exerpted from colorline’s article by akiba solomon
I had two options this morning. Watch that British royal wedding or walk barefoot through a maze of broken glass dipped in formaldehyde. I picked the latter. Now, with bleeding feet, Poison Control on hold, and the fatigue associated with being adrift, I’m going to explain my lifestyle choice.
I call it a lifestyle choice because that’s how some people–mostly women, from where I sit–are discussing this wedding. They speak of it as if it’s a referendum on their capacity for romance, fantasy, enjoyment, love and empathy for sons whose mothers have died in automobile accidents. I, a certified sap and sucker for love, understand the urge. But I’m disturbed by how a British royal wedding has come to represent it.
Maybe it’s because I lack affection for British monarchs. My heart just doesn’t heave at their contractual agreements, even when a so-called commoner is the one marrying the publicly-funded prince. In fact, I quite resent being inundated with these symbols of European elitism. Color me bitter, but I’m not entranced by the fruit of their ancestors’ greed and vainglory. I think it’s swell how William and Kate met in college and how she can speak in full sentences. I just don’t believe African, Indian, Afghan, Caribbean, aboriginal, Native, Irish people or peasants should have had to pay for their palace.
Cue up, “That’s harsh,” so I can respond, “That’s resistance.”