Men’s History, colloquially called History, is a bacchanal. A rich tapestry of bloodstained battlefields, drunken duels at dawn, and harems so full they violate fire-safety capacity.  History remembers the men who waged war over personal slights, turning entire continents into battlegrounds. 

But who remembers the widowed noblewoman who became a pirate to send France a message? The bisexual sword-fighting opera singer who set nuns on fire? The working-class woman who ran a full-scale underground gay sex club in 1726? 

Well, the last frost is fading, the days are growing longer, and publicists everywhere are on their yearly hunt, descending into the dilapidated cellar which stashes away the history of half the human population for eleven months. The publicists grope for a dangling chain, give it a cautious tug and a weak light sputters to life. 

It’s Women’s History Month. And for 31 glorious days, our media diet will consist of pre-approved feminist nostalgia. Each headline drops into the public trough like a vending machine snack — predictable, processed, and just filling enough to keep you from noticing the empty calories. There will most certainly be a “forgotten girlboss” who “broke the mold.” An “iconic trailblazer” who “shattered barriers.” There will be “ten bad bitches history tried to erase” — but don’t worry, some brand’s social media intern has resurrected them in a shareable infographic! And the gallery takes a collective sigh of relief. We can rest easy tonight — feminism is saved.

But, while the inspiring women of March are frozen in this Barbie Inspiring Women Series — plastic smiles, stiff postures, rebellious yet approachable, wild yet marketable —  social studies textbooks burst at the seams with bastards, imbeciles, drunkards, whoremongers, lunatics, frauds, tyrants, war criminals, cutthroats, turncoats, and knaves. 

This Women’s History Month, let’s remember three women that today’s corporations won’t touch with a ten-foot, pink pole. 

Jeanne de Clisson: “The Lioness of Brittany” (1300-1359)

Jeanne de Clisson’s story begins like a medieval period romantic drama — love, duty, scandal, and a happy ending. That is, until 1343, when the French king beheaded her third husband, Olivier de Clisson for suspected treason, sent his head home on a spike, and called it a day. Jeanne de Clisson did not. Instead, she took her children to see their father’s severed head and made them swear revenge. If you listen closely, you can still hear the “Kill Bill” siren winding up.

She sold her land, bought three warships, painted them black, and named her flagship My Revenge — because subtlety was no longer on the table. For over a decade, she hunted French ships and slaughtered their crews. Afterward, she invited any noblemen aboard to join her on her ship. The noblemen boarded, expecting negotiations. Instead, they found Jeanne waiting for them like a French Clytemnestra, axe included. It was with this axe that she took great pleasure in beheading them with the same regard the king had given her husband, dutifully sending a single survivor home to ensure King Philip VI didn’t miss the parallel. It’s not hard to imagine the regret on King Philip VI’s face as yet another report of Jeanne’s latest massacre arrived. 

Even after King Philip VI’s corpse grew cold following his death in 1350, Jeanne de Clisson continued her slaughters at sea. She eventually returned to land on her sealegs in 1356, married an English knight, and lived out the remainder of her days at Castle Hennebont. She didn’t just get even — she got interest. King Philip VI wanted to make an example of Olivier. Jeanne de Clisson made an example of France.

Julie d’Aubigny: “La Maupin” (1673-1707)

She had the voice of an angel and dressed like a swashbuckler — complete with the swordplay, rakish charm, and libido to match.

Raised among Louis XIV’s court by her father, a fencing master, Julie d’Aubigny learned to fence before she learned to curtsy. By her teens, she was performing in Parisian opera houses, running around France in men’s clothing, duelling offended noblemen, and seducing their wives.

When what history assumes was her first lesbian lover was locked in a convent, Julie considered her options: legal petition, bribery, or felony arson. Convents were places of devotion, but Julie was devoted too — to making sure her lover wasn’t in one. To this end, arson worked just fine. The authorities were not amused to find the body of a dead nun (who had recently passed away and was not killed by Julie) in the charred bed where Julie’s lover should have been. But, by then, she and her lover were long gone. The powers that be tried her as a man, and sentenced her to death in absentia — because, really, what else could they do? The paperwork had to go somewhere. And yet, as a result of her incredible voice, the king gave her an encore by way of a royal pardon. It would not be the last time he intervened.

But when her greatest love, Madame la Marquise de Florensac, died in 1705, Julie exited stage left from the opera scene and entered a convent once again — not to set any fires this time, but to extinguish whatever was left of herself. She died soon after in 1707. Some acts can’t be followed, and Julie d’Aubigny never saw the point in trying.

Margaret Clap: “Mother Clap” (N/A)

In 18th-century London, a “molly house” was more than just a tavern — it was a gathering place for men who, by law, weren’t supposed to gather. Part social club, part brothel, and entirely illegal, these businesses catered to gay men looking for companionship behind closed doors. The busiest of them all was Margaret Clap’s establishment in Holborn — officially a private residence and coffeehouse — where “Mother Clap” hosted 30 to 40 visitors each night.

There were beds in every room — some for a quiet getaway, some for long-term stays, and some that saw more turnover than a barstool. She saw even more on Sunday nights — presumably to wash the taste of communion out of their mouths with something harder. Love is a sacrament best taken kneeling, after all.

Her establishment was known for its same-sex marriage ceremonies, theatrical performances, and bawdy masquerades. The crowd ranged from common labourers to well-dressed gentlemen. She wasn’t the first to run such a place, but unlike others, she built something closer to a community — lingering in conversation with her patrons, helping them vanish through the back door when the law came knocking, and, when necessary, providing false testimony to defend her patrons from sodomy charges.

However, in February 1726, after being under surveillance by the Society for the Reformation of Manners—or as I like to call them, the Fun Police—her molly house was raided, leading to her arrest alongside many of her patrons. Mother Clap was convicted of “keeping a disorderly house” and sentenced to stand in the pillory (those wooden structures with holes for a prisoner’s head and hands), pay a fine, and serve two years in prison. Some accounts say she was beaten to death by the public before she could make it to prison. Others claim she survived, only to disappear. One thing they have in common is that the courts did their worst, and Margaret Clap vanished from the record — whether it was into an unmarked grave or someone else’s guest room is anyone’s guess.

I doubt these women will be joining Barbie’s Inspiring Women Series anytime soon — too hard to brand, too badly behaved for PR, too likely to set something on fire. But if they ever do green light a Murderous Widow Barbie — Warning: Comes With A Cutthroat Sense of Closure or Twink Protection Program Barbie — London’s Most Discreet Hostess (Now With an Authentic 1726 Arrest Warrant!), let me know. I’ll buy two — one to collect, and one to shove up Mattel’s ass.

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Photo by Jessie Hillier