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God, don’t save the Queen

When I was 10 years old, my mother and I took a bus to the Brighton, England, town centre and waited five hours behind a temporary police barricade for a chance to see Queen Elizabeth II as part of her Silver Jubilee celebrations. 

After what seemed an eternity, the Queen arrived, and I remember cheering and waving a small plastic Union Jack. She walked over to where we had been patiently waiting and waved and smiled. I can’t honestly say I met her, but for a 10-year-old boy it seemed a big deal.

On September 9, Queen Elizabeth became Britain’s longest-reigning monarch, surpassing her great-great grandmother Queen Victoria with a new total of 63 years and 217 days. 

It was my mother I stood with that day, for even if my father hadn’t been at work, he was no royalist. Growing up between these two opposing points of view, I had very mixed feelings about the Queen and what she represents.

Four years later, when Diana Spencer married Prince Charles, I was rebelling against the child who had happily held the flag. I wanted no part of anything royal. So while my mother and sister spent the day watching events unfold on TV, I took the same bus into Brighton, but with my friends this time. The streets were empty and shops were closed. The only place open was the cinema. I remember catching Cannonball Run three times, back to back to back. It was the only way I could escape everything royal and hide until the coast was clear.

Three years later, steps from the theatre and less than 100 metres from where I had stood as a child waiting for the Queen, the IRA placed a 20-pound bomb on a long timer delay at the Grand Hotel in Brighton. It exploded in the early hours of an October morning, an attempt to kill the prime minister and her cabinet, the Queen’s government. 

The chance of my having been injured was negligible. But having left school a year earlier, at 16, qualified for nothing, disillusioned and still firmly under the rule of Margaret Thatcher, I remember passing the site on the way to my construction job the day after the explosion. 

I’m not sure if England or I have been the same since. 

Having a monarchy seems to divide people. It can make you feel less than equal, obliged to go along with archaic traditions that leave you in no doubt where your place is in society. Or at least it did for me, living in the UK. 

The first time I exchanged British currency for Canadian dollars, I recall being surprised by the Queen’s likeness printed on one side. The reason for its being there should have been obvious. But even now, after all these years living here, I still find it a bit strange that “she’s” there.

Living in Canada, we can take or leave a figurehead like Queen Elizabeth II. She’s heritage at a distance. We can choose how to interpret royalty. It comes with no baggage and few or no expectations. 

Here, when we turn on the TV news, we’re not forced to learn where one of the royal family members has been visiting. Or to observe another head of state being greeted by the Queen. In the UK, royal-watching is a required national pastime. 

In England, I’m sure there were times when I stood up and sang God Save The Queen, but they were few. A friend of mine on holiday from the UK who saw me sing O Canada with genuine pride at a soccer match jokingly suggested that I had forgotten where I come from. My answer was simple: I would rather sing to a country than a person. 

When I became a Canadian citizen, I raised my right hand and swore an oath. A strange feeling came over me when, in order to complete the ceremony, I had to say “be faithful and bear true allegiance to Queen Elizabeth the Second, Queen of Canada….” I was being pulled in two directions at once. It was like I was being stalked. Someone said later that it was only symbolic, but that just made it worse. 

Australia held a referendum to become free of the Queen as head of state, but that failed. It seems an impossible link to break. She is very resilient. Maybe a better way to view the Queen is as a CEO. As leader of a large company, she receives money from the British taxpayers to fulfill her corporate duties and attract tourists. A certain level of well-being seems to result from having her in charge, the loving grandmother who is always understanding and never judgmental. 

But I seriously doubt the monarchy’s longevity as an institution. The mystique is slowly disappearing even if her children and grandchildren are more open and “real.”

The UK of 1977 that I lived in was a vastly different place than today, both culturally and in ethnically. 

I question how any average person living in the Commonwealth today can relate to a family that plays polo, owns racehorses, enjoys shooting grouse and lives in Disney-like castles. The days of Downton Abbey are drawing to a close, and this may be the last hurrah for one of the world’s most successful and enduring royal families.

news@nowtoronto.com | @nowtoronto

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