In Which My Victorian Adventuress Asks Why

How did the word “gay” change from meaning happy to homosexual?

Did someone back in the early-20th century look at a gay person and think, “They seem way too happy! I wonder if that means they are homosexual. Because I would be happier if I was homosexual. Wait, WHAT?!?”

And then, out loud, he remarks, “Ahem, William? Doesn’t your cousin seem a little too … gay?”

“I think you may be right, Richard.”

Eyebrows raise. Judgment comes down. Cousin Archie is forbidden to associate with his bosom friend, Reginald.

And “gay” begins to mean “homosexual” for William and Richard (or Willy and Dick, as I think of them now).

Their secret code spreads, and a decade later, gay equals homosexual.

That sounds like a pretty reasonable chain of events.

Frankly, as I watch restrictions on gender and sexuality fall, I feel like many people are much, much happier.

Gayer, if you will.

And now “queer” has taken an uptick in popularity. I do like “queer.” It feels lighter than “lesbian,” which has a scientific flavor and all those syllables! I mean, do we really need to lug around three whole syllables?

I guess that’s what the U-Hauls are for.

This line of reasoning makes me think that these sad men making these sad laws to subjugate and endanger people trying to lead happy lives are just awful, judgmental, and probably a little jealous.

Well, my inner Victorian Adventuress is having none of that nonsense!

Have you ever wondered why a rule or law exists? How it showed up? Did these things just spring to life? What was the reasoning behind them?

For example, someone told me once that if you are walking on the side of a road with no sidewalk, you should walk against the traffic, meaning walking on the left if people are driving on the right. Then, I saw people walking with the traffic. So which should it be? Should I walk on the right or the left? Why?

Well, here’s what I discovered. If you are walking on the left, then you are aware of approaching traffic. Walking toward the oncoming cars, you have a chance to dive into a yard or driveway or whatever as they whip by you, blinded by the sun or their cell phone. By walking on the right with the traffic, a distracted driver hits you from behind before you know they exist.

All of this is not to say that I never walk on the right side of the road. Mack, my valiant canine companion, and I scurry across the street if we’re walking around a blind curve where there’s no way a car could see us until it was too late.

And that makes sense. That emphasizes safety. That’s why I try to follow the “why” of any rule or law rather than the letter.

And it also means that, if I don’t agree with the “why” that I puzzle out of the law, then I tend to ignore that it exists.

Not in a “put my head in the sand” way, but rather a “Victorian Adventuress who wants a pot of decent tea in the wilderness” kind of way. A way that says if your rules are against me doing something I want to do, and my actions won’t harm innocent folk, then I’m doing that thing I want to do. And you’ll be left with the choice of changing your rules or tossing this polite but persistent middle-aged woman who reminds you a bit of your favorite aunt out of your establishment.

How embarrassing for you.

Not that I am the bravest person in the world. I am not. Given the choice between fighting and flying, I select hiding. And making jokes.

However, when situations force me into action, my inner Victorian Adventuress emerges.

Her corset stiffens my back without restricting my movement. She imbues my soul with a quiet confidence. Her polite persistence will not be ignored. The cane in her hand hides a sword. When she leaves, everyone in her path sighs with relief.

I do my best to only use this power for good. And most of the time, because I am too lazy to bother otherwise, I behave myself. Thus, when I allow her out to play, you can know that my reasons are glorious.

And, because I am a cisgender, straight-presenting, middle-aged white lady, I usually get away with it.

These factors mean that I haven’t felt as much of the effect of discrimination in my life and am surprised when my wife tells me that I have been discriminated against. And then I’m pissed for a minute. Finally, I shake my head at my would-be oppressor and cross them off my list forever.

No more cookies for you, you nasty!

So, when I see a rule being created whose why is to subjugate, discriminate, endanger, and generally make people feel less than anyone else, my Victorian Adventuress takes umbrage. She wants to stride into the situation and shake some sense into these wrongheaded rule makers, or at least pull her sword out of the cane and rescue those who will be disastrously affected by this arbitrary and evil law. To sweep the endangered folks away to a wonderful place where everyone drinks tea and eats scones, cozy and safe in knitted afghans.

And as wonderful as all of that sounds, it’s not what these disenfranchised people need.

They need their own power. They need their own choice. They need to be supported in the way they choose to be supported.

Thus, I must ask questions. I must listen to the answers. I must clarify and inquire and stay curious.

And then, the Victorian Adventuress can emerge, polite, persistent, and making jokes about the oppressors.

Not to put too fine a point on my dainty gay sword-cane.