, 1898. I have done my duty to my country and can now return to you my loves. Please inform Ana and Felix. I am allowed very few stamps. I hope this letter finds you well and quickly.

When I arrive please know, I have plans for both of you. 

All my love,  Rafael

[Document 33: A Letter from Paula to Ana and Felix]

Paula Burona, Spain February 5, 1898

Ana and Felix

Come to Burona as soon as you can, Rafael is coming home tomorrow! He will remain home! 

I apologize for the short notice. His letter was lost in the mail and took three months to arrive. I hope you can come. 

Love Paula

[Documents 34-37: Photographs]

According to the archive I found these documents in there were 4 photos in the bottom. The images were not yet uploaded, but they have catalogued the descriptions which are below:

A photo taken within a bar which has 5 adults and one baby. On the back of the photo it is labled “Navidad 1890” 

A photo taken within a home where a man is holding a newborn. He is smiling at her. On the back of the photo it is labled “Conociendo a Isabel antes de la guerra” Which translates to English as “Meeting Isabel before the war”. 

A photo taken within a home which has 3 adults and one young child. On the back of the photo it is labled “Volver a Casa”

A photo taken within a bar which has 5 adults and two toddlers. On the back of the photo it is labled “Mi familia”

I will keep an eye out, and if these photos are ever uploaded I’ll post them! 

[Document 38: A Letter from Rafael to Felix and Ana]

Rafael Burona, Spain March 14, 1898

Dear Felix and Ana, 

I am collecting items and memorabilia which have to do with our Christmas party and my time in service. I intend to keep these in a special box which was purchased by Daniel as a present for my return. I would greatly appreciate any letters or notes you have about that period of time. The photos on the wall do me well to remember you, but it is your words that I long to lock away. I shall pull them out on dark days and remind myself of our friendship and our love. 

With love,  Rafael

Outroduction

I hope this holiday story warmed your heart as much as it warmed mine. 

An early shoutout to my friend Chitra. She found the story I’m going to share with you next week. She’s the only person in the world who enjoys doing this research with me. 

The first part of the next story should be out on Saturday, I’ll try to be less late this time. 

Happy Holidays to those who celebrate!-098

Credits and Authors Notes

link to original tortilla patatas recipe  

link to original habas con jamon recipe

Mars Note on Translations

Full disclosure, I changed the text of the last letter after making the image so the translation no longer matches. Please forgive me, the text below the image is what is canon.

[queer-triple-a]

A Fateful Friendship

Introduction

Hello! 

This story is going to be a tad different from my other stories, mostly because it’s written in 500 year old italian. 

Luckily this has been translated already by the institution which it comes from!

The story that is available in English is a lovely tale which I cannot wait to share with you all. 

I’ve included the images of the Italian because I think old documents look cool. But the english text is located just below. It’s not separated out by page this time, because it wasn’t in the source. Enjoy!

Content Warnings: 

Short-term disability

Depiction of pain

Period typical structural sexism

Trans medical care (kind of)

The Journal of Maribel

[Image Descriptions: six images of very old journal spreads with italian written on them. The text is translated to english below. End description.]

April 17th, 1529

I have timed the completion of my journal quite well in my own opinion. I was able to begin my new notebook just as Francesca and I moved to the town of Cavero. I shall start afresh in what I write and in where I live. Not everything shall change as we move our possessions. I will continue to be known here as Maribel instead of Markus, and Francesca, though she will ask to be called Franca here, will remain a woman as well. We are fortunate in that the village does not have a seamstress so they are quite excited as we move in. At least I believe they are excited. I have not yet spoken to any of them myself. I have only heard Franca’s reporting. I shall meet her there the day after tomorrow, as soon as Bianca’s husband can make the journey with me by cart. I must remember to pay him generously for his services. Without his cart, it would take weeks of walking to transport the pieces of our loom and the fabric which Franca keeps for her embroidery. 

She says she wants to teach me more embroidery and maybe some of the rudimentary dressmaking skills she has been learning. I will do my best to be a good, if reluctant, student, but to put things simply I do not want to be a seamstress.  

I wish there was a way for me to be a doctor in this town. I know they need one, yet I also know they will never hire someone with the name and demeanor of a woman even if I once trained under the best medical scholars in Genoa. 

Markus has studied the humours and herbalism at the medical college in Genoa. But none of that can or will matter in Cavero because I will be Maribel, and who would believe a woman’s ability to cure any disease? I long so desperately to help my new community in the way I helped before I made this change. 

I think if she saw this journal Franca would tell me I am helping the community by weaving cloth and sewing simple garments. She is right of course. She has been a woman longer than I have and I would never dare say the work she’s done held no value. There is a difference between us though. We’ve both lost so much. It seems to me in her grief Franca makes things. She busies her hands and mind with the meditation of crafts and uses them to reach out and commune with others in pain so that she may lessen it. I think her endeavors benevolent. I have witnessed her kindness and the joy and peace it appears to bring to the bereaved people we meet. To dwell in this act of grief does not do me well. I think it must do well for Franca, for she continues to repeat these actions and does not seem to wish for a different occupation. 

I am not like Franca - not about this. In my grief, I turned to medicine. It is not perfect and I cannot save everybody, but there are some who I believe are alive today because of my hand and my training. I do not know myself as well when I am not serving a town as its physician. 

Well, I suppose this is only true in some ways. I know Maribel the seamstress in all the ways I could not know Markus the physician. I may not be a physician, but I am a woman. I recognize myself in my clothing now and when people talk of me I feel it is truly me they speak of. Yet I am stopped from fulfilling this other want of mine - to use the knowledge I have gained. 

Perhaps I shall talk to Franca about this. She has changed her name, though she did not need to change her profession. Perhaps she still will understand my struggles. More than this, I hope she hears me and knows me. I could be lost to all the world, but if Franca knows me I may be content. 

April 28th, 1529

I do not think beginning in a new town can ever be an easy task, yet things are not as difficult this time as they were last time. One thing which seems to help is the demand of this community for our products. Last time it took us about four months to gain steady business. There was no waiting period here. We have been weaving, sewing and embroidering the entire day to keep up with the needs of the town. 

Another thing that has made this transition smooth is our neighbor. Her name is Diana and she spends much of her day near us. Like Franca, her father’s skin is dark brown and her mother’s is white. Her skin is a darker and warmer shade than Franca’s, but from what I have overheard Diana’s grandparents are from Ifriqiya like Franca’s father. 

Diana’s husband raises pigs for the local lord, so she is fortunate enough not to need to work. Once she has a family of her own she will remain occupied during the day, however, she is not yet expecting. I cannot tell whether the lack of children or pregnancy bothers her. Some days she seems nearly wistful, others it’s as though she fears the loss of her independence. I suppose she could feel both. It is not as though my expectations for my future are ever as simple as single words. 

The only member of our new community who I have met whom I do not foresee getting along with is Nicollo. He works with the masons and his clothing is simple yet well kept, so he does not visit us for his own garments, nor for his wife, for he lives with another bachelor who I’ve yet to meet. Despite this, he spends nearly twenty minutes each day around our stall looking at our fabrics. I am becoming convinced he merely watches us work. It is off putting, and he makes me quite nervous. Franca told me not to worry so I shall not list my fears here, but there are many reasons a woman such as myself should be wary of a man who pays her too much attention. I hope Franca knows I would not want to date this man. Surely she knows me better than that. 

Ah. She is home, so I shall go ask her now. Hopefully, her reassurances will do something to quell my discomfort. 

May 10th, 1529

There is no word for the series of events that transpired today other than ‘strange’. Each moment individually may have occurred on a normal day, yet when put in sequence I struggled to keep pace with the events of life. I shall recount them now in part to better understand their nature, but also to remind myself later of where this new path in my life began. 

