The Safety of a Queer Space: Mom, Who the Fuck Was Frederick The Great?

Queer History Taught From a Different Lense

The basement's air hung thick as molasses tonight, lights casting their usual kaleidoscope of wounded rainbows across the sweat-slicked brick walls. The ancient sound system was grinding out some Muddy Waters—that deep, dirty blues that felt like it was crawling up from the earth's fucking core. I'd claimed my usual spot at the bar's scarred wooden surface, watching Miguel's delicate hands work magic behind the counter, his sultry voice cutting through the dense atmosphere like a blade through butter.

"Mom, you look like you've been wrestling with ghosts," Miguel said, sliding a tumbler across the bar toward me. The liquid inside caught the light like liquid amber—a decent Armagnac that probably cost more than most people's rent, but Miguel had his ways of acquiring the good shit. The brandy hit my tongue with notes of dried figs and oak, warming my chest in that particular way that only fine French liquor could manage.

"Something like that," I muttered, taking another sip and feeling the burn settle into my bones. The day had been a motherfucker of epic proportions—three different crisis calls, Gizmo having another pre-college worry, and Keira working late again. But that wasn't what was eating at me.

Ezra bounced in their beanbag throne like an overeager puppy, blue hair catching the light in electric streaks. "Mom's got that look—the one she gets when she's about to drop some serious historical knowledge on our asses."

"Fuck off, Ezra," I said without heat, but couldn't suppress the ghost of a smile. These kids knew me too goddamn well.

Della's voice carried from the kitchen, punctuated by the aggressive sizzle of onions hitting hot oil. "Whatever's cooking in that brilliant brain of yours, Mom, better spill it before I burn these fucking quesadillas." The smell of charred tortillas and melting cheese began competing with the vanilla candles for atmospheric dominance.

Keira looked up from her corner table where she'd been nursing a beer and grading papers, her dark eyes finding mine across the room. "You've been quiet since you got here. That's never a good sign."

"Yeah, well," I said, swirling the Armagnac in its glass, watching the liquid cling to the sides like golden tears, "sometimes the past has a way of sucker-punching you in the fucking face when you least expect it."

Phoenix shifted in their seat, tonight's hair a shock of electric purple, new nose ring glinting. "What kind of past? Like, personal shit or...?"

"Historical past," I said, taking another swig of the brandy. "The kind that makes you realize how long we've been fighting this same goddamn battle, and how many of our people got erased from the fucking textbooks. I just finished Mitford’s Frederick the Great: King of Prussia."

Marcus, still in his work clothes—rumpled button-down and loosened tie that screamed middle management—leaned forward with interest. "Oh shit, Mom's about to school us. I can feel it."

River, who'd come straight from a double shift at the hospital, scrubs still carrying the antiseptic smell of institutional suffering, looked exhausted but curious. "Lay it on us. I could use some perspective tonight."

I drained the last of the Armagnac, feeling it burn its way down to my stomach, and set the glass down with more force than necessary. "Alright, gather 'round. Let me tell you about Frederick the fucking Great."

"Who the hell is Frederick the Great?" Sage asked, looking up from the intricate mandala they were sketching on a bar napkin, their ace ring catching the Christmas lights.

"Exactly my goddamn point," I said, standing up and beginning to pace—a habit that drove Keira absolutely batshit but helped me think. "Frederick II of Prussia, lived from 1712 to 1786. Military genius, patron of the arts, one of the most powerful kings in European history. And gayer than a fucking rainbow parade in the Castro District."

The kitchen noises paused for a moment before Della called out, "Now this sounds like my kind of historical figure. Keep going, Mom."

I could feel the room's attention focusing on me like a spotlight, the familiar weight of storytelling settling across my shoulders. "This magnificent bastard spent his entire life walking the tightrope between power and authenticity in ways that would make any of us recognize the struggle."

Miguel had started cleaning glasses with particular intensity, but I could see him listening. Ezra had stopped bouncing entirely, blue hair falling across their face as they leaned forward.

"See, Frederick's father—Frederick William I—was everything you'd expect from an 18th-century Prussian king. Military obsessed, emotionally constipated, and about as understanding of his son's... inclinations... as a brick wall is understanding of water." I gestured with my empty glass, and Miguel immediately refilled it with more of that golden Armagnac.

"The old king wanted a son who'd follow orders, marry some princess for political alliances, and produce heirs like a fucking breeding stallion. Instead, he got Frederick—brilliant, artistic, and absolutely, completely, undeniably attracted to men."

Phoenix's eyes went wide. "Shit, in the 1700s? That must have been..."

"Terrifying," I finished. "Because this wasn't just about personal safety—though that was certainly an issue. This was about the fate of an entire kingdom. Frederick was heir to the throne of Prussia, one of the most powerful military states in Europe. His personal life could start wars, end dynasties, or collapse alliances."

