This is what happens when I spend too much time thinking about biographies and historical fiction, I think - I start wondering what happens when new information about a person comes to light, and someone takes another stab at writing their biography. This was fun. Enjoy day 8 - The Many Faces of August France.
The room was starting to fill up, but there were still a few empty chairs closer to the front of the room where the dais stood. The audience was made up of people who looked roughly the same, if you glanced quickly - it would take at least a second look to notice that some people had longer hair, or darker hair; some wore clothes that were a bit more tailored or more tattered; some had skin that was a shade or two lighter, or had notable scars on slightly different parts of their faces. Overall, there was a strong resemblance between everyone, but not enough to say exactly how they were related. Cousins, perhaps, or aunts and uncles.
The audience was fairly quiet - that, at least, seemed to be a universal. Nearly every member of the audience was reading a book of some sort, though some were making notes in notebooks of many types. Most were leather of some form, though some were cardboard or paper. All were writing with a fountain pen of some form or another, and each had a pocket dedicated to the purpose of holding both notebook and pen.
At the front of the room, someone approached the dais, and the small amount of noise being made by the others quieted down. The ones who had been reading closed their books and pulled out their own notebooks, while those taking notes flipped to a blank page. All looked to the newcomer expectantly, pens poised and waiting.
The person at the dais cleared their throat and took a sip of water from the glass conveniently left on a table next to the dais for them. "Greetings, my friends and fellows," they said, their voice still a touch hoarse in spite of the water. The rest of the attendees muttered something in response, in tones that mimicked both the original speaker and each other, a susurrus of greeting. The speaker at the dais nodded in acknowledgement and places their own notebook on the slanted surface in front of them, allowing themselves a moment to find their appropriate notes and have some business for their hands as they pulled themselves together.
"I appreciate you taking the time to gather here and allow me to speak to you as the newest member of our order. As you may be aware, there has been a recent resurgence in popularity in the history of those who created the inaugural library of botanical sciences, which has led to renewed interest in ourselves and our fellow botanists. I believe I recognize a few of you from books written in the last decade or so, yes?" The speaker directed their words to three of the attendees who were sitting closer to the front of the audience, who shared a rueful smile with each other and the speaker. There were one or two audience members toward the back of the room who looked uncomfortable when considering the newer members, and a careful observer would note that the superficial differences between those in the back of the room and those in the front were the most extreme of all of the differences. Those in the back were better-dressed and had more conspicuous signs of wealth and social standing, and also had skin that was paler and less obviously scarred. Those in the front, however, dressed in a manner that indicated their clothing, while once considered quite expensive, had been repaired often and not well, and were likely to be more patch than original fabric. None of the three newer members appeared to be solely of Caucasian descent, unlike the older members. They all looked as though they had spent more time outdoors and doing hard labor, rather than sitting in libraries and studying, and their scars had not healed as cleanly as the older audience members.
The speaker at the front of the room more closely resembled the newer members of the audience than the older, though their clothing was of a higher quality. Unlike the majority of audience members, their hair grew long down their back, pulled into a braid, and was nearly as black as pitch with thin streaks of white shot through the length. Their bearing was not as straight and proud as that of the men they stood in front of, but rather somewhat hunched, as though they were trying to hide something of themselves. Still, they carried on with their prepared remarks.
"In the last year, some bright spark decided that it was time to tell the full story of the founding of the library of botanical sciences, and dedicated herself to making a movie about us. She worked with several historians, going as far back into our backgrounds as she could, and a new source of primary resources was discovered in the home of our former love." The speaker watched the audience carefully as they took notes, recognizing that some of the older audience members were starting to look alarmed.
"Our former love?" One man raised his hand in confusion. When the speaker nodded to him, he stood, raising himself above the audience from about the middle of the room. "Begging your pardon, but my book stated that we never had a true love. In point of fact, it was understood that we were asexual, and had no desire for a romantic partnership." He looked around to the other men in the audience, confused by the sudden chorus of snickers. "Is that not correct?"
"Don't know where they got that idea, old man," another audience member said. "Per my book, we were a bit of a hound, fathering children everywhere we went. 'Asexual' wasn't even a term when I was written, though," he added defensively as some of the snickers turned to sounds of outrage.
