Rediscovering myself at the Renaissance Faire

Reading time: 8 minutes

I grew up reading fantasy novels that drew inspiration from tales of knights, dragons, and Merlin the magician. So it seems like I should’ve been drawn to Renaissance faires, annual events that recreate the glamor of historical England, replete with reenactments, gluttony, and cosplay. Such festivals strive for entertainment over historical accuracy, seamlessly blending elements of the Medieval and Renaissance periods with aspects of fantasy, creating an ephemeral space where mushrooms and mead, leather corsets and magic wands are hawked by peasants, craftsmen, and faeries.

Yet despite growing up not far from King Richard’s Faire, I never got there myself. It wasn’t until years into my nomadic journey that I happened upon the first of three ren faires I’d attend in rapid succession.

What I found there was a reconnection not with young-adult fantasy literature, but with an aspect of myself that has been manifesting too quietly for far too long.

Vermont

I came across the Vermont Renaissance Faire in June 2022. It spanned a broad field occupied by artisans selling everything from jewelry to lightsabers. A few benches were set up in corners of the field for bards and sleight-of-hand magicians to perform to small, intimate crowds; elsewhere, an archery range let us amateurs try our hand in a safe environment.

I puttered around the field, enjoying the sunny summer day — until there came a royal proclamation: the jousting would commence shortly.

An actual joust! Knights on horseback, racing at each other with lances! I had never seen such a thing in real life. And here it was!

It was as thrilling and exciting as I imagined. The knights were very much in character — almost like kayfabe wrestling, the actors portrayed themselves as hero and villain, face and heel, riling up the crowd to get cheers and hisses. When the black knight lost his shield, the hero dismounted to continue the battle in hand-to-hand mêlée combat

As those lances struck the knights, what struck me was that I’d never seen or met anyone who could joust. I was fascinated, and I contemplated both how our hero had learned such an arcane sport and the cultural norms she’d defied to have so much fun at the faire.

Many people have hobbies that are distinct from their workplace, whether it’s tennis, gardening, or philately. But her hobby, if it was that, was so far afield that I imagined an equally distant gulf to her day job. True, she could be a farmer or a ranch hand or a professional equestrian — but what if she’s instead a paralegal, or an anesthesiologist, or a CPA? When she goes back to the office on Monday and her co-workers ask her what she did last weekend, how does she explain her pastime? What looks of shock or disbelief does she get in response?

When’s the last time I let my hobbies take me so far from what others knew?

Is there anything surprising about me?

Wisconsin

I attended another ren faire a few months later, in Santa Fe. It was fun, but it didn’t offer anything I hadn’t just experienced in Vermont.

Then, this this month, I found myself at the biggest and best ren faire of my life: the Bristol Renaissance Faire of Kenosha, Wisconsin. It consists of no temporary tents; rather, a small village of shops and restaurants had been erected that laid fallow most of the year — but from July to Labor Day, it explodes to life.

I made the short drive from Chicago on the faire’s opening day, and immediately I was transported to a distant realm. Knights, maidens, and minstrels jammed the thoroughfares while fairegoers ducked into taverns and shoppes. Alas, being a nomad who doesn’t want to accumulate more possessions, I didn’t have much use for the elven circlets, leather bracers, and iron swords for sale. I was instead looking for something lighter but longer lasting: memories.

That’s what I found among the faire’s sixteen stages, many with their own amphitheaters, hosting a variety of unusual musicians and performers. It was there that I was delighted by the bawdy songs of the Ship Shape trio of pirates, and I was awed by the accuracy of Adam “Crack” Winrich and his flaming whip. It was immaterial how these acts related to the Renaissance; this crowd resonated with the energy these artists were offering.

I followed the printed schedule, bouncing from stage to stage to try to see everything.

But it wasn’t until the end of the day that I found the greatest act of them all.

Barely Balanced

As the sun began to set on the Bristol Renaissance Faire, a trio of lithe, gaudily clad performers took the stage. They introduced themselves as the wife and husband duo of Small and Medium and their best friend, Large. Together, they formed Barely Balanced, an acrobatic comedy act.

As the three flung themselves across the stage, mounted ladders, juggled cutlasses, and twirled flaming hula hoops with their butts, they somehow had the wherewithal to continuously crack jokes.

“This is what it’d look like if Jenga were sponsored by Red Bull!”

“For those of you who play D&D, this is what a party entirely of bards looks like!”

“For our next trick, we’re going to set this child on fire!”

Small and Medium especially seemed to constantly be tripping each other up with off-the-cuff remarks, stopping each other in their tracks while they laughed at a joke or groaned at a pun. They seemed so sincerely amused that I wondered how much of their banter was ad-libbed, or if they were laughing because it was the opening day of the faire, and the jokes still felt new and fresh.

I eventually realized that it didn’t matter how old or new the jokes were: the acrobats were laughing because they loved what they were doing. In that single moment in time and space, they had their loved ones, their passion, and an audience. Of course they were having fun.

I thought: if I were having as much fun as them, I’d be laughing, too!

A kernel of truth

As Medium introduced one trick, he announced to the audience: “You are about to see three middle-aged acrobats live out their Plan B!”

As the audience laughed, Medium joked, in a slightly softer voice and in a grin that was part grimace: “I have a degree!”

Although played for laughs, this crack sent me back along my own path to this moment.

