When your mother is the Queen of England, it is important to be very, very discreet. You learn this from the start, when independent thought and speech converge. Never do anything that draws attention to yourself. Never speak disparagingly, not to say candidly. Never is pretty much the operative word.
Of course, if your mother isn't the Queen of England, but just looks like her, well, then different rules apply. You may want to follow the course outlined above, but it is a bit restrictive. Unless, of course, you insist on following in the path of the Royal family. And don't mind having little say in your life. But, being Jewish kind of makes that off limits for me, so, I guess there really aren't any rules that apply. Especially, since being the Jew that I am, is like existing in a homeless state. So, no boundaries. No rules. And a lot of wandering.
My mother was a Queen. And though she did resemble her, she wasn't the Queen of England. Ruler of the British Empire. In fact, my mother was first in her line to be queen. A Brooklyn version, with a British twist. Ruler of our family. Sovereign in her own right. Pretty impressive, just the same.
Sometimes, after she had her hair done, she resembled George Washington more, but she never liked when I told her that. She also didn't like being told that she resembled Bach after those beauty parlor visits. But, I was never one for subservience and I liked teasing her all the more because she was so serious. So incapable of telling a joke. So regal. Except when you could crack the shell and then get the giggling going. It didn't happen often, but those eyes would sparkle. The nose would crinkle and out it would come. The girl who was inside all along, biding her time. The girl who would be queen.
Being in a constant state of royal required a subtle learning of how to handle slippery slopes. For example, did I or didn't I openly contest her real age? A loyal subject would never raise the question. A pesky child might. It might surprise you, but as a royal subject, I never once brought it up. I bought the lie, hook, line and sinker. I didn't even consider it a lie. My pesky siblings were not quite so content to let things go so easily. A few jabs here and there and finally they landed the big one- the social security card. It was over after that, but by that time she was almost 90. Did it really matter?
There were fur collars. Hats tilted askew. Veils. The royal designer was Eileen Fisher. She played the part perfectly. Well, maybe with one exception. She wasn't really an animal lover. No, she would never be caught snuggling with a corgy. Or, with any dog for that matter. And forget horses. Her vision of her kingdom definitely did not include the outdoors. More likely was a library and a scrabble set. No wellies. No walking jacket.
As she aged, she merged into the Queen Mother. Too old to reign, yet still a figure head. We played the part for years and years with her encouragement.
But now the Queen is dead. Long live the Queen? I always thought that statement referred back to the one that had died. Not the new one. Of course. She was the first and the last. Because who could ever replace her? Another queen? No. not possible. In our royal line, there was only one queen. And there it ends. All the royal subjects disperse. Holes in their hearts. Flags raised high.
