Conscious Unroyaling

Some ten years ago I stood in the summer morning’s heat at the start line of yet another road race. This was not an ordinary race as it was sponsored by Achilles, a group that promotes and helps disabled athletes. I had earned a spot at the front as I was guiding a disabled athlete through the course, something I had done for other races and four New York City marathons. To my surprise there was a swell of squeals from the larger-than-average crowd and I felt a slight bump, normal at a race start as runners jostle for position. Turning around, next to me was a not-well-disguised undercover cop whose protective charge was a mere ten feet way. It was Prince Harry.

Many of the athletes in front of us were disabled military veterans whose loss of one or more limbs was in plain sight. While most were American service members, His Royal Highness has a special affinity for those wounded in combat, and he worked his way around the disabled participants. Being Prince Harry, everyone knew who he was. Being somebody who cared, he wouldn’t just lean over and introduce himself, he would squat down to eye level to greet the wheelchair and push cycle participants. This wasn’t just another stop on an endless tour, this was time with his band of brothers. One could say he was born for this role; but make no mistake—he was genuine, compassionate, and caring.

What a difference a decade makes.

In what should be a time of pleasant iambic pentameter for the Duke and Duchess of Sussex has turned into a turgid As Megxit Turns soap opera. There’s certainly a time and place to take a step back and out of the limelight, like Uncle Andrew’s recent disappearance. Then again, that prince somehow failed to end his association with a convicted pedophile, so staying out of sight was probably the better plan than having the masses chase him down with pitchforks. And while brother William gets the crown, he also inherited his grandfather’s receding hairline. No bad comb overs for this royal—to the razor he went and lost the hair battle while winning the dignity war.

Unlike Henry V, this Prince Harry is not looking to make a heroic stand against the French or anybody else for that matter. Apparently he is concerned about his mental health, and his wife complains that nobody is asking how she is feeling after having a baby. Thus they “intend to step back as ‘senior’ members of the Royal Family and work to become financially independent, while continuing to fully support Her Majesty The Queen.” If I had to guess, Her Majesty would give slightly different advice, like see a therapist and pop some Prozac. It’s not like they have to wait in line at the local National Health clinic.

We now face the prophecy of the St. Crispin’s Day speech coming alarmingly true, with Shakespeare’s monarch proclaiming, “That he which hath no stomach to this fight/Let him depart; his passport shall be made/And crowns for convoy put into his purse;” So it’s off to Canada for our main cabin couple to figure out how to be “financially independent,” with a collective hope they don’t fall into the celebrity-merchandising trap. Imagine if Lady Gwyneth of Goop directed their quest for treasure with lines of “Sussex Sex Toys” or “Windsor Wick Candles” (all organic, of course). Maybe Meghan could go back to Northwestern and earn an MBA and help guide their budding business empire. One of the University’s colors is royal purple, after all.

There will be no muse of fire, swelling scene, or warlike Harry to end this sad tale. The House of Windsor will survive, bruised but maybe better off with the redheaded spawn across the ocean and closer to the rebellious colonies that seem to fit his temperament. Maybe the Sussex Three will live happily ever after, but they shouldn’t bank on keeping any mantle space open for The Queen’s Christmas Card.

© 2020 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved