kids 2015: hey check out these pictures of me at Vans Warped Tour haha kids 1815 *after waiting 6 weeks for a telegram*: bartholomew has died of smallpox
Telegraphy wasn’t in commercial (as opposed to experimental) use until the 1840s or so, and the whole point was that you could send your message in minutes instead of waiting weeks for a letter to arrive.
*shakes fist* Kids these days …..
Not just that, but mail from the early 1800s is more amazing than you think. In London there were something like six deliveries per day, which blows our once-a-day out of the water. Not to mention, for those who had servants, there was essentially a constant courier service.
And if you want to talk text messaging, Georgiana (the Duchess of Devonshire) and her totally-not-in-a-poly-relationship-with-her husband and best friend would all write tiny notes back and forth to each other while in different rooms, all saying the equivalent of “u hungry?” and “bro what”. Again, servants would deliver these, but that’s only because there were no cellphones.
Or, how one guy’s fuck-up led to the creation of the most powerful nation in Europe
Okay, so we seem to have a bit of a misunderstanding about the Berlin Wall and how it came down. People assume that a whole bunch of dudes just took to the wall one day with sledgehammers and shit, and they were crawling through the other side with the holes in the wall etc etc.
Well, sorry to break it to you, but that didn’t actually happen. The date slotted for the event is November 9th, but the wall didn’t actually come down until the 10th. Why is that? Let me explain.
Here’s a bit of background:
The wall was constructed by East Germany (GDR/DDR) on 13 August, 1961.
GDR government claimed that it was to prevent fascism from seeping into East Germany.
It also prevented like, everybody, from leaving GDR who wanted to.
Allied forces occupying West Germany granted the country it’s freedom within 2 years after WWII, but the Soviet Union refused to agree to plans to make GDR a self-sufficient government.
Tensions increased as time went by, and there seemed to be no plans for USSR to step away and grant GDR its freedom.
Okay cool. We all know about the terrible conditions of the GDR, about Reagan and his jelly donuts, and we’ve all heard incredible escape stories of people going over/under/through the wall to get out.
So this is how it all ended.
In the summer of 1989, Hungary had dissolved its boarder defenses with Austria, and over 13,000 East German tourists escaped to Austria through Hungary that September. Well, Hungary didn’t exactly like that and stopped more East German’s from going to Austria, returning them to Budapest.
These tourists flooded the West German embassies and refused to leave, because fuck that shit.
The East German government was like, shit son, fuck that, and refused any more travel to Hungary. The same shit was happening with Czechoslovakia, and by this point the GDR government was like, U GUIS, COME ON.
How East Germans react to mass emigration.
So people were getting pissed that they couldn’t go places. Even those people that didn’t necessarily want to FLEE GDR were mad that their vacation plans were cancelled. So in September, 1989, people started to demonstrate.
They started in Berlin, but soon spread throughout the entire country, meeting on Monday evenings to demonstrate. They started out chanting “We Want Out!” so they could go to the West.
By November, shit was getting real. On 4 November, 500,000 people had gathered in Alexanderplatz in Berlin to demand change (if you want a comparison, that is the entire population of East Berlin, in one fucking square).
People were leaving in droves through Czechoslovakia, or Hungary.
On 9 November, the Politburo led by Egon Krenz had decided that GDR refugees could leave, but only through designated points between West and East Germany, and only with official permission from the government. They were supposed to take place the next day, 10 November, to give the border guards time to be notified.
Günter Schabowski, the spokesperson for the GDR , was told about this new change only an hour before a major press conference that night – a note was literally slipped to him that people could do this, but only with permission, and that was it.
He basically had no idea wtf it was and wtf to do with it.
So when the Press Conference went on, he told people about the change. And somebody – most people think it’s NBC’s Tom Brokaw – asked when it would take effect.
Schabowski, having no idea what the answer was, just bullshitted something and was like, “Uh, immediately?”
