CAUCUS, n., v. A reader asked me about this word, which means, as a noun, more or less “a group of people meeting to do politics, sometimes in private,” with some variations, and as a verb, to attend such a meeting, or to gather in support for a political project or candidate.
“Caucus” is originally, and still chiefly, U.S. English, though it predates the founding of the United States, first appearing in print in 1760. The word does not appear in British English until 1822. The two 19th-century citations in the OED feature italics and scare quotes, as though the British speakers just daintily pinched this word out of the gutter and are holding it at arm’s length. “Caucus” in British English used to carry more of a negative connotation of people conspiring (being in cahoots, perhaps) within a party, whereas in U.S. English, it’s a totally routine political word. We have, for instance, a Congressional Black Caucus.
I’m delighted to report that caucus is “of obscure origin.” I always feel like I won a prize when I come across an unknown etymology. The OED summary of possible, unconfirmed origins is very fun, so here it is in short:
A proper noun. There appears to have been a Caucus Club in Boston in 1760. Still doesn’t really explain why they named their club that, though.
Post-classical Latin “caucus,” drinking cup, a rare word. No direct evidence, and the 1760 citation actually spells caucus as “Corcas,” apparently reflecting a 1760 Boston accent. Usually when writers borrow from Latin, they keep the Latin spelling.
A borrowing from Virginia Algonquian “Cawcawwassough, denoting the elders of the Chickahominy people (1608)” (OED) or “caucauasu meaning ‘counselor, elder, adviser’”. This would be cool, but alas, no direct evidence.
The Online Etymology Dictionary has no answers either, but it does offer us the reassurance that nobody knew where “caucus” came from, even in 1788:
The word caucus, and its derivative caucusing, are often used in Boston. The last answers much to what we stile parliamenteering or electioneering. All my repeated applications to different gentlemen have not furnished me with a satisfactory account of the origin of caucus. It seems to mean, a number of persons, whether more or less, met together to consult upon adopting and prosecuting some scheme of policy, for carrying a favorite point. [William Gordon, "History, Rise, Progress, and Establishment of the Independence of the United States of America," London, 1788]
As I’ve been writing a huge mess of a novel that seems more and more like it will end up classified as “science fiction,” though that isn’t quite right, either, I’ve been thinking to myself “but I caucus with the romance writers.” So in small-r romance, here’s what I’ve read lately:
Blithe Spirits (bi m/gay m/gay m, all cis, contemporary, short fiction) by Anton Prosser. A director and his lead actor valiantly resist their inappropriate attraction to each other until the theater’s resident ghost traps them together—and even then, the director waits for his boyfriend’s permission before going for it. This has really wonderful characters and is very sexy. The ghost has never done anything wrong in her life or her afterlife, ever.
Deck the Halls with Secret Agents (m/m, both cis and gay?, historical, short fiction) by Aster Glenn Gray. Regular readers of this newsletter might be saying to themselves “Weren’t you just complaining about how reading nonfiction about espionage has ruined you for fun spy fiction?” Well, listen, I don’t like Christmas romances either, but for Aster Glenn Gray I would read anything. Plus, this is set on December 25, 1991 because that’s when Gorbachev gave his resignation speech, and the spy characters—an American and a Ukrainian who’ve been on opposite sides for decades—feel pretty ambivalent about their careers. They find themselves snowed in at a French château for one last pointless mission. The writing evokes the setting vividly and with such warmth and humor, and this whole thing is so tender. One of the best half-hours I’ve spent this month.
The Marquess Makes His Move (m/f, both cis and het, historical) by Diana Quincy. This is only my second Diana Quincy book (previously), but I love when historical romances have absolutely bonkers legal problems that simply must be solved by finding an ideally incriminating piece of paper, thus requiring—naturally—a reclusive marquess to pose as a footman in the house of his enemy. Oops, the enemy’s wife is beautiful and trapped in a loveless marriage, hope that doesn’t complicate things! I also love that Quincy lets nineteenth-century London be the global city that it really was—the hero’s mother was Palestinian and he has a huge, loving Arab family. He didn’t grow up spending a lot of time with them because his parents were trying to de-emphasize his Arab heritage so the white British upper class would accept him; they don’t, so he’s given up on that and has taught himself Arabic. The heroine’s beloved grandfather was Lebanese, and her relationship to her heritage is also explored. And the heroine is a mapmaker, and her work is really interesting and cool. But mostly I love that this was so, so fun. Just instantly, from page one, these two main characters have great chemistry and I loved them both. (Note that the heroine’s loveless marriage has caused her to worry that she is infertile, but in the usual way of histrom, there is an accidental-but-desired pregnancy as soon as she sleeps with the hero.)
A Bloomy Head (bi trans m/het cis f, historical) by J. Winifred Butterworth. Full disclosure: I was a sensitivity reader for this book, whose heroine deals with pregnancy loss and infertility, but this review represents my genuine enthusiasm. I wouldn’t tell you I loved it unless I actually loved it, which I did. It’s brave and worthy to write this kind of difficult reality into genre romance, especially historical, because infertility and loss were and are a huge part of so many people’s lives. This is not to say that this book lingers on its characters’ suffering, just that it does not pretend suffering doesn’t exist. It’s the central argument of many romance novels that grief does not preclude happiness; this book is doing it better and bolder than most. More importantly, it has such overflowing affection for its subject matter—an injured army doctor, loyal and brilliant; a practical widow; her big, eccentric family of impoverished French-English farmers; their wandering livestock; our heroine’s diligent efforts to perfect her cheesemaking; even the murderer, really—that it’s a joy to read. It’s funny and charming and sexy. The prose is lovely, there is a real plot with murders and everything, and the whole experience is superb. This comes out December 24, 2024.
In things that are romance-adjacent, I read Olivia Waite’s forthcoming sci-fi novella Murder by Memory, set on the Fairweather, an interstellar generation ship where people can live more than one lifetime by uploading their consciousness to a Library and getting a new body after they die—a circumstance that significantly alters both murder and the solving of murders. This novella is a little bit A Memory Called Empire and a little bit P.G. Wodehouse, as the ship’s detective, Dorothy Gentleman, is the practical, inquisitive aunt of an absentminded and absurd-yet-charming nephew. (Everyone is queer, obviously.) While embroiled in solving a case, Dorothy has the intriguing beginnings of a romance with a mysterious and beautiful woman who owns a yarn store. She also drinks an enticing magic cocktail of memory liqueurs that give the drinker the sensory experience of a memory, admires many fiber arts, visits the awe-inspiring Library, and joins a luxurious club full of intellectual troublemakers, making this generation ship seem like a place I would very much like to hang out, despite all the murders. I received an Advance Review Copy of this novella, which comes out in March 2025.
And in things that are neither Romance nor romance, I read Maria Popova’s anthology pairing her science essays with poems by a selection of authors, The Universe in Verse, which was sublime. If you are the sort of person who cries while thinking about Carl Sagan’s Pale Blue Dot—the incomprehensible vastness of the universe and our smallness within it—you will cry.
That’s all for this year, Word Suitcase readers. I wish you a Happy New Year and I’ll be back in your inbox on January 12, 2025.