When I was in third grade, I had a crush on a boy. A beautiful boy with dark, shining hair. It was like living an elementary school version of The Last of the Mohicans, only I don’t think he liked me back, and I’m not sure if he had any Native American blood at all. But it didn’t matter, he was perfect to my third grade self. His family always went to the Revolutionary War reenactments that are oh so popular in upstate New York.
He would run through the field in his homespun knickers, looking like perfection in gun powder chic. And when my mother decided we were going to be reenactors, too, I was thrilled. Now I could see my black-haired love outside of the florescent lights of school. I could spend every weekend running barefoot through the battle fields. It was love like I hadn’t felt since I found out Worf’s son Alexander was just a little boy in makeup. (more…)