"I say," one of the older men began, but the speaker raised their hands and brought the attention of the room back to the front. The asexual version of the man they all presumed to be sat down, still looking confused.
"By our former love, I refer to Emilia Jenkins-Waldorf," the speaker explained, seeing looks of recognition appear on the faces around them. "We wrote her many letters over our life, and she kept most of them. They hadn't been found before now, but her great-great-grandson was willing to share those letters with the historians working with the movie director, and so some more of our less public aspects have become, well, public." They shrugged, sheepish. "That's where I came from."
"Well, tell us about yourself, then," one of the newer members said eagerly. His fellows nodded in agreement, pens poised to take down notes and see what else they could learn about themselves. Several of the other men in the audience prepared themselves similarly, faces with some degree of curiosity or excitement. Only the men in the back of the room looked upset at hearing about yet another iteration, and the speaker didn't believe that would change once they heard the speaker out.
"I was born August Louise France, in 1811," they began, only to be stopped almost immediately.
"Louise? Did they misspell your middle name already?" The older August snorted with derision. "Some historian, if they can't even get our middle name correct."
The speaker took another deep breath and let it out slowly before straightening up, allowing her shoulders to fall back and her full silhouette to be made clear. "No," she said. "My name is, was, and always has been, August Louise France. I was named after my father's brother, August, and after my mother's sister, Louise. I am, was, and always have been, a woman."
Twenty minutes later, the worst of the brouhaha had subsided. The elder Augusts, those written back in the late 19th century when no one could conceive of a groundbreaking scientist being anything but a Caucasian man, had left in a huff; the oldest of them had to be helped out by two of his brethren, as the shock had been too much for his system. Louise, as she asked to be called, had been willing to answer questions from the rest of the Augusts, and there had been many, many questions. She was grateful that some of the Augusts had been more accepting, telling her that their own stories had made so much more sense now that they had the additional information, and the August who had been depicted as asexual had nearly been apoplectic when he realized how his author had twisted events to avoid the same revelation. Louise set up some time to meet with that August one on one, as she felt he might have more specific questions than the others would.
Eventually, Louise was left with the three newest Augusts, those whose biggest revelation had been that August had not been purely Caucasian. Gus, the newest of the three, was the most supportive of all of the Augusts; he, of course, had been the most recent dropper of bombshells, and so he knew better than most what she was experiencing. "Don't worry about them," he said, as the last of the angry Augusts left the room. "They'll get over it, or they won't. Either way, you have your story to tell, and it sounds like the letters will back it up more than most of these guys."
"Yeah, they're just cranky because you being here with all your primary sources are going to keep them from getting read," Auggy, the middle of the three new guys (as they called themselves), added. "I just hope it'll lead some people to take another look at us, too. There were a lot of people who discarded us as - what did they call us, A?"
"'Identity politics run amok,' I think was my favorite," A responded. He'd been the first to come out with the news that August France had been the son of a white settler and Mexican mother, and had faced his fair share of scrutiny because of it. "Because saying that some historical figure isn't white is saying they're somehow not as good, or something? I never really understood it, I just wish my author had been willing to stick up for me."
"His author disavowed him, claiming he'd had back sources," Gus whispered to Louise. "It was pretty harsh, especially when Auggy and I came along with the same narrative. And now you!"
Louise ducked her head in embarrassment. "I don't want to be anything special," she said. "I didn't want to be anyone special then, either. I just wanted to study, and a mixed woman wasn't going to be able to do anything in a school. A mixed man, well, he stood a chance. My father was the one willing to keep my secret, and so was Emilia." All four sighed with regret at the memory. "Keeping my secret was what drove her away, though," Louise said softly. "It's because of me that we never married. We never could have been ourselves openly, not if we were to maintain any standing in society."
All of them looked at the floor, lost in thought, before Louise finally stirred. "Well, with luck, we won't be needing to meet anyone new anytime soon. I look forward to seeing you around the Library, though." She stood straight, and each man shook her hand firmly before gathering their books and heading to the door. Once the last of them left, Louise let her shoulders slump again as she took her own notebook and book from the dais.
Back to work, she supposed. At least until the next face of August France appeared to replace her, may it be many years from now.
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