My dad was not a man given to flights of fantasy or imagination: he was not one to visit an art museum or pick up an instrument or dance a jig, nor could he understand why anyone else would. When I fell in love with my high school’s musical theater program, I told my parents this was what I wanted for my life. My dad, being practical, told me I couldn’t make a living as a thespian, and I should study computer science instead. Since they were footing the bill for my education, I had no grounds to argue.

I waited until after college to drink further from the acting well, performing in 28 community theater productions in seven years, ranging from Agatha Christie murder mysteries to British farces to Gilbert & Sullivan operas. In a practical sense, my father was right: I lacked the training and innate talent to ever be more than a supporting character. But damn if I didn’t have fun doing it.

I wondered about Small, Medium, and Large’s journeys. What obstacles had they overcome? How did they find each other? How did they know to keep going? And who helped them along the way?

Audience participation

When it came time for the final act, Large sauntered into the crowd for a volunteer — the only time Barely Balanced had sought audience participation. I thought, what a great opportunity for some family! A little kid could find himself on stage, creating a memory of a lifetime and a story to tell his friends; or some adult could be selected, showing his kids just how cool their parent actually was. I looked around and wondered which of the many hands that had eagerly popped up Large would call upon.

As his gaze roamed the audience, it eventually settled on a solitary middle-aged man in a green shirt who had not raised his hand. Large was unmistakably pointing his prominent digit directly at me, inviting me to join the troupe! I was shocked — but I couldn’t deny his summons. I ran up on stage, where Medium introduced me to the audience.

Since the acrobats had microphones and I did not, I knew the only way I could connect with the audience was to rely on exaggerated physical gestures; a loud but unmiked voice may not carry to the last row, but excessive pantomiming would. As Medium gave directions, I responded with facial expressions, unexpected dance moves, and more. Ever the professional, Medium took my “yes and” and went with it, making new jokes as we went.

Eventually, Little arrived to escort me to the other side of the stage, instructing me to “Walk this way”. No stranger to the Ministry of Silly Walks, I followed suit, mimicking her silly gait. She glanced over her shoulder, started laughing — and then armed me with a water gun.

My job: keep Medium’s feet cool and moist while he rode a unicycle across a flaming tightrope.

You know — like you do.

After several furious moments of super soaking — certainly the easiest job of the four of us on stage — Medium survived his trick unscathed. I returned to my seat in the audience, feeling euphoric — not because I’d done anything extraordinary, but because I’d been a part of something extraordinary.

Aftermath

Always one to meet my heroes, I lingered after the show to chat with the performers. Before I could shower them with praise and funds, the first words out of Little’s mouth were “Thank you!!” I was surprised by her earnestness, but she continued: “With it being the first day of the faire, I could tell all of us were thinking really hard about that stunt. Having someone on stage with us who we didn’t have to think or worry about was a huge relief!”

Alas, that moment was over, and the show had ended. I left to stroll through grounds one more time before heading home. As I passed a father and daughter sitting on a picnic bench, I nearly stumbled when the girl waved and said, “Hi, Ken!”

As a nomad who changes his environment so regularly, I’m not accustomed to being somewhere that anyone would recognize me. It took me a solid minute to figure out the obvious: the girl knew me from the stage I’d been on just moments earlier.

Finally, I returned to my car, lowering the windows to let out the heat. As I steered it through the grassy parking lot to the exit, an SUV came the other way, also with its windows down. As we tried to figure out who should exit first, the driver looked at me, pointed, and shouted: “YEAH, KEN!! YEAH!!!”

When I got home, an audience member I’d exchanged phone numbers with sent me her video of the performance. She then tagged me in another video, which led to Medium himself sending me a Facebook friend request. I even unexpectedly became part of their social media marketing campaign.

But whatever impression I left on the audience or even the performers was dwarfed by the impression they left on me. Something had happened up on that stage. With the Vermont’s jousting knight, I saw something in myself; with Barely Balanced, they’d brought that something to life.

It was a part of me that I thought was already well-nourished. I’d set my theatrical pursuits aside in 2008, when I started grad school. But I’d found other performative outlets: hosting podcasts, recording YouTube videos, teaching grad classes, storytelling. I thought I was meeting my extrovert needs.

But it took only a few minutes on stage with Barely Balanced for me to realize that all those pursuits lacked one of two things: collaboration, or a live audience.

I love getting on stage at Moth storyslams — but the energy the live audience receives is solely my own; there’s no one for me to play off. Producing Let’s Play videos for YouTube is a wonderful way to engage with video games in a creative, unique way — but the audience doesn’t see it until hours later. I’ve had some of the best podcast co-hosts in the world, and I’m thrilled to record shows with them — but the lack of feedback sometimes feels like we’re shouting into the void.

Being on stage with Barely Balanced, though — even if it was for just a moment, and in a way that required little skill or preparation… It scratched an itch that I’d ignored for so long, I’d forgotten it was there. It reminded me that being playful means not just playing games, but playing with others — collaborators, conspirators, and crowds. And now that I’ve remembered this truth, it’s not one I want to forget.

What do I do with this information? I’m not going to run away to join the circus (unless that circus includes Barely Balanced, in which case, it’s a distinct possibility). But ever since my last theatrical performance 16 years ago, I’ve always said, “I have one more show in me.” To date, that’s been an empty promise.

But Large saw my Medium potential and gave me a Small nudge.

That might be all it takes to bring my own passions back into balance.