“Uh, I think? Son of a bitch, I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”
Protesters in East Berlin were hearing the broadcast and immediately demanded that the gates be opened right away. Guards were immediately asked by supervisors to use “lethal force” and revoke citizenship of those who fought, but nobody really did. Completely overwhelmed by the HALF A MILLION FUCKING PEOPLE demanding that they open up, they did so at 10:45 pm.
People swept onto the other side of the city in droves, overwhelming the guards who were trying to ask people for identification and notice of permission. But of course the people were like, LOL FUCK YOU and went through.
West Berliners were there too, with champagne and flowers and everyone danced and got horrendously intoxicated and it was a great party all around.
Exactly like this.
The next day, people started to tear the wall down, taking bits with them for souvenirs.
And the following year, on 9 October 1990, East and West Germany became reunited as a single Germany.
In ancient Rome, pants were considered effeminate. Only dirty barbarians wore pants. A good Roman male was expected to keep a breeze on his privates at all times. Also, women couldn’t wear togas. If you saw a woman wearing a toga, it meant she was a prostitute.
History side of tumblr: verify please?
*Bursts through the door*
You rang?
I should probably clarify I mean trousers, not underpants, for all you folks of the British persuasion out there. Romans didn’t have undies as we do, but they did have loincloths. Generally they just let it all hang out, though. Wearing leg wraps or thick loincloths was a sign of old age or weakness. Think of high school boys today who wear shorts in winter to prove their toughness; it was the same for Romans.
Trousers were despised in ancient Rome because they were worn by barbarian Germanic tribespeople. In iconography that depicts Germans, they are shown with wild hair, long beards and pants to distinguish them from the good, civilised, neatly-shaven toga-wearing Romans.
Just look at those filthy barbarians. In trousers! So unlike us masculine Roman men.
#judgingyou
Wearing pants in Rome was a big no-no. A good Roman citizen simply wouldn’t wear pants, and they were banned from the Senate, Forum and Circus, so any Gallo-Germanic representative from the provinces had to change into Roman dress before he would be admitted.
Slaves and non-citizens still wore them, but freeborn Romans attached enormous prejudice to trousers. Inevitably, however, they became popular among lower classes until, in the lead up to the sack of Rome by the Goths, strong anti-Germanic sentiment against barbarian invaders led to Emperor Honorius banning pants in Rome. That’s right, trousers were banned. (Codex Theodosianus 14.10.2-3, tr. C. Pharr, “The Theodosian Code,” p. 415)
This site here should give you a quick run down on the basics of Roman dress. Togas were for men, and women wore long flowy dresses called stola that covered everything down to their feet. There’s a hilarious poem by Ovid where he talks about getting off on seeing a girl’s ankles; that’s how modestly they dressed (Amores, Book 3, Elegy II). The stola also came with a headscarf attached. Women were expected to cover their hair when they went out, which means dress standards for women were not unlike the dress codes of some Muslim countries today. Wearing the stola with the headscarf up says “back off boys. I’m a respectable Roman lady. Go find someone else to annoy.” can’t touch dis
Prostitutes, of course, need to send out the opposite message, and the simplest way to do that was by cross-dressing. If a Roman man walked down the street and saw a group of girls wearing men’s clothing and scandalously showing off their legs, he’d know instantly they were lupae, she-wolves; what we might call ‘ladies of the night’. In law, prostitutes actually came to be denied the privilege of the stola so that at all times they would be marked as meretrices. Prostitutes were also known to cut their hair short and dye them fantastic colours to further advertise their availability. This site should give you further information; it’s got some great quotes from source texts too.
Watching Tudor Monastery Farm (yay comfort!) and it does totally strike me as a thought re clothing – was it just that dyes were very expensive that there isn’t (much?) dyed clothing for people or is it also a class thing? (Things I know – purple was a royal colour & cloth of gold was only for the nobility)
There were sumptuary laws that prohibited the wearing of certain fabrics and colours, yep. There’s also the part where most dyes faded pretty quickly; the nobility loved to wear black because there was no colourfast black then, so if something was black it couldn’t be very old or washed very many times.
