Half a century ago or longer, some women described struggling to find their voice. They’d been so socialized to be sweet and accommodating, they scarcely knew who they truly were, much less how to express it. I couldn’t relate. In my smart and vocal family of origin, at times my only choices were to agree or be wrong. But given the opportunity to write or say something of my own, wow, did I jump at the chance!

It took years and experience to realize more is not always better. Though I’ve always tried to be both honest and kind, other criteria came later. Is it necessary? Is it helpful? In my first job in the corporate sector, I made the mistake of challenging my boss publicly about a matter we’d already discussed, on which I’d been overruled. In my former academic setting, arguing a minor point forever was perfectly normal.

Interrupting is an unfortunate habit I’m still trying to tame. The childlike fear resurfaces that I’ll never get my turn unless I barge in. Another is taking the role of devil’s advocate. Multiple perspectives fascinate me. How could someone in another time or place or culture see things so differently from me and the people around me? I’m learning that a friend distraught with anger or fear may need a quiet listener more than a curious explorer. She may need my understanding more than my efforts to fix or guide her.

“To everything there is a season . . . A time to keep silence, and a time to speak.” (Eccles. 3:1, 7) I don’t have to say everything I’m thinking.

Image: Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash.

Marijuana was never a big part of my life. In the late sixties, I was married to a soldier with a top-secret security clearance. He had no interest in risking it with a drug violation. I tried pot twice in the seventies and felt no effect. I probably didn’t know how to inhale. While modest drinking made parties livelier, smoking weed made participants quiet and dull, so we left. With a child in tow, conversation could turn awkward.

Child: Was that marijuana?
Me: Yes.
Child: Isn’t that illegal?
Me: Yes.
Child: Are you going to call the police?
Me: No.
Child: Why not?

The code name “420” for marijuana dates from 1971, when five California teens met after school at 4:20 p.m. to smoke pot. One of them later worked as a roadie for the Grateful Dead. Fliers distributed by Deadheads in 1990 encouraged people to smoke “420” on April 20 at 4:20 p.m., and High Times magazine promoted the idea. By then I was paying no attention at all.

​Image: Cannabis sativa.

The best children’s books speak to readers of all ages. One of my favorites is Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.* From the moment he wakes up until nightfall, everything goes wrong for Alexander. One mishap builds on another. He just wants to get away. He wants to move to Australia. At bedtime his mother says gently, “Some days are like that, even in Australia.”

Alexander’s troubles—and most of mine—are minor in the greater scheme of things. Still, when the little stuff all fails at once, it’s like being nibbled to death by guppies. Even knowing full well that computer crashes and burnt-dry tea kettles aren’t in a class with major surgery or job loss, I can border on tears when the guppies overwhelm.

How does Alexander reassure me? Without comparisons, shame, or denial, it reaffirms that this too shall pass. Like traumas and calamities, mishaps are part of human experience. It’s not a character flaw to feel stressed by an onslaught of transitory troubles. Some days are like that, even in Australia.

​* There’s also a movie. I’ve only watched the trailer. This is about the book.

I’m finally watching the Netflix series The Crown. Thank you, public library, for lending the episodes on disk. Queen Elizabeth II’s story is filled with drama, romance, political intrigue, family dynamics, and of course history. Much of the history I never knew, some I remember from news reports, and some I’ve written about (see “Great Stink and Killer Fog”).

Monarchy was unremarkable to my Canadian-born parents. My feminist mother, sister to my Aunt Margaret and bearing the middle name Elizabeth, took pleasure in seeing a young woman on the English throne. My father sang to the tune of the Farmer in the Dell, "The twenty-fourth of May’s the Queen’s birthday. It you don’t give us a holiday, we’ll all run away!” The queen in the ditty was Victoria.

Americans are ambivalent about royalty. The Declaration of Independence is largely a detailed list of King George III’s “repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States.” The U.S. Constitution prohibits titles of nobility. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, Americans’ fascination with the royal family seems to have no limits.
 
On this side of the Atlantic, “No Kings” rallies this past year hark back to the injuries and usurpations of a British king 250 years ago. The signs at supportive rallies in Europe read “No Tyrants!” instead. European nations with constitutional monarchs are now more democratic and less tyrannical than some without a king or queen. Watching The Crown suggests that modern British monarchs may be more deserving of sympathy than of protest.

​Image: Buckingham Palace gates, photo by Mark Stuckey on Unsplash.