River shifted in their chair, still in those wrinkled scrubs. "So what happened? Did he stay in the closet?"

I took a long sip of the brandy, feeling its warmth spread through my chest. "That's where it gets complicated, and why Frederick's story matters so much to all of us sitting in this basement tonight."

The room had gone quiet except for the Blues still grinding from the speakers—now some Howlin' Wolf that seemed to match the intensity of what I was about to say.

"When Frederick was eighteen, he tried to run away with his boyfriend—Hans Hermann von Katte. They were going to escape to England, live freely, maybe never come back. But they got caught."

"Oh fuck," Marcus whispered.

"Frederick's father had Katte executed. Made Frederick watch. The message was crystal fucking clear—this is what happens when you choose love over duty."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush diamonds. I could hear Della's spatula scraping against the griddle, the sound harsh and metallic in the stillness.

Sage looked up from their napkin art, face pale. "Jesus Christ."

"But here's the thing," I continued, my voice getting stronger, more urgent. "Frederick didn't break. He learned to play the game, but he never stopped being who he was."

I started pacing again, the concrete floor rough beneath my feet. "He married Elisabeth Christine of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel-Bevern—a political alliance that everyone knew was pure theater. They lived completely separate lives. She stayed in her palace, he stayed in his, and everyone pretended it was normal."

"Smart," Keira said quietly from her corner. "Survival strategy."

"Exactly. But meanwhile, Frederick surrounded himself with men he loved. His relationship with Francesco Algarotti—an Italian writer and philosopher—was an open secret among the European intellectual elite. They wrote letters that were basically 18th-century sexts, full of passionate declarations and longing."

Ezra giggled despite the serious tone. "Historical sexting. I love it."

"Frederick called Algarotti his 'dear and tender friend,' wrote about missing him 'with all his heart,' and when they were together, nobody could mistake what was happening. The French court—which was no stranger to sexual intrigue—called their relationship 'notorious.'"

Miguel set down his cleaning rag, finally giving up the pretense of working. "So he was out? Like, actually out?"

"In the way that powerful people in the 18th century could be out—which is to say, it was an open secret that everyone acknowledged but nobody could officially discuss. Frederick made no real effort to hide his relationships with men. His court was full of artists, philosophers, and lovers, many of whom were clearly his romantic partners."

I paused to take another drink, feeling the Armagnac's warmth spreading through my limbs. The room was hanging on every word now, even the music seeming to fade into the background.

"The crazy part is that Frederick became one of the most successful military leaders in European history. He expanded Prussia's territory, survived multiple wars against much larger enemies, and turned his kingdom into a major power. All while living authentically as a gay man."

River shook their head in amazement. "How the fuck did he manage that?"

"By being too valuable to lose," I said. "Frederick was a military genius—he revolutionized battlefield tactics, won impossible victories, and made Prussia rich and powerful. His sexuality became irrelevant compared to his results."

Della appeared from the kitchen, carrying a plate of perfectly golden quesadillas that smelled like heaven and looked like they'd been crafted by angels with a particular talent for Mexican cuisine. "Sounds like he figured out what all of us have to learn—make yourself indispensable."

"Exactly," I said, accepting a quesadilla wedge and biting into the perfect combination of crispy tortilla and molten cheese. "But it goes deeper than that."

I chewed thoughtfully, organizing my thoughts while the room waited. "Frederick didn't just survive as a gay king—he used his position to create spaces for other people like us. His court became a haven for artists, intellectuals, and anyone who didn't fit conventional molds."

"A safe space," Phoenix said softly. "Like here."

"Like here," I agreed. "Frederick corresponded with Voltaire, supported artists and musicians, and created an environment where creativity and authenticity could flourish. He was building community, protecting people who were vulnerable, using his power to make space for others."

Marcus leaned back in his chair, tie now completely undone. "That's... actually incredibly familiar. Using whatever privilege you have to protect people who have less."

"And the historical erasure part?" Sage asked, still working on their napkin mandala. "Because I'm guessing this isn't exactly what they teach in high school history."

I laughed, but it came out bitter. "Oh, you sweet summer child. The official histories of Frederick focus entirely on his military campaigns and political achievements. They mention his 'bachelor status' and 'close friendships with men' but never connect the fucking obvious dots."

"Of course they don't," River said, exhaustion creeping into their voice. "Can't have kids learning that gay people have always existed and sometimes even ruled kingdoms."

"It gets worse," I said, starting to pace again. "Some historians have spent decades trying to 'prove' Frederick was straight, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. They've suggested he was impotent, or traumatized, or just 'too focused on military matters for romance'—anything to avoid saying the word 'homosexual.'"

Keira looked up from her papers, her voice cutting through the room with quiet authority. "Academic homophobia disguised as scholarship."

"Precisely. And it matters because Frederick's story proves something that every person in this room needs to hear." I stopped pacing and looked around at their faces—young and old, wounded and healing, all of them beautiful in their authenticity.