The first several hours of our day were unextraordinary. Franca was mending the shorts of a local boy while I sat behind the loom weaving fabric from the colors she had set out for me that morning. There was no one else in the store so I began complaining about my boredom to Franca. She tried to be patient, telling me I could learn more patterns and sew clothes rather than weaving simple fabrics. This was not the solution to my boredom and Franca knew this. I told her I wish to return to being a doctor. 

I believe I was too loud in this declaration, for at the moment I concluded Nicollo walked into the area. I grew quiet as he eyed me up and down. At the time I knew not what he was looking for nor what he thought he found. I have suspicions now. 

After browsing our wares for some time he paused near me. He ran his fingers over the orange and green fabrics at my side and kept opening his mouth as though to speak. He would glance my way, see me watching curiously, and then turn back to the fabric. 

It was Franca who broke this uncomfortable pattern. She asked if she could help with anything. Nicollo stared at her mouth slightly open. He considered responding her way before turning to me again. 

“You were a doctor?” He asked me. 

I do not know precisely how I responded because in my shock I stammered. I must have nodded or agreed somehow, for he smiled and continued on.

“They will not train women,” He said. It was not a question but a fact. He was not rude in his words, and oddly there seemed to be a joy or excitement in his eye. 

I did not know how to respond to this accusation which did not feel like an accusation so I stared at him for a moment then turned back to my loom. 

He spoke again saying “They will not train a woman, yet they trained you,” he put his hand on my loom, I suspect to draw my attention. It worked. I met his eyes and saw hope. I could not comprehend this. In my confusion, I grew frustrated. I told him to let go of my loom. He did. He turned to Franca, looked her up and down for a moment, then turned back to me. 

He lowered his voice significantly and said, “My friend's name was not always Leonardo. Before we came to this town it was Lavinia.”

He paused for a moment while he let this sink into the room. I met Franca’s wide eyes across the room. I had little time to form an opinion, an emotion, or a response before Nicollo continued. 

“I loved him then and I did not stop loving him when he insisted those changes were necessary for his happiness,” He told us. I think he feared we would react poorly for he continued on for several more moments. I do not remember his words, but I remember the feelings they conveyed. I could not help but meet Franca’s eyes again for it is the feeling I felt when she first confided her own discomfort in me. An endearment that pulled me toward her with such strength that I would climb mountains to bring her more joy in her life. To change a name and see her as a woman mattered to me only because everything about her mattered to me. 

“I understand,” I told Nicollo. 

He stopped his fretting and met my eyes, with his own: wide with hope. 

“He needs a doctor’s help,” Nicollo said, “But the only doctor is from the town north of us and he cannot know.” 

I nodded and caught Franca’s eyes. Something like an agreement passed between us as I said “I will help.” A smile grew from the fear and confusion on her face. We briefly spoke about where Leonardo was and what his struggles were, but it became clear Nicollo would not tell me much until I saw him for myself. I suspect he did not want me to diagnose him without visiting. 

I made the walk with Nicollo to their home. We did not speak as we walked. All we knew of each other were things we could not speak of in public. I entered their home and saw Leonardo curled around himself on their bed mat. His auburn hair was stuck by sweat to his tan forehead and his breathing was labored. 

He called out softly to Nicollo who quickly moved to sit beside his beloved. I was unsure of what to do with myself so I stood in the doorway as an observer while they rearranged themselves so Nicollo held Leonardo’s head within his lap. For a brief moment, I let my eyes wander to his pained body. I imagined the parts I knew were beneath the surface. How they fit together and what could be going wrong.

Nicollo spoke my name, Maribel, and snapped me from unhelpful thoughts. I moved towards the bed and knelt before Leonardo. I introduced myself and said I was a doctor. 

There was confusion amidst the pain and Nicollo brushed his fingers through Leonard’s hair. “She’s a doctor?” His strained voice asked. 

I took a deep breath and told him, “I was Markus when I was taught and trained. I am Maribel now.” 

I do not know for certain whether Leonardo understood. There was silence in the room for a moment as he struggled with connecting the dots which brought me to his bedside. His thoughts were interrupted by his own pained groan. I knelt beside him and began to examine what was wrong. 

After much discussion and some gentle prodding, I could make a diagnosis. I have placed the medical information and treatment plan in the medical journal I kept while in school. 

I did not intrude in their home much longer than this. I instructed Nicollo to keep Leonardo hydrated and not allow him to get warm tonight. He must grow colder and wetter if we are to rebalance his humors and make him well again. I hope his fever does not remain for that may indicate an imbalance of his blood humor as well and I do not know where to find leeches nor could I ask someone nearby for I fear they would discover my purpose and perhaps our secrets. 

Nicollo offered to walk me back to my home, but I could see he did not want to leave Leonardo. Nicollo’s presence offered much comfort to Leonardo who looked no better than I’d found him and who would likely remain in pain for several days at least. It would feel cruel for me to steal either man from the other’s side. 

I walked home alone and thought I would have much to tell Franca when I arrived. People were shopping and talking among the clothes when I arrived and they remained for several hours more. I resumed my weaving on the loom while Franca sewed and sold cloth. When the sun set and we moved into the back room I had her to myself and despite my excitement earlier in the day I could think of little to express with words.

I told her we were not alone. Her eyes sparkled at this. 

She squeezed my hands and told me “I was never alone for I have you.” 

She is right of course, that we have each other. But there is a joy in hearing about the existence of another like us. It reduces in me the fear that we are alone in our ways. It makes me feel more certain that our choice of happiness did not show weakness or confusion, but strength and resolve. 

Franca went to walk about town this evening. I think she likes the cool night air. She claims she can hear the wind whistle through the mountains. She says the voices of men and women in their home is the melody on top of the harmonious sounds of nature. I attended one of her strolls and did not hear the song she hummed along to. Perhaps I was too distracted looking at my Franca to be able to see the world through her eyes. 

She returns now so I shall put down my notebook to fall asleep beside her as I thank the stars for the people I have met within the course of my life. 

May 19th, 1529

My twice daily trips to see Leo in his home may be more than is needed for him medically, but it brings joy and companionship to both of us and Franca does not complain of my absence. Leo’s pains are showing no improvement so he cannot yet return to work. Once this pain passes I suspect we will see each other with less frequency so I am slightly ashamed to admit I am taking advantage of his position to impose on his kindness. This is not to say he does not seem to enjoy my company. Several times I have suggested I could visit with less frequency or for shorter durations and each time I am asked to remain and return. I am grateful my presence does not bother him. 

There is always much for us to talk about. In moments where the pain ebbs, Leo has told me the stories of the members of this community. I have learned much of the past romantic dalliances of the Lord who owns this land. These stories are a joy to bring home to sweet Franca. I try to bring her to Leo to hear them herself, but I have yet to convince her to leave her work. She is quite in demand here, and though I think she would enjoy it, I understand why she remains. Without her by my side, I feel slightly less whole, but Leo’s gentle friendship and attentive ear offer much comfort to me in this new town. I spin him yarns about my past, my studies, and my life, and keep him up to date on the gossip floating amongst the town. 

After we grew used to each other’s company we began to talk about things beyond town gossip. Several of our meetings have been spent discussing how we changed and, more than that, how we didn't. The feelings that led me to be a woman and the joy I feel now contrast with the great sadness lifted from Leo’s shoulders when Nicco’s love did not waver. There was confusion as there tends to be but once Nicco’s questions ended his acceptance began. Nicco often returns to their home while I am there and his face wrinkles with joy when his eyes first find Leo. Of course, this joy is often wiped out by worry and concern at the illness but the instinct remains: Leo makes Nicco happy. 

I thank the stars they’ve found and kept each other. 

May 22nd, 1529

As is noted in my medical journal Leo’s pain released its grip on him overnight. I shall stop in to ensure he remains well today, but then I shall cease my daily trips. He will likely return to work tomorrow and so shall I. I have let myself get so lost in the joy of being a doctor that I forgot I will not be working with any patients in this town beyond Leo. 