(Also why I always make a face when someone in The Tudors is wearing a black doublet and nothing under it–by the end of the day their skin should be stained grey.)
Wow was fur a serious mark of status! (Also velvet it seems. And oh I’m reminded of reading a book in which the peasants daughter wore green and gold)
Fur came from hunting, and hunting was also reserved exclusively for the nobility! Which is also why in England it was deemed classy to stuff your house full of taxedermied deer heads–you had to have special status to come by that stuff. (But I’m from North America, land of Dead by Moose, where decorating with antlers and hunting a lot is a big sign of being rural and poor, so it always takes me a minute to remember that.)
Green and yellow were super easy dyes to make. You can dye stuff yellow with onions! It’s really pretty.
Australia as well ‘putting animals heads on wall/hunting’ is definitely the rural/poor thing. And oh, for some reason I thought the hunting only for the nobility was not a thing (or commoners could hunt on lands that weren’t owned by anyone) – which is silly because even in Victorian England that was a thing.
OOOOH 😀 (All kinds of vegetable and flower dyes?)
(I really do want to write a thing about a tenant farmer family on one of the estates granted to Anne Boleyn now. Just because contrasts interest me)
/Babbly glee
Dyeing was one of those things I’ve always had acquaintances who were crazy about, but I’ve never been crazy about myself. Here’s some stuff on medieval dyes: here and here.
I kind if want a fanfiction where the Howling Commandos are picked up by Princess Elizabth driving an ambulance recklessly through Europe.
DAMMIT, YES! *bangs fist on desk* That’s the kind of quality entertainment I expect from this website!
I kinda want the yanks to not really recognize her and don’t understand why Falsworth is having some kind of a stroke and Dernier’s freaking out and when they get let out somewhere they both explode with HOLY FUCKBALLS MAN. (Or, alternately, Peggy rounds the corner ready to tear them a new one and Her Majesty just lights up because, seriously, if they are not bros, nothing in the universe makes sense)
because Ha.
“Three more miles, Falsworth, three more miles…” Falsworth turned the pain from his injury into even greater sarcasm. “Kilometers, Gabriel, KILOMETERS. I am BRITISH.” Gabe snorted to himself. He should know better. None of the Howling Commandos ever admitted they were having trouble. Not even himself. He moved forward, planning to take point from Dum Dum. He felt Dum Dum’s surprise before the man made a sound. “An ambulance? Did we already cross the lines? Are we clear?” Gabe covered the remaining ground quickly and quietly. “No, we’ve got another 3 miles to the lines. But that sure as shit looks like an ambulance…one of ours, too.” Morita suddenly hissed for silence. He’d heard something from the vehicle. A few more quiet steps, and Gabe heard it too – the sound of the bonnet being slowly, carefully, quietly lowered into place. Gabe realized Jim had heard the driver repairing the engine. The quiet, the location, and, suddenly – the too-short body with an awful lot of hair put it all together for Gabe. This was one of theirs – the Nazis were too caught up in breeding new generations of perfect Germans that few of their women worked, let alone served. The petite woman stepped forward – my God, she’s TINY, how does she see to drive? – Gabe stopped himself from saying something unfortunate just in time. “Gentlemen? You are recent associates of Steven Rogers, correct?” The quiet, posh tones did nothing to hide the steel underneath the words. “I have been asked by a mutual acquaintance to assist you over the last few miles. I apologize for not finding you sooner, as my vehicle is uncomfortable with French roads.” Gabe felt Dernier shift indignantly behind him, but surprisingly said nothing. Gabe looked at Dum Dum and Morita, but ultimately he was in charge of this mission. Before he could say anything, Falsworth staggered to the front of the group and mustered his best salute. “Yes, mum, we are, mum. Thank you, mum. It’s no trouble at all, mum, thank you, mum. Shall we ride in back, mum?” He stood, trembling slightly, holding himself at attention even as she waved the salute away. “Not here, man! Yes, quick, inside the back, she’s ready to go. No one in the front, it will look odd if there’s a man