Personal Memories

Here are some excerpts from an currenlty-unpublished essay that I put together a while ago on the general topic of the GCFCG. I offer it for whatever historical interrst it may have.

Long before “cosplay” was a word, science fiction fans were wearing costumes at conventions. For the first Worldcon in 1939, legendary fan Myrtle R. Jones (aka Morojo) designed and constructed costumes based on the 1936 movie Things to Come for herself and her boyfriend, super-fan Forrest J. Ackerman (aka 4EJ). The couple wore their costumes throughout the day-long proceedings.

A masquerade contest was held at the next Worldcon, and such shows became a standard feature of subsequent cons. In addition to organized competitions, fans also delighted in wearing costumes informally around cons. In fannish parlance, such informal outfits are known as “hall costumes,” as distinguished from “masquerade,” “competition,” or “stage” costumes.

By the time I got involved in fandom, in the mid-1970s, convention costuming was a well-established institution. Masquerade competitions were part of just about every con, hall costumes were common, and the costumers who made and wore the costumes were justifiably proud of their abilities.

Bit by bit, and spurred on by competition and enthusiastic audiences, costumers refined their skills. Costumes got more spectacular, staging more elaborate, and larger groups took the stage for more impressive presentations. At Worldcons and the larger regional cons, masquerade audiences numbered in the thousands.

By the beginning of the 1980s, sf/fantasy costuming had advanced to the point where the most talented and devoted costumers would frequently spend a year or more (along with enormous sums of money) preparing for their moments of glory on the stage. At the 1981 Worldcon, a critical mass of costumers from all across the country came together and endowed this mutual hobby with a social dimension that hadn’t existed before.

A group of these costumers, informally organized as “the Fantasy Costumers Guild,” put together a Costume Con in San Diego in 1983. The following year, a second Costume-Con was held on the West Coast.

Costume-Con 3 was held in Columbia, Maryland in 1985. In order to formalize the institution and answer liability concerns, Maryland fans Marty Gear and his wife Bobby established a nonprofit entity, the Greater Columbia Fantasy Costumers Guild. (“Greater Columbia,” they explained, referred not only to the immediate Baltimore/Washington area, but also—using Columbia as a poetic term for America—to North America as a whole.)

This is when Thomas and I came into the picture. As an accomplished costumer already, he wanted to to see this costumers club he’d been hearing about; in March 1985 we attended our first meeting of the Greater Columbia Fantasy Costumers Guild (GCFCG).

There, we found another group of misfits that would become a chosen family.

As years went on, local costuming groups in different parts of the country joined as chapters of the GCFCG. Eventually, an umbrella organization was formed—the International Costumers Guild, aka ICG—of which all the local groups were chapters. Our group kept the original name with its unwieldy acronym: at one meeting we solemnly voted that henceforth “GCFCG” was to be pronounced “The Founders.”

The usual GCFCG meeting—we had one just about every month—started off with a social period while folks were arriving. Then, anywhere from an hour to and hour and a half after the official time, the meeting was called to order. (Costumers truly do run on “costumers standard time,” which ranges from 30-90 minutes behind clock time.)

The business meeting that followed generally involved the sort of administrative trivia and fannish politics that made one want to start gnawing off one’s own leg in order to escape. Much of this involved the ICG. Meetings generally followed Robert’s Rules, with two added principles: 1. Anything worth saying once is worth repeating ten times, and 2. Never use two words when fifty could do the job just as well.

Since we were all misfits, and prided ourselves on being welcoming and inclusive, everybody got their say, and no issue was ever considered completely settled. Every vote was recorded as X yea and Y nay, with New York abstaining (courteously).

Eventually the time to adjourn arrived, and then came the real fun. Most of us went out to eat (and drink) together after the meeting. First, though, came the period of dithering over where to go. We became such accomplished ditherers that we could easily spend an hour standing by our cars, finding a place that suited everyone’s dietary limitations and personal preferences.

At dinner we’d invariably have a hilarious time, staying for hours. (I hasten to add that we always tipped exceptionally well, and generally sought out places that didn’t mind having us stick around.)

Sometime in the 1990s, the GCFCG suffered what can only be described as a hostile takeover. The villain was a costumer whom I’ll call Dr. Evil. He decided to take over the GCFCG and use it as a stepping-stone in some nefarious scheme to control costuming fandom. Over the course of a few years Dr. Evil and his henchmen joined the GCFCG, moved into various positions of authority, and finally deposed Marty Gear, the founder of the group.

Well, it didn’t take long for sanity to reassert itself, and soon Dr. Evil found himself friendless and expelled from the GCFCG. But that’s not the story I want to tell.

As we neared the first meeting after the Dr. Evil fiasco, the agenda appeared and the very first item was “How to Deal With Undesirable Members.” The chatter was all about recognizing future troublemakers and getting rid of them before they could do damage.

Now, this set Thomas’s teeth, and mine, on edge. So we went to the meeting prepared.

It was a somber group that sat in a circle, faces set in expressions of anguished concern. After the president announced the first order of business, I stood and took the floor. (I have something of a talent for taking the floor and speaking forcefully.) “Before we say anything else about undesirable members, Thomas and I have the answer.”

We reached into a bag and pulled out our visual aids: two stars of David, cut from yellow felt. “First, we make them wear these...”

I waited a breath for our point to register—which it most gratifyingly did—and then said, “Now can we drop that, and talk about what to do if a situation like Dr. Evil ever comes up again?”

There was no more talk of “undesirable” members, and I believe we set up some manner of executive committee with authority to deal with extraordinary situations.