I have no other thoughts to share. I thought I had more words to say on that matter. But it seems things are quite clear. I will cease treating Leo daily and return to weaving cloth. 

May 25th, 1529

I shall sleep happily tonight. I thank the stars for my friends and for their company tonight. They have given me a path toward the future which holds a joy I did not expect. 

Leo and Nicco arrived at our shop just after their work shift. They’d stopped at their home on the way to freshen up and grab some food and arrived as the day ended with dinner for myself and Franca. We ate and talked and had a wonderful time. 

Though I have not yet spoken to Franca, she left shortly after dinner for her evening walk, I believe she enjoyed herself. She smiled at Leo's jokes and did a much better job catching him up on the gossip than I could hope to. She has a knack for small talk and gossip. 

While she told Leo of the most recent affairs of Susanna’s brother’s wife I spoke some to Nicco alone. I realized I hadn’t had time with just him since before I met Leo. Since then I had spent a lot of time with his love and roommate, but I often left soon after he came back home from the day's work. He is softer spoken than Leo and meets my eyes with an intense stare - though I quickly learned there is no malice in it. He is an avid listener. He asked after our shop and as I answered he held onto every word I spoke. When I finished he thought for a moment before asking about our business in our last town. The conversation continued like this until its natural end. 

He waited and listened to the gossiping of Leo and Franca for several minutes before turning to me and saying, “You are a good doctor. I am grateful I met you and trusted you.” 

I admit I was a little taken aback by the bluntness, but I hope this was not obvious to him. I told him thank you and he smiled back as he took a sip of his drink. 

It wasn’t long before he met my eyes and spoke again. He told me, “You are a woman who has been trained as a doctor.” 

Despite there being no obvious question, I could tell he waited for a response. I nodded. He nodded understandingly and said, “My sister is pregnant. Our town has no midwife.” 

Once again the question was implicit. I told him I knew little of the subject and that work is for women, and thus I was not taught it. 

He stated, “You are a woman” then after a very brief pause asked, “Could you learn?” 

I hesitated. I know very little of the bodies which can carry a baby and have never witnessed the act of birth. I expressed this fear to Nicco and he listened carefully. When I was done he collected his thoughts and then said, “I trust your skill and knowledge of the human body. My sister will have no one if she does not have you.” 

I do not know if it was the conviction with which he believed in me or how his eyes held mine with fear for his sister and hope for my answer, but I responded “I will try.” 

When the men had left I had but a few moments before her walk to tell Franca of my promise to Nicco. It was her instant excitement that waved away the fog of fear to reveal joy underneath. I will still be able to be a doctor. Not as I was once, but in a new way, as a woman. I will learn what I can about childbirth and I will bring healing and joy to the people in my community. 

I suspect Franca will return soon so I must wrap this up so we can discuss our news and hold each other in joy. I trust we shall lie close tonight for Franca often yearns for touch when emotions run high. 

Oh, what good fortune it is to share my life with someone such that her joy becomes mine and mine becomes hers. We have braved dark moments together and there is no one I would rather be near me as we celebrate and step into this new light. 

Outrodution

A HUGE shout out to the people who found, translated, and preserved this document. It’s amazing that it’s been kept this well for this long. 

I think I found something that I’ll share for the holidays next week, so keep an eye out!

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!

(background image of the journal was made using this image source)

[queer-triple-a]

A Shared Experience

Introduction

Hello! For those who read my last post thank you for returning. For those who are new, welcome. 

This post will show you a selection from the journal of a person who lived around Cincinnati, Ohio in 1858. This is the same year as the Civil War started yet there is nothing in the journals I’m showing you that has to do with that. The author does mention the conflict before the story I wanted to share begins, and they do seem to be on the side of the Union. So I do not think I’m sharing with you the story of someone who had confederacy sympathies. I just wanted to make sure that context was here though.

Additionally, the writer of these journals, who goes by both Oliver and Charlotte, uses the phrases “dressed up as a man” and “dressed up as a woman” frequently. They use this terminology to describe what might be interpreted as going out with different gendered presentations. This seems to reflect a fluidity of gender within themselves. 

This terminology might be uncomfortable for some as it reduces their identity to clothing or costumes. However, it’s the language the writer had at the time to express their emotions and actions so we’re going to respect that and use their words. 

I do recognize that this type of terminology can sometimes be hard to hear. If that’s the case this might not be the story for you. Maybe come back next time. 

Without Further Ado here is a selected portion of the journals of Charlotte/Oliver

Discussion of gender as “dressing up” or putting on a costume

Discussions of gender fluid as “two identities”

The Journal of Charlotte/Oliver

[left page]

Do I love my friend Tillie? Absolutely. Does she have an unbelievable skill of tricking me into agreeing to help her when it’s not at all convenient for me? Also yes. 

How on earth am I going to have any semblance of a social life while Jean’s living with me? If it was anyone else's little sister I could maybe manage, any other week and I could maybe be alright with Jean. Next week is gonna be particularly difficult though. Not only does Tillie have her monthly women's luncheon, an event which I will need to dress up as Charlotte for, but Tillie’s husband Hubert is expecting me to go out dressed as Oliver that Thursday night. I bailed on him the last two weeks- I cannot do it again or I may lose that group of friends. I’d like to think they’re not fickle enough to stop inviting me after 22 years of friendship, but lately, David has been quite a grumpy curmudgeon with me so I’m uncertain how long I’d remain in any of their good graces. 

I know Jean needs a place to stay and I know it’s a good sign that Tillie trusts me enough, trusts her friend Charlotte enough, to recommend her sister live with me for a short while- but I’ve been friends with Hubert much longer and he’s never made it feel like if I didn't offer his brothers lodging when they came to town I was a bad person.

It’s not that I don’t like Tillie, or that she’s a bad person. I met her once at Tillie’s and she’s quiet and lovely. I’m just frustrated that this visitor is being imposed upon me.

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Tillie may not know that I dress as a woman some nights and as a man on others, but I still have a right to privacy. Plenty of people have plenty of reasons for not wanting a visitor to stay at their home for a week or so. 

That’s another thing. She cannot give me an end date. She has essentially asked me to become a free hotel while Jean finds a permanent place to stay in the city. 

I don’t have a roommate because I don’t want a roommate. If this is Tillie's way of trying to make another friend for me she should mind her own business. I don’t have a lot of girl friends, but I like the ones I do have. I’ve only been Charlotte for a few years, and she doesn't know this, but I have plenty of friends as Oliver. Those friends are just guys and not also friends with Charlotte. 

I’m just scared. I suppose I can admit that here. I’m scared Jean will find out and tell Tillie. I can’t lose Tillie. She’s annoying me right now but she’s still my friend - she’s still Charlotte’s friend. I don’t want to lose a friend as Charlotte or as Oliver. 

I’ll just have to be careful I suppose. Figure it out day by day, as if that’s not how I approach every other part of my life.

-

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Jean has been here for one full day and I have good news on the secret-keeping front. I was able to go out with the boys as a boy tonight and Jean was none the wiser. I left 3 hours earlier than planned so Jean was napping as I donned the hat and clothes I’d chosen for that evening. It felt like a good day to dress up as Oliver so the extra time before dinner was nice. I was probably the only guy at the bar with a hat pin, but needs must when you’re trying to hide a full head of hair. 

The evening went so well. Even David was less grumpy-though he did cuss up a storm when I beat him at pool. He should have seen it coming though. I beat Hubert at pool all the time and David’s only marginally better than Hubert. 

I’m burying the lead-if you can even do that in a journal where you’re writing for yourself. 

Milton came! 