up front. You’re clearly injured, you take the gurney. You, and you” – pointing to Dernier and Dum Dum – “you’re the medics, and you two” – Gabe and Jim – “you’re his squadmates.” She waited expectantly. Falsworth, for all he’d been acting like he was dying not five minutes ago, turned sharply and began chivying the group to do as she said. The bemused Americans bundled themselves into the back of the ambulance, sorting themselves out as the young driver had requested – certainly Falsworth and Dernier weren’t letting them challenge anything she’d said. Gabe felt the ambulance shift as she climbed in. She opened and opened the window. “I’m Bet, but if we’re stopped, I’m leftenant and I outrank you all,” she called back. Falsworth snorted but didn’t say another word. Bet eased the truck into gear and off the side of the road. The half moon hadn’t been a problem when they were walking, but Gabe wasn’t sure it was enough light for a driver. He was about to say something when she suddenly accelerated and took a hard left, throwing him against the wall. “Stay seated back there! I’m to deliver you in the same condition I found you, so SIT!” Bet barked, in a tone that clearly conveyed she expected to be obeyed. Gabe opened his mouth again to – well, he never could say later if he’d intended to apologize or to ask a question. But at that moment, Bet drove past the packed dirt roadway they’d expected and continued cross-country. “It’s three-quarters of a mile shorter this way, no hedgerows to cross, but I’ll have to get back on the road to dodge a cattle guard. Bloody French cattle, no sense of propriety or where they belong.” Dernier made a choking sound that might have been laughter on another night. The ambulance bounced and rattled as Bet dodged shell holes and the remnants of walls and trucks with terrifying ease. True to her word, she turned the vehicle sharply to regain the dirt road. Gabe wasn’t sure it was an improvement. As they turned off, Falsworth’s bloody hip was thrown against the side of the gurney and he stifled a grunt of pain. “What was that? Has he been hurt more back there? Well, you’re pretending to be medics, pretend harder!” Easily the least absurd command of the last 10 minutes, Dum Dum began fishing in his pack for something useful. Dernier sighed theatrically and began rummaging in his pack for field dressings. Gabe leaned forward to reassure Falsworth, and was amazed to see a look of…awe?… in his eyes. Falsworth shook his head, precluding any questions Gabe might have asked. He looked helplessly at Jim. *What on earth has gotten into these two? They weren’t fazed at all by Steve…or Peggy! I don’t get it…* Gabe thought to himself. Bet suddenly shouted through the open window, “Hold on everyone, this bit’s been shot to hell!” They had endured a tooth-rattling 300 yards when she shouted in triumph, “The fenceline! We’re back!” As they crossed the invisible line onto better maintained roads, Bet’s driving became more aggressive. She accelerated sharply, taking corners at high speed, taking the ambulance to the very limit of its capability. She made a final turn and neatly parked the ambulance behind the hospital tent. Gabe wasn’t sure if it was the wildest ride of his military career, but it was certainly up there with the oddest. He hadn’t gotten a coherent word out of Falsworth or Dernier the entire time, and Dum Dum and Jim were just as confused as he was. They piled out of the back of the ambulance, supporting Falsworth – until Bet came around back and he snapped to attention again. “Can’t stop me now, mum, we’re in our territory, mum, and I’m honored, mum, thank you, mum.” Gabe had never heard Falsworth use that deeply respectful tone with anyone – not even his own mother. Dernier managed one halting sentence: “Madame…merci.” The Americans thanked Bet as best they could, still confused, until Peggy Carter strode briskly around the corner. “Bet! You’re right on schedule! Every time.” The warmth in Peggy’s voice was unmistakable. Bet laughed. “Thank you, Peggy. I have a reputation to maintain, after all. And I must say, your talents for getting people away from bureaucrats and into the war, where they can help, have in no way diminished. I am afraid, now that they’re back, I need to confess my unauthorized excursion to my babysitters – I mean chain of command. Or I could just speak directly to Papa.” She grinned and hugged Peggy tightly.
