After the royal wedding: What does it mean to be “royal”?

KW writes: The wedding is over. The vows are made. The world is reviewing the hoopla and eye-candy. I, personally, have many concerns with the purpose of royalty. I was waiting to dive in with analysis and critique while two real-live people were contemplating such an important step. But, now that Kate and Will have taken their leap of faith, maybe it is time to reflect on what monarchy (and empire) mean?

One of my friends has dived in on FaceBook. She noted (quite emphactically) that a lot of England’s wealth and tradition are related to colonizing and exploiting other parts of the world. And, having lots of wars. Seeing all the military uniforms as part of a religious ceremony was one of the things that didn’t sit well with me. Also, the fact that so many people are distracted by the hoopla, when they have their own lives, responsibilities, and countries to take care of.

Hope you might make your own comments — good and bad — in the comments. And, here is a poem I had written reflecting on Princess Diana’s wedding. It was written after she died…

The Bluish Light, 1997

Flat and singular like the images on the screen,
I am bathed in the sick blue light;
receptive to the barrage of
pronouncements, sentiments, and persuasions
launched from a two-dimensional, television universe.

Hypnotized by the sparkle of some sequined dress
(so revealing of the human form I could never wear it myself)
I am mesmerized by the beautiful, blue-light people.
Like a member of a wolfish pack,
I respond hypnotically to their bare-teethed smiles,
searching them like tiny mirrors for some
polished, framed, (distorted) image of myself.

Subtly, they infiltrate my heart.
They are a hum in my home,
a schedule I can fall into,
instead of going to real events with real people.

It is easy to worship these steady, blue-light people.
I wrap them around me,
hoard information, clues on how they live.
Clipping magazines, buying souvenirs,
I gather pictures to me like a war widow.

Only occasionally do I glimpse their disgust
leak out in some intellectual treatise on the middle class.
I hardly ever notice that the only pieces of themselves they offer me
are sound-bites, photo mugs, and glossy pictures of their good sides.

At age fourteen, though,
one of these blue-light beings really captures me.
She was first a Lady, and then a Princess,
but always in pictures poking umbrellas
at the ones who disdain me.
So that I came to love her, sincerely,
(in my bare-teethed way.)

Sometimes, she made me laugh out loud.
I cried for her when her husband put her away,
even prayed for her at times.
But not enough…
because…

I killed her. Killed Diana.
Not just me, but all the blue-light people –
the ones projected and projecting,
vultures clamoring after her image.

I learned to master another blue light in my attempt at redemption.
At the library, on a borrowed computer, e-mailing condolences,
skipping across hateful postings about the crowd’s foolish grief.

There was only enough time for a little scolding and insult, though,
before we washed it away with masses of flowers,
gathered in love and power
at the castle where she used to live.

So, it is only a mild pang, this mockery I feel,
for having attended her funeral,
like her wedding,
in my pajamas,
flat and singular.

–

poem by Kimberly Wilder of onthewilderside.com