No one told me he would be there and it immediately made the sneaking around worth it. First of all, he is a proper rival at pool, second of all it becomes hard to call someone your best friend when you haven’t seen them in nearly a year. I did not intend to stay out so late, but even after the rest of the guys left, Milton and I played 3 more games while we talked (In total I won 3/5 games). It reminded me of how we’d gotten good at playing in the first place. We spent so many evenings in the late 40s in that bar on 10th street playing until they kicked us out.

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It was fantastic to catch up with him. He recently moved in with a friend named Joel. They’re in the city together today. I asked why he hadn’t brought his friend tonight, and Milton said he didn’t want to intrude. I insisted that I meet his new close friend. We also agreed to meet for lunch in two days so hopefully, he will bring the man who is making him so happy. 

I stayed out late enough that Jean was asleep by the time I returned so I did not need to sneak too much. I only needed to be sure she didn’t wake from her place on the couch. Now it is time for me to go to sleep as well. 

-

Given what occurred today I would have assumed I had a long story to share, but it wound up being a sort of non-event. I had agreed to get lunch with Milton today so I had to go out dressed as Oliver. I had assumed Jean was out of the apartment because I’d heard the front door open and shut. So I left my room with pants and a tie on. I wasn’t wearing a hat yet so my long hair was visible, but I didn’t shave as close as last night so there was some stubble along my jaw. All this to say I was not Charlotte as I walked out of my bedroom door and straight into Jean. She must have opened the door and then realized she’d forgotten her hat and returned for it.

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She froze and stared at me as I held my breath. I don’t believe she’s ever met Oliver properly. I thought perhaps she would think Charlotte had brought a man home the night before. It was wishful thinking. I saw realization creep over her face. First, her eyebrows rose then her mouth dropped to an “o” shape. 

I braced myself for -  well I don’t know what. No one’s ever found me out before. I wasn’t sure what was coming but I knew well enough to be afraid. 

Then Jean’s face relaxed. It was more of a curiosity than a shock. She let out a small “huh” sound and looked me up and down. I saw her eyes stop where Charlotte’s chest is normally larger. I wasn’t wearing any feminine undergarments today. As her eyes rose again they landed on my cheeks-dark red hair visible on the surface. 

“Okay,” she said, then shrugged and left the apartment with her hat in hand. I could not say what tone she said the words with, for all I remember is the confusion and relief that “okay” was the only word she said. 

I do not know how long I stood there transfixed in that spot, only that I was late for my meal with Milton. I don’t think he noticed I was distracted because he was quite talkative himself. I asked where his friend was and he told me Joel was busy today, but that we could perhaps meet another time. Then he told me how they’d met and of the many good qualities the man possesses. I was grateful to hear this, not just because it took my attention away

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from my moment with Jean, but because Milton seemed happy. The two of us have always been close, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him light up like he was at lunch. I insisted again that I needed to meet the man who makes him happy. He smiled at this and touched my knee beneath the table. 

“He makes me very happy,” Milton said to me. There was hope in his eyes. 

I nodded and I think I understood what he was trying to tell me. Regardless of whether these suspicions (which I have held for some time) are true, I intend to meet Joel and congratulate him on the honor of being friends with such a kind and loyal man as Milton. 

I returned home from lunch to see Jean sitting in the living room reading Monsieur Venus. I may owe her an explanation, she may desire answers as to the scene she saw today, but I was so stifled by the costume of Oliver that I ignored her and went to my room. I write this undressed and covered only in a spare sheet. I do not know if I would prefer she see me as Charlotte or Oliver right now-so she will see me as neither-rather she will not see me. Until this confusion passes I shall remain in my room without the perception of others or the prescription of clothing. I can simply be.

-

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I suppose I ought to journal the day's events in the order in which they occurred even though the end of the day held much more intrigue than the beginning. I don't know precisely why this feels necessary to write in chronological order, but it wouldn’t feel right to begin in the afternoon. 

Well, the first thing of some significance that occurred today was Tillies’ luncheon. It was a lovely day. Hubert had spent much of the night and morning ensuring the brisket cooked well, and then got out of our hair so there were no men around as we ate. 

I spent much of the meal on the fringes of conversation. As Charlotte, I do not have many long standing connections. Tillie is my nearest friend by far, and I only know about a dozen other women, most of whom were in attendance today. Jean was there too of course. Yet despite being Tillie’s sister she left early. She said she had a splitting headache. At the time I believed her. 

Today was a good day to be Charlotte, so I was very grateful to have the company of so many other women. Being in such an environment gave me the confidence to make friends with the women I met. It took me some time to adjust to a few of these women calling Tillie by her Jewish name “Miriam”, as they knew her from Synagogue. Fortunately, as Charlotte, it is assumed that my mother only gave me one name. At least two of the women I met, Beth and Raisel, are coming over in a week to celebrate

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Shabbat with dinner at my apartment. Fraydel said she would try her best to make it, but she has a toddler so it depends on how much her husband has to drink the night before. Apparently, they rotate between houses for the meal one week every month.  

I think Tillie enjoyed her event as well. She seemed somewhat tired, but from what little I know of pregnancy this is to be expected. I am grateful for Tillie’s invitation and for being able to attend such a party dressed as Charlotte. 

Now I shall write of what I saw when I arrived home. Standing in the kitchen preparing dinner was a man. Or at least that’s what I first thought. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was Jean. She had taken the outfit of Oliver’s which had been in a pile to be washed, and put it on herself. We met eyes for several moments, both holding our breaths. 

The water began to boil on the stove and Jean turned back to it. I couldn’t take my eyes off her though. I know it was rude and not just with hindsight- I knew it was rude while I stared. 

But she looked so at peace standing there. Her arms hung loosely at her side instead of the tense way she’d held them that morning-with her elbows practically glued to her sides. The cut of the jacket did enough to disguise what breasts she had that, had I not known her, I may not have second guessed my original assumption that she was a man. 

I stood long enough to realize that Oliver’s pants did not fit

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her and she was not wearing shoes-then she cleared her throat and told me it would be a little while yet before dinner was ready. Her voice seemed affected to be lower than normal. 

Dinner was nearly silent as I did not know how to broach the subject and she did not seem to see a need to. So we ate, I as Charlotte and Jean as - well I suppose that may be what is happening. Perhaps Jean also feels the need to be a man sometimes. Well now that I’ve said it-well wrote it- it seems idiotic that I had not considered it before now. 

Well, now I do wish to know if she sees herself as I do-constantly sliding between 2 versions of oneself, never changing yet constantly wishing to. That wasn’t right. It sounds kinda pretty but there must be something in me that changes between Oliver and Charlotte. 

Perhaps Jean has this same... what to call it-confusion? Perhaps it is common, maybe everyone has it and I am merely unable to cope as others do- no I do not think this is it. If it were more common I would have heard of it. Humans are, on a whole, terrible secret keepers. If Jean is like me it must be lucky that we found each other. 

I shouldn’t assume. I should talk to her. I will-soon. Not today though. I need to keep reading this story by Bayard Taylor. I just remembered I was near the end. I shall go read that to distract me from the strange goings on of my life.

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I had no plans for the day except to clean up the apartment thoroughly, do the laundry, and read the Sunday Papers. I woke up feeling quite certain that I ought to wear my Oliver clothes today. I considered dressing as Charlotte anyway for Jean’s sake, but the idea grated on my mind and I suppose if she can wear Oliver’s clothes while doing women’s work, so can I. It is I who made the clothes Oliver’s anyway... I don’t know if that makes sense... Anyway, I wore Oliver's clothes around the apartment today. Jean definitely noticed. Her eyes lingered on me frequently as I made my way through the apartment. 

The whole day went on like this. She would watch me but pretend she wasn’t as I cleaned and cooked dressed as Oliver. The only thing of note to come out of this exchange was just before dinner. 

Jean said, “Charlotte, would you like help with the cooking?” 

I flinched at the name and before my mind could catch up I was saying, “Call me Oliver.” 