Gabe still wasn’t sure who she was, but he could take a hint. In the bustle of getting Falsworth official medical attention and debriefing, Gabe forgot the name of the person who picked them up. Small fella, dark hair, nice enough, didn’t talk much…couldn’t say what he looked like, really, it was dark. And we didn’t want to distract him from getting us home, sir, it was dark. No, didn’t get his name. Didn’t think it was safe, sir. We called him Ben.
A few weeks later, Gabe was on leave in London. He stopped in a movie theater to see the latest Bugs Bunny cartoon, and caught the latest newsreel. Standing in front of a battered old truck, bonnet raised, tire on the roof, stood a petite, dark haired lady. No insignia on her uniform, but the smile was unmistakable. Gabe barely restrained himself from blurting “Bet!” As he listened, he suddenly realized why Farnsworth and Dernier were behaving so oddly. It’s not every day a princess takes you joyriding.
*Jim Morita’s kids and grandkids never got why Grampa Jim was such a royal watcher. It just didn’t seem to fit with anything else he did. But they took him to see The Queen when it came out in theaters. What they didn’t understand was his reaction to the scene where Elizabeth II flooded her truck’s engine and had to call for help. “Yeah, RIGHT,” Jim snarled.
THIS IS LOVE!!!
SO GOOD.
A+ Quality content!
*bangs fist on desk* This is the kind of content I want on my dash!
How the heck did her hair get braided like that? Did she and the other officers just have a braiding train at night? ????
do you think Peggy carter needs anyone to braid her hair? she does it herself. The right hand’s nail polish? my girl has it covered. Zipping and unzipping the back of the dress? pff… Peggy Carter can do anything. Liquid Eyeliner? in one try. Peggy carter can do anything.
anything.
a n y t h i n g.
That’s not a braid. It’s a roll. It is one of the most beautiful hair styles to come out of the 40s and is incredibly simple. The hair styles you should be impressed with are these.
Waves: I had a 1920s themed dance last month, and I wore my hair in waves. I sat in a chair with a professional stylist for AN HOUR for FOUR of those beauties. I see at least eight. And she does those regularly for work.
Victory curls: I can do victory curls. Two, to be exact. Not counting practice, I have worn my hair in V-curls exactly twice. It took me an hour and a half last time, and I didn’t even curl the ends, just two v-curls on the top of my head, and they weren’t nearly this amazing. Again, another casual work look.
Do you think Steve curled her hair? Fat chance. Be in awe of Peggy Carter. Be in awe.
I now have a mental image of Peggy Carter doing her nightly routine, which of course doesn’t necessarily happen at night, just whenever she has a chance to lie down and sleep. It starts with sitting at her desk, where a mirror has been wedged into the right position by militarily files, but she doesn’t look at it any more. Instead she’s pouring over whatever has to be memorized for the following day, fingers working on automatic as she wedges pins into place. It takes forty seven pin curls to get the look she wants, and she’s done with it before she finishes reading the memo.
There’s little flickers of red on her gun as testament to smudged nails before she learned to check her weapons first and then paint her nails. While they dry she reads something else, filing it all away for future reference and remembering key words by which finger she was painting at the time. When Peggy Carter checks her nails she might well be looking for chips, but it’s more likely she’s remembering names.
She ran out of cold cream weeks ago, but she stills has some rose water left and uses it sparingly, careful not to get it mixed up with the other little vials in her kit.
And of course there will be that one night, when the alarm sounds and everyone is forced from their beds in a panicked hurry. Peggy Carter will not only be at the center of it, but she will be the one keeping the intruder pinned down. Dressed in a faded floral nightgown thrown over her night clothes, smelling like rose water, her hair hidden under a silk scarf to keep her curls in place, gun held steadily in a perfectly manicured hand. Everyone else is dressed, however hurriedly, but it’s Peggy who is the most put together, even in her pin curls.
I love the expression, “Hell in high heels”, but frankly Hell has never met Peggy Carter.
