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267 pages, Hardcover
First published April 6, 2014
Sitting at a table in Polly's house, Charity wrote the first of only three letters that she apparently ever sent to Sylvia. The reason for this neglect is simple: the letters succeeded in bringing Sylvia back to her within a month. Never again over the following-four years would they be separated. From the moment that Charity and Sylvia met to the moment Charity died, the women spent only one month apart: June 1807.This book was a fortuitous find within the past few months at my favorite indie bookstore, and every time I picked this work up, I berated myself for not making the time to pop over for a visit during the last few times I was in the area. In terms of this book's inherent worth, it excels the most in the sheer amount of cited reference it brings to the table: for example, this is the most substantial contribution to the mental landscape I possess of the US time frame between the late 18th c. revolution and the mid to late 19th c. civil war, and what a topic to fill that forlorn space with. It was this book I most had in mind when I set out my reading goals for Queer History Month, and now that I'm finished, while I do acknowledge that this work could've used more editing, this didn't overall significantly negate the quality that the text has to offer. Charity and Sylvia were sustained by a measure of skill, communal contribution, and a great deal of luck, but the fact that they managed to so against all common mass media portrayals of the time is something to be waved in the face of many a sea lion and other bad faith provocateur. It's texts like these that attract me in my book sale rounds, and all I can do is make sure that this isn't the last work of its type to cross my path.
But this shift to the mainstream caused a curious amnesia. The self-congratulatory certitude that modern times represented an apogee of tolerance compared to the benighted wasteland of the past has made it hard to fit women like Charity and Sylvia into the historical memory. How could two women have forged a marriage in a traditional New England village, governed by the old faith, and been accepted by their family and friends despite every evidence that they were lovers? Our shock at this tale indicates a failure of imagination. The history of sexual nonconformity is not only a saga of oppression and suffering; it is also a tale of creative ingenuity and accommodation. It is a story of beloved aunts and winking nephews, of cruel gossip and endurance, of erotic touch and spiritual unease, of guarded reputations and public-mindedness, of private pleasures and willful ignorance. The historical record is littered with Charities and Sylvias; we need only open our eyes and see.This is a comprehensive look at Charity and Sylvia in terms of their families, histories, economics, and places in the social landscape. I imagine many would rail at this overview, which did its best to draw in a number of queer and/or possibly queer figures from the era in terms of poetry, prose, and political action. I for one greatly enjoy this sort of thing for the most part, so I likely had an easier time weathering the moments when the end notes became exhausting and the litany of historical names grew too baffling to keep track of (eighteen kids in a single family with the rest averaging around 7-8 is no joke). In this case, this contextualization is especially valuable due to how much simplification queer history often faces on myriad sides who value proving a point over simply acknowledging the gaps and breakages in the subject at hand. Charity and Sylvia made it through horrendous situations and a back breaking amount of work of the physical/mental/social sort, but they brought so much to their chosen families and communities that it's more than easy to make the argument that queer people invaluably contribute to their socioeconoimc landscape, if one is gearing towards the practical angle in the fraught realm of legalese. Whatever one is trying learn or argue regarding the inherent rights of queer people, this text has a great deal to offer, leastwise in the cis white US frame of things. The mention of "No Kisses Like Youres," letters of romance sent between two African American women during the antebellum period, however, is a teasing flash of what books have yet to be written.
The sexual implications of bed-sharing has been a topic of debate in nineteenth-century American history, in large part because of its role in the question of Abraham Lincoln's sexuality. Biographer C. A. Tripp, who argued for Lincoln's homosexuality, pointed to the four years he shared a bed with his beloved friend Joshua Speed.This text is essential for someone like me who does her best to irrefutably demonstrate that queer history/lit/etc was not first propagated within the last ten, fifty, or even 100 years. Considering how much erasure is still happening both within and without the "LGBT" community, it's vital to take what is customarily smoothed over and bring it to the forefront, as there are few things that resist a community's fight to exist more than the inherent belief that they have to reinvent the wheel. Here are two women who made it in a landscape that was inhospitable in ways that the modern world (leastwise certain overrepresented parts of it) finds it hard to conceptualize. Queer people face different dangers these days, but the litany that proclaims that one cannot exist this way or that and indeed has never done so is a powerful poison in the journey to discover oneself. I'm still not going to say every historical woman loving woman was a lesbian, but fortunately, the book is far more useful in many other regards, and it is for those that I appreciate it.
Two centuries ago there lived two women who chose to marry each other rather than any man. For more than forty years they shared a purse, common relations, and a bed, where when the spirit moved them they shared their bodies as well. When they died, they were buried under the same gravestone. And there you can find them still.