Divided along ideological lines, the U.S. Supreme Court on April 29, 2026, issued a ruling that severely weakens a provision of the landmark Voting Rights Act of 1965. That provision, known as Section 2, prohibited any discriminatory voting practice or election rule that results in less opportunity for minority groups to exercise their political clout.

In her dissent on the ruling, Justice Elena Kagan wrote that it is the “latest chapter in the majority’s now-completed demolition of the Voting Rights Act.”

The decision in the case known as Louisiana v. Callais struck down a Louisiana voting district drawn to consolidate Black voters into a district where they would be the majority. The court’s conservative majority deemed the drawing of the district an unconstitutional gerrymander.

That, wrote Kagan, will “systematically dilute minority citizens’ voting power.”

I’m a historian of racial formation and electoral and cultural politics in the U.S. I see this decision by the nation’s highest court as the latest in a long line of successful attempts, by both state and federal authorities, to limit the political power of Black Americans and, most recently, to reverse the gains they won in two periods of civil rights advancement.

Etching away at voting rights

Back in 2013, the Supreme Court tossed out a key provision of the Voting Rights Act regarding federal oversight of elections.

In the Louisiana v. Callais case, the court seemed ready to abolish Section 2 of the Voting Rights Act.

While the conservative majority in Louisiana v. Callais did not explicitly strike down Section 2, the ruling appears likely to nonetheless open the floodgates for widespread vote dilution by allowing primarily Southern state legislatures to redraw political districts, weakening the voting power of racial minorities.

The case was brought by a group of Louisiana citizens who declared that the federal mandate under Section 2 to draw a second majority-Black district violated the equal protection clause of the 14th Amendment and thus served as an unconstitutional act of racial gerrymandering.

Initially designed to enshrine federal civil rights protections for freed people facing a battery of discriminatory “Black Codes” in the postbellum South, the 14th Amendment’s equal protection clause has been the foundation of the nation’s modern rights-based legal order, ensuring that all U.S. citizens are treated fairly and preventing the government from engaging in explicit discrimination.

The cornerstone of the nation’s “second founding,” the Reconstruction-era amendments to the Constitution, including the 14th Amendment, created the first cohort of Black elected officials.

As I highlight in my new book “Requiem for Reconstruction,” the struggle over the nation’s second founding not only highlights how generational political progress can be reversed but also provides a lens into the specific historical origins of racial gerrymandering in the United States.

Without understanding this history – and the forces that unraveled Reconstruction’s initial promise of greater racial justice – we cannot fully comprehend the roots of those forces that are reshaping our contemporary political landscape in a way that I believe subverts the true intentions of the Constitution.

The long history of gerrymandering

Political gerrymandering, or shaping political boundaries to benefit a particular party, has been considered constitutional since the nation’s 18th-century founding, but racial gerrymandering is a practice with roots in the post-Civil War era.

Expanding beyond the practice of redrawing district lines after each decennial census, late 19th-century Democratic state legislatures built on the earlier cartographic practice to create a litany of so-called Black districts across the postbellum South.

The nation’s first wave of racial gerrymandering emerged as a response to the political gains Southern Black voters made during the administration of President Ulysses S. Grant in the 1870s. Georgia, Alabama, Florida, Mississippi, North Carolina and Louisiana all elected Black congressmen during that decade. During the 42nd Congress, which met from 1871 to 1873, South Carolina sent Black men to the House from three of its four districts.

Initially, the white Democrats who ruled the South responded to the rise of Black political power by crafting racist narratives that insinuated that the emergence of Black voters and Black officeholders was a corruption of the proper political order. These attacks often provided a larger cultural pretext for the campaigns of extralegal political violence that terrorized Black voters in the South, assassinated political leaders, and marred the integrity of several of the region’s major elections.

Election changes

Following these pogroms during the 1870s, southern legislatures began seeking legal remedies to make permanent the counterrevolution of “Redemption,” which sought to undo Reconstruction’s advancement of political equality. A generation before the Jim Crow legal order of segregation and discrimination was established, southern political leaders began to disfranchise Black voters through racial gerrymandering.

These newly created Black districts gained notoriety for their cartographic absurdity. In Mississippi, a shoestring-shaped district was created to snake and swerve alongside the state’s famous river. North Carolina created the “Black Second” to concentrate its African American voters to a single district. Alabama’s “Black Fourth” did similar work, leaving African American voters only one possible district in which they could affect the outcome in the state’s central Black Belt.