ALL of this ^^^. Also, the glorious queen probably does her winged liquid eyeliner in that stupid jeep, bouncing along the path to a meeting.
This is the most beautiful thing I’ve read so far about Peggy Carter. *chinhands and sighs, dreamily* Because Peggy fucking Carter.
professor: so why do we think this first generation of college educated women mostly didn’t marry?
me: they were lesbians
everyone: [laughter]
professor: no like stop laughing…that’s the correct answer.
Daughter of a gun (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ No idea if such a thing existed but surely there had to be girls born on board in the Age of Sail?
*puts on obnoxious historian hat*
*clears throat*
there were actually tons of women and girls on board ships during the age of sail and it’s really cool history that no one!!! ever!!! talks about!!!
like captains of merchant ships used to bring their wives and children on board for long voyages all the time (and of course there were plenty of well known female pirate ship captains, and women cross-dressing as men, and prostitutes that more people seem to know of)
there’s actually a really amazing story of one woman, Mary Ann Patten who was the wife of the captain of this ship called Neptune’s Car. Captain Patten decided that he wanted her onboard with him and she was super about this and learned all about navigation and sailing and everything. so this one voyage they’re going around the tip of south america when her husband gets sick and is bed ridden with a fever right as the ship sails into one of the worst storms any of the crew had ever seen and it looks like they might lose the ship or have to stop
so you know who takes over??? the first mate???
no.
MARY
she took over the whole crew and sailed that ship through freezing water and pack ice and had it coasting smoothly into the san francisco harbour like it was nothing. and she did this all at age 19. while pregnant.
at one point the first mate tried to get the crew to mutiny against her but they all rallied with her and told him to shut the heck up because she obv knew what she was doing.
there’s a great book about women in the age of sail called ‘female tars’ by suzanne stark that i cannot recommend enough and has way more amazing stories and insights about the myriad roles women and girls played aboard ship during that time period.
(sorry i totally didn’t mean to hijack your post i love all of your art and this is gorgeous i just got over excited sorry sorry sorry)
i mean, lately, it’s presumably because the hit broadway musical hamilton is out there reminding everyone that tjeff was The Worst. but i’m gonna take this opportunity to give you a run-down of every historic reason why tjeff was The Worst
i could end the list at “slave owner”
furthermore, he was even more racist than most 18th century racists. i don’t have the time or energy to list all the racists things he did, but there are a lot, just google it
like when his pal tadeusz kosciuszko died he stipulated that the money from his american estate should be used to free and educate jefferson’s slaves and in response he was like. “i can’t read suddenly. i don’t know”
he was a huge hypocrite who claimed to support the ~small independent farmers when the only interests he really cared about looking out for were – you guessed it – the interests of wealthy plantation owners, which is probably his biggest contribution to the legacy of american politics tbh
also, remember how he wrote the declaration of independence – including the original draft where he waxed philosophical about how slavery is an abomination – even though #1-3
sally hemings
he had no idea how the economy works. a good deal of his political career was spent arguing with the federalists about why taxes are bad and banks are scary. one time he tried to ban exports, like, entirely, because he just didn’t foresee any negative consequences to that brilliant idea, apparently
he was a generally obnoxious person who not only spewed baseless accusations against his enemies every time he was challenged on all his horrible ideology, but he didn’t even have the balls to do it himself, he usually employed a whole gang of followers to do his public shit-talking for him
he actually kept a burn book where he collected rumors about people he didn’t like. i wish i was making this up lmao this actually happened!!!
a big fan of indian removal and/or forced assimilation
there’s gotta be a lot else i’m forgetting right now, i’m just thinking off the top of my head
basically he sat around at monticello spinning around in his swivel chair while his slave-concubine brought him bowl after bowl of mac and cheese, meditating on liberty and equality with so much moral myopia he could’ve been the antihero protagonist of an amc prestige drama
i’m too tired to source any of this hate right now but i can and will elaborate if anyone deems it necessary
can’t touch dis
Kimchi and Justice 