Like many, I've been following the news of the death of Queen Elizabeth, and listening to all the expressions of admiration for this lady, who sat on the British throne and gave it such dignity these last seventy years. Whether it's because I still have a vivid memory of sleeping in a bedroom in Nova Scotia where the portrait of Queen Victoria hung on the wall, or, more simply because I'm an American of Anglo-Saxon origin who has felt a strong bond with England and Scotland since my first visit there in 1961, I actually teared up when I heard the news that the old lady was gone.
And that surprised me. I am not a fan of the British monarchy. I identify much more with democratic socialism and the history of throwing off hierarchical systems of control. I have Indian friends who never miss an opportunity to fume at the mention of Winston Churchill and reject any concession to the notion that the British Empire had its finer moments. And Irish friends who go to similar lengths. I've shared the view of friends who see Prince Charles as the bumbling unattractive chief twit of Upper Class Twits of Britain and I've taken as many cheap shots at the scandals in the royal family as the next guy.
But just as I've been rethinking my once boiling rage at organized religion, I've also come to recognize that I have developed, over the years, a distant but real admiration for this lady who was dealt a far different hand of cards to play than the rest of us have, and played them so well. Responsibility was thrust upon her and although she was not born to be queen (and thus was probably spared the arrogant nature that might have generated in her) she went through life the absolute model of dignity, balance and steadfastness. Grace is probably the word I'm looking for.
Before I came out as a gay man, back when I was still falling in love with straight guys, I met my lifetime friend Craig. The friendship became so important to me that I managed to turn him into a brother and make his wife and daughter the core of my most intimate chosen family. One of the things that brought us together in the beginning was our discovery that we each had a relationship of mutual adoration with one of our grandmothers. We had people in our lives who thought we were little princes, who made us feel like we could walk on water and do no wrong. Ridiculous excess, but in the end the kind of thing you wish everybody might have, because it provides you with a basic belief in yourself that gets you through hard times.
When Princess Diana went off to Paris with her boyfriend and got killed and sent the Brits into shock, Elizabeth got roundly criticized for not rushing back from Scotland, lowering the flag on Buckingham Palace, and otherwise properly marking the gravity of the occasion. It was the first time the British faith in their queen had slipped so noticeably and they had to rush to fix it. And the reason they gave - and it doesn't matter whether it is factual or not - is that she was preoccupied with her grandsons. She wanted to be with Charles and with the boys, take the radio and TV out of their rooms and keep them safe and secure till they could properly process the loss of their mother.
I had come to believe that by assigning to the chief executive in the U.S. the roles of both head of state and head of government, we had invested the job with too much importance, and more responsibility that most men and women would be up for. Here was evidence that the Brits, like the Dutch, the Norwegians, the Danes, the Swedes, the Belgians, the Spanish and the people of Thailand and Japan, among others, had a more effective way of holding their nations together under a monarch, and could seal the deal with the fact that these were ultimately people like themselves, with families that made them vulnerable. A smart way of generating love, loyalty and affection for an abstract notion like nation by means of flesh and blood individuals which could then be transferred.
The evidence was there that these motherless boys were going to be all right, ultimately, as long as grannie was around. Or so it seemed to me, at least. I have no idea, of course, whether this is for real or whether I've been swept up by just another reality show. I'm choosing, until or unless I have evidence to the contrary, that it was genuine affection on Elizabeth's part that kept her from rushing, as she normally would, back to duty.
Uju Anya, an applied linguistics professor at Carnegie Melon, is in the news for apparently tweeting, "I heard the chief monarch of a thieving raping genocidal empire is finally dying...May her pain be excruciating."
As I said, I am a child of the 60s whose experience has led me to embrace the values of democratic socialism, and I understand the rage some Indians, Irish, people from Africa and the Caribbean may feel toward the Empire, just as I can't imagine being black or native American and not squirming at every declaration that America is the "land of the free." But this grandmother took on the job of being Britain's queen years after India got its independence. She didn't choose it. It was thrust upon her and she accepted it. And I read the other day that during a state visit with India's Prime Minister Modi, she proudly displayed the gift of homespun cloth Gandhi had sent her as a wedding gift. Give the lady a break, Professor Anya. Americans are not slaveowners anymore, Germans are not rounding up Jews and countless men and women of Indian, Pakistani, African and Caribbean origin are proud to call themselves Brits these days. In most cases, I want to boast my efforts to break down class distinctions. But in your case, Professor Anya, I find myself wanting to say, "Show some class." Or if that's too hard, show some humanity. And a sense that history requires endless updating.
And this may be a bit tacky on my part, speaking of lack of class, but I'd like to share the fact that I remember Berlin from before the wall went up; I followed life in Berlin at regular intervals through all the years of the wall; and I celebrated the fall of the wall. And, in similar fashion I remember seeing on our new television set in 1947 the wedding of Elizabeth to Prince Philip. And reading, in the Weekly Reader, in the fourth grade, of the birth of (the second) Bonnie Prince Charlie; and in the ninth grade I remember the day our classes were cancelled so we could all go to the auditorium where a TV set was set up on the stage, so we could watch the coronation of Elizabeth II. I was impressed by her then; impressed by her "annus horribilis" speech and her cool-headed account of hard times in the midst of huge family scandals and misfortunes. I wavered a bit in admiration, now and again, laughed at the discovery that she owns all the swans and all the dolphins in the UK.
I'm OK with her not having to have a passport, and being immune from prosecution, unlike our former president, but I do think she should have been required to get a driver's license. I feel I've known her for more than the seventy years I have lived through her reign, committed lèse-majesté on occasion by pitying her for having to live like a caged animal, and, mostly, paid little attention to her comings and goings. She was, after all, not part of my daily reality. But today, now that the second Elizabethan age is over with, I mourn her passing.
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