South Carolina’s “Black Seventh” was perhaps the most notorious of these acts of Reconstruction-era gerrymandering. The district “sliced through county lines and ducked around Charleston back alleys” – anticipating the current trend of sophisticated, computer-targeted political redistricting.

Possessing 30,000 more voters than the next largest congressional district in the state, South Carolina’s Seventh District radically transformed the state’s political landscape by making it impossible for its Black-majority to exercise any influence on national politics, except for the single racially gerrymandered district.

Although federal courts during the late 19th century remained painfully silent on the constitutionality of these antidemocratic measures, contemporary observers saw these redistricting efforts as more than a simple act of seeking partisan advantage.

“It was the high-water mark of political ingenuity coupled with rascality, and the merits of its appellation,” observed one Black congressman who represented South Carolina’s 7th District.

Racial gerrymandering in recent times

The political gains of the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 1960s, sometimes called the “Second Reconstruction,” were made tangible by the 1965 Voting Rights Act. The law revived the postbellum 15th Amendment, which prevented states from creating voting restrictions based on race. That amendment had been made a dead letter by Jim Crow state legislatures and an acquiescent Supreme Court.

In contrast to the post-Civil War struggle, the Second Reconstruction had the firm support of the federal courts. The Supreme Court affirmed the principal of “one person, one vote” in its 1962 Baker v. Carr and 1964 Reynolds v. Sims decisions – upending the Solid South’s landscape of political districts that had long been marked by sparsely populated Democratic districts controlled by rural elites.

The Voting Rights Act gave the federal government oversight over any changes in voting policy that might affect historically marginalized groups. Since passage of the 1965 law and its subsequent revisions, racial gerrymandering has largely served the purpose of creating districts that preserve and amplify the political representation of historically marginalized groups.

This generational work is being undone by the current Supreme Court with its ruling in Louisiana v. Callais.

This is an updated version of an article originally published on Feb 3, 2026.

Robert D. Bland does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Florida’s Indian River Lagoon has been an ecosystem in decline going back to 2011, when harmful algal blooms led to a severe decline in seagrass, the foundational component of shallow coastal ecosystems.

Seagrass meadows stabilize sediments, improve water clarity and provide critical habitat and forage for species ranging from invertebrates to sea turtles and manatees. Seagrass also generates a significant amount of economic activity in the state of Florida.

The loss of seagrass in the Indian River Lagoon System undermined fisheries, tourism and wildlife, ultimately leading to the starvation of more than 1,200 manatees from 2020-25, peaking in 2021-22.

Mosquito Lagoon is part of the Indian River Lagoon system that spans 28 miles (45 kilometers), running from Cape Canaveral in the south up to Ponce Inlet in the north. As in the rest of the lagoon system, years of nutrient pollution and recurring algal blooms had diminished seagrass cover to nearly zero by the early 2020s. By most accounts, Mosquito Lagoon had crossed a critical ecological tipping point.

In the fall of 2022, hurricanes Ian and Nicole struck Florida’s east coast within six weeks of one another, bringing intense rainfall, storm surges and coastal erosion. In the immediate aftermath, seagrass declined even further.

But a few months later, in the spring of 2023, seagrass began to return. Satellite imagery revealed rapid and widespread regrowth.

We are geographers who study environmental change. Our research documents this unexpected recovery and examines what it may reveal about ecosystem resilience in heavily degraded coastal systems.

One of us, Hannah Herrero, is a Volusia County native who grew up around the lagoon. She returned to her hometown at the outset of the COVID-19 pandemic. It was there that some local guides and fishermen she’d known for years suggested that our team should use satellite imagery to look at the state of collapse in the lagoon.

The study we designed as a result used satellite imagery and machine learning, a type of artificial intelligence that uses advanced algorithms to learn and predict patterns, to track seagrass dynamics in Mosquito Lagoon before, during and after the storms. This approach allowed us to observe change at a scale and frequency that is difficult to achieve using only traditional field survey methods.

Tracking seagrass from space

Monitoring seagrass coverage “the old-fashioned way” involves going into the lagoon and laying out transects, straight lines that cut through a landscape, so standard observations could be recorded. We would then have to boat or wade all along those lines to measure seagrass extent and locations and create digital maps manually to show where it is present.

