Not even our little-girl fairy tales are safe.
I loved a new box of crayons; I always went for the prettiest crimson red. I would then eagerly look through my coloring books for a princess and color her lips. Always the lips first. That pretty red. Then I would fill in the rest of her, her hair, her eyes, her clothes. Finally, I would cut her out and triumphantly display her on the wall, a symbolic representation of my own little wish, that budding harmless fantasy- Oh to find my Prince Charming. The one that would wisk me away from the difficult childhood I endured. Of course, I didn't know it was difficult. And that was not a prerequisite to the fantasy, but for me the circumstances of my youth made the fantasy even more necessary for survival.
As an adult female I soon realized that this type of fantasy was foolish, if not dangerous. Prince Charmings came with an awful price tag, the cost of one's own identity. Too bad Princess Diana didn't discover this before she embraced the British Monarchy.
My recollection of that courtship, romance, wedding, and early marriage was really a lot like that little-girl fantasy of my youth. It must have been the same for so many around the world considering the popularity of the royal couple in the news. But like all things of our youth, harsh reality soon came to light. A little girl must depend upon herself, draw her identity from within and learn that no man is to be trusted with her dreams. A lesson that Princess Diana had to learn in front of the entire world.
Such a tragidy watching the dream disintegrate, for the Princess and for all little girls. But what a terrific comfort to endure the pain vicariously through this woman-child as she learned the lesson of betrayal and eventual independence. A terrible vicarious comfort to realize that emotional trauma can be manifest in physical hardships even for those with the support of money and position. And what a sense of triumph we felt as the princess-woman grew from her brutal lessons.
My feelings go out for the loss. Such a beautiful woman gone. And so soon after she finally arrived at her independence. So sad she would never be able to enjoy it. Of course, my suspicious self often wondered how the British Monarchy could go on after the public betrayal of the sanctity of marriage. How could the Prince go on, damaged as he was in the public eye and never really free to again chose a queen? How indeed. How convenient that the world can now mourn for the woman gone and the Crown can continue. Oh yes, the poor Crown. May it share with the public the responsibility for the fairy tale it helped to destroyed.
Yes, the child's play of my youth seems to have forcast the future of what it is like for a real princess. Color the lips beautiful with the kiss of a dream, a rich crimson red reflective of the life's blood she will sacrifice. Color her hair, her make-up and her wardrobe, those outward symbols of the woman and her dreams. And finally excise her from the true realities of life and display her carefully on the wall of public opinion. Well, maybe not too carefully. Maybe instead with a fanaticism that would eventually claim her life.
Goodbye Princess Diana. We grieved with you during life's
brutal lessons,
championed your evolution as you grew into a whole woman
and will miss your example of perseverance in a fairy tale
world washed harshly with the colors of reality.
Copyright @ August 31, 1997 by Journi
Journi
