In the presence of a princess

Thoughts on Princess Diana, celebrity, and playing our God-given parts

“Are you crying, Mom?” Wyatt turned his head to study my eyes through my dark sunglasses. When I didn’t—couldn’t—answer, he put his hand on my arm and asked, “Are you okay?” 

We were walking under an arbor of twisted wisteria vines. Bushes of pale pink roses stood to our right and beyond them was the statue of a woman and three children. I considered trying to hide my tears—wiping them away behind my sunglasses before they rolled onto my cheeks and saying something about allergies or an impending cold to explain my reddened nose. 

It was just that I’d been studying the sign at the entrance to the Sunken Gardens at Kensington Palace that told of the words inscribed on Princess Diana’s memorial sculpture in the gardens to our right.

They were the slightly altered version of Wallace Gallaher’s poem “The Measure of a Man”:

These are the units to measure the worth

Of this woman as a woman, regardless of birth.

Not what was her station?

But had she a heart?

How did she play her God-given part?

Some weeks prior, when we were looking at a ticket sale and talking about our summer send-off over Labor Day weekend, Matt said, “How about London?” The day before, we flew on an annoyingly delayed Ryanair flight to London, arriving too late to do anything but eat a late dinner and fall into our beds. That morning, Matt, playing tour guide, gave a couple of options for what to do first, and we all decided on a walk from our hotel through Hyde Park to Kensington. A few minutes earlier, Lilly asked, “How long ago did she die?” And I, without even closing my eyes, could instantly recall the television screen in our tiny first apartment that showed the garish ambulance lights with the words “Breaking news.”

“Twenty-seven years,” I replied. 

That’s when it dawned on me that through a series of seemingly random decisions, I had arrived here at this beloved garden of Princess Diana with her memorial statue a stone’s throw from where I stood, on the anniversary of her death. 

Anyone who knew me well as a child can attest to the fact that I was not particularly good. I know there are better ways to say it, most of them hyphenated terms like “well-behaved,” “mild-mannered,” “gentle-spirited.” If these are your preferred terminology, picture the opposite. I would choose “HANDFUL,” all-caps fully deserved. 

But Princess Diana was my role model for the earliest years of my childhood, and my parents could stave off the gathering storm clouds of a tantrum by saying, “Think about how Princess Diana acts.” If I were scowling for a picture, Dad would peek around the camera and say, “Can you give me your Princess Diana smile?” The result was a (kind of weird but) demure smile, lips closed.

I admired her so much that I even cut my hair like her. More importantly, though, when I thought of how she would treat people, I noticed things differently. I saw curious faces seeking kindness and friendship. I saw the poverty of those who grew up around me and realized how very much I had and how spoiled I was prone to acting. Knowing how she acted made me want to change it all.

On the second day of fifth grade, I walked into the bathroom with my too-short haircut, wearing denim shorts and a blue t-shirt. As I washed my hands at the sink, a new girl came out of one of the stalls, glanced at me and snickered, saying, “I thought this was the girls’ bathroom!” Mortified, I looked in the mirror and saw myself as she saw me—nothing like Princess Diana, just an awkward girl with a deep overbite and poorly chosen hairstyle. 

I vowed at that moment to grow out my hair and to never again cut it so short. But even as my style choices changed and I watched her seemingly fairytale marriage disintegrate in the years that followed, she remained indelibly imprinted on my life. When she died, it felt like a piece of me had died too, even if it was just an imagined reflection in the mirror showing me what the best version of myself could be. 

I’m no longer deeply invested in the lives of the royal family and instead, when it comes to conversations about them, I’m more prone to eye rolls and sighs. In fact, I don’t really care for the idea of celebrities any more. Too many uncomfortable truths about people I once admired have stopped me from putting anyone on a pedestal. 

But there’s always something to be said for anyone who brings people together, who demonstrates kindness and humility while making those around them feel like royalty, who inspire us to be better versions of ourselves. Of course, we don’t need celebrities for this; there are plenty of “normal people” who do it so well. Mr. Hanlon, who taught my English Comp./ Lit. class in high school was one such example. Elfin in appearance with his short stature and snowy white beard, he taught me how to be both a better writer and a more authentic citizen of the world. I can think of janitors, nurses, and bus drivers who improved every day that I saw them with their genuine smiles and personal greetings. Sometimes we get an actual princess, though, who also does this perfectly.

I think that’s what had me in tears as I walked through the beautiful gardens on the anniversary of Princess Diana’s death. It felt like a sort of thin place, where I was being granted proximity to my childhood hero.

“Not what was her station?

But had she a heart? 

How did she play her God-given part?” 

I could almost sense her asking me these questions before I walked away.

And that’s why I couldn’t quite form an answer for Wyatt just then. Tears had already slipped below the lenses of my sunglasses and onto my cheeks. Matt looked at me with a gentle smile and graciously answered our son’s question. 

“Your mom loved Princess Diana. Don’t worry. She’s fine.”