My first internship was at the Valley Forge Convention & Visitors Bureau, a nonprofit organization that promoted various cultural, historical and leisure attractions in the Philadelphia region. As a communications specialist, one of my responsibilities was to escort a historical interpreter, most often a French immigrant channeling General Marquis de Lafayette, around various suburban shopping malls and attempt to drum up interest in various colonial-themed events. This was 2002 and it’s how community engagement happened before social media was a thing.
At the time, it was hard for me to say who had the worse job: Lafayette, a grown man and struggling actor who moved to America to pursue his Hollywood dreams in Philadelphia; or me, a 19-year-old journalism student who was forced to wear a tri-corner hat and explain, to no avail, that Valley Forge had nothing to do with the Civil War.
Most days, I decided it was me. At least Lafayette got to carry a sword.
Thanks to my internship, I learned a great deal about General Lafayette, the historical figure. He was a French aristocrat and military officer who showed up in America, somewhat uninvited, horseless and with no real war experience at the age of 19. Much like myself, Lafayette was given a job because he was willing to do it, more or less, for free.
Despite all the time we spent together, I know far less about General Lafayette, the actor. The man playing the role refused to break character, answering all questions, including ones about his real name, POV the historical figure.
“Why I’m Generale Lafayette, of courz,” he sniffed at me as we set up our folding table outside a food court in Plymouth Meeting. “We have met before, no?”
I rolled my eyes. How typical: the man questioning my memory was the very same man would could not remember how to fold a banquette tablecloth to fit inside its plastic packaging at the end of every day. For this, I took a certain amount of pleasure in how genuinely put off “Lafayette” got when children mistook him for George Washington. I enjoyed immensely the time he spent correcting the record that no battle was fought at Valley Forge, but that two-thirds of the men camping there for the winter died anyway of cold, disease and starvation thanks to the questionable decisions made by that so-called great general. I confirmed his reports, but people still didn’t believe it.
Having met the actor who played George Washington a time or two, I could understand Lafayette’s point. “George” hadn’t put much thought into his character beyond saying that his job was “hard” and the situation was “trying.” Once, over dinner at a mansion named in his honor, he told a group of reporters on a press tour that “the winter was cold” – and then seemed surprised when they didn’t write it down.
“Lafayette”, at least, put in the effort – an inordinate amount, some might say, and perhaps misdirected, as evidenced by his sharing of gore-filled stories of injury and death with children under the age of ten – but it was effort none the less. He was committed to the role. He did his research. He treated the job like the big break it could be, holding out hope that a casting director for a period movie would be passing through the Willow Grove Bon-Ton on a Wednesday afternoon.
Of course, I think about “Lafayette” now and I have a much different interpretation of events. I totally respect his game. And his hopes don’t sound so farfetched either. I mean, who’s to say that Lin-Manuel Miranda wasn’t just around the corner looking for extras in his fledgling idea of a play about our nation’s founding fathers? Why couldn’t M. Night Shyamalan happen upon us and ask for a card? Who am I to judge anyway? What is a blog, but an open letter to the world – a weekly request for relevance? Stupid hats be damned, aren’t we all working toward a breakthrough on the small stage?
One of the few perks about mall tour days, aside from getting out of my cubicle for a few hours, was that my employer reimbursed me for lunch, up to $10 per day. As a college student, I took it as a personal challenge to figure out how to use this money to buy groceries for the better part of a week. It was one of the few times in my life that I truly embraced math.
I have reason to believe that Lafayette was doing the same thing. I say that because he knew the exact price of a croissanwich, which is one of the cheapest food court meal options available and the one that tastes about the same when reheated (which, by the way, is not the same as saying that it tastes good). In any case, one day, as I returned from my lunch hour with a sack of food that I otherwise could not afford to buy, I noticed two security guards walking away from our table. The pair was accompanied by a soccer mom who looked positively stricken, no doubt having just been told that Gettysburg is not the same Valley Forge.
“Oh good, you’re back,” the general said, by way of greeting.
Based on personal experience, when someone uses this phrase, it’s not because they take comfort in your presence. It’s because they have to tell you something unfortunate, like that they spilled a latte on your coat or accidentally sent a pair of Yankees tickets through the shredder. In this case, it was because a historical interpreter brandished his Revolutionary War sword at a child in full view of two security guards.
