I recently overdosed on this fictional, fact-based drama of the UK’s royal family. Puzzled by my addiction, I had to step back and figure out why I was left longing for more when the series ended with Charles and Diana’s crumbling marriage. What’s up with that? Well, for one thing, this series echoes my own history. Queen Elizabeth came to the throne in 1952 when I was just three years old, but due to my mother’s Canadian heritage, we saw her picture hanging on my British Columbia aunties’ walls. And the drama follows much world history that I remember. But still…why am I entertained by these constrained and often miserable lives? Why do I delight in watching the royals rattle around in Buckingham Palace, not allowed to lift a finger for themselves, probably never even entering many of the rooms in this cavernous building? I guess it’s the voyeur in me.
However, alongside my addiction came a growing feeling of nausea. Who are these “royals” anyway? What accident of birth gives them the right to live in opulence while so many in their own nation live on the edge of poverty?
I am so grateful for people like Benjamin and Sarah Lay, hunchbacks only 4 feet tall, abolitionist Quakers driven by the idea that yes, all men really are created equal. They took these words to heart and relentlessly worked to end slavery in their circle of influence. (You can read about them in Tom Holland’s fantastic book, “Dominion”).And there were so many others. I can’t help but rejoice, humbly, in my American heritage. However flawed, we move toward the light.
