The BBC alert on my phone notified me that Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II was ill, but was comfortable. For an hour I watched as the commentators streamed live from Balmoral. They would jump back to the studio. Then there would be a montage of archived footage of interviews and events of the past 70 years. The concern was real and it seemed to wash out of the speaker in waves. Never previously has our beloved monarch been talked about with such seriousness in relation to her health. And as the audio fell silent, that feeling of dread surged over me. Then the words of Huw Edwards announced that Queen Elizabeth II had died. In that moment, something within me shifted and as the tears welled and burned my eyes, then cascaded down my cheeks, the only comfort I had was a stunned 15-month-old child who didn’t understand anything other than the fact his Mama was upset.
In the silent house, the overwhelming sense of isolation and loneliness exploded. My ongoing struggle of not being American, of being constantly reminded that I am different, of being culturally stripped collided with the depression I’ve been battling and the sense of loss of an identity I’m trying to come to grips with.
Twice in the past ten days the pull to return to the Mother Country has been strong, to the point of almost clicking purchase on an airline ticket. The need, the yearning, to be around people who could understand what it was I was feeling was so intense that I was prepared to pause all of my responsibilities here to simply be there. Alas, my head won a battle that even now my heart is still mad about.
I grew up as a first generation Australian, heavily influenced by British heritage as my mother and her family are United Kingdom born. There were a number of times in my childhood which I can remember celebrating significant moments in The Queen’s reign. Each Christmas afternoon we would gather to watch Her give her annual Christmas Speech. In general, there were times together we enjoyed being proudly British with all it entails. Last night of the Proms was one I can recall seeing so many Union Jacks around my grandparents’ house. I remember lying in bed with them as a child, drinking tea in the early hours of the morning as a portrait of a young Queen looked down upon me. Landmarks of a foreign land adorned their walls, the concept of a great nation on the other side of the world was something my younger self never comprehended.
As a young teenager, I came into being the Global Citizen that I am today. I took to heart the concept of what it is to be a part of the Commonwealth. I swore an oath to the Queen every time I said my promise as a Guide. I began to realise that my allegiance to Her Royal Highness and the idea of Monarchy was something not many of my peers shared -if any.
But then the dawn of adulthood came and at eighteen years of age, I visited the UK for three weeks. This far away land called the United Kingdom became very real. I stood in front of Buckingham Palace and felt the sense of pride swell in me. I was here. Some two and a half years later I return and end up staying seventeen months working as a volunteer, continuing my real-life immersion into a culture which felt so familiar to me. At age twenty-one I had my first experience of seeing Her Majesty with my own eyes at the 60th Anniversary of the United Nations service which was held at Westminster Abbey. The Queen walked along the aisle through the congregation, just four people separated us.
Since then, I have been in her presence no less than eight times, the final two occurring in 2016 before I left London. I had been living there permanently for almost eight consecutive years. At that time, I was working for one of her Patron Charities which allowed for that alliance to the Queen to shine and a true understanding of the bonds of the Commonwealth to grow. Yes, in my time working there I spoke to ‘The Palace’ a few times, after the first I squealed in delight after the phone call ended! The proud little Monarchist that I was never dreamed that phone call could, and would again, happen. I was also honored to celebrate Her Majesties 90th Birthday on The Mall with 6000 of her closest friends at the Patron’s Lunch to celebrate her birthday milestone. In true British style, the grand picnic was rained on. However, the weather did not dampen our spirits!
The last time I would see Queen Elizabeth II in person would also be the occasion I was closest to her. It was a true honor to receive an invite to a Garden Party at Buckingham Palace in May of 2016. This time there would be just one person between she and I. As The Queen walked along and shook hands with the woman in front of me, she made an effort to acknowledge those in the rows behind and in the few seconds we locked eyes, I felt seen. She must have looked at millions of people over the years, but in that moment, those magical blue eyes let me know my loyalty and service was appreciated. It was a very humbling moment.
When I moved from London that summer to reside in the US, I had no way of knowing just how much of myself I was losing, and would continue to lose. Don’t get me wrong, I am surrounded by wonderful people. But America has a way of making you conform, to be the same. Right from the get go, I had someone say to my face ‘how dare you steal a job from an American’. How do you even respond to something like that?
Over the past six years much of my identified Australian and Britishness has slowly been crumbling away. Holidays and traditions have fallen by the wayside, leaving me to mark them on my own in private moments. Constantly explaining what I mean or why I’ve used certain words and phrases becomes tiring. Add into the mix the arrival of a very much wanted and loved son, it’s not unexpected to be exhausted more than ever, leaving even less time to hold onto the identity I’m struggling to maintain.
The death of The Queen has somehow blown any semblance of identity out of the water. I have scrambled in the past 10 days to ‘be with my people’ as much as possible. I owe a great deal of gratitude to the BBC and it’s continued streaming coverage of everything. Twenty-four hours a day I have been able to dip in and out and see proceedings, to watch as the Queen’s coffin moves from place to place, and be a part of various ceremonies as they take place. And strangely allowing me to find comfort in the live stream of the laying in state. While initially I felt intrusive on people’s moment to show their profound sense of grief, it has become a regular place to watch for a while, to share and grieve with people. So somehow feel a part of all this. Of this seismic change. To be reassured that everything I am feeling right now is real and legitimate. When the final people walked through the hall and the camera angle panned up to the magnificent ceiling, I had a real sense of finality to everything. That door was being closed.
A grief specialist by the name of David Kessler writes “Iconic figures like The Queen become the backdrop of our lives. And they also connect us to ourselves. We remember not just their milestones, but how their milestones connect to ours. Her dying is not only the end of her life, but it reflects our own passage through life”. Losing someone who is key to your identity, as such as I am feeling, is not uncommon. The grief I feel now is also stirring up past grief and loss that perhaps I’ve yet to come to terms with. It all becomes mixed together. The timing of this has kind of created a perfect storm.
Those who know the true me, know I have been struggling, I have not been fooling them. I’ve been erratic and irrational. I’ve been quieter and more withdrawn. And in my current day to day life, the pressure to just move on with life has been heavy. And that was before the passing of my Queen.
Generally speaking, people here don’t care how things change now. They don’t comprehend how someone can feel sad about the loss of The Queen and what it really means. On some level, I don’t expect them to because after all, I am living in America and that sense of Monarchy and Commonwealth have no frame of reference. But this it is also a stark reminder that in and of itself, America is a self-contained nation. The average Joe doesn’t think about the world beyond national boarders or state lines. Sometimes beyond a city or a town. And I guess that’s another feeling I’m also mourning. I miss not being the token foreigner. I miss the ability to share my identity and not be a novelty. I miss being around others like me.
So, as I sit here and hear the echoes of Big Ben in my mind as a city and a nation fall silent in remembrance, I take comfort from the ability to watch and take part from afar. Life has changed. I am once again changing. And yes, I will continue to struggle to move forward. But one thing I have realised in the past ten days is that I am not alone in feeling this way, even if those like me are 1000s of miles away. While those in my immediate community continue as if nothing significant has happened, I will continue to hold onto my sense of self and look to the beacons of a faraway nation and a Commonwealth to help guide me on my way.
As a once young Queen discovered, a time of turbulence will pass. An inner strength can hold you steadfast. Sometimes you don’t have all the answers, yet, but one day you will have the wisdom to know what you didn’t know then.
Thank you for your lifetime of service my Queen, and may you now rest in peace.