There was a pause and I was quite afraid that by acknowledging what had been silent I would break the spell of acceptance. 

She said, “Always?” 

I blinked back at her for a moment and said, “Just today and just when I wear his clothes.” 

I think it would be too much to say she understood, but she did not question- well she did, but only to say “Would you

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like help with the cooking, Oliver?” 

I tried very hard to hide the elation this brought me. If Jean didn’t treat this as a big deal neither would I. Yet my heart flew as I accepted her assistance. Jean, who knew me as Charlotte, wasted no time calling me Oliver when requested. 

I write it down now in part to ensure I wasn’t dreaming. Whatever hesitancy I felt at allowing Jean into my life has vanished. She may stay as long as she wants. To live with someone who shows such passive willingness to know me as Oliver and as Charlotte is striking. 

---

Though I was ambivalent about which name I took this morning, I chose to dress as Charlotte. I own more clothes for her so she tends to be my costume for days which feels like a person in between Oliver and Charlotte. 

Perhaps it is a shame I did not look within Oliver’s drawers, for I might have had a warning of what I saw as I left my room. 

The person I knew then as Jean stood looking in the mirror on the wall. It feels false to say I was looking at a woman. At that moment I knew he was a man. I could not describe well what change suggested this to me, but I began to think of his fingers, his tie, his sly smile, his confidence. Actually, it was not his tie. It was mine. All

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of the clothes were clothes I wear when I am Oliver. And the tie was a mess. I’ve not seen someone tie a tie so poorly in my life. Well, except Milton, but he was exceptionally drunk. 

I didn’t know if I should address the outfit, but I couldn’t leave him looking so unkempt, so I took a step forward, making eye contact through the mirror. I glanced down at his neck.

“Would you like me to tie that?” I asked.

“Are you Charlotte or Oliver?” He asked in response. 

I frowned and thought for a moment, “Call me either,” I decided, “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.” 

He nodded as though this were common, and removed his own hand from the knot. 

We were silent as I moved behind him. I undid his “knot” and began to tie it onto him as I do when I dress as Oliver. As I finished I moved to his front and tightened it with a smile. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. 

“You’re welcome, Jean. Any time,” I responded. 

His eyes dropped to the ground and after a moment's pause he whispered, “Call me Emmet?” 

“Just today?” I asked. 

He shook his head and said, “Always.” 

I nodded and said, “Okay, Emmet.” Had I not been standing so close I might not have noticed the tension release from his shoulders. He looked at himself in the mirror and I stepped away for a moment, moving into the kitchen. He needed a

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moment with himself, to see the reflection he could cast back. 

I set the water to boil and watched the pot heat. Moments and memories flashed through my mind. Events from my past and hopes for his future. Emmet will not do this alone. As I cooked I decided that I will not let Emmet grow into himself in silent confusion. We can talk about it. We will talk about it. 

We didn’t talk about it today. I couldn’t find the right time or the right words. 

Regardless, neither of us is alone now. 

---

Milton stopped by this morning on the way to pick up his friend Joel from the train station. Apparently, something in their plans changed and he was wondering if I wanted to do dinner with the pair of them tonight. I invited them to eat at my apartment with my roommate and me and they accepted. 

It was only after he left that I realized how rude it was of me to assume Emmet had no plans tonight and that he would want to spend the evening with me, my friend, and his friend who I have never met. He was a little worried when I told him I’d made plans, but seemed excited at the opportunity to be Emmet amongst others. 

We spent the day dressed as men. I went to the market to

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get food for the evening, and by the time I returned home, he was dressed in clothes I had bought for Oliver. As we started to prepare the ingredients for the stuffed cabbage rolls I confronted him about this. 

I told him we should buy him new clothes, clothes which fit him better. 

He seemed skeptical at this. He seemed skeptical at much of what I said in this conversation. 

First, he asked if I was upset that he had taken my clothes. I wasn’t upset. I had been confused the other day, but I understand more now and I just think he should have clothes of his own. I told him this. 

He asked why buy clothes he would likely just wear around the apartment. I wasn’t sure why he would just wear them around the apartment. Part of the fun of wearing clothes is being seen in them. I tried to ask him about this and he said he wasn’t ready to try to be seen. I accepted that, but still thought it was worth it to wear clothes around the apartment. I see him in the apartment don't I? He shrugged at this, which I tried not to be offended by. It meant a lot for me to share my costumed existence with him. Not that it was hard to do- obviously that was an accident, but it means a lot now. To have someone who I know will change the name they use means a lot. I suppose offense isn’t the right word. I tried not to feel ashamed at what wearing both outfits in front of Emmet means to me. Maybe it’s silly that it means so much to me to have him here. Maybe I was imagining how important

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this all was to Emmet. 

I’m going down this rabbit hole when I don’t need to. I had all of these worries already today. I don’t think it does me any good to write them down. 

I told him that even before we lived together I would dress up as Charlotte or Oliver depending on how I felt. There was a bit of a pause then he asked why. I tried to put it into words, and I don’t know how good it was. I tried to use big words and talk about seeing myself in the mirror and thinking about myself differently, but now that I’m thinking about it, it boils down to this: It just feels good. I kind of wish I’d said that because it’s true. It just feels so much better to be in women's clothes when I feel like Charlotte than it does to be in men's clothes and vice versa. I suspect it would feel better for him to be in men's clothes too. 

No matter how stumbling what I said had been, my words must have had some effect because he said he would think about it. 

We kept at the cabbage rolls for a while, then continued with the meatballs I had planned. We were using his grandmother’s recipe which his sister had given to me a few weeks ago. Occasionally one of us would ask a question and the other would answer. 

He asked why I switch between names, and I did my best to explain that some days I feel more like I can exist as Oliver, some days I feel like I can exist as Charlotte, and

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some days I feel a little outside myself no matter who I’m dressed as. 

I asked why he chose Emmet. He said his train conductor had that name when he moved out of his dad’s house. He liked it. 

He asked how I knew his sister and her husband and I told him those stories. 

I asked if he really always felt like he’d rather be Emmet, and he said yes. It seemed to shock both of us to learn how the other felt. I’ve never lived with one name and one feeling for so long, and his has never changed. 

As we finished preparing our meal, he asked about Milton and Joel. I spent the rest of our time together talking about Milton. I told him about how we’d known each other for years and all the time we spent together growing up. I made sure to tell him how good Milton was at pool and how happy he looked talking about Joel the last time I saw him. 

We finished dinner only a few minutes before our guests were set to arrive. I took that time to go find some clothes which were a little more suited for a formal dinner than for cooking around the house for both of us. There were even some pants that were too small for me but fit Emmet perfectly. 

Dinner went really well. Emmet seemed more confident than I’d seen him before, even if he still spoke very little. Milton was, of course, wonderful and I enjoyed our conversation so much. Joel was also great. He’s a black man

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 who is probably about the same height as Milton, but his hair gives him an extra inch or so which makes him appear taller (though he is still shorter than I am). He seemed slightly nervous at first, but after a few smiles and an assurance that the meal tonight would be Kosher, he settled in. He seems to be a kind and warm man. Soft spoken and intentional with his words. I enjoyed him and it was clear that he makes Milton happy. 

There was something in his eyes when Milton spoke. It was like he also wanted to hang onto every word Milton was saying. They sat close together, their shoulders nearly touching. They knew each other well and clearly had been close for some time. There were unsaid stories that passed between them in glances and chuckles. 

Time passed swiftly between the four of us. Tonight we were four men in companionship.

When dinner had ended Emmet excused himself to his room. He had to be up early the following morning for breakfast with his sister. I was also going to attend that breakfast but felt no need to get more sleep because of it. Joel left to use the restroom, and I was alone with Milton for several minutes before they left. 

He smiled at me as I gave him my review of Joel. He took my hand in his, it was warm. He told me he was glad I liked him and then added, softly, that he loved Joel. I think he expected surprise from me but found none when

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he met my eyes. I told Milton it was clear that Joel loved him too. He blushed. 