As you can imagine, this is a time-intensive process that’s limited by how far you can boat or swim in a day, and by financial resources.

So we decided to use satellite imagery instead. This method is not without its own challenges – water turbidity, or cloudiness, seasonal variability and the patchy nature of vegetation that grows on the bottom of the lagoon all make it difficult to observe seagrass growth directly on the imagery.

To address this challenge, our study used imagery from NASA’s Harmonized Landsat–Sentinel program, which combines data from multiple satellites into a consistent record of photos of the same areas taken frequently over time. We analyzed imagery collected between September 2022 and January 2024, focusing on periods before and immediately after the hurricanes and throughout the subsequent recovery.

We applied a type of machine learning model called Random Forest to classify each image into seagrass and nonseagrass categories.

The machine learning algorithm is informed by training samples collected in the field, but once the model has learned the signature of seagrass, it is able to then apply the classification model to the rest of the lagoon and across time with limited human input. We can then validate this classification.

Heading into the field

First, we had to train the model using hundreds of GPS points collected in the field over multiple seasons. This step helps to ensure that satellite classifications align with on‑the‑ground conditions and are accurately interpreting the images.

Over several weeks during the summers of 2020 through 2023, our team spent many hours navigating Mosquito Lagoon in a small skiff designed for shallow depths, recording seagrass presence.

It wasn’t always easy – Florida summers are intensely hot and humid, and Mosquito Lagoon definitely lived up to its name. But we got to see a wide variety of wildlife, including manatees, dolphins, sea turtles and alligators. And occasionally, on lucky days, we even spotted a roseate spoonbill or reddish egret.

Our experience in the field highlighted why this system matters: Mosquito Lagoon is a remarkably vibrant place, teeming with wildlife. These long days on the lagoon, surrounded by its biodiversity and immersed in its unique sense of place, are what anchor the remote sensing data to on-the-ground ecological conditions and make the resulting models credible.

What we found

Our analysis reveals three distinct phases of seagrass coverage.

First, seagrass declined sharply following hurricanes Ian and Nicole. By December 2022 and early 2023, satellite imagery showed virtually no detectable seagrass across the lagoon.

Then, in March 2023, we identified a statistically significant shift. Seagrass began to reappear, initially in small, scattered patches.

Finally, during late spring and summer 2023, seagrass expanded rapidly. By July 2023, it covered more than 20% of the lagoon – levels not observed in more than a decade. Coverage then declined again during the winter of 2023–24, as expected based on seasonal growth cycles. But even our last observation, completed in January 2024, showed seagrass covering 4.3% of the lagoon, substantially higher than pre-recovery levels during the winter season.

In spring 2026, seagrass in Mosquito Lagoon has remained at stable levels. Although it still experiences fluctuations due to algal blooms, seasonality and other changes in the ecosystem, we have not seen a complete loss of seagrass again like what was occurring for over a decade.

Importantly, this pattern was not random. Regrowth occurred primarily in the central and southern parts of the lagoon, areas historically known to support dense seagrass meadows. The timing also aligned with established seagrass seasonal growth patterns, which strengthens our confidence that the observed changes reflect true ecological recovery.

How storms may have contributed

We cannot prove that hurricanes directly caused the seagrass recovery that we document in our study. Further study beyond the scope of our work is needed to evaluate this possibility. However, we believe the sequence of events suggests that the storms may have altered environmental conditions in ways that enabled regrowth.

Hurricane Ian delivered large volumes of fresh water into the lagoon, potentially suppressing salt‑tolerant macroalgae that compete with seagrass for sunlight and nutrients.

Six weeks later, Hurricane Nicole breached coastal dunes and created several new inlets between the lagoon and the Atlantic Ocean. These openings allowed salt water into the lagoon, likely altering salinity and changing water circulation and conditions.

The hurricanes may also have redistributed seagrass fragments and mobilized dormant seed banks, accelerating regrowth once conditions stabilized. Ecologists have observed similar mechanisms in other coastal systems affected by tropical cyclones.

Beyond Mosquito Lagoon

Mosquito Lagoon’s collapse and eventual tentative recovery illustrates both the vulnerability and resilience of coastal ecosystems. Even after years of decline, the Mosquito Lagoon coastal ecosystem demonstrated an ability to recover relatively rapidly when physical conditions shifted.

At the same time, resilience does not guarantee permanence, and we believe this recovery should be viewed cautiously.