"We have always existed. We have always found ways to survive, to build community, to protect each other. We have always been more than our oppressors wanted us to be."

The room was completely silent now except for the distant hum of the ancient ceiling fan and the soft crackle of Christmas lights.

"Frederick the Great ruled Prussia for forty-six years. He never had biological children, never pretended to be straight, and never apologized for who he was. He died in 1786, surrounded by his beloved dogs and his chosen family of artists and intellectuals."

I picked up my glass and drained the rest of the Armagnac, feeling it burn its way down. "And here's the beautiful, heartbreaking part—in his final years, Frederick wrote extensively about philosophy and governance. He argued for religious tolerance, criticized slavery, and advocated for legal reforms that would protect marginalized people."

"Jesus," Marcus whispered. "He was fighting for all of us, even then."

"That's what we do," I said quietly. "We survive, we protect each other, and we make space for the people who come after us. Frederick understood that his power came with responsibility—not just to his kingdom, but to his community."

Ezra had tears in their eyes, blue hair partially obscuring their face. "Why don't we know these stories? Why do I feel like I'm learning about my own history for the first time?"

"Because erasure is a weapon," I said, my voice getting harder. "If they can convince us that we're a recent phenomenon, a modern 'lifestyle choice,' then they can pretend our demands for equality are unreasonable. But if people understand that we've always been here, always been part of human civilization, always contributed to society—then our fight for rights becomes obviously, undeniably justified."

Della had been quiet through most of my story, but now she spoke up from behind the bar. "That's why places like this matter. That's why stories like Frederick's matter."

"And that's why all of you matter," I said, looking around the room again. "Every time you exist authentically, every time you refuse to hide, every time you build community and protect each other—you're continuing Frederick's work."

The silence that followed felt different from before—not heavy with sadness, but pregnant with possibility.

Finally, River spoke up, their voice hoarse from the long hospital shift. "So what happened to his legacy? To Prussia?"

I smiled, feeling something lighter in my chest for the first time all day. "Prussia became part of Germany, and Frederick's military innovations influenced warfare for centuries. But more importantly, the precedent he set—that competence and leadership could outweigh personal prejudice—opened doors for others."

"And the personal stuff?" Phoenix asked. "The love letters, the relationships?"

"They survived. Hidden in archives, dismissed by historians, but they survived. And now, finally, scholars are starting to piece together the full picture of who Frederick really was—not just as a king, but as a gay man who refused to compromise his authentic self."

Miguel had started preparing another round of drinks, but he paused to look at me. "Mom, that's... that's actually fucking beautiful."

"It is," I agreed. "And it's ours. Frederick the Great is our history, our legacy, our proof that we've always been here and we've always mattered."

I sat back down at the bar, suddenly feeling the weight of the day settling into my bones. The story had taken something out of me, but it had also given something back—a reminder of continuity, of belonging to something larger than this basement, this moment, this struggle.

Keira caught my eye from across the room and smiled—one of those subtle expressions that contained multitudes of understanding and support. She knew what this story meant to me, why I needed to tell it tonight.

"So next time someone tries to tell you that being queer is unnatural, or that we're a threat to traditional values, or that we don't belong in positions of power," I said, raising the fresh glass Miguel had placed in front of me, "remember Frederick the fucking Great. Remember that we've been ruling kingdoms and fighting battles and creating beauty for centuries."

"To Frederick," Ezra called out, raising their beer bottle.

"To Frederick," the room echoed, glasses and bottles rising in salute.

"And to all the queer ancestors whose stories we're still uncovering," I added.

"To the ancestors," they repeated.

We drank together in that moment, the Armagnac burning warm in my throat, surrounded by chosen family in a basement that smelled like vanilla candles and spilled beer and the particular mixture of courage and vulnerability that defines places like this.

Later, as the evening wound down and people began filtering back to their real lives, Keira helped me gather my things. "That was important tonight," she said quietly. "For all of them, but especially for you."

I nodded, feeling the truth of it settle in my chest. "Sometimes I forget that our history didn't start with Stonewall. Sometimes I need to remember that we've always been here, always been fighting, always been finding ways to love and create and survive."

"And sometimes," she said, her hand briefly touching mine, "you need to remind everyone else of that too."

As we climbed the narrow stairs leading back to the alley, I could hear the muffled sounds of conversation continuing behind us—Phoenix and Sage discussing the intersection of historical erasure and contemporary identity politics, Marcus and River comparing notes about visibility in professional settings, Ezra already planning to research more queer historical figures.

The seeds had been planted. The stories would continue to grow.

And somewhere in the vast sweep of history, Frederick the Great's legacy lived on—not just in military textbooks or political analyses, but in the simple, revolutionary act of living authentically while refusing to apologize for who you are.

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1. Miford, N. 2013 “Frederick the Great” NYRB.