In tender terms, I tried to learn what I could of their relationship. They seem to have met 5 or 6 years ago and they realized they were in love only 3 months ago. I asked about their future and Milton said he didn’t know exactly what it would be, but he knew it would include Joel. 

The pair of them left shortly after Joel returned. I finished cleaning up the living room and put the dishes into the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. 

As I left for my room Emmet came into the hallway. He said nothing, merely pulled me into a hug. I held him for some time. His gratitude for the evening, the day, the week, was palpable as we stood together. When he let go he smiled up at me and retired to his room for the night. I did the same. 

I took off my clothes and set out clothes for myself to wear as Charlotte in the morning. I wasn’t sure what kind of day it would be, but I would face it. And I wouldn’t face it alone.

Outroduction

I hope you guys enjoyed reading this story!

There are at least a few more stories after this! I have a spreadsheet that I’ve been keeping for a while which I’m pulling from. 

Thanks for reading!

(background image of the journal was made using this DeviantArt image)

[queer-triple-a]

A Vibrant Pair

Introduction

This specific journal is one I just happened across. Apparently the writer had a bunch of loosely bound journals which his family kept around until they were later donated to the town's archive. Luckily this town keeps really good records online so I was able to read it. 

The writer of this journal is named Dorian. We don’t have a last name for him. 

I’m excited to share the story he witnessed with you.

Content Warnings

Mentions of death (of child)

Mentions of depression/depressive episode

Depiction of grief

Drinking

Period typical sexism (background)

Dorian’s Journal

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June 28th

I believe I witnessed the beginning of another love story today. Well it’s probably much too soon to say that, but I saw Tace smile. Tace never smiles! She’s always so grumpy in her spot at the bar. I assume she enjoys my company some since she sits at the bar every night, but I’ve never managed to get a smile out of her. 

Even when she (on rare occasions) has laughed at my jokes, her lips have barely curled. I know she told me her favorite song is “Lavender’s Blue”, but when the bar rang out with a rendition of it she merely hummed along, lips straight as an arrow. 

Clarissa must be something special. This woman, all bangs and bust, came in. She must not be a working girl like Tace is, because her hair was down around her shoulders. It bounced as she walked in. I think Tace might have been focusing on some other things that were bouncing though. 

She sat down right next to Tace at the bar. I’ve never seen anyone sit there. Tace likes her personal space and, quite honestly, smells. Working with metal all day means she winds up smelling like tangy metal and soot.

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Must not have bothered Clarissa though. She sits down next to Tace and asks what she’s drinking. 

Tace just looked at the lady and said, “What's it to you?” 

“Well I’m new and I want to know what’s good,” Clarissa replied. 

So Tace told her to order my house beer and Clarissa did. As I grabbed her a bottle I heard her start rambling to Tace. She told her how she’d had such a hard day going around the town trying to find the courthouse. 

Tace asked her why she hadn’t asked for directions. Clarissa sighed at this and said, with all sorts of drama and flair, “Well don’t you think I thought of that! Doesn’t matter who gives them, I can never follow them.” 

Apparently this Clarissa is so lost in her own mind she can’t keep along a straight path for more than a few paces before she forgets where she’s going. So she keeps telling us this story. Well more telling Tace than me. She tells her about all the people she met and all the weird looks she got. Funny how a girl who can’t remember where she’s going seems to know everyone she met along the way. 

When I returned to them after handing a bottle to another regular at the other side of the bar, I saw it. As Clarissa’s hands waved around the table Tace’s lips curled upward into a smile. Clarissa continued her rant, finally arriving at the courthouse 

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and apparently getting lost in there as well. She was completely unaware of the miracle she’d just made happen in my bar. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. 

Tace was still smiling when Clarissa got to the end of her story, which concluded with her filing forms to change her address to our little town. The lovely lady let out a sigh, took a sip of her beer, and asked Tace, “So how was your day?” As if they’d been friends for years. 

Tace, her face still in a grin, let out a short laugh. Tace told her about her day (It was much the same as it always is) and Clarissa listened intently, asking questions and commenting where appropriate. The whole time the smile never left Tace’s face. I don’t know how that girl did it, but she made Tace happy, genuinely happy. 

Clarissa left while I was over helping another customer, so I don’t know what she said, but she left a bit of a smile on Tace’s face. I raised my eyebrow at Tace who went right back to scowling. I knew pushing her would only make me less likely to ever know what was going on, so I dropped it. 

God am I glad Clarissa is staying in town. That was very entertaining. 

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July 2nd

Clarissa came in again today. I like this lady in her own right, I’ve decided. She got here before Tace and was very lovely. She ordered a beer again and sat quietly while I dealt with other customers. Once I showed her some attention and asked about her day, she gave me quite the story. She’d had breakfast this morning with several other women of the town. All was well and their morning was going well, until the neighbors dog ran through the room. This alone may not have disrupted them, but it stuck its snout up the skirt of one of the women. I received a play by play of every woman’s reaction as they resolved this issue and returned to their lunch.   

Clarissa knows how to spin a tale. I never know if people’s stories are true when they’re willing to tell them to the bartender, but Clarissa made me want to believe hers. And when she was done she made me want to tell her about my day. She didn’t just ask, she listened. For someone who so loves to talk, she’s got a damn good ear. She kept looking up at me while we talked.

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Her eyebrows wiggled with reactions even when she had her drink to her lips. 

Just as I was wrapping up my tale, Tace arrived. She was in a right foul mood. She slammed my door shut and stomped her way over to her seat. When she first arrived, Clarissa was sitting two seats away from her. Once Tace sat down Clarissa scooted closer. 

Clarissa started talking right away, but it was gentler than normal. She asked “Can I ask you what’s wrong? Or do you just want to drink first?” 

Tace rolled her eyes and said, “At least let me get one beer in me woman.” Her words were sharp, but I swear I saw the hint of a smile on her face. 

Clarissa must have seen that smile too because she sat back and sipped her beer quietly while Tace drank hers down. The moment Tace put the drink down Clarissa started talking again. She blurts out, “So what’s got you so wrapped around your own post?” 

Tace scowled again, but there wasn’t much bite in it I don’t think. She gave a glare, but started to tell Clarissa about her day. She was mostly just upset because she’d had to 

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work with another blacksmith today. She hates to do that. She hates the way they talk to her. She says all the men think they know better than her. I suppose I probably would too if I was them. Not many women know what they're doing in metalwork. Gets Tace real huffy though. 

Clarissa, just as she did with me, listened intently to Tace’s tale. And when Tace was done and had ordered her second beer Clarissa put a hand on her knee! Clarissa touched Tace in a friendly way and Tace didn’t threaten to brand the woman! Tace just glanced at her knee, then at Clarissa and raised an eyebrow. 

Tace said "Clarissa you know I'm not just some boy who'll fall for your charms cause you've got lovely hair?"

Clarissa giggled and said "Tace if you were a boy I wouldn't be interested." 

This seemed to satisfy Tace who let the hand rest where it was as she started in on her second beer. 

They kept up like this for some time. Back and forth until it seemed Tace’s sharp mood was dulled down. Clarissa’s hands kept drifting to leave gentle touches on Tace. I don’t know what they were 

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talking about because I was on the other side of the bar helping someone else out, but every now and then they’d both start laughing and I couldn’t help but smile no matter what else I was doing. Tace has been the grumpiest person I know for so long, and with a life like hers she deserves a smile.

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August 6th

I am convinced that Tace is making a necklace for Clarissa. My evidence is: 

Tace was fiddling with wire today, wrapping it around a pretty stone

Tace knows how to make really good jewelry which she sells to the local store since few women travel to her Smithy (Though I have heard rumor that Clarissa has begun to spend time there nearly every day).