From a practical standpoint, our study also highlights the value of satellite imagery and machine learning for ecosystem monitoring. These tools allow scientists, resource managers and local communities to detect change consistently and respond before losses spread.

Hannah V. Herrero is the Director of Science for the Lagoon Watermen Alliance, a Florida-based non-profit. The mission of Lagoon Watermen Alliance is to protect the entire Indian River Lagoon system by advocating for science-based solutions that will lead to improved water quality, protection of imperiled habitats and safeguarding of gamefish populations.

Stephanie Insalaco-Wyner does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

With 104 matches in 16 stadiums across Canada, the United States and Mexico, the 2026 FIFA World Cup will be soccer’s biggest event ever.

It’s our job as turfgrass researchers hired by FIFA, the game’s governing body, to make sure those pitches feel the same for players and that the grass thrives.

That’s not so simple. In fact, it seemed like an impossible challenge at first.

Picking the right turf

The scale of this job was unprecedented: three distinct climatic zones, over 3,100 miles between the farthest stadiums, and venues ranging from stadiums open to the heat of Mexico City and Miami to enclosed NFL stadiums in Dallas and Atlanta, to the cooler climates of Boston and Toronto.

Despite the unique situations of each stadium, FIFA has a long list of rules for how the fields must be built. The grass has to be real but reinforced so it can handle a lot of games and ceremonies. Each field needs an automatic irrigation system, good drainage, built-in vacuum and vents to keep the grass and soil aerated, and artificial grow lights to keep the grass healthy.

Each host city is responsible for figuring out how to meet these requirements.

Right now, eight of the 2026 host stadiums normally use artificial turf – how will they temporarily switch to real grass for the World Cup?

Even trickier, five of the stadiums have domes, which means the grass gets less sunlight. How can they keep the grass alive for eight weeks?

How can we make sure that a player competing in Philadelphia has the same on‑field experience as a player competing in Guadalajara or Seattle?

Our team at the University of Tennessee and Michigan State University has spent the past five years researching these questions to provide guidance to the host cities. Here, we’ll explore some of the most important questions we faced: which grass to grow, how it’s grown, how we plan to make it even stronger, and how to move it safely to each stadium.

Growing the grass

Typically, sod is grown on native soil. When harvested, the roots are cut, which shocks the plant and can delay root reestablishment for several weeks.

That wouldn’t work for the World Cup because games may take place within just 10 days of installation. If the roots can’t become established fast enough, the grass will be weaker and more prone to damage.

To address this, we decided to use sod grown on plastic with sand as a base.

Think of it like growing grass in a plastic tray, but on a much larger scale. When the roots reach the plastic, they spread sideways and intertwine, forming a dense rooting system. Because the roots stay intact during harvest, the sod experiences minimal stress and can be ready to play almost immediately after installation.

Sod for sports fields is typically grown in a base of sand to provide quick drainage and prevent the grass from getting compacted as the roots become established.

The problem is that growing grass in 2 inches of sand on a plastic sheet comes with risks. Because of the plastic, a single heavy rainfall while the grass is becoming established can wash the exposed sand away.

For warm‑season sod farmers – those that grow grass that thrives in high temperatures – sand washing away is less of a concern because the Bermudagrass they grow establishes quickly. On the other hand, cool‑season sod farmers usually grow Kentucky bluegrass, which germinates slowly compared to other turfgrass species, increasing the risk of washouts.

We decided to mix a faster‑germinating species – perennial ryegrass – with Kentucky bluegrass grown on plastic and then tested various seeding ratios. We found that an 84% Kentucky bluegrass and 16% perennial ryegrass mixture produced a stronger sod than pure Kentucky bluegrass alone four months after seeding. Since 2025, these findings have been used on sod farms across North America, beyond those growing grass for the World Cup.

Stabilizing the surface

“One World Cup game is equal to a Super Bowl,” FIFA officials like to remind us. Since each field will host a lot of games and ceremonies, including up to nine games over six weeks, the fields need to be extremely strong.

To make them tougher, we mix plastic fibers into the natural grass, which creates a hybrid turfgrass system. As the grass grows, its roots wrap around these plastic fibers, which helps to keep the surface stable and firm. These fibers are also colored to match the natural grass, so even if the real grass wears down, they help the field stay green.