“Listen,” “Lafayette” said, holding up both hands, the golden tassels attached to his jacket shaking to and fro. “Ze boy, he asked me, ‘Iz zat a real sword?’ I say, ‘Yez!’ and pull it out, like zo –“
“Please do not do that.” I said, scanning the area for the security guards.
“What is wrong with you?!” I hissed. “Do not pull your sword out again.”
Lafayette shrugged.
“DO NOT,” I warned. “Or I will put it in the car.”
Had this conversation happened today, had any of this happened today, I would have treated it like the comic gift that it is, writing down quotes and taking photos, egging on Lafayette and maybe even buying him a glass of Chardonnay to see if that gave up anything extra. Give me the citation; I will make it into a chapter.
But at the time, his unrepentance and casual identity dimorphism was all I could take. I blame the job. The stress of taking home $4/hour, while racking up thousands in student loan debt, while being confronted with the reality of my future career path was too much to bear. In that moment, it was all I could do not to hit Lafayette in the face with a bag of croissanwiches – which would not have been a smart move for many reasons, the most important being you don’t bring sandwiches to a knife fight.
Today, I would do the whole thing differently – not just because I have the benefit of knowing how the next fifteen years of my career would play out but because I get it. I appreciate the commitment. I understand the passion. I believe in the idea that the opportunity you have right now is the opportunity.
We should all try to channel General Lafayette, the real – the teenager who showed up in pursuit of glory and greatness in service to a cause that he believed in. The guy one who got shot in the leg almost immediately, was sent back to France and then skipped out on his recovery period in hopes of a do-over. The guy who tried to roll out democracy in France and landed himself inside an Austrian prison for few years instead. The one who thanked Napoleon Bonaparte, the man who freed him, by refusing to serve in his government and opted to go on an elaborate victory tour of his beloved America instead.
And yeah, maybe a little bit of Lafayette the character wouldn’t hurt either. Because while you’re making it, you’re going to have to fake it.
***
Want to learn more about Lafayette, the historical figure? One of my favourite authors, Sarah Vowell, wrote a book: Lafayette in the Somewhat United States.
Ah that’s great–Lafayette waving his sword around and gobbling down croissanwiches. That WOULD make an interesting nonfiction piece: “The real lives of historical performers.” These people fascinate and disturb me.
I enjoyed this.
In 2000, I chaperoned my daughter’s 5th grade class to Valley Forge, where we stayed in the dorms for a week. Exhausting. One kid had a nut allergy, by the fourth day I almost accidentally killed him; in Philadelphia, one dad lost a kid at the Betsy Ross house, we all had to run back to get the kid; The kids didn’t seem to interested in history until the guide pointed out a historic latrine. Of course, the boys scared the girls with ghost stories, which I had to deal with when the other chaperones were off drinking wine.
Fortunately, we didn’t see any historic performers at Valley Forge at the time.
God bless.. school trip chaperones do the lord’s work. Honestly, it’s almost impressive that a guy lost a child in the Betsy Ross house – the place it tiny. Leave it to dads! :) Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the trip a little bit. At the very least, I suspect you are 100% more informed of basic colonial history. To test my theory, mention “Betsy Ross” to a random person of your choosing and see if they correct you by saying, “Do you mean Diana Ross? Yes, she IS a legend.”
Thanks for reading!
It’s kind of funny how the type of nonsense we’re willing to put up with changes as we get older and have some experience. A guy stopped me in the store the other day to talk about “Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ”, and I was like “Yes! I want to hear everything you have prepared.” My thinking was – this is going to be a great blog post. Maybe he’ll pose for a picture. Instead, my enthusiasm scared him and he shoved a pamphlet at me and walked off.
It does change! I still can’t embrace the door-to-door evangelists, but I’m willing to put up with a lot more now that I know I can get a blog post out of it. A man in a bar in Copenhagen scoffs when I say I’m a “writer”? 800 words. A woman throws a debit card at a pigeon in a world class art museum? Entire post. A lady walks into an unlocked suite at an upscale hotel and just decides to stay there? Well, that’s always been my thing.
Anyway, it’s a two way street. We’re looking for entertainment, they’re looking for engagement. We all win. Except the pigeon.