Tace scowled when I asked what she was making and told me it was a gift.

When I asked who it was for she said it was for someone special. Everyone in town knows the only woman here who Tace bothers to socialize with is Clarissa. The only other people she’ll talk to are me and some of the other old men at the bar. 

Therefore the only conclusion I can come to is that Tace is making a necklace for Clarissa. I think Clarissa will like the stone she has chosen. I don’t know much about pretty rocks, but it glinted just a little in the dim candlelight of my bar. When Clarissa wears it around town I bet it’ll glisten and gleam. What a sight she’ll be. A sight I’m sure Tace

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will appreciate. I suppose that might be the point. Clarissa gets a necklace and Tace gets a new excuse to look at Clarissa.

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August 11th

Tace and Clarissa sure stirred the pot of gossip tonight. I didn’t even know Tace knew how to wash her clothes. She had her hair behind her shoulders and her outfit looked nice. She didn’t sit at her normal spot at the bar. Instead she found an empty table and sat there. I walked over to her and asked her what she was doing over there. She said she was meeting a friend for dinner. About then is when I noticed the tin on the table. It was clearly a handcrafted tin. There was a small metal flower adorning the top. 

Tace caught me staring and told me to knock it off. She said she’d wait to order dinner until her date arrived. I was shocked to hear she was on a date. She rolled her eyes rudely at me and told me it wasn’t that kind of date. Tace insists she will never date a man. 

I was going to ask her another question, but her hand shot up to quiet me. I followed her gaze and saw Clarissa. 

She was dressed as if she owned all the land in town. Her dress was long, yet the dirt along the ground had not dirtied it on the walk here. In the summer’s heat her dress had short sleeves, barely enough to cover her shoulders.

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It was gold like the sunrise. Rows of hues adorning a woman who I knew made her own clothes. 

I’ve never been one to stare at a woman. This is not true of Tace and when I glanced back at her I found her eyes hadn’t strayed from Clarissa. Her mouth was slightly open and her pupils were wide. 

I decided I should probably let them be. 

I brought them the food they ordered shortly after that and kept my eye on them as they sat and talked all evening. Tace sat forward, her chin in her hand, while Clarissa regalled her with tales of the drama of the day. Clarissa, who it seems is unaware of how to sit still, moved forward and back with intrigue, her hands flitting about herself wherever emphasis was needed. After the meal was finished Tace pushed the tin toward Clarissa. She opened it with gleeful expectation and found the necklace Tace made for her. 

I watched from behind the bar as Clarissa grew still and gentle. She set her hand on Tace’s upon the table and said something softly to her. Their conversation seemed gentle for a time. I forgot the pair was seated there until I heard the gentle chime of Clarissa’s laughter.

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Throughout the night they grew in volume again. Their conversation never stalling as other tables were fed and cleared and fed again. 

When the end of the night came, they left their seats together, bid me farewell, and made their way out of the bar. Clarissa was wearing her new necklace and though they were not holding each other’s hands, their fingers brushed aside each other with every step.

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September 1st

I do not expect many things from Clarissa. She is a woman who can keep me on my toes. And I can say for certain I did not expect to learn that she is married. Her husband lives some ways away and pays for her to live here. 

I suppose it is a sorrowful marriage. Or at least not a happy one, if she lives so far from him and only speaks of him when drunk. And she was quite drunk. She said he never permitted her to drink, though he drank himself. She said he would not approve of much of her social life. I left the conversation after that. I did not want to hear what her husband would think of her relationship to Tace. 

Oh Tace. I will have to tell her tomorrow. I cannot keep her from knowing, and she deserves to know. Clarissa is so close to Tace, perhaps she has already revealed this part of herself. Yes. That is likely. She has likely already told Tace she has a husband. Her romantic entanglements are not my affair. 

I shall do what I can to think nothing of it until I see Tace again. I shall ask her what she knows about Clarissa’s husband. That is all I can do. It does no good to speculate.

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September 2nd

I asked Tace about Clarissa’s husband this morning. It was quite awkward. It was clear immediately that she was not aware of this situation beforehand. Rather than be upset about it, Tace seemed to show no interest in the information. Well she pretended not to be interested. I could tell it bothered her though. Tace has warmed some in the past few months and I saw none of that warmth today. She didn’t speak much to me, except to request refills on her drink. She drank more than normal as well. Whenever I would glance over at her from across the room her shoulders were slumped over, as if she was about to fold herself onto the bar.

She stayed long enough to drink 4 beers and then left. I tried to have another word with her before she walked away, but she either ignored me or didn’t hear me. 

Clarissa came in shortly after she left. 

I asked Clarissa if she had seen Tace when she walked in. 

She said she had, but that Tace didn’t respond to her greeting. She seemed confused. 

After some prodding, I realized Clarissa had forgotten she had made it known to the bar last night that she has a husband.

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When I reminded her of this, she dropped her head until it hit the table. She moaned, “Why did I bring up that man? I had escaped him. Why would I bring him up here?” 

I brought her a beer and she told me her story. 

As it turns out, Clarissa was originally from Petersburg a little way north of here. Her father owned land and farmed. She had three older brothers, all of whom married pretty women. When she came of age her father and mother began to find a man for her to marry. Despite her knowledge of the town's gossip, she had never heard of David Edwardson.

David Edwardson, the son of a wealthier landowner from several towns away, was cordial and respectful toward Clarissa’s father. They courted for three weeks before a deal was made between the men, and Clarissa was engaged to David. She had met him twice by this point and he had been rather flat. She claims the first time they met he said no more than 25 words to her. The second time they met he only spoke to the other people in the room and paid

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her nearly no mind.

Throughout their engagement she saw little of him. It seemed to her he had no more interest in being her husband than she did in being his wife. The distance between their homes was crossed frequently by traders, so they could send a few letters back and forth. She said her letters were long and full of information about her life, her interests, and questions she hoped he would answer. His letters contained short answers to her questions. Often only a few words, even for her more detailed questions. Not one of his responses took up a full page of the paper. 

Things didn’t improve for her once they were wed. She, by her own account, was driven to near insanity by his boring tone. He had enough fortune that he did not need to work on the land himself. Despite his free time he held no social events. He would rarely permit her to attend events out of the home either. Her days were spent alone at home, with only her dull husband and her sewing to entertain her. She read as many books as she could get her hands on in the early days of their marriage, learning to read in an attempt to escape her dull existence. 

Until her children. Her first son was born 3 years into the marriage, and they had 2

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more shortly after. They occupied every aspect of her life for the better part of two decades. David would allow her on social excursions if they were made under the guise of his- son’s well being. She was pacified while her sons were young. According to Clarissa, life was good for about two decades, even if her marriage was still more cordial than any friendship. 

Two years ago, shortly after her 50th birthday, Clarissa buried her youngest son. 

He was 23 and he was her world. Her older boys had moved away to live with their wives. Clarissa became distraught with grief. I remember how she described this time. 

She said, “For a year afterward I locked myself away and tore down relationships with my other sons. I couldn’t bear to love them when I could no longer love them all. My life was back to myself and my husband. My son’s never visited and I didn’t blame them. I became as terrible of a mother as David was a husband. 

“For the past year I’ve been begging David to buy me a house in a new town. I needed to reset. 2 months ago he gave in.” 

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I knew the rest of the story. She’d moved into our town and met Tace the same day. She’s started fresh. 

By the time Clarissa was done telling me her tale I had other patrons to tend to. I kept coming back to her throughout the night though. I told her I was sorry for her loss. I told her I was glad she’d found our town because I enjoyed her company. I told her she was fun to talk to. I asked if she thought her husband would make her come back home. She shrugged at that. I asked why she hadn’t told us about him. She shrugged at that too. I think she was done talking for the night.

 Clarissa, as I know her, is a good listener and a great story teller. She’ll talk to anyone who sits down next to her and listen to their tales. 

