I grew up in Massachusetts. We have a holiday there, Patriot’s Day, in which we all dress up in period garb and march to the Concord Bridge, where we vanquish the Redcoats.

As a child, I never wanted to dress up. Men dressed as men and had a big barrel of beer that was pulled on a wheeled trolly. Boy had wooden rifles and ran the stone walls, fighting, just the same as hundreds of years ago. Women, and girls, wore dresses and skirts and moved slowly and sedately because we were too dressed to run, and, well, we were women.

I wanted to dress as a boy and run the walls, have a rifle, fight, and win. This wasn’t done and the compromise was that I refused to dress as a colonial girl. (No one felt this was a compromise, it was a stand-off.)

As an adult I happened to be back in Massachusetts the week before Patriot’s Day, a few years back, and I went by the Concord Bridge because there is a sign there I wanted a photo of. It is from the Colonialists and is dedicated to the British, apologizing for the dead. I should see if I can find it’s photo. It is beautiful, acknowledging the beliefs of others and their willingness to die for them.

The whole area was also flooded, and like the small boy I was not, I still love to wade shin deep through a puddle.

As it turned out, there were troops practicing for the skirmish. I met the leader of the troop of American’s who were Tories, for England, who fought against their brethren (yep, note that word, please), even though in reality the Colonists and the English could all have been considered brethren.

As a child, steeped in this history, I don’t recall ever hearing much about the number of soon to be Americans who didn’t want to be Americans, so it was interesting to sit with this gentleman and the park ranger, and re-learn the history I was never taught, about those who thought breaking away was a terrible idea.

I asked them though, what about women? Women always fight, they don’t stand around in dresses waiting for men to save them, not in most real history. They were stumped. Didn’t have much for me, all they, too, had, were stories of men.

So, where are the revolutionary women that must have existed? And why didn’t I, as a child, who ran the woods and the stone walls as a kid, playing revolutionary and Redcoat, look them up, hear of them? It was always the men and the boys, and I can remember those stories well. But not a single story of women, other than Betsy Ross, who stayed home and sewed.