I love Renaissance Faires. Wholeheartedly. Without shame.

When I was a kid, I would make the trek up to Tuxedo Park with my best friend Jackie and her family. Jackie’s family has always been the cool family. Her parents were active supporters of and participants in all of our creative endeavors. As long as we could literally be hosed off and did not cause permanent damage it was game on. I kid you not. Pastimes at Jackie’s house included but were not limited to: epic pudding fights, painting the walls with whatever our hearts desired, creating a giant mud pit complete with slide in the backyard, and an endless line up of plays, concerts, and dances that we of course subjected her family to play the part of captive audience. Emphasis on captive.

It was with this mindset that we approached the annual Renaissance Faire; costumes were donned, hair was braided, and faces were painted. Jackie and I were transformed into what we deemed were townspeople and conducted ourselves as such - greeting the guests to our neck of the woods, attending activities of the utmost importance, and of course running all over the place like a pair of crazies because we were looped up on All The Sugar. Until this past weekend, I don’t think I have stepped foot inside a Renaissance Faire for at least 15 years. Despite my misgivings - I mean how could attending as an adult even remotely compare to the glory that was Ren Fest ’96 - I was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been. This festival has been taking place for 30 years and folks in Washington Heights do not mess around.

As we entered the Medieval Festival at Fort Tryon Park last Sunday afternoon, we were immediately enveloped into the throngs of festival goers. Our welcome was from an array of all ages of townsfolk, from your standard damsels and knights to those who took a more fanciful approach (of fairies and dragons variety) to you know your cavemen (because without which what medieval festival would be complete). We slowly meandered our way past swords fights, ladies with lyres, and numerous purveyors of fine foods, such as pickle-on-a-stick, until we reached our Mecca -- the Final Joust.

Once we had situated ourselves in the stadium, we patiently waited through the Royal Court procession. [Side note: Royalty looks good on NYC Parks Commissioner Mitchell J. Silver and he has a great radio voice. You know something he might want to consider for a post public service career.] After what seemed liked ages, we were finally introduced to the knights and our stadium section was matched with Sir Morgan.

I don’t know if Sir Morgan identifies as a woman or man but it doesn't matter. What matters was Sir Morgan was accepted for who he was - a strong, engaging, and fearless knight. Sir Morgan was loved for being himself. No questions asked. With each competition, we cheered on our valiant knight hoping that our support would influence a preordained ending. Feet were stomped at the beginning of the matches, boos were hurled at the other competitors, and the crowd erupted into applause and whooping at each of his successes. We all started cheering SIR MOR-GAN in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of RU-FI-O. He was our knight and we fully embraced him.

It was a fierce competition and even though he lost the battle, kids ran up to the fence to get Sir Morgan’s autograph, ask for a picture with him, or to say that he should have won because one of the knights cheated (he totally did -- we’ll get our revenge next year Sir Angus). We were all a part of the story that Sunday afternoon, rooting for Sir Morgan without the issue of sex even coming in to play. Cheers to Sir Morgan and to the people of Washington Heights. You rock.