She left early tonight and settled her tab. She told me she didn’t want to get drunk again.

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September 6th

I haven’t seen Clarissa in several days, but Tace came in and sat at the bar today. She was grumpy as ever. Well, as grumpy as she is when Clarissa isn’t around. 

I wasn’t brave, but the man next to her was. I think it was Peter who asked her how she was. When she grunted he pushed on and said, "I heard Clarissa is married. Wouldn't have guessed that."

I was cleaning a glass nearby and I froze. I could hardly breathe when I saw the glare she fixed him with. Her dark brown eyes clouded with rage and her already grumpy demeanor stilled into a rock wall of anger. 

She growled, "Why would I care about the fact that she's married?" 

Peter cowered back some and took another sip of his drink. He murmured something, but I didn’t catch what it was. Tace fixed him with another glare then turned forward again. She kept her eyes away from Peter. I accidentally caught them with my own for a moment. She narrowed them at me. I looked away and didn’t naively inquire about Clarissa. 

Tace didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the night. 

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September 14th

Tace was at the bar again today. I haven't written it down, but she’s started coming in daily again. I think upon her visit last week she realized Clarissa isn’t coming around anymore and decided to start up her old routine. Well that worked fine for her for a few days, but Clarissa must have heard she had a routine again because she also stopped by this afternoon. 

I got a little nervous when I saw her walk in the door. I’d heard from Sal that they’d shouted at each other when this first began. It took the gossip a bit to travel, but apparently after I told Tace that Clarissa had a husband the two had gotten quite loud about it near Tace’s shop. I didn’t want any screaming here, not before dinner was done being served. 

I finished up the beer I was serving at one end of the bar and walked to the other where Tace was sitting. I planned to send them outside if things began to get confrontational.

Clarissa walked right up to Tace. The latter didn’t notice until she was right 

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beside her. Clarissa made no move to sit down. She simply waited until she had Tace’s attention and said, “I know you’re upset with me, but I thought you’d want to know I’m heading home.” 

Tace scoffed and said, “Why would I care what you’re up to today?”

Clarissa sighed and said, “Not that home. I’m headed back to live with David.” 

Now this caught Tace’s attention and she put down her beer. “When? Why are you doing that?” She asked with urgency. 

“Tomorrow. He wrote to me. His mother is ill. He says it is my duty as his wife to be beside him during this,” Clarissa explained. She closed her eyes while she said this. Before that I’d struggled to imagine what she had been like when she was locked up in his house. Now I think I have a clue. There was no emotion on her face. It was relaxed save for her lower lip which she pulled into her mouth to keep it from trembling. 

When she opened her eyes after a moment of silence she saw Tace in front of her. I don’t know what Tace was thinking. She’s always been harder to read. 

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Clarissa wears her heart on her sleeve, Tace buries hers much deeper. Tace’s eyes flitted over Clarissa’s face.

After such a pause I expected Tace to ask her to stay, or to bid her farewell. She did not. All she said was, “Okay,” before turning back to the counter. 

Clarissa stared for a moment at Tace’s shoulder. Her face betrayed her confusion as several emotions passed over her face. She softly said, “Goodbye,” and left the pub.

The door shut behind her.

Tace’s shoulder’s sagged. 

I probably ought not to have gotten involved. I don’t like to tell people’s secrets. I let the gossip come in, but I try not to spread it around. I made an exception today. 

I leaned on the counter in front of Tace and told her, “Clarissa doesn’t love him. She never did.” 

Tace scoffed, but didn’t look up at me as she said, “I don’t care about him. She’s married. She didn’t tell me that.” 

“Have you asked her why?” I asked. 

“Doesn’t matter,” She muttered, taking another sip of beer, “What do you care anyway.” 

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“I care about you, Tace,” I told her. And I do. I wasn’t lying. 

I’ve known Tace since we were kids. We were never close friends, but you don’t spend your whole life noticing someone without wanting them to be happy. 

“Ask her why,” I told Tace, “Go find her and ask her why. Before she leaves and doesn’t come back.” 

This got Tace’s attention, “You don’t think she’ll come back?” 

I shrugged, “I don’t know if her husband will let her.” 

“He let her come here in the first place,” Tace argued. 

I nodded, “He did. But that took a lot. I bet it’d take a lot for her to be let away from him again.” 

“What do you mean,” She asked. Apparently what I had to say actually did matter to Tace. Or maybe Clarissa just did. 

“I can’t tell you that, Tace. Clarissa told me about him and about their marriage, but I don’t feel comfortable spreading that. That’s her story.” 

Tace nodded, even as she grumbled about it. She knew my stance on gossip.

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I let her sit and stew for a minute until someone down the bar asked for a refill. Then I told her, “Go talk to Clarissa, ask her why before she leaves, or you might never know,” and walked away. 

I kept Tace in the corner of my eye and refilled her drink when she needed it. She stayed until the tavern got busy. She left sometime during the rush of people. I lost sight of her while I took the order for Frankie and Kellie at the corner table. When I glanced back up she’d left. I don’t know where she went. 

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September 15

Clarissa hasn’t left town yet and I now doubt she will. 

She and Tace came in together. They were holding hands! The pair of them walked over to the bar and sat down. Tace sat in her normal seat and Clarissa sat beside her. When I walked up Clarissa gave me her brilliant smile. She ordered a beer for herself and for Tace. Tace rolled her eyes at being ordered for, but didn’t say anything. 

I served them their drinks and went to bring food to Joseph and his wife. By the time I returned to the bar Clarissa was in the midst of a story. It wasn’t as bright and loud as it had been in the past. I admit I eavesdropped some while I poured another fellow a drink. I couldn’t hear much, as Clarissa’s voice was softer than normal, but I think it was about her son. 

Tace listened intently. Her eyebrows knit together as she took in every word Clarissa was saying and tried to figure out what she wasn’t saying. 

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One time when I glanced over there was a tear rolling down Clarissa’s face. I looked away, not wanting to intrude on their moment, but not before I saw Tace reach up and brush the tear away. 

Only a few minutes after that I passed by and saw them leaning gently towards each other, their foreheads almost touching.  Clarissa appeared to be crying, and Tace was trying to comfort her. Tace had one hand rested on Clarissa’s arm and the other on her cheek. Words passed the inches between their faces. 

They stayed to the end of the night, slowly drinking beer and perking up. By the time I closed Clarissa, with a slight pink to her cheeks, was joyful and vibrant again. She was telling a story about an old neighbor’s cat with bursts of energy and large gestures. Tace watched and listened, smiling and nodding along.

It wasn’t like before though. When Tace used to listen, she would pretend to be annoyed. It had been  as though she had thought if she showed too much interest Clarissa would fly away to find someone else to impress.

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There is something more settled between them now. 

Outroduction (is that a word?) 

Thank you for reading! I’ve found some other queer stories amongst the old records I look through online. I’ll try to post them regularly so if you want to see more LGBTQ+ people existing, feel free to follow me!

[queer-triple-a]

Hello! It’s nice to meet you. I’m Chrys (she/they) and when I get bored I go look online through online catalogs of historical archives. In doing this I’ve found some people who I do not think were straight and might not have been cis. 

Do I know this for a fact? 

No. 

But mostly because they didn’t have the language to say “I’m gay” at that time. I don’t know that they would’ve if they were in the present, but for centuries straight historians have been assuming everyone in history is straight. I’m here to do the opposite. 

Every story that I share in this collection I believe to have some sort of queer element to it. I could be wrong, but I’m definitely not as wrong as people who still think England’s King James I was straight. 

Is it voyeuristic of me to read through old journals of people who died before I was born? Probably. But these are history now. And specifically they are history which probably isn’t going to be shared anywhere else. 

They are stories which I think deserve to be told. So I’m going to attempt to tell them.

I’ll post the first one tomorrow! I’m just finishing up formatting it to post it online