Who could not be charmed by the celebration in Windsor this past weekend? Besides picture perfect weather, the couple’s eyes appeared to be overflowing with love. The cathedral almost bending beneath the cascading flowers, Meghan’s veil and train, truly the storybook romance provided an extended reverie of illusion for a world beset with war, ignorance, guns and horrors. We want if not to believe in the power of love as Meghan’s pastor sang out at least its transformative possibility.
No doubt the colonial kingdom of the queen in her trademark hat must have gasped- at least privately- that the colonialized were now part of their extended family, incorporated into the kingdom as the gospel singers rocked the hall and the pastor, Michael Curry, the Afroamerican leader of the Episcopalians Church verdantly stressed the power of love,( “There is power, power in love,” he sang out.) echoing Martin Luther King. Like Barack Obama, Meghan does not shy away from her mixed heritage, obviously secure in who she is. The quiet elegant presence of her mother at her side seemed to reinforce that strong sense of self. In deed, an article in the weekend Guardian focused on her mother’s presence as a rebuttal to all that had preceded former slaves.
But why do we stay glued to the screen, some even journeying far to observe the spectacle? Part has to do with seeing ourselves in the royals, especially the Canadian part . Similarly my mother would relate that my father’s mother used to comment,”Well, he’s Jewish, you know,” referring to Edward R. Murrow and other pleasing celebrities of the day, making a connection that identified said party as part of the extended family and therefore worthy of pride. And we too want that connection, that identification with those we admire, are proud of and desire to hold as our role models: such as Meghan’s involvement in causes that target poverty, women’s right to self determination. Our fascination with the toothless Mulroney twins carrying the bridal train, the couple’s first date in Toronto make us feel somehow we are part of their love story, claiming them as if we actually knew them ,that we possess a part of the journey, not to mention our formal relationship with the monarch, our? Queen.
As a commoner, a divorced one at that, Meghan becomes an icon of rags to riches, securing the top job of Duchess. But we do not forget she once lived and prospered in our city, connecting us to the story. And having taught her suitor English in his final year at high school on Suits, Patrick Adams at Northern Secondary School, I supposed I have a vague point of reference to the narrative too. Even in the stuffiness of the fascinators and extravagant headpieces in the cathedral, we were well aware of the ordinary people , some Canadians who slept outside with their garish shirts and ludicrous clothing garb, even camping four nights on the pavement in order to secure a viewing point when the Cinderella carriage passed.That is not to mention the dressed- to- the nines people at home who toddled off to The Royal York or Princess of Wales theatre to watch full screen the marriage and sip tea.
Reminiscent of Grace Kelly and Wallis Simpson, Meghan pierced the crust of this extraordinary family. And like those commoners before her, she has entered a strange sorority of manners. Yet, she appears to have been embraced, the 21 st Century more accepting of her status and heritage, and perhaps not ignoring but politely trodding her own pathways: as in walking part way down the aisle herself, introducing elements of her own heritage into the ceremony with the pastor and the gospel choir rocking the usual unflappable scene. That she is beautiful, down to earth, espousing good causes like her mother in law once did certainly helps. In deed one can imagine Diana, a twinkle in her eye, rejoicing at the marriage, warmly embracing her new daughter in law.
Meghan certainly has style. Although her dress was understated, rather safe, the 16 foot extreme veil with 53 embroidered flowers of the commonwealth( who knew Canada’s was the bunchberry?)provided the showpiece, her borrowed tiara from 1893 worn when Princess Mary married Prince George , exquisite to light up the elegant if overwhelming understated gown. And the arbours of peonies, roses, foxgloves were enchanting. Not to mention her bouquet of myrtle, forgetmeknots and freshly picked wild flowers by Prince Harry the day before at Kensington Palace.
In her dash to the after party, her Stella McCarthy halter gown felt more like the “ real” Meghan described in the papers, more a statement with flair, class, perfect to be zoomed away by her prince in the silver blue jaguar. That the former chaste outfit worked with the solemnity of the vows is understandable although some had wished that like her white Like coat by the Canadian designer, the dress of the day would have been designed by another Canadian, bringing us deeper into the drama.
And that the toothless twins’ mother had the choicest seat and her hubby the son of our former prime minister again gave us a mythical stake in the proceedings.Yet those boys did us proud that they held that magnificent veil well, high and wide.
But a wedding is a wedding and it brings out, after the lavish negotiations, overwhelming costs, nights of worry over the perfect cake, carrot or elderflower, and who will be axed from the list( Justin Trudeau!), the sweetness of a union between two lovestruck puppies whose eyes are focused deeply on the other, contemplating that Nirvana will continue. And as the New York pastor reminded us intoning, remember when you first fell in love and everything was turned to love. And the choir sang out,”Stand by me”.
And In the tradition of stories we desperately want to believe in fairytales.