Hybrid turfgrass systems can be created in two ways: by stitching plastic fibers into an existing grass field or by laying down a carpet of plastic fibers that is then filled with sand and seeded to grow new grass.

Stitched systems have been used in World Cup games for a long time, but carpet systems are still fairly new to the tournament – they have been used only in the 2023 Women’s World Cup.

We tested eight carpet systems to see how they performed and found that all could be successfully grown on plastic. All the surface performance tests – ball bounce, rotational resistance and surface hardness – on these eight carpets also met FIFA standards.

One type of carpet was chosen by three host cities for their stadiums: Vancouver, Los Angeles, and Philadelphia.

Getting the sod from farm to stadium

Most of the stadiums – 14 of them – will have sod that is grown on plastic, then rolled up and shipped to the venue during spring 2026. Some of the grasses won’t have to travel far, but some will be shipped in refrigerated trucks across the country. Since the sod remains fully intact after harvest, it can withstand long travel times.

Five of those stadiums don’t get enough sunlight, so they will use cool-season grasses that require less light than warm-season grasses.

While the open-air stadium in Miami will use Bermudagrass, the domed stadium in Houston, despite being at a similar latitude, will use the Kentucky bluegrass and perennial ryegrass mix. That means cross-country trips from cool-season sod farms in Denver and Washington to domed stadiums in the southern regions is essential.

It’s wild to think that this is all necessary, but the length of the tournament and unique stadium environments call for innovation.

The University of Tennessee was the prime awardee of the FIFA grant. Michigan State University is a subawardee. John N. Trey Rogers is the principal investigator for the Michigan State work.

Jackie Lyn A. Guevara is affiliated with Michigan State University. She received compensation through a FIFA grant awarded to Michigan State University.

John Sorochan is the principal investigator for the FIFA grant at the University of Tennessee.

Ryan Bearss works for Michigan State University

Within moments of entering the Newport Renaissance Faire, you are ushered to a group of fairies. They pass you a scroll and say, “You must seek out the Bone Man for the first hurdle in your quest.” As you navigate the fair, you find many men dressed in bones, both vendors and fellow attendees. When you find the correct Bone Man – an actor wearing what appears to be a mask made of human skull along with a crown constructed from deer antlers – he stamps your scroll. He then sends you to your next target: the Drunk Viking.

Following the directions of actors in the fair, you meet a variety of performers from many historical eras and fantastic realms, and stumble upon both merchants and merrymakers in your journey. It’s all part of the immersive experience that connects you with the other guests and staff, though many of the costumed staff members, speaking in faux Middle English, are also trying to sell you something.

Renaissance fairs were originally conceived as a creative refuge for artists sidelined by political repression during the Red Scare. Now, they sit at an uneasy crossroads between countercultural expression and commercial spectacle. Having grown into a nationwide industry with tiered tickets, branded merchandise and multimillion dollar valuations, the fairs can easily be seen as an offshoot of a corporate theme park.

As cultural geographers, we wanted to learn more about whether the spirit of the fairs has been changing. So for our recent study, we visited the Tennessee Renaissance Festival, Newport Renaissance Faire, Tennessee Medieval Faire and Tennessee Pirate Fest.

Once upon a time … not so long ago

Although renaissance fairs and festivals recreate the atmosphere of centuries past, the first formally recognized fair took place in May 1963 in Irwindale, California. A public school English and history teacher named Phyllis Patterson was the brains behind the event, which she dubbed the Renaissance Pleasure Faire.

For Patterson, the fair was a chance to celebrate the era’s countercultural values like free expression, experimentation with identity and creative play. It also served as a source of employment for those who had been pushed out of their careers in the film and entertainment industries after being blacklisted or graylisted as suspected communists.

Patterson herself had refused to sign a Cold War–era loyalty oath required to work in California public schools. At the Renaissance Pleasure Faire, actors, educators and set designers could continue their craft, whether that meant designing costumes, creating characters, performing or writing.

From creative refuge to thriving business

Since those first events in Southern California, renaissance fairs have spread across the U.S., with some constructing permanent structures even though they’re only open seasonally, in the spring or fall. Built to resemble small villages, fair operators create towns-within-towns, fantasy lands where visitors can briefly step away from their routines and obligations.

Their popularity continues to grow, and what began partly as a creative refuge has grown into a thriving entertainment business.

