When I was in graduate school, I was friends with a couple of other graduate students who’d been raised in the same hellfire and brimstone fundamentalist religion that I was. At that point in our lives, one of us was becoming Episcopalian, one was becoming Catholic, and one was becoming agnostic. All of us in our turbulent twenties, we’d come together at a point when a lot of those things we were taught to believe in as little Southern girls had proved not to be all they were promised–religion, politics, higher education, careers, marriage, family.
So we were a little abashed to find out that we were all secretly yearning to stay awake through a hot night in July to watch a love story on our TV screens. Once we cleansed our liberated souls with some good old-fashioned confessin’ to each other, we threw feminism and cynicism to the wind and gathered in comfortable clothes with lots of snacks to see a virgin bride wed her prince.
The bride wasn’t much younger than us, and we wanted so much for her to escape the harsh realities that we’d endured as she grew into her twenties. It was not to be, of course, but somehow, as she got older, either despite or because of public scandals and her own flawed nature, she became even more interesting, more beautiful, than she had been as a shy young bride.
I was online, in my old chatroom, late on an August night in 1997, when someone said, “Isn’t it terrible about Princess Diana?” When I asked what he was talking about, he said, “She’s dead.” I thought it was a joke in really poor taste, but after other people confirmed it, I went to the TV and CNN as I’ve done so many times when I get awful news. I was transfixed by the television over the following days, until I again stayed up all night, this time alone, to watch the last flower-strewn ride of a princess.
During those few days, I do remember leaving the house one night. My friend James called and told Tom and me to go to the intersection of two streets, Montrose and Westheimer, which, as I told Debbi in comments to another post, has long been considered the center point of gay Houston.
Candles, flowers, letters, photos, Union Jacks, and stuffed animals stretched the entire length of the divider between the north- and south-bound lanes of Montrose Boulevard. It was spontaneous, sweet, and sad, and it couldn’t have happened anywhere else in Houston. My heart filled with affection for that group, made up mostly of gay men, I was sure, who needed to express their admiration for and devotion to a lost princess.
All that was in my heart and mind a few months later when I got a few paragraphs from Tim about a person working off some secret, private sorrow in a garden. As I sat at my keyboard, a July night of promise and an August night of grief gave birth to Princess 2Di4, and a new love story began–one that my writing partners and I have shared with many readers through several novels, even those that aren’t about Daniel Stephenson and his friends.
The older I get, the more convinced I am that as we grapple with those big things–religion, politics, higher education, careers, marriage, family–we never really say goodbye to our belief in love stories.
And we must not.
Now I’ll go back to being 35. Thank you, Johnnie, for inspiring this post.
we threw feminism and cynicism to the wind and gathered in comfortable clothes with lots of snacks to see a virgin bride wed her prince.
Hm. If I was to give advice to women in general, I’d tell them to do what the hell they want to do. Feminism isn’t any good for women if all it does is turn into a bunch of new authorities telling them what to do: “Hey, women! We feminists have good news! Remember how the patriarchy used to tell you what to do and shame you into acting a certain way? Well, now us feminists are going to tell you how to act and shame you into acting in the way we think you should! Don’t you feel liberated?!”
I realize not all feminists are like that, but I’ve seen enough of them act like control freaks who think they have should tell other people how to live. I don’t considerate that to be “liberation”.
I was only being clever with my comment. I have no battle with feminists, nor do I think feminism is prone to having a greater or fewer number of control freaks than any other group.
That’s why I’m not a joiner. I like controlling my own life. Unfortunately, I can also be really good at telling other people what to do. It’s better for me to avoid situations where I’m encouraged to do that.
nor do I think feminism is prone to having a greater or fewer number of control freaks than any other group.
They might not. My point is I hate hypocrisy. I’ve gotten the impression listening to various women I’ve known or seen on TV or read about how they felt pressured to act in a certain way because it was new dogma about how women should act. If I was a woman, that would piss me off.
That’s why I’m not a joiner. I like controlling my own life. Unfortunately, I can also be really good at telling other people what to do. It’s better for me to avoid situations where I’m encouraged to do that.
Oh, amen! I’ve come to realize that by nature I’m a lone wolf. Unfortunately, you pay a price for that, but I hate giving up my freedom.
I don’t know what your experiences were like in grad school, but I noticed that I actually had more freedom as an undergraduate, whereas in grad school I had to work much more under the thumb of my professors and was in more close contact with fellow graduate students, both of which I found I really didn’t like.
Unless it’s an extreme situation, I really try to keep my nose out of other people’s business . . . even people I’m close to. I think part of respecting other people is to let them live their lives and make their own choices.
As a nurse, I get lots of opportunity to tell people what to do, especially in the area I’m in. (Much more so than I get to do as a mother.) 😉
I’m sure you only use your power for good!
Totally off topic. In the book I’m writing, I have a scene where a little girl’s older brother has jammed a wreath on her head. I kept having this visual of a wreath and thinking, Where have I seen that? I finally realized tonight that it’s your “summer dog” user pic. I’m SO glad I finally made that connection.
Whewww! I’m glad you remembered. I hate it when that happens to me.
Oh, this one makes my mind activate and take off. I’ve been sitting here for a few minutes, trying to sort thoughts.
You make me think that her wedding was one of the closest instances of art taking the trip over into reality. That day felt so good. It felt like the magical could overthrow the mundane, and that the novels weren’t fiction.
There’s nothing wrong with fiction– there’s so much that’s right about it. And I love how you said she became more interesting, more beautiful. As wonderful as fiction is, it sort of pales, when I see this. She said, “Heaven knows they need it.” I think we need fiction, too.
I’m still sorting my own thoughts on why we (definitely I) need fiction. It’s a confusing thing; sometimes I think I know.
I’ll tell you a hundred times, if you want: I’m glad you and your partners wrote the books you did, and glad I have had pleasure taking the trip over into them.
BIG SMILE : )
Love stories make us think that happily ever after is still out there.
I would consider myself as a feminist, although some people don’t believe a stay at home mom can say that. However, I’m at home with the kids, because I CHOOSE to be here.
I remember when Princess Diana died. We had just put in a hot tub, and we really wanted to sit out there, so we turned the tv up really loud and opened the blinds, so we could sit in the tub and watch the news.
I know lots of SAHMs who are feminists. And lots of great mothers who work outside their homes, too. As you say, it’s really all about choice. The women who break my heart are the ones who aren’t able to do what they really want for reasons beyond their control–yet they are amazing, too.
I remember that wedding, and that they even showed part of it as the plot for General Hospital. It was fairytale wonderful.
Reading about 2Di4 also gave me that fairytale feeling a few times.
For me fiction is a way to live other lives in other times and places. Lives that I can only live in fiction as I must live my life whereever it leads. Fiction is good, it expands me.
This post brought back some poignant memories. I,and most of my female friends, were gutted when she died ,whereas my in-laws (English,stiff upper-lip types) couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. I think Diana touched the hearts of those who didn’t think it was bad to be human and therefore messy and imperfect. Those she made uncomfortable (like my in-laws) couldn’t forgive themselves for being human and, therefore, couldn’t forgive her. These impoverished people no longer believe in love stories and that’s the real tragedy.