WhatIfGodWasALeaf said:
If there is a hell, I hope she burns in hell with the rest of her kind and a pox on any and all who show her and the instituition she presided over anything other than disgust.
If you'll indulge me that brings to mind something I wrestle with internally. My family has a photo of my Great-Grandfather. A man I never met as he died when my Grandmother was young. He was apparently a bit of a Ne'er-do-well, always skipping out of town just as the bills came due. He went from England to India to Africa to, eventually, Canada where my Grandmother was born and he passed away.
Anyways, the photo is of him when he was in Africa and flush. He's sitting in a nice chair in a crisp white linen suit, smoking a pipe, in front of a large house and his African servants are standing around him. He looks like a smug jerk. The children are dressed in western clothes. The adults in what I assume is native garb and the women are all topless. Almost all of them look miserable. It is, without a doubt, all the ugliness of The British Empire summed up in a photograph. It's mortifying. It's embarrassing to think that's part of my family's past.
But my Grandmother kept the photo. To her it was a picture of her Father and one of the few she had. She was of a different generation and didn't seem to see anything wrong with it. My grandmother was complicated. Like a lot of people of her generation she had some very retrograde views on some things but on the other hand she and my grandfather were in Maclean's in the 50's as one of the small number of white families to adopt a black child and was fine with my parent's interfaith marriage. Now, she's gone and my mother has the photo. My mom never knew the man in the photo but, to her, it's just a connection to her mother. Something her mother valued.
(For the record, it's not hung on the wall or anything. It's just in among the collection of old family photos we have.)
Now, my mother is in her 70's and so sometimes I think about what I'll do with the photo when, hopefully not for many a year still knock on wood, the photo is mine. My sister, who's of sterner stuff than me, hates the photo and would definitely cast her vote for burning it or just otherwise consigning it to the garbage bin of history. Deep down, I think she's right. But still there's that one little bit of me that thinks...well, this was a person. Without him and the lousy things he did, I wouldn't be here. And this photo is something that my family hung onto for years. Through the Depression and WW2, where my Grandmother served in the WRNS. Through many moves both within Canada and even to other countries. I remember my Grandmother and Grandfather talking about it and about him. My mother and aunt joking about it. Despite what I thought of it, it was part of the weirdness that went into my family being who they are.
I don't know, I'm sort of rambling in search of a point to some extent. But I've been thinking about that photo a lot this week. I obviously get why you'd be wishing a pox on me if I looked at the Queen's death and got a little wistful about it because, intellectually, I'm right there with you. All hate to the state, boo to the class system, the Empire was a terrible historical wrong and nostalgia for her era seems to be slowly killing the United Kingdom, etc. But our pasts are complicated things and symbols, even ugly ones that represent historical wrongs, can get filtered over the years through our experiences with them until they mean something very different to us.