The East Tennessee Renaissance Faire recently announced that it would be relocating after deciding that its original venue in Newport could no longer accommodate the swelling crowds: Within three years, the fair had grown from 600 to 6,000 attendees, spurring a move to a larger site in neighboring Sevierville. New fairs are sprouting up as well: The Chattanooga Renaissance Faire will host its inaugural season in spring 2026.

There are almost always entry fees – US$38 at the Tennessee Renaissance Festival and $53 at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire, for example – and many offer season passes.

Attendees often arrive in costume, but strict rules about adhering to a specific time period or setting rarely apply.

Some visitors dress as Tolkien-style elves, while others show up as Tudor nobles. Viking-clad participants walk alongside fairies and swashbuckling pirates. Some fairs have also developed their own themed weekends – with names like “Viking Victory,” “Fantasy and Folklore,” “Pirate Plunder” and “Celtic Celebration” – that weave history and fiction with few constraints. And those committed to their role will often address each other in playful faux-medieval speech, with greetings like “my lady” or “my lord.”

Vendors, often dressed in costume themselves, sell everything from cloaks, swords and crowns to contemporary jewelry and shampoos. Booths sell era-adjacent fare like Scotch eggs, ciders, mead and turkey legs, while modern cocktails like “The Shipwreck” and “The Blueberry Faerie” can also be had, with visitors paying the equivalent of stadium and arena concession prices.

Renaissance fairs have even spread to countries like Germany and France, reconnecting with their roots. The expansion into new venues – along with the development of offshoots such as pirate- and steampunk-themed festivals – point to profit margins that would have been unthinkable in the early days of the Renaissance Pleasure Faire.

But as with many ventures, the prospect of cashing in comes with complications.

The 2024 HBO Max series “Ren Faire” introduced viewers to the eccentrics and costume-clad vendors involved in the nation’s largest fair, the Texas Renaissance Festival in Todd Mission. The fight over its future involved lawsuits and, eventually, the court-ordered $60 million sale of the event’s property and assets.

King Richard’s Faire, which takes place in Carver, Massachusetts, and is the largest fair in New England, reportedly generates massive daily revenue while allegedly relying on widespread worker misclassification, leaving many performers earning below minimum wage without benefits. Even volunteer “villagers” work only for free admission, and both workers and attendees receive no compensation or refunds when the fair closes due to rain.

Seeking out a space of whimsy

Despite the creeping influence of profit motives, we concluded that renaissance fairs have always been – and continue to be – mostly about community.

Dressing as a fantastical version of yourself or your favorite character bonds you to others dressed up at the festival. Unlike popular Civil War or World War II reenactments where historical accuracy is paramount, renaissance fairs instead invite people to take part in shared, often mythologized ideas about history through performance, costume and play.

For example, each weekend, the Tennessee Renaissance Festival organizes jousts. Competitors and their horses meet at a permanent jousting pitch located at the back of the property. Each knight represents a noble house, and each section of the bleachers is assigned a knight to root for. Announcers explain the rules of each event, while also leading the crowds in chants and cheers. While the knights might fight under titles tied to historical lineages, they represent a jumble of eras and place. They also reject antiquated social norms by including women and ethnic groups who never would have been seen together on a jousting pitch.

Here, fidelity to the facts is an afterthought; it actually might ruin the fun.

Beyond the jousting pitch, you can find the queen dictating a game of human chess. A rotating cast of performers play music, tell jokes, juggle and blow fire. Elsewhere, you might stumble across pixies teaching children how to make fairy homes or relax in a mermaid’s magical grotto.

There’s also a comforting simplicity in the narratives of this make-believe world. Ladies are almost always gentle and beautiful, while the men are brave and noble. All the villains are easy to spot – they’re always defeated.

In a real world characterized by political upheaval, information overload, invisible surveillance and shadowy villains, perhaps the fair, with its simple prism of good and evil, becomes a space of comfort – a curated cultural experiment that’s also an improvised escape.

In other words, renaissance fairs wield a quiet power: They forge communities that deliberately blur fantasy, history and everyday life with a wink. Vendors, performers and attendees alike can be Tudors, Vikings, hobbits, elves or mermaids for a day. Few actually believe in elves, or imagine their mock-Elizabethan speech is anything more than cheerful, mangled guesswork.

And that’s the point. There’s joy in pretending – just as there’s a universal pleasure in the weird, the whimsical and the absurd.

The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.