When I think of the name Victoria, I picture the British monarch who reigned over England and Ireland during the latter part of the 1800s. This queen’s portrait comes to mind, as I envision her pursed lips and British reserve; surely anyone named Victoria would have to carry about the same grandeur and starchiness as this woman did… or so I thought, that is, up until the beginning of last week. It was last week when I met another Victoria at Grade School camp. This Victoria was a wild child, with loose unkempt curls, distracted, energetic grey eyes, and a resolve not to listen to adults. This Victoria wasn’t extremely regal, but she definitely livened up the atmosphere. Mid-week, as I was tuning up my violin to help lead music, she told me “Sometimes, when I hear music, I JUS’ GOTTA DANCE!” And dance she did, in the aisle, or in the small space in front of her seat! Maybe it was an outpouring of being a grade schooler who marches to her own beat, or maybe it came from being, as I learned, a Victoria. As I played the music up front, I was able to catch a glimpse of her abandonment- a lack of conscientiousness that she was in a fairly conservative place. It made me glad that the music I played helped give rise to this demonstration of brimming joy and merriment. I was also a little envious. I was too grown up; carried too many inhibitions; had too many reservations; I was too… well, British, to fully connect with the dancing fun. Perhaps, when everything is weighed out, my OWN name is more closely related to that 19th Century British monarch.
